;

"

Flycatchers

"Hello, my little friend."



Lana Turner reincarnated.


Another yard sale find, nice to put a book, or glass of beer upon.



The ginger lives, in a small way. But, alive.



We have black bees and flycatchers and skippers. Working on photos. A pair of the flycatchers seemed to be feasting on the bugges on the sunflower leaves.

Artistic

Thursday, it rained. A real, drenching, through the night, rain. Such as we rarely get in summer, here.



Everything thriving and green.



Took both cats out, separately, for "walks" this evening. I got to read a bit inbetween Eleanor bolting, both snarling the line on sunflowers, and the odd random change of venue.



During which I greeted many pedestrians. One guy walked up to thank me for such a beautiful garden. I want to be the nice lady with the sunflowers who takes her cats out on a leash. Beats being the asshole apartment manager who shouts at people. One of those in the neighborhood as well. Heard him last night, calling someone a moron, ungrammatically and with obscenities.

This is what the grippy paint looks like. What? It's not messy, it's... artistic!

Decking

A new book joins friends.



Thank you so much, Fresca! Yes, it got here very fast. Sitting down to read it now.


The back ... porch if I can call it that, gets a lot of water right down the middle of the steps. Ice forms, snow packs down, I've slipped more than a few times in winter. Can't place gutters. Last year I put down paint and embedded coarse salt, which helped quite a lot, until it wore off by spring. We picked up a thick, grippy deck paint that will, hopefully, improve the situation. But I had to wait for certain dry weather.

This week, I sanded and cleaned and sanded and swept and swept, laying down the first coat yesterday, the second today. Stuff is like spreading sandy pancake batter.

And it took more than the gallon we bought months ago, so when we had to get a second, the local Ace had never mixed this stuff up, and had no idea how to color it. Took a lot of convincing that whatever came out, we'd buy it and not complain at all. They still worked hard to get something close. It was a lot lighter, but as stated, we really did not care. This is the back/side stairs, with a small landing, where I go out to the car in the morning. Silly place for a back door, not the original plan, but changing it is not in the plan anytime soon.


Anyway, weird, weird stuff, but I think it will help. Did not smell much, and not bad at all.

Trimmed the trees of the intrusive new branches, front over the sidewalk and back over the roof. Took Moby out for a very, very long time. I could tell he was in no mood to be shooed back inside, so I attached the lead to the chair I'd been sitting in, and took some sandpaper to the front stoop - so I can use the last of the grippy paint there. Pausing to check on Moby, he is on the walkway, staring at me with utter exasperation. I unsnarl him, and we go inside.

The sunflowers are grown very tall, this one is snubbing me.



A scarlet (ish) beauty, being blown a kiss. And that's lucky, too.

Floppy

We have a lot of variety in this neighborhood. The shady, the troubled, the homeless, the damaged. Immigrant families and all sorts of alternate styles, as well as apparently middle of the roads, with a sprinkling of the slightly better-offs. In short, we fit right in.

One of the less sane is an individual we noticed a long while ago, who carries a very realistic doll, looks like a one year old girl, around. Took me walking by him to be sure it was a doll. He is lumpy, perhaps in his 60s, his face a bit of a wreck, thick glasses, a brace, or possibly a prosthesis, on one leg. He appears clean and purposeful, often waiting for the bus, I hope this means he has support. I figure he has a story, and I'll probably be better of never knowing it. Not that I've ever been squeamish about that sort of thing, just don't want it ever to be a public issue.

Sitting out with Moby last evening, he limps by, stops, and heads up our walk.

"Enjoying the sunflowers?" I ask, as a heading-off gesture, smiling.

He stops and considers. Then says "You have a nice house."

"Thank you, we try to take care of it." Another long pause. He sees Moby, asks his name, which I tell* him.

"Do you have a dollar?"

"No, I don't have any money on me." He considers this sadly. "Well, you'd best get going." He purses his mouth, sighs heavily and shuffles off, baby-doll dangling. She is always in different clothes, but how she flops when he walks.

I still think he is probably mostly harmless, if rather creepy. I'd rather not antagonize him.

The guy off his meds with the argument with our sunflowers last year, seems to be stable and in good shape this year.





*Since it's not his real cat name, anyway.

Sour

When a man walks a cat.



Cat surveys the forrest.


And is pleased.


Colors showing.



"Whothe calling me a thourputh?"

First

"First!"



"Actually, I've been blooming for several days now, not that you'd notice."



"Almost there, alllllmmmmost..."


This is going to get a bit much. Way too many. But, well, what else was I going to put in this year? And so it begins.

Grand

Never knew my grandfathers. My father's father died when he was young. My mother's father died when my brothers were young. Neither seemed to be exceptional in any way.

Mother's father, according to her, drank himself to death and was found in a flophouse several days after dying. Cousin who did some research throws doubt on this story. The one story that might be true is that he came to dinner, and she bought real butter rather than margarine for him, forgot to put it out, and he never noticed. My brothers remember him.

I have some impression of my paternal step-grandfather, if only because he kept an aquarium with masses of marbles, which came to me, somehow. I liked the marbles. Wish I still had them. I like marbles. Still.

Grandma Zebre Hutt Souilliere nee Meloche, never knew my name. Called me June* or Junie. That she mostly spoke River Canard French has to be balanced with the fact that I was one of only two granddaughters, or one of only four grandchildren of any kind. My one brother claims to have spoken French with her. I was not so honored. Granted she was very old, 75 when I was born. So, I hold her no grudge, but neither do I feel any affection for her.

Granny was another who professed attachment, but I never felt it. Also very elderly when I came along, being the last of the grandchildren before the great-grandchildren arrived in droves. She kept a school photo of mine (that I hated) displayed. Stayed overnight with her once, and it was a strange experience, especially watching her hour-long prayers on her knees twice a day. A complete cypher for me, less than that - no mystery, just a blank.

My aunts Evelyn and Alma were my 'grannies' who mattered. Valued me, liked me for myself, delighted in me. As I did in them. They will never be forgotten so long as I live. They changed everything for small me, by listening and caring. I imagine them enjoying our house, teasing D, petting the cats. Tendrils of life, stretching on, compassion reaching out.



*Which is not a version of my real life name, Joan.

Usagi

If you have not come across Stan Sakai's Usagi Yojimbo, now is your chance. My rabbit bodyguard may find only death in the garden.

Mammals

When we get into bed, in very little time we feel Eleanor's leap over the footboard, so that we now ask her "What took you so long?" In the morning, she often comes to me for a cuddle, perching on my chest, nosing under my chin, until the clock chimes. When I don't have to get up, she wriggles and turns, and turns, and turns, to be scritched and stroked.

Wednesday morning, she had her front paws on my ribs, back paws on my clavicle, haunch against my cheek and tail wrapping around my head. I put a hand on her and chuckled. This morning, lying on my side, she climbs over my arm, eventually settles as I curl around her, her face in blissful repose inches from my own, front paws over my shoulder, my hand over her body. She purrs so quietly it's hard to hear, but I feel it. I am hers.

Mammals know this language of affection, crossing trivial genetic differences.

When I need to move, turning as she goes birling over me, eventually I disentangle and stagger to the bathroom. In the music room, D is sitting on the stool, Moby on his chair. "He really wanted to sit on the chair. For a while, he didn't mind sitting on me on the chair, but as soon as I got up... ." This is not uncommon.

And why not please our furry fellows? Small kindnesses of regard and accommodation take so little, give so much. This is our family. They comfort us when we are tired or ill, or upset. Not our children, nor we their kittens, but kith and kin.

Good Summer, Happy Solstice.

Nip

One of the mosquito repellant plants is catnip. My efforts to grow this from seed failed utterly, repeatedly. So, I just got some. Brought it home in the bag. And marigolds. Got some pots cheap.

Eleanor knew there was catnip, although I only brought the bag in.



This causes some... upset.


Looks good, hope it works, without attracting too many neighborhood cats.



The upper pot has the ginger that started sprouting on the kitchen sill. When life unbidden strives, seems only reasonable to give it a pot to grow in.


Lavender is good too, but not close enough to help.


Some of the sunflowers will be the usual, some will be red. I can already tell which is which.



Tiny strawberry, lush red, so I plucked it, put it in my mouth. Real eternal, transcendental moment, stopped mid-step, I could only stand and savor.