Flowers and Frogs

           Flowers are blooming and peepers are peeping! Both sure signs of spring!

           On the opposite side of the road from Sally's house, crocuses have escaped from her garden and are now in full bloom on my bank.

          Something else that’s in bloom is Colt’s Foot. The dandelion-like flowers bloom first, before the leaves appear, earning it the nickname "Son-before-the-Father". Once the flowers are gone, the leaves will come on and they’re shaped like — yup, you guessed it! Like a colt’s foot!

          In folk medicine, Colt’s Foot, is used as a remedy for coughs, bronchitis, and other respiratory ailments. It has expectorant and soothing properties and often brewed into teas or syrups. It can be made into a poultice and applied for minor wounds and skin irritations.

          Colt’s foot leaves and flowers are edible and can be added to salads, cooked, or even used in pancakes. Dried leaves were historically burned to create a salt substitute.

          Having said that, you need to be careful with any wildflower you’re gonna fool with. While Colt's Foot is edible and has medicinal benefits, it contains compounds that can be toxic to the liver if consumed in large amounts. Modern herbalists recommend using it sparingly.

          Mike was hungry for an omelet and an omelet maker I am not. We’ve been to Perkin’s before and gotten a decent omelet, so that’s where we decided to go. It was early when we left. The trees lining the top of the hill like a picket fence tickled me.

Man, oh man! What a disappointment our breakfast was! Mike’s omelet was small, and they had sautéed some onions and green peppers and dumped ‘em on top.

          “My toast is stale,” Mike said.

          “Mine is, too! Who knew stale bread made stale toast?” Besides that, my pancake was really little. “If I’d’ve known how little it was going to be, I’d’ve ordered two!”

          Since Mike didn’t get his itch for an omelet scratched, we went out for breakfast a second time this week, which is unusual for us. We may go out for breakfast once every two or three months, so twice in the same week is noteworthy. This time we went to a little local restaurant called The Pink Apple. When we drove up, we weren’t even sure they were open, despite there being a truck parked in front. The lights were on, the door was open, and we went in. There was one man, sitting alone in a far corner.

          “I would’ve thought it would be busier for a Saturday morning,” I said. We seated ourselves and waited a few minutes for our waitress to appear.

          “What can I get you to drink?” she asked Mike.

          “Just water,” he answered.

          “How about you, honey?” she asked me.

          “Wait! What about me?” Mike asked. “You didn’t call me honey!”

          She laughed. “Okay sweetie. You can be sweetie and she can be honey.”

          Banter aside, Mike ordered his omelet, and I got my usual breakfast of eggs, fried hard (I slip it between my toast and make a sandwich out of it), hash browns, bacon, and a pancake on the side.

          “What’s your name?” Mike asked as our server went to turn our order in.

          “Becky,” she replied as she walked away.

          “What did she say,” my hearing-impaired handsome mountain man asked. “Peggy or Becky?”

          “Becky,” I said. He heard Becky as Peggy which explains all the times in my life I’ve been called Becky.

          The breakfast was a big improvement over what we were served at Perkin’s, but it was expensive. The days of fifteen-dollar breakfasts are gone.

After breakfast, we went on into Tunkhannock to pick up a couple of things. There’s a hawk that hunts in the area where the road splits. I’ve seen him there five or six times. He was there this morning, but he’s looking in the other direction.

Wednesday gave us a day of big fat snow flurries. Mike had an appointment for a haircut, so I rode along.

“We can take the back way into Wysox afterward, if you want,” he said.

Now, that’s something! Mike hates that road, so we don’t travel it often.

We crossed the bridge over our pretty little creek and there sat ol’ Mr. Kingfisher, hunting for breakfast in the snow.

The snow didn’t last and didn’t stick. It just made the roads wet.

Can you say road pictures?

A new roof — minus a sheet lost to the wind. Maybe windows are next?

          It did flurry on and off all day.

          “Is he rushing it?” Mike asked. We were stopped at a red light as a motorcyclist zoomed past.

          “Maybe it wasn’t snowing when he left the house,” I guessed.

          We noticed, when we left the house, that there was a detour sign. Coming home, we see a sign that explains the detour.

          “Bridge out,” I read.

          “Which bridge is out?” Mike wondered. “Not the new one they put in at Turrell’s Corners, is it?” Mike asked.

          “I don’t know, let’s go see.”

          It’s just a small bridge over a small creek but it’s big enough to cause all kinds of problems. I’m not sure how the detour is routing people, but the locals know they can use our road to get around it and traffic sure has picked up on our road!

          An eagle!

          Crossing back over our pretty little creek, I see something red.

          “What is that?” I asked. Mike didn’t know.

          I was thinking some kind of exotic critter and it’s not. It’s trash. I took a picture of trash in our creek.

 

          I got something much prettier than that at our pond. A Wood Duck! 

          Wood Ducks tend to be shy and cautious, especially around people. They prefer secluded areas near water where they can stay hidden and feel safe. If disturbed, they're quick to take flight or swim away to avoid danger.

Their wariness is one reason why spotting a Wood Duck feels like such a special moment — like catching a glimpse of something secret and rare.

I was still a long way off when he saw me and took flight. I was ready for him though and had my zoom on.

“Peg, can you tell us something interesting about Wood Ducks?” you ask.

          I can!

          Wood Ducks have a unique nesting habit. Female Wood Ducks often lay their eggs in tree cavities or nest boxes near water. Once the ducklings hatch, they perform an incredible feat — they leap from the nest, which could be high up in a tree, to the ground below. These tiny ducklings can't fly yet, but their light, fluffy bodies allow them to bounce safely, and they instinctively follow their mother to the water.

          Maybe I’ll build a nesting box some time and try to attract a breeding pair. I Googled it and found instructions. It also said to add a collar to keep predators out.

          That same day, on a golf cart ride on our back roads, I spot a nesting box at the lower bridge, and it had a collar.

          “I bet it’s for Wood Ducks,” I told Mike.

          Now, speaking of critters...

          After our last visit, and me talking about the black and white feral cat ... how he needs a name and how he fights with our cats, I have some news.

          “You could call him Hatch since he comes in the flap or hatch,” my editor suggested.

          Hatch it is!

          So he has a name.

          “We don’t want him fighting with our cats,” Mike said. “If you stop feeding him, will he move on?”

          “Probably.”

          So, I stopped putting food out — for two days. Then Hatch came to the back fence. I was at the kitchen sink when I saw him.

          “Hatch is out here,” I told Mike.

          “He looks hungry,” my tender-hearted husband observed.

          Guess who’s back to feeding the strays? 

          How about some arts and crafts news?

          This beautiful lady is Ruth. She’s the daughter of Charlie, our neighbor who died last year. Ruth and her sisters are cleaning out the house.

          “I had no idea he brought EVERYTHING from the old house when he moved here thirty years ago,” Ruth said. “And all of Mom’s clothes are still here, too!” Kathleen has been gone for ten years now.

          “He never threw anything away!” she said.

          Ruth and her sisters have their own homes with all their own things and they don’t really need or want much from the house.

          “I’d take some dishes and silverware,” I told Ruth, and she was kind enough to set some things aside for me.

          “What are you gonna do with that stuff?” you wanna know.

          One of the things I made with dishes and silverware is owls. Two of them. One for Jenn, my friend, editor, and daughter of the Kipps. She likes purple so I used purple beads for eyes. On the back I attached a spice bottle. It’s all ready to be mounted on a pole or garden stake. 

         The other one I made for this cutie-patootie.

         Two years ago, at a Christmas party and gift exchange at our church, everyone’s name was put on a slip of paper and dropped in a bowl. When your name was drawn you could choose a gift from the table or ‘steal’ a gift from someone else, then they got to choose another gift. The person's whose name was drawn got to draw the name of the next person. It was fun and some people didn’t want their gift to get ‘stolen’.

          I didn’t participate.

          At the end of the night, Addie came up to me. “You didn’t get anything,” she said and thrust her gift out to me. “I want you to have mine.”

          What an incrediably kind, thoughtful, and generous thing for this young lady to do.

          What she gave me was a set of four crystal candle holders.

          “They’re beautiful!” I told her accepting the proffered gift. “Thank you!”

          I’ve known for a long time that I was going to make a garden owl for her. It only took me two years to do it. You can’t rush this stuff, don’cha know?

I put two of the candle holders down inside the cups for owl eyes. The crystal catches and throws the light.

I wasn’t sure it would appeal to a young lady, but I gave it to Addie after church. She smiled and thanked me. A few minutes later I saw her showing it off. So I guess she really did like it.

When I was telling you about starting my artistic journey, I told you I started with colored pencils and went to ink. The other day I was putting clothes away and glanced up at some of my art hanging on the walls. It’s my early stuff. I tended to give my mom the first of whatever new endeavor I’d undertaken. When she died, I got them back.

My letter blog would’ve been more interesting if I’d’ve shown them these when I was talking about them! I thought.

“Show us now,” you say.

Okay! Okay!

My first colored pencil. As you can see, I didn’t get it centered very good. Momma liked it anyway and framed it.

And these two black inks are copies I did of art by artist Frank Frazetta.

All of my early work was drawn freehand. With the advent of home computers and printers, I don’t have to take the time to do that anymore, but as you can see, I can do it.

More recently, as in this week, I painted zebras.

And a cat on a window. 

Let’s call this one done!

Took A Turn

           Well!

          My goodness!

          My week certainly took a turn for the worse!

          “What happened, Peg?” I know you wanna know.

          Sometimes, when the higher grade, pre-made hamburger patties near the end of their shelf life, Walmart marks them down enough that Mike and I indulge. He cooks them on the grill and we’ll eat them with a salad. If we’re not ready to eat them that day or the next, I toss them into the freezer.

          This week I got a pack out of the freezer and stuck them in the fridge for... hmmmm, I could say two days, because I took them out Monday and we cooked them Wednesday but likely it was Monday afternoon until Wednesday noon when we cooked them, so a day and a half to thaw.

          “These taste funny,” I told Mike after a bite or two. “They don’t taste bad, just funny.” That should’ve been clue enough for any dummy, right‽

          “Yeah, they do,” Mike said after he tasted it.

          “Maybe because I froze them in the original packaging?” I wondered aloud.

          “I don’t know, but I’m not eating any more.” He’d eaten maybe three bites.

          Me, dummy that I am, cut off about a quarter for the dogs and broke the rest up and tossed it into my salad. Then I couldn’t taste “funny” anymore.

          I know, right! Kick me in the butt! But honestly, I never thought for a second that it was a cesspool of bacteria just waiting for me to regret the day I was born.

          Before bed that night, my stomach started to hurt.

          Three o’clock in the morning I got out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. I thought I was going to be sick. It was a false alarm. I thought I might still get sick so rather than go back to bed, I laid down on the bathroom floor.

          I broke out in a cold, clammy sweat, as my stomach continued to hurt.

          When I didn’t come back to bed, Raini and Bondi came to check on me. They both smelled my face and breath. Bondi laid down against my head. I don’t know where Raini went and I didn’t even care. I felt so, so bad!

          The sweats eased and I started to feel cool. I grabbed a towel from where it was hanging and covered up. After half an hour or so, I got up and went back to bed.

          I dozed.

          Four-thirty, fearing I was going to throw up, got out of bed again. This time, I did get sick, and I was so thankful for each mouthful of the vile bacteria-ridden rotten food I threw up; I knew it would make me feel better. So, that was a good thing. The bad thing about it was that it was nearly morning and my bladder was almost full. I didn’t have to worry about emptying it though, heaving did the job for me. When I couldn’t throw up anymore, I stripped off my bottoms and dropped ‘em in the puddle at my feet. Then I grabbed a towel and finished sopping up the mess. I took my pajama bottoms and the towel and tossed ‘em into the shower. I’d deal with them later.

          I rinsed my mouth, found fresh pjs, and went back to bed.

          I did feel better! And I dozed.

          Five-ish I woke up in a cold, clammy sweat, stomach revolting; I knew I was going to be sick again. This time, being wiser for the experience. I stripped off my bottoms and felt like I had enough time to empty my bladder before I got sick. I did, and I did.

          Mouth rinsed. Bottoms back on. I went back to bed.

          I woke up around seven and went out to the living room.

          “I’m sick,” I told Mike. “I was up throwing up all night. I’m going back to bed.”

          The cats missed their ritual morning serving of canned cat food.

          Mike is a good husband and checked on me often.

          “Are you awake?” he whispered. If I was sleeping, I wouldn’t answer him.

          “Mm-hmm,” I mumbled.

          “What can I get for you?” he asked.

          “How about some water?” I knew that I needed to stay hydrated. I knew I needed water to flush the poison from my system.

          He got me water and left me to my agony. Okay! Okay! That might be a little strong at this point. I was still hurting but nowhere near the threshold of agony.

          Around one o’clock I got out of bed and made my way to the kitchen.

“Feeling better?” Mike asked as I passed through the living room.

“Some.”

I made a cup of coffee, got a bottle of water, and settled in the recliner. I watched TV and dozed. I traded the recliner for the couch. The dogs were not happy about that. They stayed with me the whole time I was in bed. They stayed with me when I was in the recliner. But the couch was too narrow for them to settle with me. I appreciate their loyalty, but I needed to stretch out and sleep some more. They’d have to make do.

I know a half cup of coffee and ten ounces of water wasn’t enough but my stomach couldn’t handle any more. After every sip I’d have to wait for acceptance or rejection and honestly, it felt like my stomach wasn’t going to keep hold of it!

The cats missed their usual evening serving of canned cat food.

The dogs missed their evening treats as well as all their playtime throughout the day. Mike plays with them some, but I play with them often. Tossing the ball first thing in the morning before I’m even dressed. Tossing the ball when I’m washing dishes.

“How’s that work?” you ask.

Well, I wash a dish, rinse it, put it on the drainboard, pick up Raini’s ball and toss it in the other room. She’s usually there waiting, having dashed in the moment she sees me reaching for her ball. Then she’s back again while I’m washing the next dish, patiently watching until she sees me rinsing it — then she’s off to the other room once more. Depending on how many dishes I have to wash, this game can go on for quite a few tosses. Sometimes she gives up before I’ve even finished the dishes!

In the afternoons, since the weather has been so nice, we go out in the yard and I toss Raini’s ball against the building or on the roof for her.

In the evening, when I’m tending to Sugar’s condo, I kneel on the floor and scoop out the litter box. Raini values this as another playtime. She brings her ball and drops it near me. If I don’t reach for it right away, she assumes it’s out of my reach (even though it might not be) and she’ll pick it up and drop it closer to me, eyes watching with a sparkle of anticipation, tail wagging. I pick it up, toss it over the table to her waiting jaws, and scoop another scoop of cat litter. And the game is on. It’s usually a short game because it doesn’t take long to scoop out one box.

Raini loves to play in the evening, especially during TV time. She’ll get her ball, or another toy, and drop it right on the footrest of the recliner, demanding a game.

I pick it up and toss it in the air or bounce it off the front door — ay-yi-yi! You wouldn’t believe the constellation of ball marks on the glass! If every smudge is a happy dog smile, then she’s grinned a million times. Okay, okay, maybe not a million—there I go with the hyperbole again!

There’s one more time that Raini is in the habit of playing and that’s at bedtime. She gets so excited she can’t hardly stand it! Normally, I’ll bring my coffee cup out to the kitchen sink before we go to the bedroom, Raini on my heels, carrying her toy, and giving me heck the whole time. “Hurry up! Hurry up!” she whines.

“Okay! Okay!” I say in response to her commands. “In the bed!”

She lets out one last drawn-out whine and takes off for the bedroom while I trail behind. Then I sit on the edge of the bed and toss her toy for five or ten minutes.

“That’s all,” I tell her and head in to brush my teeth.

Raini will take her toy and jump on the bed for Mike to throw it for her. He’ll usually toss it a few times.

“Where’s Bondi during all of this playtime?” you wanna know.

Bondi will sometimes join in, bringing me her squeaky to toss. But Bondi isn’t always good about dropping it. As soon as she sees me reach for it, she’ll snatch it up again. I’ve learned that I won’t reach for it until she’s backed away from it. She likes to play fetch, but she likes keep-away more. If she’s playing with us, and she often does, I toss their toys in different directions so they don’t get tangled up in their running to and fro.

Friday, I got up feeling better. I ate an English muffin and my stomach was in an uproar about it. I spent another day in the recliner. I did manage to drink more water and coffee.

Saturday, we went to breakfast. It was such a disappointment. Mike had always gotten a nice-size three-egg omelet there before and this time it was puny.

“My toast is stale,” Mike said.

“Mine is, too!” I told him. Who knew that stale bread makes stale toast?

“We got here too early,” I told him. “They haven’t gotten rid of yesterday’s leftovers yet.”

It wasn’t long until my stomach was uncomfortable again, but I didn’t complain. We had a tiny bit of shopping to do before we headed for home.

We were stopped at the stop light in Tunkhannock when the crossing arms came down and the bell jangled. The train wasn’t moving very fast and we had a few minutes to wait before it crossed in front of us. Almost all the cars were adorned with graffiti.

The end of my week really sucked and I’m looking forward to feeling like me again. The beginning of my week actually started out pretty good.

At the end of our last jibber-jabber session, I told you about following the tutorials of artist Reha Sakar. Armed with the letters for the bonus lesson, and knowing I’d only have a day or two to paint it, I got right on it and painted this one.

Monday, I went back and painted two more boats from his five-part marathon. 

It’s surprising what you can paint when you know it’s just for practice. In giving yourself permission to try new things and even mess up, you might turn out some half-decent art.

Something that I learned during the tutorials that surprised me was when Reha said, “I don’t take commissions.”

Maybe he just paints what he wants and sells what he paints.

All of his watercolors seem to be a little dark, at least in this series. I’ve not seen anything else that’s he’s done. To show you what I mean, I clipped a picture of the paintings he was offering in a master class he was selling. They offered three tiers, the cheapest being ninety-nine dollars. You get the tutorials for all of these paintings FOREVER!

You might recognize the last three I did on here.

I received lots of nice feedback on my rendition of the boats.

“Sell them! They’re good!” my cute little redhaired sister said.

They’re in my sketchbook, on not-so-good paper. I can’t sell them.

“I would be so honored and so proud to have one of your boat paintings,” my other beautiful little sister said.

After I hung up with her, I got to thinking about it. Her birthday is in June. I could paint her one for her birthday.

Then my oldest and most beautifulest sister called.

“I really liked your boats and I agree with Diane. You should sell them,” Patti said. “I thought your paintings were good before but these are next level.”

Even though I see the flaws in my paintings, I glow under the compliments of my siblings.

“Phyllis has asked for one for a birthday gift,” I told Patti!

OMG! OH MY GOODNESS! I have no idea why that lie came out of my mouth except to say it’s the way this addled old brain put it together. The truth would’ve been perfectly fine and my conscience wouldn’t be bothering me as much if I’d’ve just said, “Phyllis has asked for one and she has a birthday coming up.”

I like to send my best old friend in West Virginia boxes of stuff from time to time. She does a lot of crafting and makes treasure keepers out of big pill bottles and other unusual kinds of bottles. So, I collect stuff for her. I keep any big bottles I get and the Kipps keep all their big vitamin bottles for her. When I’ve collected enough for a box, I send it to her.

“I’m getting ready to send you box,” I told her. “Anything special I can put in there for you?”

“I could really use some Lemon Bars,” Trish said.

When I send perishables, I like to mail them on a Monday so they don’t sit in a post office someplace over the weekend, even though it only takes three days to get there from here.

The Sunday before I sent her box I’d done some baking for movie night at church. I made the Lemon Bars just for Trish (and Miss Rosie. She’s a lemon lover, too).

“Oh my!” I teased Trish. “These are the best Lemon Bars I ever made!” I had to taste them to make sure they were good, don’cha know.

“Get out of my Lemon Bars!” she said and I laughed.

I made Chocolate Chip cookies and Chocolate Nobakes, too and included some of those in Trish’s box as well. I mailed it on the tenth, a Monday. I paid for priority mail. It was supposed to be there in three days. I wanted them to get there before the cookies got stale. That box sat in Philly and was scanned into the system four times, then it went to Indy five days after I sent it.

It arrived in West Virginia the following Monday, a full week after I sent it. I was so mad I could cry.

“Those Lemon Bars are gonnna be moldy,” I told Trish.

“Yeah, they’ll be Lime Bars,” she joked.

I smiled. Little did she know.

When she got the box, she called and we chatted as she unboxed all the goodies I’d included.

“How are the Lemon Bars?” I asked.

“Just a minute. I gotta get them open.”

I had them in a take-out container with plastic wrap all around the outside.

“They look okay. There’s no mold on them.” She was brave enough to try a bite. “Mmmmmm. Oh my! You’re right. These are the best Lemon Bars. They’re still soft and gooey.”

That’s when I confessed. “They’re not Lemon Bars.”

“They’re not?”

“Nope. I ran out of lemon juice and didn’t want to go to the store. I used lime juice.”

Trish laughed. “So, they really are Lime Bars! You might have to make them this way all the time.”

“I think I will!”

“Which was your favorite thing?” I asked after she’d found the bottom of the box.

“Oh gosh. You’re going to make me pick just one‽”

In my mind’s eye I could see her looking over all the goodies I’d sent. The pill bottles, the cookies, the fairy Dream Box, seeds for her garden, face cream to keep her beautiful face beautiful, scrubbies, paint palettes, paint brushes, alphabet squares... gosh, I don’t remember what all else.

“The gnome house, I have to say. It’s beautiful. The pictures don’t do it justice. And when you turn on the lights inside and they shine through the colored windows... it’s beautiful.”

“It’s weatherproof,” I told her. “You could put it out in your garden.”

“I’m not putting it out in my garden! I’m going to keep it right here where I can see it!”

Somewhere during our conversation, I said something about I was sending her the box anyway so it was a bonus that I could call it a birthday present. I don’t know how Trish took my remark, and knowing her, it didn’t cause her a second thought. She’s forgiven me so many thoughtless and sometimes cruel remarks over the years. In my head, I made it sound like something it wasn’t. Like she wasn’t special. Or I didn’t do anything special in honor of her birthday. It wasn’t true. It was true that I was getting a box around for her. But I didn’t realize her birthday was coming up until I’d flipped the page in my birthday book, which was days after I’d already told her I was making a box. Once I knew her birthday was coming, I packed a few extra-special things in there as gifts.

This little miss-speak, and the lie I told my sister bother me.

I bet, right now, you’re poo-pooing me over this. “Let it go, Peg. Neither one was a big deal and don’t really make any difference,” you console.

Before I could set things right, to ease my guilty conscience, I got sick. Now that I’m better, it’s still on my mind. As a believer in the teachings of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, I’m called to confess and repent. As a writer, I decided to take this opportunity to tell you a story, to show my very real, very human, failings, and to apologize.

I sincerely apologize and will strive to never allow a lie to overshadow the truth again.

Whew!

Now that the hard part is out of the way, how about some road pictures?

Highland Cows.

Oversize load.

We saw two different convoys of utility trucks.

“Do you think they’re going down to where the tornadoes hit?” I wondered.

One last story before we call this one done.

One of the black and white tom cats has been coming to the kitchen door and looking in at us.

I caught him again this week, peeking in the door. Raini heard the cats growl and took off after him. He was back over the fence in no time flat!

I also caught him cornering Blackie up on the bank. I was out back and heard the yowling. When I went to investigate, there he was. He had Blackie backed against a shrub, making himself as small as he could. I chased him off. After he was gone higher into the weeds, Spitfire came around the corner. The ruckus must’ve caught his attention, too.

The cats must sense him because I catch them watching. I look but I don’t see anything.

Saturday night, a noise from the kitchen, Raini launched herself from the bed, barking. The tone of her barking changed and I knew she had something cornered. I went out into the kitchen and there on the table sat the black and white feral.

He needs a name. I can’t keep calling him the black and white feral.

Anyway, he took one look at me, jumped from the table and ran into the utility room.

Raini and Bondi were outside. They’d lost track of him in the dark and thought he’d gone out. When they saw me, they came back in and I ordered them to their kennels. Then I got Mike up.

“The black and white cat’s in the house.”

Mike and I tried to keep him calm and not panic him overly much, but he’s wild. As soon as Mike got close enough to open the door behind him, he took off for the living room, charging right past my legs. Mike opened the front door and then the patio door and we shooed him out. He was gone the next morning, as we expected.

“Mr. Mister never once tried to come in the house,” I told Mike. “Why’s this one want to come in?”
          “Maybe he was someone’s house cat before they dumped him,” Mike guessed.

I’m going to have to close off the pet door before we go to bed. I don’t need dogs chasing wild cats through the house, destroying who know what, in the middle of the night.

With that, let’s call this one done!

Done!