AHHHH . . . Snow . . . . . ?

It's been so blinkn' hot here. It's headed for the low 90's tomorrow. However, this morning in the park - it looked as though it'd snowed on a small portion of the box wood plants that ring the rose garden.

But I looked a little closer. There's somebody ready to welcome passersby into his ick-glue world. (Get it? - Ick! Glue! - Igloo? Sorry it's the best I can do in this heat :0)



Anybody know this spider's name. Noooo - I don't mean 'Harry', 'Stu', or 'Bob' or 'Suzie' for that matter. It just occurred to me that maybe male spiders don't need webs because they're not going to reproduce. I mean - no serious physical contribution. I mean - caloric requirements not huge for his purposes. C'mon. You know what I mean.
Gosh. How could I not know this? Maybe I'll knock on Bev's door at Burning Silo and see if she's got an ID and whether or not the guys also build webs.

UPDATE: Thanks, Bev! Read Bev's comment (third down). I knew she'd share some interesting spider facts with us. Don't miss the link about Spider Love. Now that's interesting.

Where Has My Blog Gone

Has the Sun set on my blog? Has it flown the coop?



I can't find my blog. I've tried to access it through the links my fellow-bloggers have created. I'm groping in the dark of cyber-space. Waaahhhhh. Does anybody hear me? I'm panicking for no reason, right? I mean they don't delete two years of sharing and dreaming without a warning - do they?

Update: I panicked for nothing - all is right with the world again. Silly me. I sure would like to know what causes these disappearing acts.

Leaving Again

After thirty years - you'd think you'd get over the ache of departures. But when was it ever human nature not to long for more - more pleasant days of camaraderie and beauty.


But the proverbial sands of time have spilled into breeze and water - the voices and laughter of family have drifted with them out over the sea.



Some of us touched the ocean for the first wonderful time. (My grand niece, sweet Katie, and beloved sister Jen and her precious Laura and Kate)



Some of us remain behind, but love will span the distances. (Our terrific son, Jody)



The fog will grace the shore and harbors.



The tides will leave magic behind for wanderers.



Boats will swing around their moorings to point into the freshening breeze.


Our footprints may vanish. Our smiles remain.



Summer 2007
Chatham, Cape Cod

8 Random Facts

I have been tagged by Nina and Laura to participate in the 8 Random Facts Meme. Patrice, too! (I think maybe Laurie and/or Lynne did too, early on, but Oh! my brain :0) (I'm making up fans as I go, here)

You know it well by now.

We list eight random facts/habits about ourselves which others do not know.

It's so nice to have a command performance forum in which to focus on the most interesting phenomenon in the universe - me.

I'll not tag anyone, but invite all bloggers to participate and then PLEASE drop in to let me know you've done some thinking. It so humanizes these remarkable blogs sifting through the ether.



1.

My goal is to develop a better sense of humor. I'm sixty years old and like all the old fogies you've ever known - I too, just can't believe how fast it went.

2.

Like my blogging buddy Laurie, at DMMGMFM,(Laurie, did I dream this?) I played taps at funerals when I was a kid. I hid, trembling, behind tombstones waiting for Mr. Day's cue. I also played the organ for daily mass. I trembled a lot up in that choir loft, too. Only in a small town with a small talent pool could this happen.

3.

Regrets. I've been thinking a great deal about regrets. I think you do this as you age in an effort to move on. I wish I'd had a closer relationship with my dad. I was one of seven children. He had his own regrets that may have hampered his ability to connect. I knew he loved me.

4.

TV - a love/hate relationship. I don't watch the news. I've never seen American Idol. Antique Roadshow may be my favorite program. I don't own any true antiques (maybe a pot, here - a figurine, there) My hubby dislikes old things. I find them painfully poignant. You know - whose hands have held this item, cherished it?
Maybe that haunting is why he dislikes them.

5.

I hate shopping - for anything. I'm not sure what that is. It just seems there are so many more interesting things I could be doing. Maybe it's that I have to make decisions.

6.

I feed the critters in my back yard in Ohio. It's stupid. It's a compulsion. It's upsetting some of the neighbors. HELP ME!


7.

I've experienced telepathy. Sometimes dramatic - sometimes silly. My grandmother was telepathic. As I age it occurs much less frequently.

8.

I wish people would read poetry aloud to me. It doesn't happen. I don't listen to music. Music by-passes the mind and goes directly to the heart. I think the human voice, speaking the words that carry the experiences of the heart, does for me what others allow music to do for them. Poetry is not as inchoate. It more specifically explains, enlightens, or simply nods assent. Am I weird?

9.

I don't like arbitrary boundaries. Rather than choose to delete one of the above facts in order to share my favorite childhood memory - I push the envelop - the meme mutates:

Early morning. I follow my kid-brother on his bike. I'm helping him with his Sunday paper route. The grass is wet. My sneakers are filled with dew. We do not speak. A gray cat sits on a sunlit windowsill. I feel the warmth on its white paws. . .

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In the Eye of the Beholder

Bonita, over at Flitzy Phoebie revealed the rich imaginings of her mind and artist's eye when she saw a world map on an old door knob.

I'd just been teasing my kid-sis with a picture I took of a shed's old white-washed window. Inspired by Bonita, I offer you the same challenge I gave my sister. Do you see anything?



NOW ?




Aw, c'mon. She's IS there isn't she? Hope I'm not just projecting a bad attitude :0D


P.S My sis saw people leaning over a bar (upper left), an elephant (upper right) and a man swinging a rat by the tail (lower right). Hmmmmmm.

"Outies"

STELLA!
How's this for an attention grabber? He's one of the local fishermen.





These pictures are just a sampling of the allure of Chatham on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. You want to be part of it - the quaint village, the sea-side beauty,the great surrounding ocean, the fog, the Sun.

We've rented lovely homes here for thirty years. We should have saved our pennies, though, and purchased a place. If you don't own - you're just not an "In-ie".

Sitting on the spacious front lawn of our rental we watched as a large SUV roared up our driveway. A very attractive couple stepped forth and introduced themselves as the new owners of the recently remodeled house down the road. Bona-fide were quickly established. He's an oil executive living in Qatar - they both have families here on the coast. After we disclosed that we were the renters - you could feel the gears shift.

"Come on gorgeous," he called to his svelte younger wife as he scooped her back into their LandRover. "We'll come up your driveway and plan having drinks one of these evenings." I smiled inwardly at how smoothly he ended this dead-end encounter with essentially 'don't call us, we'll call you.'

Two evenings later we heard bag pipe music in the distance. It grew closer. At the foot of our driveway a piper passed in full-regalia as he marched toward the oil executive's new home. Strains of 'Scotland Forever' tingled the spine. Another couple and their little girl followed him at a distance and explained as we joined them that they guessed he was headed for a house-warming and they were just following because their little girl loved the music.

Tagging along we ended up in front of the refurbished house. The music drifted from the backyard where Gorgeous and her husband were entertaining.

I figure the day they'd come up the driveway they'd intended to invite 'the owners' to their house-warming. Hey,I understand. Why the heck would you invite renters - transients ? Still, there is something so inherently icky about this scenario. I mean 'hey'! Aren't we fun? Wouldn't we have contributed an element of serendipity to their party? Riigggght. Trust me. I do get it. But his smooth dismissal - the dramatic slamming of the social register - ick.

Critters Without Backbones

Get on over to Bev's Burning Silo Blog. Today she hosted The Circus of The Spineless. It's ' a monthly celebration of Insects, Arachnids, Molluscs, Crustaceans, Worms and most anything else that wiggles.' In this spirit I've posted a photo I took back home in Ohio. I think these are Great Spangled Fritillary visiting some sort of thistle.How can you help but feel wonder at the form and function of these lovely butterflies?

I've spent many pleasant moments enjoying Burning Silo's photo galleries and the interesting facts about the creatures that Bev studies. Spiders are one of her favorite. As I've surmounted my perhaps instinctive fear of spiders, I've begun to marvel at their variety of shapes, colors and behavior that I've discovered through Bev's explorations. Check out her fungus gallery, also. Bev turns her lenses toward the mysteries of the plant kingdom, too. (Fungi aren't plants :0)

Even if you don't like invertebrates you'll find Bev's blog compelling. I have. With her wonderful photos and engaging narratives, she's actually turned this insect phobic into an admirer of our fellow insect travelers. She also features other marvelous creatures and the interesting stories surrounding their existence.

If you favor vertebrates of the canine variety scroll around till you find pictures of sweet Sabrina, Bev's beautiful collie. You'll find all sorts of wonderment as you peruse. P.S. That thistle head was as large as a small fist. Anybody know thistles? Addendum:
I think I found the thistle. Maybe. Two of my fellow-bloggers are suggesting Bull Thistle. I also found this plant that looks right. Musk Thistle and of course it's considered invasive and a nuisance. In this link they mention 18 chemicals approved for eradicating it. Sheesh.

Just a Question

There's always activity at the fish pier in Chatham. Commercial fishing boats unload fish by the sloppy buckets-full. I turn my eyes toward other sights like the Corps of Engineer's dredging barge, the seals, the barrier islands across the harbor.



I knew what this fellow was dragging across the parking lot to the fish store. I'd seen him unloading the lobsters from a boat, minutes earlier.


This was their last contact with sea air and freedom - a last ocean water bath.


As I looked up at this sign I felt a little twinge.



The Gray Seals hang around the fish pier. Look at those eyes. What is he saying? What is he asking? (OK. I know you characters out there are going to say he's thinking "Throw me some chum, please.") (Click on that picture and tell me I'm wrong!) My hubby and I just felt sad looking at that face. Do seals feel? I guess we're just getting old.




And then he went below, trailing mystery - leaving behind only a few ripples and an unasked question.


PS: I promise to stop posting these melancholy existential posts. Maybe :0)

The Maytrees And Cape Cod

My fellas


I just finished Annie Dillard's new book, The Maytrees. I'm still trying to stand up. Honestly, I didn't know it took place on Cape Cod when I threw it in my suitcase. So here I sat in disbelief reading this astonishing book set in the place I love most in the world. This is not light reading, but if you choose to read it you'll be as the shoreline swept clean by the ebb tide. You'll see interior vistas as though for the first time.

This review says it all.

The picture of beach roses was taken on the overlook at the Chatham lighthouse. Those two fellows are my son and hubby whose love is my ballast, my safe harbor.

P.S. I feel compelled to warn would-be readers that this book contains some hard stuff, though I acknowledge that perhaps my susceptibility to undertows colors my take. (Did I over-work the ocean/shore imagery here ? :o)

I Love Squirrels

I saw some rustling in the oak tree above my patio. Hmmm. Those don't look like oak leaves.

That's not a musical instrument he's playing - it's my geranium. (Click for a better look)

"Needs a little salt."



"What's for dessert?"

I'm headed to Cape Cod with my hubby for a long vacation. I wanted to leave my blog with a little levity on the front door stoop. Things have been hectic here and I miss dropping in on all my favorite blogs. I'll be checking in when we're settled in Chatham. Happy Solstice, friends!

The Journey The Heart Takes

Several older women were touring our local botanical gardens yesterday. I followed them. These pictures were taken through my car's windows. I hoped they would forgive me for the invasion of their privacy.

Some elderly are able to maintain a more outward-looking attitude as they age. Others dwell inward. Who can say why we are as we are? (Go ahead and 'click'. She's so cute photographing the flowers).

This is the way I'd like to age. Moving forward. Eyes open. Seeking beauty.


This dear little lady never looked up at the statue of a mother dancing with her child.

I wanted to go to her and wrap my arms around her frail shoulders.

I've been a little melancholy this Spring. The aging brain? The number '60'? The inevitable contrast between one's creaky body and the unrestrained suppleness in the garden, trees, ponds and sky? Possibly. I imagine it's a bit of everything and it probably colors my observations.

But, really. Whether or not it was merely my melancholy that whispered that these images needed to be recorded - I love them.

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Taking a Break

You know that the birding is winding down when you see binoculars pointed at a birder's toes. What a sad state of affairs. I couldn't have posted this picture in good conscience if this fellow hadn't covered his face. I just love the way he's so uninhibited. Gals - how many of you could sprawl on a picnic table like this for any amount of money? Maybe it's just me that's all hung up?

Anyway, now we have to ferret out the nesting birds and content ourselves with peony bloom, cumulus clouds that are producing less rain then we'd like and the endless job of tugging away at those audacious weeds that are so much easier to uproot after a good soaking.

Like Lynne at Hasty Brook - I'm taking a break, but will continue to check in on all my fellow bloggers. (Happily - Lynne is back:0) I'm betting a lot of us are feeling the multiple pulls of family obligations, yard work, travel plans and the need to be outside basking in gratitude for having that long winter behind us. Hmmmm?

It's so great to have the windows open.

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Country Musings

We own a little house on a hillside across from a pasture where cows graze and give birth.

I grew up in Loudonville, Ohio, which lies in a valley beneath rolling hills deposited by glaciers thousands of years ago. This picture is taken from the front yard. We bought the house in 1985 so that we could be close to family on the weekends. You can see the town cemetery beyond the trees in the foreground. One of the town's many church spires is visible in the center of the picture. The house my parents raised their seven children in is nearby.




Margins of any type are always rich with the potential of transitions. Our little hill-perching home looks over the town on one side. The view from the back is a fallow field where two old apple trees keep vigil. The following poem is a result of years of watching the seasons come and go from this little plot of land. It needs work and may not be salvageable, but there are a couple lines that I like and wish the entire poem had sustained them. Oh well.

The Porch

My porch sits athwart at the crest of a hill
overlooking on one side a town down below.
The other side faces a spider-webbed field
where trees at the edge wear the sun’s early gild
after long nights that drag their heels as they go.

The doe and her fawn wait in the shade
down by a rill that cuts through the rocks
till they learn what decision this human has made
about facing the village or facing the glade
while they listen for apple-fall’s harvested thwocks.

In the graveyard the birds throw their song in the air,
below, from my vantage - above, from the dead’s,
who lie under parched urns needing the care
of a late August rain should some clouds drift there.

The crickets beside the old wooden shed
chant from a book of late summer knowledge
that I’ve yet to translate as I shake my head
at the wisdom offered from a wild rose hedge.
It’s wasted on me at the untamed edge,
and I turn to face church spires, instead.

Catherine S. Wilson


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