Apprehension

Hard day's work, then sleep
Cats between and cats beside
Waiting for breakfast.



Addendum: Zeppo laying there, Eleanor stopped beside him, put her paw over his neck, then... licked his head. THEN bopped him, of course. It was still very sweet.


That Eleanor and Zeppo chase and playfight and seem comfortable close to each other pleases us so. He clearly watches and learns from her, and she's been demonstrating How-to-kill-a-mouse techniques on the furry-demo-mouses. It's a sort of Woodhouse aunt/nephew relationship, with mutual affection and annoyance. Not a perfect metaphor, similarities enough. Fagin and Artful Dodger? Yeah, a bit of that too. I could see Zeppo as a pickpocket, when caught he does immediately go to "I didn't do nuffin', gov! It wasn't me! I was never there!" He really is gorgeous and sleek, with a thin, long tail quite unlike Eleanor or Moby.

Eleanor is much more active now, more confidently sociable, approaches Dylan more. Gets less food, but it doesn't seem to bother her most of the time. We don't often have to feed her in her Private Dining Room, aka the top of the dryer in the laundry room, anymore. Zeppo is learning to give her a few inches to eat before he gets what she leaves behind, even when he's already eaten his own. He's a bottomless pit some days, supporting our younger age estimate of less than two years. Teenage cat.

Woke up thinking about gifts and Santa and what parents don't get thanked for.

Parents don't get thanked for doing the bare legal minimum. They had kids so they need to feed them, shelter them, educate them, and no debt is owed. Or they expect a lifetime of gratitude, that's called Loan Sharking, and it's manipulative.

Giving unsolicited help to the chosen victim and anticipating they 'll feel obliged to extend some reciprocal openness in return.

Unsolicited, I did not ask to be born, I had no choice to be their child, But Faaaaaammmily! is not a reason. They don't get thanked for not meeting the legal definitions of abuse and neglect.

Parents get thanked for the gifts that come randomly, generously, expecting nothing in return. So, as I lay under a cat, I tried to think of what I genuinely could thank my parents for, the times they didn't give me what they wanted, but what I wanted.

Surprisingly, the first thought was when my father found a broken abandoned bicycle in the alley, and got it to the guy down the way who fixed cars and bikes out of his garage, and did it all for me with no fuss. It was kind and thoughtful and not at all about him. He was actually a bit apologetic. He was a rich man trapped in a poor man's life*. And it was the scrounger in him that I actually liked, I think he hated that part of himself, but it was then he came across as most human and genuine.

I used that bike, never beautiful, it rattled, and kids teased me about it, and I loved it all the more. Not because my father gave it to me, but because it worked and got me around and was mine without guilt.

Strangely, my mother is harder. She did a lot for me, but there was always something about her gifts that demanded more than she gave. She resented giving me what I chose, and fudged a bit to make it more what she liked. The canopy bed being the big compromise. She made the spread and cover in colors she liked, dismissing my preferences as wrong. And I had to be just as grateful, more because she corrected my bad color choices, as well as for all the effort she put in. It felt at the time like my Big Gift had been ruined, and I couldn't say a word.

The last present she sent me, when I was in the army, was a beige sweatshirt with a big teddy bear appliqué across the chest. Something that I wouldn't even have liked as a teen or as a kid. It was a present that shouted "I have no clue who you are!" An un-gift, a bill due for the wrong item.

Like cheap chocolate covered cherries that taste of wax and disappointment. Or granny's chocolate covered marshmallow cookies with the fake red goo surprize that granny bought for me especially, that I ate because I was hungry, but hated. Not real chocolate, never liked marshmallow, the cookie was cardboard, and I have no idea what was going on with the goo, but I had to thank her. The butterscotch pie I actually liked, but because it came after the meal, and was very rich, I didn't eat much of, they scoffed, I was only being polite when I said I loved it, they didn't believe me. They were just no good at reading real appreciation vs fake politeness.

Really, I am working on it, trying to remember one time my mother gave me something genuine, without an emotional bill later. Bupkus. Nada. Maybe something will float to the surface?

The inheritance, maybe?

I'll stick to cats style. They are grateful, when they are genuinely grateful. And they don't seem to ever expect anything more than food, affection and company.

Dylan had the lamp put up when I got home last night. It's very nice.


*Better that way, he never had enough financial power to be a full blown asshole.

Clover

A while back, a Kind Commenter stopped by. Since she didn't have her own blog, I offered her a guest post here. Please welcome Kathleen. She writes as I only wish I could.

Clover

I’m in clover.

You don’t often hear this phrase nowadays. It means enjoying luxury or comfort, or being relatively well off. I do, and am, so my opening statement is true.

The expression comes from agricultural life and animal husbandry, as clover is an excellent forage crop and also enriches the soil it grows in by fixing nitrogen, so it is often used in rotational planting.

But I really am in clover.

Two hundred dense green square metres of Red Clover (Triflolium pratense – literally, ‘three-leafed meadow plant’), to be precise, covering a longish area of my garden.

It’s set off on three sides with elegant black ‘Cheshire’ fencing and on the fourth by a gently curving gravelled path. Three upright granite rocks stand, henge fashion, somewhat off centre. Beyond the fence is green pasture, often occupied by cows.






The clover is about 40 centimetres high and in full bloom. The flower heads are a soft purplish pink. I think the ‘red’ in the name must come from the dark red sheaths on the stalks below the leaves. Bees love clover and the whole area is abuzz.

Sounds wonderful, don’t you think? Doing my bit against the world-wide and local threat to bees. A senseless act of beauty.

Instead of filling me with delight, however, this gorgeous clover has been keeping me awake at night, scouring the internet for help. The internet assumes that if I am looking for help with clover I must be a farmer, and all its advice is focused on crop management and maximisation. No advice anywhere on how to minimise it.

It shouldn’t be there.

Underneath all that clover is my wildflower meadow. Here and there something that isn’t clover pokes its head up through the dark green canopy.

Two or three Borage plants hung with delicate blue stars over in one corner...



A scattering of Corn Cockles. A Corn Chamomile and a sprinkling of blue Cornflowers on the edge of the gravel path. Some bright red Poppies...



A few crowded out hangers-on of various sorts along the fence. I see a single very fine Hedge Mustard.

When we came to this former farmyard two and a half years ago, nothing had grown here for many decades. We set about creating a new garden in the two-thirds of an acre of bare soil that surrounded our half of a converted old hay barn. We have no special qualification for this task and are rather fair weather and decidedly amateur gardeners, with ideas that may be a bit big for us. We’d only ever had a moderately sized suburban garden before.

We thought it would be brilliant to include a wildflower meadow in our new garden. And where better to put it than across the top of the 600 metres of ground source heat collection pipes that supply our central heating and hot water, where we can’t plant anything big?

The first year we were advised to plant just an annual mix, to have a quick show of colour, deplete any nutrients in the soil, and see what else would come up. Even though nothing had grown there for so long, the removal of the farmyard’s old concrete-base silage pits and the upheaval caused by the land remediation and the installation of the GSHP pipes liberated thousands of seeds whose time had come. Some are welcome, others not, and the latter had to be identified and removed. The annuals all flowered and the result was astonishingly beautiful – much better than I expected for our very first attempt. People passing along our lane stopped to gaze. I spent hours and hours pulling up dock and thistle and plantain and other undesirables. The bees came. The butterflies came. Deeply satisfying.



The next spring we cut down what remained of the annuals, removed everything and started again. This time we sowed both an annual and a perennial mix. The show was even better than before.




Some of the perennials, like the starry Borage, flowered in their first season. And the Red Clover.

How pretty it is! I thought. What a lot of it there is! Maybe it’s meant to be like this, I thought...



Alarm began to set in as autumn came in and we prepared for winter. We cut the meadow down to three inches or so, let the cuttings lie for a few days, and then cleared them off. When mowed down, the clover stalks are pale green spikey stars flat against the night sky of the soil. And they were everywhere. A whole constellation of clover stalks.






By November, the clover was already growing back strongly, while everything else appeared dormant.





The winter was relatively mild, and as spring came on this year the clover capitalised on its head start and went full steam ahead. Now it dominates the entire area.

The label on the seed mix packet says that three per cent of the mix is Red Clover, so this explosion was something of a mystery. We speculated that the mix had not been properly checked by the supplier who prepares them. But there’s nothing to be done about that. Here they are, and what are we going to do about it? The balance of the meadow is overthrown before it’s fully established and a whole lot of nitrogen is going back into the soil, making it rather too rich for wildflowers, which do better on poor soil.

I found myself curiously conflicted about this situation. To the eye, it’s a scene of loveliness. The deep dark green of the clover contrasts with the black fencing and the granite rocks, and creates a strong background for the carefully arranged curved rows of Purple Moor Grass we have set in the gravel, which is just beginning to establish itself. While relishing how it looks, I’ve agonised about what to do, and felt that I have gone wrong somewhere, in spite of studiously following the advice I was originally given. I know it’s silly to blame myself or feel I’ve ‘failed’, but I do. I’m amazed by how upset I felt about it. Nothing is wrong, nobody died, it’s only plants, we can always start again if necessary, it’s only one part of the garden.

The Buddha seems unconcerned...

In desperation, and not really expecting anything to come of it, I contacted the original seed supplier and told them of our plight. And I got a reply!

They said it was possible that the top soil brought in at the time of the land remediation was particularly conducive to clover and that this might explain why it had proliferated so very vigorously. And at last I was given a really useful piece of information. Although clover is a perennial, it’s not a long-lasting one. After about three years, it will die back. This means, the helpful man explained, that we don’t have to cut it all down and start again. We can wait it out. Gradually the other plants will get their chance. We can oversow with seeds we want to encourage. It will take longer for our meadow to get into balance, but what’s the rush?

I’m happy with that.

So there you have it. I’m in clover. For now.

Muddy

Cleaned up the mud room/cat toilet, as I'm putting things back, I pause. Maybe it would be better, here. So, I rearranged, and hopefully the cats will prefer this as well. Or at least use it as intended. I do this, once in a while, as I clean. Not that I just want something different, but I think it may work better.

My mother changed the arrangement of furniture in her house twice a year, spring and fall. In part, this was to keep the heating vents clear in the winter, so fair enough. But it went beyond that, or we could have kept the winter configuration all summer. She seemed to need to have Winter Set, then a different Summer Set, in every room in the house (save the kitchen) simply for the change.

My bedroom was also subject to this rule, even though it didn't effect the heating vents. Especially after I got a canopy bed.* Summer I slept with my head level right next to the window. Winter, I was shoved in a weird position under the slanted ceiling. Couple of years of this, and I took on the fight NOT to change into Summer mode.

"You'll be cold!"

I didn't care, preferring to see out the window. And not lose 3' off the edge of the room next to the bed. Took a lot of convincing, and a litany of being told what a bad idea this was, and how sick I would be, and how cold, forever after. The battle continued every fall until I moved out.

Not quite as bad as the fight to wear jeans, which I never truly won until I moved out.

Yes, having PTSD issues today, for no particular reason. As I was drifting off last night, thought I was with the ex, which hasn't happened in a very, very long time. Had to reach out to Dylan to reassure myself. Sadly waking him, but he wrapped me up and held me tight, so that was alright. Feeling itchy and unsure what to do with myself. Lovely coolish day, after last evening's rains. Weeded and cleaned, which holds back the worry, but doesn't eliminate it.













*I'd been in a Youth Bed, donated by a neighbor. Very low to the ground, but I'd've been happy with it. Instead, I got to chose a new bed, fine. I wanted a canopy bed. What I got was a Sears, white & goldish, largely plastic canopy bed, with my mother's choice of (pastel, yuck) colors for the spread, that she sewed herself (so, shut up little girl.)

Beds

Bed! Bed, bed, bed, bed, bed, bed, bed, bed, bed.



I had no idea how good, how much of a difference this would make. No squeaking, no shifting and the blankets didn't drift much at all through the night. Same mattress we've had over a decade - still good, but it felt larger. The only way I think that works is that the frame is a little wider, so the edge of the mattress has a smaller beachfront, steeper drop-off, more usable, supported,space. Frame's also a little longer, which we bolstered with the rolled up army blankets at the foot to keep futon from sliding. This is a bed to be handed down. Not at all a second-best. Or, as usual in my life, an it'll-do. Having just a little more income really does make life less expensive, because one can get decent and lasting to start with. When I think of how much I've spent on it'll do starting out, and replacing it over and over, the waste, the cost, is extraordinary.

Started out in a crib, and in hard leather shoes to correct turned-in feet, I am told I kicked loudly through the night. Then a second hand youth bed was given to us, low to the ground. Liked it, never really understood why I needed a different bed. Oh, I wanted a canopy, but as recently noted, the one given me was not at all what I'd imagined. Lots of plastic parts, making it more of a toy. And way too far off the ground, the mattress suffocatingly deep foam.

When I moved out, I had a folding foam chair-bed, on the floor.


It was better than a bug infested secondhand mattress. Had a friend with such a thing, and I considered my foam monstrosity a blessing in comparison.

Later, a proper futon mattress, on the floor. For many years. Some of which are no longer in my memory, and I'm not sending to the warehouse for the records.

When I moved out on my own, I invested in the cheapest, plainest pine futon frame and mattress I could find, luxury. D and I got one of the fold out sofa-bed frames and used the now lumpy mattress on it as a couch. First full-time paycheck, and he wanted a really good mattress, a futon with springs inside, and it still serves us well. We slept on a very good air mattress in Boston until our truck arrived, used the old wood plain frame until it broke apart in a move. Got another cheap, slightly less-plain frame, which got us through until now. But, oh, the whining and squeaking and creaking! So many moves, so much dismantling, and it finally had quite enough, sheesh.

New frame is hardwood, ash and oak, instead of soft pine. Went together beautifully, clear easy instruction. We clambered on, and said "It's quiet. Not at all TOO quiet." Moby inspecting at all points, the first Under. Eleanor only coming in later, checking out the Under, then hopped up over the footboard, with a slight fumble at the higher jump. "Hey, that's not in my calculations!"

Last night, I heard Moby (yes, I know them by their walks) poking around, he jumped up, walked over me and onto D. Jumped down, around a few more times, up on me, over to D, settled down purring madly. They got up, to check on the food situation.

In the morning, D already up, I felt Eleanor in the small of my back, and Moby at my feet. Well, happy birthday indeed. The bed is a hit all around. An heirloom. We've done us a solid.

We both slept… um, all four of us slept well last night. Higher off the ground, it's simpler to arise, for us humans.

I'm enjoying a day with my dearest near, no need for anything else. Except a free cupcake from a local bakery, where we get our hot cross buns during Lent. Strange thing, I brought in a print-out of the email, handed her my ID with birthdate,"Hi, I got an email about a free cupcake for my birthday," which she didn't bother look at, well, fine. But neither did she say any version of "happy birthday." Also fine, but a bit odd.

D says to me, on the way home, "'It's my birthday, gimme a cupcake', 'Ok, here."" It was that strange. Not that I mind, she just had neither officiousness nor friendliness, and I expected one or the other. Cupcakes are not my favorite, but this one was nice. D got an almond danish for himself, because they didn't have lemonbars.

He opined yesterday, "I should have gotten you a cake or something!"

And I replied, "I don't really like cake much, and I'm getting a cupcake anyway." It actually was a nice cupcake, given that it was a cupcake.



We got groceries, my idea, all good. No rushing today, no crisis, all mellow. Errands are fine. Don't care what I'm doing, as long as it's together, and calm. Then we retire to bed. It's a very nice bed.

Overwrite

Glad to have a break from therappy this week. Figuring out new ways to overwrite the old messages on my own today.

I was given a canopy bed as a child. One of those Sears specials, white and gold. My mother sewed the canopy and spread herself, light blue ruffles for the skirt, pale pink, yellow and blue flower pattern for the quilted nylon top. I appreciated her work and intention, grateful, no question. And I knew enough to hide the bitter disappointment that what I'd so wanted was not at all what I got, save in the most general of form. Like wanting a dog and getting a stuffed goat. Four legs, tail, furry, aren't you happy? Yes, yes, of course I am, thank you ever so much.

What I dreamed of, though, was not white, nor gold, had no plastic at all, and contained none of the colors, nor textures, of the shiny new spread.

What I dreamed of was dark wood, or wrought iron, curling with vines. Drapes of pieced together fabric in dark purples, greys, blacks, bits of silk and velvet, wool and tulle. Curtaining down from the flat canopy, surrounding me, a fall of fabric. Not a ruffle, not a pastel anywhere.

What I've added, is a solid bedside stand, with books and a tipless cup, pens and paper. On the headboard, a small lamp to set the space aglow. A good, hard mattress. And it's all soundproofed from the rest of the house. I get to this semi-magical place when my father is screaming, and I'm safe. Sherpa has put Raggedy Ann in my place in front of him, and my parents do not notice. I feel a little bad about having her take the abuse, but sherpa says,

"Do you hurt her, when you are angry, and throw her down the stairs? Of course not, you know this is fine, to express your pain on her, she cannot feel this pain. She doesn't care if she's screamed at, either. Let her do her job."

And I snuggle in for a good book, in my dark and colorful cave, with company to reassure me. Maybe I'll take her to this garden sometimes. Maybe when my mother picks at how I wear my hair, or clothing, or how I wipe a table. Stopped by for compost today, and could barely make myself leave. Not a show garden, but a business, and utterly compelling. Balm for the weary soul. Even in autumn, in faded pyjamas, yawning, toddling off to bed.

Blend

Growing up fairly poor, I so wanted so much. Decent, stylish clothes, for one. I never minded hand-me-downs, and cherished what mom sewed for me. I just wanted some really good classic pieces, wool coat, fine skirt, silk blouses, that sort of thing. Or a bit of nice, real, arty jewelry, to wear every day. A canopy bed, but instead of sky blue cotton, with lace and velvet drapery. What I had, but in lush fabric and in the colors I would choose. Nothing packed away, nothing in excess, just durable, day to day richness.

When I lived on my own income, I lavished myself with very cheap earrings and the better drug store lotions. I dreamed of having a huge wad of cash to buy out Pier I Imports. Back when they were much less commercial, more unique, and I bought a lot of dollar paper folding fans there. I still love dithering in consignment shops and new agey bookstores, crusty giftshops and handcrafted clothes stores. I even acknowledge that the prices on some of what most attracts me is probably fair. And I am unmoved to reach for my wallet. Where would I put it, wear it, use it? What I have is enough.

I had the first hint that I had no future as a shopper the year both D and I were working full time, and although we bought a very good futon mattress and threw a (seven year) delayed wedding reception, mostly the money just got socked away. When I could spend what I wanted, mostly, I didn't really want. Not enough to spend that much on it.

With my hours down, and student loans to repay, we are watching the pennies again. Not really hard, although the itch to buy things is there, until I actually go to have a little splurge. Then I discover, there is really not much I want. Earrings are pretty, but not really important. Scrubs at work mean I don't need daily outfits. A slightly larger apartment would be good, eventually, if our circumstances improve long term. I'd like a place for a desk, and maybe a big comfy chair.


Maybe. Nice. Not must, not necessary.

Oh, yes, we did get a blender. We had a place for it, and have used it quite a lot already. It was hugely on sale.

Purple

I have always loved Purple. Plums and grapes were so appealing because of the color. Blackberries picked at the side of Hines Drive. Alone in a bramble on an embankment picking and eating the mesh of berries. Small I was, hidden down below the tops of the brush. A glorious memory. And my hands stained dark purple. My mouth full of purple.

I had a small bed, and inherited from my brothers an ugly beige bed spread that my mother promised to dye purple for me. It turned out more lilac, my mother's idea of a pretty purple. I was disappointed, because it was not dark enough, but I knew enough to be grateful and not complain. Likewise when I was older, my brothers long moved out and I had their room, I was given the canopy bed I so wanted, romantic notion. It was not dark wood with heavy purple velvet drapery surrounding the bed. Not that that would have been reasonable, an expensive proposition. And I was only in 3rd grade. I had a say in the fabric for the spread and canopy, but my mother's absolute notion of what colors were appropriate for a little girl meant I deferred to her. And she was sewing it for me herself. It was a pretty but very light blue, with multicolor pastels on the flat of the bed, short ruffles at the top. And the bed itself was white and gold, Sears probably still sells them. But my mother went to so much effort, and I was getting what I said I wanted... I was quiet and tried to be grateful. Appeared to be certainly. I could not be so aware of tight money and not make her feel I appreciated her efforts.

There was a lilac jumper once, dreadful polyester thing. But mom had made it. I wore it. It made me feel ugly. My mother told me purple was not the best color on me, lilac certainly is not.

When I was out on my own, I found a deep dark purple sweater in a rummage sale. I kept it, despite holes and general decay until just a few years ago. It made me feel wonderful. It was the perfect purple, and the ratty appearance, even when new to me, was part of it's charm. Soft, body too short, the arms stretched out, often worn inside out. Often worn with dance clothes. My first article of clothing in the right color, and I kept it for 20 years. Had it with me in Saudi.

I tried other colors, black especially, and grey. I had a bright pink shirt that I paid too much for in San Antonio. A saffron scarf, blues of any dark hue for many things. I owned a green car. I have had red jackets, one now, because of a sale rather than a preference. I wore army green for six years, but only when I was paid to. I wear green scrubs now for the same reason. Being able to wear colorful hats in deep rich shades, two purple- helps. I wore white through nursing school, hated because of periods and because always looked grey, and dirty. I wore navy blue uniforms in grade school and brown in high school. I have worn many unflattering clothes, but uniforms were the perfect excuse to look bad, because it wasn't my fault, and everyone around me was wearing the same thing. Easy. I believed I had no fashion sense, so uniforms in disliked colors didn't matter. I yearned for purple.

I had two years of prosperity, and I found that my fashion sense wasn't so much bad as a bit expensive. I cannot make bad clothes look good, but when I can afford it, I can choose good, flattering clothes. My love of that rich dark of a midnight purple is still part of me. The sweater I wear now, another of silk, many scarves of all kinds of purple. A stretchy knit skirt of dusty purple. I was just too poor to indulge my taste except with a second hand bit of knit for many years.

Purple is still to me a symbol of my independence. My own taste indulged. And my mother's inability to understand me, and attempts to interpret me, wrongly. Of the imposition of her will on something that shouldn't have mattered that much to her as an adult, but that mattered to me as a child. Like banning denim jeans as 'what workmen wore', not her daughter. Like resisting letting me grow my hair. "You look so cute in a Pixie." Symbolic of other narrow views and absolute dogma. My father's opinion on all of this was just something to rail against, anything he liked was what I didn't do, because I did not want to please him or attract him. That was just part of his overwhelming cruelty. But my mother was my ally, I wanted to please her. She made unreasoned demands of my taste and preferences as though they were a moral issue. Today I cannot talk to her, because I do not want to be judged by her. Because her judgment is suspect. Because she never bothered to know my favorite color, as a child nor as an adult, and I don't now care to trouble myself to get to know her.

Because I look beautiful in purple.