It's
that time of year again at the Acres--autumn. The goldenrod has faded
for the most part. The purple (and a dab of pink) New England asters
have taken over the wild area with some help from a million white heath
asters. Saturday the place sounded like a honey bee convention. I
could hear the buzz before I even got onto the paths. It's not a time
to trod the wild if you are afraid of stingers.
I love the sound. I have no idea where they all come from--literally
thousands--but I love them. Yet they come and they go. Emptied the
flowers, I guess. Nary a buzz today, though it was later in the evening
when I traversed the loveliness. The burning bushes are lighting up as
well. The trees are lingering behind somewhat this year--at least out
here at the Acres. I've planted everything I plan to plant; moved
everything I planned to move. All that's left is to help the phlox
spread their beauty when the time comes.
I am also under attack as
always. When I walk to my car in the morning, I can hear the walnut
trees practicing fuselage after fuselage. They're just waiting for a
chance to let me have it when I wander by. When I get my planet, they
will not exist--or else they'll come in Snickers bars.
My red-winged
friends are visiting as they do each fall by the zillions. I don't
know what it is about my pond and bog, but it's a blackbird hotel each
and every late September into October. My pond sings all day long. And
the nearby trees. And, ah, the whirr of wings and the thousand flashes
of red when I "accidentally" send them skyward from the reeds. Worth
the Audubon guilt trip.
Cool, colorful, "dangerous," exquisite. All synonyms for the Acres in autumn.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Saturday, September 14, 2013
Homesteader Update: Battle Lines September 14, 2013
Battle Lines:
Homesteader has had to adjust to her servant being gone all day. It has been interesting. In the morning as I get ready to leave, she's hyper active, running everywhere, talking a blue streak--and I'll bet it's blue, too. I'm not sure if she's celebrating that I'm leaving and that the cave will be all hers all day or if, perhaps, she's upset that I'm leaving again. I'm guessing the former.
She does meet me at the backfront door whenever I get home with obviously a lot on her mind. Demands to be petted, gives me the instructions on what needs to be done now that I've been shirking my duties again for another day. She follows me upstairs as I change from school garb to Acre's garb--what a joy that is!--talking all the time. I don't know what she does all day, but it must be exciting. I can tell where's she's been, either all day or at least, for the last little while. Sans motherhood, she has adopted a small white rabbit--stuffed--as her "child." At least, that appears to be the case. She takes it everywhere she goes. Licks it clean periodically. Whatever room she's in, the rabbit has to come as well. So, when I come home, wherever I stumble upon the little stuffed thing, I'm fairly certain that's where she's been spending her time. On occasion, being the ornery, obstreperous slave that I am, I will pick up the little rabbit and hurl it up the stairs. Ahh, not so fast my chubby old caretaker. Instantly, she's up the stairs, has the thing in her mouth, comes ambling back down using the foulest catonese you can imagine, and ceremoniously puts it right back where it was lying before I gave it a toss. The message is clear.
She has also developed a new trick--tackling. On occasion when she's feeling hyper, ricocheting around the house, if I'm walking somewhere, she attempts to grab me around my ankles, even grabbing my pants' leg in her teeth, in a nefarious attempt to bring me down for no gain. Curious, strange creature. Committed to mayhem. Maybe she's watching football on the computer while I'm away all day? Yes, she's the one in white, always the home team.
The real battle line, however, is over occupation of the green chair that looks out over the Acres. She must be spending a lot of time there. I mean, it is the morning sun room after all. The "kid" is there often, the chair has some white hairs from somewhere on it, and when I come home to sit there, the battle is on. It begins with the incredulous cat look--you know, the one where they just sit on their haunches and stare right at you. Then, it's up in the lap and whatever I happen to be reading must be moved. She is sitting down and no sharing--even with inanimate objects--is permitted. And then, if I get out of the chair, even for a moment, plop, in she goes and I get the defiant blueyellow glare--try to sit back down here human; I dare you." When I take the dare, oh, the language. I think she must be related to my grandfather's cat that my mom was always talking about. Or at least she was eavesdropping on my mom's stories and has decided to take up the cause for cats' rights. It has been a centuries old battle--and I think we're losing--at least, I'm fairly certain that I am. Let's just hope it doesn't return to the Egyptian stage, and they expect us to worship them as gods.
Homesteader has had to adjust to her servant being gone all day. It has been interesting. In the morning as I get ready to leave, she's hyper active, running everywhere, talking a blue streak--and I'll bet it's blue, too. I'm not sure if she's celebrating that I'm leaving and that the cave will be all hers all day or if, perhaps, she's upset that I'm leaving again. I'm guessing the former.
She does meet me at the backfront door whenever I get home with obviously a lot on her mind. Demands to be petted, gives me the instructions on what needs to be done now that I've been shirking my duties again for another day. She follows me upstairs as I change from school garb to Acre's garb--what a joy that is!--talking all the time. I don't know what she does all day, but it must be exciting. I can tell where's she's been, either all day or at least, for the last little while. Sans motherhood, she has adopted a small white rabbit--stuffed--as her "child." At least, that appears to be the case. She takes it everywhere she goes. Licks it clean periodically. Whatever room she's in, the rabbit has to come as well. So, when I come home, wherever I stumble upon the little stuffed thing, I'm fairly certain that's where she's been spending her time. On occasion, being the ornery, obstreperous slave that I am, I will pick up the little rabbit and hurl it up the stairs. Ahh, not so fast my chubby old caretaker. Instantly, she's up the stairs, has the thing in her mouth, comes ambling back down using the foulest catonese you can imagine, and ceremoniously puts it right back where it was lying before I gave it a toss. The message is clear.
She has also developed a new trick--tackling. On occasion when she's feeling hyper, ricocheting around the house, if I'm walking somewhere, she attempts to grab me around my ankles, even grabbing my pants' leg in her teeth, in a nefarious attempt to bring me down for no gain. Curious, strange creature. Committed to mayhem. Maybe she's watching football on the computer while I'm away all day? Yes, she's the one in white, always the home team.
The real battle line, however, is over occupation of the green chair that looks out over the Acres. She must be spending a lot of time there. I mean, it is the morning sun room after all. The "kid" is there often, the chair has some white hairs from somewhere on it, and when I come home to sit there, the battle is on. It begins with the incredulous cat look--you know, the one where they just sit on their haunches and stare right at you. Then, it's up in the lap and whatever I happen to be reading must be moved. She is sitting down and no sharing--even with inanimate objects--is permitted. And then, if I get out of the chair, even for a moment, plop, in she goes and I get the defiant blueyellow glare--try to sit back down here human; I dare you." When I take the dare, oh, the language. I think she must be related to my grandfather's cat that my mom was always talking about. Or at least she was eavesdropping on my mom's stories and has decided to take up the cause for cats' rights. It has been a centuries old battle--and I think we're losing--at least, I'm fairly certain that I am. Let's just hope it doesn't return to the Egyptian stage, and they expect us to worship them as gods.
Backroads of Morrow County Update: Morning Drive September 13, 2013
Morning Drive
I love an early morning drive along the backroads on a cool, dewy, September morning. The dew was so heavy it looked like a thin layer of ice especially in the shaded areas. In the sun it sparkled like crystals. Fields of corn, soy beans, hay bales all a glitter in the morning light. Some fields are drying out already; I guess the lack of rain has taken its toll. One farmer has even started to harvest his crop. It was still rather green so I know it's too early to take to market. I guess he'll store it somewhere and wait for it to dry out. Maybe he plans to put in another crop--winter wheat perhaps.
I love the stillness of a early morning drive as well. Nary a soul about. Well, one farmer was burning something on the ridge of a far away hill. Smoke signals. Where are the Cherokee when you need them? Early morning news alert, and I have no idea what's being said. The horses are about too, though one huge brown beauty was still lying on the ground content in the morning rays. The cows--black and white polka dots way off in the distance--appear to have their heads down already busy at breakfast. A huge hawk sitting precariously on a wire--I don't how such a "monster" can balance himself on such a small strand--is searching for his meal. What an impressive, beautiful thing he is! The cat barn was busy, had to be half-a-dozen of them, mostly oranges--out and about, sunning, of course. And walking casually among the horses that also call the barn home.
It's golden rod and heath aster time along the roadside. Not much sign of the lovely purple New England aster yet. They'll be along soon, but for now it's yellows of all shades with white and the lightest of purples interspersed here and there. I had hoped to catch a sight of the deer that inhabit the woods behind my favorite red barn, but they were not out and about this lovely morning, Maybe next time. My neighbors' Rose of Sharon are still blooming, and a few small maples have started to turn. Color is one of God's specialties. Art for the Artist's sake. He shares His love of the beautiful with us gratefully.
A morning drive on the backroads reinforces one of my favorite ideologies: There is nothing more spectacular than the ordinary.
I love an early morning drive along the backroads on a cool, dewy, September morning. The dew was so heavy it looked like a thin layer of ice especially in the shaded areas. In the sun it sparkled like crystals. Fields of corn, soy beans, hay bales all a glitter in the morning light. Some fields are drying out already; I guess the lack of rain has taken its toll. One farmer has even started to harvest his crop. It was still rather green so I know it's too early to take to market. I guess he'll store it somewhere and wait for it to dry out. Maybe he plans to put in another crop--winter wheat perhaps.
I love the stillness of a early morning drive as well. Nary a soul about. Well, one farmer was burning something on the ridge of a far away hill. Smoke signals. Where are the Cherokee when you need them? Early morning news alert, and I have no idea what's being said. The horses are about too, though one huge brown beauty was still lying on the ground content in the morning rays. The cows--black and white polka dots way off in the distance--appear to have their heads down already busy at breakfast. A huge hawk sitting precariously on a wire--I don't how such a "monster" can balance himself on such a small strand--is searching for his meal. What an impressive, beautiful thing he is! The cat barn was busy, had to be half-a-dozen of them, mostly oranges--out and about, sunning, of course. And walking casually among the horses that also call the barn home.
It's golden rod and heath aster time along the roadside. Not much sign of the lovely purple New England aster yet. They'll be along soon, but for now it's yellows of all shades with white and the lightest of purples interspersed here and there. I had hoped to catch a sight of the deer that inhabit the woods behind my favorite red barn, but they were not out and about this lovely morning, Maybe next time. My neighbors' Rose of Sharon are still blooming, and a few small maples have started to turn. Color is one of God's specialties. Art for the Artist's sake. He shares His love of the beautiful with us gratefully.
A morning drive on the backroads reinforces one of my favorite ideologies: There is nothing more spectacular than the ordinary.
Tuesday, September 3, 2013
Today at Iten's Acres: Glorious September 3, 2013
One
of the beauteous things about cool cloudy days this time of year is that
the morning glories can't tell what time it is. I meander on to the
Acres at 5p.m.--getting home from school--and behold! hundreds of
morning glories still glorying away! Trust me, it's "a thing of
beauty."
"And a joy forever."
"And a joy forever."
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