Patchwork

I love the look of quilts and, just as much, the idea of quilts.  They are such a wonderful blend of the functional and the beautiful;  and the best part is that they are created (at least in their classic form) from carefully hoarded bits and scraps of fabric that could have just as easily been discarded.  I just wish that I had enough sustained enthusiasm for the actual process of quilting to become proficient at it.  But I only know enough to construct the most basic, rudimentary sorts of projects.  To date: one simple quilt (that the mice discovered and made a nest in); two pillows; a wall hanging; a never-ending project involving appliquéd angels on blocks -- one for each month of the year (after about ten years, I'm only on month 5); and four or five projects that were begun but now are folded in a plastic tub in the garage.  Not particularly impressive.






 We've been attending a Unitarian Universalist fellowship since last November and both Bruce and I are delighted to be so warmly welcomed into this "family".  And I love the building we meet in -- a tiny one-room school house (said to be the oldest in Calaveras County) with views out the tall windows of sky, trees and two white horses in a neighboring pasture.

The room is spare and humble, but has a strong presence.  The original bell in the bell tower is rung at the start of each service and a framed print of Abraham Lincoln watches from the wall.


















This piano and bench are along the back wall.  The faded velveteen cushion on the bench was completely hand-stitched, but had obviously seen better days.  When asked if I could recover it with patchwork, I jumped at the chance and sang out a loud and clear, "Yes!"






It was only hours later, when I remembered that quilting was not exactly my thing, that my enthusiasm became mixed with concern.  I fretted off and on over the next four weeks as I tried to come up with a perfect pattern that would be worthy enough.  I visited a friend who is an accomplished quilter and she guided me in finding a lovely pattern and then helped (actually, I was so slow that she ended up doing most of the work herself) cut all of the pieces.

But when I got home and looked at the tiny pieces in the plastic bag, my spirits sank.  I knew that a pattern this complex was beyond me -- my dear friend, bless her heart, had very generously overestimated rudimentary abilities.

So I did what I should have done from the very beginning.  First, I changed my mindset from "this project must be amazing and perfect" to "this project will be good enough and everyone will be fine with it".  It is such a relief when my grown-up self comes to rescue me!

I pulled out the tub of upholstery samples that I've hung on to for over twenty years and was happy with the possibilities.  Then I found an easy pattern on the internet; one without too many seams and with pieces large enough to make them easy for clumsy fingers to work with.
And then I got to work.

Incredibly, I finished the whole thing in a single, long day.  I'm still gobsmacked by this!



                                                                                                                                                                       

 And here's what I brought to church the next day:

Imperfect and simple, it turned out to be good enough.  I'm happy.

Ephemera

The lilacs budded, bloomed and bathed the air with purple fragrance for a few short weeks.  I never even thought to get a picture before the flowers were gone.  Most of the springtime bulbs are over and done for the year: daffodils, tulips, Dutch iris, freesias and bluebells.  Peonies in their large pots now arch their leaves over a magenta carpet.  The redbud shrubs, so recently radiant in soft purple cloaks are now in their summer green.  As are all the orchard trees:  apple, pear, quince, and peach blossoms have all fallen.


                                                                                                                               

Springtime in all its beauty, is a wistful time.  I find myself trying to notice every last color, nuance, fragrance and essence before it vanishes like a dream.  Springtime is a fey, shy guest -- she gathers her gloves, hat and purse and leaves the party far too soon.

Cackle Fruit

 We currently have an embarrassment of eggs.  This is due in no small part because last spring I went a tiny bit nuts when I beheld the cuteness of fuzzy chicks under a heat lamp in our local feed store.  So I brought home seven.  And then, about a month later, I went to different feed store for something totally unrelated (perhaps dog food), went bonkers yet again and came home with another box of fuzzy cuteness. They all joined our elderly bunch of biddies (turned nine years old this year) and it's been a feathered mob in the coop ever since.  This is even after I gave away four of the youngsters to friends and three of the older girls died this spring.  Right now, we are getting an average of ten eggs a day.

With so eggs coming in, I've developed an assembly line sort of routine to deal with them.  I collect them every day and keep them refrigerated until I have about a week's worth to wash. They get a quick rinse, air dry for a while on the counter and then are boxed up.

* I must add that I do not generally sort my eggs by color.  One day it just seemed like a fun sort of thing to do, so I did it.  The simple joys of retirement...

Our outdoor fridge looks like this right now -- this is about two and a half weeks worth of eggs.  We give most of them away.  People in our church love to see us coming on a Sunday with our tote bulging with eggs.









I also boil up a batch every week for Bruce to include in his lunches.  Plus we might use an additional half dozen or so for breakfasts and general cooking.  So we have twenty-odd hens for the pleasure of eating a dozen eggs a week -- and then giving the other five dozen away.

So, the question is: Is it worth it?

In a word:  Yes!

My Lunch On Table Mountain

Path of the Padres never happened -- at least, not for us this year.  On the day set for our next attempt it rained yet again, so the walk was once again canceled.  This had been the last hike scheduled for the year but the ranger arranged for one more attempt a few weeks later (to her credit, she was very persistent).  Unfortunately, on that date Bruce and I were busy so had to pass.  It didn't rain that day, so I hope they had a wonderful walk even though it was without us.  Next year.

A lovely consolation (for me, at least) was that I was invited to join a local women's hiking club.  My only walk with them so far was on March 31-- a short, but vigorous (at least for the last bit as we scrambled over boulders) hike up a local landmark called Table Mountain.  It's not really a mountain, but the volcanic evidence of lava that had flowed about ten million years ago down ancient river courses and hardened.  These are called inverted (or upside-down) rivers and the far end of this particular one is is less than five miles from Frogpond.  Here is a geology professor's blog post with more detail on the geology of this area:  http://geotripper.blogspot.com/2015/04/where-rivers-are-upside-down-hike-to.html

Oaks just budding out

I'll admit that I was a bit apprehensive joining this group of women for even this rather mild hike.  True to my nature, I found myself worrying about all sorts of immensities such as what to wear (long pants or short pants?), how to pack my lunch (paper bag or zipper bag?, the correct shoes (light weight or heavy weight?), the weather (bring a light sweater or a jacket? Both?), my hat (baseball cap or floppy hat?).  I amaze myself by what I allow to threaten my peace of mind.  And then there was the larger-looming worry that I might not be able to keep up with the other ladies or that the final bit, where we had to navigate over the rocks, would be too much for me.  I didn't think that they would send me back down to wait by the car, but still...

Marsh Marigolds

Brodiaea

Indian Paintbrush along lower part of trail

Naturally, it turned out that I needn't have worried about any of the above.  The ladies were kind and welcoming, my fitness was adequate and I puffed no harder than several of the others, and hat, shoes, lunch, etc were fine.




All of these flowers were all growing among the oaks and meadows along the lower part of trail.










The rest of these pictures show the views from up top.

Tra-la! : Hat, lunch, shoes and I made it up in one piece!

Blue Lupine

Distant Sierras to the east

Harlequin Lupines

Vernal Swale

View towards Jamestown

New Melones Reservoir 

As you might have guessed, lunch was delightful.  

Path of the Padres, Part I

With my first year of retirement almost complete, I continue to savor this new gift of time that has fallen like a ripe plum into my lap.  I'm delighted by this luxury to be able to turn my attention to things other than all the teacher-related duties that encompassed most of my waking and sleeping life.    For instance, this year when February hit, instead of planning for the annual classroom Valentine's Day party, I was able to shift gears and plan for a valentine for my own Valentine -- my dear husband.
I made March 25th reservations for a boat ride and hike at Los Banos Creek Reservoir.  This hike is called "The Path of the Padres" because this is an area where Franciscan missionaries traveled over a century ago.  The wildflowers are supposed to be spectacular this year and the coordinator I spoke with assured me that there would be time given for photography and wildlife watching.  A perfect fit for Bruce.

But then came the on-again/off-again rains of the week before the big day.  When Friday came, I took no chances and called again to make sure that the hike was still on for the following day.  The woman who took my call wasn't sure, but assured me that all participants would be notified if it was cancelled.  We heard nothing, so the next morning left the house at dawn with lunches, backpacks, rain gear, photography equipment and anything else we thought we might need.

"Today's hike's been cancelled," the young man at the ranger kiosk told us when we arrived.  He went on to tell us that we could reschedule next week when the main office was open.  I had had a suspicion all along that this might happen, so wasn't terribly surprised.  But still.

Since we'd driven two hours to get there, we decided to take a look at the reservoir and perhaps take in something else that was in or near the park.  This proved to be more difficult for me to deal with than the cancellation of the planned trip because we spent the rest of the morning fruitlessly driving to the various places that the ranger had recommended.  No place managed to be good enough.

Our first pick was a long, looped trail through the hills.  When we arrived at the trailhead parking lot, there was only one other car.  However, within minutes, a long stream of cars holding a happy church group. They were very nice and even invited us to join them...

The next place we visited was the reservoir itself.  This initially looked promising, but there was nowhere to go other than the parking lot.  So we drank in the scenery (very ethereal and lovely), took pictures and left.

We then drove to another part of the reservoir where a ranger told us there was a walking trail along the shore.  This turned out to be true, but there was the matter of, once again, too many other people, along with power poles, solar panel farms, and encroaching civilization on all sides.  We stayed for a bit and tried to make the best of it, but it was no use.

I'll admit that as the day wore on, I had to work harder and harder not to succumb to a massive attack of the sulks.  Bruce, bless his sweet heart, was game to keep on trying but I was very much over this excursion and just wanted to go home.  I think that Bruce realized I'd hit the end my rope and we'd just decided to head back when we saw the sign for San Luis National Wildlife Refuge Complex.  We drove past that first turn-off where the sign was and didn't have the energy or will to turn around.  So we kept going.  But then, there was a second sign that said "Auto Tour Route and Nature Trails" and this time we turned in.                                                              




 And, just like that and almost by accident, we found that elusive "somewhere" that we'd been hoping to find.  The rutted road snaked through green and watery wetlands and birds were everywhere, both in flight and on the water.

I look at these pictures and realize that not a single duck, ibis, blackbird, or even pelican is to be seen.  My trusty little point-and-click camera has it's limitations -- the landscape is devoid of any birds and there is no sense of the whistling of the dozens (hundreds?) of blackbirds all singing and calling out at the same time.
However, Bruce got quick shots of some of the waterfowl among the reeds and the birds flying all around us.

My own spirits were so lifted by all of this beauty, that not even this sign at the end of the road could diminish my happiness:



Yes, the walking trail at the end of the road was closed.  Never mind -- just another reason to go back.

The bunny at the end of the road

And, we will be back.

Turnips

Until very recently, I had never tasted a turnip and had never given much thought to them one way or the other.  But last October I noticed their pictures in the John Scheepers Kitchen Garden seed catalogue and had to have them.  I decided that they would be an interesting experiment for the winter garden and two packets were ordered (Le Moulin Rouge and White Lady) plus one packet of parsnips.  

I planted seven rows in a raised bed by the house and pretty much left them alone for the next two and a half months. By February, I had turnips and parsnips in the rows and (thanks to our generous rains) a jungle of weeds and poppies everywhere else.  I pulled some of the weeds, left some of the poppies and thinned some of the turnips and parsnips.  Then it rained some more and I left the entire bed alone for the rest of the month.

A few days ago I noticed that I could see the white and red shoulders of the turnips sticking up beneath their foliage.  I pulled some up and am thrilled that they look exactly like the picture on the seed packet.












This attitude of amazement is in large part because most of my plantings wind up looking like nothing at all, thanks to gophers, chickens, insects, lack of water, weeding mistakes and big feet stepping in the wrong place. 

Even after over four decades of gardening, the miracle of seeds still amazes me.   

Bluebird Houses

One of the great gifts of retirement is this new ability to tend to, complete or even officially abandon the numerous projects that I've taken on over the years.  If my life were to be told through what I started but never complete, it would be a long and sorry litany of abandoned enthusiasms and neglected duties.  The physical evidence of this surrounds me on a daily basis:  the button waiting to be sewn;  a saddle gathering dust on the stand while the horse loafs and gets fat in the pasture; cones of yarn piled on the table by an empty loom; tubs of jumbled photographs, journals and letters stacked in the garage (not sure what I'll ever to with them -- I don't seem to have any desire to ever look at them again, yet can't bear to throw them away.  And what if -- despite the overwhelming reality check of cold logic -- I were to become famous?  My diary as a sixteen-year-old angst-ridden teenage girl would be lost for the ages); a cheesemaking press in an upper cabinet that hasn't squeezed a cheese in years;  an embarrassing, ever-growing stack of books that I bought but never read; the forlorn seed packets stowed in a tin on the gardening table, years past their printed expiration date.  The list is endless and fills me with despair.  I want to take a nap.

The napping is a fact of life, however, I'm also taking on, one-by-one, the tasks that surround me.  To be honest, when I first retired, I generously gave myself a full year to get my life completely in order -- organized and humming.  With only three months left, I now admit how unrealistic this timeline was.  So I've adjusted it accordingly:  I now have until my last day on this earth to complete everything (or not).  And then I'll take a nap.  A very long one.

Now that I've given myself additional time, I'm galvanized by a new energy.  Which brings me to bluebirds.  Twelve years ago,  I found out about something called The California Bluebird Recovery Project, an effort to reestablish Western Bluebirds into their habitats by providing boxes for them to nest in.  It involved not only mounting the boxes, but monitoring them as well (numbers of eggs, hatchlings, problems with predators/natural disasters and diseases) and then reporting the results.  The citizen-scientist in me was enchanted with this project and I set up a bluebird trail of 17 boxes on our property and, for good measure, put up an additional 20 on the acreage of a nearby defunct goldmine.  I kept this project going well for two years.  The third year, I began to slip and by the fourth,  I gave up and let it all go entirely.  I never removed the nest boxes, so have spent a lot of years taking my walks around the property, trying not to look at the moldering, broken, falling-apart evidence of yet another project left by the wayside.

So last weekend, I shook myself awake and Bruce and I (plus the usual assortment of dogs and cats) worked to change that.  We gathered up all of the nest boxes and began putting up new ones.  Any project is more fun with Bruce and we all had a rollicking good time out in the springtime green and sunshine.

This time around,  I'm keeping things small and we're limiting it to four boxes which I'm not even going to officially monitor.  We'll see how this year goes -- perhaps next year we'll do more. However, even if I don't, this more modest endeavor leaves me feeling satisfied.

I'm good with this new perspective.

Synchronized Snoozing

Uncle Murphy and his little nephew, Chance, snoozing (isn't "snoozing" a great word?  Say it aloud, and it sounds exactly like what it refers to).  Usually sleep hits them when they're in different places, but last evening they most eloquently joined forces.

                                                                             

Rooster Amid Daffodils

All this wonderful rain is already bringing us a beautiful spring.  Even though I'm kept busy pulling the weeds that are already rampant, I mustn't forget to pause and take in the beauty that is all around us.  Springtime is so ephemeral...

The Return

It's been over half a year since I last posted and, uneventful (relatively speaking) though things tend to be around Frogpond, I suppose it's time to write something.  And the something is...IT RAINED!!!  I don't mean the teaser-sort of pitter-pat precipitation that I've called anything wet and clear that fell from the sky these past seven (or is it eight?) years.  No, these have been land-drenching storms that lasted for days, formed waterfalls cascading down the hillsides and turned the landscape green and mossy with mushrooms joyfully popping up all over the place.  That kind of rain.  Happy sigh.

Of course, it also caused some severe flooding in the Valley, land, mud and snowslides in the mountains, and sent many of our drought-weakened trees crashing down.  But all of these weather catastrophes do little to (dare I say it?) dampen my enthusiasm for the wet stuff.  Looks like we're going to have an awesome wildflower display later this spring.

Our abundant winter storms have brought this large muddy hole the miracle of transformation to its former self.

















Voila!  At last the magic has returned and the pond is back to reflecting the blue of the sky like a serene mirror.


I'm realistic and know that the water will recede throughout the long summer, but for now I'm just grateful for this beautiful spring.  I'm celebrating the return of a friend who's been gone for far too long.