This lone tree, seemingly miles from nowhere, is actually very near the Ajijic pier. Good rains this season have swollen the lake again and will soon overtake this tree as they’ve overtaken the fence line further out. Here’s the rest of the story:
See Becca’s tree and others here: https://beccagivens.wordpress.com/2017/09/24/sunday-trees-306/
My grandmother’s afternoons were written on her shoes––insides rubbed to fine parchment, once shiny trim worn down to dull cowhide, shoelaces loosened for easy ingress and escape, tongues swollen, vamps dusted from her habitual circling of gravel streets in search of treasures. Her pockets told the rest of the story–discarded Cracker Jack prizes, severed limbs of dolls, lost marbles, toy soldiers, single jacks separated from their families. Lined one slightly ahead of the other as though she had just stepped out of them, they told her last story that morning they carried her from her house without them.
To participate in this photo prompt, go here: https://rochellewisoff.com/2017/09/20/22-september-2017/
jdbphotos. Click on first photo to enlarge all and read captions.
If you aren’t familiar with the term, “in the catbird seat,” it means to be in a position above the action or perhaps in control. This is what I am when I’m in my studio, which has one wall entirely comprised of windows looking out on my garden and another window to my right that looks out over my spare lot down below and ultimately at the lake spread out on a lower plane with Mount Garcia and Colima Volcano behind it on the other shore.
In the Catbird Seat
After a year of no time at all in the studio, I’ve spent 4 days there in the past few weeks. It feels wonderful, even though the last day I spent there was entirely spent organizing, sorting, putting away, reorganizing.
My studio is a separate small building I had built in the garden below my house. My dogs, unaccustomed as they are to my being there, followed me down, no doubt remembering I keep a bag of dog biscuits down there. Fortified, they wandered off, but eventually returned to spend the morning outside my door––Morrie plastered horizontally across the base of the locked screen door, Diego perpendicular to him, stretched out along the brick walkway.
The kittens, relegated to the front yard and house, have seen neither the back yard nor my studio. I fear what my dogs, intent on doing away with every soft fuzzy creature that enters my yard, would do to them, even though they’ve been seeing them for almost four months now through the glass, bars and screens that form most of the walls of every room in my house.
That is why I was so distressed when I heard the plaintive meow of one of the kittens coming from the wrong direction. Not from the side of the house where they have a walled-off outside run all their own, but seemingly from the street behind the studio or from the empty lot down below me. I listened closely, hoping it was just my one hearing-impaired ear that was misdirecting the direction from which the sound was coming; but, when I stepped out into the yard, I could hear it clearly.
I called out to Pasiano, telling him I thought one of the kittens had made its way out of its safe zone.
“No, senora,” he insisted.
“Yes! Listen,” I insisted as the loud meow came again––several times.
He shook his head, laughing, and gestured up into the pistachio tree, from which one bird was cawing an insistent bird call, another creature mewing back an insistent interspecies reply. It was a bird, he told me. He led me closer to the tree and as he did, a black bird flew down from that tree to a large castor bean plant in the spare lot. The bird in the tree cawed and chirped. The bird below in the spare lot meowed back,
It was a magpie that had evidently been hanging around the kittens for too long. A mother knows her kids’ voices and this was a perfect replica of my kittens’ bossy demands to be fed.
When I told Yolanda about this strange occurrence, she laughed and said she had done exactly the same thing two days earlier, sure one of the kittens had escaped.
Now this story, as unbelievable as you might find it, has a precedent in my family. When my 11-year-older sister was a tiny girl, she was in the habit of coming to the back door and calling out, “Mommy, Mommy! This occurred so many times during the day that my mother had told her that unless it was an emergency, she should come into the house to find her instead of expecting her to drop whatever household task she was doing to come to the door. Betty heeded this request perhaps one time out of three, which was an improvement, at least.
One day, my mother heard he calling out to her, but when she came to the door, no Betty! She went back to her work on the other side of the house, only to hear he call out again. Once again, she went to the door, but no Betty. This time she called her in from her play, gave her a scolding and told her not to do it again. But Mommy, she hadn’t done it, my sister insisted, but in that way Mommy’s develop, my mom just shook her head and said, well, not to do it again.
Barely had she gotten back to the kitchen however, when she heard my sister demanding her presence again. This time really angry, she stamped back across the house to the screened-in porch to see—absolutely no one standing on the front door stoop. This time, however, the mystery was quickly solved. In a large cage on that screened in porch was a magpie with a damaged wing that my father had brought in from the ranch. Even as my mother entered the porch, he had called out once more in my sister’s voice, demanding her presence.
Most mimics only get themselves in trouble due to inappropriate material. This mimic was most adept at passing the blame. True story, as is the more recent magpie story above.
This Prompt is Irrelevant
Each morning I rise early and make a cup of tea.
I feed the cats, then feed the dogs and sometimes I feed me.
Then I check out the The Daily Post to see what I can see,
propped up in bed, my laptop perched upon my knee.
Today I’m waging protest, in all sincerity,
because the prompt word given us is such an oddity.
Just how much more irrelevant could a prompt word be?
I’m sure it is unanimous, and you must agree.
Yet how can we complain of it? They give it to us free!!!
The prompt today is irrelevant, but I’ll write about it anyway. Ha!
Stages of Growth
(Click on first photo to enlarge all)
A bud one day, a flower in two days more. Watching everything grow so quickly during the rainy season brings the miracles of nature constantly to mind. The kittens of three months ago are now nearly cats. The hibiscus of three days ago is now one more plaything strung out across the bedroom floor that is their playground. They bring in every one they find. I think they think they are little mice!
(Click on first photo to enlarge both)
Now, go here to see Cee’s flirty dahlia and other flora! https://ceenphotography.com/2017/09/22/flower-of-the-day-september-23-2017-dahlia/
(Please enlarge all photos by clicking on the first one.)
When I came home last night, the street light was shining on this hibiscus a day past its prime. That might have been due to the rain, its age, or this tiny snail I didn’t even notice until I put these shots on my computer and zoomed in a bit. Playing around, I couldn’t decide on a favorite. At one point I turned on a wall lamp a few feet way from it, thus the different light plays. In some of the darker shots, either the moon or a street lamp can be seen through the trees. Interesting playing around with night shots. In some, I intended the grainy, painterly effect. Who would think I could take flower shots every day for years and still be endlessly fascinated? Not a professional. Just a very engrossed amateur. Thanks, Cee.
“Diet”ribe
I have given up on oatmeal, overdosed on kale.
All these faddish food taboos have gone beyond the pale.
I do not count my calories, my glutens or my carbs.
The benefits for doing so are outweighed by the barbs.
I’m not turned on by Atkins. I can’t abide a fast.
I tried microbiotic, but the microbes didn’t last.
It’s become an epic battle when the girls go out to brunch.
It’s easier brokering world peace that where to go for lunch.
Before we take a mouthful, we must peruse all the ads
and compare what’s on the menu to the latest diet fads.
Then, once we find the perfect place and make the reservation,
Serafina calls me up to share her trepidation.
She’s started a new diet––something fabulously new––
and much as she hates to stir the pot, this restaurant won’t do.
We can’t go out for hamburgers. Laura’s a vegetarian.
She can’t abide the scent of flesh. She finds it most barbarian.
Of course, she will eat foodstuffs that are certified agrarian,
but salad’sout because my other friend is a fruitarian.
I asked them all to my house, bought exotic fruits and plums,
thinking a fruity salad would offend the fewest gums;
but a new friend cannot eat raw fruit. She finds it unhygienic,
and my artist friend will not eat foods she finds unphotogenic.
She balked at the rambutan and when she tried to swallow it,
choked and had to chug down a carafe of wine to follow it.
Molly is insisting on a diet ketogenic,
while Lucy won’t eat any vegetation that is scenic.
We’re reduced to no more dining out. Potlucks will have to do
with every guest providing whatever they can chew.
Me? I’ll bring a pizza. Pepperoni. Extra cheese.
And everyone can envy me as they eat what they please!
For the Thursday Doors prompt.
I don’t think I’ve ever photographed this newest hibiscus in my family. It’s planted in a spot I don’t often visit, by the gate between the outside kitchen entrance and the back yard. When Pasiano left the gate open, letting the dogs into the kitty domain, I went to close it and discovered this somewhat splendiferous overblown beauty. It’s not what I would normally buy. Now I’m curious about my state of mind when I succumbed to its gaudy flashiness.
