After two and a half years, I’ve made a commitment to myself to work on blogging again. I’ve had a stressful few years, but things have calmed down a bit. I have some routines that work and friends that care. I’m blessed!

the abelia

Outside the kitchen window is a mature abelia. It was trimmed back last fall, which appears to have prompted rampant growth. I’m hoping to have it removed this autumn, so I can see out the window.

My cottage, which comforts me in all seasons, has been added onto, back and far side. The side addition is my bedroom, complete with bath. The bedroom windows look out at trees and a farmer’s lane. Because of this addition, I’ve lost windows on that side of the “great room.” The back room addition is a laundry/mudroom, with windows overlooking the creek. Unfortunately, that cuts off any views from the great room. The only window in the main room is the kitchen window. Because of the abelia, I can’t see out that one. Well, I can, but all I see is the abelia and the bees and moths imbibing nectar from it.

I like to feed the birds, particularly in the winter. I’ve positioned the feeders under some evergreen trees that, under the right conditions, are visible from the kitchen. Much as it pains me, the abelia must go!

Life or Death

I was sitting on the dock at the creek, when a great blue heron glided by. He (or she) was only about four feet off the water, maybe twenty feet from me. Absolutely beautiful.

Then I went to the front of the house to check out my bug residents. I’ve been blessed by a garden spider, who has had to re-build her web a couple of times, in response to my cleaning up of the flower and herb bed. She’s gotten it back to her usual wonder web, complete with the zigzag stitching in the center. She doesn’t move much, so I can admire the beauty of both the web and her yellow and black markings.

I’m hesitant to pull up the tomato plant that Judy gave me in the spring. I originally had it in a pot, but my raccoon (or groundhog) neighbor kept digging in the pot, so I moved it to the herb garden, along with the basil seedlings. I noticed that there are a number of small green tomatoes on it, now that it’s finally gotten some growth. All I have to do is pick them, before the tomato hornworms get them. There are two of them nibbling on the leaves. One is infested with wasp cocoons, so I’m told I should leave it where it is, so the wasps can hatch, after they’ve eaten enough of the hornworm. It’s horribly fascinating to watch. You can tell the cocoons are having an effect, by the actions of the hornworm. It will suddenly whip its head around, as if in response to a mosquito bite. It’s also looking a bit desiccated and discolored. It certainly would be easier on my head to just pull up the plant and pitch it in the yard trash pile, but that would disrupt the garden spider, whose last web is attached to the tomato plant!


Constant challenges. Life or death issues in the garden!

The end

That's all she wrote.

Habits

The first thing I noticed, as I tried to come to grips with the idea that I had had a stroke, was how pernicious habits can be. After being in the hospital, where none of my routines were acknowledged, I came home with all sorts of good intentions.

I hadn’t been able to smoke while I was there and didn’t seem to think about it much. (Of course, I had no idea how to get to the outside from the sixth floor and wore an open back gown, which probably would have been as good as a sign saying, “This woman shouldn’t be here.” Even walking with authority and conviction probably wouldn’t do the trick, in that outfit.) Unfortunately, I had about 5 packs left from a carton, so although I rationed them, I was still smoking. They lasted about a week, after which point I was doing with the occasional mooched cigarette. Then last Sunday, I decided I couldn’t stand mooching and got a pack. That was a mistake. I think I’m going to have to trick myself and buy a pack, give it to a co-worker, who will be generous enough to dole one out to me, periodically. Somehow, the idea that I can NEVER have a cigarette scares the piss out of me.

I didn’t eat much in the hospital, wasn’t hungry, and thought this would be a good time to follow through with changing my admittedly lax eating habits. Again, that lasted for a few days here at home. Then I was back to my usual peanut butter on a spoon in the evening routine.

Habits are hellishly hard to break, once you’re back in your regular surroundings, doing your usual tasks.

stroke

On July 22nd, I was hit with a mini-stroke.

I was working for a friend in her produce stand. It was about 9:30 in the morning, on a Thursday. Fortunately, I was alone for the duration of the initial attack. When I could move, without much fear of falling, I was able to get to the cell phone and call her to ask for a replacement. Sharon came to relieve me, and I drove home. I called in sick to my regular part-time job, informing them that I doubted I’d make it in Friday or Saturday.

During the course of the day, I periodically lost power on my right side. I endured. I can’t tell you what I was thinking. It wasn’t until Friday, late afternoon that I called a friend in Roanoke and asked her to come out for the night. Within an hour of her arrival, she called the rescue squad. I was in the hospital for three days.

I’ve made an almost full recovery, but a number of issues have arisen that I feel the need to document.

birds, again

Something is going on. I’m not sure what, exactly.

A male cardinal keeps ramming into the laundry room window. He’s been doing this for two days. He sits in the rhododendron, maybe two feet from the glass. If I come into the room, I see him fly off, around the corner of the house, and land in a cedar tree. I leave the room and listen to the rhythmic sound of him banging into the window. Is he seeing himself in the glass, as a competitor? I can’t imagine there’s anything in the laundry room that would entice a bird.

Meanwhile, Doof is sitting under the forsythia, next to the birdfeeder, waiting patiently for a bird to fly into his mouth. The titmice and chickadees are safe, as they come to the feeder, pick a seed, and take it into the tree above. The goldfinches don’t fare as well, as they spend some time on the perches, picking over the seeds. He doesn’t kill them, but he bats them around a bit. He loses interest when they quit moving. I probably shouldn’t be feeding them, but in the winter the color and activity are entertaining.

shrew and earthstars

Talking to Rita on Sunday, as we sat on her porch, she informed me that the critter Doof has been bringing home is likely a shrew. I had thought he was digging up small moles, because he was obviously digging, and the little things had short tails and longer snouts. As she has lived in, and loved, the country far longer than I have, I’ll take her word for it.

Having access to the Internet, I went on an information expedition. Blarina brevicauda is the formal name for the northern short-tailed shrew. Their preferred habitat is woodlands, but unfortunately, they also like my flower gardens. They may not burrow as deeply as moles, but I can attest to the fact that they DO burrow. Just walking across the middle level of the yard, on the way to the fire pit, you have to be careful not to twist an ankle. According to the University of Michigan Museum of Zoology website, they are 3 to 4 inches long and have soft slate gray fur. They are not sociable but are territorial and mark their areas with a foul-tasting secretion. They have poor sense of smell and vision, using a form of echolocation, similar to bats. Female shrews can have multiple litters, averaging 6 babies, throughout the warm months of the year, starting at about 65 days old. Shrews are voracious eaters; it’s estimated they consume and metabolize as much as three times their weight, daily. As squirrels do, they store food for the winter. Their salivary glands produce a toxic substance which is effective in subduing their prey, which enables them to kill and eat animals much larger than themselves. Because they eat insects, snails, and mice and have such voracious appetites, they help control crop pest populations. For my lawn and garden, Doof can keep up the good work. As far as the slugs and snails go, kudos to the shrew!



After the rain eased yesterday, I found a number of interesting growths around an oak stump. I knew it was a fungus of some sort, but I had never figured out what kind. So, back on the internet, I found the earthstar, botanically geastrum saccatum. I hadn’t noticed them in their pre-adult phase, a smooth, egg-shaped ball with a pointed beak. The ones I found had opened, the outer skin peeling back to form 4 to 9 triangular petals, with a soft looking punctured ball in the center. The petals are thick and tan. It makes a pretty flower. I’m going to try to keep a couple, see if they’ll last.

forty-three hours

The rain has eased. The creek is over the road at the entrance to the camp. The caretaker of the camp has moved a horse and pony to higher ground, after having to wade in. The county FEMA coordinator showed up at my door, thinking the director of the camp still lived here, looking for the caretaker. It’s been a busy morning.

As usual, the photos don’t do justice to the event. The creek over the road at the camp photo is clear. The photo of the creek in my yard doesn’t tell you that it’s covering twenty feet of ground, completely over the little dock and ladder.

The emergency management guy tells me we’ve had almost five inches of rain since this started Tuesday afternoon. It’s now stopped raining, but I’ve yet to see all the runoff from the feeder creeks.

forty hours

That’s how long it’s been raining. The National Weather Service says it will continue through to about midnight. The creek has covered the lowest level of the yard, the dock no longer visible. The cats are chasing each other through the house. The roof is leaking in two places. The farmer across the creek has rolled out a bale of hay for the cattle, the first this autumn.

For the past eighteen plus years, I’ve lived near this creek. As you would expect, its effect is evident, always.

In kind weather, the creek is a source of pleasure and entertainment. Last March, I was startled to hear voices, looked out the back windows and saw a group from the local wilderness camp maneuvering their canoes. Many times, as I sat drinking my coffee in the early morning, I was privileged to watch a great blue heron glide six feet off the water, heading downstream. I’ve seen Canada geese and mallard parents training their young. One morning, an otter was playing. Human visitors enjoy it, too. The kids sit on the dock; the adults watch the water, mesmerized.

Release of control and respect for the elements is wonderful, never better than when the weather is not “kind.” Don’t push it; don’t test it. Just sit back and watch the power that isn’t generated by humanity.

the Morning Show

Now that the majority of the leaves have fallen, I’m enjoying the morning acrobatic display.

Between the house and the creek are three terraces. As you would expect, the house is on the highest level. The shed and the fire pit are on the middle level, creek access and a small swimming dock and ladder are on the lowest. One of the trees on the middle level has a broken branch, quite large, caught on a lower, smaller branch. A squirrel family appears to have taken up residence. As I sat on the back porch, coffee cup in hand, I watched the show.

It seems there’s always a bold one (or two or more) and, by comparison, a timid one. The bold one came up out of the broken branch, scampered out on the smallest of branches and leaped six feet through the air to another tiny branch on a tree at least thirty feet from his home tree. As I was gazing in wonder, I noticed another squirrel emerge from the broken branch. This one boldly dashed to the end of the small branch, paused, then went back to the trunk. After a few seconds, he or she made a mad dash and cleared the jump.

I always tend to applaud the timid one.

Jack

I’ve known Jack for about fifteen years. We first talked when his son did some excavation work at a store where I worked. Some years later, we spent a quiet few hours, watching his son push dirt at my house. He had had some medical issues and retired early, so he and his dog, Pepper went along on his son’s jobs. When I see him at the grocery store or the bank, I’m always pleased. Yesterday, we exchanged words, when he came to the polling station, where I was working. He’s seventy-five to my sixty-three, fairly crippled up to my healthy as a horse, but I’m interested.

Both of my husbands were younger than me. Not by much, but I’ve always been drawn to and attracted by younger men. Younger women, too for that matter. Maybe that’s a way for me to feel younger, myself. Being attracted to someone does not equate to anything sexual. Even as a young woman, I lived in my head more than in my body. “Repressed” may come to mind. That could be, as I’ve always had some issues of that sort. But I find, as my body sends sexual messages less often, I’m open to different kinds of romantic relationships. The place where I choose to live, feel most comfortable, doesn’t afford me much in the line of romantic partners. These guys are a blue-collar, deer hunting group, intimidated by self-sufficient women. I’ve made friends with a lot of them and cherish those friendships but know that will be the extent of it.

But just maybe, Jack and I can take a ride in the mountains or meet for dinner. I suspect, given his physical limitations, Jack won’t act on what seems to be our mutual attraction. I’ll have to see if I can get up the nerve to pursue this.

fog

I had a meeting to attend last night and drove through the dark in a (literal) fog. Fortunately, there aren’t many vehicles on these country roads, because the distortion of their headlights made the trip a bit scary.

After arising this morning, I had my usual stint on the back porch. It had rained all night, so the fog hadn’t dissipated. Everything was soft around the edges and sounds were muted, until a pickup came down the road across the creek. This was obviously not someone who was familiar with the way this creek twists, because the driver ended up having to back up quite a way before turning around. The sound of the backup alarm was shrill in the soft air. I’d much rather hear the bleating of a calf, the bellowing of a cow, the chattering of a squirrel, or the chirping of the early morning birds.

I am blessed with the sounds of nature.

birds

Considering the feeders have only been up a few days, I was pleased to see a pair of titmice this morning. Knowing their habits, I am sure the chickadees will soon be attending. I sat on the bench, about ten feet from the feeders, listening to the titmice scold me, while having their snacks.

Doof sat on a rock across the lane, listening for moles or mice. I enjoyed watching him creep across the fallen leaf litter, hoping to catch a play toy. He doesn’t seem to eat them, but they’re dead, just the same, having expired while being tossed in the air. Being a little over a year old, Doof hasn’t become complacent yet. He dashes around, skulks behind trees, and generally makes life interesting for his two roommates, Jessie and me.

Although I mourn fallen birds, I feel the bird feeders are cheap entertainment for both the human and feline residents.

American Way

I had an enlightening talk with a young man at a wedding reception Saturday night. I was pleasantly surprised to meet a college student who hasn’t seemed to buy into our prevailing view of life. He got his bachelor’s degree from Roanoke College, which included a sabbatical in northern Spain during his sophomore year. He’d like to return, because he appreciated the pace of life there. So, he’s leaving for the Culinary Institute of America for a post-graduate degree, hoping to return to Spain, where dinner with friends is a celebration.

Somehow, we Americans have gotten the impression that our culture, our way of life is the epitome. We’ve taken to gauging our worth by our possessions, by the pace of our days, our rung on the ladder, the balance in our retirement account.

This could very well be sour grapes, on my part, but I really think we should be questioning “The American Way.”

a mystery

I’ve just started reading “To Love and Be Wise” by Josephine Tey for the second or third time. Living alone, without television, I find that I re-read the books I love. The protagonist is Inspector Grant of Scotland Yard. In the first chapter, he’s going to a party, at the request of his friend, Marta Hallard, an actress. Their friendship began because of her need for an occasional escort and his need for a sometime informant in the world of the theater. It grew, because they found that they enjoyed each other’s company.

I’m not a glamorous actress, but I certainly would enjoy having a male friend like that, another happy singleton, who’d like to get together for dinner, a movie, or a day trip every now and then.

color

I took a walk into the camp this morning. Because the wind is blowing, it was a noisy walk, with the leaves on the trees rustling, the leaves on the ground skittering.

As I passed the gate, a maple by the pond spoke up in a blast of orange. When I got to the dock, I could see that the water is much clearer now, than it was in the summer, the algae hovering at the edges. I stood looking at the rocks on the bottom, as the horses wandered over in search of company. We had a brief conversation, after which I started home.

The sun is shining, a blessing after a couple of gloomy days. I felt as though I was drinking it in through my skin, face raised, eyes closed. The white asters have faded, but the lavender ones are going full tilt against the shale banks. The forsythia leaves are beginning to turn a deep purple.

All the tints of autumn, in anticipation of the dimming of color in winter.

anger

I met Sharon for the first time last Friday. She’s working at the newly opened produce stand owned by her son-in-law. In the course of our, maybe ten minute conversation, I found we have a lot in common. We’re about the same age, and now that she’s working there, we both have part-time, post retirement jobs. Although I’ve known her son-in-law for years, I had never seen her before. Like a lot of older folks around here, she isolated herself, without being aware of the situation. Her job at the stand has opened her eyes to what she’s been missing. She admitted that she had been angry most of the time.

My father died in September of 2000. Since then, my mother has kept to herself in their four bedroom, two and a half bath house. Her routine, which she’s shared in numerous notes, consists of waking at 5:30 or 6, driving to a local mall and walking twice around the interior, driving home for a small breakfast, playing a few hands of solitaire, running errands, stopping at McDonald’s for a small burger (which she cut in half to have for dinner), running more errands, more solitaire, watching the news, while she ate the rest of the burger, then watching Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, off to bed at 8, where she read mysteries, then awoke at 3 or so to read, again for a few hours.

Every time I’ve visited, we’ve gotten into some sort of altercation. I was aware of the fact that she was angry. I just didn’t know why. She refused to move from the house she’s live in since 1958, into a retirement home or some sort of assisted living facility. I could tell, when I’d arrive that she was glad to see me, but that only lasted for a day or two, after which she seemed to be jealous of any visiting I did with other family and friends. She’s deaf, so it’s difficult to communicate, particularly if she’s angry, as she tunes me out. Given she was angry most of the time, visiting was frustrating.

There was a crisis in April. There had been a leak in the upstairs bathroom, which had gone undetected, as Mum never goes up there. The collecting water had finally broken through the kitchen ceiling. The good thing is that the crisis precipitated a general discussion of Mum’s situation. My brothers contracted with “Senior Helpers” in May, having a young woman come in every day to do some cooking, cleaning, driving, and general socializing. Even though I’m over 500 miles away, I know having the helper there has helped, because I haven’t gotten any more plaintive descriptions of Mum's days.

I know how she feels. I’ve lived alone and generally favor that situation. But I have made sure that I keep in touch with friends and plan periodic events in my home. I work at the bank six days a week, if only for a few hours a day, expressly to keep in contact with my neighbors. Sharon has taken the same step. I hope I will continue to keep myself involved with family, friends, and neighbors. It’s difficult to keep a “mad” going, if you’re interacting with people who have no idea why you’re angry.

the wind

The forecast was for a low of 48 degrees; the thermometer said 54 at 7 o’clock this morning. The wind is blowing; the cats are dashing from tree to tree. I have two reactions to the wind.

Understandably, I want to hunker down. I want to bake bread, make soup, and get out my turtleneck shirts and my puffy jacket. I want to plant bulbs, in anticipation of next spring, and clean up the drab flower and herb beds. Having acquired bazillion spools of ribbon, I want to figure out what I can make with them, how I can use them to facilitate the passing of winter. I want to make a Christmas list, plan Thanksgiving dinner.

On the other hand, after the lethargy of summer heat, I’m invigorated by the chilly autumn wind. I dream of wandering, seeing new places and people. An ongoing dream of a motorhome, a piece of home I can take with me and the cats, going south in the winter, up to Canada in the summer, entices me. Just drive away from the drama and boredom of day-to-day, see new places and people. Charm folks, them move on, without having to apologize for any inadvertent, awkward comments I may have made.

Of course, that takes resources I don’t have, so hunkering down ain’t a bad alternative.

interesting

I got a call this morning from my ex-husband. He had gotten an email from a friend of mine, who was concerned that she hadn’t heard from me in a week. My ex lives three thousand miles from here; we communicate via email or Facebook every couple of weeks, max.

The interesting part of this, to me, is what went through my mind, before I returned his call. He and I have been divorced since 2000. He’s remarried to a wonderful woman. They’ve visited me here at the creek. But I found myself thinking that maybe there was trouble in their paradise, and he wanted to come back. Oddly, given that I was the one who instigated the divorce, I found that to be an interesting idea.

Most of the time, I enjoy living alone. I do find that I procrastinate, knowing I have tomorrow to do whatever it is, and I tend to schedule events to blast me off my butt. I have a lot of friends and spread myself around, so I don’t overwhelm any one of them. Just lately, I seem to want to overwhelm someone.

This time, last year, I was gearing up for having guests. Autumn is one of my favorite times of the year, and I was going to host two women for the month of October. I have been married twice, both of the weddings in October, the one to the last ex in a lovely outdoor wedding in a park across the street from our home. Next Saturday, I’m hosting a cookout/bonfire for a place I worked prior to retiring. A couple of weeks later, I’m going to a wedding, which will be held at the cottage I talked about a week or so ago, a place with wonderful memories.

It seems I’d better be aware of the effect of October on my psyche. Sometimes loneliness can creep up on you.