The full moon was rising in the east last evening as I was coming up from the goat barn. Turning to the west, there were the last rays of the setting sun. Too beautiful to require words.
When you're seven and you fall on your face, you utter a word of which your mother would not approve, get up, brush off the dirt, and go on playing. When you're seventy and land face down, you let go with a string of expletives that would make a sailor proud, then lie there doing a systems check.
Finding nothing broken, you offer a word of thanks, then get up slowly to assess the damages. A well-skinned knee and forearm and a few wrenched muscles may send you to the recliner with a hot pad for the rest of the day, but are pretty darned minimal in the grand scheme of things. Ruth, last in line, had been recalcitrant about coming in to eat and be milked and I'd grabbed her around the neck to head her toward the milking room. She was still in boy-crazy mode and jerked me off my feet and I went flying. After getting up, I made one more half-hearted attempt at persuasion that didn't work. So much for you, Ruth, my fine girl. You can go without breakfast and see how you like going a day without being milked. Finishing up the barn chores, I limped back up the hill with the buckets, feeling both very lucky and very sorry for myself. After a good night's rest, I've only residual stiffness and can work that out...where else?...in the barn!