“Eek!” slipped out through clenched teeth — unbidden yet totally expected, an automatic reflex to what I happened to be doing at the moment. We are thick into sap season, and every year is different, depending on the weather. It is akin to farming in that respect. This past winter, my husband diligently thought through easier, more effective and more productive ways to collect sap.

With an emotionally-charged voice, the home-team announcer enthusiastically described the play: “Brett drops back. Scrambles. Throws a bomb to Sharp in the end zone. Touchdown, Packers.” Moments before the play unfolded my husband had leaned over, his quiet whisper tickling my ear, “Favre’s gonna throw a bomb to Sterling Sharp.” (Just a side-note.

Late summer of 2022, I connected with Sarah Magee, a tenderhearted woman who is in the business of rehoming cats. We were in need of a couple of natural mouse hunters and knew of her reputation of finding homes for healthy, neutered cats. She has since established a nonprofit called Joy’s Place Animal Rescue. For a couple of years, it was just the two cats we received from Sarah.

Selling our livestock in May 2016, we’re going on nine years without milking cows. While that very first day had me standing in the middle of my farm kitchen in tears wondering what on earth people do at four o’clock in the afternoon, I’ve since moved quite cheerily in the direction of choosing what I want to do when. The big thing I don’t miss about dairying is dealing with and working in the cold.

The shocking news met my heart and like lead-pole legs stuck in quicksand. I sank into a nearby recliner, saving myself from face planting onto the floor. “Grandma? Not Grandma.” The beloved tender of my soul, fiercely loving each of us kids with a passion, her fire for life could not have been extinguished. No. I wouldn’t believe it. Couldn’t. Too many letters yet to write. Too many cakes to bake. Too many flowers to plant.

Rising early I have a morning routine that suits my getting-up-before-the-crack-of-dawn-gets-pants-on farming background. Drinking a glass of water to hydrate after the night, I don warm clothes and head outside to fire up. In our house we have a rule — the first one up fires up. This farmer man of mine, for years too numerous to count, arose every morning at 3:30 a.m. to trek out to the barn to begin yet another day of chores.