I am still not myself. I don’t care about capturing light. I don’t care about writing. I don’t care about making things. The fact that I don’t care about cleaning the house is the only reassuringly normal thing about these last several months. And that it’s July, and it will be August, traditionally two of my several least favorite months (we’ve been over 100 off-and-on now for many weeks) isn’t helping matters at all. I am even less creatively inspired by heat than I am by dead cold. You can have a romantic fire in the fireplace when it’s cold. All you can do in the heat is lie on the floor with the dogs and pant. Fiercely.
Okay, watching The Tour de France is fun. It’s the bright spot for me in the heat. But the hay hasn’t even been cut yet—too many threats of storminess—and the stress levels that rise until the barn is full negate the good watching bicycles does me.
So I am presenting here another little image sampler. Dick, I’d do a pithy, witty little bit of ironic writing here for you if I had it in me. I don’t. And here are things I love, in which I hope you find no irony at all:
I love this end of my little house. You can tell it’s spring – how shy the green still is. It’s not that way, now.
We got more cherries this year than we’ve ever had. I think it’s because the mulberry tree that sprang up all on its own and is now overshadowing everything, including the struggling thirty year old cherry, has diverted the birds. I saw a bright yellow and orange western Tanager picking his joyful way through those mulberries (there are millions of them – wait – where are my pictures of those berries?). I went out to get a better look and ended up filling my mouth with the still surviving cherries.
I love this gate. Dad and G built it. So long ago now.
The yard is uncivilized. But in the spring, there are these hidden corners of loveliness.
I saw these birds-on-a-wire at a little shop down by Ginna several years ago. I was sorely tempted by them, but couldn’t figure out how to get them into my luggage. When we drove down next, I’d spent my treasure money on Rainbow Gifts’ navajo silver work before I remembered these guys. I was very sad to realize there were only two of these sculptures left in the shop, and my pockets were empty. So imagine my delight last Christmas when I opened a provocative and heavy box that had made its way from Ginna to me—and found these summer birds, ready to sit in my window.
I love this little place.
Toby also likes it.
He always hopes to find snakes here. So he can bark.
And I love this window.
And this giant wild rose that grew up between our neighbors’ house and ours—its elegant arches of pink blossoms in early summer and bright red rose hips in winter are a treat for the soul.
Murphy’s birthday. His Laura-love made him a gluten-free cake and the rest of us these evil, glutenous goodies.
Yes. He thinks his girl is the best thing ever.
We re-use birthday candles. Some of the ones Murphy is blowing out here, he probably blew out on his tenth birthday. How amazing is life. Happy Birthday to my baby. We lived through teething, toilet training, learning to read, dating and your mission. And here you are, a man.
G, posing with our nephew, the son of my sister. Obviously, G has corrupted him . . .
But my lovely sister doesn’t seem to mind. (Sorry Steven – not the best shot of you. But Kev is just beautiful!)
And that is the end of the sampler. Except for this last shot. I wanted to save it for last. Actually, I intend to write about it. But not today. I did not take this image. My sister did, on my mother’s 85th birthday. I wasn’t there, but Kev was, and this picture, taken with Kev’s one free hand while my mother sat silently, eyes closed, speaks more than I can say.
Yes. How amazing life is.