Keeping Up With Myself

Last week began quietly. Misty mornings gave way to several bright but chilly days.

We drove to Casey County on Monday, to the whole foods store where I can buy unbleached flour 

in 50 # bags.

The rest of the week, looking back, seems to have been one of mundane tasks--the rounds of caring for pets, meals prepared, laundry and such attended to.

During much of the year I go outside each day in the expectation of some fresh marvel of growth--vegetable seeds sprouted in the garden, a rosebud opening, some new delight in the fields or gardens.

Now, with the approach of winter, there will be little variation in the landscape.

There will be a scarcity of things to photograph as I bundle up and trudge the boundaries of the farm.

This very twiggy nest is lodged in one of our three year old cherry trees.

The tree seems to have no idea that it is meant to blossom and produce fruit for pies.

The nest is so rough and spiny that I can't imagine young birds being comfortably raised there.

A few frozen apples cling desolately to the trees, food for the birds.

Bobby McGee has clambered into the branches of the maple nearest the carport.

He has been inspired by a crowd of bluejays.

I trust the jays can look out for themselves. They are the largest and noisiest of our dooryard birds.

Bobby, down from the tree and wearing a 'what next?' expression.

J. bought [yet] another vintage tractor early in the week.

He and D. went roaring off to bring it home.

[ I declined an invitation to be part of the expedition!]

The tractor is proclaimed to be a desirable model.

I'm not convinced.

It 'runs' but doesn't 'start' which presents rather a conundrum to my mind.

M. called me outside to witness this attempt to get the tractor running. 

D. is in Snort'n Nort'n backing around the field at speed, towing the tractor.

The tractor has 'fired up' with an immense billow of smokey exhaust.

I find I am not at all interested in the details of what must be done to make the tractor a viable and sale-worthy piece of equipment.

The day after this venture J. came down with a bad cold and spent much of his time for the remainder of the week huddled in his big chair by the fire.

I am not the 'ministering angel' type but I did keep him supplied with hot tea and brought home from the market a package of delectable green seedless grapes which I felt were suitable food for one who was ailing.

I had no intention of being vulnerable to this germ, but it caught up with me on Saturday evening.

I decamped to the bedroom across the hall, snuffing and rasping while J. indulged in paroxysms of coughing ensconced in the king size bed of the 'master bedroom.'

The cats, as always at such times, were delighted to have two occupied beds in the house--the better to wander back and forth offering the comfort of their furry presence.

We have been sharing the preparation of light meals.

I've felt justified in keeping to my rocking chair, reading, doing some hand sewing or merely enjoying the warmth of whatever cat chooses to curl in my lap.

J. purchased the fireplace stove second-hand last year.

The built in blower has never worked.

J. decided today that he has sufficiently recovered his health to dismantle the whole thing and tinker it.

He was kind enough to build a fire downstairs and I think I shall shortly retreat there.

I can hear the shop vac roaring, but haven't ventured in to ask if the project resulted in the blower being restored to operation.

I have made a kettle of soup--venison supplied by M., cut into tiny bits with onion, celery and carrot likewise, stewed tomatoes, barley, a bay leaf and a bit of thyme. J. has requested popovers to go with the soup.

[He has also given a lengthy and detailed explanation of why the fireplace blower is still not working.]

It is nearly dark at a few minutes to 4.

I shall gather my furry friends into the safety and warmth of the house and spend the evening in indolent recuperation.