That's A First

Probably fifteen years ago Steve was going to town and asked if I wanted anything.  I asked for a persimmon tree.  That man would shop for anything.  He just loved shopping, it didn't matter what.  He came home so pleased with himself as he took a pomegranate bare-root tree from the truck.  "E" for effort as he did get the "P" right.  Oh well, pomegranates are good, too.  I thanked him, never pointed out his mistake, and planted the tree-ling out in the fenced garden.  The tree survived and has grown and has even put out blossoms now and then, but not once in all these years has it set fruit.  Therefore I didn't believe my eyes as I walked past the garden yesterday on my way to the goat pen and caught a flash of red.  Going to check, I found this pomegranate, as well as one that had been too long on the tree and gone bad, one that the birds had feasted on, and one not quite ripe.  That's a first and shows that one should never give up hope.

Still in the process of trimming goat hooves, yesterday I moved on to the right rear legs.  Trimming hooves does not hurt anymore than clipping fingernails, but the girls do not like to have their feet messed with.  The back feet are the worst.  The girls are incredibly strong and kick like mules while I'm trying not to trim too close to the quick and not get slashed or punctured by the sharp, pointed shears myself.  It's a procedure I approach with caution, so yesterday it came as a great surprise when every one of the girls let me pick up their feet and trim the overgrown hooves without (much) protest.  That was another first.  I can only hope today is more of the same.

John Dear and I are not in sync.  It was a perfect day to mow as the sun was shining, the earth was damp, and the star thistle was just dry enough.  After John's months-long vacation, I got out the instruction manual for a refresher course before going out to the shed.  Thing having done what Thing does best, I had to dig mounds of dirt away from the feed barn in order to get the door to the middle section open just in case I needed more gasoline.  John's tank was full and I climbed aboard, turned the key, and...nothing.  Mentally reviewing the manual, I pushed this, pulled that, turned the key, and...nothing.  Bess had come out with me and she followed me back to the house so I could read the manual again to find out what I was doing or not doing right.  Turns out I wasn't pushing hard enough on the brake pedal.  We went out again for another try.  Wow!  The engine turned over but didn't catch.  Again.  Rrrr, rrrr, rrrr.  And nothing.  Boogers!  Thinking I'd flooded the engine, Bess and I went back to the house to give John a chance to recover.  She was a little slower to follow me out again, but she came.  Rrrr, rrrr, r-r-r-r.  Oh crum.  The battery was getting low.  Admitting defeat (for the moment), I headed back to the house, Bessie Anne giving me questioning looks as she followed.  "Why are we doing this, Mom?"  Now, I have to admit I'm phobic about batteries.  I'm pretty good with AA clock batteries, but I'm scared to death of car and tractor batteries, sure I'm going to blow them up if I get the red and black connectors wrong, and absolutely sure I'll get them wrong.  The only available male in the neighborhood is Beau, but after the fiasco of the other day, I couldn't make myself pick up the phone to ask his help.  I'll have to get over that or else plant flowers in John's cup holder and call him yard art.

Totally frustrated with my lack of success with John Not-So-Dear, I dusted the living room without provocation.  That's a first.