Fixing Fences and Feeling the Seasons Shift

There’s something about the third week of April that always feels like a turning point.

It’s not quite summer yet—spring still clings to the mornings with her cool hands—but by midafternoon, the sun hits different. The air thickens. The bugs wake up in full. And you suddenly remember where you put the sunscreen.

Today was one of those days.

Not dramatic. Not loud. Just hot enough to notice, busy enough to wear me out, and quiet enough to hear myself think.

And that combination always leads me back to the fence line.

Morning: “Just a Quick Fix” (Famous Last Words)

It started with a simple plan: walk the perimeter of the east pasture and patch a few spots I’d noticed sagging when I was out working on the pig pen.

I brought a roll of wire, a pair of pliers, some staples, and a false sense of optimism.

An hour in, I was halfway through the first stretch and had already:

  • Pulled a bent T-post out of the ground (likely nudged by a curious goat last week),

  • Found two sections where deer had clearly tried to jump and almost made it,

  • And discovered that one of the corner braces was missing a screw entirely.

So much for “just a touch-up.”

Midday: Sweat, Dust, and Duct Tape Wisdom

By noon, I was a dusty mess. The kind of dirty that leaves handprints on your own face and fence wire impressions across your forearms.

I took a break in the shade near the old hackberry tree, leaned against its thick trunk, and let the breeze dry the sweat off my neck.

A dragonfly hovered nearby. The chickens murmured quietly under the brush. And I thought—not for the first time—about how many things out here hold together thanks to equal parts planning, improvisation, and stubbornness.

There’s an art to fence mending. It’s not about making it perfect—it’s about making it hold.

I ended up using baling twine, two zip ties, and a section of salvaged wire mesh to shore up one weak spot. And you know what? It’ll do.

The goats tested it once. Decided against a second try. I’ll count that as a win.

Afternoon: First Signs of Summer Heat

After the fence work, I swung by the garden to check the soil.

Cracks.

Just small ones—but enough to tell me that the April rains are starting to slip behind us, and I’d better get serious about my watering rhythm.

I gave everything a deep soak: tomatoes, herbs, the new squash starts from Grace. The cucumbers I direct-sowed last week are finally breaking the surface, little green hooks unfurling toward the sun.

The Moon & Stars watermelon starts still look delicate. I shaded them with a scrap of shade cloth and said a little prayer to the gardening gods.

Summer is coming. And out here, it comes fast.

Evening: Supper, a Soft Wind, and a Painted Sky

I made dinner early tonight—didn’t have it in me to cook much, so I went simple:

- Cold sliced sweet potatoes tossed with fresh dill and apple cider vinegar

- A couple boiled eggs

- A hunk of sourdough with butter

- And a tall glass of goat milk over ice

I ate it sitting in the grass behind the house, back against the rain barrel, shoes kicked off. The dogs lay nearby, twitching in their dreams. A whip-poor-will started calling from the woods.

And then came the sky.

It started like a blush—just a soft tint behind the trees. But within minutes, it was full on canvas glory. Gold, coral, lavender, flame. The kind of sky that makes you stop mid-bite and just be still.

No photo could’ve done it justice. And I didn’t try.

Some things are meant to be witnessed, not captured.

Final Thoughts

Today reminded me that seasons don’t shift in single days. They ease in.

A cracked post. A thirsty squash. A breeze that carries heat instead of cold. It’s subtle, but it’s coming.

Soon, I’ll be waking earlier to beat the sun. Shifting watering to mornings and evenings. Watching for signs of heat stress. Prepping shade and slug defenses and fly traps.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I’m just grateful.

For a fence that holds—for now.
For squash that’s still trying.
For a neighbor’s gift and a dragonfly’s visit.
For the ache in my shoulders that says, you worked today.
And for a sky that turned the whole farm into a cathedral.

Tomorrow I’ll tackle more. That’s what we do.

But tonight, I’m letting the world rest.

Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek

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