Perfection...More or Less

Friday, December 15, 2023

Christmas Eve, and the melody that will stay in your heart always

The garden is gold.

Sun just above the horizon on this freezing day

With a warmth only the heart may feel -

As I walk through the clouds of my breath

And feel the beauty of emptiness.

The discarded clothing, she wore this past summer,

Scattered in disarray about my feet.

It’s all emotions, you know.

Her nakedness so unapologetically strutted.

Thinking back, of her romantic past

And her flings to secure next spring’s glories -

She reminds me her winter vacation has begun,

and her ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign my feet have trodden.

She’s such a clever lady, this mistress of earth.

On this cold dark evening

When the world is as silent as death,

I’m wrapped in the softness of my own bed -

Faint music of whistles and wheels of a passing train,

And I’m drifting off to thoughts of Spring

As she dangles hope in front of my nose

And gifts me a pair of rose-colored glasses.

If you listened above the din of the talking you could hear the wind in the chimney turn into music. Christmas Eve was a night of song that wrapped itself about you like a shawl. But it warmed more than your body. It warmed your heart… filled it, too, with melody that would last forever. Even though you grew up and found you could never quite bring back the magic feeling of this night, the melody would stay in your heart always — a song for all the years.

~Bess Streeter Aldrich, Song of Years

As long as we know in our hearts what Christmas ought to be, then Christmas is.

~Eric Sevareid

If one has never spent Christmas with a cat, then one has never experienced the joy or hell (it all depends on one’s takeaway) of decorating with the family feline in mind. We are leaving dogs out of this one because a dog is… well a dog is in snooze mode when compared to a cat’s curiosity.

In the beginning of married life the tree reached for the ceiling in front of the living room window. It became apparent that any time of the day a cat might be seen sticking its quizzical head out of the greenery to see what it’s next course of action might be.

A hook was molly bolted to the ceiling and the tree secured by a cord in order to survive a furball launching from the tree trunk and mountain climbing through the boughs, onwards toward the summit and victory! Meeeow…yowl yowl!

When trees became as expensive as gold, we tried a smaller one in front of the fireplace. I would say, if I remember correctly, it was brought down in an amazing five minutes flat while our backs were turned to sort out the decorations.

An energetic little twerp whose identity shall remain anonymous, since I, in my older old age, cannot remember which one of my little minions did the dastardly deed… took the merry right out of Christmas that day.

All of the bath towels were thrown across the soggy carpet to soak up the two-gallon flood of refreshment, then a large floor fan was purchased to run all day and night and day and night and… well, you get the drift. We drove here, there, everywhere until Christmas was saved by a tree holder made out of rebar with feet almost a yard long. Hallelujah!!!

Miss Molly ‘By Golly’ was a demure miniature feline who relished munching on the needles of Christmas tree branches. Fur needles are a tiny bit poisonous and a tad gut wrenchingly difficult to digest, hence upchucking was her next course of action to be greeted by my bare toes any morning of the holiday.

The wonderful tradition of ending a tree’s life by chopping its feet off to sit in a living room all dolled up before drying into a crispy critter to be toasted at the garbage dump was ended until Miss Molly passed away some twenty odd years later.

By that time, the tree magic had shriveled up and died along with her, although the fake garlands always remained a feature of the decorations even though our same Miss Molly munched on them with glee, as if they were the finest of (cough) grassy green plastic. Shortened out of her reach, she moved on to other delectable non-edible delights.

Molly

Always remembered...

One kind word can warm three winter months.

~Japanese proverb

And in December's gloomy shades

Some Chickweed stars did shine.
One Daisy, too, the bleak month gave
To baffle melancholy;
And e'en I saw fair Flora smile
When crowned with crimson Holly!
And then the queen of all the flowers
Passed onward, soft and slow—
Her radiant brows adorned with Pearls
Of sacred Mistletoe!

~James Rigg, Wild Flower Lyrics and Other Poems

With life as short as a half-taken breath,

do not plant anything but love.

- Rumi

The House Of Hospitalities

Here we broached the Christmas barrel,
     Pushed up the charred log-ends;
Here we sang the Christmas carol,
            And called in friends.

Time has tired me since we met here
      When the folk now dead were young.
Since the viands were outset here
            And quaint songs sung.

And the worm has bored the viol
     That used to lead the tune,
Rust eaten out the dial
            That struck night’s noon.

Now no Christmas brings in neighbours,
     And the New Year comes unlit;
Where we sang the mole now labours,
            And spiders knit.

Yet at midnight if here walking,
     When the moon sheets wall and tree,
I see forms of old time talking,
            Who smile on me.

~ Thomas Hardy

~ Late November ~

- Above -

Monarda bradburiana, Eastern Bee Balm

- Below -

Liatris aspera, Tall Blazing Star seeds

waiting to take a ride on the wind.

Winter Savory herb in outdoor planter

Just leaves

Joe Pye Weed leaves turning yellow, among the viburnum boughs.

Spigelia marilandica

Still green when everything else is going to sleep.

Summersweet - almost the last shrub to loose it's yellowing leaves

Last of the Clasping Aster flowers

Tiny bee and a black ant on Canadian Goldenrod that is aging.

Ladybug hiding

Viburnum fruit

American Dogwood

Eastern Gray Squirrel on the Ash Tree

Dispersal by wind

Northern Sea Oats grass seeds among the green stems of Euonymus americanus

Saw Greenbrier Vine

with leaves slowly disintegrating.

Cooper's Hawk taking a bath

in the birdbath bowl on the ground,

as seen through the bedroom window.

Northern Maidenhair Fern Adiantum pedatum

~ Early December ~

Azalea Leaf Bud (above)

Christmas Fern around Ironwood Tree (below)

Shrubby St. John's Wort with seeds

Spotted Beebalm, monarda fruticulosa

Oak leaves among the others

Monarda bradburiana, Eastern Beebalm

Heuchera americana. American Alumroot Leaf (Coralbells)

Viburnum leaf caught in the Juniper

American Dogwood leaf

nestled amid tiny greens of winter

Vanishing Act

Ornaments on the Cat & Dog metal Christmas Tree

Ornaments that remind me of my childhood.

The Writing Room

Chillin' Out

What does 36 degrees F. have to do

with the screen pushed aside and the door pulled shut?

Is it Christmas yet?

What the...!!! You scared the hell out of me. Where did you come from, Charlotte? I'm just about to eat lunch, but come again with the question.

IS… IT… CHRIST… MAS… YET???

Christmas is December 25^th, sassy pants.

December 25^th? What is December 25^th?

Christmas.

Are you talking Spanish or something to me, mommy?

(sigh) I’m talking English. I see you haven’t figured out time yet.

It gets dark, it gets light… what’s to know.

Okay, so your mind works like a sundial. (sigh) There are twelve months in a year. December is the twelfth month of the year. This is December 15^th. After it gets light, then dark for ten more days, it’s Christmas.

Meltdown… (yawn). When do the presents come?

I think right now Santa is adding you to his naughty list.

Oh, pleaseee, Mommy, I know you’re Santa. I’m nine years old, alright already!

Well, then, Charlotteeeee… if I’m Santa, shouldn’t you be writing me a letter telling me what you want for Christmas, so I can look at the naughty or nice list and give you a lump of coal wrapped with a pretty bow?

Wait! What the…! Just a… Hm-m-m…

Minute One...

Minute Two...

Minute Three...

Is it Christmas yet, mommy dearest?

It will be Christmas in ten moons.

Thank you, Mommy. I’ll lick this floor clean after you eat to help you with your chores, then I’ll write my letter to Santa for you to mail, pretty-please. You are the bestest mommy ever, kiss kiss hug hug kiss kiss kiss… purr.

Rain fell through the night, and when, this early morning, I looked out the window onto the garden, the fallen oak leaves radiated an almost angelic rusty glow. A lovely masterpiece of nature for a split second of time as the sun moved into the sky behind the vail of clouds.

The front room is aglow with decorations of the season, with a small bit in my bedroom around the wreath opposite my bed. A lovely sight to greet my day as I awake. As I sit here in my writing room, the room where imagination has free reign to soar at least to the ceiling, or sink to the bowels of hell; well… I gaze over my laptop to see a concoction of pale golden olive-green ornaments on a garland with lovely golden pink bells.

Christmas sucked me into its vortex early in my adult life, like a vacuum on steroids. I became its slave - baking six-inch-tall gingerbread men decorated with button raisins and piped icing for eyes and mouths, butterscotch popcorn balls, and vanilla cookie angels frosted in pale blue with white icing piped around the edges; all tied to a Spruce Tree with narrow satin ribbons. Real candy canes with the wrapping removed joined the mix along with garlands of twinkling lights.

Christmas Eve of fried sausages and apple rings with Danish pastries, and Christmas Day meal of anything but turkey and ham. That was the life. I miss it so much.

That was some time ago. These days the past haunts me with memories of how it once was and the falling short of how it is now. I’m pretty much housebound this month with a flare up of tremendous pain from my pinched hip nerve. It has taken medical intervention, and will require an extended amount of time to recover.

With nothing else to talk about, this conversation is destined to be one about cats; my cats specifically, as I chase all other cats from the garden with a watering hose turned on full blast, so I doubt they sing my praises.

My two felines seem so one offish at times, as once discarded cats’ usual are, but when one least expects, they come around for some serious conversation, and by serious, I mean give me give me give me! Charlotte is my bedtime buddy and Austin the morning one; or come to think of it, he’s the one who pops up all over the place when one has other plans.

I usually drop everything to accommodate them, as I’ve discovered saying later creates an atmosphere of avoidance for some time. If Austin ever plays with a toy, it’s in secrecy, and Charlotte’s toy is Lacey’s cat run consisting of a step-up cat tree, leading across the top of a bookcase, through a cat tunnel over the doorway, across the top of another cat tree, then down a series of steps to the couch.

She starts this whole approach by racing through the hallway starting from the far bedroom for a flying leap at the step-up tree. She’s creating quite a banging ruckus when one is trying to sleep in. During all this commotion, Austin is meowing over the din feed me, feed me, FEED ME in between chasing after Charlotte down the hallway!

I wake up to this most days. It does make the rest of the day after breakfast too quiet as they sleep it off in the warmest spot of the house – my unmade bed warmed by a southern exposure window.

I often joke about them in my conversations with pets, but these two have such low-key personalities, so far, nothing stands out as writable. I’m left to my imagination which borders on almost not there most days of my worn-out life. I embellish a little to round out a story that otherwise would last ten seconds. And here I am complaining about having perfect cats. Go figure.

Christmas has always been special to me; and though I share life with a somewhat bah humbug type of individual when it comes to this holiday, I never let that define who I am. I love love love this time of year! I hope you do, too. Take care, and enjoy what remains of the old, as you await the new.

Yvonne and Vic

Plus their two adorable felines

Charlotte and Austin

Happy Christmas

With love

This Post Is Linked To:

Saturday Critters

Garden Bloggers' Bloom Day

My Corner of the World

Wordless Wednesday

Sunday, October 29, 2023

A coax of wind, and the leaves will fall as autumn reaches its glory.

As I look up from my front porch.

Dreamy…

Today is the expression of all that is good in this little garden. It’s late in the year, but still the sun warms as an artic cooling has begun slowly sweeping the hilltops up north down towards us. Today I’m watching a cheeky little chickadee drink at the birdbath, a bit leery, then poof, out of sight, off to another adventure. Late autumn decided to become late spring, so here I am watering a parched garden to keep some of the fall colors from vanishing so terribly fast.

My podiatrist has given me until early November to find shoes that will help with all the cushion of fat that has disappeared from the bottom of my feet, especially my right foot. It has turned out to be a task of what one might think purgatory has a hand in. Impossible is not a word I embrace lightly, but I’m changing my appointment to sometime in January, when hopefully my mission will have been completed.

The flowers that are keeping the pollinators happy in this space are the aromatic and ‘paten’ asters and some tiny white flowered aster that came with the garden and has refused to leave. The Swamp Sunflower is still going strong, and the tiny and larger pollinators love it. Although garden books say it’s completely happy in a regular garden, we water it when it begins to sulk, which is often these days.

No mosquitoes, so fantastic not sharing my space with them today. My deck is a carpet of leaves, mostly green, yellow and brown; but occasionally a red one makes an appearance. I love it when a noisy chirper flies into the garden, but out of sight. Since a bird can make so many different sounds, I’m often clueless unless I see it with my own eyes.

Just a blur and it flew into the healthy Blackhaw Viburnum that is dripping with the darkest of blue berries, the viburnum that shares its space with the American Dogwood under the old White Ash Tree. The sprinkler is beneath the viburnum, so it may be taking advantage of the shower of water droplets.

The rustle of leaves in the great oak trees that are beginning to turn yellow becomes quite noticeable when a wave of air rushes through the garden and on to the neighbors. The smaller wind chime clanks away as it hangs from the umbrella handle on the patio.

It wants to sing, but we are stumped as to where it may go to create that melody not too far away from us, but not to close to the bird boxes. It was near the dogwood, but after many years the branches intertwined with it and quieted its song. We’ll sort it out before Christmas. I’m almost positive about that… almost.

I smell a smoky barbecue going on with the neighbors behind us as they converse with each other loudly. Perhaps it’s good that I don’t understand them, that they are just ‘talk’ to mingle with the road traffic.

Time to move the sprinkler to the damp garden, but as I stand under this huge white ash tree, the breezes pick up and a light shower of never-ending yellow leaves begins to rain down upon me as I gaze, mesmerized. The beauty is astounding. I could stand here forever. OUCH!!!

What one sometimes forgets, I guess that is me, is that a white ash leaf is a compound of leaves attached to a stem called a petiole. After each leaf has fallen to the ground, also must the petiole at some point in time. Mine hit my head like an arrow shot from the tree itself. It still smarts.

Nature keeps giving and giving, as at this moment, the neighboring oak trees are being infiltrated with grackles, more and more noisy grackles. If they are here, then they are mobbing my bird feeder as well. Carpenter bees try to collect nectar from the crocus, but crocus only offer pollen… no nectar. Sad watching them, trying over and over again.

This thing called autumn, dresses in its finest, which… in actuality, is leaves dying; and we can see that death has never looked so heavenly beautiful. And underneath that blanket we sometimes call doom; that time when beauty has turned black, the earth is busy in regeneration. Life is always getting along with business as usual.

I’m going to leave you here in this moment to be thankful that I have run out of words. When I find an accent in time that begs to be photographed, I seldom turn away from the opportunity, unless I wish to soak it all up and selfishly keep it for myself only. Naughty me.

I’ve been naughty a lot lately 😊