A Country Journal : country living

Showing posts with label country living. Show all posts

Thursday, September 25, 2025

I Know Fall Weather is on the Way, but I Wish It Would Hurry.

With John Helms

Still Waiting on Autumn Rain

Yesterday I wrote about the garden spot—how the ground’s too dry to work, how the dust hangs on like it’s got something to prove. We hadn’t seen a measurable rain in weeks here on our patch of land in central Mississippi. Well, yesterday we finally got a little something. I wish I could say it changed things, but I can’t.

Less than a quarter inch fell here. Just enough to dampen the topsoil and stir up hope. Meanwhile, folks just a few miles down the road—family and friends within a 25-mile stretch—measured an inch or more. Their fields soaked. Ours sighed.

So I’m still where I was: waiting on cooler weather to start building the greenhouse, and waiting on a real autumn rain to soften this stubborn earth. We need the kind that sinks deep and brings life back to the ground. Until then, I’ll keep watching the sky and listening to the land.

Hummingbirds Will Be Migrating Soon

Golden Rod in Bloom

Every fall, as the days shorten and the goldenrod blooms, ruby-throated hummingbirds begin one of nature’s most astonishing migrations. These thumb-sized dynamos leave their summer homes across the eastern United States—including right here in Central Mississippi—and head for the tropics of Central America. They don’t travel in flocks or follow a leader. Each bird, even the newly hatched ones, makes the journey alone, guided by instinct and the quiet cues of the changing season. It’s a solo flight that spans up to 2,000 miles, and every single one of them must make it.

Despite their size, ruby-throats are built for endurance. They fly about 100 to 200 feet above the ground, skimming treetops and fields where nectar and insects are plentiful. Their wings beat up to 80 times per second, and they can cruise at 25 to 30 miles per hour, with bursts up to 60. To fuel this journey, they must eat constantly—doubling their body weight before departure and consuming up to half their weight in sugar daily. Nectar is their main fuel, but they also hunt tiny insects for protein. Without this relentless feeding, they wouldn’t survive the trip.

Ruby-Throated Hummingbird
Created in CoPilot AI

So next time you see a ruby-throat darting around your feeder, know that you’re hosting a seasoned traveler. Whether it’s a returning veteran or a brave first-timer, that little bird has crossed mountains, oceans, and borders to find its way back to Mississippi. And it did it alone, powered by nectar, grit, and a compass written in its bones.

Their route takes them across the Gulf of Mexico in a single, nonstop flight—500 miles over open water, with no place to land. From there, they weave through the forests and fields of Mexico and Central America, eventually settling in places like Honduras and Panama for the winter. Come spring, they reverse the journey, returning to the same gardens and feeders they left behind. Some even find their way back to the exact patch of land where they were born. In Mississippi, their arrival is a sure sign that winter’s grip is loosening and the earth is waking up.

Flying solo isn’t just a quirk—it’s a survival strategy. Traveling alone reduces the chance of attracting predators, and it allows each bird to move at its own pace, stopping when needed and adjusting to weather and terrain. Even the fledglings, who’ve never seen a migration route before, somehow know when to leave and where to go. It’s a marvel of nature—no GPS, no guide, just a heart full of instinct and a sky full of possibility.

Hummingbird Facts from the Porch Swing

Species: Ruby-throated Hummingbird (Archilochus colubris)

Migration Route: Eastern North America to Central America

Distance Traveled: Up to 2,000 miles one-way

Gulf Crossing: 500 miles nonstop over open water

Altitude: Typically 100–200 feet above ground; up to 1,200 feet over water

Speed: 25–30 mph cruising; up to 60 mph in bursts

Travel Style: Solo flyers—no flocks, no guides

Fuel Needs: Must double body weight before departure; consumes up to half its weight in sugar daily

Diet: Nectar for energy, insects for protein

Survival Strategy: Flying alone reduces risk of predation and allows for flexible pacing

Navigation: Guided by instinct, environmental cues, and possibly Earth’s magnetic field

Return Accuracy: Many return to the exact garden or feeder they left behind

...until next time.

Wednesday, September 24, 2025

Ramblings and a Bit of History from High School Years

A Country Journal with John Helms

It’s Autumn

Gardening and Weather Update: It is autumn, and though we can plant our fall and winter gardens late in this part of the country, I have not yet planted ours. It is too hot and too dry. If I got on my tractor or behind my tiller to get the soil ready for planting, I would end up with nothing but dust. If I planted seeds, they would rest, dry in the ground, until rain moistens the soil enough for them to germinate. If I planted small plants, they would wither and die.

If it doesn’t rain soon, I may get nothing planted.

As I said, it is autumn, and the leaves from the sweetgums are beginning to fall and cover the ground. Although it is early, the oak trees are shedding their leaves and the pines are dropping their needles. When I walk through the woods, the leaves rustle under my feet, but because of the unseasonably warm weather, I find myself watching very closely for venomous snakes hiding beneath those leaves. Like many people, I rely on The Old Farmer’s Almanac for my long-term weather forecasts. To summarize, The Almanac predicts this November’s temperatures to be average, while precipitation will be one inch below average.

On the first cool day, I will begin construction of my small greenhouse. A greenhouse will provide me with the opportunity to control at least a small area of the environment to grow a small number of vegetables and herbs.

Chickens vs. Raccoon Update

Since my last posting, we have had no hen casualties. I seem to have deterred the masked bandits from stealing and massacring our flock. On the other hand, we cannot let our hens roam free range in the daytime because we have five red-shouldered hawks patrolling our property. They seem to have culled a lot of our wild cottontail rabbits, and we don’t want to allow them to do the same to our chickens.

This means our egg production is remaining constant. We are still giving eggs to our friends, but far less than before the raccoon raids.

Thinking Back to My High School History and Civics

I remember sitting in a high school classroom with the windows cracked just enough to let in the smell of freshly mowed grass mixed with the constant smell of the memograph duplicator—Mississippi spring trying to sneak past the blinds. The teacher, a wiry man with a voice of southern eloquence mixed with a coloring of gospel, stood at the chalkboard and wrote three words: “Bill of Rights.” He paused, turned, and said, “This is where liberty put on his boots.”

That line stuck with me.

Years later, after decades in marketing, research, business, and a lifetime of watching the world twist and turn, I find myself back on the porch, thinking about those first ten amendments to the U.S. Constitution. The amendments to the Constitution are not just a legal text, but rather a covenant between the people and the power they have granted.

James Madison, quiet and bookish, was the one who carried the torch. He didn’t shout like Patrick Henry or thunder like Jefferson. He reasoned. He listened. He stitched together the fears of Anti-Federalists and the hopes of Federalists into something lasting. Madison worried that without clear protections, even a well-designed government could drift toward tyranny. He believed liberty needed scaffolding—something sturdy enough to hold up under pressure. Madison reminds me of the kind of man who’d fix your fence when the cows wandered onto his place, and do it without asking, then leave before you could thank him.

George Mason, on the other hand, was the stubborn neighbor who wouldn’t sign the Constitution because it didn’t protect the people enough. His fear was sharp and specific: that the federal government would overpower the states and trample individual rights. He had already written Virginia’s Declaration of Rights, and he wasn’t about to let the national version go without a fight. I respect that kind of grit and devotion in a person.

Patrick Henry—now there’s a firebrand. “Give me liberty or give me death,” he said, and meant it. He feared that the Constitution created a president too much like a king, and a Congress too far removed from the people. He didn’t trust centralized power, and he made sure everyone knew it. I imagine him as the kind of man who’d argue with his preacher and still invite him over to Sunday supper.

And then there’s Jefferson, off in France, writing letters to Madison like a long-distance mentor. He feared that without a Bill of Rights, the government might slowly erode freedoms—especially freedom of religion and speech. He believed in the rights of man, in the power of ideas, and in the need to keep government in check. His fingerprints are all over the Bill of Rights, even if he wasn’t in the room where the sausage was being made.

These men weren’t perfect. They disagreed, they compromised, and they carried the weight of a nation still learning how to walk. But they gave us something enduring: a set of promises. Promises that say you can speak your mind, worship freely, and be secure in your home. Promises that still matter, even when the world feels loud and uncertain.

I think about those lessons often—especially now, with hens to feed and stories to tell. The Constitution may have built the house, but the Bill of Rights hung the front porch swing.

National United States Debt: Frightening

Here is a quick question.
Our national debt at the time of this writing is roughly 37.4 trillion dollars ($37,434,9776,225,430 to be exact). If you laid 37.4 trillion one-dollar bills end to end, how far would they reach?
The answer: From Earth almost to Pluto.

Step-by-Step Calculation

Length of a U.S. dollar bill: 6.14 inches
37.4 trillion dollars = 37,400,000,000,000 one-dollar bills

Total Length in Inches

37,400,000,000,000 \times 6.14 = 229,636,000,000,000 \text{ inches}

Convert that to Miles

There are 63,360 inches in a mile:

\frac{229,636,000,000,000}{63,360} \approx 3,625,000,000 \text{ miles}

Cosmic Comparisons

Earth to Moon: ~238,855 miles
Earth to Sun: ~93 million miles
Earth to Neptune: ~2.7 billion miles
Earth to Pluto (average): ~3.7 billion miles

So your 37.4 trillion dollars in one-dollar bills would stretch:

Over 3.6 billion miles—just shy of Pluto’s average distance from Earth.

Maybe that is a little dramatic. Let’s stack those greenbacks sky-high, like a column rising from your the Earth's surface at sea level into the heavens.

Step-by-Step Calculation

Thickness of a U.S. dollar bill: ~0.0043 inches
37.4 trillion dollars = 37,400,000,000,000 one-dollar bills

Total Height in Inches

37,400,000,000,000 \times 0.0043 = 160,820,000,000 \text{ inches}

Convert to Miles

There are 63,360 inches in a mile:

\frac{160,820,000,000}{63,360} \approx 2,538,000 \text{ miles}

How High Is That?

Earth’s atmosphere: ~62 miles (Kármán line)
International Space Station: ~250 miles up
Moon: ~238,855 miles away
Stack height: Over 2.5 million miles

That’s enough to stack past the moon ten times over—a tower of currency so tall it’d make NASA do a double take.

I guess I have covered a little bit of everything in this post. Until next time...

Monday, August 25, 2025

False Fall, Faulkner, and a GardenTomato Pie

William Faulkner - Copilot Illus.

A Country Journal with John Helms

Most mornings begin with coffee by the pool. That’s where I read, sip, and sketch out the day’s plans while the sun climbs over the treetops and the hens begin their chattering conversations. It’s a quiet ritual, and one I’ve come to cherish. The pool water is swirling gently, the breeze is soft, and the day hasn’t yet asked much of me.

But the chores don’t wait long.

I was welcomed by a dragonfly
when I ventured out for my
morning coffee today.

The lawn and grounds never stops asking for attention. This week I’ve mowed the lawn, built and prepped the new herb garden just outside the kitchen door, and laid fifteen bales of pine straw around the house borders and beds. The pool gets its daily tending too—it’s where we spend a couple of hours most afternoons, soaking in the stillness and the sound of cicadas.

The chicken run got a refresh—new pine shavings for the girls' laying boxes, who continue to lay with remarkable consistency. Our flock is smaller than it was just a few weeks ago, but we’re still gathering 8 to 10 eggs a day. That’s plenty for us, with enough to share with family and friends. There’s something deeply satisfying about that rhythm—hens laying, eggs gathered, breakfast made.

A tiny fence lizzard hunts
for insects on the tarp
covering pinestraw.

While mowing near the edge of the woods this week, I nearly disturbed a fox’s den. I caught sight of a couple of young kits, barely bigger than a squirrel, tumbling in the shade. I backed off, hoping they’ll stay and grow into guardians of the forest. We’ve also spotted a doe with a new fawn, bucking and bounding through the underbrush like a wind-blown leaf.

False Fall

And now, Mississippi is teasing us with what we call “false fall.” If you’re not from around here, let me explain: every August, we get a few days of cool nights and gentler days, when the humidity lifts and the air feels like it’s been borrowed from October. It’s a brief reprieve, a whisper of autumn before summer tightens its grip again.

William Faulkner captured it perfectly in Light in August:

“…in August in Mississippi there’s a few days somewhere about the middle of the month when suddenly there’s a foretaste of fall, it’s cool, there’s a lambence, a soft a luminous quality to the light, as though it came not from just today but from back in the old classic times. It might have fauns and satyrs and the gods and—from Greece, from Olympus in it somewhere. It lasts just for a day or two, then it’s gone…”

Faulkner's statue welcomes
visitors to Oxford, where he
once sat contemplatively.

Faulkner’s words linger like the light he describes—soft, haunting, and true. I first read him in high school, then again in college, both times as required reading. It wasn’t until later, with more years and more miles behind me, that I began to appreciate the art in his tangled prose. I am currently buying his books and reading them now with my new understanding of his time on this planet.

His writing style is famously intricate—baroque, dense, emotionally charged. He favored long, winding sentences that feel like a walk through thick woods, each phrase layered with memory and meaning. His stories don’t unfold in straight lines; they circle, stagger, wind and sometimes collapse under the weight of their own truth. He understood that life isn’t tidy, and neither are the stories worth telling.

Faulkner himself was a Southern eccentric—quiet, proud, partial to bourbon, and prone to speaking in riddles. He once said, “The writer’s only responsibility is to his art,” and he lived that creed with stubborn grace. His satire was subtle but sharp, exposing the contradictions of the Old South without romanticizing them. He wrote about decay, injustice, and the slow erosion of tradition with a kind of mournful irony that still resonates.

In a world that’s always changing, Faulkner stood firm in the mud —watching, listening, writing. His work reminds us that progress and memory often pull in opposite directions, and that truth is rarely simple.

Back to the Farm

Poke berries - beautiful but poisonous.

Late summer, early blooming
fall iron weed.

Our Massey Ferguson tractor has been out of commission for weeks—a leaking seal sent it off to the mechanic, and I’m hoping it returns soon. Without it, the list of undone chores grows longer by the day. The pasture where our horse grazes is overgrown and needs clipping before winter. I’ve got old bridge timbers to move up to the garden area, where they’ll serve as the foundation for a greenhouse that needs to be completed before our first frost, which is usually around the second week of November. There’s an old barn to tear down and a new seller barn to finish. And the half-mile stretch of driveway? It’s looking more wild than civilized these days.

But we press on. That’s the rhythm of country life—plans made over coffee, chores tackled one by one, and stories gathered along the way.

A Recipe to Share: Garden Tomato Pie

There’s something about late August that begs for tomatoes. They’re heavy on the vine, sun-warmed and bursting with flavor—too ripe to ignore, too good to waste. Around here, we slice them thick, salt them generously, and let them speak for themselves. But when I’ve got a few extras and the weather’s teasing us with cooler evenings, I like to make a garden tomato pie.

This dish is simple, hearty, and tastes like summer winding down. It’s good warm or cold, and it pairs well with a porch swing and a glass of sweet tea.

Ingredients

1 pre-baked 9-inch pie crust
4–5 large ripe tomatoes, sliced thick
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
1/2 cup chopped fresh basil (or a mix of basil and parsley)
1/2 cup thinly sliced onions
1 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese
1/2 cup grated mozzarella
1/2 cup mayonnaise (preferably homemade)
Optional: a pinch of red pepper flakes or a dash of hot sauce for kick

Instructions

Lay the tomato slices on paper towels and sprinkle with salt. Let them sit for 20–30 minutes to draw out excess moisture, then gently blot them dry.
In the pre-baked pie shell, layer the tomato slices, chopped herbs, and sliced onions.
Mix the cheddar, mozzarella, and mayonnaise. Add pepper and any optional hot sauce. Spread this mixture over the top of the pie.
Bake at 350°F for about 30 minutes, or until the top is golden and bubbly.
Let it rest for 10–15 minutes before slicing. Even better the next day.

This pie is a celebration of what’s still growing and what’s about to fade. It’s a good dish for sharing—whether with family, neighbors, or just the quiet company of a good book.

Note: A close friend of mine shared a delicious recipe for his tomato pie with me. Since then, he passed away far too early, our home burned to the ground, and his recipe was part of our loss. This recipe, pulled from my memory, is my take on his recipe.

Photos by John Helms

Thursday, September 25, 2025

I Know Fall Weather is on the Way, but I Wish It Would Hurry.

Still Waiting on Autumn Rain

Hummingbirds Will Be Migrating Soon

Hummingbird Facts from the Porch Swing

...until next time.

Wednesday, September 24, 2025

Ramblings and a Bit of History from High School Years

Here is a quick question. Our national debt at the time of this writing is roughly 37.4 trillion dollars ($37,434,9776,225,430 to be exact). If you laid 37.4 trillion one-dollar bills end to end, how far would they reach? The answer: From Earth almost to Pluto.

Step-by-Step Calculation

Total Length in Inches

Convert that to Miles

Cosmic Comparisons

Total Height in Inches

Convert to Miles

Monday, August 25, 2025

False Fall, Faulkner, and a GardenTomato Pie

But the chores don’t wait long.

False Fall

Back to the Farm

Here is a quick question.
Our national debt at the time of this writing is roughly 37.4 trillion dollars ($37,434,9776,225,430 to be exact). If you laid 37.4 trillion one-dollar bills end to end, how far would they reach?
The answer: From Earth almost to Pluto.