Idiot!

          I’m such an idiot sometimes!

          “Why’s that, Peg?” you ask.

          Maybe “idiot” is a little strong, but let me tell you about it!

          I was thinking, Halloween’s coming up. I should paint a few cards. That’s what I was thinking. Then I remembered Halloween is on the thirty-first. It’s been on the thirty-first since I was a little girl. Well, poop! It’s already the twenty-fourth! That didn’t leave me much time.

          I can paint a few and copy them, I think. That really took a lot of pressure off and if my peeps got the cards late, well, then, so be it. I don’t think everyone saves them anyway—and that’s okay. My pleasure comes from the making and the giving.

          I haven’t had my brushes out in weeks! I sketched out three designs and decided I’d started with the easiest one, just to warm up, don’cha know.

          What fun! I should’ve started earlier in the month so I had time to paint more.

          Then I started the next one, which was also a fairly straight-forward piece. There wouldn’t be anything complicated about it and I was confident in my abilities.

          I went as far as I could on them. I couldn’t do the line work until they were completely dry. I stood them up against my computer screen. Both these pieces came out fairly well.       

I was happy and I was in my happy place!

Creating.

And I went to work on the final and most complex one. I really love how the colors mixed and mingled in this piece.

“I can’t decide if he’s unhappy because he has spots or because he’s got spiders,” I told my peeps.

“I don’t think he’s sad. Maybe bemused by the spiders,” my beautiful little sister said.

The frog is for my mentor California Susan. Her husband Bob likes frogs and since I couldn’t think of anything else to paint for her, I painted a frog.

Saturday morning, my handsome mountain man was getting ready to head to the garage to work on Big Red.

“Will you put this in the mailbox for me?” I asked.

“Sure,” he replied, standing over me at my desk.

“Give me a second to address the envelope.”

I quickly, but legibly, scribbled out the address, put a return address sticker in one corner, stuffed the card inside, and licked the glue strip on the envelope. I pressed it shut, handed it to my husband, and stood to get a stamp out of the upper drawer of the desk.

“Look,” Mike said.

I looked — and the envelope was open. “It didn’t stick...” I said and took the card back. A little niggle stared in the back of my head.

“What if it’s a peel-and-stick envelope?” it said.

I opened the flap, picked at a corner, and pulled the strip of paper off. I’d licked the paper that protected the self-adhesive glue strip.

“I bet that tasted good,” Mike said.

It actually didn’t taste like anything.

I put the stamp on and gave it back to Mike. He went out the door and I got to wondering. How many days until the thirty-first? I opened the calendar on my computer and was shocked to see there was no thirty-first in the month!

It took me a few seconds to work out the problem and when I did, that was the moment I first felt like an idiot.

          It’s September! Halloween’s in October!

          Aye-yi-yi!

          I was in such a hurry to get it in the mail and we’ve got a whole nother month!

          Well, I guess I’ve got time to paint a few more cards! 

          Mike took the girls and me for a golf cart ride. We went down to the lower bridge. Our poor creek is so dry! This is the downstream side of the bridge.

          And this is the other side.

This is the fruit of our Bradford Pear trees. Birds eat it and mice nibble it, especially after a frost which makes it more palatable. It’s gritty and not much good for nutrition, but there’s plenty of it. That’s how the seeds get spread all over, and since they sprout so easily, the trees become invasive. They don’t want you planting it anymore. In fact, in some places, if you take out your Bradford Pear trees, they’ll give you a native tree to replace it.

Don’t ask me who they are. I read about that a long time ago.

Mike had a yen for Chinese food. On a rainy day this week, we went to Wysox and had a lunch at the Chinese place in the shopping plaza.

Thank goodness for rain! We needed it so bad! But it’s not so good for picture taking.

We’d gotten to Wysox a little too early. The Chinese restaurant doesn’t open until eleven.

“You wanna go to your store?” Mike asked. He calls the thrift store my store. “Or not. You were just there last week.”

“Sure. It changes every day,” I said.

Outside the door was a tub of free stuff. I hit the jackpot there. I dug through and came up with a Nordic cake pan. I didn’t have to look for the stamp on the bottom. I have one Nordic pan (a nine-by-nine) and know what they look like. They’re a lot heavier than other aluminum pans and have a nice rolled edge. It had the remnants of the last cake that was baked in it (which is probably why it was in the free bin) but I didn’t care. It was free and I could wash it. I don’t need another cake pan but I quickly stuffed it in my bag.

I found a plaque. It says The Gathering Room and it’s real wood — kind of old, with a vintage charm. I could sand it down and paint something new on it, or maybe my sister would like it just the way it is.

I was also thinking about repainting the family sign. It’s canvas mounted on a wood frame and with a good scrubbing to lift the dirt and a coat of gesso, it’ll be ready for a new painting — and did I mention it was free!

Inside the store, I found two tin antique car cutouts. The steering wheels were added separately, which gave them a quirky touch. They didn’t cost much, and I thought they’d be cute to hang on the patio. That was the only thing I could find to spend money on that today.

While washing my new Nordic cake pan in hot soapy water with a splash of bleach, I thought, this is not a nine by thirteen pan. It washed up beautifully. Once dry, I measured it. I was right. It’s a not a nine by thirteen, it’s nine by twelve. It probably won’t make much difference in the long run. 

          Speaking of Mike...

          He has a problem drinking water. He doesn’t really like it and has a hard time drinking enough of it — as a lot of people do.

          Then someone told us about the sugar-free flavor additives.

          I know! I know! They’ve been out forever! But I don’t have any trouble drinking plain water so I never thought about getting them for Mike.

          “Does it count as water?” I asked Mike’s PA.

          “Just be sure there’s no sugar, salt, or caffeine in it,” she said. “Then it’s okay and counts for your water.”

          At first we were buying the individual serving packets. Then we discovered the bottles of liquid. Mike likes the liquid version better.

          The directions say to add one squirt. I hate instructions like that! They’re so ambiguous.

          “Does that mean a long squirt or a short squirt? And what if it squirts a little and gets a burp of air? Do I start over?”

          Mike couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about.

          “I just want to make it the same all the time and the only way to do that is to measure it. It says a serving size is about 3/4 teaspoon.”

          3/4 teaspoon is a half and a quarter. That means I have to dirty two measuring spoons.

          “It would be easier if I just use a teaspoon,” I told Mike.

          “Use a 3/4,” he said.

          “They don’t make a 3/4. All the sets have in them is a tablespoon, teaspoon, half teaspoon, and quarter teaspoon. Some sets have a half tablespoon and an eighth teaspoon, but I’ve never seen one with a 3/4 teaspoon.”

          Famous last words, right?

          A couple of days later, guess what shows up in my mailbox?    

          Speaking of Mike — one more time and in closing...

          Mike’s been adding fancy-schmancy lights to Big Red. Getting them wired in has been a real and on-going struggle.

          “I don’t understand it!” Mike lamented. “It should work.”

          Then he read the directions.

          “Oh,” was all he said.

          If all else fails...

          I think he’s got all of the lights working now.

          Let’s call this one done!

The Door Between Us

           She didn’t bark. She didn’t beg. She simply looked at me through the door, her eyes catching mine like a whisper.

          “Come sit in the sun with me,” she said. Maybe not in words, but that’s exactly what she wanted from me.

          I was busy, as life gets sometimes, and I didn’t want to go sit with her — at least not at the moment.

          Sometimes if I leave the door open she’ll go sit in the sun by herself. I opened the door and went about my chore.

A bee buzzed up to me as I stood rinsing a plate. I better close the screen, I thought as I shooed him toward the open door. Around the corner of the counter I go, herding a bee ahead of me and there she was. Bondi. Just standing there. Waiting. Those eyes! Wide, steady, full of quiet insistence.

          “Please come sit in the sun with me?” they beseeched me.

The bee flew off.

And Bondi, with nothing but a look, had already changed the course of my day.

          So I dried my hands, left the dishes where they were, and went outside. I took my chair at the patio table and Bondi settled into a patch of sun.

Raini, ever alert to my movements, trotted out behind us. With her dark coat, she warmed up fast and soon claimed a chair in the shade for herself. I had to laugh. She had her head resting against the armrest and one lip was curled in a snarl, like she was halfway between a nap and a protest.

The breeze stirred the trees, and for a few quiet minutes, the world stopped asking anything of me. Nothing to do but sit with the girls, two dogs who understand, better than most, that sometimes the best thing you can do is simply be still.

I am so happy and so content in my little cocoon that I could absolutely sit there for hours and just let the day slip by. Eventually Bondi got too hot and moved to the shade. I took that as my cue to pull on my big girl pants and return to the world of dishes and duties. The girls followed me inside and settled in their beds while I finished the dishes!

Sometimes the invitation isn’t loud. It’s a glance through the door, a warm patch of sun, a lip caught in a sleepy snarl. And if we’re wise, or just lucky enough, to say yes, even for a moment, the world hushes around us. These are the moments that ask only for our presence. They wrap around the soul like sunlight on skin, reminding us that rest isn’t wasted — it’s holy. 

All of my patio sitting time wasn’t spent in idle reflection; I actually made and painted nine tin can flowers. I’m making them for my cute little red-headed sister. She can put the twenty-three pieces together in any pattern she wants and if she wants to change the color of any of them, a can of spray paint will take care of that. 

          This bruiser was in the middle of the yard, hundreds of feet from the pond. He was moving with purpose, like he had a map in his head and no time to take questions. Where he was going, I don’t know. When he saw us, he stopped.

“Don’t get too close. They’re fast and can snap off a finger,” my handsome mountain man reminded me.

Snapping turtles aren’t exactly cuddly, and with jaws strong enough to crush bone, I figured he didn’t need my help — or my fingers. They don’t go looking for trouble, but if you get too close, they’ll remind you why they’re called snappers.

I took his picture and left him to go about his business. Sometimes the best thing we can do is step back, respect the mission, and let the ancient ones pass. The next time I checked, he was gone.

Speaking of critters...

We went out for a few groceries this week and decided not to go to our usual stores. We decided to go in the other direction and went to Sayre instead of Tunkhannock.

I took pictures.

We were stopped at a traffic light when I spotted these two trouble makers — whistle pigs, as my grandfather used to call them, feasting like they’d inherited the place. Not in a field or roadside ditch, but smack in the front yard of a house where no one lives anymore. The porch was quiet, the grass a little wild, leaves scattered like confetti from last season’s party. And there they were, chowing down like squatters at a salad bar.

Traffic rushed by just yards away, but they didn’t flinch. I snapped a few pictures while they posed like they’d been waiting for a photographer all morning. One looked up mid-bite, the other kept chewing. No fear. No hurry. It struck me how unfazed they were. No concern for the noise or the cars.

There’s something about animals reclaiming abandoned spaces that feels both wild and wise. They don’t ask permission. They just show up, settle in, and live like the world still belongs to them. And maybe, in a way, it does.

And remember. The best way to handle chaos is to ignore it completely and keep chewing! 

A patch of sunlit trees, dressed in their autumn best, burning gold, rust, and ember, catches my eye — and Mike’s.

“Look at the trees,” he said even as I was snapping away with my camera.

“Peg, what color is ember?” you ask.

I’m so glad you asked!

Ember is a rich, warm hue that sits between red and orange on the color spectrum. Think of the glowing coals at the heart of a fire.

We didn’t see color everywhere but we did see it in a few places.

We heard they’re extending one of the neighboring well pads and adding five new wells. Three of our surrounding neighbors received notification that they would be in that pool of gas, however, we are not.

We took a golf cart ride out the dirt road to see what we could see.

I spotted some snowberries.

The genus name Symphoricarpos means “fruits borne together,” a nod to their clustered appearance.

Deer, bears, and birds feed on snowberries. They persist through frost and snow, offering food and shelter when other plants have gone to bed for the winter.

Native Americans used it for burns, rashes, and skin sores. A decoction was made to treat stomach issues, menstrual disorders, fevers, and tuberculosis. The berries were sometimes use as a soap substitute, thanks to their foamy texture when crushed.

In Russian folk use, the berries were crushed and rubbed on hands as a soothing lotion.

The berries contain alkaloids which can be toxic if ingested in large amounts, so it’s better not to eat them.

 Nature is reclaiming. 

Mike went down and helped his buddy Lou, the guy who bought Charlie Cheshire’s old house.

Lou is clearing fallen trees and stumps, as well as bringing large rocks up to build a ramp where he can load and unload his equipment. Lou would load rocks into the bucket of Mike’s tractor and Mike would bring them up and dump them in the pile.

Lou is also making a path down to the creek. Mike took me to see the progress.

I had to walk the last few yards to the water. Mike, who lets Bondi ride on his lap, let her down. Raini wears a leash for our rides, but I let her drag it behind her as the girls followed me to the creek.

For the most part the girls stayed with me. Even when they went exploring on their own, I didn’t think there would be any danger to them. We weren’t close to other houses or the road.

I was distracted by the wildflowers.

A spiderwort.

Turtlehead.

I looked up and didn’t see the girls. I called them and started walking back to where Mike waited on the golf cart. That’s when I spotted this thing on the rocks of the creek bed.

The bright pink color caught my attention. I picked it up and saw brown peeking out in places and thought, “POOP!” I dropped it pretty quick. It wasn’t wet or slimy, it was dry, and if it was poop then I already had it on my hands. I can wash, I thought and picked it up again.

What in the world did he eat to make the outside of his poop pink and shiny? I wondered.

A little way from this one, I found another, smaller one. This one had a stem attached, then I knew it wasn’t poop.

I took my phone from my pocket, opened Lens on Google and took a picture. Lens said it was the fruit of a prickly pear.

I picked up three altogether and brought them home. I thought I’d try to grow a prickly pear.

After a few days on my desk, it starts to look like this. The seeds, a bright ember color, were popping out of the drying outer layer.

I was scrolling Facebook and came across this picture.

That looks like what I have! This is from a Magnolia tree.

Now my curiosity is piqued.

Why did Google Lens think it was a prickly pear?

I Googled it and found two pictures. I guess it did sort of resemble it.

I guess Lens doesn’t always get it right.

Now I think I’ll try to grow a magnolia tree, but don’t hold your breath. I don’t have a green thumb.

 That’s not the end of the going-to-the-creek story.

After we were all back on the cart and headed for home, I got a whiff of something that didn’t smell very good.

Wet dog, I think.

And took a picture of the back of Lou’s house as we were coming back from the creek.

“He’s going to clear this whole area,” Mike tells me. “Over there is where we were getting the rocks from.”

I surveyed the tree-cleared ground, rocky, rough, and scattered with crushed milkweed as Mike slowly drives through, and suddenly exclaim, “Stop!”

“What?”

“There’s a Monarch caterpillar. I’m taking him home.”

“Lou won’t be back for a week or so,” Mike said.

“That could be worse. He might crush the chrysalis.”

I scooped up the caterpillar and brought him home, determined to give him a safe place to grow. Finding a fresh milkweed wasn’t easy. Most had gone yellow with the season, curling at the edges like old paper. Only the ones tucked into shady corners still held their green.

Later, I was working at my computer, and Raini was curled up on her bed under my desk. The smell drifting up was unpleasant, to say the least.

          I guess I’d better get her in the shower, I thought and went about getting things set up. The water on and warm, the soap within reach, me stripped down to my skivvies. Then I went for Raini.

It’s like she has a sixth sense or something. I usually can’t go anyplace without my little Velcro dog glued to my heels, but somehow she knew was what coming. I called, “Raini!” but she didn’t come. I tried again, putting excitement in my voice like she was getting a treat.

“Raini! Come here!”

I found her cowering in her kennel, looking mournfully through the bars like an inmate on death row.

          “Come on! You stink!” I told her and grabbed her collar. I had to all but drag her to the shower.

I knew I’d have only one shot to get us both in the shower and get the door shut. Thankfully, one shot was all I needed. We were in.

I let go of her collar—and that’s when I saw it. My hand and her collar were smeared in the fresh, foresty remnants of poop.

Now, I can’t say for sure what critter left its calling card. Raini finds all kinds of droppings simply irresistible. But around here, deer are the usual suspects.

I got the water on and adjusted and Raini tried to go straight through the clear glass door.

“Stop!” I admonished, grabbed her collar, and pulled her back. “You did this to yourself,” I reminded her.

I started by flushing bits from her collar, flea collar, under her chin, and even a little on the side of her face and in her ear! Once the chunks stopped falling to the shower floor and were safely flushed down the drain, I got the rest of Raini wet. I had to take off her collars, both to clean them and to wash underneath.

My gallon jug of Dawn dish soap with its plunger top was sitting on the shower seat. With my hand under the nozzle and my thumb on the plunger, I got a big handful and leathered her up, rinsed her, and for good measure, lathered her again.

For the most part Raini was pretty good. I even felt a little sorry for her. “I’m sorry I had to wash your perfume off,” I told her. “You’re all done now,” and I went to work washing her collars before I shut the water off.

I used my hand to squeegee as much water from her as I could, then waited for the inevitable shake. She gave me two good ones, spraying me like a sprinkler system gone rogue, before I opened the door.

The last thing I needed was a wet dog tearing through the house, leaping onto the couch, and drying her coat on the cushions. I kept my arm around her neck as we stepped out of the shower and grabbed the towel I’d set aside.

Once I started toweling her off, she really leaned into it. She wasn’t going anywhere. For a dog who’d just endured the indignity of a bath, she looked downright content, her tail wagging as I rubbed her down. And just like that, she forgave me with a big, sloppy kiss to the face.

We went straight from the shower to outside. I hung her collars to dry, and Raini bolted into the yard like joy had a tail. She found a spot that suited her, rubbed her face against the grass, then her neck, then flopped down and rolled onto her back, wiggling with abandon. I could hear her grunts of pleasure all the way to the patio.

Then she popped up, trotted to another patch, and continued her ministrations on the other side, restoring her natural scent, one grassy roll at a time. 

There are only three more pictures left in this week’s file.

Look at the size of the splinter in my finger!

It was on my right hand, and wouldn’t you know it, my favorite splinter-picker was gone.

“Who’s your favorite splinter-picker?” you wanna know.

My beautiful neighbor Steph. She’s always glad to help me get a splinter out when I can’t manage it myself. She’s got younger eyes and a willing spirit. But she was off on a business trip.

Since the splinter was in my right hand, I’d have to use my left to get it out — and I’m right-handed. Not ideal.

Luckily, I waited until it was good and sore and pus-filled. I barely had to prick it before it shot out of there like it was spring-loaded. 

The Rainbow Bridge on a foggy morning.

And lastly, a sundog. Just a tiny bit of rainbow on an otherwise clear day.

The kind of thing you only see if you’re looking up at the right moment, and maybe something you need if you’ve had a week full of wildflowers, poopy paws, and splinters that shoot like seeds.

It didn’t last long, most sundogs don’t.

But it was enough.

Let’s call this one done!

Days Spent

          My days of this past week, and your days have all been spent. I don’t know about you, but I can look back and see that I haven’t accomplished near as much as I wanted to. I haven’t painted anything, despite my desire to hold a paint brush again. I haven’t started a cutesy dragon doorstop for my little sister, despite my eagerness to bring that whimsy to life. The vision is there, clear in my mind, and my fingers are itching to get at it.

But more important than any of that is this: I haven’t spent as much time in God’s Word as I’ve longed to. I’ve felt the tug, the gentle nudge to open my Bible, to sit still, read, and listen. And yet, the days slipped by. I know His grace covers even the weeks when I fall short, but I don’t want to live in the margins of my faith, I want to dwell in the center of it. That is my goal. I want my creativity to flow from communion with God and not just ambition. I want my hands to work not only with purpose, but with praise. I dream of the day when I can make things and give them to God in person, just like when I was a little girl and made things to give to Momma. They were clumsy, but heartfelt and full of love. I want to lay my creations at His feet, not to impress Him, but to thank Him.

So maybe this week wasn’t what I hoped for. But it’s not wasted. Because even in the quiet ache of unmet goals, I’m reminded that God’s mercies are new every morning. And tomorrow, I’ll pick up the brush, make the clay, open the Word, and begin again.

I know you don’t come here expecting me to share my faith, but sometimes I feel compelled to speak it aloud. My hope is simply this. That something I say might plant a seed, stir a question, or spark a longing in you to know more, to turn your life over to God, just as I have.

I’m not perfect. Far from it. But I am forgiven. And when I stand before God on judgment day, I won’t be standing alone. Jesus Christ will be beside me, my advocate, my redeemer, my reason for hope.

So my days were spent. Two of them I was sitting here in front of my computer, writing of the exploits of me and my best old friend, Trish.

Poor Bondi. She’d get my attention and stand at the door. She doesn’t have to say a word, I know what she wants. She wants me to sit on the patio so she can sit in the sun.

She could go out on her own, and she does sometimes, but she usually wants me to be out there with her. I try to do that as much as I can because guess what?

“Winter’s coming?” you hazard a guess.

And you’re right. Winter’s coming and our patio sitting days are coming to an end.

Speaking of Bondi...

A couple of weeks ago she squeaked when I picked her up. I didn’t know what hurt her exactly, so I was more careful from then on when I picked her up.

Then last week I felt a dampness under her front leg when I picked her up. I looked and found the skin wet, red, and swollen. I didn’t know what it was so I took a picture and sent it to my big sister.

“It’s a hot spot. They’re painful and itchy,” Patti said. “Take her to the vet.”

I called the vet. “Wash it with Dawn and put Neosporin on it,” they told me.

I only did part of that. At night, before bed, I washed it gently with just warm water, dried it, and put Neosporin on it. I knew she’d soon crawl under the covers for the night and she wouldn’t lick the area.

Three days of this and it’s almost gone. 

          After two days in front of the computer, the next day, Wednesday, Mike had a checkup in Sayre. I took a few pictures.

          The corn is tall and it’ll soon be time to harvest it.

          The light poles in Towanda are wrapped in aqua and purple. Don’t ask me why.

          “Why, Peg?” you ask.

          I don’t know, that’s why.

          They go all out for Halloween.

         The cairns on the island in the Susquehanna have been rebuilt. Where there once was one, there are now several. 

          The nice thing about doctor’s appointments is it gives me time to read. I’d barrowed Life Flight by Lynette Eason from my online library, I was a little more than halfway through it, and it was going back in two days! I didn’t think I’d finish it so I put a hold on it. I couldn’t renew my loan because someone else was waiting for it. If I didn’t finish it in two days, it would be two weeks until I’d get it back. And it was just getting good!

          Because Mike likes to be early, I got quite a few pages read while we waited for him to be called. Yay, me!         

So now three of my days are gone. I’m acutely aware of the encroaching weekend and our upcoming visit. What would I have to talk about?! 

The next day, Mike had an appointment to get the oil changed in the car.

“Let’s have lunch at Sam’s Club,” I suggested. “I like their hot dogs and we can share a slice of pizza.”

We had let our Sam’s Club membership expire because we just didn’t buy that many things from there. But they let you buy lunch at the food court without a card.

I didn’t take any pictures on the way down.

At the dealership, I found a comfortable chair, had my travel cup of coffee, and settled in to read while we waited. 

I read quite a few more pages while we waited. I was nearing the end. The last hundred pages are the most exciting, don’cha think?

After the oil change, we head back to Sam’s Club for the hot dog and pizza I’d been looking forward to.

The first thing off was the missing cash register, it was gone from the spot where I used to place my order. I wandered over to the pick-up counter.

“Where do I order?” I asked.

“You have to order over there,” the guy said, pointing toward the self-checkout lanes. “There’s a register just for food.”

I thanked him and queued up behind two gals who were deep in deliberation. It took them forever to decide. While I waited, I studied the machine and noticed something important: no slot for cash. Card only. That was okay. I was only using a card.

When it was finally my turn, the screen lit up with a cheerful directive: TO GET STARTED, INSERT YOUR SAM’S CLUB CARD.

          So much for that. No more lunch at Sam’s if you’re not a member.

          “Do you want to join again?” Mike asked.

          “No. We just don’t use it enough.”

          We went on down the road and I had a lunch that I’ve never had before.

          “What’s that?” you wanna know.

          I ordered two of the snack wraps at McDonald’s. One with ranch sauce and one with their new Special Edition Gold Sauce. I really like the Gold Sauce, better than the ranch,  and that’s what I’ll get if I have a chance to have another one.

          I ate half of it before I thought I might want to tell you about it.

On the way out of town, stopped at a red light, I took a picture of these.

New England Asters. They’re also called Fall Aster and Purple Daisy.

          In folk medicine the flowers were brewed into a tea for respiratory issues like coughs, colds, and asthma, or made into a poultice as an antiseptic to soothe rashes. The roots were chewed or steeped as a digestive stimulant.  

          In folklore, it’s said that the aster sprang from the tears of the Greek goddess Asterea, who wept when she couldn’t see stars in the sky. Where her tears fell, asters bloomed. So they’re not just flowers, they’re star-born symbols of longing and hope.

          At another red light, I got a picture of roses.

          And we got stopped yet again at another red light before we were out of town. This time I took this picture.

          “Why did she use a glamour shot?” I asked Mike. “Do you think people will go to her because she’s pretty?” 

          “I don’t know.”

          “Well, personally, it would instill more confidence in me if she had her hair back and her doctor’s coat on.”

          But, hey. That’s just me. 

          It really is starting to look a lot like fall. Besides the asters blooming, the trees on the way up the mountain to our place are starting to change color.      

          Speaking of asters...

The New England Aster is easy to identify because of its size and vibrant purple color. I can also ID the Calico Aster easily — which I don’t have a picture of this week. I think this one is the Smooth Aster. It’s not as large as the New England and has a lavender color.

          Once we were home from having the oil changed, I made a fresh cup of coffee, got my e-reader, and spent the rest of the afternoon on the patio. Not only did Bondi get some time in the sunshine, I finished my book!

          Yay, me! 

          I’ve had to stop putting my jelly feeder out. The bees have taken it over and the birds won’t come with the bees there.  

    

          The hydrangea are putting on their fall colors.

          The milkweed is sending out its seeds. 

          Saturday was recycle day.

          “Can you go by yourself?” Mike asked. “I’m going to help Lou.”

          You may remember that Lou and his friend Mick, bought Charlie Cheshire’s old house and are in the process of remodeling it. Mick is doing most of the inside work, while Lou is doing the landscaping. He’s taking down dead trees and taking out the over-grown bushes.

          “I can,” I assured Mike. But it’s hard to take pictures while I’m driving, I almost added, but didn’t. I thought about leaving my camera home while I took the recyclables down since I am NOT allowed to take pictures while I’m driving.

          I can stop the car if I want to take a picture, I told myself and picked the camera up on my way out the door.

          Boy! Am I glad I did!

          I took the dirt back roads for a good part of the way. A doe crossed the road in front of me. I slowed. On my left was this handsome guy with two more does. No other cars were in sight so I stopped right there in the middle of the road. They didn’t run so I was able to get several shots.

          Let’s end this week with more pictures that I took on my solitary trip to the recycle station.

          Oh wait!

          I forgot!

          I have one more story to tell you!         

          I was working on my computer early in the week, I told you that. Bondi was in the bed by my desk. I was so intent on my writing that I never saw her slip out of bed.

          Suddenly, I heard the little cries of distress.

          I was startled and confused, not only by the sound, but I don’t know what was making it. I glanced at the birds, but they were fine. Then I saw Bondi. She was under the bird cages sniffing around the sweeper that sat nearby in the broom closet.

          That’s when it clicked. That’s when I knew the cries were that of a mouse. He must’ve come out to feed on the seeds the birds drop and Bondi saw him. My mighty mouse-hunter must’ve gotten a hold of the mouse but didn’t kill it. When she dropped him, he bolted.

          I got out of my seat, turned on the light in the closet, and started moving stuff around. We never did find the mouse.

          I baited a spring trap with peanut butter and tucked it under the bird cages. Then I flattened a cardboard box and rigged it into a makeshift barrier, just enough to keep the dogs from getting their noses snapped.

That night, I was in bed when I heard the trap go off. A sharp snap, then a strange rhythmic sound of wood striking wood. I lay there, listening. I figured the mouse, caught but not yet dead, was thrashing around, knocking the trap against the baseboard in its final moments.

          The next morning, I went to empty the trap — but it was gone! I searched everywhere. I’ve got two theories. One: the cat got to it first and carried off his prize to dine in private. The other, and more likely theory, is the mouse only had a foot or tail caught, and the rattling I heard was him dragging the trap into an unfinished section of wall in the broom closet.

Either way, I’ll find the trap again or I won’t.

 

Now let’s call it done!

And remember — more than anything, you’re all in my heart.