Remembering Mrs. Beasley

My friend Jennie, viewing this photo several years ago, responded, "Daft as a brush!"

'Daft' isn't an adjective used much in America, but it suited Mrs. Beasley.

Her notably crossed-eyes gave her the look of a simpleton, but she seldom missed a trick.

Many a time I have heard her making an 'announcement' sort of meow, only to come into the room and find that she was staring at a spider--or wasp--or a beetle, as the case might be, high on the ceiling or afixed to the top of a picture frame, something that I had to strain to see.

Daft she was, but never a stupid cat.

I forget just what uproar was going on here-- it might have been the day a mouse came unwisely into the Wyoming house and went witlessly under the bed, cats in pursuit.

Mrs Beasley came to me in 2002 from a Wyoming salvage yard.  J. stopped there on an errand, and while waiting in the truck I noticed three cats.

That was enough to have me attempting to make friends.

"You won't get near those cats," called the junkyard owner; "They don't take much to people."

Unable to resist the challenge, I crouched on the gravel and made encouraging noises.  Within minutes, the tortie cat was on my lap, purring.

I collected her and brought her home 3 days later.

She was between 6 and 9 months old when she came to live with us.

I took her immediately for spaying and her shots.

She was well-mannered, clean in her habits.

The older cats looked down on her, kept her in her place, which was at the bottom of the pecking order.

That never changed. 

There were few spats or confrontations, but Mrs. Beasley remained something of a loner.

She was a one person cat--my cat.

She was quick to notice if I sat with a book--quick to appropriate my lap.

I have spent hours over the past decade reading or typing around her furry bulk.

NIghts have found her snoring [literally] in her favorite basket or tucked up against my back in bed.

None of the cats were pleased when two feral kittens appeared last summer.

J. insists that we made the mistake of keeping the kittens sequestered in this small room for nearly two months.  They were so skittish that I felt to turn them loose in the house would be to have them disappear somewhere in the woodwork, never to be retrieved.

There was no real trouble when I finally integrated them with the rest of the cat tribe.

A few hissy-fits, nothing major.

At some point during the winter months, Mrs Beasley began a determined stalking of the two tabbies.

Wilbur eventually moved outside as he had his own issues about litter boxes.

That left Willow as a prime target for an increasingly belligerant Mrs. Beasley.

Night after night we woke to screeches, thumps and wails in a high keening register---the sounds of all out feline warfare.

During the daytime, the sight of Willow asleep on the hearth rug or

walking quietly toward the water dispenser has moved Mrs. Beasley to attack.

Ears flattened, growling, she has sailed into Willow, swiping and clawing.

I coped with this, after a fashion, by 'separating' the cats, much as one might do

with small children on a playground.

Willow has never been daunted by the fence around the cat yard.  She vaults lightly in and out, going off to explore the garden. take a nap in the hay barn, chase butterflies.

In the past few weeks Mrs. B. began to 'patrol' the fence.

Willow was not allowed to come back in--on pain of fierce attack.

Sometime in April, Mrs Beasley astonished me by rushing in as I sat at my desk; she proceded to  squat and poop on the carpet a few feet away from me. This happened a number of  times.

This out-of character behavior occured several times in the kitchen before she settled on the bathtub as the most desirable place for these smelly deposits.

I learned to recognize a frenzied sort of behavior in the moments before she headed into the bathroom hallway, tried to divert her to the litter box.

All too many times I've been cleaning up cat poo in the wee hours.

Several times over the past two months I have declared, "This cat is having a nervous breakdown!'

We managed nights of relative calm by turning Mrs. B. with Charlie for companionship, into the cat yard for the night.  Sometimes two or three days and nights went by without poo accidents, but Willow was under constant siege.

Mrs. B. continued to enjoy her food.  Her need to be with me seemed to intensify over the past hot weeks when I've spent much time at my desk.

She has often been curled at my feet, or sprawled on the bed behind me, purring.

Still, the nasty messes and the unprovoked attacks on Willow continued.

Our other cats became nervous and testy.

"How long," I've wondered, "Before they too go into battle mode, or even feel the need to

'mark' territory?"

For two months I considered whether I should have Mrs. Beasley put down.

Other than the recent demented behaviors, she has seemed a healthy cat, one who should have enjoyed  more years ahead.

Wednesday morning, cleaning up a particularly vile mess just before daylight, I came to a decision.

This stress couldn't continue.

This morning I called our vet--a friend from our church--and made the appointment.

Even as I spent extra time with Mrs. Beasley today, I questioned whether I could and should go through with this final act.

D. insisted on driving me to the vet's office, a 20 minute journey.

In the examining room, Dr. Les listened as I described the changes in Mrs. B.'s behavior.

He examined her, taking her temperature as I talked.  He mentioned behavior modification therapy.

"It doesn't often work with cats," he admitted.

Removing the thermometer, he noted that her temperature was normal.

Turning her gently, he took her head in his hands.

"Look at her eyes," he exclaimed.

"Yes, I know--she's cross-eyed."

"No," he replied, "There's something going on here.  See how her eyes roll, how she swivels her head."

I thought back, realized that I had several times recently watched her turning her head in that odd bobbing manner. I had supposed that with aging her crossed eyes were starting to affect her sight.

"I can't be positive without an MRI," our good vet explained, "But considering what you've outlined about behavior changes and noting the movements of her eyes and head,  I suspect a brain tumor. As a tumor  grew, putting pressure on her brain, her behavior and her personality would change, consistent with what you've seen happening."

"Are you suggesting brain surgery?"

"I'm not recommending it, No," Les gave a small sigh. "If you want to be one hundred percent certain of the diagnosis, we could do testing.  I have to give you that option."

I think we both knew it wasn't a realistic option.  Something in me, some weary, guilty hesitation, even at the 11th hour, was settled. I had scolded Mrs. Beasley several times, tired of the constant need for  watchfulness, disgusted with cleaning nasty smelling messes.

Perhaps worse than the mis-placed poo, has been witnessing a basically mild-mannered pet become ferocious, seeing Willow so besieged and tormented as Mrs. Beasley attacked her repeatedly.

I'm also seeing, in retrospect, that recent strange motion of eyes and head; shouldn't I have

recognized an abnormality?

My favorite photo of Mrs Beasley taken when she had been with me only a few months.

It is over.

The vet's assistant and I stroked Mrs. Beasley, spoke loving words to her, as Les prepared his needles.

The sedative he administers prior to the lethal injection was slow to work.  She took perhaps 5 minutes to grow calm under our gentle hands.

We buried Mrs. Beasley, Devin and I, in the rich yellow loam on the west side of the hay barn.

I dug the grave there this morning, after realizing that my favored spot at the edge of the upper garden was so dry and matted with tree roots that excavation was impossible.

Devin wanted the bury-hole a bit wider and deeper, so he accomplished that while I chose several flat stones from the rubble of the former raised bed to fit on top of the smoothed earth.

I feel badly that the last months of my cat's life were marred by the bizarre changes in her personality.

They were changes that caused my affection for her to become tinged with a guilty annoyance.

My other cats are uneasily aware tonight of change in their ranks.

I had to coax Willow inside after dark.

She walked warily through the house, expecting attack.

I hope that the cat tribe will settle now, that both feline and human nerves can relax.

I miss the furry form at my feet as I type. How many nights will pass before I relinquish the habit of making room for Mrs. Beasley on the side of the bed?

As the days shorten into autumn and then winter, will another cat purr in my lap as I read?

I wish I could have done more for Mrs. Beasley.

I wish I had, in kindness to her, taken today's step weeks ago.

I miss Mrs. Beasley--as she used to be.

Refuge

Willow, a mild-mannered little cat, is the target of Mrs. Beasley's un-ending and inexplicable wrath.

This ire is expressed with smacks, thumpings, growls and hisses.

[We think Mrs. B. is having a nervous breakdown.]

Willow responds by squalling loudly and running.

Storm clouds have hovered all day but the rain has 'gone around' us.

Pehaps the uneasy weather can be blamed for the crochety disposition of the cats today.

Willis can--and does--chase Willow, but in a rather lack-a-daisical, recreational manner, quite different to Mrs. B.'s attitude of closing in for a kill.

Once Willow is outside, the big 'house cats' can't nail her as she hops lightly over the cat yard fence, something they haven't attempted.

I never had a tree house.

Although I'm rather stupid about heights, I did--in my day--like to climb trees.

[OK, so I didn't go way up!]

One of my favorite spots to sit, swing my legs and have a quiet think, was an old apple tree in the remnant of neglected orchard at Grampa Mac's.  I could go along the road to the farm house, through the gate and down to the apple trees--or--I could take the path that curved along the embankment where my parents' house stood and reach the cluster of gnarly, unpruned trees by that route.

The special apple tree had a wide flattened branch which grew horizontally about 4 feet off the ground.  It was an easy clamber up to sit among the leaves.

I looked longingly at Willow in her box elder refuge this morning. All it needs is a ladder up to a small platform--just wide enough to place a folded old quilt.  Then, why not a book, a cat, and a mug of tea, all to be enjoyed in a shelter of green leaves [?]

Happy Ending

The friendly hound dog was reunited with his owner at 9 PM Sunday.

This was thanks to our lively on-line area "magazine."

In addition to news, community calendars, event coverage and editorials, CM provides a 'Lost and Found" service.  I posted the above photo of the hound in mid-afternoon, giving his description, our location and phone number. 

I was just out of the shower and into night clothes [after my strenuous time with the carpet removal] so didn't go out to speak with the man who arrived within moments of speaking with J. on the phone.

He lives a few miles from us, on the other side of the main highway, and had dropped in to visit a friend of his who lives up the road from our place.

Evidently the wily hound followed him cross-lots.

Whether the dog's owner saw the post or was notified by his friend--a man whom I know to be a CM reader--the outcome was a speedy reunion.

I probably don't have to state that I am greatly relieved to have one less animal-related issue to sort.

It is good to know that the amiable hound is back where he belongs!

Walking With My Camera

I was having a bit of a 'down' day on Friday--tired and achey, not motivated to do any

of the things on the list.

Mid afternoon I decided my megrims needed to be aired, so walked through the lower garden, up around the barns, down the meadow, across to the creek, then up the front drive.

These are some of the sights along the way.

Above it the little shrub rose with the missing name tag.

Blossoms on Wise Portia--no Japanese Beetles this time around.

The bumble bee in this branch of Russian Sage was quite obliging about a photo.

Hawkeye Belle

A gaudy painted zinnia.

Swallowtail on a brilliant fuschia zinnia.

This zinnia has become a shrub.

Note the tattered wing on this golden fritillary.

Elderberries--which have become jelly today at Gina's house.

Serene and green, the view across our neighbor's pasture.

The butterfly bush has put forth fresh blooms.

Queen Anne's Lace.

Black swallowtail.

Poised!  A lucky shot.

The three little horrors.  Amazing what a bath and 10 days of adequate food has done for them.

Pebbles, the dear old lady horse.

Bobby McGee.

Neighboring pasture at dusk.

I uploaded the above photos Friday evening, forgot to caption and post!

To make up for Friday's slothfulness, today I ripped out the carpet in the 'guest room' which is also my 'hide-out'--the space with my desk and piles of notebooks.

I cut the carpet out in strips using a large sheetrock knife, then used a cat's paw tool to pry up the tack strips around the perimeter. Dust, [30 year old dust!] fluffs of yarn from the carpet --red--foam underlayment--all bundled out to the burn pile.

We replaced the flooring everywhere but the ktichen within weeks of moving in three years ago.  This was the least disgusting and worn of the carpets, but our occupancy hadn't improved it.

Carpets may be OK for households with no pets, where the occupants tiptoe about in sock feet and never spill anything.  Give me a floor that can be CLEANED!

Hopefully weeks will not go by until there is a new floor down and an 'after' photo can be shared.

I plan to paint this room while J. is away next week.

The interim owners of this place did considerable cleaning and had most of the rooms re-painted in a flat white.  Not very inspiring, but at least fresh and clean.

This is the last room for me to paint.

Lord luv us--this huge hound dog turned up slightly after noon today and it won't 'GO HOME'--where-ever that may be.

We do not want a dog, certainly not one of the Baskerville hounds, however amiable.

It has given cry several times causing a reaction in the cats that resembles apoplexy!

Sunshine Days and Firefly Nights

photo from firefly.org

The hard-packed earth of the path was warm under Larry's bare feet. The afternoon sun beamed down from a bright blue sky, and a light breeze rippled the meadow grass. Larry swished at the grass with a stick as he plodded along, mindlessly decapitating red clover and Queen Anne's lace with each whack.

Startled insects whirred up, rattling past his face, landing with a plop just ahead, zinging up again at his approach.  Meadow scents rose, hotly green, mingling with a faint smell of cool mud from the creek in the distance.

Larry felt vaguely discontented, a bit out of sorts.

Thinking about it he realized his entire household  had been rather subdued all day.

For several weeks past, ever since school let out, the big farmhouse had teemed with people.

Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, released from factory jobs in Massachusetts, had packed suitcases and children into their cars, strapped boxes of provisions onto the roofs and running boards, and headed north to spend their precious vacation days in the place of their youth, the quiet green farmland that lay along the shores of Lake Champlain.

Cousin Arthemese ['Art' to the family] had arrived first with her husband John Howe and their nephew, Jimmy Walsh.  Jimmy was a year younger than Larry's little sister Lizzie, but he was no baby, ready for anything the farm had to offer.

Arthemese and John loved to go fishing and were well supplied with poles, tackle box, and comfortable old clothes.  John lugged in a grocery carton filled with canned beans, an assortment of fruit, boxes of crackers, a jar of pickles and a wedge of cheese.  As Cousin Art declared, "It's going to be too hot to stand over a cookstove, and I'd rather fish than fuss in the kitchen this week."

Larry didn't mind sharing his bed with young Jimmy, who was eager to help with the morning chores so that Larry and Lizzie would be free to tag along to East Creek where Art and John contentedly dangled their lines in the sun-dappled water by the hour.

Before the week was out, word came that Cousin Stella and her lively boys, Edward and Arthur, would be arriving at the Orwell Station and father would need to drive in to fetch them to the farm.

Larry and Lizzie, with little cousin Jimmy in tow, were waiting when father carefully backed the 1918 Overland from the shed.  The train had already arrived when they reached the Depot on North Orwell Road.  Stella and the boys were waiting on the bench outside, luggage piled around them.

Edward was Larry's age, Arthur, two years younger, was Lizzie's age.

The station agent came out to help Stephen stow the baggage in and on top of the Overland, while Stella flapped rather uselessly at the boys, who released from  long confinement in the train, whooped and bounced. They produced bags of gumdrops and jellybeans, somewhat the worse for a long stay in their pockets, and thrust them generously toward Larry and Lizzie and Jimmy.

Stella's voice, talking earnestly to her uncle, was a steady undercurrent from the front seat as her sons in the back overwhelmed their country cousins with talk of moving picture shows, popcorn venders, city policemen and fire engines

.

It was a busy evening with supper to spread on the big table and more bedroom accomodations to be made.  Stephen soon called it a night, knowing he and the older boys would need to be up early as usual to milk the cows and make the run to the creamery.

Larry, thinking back, realized that the days after the arrival of Stella and the boys had all run together in a fast pace of play under the spreading dooryard maples. Then there were treks down the meadow to the creek with Arthemese and John to fish. In the evenings when the grow-ups sat and talked on the front porch, the children dashed about in the twilight scooping up lightning bugs, or playing hide and seek as night shadows crept in.

Eddie and Arthur had apparently seen every 'western' that had run in the city movie theaters. They directed Larry and Lizzie and Jimmy in games that involved tearing around shouting, "Giddy-up-Go!" as they whipped up imaginary horses. "Bang, Bang," they whooped as they 'shot' at invisible Indians or chased off wild animals.

When the children, sweating and disheveled, burst into the house for drinks of cold water, the women, sharing the kitchen chores, laughed and said, "Here come the Get-Up Kids!'

 By mid-morning on the 4th of July the yard was full of cars.  More cousins spilled out as Mother's brothers arrived with wives and children. The aunties sailed majestically up the steps, carrying covered dishes, or a fancy plate holding a lofty frosted cake.

Best of all was the appearance of Aunt Julia and her husband, Uncle Bill.  Young as he was, Larry was aware of the elegance that they added to any gathering.  Julia, who had no children, was still slender. Her hair was always freshly waved, her clothes were pretty and new.

Uncle Bill, superintendent in a paper company, drove a sleek car, wore a suit and tie.

They were memorably generous.

On this festive summer holiday the trunk of the shiny car held cases of soda pop,'sparklers' for the kids, a tablecloth and napkins in red, white and blue, crusty rolls from an Italian bakery---the treats were endless.

After lunch the men gathered on the porch to smoke, sleeves rolled up, legs stretched in relaxation.

The women, kitchen work done and aprons removed, strolled the yard, commenting on the flowers and the prospects for the vegetable garden.

Conversation among the adults was in French for the most part--the language of their childhoods.

Cows have to be milked, holiday or no,and mother's brothers were farmers.  As the afternoon shadows stretched across the lawn, watches were checked, children were collected; empty dishes and carriers were stowed,  and the little procession turned slowly back up the road, leaving Arthemese and John, little Jimmy, Uncle Bill and Aunt Julia, and of course, Stella and her boys.

Bedtime was long past and still the grown-ups lingered on the porch.  Uncle Bill lit the sparklers for the children and when those ran out, they chased fireflies in the gathering darkness.

Next morning Bill and Julia were the first to depart, headed back to their

busy life in Albany, New York.  Before lunch time Arthemese and John had gathered up their fishing tackle, young Jimmy had made his wistful good-byes, and they too were gone, with promises to return for Labor Day weekend.

Stella, with Eddie and Arthur, the Giddy-Up Kids, were still there. The boys' energy was unflagging; they endlessly charged through the chase scenes of their favorite films and by now Larry and Lizzie knew the parts they were expected to play.

Stella helped Mother in the kitchen, keeping up a flow of talk in a mixture of French and English.

She was moody, sometimes angrily tearful, but wiping her eyes hastily when the children appeared.

During one of their rare moments alone Lizzie confided to Larry, "I think Aunt Stella is mad at her husband.  I heard her tell Mother she doesn't want to go home."

Whatever the truth of the matter it was resolved rather dramatically before the week was out.

As the four children romped through another warm forenoon, a car turned into the yard.

While Larry and Lizzie silently took stock of  the stranger unfolding himself from behind the wheel, Eddie and Arthur, after a stunned moment, flung themselves on the man with shouts of, "Papa!"

Their racket brought Mother and Stella to the back door, where Stella, as surprised as her sons, stood speechless, arms wrapped in her apron.

The man, Stella's husband it seemed, hugged his sons, reached into the car for a bag of candy which he handed over with the caution, "You share that now."

Pushing back his railroad engineer's cap, he strode briskly up the path.

"Stella", he said firmly, "I'd like you to come out for a little walk with me.  We need to talk.  I've come to take you home!"

And home they all headed after a hasty lunch of sandwiches.  Arthur Bealand had spoken quietly with Stephen while a subdued Stella gathered her belongings. Passing through the kitchen on one of her trips to the car, she indicated a stack of folded trousers which she placed on the table.

"Maybe Larry or Lizzie can use these," she commented, adding "We'll take the boys shopping for new ones before school starts."

The "Get-Up Kids" excited by their father's presence, chattered happily at the prospect of new 'westerns' on view at their neighborhood cinema, enlightened Larry and Lizzie about their Dad's important job:  "Papa drives the train!" declared Eddie, strutting.

They departed, hanging from the car's back windows and waving.  Father had patted Mother's shoulder as they walked back toward the house and remarked, "Quiet again, eh?"

Mother nodded, then replied, "Bless Arthur for coming after Stella.  Bless him!"

Larry circa 12 years old, cropped from a photo with friend, Leland Bishop.

Larry brushed a persistent fly away from his head, squinted upward through the over-hanging branches, then came to his feet, still pondering how suddenly almost normal this morning had seemed.  At breakfast the table was roomy, the extra chairs which had crowded round for days, sent back to their accustomed places. There were no small cousins swinging bare legs or upsetting a glass of milk. Oatmeal porridge was dished out from a modest saucepan instead of the big kettle needed to serve a full house.

The quiet meal finished, the older boys had followed father out to get up hay.  Lizzie trottted upstairs with broom and dustpan to give the bedrooms a good sweeping.  Larry was assigned the job of cleaning the hen house, which he had done, forking out the soiled straw and replacing it with fresh bedding.

Now, trudging back up the path, the sun at his back, Larry supposed that by tomorrow everybody would be 'back to normal'--for now he felt, if not actually lonesome, a bit let down.

After supper he called Lizzie out to play. He had with him the old pickle jar, holes punched in the lid, that they'd been using each evening to collect fireflies. A fresh breeze blew in from the lake stirring the tall grass at the edge of the road. Larry pounced on lightning bugs, transferring them swiftly to the jar each time Lizzie cautiously tipped open the lid.

On the porch behind them Father soaked his tired feet in a basin of cool water. Mother, in the rocking chair, leaned her head against the tall back, hands folded quietly in her lap.

There was a small sloshing sound as father rose and flung his basinful of water toward the lilac bush near the steps. "Early to bed would be good," he announced.

Lizzie handed Larry the jar of fireflies and skipped up the path.

The screen door whined on its hinges, slapped to as the older boys went in.

Mother, with a glance over her shoulder at Larry, followed them.

Larry sat on the edge of the porch, the jar of lightning bugs between his knees.

The small insects bumbled about in confinement.

Their tiny phosphorescent lights glowed--went out--flicked on again.

Larry gazed at them, fascinated.

The screen door creaked again, Mother's head came round the edge,

"Larry," she said firmly, "Come in and get washed up. Don't forget to wash your feet."

It was scarcely full dark, too early for Larry to consider sleep. He scuffed into the dim kitchen, the jar of fireflies cradled against his shirt.

Father was reaching up to wind the clock.  From the pantry came muffled rattlings as Mother put something away.  The door of his parent's bedroom off the big dining room stood open.  On a sudden impulse, Larry scooted in, twisting the cap off the jar as he went.

Quickly setting the open jar in the corner by the wardrobe he whisked back out as Father padded  through from the kitchen. Lizzie, already in her pink-flowered feedsack nightie, said a soft "good night, Pa" and received an affectionate pat on her dark head, before skittering away to hug Mother.

Larry was headed for the stairs when Mother's voice stopped him. "Your feet, Larry!" she reminded.

Larry took his time washing at the pantry sink, spending a few moments carefully drying each toe.  In his room, he hustled into his faded cotton pajamas, then eased down the hallway, poked his head into

Lizzie's room.

"Lizzie" he cajoled in a whisper, "Come out and sit on the stairs with me a minute,"

"Why?" asked Lizzie, but she came, carrying her big doll.

Larry settled himself on the top stair, patted the space beside him.

"Why are we sitting here?" hissed Lizzie.

In response there was a small sound from below, from Father and Mother's room, a swishing sound.

Larry, grinning in the dusky stairwell, went down two more steps on his bottom, towing Lizzie with him.

There was a creak of bedsprings from the parental chamber, muffled voices.

There was a clinking, which Larry identified as a jar rolling about on the floor.

Swatting sounds, thumps.

"Ce qui se passe?" Father's voice, slightly raised.

Mother's reply was indecipherable.

A chair scraped, a stumbling sound as if someone had bumped into it.

"Ou sont ce bugs?"

Father's voice was testy, but still muted.

More swatting sounds.

"Damn il en enfer!"

Beside Larry, Lizze clutched her doll closer.

Neither of the children had a grasp of French, but the tone of Father's voice was unmistakable.

His normally soft manner of speaking was approaching a shout.

"Cette salle est pleine de la foudre des bogues!" he roared.

"Il sont-ils venus de?"

Swish, slap, a tinkle of objects swept from atop the dresser.

"Comment est un homme de dormir?"

The bedroom door smacked against the wall as Father flung it open.

Lizze rose from the stair, gathering her nightgown, and scooted for her bed.

Larry had one hand against his mouth, stiffling his giggles.

Behind him he heard shufflings as his brothers came out on the hall landing.

"Au diable les mouches!" bellowed Stephen.

"Larry! Venir en bas vette minute! Come down!'

Larry arranged his face in a serious expression, swallowing his laughter.

He whipped down the staircase, marched to his parent's room.

"What's the matter?" he asked, politely, from the threshold.

A light came on, a short determined figure stomped past him.

"Matter?" repeated Father furiously. "Qu'est'ce qu'il y a?"

"Get ce bogues out!"  We will see what matters!''

Mother was sitting on the edge of the bed, grey hair in a braid down her back.

She looked weary.

"You have upset your father," she said. "He works hard every day.  He is tired at night.

"If you do not want to sleep, you don't need to keep anyone else awake.  Now, catch the lightning bugs and take them outdoors."

Larry could hear father rattling the dipper in the kitchen, getting a drink of water. It occured to him that it might be best if the fireflies were collected speedily.

He thought perhaps he had brought in nearly a dozen. He located three of them, dead, when his bare feet crunched over them on the floor. Several more were clinging blearily to the thin curtains at the window.

Lizzie came softly into the room, her small feet light on the bare floor.

She picked up the fallen pickle jar, found the lid.

"You catch them," she whispered, "I'll hold the jar."

One of the fireflies was on Father's pillow, its little light pulsing dimly.

Another was in the folds of his workshirt where it dangled from a peg.

Larry shot a glance at Mother, who eyed him steadily.

"Errrm--I think that's most of them..."  His voice trailed off. Maybe he was getting sleepy, he thought in surprise.

"I hope that is all, " said Mother.  "Take them out and ask your Father to come to bed."

Larry trailed through the kitchen, out the back door. Uncapping the jar he shook the fireflies into the night, watched as they bumbled away into the soft moonlight.

Father still sat in the old rocking chair by the unlit kitchen stove, his head back, eyes closed.

Seeing him so, Larry faltered, unable simply to say, "Sorry."

Stephen opened his eyes, glared, but the heat of his anger had ebbed.

"Why do you put bugs in the bedroom?" he demanded, his accent  more noticable after his

outburst in French.

Larry thought hard, dredging through the mixed feelings of the day.

"There was nothing to do," he said more in astonishment than in his own defense.

"Everybody went home and there was nothing to do."

Father heaved himself out of the chair.

"Rien," he muttered, "Nothing to do! Tomorrow has plenty to do--and you will be up early to help do it!"

He made shooing motions toward the hall stairs and disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.

Larry stood for a moment in the spill of moonlight that lay across the worn boards of the dining room floor. He heard the creak as Father settled himself again in bed, the soft sound of Mother's voice, the murmer of Father's reply.

From the upper landing he could pick out his brother's slight snores. They too must be up early to take on the work of a hot July day.

He stopped at Lizzie's open door.  She was curled on her side, facing him, covers wadded at the foot of the bed, her big doll, "Baby," a lumpish shape against the headboard.

"Did Father spank you?" she whispered. "You were naughty."

"No," Larry replied. "He was too tired.  But he might remember to spank me tomorrow."

In his own room, lately crammed with boy cousins, Larry looped back the curtains so the slowly cooling air could come inside.

He stretched on his bed, flinging his arms out on either side. The room and the bed which had seemed too empty and quiet last night, was suddenly his own space again.

He closed his eyes, absorbing the sound of a whip-poor-will near the creek, the muffled moo of a cow in the night pasture. A moth flitted against the window screen, a breeze rustled through the trees. In the distance a dog yipped, yipped again and was silent.

Larry slept.

Rainy Sunday Walk-About

Zoom shot of the neighbor's barns, down the valley.

Rain began soon after daylight and has continued in soft bursts into late afternoon.

I was awake and out of bed much earlier than I would have preferred.

It seemed a pleasant cool morning to trim up the plants on the front porch which have looked less than thrifty from the long spell of hot weather.

When I brought out the broom to sweep away leaves and stems, Bobby McGee, one of the drop-off kittens, decided to help.  Willis is monitoring him from behind.

I pruned the roses sharply when the drought broke several weeks ago.

They have rewarded me with new blooms. and the invasion of Japanese Beetles seems to have run its course.  [Shssssh!]

This is Hawkeye Belle.

The magnolia tree is offering more of its waxy fragrant blooms.

In the throes of springtime enthusiasm I ordered two long-coveted yellow peonies, familiarly known as "Mollie-the-Witch" [a simple form of the multi-syllabic Russian name].

I was dismayed on receiving them to find they were mere slips--frail thready roots.  I nurtured them in pots until each plant had formed a tuberous root about 1 1/2 inches long and slightly less thick than a pencil.

I set them into the newly prepared peony bed where, as the drought and heat increased, they languished.

Anxiously I lifted them, returned them to pots and tended them on a corner of the porch.

The leaves went down and I dispaired of my investment.

This morning, shuffling pots about, I noticed  tiny green nodules at the base of each withered stem.

With raindrops trickling down my neck, I tucked them back into the peony bed, with renewed hope.

I've had this 'painted' geranium [pelargonium] for nearly a dozen years.  The stem has gotten gnarly and the whole plant rather shabby. Still, a heavy pruning several weeks ago has encouraged flowers.

Its not ready yet for the compost pile.

Shabby but colorful zinnias. On the right, a row of dwarf sunflowers.  I sowed the seed thickly just before the long drought began.  After the first rains, J. tilled that space and I planted green beans. Inspired by rain the sunflowers flung themselves upward amongst the beans.

Less than half a dozen cosmos germinated from an entire packet of seed.

They stood there drooping dismally in the heat.

Today two brave pink blossoms have spread their petals to the rain.

I stood beneath the maple at the edge of the drive, gazing up into green branches. Raindrops fell on my face, shaken from the leaves by the soft breeze.

The flash activated when I snapped the photo--it was much darker under the tree than the photo suggests.

Even the butterfly bush is inspired by rainy weather.

So lovely, with her head drooped in the rain; rosa, Wise Portia.

A very orange sunflower which sprang up at the edge of the front porch.

Volunteer sunflowers in the rubble behind the garage.

[The area PROMISED as future greenhouse site.]

Charlie, resembling a headless heap of fur, enjoying a snooze on the bedroom windowsill

between showers.

I am proud to have been included in The Illuminating Blogger awards assigned by Christine at

Writing From Scotland.

After great frustration I have managed to add the icon to my sidebar.

[A few awards over the years skittered off into space due to my lack of technical persistance.]

Christine put many hours of research into her book, No Place Of My Own, a transcription of her g-g-grandmother's diaries, with photos and family background.

I was drawn into the life and times of that lively lady. Copies of the book are available at Christine's blogsite. It is an absorbing read for those who enjoy family history and the process of documentation.