F-in Rain!

That's the title of an email I received from a friend recently. Maybe the world is ending. We have plenty of wood, instead of a new aviary for the chickens or raised beds for the garden, maybe we should be reading up on ark-building. First our barn drain backed up, collecting puddles of curdling milk near the septic tank. Then our leach field became overwhelmed, so now we have nicely contrasting black puddles, strategically placed in and around the pastures. Our yard smells like armpit. Make that armpit and poo.



I shouldn't complain, the rain, though increasingly frustrating, has not caused any mass destruction here. Our House is dry, our basement is just a tad damp. We have always wanted a pond, just not in the middle of our driveway.

In between bouts of torrential rain, we rushed to fill our beds with topsoil and were able to get the tomatoes and peppers in. I'm quite sure our lettuce washed away in Tuesdays flood, time will tell. The garden, day 1, looks like that of our hardworking Amish neighbors, freshly turned dirt, dark, rich soil, plants arranged in neat rows. Soon, as in years past, the evil Canadian thistle will worm it's way in and work and other chores will take priority, rendering our lovely garden into a grassy disaster. Function over form, the garden may not be beautiful but is generally quite productive. Why a household of 2 needs 60 assorted tomato plants I can't fathom, but this year I responsibly cut it down to 24. 

Excited to have hunted down shishito pepper plants,can't wait to fry them with lots of lime and sea salt. I promised myself that this is the year- my pumpkins and watermelons will grow big enough to carve and eat,respectively. Last year I nurtured my poor lonely watermelon (yes, just 1), optimistic as it passed successfully from grape to plum to softball size, only to disappear off the vine, likely plucked by some filthy rodent who didn't appreciate its worth.

As I write this, the clouds have cleared and it is sunny, the ground green and lush. Translation=  we need to cut the lawn again. The hayfield is brimming with alfalfa and clover, hopefully the fields will dry out enough to cut it within the next few weeks. Hay sure is expensive when the growing season has already been pushed back a month. Add in finicky goats that wouldn't dare stoop so low as to eat grass hay and that makes for a pricey spring. 

As I sit on my porch, enjoying a few moments in the sun, I breathe in the freshly cut grass watch the goats napping in the field, the bluebirds flitting in and out of their nest boxes. I watch Tinder (aka Cujo) my chihuahua attack dog, find a treasure in the yard. She sniffs,then dives in, rolling on God knows what like she's in heaven. She turns, bolts like a little bullet on her tiny legs, up over my lounge chair to give me a kiss. 

Just as my nose is assaulted with the smell of rotten, musky, oily death, Kaelyn catches a whiff and quickly seeks out the same spot. Always ready to one up her mini sister, Kaelyn brings me a present. A very dead, very flat decomposing mole. I grab a shoe off the porch (sorry Rog) and collect the vile thing and fling it into the back field. The wind shifts and I hear the roar of a tractor on the dairy farm behind us. My nostrils immediately start burning with the smell of liquid cow manure as he covers the fields closest to our house. Armpit has been replaced by dead musky mole. Then there's the poo.