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.

It was one of those summer days that was true to the forecast, hot and humid and not conducive to working outside. When thunder was not thundering off in the distance, it was thundering right overhead, and rain was pouring down from a dark gray sky. 

I simply use my hook to peel off a layer of hay from a round bale, but no matter the difference, every single time I feel the worn wooden handle fit comfortably into the palm of my hand, I smile to know that I really am my father’s daughter.

We looked ahead to the long-range weather forecast and sighed to see that the auction was going to be held on the only relatively cool, dry day, for days to come. The rest of the forecast called for day after day of deplorable heat and high humidity, punctuated with occasional rain showers. 

This valley is our home, our world, and our neighborhood, and it is filled with the most wonderful life energy you could ever imagine. Perhaps now, you’ll better understand what I mean when I say that I so love these hills and the life that flows through them.

The old tree might not have withstood the rain and the wind, but it had certainly withstood the once-upon-a-time city folks’ undying appreciation. 

We have always been proud to say that we don't have a problem with mosquitos in the creek valley, and now I believe that I know why. It is all thanks to this mighty army of voracious, though tiny, tree frogs.

Well, it is said that a cattlewoman is a person of female gender who looks after or owns cattle. I am certainly a female, and if you happen to stop by the creek valley, you will see two cattle contentedly grazing in the middle pasture, so I suppose that I might be considered a cattlewoman, though I truly have my doubts. 

Until yesterday, rain was something I seem to only vaguely recall. The grass out in the orchard and around the edges of the fields is so parched it appears more yellow than green. Greg smiles and says that at least he doesn’t have to mow twice a week.