April Review

First strawberries from the commercial berry farm. 

I follow them on Facebook so that we can decide when to drive to the farm stand half an hour away. The stand opens about 8 a.m. and the berries quickly sell out. 

There was heavy rain on Tuesday [29th] evening and when I awoke Wednesday around 6 a.m. the meadow below the house was thick with fog. 

I considered getting out of bed, but there seemed no good reason, so I curled up with Rosie-cat under my arm. I was jolted awake later--that feeling that someone is looming nearby--I focused blearily on Jim who was demanding to know if I intended to go after berries.

I fumbled into yesterday's clothes, poured my half cup of morning coffee into a travel mug and stumbled out the door. 

Its a pretty drive of winding rural roads, past farms, crossroads churches and then a short distance on a main highway.

I felt anxious that we would be too late, but we wheeled in while there were still a few gallon buckets left on the wagon.

I set our bucketful on the console between us, carefully selecting and hulling berries one at a time--one for Jim, one for me. 

We detoured to take in the South Fork shops on the way home, stopping also to see if J's Troy Bilt tiller had been repaired. [Still waiting as the decision was made for a replacement engine]

I wandered happily about in my favorite garden center, spending my birthday gift certificate for two sturdy planting tubs. 

Howard is working on a job out of state so we drove to his place to check on his cats. Two of them were happy to see us--two, predictably, hid as though we might be dangerous intruders.

On to the nearby huge sprawl of greenhouses at Sunny Day where we encountered Mary, one of our Amish neighbors when we lived at the farm. 

I collected more plants for my tubs to go with those donated by Matt and Gina from their latest auction haul.

Finally I have two pots of calendulas!  Every spring I poke seed into trays, every spring I have to buy calendulas. I will undoubtedly buy seed and try again next year.

Nursery tomatoes and peppers earlier potted on and nurtured in my small greenhouse are ready to go into the garden. Two tomato varieties new to me, from Southern Seed Exchange have germinated quickly in plastic packs, likewise bush cucumbers and melons.

Jim has replanted his corn, grumbling that it didn't germinate, while I try not to smugly retort 'I told you the ground was too cold!" 

I finished the essay I was asked to write concerning my attendance at the Young School, the last one-room school in my home town to be closed. 

I began this project by clipping news items re the school, its teachers and pupils from 1920 through its closure in 1960. I used my subscription to newspapers.com for this. Not surprisingly for every 'hit' about the school I had to read the entire column of 'news notes' relating the joys and sorrows, the outings and tasks of the neighborhood. 

As I wrote I felt that my effort was taking on a tone of nostalgia, and yet--what else could it be with looking back so many years! My essay wound up at 11 pages, a highly personal look at the years of my education process.

I had some idea of sharing the writing here  in serial fashion, but perhaps not an idea that could work well.

My current writing project involves a diary kept in 1904 by a woman who lived her entire life in my home town. I've had the diary for perhaps 20 years, had read it previously. I feel it should be returned to the place from which it came, but with notes to identify the families and relationships mentioned. 

I admit to a [weird?] propensity for perusing old documents, census and vital records, peering at vintage maps while attempting to mentally recreate the town as it was more than a century ago. 

The names of these long-dead folks trip through my wakeful mind in the wee hours, their 'stories' more interesting to me than a novel. 

As a child I loved to listen to the tales of older people. I was 'the little mouse in the corner' gathering and storing up the memory crumbs of another generation--and to what good purpose?

As my grandson fondly remarked a while back, 'Meme, when you die, a lot of useless information will go with you!'

As I finish this April diary, the green darkness of rumbling thunder and spattering rain has moved in; the sage bush by the front steps, heavily in bloom, has splayed its branches beneath the onslaught. The small flowering plants tucked into the tubs yesterday are thus far holding up.

There is yet another hapless bird scrabbling in the stove pipe.

The temperature has plunged by 10 degrees and I think a mug of tea would be welcome.

Garden Sage

Duchess of Edinburgh

I noticed that the date and time setting on the camera had reverted to December.

I'm using a different Canon 'point and shoot'--one that Howard brought to me, discovered when he was sorting things. My older camera still takes the usual quality of photos but the contact point for the lead cable is worn and it has been an ongoing battle to transfer photos to the PC.

Pinks along the west retaining wall

May Apple

Spiderwort in the shady edge of the south ravine

 

April Diary

Today has been as nearly perfect a spring day as anyone could want.

52 F. as the sun was climbing above the barn roof, a slight breeze, pillowy white clouds in a calm blue sky.

I've just read through the scribbled notes I keep in the small space allotted for each day on my calendar.

 Each jotting serves as a record of what we have done in the house and outside, lists any outings we've made, tracks weather and temperatures. I've been saving these calendars for several years; sometimes they are a useful reminder when a date or event needs to be verified, prodding my memory of other events or happenings not elaborated upon.

When I began blogging in August, 2008, I created a post at least once a week, sometimes more often. 

These posts were usually written in what I would term a 'personal essay' style; words were carefully chosen, photos selected to enhance the 'story' I wanted to share.

Frequency of posting slacked off when blogger changed their format resulting [for many of us] in an unwelcome spate of vile comments that left me feeling sullied by seeing them only long enough to delete.

A habit once broken is difficult to resume and as days/weeks lengthened between blog entries I excused myself by thinking that perhaps my life in retirement wouldn't be of interest to readers. 

[Never mind that those bloggers I most enjoy following write to share the tasks and thoughts of their daily lives from one season to the next.]

I think I would benefit from keeping a weekly journal in blogger format, collecting the trivia of my days into something more easily reviewed than the abbreviated scrawls on the calendar.

I've procrastinated with learning to transfer photos from my iphone to PC or for use in messenger.

Perhaps I can find the patience to work around that.

Resolution made--but don't hold your breath!

Three pots of violas aka 'johnny-jump-ups' set out on March 28 are in colorful bloom. 

Each year these 'pop' seeds into the surrounding areas. As they 'jump up' in the following spring I carefully lift them from the gravel or a nearby pot with an old spoon and tuck them in to grow on with the latest nursey plants.

When hot weather sets in the little plants languish, but with cutting back and modest watering they will bloom again in autumn until hard frost.

Clematis Dr. Ruppel is blooming exuberantly.

Heirloom 'Candida' is always the first to bud and this year, in spite of frost warnings the early flowers were unblemished. 

Poppy, 'Lauren's Grape' has moved with us from one homeplace to another in Kentucky. 

I planted several varieties of 'papaver somniferum' in my first KY garden; although I collected seed heads from each, Lauren's Grape was the only one to reestablish.

Most years I begin noting the emergence of tiny poppy seedlings in late January or in February. By March several colonies are flourishing sturdily undeterred by frost or even a late snow.

This year I feared the poppies were lost. 

I found the first few ever so tiny and fragile, during the last week of March. I barricaded each little seedling with a ring of small stones, hedges of plastic cutlery--anything to protect them from the cats who have questionable uses for exposed garden soil.

As the season has progressed I'm finding more poppies. Some seeds landed in containers used for annuals; a few emerged outside the barn door sill, only to be washed away during one of the torrential rains which plagued the early days of April. Half a dozen have sprung up in the gravel just inside the barn.

Last year the volunteers that grew there were wiped out overnight by an invasion of hungry green cabbage worms. Perhaps a powdering of diatomaceous earth will discourage the caterpillars.

April 15th Jim planted potatoes and a short row of sweet corn--early for that, but sometimes it germinates and provides a meal or two before warmer weather sowings go in.

Matt donated cabbage and broccoli plants from his haul at the produce auction; those have been set out, some in the garden, others in the large black bins used as raised beds. He also bought a flat of beet seedlings, those are in and beet seed sprinkled in rows alongside.

We purchased tomato and green pepper starts at our favorite nursey and I transplanted those into larger pots to grow in the shelter of our little greenhouse until the soil in the garden is warmer. 

I insist on sunflowers every year, choosing those that are designated as 'dwarf.' Most of them grow as tall as standard varieties. They lean crazily, fall over in wind and rain storms, topple into Jim's plots of cucumbers, annoying him with their untidy ways.

When he tilled the garden he announced that there was a small strip designated for sunflowers, near--but not in--the proper garden. 

Tilling the garden, April 1st.

The sunflower seeds were planted in their allotted strip late yesterday afternoon. 

Jim has devised a way of dropping seeds without crawling on the ground and was pleased to demonstrate his new method. A length of 3/4 inch metal tubing is marched along the row and the seed dropped down the tube at intervals.

In other news, within the space of a week two bluebirds have gotten down the chimney. 

Elmo-the-eejit [pictured] and Thimble-the-kitten alerted us each time the bird scrabbled in the heavy stove pipe. After two days of this the first bird was discovered sitting on the inner ledge of the door when Jim opened it and he was able to gently grasp it and toss it from the front steps.

The 2nd bird [I'd like to think the first bird learned a lesson] didn't have as kindly a fate. It flew past Jim's head when he opened the stove door, fluttered toward a window and was snatched by Thimble who ran with it, pursued by Jim. It was several moments before he could catch her and when he took the bluebird from her it had died. He brought it out to the garden where I was working and showed me the little thing, limp and still, brightly blue in his gloved hand.

Such small deaths grieve us--and yet, Thimble-kitten was merely acting on catly instinct. 

Thus the April days have rolled by, marked by quotidian tasks that must always be done: care of the cats, meals prepared, laundry pegged on the back porch lines when weather permits, a daily walk if rain isn't pelting down; church on the weekend.

I have two research/writing projects on the go that need to be finished. Perhaps I'll share those by way of a record--both have a flavor of nostalgia, one deals with personal memories.

The thought of converting the projects to blog posts is a bit of a goad to finish!

 

Wind and Weather

I closed the front door, stepped out into the windy dusk. Behind me the house smelled of pan-grilled salmon overlaid fortunately, with the dark spiciness of molasses cookies cooling on the counter.

The heavy evening air held the reek of wild onion, that ubiquitous invader making itself known whenever the grass is mowed.

There is a hint of sweetness from the lilacs coming into bloom. 

[Lilac: the quintessential scent of my native New England in May, harbinger of April in Kentucky.]

The wind has blown in great gusts all day.

I went with Jim in the pickup truck this morning on a mission to look at something he'd seen on marketplace. Our route took us off the main highway into farming country. Tree branches flushed with the new green of emerging leaves swayed with each buffet of wind. Flowering redbuds tucked against hedgerows, wore their twisted and brittle branches in vivid defiance of the grey sky and swiftly scudding clouds.

Rounding  curves in the road the wind broad-sided the truck. A convoy of crows rose from a pasture, tacked into the gale, aimed for a straggle of trees behind a derelict and leaning barn.

Back at home the cats were restless. those with indoor/outdoor privileges couldn't decide where best to be, dashing out whenever the door was opened, sitting with flattened ears and ruffled fur waiting for readmittance. 

Thimble-the-kitten hovered while I mixed cookie dough, twined about my feet 'talking' to the salmon fillets as I placed them in the pan.

Determined to walk before dark I headed up the flank of the big meadow, trudged south along the eastern boundary line, turned westward bracing as the force of the wind blew my hair across my face. 

 Willis-the-cat joined me where the lane curves into our drive, plodded gamely behind as I strode through the gathering dusk. He paused with me to marvel at a colony of  redbuds, rosy in the twilight.

No sound of sleepy birds settling for the night, no barking of a distant dog, no sound of vehicles up on the road.

Nothing but the soughing of the wind.

Jim has checked the doplar map several times during the day and again this evening. I read the weather forecast cringing inwardly at the possibilities. 

The worst of the projected storms often bypasses us, but somewhere, perhaps not too far away, this night may bring damage and difficulties.

It will not be, I suspect, a night of restful sleep.

 

March: Going Out With A Bang

Wind and rain have stripped the blooms of hybrid magnolia 'Susan' strewing the petals through the wet grass.

So quickly we have moved from the white froth of Bradford pear trees in bloom to emerging leaves in tender spring green.

Where great swaths of wild daffodils gave an impression of golden light even on a cloudy day, now there are only the narrow blade-like leaves merging with roadside grass.

 In the space of a few days the strange flowering of the redbuds has added  color to the spring landscape.

Facebook memories inform me that the lashing rain and wind of the past several days, even the booming thunder and jagged lightning that ushered in the 31st of March are a typical pattern of our Kentucky springtime.

Sunday, March 30th: weather overcast and humid at 66 F. Brief sharp bursts of rain, sun wavering through strange greenly dark clouds, disappearing again as rain pattered down. Friends dropped by for an hour of stimulating conversation. As they prepared to leave, taking with them the heavy porch chairs that J. salvaged and refurbished, son HLW arrived with his dogs. 

It was raining again, the wind picking up. 

I made tea and we sprawled in the living room chairs, dogs flopped at our feet, Thimble-kitten showing off, wanting attention.

Later I worked at a history project shared by my sister in Vermont.

Weather warnings scrolled along the bottom of my PC screen; J. checked the doplar maps, declared that most of the forecast storm would pass to the west of us.

We settled the house for the night about 10:30, Thimble-kitten banished to the sunroom [otherwise she rackets about, torments the other cats, rattles in the kitchen, pushes things from flat surfaces to the floor.]

Having declared the weather to be non-threatening, J. turned off his bedside light. I settled myself for my nightly routine of reading, bolstered with pillows, until the book drops from my hands signaling [hopefully] a quick plunge into slumber.

An hour into reading, Rosie-cat curled contentedly on the bed, and suddenly a draft from the open window, a faint stirring of distant thunder, followed by tongues of lightning flickering across the night sky. Within moments a crash of thunder overhead shook the house.

Rosie-cat bolted from the foot of the bed; I padded around to lower the window, leaving a gap of an inch for fresh air.  I pulled down the blind to block the intrusive shafts of lightning.

No point now in laying aside the book, trying to fall asleep though the uproar!

For two hours the storm hovered, circling, retreating for a moment of quiet, then hurling down wind-lashed rain. 

Concentration on the book was failing; I prayed for family and friends in the path of the turbulence, thinking of falling branches, shingles torn from roofs, flooded basements. 

By 2 a.m. the storm had blown itself out, thunder rumbled into the distance leaving only a gentle patter of rain. 

This morning under a quiet grey sky the east meadow spread a carpet of green; the violas and pansies set into their pots by the front steps on Thursday seem to have doubled in height.

It is cooler and Jim built a fire, brought in more wood. 

He invited me to town for a belated birthday dinner; driving there and back we marveled, as we do every year, on how quickly the changes come about: the daffodils over for another year, fields and verges awash in the purple haze of dead nettle and henbit; 

We share our astonishment at becoming elderly--as the summers and winters have rolled past, so have the seasons of our shared lives.

We have this spring with its patterns of sun, shadow, wind and rain, falling petals and fresh new green.

 

Spring: The Uncertain Season

Early March and the first red buds on a maple.

First buds showing color on 'Jane' magnolia.

Two years ago I discovered this tiny clump of wild daffodils nestled at the edge of the south ravine, sheltered by a small understory beech. Although roadsides and meadow verges near us are strewn with daffs this is only the second small clump growing on our 20 acres. 

A spread of daffodils along the ridge road. Each year new ones crowd the pavement.

I followed the progress of the magnolia blossoms through the burst of warm weather that moved in during the 2nd week of March. 

We have noted the greening of the south-east meadow, the exuberant bloom of Bradford Pear trees around the county. They are brittle trees, and a stiff wind brings down their heavy branches. In past seasons I've admired a long avenue of them leading to a house set back from the main road; the trees  were pollarded last autumn and stand this spring stark and stubby, devoid of bloom. 

The tough-rooted mats of wild violets spread so profusely as to become nuisance plants. They cover the verges of the gravel lane, crowd into all the flower beds, run rampant in the mowed areas we call 'lawn.'

This spring the greenhouse floor is covered with them.

'Susan' [left] and 'Jane' [right] in all their spring glory on 18th March just before two days and nights of bitter winds swept through.

Clematis 'Candida' rushing the season--as usual.

27 F. at 7:30 this morning and the magnolias are frost-singed, their beauty spoiled.

There are still buds to open amongst the browning petals of the early bloom, but their season of glory was cut short.

 

Snow Day

The More It Snows

The more it snows (Tiddely pom),

The more it goes (Tiddely pom),

The more it goes (Tiddely pom),

On snowing.

And nobody knows (Tiddely pom),

How cold my toes (Tiddely pom),

How cold my toes (Tiddely pom),

Are growing.

~~A. A. Milne  (The House at Pooh Corner)

Note:  Pooh invents and sings this Outdoor Hum for Snowy Weather in The House at Pooh Corner (Chapter One, In Which A House Is Built at Pooh Corner for Eeyore). 

From Wikipedia: Alan Alexander Milne (18 January 1882 – 31 January 1956) was an English writer best known for his books about the teddy bear Winnie-the-Pooh, as well as children's poetry. Milne was primarily a playwright before the huge success of Winnie-the-Pooh overshadowed his previous work. He served as a lieutenant in the Royal Warwickshire Regiment in the First World War and as a captain in the Home Guard in the Second World War. Milne was the father of bookseller Christopher Robin Milne, upon whom the character Christopher Robin is based.

Milne stopped writing children's books, and especially about Winnie-the-Pooh, as he felt "amazement and disgust" over the immense fame his son was exposed to, and said that "I feel that the legal Christopher Robin has already had more publicity than I want for him. I do not want CR Milne to ever wish that his name were Charles Robert."

Milne's poems and stories were a staple of my childhood; I read from the battered books to my own children with the result that Gina and I can insert phrases from Winnie-the-Pooh into conversation, a sort of 'insider' language from a pre-Disney era. 

Was it perhaps the influence of these often read pieces that instilled my preference for an English, as opposed to thoroughly American, mode of expression? 

Having 'hummed' my way through morning chores and welcomed the noonday sun, I had best go downstairs to my sewing, having set the heat at a frugal 68 F. an hour ago.

When I opened the front door at 7:30 a.m. to usher Robert-cat into the morning, the snow-covered porch steps were etched with the evidence of early visitors, most likely the intrepid Titmice who swoop in to pick bits of kibble from the barn cats' tray.

I layered in hood, jacket, boots and gloves to wallow up the lane to the mailbox at 10:30. The wind was bitter and I quickly gave up any thought of coming back via the upper meadow track. 

Cat litter duties tended and back inside.

 Willis and Sally who have been lured from the porch to reconnoiter as far as the woodshed, stepping daintily on Jim's freshly swept path.

The 'woodpecker stump' lost its footing on February 8th during the season of heavy rain and wind.

I've not seen the pileated woodpeckers since, though a smaller Downy flits among the upper branches of the tulip poplars and hickories that line the north ravine. 

The bricks, cleared of snow, will soon provide warmth to furry bottoms.

Yesterday, in advance of the snow, robins bounced across the back field, bluebirds teetered on the power line. 

Today juncos, titmice and an assortment of sparrows swoop in, land and peck, rising in a cloud if I open the door yet are undeterred by the sleepy presence of the two barn cats. 

Willis and Sally, aided by Robert and his late brothers on their daily forays, quickly decimated the population of chipmunks, made inroads on the squirrel tribes, so it hasn't seemed fair to put out feeders.

A few hours of mid-afternoon sunshine before the sky reverted to cloudy.

Unlike the winter snows of remembered years in New England and Wyoming, in Kentucky a 'snow scene' such as this is short-lived.

Fine with me--I'm ready for spring!

Moving into February

Photo taken January 30 as rain moved in after several days of sunshine to round out a cold and cloudy month. 

Warmer temps and bright blue skies have not yet dried the squelchy ground left from a pounding deluge on the 31st.

The air this morning had a slightly different scent, not of spring, but with a promise of something milder and more hopeful than entrenched winter.

No wind stirred through leafless branches; there was a waiting stillness.

Midmorning a pale shaft of sunlight crept tentatively across the floor, retreating within moments.

When I walked to the mailbox at 2 the sky was sullen, a murky greyness hovering, an east wind sending chilly fingers beneath my hood.

Yesterday, in brilliant sunshine, wearing a tattered flannel shirt as an outer layer, I began pruning, a task usually undertaken in November, forestalled then by days of rain.

I began with the Knock-out Roses on the east retaining wall. These had a less than thriving summer of 2024; I hope I can encourage them this year. The ungainly sage was trimmed back, as was the mat of marjoram which has spread out of bounds.

The sun-warmth was encouraging  on my back when I moved to the west side of the house.

Willis-cat followed me there sprawling on a slab of rock, as usual perilously close to where I was wielding the pruning snippers.

I hacked away at the rose bushes, cut away a tangle of twiggy vines from clematis Jackmanii, noting the tiny stubs of new growth in the joints of brittle stems.

Lastly, with Willis shifting a bit nearer, I sat on the wooden curbing of the raised bed and snapped off  tall dry stems of monarda. Already there is a fragrant mat of tiny 'bee balm' plants hunkered down against the cold soil. 

Several trips to fling brush and twigs over the edge of the south ravine; a walk about the dooryard, tired by now and noting how very much 'wants done.' Line-dried laundry bundled in from the back porch, the bergamot scent of monarda clinging to my clothes and hair reminding me that a mug of Earl Grey would be welcomed. 

Jim, tired of winter confinement, welcomed the sun on January 27 by cutting down a damaged oak tree at the lower end of the property. 

This is the area where a former owner's house burned, badly scorching several of the nearby trees, compromising their longevity. Power poles and transmitters add to the need for careful precision in dropping a tree.

I approached carefully once the tree was horizontal.

You can see the slow rot undermining the oak.

Several more trees suffered similar wounds from the fire, including a hybrid magnolia. Looking at that one today I wonder how many more seasons it can survive and bloom as the main trunk is badly scarred.

After wrestling with stale gasoline in both chainsaw and wood splitter, the wood harvest has been reduced to conveniently sized 'chunks' and trucked up the lane to be stashed in the woodshed.

Willis and I, trudging the path along the edge of the meadow, have admired the work of the resident pileated woodpecker.

I crept around the edge of the shop/garage to take this zoom shot of the bird bashing away at the tree.

His woodworking was accomplished in a matter of days.

Willis, posing, slit-eyed at the base of the woodpecker tree.

With the last of the huge quilts bound and delivered I turned to a project long overdue--a set of placemats and mug mats [coasters] for daughter Gina who has a long love affair with vintage red and white kitchen accessories. I purchased the fabrics as a 'fat quarter bundle' while in Wyoming. You can see my efforts to make use of every last scrap. I was able to find similar red check and a cherry print to finish.

Mug mats.

Photo credit: Gina. She has a 'thing' about stains on pretty placemats, so they go under a clear vinyl tablecloth.

I can create the components, but haven't much of a gift for 'styling' or arranging.

That can safely be left in Gina's creative hands.

So, there is the record of life leading into February [the bits that are suitable for sharing!]

I've had a nibble of Wensleydale cranberry cheddar, crackers and still nursing a mug of tea as I type.

I turned on the heat downstairs an hour ago, so no excuses--Thimble-kitten and I will tackle the current sewing project.