'Can Spring Be Far Behind?'

We have experienced a day and a half of sunshine.

Today there have been intervals when a pale and tentative sun has been visible behind a curtain of sheer grey clouds. The air is cold and still, but the thermometer is registering above the freezing mark for the first time in days.  I dragged the rosemary plants back into the house from the front porch last evening, noting with sorrow that many of the branches have browned tips.  I shouldn't have moved them outside again when the deep freeze was [supposedly] ended.

I sat by the fire this morning with a favorite nursery catalog open, pen in hand to mark a few plants and seeds that I would like to order.

Yesterday I bought a packet of rosemary seeds and one of Munstead lavender.  It was a gesture of defiance flung in the teeth of a winter which has seemingly taken a heavy toll of my beloved gardens.

The cats have been alternately lethargic and fractious. Charlie, Nellie and Bobby find warm places to curl up during the day--Charlie has a particular liking for my sewing table when I build a fire and work downstairs.

Come late evening and the three carry on until they are allowed outside in the dark and cold.

Willis has pushed the limits of his privileges as a sometimes house cat, going in and out on demand.

He is not completely trust-worthy in the house at night and tends to make himself scarce if he wishes to spend the night on the daybed downstairs.

On cold nights when I keep the boy-cats inside, they rattle and crash, stalk into the bedroom and make demands in plaintive tones which can't be ignored.

There is no reasoning with cats.

Keeping house these weeks is much about carrying in wood, sweeping up bits of bark and sawdust, carrying out ashes.

Neighbors have posted on Face Book regarding high electric bills from central heating.

We don't rely on our electric heat pump, although as Jim points out, heating with wood is not 'free.'

It provides us with areas in the little house that are cozy, while those rooms more distant from the fire [my 'office' space included] are not welcoming.

In the chill of Tuesday afternoon I noted the activity of three bluebirds.

One sat huddled on the lamp post for some time.

I went quietly out and stood on the front porch steps zooming the camera toward the birds who perched in the goat willow tree.

Each springtime the bluebirds make a great fuss of inspecting the several birdhouses. The one in the willow tree is usually claimed by a family of tree swallows, while the bluebirds prefer the two in the back yard. 

The nesting birds are in constant peril from the resident cats, although J. contrives barricades of fencing wire around the tree trunks. 

I finished a quilt top late last evening.

Keeping a fire downstairs makes the entire house warmer and allows me to sew with all my tools and fabrics ready to hand. 

I suspect I will continue to make Log Cabin quilts because whenever I declare I've made the last one I discover a variation that intrigues me.

This one is called Broken Star Log Cabin.

Although the blocks require the simplest of straight cutting and sewing, the number of 'log' strips involved makes the process fairly time-consuming. 

In this one I used strips of two fabrics which had appropriate colors but became annoyingly too prominent as I began to lay out and stitch the rows together. 

You can see one of the fabrics in this photo--the muted stripe.  I picked out the stitches and replaced the logs in several blocks where the stripe seemed to dominate. 

Quilt makers among my readers may notice that this setting requires blocks of all light or all dark fabrics to 

create the pattern. 

The sun is losing the competition with dark clouds as it moves towards the west this late afternoon.

I must bundle up and tend to a few outside chores, hoping that a foray into fresh cold air will drive away some of the hibernation funk that has me in thrall today.

I've passed the hours telling myself that I might  write letters, I could get on with another sewing project.

In short, I'm having trouble getting out of my own way--I may take my cue from the cats and burrow into my rocking chair by the fire until a hint of spring revives me.

Days of Dreary Weather

I've been reluctant to record the damages done by the freezing weather in early January, but it appears that some of the effects may be with us more or less permanently.

Magnolia trees, we've been assured, are at their northern-most range here in south-central Kentucky.

The towering tree in our front yard is one of the delights of summer with its waxy chalice-shaped buds that open to fragrant cups of fleeting loveliness.

I don't know how much frost a magnolia can take and survive.

I know--its 'only a tree'-but I'm concerned about it.

In only three years I have come to value its presence.

A close-up of frost-burned leaves on the magnolia.

Nandina is usually evergreen and the berries a brilliant red through the winter months.

The shrubs flanking the porch and carport, though bedraggled, can be pruned back early in spring and will quickly return to their former height.

In former years the daffodils near the carport have rushed the season, putting out frilled yellow petals that often suffered  the blight of a February chill.

As if warned of inhospitable weather their tentative green tips are still shrouded in a blanket of dry leaves.

My herb garden near the back door is a sad small space of grey and shriveled plants.

In previous winters the sage has merely ceased to grow, holding quietly to its leaves of pebbled dusty green or burgundy. Now the leaves are crisp, dulled to an unpromising grey.

Only bare brown stems like rusted wire are left of the wooly thyme which crept along the retaining wall.

The mat of culinary thyme which spills boisterously onto the concrete of the carport is brittle, nearly leafless.

Two of the older lavenders may have a chance at revival, but the smaller seed-grown plants, nurtured  summer long on the front porch and tucked into September's warm soil, have the appearance of plants that have been mortally chilled.

Likewise the winter savory, the lemon thyme, the foxglove tucked in the back corner against the house wall.

Walking along the upper perennial strip I wonder about the hardiness of the southernwood and the 

butterfly bush.

There are some weeks yet to wait til I can be sure what plants can be pruned hard to flourish again from viable roots, which ones have been done to death by the frigid temperatures of January.

Gardeners are a determined lot; even as we mourn our losses the mind jumps ahead to replanting.

Jim and I talk about the gardens, pondering how much we really need to plant and tend and 'put up.' How many strawberry plants should be ordered? Installed in my rocking chair by the fire, perusing glossy seed and nursery catalogs it is easy to discount the sweaty labors of July and August, the ache in my knees after hours of weeding.

  

Frost-bitten sage.

Looking south down the Big Creek Valley. 

Sunrise over the creek.

Edward pads across frozen ground amidst the clutter of sweet gum seed balls.

Only one morning in the past two weeks inspired me to step outside with my camera to 

record a ruddy sunrise.

Most days have plodded by in desultory fashion; we glance out the window to take note of snow flurries, a spatter of icy rain.  The cats asleep on the sofa prick their ears to the sound of wind as it sweeps 

across the porch., dry leaves rattling ahead of the gusts.

Jim carries in armloads of wood which shed bits of bark and crumbs of sawdust to be brushed up. I make futile swipes at the furry ash which settles repeatedly on the mantle and shelves near the fireplace.

Four years into retirement we acknowledge with a certain surprise that we have no schedule to meet, no need to start a vehicle on a cold morning.

We eat comfort food--homemade soups, bread fresh from the oven, open a jar of pears harvested from the old time-y Kieffer tree.

On the coldest days I keep a fire in the basement family room, take fabric from the cupboard, sit at my sewing machine piecing quilt blocks.

I've brought out hand sewing on the evenings when I'm not engrossed in a book.

My scissors, spools of thread, a lump of beeswax, are clustered on the small table at my elbow, subject to investigative proddings by the resident felines.

Jim scrolls through the offerings on Netflix, occasionally finding one that I will watch with him.

We store up the comments of long-time residents who nod wisely and assure us that this is how winters 'used to be' in south-central Kentucky.

We recall the long cold-bound winters of Vermont and Wyoming, when February was a mere halfway mark through the expected time of snow and ice.

We tell ourselves that we've been spoiled by three winters here when dandelions bloomed yellow-gold in green grass on New Years day.

Even as we draw the curtains against the gloom of a day when the light appears the same at high noon as it did at 7 a.m., we notice that the day hours have stretched almost imperceptibly since the December solstice.

The earth turns and the seasons unfold as they have ever done and ever will do.

We cherish the promise of an eventual springtime; we are heartened when the sun remembers to shine for even an hour or two.

There is truth in the words of a poem written in 1912 and usually sung at Christmas time to the English tune, Forest Green, but suitable for these grey days of waiting out winter.

All beautiful the march of days, as seasons come and go;

The Hand that shaped the rose hath wrought the crystal of the snow;

Hath sent the hoary frost of Heav'n, the flowing waters sealed,

And laid a silent loveliness on hill and wood and field.

Walking Along Big Creek [Post # 700!]

The ford at Big Creek.

I huddled in my rocking chair before dawn on Saturday morning, listening to the shriek of the wind in the chimney.

I had letters to write, a mug of tea on the small table beside me.  Several of the cats demanded 'out', so I went to the sliding door that opens onto the back yard. 

The yard light mounted over the garage door cast a yellow-green pool of illumination that faded off into the dark fields beyond. Snowflakes skirled and danced.  The boy-cats teetered on the step, ears flattened against the south wind that ruffled their fur and rattled through the frost-seared leaves of sage and lavender in the herb garden.

Pulling the heavy curtain across the door, I hurried to put another chunk of wood in the stove.

I wrinkled my nose, squinted my eyes at the puff of acrid smoke which sifted into the room.

The scent of a wood fire in early winter is homey, comforting, an aromatic tang that speaks of enclosing warmth and welcome shelter.

By late January, with fires stoked round the clock during a siege of frigid weather, the house has taken on a faintly bitter odor of smoldering coals and the sharp stale bite of the smoke which furls forth in that instant when the stove door is opened.

We notice it mostly when we have been outdoors breathing cold winter air and then step inside.

Ice in the middle of the creek.

Daylight came slowly, a murk of grey overlaid with a thick veil of  falling snow.

The cats were happy to scamper inside to the warmth when I held open the back door, bracing myself against the gale.

Nellie looked at me with his wide owl-y eyes, seemingly amazed by the snow melting into his long fur.

Bobby's feet were cold, his tail swishing with indignation.

Charlie flung himself onto my towel-covered sewing box near the fire, as out of sorts as though the early venture into the cold had been forced upon him.

I stood at the window watching the rapidly whitening road and dooryard, thinking of long Vermont winters, of ice-coated windshields and hazardous, though mercifully short, commutes to work.

Sunshine and shadows on cold water.

The storm blew itself out by noon, leaving soggy snow heaped beneath a pewter sky.

We ate lentil soup and cinnamon bread, sat by the fire.

A hint of color glowed behind the woods as dusk came on.

The creek ripples around a patch of snow-crowned ice.

The sun sailed aloft in a brilliant blue sky on Sunday, snow melted in the warmth of a January thaw.

There was a freshness in the air which lured me outside.

I pegged a small quilt on the line where it billowed gently.

The ground squelched beneath my boots as I crossed the yard, averting my eyes from the frost-ravaged  herb garden.

The shimmer of sunlight on the loop of Big Creek lured me across the road, my new camera on its strap around my neck.

The water is shallow here, running over the flat seamed rock of the creek bed.

The leafless trees loom over their distorted reflections.

I thought of working on quilt blocks this afternoon, but the delight of remaining outside on a mild day after weeks of enduring cold trumps returning to the stuffy house.

Walking along the road I wonder why I've never noticed the thick vine which clambers up this tree trunk.

The vine twists toward the top of the tree.

How many years have gone into its upward growth?

Treetops against the sky.

Moss cloaks the nearly horizontal trunk of a tree above the creek.

The road runs southerly along the base of a ridge,  flanked on the opposite side by a wide meadow.

The creek has made a loop away from the road.

On the shaded side of the road a grey bird bounces and scuffles, creating a tiny commotion beneath a sagging wire fence.

By the time I have the camera focused it has turned tail, ready to fly away.

Big Creek slices through the field to flow under the bridge above the Kemp farmstead.

Ice over the water is spongy, fragile.

I had thought to turn toward home at the bridge, but I am within sight of Matt and Gina's house, so I walk along, greeted in the driveway by the bustle of their dog.

Gina is in the back yard, gathering up twigs brought down by yesterday's wind.

Before we have time for more than a few words Jim wheels into the yard. 

He strides toward us, huffy.

'You didn't tell me you were going for a walk!'

He is indignant.

I decide that accepting a ride home is the judicious thing to do.

Jim  continues to sputter--about the vulnerability of women who walk along the road alone.

'It is daylight,' I protest, 'And surely I'm of an age that wouldn't appeal to an abductor!'

As I exit the van at our back door, Jim remarks, 'Now that you're here, I need you to drive the Massey to tow the John Deere into the shop--it won't start.'

I put my camera in the house, trudge up the lane to the barn, climb aboard the red tractor, watching while Jim attaches a tow strap to the green tractor behind me.

I wonder, but forebear to comment: perhaps J.'s concern for my where-abouts was more to do with needing me to tow the tractor than with the threat of being accosted by a malevolent thug on my Sunday stroll of a mile in the sunlight!

Its All About Weather

Cold winter weather continues to dominate our lives.

The warmest spot in the house is near the living room fireplace which has an inserted stove.

My rocking chair is on one side, J.'s recliner on the other side.

The north end of the house, where the bedrooms are located, is uncomfortably chilly.

My desk and PC are in the smaller 'guest room' so much of my online reading and writing is curtailed.

The house has central heat and air powered by a 'heat pump'--we don't often use the heating feature, feeling that it would be pricey--and seldom necessary other than for a few minutes on a chilly morning, or if we have been away on a cold day and the fire has languished.

Today, needing to be at my desk, I have kept the thermostat at 65 F--not luxuriously warm, but bearable.

Yesterday I lugged one of my sewing machines upstairs from the basement 'family room' [which has its own wood stove] and plonked it on the dining area table.

Faced with the need to crowd in the ironing board, space for a cutting mat, the necessity of trudging up and down stairs for such fabric as I might need, I became faint-hearted.

Bundled in a thick 'hoodie'--in addition to several layers of clothing, I trudged back downstairs to hem a pair of trousers and stitch the borders to the above small quilt top.

Hands and feet were well chilled when I finished these tasks.

The appliqued quilt was constructed using fabrics from an old line by Robyn Pandolf--'Folk Art Christmas.'

The small hourglass blocks which frame the applique are rather more attention demanding than I anticipated.

Don't know yet how I will have this one finished, as I can't bear to have my careful handwork rampaged over by the local quilter's looping patterns.

.

The quilt above utilizes the same line of fabrics--created when I lived in Wyoming.

It appears far more subdued in coloration as the reds and pinks are featured in small snippets and the background fabrics are quiet.

Detail of the applique--poor lighting, so not the best photo. 

Nellie and Bobby, who rushed in from the cold when M. stopped after work.

These two, along with Charlie-cat, feel that they must go outside about 4 A.M. regardless of frigid temperatures.

They hurtle inside at breakfast time and spend the morning hours crashed on bed or sofa, recovering from the chill, then they are out again.

They are not meant to be on the work island, but there they are, basking in a spot of late afternoon sunshine, doubtless covering my apron and oven mitts with fur.

Thursday offered brilliant sunshine, a bright blue sky and a bitter north wind that made going 

outside a misery.

J. drove to one of the local Amish sawmills to collect a bundle of ash slabs he had asked to have put by.

The slabs, added to our usual firewood, make for a quicker, hotter fire.

J. has rootled out a heavy cap with 'earlappers', his long johns and a variety of thermal-knit long-sleeve T's--most of which have not seen use since our move to Kentucky.

Some of us are wise enough not to stir away from the warmth of the fire.

J. folds an old puffy vest into his chair when he vacates it--it is meant for his elderly cat, Raisin--at the left and bottom of the pile.

Her sister Eggnog cuddles with her.

Both of them, elderly and fragile-bodied, are weighted down by Teasel's considerable furry bulk.

The long range weather forecast for the coming week isn't inspiring.

There should be a few days with temperatures above freezing--an improvement--but still cold for the 

time of year.

Jim builds a fire in his shop, putters out there, comes in for a hot drink, hearty comfort food.

I braved the assembly of my new food processor, made a batch of pimento cheese.

I hadn't eaten pimento cheese in decades, recalling it as a rather nasty  concoction which came packed in small glass jars when I was a child. 

Visiting our niece in October, we became quite partial to the home made version.

In early December, recovering from a cold/cough, I reread a favorite series of novels with a southern setting.

There was considerable mention of southern-style foods, including pimento cheese.

A google search turned up a number of suggestions using various cheeses and some quirky additives [pickle juice, anyone?]

G. and D. assisted me in the first few batches [I was intimidated by the instructions which came with the food processor!] and I quickly settled on a brick of Colby/Jack as the main ingredient, with an addition of cream cheese and mayo for spreadability. And, of course the pimentos.

J. dished out a portion of the latest batch and added a dash of Tabasco.

It is good stuff on whole wheat crackers and makes a nourishing addition to toast.

Lentil soup, scrambled eggs, a casserole, lemon squares, home made chocolate pudding with whipped cream---it seems to me that we must keep up our strength to deal with the weather.

The laundry is caught up--thanks to the use of the electric dryer; the bed is piled with quilts and the charity shop comforter;  Jim carries in wood; I bundle up to deal with litter boxes and walk to the mailbox.

The cats continue to hope that freezing weather which greets them at the back door may revert to balmy temps if they try the front door.

Jim isn't likely to run out of Netflix to watch [sigh] and I have books stacked by my chair.

Best of all, the house is scented with the cinnamon loaves cooling under a cloth on the counter.

I think a mug of tea is in order!

North Wind Doth Blow

Daybreak was a shading from night into a dull grey landscape--it is as dark now at noon as it was at 7 A.M.

We have been slow and puttery this morning, J. putting on heavy overalls and jacket before heading to the barn to feed Pebbles and the calico cat sisters.

I lingered by the fire, drying my hair.

The cats have been restless, their usual attitude toward changing weather.

The north wind is howling, sending cold draughts around the windows of the bedrooms.

One of these rooms houses my desk and PC. I've closed the inside wooden shutters and sit hunched over my keyboard.

Cold dark weather is forecast for the remainder of the week.

I find it interesting to note that I dress for the comparatively cold days of  Kentucky much as I did for winter in Vermont and Wyoming, where 'cold' meant temperatures anywhere from 20 to 40 degrees colder!

The boy cats have decided that, for now, they prefer being indoors to out trolling through the tall bleached grass in search of meadow mice.

J. has built a fire in the shop and betaken himself out to his current tractor restoration project.

I spent several hours with him yesterday helping to mask and tape tractor and wheels for painting.

It has been nearly 16 years since I worked in a friend's auto body shop, much longer than that since my son taught me to 'mask' for him when he painted vehicles.

Perhaps it is true that no skill thoroughly learned goes to waste.

I changed the layers of quilts on our huge bed on Sunday and bundled aside the thick charity shop comforter.

Teasel inserted herself into the folds creating a cozy nest.

The house, this blustery day, is littered with cats who have come in from the cold!

The dooryard is alive with cardinals and juncos, picking frantically for food to sustain them through the cold.

I miss having birdfeeders.

We gave them up last winter when it became apparent that the boy cats are avid and deadly hunters.

Both juncos and cardinals like to feed on the ground.

During the bitter weather two weeks ago [when the cats preferred the hearth] I flung birdseed on the gravel of the drive where it sweeps into the back yard.

The birds are still picking there.

I rarely have a good photo as they bob about or fly up as I press the shutter.

I've considered bringing my smaller sewing machine upstairs and setting up shop on the dining table.

Starting the fire downstairs doesn't seem a good option unless the cold deepens and we need again to protect the pipes in the back hall.

J. dumps an armload of wood beside the fireplace each time he comes in.

My fabric and 'tools' are all stashed downstairs in the big family room, but surely one of my 'works in progress' could live upstairs for a few days to pass the hours of bad weather.

It is a temptation merely to huddle near the  fire, settling into my rocking chair with a tipple of books piled round me, a mug of tea at my elbow.

This I feel, will not do!

A few kitchen chores call me--then, perhaps [only perhaps] I will be inspired to be a good 

steward of my time.

Walking in Winter Sunshine

Looking east across the big meadow from the edge of the woods.

The week just past was one of slow days, grey skies,  frosty mornings, piddling rain.

J. has been working in the garage, getting a Ford tractor ready for painting.

I was in the kitchen when he hastened in one afternoon, dripping blood from one hand and demanding that I find gauze bandages and disinfectant.

The chisel he was using had slipped and taken a chunk out of his left thumb. 

I don't like looking at such things, but managed to help him get the gash bound up.

It left him with a clumsy hand which he was in danger of banging at every turn.

He enlisted D. to help for the rest of the day with the tractor refurbishment.

G. remembered that M. had bought some protective 'splints' when he did a similar number on his finger several months ago and the loan of these has helped to save the poor thumb from further insult.

This would seem to have been the excitement of the week, quite sufficient.

A weathered cedar stump.

I can't think that I accomplished much beyond the usual rounds of meal preparation, some desultory housework.

J.'s birthday on Thursday, so his favorite pineapple-upside-down cake baked and served with mounds of whipped cream. Matt, Gina, and Devin here to help consume that treat--and we had quite demolished it before I thought to record the event with photos.

Moss gleams on another ancient stump adrift in oak leaves.

We missed our monthly first Wednesday grocery shop in the neighboring county as J. was away that week. [This is the day when those over age 60 are honored with a 10% discount.]

J. decided on Friday that we should stock up without the discount.

I must say, that it was simpler to get through the store without the usual crowd of elderly shoppers, many taking advantage of the stores' riding carts to bumble about the aisles.

We like to wander through Peddlers Mall if we have time-- a large building filled with stalls of goods for sale.

There are some stalls which have only junk--tired objects which appear to have been culled from basements or attics, dreadfully unappealing.

Others feature tidy displays of vintage furniture, collectible china and kitchen goods, small tools, decorative wares old and new.

I can often spot items which would be lovely to bring home--if we had a bigger house!

This was one of the few times we've been there when even the best stalls seemed disorganized and lacking in appealing wares.

A stem of dried vervain leans over an old cistern near the meadow ditch.

Friday was G.'s birthday [a day after her father's] so I brought home a bouquet of wildly colored mums --the tag called them 'neon blooms' a product of South America. I do wonder how such perishables can be picked, packaged and shipped from a faraway country to appear with an expected 

shelf life' of at least a week.

G.'s special dessert was a chocolate pudding cake--again with lashings of whipped cream.

[We are a family who brings on the whipped cream at the slightest excuse!]

Seed pods clinging to the remnants of summer wildflowers.

Fuzzy heads of goldenrod silhouetted against a rare blue sky.

The old disc harrow waiting for another summer.

Sunset this evening after a mild day of sunshine.

There have been few such days thus far this winter, giving an overall sense of a long spell of cold and dreary weather.

The forecast is for plummeting temperatures and cloudy skies moving in tomorrow to stay for the remainder of the week.

The prospect isn't a joyful one, but we have wood for the fires, cupboards full of food.

We have work to do, I have books to read, and I'm feeling a renewed commitment to quilt-making.

The family may have no need for yet another quilt, but I have a need to drive the cold winter away!