The wheat has been harvested and my fields have lost their romance. The wheat has gone.
It was here – so beautiful and now harvested and collected and gone to be tested for all manner of things before the women at the Mill turn it into food.
Though the harvest itself holds a certain terminal beauty. Like a sandcastle – there and gone.
They are harvesting Frederick here. Frederick is just below a medium protein flour. It is a favorite cake flour amongst the bakers ( cake- sifted) and the whole wheat flour blended with the Glenn makes a nice loaf of bread. I think people like the Fred for its mild flavor. I am more of a Glenn girl.
Anyway the wheat is gone now. Today we will bale as much straw as we can.
Sheila is getting old. I say this without ceremony because I feel shipwrecked or more ship-lost-at-sea at the thought of losing Sheila my old dear pig. Pigs don’t stop growing – they slow down but she keeps on getting longer – and she is over 6 foot long now and up to my waist in height (and I am not a short person). But her back half is not keeping up with her front half as though they are being directed by two different brains. Rising out of a sitting position takes real determination. Walking, with her long back and bad hip, is more of a drunken sway. I am afraid that soon she will sit down and won’t be able to get back up.
But she still looks me straight in the eye and gently takes food from my hands when I feed her. She still fights Poppy if Poppy tries to steal her food. She still wallows in her enormous mud puddle and waits for me in the evening. She is quite deaf but if I wave her bucket of vegetables about and call with a very high voice she gets up after a struggle and still comes lumbering out into her garden for her evening vegetables.
But she is getting old. And you and I need to start preparing ourselves.
Soon she and Poppy will go into one of the bigger pig gardens. They are wonderfully shady now and Sheila will like that.
I am reading this book:
Writers and Lovers – a Novel
Though I have not finished it yet. I love to read – it helps me to not think. It is like traveling very safely.
I told my fourth son in New Zealand he might have to buy a bigger boat in case he has to come and get me.
I can hear the ducks outside the window. It seems to me there are less of them. There are a number sitting on eggs but no eggs are hatching. The ducks sit for over a month but eventually the nest is abandoned. One nest has two ducks in it. But no ducklings for us. John is digging a big pond, deeper than himself, where his swimming pool used to be, and lining it in with rocks at the moment. The rocks cover a big black liner. The ducks will be happy when that is finished. I told him I would start a budget for replacement fish. It will attract herons too which is pretty cool. ( more replacement fish). I told him to place the rocks in such a way that the fish can hide from the birds. I have no idea where one even buys fish in those numbers.
It is a beautiful day. I might garden later. First though: ‘the working woman’s Saturday morning jobs.’