An Aging Beauty

On Monday Tulip preened, glowing in the sun . . .

Then heartless Time had his way with her,

Stripping her rosy petals

One by one. 

Aha! I have (I think) solved the problem of the disabled comments! Thanks to you who emailed to alert me to the problem.  I'll hope to come blog visiting this evening -- but am off to the garden just now. 

Spring is Everywhere

Bloodroot

Redbud

Grape Hyacinth

Forsythia aka Yellow Bells

Trillium and (below)

 Bradford Pear at the end of its bloom but still lovely.

 

First Day of Spring

The vernal equinox! The sun has returned to the center of the eastern horizon . . .

The willow is erupting in fountains of greeny-yellow . . .

Willa is harassing chipmunks and reveling in her freedom  . . . 
her tail wags constantly . . .
 
A pretty little woodpecker -Downy or Spotted, I'm not sure -- is visiting . . .

The cows have been turned into the mountain pasture to enjoy fresh new grass . . .
And the forsythia, oh, the forsythia! A celebration of yellow! 

 

Tulip Poses . . . Waiting for her Closeup

 

 

 

 

Free at Last!

Ever since we adopted Willa back in October, she has been inside or on a leash. The few times she was let loose, she would NOT come when called and had to be run down and grabbed. We worried that left to her own devices, she'd take off and we'd never see her again.

This worked fairly well all winter -- she got lots of walks and attention and seemed reasonably content. But with the coming of warmer weather, Willa became aware that there was a Whole Big World out there, full of tantalizing smells and she wanted to go and see 

about each and every one of them.

.

I tried tethering her on a long line while I worked in the garden but found that I was spending more time untangling her than doing my garden cleanup. When finally she got wound over, under, around and through a big weigelia below our driveway, I had to slide down a bank and under the bush to free her.  And all I could do was to unsnap the tether.

She was gone like a flash. I, on the other hand, was trapped in a tangle of dead branches. After about fifteen minutes of futile scrabbling, I had to admit that the way I'd come down was too slick to climb back up.

No one was home to come haul me out.  Finally,  I resorted to slithering on my belly under the tangle of branches to open ground. It wasn't a pretty sight.

Meanwhile, Willa was all over the mountain, yipping and yelping as she followed scent trails. I would catch sight of her and call and she would ignore me. Then she'd disappear again.

About four hours later she came home, exhausted, muddy, and radiantly happy.

 

She's been out for extended adventures for three days now -- enjoying the weather and chasing furry critters and lying on the porch in the sun, just like the other dogs. We'll still keep her in at night -- she'd be no match for a coyote. But we're all of us glad she can run free at last.

 

Willow's Wearin' of the Green

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chicks

 The yellow chicks John brought home a week ago as future additions to our aging laying flock seem to be turning into white chickens instead of the various breeds he'd been told they were.  In fact, we're not sure if they're layers at all -- they may be Cornish Rock broilers. So, back to the chicken store. . .

where we purchased some Partridge Plymouth biddies . . .

 

Cute little guys . . .  

   And though the first batch are twice their size, the new guys seem to be fitting in. . . literally.

Meanwhile the old girls are enjoying their freedom. They'll have to be confined to the chicken yard when we begin to plant the garden.

 

The Saucer Magnolia

No one lives in the old house down near the river any more. The widow who planted the magnolia  has been gone for years. 

On my way to the grocery,  I used to see her tending her flowers and once, when some of her black steers had made an escape to forage along the grassy roadside, I stopped to help her put them back. She seemed surprised --like a woman who had things well in hand -- but she thanked me when the last wayward critter was back in the pasture.

 

 Years passed and on my weekly trips by the house, I became aware that now a daughter was living there with the widow.  The old lady still pottered about in the yard but the middle-aged daughter was generally nearby.

Then one day, I saw the old lady striding down the road, making for the bridge. I stopped and asked if she wanted a ride.

'Yes, I do,' she said, climbing in to the front seat. 'I want to go to Walnut. I told my daughter but she's so dreadful slow.'

As we started for the bridge, she continued to talk and I suddenly realized that she was making no sense at all.  That, in fact, I was probably abetting an Alzheimer's victim in her urge to wander.

'You know,' I told her, ' I'm afraid your daughter will worry -- maybe I'd best take you back home.'

The daughter was in the yard, looking for her mother when we returned. The old lady seemed relieved to be back home and the daughter accepted my explanation. That was the last I saw of either of them.

But when I saw the pink tree blooming the other day, I was taken with the notion that the old lady's spirit might wander back, of a spring evening, and sit in one of the lawn chairs under  the saucer magnolia, savoring its glorious bloom.

   

Early Morning Mist