The lilies

Soon enough, they will fill the roadsides.
For, already the sweet and succulent apple-green leaves are dense and hurriedly growing, ready to cover anything unable to outrun it--the fast feet of Daylilies.
Not that I don’t love them,
wait for them,
stand and stare at their velvety orangeness--
miss them when their day of beauty has passed.
But, bright and bold as they are, they’ve moved in and made themselves at home in a place not their own.

Yellow Trout-lily, Erythronium americanum

The waking woods are home to those more quiet.
Where, seeking the filtered light reaching the forest floor, the tiniest of lilies peeks from beneath the dried leaves of winter with nodding head, on delicate stem barely ankle high.

Trout-lily leaves

Trout-lilies, so named for their spotted leaves resembling the markings on trout, cover the hillsides here, sometimes in large colonies of one hundred plants or more.
And share a time with the great trees they stand beneath.
Hundreds of years, together.

Colony of White Trout-lily, Erythronium albidum

Bright white or yellow,
catching rays of this first spring light.
Theirs is a rich joy.
Old money.

Our Lily, Felis catus

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Yin and Yang and Yowling

I’ve come to expect in everything, balance.
Spring rains that dissolve the crumbled earth of an autumn that was far too dry.
Abundant young from just 2 single birds that ensures their parents’ replacement.
And even, the night of rest that will follow sleeplessness, or, in this case, the reverse.

A cat yowled in the night beneath my window.
And, more than the interruption of my sleep by its crying, was the intrusion of tangled thoughts that followed until dawn.
What does one do with that cat?

Lily on upstairs porch

Lily came to us 2 years ago, a small, young cat, slinking from under the garage doors one spring, as we stood in the driveway talking with friends. Starved of attention and food, within minutes, she charmed us into loving her for life. By the time she was spayed and settled into our room upstairs, Lily had already crossed paths with a male--his kittens, not to be in her future.

Kittens beneath barn floor

The next spring brought yet another young cat.
This time, to our barn, and this time already with 5 tiny kittens that soon became motherless and were raised… in our room upstairs.
Now, four, Max, Alex, Olivia, and Lucy have become ours, all spayed or neutered and content to join Lily as indoor cats.

Upsetting, it must have been, in the quiet of a dark night, to the five cats roused from their peaceful sleeping amidst the human lumps beneath the bedcovers, to hear this stranger’s yowling outside.
But not half as unsettling as it was to the lump beneath them, who wonders, “What does one do with that cat?”

Footprints

This entry is an update to a ongoing story recorded here.

Perhaps we were seeing a bit of our future, that Sunday afternoon in June, working in the cool, dimly lit interior of the big, old barn. For, our first inkling of another’s presence with us, was discovering tiny footprints captured in one of the small, square slabs of concrete, hand-mixed and left to cure, undisturbed, on the dirt floor.
Preserved in stone.

The footprints, alone, meant nothing. Raccoons, opossums, even woodchucks wandered through its drafty, dark spaces regularly. And skunks often scented the summer nights’ air. But these were different—of a small, young animal’s tentative first steps, alone.

In the days that followed, we caught only shadowy glimpses of the five young kittens hidden beneath the old wooden floor boards where Mama left them to sleep as she wandered the nearby fields for what little she could find.
How she had come to be here, tattered and worn, we could only imagine.
But clearly, of her fading strength, to her young she had given all.
Mama’s kittens became ours that Thursday.
Country roads are not gentle, nor patient with those who linger at the edge.
And so our life with kittens began.

Max, bold and black.
Alexander, kind and gray.
Olivia, tender and disheveled.
Lucy, shy and lovely.
George, spirited and wearing stripes. (adopted)

Max

Alexander

Olivia

Lucy

In several days, we will pass the 6-month mark.
And, of the original five, four kittens remain.

Large, magnificent animals now, with long ruffs and fur-covered toes,
heavy coats and loving spirits,
like none I have ever known.

They live upstairs now, in the house, with us, and Lily, who arrived a year earlier. Together, they race, feather-duster tails held high, the length of our long hallways.
And tumble in a ball of fur, somersaulting across the floor.

Each morning, I’m woken by loving licks of 4 warm, raspy tongues.
Each night, tucked in securely beneath 4 heavy bodies, purring.

Max

Alexander

Olivia

Lucy

Outside the back door, is a small square of concrete, inscribed with several small footprints that catch and hold the morning light.
Footprints that look as though the one who left them was just passing through.
Though those that know the story,
know better.


Safe, at home, they are.
Here.

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Shelter

For two days the storms have rolled past. With thunder and lightning and the threats of worse.
Tornadoes.
For now, all is still--that eerie stillness that forebodes yet another wave on the western horizon. We watch and wait, ready.

There’s a pile of cast off lumber stacked upon the uneven floorboards in the barn. And a small room with a dirt floor, once used for tack, where bricks and concrete blocks fill the edge spaces now, stacked almost to the rafters.

It is morning, yet the interior of the barn is dark. The sound of another hard rain on the metal roof muffles small steps. Scattered windows on the north side let in just enough morning light to silhouette a cowering ghost of a form.

Her low, throaty moan warns, “Not too close, for I do not yet know you.”

Squatting on the wooden step, I wait.
Sitting motionless in the darkness.

To the protection of this quiet corner, she has brought her kittens. Scarcely more than a kitten herself, seeking the shelter of a welcoming barn.

She calls to them softly—and 5 small spots emerge from beneath the boards. Then, just beyond the tip of my shoe, lies down, so they may feed.
I don’t know whether it is trust or sheer exhaustion that allows her to remain close. For when I slowly extend a hand for her to sniff, she nudges against it eagerly.

I gently stroke her back.
And, beneath my hand, feel what her eyes attempt to tell.

She has no home.
But has found shelter in the old barn.




Update: Mama kitty didn't come back to feed last night or this morning.
On my way to work, I found she'd been hit on the road.
She would've been a nice companion for our Lily.
I hope I raise her kittens well.

Last year at this time, Lily arrived, also seeking shelter.
She has become our happy porch cat.

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Annie

Annie and Katya were friends from the start.
The little orange cat, afraid of the big world she’d stumbled upon at the top of a steep, gravel drive off a narrow, winding road--
and the 8-year old girl, a new resident of the old brick farmhouse situated atop that hill.
Miles from nowhere, it seemed they were. And perfectly suited to each other’s company.


Soon, the two traveled as one, exploring together—Annie swaddled in Katya’s woolen shirt, shed as the sunshine warmed the summer mornings. By fall, her accommodations in the barn were upgraded to an accumulation of blankets at the foot of her little girl's bed.

The years flew past, from tea parties to slumber parties to high school graduation—and the now very large orange cat, present always, kept her many secrets, as a best friend should.



Last week, Annie and Katya, now 23, spent their last night together.
Then the quiet orange cat passed on.

We are very fortunate to have a vet who cares for people as tenderly as he cares for their pets.
For the last 2 years, Annie has required shots twice a day for diabetes.
Monday, she began experiencing seizures, and for several days, underwent testing and treatment in his office for what was thought to be encephalitis or a stroke, unrelated to her sugar levels.
When it was clear that she would not recover, he medicated her to prevent further seizing, tube-fed her a substantial meal and released her to us with instructions for “Going Home”.
Our daughter, Katya, arrived home from out of town that evening to be with her friend. Annie died the next morning.

Lily

That cat!

That cat showed up mysteriously 4 weeks ago--just walked out from under a hole in the garage door, and began rubbing up against our legs.
It was the first warm day we'd had in a long while. We'd been chatting in the yard with friends, and apparently our voices drew her to make contact. How long she'd been there--who knows? Probably a "drop-off". Our old house and barn leave the impression that we must need a cat, I guess, as it's happened before.
For the next few days, I called friends-who-want-cats, neighbors-who-lost-cats, people-who-love-cats...but found no one. I set up an appointment to have her spayed--just in case this took a while. And we kept wondering what to do with that cat.

This morning, I sat on the swing with her sleeping on my lap--the picture of trust and contentment. Soon, she'd be at the vet's--today's the day. And the agreement was that if she tested positive for feline leukemia, he'd put her down. No need to have her spayed. And, all day, all I could think about was that cat.


Here are the promised pics of yesterday:

This log was decomposing in our field--dragged there years ago when we had the dam on the pond rebuilt. I stumbled upon it overgrown with goldenrod, and got the idea to drag a chunk back to the garden for a nice planter! It looked delicious!


And here's a bluebird box Tony built--read up on 'em to be sure we had dimensions and architectural elements just right :-)


It looks out nicely over the field--soon we'll have the others down the path further.