Evenings Come Early

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!

The Winter Wood Supply

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.

Strange Autumn Flowering

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.

Autumnal Equinox

J. and I decided on Monday to drive to the next county to an apple orchard we had seen advertised.

It was an old orchard, family owned, and located on a spur of road off the main highway.

We had expected to pick our own apples--a prospect which lost its appeal as a chilly drizzle turned to bursts of hard rain.

The elderly proprietor of the orchard had several bins of ready picked apples in his sales shed and we opted to take a bushel of Red Delicious and a half bushel of Winesaps.

Our second destination was the Mennonite produce auction.  We were early [not having to pick our apples] so went up the road a mile or so to the bulk foods store for whole wheat flour and a few items to stock my baking supply cupboard.

Produce was being arranged on pallets on the auction floor when we returned.  Some of it is brought in from away, but as we watched, several local Mennonite farmers arrived in buggies, bringing small amounts of their home grown produce.

I was intrigued to note that one fellow came clanking down the road on his iron-wheeled tractor, a huge umbrella fixed in place to shelter him from the drizzle.

His wife huddled on the trailer, seated amidst crates of squash and pumpkins.  She wore a zipped sweatshirt with her sprigged calico dress and apron and had a headscarf over her requisite white cap---but

 she had no umbrella!

The flowers were sold first--mostly ranks of mums in every possible color.  I liked the flats of pansies with their rain-dampened faces.

A gnarled and bent old fellow with a leathery face wheeled in several dozen of these potted mums. They were lovely in their full-blown state, but wouldn't 'hold' long if bought for resale.

Peppers have been an abundant crop this year.  These red ones stood out on such a gloomy day. 

Most of the produce in this aisle went in lots--the highest bidder being allowed to declare how many boxes he wished to purchase.

I had J. buy me a single box of sweet banana peppers.

J. likes the pickled sweet peppers in sandwiches and I have bought them before ready made.

It was tedious removing the seeds and slicing these, but once that was done it was quick work to bottle and process them in brine.

This stand of tall Michaelmas daisies must have been planted years ago.

They fill the space between the old grape arbor and the clothesline.

The recent rains have weighted them down.

These are likely one of the many hybrids available.

In the northeast where I grew up, the wildlings along the roadsides are known as New England Asters.

I have noted that in different locations the color can vary from a blue-purple through a clear deep purple.  Traveling through Ohio years ago in September I found asters of a deep dusty pink growing in roadside clumps where the thru-way rolled through farming country.  I'm guessing that the type of soil may alter the coloration within related wild varieties.

Hawkeye Belle.

I wasn't expecting to be so taken with this hardy shrub rose.

It has continued to bloom in spite of heat and drought and invasions of Japanese beetles.

With the return of cool moist weather it is producing a steady show of lightly scented blooms.

Double Red Knock-Out is likewise proving her worth as a landscape rose that takes all weather in stride.

Nearly every local dooryard that has flowers has a hedge or speciman plant of these tough survivors.

Yellow Simplicity has also appreciated the recent rains.

Some of her foliage is looking tatty but the blooms still captivate me.

A red salamander on the rain-wet steps that go out and up from the basement level.

I was on litter box duty and nearly put my foot down on the sally, noticing it at the last moment.

September is my favorite month of the year. Where ever I have lived I have noted the week of the autumnal equinox, stirred to restlessness by the storms of wind and rain which so often accompany this season.

I am Christian in my belief and practice, yet have empathy with those who honor the turning of the seasons from a pagan's perspective.

I grew up in the country, well versed in the folklore of weather and seasons. My father and my Grampa Mac who lived next door were men who knew and noted the harbingers of seasonal change, hoarding the recollected wisdom of other years which informed their predictions of weather to come.

With the hay crop stored and the oats harvested and threshed, Grampa Mac spent sunny autumn afternoons digging potatoes, lifting the onions and spreading them on the newspaper covered porch floor to dry.

The wide door to the dirt floored cellar stood open while the potatoes were trundled to wooden bins in the cooler chamber beyond the wood furnace. Great chunks of maple, beech and elm

[Grampa pronounced it 'ell-um'] were ranked along the walls opposite the squatting furnace.

The big crocks which would once have held a winter supply of sauerkraut or dill pickles or salt pork, stood empty now save for a few spiders.  The few glass jars of currant jelly and ripe cucumber pickles produced by my Uncle Bill lined the wooden shelves of the small first floor entry to the cellar just above the

 crooked wooden staircase. 

I loved the nose-crinkling reek of the place--packed earth, the homely smell of potatoes and onions, the slightly sour tang of the firewood. It was a small-scale labyrinth of damp rock walls which jutted unevenly, of beams and the furnace duct work to bump the heads of those adults who forgot to bend low.

Grampa Mac grew pumpkins in the field corn rows which had to be harvested by hand before the corn could be cut and chopped for silage.  These were laid tenderly on horse blankets in the bed of the horse-drawn wagon which was left parked near the porch until Grampa had time to sort the pumpkins and take them down to the cellar shelves. He kept seed of winter squash [Hubbards] from year to year, throwing some each spring onto the richness of the horse manure pile, sowing a handful in hills at the bottom of the vegetable garden.  Over the years the squash plants had "crossed" and we never knew whether the squash rinds would be deep orange, blue grey or dark green, whether their skins would be warted or smooth. If a squash when baked proved to particularly 'meaty' and sweet the seeds were set  in an old tin in the warming cupboard of the wood kitchen range, to be saved when dry in a carefully labeled screw-top jar.

Autumn sobers me with rainy days that seep into the early twilight of a chilly night.  Autumn exhilerates with afternoons of such golden light and warmth that to stay indoors is unthinkable.

Delicate woodland flowers and the blowsy heady-scented blooms of the summer perennial border

have given way to the astringency of Michalemas daisies and goldenrod,

 the tannin of wet oak leaves, and the rich scents of ripeness which stops short of decay.

Misty mornings are tinged with wood smoke, a fire more to comfort than a necessity.  In New England we watched the sky, listened anxiously to the weather reports especially as the September moon waxed full.  Many a September twilight found me tucking old sheets and towels and tattered grain sacks around tomato plants and tender herbs hoping to extend the harvest for another few weeks.

Here in Kentucky I am wary, not yet well acquainted with warmer seasons, but alert to protect my fall plantings of vegetables.

If I could have my way, where-ever I have lived, the joys and the harvest labors of September would be extended, shrinking winter to a mere month or two of cold and darkness.

As it is, each of these fleeting autumn days is savored to the full, stored in memory like the apples and the squash and the bins of potatoes are stored in the cellar, to be taken out as sustanence during the weeks when the earth and my garden sleep.

A Hint of Blue

The weather is still overcast with brooding skies that suggest we've not seen the end of the welcome rain.

I was outside in my sturdy wellies and a warm 'hoodie' at 7 this morning--and considerably startled to see a young Black Angus bull [or maybe a steer?] plodding along the edge of the lower garden, which is open to the rest of our side pasture strip.

I blinked, stood staring, and decided the creature really was on our side of the boundary fence.

I considered the situation briefly, decided that if the bovine turned menacing the stretch of soggy ground between us would be in my favor.

I made shooing motions and sounds, the Angus pondered visibly, then began to amble up the fence line toward the woods, with me urging him along at a respectful distance.

The fence had sagged and he stepped over it, a back hoof twanging the wire. I watched him head for the rest of the neighboring herd, then continued on my way to the barn.

Pebbles the Horse hadn't missed this little byplay and was standing at the edge of her enclosure whickering indignantly.

I gave her the daily ration of grain she demands, kicked a pile of fragrant hay into place for her later snacks, poured out kibble for the barn cats.

Back outside I turned in a slow 360 degrees, eyeing the lowering sky from every angle.

It would take a more optimistic view than mine to declare that the bulging layers of cloud displayed more than the barest hint of slatey blue.

Bypasing the shortcut along the upper garden fence, I clumped along the old track past the clothesline.

Trumpet vine clambers over the woodpile and grasps its way up a crabapple tree near the path; just beyond, a bluebird house hangs, weathered and crinkle-roofed in a redbud tree, undisturbed since Haskell Rogers placed it there years ago.

The lapis blue of the little feather lying in the damp grass fairly shouted in the muted grey and  wet green of the morning.

A gold leaf glowed through the transparent barbs.

I pulled my camera from a deep pocket, snapped photos from several angles before gently lifting the feather for a closer look.

I placed it carefully back in the grass, then decided to claim it as a treasure, bringing it inside.

It is the habit of a lilfetime, this clutching and hoarding of found items.

My Grampa Mac fostered this bent when in childhood I returned from any foray into field or woods, my pockets stuffed with pebbles, clumps of moss, acorn caps, or with a fallen bird's nest cupped in my hand.

He set up a makeshift table on his front porch and invited  me to display my treasures there.

In each place I have lived, a jumble of small rocks crowd an old bowl, bird nests gather dust on a shelf; dried flowers sift from the pages of books.

I was well pleased with my glimpse of  blue on a dark wet day, but there was another gift in store.

Near the garden gate a butterfly flexed sapphire-dusted wings in the wet grass.

Sally the Barn Cat made a dash for it seconds after I snapped the picture.

I thought I had encountered a Black Swallowtail until I loaded the photo and realized some

research was needed.

This is a "red-spotted-purple" butterfly, formally labeled Limenitis Arthemis.

One of its preferred hosts is malus--so the gnarled appletrees of our back dooryard extend a welcome.

What's in a name?

I still count this as a sighting of 'something blue!'

A Long Rainy Day

Note the smoke of autumn's first fire!

Rain began on Sunday afternoon.

Heat and drought have continued for so many weeks that when the first cooling drops spattered down I felt I should pretend I didn't notice--brace myself for disappointment if once more the hoped for

 moisture passed us by.

It was quickly clear it had really set in to rain.

There was the odor of tired, dry earth and dusty foliage which always accompanies the first moments of  rain after long drought; then as the rain steadied and continued the scent of freshening leaves and reviving plants filled the air.

The temperature plummeted about 20 degrees by nightfall.

Thankfully we have not had the devastating deluge that so damaged my home state of Vermont over the previous weekend.

The rain comes down with a steady, moderate drumming, slacks off to a mizzle-drizzle, intensifies again and one can truly see the browned grass perking up, the green color restored literally overnight.

I woke early this morning, surrounded by snuggling cats.

I was up before six, bundled into warm clothes and my wellies, out to feed Pebbles and the barn kittens, clean the litter boxes.

These chores done, I walked down the road to check on the level of water in Big Creek.

The water was very low on Friday when Devin rode the 4-wheeler down for a look.

This morning it looked like a creek again rather than a dry expanse of shale, but certainly not in spate.

I trudged up the driveway, rain drizzling down my neck, sniffing the scents of rained-pummeled mint and southernwood as I neared the garden.

We've been piling scrap paper in the fireplace all summer.

There were  dry twigs still in the kindling basket which I arranged on the paper, went out to the woodshed for an armfull of slabs and a few small chunks of dry wood.

With the fire off to a good crackle, I hurried through a hot shower, and took my coffee in to my rocking chair, shaking my wet hair out to dry in the delightful warmth.

Matt and Gina's plot in our lower garden.  I think the turnip tops grew several inches in 24 hours!

I wrote several long overdue letters--wrote them by hand on pretty paper--dropped them at the Post Office,

drove into town to the bank, and then a stop at Goodwill.

The find of the day was a pair of pretty appliqued and quilted pillow shams for Gina.

G. being bored, is working at ORGANIZING my kitchen!

We are still sorting, culling, rearranging. There is no point in hanging on to all the items I had accumulated during the years of larger houses.

Many of my collectables have come from charity shops and such, so not a big investment, but still too much for what I need now.

Willis has exercised his house privileges today while the tortie girls, Sadie and Sally are, as usual ,content to prowl about the barns.

G. removed the antique wooden dough bowl which has rested on top of a run of kitchen cupboards.

Willis, who had recently appropriated it as a resting place, was obviously annoyed with G. for moving things.

He proceded to make a pest of himself, pacing along the top of the cupboards, plopping down to stroll the counters, and finally inserting himself onto a high shelf where he could oversee the work.

I have been renovating my clothes closet while G and Willis tended the kitchen.

Warm weather clothes sorted to the far end of the rack, jeans and cozy long sleeved tops refolded and  ready for cooler days.

All very domestic.

And suddenly I am more than ready to call it a day--almost 11 PM.

It is a night when a quilt is welcome on the bed; a night when I expect my tribe of cats will be cuddled close.

The Quirkiness of April Weather

This dooryard view was taken  Saturday morning and published in the photo section of our local online magazine.

It was a day of fiercely blue skies, the sun's warmth countered by brisk winds.

After lunch I pulled a chair into the most sheltered corner of the porch/carport and sat dreaming with a book of English cottage gardens open on my lap. When the breeze ruffled the pages I simply let my eyes roam over green grass, delicate new leaves and the sun-shimmered view of the Big Creek Valley.

I was outside on Sunday morning in time to hear the hoofbeats of one of the Amish horses pulling a family carriage along the road to meeting.  Pebbles gets very excited whenever a buggy goes by, trumpeting to the passing horse and dashing around her pasture.

This brilliant male cardinal was singing boisterously at the top of a dooryard maple.

The day was a "weather-breeder"--gusty winds that snapped the wash on the line, cloud shadows rushing overhead.  The cats were in a frenzy all day, dashing in and out of the open sliding door, zipping around their fenced play yard, swatting at each other, bristling at things the humans can't see.

I busied myself in the garage potting on tomato seedlings while J. contrived a cold frame from some salvaged windows.  Willis was most helpful and continually under foot. He dispatched a sizable grey rat which he left in the flower bed along-side the garage.  I scooped it up using a bit of paper towel in my gloved hand, and cremated it in the fireplace.

The cold frame taking shape.  The glass is so heavy it may have to be J. who will open it each morning.

Storm watch was posted warning of high winds, localized hail and thunderstorms.

By Sunday evening the light had that strange green tinge which prophecies storm.

I got more weeding done in the main perennial strip.  There are bare spots where plants failed last summer to flourish.  Several of them, delphiniums, Lady's mantle, digitalis--apparently don't like as much heat and humidity as last season provided. My new book on southern gardening will be a help as I decide what to plant---though so much of gardening anywhere is experimental.

Who would think that a space 6 x 10 ft could have so much dirt to be removed before the landscape fabric can be put down.

I got this much done in the evening twilight, hobbled indoors and declared my intention to hire Joseph to help me finish--when we've dried out again from today's heavy rain.

The brooding evening sky.  There were three jet trails--this one overhead and two along the western horizon.

I moved all the catnip plants in the rectangle of garden I'm re-working.

Unwilling to throw out the fresh green tops, I collected them in a basket which has been of great interest to several of the cats.  Here Mrs. Beasley reclines in a drugged state.

Monday morning before the rain and wind came on.

The air was humid and heavy, the birds were hiding, all was an expectant hush.

The tomato plants safely in the cold frame along with two big pots planted to muskmelon.

The leaden skies couldn't dull the beauty of the crab apple and the redbud.

When the rain and wind broke in mid-afternoon our world turned dark as dusk.

Branches thrashed, rain pummeled.

I sat by the east window with a book and two cats on my lap.

In little more than half an hour the fury had passed.