These tomatoes were whisked off the vine just hours before Jack Frost made his season debut. Despite one or two brisk nights, that gorgeous time of year we call Indian Summer makes it a joy to be outside.
The crops are in the bin and most of the garden has been harvested. A row of sunflower soldiers stands guard along the back, and the crows have fled the corn patch in disgust. Not a morsel remains.
LW pulled a couple of rows of carrots this morning. They’re not quite as perfect as last year’s bunch, but they’ll do.
The winter wheat has greened up nicely. The stumps in the foreground are what’s left of the ancient cedars that burned last spring.
Mostly what’s keeping LW occupied this week is putting a new roof on the well house. After 90 years of service, the original roof on the sweet little building that covers our old shallow well had been reduced to not much more than moss and dust. She stripped the shingles off, replaced rafters and boards, and then covered everything in tar paper.
Now she is nailing on new shingles. She has three sides done and is hoping to finish all but the caps before dusk. She doesn’t love the four-sided roof quite as much as she used to, but she’s doing a bang-up job.
Meanwhile, I keep telling the geese their days are numbered, but they hiss in reply like they don’t believe me.
The turkeys, on the other hand, have formed a union. I hear whispers of a strike.
If it comes to that, I’ll certainly agree to binding arbitration. I’ve got nothing to fear.