Might as well be, anyway. Rain is in the forecast for Friday, perhaps the next day of rest, and for several days thereafter. So soon and there is much left undone.
Just last week the apples were not quite ready. Yesterday it was nearly too late. The yellow jackets had tunneled into the biggest and best. I picked all and saved half. A similar fate for the late blackberries. Enough for a few mornings on my frosted mini-wheats. The pears and plums are in a race, the percentages in the hornets’ favor.
An earwig hitched a ride back to the house. They do bite.
Prospects always get me in trouble, grace then a notion dampened. Motivation suffers.
Still, three bushels of potatoes is not an unreasonable expectation for a day like this. The blade is set to demound, readied earlier this morn amidst Legions fighting the effects of coffee. They can claim a small victory for I remembered and then forgot to close off the neighbor’s llamas from the adjacent paddock.
One more cup and both I and the tractor should be sufficiently fueled.
DW will cull tomatoes. Blossom end rot has always been a problem with our soil. “Maybe we’ll get an Indian Summer.”
Perhaps.
As big as the beets have grown, they have not become woody. The cabbage is of size and the brussels sprouts waiting for cooler weather. Despite my initial proclamation, the summer squash continue to produce; and it did not escape me that the cucumber beetles went elsewhere.
Okay.
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