It's a red-letter day when my friend Kit comes to town, travelling up from the far end of southern California, and even better when I get to join her and her aunt Tinka, who lives in Fiddletown. Spiffed up in clean jeans (about as dressy as we get up here), I met them for lunch down in Plymouth, also known as Pokerville. The food was good and the company was the best. I get to see these ladies only once or twice a year, and our time together always goes too fast. Sadly, Tinka's husband Bill wasn't able to join us and he was missed. Kit is going back home today and I wish her safe journey. Thanks for a great day.
I'm anxious to see this morning if the one dumb turkey who couldn't figure out how to join her flock ever made it out of the goat pen. Seven of them got themselves in there while I was milking yesterday, picking their way amongst the goats, then running the fence line as they do. It was nearly dark when I put the girls to bed and that one silly birdbrain was still going back and forth, calling with plaintive cries for rescue.
I saw something the other day that I've never seen before. I watch the birds every day as they fly, swoop, dive, circle, and glide, but I had never, ever seen one do a complete barrel roll. I don't have to go to Reno to see a breath-taking air show. That was a treat of a different sort.