Take Joy!

In which I dreamt I was a bee . . .

I dreamt I was a bee, golden brown and shiny-eyed, my wings strong to bring back loads of pollen to the hive for the nourishment of my queen and the younglings to come. My likeness was drawn on the walls of the ancient caves, deep underground, for my essential place in the scheme of things was known to all. I and my brothers would go out in the dewy morning, to the fields of flowers offering pollen. We would fill our baskets until they would hold no more, and then fly back to the hive, the busy hive humming with blessed activity; we would leave our golden loads and fly out again. Once I discovered a new place, flower-filled, where there was bounty for all, and I flew back to the hive and danced for the others to show them the way; they followed me back and there was enough pollen for us to bring home for days. We prepared for winter, filling the combs with honey to tide us over the cold days when nothing bloomed . . . but they never came. It stayed warm, but the blooming time was over and we found no blossoms, no pollen. Many of us died, but the cold days never came and our lives were disrupted. Our young never emerged, because the seasons were wrong. Our queen emerged, to take us to a new place where things were right, but she found no such place and died, leaving us alone. Finally the cold came, but we had no home now and we died. Flowers bloomed again in the spring, but there were no bees to harvest their golden pollen, no queen to tuck away new small ones for the future, no one to make honey for all to eat, no one to tend the younglings that never emerged. All was laid waste.

Halloween Approaches . . .

Here are Boo (at least, he would be boo-ing if he were more awake)

and Batty

They were made for a NP/NI (no photo/no instructions) challenge in the Soft Animals Studio at Cloth Doll Artistry. Boo is made of Minkee fleece, which I apparently bought for something that never transpired . . . Batty is Halloween fabric from The Stash. I think it's four or five years old; not this year's, at any rate. The faceplates are felt, Batty's eyes are vintage ball buttons, and the ribbon is some I had left from something else.

And now, back to costumes . . .

Guess who was here again?

Yep, a bear. Another bear—this one a good-sized male (300 pounds or so) who apparently knows how to climb a fence, or perhaps climb up a tree and jump down on the other side of the fence. Or maybe he came up through the goat lot. Who knows? At any rate, I heard the trash can go over about 2:30 in the morning, looked out the window (it's right under the bedroom windows) and there he was—head in the can, munching happily. I watched him for half an hour or so, then got John and we both watched for another hour. It's a pity it wasn't daylight (well, not really, but you know what I mean) or I could have taken a picture or two. At one point he was lying flat on his stomach, back legs stretched out and his whole head in the can.

Judging from the dog uproar all around, there were several bears abroad last night, but no others came to visit. And since I had taken the feeders in, he didn't make a huge mess; just ate until he was full and shambled off.

Apropos of [probably] nothing, bears are sacred to Thor.

This is my latest piece of jewelry:

(It's a Thor's hammer pendant.)

In other news, the chestnuts are blooming, which means my nose is stopped up and I have a headache . . . for about two weeks. Sounds like a good time to sit on the porch and knit.

Wildlife

(No pictures, unfortunately; I didn't have the camera handy today.)

We have a groundhog; I'm calling it "he" because I think it's the same one that was here in the spring, looking for a lady groundhog so they could make whoopee. (If he found her, thankfully it was on someone else's land.) We came home last week and saw something on top of the giant pile of wood waiting to be split. John thought it was Mr. Poozle, since it was gray and large . . . but no, it was the groundhog, surveying his territory. At least until he saw us . . . then he wanished under the chestnut tree. (Come to think of it, I wonder if that's who's been eating all the chestnuts? The tree was loaded, but all we got was a measley three pints.)

Yesterday when I was getting in the laundry, I passed too close to the old oil drum, and there were frantic rustlings heading toward the hole under the house. I investigated, and found the faint beginnings of a path through the weeds.

Today we were going out (the monthly pilgrimage to the Shrine of Cat Munchies, otherwise known as PetsMart), and as I passed by the ruins of the old greenhouse, there was a mighty scuffling in the leaves and the sight of a furry tail vanishing into the ruins. Guess who?

I think he needs a name. Portly, perhaps; he's pretty good-sized.

This evening Mr. Poozle brought in a flying squirrel—alive. (He's soft-mouthed; he doesn't catch things often, and when he does he doesn't kill them intentionally. I think he's just curious and wanting to share: "Look at this! Isn't it cool?") I've seen two others in the nine years I've lived here, and they were both dead. Apparently there's a colony of them in the trees at the end of the garden. This one fit in the palm of my hand, and was so, so soft, with a lovely long tail . . . and terrified. I put on a garden glove, just in case, and retrieved him (her? I didn't investigate.) from the floor; I took him out to the woodpile and put him high enough to get a good gliding start if he lives. John says they go into shock easily if they're caught, but he was still bright-eyed and wary, and not breathing too terribly hard. I hope he lives; I don't suppose I'll know one way or the other, so I shall imagine him/her getting up, cautiously, and gliding off into the night in search of . . . whatever they eat.

And there are the usual squirrels and birds (less one titmouse, courtesy of Ysabeau. At least she ate it, so it wasn't wasted.), and a couple of game roosters (loose, aparently, or else escape artists) who come over every couple of days to see what's edible on the ground under the bird feeders, and the big roosters who have exited the goat lot . . . yes, these are the roosters we have been feeding for a year, nearly, while John planned to kill and freeze them any day now. Just for the record, there are no roosters in my freezer. Nor are there likely to be.

'Sokay. I'd much rather eat rice and beans and watch the old boys squabbling over spilled corn and attempting to intimidate the cats, who just sit and glare at them: "You just wait, you old so-and-so, until I get bigger. Then I'll have rooster for supper!"

On another note, we have not nearly as many raccoons and possums as we did at the start of the summer. I hate to see them killed (and I'm glad I don't have to do it), but I also hate to have them eat my chickens. This time cuteness loses to practicality: out of 75 or so chickens ordered at the beginning of the summer, six have survived. SIX.

However, the fifty-odd that were ordered in July (late for chickens here), all but three, I think, have made it. That's normal; you always lose a few. These have moved from the brooder boxes into the fenced-off end of the chicken lot, and have been there for a couple of weeks, getting used to the big chickens (and vice versa). Tomorrow, probably, we will open up one side of the pen and let them mingle at will; and I will probably put fresh straw under the chicken house so all and sundry can forage to their hearts' content.

Life. Just life going on, in spite of everything.

Thief!

So now we know who's been eating all that birdseed.

Morning Squirrel

Autumn Scenes

Photos today and not much else . . . I've been to the doctor for lab work this morning (which meant I couldn't eat anything for 12 hours)*, and been outside working since. I'm too tired to write anything coherent! Maybe later . . .

Looking out the back door . . . the wind has been blowing a bit today, sending golden leaves spiraling down. I tried to catch them with the camera, but had no luck. They were beautiful, though; autumn's coin raining down on me while I worked.

An autumn crocus blooming in the back bed

The nasturtiums have gotten their second wind

And so, alas, have the Spanish needles (ignore the dirty house)

Mona, fat and wooly and ready for winter

Thinking of Thanksgiving, perhaps

Finally, some feathers growing back in!

*Listen to me . . . complaining because I can't eat for twelve whole hours . . . how disgusting! I ought to be ashamed.

Things That Go Bump In The Night, Part II

The back porch is a regular Grand Central Station some nights:

first the possum returns

then one of the raccoons drops by

and here is someone new

John has lived in this house for 40  years and never seen a skunk here before. We hope he (she? I'm not getting close enough to investigate) is only passing through . . . all this was a couple of nights ago, and I haven't seen him since, so perhaps he has moved along.

The Night Visitor

We had a visitor last night . . . I heard a bump and clatter on the back porch, and there he was: the small black possum. Quite probably a descendant of the large black possum who ate here last year and the year before, and grew to be rotund, like a football with legs and a scaly tail. This one, however, is small and tidy, and hungry . . . he had eaten all the cat food in both bowls on the porch floor and was eyeing the one on the refrigerator. (Victoria's; she won't eat on the ground, and she doesn't like to share.) When I opened the screen door he had managed to get up on to the freezer and was contemplating how to scale the side of rhe refrigerator . . .

He beat a hasty retreat when I went back to get the camera, and this was all I managed to catch:

A minute later he peeked around the post, and I got this one: (It's blurry, but he wasn't interested in posing, just eating.)

Usually he eats out on the deck on the other side of the house, but I had selfishly neglected to fill that bowl before it got dark.

Caught in the Act!

I discovered who's been eating all the suet . . .

I wondered why it had been disappearing so quickly! Even with young bluejays about . . .

(Links to many, many neat photos at The Modulator's Friday Ark . . . go have a look.)