It has been quite the summer, and although fascinating, very different. We have had 6 inches over our average rainfall and some of the most powerful hail/lightening storms I've ever seen. Yesterday it was so chilly when I woke up that I built a fire. Strange to be lighting a fire in the living room in July. Usually we are so welcoming of the cool morning that we go out into it and suck it into our pores and hope we can hold that sensation well into the heat of the blistering afternoon...but the heat from the fire was welcome and felt great. Unusual.
It's interesting to notice which plants have made a comeback from all the damage the hail caused, and which have remained just a green stick. Some of the peppers never did sprout any more leaves, but haven't really officially died. Thistles and bindweed have thrived and are bursting with incredible vigor. I did give my tomatoes a shot of Epsom salts to encourage growth, but I have little hope for actual ripe tomatoes by the end of August.
We are planning to build a greenhouse soon, and in that process we think it is best to take out an apple tree that is not doing so well, and this year has no apples what so ever...maybe one at the very top that is battered and small, but really nothing that would feed more than a passing bird landing there for a rest. The thought of taking down any tree twists my heart a bit, I know I have had that tree in my life for the last 14 or 25 years and we are considered friends. The tree experts we had come to look at that tree have said systemic chemical insecticides are the only hope...that doesn't sound like a good idea. The plus side is that apple wood is hard wood and will keep us warm real good in the winter months...and as the poem says, "dying is what the living do"...it is part of the cycle to give it up. We will still have two apple trees that are alive...and two plums and raspberries, and, and and.It might give the garden some more light also. I must remember that it isn't all bad.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Words from the way past that still hold true...
By Alastair Reid
Curiosity
may have killed the cat; more likely
the cat was just unlucky, or else curious
to see what death was like, having no cause
to go on licking paws, or fathering
litter on litter of kittens, predictably.
Nevertheless, to be curious
is dangerous enough. To distrust
what is always said, what seems
to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,
leave home, smell rats, have hunches
do not endear cats to those doggy circles
where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches
are the order of things, and where prevails
much wagging of incurious heads and tails.
Face it. Curiosity
will not cause us to die--
only lack of it will.
Never to want to see
the other side of the hill
or that improbable country
where living is an idyll
(although a probable hell)
would kill us all.
Only the curious have, if they live, a tale
worth telling at all.
Dogs say cats love too much, are irresponsible,
are changeable, marry too many wives,
desert their children, chill all dinner tables
with tales of their nine lives.
Well, they are lucky. Let them be
nine-lived and contradictory,
curious enough to change, prepared to pay
the cat price, which is to die
and die again and again,
each time with no less pain.
A cat minority of one
is all that can be counted on
to tell the truth. And what cats have to tell
on each return from hell
is this: that dying is what the living do,
that dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not know
that dying is what, to live, each has to do.
Curiosity
may have killed the cat; more likely
the cat was just unlucky, or else curious
to see what death was like, having no cause
to go on licking paws, or fathering
litter on litter of kittens, predictably.
Nevertheless, to be curious
is dangerous enough. To distrust
what is always said, what seems
to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams,
leave home, smell rats, have hunches
do not endear cats to those doggy circles
where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches
are the order of things, and where prevails
much wagging of incurious heads and tails.
Face it. Curiosity
will not cause us to die--
only lack of it will.
Never to want to see
the other side of the hill
or that improbable country
where living is an idyll
(although a probable hell)
would kill us all.
Only the curious have, if they live, a tale
worth telling at all.
Dogs say cats love too much, are irresponsible,
are changeable, marry too many wives,
desert their children, chill all dinner tables
with tales of their nine lives.
Well, they are lucky. Let them be
nine-lived and contradictory,
curious enough to change, prepared to pay
the cat price, which is to die
and die again and again,
each time with no less pain.
A cat minority of one
is all that can be counted on
to tell the truth. And what cats have to tell
on each return from hell
is this: that dying is what the living do,
that dying is what the loving do,
and that dead dogs are those who do not know
that dying is what, to live, each has to do.
Prince is all wet.
This morning was all wet, and so was the Prince, who is my wonky stray cat who loves to come to my kitty soup kitchen for breakfast /dinner, maybe a little brushing and a few kind words.
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