Day After The Storm

Wednesday was a day of brooding contrasts--a morning with mere slices of blue sky appearing through grey overcast, bursts of rain, hints of sun, more clouds, uneasy weather.

The local forecast warned of heavy winds, rain overnight.

Late afternoon cleared enough for me to do some pruning and tidying in both wall gardens. Three lavender plants had succumbed to winter damp and needed removal;  several that remained in pots over the winter are alive and showing fresh growth, but need trimming.

As dusk approached the air developed a heavy brooding quality.

Dawn was concerned about getting to work in the morning if the creek in front of their house should go over the bridge, so arrived just before dark to stay in the downstairs guest suite.

She had been here only a few moments when the wind picked up.

To say that the wind 'roared' is to use a cliche', but the sound of the approaching gale had a deafening growl as it swept in from the south west bringing rain driven almost horizontal by its force.

Jim herded us downstairs at which point I remembered that Shelby-Cat [who else!] had slipped out the back door when I came in from gardening.

I stepped out to the porch where I was instantly pummeled with rain. 

I called Shelby, wondering if she could hear me over the howl of the wind.

For about 15 minutes we watched and listened, awed by the intensity of the storm. 

Gradually the boisterous rumble of the wind began to diminish til only the sound of lashing rain remained.

When I called Shelby from the front steps she scrambled over the south retaining wall, slid through the rose hedge and flung herself, drenched, through the door.

I snatched an old towel and followed her into my bedroom, only to find I had left the west window raised about 6 inches and the floor was wet. I spread the towel over the puddle and when Shelby, wide-eyed crept onto it I was able to blot some of the wet from her fur. 

She remained huddled on the damp towel for the next hour, evidently traumatized by her experience of the storm.

This beautiful planter came home with Jim from one of his Wednesday errands.

A chilly night is forecast for Saturday, so I won't put the plant on the ceiling hook until the weather settles. Meanwhile it graces the screened porch with joyful colors.

The west meadow on Thursday morning--clouds giving way.

I went out in my tall wellies striding through wet grass and a carpet of wild purple violets. 

Shelby decided to walk with me. She skitters off then dances back, tail inflated.

The coneflowers moved to the west raised bed several weeks ago have settled in.

I can remove the sticks laid around to protect the area from cat explorations.

Foxglove, pinks, emerging lilies and the David Austin roses, cool and damp in the aftermath of rain.

The newest clematis, planted last spring are in need of tying in.

Ideally, they need a small trellis of finer grid set against the sturdy permanent trellis.

Nellie, having gotten feet and belly wet in the meadow grass decided to perch on the roof of J's truck where the morning sun could warm his bones. His sliding exit leaves muddy pawmarks on the windshield.

Three hours spent this afternoon weeding on the south wall garden and still more to be done. 

The removal of weeds disclosed more self-sown coneflowers, some of which have been moved up to the raised bed by the door.

Taking a sort of inventory of plants started from seed last spring and wintered in pots I've decided to set them in groups to hopefully grow where other plants [the lavender] didn't flourish.

I have several varieties of late summer asters and  blue prairie sage.

These might be considered roadside or pasture/prairie plants; since they are hardy and inclined to spread, I'm hoping they will compensate for the fact that fussy gardening on my knees is no longer an option.

Clearing the mat-forming weeds from the clematis along the wonky fence. More tying in needed.

'Candida' has survived frost, snow, cold rains, and being smothered in an old sheet during the coldest nights. She is my favorite clematis, moved from our first Kentucky property to the Amish farmhouse, then spending a year in a huge tub before setting into the ground here.

Lilacs! 

Howard and Dawn had two delivered from a Tennessee nursery as tiny plants while we were still in the upheaval of construction, spring of 2019.

Now in their third year, both shrubs are ready to flower.

Lilacs are particularly dear to New Englanders--surviving harsh winters to bloom in May.

The frost-ravaged 'Jane' magnolias are valiantly striving to put out fresh leaves and a few 

somewhat tattered blooms.

The first hummingbird arrived yesterday before the storm; this morning he found the magnolias an attractive place to perch before discovering the feeder of syrup hung in its accustomed place on the south/east porch.

He may have been flustered by the newly red-painted trim on the front porch; as I stood there he darted toward the railings and hovered briefly inches from my face.

The temperature stayed shy of 70 F but with the blue sky, bright sunshine and little wind it was a nearly perfect day to work outside.

Dawn stopped by on her way home with two potted ranunculus--a love gift--I've never had them before and have been researching their care. Tomorrow I will give them bigger pots and set them on the screened porch where I can admire them and move them into the sunroom if a chilly night threatens.

It has been a satisfying day, one that finally felt like spring. Plants leaping from hibernation into exuberant growth; laundry flapping dry on the back porch lines; birds busy around me as I dug and weeded. 

Showered and with garden dirt scraped from under my nails, the kittens, Rosie and Elmo, and I sat on the porch while I consumed a Gala apple and a stack of crackers with cream cheese spread.

The hummingbird darted in to sip at the feeder and we enjoyed his company--the kittens [now nearly CATS] intrigued but a bit wary of this new-to-them presence.

The nearly full moon drifted pale in the late afternoon sky and now sheds its glow over the darkened dooryard.

I love the nights of the waxing gibbous moon--I leave the bedroom curtains parted so that its glow will fall on my pillow in the wee hours of the morning. 

A long day, and my old bones protesting a bit from my gardening labors, but a day of delighting in the reassurance that spring always does arrive.

 

Every Kind of Weather

Spreading clumps of monarda in the rough strip that has mostly produced weeds. The weeds have thrived on mulch!

I've divided the monarda and moved clumps to both raised beds, given some away. It is welcome wherever it chooses to flourish.

Spring still reluctant to give us warm sunlit days. We've had a few sunny breaks in the clouds, but mostly the sky has remained sullen. 

Dawn and I ventured to Homestead Gardens on Monday; I had birthday giftings to indulge.

I came home with seed potatoes to put out as soon as the weather settles, various packets of seeds and plants destined for a large pot to sit near the front steps. 

There was no name tag on the display of these cheerful little things with dainty foliage and daisy faces. 

I noticed many container and 'bedding' plants which weren't available when I worked in a greenhouse  years ago.

Annual blue salvia. 

I also chose a coleus in deep burgundy colors. I potted on all four plants  giving them room to develop sturdy roots, and brought the coleus indoors to grow under lights until such time as the weather is warm enough--and stable enough--for outdoor pots.

At least I can enjoy blooms indoors.

Mayapple unfolding in the damp leaves along the edge of the south ravine.

Claytonia? Slender Toothwort?

Violets spread along the lane, pop up in garden plantings, They seem impervious to frost or late spring snow. They have the vigor of weeds, but so much more appealing than most of the invaders with which I do continual battle.

Wild turkeys, most often the hens, are much in evidence. This photo taken through the screen of my west bedroom window. The cats who were keeping me company and hoping I was about to arise suddenly went into defense mode, heads poked through the curtains, growling warnings. 

It wasn't a surprise to see the turkey a few feet away from the house.

On Wednesday afternoon I drove to the next town to pick up a quilt that had been machine 'quilted' for me by a professional service. It began to rain as I left the house for the 20 minute drive.  On the way home the heavens let loose a deluge. Windshield wipers going full tilt, headlights on, slowing for sheets of water that pulled at the car's tires.

The fury of the storm tapered off toward evening and the day closed with a fiery sunset.

Thursday, scudding clouds that sailed across the sun at intervals all day. Brisk wind. I laundered sheets and pegged them firmly to the back porch lines where they flapped and bounced until dry.

Today has been murky-dark, cold, snow and frost predicted before morning.

I went out to tuck sheets and towels around the clematis--likely a futile gesture as the sheets were soaked, as was I, before I finished the task, with tiny flakes of snow collecting on the sleeves of my jacket. The Jane magnolias, hard hit  nearly a month ago have struggled to put forth feeble new buds. Freezing weather tonight and as predicted for tomorrow night will be rough on them. I could think of no way to shelter them.

We so look forward to spring flowers at the end of a longer than usual winter here; perhaps blighted blooms are a small matter with all that goes on about us, but still a loss.

Shelby Cat [she who caused such uproar last Friday evening] has spent much of the day stretched on a soft old comforter.

The house is warm with the wood fire, I've indulged in an extra mug of tea [Constant Comment] and as I can do no more for my battered garden, I shall draw the shades against the dark night and sequester myself with a book.

 

April 1st: A Strange Evening

The final week of March spun out with blustering unsettled weather. A sharp wind blew from the southwest, tossing the bare trees, moving sullen clouds across the sky. 

The temperature began to climb on Wednesday afternoon reaching an uneasy 75 F. by 9:30 p.m. The wind was a continual roaring, rising in intensity through the earliest hours of March 31st. 

Knowing sleep would be impossible I kept my bedroom light on, reading the last chapters of the newest book in the Maisie Dobbs saga. 

The cats were agitated by the noisy clamor of the elements and plopped from the foot of the bed to skitter about in the darkened living area before galloping back to leap onto the edge of my dresser, pushing small items to the floor with a clatter.  The more adventurous ones took turns utilizing the sill of the west window to peer intently out through the swirling darkness as though the roistering gale might have a visible presence. 

A little before 1 a.m. the wind dropped and in the sudden silence I switched off the bedside lamp and the cats and I slept until around 5 a.m. when a clatter of hail pummeled the house and the wind again raised a vengeful voice. 

Daybreak was murky grey with the temperature a mere 4 notches above freezing. 

The lane that runs to the western edge of our property was littered with branches, some mere slender twigs, others more substantial. 

I'm waiting for a warm and dry afternoon to collect and break them up to use as kindling in the wood stove.

Friday morning, April 1st, was cold, the sun came out only intermittently during the day. As evening drew in a chilly sunset and predictions of frost roused my concern for the previously frost-nipped clematis vines.

I had spent hours preparing food for a church dinner; thus it was dusk before I tided the kitchen and pulled on a warm zipped 'hoodie' ready to cover the clematis. 

I found old sheets, pillow cases and a shabby blanket on the laundry room shelves and began carrying them to the back porch--tripping over interested cats. On one of my trips through the door, slender Shelby-cat slipped between my feet and dashed toward the south ravine, her favorite area to prowl in the underbrush and pretend that she is a mighty feline of the jungle.

Willis-cat predictably, appeared to supervise my task, trudging from one plant to the next, tangling himself in the sheets as I attempted to drape and fasten them to best cover the varying heights of the vines. The newest plants, still struggling to climb the trellis at the west of the house were the last to be covered. Willis fussed about, butting at my chilled hands when I tried to peg the sheets to the trellis, using clothes pins hastily gathered from the back porch drying lines. 

 While Willis waited outside, I went into the house to fetch my small flashlight firmly 'shooing' the inside feline residents whose curiosity might have propelled them through the door.

The 'ghostly' looking fence and trellis swaddled against pre-dawn frost.

I began calling Shelby, singing her name in the classic cadence from high note to a lower 'third.'

"Shel-by, Shel-by. Here, kitty, kitty. "

I moved to stand on the gentle knoll beyond the end of the house, sweeping my light up and down the lane, across the edges of the ravine. 

A soundless movement pulled my gaze upward to witness the settling of an unmistakable owl shape in the night-black branches of a tree a few yards away. Not a great-horned owl, more likely one of the barred owls we often hear at night. An owl, never-the-less, and quite capable of a swift swooping dive to carry away as tiny a cat as our Shelby.

Keeping a wary eye on the owl--and on Willis, I swung the beam of my light down toward the west end of the property where a sweep of meadow edges toward the most open section of the ravine.

Eyes! A pair of animal eyes glowing in the flashlight's beam! 

I moved several yards down the grassy slope, calling Shelby. When I looked back, the owl had flown off as silently as it had arrived. 

Shelby did not come rushing up the lane to fling herself, rolling at my feet, her usual performance when she decides to come in.

The eyes moved in the darkness and I tracked the animal's progress up the edge of the ravine, always staying behind the brush, disappearing behind a tree, bobbing out, slowly coming closer to where I waited with Willis. The wide spacing of the eyes suggested a larger creature than my bitty cat. 

The feral tomcat who visits in hopes I've left the kibble dish on the front porch? 

Raccoon? Skunk? That legendary cat of Kentucky's hills and hollers--a 'painter?'

Moving my light to keep pace with the creature's Cheshire-cat progress--the reflection of eyes--disappearing--reappearing--I became aware of a red dot moving lower on the hillside, the creature now tracked between the small sharp beam of my flashlight along the ground level of the tree line and a red circle of light keeping pace from the farther slope. 

A rectangle of yellow light suddenly poured down from the upper porch and Jim leaned over the railing. "Don't you think its time to come in? That cat has had more than half an hour to come to you. If she doesn't want to, she can stay out for the night!'

'But,' I protested, 'the owl! Shelby is a perfect midnight snack for the owl!' 

Jim, muttering about cats [and maybe women] who don't know enough to come in out of the dark, vanished into the house and the spill of lamplight was extinguished.

I trailed slowly toward the back door, looking over my shoulder to see if the red circle of light still hovered. It was there. 

My hands were cold and the chill of damp grass was making itself felt through my shoes.

Something about the quality of the night felt off, unsettling. The presence of the owl, perhaps lurking just beyond my range of night vision? The animal eyes [not my small cat] bobbing ever closer through the scrim of trees? The red dot of light across the slope?

During the next half hour I ventured onto the front steps several times, calling Shelby in my most winning tones. She didn't appear.

In the morning it was 2 degrees above freezing when I scuffed sleepily into the kitchen. Jim appeared behind me and without preamble demanded, 'Did you see a red light following you last night?'

I cudgeled my slow morning brain into remembering.

'Yes, there was a moving red dot, keeping pace with me just across on the opposite slope. Why?'

'I woke up at 3 a.m. thinking about it, wondering if I had imagined it. That was a laser.' 

His tone was portentous.

'So? A laser? What are you telling me?' I was muddled.

[Jim loves to start a discussion with an oblique question, and I wasn't having it first thing in the morning!]

'LASER! You know--the thing an instructor uses to trace a route on a map or point out a detail in a photo.' He snatched his flashlight from his desk, turned on a red light which set the kittens to pouncing, ricocheting  about the room in pursuit.

'That's a laser. And someone using a gun at night can use a laser light to help them home in on a target. Don't you see? Someone was on the north ridge following you with a laser light!'

Jim thumped about, fuming. 

' I should have caught on quicker! I should have gone out with my big light, shone it through the trees onto the ridge, hollered! No one, whatever their reason for being out, should have been tracking you with a laser!'

Early morning sunshine was touching the front steps. I stepped outside with a pan of kibble for Willis and Sally. Shelby bounded up through the rose hedge, tail held upright, fur bristling along her bony spine. Obviously she hadn't been a midnight snack for the lurking owl. 

She bustled through the door, made a circuit of the kitchen, batting at the kittens who gathered to sniff at the wild outdoor scent of her coat.

I haven't quite forgotten the sense of unease, walking at night in my own familiar dooryard, the eyes of the unknown animal [probably harmless] who moved toward me but wouldn't venture onto the path to meet me. 

That red laser, somehow invasive and unwelcome.

It is one of those small mysteries unlikely to be explained. 

I intend to keep my often overly sensitive imagination within bounds.

I doubt there is a 'painter' lurking to carry me off.

I can't consider that someone was deliberately keeping track of my evening meander. 

It was probably a 'one off,' something that won't happen again.

Still--it was a strange evening, perhaps more so in retrospect. 

 

April 2, 2022

Violas braving the weeds that edge the raised bed at the west end of the house.

Looking east to the meadow beyond the shop as the sun slants down to the west in late afternoon.

Green grass has grown above the pale stems of winter. 

Blogger is mis-behaving! Photos loaded for a post last evening, but various strange pop-ups not allowing me to add text in the usual way. So, that post abandoned for now.

Springtime is so often a date on the calendar with the weather proving more in tune with late winter.

I note weather data as well as tasks or errands accomplished each day, scribbling such reminders in the 'blocks' of the calendar kept on my desk.  I can state with assurance that the month just past has been one of mostly bleak weather--chilly mornings barely above the freezing mark, days when the sun didn't break through. On the few days which offered warmish sunny afternoons, I pruned the rose hedge, dug up and transplanted self-sown coneflowers and foxglove.  Jim designed and installed sturdy railings for the front porch. I've pottered at the unavoidable household tasks, made some half-hearted attempts to get on with sewing projects.

Willis-the Cat, as always, my faithful helper in outdoor projects

Note the weeds which have grown in around the paving stones and along the edge of the raised bed.

Weeds here are evergreen, flourishing in spite of freezing temps or  occasional snow.

The most pervasive is dead nettle/lamium;  fields and roadsides are purple with the profusion of tiny blossoms. I haven't decided what I can do with this area--Ideally, the stones should be removed, a weed barrier laid down. I doubt I can find the energy!

For me, as for many, the antidote to the concerns, [alright, the worries!] that beset, is a balance of outdoor time, reading, doing 'something constructive'--attempts to keep at bay the niggling reminders of aging, of family maladies, and, more than usual the threats of illness and upheaval in the world about us--most of these situations not preventable--not to be greatly changed by any intervention of our own.

We pray and ponder; we yearn over family and friends--the circles that each of us hold dear.

To use a well-worn phrase: we keep on--keeping on!

As we ease into April [we were BLOWN into April!] we can spend more time outdoors, plunge our fingers into the soil; sow and plant, weed and prune.

We can make more effort to support and cherish those we love, spend more time in awareness and appreciation of the seasons, greeting the springtime that always arrives, however tardy.

 

End of February: Journal

Tiny leaves emerging on one of my older clematis.

Most years the earliest leaf and flower buds are blighted by frost. 

The nameless [as in I can't remember it] weed which spreads in dense evergreen mats is flourishing, threatening to choke the clematis and foxgloves in this flower strip.

Finally! Blue skies and sunshine.

I note the weather of the day in the blocks on my desk calendar, usually adding the morning and evening temperatures. February, 2022, is thus recorded as cold with blustery winds, sleet, hard rains. Strangely, though there were sunny days the overall retrospective of the month is one of darkness and unpleasant weather.

Scuttling out to the household dump with a container of peelings, eggshells, leftovers, I shivered, noted the scrim of snow lodged on bare tree branches or edging the grass closest to the wall on the north side of the barn. Walking to the mailbox at the head of the lane I bundled myself in layers of clothing, a hoodie or scarf drawn snugly about my head.

The cats who have outdoor privileges clamor to be let out, pad about in the cold, fur ruffled by the wind. They ask to come back in, shake themselves, lick chilled damp paws and then return to hover at the front door, imploring it to open on more favorable weather.  They resign themselves to staying in, lethargic and cantankerous by turns, designations which may fit their human keepers as well.

Jim has tinkered in his shop, waiting on tractor parts to be delivered. He comes in to make a hot drink or a snack. Meal times have lacked a firm pattern. We made thick sandwiches, piling wodges of rolls or home-made bread with  thin-sliced pastrami, lettuce, tomatoes, cheese.

Feeling sluggish from lack of time outdoors, I read myself squint-eyed;

Maisie Dobbs series of mysteries re-read in anticipation of the new one to be released at the end of March; also a new book documenting the re-investigation of the infamous betrayal of Anne Frank and her family in occupied Holland during WWII. My immersion in that story coincided with the thoughtlessly inane remarks of Whoopi Goldberg re the persecution of Jews. 

A sense of marking time rather than one of accomplishments.

 A friend in Illinois posts photos of her amaryllis--large pots crammed with vibrant blooms. Our friend [former renter at the Amish farm] summered amaryllis bulbs in the compost-enriched soil of his garden, lifting them in autumn, potting them up and bringing them into brighter light one at a time to bloom.

Each fall I faithfully follow what seems to be the same procedure with my collection of  bulbs producing only lanky straps of foliage.

Yesterday, watering all the plants in the sunroom I noticed that one bulb--the largest, on the far left of the tub, might be pushing up a flower stalk! If so, why? And why not the others?

Every spring I purchase at least one geranium; they look so brilliant and cheerful standing in their close ranks on the benches of my favorite nursery.  By mid-summer on the porch they inevitably become straggly. This fall, pressed for space in the sunroom, I decided not to save the geranium, but at the last moment cut a 'slip' to root in the vintage blue glass bottle on the kitchen windowsill.

Several weeks ago I moved the potted plant from behind a forest of large rosemarys and put it on the windowsill. Although the new plant is leggy there is nothing better than  red flowers for brightening gloomy weather.

Our internet connection has been feeble for nearly two weeks, sometimes blipping off and on repeatedly. More recently it is mostly 'on' but so slow to respond that often it 'times out' when trying to reach a website. 

On Sunday night I waited while 3 photos took 45 minutes to upload for this blog post. Repeated attempts to transfer them to the blog page failed.

Today, in two different sessions I have managed to load one photo at a time, each taking 12-15 minutes to upload.

I should, of course, report a problem to Windstream.

There is no local service number. Past experience has proved that one waits on the line [with dreadful scratchy music blasting away] for anywhere from a half to three quarters of an hour before the call is answered by an operator whose native tongue is definitely not English.

I have balked at placing the call, hoping that the local dispatchers are aware of problems and they will be resolved without my intervention. Could it be that the recent torrents of wind and rain have disrupted service? 

With the blessing of several sunny and warmer days I have been able to work outdoors--and am feeling more alert. Grubbing about yesterday afternoon along the west wall garden I discovered numerous plants of ground hugging 'pinks' had taken root below the wall. I shear the plants back in mid-summer after seed heads have formed and apparently some of the tiny black seeds fell onto the hard-packed soil along the wall, took root and quietly flourished during the mild weeks of November and December. 

I raised the original plants from seed the first season we were here and had enough seedlings to set in part way along the wall. The second spring I raised another variety to plant along the remaining length  of the wall. I didn't like these as well; The flowers were red orange while the originals could be described as magenta. I wasn't totally displeased when the second batch didn't over-winter. 

I pried the newly discovered plants from the cold damp soil, removed my gloves to tease out sprigs of grass and weeds, then tucked them into the empty spaces along the retaining wall. 

There are the usual small self-sown seedlings of foxgloves at the edge of the wall; As the weather warms I will pot these up in the greenhouse and grow them on. 

Prodding about below the wall I noticed several plants which I'm hoping may be well-grown foxglove rosettes.  It would make sense, as the spires of the gone-to-seed foxgloves lean over the edge of the wall.

The light was going and it was chilly when I noticed them late this afternoon. 

I finished outside by digging up several violas which had seeded into the mat of tough grass and creeping weeds which we call a 'lawn.' I freed the roots of heavy wet soil, tweaked out bits of grass and settled them into a wide shallow pot of their kindred. 

Daylight fading into a brilliant sunset, my hands cold, I trimmed dead stems from potted catnip, inspiring Nellie-cat to a rapture of wallowing. 

I hoisted Nellie under one arm and clutching a few sprigs of catnip in muddy fingers, we came in.

I shoved a twiggy bundle of dried thyme and lemon balm stems into the languishing wood fire.

They blazed up when Jim stoked the fire for the evening, creating a  pungent wisp of scent that links me in imagination to the generations of gardeners through the ages who have tended their treasured plants.

2ND Week of February: Journal

Sunny days and warm afternoons have resulted in letting the wood fire die down and opening the door into the sun room. 

Shelby-cat has been in trouble for flinging soil out of the large pot I used to pot up several of last year's amaryllis bulbs. I have two friends who successfully encourage repeat flowering of the bulbs, but thus far I've had no success. I have made a fence of plastic spoons stuck into the dirt around the bulbs--a rather frail barrier but the best I can contrive.

Shelby was roundly scolded for her cultivating efforts. Apparently taking this to heart she was inspired to wedge herself amongst the rosemarys on the long table. I didn't know she was there until she moved slightly as I watered the plants.

Jim felled a dead oak on the rim of the north ravine not far below the house and has been working it up.

Robert and Shelby, who normally prowl about in that area have been put off by the noise of chainsaw, tractors and wood splitter and have spent hours in the house while this disruptive project continues. 

A fiery sunset on Wednesday evening.

The setting sun cast a glow to the east, outlining the boundary trees against a billow of pale clouds.

The sunset colors change even in the time it takes to snatch my camera from my desk and go outside.

The half moon rises early in the east, hovering over the south ravine, seeming to float behind the bare trees. Going out after first dark to call Nellie-cat I observed the stars and noted the strange rim of light along the western horizon. While the rest of the sky had become inky blue-black, there were still layers of faint color to be seen in the west as though light shone through a veil--a pale rim of gold-touched azure fading into indigo.

Today [Friday] has been strange weather-wise; it was 54 F late in the morning with sun. As the afternoon wore on the temperature rose to 66 F although the sun was capriciously skidding behind banks of cloud. The wind was fierce, roaring through swaying tree tops, yet one could walk along the lane and feel only an intermittent  gust that swept down to send dry leaves skirling across the sodden garden to catch in the tangled pale grass of the meadow. 

Walking to and from the mailbox I felt buffeted, pushed sideways by the force of the wind. 

Stepping outside just now [9: 25 p.m.] I looked up at the sky. No stars are visible and shreds of cloud sail across the face of the moon calling to mind the 'ghostly galleon' of Alfred Noyes poem. 

I'm calling it an early night--not planning to read for hours in bed.

Perhaps the wind will sing me to sleep.

 

Emerging [Maybe] From Hibernation

The 4th day with sunshine! Now, at 6:40 P.M. there is still a hint of daylight remaining and 51 F.

Looking back at the notations on my January calendar page, I see  there were days when the sun shone and temperatures rose above the freezing mark, but the general effect was one of lingering grey skies, cold rain, snow, chilly wind, weather that didn't lure me outdoors except for necessary chores. 

January days slid one into another, the quotidian round seldom varying.

We had a Sunday meal to honor the three family members with January birthdays.

Jim kept the wood fire burning; we are grateful for its steady warmth, in spite of the film of fine dust it creates and the presence of the wood rack, kindling bucket and such which clutter the tiled space behind the stove.

Meals have been simple hearty food, breakfast eaten mid-morning, a second meal in late afternoon.

Sycamore/buttonwood tree standing on the edge of the north ravine.

It was inspiring yesterday to pull on my tall wellies and stomp about the perimeter of the fields with my camera.

Looking into treetops near the north ravine.

February 1st was sunny and by afternoon the temperature reached 60F. 

I celebrated the mild day by pruning the tangled mounds of nepeta that edge the east retaining wall garden--something of a mistake as I quickly remembered that nepeta does unpleasant things to my sinuses. I also trimmed the clump of red valerian on the west wall revealing this heart-shaped rock discovered and placed there two seasons ago.

Dandelions survived snow, freezing rain and cold to bloom on the south side of the barn, near the greenhouse.

Cold weather inspires baking--bread made with a combination of white whole wheat and unbleached white flour.

I hadn't intended making cinnamon rolls but Jim asked for them.

The cats have been disgruntled with inclement weather. I made up my bed with this heavy quilt of flower-patterned fabric, then had to put other blankets on top in an almost futile attempt to collect cat hair. 

Sunrise on a snow covered morning.  I'm noticing that the sun now appears farther east on the horizon--when it bothers to rise.

Looking west toward the small barn known as 'the snake shed,' so called for the several snake skins we've found clinging to the rough wooden walls.  Its not a place I like to enter.

Frost on the trees, blue shadows on snow, cold that bites at uncovered skin.

During January I finished piecing this huge quilt top [96 x 110] and today delivered it for the 'pro-stitch' machine quilter to work her magic.  She has more than 100 quilts in the queue.

All the fabrics in this quilt are batiks. The center fabric in rich shades of burgundy, smoky purple, deep blue, was purchased more than a decade ago in Thermopolis, Wyoming. It wasn't possible to 'fussy cut' the individual wildlife images, but in most blocks the creatures are recognizable. 

The quilt is intended for Howard and Dawn to use on the massive lodge-pole bed he constructed in Wyoming.  I think the quilt 'grew' a bit from my original plan. That happens!

With my usual lack of accurate math calculations I ended up with a bounty of 1 1/2" strips left from a project completed about 8 years ago. Discovering the strips during a rummage in various bins and containers I was impressed that they needed to turn into--something.  The strips were cut from good quality yardage and I couldn't bring myself to discard them. Making these simple Rail Fence blocks a few at a time was rather mindless work.  Last week I trimmed them to size, layered them with 'leftovers' of  batting and backing. While I vowed that I would never  attempt another 'quilt-as-you-go' project, I'm fairly determined to find a way to finish a few 'everyday' quilts without paying a machine quilter. It will at least become a quilt that can be spread out for the comfort of the cats!

The month has seemed long and rather dreary. We are weary--and wary--of the news, tired of the threats and uncertainties which lack resolution.  The cost of goods and services continues to rise.  We know we are blessed to own our home and vehicles mortgage-free. We have several nearby venues for frugal shopping, a well-stocked pantry.

I've not been creative this month--beyond the daily house-keeping tasks, I've spent hours reading, online as well as with a book in hand. 

Re-reading the Maisie Dobbs series in anticipation of the next installment coming in March; one of Sharon Kay Penman's massive historical novels which had me looking up the various dynasties of the time. [Reading usually until midnight!]

Background reading for the Bible lesson I facilitate once a month at church; music prepared for the weeks that I am the designated pianist. 

I list these things trying to convince myself that I've not wasted the month.

I continue to enjoy the blogs I follow--and yet, I've made only a few comments.

I've thought of blog posts I could write, thoughts to share, only to draw back into a lethargy that has seen me content to absorb someone else's words rather than making the effort to assemble my own.

Still, in these weeks of semi hibernation there have been joys to cherish: 

the splendor of the Wolf Moon  in all its phases of waxing and waning;  

the Great Blue Heron standing majestically near the icy pond; 

a Pileated Woodpecker bashing noisily on a tree trunk while below four Flickers foraged for any treat uncovered by melting snow. 

One afternoon, hurrying, shivering, on my way back from the mailbox I became aware of strange wittering sounds. Across the pond a group of about a dozen large birds were shuffling through the leaves that had drifted into a narrow hollow. They had the hump-backed shape of guinea fowl--could they have been a group who flew off from captivity [as they are prone to do] to procreate and survive in the wild? Most had the mottled and 'checkered' pattern I associate with such, but several had plumage that presented as a pale grey/white. 

I hoped for a few more minutes to observe them, but a noisy truck turned down the lane and the birds fled up the pasture hill, squawking and muttering, half flying, half bumbling.

So, all these meandering sentences to, if nothing else, fix in my mind the unraveling of an unusually prolonged 'cold spell.' 

I hope to find that with noticeable returning of daylight and warmth I will be energized into creativity.