One hundred days until spring

I have a hard time with the wood-ash color atmosphere of winter in the northeast. In years past I tried to develop an appreciation for the beauties of the season, taking photos of snowflakes and such. That helped, but still . . . it never let me forget that I was in the midst of the Cold and Dark Season. This year I'm doing something different: I'm living in the past. Or the future, if you prefer. To wit, the following:

Looking at sunshine and green is making me feel as if I might live until March 21, 2015.

Husband's talent or: One of a kind

Ever since I met him, Husband wanted to work with wood. 

Five years ago, give or take, he began to equip his wood shop 

and now he's turning out tables.
Here's the latest one, made for a friend. 

I think it's wonderful that he's finally doing 

what he's wanted to do for all these years.

Since it's work done from his heart, 

the result is beautiful.

When he started, making dovetails was so frustrating. 

Now he's got 'em down pretty well, I'd say.

The pattern in the wood that he used for these drawer fronts 

started out as a mistake.

He didn't know that this pretty grain was 

inside a piece of wood he'd been working with. 

He sawed it in half, et voila! there it was. 

To me, it looks like sand dunes . . . or cloud layers.

Something to catch the eye instead of just a plain drawer front.

If you were here, he'd show you every place where there's a mistake.

I keep telling him not to do that.

But . . . maybe in years to come, the "mistakes" in his work will be 

the hallmarks by which the pieces are identified.

These tables will outlast all of us.

I'm so proud.

Sit.

People teach their dogs to sit; it's a trick. I've been sitting my whole life, 

and a dog has never looked at me as though he thought I was tricky.  

~Mitch Hedberg 

Mitch didn't know Molly.
She looks, to me, here, as if she's expecting a trick at any moment.

Miscellaneous thoughts

The 7/6/2013 Quote of the day was Thor Heyerdahl's, "For every minute, the future is becoming the past."
I remember having that thought when I was very young. Even to think "Now!" takes a second that will never come back. When people finish something unpleasant and say, "Well, there's an hour of my life I'll never get back!" I know exactly what they mean.

I have a book on my shelf called, "Living Through Breast Cancer." Every single time I catch it out of the corner of my eye, I think "Better Living Through Breast Cancer," and smile to myself at the silliness of the thought.

For me, lying on the grass with my dog is like yoga. I feel my spine click around, feel my shoulder and neck muscles relax... I become aware that my skin is an organ of my body, and I pay attention to its messages. All that is among the reasons I like warm weather. It isn't as much fun lying on crusty snow with an icy wind blowing over me. I have tried it and I know.

I read the other day that everybody in Europe is genetically related to every other European, as close as cousins. I can't now find the article but it didn't surprise me. It's about the same as the village I work for: if you start counting through people you know, you'll shortly come to a relative of the person you're speaking to. Europe's the same way, just bigger. It's a "six degrees from Kevin Bacon" thing. We are all related. Depending on one's feeling for Family, that's either good or bad.

Perfectionists learn to take time to do a thing properly. I always used to think I was a perfectionist because I was always frustrated with my mistakes. I have, however, always hurried through chores because I wanted to get to the "sitting and reading" part of my life. Morning job and observing Morning Boss have begun to teach me that it's all right to take a little more time to make sure I'm on the right course.  Removes a lot of the tension from any task.

I wish I liked myself better. I have accused so many people of thinking I'm not good enough, when, really, it is I who has no use for myself. (Should that be "I who have no use...?") 

The really good thing about mowing the lawn on the tractor is that I'm creating my own breeze while I'm accomplishing something that needs to be done.

The danger of celebrity

Husband happened upon this pose a few mornings ago.

I fear that Peep is in danger of believing her own press.

Peace and joy reigneth

Life goes on apace here in the Season Of Happiness. The temperatures have risen to comfort level, day and night, and there is Light. There are a dog and a cat, both beautiful and living excellent dog and cat lives. There is a Husband and . . . there's me. We're all happy and comfortable.

Friday night Nephew and Wife and Darling Great Niece (DGN) came to visit. We had burgers and potato salad. I labored over the latter for many hours the night before, worried that there wouldn't be enough potatoes, enough celery and onion, enough hard-cooked eggs. And the outcome was bland unto blahness: a result of my having forgotten to put in mustard, I believe. It may have been that I do not add salt to anything anymore, having tired of puffy eyes, feet and hands. Everyone ate it, but no one asked for some to take home. A major clue. 
If you see the Russian army traveling by, please direct them to my house for a plate of potato salad. I have plenty left over.

DGN has grown since her birth two and a half months ago. To be expected, and certainly A Good Thing. But the cheeks! She could store a winter's worth of nuts in those chipmunk cheeks! Cobalt blue eyes, perfect lips, a calm and docile demeanor. A perfect child, despite having had her first vaccinations that day. Molly was interested in the small one, and very very gentle. She knows how to act around tiny helpless creatures, having had several rounds of her own in her former life. 

Here she is last January being a Mama Umbrella with her last (EVER!) brood.

Saturday was given over to the usual chores: laundry, groceries, housekeeping in general. We enjoyed potato salad with our lunch and with our supper. Watched "Running With Scissors" last night, and while the movie conveyed some of the flavor of the story, I think the book was better. I always think the book is better than movies made from the books. I do highly recommend Augusten Burroughs' books, with the caveat that one's mind must be open to finding humor in tragic situations. But then, if one could not do that, one could hardly live, could one? Or maybe that's just my life.

Last night at dusk, four wild turkeys came out of the woods above the house. But no. It wasn't four turkeys. It was three turkeys. The fourth being was Peep, stalking them. She stalked them right back into the woods. Her hunting skills haven't improved appreciably; earlier I had seen her waiting in the plum tree for one of the many perching blackbirds to fall into her paws. She does, however, continue to practice, bless her little heart.

Today, the temperature will be a humid ninety-some degrees Fahrenheit. I plan to slurp ice water and read. I have showered and am leaving my hair to drip dry. The result will not be attractive, but I'll be comfortable. 
I am old: comfort is sufficient.

Life here in Heaven

I quite clearly recall saying, many times, that I was looking forward to being dogless. I don't know what world I thought I was living in. The minute we saw the van pull around the corner toward us last Sunday, Husband and I were out of the car, leash around my neck, my hands waving merrily to let Mick know we were there. It wasn't ten minutes before we had our girl . . . she came out of the van smiling and kissing our faces with great enthusiasm.

The ride home was not without incident. 
We stopped, once out of the city, to let Molly out to take care of her . . . toilette . . . and she produced nothing. So back into the car and on to the highway for the last forty-minute drive home. Halfway there, Molly suddenly grew restless. 
Very restless. 
And squatted and emptied her bladder onto the nylon-quilted, foam-backed seat cover I'd installed for her.  I wasn't sure if Mick had stopped to let the dogs out for rest stops. I think, now: not.  
It happens.
Poor embarrassed Molly didn't want to sit on the dirty seat, so she moved her impressive bulk into the front seat onto my lap. Husband pulled to the side of the road and took her out to walk in the weeds in case there might be some kind of follow up action on the way. 
Nothing.
We hurried the rest of the way home.

That was a week and some hours ago.
In these few short days, the mood of our household has done a one-eighty. We are happy, thrilled, on pink clouds of new love for our girl. She is perfect. And Peep, who might have been pouty or nasty or any number of other things that cats can be when their worlds change, has been a happy little elf with her new sister. We have two perfect little female animals.

The very first evening, as Molly walked around the house with the leash dragging behind her, Peep grabbed onto the end and got a slide ride for five or six feet, showing her innate talent for skijoring. Feeling the slight resistance behind her, Molly stopped and looked . . . and continued on her way. 

She lives with a loving look on her face, she sits for treats (a skill she arrived with . . . she could not have learned that so quickly from us!). We are trying to train ourselves to always have treats with us for recall practice, but she wants so much to be with her people that it isn't much of a struggle. On three occasions she has chased deer  several hundred feet into the fields, and has come right back when called. Husband said this morning she did a herding dog crouch pose while she watched one deer before she ran for it. 
I never stop wondering what combination of breeds she is.  I do think she's mostly LoveMutt with enough husky thrown in to make her eyes icy, icy blue-white and her tail curly.

Yesterday Husband mowed a path through the hayfields so Molly can run without getting so much into the high grass. He says she likes the tall grass, but now she has a path all her own, with puddles and mud and all the good smells. They came back very wet and dirty from the inaugural tramp. She seems to dry off and get clean with no effort, so that's an added bonus!

Molly and I had a nice long relaxing session on the front lawn with her Furminator in the afternoon. Peep kept interrupting us, enticing Molly to chase her from the front yard out under the parked car. Happened three times. If Molly had wanted to catch the cat, she would have, but she just chased Peep to HomeFree and came back for more brushing. Then Peep came and sat nearby and played with the undercoat fluff that was floating by.

I think I'm in Heaven!  

Beloved doggirl is on her way to us

If you are driving anywhere between Atlanta, Georgia and Albany, New York 
in the next twenty-four hours, and you see this van, 
please pull over and give it the right of way. 

My girl is on board.

Feel free to wave and call out, "Hi, Molly!"

At this end, preparations have been made and the two fur children's rooms await their comfort. The baby gate will remain in place at the bottom of the stairs until Peep and Molly work out their relationship. From what I know of Peep ("Oh look . . . shiny ball.....") and what Melissa's told me of sweet Molly, I'm expecting it to be a non-event. 

Peep's accommodations

...and Peep-approved Molly's room.

Ta da!

Before you read this post, a disclaimer for Peep's benefit:  We love our little Peep girl. She is soft and funny and loving and curious and beautiful. If she were a woman, she would be Elizabeth Taylor. Back when Liz was living, I mean.
She is about as good a cat as anybody could have. 
A dog is, however . . . a different animal.


On the 18th we went to meet this girl, and oh, what a sweet happy little girl she is. Redder in coat than she looks in this picture, more gold of eye. A perky little heeling dream on a leash, smiling and wagging all the way. 

Carolina

We were all ready to sign the contract and bring her home, but something stopped us. Not one single thing about Carolina said "no," but something about something said, "maybe not right now." So we left the girl with her foster mom. She's small enough that she would fit into lots of homes, and she's just so sweet! 

That evening, Husband looked again at a mutt and lab rescue page . . . one of many rescue websites he'd been haunting . . . and saw again A Particular Face. Those eyes! Not just the ice blue color . . . the bold and perceptive quality of her gaze... 

...and then there was another photo that made her look 

all goofy and googly.

Melissa is her foster mom and Melissa, Husband and I have been in touch many times by phone and email . . . we have sent photos back and forth, I've sent loveletters to the dog... We have not met in person because . . . Our Girl is in Georgia, more than a thousand miles away.  Something I did not know: there is a whole transfer network for rescue dogs. There are people who sell the service of transporting animals in specially outfitted vehicles. Who knew?

So.

Our Girl will get on the northbound bus next Saturday, June 8. Straight through, mapquest tells me the trip would take nineteen to twenty hours. I expect there will be comfort breaks, so . . . longer than that.  

But a week and some hours from now, we'll have a dog again. 

Our hearts are positively soaring! 

All that, "Oh boy, what a relief! No dog to take care of!" It all went bad on me. Apparently through thirty-plus years habit and/or by nature, we are meant to have a dog to care for and to love.

And, you know, in Carolina's write-up, it does say she would do best in a home with another dog instead of by herself....

Peep among the books

Peep continues to find Perfect Cat Cubbyholes. The testing for toeholds, that she did on her first afternoon here, has finally been remembered and put to use. Here is the girl, striking a pose.

Reclining animals

Some indoors...

...and others forty feet from the back door.

Wintering over

Wouldn't you think that peace lily's pot would've lost its price sticker by now???

I've been uncharacteristically vigilant about keeping the porch plants alive over the winter . . . I owe them that . . . they are such a joy to me on the porch during The Warm and Light Time. It's a little bit of an undertaking to get them all watered. I carry them from their perch in the corner of the bedroom upstairs to the bathtub and water them with the handheld shower thingie. 

Works quite well, but after I've finished getting all the drenched potsful of dirt and plant back to their windowside home, my back feels as if it's been broken. 
Small price, I guess. 
A little drink now and then is all they ask.

Bye, kitty

MiMau passed away on November 5 at 7:30 in the evening, lying on the bed with Angus and Husband, and Husband petting her head. November 5 is now significant not only as the day that, thirty-four years ago, I met Husband, but also as the day MiMau died.

In Trackless Woods

In trackless woods, it puzzled me to find

Four great rock maples seemingly aligned,

As if they had been set out in a row

Before some house a century ago,

To edge the property and lend some shade.

I looked to see if ancient wheels had made

Old ruts to which the trees ran parallel,

But there were none, so far as I could tell-

There'd been no roadway. Nor could I find the square

Depression of a cellar anywhere,

And so I tramped on further, to survey

Amazing patterns in a hornbeam spray

Or spirals in a pine cone, under trees

Not subject to our stiff geometries. 

~Richard Wilbur

A few weeks ago I heard this poem on The Writer's Almanac and it stunned me with its verity. Nothing is so amazing as the symmetrical beauty of natural things.

MiMau is A Good Cat

MiMau is a good fifteen years old now, and she grows thin. We have been to the vet a couple of times with our complaint. There's nothing wrong with her except that she's hollowing out between her hip bones and her ribs. Her fur is as thick and soft as ever. There is occasional evidence of hairball accumulation, but blood tests show nothing even borderline. Certainly her hunting skills have not diminished. Nearly every day, there is a deceased mousey directly in our path as we exit the front door. She's a humane killer: the little bodies show almost no violence, just one killing strike. She used to eat the fresh meat, then she chose to dine on only the heads. Now, apparently, she's killing simply for sport, and to stay in fighting trim should we move away and leave her on her own. Not a chance.

She's a great cat and I'd give her anything that would fatten her up again. She likes to have me sit next to her while she eats her kibble. Maybe she'd like some canned food, but I doubt it. She's never liked it. Maybe some canned salmon? Fresh salmon? 

MiMau demonstrating her successful hunting technique: 

Wait quietly, and the prey comes to you.

The dying of the light

Rage, rage against it all you like: the light of life, and of day, and 

of carotene and anthocyanin all fade in 

a dishearteningly short time.

September 29, 2012

The very same trees, October 14, 2012

Early October, early evening

Saturday morning walk

It was drizzly and misty and dreary and I did not want to go out in the wet to walk. But my head felt foggy full-moony and stupid and I knew I needed some light and/or oxygen and/or warmth in my toes. On days like that it's quite often warmer outdoors than in, I find. So I steeled my will, fleeced myself up, and took the camera. I am neither a conscientious nor careful photographer, as you can see by the drops of rain on the lens . . . but the camera got me out to walk, and the colors are pretty in the clouds that sat in the tops of the trees.

Fall light

I have often thought that the fall colors of the deciduous trees are the compensation 

Mother Nature gives us for taking away daylight.

Saturday, 9/29/2012 at 8:00am
Sugar maples across driveway from house

Seven o'clock Sunday morning