The Mended Pocket

This afternoon I finally sat down in my living room chair, took up the black thread and needle I’d dug out of the plastic storage boxes where I store them deep in my closet, and I sewed up the hole in the pocket of my six-month old rain coat. (Don’t you hate it when you buy something new and then right away it grows a hole or a button falls off or a zipper breaks?)

 

The coat had been hanging in my closet since I’d discovered the hole because I hadn’t found the time or taken the time to round up the necessary equipment, sit down, and sew. It’s the same with so many small things that need doing, but you have to assemble the equipment you need, or you have to go to a specified place to do them, or any number of minor conveniences out of the normal routine of an ordinary day. Finally, a space opens up and voila, you can no longer procrastinate because all conditions are perfect for the accomplishment of the task.

 

I felt great after I sewed up the hole because now I can wear my coat again, and just in time for the fall rains. And of course, I wonder why I didn’t do this a couple of months ago right after the hole appeared.

 

Certain aspects of our relationships are like this, too, especially keeping up connections. When we have time to write or call, we are too tired, or too busy, or it’s too late, or our daily schedule is full. Or we don’t have the time, our schedule so full there’s no squeezing one more thing in to be had.

 

When all conditions arrive at the same point and we make our connections, we feel just like I did mending my pocket. Like all things with us are set straight. Like we can go on and play the banjo tune all the way through without a bump.

 

Today I had time to write a small e-mail to my brother-in-law who is recovering from a stroke. I hadn’t heard from him for a few weeks because he probably hasn’t had the perfect conditions for writing to me. I wrote to my friend Liz who was having health problems the last time I heard from her, along with tons of company. I’ve had tons of company and out-of-town commitments myself.

 

Just as with the mended pocket, I felt great sending out a tendril of connection to family and friends today. But more fell into the slots as soon as I emptied them. I haven’t heard from another friend for a few months. I know she is busy with her grandchildren in the summer while their parents work. I just received my own copy of another friend’s poetry book which I want to respond to, so every day there are needs for connection but I can’t always get to them despite my intentions. It’s as if I were the last person in one of those long lines in ice shows. The last person has to go the fastest and cover the most ground and if she lets go, she’s flung out into the void of the ice rink. I’m skating as fast as I can but I have a hard time keeping up with the rest of the line. I just do my best and feel good when I’ve made another circle in the rink.

 

Making these connections in a timely manner is important to me because at my stage of life, people can disappear before you have time to fulfill all your intentions. Actually, that can happen at any stage of life, now that I think about it. Because of that, I’ve been opening up my schedule and being careful about what I put in the slots that are now open again. I need time for me so I can get things done, like sewing up a pocket hole. I need time to be free so that I can get in touch with a friend, or go have coffee or lunch or dinner. Living a fulfilled life is crucial to the story of myself.

 

 

RIGHT NOW! In The Garden

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I don’t know about you, but I feel like I’m just getting started in the garden. I walk around inspecting progress, and if I don’t focus, I miss the beauty and see what needs doing—weeding, deadheading, or picking. So much is ready RIGHT NOW to be dealt with. I have garden angst.

Some things really are RIGHT NOW, like the bald hornet nest we discovered while discussing where to plant new purchases. Neal turned around to check the sunlight and said, “Whoa! Karen, turn around and look at this!” When I did, it took awhile to register what I was seeing—a gigantic paper nest with a multitude of huge, fuzzy black bodies crawling and flying in and out of a fist-sized hole in the bottom. Whoa indeed! They have since been dispatched, organically. That was the most exciting thing to occur in our garden this season–to date, because we all know that gardens, and those who inhabit them, can surprise us at any time.

Which reminds me of the way our neighborhood cats shoot out from underneath the bean teepees, the words “Get away!” implanted on their faces, when we turn on the sprinklers. If you are missing a cat, check under your bean trellis. In fact, if I had time, I’d sit under a trellis myself. It’s a nice, quiet place to meditate. Or read. Or nap.

Speaking of beans, I love how when the scarlet runner beans run out of trellis on top, the vine undulates and sways in the breeze, like it’s sniffing for something else to climb, looking for the hand up it’s not going to get. I love the scarlet flowers, too, which remind me to stay in the now and enjoy the gifts of the present. All too soon they’ll be beans boiling in the pot. I’ll enjoy those, too.

Same with the grape vines, where daily the grapes in their clusters enlarge and the leaves provide shade atop the pergola. Likewise with the potato vines that hang yellow-leaved, brown-spotted and limp, the X on a treasure map, potatoes shouting, “Dig us, already!”

Squash vines become fervent, intrepid trekkers, travelling pell-mell over all the other vegetables, clinging when they can. Their fruits and golden blooms are like little mileposts, sometimes under the broccoli or between corn stalks, sometimes attacking the strawberries in their raised bed. Zucchini anyone?

The cabbage is halfway to making heads and I hope they hurry up because I’m hoping for sauerkraut this year. I can’t spend too much time encouraging them, however, because Neal picked seven buckets of apples from his orchard and another fruit-laden tree remains to be picked. Some of the apples are good for pie-baking, so I’ll prepare freezer bags of pie filling. Some make applesauce, smoother and sweeter than ice cream. Some I will dehydrate. Some will become cider. Some have been gifted to friends.

RIGHT NOW take time to admire your plants in their own “right now,” as they, in Bodil Malmsten’s words, “…absorb everything and make it into nourishment and energy to last out the winter.”

RIGHT NOW becomes very important, because in September we lose three minutes of daylight every day. Aarrgh! Dig, clip, can, pickle and shred to fill your larder and remember to appreciate your garden, and those who tend it, while the sun shines.

BERRY PICKIN’

Yesterday, I picked our blueberry bushes using my usual method—one for the mouth, one for the bowl, one for the mouth, one for …well, you understand. Also, as usual when out in nature, I fell into a contemplative mood.

I thought about how the birds had eaten their fair share of this summer’s blueberry production, even though Neal had erected blueberry cages. I knew the greedy birds had had their fill because I got one of the bandits, a teensy goldfinch, who upon seeing me, tried his darndest to escape the net. It was clear he’d forgotten the way and he was having a panic attack. He had gotten inside the cage because there was a fraction of an opening at the bottom but surprised by my arrival, he couldn’t find it directly. Since he was so absolutely cute, I did the only thing I could do. I unzipped the cage and he located open sky and flew.

I imagined the birds, already devouring what they wished, telling each other, “Now, leave something for the humans. Don’t eat ALL the berries!”

Or maybe they’d left some because they, like small planes, had to consider weight distribution before taking off.

As I picked, I thought about the Eastern Oregon equivalent of blueberries, the mighty and supreme huckleberry. Huckleberries are so coveted that families have their own maps of patches known only to them and them pass them down from parents to children. While cleaning out my files recently, I came across the one my father had drawn for me in order to reach a Mt. Adams patch.

Legends have been written about the huckleberry and its scarcity makes it even more special to those of us who tracked patches of it every summer, stripping the bushes for our jams, syrups, ice creams, and eating it right from the hand. I can taste that sweet tartness even now.

When we lived in Rockaway, we were blessed with Western Oregon huckleberry bushes which I protected from deer, bear, and humans. One patch grew near the mailboxes we shared with our neighbor, right along our property lines. I waited and waited for the berries to turn from red to plum-colored, checking every day as I picked up our bills, catalogs, and correspondence. One day I saw they would be ready the next day, and got my bowl prepared to pick right after the mail came. When the little white van had turned around and gone back down the hill, I went to the mailbox, only to find our neighbor, transplanted from urban life to coastal dwelling, had sheared the bushes he found lumpy and misshapen into a long, square hedge. I cried.

Then I thought about the greatest huckleberry picker of all, the grand poobah wizard, my grandma. Dad would hear via the huckleberry vine the patches were ready and tell us to be ready bright and early. Grandma would arrive in her Fiat, jump into our Chevy stationwagon, and off we’d go, armed with the picnic lunch Mom had prepared, and our buckets fashioned from old MJB coffee cans or gallon shortening cans. I liked the shortening cans best because the handles were crafted and there were no sharp edges, unlike the MJB cans with their rusty wire handles and sharp tops. We’d start at the top of a hill and bush by bush, slide down. We’d get sticky and sweaty and were plagued by crawling and flying bugs. Still we picked and when we grew tired of picking our grandmother first shamed us by showing us how full her bucket was, reminding us she was an old lady we surely could beat, and then she told us stories of her youth, or sang songs she’d grown up with. The latter always encouraged us to pick faster as she did not carry a tune as well as her bucket. By the time we got to the bottom of the hill, our mouths were purple and our buckets full.

Picking my own blueberries now, I thought of those huckleberry picking days, quietly sang a few lines from her songs, and before I knew it, I had my bowl full of berries ready to be processed.

Lots of us grew up in gardens or the outdoors and that’s why we are there now as adults; that’s why we encourage our kids and grandchildren, and heck, everyone we know, to get out in the garden, out in Nature herself, with others. That’s where the best learning, bonding, and wonderful fond memories occur.

 

YOU BLOODY WELL CAN DO IT!

I just finished reading my grandmother asked me to tell you she’s sorry, by Fredrik Backman. Although I loved it all, this was my favorite part:

 

“The others at school say girls can’t be Spider-Man…”

Alf takes two dragging steps down the stairs. Stops. Looks at her.

“Don’t you think a lot of bastards said that to your grandmother?”

Elsa peers at him.

“Did she dress up as Spider-Man?”

“No.”

“What are you talking about then?”

“She dressed up as a doctor.”

Did they tell her she couldn’t be a doctor? Because she was a girl?”

Alf shifts something in the toolbox and then stuffs in the Santa suit.

“Most likely they told her a whole lot of damned things she wasn’t allowed to do, for a range of different reasons. But she damned well did them all the same. A few years after she was born they were still telling girls they couldn’t vote in the bleeding elections, but now the girls do it all the same. That’s damned well how you stand up to bastards who tell you what you can and can’t do. You bloody do those things all the bloody same.”

It’s a lovely mantra, isn’t it? “You bloody do those things all the bloody same.”

My sisters and I grew up on a farm, where if things needed doing my father couldn’t do alone, we were recruited to help, because there were no boys sitting at our dinner table. We did all the things around the farm that boys would normally have done, some of the jobs better than others, granted, but we did them, nonetheless. There were plenty of things we didn’t want to do, but whatever we wanted to do, we did. Some of them my father tried to discourage, saying girls can’t do that, but, hey, he started it, so that flag didn’t fly anymore, and there was no stopping it once it got started.

“You bloody do those things all the bloody same.” *

Our lives as adults weren’t easy because we believed this at a time other adults didn’t. Like husbands, bosses, and colleagues, both male and female. “Women can’t be (insert whatever position it was—electricians, ministers, soccer players, principals, etc.).”

When we were appointed by others in charge to a position our male colleagues thought was their due, because of tradition, longevity, or simply being male, things got ugly. “I’ve been here longer, I should be department head.” (Never mind the commitment, ability level or training.) Harassment and bullying of all kinds ensued.

On the home front that resentment exploded into bad behavior and violence on more than one occasion.

My single-parent-due-to-divorce sister, who built cabinets to finance her college education, was later told by the manager of a cabinet shop that instead of working she needed to be home with her children. She asked him how he expected she would be able to take care of them if she didn’t have a job. He had no answer but he still didn’t hire her. He missed out on skilled labor.

My other sister manages a cemetery and has had to deal with “women can’t do that” mentality from employees—now former employees, because, yes, she could do that.

In the public domain—well, you only need to look at comments about any female politician to know what happens publically.

My sisters and I weren’t the only women who suffered from being and doing what we wanted, who ignored naysayers and just did it anyway. The poet Sister Helena Brand used to say, “Do what you need to do. You can always repent later.” She was a member of the biggest partriarchy of them all.

My friend Judy wrote a book about her early experiences about doing what she wanted to do, being who she wanted to be. How on a staff of fellow PhD’s, she was often left out of bonding experiences, until she found out about them, and then inserted her presence. The first time was ugly, and then after that, not so much. If there was a mess, she was assigned to be in charge of cleaning it up, and when she actually did that, they were angry she’d succeeded. She kept on, though, and garnered the respect she should have had at the beginning.

I hope her daughters decide to print that book, because our young daughters and granddaughters need to know that anything is possible, no matter how anyone tries to limit you or block your path. Because they will.

The same holds true for young men. There is no one thing you have to do or be. One younger man I admire is a graphic artist, picture book author, and a stay-at-home dad, and he is teaching the community at large—nationally and now internationally–that men can parent creatively and successfully if that is what they want to do.

Here’s the thing: If you don’t do the things you want to do, then you aren’t really living your life.

Ageism is another problem that keeps us from being who we want to be. I remember feeling invisible as I approached 50. The comedienne Amy Schumer produced a hilarious and all-too-true sketch about women’s last f***able moment. If a person of a certain age applies for a job, they often don’t get it. How stupid on the part of the employer is that? Older people have tons of experience, both jobwise and human connection-wise. No worries that you’ll be gone because of your kids being sick.

Men I know who were counting on retirement, some as close as a year away, were suddenly let go. This happened to my female friends as well. You either are now costing your employer too much, or you are going to, so off you go.

I love that my daughter, who is now over the half-century mark, decided four years ago to pursue the career she always wanted, and now is a BSN-RN. In nursing, her age is a plus, not only because of her clinical experience, but because of her life experience. As my classmate Susie says, “I say when you have lived one life, “bloody well” live another and another—try them all out until you’ve lived them all! Do as many as you please!” She started out as a train engineer, and now she has a position at Crown Media. My friend Carol still works in real estate but she’s had many lives before that one.

There will always be naysayers, and the loudest one is often in your own head. None of them have your best interests at heart or even understand what’s in your heart, so ignore them.

My point is this: If someone tells you, “Girls can’t do that! Boys can’t do that!” you let them know you can. Then stay the course and then bloody well do it!

*(You don’t have to say “bloody” because you might not want to swear. But if do, then have at it!)

 

 

REFLECTIONS

 

Old Orange

When my husband placed the orange plant in the low ceramic bowl on the deck bench at the start of spring, I assumed it was a stop-gap measure, a rescue plant, something to sit there until he’d planted something beautiful to take its place. This succulent had no flowers, and had been the last surviving remnant of a prior summer’s succulent display. The lifeless leaves drooping off the bottom section of the center stems led me to believe it wasn’t long for this world. I resigned myself to looking at its dried-out, long and stringy appearance until either it died or its replacement arrived. Morning coffee in hand, I stared at it daily through the living room French doors. Ho-hum, if I have to.

 

Then something amazing happened. With every spring rain, every sunny day and every bit of fertilizer, this plant, whose fronds swooped and swayed like Donald Trump’s hair, grew, filling the pot that had at first been 2/3 empty. As other pots full of geraniums, marigolds, and four-o’clocks arrived, Old Orange transformed into a lush beauty right before my eyes, his stems greening, then turning to amber, as they rose from the pot. I began to look forward to seeing him every morning, his golden assertion a vivid contrast to the blue-potted beauties surrounding him.

 

Nothing is a coincidence. We’re meant to see what we do, so I always look for the gift in my observations. The lesson I gleaned is this: In your gardens and in life, pay attention to the oddballs, and keep them close to you. If you do, they’ll grow on you.

 

Shucking and Sloughing

 

Our front walkway flowerbed was a mess, a mass of dessicated, droopy dead daffodil blades, numerous weeds of the huge and habitual variety, and spider webs full of insect parts. Clean-up day arrived, and I was armed and ready. I pulled and yanked, trimmed and tossed. I dug, finding a plethora of sowbugs and their basketball-shaped mommies. (We’ve overdosed on sowbugs this season. Enough already!)

 

Halfway through my tidying, I found the cutest thing. At first I thought it was a sloughed-off snakeskin and I was loathe to touch it. I noticed, though, it was short, so because of myopia and cataracts, I picked it up and held it close to my eyes to get a better look. Aha!

 

In my hand lay the shed skin of a newt, the outer wrapping of his little platypus bill-shaped head, his wee arms waving in the wind, and his stump of a tail. I wondered how it happened—did he brush up against a tough stem and wriggle? Did it take hours to happen or did he just keep walking right on out of his skin? How did he know it was time for a change?

 

I consulted the internet then and there, right handy on the phone in my pocket, (which I keep there when I’m outside because I see cool things and it has a camera). On YouTube, I watched a newt shedding his skin and saw he used the items in his aquarium to rub up against. More Googled information told me that shedding is a process controlled by hormones from the pituitary and thyroid glands. Newts rub the skin down from their head, where shedding starts at the mouth, to their waist, then reach around, grab the roll in their mouth and pull it off their hind legs and tail. Or they use a series of wriggles and once the hind limbs are extracted they push the skin farther back until the tail, which is pressed down, removes the rest of it by friction. I was lucky to find the skin from our resident newt because apparently it’s common practice for a newt to eat his shed skin. A shed skin is a true, thin shadow of its former self.

 

At the end of the bed, I removed the bottom portion of the downspout and the flat catcher that diverts the water down the sidewalk so I could pull the weeds and dead stuff away. I lifted a large flat stone, and there was Mr. Newt, resplendent in his new skin. He might have been miffed at my disturbing the peace of his dark and damp domicile. He froze for a moment, staring me down. I said hello, and then he gave up the stink eye and wiggled away (as fast as a newt can) to await my departure. I don’t know if there’s a Mrs. Newt because I only ever see one. I suspect, however, there must be, because we’ve enjoyed a resident newt since the first moment we moved here. I hope he’s been eating sowbugs.

 

I read that newts grow each time they shuck their old skin. Humans do that, too, don’t they? Sloughing off what doesn’t work for us anymore helps us to grow as well.

 

Tenacity

 

My snowball bush teaches me the other side of the coin. It’s a tough call to know when to hang on. Every spring the bush blooms, and the wind persists until the blooms are blown away…all but one snowball. Maybe it arrives late so it goes late, but for some reason, one snowball remains a month later than all the others. Maybe it likes hanging out with the blooms of other later-blooming species. Each morning it’s still there, way at the top of the bush, I smile and give it a silent “Atta girl!”

 

Gardening teaches us important life lessons if we remain aware. This month, I was reminded of three things. Sometimes you wait, sometimes you slough off, and sometimes you hang on.

UPON OPENING THE FRONT DOOR

UPON OPENING THE FRONT DOOR

 

“The flowers appear on the earth

The time for singing has come!”—Song of Songs 2:12

 

May has been the month of departures and new arrivals up our front sidewalk. This flurry of activity similar to the hustle-bustle of an airport gateway has given us a reason to open the front door every morning. Instead of ringing our doorbell, the flowers wait to surprise us. They don’t say good-bye, either, but leave quietly, fading into the soil, homeward bound.

Desiccated leaves and stalks are all that’s left aboveground of the red and yellow tulips opening wide as they die, displaying stamens. The daffodils have turned into elongated heads at the end of their stalks. Their leaves, losing chlorophyll, yellow and droop over the short fence as they feed the bulbs.

One Friday night the irises were still pointy buds the shape of miniature mummies, tightly wrapped in parchment sarcophoguses. The next Saturday morning when we opened the front door, there they were, royal purple, pale lavender, and yellow blossoms fluttering in the breeze, triangular centers blazing their arrival. Their delicate fragrance scented the morning breeze.

Just as the iris flowers withered, the pink and maroon peonies transformed from shy, corseted buds into puffy petticoats of scent, buffeted by the breeze.

Day before yesterday, at the opening of the door, I spied two lily flowers, with sisters on down each stem ready to join us soon, splashing their scarlet finery. The rest of the lilies in the flowerbed will arrive at any moment.

Behind them are the lavender, now setting on their flowers, and the penstemon, gearing up for five-stamen production.

Today the jasmine climbing the trellis by the front door broke into tiny trumpet-shaped blooms, releasing its signature perfume.

These flowers feel like family members who hug when they say hello, or the old-time Welcome Wagon, bearing a cheeriness that ushers us from where we’ve been to where we’re going, from the short days of rain-filled spring into the charms of sunny (and sometimes still rain-filled) summer, harbingers of Nature’s beauty yet to come. All we have to do is open the front door.

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THE FIRST IRISES

 

Friday night the irises were still pointy buds the shape of miniature mummies, tightly wrapped in parchment sarcophoguses. Saturday morning when we opened the front door, there they were, deep purple and yellow blossoms fluttering in the breeze, triangular centers blazing their arrival.

The first irises always remind me of my friend L., who loves the sight and scent of them. Yesterday, I sent her a close-up photo of what she loves.

Like all of us of a certain age, L. has lived through adversities and emerged a beauty, inside and out. When I see the iris, I think of how L. and her sister S. built a literary journal from scratch, one that is now nationally respected, one that literary contests pull their prize selections from year after year.

L. and S. researched for more than a year how to put a literary journal together. At first, they had their detractors. One of them was a columnist who wrote that they were doomed to failure because they didn’t work from the bottom up, i.e. sucking up to every literary persona in town who might one day be a player in their venture, and because of all things, at their opening party, they giggled a lot.

I hope they are giggling still, two decades later, being nationally renowned and all. These sisters continue to meet their goal while remaining kind and generous. They’ve featured years of good writers, some of them beginners, and brought many to national prominence. Quarterly, they also produce a bulletin of solid writing advice. Having done what they intended to do from the beginning, one step at a time, working hard, ignoring harsh words from large egos, they’ve persevered.

Persevered, like the first irises every spring that weather winters’ storms with the intention of bringing joy just by being. As I gaze at their purple, lavender and yellow blossoms, I imagine them giggling a lot.

THE LOVE TOUR

THE LOVE TOUR

January is a most depressing month, and February follows right on its heels. Here on the coast everything is dripping wet, soggy and marshlike. The prominent color of the sky is some variation of Payne’s gray, from “dark ominous” to “continual dusk” to “shiny steel.” Lest you think growing things are all dead, though, when you see brown, slime, and mold, I’m here to tell you plenty is going on underneath the leaves, twigs, branches and mulch. Even if it’s spitting rain, I suggest you take a hopeful walk around your garden. Make what I call the Love Tour.

Today, I asked myself, “What can I see that I love?” I started out from the front door, where our porch is decorated with primroses my husband bought at the store, with the joy of their color in mind. We love seeing them every time we go in or out of our home. We didn’t grow them, but I think they count anyway.

Next, I noticed all the nubbins—bulbs arising in either sidewalk bed. Some early daffodils are ready to bloom, but the later bulbs are slowly undressing. Besides daffodils, I saw the arms of narcissus, crocus, snowbells, hyacinth, muscari, tulips and Scilla siberica, all reaching for the light.

Around the corner, two clumps of heather are in bloom. I love the happy pinks. If I clip some stems, they fit perfectly in a teeny blue glass vase and will dry and retain their color for a couple of months on a counter or table.

Some yarrow is greening, promising its work as a bouquet filler and a medicinal in herbal concoctions. The rose campion and foxglove rosettes haven’t frozen and neither has the hollyhock, which means we may have their colorful blooms earlier than usual. I love that!

The rosemary is green and blooming. I squeeze and rub the leaves and smell my hand. Heavenly!

Green ferns are out of the ground. So is the German chamomile. More green.

The red-twigged dogwood pops color where there are no blooms. I saw buds on the lilacs, forsythia, flowering quince, and pussy willow. I love seeing their promise!

Without leaves blocking the view, I noticed the structural elements I put in place last summer, such as the graveled patio space I dug and laid for the red table and chairs, and the paving stone foundation for the red bench. I love that it’s all ready when the time comes. I also made a list of the places that need work and the pruning that needs done as soon as the weather is more forgiving, because right now they are more noticeable.

After my circuit of our house through the flower beds, looking for things I love, I reached my front porch in a much happier frame of mind, grateful for nature and my connection to it. We can’t always get away to sunnier climes, but we can always take ten minutes out of our day to make the Love Tour. I recommend it.

Civil Disputes

IMG_6746Today is January 2, 2016. This photo tells a story. The temperature on our front porch is 27.9 degrees. See the frozen rugosa roses in the background? The naked, shivering tree limbs dreaming of leaves, squeezing out buds? The chairs, loving servants, blown over to the doorway, reminding us they are ready for service anytime we are. Note the muddy swipes all over the bottom of the glass in both doors. The paw painting goes as high as Winston, our neighbor’s cat, can reach. Miss Emma waits on the rug for his surprise attack. Then they will both jump up on two legs, swat on their respective sides of the glass, yelling and hollering at each other. When they tire of this doorway, they move on to the window next to the door, then the dining room widows, where Miss Emma mounts her condo and Winston hangs from the outside window screens. Holes in the screens now reach as high as Winston’s paws. They breathe hard in retreat and then they move to the dining room door where Winston hangs on the doorway screen and remounts his assault. Miss Emma gives as good as she gets on her side of the glass. Sometimes this performance plays out three or four times a day, morning, bedtime when lights are out, and in the wee hours of morning. Sometimes Winston comes and is disappointed because Miss Emma has taken to her bed and doesn’t know he’s encroaching on her territory. She needs her beauty sleep to gather her energy for another battle. Recently, because of the frozen deck and landscape, I presume, we haven’t seen Winston as often. We miss his sweet face. We sneak him treats when Miss Emma is abed. That may be the reason for their difference of opinion. Today I may wash the windows outside; give them a clean slate for the next battle–the best kind, where no one gets hurt but everyone gets heard.

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