Fri. Nov. 13th ‘09-Hawken wanted to stir-so we mixed up crepes for tomorrow’s breakfast. His favorite part of making food is running the hand beater. It’s a chance to turn the crank. I learned to not add flour first or we’re both lightly coated with  flour flurries. Bright orange egg yolks are found as the prize inside the beautiful brown egg shell. He opts to crack the egg and I fish a few shell sprinkles out and slide them up the side of the glass bowl.  It’s great applause he gives us as he samples the crepe batter.  Next we head to  the huge wooden kitchen table. He selects a favorite blue chair to crawl up on. We sit @ the table singing silly songs about peeling apples with his great emphasis placed on APPLE!! “We’re apple farmers Mama!”  It’s a chance to utilize the now softening apples from the orchard. We’re peeling apples and yacking about using the scraps to feed Geezer, Sassy and the chickens.  I turn the burner on and splash water in the tall black kettle. We’re off getting ready to check traps with Pops. It’s then that I start to think there’s a smokey smell in the kitchen. Not again! I stare inside the kettle and the black flecks that have somehow shown up inter-mingled with the plump apple chunks. I scoop some in a dish and smatter cinnamon on the sauce and stir it. I sample it and after 3 small bowls throughout the day-I’m not certain if I like it. I envision it’s like camping and sell a bowl to Tom. My dad stopped in to visit the next day and went home with a kettle of slightly burnt apple sauce and a basket full of our farm fresh eggs, crepes and meat from our last beef butchering. Tom appeared too relieved that the sauce was gone. My dad, Gerry Salwey,  has increased his ranking on eating from food that’s not the best..he’s risen above Tom and the poultry for the day.

Tom, Hawken and I savor family time and check traps on our creek. The guys head down to the creek on the Gator. I see a stick clutched in Hawken’s  hands. Sammy cat has pawed a ride and she’s lavished with zestful petting from Hawken.  She still walks with a bit of a head tilt since the middle ear infection. Sammy quickly moves towards the safety of the Shack. A bunch of cats sense the lad is there and are coming for a good squeeze session.  I notice the white dove that is flying over head and watch as it lands on the barn roof. It’s provided extra excitement here for the last 3 weeks since we started seeing it.  We also have been seeing brown pigeons with white on their wing tips for our viewing pleasure.   Tom’s lumbered his way into the creek with his waders on.  Hawken and I walk the cattle trail on top.  “Wow! Look @ ‘dat POOP!” I assumed it was just usual cattle manure.  It was a small, 2 inch long dropping that Tom identified as  from a fox.  More applause erupts as we do the  Hawken found fox poop dance. Not something to be done on a full belly, I might add.  Trapper Tom raves and rejoices that we can bring a plastic baggie and plop the dropping in it tomorrow! He uses it for coyote sets.   The great hawk has settled onto the Grandpa Tree. It’s a special tree below the original Shack that a hawk perched in years ago and continues to call home. It provided comfort to me when my Grandpa Willard Salwey was in declining health. That hawk would come and sit in the Tree while I raked first crop hay and it was my reminder of all the connections to my wise Grandpa.  I had received a call to gather @ his hospital bedside with family. I savored an alone moment with him.  “I’ll see you in heaven Sue!” I drove home with Tom and went to make hay. Driving up Sauer Mill Road there was the hawk waiting in the Tree.  Gramps honored Tom and passed away on Tom’s birthday. A deep reminder of the thread that’s woven throughout the universe.   I always salute the hawk that rests and watches over the farm while sitting in the Grandpa Tree and thank it for it’s presence.  It didn’t matter that there were no mushies in the 4 traps we checked. It was just a joy to delight in the light of the day and each other.   

Be fearless and walk into the day,

Sue Roskos