Cantaloupe Volunteer

This is the scraggy vine that produced the cantaloupe.

My ever optimistic husband has tried to grow melons of various kinds for a number of summers, but we saw nary a melon come to fruition.  Then last summer a vine of some sort grew up between our driveway and the bricks around the clematis.  I could see the tiny baby melons developing from the blossoms, but they disappeared before they grew to the size of my thumb.  Then one day my husband found a huge green cantaloupe growing behind the clematis...yes, still attached to the vine.  We left it on the corner of the driveway, and after a couple of months, it turned yellow.  By this time it was  October. 

Our cantaloupe after picking.

I had no idea if it was ripe or not, but we finally picked it.  I left it on the kitchen cabinet dreading to open it only to find it unripe.

  Finally, I cut it open, and sure enough, by that time, it was overly ripe.  We ate some of it.  Not all.  Oh, well. There's always next year.

Last Roses of Summer

No, this is not a 'real' rose, but a moss rose, or, if you like, portulaca.  It is a lowly, under-appreciated flower, but in the heat and drought of summer, it holds its own. It is also not susceptable to all the fungus's and diseases that 'real' roses have.  All summer as other plantings succumb to the intense temperatures, pansies, petunias, impatiens, for instance, moss roses seem to flourish.  Portulaca favors the sun so much that the blossoms start to fold up for the night as soon as the sun moves them into shadow.  It is also the first flower to get stringy and fade as the summer days shorten into September.  This year, nonetheless, the moss roses in the planter in front of the house seemed to relish the cool drizzly weather that September brought us.   I am so taken with them that I used them for the blog header, as you must have noticed. 

On the back deck the moss roses that I have enjoyed these last months have reacted to the weather more predictably.  My favorite yellow roses have allowed the impatiens, which have languished in June, July and August, to come into their own as the portulaca hang their heads in exhaustion.

We've had a long hot summer,  and even now, before the first day of fall, temperatures have moderated.  The days of our summer flowers are numbered, regardless of the variety.  When fall comes, can winter be far behind?  I'm afraid not.

Prince of the House

You knew this was coming.  On May 31st, I published a post about our cat Chiaco.  Now it's Inky's turn to take a bow.  Inky was my choice of cat at the Humane Society.  I love black cats.  I loved Inky's tuxedo white markings.  I named him Inky after the cat in a childhood book called Pinky and Inky.  Not a children's classic, it is the story of two kittens and the twins who owned them.  Not surprisingly, the twin that owned the black cat was naughty and teased her kitty until he got sick after being sprayed with water.   The naughty twin learned her lesson and resolved to be a good girl, thereafter.

Inky is the favored cat of our two.  He does most of the naughty things Chiaco does, but is treated by both my husband and me with more patience.  Like Chiaco, he eats my flowers and pulls vases over on the table.  I do yell at him, but I don't loudly rue the day that I saw him.  If he paws at the lowered blinds in our bedroom during the night, my husband gets up and opens the shade so Inky can see out.  If he paws (and he is quite noisy) at the closed bedroom door, my husband dutifully gets up and lets him (and of course Chiaco, too) into the room where he sleeps first by my husband and then by the pillow next to my head where I rest my arm.  He delicately rests the pad of his paw on my arm.  His purring fills the room.  Chiaco has a softer purr where she is relegated to a place at our feet.

Chiaco hangs about in the kitchen at feeding time, but once the food is in their bowls, Inky comes in and eats first.  If Inky wants to play 'Chase' with Chiaco and she's not in the mood, if she gives him a whack, he lets out heart breaking yowls.  I imagine that he is tattling on Chiaco, complaining that Chiaco won't play with him.

Both Inky and Chiaco spend many hours at the glass door gazing out onto the deck.  (My husband calls it their TV.)  If I don't lock the screen door, Inky is expert at opening it, but is very coy about going out.  If we block off the deck stairway and leave the screen open,  Chiaco makes a rush out on the deck and hides behind a planter.  Inky dallies by the door, rubbing his face on the paneling, tentatively stepping outside and then hustling back in at the slightest noise.  Finally, he jumps up on the railing, and we retrieve him, because  there is one thing Inky likes to do -  JUMP!  (as in 'jump down')

In the house, Inky is king of the stairway rails. He sits, stands, walks and lounges on the rails.  He walks up from the basement family room on the banister rail.  And we have the claw marks in the wood to prove it.

Due to Inky's coloring, it is difficult to get a good picture of him. 
He blends into the background.
Click to enlarge.

When my husband is writing on the table by the window,  Inky lies on the table, sits on my husband's papers, and bats at the pencil as my husband is working.  He knocks erasers, sharpers and  anything else loose on the table on to the floor.







Probably the reason Inky is such a favorite with both my husband and me is that he is so sparing with his attentions.  Therefore, when he wants our attention he flatters us, and we respond accordingly.

Operation Celebration

This is the wearisome corset spread out.  Now I know how   
Victorian women felt after a big meal!

I suppose that I should write something about my back operation August 5th,  since it has preoccupied me for the better part of two months.  For nearly three years, I have had a pinched nerve in my lower back that has caused quite a bit of pain in my hip joints and legs when I walked.  This summer I decided to bite the bullet and have an operation on my third and fourth lumbar vertebra. During to operation, the space in the vertebra around the nerve was enlarged, allowing the nerve to expand.  I had asked my doctor how long I would be out of commission, and how long it would be until I could drive.  He was a bit vague on this issue. 


Therefore, I was somewhat surprised to discover that I needed to wear a corset for six (groan!) weeks.

  I knew I wouldn't be able to bend or pick up heavy objects, but I also had to be very careful getting in and out of bed.  I was instructed by physical therapists as to how I should 'log roll' into and out of bed, but how to position myself so I could turn from one side and to the other and relax at night was another problem.  I  grab the edges of the bed and pull myself around until I am comfortable, but I don't think that is particularly good for my back. 



 An invaluable tool at this time has been the grab stick.  I managed to break the first one trying to get my shampoo bottle out of the bottom of the tub.  Now I have a new stick, and here are the many things I can do without bending:  pick up dirty socks, an empty cat dish, clumps of cat hair on the rug, clothes out of the dryer, tissues on the floor,  and nearly anything else that falls in the course of the day.

Our cousin with husband circa 2010

Our cousin, who came to stay with us twice in the month and a half of recuperation, was an invaluable help to both my husband and myself.  She drove both of us to doctors' appointments and on shopping trips.  She even saw to it that I had a pedicure.  She cooked and she vacuumed.  Thank you dear woman. 

I started driving three weeks after the operation, and can stop wearing my corset on the weekend as the six weeks convalescence is over.  Nevertheless, I think I'll continue to wear it until I see my doctor next week. It actually makes me stand up straighter, but I also look thicker around the middle.

 I am thankful for the help and thoughtfulness of friends.  Between our cousin's and our friends' cooking, I am now carrying around about five extra pounds.

Thirteen Year Cicadas

Early summer saw the invasion of the Thirteen Year Cicadas in and around Columbia. I am remembering them now, because they left their calling cards all around the town.  I didn't bother to take a picture of one then,   but on the right we have a poor unfortunate insect that expired in the rear windshield of the car. (Click to enlarge any picture.)

They sang in the afternoons in a community chorus, their song  rising and falling in one mighty wave of noise.  I noticed that the squirrels and raccoons were not bothering the bird feeder and realized that they were happily filling up on cicadas. Then one day the cicadas' song was gone; the afternoon air was eerily quiet. 

 

 They left their calling cards, however.  I began to notice dried leaves on broken twigs hanging among the luxuriant green of the trees. At first I thought it was the result of dry weather or maybe the twigs had been broken in one of our wind storms.  Later I read (online) that the female cicada splits the twig with a sharp appendage and there lays her eggs.  Later the twig may break.  This is called 'flagging.'

Here the many leaves can be seen on the lawn.
(Click to enlarge.)

 Soon the ground was littered  with these twigs and leaves. Every time the wind blows more twigs and leaves dot the lawn.  More 'flags' remain on the trees ready to fall. 
The cicada nymphs tunnel into the ground and feed on the sap of tree roots for another 13 years.

One lonely cicada shell still clings to the underside of our deck step.

Mother of Millions - Revisited

Click on photo to get a good view of the
dead and dying leaves, especially on the
lower part of the plant.

It's my sad duty to announce that my stupendous Mother of Millions plant (see January 2011 blog) has come under attack and appears ready to give up the ghost.  Some sort of mold (?) is creeping over its fleshy leaves and causing them to dry up, curl up and fall off. 
(Click on photos for up close examinations.)



Note the white mold, mildew, - or you
tell me what it is.



And then it gets uglier.

Never-the-less, take heart.  All is not lost.  I have salvaged three healthy looking little shoots that I intend to re-pot.  Maybe one or all three will grow into  humongous 'Floppers' - if they take after their mother.

Cats, Again (Meet Chiaco)





As I have mentioned before, last year actually, we have two cats.  My husband and I brought our two cats back with us from Egypt in 2001.  They both died of natural causes within a few years, and I enjoyed a cat free, fur free house for about 6 months.  Then my husband decided he had to have another cat...a Humane Society cat, and not only that, but a cat that nobody wanted.  (Code for the  ugliest cat at the adoption center.)  The cat he selected was an Angoria pastel calico that had been at the Humane Society for about 5 months. As an antidote for all that fluff, I chose a sleek, black, tuxedo (or clergy) cat.  Both cats were between six months and nine months old.  The black cat was named Inky, and the Angoria cat was named Chiaco.  I think I called her Chiaco, because her grayish, pinkish coat looked alittle bit like a Japanese kimona.

No, she's not ugly.  In fact she has a sweet,
handsome,  even regal face.

Right away, Chiaco attached herself to me, following me about the house, including the bathroom and hopping on my legs whenever I sit down. She is undetered when I dump her off my lap, or yell at her when she pushes the bathroom door open.  Both my husband and I blame her for any unwanted deposits we find in the corner. Her fluffy hair sheds everywhere, although my husband tries to mollify me by brushing her coat periodically.  She insists on sleeping at my feet all night.  She's as heavy as a sack of potatoes, and I have to  push her out of the way with my foot when I want to turn over.

Both our cats are house cats. I don't want them outside collecting ticks or fleas, bothering our birds or getting hit by a car.  Chiaco, not withstanding, stands ready to make a dash out the deck door, tumble down the steps and head for the treeline at the back of our property whenever possible.   Her tubby body bobs up and down like a little bear cub's.   Of course, I have to go  get her, because she's more likely to tolerate me picking her up than her benefactor, the man of the house.  Occasionally, she avoids me and sneaks back up to the deck - making a dash for safety when someone slides open the back door.

I have always felt that this is one cat I could do without.  Yet one evening recently, I had a change of heart.  It appears that downstairs in the family room,  Chiaco found a plastic grocery bag on the floor and stuck her head inside to investigate; she's an investigative cat.  When pulling back out of the bag, her foot must have caught the handle loop. Unable to pull her foot out of the loop, she began to run, but the bag, like a white ghost, followed her.  She came running up the stairs and into the livingroom -  the sound of her head knocking against chair legs and bookcase was terrible!  Before I could arrive on the scene, Chiaco came to a stop under a 'pull up' chair and my husband snatched the bag off her leg.  Chiaco remained under the chair seemingly in a state of shock.  Inky kept a sympathetic watch from the couch.  Chiaco was still under the chair when we went to bed, but  we wanted to give her a chance to recover.  In the middle of the night, I woke up and was concerned to find that she hadn't resumed her usual place at my feet.  I got up to see if she was still under the livingroom chair.  On the way to the livingroom, I was fearful of what I might find.  Was she injured?  Was she in pain? Was she still alive?  I confessed to myself that I was going to be pretty upset if she was actually hurt.  Once in the livingroom, I found that she wasn't under the chair.  She had moved to the couch and stared at me reproachfully.  Inky was still watching her near-by.  Relieved, I returned to bed.  In the morning, Chiaco seemed to be her normal self, and that night she returned to her usual place, sleeping at my feet. I now give her alittle more respect, and allow her to rest on my lap a few minutes before putting her gently to one side.