One man

This is the cattle chute.

It is going to be replaced with an automatic squeeze chute.

I understand why, but this old chute has some charm.

It was built with things from around the farm.

Bits and pieces put together to make a chute that one man can work.

It goes faster with more people helping, but it's possible to do it by yourself.

The rope and cable that run along the wall control the stanchion.

Holding Wasps

To appreciate anything we must always isolate it...

 -G.K. Chesterton

In the North Bedroom of the Bird Woman's House, wasps infiltrate.

No one knows how they get in, but almost every morning there will be one climbing on the screen to the skylight in the bathroom.

If they stay on the bathroom ceiling, I leave them.  

If they enter the bedroom, I kill them and think of it as a mercy killing; now they won't starve to death.

A few mornings ago, a wasp fell from the ceiling onto the front of my shirt.

I slowly turned to look in the mirror.

It was just sitting on my chest.

For some reason I thought it was thirsty and wet my hand down and put it in front of the wasp.

She quickly climbed onto my finger with dainty legs.

She was a deep iridescent blue, almost black, with hints of green.

Her black wings and antennae seemed to droop with exhaustion.

I felt her mandible scraping the water off my fingers, dragging over the ridges of my fingerprint.

She crawled to my palm.

She flexed her abdomen and I began to seriously ponder what I would do if a sting came.

I decided it would be worth.

How many people have held a live wasp?

How many people have looked at the velvety head and straight into the big black eyes?

I watched her rest her belly down on my palm, and she seemed to sigh as she laid her minuscule chin down and stared back at me.  

I marveled at her intricate beauty.

I was tempted to pet her soft back, but thought better of it.

I slowly walked downstairs, out the back door and to a hanging plant.

I gently scooted a leaf underneath her and she crawled back onto my hand.

After a few more tries, I finally gave up and gently flicked her out of my palm. 

She flew off unharmed and refreshed by the sunlight.

Another thing to add to my "I'm so grateful I got to do that before I died" list. 

I held a wasp.

Chicory

To give you an idea of how the garden is coming along, every time my husband goes down to look at it he says "You can't win for losing, huh?".

Something took bites out of the stem of my snowberry, and, though it kept falling over, it is still alive.

Some of the tomatoes started showing signs of blight.  I have diligently been removing any blighted leaves and they seem to be doing tolerably now.

Something ate the leaves of the tomatoes.  I still haven't caught the culprit.

And, on top of it all, we got hail on Saturday.

It broke off the some flowering branches, but the sole tomato escaped unscathed.

 At this rate, we may not get any tomatoes.

Elsewhere on the farm, it's been too wet to hay.

The fields are full of blooming chicory.

The Bird Woman doesn't understand why I love them; she doesn't see their beauty.

They're just weeds in the hay fields that have yet to be sprayed.

But to me they are beautiful.  

Like a blue mist that hovers in the golden stalks.

A bouquet of surreal proportions. 

Wise Investments

The Bird Woman's husband passed away in March.  

The Bird Woman doesn't talk about him much.

The grand-kids talk about how he was a good grandpa.

But mostly people talk about how he never spent money.

I didn't spend much time around him, but every time I hear people say he didn't like to spend money I cringe inside.

He was frugal.  If he could fix it or make do without, he did.

But he invested his money in people.

He bought the calves from the boy down the road.

He hired the man who was a good man, but whose haying equipment broke down because it was old or borrowed.

He paid young men to come work on his farm and taught them to be men.

He shared the farm and his wisdom and his love of God.

He was not stingy.  

He just put his money where it mattered.

The whistling post

This is the post that whistles when the wind blows just right.

A deep earthy tone that sounds sort of flat.

I want to take a tuner down and find out exactly what note it sings. 

Sometimes I'll hear it from the house when the wind is chuffing down the hill in bursts; it's low repetitive notes calling to me.  

What other desires could you have than to run in the grass and splash in the stream? It asks.

But I have yet to be able to run down and dance in it's song.

The Bird Woman needs help weeding, or finding her medication.

My daughter just woke up.

 Dinner needs to be made and eaten before Wheel of Fortune comes on.

I know that the post is patient.  

It will be waiting, singing whenever the wind comes down the hill.

Comments

I just wanted to let you know that while I read every comment, I am unable to respond.  

I can't comment on anyone else's blog either.

Thank you for your input and thoughts.

I enjoy them.

I got skeels...

Skills learned while on the farm:
How to drive the tractor
How to use a chainsaw
Practice driving a stick shift
Getting 3 meals a day on the table, ON TIME
How to record a show with DirectTV(I Love Lucy for the Bird Woman)
Backing into the small one car garage without stopping or making umpteen adjustments

Still to learn:
Backing a stick shift with a trailer
How to kill (or have my husband kill) a suffering animal without crying all night
How to change a fuel filter
Cows...Just cows...