Breakfast of biscuits, sausage and eggs, coffee and talk about tractors and drought. No one can figure weather like this, maybe in August, but never in May. No rain in three weeks and none in the clouds, hotter than ever for April or May; and to top it all off, as if earth were revamping hard frost when the hay was just budding. Twenty acres of soybeans planted again, milo seed dead in the dust. We might have had hay if it weren’t for the frost, corn holding on, but hardly for long. Stories like this are of interest to me, but for them it means college or not for the kids, to live on the farm or dig coal in the ground, abiding in heaven or moving to hell. Sunny days beside fields, forests and creeks, I pedal in safety from lightning and hail, a visitor only, not to remain, in a window of health between working and death.