Again, with the peonies?

Of course. I love my peonies. I’m probably boring everyone with photos of peonies, but every year they fill the air with the most wondrous fragrance and the blooms grow more abundantly each season. I love the ethereal look of them, the way the ants industriously get them to bloom, the delicate, soft feel, the way they sit in a container so prettily… Okay, enough already, right?

I can’t help it. I love my peonies. And I guess they’re not really mine. They’re nature’s peonies, but they happen to reside in my garden.

This magenta variety has a different scent then the others, a much lighter one, but still nice.
I set them outside on the porch so I could brush the ants away as they appeared, then brought the bouquet inside to place on the windowsill.

Rainy Days and Fridays

I know the song is Rainy Days and Mondays, but it happened to be a rainy Friday when these pictures were taken. I walked around in a rain that had turned to mist, noting how green the plants have all become, how lush the ferns, how the droplets clung to the surfaces, especially the hosta’s broad leaves. The shade garden looks a bit like a secret world calling to me.

hostas have a way of thriving, even these that get more sunshine than they used to since the tree once shading them is no longer standing
the ferns weren’t this lush last year – I could hide in them now
an inviting path

Procrastination? Maybe later.

There was a time in my life when I never put off until tomorrow what I could do today. In fact, it drove me a bit nuts to put off until tomorrow. Perhaps that is why I found myself so productive, completing projects, working full-time at my day job, writing at night, crafting and keeping up with the house and garden. Whew. Makes me tired just reading that sentence.

Then things happened. First, there was an accident that required two surgeries to my arm. Plans changed. I couldn’t do everything I wanted to with one arm, although I tried. Believe me, I tried. Still, I was forced to prioritize. When my garden went to heck in a hand basket, I had to suck it up. Not that I did. I railed against the state of it constantly in my head and occasionally out of it, but really, I did have to suck it up, tell myself that later I would get to it. The same went for my crafting. Painting pictures was, well, out of the picture. I continued to work with one hand and taught myself to physically write with the left during this time, but then, my day job wasn’t something I could put off. It had to be done. Putting off the rest was the first step toward being a procrastinator.

Wasn’t it?

Then the second, and worse, thing happened a couple years later. Injured in a motor vehicle accident, my brain stopped functioning the way had I gotten used to it behaving for all the years my brain and I have been acquainted. This went way beyond my previous temporary physical disability. My brain was letting me down left and right and in the beginning I couldn’t even get angry about it, because I couldn’t hold a cognitive thought long enough to maintain that emotion. I was scared though. Plenty scared. That popped up quite frequently.

Three years have passed since that awful day, and I am doing much better. Still not where I was, and perhaps I never will be again, but definitely better. And yet, I’m still a procrastinator. What happened to that “do it now or kick yourself in the ass for not” attitude? I’m thinking maybe priorities have now changed to the point where I can’t get them back. That makes sense, I suppose. Or maybe I need to write down my plans for the day on a note (which I had to do in detail for quite a while—did I abandon that practice too soon?) so I can check off each thing as I do it, reminders staring me in the face.

Or maybe I’m just tired.

Take my blogging for instance. I made a non-New Year’s resolution to keep up with it, to at least complete that short form of writing twice weekly. I do so love to write (I’ve even gotten back to long form writing, but not the huge chunks I used to do while working full-time, taking care of the house and garden, crafting, painting, etc., that I managed before—I mean, I finished three novels in an eight-month period for Kensington while working full-time, taking care of the house and garden, and, yeah, all the rest). I actually blogged about my blogging plans not much more than a month ago and yet here I am, having gone a week and a half without so much as a peep. The ideas are there, the will is there, but there’s a disconnect these days between thinking about something and following through with action.

Put it off, my dear, put it off, get to it later.

Is that actually what I’m doing? I don’t know. I’ll figure it out tomorrow.

Country Road

I live on a country road. I once prepared a photo essay about this road for submission to a magazine because, to me, it represents a great deal of the beauty to be found in Lehigh County, all on one and a half miles of narrow, curving asphalt. One can find woods and farm land and history, the latter embodied in a one-room schoolhouse, a more than two-hundred year old mill, a structure from the eighteen hundreds that housed a little general store for many years, several more homes that date back to this country’s beginnings, as well as some truly magnificent trees that have been here through it all. There once existed an ice dam, damming up the Hosensack to flood the small valley. Ice blocks would be cut from it in the winter and shipped on railroad cars to the city. It is rumored part of that dam is on my property, and I believe I have glimpsed its shape beneath the undergrowth in the wooded section. One day I suppose I will take a shovel and explore the possibilities, but I’ve always been content, somehow, in leaving the history at peace.

Wildflowers grow naturally along the shoulder-less road. Mailboxes line one side for the rural delivery. In the growing season, corn tassels wave in the sun, heaps of soybeans cover the earth. Creatures such as deer, wild turkeys, coyote, foxes, hawks and vultures and owls are sighted regularly. Domestic animals are raised in lesser quantities on gentle pasturage. A little side street with an older community ending in a cul-de-sac exists to one side, but the rest is as it’s been for a very long time. Even my home has been here since the middle of the past century and feels like part of the history.

Recently, though, the next road over had to be closed for emergency bridge repairs. Being an emergency, there was no notice and no contingency plan for the traffic that travels along that wider road with its painted lines, straighter runs and somewhat greater speed limit.

Need I say more? Probably not, but I will. Drivers used to the convenience of that other road with its straighter runs and painted lines and somewhat greater speed limit have taken to using this road without any adjustment in attitude or consciousness to the fact they are NOT traveling that other road to which they have become so comfortably accustomed.

Those rural mailboxes I previously mentioned? Crossing the street to retrieve the mail has become a hair-raising endeavor. Fortunately, on this whole stretch, there are only three of us who actually have to do so. Everyone else lives on the mailbox side of the road.

As to daily constitutionals for health and enjoyment? Well, my neighbor has resorted to driving over to the closed road in order to walk safely now. I am not sure what the others are doing. I walk in the yard.

The noise prevents me from recording my podcast, because the room from which I do it is only about twenty-five feet from what was once a quiet country road, and the increased number of vehicles passing by at well over the speed limit can be heard in the background. I tried to record between vehicles in my last podcast. If one listens carefully, you can hear the rush to finish sentences before the car I hear coming gets close enough to become part of the soundtrack. I’m giving it another try, though, and hoping for the best.

As I have said, the road is narrow and possesses more than one blind curve. It has a posted speed limit of twenty-five miles per hour for justifiable reasons. There are occasional drop-offs that could come as a nasty surprise to drivers careening their vehicles past each other in opposite directions at speeds that are not only unnecessary but unsafe. And really, don’t get me started on those idiots staring down at their cell phones while they maneuver speeding hunks of metal. Yes, I’ve seen them, now that I have to wait for an extended period before I can cross the road to get my mail.

This all sounds very disheartening, I’m sure, but I have confidence that—eventually—the bridge on the other road will be repaired (although there is no timeframe to be had from the authorities) and that quiet will once again reign on this lovely stretch of road epitomizing Lehigh County’s natural beauty and wondrous history.

Not holding my breath, though. But I am eyeballing the chain saw and some strategically located trees that might need a little pruning. Can you say roadblock?

Just kidding.

For now.

Longing for a Look, Any Look

Despite best-laid plans, my garden has now suffered from a couple years’ neglect. All of the gardens have. I read the below article this morning and yes, found myself longing for a certain garden “look” the way it used to be, or better. Although the article referred to freshening up one’s garden as the seasons change, it did give me some inspiration for quick fixes to my own. Unfortunately, when as overgrown as my gardens have become, quick fixes won’t work, but once I have them back in shape, I will certainly consider these seasonal changes of color to keep them fresh Spring through Fall.

These Foggy November Mornings

I don’t particularly care for warm November days. I like my Novembers a bit on the chilly side, a precursor to winter. However, these past few days have been extremely warm and, due to the humidity and the temperature forming a perfect balance (according to the weatherman) the mornings have been foggy. What I do like about the autumn fog is how the colorful leaves manage to peek out through the saturated air in a soft and lovely manner–just that hint of color in a gray, gauzy world. And there’s something special about that.

Happy Halloween!

I’ve only had two trick-or-treaters in the twenty years I’ve lived in my present home. I stopped decorating for Halloween these days, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the innovative, downright fun displays in this blog reposted from Houzz. I especially like the first one. How spooky that would be on a dark night!

Coffee, Anyone?

Yes, I know, that’s not a coffee pot above. But, as you’ll soon find out, I’m not what you’d call a coffee drinker.  I can honestly say I have about three or four cups of coffee a year and usually don’t finish the cup. And still, I occasionally crave it. Not sure why, exactly. I’ve even gone so far as to buy a cup of Dunkin’s and about a quarter through it, I stop. It’s delicious, but, as I’ve said, I’m not what you’d call a coffee drinker. But as I also said, I occasionally have a craving for a cup.

This morning was one of those times.

I have a coffee maker. Not a K-cup type—that would be wasted on me—but a drip type (I’m so not a coffee drinker that I’m not really sure what it’s called). It’s only worth breaking out for company. This morning, however, I figured there had to be a way to brew coffee without it.

So, I took a coffee filter, which has been hanging around since the last Probstock (not the mini, mind you, but the full blown Probstock family gathering), and the container of Folgers (same era, so probably too stale for most folks), a pair of clothespins and a mug. I heated water in the coolest tea pot ever (a gift from my youngest) which I use for tea and, more often, hot chocolate, which is my favorite hot beverage no matter the season.

Once the water was heated, I poured about three ounces into the filter and allowed it to percolate down through the paper into my mug. Afterward, I added two scoops of hot cocoa powder and another four ounces of water. I know, I know, right now all you true coffee drinkers are shrinking back in horror, crying out, “but that’s not real coffee.” And I get it. You’re right. For your average coffee drinker, it’s not. But what about all those fancy, confusingly- named coffees you all buy at specialty coffee-type places? This is my version.

Looks a little like mud…

Anyway, to get back to my story, once I made myself a steaming, fragrant mug of cocoa+coffee using a filter and a couple of clothespins I drank about a third of it and dumped the rest down the drain.

That’ll do for this quarterly craving. Maybe next time I’ll make it out to a diner.

Facebook Failure

What’s a Facebook failure you might ask? If there were a picture of me somewhere on this website, you’d be looking at it. I started with Facebook some years back at the behest of my publisher. You know, need to make those social media contacts, after all, and toot your own horn about your “accomplishments”. Only I wasn’t really sure how to make those contacts or what to do once I had. Somehow, though, it happened (thanks to my daughter-in-law) and Facebook friends started to “appear”, as well as the friends I had from my real life, and family members, and oh, jeez, a whole world!

And still I struggled to keep that contact. Really? you say. How’s that? What did you think when you went onto your page and saw all the info and posts and everything? What did you even DO when you saw all that stuff?

Well, for the longest time, almost nothing.

Recently, however, thanks to the pandemic (is there anything we can thank for this world-changing crisis?—no, no, we can’t—except perhaps, the increased motivation to communicate and let people know we care) I started to check Facebook more frequently to see how my rather large extended family was doing, as well as my more immediate family because, you know, sometimes we (I) don’t keep in touch as often as we (I) should. I started “liking” posts, or (gasp) responding to them with an actual comment. Even though I continued to feel like the Facebook introvert for the most part, I did get a sense of connection I sorely needed.

However, the other day I was asked to make a post “sharable” (yes, I had made one of those few and far between posts) and I was flummoxed. I had no idea, none whatsoever. I wasn’t even sure how to find the referenced post, as it had completely disappeared in the onslaught of new posts being made by friends and family. (Timeline? What the heck is that?) The whole Facebook-Failure tag reared its ugly head once more.  

So I asked questions—on the phone, in a live conversation. My middle son, Michael, pointed me in the right direction. It was a matter of clicking on three little dots to the right of the post, which I had managed against all expectation to finally locate, and picking the correct choice (make public or something like that—only a couple days have passed and I’ve already forgotten, although now I know I can easily remind myself by reading this blog…maybe) and voila!

Facebook failure a thing of the past!

Until next time, that is. Because I really don’t know what I’m doing…