Gifts From Above

 

I am blessed to live on a tiny acre between old growth pines. On morning walks to the chicken coop, little Surcee's are gifted me. Surcee means; little gifts for no apparent reason. I think the origin of the word is Scottish. 

This month's offerings have been delightful! Hawk feathers, owl feathers, dove feathers, tufts of nest and this latest, lichen.  

I believe the surcee's to be apologies for the dreadful inundation of Copperhead snakes this year. I think we are at 10 right now. In their defense, they have all been killed at dusk, which is their bewitching hour and happens to coincide with Zoe's potty walk. 

Not all surcee's are tangible. Some are audible, the turkey's squabbling in the pine ridge nearby, the wailing of bob-cats during mating season. Some are visible, said bob-cats, turkey's, rabbit, birds of all species, butterflies, mayflies, dragonflies, hummingbird's...

  

But, I'm most fond of the little things I can bring in to my little space and look at when the days shorten, when the cold comes — and it will. 

"The longer I live, the more beautiful life becomes,

If you foolishly ignore beauty, 

You will be impoverished.

But — if you invest in beauty, 

it will remain with you all the days of your life."

Frank Lloyd Wright

 

Puzzled

 

  

    

I haven't put a puzzle together for 2 1/2 years now. I presumed this as just another area of my life

that has been altered by grief. 

    

Subconsciously, I think I knew that the last thing I needed was the additional challenge of trying to    make pieces of anything make sense, to put broken back together seemed an impossibility.  

While wandering through the toy department last week looking for a puzzle for Tinley, I inadvertently stumbled across one that spoke to me, not the puzzle itself, the name, Winds of Change.

Winds of Change, yes indeed, I can identify with those. It reminded me of a weird word that popped up on a meme recently, Uitwaaien.

Uitwaaien is a Dutch word that cannot be fully translated into English: it literally means 'to walk in the wind" but in the more figurative and commonly used sense, it means to take a brief break to clear one's head.

I have found that "walking in the wind" does just that for me. It drowns out the internal noise. Walking the beach at tide change is my favorite, the wind always seems to kick up then. Another favorite place to walk in the wind is in my own yard, right before a storm (not during) while the leaves swish together like a feather tambourine.

I bought the puzzle, I'm enjoying it. It seems that things that got turned around are slowly righting themselves, while things that maybe needed to change, have/are.

Winds of Change, I like to think there will be a new place to rest when it subsides.

Immersed in Van Gogh

Immersed in Van Gogh

Rowl, the roaring Lion

I asked my granddaughter what she would like me to paint for her. She asked for a white tiger, "And if that mockingbird don't sing, grandma's gonna paint you a ti- a- ger" 

Her baby girl, my great granddaughter Tinley loves tiger's too. She is barely talking but if you ask what a kitty or a tiger says, she will answer "Rowl."  

This is a 26 x 26 oil on wood panel. The Siberian White Tiger has a skull measurement of 16 inches, so with the fur, this is close to the actual size of it's head. Whoa!! 

 

Granny's panties

Granny's panties

The heart-racing dangers of country living and why they’re worth it

The heart-racing dangers of country living and why they’re worth it

Pussy ..........................................Willow

 

While I was in the grocery store this evening, I spied with my eye these woody stems with fuzzy pods in the flower department. I may or may not have gasped with glee. I immediately walked over to them and rubbed one of the pods to release the memory. I flipped the label over to see what they called it. Of course it wasn't written on there, but I knew full well what it was.

Years ago I lived in a charming little house leased to me by a sweet 75 year old Moravian lady in NC. It was her childhood family home, her father built it. I loved the house and I loved her. We visited each other across the adjacent trail for 11 years. I enjoyed meandering through her wild garden. It was so haphazard and some things looked dead but she would tell me "Just you wait." and then it would happen. Bright yellow Forsythia brightened many a dismal winter day from her window. And then one day I saw something happening on another small tree. I was intrigued and walked up to it as Mrs.C walked out of her house and to me.

"What is this?" I asked. 

This little stooped over, white haired lady straightened up the best she could, all 4 feet of her and peered at me with her bright blue eyes. I think now she probably thought I was goading her to say it. I really didn't know it. 

"Well this is a PUSSY (enough pause for alarm) Willow." she said without a hint of lewdness.

"Oh, that's interesting." I answered, not cracking a smile, Far be it from me to cause a good Moravian to stumble.  

Mrs.C cut some of the woody stems of the Pussy Willow and some Forsythia for me.

A few years later we had a terrible ice storm and I went over to check on Mrs. C. The power had been out for days. She had a roaring fire in her fireplace and a pot of beans going on her wood stove that I thought was for "show."  

After the visit she walked me to the door. When I stepped out I saw it. The tree was snapped all over with the fronds laying on the ice and snow. "Oh Mrs. C!!  Your Pussy.................................... and nothing. Couldn't think of the next word to save my life. 

Do you think Mrs. C would help a girl out? Uh, uh. She left me floundering and red faced until she backed into her door laughing hysterically. This was earth before Google, before internet!! So, I had to pull and from my own resources and finally about a half hour later I called her and her phone went to mailbox. "Willow" was all I said and hung up. 

So these fronds came home with me today. I remember Mrs. C as I put them a jar in the window sill. I remember my daughter Mickie, we laughed about this story for so many years. I miss them both. Thank God for provocation and memory. Even if it's absurd.