Broken record

I almost hate to mention it again--hate to repeatedly complain about how miserably hot it is. I've never been patient with those that continually complain about its being cold in the wintertime--after all, isn't it supposed to be that way?
How is this any different?
Certainly, there must be something more newsworthy than the weather?
I feel like a broken record.

But in actuality, the weather in SW Ohio (and many other locations) is news. In fact, for the last two days, the summary of August's weather statistics has been front page news.
The hottest August on record, ever, combined with the 12 inches below average rainfall for the year, has caused what is now considered an "extreme drought".
It's not supposed to be this way.
My complaints are not the only "broken record."




The pond which was so lovely to look at in early May,


is now low enough to reveal the remnants of the previous dam. The glossy surface, replaced by the thick green growth of late summer. And the edges no longer covered in water have filled in with tall grasses. I see many deer tracks in the exposed mud of the old dam, and hope they don't get mired attempting to reach some water they must thirst for. Their grazing fields are dry and brown, bushes dropping their leaves early.

The grapes we'd eagerly watched and hoped for have suffered, too. First the Japanese beetles, then the drought, now caterpillars. Not a grape remains--hopefully the vines will pull through.
We use our land for enjoyment and plantings for amusement. I can only imagine how helpless the neighboring farmers must feel--their livelihoods hanging by a thin thread.

Another day

This morning's cool temperatures and breeze called me out to walk. On so many summer days, the air is so heavy and still--the thickness makes walking seem more like swimming. Today, though, it was delightful.
The pasture's long, waving strands make a nice fringe for the chicken coop--empty of chickens for the last 5 years. Now home for a phoebe. She comes and goes through the open window on the end.
The Eastern red cedars are loaded with fruits--it seems this year more than before. Or maybe its just that I'm walking and looking more, and its as it has always been.
I do know that for the first time in ten years we've seen the Cedar Waxwings in our yard. Every other day or so, a small flock settles in. I never made the connection before with their name--cedar for their love of the cedar berries and choice of the tree for nesting. Perhaps they're visiting us now, because these trees are flourishing.
The grapes are flourishing, too. These Concord vines need serious pruning this fall--we know we need to do something, just aren't sure exactly what we need to do. But, for now, we'll hope some fruit remains and ripens.The tendrils and their grip make vines seem so alive...how I will feel about chopping them waaaaaay back--I don't know.

One last peek at the pond, where the breeze had pushed aside the green blanket. What I first thought were tadpoles, on second glance had little whiskers. Baby bullheads? Swirling around what must have been their nest, a depression in the shallow water. And I thought we only had bass.

Another day's walk, along the same path--but always something new.