Last night, when Ed, having fallen asleep downstairs finally roused himself, so that he could walk upstairs and (eventually) fall asleep in a bed, as opposed to the floor, I asked -- where is Isis?
Probably snoring on the couch.
Okay with me. Sometimes the cat does not follow us when we move around the farmhouse.
And I have to say, every minute without Isis in bed is luxurious from my perspective.
The wake up is leisurely too. Isis never made it upstairs. Ah, delicious! No cat to watch out for (we have kicked him off the bed accidentally more than once). But after a while, I have to worry. What's the matter with him? Is he hiding? Did he pee in the hall closet again? (He's done that twice in the last month -- we're not quite sure why.) So I go searching.
Ed, there's no cat downstairs.
You're just not seeing him… I stare at the man whose vision is far worse than mine. I know how to look for a cat. He's not there.
And then I hear it -- a faint meowing. I follow the sound downstairs and out to the mudroom (the unheated, closed off space that separates the entrance from the main house). Oh oh, sorry Isis. Who left you here?
Most likely Ed went out, the cat followed, Ed came back in, the cat lagged, the door closed. Ah well. Better than the time we locked him accidentally in the garage shed overnight.
Harder to explain is the following: Ed asks -- where did you find it?
You know, the deer antler. Almost a match to the one I found last winter.
I didn't find any antler.
It's by Rosie. On the garage floor. I picked it up and put it on the shelf, next to the other one.
I did not find an antler, I did not bring an antler into the garage shed...
The mystery of the antler. We'll probably never know why a deer would come in and drop an antler right there, next to Rosie. Might it have been an early Santa visit?
The day is beautiful.
A rare December warmth slips into the region and it's staying with us -- all the way through Tuesday. But today is the only day where I can turn my back on everything else and go outside to help Ed with the honeysuckle. He saws, digs, heaves. I drag.
And so we work. Until the sun moves from the left to the right and I cannot haul another limb. We've not cleared it all yet, but we've made great progress. We'll catch up with it someday. Not this year, but surely in the next or the one after. (You can see Ed, lost in the dense clumps of honeysuckle branches. When we're done with this project, you'll only see tall trees, standing proud. The thicket will be cleared.)
Late afternoon: I have school work to do, even as Ed stays outdoors. If you haven't the demands of a schedule, you can do this -- follow your own prompt. Right now, he's listening to the sound of the woodpeckers.
And now it is dark and it is supper time and because it's Sunday, I can cook for my older girl.
It's the last fairly normal weekend of the year. I love normal. But I also love pleasurable disruptions and we have plenty of those in the month ahead. A change of pace is good. So that you can enjoy, after all is settled again, a return to the ordinary.