She has come for her annual visit to the creek valley. She usually arrives when the heat and humidity settle uncomfortably over the fields and woods, but with thanks to her, I look forward to this time of year.

This story is fiction, but it was inspired by a true tale, told to me by a friend. It goes something like this.

Now, as to Gourdzilla's name, it is true that gourds and squash are both fruits in the Cucurbitaceae family, though they are typically grown and used for different purposes. Squash are eaten, while gourds are made into utensils or decorations. To my thinking, however, Squashzilla does not have quite the same ring to it as Gourdzilla, and so Gourdzilla shall remain the name of the most amazing squash vine I have ever had the pleasure to encounter.

I am now glad to report that almost two months have passed since my scattering, and that every single one of those thousands of seeds has sprouted and happily grown. My old friends now comprise what is assuredly the most dense patch of marigolds you could ever imagine.

This past week, I started a new adventure, serving as a docent at General Ulysses S. Grant's boyhood home, located in Georgetown, the small town just a few miles up the road from our farm. As soon as I stepped through the door, I realized how little I knew about the man who led the Union Army to victory in 1865, and went on to become the 18th president of the United States.

I remember the room so well. It was covered in wallpaper adorned with big bright flowers. A tall white metal framed bed was up against one wall. The bed was so tall I had to do a running belly flop to jump up into it.

The saying used to be "April showers bring May flowers." I believe that the past few years it has been more like "Rain in May, once again today." 

Perhaps the question should not have been about chickens, but rather an inquiry as to why the turtle crossed the road. We all know that the chicken crossed the road to get to the other side, but how often does one actually encounter a chicken crossing? 

​​​​​​​My father's mother was a magical woman. She was really more like a fairy godmother than a grandmother. Her name was Catharine, but we all called her Kitty. 

We would all likely agree that it is nice to be able to get something for nothing. I must confess, however, that I often feel a lingering doubt as to whether a particular something really is free for the taking, no strings attached. 

I have always loved birds. When I was a city child, pigeons were really the only birds I knew. I loved to watch them gather on the park paths, but mostly I remember how special it was to visit them at the rooftop home of the pigeon man.

I think of grace in all of its ways. There is the grace of the cattle as they live in our pasture and bring me joy. Perhaps I should call one Grace, as I have come to know that they really are graceful creatures, but no, I'd better not.

Everyone she met on her travels would get a daffodil and a warm smile. She was known as the daffodil lady, and these were her daffodil days.

Greg and I have called the creek valley our home for over 20 years, and even in that short time, we have seen so much change.

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.