The Last Zinnia

 

I noticed last week that there was a bud on one of the zinnias in the planter so I've been keeping an eye on it waiting for it to open.  And it did.  The Hummingbird stopped to check it out this morning but was off long before I could get the camera.

 

 

 

This squirrel was very diligent about getting every last peanut out of the wreath.  Sometimes it hung down from the crook but most of the time it stretched across from the crook of the suet feeder.  Very acrobatic.

 

Yesterday I dug out some baby alpaca yarn that my friend, LB, gave me and started a hat.  I found a pattern using bulky yarn and size 10 needles so it's going fast.  I was surprised at how deep the ribbing is before you start on the body of the hat.  The yarn is so soft, I wish you could feel it.

 

Today's recipe was Chickpea Curry.  I also made another batch of brown rice so I could put a scoop of it in the curry right away when I portioned it out.  Two more recipes to go!

I went out into the garden and picked the last reddening tomato.  I'll let it ripen a bit more before I cut into it.  I can have it with slices of that big cuke I picked last week.  Mm, salad.

18 September--Barbara Malcolm, Better Than Mom's. 

“Yes, I do.  Why?” 

Fay shrugged shoulders that looked a lot like a wooden hanger in a t-shirt.  “No real reason.  I just never thought it was very interesting.  But here goes.  We lived in a small mill town in upstate New York, where my dad worked as a mechanic in the mill and Ma was a slut.” 

“What?” 

Fay stuck her chin out in defiance of her friend’s amazement.  “My ma was the town punch, the slut, round heels, mattress back, whatever you called them where you grew up.  Dad worked in the mill odd hours, sometimes around the clock, and when he got off he went out drinking with his buddies.  He usually drank up most of his paycheck so Ma took up hooking to pay the bills.  There were not any jobs for uneducated women in our town that were not in the mill and Ma always said that one person in the family spending his life in that hellhole of a place was enough.” 

Naomi’s voice was very small.  “And your dad did not know?  About what your mom did, I mean?” 

Fay’s laugh was harsh.  “Of course he knew.  He chose not to mind.  And he did not want his buddies to know that his wife had signed up for the dole.  That is what we called welfare where I am from.  So he pretended that Ma was especially popular and she pretended that the money she got for it was gifts.  Gifts from admirers, she always called it.  Filthy dirty money that cost all her self-respect and paid the bills.  That filthy money bought my school clothes and Christmas toys and my one and only prom dress.  It even paid for Dad’s funeral when he had a heart attack at the tavern one night.”  She swiped her hand across her face, smearing the mascara that was running down her cheeks.  “Ma was mad that he had waited to die until he got to the bar.  ‘Why the son of a bitch could not croak at the mill so they would pay for his funeral, I do not know,’ is what she said after we got home from the cemetery.  That was the last time I ever saw my Aunt Eunice and Uncle Arnie; she was Dad’s sister.  I guess she overheard Ma or someone told her about the hooking, because when she left that day, she gave me a hug and slipped me a fifty dollar bill. ‘Don’t tell your ma you got this, you hear?’ she said.  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ I said.  I knew why.  She hugged me again and they left.  That was the last time I saw my only other relatives.”

Today's toss was another case of shampoo.  On its way to the homeless shelter next week.

The weather today was perfect, in the 60s and sunny, so I took a walk around the block.  A neighbor and I agreed that we could have three months of this weather.  Easy.

--Barbara