There have been changes to the “Weed Garden”.
As always there is hope that the wild flowers will emerge once again; this year I’ve added two new members to the collection.
There are red raspberries, that may provide a treat for the aviary community ( there’s little or no hope that I will be able to harvest anything) and central to the garden is a knockout rose bush.
For those that are not aquanted with variety, know out roses are the “mutts” of the rose community. These roses are not entered in the horticultural shows, no one hopes to add their name to this flower; mildly scented there are no perfumes made from them.
These roses bloom nearly year-round and to those that take the time to look they are so pleasing.
This one bush, in the Weed Garden, this mutt is the living memorial to my dear, dear mutt: Duchess. I can work in the yard, take my morning coffee and visit and talk to her and no one thinks I not (too) mad.
Knockout roses can make one a little less lonely.
I have a thing for mutts (genetically speaking; I’m a mutt too).
Peace out, pilgrims
It was a dreary Tuesday; skies grey, a constant drizzle, not a rain, which added more and more weight to the spirit. No battles to fight other than boredom. The only thing that could have made it worse; this could have been a Monday.
When I was first approached to join the TSF, I had visions of never ending adventures; little did I know that I had joined Travelers Aid.
The Elite of society, as the Elite have done through the ages, paid dearly to vacation somewhere special. And now those special few, vacation somewhere special in time. I would be there, the Temporal Security Force presence…to direct them to the loo, if there was one (and the looks on their faces when there wasn’t); change their popular cards into coin, and explain why their costumes had pockets and often what coins were.
The Captain called me to her desk, “Charly, you earned a partner.” Her eyes never lifted from the papers in front of her.
This was the point, that moment when you were judged.
I remember last year; fifteen years on the job and Old Sam got this call, got his partner. An Aardvark as it turned out. Pleasant enough but no help with the paperwork. Folks said it was because of the thing with the marshmallows Sam was selling during the Pompeii jump.
“That’s it? When? What is it, her, him?”
“He’s sitting on your desk.” The Captain returned her gaze to the paperwork on her desk.
I turned and looked back at my desk and there, seated next to my Royal typewriter, sitting in a diminutive floral upholstered wing back chair with matching ottoman, was my partner.”
I walked to the desk that I was now, apparently, sharing. He stood and extending his hand that was roughly the size of an acorn, “Charly. Stephen Peerless Quickstep.”
Grasping his hand with my fore finger and thumb, I looked at him quizzically; “Pixie, actually…at your service.” That answered my question, before I asked it. Stephen Peerless Quickstep, Pixie, smiled and his almond shaped eyes, a lively Kelly green color, twinkled.
TSF service was just starting to get interesting.
Taxes prepared for the SWMBO and me, the octogenarians, C the undecided and his middle daughter (his eldest refuses to bow to the dictates of a totalitarian state and the youngest has [joyfully] not earned a W-2).
Seventy-one pages of numbers and excuses, hand written, the octogenarian’s request for a Short Sale (trust me on this; if you don’t know about Short Sales, its really OK).
Worked until the early morning hours. Too numb to bring the computer screen into just two images, not sure which letter follow C or if 3 really did come before 7; I was fairly certain that sleep just might be called for.
I washed the Ambien down with the remains of a double espresso and set off to battle the cats for space on the bed.
Five times torn from my slumber to answer a phone that wasn’t ringing.
It is now 0630, the octogenarians (Marion, the wicked witch of the north and John the confused) and rousing and once more in battle, the SWMBO attempting to speak above the din and four cats, in concert (if not in harmony) demanding to be fed and I am, regrettably, awake.
Ahh, but there is an end in sight: early February filings for all, being shut of the octogenarian house and electrifying tones of Coltrane filling the house…either that or a brief nap when the SWMBO takes her family shopping.
I’ve given up on winning the lottery as a major portion of my retirement program.
I no longer allow myself a weekend to complete an entire redo of lawn, complete with water feature, on our 1 acre back yard.
The next great American novel will not be mine.
The octogenarians won’t be leaving the house next week.
I’ll never pass for forty-five again.
The SWMBO and her family will never learn to appreciate my little contributions.
There just comes a time when you have to be practical, realistic (not to be confused with anything Kardasian) and accept the world and everything in it for what it is.
I’ll budget the meager pension, put in the 3 or 4 hours-a-day that I can with mower or shovel, struggle to find a few words for this blog, continue to give up more space for the octogenarian’s pleasure, will look like seventy long before I get there and smile and nod when the SWMBO is praised for her sacrifices.
Yes, I’ll just have accept things as they are, no more fanciful thoughts, bring an end to the magical thinking.
It’s a pity that neither the SWMBO, the octogenarians, their elder son (J the Pompous, now staying with his parents for a few weeks) can’t fit on the tree stump (it’s a single seat stump you see) nor have the desire, by the weed garden next to the culvert that gurgles with the rush of the night’s rain.
Round and about the one seat stump, the feral gerbils (Jerry the Swift and Curious, Henrietta the Lovely and Oscar the Huge and Laughing) we all wait for the bright light of early morning; me with my oh-so-strong black coffee and gerbils with the peanuts I almost thought I might eat.
If you listen with a special ear the sounds around that stump it resemble the sound of an orchestra preparing for a concert and this concert is like no other.
The dragon flies buzz about until they light on the rocks bordering the weed garden to dry their wings; light breezes blow that spin the umbrella of the delicate lady whirligig and then the wind section rises up…through the leaves and the branches.
This morning’s piece was a prelude to Autumn, with the tell-tale hint of a crackle in the leaves as colours changed, the shuffling on the lawn of the leaves that had already fallen. Soon the beautiful long low notes of the grasses and vines join in.
With both hands around my cup, afraid to spill a drop, miss a note or overlook a single movement of all around me. The morning’s breeze to unseen conductor entered from the east today and was soon prepared to make his exit when a choral ensemble, heavenly voices, entered.
If I had half an ear I would have said they were pitch perfect, singing in a language for some distant land. Each note, word painted pictures of beauty and compassion, love unimaginable.
Terry (the Swift and Curious) and I looked around for the origin and all I saw, thought I saw, was the reflection of the morning light in the dew. As I watched the glistening lights on grass and flowers, they blinked and winked and danced about and for an instant here a moment there from behind the lights…a smile.
All about tiny, beautiful, no, wondrous creatures that soon, too soon, rode away on dragon flies,
No more magical thinking for me; its just a shame that so few people see the world as it really is.
Peace out pilgrim