Thimble-Kitten is Now A Cat!

Thimble-kitten arrived in our lives on August 16, 2024; rescued from the parking lot of a local convenience store by our son, she was nearly starved, dirty, infested with fleas and lice. 

Howard gave her the first of several baths, provided a month's worth of kitten food.

By the time we got her to a vet appointment four days later, Thimble, though still thin had  found her place in our home and had begun to assert her considerable personality.

The vet judged that Thimble was between 8 and 10 weeks old, placing her birth during the month of June.

During these past weeks I've been telling her she is no longer a 'kitten' but a 'cat!'

Thimble is the naughtiest, most imaginative feline we've met in our decades of sharing our home with cats. 

She carries her toys [a collection of green milk bottle caps] around like a puppy, bounces them down the stairs, waits for me to retrieve them from under shelves, from behind the piano, where ever they have landed. If we forget to pick up the lids and stow them in a drawer at bedtime, as soon as lights go out the 'toys' are located and clattered about the house.

Thimble is a rummager, an investigator, an acrobat, a too willing helper in every task.

The other cats do not enjoy her companionship; she chases, pounces, stalks. Rosie is her particular focus of torment and runs squalling while Thimble fixes her with a beady eye before launching herself in Rosie's direction. 

Thimble's midnight antics often mean that she has to be sequestered in the sunroom for the remainder of the night. 

And yet, particularly when she has created an uproar, sent objects flying from countertop or desk, splashed in the water bowl, there's that little whiskery face, those big eyes gazing at me; and so I scoop her up, let her clamber to my shoulder and purr in my ear. I tell her its a good thing that I love her!

First bath.

Anything to be noticed!

A moment of repose.

Any container must be tried on for size--the bucket of newspapers saved for fire starters.

Thimble never forgets that Howard rescued her, gave her a chance at life. 

She makes it plain they have a bond.

Fearless!

Why shouldn't I make music?

The face of innocence. 

A wastebasket full of fabric scraps, emptied on the floor.

This basket is the best fit.

A cushioned colander.

A box--for me!

Thimble enjoys quilts.

Enjoying the cat tower. 

A friend of Howard wanted to rehome a cat condo/tower. It is a cumbersome thing, the posts wound with thin rope which Thimble has mostly unwound. I didn't feel we needed it, but it provides endless exercise and amusement for this kitten turned cat. 

She is a performer, a show-off, an entertainer.

We may not have needed a kitten, but I can't now imagine life without Thimble!

 

Garden Notes

I was outside by 8:30 to see how yesterday's transplants were faring. The nasturtiums in the right-hand corner were growing in a large pot on the back porch; nasturtiums don't appreciate being moved from where they are seeded, however I think with a little coddling these may survive. The thyme set in along the left edge spent the winter in pots lodged by the greenhouse; they came originally from the plant/produce auction and were passed along by son-in-law Matt. I had a large clump of thyme [provenance unknown at this point] that was stuffed in a planter, root-bound. I was quite ruthless with this, pulling it apart into several divisions. Heavy spring rains have yellowed plants that were sitting about in tight quarters; I think that having room to spread and grow will see them shortly reviving to a healthier green.

Hyssop which has been in a pot, a clump of dianthus hoicked out of the older raised bed, basket flowers started from seed this spring and more than ready for transplanting.

The Flying Pig was an anniversary gift from friends almost a dozen years ago. She is now standing watch over a dwarf nandina which Jim helped me relocate. The shrub was set in the rather disappointing back garden effort, hidden by a militant proliferation of monarda and lemon balm. 

J. noticed me heaving dirt about and took over. 

I am always impressed by the ability of a male to wield a shovel or garden fork with an efficiency that I can't manage.

This area outside the greenhouse door has been a 'catch-all' spot for self-seeding catnip, various mints escaped from pots, the achillea seedlings that I rescued from the turf surrounding the bed by the front steps. If my plans come to pass, the achillea will be moved to the strip that is meant to be worked up where the sunflowers are now growing. That being so, I will allow the various mints to run rampant along the wall.

 Achillea has a tendency to flop, but I've never seen a dwarf variety. 

Pale coneflower started from seed during the spring of the wildflower experiment. 

Two hours of moderate garden work, coming in at 10:30--shirt soaked and clinging unpleasantly.

I changed from the skin out; brewed a jug of lemonade to extend the daily jug of iced tea. A nearly noon meal concocted when J. returned from an errand; cats and their litter boxes tended. 

It is overcast now. There are so many outside tasks that want done: cutting away the rain-damaged leaves from the clematis vines, pruning the roses now that bloom is past and time for pesty bugs to appear. Weeding--always more weeding!

I will likely make garden rounds again in the evening--these lengthy twilight hours moving toward the solstice are lovely for lingering outside.

For now, I think I'll move downstairs to my long-neglected sewing. 

 

The Raised Garden Bed Project

 

I'm not sure if Jim began work on the raised bed because he was tired of hearing me clamour for one--or if he suddenly decided it was a valid idea.

I let him know that I was researching online for the kind that are shipped in pieces to be assembled. I got out a yardstick to approximate the sizes offered and was debating whether the largest available would accommodate the plants I have in mind.

Jim rather off-handedly announced that he could construct something better from materials on hand.

The sides are 16 ft long insulated vinyl-clad panels left from partitioning the barn to make the heated/cooled workshop area. The interior width is slightly over 3 ft. 

 

J. decided that the best and most economical way to fill the bed was to place baled hay in the bottom. Last Tuesday [27 May] we drove in the car to the S. Fork area to make inquiries and found that the local Amish Feed Store had baled hay for sale. Back with the truck to collect it, returning just before a light evening rain.

Raised bed in place, planting bins and greenhouse beyond to the left.

On the right is my double row of sunflowers. 

My plan--which may have to be mulled for awhile--is to place a rustic fence just beyond the sunflowers, and when they are done blooming, that strip can be tilled and used to set in some of the many seedlings of foxglove, lemon monarda and such which are growing in greenhouse pots.

I expect I shouldn't make too much noise about this phase until later.

Yesterday [Monday] after a consultation with son-in-law M. we headed into town to a local rather upscale 'seed and feed' that sells topsoil, mulch, and compost by the 'scoop' load.

As we neared town our grandson D. pulled onto the road behind us, just leaving his apartment. At the stop light--J. in the right hand turning lane, D. in the left--D rolled down his window and shouted, 'Mexican Restaurant!'

Who could refuse such an invitation?

I had been texting daughter G. regarding plants; it was a surprise to find her waiting on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, joined in a few minutes by M.

After lunch we were urged to drive out to see their latest gardening accomplishments. 

I have borrowed a photo; their gardens are far more organized than mine will ever be.

Worthy of a feature in a glossy gardening magazine!

We had a tour of the side gardens G. has been creating, and the display of vintage items used as planters near the front steps.

These detours of several hours made for a delightfully unexpected outing before going on to haul home the load of soil.

J. 'double dug' the garden dirt underneath the raised bed frame, placed the bales of hay and shoveled the garden dirt on top; the second layer was the soil mix from the farm store layered in place early this morning.

The final top layer is bagged planting mix from my favorite South Fork nursery, Homestead Gardens.

I have clambered into the truck and ridden along on these forays to collect what was needed. 

It is companionable, and such small outings especially around the back roads of the S. Fork community, give us renewed appreciation for this place where we have chosen to live out our retirement.

It is nearly lunch time when breakfast happens these days. 

After shoveling dirt [Jim] watering greenhouse plants and spraying blight deterrent on the tomato plants in the garden [Me] I made Belgian waffles topped with butter, maple syrup, fruit sauce and whipped cream with a side of turkey sausage links.

Must keep up our energy!

End of May

We have no use for the hay crop that grows in our upper meadow so it is harvested several times each summer by one of the Beachy Amish families in the neighborhood.

The frequent rain throughout May has been discouraging for local farmers hoping for a break in the dark wet days.

I was at my desk reading late on Saturday afternoon when I heard the sound of a tractor moving around the field. The Beachy farmers don't work on Sunday whatever storms may threaten. We watched the cloudy skies through Sunday and Monday, the threat of more rain ominous. 

The scent of new mown hay was sweet in the heavy air.

Monday evening was coming on when the tractors rolled in to bale and collect the hay.

The yield was nine bales--the heaviest cutting in our six summers here.

By dark the bales had been loaded and trundled away.

First nasturtium of the season blooming in a pot outside the greenhouse.

The different shades of red are my favorites but I welcome nasturtiums in any color.

Two male hummingbirds arrived on time during the second week of April. We knew that the females had followed them, but sightings were few.

Closing in the porch meant that the feeders had to be repositioned. I wondered if seeing their reflections in the window glass had upset the birds.

During the past ten days activity at the feeders has increased. Today a feeding frenzy was almost continuous. I counted five birds hovering at one time.

Thimble-kitten is enthralled by the tiny birds swooping and fluttering just beyond her reach.

We had drama this morning when I raised the window and then returned to the kitchen to fetch a refilled feeder. A hummer flew in, then beat frantically against the glass rather than diving back out. 

Thimble was quick to notice.

I scooped her up and thrust her into the adjoining sunroom, shutting the door in her whiskery little face.

The bird stayed just out of reach at the top of the window frame; Seemingly it couldn't fly downward and then out.

I fetched a soft dishtowel from the kitchen and after several attempts was able to enfold the bird and toss it out the window, where its companions immediately swooped at it as though scolding. 

Walking yesterday to the mailbox I set up a pair of kildeers who screeched, flew around me, landed in the verge of the lane, rose to swirl about ahead of me.

Coming back I was surprised to note that an egg had been deposited in the same small stony hollow where the first eggs hatched on May 17.

If this is a second family I hope the chicks fare better than the earlier babies. 

Too much rain today for outdoor work, so I spent time in the kitchen.

Four loaves of anadama bread, a lovely quiche filled with spinach, bits of turkey bacon, onion and chopped tomato with a topping of shredded cheddar and fresh parsley.

Beets cooked, peeled and sliced; deviled eggs, the last of the strawberries hulled. Baked potatoes for supper with extra to cut up and brown in butter for another meal.

We walked the loop of the lower meadow just before dark, Willis-cat lumbering behind.

A night without rain, lighting, thunder and wind would be welcome!

 

Weather and Gardens

Seeds of Lauren's Grape poppy have tagged along in pots and tubs of plants as we've moved through several locations in the county. They are welcome wherever they pop up. Most winters the tiny seedlings emerge during a warm spell in February or March. They were so late this season in appearing that I felt they had been lost. I needn't have fretted! This one was the earliest, starting as a frail plant almost beneath the front porch overhang. I was surprised to see the first delicate bloom on 21st May after a dismal night of rain and thunder.

Poppies are beautiful at every stage of growth.

Seedlings have continued to appear--poking up in various plant pots and tubs, in the gravel just inside the barn door, a few, still small, among the foxgloves in the west wall garden. 

Poppies pushing through the branches of a sprawling sage.

Poppies in the gravel walk-way of the barn.

I will never be without nigella--a reliable self-seeder.

Jim's potatoes are growing sturdily.

Peppers and tomatoes purchased from my favorite nursery in April were potted on and kept in the greenhouse until May 7th.

Tomatoes raised from seed in my  little greenhouse went out this week, with 14 extra passed along to H.

Cukes, melons and butternut squash started in greenhouse set out on May 15th.

Jim has made successive plantings of sweet corn after the first [too early] planting failed to germinate in cold, wet weather.

Today he direct seeded more cukes and squash.

The pole beans are up and will soon need a fence to climb.

The pounding rain and high winds which resulted in horrendous tornado activity in areas an hour or more east of us, did little damage here. The electric was off for 12 hours, fallen branches and twigs had to be gathered up around the perimeter of the property. 

Roses, clematis and foxglove at peak bloom were buffeted and tattered.

Clematis Jackmanii, a late bloomer, still looks good.

Near the lower end of the west meadow a maple much loved of the woodpeckers snapped off, the top crashing through an adjacent tree ; the broken section caught just above the power line and transformer.

Jim hitched onto this and hauled it free with the tractor. The stump has since been cut down, split into usable chunks and tidily piled in the woodshed.

I have been fretting that I need a raised bed 'herb garden'. On Friday Jim became tired of hearing this reiteration and after some discussion--exasperated on his part, insistent on mine--he roared out with tractor and rotovator to turn this strip along-side the one designated for my sunflowers. 

I have been leaving gardening books and magazines open in strategic places--suggestive of what I have in mind. Gina got me interested in purchased raised bed assemblies which I then compared online at amazon.  Jim, facing the inevitable, announced that he could construct raised beds!  

I have no problem visualizing a finished garden such as I covet; I do have issues when it comes to dimensions, spaces, layout.

We will likely have some testy exchanges of opinion as the project goes forward!

However it turns out I'm feeling reassured that the various plants languishing in pots or tucked into unsuitable corners can become an attractive arrangement as well as an area that I can tend without the impossibility of crawling about on my aged knees.

The motley gathering of tubs at the front steps have been mostly arranged with flowers which Matt and Gina purchased at the Amish auctions as well as some that came home with me from two rather hurried greenhouse forays.

[Photos of those are on my phone--and I haven't solved the issues with uploading from that device to the blog.]

 

Cooler than usual May weather is much appreciated; each clear day is a blessing.

We are saddened by the destruction, injuries and loss of lives not far distant from where we live.

Weather impacts all of us, whether we are farmers, gardeners, or among those who must rely on food crops grown by others. 

We sigh with relief when a storm moves off, thunder, wind and rain subsiding; yet there is always the sobering fact that as the turbulence veers away from our own dwelling, the homes of others lie in its terrible path.

 

School Days; A Memoir; Final Installment

Part One; Part Two; Part Three

Sharon; Senior Picture, 1962

Looking Back; School Days

The Town of Orwell never provided a four year high school. There were two years offered when I entered the 9^th grade in the 1958-'59 school year. Mr. John Kelly, the school principal, taught all the classes. There was no real grade division in the subjects; one year world history would be taught, the next year civics. The math class during my 9^th [and only] year there was Algebra I, and my math comprehension went into a permanent decline.

Students who were following the 'college course' expecting to continue education after high school graduation or chose instead a 'commercial course' had to travel out of town to one of the area 4 year high schools. My mother, Beulah Lewis Desjadon, had graduated from Brandon High School as Salutatorian and went from there to the two year teachers' training course then offered at Castleton Normal School [later Castleton College.] It was her hope and expectation that I would also prepare for a teaching career. By this time I had misgivings as to my suitability for teaching, but the college prep course offered the best options.

In earlier decades young people studying out of town had to board within walking distance of the high school of their choice, an added expense for parents. By the late 1950's and early 1960's the option was to find a ride to Brandon with an older student whose family had provided their recently licensed offspring with a car, or as happened for my sister and me, the opportunity to wait on the corner of Young RD and Rte 73 for a teacher who taught in the Brandon Elementary School.

In Brandon we were let out at the foot of the hill to trudge, book bags slapping at our hips, up the street to the three story brick building which was little changed since my Mother's school days.

The adjustment required for this transition wasn't as surprising as the earlier one although there was now the challenge of a different instructor for each class, bells ringing to signal the ending of a session, the march up and down stairs to the next classroom. Student traffic was marshaled in one direction: one's next scheduled class might be in the adjoining room, but to avoid traffic jams one merged with the throng thumping through halls and crowded staircases wheeling off when the designated room came in sight.

I was again in band—a marching band this time—and in chorus. My best friend from home, Linda, was there and I made casual friends among some of the other quiet girls, most of whom had come in from the outlying smaller towns.

The schedule was grueling; we had to be at the corner to catch our ride at 7:30, arriving home after 4 p.m. Supper, homework, bedtime and trying to fall asleep before midnight in preparation for doing it 5 days per week.

In 1961 Brandon High School joined the newly created Otter Valley Union District; Orwell assigned its students to Fair Haven Union High School. My senior year was spent there, my 4^th school although I had never moved from home.

I was weary of school. The past two years of high school with the early morning commute, the long hours, had worn me down physically. I had ordered a few college catalogs, although I now recognized that college tuition would place a heavy strain on my parents. My pitiful scores in Algebra I and Plane Geometry had kept me from the Honor Roll so in spite of my high scores in subjects that required proficiency in reading and writing I was no candidate for a scholarship. I had also realized that I was not teacher material. I leaned toward the idea of becoming a librarian, but was surprised to learn that unlike the women who had served in that position in our small towns, to be considered for the job at any paying level required a college degree.

So, I was without plans for any scholastic future.

When I signed up for senior classes at Fair Haven I found I already had finished all the requirements to graduate there other than English IV. A schedule was made up for me: English IV; Latin II; Home Ec; Personal Typing, Speed Reading; Geography. Several of these classes were mainly populated by Juniors and Sophomores. The young man I would later marry sat in Geography class, as did my younger sister.

Fair Haven is a border town as are several of the towns in the union district. Many of the area students' grandparents and parents were Welsh, a few were Polish, families who had come to the US to work in the slate and marble quarries. It was a more 'blue collar' background with friendships and associations more recently formed. I knew most of the students on the high school bus, made connections with others who likewise were bussed in from surrounding towns.

I wasn't unhappy there but it felt like a rather plodding final year.

A few incidents stand out in memory. One happened as a result of English IV. 

The teacher, Mrs. Margaret Onion, treated us [we were told] as we could expect to be treated if we went on to college. She was formidable! We read Beowulf, Canterbury Tales, Macbeth. We also took on Pygmalion which had been popularized as My Fair Lady.

Pygmalion was read aloud in class with the parts assigned on the spot. Mrs Onion called on me to read the part of the waifish and inelegant Eliza Doolittle.

I was horrified, the 'new girl' in class! After a moment of near panic I decided that if I must be Eliza I would do it with flair! I still have a recalled sense of satisfaction that I, the quiet little mouse, portrayed Eliza in a way that caught the attention of both teacher and classmates. As class dispersed at the sound of the bell, a girl I knew only by name approached me offering an invitation to join the Drama Club.

After school 'extra activities' would have meant catching the 'late bus' home. It would have meant endless rehearsal time. It would have meant eventual public performances something I couldn't have faced at that time.

I didn't volunteer to be a pianist for the chorus group rehearsals; a good friend from Orwell suggested it when the music instructor rose from the piano stating in frustration that she couldn't both direct effectively and play accompaniments. I was excused from other classes on music days to pound out tenor or alto parts for a learning session. I took home music scores so I could learn the more difficult piano accompaniments. I prayed for the good health of the girl who was the usual pianist for school concerts.

I graduated, not with honors due to my lack of proficiency in math, but placed respectably in the top third of the group.

I worked a summer job as I had since I was 16. Another job in a small local business saw me through the winter and spring. My Mother warned that I needed further education, 'something to fall back on' as she put it. Academically, in spite of my aversion to math, I was qualified to attend college. In terms of physical stamina and emotional maturity and discernment I suspect I would have been adrift in the college environment of the 1960's.

The subject background and the study habits I formed during elementary and high school have served me well. I am still often 'lost in a book' or in research of those subjects that interest me.

I'm still at my best and most comfortable in a small group of friends, family and acquaintances who enjoy the sharing of ideas, interests and knowledge.

School Days; A Memoir, Part Three

Part One 

Part Two

Photo credit, Christy Alger

Young School, 1954-1955 School Year

Mrs. Arlene Gray, teacher

I am the 2nd child from left in back row, my sister Christy is the 3rd.

Sharon, 5th grade

Looking Back; School Days,

Part Three

Visiting Teachers

The teacher of a one-room school had to be versatile. There might be half a dozen or more children in one grade, only one or two in another; if some children had repeated or skipped a grade there might be no children in a particular class. All the classes and recitations had to be accommodated within a small space. The teacher not only needed to instruct in the basic learning skills but was expected to present something that resembled an 'art' class several times per month. Here the stash of Grade Teacher magazines came into play.

'Art class' usually consisted of a seasonal drawing traced from the magazine pages and handed out to all along with colored pencils and crayons. The magazine example was tacked up in full view and the idea was to replicate it. Originality wasn't encouraged. I learned this in 4^th grade when the Friday afternoon subject was a basket filled with flowers. The example was a blue basket. I was familiar with the vintage baskets, homely brown, in use in my grandfather's house. That is how I colored my basket. When she collected the pictures which would be pinned to the bulletin board, Mrs, Disorda held my masterpiece at arm's length and scolded, 'Who would want an old brown basket? Couldn't you see that it was blue?'

During Mrs. Gray's tenure Mrs. Harriet Cushman came to teach art. The project I remember best was more 'craft' than art—we were earlier instructed to bring a small bowl from home. We then happily and messily tore strips of newspaper, dunked them in a basin of sloppy paste and formed the strips in layers around our bowls. These objects were set aside to dry until the next session when the hardened shells were gently tapped loose. I was pleased to see that my papier mache bowl was well shaped and sat firmly on its bottom. I blended a custom color from the poster paints, mixing brown and orange to create terra cotta. I embellished the painted bowl with a band of white surmounted by free-hand cat faces. I huffed to Mrs Gray when I discovered that several people 'copied' [clumsily I thought] my choice of color and decoration. She listened patiently, acknowledged my frustration and quietly replied, 'When someone copies what you've done, try to consider it a compliment. It means they like your work.' The little bowl sat on my bedroom shelf for a long time holding a collection of small oddments.

Mrs. Fairie Tyler Atwood taught music in the local schools for several years. She was a lovely young woman, slender with strawberry-blonde hair. I was familiar with her as she sometimes played the pipe organ at church or performed vocal solos. She also gave private piano instruction; Mother had taught me to read music and encouraged me through the first book of lessons before deciding I would benefit from further study with Mrs. Atwood. I looked forward to the afternoons when she would arrive at the Young School and yet I have little memory of her presentations. The most enjoyable times were when she was leading us through The Virginia Reel. Having explained something of the history of this frolicsome dance, she lined us up in facing rows to learn the steps while she played a lively tune on the violin.

Book Mobile

A wikipedia article states that bookmobiles were at the height of their popularity in mid-20th century.

The bookmobile that turned up several times per year in the driveway at Young School was a van fitted with shelves. It was driven by Miss Ball, a plain-faced woman with an engagingly toothy smile. She dressed for whatever she might encounter in the way of muddy or rutted dirt roads, wearing a sensible plain skirt or trousers, a tweed topcoat, with a red beret confining her short greying hair.

After making sure that our shoes were relatively free of mud we were allowed by grades into the tight space of the van. I think there was a limit on how many books each student could select. I loved to read, was happily working my way through the selections in the children's room of the town library. I chose books considered above my grade level and hoped that others would be selecting books that I would enjoy.

The classroom rule was that if assigned work was finished before the next class was called to recite or hand in papers, we could go to the bookshelves and choose a book. There was a sparse collection of books owned by the school and these were always available. By 4^th grade I had read them several times over so was glad of additions from the book mobile. I remember a book of Greek and Roman Myths, several volumes of fairy tales suitable for inducing nightmares; a favorite was the story of a family who converted a one-room schoolhouse into a family dwelling.

Strangely, Mrs. Disorda sometimes scolded me for being 'lost in a book.'

Transitions

I don't recall anticipating the transfer to the Village School for 7^th grade with any particular misgivings. The actuality was rather unsettling. After that first year at Young School when I had felt intimidated by discord created by the older boys, I had made my place in the small group setting and school terms meshed with my interests and activities outside of the school year.

I was acquainted from Sunday School with a number of children who were in my 7^th and 8^th grade classroom, but mere acquaintance didn't lead to automatic inclusion in the cliques that had been years in the making among the village kids. I was then----even as now----a quiet introvert without the striking looks or personality that enable one to burst into a group as a welcome addition. I was clumsily uninterested in athletics although I did later manage to join the squad of cheerleaders who cavorted about at the basketball games held in the old town hall.

During those early weeks in the new to me environment someone tagged me with the epithet 'stuck-up.' I still don't know why that characterization originated or how it gained any traction, but it did somewhat haunt my time at Orwell Village.

My interest in music provided a source of affirmation as I could sing in 'special' groups or duets for the Christmas and Spring concerts.

I played 2^nd clarinet in the school band which was presided over by Mr. Richard Oxley. Mr. Oxley served as First Chair Trumpeter in the Vermont Symphony Orchestra and it was clear that our efforts often strained his patience. His personality seemed the epitome of artistic temperament. Repeated efforts at rehearsals to drill rhythm or pitch into the less musical of his band members left him wildly brandishing his baton, groping for a cigarette, running his fingers through already disordered hair. Invariably, on the evening of a school concert he imported two of his accomplished daughters, one with a French horn, the other with an already astonishing prowess as a trumpeter.  

Sharon, 7th grade