ewe ain’t seen mutton yet

dVerse poetics prompt to use street names: Mutton Lane, Shoulder of Mutton Alley


 

The town grew up around a humble sheep farm. A stone farmhouse, before they razed it, had stood a hundred years, with sheepfold attached. The last farmer, third generation of sheep farmers in the family, built a butcher shop behind the house to diversify his business. His only son, Marcus, was known as a young boy for his skill at mutton busting (sheep riding) at the local fair. Once, he entered a national competition, winning a trophy which surpassed his own height and glittered like gold. The townspeople ooohed and aahhed when Marcus returned as a local celebrity. The farm and sheep are gone, but Marcus’s grandchildren still live on Mutton Lane and manage the butcher shop adjacent to Shoulder of Mutton Alley.

 

an old stone sheepfold

see one’s breath doing farm chores

bleating of the lambs

 

 

puzzling

i bought
a new giant
floor puzzle,
especially for
young grandson

a picture of
fascinating
creatures who
live under the
ocean waves

sharks, eels,
sting rays and
cute clownfish
anemones, stars,
and sea horses

but he chooses
the old favorite
floor puzzle of
familiar farm
animals…again

🙂


Joining Elsie at Ramblings of a Writer with theme”Under the Ocean”

logo-napowrimo

creeaak!

 

Our farm buildings are nestled in the protective elbow of the grove, my personal woodland. A variety of trees shield us from the blast of winter’s northwest winds. Along outer L-shaped perimeter stand two rows of blue spruce, planted early in our marriage; mountain trees for this Colorado girl transplanted to prairie. Now the rows are closed to lawnmowers and snow shoers.

Inside the west crook, reside old ash and gnarly box elder, here long before my husband’s parents bought the farm site. Random maple, scattered throughout, blaze in autumn’s golden glory. Near the road, three small birch wave at passers-by. A few more spruce shelter the apple orchard, now consisting of two prodigious trees, we planted by our driveway.

On the north, two straight rows of ash, summit and bergesen, join hands high to form a long leaf-adorned aisle where migrating monarchs flit in early fall. Next to these, six red oak raise their proud heads and stubbornly hang onto dead leaves until next spring.

Sadly, severe weather, disease, or insect pests eventually claim even the best of our trees. Walk past an old dead tree on a windy day and hear the creaking. Better to get chainsaw out before it falls where we don’t want it to. Its wood will warm us in winter and we are grateful.

 

young saplings attend
but cannot stop life cycle
dryad’s dying scream

 

IMG_3669

photo by lynn

 

 

scrub, dub, tubby time

An “American sentence” is simplicity in seventeen syllables  😉

 

Grandsons playing outside on farm all day make us grateful for water!

pennye-vanny
(photo credit: pennye-vanny)