Red berry trees on a cold and dreary day

Emily’s high school band, and many, many others, are playing at Severance Hall in Cleveland, today.  A beautiful concert hall.  I bought tickets around for family members who don’t share my tin ear.  Tom and Hamilton dropped Emily at her school bus and went on up to Cleveland.  Tom wouldn’t miss this for anything and Hamilton is interested in hearing how his new band performs.

That boy will be just fine.  He sat in on their swing band practice the other night and a regular band class during the week.  His trombone is in the shop, but we hope to have it back in his hands tonight.   At supper Emily teased him about being at the back of the pack of trombones in the band.  He snorted.  “I’m better than the best of them!”  Now, I’ve never raised boys, and I had to grin.  “You still need to try out, Mister,” she reminded him.  Good to have him here.

Coming back from an errand we pulled into a drive to take a picture of a red berry tree, half stripped of berries, but plenty left for the birds. I have no idea what tree this is, many have red berries in winter.  They are cheerful to see on such a dreary day. 

Katherine

This is an old cat story.  I grew up in the forties and the fifties, when practicality trumped everything.  Some of the dogs and most of the cats in our little world were neighborhood pets.  They belonged to everyone.  One child would be “followed” home by an animal (“Can we keep it, pullize”!); weeks or months later the animal followed someone else home. If we harbored cats when it was time to leave for vacation, Mom simply took them to the pound.  Dad ignored any cat in the house, although he did tell us to listen to the cat.  It’s saying “Mee-out.”

After all the children dispersed, Mom and Dad still hitched up the camper and went exploring.  Uncle Bill went along those years, and provided the additional brawn mom needed to get a camp set up.  She did much of the vacation driving in the early seventies, too; Dad’s strength was failing, but not his interest in new rocks.

A cat adopted dad at a campground in Arkansas.  She came out of nowhere and spent several evenings in his lap, after, presumably, waiting patiently for the little band of campers to return from their day’s outing.  When it was time to leave she jumped into the car and settled on dad’s lap.  He closed the car door and the vacation trip proceeded, as planned.

Dad named the little orange and white tabby Katherine (long for Kitty).  Katherine went to the vet for neutering, and settled into her life at 729 Moraine, taking care of our dad.  Katherine checked dad’s whereabouts first on coming in, walked with him on his short jaunts from back door to patio, spent evenings in his lap. 

The last couple of years of his life dad was “chair-ridden,” spending his days in his red Barca-lounger, not getting up for much more than to eat lunch.  Mom would come in from work and help dad unload his vest pockets of mice Katherine brought him for sustenance over the day. Katherine kept her sharp eye on him, even raking my arm from top to bottom when I lifted the scissors to trim his hair.

The great Midwest blizzard of January, 1978 found dad completely bedridden, with round the clock nursing care provided by Mom, Walt, Jan and Katherine.  Dad remarked to me one weekend I was there visiting, “This dying business is like a train ride through Siberia.” He passed away on a cold, cold day, February 20, 1978.

The next day Katherine came through the living room, head high, Dad’s red ski cap in her mouth.  Jan snatched it away from her as Katherine passed.  We heard Katherine leave through her little kitchen door. She never came back.

I learned later that when mom first met dad she didn’t even meet him, barely saw him.  He blew through the home of a mutual friend for a quick introduction of his fiancée, Kitty.

Dad, panning for garnets

Holy whiteout, Batman

My ends are pretty loose in this run up to the next hearing.  Flipping my calendar pages to find something else I realized the magistrate also set a trial date, if needed, for March 21^st.    I’m visualizing not needing that one!

Ann emailed yesterday to let me know they lost Bandit.  He flashed across my mind this morning, thumping along on three legs, shoulder to shoulder with Herman.  Well, shoulder to kneecap, Herman hopping up and down to shout in Bandit’s ear. They knew each other only briefly at Ann’s, but they were vivid in my mind’s eye this morning.

January has been tough on pets.  We lost Jan’s buddy Ryon on the Sunday of Epiphany.  I wonder about him, too.  He did not leave the basket on my dresser if there were strangers in the house or too many feet on the floor.  The grandkids would crowd into my closet to entice him out of the basket.  That Sunday he was napping on the sofa.  Jan looked up when she heard his claws unhook from the fabric.  Ryon rolled over and was dead.  Heart attack?  Stroke?  Aneurism?  He got a brand new pillowcase and is buried in the cat graveyard.

Toby kitty took a few days, but has settled into being the number one indoor cat.  Purrl only knows there is one less cat accosting him at the door.

I just hate snow!

On the other hand, I don’t go out in it, and it is lovely falling down so.

Big job, big chain saw

All that wind mentioned on blogs from the mid west to the north east came through my little township too, Friday night.  We lost the upper half of a dead tree, trunk and branches all over the driveway.  Tom was clearing it away when our neighbor at the end of the road and way up a lane called. She lost an entire tree she’s been worried about for some time.  Was Tom interested?

Tom and Ham came back from assaying, Tom grinning, Ham bemused.  Tom needed a bigger chain saw and coveralls and steel toed boots for the boy. There was wood for two years.  Only a wood stove heats the entire studio, and that can be a challenge in a brutal winter. 

The good old boy network kept Tom apprised of trees for years; his buddies even drove overloaded pick up’s of trunk chunks from all over the state for drop off in the side yard.  The emerald ash borer brought that to a halt and the wood pile was down to this winter and part of next.

So, yesterday Tom upgraded from his little branch lopping chain saw to one that really makes him smile.  He put coveralls and steel toed boots on the boy, too.

Yesterday was beautiful.  I went down the road and looked at the tree.  It’s a big ‘un, and way up the hill.  There will be some serious toting to bring it home.  Then I drove over to Hammy’s potential new church.  He was quite disappointed I didn’t just take him yesterday; services began at 9 am.  I put my hand on his shoulder and said I was responsible for him and would not send him into the midst of strangers until I talked to the minister.  He settled down, and came home smiling from being outfitted for tree removal.

I planned my arrival at church to go in as members drove out.  I timed it perfectly.  When three cars remained in the lot I walked up to the door.  Locked!  Drove around, tried the other door.  Locked.  Well, these are strange times.  I called the number from the phone book and told the man who answered who I was.  I wanted the minister.  He offered me others, but I wanted the minister.  I was given the phone number of someone who could make an appointment to see him.

I drove through the blue heron rookery on the way home.  The herons haven’t come back yet.  At home I made the appointment.  The minister can’t be seen for another two weeks.  Oh, well.  I told Hammy he can substitute good deeds and getting started in school for church the next two weeks.

Today it’s snowing and the tree trunk chunks are moving up the hill.

Musical interlude presented by The Old Grey Goose

Laura’s fifth grade band presented their first concert at lunch time.  Uncle Tom and I went, and had great third bleacher row seats.  Oh, those young mothers and fathers, going up and up.  We sat at grandparent level.

These little folks can take “extracurricular” activities in place of recess. We were at the Wednesday Friday Band performance; there is a Tuesday Thursday Band, too.  About sixty five members each.  Flute, clarinet, alto sax, tenor sax, bassoon, trumpet, French horn, trombone, baritone, tuba and percussion, and from the sound of them, all well past the painful stage.

The band filed in, took their chairs.  The director explained this little band has worked diligently for four months, and had another four months hard work ahead.  They have just completed the same note phase and next term begin harmony.  They played London Bridge.

The conductor turned back to us to introduce Aunt Rhodie.  It really needs no introduction; we have been intimate with Aunt Rhodie for several months.  But first he needed a volunteer from the audience to help the story teller.  Laura, almost too far away for me to see, had Uncle Tom in her sights and her little finger jabbed over the shoulders of the flute section.  Tom shifted uncomfortably.  I poked him.  He volunteered.

Aunt Rhodie did have an old grey goose and thought she would cook him up for Sunday dinner.  She went down the lane to consult the French chef, who tried to save the old grey goose’s life by suggesting Aunt Rhodie try hot cross buns, instead.  When that wouldn’t do the French chef tried sending Aunt Rhodie to Mary, who had lamb.  No, Aunt Rhodie would have none of that.  The French chef intercepted the old grey goose in his barnyard strutting, told him to quick, get in the boat and row away.  He did.  Aunt Rhodie was very sad, but suddenly the old grey goose came back up the hill.  They all joined hands and celebrated with a little polka.

This little musician can handle her own weight in tubas!

Give them a hand.

Our little trumpeter files out, and we all go home.  Or back to work.