Allowances for old cornmudgeon brothers

Most of you know our dear old cornmudgeon brother, Walt, died just about a year ago. There was another stroke a year ago last Memorial Day, he spent the next several weeks slipping away, and he was gone. He left behind six children, one a complete surprise who came to the funeral.

He left behind a little money and the large mess of being intestate. Two of his sons slogged through getting an executor named, getting power of attorney to open the storage lockers to his two vintage automobiles, getting them sold, etcetcetc. Some other sons and wannabes elbowed to the head of the line, demanding their share until Mark simply announced he would put the signed titles on the front seats of the vehicles and quit paying rent on the storage lockers. Then everyone would get the same—nothing. Mark is one sensible fellow.

But, I digress.  Walt also left behind the barn he and Tom shared, to the rafters with Walt’s “stuff,” as Walt parted with almost nothing. Perhaps even nothing, as Tom has come to believe as he has slogged through sorting, pitching, saving. There even were baby pictures of the surprise daughter, although we knew her when we saw her; her face used to belong to our Aunt Ruth.

The two bottles of mercury were a real surprise. There was a tiny bottle of mercury in the house when I was a child. I think it contained the remains of some broken thermometers. I don’t know; my brothers found it far more interesting to roll around the dining room table than I did.

Walt alluded to the bottle on occasion, along the lines of the EPA was simply out of line banning mercury, it was just another government plot to take over the lives of  honest citizens. Perhaps even a conspiracy, who knows. I only know Walt seemed to have dad’s little bottle of mercury around and thought no more of it.

Two bottles! I told Tom, just don’t fool with it, I’ll find out what to do. I asked the road guys the next day. They know everything! “Should I call the EPA?” Don’t do that, one immediately advised. They’re liable to tent your barn. He thought for a bit and then advised I call the fire chief.

Charlie’s phone number is still in my phone from my old fire clerk days.  I told him it probably amounted to a quarter cup (Tom’s estimate), and could I give it to the fire department to dispose of?  Just sit tight and he’d find a legal way. So, I could no longer leave it on the fire station doorstep in the dead of night.

A few days later Charlie called. It could go to the Household Hazardous Waste Center if it were clear double bagged. Our HHWC is only open a couple hours a week in the summer, beginning in June. All my sleuthing was done in April. At the supper table tonight something jogged my memory—it’s June and I need to get rid of that mercury.

“I already went,” Tom said. “Got there two hours before they opened and I was third in line. There were thirty of us by the time the gate opened.” I can imagine thirty old gents, shooting the breeze. When he handed off the old cornmudgeon’s stash the person on duty ascertained it was properly bagged and called out “Mercury here.” Men in gloves came to take it. I wonder if Walt winced? It’s nice to know “the authorities” seem to take old cornmudgeon brothers into account.

Toby, a retrospective and an achievement

Facebook sent me a picture yesterday of one of the few things I've posted there, a picture of Toby the day he came home, four years ago. I titled the picture "Lucky Kitty."

My friend Carol and I were on a two day excursion to the Three Rivers Art Festival in Pittsburgh, to visit Linda and Cara, exhibiting there, and do some shopping. Back at the motel the first night everyone heard a kitten in the bushes, in distress. No one could locate or capture it.

The next morning there stood a young girl holding the struggling kitten. The kitty app on her phone brought it straight to her, one quick nab and he was hers. Then the girl's mother was in distress; she learned the Humane Society did not open until ten and she wanted to be on the road long before then. "I'll take him," I said.

The kitten had no energy left for hissing, spitting and clawing, only to struggle to be free. Carol and I gave up all thought of a second day at the fair, and started home. The little guy and I spent two hours in a hand over hand battle. He squeezed high enough in one hand to escape and I fastened the other around him. And yes, he still howled a tiny kitten howl.

At home he fell on a bowl of kibble softened with water, drank a lot of water and climbed the quilt to sleep in my bed. I took him to the vet the next day, where he was pronounced barely four weeks old and lucky to be alive. I started a blog the same day, and my first post was about the Lucky Kitty, whose name became Toby.

Of course we take far more pictures of the babies than of the growing children. Here is the kitty his first summer, 2011.

Toby had two stepbrothers to annoy. Purrl was the outdoor cat who avoided Toby.

Ryon was the indoor cat, who he could easily annoy, especially in Ryon's safe and secret place on top of a dresser in a closet.

Ryon and Toby got along for the most part, especially as timid Ryon abdicated the catbird seat to Toby.

Yes, Toby, there is a Santa Claus.

That's the end of kitten pictures, and I had so many to select from!

He had so much energy, I bought him a gross of ping pong balls.

They were fun for quite a while,

but went on a high shelf when they weren't quite enough fun.

He has located the basketfull, and when the last little white globe disappears under a cupboard, or under the basement door and down the stairs, he merely climbs the quilt display in the studio and forks himself another from the basket.

He's more mature now. Here he is at breakfast with Laura, but only to keep her company. He will not accept table food and ignores any tidbit left in his bowl. My brother-in-law grumbles, "He won't eat real food!" He does appear from nowhere to lick the empty tuna can, however.

He still monitors the neighborhood,

and the studio,

and the front door, where he has perfected "The Lean."

He still begs for leaves every fall,

and has turned into our live-in flycatcher. No fly enters our house and lives.

Imagine Jan's surprise the other night. Toby trotted from the studio, head high. He was prevented from making the "Look what I caught!" squeak by the tail and hind feet of a mouse protruding from his mouth.  Jan called, he trotted proudly up. She picked him up, carried him outdoors and set him on the deck rail.

Not the outdoors! This cat has the same opinion of the outdoors as of table food.. It is not good. He dropped the mouse, in shock, and was rewarded by being put back in the house.

The mouse eventually left, scampered under the ramp and disappeared. Lucky for him, Purrl is on mouse patrol in cat heaven.

Tom, Sawyered

Uncle Tom stopping to watch Laura edge the sidewalk.

Uncle Tom, whitewashing the fence.

The old cornmudgin left us

Our brother, Walt, left us this week. A bit of a surprise and not. He’s been in the hospital since Memorial Day weekend, and was working at physical therapy and coming home. One morning he told Mark he was just going to take a nap.

“OK, Dad. See you this afternoon.” But Walt left before lunch. I think he went off looking for better advice on the model airplane wing he was drafting.

Above all we are proud of his sons, who cherished and cared for him. What better legacy than loving children?

From one old soldier to another;

Tom lowered the flag

to honor Walt.

An actor comes home

Uncle Tom and I went last night to view the production(s) and bring the little actor back from Acting Out(side) Theatre Camp. Fifty campers were divided into six troupes that produced a scene from a play or movie.  Each troupe had its own "theatre" in the woods, and friends and family of the troupers walked the trails from production to production. 

I counted more than one hundred twenty cars come to see fifty children; it was crowded even when we were divided into two audiences and the toupers performed their scene twice. Often it sprinkled, once we were deluged with a downpour. 

The entire circuit was close on three miles, and my bum ankle quit after two miles and four productions, the last of which included Laura. I was not in optimal picture taking mode, what with the terrain, the rain, the crowd, the jostling. At the half mile mark return from Laura's production, I saw the road to the car and took it, leaving Tom to congratulate the little actress and escort her offstage, as it were.

Without further ado, the troll scene from The Hobbit, Tom, Bert and William arguing the best way to cook dwarves.

Gandalf tricks the trolls into being above ground at sunrise, and little Bilbo is astounded to find them turned to stone.

These young women played the cauldron scene of Macbeth. The were excellent, appearing from three points in the woods, slipping through the crowd, and using the entire area, including the empty circle of benches to discuss what was in their cauldron.

The half mile trek to Peter Pan. It was so far away, Laura said, because the original site had too much poison ivy. I might have preferred that to the walk! I digress. The lost boys:

Laura is Running Deer, on the right. She did a fine job of hating Hook and spitting on the ground in disdain. Later, from behind a tree, she was the tic tic tic of the crocodile. 

I was impressed with the quality of the work, and in my case, the level of learning of Running Deer, who did not know how to project her voice when she left home, or run through woods, jump fallen logs and hit her mark, all without her glasses.

I also saw a scene from the musical, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, but bypassed The Lottery and How Peanut Butter and Jelly Combined, which climaxed in THE BATTLE - The Company, for what is a production without cutting to the chase. 

And back home, watermelon on the deck with Uncle Tom and Euba, through the looking glass back door. Every actor went home with a rose. A first class production.

A surprise find

I borrowed a box of “stuff” from Beth, for a project I am working on.  Inside I found

Clothes pins!

I know the box has been in storage on the top floor of her restaurant for at least two years. Under utilized, as it were. Out of sight, out of mind, and definitely out of use.

Falling straight down hill, as it does, my yard does not lend itself to a clothes line. The front yard would work, but that’s a little tacky, I think. Until I had clothes pins, though, an umbrella clothes lines never crossed my mind. 

To be sure they would not be offended, I ran the idea by the other grownups in the house. “What do you think of an umbrella clothes line in the corner of the deck?" They seem amused.

It took Amazon two tries to get it cross country. The first one was “delivered” to its point of origin in California. One snippy email later, the second one was shipped two day air, or something.  

Tom set about installing it without putting seven inches of concrete pipe into the ground, which took two days of fussing.

Tomorrow I’ll make a clothes pin bag and we’re good to go. I promise no pictures of laundry on the line.

Master of the octopus!

After the parade

What a beautiful day yesterday; not too warm, pleasant breeze. The kid's dad came back with us from the parade to spend the afternoon until Hamilton's jazz gig at seven, in the gazebo on the green.

Looking around my living room at strong young men, an inspiration. We decided some time ago the fifteen year old swing set in the side yard needs to go, but no date set for demolition. I still have little girls around here who go sit in the swing seats and twirl around and exchange secrets. I thought a glider would be a fine replacement. 

Children at work. So was their dad, but I didn't snap him until later.

Farewell, old friend.

The replacement.

"Just fine," the men said. Note the birdhouse at my son-in-law's shoulder. An entire afternoon of one angry wren giving them what for as the swing set came down made no impression on the demolition gang.  There are three active bird houses in this little stand of three oaks, and the same wren seems to be the patriarch of all three. "Move it away from the stand of oaks," Grandma asked.

"OK?" from the inspector of gliders, turned to face the three bird houses and the unhappy wren.

I had to go down there.

Way up the yard, by an entirely bird house free stand of oaks and maples.

Job done just in time for supper and Music on the Green.

Bird and deer soliloquy

Carol and I went to breakfast this morning, to solve world problems. I feed the birds, she feeds everything (“…but I only put out four cans of corn and that’s all those deer get until tomorrow!”). It has been a tough winter; another forecast two inches fall as I type. Early in the morning Tom has startled deer that have joined the grounds crew under the feeders, and Jan counted a flock of seventeen turkeys passing through.

I've posted this little fellow’s picture before. From the size it is one of the fawns I saw very late in the season, September, October. Actually there are two of them. I see them often on the golf course; it seems to be their haven home. They are not together and not with the herds of deer that use the golf course.

Carol said she has two sad cases at her feeders; one a runt with one useless leg, and a grown deer with a badly injured back leg. They come singly and must be there before the group; otherwise they are blocked out of the feeders. Literally shunted aside. I wonder if that is why the two little ones I see are always alone, as well as separate.

I stopped in the drive this afternoon to admire the bird feeders and especially the ingenuity of the cowbirds. We deterred the big wanton birds from the feeders on either end by filling them with safflower seed. The middle feeder has “the good stuff”, and is adjusted so only the lighter birds can use it.

Jan’s studio window overlooks Station 61, and she told me one day we have defeated the starlings and grackles, but the cowbirds defeated the system, and keep others away by simply being on the ring, closing the feeder holes. They open a hole by one upward flap to lift their weight, get a nosh before their weight descends. I sat in the drive and watched two of them hog that feeder, simply to keep other birds away. I rest my case for not feeding them, too. As if it has done much good.

Ninety minutes later I was home again and went out to “shoot” them. Of course they were done for the day, and I had a female redbellied woodpecker on that feeder instead. This actually is a fun exercise; she demonstrates the system. She’s big; maybe nine inches, almost weighs too much and is too large for comfort. The holes are partially closed and might close entirely if she were upright.

She, however, is miffed because I have not refilled the safflower block at the other end of the line. Well, the hairys, the downeys and probably Mr. Redbelly have worked their way through the safflower block, which will not be replaced until Laura and I get back to the store later this week. To quote Carol, that’s all you get until tomorrow.

This block was finished in ten days. The cardinals like it, too, and I had a little red friend watching me from way up on the oak tree. "Will she refill it? Will she?"

Run up to winter

Hamilton hands off to Uncle Tom

Who positions the log and calls

"Hit it" to the girl at the control.

Uncle Tom throws the split log into the cart

And so the pile grows.  

This year on the left, next year accumulating on the right.

Emily is at work at the farm

Both she and Hamilton are going to the Homecoming Dance tonight.

Emily has a 45 minute window to get home, shower and dress.

She's already texted me the exact location to pick her up from work.

There will be pictures tomorrow.

The Barn

I mentioned a few times Jan and I bought this house for its studio, an empty room about twenty five feet wide and forty feet long, sitting over a basement garage of equal size.  We kept two cars in the garage, and a lot of room was left to store thread and other weaving odds and ends in the beginning.

In a year or so it was apparent the thread we could weave up exceeded our storage spaces. We needed a storage building.  We especially needed a docking area for semi trailer trucks to use, as they took up the entire width of our road, essentially stopping everyone below us (all the rest of the street!) to enter or leave until the driver (and Jan and Mom and I) off loaded and moved our freight.

We could not afford a regularly constructed building, so I looked into storage sheds I saw in back yards.  Sheds were not nearly large enough, and we were directed to pole barns. Posts are driven into the ground, a concrete floor poured, the shell is attached, the roof beams go up, shingles, voila, it’s a pole barn in a few days.  Ours is about twenty four by thirty two, and a third the cost of standard construction.

We kept our weaving supplies in there, the truck drivers loved us.  So did our customers at shows.  If they wanted to order more of some garment I said I had to look in the barn for more thread; they sighed, “The barn, how romantic.”   When we retired we offered the empty barn to my brother and brother-in-law for a workshop, and they could not move in fast enough.

The barn is more than twenty years old.  About half way through that life I called the manufacturer to get some advice on painting it.  The sales representative must have come straight out of his chair.  “Lady, that building needs painted every couple of years!”  So, we had it painted.

Once Jan and I moved out, I paid no more attention to the barn’s needs. A year or so ago Tom said the east side of the barn was showing rot, probably from moisture from the weeds and bushes there.  He intended to nail plywood over the damage.

I called the contractor who’s done major repairs to the house, and we walked around the good old barn. After a complete circuit Jim said the building was sound, except for areas of the shell on the east side.  “If this were my building, I’d just put siding on it,” Jim said. How ignominious, I thought, but agreed, and we walked back, Jim marveling the survival of the siding on one coat of paint in all those years.

“I’ll miss the vertical lines,” I told him as he worked up a rough estimate of siding. Jim snapped right up.  “You know, we could look into that vertical metal siding that’s on all kinds of buildings these days.”  I knew exactly the stuff, and he came back later with a quote.  So, for the same price I paid to build the barn twenty years ago, I got it sheathed in lovely, vertical, grey slats of metal.  It is, indeed, good for many more years.

Except the doors.  They were altogether too white. The glare set my teeth on edge when I drove by.  Laura and I went to the store to reconnoiter grey paint chips.  She selected two, Jan narrowed the choice by half.  I consulted with Tom on paint brushes vs. rollers.  Tom doesn’t deal well with change; we learned he was not in favor of painting the barn door.  When he left I asked Laura “What else should we paint on that barn door?”  “Sunflowers” she said.