Did We Need A Kitten?

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"We don't need a kitten!"

Jim and I spoke almost in unison.

"Besides," I added reasonably, "We're old. A kitten might outlive us!"

Son Howard stopped by on his way home from a carpentry project, not an unusual happening on a Friday evening.  He was barely through the door when he launched into his discovery a few minutes earlier of an abandoned kitten. According to the disinterested remark by the proprietor of the convenience store at the corner of the main road, the kitten had been around for about a week, evidently dropped off by someone who didn't want it.

Our family is notoriously soft-hearted when it comes to needy dogs and cats.

Decidedly not feral, the kitten had run to Howard when he stepped out of his truck.

"Skin and bones! Dirty! Pitiful! How could anybody decent do that?"

A rhetorical query, of course.

Howard bought a tin of cat food, opened it and set it with the kitten in the shade, watched as the tiny creature gobbled the fishy-smelling pate.

After reiterating the tale of woe, Howard headed home, still muttering about the kind of people who could abandon a kitten to starve or be run over on the highway.

I tried to return to the article I was reading online. 

My thoughts instead dwelt on the homeless kitten and I felt a growing sense of guilt, even as I mentally reviewed the reasons why adopting another pet wasn't timely.

I don't suppose I was surprised when 10 minutes later Howard returned.

He had phoned home, he informed us, and been told that he couldn't leave a kitten to starve in the parking lot!

'You need to ride down with me to pick it up.'

I clambered into the truck with a feeling of resignation.

Que sera, sera.

Wheeling to a stop at the side of the store, Howard jumped out leaving the truck door open.

I sat, unmoving, watching, the three dogs in the back seat breathing heavily over my shoulder. 

The kitten ran, spindly-legged, to Howard; he scooped her up, reached across the console and dropped the tiny thing into my lap.

"I suppose Dad would be upset if you decide to keep it. I wouldn't want that."

The kitten, amber eyes huge in her bony face, crawled up my shirt, began a wheezy purr.

Jim turned from his desk when we barged through the door, the kitten clutched to my front.

I crossed wordlessly to the desk, held her out. 

He took her from me carefully, murmuring to her, sounds of shocked sympathy.

"She'll need to stay on the screened porch, away from the big cats, until she's been to the vet," I announced.

Leaving the kitten with Jim, giving Howard a thumbs up, I went off to collect a clean litter pan, a bowl of kibble, another one of fresh water.

We took turns visiting the kitten during the evening, watching her eat and drink until her sunken belly swelled.

Howard and Dawn rolled in the next afternoon bearing kitten supplies: a package of Purina's Pro Kitten Chow, 12 tins of wet food specially formulated for kittens.

The kitten, 'Thimble' was given a bath, tenderly wrapped in a towel and dried.

We marveled that she showed no signs of fear or wild struggle.

I wondered aloud if she could have been traveling with owners in a camper or motorhome, inadvertently lost when they might have stopped at the store for gas or supplies.

It would explain her easy way with humans.

We'll never know the back story.

Her condition, so thin and grubby suggested she had been on her own for too long.

Those first days, Thimble seemed all wide eyes, big ears, a purr that throbbed from her slight body.

I made two of the porch rockers cozy with fleece throws. Thimble often preferred the bare wooden rocker.

She had her first appointment at the vet clinic four days later. It was an expensive visit!

Ear mite treatment, de-wormer, topical application of a substance meant to banish fleas and nits.

Feline leukemia vaccination; a course of meds for respiratory issues.

Clean, eating well, Thimble moved into the house with the other cats.

She followed me everywhere, rummaged in the basket of music sheets, scaled my desk, flinging items onto the floor. She took to stalking the big cats, prancing sideways, smacking with a tiny paw.

Predictably, the established residents were indignant!

We make beds.

Draped on the back of the lodgepole rocking chair. 

This is a favorite place to nap, allowing for monitoring of the front door.

Newspaper saved for winter fire starting, is great for shredding.

A small vase of late-blooming flowers on the dining table invites being over turned creating a flood, preferably in the hours just past midnight.

Humans are a useful perch.

Growing is hard work, frequent naps are needed, preferably in the daytime.

Lights out is the signal for a rampage. 

Rosie, accustomed to curling up next to me for the night, is assaulted, leaps caterwalling from the bed, pursued by Thimble. Small items, a twig from the kindling basket, a pen on the desk, even a pod of okra tweaked from a bowl on the kitchen counter--anything that can be rolled, poked, skittered about is welcomed as a nocturnal plaything. 

After an hour of this one of us inevitably thumps out of bed, turns on lights, corners Thimble and escorts her to the screened porch. When we walk into the main room in the morning, there she is, paws tapping the window, pink mouth opening and shutting in beseeching meows.

On her better behaved evenings Thimble clears my bed of other cats, deposits herself on the book I'm reading. I'm a light sleeper at best and often wake to find that Thimble has cozied herself onto the pillow above my head, paws gently rearranging my braided hair.  At such times she purrs charmingly, subsides again into slumber, snoring lightly.

Thimble is the naughtiest kitten we can recall ever having. 

As she grows her body type is that of a Siamese, long, sinuous, tight-furred.

Her imagination, intelligence and interest are unbounded. 

She is constantly underfoot--hurtling down the staircase when I'm picking my way down with a basket of laundry. 

If I open the piano to practice, she crashes onto the keyboard. She is fascinated by the sewing machine, by my various sewing tools. 

We returned from church last week to find that Thimble had pulled a large tray of thread spools from the big open cupboard in my downstairs sewing area. Spools of all sizes rolled about, some unreeling yards of tangled thread. With 'help' from Thimble and Rosie I collected the spools and dumped them into a lidded plastic box. Today, following a trail of thread from the staircase, around the counter, behind the ironing board, I ran yet another spool to earth behind a covered bin which stores quilt backing fabric.

Thimble now weighs 5 pounds. 

She had her booster vaccination in September, after the blood test for feline leukemia read negative.

She is booked in for spaying on November 6. 

Did we need a Kitten?

Did we need a boisterous, rambunctious, rummaging kitten?

Did we need a kitten who clamors to be picked up, to be held and stroked? 

Perhaps we didn't, but Thimble needed us.

I tell her its a good thing we love her!

Perhaps--in the midst of life's perplexities and looming uncertainties--perhaps, we needed  a kitten!

Helping Jim with the screened porch renovation.

Off limits today as the screen and railings have come down.

 

Naming The Trees

It is largely due to my Grampa Mac that I can identify the most common trees--maple, oak, shag-bark hickory, white birch, beech. These were the species that grew in the woods and along the hedgerows in my native Vermont. When it comes to more specific recognition--white oak, red oak, sugar maple, soft/swamp maple--I falter.

I came to know individual trees; the towering ancient maples that stood either side of the gravel driveway at Grampa's farm next door, trees from which dangled swings made with stout rope and sturdy plank seats.

There were graceful elms bordering each side of the dirt road, elms that even in my childhood were doomed by Dutch Elm disease.  The lone elm standing in the middle of the east meadow drew the attention of both amateur and professional photographers and artists. It survived for decades, long after others had toppled.

I knew the stand of shag-bark hickory that crowned the little ridge across the brook, the old butternut tree below the spring.

Each autumn I walked the rutted track that ran through the woods beneath a canopy of flaming maple and mellow golden beech.

When Jim and I married we lived for a number of years at the farm his parents had owned.

The dooryard there was dominated by catalpas with their fragrant spring blossoms and later clusters of hanging seed pods. We cherished the twisted Wolf River apple trees in the pasture beyond the pond, tolerated the thorny locust whose slender twiggy branches scratched at the side of the house in a storm.

Many of those New England species and their close relatives have appeared like familiar friends in our adopted Kentucky landscape. Others such as the towering magnolia, the sweet gum and the venerable 

Old-Timey pear at our first Kentucky property were new acquaintances.

At our current [dare I hope, final?] homeplace wooded ravines slope along the north and south boundaries. Trees are crowded, stretching skyward for available sunlight. Hickory abounds, as does tulip poplar, sycamore with its textured seedballs, spindly dogwoods and redbuds that disappear into summer anonymity when their spring bloom has faded.

I have been intrigued by a handsome tree which I couldn't name; not a huge tree, but shapely and eye-catching, standing solitary near the head of the gravel lane that connects us to the blacktop road.

Walking to and from the mailbox I notice this tree from the first hint of new leaves, the full green of summer, and now the brilliant red-orange shimmer that will soon give way to a stark winter silhouette. 

More recently I've discovered others of the same type, though less well grown, tucked into the east boundary hedgerow.

Several days ago a retired forester posted photos in the local online gazette of a glowing sassafras he had spotted. Cautiously excited, I googled 'sassafras' and found more photos, descriptions.

Of particular interest is the fact that a sassafras tree wears three distinctive shapes of leaves: a slender oval, a thumbed 'mitten' shape, a three-lobed leaf. 

Carrying my old Canon camera I strolled along the east boundary fence, snapping photos of smaller sassafras trees, then up the lane to the regal example decked out in its autumn glory of red-gold.

Learning the identity of  trees, being able to recognize and name them, is likely a bit of knowledge to be stored away as only of use or interest to myself.

Visual landscapes change with time; trees are cut down or succumb to wind storms, brutal winters, insect infestations. 

Those two sturdy maples from which dangled the swings of my childhood are long gone, as are the fence line elms which gave my grandfather's farm its name, 'Elm Row Farm.' 

The hollow-trunked Old Timey Pear has been removed from the Gradyville pasture by a subsequent owner.

In this place and in this time I look each morning from my bedroom window to enjoy the now familiar view of the tallest hickory; in summer I can follow the zooming flights of resident hummingbirds from the feeders on the porch eaves to their favorite refuge in the tulip poplar or sycamore. I know where to watch for the first flush of exuberant pink on the spindly redbuds and the froth of white on the dogwoods.

And now, trudging up the lane in all seasons I can name the sassafras tree.

The sassafras tree near the head of the lane.

Sassafras along the east boundary fence.

Glow of sassafras leaves with backdrop of the neighbor's pond and pasture.

Varied shapes of sassafras leaves.

Three-lobed sassafras leaf in red; below in yellow-gold.

 Papery seed heads of tulip poplar against October blue sky.

The sky has darkened this afternoon, wind has stirred the trees, leaves have whirled to the ground.

This evening rain has fallen, the first in the entire month of October.

As we turn the calendar page to November and the wheel of the seasons edges toward winter, I'll walk beneath bare branches marveling at their tracery against the sky, waiting for the return of leaf and bud. 

 

Mid-October Light

During the weeks following the summer solstice, dwindling day length is scarcely noticeable. 

Mid-August I become aware that the sun is lurking somewhere at the edge of the north-east boundary before appearing around the barn to spread a pattern of morning light through the east windows. It is still summer, hot, humid, heat and light with us through the evening.

By September the turning of the earth, the lingering morning dew, the exhaustion of the garden, announce change that can't be ignored.

As we approach the mid-point of October the chilly mornings and evenings, the lowered path of the sun remind us that we will soon be on the cusp of winter. 

I canned tomatoes today, getting down to it at nearly noon. [Sadly, not tomatoes from our own garden harvest, but good ones that Matt acquired at one of the local produce auctions.]

Only about half of the two cartons were ready to process--7 qts--so the project will be ongoing this week.

Jim brought in an old folding table to set up in the sunroom; I covered it in newspaper and carefully spread the remaining tomatoes in rows to gently ripen.

It was a day of scudding clouds, mostly sunny, but with a cold wind.

Pegging cotton sheets on the back porch lines, the wind snapped and pulled, billowing the fabric above my head and chilling my fingers.

Tidying the kitchen after the tomato project I admired the slanting late afternoon light, quickly gathered in the now dry sheets, went back outside with my camera.

Light and shade along the north edge of the ravine.

Another view to north and west. 

The hickory trees are turning rusty gold, but the branches are bare of hickory nuts. 

There have been blooms on clematis 'Dr. Ruppell'--this one lacks the distinctive white stripes.

Jackmanii, badly in need of pruning, sports a few blossoms swinging in the wind.

The white clematis, nameless.

Seedheads of clematis Candida clinging to the old fence.

J. suggested we walk the meadow loop at dusk. The wind had dropped and the light was fading. The tang of woodsmoke from our chimney floated on the crisp air; the three-quarter moon was already riding the sky. Fallen leaves scuffed underfoot; beneath the hickories the nubs of last year's nuts still crunch beneath our shoes.

Self-sown zinnias still blooming in the wild tangle of the west garden.

The rescued white buddleia in its third summer. Will it survive another winter?

Nasturtiums are among the first flowers to feel the frost. 

These were late starters.

A tangle of nasturtiums, propped with sticks in the old pot by the greenhouse door.

October--autumn at its best--with the lingering reminders of summer--and the hint of winter to come. 

 

Perfect October Weather

The turning of the calendar page to October brought an end to the days of intermittent rain, wind and fog that were our relatively mild share of Hurricane Helene.

Mornings have been cool, the temps hovering just above or below 60 F. Heavy dew clings to the grass until well after the sun comes round. Almost daily I forget this and make my morning ventures out with cat litter or to trudge around the meadow, coming in with the toes of my shoes wet through. 

It is 'two shirt' weather--at either end of the day there is noticeable autumn chill; by noon, walking or working in bright sun, the top shirt or jacket is shed.

The nearly perfect weather has been a blessing as we've had visiting family, Jim's twin brother and wife, their younger son with his wife and daughter. I created a meal to welcome them on their arrival: a hearty curried lentil/vegetable soup, freshly baked bread, apple pie, lemon meringue pie. After that we ate our main meals at various local venues with whatever of the area family could join us. 

It was a good time, a blending of nostalgia, remembering events and people from many years ago, as well as thoroughly enjoying pleasant 'now' day trips and 'in person' conversations.

I was running out of energy by Monday evening and my feet hurt. J. and C. wanted to visit The Ark Encounter and then spend Tuesday night in a motel near the airport to facilitate their early morning flight home.

Jim and I toured the 'Ark' several years ago--a two hour drive each way-- and opted not to go again.

Inevitably Tuesday brought a slight sense of let down [and for me, fatigue] after so much 'out and about.'

We puttered at small homely tasks on Tuesday, picking up the threads of what has become a rather unstructured routine. Tired or not, I knew I needed to keep moving.

The bright blue weather drew me outside, not yet ready to go on with fall pruning and tidying, 

In late afternoon I headed along the path we've worn where the lower meadow tips into the wooded edge of the north ravine. The grass had dried, a light breeze riffled through the trees, stirred the leaves blown down and already curling crackling brown. 

Suddenly above the shuffle of my shoes through the leaves I heard it.

'Whooo cooks for yoooo?'

I stood still, thinking that my faulty hearing had tricked me.

The call came again from deep in the ravine, the voice of a barred owl.

Why,  I pondered, was an owl calling in daylight? 

When I've heard barred owl conversations previously it has most often been at dusk, or a few times in the grey moments before sunrise.

Walking quietly along the path I heard an answering owlish voice, nearer, from the trees behind the old shed. 

For a month on fine days we've heard the snarl of a chainsaw as logging continues on property that lies below our 20 acres. Perhaps the owls have lost favorite trees or are agitated by the growling saws and the crashing down of timber.

Prior to the days of storm I began noticing the tips of oak branches littering the ground almost as though they had been snipped off. The ground underneath the oaks has been strewn with green acorns, the resident squirrels so busy in their gathering that several times I've walked within a few yards of their bustling activity before I was noticed. 

Three hen turkeys are spotted strolling about nearly every day. I suspect they too are enjoying the nuts.

Strangely, there is no evidence of a hickory nut crop this season after the thousands that dropped onto the meadow verges last year. 

The usual deer haven't been much in evidence during the summer; the resident foxes disappeared after our second year on the property.

Changes--subtle or sudden--following an expected pattern of the seasons or sometimes, taking us by surprise.

 

"As Seasons Come and Go"

Sprawling self-sown zinnias in the wild garden.

A look at the weather forecast for the coming week promises no relief from heat for several more days. It was 90 F. at 5 p.m. when I stepped out the front door thinking to walk at least part way around the loop path.

The blast of heat quickly discouraged that plan.

I walked the lower part of the loop repeatedly on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, along the edge of the south ravine to where the land falls steeply away near the end of our property. 

Elmo-cat was badly frighted on Wednesday by the dogs rushing at him. 

He bolted into the underbrush and though J. and I called and searched for him, he didn't reappear until near dusk on Friday after Jim, booted and carrying a stout walking stick, slid and scrambled down into the ravine and made the thorny circuit calling his cat. The theory is that Elmo ran dementedly from the dogs, hid for several days in a massive brush pile, feeling lost. Apparently he crept out and realized he could find his way home on hearing 'his master's voice' at close range.

He sauntered in at dusk, less than an hour after Jim patrolled and called.

He has not ventured outside today, being quite clingy.

Elmo is also known as 'the orange eejit' which describes his personality and quirky brand of what passes for intelligence.

We are all grateful for his reappearance.

I took my old Canon camera with me on several of my rounds, wanting to record the shaggy autumn wildflowers that grow beyond the mown path.

I've begun clearing the tired annuals from the pots and planters ranged near the front door. 

From a little distance the zinnias, French marigolds, blue salvia, have remained colorful; the dry September heat has left them browned and straggling, too rootbound to be revived by daily watering.

M. and G. presented me with two huge mums in a rich shade of rose/purple. I moved those into two of the larger tubs vacated by the annuals. The leaning zinnias have been dropping seeds into the gravel of the front area where they will likely pop up in the spring.

Autumn has always been my favorite season, too brief in my native New England and barely a breath between summer and the long winters of Wyoming.

Here in south-central Kentucky summer is a very long season which absorbs much of September. 

The land is still green overall, yet the signs of fall are with us, The tulip poplars that line the ravines along with sycamore and hickory are the first to begin letting go of their leaves. The fallen leaves are wet with heavy dew early in the morning, but dry to crispness in the heat of afternoon.

The oaks near the small barn we call the 'snake shed' have been dropping green acorns. The resident squirrels have been busy gathering and stashing. Several times I have gotten within a few yards of one so busy scrabbling in the turf to bury a treasure that he/she didn't notice me. 

The night of the full harvest moon was overcast, but for several evenings surrounding that event the moon rose huge and glowing.

I never sleep soundly during the phase of the waxing moon; my bedroom curtains are drawn aside and as the hours pass the light of the moon spills across my pillow, waking me from restless slumber. 

Our hummingbird visitors have diminished in number. I can be certain of only three and they seem more interested in the wildflowers than in the one syrup feeder still dangling from the screened porch overhang. 

I went out this morning to the untidy tangle of my wild garden wearing a bright coral long T-shirt garment in which I had slept. As I clipped a few buds from 'The Poet's Wife' a hummer whirred behind me in the branches of the white buddleia. Suddenly it zoomed toward me, buzzing off only when it realized I wasn't a huge and brightly flowered bush!

Daylight hours have noticeably diminished; there is a fog-streaked coolness at dawn, although the air has not yet attained the crisp wood smoke tinged scent that is the essence of autumn.

'Wars and rumors of wars,' madness and mayhem, the febrile rantings of politicians and would-be leaders.

Kentucky has been rocked this month by a madman who rained bullets down on passing cars from his perch on a cliff overlooking the highway before putting a gun to his own head.

There has been the fatal shooting of a young deputy sheriff in the next town; the murder of a judge in a rural county seat east of here; local schools shut down due to a bomb threat cited by kids who when caught out insisted it was a 'joke.'

It is sobering, scary even, to reflect that we can be unwittingly caught in the chaos which sometimes erupts around us. 

And yet--tomorrow I will quietly take note of the autumnal equinox; I'll begin listening for the cronking calls of the sandhill cranes as they head for winter quarters on the North Platte; I hope I'll be outside to witness the V formations of wild geese on their fall pilgrimage. 

I'll keep a syrup feeder replenished until I'm sure the last hummingbird has left. 

I'll trudge along the meadow loop, picking up the feathers dropped by the three wild turkeys that daily parade the property.

There is comfort in knowing that whatever is wrong in the world--in my own tiny sphere or in the vastness of places that are only shapes on the map--the earth continues to revolve, the sun and moon take their daily paths, marking the seasons that quietly and come and go.

Purple ironweed, vernonia.

Goldenrod--of which there are more varieties than I can correctly label. I'm guessing this is Canada goldenrod, solidago canadensis.

What is this colorful stick-like insect?

An internet search suggests this is 'bluestem goldenrod' solidago caesia. 

I went back to look closely at the stems which I would describe as a dull olive green.

Wild ageratum is a froth of lavender/blue often with jewelweed just beyond in the shade.

White Snakeroot.

Maple leaves littering the rough grass at the bend in the lane where our land adjoins that of the neighbors. 

Photo taken as I walked out to the mailbox in the relative cool of the evening.

Coming back from the mailbox facing the last light of the setting sun.