You know what that title means, don’t you? Here she comes with a bunch of trivia. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
We are experiencing a little difficulty with our hot water heater, hence the need to wait a bit between showers so that it can gather itself together and feebly offer a few more minutes’ worth of hot water. (The man of the house is on it, replacing this and that, hoping that we will not need to replace the whole thing. The solution remains elusive.) Therefore I will sit and sort out a few spaghetti-strands of thought while I wait for my hot water.
This morning I was hanging out towels in the sunshine when I heard the cardinal trilling his spring song. There he sat, a red blaze in the tip-top of the walnut tree, whistling with abandon in the sunshine. I thought that I must be a little like him. I have my song in the winter, but it just bubbles out so much more spontaneously in the warmth of springtime.
Laundry brings up the matter of clothespins. I detest wimpy clothespins, and the last ones I bought at my least favorite but unfortunately prolific store are the worst. One playful puff of a March breeze and the pants are on the ground instead of in the air. It would have been better to wait until the order from the Amish catalog finally comes. I am assuming that the Amish would have no truck with pathetic pins, but just in case, does anyone have a fail proof source?
And then there is March. She is one fickle dame! One day she is all delighted smiles and the next she is coldly remote, spitting snow and sleet as though she never heard of sunshine. But we forgive her all, because she is bringing forth spring and we will make it after all.
The few days of brilliance we experienced last week had us scrambling to bring out the lightweight jackets and sandals. I had a startling moment of clarity yesterday when I ran outside in my son’s flip-flops. I can wear my child’s footwear. What? He and I both would live in flip-flops year round if it were practical.
I wish to launder all the heavy nasty-weather gear and attic it. (I just made a verb out of “attic”. I hope that is okay.) But I know better, so I restrain myself. The result is hooks that were already strained with their loads, now doubling up with all the jackets as well. Anytime someone needs a coat, it is on the bottom of a bunch of jackets, which need to be stripped to the floor so the coat can come off the hook. The carpet runner in the basement has a row of (muddy) snowboots on it and another of rubber puddle boots. Sometimes I think clothes will be the death of me, but of course, they won’t. And, Oh! the glories of spring! I assure you, I forgive you all the inconvenience. Just please don’t snow tomorrow.
I have concluded that people who are kind to cats, who feed cats outdoors, will never lack for cats. Last summer’s overload of 25 kittens taught us a lesson. We got our lady cats spayed. About a month ago a sleek grey tabby showed up, purring and rubbing and happily eating Kit and Kaboodle with our calico girls. She looks and acts exactly like the good-natured tabby we gave to our farmer friend. It is six miles over the Brumbaugh Mountain to that farm… could it be? She is very, very pregnant. I don’t think I have ever seen a chubbier cat, and I have seen quite a few of them. Our little girlies are ecstatic. Me, not so much, but we will deal with it as it comes. My guess is a litter of nine coming up. Maybe I should take her back to the farm before she pops. The last time I did that she got very nervous in the van, jumping out of the little girl’s lap with unpleasant consequences that included needing to borrow a roll of paper towels from the farmer’s wife. And my little girls are so tickled… well, I guess we will keep her for them. We are suckers, I know. But National Spay Day is coming up next February. (Not kidding.)
I have a very neat giveaway coming up next week. Get ready!
I am sure the water is plenty hot now. May your Sunday be restful…