December 1, 2015

It seems superfluous to wonder how we have once again turned a calendar page to the last month of the year. It was a year ago this week that I began to move boxes of my belongings into this house, a year ago [with Jim away] that I brought Willis and his retinue of outdoor cats to the farm, housing them for several days in the washroom/entry to acclimate.

This week marks the traumatic passing a year ago  of Pebbles, the old horse, and in just such dismal and drenching weather.

The little some-time brook that borders our lane is in spate following a 4th day and night in which it has persistently rained.

Part way along the lane the brook-bed widens, swirling around a stand of willows, washing over a decaying log.

There is still green grass in the pasture, encouraged by the mild wet spell--not the fresh vibrant green of springtime, but giving some color to the subdued landscape.

Buttercups bloom against the fence--invasive--not healthy for grazing herbivores--I am told by our nearest neighbor--but so cheerfully vivid on a dark morning!

Various weeds, ground-covers, flourish along the verge of the lane.

We are never rid of honeysuckle which threatens to engulf and smother the fence, posts and all.

The uncommon cold of February was too much for the leathery leaves which are usually evergreen, but the vines revived and have thwarted Jim's efforts to subdue them.

Sycamore leaves offer a splash of rusty hue against December weeds.

Rainwater pours down the pasture slope and gurgles under the culvert below our house.

The salvaged bricks remain where I neatly stacked them in the spring.

I haven't decided how best to make use of them.

On the steep side hill above the retaining wall wild rose hips, be-sparkled with raindrops, gleam among dank twigs and fallen leaf rubble.

I need to do a considerable cleaning and tidying this week before company arrives--but I didn't do it today.  I found a long coat--meant to be rain-resistant--and trudged down with the mail, stopped to drop off a can of paint and inspect progress at the lower house.

Our renter, Pastor Fred, was putting in metal shelves in the upstairs room designated as his library; the book-laden shelves will nearly obscure the calm grey-green paint which I so recently applied to the walls.

Jim was contemplating how best to install an electric heating plant to back up the wood burner.

He made a list of supplies needed, invited me to go with him to Lowes.

[This was my opportunity to insist that I stay home to clean!]

Our neighbor, Jay, also had an errand and is a congenial addition to any outing.

I pottered about in Lowes while the men gathered what they needed.

I noted a display of packaged amaryllis bulbs--2 dollars less than I paid for mine yesterday, but seemingly smaller bulbs and perhaps without pot and planting medium included.

Farther along the aisle were amaryllis planted in clear plastic cylinders, some in bud, others nearly past their peak bloom. These were offered at twice the price I paid.

I was intrigued to see that the bulbs had been waxed--mostly in a red candle wax, some with overlying dribbles of green, some bejeweled with sparkling 'snow' crystals.

I felt it was rather a shame to take something as natural and earthy as a plump bulb and encase it in wax. The tags wired to the plastic 'vases' declared that the bulbs would flourish and bloom without watering. Perhaps they had been soaked before being dipped in wax [?]

An odd concept.

The outing concluded with a stop at a donut shop which Jim favors--I sat and ate one with a jelly center--they are raised donuts, light, but with a sticky sugary glaze.

Some came home with us.

Cats clamoring for their 'tea' when we returned--nearly dark at 3:30.

We made sandwiches for supper.

I found interesting reading online, but was stupidly bleary for awhile.

I revived to roll out pastry for two pie shells and a berry pie for the freezer.

Now, at 11 PM, to bed, but will probably lie awake for an hour considering all that still wants done!

Quietly Grey

There was no sun visible again today.

It is damply mild--temps in the 50's F.

Morning broke with a fuzzy veil of grey that lifted only slightly through the day.

At noon and in the late afternoon--when the above photo was taken--there was no way to have guessed the time of day.

I had a chiropractic appointment at 10, then walked up to the bank through a fine mist.

I stopped at Ace Hardware for a qt of paint needed to touch up around the new pantry door at the lower house, handed over my color card, then waited for nearly 45 minutes while two young men wrestled with the computerized paint mixing machine.

They apologized repeatedly for the delays while I assured them I could wait.

One of them finally put through a call to a tech support line, and we watched while the computer monitor registered a succession of error messages, posted repeated prompts. 

It appeared that Windows 10 had decided to install and the paint formulas had been lost or become inaccessible. Eventually we were assured that Windows 7 was reinstalling and retrieving data. The paint man positioned a plastic bucket under the spigot per command and a series of varicolored drips were 'purged' from the system and finally [!] my qt of paint was produced.

[The above may not be quite the technical review of the problem, but approximates the details appearing on the screen.]

Those who have read my December posts in other years may recall that I have a well developed distaste for shopping at the best of times and especially between Thanksgiving and the New Year.

It doesn't help that we are limited locally to places like Wal Mart.

In another life-time I did my Christmas gift selection in quiet shops well stocked with books, music, unique cards and posters, or in small 'boutiques' or even whole food stores which featured an array of nice goods. 

In Vermont I also enjoyed choosing gifts at the local Agway--in particular, I loved rummaging in the bins of paperwhites  filling a small paper sack with plump, firm bulbs, then finding pretty bowls or pots so that I could present them all planted and growing.

For a number of years I have needed to order the bulbs online, but haven't done so this year.

I stopped at the Tractor Supply Store in town today--for the purpose of stocking up cat litter and kibble to see us through the holidays.

Right inside the doors was a display of packaged bulbs.

I chose an amaryllis--"Minerva"--a striped coral and white.

I also plopped a 'paperwhite kit' into my cart.

I was considerably surprised on opening the later at home to find that in addition to the plastic pot and a compressed disc of planting medium, there was only one bulb!

Admittedly the very small print on the back of the package declared that there was one bulb included.

It is a good fat bulb, but dear me--it is going to look rather lonesome!

I have usually tucked 6 or 8 bulbs into a container and surrounded them with pebbles. 

There was no price on the display and checking my sales receipt later I see that 

I paid $6.99 for each 'kit.'

My usual source provides 6 bulbs for that price, then there is shipping. 

I like to buy a dozen or so bulbs, stagger the planting times so that I have flowers well into January.

I buy the newer variety, 'Inball', which doesn't have an over-powering scent.

I enjoy all stages of the growth, from the little forest of green stalks through the last flopping stems which must be tied up.

The amaryllis which I bought last year was not of a vigorous disposition and the bulb didn't live through the summer.

I am yearning for the blooms, but knowing too well that my resident felines have to poke and nibble at indoor plants.

Perhaps tomorrow I will decide whether to order more bulbs.

This evening I am content to putter, to listen to this lovely music.

Winter Solstice II

Edited to confess that [of course] I ordered the paperwhite bulbs and paid the postage.

Another Sunday

We had a delightful Thanksgiving holiday with all bedrooms occupied--even the daybed in my still unfinished sewing room and the sturdy fold-out sofa bed in the sun room.

Daughter's family in for the festive Thursday meal, then a group rather noisily enjoying games after the table was cleared .

The young people were off on various exploits on Friday leaving the house suddenly quiet.

Rain began to drizzle down before noon on Saturday, becoming a steady drumming on the roof by evening.  It has rained all day, so other than a quick dash to the compost pile and a hasty trudge through the woods to empty cat litter I have occupied myself with indoor projects.

Squelching along the path into the woods I noted that the fallen leaves have lost all color, trodden down when the horses spent a week there, now pounded into sogginess by the rain.

With rainy weather predicted into Wednesday I made use of the electric dryer to tackle the mound of sheets and towels over-flowing the laundry hamper.

I made up the beds, although only one guest room is needed to welcome Jim's cousin and her husband who will spend a night here later in the week.

I enjoy making a bed, spreading the fresh sheets, smoothing and tucking, plumping pillows into their cases, adjusting the quilt or comforter to hang just so.

With the bedrooms nicely tidied I felt inspired to work on the valences for the living room curtains.

I measured and cut these months ago, then put away the fabric when so much painting 

demanded to be done.

No sooner did I bring out fabric, my tools and my sewing machine than Nellie sprawled on the table.

I removed him to spread a tablecloth.

Obviously, a tablecloth is meant to be patted, rumpled, used as a winding sheet.

The addition of a cutting mat and the sewing machine did nothing to discourage Nellie.

I needed to fill several bobbins.

Thread tangled and snarled--Nellie prodding at the spool from behind the machine.

Teasel took over my chair.

Teasel eventually settled in a chair at the other side of the table.

I resigned myself to Nellie's 'help' after removing him several times only to have him pop up again.

[Possibly in our joy at his return we have been 'spoiling' him a bit.]

I did manage to finish lined valences for the four windows in the living room.

Jim helped hang them--perhaps feeling that he was in danger of being brained with a curtain rod while I teetered behind his spot on the sofa trying to do it myself.

I'm not sure yet if I like the effect of the valences!

I will take photos tomorrow if the light is better.

Jim spent the forenoon making a rail for hanging coats.

I have been carrying those hooks around since purchasing them in Wyoming!

I like the way the rail makes use of space in the corner by the back entry door.

By evening Jim had created a 3-cornered shelf to fit above the hanging rails.

He promptly filled it with his gloves and caps.

One hook has been left empty--perhaps for my coat?

I rummaged out several hooks in another style and mentioned that a rail in the 'dressing room' off the master bath would be useful. 

With major renovation work accomplished, the 'tweekings' and embellishments happen at unpredictable times.

I felt contented pottering with my fabric through the gloomy day.

Hopefully creative energy is about to return.

Betwixt

A thick and chilly fog on Friday morning.

I stood shivering on the side porch long enough to take several shots of the dense fog that swirled ahead of the sun as it climbed over the hill.

I am not partial to November in any place that we have lived. 

The glorious colors of October have bleached to duller greys and browns.

 The flowers of roadsides and gardens have been blackened by several frosty nights.

For all of the week past there has been wind--sometimes roughly gusting in with lashings of rain, at other times merely biting through one's clothes in spite of intermittent sunshine.

Darkness arrives early each afternoon with a month of decreasing daylight to be endured before the solstice and the slow turning again toward sunny hours.

I spent the week in desultory tasks: the usual rituals of meals to prepare, laundry and cleaning to be done.  I considered a number of more creative projects on my 'to do

 list and was not motivated to begin any.

I planned to do some of the grocery shopping on Wednesday as Jim was out, but torrents of rain began mid-morning and continued throughout the day.

I thought of cold drizzles down my neck at each stop, of hair whipped into my face, spectacles spattered, and decided there was nothing urgently needed.

Thursday broke sunny though chilly and after breakfast I commandeered the old mini-van--which I prefer to drive--and set out for the Mennonite community which sprawls over the area we refer to as 'South Fork.'

My first stop was at Casey County Discount Foods.

One never knows exactly what will be on offer there as merchandise comes from 

odd lots and close-outs.  Canned foods may be close to the stamped expiration date or a can

 may be 'dented.' 

Shopping there in the crowded aisles is fairly time-consuming, but my judicious poking about has resulted in considerable savings on staple items as well as some unexpected treats.

From the discount store I back-tracked to the turning which leads up a winding road, past a number of Mennonite-owned farms and retail shops.

I didn't tempt myself with a stop at either the quilt shop or the mercantile, but made for the whole foods store and bakery.

I love the smell of that shop.

Even the cardboard box in which my purchases are packed is permeated with the scent of herbs and grains, of hand-crafted soaps and lotions, of new bread.

It is a friendly shop, one whose homely goods appeal to me, one of the few places where I enjoy the task of collecting what we need.

A stop at the produce market for tomatoes and two sacks of red potatoes, a wander around the displays of pears, apples, sweet potatoes.

I note that the price of the apples and sweet potatoes is more than at the Beachy Amish farm which is about 2 miles up the ridge from our home.

Jim is in the house when I pull up to the front door and helps to haul in the bags and boxes of food.

He is not ready for lunch, so I gather up empty egg cartons and head out again to the Beachy's. 

Mr. Beachy and one of the sons are just driving out in the black truck [Beachy Amish are allowed to own and drive vehicles, which must be a sober black and without gaudy chrome trim!]

A younger son is sorting potatoes, bagging up apples that have been brought in from Pennsylvania.

I tell him that I have relatives arriving for the Thanksgiving holiday and that I need fresh eggs.

He rummages in a fridge and hands over three dozen.

I select a half bushel sack of Winesap apples, ask if I can choose sweet potatoes from one of the bins.

He obligingly holds open the plastic sack for me, notices what size potatoes I am selecting and helps to fill the sack.

He chats cheerfully, full of queries. 

His speech is thickly rural Kentucky with perhaps an overlay of the Germanic dialect common to the Amish and Mennonite families.

Sometimes I have to ask him to repeat what he has just said.

[It occurs to me occasionally to wonder if my quite precise diction is problematic for one used to southern accents.]

Charlie cat enjoying the morning son atop Jim's truck.

I didn't want to go out again on Friday, and particularly not to Wal Mart, but convinced myself that waiting until sometime next week to get a frozen turkey for the holiday meal would be even less enjoyable.

I drove into town through windy sunshine, visited the charity shops; I had my haircut, accomplished the shopping, came home vowing--as I do every year--that other than the most necessary items--I won't go near the big chain stores until after the new year!

Willis rolls in the driveway gravel while Sadie the barn cat stalks away, ears back in disapproval.

Tis the season of wooly bears, those caterpillars whose black and orange markings are meant to foretell the mildness or severity of the coming winter.

I encountered more than a dozen of them in the past two weeks while gardening or other outside chores.  All are wearing a wide center band which folklore holds as a prophecy of an open winter.

We shall see.

Sunday.  

A day of roiling clouds, blue sky hiding behind billows of steely grey.

I pulled on a ribbed sweater and zip-front 'hoodie' over a long-sleeved T and still felt the bite of the damp wind. 

With cat litter duties tended I made myself walk down the lane and back, then scuttled inside to brew a mug of tea and put another stick of wood in the fire.

My instinct during these darkening weeks is to hibernate, to huddle with a book, to be sedentary, my lap warmed with a cat.

Strangely, in spite of several nights of sharp frost, lemon balm still wears its shiny fragrant leaves.

I brought in a few sprigs, picked the final bud on the rose in the corner of the garden.

It appears dry, seared by the cold winds, nipped by the frost.

If the petals should unfold, I will be delighted--and surprised.

A Note From Nellie

Nellie--and his human keepers--appreciate the many expressions of concern during his 'disappearance' and the joy shared on his safe return.

Nellie newly appreciates comfortable places to sleep in the sun, extra helpings of tinned cat food,  and the general fuss which continues to be made over him.

Nellie and his brother Bobby had a brief outing in the morning sun, a half hour to pick their way about in wet leaves and survey the autumn landscape.

They are not being allowed outside for unlimited time, even though it is now obvious that Nellie wasn't snatched by a predator.

When refused another outdoor run, Nellie resignedly took himself upstairs to sprawl on an old comforter kept on the foot of the bed for the cats.

There is such a thing as a thoroughly spoiled [and cherished] cat!

A Nearly Normal Nellie

Nellie has developed a fondness for the ledge behind the cooktop--not a good place for a cat!

Yesterday [17 November] marked two weeks since Nellie-Cat's return and 5 weeks since his disappearance.

He has not regained his full former weight, but in looking again at his photos from 03 November, I can see much progress.  His bones are no longer jutting pitifully.

Nellie spent those first days home eating and sleeping. 

Within 48 hours he had gathered enough strength to jump lightly to a bed or chair without scrambling and falling.

Toward the end of last week I remarked to Jim that Nellie was nearly back to normal--his definitive sense of mischief was in evidence.

Nellie has always hoovered his food and then pushed his way into the dishes of the slower eaters.

When I serve cat 'tea' I have to play referee.

Perhaps needless to report, I have been adding extra dollops of canned food into Nellie's bowl.

Naughtiness is contagious.

In spite of 'shooing,' Nellie thinks he should supervise the 'fry' I made for breakfast.

His brother, Bobby Mac, perches on the wheeled kitchen cart the better to peer around the divider.

Jim has allowed the 'boys' outside several times in the past few days.

On Sunday they barreled around the corner of the house, hurtled into the garden where I was clipping and digging. 

In an ecstasy of exploration they rushed under the fence, along the stream.

Nellie splatted his paws in the water, Bobby dashed back to climb the fence and do a dainty pirouette along the edge.

Their garden capers on Monday were not so innocent, as they made nasty use of my newly turned soil.  I rushed at Nellie as he flung a just-planted lavender aside and vigorously enlarged the 

resulting hole to suit his purpose.

Jim left early today, on a parts finding mission with a neighbor.

He let the cats out into the damp morning.

Our friend Jay stopped by an hour later and I went outside to greet him.

Charlie-Cat sniffed at the open door of the truck, the tortie girls pranced along the retaining wall.

Bobby gave a good imitation of a Cheshire Cat, popping up behind the low brush of the side hill.

As Jay was about to depart a flicker of movement caught my eye--Nellie parading across the 

porch roof!  He landed with a thump on the roof of Jim's truck parked nearby, came placidly to be picked up and hauled inside.

Jim has catered to Nellie and Bobby Mac--when he fixes a snack the two boys hover and beg shamelessly.  Their brother Edward, large and laconic, isn't interested in handouts.

Having Nellie at home again still seems a miracle.

He spends most nights between us on the bed, moving closer to be stroked  when he 

knows I'm awake.

We are of a mind to forgive much of his monkey business--for now, he deserves a bit of pampering.

Before the Killing Frost

Mornings have been crisp, evenings draw in early.

Dusk seeps into the house by mid-afternoon, tucked as it is between two ridges.

Outside bare branches loom against a brilliant blue sky.

The oaks still hold their satiny brown leaves; a beech just beyond the garden wears a slender branch or two of leaves gone a dull crinkled gold.

The cosmos in a last tumble of color.

There were still tightly closed buds, promise unrealized.

This coloration is one of my favorites. 

I expect that the default pink has contributed the greater yield to my gathered seeds.

Foxglove plants have settled in and flourished since the overnight rain at the beginning of the week.

A few late blooming spires on the butterfly bush.

I noticed few insects on the flowers.

Sunshine and shadows--photos full of light and dark.

Find the camouflaged  feline!

Willis has a penchant for suddenly 'being there'--like Alice's Cheshire Cat he seems to melt in and out of the picture, creeping beneath foliage, hunkering down behind a branch, stretching along the grey timbers of the retaining wall, blending. 

Don't be fooled by his look of relaxed idleness--Willis is ever watchful.

This unnamed rose gained a new lease on life when I moved it from a dry corner against the side porch to grow in the angle of the garden fence.

Willis basks in the slanting warmth of the late afternoon sun.

The kitchen is lapped in greying light by the time I come inside to thrust the two roses and a handful of cosmos into a vase.

I place it high on top of the maple hutch--out of easy cat reach.

I have left one tightly closed bud on the rosebush--will there be another bloom before winter claims the garden?

At 7:30 on Saturday morning the red needle of the thermometer positioned outside the kitchen window points to 28 degrees F.

I pull on my ancient down vest, pick up the camera.

Standing on the walk by the side porch I can see the frost-crusted stems of the cosmos.

The flower heads droop, petals shriveled, colors dulled.

Today, Sunday, I cleared the flower strip.

I worked from below the retaining wall, afternoon sun warming through my thick old 'hoodie.'

Willis trudged up the lane to roll in the gravel before stalking along the retaining wall--getting in my way. As I snipped seed heads into a bowl, he butted at my hand, nibbled at limp fronds of foliage.

I found an old rug and spread it to keep my knees from the damp while I moved along the upper edge of the strip, lifting out weeds with my slim-pointed trowel.

Charlie-Cat appeared and plastered himself blissfully against my thigh, fussing when I needed to twitch the rug along. 

I was chilled and stiff before I quite finished weeding the outer corner of the strip.

Charlie, disgruntled, had curled himself in the bed of catnip. 

Willis stalked off to put the tortie girls in their place.

I heaved myself to my feet, clumped up the back stairs to the kitchen, a bundle of catnip in hand.

Cats thronged about me as I stripped the leaves, arranged them on a tray to go into the 

woodstove oven.  

Serve cat 'tea'; slice fresh mushrooms for a creamy soup, slice homemade bread.

The hands of the wall clock stand at barely 3--has it stopped?

The digital clock on the oven confirms the time.

Frosty mornings, afternoon shadows, chilly nights

The death of the garden marks a turning point.