Like Baby Bear's bed, yesterday was "just right." Not too hot, not too cold, breeze and not wind; just right. Kellan and Will wanted to make an unscheduled poop scoop. We'd thought it might be best if they came before I let the goats out of the barn since they're taking it out of Nineteen's old stall, so we got an early start on the day. It was a good idea, but we're going to have to go to Plan B next time. It worked well for the people involved, but it threw the girls into a tizzy and after Kellan and William left, their truck laden with "product," the routine went to pot. I coaxed, I cajoled, I begged, and I cussed as I tried to get reluctant goats into the milking room. Sheila and I made three trips around the barn before she finally stepped inside. Inga would go so far as to put her nose in the doorway, I'd hold my breath, and then she'd snort and pull back...again and again. That early start was for naught.
In the afternoon, the chickens went hysterical, all of them screaming at the top of their lungs. Bess and I went to investigate and couldn't find the source of their panic. I did notice, however, that the bracken had grown to four feet surrounding the pens and would hide predators. The little girls aren't free ranging anymore, but I didn't want to give wild things any ideas. Bracken is much easier to deal with when green as those billions of painful pointy seeds aren't present. (Note to self: pull all bracken earlier next year.) Pearl would move ahead of me into the tall stuff and lie in wait. Blake's "Tyger! Tyger!" kept going through my mind. I don't know what game she was playing, but she obviously thought it was fun. Behind me, Bessie Anne would flop down onto the newly exposed cool earth. After clearing a three-foot swath around both pens, I felt I'd earned a nap so the three of us went back to the house.
With the sun passing over the yardarm and not wanting to waste such a beautiful day, I fired up the mower later and spent a few hours going around and around and up and down. It's a good thing I did, as the weeds on the west point and the back yard were, in a week's time, thick enough already to slow the blades. Doing a mindless, repetitive task is an opportunity to notice the little things. The huge wisteria in the garden has started decorating with purple pagoda bells. Lizards, large and small, sun themselves, unmindful of the machine roaring past, while tiny frogs flee for their lives. Baby Blue Eyes and other wild flowers are peeping out. Tree Guy is beginning to make me think of Colonel Flagg (in M.A.S.H.), who "comes and goes like the wind." I really, really need him to finish up the wood piles in the side yard before the weeds get unmanageable there. It's nearly impossible to mow around the scattered logs and unsplit rounds. The front yard is my fault; I need to pull the wagon around and pick up the dropped branches. The weeds there are not as high or thick yet (that's my excuse and I'm stickin' to it).
All in all, I'd say it was a "just right" day, start to finish.