My propensity for procrastination has been passed on to the next generation. In speaking with one of my children, who shall remain nameless to protect the innocent, I mentioned that I was almost ready to send out my belated Christmas cards. "Child" said their almost-finished cards were sitting on a chair. I said I'd put up two trees, but had gotten no further with decorations. "Child" said they'd put up lights outside, but had boxes of decorations still in the living room. We are both working on presents. Poor child. Our drummer may be a beat behind the band, but we keep time together. I think "Child" would rather have inherited curly hair.
Last winter, it seemed as if the rain would never end. This year it is so dry I'm going to have to turn the water back on outside and do a little irrigating. I've closed off the new section of goat pen to let the greens grow back. The girls have nibbled it all down to nubs. By now, it should be ankle deep. Farming, even on such a small, limited scale as here, is such a crapshoot. The thought that we have control is an illusion, as Nature is ever ready to remind us.
While milking yesterday, I watched a hawk sitting in the bare branches of an oak for the longest time. It was huge, every bit as big as a vulture. Smaller birds, birds that could easily be prey for the hawk, sat in nearby branches. They must read body language and somehow knew that the hawk was not on the hunt, that they were safe for the time being. I think this "knowing" has to be an inherited memory, passed down while in the shell. A little bird that procrastinated in such a case wouldn't last long. There are worse things than not getting cards out on time.