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.

My work day was done. It was time to try and clean the red paint from my hands. It looked as though I had managed to get more paint on my hands and clothes than on the tractor parts, but that was fine.

I remember how I always looked forward to the times my Nana would come to our city house and visit with us. She was magical. She sang the most wonderful songs.

The weather has finally cooled, and the sky has been gray for the last few days, rainless, but gray. 

Folks who know that we lived in a 366-square-foot house for 12 years and then moved into our larger 930-square-foot log home, often exclaim, "Well, you two must certainly get along well." We smile.