Take Joy!

Miscellany

Journal Quilt, made by me in . . . 2007?

• After two days of unremitting pain in lower back, thighs, calves, right ankle, the impending cold front finally showed up; I could walk without pain today! So I went to Lowe's to buy a new chairside lamp (because the old one's on-off switch ceased to work and I don't know how to fix it. I'll call Angel this weekend; she can do all sorts of stuff like that.) and some amaryllis and paperwhites, so I can be seasonal if it ever gets cold again; to Walmart to get cat litter, assorted office supplies, more cat/dog food, pee pads, another soft cat carried (because it's a lot easier to tote a cat to the vet in one of those, and my other one is at the vet with Beamish), miscellaneous human food, and some other odds and ends, all coming to an alarming total; to the library to return three books that I simply couldn't get interested in and pick up five books from my alltogether-too-long holds lists. We shall see if these turn out to be any better than the last batch. I'm spoiled; I spent the summer reading Robin Hobb's Realm of the Elderlings books (all 2000+ pages of them) and I want something as enthralling as those. So far I haven't found it.

After I finished hauling everything in from the car, my back was complaining loudly, so I sat with the heating pad for a while, then put everything away.

•Beamish is at the vet, and will be staying for fourteen days. She has an infection involving E. coli and has to have intravenous fluids while it works so it doesn't fry her kidneys. I miss her a lot more than I thought I would. I need to go in tomorrow and drop off her Revolution, since it's due at the end of the month, and pick up Bella's trilostane.

•I didn't water. I should have, but rain is forecast for tonight and tomorrow. If it doesn't show up tonight, I'll water in the morning when I get back from the vet. That should make it rain for sure.

• I bought three magazines at Walmart: this year's Interweave Knits gift issue; the current Interweave Crochet, which actually had some things that weren't really weird looking or made in some form of crochet I don't know how to do; and something called Crochet Workshop, put out by Crochet magazine, which shows how to do Tunisian crochet, among other things. Some of the things look . . . odd, to be blunt; but there's a nice-looking entrelac infinity scarf. I don't crochet very often, and I need to do more so I'll remember what I know, and I'd like to learn some other things. Not so much with knitting: I like to make hats and cowls and scarves, and do colorwork. I've made one sweater, and decided that's too much work for what I get. Also, cats . . . I don't want to spend weeks and weeks making something that I can only wear outside the house. So.

•Karolyn is coming over on Sunday; we are going back to Walmart, because I want a microwave and I can't lift one. (Well, actually I don't want one, but I am going to be unable to move without pain every time a cold front shows up, it would be easier to have one so I can just heat up something frozen. I'd rather cook, but not if it hurts like it has the past couple of days.)

Yes, I've been to my doctor, who 'has no idea what it is', and with my heart meds, I can only take Tylenol . . . which is better than nothing, but not a lot. Maybe some more Tramadol, which I don't like because it makes me groggy and I can't drive, but at least I could get a decent night's sleep.

Getting old is enlightening, if not much fun.

 

Back in the Day . . .

Eliza, Halloween costume

Riley, Halloween costume

Eliza, Lion costume for school

Eliza is now 18 (or will be, come the end of December) and Riley is 13. All costumes made by me, back before John died and my creative mojo disappeared into the ether.

This is a Prayer for Mabon; This is a Prayer for Resistance.

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This is a prayer for the Witches’ Thanksgiving.  This is a prayer for Resistance.

This is a prayer for mead and cider, for cornbread and collards. This is a prayer for Resistance.

This is a prayer for visits, for gratitude, for families.  This is a prayer for Resistance.

Mabon is an act of Resistance, the deliberate decision to establish connections, to reach out, to take joy in watching others eat.  This is a prayer for Mabon.

This is a prayer for wheat sheaves and pumpkins, for turkey and turnips.  This is a prayer for Resistance.

This is a prayer for taking stock, for settling in, for facing the dark.  This is a prayer for Resistance.

Mabon is an act of Resistance, the courage to say, “There is a place set for you at our table,”* the fire to fight for what we love, the refusal to allow hunger to win.  This is a prayer for Mabon.

This is a prayer for cheeses and ale, for cherries and chestnuts.  This is a prayer for Resistance.

This is a prayer for re-establishing balance, for reaching out, for doing more.  This is a prayer for Resistance.

Mabon is an act of Resistance, the belief that bounty should be shared, that people should be fed, that “only justice can undo a curse.”**  This is a prayer for Mabon.

This is a prayer for squashes and pies, for and rhubarb and roasts.  This is a prayer for Resistance.

This is a prayer for the act of sharing, for sitting with guests, for stories by the fire.  This is a prayer for Resistance.

May your Mabon be blessed.  May you continue to Resist.  This is my prayer for you.

* A line in The Fifth Sacred Thing.  

**Byron Ballard

Picture found here.  

Reposted from hecatedemeter at hecatedemeter.wordpress.com.

 

 

 

No good news today . . .

Finally got a call from the vet: Beamish has some sort of bacterial infection featuring E coli, boosted by some sort of enzymes I can't remember and probably couldn't pronounce anyway, which makes it highly resistant to inexpensive, run-of-the-mill antibiotics. So she will have to have something human-grade, be hospitalized for 14 days with an intravenous drip lest it fry her kidneys, and the total will be just under $800. I did point out that she's 16 now; they countered with 'we treat cats as old as 20'; I told them to go ahead. I can see my savings account, already miniscule, dwindling even as we speak (so to speak). But it's Beamish.

Also, I need new tires. Four of them. Before winter sets in, so next month, or the next for sure.

AND my yearly eye exam is overdue, and probably new glasses. So is my mammogram, but I don't have to pay for that. It's just another thing to do.

I'm looking at expensive dental work: replacement crown, plus drilling out the packing stuff in the tooth, dealing with the decay, and refilling it; either one or two partials, depending (missing two molars on one side, one on the other) after the place where I just had a tooth extracted (it is healing nicely, though); eye exam (overdue) and probably new glasses.

And I still hurt. Lower back, down  both legs, right ankle. Maybe sciatica? In which case, from my reading, it's a case of grin and bear it, it'll get better when it does. My doctor's no help—"I don't have any idea what that is." Neither do I, but I'm living with it and you aren't.

However. . . after I dropped Beamish at the vet, returned from the DMV (got this year's sticker and was out the door in ten minutes!), and dealt with depressing phone calls from said vet, I fed the remaining cats and Bella and settled in my rocker with the heating pad, a cup of hot spiced cider and English muffins with real butter . . . calories be damned! They were exceedingly good.

AND both the hummingbirds are back this morning! (I hadn't seen them for a couple of days.) Not much blooming right now, so I need to make up some sugar water and fill their feeder.

It's autumn, finally (even though high 80's are forecast today), and decent weather is on the way. Sometime. Nonetheless, it's my favorite time of year. I saw Canada geese last week, a big V of them, heading south and talking among themselves. The dogwoods are festooned with lovely big spiderwebs, and one is full of berries (the other is older, and hasn't produced any berries for a couple of years). My pot of marigolds has gotten its second wind, and is full of blooms.

Here is a gratuitous picture of some fall foliage; these maples were at the old house:

Moonflowers

I planted two vines this spring (bought at Painter's Greenhouse outside Old Fort), and have enjoyed them mightily all summer. I didn't try to save any seeds; instead, I'm waiting to see if new vines come up next year. (Scientific experiment by way of laziness)

 

 

Bella and Leo, BFF

The Players

Bjarki is the oldest, at nearly 17. She was given to me because 'she scratched the wall and we can't keep her.' She doesn't scratch the wall here, but with all the cat-induced disorder, who would notice if she did?

Next is Beamish, 16 or thereabouts. She must be kept shaved because she doesn't groom anymore, has a curly undercoat, and hates to be brushed—all of which lead to horrible mats and much wailing and gnashing of teeth. She is needy right now, and has her own TV tray next to my rocker, so she can keep an eye on where I am.

Darla, age unknown, but I think 12 or 14. She was one of the two John's daughter brought over one day years ago, and said, "We're moving and we can't take the cats. Here." (The other was Dinah, who died a couple of years ago of some sort of lung disease.) Darla lives on my bed and doesn't want anything to do with any other people.

Fat Annie, 12 or so, who was my mother's old cat. (My brother kept the other two.) She spends most of the day in her rocker, with periodic forays out into the yard to see if anything interesting is going on . . .or, more probably, if there might be anything worth eating out there.

Ysabeau, commonly referred to as Bozle, who is 10-ish, I think. She was a stray at Mom and Daddy's house, and she's never forgotten that food might not show up on schedule, so better eat as much as possible while it's here.

The Doot, who was originally named Sara because we all thought he was a girl, and is 7. We rescued him and his brother Robbie the Bruce from a farm down in Swannanoa.( Unfortunately, Robbie disappeared while we were staying in my sister's rental,
waiting to move into this house. I suspect coyotes, but possibly someone took him; he was a beautiful boy.) Doot is huge —18 pounds—but decidedly not brave. I love him anyway.Leo, six. He'd love to be friends with Beamish, but she hates him. He is also jealous of her TV tray, so he has one on the other side of the rocker. I am surrounded . . .

And the baby, Miss Kitty, who is four. She, too, came from my parents' house. She just showed up one day and hung around; obviously she belonged to someone. They lived on Bat Cave Road, a major thoroughfare full of fast cars and large trucks, where an outside cat is under a death sentence; the only questions is how long it will take.

They all go in and out as they will, but nearly all of them stay inside the fence. Leo and The Doot go out of the yard and down to visit the neighbor who feeds all the neighborhood strays, just in case he might have something better than we do. Miss Kitty will go out and sit just outside the fence, just to prove that she's as big as anyone else, I guess.

Bella, The Black Defender. my velcro dog. She's 14, has only one eye (and a cataract in it, from the looks of it, but my budget unfortunately does not extend to dog cataract surgery), and her hearing is iffy, but there's nothing wrong with her nose. She defends us nightly from whatever dares to enter the yard (raccoons, mostly) and frightens away the mailman, the UPS truck and the trash guy. (Must be: she barks and they drive away . . . ) The rest of the time she's wherever I am: I sit down, she lays down as close as possible so I can't escape without her knowledge. The only thing she doesn't help with is vacuuming. Neither does anyone else. . .

 

I'm Back! (At least I think I am)

It's been a long stretch between posts, hasn't it?

Since John died, I've taken in my daughter and her family, then we all decided that wasn't such a fine idea after all, so they moved out; sold the old house in Asheville (to a lovely woman, her husband and their small daughter; her mother bought it for them, and had all its myriad faults fixed without removing its elderly charm), moved to the other side of the mountain to stay in my sister's rental house for several months while house-hunting (there Robbie met what I suppose to be his end: he went out one day and never came back. There are coyotes there . . . so he is probably a small heap of tarnished silver fur and gnawed bone. But maybe not; maybe someone took him in. I don't dwell on it. Much.); bought a house in Marion and moved again; helped my siblings caretake for my mother before she died of bladder cancer nearly two years ago, and then my father until his death from congestive heart failure/heart attack a year ago; and now I am living in my house with eight cats and a dog (Bella the Black Defender, who will fearlessly attack the shoes of visitors), mostly-back-to-normal (or what passes for normal here in the Land of  Many Cats) and spending a lot of time knitting and reading. Karolyn lives in Asheville and comes over once a week to ferry her poor old mother to appointments, or Wal-Mart, where I buy heavy awkward stuff like cat litter and bags of sunflower seeds so she can carry them inside at home.

It is finally autumn! Yesterday was damp and drizzly, and twenty degrees cooler than the day before (when it was 90-some!). Today is the same, though without the drizzle. The dogwood in the front yard is festooned with a magnificent spiderweb, the moonflower vines on the front fence are absolutely gorgeous, and the flowerbeds (which encompass most of the front yard; I just pay someone to come and weed-eat the back once a month. I had Plans when I bought the house, since it faces south and get full sun, but then I hurt my back and then fell and hurt my knee, and now I have arthritis with a capital A . . . It's a hill and I don't go back there much.), the flowerbeds have that rusty and down-at-heel look they get in the fall.

It's a good thing I'm outside the city limits, or I'd have to Do Something With The Yard.

My plans to attack the privet and honeysuckle that are engulfing the side yard (the other side is woods and staying that way; there's a grand old oak tree there. One day if I come into money, I'll pay someone to remove the big dead limb overhanging the carport—which has no car in it, but serves as storage for pots, mulch and potting soil—but that's all I'm doing with it.) were derailed by Arthritis. Or something. My doctor, when I tell her about the latest pains, says, "I don't have any idea what that is. Try this gabapentin." Which worked, mostly, but then I had to have a molar pulled and a week of amoxicillin (which is going on my "I don't want to take this again" list) and now everything hurts again. (And, by the way, did you know that once you have a root canal, since there is no longer blood going to the tooth, it sort of welds itself to the jaw bone? "I'm going to have to saw this apart to get the roots out." Knowledge I could have done without, I believe. But it's OK now, and closing up nicely.)

I have no pictures right now; maybe tomorrow I can get outside with the camera. But for now, here's a spooky (or at least she thinks so) little girl . . .

 

Poem for Mabon

Ephemeral truce.
The dark begins
its long winning streak.
But for now
in this disheveled garden
a riot of blowsy flowers
hangs on like a chorus
of aging show girls
still with a few good kicks.
The air is ripe
with seedy perfume
and pleasant lies,
the pomegranate shared
between two mouths.
This is our second harvest,
the corn, the squash,
the reconstructed
memories of summer.
Ceres, comfort us with apples,
with grapes and the wine of grapes.
Wheaten breads are baked
in the shape of the sun.
We savor them
with honey.
It will be a long time
before this golden
moment comes again.

Dolores Stewart Riccio