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A man bought the property across the street from our place.
He has cats we have dogs. His felines of well fed body type are so
laughable as they lazily amble about over their space with an attitude as
if to say, "I'm the guard cat here, nothing more."
So far, peace reigns between mine and his, the two natural enemies. He must feed
his cats in the barn because I see them making a path to that space.
Here on the Rhonda Lou I am a little like those cats. There is plenty
to do and I must stay after those chores, but the warmth of the space
beside the heater somehow wants to catch me. Any chore outdoors like
feeding the birds, keeping water in the birdbath, water for the dogs are
done in haste so I can hurry back into the warmth of the living room.
Oh yes, I have an agenda, of sorts. The books on shelves I’ve discovered
are like naughty children who are continually getting into spaces where
they don’t belong. No matter how hard I try to keep cookbooks separate
from family history notebooks, or novels from art books somehow or
another they seem to have a will of their own and eventually become
so mixed up no one can find anything. Each winter finds me
turning my attention to putting these books back in their
own category or space. Is this a rule, one that says order can be
maintained for only one year? No matter, the dust on these tells me
which ones have not been used at all and they go into a box to take off, somewhere, where?
Rodney’s mother’s collection of novels remain even though they are
dust catchers, simply because the gold lettering and same size and shape
are attractive on my shelves. Vanity, thy name is woman and I could
almost purr the melody in my favorite singer, Tom Joneses song,
“What new pussycat?”
A shudder goes over my entire being as I must next turn my attention to
filing papers related to genealogy. It is very nice; however, to be able to
adroitly reach into the file and pull out a bit of information whether
going to the Howards, Collins, Joneses, Ponca and on and on. I must
remember this as I work through that jumble at the moment.
Somewhere in my mind I’m always going to the bits and pieces of fabric
needing to be put together into something, whether blouse, baby quilt,
loose gown, anything just to use up that wealth of fabric I have stored.
Each box used up is like a great millstone lifted off my back. Because I
sew I inherit great amounts of fabric usually from some lady’s family who
is cleaning out the seamstress’s horde of material’s stash.
All this I will myself to do while I dream of spring again when I can go to
the outdoors I love with visions of jonquils, Lombardy Poplars,
Knock-out Roses and all and more, free at last of intellectual endeavors
for which I must be little suited. To stroll across the terrain with the same
aplomb as my neighbor’s cats is my goal while I now must muddle through
the misery of winter time chores, indoors.
The goal of organizing next years art lessons for the children continues
in a slow moving way and I thank my readers for keeping me held to
that one, whether they read of the art material or not I still envision
them going into an art gallery and in a snooty way saying,
“Hmmmm I believe this artist uses soft and hard edges very well,” or purr
in a nonchalant way,
“Don’t you admire his use of light and dark values?”
He has cats we have dogs. His felines of well fed body type are so
laughable as they lazily amble about over their space with an attitude as
if to say, "I'm the guard cat here, nothing more."
So far, peace reigns between mine and his, the two natural enemies. He must feed
his cats in the barn because I see them making a path to that space.
Here on the Rhonda Lou I am a little like those cats. There is plenty
to do and I must stay after those chores, but the warmth of the space
beside the heater somehow wants to catch me. Any chore outdoors like
feeding the birds, keeping water in the birdbath, water for the dogs are
done in haste so I can hurry back into the warmth of the living room.
Oh yes, I have an agenda, of sorts. The books on shelves I’ve discovered
are like naughty children who are continually getting into spaces where
they don’t belong. No matter how hard I try to keep cookbooks separate
from family history notebooks, or novels from art books somehow or
another they seem to have a will of their own and eventually become
so mixed up no one can find anything. Each winter finds me
turning my attention to putting these books back in their
own category or space. Is this a rule, one that says order can be
maintained for only one year? No matter, the dust on these tells me
which ones have not been used at all and they go into a box to take off, somewhere, where?
Rodney’s mother’s collection of novels remain even though they are
dust catchers, simply because the gold lettering and same size and shape
are attractive on my shelves. Vanity, thy name is woman and I could
almost purr the melody in my favorite singer, Tom Joneses song,
“What new pussycat?”
A shudder goes over my entire being as I must next turn my attention to
filing papers related to genealogy. It is very nice; however, to be able to
adroitly reach into the file and pull out a bit of information whether
going to the Howards, Collins, Joneses, Ponca and on and on. I must
remember this as I work through that jumble at the moment.
Somewhere in my mind I’m always going to the bits and pieces of fabric
needing to be put together into something, whether blouse, baby quilt,
loose gown, anything just to use up that wealth of fabric I have stored.
Each box used up is like a great millstone lifted off my back. Because I
sew I inherit great amounts of fabric usually from some lady’s family who
is cleaning out the seamstress’s horde of material’s stash.
All this I will myself to do while I dream of spring again when I can go to
the outdoors I love with visions of jonquils, Lombardy Poplars,
Knock-out Roses and all and more, free at last of intellectual endeavors
for which I must be little suited. To stroll across the terrain with the same
aplomb as my neighbor’s cats is my goal while I now must muddle through
the misery of winter time chores, indoors.
The goal of organizing next years art lessons for the children continues
in a slow moving way and I thank my readers for keeping me held to
that one, whether they read of the art material or not I still envision
them going into an art gallery and in a snooty way saying,
“Hmmmm I believe this artist uses soft and hard edges very well,” or purr
in a nonchalant way,
“Don’t you admire his use of light and dark values?”