Archive | June 2025

Cow Pasture Daisies

Jun25

I rolled around on the grass in the backyard, playing with our beagle, Dopy, and a barn cat who stopped off for a visit on her way back to the barn after an afternoon of mousing in the orchard. Mama cat enjoyed my attention, but she was in a hurry. She didn’t want to miss getting her share of the soppy milk filter from the milk strainer that Daddy threw into the cat food dish when the milking chores were finished.

The June afternoon had been hot, but the grass on our back lawn was in the shade of the house, so it felt cool against my skin. Laying on my back, I watched a few fluffy clouds slowly move across the blue sky, listened to birds twittering, a bee buzzing, a heifer in the barnyard bawling, and the comforting, rhythmic thrum of the Surge vacuum pump in the barn. I loved the sound of it. It meant I knew where Daddy was, and that the cows were getting milked. All was right with the world.

Nearby, Mom worked like her energy was endless. On her knees, she dug and smoothed the flowerbed soil to repair last winter’s damage. Freshly sprouted perennial plants had their dead stems cut away, while annual plants killed by the cold were removed and replaced with new, blossoming plants.

I knew when Daddy finished milking the cows and had let them out to pasture for the night. The Surge vacuum pump was turned off and shortly after that, he came to see what Mom was doing. Excitedly, Mom showed him all the work she had done while he was doing his chores. He admired the beautiful flowerbed arraignment and smiled with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Daddy teased, “Those are pretty flowers, but I saw some that look just like them growing wild along one of the line fences.” Mom made an indignant huffing sound and began to gather up her gardening tools for the night. Daddy gave her a clumsy hug.

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One Job

Jun18

I picked up my long-handled clippers from the garage and walked across the lawn towards one of the pine trees in the backyard. Sunday afternoons are for relaxing and not working, but I looked forward to cutting down the unwanted clumps of false elderberry bushes and other invasive saplings growing under the trees. This one job done on a Sunday afternoon would be easy to do, and a pleasure to have out of the way.

Visiting and checking on flowerbeds around the backyard on this pleasant early summer afternoon was a joy. Birds warbled happy tunes to announce that they had returned from their winter vacations. A busy little wren sang to warn other birds to stay away from his nest. An oriole singing from a tree top sounded wistful, like he was begging for jelly to eat.

Arriving at the tree patch, I stood looking at the plethora of weeds growing in profusion under the pine’s branches. I wondered where to start. The area had never been touched by a lawn mower. I ducked under the closest tree’s bottom branches and boldly waded into the tangled mess. My goal was to cut down the tallest and bushiest first. Instantly, a legion of no-see-ums rose up and swarmed across my face, neck and hair. The small, biting midges got behind my glass lenses and in my ears where they buzzed frantically and bounced against my skin like pinballs in a pinball machine. Sputtering, I spit out the no-see-ums that were trying to get into my mouth.

Swatting at the small insects was futile; they moved too fast. Suddenly, my one, small Sunday afternoon job felt like a hard-fought, protracted war and I was a stubborn soldier who refused to leave until the job I came to do was done. The enemy crawled all over my arms and legs. Dozens of midges started to take samples of blood from my hairline. I leaned over and quickly lopped off the bushes and invasive trees.

            Once I’d accomplished my goal, I rushed to escape. Taking a hasty step forward, one of the plant stem stubbles stabbed me in the ankle. Gasping, I limped out of the bramble onto the lawn. My leg hurt and blood trickled from the wound.

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Precious Essence

Jun11

I wrote a history book twenty-five years ago. It told when, how, and who made Saint John the Baptist Church in Marshfield become the first Catholic parish in our newly formed Central Wisconsin city 125 years before. To accomplish this, I borrowed a friend’s Publisher program. Being relatively new to computers, and totally without instructions on how to use the program, I went to work making a desk-top book.

Saint John the Baptist Church will celebrate 150 years as a parish in 2027. Father Thelen, our current pastor recently asked me if I was interested in updating my history book for that event. I instantly felt panic. I’d changed computers at least three times since 2002. Would I still have a copy of the book?

The word serendipity came to mind when I looked in my file cabinet and saw a CD labeled; my documents 2004. A friend visited me one evening, two years after I wrote the history book. She told me I should occasionally make a copy of what I had on my computer, so if it ever crashed, I would have my work saved. Computer CDs were new to me, but Val had one with her and proceeded to make a copy of my writing program. It was the only time I have ever made a copy of my computer’s contents.

My lack of computer experience and total lack of knowledge of the Publisher program turned making the book into a major struggle. One unsurmountable technical difficulty I had 25 years ago, was how to put pictures into the book. Unable to solve this problem, I ended up taking my digital book stored on a floppy disk, to the printer and proceeded to physically lay the pictures out where I wanted them. Surprisingly, the printer let me do this, and even more surprisingly, the book turned out. I returned all those photos and original documents to the church rectory and parishioners.

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Strawberry Robbers

Jun4

After checking the carrots and potatoes in stovetop kettles, I loudly announced, “Everything is ready. Let’s pray, so we can sit down to eat.”

My four youngest grandchildren, Luke, Jacob, Gemma and Blaise, wandered into the kitchen where my daughter Niki, sisters Rosie and Agnes, and I stood. Looking around, Jacob questioned, “What are we having?”

I’d made a fresh loaf of bread. Rosie brought a bowl of fruit salad, and Agnes brought a jar of pickled okra, and cheese curds to go with supper. Niki made roasted chicken thighs. She instructed, “The plates and silverware are on the counter next to the stove. Mom’s bread is on the counter next to the refrigerator. When you have what you want, find a place to sit at the table. The rest is on the table.”

This was our weekly Tuesday night family meal, where each week we enjoy good food and conversation. When the meal was over, my company started to think about going home to relax for the night. Agnes and Rosie hugged each other, then they hugged me and Niki, then the children hugged my sisters and me.

I stepped out the back door of my house, pleasantly surprised at how velvety warm the evening spring air felt. A chorus of spring peepers from by the nearby river were peeping loudly and a flock of birds in a grove of trees sounded like they were squabbling over which branches to roost on for the night. Stepping out of the house to join me on the deck, my sister Rosie chirped, “It’s been lovely! I’ll see you all next week.” I watched everyone get into their cars and drive away.

From a tree next to the house, a robin warbled a song of praise and thanksgiving. From the top of the yard light pole, another robin joyfully answered. The sound was delightfully pure.

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