They Called Him Mr. Tibbs

Earlier this month I helped my daughter and her family bury their beloved cat, Tybee (a.k.a. Ty, Tiger, Mr. Tibbs). It was Thursday morning when they found him lying outside of my granddaughter's bedroom door. I'm certain it was not by chance that he landed there because he had been a part of Samantha's life since she entered this world over 7 1/2 years ago. There was a genuine bond between Ty and my granddaughter and I believe that he wanted to be as close to her as possible.

After I got the news that Ty had passed and that the girls wanted him to be buried here on the farm I made it my mission to find a suitable resting place for this sweet cat. That place was in the wildflower garden in the woods not far from the park bench. I thought he would then be remembered whenever we  took a walk down back.

It was evening by the time my daughter and her family arrived with Ty. Both granddaughters donned winter coats since the weather had turned much colder and the wind was whipping across the fields and through the trees. Fur trimmed hoods hid the girls' faces as we gathered around the gravesite. They stood stoic as we talked about what a special fellow "Mr. Tibbs" was and how incredibly patient he had been with both of them; and how he brought great comfort to the family during a very difficult moment in time. A lighthearted poem was then read in Mr. Tibbs' remembrance. 

I'd designated a small iron garden ornament that appeared to be a section of fence (in miniature form) as the marker for Ty's grave. Once the grave was covered, Samantha quickly walked over to the ornament and in one swift motion extracted it from its original location and then attempted to insert it next to Ty's grave. Her determination was obvious as she quietly struggled to embed it into the hard ground. It took a little assistance from her dad to accomplish the task but, rest assured, she will now be able to find her special friend's final resting place.

As the sun began to set and we retreated from the garden, I was touched by something Samantha said. I  don't know if it was meant for anyone in particular or simply reinforcement for herself but she spoke these sweet words:  "I will walk back here and talk to Ty every time I come to visit." 

Autumn Leaves and Milkweed

Call it an obsession; my love of fall. I look forward to it every year. 

The cooler temperatures and beauty of the season never fail to draw me in.

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I would like to share this link from to an earlier post. It shows photographs of

milkweed pod that grew behind our house a few years ago. The light

provided a wonderful opportunity to capture the beauty of this

unique plant. I think you'll enjoy a second look.

Not Quite Average: Picturesque Pods: What do I love about Fall?   Nearly everything:  cornstalks crackling in the wind, hues of yellow and orange, cool breezes, cozy sweaters, h...

Worth Repeating

When I am excited about something, I have a tendency to repeat myself.

And since Fall has provided us with beautiful colors this year—and I consider

that to be terribly exciting—I am sharing a few more fall photos. 

The woodpile-bigger-than-my-dog shot is a favorite due to

its painterly appearance but each photo has its own special qualities.

I never tire of this photo showing the lane leading to the back

acreage. Click on the photo to view a larger version. 

Bursting milkweed pod is a fall favorite but this one was loaded

with oncopeltus fasciatus, a.k.a. milkweed bugs. Nast!!

I sighted a Mule hiding in the brush. This one happened

to have a steering wheel. Hee haw!!

With color at every turn, I make effort to ignore certain things. But, since my

 brain doesn't allow such nonsense, I usually return for a photo.

I removed brambles and brush and dug a campfire pit to create this campsite.

There is a semi-cleared pathway that leads to the creek on the far right.

Matisse must have made a visit. 

Magnificent colors.

An unplanned adoption allowed this good-natured black lab

to spend her days exploring wide open spaces. Lucky dog!

Matissed once again.

A calming color palette,

and an empty nest.

Her nose knows no peace. Busy, busy, busy.

Winding Down

Let me savor the warmth of this day;

feast upon the golden ash and blazing red maple,

the rainbow streaked sky.

Let me feast today;

for tomorrow it will all be gone.

Dirty Dish Doer

Some photos linger in my brain until they are put to task. This picture of my granddaughter, Lydia, washing dishes is one of them. She turned 12 on this particular day and she insisted on cleaning my dishes. To make her case, she said that she would wash each dish "two or three times."

Who am I to argue when presented with such a generous offer?

Unlike Lydia, who thoroughly enjoys the process of washing dishes, I would do practically anything as a child to avoid the task. Even though I am now a fully grown adult-like person, I still feel a slight twinge of dread when faced with a pile of dirty dishes. 

Oddly so, memories of my dad often surface when I'm elbow deep in dirty dishwater.

My dad was a working man in earlier years: a factory worker by day and farmer by night. Washing dishes was not something he did. But, change happens, as was the case with my mom and dad, who eventually went their own ways. Years later, I recall a time when I visited my dad and his lady companion at their home. I realized how much dad had truly changed when he cheerfully served coffee to my husband and I and talked about  how he enjoyed washing dishes.