As Greg and I turned to head back down to the creek, the auctioneer’s song no longer beckoned, but followed us across the now mostly empty parking field. Our truck bed may well have been empty, and our trailer would not be put to use, but my pocket was filled with a beautiful weighty marble.

We walked along briskly, her hooves clip-pity-clopping a crisp, light rhythm. For some unknown reason, a lilting tune drifted across my mind, and I began to sing a song that my grandmother had taught me when I was a little girl. It was about a fellow named Buckeye Jim. I well remembered the lyrics, whose roots go far back in time.

I really do look forward to this time of year. This is that end of summer time when I no longer have the haunting feeling that I really should spend the day, every day, down weeding the garden. 

For a few fleeting days, the valley was washed in colors, red, yellow, orange and even some still lingering green, and then the wind blew and the rain fell and the trees were suddenly bare. Even the sky looked whitewashed and barren. 

Out of 30 hens, I am lucky to gather two or three eggs a day, and on many days, I gather none at all.

It was a beautiful blue-sky morning, though a wee bit chilly. I was thankful to feel the sun on my face as it rose over the hill across the creek. From its first touch, I knew that it would warm the day. 

I was pleased to discover that butterflies are attracted to beggar-tick, as are several species of bees, including the honeybee. The yellow flowers are actually the third most common source of nectar for honey production in the southern states.

I was curious how fruitful the pawpaw harvest would be this year. Even though the trees had flowered in the spring, in abundance, the never-ending spring rains had knocked many, if not most, of the purple flowers to the ground.

We have so many mechanical clocks ticking away in our home that we thought it best to come up with a hard and fast rule. We promised each other that we would not add any more clocks to our collection unless it happened to be a unique clock that we did not already have. 

Something was quite wrong with this scene. The cattle were supposed to be eating their fill, and the horses were supposed to be on a diet. What, I wondered, could have possibly gone wrong?

My phone rang. The chicks had arrived. The post office wasn’t even open yet, but I knew to knock on the side door. I could hear their peeping. The smiling clerk handed the small carton, about the size of a shoe box. 

It is that time of year when some folks look longingly back at the summer and wish that its warmth would never end, while others look excitedly forward to the soon-to-be cooler days of fall. But if we pause for just a moment, we can see that this time of year is really a time of its very own. This is the time of the yellowing.

Greg asked which of two projects I would rather undertake. I could stand in the shade of his shop, the fan blowing across my glistening arms and face, and sort through the rusty fittings we had just taken off the aluminum trailer. This was a new-to-us, 40-year-old aluminum trailer that we are in the process of refurbishing to trundle our steam little launch to and from nearby lakes.

I know that the other sounds of our creek valley world still surround me, but I cannot hear them. At this moment, all I hear is the soothing song of my dear tractor. My heart is full.

This past week was again the week of the antique machinery show, a week I have been looking forward to all year. I no longer feel nervous, just ever so happily excited as I climb up into the seat of my red tractor and join the line of proud tractor owners in the tractor parade.