We made our way across the rocks, and looking down, we knew right away what we had found. It was a wooden organ pipe, about three feet long, its top end burnt so that only charred wood remained.

Now you can see that we really do have a plan, and with that plan in mind, I am ever so looking forward to marking my 70th year.

This past winter, however, has really presented quite a bit of a challenge to our life here in the valley. Day after day, we have either been drenched with rain or if not raining, the sky has been covered with thick, gray clouds, and if mud had any kind of pecuniary value, we’d have become millionaires many times over.

I really do appreciate all living things, even the small ones. I have been known to gently shoo a spider out the front door, and of course I love the honey bees, but I am far from a fan of the wintertime, home-invading lady beetle.

Like many birds, cardinals mate for life, though their lives are not that long by avian standards. They only live for three to four years, mostly due to the hazards of predation, and it is only when their mate dies, that a cardinal will go in search of another.

I was so excited to wake up and see the creek valley covered in snow. The sky was a just brightening grey and everywhere I looked, everything was blanketed in white. I could hardly wait to get outside, but after checking the temperature gauge, I knew the importance of proper attire.

I think of her often this time of year, which is curious, for this is that time of year when I never see her. I wonder how she is doing, even though I realize there is no need to worry. She is not that old, by turtle standards, though she has quite likely known 50 creek summers and slept through 50 creek valley winters.

Some people are collectors. My mother was a collector of scarves. She had one to coordinate with every outfit. Back when I was an attorney, I took great joy in accessorizing my lawyerly attire by choosing just the right scarf to wear to court on any particular day. 

There has hardly been any sunshine of late and not only has the sky been gloomy and gray, it has rained – a lot. I feel as though every time I venture outside I am playing an endless game of hopscotch. I carefully navigate from one dryish patch of less muddy ground to another.

On those rare occasions that we drive down the road returning home after dark I am greeted by the wonderfully welcoming sight of the creek valley trees, each one in its perfectly placed spot.

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.