Sometimes

 

          I did something I haven’t done in a long, long, very long time.

          “What’s that?” you ask.

          I cleaned up the subscriber list for my letter blogs.

          You can believe me when I tell you I think of you all the time. All week long I’m thinking of the stories you might like to hear, the pictures you might like to see. Then I spend two days sorting pictures and writing those stories. I’m not complaining. Not one bit. I love what I do.

I don’t charge for my stories. Uncle Clarence, that dear sweet handsome man, was amazed that he didn’t have to do anything or pay anything and a letter showed up in his mailbox every week. I can still see the twinkle in his eye and hear his husky laugh when he told me that.

I don’t charge for my pictures. You can take them without asking because that’s just how the internet works. But if you ask, I always give them to you.

I don’t need thanks or praise. I write as much for myself as I do for you. I’m writing the story of my life, one week at a time. I was looking through some old files on my computer and found a file containing letters I’d written starting in 2011. I read some. They were a lot shorter. I had a strict four-page limit back then. The things I wrote about long since forgotten. Sometimes I laugh with the memory, sometimes not. I don’t know when I switched from snail mail to email. I think it was a gradual process as more and more family and friends got online. But I didn’t start saving them on my computer until 2011 and everything I’ve written since July13, 2014 is on my blog site.

When I send my letter blogs on the email and see your name, I wonder. Are you there?

Sometimes people die. Allen died. No one told me.

“How do you know he died then?” you ask.

Allen would drop me a note from time to time. Then a time came when I didn’t hear from him in like six months. I did a Google search and found his obit.

Sometimes people pick up my letter blog from the Facebook link and don’t need the one on their email.

Sometimes people change email address — and don’t tell me.

And sometimes people lose interest.

I’m okay with any of those things. You don’t want to read my jibber-jabber — I don’t want to send it to you. There’s at least one gal on my subscription list that has never written me a note. Not once. She was new to the internet and email six years ago when I stopped mailing her my letters and started sending them on the email. I don’t know if she’s ever gotten a single one. She never replies even when I send a personal note.

And there are others I’ve not heard from in years. It seems to me that if you haven’t found something to comment on in all that time, maybe you’re not getting or reading them, maybe they automatically go in the trash.

I’m not trying to be mean. It was just time to clean up the list.

Speaking of writing…

Sometimes, when the TV shows talk about current books and what’s good, I’ll look for the titles at the library. I have two library cards on the Libby app on my iPad and have better luck finding books at the Philadelphia Free Library than I do our little local library. I placed two books on hold on March 18^th. Where the Crawdads Sing by Delia Owens and We Begin at the End by Chris Whitaker. My estimated wait for Crawdads is still over six months but I got the other one five days ago.

I noticed from the very first page of this book that Chris Whitaker writes in fragmented and disjointed sentences. He leaves off the start of a sentence, jumping right into the meat of it, and combines different elements that sometimes make no sense to me. I felt a little lost when I first started reading it but I think I’ve adjusted to his style now because I don’t get lost near as often anymore. Want an example?

The town cop is named Walk. He’s walking down the street and talking about the people he’s meeting, passing, greeting. She carried some kind of miniature cross so skinny Walk counted off its ribs as it trembled. I read it three times trying to figure out what a small cross was, then gave up and read on. He reached forward to pet it and watched the teeth bare. Oh. I guess we’re talking about a dog.

Sometimes I want to write that way. It makes sense to me but I’m not sure it would make sense to you so I’d usually go back and change it. Now I know I did the right thing. Chris Whitaker certainly has his own style.

>>>*<<<

Do you remember that we brought Callie and Sugar in for the winter and kept them in the cat condo because Callie was sick?

Do you remember that we had a nice warm sunny day and I took the girls outside?

Do you remember the weather turned cold again and Callie came to the door to come back in but I had to trap Sugar in the feral cat room to bring her back in?

The weather warmed and I put the girls back out. I just really felt like the sunshine and fresh air was good for them. The weather turned cold and rainy and we didn’t want Callie to get sick again so we brought her back in. I couldn’t get Sugar. She’d see me and run. She wouldn’t even come into the feral cat room anymore. I stopped trying to catch her.

“If Callie’s going to be in the house,” I told Mike, “I vote we let her out of the cage.”

“Won’t the other cats hurt her?” he asked.

“I don’t know but they’ll work it out.”

“What if she doesn’t use the litter box?”

“Then she goes back in.”

We didn’t have any litter box issues with her and the cats will occasionally hiss and spit at each other. But for the most part she’s really a good and quiet cat. Sometimes she’ll follow us around the house and sometimes she’ll sleep on the bed with us.

Sugar would come to the door and look in.

“She’s looking for Callie,” we guessed.

So, on nice days I’d turn Callie out. We’d see her and Sugar together then Callie would want back in the house.

After a while, Sugar realized I wasn’t trying to catch her anymore and she’d come into the feral cat room and let me pet her.

But we knew the two girls wanted to be together.

Sugar got comfortable being in the cat room with me so I trapped her and brought her into the house again so she could be with Callie.

It’s been a couple of three weeks now. Sugar is still a very reticent cat and the least little thing will send her running for cover. But she has her moments when she wants petting and will come and twine herself around my legs.

Mike set a box on the dining room table to take out the next time he goes out and Sugar has claimed the box for herself. Sometimes I hear her scratching at her box and she’s knocked it off the table a couple of times too. It’s taken me two weeks to get this picture of her. As long as we just walked through the dining room, she was okay. The second I’d stop to get a picture, she’d take off.

The cats aren’t prisoners in my house. If they wanna go out, I let them out. I fully realize that it’s a dangerous world out there, they could get killed by a predator, a car, or run away to never be seen again. And Sugar and Callie are no exception to that rule. But having said all that, neither one has displayed any interest in going outside at all.

From here, I could go on and tell you more cat stories or I could talk about my dining room table. Do you care which way I go?

“Nope.”

Dining room table it is!

I made, what will likely be, the last two face masks I’ll make. The COVID restrictions are being lifted and for the most part we don’t have to wear face masks anymore. I’m going to clean my sewing stuff from the dining room table and put it all away. But I have to tell you. It was really kinda nice not getting a cold this past winter. Face masks might become a regular part of my winter gear. Oh. And I have to tell you one more thing. I really liked making the face masks. They were a fun and easy project.

Seasons change, projects come and go.

Right now, these tin can flowers are my jam. It seems like the longer I go on, the more flowers I make, the more things I learn — or figure out.

“Like what?” you ask.

Like, I wasn’t happy with my spray-painting method. The last time I laid my flowers out on the plastic, pieces of dried paint flecked off and landed in my freshly painted pieces. And if I flipped them over to paint the other side before it was dry, it would stick to the plastic. Plus, spray cans don’t work as well when held horizontally.

I seem to remember that my dad had a little candle holder business called Dottie Maid for a few years and when he painted them, he used hooks and a bar to hang them.

I can do that, I thought and went on the hunt for a cross bar. In the wayback I found a piece of steel conduit. I laid it atop the bird perches under the feeders and it was a perfect fit. Cutting and bending wires for hangers was no big deal at all.

I still needed to hold the piece somewhat while I sprayed it. After the second one, with my hand freshly adorned in blue paint, I decided that maybe I should wear a glove.

Don’t laugh. You know I’m a slow thinker.

Looking down, I see I still have one blue thumbnail. The choice was simple; use harsh chemicals to wipe it off or let it wear off. I’m letting it wear off.

But speaking of spray paint…

Did you ever wonder what they put in the cans to make them rattle?

I did. And I had two empty cans. Mike, bless his heart, he cut the cans open for me. The John Deere paint can had a glass marble. The Ace paint had a little steel ball bearing.

And speaking of cans…

I have a cut on the back of my middle finger on my right hand.

“What did you do now?” you wonder.

Washing the short cat food cans is no problem at all, as long as I take a little care. The taller fruit and tomato cans aren’t a problem as long as I use the bottle brush. What is a problem though is the tall cat food cans. I couldn’t get the 5.5-ounce size once so I got the bigger 13-ounce cans — and the food sticks to the sides so that even a brush won’t get it clean. I’ve even tried to put a scrub pad in the can and use the brush to swish it around. It wasn’t working. So, in goes my hand with the scrub pad. I was being careful but still nicked my finger.

Too bad I can’t take the ring off, I’m thinking as I wash it. I’m imagining using the tin snips to cut it off before I wash the can but that would be messy and leave an even sharper edge. Then my beautiful sister Phyllis flashes through my mind’s eye. She introduced me to the side cutting can opener. Would it work on just the ring? I wondered and gave it a try.

            It does work!

And now I have all these rings to do something with.

“Like what?” you ask.

Well, that part I don’t know yet. A couple of years ago, in a Christmas ornament swap at my church, one of the ladies used canning lids to make ornaments. I was lucky enough to get one. I wonder if these could be used like that.

Or maybe they can be used as molds for resin. Or strung together to make chimes. One thing I know for sure, I’ll hang on to them for a while.

But speaking of crafts…

My beautiful and talented West Virginia gal does a bunch of different stuff too. She paints and crochets and makes things with plastic canvas. Knowing this, and seeing a stack of the canvas at the thrift store, I picked ‘em up for her.

So now, in my head, I’m putting a box together to send to her. What else can I put in there?

Something I had fun painting were those little ‘butt snuffers’ that I used to make. Do you remember them?

          They’re made for you to put your cigarette butt in and it’ll put ‘em out so they don’t lay in the ash tray and smolder. I made a bunch and sold a few when I set up a tent down in Dushore during an event they had. A little girl was so taken with the owl that her mom bought it for her to use as a pencil holder.

          Sitting at the table on a cold winters day, painting, is a fun way to pass the time. And these things don’t take up much room. So I thought Trish might like to try her hand at painting a few. (These are still in their molds.) I even made some from a larger cup that could truly be used for a pencil holder. To protect them during shipping I think they’ll fit inside a Seresto flea collar can.

          Speaking of which…

          And I really, truly hate to even tell you this story. It makes me so sorry and so sad, even though the outcome is good, the consequences could’ve been dire, deadly even.

          We had such an awful time getting mail order flea collars last year that we ended up submitting our order twice, and getting twice as many collars as we needed. This year finds us short a few cats. We lost Rascal, Molly, and Anon, not to mention our two little pups, Ginger then Itsy a few months later.

          “Can we put the small dog collars on the cats?” Mike wondered.

          I Googled it. “It says no. It says the cats collars are made special to break-away if they get hung up in the weeds.”

          No matter. We still had extra cat collars.

          “Let’s put a collar on Mr. Mister,” I suggested. “He’d probably like not getting fleas and ticks.”

          So I did. I put a collar on Mr. and never thought any more about it.

          Most days he comes for breakfast but not everyday, so when he misses a day, I didn’t think anything about it.

          Then he shows up with his neck all bloodied and raw and brush burned and fur missing.

          A big SIGH and eyes water as instant understanding dawns on me.

          He got hung up on that stupid collar and had to fight for his life.

          I’m glad he made it through but can you imagine what it must’ve been like for him? Can you imagine how horrible it would’ve been had he not gotten himself free? I can and it’s a fate I’d wish on no critter.

          And Smudge.

          Who would’ve guessed that he likes canned fruit cocktail?

          “Peg! Why are you feeding him that?” you wanna know.

          Mike and I are trying to eat a little healthier. One thing we don’t eat enough of is fruit. You buy it, it’s not the best quality or it goes bad before you finish it — not to mention the cost. I figured if we bought canned fruit in natural juice it would be better than not having any fruit at all. Am I wrong? Plus, that’ll give me a can to make flowers with — bonus!

          The last shopping trip we made to Aldi’s we bought two cases of fruit. Pineapple chunks and fruit cocktail. I wasn’t careful when I put the cases in the cart and one of the cans was dented and leaking. No way are we gonna eat that so I put it out for the critters. I thought the birds might pick at it and the coons and possums would eat it for sure. I did not expect Smudge to be the first one in the pan.

          Another day, a nice sunny afternoon, I’m sitting on the kitchen patio making flowers. Smudge is lounging close by, enjoying the coolness of the stone, and we hear cheep, cheep, cheep, or maybe it was squeak, squeak, squeak. Who can tell. Smudge’s ears came alert then he jumps up and takes off for the weed line.

          A fledgling, I’m thinking and go chasing after. There’s no way I’m gonna let them get a baby bird if I can help it. In fact, you’re gonna laugh at me and shake your head when I tell you that a few days before, Tiger brought in a yellow finch. I made him drop it — which he wasn’t happy about, and held him while the bird took flight. Tiger was really unhappy with me. I bet he never lets me get close to his catches again.

          But, anyway, Smudge takes off with me hot on his heels and he stops and crouches just before the weed line. I gingerly part the tall grasses and who do I find? Tiger!

          “You let that baby alone!” I scold.

          Tiger looks up into the small tree he’s prowling the base of. I search the branches on my way to the top and guess what I see!

          A chipmunk!

          I’d left my camera on the patio table and ran back for it. I hoped he’d still be there when I got back and he was. I took a couple of pictures then picked up Smudge and Tiger and made them go in the house for a little while. In both cases, with the finch and chipmunk, it was their lucky day that I was around. I just hope they’ve learned a lesson and are a little smarter now.

The Kipps have a pair of Baltimore Orioles that get on their hummingbird feeder and tip it to get at the nectar. I’ve only seen my Orioles at the suet feeder but I thought since they like the sugar water, I’d put a feeder out for them. I already had this cast iron stand so I set a dish inside and put a little sugar water in it. Only once have I seen an Oriole drink from it and I told Miss Rosie about it.

“You’ve got a stand for it,” she remarked.

Sitting there, on the patio, chatting with the Kipps, I look at my wall of glassware I’ve been collecting for projects. I’ll make her one!  

          It took me a little while to decide what I wanted to make. It has a nice heavy piece for the bottom and in the next piece I added a huge pinecone for decoration. A couple of red plates to draw the eye of the local wildlife and a removable top so it’s washable. I silicone it all together and two days later deliver it to my Miss Rosie.

          “I love it!” she says.

          So far her Orioles continue to tip the hummingbird feeder but it’s our hope they’ll find the one made special for them.

          And look at this!

          “A green square with a tail?” you say.

          Yeah, well, you probably don’t wanna see what’s underneath the green square. I was at the post office and laying right in the middle of the parking lot is a squished mouse.

          “How does a mouse come to be dead in the middle of the parking lot?” I asked Mike, but he didn’t know.

          What’s your best guess?

>>>*<<<

          Mike called me to the window. “Peg! Come look at this!”

          I went. Down by the pond was a big doe.

          “She’s been standing there for a long time,” Mike said. “Do you think it’s the mother of the baby I saw?”

          Mike had been mowing down by the pond and scared a tiny little speckled fawn out from under the bridge the day before.

          “I don’t know.”

          He handed me the binoculars. “There’s a bird on her head!” I exclaimed. “I bet he’s picking the ticks off her.”

          Sometimes critters of different species work together for their mutual benefit. She stood still and let him work. Sometimes he’d take off and fly a few feet away but would come back and continue
where he left off.

Another day, Mike calls me to bring my camera. Right out in front of the house was a snapping turtle and Tiger was eyeing it.

“If it gets him, it won’t let go!” Mike warns.

I took Tiger in and we let the turtle go wherever it was going, which turns out to be our gravel pile.

“Is it laying eggs?” Mike wanted to know.

I looked but didn’t see any evidence that she was.

“I don’t want snapping turtles around here. I’ll dig the eggs up and get rid of them.”

“We can feed ‘em to the coons and possums,” I say. It’s better than letting them go to waste.

The next day the turtle was gone and we looked for eggs but didn’t find any.

“Peg, does Mike have a coat on?” you say.

Yes, he does! Our 80-degree days turned rainy and cool. We needed the rain pretty bad. The rivers and creeks were low, the grass was yellowing and drying.

Luckily, the neighbor got the first cutting of hay baled and taken in before the rain hit.

My Nannyberry is blooming.

And the clover.

And the Forget-me-nots.

 Blue-eyed Grass. It’s tiny. That’s my index finger behind it.

I knew the Wild Geranium should be blooming and I knew right where there was a patch of it. Mike waited in the golf cart while I went to take pictures.

I picked a few to go with my Forget-me-nots and take home for my windowsill vase.

Our insurance-paid car rental has expired. We’ve got Big Red we can drive but Miss Rosie has kindly offered us the use of her little blue Honda Civic for as long as we need it.

“What happens if she needs it?” you wanna know.

It’s not often the Kipps split up and go in two different directions, but if the need arises, Miss Rosie knows where her car is.

           I’m smiling right now. Do you have any idea how hard it is for a six-foot-two tall man to climb into a little Honda Civic? I laughed hysterically the first couple of times Mike tried to get behind the wheel.

“I can’t get in!” He grunted and groaned. “My foot’s stuck!” He reached down with his hand and pulled his foot from the V created by the door and door frame. But Mike’s got it figured out now and even though it’s still tough for him, he can manage. And the Civic is way easier on gas than Big Red is, especially now with the gas prices so high.

We made a couple of trips out so I’ve got a few road pictures for you.

This building is open in the front. It looks like someone went to park something inside and hit the gas instead of the brake and busted out the back wall.

Geese and goslings.

Let’s call this one done!