Woke Up This Morning With a Blue Moon in My Eye












First September Saturday



Nesting time.  Shorter Days.  Summer’s End.

Birds on the Wing.  Apple Cider.  Flannel Shirts.

Corn Stalks.  Cammoflage.  Planting Bulbs.

Flu Shots.  Candlesticks.  Morning Dew.

Football.  Red Crab apples.  Berries.

Rakes.  Book Bags & Homework.

Seeing trees twinge with color.

Caramel Apples.  Long Pants.  Goose Hunting.

Cool Nights.  Orange Pumpkins.  Full Moon.

Starting to think about holidays ahead.

Smoke Detector Batteries.  Cinnamon Sticks.  Flannel Sheets.

Boots.  Hot Chocolate. Baking. Mums. School Buses.

The Circle of Life.


Love ~ a la mode

She spent a quiet, sinking sun hour in her kitchen slicing strawberries and braiding lattice.  She slipped her engagement ring into the pocket of her cornflower blue apron.  Her slender finger was bare; his token of love was protected from all this dough-rolling domesticity.  What goes into the perfect pie for your betrothed, your special guy?  Along with sifted flour and sugar bits, perhaps a midsummer’s day dream floats by loaded with snippets of hope and happiness as life together unfolds.  She incorporates these goodnesses into the dough, rocking a pin back and forth, back and forth.

Full of anticipation, and wanting to surprise, he jumps into the car and winds down the lane to a market in the old part of town for a pint of vanilla bean ice cream.

Two perfect pairs.

With a pie spade, she painstakingly cuts and then hands him the first slice.  A pin drops.

Their pupils dilate to let it all in.  Sugar and spice and everything nice fills the air.  This pie holds its shape nicely and it exudes a romantic red glow under its flaky crust;  his fork tinks on the plate.

Side by side they sit as she watches him explore his first bite.  He tries but can’t hold back a broad smile.  With sweet satisfaction, she lays his heart bare by stating, rather than asking, “You just fell in love with me all over again.”


Megladon Started It.


Every morning our farmhand, Bryce, wakes me up with the roosters by ringing my doorbell non-stop until I come down and let him in.   Once delivered from my nice, warm blankets, we sit down and set up a farming plan for the day based upon the wins and losses of the day before.  A win could be getting down to the grain elevator without being stopped by the weigh master.  A loss could be that one of the pups was ripped off the cultipacker because a live oak wouldn’t budge.  We figure all sorts of things out over his Mountain Dew and my bottled water.

This morning he came in all fired up about Megladon, the “up to 70 feet long” shark that no one has ever videotaped or seen.  Apparently, Megladon’s main food source is humpback whales.  He has been known to bite 50 foot ships in half, mistaking them for humpback whales.  His shadow has been caught on tape, but that’s it.   Megladon’s tooth is 17″ tall.   Every time I would call him out on his “facts” he would get more fired up, proving his point by saying that only 5% of the ocean has ever been explored and that means it could be 95% real.   It escalated.  I rolled my eyes.  He called for backup.


Adam hustled right over.  He was in it for a slab of bacon, fried eggs, and homemade toast –and seriously turned on Bryce, by drowning the existence of his Megladon, saying emphatically that at least DogMan is real. 

“It’s fully canine, walks on its hind legs, uses its arms to carry chunks of roadkill or deer carcasess. They have pointed ears on top of their heads. They have big fangs. They have bushy tails. They walk — most tellingly — digitgrade, or on their toe pads, as all canines do, and that’s something that a human in a fur suit really can’t duplicate.”


“There is even a song about The DogMan of Michigan.  What, no shark song…not even one?”


Adam’s parting shot was, “I bet you never even heard of the chalupa-cabra.”  Bryce just glared at him.   He continued,  “It’s this thing with fangs that is Spanish for goat-sucker and they are like werewolves that kill goats.”

These are two grown-ass men and it was then that I realized I was flipping eggs for two STEPBROTHERS.  All we were missing was the fancy sauce.


Early Morning’s Light


 After tumbling around in bed for an hour, flipping this way and that

(God forbid that I disturb my dog’s four legged extension (into my back)

or my granddoggie’s big curl)  I surrendered. 

6:30 a.m. is not my finest hour, but, knowing that I can catch some fantastic views on our farm with mist rising over the fields or witness muted daybreak sun and colors about to blossom, I threw my boots on under my nightshirt, grabbed my camera, and cursed the dogs–who acknowledged my suffering by rolling over to take full, victorious possession of the bed.

There have been early mornings in the past where I’ve stumbled out in dawn’s stupor to find some deer nibbling at our crab apple tree or noticed a big tom turkey strutting his expanded fan past the ladies.  These guys stick their rubbery, bloody sausage-necks out and gobble a ridiculous “love song”.  The sound makes me want to shoot one of them right between his ugly eyes  just because  it is early (and I don’t drink coffee) and me and the ladies are not in the mood for his shenanigans.


We used to have a group of three big Toms that shared a flock of about 20 hens.  I nicknamed them, “The Three Kings” and forbid  John from shooting them in turkey season.  Hello, these are my pets.  One day I hid in our barn and shot some pictures of them out a side window.


There are always rabbits on the run and all kinds of bird songs to remind me that dawn’s early light is special.   This morning the moon was still high in a night-blue-budding sky and the fog was almost to the top tip of the trees.  The grass was heavy with wet dew; good thing I had the boots.  I trudged out, pulling my nightie up to keep it dry, and took these pictures.  So worth it!









This Reader’s Digest


It wasn’t until my oldest son had graduated from college that I began to read books.  Prior to that time, I majored in ladies magazines and kept up my annual subscription to the Reader’s Digest.   In truth, most of my reading was done in spurts and accomplished upon a porcelain throne.

When I would visit my English major in collegel, I saw his bookshelves doubled over, spilling with the classics, poetry, biographies, ancient history, some dog-eared textbooks, New York Times best sellers, philosophy, and books about humanity.   Standing there and flipping through them was like shopping in someone’s closet.

One Christmas he gave me a small package tied with a ribbon.  It was a book:  “The Life of Pi”.  At bedtime that winter I read a few chapters and drifted off to sleep, waking in the morning having survived the night on a life raft with a Bengal Tiger and wondering how had I survived forty years without books?  It was then that I made a commitment to myself to get an education.

My time is valuable and I’m halfway “home” so no Nora Roberts romance trash for me, but rather selections and authors that have stood the test of time:  Steinbeck, Capote, Hemingway, Melville, Faulkner, Clemens, McMurtry, Dickens, Roth, Cooper, and my favorite (insert drum roll) Cormac McCarthy.   His book,  “Blood Meridian” took me a month to read and is honestly at the top of my comprehension ability.   When the movie “Seabiscuit” came out in theaters, it was the first time in my life I could critique a movie vs. the book.    One day I asked, “John, what is the best book I could possibly read?”   Without hesitation my son replied, “The Grapes of Wrath” because it is perhaps the finest example of American literature there is.”   My Johnny was right.   I couldn’t put it down and cried like a baby at the end.

My favorite book of the past decade has been, “Peace Like a River” by Leif Enger and it gets its own paragraph here.

One of my biggest disappointments has been how Reader’s Digest has changed over the years.  When they changed the front cover from table of contents to pictures with titles, I dropped my subscription.   I do, however, have a sampling of RD magazines on my bookshelves from the 1920′s through 1980′s where the future was predicted with amazing accuracy.  One article described how your banker had to call the hospital and vouch that you had funds to pay for the blood used in a life saving transfusion for your child.  No money, no blood – 1928.

This reader’s plate is full of books to digest where I can fall asleep under a sheepskin blanket in a covered wagon in 1835 or drop down a rabbit hole and meet the queen of hearts.  There are sword fights ahead of me, seas to sail, ninjas, and (of course) a Chuck Norris biography.   Time travel is possible between the hard covers of books, where pterodactyls fly, babies grow up on Mars, and the Titanic floats.  With the time I have left, I’ll be riding camels in the dessert, panning for Gold in the Yukon, and embracing biographies.



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