First Post Ever

The first day in this tale of a small family farm. ©Northview Dairy Farm
After weeks of miserable heat and humidity it was wonderful to feel the cool today. It was almost as crisp as a fall morning when I came downstairs at daybreak. This old house catches every light and breeze that summer days have to offer, from dawn leaping pink and orange down the upstairs hallway and spotlighting the geraniums on the front steps, to the golden glow of firefly twilight. They sure knew how to build houses all those decades ago. There isn't a single window that doesn't frame something worth looking at. Sometimes I just rest my hand on the polished oak woodwork and feel the years reaching back to the folks who lived here first.

A catbird likes to sing in the cedars flanking the front porch. If the double door, with its intricate stained glass windows, is open he can use the whole two stories of the front hall as an amplifier for his robin/sparrow/goldfinch songs. He copies the cow girl's calling-the-horses whistle too. Catbird echoes in the greylight.
Hummers visit the old vinegar bottle feeder on the front porch then whirr off to guzzle canna nectar by the garden pond. Then they buzz through the last of the bee balm and hit the red feeder in the backyard. They have to start early and run late to keep their little engines fueled. Red flowers seem to bloom in ragged succession all summer keeping them well fed and me entertained watching them.

The guys are baling like crazy now that it is not so humid. The boy was almost overcome by the heat the other day and we had to let up on him a little. He is tough, but he can't quite keep up with the old man. He just came in for a cooler full of ice water and to get someone to watch the elevator while he throws off another load of bales. They have already chopped two loads of green grass for the cows and unloaded one wagon of first cutting.

We are still heating water for the house with the outdoor woodstove. Finding things to burn and keeping it going are among my favorite jobs. When I took Nick up to his run before milking this morning the faint tang of woodsmoke on the breeze was another reminder that fall will be upon us soon.

Even though the sun is still up until eight thirty, the short days are cutting into the amount of work we can get done each day. By the time we are through milking in the evening, there is little choice but to go indoors for dinner. It is just too dangerous to try to do field work in the dark.

Well, there is another load of hay pulled up to the mow elevator, so I guess I should go lend a hand