Naming The Trees

It is largely due to my Grampa Mac that I can identify the most common trees--maple, oak, shag-bark hickory, white birch, beech. These were the species that grew in the woods and along the hedgerows in my native Vermont. When it comes to more specific recognition--white oak, red oak, sugar maple, soft/swamp maple--I falter.

I came to know individual trees; the towering ancient maples that stood either side of the gravel driveway at Grampa's farm next door, trees from which dangled swings made with stout rope and sturdy plank seats.

There were graceful elms bordering each side of the dirt road, elms that even in my childhood were doomed by Dutch Elm disease.  The lone elm standing in the middle of the east meadow drew the attention of both amateur and professional photographers and artists. It survived for decades, long after others had toppled.

I knew the stand of shag-bark hickory that crowned the little ridge across the brook, the old butternut tree below the spring.

Each autumn I walked the rutted track that ran through the woods beneath a canopy of flaming maple and mellow golden beech.

When Jim and I married we lived for a number of years at the farm his parents had owned.

The dooryard there was dominated by catalpas with their fragrant spring blossoms and later clusters of hanging seed pods. We cherished the twisted Wolf River apple trees in the pasture beyond the pond, tolerated the thorny locust whose slender twiggy branches scratched at the side of the house in a storm.

Many of those New England species and their close relatives have appeared like familiar friends in our adopted Kentucky landscape. Others such as the towering magnolia, the sweet gum and the venerable 

Old-Timey pear at our first Kentucky property were new acquaintances.

At our current [dare I hope, final?] homeplace wooded ravines slope along the north and south boundaries. Trees are crowded, stretching skyward for available sunlight. Hickory abounds, as does tulip poplar, sycamore with its textured seedballs, spindly dogwoods and redbuds that disappear into summer anonymity when their spring bloom has faded.

I have been intrigued by a handsome tree which I couldn't name; not a huge tree, but shapely and eye-catching, standing solitary near the head of the gravel lane that connects us to the blacktop road.

Walking to and from the mailbox I notice this tree from the first hint of new leaves, the full green of summer, and now the brilliant red-orange shimmer that will soon give way to a stark winter silhouette. 

More recently I've discovered others of the same type, though less well grown, tucked into the east boundary hedgerow.

Several days ago a retired forester posted photos in the local online gazette of a glowing sassafras he had spotted. Cautiously excited, I googled 'sassafras' and found more photos, descriptions.

Of particular interest is the fact that a sassafras tree wears three distinctive shapes of leaves: a slender oval, a thumbed 'mitten' shape, a three-lobed leaf. 

Carrying my old Canon camera I strolled along the east boundary fence, snapping photos of smaller sassafras trees, then up the lane to the regal example decked out in its autumn glory of red-gold.

Learning the identity of  trees, being able to recognize and name them, is likely a bit of knowledge to be stored away as only of use or interest to myself.

Visual landscapes change with time; trees are cut down or succumb to wind storms, brutal winters, insect infestations. 

Those two sturdy maples from which dangled the swings of my childhood are long gone, as are the fence line elms which gave my grandfather's farm its name, 'Elm Row Farm.' 

The hollow-trunked Old Timey Pear has been removed from the Gradyville pasture by a subsequent owner.

In this place and in this time I look each morning from my bedroom window to enjoy the now familiar view of the tallest hickory; in summer I can follow the zooming flights of resident hummingbirds from the feeders on the porch eaves to their favorite refuge in the tulip poplar or sycamore. I know where to watch for the first flush of exuberant pink on the spindly redbuds and the froth of white on the dogwoods.

And now, trudging up the lane in all seasons I can name the sassafras tree.

The sassafras tree near the head of the lane.

Sassafras along the east boundary fence.

Glow of sassafras leaves with backdrop of the neighbor's pond and pasture.

Varied shapes of sassafras leaves.

Three-lobed sassafras leaf in red; below in yellow-gold.

 Papery seed heads of tulip poplar against October blue sky.

The sky has darkened this afternoon, wind has stirred the trees, leaves have whirled to the ground.

This evening rain has fallen, the first in the entire month of October.

As we turn the calendar page to November and the wheel of the seasons edges toward winter, I'll walk beneath bare branches marveling at their tracery against the sky, waiting for the return of leaf and bud. 

 

Mid-October Light

During the weeks following the summer solstice, dwindling day length is scarcely noticeable. 

Mid-August I become aware that the sun is lurking somewhere at the edge of the north-east boundary before appearing around the barn to spread a pattern of morning light through the east windows. It is still summer, hot, humid, heat and light with us through the evening.

By September the turning of the earth, the lingering morning dew, the exhaustion of the garden, announce change that can't be ignored.

As we approach the mid-point of October the chilly mornings and evenings, the lowered path of the sun remind us that we will soon be on the cusp of winter. 

I canned tomatoes today, getting down to it at nearly noon. [Sadly, not tomatoes from our own garden harvest, but good ones that Matt acquired at one of the local produce auctions.]

Only about half of the two cartons were ready to process--7 qts--so the project will be ongoing this week.

Jim brought in an old folding table to set up in the sunroom; I covered it in newspaper and carefully spread the remaining tomatoes in rows to gently ripen.

It was a day of scudding clouds, mostly sunny, but with a cold wind.

Pegging cotton sheets on the back porch lines, the wind snapped and pulled, billowing the fabric above my head and chilling my fingers.

Tidying the kitchen after the tomato project I admired the slanting late afternoon light, quickly gathered in the now dry sheets, went back outside with my camera.

Light and shade along the north edge of the ravine.

Another view to north and west. 

The hickory trees are turning rusty gold, but the branches are bare of hickory nuts. 

There have been blooms on clematis 'Dr. Ruppell'--this one lacks the distinctive white stripes.

Jackmanii, badly in need of pruning, sports a few blossoms swinging in the wind.

The white clematis, nameless.

Seedheads of clematis Candida clinging to the old fence.

J. suggested we walk the meadow loop at dusk. The wind had dropped and the light was fading. The tang of woodsmoke from our chimney floated on the crisp air; the three-quarter moon was already riding the sky. Fallen leaves scuffed underfoot; beneath the hickories the nubs of last year's nuts still crunch beneath our shoes.

Self-sown zinnias still blooming in the wild tangle of the west garden.

The rescued white buddleia in its third summer. Will it survive another winter?

Nasturtiums are among the first flowers to feel the frost. 

These were late starters.

A tangle of nasturtiums, propped with sticks in the old pot by the greenhouse door.

October--autumn at its best--with the lingering reminders of summer--and the hint of winter to come. 

 

Perfect October Weather

The turning of the calendar page to October brought an end to the days of intermittent rain, wind and fog that were our relatively mild share of Hurricane Helene.

Mornings have been cool, the temps hovering just above or below 60 F. Heavy dew clings to the grass until well after the sun comes round. Almost daily I forget this and make my morning ventures out with cat litter or to trudge around the meadow, coming in with the toes of my shoes wet through. 

It is 'two shirt' weather--at either end of the day there is noticeable autumn chill; by noon, walking or working in bright sun, the top shirt or jacket is shed.

The nearly perfect weather has been a blessing as we've had visiting family, Jim's twin brother and wife, their younger son with his wife and daughter. I created a meal to welcome them on their arrival: a hearty curried lentil/vegetable soup, freshly baked bread, apple pie, lemon meringue pie. After that we ate our main meals at various local venues with whatever of the area family could join us. 

It was a good time, a blending of nostalgia, remembering events and people from many years ago, as well as thoroughly enjoying pleasant 'now' day trips and 'in person' conversations.

I was running out of energy by Monday evening and my feet hurt. J. and C. wanted to visit The Ark Encounter and then spend Tuesday night in a motel near the airport to facilitate their early morning flight home.

Jim and I toured the 'Ark' several years ago--a two hour drive each way-- and opted not to go again.

Inevitably Tuesday brought a slight sense of let down [and for me, fatigue] after so much 'out and about.'

We puttered at small homely tasks on Tuesday, picking up the threads of what has become a rather unstructured routine. Tired or not, I knew I needed to keep moving.

The bright blue weather drew me outside, not yet ready to go on with fall pruning and tidying, 

In late afternoon I headed along the path we've worn where the lower meadow tips into the wooded edge of the north ravine. The grass had dried, a light breeze riffled through the trees, stirred the leaves blown down and already curling crackling brown. 

Suddenly above the shuffle of my shoes through the leaves I heard it.

'Whooo cooks for yoooo?'

I stood still, thinking that my faulty hearing had tricked me.

The call came again from deep in the ravine, the voice of a barred owl.

Why,  I pondered, was an owl calling in daylight? 

When I've heard barred owl conversations previously it has most often been at dusk, or a few times in the grey moments before sunrise.

Walking quietly along the path I heard an answering owlish voice, nearer, from the trees behind the old shed. 

For a month on fine days we've heard the snarl of a chainsaw as logging continues on property that lies below our 20 acres. Perhaps the owls have lost favorite trees or are agitated by the growling saws and the crashing down of timber.

Prior to the days of storm I began noticing the tips of oak branches littering the ground almost as though they had been snipped off. The ground underneath the oaks has been strewn with green acorns, the resident squirrels so busy in their gathering that several times I've walked within a few yards of their bustling activity before I was noticed. 

Three hen turkeys are spotted strolling about nearly every day. I suspect they too are enjoying the nuts.

Strangely, there is no evidence of a hickory nut crop this season after the thousands that dropped onto the meadow verges last year. 

The usual deer haven't been much in evidence during the summer; the resident foxes disappeared after our second year on the property.

Changes--subtle or sudden--following an expected pattern of the seasons or sometimes, taking us by surprise.

 

"As Seasons Come and Go"

Sprawling self-sown zinnias in the wild garden.

A look at the weather forecast for the coming week promises no relief from heat for several more days. It was 90 F. at 5 p.m. when I stepped out the front door thinking to walk at least part way around the loop path.

The blast of heat quickly discouraged that plan.

I walked the lower part of the loop repeatedly on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, along the edge of the south ravine to where the land falls steeply away near the end of our property. 

Elmo-cat was badly frighted on Wednesday by the dogs rushing at him. 

He bolted into the underbrush and though J. and I called and searched for him, he didn't reappear until near dusk on Friday after Jim, booted and carrying a stout walking stick, slid and scrambled down into the ravine and made the thorny circuit calling his cat. The theory is that Elmo ran dementedly from the dogs, hid for several days in a massive brush pile, feeling lost. Apparently he crept out and realized he could find his way home on hearing 'his master's voice' at close range.

He sauntered in at dusk, less than an hour after Jim patrolled and called.

He has not ventured outside today, being quite clingy.

Elmo is also known as 'the orange eejit' which describes his personality and quirky brand of what passes for intelligence.

We are all grateful for his reappearance.

I took my old Canon camera with me on several of my rounds, wanting to record the shaggy autumn wildflowers that grow beyond the mown path.

I've begun clearing the tired annuals from the pots and planters ranged near the front door. 

From a little distance the zinnias, French marigolds, blue salvia, have remained colorful; the dry September heat has left them browned and straggling, too rootbound to be revived by daily watering.

M. and G. presented me with two huge mums in a rich shade of rose/purple. I moved those into two of the larger tubs vacated by the annuals. The leaning zinnias have been dropping seeds into the gravel of the front area where they will likely pop up in the spring.

Autumn has always been my favorite season, too brief in my native New England and barely a breath between summer and the long winters of Wyoming.

Here in south-central Kentucky summer is a very long season which absorbs much of September. 

The land is still green overall, yet the signs of fall are with us, The tulip poplars that line the ravines along with sycamore and hickory are the first to begin letting go of their leaves. The fallen leaves are wet with heavy dew early in the morning, but dry to crispness in the heat of afternoon.

The oaks near the small barn we call the 'snake shed' have been dropping green acorns. The resident squirrels have been busy gathering and stashing. Several times I have gotten within a few yards of one so busy scrabbling in the turf to bury a treasure that he/she didn't notice me. 

The night of the full harvest moon was overcast, but for several evenings surrounding that event the moon rose huge and glowing.

I never sleep soundly during the phase of the waxing moon; my bedroom curtains are drawn aside and as the hours pass the light of the moon spills across my pillow, waking me from restless slumber. 

Our hummingbird visitors have diminished in number. I can be certain of only three and they seem more interested in the wildflowers than in the one syrup feeder still dangling from the screened porch overhang. 

I went out this morning to the untidy tangle of my wild garden wearing a bright coral long T-shirt garment in which I had slept. As I clipped a few buds from 'The Poet's Wife' a hummer whirred behind me in the branches of the white buddleia. Suddenly it zoomed toward me, buzzing off only when it realized I wasn't a huge and brightly flowered bush!

Daylight hours have noticeably diminished; there is a fog-streaked coolness at dawn, although the air has not yet attained the crisp wood smoke tinged scent that is the essence of autumn.

'Wars and rumors of wars,' madness and mayhem, the febrile rantings of politicians and would-be leaders.

Kentucky has been rocked this month by a madman who rained bullets down on passing cars from his perch on a cliff overlooking the highway before putting a gun to his own head.

There has been the fatal shooting of a young deputy sheriff in the next town; the murder of a judge in a rural county seat east of here; local schools shut down due to a bomb threat cited by kids who when caught out insisted it was a 'joke.'

It is sobering, scary even, to reflect that we can be unwittingly caught in the chaos which sometimes erupts around us. 

And yet--tomorrow I will quietly take note of the autumnal equinox; I'll begin listening for the cronking calls of the sandhill cranes as they head for winter quarters on the North Platte; I hope I'll be outside to witness the V formations of wild geese on their fall pilgrimage. 

I'll keep a syrup feeder replenished until I'm sure the last hummingbird has left. 

I'll trudge along the meadow loop, picking up the feathers dropped by the three wild turkeys that daily parade the property.

There is comfort in knowing that whatever is wrong in the world--in my own tiny sphere or in the vastness of places that are only shapes on the map--the earth continues to revolve, the sun and moon take their daily paths, marking the seasons that quietly and come and go.

Purple ironweed, vernonia.

Goldenrod--of which there are more varieties than I can correctly label. I'm guessing this is Canada goldenrod, solidago canadensis.

What is this colorful stick-like insect?

An internet search suggests this is 'bluestem goldenrod' solidago caesia. 

I went back to look closely at the stems which I would describe as a dull olive green.

Wild ageratum is a froth of lavender/blue often with jewelweed just beyond in the shade.

White Snakeroot.

Maple leaves littering the rough grass at the bend in the lane where our land adjoins that of the neighbors. 

Photo taken as I walked out to the mailbox in the relative cool of the evening.

Coming back from the mailbox facing the last light of the setting sun.

 

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.'