It is time for a break in the hot spell we are experiencing. I can withstand warm weather and hotter, but not to this extreme.
The little blue house at the end of the road is situated between a healthy bean crop and my dense woods.
Air conditioners and fans cool the interior of this home, but I can't allow myself to soften to the comfort.
The work before me would pileup. One must handle it like bills. I f we allow ourselves to procrastinate and fall behind, catch-up becomes difficult.
Various grasses and grass weeds are growing rapidly. Crabgrass is a nuisance at the homestead. Horseweed (ragweed) and more meet their maker long before they reach their prime.
When I was a child, part of our garden duties entailed cutting out and discarding the poisonous jimson ,a member of the nightshade family.
The "devil's trumpet" bears trumpet-like fragrant flowers. The sturdy stalked composite plants bear a prickly fruit, large cockleburs.
In the day , I handled a lot of hazardous materials, including weeds and products containing DDT. Who knew?
Now I rarely see that weed, because I am constantly working the soil ,holding it at bay.
Poison ivy, sumac and oak line the fences and climb the trees. Ivy began to sprawl across the brooder house door, before I seized the opportunity to pull it out by the seat of its pants with my garden hoe. I am a good whacker!
My dad would have liked my garden this year.
The only root vegetable that I am disappointed in is the turnips. I planted my turnip seed in an area in the space that took on too much water.
Perhaps the seedlings in the row were too crowded to grow, normally.
Whatever the excuse, the scabby and stunted turnips did not gain a thumbs-up from this gardener. I will replant elsewhere.
The birdhouse gourd plants are scaling my make-do trellis, heading up toward the catalpa tree's crown, as per plan.
Thursday, I arose from my bed shortly after daybreak. A restless night afforded me little sleep. I worried about storm damage, a computer problem and other troublesome things.
My head ached and my deformed toes and tired achy ankles bothered me before I put my work shoes on.
Frankly, I was not my happy self. My arms were sagging down to my trunk. Truth is, I looked awful, sort of like "Gravel Gertie" with a hangover.
Paul Baby and Tootie Mae were enjoying their beauty sleep.
I opened the blind and peered through the kitchen window at Dave Barr's fine soybean crop. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement along the outermost row of the field, closest to me.
Usually, I spot young rabbits, as well as adults scurrying about, to and fro. I look for birds, bees and snakes. I am not particular. I took a closer look, as the foliage on the red plum tree partially blocked my vision.
There before my droopy bloodshot eyes was a beautiful off-spring of the mother hawk that I wrote about.
The fledgling was trying out his or her wings, working on take-off and lift, at that point in time. The wild bird was about the size of a young crow. The downy bright white feathers of the under-belly and upper legs danced in the gentle breeze. The big feet tapped to the tune.
All too soon the bird proved a point; he could fly. I smiled.
Friday morning Paul went outside to do some work. When the man with the empty water bucket came back to the house he was the bearer of sad news.
My husband found the remains of the mother hawk that made her home in the in the giant oak in my front yard. A pile of feathers and her craw lie in a pile, beneath the stately maple and the remainder of her feathers were scattered elsewhere, within our scope of view.
I know that larger hawks can carry smaller hawks away with their powerful talons. In this case, I lean toward my theory that the strong wind associated with the storm knocked the sizable chicken hawk down, injured or killed the bird of prey. Could be, raccoons, foxes or coyotes came upon the interesting bird, killed her and carried away the remains.
We know that the food chain is the arrangement of the organisms of an ecological community according to the order of predation in which each uses the next lower member for a food source.
The hawk prefers snakes, smaller birds, rodents, including squirrels, etc.
The beauty of my friendship with the hawk is now a pleasant memory. Four of her silky wing feathers rest in a basket of flowers. God is good!
Thanks goodness "THE DOC MAKES HOUSE CALL" sent young Mr. Douglas to repair and correct the problem with my computer.
My HP is up and running, properly.
Thanks to the folks that called me this the week, in regard to "Brazil Buzz."
I can be reached by phone at 446-4852 or by email at email@example.com.