Stalled Summer

Sometime in mid-July I was gifted a little variegated Hosta that was starting to struggle in its home environment, so I planned to make it part of my peace garden project, to find a spot where it could flourish.

I took it out of the truck, set it in the wood chips on the east side of the front porch, and it sits there as I type.
Because we’ve had a. lot. of rain, and because it’s conveniently located next to the hose, which is conveniently located to anyone going in or out of the garage, to or from the barn, and up or down the driveway, the plant gets watered frequently and enjoys a healthy dose of morning sun daily.

But it must be strongly rooted in some soil of serious sustenance, because even in this minimal maintenance mode, after all these months, it is still hale and hearty, bright and unblemished by deer, dogs, slugs, grubs or other bugs.

The opportunity to prove its survival skills has been provided to the hearty Hosta by the amalgamation of rainy days, procrastination, hot days, sloth, and low positioning on the priority list.

Its chosen spot in the front yard garden is currently occupied by a sedum plant that is slated to be moved to a sunnier side of the yard, which is presently populated with a couple of columbines.

The perennial repositioning may finally reach the top of the roster this week, given that our summer has stretched though September and beyond, with a couple 90-degree days possible before the weekend.

I appreciate the extended sandal season, but flip flops, capris and short-sleeved tees are not usually part of my back-to-school wardrobe, and the unseasonable warmth is wearing out its welcome.

The Land of Oz apple trees that line the yellow brick road that is my boardwalk to the barn pelt me with random plunks of their overripe fruit, the flesh now bored by beetles and bees. I take no pride in the sinister satisfaction derived by dousing them with insect spray, but I do it anyway.

The lilies, phlox and astilbe surrounding the barn are dead and dry, ready for their seasonal shearing, a chore usually completed in a 40-degree drizzle. But this year the soaking will be from the sweat on my back in the 80-degree sun.

Dead brown leaves fall onto live green grass in the pasture, allowing the three hundred bales of inventory in the loft and hay stalls to remain stable as the horses enjoy fine dining on fresh grass.

Flies still follow Chicago and Moe into the barn, but the absence of an autumnal chill has aborted the usual heat-seeking mission that keeps them hanging on the horses, in favor of a hover, touch and go and buzz the human operation.

The days are hot, but the sun now sets before seven, giving way to clear skies and cool nights. Backyard bonfires, sweatshirts and s’mores can’t be far away, with ~~burning logs in the living room fireplace, insulated overalls and decorated sugar cookies right on their heels~~. Let’s think about that tomorrow.

Today, I’ll consider the Little Hosta That Can, digging deep roots in a permanent place in the Peace Garden by Friday.

Or Saturday.

For sure by Monday.

Mace

Nearly two years ago I wrote a post musing about how middle age moved mean Mace to a more moderate space. Who knew he’d hang in long enough for an encore entry about a now (mostly) mellow old cat. The burly brown tabby turns 16 this summer, mind-boggling to me, but breath-holding to our friends at the Monticello Pet Hospital, where his chart is flagged to encourage efficiency. Get done and get out, save the social niceties for when the golden comes in.

But Mace’s gravelly growls never passed the Peaceful Protest Level of Objection at our 2022 annual exam, thanks to the introduction of a new modern marvel – the squeeze tube of tuna paste. A dab or two did nicely to distract my bad-tempered barn cat long enough to do what needed to be done.

What needed to be done included taking his temperature, a procedure so fraught with tension that a very veteran veterinarian once aborted his attempt to insert the thermometer under the fierce feline’s tail, opting instead to work under “the assumption that he has a fever”. That, my friends, is wisdom. In the interest of self-preservation, go with the educated guess.

The young readers who came to our Books in the Barn program called him “Crabby Cat”, a richly deserved moniker which was clarified to every rookie visitor, and confirmed by those foolish enough to believe they were blessed with cat-whispering capabilities beyond the rest of us.

Soap and clean towels by the barn sink. Here’s the Neosporin and the Band-Aids.

Maybe his leonine leanings contributed to his longevity. Mace came to the farm, a two-pound ten-ounce sweet-faced slip of a kitten, full of ear mites and a motor that never stopped purring. But a couple scraps with things that go bite in the night, a couple abscessed wounds, a couple unpleasant vet visits with a couple assumptions of the presence of fever are bound to leave a mark. He toughened up, and for a few years, put up fences for his own protection.

But he still showed up, did his job, and stayed just social enough to keep his spot on the roster while he worked through his temperament troubles.

Eventually, the growling and biting gave way to simply walking away, as time and experience presented a clearer picture of serviceable options. I guess that’s what age does for us. We learn who loves us enough to tolerate the occasional crabby moment, figure out what we contribute to the common good, discover where we feel safe and happy, decide when to pass on the major mousing to the young kits, and we understand why sitting on a cushioned chair in a cozy spot is simply the cat’s meow.

His belly’s a little big, his walk a little wobbly, and his actions a little less animated, but old Mace is still here, snaring the random rodent, missing zero meals, and sitting in front of the electric eye so the barn door doesn’t close until he’s caught a couple rays.

He accepts the occasional wrestling challenge from Fennel, appreciates the occasional cuddle from the two-leggeds, and assures the clinic staff of the continuing need to stock tuna-in-a-tube.

Maturity.

Ambition

With the turn of the calendar page (or for you hip, with-it types, a click, swipe, or tap the app) to September, I find hope in the knowledge that soon I’ll be sporting long sleeves and jeans, savoring the breezes that drift through the open windows with the silencing of the air conditioner, and smelling the backyard bonfires. Change is in the air.

Back to work, but not back to the old routine this fall, as I’ve been motivated to challenge myself to commit to this blog. For Real.

I like to write, but due to tendencies toward distraction, procrastination, and sloth, I’ve never put it high on the priority list and made time to do it on a regular basis. These little ramblings about the animals in my life take me a ridiculously long time to compose, correct, and complete, for the 2 people who eventually stumble upon them.

But, inspired by a little summer project, I decided to work my way through the alphabet with blog posts. 26 entries, which align perfectly to an every-other-week post for a one-year period, which appeals to my senses of order and do-ability.

The aforementioned predisposition to procrastination prompted an internal pledge to make this a 2023 project – a New Year’s Resolution. But the parallel of the ABC theme and the beginning of the school year appeals to my senses of “Meant to Be” and “Get off Your Butt and Get Going”.

With 52 weeks of regular practice, I hope to write a little better a lot faster. Maybe consistent posting will find a consistent follower or two. But even if, in the end, it’s still just me reading what I wrote, I’ll have a record of one year in the life of the animals who fill my life with joy. Simple little observations, of minimal interest to the rest of the world, but that matter to me. My pets make me get up, get out, get going. With them I laugh, learn, slow down, sweat, wonder, and worry. They make me a kinder, wiser person.

So here we go, a year of regularly scheduled programming about Fennel, the orange tabby fraidy cat with an inclination for low-level incidents and accidents; Mace, the kitten-faced, sway-backed cat who continues to catch the occasional rodent after fifteen years in the barn; Rowdy, the happy yellow dog who lives up to his name for delivery trucks in the driveway, chipmunks on the woodpile, and the words “Go” “Park” and “Barn”; Biskit, the little palomino who interprets his companion-only role to mean manners optional; and Chicago, the Big Red Beast who tolerates kids, cats and rowdy golden retrievers, but not cantering on the left lead.

Aspiration.