Seeds

Made it to the garden center for a lovely half hour choosing seeds with my gift certificate.  I worked in a green house during the transplanting season years ago.  Today the humid warmth in the hot houses and the scent of potting soil and tender green plants brought back pleasant memories.  I took time to walk along the paths which in a few months will be bordered with potted perennials and shrubs. Behind one of the hot houses were the peonies which had been potted up in the fall and then wintered over under a heap of wood shavings. They were uncovered to the warmth, but none had sprouted.  I looked at the tags and saw they were new varieties and I'm more interested in heirloom flowers.
Yes, QC, White Flower farms is the ultimate in wish books, and indeed, pricey.  Hopefully I can collect good plants a few at a time.  Will definitely try local sources [in KY] on-line as well as urseries I can visit.
I also bought today collapsable dog cages which can be used to transport the cats.  And cat litter--and cat food--and bottled water.
Space  in the vans is becoming tight and I have been warned I may have to part with or store some items.  How to choose?
Books, antiques, CATS, fabric and such have priority. The laptop is behaving annoyingly tonight.  Maybe its me--not sitting up straight and sort of leaning on the keyboard!

Why Is It Always Charlie?

Charlie gazes out from his favorite cardboard box. He has another which can be placed upside down and has a rounded "entrance."  If he goes in that one head first he thinks he is invisible--never mind that his fluffy plume of a tail and plump backside may be in view.

J. went to the the lumberyard yesterday for sheets of plywood to put down as subflooring in the attic space which is becoming a bedroom and bath.  Rather than carry the sheets through the house and maneuver them up the narrow new stairway he started the Sky Trak and used the lift to hoist the plywood to the recently installed gable end window where it could be handed through.  Grandson D. came down to help move the plywood, while I finished making lunch. Suddenly, over the grumble of the tractor outside, there was a crash.  I paid it little mind, thinking a sheet of plywood had landed a bit askew on the attic floor.

D. came in, headed in here and said, "Oh, Oh, somebody made a mess!"

I blamed Charlie, then felt guilty as I hadn't seen him dump the plant.

D. reported that Charlie had been watching intently through the window while the plywood was raised and unloaded from the lift.

"We heard a crash inside the room and then Charlie Disappeared" he added.

In the process of crashing the geranium, Charlie managed to overturn the water pot I keep under the bench to fill my steam iron.  Water puddled through scattered soil and around the smooth rocks I use to discourage the cats from pawing at the soil in plant containers. I hastily set the plant back in the dirt while we fetched a rag to mop up with, the broom and dustpan, and finally the vac. A stalk of the plant was broken, so I added it to the jar in which I am rooting similar "slips."

This is the same variety of  Robin Hood geranium as the one which was overturned.  The first of these plants was given to me more than 20 years ago by an elderly lady who had bought the variety decades earlier at the annual spring Flower Show in Boston, Massachusetts.  I treasure it because of my association with her, and because it is an interesting plant, always in flower. It has to be cut back frequently or it goes spindly.  Thus over the years, I've had many offspring to give away and enough rooted cuttings to be sure that I have several of these cheerful things thriving.

Charlie, who usually craves attention, was notably missing during the clean up process. After lunch I looked for him and found him cuddled under the bed with his daughter, Jemima.

As the afternoon grew colder, J. and D. prepared to move the Sky Trak back nearer to the garage--where the block heater can be plugged in for a few hours prior to starting it in the cold.

As the Sky Trak roared to life, Charlie emerged from under the bed, not being one to miss what goes on.

Charlie watches from the bedroom window.  No plants here on the sill.

Charlie inspires exasperation almost daily.  He is an affectionate extrovert, a meddler, not very bright.

[Although he did catch a mouse!]

The sun, which had been elusive all day, sank behind the foothills in a brief flare of pale gold, and our corner of the world huddled into another cold moonlit night.

Winter--Indoors and Out

Charlie and his son, Chester, were inspired to pose on the kitchen ledge this morning. I suppose it is warmer up there.

You would think they had planned a routine of well-choreographed movements.

Charlie lounges at the edge of the wall, gazing at something only he can see--a knot in the wood perhaps?  J. suggested a spider on the ceiling.

It warmed enough this afternoon that the icicles on the west porch roof began to drip.  I was intrigued by this tiny pillar of ice standing in the snow with the pock marks of dripping water all around.

Pebbles has made many paths from her feeding area down to the neighbor's lot. The smaller hoof prints may belong to the deer who patrol the lots.

I took this shot at about 3:20 PM.  Already the sun is sliding behind the foothills and a bank of cold clouds is moving in.  Our son lives on the other side of this mountain range, another thousand feet in elevation.  He phoned to say it has snowed nearly all day there.

In "my room" the sinking sun angles low under the porch roof and for a few moments glances in from the west high-lighting  the plants in the north window.

The paperwhites have had a growth spurt. I can see two flower buds tucked deep in the green spears of the tallest plants on the right side of the container.  The laggardly bulbs in the middle of the planter are content to sit there, alive and well but not shooting up like their companions.

Sweet Perfume

Flowers of Russian Olive

Red Clover


Pink and white clover

Milkweed

Russian Olive [elaegnus angustifolia] is now considered a weed, although not so many years ago it could be found in the pages of respectable nursery catalogs. This is from the Weed US database of plants invading natural areas in the United States. "Russian olive is a deciduous tree or shrub growing to 35 ft. (10.6 m) in height. Russian olive is easily recognized by the silvery, scaly underside of the leaves and slightly thorny stems. Leaves are alternate and 1/2 in. (1.3 cm) wide. Small, yellowish flowers or hard green to yellow fruits are abundant and occur on clusters near the stems in the spring and summer. Russian olive invades old fields, woodland edges, and other disturbed areas. It can form a dense shrub layer which displaces native species and closes open areas. Russian olive is native to Europe and western Asia and was introduced into North America in the late 1800s. Since then it has been widely planted for wildlife habitat, mine reclamation, and shelterbelts."

Russian Olive wouldn't be considered much of a tree in New England where we are accustomed to the splendour of oak, maple, beech; it is more along the line of scruffy shrubbery that still crowds the edges of dirt roads there and is routinely whacked down by road crews and fed into enormous and noisey "chippers." It is an untidy tree, but each year for about two weeks in late June and early July the sweet, clean scent of those insignificant yellow flowers carries on the wind and steals through every open window.

We have all had the unwelcome experience of being too closely confined with a person who moved in an aggressive cloud of scent, as though every atomizer on a perfume counter had been tested in one session. A more pleasurable moment is when we catch the faintest ghost of an essence which brings to mind a particular person. An elderly friend once told me that after her mother's death, it was months before she could give away her clothing. Opening that closet door released just a whiff of the familiar perfume and gave her comfort.

As teenagers, my girlfriends and I shopped the affordable aisles of Woolworth and at Christmas we exchanged the predictable little bottles of Evening in Paris and April Showers. Later we discovered the Avon Lady and her samples. A summer boyfriend once sent me a precious flask of Arpege at Christmas time. My husband presented me with a pricey gift which almost exactly echoed a once-favorite perfume which has long been unavailable. "I just liked it best of the ones I sniffed," was his explanation.

As I grow older I find myself wearing simpler scents--rose, lavender, sandalwood and vanilla. Perhaps these are the ones which remind me of old beloved gardens or walks in a meadow, bouquets of blossom in a McCoy vase or a tiny nosegay tucked into a delicate china teacup.