Anna Scott Graham's Blog

Advent is a time of waiting, of preparation for the Christmas miracle. Of being mindful of the great gift God presented humanity in the form of a helpless baby destined to die thirty-some years later on a cross. My husband and I appreciate the season of Advent, and this afternoon I arranged four candles on our coffee table. Then it was time to attend to chicken maintenance; I needed to add sand and wood ash to the dustbathing box, change out the waterers both in the coop and run. And then clean out poop. Because even if today is the first Sunday of Advent, those chickens aren't going to do any of those tasks for me.

In letting the hens out of the run, I guided them into the garden. A couple wanted to poke around freely, but I had things to do and fortunately the chickens acquiesced. In counting them, I was down one, and saw no one loitering in the run. My hubby headed to the coop to see who was dithering. Observing the hens, I realized Camilla was missing, which seemed odd; she's usually the first out of the gate when it comes to field trips. Then my beloved hollered, "She's in a nesting box!" I wondered if I'd heard him right; was one of our chickens actually thinking about laying an egg???  

My spouse has been far more interested in the possibility of eggs than me, in part that he likes eggs more than I do, lol. Yet both of us have been of the mind that eggs from just turned five-month-old hens wouldn't occur until next spring. Chickens require plenteous light, and these hens aren't even six months old. Upon his declaration, I secured the garden door, then headed to the coop, where he was standing on the stump that bolsters the coop door, peering through the lattice. "She's moving the straw around in the box," he said.

It truly seemed unreal that on the first Sunday of Advent one of our chickens was going to lay her (and our) first egg!  It wasn't surprising that it was Camilla; she and Nadia have had red combs for ages, and of course Camilla is the LEAD hen. We stepped away, me back to the garden, while my hubby headed to his workshop. Within about ten minutes, Camilla exited the coop into the run, striding toward the open door. I called to my husband, who went to the coop. As I opened the garden door for Camilla, Owl Chicken rushed out, followed by Nadia. Another field trip commenced and as other chickens flew out of the garden, my husband approached, a brown speckled egg in his gloved hand.

Our first egg, courtesy of Camilla.

"She pecked at it," he said, a smile in his voice, "but she didn't crack it open."

I smirked; leave it to Camilla for cannibalistic tendencies to emerge. I took the egg, still warm, and studied it. Then I gave it back to him; he would take it inside while I retrieved treats to lure the hens into the run. Too much going on today for any kind of field trip!

Camilla post-laying, bless her!

Because Camilla had pecked the egg, we decided it needed to be eaten quickly. My husband took that honor, frying it himself. He said it tasted like an egg, lol. The shell was of average thickness, the yolk pretty dark. Ironically we bought a dozen eggs yesterday, not that we expect Camilla to start laying daily. I'm still shocked she laid one at all! But that's not the end of this story.... 

After he ate the egg, we returned to our previous chores. I was sifting sand and ash for the dustbox, seated near the coop. I could hear one of the chickens inside the coop, or something was banging around. Getting up from my chair, I opened the door to find Nadia in the end nesting box!

Nadia in her box.

Were these chickens plotting some kind of outrageous coup? My husband approached, and I told him. He opened the door, finding Nadia now in the box Camilla had used, on the far left. My hubby and I looked at each other in disbelief, then he closed the door, and I returned to my chair, wondering if our two most physically mature birds were going to produce eggs. Nadia is smaller than Camilla, in fact she's our most petite hen. Yet she kept investigating the boxes, finally settling on the far right box. And about twenty quiet minutes later (no egg song from either hen today), there waited another egg!

A Barnevelder egg, which my husband will probably have tomorrow for breakfast.

Fortunately Nadia didn't tamper with hers, which was a little smaller than Camilla's, also a lighter shade of brown with no speckles, which are a Welsummer feature. I put extra hay in the boxes, then added sand and ash to the dustbox, then shoveled poop, during which time the chickens were coming and going; they like investigating the cleared coop floor. My husband hauled away the poo, then acted as a guard to the open coop door as I brought in new hay, as well as new straw, which they ADORE, poking and scratching around for seed heads. We finally left them to their devices, still scratching our heads over two eggs being laid, and even now, writing about it hours later, I am gobsmacked at how this day has progressed.

Camilla's egg after being washed is on top, Nadia's below it. I add this shot merely for colour comparison.

Not that chickens producing eggs is miraculous, but it's quite eventful, especially on this first Sunday of Advent. God works in mysterious ways, large and small, and who knows what tomorrow will bring! If nothing else, two of our chickens are now egg layers. And the season of Advent warms my heart for the goodness of Christ in all facets of life.

Formerly titled Giving thanks 2025, but I didn't get around to writing this yesterday, so....

Sew buttons. Or Ah so! as Brynn, Mirella, and Finny might say. So on and sew forth, or myriad takes on so and sew and when am I going to make any sense? Maybe I'll never be perfectly clear, but Saint Paul does write that currently we see through a glass dimly (1 Corinthians 13.12), and I believe he knew what he was on about.

Cami calculates the distance to the ground, or something like that.

Last night I didn't have much in the way of clarity, but usually the road is darkest before the dawn. Today is cloudy, yet the chickens had an outing, and in her haste to join her sisters, Cami launched, then landed atop our aged greenhouse. It's not like Eric's, and Cami certainly isn't a hawk. She squawked LOUDLY, trying to figure out how to reach the ground, then finally edging her way to the end of the roof, she flew somewhat gracefully, reaching terra firma. She's a funny hen; detests being picked up or even touched, she likes her space, but not that kind of space, LOL.

Off she goes!

I managed very little sleep last night, and despite decent caffeinization today, I'm still feeling loopy, so apologies if this entry veers into weird space. Not Cami the Chicken space, but where my head is at, kinda here, kinda there, kinda all over the place. I'm contemplating giving up my phone in 2026, seriously! Good to contemplate totally off the wall ideas every once in a while, which we did when pondering this chicken gig, yet we acted on that HARD. Would I, or maybe could I is better: Could I set aside my phone for all uses other than as an acting landline telephone for an entire year? Who knows?!? But I can tell you this: If God asks that of me, I won't blink.

Maybe I won't blink because He's already nudging me in that direction, hehehe. Not that we coerced Cami Chicken to fly onto the greenhouse roof, though we did urge her to leave said roof the only way a chicken could, by flying. Thankfully she acquiesced, because if she hadn't and we'd had to get a ladder, she wouldn't have let us retrieve her for treats or worms. These chickens weren't big on mealworms when first offered, so we don't give them any now. Maybe that will alter one day, like me with a phone constantly affixed to my left hip, albeit in my leggings' pocket. A few days ago I didn't have it in said pocket, and I walked upstairs, patting that pocket, then smiling for the.... Lightness, freedom, illicit step-gathering that wasn't being recorded. If I ditch my phone, I'll need a wristwatch, but not a pedometer, because I will also be chucking the recording of steps.

Am I even half serious about this? Maybe tomorrow, after a decent night of sleep this evening, I'll have a better grasp on such an endeavor. It's not like I'd be giving up the entire internet, HAHAHAH! Just texting. Checking weather. Gathering various informational data points. Counting my steps. Taking photographs on the fly.

What would you do about music, Past Me asks, a trickle of horror in her voice.

That and reading your books, hmmmm? Future Me did clear her throat before she spoke, then she adds: Not that I want to discourage you, but....

But she's nuts! Past Me barks, thrusting her hands on her hips. You won't last half a day and....

I'm gonna try it Sunday, I retort, sneaking a glance at Future Me, who wears an impassive gaze.

Well, you go right ahead, Past Me grumbles. The girls are gonna think you're both crazy.

Past Me is referring to my, or our, daughters. Who tolerate their father's Phone Free Sundays because I don't follow that edict. Yet, I proffer, in a soft voice, if I don't try, I'll certainly never know.

So true, Future Me concurs. Look at Cami Chicken.

Cami who, Past Me asks.

Nothing, I smirk, rolling my eyes at Future Me.

Who then smirks at me, then glares at Past Me. If she wants to give up HER PHONE, Future Me huffs, that's HER BUSINESS.

Past Me crosses her arms over her chest. Well good luck with that, she blurts, then stalks off, still guarding her chest, but now also shaking her head.

I listen to her mumbles, and am grateful she doesn't mutter chickens. Then I stare at Future Me, again with that impassive countenance. I don't ask if she uses a phone, because 1) I don't want to know, and 2) At this current juncture she wouldn't tell me anyway. Instead I clear my throat, then smile. Thanks for the support, I say.

Sure, she smiles. Then she chortles.

What, I ask, half expecting her to grill me about actually giving up my phone.

I wonder if when she gets chickens if she'll remember this.

I smile, then giggle. Well, I certainly don't recall any such conflab in spring.

Future Me nods. That's good.

I nod, but feel a little unsettled. Sure, good, yeah.

It is, she says softly.

Now I'm starting to feel...not frightened, but curious. Are these interludes with my future and past selves something I will forget? I truly appreciate the wisdom, then I shiver, for my sense last night of helplessness, fear, as though on a black shifting highway leading to....

Leave that, you're safe now, Future Me says boldly.

Uh, okay.

She approaches, then gently caresses my shoulder. You're no chicken, she whispers, then breaks into a brief chuckle.

I smile, can't help it, as she releases me, then walks in the opposite direction of Past Me. A sign of things to come, I want to ask, but today's been full of unexpected revelations.

The block on the right was sewn last night. Don't those safety pins look annoying?

Last night I worked on the Quilt of Grace (QoG); I appliqued one Lucy Boston block (LBb) in place, then hand-quilted around it, and in a few other spots accessible as only THREE blocks remain to secure! Out of thirty, which makes me pleased to have (slowly) accomplished that much hand-stitching. Each block requires some hand-quilting within, but I'll save that until later, because, well, in appliqueing them I remove more safety pins. And right now, removing safety pins seems to be the greatest joy of all!

Safety pins are much happier safely ensconced in shaped plastic. Or I'm much happier, one of the two.

What a silly notion, ridiculous even, but I can't help feeling super-victorious with every pin I gently toss into the plastic container on the coffee table. That container is nearly full, and I'll need those implements for my next project, which I am hoping to start next week, heh heh heh. Not that the QoG will be done, BIG LOL, but hopefully the only safety pins to remain will be those within LBb's. Or maybe a few scattered in spots amid the fabric behind said blocks. Not that I will require THAT MANY SAFETY PINS for the next project, but it's not going to be a small quilt, so yeah....

These are the things I consider while hand-quilting in the evenings as the Golden State Warriors try to decide what kind of team they are, soundly beating the Utah Jazz last night, although they fell behind right out of the gate something like 11-0, dude! Yet in the game previous, the Portland Trailblazers took them to task for the second time this season, and Portland had lost six straight games, or I think that's what the announcers claimed. I could fact-check this, don't want to be spreading fake news, but it's a small nugget in the grander scheme of a basketball team that wants to be a playoff contender but can't manage to figure out how to mesh aging players with those younger who at times have better skills sets, but not always.

I didn't know there was going to be NBA interference in this mostly quilt-laden post, ah so!

Ah so.... What Brynn claims, Mirella too, in That Which Can Be Remembered, a saga based on Covid, but also about refugees trying to find their place. I made up sayings in their language, then sprinkled those phrases throughout the story like the safety pins in my current quilt. Quilts are a part of that tale, a part of my being, a part of.... A part of this post that seems to be meandering around like how my chickens wander on a field trip. Kind of pecking here, then over there, then one finds something and the rest run or fly to her, and she scoots away, not wanting to share. Those chickens, at times, are as ridiculous as I am, blathering on about safety pin removal and basketball and books, but while there's plenty of other subjects I could analyze, right now quilts and novels and yes, even basketball, are about all I wish to consider.

The last three blocks to secure, woo hoo! 

Well, love. There's always love. Love makes the world go round, but it seems not a lot of love is swirling, or it's hard for me to see. Maybe too many safety pins in the way.

Seek out the love, whatever your plan for the day, and I will too! 

Quilt top DONE! A quilt top that's been on the wall for, um, weeks. A quilt top that until yesterday afternoon was loose squares, waiting so patiently for me to, um, get to it! Git 'er done, as my daddy would say.

I put it up there well over a month ago, in anticipation for rain that came and went, followed by copious storms that didn't make a single dent in all those squares. Aligned they rested, lingered, loitered.... Then yesterday morning I had a new shiny pop into my brain, but to attend to new shiny, old faithful had to go.

LOLOL!

Maybe that's what I'll call this quilt, Old Faithful. Made up mostly of Anna Maria prints, it's some of my oldest and newest faves. Made for.... Maybe me, maybe. Or maybe it will be for someone else, because let me tell you, the corners are PRECISE! Some of the best nesting of seams I have accomplished, which makes me wonder if it's going to again wait for the perfect moment to be gifted. Of course, I need to finish it first.

LOLOL!!

Yet in a way, it's done. It's the third (Maybe fourth, but who's counting?) completed quilt top I've managed in the last several months, which is NOT MY USUAL WAY. Typically I fashion a top, make the sandwich, then engineer a finish either quickly or leisurely. Yet lately those quilt tops are starting to carve out a home of their own in the fabric closet, kinda like how the chickens are making the garden their second residence. Very little sun shines there now; before I snapped the quilt photo, I captured the hens gathered in the far northern corner of the garden, soaking up the precious sunshine.

They do like to hang out close to one another, hehehe. 

I did take them for an outing before I sat at my sewing machine, wanting them to soak up some warmth in their chicken bones. But in crooning to my girls, saying chicken bones sounded sort of, well, weird. Not that they cared, but....

LOLOL!!!

It's a laughing out loud kinda day, in that a quilt top is finito, chickens are relatively happy, my husband's fave football team (Green Bay Packers) garnered a victory, and it's better to laugh than cry. It's Christ the King Sunday, and Advent starts in a week. Thanksgiving lands in a few days, but we're having ham, minor lol, and I'll make Gluten Free brownies from a mix as my delectable treat. With some walnuts as an option because hey, it is Thanksgiving and despite all the political trauma, there's lots to celebrate. Like chickens digging the sun. And grace. And, well....

Getting a quilt top finished because a new shiny is the mother of me getting to my sewing machine, ba-dump-bump! Lol's a'plenty, you know....

(LOLOL!!!!)

A possible cover shot for an upcoming installment of The Hawk. This was the view at our second residence while living in England.

Sometimes, well into writing a manuscript, I realize the true purpose for said story. Occasionally it's not at all related to why I began telling that tale; The Enran Chronicles qualifies, as do drafts I'll never publish, yet just as vital to me are those yarns spun for reasons only I needed to grasp.

When I started writing The Hawk, I thought it was going to be a short story. Laughing Out Loud! As it became something far more encompassing, I accepted it was a way to work through massive personal issues; becoming a grandmother as my father died, finding my role as a woman no longer that young, etc, etc, etc. But well into a third of the saga emerged previously unplanned characters and story lines which are some of the most meaningful I have been blessed to translate from my heart onto a virtual page. The scene that follows is but one example, as Sam Ahern learns why a Polish pastor matters greatly not merely to help Sam's wife Renee heal from depression, but in manners beyond what Sam could dream.

OnTuesday, Laurie called Eric, passing along the news. Eric rang Sam, then Samcalled Frannie. Fran expressed her dismay, asking Sam if this would affectJane’s party later that week. Sam said that no, the party was still on. Andthat if Fran wanted to bring deviled eggs, Lynne would appreciate it.

Samhad added that caveat, for Fran had been pestering him about what she couldtake on Saturday, and it was easier for Sam to sort that issue than callingback Eric, who would have to question Lynne. Sam didn’t want Lynne frettingabout anything in addition to her usual concerns, which now included the Taylorfamily. But from what Sam knew about those folks, the passing of theirmatriarch wasn’t the worst they had suffered.

Nowthey could mourn her properly, not how they had been living with her ghost forthe better part of a decade. What Sam knew about them he’d gleaned from Eric,and from Laurie. Sam didn’t know anything from Stanford; that man acted likeother than his father, he had no relatives. Or rather, his relatives were allon the West Coast, well, the Snyders. Sam didn’t lump himself and Renee in thattiny clique, though he felt differently about Laurie. Sam truly liked LaurieAbrams and now felt quite ashamed when he considered his poor reaction to themen’s relationship this time last year. It wasn’t any of Sam’s business for onething, and Renee had been right when she noted that Sam hadn’t seemed botheredby the rumors concerning his wife and Lynne. Yet, all that nonsense seemed likesomeone else’s life, for neither woman worked at the hospital. Lynne was amother and Renee was…. She was speaking with Pastor Jaworski at that moment, orSam hoped she was. And when she came home, after she shared whatever she feltwas necessary, Sam would tell her about Stanford’s mother. They would discussthat during supper; Renee would probably want to send a sympathy card toMichael, but Sam wasn’t sure if she would get one for Stanford. He’d leave thatup to her.

Otherthan waiting for Renee, there wasn’t much for Sam to do. That night’s meal wasleftovers and now that he had spoken to Frannie, there wasn’t anyone else whoneeded to know about Constance Taylor, other than Renee. Maybe Eric had calledPastor Jaworski, perhaps right after he informed Sam. Sam had spent that day athome, for Renee had needed the car for her appointment. Tomorrow Sam woulddrive her to work and he’d do the same on Friday. But on Thursday she would seethe pastor again and Sam sighed. They needed another vehicle, which might seemostentatious to their neighbors. Yet Renee worked full time and they had themoney. Sam didn’t want to flaunt their good fortune, but it was what it was.Maybe Eric and Lynne were happy with one car, but the Aherns were different.

BrieflySam winced, then his stomach growled. He went into the kitchen, retrieving afew saltines from the cupboard. Normally he and Renee ate at a little pastfive; truthfully, he had supper waiting as soon as she stepped through thedoor. That night all he had to do was heat up spaghetti and cut a few slices ofbread. Then Sam smiled. Why had he been so averse to Laurie and Stanford whenhis role wasn’t the norm?

Forall intents and purposes, Sam was the housewife, Renee the breadwinner. She didthe ironing, a task Sam loathed, but he tackled all the other chores, mostlybecause Renee had little time to dust, mop, and vacuum. Their household wasmore akin to Laurie and Stanford’s than the Snyders or Canfields. And it wasn’tmerely childlessness that set the Aherns apart, Sam allowed.

Samwondered if Renee was speaking about this with Marek. Then Sam pondered ifRenee had gone to meet with the pastor. Last week she nearly hadn’t, whichhadn’t surprised Sam, yet he’d been dismayed to hear about Mrs. Harmon’stirade. Renee had made clear that woman’s disdain for Marek, which Reneebelieved was based solely upon Marek’s nationality. That had bothered Sam, butpeople were prejudiced, and he’d been no better than Mrs. Harmon a year ago,learning about those New Yorkers. Until then, Sam had thought he was a fairlyaccepting person; he’d witnessed plenty of bigots in the army and had alwaysthought himself above those hypocrites. But no one was free of assuming biases,it was human nature. How many people laughed behind his and Renee’s backs,plenty Sam was certain. They might take Sam’s time overseas into account, ifthey knew. And if they knew that, they also might understand the Aherns’childless home. However, they would probably think it odd a Catholic couplehadn’t sought out other means to make a family. Then Sam sighed. No one trulyunderstood a person until they had walked in that man’s shoes.

Fifteenminutes later, spaghetti simmered on the stove, the table was set, breadsliced. Butter waited on the counter alongside the parmesan cheese; Sam wouldplace those items between his and Renee’s plates when he heard the front doorrattle. His stomach still rumbled, but he’d been busy that day, not onlyspeaking on the telephone, but fixing custard and cleaning house. He glanced atthe clock; it was almost six, Renee would be home any moment. They would eat,then he’d tell her about Stanford’s mother. Depending on her reaction, maybethey would cuddle on the sofa. They hadn’t made love since…. He sighed, it hadbeen a good number of weeks. She’d been so upset and he felt guilty. If hehadn’t been so afraid, their home life would be more like everyone else’s. Butnow Sam wasn’t sure if Renee would change her mind. He didn’t expect her toaccompany him to Jane’s party on Saturday, although he wasn’t looking forwardto going alone. He wouldn’t have to make an excuse, well, only to the kids.Fran and Louie knew, or Sam assumed they were smart enough to get the gist.Marek obviously needed no explanation and those were the only invited guests.Suddenly Sam was glad for the New Yorkers’ absences. The reason wasunfortunate, but at least he wouldn’t have to lie to them.

AsRenee opened the front door, Sam put the butter and cheese on the table. Thenhe cleared his throat, walking into the living room. “Hey honey, how was yourday?”

Samglanced in his wife’s direction, not finding tears on her face, nor were hereyes red. But she didn’t look calm and he took her coat and purse, placing themon the nearest chair. “Renee, you okay?”

Shenodded hesitantly. “I’m hungry. Time to eat?”

“Itsure is.” Sam smiled, then led her into the kitchen. She sat at the table whilehe spooned pasta and sauce onto her plate, setting it in front of her. Then hedished up his own portion and sat beside her in their usual seats. He had a fewbites, glancing at her in between them. Renee ate with gusto, which pleasedSam. But she still looked troubled.

Itwas her eyes, for she wouldn’t meet his gaze. She seemed turned away from him,but Sam didn’t pepper her with questions. He had much to tell her when she wasfinished.

Itdidn’t take them long to clear their plates. Renee even had seconds, which ledSam to having a bit more. Which also was a relief, for her appetite had beenslight, even after talking to Marek last week. Then she inquired about dessert,to which Sam smiled. “Made some custard today. No pie to go with it, but….”

Hewanted to slap himself, but Renee seemed to take no offense. “Pie always goeswell with custard,” she smiled. Then her grin faded. “Sam, there’s something Ineed to tell you.”

Henodded, wondering if maybe Marek had shared the news about Stanford’s mother.“Well, there’s something I need to tell you too.”

“What?”she asked.

Hesighed. “Laurie called Eric today. Stanford’s mom passed away last night.”

“Ohno, really?”

Samnodded, then embraced her. “Yeah, but it sounds like she went peacefully. Theywere all there, well, all but one of Stanford’s brother-in-law’s. I don’t knowwhen the funeral’s gonna be, but if you wanna send a card….”

Reneepulled away. “Oh, I will. Um, to Michael.” Then she gazed at Sam. “Do you thinkI should send one to Stanford and Laurie too?”

Samcouldn’t hide his small grin. “Well, I was wondering the same. Was gonna leaveit up to you.”

Shenodded thoughtfully. “Hmmm, I probably should. At least for, well….” Now Reneewore a little smile. “For Laurie, but that sounds horrible. For both of them.”

“Yeah,I agree.” Sam took a deep breath. Those men were as committed to each other asSam was to his wife. And they’d been together longer, since 1946, whereas Samdidn’t meet Renee until 1947. For over fifteen years Stanford and Laurie hadbeen…. Sam flinched; there was no proper word, for they weren’t married and anyother term was more than Sam could ponder. Yet, the essence of that duo’srelationship was identical to what Sam shared with Renee and what Eric had withLynne. “Eric said that Laurie sounded okay, but then it was Stanford’s mom.”

“They’reprobably relieved it’s over, or that part of it’s over.” Renee grasped Sam’s hands.“Sometimes death’s not as awful as people think.”

Samnodded, but he wasn’t as certain as his wife. All the deaths Sam had witnessedwere without purpose, and that included Frannie’s babies. But Sam didn’t dwellon that. Renee hadn’t known about Stanford’s mother, she had something else totell him. “So, what were you gonna say?” he asked gently.

Reneegazed at him, but her eyes were odd, not the hue, still that gray-white whichwould always make Sam weak in the knees. Since 1947, he’d been in love withthis woman; he had been twenty, she was nineteen. They had been each other’sfirst and God willing would be each other’s only. Children weren’t meant to bepart of it and Sam inhaled that notion with more calm than ever in his life.Some couples didn’t procreate, whether it was due to injury or biology. But Samwouldn’t hesitate to bet that for as much as he loved Renee, Laurie lovedStanford. And Stanford loved his…. Better half, Sam decided, then smiled.Sometimes he called Renee his better half, so of course Stanford could beLaurie’s better half, or rather his other half. Of the New Yorkers, Sam feltLaurie was the nicer person.

“Renee,you can tell me anything.” Now Sam gripped her hands, which trembled. “Honey, Ilove you. Unless it’s something you think needs to stay between you and thepastor.” Sam said that with some hesitancy. No other man had ever come betweenhimself and Renee. But therapy was to help Renee; Sam had no problem using thatword in connection with Pastor Jaworski. Renee needed therapy just like thevets did.

Noone could gauge a person’s need for mental health care other than a qualifieddoctor or someone equally trained in such a field. And after all these years,Sam permitted he was that capable. Yet it hurt, realizing his wife was in needof assistance he couldn’t provide, but better for her to seek help than end upa wreck. Pastor Jaworski wasn’t a psychiatrist; he wasn’t even a certifiedtherapist. But he was a man of faith and he’d seen how many atrocities. That wasSam’s criteria and Marek filled in all the blanks. He was a Christian, he knewloss firsthand, and Sam trusted him. That was solely a gut reaction, but Samhad deep faith in his gut. Whatever Renee needed to tell him, Sam wouldn’t turnaway.

Hestroked her face, then kissed her cheek. She nodded, then motioned for them toleave the kitchen. Sam helped her to stand, then led her to the sofa. They satand she snuggled beside him. He would have encouraged her attentions, but wascurious about what was on her mind. “Renee, I love you. Whenever you wanna tellme is fine.”

Hewouldn’t pressure her, but didn’t want her to think he’d forgotten. Although,as she continued to cuddle, maybe this would take precedence. Sam would letRenee dictate their pace. If they happened to make love first….

Ithad been so long and Sam was ready. He kissed her and she responded and forseveral minutes they necked, which stirred such longing within Sam that if shedidn’t tell him now, she’d just have to wait. He pulled away, catching hisbreath, then he smiled. “You wanna go to bed?”

Shegiggled, then spoke. “I love you so much. I don’t tell you that enough, but Ireally, really love you.”

“Ilove you too baby.” But he knew that wasn’t what she wanted to tell him.

Reneenodded, then she sighed. As she did, Sam’s libido plummeted, which didn’tsurprise him. That happened occasionally, but depending on what she had to say,maybe it wouldn’t take much to revive it. Sam stroked her face, then tracedaround her exceptional eyes. Then he kissed her cheeks, near those eyes. Herskin was so soft, her heart was too. She could be as crusty as Stanford Taylor,at times. But underneath was a tender, precious woman that Sam would die for.He would do anything to keep Renee safe and make her happy.

Thelatter had only been true for the last few months. Sam swallowed thatunpleasant fact, then grasped her hands, offering a quick squeeze. “Baby, whatis it?”

“Marekknows. He knows about Eric.”

Fora few seconds, Sam had no idea what Renee meant; was something wrong with Eric?Sam stared at his wife, trying to ascertain what Eric could be keeping fromhim. Then the full meaning of Renee’s statement pummeled Sam like bricksfalling from the sky, hard lumps that seemed impossible to believe, yet they fellin the same manner in which Eric landed when he was changing from a bird backinto a man. “He knows,” Sam mumbled. Then he shook his head. “Are you serious?How could he know?”

Erichadn’t altered form in over a year. Sam was glad for it, but occasionally hewondered how hard the next transformation might be, and for how long it wouldlast. Seth seemed all right and Sam used that man’s health as a yardstick.Eric’s father was dead and while so was Stanford’s mother, Sam had no concernthat Eric’s dealer would need that kind of care. Renee was seeing Marek, no usefor Eric to change form for her either. How in the world would Marek knowunless….

UnlessEric had told him. Sam stumbled over that; why would Marek need to know? OnlySam and Renee knew and jealousy reared within Sam. It took him a moment toquell that unpleasant feeling, then several deep breaths followed. If Eric feltit necessary to reveal that detail, Sam had to respect that decision just likehe’d had to accept Laurie and Stanford being together. This didn’t have a thingto do with Sam; this was about Eric and his pastor and…. “So, how’d this comeup, I mean….” Sam inhaled again, letting it out as slowly as possible. “Did hejust say it or….”

Reneeshook her head. “No, though he did a lot of the talking. I wonder if that’snormal, I mean, when you’re at work, the vets do the talking, right?”

Samnodded. “Sometimes I don’t say anything.”

“Yeahwell, I don’t know if Polish therapists are that way.” She grinned briefly,which again made Sam wary. Then her mirth slipped away. “He asked me about theblue barn, if I missed it. I said yeah I did, but I knew others were enjoyingit.” Renee took a deep breath, exhaling quickly. “He asked what I saw in it, orrather, he asked if he could ask. He’s so polite, you know. I told him I sawfarm animals, pigs and chickens, and then, oh Sam, every time I think aboutthat barn, I end up seeing poultry inside it, which now, well, it’s not a bigdeal anymore. But I must’ve frowned or something, because as soon as I said chickens, Marek stared at me. And Icouldn’t look away from him. I know he’s just a minister, but he might as wellbe a priest. I never can look away from either Father Markham or Father Riley.I think Father Markham’s harder to ignore, maybe because he’s younger or….”

“Renee,how does he know?”

“Oh,well, he asked about poultry, was that due to all your cooking or was thereanother connotation. He’s so well spoken, I mean, his English is so good. Connotation he said, and I, well, he isjust like a priest, and I couldn’t lie, I mean, I said it was due to all thehawks Eric had painted. Which is close, I mean, I assumed he’d think it was thetruth. Sam, when you’re done with confession, do you feel like Father Markhamknows when you’ve left something out?”

Samnodded absently, then shook himself. “What, uh, I dunno. Renee, did Marek tellyou point blank that he knows about Eric?”

“Well,not point blank. That would’ve been a little much for my first real therapysession honey.”

Hertone was back to its brassy inflection, which made Sam’s heart leap. He hadn’theard that brazenness in ages, yet his joy was tempered; maybe Renee was takingtoo much on board regarding Marek. If he didn’t come out and say he knew aboutEric…. “You’re right. That would be, um, a bit much.”

“Wellyeah, plus Mrs. Kenny was still there, in the beginning. She’s so nice, shedidn’t make me feel at all strange.”

“Good,that’s good.” Sam spoke slowly. Then he coughed. “So honey, what makes youthink he knows, about Eric, I mean.”

ToSam’s shock, now Renee tenderly grasped his hands. “He told me what he sees inthe barn Sam. At first, I was just embarrassed I’d brought up chickens, butthen I mentioned the hawks, and he seemed placated by that. But that man’seyes, my goodness, so much sits in his eyes. He said Eric has a great gift, notjust artistically, but that he manages to convey such hope and healing in hispaintings. That was why he wanted to see as much of Eric’s work as possible,why he arranged the exhibit last summer.” Then Renee grew teary. “He apologizedfor bringing that up, but I said no, that’s why I was there. And he smiled andsaid yes it was, but he didn’t want me to feel compelled to talk about things tillI was ready. And Sam, when he said that, I felt ten tons lighter. The elephantin the room wasn’t there anymore, well, not until….”

Shepaused, making Sam squirm. “Not until what Renee?”

Shesighed. “Not until he brought up Eric again. He said the first time he saw thebarn, he was so taken aback he wasn’t sure how to respond. That he feltEric had been looking into his soul as he painted it. Sam, his voice was, oh myLord, so pained, but not in a bad way. Pained isn’t the right word. It was….”

Shegazed at the boysenberry vines, then at the landscape. Then she faced herhusband. “It was like why I was there, trying to deal with the most difficultpart of my life. I love you Sam, I truly do. And I understand why it took youso long, I mean, to wanna….” She bit her lower lip. “To adopt. And even thoughit’s the last thing I want now, maybe I had to understand you. I needed to knowwhy you didn’t wanna do that because then I can love you better, be a betterwife to you. Sam, I just wanna be the best wife in the world for you.”

Hedidn’t search for any meaning past her words. “I love you Renee. You’re thebest wife I could ever have.”

“Well,maybe one of these days.” She rolled her eyes, then sighed. “I didn’t know whatto say to him, I probably sat there looking like an idiot. But he smiled, thenlooked at me. And this was when I knew Sam, without a doubt. He stared right atme, then said as his family was being rounded up to be killed, he was followinga hawk through the forest. His mother had sent him to look for berries, butinstead he spent that day, all day, following a hawk. He said he’d never seenit before, but it flew around him, settling on a low tree branch, and he’d beenso drawn to it he couldn’t keep away. It nearly let him touch it, then it flewoff, but not far, just to another low branch. And by the time he realized howlate it was, he was so far into the woods there was no way he could go hometill the next day. He fell asleep right on the ground, then woke the nextmorning to that hawk watching him. It led him back, not all the way, but mostof the way. And when he got home, oh Sam, oh my God….”

Reneeburst into tears, collapsing against her husband. She wept hard, then pulledaway. Sam gave her his hankie and she blew her nose, wiping her eyes. Then shepeered at Eric’s paintings, but Sam didn’t think she was admiring those ontheir wall. She was searching for the blue barn.

“Hedidn’t tell me what happened to them, thank God for that.” Renee then crossedherself, sniffling as she did so. “But he said that hawk had saved his life.The hawk and his mother, which made him go quiet. Then he looked at me, maybehe’d been looking at me the whole time. He said Eric painted that barn becausehe knew, he knew….”

“Heknew what Renee?”

“Heknew Eric knew far more about human nature than most people. I guess Eric toldhim about his dad, but it’s not just that Sam. Marek said a hawk had saved hislife and he never expected to see that hawk again. But in Eric’s paintings, hedid. Marek knows why the mice are so frightened. He knows Eric is all those hawks Sam, I know he does.”

AfterRenee stopped speaking, an eerie stillness permeated the room. Sam was glad tobe seated; if he tried to stand, he’d be dizzy. He gazed at his wife, wonderingif she had heard Marek correctly; why would he have said all that, it made nosense. Renee was there for the pastor to help her, not the other way around. Suddenly Sam felt foolish for havingsent his wife to Marek; he might be a good man, a man of faith even, but hewasn’t a licensed therapist, he had no qualifications. Sam should have askedaround at the hospital, though it would have compromised Renee’s privacy. Butat least she would have talked with someone who could truly help her. All shehad learned that day was far too much about Eric’s Polish pastor. “Honey, mygoodness. That’s, uh, well….” Sam smiled, then patted her hand. “That’s plentyfor one day.”

Shenodded, then squeezed Sam’s hand. “I’ll see him again on Thursday at five. Notsure where we’ll go from there, but….”

“Renee,why don’t I ask for some names at the hospital? I mean, maybe our friendshipwith Marek clouds the issue.”

Reneeshook her head. “I trust him, Sam. After what he told me he sees inside thebarn, oh Sam, I trust that man with my life.”

Samstared at her. She’d mentioned Marek told her that fact, but had she sharedthat detail? She’d told him plenty else, too much for Sam’s liking. When henext saw Marek, how would Sam greet him, what would they say, or not say?“Renee, maybe I missed it, but I don’t remember what you said he sees in thebarn.”

Reneenodded, then stroked her husband’s hands. “Oh honey, he sees his family, all ofthem. He lost his entire family and, and….” Renee choked up, but calmedherself. “He was the only one left because that hawk kept him alive. It kepthim away while the Nazis, while they….”

Now she broke down completely, but Sam shedtears too. Perhaps a rational person would think they had all lost their gripson reality, but despite wishing to the contrary, Sam had to agree with hiswife. Inside that barn Eric had put Sam’s most precious desire, right down tothe truth of Sam’s shortcomings. And for Marek, an equal treasure waited; Reneehadn’t said it, but Sam knew Marek’s family was alive and well inside thatbarn. They were being held for safekeeping, Sam realized, wiping tears from hiseyes, until the day Marek was reunited with them.

Camilla and Cami in front, assorted Barnevelders behind them. Snapped yesterday by my husband.

Still reading through Nothing More Complicated. And am happily amused by the silliest chickens in my realm...

So, chickens you say! Oh those chicksters.... Yesterday afternoon I was shoveling poo from along the wall, what I do every three or so days. As I shoveled, the chickens dug through the straw, looking for any additional kernels of seed. Occasionally they clucked when my shovel moved too quickly for their liking, LOL. I noticed the dustbath box, or dustbox as we've started calling it, needed to be stirred, so I went for my stick, not shutting the coop door firmly closed. And suddenly I notice Owl Chicken slipping through the gap, making her getaway from the coop.

Okay, I thought, you naughty chicken! Then more rightly I berated myself for not closing the door properly. Lol not lol! She was NOT KEEN on being coerced back into the coop, far more willing to explore her newfound freedom in an area not previously encountered. We took a stroll, or more rightly I swiftly walked after her, and fortunately she headed to familiar ground, that of the grassy area between the run and garden. I opened the run door, the rest safely in the coop, and finally maneuvered her to where getting into the run was her only option. She squawked a little, once ensconced, and I smirked, and that was the end of that escapade!

Before we acquired poultry, my afternoons were full of sewing. That seems to rarely occur now, a portent of things to come? I don't mind shoveling poo, or washing feeders and waterers or tossing gravel into the muddiest part of the run, near the door as you can imagine, or adding gravel to the path I made about ten days ago after enough rain had fallen, turning the grass into dirt-like sludge. I don't mind because 1) I'm young enough to do all this easily and 2) I'm happy to add these tasks to my routine. And I'm sure there are other reasons, like God has this in mind for me, and my husband, as he certainly takes his share of the chores, like hauling the wheelbarrow of chicken poo to a growing heap of, well, poo-laden hay. And while we might not have fully taken on board ALL THAT GOES INTO OWNING CHICKENS WHEN WE SIGNED UP FOR THIS GIG, we're handling it with aplomb. And when said chickens actually lay an egg or two, oh my goodness, let the true joy begin!

And I am VERY GRATEFUL to read a chapter of my next book on the block every morning. Most mornings; yesterday I didn't read, but we had errands and.... And today I did read, so all's good. All is good, what I have to remember concerning chickens and novels and life in general.

The other notion to note is that before chickens, and our abysmal current government, I rarely pondered the government (those seem like ancient days), and I certainly didn't fathom owning hens. I worked on my manuscripts, turning them into novels. I made quilts. Years past I was heavily involved in taking care of grandkids. Years before that I looked after my folks. Years before that I.... I raised teens, who had been youngsters, who had been infants, and back and back it goes, as if tripping down Past Me's lane was as easy as following Owl Chicken with a rake in my hand. They don't like the rake, it's what my husband bandies about when we need to get them into the coop. I holler COOP COOP COOP and he waves the rake and they cluck, making their ways toward the ramp, then into the coop. I close the door to the coop as he slogs back toward me, the run a wet, messy affair now that the rainy season had moved in. When my kids were babies, or the grandkids that age, I never imagined living in Humboldt County, owning chickens!

Owl Chicken feeling on top of her world, lol. Photo by my husband, from yesterday.

When my kids were tiny, I dreamed of writing fiction, I will say that. And now I'm fifty-nine and a half years old and I have a couple dozen books under my published belt, hey hey hey! And the world keeps spinning, good and bad and atrocious activities happening all over this big blue marble. And within my little sliver of it are chickens and love stories accentuated by trips to other galaxies and Christ's grace covers it all.

One chapter (and chicken story) at a time, thanks be to God! 

This hat comes first because I made it before the other two, and it's already been through the wash, hence the fuzziness around the edges.

Because my chickens need some sun! And I need to appreciate the lessening daylight just like I adore the lengthening days....

It's also five weeks until the last Sunday in Advent, but I didn't know that until I checked the calendar, finding that the solstice coincides with Advent. Which isn't so much what this post is about, but it is fascinating.

Anyway.... What made me think about the solstice was the chickens. They get so little sun these days, and that won't improve significantly until, well, February. Lol. Poor chickies, not that they know any better, but I do and.... And there's very little I can do about it, other than let them into the garden when the garden is getting sun, then waiting. We live amid plenteous tall trees, and not until this year has the lack of winter sun been an issue, as thankfully I don't suffer from SAD. It's a drag, I'll allow, in that the treeline holds in the cold temps, unless a true gale from the south is howling. But not until this year have I actively fretted about the lack of sunlight. Again, the chickens don't know any differently, and it's not about the lack of egg production; we knew going in that summertime chicks aren't known for wintertime eggs. It's just knowing how much they enjoy sunbathing, outside dustbathing, etc, and none of that is happening for many, many moons.

Snapped at 6.52 PST this morning.

I bring up the moon because this morning, amid dark cloudy skies, the crescent super moon shone for well over forty minutes! On and off it permitted observance, and maybe I saw a flicker of a star during that grand show, which truly amazed for how cloudy was the rest of the sky. A blessing, definitely, like how I was able to make one last hat from some gorgeous variegated yard, with merely a smidgen of the skein to spare.

This is the last hat; my goodness I would LOVE to make a quilt from these colours!

Currently hats are figuring prominently, about as strongly as the dearth of sunshine in my thoughts, which in the grand scheme can be classified as a major win! If all I'm pondering are the state of my sunless chickens and some rather beautiful head adornments.... OKAY! Which also doesn't lend itself to what I truly wished to analyze within this post, but whatever!

Lots of exclamation points dangling about, LOL! (You saw that coming, no exclamation point required at the conclusion of this sentence.) Five weeks of late mornings for light, early evenings for dusk, then darkness, then a Sunday that combines the pinnacle of winter's minimal daylight with the final Sunday of Advent, Christmas then four days later. What does all that mean to me? Well, it means my chickens probably won't be laying eggs, and hopefully they'll be dustbathing in the large box within their coop, the buggers. It means once again humanity in the northern hemisphere has made it through months of lessening daytime light, not that the end of December and January are that much brighter, but finally the accumulated seconds start going into positive numbers, albeit it mere seconds here and there.

One more hat. I adore them, but will give all three away, how I roll.

It means hats are necessary because by then it will be COLD outside even if southern winds are blowing. It means I might be making more hats with versatile and surprising hues of variegated yarn which act like surprises from heaven as said yarn is pulled from the skein, a little less shocking if I can't find the end within the skein and have to unravel yarn from the outside. Still, I can't imagine how a hat will emerge until it's done, and thankfully these are quick finishes, two made this morning, a third finished after a start last night. It means that for as much as I prefer spring and summer and autumn, winter (or what I consider winter even five weeks before winter officially arrives) needs to be acknowledged for the sheer fact that we made it this far in a pretty meh year, that the chickens will be FINE (Lol, fine!), that every end of January as slight increases of light are noted I always think, "Wow, it's already the end of January, and it's light till whatever time it's light till (although the mornings still seem super-dark out) and I never really took stock of how dark it was getting at the end of last year."

That's what this post is about, Charlie Brown.

If Linus could spend a thirty minute animated special about five weeks till the solstice, that's how he'd end it. Instead, he spoke from the book of Luke, Chapter 2, then noted to Charlie Brown that was what Christmas was all about. Not chickens or hats or yarn or the moon or the solstice. Is this post about the reason for the season or all my dithering about? I don't know, but there it is. Five weeks until it's nearly time to celebrate the Savior's birth, set near the shortest daytime-portioned slot in the northern hemisphere calendar year. And truthfully, in the proverbial time it takes to BLINK it will be January, and I'll be sighing over how I didn't properly pay attention last fall as the daylight became less and less and less.

Or will I, Charlie Brown?

Maybe not this year. This year is different, chickens you know, and hats. And a sense of how grand is this life, dictatorial governments and severe traumas elsewhere notwithstanding. Because as a Christian, I claim that Jesus Christ overcame death and the grave, proffering a victory unsurpassed in human history. And while perhaps that's more aligned to what is celebrated in spring at Easter, what is the true meaning of Christmas if not the birth of a baby in Bethlehem? What better gift is there than that!

If I don't get back to this topic until, say, the end of January, consider it analyzed. Five weeks left of fall, five weeks until the solstice. Five weeks until the last Sunday of Advent; five weeks.

In the meantime, have a beautiful rest of the weekend or a wonderful start to your week! 

Gratuitous chicken photo as Owl drinks from a tub in the garden while Cami gazes to the left.

This is from Nothing More Complicated: The Hawk Book Four. Stanford Taylor inwardly debates the need for his soul while his longtime housekeeper Agatha Morris proffers the Alka-Seltzer amid 1963's Christmas preparations.....

Enjoy!

 

Asfamilies prepared for the holidays, Stanford took stock of his role as an artdealer. He hadn’t blatantly told Eric he would no longer represent him, butLaurie had made Stanford’s feelings clear to both Snyders. Initially Stanfordwasn’t sure how he felt about Laurie’s declaration, but it had eased Stanford’smind, which was still burdened by all Laurie had learned on Thanksgiving.Stanford hadn’t seen Seth since that day, too busy preparing for Eric’spaintings to be shipped to London. The exhibit in New York would close onSunday, just in time for Christmas. Then the canvases would head for Britain,and after that Stanford wasn’t sure what would happen, though not with Eric’spaintings. Stanford had detailed notes of the museums awaiting those canvases.What bothered Stanford was the return of those artworks. Once they weredistributed to new owners or taken back to the Snyders’ compound, whatmight Stanford’s role in Eric’s life then be?

OnlyLaurie understood, well, to Stanford’s irritation, Seth did too, but then, whatdid Seth actually know anymore? And how would Seth adjust once the blue barnwas removed from the gallery? That gallery had become Seth’s daily fixture, thebarn the center point of his life. But Stanford couldn’t ruminate over that forlong, it gave him a headache. Nor did he stop in the library, where thosefigurines loomed much larger than their size. Stanford wanted to pack themaway, but that wouldn’t assuage his mood. Not that Seth would be offended; hedidn’t visit Laurie in Manhattan. Seth still resided with his mother inBrooklyn. Laurie’s mother Rose lived practically around the corner from hersister Wilma, the whole clan tightly knitted together within a five-blockradius, which included Laurie’s older sisters, Seth’s too. Laurie and Seth hadbeen the only males born into a family of protective, strong-willed females.Stanford was fond of Rose Abrams, but had never felt at home among all thoseJewish women.

Laurie’sfather Aaron had died of a heart attack months after Stanford had met Laurie,leaving Stanford with little personal recollections of a man who had graced hisson with abundant sporting talents, but little in the way of fatherly advice.But Laurie hadn’t needed parental admonishments, or not in the way his sistershad required their mother’s guidance. Laurie had several nieces and nephews, asdid Stanford, but neither man was particularly close to those relatives. Well,Laurie was more attached to his, which Stanford attributed to Laurie’sreligion, although the Abrams and Gordons weren’t pious Jews. Laurie was theleast observant, yet since Thanksgiving, he’d mentioned he was going to sendJane something for Hanukkah. Not eight nights’ worth of gifts, he’d wrylystated, just a small brown bear which had made Agatha smile. Stanford hadsighed, for he wished the Snyders would have traveled for the exhibit, yet itwas definitely for the best that Eric had not seen his dealer on opening night.Stanford had kept that to himself, but remarked that Jane would indeed enjoyher one Hanukkah present.

Stanfordhadn’t felt compelled to choose anything for Jane. Christmas wasn’t more than aday off from work, well, a couple of days’ break. That year it fell on Tuesday,so actually Stanford wouldn’t get to the office until Thursday, allowing EmilyHarold time with her family. New Year’s Day would preclude any real businessthe following week, but now Stanford wasn’t sure what real business meant. Hisheart hadn’t been in any of it since speaking with that obtuse collector at theopening of Eric’s show.

Fromthe comfort of his home, Stanford could consider that moment as though he nowstood outside of it like an observer. The man’s affected mannerisms and boorishness were offensive odors, unduly irritating Stanford. That hadn’t beenthe first time Stanford had dealt with such peevishness, nor would it be thelast, though it might be concerning Eric’s canvases. Stanford didn’t imagine hewould start 1963 looking for new employment; his father would send him to adoctor, wondering if Constance’s mental deficiencies were now troubling theirson. Most likely Stanford would die as an art dealer, for no other Taylorswould follow him. Yet how to proceed without the burning eagerness to scout outnew talent, then showcase it appropriately? The love of art no longer droveStanford, instead replaced by a rote awareness of commitment to his clients. Itwasn’t merely Eric over whom Stanford felt this way, a few others having earneda healthy dose of Stanford’s respect. But it was over Eric whom Stanford mostached; he never wanted that man to part with a single painting unless Lynne andJane were starving.

Yet,unless Eric became a compulsive gambler or fell into another harmful vice, theSnyders would never again be concerned with finances. For that Stanford wasgrateful, permitting his acumen had set up that family for life. Laurie hadtried to ease Stanford’s mind, that if he hadn’t taken on Eric in the firstplace…. While Stanford’s head knew that was the case, his heart throbbed in aplace not previously noted. Sentimentality hadn’t before intruded in Stanford’slife, other than the pain he felt over his mother’s failing health and thesorrow it caused his father. Not even Seth had put such a strain on Stanford’ssoul, then Stanford shook his head. His soul, what was that? He grimaced, thensmiled. Eric might have an argument waiting if Stanford mentioned such drivel.

Stanfordhadn’t revealed any of this to Eric, only Laurie had. But Eric knew andStanford was sure Lynne did as well, probably the Aherns too. And for as muchas Stanford liked Lynne, Sam, even Renee, he only cared what Eric thought. Yet Erichad said nothing, which grated on Stanford, though he knew the reason forEric’s silence. Eric was waiting for Stanford to bring it up. Only then wouldEric make his feelings known.

Damnartists, Stanford rued. Either they were emotionally draining or they subtlywormed their way under Stanford’s skin. He stood abruptly, then left the livingroom, where a fire had crackled all afternoon. Snow fell outside, but thathadn’t meant much to Stanford. It was the time of year for poor weather, it wasChristmastime.

Stanfordreached the hallway, gazing to the left, but didn’t wish to even walk past thelibrary. Instead he went right, slipping into the dining room, hearing Agatha’shum from the kitchen. Laurie was busy with a client and wouldn’t be home forsupper. Agatha was making stew, which Stanford loved and could easily reheatfor Laurie if perhaps his meeting was cut short. Stanford imagined thatwouldn’t be the case; Laurie would be out late, leaving Stanford alone in theirusually cozy apartment. But since Thanksgiving, or more precisely opening nightof Eric’s exhibit, this house hadn’t felt right to Stanford. He knew why, butsimply couldn’t face Seth’s figurines.

Enteringthe kitchen, Stanford nodded to Agatha, then sat at the table. She didn’tspeak, but brought him a cup of coffee. He grasped the mug with both hands,then sipped slowly. The brew was just as tasty as it had been that morning, butit was a fairly fresh pot; she had started it when he returned, just beforelunch. What use had it been to sit in his office when nothing felt correct? Butcoming home hadn’t helped either. Stanford didn’t like the ambiguity which hadinfiltrated his entire sphere.

Ifwork was difficult, home was a balm. Home was rarely troubling, only when hismother had first fallen ill, or when Seth was…. But Seth would now always bethis way, as would Stanford’s mother. Would nothing in Stanford’s life ever beas it was supposed to?

Hissigh was long and it made Agatha turn his way. “You all right?” she askedflatly.

“No,I’m not all right.” Then Stanford sighed. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Shenodded, humming while stirring the stew. Then she approached him. “You wannatalk about it?”

Heshook his head, then felt himself begin to nod as though his heart wasbetraying every fiber of his being. He couldn’t stop himself, which led Agathato pull out the chair beside him. She kept her distance, sitting a few feetaway, crossing one leg over the other. Stanford now found himself staring intoher deep brown eyes, gray hair in tight curls framing her relatively unlinedface. Agatha Morris had served Stanford for many years and while he knew herexact age, she appeared a good fifteen years younger. The women in his lifecouldn’t hide from time, yet this one defied it, and did so beautifully.

Shedidn’t grasp his hand; she wasn’t his mother, though she knew him better thanhis mom ever had, fully aware of his weak spots, and his deep love for Laurie.Somehow she even realized his current anxiety, for her kind but reserved eyespermitted him the necessary space. He needed to speak of this breach in hisusual armor. Not Agatha nor Eric nor anyone else could draw it from him.

Buthow to talk about something so, so…. Stanford almost clucked as the word ethereal passed through his mind.Ethereal conjured intangible notions, which at this time of year beckoned toreligious customs, Christian and Jewish. Then Stanford chided himself, for whatwere Santa Claus and dreidels truthfully? Just amusements, nothing more, andcertainly not meaningful when it came to….

Heglanced at Agatha, who was still facing him. She looked as young as LynneSnyder, but that was impossible. Stanford blinked, then gazed at the stove,where the flame barely glowed. His stomach growled, which made him flinch. YetAgatha said nothing, she didn’t move a muscle. She wasn’t going to say iteither; Stanford had to make the initial move.

Butspeech wasn’t necessary as now his belly grumbled loudly. Agatha stood, thenreturned to where supper waited. She spooned him a generous portion of stew,then brought it to the table, placing the bowl in front of him. She added aplate of crackers and a glass of milk, which made Stanford inwardly sigh. Hefelt like a five-year-old, but how much of that was his own truculence?

Heate silently, then thanked her for the meal, taking his bowl, plate, and cup tothe sink. His coffee mug remained on the table, but he left it, then exited thekitchen. He wandered through the apartment, wishing for Laurie. Then slowlyStanford walked to the library. He didn’t enter that room, but stared at thedoor, which felt like gazing into Agatha’s eyes. Why was he being so, so, so….Several adjectives popped into his head; was it stubbornness or sullenness or….It was fear, he finally admitted, but not aloud. Yet, fear gripped him,although he knew not the cause. However he permitted the sensation. Maybe thatwas the first step.

Butwhile realized, fear kept him from opening the library door. Instead he turnedaround, returning to the kitchen, finding his coffee cup where he had left it.Agatha was at the table, eating her supper, and she met his gaze. She wantedhim to join her, why she hadn’t taken his cup to the sink. But then he’d leftit there; had he been hoping for another chance to spill his guts?

Thatthought made him twitch, but he sat, then sighed, fiddling with the cup’shandle. Previously he had confided to Agatha about his mother, Seth, and work. Butwith work, it had never been more than a manner in which to vent aboutunreasonable clients or overbearing collectors. Often it wasn’t more thangossip, which Stanford wouldn’t have permitted with anyone other than Laurie orhis parents. Yet it hadn’t been hisparents for years; Agatha was Stanford’s sole female confidant. But did hetrust her enough to speak of such an intimate notion?

Thisseemed as sensitive as if he needed to bare his soul about Laurie. His soul….Stanford huffed. “When you’re finished in here, feel free to leave early. I’llput the stew away and….”

Tohis shock, Agatha gripped his hand. “I’ll leave when I’m good and ready to.”

Theireyes met and Stanford wanted to wrench away from her grasp. But he couldn’tmove, could barely breathe. Then Agatha released him and only then did Stanfordtake a breath. The air was cold going down his windpipe, the rush of it intohis lungs making him flinch. He inhaled again, feeling a hint of that forcedaction, then again, but now it was the simple smoothness of an involuntaryorgan doing its job. As air flowed in, then out again, peace returned withinhim. Then he nodded at Agatha. “Do as you like. I’m going to retire early.”

Sheraised her eyebrows, but didn’t speak, nodding her head. Suddenly all withinStanford was set right, how had it seemed so wrong? Of course Eric would sellmore paintings. The prices would continue to skyrocket, which made Stanford’sheart pound. They were only paintings, even if Lynne was the focus, or maybeJane, or….

Asick dizziness rushed through him, making Stanford grip the sides of the table.He shut his eyes, wishing the world would stop spinning, wishing Agatha wouldagain grasp his hand and that Laurie was clutching the other. But no one cameto his aid and the swirling didn’t cease until finally Agatha spoke. “Stanford,do you want to talk about this?”

Heshook his head, there was nothing to discuss. But the nausea persisted, as wellas the lightheadedness. Stanford couldn’t get the image of Jane and that Polishpastor from his mind, or Lynne on the stool, or any of Eric’s most valuablecanvases, the blue barn flashing in Stanford’s head. None of those would everbe sold, they couldn’t be. They were the essence of Eric’s, of his, of thatman’s…. Eric’s soul was encased within those layers of paint, carefully placedacross canvas, now burning a hole in Stanford’s queasy stomach. Did he have anulcer, was that from where all of this stemmed?

Thenext thing Stanford knew was a glass of Alka-Seltzer bubbling near his lips. “Drinkthis,” Agatha ordered. Stanford took small sips that weren’t as delicious asher coffee, but hopefully this concoction would offer some relief. He drankmost of it, then slumped back in his seat, still unwell. Agatha again satacross from him, lines now etched in her forehead, framing her mouth. He achedfor her anguish, which was unmistakable. And for the first time, he realized,he had caused her such pain.

Shewas pained, but not at him. “Thank you,” he mumbled. “I’m not sure whathappened just now.”

Sheclasped his hand in hers, which made him shiver. “I’m sure you do know. Butthat’s for you to sort.”

Hegazed at her quizzically, but again she raised her eyebrows. Then she stood,smoothing wrinkles from her apron. “You know, I am gonna leave early. Laurie’llbe home eventually, he can look after you.” She glanced at the stove, then backto Stanford. “Shall I put the stew away?”

“Yesplease,” he stammered.

Shenodded, then did so. Stanford watched her the whole time, then ached as shestood beside him, saying goodbye. Hewished to escort her to the door, but was too weak to stand. Instead heremained at the kitchen table, hearing her footsteps as she walked through thedining room. Those footsteps grew fainter until Stanford could hear them nomore.

Crystal Manning fabrics (with a Speckled center) from a few years (or more) ago. This will be appliqued onto a light pink t-shirt, once of these days.

Gotta fix a cup of Metamucil, then I'll be back to expound upon this ominous title.

Okay, so getting used to life without gluten, dairy products, and red meat and NO CHEATING on those edicts has been...fine. Kinda like using Draft2Digital is FINE. It is what it is, and you get what you get and you don't pitch a fit. My eldest granddaughter used to say that when she was little, but now at ten years old, I don't hear it from her much anymore, LOL.

I don't mind the Metamucil, although it will be a cold day in hell before my husband drinks it, as it figured heavily in the lives of his elderly parents. It wasn't anything my parents used, and it still tastes like watered down Tang, no big deal. I feel good, have lost six pounds, and my knees don't hurt, so if dairy was aggravating those joints, it's a trade-off worthy of, well, no cheese or ice cream or cow's milk in tea. Barista-style oat milk seems the best substitute, and I use almond milk for cereal, though now that it's getting chilly, I don't have a bowl of cold cereal very often. As for red meat? Ground pork works fine (there's that word again) for meatballs or in pad gra prow. I've never been a big meat eater anyway, so truly it's the dairy I miss.

But this post isn't merely about my dietary trials, hah! Last night I started stitching a hexie flower for my youngest granddaughter's new hexie shirt, pictured above. I basted hexagons and big triangles a couple of nights ago without causing my shoulder undue pain, then stitched the triangles into a hexagon for my eldest grandson's shirt, pictured below. Those papers were from Tales of Cloth, and I enjoyed it, as well as being grateful to do it without making the shoulder cranky.

My eldest grandson is long past hexie FLOWERS, but does like himself a hexie shirt. Hopefully he'll approve of these autumnal hues too.

Yet last night's English paper piecing efforts were lacking in joy. It felt rote, making me inwardly shiver, but not from the cooling evening temperatures because a storm from the south was coming in, and I was sitting under a quilt. Was it the thicker papers used for the hexagons, Dritz papers definitely heavier than Jodi Godfrey's. Was it I wanted instead to be crocheting? I've been making cowls for myself and others, and on a whim I made myself a hat. Not that I'm a hat person, but it is growing cooler outside, and on mornings when I feed the chickens a hat is welcome. I started a hat yesterday afternoon, but my left arm became sore due to tendonitis, and I didn't have a strap, so I quit after three rows. Oddly enough last night I didn't use the strap and crocheted maybe twenty rows because after about ten I found the hat was too small. LOLOL: It was NOT fine. It needed to be frogged, as knitters say, so I did, then crocheted all the yarn I had frogged, then I stared at the piles of basted hexagons, and threw my lot in with a craft that for seven years I have LOVED. I organized a flower, that for my youngest granddaughter, then began sewing, and while no real pain dogged me, a malaise lingered, and I didn't finish it. Instead I returned to crocheting that hat, and while it's not done either, I sure enjoyed making it far more than one little hexie flower.

I want to blame the papers, because I didn't have that sense in using the thinner, although larger triangles. What I don't want to consider is how while I was stitching those hexagons, I was thinking, "I'd rather be spending my precious sewing time on Kawandi quilting, or getting back to that hat." Are my EPP days coming to an end? I hope not, because I have seven or eight English paper pieced quilts to complete! But then, right before I got sick, I had no idea I'd be purging dairy from my diet. Sometimes life alters considerably, and we just have to take it and not pitch a freakin' fit!

Hat-in-progress....

When I returned to working on the hat, I pondered that I've been crocheting for thirty-seven years. (And I use the same hook as when I started, lol, an H from Boye, perfect when one is learning, also ideal for chunky yarns.) My mother-in-law taught me right before I had my first child, although I don't recall my MIL drinking Metamucil while she stayed with us, haha. So yeah, crocheting was my first hand craft, and after all this time, it still resonates. But English paper piecing? I don't know. Maybe a few of those seven or eight quilts won't be completed. When I lost enthusiasm for cross-stitching, I wrapped up nearly all the projects, other than the large one that I retrieved recently, but haven't touched after that initial reintroduction. But cross-stitching, even large pieces, are FAR LESS WORK than an EPP quilt, merely due to their size and that a quilt top still needs to be part of a sandwich for it to be finished. So yeah (again), I'm facing some interesting crossroads in the crafting, wholly uncertain which lane will I travel.

The first hat I made, with that beloved crochet hook, hehehe. This hat is a wee bit small for me, but my eldest daughter LOVED the colours, so maybe it would make her day.

Thankfully all this (be)moaning doesn't touch the writing, WHEW! I've been reading through the next installment of The Hawk, one chapter a morning, and enjoying it thoroughly. (Although when I write the next installment of The Enran Chronicles remains to be seen, ahem.)

I didn't sleep well last night, so an oat milk cup of black tea is calling my name. Or maybe I'll make a half-caff coffee. Then I'll work on that hat. Or perhaps I'll finish the hexie flower. Or I could pin the triangle hexagon onto its coordinating t-shirt, then applique that this evening. Maybe I'm bitching about nothing, so many lovely shinies and milk substitutes amid traumas for others. But this is the state of my world, getting older and wondering how to best slot all into their appropriate spaces. As I've said recently, if you get this far, thanks for listening. And have a truly beautiful day! 

A chicken post. Because I can't ponder the current state of my nation. (Heads-up: I do ponder it, so if you don't want to read that, stop after the third photo.)

We've had some AMAZINGLY beautiful late autumn days recently; sun and slight heat and sun and.... Did I mention it was sunny? The chicken's run is wholly in the shade now due to the towering treeline. But the garden, only a few feet away, gets sun for much of the day! And the chickens seem smart enough to know that sunshine is healing. And yesterday, I sat in the run with them.

All eight hens (it's still weird to acknowledge they are finally HENS) having the time of their chicken lives!

My husband was there too, lopping dead blackberry branches off the vines that cling to the aged fence. The chickens poked around, scratched in the dirt, managed some dustbathing, as well as sunbathing. They chased each other around when one found a tasty treat, but mostly they pecked at the grass, truly happy in this home away from home.

I think all eight are in this shot too.

We realized they know where their ACTUAL home is when we shooed them out and nearly all headed right for the run, then into the COOP! Only one lollygagged, but quickly she followed her sisters into the coop, where they stayed just long enough to nom on the feeder, lol! Then back into the run, where they hung out for quite a while. Voluntarily they go into the coop nightly, as night emerges sooner every evening. We leave a low light on for them until a little after six p.m., as they are already on the wall sometimes as early as five thirty. Funny how instinctual they are; it's getting darkish out, they must think. Time for bed!

Seven here; Nadia spent much of her time solo, but not attempting to fly out of the garden, whew!

(I SO BADLY want to write something about the eight democratic senators, as I include Chuck Schumer in that list, but what is there to be said? Their betrayal of ALL AMERICANS won't be forgotten soon.)

I'm grateful for these chickens, even if no eggs have been laid. They are entertaining, keep me active, and they photograph well. We didn't plan on raising chickens, but God thought we needed them, or these particular hens required us. It's hard sometimes, wondering why things happen as they do. Like a government shutdown that seems to have provided very little in the way of assuring many Americans that they are deserving of affordable health care.

Ahem.

It's hard straddling the fence of faith, that something GOOD will come of this debacle. Yet I maintain my belief that all things work for the good of those who love God (Romans 8.28), of which I am one. All the Republican senators claim a Christian faith; I haven't yet explored the beliefs of those Democrats who voted alongside nearly all of them, save Rand Paul. My daily devotions have been steeped in John 17, where Christ prays for his followers and those who will believe later on, that we all will be safe in his love. How do I reconcile myself with those Christians who seem not to care about others, who seem to actively wish to harm others? How does someone who calls themself a follower of Christ justify that cruelty?

Camilla. Bless her....

My query is ages old, but I had to pose it, although I've already prayed about it. None of this makes sense to me, and faith in Christ Jesus has been a part of my life for over fifty-four years. But all my caterwauling won't change their hearts, those men and women, Republicans, Democrats, and one Independent, who seem to think that denying affordable health care is compassionate. Is taking care of one's neighbor. Is thoughtful, helpful, decent. Sigh....

Readings from yesterday. Need to open my Bible to see what today brings.

If you've read this far, thanks for letting me get this off my chest. The mystery of this life isn't for me to analyze. Just keep doing good, stay the course, and don't forget to feed the chickens. Yup, that's where I'm at today.