Things I Love

Being at Home

Church where I grew up

Peonies

Cat feet--Teasel's stripey stockings

Autumn in New England

I had the bright idea that I could draft several postings and "publish" them while on the road with husband. Our leave taking was a day earlier than planned, so these are some photos very hastily loaded while he was having the car serviced.

The idea of "favorite things" is hardly original, but the practice of observing and holding a close connection with things which delight me has been a sustaining practice for most of my life. I have likely been blessed [or cursed] with the kind of mind and memory which stores up a variety of images, words, tunes and impressions. That gift was nurtured by a number of people in my childhood. My grandfather, who knew the ways of weather and seasons; who set up an old table on the front porch where I could lay out my little finds from meadow and woods, there to marvel over birds' nests or bits of moss and such until they crumbled away. My father, who always knew where to find the first pussywillows of spring, who would phone me when I was grown to ask if I had heard the first hesitant croaks of the "peepers" as they emerged on an April evening. From my mother came the love of words, a turn of phrase, the beauty of melody.

My list of treasures is long---the warmth of a mug of tea between chilly fingers, the grain of old wood, the way a beam of sunlight falls across the floor in a particular room, the sound of a cat purring--so many others.

Life's troubles and sorrows are none the less for this habit of delighting in little oddities, but they have become a bulwark and a consolation amid so many variables which are beyond my control or understanding.

Sunflowers

Sunflowers blown flat by the wind in the backyard of our former house.

In bud


First of the season

Standing proudly in the weeds

"As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets,

The same look which she turned when he rose."

My grandfather always planted a few sunflowers along the edge of the vegetable garden, near the fence so that if they grew too towering they could be tied up with baler twine to finish their season upright. When frosty weather arrived the sunflower heads were harvested along with the squash and pumpkins and were hung upside down to finish drying in the shelter of the porch roof. The striped black and grey seeds provided a winter treat for bluejays and other hardy birds.

I continued the tradition of planting sunflowers in my own garden, experimenting with newer dwarf hybrids which produced branching sprays of flowers in wonderful deep burgandy or bronzey shades. In late summer when many of the perennials were past their early beauty, the small sunflowers became a vibrant bouquet tucked into a wide green McCoy vase.

In much of the midwest sunflowers are a cultivated crop. I have ridden past fields of them in Kansas and Nebraska just before harvest. In Wyoming, small headed, slender branching sunflowers are a native plant. They grow and bloom in spite of wind and drought.

The first home we built here had a long gravel driveway leading up to the paved road. Sunflowers grew all along the crispy dry ditches, surrounded our mailbox, reaching out so eagerly that one year the mailman left a note asking us to cut them back.

I have birdfeeders outside the dining room window of this present house. One is kept filled all winter with sunflower seed, the others with a mixture for finches and other small birds. The second summer of our residence, the area around the feeders and along the garage wall exploded with big sunflowers germinated from the seed that had been blown onto the ground or dropped by the birds. Last summer there were none. During this wet and cool June I watched eagerly for my sunflower plantation to emerge around the feeders. Again, none. Today I noticed that in a stand of rank-growing weeds near the pond there are sunflowers. I think they are the native variety rather than the large tall ones grown for commercial seed. However they came to be where they are, their bright faces are welcome.

Independence Day Retrospective

Planters on the rain-drenched porch

Rain splashes against a north window

Moon at midnight

We didn't do anything out of the ordinary to honor the 4th of July this year. Other years we have jostled for a spot among the sidewalk crowds to view the parade, admiring the floats, the horses, the cowboys and Indians, the high school band. There is an annual evening rodeo. One attendence there was enough for me--an incredibly raspy loud speaker--clouds of dust, and suddenly awakened small children who bawled with a vengence when the firecrackers exploded.

Our family next door collaborated on a fine dinner: rib-eye steak which our son-in-law grilled to perfection [although he was a bit suspicious of the raspberry chipotle barbeque sauce which I bought!] potato salad, three-bean salad, corn on the cob, and a lemon meringue pie to finish-- a traditional and timeless feast.

When my sisters and I were growing up, it was our bachelor uncle who for many years organized a 4th of July picnic. Our guests were a beloved couple the age of my grandfather and whatever of their family or friends might be visiting them. They would arrive at noon from their farm a few miles to the east, bringing food to share; tables, chairs and an old wooden bench were hauled into the shade of a big maple, while my Dad cleared a year's accumulation of dead leaves and twigs from the outdoor fireplace. Bowls of salad, crocks of baked beans, sweating pitchers of kool-aid and iced tea were set out while the fire flared and smoked and eventually settled down to the hot coals that Dad considered right for cooking hamburgers and hot dogs. The devices used for grilling the meat were hinged racks made of closely spaced wire. The hamburgers or hot dogs were arranged on one half of the open grill, the other half folded down and if one was careful to keep the long double handles closely pressed together, the whole thing could be flipped without losing the meat into the fire. Whatever dessert of cake or pie was on offer, we children preferred the messy delight of toasted marshmallows, more often than not charred and fringed with ash from the smoldering fire. While the adults settled back to talk of cows and crops, church and town business, we younger ones sat on the grass licking sticky fingers and brushing ants from our bare legs.

Decades later, our children grown and my husband usually "on the road" trucking, friends and I found special events to attend during what had become a four day holiday weekend. The Vermont Symphany Orchestra performed in an outdoor ampitheater in Middlebury. Parking in that college town was always at a premium, so the plan was to squeeze into one vehicle, find a parking space on one of the side streets within walking distance, and stop to buy pints of Ben and Jerry's ice cream to eat while we enjoyed the concert. The performances were timed to end just at dark with Tchaicovsky's 1812 Overture complete with canon blasts.

In July of 1997, my last summer in Vermont, I made the short ferry journey, so familiar to generations of my family, "across the lake" to Fort Ticonderoga, meeting the same dear friends who had arrived there from their Weybridge farm via the Crown Point Bridge. Hundreds of people from communities on both sides of Lake Champlain thronged into the courtyard of the old fort to watch while the pride of the local police force, a German Shepherd dog, was put through his paces, while members of the Iroquis Nation marched in a "flag drill." The highlight was a performance by the Royal Pipe and Drum Corp, fresh from their duties at the handing over ceremonies in Hong Kong. Darkness fell while the old stones of walls and ramparts echoed with the skirl of bagpipes and the smart rap of snare drums. Of one accord we rose to our feet at the first strains of the final number, "Amazing Grace." Later, alone in my truck, I watched the moon rise over Lake Champlain as I inched along, part of the procession waiting for a return to the opposite shore on the ferry.

Yesterday storms blew down from the mountains bringing spatters of rain and bursts of wind all afternoon. After supper the rumble of thunder vied with the crack and boom of firecrackers. Lights blinked as lightning crackled across a dark sky. In town the rodeo was cancelled, a house was burned. Rain sheeted down the windows and leaves were torn from the cottonwoods. At nearly midnight we stood in our darkened house watching from the front door as showers of red, blue, green and gold streamed down the night horizon and a full moon rode the turbulence of billowing clouds.

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.

Cooling Shade

By cool Siloam's shady rill
How fair the lily grows!
How sweet the breath, beneath the hill,
Of Sharon's dewy rose!

Lo! such the child whose early feet
The paths of peace have trod,
Whose secret heart, with influence sweet,
Is upward drawn to God.

Reginald Heber, 1812

Our town in Wyoming has an elevation of 5,358 ft (1,633 m), more than a mile high, and as such is considered high desert. Trees do grow along the rivers and irrigation ditches: cottonwoods, Russian Olive, willow. There are no hardwoods. Within the limits of the very small city, trees set out decades ago along streets and in the parks are watered and provide green shade during the short, but usually fiercely hot summer. A few miles out of town, the landscape quickly reverts to the monotony of sagebrush and stubbly, coarse grass. Shade is scarce and the sun beats down on windblown dust.

We live less than two miles from the center of town and thanks to an irrigation ditch which loops and curves through the property we have trees--my husband is fond of stating that they are about the only trees between the city limits and the junction 8 miles away.

Driving into town on a summer's day I pass a horse pasture. For several years I noticed that on hot afternoons the horses would crowd into the lop-sided rectangle of shade thrown by a huge billboard. Early in January we endured a week of unusually high winds--and this is land where the wind blows famously. Limbs and branches crashed down and the tree service people were busy for days to come. We had our own clean up to do--part of a tree down just outside the dining room window, branches all over the driveway. At one point as I stood gazing up into the bare and creaking heights of a cottonwood, my husband suggested wryly, "Do you suppose maybe you should move out from under the trees while you stand and think?"

The metal billboard was also a casualty of the gales and no one has removed the twisted metal poles or the battered sign. Earlier this week I observed that the horses still gather close around the wreckage, still taking the available shelter from the sun in the heat of the day. They were most cordial and obliging when I stopped the truck and climbed out to take their pictures.

Mulling this, I recalled some of the old hymns of the church which mention shade, Bible verses which give thanks for a cooling stream or the blessing of relief from the beating and merciless sun. "Mighty rock in a weary land, cooling shade on the burning sand..."

These were the stories and songs of people whose heritage was desert heat at its worst; the rights to a well were defended in bloody combat; green grass, a clear running brook, a safe pasture with a grove of shade trees became the poetry of thanksgiving.

Eleven years ago I moved to the interior west leaving behind a lifetime of maple shaded dooryards, flowering hedgerows, acres of beech and oak, ash and hickory. I came to live in a place where dried tumbleweed mounded along the roadside fences, where the wind whipped coarse grit against my skin; where trash and dust rolled up the valley each afternoon driven by the relentless winds.

I cherish these willows around the pond, the cottonwoods and the Chinese elm, the Russian olives which straggle along the irrigation ditch. Our horse has shade where she can retreat to swish her tail during the heat of the day.

The Lord is your keeper;The Lord is your shade at your right hand.

Psalm 121:5

Morning Visitors

Watching through the window
wary, I need a better zoom

Eating leaves

they know they are having photos taken

A Long Day

Laptop on the cluttered table

I didn't sleep well last night for a variety of reasons. Husband loomed over me as I struggled to collect my wits at 7 a.m. and inquired if I was about to get up and turn on the computer for him so that he could watch the live-streamed auction where he had consigned some equipment. I briefly considered hitting him with something, but stumbled into the shower instead.

While the cats sat on the edge of the bed looking encouragingly at me, I decided that the time had come for us to be a two PC household. I turned on the computer, but the speakers weren't working. Husband and son-in-law scrambled about tracing wires and jacks, then repaired up the drive to view the proceedings on son-in-law's PC. I dragged a chair out to the east side of the house into the morning sunshine, sipped my coffee and formulated a PLAN! I was somewhat thwarted when the local Radio Shack didn't have the type of laptop which I wanted. The RS in the next town had three of that model and would be happy to hold one for me. [The Native Americans on the neighboring reservation received bonus checks of some sort this week and have been mobbing the electronics stores!] I didn't spare the tires and was back home with the Toshiba laptop in an hour.

To shorten this story to the essentials: wireless internet wouldn't work with the laptop. Our tech support man arrived and announced that the various cables and plugs had been messed up when I had to call the internet provider two weeks ago and followed their suggestions for restoring internet. The connection has wavered in and out all day. The two month old router seems to be impaired...probably causing the earlier difficulties

The accomlishments of the day are slight and the energy expended seems too much. The men have run back and forth on errands and service calls; I dashed to the quilt shop for long enough to finish an order of placemats; Raisin the cat ate half my lunch-time hamburger when I was in here looking for a spare USB cord; we've had an evening of high winds and rumbling thunder.

After much trial and error I did get an e-mail account set up for husband, managed to link the two accounts so that I can switch between his account and mine on either PC.

Stay tuned for a more interesting post tomorrow--the one that was meant for today!

As Samuel Pepys was fond of closing his diary--"And so to bed." Tomorrow might be better!