Yesterday was a perfectly wonderful birthday! I was heading to town and kept getting delayed. As I finally set out, the thought came to mind, “It’s a dangerous road…take your time.” I don’t rush when I drive this little country road to town. I just kept getting his message…go easy, go easy. I’ve learned to listen. As I rounded a bend, there was an ice truck lying on its side nearly blocking both lanes. No one was injured, and because it had just happened and the police and rescue weren’t there yet, I got around it and made it to town for my appointment. My lesson is this…listen for that still, small voice. It guides you and protects you!

I have waited a long time for this birthday so I could sing that Beatles tune! I have always loved my birthday. That one day of the year where it was all about me. My Grandma celebrated my birthdays with a homemade cake every year. It was always the same…a yellow cake with penuche frosting. (http://www.food.com/recipe/grandmas-penuche-frosting-22376) If you’ve never had it…you must, you must! I could literally sit and eat it with a spoon, warm out of the pan. Divine! We didn’t have that gosh awful icing in a can when I was growing up. Frosting was a handmade confection from handwritten directions that was handed down from generation to generation. I still have Grandma’s “cookbook”…a stenographer’s notepad with her eighth-grade-education scrawl, written with a stubby, hand sharpened pencil, no doubt.

Yesterday was a really great day! I went to church with a friend and heard an amazing sermon about bridging the gap between churches. I attend a young church. The pastor said when he first got started, the other pastors around town were calling him and offering words of encouragement. The other pastors prayed for our success, which is how it should be. Then, we started to grow. Word got around town that the Warehouse Church was a place where miracles were happening and people flocked in droves. All of a sudden, those same pastors who had been “praying for our success” started talking negatively about our pastor. The thing about denominations is this…Jesus isn’t Baptist, he isn’t Methodist, he isn’t Church of Christ, he isn’t Protestant. He’s just Jesus. We should all be encouraging each other. There is a gap between churches. And there is a gap between Christians who are judgmental of other Christians. We need to bridge the gap. It was a wonderful service.

I was awake bright and early yesterday. I love staying at my cousin’s house up on North Mountain. They have a pavilion overlooking a pond. We had a cookout Friday night and a lovely visit. I went to sleep to the sound of whip-poor-wills and awoke to the lowing of cattle at dawn. I left around 8:00 and headed to visit my uncle and two aunts. I took my uncle for a ride in my new truck and ran errands. We had a nice lunch and I picked some sour pie cherries before heading home.

There’s something special about the evening light of June in West Virginia. It takes on the soft green of the abundant foliage and spreads it through the air molecules…or, so it seems. As I sat on the porch Thursday evening, eating a late supper of salad with baked chicken, I couldn’t help but jump up and snap this shot of what Grandma called her snowball bush. I seem to remember the clumps of flowers being more rounded than this when I was a child. Do you suppose the plant has changed over the years and morphed into what we see here? It’s possible. Or, more likely, my memory has.

One of my biggest treats as a child was to go to Harrisville with my Pop-Pop. We would go to Stout’s Hardware for a part for the Gravely, or maybe seed potatoes and onion sets in the spring. This is one of the last old timey hardware stores around these parts. Still with the original hardwood floors, Stouts has one of everything and two of most. You can get parts for a pressure cooker, lawn mower blades, salt licks, marshmallow and weenie roasters, coon urine…. Wait! What? Coon urine?! Yes, just look in the photo closely. Right next to the flavor injector for your deep fried turkey, and the ginormous spatula, and the paper targets for shooting practice, you can buy your bottle of coon urine to spray on yourself when you go coon hunting so the little critters don’t get scared off by the smell of your Old Spice. This begs a question…does someone who coon hunts even WEAR aftershave? Does he shave? I don’t know. I have a picture in my head of people chasing raccoons around trying to get them to pee in a cup. Then I read this is synthetic urine. Ok, someone had to duplicate raccoon urine. How’d you like to have that job? “So, you’re Ann’s husband. What do you do for a living?” “I had to figure out what raccoon urine smelled like and duplicate it.” “Nice. Oh, look…there’s John. Will you excuse me?” Or how about one of the guys from Deliverance? I keep hearing banjos and envision speckled dogs with ropes tied around their necks, baying in the back of a rusted out pickup. Not that there’s anything wrong with coon hunting, I suppose. They’re varmints that get in the garden and the trash and make a general mess of everything. And, there ARE people who eat them. I probably have relatives somewhere who eat them. I really don’t want to know what kind of ground meat is in that SOS. Really…I don’t.

I've been walking a lot the last three days and wanted to share some photographs I've taken along the way. Hopefully, you can get a flavor of June on the farm.

Yesterday was really chilly. So chilly, in fact, I had to draw the bedroom window nearly closed and drink hot tea. This has been one of those weeks where I either sleep like a stone or I’m awake all night. I hate those nights. It gives me too much time to think. In the past, my mind often led me down paths where I really had no business going and anxiety would rear it’s ugly head at me.

Whew! Revival…can you stand some more? The young evangelist who led the Revival at Grandma’s church a few weeks ago has four churches in his charge. At the ripe old age of 26 or so, this guy is a crackerjack, for sure. He’s leading a Revival in a church in a neighboring community this week. I was able to attend the last couple of nights and let me tell you, it was just as powerful (if not more so) as the first one I attended.

The air was thick with the promise of rain. The breeze was cool enough to wear a light sweater. I sipped my coffee as I watched a little White Breasted Nuthatch zip back and forth between the feeders. My new addition of a dried wax worm cake is a big hit with some of my avian friends. I tucked suet balls in the old, rotting poplar stump where my rain gauge is perched. My morning walk was finished an hour before, my hair nearly dry from the brief rain shower on the second half.

For those of you who are fairly new here, the whole thing started with this field. Twenty-two years ago, I brought the kids to West Virginia to introduce my future son-in-law to the family. Daughter #1 was about 19 and #2 was about 4. We went for a drive in the country, came around a bend, and here was this field filled with what looked all the world to be giant marshmallows. #1 told #2 that this was a Marshmallow Ranch. “This is where they grow the marshmallows really big then they cut them up in little pieces, put them in bags, and sell them at the stores.” she said.