There is still grocery shopping. Some things remain oddly the same, as though there is no world pandemic. This strange situation covers the world as we thought we knew it, challenging our every perception of what should be, yet isn’t.
Outside in nature, nothing is different. Fruit trees need thinning. Weeds need removing. Flowers need admiration. Birds need listening. The sun is rising earlier and earlier, with the strong suggestion that if we crawl out from between those warm sheets, we can work an extra hour or two outside before it gets too hot.
And then there are those bothersome pantry supplies that need replenishment and somebody in the family takes the responsibility for a monthly trip to Costco so that I don’t have to. I don’t like any shopping, let alone at Costco. So, gratefully, the rest of my family steps up.
Yesterday, my order with Tom Kiff arrived, and usually that order is perfectly accomplished and delivered to my kitchen.
“I had some trouble with the aluminum foil, Mom. They were all out of the size you like, so I had to get something different,” Tom said.
At first, settled with the rest of the items I needed, like paper towels, napkins, dish soap, nothing stood out as out of the ordinary. Then I started to put things away.
When I got to the aluminum foil it weighed 9.8 pounds. Round that off to 10.
Tom commented that there was probably enough aluminum foil to last my lifetime. The box contains one thousand feet of foil, 12 inches wide. That’s a whole lot of fruit pies to wrap this summer for the freezer, which reminds me of things for which to be grateful.
No matter how scary the world situation is and will remain for some time, isn’t it wonderful for Sonoma County to have electricity and running water? And, those of us lucky enough to have roofs over our heads are not spraying hose water over them in anticipation of burning embers setting the house on fire?
It is green and damp, trees are loaded with healthy leaves, hillsides are recovering their meadows, fog rolls in gently reminding us that the ocean isn’t far away with their Redwood groves and soft pathways.
There is much to do and creatures to care for. In fact, right now I need to interrupt this paragraph and let my two sheep outside their little house, which they share with one rooster. I’ll return in 10 minutes.
Hello again — are you still with me? The sheep are a bit edgy these days, and they don’t even read the headlines. Their issue is last week’s arrival of the sheep shearer, Paul.
After eight years of annual shearing, Posey the ewe treats Patrick the wether like an unwanted outsider for a week after he is sheared. If only she had a mirror she would realize that she has been shorn as well and looks just as odd as the strange lamb sharing her space. But, no. She persists in bullying him and conveying in no uncertain terms that he is an interloper extraordinaire and not worthy of food nor water.
Her week has passed and their usual peaceful coexistence has returned, sort of. They still require some watching to make sure she is not stalking him, and he is such a dear little fellow who wouldn’t harm a fly.
It has everything to do with change. On the other side of town, my sister, Marty, a fairly new resident of Healdsburg, enjoys home decor and sewing. Among her dearest companions is a small white poodle named Daisy. Daisy likes sleeping on Marty’s bed and being with Marty throughout her day. One evening Marty had covered her bed with a new comforter and Daisy wouldn’t even stay in the room.
“I’ve lost my best friend!” she lamented.
“What’s wrong with Daisy?”
It wasn’t until Marty had washed the comforter, removing the “newness” of it that Daisy returned. The same thing happened to a new pillow cover on the bedroom chair.
We all need to adapt — both human and animal necessities for survival. I can deal with farm chores and animal care and even that nine-pound roll of aluminum foil. I think I will buy one for the U.S. Navy so that they can roll it out as a red carpet for Captain Brent Crozier when he rightly returns to the USS Roosevelt. It turns out that 1,000 feet is the length of an air craft carrier.
Renee Kiff weeds and writes at her family farm in Alexander Valley.
