Bright lime colored garden clogs clip along the path wondering where the snow went so suddenly. No more slipping, cold feet, spring is a delight. Cat drifts between my legs, playful, warming black, skittish in the sun. Sniffs deep of something mysterious, dirt scattered high, rolling in the dry gardens under the pine.
Birds swoop by, waving hair, seed scattered on the ground feverishly pecked. Unwelcome Crows caw in the trees, territorial, new, jangling the neighborhood. The mind planning, sunning, thinking, reminding. No twisting, no weights lifted, stretch in the warm sun. Not the time for gardener's boot camp. Patience that those weeks of moving tender shoots, and scattering of seeds will wait until later. Try my patience, turn my resolve. This gardener yearns to plant. To think. To dream of fashioning something beautiful out of nothing, with dry soil, and tiny seeds.
Trees burst overnight with buds. Swelling not just in bodies. Weeds appear to laugh at efforts to shake them free with feet, determined to stay, and thrive. Cat crouches, furry bottom wiggles, streaks across the lawn, birds scatter. Children's laughter drifts behind him across the grass. Weeds still remain.
For now. Plot, dream, wander. Through garden beds. Weeks will run, time will out, the garden will still be there. Sun warm, fingernails dirty, trowel in hand, it will wait. Time will heal,the garden is impatient. And so am I. Jane@Muddy Boot Dreams On a Wednesday: Slivers of moments captured in a weekly post, evolving, descriptive, a memoir of life.
PS: A big thank you for your supportive, and understanding comments, it's been a journey, but I am hopeful that things will get back to normal as my back heals. And yes, my fingers are itching to get back into the garden, but that has to wait a little while.
February sun gently caresses the back of my legs. But it's warmth isn't enough to help my frozen hands hold the hot pink pruners. I end up dropping them into the middle of the thorniest part of the raspberry thicket.
Prickles grab at my jacket, refusing to let go, and there is a disconcerting ripping noise as I try to bend. Score one for the red berries, another jacket down. Suckers try their best to poke through the heavy layers of vinyl dipped gloves I'm wearing in protection against the canes, but the point goes to me. Over our heads, past the dark feathery tips of the fir trees, ravens soar in soft circles. Wide spread black wings attempt to catch the clouds drifting by. The sky a blue so deep it should be summer, but the icy snow patches convince me it's Winter still.
The dark birds chuckle follows the keening of the Eagles, taunting, calling, chasing them across the endless skies. The Eagles more determined to gain a meal then territory, perch in the Firs outside our house, waiting to make a dinner of the covey of quail when they drop by the feeder. "Hold the post up straight" he pleads, bracing being both my job, and the temperature despite this sun streamed day. In my over zealous attempt to straighten it before it goes over to far, I've sent it careening over the other direction, and it knocks the yellow metal level he is using deep into the bushes. One more victory for the thorns.
Frozen ground, and snowy patches no match for the annoyance of gazing out all winter at crooked bird houses perched on a poles. It's been on our to do list to straighten them when spring comes. Frost heaves skewed the poles, the weight of snow dampened the enthusiasm of the raspberries canes, but it's time to prune before the buds swell. It's almost too late, bare grass, naked in it's"spring is coming" delight swelters in the sun, and freezes under a foot of hard snow in the shade. I stomp my chilled feet in time to the melodic trilling of the Cedar Waxwings beautifully chiming in the trees across the street. There is a sudden stop to their beautiful music, but it's not my fault. Eagles appear in the sky, white heads shedding sunlight as they glide overhead. Sudden, is the sound of silence.
Soft cooing of Quail breaks out from the bushes over the fence, our supervisors have shown up. The sun lowering in the sky means time for them to advance upon the feeder in squirming droves. One brave bird perching on the fence as a lookout. We gather up the prickly branches, carefully tossing them into the compost, but they refuse to let go, stubbornly reaching and grasping in desperation to avoid their doom. It's cold even in the sunlight now, February will fight for Winter. But March will bring on spring.
Start a blog blog today and you will be reading posts that explain how to figure out who you should be blogging for. How to tailor your blog for your ideal reader.
To conjure up a profile of who your reader is, right down to where she shops for her clothing, and what kind of coffee she drinks. Mocha, anyone? I find it fascinating that anyone can be so specific. Fascinating, and rather difficult. To me it's like planning your wedding before you have found a special person. Carrying around this huge binder full of ideas, samples, colors and possible venues hoping that you will meet that perfect someone to fit your specifications. I think that binder's kind of heavy, but it works for some people. I wasn't sure I was capable of being able of figuring out who my perfect reader would be. Beside if it was my wedding I'd change my mind so many times…you, pointing at a potential one, Oh no you…no maybe… Although it would certainly make it easier to come up with ideas, to write content that is pertinent to a reader's needs, and wants. Sometimes I feel like I am stumbling, lost, and other times I think I have a very clear idea of what I am supposed to be doing. Wonder if we all get that feeling.
So I thought I would try to figure out who my reader was, I gave it a really good try…even got as far as the first few sentences about who I imagined I was writing for. I kept drifting off on a tangent, following dreams, planning other stuff, thinking of what I had to make for dinner. Being interrupted by the Boo,"dinner, you're thinking of dinner?" See what I mean, there I go…off down another trail of the black hole of blogging. That's me…following trails, exploring, wandering, gathering. Learning, and being inspired by it. But I figured out who it is I blog for.
Whom I love to share my photography with? You.
Simple isn't it… You've been here all along…visiting my blog, leaving those wonderful comments, saying such nice things. So I guess when it all comes together, I've already found my perfect reader. And I just wanted to say thank you so much! I'm so glad that you are here.
Add caption Now that I buttered you up, can I ask for a favor? I'd like you to help me out a bit. Give me a idea about what it is that keeps you coming back to my blog. Is it my charming wit? My sincere devotion to filling in the details, to staying on track? Stop laughing. Can you tell me what it is that you love. And, [oh gulp,I'm being brave here], what you you don't like as much. Please let me know what it is that you are looking for in my posts, what you enjoy. And if there is anything that I can add to make them more enjoyable for you. Would you leave me some suggestions in the comments. I would really appreciate it. Now I've got something to share with you. Drum roll please.. After much thought, research, and dreaming, I've decided to move my blog to Word Press. Wipes sweat off of her blogging brow. It won't happen until sometime in the beginning of March. Most of you won't notice anything if it all goes to plan. I'll give you lots of heads up, it's going to be exciting. But if something were to happen I have a back up plan… I'll bring out the Boo…he can entertain you for awhile. Meow! I'll give you more details when it's all firmed up closer to the move date. If you enjoyed reading this post, you might like this one also.
Cold hands, warm heart. Rush last steps to home. Winter chill settles on skin.
Rough branched pussy willows, blossoms so soft. Gathered from the ditch…precious winter gift. I'm the first. This time. Oh dear… Birds of a feather flutter startled. Once again, the look… Mental note, make noise first. Breath exhale, deep, winter yoga, no rush. Relax. Steel key rasps, knob squeaks. Door glides, bringing. Fresh air clinging, as it rides to warmth.
Sun glows through windows once again. Missed, beloved, stay longer, come more often. Bring meringues if you would, please. Snow cover, winter rolls over again in it's bed. Toes cold, tongue tasting. Lips sweet. Mocha, how I love thee…
Let me count the ways. Deep, dark chocolate secrets wafting from a cup. Coffee rich, vibrant, depths inside, withholding tales. Birds gathered, seed flying, big trees hiding. Cat watching, tail twitching, inside's the place to be. Mocha overtaking fresh air, hands heavy with cup. Creamy, dreamy, scented love of sugar.
Sun lowering, mountains glowering. Fog returns from it's shopping trip. Cloaked Eagles cluck in annoyance. Perched like Christmas tree toppers up high. Day, giving back to dark soon. Pink meringue, gooey treasure, crispy crunch. Cat batting at sprinkles on floor. Caffeine rush, sugar high.
Virtuous reward for cold walk. Winter waves from the fields… Pink meringue disappears, bits and pieces, sun behind a cloud. Coffee drunk to the dregs. Meringue a memory. Cat hungry, birds fed. Sun down, fog in. My world, Wednesday… He of the fur, and I of the coffee, sit and dream of dinner.
Someone’s gone and eaten all of the Oreo cookies. It couldn’t have been me. My beloved doesn’t eat cookies, or so he says, well then who did it? It couldn’t have been me. I’ve only had a few, one here, one… there? Boo has been putting on a bit of weight lately.so maybe it is him. In fact I am pretty sure it’s the cat that did it.
Dogs don’t eat Oreo cookies, and cats are always giving that sly sideways look as they parades past our “I’m dressed in my going out clothes” that just happen to be a opposite color of their fur. And we don’t have a dog. It had to be him. It couldn’t be me.
After all, I’m the one that sleeps in till 6 am, not the Boo. He gets up way too early, probably to eat the cookies, and then he comes in to scratch at my night table drawer. Most likely looking for Oreo cookies, where all he will find is crumbs. Not that I ate all of the cookies, because I’m sure that he did it.
He’s the one that hides behind the curtains and dives out at my feet when I have a cup of tea, and a cookie in my hand. So it had to be him, he wants me to drop that cookie, so he can eat it. That’s it, it’s the Boo. He ate the cookies. I’m sure that it was him.
He is the one that sits under the table and begs for food the entire time we are eating dinner, and then ramps it up even more when it’s time for dessert… Oreo cookies. I’m sure that it wasn’t me that ate the cookies, it had to be the Boo. Look at his face.
I’ve seen him jump down from the counter where the cookies are kept, he didn’t think we noticed that he was up there… but I caught him looking for Oreo cookies, I just didn’t know it at the time. It was him. He is the one that hides in the patch of sunlight on the stairs, waiting to trip me up when I am taking a snack, to read with a book. Oreo cookies, and a cup of tea, see it couldn’t be me, I only eat one every now and then. It was the Boo, he did it. Someone has eaten all of the cookies, and it couldn’t have been me.
My world on a Wednesday a gathering of scattered fragments, and moments bundled together into a small fraction of the day when life doesn't intrude. It's the microwaves turn to hum. Keeping time. With the drips from the roof. Handle spinning around like a carousal, the frothy milk threatens to bubble over the glass container. Homemade yogurt for breakfast tomorrow.
Hot pan, butter scented sizzle crowds the kitchen. Cat pushes past my leg, hinting, hopeful, long ago fed, big eyed stare, he wins. And accepts his treat with a smirk of feline triumph. Declines a cuddle, heads for the heat. Fickle creature. The sound of the Eagle's keening comes through the open door. Kitty plays the role of indoor cat for now, fly by dinners should be feathered, not fur. Through every window a scene of Winter's latest gift of snow lays. Like a discarded white jacket, one size too small. Bulging out over the landscape where it is torn. Leaving us longing for a fresh coat to cover up the disarray. January is a messy month. Camera clicks. I love that sound. It makes my heart sing. Dishes clink, light shines, fades, moves throughout the rooms. Candy hearts scattered on a painted board tempt. Tea brewed, poured, photographed, and drank in antique cups.
Days stretch, drips fall, light lengthens. For now it's enough to wait for the light. Dash outside to catch the sun. Walk the country roads, and catch my breath as the sun sinks far away. Coating the f olds of the mountains and their fog shrouded valleys in a shimmering light. A stunning patchwork quilt that tucks them in for the night.
Fields white with snow, shiver against the dark silhouettes as the light drops. Stoic and bare, the trees stand guard feet frozen into the soil, tips golden with delight from the long limbs of the sun. My heart sings Feet crunch the gravel. Headed for home.
Contains: 100% Canadian content. All images and text original to Jane Vandervoort
Bootsie went out on a Sunday morning, and came back… just not himself. It was quick, and subtle. Normally a not too active cat with a definite routine it was hardly noticeable that at first he wasn’t feeling well. He moved less, slept more, he still ate and drank. It was just before Christmas and with both of us working all hours of the day [or so it felt], it went unnoticed for a day that he wasn’t eating as much as usual. It was when he refused to get up and eat that we got really, really worried. This is a cat that loves his food. The night before the vet visit I woke up every few hours to try and encouraging him to lick water from my finger. When he stopped doing even that, I knew that morning couldn’t come soon enough. Many times I reached over to see if he was still breathing. He didn’t like the car ride at all, going from a languid and limp kitty that looked like he had spent the last few days on a bender and sleeping it off in his wrinkled pyjama's to a howling banshee. Deep muttering moans, cry’s that tore out my heart. The car stalling in the middle of the intersection in the pouring rain, only added to the misery.
At the vet’s he howled, complained, and cried… until the vet entered the exam room. Then in a miraculous change of heart, he stalked the counter tops and purred. Delighted to rub again the vet’s sleeve. “Are you sure he is sick?”“This is how a normal cat acts” I was told, not a sick cat. A temperature of 41 c. [105.8, and high for a cat] confirmed that he was a very sick kitty. Close to convulsions, and dehydrated. They kept him for the day, gave fluids, a antibiotics shot, shaved his neck, and leg for the IV. We were told that most likely he had crossed paths with another virus infected kitty. Loosing the fight was the least of his worries. He perked up the next day, looking for food, drinking water, and purring. But by the end of the week he started to get languid, tired, and just not himself again. Another trip to the vet, disbelief on their faces, “he can’t be sick” he is acting normal.” “I know my cat, he’s sick again, yes he’s eating and drinking, but he is sick again.” Bootsies temperature was a shock to the vet, he didn’t act sick at the office and they couldn’t believe it was that high again. Antibiotics were prescribed, two a day. Don’t believe the videos, or the vet when they show you how easy it is to pill a cat. They don’t have the Boo to deal with. As soon as the antibiotics started to work wonders, he refused to take them. With many foaming mouths, and trips around the living room, lots of pills discarded, we both started to dread 10 am, and 10 pm. But somehow we persevered, and he finished that course of pills, and has fully recovered. The only reminders left are the bald spots on his throat, and leg where they shaved his fur, it refuses to grow back.
We love him dearly, and…now I can understand why some people will pay thousands of dollars at the vet’s just to have their beloved pet well. There was a point in that office, when I would have given anything to have him well, and that is something I never thought I would say. I had always wondered why people choose to go that route. Now I have my answer. If you are a pet person, you will fully understand. If you are not, then there is no need to explain.
The dryer hums a happy song while spinning tea towels round. Kettle rises to it's boil, steam spews, water in the cup, spicy coconut Chai scented kitchen. All is well, quiet, there is joy in a peaceful moment.
Cat tummy full, quiet now, lazily entertaining himself in his red nylon tunnel, lurking in wait for unsuspecting servants to wander by. Birds outside the kitchen window flutter as the cold floors seeps through my socks. Idle gaze watches them feast. Tea bag squeezed, brown sugar added, quick stir with the silver spoon. Mail piled on the counter, unopened, nothing important, ignored for now. Dainty plate, chocolate eclair, whipping cream finger tips licked, taste of decadence, chocolate smears mingle in the coconut and cardamon scented air. White tea cup. Quiet spot in the house. Cat deserts his tunnel, work done for the moment. Settling in to nap away the afternoon at my feet. The dryer stops with one last spin. Towels can be folded later. Quiet moments while the house sits with breath held deep do not wait long. Not for anyone.
School bus rumbles in a long yellow flash outside hurrying to it's destination. The reminder of a country road that needs to be walked still. But I linger. This moment is for me. Drips fall from a snow laden rooftop, twisting down icicles. Snow fog creeps through the white garden, sun hides behind mountains, glimmering through tall trees. The quiet spills out of the doorways, slides down the floors, coats the walls. Softly transparent, easily filling the house. And still I sit, the soft snores of a fur laden foot warmer at my feet. I've made my peace with January…there is joy once again. This moment is mine, I sip my tea. Daydreams wander through my head, a chorus of happiness… And that's fine with me.
100 % Canadian content, All words and images written, and taken by Jane Vandervoort.
The day after Christmas is kind of like a fairground with the rides all packed up and trailered away. There seems to be ornaments strewn across every surface, the fridge is bulging with turkey leftovers. And I think that Bootsie is hung over. Just joking about Bootsie, at least I think that I am.
He has been on a extended"staycation" at our house, with very infrequent day trips. Gar is playing the concierge, and I am the masseuse. He isn't impressed with the level of service that either of us are offering. I have a feeling that he won't be a big tipper. What does he expect for a cheap free vacation? He is lucky we aren't fully booked, and could upgrade him to the presidential suite. Read that as, he takes up most of the bed. We have returned him to his rightful home many times. One night last week I was even tromping across the street with a squirming cat scratching my best weatherproof jacket, and snow filling my garden clogs. I could barely see with the driving snow covering my glasses, it was dark, and very cold. What I don't do for that cat. And no, I didn't get photos. He is determined to have his Christmas holiday at our place. Black and white cats have a mind of their own, and he is determined. My garden is sullen, and pouting, at least those plants that survived the chilly -7 C temperatures. Another apology post to the perennials is in the works. As for any of the more tender plants, well…that certainly is a big compost pile isn't it? Whoops, again. Bring on the new year.
The last blog post was written at the kitchen table, late at night. This one is written in the early morning light of a quiet house, with the sun rising over the mountains. It is reflecting a particular peace, that’s the only way I can explain it. I wish I could share the view with you, and I will. It’s just that for the last few hectic days, I have been relying on my camera phone. And that’s in the bedroom, where my husband is sleeping. Trying to keep a restless cat quiet in the early mornings isn’t easy, he loves to jump down onto the hardwood floors like a lead balloon. Thunk, bang, meow. It’s four am and he’s up, only problem is no one else is. We plan on keeping him in the bedroom with us at night until he is acclimatized The house is much larger then the little condo we shared with him, and he can be found meowing away on another floor. It takes a little while, and he is doing fine. Boo feels best when everyone is up, and in the kitchen. He reminds me of a sheep dog, herding his sheep, and that would be us. Until each of us is up, he is restless, and demanding. Hard to ignore. ' So for now, with the cat quietly exploring the living room, I sit, watching the brightening light, through the dark trees, with misty clouds intertwined among them like a garland of fluff. There are mountains in the distance, and a particular peace in my heart. The house is stirring… it’s morning in my new life.
I’m so tired my head keeps hitting the keyboard. sljraklstjo’eutpajfksafka jskjrlj see what I mean? I can’t keep my eyes open. Some furry black and white creature has decided that 5 am is a really good time to wake up and smell the coffee. It’s wasn’t me. I like 6:30 am. And I don’t like coffee.
He’s sound asleep now, snoring gently in his new domed cat bed that traps the body heat of a furry four legged alarm clock in fluffy, sleepy time warmth. And early this morning my husband patiently drove me along a narrow windy road headed to almost no where, stopping when ever I wanted.
Muddy Boot Dreams is pleased to announce a new position opening up in the company as personal doorman to Bootsie. Resident"when he feels like it" cat, and chief executive officer. The suitable applicant will be patient, intuiti ve, and be willing to work from dawn to late evenings. The applicant must have eyes in the back of their head, and the ability to read cat's minds. Compensation will not be based on a monetary currency, instead payment will be made through brushing against the legs, as a thank you. Or a soft meow, which will indicate immediate need for more food. This full time position, requires the ability to juggle your own life, and the demands of a cat who doesn't know wh at he wants. The suitable applicant should be able to undo locks on patio doors in mere seconds. And be willing to repeat the gesture many, many, times per day.
This position is only open to those who are able to withstand a cold, wet, cat, swirling around their bare legs, early in the morning without screaming, or dancing up and down. Forward resumes to mousecatcheratgmail.com attention Bootsie.
Mother Nature did some pruning the other night, and she was rather heavy handed while she did it. I heard a noise between the thunder rumbling, and the flashing room illuminating crashes of lightening, but thought nothing of it at the time. When I got up early in the morning a very long almost 50 feet tall, tree like branch from our neighbour’s Maple filled the side yard between our houses. The tree has multiple trunks growing straight up, so that’s why they are so tall.
Looking at all the mess of leaves, and smaller branches stemming from the 8 inch diameter base of the branch it was hard to believe that it managed to fall over the fence. Plunking itself onto the lawn missing both of my gardens, the corner of the house, and our porch and patio. It left me quite amazed that nothing was damaged, since it had fallen narrowly missing my beloved Gingko tree, nurtured from a 6 inch seedling, now a towering 8 feet tall, birdhouses, patio, and clay pots left in the middle of the lawn. So Mother Nature, did you read my post the other day, giving up on trying to grow something under the fir trees, and letting you know that you have won? This tree missed the garden I was writing about by inches, did you have anything to do with that I wonder.
I am thankful that there was no damage, the tree branch is now nothing more the a ghostly shadow on the grass. The smaller branches will be recycled into garden stakes, and the larger ones will make a warm fire one day. The tree is looking well, and hopefully will keep growing it’s beautiful red leaves that carpet my lawn each fall.
Boo was rather put out that the path of his morning routine was blocked, and he had to journey around the entire length of the branch, but in the end he managed to ignore the diversion, and get on with sniffing the boundaries of the fence. Life for a cat is all about routine.
It’s been a long, hot, hard, summer. And I can’t say with total conviction that I am glad it’s over, but I am pretty sure I am. Yes I will miss the warm days, and beautiful brightness. But I will not miss the 2 am wakeup calls from Bootsie and the constant keening, and screaming of the seagulls. For some reason, the Boo decided that we all needed to wake up at 2am. Every day of the spring and summer. If we needed more sleep that was too bad, he demanded to be let out, in order to roam the “whatever” and he was determined to have his way. Now I can see some of you shaking your heads, well you probably don’t have a determined black and white cat, or one at all. This is what a cat that has decided to adopt new people, and more or less just moved in does. He grooms the new people to his standard, and they, pleased as punch that the now grown up kitten that has visited them for 3 years has made them family, give in. We love him dearly. We also loved sleep, but that was another story.
Things changed after we went away for 4 days in September, his routine disrupted, we no longer reacted to his wakeup calls, and he now sleeps until 5 am. Of course the fact that the seagulls are sleeping in till 5 might have something to do with it. Boo had some difficulties when the new neighbors moved in, and let their two cats roam. Overnight he turned into the worst kind of stalker kitty. Pouncing on the unsuspecting younger female, howling and yowling at the slightly older male. Life was lived with even less sleep during this transition. They all seemed to collide when the sun went down. No relaxing for us. Howls, and hisses. Then one very fierce fight, and sudden silence. The next thing we knew, they became best friends forever. Go figure.
We expected tension, but they now get along, the two neighbor cats are exploring our deck, and even peeking in through our patio doors at us. The Boo shares the space with them, and they all play together, I am still kind of awed that they can go from stalkers, to best friends forever. But I guess I don’t know kitties as well as I thought I did. Seagulls, and their constant screeching? Well.
I have to admit, I am not scared of the dark. Just the absence of light! Up in Armstrong it's dark, not ghostly, creepy, horror film kind of dark, but there is a total lack of light. No luminescence from the city, no glow of the streetlights. Without the moon, if you forget the flashlight walking to the camper means you have a very good chance of bumping into a tree. Nothing like heading out from a well lit house, on a dark night, with two dogs circling around your feet, and trees on a dirt path to the camper. Might even have one of the barn cats along for a walk. These definitely are the times I am glad that my GA is with me. I get spooked kind of easy, but nothing bothers him. OK laugh at me wanting to live in the country. But that's why they make flashlights! When the horses nicker, sensing that GA is nearby, and hoping against hope for a midnight snack, it makes me think that there might be a bear around. It's a good possibility. There is less likely hood of intruders, mostly other animals, coyotes, bears, farm dogs. So last night when we were safely tucked up in bed, at our ground floor condo, hashing out the days events, the last thing on my mind was that someone might be out on the deck. But there was this odd scratching noise of something rattling down the window screen. Burglars? Peeping Tom's? Someone wanting a early review of tomorrows blog post? My GA like usual, was unperturbed strange noises don't bother him. But I was a little leery to peer out the window. With all the lights on in the bedroom I can't see outside. But I tried. Nothing, just dark inky blackness."Shhhhhhh!! I can't see anything." So I ran to the patio door, and at first I could not see anything. Suddenly a small dark grey shadow started scratching at the glass. And meowing. It was the"Hussy". She had been hanging out on our deck earlier during the day. We offered her some food, but she was not hungry, just lonely. She has a cute collar and a bell. She looks well fed, and solid. Now she had decided that she would like to take us up on that earlier offer of food. And she was lonely, and needed a hug. Once my heart calmed down, we fed her, and sent her on her way. Hoping that she would return to her home. "What is it with this place, it's a haven for stray cats!" GA grumbled. After all the Hussy was our third cat of the day. I just think that all the cats let each other know, where it is safe to visit, and who is sympathetic to feeding them. I [we] would not have it any other way.
Thunderstorm last night, power surge blew out our stove’s electronic clock board thingy ma-jiggy… so no more oven.
Don’t ask, I have no idea how it’s connected. It’s going to cost big bucks to fix it… I am not a happy camper. He slept through it… wish I could be as laid back as him.
So now we need to decide, fix it, or buy a new one, which I didn’t want to have to think about, nor do I want to spend the money on it either. The repair will be almost half the cost of a new one. I should be grateful that nothing else was ruined… and I am trust me. Welcome to home ownership… Wish I could be laid back like him. He slept through the whole thing.
Bootsie’s favourite after dinner treatie is being let outside in front yard with us as the sun goes softly down into the fir trees. He crouches under my truck, and watches the neighbourhood dogs waltz by tethered to designer leashes.
With the summer slipping away from us the light goes to bed earlier, it moves in the sky faster. Sometimes it bathes the flowers in the front garden for only seconds before slipping away to undress for evening.
I am always at the ready with my camera, these golden hours will not last through the chill of winter, and must be captured for warmth in the cold days ahead.
Let me put on something more comfortable it will murmur… a real bait and switch, you think it’s going to come back out of the clouds and wait expectantly but it doesn’t return. You are jilted once again. Bootsie crouches under the truck, he knows better then to fall for that line.
I patiently wait for as long as I can before relenting, and returning with the canned cat food tin, which is the only way Boots will be convinced to come inside. Who is fooling whom?
But before I do that, I crouch under the edge of the truck and click without seeing my subject, a series of under the truck shots of his world, filled with golden light.
Early morning watering session, crawl out of bed, it’s been hot all night, and I am still tired, the heat drags me down, slip back into last night’s clothes, pet the Boots our cat, and head out the door. He scrambles out the sliver of front door before I can shut it, but I’m wearing my lime green garden clogs this morning, and life is good. Head to the side of the house to turn on the hose, and watch him disappear into his favourite hiding place, the one that means I probably won’t be able to watch him while I water… but he’s happy, so I chance it.
The crows disturbed by our presence, won’t stop the cawing that seems to drill into my head, annoyed at them I spray the water towards the tree, marvelling at the mini rainbow I have just created over my brown lawn. Boots watches me solemnly… it’s a cats eye view from where he hides.
T he shaft of morning light peaks over the mountain, and it’s already a hot sun, while the spray of water sparkles like crystals, a hummingbird appears from nowhere to investigate what all the noise is about. They are so unreal in person, so tiny, hovering like a miniature helicopter. It darts and flies so close for a moment I wonder if it will alight on my hand, I can feel the air move around it. Turning my head I look to see if anyone else is here to witness this absolute moment, only the crows, and Boots, and neither seem to care. The hummingbird leaves the water, and wafts over to the Bee Balm, and the Eckies, I am mesmerized.
That afternoon I pass by the window, and a soft fluttering on the Eckies [Echinacea, cone flowers] catches my eyes.this stunning plant is adorned with two beautiful butterflies at the same time. I grab my camera and manage to catch a few shots before they take off. What they are remains a mystery to me, beautiful is my guess.
Life is good when it starts with a hummingbird encounter, then a butterfly sighting… and ends with a spectacular sunset, and backlit Eckies… those shots to come next post. Jane @Muddy Boot Dreams
Summer schedule posting MBD’s posts on Friday, Sunday, and Wednesday.
Spoiled, not him? Our Bootsie is a adored, and slightly spoiled cat and while I might kid my parents that it’s their Grand-kitty. I’m only half joking. They adore him also, fat little fur ball that he is.
He is also a expert at getting what he wants, demanding those 5 am feedings, multiple times a day. Life for the Boo goes from meal to meal. Dinner is the hardest one to deal with, and he knows instinctively that when our guards are down we will pretty much do anything to get him out from under our feet. The meowing reaches a crescendo right when our reserves are low, when the pot is bubbling over, or the pan is burning… his timing is impeccable. Don’t shake your head at him, it’s us, we spoilt him when he first decided to adopt us, because he would get so sick he nearly died a few times… life is short, feed them well, and love them deeply was our motto. Well, we might have fed him a bit too well in the beginning, and now we struggle to cut him back. He demands his food right at 5 pm, when I start to make dinner, leaves and comes back again when we eat. It was driving me batty, just as we sat down, he would return to beg, and he knows he doesn’t get fed again after his dinner. No scraps snuck under the table, not a tidbit went to him, until after dinner, and then maybe a touch of chicken. I know, bad kitty people.
The “cat” garden, and the “bird” garden border the corner back of our yard, named after the cat sculpture, and the wild quail that like to gather there every night and feast on the bird seed during the cooler days. Bootsie loves watching the birds, and usually is content quietly laying on the back porch,but when baby quail time hatches, it’s difficult to keep him away from the feathered frolickers. We chase him away from the bird garden until the babies have grown up, until summer when the birds visit rarely, then we let him have the run of the back yard. When I found him hanging out on the edge of the bird garden a few months ago, I was worried that the quail were quivering in the bushes, hiding from him fearing for their lives. Until one day when I was checking up on the Boo who hadn’t been seen for ages, something grey, small, sleek and furry ran past my feet. Eek mice! And judging by the scurrying noises, a lot of eeeekkk mice. Ugh. I’m not a fan of anything that scurries… and yes I know that mice need to live also… maybe they could go and set up house somewhere else. Like a few doors down where the chickens are. Or maybe at the neighbours under their shed, like they have done for years. There is a good side to all this, Bootsie is so fascinated by the skittering, scurrying, scuttling, noises that they make while scooting over the dried leaves under the bushes… it’s like MTV for kitties.
Mouse Television. And guess when the best programs are on? Yes, right during our dinner time. Life is great isn’t it? Bootsie’s perched in front of the Moob tube all evening… and we get to eat dinner in peace. In fact we have to practically drag him in at night… he is so interesting in watching them. I just hope that the summer programs last a bit longer, I’m really starting to enjoy our quiet dinners without all the meowing. Thank you to everyone who have left such wonderfully supportive comments, and emails, about the recent post on my Dad. Your words are enlightening, heartening, and sustaining my faith in better days to come. I’m still reading the comments slowly, taking my time — it’s heartbreaking to realize that this is happening to so many other people also, and to be honest it make me cry when I read them. But tears are good, trust me. It’s been 3 days now, and things are improving, he is settling in, and the cat that resides in the home has come and staked out her territory in his room. His chair, his bed, and the top of his dresser… we both love cats, and are absolutely charmed by her behaviour. This makes it so much easier for all of us, and I think I even saw a smile the other day. It was from him. Jane
There are posts that sing in your heart, some loudly, some softly,… no demands, they just ask to be set free, to be published. Some come unbidden, easy to write, easy to read. Joyful words describing beautiful seasons, and the beauty of nature. We all like to read those, life is hard enough without reading tales of woe in a blog.
And then there are others, a need, demand, not as pleasant to read, but so desperately wanting to be set free so I can move forward. I’ve found that by recording a moment, a memory I no longer allow it to keep my nights, my days, and my life hostage. They are rarely shared. This one escaped, it feels so intensely personal, I didn’t want it to, but it did. You might remember my Dad went into the hospital because of ill health, during his stay there he fell and broke his hip, which extended his stay by months… and we thought that was hard. It was only the beginning of a very long, difficult and heartbreaking journey that is not finished yet. One that we as family can only offer as much support and love as possible. It’s hard for him, and for us, it takes my heart, my love, and my time to be there with my parents. I am trying to help them out in any way I can. Dementia is a nasty disease, a wicked awful mind stealing disease that sneaks up behind you and wallops you with a club, lets you stagger off to partially recover, and then does it all over again. Not nice words at all, but Dementia doesn’t deserve them. It has stolen too many of my family members… and now it’s hitting my Dad. Life maybe just life, but this… this is beyond fair. I’m angry, I’m upset, I’m worried, and most of all I am sad. This isn’t a post about sadness, and fear so much as the effort it takes to be there, smile, and encourage during a very difficult situation, we have all been there, or will deal with troubles in some way. I know that, and my heart goes out to all of you as you struggle with difficulties also. In the end we should know that we have done all we can to help, no matter what the struggles against us were. This is a post that didn’t come out quietly, it kicked, screamed, shouted, and it continues to do so. It won’t be quieted by frequent power outages, computer glitches, or my unwillingness to publish it. It wants to be heard, noticed, felt. It want’s you to realize that Dementia is a epidemic, and as much as you think it won’t happen to you, it could happen to any of us or those we love. I wish there was a happy ending, I tried to give it the best I could, the journey continues. And I will completely understand if you are end up not knowing what to say… that’s OK. This is not a poem, it’s not a rant, it’s a rendition of a heartbreaking day, one that is etched too closely on my heart. But in those painfully carved words, there is hope, and there is love.
Life, it’s just life . Fragile shell enveloping egg dropped onto hard floor, slimy splatters, cat prints lead away from the scene of the crime. It’s not his fault. Juice tipped onto morning paper, soaked, soggy orange scented old news. That’s life Power out… heat wave, stifling hot. No sleep, hot days, foggy brains. That’s life. Moving day, worry, concern, positive thoughts, cheerful, fake happy. Check for the words now tattooed on your heart. “It’s the disease, not the person.” You are a rock. You are a island. Simon and Garfunkel knew what they were talking about. That’s life. Free hour left on parking ticket handed through the rolled down window of a slow passing car. Goodness of strangers. That’s life. Thank goodness for life.
Last time walking through cloud of smokers, hacking over IV stands. Familiar face tugs at my memory, daughter of one left behind, revealed as neighbour from my now far away ocean. My old home, my old life. Keep in touch, good luck, I wish we had met again sooner. But we can’t wait to leave. We hope never to come back. That’s life Thank goodness for life. Moment of calm, breath deep, but for the smells of old, air, memories, hopes, and dreams, escaping through art deco gold painted grating on elevator wall. Smiles, good wishes fond on your heart, breaking tears into smaller drops. Heat, never ending hot, shiny sun. Pack the car, don’t forget anything, him, nervous… upset, hold back the tears. That’s life. His words accusing us of betrayal, no thanks for all he has done for us through the years, overriding our words of comfort, preparation, photos shown and forgotten, change overwhelming, he does not care. Be the rock, be the island for all of you. Clean, quiet, beautiful surroundings does not replace chaos, disregard, and dirty linens in his mind. Kindness and attentiveness of the nurses, friendliness of the residents ignored. That’s life. It’s the disease, not the person. But oh it aches, it hurts. Where are you Dad? That’s life. Go back to where you swore you would never return, forgotten items, disbelief on his face as you leave without him, take me back there… Promises made I will be back, I don’t want to go, but I will be back. Drop off at downtown pharmacy, street person asks money for popsicle… decision, change for meter, or popsicle donation. Ticket versus treat. Wish it wasn’t asked, wish I had both.
That’s life Hot, sweaty tires black on pavement, roads closed, worry, lost, found, rushing. Situation same. Keep up the hope. Homemade Ginger snaps, cold juice. They know what happens here, how much of it is life. Sugar high. Situation low. Immaculate garden gazed upon through his window, holds a flower. Despite his refusal to mellow, to bend, to look. Shines above all else, single stemmed brilliant petals perfectly displayed. It tells me yes this will get better, it will get easier. It’s determination despite the heat to show how beautiful life is, tells me I am not the only rock. There are other islands. This is life Thanks goodness for life. Tears from your Mother. Smile from a stranger. A hug. That’s life? Is that life? Thank goodness for life, as painful as it is right now.
If you would like more information about Alzheimer’s/Dementia this is a link to the Canadian site.
