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Tuesday, May 3, 2016

Brazil Buzz

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

A noise like of a hidden brook

In the leafy month of June,

That to the sleeping woods all night

Singeth a quiet tune.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

I love the month of June! To me, it is the best of spring and summer. By the time this month rolled around, my old- fashioned vegetable/flower garden had already basked in the warmest of sunshine over the Midwest.

I noticed that nearly all of the fresh garden seed favorites germinated.

The tender plants quenched their thirst several times over thus far.

I am surprised at how straight the rows are. If the healthy stalks of corn are not knee- high and climbing by the Fourth of July, I will eat my sweaty visor.

The pesticide- and weed-free garden reminds me of special gardens that I knew during the seasons of my childhood.

I have always believed that you reap what you sow in life. The same applies to a gardening project. Give it all you have. The rewards only come through dedicated effort and faith.

This old country girl uses both old and new tools, inherited skills and brainstorms. Some ideas work and some headlights fizzle out.

I thank God every day for another reason to embrace the seasons of my life and plant more good seeds.

Last Friday I was ready to tear out my ponytail, by its dark roots. It was hotter than blue blazes outside.

The rains hampered my progress and the soil in my garden was in need of work.

The space that looked great the previous week failed to pass inspection. Therefore, with the help of a reliable tiller and a well-honed hoe, I worked several hours, saving the corn until last. I hand pulled the tiny weeds between the closely place shoots and pulled the fine soil high.

Within six feet or seven of completion of the last row, the hickory handle of Dad's favorite primitive tool popped. I finished with the rake and thought about what he would have said.

Several stray hairs that rested beneath my pooped ponytail, no doubt bristled, for old time sake.

With that set aside and Paul's return from work a few hours away, I decided to fuel -up the lawn tractor and cut at least one-half of the lawn at the homestead property.

As I was making a pass under the large oak toward the front, I heard a snapping noise and a thud that from behind my back.

A sizable rotten limb landed in the clipped strip. I would say that was a narrow escape.

However, wait, there is more! I decided to cut the grassy orchard lot next. That went well, except for a run in with another limb that left a splinter embedded in my cheek.

The next lot to mow included three outbuildings. I cut around the brooder house and headed for the other two.

While checking out a noisy bird, a killdeer, this lousy driver caught up a stretch of field fence that I was saving to ward off deer and wound a portion of it around the twin blades.

I tried everything to release the mess, to no avail.

This screw-up went to the garage and brought out the wire cutters and the two-ton jack.

Did you ever pull one of those heavy tools 50 feet or more through gravel and then tall grass?

Well folks that handy helper worked... I freed the wire, knocked the loose grass from my knees and hit the water bottle. The mower was fine.

Tootie Mae did not want to hear it, but she was glad to see me and lick my bruises. Paul listened, but hard to tell what he heard. I know it was not bells.

This is a quite road. Sometimes everything is so still, I imagine I hear the weathered wooden wagon wheels and sounds of horse's hooves clipipity- clopping along past our place, as they once did. I can almost smell the dust from the dry dirt and cindered road.

After a gentle rain, dampened down dust was welcomed blessing beyond compare.

I enjoy those slow moving times and allow grass and weeds to grow between sights and sounds.

Mother always said, "Don't pick the berries along the road and watch out for the ivy amid the sassafras's in tree row."

"Little Iodine" ate those bitter berries, nursed the tree sprigs of tasty sap and sure did receive her share of the ivy.

I reckon I ate more than a few particles of dust and swallowed a few bugs whole and on the half -shell as well, too! I am an open breather and big mouth.

Who would have thought that I would still be down here living at the end of the road in a little blue house next door?

I began filling my first journal back in the late 40s. I found a quiet spot on the north side of our old house. Aside of a napping beagle hound or two treading on my ground works and occasional ants in the pants "leg" this wannabe writer began to pour out a heaping helping of thoughts.

I sat next to a foundation lined with little lilies of the valley and on a stretch of sparse grass and plantain leaves; the little me wrote about the small world that I knew.-the good and the bad of it.

Since we did not have a car, this area, my school, church, all of the reading material that I could get my hands on and work too much to mention filled my long days.

I do not know what the folks did with, all but one, of the old notebooks that held my ramblings. Perhaps, they started a few fires in the coal heating stoves on cold mornings or they ran out of newspaper in the privy. Could be they read them and banned the material from the closet shelf.

Thank God, I stored spare copies in my head.

I appreciate God's gifts, life and its simple pleasures, everyday. I read, write, continue to grow and work too much to mention-and I smile a lot on most days.

Life is good at 70.

I can be reached by phone at 446-4852 or by email at pmlsartor@aol.com.