LJR Enterprises

We have lots of baby birds! I’m sure that there are even more that I don’t know about considering how wild some areas of our property are.

We have the hideously cute baby robins…

And the nuthatches (I think) that Meg won’t leave alone…

And here is my attempt to keep Meg from killing the birds and/or the tree…

The Craftsman garden tractor (thanks PB!) has a new tire on the old rim. Bought the tire at the pitiful Family Farm store in Battle Creek, and then had it mounted on the rim at Discount Tire in Richland. The Discount Tire guy did mention they sold those tires. Next time, I’ll save time and money.

Taking off the rim wasn’t much trouble at all. It doesn’t use lug nuts, but a key and pin deal. My father, Robinson’s father and the Sears manual all said not to loose the key. I left the key in place on the axle. I came back to find my key gone. Apparently, one of the chickens pecked at it. I found it not too far from the Craftsman. Some how I should have known not to leave it on the axle.

Not much more mowing was done. A storm rolled in.

This morning, feeling pretty good about things, Laura and I walked the dogs together. Upon our return, we heard the well pump running. The motor’s sound was higher. I didn’t think much of it and ran an errand. I came back and it was still running.

No water.

Yin-yang thing — Karmic balance: working garden tractor - non-functioning well.

Via Boing Boing–

Nothing remarkable happened, but everything was remarkable. Does that make sense? Maybe a little?

Pollock and Meg spent most of the day in the pasture; I vacuumed and swept the floors before Coleman’s friend arrived for the Human Sacrifice birthday party; we BBQed burgers and sausages; the boys played outside for a couple of hours; I burned fallen trees; Madel ran a mile.

The boys play reminded me of my days in southern California in the late 70’s. Tim, Troy (both red-headed boys, btw) and me playing football. We had elaborate rules to make things fair — Tim had broken his hip as a kid and Troy was short for his age.

Sometimes, I worry about the boy and his relationship with other boys. I have accepted that play-time is arranged by adults. Children seem to accept this anomaly as well. Also, I worry about his alone time. It seems to require a computer or game console.

If I didn’t play with friends, I threw a tennis ball against the garage door. Not just that I had a story to go along with it. I was the pitcher and Reggie Jackson or Joe Rudi was at the plate. Or, I practiced my hook shot in the backyard on a court my father built, which is something Coleman won’t see unless my father returns to Hickory Corners to install the court.

Watching Coleman run around the backyard with his friend made me feel it has all been worth the effort and the struggle. I wouldn’t trade today for a winning Lotto ticket or a full-tank of gas (which ever is more).

Happy birthday, old man.