After we ate, the former pastor of our congregation, Larry (visiting his old stomping grounds), led us in a devotional and a time of prayer. Afterwards, we stood around talking for quite a while. I get the biggest kick out of fellowshipping with these men. They're all solid, hard-working men, emphasis on the word men. One can get quite an education just listening to them talk. Cows, wiring, drywalling, gardening...a wealth of information. And I scored one big bonus. I asked Ralph (he of the spilt gravy) if he knew anywhere I could get some free fill dirt. I've asked every man in the congregation except him, and have begun to resign myself to the fact that I'll have to dig in the rocky soil of Possum Cough to get enough soil to fill our raised vegetable beds. This will entail lots of screening and extra labor in order to separate the rocks from the earth.
But Ralph said, "I just did some excavating over at my house. I've got thirty or forty cubic yards of dirt. Now, it's just ol' red clay, mind you."
I told Ralph that red clay would be just fine. I'll mix in a bag or two of sand, some diatomaceous earth, some rock dust, a little potassium, and a generous helping of horse/donkey manure, and that red clay will make some good growing soil. As soon as we get a dry spell, I told Ralph I'd call him and let him know when I'm coming. He lives about a half mile from the church, which is more or less on my way home (small detour), so I can take a load home on several nights after work, and will be able to fill our beds pretty quickly. Good deal, Lucille.
So now I'm full-bellied and content of soul (except for missing MeeMaw, who's working this morning). I feel like stretching out and watching the world go by. But intead, I need to do some chores around the house and do some studying and reading. Speaking of stretching out and watching the world go by, I caught this shot of Biscuit and Frito lazing in the sun the other day up at Five Pines.
They are now officially barn cats. Ever since I sealed off the underside of the deck with latticework, they've taken up residence in the goat shed. I'm pleased with this, because it'll mean good rodent control once we get our goats in there. And if they can't cut the mustard, there will be other barn cats who will be happy to have the job. This is a bad economy, after all.When I awoke this morning, the valley was foggy and wet. And for some reason, the old Gordon Lightfoot song, "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" was going through my head. So I had to listen to it. If you want, you can listen to it, too.
On the way back from the breakfast, I noticed how beautiful weathered gray barnwood looks in the water-drops of the mountain air.
And the sheep are grazing against the short grass, trying to will Spring into existence. I can feel all of Creation wanting to be spring. It's vibrating beneath my boots when I walk across the earth. A low, vital rumble. And soon enough, it will heed the voice of its Master and blossom up into the season of living and growing.
When I arrived home, I noticed that the caretakers had neatened up the newest gravesite up in the cemetary. Miss Nannie Hartsock, one of our neighbors, departed this life last week. She was 102 years old. And now her body awaits the Resurrection on the hill to the west of our home.
I need to go put the finishing touches on my lesson plan for tomorrow. There's a good chance that either MeeMaw or I will add something else here later. If not today, then tomorrow.
Rest well, loved ones.
