Waking up yesterday morning after watching the debacle that was called the Presidential Debate, I decided I wanted to do something useful. Fortunately, living on almost fifty acres, there's always some thing that needs doing.
Lovely. Graceful.
Then it was retrieve my old trail mower for its assistance in finding the memorial area.
I parked where I thought the rock marking Bonnie's resting place might be and heading through the 6 and 7 foot tall prairies grasses and the stalks of fading wildflowers. It was tough going and I was quickly winded and covered with seeds from various plants. In my wandering search, also was assailed by briars, which I've been battling there for years. My search was for naught. I made my way back out and in through another area. Still nothing.
I was pretty certain where the grave should be, but the vegetation was so dense -- especially the briars -- I decide to put the mower to use. Off into the flora towering over us Traily and I went, deck set high, mower blade whirring. After the third pass in the small area where I believed the sought for space was, the left tractor lifted a good bit. I backed up, climbed off the mower, and there was Bonnie's memorial rock. I cleaned around it and then uncovered the sitting stumps (made from a tree I'd cut up) next to it where Mom and Dad's ashes were scattered in 2018.
After a few more minutes work of clearing and mowing and rearranging, the area was nice and neat with a winding trail leading to it.
Satisfaction. Just in time for what would have been Mom and Dad's 71st anniversary today.
After lunch, I got the little utility cart out. It's basically a heavy duty golf cart with a hydraulic dump bed on the back. While lots of folks around here have larger John Deere Gators and the like, this size is perfect for me. I found Mom & Dad's and Bonnie's "official" memorial markers in the garage. I had taken them in prior to doing a prescribed burn last autumn. I cleaned them up and then Nancy and I went out to place them. We drove the cart down my freshly mowed path -- after Nancy's stroke she is too unsteady for unstable ground. I climbed down and placed them. Then we just sat, surrounded by a wall of tall grass and sounds of crickets and birds. And then a meow. One of the farm cats, Gracie, had made her way through the jungle. She jumped up onto the cart seat between us, wanting attention.
After resting there, lost in memories of "Bonnie, the best dog ever" as her plaque says and John and JoAnn, we headed out.
"Want to drive across the field," I asked Nancy. I knew she did. So, going at the speed we would normally walk, we bounced and jostled our way across the recently harvested field. Every now and again she'd spot a rock brought to the surface by rains, snows, and harvest. I'd stop and pick it up and hand it to her for inspection.
Nancy loves rocks and as long as I've known her has used them for garden ornaments. She also uses them to hid the concrete foundation wall of our our house. So we spent an hour driving back and forth across a 30 acre field, me picking up rocks. The sky was a deep autumn blue. Killdeer scavenging in the former been field tweeted their displeasure at our intrusion. Leaves rained down in the wind. Trees already stripped of foliage raised their hands into the air, either seeking the warmth of the sun or praising God.
Or both.
I did, too.
