Like most summers, on 31 August, I find myself disbelieving every sign that tomorrow we enter September, and with it, the beginning of school. A rush to finish up what we planned to do over the summer is meeting the reality of fickle weather. In the re-prioritization of finishing up the wood and preparing to bring in the plants, I discovered a tree had died.
Her death, and I do and did think of her as a she, is a blow. On the way in with wood, I’d pass her on the left and a similar aged maple on the left. We tapped them for our one and only foray into making maple syrup. You’d think I would have noticed, but honestly, it feels like she covered it up. I asked myself how I could have missed it, but there is only one area where I could even see her depleted grace. I noticed the decayed yellowy white wood tufts on the path and looked up. I gasped at the suddenness it felt like as well as the dismay that I’d missed who knows how many months of her suffering. I thanked her for her life then went to tell Husband who couldn’t believe it either.
Speaking of which, he turned this many candles years old if you multiply it by ten or so.
After digging over 50 holes and planting over 150 corms and then fighting varmints to replant them where I wanted several times, an orange gladiola stalk bloomed. No pictures of that, but a yellow has sprung up and two more at the end are preparing to unfurl. Gorgeous things. Unlike turtle heads. In the far back yard, I came across a patch of them and bent down to inspect these weird flat growths. One bloom looked spent and when I decided to take it in to look it up, a seed spit out at me. That or a surprised bee, but either way, what an interesting looking plant.
“You’re a writer who isn’t writing” was a message that came through on a walk. Obviously, it was the devil or some other evil spirit speaking and I continue to ignore those words, still unwilling to be Charlie Brown to writing’s Lucy. Working to help others is all I’m doing right now, though a writing group I’ve been attending is gearing up to begin a new session and I have nothing to share which is triggering some guilt, but not enough to do anything about it yet. There is probably a magic spell to make that feeling go away.
I guess that’s the life bits and pics I’m willing to share. I was furious yesterday listening to the Supreme Court decision on continuing to let the vote by mail travesty continue. Drunk sailors would have blushed at my wrath. And then it was like, fine. I didn’t start collecting moon water for any specific reason, but I trusted my instincts and now I have it. The untrustworthy pervert with two first names rushing America into fascism be decree and delay might be interested to know I know people who know how to use such substances. May he be forever hexed with weeping face boils.
Does that sound witchy? I’ve been practicing. I wish I didn’t have to, but something must change.
Thank you for stopping by and for the read. I trust you’ll have an enchanted week. Cheers!
T. L. Sherwood 
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