The end-of-day shadows cast by the trees stood boldly against the wet pavement. Our own shadows, walking along ahead of us, looked absolutely undaunted.

We were not looking for any of these treasures, but we are glad to have re-homed them. It had been a perfect day, perusing the lots, entering into the thrill of the bid, talking with fellow bidders and neighbors, and adding to the dreams of our many refurbishing projects.

Parrot signatures once adorned the tops of our chairs, while the puppy signatures decorated the legs, but I understand. This is their home, their world, and we are simply the lucky ones who are allowed to share it with them.

They live up on the hill, across the rock wall from the cabin. It seems that the creek valley is not only the perfect place for Greg and me to call home, but also for a community of crows. I have come to consider them our neighbors and just as we did with our neighbors in the city, we often stop to talk with each other, not across our yards, but through the woods.

There certainly is wonder in the changing season and ever so much to learn.

Myths are stories often about natural occurrences that appear to have a factual basis but in reality, are based on fiction. Consider the tale of the woolly worm, which is actually the woolly bear caterpillar, and not a worm at all.

I sat on the front porch, rocking in my chair, listening to the wind chimes and the occasionally falling walnut, pawpaw and buckeye. My mind slipped back to a time, worlds away, when the sounds were so different, and we were pinball wizards, and we were young.

It is that Osage orange time of year. Many, many years ago I remember that there was an Osage orange tree in the backyard of the children’s nursery school. Generations of children had climbed its scraggly limbs until the bark wore smooth. 

We washed the 1966 El Camino until its red paint glowed and its chrome sparkled in the sunlight. I built a large sign, with Greg's help, to put in the truck's bed. I painted the wood black to match the Elky's tires and interior, and then carefully placed black letters on the sign's white background. I stood back with a smile. We were ready for the 173rd Brown County Fair Parade.

It is that time of year when I fold up my summer clothes and get out my sweaters and jackets. The time when I kick my sandals to the back of the closet and pull open my drawers to sort through socks in search of matching pairs.

It had been a wonderful day, and I wanted to do something to show Old Blue my thanks. Old Blue had rolled off the assembly line back in 1966, although it was not until 2006 that Greg and I brought Old Blue home with us to the creek. Never once had I washed the tractor.

I surely love my beautiful red show tractors. They bring smiles to me, as well as to many who pass by, but I also love Old Blue. The old tractor sports faded paint, greasy joints, dents and spots of rust here and there, but Old Blue and I share something special.

It has been rather hot of late. That might even be a bit of an understatement. It has been so hot that I can sit in the shade and watch moisture beading up on my forearm. 

We now know the story of Sweet William and his love for Black Eyed Susan, and how he grows nearby in the field where she stands. 

She has come for her annual visit to the creek valley. She usually arrives when the heat and humidity settle uncomfortably over the fields and woods, but with thanks to her, I look forward to this time of year.