Sunny again this morning, what a gorgeous day! When I finally stumble outside - no, I didn't take my camera with me. Yes, sigh, I FORGOT - the boat has been taken care of by Richard, the windfall apples have been picked up, and there is no Cute Little Island Black Bear in sight. Cappuccino time.
Yesterday I was accosted by spiders outdoors several times. Mostly I just brushed them off, without thought, being busy doing "things" at the time. Last night before bed I was reading info on tomatoes in a gardening book I borrowed from the library. I turned the page and something tiny scurried across it towards me. I blinked, focusing on it. It was a nearly microscopic spider. What the heck? Then Kelly's words came back to me: "I can see one of the dead spider kids coming after you, ala the Mandy Patinkin character in Princess Bride, saying: my name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die!" Aaahhg! I brushed it away and closed the book.
This morning as I am walking from the living room to the kitchen, my spidar jangles. Looking above the room door, I see it. Another spider, this one the size of a loony, is staring back at me, snarling. I reach for the broom, never taking my eyes off it. Its beady little eyes follow my movements. Slowly I raise the broom towards it. 5 little white Bichons follow the path of the broom, tails wagging slowly. I am sure I heard one of them bark "get it mom".
Suddenly I jab at it, hard and the spider falls to the floor, where it shakes itself and prepares to launch a counter attack at me. But I am faster. Whap, whack, smash. The dogs go wild, barking and snarling at the broom. I, of course, emerge victorious. Just in case, I give it a stomp with my foot, then have to hobble to the deck to scrape it off my shoe. "Oh great," I think "more spider funerals."
Time to work in my kitchen, or as I like to refer to it, the lab. I mentioned trying to make tiny pies in a couple of previous blog posts. Today is the day. Time to experiment. I thawed out the frozen pie dough for ten minutes, rolled it out on the floured counter, measured my jar - inside, outside and diameter - so I knew the size of the dough rounds to cut out. Soon I had four not bad looking tiny mincemeat pies made and in the oven.
Instructions online called for an oven temp of 400F. I thought that sounded a bit high, but followed instructions, and set timer for 20 minutes. 15 minutes later I open the oven to see...
...smoke rolling out. My eyes go slitty and I make a double scrunchy face! Nothing appears burned. 400F was way too high, as I suspected. Leaving the door open until all the smoke dissipated, I lowered the oven temp to 350F, set the timer for 10 minutes. In 10 minutes they are baking nicely - no more smoke. And 10 minutes after that, they are done.
Richard comes home from putting a tarp on Ron's roof - don't ask - and his nose is grabbed by the delectable odor of fresh baked mince pie, one of his favorites. We try them after lunch. Ohhhhh, they are tender, flaky, and the filling to pie crust ratio is perfect. Ambrosial. Next time will be with my own pie dough and my own homemade filling. I can't wait to tell Kate about them.
Replete from our dessert, I take the kids into the garden yard while Richard mows grass in the dog yard. It is +25 on the deck in the shade, my favorite day time temperature. We lazily wander about, looking at the flowers and plants, and yes, I DID remember my camera.
Meandering past the King apple tree, camera in one hand, cane in the other, something swipes across my face. GAK, spider web! Running from the garden boat to the fence. Now they are using motion detection to find me!
My eyes go slitty again, and I make a triple scrunchy face...
...and I says a swear.
...why in heck can't I remember to take it outside with me when I go. I carry it with me when ever I go in the van, every time, but going out into the yard, sigh, only when I want to photograph something specific.
I think I have learned my lesson though, finally. I think I have learned to take it with me from now on. Tonight I went out into the yard with the dogs for their evening constitutional, before dark. I deactivate doggy mines, Richard picks up windfall apples, we chat all the while.
Emily, our 13 year old dog, is over by the garden boat, looking through the fence, south towards the big pear trees. Suddenly she rears up and begins barking ferociously - or as ferociously as a 10 pound dog can. The other 5 race to the fence and mimic her. I am used to them barking, they are after all dogs, and they do take exception to various and sundry noises from Cherry Creek Road. Richard wanders over to look, I, meanwhile, just think it is one of the neighborhood cats that patrol our place.
Richard calls to me: "Bear". I reply "huh?" Intelligent reply, no? He repeats himself, all the while the dogs are going berserk, "BEAR". "Um, really? Where?" Another intelligent reply, yes? He points at the pear trees "DOWN THERE". Finally it reaches my brain...BEAR!
By now I am at the fence looking, oh about 300 feet, from a not so Cute Little Island Black Bear. And he is looking back at us, with a "What you looking at!?" look on his face, not the least bit intimidated by 6 yappy little dogs and two humans. "Maybe you should take the dogs inside", Richard says. I commented later that he looked as if he was trying to decide whether to eat the dogs or wipe his backside with them.
I had a perfect shot of him, a side shot, full face looking at me, haughty look, perhaps imagining one of the dogs with an apple, or in this instance a pear, shoved in it's mouth, feet in the air, on a platter, and MY CAMERA WAS IN THE HOUSE IN IT'S CRADLE ON MY COMPUTER! Arrrrrgggghhh!
Of course, by the time I hobbled into the house, corralled the dogs, grabbed my camera, hobbled back out to the garden boat, Richard had scared the bear away.
Bear will be back. Tonight. After dark. When the dogs, and we, are inside. With the doors and windows locked and the blinds pulled down tight...I believe I mentioned about my bear paranoia in a previous blog. Or two. He'll be back and will climb the pear tree, tossing pears down to the ground to pick up and eat at his leisure. That's what bears do.
And me? What do I do? You mean...besides forget to take my camera outside when ever I go out?
Sigh. That photo at the top of the page is not one I took.
But I think I will remember my camera from now on.
No, really.
It's early, and while I am not up, you just know that Richard is. Bless his heart he rolled up the beach mats and shower curtain on my garden boat. By the time I wander out at 9:30am, it is already +25 in the shade and going up. It's hot and airless in the garden yard. Even the dogs are listless in the heat, laying in the sun getting their daily dose of Vitamin D.
We bathed and deflea-ed the dogs yesterday, oh happy day, and it has improved their disposition immensely. Mine too.
It's been really hot for the last few days, and I am draggy. I do ok in heat up to about +28. After that, I fade. Don't get me wrong, I am not complaining about the heat - Lord knows we suffered so much with the cold and rain this past winter that I swore I wouldn't complain if it got hot. This is me not complaining!
My plants are suffering and as our water well is getting quite low, Richard is hauling a tank full tonight after work for me to pour on them. I wander back into the house where I have 4 fans on full blast, two in the kitchen, one in the living room and one in the back room to help keep it cool. We have a window air conditioner but it doesn't make sense to use it for four days and then have to haul it out of the window and back upstairs again, so upstairs it stays. I turn on the living room computer.
The phone rings and it is Kate. My sister has never been a gardener, always insisting she has a black thumb, not the green thumb that I have inherited from our parents and grandparents. Recently she and Jon moved to a cute little cottage in the country outside of Sidney and she has decided to try gardening on a small basis. They have purchased several gorgeous hanging baskets and filled window boxes with geraniums, petunias, alyssum, lobelia as well as herbs. We talked about my latest blog post, Fruit Fly Olympics, and she laughed and said "I'll do you one better".
I should tell you that Kate and I are quite brave women. No, really. Not too much frightens us. Ok, well bears frighten me, but that's a different story. We come from tough, pioneer stock, and both think humor is a great defense, using it all the time. We have both backed down large, aggressive, annoying people with just a few soft words. And controlled our children with quelling looks.
Remember I said not too much frightens us? Well, um, there is one thing...one thing that can make us both run screaming into the night startling wildlife, and our husbands, into near palpitations. Not a big thing, by most standards, but to us...to us it is HUGE. And hairy. And leggy. Very, very leggy. It is the one thing that causes an extreme atavistic response in both of us - that completely uncontrollable, shaking, shivering, yes, even drooling, God-help-me-it's-gonna-get-me, screaming meemee's, Richard-bring-the-shotgun-and-load-it-with-double-ought-buckshot, response. Um hm, that one. It is one of the biggest phobia's known to mankind. I am speaking, of course, of arachnophobia.
Yup, fear of spiders.
I know that the spiders on the Island are not BIG by tropical standards, like the dinner plate size ones of the Panama Canal Zone. However...the ones we have here, especially close to the water like down-Island were Kate lives, are as big as your fist.
Yes, REALLY.
And Kate had the misfortune to have a run-in with one, only that morning. Remember I said she had taken up gardening? You know, watering, weeding, fertilizing, dead-heading (remember, I had written in my blog that the Fruit Flies were doing a forward dive pike from a standing start). Kate was dead-heading her Begonias, totally involved - in the zone as they say - when a huge, hairy, teeth-gnashing, 8 legged, foot stomping, spider, grabbed her by the arm, shook her, and told her to bugger off and stop disturbing it's sleep!
No, honest!
Ok, well, maybe it grabbed, er, landed on her hand and scared the bejeezus out of her. She said she did a triple back flip and spiked her landing, worthy of a Gold Medal in Gymnastics at the Olympics for sure. I believe her. I've been there. That gut clenching, adrenaline fueled, eye crossing, get-out-of-my-way, door busting, fear.
But I am in awe of her triple back flip. That's impressive. I've never done that one. My personal best spider response was the 100 meter dash in just under 10 seconds. That and the 1000 decibal scream but that's nothing much, Kate has that mastered too.
Really!
Is that a skeptical look I see on your face?
Obviously you haven't seen our Island spiders up close and personal as they dash out from under your computer desk, grab you by the ankle, and threaten you with grievous bodily harm if you don't get out of their way.
That's when Kate and I mastered the splatting foot stomp.
That and her triple back flip.
I told you we were quite brave women.
I have plans for today. First, wander out to the yard and see what's new. On the potting table in the yard, my Gazania is FINALLY blooming. It is one I saved over from last year, along with lots of other plants, in the back porch. All the others started blooming 3 months ago, but this Gazania has been really slow growing. The wait has been worth it though, and it has produced a brilliant golden-yellow blossom with maroon accents. I notice it has more buds too. Perhaps it will bloom well into fall.
Moving on, I check the progress of my Strawberry Rhubarb plant that Dad sent me through the mail. It is doing amazingly well, having 3 new leaves and another leaf bud showing. Rhubarb is one of my favorite fruits. It mixes well with all other fruit. Everything appears good by the house so we move on to the garden boat. Richard rolls up the garden hose - silly man, I am just going to pull it back out today and water later - so he can pick up the wind fall apples without tripping over it.
We talk about the garden boat, and ways to expand this method of gardening next year. He doesn't know it yet, but I am already thinking about finding more large containers to put in this yard and the front dog yard, and fill them with dirt to plant vegetables in. That means we have to increase the height of the fence too. Think I'll wait to spring that one on him for a while yet.
The phone rings as I go in the kitchen door. It is the hospital in Comox with news about my surgery. The booking nurse informs me my surgeon, Dr. Sundby, is leaving until the end of October and then will be gone again for six months at the beginning of the New Year. He is going to Afghanistan. So my window of opportunity for surgery is small. Either have it November or December, or wait at least a year. Needless to say, I choose November and November 21st is the tentative date. I don't mind recuperating in the winter. I can't be outside gardening anyway, so will be inside planning my garden, and learning to walk again.
Richard leaves for work, and I decide to garden a bit, plant those plants I didn't get planted last week, then vacuum the floors. The dogs are in the yard with me, and when I break for an iced tea, they follow me in. I get caught up on the living room computer trying to solve the puzzle of my TV Tuner card, and why I can't get it to work properly. I forget all about the vacuum.
At 2pm, Mason is sitting with his chin on the patio door sill, eyes half closed, dozing. Suddenly he flies out the door barking an alert. Pippi and the rest fly after him, and a huge commotion ensues. Mason barks at the world in general throughout the day, but this bark is different. I step outside to see what the fuss is about. They are all standing up at the fence like meercats, frozen, looking through the holly and hawthorn to the other side of the driveway, and I see it...
...BLACK BEAR! Quickly I herd them inside, lock the patio door, close the curtains. Then I shut and lock the kitchen door, pull down the blinds, make sure back door is locked and close the back patio door into the small dog pen.
I know, I know, locking the doors and closing the blinds may be a little irrational - ok, a lot irrational - but it is how I cope with bears in the yard.
Then I make a decision and grab my camera. I sneak out the livingroom patio door, skulk across the grass, around the big cherry tree - using it for cover, and then over to the fence, all the while watching the bear. He is in the trees heading for the mouth of the driveway and I think he is going to exit the yard and head across Cherry Creek Road. I am wrong. He chooses instead to head towards the Saskatoon's - Kate's favorites - at the bottom of the drive. I stealthily photograph him as best I can, trying to zoom in on him as he eats, even going so far as to tape a short video of him.
At one point a noise on the road frightens him, and he takes off running but hunger overcomes fear, and he soon turns back to the berries again. I turn back to the house.
As I enter, I realize my hands are a little bit shaky, an adrenalin reaction to my "fight or flight" response - I choose flight - to bears.
I move from room to room, peeking through blinds, around curtains, and 6 little white dogs trail with me. I begin to feel like the Pied Piper. We see no further sign of the bear. Still, we wait 2 full hours before venturing out again. Mason stays on the step outside the patio door, watching and sniffing the breeze. Meanwhile, Pippi parks herself just inside the door. They are on guard.
Later I go out to the garden yard and take more photo's of my boat garden. I am afraid that one of these days that little bear is going to get bold enough to climb the apple tree that hangs out over the boat. Then, with my creature luck, he will venture too far out on a limb - I can hear the cracking of the branch in my mind - and my garden boat will be history.
An irresistible force meets an immovable object.
Irresistible force 1
Immovable object 0
Hence the photo's.
Paranoid? Who, me!!!??
Another gorgeous Valley morning and we wander again to the garden. As I roll up the beach mats and the shower curtain on the boat, I hear them coming...the Muttering Murder of Crows. They do like to sit and watch me work in the yard. I cannot tell them apart, but they have distinctive personalities. One is a real clown. Today there is a lot of noise out by the bridge beside our gate. Mason, my Bichon boy, finds it all quite annoying and he lets the world at large know this by barking his opinions.
I move about the garden yard picking up windfall apples and Pippi wanders with me, nosing about, checking out bugs and things that move. The other girls are sunbathing and sniffing the gentle breeze. In the background there are crow mutterings and then...something else. It sounds like a dog barking. A dog barking up in the cherry tree behind the house. Hmmmmm. I had a dog once who climbed trees. Had to watch Annie like a hawk or she would be 25 feet up as fast as you could blink. But I knew none of the Bichon's were climbers.
Orienting on the Wild Cherry tree, I see the culprit. One of the Muttering Murder of Crows has taken up a new vocation - that of dog mimic. Mason barks, and the crow barks, only it comes out more of a "mark, mark, mark". He hasn't mastered that "b" in bark that canines have. I snicker and shake my head at his cleverness. Time for a cappuccino.
Today is Bente's Anniversary and I have decided to go to Naesgaards and purchase a big bag of fresh, green, garden peas for her as a present. Now that may sound like an odd present, but it is one I know she will love, being a green-garden-pea addict like she is. I meet her at Quality Foods to give her her gift and she giggles with delight, immediately diving in and eating two peas. I am pleased that she is pleased.
I grill steaks to perfection - rare - for our dinner tonight and cook potatoes and corn. I made the mistake of using a purchased grill rub instead of making my own and the purchased rub doesn't agree with me. Soon I am sitting on the bed and watching television, attempting to digest dinner.
Richard is thumping about upstairs, moving things, who knows what, but it annoys the dogs and they periodically run hooting and barking out to the kitchen letting him know how they feel about the noise. This goes on a few times, and each time I try and shush them and each time I am unsuccessful. Sigh. Finally at 10:30pm I can't take it anymore. This time there is whining, barking and growling as well as a soft thump, so it is time to investigate.
Rounding the corner I notice that the gate is on the floor, Pippi is trapped in the kitchen and there are 4 Bichons gathered in a circle around Rosie. And there is something dark, and hairy on the floor at Rosie's feet. I swiftly cross the floor. Rosie just as swiftly grabs the dark and hairy thingy in her mouth. I even more swiftly grab Rosie by the scruff of the neck and hoist her up before she swallows whatever that dark and hairy thing is. Rushing to the kitchen I holler up the stairs to Richard that I really need help and he comes to my aid.
"Rosie has something in her mouth and I need you to get it out before she swallows it" I holler. Out of the corner of my eye I see something dangling from the corner of her mouth. "And please tell me that isn't a...
"...mouse!" Richard replies as he pries her jaws open and removes the vile, disgusting, well-chewed and very dead little mouse.
"Awwwgggghhhhh!" I reply.
The mousie remains are quickly dispatched into the bushes and an extremely annoyed Rosie rushes around the kitchen looking for more mice. Where she found it is not a mystery. The gate on the floor answers that question - Rosie, and the others, must have chased it behind the gate where it leans against the wall. When Rosie nosed it out behind the gate, the gate fell, and she grabbed it. Where the mouse came from remains a mystery, although I have a habit of leaving the back patio door open through out the day when I am home, an inviting portal for tiny mice.
Time for bed, my stomach has had enough today, and Rosie has a new moniker: Rosie Mousie Killer. She loves it.
I'd rather she kept her kills outside.
I am glad she got the mouse before it got into my room though.
Hmmmm. Wonder if that mouse was an advance scout for the Mole People.
wat mom doin'?
lookin' fow mow pepl'.
mow pepl'?
wats mow pepl'?
dunno, but she mad at 'em.
dey gud ta eat?
dunno.
As I roll up the beach mats they sniff the ground by the pea patch, searching for clues. After the mats are up I look down and turn the air blue.
uh oh.
wat?
mom sed a swear!
she mad!
we hep u find da mow pepl', mom.
wats a mow pepl'?
dunno.
The stocks of mint I had placed up against the wall of the shed over the pea and bean seeds has been pushed aside, and dirt has been kicked on it. The red clay pots are still there, but the dirt is all scuffled with little paw prints and there are tiny holes where the seed used to be. I scrunch my eyes. Still no sign of my garden trowel. I stand with hands on hips gazing back and forth, trying to come up with a solution. None comes.
Growling to myself I walk away to the garden boat to roll up the beach mats there and nearly step on a doggie mine. Sigh, that's all I need to make my day complete.
Time for morning Cappuccino.
It's 3pm and I still don't have a solution. I have considered and discarded several ideas as either too labor intensive or too far out there. I decide to revisit the scene of the crime. My entourage follows.
I wander past the pea patch, thinking; nothing new there. Pea seeds are still MIA. Decide that now was as good a time as any to scoop up the doggie mines so I don't step in one while working on the Mole People Mystery. Most of my entourage is now noticeably absent. Having a low boredom threshold, they have moved on to other adventures I guess. Pippi and Emmy remain with me. As my self-designated guardians, they dog my footsteps.
wat mom doin'?
dunno.
huntin' mow pepl'?
dunno.
wen suppah?
dunno
Time to regroup again. When things get tough, the tough bake bread. I am making Craisin Bread to bake in my Outdoor Gas Convection Oven, aka the BBQ. I love dried sweetened fruit. Dried cherries and dried cranberries are my favorites, closely followed by dried blueberries. But today I am making Cranberry yeast bread. The gathering of the ingredients, the mixing of the dough sooth me and I come to a decision about the Mole People.
I will let them think they have beaten me. Let them think they can have all those pea and bean seeds. After all, I do have more to plant. I am moving my pea and bean patch to a very large green tub, two feet high and two feet in diameter, which I used for flowers last year and haven't got around to using at all yet this year. They can't tunnel up from the bottom; can't tunnel through from the sides. I can cover it with landscape fabric to keep them from getting at the seeds should they try climbing up and into the open top. Hah! Take that Mole People!!
And I have another tub the same size I just might plant to peas as well. Maybe if I can finally convince Richard to move the old bathtub from beside the well house into the garden yard, I will plant it too. What else can I find to plant peas and beans in??? There must be something....
Will it work? Will it keep the Mole People at bay? Will they finally return my garden trowel? Will my Craisin Bread turn out?
dunno.
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