Evening, 31 December, 2021

Weeds that crowd in on my flower plantings are evergreen through a Kentucky winter. 

Pansies have self sown along the edge of the raised bed by the front steps with a few popping up in the grass beyond.

Mornings are so slow in December, the effects of the solstice not evident until mid January. The sun, when it condescends to rise, does so in the south-east coloring the sky beyond the ravine.

The weather has had an uneasy feel, daytime temps in the 60's F, nights seldom falling below freezing. Clouds, pale sunshine, warm, damp air, the kind of wind that rushes through the bare treetops then dives to sweep through drifts of fallen leaves. 

Robert-cat balks at coming in after dark so I am often out calling for him, standing with arms hugged against my sides or hands thrust into the pockets of a light jacket. Waiting for Robert, trailed by ever faithful Willis and his cohort, Sally, I look up at the night sky marveling at the imagination that could form pictures from the distant clusters of stars. 

I've felt unsettled, not quite back into what passes in retirement for a winter routine. 

I read, both online and from conventional books, read until my eyes are strained and squinting. 

I've needed to prepare music and lessons for church presentations, wondering if the time is nearing when I should bow out of those duties. 

We have tended to our small errands, avoiding Wal Mart even more than usual, choosing from what is on offer at the neighboring Beachy Amish store or the Discount Sales in the next county.

Family birthdays crowd the calendar in December and January, celebrated by 'eating out.'

Baking during Christmas week: Oatmeal bread--which J. sampled before it was cooled; a small blueberry pie pulled from the freezer; a pan of date bars which only I fancy--good with a mug of something hot.

It is lovely now to have good family cooks eager to take on much of the meal prep for holiday dinners. I am requested to produce the favorite Lemon Meringue pies.

We chose to gather for our family meal on Sunday, 26th December, at our house. The day was warm and sunny. Rosie-kitten wants so badly to help in all that I do--setting the extra folding table has to be a last minute arrangement.

New Year's Eve is traditionally a time for reflection. The turning of the calendar from one year to the next has never seemed to me a cause for noisy celebration. 

I've been sorting through old photos stored on CD's--a nostalgic undertaking that calls forth moments of sweet remembrance of times past, people--and pets--no longer with us. Memory once tapped can open the flood gates; it takes a certain vulnerability to deliberately step into the past, allowing scenes to  unfold, emotions to be stirred afresh.

I remember suddenly a New Year's Eve at our last home in Wyoming. Snow knee high in drifts around the house, wind--always the Wyoming wind, blasting down from the mountains.

For some reason I chose to bundle in layers of warm clothing, tall boots, face muffled in a fluffy scarf, to trudge along the pasture fence, flashlight in hand--checking on the old horse I suppose. I remember that she came trotting through the snow, eyes glinting, breath making steamy clouds in the circle of light from my torch.

As the early darkness has moved in on this evening in south-central Kentucky there have been several bursts of rain, a peal of thunder. The electricity jolted off and then on again; the digital clocks all needed resetting. The outside temperature stands at 64F. 

Rain and wind are predicted for tonight and tomorrow, with cooler temps expected at the beginning of the new year. 

I have started to work again in my sewing room--taking up the projects that were laid aside during November's anxious days of Covid. 

The first seed catalog arrived in the mail on Wednesday--my favorite for ordering flower seeds. 

Surely it is not too soon to dream of impossible bursts of bloom, abundant crops of vegetables. Armchair gardening at its best!

Jim's projects have included a return to filling the woodshed, the refurbishing of a John Deere tractor.

We are feeling blessed that we can meet the new year with a return of energy.

 

On The Eve of the Winter Solstice

Jim was first dressed and in the living room this morning. He called me to take note that both the full moon and the flush of the rising sun were visible.

By the time I had pulled on clothes and taken my camera out the back door the moon was sliding off to the north west. The shades of blue, mauve and pink were more delicately beautiful than my simple camera can record. Frost was still glittering on the pasture grass with temperatures close to the freezing mark.

The glow of a mid-winter sunrise behind the bare trees that edge the lane.

Looking across the now grassed over lane along the south ravine.

DIL Dawn knows my love of flowers in all seasons. This beautiful centerpiece gives me joy each time my eyes rest upon it. I carry it gently to spend nights in the sunroom or my bedroom closet as a safeguard from interested felines.

The deep red roses are like velvet.

My cactus began blooming in mid-November. It resides on the crowded table in the sunroom which is warm on sunny days but decidedly chilly if the day is overcast.

Rosemarys, a few small geraniums, starts of begonias and African violets all crowded on the sunroom table. I'm prodding J. to put up a light downstairs over a stretch of counter that could host some of my plants for the winter.

I have an array of African violets nearly all raised from gifted leaf cuttings.

Years ago I had dozens of violets under grow lights--many colors, doubles, variegated leaf forms.

I don't mind that the present ones are nearly all the same. They are in almost constant heavy bloom, thriving on near neglect.

Two of the reasons why my house plants are not safe in the main living area.

The kittens went for their respective spay/neuter last week. It slowed them down for two days. They are now very much back on form--which means naughty!

 

Thunder Before Day-Break: Weather Journal

View toward the south ravine edge a few minutes past noon.

Waking around 4 A.M. is normal for me. This Monday morning I had barely time to roll over, tug at my pillows, before I registered the mutter of thunder. Desultory flashes of lightning blinked through the open window curtains, reflecting harshly in my big dresser mirror on the opposite wall.

We've enjoyed a week of balmy weather--it had been 62 F. when we went to bed on Sunday evening.

Clearly change was arriving, with fanfare.

The thunder increased in volume, lightning pulsed into the bedroom.

During the next hour the storm moved close bringing rain that pounded down, then began a pattern of retreat and regroup. The sound of thunder tapered off, lightning subsided--10 minutes of quiet followed by the return of cracking, ear-assaulting booms. 

I don't like storms.

I lay tensely still, eyes closing against the searing slashes of light.

Robert-cat, whose fear of thunderstorms is pitiable, huddled against me.

When I stroked his long silky fur he managed a nervous purr.

A particularly loud crash of thunder sent Robert scurrying from the room and Jim suddenly loomed out of the darkness.

'Shouldn't you disconnect the internet?' he asked.

He moved ahead of me into the living room, turning on the light in the alcove where my desk sits.

Scuffling into my slippers, wondering why I hadn't thought of the at risk wifi modem, I dropped to my knees and crawled beneath the desk, flipped off the switch on the surge strip which holds the plugs to PC, printer, all the bits and pieces which connect us to the world.

As I backed carefully from under the desk , hauled myself to my feet, there was a series of loud crackling pops and the cordless phone lit up in a brilliant display before the keypad turned black.

I screamed.

The cats who had gathered round to assist me [a human under the desk immediately becomes a person of interest] skittered in all directions, tails inflated.

Cautiously removing the phone from its cradle I stared at the message on the screen advising me that there was 'no power to the base.'

Time to dress, to turn on the front porch light and view the shimmer of wind-flung rain, to feel the cooling air. The cats huddled by the door, unwilling to go out for a morning walk.

The storm continued to clatter and fizz, menacing in the unquiet darkness outside.

Anticipating that we could lose power, I brewed the morning decaf, Jim stoked up the woodstove.

When the storm begrudgingly muttered off on its final round, I flipped the power strip back on.

We watched the row of lights on the modem flicker and steady.

I rummaged out an old landline phone, plugged it in. No dial tone.

I messaged our grandson who suggested that lightning had taken out the side of the 'splitter' that powered our land line.

The retreating thunderstorm left a legacy of brief light showers, a chilly wind and dropping temperatures.

Around noon the sun began to break through the rapidly sailing clouds, glimmering on the runnels of water in the lane, sparkling on drifts of fallen leaves and wet grass.

I went outside with my camera, standing on the west end of the back porch to take this shot of the now pruned wall garden.

Jim pulled on a warm jacket and gloves and trundled about with his latest tractor, started a truck, moved his big trailer down the lane near the shed.

Several of the cats tip-toed out, testing the damp with cautious feet.

I walked up the lane to the [empty] mailbox, clutching my hood tightly around my face against the bite of the wind.

In anticipation of freezing temperatures expected tonight I dragged in the two large rosemarys from the back porch along with the now leafless lemon verbena. These have found a lodging for now in front of the big windows in the downstairs living room. 

I settled at my sewing machine, contented to resume the quilting project that was laid aside when we were ill.

The kittens sniffed at the plant tubs, poked inquiringly at the rosemary branches.

 

As I finish writing this at 8:30 P.M. the outside temperature has fallen to 34 F with 10 degrees still to reach the predicted overnight low of 24 F.

The night is dark with a few stars pricking through the black sky.

The scent of wood smoke hangs in the chilly air.

Winter seems a closer reality.

 

November Journal: Illness and Recovery

 Mid-November color on a cloudy afternoon. 

When one is ill, or when a family member is very ill, days and nights recede into a blur.

I keep a small calendar on my untidy desk and most days note the weather or anything that seems important to remember, thus I have a record of our experience with covid, the brief notes calling to mind the frightening time.

In my previous blog post [November 1] I noted that J. had been cutting a dead tree for firewood. He came inside from that task feeling a definite lack of energy.  By the next day he was feverish and coughing, but announced that the trunk of the tree proving to be rotten had aggravated the lung damage incurred years ago when he got into black mold on a renovating job.

He reminded me [testily] that he had for some weeks been burning brush and inhaling smoke.

True, but as his cough worsened I suggested that covid testing might be wise.

If you've ever dealt with a stubborn spouse you'll not be surprised that it took four more days of incessant coughing before I drove us both to be tested.

I had a slight sore throat, the harbinger of a mild head cold, a low grade fever at night--the sort of thing I would have treated with tea, tylenol and chicken soup.

Both of us tested positive for Covid and arranged an appointment to receive mono-clonal antibodies the following morning. 

I have been taking an assortment of vitamins and supplements for the past year, I don't have lung damage. While my symptoms did not worsen, the stress and sleeplessness of caring for a very ill husband was taking a toll.

A day by day recital isn't necessary. None of us are likely to forget the strain of the next two weeks. Finally, a trip to the ER, where I  waited in the car for nearly three hours while a friend with 'connections' saw J. through testing [diagnosis covid pneumonia] and the prescribing of antibiotics and a heavy-duty codeine cough syrup.

 

Loyal family members arrived the following day to take over J.'s care. I kept up 'custodial' duties--the daily laundering of sweat-soaked bedding, the light cleaning necessary to keep the house in some sort of order. I walked outdoors when the weather was nice, then tucked myself on the downstairs sofa with favorite old books.

Our children and their spouses appeared daily to leave fresh fruit, juice drinks, other helpful items on the front steps. The medical pros of the extended family were a keyboard away to provide advice and support.

My DIL, Dawn, chose this beautiful begonia as a love gift--a glowing place to rest my eyes during a dark time.

Howard did some errands  for J. on November 24 that necessitated starting a recalcitrant truck. J. bundled up long enough to help.

Thinner and a bit wobbly but pleased to be outside for half an hour!

Life this past week has been slowly resuming normalcy. Lingering fatigue seems to be a common complaint post covid. We are realizing we have to take things at a slower pace for now. 

We've done small errands; J. has had brief sessions of using the wood splitter. 

On Friday--a lovely warm day--I finished pruning the rose hedges on the east and west sides of the house. I have yet to summon the energy to return to my quilt projects.

We are thankful to the family and friends who have tended us, prayed for us, encouraged us through this nasty bout of sickness and its slow--but steady--recovery.

I'll probably always feel that we 'lost' a month--but there is a fresh one ahead of us!

 

1 November: Journal

 

 The first morning of November, sun slanting through lingering mist. Cool outside but the sun spilling through the east windows created pools of warmth that pleased the cats.

The sunlight also called attention to cat hair clinging to cushions and throws. I bundled these downstairs to the laundry, got out dust mop and broom to tackle the swirling fluff that is the price we pay for the company of our pets. 

By the time the first load of laundry was ready to peg out on the lines, the mist had burned away. Pulling on a fleece jacket and wellies I went out with my camera to record the day.

Although there was a method to my arrangement of photos for this post, blogger--after taking more than a half hour to load the photos, flung them onto the page in reverse order.

Most of my nasturtiums have been in shades of gold or pale yellow. This scarlet bud may not have time to fully open. Tonight's low temp is projected as 39 F but nights for the remainder of the week are expected to bring frost. It has been a mellow autumn, one to treasure.

Begonias have summered for several seasons on the back porch. I debate whether to bring them inside for the winter; they quickly become shabby and leggy, but revive in the spring after a good pruning.

A close-up of nasturtiums growing in the 'tower' by the greenhouse. I draped a sheet over them this evening; they are susceptible to the first cold weather, stems and leaves turning to pale mush with the first frost. 

A last burst of coneflowers in the weedy muddle of the back garden. 

I had such hopes for this space and its first season was promising although weeds and rough grass were a constant trouble. Lavender and thyme did not thrive here succumbing to surprisingly damp conditions. I'm hoping for some warm afternoons when I can do a bit of clean-up, but the future of the plot is uncertain. 

A viola has popped up below the raised bed--last winter there were several that poked brave faces through frost and snow.

The buddleia --sold as a 'dwarf' variety has quite overtaken the space. Its over-hanging branches may be in part the culprit creating too much damp shade for the lavender.

This colony of mushrooms has sprung up at the end of the veg garden.

The western edge of the property where our campers were parked during the fall of 2018 and through the winter months of 2019 while our house was under construction. It was a rather dismal span of cold and cloudy months in cramped quarters; the rubble of the former owner's burned house was the immediate view. With the mess buried, the ground leveled, two summers have covered the area with a blanket of green grass. 

Lately we've been seeing deer grazing under the trees--sometimes only one that J. thinks is a young buck--at other times there are three.

The tree line that bounds the north ravine. J. spent today cutting fire wood just beyond the shaded space near the top of the slope.

A pale nigella blooming in a froth of self-sown plants at the edge of the front raised bed.

Rain and wind have been bringing down the leaves. The big black walnut tree at the bend in the lane is nearly stripped. Along the edges of the north and south ravines branches and limbs come into  focus as more leaves sift down. 

Fall color in this region lacks the brilliant red of sugar maples so familiar in our native New England.  Here the colors span a range of old gold, russet, yellow orange with only an occasional  burst of scarlet. Later this month the shiny bronze of oaks will dominate as the season edges toward winter. 

We are into the final week of daylight saving time. 

I grumble at the twice yearly ritual of changing the clocks.

It seems to me that we could designate one mode of keeping time and allow the seasonal patterns of daylight and darkness to order our lives.

Late October: Gardening Journal

57 F here at 8 a.m. and by mid day the temperature was a sunny and breezy 77 F.

It was the weather I've been waiting for to tackle fall gardening chores.

The men of my family have doubtless grown weary of listening to me wail about my need for raised planters. In early summer they constructed one of timbers along the front wall of the house. This held only a small portion of the plants I had optimistically started in the greenhouse before my gardening plans were sidelined by a DVT.

I managed to pot up the seedlings and watered them through a long summer, but have fretted that they need a safe place for the winter.

Howard discovered that a nearby garden nursery was selling off fiberglass planting bins and obligingly took me with him to bring several home.

On Thursday Jim [with a certain resignation] agreed to a trip to Lowes where we purchased a dozen bags of garden soil.  Three of the tubs have been filled with bark mulch as a bottom layer for drainage and the bagged soil on top.

The motley collection of pot-bound plants.

Prior to setting plants into their winter quarters I emptied the tubs and pots which have lined the front walk, dragging the containers into the greenhouse--but not taking time to stack and organize in there. 

Greenhouse tidying can be done another day when the weather is less perfect. 

I didn't try for any artistry--plants were plonked in groups--foxglove, blackberry lily, New England asters, clary sage--pots of catnip set along an edge.

I disinterred  dwarf dahlias which summered in galvanized tubs, spread the tubers in a tray in the greenhouse to dry a bit while I search for a good way to keep them over the winter.

I dug up three clumps of phlox from the weedy rough strip where the peonies and daylilies live, pruned back the woody stems and set them into the bin located on the west side of the house. 

It will be interesting to note how quickly the cats find all this lovely dirt--the better to dig in!

There is more outside work to be done, but I am trying to learn sensible limits--the last half hour of work was weighing heavily on me.

Inside for a restorative shower and clean clothes--a soft pair of shabby jeans and a loose sweatshirt. 

I cut a Winesap apple into wedges, added bite-size pieces of Colby cheese, made a mug of tea. A rummage in the fridge turned up a bowl of creamy tapioca pudding made on Friday. 

I conveyed all this--along with a book--to the east porch and flopped gratefully into a rocking chair, sighing with pleasure as my aching back settled against a plump cushion.

I was followed by Rosie-the-Kitten who wondered if she might fancy tea or pudding. She draped herself, purring, over my shoulder, whiskers tickling my face. 

When she decided I wasn't going to share, she hopped down and began weaving about amongst the pots of rosemary and geranium. 

A very tired bumble bee was spending what were likely its last hours in the saucer under a geranium. Rosie discovered it and [of course] began prodding at it.

"No, Rosie," I said, and made shooing motions. 

Rosie continued to poke and the bumble bee roused enough to become annoyed.

So much for a leisurely cup of tea.

I isolated the bee underneath a clear plastic bowl and returned to my tea and my book.

Rosie prowled around the container while the bee lay unhappily on its back.

Tea finished I managed to remove the bee to the front garden--where I expect it soon expired in peace.

Rosie opted for a nap with Edward in the front windows.

Somewhat revived by my tea break I hoovered up the first onslaught of the Asian lady beetles which are making their annual visitation. A few had squeezed around the screen and were trundling back and forth along my bedroom windowsill.  I hoovered them up, washed the inside of the window, then did the same in J's adjoining room. 

Back outside with my camera to enjoy the late afternoon sun. 

Leaves have been drifting down from the trees that line the north ravine--but the landscape still reads strongly green.

I raise nasturtiums every summer--mostly from the seeds which ripen and fall into the pots from the previous season's flowers. Early in the spring, with the pots still in the greenhouse, I clear away the old stems and poke the seeds into the soil. By July the first growth has gone straggly, but more seeds germinate for a second flush of bloom. Jim moved this large pot into the corner between the greenhouse and his shop so that he could mow. The nasturtiums have flourished there, creating a 'tower' of leaves and blossoms, crawling through the join of the two walls to clamber over the greenhouse floor.

A long trail of nasturtiums have crept into the garage/shop.

Its interesting that this year's crop of blossoms are mostly a brilliant yellow/gold with a few that are milky white. Empress of India with its smaller blue/green leaves and dainty dark red flowers is one of my favorites, so I plan to start a pot of those next spring.

The shabby gone-to-seed row of zinnias. Volunteer plants several inches tall are growing outside the row.

Here and there in the faded ranks, there is a fresh zinnia.

Tomato and cucumber plants have sprouted by the hundreds in the cleared and tilled sections of the garden.

Sunflowers have sprouted.

These volunteers, along with the self-sown runner beans will succumb to the first frost--which can't be too far in the future.

All that energy gone to waste, trying to flourish in the wrong season.

Still, I marvel at the energy of the fallen seeds.

The late flowering New England asters in the weedy rough garden strip [now hardly worthy to be called a garden;] the branches sprawl, some of the flowers are a bit tattered, but still a lovely blanket of color.

I was attended throughout my labors by the ever-faithful Willis. 

He plodded back and forth from doorstep to the tubs, into the greenhouse, eyed the big planters with a bit too much interest. 

This has been the 12th summer of Willis--never a house cat, but always a follower and overseer of our doings. We could hardly run the place without him!