Life with Chris...

 

Chris leaves our toothbrushes like this, "kissing," every morning and evening. When we go to bed at night, he nests my eyeglasses into his, so they "snuggle" while we sleep. 

Every morning when I wake up, with the wrinkles, sags, and silver hair earned with 61 years on the planet, he says, "You are so pretty," or "My goodness, you are a handsome woman." Before he goes to work he puts on a little aftershave, then kisses me sweetly, rubbing his beard on my face so the scent lingers through the morning hours. He has a long commute and is often gone 10-12 hours, but he comes home smiling, gives a long hug, and chats happily about his day. 

Chris loves to feed people, and keeps frequent guest's favorite beer or spirit on hand so he can please them when they arrive. An excellent cook, he manages to use a vast array of pots, bowls, and dishes for even a simple meal. I clean up with gratitude in my heart, to live with a man who takes such delight in preparing and serving food to those he loves. 

He wears big boots with rugged soles and tracks what I call "boot waffles" through the house. Mostly when the floors are freshly washed. He is genuinely surprised when I point this out, never noticing the mess. I grumble, but really this is a nice attribute because when I inevitably make a mess he doesn't ever mind. 

Life with Chris means that no matter what he and I are doing if our daughter should call and need him, he drops everything to respond. My feelings can't stay hurt... who could begrudge a man who loves his child so much? 

Chris likes to tell jokes and stories to make people laugh. The joy on his face when someone at our table laughs so hard they have to wipe their eyes makes my eyes leak a little, too. 

My late "Aunt" Pearl used to say, "You have a true helpmate in Chris." If it's time to clean the chicken coop, he's there to haul muck buckets of shavings away. The same is true when I clean the goat cozy and donkey dorm, "Everything is easier when we do it together," he says. 

Rachel says, "You don't write enough about dad in your blog." She's right. He is the sunshine in my wee solar system. All that is wonderful in my world revolves around life with Chris. 

Creating...

 When I was a teenager, my boyfriend's mother taught me to knit. I never progressed much past making simple things, and sometime in my 30's, I gave all my needles away. I taught daughter Rachel the art when she was in her single digits, and she and some young friends had a knitting club (dubbed "The Knit Wits."). She kept on and has far exceeded her teacher's skills, creating amazing works of knitted art. 

Last summer, I was inspired to knit again and made some wee booties for a friend's baby. And now I am working on a blanket softer than soft, with a simple little lacy edge. I have made errors, though the pattern is not complex, but there is love in every loop. 

There is more than stitchery being created. I've been keeping a long secret, holding it like a warm treasure, close to my heart. 

The cozy blanket I am making will swaddle a new baby. 

A grandchild is the richness of tradition, the excitement of youth, and the promise of tomorrow. We are expecting our tomorrow this fall. I am joyous. 

Intertwined...

 My first memory of Jamie involves lunch at a long table in our high school cafeteria. I don't remember what I ate, but I recall loving the days I got to eat lunch with Jamie. She was one of the girls that knew everyone in our class and got along with all of them. Known for her infectious smile and loud laugh, everyone liked her. 

After graduation, we lost touch for a while. I knew she'd married, lived on Cape Cod, and had two daughters. Eventually, we found each other on Facebook and got caught up. That was nice. Then Flirt had her last puppy, Boone, and Jamie told me they were looking for a new dog to love. Soon it was all arranged, and Jamie and her sweet husband Harry came to Maine to take their new puppy home. With that event, we not only became reacquainted but also "dog in-laws." And we've seen each other every year since. 

Last week Jamie and her daughter Aimee, along with dogs Boone and Ella, came and spent a few days in their camper, which they parked jauntily in our front yard. It was fun to have them here. I groomed the dogs up, the ladies did a little exploring of the area. Once again I sat happily across the table from Jamie to share a meal. It's safe to say it was tastier than whatever they were serving in high school back then.

The weather was ridiculously hot, and Jaime kindly French braided my hair to help me stay cooler. 

46 years after we met, here we are, giggling girlfriends, braiding hair, and chatting up a storm. Still intertwined, despite the passage of so much time.

In this picture I am holding Flirt, Jamie is holding Boone. We were all happy to just be together.

Aimee was not to be outdone in the niceness department. She gifted me with a beautiful sweater she made. The pattern is called "Love Note," and it was knit in an unbelievably soft mohair blend. Last night we went to a party. The air was a little chilly, and I was delighted to don my new sweater. It was cozy as can be, and everyone that saw me complimented it. I made them all pat it so they could fully appreciate how luscious it feels. The gift of a hand-knit sweater seems simply over the top to me. All the creativity and artistry and kindness imbued in every loopy, woven stitch. It seems impossible that I should own such a wonderous thing, but I do, and it warms me in more ways than one.                                     

                                              

And then they packed up the dogs and charming trailer, and headed home, leaving a weave of happy memories behind. 

Visitors and oddities...

 Summer tends to be a time filled with visitors. At our place, the guests often have four feet. This week Millie has been here. A small, blond cocker/poodle mix, she used to stay here a lot until the pandemic, and it's good to have her back. She fits right in, plays with the other dogs, only chases the chickens a little bit, and is a pleasant guest. 

We also have Ruby Wrinkles here. Ruby is one of the puppies Opal gifted us with last fall. She is staying with us while her humans are on vacation. She was a little worried at first, her brow more furrowed than normal, but she quickly settled in. We let another of the littermates owner know that Ruby was here and she brought her puppy by for a play date. There was a lot of running, tumbling, and general joy. Here is mama Opal (front) Izzy, (left), and Ruby (charmingly tilting her head.) 

My friend Sunday sometimes comes and helps me with yard chores I don't seem to get around to. One thing I've wanted to do was cut down a wild rose bush that was taking over a tree by the side of the road. This species produces fragrant flowers for a brief time in June but is invasive and kills the plants around it as it grows. I wanted to slow it down some by cutting it right back to the ground. Sunday tackled the job, and though the bush bit her, she prevailed. She tossed all the thorny mess into the pasture, where the goats had a feast! The tree it was strangling is looking much relieved. 

My flower gardens are funny this year. Normally I go to the nursery and buy a bunch of annual plants that flower like mad all summer. This year I only bought a few wave petunias; everything else was gifted to me or came up on its own from last year's seeds. A sweet customer gave me zinnias, cosmos, and snapdragons, and my friend Carol, who works on a farm, gave me several flats of plants that, though labeled, were mostly mysteries to me. There were some delphiniums, which I was familiar with, but the rest of the plants I put in not having any idea what they'd amount to. 

Here are the delphiniums, starting to strut their stuff. Several other plants are budded up and will soon reveal themselves to me. It's all a little odd, but quite fun, too, to see what is growing.

Speaking of odd, I received a gift yesterday that most people would not appreciate, but which delighted me. Cheryl sent me a text, "A mistake was made at the slaughterhouse, and I have a bag of mixed feet, liver, and hearts. Would you like them?" Translated, this means that she had 50 or so meat chickens processed, and the parts that should have been separated were not. I was overjoyed, and before I knew it, there was a large bag of still-warm guts in my kitchen sink. 

I got out some rubber gloves and a box of sandwich bags and got busy. I separated baggies of feet, necks, and organs and filled my freezer with fresh, healthy meat and bone for the dogs and cats. This will last me for months and made me happier than you might expect. 

For the rest of the day, I grinned, feeling rich, knowing I had some high-quality dog food stashed away. 

Four-footed friends, flowers, and a sink full of guts. It doesn't take much to make me happy. 

Bonus hours...

 The problem with me is that I always think that everything will be just this way. That life is constantly changing is a lesson I cannot seem to grasp. I think back to when Rachel was a toddler. Life consisted of the busyness of being a mom, combined with trying to work a little here and there because there was never enough money. I was tired, and things were stressful, and though I rationally knew that those hard days were not going to be the reality of my entire life, I couldn't quite wrap my head around it.  

Today boasts what I think of as perfect Maine summer weather. Sunshine, small puffy clouds floating in a flawless blue sky, 80 degrees, and low humidity. A lovely breeze kept any biting bugs at bay. It was the sort of day I longed to be doing something besides working. Digging in the garden, or strolling on the beach, perhaps.  We had a busy workday planned. The afternoon was slated for grooming three time-consuming dogs from one family. That family forgot they had an appointment, and suddenly we had four or five hours totally free stretching out before us. We didn't quite know what to do. We called a few customers from our cancellation list, but none could come on such short notice. So we came up with a delightful plan. 

In no time, we had our bathing suits on and two kayaks loaded into the back of the truck. We drove to Ayer Park, on 7 Tree Pond. It's one of my favorite places to explore, and I didn't go there at all last year. We put the boats in at the boat ramp, then paddled along the shore to where a river opens. The wind made the water a little rough. We skirted between boulders and through a little fast-moving water, under a bridge with cars whizzing over it, and found ourselves in a favorite spot of mine. A wide, slow river, dotted with big rounded boulders here and there. A mama Mallard led her brood of 6 ducklings right in front of us, and they all climbed up on a rock, mere feet away, fearless. Around a bend and we were treated to the sight of a good-sized turtle, sunning on a log. Before us, two dark objects bobbed then vanished. It was a pair of loons, fishing leisurely. They stayed about 20 feet ahead but kept us company as we made our way upstream. 

Round Pond met the river after a while. I rarely ever encounter other paddlers here and love the wild-feeling solitude of the place. Today the wind made progress hard work, so after a bit, we turned back to the shelter of the river. 

I wish I could take a camera with me on these trips. I've never once toppled my boat in 17 years, but I worry I will ruin a camera if I take one out. I wish I could show how the ferns grow at the edge of the water, sun-dappled by the rays streaming through the trees that hug the shore. I'd love for you to see the green heron that fishes where the fallen logs reach out into the water, and the metallic glint of a school of tiny fish, rising to the surface in a flipping, flapping flurry. I could show you the flawless leaves of water lilies and the buds of their flowers, unexpectedly bright against the water. But even if I dared bring my camera with me, you still couldn't hear the Yellow Warbler singing or the haunting call of the Wood Thrush. You wouldn't be able to see the movement of the Red-Winged blackbirds, swooping in the brush and scolding us brightly as we pass by. Nor could you smell the river water, clean and fresh. 

When we first moved here 18 years ago, my two sisters and I paddled these same ponds and river. We stopped at an enormous bolder and took a summer swim. It was wonderful being together there, and I thought, "Now that I live in New England, we can do this all the time!" Missing our sister Dicy, we braided wildflowers, said a little prayer, and tossed our creation into the lake.  Just then, a Bald Eagle swooped over, low. We felt it was a sign- that for one instant, all four of us were joined in spirit once again. It was all magical and wonder-filled. And here is where you can see my problem. That was the last time my sisters and I ever kayaked together. Life was never just that way again, and never will be. 

So today, when my daughter and I had the unexpected gift of bonus hours, perfect weather, and small, sturdy boats to paddle in a lovely place, I made myself focus hard on how precious each moment was. 

The funny bullfrog calls, the whir of duck wings overhead, the sensation of sun on my face and water on my hands as I rested the paddle, tilted my face to the sky, and trailed my fingers in the river. 

As the sand runs through my hourglass, I hope to cling to each grain with the knowledge that every passing day is unique. And it will never be just this way again. 

 

D.L.O....

 I have written about this topic before, but it deserves another mention. 

I opened my home business here 8 years ago in August. A week or two into my new routine, Chris kissed me, left for work, then came back into the house. He went into the grooming studio for a moment, then left and drove away. When I went in to work an hour or so later I found a perfect red and orange maple leaf on my grooming table.  It was too early in the season for the leaves to turn, but Chris had seen this one lovely harbinger of autumn on the lawn and thought it would delight me. He picked it up and left it where he knew I'd find it. I was thrilled by the beautiful leaf, but even more so by the thoughtful gesture. I sent him a thankful message and posted about it on Facebook. 

When he tells the story it goes something like this, "I am Pavlov's husband. I did something, she liked it, I'll repeat it." So, every day, for the past 8 years, he has left me what he has come to call, "a daily love offering. Or a 'DLO,' or, even, 'a dealio.'" Sometimes it is candy. It might be lip balm or lotion. A jar of mixed nuts, a treat for one of the animals, seed for the wild birds I delight in feeding and observing.  If I have a desire, I'll text it to him, and with a few days, it will magically appear.  

Last week a groomer on social media posted this picture. 

A vintage bottle shaped like a poodle. She didn't know what to do with it. I suggested she send it to me. She politely declined.  I love vintage bottles and dog stuff, and I thought this bottle was amazing. I'd never seen one like it. I had no idea where to find such a thing, so I sent a picture of it off to Chris. 

This morning when I opened my eyes there something on my bedside table. A poodle bottle of my own!

I popped some fresh flowers in it straight away. Today's daily offering is a special treat. 

Sharing my life with a man who strives to bring me joy each day is the most special thing of all though. I am blessed beyond measure. 

New day, new life...

 It is a perfect summer day in Maine. A cool, clear morning, with the promise of warming as the sun climbs. 

I started my day as I always do, by letting the dogs out. Then I dish up a plate of food for the barn cats. The cats get fed, then I scoop up some chicken food and turn the hose on. In the hen yard, I wash and fill the water tub, put the scoop of food out, and rinse the duck pool. While the pool fills I let the birds out of the coop. If I'm lucky I have a few minutes to observe what happens next. The ducks rush headlong for the hose in the pool, drinking deeply, trying to catch some spray on their feathers, and as soon as there is an inch or so of wet they hop in for a joyful splash. The hens eat, then drink, then scatter to the pasture in search of bugs and tasty plants to nibble. 

Next, I head to the wee coop in the back yard where the 4 Silky chickens live. This morning when I did this I noticed two of my layer hens were near the Silky coop. I try to discourage them from being in the backyard. They poop a lot, scratch up my flower bed, and are pushy with the diminutive Silkies. Bravo is smart enough to know that the layer hens don't belong in the backyard, and when he sees them he gleefully chases them back to the pasture or hen yard. So this morning, when I saw those hens where they didn't belong I said, "Bravo, get those chickens." He began to do my bidding, then stopped in his tracks and looked at me, then at the birds, then at me. Puzzled, I followed his gaze. 

At first, I didn't understand why one hen was so puffed up. Then I saw scurrying movement beneath her. 

Chicks! Last year when these White Rock hens went broody things went very badly. They hatched chicks, then one by one pecked them until they were injured or dead. It was a nightmare. So this year, when two of the birds began to think of creating a family, I did everything within my power to discourage them. But meanwhile, two of the ladies had gone missing. There was no evidence of foul play, no piles of feathers left about, so I knew there was a possibility that there were hens nesting somewhere in secret. Since all my birds are the same breed and look alike, it's hard to tell individuals apart, so if a bird that was nesting came out of hiding to eat and drink, I'd never notice. I suspect that the two missing birds were cuddled up together under the Silky coop. They probably co-hatched these four wee chicks. Yesterday when I was doing yard work, I thought I heard chicks peeping, but then I didn't, so I chalked it up to some wild birds and went about my business. 

This hen is all about mothering the babies. She puffs up in a threatening way when a human, dog, or other bird comes near. She is showing them how to find food. I put out a plate of chicken feed, soaked in water and easy for tiny birds to eat. She instantly took them there, clucking in the special way mother birds do. 

The other hen that brooded with her has rejoined the flock, ditching the chicks for freedom and fun. I know human mothers like that, too. 

Our chicken count has increased by 4. Four adorable, wee, peeping chicks. Well done, Mama hen. Well done.