Some traditions stay the same, no matter how much time passes. They continue unchanged, flowing from generation to generation. I will always set a candle in the center of my pressed tin holiday wreath, just as my mother did as far back as I can remember, and her mother did long before my childhood memories.

It was definitely chilly outside. I did not want to put down my warm cup of coffee and step out the door to do the animal chores, but then I thought of my pasture friends waiting patiently. It was time to head out.

I got out of bed and looked out the window at the whiteness beyond. It had gathered overnight, piling up on the tree branches and covering the ground. No blades of green were anywhere to be seen.

I often imagine what our creek valley was like, hundreds, if not thousands of years before Greg and I made our home here. I particularly wonder this time of year – that Osage orange time – the time when the large green fruits drop thunderously to the ground.

The skies have been gray and the days shorter. This is that time of year when I light the oil lamps in the evening and look forward to colorful skies and longer days ahead; though in truth, the glow from the lamps sheds comfort all throughout our small home.

It was chilly when I stepped outside to do the morning chores. It was really more than chilly. It was freezing, only 20 degrees, but I was bundled warm in my winter chore clothes.

I love the dirt. I am at home in the dirt. I look down at my dirt-covered hands and I am proud of the way they reflect the joy of my work, their aging wrinkles and creases perfectly etched.

My father was many things, longshoreman, clock maker, superintendent of a rooming house, inventor and patent attorney. He moved easily from one livelihood to another, never totally letting go of what he had been before.

It is a good thing to have a helper. No matter what I do, she is right by my side to help however she can.

I stepped outside. The sun was just coming up over the hill on the far side of the creek. A heavy dew covered the grass in the upper yard. It sparkled in the first few rays of sunshine.

I used to be a chicken farmer, of sorts. Twenty-five feathered girls would rush to peck at the grain I scattered around my feet. I felt so loved and important. Black and orange, gray and brown, white and speckled, they were my adoring flock.

I am so thankful for the creek valley life that Greg and I now share. My younger life was very different. I knew nothing about chore clothes, some of which are rather tattered (why put on a good shirt when it will just get ripped by wire fencing or torn by brambles?). In my younger days, I wore proper uniforms.

If ever you are feeling in need of a bellwether as to what tomorrow might bring, stop on by the creek, ring the bell, and you will know that its clear note will carry you easily into the coming day.

Greg and I have a way of working together. We seem to know what to do and how to do it without the need for words.

“No more animals,” he said, and I understood. The pasture is perfectly filled with two highland cattle, three sheep, and two little horses. Our two goats live contentedly in the goat yard, their house the perfect size for goat dreams at night and standing side by side in the doorway on rainy creek valley days.