I'm sitting here thinking, "Wow, I've missed the last two photo challenges!" Sad thing is, I know that I will probably miss this one too. In fact I've finally noticed that I have not posted very much either. An occasional pulse and one valiant attempt at a memory story is not what I call regular posting.

Truth is I have been reeling from some very disturbing news that I received just about two weeks ago. I haven't even shared this news with my children much less close friends and definitely not casual acquaintances. This Sunday I will have to be with my father when he, too, will finally learn this news. I worry for him on many levels. One is that he does not take bad news well. It's not matter of temper control but the fact that strong emotion of any type can provoke a physical reaction that in and of itself is highly dangerous for him. Frankly, this could be seriously life threatening for him. So, of course, this concerns me greatly. Secondly this news is to be delivered by phone and not in person (unavoidable). I have arranged for Sister Six to be with me at dad's when this phone call comes. This should be a comfort for me but I still feel unsettled. Sister Six and I are soul mates on a level that transcends friendship or sisterhood. You should understand that there is a fourteen year age difference between us. So we have few "growing" up memories in common. By the time she was two I was headed for an institution of higher learning and by the time she was five I was married and happily engaged in the continuance of the species. Result; both my children are closer in age to her than we are to each other. They, and not I, were her siblings in a very true sense. Yet Sister Six and I have connected on a level that borders on the mystic. We communicate wordlessly, clearly, concisely, and with accuracy that astounds the rest of the family. We were clones before the concept of cloning became believable. lol We are also considered the stoic members in our family. However, we also share a deeper level of wry humor and all the pleasure that can bring. We are emotional ninjas. It's all there; you just don't have the privilege of seeing our deeper selves. So, for whatever that's worth, Sister Six and I will be there with dad on Sunday.

My concern is heightened by the fact that Saturday is the anniversary of my mother's passing. It has been eight years and dad has now remarried. But ... the bond that 50 years forged is not so easily broken. My father's wife, it is still difficult for me to say stepmother, doesn't seem to mind living with the "ghost" of the memory of my mother so near. Some days I mind the she doesn't mind, very much. But that is another matter altogether best left unsaid. Hopefully, he will not allow himself to become too overwrought. He tends to make mountains out of molehills. It is not that the news itself is devastating but that he will take the bare facts and mould them into an elaborate and garish misrepresentation of facts "gone wild" and pursued to the most outlandish, bizarre and improbable ending as possible. Simply stated, he will take what 'is' and morph it to the worse 'could be' resulting in complete emotional failure. And there is no way to circumvent this scenario. A series of small, seemingly impotent strokes, have left him outwardly unchanged but internally brain damaged in the area of emotional control. It will take a lot of situational awareness on his part in order to stop his brain train from crashing. (And meds... oh please God; let him have taken his meds!) The plan is for Sister Six to ensure that he takes his meds and I will be there to direct his thought patterns. We hope to be successful.

I will mention today that tomorrow's post was written two months ago for Mother's Day and deals with my thoughts on my mother's death.

What is it about summer that causes one to reminisce about the summers gone away? I think it is because we, in truth, do not really grow old in spirit. Yes this lousy stuff hanging on my bones says otherwise, but the me within, the part held captive by the corporal, is as young and free and joyful as it ever was. So it is less the yearning for youth and more the continuance of youth that my memories celebrate.  Face it, because you know it’s true, we don’t climb trees anymore because the body refuses to cooperate, not that we don’t want to. Given a fair chance, I would still be hiding in Uncle’s Apple Orchard, swinging from the branches and pelting Sisters Two and Three with homegrown “stones”.  (Forgive me Uncle…) So my spirit still roams Uncle’s orchard now grown wild but still fresh and green and carefully sculpted harboring the secret of a hundred Thanksgivings pies if only in the minds of three silly little girls.

It was probably the summer just before I entered high school, that Sister Two and I convinced my father to take we two and three other of our friends on a “girls only” picnic. This was a miracle of the most majestic kind for us. I still experience a thrill every time I think of this. I was raised in a growing family. My mother was, for many years, in a perpetual state of pregnancy or engaged in the aftermath of pregnancy.  In this both father and mother were well pleased. Me, not so much. It was still the age of cloth diapers (Pampers, oh pampers, where wert thou). Dad being the perpetrator of Mom’s continuously inflated state had thus obligated himself to the support of the result of his dalliances. So, it can be no surprise that pop always had a minimum of two jobs, usually three. Most of these consisted of the jack of all trades variety of which the demand was undeniably greatest during the short summer ‘fix it’ window of opportunity.  But he agreed to take a day off, a whole day off, to cart five 12 – 14 year olds to a special ‘paid’ beach. He was going to cook for us, too. The only catch was that we had to earn all the money involved to finance this wondrous event. Money? Drat! The time frame for the procurement of such funds was pitifully short. This called for drastic and immediate action. Not one of us in our socio-economic group was privy to any type of independent income. Allowances were unheard of. You did your chores because it was your duty and contribution to the welfare and upkeep of the family.

The dilemma was profound. Pilfering was out of the question; any older siblings were well on to us and had long since expertly secured their cash.  I didn’t even want to imagine the consequences of a midnight visit to mom’s purse. The woman had eyes everywhere and was hell on wheels when angry. This little 4’ 11”, 110 pound woman was the size of a VW with the wallop of a Mack truck. Pilfering from mom was a last chance scenario attempt when all else failed.  

The solution… collect then turn in old newspapers and such to the local paper processing plant for cash on the spot. Dad was even willing to transport us to the weighing station once a week. Yeah.  These do not exist anymore. Recycling has made paper collecting totally worthless as a fund raising project but in those days it could garner pocket change or more for the more industrious group.

We started out by ringing the door bells of our neighbors. Everyone saved everything in my neighborhood. We knew that Bobchi, Pani and Chachi had houses full of stuff. At first we were mildly successful. We needed better results if our trip was going to happen this year. Then we hit upon a plan. After all when you fail to plan, you plan to fail. Who knew anything about entrepreneurs and business plans? We didn’t but our conniving barely teen minds instinctively knew what to do.

·         Dress down, (no makeup or big girl clothes)

·         Sad story, (it’s to be our only summer vacation.. one day… how sad)

·         Big eyes, (tilt the head a bit… eyes glistening or a bit teary was best)

·         Speak the lingo (preferably Polish then)

Then armed with a little red wagon (beat up) and a Polish speaking friend as interpreter, we hit the streets again. Bingo. Stacks of papers started piling up in our corner of the carport. Great! Off to the paper mill. Dad, our banker under protest, (our’s not his) pocketed the booty and we hit the streets again. It wasn’t long before we had pretty much outstripped supply with our demand. This was not good. The problem with paper is that you only get one a day. We needed more! I think people started to hide whenever they saw the newsprint junkies rolling down the street.

We finally did meet our goal and had a magical day at the lake. Dad even put the top down on the old Green Hornet. We had hotdogs in real buns, canned soda, chips and grapes. We went to a beach called Maple Grove where you actually had to pay for admittance which means we had the joy of playing on a silky sand beach and not muck and rocks. I remember it rained at day’s end. The rainbow was beautiful. It was the last event I remember of what I consider my childhood. It became a lasting tribute in my mind to the simplicity of an age, a turning point of no return. Once I entered high school that fall, although still young enough to be called a child (I was precocious, what can I say) I no longer considered myself childish.

In the end we did have to resort to pilfering. Not an easy admission but true. No, I did not risk the wrath of mom. Me and my innocent friends actually crossed the creek behind the paper mill, stuck our arms thru the roll ends left from the processing of the newsprint rolls, and dragged them home. Tucked discretely into the box bottoms and carefully concealed under the legitimate article we resold the mill’s paper back to them. We met our goal easily and quickly. Who knew that those rolled ends could be so heavy? I wonder if Dad or the mill men ever suspected the source of our bounty.

I wonder?

Sometimes as I sit quietly, little thoughts, memories of time gone by will tickle around my mind like butterflies searching for nectar amongst the piled up and discarded musings of my mundane life. Last night it was memories of the swallows that danced upon the evening breezes of my youth that flitted into my consciousness.

About 10 years ago, H and I made a short but significant move. We left the sheltered environs of the Mohawk Valley and moved north, further into the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains. The driving time was a mere 20 minutes, but nature’s time was more like two weeks. It’s as if we had crossed some type of cosmic climate line. The weather, the seasons, the very beat of nature’s rambling, now lagged two weeks in the past. Fall arrives earlier, the snow lasts longer, and the growing season is that much shorter.

The very first indication that all was not the same was the sound of the storms. I spent the first year visibly jumping with each crack and rumble of the thunder. It sounded; it felt, so much louder and closer. Laugh if you must, even the air ‘felt’ heavier during that year’s storms. Even today I remain uneasy due to the increased ferocity of the weather. I physically missed the shelter of my verdant valley and felt the as if the mountains had thrust me defenseless into the chaos of the heavens.

The second indication was humorous to me, then and remains so today. The squirrels! The squirrels are rounder and greyer and fluffier and down right humongous. Worms, too, are different. Only they are smaller, shorter and somewhat anemic when compared to their valley cousins. And there are not any grackles… and no house finches except for the goldfinch. I wonder why that is?

Now as summer is soaking into my bones, I sit on my porch and gaze at the twilight as dusk falls and I realize… there are no swallows, either. Grazing skyward I slip into the memory of warm summer nights and four little girls (and one pesky brother) stuffed like so many sausages, elbow to elbow, in grandma’s creaking metal porch glider.

We had made it game between us, my sisters and me.  It always began with a v-shaped speck or two sharply darting against the backdrop of the darkening sky. Soon the sky would begin to fill with swallows picking off the last bug snack before returning to the roost for the evening. Singly they came, but paired they danced.  A hundred or more would fill the eastern horizon. Then at a signal indiscernible to our eyes, they would begin to circle in the sky, lower, lower. Most chimneys were home to only one pair of swallows. Others larger, less used by their human co-owners could have three or even five families of summer squatters. The trick was to guess which pair belonged together but more importantly; at whose chimney were they ultimately aimed. Then with a sudden midair stop and a fluttering descent almost as if by accident, the pairs would sink gracefully into their chosen chimney. I am told that the same nesting pair would use the same chimney year after year.  Every night the ritual would repeat in the grey skies of twilight never lasting more than twenty minutes from first sighting to final settling… just before the reflected brilliance of a child’s remembered sunset signaled day’s end.

We never did see our own personal swallows. But we knew they were there. One only had to listen to the soft chirping, cheeping and chattering amongst themselves and their chicks echoing in the stove pipes connected to our range and space heaters. In those days the stoves and heaters were still vented to the chimney; no central heating in most of the century old homes and apartment buildings. Occasionally a playmate or a neighbor would mention that one of their swallows had found a way into the house. (Easy in, not so easy out)

Once finished with the nesting, families would gather, mom, dad, and babes now fully fledged in great whirlwinds of flocks.  By then the cooler evenings would cause them to join together in communal groups. Only three or four chimneys were needed then.  I should mention that at this point they no longer ‘fluttered’ in for a landing. Oh, no! These fellows had perfected the dive bomb and were now landing like a hail of bullets. We would try counting how many would be in any particular chimney, but it always became too many for us by the time we reached 50.  

Nobody had chimney caps back then; it would have been cruel to close out our feathered transient tenants. Every spring they would arrive within a day or two of the same date. And every year they would quietly leave slipping unnoticed from our awareness.  I can imagine they dipped their wings to us in a silent thank you and a gentle fair well until next they returned upon springs warming breeze.

I love camping. I really do. When the world was new and I was young a tent a sleeping bag and a small kit bag were all I needed to make a weekend a complete unqualified success. Now a full sized pop-up with a large front locker loaded to the gills, pulled by a king cab four door F-150 4 x 4 etc. etc. stuffed front, back, and box is barely sufficient as a gear hauler. I hate the load but I’m convinced that every bit of the equipment is necessary or could be necessary or more likely, should be necessary. Absolutely!

Still camping ranks right up there on my list of things to do every summer. Only as I get older there are parts that have taken a bit of slip in their ratings. One is sleeping on the ground hence the mini house suitable for mobile relocation. Another is wrangling with the mandatory plastic tarps. Ok, I know, we’ve got several… various colors, multiple sizes and thicknesses. Whenever it rains, we look like a refugee camp or the circus come to town. Poles, ropes, pegs, hammers, flags…. Bah! We’ve got a mini house with a table: let’s use it, PLEASE. Nope. Mr. H insists that the great outdoors is great. We cook outside, we sit outside, and on occasion we (mostly he) sleep outside. It matters not if it’s raining or snowing.

Mr. H had occasion to be inordinately proud of himself this weekend. It rained, but good. Not drops but sheets of rain. Apparently he, too, was tired of wrangling with tarps because not one of his multi-purpose technicolor plastic blankets was available or in place when the torrent washed through camp. Not to worry, though. This was the perfect chance to prove just how many people one could fit inside our home away from home. The record now stands at…Ta..Ta..Ta..Dah.. (drum roll please) 14 people; with room for more if one believes my H. Yes, 8 adults and 6 children. I should be noted that the original occupants (six of us) of said pop-up, [note pop-up,  not a hard side or self contained or palace on wheels], had stuffed within the confines of their home away from home three crates of food, 1.5 rucksacks per occupant, plus sleeping bags, etc. and one shrine to the glorious coffee brewer. Now the 14 people were not a problem. It was the 4000 bugs, moths and other assorted crawlies that joined them as they fled the flood that gave me the willies. Great fun, we had a sing along while the adults kept time while slapping down the bugs….Ugh.

But the item with the most demerits on my list of not so favorite camping activities is the communal bathrooms. It’s bad enough seeing so many strangers in all aspects of disrobe and disarray and actively engaged in the repair and rearrangement of their persons; but the fact that they also get to similarly see me… is more than mildly disturbing. So, it’s not surprising that I tend to limit the number of excursions to said facilities. This is not a good thing since while I can control the number of trips during the daylight hours; nature catches up and dominates the midnight hours.

Have you ever noticed that it’s always coldest when you have to pee the most urgently. Reaching the conveniently placed stations (I’m being a bit sarcastic here) of relief is, in my case, a case of mountain climbing and at the least, requiring the navigation a multiple man-made obstacle course. Namely, why do I always have to sleep on the inside side of the berth? Answer, because Mr. spoiled pants likes the edge. Mr. spoiled pants also never needs to see the midnight stares. Now, I realize that this may be TMI, the man still makes it through the night, every night, without having to check the plumbing. If the bunk was arranged as a normal bunk, then, we would have no problem. However, H needs to sleep on one of those high quality first-class mega deep blow-up mattresses set on top of the lovely generic standard foam mattress provided with the original equipment. Then, of course, one must wind their way gingerly through the dimly lit interior, find the lantern/torch, navigate the trail to the john and back. Still, this is not the biggest issue. What is at stake here is the fact that even with the H not in the berth, I require a step stool to get up into that pop-up slide out wing. What can I say? I’m short! So it does not take a whole lot of mind stretching to imagine me sliding up and over H, holding on for dear life while I dangle one foot cautiously over the edge in search of my little blue step stool, in the dark, at two in the morning, with a bladder the size of a grapefruit, trying not to wake the rest of the crew by unceremoniously depositing my derriere painfully on the camper floor. Thump!

Somebody has moved the stool…. Joseph strikes again.

I think it is the fact that this mini home away from home DOES contain a potty that riles me most. Can we use it? No. Mr. spoiled pants would have to dump the honey bucket and that would be most unpleasant. (Growl) I wonder how unpleasant he will find my beating him with the crutches I am sure to have if I ever mess up on my midnight trek of desperation.

Oh yes, the great outdoors... Sometimes I wish I were more like a camel.

For the last two years, items in my home have gone mysteriously missing. Sometimes it is only a matter of a few feet. Other times there has been a room to room transfer and other times the stuff has gone on holiday into an alternate universe.

The first time or two, I blamed myself for being scatter brained. The next few times I pointed my finger at H. “Meddling again?” I would ask. “Me?” I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. It’s your “Com se yama” (loosely translated, “what’s it”).” No, that’s not Spanish. I know how to spell in Spanish. This is as close as I can get to the Italian dialect of his forefathers. You really don’t want to know the rest! Well, maybe one more…. H will use a phase that loosely translates to, “shut the window”, whenever something is done and over. For example, stw, it’s time to go. Or, stw, enough already with the yapping! Anyways, stw, I have to get back to my story.

Missing items… At first the objects were small easily moved and left out in the open. Then I began to notice a progression. The MIA’s were getting larger and traveling further. H began to sit up and take notice when some of his things began evaporating into the ozone. Finally, stuff began wending itself into drawers and closets and more secluded areas of confinement. Gnomes now!

Now this was a mystery for one and a rather annoying bother for two. I was beginning to question myself. Dementia is not one of those old age things that show up on either side of my family. Clarity of mind remains well into the eighties with the ancestors. So why was I all of a sudden having brain f*rts?

Then one sunny afternoon, g’son (then 3 yrs old) asks, “Where is your “such and such”? “Don’t know, Joseph,” I said. I’d been looking for such and such all week and had finally resorted to repurchasing a replacement. Moments later a giggling imp handed me my such and such only it wasn’t the new one… it was the original. Scamp had hidden it. My Gnome had a Gname.

It’s become a game and a ritual, hide and seek of a higher order. He hides. I seek. And seek. And seek. Sometimes I find my MIA’s fairly quickly. Most times g’ma is reduced to the phone retrieval plan. “Hi, can I speak to Joseph?” The response can go several ways depending on how cleaver my little imp imagines himself to be. I have not yet figured out his rating system. Some calls will illicit a simple, “Yeah, g’ma, it’s in the pantry”. Others will be prefaced with a round of giggling and a “Did you look…?”  Still others will send the kid ROFL for the next 10 minutes while I wait and he basks in the glow of his ingenuity.

We’re going camping this weekend. Nearly have everything I need collected, sorted, and packed into the pop-up. Except… my battery operated air pump for the blow up mattress is “Missing In Action”.

Got to stw… Time to ring up the Gnome.

SUPER HERO

The challenge:

Imagine waking up one morning and much to your surprise you have developed a power that no one else has?  What would you do with this power?  Would you share it with your family, your community, the world?  Would you feel obligated, or would you simply keep it to yourself?  How would you use it?  For good?  For evil, for the betterment of mankind?

How would you live your life?  Any ideas for names for who you have become?  Strategies for living your new life?  Tell us!

And now, here are your super powers.  You will notice that they are listed according to the alphabet. . . you MUST use your designated superpower!  And you MUST use the letter that YOUR XANGA NAME starts with!  That is the hardest part of the challenge!  Please follow the rules!

T through Z

Your power is telekinesis!  You can move things with your mind!  With a mere thought you can finally retrieve that t.v. remote control you keep misplacing!

This weeks subject is suggested by StormInHeavn

Natural Beauty

Everyone is welcome to join in. All you have to do is post one or more photos regarding the subject on your site and comment here  at The weekly Photo Challenge that you have posted, so we can all come by and have a look.

Final posting day is on Thursday. Each Friday there will be a new challenge as long as you keep sending in subjects.

The photo challenge is not a contest. It's not about who comes up with the best photo or who has the most expensive equipment. It's to be about people from all over the world who love taking pictures. There's enough competition going on in the world, so you can't win anything, except maybe some new xanga friends.

My son is always making fun of my fascination with 'fungus'. I always have to stop and snap a pic of any fungal formation I come across. Mind you, I do not know the name of any of these interesting plants. I only know that there is something about the form and color that keeps me seeking them out as photo subjects. These are just a few found this October on a day hike in the Jamaica State Park in Vermont. Enjoy.

I spent the day at my nephews graduation party. It seems the school was able to "recalculate" his GPA and raised it from a 0.67 to a 2.4.....Go figure. Somehow he was able to dump some of his unnecessary electives (huh?) and do some ultra last minute extra credit work and retake some finals.  The explanation made no sense to me. Apparently the school was somewhat anxious to facilitate this young man's matriculation at any other institution of higher learning. Anyways, I read an interesting T Shirt while I was there:

Never judge a day the weather.

The best things in life aren't things.

Tell the truth - there's less to remember

Speak softly and wear a loud shirt.

Goals are deceptive - The unaimed arrow never misses.

He who dies with the most toys - still dies.

Age is relative - When you're over the hill, you pick up speed.

There are 2 ways to be rich - Make more or desire less.

Beauty is internal - Looks mean nothing.

No rain - no rainbows.

I was impressed by the change in my nephew's attitude to life. For the past few years he has had an arrogant, selfish bent of personality that hurt to see. I am glad to say that there seemed to be no evidence of either of these traits today. I hope this is a sign of better times for him and his family. Next year he will begin studies at the local community college. It is his goal to do well there and transfer to a prestigious university in the area. I hope that he is successful. He has much ability and potential yet his level of performance in the past has been dismal. Right now his passion is his guitar. I'm not sure how he plans to build a career and make a living that is "bass guitar" centered but , oh well, that is for him to figure out. Ah, to be eighteen again!

 These are few pics of "stuff" that has come into bloom. These are for you MK....because I know you miss your 'old' home's spring flowers.

I'm not sure what's happening here. It's thrown out a bunch of 'mutated' buds... Something that I've never seen it do before. I wonder what happened?

The view out behind the garage. I've planted a dwarf blueberry in the half barrel container. It should grow to about 4 foot tall. I will have to move it to a more protected area for the winter. I think the wind is too strong there during the freeze and that would dehydrate the plant to much.

The first bloom on my Dublin Bay Climbing Rose

I believe this is the Climber you and dad planted for me.

This is the 'mini' rose that Tom and Kathy gave me for Mother's Day. Right now it is in a container. I think I will put it in the ground this fall and cover it with a Rose Blanket. They are supposed to able to withstand our winters but I have my doubts about these 'minis'

It's been two years since I lost most of my Roses to a particulary savage Winter. So cold for so long without any snow to insulate them. I had even wrapped and mulched. So many of the neighbors lost theirs too. Especially the Climbers. These are the only two whose roots survived. It will be several years more before they reach their former size and grandeur.  I only have two of the hedge roses left too.  Snow from the neighbors roof broke them badly last year. I will build little tee pee's for them this year even though they have never needed them before.

A good friend shared this with me... so I thought I would share it with you. It made me smile on this grey rainy day.

Friends come in all sizes

They will support you....

And respect your creativity
for thinking outside the box....

They're there when you need a shoulder to lean on..

Or a great big hug....

 A true friend takes interest in
understanding what you're all about....

They see beyond the black and white
to discover your true colors....

 And accept you just the way you are...
Even when you just wake up in the morning

 
So make your own kind of music....

Follow your heart wherever it takes you....

And when someone reaches out to you,
Don't be afraid to love them back....

They may just be a friend for life...

Practice patience and tolerance.....