I can’t believe it!
Another year has evolved since I last bragged about the number of deadlines I have met in The Wellington Advertiser.
But the fact is, I’m repeating myself by only one small figure in stating that the column you are now reading is the one that adds the one to the number 30 of years that I have been freelance writing for the same paper. Thirty-one years should seem like a long, long time, but to me it has passed in a flash.
To whom I know I owe the deepest respect and gratitude, over the years, if listed here, would more than fill my column’s space, but each of you, I know, know who you are.
This includes, as well, each and every one of you readers who have spurred me on throughout the years with your kind letters, phone calls, e-mails, chats and comments. Your feedback gives direction as to what, where, when and why I write.
So with that in mind, let me tell you that the four little newly-hatched killdeer, which I mentioned a couple of weeks back, are all doing well and looking fine. I saw all four with their mother scampering about, as I hose-filled the cattle’s water trough at noon today. They are almost as big as their mother.
I intentionally let the trough run over, just a little, in order to make a puddle in which they love to wade, splash, and drink. They have no fear of the cattle, and I have also seen them scampering in and about the flock of goats, picking up the insects stirred by the leaps and bounds of tiny, bouncing little goat’s feet.
The young barn swallows have flown from their nest in the barn, and they perch along the top wire of the goat’s paddock fence. The adults persistently dive-bomb Mike and Molly, our two overly-friendly barn cats, as they fake sleep in the sun nearby. But this week, one swallow was not so lucky. It had clipped the cat’s ear on more than one occasion as it dove past. The annoyed kitty quickly flipped over and with extended claws on outstretched arm, swept it out of the air.
I did not try to rescue the bird or chastise the cat, as the damage was instantly done, and it was not really the kitty-cat’s fault.
The six baby birds that sat lined on the fence, having watched their show-off daddy being eaten, simply turned in unison with wide open mouths as their mother returned with her mouth jam-packed with insects.
As Jenny, my jitney, and I wandered further, the brown thrasher’s speckled white breast could be seen in the hedgerow, the kingbird sat calmly on the fence, the meadowlark still perched on the fence post, and the bobolink sang from his perch on the hay bale.
Life can be tough on old gaffers like me, don’t you think?
Compared to four walls and a ceiling to look at, I have come to the conclusion that perhaps heaven and hell are right here on planet Earth. Send me your thoughts on that.
Take care, ‘cause we care.
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