Sunflower Pasture

This photo was submitted by reader Richard Edmonds. "This was the view toward the Peaks over my front pasture," he said. "We get this view each year. People often ask me if I plant the sunflowers, but I do not."

What a nice stretch of lovely weather we’ve had. We’re way behind in precipitation and there’s the scent wood smoke on the breeze, but, all in all, it’s been pretty much Chamber of Commerce weather around here recently. So much so that I’ve moved onto our porch to write today. The birds and the squirrels keep me entertained whenever the apt word eludes me.

In other words, I spend a lot more time watching critters than I do pursuing the rare Aptus wordicus.

My staff does not approve. By staff I mean our two cats — Lucy and Rose. They much prefer that I work at my desk where they can monitor my keystrokes (“Faster, old man, we’re low on crunchies!"). Rose prefers to nap atop my desk; Lucy prefers a higher perspective, on my music bookcase behind me. Often, when I need to stretch, I’ll turn in my chair and see her sitting upright like a statuette you might find at World Market.

So, you can rest easy, folks; Tom is closely supervised.

As I sit on the porch, however, it becomes readily apparent that I have disrupted the wah. Rose is fond of quoting from the movies, especially Platoon. She peers through the screen door with Lucy beside her. They are indoor cats, by the way — a fact that Rose resents more than Lucy.

Rose stands on her hind legs, inserts her claws into the screen door and says in a harsh whisper, “Now, I got no fight with any man who does what he’s told, but when he don’t, the machine breaks down. And when the machine breaks down, we break down. And I ain’t gonna allow that in any of you. Not one.”

I employ my opposable thumbs and close the front door.

Where was I?

I saw something interesting Monday morning on my way to the gym, where my ongoing battle against the ravages of time is barely a holding action against the horde of glazed barbarian donuts that pursues me.

I saw a man walking toward the FUTS trail along Sinclair Wash. He was a tall, slender man; my mother would call him “lanky.” He wore a black denim shirt and jeans, and black cowboy boots. White, shoulder-length hair protruded below his black cowboy hat and his long white beard reached the middle buttons of his shirt. On his right hip he wore a leather-tooled holster with a pearl-handled Colt revolver.

(That left turn at the light off Beulah onto Woodlands Village can take forever!).

He appeared to be speaking affectionately to his companions as he turned onto the trail — three dachshunds on red leashes. I surmised another citizen out for a walk with his dogs on a beautiful morning.

I enjoy encountering dogs and their human companions on our trails, especially those who comply with our leash laws. Big dogs. Small dogs. Young dogs. Old dogs. Curious pups sniffing everything and dignified elders who’ve been there and sniffed that.

Uh-oh. Time to wrap this up. Rose is quoting from another movie.


Be the first to know - Sign up for News Alerts

* I understand and agree that registration on or use of this site constitutes agreement to its user agreement and privacy policy.

Load comments