My tin type cowboy, Ian; my second chance, Prudence Verbena; perpetual time gobbler, Nicky (me); my first reason, Thankful Sage.
Sweet Thankful, my oldest girl child, has followed her mama's red shoes when it comes to some of her interests. This summer, we put in a small potager garden, four raised beds. One bed is devoted to kitchen herbs. Rosemary, basil, sage, verbena, chamomile and thyme are growing well and spreading wide in the composted soil. Every evening, we weed, water and talk about what we plan to use our abundances for.
The chamomile is being harvested and laid out to dry daily. Homegrown chamomile is stronger, sweeter, more apple-y than anything I've ever purchased, and we intend to put as many blossoms by to get us through the cold winter nights that have us aching for summer. Thankful has also taken to the large mullein plant that has spread out in the old garden behind the barn. My heart nearly tears open when I see her making notes in the herb books over my desk. She harvested some of the leaves with her summer house guest, Maya, and they have hung their bunting of leaves to dry in the hall window. Yesterday, they wildcrafted flowers for tea. Thankful likes color, Maya likes order, and together, they laid their harvest out to dry.
Sometimes, I get to throw on a petticoat and talk to people about historic foodways and how we used to live. I count these as my favorite days, as I can talk and talk. Even the most weathered history enthusiast cannot outlast me. Having just typed this, I realize my world is silly and small- but I wouldn't dare nor care to change a thing.
