Breakfast

This morning, I awoke twice: before the birds began chirping, around 4:30, then again at 6:45. Another gorgeous Saturday morning. Temperature in the mid-60s (Fahrenheit), gentle breeze rustling the leaves, happy little birds holding another Sunrise Concert. Actually, they might not have been all that happy - I read somewhere that most of that early morning chirping is about marking territory, and the more threatened the bird feels, the more it chirps. Whatever the reason, it sounded great.

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Then I let the cats out. Concert stopped. Three blue jays swept down from the red oak screeching their "CAT! CAT! CA-A-A-T!" alarm call, and all hell broke loose!

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Every bird in the back yard congregated in the three or four trees near the side gate, giving the terrified cats (who had stopped dead in their tracks and stayed that way) the fright of their lives. I suspect this has happened before because not a hair moved on them, that I could see. Their radar-like ears were pointed forward, not a twitch between them.

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Before the cats could make a graceful exit, or even sit down, the crows arrived, all seven of them squawking and croaking bloody murder. Smaller birds gave up their perches for the Enforcers, but joined in as best they could with their own scolding calls. What cacophony!

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I ran for my recorder, thinking this noise would make a wonderful background sound for the blog. Where had I put it? Shoot! Batteries are dead! Where is that new multi-pack I bought last month? Oh, no! There's corrosion on the one terminal...no wonder the thing doesn't work. Gotta clean that before I put new batteries in. Where are those darned cotton-swabs? I check both bathroom closets with no luck, so I dampen a paper towel with some white vinegar (which works like a charm, by the way) and wipe it clean.

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Can't find my glasses, so I can't see which way the batteries are supposed to go in...oh, wait...the flat end goes against the spring and the terminal (obviously--duh!) goes in the other end.

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As I'm rushing toward the back door, rejuvenated recorder in hand and recording perfectly, I trip over one of the cat toys and bang against the screen door. Recorder falls to the floor, case cracks open when it hits the floor. Batteries roll off in opposite directions.

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Outside, the cats leap up as if they'd been goosed, the small birds flap as fast as possible back to their territorial perches and the crows move higher into the sassafras. Scolding the cats is over, as is the Sunrise Concert.

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It is now 6:50 AM. How could so much chaos take place in less than five minutes?

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Upon examination, I see the recorder isn't damaged too much. I can fix the crack with duct tape. I'm out of the pink tape so I'll have to use the purple. (Listen, duct tape is a girl's best friend - that, and a .44!)

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After collecting cat toys and stray batteries - and my composure - my stomach Beast begins to rumble a little. Not quite the "Feed me" rumble, but I know it's coming, so I head to the 'fridge to see what we can have for breakfast.

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"Breakfast?" Beast asks, slowly rising from its bed at the bottom of my stomach. "Did you just think the word 'breakfast'?"

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Am I not standing in front of the Major Food Shrine, I respond, rather sarcastically. Can you not see its 15-watt glow, feel its 35F coolness?

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The Beast rumbles hard against my diaphragm. Urrrrrrp!

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Sliced ham, eggs, bread, butter and grape jelly. Oh, yes...grated Asiago cheese, left over from a previous meal. The coffee I started as soon as I came downstairs this morning has finished dripping, so we're in good shape. A feast for the Beast!

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The chives in my herb bed have flowered, which means they are long past cutting stage, heading for seed formation and withering, so I cut a few stems to put in the eggs. Ham gets diced, as do the chive stems and flowers. They are mixed in with the scrambled eggs and cheese, poured into hot butter in my favorite skillet; toast is dropped, coffee mug filled.

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Eggs cook and are plated with a few seconds to spare before the toast pops up. The feast is assembled and I take it to the back room, where that gentle breeze I mentioned before brings into the room the early morning aromas of other feasts being cooked in other homes down the block.

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Life is so damned good, I can hardly stand it!

(c) 2009 Photo and text. Martha McLemore

Molly's Quilt

Inspired by Lucy's post about an outing with her cocker spaniel, Molly, I played around with the colors Lucy mentioned and came up with this quilt for Molly. I first drew some lime green lines on a chocolate brown background, fiddled with different effects, changed hue and saturation settings, then pixelated the whole thing to come up with this. Every dog should have a quilt of its own. Molly lives with an artist, so her quilt is colorful, to the max!
(c)2009 Martha McLemore

Dream Machine

Dream

When I decided to divorce my ex-Beloved, the world suddenly became my oyster...more or less, and whatever that means, in the first place. I decided I would live the life I've dreamed of since I was younger, and better looking (and in better health), than I am now. I used to have a number of dreams I wanted to accomplish before I died, back when I thought I had all the time in the world.

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Well, I still have time, though not as much as I did when I first started having these dreams. I have every day I roll out of bed, so I've got that much time, at least.

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One of my dreams is to learn to operate a motorcycle. I'm working on that right now. (Okay, so not exactly "right now," since I'm busy typing this, but don't be so nit-picky literal!) Once I obtain my license, providing I survive the lessons, I will obtain a motorcycle. You might think, since I live less than half an hour from the York(PA) Harley-Davidson plant, that I would want one of the Hogs. In fact, that used to be the machine of choice...until I saw a Victory King-Pin out on Route 30 one afternoon last year, and fell in love.

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The moment was straight out of a Hollywood, 1930s romance movie, where the late afternoon sun glints off the chrome pipes and the girl (old broad) swoons at the sight. The light changes and the object of her desire leaves her at the intersection, trying to refocus her attention on the traffic surrounding her.

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"What the heck was THAT?!"

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Click on the word Dream for an expanded view of my current infatuation. I might have to sell the house in order to get one, but it might be worth it.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

The (Almost) Real Me

I teased Plutarch about an image he posted showing his obscured reflection, suggesting it would be nice to see what he looks like. He pointed out that my photo showed a crow head and beak.
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That got me to thinking that the photo I originally used for my avatar is of a young crow; sleek, shiny, fresh-faced - not at all like the crow I have become. I am aging rapidly. My feathers are thinning on top of my head and I have developed a wattle. My skin, once smooth and supple, is becoming coarse and grainy.
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The former photo is a fraud. Above is a more accurate representation of my Crow appearance today.

By My Hand

Pen

I remember the year I learned to write cursive. It was in the second half of third grade. We were living in a suburb of Columbus, Ohio.

A number of exciting things happened that school year (1955-1956): Mama had given birth to her sixth, and last, child in September; we three older kids received our first bicycles that year for Christmas; in spring I had my first schoolgirl crush on a damned good-looking boy with blond hair and deep blue eyes (yes, I remember him very well…except I’ve forgotten his name…shoot!); and I received my first fountain pen, a gift from my teacher for having the best penmanship (of the girls) at the end of the year.

Thus began my love affair with fine writing instruments. It would be a couple more years before I was introduced to high quality stationery, but by the time I was 14 years old, I was besotted with pen and ink. Given the opportunity, I did my homework with pen and ink. I wrote long flowery letters to my aunts in blue ink on delicate sheets of vellum. Sometimes, I just played with loading and unloading the ink into the barrel.

When I had my first after school job, I bought bottles of ink in a rainbow of colors. How well I recall oxblood, scarlet and vermilion reds; navy, turquoise, cobalt and teal blues; sepia and walnut browns, India black, golden yellow, deep orange, emerald and acid greens. Violet, blue-violet, mauve, and that color that makes me think of pokeberry juice. Cerise. Yes, cerise.

My handwriting improved when I learned to do calligraphy, although it gets sloppy and uneven if I write hurriedly. With improved penmanship came the desire to write love letters, although there was no one to whom I could write. I made up lovers, and practiced writing love letters to them. Somewhere along the way, I had read of lovers who had never met, who had fallen deeply in love on the basis of letters exchanged over the years, sometimes continents apart. I wanted such a relationship.

What pleases me most about using a fountain pen is the sound of the nib whispering along the paper, leaving a trail of nuance and meaning, context and sentiment in its wake. I like the idea of leaving my mark, a part of my heart and soul, in the wavering lines of angles and curves, dots and dashes, exclamations and halts. A hand-written note or letter carries with it the unique human touch, and to hold one in your hands is to touch, to hold, the hand of the one who wrote it.

I love the romance of writing with fountain pen and ink. It takes me back to a time before I was born, a time I learned about in movies and music of the era. Email is quicker and easier to type out, but my soul hungers for pen and ink – a fountain pen and a glass bottle full of fluid ink, the stuff of imagination, and longing.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

Supper Time

To celebrate the day, I'm making some of our favorite dishes.

Meatloaf,

Petit pois,

New potatoes with dill butter,

Carrots with savory herbs, and

Strawberries with cream!

Life is good, and I am grateful for mine.
(c) 2009 Text and photographs by Martha McLemore

New Day!

Orchard Sunrise

Today is one of those days you want to last forever. The weather is fantastic: cool temperatures, sunny skies, light breeze - beautiful!

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I have off from work on Tuesdays and Thursdays and I try to get my housework done on those two days. Today, though, broke bright and beautiful, too good to waste on housework and staying inside. Daughter, who has taken the motto, "Keep calm and carry on," to heart in the wake of losing her job (which she really loved), was in good spirits this morn. She and I went to our favorite coffee shop and treated ourselves to breakfast out...might be a long while before we can do that again, so we savored every morsel, every minute of it.

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Today is a great day for doing yard work, which I enjoy, so I'm off to clear the yard of fallen twigs and the odd bits of trash that seem to collect here from around the neighborhood, before tuning up the mower and attacking the jungle at the back of the house. First dry day we've had in weeks!

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So, fellow bloggers who happen by today, I wish you all a beautiful day, wherever you might be, no matter what the weather, or what's on your schedule for the day. I wish you all well, and happiness abounding!
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(c)2009 Martha McLemore

In the Trenches

So, I went to bed around 5:00 am, then woke up around 8:30. Three and a half hours sleep is not my usual quota after having been up for 23 hours, but, hey! it is better than none at all.
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I stumbled downstairs to find grandson had risen sometime in the hours I had zonked out, fixed himself some waffles (he likes a little waffle with his maple syrup, if you catch my drift), then fallen back to sleep in front of the television. Guess he had been watching one of the movies daughter rented last night.
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Cats were standing at the kitchen door leading to the back room, their paws and noses pressed against the glass, meowing for breakfast and some attention, which I gave them. I propped open the outside screen door so they could wander out on their own.
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Beautiful morning; cool (60 F), sunny, full of birdsong and waking neighborhood noises. The breeze during the night seems to have dried the rain off the grass and other plants, so I guess grandson and I will tackle that jungle I refer to as the backyard this afternoon.
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All seems right with the world this morning, always a good sign upon rising. That, plus the fact that I was given another day to live - my favorite good sign! Now, if I just had some fresh strawberries and cream...ah, life is good. This morning, my brain needs the jolt of caffeine that coffee gives me. I will indulge in a cup or maybe two, before switching to tea later in the day. So, on with the rest of my life, one morning, one day at a time.
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It was my intention to blog about what I want to be when I grow up. As I frequently do, I googled the phrase "when I grow up," hoping to find an appropriate image for that title. What I found, straight out of the gate, was Allison, and her blog about surviving hard times. (I'm a firm believer in the notion, 'the-hand-of-God'...or fate, or synchronicity...whatever other name it might go by when, unbidden, you find what you need, though it might not be what you wanted.)
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I needed, evidently more deeply than I realized, reassurance that things will work out for the best, no matter what. What better acknowledgement and support of that notion than the posters His Majesty's government posted during WWII, to encourage his people during one of the darker periods of English history.
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My life is not how I want it to be right now, and it might not be so for a bit longer than I hope, but I will take my cue from the Brits who triumphed over the darkness that fell upon them in the 1930s and 1940s, and during the recovery - and "keep calm and carry on."
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(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

Sleepless

I've been having difficulty sleeping lately. Tonight (early morning, actually) is another of those sleepless times. Stress is interfering with my sleep cycle, which interferes with everything else in my life. I tend to withdraw from the things I normally do, to disengage for awhile. I still function fairly well in my work and at home, but I am not fully participating. I am aware of the disconnect, but not able to stop it. Don't know what this means, this disconnection from reality, from myself and everyone else. I think it might be normal, for me anyway, because it happens fairly regularly.
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There is a gorgeous full moon out tonight, bright as daylight almost. I love nights like this, in fact - cool, breezy, good sleeping weather. If I could sleep. Wish I could sleep.

Damn, why can't I sleep?
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Daughter and grandson are sawing logs. I can hear them all the way downstairs here in the back part of the house, where the computer is located. The cats are trying to sleep, but my tapping the keys and the lamp light keeps waking them. They move to a darker corner of the room and bed down again. Lucky little furballs.
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Outside, I hear some small animal rustling through the brush near the side gate. Probably a mouse, or chipmunk. Not a big enough noise to be anything much larger. (Could be Sowa's spider, of course...jeeze, Martha, don't go down that road again!)
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The house talks to me when it's quiet out and I'm sleepless. The battery-operated wall clock at the other end of the room ticks each passing second, reminding me that I'm awake when everything else inside is asleep. Its ticking matches the rhythm of my heartbeat, of which I am extraordinarily aware right now.
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The refrigerator hums, the boiler gurgles, the toilet tank drips every ten or so heartbeats...oops, it skipped a beat...the tank, not my heart. One of the cats yawned, again. The wind whistles down the chimney in a melancholy sigh. When I pause my typing to compose my thoughts, I absent-mindedly brush my fingertips across the keys, ever so lightly, yet it sounds like I'm dragging a gunny full of corn husks along the floor. The stairs creak as the house settles some more in the cool night air.
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I'm worried. I cannot find another part-time job to supplement my income. My daughter lost her job this week and I don't know how I am going to support three people on income that didn't completely cover the expenses of one. I worry about losing my home, then feel guilty because of all those families who have lost theirs already, and those who have been homeless for several years. I worry about being unable to feed my family, then remember there are babies who went to bed tonight with nothing to eat all day, and the day before that, and likely tomorrow, too.
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The clock ticks on, oblivious to my concerns. Or, maybe, it is trying to reassure me that this, too, shall pass, just like the seconds it marks with each tick. Sleep, sleep, sleep, it ticks...sleep, sleep, sleep.
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With each heartbeat, each drip, each tick, I feel myself reconnecting to the rest of the world. Back to the land of the living, the snoring, the breathing. Reconnecting to myself, my intelligence and memories and reasoning skills.
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I have survived worse than the things that won't let me sleep tonight, the things that have disturbed my sleep for weeks now, the things that I sought refuge from by disconnecting. I'll figure out solutions for all these worries. We'll get through this, just as we have gotten through other tough times.
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Goodnight, beautiful moon. Goodnight, rustling noise out by the gate. Goodnight, spring peepers. Goodnight, cats and goodnight, house. I'm going to bed.
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Perchance to sleep.
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(c) 2009 Martha McLemore