The end-of-day shadows cast by the trees stood boldly against the wet pavement. Our own shadows, walking along ahead of us, looked absolutely undaunted.

There certainly is wonder in the changing season and ever so much to learn.

Myths are stories often about natural occurrences that appear to have a factual basis but in reality, are based on fiction. Consider the tale of the woolly worm, which is actually the woolly bear caterpillar, and not a worm at all.

We washed the 1966 El Camino until its red paint glowed and its chrome sparkled in the sunlight. I built a large sign, with Greg's help, to put in the truck's bed. I painted the wood black to match the Elky's tires and interior, and then carefully placed black letters on the sign's white background. I stood back with a smile. We were ready for the 173rd Brown County Fair Parade.

It is that time of year when I fold up my summer clothes and get out my sweaters and jackets. The time when I kick my sandals to the back of the closet and pull open my drawers to sort through socks in search of matching pairs.

It has been rather hot of late. That might even be a bit of an understatement. It has been so hot that I can sit in the shade and watch moisture beading up on my forearm. 

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.