Revisions

With trowel in hand, I walked downhill to the henhouse my late friend Andy built. Had some easy weeding to do in the former chicken pen.

I admired the transformation of the little, white house he built, the front door no longer egg-yellow, rather a soothing shade of lavender.

Also, the two window boxes on east and west side. Pretty as they could be.

What other color would a lavender lover choose for the renovation of her hen house to a summer writing and reading room?

My future “Le Coop”.

“Hi Deb!” I said to my friend the painter as she brushed a second coat on the white interior.

Since the house stands above ground, we discussed inclosing the perimeter beneath it. I don’t want varmints invading my privacy.

Meanwhile, Mitty, my mixed Siamese-Tortoiseshell cat, joined our twosome. She offered a brief meow and aimed for the compost pile I’ve built from weeds and spent plants from my flower and vegetable gardens.

I finished weeding. Debbie called it a day around 4 p.m.

After I raked the pen’s soil and determined I needed more to fill in the highest side before sowing grass seed, I aimed for the weedy rectangle where my greenhouse once stood.

Life seems a series of revisions.

After I sprayed weed-killer on the empty greenhouse plot, I went to my knees and removed red bricks overgrown with grass and weeds.

I’d installed the bricks at the entrance of the greenhouse over twenty years ago after a team from the MSU Extension and my late husband built the structure one frigid, spring day.

Little did I know then the tug-of-war I’d face removing them.

Another revision.

Thank God for Betsy, my golf cart, my workhorse, that transported the bricks the short distance from the greenhouse site to Mel’s shed.

I can’t tell you how thankful I am for that little building he enjoyed two brief summers. He built it mainly for his new John Deere he gassed up the mowing season before he passed.

After stacking the bricks against the shed’s interior, northwest corner, I counted 148 and closed the shed’s awesome roll-up door.

I stood, faced west, stretched my back, and spied Mitty sitting on a tall pile of pine needles, still as I’ve ever seen her.

Close by, I dared not disturb the moment, thankful I’d placed the pine needles there just hours prior.

That’s one cat characteristic: they’ll find anything new in or around the house, and if it agrees with them, they claim it.

As the sun sank, my blue-eyed cat laid down her head, which provoked my tearful response.

Mitty remained still atop the pile of pine needles as I drove Betsy up the hill and into the garage.

Dear Reader, of all blessed gifts our God gave us, it is a beautiful sunset after a vigorous day’s work that comforts a solitary soul.

And to observe the sunset with Mitty is a revision beyond what I could ask or think.

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com