Things have finally gotten merry around here. We had one day of sweltering August last week, but we now have a May worth boasting about. Allow me to introduce the articles of evidence (I’m channeling Hamilton Burger):
Article A: The goldfinch party arrived for their spring repast.
Article B: The indigo bunting came to call. One hopes it was not rudely eating our cilantro and parsley seeds.
Article C: The apple tree is in bloom. For further evidence, I submit these close ups:
Now if only we can keep those devilish Japanese beetles away from our apple trees this year. Hubby has a plan which involves the number 7. That’s all I can say – wouldn’t want them to get wind of it.
What are the evidences of the Merry Month of May at your home?
Did any of you see the lunar eclipse and the blood moon last night? We missed the whole thing, completely oblivious.
I’ll probably submit articles of evidence to convict this blog post in the morning.
Red sky at night, sailor’s delight Red sky at morning, sailor’s warning..
Yesterday morning, we had an unusual sky going on – definitely a warning of things to come.
And lo, it came to pass later in the day. Another humdinger of a storm passed through town. The tornado sirens were sounding and I thought about whether or not I should start hauling all our photo albums downstairs. I decided not to, which turned out okay this time.
They ask but our Delight- The Darlings of the Soil And grant us all their Countenance For a penurious smile. Emily Dickinson
I read that poem yesterday morning and it made me think of pansies, who are definitely “darlings of the soil,” with something like a countenance. Thanks to our neighbors we have a beautiful pot of them by our front door. They ask for my delight and I give it to them.
Just look at that face!
Lastly, I need to redeem myself with a better photo of Mr. Gnome performing his duty of lighting up his little corner of the world in our back yard.
Mr. Gnome, Mr. Gnome Lighting up his earthy home Sitting atop that rich black loam That constitutes his biome.
He scares away the grumbly Grome And the shrieking, frightful furtive Floam He protects us from the tiny Thome And the slippery slimy Salladome
Oh thank you, thank you, Mr. Gnome! Lynniebee
Well, that certainly turned into something surprising. You never know what your brain is going to concoct on the fly in a moment of need.
Call me when you see a grumbly Grome and I’ll delete this post, especially if it’s in the morning.
Down in the valley, the valley so low, Hang your head over, hear the wind blow Hear the wind blow, dear, hear the wind blow Hang your head over, hear the wind blow
Most of you are humming that tune in your heads now. It’s the way I’ve ended most Skype calls with my mother for the last couple of years. I play it on the piano and sing the melody and more often than not, she rises to the occasion and squeaks out a little harmony. She can hardly see now, she can hardly converse, but music is still the language of her heart.
Roses love sunshine, violets love dew, Angels in heaven know I love you. Know I love you, dear, know I love you. Angels in heaven know I love you.
When she is gone, I do not think I’ll be able to sing that song without weeping.
Angels in heaven know I love you, Mom!
I’ll delete this if I hear the wind blow down in the valley so low in the morning.
It’s a balmy evening, so I’m outside listening to bird calls, the sound of the wind pushing trees around, and the occasional passing car. In Minnesota we have waited a long time this year for warm breezes and being able to go barefoot. It’s a welcome foretaste of summer.
My children found the perfect Mother’s Day gift for me, the gift of allowing me to tell stories every week that will accumulate on a website and be printed out in a book (with photos) at the end of a year. Each week I get a question to prompt me and then off I go. If I don’t like the question I can pick another one. For someone who loves to tell stories but always worries that I’ve told them too often, this is quite a boon.
I suppose that’s really why I started this blog – as an outlet for storytelling. And I don’t want to just send them out into the ether. I always love hearing your stories, too, and getting your feedback. I was contemplating today that my blog audience is composed mostly of my friends and family. I like it that way.
Across the street I can see a child swinging on a swing set. Boy, does that bring back memories. I used to love swinging back and forth, going higher and higher and then jumping off. Sometimes I’d lay back while I was swinging and just watch the sky above me. Sometimes someone else would push you and when you got high enough, they’d push right through underneath you. That was exciting. I used to wonder what would happen if you swung so far that you went right up over the bar and back again. It seemed like it would end badly, so I never attained to it.
When I was in my early 30’s I got on a swing to re-experience this joy from my youth. What I actually experienced was a distressing amount of dizziness. Apparently this is a sport for the young.
(From the free photo library)
It’s appropriate now to contemplate and enjoy Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic poem called “The Swing.”
How do you like to go up in a swing, Up in the air so blue? Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing Ever a child can do!
Up in the air and over the wall, Till I can see so wide, River and trees and cattle and all Over the countryside—
Till I look down on the garden green, Down on the roof so brown— Up in the air I go flying again, Up in the air and down!
I’ll probably push this blog post on a swing until it goes ‘round and ‘round the top bar – then we’ll see what happens.
Egrets don’t really have any way of hiding, do they? Unless they’re standing against a snowy background (which they never are), these huge white birds are easy to spot and photograph, for which I bless them and thank God.
I’m guessing the egret might have stayed where it was and posed if I hadn’t stopped, pointed and said loudly to my husband, “LOOK!” Rookie mistake.
I was actually on the hunt for killdeer, since you can hear their shrill cries out over the fields. With clever eyes, you can spot them flying, but always just out of reach and never seeming to touch down.
Speaking of clever eyes, as we were walking the other day, I thought I spied a rib cage out in the brush. You don’t see that every day. I meandered down to get a closer look and as we suspected, it was the remains of a deer. Odd place to die, though – in a very narrow wooded area between the walking path and some houses. If you watch as many murder mysteries as we do, everything starts to seem sinister.
I went out last night just before we went up to bed so I could get a photo of Mr. Gnome shining his light upon the yard. It’s a terrible photo – I think I can do better. While I was crouched down with my phone getting the photo, something rustled in the leaves right by me and I sort of freaked out. I’m easily spooked.
This has definitely been a musing post, but not necessarily an amusing post.
I don’t think the world would miss this blog post at all if I deleted it in the morning.
My mother liked to tell the story about taking me to the drugstore when I was perhaps three years old. In my mom’s words, “The clerk talked to her without much response. She’d just look. Finally, when she’d been asked a direct question and still just stared, I urged, ‘Well, say something.’ She reached for my hand, and thus fortified, murmured respectfully and shyly, ‘Something.’”
Those were the days when you could still describe someone as being shy and it was a description, not a condemnation. Somewhere along the line, that word began to smack of being a character flaw, so it became the more acceptable word, “reserved.” I’m not shy, just reserved.
And then later still, the whole introvert vs extrovert thing came along. Oh how I used to envy those natural extroverts in my life (you know who you are). What I wouldn’t have given to feel at ease in a group, always equipped with the right thing to say instead of being frozen into silence. But now, people are eager to identify as introverts, so that worked out pretty well for me.
I think it was the experience of being in college that taught me how to be less awkward around people. I realized that even if I was feeling unbearable shy, I could overcome that and find my inner “extrovert,” so to speak. We’re all just combinations of those things anyway, depending on the circumstances, don’t you think? Sometimes I’m cheerfully expansive and able to handle any and all social situations. Sometimes I’d rather withdraw into my shell and let everyone else do the hard work of socializing.
I’ve heard it said that both introverts and extroverts can go to a social gathering and really enjoy it. The difference is in how they feel afterward. The introverts are drained and need to recover (this is me). The extroverts are energized and ready for more.
That’s all I’ve got to say on the subject. But I’d love to hear what you have to say about it!
This is me, perhaps on a shy day.
I might have to delete this post unless I’m recovering from a social gathering and don’t have the energy.
Keep in mind that the word “excitement” here is a relative term. Seeing as how our backyard is a model of quietude and stability, it doesn’t take much to shake things up.
We now have a gnomish presence in our yard. Up until now, I’ve had to be content with the gnomes of our neighbors, but no more. Mr. Gnome cleverly gathers sunlight during the day and uses it to light his tiny lantern at night. I like to think that the fauna in our yard appreciate this service.
The Squirrel Task Force (aka my husband) has been hard at work deterring squirrels from our bird feeders. We are cautiously optimistic that we have outsmarted those little devils at last. Not that we begrudge them food; we just want them to get their own instead of taking the bird food.
The violets have created quite a blue din in the yard. These brave and hardy flowers are quite happy to run the gauntlet of a late and cold spring just to bring cheer to our hearts. Well done, good and faithful flowers, well done.
Wasn’t that exciting?
I’ll probably delete this post by the light of the Gnome Lantern in the dead of night.
I watched a show recently in which one of the characters was trying to get in shape to meet an old flame. The actor was about 50 years old at the time. In a scene in which he was slowly and painfully doing successive sit-ups, the sweat was pouring from his brow and I’m willing to bet that the sweat was real.
Remember sit-ups? Remember having abdominal muscles? I got to thinking about whether or not I’d still be able to do a sit-up. I couldn’t. Then I got to thinking maybe it would be good for me to get reacquainted with those abdominal muscles. You never know when a sit-up might be required to do something important, like get up off the floor.
You hear about older people getting to the point where they can’t get up off the floor when they fall. It’s happened to my mother several times. First of all, there’s the problem of falling. Do we just lose our balance as we get older? Then there’s the inability to get up. I’m not sure how you lose that ability, but I don’t want it to happen to me, so I’ve started working at trying to do a basic sit-up. Just one. I haven’t had success yet, but I think I’m getting closer. The muscles that have been dormant, lo these many years, are going to get put back into action! I’ll let you know when they’ve finally shown up again, ready for duty.
I’ll probably put my blog post on a backyard swing in the morning and let it go ‘round and ‘round.
When I was quite young, I used to tell my mom about Lynnieland. In my imagination, this was the land where all pre-born people resided until it was their time to be born. When their time came, they left Lynnieland by little chutes that brought them into their home on earth. Everyone in Lynnieland was named Lynn (of course), but only the best people retained the name Lynn after they were born (and the runner-ups got to have it as a middle name). It gets even better, for there was only one Queen of Lynnieland and guess who that was? Never let it be said that I didn’t have very grand delusions of grandeur. I imagine my mother chuckled to herself over this display of childish self-importance. Or perhaps she prayed that I’d grow out of it, which of course I did.
I couldn’t help think back to that story when we drove through the town of Lynn while we were on our Friendship Tour.
But it gets even better, for in that little town of Lynn, there’s a church for Lynn’s Friends…or something like that. 😉
Yes, here’s the place where all of you, my friends, can gather so we can worship our Lord together. For there is no Queen in Lynn, just the same King who rules in righteousness over all realms and all peoples. And that’s no delusion, that’s grandeur.
I’ll probably send this blog post down the chute in the morning.
Mr. Chive noticed that Miss Rhubarb arrived in the garden around the same time he did. “Why, we could make a wonderful couple,” he thought. He took note of her lush green foliage and slim pink gams and approved of everything he saw. It was time to make his move.
He called out, “Hey, beautiful! How about contriving to spend time chiving with me? I see us pairing together well in jams, jellies, syrups, and maybe even cobblers. What do you say?”
Miss Rhubarb gasped with horror at this inappropriate suggestion and slapped every one of his slim green shoots before turning coldly away. “And don’t ever speak to me again!” She said as she left.
Miss Rhubarb hiding her legsThe audacious Mr. Chive
And that, folks, is how I feel about the prospect of finding a way to pair rhubarb and chives in the kitchen. They shouldn’t even be speaking to each other, much less planning a wedding. *shudder*
I’ll probably delete this in the morning if I’m not still reeling from the shock of Mr. Chive’s proposal to Miss Rhubarb.
