The Last Rose of Summer

It's September 22, the sunflowers are fading and I see the last Rose of Summer.  It's on Aunt Adeline's bush. Dead long these 28 years,  her rose bush is still here.  It's orange...the same color as the sunrise forming in the East as I look out my bedroom window right now.   Sweet Pea is still here beside me hindering my typing somewhat. Nuzzling my wrist, wanting attention. 

Trump is still in office, the summer was a nightmare from a caregiving standpoint, and I've so far managed to avoid a nervous breakdown, but have come close a few times.  Stress does that.

But it's Saturday, and maybe I can score a little downtime.  Never further away than a holler from the other room, but downtime.  Much of my life has been lost to Twitter.   Trying to keep up with the carnival of smoke and mirrors and "look over here's" and the daily drumbeat of lies, perversions, and BS that has defined the current Presidency.   Perhaps the Jewish folks have it right with Shabbat.  A day to unplug.   I've been listening to Rabbi David Wolpe's sermons quite regularly and feel a kinship to his way of thinking.  He is a great Rabbi.  A Great teacher. 

Oh the clouds have spoiled the sunrise.  No more Adeline's rose colored sky.  Dreariness has replaced the hope for the day with  muddy grayish blue skies.

Well, here it is. A post.  Hopefully more posts to follow as I really missed this space.

The Sunday Morning Muse, March 18, 2018

It's Sunday and the sun is rising up over the city through my window,  on a chilly 21 degree day.  I really notice the floaters in my eyes getting worse when I look at the sunrise, so that detracts from the glory of the moment somewhat.  My one friend got rid of his floaters with surgery. Punctured his eye in three places and took out all the fluid inside and replaced it with saline.   My eye doctor says I'm not ready for that yet.  Don't know if he meant physically, emotionally, or both.  It does sound like an exquisite form of torture. But I digress.

I am a caregiver to my 87 year old disabled mother.  No, this blog isn't going to be about that.  This is my escape from that.  Yet, at times, like today, I feel compelled to write that right now there is yodeling coming from the other room as she is listening to a German program on the radio.  Not ideal conditions to create deep thoughts and convey them to you on this blog.  But I'll just move along.

The snowbells are up....and I spotted two crocuses  ( croci?) yesterday near the house.  I measure the year by flowers.  Snowbells are always first....we'll be waiting for the daffodils and tulips next. Will Trump be impeached in lilac time or must we wait for the Sunflowers?

St. Patrick's Day 2018

  Happy St. Patrick's Day to all the Irish and their decendents! 

The sun is coming up on this special day.  We still have the holiday flag flying outside..... but Easter has already taken over here with bunnies and eggs edging out the clover leaves and leprechauns. (Put them up too early, I guess.)

Ireland means Van Morrison to me.  The old curmugdeon is  still out there performing and making new music and that is a good thing. 

Tura Lura Lura....

The Sunday Morning Muse, March 4, 2018

So...before we were rudely interrupted..... now what was it we were going on about? Well, let's just begin anew.  It's Sunday and the sun is rising above the city and I'm feeling this inner stirring to
write again.  I'll need a few posts to find my bearings, so bear with me. :)

"It's a cocky old world," Aunt Millie used to say.  Yes, it is dear.  Oh, if you had lived to see what it's become! I'm still here on your hill, the land where your father settled on at the turn of the last century.  Since that time, many are gone. First went those who remembered World War I,  and now the last few veterans of World War II are disappearing. You counted the widows on the hill remaining of your generation, and now the next generation of widows are dying off  as the cycle continues.

Some things remain.  The daffodils still come back each spring where the steps used to be going up to the old "Bum" School.  The bulbs planted sometime in the 40's or 50's..... no way to tell. The school
is long gone, the land overrun by thickets and locust trees.... but the path of the steps is laid out each year for a short time.  The path of daffodils.

Waiting for spring again.  The birds are up this morning, their songs carrying in the cold air as I took
food out to Yellow Cat.  (More about him later.)

It's good to be back.