Home Again, Home Again*

I hear the mourning dove out there, and I know why he's mourning. It's 22 degrees! On this third day of Spring, it's 22 degrees. (NOTE: I have been corrected. It was 22 degrees early morning, but dropped to 19 by the time I first posted this blog. I do want to be accurate.)

Sun is shining, just to fool us, I think, because you can go out there and stand in the sunshine and freeze your little self.

Just home from Pennsylvania, I expected warmer weather here. But no. Just about the same as it was there, only colder. In that state I heard the same moaning and griping as I hear--and do--in Boise. "Enough, already, with this winter." Or "I'm sick of this. Will it never end?" I heard the weather report this morning, and the guy said, "This time of year, it's hard to get a whole week of nice weather." Oh, really.

So be it. I guess I'll be wearing a scarf again and a warm coat to go to the Philharmonic tonight. At least yesterday's wind has gone somewhere else. Of course, it could come back in a flash. That's the nature of wind.

Just so you know, I have a gorgeous little granddaughter, Willamina May Darrington, born March 14, the day I arrived in Pennsylvania. Timely and considerate, I say, because it gave me a whole week to know her and visit with her no-longer-pregnant mother.

You know, it's always good to be home again, but I miss her, little Mina May. I told her mom that when you hold a baby and look at her you get to thinking she belongs to you. And she does, of course, in the grand picture, but I mean it feels like she's really yours. She looks like one of yours, feels familiar. It's quite a lovely thing. Then you have to leave and know she won't remember you and you'll never forget her.

Do I have pictures? you ask. Only 117, 85 on my phone, the rest on my camera. 

Yes, of course, I also love and miss her three big brothers and her mom and dad. Just a fine family. Thanks to Charlie for giving me his bed, to John for reading his book--I Broke My Trunk--to me, to Edmund for his thought-provoking and often stunning remarks, for snuggling up and playing borley, borley with me. Thanks to Ann and Jeremy for their conscientious good lives, for the pleasant atmosphere of their home.

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* from the little rhyme my mother taught me. Do you know it? Well here's what I remember.
To market, to market, to buy a fat pig.
Home again, home again jiggity jig.
To market, to market to buy a fat hog.
Home again, home again, jiggity jog.
To market, to market, to buy a plum bun.
Home again, home again, marketing's done.

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P.S. The wind came back.

Laundry

Just now I folded the towels still warm from the dryer, and I slipped the cold-weather socks on my feet. Felt good.

I always think of my mother when I fold bath towels (and pillow cases) because she taught me how to do it when I was a little girl. I don't know how old I was--maybe close to 20--when I learned that her way was not the only way, not THE only right way, a shocking revelation. And I'm not kidding. I put a lot of stock in whatever my mother said and did. She was very smart.

I still fold pillow cases as she taught me. I refuse to do them any other way. But the big towels fit in my cupboard better if I fold them another way, not hers. I suppose that's why she folded them as she did--so they would fit in her cupboard.

But here's the thing. It's hard for me to do it. Something in me says I should be folding them the way my mother showed me.

When I fold bedding, I think of my friend (suffering now from dementia or Alzheimer's, whichever). Many years ago, she taught me her way of folding fitted sheets. That's how I do it to this day, and I always think of her. Often I wish she were here with me, to help me do it just right.

Besides, I have never liked folding laundry alone. I think it is best done with a friend or family member. Don't you?

The other day as I folded my sheets--alone, of course--I wondered if my friend remembers how to fold sheets at all.

Possibly.
Possibly not.
I do wonder.

I'd like to know

What, exactly, is the fake owl supposed to do? I have moved mine from the railing around the front porch, where it has sat and fallen and been blown from, for several years.

Did it frighten the squirrels? I should say not.

The flickers? The crows? The cats? Raccoons? No.

I moved it because I wondered if it did scare away the finches that used to nest in my Christmas wreath. But it has been years since they came, and I'm sure they have found other places to live. They don't care that I miss them..

So I believe the finches won't be coming back, but I have left the wreath up, just in case.

About the owl: I have put it on the deck in the back, but I have left it down on the floor. I suppose I'll have to get out there and stick it up on the railing, tie it to the post, and hope it stays. Its head moves and bobbles, you know. Is that scary to any animal? Apparently not.

It, the head, also comes off and has done so many times, which maybe frightened my granddaughter the first time she saw it. But her I want to come around.

You Won't Believe This, But It's True

I just found the sticky note the guy left on my front door a few years ago after spraying the trees. Actually, it was 1996. That's a few years ago and then some.

But here's why I have kept the note all these years:

Spayed trees four insests

No kidding.

The First Lady

I should post this on my Lotta Torres blog, but I'm not. It's not really nasty but may seem so and not really political, regardless of what you may think when you read it.

It's about Michelle Obama. I find her to be an attractive woman. However, after four years of having to, as in being required to because they are so visible, appreciate her arms--she does not wear sleeves, you know--I am tired of it.

Now we are required to love her bangs. Right? The media people seem to love them. "She's a trendsetter." And stuff like that. Bangs are in because of her. Again. I had them when I was 11.

I mean, there's no mistaking them for a mistake. They are bangs, and how. I don't like them and don't think they suit her. Putting it politely.

So there.

Two bits

My friend who says "coherse" and "kioss" is making an afghan. At least, I think so. We spoke of crocheting and knitting and came to the subject of afghans. An afghan is what I started many years ago and haven't finished. I hasten to add that I had made others and finished them.

But to the point.

My friend's large crocheted work that she also has not finished is, in her word, an afigan. I have heard these things called africans, but hers is not that. It's an afigan. I know because she said it three times in the course of our conversation.

You think I'm a word snob. Well, maybe. I think I just enjoy this kind of stuff.

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I went over to Caldwell Thursday to visit my friend. No one in the house. She and her husband are gone on a mission. Minnesota or Michigan, said her neighbor.

Okay. I'm happy for them and hope for the best. It's what he has wanted to do--he's a restless guy, you know--and so she has told me she wanted it also but not as much as he did. Of course, he wanted to go back to Russia, but the Church said no. Because of her.

The neighbor said, "She's not entirely well, you know."

I said, "I know. How is she?"

"Well," said the neighbor, "except for her dementia she's in good health."

On this mission they are supposed to be inseparable. That should mean she'll be safe. But perhaps he doesn't know how important that constant togetherness is for her just now.

It seems he went to the hospital for surgery a couple of months ago. He was gone a night or two, left her in the house alone, and didn't tell her. Or he told her and she forgot.  First night she roamed the neighborhood looking for him. Good thing a friend found her, took her home, and stayed the night until she (the friend) could get in touch with their son next day and find out what was up. Their son seemed irritated at the interference of the friend. I say, you're lucky she was there.

So, about this mission, she's the one with dementia, but I hope he remembers the inseparable part.

Things mildly important

It's Tuesday.

This morning two robins were hopping and pecking around my front yard. They cheered me some. Still cold, but the robins are back. This is good.

Across the street several starlings were pushing each other out of the way, trying to get at food, of course. 

I wonder what these birds know, I said to myself as I drove away. I hope. I hope. I hope this means what I hope it means.

It's afternoon now, and guess what. That's right. It's snowing.

Maybe it's just a skiff. Nothing serious. I'll let you know.

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Related subject.

This winter has seemed long, and we did receive much more snow than usual. I don't like driving in it, especially since the snow removal folks don't know there are people back here, just off Boise Avenue. And our street had lots of snow on it for lots of weeks.

So I have thought about getting a car with all-wheel drive. I have thought about it.

Then I went online and looked at what my 7 1/2 year-old car is worth and thought I'd better keep it. It's worth $11,000 to $17,000. 

It's not new, but it's a good car. I like it. It does have front-wheel drive.

Maybe next winter will be milder.

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P.S.

In the time it took to write this post the snow stopped falling. Oh joy!