As a certified country curmudgeon, it's been said that I have an opinion on everything and a story for every occasion. Other folks just say that I'm a windbag. I, on the other hand, consider myself a purveyor of nostalgia, humor and social commentary from the country perspective. I also occasionally link to posts dealing with current events, politics, religion, prepping, history and homesteading. Please be aware that all entries are copyrighted and may not be used without permission.
COMMENTS from anyone are very WELCOME, pro or con, as long as they aren't needlessly disrespectful. Any comments deleted after posting have merely been removed for privacy reasons.
Many names or place names used in stories will be changed to protect the privacy of myself and others.
The servant’s bell rang to take out Her Royal Lowness so I went downstairs and slipped on my jeans as it was already too daylight for skivvies. It was past grey dawn and there was a slight orange color to the light fog across the road as she drained in the grass. A grey cat shot from under my truck but she didn’t happen to see it, thankfully.
We took our positions on the porch and listened to the birds. There was twittering in the woods from a couple small birds, two crows cawing in the near distance and several roosters crowing in the far distance. The neighbor’s rooster remained silent for some reason; maybe he’d had a late night. There are no true farmers in this area anymore as there was when I was a kid, but there are still a few folks who farm on the side. There are also a few non-farmers in the area who keep chickens--mostly former city-slickers who are trying to feel prepped and countrified.
There’s a small blackbird foraging in the side lawn, but as it gets closer, I see that it’s actually a robin. A somewhat upright lump between two of my white pines out by the road looks like a dozing deer, I’m hoping it’s not a dead one thrown there by a speeding idiot. As more light gradually comes through the lump, I decide it’s probably just a pine branch, fallen in the night. Darkness feeds the imagination, especially when a little fog lingers on the scene.
The fog seems to begin lifting as the orange glow to the east grows brighter. The woods clear up, the fog at the neighbor’s grows concentrated closer the ground and I suppose that it will be gone in a few minutes. The missus comes to the door to steal my companion (as she does nearly every time we trying porch sitting). She stays long enough to complain about how dirty the porch is. Since she can’t sweep anymore, it’s her way of giving me my marching orders. After she leaves, I take the large plastic box that I’ve been using as an end table for the swing and put it in the back of the truck where it originally came from. That was her complaint from yesterday.
I sit down in the swing again to discover that the fog has reclaimed my neighbor’s place thicker than ever, though it’s yet a brighter orange. The little birds continue to twitter and the crows are now close enough that I can see them. Finally, I gather up the four empty jugs that I use to haul night water from upstairs and take them inside and put them on the stairs to take with me when I go back to bed in a few minutes. Then I type this up before the memories fade and I decide not to bother. My hours are certainly far different than they were when I was a working man. I hope everyone has a real nice day and no one succumbs to the heat. Copyright 7/5/2020