View from the cottage

The view from inside my house 
in the days when I had a houseful of littles.

I’ve been writing this blog now for seventeen years, a record which frankly astounds me. Way back in 2006 my daughter-in-law, Melanie, suggested I start a blog. Blogging was then fairly new, and I complained I had nothing to write about. “Yes, you do,” she replied. “Write about writing and cooking and grandmothering, the things you do. And call it Judy’s Stew, a stew of those things.” So that’s what happened. In those early days, I had no idea how to attach a photo, so I would write a post, send it to my computer at work, and have Melinda, the production manager, add the photo and post it. I’ve gotten a lot better since those days, thank goodness. And over the years, the number of people who read my blog and sometimes respond has grown steadily. You may never know how grateful I am to you for letting me share my thoughts and doings, some serious, a lot silly. Blogging is my form of journaling.

Six years ago, I moved into the cottage—I cannot believe it’s been that long. But I immediately recognized that my view of the world, sheltered in the back of the property, was distinctly different. And I wanted to rename the blog, “View from the Cottage.” I was discouraged from that by wiser heads, but I still keep old posts in a file with that title.

Today I was struck again by the difference in my view. As long as I lived in the main house, one of my great pleasures was to sit on the porch and watch the schoolchildren arrive in the morning for the elementary school across the street and leave in the afternoon. For six of those years, Jacob was one of those children. He stopped a my house each morning for a hug, and, most of the time, I was the one who walked across the street to get him at three o’clock (wreaked havoc on my nap time!). These days, my view of the street and the school is obstructed.

Ever since Jacob’s catalytic converter was stolen, the Burtons have parked three cars inside the electric gate—my VW which Jordan drives, Christian’s Lexus, and Jacob’s van (I have been chastised for calling it a van—it is a Toyota Sequoia, but it looks a lot like the van I drove in the late seventies). I can see around the two cars, but not Jacob’s, so my view is of a tiny sliver through an iron gate. And only if I go to the kitchen window. From my desk, I cannot see the street.

This morning was half-price day during spring break at the zoo, a day when our neighborhood is notoriously brought to its knees by zoogoers and lines of cars parked on both sides of the street, and others in a long line waiting to get to the zoo. It’s frustrating and dangerous—emergency vehicles couldn’t get in if they had to. This year new extreme measures have been instituted, and I wanted to see if they were working. I wanted to look out and see if there were bumper-to-bumper cars on the street. But I couldn’t see.

I mentioned the other day that a new building has gone up, unnoticed by me, on the neighbor’s property behind me and one lot over. I kept waiting to tell Jordan about it, but when I did, she said, “I know. I see it every day.” When Jamie and I went to the grocery Monday, we both saw it, looming over the single-story garage next door, and were amazed. Jordan made me realize it was clearly visible all along—except from my limited view from the cottage. I had wondered for weeks why I heard so much hammering—including a nail gun that seemed to ratchet up just when I wanted to nap. Now I know.

But if my view is limited, it also has advantages. You know those tacky people who leave Christmas lights up all year? Count me as one. When Mary Dulle moved, she gifted us with a live tree, about four feet tall, strung with Christmas lights. Now, in March, it still shines brightly outside my French doors. And one year Jordan bought a light that throws tiny specks of green lights on the wall of the neighbor’s casita (guest house). I love it.

When the yard is in bloom, I have a wonderful view from my desk. Last year, the pentas were pitiful, but most years they are lush and gorgeous, and in fall bright yellow mums line the front edge of the deck. This year, my new native plant bed is showing great signs of growth, and I am anxious to see it when it’s had time to fill out. It’s also showing great signs of weeds.

This morning I saw that June Bug, the youngest of the Burtons’ two Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, was walking better. Several years ago, she was given months to live, but she defied predictions. Not without several lapses when we thought for sure she was going. Somehow, she rallied. This past weekend, her hind legs gave out on her until she was literally on her last legs—the dogsitter had to hold her up so she could pee. We thought it was the Rainbow Bridge for Junie. But this morning, I watched fascinated as she walked almost straight down the sidewalk. Marvelous recovery. We are calling her Kitty from now on.

Such is the view from my cottage—limited but oh so rewarding.

View from my desk window

 

 

 

 

 

 

Watching Junie walk better

Concrete lessons

My new living space has lots of windows and light. Most of the windows are covered with paper until the blinds come in, but the French doors across from my desk and the window to the right are bare. As a result, I’m like a fish in a gold bowl—except there’s usually no one out there to see. Today there was a whole crew of concrete people—preparing to pour the patio, taking up the old sidewalk and getting ready to pour a new one. I was treated to a fascinating study in people’s behavior and a construction process.

These men work hard. They were here when I got up at 8:30—okay, I overslept—and some were still working at 5:30 tonight. They work with picks and sledgehammers, slamming them into the ground, picking up huge chunks of concrete and pitching them into some kind of motorized wagon that disposes of them. I saw them standing around frequently and figured they had to take breaks from that hard labor. They churn up the dirt, then rake it and pounds it flat, painstaking work. By the end of the day they had made an absolute mess of my back yard, which was already a mess. But the forms were in place, and I could see where the patio and curving walkway will be.

I had intended to ask neighbor Greg to mow the grass in back today, but he came back to the cottage before I could do that and said there was so little grass anyway he meant to go after it with the weed eater. The worker mens (a grandchild’s phrase) even tore up my large, flourishing turk’s cap but Greg says you can’t kill them, so I guess it will bloom again.

Today’s work was not as noisy as I’d dreaded but they apparently cut through concrete because occasionally the air was thick with a white powder—that can’t be healthy. It was that way when the physical therapist came, and I knew he intended for me to walk down the ramp. I balked, because I didn’t want to go out in that thick dust.

 We walked in the house. I asked if he was comfortable with me using the walker when home alone, and he said he was. “Are you?” he asked. I figured I have to be, because if I don’t start walking more, I’ll never walk again. And the surgeon recommended a lot more walking. So watch my dust! (Bad pun)

On a completely unrelated note, my Scottish heart beat faster tonight. I found on Facebook a lovely rendition of “Loch Lomand.” I can remember singing it with my dad on one of our piano nights. We had a book of folk songs-I have it still—and would sing the Scottish ones with special fervor. Dad loved “Loch Lomand.” His signature song on the piano was “Red Wing.” I can still sing the chorus to that one. What a fine memory to have.

This is my fourth night in the cottage, and I am still happy as a clam. Tonight my dining pal Betty brought spaghetti from Chadra—so delicious. I am one lucky lady.