Capricious Spring

Spring arrived this morning with blue skies and bright sunshine, but with temperatures that

were definitely crisp.

There was a light frost on the grass when I stepped outside at 7:30 A.M.

In honor of the vernal equinox I brought out the spring/summer quilt--made several years ago with flowery fabrics and center squares in glowing yellow prints.

Bobby McGee immediately made himself comfortable on the quilt.

[Bobby is a darling cat--the smallest of the three boys, but the most independent.]

By mid-afternoon, blue skies had developed a slatey look and the wind had gotten up.

On an errand in the dooryard I felt the unmistakable sting of tiny snowflakes which blew down from a passing cloud.

An hour later sunshine again shimmered off the glossy leaves of the wind-tossed Magnolia tree.

The goat willow tree in the front yard is full of fuzzy grey pussywillows.

I would love to cut some to place on the sideboard in a pitcher, maybe walk down the road and pick some daffodils to go with them.

Sadly, any sort of 'arrangement' or 'bouquet' is a magnet for the cats, who disarrange, drag stems out of the jug or vase, often dump water.

Too many times I've forgotten to safely shut away a pitcher full of blooms at night and come out in the morning to find shredded flowers and pools of water.

So, no pussywillows indoors!

Pebbles the beloved horse is 27 this spring.

She has slowed down noticeably, spending more time lying in her stall.

In the past 5 years she has experienced several bouts of founder/laminitis which have undoubtedly left some degree of permanent damage. Jim limits her access to pasture and serves her a grain product formulated for 'Senior Horses.' During especially bad spells she is dosed with bute.

She has been outside a good deal today in all the variations of weather.  I suspect that her knees bother her--and I sympathize with these painful manifestations of aging!

She has her bad days when I feel certain we must soon, in kindess, put her down.

Then she revives and is almost spritely.

One thing hasn't changed: she relishes her food!

My efforts at 'spring cleaning' have continued spasmodically over the past week, spurred on by the pleasant prospect of guests who will arrive tomorrow.

D. enticed the kittens with my fluffy duster.

Here Bobby McGee snatches at it.

D. has had to retrieve the duster from Bobby and Edward--who evidently mistook it for a bird.

I am reminded almost daily that keeping cats complicates the process of maintaining a tidy home.

Cat hair is an endlessly renewable resource!

Today freshly washed quilts have bounced and flapped on the clothesline.

Four loaves of bread cooled on the counter beneath a blue towel.

Several unbaked pies were tucked into the freezer; a smaller one, hot from the oven and oozing blackberry juice, was served to J. as he took a break between phone calls and work in his shop.

The cookie jar is filled and a plate of cookies [decadent with both semi-sweet and white chocolate chips and dried blueberries] and a still-warm loaf have gone home with the friend whose wife barters huge brown eggs from her flock of hens for baked goods from my kitchen.

I spent a sleepy half hour in my Grampa Mac's old rocking chair by the fire, a cat in my lap, and a glossy magazine spread open to pictures of gardens in Wales, Leeds Castle, Beatrix Potter's Hill Top Farm.

Now, a mug of green tea and several hours of reading and writing at my desk.

[The big desk will be off limits for several days as it shares the space in our little guest room.]

Torrents of Rain

The crack of thunder woke us a bit after 3 A.M. I stayed awake for while, but the thunder and lightning retreated.

The storm returned full force about daybreak--if you can call such a dark morning 'daylight.'

I took the above photo from the sliding glass door around 8:30 A.M.--didn't think to deactivate the flash so raindrops and reflections are greatly magnified.

It was lighter an hour later and the force of the rain was less violent.

Puddles glistened, but the boy cats, who usually want to splash, were content to spend the morning inside.

Across the road, Big Creek was on the rampage.

This is the 'ford' used by 4-wheelers and the folks who have camps up on the ridge beyond the meadow.

The water is almost over the road.

Jim, undaunted, took the red truck on an errand in town.

He carried the camera with him. Going north past our house, this is the submerged bridge less than a mile up the road.  [We don't have to drive that way to get out, but inquiring minds need to know the conditions of the nearby roads!]

The road to the main highway goes past Gina and Matt's house.

The creek has overflowed into the meadow bordering the road.

More water where it isn't meant to be.

The rain stopped after noon, and I hoped the sky would clear.

Looking north toward the worst of the road flooding there are a few breaks in the clouds.

The boy cats ventured out when the rain quit.  They came back in with very wet feet and their belly fur damp and tangled. Good thing we have clean quilts, bedspreads and cushion covers where soggy cats can recover from outdoor adventures.

A Morning That Feels Like Spring!

60 F and a balmy wind. Red leaf buds on the box elder tree--visible from the window over the kitchen sink--a welcome view.

Soft grey fuzzies on the goat willow tree

More of the bursting buds on the box elder.

Iris have leapt from their mid-winter crouch in the upper perennial bed.

Spring--so longed for--and so brief a season before the humid heat of summer.

Hobbit Houses--Or Merely Moles In Residence?

Friday was a beautiful day--a promise that we really will have spring.

Ignoring all the untidy things I should have sorted in the house, I put on comfortable layers of clothes, pulled on boots,  and went up the path to the barn to fetch gardening tools.

The air was cool, but the sun shone brightly, the sky was a clear, brilliant blue--very encouraging after days of dim grey clouds and cold weather.

I began raking leaves from the two perennial strips.

The north winds blow leaves in the fall from the maple trees along the drive directly into the strips and they lodge there. I was surprised to see how deeply they had drifted in some spots.

Who do you suppose lives in the earthy burrow?

There is another entrance a few feet away tucked  beside a clump of  nepeta.

I would like to think fondly of well-furnished chambers and creatures who resemble Beatrix Potter illustrations--or maybe Mole's snug house from Wind In The Willows.

Sadly, I suspect it may be part of a far-ranging mole tunnel.

Moles have lived here before our tenancy began.

During this winter I have become aware that a great deal of activity is happening just below the surface of the ground. Long ridges of dirt sink slightly underfoot when I peg out laundry on the clothesline.

The outdoor cats walk along, eyes on the ground, stopping to pat at depressions in the earth.

I labored to clear weeds under the Knock-Out roses, yanking away long ropes of mint which have done what mint always does--invade.

Here Edward digs in the newly loosened earth.

I thought he had an unsavory purpose to his excavations, but it seems he was exploring.

On the other side of the rosebush his brother Nellie was likewise poking his furry 'arm' into a tunnel--and came out with a small grey creature--which I pretended not to see.

Several obnoxious weeds are evergreen in our temperate winters.

One of them is locally called 'hen bit'--a relative of lamium. It has colonized ruthlessly, seeming to prefer spots that I have laboriously cleared.

I had forgotten there were two clumps of catnip at the far end of this planting.

Charlie has found one and is wallowing dementedly.

Willis likewise had a roll in the catnip and has stomped off, larger than life, to lay claim to the

bulkhead wall.

To the right of Willis [across the bulkhead] the herb garden has been raked.

Stalks of lavender and sage need to be trimmed--a task for another day.

I didn't stop for lunch and by mid-afternoon my energy was ebbing fast; my shoulders ached and I felt slow and lumbering.

Still, I was reluctant to stop work.

I had a bonfire smoldering away and decided that the raked piles of leaves and rubble should be burned.

I should have brought out the wheelbarrow, but getting it from the garage, trundling it around J.'s projects--a tight fit in the small space--seemed like too much effort.

I scooped up bundles of leaves, holding them against the wire tines of the rake, trailing some behind as I made repeated treks to the fire.

Nellie pounced in the leaves, smacking at real or imagined creatures, sprawling in my path with leaves caught in his fur.

Most of the mulch so painstakingly spread over the gardens in the summer has disappeared.

There are patches of bare earth where clumps of plants should be emerging.

I counted only three poppy plants where dozens self-sowed during the past two winters.

Do I blame the peristant scrapings and up-earthings of the cats?

Disturbance of the the ground by moles who may have nibbled or severed the roots of plants?

I put away my tools and limped toward the house wanting the comfort of a hot shower, wondering how many more years I will be physically able to garden in such a labor-intensive fashion.

Dressed in clean jeans and a warm pullover I drove to the store, hurriedly selecting salad makings.

Aware of my rumbling hungry innards I snatched up sandwich rolls and a package of thinly sliced turkey.

Back home, I fell into my rocking chair by the fire with a sandwich and a mug of tea.

Lurking beneath the very real misery of aching old bones was the satisfaction of having my fingers in the cool sweet earth, of hearing bird song; there was the joy of seeing transplanted lilies well settled in their new location, of brushing aside leaves and winter-blackened foliage to find the fat pink stubs of peonies thrusting up into the light.

I didn't garden today--didn't 'do' much of anything; tired; but my mind plays with images from the nursery catalogs stacked in the basket by my chair. I ponder the possibilites of the seeds and plants I have circled.

I think about the anticipated first trip to the greenhouses in the Mennonite community--a trip planned for later in the week with G. and her visiting friend.

Tired muscles, moles, weeds, blights and bugs can't quite triumph over the need

to garden in yet another season.

The Tradition of Keeping Warm

Winter is reluctant to leave us and make way for spring.

The first week of March has brought searing winds, spatters of watery snow, sleet, buckets of pounding rain.

Puddles form in the dooryard, skies are grey.

The simplest errands outdoors—a quick dash to the mailbox, the chores of feeding the barn cats, forking hay to the old horse or emptying litter boxes—have found me returning to the house, shoulders hunched against the sharp cold, shivering, blotting wind-induced tears from my eyes.

The last wood supply which Matt and Gina carted in to be split and stacked by Jim, has seemed lacking in BTU’s. Dry oak should burn well, but these chunks have smoldered, sulked, needing to be coaxed along with frequent prodding and the addition of cedar slabs. I could switch on the central heating, but the frugalities of a Yankee upbringing are entrenched, so I grumble and poke at the fire.

I had an appointment with the chiropractor in town Wednesday morning. The outlook was unpromising, a bleary sky, the report of school closings for several counties around.

Telling myself that Kentucky’s winter weather is scarcely a patch on that of New England or Wyoming, I pulled warm clothes from the closet and dressed to brave the day: soft cotton leggings under a pair of corduroy jeans, a light flannel shirt buttoned over a turtleneck pullover, wooly socks, my lace-up leather ‘workboots.’

The surface of the road shone black, whether with a thin sheet of ice or merely with wet it was impossible to tell. I drove more slowly than usual, taking care not to touch the brakes on the winding curves that are darkly over-shadowed by tree-studded ledges.

My appointment met, I started home by the back way, glad that I had no errands. I had barely turned onto the short cut when the ‘low-fuel’ icon flashed on the car’s dashboard and the warning ‘ping’ sounded. An eighth of a tank of gas, surely enough to take me home and then on another day, back to the gas station at the junction.

“Ding, Ding, ding.” The sound repeated with irritating regularity. Resigned, I turned left at the end of the lane, back toward the junction.

At the fuel stop wind lashed at me as I inserted my credit card into the slot, pushed buttons, lifted the gas nozzle to fill the car. My hair was loose and the gusts whipped long strands into my face, blew icy draughts under my jacket collar. The fuel-up finished, I fumbled the gas cap back into place, clambered into the car and pulled out to the highway. Waiting for the light to change I turned up the car’s heater fan, started the windshield wipers to deal with the almost sleet which hissed against the glass. The outside temperature gauge on the dashboard read 32 degrees F.---right at the freezing point.

I stopped the car at the end of our drive to snatch mail from the mailbox, a nursery catalog with damply limp pages and an advertisement flyer.

It was gloomy in the house, as dark at nearly noon as it had been at seven. I put away coat and gloves, strode to the living room to deal with the fire, stepping over the cats huddled on the hearth rug. I jabbed with the poker at half-burned logs, stirred coals, piled in more wood. In the kitchen I switched on a burner beneath the red teakettle, scurried downstairs to thrust a load of laundry into the washer.

Teasel-Cat opened one blue eye and glared at me when I tried to claim my rocking chair by the fire. She settled for my lap as I sat with hands wrapped around a mug of tea.

Tea consumed and the laundry transferred to the dryer, I lugged my ironing board upstairs and brought out a stack of quilt patches needing to be pressed.  The boy cats requested to be let out the back door, then seemed astonished by the cold wind which met them. Within moments they were at the sliding door, peering in at me, mouths opening and shutting with soundless pleading, their fur blown into ruffs about their ears. Cold air swept in with them as they dithered on the step. Their accusing eyes seemed to suggest that I should do something about the weather so that they could climb trees and scamper about the yard in comfort.

I poked the fire again, feeling that cold had seeped into the very structure of the little house and into my bones as well. Mentally I scoffed; surely a few days of blustery chill should not be this daunting to a woman who spent most of her lifetime enduring the blizzards and below zero temperatures of the long winters in Vermont and Wyoming.

Placing freshly dried and folded shirts on my closet shelf my eyes were drawn to a bulky garment at the bottom of a stack of sweaters—a thick hooded sweatshirt which once belonged to my late father.

Daddy always ‘felt the cold’ even as a younger man, a trait which he passed on to me and my children. His work kept him outdoors in all weather, or at best, moving from the cab of a truck to the outside and back again. Hugging his navy blue sweatshirt I conjured a vision of him dressed to work outside: the inner layer would be thermal ‘long johns’ and pullover, then a heavy flannel shirt, topped with a hooded sweatshirt and quilted jacket. Heavy socks, pants legs tucked into insulated boots, bulky gloves, thus fortified against cold he would still return to the house shivering, complaining.  He owned a snowblower and  the height of a winter storm would find him outside trudging behind the machine, nearly obliterated by a stinging white cloud as yet more snow drifted down. The hood of his heavy sweatshirt would be drawn up to protect his neck, the drawcord pulled so tight that the bill of his cap was jammed down nearly to the rim of his be-fogged spectacles. Stomping into the house, labors finished, his inevitable comment as he whipped out a bandana to wipe his glasses and blow his nose, “Gee-hover-crimus, its COLD out there!

During the last eleven years of my father’s life I lived in Wyoming, 2100 miles away from home. Each year as his November birthday approached I shopped for warm clothing: flannel pajamas, new thermals, heavy socks, a flannel shirt in the red plaid he favored, and always a new sweatshirt.

In late August, 2009, in the days preceding my Dad’s memorial service I took on the task of emptying his dresser drawers and closets. Tattered T-shirts and patched pants went into a trash bag, better clothing was folded into boxes to be delivered to the Salvation Army.  In the laundry room, along with an assortment of winter jackets I discovered, hanging from a peg, the heavy ‘hoodie’ I had sent for his last birthday. It still held a faint familiar scent of him.  On an impulse I set it aside to keep.

It was this heavy garment that I pulled on yesterday after shedding my ‘dressy’ but inadequate flannel shirt. Daddy was not a large man; he was short and slender with the wiry strength common in the men of our town who shared his French Canadian ancestry. The tag in the sweatshirt designated it as a Medium size.  It is a generous ‘medium!’

A glance in the mirror confirmed that I was a ludicrous sight in the bulky garment. Heavy fabric clumped at my shoulders, the sleeves bunched about my arms even with cuffs turned back. The front of the sweatshirt rolled over my insignificant bosom and the thick ribbed band at the bottom cupped my behind. I wriggled, feeling the folds of the hood snuggle at the back of my neck. I stood again at my ironing board, later sat at my sewing machine, hands busy with the construction of a quilt, my thoughts years away, turning over the images  of my father which linger in my rag-bag mind. Finally I was warm, wrapped against the onslaughts of wind and chill which assaulted the house, warmed by the heavy borrowed sweatshirt and by memories of an irascible plucky man who for 91 winters went out to brave the cold.

My Dad and Mother on an autumn day at the Robert Frost Trail in Ripton, Vermont. Daddy is wearing one of the sweatshirts I sent from Wyoming—one he was keeping ‘for best.’

Photo sent to me by my sister, Christy.

Another Rainy Day

Winter in Kentucky this year has been mostly about rainy days.

Recalling last summer's fairly severe drought, I can only hope that there is a carry-over effect of the ample moisture being bestowed upon us in the past several months.

Today's photos may have an element of deja vu--the big boy 'kittens' relish the aftermath of every rainfall and were quite the brightest elements of a grey morning landscape.

Nellie stirs the puddle.

What with fresh puddles and the endless up-earthings of moles to explore, the 'boys' spent a happy half hour in the sodden yard, before coming indoors to dry off on clean bedspreads. [Sigh]

Edward carrying a prize fished out of the puddle.

I intercepted him and found he was carrying a leafy cocoon--looks like remnants of a 'bagworm' wintered over.  I didn't allow him to bring it indoors.

This was the outlook early on Saturday morning.

We've had only the lightest dustings of snow all winter.

This disappeared in a few hours.

Our weeks of gloomy weather have made for less walking along the edges of the fields--too muddy for a pleasant stroll, thus many more hours than usual to stay inside and sew or read.

Another Quilt Top Finished

Thursday evening saw the last two border strips stitched to my sampler quilt.

This is similar to the one I finihed last month for G, but a different setting and a preference for red fabrics in all the star points.

A diagonal view of the quilt.

The colors aren't true, as I took the photos at night with only a dim overhead light.

These blocks had to be planned one at a time, so color choices and construction took way longer than a project which has considerable repetition in the blocks.

The brown fabric with red flowers was one of my favorites in this line by 3 Sisters for Moda.

It is called Wuthering Heights.

The fabric line came out  about 2006, so I was lucky to find any more fabric through online shops to augment my stash. If you look at the maple leaf block you can see how I pieced the last tiny scraps to make a square.

I'm pleased with the look of the quilt, but think that Sampler Quilts are not a passion of mine--I likely will not make another. The effect of them is 'busy.'

I've made arrangements to send this for long-arm machine finishing to a quilter who lives and works about a 20 minute walk [uphill] from my former home in Vermont.

If you would like to see some of Marion Downey's lovely work, go here: https://sites.google.com/site/knoxhillquilts/home

We retrieved the similar quilt made for G. from the local quilter on Monday.

You can see that the color placement in this one is more random and all the 'sampler' blocks were incorporated into the stars.

This is a nice swirling quilting design.  I will use this quilter's services for what I consider 'everyday' quilts.

She doesn't care to have the client provide batting or backing, and I prefer Hobbs heirloom batting and to choose the 'lining' for my special quilts. The backing was cut scantily on this one [a fact for which the quilter apologized] and it is making the binding process a bit of a problem.  I shall have to be inventive.

A close-up of one of the stars in G.'s quilt. The rollers on the quilting frame used don't hold the material as taut as some, but the occasional slight ripple is not too distracting.

Swirl pattern on the back of the quilt.

I like to have a quilt or two in the 'works' as on-going projects.

Soon gardening will require my energies.

I will have some hours on my own next week and hope I can switch creative gears to get some of the words in my head onto the screen.