If you find that your piddley corn crop has produced perhaps the hefty harvest of 1 1/2 small ears of corn, and that further the weeds posing as a decorative border to your corn-patch are actually more prolific the patch itself . . . what say you? Do you decry the feeble maize? Do you curse the day that the weedwacker broke? Do you care lots? Not if your name is Phil McMurray. Post harvest (so about 20 seconds after realizing the extent of our corn-dreams), he called to the boys, "Get your swords! Attack the corn!" Which, turned out to be worth every minute of our half-hearted attempt at vegetable gardening. Next year we might just grow corn for the sole purpose of letting the boys have at it.
In other news, Bryce and Phil had their birthdays--more to come on that. But, after making short work of the raggedy corn, the football from Oma Pauline was up next. Phil's been working on their throwing and catching skills, they're getting better, and especially love wrestling it out of each other's arms. (I got some great photos of Phil playing too, but the background of the eyesore chicken coop is too much for me to take right now--so the Phil eye-candy can only be imagined.)
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