I haven’t worn a matching pair of socks since Otto was born. It’s no big deal really. Most of the time I don’t even wear socks. I grew up a beach girl. This whole sock thing never took shape until I moved to Eugene Oregon. And only then did I need socks when Eugene was covered in ice during the great freeze of 1991. I’ve never wished or hoped for socks more than the time I was waiting for a bus, the LTD, to take me home after my shift at The Emporium during a freak blizzard. I, in pantyhose, cream and fellow LTD riders in state-of-the art Northwest fleece. My California roots were upheaved. I made it home okay, but it wasn’t without clinging to the bus shelter like a kitten tossed on curtains so the wind and snow would lay off my sheer fashion choice.
Today, I hit a new low. I grabbed for mismatched socks, but came up short. I didn’t even notice until I sat down on the doorstep to watch Zelie navigate the fig branches on a small rock wall ( she likes to keep me on my toes … all day long … without even a short nap for a break ). One foot is feeling great, the other is a bit left out. All in the name of great beef.
As a side note, my kids and husband are fully equipped with proper gear. It’s Tosca and me that jog up behind. Now that the sun is shining, my socks will be washed and accounted for. Though, it will be too gorgeous to bother.
In other news, the kids came home to a gorgeous sunset. Lucy and Brent checked the heifers.
Then, Brent rolled the hay bale while Lucy fed the boys. Would you believe they escaped castration a third time?! The tricky bull babies blinked at Brent convincing him to give them some hay when, in fact, they were not to be fed the night before their procedure.
We’ll catch you next week, cheeky monkies.
Z and Minty played on the old wine press. Then we all ate beef curry and broccoli.