Another Saturday at Dad's.
The good riding days are slipping away and I've decided at this point to pack it in. I have put the bike up and am tending to my much neglected yard and lending the occasional hand at Dad's. Today we cut wood and ran down to Fred's for a few loads of hay.
In Central Pa. I don't have to go far for a country road. Every trip to the mountain where my father lives puts me in touch with what I missed most while living in Seattle. Saturday mornings spent preparing for winter, a roadhouse lunch with a pint of ale, and an aching upper body that comes from throwing bales.
The remaining weeks of good weather sends the farming communities that surround my home into a flurry of activity. Farmers bring in the last of their hay. It will be baled or made into silage. Feed corn is harvested. Winter fields are tilled. And on a day like today—with the car windows down—I can smell every last sweet drop of fall.