Love and Hot Chocolate

      

      You and I, perhaps, have grown out of fairy stories long ago. And I will assert that nearly every one of us grows out of it too soon. It was not our fault — it was our misfortune that elder people, who should have known better, stole the fairies from us. They knew but one world, these elders, and they had forgotten the joy of living in two.

      Many, I know, hold it harmful to keep children too long living in the realm of faëry. They say it helps to make a woolgathering habit of mind, and so in time unfits the adult for the practical work of life. All of which I firmly believe to be wrong. Never did men and women have more need of a refuge in the exercise of poetic imagination than in this bustling age; and the happiest people I know are those who keep a keen delight in poetry and the things that are only to be seen by an inner eye.

      There is a connection between the fairyland of youth and the poetry of mature years. Let a child but keep hold long enough of the gossamer thread that runs back into the realm of faëry, and in time it may join on to the world of higher poetic fancy.

~John Crawley, "The Realm of Faery," Reveries of a Father

'Winterthur' Viburnum

Just as he has filled his stomach to capacity with dinner delivered on demand, my purring little friend has wedged himself between the chair arm and my right hip, which is magical as no space exists between the chair arm and my hip, yet here he lays with his legs comfortably laying across my leg and his head resting on my belly bump, knowing he can just about get away with anything on earth he wishes.  

Licking his right paw and rubbing it over his right ear, he ignores my aching left arm arched over his body trying to type out this post.  He’s stopped purring,  I’ll fix that.

A gentle rubbing under his chin, his purring reeves up again, then… oh no, he gets up, walks across my legs and curls around, plopping down into my right arm area, grazing my nose as he goes into his comfort zone, and as I wipe a tissue across my nose and fur with it, arch my right arm over his body to continue typing, a massive ache escalates quite fast from zero to nine in less than 60 seconds causing me to wish I had never thought about typing a story at all today.

I need my ice water. What! All I can produce from a brain swimming in words is ice water.  Where is my ice water before I have a meltdown!

Well, Vic popped his head into the room, and my cat Austin made a beeline to safety from a man whom he loves dearly if food is available, otherwise he shrinks from sight and scoots into another room.  I tell Vic the secrets for bonding with him, but he has no patience to stay the course.

Anyhoo… my subject flew the coop, leaving me no inspiration to continue.  I’d write about Charlotte, but she’s a secret cat appearing at mealtimes before being absorbed back into the house until bedtime.  I’m blessed with two cats who know their names, but don’t always come on demand.  They only appear if they feel like it… so annoying.

Austin said you were in your ‘me’room typing a story.  I was going to roll around in the plethora of lint clouds in the kitchen and dining room, lick it off my fur and puke it onto the living room rug, but daddy vacuumed, and I am left with nothing.

And I am being told this because…

…because, as Santa Claus, we have a request for toys to replace the ones you gathered up and dumped. 

And what toys do you miss?

What toys did you dump?

I asked first, but it’s clear you had no favorites or at least one would pop up into your memory.

Oh pleaseee… we don’t want those dorky toys as replacement.  We want better toys.

Well pardon me, Miss Lottiedah, do you have a list of the better toys?  Is this request from Austin also?

It would be from Austin if he didn’t melt into your lap and forget about life every time you go into your writing room.

Well, I have a lap cat and a bedtime cat.  Guess which one spends more time with me.

Well, if you took an afternoon nap, I would be spending more time with you, Mommy.  Anyway, what about the request.

Request?  What request was that?

New toys, Santa Mommy, new toys!

Isn’t it a tad too early for Christmas present requests, Charlotte dear.

Oh, Mommy, Mommy… There is no starting point for requests in life.  It just always is.  You could learn a lot from me.

Well, Ms. Einstein, I think I’ve learned enough to last two lifetimes.  I’ll pass your list along to Santa.

Oh please, Mommy dearest, daddy ratted you out years ago.

Just give me the list and I’ll make sure you get the presents.

Here, Santa Mommy.

Why is it folded so many times? 

To give you time to not freak out, coolest Mommy ever.

What the… tell you what, dear Charlotte, cross the first item off the list, then come back with a list written with words one half inch high on one side of this index card I’m giving you, since Santa is old, partly blind, and running low on funds this year’s end.

Why must I cross the first item off the list, Mommy meanie.

Oh, please Charlotte, I wasn’t born yesterday.  Why do you want a singing canary in a birdcage?  Why not forget the birdcage and just ask for the canary?

Well, if you insist.

I can see a big lump of coal coming your way this Christmas.

I can see we just keep getting dumb presents for Christmas, because there is no Santa.  There’s just you.  Forget the list.

                         *************************************************

Mommy was sad that night as she laid alone in bed, for Charlotte never appeared.  Oh, how Mommy wished there really was a magical man who could whip up a present on demand, and deep in her heart she always pretended such a man really did exist, for what is life without a bit of magic.

Mommy sighed and let herself drift off into serenity as she listened to soft music and felt the cold of night settle around her.  She rested peacefully, knowing her presents this year would have to be spot on with a cat’s prospective of the concept of life and Santa.  She created the monster, and it seemed she would be living with it for some time to come. 

Isn’t life grand.   She thought that sarcastically, but caught herself saying it again, only this time with conviction.  Sometime during the night Charlotte silently found her place next to Mommy on the bed.  

All became well in this little corner of the world as Mommy dreamed of a mob of canary wings flapping all around her head, as Charlotte leaped through the air with the greatest of ease, claws extended and mouth open, shouting Hallelujah, there really is a Santa Claus!

Austin

'Sparkleberry' Winterberry

I have no idea what this plant is.

Beautiful Poison Ivy in her fall color.

Wolf Spider

Calico Aster with some type of small bees.

Eastern Calligrapher Flower fly

Lonicera sempervirens, Coral Honeysuckle

Northern Mockingbird in the Blackhaw Viburnum

American Beauty Berry

Fall Blooming Crocus

Spicebush leaves

'Winterthur' Viburnum Leaves

Last of the Aster Paten flowers

Left is Wild Petunia seed heads 

waiting to burst open to scatter the seed.

Right are three Aster Paten seeds 

waiting to detatch from the seed head

and fly away on the wind.

Northern Red Oak Acorn is bitter and not loved by squirrels.

A multicolored Asian lady beetle or Harmonia axyridis. 

Found on neighbor's purple fountain grass.

Rome Beauty Apple

White flesh, but sometimes different degrees of red show up.

This one is quite colorful.

Love and 

a cup of hot chocolate.

Doesn't get much better than that.

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