The Awesome Ash

                Listening to the crunch of leaves as kids walk past reminds me of a few of life's gifts that I am extra grateful for.  First, I love living on a street lined with ash trees.   (Actually, I think every place I've ever lived in the mid-west has had ash-lined streets.) The leaves of the ash tree curl up into crisp "C" shapes in autumn, resulting in an air pocket that makes the BEST crunch sound of all our local vegetation.   Tromping along the leaf-filled curb is a wonderfully noisy experience that can only be matched by the joy of free-falling into a huge pile of ash leaves--the air pockets having a very satisfying cushion effect.  If you've ever tried to enjoy maple leaves in this way, you'd find yourself sorely disappointed by their anemic crackling and low volume piles.  The maple leaves, while outstanding for their color, pile flat and disintegrate when you step on them.  In other words, they have a very low fun factor.

                Speaking of fun reminds me of the second thing I'm grateful for.  It is my all-time favorite experience that today's generation will never have because it's terrifically dangerous and very illegal…riding on the leaf pile in the back of Dad's pick-up.  Every fall of my youth, after we'd jumped in the leaf piles and scattered them three or four times over, it was time to haul them to the leaf drop on the edge of town.  I grew up on a corner lot with wide ditches that caught everyone's leaves as they blew by, so leaf hauling involved a number of trips.  Dad filled up the back of truck and my little brother and I were in charge of jumping on top to pack down the pile.  Then we'd burrow in for the ride.  Not only did I love the smell of the dried leaves, I loved being buried in that comfy pile looking up at the blue sky and bumping down the road.  If it was cold out, the leaves kept us toasty warm.  Of course,  we'd be picking leaves out of our hair and sweatshirts for days, but Mom usually rewarded our "work" with hot chocolate or apple cider, which made up for the itchiness.         

                My daughter, always properly restrained by a seat belt when riding in the cab of our truck, doesn't have the same memories, but we still made the most of leaf piles when she was younger.  Some days we would sit in the piles, read books, and look for lady bugs (the real kind, not the Asian beetles we have now). One of the favorite games at her childhood birthday parties involved hunting for candy-filled plastic Easter eggs in a gigantic leaf pile.  At the parties we also had a pile at the bottom of the hill with a plastic slide aimed at it and numerous piles on hand for general jumping and tossing.

                The latest reports say a tiny bug, the emerald ash borer, will reach our state in the next few years and eventually decimate the ash population.  It makes me more than a little sad to think about….

Grass Monster Update

             As you can see from the photo, Toby has been busy "plucking" himself.  I suspect we'll be finding furry seedheads around the house for a few more weeks.  He continues to decline all offers to help.

Grass Monster

              Somewhere out there, in the far reaches of our neighborhood lives a patch of grass.  Not just any grass, but the kind with heads that stick like Velcro to long fur.  We may never know the location of this patch, but Toby does. He not only found the patch, but carried home at least 20 specimens, roots and all, nestled in his fur.  By the looks of it, he spent some time trapped in the vegetation before tearing loose.

          Toby strutted into the house waving his green bannered tail only to find himself the center of clowder attention.  The others were all over him, graciously trying to help by ripping the sticky seedheads out of his fur with their teeth.  As any cat owner can testify, there is a limit (usually extremely low) to the amount of indignity a feline will suffer.  Having spent the morning wrestling himself free of the grass patch, Toby had already reached the end of his tolerance.  No matter how miserable the itchy seeds were making him, he paid his housemates in angry hisses instead of gratitude. Finally he broke free of the pack and strutted out the back door with tail held high.  


            Sometimes it's hard to be a cat's friend.

Dreaming

the cat runs
& mews
& twitches
re-chasing that enemy squirrel
with all the ferocity
of a youthful hunter
in sleep unhindered 
by stiff joints 
and tired heart

Hunting Season

Frank enjoys our backyard jungle

                It’s autumn!  In South Dakota, that means it’s hunting season.  Since I’m a vegetarian and my husband is more of a motor head than an outdoorsman, we’ve never gotten involved in our state’s favorite pastime.  The cats, however, embrace it wholeheartedly.

                They began honing their skills when the first leaves hit the ground.  Any loose leaf tumbling in the breeze is fair prey.  The hunters jack up their hind ends, hunch down over their front paws, wiggle their butts in excited anticipation and…pounce!  Another dried leaf bites the dust.  Today, all five of the clowder spent the afternoon in the sun, alternating between naps and stalking. 

                Frank has moved on to more elusive targets:  grasshoppers and cicadas.  The crunchier the bug, the more fun it is to chew.  Eww…I’m especially looking forward to stepping on the crunchy remnants he’ll inevitably hack up this evening.  I’d better wear socks tonight to help cut down on the yuck factor.

                Toby, having reverted to a semi-feral state this fall, has foregone leaves and bugs (except for the occasional butterfly) and has focused his attacks on squirrels.  So far the score is Squirrels 153, Toby 0.  I hate to think what would happen if he actually caught one.  As noted, he’s shed his tame housecat demeanor this fall.  We only see him at night if he needs petting and in the morning when he wants canned food.  The rest of the time we glimpse him in brief blurs as he flies past the window in pursuit of aforementioned squirrels.

                Soon enough the snow will fly and the cats will be stuck inside for the winter.  Let them have their fun as long as these glorious days of autumn last!

Chicken of the Woods

Our homegrown fungus

(Warning:  despite the title this is an animal-free post) 
            Somedays the most wonderful surprises arise in the most ordinary places.  Yesterday we were enjoying a relaxing Sunday afternoon with a hint of autumn in the air, when a neighbor knocked on the door.  He and a friend wondered if it would be alright to cut the fungus out of our front ash tree.  
             The mushroom was one of those frilly, yellow-orange shelf varieties that I have admired my whole life and have even photographed, never dreaming it was edible.  Apparently it is and it tastes like chicken and is quite delicious fried in butter. Its official name is Chicken of the Woods. As a mushroom lover myself, I certainly couldn't say no to their request.
             The young man took one of those saws on the end of a long pole that people use to trim branches and sawed it off while his friend and kids stood below to catch it.  Sadly, it was too dried out to be edible, so the fungus hunters left.  
             Several minutes later there was another knock at the door.  There was our neighbor with an offering of a fresh "chicken" they found down the block. (I LOVE small towns!  I can't imagine this would happen in a big city.)  They wanted to give us a chance to taste this wonderful delicacy.  Guess what's for lunch today?  I can't wait to try it.  
             On this morning's walk, I found myself scanning the trees instead of the sidewalk.  Maybe mushroom hunting is in my future. 
(Postscript:  I fried the mushroom in butter and it does have the exact texture and taste of chicken.  Two thumbs up!)

The Return of the Clowder

Toby hides in the garden to avoid being petted

                My apologies, clowder fans.  I had no intention of staying away so long, but life got in the way and writing moved to the low end of the priority list.  (Writing was still higher on the list than exercise and housework, which speaks sadly of the state of my body and home.)  The good news is that you were spared the story of Frank eating a large beetle and then barfing its parts onto my sandal, and the tale of Jersey's latest vet visit.  Talk about a tough old gal—Jersey, who spent the 30-minute car ride with projectile diarrhea and vomiting and is about age 96 in cat years, was able to fend off five people (three of them trained animal  care specialists) so her blood draw attempt failed miserably. 

                I know I am not alone in having a hectic schedule, but for my quiet drama-free husband and I, it all but undid us to cram several years' worth of major events into one summer.  There were wonderful moments of joy and dreams, beginnings and endings, and all the messy, get-your-hands-dirty stuff of humanity.  My daughter married the love of her life.  They bought a fixer-upper nearby with eleven layers of wallpaper on the walls.  A storm put a tree through their roof and ruined ours.  We learned how to plaster and texture walls.  We met in St. Louis at the beginning of summer and ended the season watching freighters pull into the Duluth harbor.  We spent a month saying goodbye to my mother-in-law—so much living in such a short time.

                Needless to say, the clowder does not appreciate the latest track of our human journey.  Not only have I not been available 24 hours a day to cater to their every whim,  I have refused to hold the kitchen door open and wait for 2-3 minutes while they each take a turn deciding whether to go out or stay in. 

                Their displeasure is manifested in many ways.  For example, one cat has been naughty…repeatedly… on the carpet in the corner of the dining room.  The carpet is wet.  It smells bad.  My blood boils over, but I can't prove who did it.  Of course there are the usual suspects (FRANK!) but no eyewitness evidence.  Toby registers his anger with us by refusing to let us pet him, except at 3:00 a.m. when he wants constant stroking and bites my elbow if I fall asleep and stop.  The remaining cats pin me down the only chance they get—when I'm trying to sleep.  They've adopted a "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes" sleeping formation, with Jersey on my head (she rats my hair with her claws so I awake looking like a poodle), Frank on a shoulder, Finnegan on my knees, and Biff weighing down my toes.  Biff likes that spot because he can bite my feet if I try to move or kick off the covers.

                September has returned with a sense of routine and normalcy.  Hopefully the cats will pick up on that soon and start concentrating on what they do best--living out new storylines that I can share with you.

The Blink of an Eye

The family tree is now a cat jungle gym

                Outside my window, a flurry of crab apple petals has turned my beautiful green view into a late spring blizzard. Just three days ago I sat beneath the tree commenting on how breathtaking it was, looming over our rooftop with all the grandeur of a snow-capped mountain, exuding the pale sweet scent of heaven.  Sigh…such a fleeting moment.  As Robert Frost so perfectly put it, “Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour.  Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day.  Nothing gold can stay.” 

                The crab apple tree  reminds me of so many fleeting moments.  It was in full bloom the day, two decades ago, that my husband and I moved in.  Our bedroom window looked into the tree’s center, and we were lulled to sleep after a hard day of unpacking by the breeze filling the room with apple blossom scent. 

                When our daughter was young, the tree was truly our “family tree,” the center of daily activities.  Its branches were perfect for climbing.  From one branch hung a tire swing and from another, a trapeze.  It was a hiding place for the neighborhood Easter egg hunt and the shady setting for a crazy neighbor kid performance of “The Big Bad Wolf,”complete with script, costumes, and props.

                Beneath the tree sat a huge wooden bench salvaged from the basement.  It was a rustic seat, made of old barn wood, but it was the perfect size for a mother and a preschooler and a bag of library books.  Of all the fleeting moments I miss most, snuggling up to read with my daughter is the hardest to let go.  Clifford and Little Bear and Corduroy and Dr. Seuss were just some of our many book friends.  Now my daughter is a month away from getting married. The home she and her fiancé will move into has an apple tree in the back.  I’m excited for the wonderful moments ahead of them.

                When I was a child I had a vivid recurring dream of talking with Jesus under a flowering tree.  It was so happy and peaceful, that the scent of apple blossoms brings it instantly to mind.  Maybe the dream was a glimpse of what heaven will be like, or maybe it was pointing to the moments of heaven on earth that awaited me as an adult.  Either way, I’m sad to see the petals fall again, but I know next spring will bring more joy.

Big Meanie

             Today the cats voted me the meanest pet owner ever. Here it was, a glorious spring day--sun shining, birds singing, bugs hopping--and I was completely ignoring their heart-wrenching pleas to go outside.  My husband had sprayed the lawn with weed killer and until it dried, there was a "no cats on the grass" policy in force.  
              I calmly explained this to the clowder, many times.  I brought them each a tender shoot of catmint to munch on.  I opened the windows to draw  the outdoors in to greet them.  Did they appreciate any of this?  Of course not!  Instead they piled into the five square feet of space by the kitchen door and howled in discontent.  If I left the kitchen, they followed, continuing their mournful cries.  After an hour of this, cat turned on cat and fur and claws flew in angry frustration.  (Actually, this may have been a ploy to get kicked outside--starting fights is usually a sure way to be evicted.)  
             The hour of fighting turned into another hour of despair.  Mutual misery turned enemies into friends.  Wonder of wonders, Biff and Frank actually snuggled together on the kitchen door threshold.  The remaining three ganged together for a campaign of chaos, another tactic to get ejected from the house.
             By this time the lawn was dry and I couldn't take another minute of their presence.  I threw them all out.  Hopefully their systems can take a little weed killer--it can't be any more dangerous than the wrath they inspired in me.

Man's Best Friend

Finny greets us from the car hood

            Non-cat people often ask me what the point of having cats is.   I'll admit that I've asked myself that more than once, usually after an especially "cat"astrophic  moment or when feeling "cat"atonic from another sleepless night due to cats hogging all the bed space and covers. (My deepest apologies for the "cat" references--I just couldn't resist!  I'll try not to let it happen again.)
             All I can say is that there are moments when they love you unconditionally and make you feel special.  Like when we return from a trip to the grocery store: Finnegan is on the car hood meowing about how much he missed us before we can even open the doors.  Sometimes a little love IS the point of having cats. 

Special Delivery

                Hmm...The box says it contains one "LP Gas Tailgate Grill" in hunter green.  It doesn't say anything about varmints and it didn't come with airholes.

Bath Time

            We really need rain.  Every time I put my face near a cat I sneeze thanks to the thick coat of dust they picked up from rolling in the yard.  Jersey, our once black and white cat, gets her annual shots tomorrow, so we just forced her to bathe to lessen her street urchin appearance.  As you can see from the after photo, we only succeeded in removing the first layer of grime. If there were more sunlight in the bathroom, we could grow plants in  

Almost white again

  the soil left after draining the sink.
              I'm also including a picture of Henriette's bath time.  Hedgehogs are buoyant and are suppose to delight in floating on their backs in water.  We haven't found this to be true.  Henriette spends most of her bath time frantically trying to escape the tub.


                  

Henriette's bath

Awakening Sounds

                I just started reading a wonderful book about contemplation techniques for artists and writers.  Over the last few years I find myself too easily distracted and am hoping this book will help me focus my thoughts.  For example, I just spent a minute in the middle of typing that last sentence analyzing a long gray hair on my keyboard—I determined it was my own...sigh….Anyway, I’d share the title of the book, but it’s on a different electronic device and Biff won't move off my knees so I can go get it.  Looking over that last statement, I’m starting to form a pretty good theory on the sources of my distracted state-of-mind.

The neighboring church steeple at twilight

                The first suggestion the book makes is to walk, daily if possible, and pay attention as the calls of creation try to catch my attention.  Since it’s already twilight and I’m in my pjs, I modified the exercise to involve sitting on the patio swing listening to world.  What an amazing world it is, an entire symphony of sounds awakening from frozen winter silence!  Gone are the hushed, icy tinkles of blowing snow and the thin rattle of branches rubbing in the wind.  Tonight’s sounds have the resonance of a thawed world, with a much earthier quality and healthier abundance than last month.  Birds are making their final evening calls.  Cars are cruising the street with windows down so teenagers can shout to friends they pass.  Footsteps of dogs and runners and walkers surround me.  The dark is filled with laughter and voices and the sound of shutting doors.

                I can see multiple cat faces peeking out the kitchen window, meowing protests at being left inside.  How can I concentrate when I'm being stared at?  Oh well, it’s too cool to stay out much longer anyway.  I think I’ll return another evening for a healthy dose of nature’s distractions.  The world has much to say over the electric din of our gadgets.

Recipe for a Blissful Nap

Toby didn't make it to the bed before he crashed

                Looking ahead at the seven-day forecast I see several open-window days.  When I was a kid, I judged the quality of the spring weather by the opportunity to go barefoot.  Now I rate a spring day highly if the temperature is mild enough to open the windows and the breeze gentle enough to soothe the soul.

                An open window, preferably with a soft wind blowing through it, is essential for the blissful kind of nap I dream of all winter long.  What makes spring naps superior to those of other seasons is that they usually follow mornings of hard work getting the yard back into shape.  I love the energy spring weather gives me—enough to break out of winter hibernation and tackle the world head-on.  It feels good to loosen up the muscles with the help of the sun’s warmth soaking through my jacket.  After a few hours, exhaustion calls me to rest.

                The cats operate on the same principle:  long hours exploring outdoors + a soft bed in front of the window = unconsciousness.  Ever since my daughter gave up naps at age three, I’ve had a very deep appreciation for afternoon sleep and am thankful the cats agree.  For some reason (I’m certainly not complaining) they are willing to share the bed during the day, unlike at night when they hog my side.  If you need me for anything, don’t call between 2:00 and 3:00—I’ll be busy.

Biff and Finnegan napping together

Small Wonders

           Some years I miss them.  It happens when the snow overstays its welcome and forms a hard crust along the boulevard.  During those springs, the snowdrops bloom beneath the snow and I don't find their spent blossoms and withered foliage until the thaw finally comes--a lost opportunity to glimpse life's return.
            This year I'm blessed.  There, nestled among the cracked remnants of last autumn's leaves and the bleached grass awaiting rain, is a beautiful bouquet.  Snowdrops--tiny and unobtrusive, remarkable only for their early arrival.  If they waited just a week longer to appear, they'd be lost in a world turning vibrant green. For today, though, they hold the entire hope of spring in their hardy petals, and for that they are loved..