I am learning all the time, but I am surprised that I had never before noticed how, almost overnight, for the past 23 years, the dandelions were suddenly gone.

They are so pretty, cascading out from the edge of the woods and flowing into the fields. Honeybees love them and gladly gather their yellow pollen. And so it seems that they do have some redeeming values. I, however, consider them my archenemy. 

I always enjoy this turtle time of year. Perhaps it is because I am somewhat turtle-like, for you see, like the turtles, I know that there is nothing quite like a good back scratch!

I often wonder as I pass by folks in town what stories they could tell of growing up in the country. I grew up in the city where there wasn’t even any space between the houses, and blades of grass were few and far between.

The morning wind kept blowing. It blew blades of straw out of my hands as I carried it over to spread under the rabbit hutch.

When my grandmother came to visit, I could hardly wait to show her my latest accomplishments.

When Greg mentioned that he really needed a 1966 El Camino, I smiled and jokingly told him that I agreed. I knew that he needed one just about as much as I needed four beautiful red tractors. I did, however, add the provision that it was only OK with me as long as the El Camino was red to match my tractors.  ... I should have known.

She loved them, and yellow was her favorite color. Every spring she would decorate her wide brimmed straw hat with newly cut daffodils. She'd carefully sew them on so the thread was hidden.

I knew that it was time for me to head back up the hill and start my next task, refinishing the wooden floor of the little cabin that we had laid when we first came to the valley, 23 years ago.

Soon we'll be riding our zero-turns, but this too can wait. Today my spring chore is working alongside Greg in his shop.

Our little horse, however, does not know how to exercise constraint. I must exercise it for him.

Greg's grandfather was an old-time man, really one of the last of his kind. Greg called him Grandpa, and from Greg’s very first memories, he followed him about and learn his ways.

The first day of spring is just a few weeks away. Long lists of all the things that I will need to do fly about, crashing against the sides of my mind.

I love waking up in the morning when it’s cold outside, and the woodstove fire has turned to glowing embers. There is a chill on the tip of my nose. I roll over and bury myself deeper under the covers.

Greg and I know how to take off our chore boots, or wipe our feet, when we return inside the cabin, but our dear dog does not. Muddy paw prints decorate the wooden floors.