Kids love to pick flowers. It's just such a natural impulse -- to bring it home with you. Or to give it to someone, perhaps even the person standing next to you. I'm sure if I gave my grandkids permission to raid the garden, we'd have fields of clipped green stalks.
These days, an abundance of blooms is not a given. I'm on the tail end of the day lily season. The monarda is getting to be petal-less. And the phlox, which thunders in immediately after the lily season, is starting to drop most of the little flower-ettes. Things still look pretty lush, but you definitely feel that the garden is in retreat.
(The breakfast sunflowers are actually from Michigan. $3 a bunch at our grocery store.)
When Snowdrop and Sparrow arrive in the morning, they pause and wait to see if I have anything in mind for our outdoor time.
These days, I don't foist stuff on them. But I do use whatever enticements I can think of to keep them outside for as long as possible. Snowdrop goes off to fill the cheeper dish with water and Sparrow -- well, he heads right for the tall flowers and nips off a yellow bloom.
I don't mind. He's hitting a dense clump of false sunflowers. But of course, when Snowdrop sees my tacit approval, she wants to join in.
And then he wants to "pick more flowers!"
And now she really is just dying to gather a whole bouquet and I think -- why not? The joy of putting together a posy of flowers is just tremendous. She wants yellows. I have plenty of yellows. True, most perennials are not easy to just snip, but a grandma can assist!
Somewhere in there, a flower pot's holdings get totally decapitated and some of Sparrow's blooms are hopelessly crumpled, but hey, the kids are happy and I have new flower bunches for the breakfast table!
Inside, we confront the issue of styles of play. Snowdrop and Sparrow are very affectionate with each other, but the little girl's idea of a good playing situation is to have all three of us in the same room, but with Sparrow playing with something that does not disturb her set ups.
Well okay, but Snowdrop creates story set ups everywhere! On the floor, on the table, even on the window sill.
With characters in structures, dolls on the diaper table, artfully posed -- the whole place is a chapter book of ongoing stories.
She is lucky, because Sparrow mostly treats her arrangements with respect. And he imitates her by creating his own mini sets ups, sans the story line. Here's a favorite of his: arranging a family around a little table.
He can manipulate this little group for a long long time. Sometimes he'll do this alone. Most often he likes it when I sit with him and come up with additions to his little scene. (He considers them and mostly rejects them, unless they offer another way of sitting his little family of characters around a common table.)
At some point in the morning we read. Always on the orange couch, always with Snowdrop to my left and Sparrow to my right. I ask Ed for a photo. And he delivers.
Evening. It's a stunning time of cooler air and a dappled golden light from a receding sun. Ed and I take a brief stroll, wanting so much to take in the scents and whispers of late summer. Spring is a time of rising expectations. Now that the growing seasons have unfolded before us, I have to say -- summer certainly delivered. And for that, and for so much more, I am grateful.
After supper, we do our usual cat feed: Ed goes to the shed to feed the six teenagers (who are, by the way, no longer teenagers, but they sure move with the strength and vitality of that age category!) and I take a dish of food to the car. The two littlest girls are always there, underneath, happy as anything to be fed.
Except tonight, it's only Cutie. Well, it happens. Calico, her sister, was probably chased away earlier by the teens.
Wait. I hear her meowing. Is she stuck in a tree again? No, she seems low to the ground. Plaintive meowing. I dive into the mosquito infested thorny bushes and search for her.
She's cowering in that thicket. And she obviously is hurt, or else she'd come for the feeding, or scamper away as I zero in on her. What to do... I bend down and pet her. Well that's not good. Cutie lets me pet her. Calico is the fearful one who usually runs away. This time, she moves slowly and then plomps down again further in the thicket.
I go get Ed.
She is less scared of me than she is of him, but with the two of us there, she is, simply put, terrified. And hurt. He goes to get the cage. I grab her. Not for long though. She wiggles screeching and scratching my arm wildly. She's out of my grasp. Ed gets some gloves. She tries to climb a tree to get away, but falls down. Something is terribly wrong with her.
We can't leave her like this. We just can't. She'll be easy pray for any cat, coyote, anything at all. We chase her around a bit in those thorny bushes and finally, finally Ed grabs her, I hold the cage open and she is inside. We're scratched up, but relieved.
The vet hospital is just a short drive from here (curbside drop off!). We're off.
The doc tells us it's likely to be a vestibular problem: trauma or infection. Going forward, we have to medicate her and hope for the best. (I wont run you through all the vet lingo we listened to from a very caring and knowledgeable doc at the Madison Veterinary Specialists.)
We'll bring the little kitty back and we'll place her in the writer's shed. She is safe from the other cats there. Perhaps we can help her through this. We cannot set her free until we are sure she can manage to protect herself. When will that be?
In all this running around after dusk, we notice several things: the bats are back! I know this sounds nuts, but it's a good thing. Bats serve a protective function here. You wouldn't want one in your attic or worse, in your hair, but you do want them in your barn. Second observation -- the mosquitoes are revving up for a strong come back! And finally this -- we really do care about the animals that live here, pea chicken brains and all. When the vet called me tonight and asked how far to go with treatment, I told her that we cannot let her free unless she is healthy. Calico would be mincemeat in the wild if she didn't have her full wits about her. "Do everything you can" is definitely not right for her, but surely she deserves at least a modest attempt to get her to a healthy state.
As I post this, we are waiting to hear back from the animal hospital. Ed's cleaning the writer's shed, I'm thinking about what a tough recovery awaits the little kittie. People, animals -- some have it so easy. Others? Not so much.
These days, an abundance of blooms is not a given. I'm on the tail end of the day lily season. The monarda is getting to be petal-less. And the phlox, which thunders in immediately after the lily season, is starting to drop most of the little flower-ettes. Things still look pretty lush, but you definitely feel that the garden is in retreat.
(The breakfast sunflowers are actually from Michigan. $3 a bunch at our grocery store.)
When Snowdrop and Sparrow arrive in the morning, they pause and wait to see if I have anything in mind for our outdoor time.
These days, I don't foist stuff on them. But I do use whatever enticements I can think of to keep them outside for as long as possible. Snowdrop goes off to fill the cheeper dish with water and Sparrow -- well, he heads right for the tall flowers and nips off a yellow bloom.
I don't mind. He's hitting a dense clump of false sunflowers. But of course, when Snowdrop sees my tacit approval, she wants to join in.
And then he wants to "pick more flowers!"
And now she really is just dying to gather a whole bouquet and I think -- why not? The joy of putting together a posy of flowers is just tremendous. She wants yellows. I have plenty of yellows. True, most perennials are not easy to just snip, but a grandma can assist!
Somewhere in there, a flower pot's holdings get totally decapitated and some of Sparrow's blooms are hopelessly crumpled, but hey, the kids are happy and I have new flower bunches for the breakfast table!
Inside, we confront the issue of styles of play. Snowdrop and Sparrow are very affectionate with each other, but the little girl's idea of a good playing situation is to have all three of us in the same room, but with Sparrow playing with something that does not disturb her set ups.
Well okay, but Snowdrop creates story set ups everywhere! On the floor, on the table, even on the window sill.
With characters in structures, dolls on the diaper table, artfully posed -- the whole place is a chapter book of ongoing stories.
She is lucky, because Sparrow mostly treats her arrangements with respect. And he imitates her by creating his own mini sets ups, sans the story line. Here's a favorite of his: arranging a family around a little table.
He can manipulate this little group for a long long time. Sometimes he'll do this alone. Most often he likes it when I sit with him and come up with additions to his little scene. (He considers them and mostly rejects them, unless they offer another way of sitting his little family of characters around a common table.)
At some point in the morning we read. Always on the orange couch, always with Snowdrop to my left and Sparrow to my right. I ask Ed for a photo. And he delivers.
Evening. It's a stunning time of cooler air and a dappled golden light from a receding sun. Ed and I take a brief stroll, wanting so much to take in the scents and whispers of late summer. Spring is a time of rising expectations. Now that the growing seasons have unfolded before us, I have to say -- summer certainly delivered. And for that, and for so much more, I am grateful.
After supper, we do our usual cat feed: Ed goes to the shed to feed the six teenagers (who are, by the way, no longer teenagers, but they sure move with the strength and vitality of that age category!) and I take a dish of food to the car. The two littlest girls are always there, underneath, happy as anything to be fed.
Except tonight, it's only Cutie. Well, it happens. Calico, her sister, was probably chased away earlier by the teens.
Wait. I hear her meowing. Is she stuck in a tree again? No, she seems low to the ground. Plaintive meowing. I dive into the mosquito infested thorny bushes and search for her.
She's cowering in that thicket. And she obviously is hurt, or else she'd come for the feeding, or scamper away as I zero in on her. What to do... I bend down and pet her. Well that's not good. Cutie lets me pet her. Calico is the fearful one who usually runs away. This time, she moves slowly and then plomps down again further in the thicket.
I go get Ed.
She is less scared of me than she is of him, but with the two of us there, she is, simply put, terrified. And hurt. He goes to get the cage. I grab her. Not for long though. She wiggles screeching and scratching my arm wildly. She's out of my grasp. Ed gets some gloves. She tries to climb a tree to get away, but falls down. Something is terribly wrong with her.
We can't leave her like this. We just can't. She'll be easy pray for any cat, coyote, anything at all. We chase her around a bit in those thorny bushes and finally, finally Ed grabs her, I hold the cage open and she is inside. We're scratched up, but relieved.
The vet hospital is just a short drive from here (curbside drop off!). We're off.
The doc tells us it's likely to be a vestibular problem: trauma or infection. Going forward, we have to medicate her and hope for the best. (I wont run you through all the vet lingo we listened to from a very caring and knowledgeable doc at the Madison Veterinary Specialists.)
We'll bring the little kitty back and we'll place her in the writer's shed. She is safe from the other cats there. Perhaps we can help her through this. We cannot set her free until we are sure she can manage to protect herself. When will that be?
In all this running around after dusk, we notice several things: the bats are back! I know this sounds nuts, but it's a good thing. Bats serve a protective function here. You wouldn't want one in your attic or worse, in your hair, but you do want them in your barn. Second observation -- the mosquitoes are revving up for a strong come back! And finally this -- we really do care about the animals that live here, pea chicken brains and all. When the vet called me tonight and asked how far to go with treatment, I told her that we cannot let her free unless she is healthy. Calico would be mincemeat in the wild if she didn't have her full wits about her. "Do everything you can" is definitely not right for her, but surely she deserves at least a modest attempt to get her to a healthy state.
As I post this, we are waiting to hear back from the animal hospital. Ed's cleaning the writer's shed, I'm thinking about what a tough recovery awaits the little kittie. People, animals -- some have it so easy. Others? Not so much.
