Fresh air?

Someone, a friend, said that I was like a breath of fresh air.

Wow.

'What a compliment', I thought. 

But then my thoughts took me further -

and they landed up with:

'Strooth, but that is a responsibility',

because what happens when I run out of puff,

when the wind is out of my sales,

like it often does,

what then.

I don't know why my friend thought this of me,

all I was doing was gabbling on in my normal manner,

reciting tales of smallholding doings,

the ups and downs,

the achievements, the non-achievements,

being honest,

as I always am, 

not putting a spiel on smallholding life,

not dressing it up to appear other than what it is, 

which is flipping hard work

interspersed with magic moments,

like the moments of gratefulness shown by animals towards their carers,

like the harvest coming in,

like seeing the little piggies romping,

the sheep charging over to where the acorns are starting drop,

of a goat who was ornery when she arrived here, but now isn't,

of a male goat who wants to do his thing,

of big puppy dogs romping in the river,

of Bools, now getting older,

of his longer sleeping hours,

of his deafness,

seeing him bowing out,

gracefully,

from life.

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