Must Have Done...

Maybe Later...

My zeal for blogging out the rest of this year was pretty much killed off by grief over the loss of my sweet kitty.  That, and the fact that of the 6 people who, according to my "stats" page, saw my post about losing Mo so suddenly, only one--my dear friend Jackie--managed to leave a comment or extend condolence.  So...I think I'll step away for awhile and let that knowledge percolate for a bit.

My original intention was to "Christmas Pic Blog" my way through the month of December.  I was thinking photos of my animal family enjoying my Christmas decoration fetish would just about fit the bill.  

Maybe I'll be back before Christmas... 

But, for the moment, I'll leave the blogosphere with this image:

  

 

Goodbye, Mo-Mo!

Two days ago, we said tearful goodbye to Mo.  It wasn't exactly out of the blue--I knew he had been poorly for some time, but didn't know the extent of the illness.  We took him to the vet on Monday.  What the vet discovered on that visit was so much more serious than anything I had imagined. We had NOT expected to come home without him.   And yet, there it was.

It is my tradition to memorialize each of our feline companions here on "Terms" as they walk on to their next adventures. Some memorials are harder than others.  The shock and suddenness of our loss of Mo makes this one impossible.  If I start crying again, I may never stop.

Fortunately, I don't have to tax my grief-stricken brain to come up with Mo's story to share here.  It's already been written.  As it happened, ten years ago.  Through the magic of copy and paste, I will share it all here again, in memory of my sweet, pumpkin-headed "lunch buddy" of the sharp claws and perpetually matted fur.  We love you, Mo-Mo.  How we will miss you!  Rest well, my sweet old boy! Then play among the stars till your next adventure.  We will surely meet again.

From June 26, 2008

Last fall, a new visitor started hanging around my yard.  A big, light orange tom with an out-sized, round head that looked like a full moon.  And he didn’t just pass through on his rounds of the local bird feeders.  More often than not, I would see him outside one of my two sliding glass doors.  Staring in.  Hopefully.  As if he were one of my own who had been out for a stroll, and was ready to come back in for dinner and a nap. 

I’m a sucker for any cat, so of course I had to try to make his acquaintance.  When I opened the door to go out and pet him, I had to play “kitty goalie”—that little foot-pushing shuffle perfected by cat people wishing to keep a feline on the desired (by the human) side of a door.  He was all prepared to march into the house and make himself at home.  But I didn’t think he was a stray…he was clean and fit and wasn’t the least bit shy around people.  He had a purr loud enough to rattle the windows.  Certainly he must have a home somewhere—probably with a new neighbor.  So I limited our encounters to outside, and since he didn’t look hungry, I didn’t feed him.  But I had to call him something, so I dubbed him “Orangie.”  Hey, you don’t get too creative when naming other people’s cats…

As fall deteriorated to winter and the weather got ugly, Orangie continued to appear outside my back doors.  Gazing longingly through the glass.  In the dark.  In the wind and rain.  Though I grew increasingly incensed at whoever his owners might be, I still did not let him come in the house, or feed him.  With all the stuff going on in my life at the time, I did not have the resources to try to introduce another cat to the household.  Especially not a full-grown, unneutered tom.  I hoped against hope that he had a decent home somewhere and enough to eat.  And I felt like crap.

As spring approached and we emerged from the worst of the weather (both emotional and meteorological) I realized that Orangie hadn’t appeared at the door for many weeks.  I hoped that he had decided to stick closer to home,wherever that was.  And then, one day, I caught a glimpse of a light orange body skulking away and scrabbling over the fence when I was out in the back yard.  It was Orangie.  But he looked awful.

He was thin, scruffy and bedraggled.  His once soft, puffy coat hung in damp, dirty mats.  He had scratches and scabs on his face. 

And he was deathly afraid of me.  No matter how sweetly I talked to him, that day or any day since, he has cowered and skittered away from me every time. 

My heart is broken for him.  The once sweet, loving, ready-to-be-anyone’s-friend kitty was obviously dumped or abandoned by someone who apparently had treated him well, then decided they didn’t want him anymore.  And since, after all, he’s just a cat, they figured he would be perfectly fine without a real home, fending for himself.  By some miracle, he hasn’t ended up coyote lunch.  Not yet.  But it’s obvious that someone here in this place where he was expected to find a new home was so mean to him, abused him so badly, that he is now as deathly afraid of human beings as the most wild of feral cats.  I cannot imagine what horrible thing some person might have done to him to so completely change his personality in such a short time.

Now, I would like to adopt him, if I could.  I hope I can convince him not to be afraid of me.  I’ve started leaving food out for him.  He still seems to spend a lot of time in my yard…he sleeps curled up on the gravel by my back fence.  If I talk to him softly enough, I can get him to turn around, sit down and look at me, but he won’t come anywhere near me.  Unfortunately, with my insane work schedule, I don’t have a lot of time to invest in the process of helping this kitty trust some person again.  I’m going to try, but it will, if anything, take way longer than it should—if it happens at all.  And time is one thing I’m afraid homeless kitties in my neighborhood do not have.

In the hope that we will eventually be able to take him under our roof, I’ve given him a new name:  William.  As in “William of Orange.”  (Who apparently is one of my ancestors, a fact uncovered in a genealogy trace done by my grandmother years ago.)  We will call him “Will.”  I hope… 

From June 7, 2009

Searching the archives for my original story about Orangie, I was surprised to see that it was almost a year ago that I wrote about him. Since then, I'd seen him only rarely, and briefly. And when he saw me, he'd run away. There was a stretch of several months when I saw him not at all. I wondered if he had become the "coyote lunch" I had so feared, or if our horrific winter had been too much for him.  

Then...
 

About three weeks ago, he reappeared. Once again, he began spending a great deal of time in my yard. Sleeping on the fence, creeping out from under the bushes. Looking in the windows. Still, when I talked to him or tried to get near him, he'd run away.
But I knew I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I didn't at least put out some food for him. Though my past efforts in that direction had met with no success.
 

I put a bowl of kibbles out on the shed deck (my shed is about ten yards from the house, and it has its own little "deck" in front of it.) To my delight, I caught him eating from the bowl. And it seemed as if he had actually been waiting for it. In the next couple of days, he came to the bowl several times.
 
One evening, I decided to kick his dinner up a notch...I added a scoop of canned food to the kibbles and mixed it around. Then I sat on the deck outside my back door to see what would happen.
 
He ate. He bathed. He laid down next to the bowl and took a little cat nap. I talked quietly to him. Told him how pretty he was. Asked if he had enjoyed his meal.
 
Then he did something extraordinary.
 
He looked me in the eye. Started meowing.
 
And walked right up to me. Meowing all the way.
 
With a minimum of coaxing, he sat down next to me. Leaned on me. And rubbed his head on my back.
 
As if to say, "Thank you, lady. That was really good."
 
I petted him and made much of him for about fifteen minutes. Then he wandered back to the bowl, finished off his dinner, and went off on his "rounds."
 
Leaving me astounded. And grateful.
 
With a tear in my eye for the sweet cat who has had a hard go of it for the past year. But hasn't completely forgotten how to trust. And love.
 
His name may not ever be "William." But if I have anything to say about it, he will not always be homeless.

From August 20, 2009

Orangie is still living mostly in my back yard. He spends probably 70% of his time there—sleeping, eating, hanging with his “peeps” when we sit out on the deck in the evening. It’s the other 30% of his time that causes the problems. Every few days, he shows up with a new bite or sore, or he’s limping or just obviously doesn’t feel good. He’s been “cat about the neighborhood” for almost two years. That’s a surprisingly long tenure for any animal dumped here and left to fend for himself. Most of them waste away or disappear after a few months. This guy has hung tough; but it’s obvious he’s used up more than a couple of his nine lives in the interim.
 
Despite getting two big meals a day—and several snacks, when I’m home—he hasn’t fattened up at all. I noticed the other day that his fur is getting softer, and he keeps himself a little cleaner, which means he is feeling better than he did when he had to scratch for every meal. But I still would kind of like to see him looking more like the “marshmallow cats” that live in the house. And it’s obvious he’s had some kind of injury to his back legs or spine. Maybe he was attacked by a dog, or a human, or had a brush with a car… But he’s stiff and sore and sits awkwardly.
 
I’ve had September 1st penciled in my mind as the date to round him up and take him to the vet to be neutered and get a good check up. I wanted to wait until he trusted me enough. Still, I’m worried about the process. What if he comes home, I let him out, and he’s so upset with me that he never comes back? I suppose that’s probably a stupid thing to worry about. But I sure don’t want to do anything that forces him back out into the neighborhood to fend for himself.


He’s had a hard life the past couple of years. When I think about what he’s been through, I nearly start bawling. So, I want to do right by him; but I have to balance that, too, against what’s right for the rest of my herd. I don’t know if he’ll make a good transition to “indoor cat,” and I can’t have him going in and out of the house, possibly carrying disease to the indoor population. So he has to be “in” or “out.” We’ve been playing around with the idea of turning the shed into a kitty hut. Making it a warm, cozy place for kitties to get out of the rain and cold during the winter. And a place that we can quietly shut them in at night to keep them out of the way of the harm that lurks around the neighborhood in the dark—like raccoons, coyotes, other cats, dogs, cars, whatever. That might be a good compromise for everyone.


“Everyone” would include yet another denizen of the neighborhood who has taken to hanging around the yard and grabbing chow several times a week. This one is a scrappy little black tom…I can’t think that he is a year old, yet. We dubbed him “Ace,” short for Ace of Spades. Mostly we call him “Acer.”


He’s such a sweetie, likes people, loves to be petted. But if testicle size really was determined by the amount of male hormone coursing through his body, this little guy would be dragging around balls the size of a Brahma bull’s. He just can’t not challenge every male cat in the subdivision. As a result, he gets the crap kicked out of him on a regular basis. Every time he shows up to beg a meal, he’s sporting a new battle wound. Acer is a relatively recent addition to the neighborhood cast of cat characters…I don’t know if he belongs to someone or not. I think not. And even if he does, his owners suck as “cat parents.” I would not feel bad at all about toting him to the vet along with Orangie. Orangie is a mellow old cat; likely he would be happy to share his space amiably with Ace…but Ace has to posture and howl every time they cross paths. Perhaps they could get along once they’ve been, shall we say, re-programmed? And then they could spend yucky fall and winter evenings snuggled into our shed-cum-cathouse. That’s what I would like to see, anyway.


Yes, I go through a lot of work and worry—and expense—to take care of these wanderlings. I feel responsible, being a member of the race that has bound them to itself and then treated them so shabbily. I recognize the human race’s collective sin, so it IS my responsibility to do what I can to atone for it. And it’s not as if I get no benefit from the relationship.


Ask anyone who knows me to describe me in one word, and the words, “Gentle,” “kind,” and “comforting” would not be the first you would hear. Far from it.


But there are creatures in my world —small, helpless creatures suffering for their relationship with humans—for whom I am a source of gentleness, kindness, and comfort. They can’t say the words, but I know I help.


And that’s all the reward I need.

From Jul 21, 2011

Those of you who have been with me awhile may remember "The Boys of Summer 2009." That was the year my mother's spirit sent me cats to protect, to worry over, and, I suspect, to take my mind off my own troubles.


Two of those boys are still with us. The picture below is of Orangie, who of course we do not call by that name anymore. His name has morphed from Orangie to O.J. to O-Ja-Moje to Mojay to Mojito... Nowadays, I just call him "Mo."


We have no idea how old Mo is... The vet told us it's difficult to tell with cats. He could be five or six...he could be ten or twelve. My feeling is that he's not a terribly old cat...probably the same age as "the boys" (Alvin and Theodore, whom we took in back in 2004 when they were but tiny weanlings...) But Mr. Mo lived by his wits for two years, fending for himself in the neighborhood, with no real home until he came to live with us. That can age a body some...so he has his issues.


This afternoon, I caught him dozing on the dining room table, using my old Minolta as a chin rest. Note the strapping tape on the camera--a couple of bounces off the concrete floor at the cafe broke the hatch to the battery compartment. It seems like all my favorite old cameras, at some point, end up held together with tape. My Mamiya--my very first SLR, which I bought with my tax refund back in 1975--looks very much the same.


Tired Old Cat, Tired Old Camera:

Mo-Mo in his favorite place, with his favorite human...

 

New(er) Pic

I decided I should dispense with posting relatively ancient photographs, and post something more recent.  Ok, I thought, I'll go to my last download of photos and pick out my favorite.

Well, the whole hubbub of buying/selling/fixing up houses put me in a space where I had little to no time to spend out in nature with the camera. I had to go all the way back to New Years Day 2019 to find a download of images shot on a designated bird/camera foray.  I guess my New Years resolution for 2020 will have to be to get out there with the photo equipment more often...

On that particular day, we drove the route through Finley NWR north of Corvallis--which will from now on replace Sauvie Island as my go-to nature retreat. Sauvie is a long drive from here...Finley is less than 1/2 hour.  And provides abundant opportunities to commune with the wild things.

It's about time I shared an image of a heron--the bird which I consider my power animal. 

This picture is of "Henry," so named by the community of folks who regularly do the circuit around Finley with their cameras.  During the winter months, "Henry" can almost always be found on this log or somewhere around it, about 10 yards from the road, posing prettily for the goofy humans crunching slowly by on the gravel in their giant metal and glass photo blinds with oatmeal-box protuberances hanging out their windows.

     

Cuckoo

If I'm sharing my favorite pictures of my favorite bird encounters, I have to post this one from seven years ago at an oft-visited park in Columbia County--Big Eddy.  It was one of my preferred spots for solitary camping, being as how it was less than 30 miles from home, but still provided the secluded deep-woods experience I craved back then.  

I wrote a piece about this wonderful, drunken bird (Cuckoo, the pileated woodpecker) here, in September of 2012.  Even posted this same picture.  But it definitely bears rerunning here in the annals of "favorites" that I'm posting in "Photo November 2019."

I give you...

Cuckoo.

2008 Pelicans

Once again, I got to thinking about my favorite bird pictures...and got one in my mind that I had to go searching for.

Evidently, I don't have this one on any of the various hard drives and "magic sticks" that I have lying around.  But I knew about when I took it, so I went searching for it...here.

I first posted it on "Terms" in 2008, after coming back from a restorative long weekend at Lincoln City's Road's End.  It was just after I got my D40, and I had taken the new camera down to the beach early in the morning to see what it could do.

And "what it could do" was pull in shots of distant birds in flight, stop the action, and come up with an image that one could actually recognize as the bird it was a picture of.

I have since learned a lot (though not enough) about photographing birds in flight.  But this was my first taste of success in that direction, and I remember and treasure it to this day.

 

The Oldies ARE the Goodies

After posting yesterday's photo, and naming it as one of my all-time favorites, I got to thinking about my OTHER all-time favorites.  Many of them are literally years old, and taken with equipment that is technically inferior to what I own now.  Not to mention that a couple of them were shot before I even really new how to operate the old equipment.  My excitement over the fact that, even in my ignorance of what my camera could actually DO, I was able to come up with images so far superior to anything I had ever shot in the past, was probably what has made these images long-standing favorites in spite of their lack of technical expertise and polish.

This is one such picture.  I took this one shortly after I got my first DSLR--my Nikon D40--which I still love and use when I don't want to lug around the heavier D7200 and its monstrous telephoto lens.  We were walking on the dike, chasing this red-tail hawk from pole to pole to pole.  Every time we would get within a certain distance, he would take off and move down to the next pole.  After two or three intervals of this, I finally had my camera pointed in the right direction at the right time to get him taking off from the pole.  Is the shot in perfect focus? No.  Was the camera set for optimum lighting and motion capture? No.  But I was--and still am--geeked about this picture...from 2008.  

 

More Back Yard Birds

A few more days have slipped by without photos.  But I'm happy to report THE FLOORING IS IN, and my family room looks somewhat back to normal...except it does not have a basketball-court floor any more.  Yay.

The back yard is the gateway to birding addiction, IMO.  As a child, one becomes fascinated with the little feathered beings that seem to so companionably inhabit the small "wild" spaces that humans have created adjacent to their own homes.  From there, the fascination rapidly morphs into addiction.

Even in staid suburbia, the variety and characters of birds that can be observed from the kitchen window (or the coffee deck) is constantly entertaining.  This morning, a pair of little yellow warblers of some kind were hopping around almost at my feet, gleaning insects from the leaves of the hardy weeds that remain standing in the garden.  A yard or so beyond them was a pile of downy feathers that spoke of the other backyard feeder birds...the ones that most people do not welcome with open arms.  But the logic of nature is that where the prey gather, so will the predators.  And Eurasian collared doves are a favorite meal among the local population of Coopers hawks. Hence the sad pile of "pigeon" feathers under the apple tree. 

My garden in Scappoose was visited regularly by Coopers hawks and their mini-me cousins, the sharp-shinned hawks.  While the Coops preyed on the bigger birds like doves and grosbeaks, the sharpies pursued the smaller birds--finches, siskins (of which we always had jillions) and juncoes.  

Today's photo is of a sharpie in my back yard in Scappoose, taking advantage of a not-too-well-camouflaged perch to assess the lunch possibilities of the space...  This is one of my all-time favorite pictures, the kind where you see something outside and have to run and get your camera (and by some magical dumb luck, the scene still exists by the time you and your equipment are ready to shoot...!) 

The Back Yard is Everything

Missed a couple of "photo November" days there...  Currently, my entire TINY house is turned upside down because we're trying to cover the HIDEOUS linoleum floor in the family room with something less than ugly.  So furniture and chotchkes are scattered and piled every which way to make room to work.  I HATE this kind of mess, so I spend as little time in here--and so, at the laptop--as possible.

This morning I hollowed out a workspace for myself that keeps me out of the major part of the mess, so I'm happy enough to sit and clack away for a few minutes.  One major bonus is that my temporary seat is right in front of the patio doors, so I have a continuous showing of "kitty tv" just a few yards from my left elbow.  

Under these conditions, it seemed appropriate to post a back yard bird picture...so here it is. A red-headed sapsucker (a kind of cute little woodpecker) feasting on whatever he could pick out of the bark of my apple tree one autumn morning. 

The construction mess to my immediate right represents the frustrating process of trying to pound this tiny outdated house into an indoor space that meets our needs (aesthetically AND practically.)

The green space to my left, teeming with birds, squirrels...LIFE...represents the precise reason I chose this crappy little problematic seventies ranch home.

My indoor spaces absolutely HAVE to have large and obvious connections to my outdoor spaces.  I HAVE to have lots of glass and natural light.  I don't think I could live in a place where the passage between indoors and outdoors would consist of long hallways, solid doors or long flights of stairs.

It's true.  I chose this house because of the yard.  

And I think I chose well. 

Bandit

This is "Bandit;" a young eagle almost entirely into his/her adult plumage, meaning that he/she was at least a couple of years old. I love how eagles look so moth-eaten and mottled when they're transitioning from juvenile to adult plumage.  They often get this Zorro style stripe-over-the-eye that gives them an air of intensity and ferocity that goes away once they acquire the complete white head plumage of an adult.  

Eagles are one of my favorite subjects to photograph...partly because I have an unreasonable love for these giant fish hawks, and partly because they, like other raptors, tend to find a perch and sit on it for a long time, and they don't spook easily.  So, unlike the little songbirds that are almost impossible to get to sit still long enough to get pictures, eagles are perfect posers.

In this picture, however, "Bandit" wasn't posing.  He was divebombing an unfortunate duck who had made the mistake of separating itself from the rest of the flock.  I thought the two of them were indulging in a form of practice hunter/prey game.  Bandit would swoop down at the duck, the duck would dive under the water, and Bandit would pull up, turn, and dive again, and the duck would submerge...again and again and again.  I've since learned that this is an actual hunting tactic of eagles...they harass a prey bird until it is exhausted, then they dive in for the kill. 

I don't know...seemed like an awful lot of work.  And, to my knowledge, Bandit never did actually get this particular duck.

   

Crow

I have a large group of crows that has been my constant companions here in the "new" house, from before we even moved in.  There's a tall, half-dead tree across the street (which might be a problem, actually, in a big wind.)  Whenever we would pull up to the new house with a load of stuff, the crows would perch in the tree and holler.  I began to wonder if the previous owner was a special favorite of theirs, and they were upset that we had driven that person out and were taking over.

I've since made friends with the crows, I think...  Either way, I throw peanuts and other crow-morsels out in the yard every morning, and they are more than happy to swoop down and police the yard for the goodies.

THIS crow, however, was one I met at the beach.  And he seemed inclined to hang around for a photo shoot, so I obliged. 

Owls Come in All Sizes

This was one of my all-time favorite bird encounters.

We were down in Klamath, on this day, skirting the frozen lake on a "road" that was scarcely  more than a foot path carved into the precipitous incline that passed for the "shore" of the lake.  In the ice/snow. In a rental car.

We pulled off at a wide spot in the road, because I had spotted a blob in a tree that looked like it might be something I should get a closer look at.  So I fired off some pics of the "blob," magnified them in my photo playback screen on my dslr, and realized we were looking at a tiny owl!

And so, of course, I had to spend thirty minutes and about 100 shots trying for decent, if not THE PERFECT, shots.  Which proved difficult with the equipment I had at the time--just a 70-300mm telephoto zoom on my Nikon D40.   Don't get me wrong, it is a nice lens, for which I had shelled out $1100 (in 2008 dollars...) But Little Dude was almost just outside the range where I could get good shots to magnify and crop enough to produce a decent final image of what exactly I was shooting at.   

But, though this isn't a GREAT picture, the encounter itself was magical.  Here he is.  The "Little Dude."

Back Yard Bird Spirits

Of course, I don't have to drive 500 miles to enjoy communing with bird spirits.  Or even 40.  In fact, I often don't have to drive at all.

Over the years, my yard in Scappoose became somewhat of a mini bird-sanctuary.  I am a compulsive feeder of back yard wildlife...have been for decades.  A rotating stock of four or five hummingbird feeders kept my tiny guests happy...and scrappy.  Hummingbirds are notoriously territorial.  A single male could, at times, guard every feeder within his sight and chase away any and all other birds who even attempted to get close.  Unfortunately, that often meant that the nectar would go to waste, because the little guy was so busy hoarding the feeders, he would neglect to enjoy them himself.  

Here is one of the feisty hoarders perched in the maple tree, master of all he surveys...

 

Owl Makes an Appearance

It was only a matter of time before Owl would make her appearance on Photo November.

This photo was actually taken in March of 2017...and Ms Owl was guarding her nest in a tree on the way between Burns and the Malheur Wildlife Refuge.  She was the one bird spirit with whom I had any significant contact at all during that ill-fated little solitary vacation where my demons chased me home before I could calm them enough to actually explore and enjoy my time at the refuge.

I've probably posted pictures of her before, but she deserves a second look...

One of the Best Days

I was away from home for a few days, so a couple days of "Photo November" are going to have to go by without photos.

The pic I'm posting today was taken on one of the best days of my life...my afternoon spent with a flock of snow geese (and other guest stars--sandhill cranes and mallards) who were gleaning the stubble of a cornfield on Sauvie Island in late winter. 

It was such an awesome time!  I sat in my "blind" (my late, intrepid Kia van) for over two hours watching, shooting pictures, and just BEING with this amazing, cacophonous assemblage of water fowl.  The flock was so close I could almost reach out and touch them.

Now, whenever I feel I'm about to be overwhelmed by the depression and/or anxiety that are my constant companions on my life journey, I call up images of this wonderful afternoon.  And it immediately keeps the doldrums at bay, and lifts the corners of my mouth in a secret, satisfied smile. 

Photo November

Well, pumpkin week is over.  But I've kind of enjoyed this daily picture-posting thing, so let's see how long we can keep it going.

Lately, I've been enjoying slide shows of all the pictures I have saved to my various devices.  And I'm going to say that a hefty percentage of those pictures are of...birds, of course.

I used to post my bird pictures on Facebook...but since that platform descended into the hell it created, I have not and will not honor it with my presence.

I do miss posting those pictures, though.  So I'm going to declare November 2019 "Bird Month."  Wherein I will post one of my favorite bird photos every day for the next 30 days.  Accompanied, or not, by a story or comment.

Let me start with this picture I took yesterday, of the tundra swans returning to the marsh at Finley NWR.  I don't know exactly where the swans migrate from, but it seems they are arriving quite early this year.  No doubt a manifestation of the weird weather hiccups caused by global climate change.  

I just love the sight of these graceful white bodies sailing overhead against the blue of a crisp autumn sky.  I must have snapped fifty shots yesterday...but I"ll just post one...   

or two...

Pumpkin #8--Pumpkins are for Kids...

I suppose I could/should have posted some spooky image of a real live Halloween pumpkin, this being THE day, and all...

But I couldn't get THIS image out of my mind.

It's a picture--an actual photograph on paper and everything--that I took back in 1997.  We were having a pumpkin-decorating party on my sister's back deck.  All the family's kids were there...all those kids who now mostly have kids of their own of the age they were when this picture was taken.

The picture is of my niece, Miss Leah.  At the ripe old age of 5.  Miss Leah is now gainfully employed, rocking an apartment in the Northland (PDX area), living the life of a successfully fledged millennial.  

But a couple of days ago, she was hugging this pumpkin, lugging it to the table to join the party.

They. Grow. Up. So. Fast. 

Pumpkin #7--Soggy but Still Afloat

This picture is a souvenir from my whirlwind trip to Wisconsin last month.  A small touristy town not far from my niece's apartment was having its Harvest Festival the weekend I was there.  I had to attend all by myself in a rented car...but that's a different story.  However...

These pumpkins were all carved and ready for the "Pumpkin Regatta"that was to take place on Sunday of that weekend.  Yes...these huge pumpkins are carved into small boats and raced down the river.  Unfortunately, it rained so much overnight and the morning of, they were still bailing out their small watercraft while I was there.  I don't know if they ever actually got to the race, as the weather turned foul, blustery and rainy for the whole rest of the day.

***Note the "G"--for Greenbay Packers--on the green pumpkin in back.  Proof positive that I really WAS in Wisconsin, where life is ALL about the Packers.  :)

Pumpkin #6--In Honor of The Black Cat

Several years ago, the Universe decided that our lives required the presence of Black Cat energy.  Our back yard and greenhouse , then our garage, became the domicile of Bookie--the Neighborhood Cat.  

We lost Bookie back in July of last year...and I STILL miss him, though we have left that place behind, as well as welcomed a second Black Cat Spirit into our lives.

Pumpkin #6 is an image of the little shrine I keep in our living room, to honor the sweet spirit that left us..and who we will undoubtedly meet again...if we haven't already.

 

Pumpkin #5: Thank you to Raven

I'm putting this one out here to honor yesterday's ravens, guardians of our unlocked truck at the beach.  

We took the dog for her first trip to the ocean yesterday, and as we reached the sand after a block-long walk through woods and over stream, the husband turns to me and asks, "Did you lock the car?"

To which I reply, "No, I told you to lock it."

Husband trudges back to the parking lot to do the deed, fingers crossed that our error has not already been discovered by miscreants that haunt beach parking lots in search of just such golden opportunities.

I travel on with the dog, then turn around out of the fairly biting north wind and head back in the direction we came.

On the way, we meet up with the husband, who is heading back in our direction, but has lost his zeal for walking on the beach.  Could be that the act of almost running back to the parking lot has been more than his poor, gimpy feet can handle.

On the trail back to the truck, I hear a raven calling from the top of a tree along the path.

Husband says, "Yeah...he was guarding the truck for us."

Now, husband is NOT a particular believer in my spirituality.  In fact, most of the time, he looks at me with one eyebrow raised and kind of sidles away from me when I talk about my spiritual beliefs, trying to avoid the inevitable lightning bolt that his god has trained on me to smite me for my heretical un-christian path.

So for him to concede that a raven was protecting us made me stop and shake my head a little in wonder.

As we walked up the path, the  the first raven voice was joined by a second.  I leaned my head back and strained to see them, but couldn't get a glimpse through the dense branches of the fir tree.

When we were out of the woods and and it became obvious that we were heading toward the truck, the two ravens took off out of the top of the tree and spiraled away toward the east--the direction of my spiritual power.  

It was pretty magical.  And obvious.

Thank you, Raven.  Once again, the Universe shows me that I (we) are never alone nor forgotten.

Pumpkin #4

I would rather sit on a pumpkin, and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion.  --

                                                               Henry David Thoreau