I thought houseplants were "little beings of happiness" bringing pleasure to one's space.

The biggest reminder that I am living without Lacey is that I am constantly being reminded that I am living without Lacey.  I loved her, and she became past tense way too early in her life.

Those jackrabbit legs propelled her to great heights, conquering the peaks of door tops, the summit above the last shelf of the bookcase, and lofty tops of kitchen cabinets.

The angled leap from the dining room doorway floor to the freezer top in the adjoining room, then climbing the five Christmas wreath boxes stacked next to it to reach the overcrowded shelf above of boxes and cases, and then, of course, stuck, not being able to turn around. 

Next came the cries, calling for the assistance of someone stupid enough to assist.  Climbing up the ladder, one was always hesitant, trying to pick the right angle to grab her and avoid those terrifying razor-sharp talons. 

Nothing could stop her except death itself.  She is so deeply missed.

Having more bad days than good ones has pulled me down a notch or two towards purgatory, but we won’t dwell upon that series of unfortunate events.  I’ve had plenty of misadventures down decrepitude lane as my life is beginning to dissolves into the winter of no return.

In my thirties, I lived in an apartment dwelling of brick and mortar and radiator heating.  With no car, I hitched a ride to work each day, and with no phone, I traveled across the street to the telephone booth for emergencies. 

My kitchen was maybe six feet by six feet, and the kitchen hutch was a cheap dresser in the living room that held most of that which I owned.  Let’s just say it takes money to be materialistic, and in those days, I was extremely unmaterialistic.

The saving grace in all that unluckiness, was the plant stands and plants I brought with me from that unfortunate arrangement that ended sometime after my marriage ended,  Enough said about that.

Autumn crocus slowly going dormant.

Freezing Rain

I gravitated towards houseplant ownership when living on my own, because I grew up with a mom who eventually crowded so many houseplants into our living space that we began to live in propagation hell.  Of course, I exaggerate, but just a tiny bit.

On my own, having cats, well… propagation became cat food, so that ended that.

Not having the internet back then, I grew a bevy of houseplants that could croak a cat in two minutes flat… so my mom informed me.  Eventually metal plant stands stood in front of the windows with plants or bric-a-brac on the windowsills to leave no vacant space for cat paws.

When living in a house became possible, I gravitated towards hanging plants with hemp rope hangers I knotted myself with a few decorative wood or stone beads, a carryover from my younger hippy years.  It was molly bolt heaven with a houseplant or two at every window.

It’s quite unfortunate that none of you out there really knows the timeline of my life to correct me when I write a slightly warped account of my existence.  It’s not a priority with me in this day and age, to remember the details of any of my past. 

Around this time was the four years in Panama, Central America, when all houseplants took a flying leap into a pile of debris at the garbage dump, while I was on my way flying into four years of hellish bliss in a jungle paradise… a time best forgotten.  I do write about it somewhere on this blog.

Then came the dreaded cat tree era, with a cat and a cat tree for one window in every room of the home.  I was a sucker for a homeless ragamuffin with fur and whiskers.  I had become expensively materialistic.  

Of course, the hanging plants went the way of the trash can, I think.  I could fabricate a story and pretend they all found warm caring homes, but even though I tried to always have houseplants in my existence, they were a far cry from being a passion.

'Minnie Pearl' Thick-leaf or Carolina Phlox

emerging through the cover of oak leaves.

Eastern Red Columbine

Henbit

Wild Bergamot Seed Head

First flower in the garden, not counting the weeds; although, 

weed flowers provide plenty of food for the early pollinators.

The name of this daffodil has been forgotten by me.

Present time…

On a whim, upon leaving the doctors office, I asked husband to drive me to Bates Nursery and Garden Center, way north of our location, to look at houseplants.  What a sucker he was to take me there.  I say that in a loving way, poor guy.

I bought three little houseplants, two peperomias and one prayer plant called lemon lime or something like that.  It was cute in a dramatic way.  Peperomias had been in my life before and they are easy peasy to grow.  Prayer plants… I know nothing about prayer plants. 

My two peperomias have been neglected, standing in their four-inch nursery pots on my desk, moving around like pieces on a chess board to accommodate the changes in the prayer plant’s location, whom I would say is queen of the chess board at the moment. 

She’s in a raku plant pot that may be a bit big, but doesn’t look too big, if you know what I mean.  I’m not sure if a different size, that I don’t have, would better suit her. 

I’ve read two hundred thirty-eight versions of how to take and not to take care of Her Majesty until my eyes have crossed and my brain has fried to a crisp.  She’s a humidity glutton, quite demanding in what makes her happy, and slowly developing into a monster with expenses.

A 3D humidity tray was ordered after rocks weighing a ton on a pie plate with water has proven to be difficult to take care of in the long run.  Her set up, at the moment, hogs the territory on my desk.  It looks like half my kitchen is in here, because quite frankly, half of my kitchen has been in here to try out any contraption that might work in her favor.  I GIVE UP!

I’ll get back to you when I know all is hunky dorky, or if Her Msajesty has suddenly taken a flying leap into the trash bin.  Stay tuned.  

This post is linked to:

My Corner of the World

Garden Bloggers' Bloom Day

WHATEVER ~ For lack of a better title.

My life is mostly memories now, and whether they are as the caressing warmth of a late summer day, or as the jarring chill of an early winter morning, they are the sum of my existence.

Well…  maybe.

It’s a good feeling to think I really mattered in life, but the truth of it all is that I will never know if I ever mattered at all. 

Our neighbor next door on the corner of our block, came into a windfall of money just as the wife was becoming really depressed with all the operations she had yet to endure after a scooter accident a year ago.  After selling their home to a corporation that fixes up homes to sell again, they disappeared out of our existence in less than a weeks’ time.

A group of workers came in and literally wiped our neighbors’ existence off the face of our block, by ripping out their entire garden and disposing of it at the landfill.  It was quite jolting to see nothing left but a row of tiny new shrubs along the front of the house.  A solemn reminder that we don’t always escape the whiteout of our existence when we no longer exist in that time. 

I suppose it may be different for families whose generations pass on their legacy, but my legacy will be only what remains in the minds of those who knew me and cared about me.  When they pass on or forget, it will be as if I, my pets, and my gardens never existed.  It is a sobering thought that doesn’t amuse.

Basically, my legacy is only what exists in present tense.  The sum of me is me today, at this moment in time… nothing more, and nothing less. 

I’m beginning to feel the shortness of  life, like I'm a nanosecond in the sea of time.

Keeper of the Ash Tree Seeds

Little Tyke

Winter Savory

Still evergreen in all this freezing weather.

Hiding in the Leaf Litter

Mockingbird in Flight

Seersucker Sedge, I think.

I moved it to a better location when it sprouted on its own last year.

It's happy here.

When one has cats, one must always check all nooks and crannies before closing any closet door.  Well… not following my advice, I was woken up at 2:00 am by a talking closet door that when swung open coughed up a perturbed cat disappearing in a flash down the hall and out of sight.  She was trapped three hours, as my medicine acts much as a sleeping pill, sending me to the depths of sleep.

She seemed fine and the day after she was surprised with a veterinary visit which almost didn’t happen.  It was a bit of a struggle to secure her in the carrier, and her visit was just a short in and out to get a urine sample.  I guess that added trauma was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

She closed down and during the next seven days she only ate one half of a three ounce can of food, refusing steak, chicken, baby food, and nine different flavors and textures of cat food, despite having an appetite stimulant applied to the inside of her ear each day.

She remained in my writing room, with the gate put back up and the cat pan reinstated in the corner.

She had another veterinary visit in the mix, but he found nothing medically wrong with her, although she had already lost a pound.  This is when one has to really start thinking outside of the box.

I overnighted an order of a Feliway Optimum pheromone plug in, played very soft music for her to listen to, and spent practically every moment of my time in my writing room with her, gently stroking and talking to her.

It was the eve of the seventh day as I laid in bed, that I heard her meowing for me.  Optimistically, I opened a can of her regular food and she ate half of it before calling it quits.  I was relieved. 

The next morning, she appeared anxiously at the gate, and ate three fourths of a can of her food.  There was no stopping her after that. 

Deciding to feed her smaller portions more times of the day to put her weight back on, she is doing just fine now.  In all of this mix, I had realized that I had been ignoring her way too often, and am currently working on strengthening the lovely bond between us. 

Only a person with a cat knows what I am talking about.  When a cat totally trusts one, it gives one that feeling we often attribute to loving us.  Whatever it is, it’s one of the best feelings in the world to me.

Lyre-leaf Sage sheltered admist the moss on the lee side of an old log.

Freeze damage to tips of Narcissus.  

Base of old gnarled Blackhaw Virburnum.

Planted when I started the garden.

Sheltered in the driftwood.

Tough daffodil with buds ready to open.

Mind you, this is still January.

Seed pods of Appalachian Mock Orange

The weather fluctuates between freezing then warm, then not so warm, then repeat, much like it always does this time of year in the middle of winter.  Rain is always plentiful, and I bite my lip to not utters these words “not again”; as rain once again caresses the ground in gentle drops, while a thunderstorm could be coming in just over the far horizon.

Without this weather, our spring would be a failure.  This abundance of water brings on the lushness that overruns our gardens in springtime when the moans of the weed picking blues might be heard over the buzz of plants new to the block greedily staking out their territory.

We have an appointment for a week of rain near this month’s end.

Not again.

Oops! 

Soaking up the sun on a chilly day.

This Post is Linked To:

My Corner of the World

Saturday's Critters