Salem Witch Trials

"To the honorable judge and bench now sitting in judicature in Salem and the reverend ministers, humbly sheweth that whereas your humble poor petitioner being condemned to die doth humbly beg of you to take it into your judicious and pious consideration that your poor and humble petitioner, knowing my own innocency (blessed by the Lord for it) and seeing plainly the wiles and subtlety of my accusers by myself, cannot but judge charitably of others that are going the same way with myself if the Lord step not mightily in. I was confined a whole month on the same account that I am now condemned for, and then cleared by the afflicted persons, as some of your honors know. And in two days time f was cried out upon by them, and have been confined and am now condemned to die. The Lord above knows my innocency then and likewise doth now, as at the Great Day will be known to men and angels. I petition to your honors not for my own life, for I know I must die, and my appointed time is set. But the Lord He knows it is, if it be possible, that no more innocent blood be shed, which undoubtedly cannot be avoided in the way and course you go in. I question not but your honors do to the utmost of your powers in the discovery and detecting of witchcraft, and witches, and would not be guilty of innocent blood for the world. But by my own innocency I know you are in the wrong way. The Lord in his infinite mercy direct you in this great work, if it be His blessed will, that innocent blood be not shed. 

Excerpt from the petition of Mary Towne Easty/Esty, hanged Sept. 22, 1692, Salem, Massachusetts

The Salem Witch Trials of the 1690's were dealt with by a few stark paragraphs in American History class during my sophomore year in high school. I later read more about the events but only a few years ago did I learn that one of husband Jim's maternal lines descends directly from Mary Town Easty/Esty [there are various spellings] through her son Isaac Easty Jr. 

Perhaps in part for reparation of the infamous trials, hasty convictions and death decrees, the state of Massachusetts, as well as various historical societies and scholars have made available on the internet court transcripts, petitions and biographies.

Those researching the history agree that the accusations of witchcraft arose from long-simmering jealousies, controversies over land boundaries, malicious gossip. Such was the mood that even to speak out in support of a minister of the church disliked by one's neighbor was to invite the rumor that both minister and defender were "in league with the devil."

Mere ignorance or lack of education [if such can be cited] don't begin to excuse the torment, the imprisonment and wrongful deaths that poisoned that area for several years.

Mary Easty's elderly sister, Rebecca Towne Nurse, was also accused at age 71 in spite of a lifelong reputation as a 'pious' and kindly neighbor. Dragged before the court Rebecca answered the accusations simply and honestly, protesting her innocence. The 'jury' acquitted her, only to have the teenage girls who were the main perpetrators of the charges throw themselves into fits and contortions, shrieking that 'Goody Nurse' was afflicting them! 

Exhausted, hard of hearing, Rebecca Nurse threw her hands in the air declaring, " I have got nobody to look to but God."

Rebecca Towne Nurse, age 71, was hanged as a witch July 19, 1692.

The precocious Puritan theologian, Cotton Mather, concurred in allowing 'spectral evidence'--in other words, if a child sickened, a cow died, a crop withered, a building burned, those affected had only to cry that they had seen the 'shape' or the specter of the accused witch hovering about.

Strangely, if an accused witch would 'confess and repent'--rather than honestly protest innocence--her/his life might be spared!

As I have read through online documents and histories I have been convinced, as have others, that while evil was running rampant, those 'possessed' were not the women and few men who were tried and hanged, but the young girls who were soon notorious as 'witch-finders', trotted out to screech and writhe in the presence of those they accused.

Of the several young women actively involved in the witch hunts, only one, Ann Putnam, Jr [so called as her mother was also Ann] ever confessed to wrong-doing. 

Ann Putnam's Confession (1706)

"I desire to be humbled before God for that sad and humbling providence that befell my father's family in the year about '92; that I, then being in my childhood, should, by such a providence of God, be made an instrument for the accusing of several persons of a grievous crime, whereby their lives were taken away from them, whom now I have just grounds and good reason to believe they were innocent persons; and that it was a great delusion of Satan that deceived me in that sad time, whereby I justly fear I have been instrumental, with others, though ignorantly and unwittingly, to bring upon myself and this land the guilt of innocent blood; though what was said or done by me against any person I can truly and uprightly say, before God and man, I did it not out of any anger, malice, or ill-will to any person, for I had no such thing against one of them; but what I did was ignorantly, being deluded by Satan. And particularly, as I was a chief instrument of accusing of Goodwife Nurse and her two sisters, I desire to lie in the dust, and to be humbled for it, in that I was a cause, with others, of so sad a calamity to them and their families; for which cause I desire to lie in the dust, and earnestly beg forgiveness of God, and from all those unto whom I have given just cause of sorrow and offence, whose relations were taken away or accused.

[Signed]

"This confession was read before the congregation, together with her relation, Aug. 25, 1706; and she acknowledged it."

"J. Green, Pastor." 

Kathleen Kent, author of the two books shown at the top of this post, is also a descendent of a woman hung in Salem as a witch,

Martha Carrier, age 42, was dragged from prison and hung, August 19, 1692.

Three of her children had been incarcerated with her and tortured until, as their mother advised them hoping for leniency for them, they confessed to being practitioners of witchcraft. 

Children thrown into prison with condemned parents might be pardoned, but unless they had family who could produce bail money they languished there. 

Martha Carrier has come down in history as an outspoken and sharp-tongued woman, hard-working, honest, but not one to suffer fools gladly.

During her examination by the magistrates, as the 'afflicted' girls carried on their fits, she was asked if she could not see what she had 'done' to them.

Her caustic reply, recorded in transcripts, went to the heart of the matter. " It is a shameful thing that you should mind these folks that are out of their wits! You lie--I am wronged."

The month of August found me in the grip of the Salem Witch Trial history. Late into the night I traveled back in time via Kathleen Kent's well researched and vividly portrayed family story. I reached for a pen to underline the names of Rebecca Nurse and Mary Easty each time they figured  in the narrative.

We can read history books for the details of times and places, dates and names.

A well crafted historical narrative, describing the locale, the prevailing mode of thinking and doing, the conversations which must surely have discussed out-raged disbelief, fear, faith--bitter loss--these bring a reality, make 'history come alive.' 

 

 

Shopping in South Fork

I usually make a shopping run to the South Fork community every four to five weeks. 

There are sometimes good finds at the discount stores or at the produce market.

The narrow winding roads can be challenging, not least because one can meet an over-loaded log truck, or overtake a variety of horse-drawn conveyances, bicycles, iron-wheeled tractors. 

I made a quick visit to Misty Mountain Sales late in July to purchase quilt backing [or 'lining' as it is locally termed] didn't drive up during August, although my favorite area greenhouse/nursery reopened for fall on the 12th.

When I announced my intention to make the rounds today J. decided he had an errand at 

Liberty Lumber Supply in the area. 

Our first stop was at Misty Mountain Sales. Its a favorite venue where I enjoy browsing even without a specific purchase in mind. The display of locally crafted quilts and furniture is inspiring and changes from time to time. 

Other than cleaning supplies we didn't find much to buy at the two discount stores, so settled for soft-serve ice cream from Sunny Valley Country Store, then 

a quick stop at Homestead Gardens for violas to set out in planters near the front door. 

Below are photos from Misty Mountain.

It has become increasingly problematic to transfer photos from my Canon camera to my PC. I have procrastinated in learning to work with iphone photos but it seems the time has come. 

We've seen several buggies in the S. Fork neighborhood that are fancier than the usual.

Note the embossed metal where normally there would be wooden sides.

I thought the horse was handsome!

The young woman preparing to drive away when we came out of the store was pretty with blonde curly hair tucked into her bonnet and wearing a blue-flowered dress.

A wall display of kitchen gadgets.

No power tools on offer, but all manner of hand tools and bits and pieces for home/farm repairs. 

This is my go-to place when I can justify new bakeware.

Much of it is sized to accommodate the feeding of large families.

Ready-made garments for sale. I've sometimes seen a Mennonite woman tending the store and working at her [electric] sewing machine to produce bonnets, aprons and simple children's clothing.

If you need to replace your wood-burning cookstove or are just setting up housekeeping, there are several in stock or you can choose to order another model shipped to the store.

We purchased our wood-burning heater there when we built our house.

Rocking chairs are a staple of Amish craftsmanship.

We have two with bent-wood frames purchased from an Amish man formerly living in our neighborhood. 

This one differs in the 'post' frame construction and the decorative horse's head etched into the back rest.

I was trying to unobtrusively get close enough to the quilt display to take photos.

The owners are fine with that, but the store was busier than usual with 'English' customers [probably tourists] as well as Old Order Amish and Mennonite shoppers.

The Amish don't approve of being photographed so I  meant to be discreet. 

The hand applique and hand quilting is very fine. Most of those quilts can be purchased for under $500. 

There are a few older quilts displayed for sale, some in pristine condition, some showing wear.

Two hexagon quilts, a Sunbonnet Sue and a pieced basket quilt.

As well there are some simpler 'every day' quilts, even a few small 'tied' comforters.

Each appliqued block in this quilt was slightly different. 

These fine quilts are hung behind a protective sheet of clear vinyl. 

Another appliqued beauty.

There were several wall hangings in different colorways created from diamond Log Cabin blocks.

These were new to the display.

I ducked into the aisle of canning supplies to take this shot of the check-out area. 

The proprietor's given name is 'Fairman.' He is chatty, knowledgeable about the items stocked, apparently well able to deal with a computer for placing orders.

I don't ask prying questions, but I gather that modern devices can be used in a business setting though not allowed in Amish or Mennonite homes. 

End of August

Howard called me to the door to view the hummingbird on the lanky zinnia.

Photo from his phone, taken through a streaky window.

Nasturtiums and lemon verbena a few days before the heat wave.

Attempts to capture  a good photo of the hummers through the screen aren't impressive. 

We have a larger crew of them this year, eight to ten as best we can count as they mill about.

My notes from other years indicate they should stay with us until the week of the autumn equinox. The birds don't depart all at once. I leave a feeder up until early October as we often have a transient or two after the summer residents have drifted away to their winter quarters.

Three turkeys have made a daily visit during August. Most often they stroll down the grassed-in lane, peck about in the lower meadow. 

The above photo, taken through a window screen, caught them just before the Sunday morning downpour. They scuttled into the tree line and sheltered there until the rain diminished. 

Later the turkey trio trekked to the upper field, ambled down to the edge of the garden and then marched through the wet grass below the house. I crept out very quietly and was able to zoom in on them before they noticed me and changed course.  Our resident cats often spy the turkeys before I do. With their acute hearing I suspect they pick up on the gabbling and cackling of the turkeys and hurry to a window to track their progress. 

Sunset after the blessing of rain.

Summer in south-central Kentucky is a lengthy season. April, May, even June can serve up a short run of cool days, but by May we are putting away winter clothes, removing heavy blankets and quilts from the beds, spending hours outdoors planting, pruning, trying to keep pace with burgeoning weeds. 

July is hot, often too dry, although this year we had enough rain to bring on the vegetable garden.

The green bean harvest was smaller than i hoped for and Mexican bean beetle larvae [horrid yellow squishy things] took a heavier than usual toll on the plants. Repeat plantings of beets were a failure.

Jim raised successive crops of excellent sweet corn--and the raccoons only once breeched the electric fence to feast for an evening.

My perennial plantings are a hopeless mess! I've pottered about yanking at weeds, dead-heading, pruning, all in rather desultory fashion and without significant impact on invasive weeds that thrive regardless of drought. 

August did bring dry conditions and unrelenting heat. 
The few days when temperatures remained in the mid 80's F. with lower humidity were a relief.

August for me has been a month of slogging; Shakespear's description of 'the petty pace from day to day' has been a good fit. 

The creativity which inspired me to finish several quilts during June and July deserted me in August.

One hot or 'cooked' meal per day has sufficed, with sandwiches [on homemade bread] or leftovers rounded out with garden salads of tomato, cucumber and green pepper have been plenty.

I've spent hours reading--not unusual for me in any season. 

I'll share more about that in a later post.

For now, I'm welcoming September. 

After two evenings of muttering distant thunder which brought no rain, the sky opened this morning with a twenty minute deluge which then settled into gentle rain continuing into the afternoon.

Now, at a few minutes til midnight, the temperature stands at 72 F. with humidity of 89%. 

Stepping outside for a moment I note that the air is heavy and moist, but with a freshness that has been lacking during the several dry weeks. The sky is inky dark with no prickling of stars.

Morning light is noticeably later to appear and here on the dividing line between central and eastern time dusk is gently folding in by 8 p.m.

As always I marvel at the subtle changes of the seasons, the steady and inexorable 'march of days.'

 

Finally! Several Days With No Rain!

There were quiet showers in the small hours of Sunday morning. I woke, turned on my pillow toward the open curtains of the west window, to a solid wall of white fog beyond the glass. The tree tops at the lower edge of the sloping meadow were veiled, obliterated. 

Dislodging slumberous cats, I clambered out of bed, padded around to close the window against the heavy damp. The digital weather reader on the living room wall gave the outside temperature at 70 F. with a humidity count of 96 per cent.

Glancing through the window onto the east porch I could see the hummingbird feeders were empty. With Rosie-cat at my heels I went out to collect them and discovered a female hummer beating against the inside of the screen. 

During our first two summers in this newly built house the porches were open. Hummingbirds sometimes darted in past the feeders hanging from the deep eaves of the porch. When the area was later screened, we cut a slit high up in the screen so I could reach the feeders. Over time the cut edges of the screen have rolled back and at least once a season a hummer flits through. The length of cheesecloth pinned along the opening in early summer was now tattered and no longer a deterrent to an unwitting tiny bird.

We've learned that a bird trapped inside the porch is only able to fly upwards toward the ceiling. 

Jim made a few futile swipes with cupped hands, then directed me to fetch his cap. 

With the hummingbird gently corralled by his cap he could scoop her up and toss her through the slit in the screen, none the worse for an adventure.

I hastily pulled a gridded plastic liner from a kitchen drawer; With that fastened over the slit we hope the hummers will stay on their side of the screen.

It was a day of fitful sunshine--but it didn't rain!

I wallowed about in the damp garden picking green beans, muttering grievances at the devastation wrought by by the invasion of Mexican bean beetles. I smash the greasy yellow larvae on the leaves, scrape off the clusters of tiny orange eggs each time I pick beans, but the infestation this season is bad.

Jim brought in melons and corn, went back out to dig potatoes, a muddy task accomplished over three mornings this week. The potatoes are smaller than other years, but the tops were long down and with the ground so wet it was time to lift them.

As the temperatures climb toward 90 F. by mid-mornings, we come inside to clean up and eat the first meal of the day at nearly noon.

Stepping outside for any chore is to be clobbered with a steamy blanket of humidity and heat.

We eagerly anticipate summer and gardens--by late July we are 'over it!'

My sunflowers were in regal full bloom when the storms belted through.

The tallest stalks went down, roots heaved from the soil.

In several of the black bins fat white mushrooms have colonized.

To close with a cheerful note: sheets and summer bedspreads laundered and pegged on the back porch lines! Humidity is such that the linens needed 15 minutes in the dryer to finish, still, folded and piled on closet shelves the sheets retain that scent of outdoors.

 

End of July: Chaos in the Garden

I began this post on July 31st, thinking to do a wrap of weather and projects. 

Photos refused to load from my Canon camera to desktop PC in spite of several attempts. I did manage to load them onto my recently purchased and set up Dell laptop  and from there onto a blog draft, although not in the order that I selected.

Being rather persistent [even without a clear idea of what I'm attempting] I made a late evening repeat of plugging the camera into the PC--photos loaded but with a different format which seemed to indicate that 'Microsoft' had updated/installed a change. Not that I authorized such a thing! When something works, why must it be continually tweaked?  

Not surprisingly, July was hot and humid--a blend of weather that leaves me less than energized. The rather unusual factor this year was frequent rain; 

The past two weeks have featured brief but tempestuous T-storms with bouts of gusty wind and pummeling rain. 

We lost internet and land-line for a day due to storms, and there have been frequent power blips which result in going through the rooms to reset digital clocks.

Jim departed on the 22nd for a week with his twin brother in Wyoming, returning on the 30th--retrieving his pickup at M and G's in time to drive home through a downpour.

I set myself a perhaps unrealistic roster of 'things to do' while I wasn't tied to regular meal prep.

Out of bed between 6 and 7 each morning to begin the routine tending of the cats, some minimal cleaning and tidying, refilling the hummingbird feeders.

My indulgence was enjoying Kate of The Last Homely House [you tube] while sipping a half cup of cream-laced coffee or a mug of tea sweetened with honey. 

One of the tasks tackled while on my own was cutting back achillea and the New England asters which have taken over the raised bed along the east wall of the house. These plants haven't been a good fit for that area as they grow too tall and then lean over the edge of the bed, dropping seeds which sprout between the bricks of the walkway. I pruned and weeded, pried up dandelions and other pestiferous things that have overtaken the graveled area near the steps.

The humidity was punishing even with an overcast sky.

A cloudburst drove me inside before I could cart off my pile of weeds.

The cleared walkway, rain-drenched. 

Everything in this raised bed needs to be cleared out: the blackberry lilies, asters, blue prairie flax,, all raised from seed, the achilleas purchased at my favorite nursery. 

Zinnias in the tubs are this year's seedlings, some started in my little greenhouse; others self-sown into the  gravel walkway were carefully pried up and tucked into pots and tubs.

A few seedlings of coneflower hastily stuck into the south-east retaining wall strip have multiplied thuggishly. 

Red-orange seems to be the prevailing color for the zinnias.

Signet marigolds, my preference for their ferny foliage and dainty blooms, didn't germinate this year either from saved seed or from the remainder in last season's packet. 

These French marigolds were rescued from the Wal Mart garden center and coaxed back to health.

A stalk of Joe Pye Weed sprang up at the edge of the fire-damaged hybrid magnolia that still stands near the site of the former owners house [which 'mysteriously' burned to the ground two years before we bought the property.]

I first noticed this in tight bud on one of my dog-walking rounds and have delighted in marking its progress.

I feel over-whelmed by the garden. Jim has valiantly tilled, strung electric fence around his sweet corn. I have battled the horrid yellow larvae of the Mexican bean beetles, bent over rain-pummeled plants to pick the beans. The earlier crop, maturing before we had frequent rain, were lacking in tenderness.

While Jim was away, racoons spent a night feasting on sweet corn--strangely, only the one night.

I wallowed about in the mud, picking corn, discovering cucumbers that had fattened beyond appeal, harvesting green peppers, Carolina Gold tomatoes.

I sorted the good veg into two containers which went with me to church to be given to those who don't have gardens.

The first sunflowers to bloom were the volunteers from last summers scattered seeds.

Goldfinches have been flitting among the heads anxious for the seeds to mature.

Dwarf sunflowers, this season's planting on the far edge of the garden, photo taken Wednesday before two more storms swept through. 

Most of the sunflowers have been toppled, uprooted or the stalks broken.

I've picked beans from the second planting, my third planting struggles in the mud.

Tomatoes and cucumbers must be rescued from wet ground, melons brought in before various 'bugs' can drill into them.

Jim has revived the electric fence, taken over the corn harvest.

I've canned salvaged green beans and tomatoes--feeling that the yield was scarcely worth the labor.

My real accomplishments for July were projects other than gardening.

There's been a power blip as I typed this. 

It hasn't stormed since mid-morning, but there has been so much wind and rain recently that water-logged branches fall on power lines--at least that's what we are telling ourselves.

Its been a strange month!

What will August bring?

 

If A Tree Falls......

"If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" is a philosophical thought experiment that raises questions regarding observation and perception. [Wikipedia]

A few minutes past 8 A.M. and the sun peering over the hedgerow trees of the eastern boundary, already spilling heat onto the front porch steps. Son Howard has delivered his three dogs into my keeping for the day, collected J. and they are off to a carpentry job in the next county.

The dogs often accompany H. to work, waiting in the back seat of his truck for the breaks when they are let out to run, do their business, have a drink.

Mid-summer weather is too hot for that, so the dogs stay with me during the men's work hours.

I take them out about every hour and a half, trudging around the lower meadow with them, up the lane, back across the meadow.

Dixie, the middle-aged Aussie-mix bumbles slowly along behind me--unless she spots a squirrel at the edge of the north ravine, when she forgets her old lady status.

Mudgie, the lovely Great Burnese, alternately gambols ponderously through the grass or goes on an intense round of sniffing out unmentionable tidbits I'd rather she didn't ingest.

Smallest and youngest of the trio is Boo-Bear, less than a year old, a rescue shelter adoptee.

Intoxicated by the great outdoors, Boo doesn't always turn around when called, so she is usually on a retractable lead, for her safety and my peace of mind.

We walked this morning through heavy dew. The dogs headed for a hickory at the tree line where the ground begins to slope into the depth of the north ravine. Last week they noticed a squirrel there, yapped hysterically at it until it disappeared up the tree. There's always the chance it might reappear to entertain them.

We trailed down the slope of the meadow, giving the dogs opportunity to accomplish necessary deposits on a line that I can later avoid.

Past the small barn we call the 'snake shed,' no snakes in sight nor the painted turtle whose presence sometimes brings me to a quick halt, one booted foot suspended in avoidance.

The shade is still deep here, the grass wet. Here and there a clump of purple violets rises undaunted by mowing, the first heads of Joe Pye weed thrust up against a fire-seared hybrid magnolia. 

Dixie-dog is resting under the hickory that supposedly houses the fox squirrel; Mudgie sniffs at the base of every tree and shrub. Boo-Bear is at the extent of her lead, delicate ears flattened straight back, nearly touching her pink collar.

The laboring growl of a chainsaw throbs from another ridge, the sound rolling through the convolutions of hills and hollers, background to the more subtle swish of my booted feet, the rustle of leaves.

The sun has moved high enough to beam a shimmer of light down the meadow, sending fingers of warmth into the shaded rise of ground that rims the south ravine. Sunlight catches the fine threads of three spiders' webs delicately suspended from the low hanging branch of a maple. The webs drift, trembling in the breeze, floating in and out of focus. 

Boo-Bear steps forward on dainty paws brushing against an invisible anchoring thread and the nearest spider web disappears. 

Skirting the remaining two sticky orbs we start back up the slope toward the back of the house. 

The whine of the chainsaw is cut off; for a second the air throbs with fresh stillness, then comes the wrenching creak of a tree losing its final attachment to the stump from which it has grown. 

Did I really feel a faint tremor run through the ground--or did I merely imagine it as the tree slammed into the ground with a reverberating crash, followed by the rustle of settling branches and twigs ?

Boo-Bear scuttled to my side, flinging herself onto my booted feet, leaning her slender bones against my legs. 

I stood in the quiet meadow, young dog quivering beside me until the sound of the chainsaw again hummed through the summer morning and I could envision a man clambering among the branches of the fallen tree, beginning the process of 'limbing.'

I recalled, in the way of memory unexpectedly jogged, the long ago tenure of a student teacher at our small town high school. He was likely only 20 or 21 years old, almost ready to graduate from the nearby college which had been churning out teachers for decades.

He seemed almost arrogantly in charge, undaunted by a roomful of 14 and 15 year olds, taking in his stride the too obvious 'crush' of Janice, a blushing young lady known for her skill on the basketball court. 

His major was in science, so we were told, and he would be with us for several weeks presenting a unit on 'sound.'

He had brought with him stereo equipment which was state-of-the-art for its day; he spoke of sound waves, radio transmission, inventors, possibilities.

One day--perhaps the only class I really remember--he stunned us with the old question: 'if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear, did it really make a sound?'

He seemed to be pushing the premise that without a human interpreter, there was no sound.

With that, I can never agree. 

My brain doesn't lean toward the intricacies of math or science, still I have seen wind moving through trees at a distance that doesn't allow me to hear the roar of its passing. 

I've watched as my cats, dogs, horses, come to attention, hearing what it will take me a few more seconds to discern. 

I can watch Willis the barn cat running toward me, his mouth opening and closing, but I can only hear his catly voice when he reaches the foot of the steps. 

I heard the crashing fall of a tree this morning, a fall planned and carried out by a man with a chainsaw. Had the tree succumbed to wind and storm, fallen at midnight with no human to declare, 'I heard a tree fall!' there would still have been a sound!

 

Boo-Bear; safely away from crashing trees, but cringing at the tiny click of the camera shutter.

 

Mowing Weather

Following an unpleasantly warm and humid weekend, July 1st dawned with a gift of ideal weather. 

62 F. at 6:30 a.m. with a delightful breeze riffling through the trees that edge the north and south ravines. .

J. and H. were off early on a mission to purchase a zero-turn lawn mower which H. had noted for sale near Hazard, KY.

This left me quite happily on my own for a few hours.

It was comfortable to putter in the little greenhouse, potting on a few cherry tomato plants and half a dozen of 'spicy globe' basil.

That done and an early 'tea' served to the cats, I headed for the South Fork discount markets for a bit of bargain shopping. 

I didn't find much that I needed; a few tubs of a disgustingly sloppy 'stew' approved by our felines, cleaning supplies--and of all things--a hand held hair dryer to replace the one which began threatening noises when used on Sunday.

I was putting away the shopping when J. and H. wheeled in, immensely pleased with their own buying expedition.

The mower was rolled off the trailer, the gas tank filled, and there followed a typical frolic of both men trying out the new purchase. 

Enthusiasm was so great that over the course of the afternoon the dooryard was cropped and then the rougher expanse of the lower back meadow and along both edges of the lane.

As J. and H. were gloating over the attributes of the lawn mower, our Beachy neighbors roared in to mow the second hay cutting on our upper meadow. 

I retreated downstairs to baste around the edges of a large quilt [by machine of course] with assistance from Rosie-cat. I cut and spliced what seemed like yards of binding but decided to leave the finish for another time.

 [Binding a queen/king quilt even with the completely machined method that currently works for an 'everyday' quilt, is a task that requires over an hour.]

Instead I walked out into the cool grass-scented dusk. Dew had already fallen and the toes of my shoes flung up damp clumps of longer cut grass as I neared the end of the lane and started around the slope at the western end of the property. 

From behind the small barn that we call the 'snake shed' the unmistakable voice of a Barred Owl queried, "Whooo cooks for yooo? Whooo cooks for yooo?"

I stood still, delightedly listening to the call and response conversation as another owl chimed in from deeper in the ravine. 

Tuesday continued blessedly cool with intermittent clouds.

Jim, still a farmer at heart, began to fret that rain would move in before the Beachys could bale the hay.

We were finishing supper on Wednesday when tractor and baler rumbled in.

Three handsome bales in their tidy nettings. One landed at the far edge of the garden just beyond my dwarf sunflowers. 

Before dark the bales had been trundled off, winter feed stored on a local Beachy farm.

A brief midnight shower has returned us to heat and high humidity. 

Roll on, July!