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.

This is the 54th Ohio Valley Antique Machinery Show. This is that time of year when folks come from near and far and wide to proudly parade their vintage machinery and share their stories with those who come to listen, stroll across the grounds, and take it all in.

This story is fiction, but it was inspired by a true tale, told to me by a friend. It goes something like this.

Now, as to Gourdzilla's name, it is true that gourds and squash are both fruits in the Cucurbitaceae family, though they are typically grown and used for different purposes. Squash are eaten, while gourds are made into utensils or decorations. To my thinking, however, Squashzilla does not have quite the same ring to it as Gourdzilla, and so Gourdzilla shall remain the name of the most amazing squash vine I have ever had the pleasure to encounter.

I suppose that I’ll need to fine tune or maybe even reprogram my computing machine. After I swept out my wood shop and closed the door, we headed on out to the grocery store. I imagined I’d spend the next day hard at work in the garden, pulling weeds set in dry cement. As we pushed our cart up and down the aisles, I mulled over the concept of computer error.

We left early in the morning, when the creek valley air was still cool. With the El Camino's windows down and the cozy wings turned in, it was almost too cold, but I felt wonderful. We were heading east in a line of old cars, with our old car friends, driving along the winding road that followed the Ohio River. I looked out the window at the river's water flowing smoothly past small towns and under bridges. It was a beautiful day.

The old fisherman no longer fishes the creek. I cannot tell him that I understand, but I believe that he knew that one day I would.

I am now glad to report that almost two months have passed since my scattering, and that every single one of those thousands of seeds has sprouted and happily grown. My old friends now comprise what is assuredly the most dense patch of marigolds you could ever imagine.