Mud, Malfunctions, and a Birthday Thought for Catie
Mondays don’t usually ask for your permission.
They just show up—bold, loud, full of “let’s get to it”—and this one was no different.
By 8 a.m., the sun was already riding high, the goats were hollering like they hadn’t been fed in a week (they had), and I had a list a mile long. Compost, water checks, garden bed prep, and maybe—maybe—finally getting to that row of bush beans I’ve been meaning to sow.
But just as I was tightening my boots and sipping the last of my coffee, I remembered:
It’s Catie’s birthday.
My little sister. The good one. The constant one. The one who used to chase me around the backyard with a stick (sword) in one hand and a popsicle in the other like some kind of feral fairy.
So before I stepped out into the mess of the day, I paused.
Sent her a quick text.
Told her I loved her.
Told her I hoped she had cake, music, and a little mischief—just like when we were kids.
Then I walked into the mud.
Morning: When the Hose Doesn’t Cooperate
The first task on the list was simple: check the water lines.
Except, of course, it wasn’t.
One of the hose lines running to the back garden had blown a seal. I’m talking geyser-level spray that turned the whole corner into a marsh within ten minutes. I waded through it in my muck boots, muttering things I’m glad the Lord forgives me for, and shut off the main.
The culprit? A cracked coupling I knew was on its last leg and thought, “Eh, it’ll make it another week.”
It didn’t.
I had to dig out the spare fittings from the shed, slice the end clean, and reattach the hose—all while the chickens looked on like they were judging my competence. (Hazel actually flapped up onto a nearby stump and crowed once. I swear she was laughing.)
Eventually, I got it fixed. Re-pressurized the line. No leaks. Just soggy boots and a delayed garden schedule.
Midday: Planting, Prayers, and the Sound of Bees
Once the water situation was wrangled, I returned to the original plan—planting bush beans.
I prepped the bed last week, layered it with compost, and let it rest. Today, the soil was just right—dark, soft, still holding a little moisture from yesterday’s light rain. Perfect.
I worked in slow rows, tucking each seed two inches down, spacing them the way Grandma taught me. I could still hear her voice:
“Don’t crowd them, honey. They’ll jostle each other too much.”
Above me, the bees were out in full force. Buzzing over the flowering thyme and diving deep into the blooming sage. It made me smile. Pollinators always remind me that we’re never alone in the work.
About halfway through the row, I paused, wiped the sweat from my brow, and looked up at the sky.
Bright blue. Warm breeze. Everything alive.
And I whispered, “Happy birthday, Catie.”
Because even out here—miles away from anyone else—some people are just with you.
Afternoon: A Gift from the Edge of the Field
After lunch (cold leftover greens and toast with goat cheese), I wandered down to the far edge of the pasture, where the woods start to lean in.
I wasn’t looking for anything in particular—just needed a breather. A quiet moment before tackling the coop rake-out I’d been putting off.
But that’s when I saw them.
Blackberries.
Just the earliest blush of them. Tiny, green, tight as marbles—but there they were, tucked under thorny arches, stretching toward the sun.
I crouched down, ran my fingers along the canes, and grinned.
They're coming.
And with them, all the pies, jams, stains, and memories that come every year. Catie and I used to come home covered in purple juice like it was war paint, bragging about how many quarts we picked—never mind that we ate half before they hit the bucket.
It was a little birthday gift from the land, I think. A reminder that the good stuff is always on its way.
Evening: Cake for One, But Not Alone
I didn’t bake a whole cake—too much for just me—but I did pull out a single slice of chocolate cake I froze last month (never underestimate the joy of having “emergency dessert” in the deep freeze).
I lit a candle.
Just one.
Not because it’s my birthday. But because someone’s is. And lighting that little flame felt like a thread connecting me back to the girl who used to climb trees barefoot and laugh like a bell.
I made a wish for her.
Then I ate cake with my feet up, dogs sprawled out nearby, and the goats gently snoring just past the fence.
Final Thoughts
Today was full.
Of chores. Of mud. Of bees. Of busted hoses and bush beans and blackberry leaves.
But it was also full of Catie.
Not because she was here, but because she’s part of me. Part of the rhythm. Part of the memory in the soil. Every giggle from the chickens. Every purple-tinged thorn.
This homestead may be mine, but it’s built from every person who helped shape the girl who now runs it.
And my little sister?
She gave it joy.
So here’s to birthdays, blackberries, and busted hoses that still somehow lead you back to what matters.
Until tomorrow—
Amanda @ Wister Creek