The Corner

I can't keep up.  It's mid July and there are a couple of months of summer yet, but we seem to have turned some sort of seasonal corner without my even seeing it coming.  Almost six-thirty and the sun has barely crested the hills.  Last week I was putting the critters to bed at nine; last night it was dark at eight-thirty.  At this rate, I'd better locate the Christmas ornaments soon.

I seem to be awash in nostalgia these days.  Tom, a milk customer, stopped by yesterday and, don't ask me how, we got on the subject of sparklers.  Tom spent years of his childhood in Germany (a military father).  While they didn't celebrate the Fourth of July there, they did have sparklers.  We agreed that the old ones were the best, the real ones on a wire that lasted long enough to write your name in the dark.  The new ones are a pale excuse and go phhht before you could write your initials.  Yes, they are undoubtedly safer, but not nearly as much fun.  That led us to other things we used to do and have that are now verboten by the government for our own good.  How did we ever survive?

It wasn't as hot yesterday, but just the one day without watering and the deck plants wilted.  The delta breezes that we all wait for, hope and pray for, during a heat wave kicked in in the afternoon and I made some progress in my preparations.  It takes a while for those cooling winds to work their way from the coast across the valley to the hills.

Another sign that we're headed toward fall is the appearance of the dragonflies.  The other day I saw one; yesterday a full squadron was patrolling the fields.  How time flies when you're having fun.

Sweat of My Brow

It's predicted to be in the mid nineties today.  That ten-degree drop is going to feel like an arctic blast after the last couple of days.  I know there are hotter places in the world, and I don't care.  When I'm hot, I whine.  Down in the barn, sweat trickles down my back and drips from my eyelashes.  There's no way to rush a goat or the process, so it's an hour and a half in the sauna.  Trying to get ready for Pete's visit, just walking down the hallway will pop a sweat, so it's do a little, sit a lot.  I keep a bag of seedless grapes in the freezer and take out a few throughout the day.  Eaten while frozen, each little grape-cicle is like a bite of sorbet, cool and refreshing but without the calories.  Bessie Anne and I both went for a dip in the pool in the afternoon.  I guess while Pete and Jake are here, we'll all have to take turns; it was pretty crowded with just the two of us. 

It took me back to when I was a kid.  It seems I've come full circle.  My "pool" then was my mother's big galvanized wash tub out in the back yard.  Mother used that tub and a scrubbing board when there were just a few things to wash.  I was fourteen years old before she got an automatic washing machine.  She used a machine that sat out on the service porch with rollers to squeeze out the water.  The tub had to be filled manually, but it did have paddles that operated with electricity.  It's a good thing I was familiar with that washer, because I had the same kind when I had my first baby.  Handmade diapers from lengths of flannel.  Fill the tub, wash the diapers.  Run them through the wringer.  Drain the soapy water and refill the tub with clear water.  Rinse the diapers and wring them out again.  My mother told me that "good mothers" rinsed diapers five times, and God knows I wanted to be a good mother.  Doing laundry took a whole day.  On rainy days, our apartment looked like a flannel forest, drying diapers festooned everywhere.  I don't take washing machines or dryers for granted, that's for sure.  But you can't sit in one to cool off on a hot day.

Still of the Night

The heat has brought everything to a screeching halt. As I watered the deck plants in the early evening, the mountain was eerily quiet.  Not even a bird chirp or call broke the silence.  The turkey hens and their adolescent chicks moved like ghosts across the front pasture.  Closer to me, there was the low buzz of small black bumblebees with fuzzy, bright-yellow heads.  Licorice mint grows tall and puts out spikes of lavender flowers that are a favorite of the bumblers and the hummers.  The mint has spread to nearly every pot on the deck, and the bumblers kept me company as we moved together down the line.

Stan is Kellan and Wil's partner.  He is a bee keeper, hence Mellifera Farm.  Mellifera means honey bearer.  Stan told Kellan, and Kellan told me, that honey bees are neat, tidy creatures who are meticulous housekeepers, cleaning their hives every day.  Bumblebees, on the other hand, appear to be the neighborhood slobs, letting their trash pile up until their hives actually stink (if one were to get close enough to sniff). 

With temperatures above one hundred in the shade at noon (and that's when I quit looking at the thermometer), I'm not going to pass judgment on the bumblebees.  Even with company coming, not much got done yesterday except a little laundry and the barn chores.  I just want to sit still.

All Things Come

Sister de Chantal, a dear little old nun at my high school, used to say in a quavering voice, "Patience is a virtue.  Virtue is a grace.  Grace is a little girl who didn't wash her face."  To this day, I think of her whenever the word 'patience' comes to mind.  I recited that bit of doggerel to the ground squirrel who had made himself comfortable on the stall divider while waiting for me to finish up in the barn and put his breakfast down.  Others of his companions lay on the ground, stretching and yawning, sometimes with eyes half closed or nibbling on a stray bit of grain.  Unlike the scrub jay who helps himself from the feed bucket, these guys seem to know that all things come to he who waits.

It's enough that I keep track of the days of the week:  trash day, who's coming for milk when and how much, race day, etc.  Dates are beyond me.  It's a very good thing I just happened to glance at the calendar yesterday morning because I had made arrangements to meet a friend for lunch, and that had completely slipped my mind.  It also made me realize that Pete and Jake are not coming in a week, they will arrive in four days!  Good grief, I've much to do before they get here.

The heat was oppressive in the afternoon (after a fun lunch with my friend in an air-conditioned restaurant), and Bessie didn't need to be asked twice when I suggested she might want to go in the pool.  Usually I have to lift her front feet over the edge, but this time she stepped in on her own and waited for me to pour the bath-warm water over her back.  That's my excuse to go wading with her.  As I've said before, it's a good thing we're out of the public view.

Call Me Lucky

It's definite.  My son Pete and grandson Jake are coming up in a week for a short visit.  It's been two years, so I am excited!  It's unfortunate that we won't be able to have a meeting of the clan with his brothers and sister because it will be a midweek trip.  Of course I'm planning menus and making lists.  I think it's so funny that, when asked for a favorite, the Kids put meatloaf at the top for comfort food.  They've each evolved their own versions, but who am I to argue?

Milking yesterday was difficult with fingers swollen stiff and a hand that looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy's, skin taut and shiny.  The swelling is only slightly less today, but I get chills when I think of what might have been.  Spray can in hand (the good hand), I went looking for the wasp/hornet nest under the lavender bush last evening.  I found a nest the size of an orange, covered with those malevolent insects.  How I'd gotten away with just the one sting is unbelievable.  Given my reaction, had the colony come after me, I'd be in the hospital now.  That lapse in judgement has taught me to take my own rules more seriously. 

Hot Stuff

The sun had dropped far enough to put the east side of the house in shade so Bess and I escaped the heat inside by going out on the deck.  She went for a dip in the pool, and I started watering the potted plants.  Picking off dead flowers as I worked down the line, I actually was thinking of farm-life warnings to give my grandson, a city kid all the way, when he comes to visit soon.  The first two on the list are always, "Don't put your hand anywhere you can't see," and "Watch where you put your feet."  Not taking my own advice, I reached under the lavender bush to break off some dead branches and suddenly felt a pain in my finger like I'd been hit with hot welding slag.  I can speak of this with confidence, but that's another story for another day.  A really mad hornet followed my hand from underneath the lavender.  The water hose saved me from further attack, and Bess and I beat a quick retreat into the house.  Holy Toledo!  That one tiny injection hurt like blue blazes.  A paste of baking soda and a few drops of water put out the fire, but it didn't stop the swelling.  Icing my hand all evening after chores, by bedtime the puffiness was working its way up my wrist.  Powerful stuff, that venom.  Poor Clay; just before he came up last time, he'd been stung on his lip and hand.  I'd been sympathetic then, but now I could truly commiserate.  On the bright side, it's been years since I've seen my hand without wrinkles or ropey veins.

Placerville's only newspaper is a weekly.  I'd checked it and the Sacramento daily for news about the Oakstone Winery fire without success, and there'd been nothing on TV, either.  This morning I got an email from my friend in Seattle with a website, inedc.com/1-1263, an online El Dorado county newspaper.  Who knew?  There are plenty of photos showing the complete destruction of the winery, damages estimated at ten million dollars.  I don't believe that takes into account the wine that has been aging for three and four years, waiting for perfection.  What a loss.

Temperatures are predicted to go into triple digits this week.  One way or another, it's been a hot time in the old town lately.

Faster Than Wildfire

Shortly after I posted the journal yesterday, Judy called with news on the fire.  The grapevine up here grows fast!  Oakstone Winery, just up the road and over the hill on Slug Gulch, evidently was destroyed.  It was the source of the fire and our volunteer fire department was able to keep it from spreading.  It is so sad to hear of a neighbor's tragedy.  The two-story building with tasting room, storage tanks, and hundreds of cases of wine, and I don't know what-all equipment; a huge investment of money, years of work, emotion, and pride, gone in a matter of hours.  I don't believe there were any injuries, so there is reason to be thankful.

Dave called in the morning to ask for the Mama Mojo for his NASCAR favorite, Tony Stewart (I have the power, don't you know!).  Most of the race was just go round and round, but the finish!  Oh my gosh, it was a bang-up finish!  Tony had started next to last and worked his way up on a difficult track to win.  My reputation is intact.