The hawks were out and about this afternoon.
They were looking for an easy to spot meal in the freshly harvested soybean field next to the little blue house at the end of the road.
As I looked out toward the north end of the large partially cleared field this morning, I saw several turkeys, large and small, picking through the chewed-up dry ground clutter.
A shotgun blast fired from somewhere nearby startled my birddog Caesar and me.
Could be, someone spotted a coyote or aimed at nothing and fired for no reason at all.
I picked up my yard tools and moved, out of harms way.
Later, as I was clearing out my utility cart my eyes spotted my bike, "Pink Lady" standing in the corner of the garage next to my old brown three speed.
That brave lady soon found herself on the road packing me around.
Off we went, she and I, slow, fast, faster. We headed up Elm Street toward Restlawn cemetery, slowed again and coasted in, through the wide-set stationary gates.
If you have loved ones or friends buried in the former Catholic Cemetery, now known as Restlawn, you will be as pleased, as I am. A long overdo fence line clearing is - works in progress. Ivy, sumac honeysuckle vines and other vegetation is almost gone.
Dead trees and overhanging limbs from other trees have been removed around the northeast end of the burial place, to date.
Stones that line the rusty wrought iron fencing are visible again.
Paper bags, ribbons, bottles and other debris will be removed, as well.
I understand that certain sections of the barrier are to be replaced and or mended.
Over the years, I have watched as weather, machinery and, yes, people brought the enclosure to the state that it is in today.
I witnessed attempts to enhance the appearance of the once sturdy black fence with paints, both gray and white.
I watched, with sadness, as time allowed the rust to creep back through the paint of the untreated ironworks and many of the sections fell into disrepair.
After I paid my respects to loved ones and departed friends and sat a spell taking in the improvements; my feet hit the peddles of my two wheeled vehicle.
I headed back down the road toward home, smiling. Alas, the ailing fence is on the mend.
I will tell you more about this project and a very special woman, later.
I parked the bicycle and headed toward the henhouse to gather our brown eggs.
I was disappointed with the count, as the hens slowed down production, considerably.
One, two, three four and no more filled my container, the last visit of the day.
I gave my barred rock hens and that cocky rooster my most horrible frown, one I would never pass on to people.
They just cackled something that I couldn't make out. The rooster quickly ushered me to the door. I laughed out loud.
Old people do things like that.
Then, as I proceeded to close the padlock on the feed shed door ,this dummy hit it hard and pierced my poorly placed finger.
That pinch brought on a little blood and pain and rarely spouted words.
After dropping off the fresh eggs at the house, I hurried over to what remains of my garden at the homestead.
There, I plucked a couple of tiny bell peppers from the struggling plants.
I walked briskly back to the house. This cook hungered for "Country Kitchen Pie" for several days. I needed to freshen up and get busy.
The dish is an old favorite of both of us. I picked up the recipe for the meat pie in 1958, well before I owned an iron skillet to cook it in and had enough money to purchase everything the recipe called for.
I liked my own version of the recipe better than the original, therefore; I run with it every chance I get.
I usually serve a garden salad or slaw, stewed spiced apples or fresh peaches over vanilla ice cream (small servings preferred), with the hearty skillet supper.
Timing was perfect and so was dinner.
Today was a very good day and now I am tired. Goodnight.
Give me a call if you would like the recipe. I am never too busy to talk to you.
Welcome back from vacation Gail. We missed you and "Harmony Happenings."
I can be reached by phone at 446-4852 or by email at firstname.lastname@example.org.