A little bit of This and a very little bit of That

Sunday with no Church


In lieu of I wrote  a letter to my sister, put the summer bulbs to bed in a cosy box of vermiculite, went to the store to replenish Callie's special cat food treat (of which she gets one teaspoon a day) and settled down this afternoon to do a bit of spinning.

It is a while since I have done any serious spinning, especially from roving.  I am used to using hand carders and making little piles of rolags (like airy sausages of wool in case the word is not familiar to you) that make the spinning super easy.


So I detached some of the roving from that lovely pink braid I bought at the newly discovered wool shop and teased it out into an airy cloud, - then into yard long bits with all the yarn going one way, lengthwise, and then I started to spin.  Not perfectly, - far from it.  The technique was slow in coming back to me and when I tried a long draw, which I used to love, I found the thread getting skinnier and skinnier.  Back to a short draw, and a few lumps and bumps, but here is what I did on the bobbin.

Sallie of A Full Time Life was asking about instructions for a Moebius Scarf, and here is one below.

About the instructions, I must confess that I don't follow those terribly complicated ones that use a circular needle, - or even two circular needles.  When I first read about a Moebius Scarf in 'Knitting Around' by Elizabeth Zimmerman she explained the basics by describing a "rather long skinny piece of paper, given one twist and stuck together to form the Moebius Ring; a ring with one surface and one edge.

Of course, - I saw it right away - how simple.  And that is how I knitted it then and how I knit it still.

I am not a purist who must make it seamless,  - I am very prosaic and just knit that long skinny rectangle, give it a twist and then sew the ends together, - carefully.

Here is the one I am making now, knitting that lovely ball of wool in garter stitch for as many inches as I need to go around the neck once, loosely and comfortably, - or twice for extra warmth if the 195 m in the ball will stretch that far.  A piece of cake - perfect for mindless knitting if your hands demand to be busy.......

If you don't knit but you are still interested in the Moebius, and especially if you are interested in Topology, which "concerns itself with vast spaces in contrast to specific sizes and shapes of the Euclidean configurations, and uses more than the three dimensions of Euclid.  To study these multidimensional spaces they have to be classified, and this requires an object to compare them to.  This object has to have the unique property of having only ONE surface, and this need was filled by the invention of the great Mathematician/Topologist, August Ferdinand Moebius (1790-1868".  pge 53, Knitting Around by Elizabeth Zimmerman.

And that is quite possibly more than you wanted to know, Sallie, but who knows how many Dimensions the future holds for us....

In Memory.....

 

 

Loving Memory

 

Dorothy Emily Grace

 

By love they are remembered

 

and in memory they live

A bright day despite the rain and clouds

One would wonder at my great elation and enthusiasm on finding a new Wool Shoppe in Penticton - The Knotty Knitter.  Not only is it a NEW wool shop, it is the ONLY wool shop in Penticton, the town having been bereft of any place to buy yarn for the last seven years since an arsonist destroyed the one and only wool shop and so discouraged the owner

that she packed up and went back to Nova Scotia.

The reason one would be inclined to wonder why I should be so elated can be found in the garage, where each of the shelves that line the west wall are piled high with cones and balls and skeins and hanks and pre-wound warps - linen, silk, fine wool, worsted, handspun, 10/2 cotton, 8/2 cotton, 16/2 cotton in all shades and varying amounts - but no self-striping yarn that makes those marvelous colourful socks so much in demand by kids of all ages.!!!

It is only a long narrow strip of a store, but what treasures it contains!  Even roving for spinning, and I came home with a lovely pink braid - polwarth with a touch of silk, anxious to crowd off the brown llama thread that has almost filled the bobbin on the spinning wheel for ages, since one leg got loose and kept falling off.

But our youngest son, who kindly took me to Penticton the long way round, so I could take pictures,

 

 

also fixed the leg on the spinning wheel.  

So what should I do first?????

 

Cast on for a pair of fingerless texting gloves to accommodate one of the grandkids for Christmas, or a moebus scarf for which one ball of striped wool should be sufficient? Or should I put on a good DVD and spend the evening spinning????

 

 

Tomorrow the Berlin Philharmonic Digital Concert Hall features Reinhard Goebel conducting among other presentations, some Mozart and some Bach.  Eight p.m. Berlin time, but just over the noon hour here in B.C.  A lovely way to spend the time,

treadling the pedal.....

Our children, - all of them - are so very kind and caring and fun to be with, and Vincent also came with me to THE FLOWER SHOP - exotically dangerous and full of temptations,

only to be entered with blinders that hide the side view as you go

directly to the object you are there to buy.

 

It is not only dangerous but the owners are crafty, and right beside the check-out counter they have a wonderful array of bouquets at cut prices.  One of which we came home with!!!!

 

Gosh, a bright day despite the rain and clouds.....

 

 

ABC Wednesday

The Letter this week is L

L is for Limerick

A short, humorous, sometimes ribald, nonsense poem

 

consisting of five lines

 

with an anapestic metre  AABBA

 

popularized by Edward Lear in his 'Book of Nonsense'

 

 

 

and taken up by all sorts and conditions of men (and women)

 

some entertaining, and some really just awful!!!

 

Here are some good ones by Ogden Nash

 

Limerick One

 

An elderly bride of Port Jervis

Was quite understandably nervis,

Since her apple-cheeked groom,

With three wives in the tomb,

Kept insuring her during the Service.

 

Limerick Two

 

There was a young lady of Guam

Who peddled her charms, charm by charm,

Inspired, I suppose,

By the classical prose

Of W. Somerset Maugham.

 

Limerick Three

 

A lady from near Rising Sun,

She flattened her boy friend in fun,

Saying, Don't worry kid,

That's for nothing you did,

It's for something I dreamt that you done.

There are others which are really much too risqué to be included in a fine Meme like

ABC Wednesday

created by Mrs. Nesbitt and Loyally maintained by Roger Green and all the lads and lasses who

visit the participants.

 

Leap over to the loverly site to see what other Ls are lying in wait for you.

Farewell to September

September Field  Brian LaSaga

After a wild and stormy night the day dawns gently, albeit very moist.

On this last day of September,  a little melancholy, a little tender, I post today's rendering on

 'A Year of Being Here'........

 

 

September Meditation

 
I do not know if the seasons remember their history or if the days and
nights by which we count time remember their own passing.

I do not know if the oak tree remembers its planting or if the pine
remembers its slow climb toward sun and stars.

I do not know if the squirrel remembers last fall's gathering or if the
bluejay remembers the meaning of snow.

I do not know if the air remembers September or if the night remembers
the moon.

I do not know if the earth remembers the flowers from last spring or if
the evergreen remembers that it shall stay so.

Perhaps that is the reason for our births—to be the memory for
creation.

Perhaps salvation is something very different than anyone ever expected.

Perhaps this will be the only question we will have to answer:
"What can you tell me about September?"

"September Meditation" by Burton D. Carley. © Burton D. Carley.

 

Snow on the mountains this morning.....

 

   Snow on the mountains

 

 

 Rain in the valley, and the willow tree leans close,

tapping on the window, glistening with raindrops.

Out in the garden the sunflowers take note of the of the white mountain tops

 and lean closer together, waiting for the small birds to come to come and feast,

 twittering with news of the approach of winter.

I bring the plants  from the summer porch and tuck them in for winter

wherever there is a window to surround them with light  - 

 and sunshine, when it comes. 

They have grown during their summer sojourn, both in size and numbers

as my good neighbor has popped across the street with plants freshly propagated,

-  or in need of!!!

 

The mail arrives and in it a poem from 'A Year of Being Here'

 

September Midnight   Sara Teasdale

Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
       Ceaseless, insistent.  

The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples,
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn, broken,
       Tired with summer.  
Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us,
       Snow-hushed and heavy.  

Over my soul murmur your mute benediction,
While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
       Lest they forget them.

 

A little blue sky, a little sunshine now, late in the morning.

 

A digital Skype call from our youngest son, up on the meadow in the Chilcotin,

with live pictures of chipmunks running along the snake fence

that surrounds the property, - what he calls the chipmunks'

four-lane highways as they use each layer of the fence

for transporting seeds from the meadow to their winter stash.

 

He tells me of his morning visit to the beaver's dam

and how she has prepared for winter, with her

stack of willow wood and her smooth mud entry

to the water from her cozy stick home.

 

And of the symbiotic arrangement the black bear (that makes the meadow

his summer home) has with the beaver;  in return for access to her waterway

he discourages the beaver from straying too far from home and cutting down the aspen

that the two footed inhabitants of the meadow

set great store by, and would be very cross and not have such friendly feelings

for the beaver were she to include the aspen in her winter stash of food, along with the willow.

 

I am eternally and incredibly amazed at the technology that allows me to see

from 500 miles away little clips of

chipmunks, racing along the fence, -

the beaver's home, and

occasionally even the black bear (although not often)

 

Did see a Grizzly on the meadow once, though, via Skype.

 

Perhaps if the sun keeps shining and the clouds part I will get up

to the country garden and get that red peony

and a huge hosta that needs to be moved and make roots before winter arrives.

 

Sometimes I think Fall is as fickle as Spring and as much of a tease

before they finally usher in Summer and Winter.

 

 

And so go the days....

When I went to have dinner with my son and daughter-in-law Sunday evening they sent me home with a bountiful box of apples, exotic peppers and veggies from the farm of their good East Indian friend, and among the tomatoes they included a couple of lovely green immatures because Sid remembered my fondness for fried green tomatoes (both the movie and the actual thick slices, breaded and fried and reminding me of my father, who shared the passion).

And so this morning for breakfast I had a poached egg, a few slices of fried green tomatoes and a piece of whole grain toast - healthy and delicious.  I felt quite well-fed and comfortable as I started off to walk to the Seniors' Centre and spend the morning with the singing group that Charles so enjoyed, and which I have taken up.  Not because my voice adds anything to the choir, but because of friendships' sake!

I wore my new/old jeans which my youngest daughter brought me yesterday from her stash and felt quite young and 'with-it' - and besides, they fit just perfectly and didn't hang despondently around my twenty pounds lighter frame, as all my dress pants do.

I have had lunch, done up a parcel of books for my sister in Alberta, including Anna Quindlen's 'Blessings", written her a little note and now I am off to the library, to the bank and the post office.

I had planned to go to the other garden and retrieve yet one more red peony, but the wind is chilly. so I will spend my gardening time in the library, investigating shelves and new arrivals and DVDs which help to pass the elongated evenings as the darkness comes upon one earlier with each day that passes.

Tonight I'm going out for prawns at the Branding Iron, - their Wednesday Night special!!!  When I come home I will knit a bit on the long scarf I am making, - mindlessly the needles clack as I watch an old movie, - Mia Farrow in The Purple Rose of Cairo.

I will take my new book to bed with me.  "I am of Irelaunde" - a novel of Patrick and Osian, beautiful, mystical, and hopefully sleep inducing....although the little blurbs on the back cover surely don't indicate that!!

Ah well, so go the days.....

The Kingfisher

ABC Wednesday
The letter is K for Kingfisher

An excerpt from Chris Arthur's book of essays entitled "Irish Nocturnes"

page 69, Kingfishers, the first paragraph......

"Their plumage is so richly iridescent, the blue and red so bright, that for my first few sightings of them kingfishers seemed unnatural.  They struck the eye as something artificial, synthetic, clad in all the arid shininess of plastic, rather than the subtler hues of life.  To see them flash past constitutes such a discordant eruption of sudden metallic colour against the muted greens and browns of their riverside haunts, that it's not surprising if the mind reaches at first for man-made analogues in order to find some likeness for them.  Having this little chromatic missile shoot into view without warning can even create an expectation of noise.  It's as if one had been surprised by a tiny, secret, supersonic jet, roaring its intrusion through the world, the fly-past soon to be caught up with by the same ear-splitting barrage of sound that follows in the wake of low-flying fighter planes."

and after an essay in which he comments on the slight chance of seeing a kingfisher in Ireland, the serendipity moments when you do, and compares this to the moments of chance in our lives that destiny seems to choose to change our lives forever (if I had lingered just one minute more - if I had not gone down by the river that Sunday afternoon...)

 he ends his essay with this paragraph.....

"And, in the end, the impossible question: is our life punctuated by a flash of kingfisher colour as something transcendent impinges on us, or are we imprisoned in the world we see, earthbound and clumsy, shackled immovably to the chains of our finitude?  Is there, behind the stink of fish in a dark hole in the earth, some hope of bright colour beyond it?  I've looked hard for the fly-past that might herald such otherness.  Sometimes I have been surprised by something unexpected, sudden, beautiful, seemingly like the stuff of fantasy, too exotic for the mundane world.  But have I really seen it?  Sometimes nothing much seems to stir above the waters of the ordinary.  But has my vigil been sufficiently keen to catch that sudden flash of sapphire light?  In the end, the final answer, if there is one, lies downstream, where all the currents of water, air, flesh and feather are inexorably leading us."

I cannot recommend "Irish Nocturnes" too much - or other books of essays by Chris Arthur.

And perhaps you might enjoy watching the video above, on painting the vibrant and iridescent Kingfisher.

For more takes on K do a fly-past ABC Wednesday, here, with thanks to Denise, Roger and all who help with this great meme.

This and that and a creaking back

I am having an indoor day today in deference to my back, which is creaking and complaining after a two day stint in the garden.  Well, not really days, - only mornings, but that's all that I seem to be able to cope with, and Frank-the-Digger feels much the same way, I'm sure.

 

We have brought down just one large peony root, but two great boxes of iris corms.  I am faced with the realization that I am going to have to find loving homes for the overflow from what can  be accommodated in the garden.   AND there are still six peonies, four large Oriental Poppy plants, two enormous white phlox, some sedum, some chrysanthemums, a wonderful yellow daisy, whose name I don't know but it blooms from July until frost, and miles and miles and miles of straight white Chinese Lantern railway tracks, (which I plan to eradicate).  Also some asters, an enormous michaelmas daisy, a few moveable roses,  - oh, and the daylilies!!!!

 

This is how the garden looked in its hey-day, but now, alas, overrun with brilliant Chinese Lanterns.

On the brighter side, when I mention the availability of all these treasures when in the Senior's Centre or the Thrift Shop, gardener's eyes glaze over as they hurriedly try to reckon where they might put another peony, or some more iris, or a poppy - if I could just organize a day in the garden and tell them all to come with their spades and take what they want!!!

 

While looking around and contemplating whether I should poach an egg for breakfast I find I can no longer ignore the pail of Italian Prunes left on the kitchen counter by some kind person!  Probably because I have been successfully passing my eyes over them for the last four days, and they are  beginning to get soft and mature and quietly crying for attention!!!  I make a quick coffee cake, which I see is too large for the pan I put it in, and is spilling over in the oven, but looking delicious nonetheless...

 

Lingering over my second cup of coffee, I read a bit of Mary Oliver and a dozen pages of Jonathan Lear's Radical Hope (ethics in the face of cultural devastation).  In this he traces the cultural decline and eventual collapse of the Crow Nation, and the inspiration which the great Crow Chief, Plenty Coups finds by going into the wilderness in the old traditional way and emerging with a dream which leads his people to continue their way of life in a " yet to be defined new form" - to find the courage to "'listen like the Chickadee" by observing others; going on in new ways, rather than defining the courage of the Crow Nation as Warriors.

 

How to condense the sophisticated philosophy of this book into a simple paragraph!?  I turn to The New York Review of Books and Charles Taylor's article on Radical Hope to help me understand and put into words my understanding of the importance of this book in facing the vulnerability of all civilizations, including that of Western culture.

 

I think I need to finish  the book before I can say more, - and it is due at the library tomorrow!!!

 

Which, of course, defines what I will do for the rest of today!!!

 

If the sun shines I will go out and read in the back garden, with a couple of cushions for my back!

ABC Wednesday

And the letter this week is J

for James Joyce 1882-1941

 
 

Irish poet and novelist, born in Dublin but lived most of his adult life in Europe, - Paris, Trieste, Zurich.

Nevertheless at the back of all his novels is Dublin.

The Odyssey traces the back streets of that city, and in Finnegan's Wake and The Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man Joyce is writing from afar about the city he called home.

He said, "For myself, I always will write about Dublin because if I can get to the heart of Dublin then I can get to the heart of all the cities in the world.

In the particular is contained the universal"

Joyce was famous for his various literary styles, the stream of consciousness being amongst his most noted.

Besides his novels James wrote three books of poetry

 

 

 

The twilight turns from amethyst

To deep and deeper blue,

The lamp fills with a pale green glow

The trees of the avenue.

 

The old piano plays an air,

Sedate and slow and gay;

She bends upon the yellow keys,

Her head inclines this way.

 

Shy thought and grave wide eyes and hands

That wander as they list,

The twilight turns to darker blue

With lights of amethyst.

James Joyce

For  some jolly, jaunty J's journey over to
ABC Wednesday, here, with thanks to Denise, Roger and their joyful help!

In and out of the garden, all day long

I start early in the garden, - in fact when I first open my eyes and realize that rosy glow outside is fair advertising for a glorious sunrise.!

Up and at  it in my pink night gown that I knew could be taken for a dress, even though I could hear Charles objecting to me being in the back garden at six a.m., not fully clothed.

 

Well really, - who is up at that time!!!  Not the neighbours who had company well into the late evening hours last night....

 

Gorgeous sunrise, and I get so few of them here in town.  I open the back garden gate and go out into the parkland to get these lovely pictures..

A quick breakfast, a second cup of coffee with Dot and Frank, and I am out with Callie to inspect the new flower bed, trying to retrieve a bit of compost to dress it with, and then putting a gentle sprinkler on to wet it down, ready for planting.

 

That done I turn my attention to the lawn mower, the side lawn and the front bit of grass that struggles to be respectable in the shade of the willow that is now trying to climb on to the porch in rainy weather, and taps at the front window, teasing Miss Callie.

 

 

After morning coffee I have a search and destroy mission in the raised bed, with a focus on the Chinese Lantern Railway and its many new stopping stations. as well as the

creeping buttercup, which is lovely in the spring as it blooms with the Oriental Peony

but terribly invasive.

 

 

 

I clear the Chinese Lantern Railway stations of their bright orange lanterns

and hang them in the garage to dry,

for future bouquets.

 

 

 

In the spring I will raid the straight white trackage that runs for miles

and miles, up and down the garden....

 

How much do you want to bet a small bit of trackage will accompany the plants

I bring from the old garden

and I will have the whole thing to do over again next year.

 

I console myself with the lovely fall bouquet they will make with Sweet Honesty

and its silvery coins.

 

I begin to feel tired, and hot, and sticky,

and the thoughts of warm water, scented soap and a cup of tea

lure me into the house.

 

Tomorrow is the first of the big moving days, and I think we will start with the Iris....

 

 

 

I have help!  Sons and sons-in-law are a wonderful

addition to the family......

 

 

A happy reunion.....

A short sweet visit from an old friend today.

I met Norma when we started a business course at the McTavish Business School in Edmonton, where we both learned to be avid secretary material.

We were immediate friends - kindred spirits who spent many happy hours together,  walking, shopping, biking, - lunch hours spent poring over cards and linens and china, all part of our romantic dreams..... holidays at the lake, carefree times, a

perfect friendship, on the cusp of being young wives and mothers.

We were on one of our famous pork chop-fried potatoes-niblets-and-a-quart-of-milk hikes the day we met Charles, down by the river.

So many endearing and enduring memories of those few short years before we both got married and our lives took different paths.

Norma was one of my bridesmaids, and was married just a few months after when Bud,

her fiancé, was released from a prisoner of war camp

 where he had been held after his plane went down.

Bud stayed in the Airforce and their life was one of travel and adventure,

while we stayed home and farmed,

but we always kept in touch -

 saw each other when we could and stayed close in heart.

And here we are - near to ninety, still friends, still young at heart.

 still with some traces of awe and wonder.

Once again (poignantly) waiting to be re-united with our men.

(if that is the way things are...)

ABC Wednesday

The letter is I

The word is Idleness

The internet abounds with quotations of famous people who deride the very idea of Idleness, presenting it as the work of the Devil and a sure road to Hell on a Handcart.

 

I quote excerpts from Isaac Watts "Against Idleness and Mischief"

 

"How doth the little busy Bee improve each shining Hour and gather Honey all the day from every opening flower!

....................

 

In Works of Labour or of Skill I would be busy too: For Satan finds some Mischief still

for idle hands to do."

But I, thinking of the pleasure and values of meditation, and delightful hours spent in the shade of a rustling tree reading a good book; of an empty mind, open to receive inspiration, I was on the

lookout for words of Praise for Idleness.

 

 

 

Here is what I found from Sir John Lubbock

 

"Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes

on the grass, under the trees, on a summer's day

listening to the murmur of water

or watching the clouds float across the sky

is by no means a waste of time"

 

And Robert Louis Stevenson, as well, came to the defense of Idleness

 

"Extreme busyness is a symptom of deficient vitality,

and a faculty for idleness implies an appetite

and a strong sense of personal identity"

 

Virginia Woolf supports my theory that the empty mind  is fertile ground

for whatever grand ideas may be floating around, ethereally

 

"It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top".

 

and from more ancient times....

 

"Besides the noble art of getting things done there is the noble art of leaving things undone.

The wisdom of life consists in the elimination of non-essentials".

 

Lin Yutang, with a suggestion of Occam's Razor

 

For more I Interpretations visit here, at ABC Wednesday

with thanks to Denise, Roger and all non-idle helpers.....

Monday morning

Monday morning, and I was awake very early. planning the day.  It was in my mind to go and survey the hill garden, - maybe to cut back the roses and tame the sweet peas, and see what was left in the trailer cum studio that I could store or give away.  I packed up my garden gloves, the small shovel Charles bought me, a long sleeved shirt, my clippers and my boots.....

 

But first I had to put some pictures of yesterday's all day moving event on a thumb  (getting the garden shed down from Dot and Frank's to the garden across the alley) and take it to my daughter.

Last week was shaded with portents of autumn - cloudy days, stormy nights and deliciously cool air.

 

So yesterday I made a large batch of soup. The comforting kind on fresh fall days....

 

Today the thermometer registered 30 degrees centigrade at eight o'clock in the morning!

By the time I had visited with my daughter and inspected all the things that she has to move, but more importantly all the things that came out of the garden shed that have to go back in to it, it just made me so weary......and hot!  I turned to town when I left, - stopped at the store for milk and Callie's treats and came home to find refuge from the sun and this last great outburst of SUMMER!

"Lord, it is time.  The summer was very big. 

Lay thy shadow on the sundials, and on the meadows let the winds go loose. 

Command the last fruits that they shall be full;  give them another two more southerly days,

press them on to fulfillment

 and drive the last sweetness into the heavenly wine."

 

Rainer Maria Rilke

 

All my gardening paraphernalia is still in the back of the SUV - perhaps this evening will be cooler.

 

If not, there is always tomorrow.....

 

In the orchards the apples are ripe for harvesting

 

Arthur John Elsley

 

and the memories are sweet.

 

Time for a bowl of that warm comforting soup!!

 

 

In the night ........

 

 

 

 

The Thunder roared

The Lightning flashed

and all the world was shaken.

The little pig curled up his tail
 

and ran to save his bacon!

 

Did anyone ever write this verse in your autograph book?

 

Did you ever have an autograph book, or were autograph books

a phenomenon special to the first half of the last century,

and did their popularity fade away with modern times

and the coming of television and other ways of entertainment

that require no creativity.

 

I have my Aunt Hildred's autograph book(s), circa 1920

and in one of them my mother wrote

 

"Friendship is a golden tie

that binds our hearts together

and if you never break that tie

We will be friends forever".

 

 

but I digress......

 

This post is really about the thunder and the lightning that wakened me last night

with such a shattering, earthshaking, earsplitting clap

that I felt as if I were about to be lifted from my bed

and transported through the window and up into the heavens

where all the noise and commotion and fireworks were taking place. 

 

Advanced warning had cautioned me to turn off the computers,

but I should have left the bedroom door open for Callie

to find refuge under the duvet at my feet....

 

I rose to go and look for her, but she was not visible.
Under the couch ?   Behind the piano?
I called, but no response.
However, as I turned to go back into the bedroom
a very frightened cat hurried past me,
hurtled through the air, diving under the duvet,
and we both spent the rest of the night with our eyes tightly closed
awaiting the next thunderous roar.

Eventually the storm passed,  the skies lightened with the dawn
and the thunder was only a long, low grumble,
and we both slept......

As to any pigs that were out and about, I presume
they found refuge somewhere where their bacon was safe.



September comes to the garden

Out in the garden this morning to pick the raspberries, and I am reminded that the grass I cut just a few short days ago (or should I say 'harvested' - it was more like a haying operation) - well, anyway, the grass that I cut just a few short days ago has responded just like a child's haircut and immediately gathered green energy, enough to suggest another trimming!

As I whirred along the side lawn I found the grass around the hazel nut tree heavy with petticoat covered nuts.  I didn't run in to get the camera, but when I had finished mowing and was resting and looking around the garden, it was plain to me that September had arrived, with cooler weather and a lovely flush of roses.....

 

"For man, autumn is a time of harvest, of gathering together. 

 For nature it is a time of sowing, of scattering abroad".   

 Edward Way Teale

 

Here is Mister Lincoln, top hatted in a gorgeous velvety chapeau.

 

and his companion, Abraham Darby

 

both fine and well respected gentlemen

who have lent their names to what

I consider to be among the most

beautiful of roses.

 

 

The ramblers along the side fence have been blooming for a week or so

and I have had to prune back their wandering branches

that used to reach out and catch Charles as he went by in his cart,

causing no end of consternation!!!

 

 

Mainly the garden is shades of yellow and orange - sunflowers, rudbeckia, yellow daisies,

Chinese lanterns, barn flowers,

 

 

 

 

 

 but the Rose of Sharon, a first year Foxglove, blooming late,  and some autumn Crocus join the last of the phlox and the porch pots in adding pinks and whites to the mix.

 

 

 

 

When I had finished cutting the small lawns I contemplated the little portion that lies between the compost corner and the pussy willow tree, and I envisioned the peonies, the iris and the poppies from the garden on the hill, moved down and comfortably ensconced in all their lovely glory.

 

Who will turn the sod? 

 

 And have I enough compost to make a comfortable bed for them???

 

I ponder, as now is the time to move them!!!!!

 

Oh, it's always something,  I can hear Charles saying.........but he loved the garden too.