Autumn Afternoons

The rains which moved through early in September left our summer-parched world greening and refreshed.  The grass which had been shriveled and brown sprang back to exuberant life.

Grandson D. volunteered to mow the lawn the day before J. was due to return from his Wyoming stay.

I left the over-due book keeping which has so vexed me and quickly used a boxed mix to bake a pan of brownies, timed to be ready for D. when the mowing and raking were finished.

Energized by chocolate and sugar, D. looked about for another task.

The sun was beautifully warm--not hot, and the dooryard smelt sweetly of freshly cut grass.

I eyed the makeshift trellis standing lop-sided against the bricked wall of the porch storage cupboard.

It was contrived by Mr. Rogers, the former resident, a rather splendid example in its day of making do.

Several metal posts were jammed into the ground and chicken wire had been lashed in place with a variety of ties to support two clematis vines--and rather oddly--a grapevine.

The grapevine had clambered up into the porch eaves, wrapped itself about the nandina shrubs, trailed across the clematis, threatening to throttle everything in sight.

D. and I yanked out much of it in late July--which didn't do anything good for the chicken wire support.

During the drought weeks the clematis vines  shriveled after producing seed pods.

I removed the flat stones at the base of the trellis and D. began yanking on the metal posts--which obliged by bending instead of coming straight out!

After considerable effort to remove the old support, D. fetched a post hole digger and began preparing a place to set in the sleek new black trellis which M. bought for me at auction in the spring.

We found that the stump of the grapevine had to be wrenched out to allow room to set the new trellis.

I suspect that in the process we damaged some of the clematis roots.

In the spring there was a tangle of flowering vine as well as seedlings that had sprouted and never been tied into the chicken wire frame.

I can only hope we'll have new seedlings come spring which can be properly trained.

I pulled off the rusty chicken wire with its clinging bits of dried vine and seed heads, and bundled it out of the way on the grass.

Willis, helpful cat that he is, immediately came to investigate and wormed his way inside the heap of wire.

We have noted that Willis's tweedy coat provides him with excellent camouflage.

As he trails us around the yard and garden he manages to disappear and reappear rather like Alice's Cheshire Cat.

Early twilight was falling by the time the new trellis was carefully leveled and fresh dirt compacted around the legs. I gathered up the old wire, collected tools, while D. trundled the wheelbarrow to the garage.

"Meme," he shouted, "Look at this!"

Peering into the gloom of the garage I didn't at first see where he pointed.

There it was--a mantis.

This is one of the best of the photos which D. took.

On his return J. immediately expressed a wish for apple pie.

I didn't get to making pie on Thursday, but began to assemble ingredients on Friday afternoon after J. D. and I did errands in town.

"Shall I run home and get dad's apple peeler?" suggested D.

I remembered suddenly that I own one--even knew where it was!

This is a lovely gadget which can be used to peel and core apples and set to slice them as well.

The depth of the peel is even adjustable.

The peeled and cored apples sometimes need a bit of trimming--the device being designed with a perfectly symetrical fruit in mind.

J. trimmed while D. ran the peeler and I rolled pastry.

D. sampled a long swirl of peel.

They were still happily churning out sliced apples when I ran out of pastry.

D. decided that the extra apples could be heaped into his pie!

Not hard to see which pie D.planned to take home!

Pebbles was delighted to have a tea-time treat of apple peels and cores which disappeared

 in several greedy gulps.

Willis, who has a distinct preference for male company spawls with D. on the sun-warmed drive.

Who knows whether this venture onto the garage roof was D.'s idea or the

inspiration of the brilliant Willis.

D. came inside for the camera while I was washing up the pie-making dishes.

Willis parades across the woodshed roof.

Safely on the ground Willis prowls through the rough grass at the edge of Mr. Rogers' old rasied bed.

Does he wonder at the disappearance of the sunflowers which grew there in the summer?

I suspect he is simply content to busybody and oversee all that takes place on a sunny autumn afternoon!

Response to the Comments

It is no surprise that my fellow cat persons read Oscar's story with a lump in the throat.  I wrote parts of it with tears blurring the letters on the screen. I felt again the sadness of parting with this special boy-cat.  Memories of other dear cats crowded in as well--a quiet spell of melancholy remembering.

My real purpose in sharing the details of Oscar's life and death was to affirm

and honor those who cherish pets, especially cats.

Some years before her death my Mother presented me with a notebook in which I had made an attempt at writing a "cat story." Reviewed from the vantage point of many years and some worthier results in composition, it was an embarressingly clumsy effort, several pages in a penciled round script which suggests I was perhaps 11 or 12 years old at the time.

What I had envisioned as a cute tale of catly doings, sputtered out like a blown candle after I had labored through a description of each of my darlings.

In my late 20's I stumbled upon a number of books authored by cat lovers who were also able writers.

These were/are books intended for adults, and have some literary quality about them. The personality of the feline tribe lends itself to humor, pathos, and some downright wonderful stories.

Michael Joseph's "Cat's Company" was published in England circa 1930, as was his earlier book, the story of his Siamese cat, Charles O'Malley: "Charles, The Story of a Friendship."

These books became available in paperback in the US in the 1970's. 

I still have "Cat's Company"--battered and missing a few pages.

"Charles" must have fallen totally apart sometime during my many moves.

Derk Tangye's "Somewhere A Cat is Waiting" is a 

presentation of several of his cat stories

 first published separately.

Although I don't own copies, Doreen Tovey's cat stories delighted me when I discovered them at a local library when my children were in their early teens.  [Cats in the Belfry and Raining Cats and Donkeys are two of them.]  Ms. Tovey and her husband lived with a variety of animals in Somerset. 

Her description of their cats' adventures is hilarious--I read great chunks of the books aloud--chortling so that I could barely be coherant. Inevitably there are the chapters where the reader's chuckles turn to tears--a part of the process that all pet lovers recognize.

These books come to mind as classics for anyone who loves cats and good writing.

In doing an internet search I discovered, not surprisngly, that second hand copies are

more readily available in UK than in the US.

Just as I cherish the books mentioned [the cats and their owners long gone] I eagerly read the posts which feature those cats of my favorite bloggers--the cats I will never meet but feel that I "know" from  a distance.

And, yes, for whatever it may be worth, I wish that I could offer real comfort when one of you must part with a cherished animal friend.

Pets have such a large role in the lives of individuals and families, their presence

marking the passage of our years.

A Sentimental Essay About Cats

The love of animals is a joy which transcends generations and distances.

Leanne, commenting on my last post, mentioned her fondness for our Willis, a cat she will never meet.

I have noted that most of my favorite blog writers also love cats.  We get to know these creatures through photos and through the way we humans describe the adventures and the personalities of our feline friends.

{And yes, there are dogs and horses--I've known a few memorable ones, but it has always been cats who are my special love.}

I become a "fan" of these faraway felines, and I am saddened when a friend posts the news of a beloved pet's death or disappearance.

Losing a pet is not in the category of losing a family member or friend to illness or tragedy, but it has its own particular and honorable place.

I used to feel that I shouldn't share my grief when one of my cats dies---there are those who would say, "Its only a cat--you can get another!"

There are those who would not understand the place that a special cat claims in our hearts and

in our daily routines. 

Loving animals and sharing our space with them is a blessing known to an 'inner circle" of like-minded folks--who need no explanation about the joys and sorrows of loving pets.

In a lifetime of making a home with cats I have noticed that often it is the naughty and imaginative ones who call forth our deepest affections.

I have cats that you don't hear much about--because they don't do very much--they are background cats, placid, perhaps not terribly bright, who are content to eat, curl up in a favorite place to sleep away the day, occasionally seeking me out for a brief cuddle.

The truly unforgettable cats are those that follow me from room to room, sit on my desk as I type, push aside my book  ["see me! see me!"] when I want to read, squash up against me at night, natter away at me while I cook or clean or sew.  These are the cats who knock my pens off the table, nibble my plants, wake me up in the morning and escort me to the kitchen.

These are the cats who have always known and snuggled close when I am tired or ill, or simply in need of a lapful of  furry warmth and the soothing sound of affectionate purrs.

My Oscar, pictured here, was one of those special cats.

He was one of a large litter born in a shed at the home of J.'s niece.

I adopted Raisin, the noisy, needy runt of the litter and brought her home--where she immediately attached herself to J.

Several weeks later Oscar was presented to us. He decided to be "my cat."

Oscar was twice as large as his litter-sister--a cheerfully noisy affectionate creature who greeted me each morning by landing exuberantly and heavily on my back, chest or face the moment my eyelids fluttered.

He 'talked' a great deal,; he wound about my feet frequently tripping me.

He hovered when I sewed, rearranging quilt blocks as fast as I laid them out on the guest room bed.  He plucked pieces of fabric from my sewing basket, made off with carefully cut squares and triangles, returned moments later to unreel spools of thread or topple the ironing board.

He would postion himself in front of the auto-waterer which sat on the tiled kitchen floor, smack the plastic reservoir gently. Another smack--not gentle-- and a bit of water would slosh onto the floor.

Great surprise--and a jump backward, then he moved  in for a hearty swipe, letting loose a flood which caused him to shake his paws in disgust.  Alerted to the spill I would speak to him sternly [as sternly as one can while laughing!]

His look of astonished innocence never varied--"Did I do that?"

Oscar and Raisin were inseparable.  She often stalked him, hiding, her skinny tail twitching, before the sudden rush to bowl him over and  the sound of sleek wiry bodies thumping about on the floor.

Gentle giant that he was, he allowed her to thrash the stuffings out of him.

Oscar was barely 8, a cat in the prime of life, when we noticed a lump on his hip.

It was a malignant tumor and inoperable.

"Take him home and love him," said our sensible and compassionate vet. "You'll know when it's time to bring him back."

He was still my funny affectionate Oscar.  For a few weeks he could still play with his sister Raisin.

As the tumor bulged, his gait slowed and changed. He could no longer fold his leg close, but must lie with it awkwardly stretched out.  I placed a step-stool at the foot of the bed so that he wouldn't have to jump.  He clambered up to lie beside me at night, whiskers tickling my face, while his sleek body thrummed with his mighty purr.

He gave up climbing the staircase.  Raisin, puzzled, tried to entice him to games of hide and seek--darting up the stairs, pausing at the landing to look back at him.

As he spent more time resting she kept him company in the basket in a sunny window.

I watched each day as he slowed, noted how many times he stopped to rest when moving from one room to another, still devoted to being where I was.

He was thinner, his beautiful coat less glossy, but his big blue eyes were still bright.  He had a way of opening them wide and tossing his head whenever he saw me, uttering a funny chirping meow.

However light my step, he noticed and greeted me, but he no longer hurried to twine about my feet.

The day came when I knew that his weariness must be acknowledged.

I held him, tears falling onto his head.  He purred, gave his little chirp.

I phoned the vet, placed Oscar gently in the cat carrier.

In the truck I unlatched the carrier door and Oscar crawled into my lap.

 I talked to him softly as I drove, told him what a lovely and beloved boy he was.

He purred and chirped the entire 30 miles to the veterinary clinic.

He was still purring when Bill the Vet applied his stethescope.

"Stop purring, cat," said Bill, "I'm trying to hear your heart!"

He lay on his good side on the table while Bill gently prodded the swollen hip.

"You've been able to keep him longer than I would have thought possible when I took the x-rays two months ago.  There's fluid building up now, the tumor is putting pressure not just on the hip joint but the surrounding nerves as well."  

His voice and eyes were kind.  "It's time now to let him go. Do you want to wait in the other room?"

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

My hands stroked the length of smooth fur, I passed a finger along the jaw, up around the brown velvet ears.

The rumbling purr filled the small space as Bill prepared the syringe and moved quietly back to the table.

"Hold him still," he said. 'It will be quick."

The needle slid into the vein, Oscar's purr stopped, and I felt the life beneath my hands depart.

Oscar left us in the winter of 2006.  His sister Raisin, is 13 years old this September.

She is still bossy, demanding, a creature with an uncanny "knowing" about her.

She was never quite as exuberant after Oscar's death.  We noted how she looked for him, searching upstairs and down for her playmate, calling plaintively.

J. indulges her finicky appetite, listens attentively when she tells him loudly of her woes.

I call her "old lady cat"--and sometimes scold her gently.

She has always had a "delicate stomach."

I clean up after her, corner her and poke the necessary gob of hairball paste down her gullet.

"Raisin is having a bad day," I announce, as I clean up the 3rd or 4th deposit of urpped food.

J. looks at her with loving denial, "No," he says, "She'll be fine. She just ate too fast."

When the time inevitably comes to part with one of these loved companions, I sometimes wonder, in my sorrowing mode, why I let myself in for this grief over and over again.

I groan at the cost of cat food, cat litter, vet visits.  I clump up and down the basement stairs morning and everning cleaning litter boxes.  I rescue my papers and my fabric and my plants

from invasive claws and teeth.

I give up wearing the black pants and skirts which don't camoflauge cat hair. I chase down floating fur wads with the vacuum cleaner,  tuck an old blanket or towel over the best chair and pretend I don't notice the claw marks on the back of the leather sofa!

And at the end of each day I am escorted to bed by a parade of cats, marching down the hall, tails waving; I wake to the cajolery of morning purrs and blandishments that are all about that anticipated spoonful of tinned food!

Not least, I am part of that inner circle of those who love cats--who paint their portraits, photograph them, talk about them and write about their whimsies and their endearing uniqueness.;  I'm one with you who know a home without the company of cats would be a lonely, too quiet place.

Raisin and Oscar during his last weeks.

Sunflowers and Applesauce

At the end of August after weeks without rain, the tallest of the sunflowers were canted at strange angles, some leaning into their shorter neighbors, some stalks breaking under the increasing weight

of the heavy seedheads.

The old raised bed at the south end of the garage is not an ideal place for sunflowers--not really great for any planting purpose as its width makes for difficulties in weeding and the overhang of the garage roof deflects much of any rainfall.

Still, the sunflowers, both the classic giants and the shorter many-branched hybrids have been a joyful splash of vivid colors.

A leaning forest of 'mini' sunflowers on August 27.

A week of rain finished the beauty of the sunflowers

and brought the remaining tall ones crashing.

Grandson Devin suggested we harvest them yesterday after school.

I had been tempted to leave some standing as they attract goldfinches, but 5 days of rain and mist was causing some of the seed heads to start going soggy.

We decided to deal with them before mold set in.

D. who is 6 feet 3 inches tall--without his boots--posed with this uprooted stalk to show

its grand height.

This is the classic giant sunflower with the distinctive striped grey and white seeds.

The seeds were saved by neighbors and given to me in the spring.

I stripped leaves and trimmed stalks while D. bunched and tied them with baler twine.

We quickly ran out of hooks on the porch and D. suggested we hang the remainder in the hay barn.

He loaded the stalks in his truck, drove to the barn and backed in with careful skill which would

impress his grandfather J.

I followed up the path, Willis, Sadie, and Sally scampering around my booted feet.

Pebbles paced along her fence, whinnying, hopeful that sunflower stalks would translate into horse treats.

D. scurried up the stairs into the loft, loaded down with stalks while I made a more cautious ascent.

[I enjoy being in a barn loft, but a well-remembered childhood nightmare always has me wondering if I might suddenly fling wide my arms and launch myself into space.  Choir lofts have the same effect and being of small stature I was always assigned a place to sing right at the loft rail!]

Sadie and Sally busied themselves about the barn.

Willis, who has no fear of heights, supervised each bunch of sunflowers that was tied.

He walked along the cross-beam [swaggered, actually] jabbing a tweedy paw at the dangling twine as D. tied the sunflowers to the short stretch of protective railing.

Willis supervising from the beam.

Our task finished, D. drove home to supper.

I trudged back to the house through a fine mist, turned on lights in the kitchen and prodded at the apples I had left simmering in my three largest kettles.

I bought two bushels of apples on Monday at a local 'trade day.'

Neither Gina and I are happy with the varieties available here--these were a bushel each of

Gala and Golden Delicious.

Years of living in New England has apparently spoiled us for the familiar varieties grown in the orchards of the Champlain Valley--McIntosh, Cortland, Empire, Idared, Macoun---all of them crisp with a tart-sweet flavor and the red skins which lend a rosy color to applesauce.

By contrast, these apples have a soft texture, a bland taste and take forever to cook down to something resembling proper applesauce.

I stewed and stirred, put the resulting slurry through the foley mill, added sugar and ladeled into quart jars.

I finished my canning effort at 1 a.m. and resolutely washed kettles, bowls and colanders before tumbling into bed, leaving the jars to cool in the canner until morning.

I think I will not can applesauce again!

Much as we like to have a stash of home-processed fruit and vegs I have to conceed that canning

applesauce is very time-consuming.

Making up a big batch and putting the extra into plastic tubs for the freezer is a more sensible option.

My efforts produced 11 quarts for winter eating and a pint in the fridge for the weekend.

 

Willis and I are tired today.

I creaked out of bed at 7, wiped down the jars of applesauce and stored them on the basement shelves.

Canners dried out and put away.

Floors swept and sticky kitchen floor mopped.

Animals tended, laundry in the washer, dry leaves swept from the porch.

Suddenly it was 10 a.m.  I hadn't had my one cup of morning coffee or breakfast--and felt over-whelmed with fatigue.

I showered, made myself sit quietly in the rocking chair with the mug of coffee and a bowl of cereal. 

I indulged in wondering what on earth I have accomplished these past few weeks to be this exhausted!

Willis doesn't bother with such thoughts!

He found a basket which fit him nicely and took a long nap!

I rocked, sipped my coffee, took an emery board to my grubby nails and decided I would likely live to work another day!

A Hint of Blue

The weather is still overcast with brooding skies that suggest we've not seen the end of the welcome rain.

I was outside in my sturdy wellies and a warm 'hoodie' at 7 this morning--and considerably startled to see a young Black Angus bull [or maybe a steer?] plodding along the edge of the lower garden, which is open to the rest of our side pasture strip.

I blinked, stood staring, and decided the creature really was on our side of the boundary fence.

I considered the situation briefly, decided that if the bovine turned menacing the stretch of soggy ground between us would be in my favor.

I made shooing motions and sounds, the Angus pondered visibly, then began to amble up the fence line toward the woods, with me urging him along at a respectful distance.

The fence had sagged and he stepped over it, a back hoof twanging the wire. I watched him head for the rest of the neighboring herd, then continued on my way to the barn.

Pebbles the Horse hadn't missed this little byplay and was standing at the edge of her enclosure whickering indignantly.

I gave her the daily ration of grain she demands, kicked a pile of fragrant hay into place for her later snacks, poured out kibble for the barn cats.

Back outside I turned in a slow 360 degrees, eyeing the lowering sky from every angle.

It would take a more optimistic view than mine to declare that the bulging layers of cloud displayed more than the barest hint of slatey blue.

Bypasing the shortcut along the upper garden fence, I clumped along the old track past the clothesline.

Trumpet vine clambers over the woodpile and grasps its way up a crabapple tree near the path; just beyond, a bluebird house hangs, weathered and crinkle-roofed in a redbud tree, undisturbed since Haskell Rogers placed it there years ago.

The lapis blue of the little feather lying in the damp grass fairly shouted in the muted grey and  wet green of the morning.

A gold leaf glowed through the transparent barbs.

I pulled my camera from a deep pocket, snapped photos from several angles before gently lifting the feather for a closer look.

I placed it carefully back in the grass, then decided to claim it as a treasure, bringing it inside.

It is the habit of a lilfetime, this clutching and hoarding of found items.

My Grampa Mac fostered this bent when in childhood I returned from any foray into field or woods, my pockets stuffed with pebbles, clumps of moss, acorn caps, or with a fallen bird's nest cupped in my hand.

He set up a makeshift table on his front porch and invited  me to display my treasures there.

In each place I have lived, a jumble of small rocks crowd an old bowl, bird nests gather dust on a shelf; dried flowers sift from the pages of books.

I was well pleased with my glimpse of  blue on a dark wet day, but there was another gift in store.

Near the garden gate a butterfly flexed sapphire-dusted wings in the wet grass.

Sally the Barn Cat made a dash for it seconds after I snapped the picture.

I thought I had encountered a Black Swallowtail until I loaded the photo and realized some

research was needed.

This is a "red-spotted-purple" butterfly, formally labeled Limenitis Arthemis.

One of its preferred hosts is malus--so the gnarled appletrees of our back dooryard extend a welcome.

What's in a name?

I still count this as a sighting of 'something blue!'

Pleasant Hill Shakers, Part 3

The Shakers were an innovative people who often designed or improved farm and household tools to make common tasks more efficient.

Above is a part of the large wash house.

This cast iron stove was designed to heat a number of flatirons at once.

When one iron cooled another was hot and ready to be used with no wasted time.

A closer view of the flatiron heater.

A woodworker using vintage hand tools to create some of the smaller Shaker reproduction items sold on the premises.

He was making dozens of wooden clothes hangers.

The Shakers became well known for their wooden storage boxes in many sizes.

You can read more about the contruction of these boxes by following the link below.

http://www.shakerboxes.com/

A tower of finished Shaker pantry boxes in the gift shop.

[As I witnessed the resident black and white cat being pursued by some unruly children I thought what an excellent opportunity was here for disaster: think of cat fleeing children and perhaps careening through a stack of boxes!]

A large area was devoted to a vegetable garden and berry patch.

This is a stand of sorghum.

The cut stalks of sorghum would have been fed into this crusher.

A horse or mule hitched to the whiffle-tree provided the power to run the grinder.

After crushing, the collected 'juice' was boiled down into syrup and used for cooking or to drizzle on griddle cakes, biscuits, or muffins--it can be used in the same way as honey, but is darker and of stronger flavor.

The exterior of the Shaker Meeting House with separate doors for men and women.

Plain benches are arranged in ranks around the room--men on one side, women on the other.

The center space was left free for the ritual of 'dancing' which was a hallmark of Shaker worship.

To read more about Shaker rituals and daily schedule you can follow this link.

http://www.eyewitnesstohistory.com/pfshakers.htm

Reproductions of Shaker furniture can be had by custom order--if one can bear the cost.

Items such as this chest of drawers can be made in cherry or pine.

Reproduction Shaker drop-leaf table.

The craftshop of the broom maker.

The Shakers of Pleasant Hill grew broom corn and had a thriving industry making sturdy brooms for sale to 'worldly' customers.

This old fellow demonstrated the making of a broom while keeping up a running commentary which he had obviously memorized.

These colorful and whimsical bowls and balls are made from large dried gourds--the same we have seen locally crafted by the Amish and Mennonites into birdhouses.

The style of the cat paintings reminds me of the work of the late artist Laurel Burch.

[I have a small stash of the fabrics which were an off-shoot of her work.]

If I had room for one more decorative item in my little house,

this cat would surely have come home with me!

A Long Rainy Day

Note the smoke of autumn's first fire!

Rain began on Sunday afternoon.

Heat and drought have continued for so many weeks that when the first cooling drops spattered down I felt I should pretend I didn't notice--brace myself for disappointment if once more the hoped for

 moisture passed us by.

It was quickly clear it had really set in to rain.

There was the odor of tired, dry earth and dusty foliage which always accompanies the first moments of  rain after long drought; then as the rain steadied and continued the scent of freshening leaves and reviving plants filled the air.

The temperature plummeted about 20 degrees by nightfall.

Thankfully we have not had the devastating deluge that so damaged my home state of Vermont over the previous weekend.

The rain comes down with a steady, moderate drumming, slacks off to a mizzle-drizzle, intensifies again and one can truly see the browned grass perking up, the green color restored literally overnight.

I woke early this morning, surrounded by snuggling cats.

I was up before six, bundled into warm clothes and my wellies, out to feed Pebbles and the barn kittens, clean the litter boxes.

These chores done, I walked down the road to check on the level of water in Big Creek.

The water was very low on Friday when Devin rode the 4-wheeler down for a look.

This morning it looked like a creek again rather than a dry expanse of shale, but certainly not in spate.

I trudged up the driveway, rain drizzling down my neck, sniffing the scents of rained-pummeled mint and southernwood as I neared the garden.

We've been piling scrap paper in the fireplace all summer.

There were  dry twigs still in the kindling basket which I arranged on the paper, went out to the woodshed for an armfull of slabs and a few small chunks of dry wood.

With the fire off to a good crackle, I hurried through a hot shower, and took my coffee in to my rocking chair, shaking my wet hair out to dry in the delightful warmth.

Matt and Gina's plot in our lower garden.  I think the turnip tops grew several inches in 24 hours!

I wrote several long overdue letters--wrote them by hand on pretty paper--dropped them at the Post Office,

drove into town to the bank, and then a stop at Goodwill.

The find of the day was a pair of pretty appliqued and quilted pillow shams for Gina.

G. being bored, is working at ORGANIZING my kitchen!

We are still sorting, culling, rearranging. There is no point in hanging on to all the items I had accumulated during the years of larger houses.

Many of my collectables have come from charity shops and such, so not a big investment, but still too much for what I need now.

Willis has exercised his house privileges today while the tortie girls, Sadie and Sally are, as usual ,content to prowl about the barns.

G. removed the antique wooden dough bowl which has rested on top of a run of kitchen cupboards.

Willis, who had recently appropriated it as a resting place, was obviously annoyed with G. for moving things.

He proceded to make a pest of himself, pacing along the top of the cupboards, plopping down to stroll the counters, and finally inserting himself onto a high shelf where he could oversee the work.

I have been renovating my clothes closet while G and Willis tended the kitchen.

Warm weather clothes sorted to the far end of the rack, jeans and cozy long sleeved tops refolded and  ready for cooler days.

All very domestic.

And suddenly I am more than ready to call it a day--almost 11 PM.

It is a night when a quilt is welcome on the bed; a night when I expect my tribe of cats will be cuddled close.