Saturday, December 22, 2018

NEW NAMES FOR THE FULL COLD MOON OF DECEMBER?...


 !f your weather allows on this night, you may have the privilege of viewing the full moon of December.

Our Native Americans, depending on their tribes, had many names for this moon... the Moon of the Long Night; the Big Winter Moon; the Moon that makes the Trees Crack; The Big Hard Face Moon... and more!

These and other Native American names for the full moon of December reflected their great and well-placed fear of the cold and hardships of the season, when their very survival was threatened.

We modern Americans live far more safely and comfortably than the early Native Americans (or even our early white settlers). We should give some thought to adopting our own names for the full moon of the month of December.

Perhaps: The Christmas Moon; the Moon of the Silent Nights; the Moon of the Outdoor Lights and the Indoor Trees; the Moon of the Bells and Carols; the Moon of the Fireside; the Moon of the New Year Waiting; the Moon of the Family Gatherings; the Moon that Lights the Fields...

Or, to be more practical: The Moon of the Sky-High Fuel Bills; the Moon of the Snow Tires and Chains; the Moon of the Shovels and Snow Blowers; the Moon of the Heavy Quilts; the Moon of the Boots, Coats, Scarves and Gloves; the Moon of the Salt Trucks and Slush...

(Well, YOU get the idea!)


Wednesday, December 19, 2018

WALKING OUT INTO A GOOD MORNING...

Spectacular morning sky peering down through creek-bred mists... 

Sunrise is a giant stained-glass golden bowl inverted overhead, reflecting its color onto heavily frosted roofs and grasses...

An icy 24 degrees... 

Magical and still and very cold... A good morning in the valley!  

Saturday, December 8, 2018

'WAGS'... AND THE WINTER THAT GOT OUR GOAT...

by Rose Moore, columnist
Published in Gazette Newspapers of Ohio
Jan. 9, 2015


THE LOVABLE FACE OF A NUBIAN GOAT
His name was Wags. He entered our conversation last week as Bob and I talked about the recent invasion of winter cold. 
Wags was our pet in the early 1970s when our three boys were youngsters. He was bigger than Mick, the over-sized Doberman that now inhabits a place in our home. While Mick weighs more than 100 pounds and is so long-legged-tall I can scratch his big back without bending or leaning, Wags was even taller than Mick, and he weighed at least 150. His weight and height were the proper standard for his breed, and unlike Mick, he didn't live in the house. He was a Nubian goat! 
He looked a bit like a deer, even his coloration, but his soulful-eyed face---framed as it was with its long floppy ears hanging down---looked more like a basset hound. Try as I might over time to photograph that wackily beautiful face for posterity, he would spoil each effort by lovingly licking the lens of my camera. 
Unlike Mick, Wags did not arrive on the scene by pre-planning. While Mick had been my husband's grand surprise for me in early 2012, just after we traded our dog-friendly club-cab truck for a tiny red car, Wags had been a complete surprise for both of us.
He arrived one summer day in the back of a big green truck driven by my friend and flight instructor Everett Knapp. To the delight of the little Moore boys and the shock of their parents, Knapp formally introduced this creature to them, telling them Wags would now be their pet.
"I know you have a problem with the poison ivy," Knapp told us. "Wags as a goat can solve that." For us, such a deal!  As the story evolved, we learned that Wags was being "evicted" from a children's rural petting zoo. "He would be put down if the owner could not find a home," Knapp explained. "Wags needs property, and you have the property. Wags needs and loves kids, and you have the kids. Wags needs affection, and your boys love animals."
The facts as presented did make good sense. Wags now had a home and three boys, and the boys had a pet that could run around the property with them. And yes! bit by bit, Wags did do away with all that poison ivy, and it never came back.
Once a week, we picked up a bag of goat feed at the mill, and the boys always insisted on going along. They would carry the feed bag; they would feed their pet; they would see that he had plenty of water; and at night they would see that he was well secured in his comfortable shelter at the rear of the property.
Oh! How often I glanced out the window to see the shenanigans of three boys and their goat. I would watch as the boys tied their goat to a wagon and suspended a carrot in front of his nose at the end of a long stick and a string. In his efforts to reach for that carrot, Wags would pull his boys and their wagon all over the yard. When the carrot was finally caught, Wags would plunk himself backward on top of the boys while happily eating the carrot... 
The boys kept a good eye on this pet they were proud of; who else had a goat from a petting zoo? One hot afternoon, Wags wandered too close to the road. The boys, working as a team, tackled him down and made him lie flat beneath an old tree until they gave him permission to get up again. Together the boys and the goat sat in the cooling shade of that tree and had a good rest. (And Wags had quickly learned he was not to get close to the road.)
It was not an altogether bad life for a goat whose pre-Moore days had been spent being petted by children. People who knew the breed told me they attached quite readily to humans and loved to interact with them, and that was quickly proved to us. I was also told that Nubian goats would learn to call for their favorite owner. I soon discovered, as much as he enjoyed the boys, his favorite owner was ME! And he DID begin to call for me. Early every morning, I would hear that resounding call for "Maaaa!" It wouldn't stop until I went out to say hello and visit with him for a bit, and then Wags was fine for the day.
Like my human boys, the joy of this Nubian could be accompanied with a pesky problem or two. One I remember quite vividly. I had dressed for an early-morning meeting when I heard the Nubian greeting from Wags, and I knew he'd wake the entire neighborhood if I didn't go out and say hi. 
Before school, the kids had secured him on a long chain and stake, and Wags was so excited to see me, he surprised me by wrapping that chain around my ankles. Down I went into a patch of mud! 
Gleefully he snuggled against me, licking my face, and it was not an easy job to get away from all that mud and sloppy affection. Needless to say, I didn't make it in time for my meeting, and I'm not sure my excuse was accepted. Or believed.
Wags had been with us for more than two years when he was attacked by a small pack of roaming dogs. Hearing the excitement, I hurried out with broom sticks. My mother-in-law who lived next door was already there, and together we two women shooed the dogs away from that poor goat. A rural veterinarian who specialized in large animals came to treat him, with follow-up visits from time to time. Wags healed slowly, but he did finally heal.
"I believe you're the human this animal loves the most," the vet observed during that first visit. "You are therefore the one who should administer his medicine and tend him. Spend extra time with him, talking tenderly to him. It will make all the difference in his recovery, believe it or not, especially considering this animal was raised to be around people."
When winter approached, Wags was doing well and I called the vet in for a pre-winter check. Under ordinary circumstances, he told me, the goat's winter shelter was more than adequate. But considering the injury and infection from which he had recovered, he might be prone to pneumonia. He should probably live in a heated barn.
We had no way of safely heating the shelter, so reluctantly we advertised a "Free Nubian goat; large but great with children; and loves to be with humans." Wags was adopted very quickly by a family with children and a heated barn. We said goodbye with sadness; we were doing what was best for him.
Bob and I have not forgotten Wags, our first pet as a married couple with children. Unconventional, over-sized and unexpected, Wags still turned out to be a good pet. 
Maybe our experience with him prepared me for the big dogs that would later enter my life, including Mick. At our age, we know that Mick is apt to be our LAST dog as a married couple. Like Wags, he's larger than expected; and a pet I didn't ask for and didn't know I wanted. But a good pet indeed!
(This column was printed 1-09-2015 in Gazette Newspapers of Ohio. You can contact Rose at randrmoore@gmail.com

Thursday, December 6, 2018

FINDING QUIET LEISURE ON A WINTER DAY ...


I LOVE A MORNING LIKE THIS,
WHEN BIG SNOW FLAKES FLOAT SLOWLY DOWN
AMID TALL TREES AROUND MY HOUSE,
AS IF THEY HAVE ALL DAY TO  MAKE THEIR WAY 
FROM CLOUD TO GROUND.

AND WHEN THEY LAND, THEY ARE FOLLOWED BY 
ANOTHER SLOWLY FLOATING SNOWFLAKE ARMY
AS IF THERE IS NO END.

THIS IS PEACE AND RELAXATION WHILE IT LASTS.
FEW PEOPLE TAKE THE TIME TO NOTICE.

I WONDER HOW THE SNOWFLAKES FEEL ABOUT THAT.

WAKING UP AT DAYBREAK TO SNOWFLAKES SIFTING THROUGH  THE TREES OUTSIDE MY BEDROOM WINDOW

Saturday, December 1, 2018

MOTHER CHRISTMAS 2012... TEACHING THE REINDEER TO FLY...

           WAS THIS HER PRACTICE FOR TRAINING HER BIG DOGS?

PHOTO BY BOB MOORE 2012

Wednesday, November 28, 2018

GIVING THE SEASON ITS DUE...


For me, there's something very special about the early snows in our northeast Ohio.
I admit, as years go by and I grow older, the cold feels colder against my thinning skin; my outdoor forays do not last as long; and I no longer do my own snow-shoveling.
Still, the captive child that exists within me looks with great excitement as the first snowflakes begin to fall each year around me.
I am one determined to continue giving every season its due; to ignore discomforts and appreciate the unique beauties; and when it comes to winter, I would not want it without snow.
And oh! have you walked outside in snow before the dawn, underneath the brilliance of the stars in winter skies?
They seem so large and close... You feel they have somehow drawn you up, to walk among them...

Tuesday, November 27, 2018

TODAY! THE FIRST SIGNIFICANT SNOW OF THE SEASON, AND MORE TO COME!

AH THE SNOW! IT MAKES ME FEEL LIKE CHRISTMAS!
DO YOU THINK, ON A NIGHT WHEN NO ONE IS LOOKING, SANTA WOULD ENJOY RELAXING ON NORTH POLAR-STYLE DECK? 

MY YEAR-ROUND CHRISTMAS TREES ARE "BLOOMING"





Sunday, November 25, 2018

PEACE IN THE VALLEY ON THIS SUNDAY MORNING...



CHANGE IN TEMPERATURES LAST NIGHT, AND BLUE MIST ROSE UP FROM THE CREEK IN THE MORNING

Thursday, November 22, 2018

REMEMBERING A DETAIL OF A KIND MAN'S LIFE...

THANKSGIVING MORNING 2018... A NOTE TO KEVIN DAVID PASTOR FOR HIS FAMILY...


This morning when I heard of the passing of your dad, it brought up a memory Bob and I never forgot.. 

Dan was a very kind man, and Bob and I always enjoyed conversation with him at family gatherings. Dan had a creative streak in his younger years, and he was a very good creative photographer at one time. 

Years ago, we told him of a Victorian barn Bob and I had tried to buy in Geauga County. We had hoped to convert it into a home, but it really needed to be saved fairly soon. 

The owner lived far away. She told us she didn't care what happened to that barn, but she would not sell it; she would not allow it to be even moved; as it was part of a "tax shelter plan." 

Some time later, Dan came by with a large, matted photo of that barn for us, and told us, "I agree; that's such a pretty old barn, and it IS going to tumble down soon. It's sad, but I took a photo so at least you can always have a good image to remember it by." 


The barn DID go down, but to this day, it is less the memory (and waste) of that barn than it is the memory of Dan's great kindness in preserving the image for us.


God speed to Dan Pastor. He is up there with my Bob now, and they'll have lots of talking to do; and I like to think they'll both be like their old selves. ❤️
  

Monday, November 19, 2018

THE HOLIDAY WHEN MAMA COOKED OUR GOOSE...

A Thanksgiving dinner never passes when I don't think about the year a fine Thanksgiving bird became a gift for our Thanksgiving dinner.

It was the mid-1940s, and I was five or six years old. The all-American Thanksgiving holiday was generally a time of thankfulness, family gatherings and church services, and dinners were as bountiful as families could make them. The star of the dinner table was usually poultry; most often a big roast turkey.

That was not to be true for us that year, however. No turkey or any bird of its ilk was destined for our holiday table.Times were hard for a lot of families, and we were no exception. Turkeys were a luxury we could not afford, and Mom had told us we would have to work with what we had and let the spirit of the holiday make up for it. Still, that humble circumstance led to a Thanksgiving I vividly remember after all these years..


As Thanksgiving week arrived, our family's menu expectations took a sudden turn for the better. One of my father's fellow railroad workers---who was also a farmer---called our house to say that a plump Thanksgiving bird would be personally delivered to our door, as his gift to our family. My mother was excited at the prospect of the fine feast she could make of that, and she began to plan creative trimmings for the grand occasion. When the bird arrived, I must say it was magnificent indeed.


As my mother stepped out to the doorstep to receive the bird, she sharply drew her breath before she extended greetings to our benefactor and thanked him for the generous donation of this fine LIVE GOOSE! As it honk-honk-honked and marched around and preened its snowy feathers for us, we children were delighted. As far as we could see, we had just been gifted with our own special holiday surprise---a pet goose!


Mom saw to it that our goose was properly secured in the basement, and for reasons we couldn't figure out, she nervously awaited my father's return from work. She told us it would be Dad's job to deal with "the goose problem," though what that problem could be, we didn't know.


If my father was surprised to find the prime feature of our Thanksgiving dinner was still ALIVE, he didn't show it; he took my mother's hand and, out of our hearing, told her something in a tone so low we couldn't hear him. It seemed to reassure my mother; in later years, we'd learn that he'd told Mom she wouldn't be responsible for rendering that great bird lifeless for its holiday destiny, nor would he. He would discreetly engage a local farmer to perform that task and make it ready for her culinary talents.


We kids began to talk about the prospects for our future with our fine new pet. We opened the basement door constantly to peek at the bird, marvelling at its size; it seemed larger than we were! Could it fly, we wondered? Would it need training like a dog? Would we have to build a "goose house" for it?...

A day or two later, we peeked at the goose before breakfast and discovered it had disappeared! Who had stolen it, or who had left the door ajar and allowed it to escape? Would we ever see it again? Would it find its way back to us?


We didn't realize it at the time, but our goose was returned on Thanksgiving eve, ready to stuff and cook, delivered by the farmer to our door. It was well-hidden in a heavy sack which Mom whisked quickly out of sight. Later when we saw what we thought was a turkey in our refrigerator, we decided it was the fine Thanksgiving dinner promised by Dad's friend, who must have delivered it in the night while we kids were still asleep.


On Thanksgiving morning, Mom rose early to begin the dinner preparations. Soon the comforting aromas of this holiday permeated every corner of our house. At dinner, my father carefully transported the big cooked bird to the table. He led the blessing, adding with what was probably a slip of the tongue: "We also thank you, Lord, for the good friend whose generosity put this handsome GOOSE upon our holiday table."


The happy child-chatter stopped abruptly. THIS WAS OUR GOOSE! It really was a beauty on our table; like something on a holiday magazine cover. But if Mom had created a masterpiece, its magnificence was lost on us. Here sat our goose before us on the table, and it was being CARVED for us to eat for our Thanksgiving dinner!


We had MET this goose, and all too suddenly we understood a bit about the process that had brought him to our table. We kids just sat there; we didn't raise our faces; we didn't make a sound; we didn't raise our plates to share the meat when it was carved; we couldn't even summon up the courage to face the goose... or face our parents.


"Well," my father said at last, "we can eat around it." That didn't help a bit, and when my father saw that, he understood his children could not attempt to eat a thing in that bird's presence. And especially, they wouldn't be taking so much as a nibble out of that bird!


He rose and took the bird to the kitchen. Where it went from there, we children couldn't say; we never saw it again. But our parents were never of a mind---nor could they afford---to throw good food away, and in later years we came to realize we had probably enjoyed our goose in my mother's hearty post-Thanksgiving stew and soup and hash.


Our response to Mom's heroic work in cooking up that grand Thanksgiving dinner must have disappointed her, but in hindsight, it seemed to me she might have actually been prepared for our reaction. She left the dining room and came back with a meat loaf, piping hot and seemingly from nowhere. It was delicious, the best we'd ever had, and we told her so and meant it. When we addressed dessert, we saw that Mom had topped our pies with extra ice cream, a rare luxury for us.


After dinner we were bundled up and hustled out-of-doors with Mom and Dad, to build a snowman. Mom brought along the coal to make the face and buttons; Dad supplied the hat and corncob pipe, and together we came up with such a tall, impressive snowman that, in its splendid presence, the goose was all but forgotten.


It was a fine Thanksgiving after all, for all of us; except the goose!















Friday, November 16, 2018

THE TRUTH BEHIND THE GREAT THANKSGIVING BLIZZARD OF 1950

     A favorite Thanksgiving memory I still enjoying sharing after all these years of living in Ohio is "The Truth Behind the Great Thanksgiving Blizzard of 1950."
     We who were children at the time might remember that storm with affection, but it was actually a dangerous event, historic in snowfall depth and duration. It pounded the entire state and held Ohio hostage for weeks, blowing down wires and poles; blocking roads and railroad beds; shutting down schools, churches, stores, commercial and public buildings ... Fuel supplies dwindled, and nothing moved for at least five days---except, perhaps, for certain avid football fans.
     The storm had not abated when Ohio State and Michigan football teams gathered in Columbus for what would thereafter be known as the Blizzard Bowl. More than 50,000 fervent fans watched (or tried to watch) from the bleachers as the teams fought each other and the elements. In raging winds, swirling snows and five-degree temperatures, Michigan won 9-3, with both teams gaining only 27 total yards, with no first downs and 45 punts between the teams.
     Before the storm was over, Lake County had lost much of its valuable nursery stock to the weight of the snow. Snow removal became serious business; some municipalities transported the plowed snow in rail cars to the south; there was simply no place here for the plows to leave it.
     When temperatures freakishly rose by Dec. 2 to the 50s and 60s, clean-up was far from over; the world of Ohio was still a sloppy mess. And we had not returned to school,
     AT THE TIME, I was 10 years old, an elder child in a large family. My siblings would forever after know the truth as to how that storm was really made. The simple ingredients were an unseasonably warm day, a disintegrating snowman and a family of determined children.
     In the week before Thanksgiving, we kids had built a special snowman from a heavy, wet November snow that had quickly come and just as quickly gone. Our snowman had a coal-button smile and coal-buttons down his front, and for arms he sported sturdy branches. We decked him out in hat and scarf, and his ample waist was circled with a shiny Santa-style belt.
     We had made our snowman very tall, and we stood on milk crates to complete his upper portions. We buffed his surface into ice and were convinced he'd last all winter.
     Then Thanksgiving morning dawned, and a sudden warmth raised temperatures into the 40s and left our snowman stranded on green grass. We kids looked out to see our snowman was in trouble. He was wilting into slush; his face was twisting and his coal-buttons were beginning to drop away. The onset of a steady drizzle further fueled our desperation. A cold front was predicted, but who could wait? Not our snowman, and certainly not us.
     I lined my siblings up along a hallway---out of sight of grown-ups who might think us sacrilegious---and ordered them to kneel down together and bow their heads to God and all our guardian angels, and pray for sudden cold and lots of snow. "Believe with all your might," I said, "and it will happen." They believed and so did I. We prayed as earnestly as any human children could.
     IN THE NIGHT, I stayed awake to watch. Against the city street lights I could see no snow, and I opened up the window by my bed and stretched my hand outside; it was still too warm for snow!
     As midnight approached, the rain began to thicken into snow. Soon I hurried from my bed to spread the news among my siblings, ''It's snowing!" I whispered with excitement. "The biggest flakes you ever saw!" History-making weather roared in swiftly, and by dawn it seemed to us that all the world was snow, and more was coming.
     The storm began the 23rd. By the 28th, some major roads were open, but all too many roads and side streets were still jammed, and schools remained closed. Because we city children walked to school and many wires were still down, we were at home for several weeks, as I recall. My father said HIS children weren't to be endangered in their mile-plus walk to school; they would remain at home until the city had repaired the wires. (Happily in those days, snow make-up days had not yet been invented).
     If anything remained of our poor snowman, we would not have known it then, for he was hopelessly buried. With the next snow-melt, we found his "arms" and his clothes and a handful of coal.
     Though it was a magical time for us, as snowstorms always seem to be for children, the storm presented work and worry for our parents. Would the storm outlast necessities of life, including coal for the furnace? Houses weren't as tightly wrapped against the cold as they are now, and our parents closed the shades and drapes, piled on the quilts and kept the furnace stoked day and night. With games, stories, songs and lamplight, they didn't let us sense a bit of danger.
     FROM TIME TO time in later years when I had children of my own, I shared with them the story of that blizzard and its suspicious beginnings. Laughingly they dubbed me "Weather Witch," a title that would later be proven once again, at least in their eyes.
But that's another story in itself.
(Rose About Town says she still thinks snow is beautiful because it makes her feel young again, and that's REAL magic! Comments can be directed to randrmoore@gmail.com)

Friday, November 9, 2018

HOW I BECAME IMPORTANT ON THE INTERNET HIGHWAY...


Wow! I'm so important!

According to my email today:


*I'M A LOST PRINCESS who can receive the inheritance left for me in the rediscovered will of the lost monarchy of my family--if I send money!


*I HAVE AN INTERNATIONAL award waiting for me--if I send money!

*I AM THE LAST SURVIVOR of a former South African royal family, and I can learn more about my property and monetary inheritance--if only I send money!



WOW! WAIT TIL THEY FIND OUT WHO I AM!



THE NOTORIOUS WITCH ROSE OF THE GREAT LAKES

Tuesday, November 6, 2018

VOTE IN YOUR OWN VOICE ...

When I hear a conversation about the 19th Amendment, giving women the right to vote and also to hold office, I think back to a conversation between my mother and father. It occurred when I was a child in the late 1940s, and the conversation was surprising to me, given the usual husband-wife balance of that old-fashioned time.

"Clarence, how are you going to vote?" my mother asked my father. Right in front of us kids, he firmly told her, "I'm not going to tell you."

"But why?" my mother wondered. "I don't want to take the chance that I might vote differently from you and cancel out your vote."

Apparently my father didn't appreciate Mom's show of support in this regard. "That's why I'm not telling you," he replied firmly. "Women worked hard for the right to vote. It's your personal right. If you think a different candidate would be a better choice, then you should be more than willing to cancel my vote."

I never did know who liked which candidate and who voted for whom, but I never forgot that conversation. My father, the traditional Quiet Man, was standing up for a woman's rights, and his message was a message for me as well.

Many years later, after my husband Bob and I had been married for decades, I looked out into the yard and noticed a political sign being installed for a candidate I wasn't supporting.

"What's that sign doing there?" I asked my husband. "I haven't been contacted about it and that's not my candidate."

"I ordered it," he casually replied. "You can get your own sign."

By the end of that day, there were two separate signs prominently displayed in our front yard, each for a different candidate. To make things clear, my husband had attached a HIS sign to his candidate's sign, and I had attached a HERS to mine.

The signs stayed for the duration of the campaign; no arguments, no hard feelings. They were simply expressions of our personal opinions on the matter.

I had married a man who, like my father, respected a woman's right to think and vote for herself. And I, my father's daughter, did just that.


Tuesday, October 30, 2018

"OUTA THE WAY, CREATURE! ... I'M TAKING OFF! "




TUESDAY'S IN THE HOUSE ...


Sipping coffee in the library, watching the new day evolve...

The mist along the east horizon slowly picks up mauve, and then a slender stripe of cloud against blue sky gleams brilliant gold


As that begins to fade, a vertical cat-scratch bit of cloud takes on a neon pink... and then a curving jet trail becomes an unexpected monotone pink "rainbow..."

Good morning! Tuesday's in the house! She's pretty!
                                                                        
                                       ~~Rose Moore


Sunday, October 28, 2018

SUN-DAY MORNING? ...


This morning's a stage set for a Hitchcock
Daylight appeared in a dark, sodden robe of thick clouds. 
The sun is above this, I know, but I don't think we'll see it today
It will stay cold and rainy, and the winds will kick up. 

So I've brewed strong hot coffee, turned on the music, and lit every light in the house. 
There! That's better!
SUN-DAY IS UNDER THE WEATHER...

Friday, October 26, 2018

BLURRY MORNING, FEEL OF RAIN ...




At daybreak, my vision was blurry. Then I realized it was actually thick valley mist, held close to the ground as temps rose a bit in the night. Now things have cleared, but clouds seem more likely than sunshine today, with rain in the forecast for later. Grin and bear it. Sometimes your sunshine must come from the spirit within you.

Tuesday, October 23, 2018

BEAUTY! SOMETIMES IT COMES TO YOU; SOMETIMES YOU LOOK FOR IT...


Moonlight LIVED in all the rooms of my house, all through the night.
There was a light evening mist in the air, and as cold as it was, I went out to the deck to spend a few minutes in that luminous glow.
I still have some mist here this morning, as always in the mornings of my autumns here in this creek valley. I am watching it now as the morning sun sips up that mist.
A cloudy day is predicted. At this moment, however, blue sky and sunshine predominate. I sit with my coffee and enjoy it until it is draped by thick cloud.
And then I'll be up and around, doing things.
There will still be beauty to see; there always is. 
You just have to look for it.
                      ---Rose Moore, randrmoore@gmail.com

Monday, October 22, 2018

"OCTOBER MORNING, UNDERSTATED"



Monday! A new start to a new day!
Nice sunset last night, and a beautiful sunrise this morning! 

Did we have frost in the night? I don't know!
How will the weather be today?Don't know that either!
I do know I slept well, and I hope you did too.

I expect the cold to remain with us today, but the morning sky is clear, blue and misty, and let's make the most of whatever is given!
God bless you this morning!

Friday, October 19, 2018

THE WAKE-UP ...


What woke me up but the deep sheen of a stained-glass sunrise! The prettiest I've seen in awhile, with enough leaves lost that I could actually see all the way down to the line of horizon. 

I stood at the window without moving, until it had faded.

Good morning! It's nice to wake up!

Thursday, October 18, 2018

OCTOBER IN THE MORNING ...

COLD, BLUE SKY OVERHEAD ...
                                                                                                               


ICY COLD CREEK AT MY FEET ...

                                               





Sunday, October 14, 2018

CRISP OCTOBER MORNING


   Early this morning, after a Summer that went on forever, Autumn finally delivers her own wake-up punch on this beautiful Sunday. 

   There's a light bit of frost on the rooftop, but it won't be enough to do away with the flowers.

    The dive to cold in the past several days has finally added good color to my forested valley.

    Taking a cue from the spirit of my Big Dog Mick who is no longer with me, I grab a warm coat and set out to wander the property. 

    Via the tiny digital camera I keep in my pocket, I share a wee bit of that walk. 
















   

Thursday, October 11, 2018

IT'S A DOG'S LIFE ...


BEACHIN' IT! Granddaughter Katie Moore's dog Duke in the morning mist at my place by the creek the morning after the recent flooding storm. Look closely to see all the sand washed down by the creek...
  I have a beach along the creek, a beach in the trees, there was even a beach in the barn along with the water!
 None of this phased Duke, sitting in the sun on a big rock above the beach!
 (And no, I don't know what brand he drinks).




Wednesday, October 10, 2018

FEELING PENSIVE ...


 FEELING PENSIVE ... My morning was filled with a string of appointments, the final being a meeting with my long-time accountant re the final IRS form for the year. 

   As I signed the form for e-file, he gently informed me, "That is the last IRS JOINT FORM you will sign. From here on, you sign as a single lady."

   I knew that, I guess, but it startled me. Funny, I don't feel single. How could I, when my Bob still rides shotgun with me?

Monday, October 8, 2018

OCTOBER TEARS ...





                                               Tears, golden tears,
 To our trees they are bound.

 Then stormy winds
 Fling the tears to the GROUND!

Saturday, October 6, 2018

DAY'S END, AFTER THE STORMS ...



THE SUN SLIDES DOWN INTO THE MIST ABOVE THE CREEK

OCTOBER & THE CHANGE OF SEASONS ...

     READY OR NOT, the rains combined with autumn winds bring down a lot of leaves.
     Overnight, the impenetrable green cloud of leaves around my "tree-house home" this season have thinned quite drastically, before they had much chance to strut their colorful stuff! I looked out my windows when the daylight came this morning, and there stood the tall, dark, handsome sentries of the elder trees, like druids standing guard around my house, and I could see great portions of my sky again! 
     Not an unattractive option for me, really, for you all know I love the sky. Still, I'm hoping for a spell of all those bright gold hues that have led me, over all my autumns here, to dub my lovely wooded autumn place as, "Midas Valley" throughout the months of fall.
      But, as this place has also taught me, Mother Nature has her own surprises through the seasons, and there was always something different, special and unique in every season.
      In that way, she taught me to accept and to appreciate; and through the seasons in the world around me, I became an ardent fan of every day and every month and every season.
       Content to live the Here and Now, whatever it might serve. 
                                                                 
                                                ~~~Rose Moore, October 2018


Friday, October 5, 2018

OCTOBER MORNING IN MY VALLEY ...








CAN YOU THINK OF A BETTER REASON TO RISE UP EARLY AND WALK OUT INTO THE CHILL OF A FINE AUTUMN MORNING?



MORNING AIR SHOW ...


Sitting in a north room of my "tree house" home, awed by a group of robin-sized birds that have settled down from upper currents in such great numnbers, they must be a travel group ...

They are moving through the thickness of the  trees outside my tall north windows ... so rapidly I actually can't identify them ...

They seem to have discovered they can move the autumn leaves around like wind chimes in a breeze, and they are flitting up, down, around, to and fro and back and forth ... acrobatically and kaleidoscopically ... performing with so little air between them, yet never touching, like our Blue Angels ...

They move so playfully before my eyes, and in no certain pattern  ... It really seems they're having FUN! ...

And so am I! They are my morning entertainment!

Sunday, September 23, 2018

SITTING WITH SEPTEMBER ON THE PORCH ...

VIEW FROM THE PORCH

NOON... I sit quietly on the front porch that spans the length of my home; watching and listening to sere leaves that are so dry and crisp they rattle in the breezes, never absolutely soundless ...
.
They sift their way downward, through the sturdy branches of the tallest valley tree close to my house ...

They make their own music, falling in a certain subtle rhythm past my eyes, sharing their own dusty, dry aroma with my senses...

Occasionally they inspire a sneeze, but I am nonetheless content to be a part of yet another oh-so-rare September day.

Tuesday, September 18, 2018

WORDS ABOUT SEPTEMBER ...


... "The nights are cool and quieter; the moonlight is the most benevolent of any of the twelve moons of the year;  and it seems to add an extra sheen upon the night-time trees... "   
         ~~Rose Moore, from her essay, "September!"

THE TIMES, THEY ARE CHANGING... ?


Another sign of changing seasons... 

As I walked out for my morning newspaper, I passed the flagpole garden, and a bright cloud of goldfinch swarmed upward from the depth of all those flowers.

They had been dining on the seeds in preparation for an autumn journey. 

(Their yellow feathers haven't dimmed to olive yet, so we still have some time.)

IS IT SHEDDING TIME FOR THE LEAVES?


At daybreak, my yard was full of fallen leaves!...
😮
Did a big tree shake its head at me!?

Saturday, September 15, 2018

SEPTEMBER MORNING: HIGH-DEFINITION & WOW-GREEN! ....




I seldom see a September morning with the colors of the earth and sky so clean and clear as they are this morning here.
September mornings in my creek valley are usually well-cloaked in rising mists.
And oh! We are still so GREEN! Not a hint of autumn colors we would usually see, so well into September as we are this morning.
Vive la difference! And I like them both!

Thursday, August 30, 2018

ANSWERING A QUESTION ABOUT A SPECIAL DOG...


To my friend Kay Hess ... I have loved every one of the dobies Bob and I adopted (one at a time over the years). But THIS dog, our Mick, was so unique. I cannot say enough about him nor accurately describe how much I miss him. Now I love to think of him with Bob, both of them pain-free and romping once again together as they did so many times in life. Bob brought him home to me when he realized his own time would be limited, though neither of us (or Mick) would know how long. My friend Connie Naumann Luhta calls Mick 'The Entertainer', because our Mick did anything he could to make us laugh. Laughter really IS the best medicine, and when it combines with all the other qualities of the creature we have called 'the dog,'what could be better to enrich your life? Walking with two congenial, loving presences--Bob and Mick--who laughed a lot and savored life and those around him... What could have been better? I still happily walk with the memories."

--Rose Moore, from a facebook posting yesterday, in answer to a friend who had detected that I was lonesome without Mick; and would I get another dog? I guess her question wasn't really answered; I have not yet answered it in my own mind and heart.