…not one child is home.
My beloved is tending to some unfinished work business on the computer. It’s starting to get dark and we have another band of rain squalls heading our way. I can see the rain coming from the west across the mountains toward us. The radio is playing quiet tunes from its place on top of the refrigerator. I have a big pot of spaghetti and another pot of meat and homemade tomato sauce simmering on the stove. There’s a cookie sheet of buttered garlic bread ready to be slid under the broiler just as the kids pull into the driveway.
A few minutes before supper was started, I was out throwing crisp, dry straw to Willow in her pig palace. She had a couple of wet spots that need covering before the next round of rain. Then she received her own supper of ground grain in her blue bowl: 6 pounds of grain- and no more. We don’t want her too portly before she meets up with the boar. Then I STUFFED the nesting boxes and the chicken coop with warm, dry straw. STUFFED! The hen’s wet feet have been making for dirty eggs. But now they have toasty dry nesting boxes in which to lay their eggs. A small dish of molasses covered grain for the sweet cows rounded off the animal chores. I don’t want them to think they’ve been forgotten. I call the dogs to me (one was rolling in cow poo- of course) and we head inside.
Back in the kitchen I can hear the rain starting. It’s dark now. I pour myself a glass of red wine and wait for the kids to show up from class.
Paradise. Just north of nowhere.