Big Changes

We've bid July adieu. Looking back over the last weeks, July was a good month. There were some very happy days at the beginning of it when I had all my children and their families here. We celebrated the 250th birthday of our great nation together. It was good. I wanted July to dazzle me with heat and there were a few almost sweltering days, but there were also too many cool days. And now it's August.

I've written in this Journal every year at the beginning of August about how it is not one of my favorite months. It is full of mixed childhood memories of happy times and sad times. The four times our family moved when I was young were always in August, which were sad times for me. But after we moved, my Grandma Rathfon and cousins would come to visit us in August and those were happy times. And then there was the approaching dread of school starting that tainted the month as a child and even as an adult. I love August's heat when it gives it and dread the possibility of an early frost, which happens too often. It's a busy month when harvesting hits full swing. Yet everything I do in August seems to point to the end of things. August is complicated.

The rain that came throughout the week kept interrupting my plans, but I did get some good work done. I spent Monday destroying an old garden and transforming it into a new one. The day was overcast and warm, perfect for what I had to do. The flowerbed in question is at the side of the property, perpendicular to the long border, running parallel to the Rapley Road. I made it fifteen years ago and for the first few years I planted flowers in it. But it quickly became overgrown with tansy and mint and quack-grass and I pretty much neglected it for the next decade, which is odd because it is the flowerbed most visible from the road, so you'd think I'd want it to be a showcase. But I finally had enough of it's slovenliness. It was time to do something. Early in the spring, I covered it with a tarp to kill off most of the things growing there. On Monday morning, I removed the tarp. The ground under it was dry and dead. I had planned to use the rototiller to dig it up, but the tiller wouldn't cooperate, so I dug it out by hand. It was hard work. There were so many dead and dried up deep-rooted things. The only things I spared were four little bayberry bushes along the back edge. I finished digging and left it to sit while I decide what to plant there. I want something bold that will look nice from the road and is also easy to care for. I'm still thinking about it.

Working on the flowerbed.

All done.

Just as I was done with my work, Miriam was leaving to take the children to the pond to swim so I went along. It was sunny, and breezy, and 77°, but once again, the water was too cold for me, so I just took a nap in the sunshine. It was the last nice weather we'd have for several days.

Sarah came by in the early evening. She added another irrigation line in the row in the big garden where the cucumbers are planted. Her irrigation system is working great. It's such a helpful addition to the garden. While she was doing that, I deadheaded marigolds. We planted a lot of marigolds in the long rows out in the big garden – hundreds of them. They are beautiful, but to keep them blooming, we have to deadhead them several times a week. I don't mind doing it. I love the smell of marigold plants. After that, Sarah came over to my vegetable garden and picked chard, green onions, and cilantro. She took them home and freeze-dried them. 

Trays of chard, cilantro, and green onion ready for the freeze-dryer.

It was a lovely evening, so I stayed out in the twilight, just sitting in the garden watching the moonflowers open and the world grow dark.

In the twilight garden.

During the night, we had the first of several thunderstorms. The lightning and thunder started around 1:00 A.M. and went on for two hours. It woke me up several times. The second storm arrived later in the morning and went on in waves through the rest of the day. Our power went off at 7:45 and didn't come on again until 10:00. That meant no lights, no water, no computer, and grandchildren eating breakfast in the dark. And it was dark because it was pouring rain outside. The tree cutting crew never showed up, of course. And I was left with trying to keep myself occupied. I read and brooded and wished the rain would stop.

I'm sure the rain had something to do with it, and contemplating the impending death of the trees, but then, it usually happens every year right about now, at the end of July and the onset of August. I get what I call The Midsummer Sadness. Even with all the beauty of the season around me, my mind settles on the transience of it all. I see fragility in its robustness, the seeds of decay in its verdure. Summer is glorious, but it will not last, and I begin to mourn its passing long before it's gone. 

The Japanese have a philosophy called mono no aware 物の哀れ, "the aesthetic appreciation of the impermanence of things marked by a gentle sadness." I felt this feeling long before I ever went to Japan and realized that others felt it and there was actually a name for it, in Japanese anyway. It's kind of like the German Weltschmertz, but not as grim or harsh (in pronunciation as well as feeling). My earliest attempts to describe it in my moody teenage journals sound almost biblical, like Isaiah's – "All flesh is grass, and all the goodliness is as the flower of the field: the grass withereth, the flower fadeth" (Isaiah 40:6-7). Or the words of the psalmist – "As for man, his days are as grass: as a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more" (Psalm 103: 15-16). All my life, I think, I've known that life is short, especially the summers.

I was told a story while I was in Japan that illustrates this appreciation for the delicate and fleeting nature of existence. It was told to me by an old man, Fujiwara Kyodai, who took care of the old house where we met for church in Kawanishi. There was a morning glory growing by the porch of the house and one day, when we were eating our lunch on the porch with Fujiwara Kyodai, I told him how much I admired it. He then explained mono no aware to me with a story that centers on a haiku written in the 18th century:

 朝顔 に              Asagao ni

釣瓶 とられて   tsurube torarete
もらい 水           morai mizu

Translated it means "The morning glory has taken the well bucket; I must go and ask a neighbor for water." The story tells of a girl who went to the well to get water, but found that a morning glory had wrapped a tendril around the bucket handle. Rather than disturb it, she chose to leave it and instead walked to a neighboring house to borrow water. I liked the story, and I understood the feeling it described. Fujiwara Kyodai paid me the compliment of telling me he thought I was a totemo nihonteki na hito, very much like a Japanese person.

The Japanese love morning glories and so do I. In Japanese they are called asagao, 朝顔 "morning faces" because each blossom only opens for a single morning. Like sakura 桜 cherry blossoms, and koyo 紅葉 autumn leaves, they symbolize the ephemeral nature of life. 

How morning glories came to Japan is something of a botanical mystery. Based on genetic analysis, they seem to have originated in Central and South America and somehow were transported in pre-Columbian times to Africa, then India, and then to China, and were brought to Japan during the Heian period around the 8th century A.D. Over the centuries the Japanese have developed many beautiful varieties. 

The famous Morning Glories screen by Suzuki Kiistu (1796-1858) in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I try to grow morning glories in my garden every year, some years successfully, but usually not. They are tender plants and never seem to have time to bloom before frost kills them. This year I planted the seeds of two varieties in seed trays extra early, Heavenly Blue and Flying Saucers. In June I transplanted them to a trellis arch out in the garden. At first they seemed spindly and sad, but they have recovered and are now vigorously vining all over the arch. But I haven't had a single flower yet. There are some buds forming and I go out every day to check on them.

My morning glory vines with lots of leaves, but no flowers yet.

The rain stopped around 2:30 P.M., but the sky stayed gray and heavy. The afternoon was muggy, 78° with the humidity at 90%. I love weather like that. I went out and got a little work done before the rain returned. The next wave of rain came through at 4:00 P.M. It was so light that I kept on working through it for an hour until it started to pour again. That was it for getting any work done. We had three more downpours through the late afternoon. By evening, the temperature had started to drop and ground fog was forming in low-lying places.

Wednesday was a day of Big Changes. Enos Keim and his tree cutting crew arrived at noon and went to work on the bigger tree closest to the house. They brought a huge chipper, a skid steer, and several different chain saws. The ground was soft from all the rain and I cringed as their equipment tore up the yard, but it couldn't be helped. They took down the tree, cut it in pieces, chipped the limbs, cut the branches into firewood, and hauled the big butt log into the wild garden at the front of the yard and dumped it. It rained off and on while they worked, but they kept on going. After they left, we stacked the firewood and tidied up as best we could.

Mabel and Florence on the stump.

The house looks so exposed!

Reduced to bits and pieces.

The pile of chipped branches.

Firewood.

They came back Thursday morning and took down the second tree. It was not as big and the work went quicker. It will take me a long time to get used to the trees not being there. It feels like the beginning of a new era for the house. It looks so exposed. There will be benefits to the trees being gone. We'll get more sunshine in the house. With the shade gone, moss and algae won't grow on the roof and siding of the house. I won't have to clean leaves out of the rain gutters. Even so, I was sad we had to remove them. In my usual fashion, I imagined the ghosts of all the people who sat in the shade of those trees over the century of their existence – great grandparents, grandparents, and all my family, kinfolk, and friends.

The house without trees, view one.

The house without trees, view two.

Kurt had them save some logs to cut into lumber.

When they finished with our trees, they went next door to the Foster's and cut down ten spruce trees. Some of the trees were dead. Some were too close to the house. Some were where they are going to build a garage. So many changes.

Cutting down trees at Foster's.

Chase and his children left to go home later that morning. With their departure, the Shilligs have no guests for a few days. More are expected this week and the summer party will continue.

In the afternoon, after Stacey and Hannah got home from work, we went up the road to pick blueberries and raspberries. We have blueberries and raspberries on our property, but they are not quite ready yet. Just a mile up the road, they are ready and we picked a good batch of them.

Russell, Florence, and Mabel picking blueberries.

The final haul.

After dinner, I spent some time stacking firewood. The woodpile by the house is full, so I had to take it out to the pavilion. That makes for slow work, loading the wagon on the mower, driving across the property, and unloading it. We will work on stacking and splitting wood for a long time. When it was growing dark, I stopped for the day and took a walk around the property. It looks so different with the trees gone – here and at Foster's. Our front yard is a mess with the lawn ripped up and the parts of the wild garden flattened by the heavy equipment.  I'll do what I can to tidy it, but it will take a long time for it to recover, probably into next year.

July gave us a perfect summer day as a departing gift. Friday was beautiful – sunny and hot enough to satisfy my craving for summer heat. I worked all morning in the garden. The flowerbed that runs along the front of the house was a mess. It was overgrown with grass and goldenrod. I cut it all down to the ground and covered it with landscape cloth. After that, I changed garden gears and switched to mowing. I can't mow most of the front yard because it still has piles of wood all over it. I mowed the back yard and part of the Foster's next door. By then it was too hot to work, so I came in for a siesta. Toward evening when the day had mellowed, I resumed work on the front flowerbed. I hauled wood chip mulch, which we now have in abundance, from the pile at the edge of the wild garden and covered the landscape cloth. It looks very tidy. I plan to plant some azalea bushes there, but that won't happen until next year.

Putting down the landscape cloth.

Covered with wood chips.

My final job of the day was trimming the garlic that had been curing in the woodshed. We had a small, but very nice crop this year. I need to plant more next time.

This year's garlic crop.

Yesterday we went to the Frosty Hollow Herb and Craft Fair over in Sweden Valley. It's a nice little fair with vendors selling all sorts of arts, crafts, honey, maple products, and other things. We walked through the booths and bought a few items. Mable took a pony ride. 

The Herb Fair.

Walking through the fair.

Mable's pony ride.

When we got back, most of the family went down to the Foster's to do some metal detecting and play all afternoon. I did more mowing next door. Later, Stacey helped me harvest some onions. The sweet Walla Wallas were ready. We pulled them up, tied them in bundles and hung them in the woodshed to cure.

Digging for buried treasure?

June and Mabel posing on one of the four-wheelers at Foster's.

A wagon full of Walla Wallas.

Hanging to cure in the woodshed.

Yesterday was International Mahjong Day, so Stacey, Miriam, Hannah, and I played a few rounds in the evening while the children did their Saturday-Going-to-Church-Tomorrow baths.

This morning when I checked my family chat, I saw that Daniel and his family and my niece Elizabeth have both been evacuated from their homes in Spokane because of the fires burning there. Daniel and his family went to stay with Raven's family. Elizabeth went to my sister Nancy's house in Deer Park, which is still out of harm's way. We are praying for their safety. Here, on the other hand, we are under a flood watch. It's been raining since last night, but because our house sits atop a knoll, we don't have to worry about the streams around us reaching us if they flood. But all the lower elevations do. Crazy weather.

Fires all over and that blue patch in the east is flood warning.

We are home from church. Our attendance today was very light. Our stake president and his family paid us a surprise visit. It was nice to have them bolster our numbers. Today is Fast Sunday and we are waiting for lunch to break our fast. We're having grilled cheese sandwiches with grilled mustard onions and tomato soup. It smells wonderful. The rest of the day we will have to occupy ourselves with  indoor activities. The rain doesn't look like it's going to let up any time soon. The week ahead will be busy with the grandchildren here, Rachel and Hazel rejoining us midweek and new guests arriving next door. The weather looks variable. I have hopes it will allow me to get some much needed work done in the aftermath of the tree cutting. And it's August already.

 

A Report in High Summer

The week began with a very pretty summer morning. It was a little on the cool side, but it warmed up as soon as the sun came over the hill. It was mowing day, but I had to wait for the dew to dry before I could begin. While I waited, I did some trimming. I was pruning one of the lilac bushes, cutting off the spent flower heads, when I was attacked by insects that stung me on the finger and wrist. I couldn't see what they were at first – I was too busy running away. I grabbed some plantain leaves and chewed them up and smeared them on the stings and then went back to investigate. I found the culprits. There was a Bald-faced Hornet nest in the lilac bush. 

The offending nest.

Bald-faced Hornets are also known as Arial Yellow-jackets, Blackjackets, and Bull Wasps. I won't tell you what I called them as I nursed two painful stings. They are not true hornets, which are in the genus Vespa, but are wasps in the genus Dolchiovespula. Their binomial nomenclature is Dolchiovespula maculata. They get their name "bald-faced" from the white markings on their faces. I can be tolerant of hornets and yellow-jackets because they prey on other insects, many of them harmful, but this nest was in the garden, too close to where people walk. And they tend to be aggressive. So the nest had to go. First I sprayed the nest with one of my organic insecticides. That seemed to kill most of them. Later in the day, I used the jet nozzle on the hose and disintegrated the nest.

Bald-faced Hornet (not my photo).

As usual, my encounter with them got me wondering about the term "bald-faced" they way we use it as in telling a bald-faced lie. It has an interesting etymology. It is an American term derived from the English "barefaced." Barefaced goes back a long time, at least to the 16th century, and might have been invented by Shakespeare because the first time it appears in print is in A Midsummer Night's Dream where in Act 1, Scene 2, Nick Bottom is trying to decided what sort of beard his character should wear in their performance of Pyramus and Thisbe and Peter Quince answers him with a pun.

Bottom:    I will discharge it in either your straw-coloured beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your French-crown-colour beard, your perfect yellow.

Quince:    Some of your French crowns have no hair at all, and then you will play bare-faced.

That little diversion made me want to watch the movie again – my favorite version done in 1999. Traditionally, Midsummer Night is June 23rd, so that has passed already, but the actual midpoint of the summer season is on August 7th, which is yet to come, so we are midway between the midsummers. That seems like a perfect excuse to watch it again – as if I actually needed an excuse.

So back to the words. Originally, "barefaced" described a man without facial hair, which was considered audacious in an age when men normally wore beards. [As a longtime beard-wearer, I approve of this sentiment a little.] So barefaced, and the more American bald-faced, came to mean something brazen or impudent, most commonly paired with phrases like a barefaced or bald-faced lie. Words are wonderful.

Mowing took me most of the morning. It was a Big Mowing Day when I mow the lawn and the orchard. While I was mowing the orchard, I noticed an apple on the ground under the big Yellow Transparent tree. I didn't think that tree had any apples on it this year. I stopped mowing and investigated. There are a few apples up in the branches. Yellow Transparent is a very old variety and one of the earliest to ripen, usually at the end of July and beginning of August. As their name implies, their skin is pale yellow-green when ripe and they have soft, mealy, juicy flesh. They make the very best applesauce. I have my eye on those few apples. I don't want them to go to waste.

A few of the few Yellow Transparent apples on the tree.

I got a phone call from my doctors office that afternoon, a follow up from my appointment a week ago. The news was not very good. Not awful, but not what I wanted. He prescribed a new drug to add to my regimen. Yay, another pill. And I keep on going.

In the afternoon, I went out to the big garden, not to work, but just to see what was happening. I went by way of the front yard and then followed the meadow path that comes out at the front of the big garden where the corn, squash, and melons are growing. As I passed through the meadow, I stopped to breathe for a minute. It was warm and the sun was shining and the grasses and other meadow plants were giving off a rich aroma like resin and vanilla and something almost piney. According to AI, that scent is made of volatile oils and volatile organic compounds such as terpenes, phenolics, and aliphatic molecules. I don't know what those are, but I love the way they smell. It is pure summer.

The gardens, flower and vegetable, are looking good. We are eating fresh things now – zucchini, chard, peas, cucumbers, onions, and a few tomatoes. The pumpkins are plumping under their vines. Soon there will be green beans and new potatoes. The flower garden is bright with marigolds, zinnias, phlox, and balloon flowers. 

A little pumpkin hiding behind a blossom.

The first of the phlox.

Balloon flowers, one of my favorite summer flowers.

A tiger swallowtail on a liatris flower.

Zinnias.

On Tuesday morning, when I checked the forecast for the day, it said we should expect thunderstorms, some of them possibly severe, during the day. The morning was still clear, so I hurried and did all I could outdoors before things changed. These days, my mornings include hunting for snails. That usually takes me about half an hour as I slowly walk through the garden with my container of salt water, plucking them up and dropping them in, not giving it much thought other than my amazement at how many there always are. However, Tuesday morning was different. I realized that, although they are destructive pests and I need to control them, I was suffering from a deplorable lack of curiosity. I should also know what kind of snails they are. So I took my phone with an identifying app with me and logged the species that I found. And then I killed them. Here's what I found.

Brown-lipped, White-lipped, and Amber snails from my garden.

I think I have three kinds of snails in my garden, at least the ones I could find – the Brown-lipped Snail (Cepaea nemoralis), the White-lipped Snail (Cepaea hortensis), and the European Amber Snail (Succinea putris). I might only have White-lipped and not Brown-lipped because White-lipped Snails sometimes have brown bands on their shells, but I couldn't tell from the sites I researched if that is the case here. The Amber Snail and White-lipped Snail are native species. The Brown-lipped were intentionally introduced to North America. No matter where they came from, they do a lot of damage in my garden and I have to be vigilant in killing them. They seem to prefer certain plants, especially tall phlox, which is just coming into flower now. I don't really take pleasure in killing them, it is just a necessary mollusc-cide, and I know it might sound cruel, but I always find myself singing the Japanese children's song about snails, Den den mushi mushi, while I'm killing them. Possibly out of a perverse attempt at irony.

When we lived in Southern California I fought a continuous garden battle with the Common Garden Snail (Cornu aspersum). There were thousands of them. I used to go out in the mornings and fill a gallon bucket with them. They are native to Europe, but were introduced into California as a food animal in the 1850s. They are eaten as escargot. I tried escargot when we were in France. I don't know if my long negative association with them (the snails, not the French) was a factor, but I didn't like it. The garlic butter they were bathed in wasn't even enough to get me to choke it down. I ate snails while I was in Japan, but they were whelk, sea snails, not land snails, and even then, I wasn't very keen on them.

The Common Garden Snail.

Escargot. No thank you.

Japanese whelk. Still, no thank you.

I worked until 11:00 at pulling weeds. That's when the first raindrops fell. It was just a light pattering, but I could tell there was something bigger coming soon. I finished and put my tools away just as the first thunder rumbled. I stood on the back porch for a few minutes to watch the storm roll in. More than watch, I wanted to smell it. If I could bottle the scent of July Thunderstorm, I'd make a fortune. The smell of the rain, the wet earth, the newly mowed grass, and that sharp whiff of ozone is the quintessence of summer. Summer Meadow and July Thunderstorm, sounds like marketable products to me. I'd buy them. I don't usually mess around with AI, but I thought it would be fun to try this:

That first wave of storm eased up after a while. The rain stopped. The air grew calm. The next wave arrived at 2:30 and it was bigger. There was no thunder or lightning this time, just wind and rain. The wind bent the trees and shook the house. It blew branches down. It knocked over all the potted plants on the back porch stairs. It was tremendous. The sound of it was awesome. I could feel the pressure of the air against the house. Down at the Rigas house where Stacey works, she reported trees snapped off. I postponed going down to the afternoon chores, hoping it would stop. Finally at 4:30 it eased up and I hurried and did the chores. When Stacey arrived home, she and I cleaned up the fallen branches in the front yard. Another lesser windstorm blew through just as it was getting dark. The weather was so unstable and turbulent.

At our house it looked like this after the wind.

At Stacey's work it looked like this.

And this.

After Tuesday's storms, on Wednesday the weather turned cool and gray. It felt a little like fall and I didn't like that. I like fall weather, but in October, not July. The garden didn't like the cool weather either, well, most of it anyway. Peas and lettuce like cool weather. Tomatoes, cucumbers, beans, and all the different squashes do not. When it cools down, they slow down. Our growing season here is short enough as it is without chilly weather in July slowing it down.

On Wednesday afternoon, Miriam and I watched the movie Seventeen Miracles. Our Stake held a pioneer trek over Thursday and Friday and Sarah, Tosh, Miriam, Hazel, and Ava were part of it. In preparation for that, to get Miriam in the proper frame of mind, we watched the account of the Martin and Willie handcart companies that left Omaha in August 1856, headed to the Valley of the Great Salt Lake. The movie describes the hardships they endured – sickness, fatigue, starvation, frostbite, exposure to early winter snows, and for some of them, death. It recounts some of the sacrifices they made and the miracles they experienced during the trek, events passed down, stories told and retold and recorded in their journals and letters. The last of the two companies arrived in Salt Lake City on November 30, 1856 after 1,032 miles of grueling hardship. Of the approximately 1,000 people in those two companies, as many as 250 died along the trail. We'd seen the movie before, but I'd forgotten how powerful their experiences were. 

Between 1847 and 1868, an estimated 61,000 Latter-day Saint pioneers traveled by wagon, handcart, and on foot to the Salt Lake Valley. Almost 4% of them died along the way. I don't have any pioneer ancestors in my family history. I'm only a second generation member, my parents joined the Church in the 1950s, but I consider myself an heir of that great pioneer heritage. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, my church, would not be what it is today without them. I would not be who I am without them. I have always revered them. I remember as a child in Primary sometime in the early 60s learning the song Pioneer Children Sang as They Walked. It was a new song, not in the old green The Children Sing songbook we used. When we got home on the day we learned it, we sang it for my parents. 

Pioneer children sang as they walked and walked and walked.

Pioneer children sang as they walked and walked and walked.

They washed at streams and worked and played.

Sundays they camped and read and prayed.

Week after week they sang as they walked and walked and walked and walked.

My father thought we'd got it wrong because it had so much walking in it, but we were singing it correctly. They walked a lot – 1,300 miles from Nauvoo, Illinois to the Valley of the Great Salt Lake.

The Mormon Trail, 1,300 miles from Nauvoo to Salt Lake City.

Rachel and her children arrived at dinnertime on Wednesday. The house is full and lively again. All of the grandchildren except for Hazel will be here for the next three weeks, so the house will remain lively for the duration.

Thursday morning it was 37° when I got up. I felt cheated as I put on my heavy fleeced hoodie to go out on my morning walk. Five degrees above freezing in July is not acceptable. When I came in from my walk, I was cold. I sat at my desk and, for the first time in a long time, I turned on the electric heater to warm my hands and feet. After a few hours of sunshine, things did warm up, but only to 72°, not warm enough. I went out and worked in the garden all day. I tackled one of my bigger projects, redoing the retaining wall in the long border. It was slowly collapsing and was a haven for ants and voles. I took it apart and then reassembled it using different bigger stones. Then I dug out that part of the flower bed and removed all the grass and deep rooted weeds that had invaded it. I'm working to get parts of the long border ready for planting biennial seeds – hollyhocks, oriental poppies, and lupin – and self seeding annuals whose seeds are ripe and ready now – common poppies, nigella, cornflowers, and larkspur. The beds look bare where I'm cleaning them out, but they will fill in soon. I like to envision what they will look like next year.

Thursday's project done.

Sarah, Tosh, Miriam, Hazel, and Ava leaving for their trek on Thursday afternoon.

The trekkers.

After Hannah got home from work, the children wanted to go swimming. It wasn't very hot, and I knew the water at the pond would be very cold, but I'd been working hard all day in the garden, and I was hot and sweaty, so I decided to go along with them. When we got there everyone jumped right in, but I couldn't do it. The water was way too cold for me. Instead, I took a little nap in the sunshine. When we got back from the pond, Stacey had dinner ready – BELTs – bacon, fried egg, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches. Delicious.

Thursday afternoon at the pond.

Friday morning we were at 39° at dawn. As I took my morning walk, I could see my breath. I was starting to despair that summer might be over. When I came back in the house, I looked at the weather map and saw that parts of the Midwest were under an extreme heat warning. Lucky. The forecast said we would be warming again, but only into the 70s for the next ten days. That's better, but still not the kind of heat I want. The dew was heavy that morning. I waited for it to dry a bit and then went out to work cleaning out another section of flowerbed.

Friday was Russell's birthday. He turned four. He was a very excited four year old. He spent the day on the slip and slide over at the Shillig's. Tabor arrived in the afternoon. Later, it was warm enough that we went swimming. Russell wanted his favorite food, cheese pizza, for his birthday. The Shillig's came to dinner to celebrate with us. He loves heavy equipment, trucks, dozers, and such things and said he wanted a crane for his birthday. He got three and was a very happy four year old. After dinner we went next door for a silly string fight and sparklers.

Birthday pizza.

Blowing out the candles.

One of the birthday cranes.

June and Mabel after the silly string fight.

The sunset on Friday night was beautiful.

Sunset on Friday.

Because some of the family was gone on the trek and didn't get back until late Friday night, we split the birthday celebration between Friday night and Saturday morning. We had pizza, cake, and some of his presents on Friday after dinner. Saturday morning we had Russell's other favorite food, pancakes. We had a brunch at 10:30. The Shilligs came over. We sang happy birthday again and there were more presents. Two days of celebration. But you only turn four once.

Birthday pancake breakfast.

More cranes.

Rachel, Tabor, and Hazel left after brunch. Rachel and Hazel are going to girls camp this week and Tabor is working. So we have June, Mabel, Florence, and Russell here. Next week, after they back from girls camp, Rachel and Hazel will come back up and stay a week. So we have grandchildren here for the next fifteen days. 

The day warmed nicely and I spent the morning and early afternoon weeding the asparagus bed. I do that every two weeks and you'd think there would be very few weeds, but there are always plenty of them. It looked nice and tidy when I was done.

The tidy asparagus bed.

In the afternoon Stacey, Tosh, and I took some of the children to the matinee to see the new Moana movie. The children liked it. I thought it was okay, but I like the original animated movie a lot more.

After dinner, I was finishing up some last tasks in the garden. Hannah came out and helped me do an evening snail hunt. We found at least a hundred of them. We finished and I decided to do one more job. It was going toward twilight. The children were in the house. They'd just finished taking their baths and were getting their clothes ready for Sunday. I was deadheading lilies in the raised bed garden. Suddenly a rabbit bolted out of the lily bed. I've seen a rabbit hanging around in that garden for weeks. I've found evidence of it feeding on lettuce and beet greens. I've been tempted to shoot it, but never had a good opportunity. So the rabbit ran and I continued deadheading the lilies. Then I saw it. Where the rabbit had jumped from was a nest with baby bunnies in it. There were about five of them. I ran to the house and had everyone come out to have a look. The practical gardener in me said I should get rid of them. I don't want more rabbits in my garden. But the tenderhearted lover of life prevailed. I couldn't do anything. Those lucky bunnies. Now, later in the year when they are grown, if they presume to think they are welcome in my garden they will encounter the practical gardener.

The bunny nest.

This Sabbath started out cool and gray, but after the sun was up, it turned into a very pretty morning. There was a higher energy level than normal with getting the grandchildren up and fed and dressed for church, but we did pretty good. No missing shoes. Only a bit of whimpering over brushing hair.

In honor of Pioneer Day, which was on Friday, we sang pioneer hymns in church today. We sang Come, Come, Ye Saints and They, the Builders of the Nation and Pioneer Children Sang as They Walked. Our meetings were very good – great talks, great lessons. Now we're home. Lunch prep is underway. It's a fine day. Maybe we'll take a walk this afternoon.

This week we have a big and exciting event taking place here. Our Amish tree cutter, Enos Keim, called and said he and his crew will be here on Tuesday and Wednesday to finally take down the two huge maple trees at the front of the house. We were lucky that the wind we had during last week's storms dropped branches away from the house, not on it. Unfortunately, the forecast says there is a 100% chance for rain on Tuesday and a 70% chance on Wednesday, so I don't know if it will actually  happen. I don't think they can cut down trees in the rain. I hope the forecast is wrong, but it's usually right when I don't want it to be.

Those rainy days will also put a damper on keeping the grandchildren entertained. If they can't go swimming or ride bikes or play outdoors, what will we do? Since Stacey and Hannah will be at work during the day, I'm relying on Miriam to undertake the task. The other question is, on those rainy days, what will I do? I have plans to work on a big project of my own. I'll be ripping out the front flowerbed, completely gutting it. I've had it covered since March to kill off the plants. It's been a weedy mess for a long time. I can hardly wait to redo it. The tiller is already there, waiting. Now if the weather will just give me a break.