Summer, still

It feels like summer will never end. Here it is, mid-late September, and we are still suffering 105-110 degree weather every day. I am weary. 

I know I have nothing to complain about, but I feel the frustration inside my skin. We are all just tired of hot hot days. The white flies have taken over the grapes, so tomorrow I will cut the vines back to stumps. The tomato plants have all died, taking some of their fruit with them. Anything with flowers has been deflowered; wilted and dehydrated.

The raised flower bed needs to be torn down; all the dirt needs to be removed so the south containing wall can be rebuilt. But it is just too hot to care yet. And it is too soon to plant anything in it, anyway.

But early this morning, we heard lovebirds in the backyard tree.

And a praying mantis had settled on the dogs' tennis ball. 

And E. asked me if we will have fresh tomatoes soon. And any chance we could have pumpkins? Or will we just plant basil, thyme and more rosemary? This question threw me - E. is the guy who's dream house would be a 10,000 square foot garage. He'd have his '70 Cuda, his '69 Roadrunner, his '73 Camaro, and both of his muscle Novas parked in there. He'd be happy with a sleeping cot in the corner. He'd have a TV hanging from a wall - all the better to watch "Destroyed in Seconds" and "Myth Busters". 

But a garden? 

So, I am anxious to rebuild our garden bed. I'm anxious to plant winter crops, to put in the winter grass for the dogs, and to start planning for a living Christmas tree that we can plant in front of the house.

And I think of this poem:

HIS WIFE

by Andrew Hudgins

My wife is not afraid of dirt.
She spends each morning gardening,
stooped over, watering, pulling weeds,
removing insects from her plants
and pinching them until they burst.
She won't grow marigolds or hollyhocks,
just onions, eggplants, peppers, peas –
things we can eat. And while she sweats
I'm working on my poetry and flute.
Then growing tired of all that art,
I've strolled out to the garden plot
and seen her pull a tomato from the vine
and bite into the unwashed fruit
like a soft, hot apple in her hand.
The juice streams down her dirty chin
and tiny seeds stick to her lips.
Her eye is clear, her body full of light,
and when, at night, I hold her close,
she smells of mint and lemon balm.

Up on the roof

The rains came last night. The rains brought thunder, lightning, 

and a power outage. 

 This morning found E. up on the roof, hunting for the damn leak 

that dripped all night in our bedroom. 

 He handed the roof tiles down to me, and I stacked them in the wagon and in the gazebo.

He pulled the tar paper off, 

checked for soft spots in the wood, 

and discovered a drainage channel from the peak of the roof to the eaves.

And I smile as I hum "Up on the Roof", as I first heard it by James Taylor.

I don't think James was singing about repairing a leak up there... 

(the above link offers a video of Taylor singing the song on Sesame Street)

Making Gus smile

Red sky at morning...

...sometime leads to a few drops of rain at evening.

And a fresh stand of mushrooms in the morning!

 And Gus smiles...

Days are so precious in such odd ways!

On the patio

Our patio has become a paradise.
And through all the hummer commotion,
our dogs sleep and I work.

Spring has returned. 

The Earth 

is like a child 

that knows poems.
-Rainer Maria Rilke

A winter night

When the rain came I thought you'd leave
'cause I knew how much you loved the sun

But you chose to stay, stay and keep me warm
through the darkest nights I've ever known

If the mandolin wind couldn't change a thing
then I know I love ya

From "The Mandolin Wind" - Rod Stewart

The rain and wind came here during the night. Our honeysuckle all reached up for the sun of dawn.

Then I found a strangled frog in the backyard. 

The day between rains

Yesterday, between rain storms, the sun was out.

Gussie had to investigate the ferns...

and then join Shado in the grass.

 

 

 

All the while, Sophie continued her endless pursuit of bees

in the honeysuckle bush.

I am still nursing my broken bones and typing one handed. But life is good - it's a dog's life!

Another inch of rain fell last night as we slept. It is still raining and VERY dark outside. The dogs have littered the house with muddy paw  prints, and they are all sleeping now. Shhhh...

I wonder what the bees do in the rain?

Thanksgiving...

When Father Carves the Duck

We all look on with anxious eyes
When father carves the duck,
And mother almost always sighs
When father carves the duck;

Then all of us prepare to rise,
And hold our bibs before our eyes,
And be prepared for some surprise,
When father carves the duck.

He braces up and grabs a fork
Whene'er he carves a duck,
And won't allow a soul to talk
Until he's carved the duck.

The fork is jabbed into the sides,
Across the breast the knife he slides,
While every careful person hides
From flying chips of duck.

The platter's always sure to slip
When father carves a duck,
And how it makes the dishes skip!
Potatoes fly amuck!

The squash and cabbage leap in space,
We get some gravy in our face,
And father mutters a Hindoo grace
Whene'er he carves a duck.

We then have learned to walk around
The dining room and pluck
From off the window-sills and walls
Our share of father's duck.

While father growls and blows and jaws
And swears the knife was full of flaws,
And mother laughs at him because
He couldn't carve a duck.

~By Ernest Vincent Wright
from one of Google Books

My father never carved the duck, nor the turkey. He just wasn't a carver. His older brother, my Uncle Bill, was the family carver. Uncle Bill started teaching me to carve after I was out of college - I think he knew it was time to pass the torch. We always used an electric knife, although I have read that isn't the best way to carve the bird. I would wear a bib-style apron while Uncle Bill's tied around his ample waist. Uncle Bill would carve all the 'obvious' meat off the bird and display it on serving platters. The platters would be passed around the dinner table, followed by mash potatoes, dressing, yams, green beans, and LOTS of gravy. 

After dinner, while the rest of our family retired to the family room and football games, Uncle Bill and I would return to the kitchen table to pick the carcass clean. Foil packets of meat were made for grandma, for guests, for cousins. Finally all that was left was a pile of bones and the 'inners' that Gramms would have us save. 

Gramms, Uncle Bill and my dad have all passed away. I am now the turkey carver... My family doesn't gather for the day of thanks anymore. E. and I have our 'familyless' friends over for our feast. Most years we have 12-15 friends gather at the table(s). We now put up two long tables in the game-room and cover them with plastic table covers from the Dollar Store. We set the plates, silverware and napkins on the table long before friends start showing up. Two years we had two turkeys. One year we ended up with 14 pies... it was great!

This year will be quieter. We will still have friends without families, and still have tables set in the game-room. The electric knife will make its annual appearance. And I will put on a bibbed-apron. I will think of Uncle Bill, of  Gramms, of my dad. And of the poem of a father who carved a duck. I think I am most thankful that my dad NEVER attempted that!

Lighthouses in the desert?

This isn't a normal post for me, but I got to thinking...
One time, Soundbounder made a fun comment about a lighthouse we have in our backyard.

Yes, we live in the middle of Arizona... but we love lighthouses. All of our backyard lighthouses are solar lights. At night, they make wonderful gentle lighting throughout the patio...

Light houses aren't typical here in the desert. But since we are fascinated by their scenery and settings, our vacations often include stops at lighthouses. Last summer, when E. was working in Seattle, he mapped out local lighthouses and visited them. I am jealous of his photos!

So, Soundbounder, here are a few of the lighthouses in our backyard.



Okay, enough of this. On to loftier subjects, I hope!

Story of a day in a multi-dog household

This is a simple story of a day in a multi-dog household. I am inspired to write it only because I am reading book that emphasizes that dogs in a multi-dog household must be 'polite dogs'.

S0, Sunday was our day to celebrate E's birthday with the family. The morning was ours, to walk the dogs early, then to watch the Packers (GO PACK!), and to also root against the Vikings. All in all, an enjoyable morning.

We 'dogproofed' the house as we usually do before we left for the family gathering. Dogproofing the house consists of closing certain rooms off, picking up any 'chewable' items that might be left around, blocking off the kitchen so Sir Gus can't countersurf, and to fill all dog water bowls so they have plenty to drink. Sometimes we leave them with rawhide chewbones or Kongs filled with peanut butter. But on Sunday, we did neither. We just dogproofed the house and left.

Bad idea.

We came home to a living room of disarray. Well, just one piece of furniture was 'disarrayed'. The ottoman, which is also a storage compartment.

This is how the ottoman should look
(dog hair on the side is acceptable):

In the ottoman, we store our team rally rags,


and our Packer Dammit-doll, and a couple team blankets - and one dog toy.
We didn't know the dog toy was in there...
But our polite dogs did!

They pulled everything out of the ottoman in their hunt for the toy. Geez, if they wanted the dog toy so badly, couldn't they have just asked? Wouldn't that have been the polite thing to do?

The toy was brand new, with the packaging still on it. But we found it outside, unwrapped and used.

I guess we are truly lucky that they didn't chew the rally rags or the Dammit-doll.


Ottoman now... I wonder if someone makes 'Dammit-dog-dolls'?

My own glimpse

I am hooked on Laurie's blog titled Glimpses of South Pasadena - especially her categories of houses. Since I was born in Pasadena, I am always curious about my birthplace. I have wonderful memories of my grandparent's house there. It was the house where family always gathered, where holiday meals were eaten, where New Year's Eve was spent in anticipation of watching the Rose Parade. I remember walking with my brother, parents, and uncles to the parade route and watching it from a ladder we would carry to the route.

I think Gramma's house was in the Craftsman style. California Bungalows are common, but this house has the Craftsman interior characteristics. The house had a built in breakfast booth. It had a side entrance from the driveway that my grandparents used as the front door. These doors opened into the dining room. There was a real front door that entered the living room, but I never remember it ever being accessible. The garage was detached and behind the house. The driveway was two concrete paths with a strip of grass between them. I looked through old slides and found a photo of the house, circa 1957.


I hunted Google maps for a street view of the house as it is today. My heart burned in excitement to recognize it! I hope to see it again someday.



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