Take Joy!

Mmmm, Nom, Nom . . . Turkey!

Happy Thanksgiving to one and all (especially small cats . . . )!

FINISHED!!!

After two weeks, and several sore fingers, it's DONE! Despite help from some people—

Pattern is "Spiderman Round Ripple Afghan" by Gail E. (AKA the "Stitch 'n Frog"); I found it online when I was looking for something else, but you could probably Google it if you want.

Materials: 14 oz. each Red Heart Cherry Red (#0319) and Blue (#0866), and on3 skein of Black. Size H hook.

Sixe: 57" across. The pattern says it should be 53", but I stuck in an extra row or two to use up all the yarn. I also did the black 'spokes' a bit differently than the pattern, simply because the directed method was really awkward for me, and I was more than ready to be FINISHED.

Also, I crocheted a small black circle to sew over all the ends in the center. That wasn't in the pattern directions, but since Riley is only 5, I thought it would be safer to just tie the ends off and cover them up.

Next: Eliza's fairy princess dress. (After Thanksgiving, I think. I can start it on Friday, since I'd rather be boiled in oil than go shopping on Black Friday. Or most any other time, in fact . . . )

 

November Cats

Sam, on lookout duty

LeeLee, being goofy

Victoria, sleeping in the el cheapo sort-of greenhouse

Ocie, chillin' under the fig tree

 

Would You Get That Thing Out of My Face?!

Can't you see I'm trying to bathe here? Go away!!

Antidote for the Monday Morning Blues

Emma's soccer game on Saturday—I have no idea whether or not they won, but apparently a good time was had, by Emma at least!

The Nine

(otherwise known as The Guinea Mafia, or The Pod, or The Borg, depending on who's talking)

You will notice that they are not in the lot with the chickens and turkeys . . . not that they don't stay there sometimes (like when there's food being dispensed), but the grass on the other side is greener, and the bugs are juicier . . . so they, like the wind, go where they please, announcing their presence as they do.

It's only a pity they don't eat voles. Then I might be able to have some tulips.

We Have Contact!

This is Darla, who is now emerging from the storeroom on a regular basis, and will even come over to be petted . . . as long as I am sitting on the kitchen floor (which has two disadvantages: it kills my knees and hips, and I get a good look at just how deficient my housekeeping is, at least in the matter of getting debris off the floor and washing the baseboards). I hope, soon, to be able to get a picture without glowing eyes, but this was the only one I could take before the camera noise frightened her. Isn't she lovely, with those matching stripes on her front legs, and the collar marking?

She needs to put on some weight, but she's eating a bit more now (since she has discovered that if she comes out and allows me to pet her, I will fork over a dish of canned food. I have never been above a little judicious bribery.). She still startles easily, and she's not comfortable around John yet—he's taller than I am, and his voice is louder—but she'll go over and sniff the other cats if they come into the kitchen, and she's left me two dead mice (and a dead cricket) this week . . . I am hoping she'll venture into the back soon, where the stove is and it's nice and warm, and where everyone else hangs out (except Mr. Poozle, who prefers to sleep outside on the hay until it's below freezing, and Victoria,who prefers the laundry basket).

So things are progressing nicely . . .

Reflections

It is Samhein, the Celtic new year—the season of remembrance, of things passing away, of preparing to burrow down to wait out the cold months . . . to be reborn with the spring warmth, or so we hope.

Brian, Lara and Emma visited last week, and the topic of conversation (among the adults) was death: have we made plans for this place? (We have.) Lara's stepfather is ill with ALS, and slipping downhill. Her beloved grandfather is ill (although not if you ask him) and just old.

John's mother is in her mid-80s; she doesn't drive anymore, since last year's accident which landed her in the hospital for a couple of weeks, followed by a recuperative nursing home stay of several months. She still goes out, with friends to drive her, but she needs a walker to get around and she doesn't have much stamina anymore.

We visited my parents yesterday. They are now 81 and almost-80; Daddy has worsening emphysema, and Mom has begun taking coumadin (so she's always cold) and has unexpectedly acquired rheumatoid arthritis which has turned her, in her words, "from a reasonably active 79-year-old to a disabled 79-year-old in a matter of a few months." She is spending most of her time in bed these days, hoping whatever the doctor has prescribed will work (I don't remember its name, but it's one of the anti-cancer drugs).

Daddy says there will be no garden next spring; he simply doesn't feel up to doing the work. They've lived in this house for 26 years, and, if this holds true, it will be the first time there has been no garden. (My grandparents lived in the house before that, and I never remember a gardenless year.) My brother lives with them, but he has a physically dificult job and his health is declining, so there will be only his small patch next spring.

John is aging, in body if not mind—his arthritis is worsening, and it takes him longer and longer to get going in the morning. I am not nearly as spry as I was last year; there is the inevitable arthritis, though it comes and goes, and it seems to have landed in one ankle, which is new and irritating, since it means my ankle tends to give out at odd times. And I am careful not to let the aspirin bottle empty without a replacement in the cupboard.

There are the cats, five lost this year: Earl, best-beloved and still sorely missed; Jane and Serena, mighty hunters both gone missing in the space of a few weeks; Widget, old and ailing and ready to leave a hurting body behind; and Pixie—poor little dim Pixie, gone before we had a chance to know him but sweet and loving while he was with us. And the rest are aging: Maggie is twelve now, and the "kittens" (the ones that are left: Kali and Mr. Poozle) will be eight next year.

What is my point? Nothing really; other than the observation that things seem to be changing more rapidly than I remember. I am 60 this year, and John is 67. We are slowing down, and time is moving faster and faster. When did I acquire these grown-up children? Brian is 40, and Andy, Karolyn and Max are in their 30s. It doesn't seem possible; yet, there they are. And grandchildren . . . am I that old? I see the first age spots on my hands; I look in the mirror and think, Who is that woman? I look at John, my much-loved, finally-found true companion, and he has suddenly aged while I was looking the other way.

And yet . . . there are new young cats, Ysabeau and Dinah and Darla, most of whom are settled in nicely. (Even Darla has taken to coming out of the storeroom to converse while I fix the morning catfood. There is still NO GETTING TOO CLOSE! and NO TOUCHING!!, but she did deign to sniff my fingers yesterday. And this morning I slept until seven, later than usual, and she was lying in the middle of the kitchen floor, front paws crossed: "And where have you been? I am ready for breakfast!")

There are leaves falling, true, but there are bulbs waiting for spring . The small dogwood in the front bed has set fruit this year for the first time. The young persimmons have fruit—true, only three persimmons between them, but fruit nonetheless. This year's chickens are beginning to lay. We have planted garlic and greens in (the netted-off part of) the garden, and they are thriving. The three rosebushes I planted this summer have all lived through the drought months, and look healthy. We made crabapple jelly the other week with fruit from the tree at the end of the garden; there was so much we couldn't pick it all.

So we continue—we split and stack wood for the coming years (we have enough for the winter already, but you never know . . . ); we preserve things in bits and pieces, and they add up (2 gallons of chestnuts from the tree above the driveway; a dozen jars of jelly; half a dozen jars of pickled onions; squash waiting on the library shelves; a jar of pickled cherry tomatoes in the refrigerator; three bushels of potatoes from the garden; a 20-pound bag of rice to eat when the potatoes run out. . . ); we buy hay and corn for winter feed, and a bag each of scratch feed and sunflower seeds for the birds. We think about gifts for Christmas: what can we make from what we have? Books from the thrift store, bought during the year; yarn for warm hats and scarves and a Spiderman afghan for Riley; fabric for doll clothes and other things; and there will bread and jam and cookies to give, too.

The circle draws in close as the year comes to a close. For all those things that are passing away, there are still things left to enjoy, and to pass on. We won't get any younger, but there will be others after we've gone on. Life goes on, as it always has.

And me? I sit by the stove with my cup of tea and work on warm things to send to those who haven't any, for there are always people who have less than I do; I play with the cats and watch the leaves fall outside; and then I go out to clear the flowerbeds, slowly, for next year's growth, and to plant pansies in the knowledge that spring will undoubtedly come.