So the tree came down remarkably easily. The second photo shows what's left.
The tree guys did come, took down the dangerous tree and several small ones that had died, cut everything up. The yard was too wet to allow them to haul out the big chunks of tree, so they'll be back when things dry out. We had a big tree at the end of the driveway, encoiled in a huge wisteria vine; the tree had been strangled long ago and now was rotted. I asked them to take that one out also, expecting that I'd have a big empty space there and would have to find a new tree--but I did not anticipate the resilience of wisteria. Here's the tree in its "fatal embrace." I had photographed it, planning to do something fiberish with the images; I still probably will do that. The wisteria is so old that its branches are holding up much of my little front yard forest and when it blooms, the pale lavender flowers are up so high that I can't easily see them. When they fall the purple rain is always a surprise. So the tree came down remarkably easily. The second photo shows what's left. Abrazo vacio--empty embrace. At first I had to laugh, then cry. We think we're powerful and smart, surrounding and protecting those we love. And then they're gone, and the shape of the embrace remains, very strong and amazingly freestanding. It will probably crumble eventually, but I'm not doing anything to hurry it along.
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I've been working out on the deck when it wasn't raining in the past several days, discharging fabric from Pat's shirts. For those who haven't done this, it involves squirting bleach onto the fabrics, observing what new colors and designes occur, then stopping the discharge process using anti-chlor (the stuff you use in fish tanks). Underneath the ordinary shirt stripes and plaids are undiscovered colors and designs. It's an engaging process. I cut the shirts up while I'm watching TV in the evenings, or when it's raining. After the discharged fabrics are washed and dried, I cut them into squares which then become prairie points for the wall hanging "Surveyors Being Eaten by Bears." I've also collected copyright-free images to work on in Photoshop Essentials, a program I'm just beginning to use. The challenges are very helpful in keeping me grounded--better than "busywork" like cleaning drawers. The need to do creative stuff is really remarkably strong. I'm grateful for that. Today a tree guy is supposed to come and take down some dead trees in our little forest. Need to avoid having them fall on the house or block the driveway. So, soon (I hope) the song of the chainsaw will be heard in the land. I just finished watering my barrel cactus, which I bought in the airport the year we moved into this house--1994. It's tripled in height and doesn't seem to mind being in the same pot after all this time. And I'm worried about the jade plant, which grew from a small sprig off a dear friend's huge potful--a gift on Pat's 40th birthday, 30 years and three states ago. My (now large) jade plant seems to be dying; leaves are falling off and branches look puny. So I've harvested some sprigs and they are rooting in a glass of water, awaiting potting when I get around to it. It seems as though I should try to carry on this sweet tradition.
But then I look around. The house is full of flowers and plants, and I had to leave some at the museum for lack of space. How many peace lilies can a person care for? The rubber plant on the front stoop looks awful (it was a gift ten years ago and has been through a lot!) and I'm going to cut it down and possibly not replace it. Every winter Pat would bring a dolly home from work and we'd muscle the heavy pot into the front hallway lest it freeze. I can't manage that by myself. And how much responsibility do I have for these plants, anyway? They are not children, they're plants. In theory I'm the dominant species (except for the insects; the mosquitoes and fire ants will survive us all). The big kalanchoe is just about finished flowering, and I can put that in our little greenhouse or on the deck where it should do just fine with little care. The bromeliad is happy in the bathroom for now. I threw out a small cyclamen this morning but felt guilty about it. I don't think I could toss them all out, anyway. There should be a form of absoution for plant guilt. |
AuthorBobbe Shapiro Nolan, Fiber Artist in Eagle Lake, TX. Trying to learn to call the sewing room my studio, and myself an artist. I retired after 15 years in hospice nursing--so now I have the time!. Archives
July 2021
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