Good morning from late November. The cat is being trained with a squirt bottle and lavender water to wake us up only at dawn. His previous breakfast call had shifted to between 2-3am and this u.n.a.c.c.e.p.t.a.b.l.e. It seems to be working. He is not actually being soaked at all; after the first misting, which he found outrageous, he stays well beyond range. He has become quite polite. Do you think this might work with politicians?
There are another five ripe strawberries waiting to be eaten, and the silly things keep making flowers. It bears repeating that this is an ever(and ever and ever)-bearing cultivar called "Fern".
It was sweet, and very firm, almost crisp; nothing like the soft, warm implosion of a July berry.
The blueberry bush. Wherever I am, I hope to be able to grow blueberries. More, I would like many more. The orange and yellow cages are the tepees (tuteurs, properly) that I brought down from the roof farm during my tidying session the other day.
I checked on the farm and found that the squirrel has been busy. Dug up all my newly sown pots. I see pate in his future. I also saw the late afternoon lights coming on in the brownstones across the way. Something stirs deep in my heart at this time of year, from memories of long-ago stories, when I lived far far south on a continent that had hot summer Christmases and where lights did not stream out, showing the life within. The memory is from books internalized but whose romanticized winters had never been experienced in person.
Today there will be big terrace clean up. Its bones will show. Hard to believe it ever looked like this.
Reflections of red in the doctors' residence.
The ham is calling.