Flowers Before Rain

Once again, photos loaded several days ago and not posted.

We had several cool bright days that were good for the garden.

The roses have blossomed ahead of the yearly Japanese Beetle invasion.

The pale pink are Hawkeye Belle, red are Double Knock-out and the variegated rose is the one which was languishing, name tag missing, in a dry dark spot at the end of the side porch. 

Moved to the fence corner in the garden it has flourished.

A night or two of frost early in April shriveled a few tips of new leaves which had to be pruned, but the plant--a shrub rose type--quickly recovered.

A delicate scent enhances the rich colors of the blossoms.

Iris came on in a rush. My iris are roots transplanted from several gardens.

White foxglove raised last year from seed.

There is a backdrop of the invasive unnamed weed which has pushed in from the back side of the fence.

Empress of India nasturtiums.

Clematis Candida has been a joy this spring. There was only one bloom last year.

I lost count after the first dozen opened.  The vine scrambled up the trellis and with minimal coaxing trailed along the fence. 

Rosa Therese Bugnet. The canes tend to straggle, but the blossoms are soft and blowsy, sweet scented.

Duchess of Edinburgh has settled in nicely. 

The iris were going past their first beauty in this photo.  I admire them for persisting in that strip of shallow and rocky soil.

If there are seed heads still intact when the current siege of rain lets up, I'd like to try starting new plants from seed as an experiment.

Therese Bugnet, fully opened.

Iris in the sheltered raised bed against the south wall of the shop.

They were plonked there at the time of our November move in 2014 and perhaps need to join the others in the strip along the lane.

Clematis seed head.

Back-Tracking

I received a letter this week from a man who has served for some years as guardian to Hester and Sally Phelps. I recognized his name as someone who was a pupil of my late mother when she was teaching in a rural school 50 years ago. 

I drove past his family home for a number of years on my way to work. 

The purpose of the letter was to inform me that the essay I posted as a tribute to Hester and her family had instead been a cause of distress to her sister.

The post was shared beyond my immediate list of 'followers' and the response had been respectful.

That it should have hurt Sally, having been viewed as an inappropriate airing of family history has shaken me considerably. 

I am aware that when there is a sense of betrayal it is difficult to 'back-track.'

Honest explanations and apologies can sound like feeble efforts to deny accountability.

I've reflected deeply regarding where I was emotionally when writing the essay.

My thoughts explored not only the loss of one person who had been a positive influence in my life, but expanded to contemplate the reality that Hester was one of the last of my parents' generation. 

Inevitably we endure the loss of the grandparents, the aunts and uncles who inhabit the small safe realm of childhood. Sometime in our middle years our parents become ill and infirm, and with their passing comes the realization that we ourselves are now becoming the 'elderly.'

Many of the families in the rural farming community where I was raised had been settled there for several generations, often occupying ancestral homes, carrying on a family farm or business.

The histories of these individuals and their families were part of our neighborhood heritage. 

Perhaps I absorbed an unusual amount of these family 'stories.'

We tacitly allowed for the inheritance of tragedy or loss or difficulty that impacted certain individuals, just as we accepted their passed down gifts and talents

I recognized fairly early in life that we are each a fearful and wonderful mixture of quirks and foibles!

I believe that family stories, the happenings that have shaped us, need to be preserved, should be available to those younger members of a tribe who have an interest.

 I began nearly two decades ago to write the tales recalled from times spent listening to the reminiscences of my grandfather, my mother, the maternal great-aunts. Most recently the tales have come from my father's younger sister, aided by her daughter and son.

These are the 'stories'--but I've also spent time on serious research for the data which supports the vital events of several generations.

Where, then, did I go so sadly wrong in the writing and sharing of what was intended as a tribute?

The 'guardian' in his missive labeled me as "ignorant, insensitive, uncaring, and thoughtless."

He could have made his point, told me what I needed to know, without resorting to such scathing rebuke.

In struggling to understand my blunder, I think the error was in sharing a story that was not truly mine to share.  In that sense the concept of 'thoughtless' is perhaps well deserved, though not in quite the way that was intended.

I had hoped to honor one family of my neighborhood who endured a series of tragic losses but carried on gracefully, an influence of stability and inspiration in the community.

I regret that I became so focused on the 'story,' so engrossed in my own memories and emotions that I failed to widen my outlook, failed to perceive that I might be over-stepping a boundary of discretion.

I've done what little I can to make amends. 

The post and all links to it have been removed. 

I've written two letters: one to Sally expressing my deep remorse at having unwittingly caused her distress.

I've composed what I hope is an appropriate response to the 'guardian' who was doubtless acting in his role as a protector. 

A person who resorts to sarcasm and harsh words to remonstrate with me probably has his own issues to deal with, and I didn't respond by groveling or attempting to change his assessment of me.

I share this only because I previously published the 'story' which resulted in misunderstanding.

Projects

In the more than two weeks since my last post projects have been dictated by weather.

There have been cool showers, nights when rain drummed on the metal roof of the house.  Days have followed when sporadic sunshine and light winds have dried the soil to a workable consistency.

I have been determined to create a walkway along the 'L' of the flower strips--something that would define the edges of the plantings and make it possible to step there without squelching in mud.

I knew the task would be daunting, rather hoped that Jim might take pity on me and do the initial digging. When appealed to for suggestions or assistance  his reply was, in effect, that if I was determined to have a 'walk' I needed to get on with it, as he had other projects demanding his time.

The soil was just right for digging and I thought I could work down one side, allow time to recuperate and then complete my earth moving on another day.

My work went well, but as the afternoon lengthened the sky grew dark and the wind picked  up--harbingers of more rain. 

I gained the corner, leaned on my garden fork while assessing the length of ground yet to be turned, 

Storm clouds.

Green darkness.

Kale, Swiss chard and beets growing in the compost-enriched strip.

Green beans sprouting under various cat-deterring oddments.

A wonderful crop of kale!

Jim moving a woodshed not needed at the lower farmhouse.

Easy does it!

Woodshed set in place.

The Amish washroom is on the way to becoming a garage.

My untidy planting area on the side porch.

Morning glories.  The seed was saved from those that spilled over the pasture fence at the property we sold in the fall.

When I removed the miniature rose from its tiny pot [a gift from my son and DIL] I found three plants.  They are growing on in larger pots.

There is always a cat--or two--or three- to help with garden chores.  Nellie is particularly charming.

I loaded these photos days ago and they are now out of date!

I've spent many hours working outdoors.

The most necessary housework is done--after a fashion. 

I then fall into my old rocking chair to alternately read and doze off.

I pre-ordered the latest Maizie Dobbs mystery [Jacqueline Winspear] and decided to re-read the earlier books, so raced through those and have now devoured the new one.

I try to read slowly, to make a book 'last'--can't be done!

Storm Watch

The wind was already kicking up when I rose at 6:15, a restless stirring that increased as the sun climbed into the blue sky. 

I fixed my breakfast--a bowl of oatmeal porridge with brown sugar, dried fruit, cream--and carried it to the side porch, pulling a chair to the edge where the sun struck full and warm.

A hawk wheeled high over the ridge, gliding through the rushing air, harsh cries of 'Peent, peent,' sending a flurry of small birds to shelter on the branches of a pine.

 Breakfast done, I made my rounds, checking the daylilies transplanted into the slope below the side porch landing.

A first crop of kale is thriving. The cats are determined to dig in any freshly turned soil, disrupting tiny seedlings, so I found this side from a child's crib, [left behind by the former owners] and used it as a barricade. 

The first bud of Clematis Candida, more green than white.

Moved as a small rooted slip from our first Kentucky house, Candida is coming into her own this season.

In the rough grass along the lane tiny wild violas are in bloom.

I spent more than an hour weeding around the side porch steps, grubbing up tenacious things that seem to thrive in the gravely soil.

A quick break before noon, then out to see what can be salvaged in the perennial strips.

I lost some plants to the endless wet and humid summer of 2016. Several clumps of veronica which seemed to have disappeared have now been freed; I found that the dwarf Oriental lilies are thriving and there are tiny self-sown foxgloves growing beneath the spreading branches of the nameless rose.

My knees began to protest, but I kept on for another half hour.  When I finally creaked into the house for lunch I was surprised to find it was late afternoon.

With Jim away I am enjoying lighter meals: for my late 'lunch' a salad with lettuce, tangy/sweet 'grape' tomatoes, cucumber, a whole avocado; fresh asparagus, a toasted bagel with homemade pimento cheese.

I had planned to drive into town for a study meeting at church, but when I sat down at the computer I learned that our area was under a tornado watch.

As I washed my dishes and tidied the kitchen, the wind outside increased to a noisy whine.

The sky darkened and thunder rumbled.

The storm watch was upgraded to a 'warning.'

Above the skirl of wind came the intermittent hoots of a siren, from the firehouse station a mile away. 

Bobby Mac, who is terrified of storms, fled to his usual refuge, wedging himself along-side the laundry basket in the downstairs bathroom.

Standing on the front porch I heard the booming roar of the wind surging above the ridge.

Between intervals of rain the world took on the eerie greenish hue that inspires anxiety in the heart of those who watch a storm's progress.

The sky to the northeast was black and roiling. 

Patches of slate blue appeared, quickly obliterated by dark clouds.

The storm churned about.  A moment or two of stillness, trees unmoving, a dense quiet, then again a fury of wind and slashing rain.

Amazingly we had no power outage. 

I checked on family and friends in the storm's wide path.

Family and friends checked on me.

Every few minutes I crept outside to observe the swiftly moving clouds.

At dusk the half moon appeared in a patch of blue overhead.

I walked across the drive to observe the bit of garden I weeded earlier.

Charlie-cat crouched on the side steps, unfazed by the storm.

Now at a bit past 10 pm I've made a last inspection of the weather. The thunder has ceased, rain drips quietly from the eaves. The thermometer has dropped to 58 F.

I will want a fire in the morning.

The most recent post from the local weather station is reassuring:

No Active Hazardous Weather Conditions
issued by NWS Columbia KY

Puttering

Kentucky spring weather continues to be capricious.

These photos are from Sunday--a lovely day to be outside.

Change is noticeable each day--the shimmer of emerging leaves in myriad shades of green, or in the case of the maples, having distinctive rosy sheen. 

 I invented reasons to be outside--tidbits to be taken to the barn cats, the return of a jar which had held goats' milk, scraps to be tossed on what I call the 'compost pile.'

The redbuds have their glory days, providing flamboyant color after winter's somber hues.

I could endlessly watch the baby goats.

Isn't she cute?

Her nose is dangerously close to the electric fence which B. put up to confine the little ones to their grassy area off the back entry which served the Amish owners as their wash house.  A small roofed area has been converted to a straw-lined bed where a heat lamp glows through the night.

The youngest goats--triplet doelings--were brought out for the first time. They were quick to realize that they had space to caper and run.

Inevitably, the baby goats must learn that contact with the electric fence is unpleasant. When an inquisitive nose touches the wire, or an airy leap brings a small hoof in contact, the kid yelps and bounces away, quickly developing a healthy wariness.

Not so with one of the little does. At her first 'bite' from the fence she flung herself into it rather than away, thrusting right through the four strands of wire, then, compounding her misery, turned and bolted back through, bleating piteously. 

She repeated this maneuver three times, crying.

F. climbed into the pen, cornered her and held her against his chest until she quieted.  When he set her on the grass she was ready to play. 

The baby goats love attention and there is always the possibility that a human approaching the pen may be bringing their food.

Until they are all more wary of the fence I've tried to admire them from a little distance not wanting to see them jostle each other against the wires.

Sally, who has developed an 'attitude,' is determined to nap in large plant pots.

I intend to take out some plastic cutlery to poke into the soil as deterrents. 

I tore myself away from the goats and decided I was ready to tackle some gardening chores, although I'm still favoring my back a bit.

The rugosas planted by my predecessor have put out yet more runners where they are not wanted.

I grubbed with a shovel, trying to follow the stout stems back to the mother plant. I found several sturdy volunteers had emerged in crevices between the concrete steps. Even a small length of woody stem left behind is capable of generating another bush or two.

I scraped out places in the gravely soil of the steep bank behind the retaining wall and poked the largest of the shoots into the ground. Several transplanted there a year ago have taken root.

The roses are pretty and sweet-scented and can do no harm if they should spread along the side hill.

Keeping the remaining ones within bounds will mean continuing vigilance.

I climbed the fence into the pasture where I had hastily interred a clump of double orange daylilies 2 years ago. I divided the roots and set them out below the concrete landing at the foot of the side porch steps. The creeping phlox which bloomed there during our first spring in residence has 'died out' allowing dandelion and other weedy things to flourish.  Knowing that 'ditch lilies,' as they are locally called, can multiply and bloom in adverse situations, this seems a likely place for them.

I rummaged out some plastic containers and planted a few seeds: tomato, muskmelon, viola, achillea. These are in the east facing windows of the sunroom and pantry. 

A few viola have pricked through the surface of the soil and one venturesome muskmelon has poked up a sturdy loop of green stem. 

Four packets of seeds arrived in yesterday's mail: two additional varieties of achillea that I covet, a pink butterfly weed [asclepias incarnata] and Camelot foxglove.

I shall no doubt once more over whelm myself with plants!

I have asked my daughter to be alert to any large planting containers that may appear on the yard sale circuit.

It was nearly dark when I gave up and creaked inside for a hot shower and a comforting mug of tea.

Clematis Candida has more than a dozen buds.

Rainy days and chilly nights are predicted for later in the week.

Exasperating--we had spring in February and now a relapse!