Years ago, one of my schoolteachers had us journal.  I didn’t catch the concept very well, and I quit the thing entirely when I found out my teacher was reading it and disciplining me accordingly as to what she read in it.  (Or so I thought)

And so, I still don’t journal, but by now I can see some value in it.

The journal idea was holding me up a bit from jotting something down that I wanted to.  And then Della says, “I think a blog is like a journal loaned to friends to read; it’s not a published book.” 

That gave me two things to think about.  1. If I blog, then technically I journal.  2. If I blog, which I do, and if that means I journal, per se, then I have permission to write what I wanted to, even though it smells a bit of journal.

*****

I awoke early, seems like that is happening more and more these days, and was thinking about starting the day.  My good wife rolled over and asked, “Are you going to go back to sleep?” 

“Maybe,” I said. 

“Then I’ll try to stay awake, because I shut the alarm off,” she replied.

I smiled to myself and started my mental stopwatch.  At approximately 1 minute, 43 seconds, she was back fast asleep.

I got up and filled the water pitcher that heats my water for coffee.  I set the temp to 195 degrees.  My boys tell me this temperature is critical.

I turned the kitchen scale on, set my little plastic cup container on it, and zeroed the scale.  I measured out 25 grams of beans, listening to them rustle their way out the bag.  (I do this listening process every time I make coffee.  It’s quite therapeutic.)

I tossed the beans into the grinder, noting the cheerful clatter they made as they landed, and started the grinder.

I set up the pour over kit on the scale, got a new filter in it, and poured the ground beans into it.  I zeroed the scale once more and began to pour the 195-degree water in a circular motion over the coffee grinds until the scale registered 250 grams. 

Once it had drained out, I poured half of my brew into my coffee cup and filled it the rest of the way with 195-degree water.  (My sweet daughter later claimed the other half of my brew for her own cup) 

The taste was everything you are thinking about and more.  Smooth, complete body that is meditation all by itself.  The Costa Rica beans came from my friend Emery who has the roasting thing perfected.  Come over sometime and I’ll brew you a cup, and we can talk about journaling.

I sipped my coffee and read the Word for some minutes and later joined my wife and daughter for breakfast.  My partial cup of joe left was the perfect mate to the two Walmart donuts I consumed.

So far, everything had begun in a normal way.

I stepped outside to a cool, crisp fall morning.  The sky was still dark, and I breathed deeply of the fall scent all around.

I climbed into Ole Kate, our feedtruck (two-part story on her some other time) and flipped on an overhead light so I could see the scale.  I zeroed it and walked around to the switch for the auger and started it running.  It was running in a mixture of rolled corn, dried distiller’s grain, and numerous other ingredients that are meant to make calves gain weight and stay healthy.  I rounded the truck again and watched the scale climb until it was at 870 pounds.  I walked back to the switch and shut the auger off.  The truck scale was toggling between 920 and 930 pounds.  My target had been 920.

I started Ole Kate and she and I went over to the grind pile and parked.  I climbed out of her and into the tractor and fired it up, noting as I did, that the sky had lightened up some, and I could just make out the grain elevator and city lights of Copeland, 10 miles to the west.  I got a scoopful of ground hay and dumped it into Kate, keeping an eye on her scale as I did so.  1300 and some odd pounds.  I got another scoopful, and this time carefully tipped in more until the scale read 1660 pounds.  My target was 1670.  Kate and I made our way to the faucet to add water and finish the feed mix weight out at 2000 pounds.  I engaged the mixing augers in the feed box to begin mixing while I added water.  Eighty-eight black and four red calves grouped up tight against the fence, noses in the air, eyes bright, all waiting for their next meal.

I got the hose running into the mixing box and idly scanned the western horizon once more.  By now, Copeland was clearly defined.

So far, everything fairly typical.

And then I saw her. 

She looked tired after being there for me all night long.  Even frumpy. 

Her hair was disheveled, and strands of it were hanging off the sides of her pretty face.

But her work wasn’t done yet, and she knew it.

I watched in awe as she gently turned to me and slowly, ever so slowly, transformed from a tired looking lady into the most beautiful vase.  A slender stem anchored firmly in her base sculpted its way in a smooth curve up to a flawless round brim that was perfectly proportioned to the rest of her.  She drank in the morning’s goodness, and filled with it, breathed a gentle sigh and laid her down to rest.

Tonight, good lady, I’ll see you again. 

*****

I have read that the difference in atmosphere density, coupled together with temperature inversions, can sometimes put the on the show that I witnessed as the Moon set this morning. And, it is the moon I refer to as the lady in this post, not my good wife, as some may think.