The tomatoes are swelling on the vine, and the air smells like rain on dust and something frying in a cast iron skillet.

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Here at our homestead, summer’s a slow waltz of sweat and story. I wake with the sun and write with dirt still on my hands—from the henhouse porch with a jar of jam and a pitcher of sweet tea sweating on the railing.

The garden hums with bees, the laundry dances on the line, and I listen for tales tucked between the corn rows—of kin long gone, of faith that holds like cotton thread, of love that’s loud as a crow’s caw and quiet as a blessing murmured over a Mason jar supper.

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This season, I’m pickling moments, preserving laughter, and writing the kind of stories that taste like wild blackberries and smell like woodsmoke drifting through cracked windows.

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Come sit a spell. The peaches are ripe, the hens are clucking secrets, and there’s always room on the porch swing for one more soul chasing sweetness and meaning. Please, enjoy this little packed journal of my writings. 

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May your tomatoes be tender and your tales a little wild, —Lady of the Farm​​​