… on warm and welcomed distractions

I’d been working on a writing piece on and off all day yesterday, and it was kicking my butt big time.

No idea why, just a scrambled brain struggling to translate ideas and inspirations into, you know, my native language.

Before I knew it, the sun had clocked out. I decided to take a step back, and give the ol’ noggin a break. I saved the work, shut down the computer, fed the dogs (and me) and and hung out with Modern Family for a little bit before heading to bed.

JoHn’s been gone for a few days doing work stuff (he is very busy and important, after all (and loves when I tell him that (even if I say it through grit teeth))), so I woke up with a few extra morning chores in front of me. It’s tough, but I manage to muscle my way through them (sign for dramatic effect (and so JoHn’s eyes can roll when he reads this)). After all, coffee’s gotta brew, dogs gotta do their business and eat breakfast, trash barrels have to be drug back to the barn, seeds gotta get into the feeders (dot dot dot). Eventually I found myself back at the desk, dealing with a little post-traumatic writer’s stress as I plugged things into other things, and clicked on my monitor.

That’s when I gazed out the window, and saw the rose.


I live on an island in Maine.

It is November.


In 2017, I was all proud that I’d scheduled a whole-house generator to be installed on November 3rd. The day before Halloween that year, we had a storm that knocked out power for a week… a week (which made me no longer proud). And that was just wind. This time last year, and many years before that, we’ve already had a killing frost, my friend ChrisChrisChris has already – happily – dug up her dahlias, and we are wondering if they’ll be snow on the ground Thanksgiving morning.

So, you get it.

Yesterday morning I walked out to a big round ice cube in my birdbath, a clue that I had to go reset the GFI outlet that it’s plugged into.

What do you mean, “Why?”

So the birdbath heater would work, silly.

Of course I have a heated birdbath.

Because this is Maine.

You have got to keep up.

Anyway, my point is that this morning, when I walked the dogs into the back garden, it was warmer than yesterday. The stone paths were shiny from overnight showers, and the sky was clearing. Sun felt promised.

By the time I sat down at my desk, coffee had (blessedly) done it’s job, as the caffeinated windshield wipers for my eyes, which is – I assume – why I could see the rose I’d completely missed when I’d walked the dogs outside earlier.

I pushed back from the desk and grabbed my camera, and we all – me, Blaze, and Belle – went back out again.

I snapped a few pics of the rose above, noticing the drops still left on her petals, and it was only when I took my camera down from my eye that I realized she wasn’t alone…

There was another youngster behind her, it too reaching for the sun on this unseasonably warm day. A few more buds were at the ready, too. I couldn’t believe the they were still hanging in there at this late date.

Well, what can one do when the gardens make such a statement, other than grin like an idjut, kick through leaves like a little kid, and see what else one can see? And so I did.

Lots o’ leaves happily blowing around and piling up…

Trees with their bare branches, looking quite fetching against a deep blue fall sky…

Birds – the ones who’ll stay through the winter – tweeting and flittering into and out of their chosen shelters…

And critters, mostly grey and red squirrels now (the chipmunks have started to spend most of their time in their dens), making it known that they’d like a bit more seed, if I pleased.

Then I rounded a corner, and couldn’t believe it when I saw the lace cap hydrangea on the north side of the house…



No, they won’t last. They’re the botanical equivalents of toddlers who just won’t give into sleep, lest they miss something. But I plan on celebrating every minute of their tenacity, and I’ll be sure to include them on my mental list of thanks-es next Thursday (can it be Thanksgiving already?).

Soon, we’ll put them to bed… gently tuck them in with warm blankets of mulch and leaves.

And I’ll dream of welcoming them back when the ground thaws, and spring drifts in on a sea breeze, ’round about the beginning of May.

Yes… May.

Because Maine.

I can type through grit teeth too.

But no, I don’t want to be anywhere else.

Thanks for readin’.

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