We know that you know that things just aren't quite the same anymore, but we also know that you know that we love you. You know that we will always stay close by your side, just as you have stayed by ours all these years.

This morning when I woke up and looked out the loft window I could actually see the last few stars shining brightly down from a clear sky. The stars soon faded and the sun rose over the far hill, quickly warming our creek valley world. 

I now know that this particular Atlas quite likely dates back to the late 1930s. It has a 54-inch bed, and can turn a piece of metal up to 10 inches in diameter. I have learned that most all of its kind were put to work during the Second World War in support the Allied war effort.

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.