All quiet on the Sunday front

I did hear a squirrel chirping outside the open window.  As I stepped closer to see which tree it was occupying, I heard mourning doves in the distance.  And the pitter patter of rain almost rivals my computer keys. 

It's a quiet, wet and gray morning, and I doubt that anyone cares.

My sister wrote a note on Facebook yesterday afternoon that it could rain and that she would sleep last night, knowing their hay was now in the barn and that not one bale had gotten wet from rain.  

Turns out the expected numbers of workers did not show up at the huge stack of bales next to their barn yesterday morning.  Just three Bouse boys and a Willie Love.

Still, the four worked extra hard, and by 2:30 p.m., the last green bale went into the hay mow. It was definitely a wet T-shirt day for the four workers as they perspired profusely, lugging those 75-80-pound bales from the stack to the wagon, from the wagon to the elevator and from the elevator to their long-term resting spots inside the barn.

Checks were written and workers went home, destined for a good shower.

Last night I managed to get my tarps all in place on our hay stack. A few little leaks last winter led to some rotten chunks of hay, so I did everything possible to avoid a repeat for this winter.

Two old tarps with a few holes are covered by one brand-new tarp.  Efficient and better looking than the bright blue and green of past years.  This new cover is earth tone and much more subtle. 

We were tentatively planning to go to Boulder Meadows today.  It's our annual visit, and it's a little later than usual, like most everything else.  According to the paper, this rain is just a temporary visitor so we may make it after all.  We're hoping to find some huckleberries and do a little picking too.  

My first impression of Boulder Meadows has remained fixed all these years.  Sometime back in the early 1970s, I saw the area for the first time aboard a horse.

The Gold 'n Grouse 4-H Club took an overnight ride into the meadows and invited me to join them.  I thought it was one of the most beautiful spots I'd ever seen, and I feel that way on each return.

A few paragraphs later, I do not hear rain competing with my finger strokes.  Looking out the west window, the low-hanging gray clouds partially covering the mountaintops have lifted.  Must be that newspaper forecast was right.  And, maybe the quiet Sunday morning will turn into a usual summer day, filled with activity.  

And, that's okay, cuz that rain took care of my morning watering duties.  That gives me more time for picking blueberries and cutting some more broccoli.

Better get at it.  Happy Sunday.