THE LONG HOT SUMMER

Unusual dry hot weather this summer in Central Pennsylvania has browned the lawns and wilted and dried flowers and vegetable plants. I am amazed to see my daisies and other hardy flowers have already gone to seed.

I keep forgetting that Autumn doesn’t officially begin until September 22 this year, so there's time to still enjoy the summer. Tomatoes are ripening on the vines, not as large as in past years, but still plump, rosy red, and delicious—especially with a dash of salt on them. Only our daily watering has saved them from withering on the vine.    

My first very colorful and multicolored calibrachoas plant, beautiful with red, white and blue blossoms, succumbed to the heat early this summer. I replaced it with a pot of impatiens and have my fingers crossed. Even my coleus plants are struggling, despite their shady location behind a wall of ferns.

What likes this weather? Our four hanging ferns on the patio. They are basking in the humidity of the day, thanks to daily watering.

If we’re lucky, we occasionally see a thunderstorm appear on the horizon teasing us with dark steely clouds and flashes of lightning. The parched ground is only too eager to take a drink. But the amount of downpour, although sometimes slamming down in a quick torrential rush, only offers a slight relief to the vegetation and the ninety-degree temperatures of each day.

Scott and I like to watch our feathered friends, so I keep two feeders filled with seed in the middle of our yard. The bird bath nearby takes a hit each day, and I have to clean and refill it almost daily. It’s a small price to pay for the show the birds put on when we eat our meals and watch them out the windows in our dining room. Sparrows, robins, finches, thrushes, woodpeckers, and many others keep us entertained with their antics.

I think this summer has been unique. I had been hoping to see it as a busy outside one. Then, I realized that the heat that drives us inside has a purpose. There is a time to rest and a time for action. This summer seems to be telling me not to hurry, but to slow down and take some time to rest… and just enjoy life.

KEY TO LOVE - Summer Reading and Oldie from the Past

"Love is the master key that opens the gates of happiness," so says Oliver Wendell Holmes. . . and the father of Elise Springer, the main character.  http://www.amazon.com/Key-to-Love-ebook/dp/B00DNO9S8K

KEY TO LOVE is an oldie from the past and a romantic mystery full of snappy, humorous dialogue. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, and you’ll race against the clock with Elise as she tries to find the person who murdered a state trooper.

The cast of characters include the heroine, Elise Springer, an architect; hero Lucas Fisher who owns a car restoration garage and drives a restored Smokey and the Bandit Trans Am; and Lucas’s little orphaned nephew, Todd, who’s addicted to animal crackers and The Fox and the Hound storybook. 

 

You'll laugh with Elise’s grumpy, but astute father, her wise-cracking brother, Fritz, and a no-nonsense director of Child and Youth Services, Twila Pedmo.

BOOK BLURB:

When architect Elise Springer's father is injured, she immediately leaves San Francisco to care for him. The last person she expects to encounter in her Pennsylvania hometown is her childhood friend, Lucas Fisher. 

Lucas is investigating his brother's mysterious death, and Elise can't resist lending a hand. Lucas longs for the close family ties he never had. He's back in Scranton to set up a classic car restoration business and build a future. The torch he carries for Elise burns brighter than ever, but before he can declare his love, he must obtain the legal rights to adopt his nephew--and prove his brother's death was no accident.

As they unearth clues to find the murderer and a missing stash of money, Elise faces a dilemma. Is her career on the West Coast the key to her happiness, or is it an animal-cracker-eating four-year-old and his handsome uncle instead? 

                              ~ * ~                                                   

 

JUNE AND OLD HAY LOADERS

There was something magical for me when I was growing up on a farm in Pennsylvania, and the month of June rolled around. School was no longer in session. Only for rare winters, when we had an un-unusual amount of snow, did a school year extend into June.

For farmers, the first long stretch of rain-free days heralded the beginning of haying season. A sickle bar side mower was hitched to our Farmall C tractor, and my father headed to the hayfields. I used to like to watch him slice down the rows of tall grass in perfect side-by-side rows. The sweet smell of clover, timothy, and other grasses drying in the blazing sun permeated the air.  

 

On rare occasions, you might hear the squawk of a killdear as it flew up from among the still-standing stalks. Dad was always careful to stop, find the nest, and mow around it, leaving some tall grass to protect and camouflage it. 

 

 If by chance, the weather turned fickle and the hay became wet, we knew on the first clear day, we’d have to man our pitchforks. With the fork in hand and often with some help from your shoe, you could lift and flip the hay over on itself to dry. Round and round the field you’d go.

 
While everyone disliked this job, I found it relaxing because I liked to daydream—or if Dad and I worked side-by-side—to talk. And it was always a heart-stopping surprise when a sleek black racer slid out from under the hay row, just inches from the toe of your shoe.

Before we purchased a square hay baler, we used a hay loader hitched behind a 1932 Chevy flatbed truck with a crank start, once used for milk delivery. I was only seven or eight years old when I first started driving it, straddling the rows of loose hay while the loader gobbled it up. I remember half-standing up and holding on to the steering wheel to push the peddles on the clutch and brake when Dad, scattering the hay on the truck’s bed, signaled for me to stop. I was always in awe of his ability to whistle a loud shrill sound with just two fingers in his mouth.                          

Then, it was off to the barn where a large hay fork on a track lifted bunches up from the truck, onto an overhead track, and into the loft where it was scattered about. I also often mowed away loose hay when I was a little older, spreading it to level the loft.

When people ask me if I missed the farm when I moved away, I have to admit I didn’t miss the hard work, hot days, and hayseeds. But there was something special about growing up in the country.

Dwight D. Eisenhower’s words come to mind, and I like to paraphrase one of his quotes:
                     “Farming looks mighty easy when your plow is a pencil, 

                      and you’re a thousand miles from the corn (or hay) field.”