It is amazing to me how fast another week has flown by. We're in a holding pattern with Julie - she continues to amaze us all with her bedside conversations peppered with poetry, and I'm hearing many childhood stories that are very unique and fun. We've dealt with a few too-hot days for my liking, but thankfully the house stays cool since I leave the windows open all night long and then shut it all down in the morning (simple technique - but it works!). The donkeys put up with a farrier visit (overdue, actually - their hooves were getting long) and there's an adorable fox making the rounds at the Lazy Vegan...I've been seeing fox scat on the trail and in other places (I fancy myself somewhat of a scat expert these days). And that's it for this week...being with Julie in this last stage of her life is a constant reminder to enjoy each day and moment!
Careful attention always given to "Buddy" and to "Baby"!
Four fox videos!
I went out to get something out of my car the other day and saw at least ten baby quail following their mama! Rushed back inside for my camera but by the time I had returned she had them safely sheltered deep in the bushes.
Morning jack and squirrel
The foreman has been bringing me real estate work to do here while I'm at home...and I'm finding that the half-wall next to my desk makes a great spot for sorting through paperwork!
One of the poems Julie recited part of this week:
The Village Blacksmith
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 1807–1882
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The Smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can
And looks the whole world in the face
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming furge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church
and sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach.
He hears his daughter's voice
singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!
