3 November: A Journal Post

Frost on Monday morning. 29F at 7:45 a.m.

The violas gave up in the heat of July--as they will--but seeds fallen down into the pot germinated by the dozens, crowding each other out.  The hardiest ones grew and blossomed. Violas and their pansy cousins can endure cold better than heat. 

Shades of purple and lavender glowing through the frost.

Willis sits on the edge of the raised bed, basking in the first rays of sunlight.

Mid-morning I walked up to the mailbox.  This tree, variety unknown, enchants me at all seasons.

There are several in the hedgerow along the property boundary, but crowded by other trees and not as handsome.

The lane divides three ways at this point inspiring the original owners of the property to name it 'Turkey Flatt RD.'  As the leaves fall away our house and barn are more visible from this point.

By noon the violas had lost their icy coating and were none the worse for it.

The greenhouse was blissfully warm, so I propped open the door and with two cats [Willis and Nellie] for company I spent nearly an hour tidying up the benches; I collected plastic pots and trays, sorted and stacked by size, tipping any remnants of soil into a large pot under the bench.  I won't use it for sowing seed but it can be recycled for potting on.

For want of a better place, several straggling lemon balms were interred around the shrub roses in the rough strip.

Collecting pruning snips and my sturdy garden fork I set to work tidying up the west garden.

Coneflowers in their first season in this location bloomed later than those established in the rough garden that lies along the drive. I'm hoping to collect a few seeds from the variety 'Green Twister'--new from Select Seeds in the spring--I would like to raise some more plants for next season.

The tangle against the west wall is the frosted remains of Mexican Torch flower. 

The seeds were a bonus packet sent with my order.  I was unfamiliar with their habit and rather dismayed when the two plants tucked by the wall branched, flopped, spread over everything nearby.

I hacked them down uncovering the small pink landscape rose. a sage plant and one of lemon balm which had been languishing underneath.  The torch flower provides exuberant blooms of a scarlet-orange--striking--but I shall be careful where I plant them in future. Considering that dry seeds showered down between the stones of the walkway I may be doing some strenuous uprooting in the spring.

I cut back the David Austin roses, noting grimly that frost had not deterred the nasty little green worms which have done so much damage. 

So much yet to be done before winter closes in, but I am---perhaps---beginning to know when I've kept at the tasks long enough for one day!

Inside to wash up, fortify myself with a mug of tea and start supper: a hearty lasagna layered with locally raised and processed ground beef, chopped spinach [frozen] three varieties of cheese.  Dawn arrived home to create beautiful individual salads, while I made blueberry muffins.

A sunset of stunning colors.

Daylight fading from the western sky and the feeling of night coming too soon.

We are all struggling this week with the changing of the clocks.

Wednesday morning: 36 F at 7 a.m.  Oatmeal with dried cranberries and last night's blueberry muffins for breakfast.

Back outside to rummage in the greenhouse.

My loyal companions.

Two gifted Daphnes and a small knock-out rose settled into this ungainly but handy tub to hopefully winter over.

I grubbed away, trying to find spots to transplant a few of the iris roots which Dawn and I salvaged from the Dry Creek property.

Landscaping there must wait until spring. so I may end up trying to store the excess woody roots in a bin of soil.

I came inside, tired to the point of stumbling stupidity!

We all ate supper at different times--great wodges of leftover lasagna.

I managed to create a pumpkin pudding to serve with whipped cream, and Dawn made molasses cookies.

The outcome of this harrowing election farce hangs over all this evening.

Pandemic, shut-downs, politicians who can do nothing but bicker and accuse.

My return to journaling--online instead of scribbles in notebooks--an attempt perhaps at burying my head in my own small domestic pursuits. 

 

Teasel--A 13th Anniversay

My beloved Teasel has been part of the family for 13 years today.  From the first she exhibited great personality and a wily intelligence, neither of which are diminished. 

She is also one of the most photogenic of my cats.

Teasel still demands to be picked up and cuddled.  She alerts me when it is 'tea time'--and should I be tardy in topping up the kibble dispenser she makes me aware that I'm shirking my duty.

Below is her original story.

Teasel posing on a quilt.

Its rainy and cold outside--leave me alone!

Assisting with the catnip harvest. 

No, I'm not demanding, but I need your attention!

November 3, 2007

Teasel, moments after we caught her in the hav-a-hart trap. A very small kitten in a very big bed. Growing into a pretty girl. Her fur is now soft and thick, her spine no longer feels knobby.

"My eyes are NOT crossed. I'm...errr... just looking this way at the moment."

"I am displeased. I think I will climb onto the bed post and launch myself at you when you walk past. Then you will have to notice me!"

"Something is in the entry! I am TEASEL! I will frighten it away! "

"I am Momma's Darling, therefore I am allowed on quilts."

As twilight crept down from the foothills and the last warmth of an early November sun ebbed away, I suddenly put aside the book I had been reading for several hours. Obeying some unidentified urge I walked into the bedroom and reached to close the curtains on the east-facing window. A slight movement in the lank green grass along the base of the house caught my eye. A tiny blue tabby-point Siamese kitten, seemingly bewildered, took wavering footsteps toward the garage.

I called to J. who made it outside in time to see the kitten scoot into the garage and disappear. While he stood guard to make sure the kitten didn't leave, I resurrected a large hav-a-hart trap from under the cabin porch. I scooped tuna from a hastily opened tin, slid the dish into the trap past the spring laden hatch. J. set the lever and we placed the cage on the garage floor near the pile of stacked lumber. We thought the kitten had run behind the stack.

Within moments, drawn by the smell of fish, the kitten peered from behind the boards and picked its way into the trap. Nothing happened. It's bony weight was too slight to trip the spring. We took a step and the kitten shot behind the boards. "Mew," I said, in my best mother cat voice. "Mew, purrr-oww!" The kitten, invisible, replied in a tiny lost voice, "Mew."

"This is going to be a bit of a waiting game," I told J. He nodded and went inside, while I continued mewing to the kitten. For about 20 minutes we played a game of counter-moves. The kitten scurried into the trap, snatched a precious bite of tuna, then vanished again behind the lumber. Each time it disppeared I cautiously eased closer to the trap. Unable to resist the food, the kitten returned to the trap, and tense with the need to move quickly, I darted forward and shoved the flap closed. In triumph I lugged my prize into the kitchen and set the cage on a bench. We crooned to the kitten. J. reached a gloved finger through the bars of the cage. The kitten spat and bunched itself into a corner, back against the wires, forlornly hissing.

I phoned our son-in-law M, who came from next door with D. at his heels. M. picked an unsharpened pencil from the mug on the counter and quietly inserted the eraser end toward the cringing kitten. He began rubbing with the eraser around the small grey-blue ears, down under the little whiskered chin, then back to the ears, all the while making a soft clicking sound with his tongue against his teeth. The kitten stopped hissing, sat mesmarized. A tentative purr sputtered forth. Quietly J. opened the cage, reached in and removed the kitten. A she-kitten. We passed her gently from hand to hand, stroked the too prominent ridges of her spine, smoothed her fuzzy rough fur. We fed her, held her while she settled to an exhausted sleep.

I named her Teasel for the spiny grey seed heads which stand along the roadside.

The next day I searched the dooryard, the horse pasture, around the outbuildings, looking for a sign of a mom-cat or siblings. There was never a trace. Our area is haunted by several pairs of great-horned owls. We have all seen them busy early of a winter morning tearing the flesh of the wild rabbits they have caught. Small kittens, or even a skinny mom-cat would have been a mere morsel for the large owls. On a wakeful night a few weeks later, I stood by the living room window staring out through the starred darkness toward the old cottonwoods that line the ditch. The hoots of the owls made a muffled, menacing call and answer from their respective branches. Teasel the Kitten shivered a bit as though at remembered terror as I held her snuggled into my shoulder.

Teasel has grown to be a beautiful and intelligent cat. She is not a lap cat, but she likes to be picked up and carted about for a few minutes. She comes to greet me when I have been out, a ritual of bouncing up on her back legs so that her raised stripey head meets my outstretched hand. When I stretch and move under the covers at morning's first light, she pounces on my feet, her purr rumbling.

I tell her [and anyone who will listen] that surely an angel scooped her up from some dangerous place and plunked her, dazed and lost, in the grass outside my window. Just as surely the same angel nudged me and whispered, "Look and see what I have brought for you to love."

Blown Into November

J.'s machinery lined up by his dirt pile.

Clear and chilly nights, huge silvery moon, days with intensely blue skies, sunshine.

The wind has been whisking leaves from the trees, fairly gently for the most part, but today has worked itself into steady gusts that rolled the rugs by the back porch door into heaps, sang noisily around the corners of the house and barn.

I wanted special food for Shelby-the-Kitten who was not well nourished in her place of origin, but I balked at the prospect of going to Wal Mart. Tractor Supply Company has a store in Columbia and one in Liberty.  Consulting with Jim, he suggested that I drive to Liberty, then proceed to the Dry Creek property to see the improvements made since my last visit.  He rattled off instructions about the best way to get there from Tractor Supply, but since I have notoriously no sense of direction, I pulled up google maps and typed in point of departure and destination.  Several options were presented and I wrote down the details of two possible routes, finding that I was somewhat familiar with the roads suggested.

I enjoy shopping at TSC [a glorified farm/home venue] even encumbered with a mask.  It took some time to gather food to keep the older cats for the next month, and a real search to locate a small sack of kibble specifically for a kitten.

TSC has a clothing section and I remembered that J.'s socks are once again in shabby condition.  After finding replacements for him I chose a package of fleecy socks for myself, and the special treat of an amaryllis bulb.

With all of this stowed in the back of the Honda, I reviewed my directions and started down the back streets to find Rte 49.  It became apparent that Google and the town of Liberty had not coordinated their efforts.  The printed directions ran me through a short street, [little more than an alley] landing me on a road with no name sign, no route designation. A right hand turn made sense and as the road lead out of town I expected soon to see a sign confirming the route number.  A mile or two of roaring up a twisting hill road with no signs and I decided the sensible thing was to turn back into town and drive into familiar territory. [Later I learned that I had chosen the correct road and could have continued.]

The second set of directions I had copied intersected with the route I was now driving, and I suppose I wanted to prove I could 'get there from here.'

To get to the gist of things, I managed to miss a vital turning somewhere along the endlessly looping, climbing, plunging roads, and ended up in familiar territory, but still some miles from my destination!

I felt somewhat vindicated when Howard stated that the absence of road signs coming out of Liberty does indeed make for confusion.

This evening I have pulled up the map and traced the three routes suggested, finding that [typically for the area] the proper highway number wasn't specified in the directions and some  details of 'short cuts' were missing.

At any rate, I finally arrived at the Dry Creek property, and although I lost time, my circuitous route wound through pleasant country, sun-washed and golden.

I viewed the mounds of soil which J. has been happily shoving about, admired the finished bridge constructed across Dry Creek last week by Howard and Jim.

Home to give the cats their 'tea,' and begin moving begonias in from the back porch. 

 I trimmed the lemon verbena which spent time in the greenhouse and laboriously towed it across the yard and in through the lower door. 

The wind was growing colder, blowing west by north-west, singing in my ears. 

I was glad to come inside and put the kettle on for a fortifying mug of tea.

Jim arrived home to mow the grass for what he hopes is the last time in this green autumn.

He brought with him the last of his planting of carrots to be added to my supper preparations.

I served them sliced on the diagonal, steamed and dressed with butter, a slosh of maple syrup and a sprinkling of cinnamon.

My clock announces 10:35--I try not to think that it is 'really' 11:35.  I dislike this meddling with clocks!

The frost will touch us tonight, temperatures dropping with the full moon.

It doesn't do to wonder what winter will bring in these strange times in which we are living.

A side view of the sturdy bridge.  This will make easier access into the property.

'Dry Creek' is seldom really 'dry'--and when there have been torrential rains the crossing has been for a few hours nearly impossible.

Renovations have covered most of the interior log walls on the second story of the house.  Much effort went into cleaning, staining and applying polyurethane. "Log Jam' has been used to reseal all the chinks.

About a mile from our house the road passes a farm with a large pond.

Canadian geese flock there year round.  I've often wished to stop with my camera, but usually too intent on errands.

Today on the way home I pulled off the road in a safe spot and walked back. The geese who were on the edge of the pond scuttled into the water and sailed off.; those on the farther bank were wary, but not too disturbed by me.

Parading toward the water.

 

31 October

October has moved through the last ten days with intermittent showers, a few hours of pale sunshine, wind that has brought down drifts of leaves.

Mornings have been slow and misty.

The last offering of green beans was picked this week; the broccoli has needed to be harvested and used while at its best.

We are still making salads with the crisp and spicy Napa cabbage, but now buying cucumbers and peppers, salvaging the last small tomatoes picked green and left to ripen [or rot!] on the west porch and on a tray in the kitchen.

It has been just wet enough to postpone the rest of the garden clean-up. 

I did manage to plant out 5 foxgloves and a clary sage that were languishing in the untidy greenhouse.

The Double Red Knock-out Roses continue to produce a few half-opened blooms to bring in and display in tiny bottles and vases on the kitchen windowsill.

We were spared frost last night--when I looked at the outside temp this morning just before 8 the reading was 36 F.

Late yesterday afternoon [Friday] the sky cleared, the sun shone through the trees, some nearly denuded of leaves, others still clinging on.

By the time the nearly full moon rose behind the barn, the air had turned chill.

Realizing that no one had gotten the mail, I walked up the lane in the moonlight to collect it.

I'm always enchanted by the way the moon seems to 'follow' me when walking or driving. 

Looking toward the west end of the property late in the day.

 On Monday I drove to the South Fork community, making a brief tour of the discount food store, then turning across the road to the produce market. The sales area outside the store building was bright with fall color in spite of the overcast sky.

 Mums and giant pumpkins.

I suspect few of us buy or raise pumpkins to process for pies or puddings--too easy to avoid the mess and open a tidy can.

Indian corn for autumn decorations.

A hand lettered sign above the smaller pumpkins announced that all were '25% off.'

Small decorative pumpkins heaped in the entry of the market. 

A variety of bagged apples spilled their cidery scent in the dim space.

Rustic wooden birdhouses for sale.

Note the ladder leading to the 'second story' of the one on the left.

Blue sky on Friday afternoon; the meadow still deeply green from frequent autumn rains.

Towers of color against blue.

Nearly bare branches on some trees along the ravine, others still clad in green.

 

Streaks of apricot in the eastern sky before sunrise. 

 

 

 Rose colored clouds heralding the appearance of the sun.

 

Rose, coral, smoky lavender, lemon--the sun is about to pop around the corner of the barn. 

The morning was brisk and bright. I went out, wearing a light jacket, to cut a few roses, to enjoy the few blossoms still lingering in the perennial strips.

The Michaelmas daisies have passed their prime, though from a distance they are still a lovely splash of purple. A nasturtium or two raises a pale yellow head above the tangle of vines. 

The petals are stained and fading on the Duchess of Edinburgh clematis and Candida nearby has only these curly seed heads to mark where blossoms have been.

Frost is expected on Sunday and Monday nights. The gardens will go to rest--- memory of the season now closing and anticipation of another to come.

Colors On a Cloudy Day

A day without sunshine, skies a pale pearly grey, the air warm with a moist softness.

Gusty rain and wind on Friday evening, and a dreary intermittent drizzle on Saturday have brought leaves swirling to the ground to lie in soft drifts along the lane and the edges of the ravines.

Looking into the south ravine.

 There are few sugar maples here to give the crimson and deep scarlet colors of a New England autumn; Shades of gold, russet and bronze prevail, giving an illusion of light even on a day of drab weather.

A sycamore leaf lies bleached and tattered on a bed of earlier fallen leaves.

After many years of country living I should be better at identifying the trees around me.

Some trees still cling to green leaves, a sober background for shades of gold.

Jupiter's beard [centranthus ruber] has produced a few late blooms which hang over the concrete retaining wall at the west end of the house.

Numerous small plants have appeared around the parent plant; I wonder if they will winter over.

Foxglove tucked near the daylilies that march along behind the Double-Red Knock-Out roses

Nasty little green worms stripped most of the foliage from these landscape roses, so I trimmed them back ruthlessly.  A half-opened bloom glows in the grey afternoon.

'Moonlight' nasturtium, a 'second growth' volunteer in its big pot on the back porch.

The surprise of a lemon-hued daylily in the rough strip of garden along the driveway.

Coneflower 'Sensation' grown from seed this season.

A quiet Sunday with neither rain nor sun, but warmed with the gentle faded hues of late autumn.