July 15, 2016 - Friday
56 degrees/cloudy/breezy
Pentoga Road

I was walking back home Thursday morning after being let off by Sargie when I began noticing all the wild flowers. I have no idea how many varieties there are, let alone the names, but they are beautiful. I decided to take pictures of several so that I could fully enjoy them on the computer screen.



I'm amazed how many weeds that are pulled from the garden and the annual flower beds that if left alone, would produce beautiful blooms. 



I had a graduate student in Alaska that could identify every wild flower I ever posted. I wish I'd have kept her emails. She was a walking/talking floral expert.



Other than the Black Eyed Susan, pictured at the top of the page, the lowly daisy is my favorite. They bloom in abundance and give life and color to our roadsides.



There's something about the North Country, be it the Upper Peninsula, Maine, or Alaska, that produces beautiful flowers. 



I've yet to figure out if it is the soil, the climate, or a healthy combination of both.



Whatever it is, our fields and woods come alive this time of the year with colors, shapes, and sizes of hundreds, if not thousands, of varieties of wild flowers.




Thursday was a busy day. Arriving home from my walk, I spent the first two and a half hours working up firewood. The second shed is almost full with only another three or four loads needed to fill it to the ceiling. 

I'll admit, splitting firewood by hand isn't nearly as pleasurable as it once was. That twelve pound mall is beginning to feel much heavier and I often miss my mark rather than hitting it. I've also noticed that after an hour or two, I'm ready to take a break, or I should say, quit for the day. Working up a truckload of wood and getting it carried and stacked for the winter in one big swoop is a thing of the past. 

Grandpa Pennington is the person who taught me the science of working up firewood. He and Grandma lived along a remote lake in northern Minnesota. While visiting one summer, I observed Grandpa splitting wood. About the age I am now and small in stature, skinny, and lacking no amount of wrinkles, the old man made it look effortless.

I was a strapping sixteen year old boy, full of knowledge about everything and bubbling over with more energy than good sense who couldn't let someone as ancient as Grandpa swing a heavy mall.

I remember feeling the smooth, worn, hickory handle, still warm from being used. It was probably older than I. In Grandpa's generation, nobody threw anything away if it could be repaired.

The old man sat down on a stump and never taking his eyes off me, rolled a cigarette.

A chunk of wood was set on end. I eyed the thing and with all my might, swung. It's a wonder I didn't hack my ankle in two. I missed. 

More determined than ever, I took a big breath and swung again. This time, the mall hit the wood and bounced back towards my face causing me to duck to avoid decapitation. 

Grandpa slapped his knees as he roared with laugher. Removing the crooked cigarette from his lips, he grew quiet just long enough to ask if I wanted to learn how to to it right, to read the wood, the grain, and swing a mall with as little effort as possible. My real schooling began that day.

Of the knowledge I've accumulated over the years, I think I'm most proud that I learned how to read and work up firewood. It's a dying skill that I passed on to all four of my sons and hopefully, they'll have the opportunity to do the same with their children.

I've thought about acquiring a hydraulic splitter. Problem is, it costs money and there are other items higher on the priority list; for instance, new, air tight, windows in the living room. I guess I'm getting a bit older and sometimes, lazier, but really, there's not a thing wrong that would keep me from swinging a twelve pound mall for another year or ten. 

Decisions, decisions... Dad used to say life is full of priorities and decisions. He sure hit that one on the head... or in this case, a chunk of wood.

Thursday afternoon was spent working in the shop. The last pieces of lattice were finally cut and it appears they should snap together. My patience was severely depleted so rather than make stupid mistakes, I decided to quit and hopefully, will finish the construction today.



It was chilly, rainy, and windy. You know what's really good on such a miserable day? Mmm, hot, homemade, vegetable beef stew.

I raided the garden and plucked a young zucchini, cut a nice head of broccoli, then headed to the freezer and found peppers, cauliflower, and dehydrated carrots, all from last year's garden.



 A couple of less expensive steaks were thinly sliced and some soup stock was added along with a bit of seasoning. I put a lid on the pot and let the entire mix simmer until supper time.



The sweeper was run over the rugs and the floors swept. Sargie was due home fairly soon and after a quick shower, I decided to call it a day. It had been a good one.

We had a good conversation on the phone with Mississippi Brother Garry and Jody last night. Jody made up a very artistic frame of colorful leaves she'd gathered last fall when they were visiting. It's beautiful and will find a permanent place in our home to always remind us of the good time the four of us had together. Thanks again, folks.

Hey, Chicago Mike, hurry up and get better, would you? There's too much to do to be fiddling around in a hospital room. Know prayers and good thoughts are being sent your way from Pentoga Road.

Sargie closes both tonight and tomorrow night, a couple of long days for her.

I'm heading out the door pretty soon to... yes, work up more firewood. It's early, it's cool, and as of this moment, I feel as perky and energetic as any sixteen year old.

After all, a man's work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road...

It's not a wild flower, but when this cosmos sprouted earlier in the middle of a row in the garden, I let it grow. Now I'm glad I did. Beautiful.