Handling Comments

A comment notification popped up just as I was about to leave my desk after publishing the post about my cats.
I read it, read it again, puzzled.

This was not Asian spam, there was no offensive wording. The comment was totally irrelevant to the post about cats, in fact, totally unrelated to anything I have ever posted. I decided to investigate the commentor's profile before ruling on the rather long comment.
The writer is Swedish, multi-lingual, interested in philosophy, theology, gnosticism, eroticism, babes, the Bible.
I do list the Bible as one of my interests in my rather bland profile.

I considered posting the comment with a reply that stated, "OK this time around, but isn't this totally off subject for this blog?"
I considered not posting the comment but writing much as I am here and including a link so that you could check it out for yourselves.
I mulled this while putting the final paint touches on the bedroom window casings.

I'm not comfortable with the comment as a response to my blog. Not because it was critical or crude.  It simply doesn't represent who I am or what I wish to share in my posts.
Furthermore, I discovered that the writer had merely done a copy/paste of one of his own recent postings.
Bottom line on that is I'm not going to publish content from another blog. By whatever means our readers find us, they return--or not-- and they comment--or not --based on their response to our individual material.

We are all drawn to those with whom we have shared interests, whether in real time/real life situations or in our choices of reading material and virtual friends.
Shared spiritual, political, ethnic, or educational background may put us in touch with individuals or groups where we are comfortable. Merely having any or all of these attributes in common does not guarantee harmony, either with certain individuals or with a group.

I don't list my denominational faith in my profile.  Some of you know me and know my membership.  Others who have been reading my essays for awhile gather that I'm an active "Christian."
Our spiritual affiliations are reflected in our lifestyle choices. I feel they shouldn't make us exclusive or judgemental.

Several of us have noticed that we "meet up" as commentors on blogs that we mutually frequent...just like friends who can actually get together for lunch or tea. We are "there" not because we are in total harmony with all of any person's beliefs, but because we are drawn by common interests and passions which supercede our differences.
Some of us find ways to correspond privately on a deeper level.
So many times as I read a blog entry I think, "I'd love to stop by and have tea with her"--"bring my quilt to piece while she works on hers."  "I'd enjoy discussing history with him."  "What fun to visit a museum with this couple!"
I could happily grub alongside most of you in the garden, or accompany you on a countryside walk.

As we grew better acquainted, you would learn that a big party with social drinking or a bash at the pub would be an invitation I refused. I wouldn't be comfortable at some of your worship occasions or you at mine. But I hope you would be comfortable with inviting me to your kitchen to help make preserves or in visiting me at home even though you might need a sticky roller to remove cat hair afterward!

So, where am I going with this?  Am I being unbearably pompous and stuffy?

I know that I don't have to justify to my followers that I've decided to reject a comment.
Morning's Minion is my blog. Mostly I use it to publish experiments in writing and to share things which give me joy.  Occasionally I rant. 

I appreciate comments.  I greatly enjoy that we share the triumphs and frustrations of house renovations, gardening efforts which leave us groaning or cursing the squash beetles. We rejoice when others rejoice and we are saddened when a blogging friend reports an illness, a death or loss.
We commiserate over the antics of cats, dogs, horses, goats and chickens--and I have been moved to tears when a cyber friend loses a loved pet.
It is wonderful to gain a wider audience for our crafts and our finds.
There is joy in discovering that someone in Wales or New Hampshire or Scotland [anywhere, in fact]] is touched by the same book which I treasure.

I suspect most of us land on a blog because we take the recommendation of a blogger we already enjoy.  [Flower Lady mentioned this recently.]  My own pattern is to read for awhile, read the back entries, make a comment or two, decide if this is to be a "kindred spirit" sort of place or just one that I will occasionally visit.
I've no control over who reads my blog, unless I choose for it to be an "invitation only" set up.
But, I can control the comments that I publish.
I have a fundamental knowledge of the terms philosophy, gnosticism, eroticism, the occult. They aren't areas that I delve into. I visited the blogger in question and found his subject matter too dark, too convoluted for my taste.
Readers will have to find their way to his blog without his copy/paste post on mine.
If any of you have faced a similar issue with commentors, I would appreciate the feedback.

Postscript:  In case you read this entry and don't go to the comment section, I want to include what JD pointed out.  If you type some version of morning's minion into a search engine you can choose from options that include the blog apparently sub-titled "Drinking with God." 
When I created my blog several friends reported landing there when attempting to find mine.
I went there after posting the above.  The blog is still in existence though the posts are infrequent.
It is very possible that the Swedish blogger's post with its apocolyptic darkness was meant to go there.  I would stress that neither of these male bloggers had content that, in my brief visits, could be labeled personally offensive.
Their blogs are their own.  Mine is a reflection of  my little space on "this terrestrial ball."

The Cats Are Feeling Neglected!

Teasel regards my morning activities with an irritated expression.

Teasel  and Jemima would like to know if I am about to create more havoc in the bedroom by moving

furniture and bringing in paint cans and such.

Chester is not very bright [could you guess?] and is inclined to be skittery.

When he pleases he can be purr-y and affectionate.

Chester and his father, Charlie, watch for sparrows on the front lawn.

Willis is very photogenic.

Willis is also a "holy terror" who gets underfoot, trips me,

twines himself around Pebbles hooves and rubs his face on her ankles.

[And no, I don't know the correct term for a horse's ankles!]

Sally, who is the smallest of the barn kittens and the busiest.

Sunlight slants in between the gaps in the old boards which are the barn siding.

Sadie poses on J.'s bush-hog.

Sadie on the defensive.  Willis has tried to instigate a wrestling match and Sadie wants none of it!

Honored

I am honored that Chris J has bestowed upon me a Creative Blogger Award.
When I was previously given an award I struggled with the mechanics of passing it on.  My reading and writing time are shorter just now than I would like, so rather than go through the "drill" I will merely say, "Thank You."
I am delighted to know that I have a few loyal readers. The swapping of thoughts and comments with blogging friends has become an important part of my day.
I am drawn to bloggers/writers who enjoy nature, pets, music, books, creative art forms.
If you aren't acquainted with "Flamblogger" do visit her. She writes engagingly and shares some lovely artwork.
Here is the link.
Chris J

"Who Would Live Happily In The Country..."

"Who would live happily in the country must be wisely prepared to take great pleasure in little things.

Country living is a pageant of Nature and the year; it can no more stay fixed than a movement in music, and as the seasons pass, they enrich life far more with little things than with great, with remembered moments rather than the slower hours.

A gold and scarlet leaf floating solitary on the clear, black water of the morning rain barrel can catch the emotion of a whole season, and chimney smoke blowing across the winter moon can be a symbol of all that is mysterious in human life."

Henry Beston: "Northern Farm"

I may have posted the above quote previously.  It is a beloved expression by a favorite author.

I have lived most of my life in a rural setting. Recognition of the cycle of seasons, the changes of weather, an awareness of the birds, insects, animals and plants that shared my particular space came naturally.  My father and my maternal grandfather would have scoffed at labeling themselves "nature lovers."  They were simply men who noticed their natural surroundings, stored up country lore and passed it on in down-to-earth fashion.

As a young girl I tried to put into written words the beauty and intrigue of what I observed;  the birdsong of spring; the heat, sunshine and rain, the rush of growth that is summer; the colors and rich scents of autumn; the crisp, crackling cold and snow of New England winters.

It is good that none of those wordy, over-written pieces survive!

In my 20's I discovered the writings of Henry Beston, Edwin Way Teale, Hal Borland, writers who observed the patterns and quirks of nature and distilled them into elegant prose which  evoked the pictures I had no ability to paint.

In time I discovered that those authors who can take me on a tour of their particular corner of the world, drawing me into the scents, sounds and landscapes of their homeplaces are the ones I choose to read again and again over the years.

The person who delights in noticing what lives and grows around her/him need never be bored.

I wander the same territory noting and photographing the same garden, the same roadside, the familiar dooryard at every time of day, in every season.

Somehow it is important to me to record these marvels of nuance and to share them through this blog.

Last week the busy spider added another egg sack, attaching it to the topmost one she had previously anchored to the front porch post.

For several days afterward she appeared nearly lifeless, her body deflated, her web in tatters.

Having read that argiope aurantia produces one to four egg sacks and then expires, I wondered if her time had come.

On Thursday morning I found that she had wrapped up a butterfly who blundered into her web and was taking nourishment.  She revived and seemed to be mending her web.

The following day I sat with my mug of coffee, absorbing the feel of the early morning, when I noticed that the spider was busy in the center of her web.  As I watched, she bobbed up and down repeatedly, setting the web into rhythmic motion. Fascinated, I crouched on the edge of the porch for a closeup view. With each dip of her body, she dotted a clump of sticky "thread" onto the web, reinforcing its weave. [Rather like using the darning mechanisim on my sewing machine!]

I dashed inside for the camera.  When I returned she was putting the final zig-zag in place.

Here you can see the dense patch she has created in the center of her web.

Wild turkeys. 

Son-in-law M.G. informs me that several hens will band together to raise their clutch of young.

The pale heads denote immature birds.

This morning about 18 turkeys were parading along the edge of the woods.

I was headed toward the barn a few minutes after 7 a.m. when I noticed them.

There is no such thing as moving stealthily in rubber boots, but I clumped to the house for my camera, and tried to move quietly up the back pasture to a point where I could zoom in on the turkeys.

A number of them headed into the woods.

If you enlarge the photo you can spot them.  Look for their white heads.

I counted 13 of them bobbing along in single file below the ditch.  It was difficult to bring them into focus.

Two of the turkeys flew with clattering wings into this tree, probably taking a route through the branches and dropping into the dark woods beyond.

This is the larger view.  The turkeys were strolling along to the left of the old tobacco barn when I first spotted them.

Last week there were three bluebirds lined up on the electric wire in the back yard.

Several days later I found this blue feather lying in the driveway. I want to beleive that it belonged to a bluebird--not one of the bluejays that I have heard screeching from the hedgerow.

This delicate web was one of many stretched over the grass of the back pasture.

This pod on the trumpet vine has ripened to a rich golden brown, then split to spill its seeds.

The clove pinks were grown from seed sown directly into the edges of the short border, then thinned and transplanted.

The Yellow Simplicity roses are out-doing themselves in the moderate warmth of late summer.

This morning as the sun climbed the sky and touched the flowers, their scent drifted lightly across the yard and hovered beneath the maple tree.

I caught a whiff as I came back from feeding the three barn kittens.

This Michaelmas Daisy is "Purple Dome."

I still haven't recalled the name of the paler variety behind it.

A "wooley worm" was bumping its way into the short grass by the front steps.

I don't like to think it may be the sort which lives by eating my garden.

The morning glories continue their ramble around the edge of the porch.

The nandina have thrived energetically since my violent pruning in May.

Cobweb gracing a clump of lemon thyme.

Delilah's Quilt

My Amish neighbor, Delilah Yoder, phoned last Friday to ask if I might be available to drive her to Wal Mart later in the afternoon. [The Amish who have phones build little wooden structures behind their barns or sheds to shelter the telephone which is considered too worldly and modern a devise to have in their homes.]

J. and I have on several occasions transported Joseph or Delilah to do their shopping.

I explained that I was busy painting woodwork.

Delilah assured me she could get one of the "regular drivers" for the shopping run, then added that one of her reasons for calling was to invite me to see the quilt she had finished.

On Monday, with one wall of the bedroom painted and in need of a break, I drove the mile and a half to Yoders.

I was amazed to learn that the quilt in question was the one for which Delilah had bought batting and "lining" on our recent expedition to Wal Mart--less than two weeks earlier. I wondered what could be the quality of hand quilting that had been accomplished in such a short time.

I am impressed.

The afternoon sun was hitting the view-finder of my camera, so I wasn't sure  until I loaded the photos whether I had done justice to her work.

This young woman has five children, the eldest is 8 years old.

She sees her husband off to work at the furniture factory at about 5 a.m.

Her day is interupted by whatever customers come into the little store which occupies one end of the building.

In accordance with Amish beliefs the home is without electricity; kerosene lamps provide the lighting after dark.

Needle work skills are handed down through the generations of Amish and Mennonite women.

I think those of you who quilt will agree that Delilah's work is very nice indeed.

I don't understand the reasoning that establishes some of the prohibitions of the Amish lifestyle, although

I am in harmony with simplicity, frugality, with the preservation of heritage skills.

Delilah buys the pieced quilt tops from other Amish women.  An "Englisher" friend lists the finished quilts for sale on E-bay.

Delilah's fine work should command a higher price than it does.

She can finish a bed-sized quilt in a week or 10 days, depending on the intricacy of the quilting design.

Delilah speaks yearningly of how more frequent quilt sales could augment their income.

She longs also to have a really bustling bulk foods store such as the one we patronize in Casey County.  But a well-stocked store requires a large initial outlay of funds and a steady clientele to support it.

Joseph tells us of his father's farm in Ontario.  He would like to be freed from the routine of the shop where he turns out the kind of furniture used in motels.

"How many acres would it take to have a good farm such as your father's?" I asked Joseph, as he and J. unloaded hay in our barn.

"A hundred acres of good land," replies Joseph.

Prompted by my gentle questions, he speaks with enthusiasm of horses, the relative merits of Percherons, Belgians, Suffolks.  He remembers crops of hay and barley and wheat.

It is nearly impossible, he tells us, for  a young Amishman to borrow money to buy such a farm.  Our modern and increasingly cautious banking world wants a history of checking accounts, credit card activity, a solid history of business experience.

Daily I see the young Amish men of our neighborhood being driven to and from work places by the retired men and women who use a station wagon or van as a local "taxi".  The Amish families hand over $10.00 to be driven to Wal Mart. The charge is $15.00 to be taken all the way into Columbia to the bank or to any of the shops there.

A trip to the Mennonite bakery and bulk foods store with the produce market and greenhouse nearby has a traveling fee of $40.00!

J. and I wonder how long our neighbors can sustain a traditional lifestyle which is being under-mined by 21st century ways.

When the photo session with the quilt is finished, Delilah pulls two battered dinette chairs into place under the second story overhang of the house.

"Can you stay for a visit?" she asks.

I sit, feet stretched to the sunshine, flexing my paint-daubed hands.

Our conversation is easy--of gardens, of baking; we talk of the demands of caring for a family--small children, a husband.

I am aware of difference: my T-shirt and bare arms, my ragged jeans with the torn knees and the smears of paint.  Delilah's dark blue dress falls nearly to her ankles and is pinned to the neck. An underarm seam has split and not been mended.  Her dark hair is pulled firmly back from her high forehead and covered with a dark kerchief.

The older children, the two girls, are away during the day, attending the local Amish school.

The three small boys moil about the side yard, bouncing on an old trampoline, dashing in and out of the porch. From time to time Delilah swtiches to the household German to give a quick command.  The smallest child, grubby-faced, yanks at the folds of her skirt and whines.

"Shut up," says Delilah, in English, mildly, but then relents and scoops the little boy into her large lap, tucking him up for a cuddle.

The sunlight is warm, but not fierce. I am too comfortable, and I remember the painting, the work that surely is waiting for Delilah.

We admire the herbs and the roses sprawling in her garden patch that softens the front of the wooden building.

"Come and visit again," says Delilah.

I have enjoyed the hour in her company and I tell her that, wanting her to know that I am honored by the invitation to sit for awhile and talk.

I promise that I will edit and print the photos of the quilt, that I will be happy to photograph others if she would like them to pin up in the store as examples of her work.

I have told her about my quilts--finished by the long-arm machine quilters in the shop where I worked in Wyoming.

"I will bring one of my quilts for you to see," I promise her.

She and the boys walk me to my car.  She turns back to the house, to the supper that must be made for Joseph and five children, to another quilt stretched on the wooden frame waiting for the moments when she can light her kerosene lamp and place her dainty stitches.

While J. Is Away

I have been on my own for a week and a day while J. is in Wyoming dealing with some business issues that had not been resolved prior to our move. With a successful conclusion to those matters he can now enjoy a few days with our family there.

I am not one to go to pieces at the prospect of time on my own, and I worked up quite a mental list of

Things to Do during this week or more.

When one wants to tackle hefty projects it can be easier without the Man of the House to feed and care for.

As one friend put it when I told her of my projects, "You can eat crackers and cheese and get on with what you're doing!"

The most ambitious of my projects was to paint our bedroom.

When we bought the little house all the walls had been painted recently in a clean but uninteresting flat white.  The woodwork is gloss white.

Back in May I had the notion that covering the bedroom woodwork with a color called "Cinnamon Swirl" would be a lovely way to add warmth and interest.

Within a few brush strokes I knew this ranked as a decorating nightmare.

Still, I had purchased the paint, from a line that was not cheap!

Each morning there-after I opened my eyes cautiously, hoping that the glowing peach of the closet doors was not really as blinding as yesterday.  Of course, it was.

Several weeks ago my neighbor Gracie stopped by and we spoke of our mutual adventures in revamping a small local house. Gracie looked at the offending Cinnamon Swirl paint and suggested that returning the doors in the bedroom to white would greatly reduce the impact of the bright peachy color.

The cats and I decided to tackle this project.

In the above photo you see that masking paper spread on the floor makes a delightfully crinkly noise and can be used for games of hide and seek.

What you don't see is cats whizzing past my step-stool and around my gallon of paint at full speed.

With the doors restored to gleaming white, the Cinnamon Swirl" on the trim has been greatly subdued.

I have most laboriously covered the walls in a very soft sandy peach which has just the effect for which I hoped.

I cannot move the behemoth lodgepole bed to finish that last wall.

A friend, of even tinier frame than I, offered to come with her husband and move the bed!

My Amish neighbor, Delilah, suggested that her husband, Joseph, could likely shift the bed with no help at all!

Common sense prevailed, even as I ran out of paint after rounding the corner onto the 4th wall.

When J. returns he can shove the bed out of the way, I'll finish painting and when the wall is dry, he can reposition the bed.

[He does not, by the way, know that this project is underway.]

I once thought I was a tidy and efficient painter.

I'm pleased with the result of my work, but it has taken much longer than such an effort would have done a few years back.

I have been out of bed between 5 and 6 most mornings this week, to tend the horse and the barn kittens,

minister to the throng of pampered house cats and take advantage of the morning light for painting.

Friends and neighbors have been wonderful to drop by and make sure that I haven't toppled from a step ladder or languished in lonliness.

Next on my list is to "spackle" the bathroom walls which were left in such scabby condition when I tore off the wallpaper.

J. pronounced that it was beyond my skill level and I should wait for him to do it rather than "make a mess."

We shall see!

Perhaps I will have to admit that I can't accomplish that, but just perhaps I can!

September Morning Photos

I can't recall the name of this dainty aster [Michaelmas Daisy sounds far more appealing]

The plant label is buried in exuberant growth.

The felted leaves of sage wearing silver dew.

Yellow Simplicity Rose coated in dew.

Monarda, beloved by butterflies and bees.

A favorite rugosa from my New England years, Blanc Double de Coubert.

Even the broccoli is dressed in diamonds.

I don't know the name of this grass, but loved the pinky glow of it in the upper pasture.

This photo doesn't do justice to the cool sparkle of dew that bathed the entire meadow.

One of the purple asters by the clothesline.

Spider webs stretched over the grass, cloudy with moisture.

Red Clover.

The shimmer of rising sun slanting through the wooded ridges to the east.

Maple leaf.

J. whacked down the exuberant growth of weed and morning glory behind the garage--it has revived.

The two clumps of zinnias are finally looking shabby, yet there are some still lovely blooms.

Worms and decay?

Apple mint in early morning shade.

Basil in sunshine.

Morning glories clambering about the front porch.

Cones on the magnolia tree.