The yard seems blissfully unaware of next week’s weather forecast, which calls for overnight temperatures in the teens and highs barely above freezing.
Perhaps the yard knows more about forecasting weather than our current computer models? The roses, pear tree, and hydrangea have roused from their winter slumber, as have the tulips and hyacinths.
It’s not just the plants. A swarm of hoverflies invaded the yard today.
And the winter flocks of robins have broken up. They chirp testy challenges to each other as they forage, defending larger and larger spheres of territory. Last week, seven or eight birds happily shared the pear tree’s branches. Today, there was only one.
The weeds needed mowing yesterday, which shaved off an entire crop of blooms. A few escaped the mower’s blades, mostly those growing in the iris beds and cactus pots.
While photographing weeds, I noticed the old cactus seems to have produced some kind of seed this year. Would I get a new cactus, if I planted it?
Finally, I considered washing the windows today, but decided to put it off again. They aren’t completely opaque, yet…
Today’s bright sunshine lured me into the yard, where I spent the afternoon starting (but not finishing) a number of chores. My first job involved two small bird houses, which have become a winter refuge for spiders. Determined to avoid more encounters with black widow spiders, I wanted to clean out the webs and evict any venomous guests.
I’ve been dreading this task, and I was relieved when a clump of weeds with tiny white flowers gave me an excuse to put off confronting the spiders.
After photographing the unfamiliar weed (I believe it might be hairy bittercress), I crawled through patches of henbit and speedwell, trying to capture their enchanting beauty.
I crossed half of the yard on my hands and knees before I remembered the bird feeders. Dusty and empty, all of the feeders needed attention. Under the second feeder, I found a cicada molt.
A short time later, I moved into the front yard. Before reaching the final bird feeder, I stopped to take a photo of paperwhites.
Beside the paperwhites, a single hyacinth was trying to bloom. Trying unsuccessfully, for the moment, because something has been grazing on it.
A quick search for suspects found a rabbit hiding in the irises and a squirrel trying to hide in a nearby tree. They both looked guilty to me.
Distracted by rabbits and squirrels, I never finished the last feeder. I also didn’t get to the windows, which are disgracefully dirty.
But I don’t regret my disorganized day, which ended on a sunny, sleepy note.
I can clean bird houses, feeders, and windows some other day, some cloudy day when the yard doesn’t sparkle with wonders.
Mother taught me how to sew, but she never tackled crochet.
Even if she had tried to teach me how to crochet, I’m not convinced that I could have learned. Not then.
I was a child of tenuous patience and headstrong temper. Our sessions at the sewing machine often deteriorated into battles of will. Mother would scowl over a poorly cut pattern or knotted seam. Start over anddo it right this time. I would bristle, hurt by what felt like rejection. This is good enoughfor me, even if it isn’t perfect. I hurled the word “perfect” at her, a stone made of childish frustrations, and she tossed it back with the strength of a tested parent. I’m not looking for perfect, I just want you to do it again.
Lured by the unknown, and miserably bored with the exacting practice of the known, I would dig out a skein of yarn and one of her crochet needles. Teach me this. She would put them away again. I can’t remember how to do it.
By the time I got married, I had almost forgotten my fascination with crochet. Then I saw an afghan that my mother-in-law had made. A few years later, when my father-in-law needed heart surgery, we shared our waiting room seats with a bag of yarn and a shiny assortment of crochet needles. She taught me how to make chains and rows and squares. How to read and follow a pattern. Later, she took me shopping for yarn and helped me start my first big project. Then she laughed at my obsessive determination to make scarves for everyone I knew, plus a few afghans, all in time for Christmas.
I failed my Christmas quest that first year, but eventually did make scarves for nearly everyone. And afghans.
Like everything else, my crochet enthusiasm waxes and wanes. I’ll spend months finishing a project, then put my needles away for a year or more. Lately, in another surge of cleaning up and clearing out, I’ve been trying to use up my embarrassing mountain of yarn. (I can’t resist a yarn sale…)
This week I’m making an afghan, from a sackful of “Vanna’s Choice” yarn.
Vanna (the cat) can’t decide whether to be flattered or shocked…
Mother bought an artificial Christmas tree many years ago, tired of fighting the yearly mess. (And the predictable attack of severe allergies.) Eventually she gave up on the artificial tree, too. She replaced it with a small ceramic tree, which fit on the table and was easy to put away when Christmas was over. All of this means that Vanna, who is thirteen years old, has never seen a real Christmas tree. Until last night…
Her housemates are accustomed to our mysterious mid-December decor, but that doesn’t mean they are immune to the tree’s allure.
This year’s tree seems to have earned the approval of all three cats. It survived the rigors of feline inspection and is, for the moment, their favorite spot in the house.
“Silver had two guns slung about him–one before and one behind–besides the great cutlass at his waist, and a pistol in each pocket of his square-tailed coat. To complete his strange appearance, Captain Flint sat perched upon his shoulder and gabbling odds and ends of purposeless seatalk.” from Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson
In 2005, Mother signed up for a class about pirate literature. The course focused on Peter Pan and Treasure Island, as did most of our telephone conversations at the time. She shared bits of trivia regarding the authors and texts. She followed tangents of memory sparked by Peter’s exploits and Jim’s adventures. And she read from her notes, teaching me how the books fit into the history of literature.
A few years later, when she met a pair of orphan kittens named Captain Flint and Long John Silver, I was tempted to call it fate.
Captain Flint, 2007Long John Silver, 2007 (photos provided by my brother and sister-in-law)
These two kittens arrived at Challenger’s House in the summer of 2007. Captain Flint was found, malnourished and abandoned, in front of a local business. Long John Silver was thrown from a car and rescued by the driver who witnessed it. As they were about the same age, and both too weak to keep up with healthy kittens, they were placed in a foster home together. To be exact, they were placed in my brother and sister-in-law’s home.
Flint had trouble gaining weight. Long John needed surgery to repair his broken leg. And Mother talked about them for months, calling with detailed updates after every visit. It seemed to me as if she visited my brother and sister-in-law more often, while the kittens were there, and her attachment to the little pirates grew with each week. All the while, she denied any desire to adopt them.
Then she called one day and said, “Guess what I just did…” She claimed that her decision came from an urge to keep the boys from being separated. They had finally been declared healthy enough to go to the adoption center, and she feared they would not find a home together. So they went to live with her, and our telephone conversations were soon filled with the antics of Long John Silver and Captain Flint.
Long John Silver is a charismatic troublemaker, a bit like his namesake. (Right down to the bad leg, which healed stiff because the joint was too damaged to repair.)
Captain Flint is both buccaneer and parrot, sometimes starting the trouble, and sometimes following Long John’s lead.
Last year, when Mother died, the pirate cats returned to my brother and sister-in-law’s home, which means I get to continue following their adventures. And their misadventures, because they are often very bad boys. A pair of mischievous rogues, well named and well loved.
Rae Spencer 