Summer is knocking on the door, with its great big yella hand. The yellow eyes of the daisies and cosmos are bright. The yellow squash is abundant. It has already graced our supper plates this week. I hear Bubba reciting various squash dishes: fried squash, stewed squash, squash casserole, squash hushpuppies.
A craft project of refurbishing old metal chairs, using cans of spray paint, lacks at least one being yellow. Weather permitting, I’ll get that done this weekend. The sunflowers have come up, along with old maid zinnias; no blooms to show yet.
The sun climbed high. Sweat walked down the small of my back, as I worked. Red wing blackbirds trilled; a woodpecker beat a tattoo. The breeze whispered in the corn. Another mess of yellow squash was gathered. It was delightful.
Except for two things. And I know that talking about the weather is the worst thing in writing, but my goodness it’s dry in southwest Mississippi. If you who are reading this are a praying bunch, please lift up a prayer for rain in our part of the world. The corn may be whispering today, but it will soon be crying from a lack of water. Rain, we need rain.
The second thing that marred my mornings peace was the four-wheeler, riding teenager. Up and down the fence row he went. Loudness, covering my idyllic pastoral setting. He tried to coax Marigold to ride with him, but she politely declined and stretched out on the shady porch instead.
The squash was taken to the kitchen, but wasn’t cooked up. I made a flower arrangement out of some, along with the first picked cosmos. The tips of the wisteria are on their second bloom. All were arranged on an antique platter. I call it Geese In the Flower Patch.