These banty hens don’t know when to quit. They don’t consult the calendar — or the farmer — and they just don’t recognize that it’s the wrong season for bringing more babies into the world. They keep nesting. They keep hatching out chicks, leading them through the leaves, teaching them to scratch in the dirt for seeds and other tasty snacks.

Every time there’s a frost advisory in the forecast I pick all the roses in bloom.  Just in case.   If I didn’t, and I woke
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Autumn has been kind to the flowers this year. The two light frosts thus far have barely nipped the tender plants in more exposed areas. Most of the farm is protected by sheltering belts of trees that ease the sharp bite of the wind. Rock outcrops gather heat from the day’s sunshine and the tender plants nearby benefit from these warmer pockets as the heat radiates back into the air at night.

Their house still stands, though it and the rest of the property is neglected and unused now. The county long ago abandoned the road that once bordered the north side of the yard. My youngest daughter and I visited there a few years ago on a long road trip we took for the primary purpose of her gaining a lot more real-world driving experience before taking the exam for her driver’s license. The old farm place seemed a fitting destination for that coming-of-age experience, and I bored her for days with stories of my childhood adventures with my cousins there. Hot summer days picking blackberries . . .