Iten's Acres December 26, 2012

Snow walk:
Preparation: Stocking cap. It says "Alcatraz" on it. I have no idea where it came from. I am not on parole, I promise. I only know that it keeps the bald head and the ears warm. Boots. Have to come back with dry feet; and snow to "stomp" off onto the floor--so The Homesteader has something to keep her curiosity exercised. And then she can do the cats' "My Feet Are Wet Dance." Gloves: have to check out the snowball making capacity of the flakes. A+ Layers: two shirts--one a flannel--and a coat. It's not a sin to brave the cold by making sure you'll be warm.
The Journey: Start in the back meadow, then through the wild area. Reverse direction. Walk through the trees, out front, around the pond, up to 25, back home. Tempted to brush off the throne and sit awhile on the hilltop. Did not yield--this time. The most important thing is to make as wide a circle as possible so that you don't have to cross your own path and spoil the pristine white blanket before you by finding some dumb human's footprints everywhere. And never turn to look behind you. Look under Aaron's pines for the deer. None today. The only other wildlife on the trek are the neighbor's kids Ella and Gage. They got a new hound dog for Christmas. And what little kid can resist playing in falling snow. Not this one for sure. "Hi, Al" called out by Ella and echoed by Gage still makes my day. The hound seems to like snow as well. Must be a distant relative of Bonnie and Gus.
Snow Plow 3 Mail Box 0 This time he got mine and Aaron's. And it was after the mail delivery. Wet mail.
The End: Stand still, close your eyes, and feel the snow on your uplifted face. Sticking out your tongue is always an option. Re-fill Mom's bird feeder. The feathered friends are much bolder on such a day as this. I don't know if the chickadees are scolding me for taking so long or cheering me on--thankful.
Epilogue: A cup--or two--of Lemon Lift hot tea as I sit and look out the windowdoors with Mom. I could sit in the stillness and watch the falling snow forever--a long time at least. Hope it continues into the nighttime, the skies clear, and the moon turns midnight to midday. Walk two will then occur. Maybe Bonnie will join me. Ahhhhh. A snowy day!

Li

Today at Iten's Acres January 4th, 2013

Today at Iten's Acres:
Snow white. The pristine beauty of the fresh snow is gone. There are footsteps everywhere. The footsteps of the COBG and other humans, the outlaw gang, the creatures of the wild--no dwarfs'. They all have a story to tell. The deer have been everywhere--even up by the house. Perhaps they are always there, hiding in the shadows, ghosts of the gray duskiness. But now the snow has given their intrusions away. I'll be watching my enemies.
The Acres are alive with bird activity. The feeder on Mom's doorwindow attracts them. A buffet. They are everywhere. Flighty. Noisy. Gorgeous. I guess the feeder makes them feel safe, wanted. It's a bird welcome mat. Even an occasional visit from a neighborhood cat is ignored. Homesteader straining to find a way through the doorwindow is mocked by their indifference to her longing. Bonnie, too, brings no change in their behavior. It's a mutual "you make no difference to me" relationship. The only thing that brings stillness and silence is a hawk visit. He is a bird feeder as well.
The flower beds are hidden under the whiteness. The pine trees still wear their white skirts. The pond is a skating rink for the dogs. The tree branches glisten in the morning frost. Twigs of tinsel, laden with captured stars from the night before. I love the beauty of a snowscape.
Rumor has it that a thaw is coming. Rain even. Thunder. I have mixed emotions. I will allow it if it promises to snow again before the cold returns. The good the thaw will bring is that if there is a streak of good weather, then my sisters will come up to surprise Mom on her 99th birthday in a couple weeks. Shhhh. Surprise. Tell no one. Yes, I will hurt you.
Can you imagine all my mom has seen since 1914 until today? Though her short term memory is all but lost, she can remember so much from her treasure store of lifetime moments. As an almost five-year-old she watched from the window of her family's flat in Wellston, Missouri, as the world celebrated the end of The Great War. She watched as wreaths went up on the doors of the homes across the way as the great flu epidemic swept the neighborhood more deadly than the war itself. Lighting the lamps. Cobblestone streets. Horse drawn buggies. Walking to market every day to buy your next meal to be prepared in the kitchen. Her dad's love-hate relationship with the family cat. So many memories time has been unable to steal or even dim. She is a living history book of the ordinary moments of life that make it so extraordinary. And now she sits in her red chair, the Homesteader contentedly sleeping on the back of the chair behind her, her life limited to the vision she has through the doorwindow looking out at the front of Iten's Acres. Yet, she is content. Satisfied with the beauty she can she. She has never met a day she couldn't love.

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Iten's Acres January 12, 2013

Today at Iten's Acres:
The grayness of the clouds and the gaiety of the sun were in a day long battle. The wind couldn't decide whose side it was on. I am in love with both. Perhaps that is the wind's problem as well. Too much love for ever changing beauty.
The rain and the melting snow have teamed up to flood in every little--or wide--expanse that they can find. The brown shag of the river birch is no doubt delighted, and I'm sure the pussy willow by the "real" pond is dancing in the wind as well. Some of its red buds are already exploding into silver blooms. It never waits for spring. Impatience is a virtue.
The ground itself is still rock hard, frozen--dare I say, Greenbayish. Though the weather folks are predicting sixty degrees tomorrow, I don't think it will be enough to soften the soil and befuddle my bulbs and flowers into visions of spring. And the cold is coming back! I hope it brings its white blanket with it. I am always ready for a snowwalk, and I have not yet experienced this year the majesty of a moonlight sonata in the back meadow of Iten's Acres. Yes, believe it or not, I have music in my soul. And standing under stars and moon in the brightness of a snowy field makes my heart sing--even in times of absolute silence and windless stillness. I can hear His creation sing. Maybe it's my gardening angels?
One miracle. As the rains fell and the temperatures rose and the snow melted, a metallic pink buttercup spread its petals and nodded to the sunshine. Hiding all this time, warm with snow, waiting for another chance to beautify its world. And thankfully, it's my world too. Beauty by surprise is a marvelous joy. I pray I am caught off guard another million times.

Hope Springs Eternal

     As I walk the Acres the last week before Old Man Winter takes the stage, I am immersed in an unusual feeling--hope.  Yep, hope.  A Ripley's moment, eh?  The skies are mostly gray, the ground is soaked, cold is in the air, most everything is dormant.  Where does the hope come from?
     First, the dry summer has been countered by a wetter than normal fall.  Hopefully, whatever damage the semi-drought may have inflicted has been reversed by the many rains of autumn 2012.  The pond is full to overflowing much to the pussy willow's delight.  The low areas are under water, but I prefer Cummings conclusion--"the world is puddle-luscious"--to any negative thoughts.  The rain will seep into the ground and provide impetus for next year's growth.  And my weather-proof boots keep my feet dry so that's not a problem.  (What?  Of course, I always slosh through the puddles just to make sure.)  The bog, too, is boggish again--again, a good thing in my opinion.  The plants and seeds that are lovers of moist, wet sites are settling in to "home" as they know it.  All that gives me hope for a beautiful spring.  I am also hoping for our first good snow at the end of the week, a warm blanket for the cold that's sure to come.
     Amazingly, some of last year's "hope" is still blooming.  I know, another Ripley's.  Several snapdragons are still blooming--red, yellow, orange, white.  One small patch of lilac alyssum is still blooming in a planter.  And there are a few hot pink buttercups blooming in several places.  Who knew some buttercups weren't yellow?  These colorful beauties are free to hang on for as long as they want.  Let's hope so anyway.  For you flower lovers who are jealous--my heart bleeds for you. (Ha!)
     My imagination also gives me hope.  I'm imagining what the cold, wet winter will do to revive my dormant trees and shrubs when the warmth of March adds the last growth ingredient and "life" comes back again.  I have no doubt that they will all spring into action and grow magnificently.  Some will finally reach a level of maturity that will allow them to bloom for the first time.  Some will just continue their rise toward the skies.  A wet, cold winter is essential for a lovely spring.  I, also, imagine that the bulbs are already mixing their paints so that they can colorize my world next year from March to October.  As if to stimulate my hopes and tempt me into "too soon" expectations, a few daffodils have already poked through the soil and checked out the future.  Some crocus, grape hyacinth, and Dutch iris do that every year.  But though they are expected, they do add to the hopeful feeling.
     The wild area is brown and dead.  Well, the paths have a little green.  And the brambles' branches are red.  But everything else is just dead.  So, where's the hope?  Seeds.  Many of the plants are still hanging on to theirs waiting for a few more storms to let go.  Many of them have already thrown the next generation onto the soil.  The coneflowers show signs of having provided some snacks for the sparrows of the field.  Here's hoping, as they usually do, that they play their role as winged gardeners and start a new patch of coneflowers for next summer.  I, of course, have thrown my own seeds into the area with hopes of a bountiful harvest.  And my gardening angels always having something "up their sleeves."
     I guess, it all depends on your outlook.  I could walk the Acres and think, "I'd better go reread Genesis and make sure there won't be another flood."  Or I could muse, "everything is dead and dormant; there is no hope."  But my experience tells me that none of that negativity is true.  "Hope springs eternal"--it really does.  Perhaps the skies help.  Even on the cloudiest, gray days there is usually a break in the cover and behold! a patch of blue emerges, and the sun's invisible yellow rays prance around the Acres.  No matter how thick the clouds, the sky and the sun are just waiting above them, knowing their chance will come when they can break through the darkness and bring the warmth that will bring renewal to the plants of Iten's Acres.  Sooner than you think--or imagine--or hope.  Guaranteed.  Fulfilled hope is the reward of patience, you know.  And at those moments of brightness, I always reflect on Vincent van Gogh.  To him, blue symbolized the mysterious and the infinite.  Yellow, his favorite color, symbolized the presence of sacred love.  God's blues and yellows are always there, always active, just waiting for the best moment.  Yes.  Behind the gray, He is always there, and He loves to remind us of His presence.  He is the God of hope. 
     I wish Vincent or one of his proteges could stop by next year and paint some of my daffodils.  The yellow ones--on a background of blue skies.  I can hope, can't I?

Serenity

Walking the Acres at the onset of December there is a sense of serenity about the place.  All is at rest.  The Sentinel still stands unaffected by any season.  Every year at least one huge limb comes crashing down so its gnarlyness is slowly decreasing.  But it is still impressive and fearless in its slow decline to the way of the world.  The bees at the top are silent and retired for the year.  I'm sure if I could fly to the top of the tree, I could hear a low hum resonating in the tree, but being wingless, I can only imagine.  I can, I suppose, hum and sing as I walk.  Actually, as a crazy old man, I do that anyway; I'll just pretend I'm talking to the bees.  They won't hear me, so I won't face any musical harmonic criticism from the experts.
I love to sit on the bench by the pond this time of year.  The rains of autumn have refilled the pond.  The muskrat has moved back in for the winter.  Maybe it's a mink.  I really don't know.  The only evidence is the hole it has dug near the flower garden by the pond.  (Last year, that produced a tragedy as the outlaws in an attempt to catch the creature dug up the garden.  I hope that doesn't happen again this year.  It would not add to the serenity.)  There are slivers of ice on the surface of the pond some mornings as winter sends notice that it is on the way.  Some mornings there is a mist rising from the water reminiscent of the old tarns mentioned in an old Poe story or two. (Think "The Fall of the House of Usher.")    But it is not a haunting feeling here at the Acres.  Only peace and serenity are allowed under the watchful eye of the Sentinel.
The only obvious activity this time of year is near the house.  Those pesky squirrels are up early gathering walnuts and hickory nuts--and probably a tulip bud or two.  They run for the thickets when I come near.  They have learned that there is no safety in the branches of the trees.  I'll bet that if I could walk through the thickets in spring, I would find a transplanted tulip or two gracing the wildness.  I can live with that imagining.  A small kudos to the varmints.  The other busy-bodies by the house are the birds at Mom's window feeder.  Coming and going, coming and going are the chickadees, titmice, woodpeckers, and nuthatches.  The goldfinch, Cardinals, siskins, and purple finches sit and munch.  The field sparrows, song sparrows, chipping sparrows, and snowbirds scour the patio for "crumbs."  There must be some.  They keep coming back.  On colder days when I'm sure the chipmunks are staying in, I'll even throw a little on the ground for the scourers.  Mom enjoys watching them, but her memory is such that she has at times forgotten their names.  She used to know them all by heart, but sometimes as we grow older, I guess the mind trumps the heart.  Not that I mind reminding her of who the visitors are.  Repeating the words "chickadee," "nuthatch," "snowbird," is not a tedious exercise in the least.  Musical words if you say them right.  Hum them if you can! The Homesteader, by the way, enjoys spending the mornings with Mom, basking in the sun, tail moving back and forth imagining how much fun it would be to get back outside and chase the winged company.  (For those who just know me here on the blog, the Homesteader is now a permanent member of the household.  I should change her name to "Boss."  Yes, I am a soft touch.)  The activity of the birds, believe it or not, adds to the serenity of the place.  Movement can be beautiful--a dance of the birds is such a beauty.
As I walk through the stand of trees and then through the back meadow and wild area, all is quiet.  The only raucous color is green.  The wind is still there.  On the windiest days the neighbor's pines hum.  Otherwise all is silent, serene.  There are plenty of signs of deer, but I have not seen them.  I imagine they are checking me out from the safety of the brush or the pine forest.  Camouflaged, they feel secure hiding in plane sight.  With no leaves I can see through everything; and yet, no doubt, miss many things.  I do not mind.  Often, I just sit on the green throne, bask in the grey skies, imbibe the quietness, embrace the breeze, find serenity in the pastoral splendor of my neighbor's goats and alpaca grazing serenely next door.
Yes, the Acres are at rest.  And I enjoy participating in the wonder.   

The Homesteader

     The last few weeks, the idiots of the world have been busy in Morrow County.  Doing what, you ask?  Dumping their cats--as if by some magic trick they're capable of surviving on their own out here in the country.  I would love to wave a magic wand of my own--as alluded to on facebook--and send those dirtbags off into the Alaskan hinterlands and see how great they would be at survival.  Anyway, just since the first of October, I've seen five cats around the Acres that have never been here before.  I walk the Acres, they run; the proverbial "scaredy" cats--not that I blame them.  Common cat sense would tell them they are in a precarious position.  I've seen two gray cats--one just a kitten, a black and white cat, an orange tabby, a calico, and a little white kitten.  They have, for the most part, made themselves scarce.  Only one of the group has stayed nearby.  The little white kitten--hereafter officially designated The Homesteader--from the very onset has decided that my old dilapidated wooden shed right behind my house was going to be hers.  From her point of view there has never been a question of ownership rights.  It is her place--thank you.
     She has one blue eye and one green eye but doesn't seem the least bit awkward about it.  Obviously, what someone would think of her strangeness is their hangup, not hers.  She can see quite well with both of them.  And if you don't like it, well, just move on; she's not counting on sharing her new home anyway.  And she has no use for the white cat legends.  She can hear fine as well, too.  She also has a marvelous voice for such a little urchin.  And is quite willing to use it in all its contralto splendor whenever she feels like it (i.e. whenever she wants something.)  She is not the least bit intimidated by other cats either.  She has had two brief encounters with some of the other dropoffs.  One of the gray cats, three times her size thought he or she could move in and take the food I had set out for her.  Not so fast.  She didn't back down an inch, and he slinked away into the trees.  She also met the calico--a huge beast--and they just sat next to each other and exchanged cat pleasantries until the calico wandered off.  The calico is a gorgeous cat and fat; maybe she actually belongs to someone in the neighborhood, and I just haven't seen her before.  (That would be great!  And decrease the population in Alaska by one.)  She was back later this week admiring the birds on Mom's bird feeder, a real Audubon fan.
     The Homesteader, for the most part, stays very near the shed.  I have begun feeding here there perhaps that is part of the attraction  Though she has also made it into her safe haven.  Both of the outlaws have chased her at least once a piece, and she scampers under the shed for safety.  Often, she comes out on the other side just in case they are still there.  I have told the gang members in no uncertain terms to leave her alone and to stay out of the shed, and they have run off, but I don't know if the warning would be effective if I wasn't there to "enforce" it.  I hate to scold my furry dog friends, but she would have no chance against either one of them.  She has also learned to fly.  I keep trying to find her wings under her fur, but no luck so far.  I'm sure she's a fairy cat.  Somehow she climbs--uh, I mean flies--up into the top of the rafters in the shed and that's where she spends the nights and some of the days.  Though being a cat, on sunny days, she does like to sit outside the shed during the day and take her cat naps there.  She has started to gain some confidence, and I don't know if that's a good thing for her long term survival or not.  She lets me pet her now; in fact, insists on it at times.  It's called "training the human that feeds you."  And she's wandered a little.  If I'm working near by, planting or mulching or whatever, she comes and joins me and gives me more instructions than I could possibly use.  She also likes to go around to the front of the abode and entertain the birds at Mom's feeder.  I even think she has a taste for sunflower seeds and peanuts.  Who knew?  This afternoon she disappeared for awhile.  She may have been doing that everyday, but this evening when I went out to feed her--yes, I'm well trained--she wasn't around.  An hour later she came out from under the shed demanding supper.  I can only imagine that she's decided to use the groundhog tunnels under there for her holiday excursions.  Though that seems strange too.  If you read a nature article sometime on groundhogs who swear there is a weird ghost cat wandering their tunnels with two eerie different colored eyes, the musings will be confirmed.  Maybe she'll evolve into a new breed--the ground cat or the tunnel cat, or Homesteader the friendly ghost cat?
     I hope she, somehow, can survive the winter.  I'm trying to find someone to adopt her.  I'll do what I can until that happens.  Yeah, on occasion I've been know to have a soft heart or a soft head whichever applies.  I'll feed her.  If she's still here when the cold sets in, I'll put some old rags in the rafters so she has a place to sleep.  I guess I could really go daffy and enlarge the squirrel hole in the bottom of the shed door and keep it closed so that only she could go in and out.  Did I just say that?  I'm losing my mind.  Sigh.
     So, if anyone needs to have their cat training updated--yours not hers--The Homesteader awaits you.  She is all cat, trust me.  Independent, quite the vocal artist, smarter than the average human, and looking to adopt.  Come on by.  Make a friend for life--on her terms, of course.

Color Coded

     I sat today in the "green throne" at the top of the hill in the meadow behind the house.  If I turn it at an angle, I can see just about the whole area which has to be at least three acres.  Close to one half of this area is, of course, the wild flower area.  You can "read" the "history" of this area by the colors.  No, seriously.  As I've mentioned before, when I made the Acres my home, this back area was all overgrown.  My first autumn here I had the area flattened with a bush hog.  Then, I marked the area I wanted to let grow wild with a number of cement blocks.  (Hmmm, if I lose this place, I'd better tell the new owners those blocks are out there.  They have long since disappeared into the wildness.  The next bush hog user could be in for a big surprise if he tries to level the wild areas. Shame on him if he does!  But I doubt if a bush hog can cut down cement blocks.  Ugh.)  Anyway, that first spring and summer I let the marked area go wild--minus the mowed paths, of course.  Walking Iten's Acres requires places to walk--everywhere.  Since that first year, however, I have let the wild area "grow."  In fact, every year I have let it expand.  I just love God's gardening even better than my own.  This year I've widened two of the margins:  at the top of the area I've let it expand by ten yards or so and at the very back of the property I've expanded the margin by five yards or so.  And I plan to let another quarter moon shaped area go wild this fall and winter.  The last two or three times I mow back here I'll let that area go unmowed.  No more cement blocks.  (No allusions to any similarities to those blocks and my head are permissible--even if applicable.)  I already have seeds to throw in this "new" area,  either right before or right after the first snowfall.  (I may have to amend that and wait for a later November snow the way this fall has begun.  Brrr.)  I always "plant" the seeds then.  I mean, that's when nature does her "planting."  The seeds then go through the normal progression of wet, cold, and spring warmth.  It has worked well in my years here.
    Wow! that was a long digression.  Sorry.  Back to color.  As I sit in my green chair, (remember, that's where I was before my mind started to wander) I can tell which areas are the "oldest" because they're yellow--golden rod everywhere.  The younger areas, on the other hand, look to be all white--heath asters.  The color difference is quite obvious from my seat at the top of the hill.  Of course, when I walk the areas, the colors are not quite as defined.  The white area has dabs of golden rod and dabs of mainly purple asters and a few pink ones.  In fact, the "older" the new area is--that sounds strange--the more dabs there are, mostly purple ones.  And the older yellow area is full of purple asters.  In fact, even though the golden rod is fairly much through blooming, I have tens of thousands of aster buds that have not yet bloomed.  And the edges of the golden rod area have white asters.  There are also four old paths that I have for various reasons let go back to wildness so that the yellow area has four white stripes in it.  Yellow zebras?  All those various beauty marks are obvious when you walk the paths, adding to the joy.  Yes, I feel joy walking there.  But from the "throne" it just looks like a huge patch of yellow and a huge patch of white.  Beautiful in its own way.
     Another beauty moment this time of year as I sit and enjoy the view is the activity of the goldfinch.  They are all over the dried out thistles.  Amazing.  And, of course, the butterflies are all over the area.  Especially, this time of year, the monarchs.  What beauties!
     Anyway, sitting on Iten's Acres can be as wondrous at times as walking Iten's Acres.  Remember, bring you own throne--color doesn't matter--and relax awhile.  It's good for the soul as well as the eyes.  And the leaves haven't really started to change yet.  I love autumn!