An Autumn Pet Peeve

I love a field of autumn corn. The stalks all golden brown, lined up, and waiting to be harvested. It’ll be cut down, chopped, and used for silage to feed cattle during the long winter. (Silage goes in a silo and that’s what most farmers call it. I grew up on a farm very near the Quebec border and never heard the word silage until a few years ago. We used the word “ensilage” exclusively–the French influence, I guess.)

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I even love a field of mown corn. It looks restful, harvest finished, and its sere, muted shades make the surrounding foliage seem all the more radiant.

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But this? This make me peevish. Who does this?

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Who harvests an entire field and leaves one last corn stalk standing? So untidy . . .

(And can you see the blue jay photo bombing the picture?!)

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Re-Entry . . .

Hi.

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I’m Kerry. Remember me?

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It’s been awhile . . .

I’ve been wanting to get back here, to say hello, to say everything is fine.

But what a busy summer it’s been!

Nothing hugely dramatic. Just so busy.

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Doctor appointments, for my mother, my husband, me. Some regularly scheduled, some emergency.

Veterinarian appointments, for our many cats. Some regularly scheduled, some emergency.

We cleaned out my mother’s house. We took care of her possessions, the ones she didn’t take with her to the assisted living facility, and maintained her yard. We sold the house.

We had two enormous garage sales. We sold stuff on Craigslist. My fantasy is to be able to park a car in the garage come winter, for the first time ever.

We had visitors come to stay. We made a trip to Boston.

We participated in a craft show.

And we did our own yard and house chores and summer projects. Don built a fire pit the new pictures windows will be installed in two rooms soon.

I spend at least two or three days a week with my mom.

All summer long, in the early mornings, I have had time to either weave or write a blog post. I’ve chosen the former.

In the evenings, I have had time to either write a blog post or sit by the lake and have a quiet drink with Don. I’ve chosen the latter.

For the last couple weeks, things have been a little less hectic, a tiny bit less scheduled.

I’ve thought several times about writing here.

But like all good, healthy habits, once one stops, it’s very difficult to start again.

And that’s all this post is. A chance to start again. To say hi. And to commit to being back soon.

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Clouds: Ragtag Tuesday Daily Prompt

Like Margaret, who provides CLOUDS as this week’s Ragtag Tuesday prompt, I prefer fluffy, white clouds scudding through the sky, perhaps calling to mind a bunny or a kitty, or reflecting in placid waters.

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But I was sure that most of the cloud photos in my own files would be of dark, forbidding, foreboding clouds, full of drama and threat. Maybe it’s a reflection of my mood, in the face of news of my country and our world?

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When I actually went looking I was surprised and pleased to find that, in reality, most of my cloud photos are dramatic, yes, but with the drama of sun dispelling darkness, of light peeping through, of hope.

Let’s be hopeful . . .

Serried: Ragtag Daily Prompt

My blog pal, Margaret, participates in a daily prompt for photos and writing and other forms of expression.

Her first choice of prompts is the word “serried,” and the word and the woman have inspired me to re-visit some photos from a trip to Scotland and Cornwall.

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Serried foxgloves in Morrab Gardens in Penzance

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Serried flags in Penzance

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Serried highland dancers; pint-sized versions

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Serried barrels of whisky at Laphroaig, Islay.

A Chest, Full of Metals

 

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Americans of a certain age will remember this guy. Mark Spitz won an unprecedented 7 gold medals at the 1972 Olympics. And showed them off nicely!

I’ve never won an Olympic medal of any color. But I am a medalist in my own right. Or should I say a metalist?

I have a chestful of my own metals, more precious to me, not to mention more useful, than Mark’s. (And I’m wearing a shirt. You’re welcome.)

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I’ve been thinking for a while about collecting every pair of scissors in the house, just for chuckles. Like most of you, I probably have more than I need and, in spite of that, I seem never to find a pair when and where I need them.

I have taken to wearing a small pair around my neck and have many of them on handwoven ribbons. They are sharp and pointy and it still took me too long this winter to figure out why all my knit shirts had a hole in the middle of the front . . . 

A friend solved my problem with a length of tubing that I cut to fit every single pair of the small scissors!

So, in all, in one household of two people, we have at least 27 pairs of scissors.

We have the kind-of-crappy-yet-useful scissors with the plastic handles of many colors.

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We have the “good” scissors, the kind my mother used to threaten us kids never to use on anything but fabric.

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And we have my favorite small scissors, all pretty and many of them “good,” with a nice representation of storks.

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If I count right, that’s 27. Then there are the ones that turned up as soon as I finished taking the photos, and the ones that will turn up tomorrow . . .

And, as evidence that great minds really do think alike, Margaret recently posted about her collection of scissors—her collection is impressive!

Are you sitting there thinking, “I could top that!”? Go ahead. Write your own post and prove it!

 

Post Script to Ice Out

I chortled and cheered yesterday about the ice leaving our bay on Lake Champlain.

I marveled at the movement of the water.

And my, how that water moved, driven by high winds, throwing wave upon wave to our seawall.

We had ice out . . . but also lots of ice ON!

All our red flower pots, the small fire pit, the limbs I’ve been clearing from the lawn, and every blade of grass on the lawn . . . all glowing, encased in ice.

Welcome to spring in the North Country of upstate New York . . . .