Like a dog with a bone

I still have no idea what I'm doing with Blogger! 

What the heck; I have no idea what I'm doing on my own computer. So glad I didn't pay a penny to that H-P technician; I still can't print a line, let alone a page. In a snit, I stormed off to Staples and bought "the least expensive printer you have for a Dell computer." It was $68.00. 

Oh, but an extra cartridge because the factory installed...

The printer is hard wired. I bought the cable.

At the counter, for $20, I bought the four year warranty. Someone is going to walk me through setting up this printer and uninstalling the H-P, which will go to the curb. 

The seventy dollar printer cost me one hundred and eighty one dollars.

One day this week I had an unexpected call from Beth, squealing  in excitement over an unexpected bird in her yard. I helped her narrow it down to a Baltimore Oriole. Here's a picture she sent me (through two windows):

Staples is in the same strip mall as Wild Birds Unlimited, where I used to drop the above mentioned sum with no qualm. It announced closed, except for curbside. On a whim, I called, and Bonnie answered. Long story short, they carried a nicely packed spike Oriole feeder to my car, and I will ship it to Beth's back yard tomorrow.

It has quit raining and I'm over my printer snit, so I will go carry my Staples purchases into the house and probably exercise my "Protection and Tech Help Package" setting up the printer.

I need to write a post

Well, I rolled over for New Blogger. I succumb to imminent threats. Come June they will turn it on as a trial and come July, it's New Blogger or nothing. So, that's that. I hope the type on the page is a decent size. I'm so skeptical! Let me know

I finally stopped kicking a problem down the road. My PC quit a year or so ago and passed us on to a new practitioner. The new doc was a DO and I thought I'd give it a try. She also was majorly homeopathic, and that was OK, too. I'll swallow saffron and stuff for awhile and see. Then, she was gone. Left the practice. Hmmmm.... I scheduled with the next name on the list.

The first visit this new doc handed me off to a PA. OK, I know this drill. Except when the doc stepped in, had she listened to the PA? I close to quit her on the spot, but held off. Next visit (we're still talking way last year here), she handed me off to a "monitoring student". At this point, I have a problem to discuss, and did. 

And when the doc stepped in had she listened to the student? So I took up her valuable time and started back at square one. It involves my formerly broken leg, which remains enlarged. This is an old, old problem, called Peripheral Vascular Disease. Exacerbated by smoking and driving eight hours to and from shows and related stupidity of invincibility. We agreed on a compression stocking.

Our next appointment was ten days ago, and when her scheduler called me, I refused a telephone appointment. I'd ditched the compression stocking; it made my toes look even more like fat piggies. She prescribed a diuretic and an ultrasound. There was no clot found. I took the diuretic for two days. But, the second day I peed twice. My kidneys are Stage III, and that diuretic and I parted company.

I sent her an email. She told me to halve the dose and she would find a vein clinic. I ditched the diuretic (and told her) and waited further instruction. Two weeks, nada. 

Tuesday I called up the list of docs at Akron General. There are 928. I sorted "vascular". There are 39. I spent Tuesday and Wednesday reading the curricula vitae, eliminating the cerebral and the neuros and the cardios, watching the embedded videos, making a list, checking it twice. Today I made a choice and called to make an appointment. "I'm so sorry, she is out of the office until the end of July." We all know she has a new baby. Good for her.

So, I went to number two, and made an appointment. June 23rd. I emailed my PC. And, she does apologize, but they could not get me into the vascular clinic. WTH? End of rant. I am incredibly fortunate to live in the heart of a medical center.

So what else in my spare time? Weaving, with, unfortunately, extra napping. I hope it's just the spring weather and pollen. Lord knows, my ears and sinus are b.l.o.c.k.e.d.

I finished the purple, and they are being hemmed as I type (if you believe that, I have a bridge of Lego blocks...).

And in the "of Blogger interest", two, maybe three, more items hopefully slipping down the pipe. Grandchildren are involved. You know how that can be.

OK, posting now, and going to have a look...

 

An old lady's Covid-19 holiday

My original plan for this weekend was to weave the last of the purple towels from the loom, and finish them. This mess with internet set me back. I cannot get my printer back on line. So, this week I will engage my computer guru. Bouncing about in my head, I hear him saying I can buy a new printer for the amount he will charge to fix my problem from the maintenance man.

So, how did I celebrate? Cathy, who saved me with the loan of her internet, stopped with pizza. Neighbors who came by in the street were invited up to my "porch", and a nice bunch of us gathered, a fair distance apart. One tot did burst from her wheeled conveyance, and like a quarterback with the ball, worked her way from the street to Aunt Cathy's lap.

"Aunt Cathy, Aunt Cathy, do you want to go to the beach when the virus is over?"

I thought back to the viral epidemic of my childhood, the killer, polio. We didn't know children who died, but I knew three with crippled limbs. The state health services, and they did exist, had no advice on avoiding that virus. Our mothers were on their own.

I spent a long afternoon and evening enjoying the group that formed, thinned, reformed. 

The next morning my sister and I set out on the Memorial Day plant expedition. She drove right on by Suncrest Gardens' packed parking lot, then past Kreiger's even more packed lot. "Cochran's", I said. "It's still on the way home!"

We slowly pushed a cart up one aisle and down another. I picked up a lot of plants. I got up early yesterday morning, got my bucket and trowel from the shed and my bench from under the deck, and planted them all.

See the little rock elf? Mustache like Toby's? Life goes on, people remain much the same. This was to be a bumper graduation year for me, and it was, though I have been invited to no observances.

From high school, Laura and Francis have graduated. From college, Blake (nee Emily). Congratulations to all, and a big smile from the little elf.

Hijacked and disconnected!

Some of you are hijacked, and simply announce “My Facebook was compromised, so if you get a friend request from me, blablabla.” Well, I was simultaneously hijacked and my internet cable was severed. One did not result in the other, but one may have facilitated the other.

A reasonably seasonal spring day yesterday, and I heard Dan, now the only maintenance man for three parks, driving his lawn mowing tractor at about double speed, come roaring along the side of my unit, cropping weeds at the level of dirt. He passed my line of sight, and then the next news item did not appear on my screen, and my internet slipped away.

This does not happen to me; I have good internet service. I called Cathy. She had internet. I called Spectrum. “Oh, yes, you went off at 12:31 p.m. Can you think of any incident that may have occurred at that time?” I flicked mental pages and announced Dan had “mowed” the “grass” pretty much at that time. “It easily could have been a cut cable,” announced my technician. “Didn’t they bury it?” 

Yes they did, last June, when it was installed. Dan did not mow at dirt level back then. New Jersey was not looking to refinance back then. Dan did not have to worry that a drone would fly over and check up his three parks.

In the meantime, my cable cannot be replaced for four days. Until Saturday. I was furious mad, and Dan knew it. Early this morning he crept in and did something to restore my television. I got a text: Your TV should work now.

But, my email asked if that was me, logging into Netflix in Turkey. That bastid in Turkey changed my identity and my phone number. A very polite Netflix fellow spent an hour walking me through changing everything. 

Once he did ask, prefacing his question stating he was not speaking in a derogatory way, or sexist, or demeaning, but was there a much younger person available? I told him I had no innate understanding of the workings of my Roku or his Netflix, but I followed directions well. We got it done.

It's not Saturday, you say. Why are you on the internet? My neighbor Cathy, who lives behind me now, called and asked if I would like to sign onto her cable ID. Thank you, Cathy.

And I had a haircut today. Stopped for ice cream on the way home. I decided apple crostata needs ice cream.

Rained all day

I have an appointment Thursday for a haircut. I feel like I've seen their board and haircuts are up a dollar. But how could I see it? Ann told me she raised every price a dollar.

Getting back to business is so weird.  Wisconsin has no guidelines she knows of. Ann has every other kennel empty, and she has staggered arrival times to not overlap. But, Memorial Day approaches, and she has only received twenty reservations. In the past all forty kennels have been reserved, with a waiting list.

Two books I've finished lately deserve a mention. Tonight I finished Scribbling the Cat, by Alexandra Fuller. It is, I think, her third book I've read. Another compelling read; she is a fine writer. 

The first book, Don't let's go to the dogs tonight, is obviously shaped by Africa's many recent wars and long standing oppression.  But very much from a child's perspective. Scribbling is how the participants fill in the hollows of their lives, if they can. She goes on an odyssey with two or three soldiers of the war; four if you count her as one, too. Another good and frequently compelling read.

Before that I read Officer Clemmons, Francois Clemmons, only just released. I put myself on a waiting list to buy it. This is a book that makes me want to rage, or cry hopelessly. Clemmons was mentored throughout his career by Fred Rogers. I would have read it in one sitting, except I started it in the afternoon. I overstayed my bedtime as it was.

I had a good dinner tonight (and a quarter of my blueberry crostata). Last night's from scratch dinner was not too appealing, except for a quarter of the blueberry crostata. It was noodles, asparagus and mushrooms and onions and garlic in a buttermilk rue. I only made it because of the buttermilk I continue to have left from making cornbread.

The remainder did not go in the freezer because I knew full well I would not work on resuscitating it. So tonight I brought the skillet up to sizzle and turned all those noodles brown and crispy. I sliced a cucumber in another dish and called it supper.

I keep getting happy notes about the crostata. I've made three, to date. I also bought a little jug of clotted cream, but have not yet picked a worthy crostata. I have a couple of apples to turn into a crostata. I cut them into four pieces and make them last four nights. Otherwise......

The last of my mother's day flowers, plus an allium from outdoors. It suffered a tragic accident.

How do you do it?

"I wonder, wonder, wonder, wonder, who wrote the book of...."

How do you all do it? Every day you have something to say. And it's interesting, or profound, or intellectually challenging (for me, at any rate), a well reasoned political rant, or just plain nice and fun. My treatise on the Road Runner beep, beeping was close to rock bottom.

I did see my oldest daughter on Mother's Day, an unexpected and nice surprise. She called to say she was outside, and would meet me on the deck. It did take me a mental moment to realize she was outside, and I said I did have a mask, to please come in.

She stayed about an hour and then left to join the family at Ruth's. In the course of conversation, I learned she over did gardening and is back in the leg brace. In or out, she cannot use a garden stool, it's too tall for her to bend comfortably, and she cannot kneel.

Over the course of the week I researched variable height stools, and found one on Amazon. I tried and tried, but could not get Amazon to add a shipping address, as I have often done in the past. So, I got it in the usual two days, and arranged to drive to Beth's house early Saturday morning.

I don't remember selecting a color, but guess I got a good one. Beth agreed that Grandma Lytle would approve.

I took a tour of the flower beds. I stopped under the robin's nest, but stood back from their long drop toilet.

I walked around and around her old flowering cherry, in awe.

And I came home.

Beep, beep, beep

Like many of us, I drive absolutely n.o.w.h.e.r.e. of late.  Friends are virtual. Doctors are virtual. Errands and groceries can be virtual if we let them. Unlike driving, car insurance does not go away.

After buying a tank of gas or less a month for the last two months, I decided to show them how little I drive and how low my insurance rate therefore should be. I asked my agent to sign me up for that Progressive program that involves plugging a little device into the appropriate spot on the dashboard.

"Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?" he asked me. That little device records everything about your driving. And I answered they were welcome to know everything. I've been a driver since I was seventeen. Though I've been involved in an accident, I've never caused one. I'll show them!

So, the little thing arrived. The internet showed me where to plug in on my car. Since I can no longer stand on my head, I drove it down the road to my mechanic, who could bend over adequately to plug it in. It was working, it went Beep, Beep, Beep when I left the shop.

I live off a 45 m.p.h. road. If I can, I make the left hand turn onto my street as efficiently as possible, so not to slow the traffic behind me too much. Which means making the turn while still braking. Which causes the little Road Runner under the dash to say "Beep!"

The first time I heard it, I understood it, but I certainly did not agree with it. "Fuck you!" I said. "I have a train behind me." I came home and looked up my report page, and there it was, "Hard brakes!" My only other possible sin at this point could be "Fast acceleration," and that's something I can never remember doing.

Since the Road Runner has been down there, checking up on me, I've left my drive twice, in a week. Yet it reports I've taken sixteen trips. I finally decided it counts every time I restart the car a trip. Stop for gas, another trip.

I've also been nicked for hard brakes five times. It's heard from me all five times, too. Coming back from the dentist today, it got me at least three times. One was the turn onto my street, of course. 

But it also got me for merging onto one of those exits you see all over New Jersey, and several times on my interstates, too. A usual exit lane onto a 25 m.p.h. circular exit to another freeway. I will never slow my car to 25 m.p.h. in a lane of 65 m.p.h. traffic. That's why my car has brakes.

So, I will stick this thing, and yell at it fairly often, I think. I want to see what this ride is about. Won't it have a fit, if I still have it, when I go to Ann's this summer.

Here is the allium pot, when I came home today.

What's up?

Amanda, who occasionally comments, said she is a birder  and she looked up "Ohio Rare Bird Alert, and the only thing I can find for your county, and it seems right in your neck of the (literal) woods is a Kirtland's warbler. They would be in the bushes, and need a big lens if you're photographing them since they're a small bird. When I was in Indiana, I used to make pilgrimage every year to bird the Lake Erie shore just west of Cleveland to see the warblers; it was heaven for a birder!"

Who would have known there is an Ohio Rare Bird Alert!  Thank you Amanda. First thing this morning I called the park, because the fellows were on park property, and a very disinterested ranger told me they probably were birders, but that’s all he could/would tell me.  If you google Kirtland’s warbler, you’ll see a pretty little warbler and a habitat that goes straight through Ohio and ends in the Upper Peninsula.

Amanda’s blog is St. Ann’s Reel, though she hasn’t posted for several years. While I was googling, I checked out St. Ann’s Reel, also one of my all-time favorite songs. You can hear it fiddled “Irish” or “Bluegrass” style. I like Irish myself; Bluegrass is just a little flatter. If you can watch the fingering, the neck, under the strings is worn about bare.

I went out today to check the flowers. We have one final cold night coming on. The mandivillas are fine. Their leaves are not overly fragile. A little more leather like. They will be fine. I keep trying to take a picture of the allium, and I cannot get it in focus, in the brilliant light of day. The poor old allium flower is squeezing itself open, one flower leaf at a time.

I looked up at hawks circling overhead in the brilliant noon time sun. I could see nothing on the screen, it was too bright. This was literal point and shoot. I cropped them small enough to keep only what I wanted, the moon, the birds, the sun. I could not crop them small enough to locate the hook at the tip of a hawk’s wing, so I do not know if these fellows are hawks or buzzards.

Another cold night coming on

My mandevillas need tough only one more cold night. I vaguely recall doing this once in the past; buying before the last recorded freeze date was past. I fast forwarded the calendar to this time next year and firmly told myself, do not consider outdoor plants before May 15th.

It has been one cold week, one night with snow and two nights below thirty. I had to take off the wraps the night it rained; that would have been too much weight to trust safety pins. You can see, they had a rough week, but they made it. They know where they live.

The alium is no more pleased with the weather. I've done nothing for this poor fellow; it's taller than my bucket. I feel like it's a chick, pecking at its egg shell. And wait, there's more. For the dullest life I know of, I come across some interesting sights.

Directly across from my heron pond, these three fellows set up more lens that I ever dreamed of, and were shooting straight into a green thicket. I didn't have the nerve to ask them what they were shooting. I'm fairly confident it is not an eagle, because those lenses are shooting straight into the same kind of greenery as is behind them. If I see them again, I'll be braver and ask. After all, it won't be like it's the first time.

And finally, I am one bobbin past a quarter done with the purple. I won't need to leave home several times tomorrow, and may get more done. Thursday is the dentist...

From the sublime to the ridiculous

Yay Thomas Paine. We all remember that; the ridiculous is a step above the sublime, the sublime a step above the ridiculous.

Just a week ago we potted up some beautiful mandevillas. I've always known not to trust the first of May. We've spent a week at near freezing temps, and I've told them every day, "Hang tough!" And every day they have.

But last night I knew I'd pushed the poor things too far. Temps in the thirties are passable, but twenties not. The only set of sheets I own are on my bed. I called friends for newspapers. No one reads newspapers these days.

My eye fell on the two extra large purple bath towels on my shelf, and there is one more hanging in the bathroom. I had safety pins. I could manage this.

These towels have been so long on the shelf, the grid is imprinted. The safety pins were in the last place I looked.

It was snowing as I covered the plants. The ground was white this morning. The temperature barely got to forty today and will go down to freezing again tonight. I left the wraps on.

I wonder how the alium will survive. Every day they are closer to being in bloom.

Here it is yesterday. It looks about the same this morning. Perhaps it's frozen! One more night, and it will be spring.

Last week I worked on a totally new and different project. I put together a GoFundMe for my neighbor. She is a breast cancer survivor, a double mastectomy and silicon implants to replace breast tissue. Now they are leaking and must be removed. But like so many here, she's not employed and under insured. She was willing to do this, so we did. 

I had no idea what to do, and actually have no idea what I did. Worst, I did get it on Facebook, but simply cannot get it on Instagram. I know less than nothing about social media. I'll keep reading the directions. Maybe I'll get it next week.

Looking at the purple eyes in the alien helmet up there, I'm reminded that I did not post my last display of towels.

I am reminded because I have thrown an inch or so of the next color, purple, like the alium. But, I have no picture. Tomorrow. There were purple towels from the last warp, but they sold in a flash.

Blueberry Crostata Recipe

Ingredients:

1 pint fresh blueberries (approx. 2 cups)
1/4 cup granulated sugar (plus a little more for sprinkling)
1 1/2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1 tablespoon butter, cut into pieces
1 egg
1 tablespoon water
1 store bought refrigerated pie crust (like Pillsbury)

Directions:

1. Heat oven to 425 degrees.
2. Unroll pie crust and place on a baking sheet. You can use a Silpat or parchment paper, but I just put it straight onto the baking sheet and it did fine (no greasing of pan required).
3. In a medium sized bowl, toss together the blueberries, cornstarch, sugar and lemon juice.
4. Spoon the mixture into the middle of the crust leaving about 2" around the edge.
5. Fold the edges over in a haphazard way (neatness does not count here). You want fruit in the middle to show.
6. Cut the butter up into 6-8 chunks and place on top of the blueberries.
7. Whisk up the egg and water in a small bowl. Brush this onto the crust and sprinkle with sugar.
8. Bake 20-23 minutes until the crust is a nice golden brown.
9. Once cooled, you can move it onto a serving plate or be all fancy and serve straight from the baking sheet.
10. This is especially yummy with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream on top of your slice.

This is the recipe exactly as I found it, somewhere, and cut and pasted it to a page in my computer.

Now I've made it twice, once with raspberries and once with peaches. The raspberry time convinced me the egg glaze is not necessary; cooking time is half an hour for my pie crust. A regular pie crust would be best, but puff pastry is what I have.

I certainly would use a pie pan. I probably would spray it. When I run out of puff pastry, I'll use a pie crust. I put the little pastries out to thaw, and rolled into a crust when I got back to it. Yesterday was not a fine day. I'll write about it later. Here is my revised recipe, if you would like to cut and paste it:

Fruit Crostata Recipe

Ingredients:

1 pint fresh fruit (approx. 2 cups)
1/4 cup granulated sugar 
1 1/2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1 tablespoon butter, cut into pieces
1 store bought refrigerated pie crust (like Pillsbury)

Directions:

1. Heat ovento 425 degrees.
2. Unroll pie crust and place in a greased pie pan. 
3. In a medium sized bowl, mix together the cornstarch, sugar and lemon juice. Fold in the fruit.
4. Spoon the mixture into the middle of the crust leaving about 2" around the edge.
5. Fold the edges over in a haphazard way (neatness does not count here). You want fruit in the middle to show.
6. Cut the butter up into 6-8 chunks and place on top of the blueberries. Or just plop the hunk in the middle.
7. Bake 20-30 minutes, until the crust is a nice golden brown.
8. This is especially yummy with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream on top of your slice.

I don't know about the last step; I'm not an ice cream fan. Here is the first crostata I made, raspberry:

My kitchen table today

What it's like to be a bird, a book I ordered some time ago, arrived today. It's beautiful. When I've finished, I will donate it to the little Peninsula Library and Historical Society.  From flying to nesting, eating to singing, what birds are doing and why. My kind of book.

But first I actually will finish Maphead. It has become fascinating. The first chapter seemed to cover everything about geography that puts me to sleep. And it wasn't even "What is the capital of Argentina?", but those dreadful "Is New York east or west of Sydney?" sort of "knowledge".

Once Jennings dispensed with the origin of those exercises, he looks into the dimensional aspects of geography. How did Pittsburgh come to be? I'll pass this book along to my sister, who really does see the world spatially.

I've moved the orchid to the table. This plant has bloomed for ten or more years, but no little orchids last year or this. Perhaps it was missing a window, so I've obliged.

Also in the window, a cutting from a Christmas Cactus. It's been years since I started anything from a cutting. This is in a little jelly jar, and the best part so far is little white roots snaking along the jelly jar. I picked a jar that will yield easy removal when it's time for a real pot. And, I neglected to mention, several small leaves have begun.

Finally, there are five peaches in my fruit bowl. I put them in the window, too, to get a tad more ripe. But I won't be able to stand it past tomorrow, so that's the day for crostata. I'll give the real recipe, but since I saw the peaches at Kreiger's today, all I can think of is peach praline. That will fit in a crostata, too.

Memory

Yesterday was the fiftieth memorial anniversary of the Kent State University shootings. It was a small gathering, and I'm sure, poignant.  

I grew up in awe of my father, who began his life in the military at age 17. This was before recorded time, 1924. He was a radio operator, and packed his field communications on mules.

Four students were, in my understanding, massacred. Nine injured. I ventured my opinion. My father wheeled on me. "They did not obey commands!" And I shouted back, "They did nothing to die for." 

My husband and I went on a vacation early that May, camping with two daughters and friends who lived in Iowa. Everywhere we camped, young people saw our Ohio plates and gathered around our fire. "What do you know about Kent State?' the first question.

I attributed those killings to poor communication, refusal to compromise, poor understanding, but above all, willingness to belligerence. The ones with the power, thrusting out big bellies, commanding the under trained sergeant of twenty odd non war national guard  to advance and shoot the live ammunition.

In my mind's eye, when I see armed crowds advancing on state buildings, to force their version of reopening the country and its economy, I see Kent State. The militia lined along Blanket Hill, and one sergeant who the governor instructed to command "Shoot!" 

Yesterday was my last day to wallow in despair, both of the Kent State shootings so long ago, and the common attitude of probably a majority of my country, demanding what was be again. And believe me, I did wallow.

I kick started a new project today, and I hope to tell you of it soon. I must also go to the store for a couple of overlooked items, so I will buy one only (for me) of the next fruit, and bake us a new crostata pictorial.

May we emerge a new nation, somehow. There is nothing in the air worth dying for, and that includes both Corona virus and a haircut and root touch up. See how petty that sounds, written down. 

  

A week

It has been a long week of nothing to do and nowhere to go. There was a "somewhere to go"; the end of the week held out mandevillas. 

Last Monday I went grocery shopping. It was very cold, raining off and on. In the parking lot I spied a top down Corvette. Still there when I left. A very brave person.

Years ago I saved a foolproof crostata recipe. It started with a store pie crust, then a simple fruit and sugar filling. Fold the crust around the edges, bake and try to resist eating. The girls never were interested, so finally I got to it.

I made it last two days! I pulled out the sheet and scratched the egg wash and sugar glaze. The crust of a dozen puff pastry shells does not need it. When thawed, I mushed the edges together and rolled and rolled it out. Add filling, pull up edges, and bingo, it's a crostata.

I told myself, make one every time I go shopping, one fruit at a time. Blueberries, peaches, apples, cherries, maybe strawberries.

Nancy called, and I'm OK. I will be far better when I can again see friendly faces. I doubt we will play cards tomorrow. People I could count on, week after week, to be there.

Nancy told me of a series she's fallen into on Netflix, Anne, based solidly on Anne of Green Gables. I remember a PBS series, years and years ago, so I gave it a go.The first time I've watched television since last winter, Grace and Frankie.

The first afternoon I went on through so many episodes of tear jerking. Literally, my handkerchief would hold no more, and I couldn't leave for a Kleenex. Then it was dark outside, after nine. I pressed pause and went to bed. It is totally young adult, quite interesting, at least in a time of compelled isolation. And now I don't need a tissue.

Toward the end of the week I phoned another reliable and asked Jan if she and Tom would help me with mandevillas this weekend. I picked Saturday as the best potential day, and we went across the road to Suncrest Gardens. I returned with three mandevillas and a little begonia to replace the gerbera daisy that spent last winter in the living room.

I think outside now looks as if I live here:

The glass dancer who came cross country from Ellen Abbott's side yard in Texas floats serenly  in space.

Mandevilla, white, pink and red, survey the neighborhood.

My wonderful water lily from a sculptor in Michigan overlooks all.

The old crew is in place. A pot of ranunculus in front of Pig, growing to bloom.

A great pot of two small anemone in bloom and so many unknown bulbs, waiting to burst.

I can enjoy from my window. So can the cat.