There is something wonderful about getting outside on a beautiful ‘almost spring’ like day. The first spikey green of the tete e`tete daffodils are poking up, promising bright bouquets in the not so distant future. I had the company of my baby granddaughter in the morning, so we bundled up and did a little walkabout. Across the yard to the chicken coop, I crunched on grass still a little frozen from Jack Frost’s visit in the predawn moonlight. At the wire enclosure we watch the hens bustle and scratch, the baby mesmerized by their hum and movement. My flock is colorful, a kaleidoscope of feathers in rusty red, gold, black, cream and gray with combs of red flopping on their heads. They recognize me as the girl with the kitchen scraps and huddle close as I unlatch the gate and set down a bowl of leftovers cleaned from the refrigerator. After chicken duty, we sat on the porch swing for awhile, and I told her stories of sitting there with her big sisters, swaying and singing songs. She told me stories as well, and I only wish I could understand the language she learned from the angels as she awaited her arrival last June, I know she had some cool stuff to tell me about.
My neighbor stopped by for a dozen eggs, I said, ‘they don’t get any fresher than this!’ as I handed him the carton. We talked about the weather and the chickens and the elation his two girls felt as they marched on Saturday, (one in Seattle, one in Munich!) His wise words as he walked back down the sidewalk resonated with me and have made me smile from my heart out, “What is happening in the White House does not diminish the blessings of my life. My home, my family, my friends.” I believe this is true, and easier to believe on a crystal clear northwest day.
After the baby went home for her nap, I dragged my pruning nippers, gloves and bucket out of the potting shed and headed for the garden. The ground is still too wet to work up with the TroyBuilt, but with my Muck boots on, I could slodge out to the raspberry patch for some clean up. Getting to work I snipped out last years canes and heaped them in a pile. The new whips, supple and a little bit prickly, I braided together, then wound them on the wire supports stretched between the posts. I love the nice clean look of the vines bending along, knowing in only a couple of months green leaves and blossoms will obscure the wire and the hum of honey bees will guarantee bowls of plump red berries in June. Raspberries on Cheerios, raspberries on ice cream, raspberry jam~ summer in a jar. The hope and promise from Mother Earth that to everything there is a season.
As I look through the raspberry vines to the azure sky, I find myself humming a song from my youth, written by the wonderful Pete Seeger, adapted from Ecclesiastes and put to music by the Byrds~
To everything there is a season… A time to gain, A time to lose, A time to rend, A time to sew, A time for love, A time for hate, A time for Peace, I swear it’s not too late…
I swear it’s not too late~