Late Winter: Marking Time

There has been a sameness to our recent days that hasn't invited blogging.

I'm not bored, mind you, but puttering away at quilt construction, the daily rounds of meals and chores, even the capricious weather, haven't sparked ideas that must be shared via an essay or two.

We've had gusty weather, rain blown in on wind, raw days that, while not below freezing, have had a cold bite to the air.

The sun slinks out on these days for a few minutes, then skulks back behind the piles of grey clouds.

The daffodils near the carport were lured unwisely into budding shortly after Christmas.

Half-opened buds have shivered, blighted, in the cold winds.

Several of the maples in the dooryard show reddened buds against the sky, as does the 'goat-willow' on the front lawn. I considered cutting a few branches to enjoy the silvery pussywillows indoors, then remembered that the cats would undoubtedly drag them from the vase and carry them all over the house.

A shaggy daffodil which has managed to open.

Buds in their nests of dried leaves.

A clump of iris poking up in the chilly earth.

Catnip is growing strong and green under the yellow rose.

I have a goodly stash yet of the dried herb, but the cats enjoy a fresh sprig snipped into bits on the dining area floor.

J. drove the car around on the back yard to wash it near the hose spigot.

Nellie decided he should help.

The three kittens--nearly cats--are possessed of an insatiable curiosity, the kind that makes me anxious for their safety.

Nothing inside or outside the house is undertaken that they aren't in the way.

The hose is twitching--Nellie wonders if it is alive.

Not surprisingly, when Nellie rushed in the back door a few minutes later, his long fur needed toweling.

Bobby, meanwhile, having helped with a variety of outdoor chores, has decided he's ready for a nap.

Both Bobby and Nellie have to have knots and tangles combed from their long fur.

Nellie doesn't mind--can you tell that Bobby doesn't appreciate my assistance with his grooming?

J. has finished a number of his restoration projects and goes about with the camera snapping pix.

The camera is dumped on my desk along with scribbled notes and instructions about posting various items for sale on craigslist.

It is not my favorite thing to do--surely not a difficult task, though sometimes time-consuming as I wait for photos to load.

I find I am reluctant to see the red truck offered for sale.

Do we have use for it?  Probably not--it belongs to the years of the construction business in Wyoming.

It was also the last of several diesel trucks which I regularly drove there, before J. decided that a small car would make more sense in terms of fuel costs.

J. had a spate of phone calls last week and men popping up in the dooryard to view various items.

These encounters seem to take a great deal of time beyond the actual transaction, if there is one.

I suspect that a good deal of autobiographical detail is exchanged, a certain
amount of what I call idle 'tire-kicking.'

Wheelin' and dealin' is a blood legacy for J. and his brothers, coming down from a long line of such recorded in the paternal family history.

It is a trait he passed to his own son, and seems to have trickled down to our grandson as well.

All this dealing and swapping leaves me a bit unsettled.

Time to retreat to my cozy fire and the current quilt-in-progress!