Lenten Roses

As of March 5th, we've had a very mild if rather unpleasant winter.  The hardy Lenten roses in our back garden have put out blossoms despite some low nighttime temperatures.  They regularly bloom during Lent, hence their common name, I suppose, although the botanical family is helleborus.  Their flowers are not showy, but they bloom all summer, are green into fall, and the deer don't eat them.  As you can see the blossoms droop as if in prayer - maybe another reference to Lent - but if you turn the flower up you find interesting variations.

Here is the coveted Lenten  purple, although in this photograph shows it more pink.

The creamy white blossom is just as shy as the purple.  Notice the little circle of stamens around the pistils and stigma of the flower.

Unless you tip this flower up and look into its cup,  you will never see the lovely purple freckled petals.

We have one other brave flower.  Our first daffodil bloomed yesterday.  They have withstood a number of hard freezes, too.  Is spring really on its way?

Roads Around Bath - More Thoughts About Roads From the Writers Group



Avon Meadow and Copse

 The following is another reminiscence I wrote about roads, prompted by our writing group.  For this post I have edited and expanded on the original topic.

In the 1990's my husband and I usually spent several weeks each summer in Bristol with his mother to be with her and as a resting point on trips between the United States and Egypt.  I learned to love the rural rambles around Bath and often took the morning bus to Bath and from there Badgerline buses into the countryside.  The U.K. has a wonderful policy for ramblers (i.e. hikers/walkers).  If a footpath has been used for a long time - say centuries - that footpath is considered a public footpath and can be used by hikers/walkers/ramblers even though it goes through private land.  Of course ramblers are expected to show such common courtesies, as closing gates and respecting the work of farmers. Footpaths have been obliterated in some cases or go through cow pastures.  However, there are books and pamphlets with directions and notes on the locations of Stone Age forts, canals, bridges, viaducts, and 19th Century train trussels.

Remembering my walks over the Mendip Hills and farms of Avon, I am surprised by my nerve in going out alone armed only with a roughly sketched map in a country walks booklet - and also by my luck.  Once lost and disoriented, but more or less sanguine, I waited in the cooling summer dusk by a narrow paved road's bus stop.  An empty Badgerline - these buses were always mostly empty -  came flying along and stopped to pick me up, although I was waiting on the wrong side of the road.  Once in Bath, I was able to catch an evening bus back to Bristol and a city bus home. 

The farmhouse B and B - the garden tea room is just around the corner.

A favorite memory, walking outside of Newton St. Loe, west of Bath (don't you love the English village names), was a working farmhouse bed and breakfast where I drank a mid-morning tea and ate scones in the garden.  Fruit trees (pear, if I remember correctly) were pruned to grow in a one dimensional fashion against the grey stone garden wall. 












Midford? Worth remembering, anyway.



Later I happened upon a little hamlet outside of Bath. I think it's Midford (won't swear to it, though). It had a quiet stream flowing through the town, a church and a long graceful viaduct just outside.

Viaduct just outside of 'Midford'

Midford? Church

As I continued to insist on rambling, my husband began to go with me, not for pleasure, but to promote my safety.  On one cool, cloudy day, following a warm sunny day,  we took a Badgerline out of Bath to Limpley Stoke.  By the time we arrived in Limpley Stoke, it was beginning to rain.  Unfortunately, my handsome husband was dressed for the previous warm sunny day - shorts and t-shirt.  I, a seasoned hiker, of course, was layered up with sweatshirt, windbreaker and umbrella.  I gave him my windbreaker and opened the umbrella.  We finally sought shelter in a small country hotel where the proprietor served us biscuits (shortbread cookies), coffee and hot tea with a measure of sympathy, saying the this was certainly not a day to be tramping around outside. Later, we stood waiting, under my little blue umbrella, for the bus back to Bath.  We had waited for some time at the wrong bus stop before finding the proper one.  The drizzle continued as we huddled together, but I remember this as one of the happiest moments in my life.

Bath - looking down to Bath Abbey

Once on the bus, we came down out of the hills on a winding road into Bath.  The Georgian houses on the terraced hillsides formed a giant amphitheater.  Through the trees, I could see wisps of fog and mist floating between the woods and terraces. I'll never forget that quintessential English moment.  "...these clouded hills..."

Another ramble took us to the Mendip Hills around Hinton Charterhouse.  We stopped in a pub where a group of customers were watching tennis and cheering on Venus Williams.  After a two mile walk up hill, we arrived in the late afternoon back at Hinton Charterhouse to catch our Badgerline back to Bath...a bus that never came.  After an hour of waiting, a woman, whose son was also waiting for the bus, came by and took the three of us into Bath.  We warmly thanked the woman for the ride and I also thanked her for saving our marriage, as my husband's nose was seriously out of joint.

Beginning our walk from Clevedon to Portishead.
Looking out to sea.

My husband does remember fondly one ramble we took between Clevedon and Portishead - south of Bristol.  We took the bus to Clevedon and ate breakfast - the big English breakfast -  at the pier.  Then we walked along the bluffs looking out to sea using a well-worn path.  As we walked, we past through the shady bramble and scrub, and then into the bright, warm sunshine.  I thought to myself that it was like going from spring to summer, spring to summer.  Spring in the shade, summer in the sunlight.  At Portishead men were standing on the shores of the Severn River using their binoculars to watch container ships pass - going to port north of Bristol.

My English mother-in-law died in Egypt a year ago in December in her daughter's house where my husband continued to visit her after we returned to live in the States.  She longed for England to the last, just as we do. 

All through the '90's, the hamlets and farms, ancient houses and barns, were being gentrified by weekenders driving out from London.  Now I wonder if those mostly empty Badgerline buses are still hurtling along the lonely country roads around Bath.

California Christmas

Click on this photo to get a better view of the surfers.



 California in winter is mild compared to much of the rest of the country, but it is often cool, foggy and overcast.  When we took our Christmas trip to California, December 24th, we were favored with sunny, warm weather most of the week between Christmas and New Year.

A favorite Christmas toy was a remote controlled helicopter each boy received Christmas morning. 

Cody serenaded us with Christmas songs on his flute.

Zachary is hoping to learn to play the guitar.

 We flew to California at this time to see our grandson, Zachary, play basketball in his high school tournament. As I may have said before, I am not a sportswoman, but basketball is fairly easy to understand, fast, and when my grandson is involved, exciting to watch.  Zachary, as point guard, was rarely on the sidelines and scored 6 to 15 points per game. Their team won 3 of 4 games. Lost the

final, unfortunately, but only by a respectable 4 points.

Three times we went to Huntington Beach to see the sun sink into the ocean.  The first 2 times the sun was down before we made it to the pier.  The third time was the charm and I have this photo to prove it.

And this one:  Huntington Beach Sunset

                                                                                                       

Left to Right:  Zachary, Wade,  Big Daddy, me (Taytah), Joyce, and Cody 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
We couldn't leave California without eating breakfast at the Sugar Shack, so here we are.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

Writers' Group




 

For about ten years I have enjoyed attending a Writers' Group at the Unitarian Church.  Most of the attendees are Unitarians, but being broad minded they are pleased to welcome those of us who are not.  The group meets about twice a month, throughout most of the year.  However, if a member plays hooky for months at a time he or she is welcomed back with open arms, no questions asked.

The 'drill' amounts to this.  We discuss an idea and then write about it.  After about 45 minutes we take turns reading what we have written to the group and get postive feedback.  If a writer doesn't choose to read his/her work, this choice is accepted no questions asked. There is no pressure.  

The last meeting was a special pleasure.  The prompt, provided by our soft-spoken leader, Fran, was to consider the importance of roads in American life.  We shared favorite songs about roads and highways and talked about family trips we have taken.  Finally,  we each wrote about roads.  The variations were many.  A few ccontributions included:

the sound of popping gravel outside a boyhood home announcing uninvited guests or the premature return of parents from church, 

a 14-year-old boy's summer traveling with a carnie troupe,  

eating pita bread and humus in Jerusalem,

traveling Route 66 in the 50's with a very young baby,

traveling in England on the 'tube' visiting a teen aged daughter

and adventures with Flat Stanley. 

My contribution (you knew this was coming) is as follows.  I have tweaked it since I wrote it at our 

meeting, so that it is a little more polished than before.   

The County Road

The county road was a central part of life as I was growing up in the sandhill prairies of Southwestern Kansas. We lived on a ranch six miles from a small town and our only connection to church, groceries, schools, and friends was a dirt road maintained by the county. Once every so often, usually prompted by my daddy, a big road grader would come out scraping the road, smoothing out the washboard ruts. The ruts were so ubiquitous that the frame of one of our cars shook loose and had to be welded back into place. Once the road was graded, for a few days at least, it was smooth to drive on. I remember one time, at my father’s suggestion, I took a slice of my mother’s freshly made apple pie out to the grader’s operator.

About the time I was two or three years old, my mother with my older sister and brother, had a horrific accident on this road. Much of the road was hardly wider than two tire tracks and it twisted and turned as well. Weeds had grown tall, lots of sunflowers and grasses, which concealed a car coming from the opposite direction. Mother’s car collided with this car on a curve in the road. My brother, in the front passenger seat, struck the dashboard and bears a scar on his forehead to this day. My sister, standing up in back, behind the front seat as children were apt to do in those days, hurtled into the front window, struck it with her head and was thrown again into the back seat where she collapsed on the car floor. Both adults received minor injuries. I survived simply because I stayed at home with my grandmother instead of standing in my usual place – beside my mother in the front seat. I mention these seating arrangements to remind us all of the cavalier way children were allowed to ride in cars 70 or so years ago.

Both my sister and brother recovered from their injuries, but this accident became part of our family mythology, thereafter.

Other memories include the several times my mother, or another one of the family driving the car, got stranded in the banks of sand on each side of the road. Usually someone would come along and help the stuckee out, but my mother had to walk home at least once – two or three miles in heels.

Another time my father came upon a group of women, members of my mother’s PEO Chapter, stuck in the sand on their way to a meeting at our house. He told them he’d pull them out if they’d tell him what PEO meant.

My best friend and I rode our bikes to town when we were in the sixth grade. Of course, much of the way we had to walk our bikes over sand hills. Goat’s head stickers would pierce our tires, but I’m not sure they caused any lasting damage. Once in town it was fun to ride around on the elm tree shaded, bumpy brick streets.

One winter, when I was a teenager we had such a blizzard that the County National Guard sent a tank out to bring me in to town so I could go to school. That was a big disappointment to me, because the inside of the tank was about as interesting as the inside of a tin can.

The road is gone now, as are our meadows and pasture land. The sandhill prairie is now covered with sprinkler-watered silage crops fed to the cattle in the many feedlots around our hometown.







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.