Morning's Minion

Keepers of the Family

2012-01-20T22:09:00.001-06:00

It seems to affect only one or two individuals in each generation of a particular family--this urge to trace, find, ponder, assemble and share the data and recollections of those who have lived in earlier times.

There is the passing interest manifested by my spouse and relatives who nod politely when I announce that I've located g-great grandfather in the 1870 census; there are those who politely don't suggest I could spend my time in more productive ways.

Then there are the cousins or the nieces and nephews who respond with an excitement similar to my own, and a barrage of e-mails, pdfs, worksheets and scanned vintage photos fly back and forth.

The seeds of my passion for family history were sown early. I listened to the stories of my Grampa Mac and his sister, whenever she came to visit. My ears were pricked when my Mother mentioned the personalities and peculiarities of families and individuals in our small town.

I was perhaps 13 or 14 years old when my Father one day lugged home a stack of yellowed and curling Town Reports which a local lady had been about to throw away. I was out of school that week with a bad cold, had read my library books from cover to cover.

I claimed the pile of old booklets, retreating with them to my lair on the living room sofa, adding them to the muddle of pillows, blankets and sodden handkerchiefs with which I had surrounded my snuffling self.

I was not interested in the proposed school budgets of former years, nor the totting up of snow removal expenses. It was the pages of Vital Statistics which captured my attention.

My parents were born in that rural Vermont hamlet, grew up there, married and stayed life-long.

Between them, they knew something of any family listed for many decades.

"Where did _____live?" I demanded of my Father.

In his capacity as Road Commissioner he was acquainted with every cross road in the township.

Pondering a moment he would reply, "There was an old house down near Hough's Crossing [or Conkey Hill---or up by the Smith School] 'it burned down one winter and the family moved to Shoreham."

My Mother's store of information was slightly different: "Yes," she would muse when queried, "I taught their oldest boy in school"--or referring to yet another citizen---"He sang bass in the choir for years, and then stopped coming to church. His sisters were old maids and always crocheted doiles and made cupcakes for the Ladies Aide Christmas Sale."

The decades of Vital Statistics enthralled me for the remainder of the week as I squinted at the fading print between episodes of nose-blowing and sips of ginger ale.

I worked out the relationships between famililar surnames, connected older folks to some of my contemporaries.

"Where is Harry's wife now?" I demanded of Mother when I came across the marriage details

of a close neighbor.

'Oh," said Mother thoughtfully, "I remember her. Grace had been married before, had a son. She was used to city ways and being a farmer's wife didn't suit her for long."

She was less forth-coming when I jabbed a finger at an entry in the BIRTHS column, wondering why a baby had only a mother's name entered and no father.

"I don't think she was married, there were some problems in that family," she replied with prim delicacy.

My Mother's aunts, uncles and cousins made many journeys across Lake Champlain from the family stronghold in upstate New York. Sunday afternoons were filled with singing and story-telling. Fat letters arrived several times a month. My Mother read them, re-read them, sat down with note paper and pen, filling sheet after sheet with her beautiful script.

My Father's family, though also nearby, were less well known.

His sisters didn't drive, his brothers were busy. On Christmas Day and Easter and on the odd Sunday afternoon, we piled into the car and drove to Grandma D.'s house at the edge of the village and sat in a row on her creaking sofa. She smiled at us, but had little to say. Her bachelor oldest son, Uncle Ernie, entertained us, showing us how his huge tomcat would step onto an old scale and sit patiently to be weighed, or calling attention to his parakeets as they chittered in their wire cage. Conversation dwindled and I wondered about the vague stiffness that seemed to take over.

Later, many years later, I would ponder whether my parent's marriage had been, in fact, the cause of the unease between my Dad and his Mother and siblings. He had, after all, had the termerity to marry a Protestant who refused to bring up their children in the Catholic fold!

In 1980 I was newly returned to my hometown after some years away. A woman my age had visited the Town Clerk's office seeking information about her French Canadian family, who were also my Father's family. The town clerk had passed Sandra's inquiries to my Mother, who handed them on to me.

We carried on correspondance for a year or two, sharing such information as we had.

It would be nearly 20 years later, when, far from Vermont and a bit homesick, I pulled out Sandra's mimeographed sheets of vital statistics and began again to search for my Father's family.

I had been working on my maternal genealogy and on J.'s paternal line for several years, connecting with distant cousins, utilizing the resources of ancestry.com.

Staring at Sandra's notes it suddenly 'clicked' that the oldest child of my great-grandparents was born not in Canada or in Vermont but in an upstate New York town near the Canadian Border.

Bear in mind that French names are not easily understood or spelled by the average census enumerator, especially when the subject he is interviewing has little familiarity with the English tongue and may be marginally literate in his native language.

Still, I typed in the standard spelling of our surname, gave the New York township as location and moments later was staring in some disbelief at a listing of familiar names in an 1870 household.

"I've found them!" I bellowed, leaping from my chair. I galloped to the bedroom, waving my notebook jubilantly.

"Found who?" growled J. who was on the verge of sleep.

Through ancestry.com I became acquainted with a second or third cousin, Pat M. who is the guiding force in her regional genealogical society. I was astonished to find that she had orchestrated a family sharing session at a cousin's Vermont home weeks after my 1998 removal to Wyoming--and that my parents, sister and nephew had attended!

At last--someone whose enthusiasm matched mine and whose research skills and

generosity were/are outstanding.

Cousin Aggie prodded her Mom, Aunt Lizzie, a bit and Aunt Lizzie, my Dad's only living sibling came up trumps with pages of jottings--references, names, delightful remebrances that brought my Father's family vividly to life.

That was in 2007. It has taken me this many years of digging through the Vermont Vital Statistics which became available online, checking, comparing, deciphering phonetic spellings and impossible handwriting.

My notes have covered untidy notebook pages, filled boxes and desk drawers.

This week I finished typing my findings, double checking my sources, refining time-lines.

Today I printed all my documents, tucked them into a colorful pocketed folder, added a page of dedication and acknowlegements for the assistance I've been given.

On Monday the packet will be mailed to Aunt Lizzie, age 92, with a hand-written letter which I hope will in some small way convey my thanks for her part in this labor of love.

photo courtesy of Elizabeth Desjadon Archer

and Agnes Archer Barnes

My Father's parents, Stephen and Demarise, with their oldest child, Ernest,

circa 1901.

Photo from Pat Cameron McGrath, taken at the family gathering she organized in 1998.

My Dad, Larry [left] holds portraits of his maternal grandparents. His older sister Helen displays the portrait of their paternal grandmother, while brother Warren holds their paternal grandfather.

January Observances

2012-01-17T21:17:00.000-06:00

J. spent most of his Monday birthday tinkering on this excavator.

Our weather has been moody--rather grey and blustery.

The birthday celebrant in our household gets to choose a favorite meal.

J.'s dessert never varies: pineapple upside down cake with whipped cream.

This was preceded by roast beef cooked with onion and garden carrots in the crock pot, baked potatoes, and a layered salad of lettuce, green peas, cucumber, tomato and shredded cheese.

The family next door arrived with a gift card for our favorite Cafe on the Square--and a huge custom made cookie which I thought came from the cafe bakery, but was in fact created by Matt.

G.'s b-day today--I always feel she gets cheated a bit--the leftover cake sort of thing.

She is battling a cold, so didn't want a special meal until she can enjoy it more.

She is posing here with her new quilt.

I retrieved it from the quilter today and rushed to apply the binding.

The quilt is more of a success than I anticipated.

The machine quilter does a decent job, she used a nice grade of fabric for the backing.

I prefer a cotton batting and to choose my own "lining"--but the price is good, so I think I will have some utilitarian 'scrap quilts' finished there.

I'm not enthused to think that every quilt I make from now on would have this stitching pattern--its the only one the quilt lady offers.

With this project completed I can focus on the joys of my fabric stash until time to garden again.

Scatting Off

2012-01-14T23:43:00.000-06:00

Larry Desjadon [left] at about 12 years old, playing soldiers with a neighbor, Leland B.

Photo courtesy of Elizabeth Desjadon Archer and Agnes Archer Barnes

Larry stood in the snow-covered dooryard and gazed up at the January sky. He had noted that already the days were lengthening and he calculated that there was more than an hour remaining before sundown.

He had finished his chores; the woodboxes were filled against the night's cold; he had helped Father feed the cows. He figured there was time for a walk before supper.

He pushed aside the nagging memory of his parents' request that he tell one of them when he was headed away from the farm.

"Scatting," the family said, disapprovingly, "Larry's gone scatting up the road--or--into the woods--off in the pasture."

He was 13, after all, not a child, and he had a fine sense of direction.

He was warmly dressed today in brother Warren's outgrown woolen leggings, a thick wool jacket over his plaid flannel shirt, heavy socks and tall sturdy leather boots. A big cap with 'earlappers', a knitted scarf and mittens completed his outdoor gear.

Still, if he poked his head in the back door and announced to Mother that he planned to walk a way up Daigneault Hill, she might order him inside, feeling that the late afternoon was too cold; if he appealed to Father, there might be more chores to do.

Setlling his cap firmly over his ears, Larry strode confidently out of the driveway and onto the packed snow of the dirt road.

Clarence Munger's place was only a quarter of a mile along the road. Mr. Munger was a trapper and hide dealer. Larry enjoyed talking with him and admiring the pelts which Mr. Munger had curing on his specially shaped boards.

There was no sign of Clarence Munger working in his dooryard or around his small shop when Larry passed by, so he kept on up the hill, his heavy shoes squeaking with each step on the snow.

He passed the old Catholic Cemetery, sparing only a glance for the snow-capped stones inside the fenced area. Daigneault Hill arched steeply ahead of him, but after a moment's consideration he turned left onto the narrow Beauvais Road. It was a short 'cross-road' and only a single set of tire tracks was imprinted

in the snow.

Mr. and Mrs. Beauvais were pleasant folks. Their daughter Frances was an only child and welcomed the company of Larry and his younger sister Lizzie as playmates.

When he had chuffed his way up the road, Larry was delighted to see that Frances was outside, bundled in a long coat and with her face nearly obscured by a fuzzy hat and muffler. A path had been shoveled around the front of the house and the tumbled snow was heaped along the edge of the woodshed. As Larry watched, Frances scrambled to the top of the snowbank and flailed with a broom at the huge icicles hanging from the low eaves.

"Hi, Frances," Larry called. "Would you like some help?"

Frances turned to flap a mittened paw in response and promptly slid down the snowbank, plowing the loose snow with her overshoes.

"I can't reach the biggest icicles," she giggled. "When it warms up they're going to melt and drip down my neck every time I come out!"

Larry strode manfully into the yard, relieved Frances of her broom and began whacking the massive pendants of ice. The two children laughed and ducked as the large cold spears shattered at their feet.

The back door opened suddenly and Mrs. Beauvais appeared on the porch, winding her apron up around her arms as the cold air struck her.

"Mercy!," she said. "It's a wonder you haven't knocked a chunk of ice down on your heads! Frances, its time for you to come inside and set the table for supper. Larry, you've got a bit of a walk to get home before dark; time you got on your way!"

Larry said his goodbyes and headed back onto the road. He noted that the sun was slanting toward the west and there were cold blue shadows under the trees.

The walk was easier going down hill and he was back on Daigneault Hill and past the quiet cemetery in no time. As he drew near Mr. Munger's place he glanced off the road into the trees. A shallow track led through the woods to a small pond he often visited in summertime. He hadn't walked there since winter had set in and on a whim he stepped off the traveled road and began crunching through the snow that lay clean and white beneath the bare-branched maples and oaks of the little woods.

The pond when he reached it was smoothly frozen under a dusting of windblown snow. A fallen branch quickly whisked clear a path across the pond--a perfect expanse for a slide.

Larry took a running start and slid from one side of the pond to the other. He reversed and whizzed back, his scarf flying and his cheeks red with cold.

The sky behind the trees was stained coral and orange with the setting sun when he realized he'd best be heading for home.

One more slide and then he'd go.

He flung himself into the skid, legs braced and whooping with the fun of it.

At the end of the run he hit a hummock of grass, frozen in place at the very edge of the pond.

His feet flew out from under him and he flailed backwards, going down. The back of his head hit the ice with a dull thunk.

Larry opened his eyes to an expanse of lavender-grey sky. The sky seemed to tilt, shifting oddly above him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, wondered just what he was doing flat on his back.

He opened his eyes again, carefully sat up and looked around.

His insides felt hollow and he was cold. The trees around the pond leaned in at crazy angles and when he got stiffly to his feet and stepped onto the bank the ground lurched frighteningly beneath him.

He staggered to a small maple and clung to it while he got his bearings. His head pounded.

The necessity of getting out of the woods, making for home in the gathering dark, propelled him down the track, wobbling unsteadily. He heard a car passing on the road beyond the woods, thought muzzily that it would be lovely to have a ride home.

From the kitchen window of the farmhouse, Mother glanced out at the darkening sky. It was a beautiful sunset, announcing another night of freezing cold. Her eyes scanned the dooryard expecting to see Larry ambling in. There was no sign of him and with an anxious foreboding she pulled her old grey cardigan close and stepped onto the porch.

Her voice, calling his name, rang unanswered in the cold, still air.

Turning back to the kitchen she sighed. It was not a good time for Larry to have gone scatting off somewhere by himself.

'Lizzie," she called, "Put on your coat and boots and see if Larry is in the barn with Father."

Lizzie was back within moments, her small face worried.

"Father says he hasn't seen Larry since he helped feed the cows."

Mother sighed, pushing a lock of grey hair away from her face, then stirred the applesauce that bubbled fragrantly in its kettle.

She added a stick of wood to the fire, clattering the stove lid.

There was the muffled purr of a car engine outside, then the sound of Ernie's feet clumping through the shed entry. Her mind made up, Mother turned to her oldest son as he stood on the doormat, wiping the cold mist from his thick spectacles.

"Ernie," she said, striving for calm, "Larry's been missing for nearly two hours. We don't know where he went, but I think you'd better drive up Daigneault Hill and look for him. If he's not on his way down the road, go on up to the Beauvais place. He might have walked up there to visit Frances."

Ernie sighed, for he had had a long work day. He pushed his glasses back on and spoke with a heartiness he didn't feel.

"Don't worry, Mother. You know how Larry is--always scatting off somewhere. That's probably where he's gone."

Ernie guided the old car up the frozen road, driving slowly in the deepening dusk. He didn't meet Larry on the road, and following his Mother's instructions, took the crossroad turning.

Thomas Beauvais came to the door in his sock feet. The smell of supper drifted past him onto the porch where Ernie stood to make his inquiry.

"Anyone seen Larry?" Tom called over his shoulder.

Mrs. Beauvais appeared behind him, a dish towel dangling from one hand.

" Larry was here," she acknowledged, " I called Frances in and told Larry he'd better get home before dark. That was more than an hour ago!"

Ernest jiggled from one booted foot to the other, trying to think, knowing that the open door was letting cold into the house.

At last he said, "Well, I'll head back. Maybe Larry went farther up the hill road and I'll meet him coming down--or maybe he took a short-cut through the woods and is already home."

Larry, meanwhile, had traversed the wooded track, bumbling his way from tree to tree, his knees wobbling.

He lurched out onto the hill road and took a few uncertain steps in the direction of home.

His every heartbeat seemed to thump in his ears. He was shaking with cold. He was so overwhelmingly tired that he longed to lie down and sleep.

Perhaps that was the thing to do--rest for a few minutes on the side of the road til he felt stronger, then make his way home. He wavered along uncertainly until he reached the sharp bend in the road just above Mr. Munger's house. Then, feeling suddenly unable to go on, he slid down against a convenient snowbank and rested his aching head against his knees.

He couldn't have said afterwards if he actually fell asleep there in the snow. Suddenly a hand grasped his shoulder and Ernie's voice was loud and anxious in his ear. The car stood growling in the road, headlights making a dim yellow puddle of light on the snow.

Mother had the back door open before Ernie shut off the car's engine. She watched as her oldest son opened the passenger door and half-lifted his younger brother, steering him toward the house with a firm hand under his elbow.

"I haven't gotten much out of him," stated Ernie. "Mrs. Beauvais said he'd been gone from there a long time.

He was sitting in the snowbank just beyond Clarence Munger's driveway."

Mother hauled the old padded rocking chair close to the kitchen range, motioning for Ernie to deposit Larry there. She peeled off his coat, unwound the muffler, took note of his pained yelp when she removed his cap. "Tired," he said, pathetically, his teeth chattering.

Mother spoke quietly, as was her way, but her voice was urgent.

"Lizzie, bring down the wool blanket from Larry's bed and a pair of wool socks from his dresser."

She knelt and unceremoniously unlaced the heavy shoes and worked Larry's feet out of them.

Within seconds she had a basin of gently steaming water in front of him and his icy feet lowered into the comforting warmth. She draped the wool blanket around the back of the chair wrapping the ends around Larry's shivering form.

The sound of more stomping feet in the entry announced the arrival of Father and Warren, chores finished.

Father pulled off his cap and mittens, glanced at the huddle around the stove and made an anxious inquiry in French. Warming his hands over the stove he bent over his youngest son's bundled form. Supporting Larry's forehead in one weathered palm, he ran the other hand carefully over the swollen and painful lump on the back of his skull. Larry rubbed his aching head against Father's hand which smelled familiarly of cows and hay and cold.

"Where have you been , Larry?" Father's voice was soft but with a worried edge.

Larry made a huge effort to collect his memory. "Pond," he managed. "Fell on the ice. Tired."

The words drifting above him were in French--the language his parents used between themselves.

Changing to English Father said, "Ernie, will you go upstreet to the telephone central office and ask the operator to call Dr. Thompson. Tell him Larry has hit his head very hard."

Larry struggled to sit up. "Don't want the doctor," he said testily. "Why can't I go to sleep?"

He burrowed into the blanket, vaguely aware that his feet had been removed from the hot water and clean socks slipped on. He watched through half-closed eyes as Ernie got back into his heavy coat and boots.

Brother Warren who was uneasy around sick people slid toward the livingroom and the radio.

Lizzie said nothing, but pulled a stool close to the rocking chair and patted Larry's blanket-swathed legs.

Ernie was back in moments with the word that Doctor Thompson had just sat down to his supper but would be out before taking on the patients who waited on his evening office hours.

Mother set out supper, a subdued and hasty meal.

By the time she and Lizzie had cleared the table, Dr. Thomspson was knocking at the door.

He strode in, bringing the scent of the cold night air with him, along with the strange medicinal tang which clung to his black bag. He examined the bump on Larry's head, produced a small flashlight and shone it in his eyes.

"Count to 100 by 10's," he commanded, brusquely. "Then tell me where you've been and what happened."

Larry was warmed through now and had stopped shaking. He gathered his wits and rather haultingly conveyed the details of his late afternoon wanderings.

"Mild concussion," announced Dr. Thompson speaking over Larry's head to the hovering family.

"Didn't know who or what or where he was, I'd say. Lucky thing that he got out to the road instead of straying deeper into the woods."

He shook tablets from a glass vial into a small envelope, licked and sealed the flap, took a pen from his pocket and scribbled.

"Don't let him sleep more than half an hour at a time until after midnight. You'll need to rouse him, make sure he knows where he is and makes sense. No supper, but he can have tea and toast or crackers at bedtime.

The tablets are for tomorrow. He's going to have a very sore head."

Dr. Thompson snapped his bag shut and took his coat from the back of the chair where he had draped it.

Rounding on Larry he stated sternly, "Young man, you've given your family a scare! You're lucky to be home where its warm and not freezing to death out in those woods!"

Larry nodded, thinking vaguely that he would be in for some scolding from Mother and Father as soon as they thought he could stand it.

For now, the heat of the wood stove, the warmth of the woolen blanket, the familiarity of the shabby rocking chair, were a bulwark against the frightening memory of a tilting dark sky and his shaky legs.

He watched sleepily as Mother and Lizzie fetched a pillow and a soft old quilt, making up a bed for him on the living room sofa. He saw Ernie take Mother's arm, heard him say, "You and Father go in and get some rest. Warren and I will sit up with Larry til midnight. We'll listen to the radio and play a hand or two of cards to keep us awake. If Larry takes a bad turn I'll call you."

Larry dozed in the chair by the fire, waking to tell Lizzie goodnight when she came to hug him, already in her flannel nightgown and Beacon bathrobe. He watched Father wind the clock, heard the clunk of firewood as Warren replenished the chunk stove in the room beyond.

He roused again to sip the tea that Mother brought. The hot liquid settled happily in his stomach.

Mother warmed his pajamas over the oven door and seemed encouraged when he told her stoutly that he could manage to get ready for bed without help.

Ernie escorted him to the nest on the sofa, eased him down on the pillow. Larry wiggled onto his side, careful of the 'goose egg' on the back of his head. Across the room Warren and Ernie bent close to their cards in the glow of lamplight.

Larry pulled the quilt around his ears and slept, at last.

Larry's younger sister, Aunt Lizzie, wrote down the bones of this story for me. In a later re-telling it seemed that possibly a neighbor found Larry in the snowbank and drove him home.

I have, of course, taken some fictional license in supplying narrative details.

Lizzie never forgot the anxiety of that evening or the doctor's solemn words that her brother hadn't known 'who or what" he was and 'might have strayed away."

My father, Larry, never relinquished his love of "scatting off"--driving the back roads of his hometown, parking the car and hiking to a favorite trout stream.

Kentucky Winter

2012-01-12T21:35:00.000-06:00

Daffodils were one of the first things I noticed when we viewed this property nearly two years ago and decided to buy the little farm. That was at the beginning of March and the yellow trumpets were just starting to unfold. When we returned March 20th, we were met with sprawls of daffs [called March lilies here] spreading across green fields and along roadside ditches.

These stalwart buds were photographed yesterday in the south-facing patch beside the carport.

Today a morning rain persisted half-heartedly through a day that became ever more grey and dismal.

I went out late in the afternoon to empty litter boxes and gather my kindling twigs. The rain was turning to fat squashy snowflakes.

I have a sinus/head cold [misery!] and was unpleasantly chilled by the time I returned to the house, my wellies leaving damp muddy tracks on the basement stairs as I carried in my twigs.

D. drove up tonight for a visit--chortling that school has been called off for tomorrow.

Admittedly Kentucky roads are narrow and winding, and when they are sheltered by a ridge hulking up to the north, any ice that forms on the roadway is slow to melt.

Still, the near panic with which an inch or two of snow is greeted here is amusing to this family, having spent most of our winters in New England or Wyoming.

I have kept the sliding door shut today, not wanting the damp chill to seep in nor the cats to go in and out with muddy paws. They have been disgruntled.

M. and G. arrived mid-morning with M's latest culinary triumph--easily the best chocolate chip cookies I've ever had.

Several of them went down very nicely with a mug of tea.

He added dried cherries to Betty Crockers classic recipe.

Willis exercises his privileges as a cat who lives outside but is allowed to saunter in and stay for awhile.

Sometimes he takes over a prominent spot such as the sofa or curls tidily on the hearth rug. He's been known to roost on the shelves above the fridge, hiding cosily behind several large crocks.

I am monitoring his indoor visits quite warily at present.

J. knew that Willis had spent the evening indoors on Friday, but couldn't locate him to put him

outside at bedtime.

Where the canny feline hid, we can't imagine, but there he was was next morning, smugly eating

kibble in the kitchen.

I spent most of my time in the basement room for several days working to finish a quilt, using my laptop in the livingroom for a few brief minutes online.

When I entered this room on Tuesday it had a suspicious 'whiff.'

A cat had 'peed' in the middle of the guest bed!

The puddle had dried, but the odor was unmistakeable.

"But you didn't see Willis do it, " argued G. defending him.

NO--but the only other time we've had misplaced cat pee, Willis had also spent the night in the house.

On that occasion J. woke suddenly and unpleasantly just after daybreak as Willis let fly --down his back.

Enough said!

I have washed a considerable amount of bedding this week--hanging it out to air dry as much as possible, then bundling it into the dryer to finish.

I remade the bed with sheets that smelled of January winds, spreading a quilted coverlet and topping the bed with a favorite smaller quilt--one of the first ones I had machine-quilted at the shop where I eventually became an employee.

I love the muted floral fabrics--very becoming to Mrs. Beasley the Cat.

Tumbling Down the Rabbit Hole

2012-01-10T20:42:00.001-06:00

The first week of the new year began with a colder run of weather; Nothing dire, frosty nights and some chilly mornings and a bit of overcast.

Our small flurry of holiday keeping was past, the left-overs dealt with, and we resumed our rather desultory routine of retirees in winter.

I felt tired from a bout of insomnia, too cross and creaky to begin any of the projects which churned through my brain when I'd rather have been peacefully sleeping.

I ventured outside long enough to deal with cat litter boxes and to gather twigs along the edge of the woods.

I prefer them to the kindling which J. splits, liking the ritual of gathering and bundling, the cheering snap and crackle as they catch the flames.

I built a fire in the basement stove, drew a rocking chair and hassock close, and settled, mug of tea at hand, to sort my piles of quilting magazines.

Sorting anything with text and pictures leads to more reading than organizing.

Soon my imagination was stirred with projects I'd love to take on.

The sun came out midweek and J. kept up with replenishing the wood pile and tinkering the latest machine.

I left off my sorting mid-way and got on with the usual tasks necessary to a household: meals, laundry, tidying. I gave the kitchen a bit of an overhaul, wiping down the pale gleaming wood of the maple cabinets, cleaning smudges from the stove and fridge.

I washed the kitchen and dining area windows inside--and wonder how I shall manage to clean the outsides!

I made new curtains from a heavy cotton the color of old linen and hung them at the glass sliding doors.

I knelt on the cold damp grass alongside the row of kale and snipped enough to add to the roast beef supper which M. prepared.

I used my laptop to read my favorite blogs, but felt witless when it came to comments.

Each evening I scuttled downstairs to the warmth of the fire there and sewed.

During the short chilly days of November I pawed out an old project. Most of the fabrics were purchased in the late 1980's--before the advent of the beautiful and varied fabrics meant specifically for quilters.

I had cut some of the pieces for this quilt, had even stitched a few on an old machine I used during the winter our first Wyoming house was in progress.

The machine stitched poorly and when I looked at my efforts some years after I consigned the mangled bits to the trash can!

The specific directions had disappeared, but the blocks were basic.

For some reason I don't now understand, I decided in November I should finish this quilt before going on to more impressive projects.

With the stacks of patchwork prepared I began laying out the pattern on the diagonal--which means one must visualize the emerging thing in at least three dimensions.

It quickly outgrew my work table, so I dragged it up and down the stairs, spreading it

on our king-sized bed.

I was assisted by a changeable assortment of cats who shuffled blocks, prodded at pinned sections and trailed me on the staircase until I wondered if I would end up in a heap at the bottom entangled in cloth, pins and cats!

I finished the quilt, cursing mildly at the poor quality of one of the white fabrics I bought locally when the original ran out.

G. decided she liked the quilt--which is good, as it doesn't become my bedroom.

She went with me today to deliver it to an area woman who does machine quilting.

This lady does not offer options. She uses a vintage industrial model Singer machine, has one type of batting. She supplies basic plain 'lining'--as they call it here. Her style of quilting is a series of neat loops.

Her charge is more than reasonable.

I had two other quilt projects 'in progress' when we signed the contract to sell our Wyoming home. They have remained unfinished here in Kentucky while we renovated, gardened, put up produce from the garden.

Lately as I've gone along with J. on his errands, I've been reading quilt patterns while I wait in the car.

Last night I brought out some of my considerable stash of fine quilting fabrics, unfolding them to admire the colors, imagining how they could be 'made up' in various ways.

It is certain that we no longer live in a climate where I need to concern myself with extra covers for a number of beds. I'm not working in a quilt shop where I could display my quilts for sale.

But---I enjoy making quilts! I have fabric enough to make more quilts than I have years left to make them!

The type of long-arm-machine quilting which I prefer is pricey. The machine quilters at the Wyoming shop had developed a considerable degree of artistry and it is hard to settle for less.

It seems very late in the day for me to attempt to achieve any degree of hand quilting skill, of the sort that my Amish neighbors apparently learn in girlhood.

So, in my sleepless hours I've pondered possible solutions to the dilema of too much beautiful fabric.

I have my eye on several smaller quilts--less than bed-sized--projects that might explore unfamiliar techniques. Perhaps I could use cherished fabrics in these pieces, then give the excess to my nieces who are expert needlewomen.

I could piece large quilt tops and store them away--to be finished in the event of a 'windfall' or to be given to someone who could finish them.

Of the many quilts I've made in nearly three decades, most have been presented as gifts to special people, a few have been sold. When I make 'scrap quilts' they are used on our beds and the cats sleep on them!

Several are carefully displayed out of reach of inquisitive paws and claws.

I am inspired by the creativity of others--not to copy, but seeing their work as a 'what if,'

a jumping off place.

Its no surprise that the blog friends I interact with are creative individuals as well, whether working with paint, thread, photography, word-smithing, or gardening, putting up preserves, turning out

wonderful baked goods.

Still others create with paper and embellishements, or turn found objects into works of art.

So often one sort of 'creating' leads to other mediums and the exploration of other skills.

For sure, those of us who craft and create are never bored.

Now, if someone can point the way to a good nights' sleep, perhaps I can stitch the quilts, write my stories, and paint the living room walls!

Rescue and Renewal

2012-01-03T23:44:00.001-06:00

We had finished lunch on Saturday. J. had retreated to his recliner, I was tidying the kitchen.

The sliding door was partially open to the afternoon sunshine, cats lounged on the step,

wandered in and out.

As I reached for a towel to dry my hands there was a commotion at the door. Teasel streaked in from the yard, carrying something in her jaws--a creature which let out an anguished sound somewhere between a squack and a shrill screech.

"Oh, no," I exclaimed, "Teasel has a bird! Or--maybe a squirrel?"

Teasel bolted pell mell down the basement steps with several other felines in interested pursuit.

J. snatched a pair of heavy gloves from the hearth and we rushed to the rescue.

Teasel was under a table in the basement, glowering in a slightly cross-eyed manner.

J. closed in and a bird hopped away from the cat.

"It's a bluebird," said J. who had the better view.

"If she had to catch a bird, why not an undesirable one--like a starling?" I lamented.

J. made a lunge, Teasel snatched her bird and raced up the stairs.

"Which way did she go?" shouted J.

I sighted several tails disappearing around the bedroom door so we waded in.

Teasel, carrying her bird, evaded J. and dashed into the living room. The bird let out another terrified cry.

Somehow Teasel and the bluebird became separated behind the sofa. While J. made beligerant noises at the hovering cats, the bird hopped toward the fireplace and took cover in an old iron kettle which we keep at one side of the hearth.

J. scooped up the bird, held it gently as he inspected it for damage.

There was no blood, nothing appeared broken.

I snatched up the camera, but didn't get a decent photo, as sun was glaring off the sliding doors.

It didn't seem fair to detain the bluebird for prolonged posing.

J. stood on the step and tossed the bird into the bright air.

The little thing rose in a swoop, then soared higher, coming to rest in the top branches of a tree at the end of the dooryard.

We sighed with relief and herded the feline pride into the house.

When Willow kitten smashed the main branch from my angel wing begonia nearly two months ago, I trimmed the damaged end of the stalk and set it in a jar of water near the kitchen sink.

I began to doubt that it would root.

Last week, moving things to wipe the counter, I noticed the white threads of new roots.

Turning the jar in the light I found the tiny leaf which has opened under water.

Soon I will find a container, bring in the sack of potting earth to warm to house temperature before tenderly potting on this 'slip.'

The remainder of the plant, broken off nearly at the soil line, is under the grow lights in the cool part of the basement. It too is reviving--unfolding fresh leaves of silver-spangled green.

I am encouraged!

Green Winter

2011-12-26T15:00:00.001-06:00

Christmas morning in Kentucky

My Grampa Mac was wary of a 'green' or 'open' winter.

Growing up on a small farm tucked at the base of Tongue Mountain in the Adirondacks, he learned that winter was a time that called for preparedness. The woodshed needed to be well-stocked with dry chunks and kindling; hay for cows and horses was under cover; the last mellow days of autumn were filled with battening down the buildings to withstand harsh winds and days and nights of below zero temperatures.

Any loose shingles or boards were nailed tight; the screen doors which had been a blessing in summer's heat were removed and stored in the barn loft and the sturdy 'storm doors' set on oiled hinges in their place. Straw and leaves were bedded along the foundation of the house with tar paper wrapped over to keep this natural insulation in place.

In the house the pantry and cellar were well stocked with home grown root vegetables; barrels of apples went to rest in the unheated north room with a stack of clean horse blankets kept handy to spread over them on especially cold nights when only the core rooms of the house could be kept warm.

Woods along the west boundary line.

Grampa Mac moved the few miles across Lake Champlain to Vermont when he married.

The new farm had more open acreage, larger meadows and bigger barns.

There were more animals to be cared for, a greater expanse of roofs to be kept sound, more windows to be caulked shut with felt weather stripping.

When all was done in the way of preparation for the worst that the cold months might present, one waited on the weather.

Killing frost usually crept in on a clear moonlit night in late Septmember. October was a month of whimsical weather in New England: there would be mornings when hoarfrost lay thick on grass which had lost its fresh green color; nights were referred to as 'nippy.' Mid-day was often bright with sunshine and skies of a blue so intense that the senses reeled with the attempt to absorb and hold the beauty against the dull days which November would surely bring.

November was a month which bore down on me during the Vermont years. Snow might come to at least temporarily cover browned grass and congealed mud. The sun, if it rose at all, often lurked behind dirty grey clouds before sinking in the west at the end of a short day.

By December, in the average season, the frost had driven deep into the ground and snow, often several feet of it, had come to stay.

In the odd years when the temperatures didn't plummet and snow was replaced with the drizzle of icy rain or sleet, old timers made dire predictions. An open winter, they said, brought sickness. Cold was needed to kill off lingering 'germs.' Freezing temperatures and a thick snow cover, it was thought, would cause various insect pests to perish in their hibernating forms. Planting ground would benefit from the

iron cold of a hard winter.

Bare branches and trunks of trees are etched against a winter blue sky.

My grandparent's generation saw many changes; rural electrification was nearly complete. Telephones connected farm families with their immediate neighbors and with the doctor, the banker, the pastor, who lived a few miles away in the village.

Travel was still hard work in cold weather. Car batteries went dead in the cold, heaters and defrosters worked sluggishly. Chains had to be fitted over tires for traction in snow and ice.

Even on a day of winter sunshine travel was kept to a minimum.

The carrying in of wood and the removal of ashes was a daily job. On nights when the temperatures plunged to 20 below zero [Farenheit] the last person to run water in the kitchen or the bathroom sink had best remember to leave the faucet at a steady drip in hopes that frozen water pipes could be avoided.

All too often a prolonged cold spell meant that rooms were closed off in the house and all activities were clustered around the warm core of the kitchen living room stoves. Someone was always at home to tend the fires---and to watch for that dreaded occurance--a chinmey fire.

Woolen blankets came out of mothballs; extra sweaters, fuzzy socks and mittens, knitted caps and scarfs were layered on in the effort to make outdoor forays bearable.

One of our neighbor's steers has made regular visits into our back pasture, leaving clumps of hair on the fence.

A white winter was beautiful in its purity of snow which covered stubbled fields and spread blue-shadowed beneath the trees. Morning sun sparkled through frost-etched window panes and bedazzled each ice-clad twig and branch.

Willis frisked about the yard, landing heavily in a clump of nepeta as D. and I walked along the edge of the flower garden on Christmas Day.

A bird's nest tucked in the ragged old apple tree.

Strawberry plants in the upper garden sport both red and green leaves.

Kentucky Colonel mint surrounds a sprig of catnip.

One of my seed-grown lavenders.

Willis parades along the sideboards on Snort'n Nort'n.

Willow and Wilbur wrestle in the cat yard outside the open door.

Wilbur, the shy boy.

December 30th. J. took this photo when he went out to feed Pebbles.

Dandelions in the upper garden, December 29.

The herb garden by the back door.

Branches of a tulip poplar sketched against blue December sky.

My Grampa Mac's diaries record the weather and seasons of his long years on the Vermont farm. He noted temperatures, particularly the coldest ones registered on the thermometer tacked to the shed door.

He mentioned snow and ice, recorded the endless round of chores which kept the homeplace functioning in all weather.

He would have been mis-trustful, I think, of our Kentucky winter.

Last year, our first in this climate, there was snow on Christmas Eve. There were school closings throught January and February when freezing rain brought the hazard of 'black ice' on the narrow roads which wind

along the back sides of ridges and plunge into the 'hollers' which seldom see sunlight on a winter day.

"This isn't a normal winter," we were told, almost apologetically.

This year as our region basks in temperate days still green grass we are warned, "This is more like it--but we could pay for it in January--or even March!"

So we wait, enjoying the novelty of a December walk wearing a light jacket or down vest as outdoor clothing. We gloat over the cabbage and carrots and kale which we still harvest in the garden.

We have kicked off the quilts at night in the snug little house.

The cats trundle in and out through the open sliding door, they stretch on the sun-warmed concrete step as the afternoon sun slants across the bacl yard before disappearing behind the woods in a

glow of apricot and rose.

The stout boots, the wooly gloves and the thick sweaters are handy by if the weather turns.

The woodshed is stufffed with dry split chunks of maple and hickory.

The shelves in the basement are lined with canned goods, the freezer and kitchen cupboards are stocked.

If the cold days and nights come, as they surely will, we are ready.

Meanwhile, we enjoy the novelty of a green winter.

Christmas in the Rear-View Mirror

2011-12-26T14:24:00.001-06:00

Not all my haphazard Christmas projects came to pass--a fact which didn't surprise me.

I have traditionally made many of the items we present to family and friends, but I have a problem with being inspired until nearly the last minute; I'm not a 'Christmas in July' sort of person--summer and autumn are seasons for gardening and putting up produce.

In the days before Christmas this year I did suddenly recall an aborted plan to make a garland of cinnamon-dusted orange and apple slices.

I prepared the fruit in the dehydrator early in December, 2009, bought a bag of craft quality cinnamon sticks, a ball of twine.

In mid December 2009, J. decided to renovate our Wyoming house with the addition of a staircase to the attic--and the creation of a bedroom and bath tucked under the eaves.

All thought of a 'normal' holiday disappeared in a welter of sawdust, roaring power tools and excursions to buy flooring, bath fixtures, lights and paint. Within a month, the house was under contract for sale and the retirement move to Kentucky was suddenly something more than a vague plan for the future.

Last weekend I found the jars of cinnamon-fruit, newspaper wrapped and snugged into a carton marked 'fragile' where they have languished for two years.

The missing bag of cinnamon sticks needed to complete the project turned up this morning on a high shelf in the kitchen cupboard.

No matter. I set the gleaming jars in a row on the buffet and removed the lids which allowed a lovely fruity/spicey scent to waft about.

Our Amish neighbors, the Yoders [who keep Dory the Cow] moved several miles up the road early in December. J. supplies baled hay for Dory. Joseph had round bales for his buggy horses which hadn't been moved. J. and D. undertook to move hay two days before Christmas, lumbering up the road with old Snort'n Nort'n and the tractor.

When I worked at the quilt shop I stitched decorative pillowcases by the dozens.

These were created, practically on Christmas Eve, for our grand daughter in CO--a confirmed cat lover.

Having hauled out a welter of fabric, I put on my favorite holiday CD's, stoked the downstairs fire and turned out more pillowcases, gift aprons, a table runner---and----

----sueded catnip-mice for our 'grand-cat', Smokey.

One of the mice has a definite issue with a humped back!

Its a pity that inspiration/energy/time didn't hit me a bit sooner as I realized I was enjoying my fabric crafting---something which has taken a back seat to house renovating and gardening since our move.

By 10 P.M. on Christmas Eve I had rummaged out paper, ribbon and tape to wrap these belated gifts.

Gift wrapping isn't something I do tidily--give me a whole pile of fabric to turn into a quilt any day!

Our two old lady cats, Eggnog and Raisin grew weary of trying to oversee my efforts with crumpling paper and recalcitrant sticky tape.

Although we don't do many under-the-tree gifts, the living room became a sea of torn paper soon after the family arrived from next door.

Willis the Barn Cat came in to investigate. D. has decorated him with a fine blue bow.

D. is a clown [guess whose DNA provided that trait!]

He posed with his new jeans and belt buckle, having taken on J.'s straw hat and pistol as props.

G. and J.--a family resemblance!

My gift from D. was a handsome cedar-roofed bird feeder and a huge sack of birdseed.

He hung it for me on the front porch.

Talk about silly! [I can only imagine the mayhem if this family took to drink!]

Daughter G. has a habit of trailing about with a bathrobe over an odd assortment of 'leisure wear' when at home and is prone to arriving at our house with the bathrobe very much in evidence.

We all scold her for it--which makes her the more determined to wear the bathrobe.

Devin, Jim, and I were getting ready to head next door for our late afternoon Christmas feast, when I had the bright idea of arriving in bathrobes. [Mind you, I'm not the family member prone to this sort of silly!]

J. hauled out his old terry robe, D. squeezed into my recent Goodwill find--a fleecy garment bedecked with moose and pine trees, while I wrapped myself in a quilted pink robe.

We trailed our way out to the car bearing hot kettles of mashed potato, Hubbard squash, a steaming gingerbread--and then trooped down the hallway to M and G's kitchen bellowing, "We Three Kings of Orient Are--Bearing Food We've Traveled Afar!"

The three of us were chortling with hiliarity [inspired by D.'s comments] and it was well worth the look of astonishment on the faces of his parents.

G. was still cooking in her bathrobe--so here is the gallery of idiots posed for posterity.

[OK--enough!]

M. carves the perfectly roasted turkey.

M. added the poinsettia to G.'s decorating--a vivid touch.

M. and G. took over much of the holiday food prep.

At first I wondered, "Do they think I'm too old to bake pies and rolls and cookies?"

That query was quickly stilled with the happy thought that after decades of orchestrating special meals, the time comes to hand on the torch.

We are blessed to have another generation enthused about planning and baking.

I made loaves of bread which J. took round to some friends--D. and M. delivered trays of fudge and cookies. There are--happily or otherwise--leftovers to keep us eating for several days!

Winter Solstice

2011-12-21T14:36:00.000-06:00

Looking north this morning about 9 o'clock.

My father always called attention to the shortest day of the year.

The word 'solstice' was not in his vocabulary, nor the term 'equinox.'

Rather, he was a country man with an intense interest in weather and seasons.

He quoted the Old Farmers' Almanac, he kept thermometers fastened to outside windowsills on all sides of his house, comparing the temperature during a winter cold spell to the nth of a degree.

He marked the autmnal flights of the wild geese, announced the 'first day of winter'--observed the return of the springtime and commented on the 'longest day' in mid-summer.

His interest in the natural world, the changes of the seasons, the foibles of birds and beasts set the pattern of observation and delight early in my own life.

My son was born about daylight on December 22. In Vermont that year we had been referring to the season as "winter" for many weeks.

The harvested corn ground, a neighbor's roof and the nearby hill framed by the back barn door.

I was standing on the mowing machine, using landscape setting and zoom.

I am Christian in my spiritual walk, so my observance of the solstice is not a ritual occasion.

Folklore and legends are fascinating and it is intriguing to see how the beliefs, customs, and celebrations of other times and older peoples have inter-twined with Christian traditions.

Another zoomed view of Payne-Janes' Hill with a swirl of birds against the clouds.

At this time of year I so often reflect that a reliable source of artificial light--electricity--is

astonishingly recent. Ages of earths' history have passed with only a feeble candle or torch or bonfire to create a small circle of illumination against the long dark of a winter's night.

Beyond that flickering yellow light anything might lurk; wild beast, friend, enemy, could not be reliably distinguished without entering the ring of light.

Little wonder that the lengthening of daylight--and all that implies of warmth, and green growing things--was welcomed with joy.

J. spent a winter or two in Alaska with his family as a young teen. He recalls the exhilaration of summer in "the land of the midnight sun" and the long stretch of winter when daylight was a feeble pall of grey barely distinguishable from night.

J. and I are New Englanders by birth and spent most of our lives there.

This marks our second winter in Kentucky following an interval of a dozen years in Wyoming.

We chuckle when folks here complain of cold weather!

It is still a novelty to walk outside with perhaps a down vest or a light jacket at mid-day.

I went into the strip of woods which stretches along our western boundary.

It is not an appealing wood with towering trees, but a rather scraggly area of rotting stumps and vine-strangled oaks and flaring cedars.

Clumping along in my wellies, trying not to trip over fallen branches or lengths of trumpet vine, I was surprised to see ahead of me several shrubby trees with green leaves.

When I came up to the nearest one I realized I was seeing native holly.

Moss cloaks a rotting stump.

Bright fungi rise above a rustle of dry leaves.

The bare branches of this dead stump resemble antlers.

Evidence that one of the many wild turkeys met a violent end under the trees.

I would guess the predator might be one of the coyotes I have heard yapping and howling from the woods on nights when it is clear and the moon is waxing toward full.

Several of the twisted cedars show evidence of deer rubbing against the trunks and lower branches.

The deer forage for the ears of dried corn which the harvest machinery missed.

I have seen them bound into the woods as I walk up the back pasture, heard their warning coughs as they lift over the shabby fence.

The skull of an opossum, another victim of the coyotes, or perhaps of a fox.

Pebbles spotted my presence at the edge of the woods and stood watching with suspicion as I clambered back over the leaning wire fence.

I had gathered a handful of holly and white cedar with some idea of making a festive arrangement.

The branches are still on the old wooden trunk in the porch as inspiration fails me.

An old winter carol hums through my mind as I wander about in this mild Kentucky winter.

I noticed it in particular this December on a CD of Celtic Christmas music which I've had for several seasons. I picked it out on the piano, then thought of an internet search.

Although sometimes titled "The Holly and the Ivy" it is more properly and traditionally known as

"Sans Day Carol", and is of Cornish origin.

I found several YouTube presentations of a John Rutter setting performed with cathedral choirs.

The one linked below is similar to the version on my CD and seems more authentic.

It is perhaps an example of an old carol blending the traditions of Christmas and Yule.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RF7fNVLrLHU&feature=related

Now the holly bears a berry as white as the milk,

And Mary bore Jesus, all wrapped up in silk:

And Mary bore Jesus our Saviour for to be,

And the first tree in the greenwood, it was the holly.

Holly! Holly!

And the first tree in the greenwood, it was the holly!

Now the holly bears a berry as green as the grass,

And Mary bore Jesus, who died on the cross:

And Mary bore Jesus our Saviour for to be,

And the first tree in the greenwood, it was the holly.

Holly! Holly!

And the first tree in the greenwood, it was the holly!

Now the holly bears a berry as black as the coal,

And Mary bore Jesus, who died for us all:

And Mary bore Jesus our Saviour for to be,

And the first tree in the greenwood, it was the holly.

Holly! Holly!

And the first tree in the greenwood, it was the holly!

Now the holly bears a berry, as blood is it red,

Then trust we our Saviour, who rose from the dead:

And Mary bore Jesus our Saviour for to be,

                                            And the first tree in the greenwood, it was the holly.
                                                                          Holly! Holly!
                                         And the first tree in the greenwood, it was the holly!

The Music Goes On

2011-12-20T13:01:00.003-06:00

Music claimed most of my waking hours last week and intruded upon the hours when I needed to sleep. Those of you who are fellow musicians likely know how that happens. Practice, whether vocal or instrumental, is all about repetition; it is about going over--and over--a problem phrase--in my case, trying to train my fingers to land on the correct combination of piano keys.

I hesitate to refer to myself as a 'musician.'

The term suggests a dedication, a degree of excellence, and perhaps most importantly, a consistant discipline which I have never achieved.

That fact honestly confessed, I can also honestly admit that what I possess is a gift for making--and enjoying-- music, a natural ability that has been generously passed along in the DNA of my mother's maternal line.

This musical heritage is confirmed both by family tradition and by news notes in the archived editions of The Ticonderoga Sentinel which describe church and social occasions where my great grandfather, his brother, his two daughters, son, nieces and nephews were the featured musicians.

That tradition was carried on by my mother and her cousins.

My mother played the church pipe organ in the small New England town where she lived out her life, debuting at age 12 or 13, when she could barely reach the pedal board. [http://pipedreams.publicradio.org/gallery/us_northeast/vermont/orwell_first-congregational_hook.shtml]

I was not quite 5 when she began teaching me to read notes. I was given a year or two of piano lessons by a lovely local lady--Mother's theory being that I would take the lessons more seriously from someone outside the family.

When Mrs. A. moved away from town, Mother undertook my instruction, fitting informal 'lessons' between her regular piano students.

I didn't enjoy playing scales and 'finger excercises.'

I wanted to make music.

I well recall the Christmas season when I laboriously thumped my way through a book of standard carols--as opposed to 'simplified' versions. I can only marvel at my mother's forebearance as there was no escape in that small house from the sound of clashing chords and halting notes.

Christmas also brought a month of special choir numbers at church.

Junior Choir met early on a Saturday evening. As Mother was involved with the Senior Choir as well, I could linger and enjoy the preparation of the anthems. For a small town there was a goodly

amount of musical talent.

There was my mother's teacher and mentor, Mrs. Y. who shared the tasks of music selection, rehersals and performance. Mrs Y.'s sister, Mrs. T. had studied vocal music in Boston as a young woman and added her precise contralto, as well as her pithy comments on the music choices. [She scorned what she called 'tinkle music'--preferring numbers based on the classical model.]

Mrs. S. had a sweet soprano. She didn't read music, but could be patiently coached as a soloist on special Christmas numbers. She had a day job as a secretary in the large town 30 miles away, and came to choir rehersals still wearing her trim woolen skirts and soft pastel sweater sets, her dark hair waved, her careful makeup setting off delicate features.

Her plump prettiness and femine charm inspired much gallantry amongst the

tenor and bass sections of the choir.

Mrs. H. had a reliable alto and a fund of common sense that were welcomed.

Miss E.M. sang alto--heavily and a bit precariously as to pitch.

Sopranos came and went. One family supplied a succession of attractive and musical young women--they sang until college and marriage took them away.

My pretty music teacher, Mrs. A. had a clear and beautiful soprano voice.

Young people from the junior choir, girls like me--boys whose voices had yet to change--were regularly drafted to fill out the soprano section and as Mrs Y. put it "sing the tune."

The tenors were a law unto themselves: Mrs. T's son [and later her grandsons] Mrs. Y.'s grandsons home from college at Christmas to swell the ranks; Mr. A. who nervously fussed that he couldn't 'find the tenah note.' There was our neighbor, Harry S. a farmer, who arrived dapper and voluable for choir rehersal.

He had a true and ringing tenor--a voice which we could sometimes hear in our own dooryard if he was working in a nearby field when the wind was right.

Anyone's husband who had been nagged into coming along as his wife's chauffeur was directed to stand in the tenor section.

Mr. B. was the bass section. He was blessed with a deep basso voice and was fond of recalling the pastor who decades ago had taught him to follow the bass line in the hymnal. He stood calmly by while the tenors had to be drilled, always instinctively knowing where his own notes were to be found. Mrs. Y. frequently stated that you could depend on G. B. [she always spoke of him by both names] to balance the choir, never drowning out the smaller numbers that showed up to sing on an 'ordinary' Sunday, but well able to anchor the larger holiday choir.

The music was traditional. Some of the folders of anthems residing in the file cabinets had copyright dates from the previous century. The hymns were the 4-square standards of Protestant heritage.

By the time I was in junior high I could read either the soprano or alto part from a score, could usually manage to play the accompaniment. Mother drafted me to stand behind her at the organ when a score had many pages to be turned as she poured her soul and her skill into a Chrismas prelude from Bach or Handel.

I was in my early teens when Grampa Mac [a tuneless fellow who had married into the family of musicians] purchased a neighbor's old upright piano, saw it installed in his square, lace-curtained parlor, paid for it to be tuned. My uncle, rummaging in some dark cupboard, produced stacks of my grandmother's music. There were song books and hymn books, sheet music of numbers popular in the lead-up to WWI. There were yellowed copies of marches, waltzes and rags. I hurried to that old piano after school, bringing my homework with me.

I spent winter afternoons there, hunched in a heavy sweater, my feet warmed by the tiny electric heater which Uncle Bill had plugged in, my fingers chilled as they dashed over the stained ivories.

During my last year of high school I was often excused from regular classes on music day to play for chorus rehersals. When the chorus director informed me one day, "If ever Norma is ill on a concert date, you will play for the performance," I prayed fervently for Norma's continued good health.

While I played and sang constantly at home, once past my confident and untroubled childhood public performance caused me to feel a bit rattled and clumsy.

To my mother's disappointment, I didn't tackle the pipe organ.

I didn't go on to what might be called a serious study of music.

I had discovered the family gift of 'playing by ear' as well as by note.

I could transpose a song to another pitch.

I found that I could play the old hymns after the manner of my great-aunt Minnie who added the flourish of runs and octaves and chords to the notes on a printed page.

Married and attending the church of my husband's heritage, I filled in whenever an extra pianist was needed.

Back in my home town after years away, I was once again pressed into service when Mother needed an alto who could sight read a choir score for a Christmas performance.

When in her late 70's Mother's energies flagged and she wanted to 'sit downstairs' during the church service she contrived an elaborate schedule of alternate musicians: one of her former organ students lived in town; another woman familiar with pipe organ moved in and was willing to take on a Sunday per month.

Mother approached me to take up the slack.

"You could have learned the pipe organ," she grumbled, 'its still not too late if you would apply yourself!"

"If your congregation can deal with the piano, I will play for you," I stated firmly.

I played for my mother's church. I traveled to play for other area congregations who found themselves temporarily bereft of a musician.

I played on Christmas Eve in the next town when the regular musician went down with stomach flu hours before the service.

I provided the music for several family weddings. I played hymns for funerals when my eyes were so awash that I couldn't see the march of black notes on a page and my tears fell on the keyboard.

I played and sang with an immensly talented and rather eccentric family of musicians who had family ties to my home church. Red-haired G. C. and his family were never on time. I would sense a rustle of movement behind me during the prelude, the snap of instrument cases being opened, the shuffle of music stands. During the invocation G. would slide onto the piano bench beside me, sheets of music were propped on the rack, while he jabbed a finger and hissed, "Piano here. String quartet alone for these measures.

You come in again here."

Music has memories. I play from books which are marked in my mother's beautiful handwriting. Other pages bear Mrs. Y's reminders of the organ stops to use.

Some of the frail yellow pages have scrawls so old that the ink is scarcely legible.

Last week I brought out G.C.'s mimeographed pages and realized with a jolt that nearly two decades have passed since I last made music with his family.

The voices that swelled the choir of my youth have, most of them, been silent for decades.

I felt besieged by memories of other Christmases as I struggled to perfect my selections for our church service. I determined to play the notes exactly as written.

Perfection eluded me. At night, staring into the soft darkness, I heard alternate harmonies, snatches of melody replayed monotonously in an endless shuffle.

My fingers moved on the quilt, reaching for an impossible chord.

On the day, the music went rather well. I played with care, mindful of the spots that might trip me.

Our pastor's wife sat behind me, adding a flute descant to the well known Christmas hymns.

I fumbled a few notes on the last line of the postlude--when the congregation, released from the hour's quiet, wouldn't notice.

Bonnie and I sat on, turning pages, playing together, musicians of imperfect caliber, yet inspired by the music we were creating.

I am tired. By Sunday afternoon I wanted only my chair in the untidy corner by the fire, my book, my beloved Teasel on my lap.

A friend from church phoned yesterday to confirm what J. and I will be singing as our contribution to the final Christmas program. We took turns lamenting our lack of perfection as musicans.

We took turns reassuring each other, "Its OK, really. We do our best, here where we are,

where we are needed."

The songs, the voices, the scenes of other Decembers haunt me, a tumbling kaleidoscope of color and scent and sound.

And--the music goes on.

Still Here!

2011-12-13T19:23:00.000-06:00

Willow

After several hours of tinkering last evening I went to bed despairing of the blog.

The whole thing 'locked up' while I was playing with colors, changing the header photo, experimenting.

I've done this before, not always liked the result and simply put things back.

I admit the options available have all the temptation of a big box of colored pencils when I was a child--one wants to see what all the pretty colors look like!

One of those nasty notices came up informing that my browser did not support blogger [blah, blah, etc, etc] and that I must install goggle chrome.

I did so and still couldn't get into the blog.

I lay awake fuming. I am not of a technical turn of mind--don't especially care about the HOW of things. I simply want things to WORK!

A bit before midnight I padded out by the fire and turned on my laptop.

I immediately found that the blog dashboard appeared in the upgraded format.

I scratched away at the 'gadget' page and sorted the photos for the sidebar, feeling that I had conquered cyber-world.

Of course when I turned on the desktop PC this morning that was still in a bind.

I reinstalled Chrome.

I updated Internet Explorer.

I downloaded and ran a 'Fix-It' tool

It seems that a Yahoo toolbar which activated without my permission locked up everything else.

Toolbar de-activated, blog saved. Temper soothed.

Now I have to become familiar with the new posting format.

At least this one lets me view the photos I've selected for upload.
Hopefully later in the week I'll have time for comments and something more creative than a 'rant!'

The photo above is Willow.

Dear, naughty, stripey Willow--who removed the buds from the new Christmas cactus during the night and left them in a neat pile on the table.

How do I know it was Willow?

[I just know!]

This has been a day of mild dampness.

I harvested two lovely cabbages from the garden this morning.

J. split wood.

The grand accomplishment of the day was resurfacing the backsides of two pair of jeans for grandson D. and patching a long three-cornered tear in the leg of one.

D. wears his clothes hard!

I've always believed in patching jeans--a finicky job, as you'll know if you've wrestled them around on your sewing machine.

There's something about the soft, much-washed denim and the raggedy patches of an old pair that is very suited for hard work in the garden--or painting--or grubbing.

I daresay mine may be the last generation who patches and mends!

Grampa Mac as he looked when I was a child [left] and later when he was about 70 years of age.

My dear Grampa Mac, a widower, used to patch his denims on Sundays.

He used a huge darning needle threaded with the white twine he saved when he opened sacks of chicken feed or cow grain.

He sat in the rocking chair which is now my favorite, the radio blaring at his elbow.

His big calloused hands which had mended harness, groomed his horses, planted garden seed, hovered over the worn denim trousers, setting large firm stitches.

At any given time he surely had newer denims neatly folded away, but his sense of frugality would have been insulted to discard that which could be mended and made useful.

When I learned to use my first sewing machine I took over the task of patching.

My parents and grandparents had survived the great depression and they passed on the

ethic of frugality and Yankee thrift so foreign to a later 'throw-away' mindset.

My current sewing machine is 'state-of-the-art' with capabilities we couldn't imagine even two decades ago.

There is still satisfaction in a job of mending accomplished--and the sense of being appreciated by a young man who clattered down the stairs to my sewing area to say, "Thank you, Meme, for mending my jeans."

Never Fear, Wilbur's Here!

2011-12-12T22:28:00.000-06:00

Wilbur--in his usual "I don't like people' mood!

The cats are still all with us, Pebbles the Horse is here too!

They just aren't appearing where they should on the blog at the moment.

I don't know if this is a permanent glitch.

I replaced the header photo--and played with colors--something I've done many times before--don't know if I didn't save a change when I should have---I'm inclined to blame blogger--the design page 'locked up"--error message, etc and the 'gadget' elements which should be on the side bar are strewed at the bottom of the page.

AAARRRGH!

The On-Going Exploits of Willis

2011-12-12T19:03:00.001-06:00

Willis [who has the official designation of Barn Cat] slipped into the house this afternoon when J. left on an errand. About an hour later I discovered that he had taken over J.'s desk.

Willis appears to feel that the "mouse" should be guarded at all times.

It's the right shape--but not very lively.

Willis lounges imperturbably, while surrounded with J.'s tools of connection to the outside world:

the tv remote; the laptop; the portable phone.

Sunset, Morning Deer, A New Fire

2011-12-11T23:01:00.000-06:00

I was not easy in my mind at keeping a fire in the fireplace after the glass door shattered.

We kept the fire well back, pulled the mesh inner guards, J. swathed the broken door in aluminum foil--but it was a temporary measure.

He had been eyeing fireplace inserts on craigslist and after taking all sorts of measurements he called regarding one for sale in Berea, KY.

It sounded possible.

The route is one we have been over twice already during the week.

As it was a lovely bright day I decided there was no need to break my record of traipsing about merely to stay home and clean house!

The stove proved to be usable and after a great deal of determined hoiking by J. and the seller, it was lashed onto the back of Snort'n Nort'n.

Our favorite restaurant chain, Cracker Barrel, has one of their distinctive eating places in the area, so we stopped for a meal before heading home.

We were given a table at one of the large front windows and sat enjoying tea and food with gentle late afternoon sun spilling in.

We were about 45 minutes from home when the sun disappeared in a fiery sky.

We were headed southwest and it seemed that we were enveloped in the colorful clouds; trees, buildings, bridges stood in black outline.

My photos were taken through Nort'ns' pocked and streaked windshield as we roared down the parkway at 60 mph.

The last of the afterglow had faded as we turned into our driveway, the moon rising behind us.

A bit before midnight last night, half-asleep, I heard a wild and lonesome howling from somewhere outside.

"Coyotes," I thought, and burrowed deeper into the quilts.

The cry came again, sending prickles down the back of my neck. The cats nestled beside me tensed into alertness, making disturbed whiffling sounds.

Several of them followed me down the hallway and circled my feet as I drew back the heavy curtain and peered toward the woods. The yard light flung a yellow haze over frosted grass. Nothing moved within my line of vision. I considered slipping on boots, pulling on a jacket to step outside.

Even a few moments outside would send me shivering back to my bed so I resisted the impulse for a midnight reconnoiter.

In the darkened back bedroom I opened the shutters, trying to locate Pebbles. Here moonlight was dominant, away from the artificial glow of the yard light.

Frost sparkled on the cold grass. The branches of the ancient apple tree were charcoal-smudges against the sky. Neighbor's lights were reassuring beacons along the hidden bends of the road. No sign of Pebbles, likely munching hay in her barn annex, or standing guard in the back pasture.

I listened, but the wild yapping did not come again. The coyotes had evidently continued on their

nocturnal way.

This morning, as I stood looking through the sliding glass doors at sunshine on frost crystals, a group of white-tail deer rounded the tobacco barn, frolicking and bouncing like young colts.

I snatched up my camera and eased out the side door as soundlessly as I could.

The deer always hear me--or hear the click of the outer door as it settles back into the latch.

I pressed the zoom lever, managed to focus as the deer scattered into the edge of the woods, their coughs and snorts of alarm carrying in the morning stillness.

J. lost no time in tackling the dismantling of the damaged fireplace doors.

Furniture was shoved aside, a path cleared. Ignoring my suggestion that he wait for Devin to help, J. maneuvered the heavy stove off the truck and in at the side door. I was required to slide a length of heavy cardboard under the back of it, and then to tug on the old furniture quilt which was under the front.

J. created a crude but effective lever arrangement with a heavy plank balanced across a chunk of wood.

My job was to put my weight against the end of the plank as the stove slowly rose even with the hearth.

D. walked in the back door just as the stove came to rest against the bricks.

I left the men of the family to wrestle it into place while I made them a hearty breakfast of steak, baked stuffed potatoes, butternut squash and cole slaw.

[Yes, I know, not your traditional breakfast fare, but it was by now after 10 a.m. and I felt we needed hearty nourishment!]

The stove in place, hearth swept and a fire built.

We will miss seeing the flames.

Eggnog, my dear elderly Siamese, loves to sit on the hearth and watch the fire by the hour.

Here is Willow, cautiously inspecting this new large source of warmth.

Having furniture dis-arranged was a good prompt to vacuum up dust, scrub some baseboards and clean the kitchen floor on hands and knees.

Leaving me to deal with dust and wood chips, J. and D. decided to 'hoe out' the garage.

With the kitchen more or less in order, I turned out a batch of molasses/ginger cookies with lemon icing.

D. wolfed about 10 cookies before heading home.

I set out sliced apples, chunks of Cabots cheddar, and cookies; tea for me, instant coffee for J.

A satisfying warmth spread from the new stove as the sun disappeared behind the leafless trees.

I brought a book with me to the table, content to call it a day.

Evenings Come Early

2011-12-08T22:24:00.001-06:00

A sunny day broke the dismal pattern of rain and gloom which has persisted since the weekend.

J. trundled his new wood splitter out to the end of the dooryard where he stacked the bigger chunks of maple harvested from a friend's yard last spring.

The neatly sectioned pieces of firewood can be loaded onto Snort'n Nort'n, then driven to the carport or the woodshed for storage.

It seemed as though the sun had just gotten round to slanting in the kitchen and dining area windows when it was gone, sliding behind the woods.

The setting sun cast a pale amber glow across the creek, while leaving the yard

and the east meadow in shade.

It seemed only minutes later that the moon began its climb up an apricot sky.

I was sweeping up wood litter in the carport, already noticing the night's chill.

One final blush of color toward the south-west.

Inside on the table near the sliding doors are two Christmas cactus purchased yesterday.

The first Wednesday of each month is 'senior discount' day at a chain store grocery in the next town.

I dislike the term 'senior citizen'. I don't consider that we have arrived at the 'elderly' stage.

But--since we qualify for a 10% discount, by all means, let's take advantage!

J. dropped me off at Krogers and drove to the Lowes Home Improvement next door.

I encountered a display of winter flowering plants before I had pushed my

shopping cart more than a few feet.

I have mourned the loss of my nearly 20 year old Christmas cactus--the one uprooted, mauled and destroyed by resident kittens--these were 2/$5--before the discount.

The one on the left is nearly the shade of pinky-red of my lost plant. The one with the creamy white buds is--just because!

Thus far, these have not come to the attention of Willow and Co.

Willis came in with the firewood and sprawled in front of the fire.

When I touched him, his stripes were well-warmed.

What is there about a cat which can make a solid brick hearth look this comfortable?

I am in disgrace tonight regarding the fireplace doors.

J. has been sweeping up the chips of bark created from his wood splitting, scooping them into a bucket and throwing the bits into the fire.

The bucket wasn't available when I decided to 'help' by tidying the carport. There were tufts of cottony looking insulation flying about [J. and D. blew insulation into the attic space yesterday] dried leaves which had collected in corners and the debris of bark. I swept it into an empty cat litter sack--the kind made of heavy paper finished with a semi-water-proof coating. I stuffed the bag at the back of the fireplace.

I noted a few minutes later that the burning sack had rolled forward and was very close to the glass doors. It was blazing too much to open the doors and attempt to poke it back.

When J. walked in with an armfull of wood he saw that the glass door on one side had cracked into the proverbial million pieces.

By the time he had dealt with the mess, smoke had billowed through the rooms.

Doors were flung open to the chilly night air.

Windows were raised.

We coughed and flapped.

The cats ran about and leaped onto the window sills, peering out into the dark.

J. has been talking about a fireplace insert to use the wood heat more effectively.

That has now become more of a priority.

Meanwhile, the doorframe has been wrapped in a sheet of aluminium foil

and the screen behind it drawn across the opening.

Fortunately friend Willis was not reclining on the hearth during this episode!

Reviewing the Week Thus Far

2011-12-06T21:52:00.001-06:00

Lemon balm, coming up fresh at the base of a plant in the small herb garden.

The weather is still so mild for December that on Sunday I found myself wondering if it would be timely to do a bit of weeding and moving things about in my perennial beds.

I decided against this as the ground is too damp and chilly.

Poking about in the herb garden near the carport I noticed these new leaves on the lemon balm.

As I brushed twigs and faded maple leaves away I pondered why this has been for so many years

a favorite plant.

The delicate lemon scent is a big part of the appeal. The leaves have a delightful crinkled texture and the green is a fresh and appealing color.

More than that, I can only explain my attachment as something my rather whimsical imagination conjures.

Going down on my knees to weed and tend a clump of lemon balm, immediately gives me a sense of connectedness to something very old, as though I had been whisked off to a medieval herb garden or to Brother Cadfael's workshop.

When we moved to this small Kentucky farm, the first springtime was a time of happy discoveries, for the former owners had been gardeners.

I found a clump or two of lemon balm emerging in the section where iris roots jostled each other for space.

I soon picked out the familiar rumpled leaves of several more plants nestled in the thick grass near the overgrown bulb bed. I removed them tenderly, placing several in a partially shaded strip near the garage.

Lemon balm is a companionable plant, well worth the moment it takes to stop and ruffle the stems to release the fragrance or to snip off a leaf or two to sniff.

Rain held off on Sunday, but the wind blew steadily.

A load of laundry flapped itself dry on the clothesline.

The cats were terribly inspired. They collided with each other rushing in and out of the sliding door to their yard, whirled in to skitter across the hardwood floors, tails puffed, nails clicking as they

careened around corners.

Generations of my cats have done this, where-ever we have lived--ushering in changes of weather, possessed by wildness.

Rain began sometime before daylight Monday morning. The air was warm and heavy with mist.

We spotted these turkeys striding across the upper pastture toward the woods.

I used the zoom on the camera to capture their leggy progress.

Wilbur remains very leary of humans. His sister, Willow, has settled into domesticity and has accepted humans as a welcome part of her life. While Willow knows how to charm, Wilbur seems to regard us as a threat to his very existence. It it rare to surprise him into being picked up. I caught him on Sunday and asked J. to take this photo.

When we can corner him we talk to him cajolingly, stroke his tabby coat, hold him on our laps.

Thus far he refuses to be won over. He eyes us warily, poised to run. He doesn't purr. He holds his ears in a horizontal mode of displeasure.

When I spied Wilbur and Willow on the sofa this everning they were cuddled close and Willow was washing her brother's ears. I managed to stroke Wilbur before he realized that a detested human

had invaded his space. Seconds after I snapped this photo he disappeared behind the sofa.

Teasel

We have been away for most of two days.

Too many miles for me!

J. is still in his 'wheeling and dealing' mode.

I have the option of course of not going along for the ride on these forays of his to buy and sell tractors and such. Its not as though I do any of the driving.

I think of a day on my own--housework quickly done and then time [and quiet!] to sew, read, write.

When grandson D. is not in school I figure that he is the one to go--an adventure and a chance for him to see more of the countryside--and besides--he can intelligently talk tractors and motors!

In the end, both yesterday and today, I hastily packed a tote with the items I consider necessary for such trips: books, magazines, a notebook, camera, bottled water.

Yesterday's run took us to the northern part of the state and briefly into Ohio.

We drove through bluegrass horse country, then out on winding country roads with impossible 'hairpin' bends. J. was given vague directions and wasted over an hour locating a tractor that was so battered he said it looked like a tree had fallen on it.

Miles later we reconnected with a main highway and decided it was time for a hot meal.

It was after 2 by the time we were back on our way and the grey drizzly day was already sinking toward early darkness. We rumbled past beautiful old houses surrounded by miles of white-painted fence, passed other venerable houses which had fallen into sad neglect.

J. found the next stop on his list and made a 'deal.'

On across the Ohio river in pitch dark to a meeting point with a man who had a wood splitter for sale.

Coming back J. missed a turn onto the route he wanted and we found ourselves on a road that followed the contortions of a winding creek. Great patches of fog billowed in the headlights, the windshield wipers clacked. J. sputtered. We roared on through small hamlets where little houses festooned in holiday lights crouched close to the road.

It was a few minutes before 10 when we came out on the desired route. We located a Subway and ordered sandwiches, even as the shop was closing for the night. Back in the truck, under the street lights, we enjoyed our food before pulling out again onto the rain-slicked highway.

It was not quite midnight when we lumbered into our own dooryard., a round trip of over 600 miles.

As I clambered stiffly from the truck Pebbles whickered from her pasture, the barn cats wound around our feet. The old thermometer in the carport stood at 51 degrees [F] and I could hear the rushing of the

rain-swollen creek across the road.

Stepping inside the kitchen door, we were mobbed by the cats!

When we have been away for hours there is a definite routine to our return.

The cats first rush at us and there are complaints that they have starved in our absence; they have been bored. They get underfoot, meow plaintively or demandingly according to their natures.

Then, there is a studied indifference, a "see if we care!" demonstration which involves stomping about the items we have brought in, pushing things off the table, general huffing. By the time we are ready for bed they decide we can all be friends again.

Being a glutton for this particular punishment, I went along today also, for tractor delivery and pick-up. Only 400 miles today!

The tractor which J. 'swapped' is the one he acquired last week. I have made noises indicating that perhaps this is enough trading for now.

I know that I've ridden enough miles to last for some time!

The cats have been clingy since we arrived home.

I was too tired to light the fire downstairs and work on the quilt in progress.

I am too witless to make intelligent comments on my favorite blogs.

My beloved Teasel is keeping me company as I rather blearily type this rambling post.

She is curled on the bed behind me, her striped tail wrapped over her nose.

Tomorrow will be a day to cherish my little house and its feline occupants, to make soup, and enjoy the smell of loaves baking in the oven.

Early Morning Frost--Firewood--and a Few Cat Photos

2011-12-03T21:38:00.004-06:00

I was awake around 5 a.m. trying to be quiet. The cats, of course, knew that I was awake and I endured being lovingly stomped upon, kneaded through layers of quilts, purred at.

By 6: 15 daylight was seeping through the shutters.

I quietly gathered slippers and robe, and trailed by cats, tip-toed off to huddle in front of the fireplace.

The cats milled about and clamoured.

Right! Dish out the tinned cat food and perhaps there will be a few moments of peace in which to contemplate the day!

The sun was just breaking over the ridge when I went outside, well bundled in warm clothes and boots, camera tucked in my pocket.

The frost-furred oak leaf caught my eye. It lay on the grassy path across the back pasture--barely touched by the emerging sun.

I think this is a sycamore leaf--glossy and tawny.

I fed Pebbles her grain, then ambled down the edge of the front field and across the road to Big Creek.

Twisted vines make a natural wreath.

The recent rains made for squelchy walking along the creek. There is thick undergrowth, rotting tree stumps and tangles of vine.

Moss spread around the base of this stump, brilliantly green and fresh in the morning light.

Back across the road and up the boundary fence to where pasture meets the neighbor's woods.

The fence corner there is overgrown with wild rose canes, some stunted cedars and all manner of weeds.

In spring and summer stepping into the shady triangle is an invitation for ticks to hop aboard.

This small wild blackberry bramble glowed as the sun's rays fingered into the chilly shadows near the cedars.

Mullein, curled and folded like a cabbage, frost-furred.

I'm not sure of the identity of this leaf. It may be a variety of cottonwood or a yellow poplar [tulip tree] We have both on the property. I should have gathered some and brought them in to study, but--my fingers were getting cold!

Lichen shimmering grey-green on long-fallen branches at the edge of the woods.

Frost asters bent into whimsical contortions in the tall grass beneath the black walnut tree.

Friday was a beautiful day--sunny, crisply clear.

J. rounded up Gina and me to help load firewood in neighbor Ed's pasture.

The usual gathering of Jersey cattle assembled to observe.

Seconds after I snapped this photo, G. let out a startled shriek and dropped the piece of wood she had picked up.

Something furry had scuttled away as she disturbed the pile of wood.

"Furry" turned out to be a pair of voles or mice---short-tailed critters-- who had built a nest of dried grass under the teepee of limb wood.

I was reminded of the 'house' which Pooh and Piglet built for Eeyore at Pooh Corner.

One of the furries hastily trundled off to a nearby collection of twigs and branches.

This one darted here and there, stopping to burrow into the grass.

An added note: Al pointed out that UK moles look different than the pictured rhodent. In thinking about this I believe I have mis-called them. Although we have many true moles--or seem to, judging by the number of up-earthed runs in the dooryard--I suspect the creatures we disturbed may be VOLES or even a species of meadow mouse.

I stroked it with one cautious finger--soft fur like a rabbit--while G. scolded that it likely was a carrier of

something at least as dire as bubonic plague.

We unloaded wood, ate soup and cinnamon toast before hurrying to bring home yet more wood.

By 4 o'clock the daylight was slipping away.

D. arrived from after school errands to convey his Mom back to their house.

I folded myself gratefully into my rocking chair by the fire, a mug of tea wrapped in chilly hands.

I chuckled when I looked up at Willow asleep in J.'s recliner. Note the curled under toes of her back feet.

I have worked at quilt block construction several evenings this week.

Willis decided to 'help' by taking a nap on a bin of fabrics.

I needed to open the bin and prodded him awake, hence the sleepy-eyed stare.

He was disinclined to move.

I explained that he was in danger of having his toes mutilated by my rotary cutter.

I told him that he was in my way, that I needed to mark diagonal lines on the back of the red squares

and didn't feel he could be of assistance.

I mentioned that he was shedding tweedy hairs on my quilt-in-progress.

You can see that I was ignored.

Willis: inscrutable and immoveable!

Tractors, Back Roads and Old Farmsteads

2011-11-30T19:44:00.000-06:00

Jim's perennial wheelin' and dealin' has taken a busy turn recently. This obsession with "trading" is apparently a genetic trait, notable in this generation in both his brothers as well. [J.'s cousin, a meticulous genealogist, has shared excerpts from family wills and transactions that indicate his fore-fathers were kept busy down there in Pitt County, NC swapping parcels of land, horses, mules and wagons.]

My part in the process these days is to post various items on craigslist or to answer

the phone occasionally.

It is also important that I willingly load into the car to go on various scouting missions or clamber aboard old Snort'n Nort'n for pick up or delivery ventures.

Monday's quest took us along a narrow road that twisted beside a creek swollen with water from the recent rains. Few houses along the road were occupied.

We saw several of these swinging foot bridges. Rutted tracks suggested that in dryer weather the creek could be forded, although the old farmhouses beyond stood forlornly abandoned in their soggy fields.

Note the house trailer standing alongside the old two story house.This seems to have been a trend in poorer rural areas.

Apparently when an old house became too derelict to justify the expense of renovating, a 'single-wide' was moved in nearby to take advantage of the electrical and water hook-ups.

Now the trailer houses are deserted as well.

It turned out to be the wrong road [we needed to head up toward Gravel Switch] but it was a chance to see parts of Casey and Marion Counties which were unfamiliar.

Old buildings intrigue me and this quiet road seemed to have more than the usual share of abandoned farmsteads and derelict barns sagging lop-sidedly toward the ground.

All photos were taken from the moving car as we meandered through rain that [almost!] thickened to sleet, then gave way to feeble sunlight.

The oddly constructed church sits near the traffic light in down-town Bradfordville.

The downside of listing items for sale is the spate of phone calls

during the first few days after items are posted.

The phone shrilled at 6:30 this morning.

We were awake, but still thinking about starting the day.

I leapt from bed, heart pounding. [After all, a phone call at that hour surely means death, dilemma or something unpleasant to be dealt with.]

J. reached the phone first and I quickly gathered this was a man calling about a tractor.

He lived two counties eastward and was in the earlier time zone.

A second call came while I was cooking breakfast.

I picked up the phone and managed to decipher that this caller also was looking for a tractor.

His actual words, spoken in the local vernacular were, " At ere John Deere yur sellin'--has it done went yet?"

I hastily handed over the phone!

Early caller # one appeared in due course, bought the tractor. J. was planning to pick up another tractor [!] which he bought on Monday's expedition, so agreed to deliver one on the way.

I have now spent the better part of two days "along for the ride."

An old hand at this, I go well prepared with several magazines, a book or two, clothing to meet any weather changes, my camera.

A stop for lunch somewhere is part of the package!

I make what I hope are appreciative noises while J. extolls the details of the latest swap.

Thanksgiving Week in Retrospect [with photo over-load!]

2011-11-27T17:00:00.000-06:00

Early in the week I set myself to sorting the disrupted bedroom.

J. turned a conveniently deaf ear to my pleas for assistance in rearranging a framed picture or two, so I decided to risk the bashing of mis-placed nails and managed to hang the lower quilt block on the second try,

and got up the brackets for the wall-hanging--at which point I discovered I had never created a 'rod-pocket' on the back of said quilt--so down to the family room to some speedy hand stitching.

Most of my large quilts were made when we used a queen-sized bed, so there isn't much allowance for the king-sized bed. The fabrics in this Bear Tracks quilt are some of my favorites, so I folded it over the coverlet where the autumn colors can be enjoyed.

The cats have decided they can deal with the rearrangement of furniture.

I moved the quilt rack to the end of the hallway below my g-grandparent's framed wedding certificate.

The pieced blocks in the blue Double Four-Patch quilt were hand sewn in 1916 by Esther Jane Lewis who was then 9 years old. The quilt was in rough shape when I acquired it after her death.

I picked out the best of the blocks, including the signed one, and reset them with a fabric

which had a vintage look.

The quilt on the back bar is a very simple one stitched up on a snowy December day using remnants of winter-themed fabrics in dull greens, deep reds and old gold.

The day before Thanksgiving was cool, with intermittant showers.

Pebbles refuses to 'go in out of the rain' and grazes along the edge of her pasture.

At times during the afternoon the clouds parted over whisps of blue sky

and rather lack-luster sunshine picked out the leafless trees beyond the creek.

Frosty nights have blackened the most tender herbs in the little plot just off the back door.

This tri-color sage has grown fresh new leaves since I harvested sage and thyme last month.

This is one of the lavenders I raised from seed this season.

I have hopes that it will winter.

Gina and her cousin Susan hatched plans for a family Thanksgiving get-together.

S. and her family live about 5 1/2 hours away and are intrepid travelers.

G. and I planned meals, divided up the cooking and baking.

G. had sleeping spaces for the three teenagers. I plumped pillows and folded a Maple Leaf quilt over the foot of the bed in our guestroom/office for Susan and Mark.

I was in the midst of a baking orgy when the family drove in after lunch at G.'s.

[My out-put for the day was 4 loaves of bread, 3 pies, and a pan of cranberry/date bars.]

D. was designated to convey a pie and loaf of bread, still warm, to friends up the road who are in the midst of a house renovation.

S. is a multi-talented and creative person.

She brought us gifts of her homemade jams, pickles and conserves.

Whether at home or visiting, she is out of bed and showered, moving soundlessly about before daylight.

When I arose at 7 she was cozily installed in the rocking chair by the fire, stitching at one of her beautiful applique projects.

This young gentleman did NOT ride on top of the mattress which was being moved a mile down the road to Gina's house!

Thanksgiving Day was warm and sunny. Dinner was planned for mid-afternoon.

J.'s cow gave birth on Wednesday, and Thursday morning brought a distress call from the Yoders [where Dory the Cow is boarded.]

Dory was down with 'milk-fever' [hypocalcemia] and of course the farm supply store was closed for the holiday. J. rushed to borrow a bottle of calcium solution from the Jersey farm up the road, had to visit another neighbor to find the rubber tubing and needle to administer it.

Dory didn't respond as well as expected, so a call was made to a local vet who provided another bottle of calcium as well as a calcium paste to be given orally.

[She survived--after a shaky few hours.]

There was still time for the men of the family to haul a load of firewood---a job undertaken with considerable good humor--before we gathered at G.'s house for the Thanksgiving feast.

Friday afternoon was a time for farewells and the promise to gather again soon.

The leftovers have been cheerfully shared and consummed.

G. [blessings on her!] is busy today decorating her house for the Christmas season.

Here, a mile down the road, its been a quiet Sunday---time this morning for me to read by the fire while J. poked at his laptop and Willis the Barncat appropriated his chair.

As the day draws into night's early darkness, our little house is filling with the good smells of

beef simmering in a thick gravy; J. has fetched in some of the last potatoes from the garden which have been scrubbed and tucked in the oven to bake.

Coleslaw made from one of our late cabbages is waiting in the fridge.

G. and D. have been alerted that we have dinner to share.

Migration of the Sandhill Cranes

2011-11-27T12:30:00.002-06:00

The slanting November sun had made short work of the afternoon and was already sliding toward the trees that mark the western boundary of the farm.

Jim and grandson Devin were stacking firewood while indoors I cleared a project from my desk. A shout from outside sent me flying to the back door where the men were pointing at the sky.

The rasping voices of sandhill cranes heralded their progress as they beat across the sky from the north in ever-shifting formations.

We gazed at them with the sense of primaeval wonder which such sights always inspire. The birds winged through cloud wisps and jet trails over Big Creek Valley, veering southwestward.

The last shush of beating wings passed overhead, the strident cries of the cranes fading as the sun withdrew behind the woods, leaving a blanket of red-gold and smokey lavender to briefly mark its descent.

The dooryard settled into the sudden stillness of a November evening, the cooling air rich with the scent of rising woodsmoke and the sharp tang of freshly split maple.

Added later: I typed 'sandhill crane migration' into the Google search engine. It appears that southern Arizona is the destination for thousands of cranes who over-winter there. The birds are fairly common summer residents of the rural mid-west and the interior west--we've seen them there. The cranes begin traveling north early in the spring and the North Platte River Basin is a stop-over where they rest and feed for several weeks before completing their northern journey.

When we moved from Wyoming to Kentucky, it was at the time of the spring migration and our route took us for miles along the North Platte. The sandhill cranes were present in the thousands, along with Canadian geese. I've added the photo above, taken from the truck window which caught mostly geese, but will give you an idea of the terrain. The ground teemed with birds with more of them always swirling above.

Busy November Days

2011-11-17T23:05:00.000-06:00

The week began with overcast skies and gusty winds.

November is a time to cherish warm days, as darkness comes earlier each night

and we know colder weather is inevitable.

I walked out into the back fields on Monday afternoon, camera dangling from its wrist strap.

J. had rearranged Pebbles' electric fence during the morning which she always finds interesting.

She doesn't miss anything that happens in the dooryard or in the fields beyond her pasture.

I walked across the harvested corn ground until I could zoom in on this old grey barn across the road.

In summer it is nearly invisible behind the trees. We think that at one time a house may have stood just beyond the barn, snugged up against the hillside.

Although the cornstalks have been cut the splayed roots are still anchored in the soil.

The combine missed some ears of corn which are providing food for wild animals and birds.

As I walked along the edge of the field a neighbor's dogs noticed me and bounded toward me

with sociable woofs.

Pebbles immediately moved to the edge of her fenced area and stared fixedly at the trespassing dogs.

From time to time the sun has lightened the grey billowing clouds.

This shot was taken looking west up the cornfield toward the neighbor's woodlot.

J. roared up beside me on the 4-wheeler at this point and invited me to 'hop on.'

[My method of getting myself onto the seat behind J. is definitely not 'hopping'--more like

clambering aboard.]

J. had dragged the trunk of the fallen maple off the line fence and wanted to know what our neighbor, T.L. would like done with the rest of the big tree.

[Turns out he doesn't have a fireplace or wood heater, so J. has been gifted with more firewood.]

T.'s wife raises miniature horses for show.

He delighted to tell us about them. The dark filly is only a year old, but has placed in several

shows as a "promising" young mare.

Her coat was clipped when several strange lesions appeared during the summer.

The vet wasn't sure if the small circular wounds were caused by an insect or by a fungus infection.

The filly's back is healed now and her coat growing in time for winter.

This one seems to know he is a pretty boy!

On the way home J. stopped the 4-wheeler and scooped up two ears of corn for Pebbles who was watching for our return.

Rain began on Tuesday and continued through the night.

When it let up on Wednesday I put on my wellies and slogged about.

This poppy will surely not blossom before cold weather.

Several more poppies have germinated where the parent plants dropped seed before I gathered the

dried seed pods.

I hope most of the seeds will lie dormant til springtime.

The sweet gum tree is the only one in the dooryard still clinging to leaves.

[Note the 'gumballs.']

Blue sky today and crisp clear air.

J. cut down the shabby Redbud tree which overhung the carport.

Redbuds [also called Judas tree] grow untidly, dividing into several trunks a foot or so above the ground.

They tend to be brittle.

One trunk of this one was cut many years ago leaving a rotten stump.

Several branches have clattered down onto the roof.

The branches had tangled with the sweet gum tree, shading its growth on that side.

The sweet gum stands clear now, but quite lop-sided in shape.

I was possessed this morning to shift the bedroom furniture--no easy task to move that huge lodgepole bed!

J. moved it from one side of the room to the other, dragged dressers about, then hastily betook himself to his tree cutting, while I stood gazing in dismay at the disruption I had created.

The lodgepole bed was very much in keeping with the rustic lodge type houses J. built in Wyoming.

It looks rather silly and cumbersome in this small cottage.

Charlie is distressed by the disarranged furniture.

Teasel doesn't like the mirror and the cat basket dumped on the bed.

I phoned an SOS to G: "Help! I don't know where to put the bedroom furniture. Nothing fits!"

G. and D. arrived. Various suggestions were made. J. and D.shooed us ladies out and firmly shut the bedroom door.

We listened in alarm to the sounds of heavy furniture being moved about.

When the door opened, the mammoth bed had been positioned in front of the double windows.

Not ideal, perhaps, but allowing for a more symetrical arrangement than previously and better access to both sides of the bed.

G. and I tweeked things; I rehung some pictures, removed some cluttery bits.

I have informed J. [who is trying not to hear me]

that he needs to hang the heavy mirror over the dresser.

The room is not photo ready at this point, but is looking better.

The cats are still suspicious, tip-toeing around, considering new routes.

I have ended up with a rocking chair and a small table which don't fit anywhere!

Buttery shortbread and some sinfully good 'chocolate ecstacies'

made yesterday afternoon filled the house with warm smells on a rainy day--and provided

a treat for tea today after our strenuous labors.

The Winter Wood Supply

2011-11-16T20:23:00.002-06:00

A neighbor several miles up the hill had a hedgerow cut last summer.

J. going by daily during haying, speculated whether the loggers would make use of the "tops."

Some months later, there they were, strewed in the pasture, so on Friday J. made a visit to ask E.K. if he might buy the tops as firewood.

This was a courtesy inquiry, and E.K. made the expected reply, telling J. that he would be pleased to have the tops cut up and hauled away with no thought of payment.

J. speedily drove home, drafted me as helper and alerted G. that he was harvesting firewood.

We piled into Snort'n Nort'n and roared up to our neighbor's pasture--taking great care to shut the field gate behind us.

The day was blue-sky-bright with a brisk wind.

I had pulled my hair back into a loose braid, anchored with an elastic band and several clips. Within moments the wind had teased my hair into whisps which blew into my face.

G. and I began moving the smaller branches into piles as J. cut them free from the larger limbs.

G. began working bundled in her brown hoodie and down vest.

We all removed layers as we labored.

Given the curiosity level of bovines we weren't surprised when several of Farmer Ed's prize Jerseys ambled over to see what we were doing.

This handsome cow seemed to have important information to relay to J.!

G, became enthralled with this cow.

"I want a cow and some chickens," she stated--a wish she has reiterated since moving to Kentucky.

'No," we said in unision--also a reiteration, "You really don't want a cow and chickens of your very own!"

We noticed a pleasant scent as we moved around in the uncut grass.

I traced it to this plant growing in clumps along the brook and under the trees.

I can't identify it, although the dried stems appear square suggesting the mint family.

The browned leaves gave off a suggestion of anise more than mint.

One of the trees along the brook had thorny barbs.

Not knowing the correct identity for trees and plants frustrates me!

Peaceful and pastoral.

The weekend stayed warm and breezy.

By Monday the sky was overcast, but the day was warm.

Early in the morning I heard the wind ruffling through the waxy leaves of the magnolia tree just beyond my bedroom window.

The landscape has taken on earthy somber colors, the red and gold of autumn leaves lie drifted in

faded heaps on the ground.

J. is working at the chunks of maple which we harvested in March.

The smell of the wood permeates that corner of the yard.

It was warm enough to let the fires die out for several days.

Portrait of a Reluctant Soldier

2011-11-11T23:08:00.003-06:00

Those who have been with me on this blog since I began writing in 2009 may recall a series of posts created using excerpts from the WWI Letters of Lawrence H. Ross. I still consider it one of my better accomplishments of creative writing.

Great Uncle Lawrence was one of the few men in my family to see active service, and in recent years I have spent a quiet few moments each November reflecting on his life and death and their impact on my Mother's family.

Lawrence was an unlikely soldier. His letters give no hint of his political interests or his thoughts on America's involvement in the war prior to his call up for the draft. Rather, the letters convey a testy astonishment, a sense of disbelief that he has actually been herded onto a train bound for Camp Devens, and amazement that he has passed the physical exams and been issued a uniform! He even entertained the idea, rather dramatically expressed, that a swift death would be more welcome than enduring basic training!

Lawrence grew up in his maternal grandfather's comfortable white farmhouse, in a small Adirondack town where the family name had appeared on the census each decade since the first formal listing in 1790. His great grandfather was described as "a prosperous farmer" with a variety of business interests.

Lawrence's mother died when he was less than two months short of his second birthday, her life bleeding away in the painful hours following the birth of her third child. The woman Lawrence loved and called "Mother" was the quiet girl who came to help care for the motherless children and became in due time his father's second wife.

His childhood was seemingly uneventful. School, church, a closely knit neighborhood and extended family framed his boyhood years.

As he grew into young manhood the news notes of the local paper began to reference him: he taught a Sunday School class; he played the violin, his sisters were both accomplished pianists, his uncle and cousin next door played the banjo. The whole family sang with a natural gift for harmony. They made music for church services and provided entertainment at the Echo Mountain Hall--the social center run by the local graphite mine works. Never a handsome fellow with his noticable ears and thick spectacles, he was always well dressed and dapper. His was a serious nature, but he understood good clean fun.

By the time Lawrence registered for the draft in June, 1917, his grandparents had passed away and his parents, his older sister and brother-in-law had moved to the Vermont side of Lake Champlain where they purchased a farm. News notes indicate that he helped with the move during the winter of 1914, and made frequent visits to the new family home.

He was employed as a 'clerk' in the Ticonderoga, N.Y. firm of Wood and Barton.

The Ticonderoga Sentinel makes frequent reference to F.B. Wood, an enterprising business man and entrepreneur. I was aware of a family connection between Lawrence and Forrest Wood who married a cousin of Lawrence's mother. It seems likely that Lawrence boarded in the Wood household.

Forrest Wood owned a Maxwell Touring Car and Lawrence often served as his chauffeur on both pleasure and business trips.

Today as I reviewed some of the old clippings referring to those few years when Lawrence was employed at Wood and Barton, I began to wonder about some of the names mentioned. As was the custom, often only initials were used ahead of surnames.

An hour of sleuthing turned up the confirmation that not only was Lawrence employed by a "Cousin"--most of that man's close associates were also part of a larger realm of family!

Induction into the army whisked Lawrence from a sheltered world of kinfolk and familiar places into the coarse, teeming, noisy, frantic scramble of a half-built military encampment.

News notes of the day and later published recollections testify to the extreme cold of the winter of 1917-1918.

The rambling barracks hastily constructed at Camp Devens in Ayer, MA were mere wooden shells.

Lawrence suffered from the cold: his chronic "catarrh" plagued him; he had been afflicted with psoriasis for years, and the rough wool of his uniform tormented his raw skin; his draft registration card notes the injured right hand--the tips of two fingers missing and his thumb stiff from a childhood accident.

He found that in spite of his dependence on thick spectacles he was a good marksman, and in his letters he describes the long hours of drill. He took a certain pleasure in the care of his rifle. When barked at by the sergeant for his slower than usual speed in shooting off a round one frigid morning, he could only hold up his mutilated hand, barely flexible. His handwriting, never graceful, deteriorated to an uneven scrawl on such days. Often he had to put a letter aside unfinished with the comment that his hand was too stiff to hold a pencil. He was sent for an interview with his commanding officer, who declared that Lawrence's experience as a chauffeur would qualify him for transfer to a motor unit. Lawrence waited for the anticipated change, but the orders never came through.

The camp was quarantined for measles. Lawrence didn't have measles but he wasn't allowed weekend leave to visit his family. He and his fiancee. Letha, struggled with the decision whether to marry during wartime or wait until his hoped for return.

As the interminable winter dragged toward a muddy spring, the decision was taken out of Lawrence and Letha's hands. After weeks of anticipating his "orders" suddenly Lawrence was bundled onto a train, destination unknown. He shortly found himself on a troop ship, headed for France--there was no chance for a last visit home.

In spite of his resentment of the war's intrusion on his comfortable life, Lawrence's letters often displayed a wry sense of humor. That he was most terribly homesick is very evident. His was a nature that craved order, cleanliness and quiet. He wrote longingly of home-cooked meals, of remembered family gatherings. He spoke hopefully of a time when he would again make music with his father, his sisters and his cousins.

He saved up details which he couldn't commit to a censored letter, promising that when he returned "home" he would have tales to tell.

From "Somewhere in France" he wrote almost breezily of battles, of lice, of trains, of temporary "camps."

An unwilling soldier, he seemed to have settled to his assignment in a machine gunnery unit, determined to "be a man."

He wondered why letters didn't catch up to him; he scrawled a list of small items, toiletries and such, that he hoped the family could purchase and send.

He died on 1 August, 1918 when a shell landed in the trench where he was stationed with his

machine gun crew.

Eventually the family would learn that he had taken part in the Second Battle of the Marne.

I have often wondered how events might have differed in my Mother's family had Lawrence lived to return home, to marry Letha, raise a family.

He might have survived the war only to succumb to the influenza epidemic which swept both Europe and America.

Knowing something of his high-strung nature [a family trait] I wonder if he could have put behind him the deafening noise and unspeakable horrors of his months at the front.

At the memorial service held in his home church, his cousin and employer, F.B. Wood, declared,

"I have never known a more conscientious man."

The Ways of Willow

2011-11-10T20:43:00.002-06:00

My large tubs of begonias brought in to winter behind the piano which presently serves as a room divider.

There was a strange lack of cats on my side of the bed when I woke a bit before 6 a.m.

I stretched, snuggled more deeply into the quilt.

After a few moments small sounds seeped into my sluggish awareness.

Small thumps and pouncings from the livingroom.

Scuffing down the hallway I came upon a rogues' gallery of cats who were viewing the above

desecration of my angel-wing begonia.

Caught in the act was Willow, happily scrabbling potting earth, rattling dislodged bamboo stakes.

Her brother Wilbur [who still dislikes humans] did not appear to be actively involved in the

vandalism at this point.

At my smothered cry, "OH, NO! What have you done to my plants?" Wilbur skittered under the table.

The rest of the feline pride arranged their furry faces into expressions of disapproval: "We would

NEVER do that!"

This left Willow, a dainty paw still lifted in the act of smacking at lumps of potting soil.

The spray bottle of water which we sometimes use in vain disciplinary actions was nowhere to be seen.

"Bad kitten!" I moaned. "What a mess!"

I picked the battered disinterred stems of the begonia out of the scattered dirt, laid them tenderly by the kitchen sink, fetched the broom and dustpan.

As I began moving plant tubs and whisking at the strewed potting soil, I chanced to notice Willow.

Far from leaving the scene in contrition, she had folded herself into a demure pose on the kitchen floor and appeared to be watching me with great interest.

I swept up the worst of the mess, brought a sack of potting earth from the garage, carefully inserted the traumatised roots back into the pot and stood the broken stalks in a jar of water.

When J. emerged I lamented afresh, "Can't have anything decent with all these cats--furniture shredded, plants uprooted--impossible to display a bit of china--"

I set out cat food begrudingly, slatted about making coffee, still grumbling.

Standing at the counter, waiting for the coffee to perk, I felt a familiar warmth sliding around my bare ankles:

Willow's slim stripey body weaving about my slippers, her small warm skull rubbing, amber eyes raised in winsome appeal.

I picked her up. "Purr. Purr, purr."

Vaccuum cleaner trundled out, various plants moved downstairs to the old table under the flourescent light--where they may not be safe from the prowlings of cats who decline to stay on the floor.

I am seriously considering the incarceration of my treasured [battered] begonias in the coat closet overnight to protect them from curious cats!

The Domestic Scene

2011-11-09T22:08:00.001-06:00

I slept poorly last night, but woke at the usual time to lie still for a few moments,

wedged about with cats.

The daylight slotting through the shutters has a grey quality and I hear a swhooshing of wind.

The cats have an uncanny ability to register the exact moment when I shift from slumber mode to the first blinks of wakefullness.

A human awake is a human who should be tending cats!

While I stretch creakily beneath the covers and contemplate the ordering of the day, the cats tread heavily upon me; they meow; they purr. Furry paws reach from the bedside stand to prod, gently but insistantly. Mima plods across my pillow, pulling my long hair.

Charlie, sitting on the floor, reaches up to whack Mrs. Beasley, who growls.

Teasel brings her beautiful face close to mine, making throaty sounds of encouragement.

Lingering in bed is not an option.

In the livingroom I open the curtains and stand gazing out at the cloudy morning. Cats mill about my ankles, pleading for breakfast. They make meaningful dashes toward the kitchen, returning to herd me in the right direction. I fend them off long enough to heave two chunks of dry maple into the embers of last nights fire, then follow them to the kitchen.

This morning performance is not about lack of food or imminent deprivation of any sort.

It is a ritual as firmly established as our morning cup of coffee, and until that spoonful each of tinned food is doled out, there is no peace.

The weather report didn't call for rain, the air was warmish and it seemed a good day in spite of the clouds to wash sheets and let them flap dry in the wind.

Fallen leaves were scudding about the driveway and into the carport. When I opened the sliding door into the cat enclosure the curtains billowed and surged.

With the cats sorted I took my coffee in by the fire, opened my laptop to check email and skim through my favorite blogs.

Gusts of wind shrieked down the chimney. Cats hurtled in and out the sliding door, tangling in the blowing curtain, colliding with each other, hissing and snarling testily.

Catching their restlessness, I put on my wellies and a tattered hoodie. I stood at the edge of the carport watching Willis and Co as they chased whirling leaves and wrestled each other in the gravel of the driveway.

Pebbles spotted me and trumpeted from the edge of her pasture.

As I started up the path she pounded toward the barn, whirled, kicked out her back legs, and plunged back down the fence line, snorting.

J. emerged, drove the lawn mower out of the barn and began circling the dooryard, chewed up leaves and short grass spewing in his wake.

While bed linens churned in the washer, I dealt with litter boxes.

Approaching my litter dump at the far end of the back pasture I was startled by the sharp warning coughs of deer and looked into the woods in time to see three whitetails plunging into the dark stand of trees.

There was an undercurrent of disturbance to the morning--animals all acting twitchy as grey clouds billowed across the sky.

The air smelled of woodsmoke and woodpiles, of cut grass and decaying leaves.

I fetched a collander and snipped Swiss chard from the late summer planting.

As I pegged out the flannel sheets and the pillowcases the first tentative drops of rain

pelted the back of my neck.

"You said it wouldn't rain!" I accused J. as he trundled past with a wheelbarrow load of wood.

"I only read you the weather report," he retorted, "I didn't research it!"

Rain blew on gusts of wind, faltered, began again. The sheets grew sodden, hanging limply, then straining at the wooden clothes pegs as the wind veered round from the north.

Pebbles eyed us from the door to her lean-to--likely calculating the possibility that J. would unwittingly serve up a second breakfast of grain.

I headed for the house, to a hot shower and dry clothes.

The rain quit, leaving damp grass and a slick of wet in the driveway.

From the front window I noted a convocation of robins, perhaps two dozen of them, bustling and picking.

A half-hearted sun played hide and seek, glowing through the branches of the burning bush.

The cats found the yard too damp for their liking and sought warm places in the house to nap.

I kneaded a batch of bread, started supper. J. went to help G. construct a pet yard.

I fetched in the still damp sheets and bundled them into the dryer, put the kettle on for tea.

Evening draws in so early now, the days shortening toward the solstice, little more than a month away.

Twilight stained the sky with lavender behind the lingering grey clouds. The branches of the maples, bare now of their leaves, moved soundlessly.

In the east, the moon rode a sky of palest apricot.

I seldom take photos of the moon as the night time setting for my camera produces an effect darker than the reality.

I am intrigued by the tracery of bare branches and the moon caught in their frame.

Inside to stay as darkness falls.

The loaves are pulled from the oven, the kitchen is cozy with the smell of baking.

J. cuts a thick slab of bread while it is still warm.

I slice one for myself, turn the kettle on again.

We shut doors, draw curtains, settle into the house for the night.

Autumn Afternoon Walk-About

2011-11-07T20:40:00.000-06:00

There have been several days of 'Indian Summer' weather following the chilly days of rain last week.

By mid-morning today the temperature was 69-70 degrees F. [My convertor gives that as 21 C.]

J. and D. have been cutting up the big dead maple which crashed over the fence into the edge of the cornfield. The woods don't belong to us, so I haven't walked there.

As you can see, there is tangled under-growth and thick ropes of trumpet vine.

The leaves of this oak are a deep burgandy color, back-lit here by the late afternoon sun to a garnet red.

Deep shadows fall across the shorn cornfield and enfold the old barns.

Mute testimony to a death in the cornfield.

D. and J. suspect the wild turkey may have been a victim of a coyote.

The breastbone of the turkey as well as several heaps of featherws were strewn among the husks.

I mentally add turkeys to the list of wild creatures foraging in the corn before the combine arrived: deer, raccoons and possums all had their pickings.

Hawkeye Belle continues to bloom in spite of frosty nights.

The roses have opened in a jug of water--I cherish them in spite of the frost-seared edges.

The red one is Double Knock-Out.

In town today for errands we noticed that the planting of Double Knock-Out around the courthouse is in gorgeous bloom. It appears that they were pruned back late in the summer and inspired to burst out in

response to autumn rain and sunshine.

Most of the golden leaves have fluttered down from the maple beyond the carport.

J. thinks this one is a "hard maple"--the sugar maple of New England.

While J. and D. were limbing the dead maple and carving up chunks for firewood, Devin called me out to see two sections of limb which had been stuffed with corn kernels, probably by an industrious squirrel.

Taking a closer look I realized some of the kernels are sprouting. I have always wondered if the squirrels remember in the cold of winter where they have created these well stocked larders. If that is the case, there will be a creature wandering along the cornfield come January, perplexed by the loss of his cache.

Chocolate-Chip Fudge Brownies: A Recipe Resurrected

2011-11-04T21:40:00.001-05:00

I have probably owned only a few dozen cookbooks over the years and many of those have disappeared in our many upheavals of packing and moving.

I tend to use over and over the recipes which epitomize the best of those I've tested.

I use recipes only for baked goods, sometimes substituting or tweeking ingredients.

Recipes are clipped and taped into the front of cookbooks, written out on the end papers, scribbled on file cards. More recently I've transcribed favorites to my PC.

Last week while searching for an oatmeal cookie recipe for Gina, I discovered this brownie recipe written in the front of a cookbook which I don't often use at this time.

I suspect that I copied it from a magazine--possibly Family Circle.

I stirred it up as a dessert offering when G. invited us to supper--and the brownies are even better than I remembered. I baked another batch this evening for sharing at a church fellowship lunch.

Chocolate Chip Fudge Brownies

Preheat oven to 325.

Grease a 13x9 glass baking pan.

[I used cooking spray.]

1 cup sugar

1/2 cup butter

3 Tblsps water

1 10oz pkg semis sweet choc chips [about 1 1/2 cups]*

2 tsp. vanilla

3 large eggs

1 1/4 cup flour

1/2 tsp salt

1/2 tsp baking soda

In a heavy saucepan, combine the butter, sugar and water.

Stir over medium heat, until the mixture comes just to a boil.

Remove from heat, add the chocolate and vanilla, stirring gently until the chocolate is melted.

The mixture will be smooth and shiny.

Add the eggs, one at a time, stirring in well with a wooden spoon or a whisk after each, until incorporated.

Sift together flour, baking soda and salt.

Fold into batter, pour into prepared pan and spread smooth.

Baking directions suggest 30-35 minutes.

In my oven 30 minutes is sufficient, and I watch carefully during the last five minutes.

Remove from oven and cool in pan before cutting.

* I've been adding one square of bitter baker's chocolate with the semi-sweet chocolate chips. I like the added richness and flavor.

These brownies are worthy of the term "decadent!"

[I've no idea how these measurements translate to whatever system of numbers might be that is used in UK recipes.

I have several English recipes I wish I could rework to US measure.]

Rainy Day Cats

2011-11-03T13:43:00.004-05:00

A soft peach-tinted dawn gave way to mist and rain.

Trees along the road are nearly bare, tawny leaves clinging to a few along the way.

In the back yard the silver maple is realeasing her leaves.

They drift damply down to rest in a wide circle of pale gold.

A small maple nearest the house was the first to drop its leaves, back in September.

They have drifted into the herb garden, settling amongst thyme and sage.

The leaves of the sweet gum are mostly still green.

A few have colored and fallen to lie like brilliant red stars.

Teasel has chosen one of the linen shelves as a snug hideaway for a rainy day.

Teasel, being my 'darling', will not be hustled out of the towels--I'll have to remember that using the pink one will result in a face full of fluff!

Dear old Eggnog loves to watch the flicker of flames. She dreams by the hour in front of which ever

fire is burning.

Wilbur and Willow have stationed themselves by the sliding door, intent on the patter of rain drops and

whirling leaves just beyond their noses.

Willis and his cohorts, Sadie and Sally, were on the side porch/carport promptly at 7:15

to claim their breakfast.

The tortie girls sensibly retreated to the barn when the rain blew in.

The outside felines have the choice of the 'tobacco barn' which is stacked to the rafters with this seasons' hay crop, or the nearer barn. Devin contrived a snug house for the cats there in the loft, stacking hay bales to create a roomy covered 'cave' lined with old sleeping bags.

Willis, the contrary cat, has lodged on the wicker loveseat on the front porch.

Unfazed by the drizzle beyond the porch, he snuggles into a tattered sheepskin rug.

I've watched him from the window inside noting how his ears twitch as a current of air whisks dry leaves across the porch floor.

Two of the livingroom chairs are occupied by dozing cats. Looking for an item J. wanted I found Mima sweetly curled in the storage closet off the outside basement stairs.

There is a cat on the bed, another on the plant table in the basement, huddled beneath the gro-light.

Charlie has curled his hairy self on the bench by the sliding doors, im-periling the already

cat-battered begonia.

I've moved an apple pie from the freezer to the oven where its spicy aroma will greet J. when he returns from installing a wood stove at G.'s house.

I made rash promises earlier this week that on the next rainy day I would [errrr!] betake myself downstairs to the family room to finish sorting my books and sewing paraphernalia.

All this observation of drowsy cats has me thinking it would be just the thing to curl up with a book--there is a comfy rocking chair alongside both the fireplace and the downstairs fire.

But [errr--again] I promised myself.

So, bolstered with a mug of tea, I'm off to the sorting

Edited to add that I was headed downstairs to my sorting, full of tea and good intentions, when J. returned and suggested that we make doughnuts--something we haven't done during the heat of spring and summer.

A cozy, sugary treat for a rainy day.

Good intentions will now resume.

Memory of Maples

2011-11-01T20:57:00.004-05:00

Recognition of a tree as “maple tree” must have come early to me, one of those bits of knowledge so integral as to be dateless, absorbed with the increasing lexicon of names and terms which filter into a child’s mind from the conversations of surrounding adults.

Two maples stood in the front dooryard of my grandfather’s Vermont farmstead, one on either side of the graveled driveway, each spreading grey-black branches in a high, wide circle above tidy plots which I learned to call “lawn” as opposed to the rougher pastures which lay beyond the fences.

My parents, my younger sister, and I lived until I was nearly five in three rooms at the north side of Grampa Mac’s house. The room where we did everything but sleep had two windows facing out into a strip of perennial garden over-shadowed by one of the huge maples. I recall a summer morning, spoon clutched forgotten in one hand, while I watched a bird bounce about in the nearest branches, a flit of black and orange.

“A Baltimore Oriole,” said my mother, and added pragmatically, “If you’ll finish your cereal, you can go out in the yard and watch them.”

That particular slideshow of memory slips into darkness, leaving me with the brilliant colors of the bird outside the window—and the congealing bowl of soggy cereal which must be dealt with before I could gain the relative freedom of the chicken wire enclosed “play yard.”

A few years later when sister C. and I were in the early grades of school, Grampa Mac hung swings for us in the maples. Mine was in that large tree which brooded benevolently over the front of the house, C.’s dangled from a branch of the maple across the drive, well within shouting distance. Two lengths of stout rope were purchased from the farm supply store; Grampa Mac sawed lengths of salvaged plank, bored rope sized holes with his hand auger, sanded the rough edges which might snag a vulnerable bottom.

I was impressed to learn that the maples were there, seemingly as old and towering, when my mother and Uncle Bill were children. Our swings were the continuation of an older tradition.

I can’t know the year when the maples were set in place, twin guardians of the home, yet beside me on my desk lies the enlargement of an old photo showing the farmhouse, the familiar bell perched in its wooden cradle on the shed roof. The resident family stands posed about the dooryard, all faces turned toward the unseen photographer, and into the edges of the picture intrude the leafy branches of the maples. Tracing the names shakily written on an accompanying scrap of paper, I’ve placed the date circa 1887.

The growth of a sugar maple declines after 140 to 150 years, but an old-growth maple tree can live for several centuries in favorable conditions.

[Vintage photo supplied by Christy Alger]

The maples of my Grampa Mac’s dooryard stood silent witness to many generations before I arrived to dangle in my rope swing and stare up into their lofty crowns.

Even now, I can’t begin to calculate the hours spent in that swing, under the maple tree. It was a homing point in all seasons.

In winter I brushed snow from the wooden seat, gripped the cold-stiffened rope with mittened paws, drifted slowly, head back, to take in the tracery of dark branches and twigs against the blue sky of a February day. In March I hovered at Grampa Mac’s heels as he “tapped” the old tree, setting the metal spigots, hanging the sap buckets, pointing out the small scars of past seasons that marked the years of making maple syrup.

Springtime was a dreamy time in the swing, delighting in the warmth of afternoon sun filtering through new maple leaves of palest green, hearing the busy chirp of robins as they selected nest sites along the sturdier branches.

In summer the shade of the old tree was heavy, darkly and thickly green. Swinging created a small welcome breeze through my hair even on the scorching afternoons of July days. In all but the heaviest rain the dense canopy of leaves provided a shelter, only the occasional splatter dripping from the green layers to land on my shoulders or trickle down my neck. Birds chirped and muttered in the high branches while beyond their circle the grass shimmered with wet.

In autumn the dooryard maples warmed to a blaze of yellow and crimson leaves, an echo of the trees ranking the rise of woodland beyond the west pasture. An overcast day scarcely dimmed the golden light beneath the tree. Leaves drifted down day by day, to be raked into great heaps each crisp afternoon when school was done—inviting me to swing high and launch myself with a well-timed leap into the crunchy depths of the pile.

Robins and orioles departed, but the autumn cry of Canadian geese bugled overhead. Finally, when only a few crumpled yellow-brown leaves still clung to the branches, the blue sky of October rode above the black etching of limbs and twigs which drew the eye up and up into dizzying clear heights.

I missed the maples of New England during the twelve years of living in Wyoming. There, in autumn, the aspens shivered, gold-painted against dark spruce in the mountain passes, the delicate spade-shaped leaves flying before fierce winds and early snow. The leaves of the cottonwoods which crowded close to the looping irrigation ditches turned rusty, rattling in the gusts and plummeting down to decay on frosty grass already turning to the brown of winter.

A dear friend sent me a maple leaf from a tree growing in the dooryard of her house in Maine; a leaf carefully pressed with a hot iron between sheets of waxed paper, the quintessential autumn craft recalled from childhood. The edges eventually crumbled, still I treasured it.

I ordered a book of essays, tore open the padded envelope and felt a sharp stab of recognition and longing: the book cover was a collage of leaf photos by the author, the center image that of a red maple leaf, so finely captured that it seemed I could catch the autumn scent of a dew-dappled leaf, run a finger along the delicate veining.

Maples grow in Kentucky, the eastern central state we chose for a retirement home. Viewing this little cottage on a March morning, Jim instantly identified the maples standing about the dooryard. These are not the “sugar maples” [acer saccharum] of New England, but more likely a variety of “red maple”[ acer rubrum] the ones we called “soft" or "swamp maples” there for their habit of growing on low ground where they flamed into glory early in September, weeks ahead of their stately cousins towering in forest and sugar bush.

Haskell Rogers, the elderly gentleman who lived here before us, tells us that he brought maple saplings from the nearby woods shortly after the small house was raised in 1980. There are at least two, possibly three, variants of maples among those set closely around the dooryard. One resembles the silver maple which my father lovingly tended in Vermont---slimmer, pointier leaves, turning late in the fall to greeny-yellow. Three of the slender, silver-trunked maples have already given up their rusty red leaves. Only one tree still clings to its billow of brilliant burnished foliage.

I gather individual leaves, laying them out to compare. I snap photos, bring them up on the computer screen, puzzle over the descriptions and photos in on-line articles.

[I like knowing the precise names of trees—and flowers—and birds. With the maples, as with so many other searches, I fail to pin down the subtle shapes and markings that could differentiate one from another.]

I stand at the kitchen window and watch as leaves of gold and russet spin gently down. The maples lure me from the house on these late autumn days, drawing me under the arc of their spreading branches, as faraway maples did for so many decades. I go outside to stand still, listening, as leaves swish and scud along the ground before a wind that nips out of the north.

High above the silver maple the trumpeting of wild geese rings through wood smoke scented air, their dark wings and stretched necks appliquéd against a sky of autumn blue.

Another autumn; another turning of the season toward the chill winds and grey skies of winter; autumn also in my own span of years; autumn to live in a little house on a gentle hill, in a dooryard set round with maples.

Late Harvest

2011-10-26T22:12:00.000-05:00

It has been a "weather breeder" sort of day. The sun has been hidden at times by clouds of pale grey. Within moments the whipping wind shifted the clouds and the sun hung for a time in blue skies. Leaves have rattled down from the trees to be whirled across the ground.

Mid-morning the combine rumbled down the road and began to harvest the dried ear corn in the 15 acre piece which J. leased to a neighboring farmer.

J. meanwhile had a final cutting of hay to "turn" and then bale, while keeping a wary eye om the changing aspects of the sky.

Pebbles was excited by the variety of noisy activities, loping from the front pasture to the back of her lot to keep up with the progress of the day's work.

At one point she was stationed in the back of her portion of the barn [the side ell which shows on the left side of the main structure in the photo] with her neck craned out the half door, head swiveling to follow the movement of the clattering combine.

I was delegated to steer Snort'n Nort'n around the field while J. loaded on bales.

Although I've driven many a "stick shift" truck I don't find Ole Nort'n user friendly. The seat likes to stay in the far back position which suits J. and D. with their long legs. I feel that I need to wind myself around the steering column in order to reach the clutch.

I bumped and lurched over the rough ground, trying to choose the easiest course amongst the scattered hay bales. This photo, taken through the truck windshield, shows the corn field after the combine made several rounds. The sky to the north was blue, but there was a distinctly unsettled feel to the windy day.

With the hay loaded and awaiting delivery to Dory the Cow [who lives at the Yoder's place]

I was free to check on the garden. The late cabbages have reached a good size to begin harvesting. We've had broccoli which needs to be eaten at its peak, and another picking of green beans, so cutting a cabbage will be postponed for a few days.

This strange autumn weather has prompted an unseasonal flowering of the blackberries.

These are so pretty with the delicate shadings of pink and green on white.

In the kitchen I packaged and labeled herbs dried in the oven on its lowest settings.

These were tucked into a box of goodies G. mailed off to her daughter in Colorado.

Note the packet included for Smokey the Cat!

The herb garden looked tired and bedraggled at the end of summer's heat, but has responded beautifully to rain and cooler, sunny days.

I wonder if the scents and flavors are a bit milder than earlier in the gardening season.

The kitchen still holds the fragrance from the trays of herbs spending time in the warm oven--and my cats have sampled the catnip and approved.

By late afternoon the corn plot had been shorn of its ears and the empty stalks rustled stiffly in the wind.

Pebbles grazed, ignoring the now silent machines.

A zoom shot of the harvesting machinery. Note the heaped kernals of shelled corn in the wagon.

The corn harvest is hauled away to storage.

We don't know yet when it will be marketed or what our share will be.

Desultory Days

2011-10-23T23:38:00.000-05:00

Desultory: marked by lack of definite plan, regularity, or purpose [Merriam-Webster]

'Desultory' is a word I admire. I don't often get to use it in a spoken sentence, but the above definition suits

my days and nights of the past weeks.

J. returned on October 19 from a month in Wyoming, where he worked on a construction project

with our son.

J.'s work has often taken him away, and I have always adapted to that, finding things to do, and in spite of missing him, I revel in the chance to stay up past midnight, to play the piano at strange hours, to snatch a hasty snack of cheese, toast and tea, then return to the project at hand.

I have spent a large portion of my time outdoors, rising to cool misty mornings, bundling myself in faded 'hoodie', a down vest and my wellies to do the "chores"--cleaning litter boxes, dishing up grain for Pebbles and putting out her hay, taking fresh water and kibble to the barn cats.

By the time that was acomplished the sun had spread a swath of warmth onto the front porch, where, in company with Raisin, the old lady cat, I sat for a few minutes, my hands wrapped around a mug of coffee.

As the heavy dew sparkled underfoot, a trip to the upper garden was next, to check what needed to be harvested.

One morning in particular is lodged in my memory: a stirring wind and birds everywhere: crows speaking in hoarse racuous voices as they stalked across the cleared ground of the upper pasture; the shriek of a bluejay who had doubtless spied the cats in their fenced yard; a plump bird [mourning dove?] atop the post near the goat-willow tree; a toss of bluebirds wheeling above the garden fence.

The broccoli came on suddenly, so I called on G. and D. to help eat it!

The sun shone and the wind blew throughout warm days, swirling leaves down from the maples and strewing them across the yard.

Pebbles roamed her pasture, sometimes kicking up her heels and galloping like a youngster, seemingly inspired by the playful wind.

A clump of late Michaelmas daisies, smokey purple in the upper flower border.

[These are either Purple Dome or Patricia Ballard. The tags have migrated about and of course I don't recall which variety I planted in which spot!]

Hawkeye Belle continues to produce her lovely pink blooms. This one is on the small plant which has sprung up several feet from the parent bush.

Willis, soaking up the morning sunshine which streams in the south-facing opening of the hay barn.

There have been beans to pick and process.

G. and I dragged chairs into the back yard and sat in the sun to snip these in readiness for the canner.

I put up 12 pints from the first picking, 8 pints later in the week.

When I unfolded myself [creakingly] from the bean rows I noticed this cluster of raspberries.

I didn't leave them for the birds! The berries were cool and sweet.

I was hoping the butterfly would unfold its wings for a photo.

It is either a monarch or a viceroy---there are slight differences in the markings of the lower wings.

The zinnias were looking quite ratty overall, but a few blooms such as this one earned them a few more days in the garden.

Our first frost [Friday, Oct 21] blanched the last of the blooms and I pulled up the shabby plants today.

As I worked outside I pondered the possible adjectives to describe such lovely autumn days:

'golden'--'mellow'--'ripe'--we use familiar words again and again because they conjure memories of colors and scents, recollections of other seasons lived in other times and places.

I stayed outside, crouched grubbing in the flower borders until the sun slid into the woods behind the old barns. With my tools put away in the cluttered shop, I blundered stiffly to the house to scrub crusted earth from beneath my nails, stand in a hot shower, retire to my rocking chair with a mug of tea and a bowl of soup.

The dancing wind blew maple leaves into the cat yard, entrancing the resident felines who have chased, skittered and finally collapsed in the crispy heaps.

Mima-cat curls near the fence, alert to the birds who pass overhead.

The upper border after an afternoon of weeding and dividing and moving plants.

There are gaps where I dug up hollyhock [continually raddled with rust and bugs] moved peonies to the garden which D. created. Other perennials which were mainstays of my Vermont gardens do not survive the heat and humidity of Kentucky summers; delphinium, Canterbury bells, lady's mantle will bloom briefly then disappear and the place there-of knows them no more! I don't think my gardening budget stretches to buying these each year for an early May flowering.

In our second Kentucky year I'm noticing that local flower gardens peak in late May, relying heavily on flowering shrubs. Plants which were a New England mainstay of July and August [coneflower, rudbeckia, butterfly weed, monarda] blossom here in June, then everything gasps as the heat moves in.

Another year I will rely on annuals such as zinnias, marigolds, comos, which can stand the heat and can be seeded in place to take over when the perennials need to be cut back.

I weeded down the back length of the border until I reached the lemon-scented southernwood which has been eclipsed by the clump of Michaelmas daisies. My intention was to relocate the southernwood.

I realized suddenly that the daisies were alive with bees--honeybees and a few bumblebees. I quietly removed myself from their busy activity--the southernwood can be moved when the bees are resting on a rainy day.

While I retreated from the Michaelas daisies, Willis did not.

I hadn't realized he was lurking that close to where I was working.

With his tweedy camouflage he has a disconcerting way of suddenly appearing when I least expect him!

The double knock-out roses continue to bloom.

It is easy to see why they are popular here--undaunted by heat and humidty, in nearly constant bloom until hard frost.

Yellow Simplicity takes a few weeks to revive between times of bloom.

These autumn roses are to be cherished, opening slowly in the chill of dewy mornings when the low slant of the sun is slower to reach them.

Inside the house, Willow the Kitten is proving to be a naughty little minx!

Since recovering from her "operation" she has become a determined climber, balancing daintily on the divider between the front doorway and the living area, teetering along the footrail of our huge bed, parading across my desk.

She is also determined to uproot the plants which I have repotted and brought in from their summer stay on the porch. My cherished Christmas cactus has been hurled from its pot 3 times in 24 hours! This is not about using the potting soil as litter. J. and I have both caught Willow in the act of flinging dirt and plants with joyful and unholy glee. Stones, bits of broken pots, even a barricade of stout twigs around the rim of the pot have not deterred her. She has been scolded, squirted with cold water, but I don't think she is cured.

Her brother, Wilbur, watches her bouts of destruction while reclining with folded paws on the table!

Today I separated the battered remnants of the cactus into four smaller pots, cutting a circle of black weed-barrier fabric to fit inside each pot under the topmost inch or so of soil. I have arranged small stones on top. I have hidden two of the pots amongst other plants brought in to winter under the grow lights in the basement laundry area. Among those plants are 3 rosemarys and a scented 'snowflake' geranium.

As I washed up our supper dishes tonight, Willow wove lovingly about my ankles. I picked her up, cuddled her. Her fur smells of rosemary!

With J. home again the strangely patternless [desultory] days slide toward a more predictable routine.

Nights have been chilly, a wood fire morning and evening is welcome.

I attempt to sort particular moments from the blur of several weeks:

I recount to J. the night that coyotes yipped and howled at the edge of the woods as I was preparing for bed shortly after midnight. I tell him how I stood in the yellow-white circle of the yard light and bellowed at the coyotes, "Git! Go away--shut up!" They went quiet and I imagined them [startled?] slinking away among the tangle of trees where I have never walked.

I think of the mornings when my booted feet left a trail in the dew-sopped grass; when Willis the Cat found a sun-warmed spot on the porch to lick his tweedy paws dry after following me on my rounds.

There were hours and meals shared with our daughter and grandson.

There were busy hours of quiet---I'm not one who needs a radio or tv running as background noise.

There were times when I sang--for my own encouragement--and to the astonishment of the cats!

The garden is winding down--some beautiful cabbages yet to harvest, kale flourishing for

an early winter crop.

J. has wood to cut and stack.

As the angle of the sun slides lower and the days grow shorter, my mind turns to quilts that need to be completed, stacks of books which remain to be sorted into shelves--or relinquished to the Goodwill shop.

I will be baking more, soup will simmer on the back burner.

And I will watch the timeless turning of autumn toward winter, never tiring of the

changing of country seasons.

Gremlins

2011-10-18T13:26:00.003-05:00

Leanne notified me that comments had disappeared from the previous post on bathing cats. I published the three comments on the Strange Flowering post--when I checked a few minutes later they had likewise disappeared. The comments can be accessed by clicking on each individual post title, but that's not how I want it to work. Have wasted nearly an hour reading helps and experimenting--I think this is beyond my limited skills to fix!
Always something! Arrrgh!
Edited to add: I'm finding that if you move the 'pointer' to the right of 'posted by" at the bottom of each post--the date and comment feature appear as a highlight--so the comments are there and accessable--who knows what I may have inadvertantly done to bring this about [?]--at any rate I don't know the FIX!

Strange Autumn Flowering

2011-10-17T22:07:00.002-05:00

Last weekend I drove a few miles up the road to take an apple crisp to friends who are doing a major house remodel. I hadn't visited there before, so was given a tour of the old farm dooryard.

As we ambled past the hen yard Linda pointed overhead. "Look at this old cherry tree," she directed. "I should take a photo to prove I haven't made up a story about a fruit tree that blossoms in October."

I thought of that tree several times this week, even considered driving back there with my camera, but didn't have time to do that.

I pass the crabapple tree in our side yard several times each day as I trek to and from the barn to feed Willis, Sadie and Sally, and to give Pebbles the Horse her morning ration of grain.

[Nearly every time I walk past I remind myself that I should attempt to cut away the trumpet vine which is determined to strangle the tree.]

Late in the morning today I took a load of laundry out to the clothesline.

As I pegged clean clothes on the line the sun was beaming directly into my eyes, so I turned to face the opposite direction as I continued to shake out shirts and pin them to the line.

Raising my eyes I did a classic 'double-take'---I was gazing directly at the crab apple tree which

is adorned with a scattering of deep pink blooms.

I wonder if more fruit trees in our area are wearing these strange out of season blooms [?]

I expect if one knew where to look there are veterans of many Kentucky autumns who could tell us if this is a 'once in a blue moon' happening or a more common occurance.

Surely a venerable weather oracle might prophecy a cold winter [or a mild one] based

on such a phenomenon.

To Bathe or Not To Bathe

2011-10-13T23:46:00.003-05:00

No, I haven't decided to give up habits of daily hygiene and good grooming in favor of

going about 'au naturel!'

The debate was whether or not to attempt bathing the cat tribe as part of the flea control

which has become necessary.

We're being told that its a bad season here in south-central Kentucky for FLEAS!

Daughter Gina has two dogs as well as her three cats; I have more cats than makes good sense [more than I ever intended to adopt!]

G. declared war on the flea infestations this week and armed with advice from her Cousin David regarding flea combating products we set out for Tractor Supply. TSC is a wonderful place where you can buy food for any kind of pet or farm animal as well as simple vet supplies, cleaners, parts for farm implements, wool socks, jeans, boots--a much friendlier destination in my mind than any up-town mall.

G. cornered her animals as soon as we returned home--a regular rodeo of dogs splashing in the bathtub, water sloshed all over, dog escaping through the side porch door and taking refuge in the neighbor's yard.

The cats were no easier--G. drove over about 9 p.m. to exhibit her numerous scratches.

I hadn't the gumption to tackle cat baths last evening, but was up at 6 this morning determined to get it over with. At that, I wondered if lathering and rinsing cats is really the most efficient way to declare war on fleas.

I drew tepid water in the bathtub to a level that would come up to a cat's belly, set out the pet shampoo, spread a thick rug on the floor, put towels to hand and hauled in my first victim.

No cat likes to be wet. No cat likes to be held down and lathered.

Teasel was fairly cooperative--minimal flailing and seemingly grateful to be bundled in a big towel, even tolerated the blow dryer on a low setting.

"Maybe this won't be too bad," I encouraged myself.

I brought Charlie in next. Charlie is a laid-back cat, a buffoon. I was quite unprepared for his violent reaction to bathing. He escaped the tub three times---tried to climb the wall, nicking the paint, caught a claw in my wedding ring and tried to hold on. Rugs, towels, the floor, my overalls were soaked. I blotted water out of his long soggy fur and turned him loose.

Mrs. Beasley was next. She was really quite good, but roared in a deep voice through out --sounding like a doleful foghorn. As I squished suds through her coat, she ducked her chin into the water---"Burble, burble, meow, me--oooow!"

At this juncture I decided I needed fresh warm water before the next batch of cats, so flipped the lever to open the tub drain. The water sat there. I moved the lever up and down, realized that something in the innards had disconnected.

[The bathroom is the one room we didn't renovate, other than replacing a horrid carpet with vinyl tile and tearing off 30 year old wallpaper.]

Nothing for it, but to fetch in pliers and screw drivers, dismantle the stopper thing-y.

On the way to find tools, I discovered that someone [Charlie, no doubt, hoping to flee into the cat yard] had over-turned the big planter containing my Christmas cactus, which had dumped onto a choice 'beefsteak begonia' smashing off most of the leaves.

It was only 7 a.m. and already things were out of hand.

I swept up the potting soil, exchanging baleful glares with Charlie who had betaken himself to a box in the living room. With the tub stopper inoperable, the cat bathing moved to the kitchen sink.

As per novels of a certain era, lets just say that a 'veil should be drawn' over the

proceedings of the next hour.

J.'s spoiled, pampered Raisin screamed blue murder, dragged two large bath towels into the sink. Mima, the small gentle girl cat twisted like a slippery eel, splashing the kitchen floor with about a gallon of water. Dear old Eggnog and phlegmatic Maisie were bathed with the minimum of fuss. I decided that no way would I even attempt to capture Chester who suffers from paranoia at the best of times.

I pushed the driest of the towels through the swamp on the floor, hauled them, dripping, down to the laundry.

I kindled the fire in the livingroom fireplace, built another fire in the family room.

Leaving damp and disgruntled cats strewn about the house, I put on my wellies

and trekked out to feed Pebbles and the barn cats.

Rain has fallen softly most of the day. I like to peg laundry out to dry in sun and wind, but decided that since I had to deal with a pile of soggy towels I might as well launch a sort of fall cleaning.

The washer and dryer have chugged all day with cushion covers, a quilted bedspread, the throws and small blankets used in a feeble attempt to keep cat hair off furniture.

Clean, fluffy-dry cats have been fitted with flea collars.

All of us who keep indoor pets struggle to come to terms with the very real mess that animals can make, and with the cost of veterinary care, decent quality food and supplies necessary for our pets.

I have never been without cats--I wouldn't wish to be without them.

But, Oh! there are the days when I despair of this tribe who can't keep their paws on the floor, but must climb into cupboards, sit on the table, shove things onto the floor--OVERTURN MY PLANTS!

There are skid marks on the edges of windowsills and stands, unspeakable shreddings of upholstered furniture, and the ever renewable supply of cat hair. And then there are hairballs! And litter boxes.

The quirky individuality of each cat, the comfort of feline companionship, of nattering 'conversations' and throaty purrs surely balance the scale, but as I've told my tribe today, "It's a good thing I love you!"

Wilbur

Willow

The two youngest members of the family were not subjected to baths.

The vet removed their flea collars last Friday when they were in for surgery and didn't return them.

Wilbur is a wary boy--he chirps at me, then whisks out of reach.

Willow is a love--she natters, twines about my ankles, parades across my desk.

Heaven knows we didn't need kittens, but here they are, already absorbed into the family.

Busy Autumn Days

2011-10-09T20:43:00.002-05:00

Wilbur bares his teeth in mock savagery as his little sister,Willow, launches an attack.

Willow and Wilbur went to the vet clinic early on Friday morning for spay/neuter.

Here they are Thursday evening wrestling on the guest room bed just beyond my big desk.

They have been so rambunctious that I flung this old spread over the bed to protect one of my nice quilts.

Needless to say W. and W. didn't do any playing on Friday evening. They tottered about, collapsing groggily every few minutes. I didn't allow them the run of the house for fear they would

tumble down the basement stairs.

By Saturday morning they were perkier and interested in breakfast.

I had 'vouchers' for the surgical procedures--both because we qualify as 'senior citizens' [aarrgh!] and because I had donated to the animal shelter.

I requested that their innoculations be done while they were at the clinic--its a good thing I was leaning against a counter when the bill was presented for that!

Please--no more stray cats for a bit!

G. and I worked most of Wednesday to 'put up' the tomatoes she purchased at the Mennonite produce stand. There are 40 quarts in the line-up here--the remaining 8 quarts were done on Thursday.

G. found this 'parsley worm' as she was harvesting parsley. When she touched it, out came those

tiny orange 'horns.'

Looking at this side view of the creatures 'legs' its easy to understand why some bulldozers

have the brand name of "Caterpillar."

Its a rare morning that doesn't reward me for the effort of going outdoors first thing. Once I have creaked my way into an assortment of warm old clothes and pulled on my wellies, there is a sense of praise for yet another day to go about the simple chores of feeding the barn cats and scooping grain for Pebbles [who assures me in trumpeting tones that she is about to starve.]

Saturday morning was mild, misty and very beautiful.

The wide-angle photo of the yard and the mist over Big Creek Valley was taken standing on the still-shaded path to the hay barn.

I was whisking through tall pasture grass [returning from the cat litter dump near the tree line] as the sun struck the back field and the cold mist began to melt and glimmer on every blade of grass and on the dozens of spider webs.

I tried close ups, macro settings and distance shots attempting to capture the sparkle of dew on these fuzzy seedheads. None of the photos do justice to the reality.

I zig-zagged through the fine guy wires of stretched spider silk, noting how quickly white mist melted into clear droplets of water as the sun advanced.

A clump of wild 'frost asters' bends low in the rough grass beyond the grape arbor.

Naturalized morning glory grows in lax tangles behind the woodshed and

invades the gardens, grasping and climbing its way up the stalks of sturdier plants.

7: 45 a.m. and the mist swiftly dissolving into a million minute splatters of wet.

Faithful Willis has made the rounds with me, flattening himself in dew-soaked clumps of grass,

then launching himself at my boots as I swish through the grass.

Here D. has just driven in on his way to work a 14 hour day at a neighbor's house-renovating project.

Willis adores D.--in fact he prefers the company of the men of the family over mine.

He flung himself at D. who makes a great fuss over him.

D. was shortly on his way and Willis sought the sun-warmed comfort of the front porch to dry his sopping feet.

Harvesting

2011-10-03T22:55:00.000-05:00

On 8 September Devin and I rescued the sunflowers from a spell of damp weather, cutting them down and hanging them in the hay barn loft to cure.

Yesterday we brought the heads down to the front porch and began removing the seeds.

While some of the seeds rattled out easily into a collander or big bowl, others had to be pried loose.

Above are seeds from the various dwarf sunflowers. With the petals curled and dried there was no telling whether the flower had been burgandy, gold or a brown and gold bi-color.

Interestingly, all had shiny black seeds.

Friends gave me a generous quantity of sunflower seeds in the spring--I had room to plant only a portion.

These are from the classic grey-striped mammoth sunflower.

Most of the seeds around the edges of the flower head were well filled out, plump. Nearer the center there were seeds in which the kernals hadn't developed.

I wonder if this was due to the prolonged drought during July and August.

D. and I were fascinated by the intricately formed pockets that held the seeds in place.

D. holds out two of the sunflowers he is shucking.

Who knew that those honeycombed seed heads have tiny spines!

The pads of both my thumbs suffered from these stiff slivers as I popped the seeds free--those that didn't fall out when the sunflower head was tapped against the bowl.

I used a needle and tweezers to remove a number of splinters last evening.

By morning several more were visable.

I worried at one deeply imbedded in my left thumb as I rode this morning with G. to the Sunny Valley Bulk Foods Store.

We stopped first at the greenhouse and produce stand which is part of the complex.

Since a greenhouse seemed a likely place for workers to get splinters I asked one of the Mennonite women clerks if she might have a needle I could borrow to remove a sliver.

"No," she replied, "But I have a straight pin."

She whipped a pin from a fold of her crisp white cap and within a moment I had pried out the deep-set sunflower splinter.

G. slowed the truck so that I could take a picture of this man using a horse-drawn machine to cut sorghum.

I had to aim the camera through the back window--a closer shot was runined when a man on a motor scooter whizzed by.

There is a local sorghum mill that produces and bottles this sweet stuff.

Although we weren't planning to linger, G. pulled in at the produce auction barn for a look at the mums being lined up for sale.

I stayed in the truck for the few moments that G. explored the auction floor.

She came back wondering, "What on earth are those big striped squash looking things?"

They are cushaws--apparently widely grown in the southern Appalachian regions and prepared similarly to winter squash or pumpkin.

At home, I snipped a harvest of herbs, bringing them in as the sun slid behind the woods which mark our western boundary.

Years ago I dried herbs by the time-honored method of hanging them from a nail [or a curtain rod] in the kitchen. I always felt they gathered dust--and a cat hair or two--before I cut them down and crumbled them from the stems. Last year I placed them on trays and slid them into the oven set to its lowest heat.

Tonight, using that method, I have dried thyme, sage, spearmint and catnip.

After removing any damaged or yellowed leaves, I rinsed the stalks and whirled them in my salad spinner to remove the moisture, and except for the thyme, pulled the leaves from the main stems and arranged them one layer deep on baking sheets.

I checked the herbs for dryness about every 10 minutes, shuffling them about on the trays.

The catnip dried fast, as did the mint. The heavily textured leaves of sage needed to remain in the oven for more than an hour. The wiry stems of thyme were fiddley to deal with--I swirled the dried stems around in the bottom of a collander--which allowed the leaves and some of the finer stems to pass through.

As soon as I entered the kitchen with the basket of catnip I was mobbed by felines.

Teasel's performance last year was a reminder that it isn't wise to leave

a tray of catnip unguarded, even for a moment!

I bought tiny zip-lock plastic bags at the bulk foods store so I can make up packets of herbs

to share with family and friends.

I have more sage to dry as well as marjoram, apple mint and lemon balm---pleasant harvest tasks after the messier and more intensive labor of canning tomatoes and applesauce.