Oh Sweet Lord, I am so dreading the arrival of ripe Raspberry. The Woo Mockingbird's three children have reached the "Look at me, I might be a Vandal" phase of their time on earth. It's that phase when a nose pin, or nipple ring, or a tattoo, or expensive tennis shoes suddenly become appealing. And with Mockingbirds, they can be as stubborn we are. Which means that I might have to do a little foot stamping, and this is not easy thing for me to contemplate, unless I have mash potato and at least three sausage to look forward to.
No doubt it is a phase in her young which the Woo Mockingbird also finds
worrisome. And there is probably, a sense in her that she can't wait to be rid
of them all so that she might croon with me as we work on the Outhouse and
concern ourselves with Peach Thieves. I guess too allowing her children free
range in the Strawberry reduces her burden, because she knows full well they'll
be perfectly safe under my charge. So I guess I became a grandfather
sometime in March. And I should be grateful I suppose when my
grandchildren make believe they are rabbits, and pretend to be quite incapable
of flying over the Rabbit fence. Which makes me feel not completely
useless in defense of my own winter hoard.