Blackberry brambles (and raspberry canes, to a lesser degree) love the climate here. In spring they don’t grow quite so quickly as kudzu, but sometimes it seems that way. In summer they’re banks of green hiding small animals–maybe larger ones, too–and full of wicked claws just aching for a bit of flesh. As the season turns to autumn the berries are ripe, birds gorging and people with buckets heading for the closest bush uncontaminated by pesticides, dreams of cobbler dancing through their heads.
But I like blackberry bushes best in winter, simply because some absolutely cling to green life through the worst weather imaginable. There’s a beauty to the dormant vines, while their roots sleep safe below frozen ground. Sure, they’ll still take a blood sacrifice, and a lot of gardeners around here hate them almost as much as ivy. (Do not get me started on ivy…)
There’s just something about a plant that shelters so many, feeds so many, and refuses to die even after icepocalypses, that pleases me. If I can be even a fraction as resilient, I will consider it effort well spent.
Chalk art is one of my favorite things. The beauty, the impermanence, the care taken with each scribble…I love it. And I see a lot of it at certain points in the neighborhood when weather permits. The rain has no doubt already washed this away; I’m glad I got the snap.
It’s odd to have been living in one place for so long, and to feel almost as if one belongs. I wandered a great deal and never felt at “home” even during childhood. How could I? Home is where one feels safe, after all, and I knew very well from an early age that I was not. Finding a tiny corner of the world to call my own has been a revelation. Ah, so this is what people talk about when they say home…how odd!
How odd indeed. How wonderful.
Anyway, this felt like a tiny, anonymous hug, and happened right when I needed it. So I pass the gift along, with thanks to the anonymous artist.
As the Icepocalypse faded we had a few days of soaking rain–really, Pacific Northwesterners need a thousand names for the different types of liquid precipitation we get–at relatively balmy temperatures. 50F is not usual for January, and several trees are putting out catkins or outright flowerbuds.
I’m not so worried about the camellias and that one cherry tree down the hill always goes earlier than anyone else. But I do whisper to the others–please, be reasonable. We could still get more ice, or worse. Try not to get too excited.
They’re not listening. I got this snap of a half-drowned little fellow, tousle-ragged, protecting tender new growth underneath. I hope they make it.
Another picture from the recent Icepocalypse. This fellow is a concrete dragon, and he lives at the base of the birch tree. You can see how he–and the vegetation around him–was coated with absolutely clear ice. (Which he was thrilled by, being a creature of all weather.) I got this snap while taking Boxnoggin cautiously around the yard since the street was a solid sheet of “oh hell no”. If I slip and almost go down thrice before getting to the end of the driveway, I’m not setting even a toe upon the street; fortunately, I was able to break through the crust where there was vegetation. Box, of course, was busy smashing his nose against the freeze and huffing it like an addictive substance, his eyes rolling back with ecstasy.
I don’t even know.
The melt is long past and we’ve had storms more appropriate to April than January. There was even some weak rotation in a few squalls, or so the meteorologists said. (No wonder my sinuses have been throbbing like a brass band.) I’m seeing insect life that normally doesn’t appear until March-April as well, and that disturbs me. We’re going to have a lot more crazy weather as corporations continue to cook the planet. I hold out no particular hope of them being forced to stop.
Anyway, we’re back on normal walkies schedule, I can eat a few bland foods again with 95% success, and if I’m going to avoid the incipient stress ulcer I need to continue doing what I’m doing. So these changes have a good chance of becoming permanent. Thank the gods my stomach concurs with the rest of me that caffeine is an absolute necessity for continued survival. I don’t know what I’d’ve done otherwise.
Have a lovely weekend, my friends. May we all be as serene as a dragon amid the foliage.
This is a glass gazing globe in the garden (try saying that quickly ten times) and normally it’s completely smooth. The texture you see is from a few hours’ worth of freezing rain a few days ago. The sight was so arresting I had to stop, Boxnoggin investigating one of the deck’s iced-over support struts, and take a snap before going back to pleading with him to please just pee, it’s very cold out here and I’m worried for your paws.
We were supposed to be melted by now…but that hasn’t happened. The street was a solid sheet of ice with liquid water running over it at several points yesterday, then the temperature went back down and the rain turned back into–you guessed it–freezing rain. Boxnoggin hasn’t had walkies in a few days; we’ve made do with many circuits of the yard, trying to break the ice-crust and gain traction on snow underneath, and a whole lot of playing indoors with his many and various dog toys. On the bright side he’s finally figured out one of the easy canine puzzles left over from Bailey’s tenure. It took her five minutes, he’s been working on the damn thing for months. To be fair we never let him struggle for very long, patiently showing him how it works and waiting for a spark to bridge the gap. We’re ever so proud he’s finally grasped it.
The past two weeks have been sort of awful, to the point of losing weight from stress. At least it stopped before the hair-falling-out portion of festivities, though I suspect I may have acquired a few more grey strands. At least I have the consolation of knowing I’m not the problem; being able to go to trusted friends for a quiet word and hearing, “No, you’re right, this is fucked up and you’re being gaslit” is damn near priceless. For the record, these are the same people with carte blanche and encouragement to smack me right in the kisser should I ever Actually Be the Problem, so it’s nice to know that I remain unsmacked.
I may do a sort of self-publishing roundup next week, since I have hit my limit dealing with a couple corporations’ bullshit, but we’ll see. At the moment I just want all this to be handled so I can get back to work. Significant progress has been made–amazingly, once I stop taking any shit at all, many institutions which have been serving said faeces discover that they are in fact capable of acting otherwise in my direction. Funny how that works.
I’ll leave more Chaucer for next week as well, though I am now in the Pardoner’s Tale. I suspect I have acquired momentum and will be finished with ol’ Geoffrey soon. It’s been a marvellous ride.
There used to be a huge bank of blackberry bushes here, home to birds, rabbits, and other small critters–probably the occasional daytime-resting coyote, too. But apparently someone decided the highway needed more room. I’m not against progress, yet this was completely unnecessary.
I take some comfort in the fact that the planet will survive just fine. Humanity may not–I swing back and forth on whether it will, sometimes hourly–but Gaia, uh, will find a way. (It will probably be crabs, since they’ve evolved how many separate times now?)
Anyway, sometimes Boxnoggin and I pass the work site during walkies, and I’ve taken to saying hello to this dry stick that was once a tree. The dog would desperately like to make its acquaintance despite the sound of traffic, but I restrain him. It’s simply not safe; heaven alone knows what’s lurking in the straw and his paws don’t need to find something awful there.
The first week of the new year is closing out in a holding pattern. I’m a little awry from good news. Perhaps the trend will continue.
This rosebush has been singing a mashup of Yellow Rose of Texas and You’re the One Rose (That’s Left In My Heart) for a week or two, so I caught a snap of it in rare winter sunshine. The water drops are from heavy mist, the river and wet earth both breathing cold exhalation upwards. Now the rains have moved in again, so it’s a bit warmer…but just a bit.
Yesterday was Yule, and we dragged out the new tree–bigger than the old one, 75% off a few days before Samhain, my daughter didn’t expect my caving to the begging but really, our other tree was beginning to look seriously overloaded and this one has more space. It was a bargain, but it also means that every time I walk past the living room I flinch a little. Still, the kids are thrilled and my daughter’s bestie enthused over it during his visit yesterday, so at least they’re happy.
Later today the stove might be fixed. All phalanges are crossed.
I’m saddened that we’re past the darkest night of the year; I could have used more rest. This interstitial time–between Yule proper and the New Year of society at large–could be restful and restorative, but not this year. Or maybe it’ll turn out all right once the stove’s dealt with, who knows? All I want is to get through today and crawl back into bed with Chaucer, who is turning out to be a helluva good time. (I recommend the current Norton Critical edition–you know I love Norton Criticals as a whole, but this one really goes out of its way to make the text accessible.) I’m about halfway through Tale of Genji and am going to go back to it after the New Year, I just couldn’t handle more wet sleeves.
I suppose I should get some toast gnawed and Boxnoggin rambled. He’s not going to like it if the rain keeps up, but he’d like skipping walkies even less. Change is this dog’s mortal enemy, and he was extremely put out by the gleaming new thing in the living room until we came back from yesterday’s stroll and his short-term memory had been reset. Now he’s fairly sure the room has always been in this configuration…but he suspects, and it makes him nervy. Poor fellow.
I wish you a peaceful weekend, my dears. I may be back on Boxing Day, or I might decide to take until January 1 off, haven’t decided yet.
