the smaller day

I count the days until the winter solstice, to pivot towards the increasing light. This weekend the Geminid meteor showers peak, and then but a week to bear darkness at 5 pm. The sleep has been very good, I can't complain - but my spirit drags about the evening. Delight is the morning as the crows kack  and caw the day up as I walk to the chicken coop. 
I drove to Floyd with a friend to buy candied ginger for cookies; she bakes several batches of different kinds - they are delicious. I am toying with the idea of making ginger snaps; the smell alone is worth the effort.
Today I watched as Ezra and Jen unveiled Fia's Christmas present. By Skype, I saw Fia suddenly speechless as the kitchen was revealed. With glee she began to open every door, and there were a lot of doors: oven, washer, microwave and frig and I think another!  Jen had stocked some toy cans of food and a couple of pots. The little chef is now in business. 

 

long distance hugs

we Skype

I look at Pearl, she smiles her gap tooth smile

and I remember the lost teeth which remain in my heart's photo of her

the one I look at to say goodnight to,

and True, he's grown, such a sweet face, I want to touch. I am at a loss

for words, just wanting to look and look

until I can't consume enough of the flesh and bone

to turn away.

Lotus' Hen Murdered

Some varmint, I'm thinking a racoon, pried partially open the small chicken door to the hen house. I heard wild clucking as I came to open the house this morning. When I looked into the darkness, all the hens and rooster were on the highest perch. Black hen (all black, even her beak and feet) was not in the corner on the floor; she is too heavy to fly up on a roost. I began a frantic count, peering thru the dim light. I counted again and again; I couldn't find the Americana hen - my youngest hen. Lotus' hen had survived a slaughter at her families house  and was given to me this summer. Lotus is the younger sister of a good friend of Pearl's. Lotus had made a pet out of the hen and was discovered eating chicken poo on several occasions (Lotus is only one). I found black hen in the yard clucking; I found Lotus' hen dead. Part of the wire fence was bent out; I guess the racoon or fox couldn't get the body out. The dead hen head was eaten and the neck, there was just a gnawing at the shoulders. I took the body to the pyre where I had tossed last months dead hen.
After talking with consulting detective and chicken affection-ado, Alma, it was agreed that racoon was likely culprit; she suggested baiting a have-a-heart with cat food and bracing the door shut tonight. Trap is set-up and I can use the shovel to brace the door shut. Here is a grim picture:

contrary

The ground lingers in white, but weekend temperatures guarantee melt. Mojo and Mr. Lee and I walked down to the river yesterday, a bit more chilly down on the bottoms. This morning we'll go up the road to post mail. I have been watching the first disc of ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK. I realize at least some of my mind is sheltered by my upbringing watching scenes in the women's prison which easily enough to imagine, are assaulting when viewed by these older eyes. Assaulting may be too strong; however, I suspect that there is a point to having the viewer feel "assaulted." Prison is an assault to the inmate. My inner dialogue goes, "how the hell did they get actors to do this!" I am intrigued by the characters in this drama and the harshness seems real, if not lighter than reality. I applaud.

 

here comes Santa Nanee

For now this is my Christmas decoration; it is the most fantastic bright happiness this old house has ever seen (thank you Pink!). I'm undecided about Christmas tree - for just myself. I have hung my stocking and with my memory I could fill it and by Christmas be surprised at the contents! Best present I'm giving myself, is an early January visit to Dominican Republic to see Baldwin and all - so Santa Nanee will come late. May get to Houston in February or March, hiatus from the winter.
60 degrees today, dogs and I hiked around Red Bud and shook the apple tree in the field. Winking light through the trees, the river is high from last night's rain. Going to spend the afternoon piddling in the garden; want to spread some of the chicken manure around roses (Alma's suggestion). Brought Mojo's bed down from the blue house porch yesterday morning and put it in the green house. Hoping to train Mojo to sleep there so that Diane can sleep in when she comes. I am trying to make my schedule more like that of a night owl's; so far, I am failing. I am a morning soul; if I stay up late, I seldom wake after 7.

Valley Voices

Stuffed Pastries

It doesn't seem linear, this transit to nearly 70,

I am as old as the friends of my great grandmother,

bosomy flowery perfumed stuffed pastries,

calling out for a hug.

I ran from

as if they might capture vital particles of joy

or fatten the sleekness of my limbs.

Now I understand their summoning,

merely seeking commingling

of their spirits which were not pastries,

but vigorous still

and wanting out.

It was an accomplished group of readers and an entertaining afternoon! I must say, I enjoyed it! Stories by Lucy Adams, Tom McGohey, KT Torrey and Rob Neukirch were particularly fine. Rob's story had us all in stitches; New Floyd in the form of a middle aged massage therapist meets Old Floyd in the form of middle aged suppressed farmers wife. I liked Lucy's story of a high school boy trying to change the trajectory of a development and to honor the memory of his mother. And KT's story of a gay couple was very interesting and i thought masterfully done. Tom's was a literary description of bystanders at the death of a dog on the side of the road.

Dead Hen

When I opened the hen house this morning, all seemed OK; I cracked the ice on their water tub - nothing amiss. That was at 8; I had waited for the temperature to warm up from 15 degrees. By noon I brought scraps and checked for an egg. On the floor was dead white hen, not far from where she would have landed when she jumped off her perch in one of the laying boxes. White hen was consolation chick when the science experiment to incubate eggs failed miserably. She never seemed acclimated to life outside. She molted at the wrong time, like in November. She always seemed separate from the others - none of whom are white, except for the rooster. And she was low on the pecking order. I took her body up Red Bud to lie on top of an old and dense mound of pine branches - high enough to escape Mojo - but good for a sky funeral.