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.

 

Weather Report and A [Lengthy] Quilt Update

I woke at half past 5 this morning, rearranged pillows, nudged a cat or two from the place where my feet wanted to be. Another hour of sleep crept up on me before the room took on the grey light of pre-dawn. By 7:15 a tinge of faint orange-red was beginning to stain the eastern horizon and the digital thermometer indicated a freezing 3 F. The sun did fully emerge, which was cheering, but didn't encourage much warmth.

I had a chiropractor appointment in town and an errand to get the latest finished quilt on its way to the owner. Jim decided to go along as driver--which meant he was designated to get out in the cold and fuel up the car.

He took care of his errand at Tractor Supply Co. while I lay on the chiropractor's table. Quilt delivered, then into Wal Mart with a short list of items needed: fresh veg for salads, tins of tuna for humans, tinned food for the cats, with the usual hovering over the shelves wondering which assortment would appeal to the majority of the tribe. 

Thimble-kitten gobbles any variety on offer, others may turn up scornful noses at 'dinners' labeled 'mixed grill' or 'seafood platter.' 

Within about 5 minutes of entering Wal Mart I don't want to be there. I walk as fast as I can, headed purposefully for the items on my list. Jim decided to push the shopping cart and plodded behind me with a vaguely unhappy face. He insists on using the self checkout stands while, as a rule, I impatiently wait in line for a human checker.

The self check device today was balky--rang up several items twice, refused to scan others. We solicited the help of the clerk designated for that job. A pleasant soul, bundled in a hooded jacket, standing by with her little key to over-ride the scanner's miscalculations. She smiled apologetically, displaying blackened and broken teeth. 'The machines just do this some days,' she explained.

Home through the sun-glittered early afternoon; home to the warmth and scent of the woodfire and the thronging welcome of the cats. 

I concocted a chicken/veg/barley soup. I am usually a great soup maker, but this one seemed 'off' in some way that I couldn't identify. We each ate a bowl full, but I took the rest out for the barn cats.

There is a new visitor these last cold days, a grey and white cat, not thin or bedraggled, but obviously skittish. I suppose it is another semi-feral Tom. If I give it a name does that mean it will feel welcome to return? The huge tabby we call 'Herman' has been visiting for nearly three years, still dashes away when we come near. He stands glowering at me from the foot of the steps or behind the tubs which in summer hold flowering plants. 

'You eat my food,' I tell him; 'You think nothing of spraying the doorposts! A bit of gratitude wouldn't go amiss!'

I made myself bundle up and trudge once around the meadow loop. There was little wind but the cold was invasive. I pulled my scarf over my face--which made my glasses fog. Chuffing back up from the lower slope of meadow I listened to the squeaky crunch of snow under my boots. I stomped my feet on the rug outside the back door, was startled to find that when I stepped onto the polished concrete floor inside my feet slid as though on ice.

8:15 P.M. and 9 degrees F as I write. The next 36 hours are meant to be our coldest with a slight warming trend by Wednesday. 

Those who know that we spent most of our lives in Vermont before a 12 year adventure in Wyoming often remark, 'You don't mind this cold, do you? After all, you must have gotten used to it!'

We do mind it, but also remind ourselves that we aren't dealing with frozen water pipes in an old house, or the need to get a recalcitrant vehicle started in a timely way to head for work. 

We did note today the incongruity of the garden seed racks lining several aisles in Wal Mart! 

Gardeners are always optimistic, ready for the next season.

Lemon verbena that spends summers on the back porch. I pruned it hard when it was brought inside in early November. Twiggy new growth leans into the light of the south window.

The west porch room became too cold for plants, so rosemarys and geraniums are crowded on a table in the middle sunroom. A beefsteak begonia has blossomed and the ungainly Norfolk Island Pine towers in the corner.

A zoom shot from the horizontal north window high on the main floor bathroom wall. The Flicker is a frequent visitor.

Thimble-kitten on the windowsill behind my bed. I tried to get a better photo of the Rail Fence quilt, which meant that Thimble wanted to 'help.'

I did enjoy working with the strips of favorite fabrics during the long winter of covid shut downs.

As each 6 inch unit was trimmed and assembled into a 12 inch 4-patch block, it was layered with a square of batting and backing, using scraps left from other quilts. I was inspired to try 'quilt-as-you-go' free motion quilting. I muddled through 14 of 49 blocks, put them away. When I determined this fall that I would finish the project I used masking tape to guide a double diagonal 'X'.

This is the free-hand leaf design that I attempted.

Attempts at 'cinnamon roll' swirls. Perhaps had I persevered I could have achieved something passable if not artistic, but the idea of struggling with the remaining blocks was too daunting. I watched you tube demonstrations for various ways of joining the quilted blocks. Having already layered blocks, batting and backing there was too much bulk in the joining seams to work as neatly as I would have liked. Applying the horizontal covering strips was laborious.

By whatever method one chooses, at some point there comes the task of pushing a large wodge of bulky material through the machine. I found it impossible to achieve perfectly straight seams.

When finished, I spent some time considering what a much better quilt I could have made by joining the rows in the conventional way and waiting until such time as I could deliver it for proper machine quilting.

However, it is on my bed, it is colorful, it is warm. 

Devin's quilt, 16 inch blocks utilizing previously made Sawtooth Stars.

Photos of the finished [quilted] piece are on my phone and I've been too lazy to attempt posting from that device. I name my quilts. This one is 'Staggering Stars.'

'Heart To Heart'

Kristin's quilt, binding done last evening and delivered to a friend today who will, in turn, hand over to K.  These two [huge] quilts were a departure from the traditional designs that usually inspire me. 

Janet, who does my machine quilting, worked an allover design of loopy heart shapes. 

Friend Jennie in Wales shared a photo of a block she is exploring. It intrigued me, so I drafted it as a 9 inch [finished] Ohio Star variation and pulled out some fabric that has been waiting for just the right project. After sketching, measuring, cutting, I had time to construct two blocks, picking apart two of the corner units twice[!] before I got it right. 

My brain does NOT do mirror imaging. I have to lay the whole block out in units beside the sewing machine, carefully pick up the little pieces and stitch them. It shouldn't be possible to turn them the wrong way between the table and the sewing machine-but I can do it!

Also a work in progress, 'Aunt Sukey's Choice' using Moda fabrics from my stash.

Last evening I watched an older video from Kate of The Last Homely House, in which she mentioned having 9 projects 'on the go.'

I usually have three, as well as pondering others, but more than that would be frustrating, mind boggling.

There's the saying among quilters, 'She who dies with the most fabric, wins.' 

I don't want to be the winner, so I keep at it!

Finally:  you may recall that we refused to buy an oil lamp priced at $45. Today, wheeling madly through Wal Mart, we came upon a display of oil lamps and bottles designated as lamp oil. $15 for the lamp, a few dollars for the jug of 'oil' 

Jim has filled this one and stashed it on a high shelf in the pantry, ready for the next power outage.

I'm trying not to think of Thimble-kitten exploring the lighted lamp only to singe her whiskers, break the chimney or set the house afire.