Blundering About

Looking beyond the shadows at the north side of the house, Thursday, mid-afternoon.

A morning of variable weather, dark clouds gave way to billowing clouds, sunshine, a nippy wind.

The ground is still soggy from the wind-driven rain that pelted down until nearly dawn on Thursday.

Seed pods on tulip poplar.

Tulip poplars are handsome year round. In spring the blossoms look like stiff tulips made of yellow and orange paper. The shell-like seed pods cling on through the winter.

Siding being applied to the outside of the porch room.

We are noticing that the new stain is not a perfect match, although I'm sure [at least 99%] that I ordered the correct color. At this point we have to hope it will weather a bit and become more of a match. Its not going to be done over.

A rubble of tools, ladders, sawhorses and staging are part of the process.

Peering up toward the window is the stray cat I call Herman.

He is not bony and starved looking, but is very wary of humans. Sometimes merely peeking through the window at him sets him off. Willis [on the top step] seems to have made peace with Herman.

I've not seen the other stray, Hector, for some weeks; last time he came to eat he was limping on a sore front paw.

The visiting cats are tidier than the raccoons or possums who come by.

One raccoon at a time usually eats without too much mess; if more than one, there are 'food fights' and  dishes are flung over the edge of the porch to land in the herb garden.

'Someone'--whether raccoon or cat--left a 'deposit' in the corner of the porch Wednesday night. Perhaps after over-eating the thought of hastening to the bushes in a downpour of rain was too much [?]

Dealing with this after [another] nearly sleepless night, then going downstairs to discover a hairball upheaval was disheartening. 

I keep old quilts and throws on the furniture and they need frequent laundering--part of the work that goes with a family of cats.

Nellie likes shelves and accesses this one via the utility cart, then onto the fridge top and along the shelf to his favorite basket. 

These are collectible Longaberger baskets and really shouldn't be occupied by cats.

Knowing Nellie as I do, any effort to coax him down can result in a welter of breakables.

The look of innocence. 

Another innocent--Miss Rosie.

J. found the tinsel tree in a trailer he was helping to clear out, brought it home and insists on displaying it. The red ribbons are frequently tugged loose.

The beauty of flowers is so fleeting--I look at them and think, 'Oh, please stay with us another day or two!'

Afternoon sun shining through red velvet petals.

The lovely Christmas arrangement delivered last evening by Dawn.

I enjoy every detail of the florist's artistry. 

I'm glad to report that Rosie has not molested the flowers today. 

Dare I leave them on the table overnight?

When humans turn the lights out at bedtime it usually signals a feline rampage.

They may have been plonked here and there, on beds, chairs, the top of the piano, but once the house is dark all kinds of mayhem takes place.

Blundering and bumbling about--a more prolonged bout than usual of insomnia has left me feeling stupid. My mind whirrs on while my body longs for sleep. 

A family failing passed on by my Dad, and one to which I am accustomed but not resigned!

I've mogged through daytime this week, doing the usual chores, even a bit of sewing, but glad I am not required to go out to a job or to 'operate machinery!'

On such nights I often turn on my bedside lamp, read until I feel my eyes closing and the book falling from my hands; turn out light, snuggle into the blankets, and immediately I'm awake again.

About the foggiest I've been today was so concentrating on preparing cabbage rolls that 5 loaves of bread were pushing over the tops of the pans before I remembered to turn on the oven.

Isn't it odd that wakeful during the night, pondering a dozen projects, one doesn't simply get out of bed, dress and do something? 

 

Early December Journal; Projects

 The west wildflower garden, so-called, after the hasty pruning I managed during the afternoon of 29 November. 

The day began with sunshine, then the sky became grey and the wind picked up.

I nearly despair of finishing this project. The photo shows where I started to take up and rework the stone path in early summer, an effort curtailed when my back rebelled against heaving rocks. The smaller slabs of creek rock aren't an issue--the large flat ones that comprise most of the walk are another matter. 

I still have notions of getting out on mild winter afternoons and accomplishing a bit more, but possibly I am over-optimistic. 

I first tackled the wildly overgrown butterfly bush, tossing clipped branches onto the ground; I trundled in the old wheelbarrow as a sensible alternative to picking up heaps of trimmings. I was ready to wheel off a towering load to dump at the edge of the south ravine when I realized Nellie-cat had burrowed his way into the heap of cuttings and made himself comfortable.

It took a bit of coaxing before Nellie was convinced to leave his brushy hide-out.

November 30th was sunny. J. and grandson D. worked on the porch enclosure while I drove to shop in the South Fork area. I stopped at Discount Market, Misty Mountain Mercantile, Sunny Valley Salvage Foods, and then chugged up the perilously winding steep road to The Quilters' Trunk.

Nearly all the small shops and businesses in South Fork are owned by Mennonite and Amish of various persuasions. I enjoy the scenery--small farms, greenhouses, clotheslines pegged full of 'plain' clothing. 

I drive slowly, ready to overtake an Amish buggy, school children on bicycles, a lumbering iron-wheeled farm tractor. I slow to a mere crawl hugging the verge when an over-laden log truck bears down 'taking its half from the middle of the road.'

D. perched on a ladder.

When I returned from my shopping expedition the bay window had been hoisted into place.

December has come in with persistently gloomy weather: dark, but with a humid chill. 

Over several days the porch room was closed in.

Siding and matching stain have been collected from the lumber yard.

 The grey siding which covered the two formerly exterior walls will remain; the new walls have been clad in tongue and groove pine. J. suggests finishing the pine with a clear poly sealer. Knowing the tendency of pine to 'yellow' with time I've proposed a transparent white stain. The builder's decision has not been announced. No floor covering has been chosen. The east porch has prefinished manufactured wood-look flooring, a possible choice for this area.

My lanky Norfolk Pine has managed to take over a corner of the sunroom between the east and west porches. The topmost branches were brushing the ceiling. The tree was much in the way of tools and lumber being carried through the door to the new room on the right. Dragged across the floor and parked for ten days against the far wall, the tree leaned tipsily toward the light.

This morning I enlisted J. to haul the potted tree back to its usual corner; I then clambered onto a chair and ruthlessly clipped off the top set of fronds.

Whether or not that was a good thing to do remains to be seen.

My amaryllis have been unbothered by the commotion around them and have bloomed in spite of the sun's disappearance.

I wish the duration of bloom was longer.

I considered buying two more when I was in Tractor Supply on Monday, but their displayed bulbs are in sad state, the stalks growing crazily out of the cartons.

My projects are not as exciting as the renovation of a porch.

My visit to the quilt shop was to choose fabric for a set of cuffed pillowcases I decided to make as a gift for a friend.

[It was strong-minded of me not to succumb to any other fabric purchase while there!]

I made this type of pillowcase by the dozens when I worked at Wyoming Quilts and have made many more as gifts.

In the several years since I made the last pair I developed a 'mental block' regarding the layering of the fabrics.  Annoyed with myself I found instructions online, stared at them, feeling cross, until the method 'rebooted' into my brain.

Feeling belatedly pleased with myself I made a second set to match the batik quilt created for Dawn and Howard; I didn't take a photo of those, and they have gone home with Dawn.

On evenings when I can persuade myself that I don't need to codge up in a corner to read I trudge downstairs and work on quilt blocks.

The large 'Flying Geese' units which create the center pinwheel are fairly quick to make using the 'tool.'

Each block requires four sets of the smaller 'goslings'--a more fiddly process. 

Rummaging out chunks of fabric as possibilities I was initially skeptical of including the green check.

This has become a favorite of the blocks I've finished.

No time for sewing this week.

It is my scheduled turn as pianist for church; since I am lazy about practicing regularly, I've been hauling out folders of Christmas music as well as happily floundering through The Oxford Book of Carols. 

Many years ago I borrowed from a library [where?] an older copy of the Oxford Book; I hoped that I could locate the same, but never found it in my usual sources for used books.

I was surprised when this new edition, divided into two spiral bound volumes, was offered on ebay at $48.  I offered $35 and was accepted.

I've discovered several old melodies previously heard on CD's--songs with plaintive minor keys and delicate harmonies.

My fingers are not as flexible as in former years [practice might help?] and I'm hoping that friend Ruben will be there with his flute. Ruben's lovely improvisations do much to improve my efforts.

I realize that I start each week with high-minded goals of accomplishment. As the days spin out with routine chores and duties, the unexpected errands or interruptions, the times when a nearly sleepless night leaves me stupid and blundering--each week I come up short of my intended goals. The 'leftover' projects must either be abandoned, postponed or tagged onto the new list.

I wonder if this happens for most of us, some of the time? Most of the time?

Or--sad thought--is it an inevitable affliction of old age?

Que sera, sera!

 

Variable Weather: November Journal

November as experienced during our 12 years in South-Central Kentucky is a month of transition.  Killing frost was late this season, arriving during the early morning hours of November 13, ushering in a week of damp cold and blustery winds. The warmth of the wood fire has been welcome on such days.

I took advantage of a partly sunny afternoon to repot mid-size rosemarys, carrying them one by one to the greenhouse where I was supervised by ever helpful Willis-Cat.

Through many moves I've kept cuttings of a miniature geranium  potted up; it goes spindly after blooming but responds well to severe pruning. It is not a showy plant, but cheerful, kept in memory of the giver of the original 'slip'--my elderly friend, Esther Jane.

Settled in a blue pot on one of the sunroom's south windowsills, the little geranium appears appreciative of attention.

Trekking back and forth with plants I noticed I'd neglected to safeguard a large tub of geraniums from the frost. With indoor space at a premium I considered letting winter have them, but the urge for preservation was too strong. I disinterred the two best, cut them back hard, gave them individual pots. Crowded onto the long table in the sunroom both have put forth fresh growth.

J. has 'turned' the veg garden, leaving the soil to mellow through the winter.

This zoomed photo gives an odd perspective, as though the tractor wallowed through a mountain of earth.

Any excuse suffices to roar about on one of the tractors.

The volunteer nasturtium sheltered by the straggling branches of sage survived several nippy mornings;  an overnight low of 31 F. left it wilted, sodden, and white-leaved, that last tender bud blighted.

Perhaps one of those late blooms dropped seed mature enough to germinate in spring.

A long view of the garden under the plow, taken from the front porch.

Three deer have visited on several mornings as the sun was casting its first light.

We suspect this is the doe and twin fawns who were here in the spring.

I was able to take this zoomed photo by quietly easing out the back door and moving softly to the edge of the lower covered porch. The doe sensed my presence and stood at attention before bounding down the slope of the north ravine.

This unidentified plant grew in a corner of the greenhouse all summer, climbing behind the workbench in search of light. It too perished in the hard frost.

Jim has carried his chainsaw along the tree lines that mark the upper edges of the north and south ravines, taking out small dead trees and stacking the stove lengths for later trundling to the currently full woodshed.

This tree had decayed to a mere shell.

Trees grow densely on the rims of the north and south ravines--tulip poplar, hickory, sycamore, ash, maple, oak. In places dogwood, redbud, others I can't identify, form a dense under-story of branches.

 A shopping excursion to Tractor Supply Company [a chain farm and feed store] tempted me to purchase amaryllis and paperwhite bulbs. 

The amaryllis are flourishing, the paperwhites are rather feeble.

In Vermont our local Agway offered fat paperwhite bulbs in bulk to be chosen from a small bin and carried home in a paper sack.

Those, nestled into shallow bowls filled with pebbles, filled our small house there with a nearly overwhelming perfume from early December well into February.

I need to order a few bulbs from an online source I've used in other years.

[Note the freshly potted geraniums flanking the sluggish paperwhites.]

Two friends have never failing success with amaryllis, saving bulbs for a fresh start each autumn.

 I persevere, but have had only one bulb reward me with repeat bloom. 

My kept-over bulbs spent the summer in a large pot beneath one of the green house benches producing strappy leaves. Early in October I uprooted them, trimmed off the leaves and sequestered the bulbs on a dark shelf in the basement storage area.

Thus far the bulbs are sulking.

 An email from a nursery from which I've ordered perennials promised a 'special' on choice amaryllis.

I opened it eagerly only to find that the supposedly spectacular bulbs could be mine at $45 each!

The two bulbs purchased at TSC were $8 each.

On the way out of the store I noticed a display of packaged hyacinth bulb 'kits' complete with glass bulb vases. Had I seen them before checking out I would have been tempted.

DIL Dawn stopped by three days later and presented me with two of the kits!

One is already showing root growth, the other is still dormant. 

I was tapped to provide a deep dish apple pie for a church social.

Pies for our family Thanksgiving dinner were assigned to me as well: pumpkin, apple and a new family favorite, Lemonade Icebox Pie. 

It has seemed a busy month. I served as church pianist twice, as well as accompanist for friend Ruben's special music at the Thanksgiving service. 

Ruben, an accomplished musician, brings his flute to church, sets up his music stand at the left of the piano. His lovely improvisations encourage me to continue playing even as my fingers stiffen a bit.

At the end of these early winter days when darkness creates long evenings, I've read through a series of books by a late local author, Janice Holt Giles. I read some of them a few decades ago--how different to follow tales of early pioneers when I've now traveled many of their routes, both locally and heading

 'to the west.'

A new quilt project is underway encouraged by J's very creative cousin, Gloria, who has been enthused by a new 'tool.' I was inspired to order one and hauled out some fabric purchased in my earliest years in Wyoming. 

The finished quilt will be rather more colorful than my usual taste.

16 inch block created from large 'Flying Geese' and the strips of smaller 'goslings.'

The dominant fabrics are from two lines designed by Robyn Pandolpf--collected prior to 2010 they appear in several of my finished quilts.

As well as experimenting with the 'tool' which is used to cut and trim various sizes of geese, this venture is meant to use only fabric from my large 'stash.'

J. has also taken on a fresh project.

Several years ago he considered enclosing the south-east porch and bought windows for that purpose.

As we continued to enjoy the porch with railings and screening, the idea was set aside.

The matching west porch has never appealed as a place to sit, gathering instead a make-shift table for ripening garden tomatoes, a bin for emptied and rinsed tins, and in winter a bin of kindling for the wood stove. 

On Sunday, a dark and gloomy day, the railings and screens were torn out.

Yesterday--another grey day--much sawing [on the lower porch] and with a great deal of banging about which I chose to ignore, the west end was partially framed.

More framing and fitting this morning and the projection that by nightfall the space will be ready for installation of two large and monstrously heavy windows.

Two of the family males have promised to appear tomorrow to lend their skills and their brawn.

I don't venture beyond the doorway having a lifelong wariness of high unfenced areas.

Considering that laborers are worthy of their hire [free help!] I will feed them well and leave them to it!

I'm off to the wild garden [so-called] to do some needed pruning before the weather turns unpleasant.

 

Celebrating a Birthday--With a Few Complications

The month and year of my father's birth, November, 1916, was never in question.

The family knew the name bestowed on him, Lawrence Gilbert Desjadon; 'Gilbert' in honor of his maternal grandfather, still alive at the time.

I vaguely recall hearing murmurs that perhaps he was not born on the 4th of November, but that was the day always honored. 

It wasn't until Larry decided to retire and apply for Social Security benefits that it took the findings of  an attorney and the ruling from probate court to establish who he had always known himself to be.

Larry and my mother, spent their entire lives in the small town in which both were born.

Required to furnish proof of birth, it was a surprise to discover that on his original birth certificate his name was incorrectly recorded. 

His date of birth is correct, as are the names of his parents, but he was registered with the first name of his older brother, Clarence, and his own middle name, Gilbert.

Interestingly, the attending physician and informant, L. B. Rowe, M.D. also served as Town Clerk, 1916-1918, and as the recording clerk of the Congregational church in town.

In the lower left corner of this copy is the date in 1978 when Thelma Lilly, who served for decades as Town Clerk, attested that this was a 'true copy' of the original.

Hoping to clear up confusion, Larry requested his baptismal record from the files of the local Catholic Church. 

When produced from files updated in 1973, this certificate verified Larry's given name, but changed the date of birth to 2nd November.

The court procedure which followed exasperated the lawyer involved who reported that the local probate judge was bungling attempts to sort the matter. 

Eventually Larry received a copy of his corrected and amended birth details along with a letter from the town clerk who competently handled the local filing.

Those interested in family research at any level hope for primary sources to verify personal details.

Clerical errors are made, spaces are left blank on official vital forms meant to record full names and dates, causing endless frustration in later years. 

When our son was born in 1964 his first name was listed incorrectly in the Vital Statistics section of our local town report, an error which I quickly had corrected. 

For years I have kept copies of the print-out given us with correct details when H. applied for a SS number to begin working at age 16.

[At that time, social security numbers were not assigned at birth.]

Wanting to have a certified copy of the birth cert--the one with the official seal--I applied earlier this year through the state's official record repository, typing details into the online form, printing and sending with a cover letter explaining the long ago error somewhere in the transcription process. Of course I enclosed a check for the fee!

A week later an official envelope arrived--with a certified copy of the incorrect birth certificate.

When contacted, the newly elected clerk in the town of our residence at the time of our son's birth attempted to be helpful, but didn't realize she could go into the state archives and retrieve the correct certificate.  

Email contact with the clerk at the county seat location of the hospital where H. was born, payment of another fee and within a week the coveted certificate, stiff parchment paper, embossed seal, was in my mailbox.

We sift through clerical errors, attempting to verify facts known to us. 

We bang our heads at the inefficiency of clerks past and present. 

Surely the internet, email, fax, create almost instant communication.

Today, 106 years past my father Larry's birth, a search via Newspapers.com turned up the following:

Middlebury Register, 

November 10, 1916 Edition

Orwell News

A son was born Saturday, November 4, to Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Desjadon.

Online calendars for November, 1916, display 4th November as Saturday.

Larry, August, 1941, wedding trip.

Daddy with me as a 2 year old--my parents created a three room apartment in Grampa Mac's farmhouse for the first years of their marriage.

Daddy's first truck, red, of course.

Larry with younger sister, Liz, and older brother Warren.

A birthday gathering for Liz and Larry.

Her birthday was in July, his in November. 

Last photo of me with my Dad.

The garden Larry created and kept at church is still tended in his memory.