Not of Colonial Cloth

This morning a bunch of us from our homeschool co-op went on a field trip to Jerusalem Mill
for the kick-off of their Colonial Craftsmen Weekend. (Pictures coming soon.) Watching all that manual labor going on under these sunny skies sure inspired me to come home and put my hand to the plow also. (Well, okay, so it was not exactly a plow. I had no horses, so I took the easy way out and grabbed a hoe.) I also made up a little song about my hoe.

"I'm just a little hoe,
Everywhere I go..."--

Never mind. They don't pay me enough to write songs that good.

The colonial mama could easily work from pre-dawn to after dusk. Not so this mama. I am not the sheep-shearing, fire-stoking, butter-churning type. But it's fun to appreciate the hard work of my forebears.

My back was aching all day, and so I thought that stretching and bending forward to eradicate my weed patch would help. Wrong. It just made me sweaty. But I am only a third of the way finished and need to clean up the mess I've made thus far because I am getting ready for Monday's Autumn Tour of Homes. Once I've done the hard work of weeding, trimming, and pruning, I will go out and treat myself to some new fall mums.

And perhaps I'll use the gold and purple petals of mums to dye some wool to make some cloth for my sofa which my man made by cutting down a tree and tanning some cowhides and nailing them together from iron he forged in the fire stoked by the eldest son who is courting a gal from a northern colony....

Or maybe I'll just darn some folded socks. Or fold some darn socks. I always get that mixed up.