Good Bye, November

 I was spoiled. I'd go down to the greenhouse each evening and soak in the warmth and beauty. Whatever had gone wrong during the day receded with that onslaught of all that was right. 

I go down there, just sat down there for a half hour, in fact, with the little white lights on, but it doesn't work very well yet. I bought a blooming pink Christmas cactus, but it doesn't have a smell. I found some green nubbins on my Jasminus sambac, yaaaay!! but they're a long long way from blossoms. I threw out four more geraniums today, and discovered that my old Wonderboom fig bonsai is likely dead. 

 I think it's the tuberoses I miss most, that and the orange hibiscus. And I miss that crazy hot-orange New Guinea impatiens, and the red velvet mandevilla. I think I lost all my Graffiti star geraniums, too including the one that was just the color of a scarlet tanager. Oh, I miss them.

Come on, grapefruit, bloom already. Bloom. Stink this place up.

So in the mornings I go out, looking for something, and I find sweeping snowy landscapes, too snowy for November, but I'll take them.

Better with dog. Always better with dog.

I love this dog. He's watching a car coming, and I'm talking to him saying he can't just sit there in the road, but he doesn't want to walk in the snow to get out of the way. He will when I tell him to. 

We go on, and look at the square shapes of Angus against the light. You don't see wild animals quite that square. We've made them so. Frames for carrying slabs of beef. 

Farther on, hayrolls frosted with snow. There is woodsmoke floating on the air as I look at them, a good clean smell in the cold. We will go a bit over five miles today, looking for things. 

We stop and talk with Mr. Gill, whose female chocolate lab Coco has come out to meet Chet. She's a perfect lady, and he's a perfect gentleman to her. They sniff each other and check each other out, then wag and go about their respective business. No snarling, not much posturing at all. Chet doesn't stand in the T position in front of her, but aligns himself alongside her. Polite. All of which convinces me that he reacts badly to Demon the huge black Lab because Demon has never had a chance to learn proper manners. Demon, an overgrown Baby Huey of a puppy at four, is still making sudden rushes and galumphing and knocking people over, and Chet doesn't like that. He clearly likes Coco. 

Mr. Gill tells me that someone dumped Coco out in front of his house. He took pity on her and took her in. And he's bred her three times, and "I've made $3,000 off her. And I wouldn't take a million dollars for her now." It's clear to me, watching them together, that it's not because she's earned him some money. He loves her. A good end to a bad thing. 

Farther on, we find a slob hunter's dump right by the side of the road, from just that morning. The ribcage and spine and assorted bones of a whitetail. Which is surprising, because it wasn't gun season yet, and bowhunters are usually more environmentally conscious than that. At least he didn't throw it in a stream, the usual modus operandi around here. Yucch.  I hope it will be a nice feast for coyotes or foxes, or even hawks and owls.

Nearby, a gray squirrel has patted around in the snow, looking for where she buried an acorn.

And running back I find the ghost of a burr oak, the stencil of a leaf long gone. 

That's my Subaru with a Christmas tree tied on top. Had to drive up there, stop and photograph it again last evening. I didn't find anything cooler than that on my run that day.

Phoebe said, "Somewhere there's a yellow oak leaf." I hadn't thought of that. 

Speaking of things long gone, here's what happens to a tiny notebook, crammed with song lyrics and poetry, when it goes through the washer, then the dryer. Turns out it gets rid of all the writing. I haven't found the pen's innards yet, but everything in that load has green blotches on it. That's OK. They were all my clothes, and they were all play clothes. Nobody much sees me anyway. I could go around with green blotches everywhere, probably will and nobody will say a word. 

 I do miss the poems and lyrics. 

Guess I'll have to make more.

Can't seem to get out of my own way lately.

I stared at the wadded up ruined notebook for a long time, wondering what had been lost. I'll never know. If I don't write it down, it never happened. There was at least one whole song in there, but I might have it on my iPhone, too. I hope so. Afraid to look. Might drop the phone in my tea or something.

I turned away from the notebook and looked for awhile at my groovycool jewel orchid, which is fixin' to bloom before too long. What a willing, wonderful plant. It's a terrestrial orchid, which means it grows in soil on the forest floor, not up high in the branches as an epiphyte. I figure it could be invasive, given half a chance and the right jungle setting. I saw a lovely orchid with similar leaves growing all over the forest floor at Tikal in Guatemala and was shocked to hear it was from Africa, and was actually a big problem. Whoa. Invasive orchid. I'd never heard of an invasive orchid.

I have a friend who used to tend a huge carpet of jewel orchids at a conservatory, so I know it can spread like crazy. I've started many new plants off this one. You just snap off a stem and dip it in rooting hormone, put it in moist medium and off it goes.

I wish I could put this plant in the greenhouse, where I need it most, but it likely wouldn't appreciate the cold nights.

Then I got down and snorgled on a certain warm puppeh in the sun. He's got his Santa beard on. 

How many kisses does one person need? Clearly a great many. Well that is all right. I am a Pez dispenser for kisses. You kiss on all the white parts.

The peace of not-so-wild things, who smell of popcorn and fresh sunny linens.