Tis the Season . . . For Pumpkins

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Rainy Day and Intimations of Mortality

Yesterday I attended a memorial service for one of the old timers of our 'new people' community. Jane and her husband moved here about the time John and I did and established a pottery in a little cove up a road steeper and rockier than ours.  She was an artist in everything she did, from porcelain bowls to jewelry to gardens to an exuberant yellow chicken house painted with twining flowers.

At the service I found myself looking around, realizing how many friends from those early days are no longer with us.

But most have left their mark -- in the form of children, grandchildren, and even -- in Jane's case -- great- grandchildren still living in the area and still embodying the hopeful, creative spirit that we early transplants waved like a banner.

As I listened to folks share their memories of Jane, I remembered being at a friend's house (up that awful rocky road.)

"Some new folks just moved in to that awful old house above us at the end of the road. She's pregnant and when I went up to visit, there she was, painting a little room for a nursery and just singing with happiness."

That was Jane.

Dogwood Leaves in Autumn

One last glorious

Blaze against the sky. Dying,

 Wind's bright kites, they fall . . .

 

Leaving hope tight-furled

On the twig . . . mute reminder . . .

Fall's promise of Spring.

October in Bloom

A Year Ago

About a year has passed since I stopped to gather some pumpkins in the garden and wound up in the hospital and then a rehab facility for two and a half months.

Some of the effects of that accident are still with me -- walking on uneven ground or steep slopes is difficult because of the cobbled-together ankle and I don't have complete range of motion in the shoulder that was dislocated. Ballet and football and mountain climbing are right out.

 But it's no big deal. In the overall scheme of things (whatever that may be) I'm doing fine -- able to take care of the household chores, do some light gardening, and, most importantly, serve as a member of Josie's staff.

Actually, this brush with what could have been something much worse, has given me a clearer perspective of What Matters. (What Matters to me, I hasten to add. No universal truths here -- you're on your own.)

And I am so grateful -- for all the support from family and friends (including some of you I've never met in person -- as if that were important,) for good insurance, and for excellent medical and rehab care. 

I'm happy to be here for the miracle of the changing seasons, the joys of everyday living, and, most of all, for the privilege of watching Josie becoming a person.

Blessed, indeed.

So Much To Do

No Words

Again . . .

Another mass shooting.

Another legally acquired military type rifle.

And the predictable 'thoughts and prayers . . .'

And we're told that the aftermath of such a tragedy 

Is not the time to discuss gun control.

Sandy Hook and all those murdered children

wasn't the time.

Gabby Giffords wasn't the time.

Nor the church folks in Charleston.

Nor the night clubbers in Orlando.

Nor Virginia Tech, Columbine, the Navy Yard, Luby's Cafeteria, the California McDonald's, the Edmond post office, the Inland Regional Center, nor any of the many other mass shootings in this broken country of ours . . . 

Not the right time, when innocent people have been gunned down by crazy/radicalized/angry shooters carrying weapons of war. No, not the right time to talk about gun control.

"Can't you at least wait," someone asked, "till the blood has dried before you politicize this?"

The blood never dries. 

One shooting follows another and we become numb,

Adjusting to the new normal. 

Our President and many of our Congresspersons tweet their prayers, their thoughts, their warm condolences. They stand for an uncomfortable moment of silence then it's back to business as usual -- dancing to the NRA's tune, making guns available to almost anyone, legalizing silencers for long guns -- while cutting funds for mental health, while advising us that though we have a right to guns, we don't have a right to affordable health care.

Those prayers, those thoughts, those warm condolences are empty and worthless if they aren't accompanied by action. They are a slap in the face of each victim, each survivor, each family member, each American who longs for some effort to stem the proliferation of guns meant only for killing people.

Keep your prayers for your own black souls, all of you hypocrites.

Jesus wept.

What?

Viruses? Algae? Mold?

Nope -- just grapefruit, lemon, and orange peel. I was making marmalade and the little dots revealed fascinated me and I had to get a picture. So I taped the peels to a sunny window.

Then I had to get a shot of the peeled fruit  . . . and then, of course, I made the marmalade.

Such a pleasant occupation on a coolish, fallish day.  I did no canning this summer (except for one run of pepper jelly,) putting into the freezer what little of our garden produce the critters didn't get and we didn't eat fresh.

The familiar rituals -- assembling the jars, rings, and lids, pulling out the funnel and the jar lifter, preparing the fruit, measuring the sugar,  waiting for the boil, timing the various steps, and, of course, that rewarding ping! that says the jars have sealed.-- are all the more pleasurable on a quiet, unhurried Sunday afternoon.

Putting things by for winter seems in-built in many of us  -- not just squirrels. We are fortunate this year that we don't have to rely on what we've grown but still, the impulse is there -- make sure there's wood and fuel oil and kerosene for the lamps; hay and chicken feed, dog and cat chow, food in the pantry and the freezer in case of a big snow. In our forty-some years here, it's become second nature to be prepared for power outages, especially during winter. 

It just feels right.

And It's October