The Caregiver’s Tales: A Blog

A group of old friends gathered at the house yesterday. We knew each other young, now we know each other old. Where once we would have danced all night this time we drank in measured quantities and floated in a pool. Sedate with quite music in the background. Conversation filled the air and clocks were watched to ensure everyone got home before dark. Periodically a swallow would drop by for a drink. That’s how quietly we sat.

It’s time to talk about the tiny garden on the north fence. It was created to give the Chinquapin oak more fertile ground in which to thrive. All seems to be going well. The upright rosemary is having a hard time, but most everyone else is doing fine. I have noticed something odd, however, and it has to do with the plant I like to call a Yellow Bells.

It’s time to mow the tall grass on the back lots. In fact, I should have mowed it sooner, before it went to seed. Now it’s tall and brown, perfect fodder for fire. I need to knock it down, so that rain when it comes can help it begin to decompose and make its way back into the earth. And I want to expose the Bluebonnet seeds for next season. But mowing the tall grass is hot dusty work on a zero-turn mower. A tractor with a seat high above the fray would be better.

I have a nice flashlight that I can quickly shift from wide to narrow beam. I try to keep it handy for my nighttime forays into the yard at 3 a.m. looking for deer and varmints and anything else that might poke its head up. But I couldn’t find it last night, and I didn’t know why. It was a puzzle because there aren’t that many places where I leave it after my nighttime adventures. I went back to bed, a little sad.

The ritual cleaning for company came to me courtesy of my late wife. The notice of coming guests triggered, depending upon the season, a spate of yard work to prepare the lawns and gardens, followed by the cleaning and organizing of the interior. Nothing could be left to chance. We dusted, we vacuumed, we wiped things down. Primarily, I was the keeper of the exterior, but military service and being the oldest son of a mother of four boys who thought her sons needed to do chores, uniquely qualified me for interior cleaning as well.

Well, my gray day yesterday lasted about as long as it took me to write about it, eat breakfast, and start my yard work. I mowed and edged and looked at my flowers. All four of my sage are in bloom, and it’s a heavy bloom, which is a real treat because they’re all at least six to seven feet tall and nearly that big around. For a subtle touch, the Ironweed my son planted is also blooming. But you have to look for it. It’s in the shade.

Durn. An unexpected grayness has settled over me. I’m not sure what to make of it. As I said, it’s unexpected. I had what passes for a good night’s sleep. Most likely, it is a valley between the excitement of doing one thing and the coming of anticipation for the next. The existence of those twin peaks tends to make what comes between seem empty. Although, when I’m in a gray day it colors everything. So, it’s hard to tell. Sometimes it’s merely a day that sneaks up on me.