Grateful, Thankful

Grateful, Thankful

Sweet myrtle, rosemary, wooley thyme, sweet fern, love-lies-bleeding, lady’s mantle, sea lavender, bay laurel, holy basil. Mourning dove, blue heron, silent red-tail hawk, gryphon, storm crow, raven’s blood. Fox glove, weeping willow, sweet birch, holy oak, bittersweet, evening primrose, mountain laurel. 

Time lies suspended under the mountain, and the shadows of clouds sweep silently across the earth. In fall and in snow, under a full moon, trees stand out in sharp relief, and what is in the shadows fades rapidly into deep darkness. Bears hoot deep in the marsh in spring. Coyotes yap in a circle on the hilltops. Moose sometimes dance with us, in our cars, near the ponds where they come at night. A bobcat races across the road; a fox carries food to its den.

At 3 am I glance out the window and see fire. Fire leaping, fire lunging; fire reflected from the woodstove, which I have just filled with paper birch. The birch fills the air with spicy incense. The smoke from a candle just blown out rises into the darkness gathering below the roof. Light shines from neighbor’s windows as we pass by in a late-night walk. Light is reflected in the eyes of loved ones gathered at table. 

Ice Heart; Charley Freiberg photo

 

Strangers who amaze and fascinate; the voices of those who are beloved coming from another room, from a telephone, captured on tape or disc. Baked apples, hot cocoa, fragrant ginger, deep red sauces full of herbs. The fresh leaves of kaffir lime; the secret joy of ripe persimmons. The kitchen mouse which steals a cherry tomato but leaves the fresh-baked loaf untouched. Cheeses made from milk of cows who eat long grasses, and clover, and wild flowers and dream of warm spring pastures in their winter stalls. 

The scent of cloves in the ointment I rub on a sore muscle. The glory of a sunset, a full moon hanging ripe above the lake, a rainbow arcing aetherically across the lightening sky.  Hot rice bags between the flannel sheets near the toes at night. Freezers filled to fullness; root cellar full to bursting. Balsam needles scenting the air; purple heather, dried and resting in a blue vase. An aquamarine kettle; a copper cup. Warm fingerless gloves; soft scarves, wooley hats. Waking in the dark stillness of night, listening, listening, hearing a soft purr near the ear.

The majestic crash and blow of storms; the comfort of sun-warmed grasses, a gentle breeze, a cricket’s creak.  A song that makes the spirit soar; laughing until tears flow and we slowly fall onto the floor, overcome with mirth. A secret shared; a kindness received, a kindness given. Cheerful chickadees, the red flash of a cardinal, the knock-knock-knock of a woodpecker on a stark dead tree. Mushrooms in their secret places; mushrooms in the soup. A blooming cyclamen, a flowering hibiscus, with snow falling beyond the window in which they sit.

A pot of soup, heady with spices, simmering on the stove. Chocolate and oranges. The excited anticipation of a dog watching the human pull on coats, lift down the leash. The excited anticipation of waiting for the sacred turn of the year, the lengthening of days, the rise of light. The brush of fingers passing in a hall; the soft sweet ears of a child. The cat who lifts a paw to catch attention. The twinkle of lights on snow, on the tree in the corner of the room, in the dark vasty sky above our heads. 

A story told with passion and skill; a quilt made long ago by the hands of great aunties. The pile of books waiting by the bed. A fresh pad of paper, a pen that fits the hand just so. Owls hooting in the darkness. Dark heads of an unknown critter, glimpsed in the moonlight, crossing and crossing and recrossing the pond. A pear galette, scented with vanilla and cardamom. A crust of bread, shared with a friend. The stream of joy that runs just below the surface, even in the bad times. The ability to hope. Comedians who can make us laugh about the things we dread. The ability to laugh at ourselves.

At 3 am I glance out the window and see myself, reflected darkly in the glass. The house murmurs quietly about me; a log snaps in the woodstove, the Barkie Boy sighs in his sleep, a skittering comes from the kitchen, a Furry Person rouses and pads quietly by; a beam creaks, my chair scrapes on the floor, a draft wraps around my ankles. Shadows push me towards bed.

Comfort settles over me; my spirit is at rest. Grateful, thankful; grateful, thankful. The world is full.

Printed in the Concord Monitor on November 22, 2017, as “ Grateful, Thankful.”

Hornet's Nest

Hornet's Nest; Deb Marshall photo

I’d been lustfully eying that lovely hornet’s nest in the maple tree depending over our driveway, and it finally was harvested, just a day before that horrific and surprising storm we had just before Hallowe’en, which probably would have destroyed it had it remained in the tree. It cost the Husband a swollen lip – the nest turned out to be not quite as empty as we’d thought – but the Tall Dude managed to keep hold of the limb it’s attached to and avoid getting stung while the Husband cut the tree limb, so now the nest is resting in the garage until we’re sure it’s empty. Eventually it’ll hang in the house in some protected corner; the cold temperatures that arrived this week will probably render it safe, and maybe drive the bears into hibernation, as well, so I can begin to leave seed for the birds on the wart rail, soon. 

The birds have efficiently emptied all the many many sunflower heads of all their seed, and the tall, dry, blackened skeletons have been pulled out of the garden and tossed, with the raspberry canes that bore fruit this summer and fall, onto the burn pile. I finally gave in and pulled the remaining beets and celeriac from the garden, in the process finding a handful of onions that somehow I’d missed earlier. These I used along with the penultimate handful of small and shriveled, but ripened, tomatoes from the basket on the dining table and the unbelievable handful of cherry tomatoes I gathered last week – in November!! -  from the rogue plant next to the house – they made a small batch of marinara sauce to add to the gathering containers of sauce in the freezer. 

Even though the fava beans were still flowering, I yanked those out, too – there are no bees around to pollinate them. The garden shed is packed full of tomato cages, wart deck rail planter boxes, large planters, bird bath, hoses, wart furniture – except one remaining chair that Catman and Beastreau and the Husband fight over on sunny days – and I fished out the snow shovels before the shed was too full to reach them. In reach just inside the door are the stakes we use to mark the edge of our driveway to keep the snow plow on dirt and off the field. The garden looks forlorn with most of its growing things gone, and only stakes firmly planted to mark the location of perennials. The parsnips, which I leave over winter, are green and lush still; and the garden chores are not yet done. If it stays warm enough long enough, I have yet to move the iris, cut back the dead marjoram and Jerusalem artichokes and asparagus fronds and catnip and so on; the blueberries must be mulched, and some noxious weeds pulled before they get too settled.

Those first paragraphs were written a week ago, and in so short a time the world has turned and our long, late autumn has turned bitterly cold and windy. There was even snow – not much, but enough to count – caught in the corners of the wart one morning this week, and it suddenly dawned on me that, 1. I’d better get on the list at the garage to get my snow tires put on because all of us who didn’t really believe winter would come this year are going to get caught out; and 2. the iris that didn’t get moved and the spring bulbs that didn’t get planted and the mulching that hasn’t gotten done and the cutting back of dead perennials that still remains may none of them get finished this fall, unless it warms up a little on a weekend when I can do it. I noticed a skim of ice on the pond the other day, and the topsoil feels a little crusty – if we don’t hustle, the driveway markers may not get into place while the ground is soft enough to pierce, either.

I’ll hope for an Indian Summer, which comes after a real freeze. I remember walking in shirtsleeves the 6 miles around the lake with my Dad one warm Thanksgiving Day back in the dark ages, and skiing on 3 feet of natural snow the following Thanksgiving. The year could go either way.

One new thing literally washed in with the storm - a flooded cellar! We’ve only twice before had a cellar flood, and only in spring when deeply frozen ground couldn’t absorb a fast snow melt. This flood came up through the drainage pipe, seeped in from cement floor cracks, burbled in through the corners. It couldn’t be pumped out until the pond levels went down and the flooded field retreated; since then the dehumidifier and fans have been working 24-hour days trying to dry the cellar out. It’s harder to do this time of year – two weeks later, it’s barely finished. For the duration, the Furry People’s indoor facilities moved upstairs to crowd the humans’ indoor facilities, a thing of joy for the Cat People. I hope the flood sent the cellar mice back into the relatively dryer great outdoors.

Abu and I have been taking before-bed strolls now that Roo is no longer with us, with Bu in his red winter coat as protection against the wind during  the past two days. He doesn’t seem to mind the cold, but I’m mindful of his arthritis – he’s a 16-year-old Barkie Boy who thinks he’s still a youngster but is a lot stiffer than a pup. During this past full moon, as we neared the far pond, there was a loud plop! plop! into the water. Too cold for frogs, and Abu was mightily involved with the pond-side smells, so what, I wondered, was escaping us – some late ducks? Peering closely in the moonlight, I saw two dark heads moving swiftly across the water, back and forth. I couldn’t get close enough to see what they were – my guess would be beaver who washed down with the big rain the week before – but they weren’t there two days later, so maybe they were minks. It was very exciting, and I had to use some strong persuasion to keep Abu from charging into the water after them.

We’ve had the woodstove burning the past two days, and Catman’s wart chair moves inside at night and on rainy days. He’s content to curl up on it and bake in the stove heat, with occasional excursions outdoors to nibble the remains of his catnip patch. We’re in the hunkering down part of the year; I light a candle for the window in the dark dining room, and it cheers me to see it as I pass by doing chores, and when Abu and I are returning from our late walk. I keep a scarf and fingerless mittens near my desk, and I, usually the night-owl, find myself drifting to sleep sitting up most nights. The body is still an animal, responding to the early dark and cold – we crave soup and baked apples, and hot drinks, and early and long sleep, and even the critters are happy to have a blanket draped over them for the night. Flannel sheets, an extra blanket, and hot bags of rice to warm the feet have been cosy bedtime companions, and I’m thinking it’s time to reread Truman Capote’s holiday stories, and the Yule-tide section of Wind in the Willows.

 

The best thing about the return of deep cold: much less likely to find ticks!

For the blog, 11 November 2017.

Harvested Nest; Deb Marshall art

Mourning Roo

Roo in full aroo aroo arooo mode; Deb Marshall photo

The day I’ve been dreading for months finally arrived: Aroofus Gooptus Barkbender’s hind legs refused to work, in spite of a rubdown, in spite of meds, in spite of helping him get up to take the first steps that usually stimulated enough function to allow wobbly – but speedy - walking. The inevitable call to the vet’s office was made, then we sat and talked to Roo, and rubbed his belly and ears, and stuffed him full of all the good things he wanted to eat: a slice of pizza, a bowl of milk, some usually forbidden cat food, soup with an egg in it. Then we lifted him on a blanket into the car, and he woo-woo’d his last car trip to the vet, and oblivion.

We experience in our Self consciousness many tragedies of being human: we have to kill in order to live, whether we’re carnivores, omnivores, ovo-lacto vegetarians or vegans – and we’re aware of that, and of the ironic tragedy of it, and most of us, at some time or another, will struggle with ourselves over it. 

We know that our existence will inevitably come to an end, and as we grow older we become acutely aware of the passing of time, of how much weight rests on the scale on the used and gone forever side, how relatively little remains on the new days to come side. We know that when our time is up, we’ll exist only as a memory; we’ll leave stuff undone, stuff unknown, and the stuff that only we remember will blow away with our dust.

We live with the tragedy that no one – ever – will really know us: the human condition ultimately is one of resounding solitude, and yet we strive to find comfort in the existentially limited connections we make with other people, other beings. We long to be truly seen, truly known by another human – and we live with that hungry ghost all our lives, struggling to accept our ultimate aloneness, to accept that only I, myself, can ever know the fullness of my thoughts and feelings and experiences.

Another tragedy is that we live much longer than our beloved pets – or, what may be worse, our pets may sometimes outlive us.

Roofus was a big, 85-pound moose of a dog, with long black ears and a typical hound’s baying bark. Like all our critters, he was someone else’s cast-off; when he was found wandering the streets in a near-by town, he was rail thin, no smarter than he needed to be, already suffering some walking issues from an untreated injury, but young and strong and very enthusiastic – all feet were in the air at least as often as on the ground, and he talked constantly. 

The local vet more or less tricked me into taking him home to see how he might fit in with my other Barkie Boy and the Furry People, telling me I could keep him as long as I wanted and bring him back any time if it didn’t work out. I found out later that the staff had bets going on how long it would be before I brought Roo back: the longest was a couple of hours, the shortest was 15 minutes. They were surprised when he spent the night – and then the next day – and then another – and by then, I’d forgotten all about bringing him back.

Not long after Roo became a household member, we adopted a new Furry Person. For months afterwards, every time Roo woke from a nap, his nose would snap into the air, sniffing furiously; he’d jump to his feet, and baying aroo aroo arooo, he’d search for the – !cat! – that had invaded, and corner her: did we know this cat was here? Aroo aroo aroo aroo! 

Eventually Catman trained the hound. Giving us a disgusted look, he’d race to the baying Roo and deliver a hard smack on the snoot that we could hear at a distance. He didn’t use claws, but Roo understood. Barking was reduced significantly.

 Roo was a lover of humans and thought he was a lap dog. I never took a nap on the couch without his hot body mashed between me and the sofa back, snoring mightily, nose buried in my armpit or knee. Stretched out, he was nearly as long as me. In the last year, when his old injury made such snuggling uncomfortable, he’d settle for lying on top of my feet – as long as there was touching, all was right enough in his world. 

Human beings don’t easily accept that ultimately we’re not in control. Maybe other critters, most times, agonize less and accept more readily the ebb and flow of existence. When we returned from the vet, my other Barkie Boy carefully sniffed me all over. I’m sure he read what had happened off my hands. He gave me one long look; then went about his usual Barkie Boy day. Several years ago, when there was still a chance that my beloved, ailing cat could recover from the illness that eventually killed him, Catman – who, being a Lord of the Universe, never shares - brought him a freshly-killed mouse to eat every evening. When that gift stopped, my heart paused for several beats: I knew the wrong corner had been turned, and time was growing short.

The putting down of a beloved critter is a sweet and gentle thing, once we finish struggling with the tragic responsibility of deciding when it’s time. It’s over in seconds; the spirit drifts as if to sleep, and from there drifts beyond the body. Time goes on; our lives go on; suffering ends; our hearts ache but the worry and agony of weighing benefit and detriment ends. The irony is that we haven’t made the same simple release as gentle and reliable for the suffering members of our own species, who, for the most part, could tell us when they were ready for that last adventure. The telling resolves the tragedy, and makes the parting of a loved one from life a grace, instead.

I was lucky – that day I was certain Roo was ready; it often isn’t so clear. He told me he wants to be buried in the couch. He’ll have to settle for a garden-side place under the apple tree, or maybe the peach tree, where he can monitor our out-door goings-on. 

We sigh, hug the other Barkie Boy often, and wait for time to soothe our aching, human hearts.

Published in the Concord Monitor, 8 November 2017, as “Goodbye to a Very Good Boy.”

Photo by Deb Marshall