Major adjustments

That's what I've been working on this week -- major adjustments.

But not all the adjustments have been mine.

For instance, Gatsby-Kitty likes to sit on my lap when I type. I'm now in the midst of moving him from my lap to the desk blotter three feet to my right. He doesn't like changes, and he's so spoiled he just KNOWS I'll give in if he keeps clambering up my leg. My own fault. When he was just a little kitty, he'd fall asleep on my lap when I did my email and other type-written stuff. He was so tiny, he fit safely under my fore-arms.

But now he's full-grown, and he's forever sticking up his head and bopping my forearms, driving my hands off home-row. I'll be typing along and discover I'm suddenly writing a new language that comes out like fakl or luyyu (for damn-it kitty). He's got the SPCA all on his side. So I don't dare fling him over my shoulder onto the couch ten feet back.

I'm not really inclined to be rough with him anyway. I'm a dedicated cat-lover and can't break the habit. Don't even want to break the habit. But the necessary move upsets Gatz. For the first few days, he'd slink off all hurt and pout in an upstairs bedroom. So then I'd haveta go find him, pet him up all good, and bring him downstairs, and lovingly set him down on the blotter beside me. Then I'd rub him up real good, and try to explain the need for the change, and all like that.

Of course, he took all this as a victory. Next thing, here he came up my leg again. Once he got so upset he urped-up on the blotter -- which made me think a set of human triplets'd be easier than a spoiled kitty. (Also made me think I should pick up another kitty and quick write a script for a Three Stooges movie. )

But this is day eleven of the adjustment, and there he sleeps, all curled up on the blotter so cute I have to fight myself to keep from reaching over and rubbing him between the ears. But I resist, knowing that one light stroke between the ears, and here he'd come climbing up my leg again.

I sympathize. Here I've been a widower nearly four years, and still: an hour never passes I don't remember Nancy, and how'd she'd forever be climbing into my lap. How I wish she still could.


Another reason I miss Nancy is that I've been struggling like crazy to get my gardening chores done before spring's all gone. We've had persistent rains most all of April -- which I guess I should expect. But our gardens have just as many chores, half the time, and half the hands.

It's been an adjustment. Weeds and other stuff's been staying way ahead a-me.

This morning I rolled out of bed, raised the blind, and looked out my window. There they stood winking up at me: a whole new crop of dandelions, a wild riot of clover, wild-carrot, and chickweed, all crowding-up through the mulch. "Well," says I, "Half an hour of quick weeding'll fix that!" And it DID -- though it nearly fixed me as well. Believe it: I filled a five-gallon bucket four times before I got the wide ledge on that side of the house looking like somebody still lived here. All of which started the word condo ringing through my mind.

But I don't truly want a condo. This house may be too big for one aging widower, and it may demand more care than I'm accustomed to providing. But it brings our kids back here with MY grandchildren. So I'm bound to stay-on awhile. Which means I need to adjust to doing all the work Nancy and I once shared. No sleeping on the blotter for me just yet.

Today was also a fountain-cleaning day. Sometime mid-fall last year, the old screen I placed over the cascading fountain out back blew aside and slipped down behind the stone wall out of sight. This mishap occurred after I'd drained and cleaned the fountain, and the result was that this spring the fountain was full of leaves and snow-melt water. Whatta MESS.

As it happened, then, this morning's weeding left me standing beside the cluttered fountain with an empty five-gallon bucket in my hand. Took me a challenging hour to bail the water out of the top and bottom basins, remove the leaves, then clean the fountain basins and the spillway. I had the hose all set to fill the fountain, when a torrential downpour drove me back into the house. Could be I'll get the pumps in and the fountain running tomorrow.

There's also a beautiful 3x6' fountain out on the four-season glassed-in porch beyond our living room. It's one of those hanging fountains you may have seen. It's copper, and over the years it's turned wonderful hues of copper-green. Water from the reservoir is driven up to the top, then glides down over small round rocks as it descends to the reservoir. Sunlight filters through the canopy above, penetrates through three walls of floor-to-ceiling windows, and dances on the falling water. It's a strikingly beautiful fountain that emits a quietly restful sound.

But since Nancy's death I've permitted the fountain to dry out. Today I cleaned and filled it, turned it on, and sat watching it for awhile. The quiet sounds of falling water inside the room blended with the soft pelting of rain outside the room. Compelling. Sweet. I sat for at least a half hour listening to the water. Was it Handel who wrote "Water Music?" I think so. Somewhere in my huge collection I have a DVD I plan to find. Today I think I gained a new perspective on the music of gently falling water.

The porch is a gorgeous room. The large windows look out onto the cascading fountain surrounded by now-mature perennial gardens. Sliding doors open onto two attractive and practical decks. Close beyond the garden-strips a looping brick walkway connects the two decks, and beyond that walkway, a cluster of maples gives way quickly to mature woods. In a small opening just beyond the walkway is a large bird-feeder that's almost always home to finches, robins, and the occasional cardinal and blue-jay. Keeps me busy filling that feeder and several others.

The porch decor is just as compelling. Nancy chose a red wicker couch, love-seat, and lounge-chair to surround a 9x5' rug. A high antique chest with glass doors above is filled with small antique items. Panel doors below hide a television we rarely use. A rugged, glass-topped coffee table and three small side-tables round out the furnishings. Antique bird-cages, pictures, and miscellaneous items crowd two wide shelves above the windows. Some friends have said this porch is the most striking room in the house. Could be true.

But for nearly four years I've hardly entered the room. Nancy spent the last six months of her life resting on the couch there, watching the burgeoning life outside the windows. She fought cancer there in the midst of all that beauty -- the beauty of the woods, of the room she'd created. To all that -- in my mind's-eye -- I add her own beauty. I cannot tell how many hours I spent sitting opposite her, reading in the love-seat, glancing up frequently to rest my eyes on her. . . or sat with her head in my lap, reading aloud to her, reciting love-poetry. Listening to her. Encouraging her. Willing my spirit to lift her. Loving and hoping.

Today I cleaned and filled and started the fountain. I brought in books. Tomorrow I'll sit where we sat. I'll read. I'll lift my eyes from the pages and admire the woods. I'll remember.

Adjustments must be made.
Again it's spring. It's time.
Tomorrow I'll start.