A Week Of Grossness

          Last time I told you about getting hitting in the face with debris kicked out of Mike's mower. I was so disappointed when I didn't end up with a black eye or a bruise in the very least. In fact, I went to my ladies exercise class the next night and no one even noticed the mark on my cheek — or they were too polite to ask about it.

          "I've got some brown and blue eyeshadows, we could maybe make it look like a big old bruise if you really want one," my Miss Rosie offered.

          With Rosie's talent for painting, I'm sure she could make a very passable bruise on my face. Somehow, it wasn't the same and as much as I appreciated the offer, I passed.

          Then something weird happened. Saturday night (a week ago now) as I went out to close the cat room up for the night, a big old moth streaked past my face.

          What the hel—heck, I think as I turn my head to watch it go. I didn't see where it went. I went on and it happened again, only this time, I knew it wasn't a moth. This time I knew it was inside my head — in my eye. I was seeing flashes of light in my peripheral vision, on the side I got hit on.

          I was scared. What does it mean?

          The next morning when I got up, I had this big awful floater right in my line of vision. It looked like a fuzz ball with some of the strings still hanging. It was in the same eye as the flashes and yep, the flashes were still there. I Googled it.

          "Flashes of light are typically seen as lightning bolts or streaks of bright white light in the peripheral vision. As the vitreous separates from the retina, it may tug on the retina triggering the flashes of light. These can be caused by dangerous interruptions in the blood flow, abnormal fluid in the retina, or migraines."

          If you know anything about the internet, you know you need to check more than one web page and you need to check reputable sites.

          "A tear in the retina can occur with vitreous detachment with trauma or eye injury. The symptoms of a retinal tear usually are a flash of light in the peripheral vision followed by floaters."

          Those were my symptoms! Great! I kept looking and looking and came up with the same answers over and over again along with a warning. "If this is happening to you, you need to seek emergency help as soon as possible. Retinal detachment can cause loss of vision."

          I'm not going to the emergency room, I'm not going to the emergency room, I'm not going to the emergency room! Instead, I prayed. Heavenly Father, please put Your finger on my eye and keep it from getting any worse. I'll call the ophthalmologist first thing in the morning, I promise.

          I did more research online trying to figure out what kind of timeframe I was looking at. If it were a retinal tear, how much time did I have? "Hours to weeks," was the ballpark, a very big ballpark.

          I'm not going to the emergency room. I'll take a chance and hope it's the slower one, I thought. Then I thought, worse case scenario, I have two eyes! If I lose the vision in one, I can still see out of the other — not that I wanted to lose vision in one eye, but did I mention I wasn't going to the emergency room?

          The next morning I told Mike what was going on, called the doctor, and got an appointment for later that morning.

          I really, really liked the doctor that looked at my eye. He explained stuff as he went along; he was very kind, and gentle. Mike was so impressed he complimented him on his 'bedside manner'.

          As it turns out, I have the first thing. The vitreous, a gel-like substance in the eye, is thinning and causing tugs on the retina, ergo, white flashes. It's a normal part of aging eyes and happens to most people. I don't know why I've never heard of it before. Why doesn't anyone ever talk about this? Be that as it may and none-the-less, if it happens to you, you still have to be checked out by an eye doctor to rule out the other thing, the retinal tear, which is a really bad thing.

          Monday came and during my daily call to Momma, I told her the story. When I got to the Saturday night white flashes, she said. "Oh no. A retinal tear."

          "I know, right! That's what I thought too!"

          And when I finished the story both Momma and I gave thanks and praises to God.

          Monday evening I picked up Miss Rosie for exercise class. "Rosie, you want to hear a story?" I asked.

          "Sure," she said.

          I started my story from the beginning, where all good stories start, and when I got to the Saturday night white flashes, she said. "Oh no. A retinal tear."

          "That's what Momma said!" I finished the story and ended it with, "And Rosie, I had to worry all by myself!"

          "It's your own fault. You could have told me." No sympathy there.

          "I was afraid you'd tell me to go to the emergency room," I told her.

          "Maybe not. They don't have the equipment in the emergency room to look at your eye so chances are they would have told you to see an eye doctor on Monday morning."

          "And I'd have to pay a big bill anyway."

          "And you'd have to pay a big bill anyway," she confirmed. "But if you'd have told me, I could have prayed for you!"

          And there's that.

          We have had so much rain this past week. Kurt Aaron, a local weatherman, said this is the greatest amount of rain we've ever had that hasn't been associated with a tropical storm of some kind.

          Our pond is filling up, which is nice.

          The brush that's normally at the edge of the pond is now out in the pond. Mike and I were driving around on the golf cart, checking out the water flowing into the pond, and a little rabbit takes off. Our big yellow gib (a neutered male cat) came jumping out of the weeds in hot pursuit of the rabbit, which took off into the weeds.

          We went back up to the house and let the girls off the cart to do their business before heading inside. I glance down toward the pond and see Rascal coming our way.

          "Looks like he missed the rabbit," I told Mike.

          As Rascal got closer, Mike could see he had something in his mouth but I couldn't see it until he was almost up on the patio with us where he dropped it. It was a mouse and the mouse took off, away from Rascal but right into the jaws of Ginger. She nabbed it. "NO!" I yell and got Ginger by the scruff. " DROP IT!" I commanded, and she did. Now Itsy was attracted to all the hullabaloo and got that poor mouse before he'd gone more than a few steps. "NO!" I yell again. "ITSY! DROP IT!" and she did. The mouse took off and made it a little farther before Ginger, who was faster than Rascal, grabbed it again. "NO! GINGER! DROP IT!" This time, after Ginger dropped it, I picked her up. She squirmed in my arms, not happy to be out of the chase. But now Itsy had the mouse again. "NO! ITSY! DROP IT!" That poor mouse! By the time Itsy let go of him, and I grabbed her up, the life was almost out of him as he laid there with his legs twitching. With a backward glance and a snap of my camera, I took the dogs and went inside, feeling just a little bit sorry for the poor guy.

          Later that evening Mike went to the door to call Smudge in for the night. "Ewww, Peg, there's puke all over the patio!"

          I went to look. "Where?"

          "There," Mike pointed, "and there."

          Sure enough. One pile of heaved-up cat food had half a mouse lying beside it — the back half. "If it's there in the morning, I'll clean it up."       

          Later we were getting ready for bed and Mike goes to the door to make one more attempt to call Smudge in. "Peg," he calls. "Come here. You gotta see this."

          Out on the patio was a possum, one of nature's cleaners, cleaning up after the cat. In the morning, there was nothing left for me to clean up. Yay!

          My week of grossness didn't end there. I'd let the girls out into their run one afternoon and when Ginger barked, I went to let them back in. Right there, on my foot-wiping rug was a small bunny leg. It wasn't there when I let them out, but then again, neither was Rascal, who was now sitting there eating out of the cat food dish.

          Poor Ginger! She stood there looking at me like, "How am I supposed to get around that?"

          "Come on," I commanded and motioned her to run past it, which she did.

          "Peg! Really!"

          Hey! My life is sometimes about this kind of stuff. I don't know what to tell you except be glad it's not poop stories — and I have a couple of those too! But I'll spare you any more grossness for this week. You're welcome.

         

          The Bouncing Bet is blooming. This plant has many common names including soapwort, crow soap, and soapweed. As its name implies, it can be used as a very gentle soap. It has been hypothesized that this plant was used to treat the Shroud of Turin. How interesting is that!

          Along with the Bouncing Bet I saw these blooming.

          From a distance, and with my Cadillac eyes, I didn't know what they were.

          "Mike, stop! Did you see those flowers? What are they? I don't think they're lilies, the lilies have come and gone already. Back up, would you?"

          Mike is a good husband and dutifully backed up so I could get off the golf cart, walk into the weeds, and get a closer look.

          "They are lilies!" I called back to where he waited for me. Tiger Lilies, I thought.

          Once I'd gotten all the pictures of the Tiger Lilies that I wanted, I looked around and spotted other flowers. Yellow ones.

          Tickseed Coreopsis, I wondered.

          I wandered from flower to flower, taking pictures when I notice this guy. Can you see him? He's really hard to see and I almost missed him.

          I got around behind him and took a picture. This guy is a Goldenrod Spider.

          Then I noticed aphids on the flowers.

          Aphids range in color from green to yellow, brown, red, and even black. All aphids suck sap from your plants and excrete a sugary substance called honeydew.

          There are ants that will 'farm' aphids, protecting and even 'milking' them for their honeydew.

          When I got home, I checked my National Audubon Society Field Guide To Wildflowers book that once belonged to my beloved Aunt B. My book says these are Tickseed Sunflowers. From what I can tell, coreopsis and sunflowers are in the same family, so one way or the other, I'm right.

           How about some pictures from a recent ride-about?

          I remember when this was new. Now it's overgrown with weeds the horses won't eat.

          Guess what I saw at my pond! A young Green Heron. I didn't see him until he flew up onto the power line that crosses my pond.

          A few days later we caught the young Green Heron fishing in the ditch that funnels water into the pond from the hill. Whether the same one or a different one, I don't know. We startled him, he jumped out of the water and stood there for a moment before he took off.

  

          We continued on to the pond and there was another one there but I didn't get his picture — not that I didn't try. But a bird in flight is hard for my camera to focus on. These birds are much more common than I knew.

          The Green Heron is one of the few birds who use tools to catch its food. It commonly drops bait onto the surface of the water and grabs the small fish that are attracted. It uses a variety of baits and lures, including crusts of bread, insects, earthworms, twigs, or feathers.

          Speaking of common, there are tons of dragonflies at my pond. You can hear their wings beat the air when they fly past.

          I know you've seen them before...

          I know I've shown you lots of dragonfly pictures over the years and many times during the same year, but I feel compelled to take pictures, to try for a better picture, a more interesting shot, and so you get to see them more than once.

        

          This grows at the pond. I'm not for sure what it is, Burweed maybe?

          On the other side of not knowing, there's knowing and I found out the name of the little yellow flower I showed you sometime back. I was out this past week and saw the leaf of this plant and that was very helpful in identifying it.

           This is Prickly Lettuce.

          I love the Bull Thistle because it feeds the finches and I love the finches. My picture captures a weevil coming up out of the thistle. There's a kind of weevil that lays its eggs in the heads of thistles. Is that what's going on here?

          The Spotted Knapweed is blooming.

          An Evening Primrose, looking a little soggy after all the rain we've had.

          Need I tell you? Need I say it? It's a frog. I'm usually not stealthy enough to get pictures of them, but there are tons of them living at my pond.

          The Pickerelweed is pretty.

          Nope. Not a Monarch. 

           An opportunist, piggy-backing off the Monarch's reputation for being bitter to the birds. This is the Viceroy Butterfly.

          A ladybug.

          A Tiger Swallowtail on Hardhack flowers.

          I was watching two Skippers on the same thistle.

            I watched as they got closer and closer...

         Then I got this shot!

          Kissing Skippers! It almost looks like a little camera tomfoolery is going on here, doesn't it. Like I cloned a Skipper and made this picture up myself.

          Saturday I saw my first humbee of the year. These critters are not actually bees and they're not hummingbirds. They are, in fact, a moth called Hummingbird Clearwing. They are often confused with bumblebees because of their size or with hummingbirds because they beat their wings so fast.

          A Great Spangled Fritillary. He was in the same patch of Bergamot at the same time as the humbee.

          I'm faced with one blank page when I print this, something I normally don't like to do, but this week, I'll abide it.

          Let's call this one done!

WHACK!

          So! Last time I talked about cousin Stacey's mac and cheese recipe. About how I thought hers was way better than mine and wondered if she'd forgotten something when she wrote the recipe out for me.

          "I think the mac and cheese might have been different because you cooked it in a shallow pan...I cook it in a casserole dish so it stays moist and creamy," she emailed me.

          Sometimes, when words are written, as Stacey's were, it's hard to tell the intention...inflection...tone of what's being said. You know, was she offended?

          "I bet it does make a difference," I replied back. "It was still good though. I hope I didn't offend you."

          Then I didn't hear anything from her. I waited and waited, anxiously checking the email from time to time, my anxiety level rising the longer it went. I waited ALL DAY! By the next morning, I was beating myself over the head. She'll never speak to me again! I think. You risked offending someone you love for the sake of a story? I berated myself then sat down and wrote out a heartfelt apology.

          "I'm totally not offended...never was. I got busy and in a rush and forgot all about replying to you, that's all!"

          I had to smile at my silliness.

          I made Stacey's Mac And Cheese (forever its name in my head) a second time (that's how good it is), paired it with burgers and deviled eggs and invited the Robinsons for cards.

          "Did they like the mac and cheese?" you ask.

          Yeah. They did, but they didn't have Stacey's to compare it to either.

          Water Works, the game Mike thought Jon would hate, Jon loved!

           

          Mike had a birthday. His 71st. We didn't celebrate because my birthday is coming up pretty quick. My 59th. Rather than have two birthday dinners so close together, we decided to have one dinner to celebrate both birthdays.

          And gifts? We don't do birthday gifts for each other. Normally. If Mike wants something, he buys it. If I want something, he buys it for me. Having said that, there are always exceptions. Like this year. This year I want something. I want something expensive. Not very expensive but pretty expensive. I may not get it for my birthday but Christmas is coming and I'm sure to get it then.

          "What is it, Peg? What is it you want?" you wonder.

          I want a thumbprint necklace with Kat's thumbprint. A lady at my church recently lost her mother. On a Sunday not so long ago I noticed her necklace and immediately knew what it was. 

          When Kat died, it was something the funeral home offered us. At the time, I didn't want it.

          "We'll keep her thumbprint on file if you ever change your mind," Corinna told us.

          I'm so glad they did because now I want one. They range in price from $375 if you go with sterling and a plain cord, to over $1,000 if you want gold and a gold chain. Like I said, pretty expensive.

          I kinda got off on a tangent there because it was my intention to show what the Kipps did for Mike's birthday. They got him a gift. An old-timey strainer spoon made into a clock — because we don't have enough clocks around here!

          LOL!

          I love it and Mike loves it too. In fact, it overwhelmed him a little.

          "They shouldn't have to buy me a gift," he said on the way home that day.

          "They did it because they wanted to."

          "But now I have to get them something."

          "No, you don't!" My tone may have been a little harsh. Mike just hasn't had a lot of people in his life who gave without expecting something in return. It's something that's hard for him to understand and I have to continually remind him. "The Kipps aren't like that. Besides, if someone gives you a gift expecting something in return, then it really isn't a gift!"

          Mike hung his new clock in my kitchen for now.

          I thought this fly was rather unusual looking with his yellow back. 

         As I was trying to get a good close-up of him I got a picture with him, a bee, and an ant all in one shot.

          This is clover. White Sweet Clover.

          This is clover too. Red Clover.

          And this is clover. Covered in morning dew.

          And clover with a bee on it. A honey bee.

          And this is clover too. White Clover. My yard is just full of clover! And bees. There are lots of bees too, as you can imagine.

          I decided to go out to the clothesline in my bare feet. Silly me. I crossed the yard, thoroughly enjoying the feel of the warm grass on my feet. I cross the little bridge that spans the ditch and I'm starting to see a lot of bees buzzing around the clover.

          No way is a bee going to let me step on him. I don't know why I thought that. Wishful thinking, maybe? Laziness? I didn't want to go back for my shoes. And I didn't think about the bees again, unfortunately.

          Ginger was with me. She loves to go to the clothesline with me because then I take her to the pond.

          All was good. I made it to the clothesline with no missteps, hung the load of laundry I carried, and called for Ginger. She was sitting at the edge of the yard, in the sunshine, staring into the weeds like she does. "Ginger!" She turned and looked at me. "Wanna go to the pond?" Her head came up a little higher, her ears a little perkier. "Let's go to the pond!" said with enough enthusiasm that she got up and galloped my way. Do dogs gallop? It wasn't a run but it was more than a walk.

          I hadn't gone more than four or five steps when I had a misstep and stepped on a bee. So much for that theory! He got me on my toe and I raked my foot back to dislodge the bee. It worked. Really well. Because the bee was gone but the stinger was still in my toe! OUCH! Ouch, ouch. I could tell by the way it hurt that the stinger was still in my toe. I had to bend over and try to find it. I was afraid that with my fat belly, I wouldn't be able to get to my toe. But the waves of pain made it imperative that I at least try! And fast! I bent down, separated my toes, and found it stuck near the top of the underside of my next-to-the-pinky-toe toe. Man, it hurt!

          Ginger was already at the pond so I made my way down there, brushing my foot through the grass occasionally, trying to relieve the pain. At the pond, I sunk my foot into the mud. Isn't that what you did with bee stings when you were a kid? It felt so good as the pain ebbed away.

          I love the dragonflies. This is a Twelve-spotted Skimmer.

          And these are Water Beetles. When they saw me coming, they took off and swam in circles a hundred mile an hour! Some of them even dove down and it looked like they were flying through the water. I sat still for a few minutes until they calmed down and I got this shot of four of them. Not a great shot, but the best one.

          Back up on the patio, I sat in a chair, in the sunshine and looked at my poor toe. It was red and swelling, even making my pinky toe swell too! I took a picture for you, pond mud and all.

          During my daily call to my mother, I'd told her I'd gotten stung by a bee.

          "Did you put vinegar on it?" she asked.

          "No. I put my foot in the mud."

          "That'll work," she said.

          I don't know that I knew about vinegar for bee stings. When I was growing up it was mud or baking soda if you were close to the house when you got stung.

          That night I had one of the worst nights of my life! Between hot flashes, having to get up and pee, and the insane itching of the bee sting, I didn't hardly sleep at all!

          Why does it itch so bad? I wondered. In my mind's eye, I see the bee sting I'd gotten the week before and it didn't itch at all. The next morn...

          "Wait, Peg. You got stung the week before? You didn't tell us about that."

          I didn't? I meant to. Mike and I were doing a little landscaping. A bunch of years ago we'd planted two cherry and two apple trees, then caged them in to keep the deer from stripping the bark off the young trees in the winter. We lost one of the cherry trees and one of the apple trees. We tore down the cage of the lost cherry tree a couple of years ago. Two weeks ago, Mike wanted to tear down the lost apple tree cage and get it cleaned up, but when we started, we realized that the tree was still alive. The main tree was gone but it sent out suckers or something that were struggling to survive.

          "Let's clear the weeds away and give it a chance," Mike suggested.

          Mike reached over the fence and pulled the weeds he could reach. I reached through and got what I could. "If you open the wire up a little, I could get in there and finish the weeding," I told Mike.

          He helped me find the beginning of the wire, untwisted some of the ties, and held it for me while I gingerly stepped through the two strands of chicken wire.

          I was pulling weeds, Mike reaching for a few more, and something's buzzing around my head. "Is that a bee? Mike is that a bee or is it a horsefly?" I asked and didn't swat it away because if it was a bee, that would only make it mad.

          "I don't know," he said not even looking.

          I stood still for a moment and the buzzer left, whatever he was. Whew! "If that was a bee, I betcha there's a nest in here somewhere." Then I didn't think any more about it, getting lost in the backache and monotony of weed pulling.

          "Can you finish this if I go and get some fertilizer?" Mike asked.

          "Sure. It's almost done anyway."

          Mike left and I kept pulling. I grabbed a bunch of tall grass to pull when all of a sudden —

          "BUZZ! Buzz, buzz! Buzz, buzz, buzz! Buzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzz

buzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

          I dropped the grass back in place, but not fast enough. "OUCH!" I yelled and slapped at the back of my calf. Some bees got out and more were coming, I just knew they were. The heck with this, I thought and dived for the opening in the fence, tuck, and roll, on my feet, run!

          Okay, okay. The dive, tuck, and roll might be a bit of an exaggeration, the run part wasn't, but I was out of the cage ten times faster than I'd climbed in!

          And that bee sting never itched at all. So why did the one on my toe itch so bad? Was it because it was on the toe or was it a different kind of bee? I Googled it and never found out the answer to that but did find out something else.

          "...and whatever you do, try not to scratch it. That will only intensify the itching," the internet said. Fat lot of good that information did me now! The itching started after I'd gone to bed and of course, I scratched it — and the itching got worse and worse, keeping me up most of the night.

          "The itching and swelling will subside in a few hours to a day or two," it said. It was less that next day and even better the day after.

          I got a yellow squash from my little garden. I like them better when they're small and my mouth was watering for squash and scrambled eggs, one of my favorites. I took the squash with me to check the mail and on the way back picked wildflowers for my kitchen vase.

          A little later that day we went to visit my Miss Rosie. She'd gotten the 'contraption' taken off her wrist that afternoon and I wanted to see how she was doing.

          "It's weird," Miss Rosie said, "but my arm feels so heavy now like I almost can't lift it."

          "Did it hurt real bad when he took the pins out?" I asked. I knew they were going to do it sans anesthesia. 

          "The first two didn't hurt at all. But the back two..." she clenched her jaw, grimaced, and nodded. "They hurt!"

          "Did you cry?" That's my measuring stick for how bad something hurts.

          "Noooo....."

          "Did your eyes tear up?"

          Rosie thought about it for a second. "I don't think so, but I think Lamar's did."

          All of us laughed, even Lamar. "Yeah, right," he said.

          This is plantain. Common Plantain. When we were kids, we would pick these before they've flowered, wrap the stem into a loop, and shoot the heads at each other.

           This is English Plantain.

          And this is plantain too. Water Plantain and grows at my pond.

          

          The Pickerelweed is blooming at the pond too.

           The Bergamot is blooming. I love the Bergamot!

          The Wild Basil is blooming. You can use this just like the domestic version.

          The Teasel is yet to bloom and comes in two colors; white and lavender. I think mine are all white.

          I spotted a different looking yellow flower growing on Mike's dirt pile; the place he keeps spare dirt for filling in holes. "What is that?" I asked, but of course, Mike didn't know.

          I wondered if it could be loosestrife since I know I had Purple Loosestrife growing there last year. It was a good guess because I found it right away. This is Fringed Loosestrife.

          When I take pictures of a wildflower I don't know or unsure of, I take pictures of the stem and leaves. I caught this guy hiding underneath and never knew he was there until I looked at the pictures on my computer.

          I went out the next day and spotted the Purple Loosestrife blooming not far away.

          I saw a Milbert's Tortoiseshell Butterfly. Isn't she beautiful?

          And this guy lands on my arm. My first instinct is to brush the ugly booger off, but I resisted long enough to take a picture for you. I didn't have to look this one up, except to confirm what I thought he was. This is a Robber Fly and he's looking for a place to eat his lunch. Yeah, not on my arm! I shook him off.

          Robber Flies have voracious appetites and feed on a lot of bugs including adult wasps, bees, dragonflies, other flies, grasshoppers, and some spiders. As ugly as they are, they're beneficial for keeping the other guys in check.

          We met a neighbor of ours for the first time this past week. Vernon Ambrosius owns many acres of land between us and the Kipp's house and Mike has wanted to meet him for the longest time.

          We were sitting on the road in the golf cart, watching them hay Ambrosius' field. If you haven't grown up on a farm or watched these machines work, they're fascinating, at least to Mike. "Look at that, Peg. It funnels the hay back into rows," Mike said. When the tractor reached the end of the row, he lifted the rake, made his turn, and came back. "It doesn't have any motors on it. It turns as it moves along the ground."

          It was then that Vernon came out of his lane and Mike stopped him.

          Two o'clock came and it was time for me to make my daily call to Momma, so I wasn't listening to their conversation. Then a truck came down the road and Vernon moved a little farther down the road and to the side to let it pass. Mike walked down and stood beside the truck to continue their conversation. Eventually, he came back to the cart. "I told him how much you like to take pictures and even though he doesn't normally want people on his property, he said it's okay if you want to go back and take pictures."

          "Cool!" I said. "Let's go!"

          "Now?"

          "Sure. Why not?"

          Vernon doesn't live on the property but comes almost every day. He has a garden there and it's his quiet place, he told Mike, and I can see why. It's beautiful and so peaceful with no close roads or neighbors.

          Like everyone else, he has a junk pile.

          And butterflies!

          I saw a Great Spangled Fritillary...

            ...and a Monarch on the same flowers but I didn't manage to catch them in the same shot.

          We were on our way out when Vernon came back and 'caught' us. "You have a beautiful place here," I told him.

          "Thank ya," he said. "Do you like zucchini?" he asked.

          "Yeah."

          "Come on back to the garden. There's probably a couple that are ready to pick."

          He picked and gave me two zucchinis and let me just tell you that zucchini and scrambled eggs is my new favorite! Yum!

           Later that day we see the farmer has switched from the hay rake to the baler and we were surprised to see two different shape bales in the field and only one baling machine. "Do you suppose he can choose which kind of bale he wants from the same machine?" Mike asked.

          "I don't know." When I was a kid all we had were the small bales that shot out into a kicker wagon where it was stacked.

          The next day we were headed to see Steph Robinson and there was a farmer baling their hay. Mike and I sat and watched for a while. He wanted to see the baler kick out a bale.

          It wasn't long until the tractor stopped. "He's probably putting the string around it," Mike said. "He's got his hand on a lever. Then the back opens and poops out a big round bale of hay.

          Then he went on his way.

          "Can you imagine what he's thinking?" I asked. "'Must be city folk. Ain't never seen a baler before.'" And we laughed.

          Then it was two o'clock. You know what that means, don't you? It means it's time to make my daily call to my mother. Mike waited patiently for me to finish my call before continuing on to Stephanie's house. By then the guy on the baler had stopped at his truck and Mike took the opportunity to talk to him.

          "It's two different machines to make the different bales," he reported when he got back.

          "Another mystery solved," I quipped.

          Speaking of quips — don't 'cha just love when stuff flows together? I know I do.

          Mike's got a really cool radio that you can use as a PA system. It's big and has wheels and a pull handle. "I'm going to take it down to the garage and see what stations it picks up," he said.

          It's not new; we bought it shortly before we moved out here two years ago and it's been in storage ever since. I helped Mike get it unpacked and he sat on the concrete so he could see the buttons. He ran through the dial from one end to the other and only got one station. FLN, Family Life Network, a Christian radio station. "Do you think God planned it that way?" I asked.

          Mike didn't answer me, not that I thought he would, got up and changed the subject. "Might just as well pack it back up."

           I got a picture of a Black Swallowtail this week. This one is a male, the females have more blue and less yellow.

          Soft Rush, a pondweed.

  

          A deer in the weeds beside the road. He just watched us pass.

          Mike got his mower stuck again. In the same place as the last time too. He called me and I came to his rescue. I backed the golf cart up to his mower, got out, got the towrope from the back compartment, and hooked it around the front of the mower.

          "I'm always afraid when I do this," I told Mike. "I'm afraid it'll come off, spring back and hit me in the head." And kill me dead. Head...dead, they rhyme, so I said it out loud, "And kill me dead."

          "I'm going to mow as you pull me out so I don't have to come back in here," Mike said.

          "Okay."

          I got on the cart and moved slowly forward until I was sure the hook was secure, then I gassed it. Alas, it was too late. The cart didn't have the power at that point to pull the mower out. I backed up to get a running start. I wasn't afraid now because once the hook snugs down, it won't come undone when I yank on it. I backed up, gave it gas, and jerked Mike from the mud he was stuck in. I stopped the cart, unhooked the towrope from the mower, and was stowing it in the back compartment when...

          WHACK!

          I was hit. Right on my temple. I saw whateveritwas bounce off after it hit me and I grabbed the side of my face, keeping my hand over the spot where I was hit. I was afraid my brains would leak out! No, not really. Really, I was stunned. I sat down. The mower shut off.

          "All you alright," Mike asked as he came across the yard to where I sat.

          I couldn't speak.

          "Peg! Are you all right?"

          I found my tongue. "I don't know," I managed and tears sprang to my eyes. "I'm trying not to cry."

          "Let me see."

          I didn't move. I was afraid to look.

          "Peg, let me see!" He was insistent. I took my hand away and looked at it. No blood.

          "How's it look?" I asked.

          "It's red," Mike answered.

          I felt around and realized I'd not been hit in the temple, it was more like my cheekbone.

          "I'm sorry," he said and I could hear it his voice — and I knew he was sorry before he even said it. It was just a freak accident. "Are you alright?" he asked again.

          "I think so." My tears were in check and never overflowed my eyes.

          I put the golf cart away and got an ice pack for my face. It wasn't long until Mike came in. "Wanna go for a ride?" he asks.

          "Where?"

          "Let's go see the Kipps."

          "You just want me to tell them what happened so if I die in my sleep tonight you won't be accused of trying to kill me," I said.

          He laughed. "It didn't work. You wanna try again?"

          I laughed and we went to visit the Kipps.

          "Oooh," Miss Rosie says. "It looks like you might get a black eye out of it."

          "I hope so!" I declared. "It hurt so bad I want something to show for it!"

          It didn't happen. It swelled up that night but the next day the swelling was mostly gone and no bruising! Dagnabbit!

          Let's end this time with a couple of sunset pictures. Both pictures were taken within a few minutes of each other and I really liked the mist rising, but when I focused on it, I lost the pretty colors of the sky.

         

  

        Let's call this one done, and remember! No matter what happens to me, I love you all. You're always in my heart.