Flush with success

The bathroom remodeling project is finally done but it didn't occur to me until today that I don't have to put the same old gray shower curtain and towels in the guest bathroom. I can fall in love with whatever shower curtain I like and buy towels in coordinating colors! Couldn't have done that with the old purple bathroom.

And no sooner did the project get done than I received the invoice for the second half of the cost via email. We've waved goodbye to the old purple bathroom, the competent and efficient Bathroom Dude, and a big pile of money, and it didn't hurt one single bit. Felt great, in fact. And now I'll have an ideal answer when my colleagues return to campus next week and ask me where I went for my summer break: To the bathroom. Three cheers for a smooth and satisfying home improvement project!

Before (above) and after (below)

Good work if you can get it

I'd like to issue an invitation to everyone who has ever congratulated me on getting the whole summer off from work: Please come and watch what I'm doing today and then tell me I'm not working.

Granted, I'm not required to work outdoors in wretched heat or do any heavy lifting or crawl around on the floor of a horrible old bathroom or even punch a time clock, though if I were I'd be tempted to follow the example of Mooch in the 1979 film Breaking Away when he punches the timeclock--literally. I may have my moments of metaphorically throwing punches at certain people responsible for the mindless pettifogging procedures I am required to follow, but my job has never compelled me to throw an actual punch. 

But I have punched a lot of keys and crunched a lot of numbers and I have the eye fatigue to prove it. This fall I'm teaching two almost-brand-new classes, classes I've taught before in other incarnations; however, the contents and expectations for both courses have changed so much that I may as well be starting from scratch.

I last taught an upper-level class on Nature Writing more than a decade ago--as a summer online course. I like to use recent examples in upper-level writing classes, so most of the readings I assigned previously are no longer relevant (except Annie Dillard's 1982 essay "Total Eclipse," which everyone interested in writing about nature ought to read). The eight-week assignment structure for the online course doesn't translate well to a 14-week face-to-face semester, and I no longer have access to the previous course management system so I can't just copy and paste assignments and content into the new shell. So I have spent a lot of time tracking down appropriate readings, scanning them into the system, and organizing them into a reasonable class structure.

And then the first-year seminar I'm teaching is very different from the version I last taught several years ago, so this summer I've had to shift topics, choose a new text, and create an assignment structure that includes certain types of required assignments plus a whole range of activities requiring students to show mastery of the skills they need to succeed in college. These skills will be taught by the Peer Mentor, an upper-level student assigned to my class, but I'll be the one collecting and grading the required college skills assignments. 

First, though, I need to develop an assignment structure that makes some sort of sense, motivating students to do all the things even though many of the things simply aren't comparable. I mean, sure, I have no problem creating a meaningful prompt and rubric for the required annotated bibliography and research paper, but how do I balance those demands against, for instance, an assignment requiring students to print out an email on a campus printer or come up with a list of potential classes to take in the spring? Those can be low-stakes assignments, but if the stakes are too low, the students won't do them.

So I've spent a lot of time writing prompts and shuffling due dates and moving readings and activities around on my draft syllabi, and now I'm uploading assignments and files and rubrics to the course management system. Three solid hours this morning just trying to get one class's assignments mostly loaded to Canvas, and I haven't even started uploading files or developing detailed lesson plans.

Now my eyes are blurry from staring at the screen and my wrist hurts from all the pointing and clicking. (Ah, the humanity!) But on the other hand, I get to do my work sitting down in a comfy chair, with a cold drink at my elbow and no snarky supervisor looking over my shoulder. Granted, Bathroom Dude is just a few feet away putting the finishing touches on our guest bathroom while listening to a very loud podcast dealing with supernatural phenomena and conspiracy theories (somehow combining interest in the Shroud of Turin, sea monsters, and Florida bog people), but anyone willing to spend the morning on his hands and knees installing new flooring and fixtures in my horrible old bathroom is allowed to listen to whatever he wants to.

Bathroom Dude is a bit of an inspiration: if he hasn't punched the face right off the time clock after all those hours in that cramped room, then I think I can keep on pointing and clicking for as long as it takes to get the work done, all summer long.

Spam(a lot) and eggs(tra anxiety)

Early this morning I walked down the hill and through the woods in my nightgown and robe so I could take a shower in my son's apartment. At our house the tub has been installed in the guest bathroom but the water hasn't been turned on, and the lovely new shower has been installed in our master bathroom but we can't use it for 24 hours while the silicon cures, whatever that means. Yesterday I made several visits to my son's apartment just to use his bathroom, because our guest bathroom doesn't have a toilet yet while the master bathroom was occupied by a working man armed with power tools and caulking guns. 

So far it's been an up-and-down kind of week. The bathroom project is on target to be finished by Friday and the master bathroom will be fully functional this afternoon, so progress is being made! But obstacles keep arising, at home and elsewhere.

That important report I need to submit by the end of the month? I finally received the information I need to finish the report. Where has that info been hiding all this time? Well I'm not naming names here, but the essential information has been sitting in a certain administrator's spam folder since the middle of June. Our campus email system deletes spam items after 90 days, so it's a good thing I nagged someone into looking for the data!

Am I the only one who regularly practices spam folder hygiene? My Inbox Zero obsession requires me to scroll through spam at least twice a week to rescue anything that doesn't belong there and delete the rest, but maybe that's just a symptom of my personal neurosis. Apparently plenty of people are able to stroll calmly through their lives without ever wondering what valuable messages might have been inappropriately relegated to spam. Call it Spam Blindness--the ability to ignore a bulging spam folder without any qualms whatsoever.

At home I sometimes see signs of Dirt Blindness or Clutter Blindness--the ability to walk blithely past a mess without the slightest urge to clean it up. Again, I'm not naming names, but I long ago gave up on saying "If you see something amiss, just clean it up" to people for whom "amiss" is a foreign concept. I'm not a clean freak and I can live comfortably with a modicum of clutter, but certain types of disorder ring alarm bells in my brain and make my whole body vibrate with anxiety. Another symptom of my personal neurosis, no doubt, but if that little pile of dirt at the edge of the hallway insists on interfering with my sleep, you'd better believe I'll nag the person who left it there--or clean it up myself.

Maybe the presence in my house of men with power tools has made me a little more anxious than usual this week. I'm delighted at the work they're doing (on time and under budget, so far) and I'll be even more delighted when it's done, but it's hard to concentrate on important tasks with strangers in the bathroom and tools shrieking at all hours of the day. And then when I need the bathroom, I have to find the keys, find my shoes, and trek down through the woods to a bathroom that's suffering from its own special form of neglect. Right now it feels as if everything is a little bit amiss, but I lack the ability to put it back to rights and no amount of nagging will make this project get done any faster, so I'm just biting my tongue, biding my time, and trying to live through the current disorder.

In praise of a project that's going well (knock wood)

I recall a time years ago when we tried to do a little home improvement project in the parsonage where we lived for a few years: removing wallpaper and repainting the walls in the room where I wrote my dissertation, although "room" is perhaps not the right word to describe a space barely wider than a hallway, its walls interrupted with five doors and two windows. It was impossible to furnish a room so wonky, so I put my computer desk in there and wrote diligently, promising myself that my reward for completing the dissertation would be tearing down that horrible wallpaper. 

I think about that wallpaper every time I teach Charlotte Perkins Gilman's story "The Yellow Wall-paper," where the offending decor is described as

One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin. It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate and provoke study, and when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide--plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard of contradictions....The color is repellant, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sun light. It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others.

I recognize that wallpaper! The wallpaper that surrounded me while I wrote my dissertation surely merited charges of aesthetic harassment, but I never figured out whom to sue. I gritted my teeth and lived with that wallpaper for more than a year, and instead of going mad like the woman in Gilman's story, I got even. As soon as the dissertation was done, I started tearing down that malignant wallpaper. 

Big mistake. 

The wallpaper didn't come down easily, and we soon learned that it had been hiding a multitude of sins: insect infestations, wall cracks, a round hole in the wall large enough for a wood stove's chimney, and a piece of plywood loosely covering an opening for yet another door. All those surprises required work that we weren't equipped or inclined to do--especially in a house that wasn't even ours.

Lately I've been thinking about that little home improvement project that got too big to handle, as we are currently in the midst of a major home improvement project that seems to be going quite well (knock wood). True, we've reached an awkward stage: the guest bathroom has no toilet (yet) while the master bathroom is occupied by a worker diligently removing the tub. Kind of awkward to elbow a worker out of the way every time one needs to use the bathroom, and also he's bound to have turned off the water in there, which is why I'm staying away from the house and working on campus all day. 

We knew this kind of thing might happen, but the good news is that the master bathroom is a small job--remove tub and tub surround, install accessible shower stall and hardware--and it should be done today or tomorrow, as long as the worker doesn't discover anything surprising while removing the old tub.

The guest bathroom doesn't even look like the same space. So far they've taken it down to the studs, removed all traces of dark gray and purple (mauve?), and installed the new tub and drywall; today they start mudding the drywall before they can install the toilet, sink, hardware, and flooring. That formerly dim, cramped room already looks so bright and cheery that I get happy every time I walk by.

I hesitate to say this out loud lest I jinx the process, but so far everything has gone entirely according to plan. No surprises, no problems, no extra charges, and the contractor and his crew have been a real pleasure to work with. I feel a calm confidence in their ability to get it done on time and within budget.

But I can't let myself get too excited. Who knows what might pop up before it's all done? Maybe they'll pull out the tub and find Jimmy Hoffa buried underneath. Whatever happens, I've got to be grateful for two things: against all odds, we have sufficient resources to meet the challenge--and we don't have to do any of the work ourselves. 

 

New bath in the guest bathroom!

 

All in a day's work

Before

After

What I need is a self-demolishing bathroom

The purple bathroom is currently emitting sounds of demolition--pounding, tearing, drilling--and the old bathroom door just walked out of the house. Not of its own volition, of course, although what a great idea that would be--a self-demolishing bathroom. When the time comes to replace key elements, you just say Shoo and out the door walks that purple potty, wonky vanity, and tiny tired sink.

And the door, of course. One possible explanation for the sorry state of that old bathroom is that a previous owner regularly locked a dog in there, which would explain the deep scratches and tears in the baseboards, flooring, and door. That's gotta go we said when we first moved in here, and now, 21 years later, it's finally happening.

The work was supposed to be done more than a month ago, but an essential component was first stuck on backorder and then finally arrived damaged. I have no complaints about the contractor--he's doing his best. And if the worker who's willing to get on his hands and knees to wrench that old vanity off the wall wants to listen to a loud podcast about cryptocurrency while he does all the dirty, I can live with that. I have my own work to do! Which at the moment amounts to responding to emails while trying not to hear the hammering, yammering, screeching, whirring, wrenching sounds of bathroom demolition. 

Random access memory

Memory is a funny thing, online memory doubly so. This morning I struggled to remember the name of a course I'm teaching this fall but my computer had no trouble reminding me that 16 years ago today I was totally over the moon about my new car, the Volvo wagon my brother gave me after I was diagnosed with cancer the same week my ancient Kia died and I couldn't afford both chemotherapy and a car. The car had more than 200,000 miles on it at the time and I put another hundred thousand on it over the next four years, and when I finally sold the Volvo to my trusty mechanic for parts, I kept the license plate as a reminder of the way people can come through for us in a pinch. It's a remarkable story (read it here) and I really needed to be reminded today that hope lives on despite everything. So I guess it's a good thing my technology has a better memory than I do. Maybe I'll ask my computer to write that syllabus....

 

Brain the size of a planet and they've got me pushing piddling paperwork

I'm sitting in my campus office clickety-clicking on the keyboard while some primitive part of my brain cowers in fear on the floor of the starship Heart of Gold and a disembodied voice keeps saying, "We have normality. I repeat, we have normality. Anything you still can't cope with is therefore your own problem."

How can my body be back at work while my mind feels stuck in a Douglas Adams novel? I have a list as long as my arm of tasks I must complete pronto--don't panic!--but I lack the information needed to complete them. I'm looking at a grant application on which all the dates are off by a full year, but changing them would require me to complete a massive number of tasks after I've retired. I've been given a date for the New Faculty Orientation I'm supposed to plan but have thus far received no indication that we have hired any new faculty. I need to file a final report about a previous grant but cannot get access to the data required for filing the report. And I need to finish my syllabi but I'm still not clear on exactly what I'm supposed to be doing in the new version of the first-year seminar.

Stymied by these impossibilities, I instead devote time to a piddling bit of paperwork that doesn't matter in the least: writing my annual review, a document that will be read by exactly one person (my wonderful department chair). There is literally nothing at stake: No chance that I'll be fired without cause in my final year of teaching and no more rewards available for good work. But, unlike my other projects, I have access to all the information I need to complete my annual review and so that's what I'll do. Somewhere in my extensive list of the past year's accomplishments I'll tuck away the complaint of an iconic Douglas Adams character, Marvin the morose android: "Here I am, brain the size of a planet, and they ask me to pick up a piece of paper."

But at least the work I'll do today is mostly harmless. Not much else I can say about it.

Peace, quiet, and nothing to do

I was getting up close and personal with some Balkan Bears' Breeches (AKA Acanthus Mollis, and where have they been all my life?) when I heard a youthful voice nearby whining: "Isn't there anything to do here?"

The voice emerged from a large group of kiddos wearing matching T-shirts, and I suppose I can't blame them for being bored. I mean, we were surrounded by trees and flowers and birds and bugs and benches and bridges and ponds and lily pads and trails and canopy walks and frogs and rabbits and sculptures and all sorts of other lovelies, but if a kid on a group outing with a bunch of other kids in matching T-shirts doesn't find those things interesting, then no, I guess there isn't anything to do at the Holden Arboretum.

To be fair, I probably would have been bored at his age too. But at my age, walking around an arboretum for a couple of hours before the rain started was just my speed, especially after two weeks with the grandkids.

Last night the grandkids were in their front yard catching fireflies when their parents arrived home after their long trip back from Italy. My daughter had promised to bring me a big hug but what I really wanted was a sensory deprivation chamber. I mean, the kids were great, but after two weeks I've had more than my quota of noise and roughhousing and occasional unreason. All I wanted was a little peace and quiet.

At Holden Arboretum this morning I sat on a bench listening to the buzz of cicadas, the calls of birds, and the occasional plop of a frog jumping into the pond. A catbird and a common yellowthroat kept me company. Peace. Stillness. Not quite quiet, but close enough. 

I didn't even think too much about taking photos. Since I broke the telephoto lens on my Nikon last week, I've been making do with my smartphone camera. It's okay for closeups but I couldn't zoom in on the blue-grey gnatcatchers that buzzed in a crabapple tree or the butterflies and dragonflies flittering among the plantings. I think I've decided to order a reconditioned lens, but before I make any big decisions, I need to give my brain a rest.

Holden Arboretum was restful enough until the rain started falling. It's a big place and I don't move quickly in the best of circumstances, so I spent much of the afternoon sloshing around in wet shoes. I'm the one asking for peace and quiet but everywhere I went, I squeaked. But I'm dry now and enjoying the photos and looking forward spending a quiet night without being responsible for the health and safety of any other human being. Grandma Camp was fun, but today I'm savoring the fact that no strange kid's whiny little voice is even remotely my problem.

Balkan Bears' Breeches

Pondside view

I love this Dawn Redwood

All in a day's work

Not that anyone asked, but:

Q: How many weeds did the kiddos pull from the brick walkway in front of our house yesterday morning?
A: Uncounted, but enough to make it unnecessary to weed-whack the walkway.

Q: How many rocks did the kiddos pile up to build a set of dams across our creek?
A: More than I could count, some of them heavy enough to require cooperative lifting.

Q: How many kiddos were reading Calvin and Hobbes books on the sofa at the same time?
A: Three. By the end of the week, all the kids will have read all the books. 

Q: How many rivers did I cross with the kiddos yesterday?
A: Three: The Muskingum, by boat, twice; the Ohio, by car and sternwheel boat, multiple times; the Little Muskingum, by foot, once. 

Q: What was the kiddos' favorite part of the boat tour on the Valley Gem?
A: Standing in front of the turning sternwheel and getting thoroughly soaked by the spray.

Q: How many local historical/natural/cultural experiences did we manage to squeeze into our three spare hours in the Marietta area between the boat tour and the snake-related event?
A: Viewed the Start West monument carved in 1938 by Gutzon Borglum; visited three Indian mounds and climbed the tallest one; bought goat milk hand lotion sourced from local goats at a store owned by my former colleague; ate fast food at Wendy's; walked across the newly renovated Hills covered bridge over the Little Muskingum River; got a little lost driving through part of the Wayne National Forest; caught sight of a bald eagle perched on a tree next to the Ohio River near Newell's Run (but did not get good photos because I dropped my camera at The Wilds last week and destroyed my telephoto lens); hiked a short trail on Middle Island in the Ohio River.

Q: How many snakes did the kiddos pet at the All About Snakes event at the Ohio River Islands National Wildlife Refuge welcome center?
A: Three, multiple times. The event was so well attended that people were forced to park in inappropriate places and sit packed like sardines on sofas or criss-cross-applesauce on the floor, but those who were patient enough to wait for the crowd to thin out had the thrill of touching the three snakes over and over and over again and peering at a six-day-old milk snake.

Q: How exhausted was everyone after such a long, hot, and eventful day?
A: Sorry, what was the question? Just nodded off for a moment...

Things I had forgotten about having a house full of kids

None of this should be a surprise, I tell myself. We raised our own children and fostered a bunch of other children while going to grad school and holding down jobs and staying mostly sane, so nothing I'm seeing this week should surprise me.

And yet: I can't believe how quickly that loaf of bread disappeared, and didn't we just buy a gallon of milk? Where did all the sweet corn go? Why does the refrigerator look as if it's been attacked by ravenous beasts instead of three small and (mostly) harmless children?

Why are there no forks in the drawer? How can the dishwasher be full again so soon?

How many socks can six little legs wear? Are the dirty socks multiplying in the laundry basket?

Why does my front yard look like it's sprouting colorful fungi in the shape of wet boots? 

Am I seriously going to have to buy another jar of peanut butter? 

Do I have to think about cooking again today? Didn't I just cook yesterday? Where did all the leftovers go?

Finally, some peace and quiet when my son takes his nieces and nephew to play Putt-Putt and go to the pool--but who's this on the phone? One of the kids is sick? And I need to drive to town to pick her up so the others can have more fun? I mean, what was I going to do with my peace and quiet anyway?

So life is a little nutty right now but I can't complain. The grandkids are doing a great job helping keep the chaos at a dull roar--folding their own laundry, matching their own socks, fetching their own boots out of the front yard--and they're bringing lots of fun and energy into the house. We've gone on a creek hike and colored pictures and blown bubbles and we've just finished decorating a cake with fresh spring berries, and every day we get to see wonderful photos from their parents' journeys in Italy.

But also I'm delighted that the creek is low with no chance of flooding out Grandma and Grampa Camp. So even as we're horrified at the news of flash floods washing away children in Texas, we hold our grandkids close and pray for the families still wondering whether they'll see their children again.

In for some wild times

July! Academic summer is half over, but Grandma and Grampa Camp has just begun. My daughter and son-in-law will be making beautiful music in Italy for the next two weeks, so I went to fetch the grandkids and bring them here. My son has come back from South Africa with photos and fun gifts, so he'll be here to play the role of Fun Uncle while the grandkids are here.

Already they've helped me shop for groceries, examined the garden, thrown rocks in the creek, and met the chicken. (Marauding raccoons reduced the chicken population to one, but the chicken run has been thoroughly reinforced and the raccoon population has been significantly reduced. At some point there will be more chickens.) Now the little imps are doing crafts while wearing the adorable Springbok rugby jerseys their uncle brought back from South Africa. 

Day One of Grandma and Grampa Camp will soon be in the books and so far we've all survived. Tomorrow we're off to The Wilds to see some wildlife and then who knows what might happen? We're in for wild times...while I try very hard not to hear the clock ticking down toward the start of the fall semester. 

Fun watching the kids pursue their interests.

 

Sweet, sweet, sweet corn season

The best way to eat sweet corn, of course, is to chomp on one buttered ear after another while  standing up in a field with your closest high-school friends and listening to a bluegrass band singing "Just a Bowl of Butter Beans," but since you're not a teenager anymore and online "research" reveals that the Zellwood Sweet Corn Festival ceased operations in 2013, you'll have to go with the next-best way to eat sweet corn--start the water boiling on the stove first and then run down to your garden to pick a dozen ears, shuck 'em, and then plunge 'em into the water within minutes of removal from the stalk.

But if you don't have a garden or your corn patch is not yet producing or, tragically, the raccoons have removed every single ear (it happens!), the next-best way to eat sweet corn is to drive a few miles up the road to a farmstand surrounded by cornfields and pick out a dozen ears that have been picked that very morning and then drive home and cook the ears within a few hours of being removed from the cornfield. Brilliantly yellow, sweet, and crisp, they taste like summer and sunshine, and even if there are only two people at the table, a dozen ears won't last long.

That's life (and death) in the slow lane

I wonder how many times the checkout clerk at the grocery store has to listen to the same complaints about the weather? Nothing but hot hot hot all day long, and once you've covered the heat, you can move on to the humidity.

I've been watching the bottlebrush buckeye finally start to bloom and today I decided to go outside and see what sorts of pollinators I could photograph--but first I had to stand around and wait for the camera's lens to adjust to the outdoor temperature. The minute I stepped out the door, the lens fogged up. 

Only a few of the bottlebrushes are blossoming, so I stood near a cluster and waited for the pollinators to come to me. No hummingbird moths so far although I saw one this morning at one of our flowerpots on the porch. I did, however, enjoy watching a zebra swallowtail flit from one flower to the next, never alighting anywhere for long. I saw some wasps and bees but didn't hear the incessant buzzing sound that surrounds that bush when it's fully in bloom. A day or two from now it'll be alive with buzzing things.

Meanwhile, some of the denizens of our demesne are no longer alive and buzzing--or clucking, as the case may be. A raccoon ravaged the chicken run the other night, escalating the ongoing man vs. raccoon war. The chicken run has been reinforced and raccoon traps have been distributed. Current score: a half dozen missing or dead chickens and one deceased raccoon.

Finally, our son returns tonight from his two weeks in South Africa. I asked him to smuggle out a giraffe but how would he fit it in his carry-on bag? He'll be exhausted after spending the better part of 24 hours in transit, but it will be good to see the social butterfly coming home to roost. 

 

I'm melting, I'm melting!

The problem with working in overly air conditioned offices is that stepping outside the building feels like walking into a solid wall of heat. Yesterday I was carrying heavy things across campus and I honestly wanted to lie down and melt into the pavement--much easier than trying to breathe in that heat.

But I felt more sorry for the very competent and highly qualified job candidate who gave a fine presentation yesterday. We'd been warned in the morning that the College would try to save energy by cutting back on the air conditioning in the hottest part of the day--exactly when this visiting candidate's presentation was scheduled. 

The room was crowded. 

The candidate was wearing a long-sleeved dress shirt and tie.

The presentation, as mentioned, was excellent, but I was distracted by the progress of the sweat marks slowly spreading down this poor man's shirt. By the end of the hour he looked as if someone had doused him with champagne in premature celebration--but the fact that he performed so valiantly under hostile circumstances suggests that he's equipped to endure the trials of administrative service.

I, on the other hand, am preparing to endure the trials of administrative gobbledegook. This morning I'm presenting some committee-constructed prose to the Powers That Be and steeling myself for their responses. Earlier in this process, very passionate people told me, "If you take out the phrase 'liberal arts,' you'll destroy the College," while others said, "If you include the phrase 'liberal arts,' you'll destroy the College." Can't please both of those parties, and it's wearing me out trying.

But at least I don't have to present this prose in a sweltering room. In fact, given the indoor conditions in campus buildings, I'd better take a sweater. 

Summer is icumen in

This is the forest primeval I thought as I walked carefully through the mud into our upper woods this morning, except it's not the forest primeval--it's just a little fringe of woods at the edge of the upper meadow, with the early light filtering through the pines in a way that made it look lovely, dark, and deep.

The mud was deep and slippery thanks to recent frequent storms, but it ought to dry out this weekend as the heat wave hits. I made it to the Farmers Market before 9 a.m. this morning but still had to retreat to a shady spot to chat with a friend. Hot hot hot! Our electricity supplier has warned us to expect brown-outs as everyone who wants to keep comfortable cranks up the AC.

But it felt good to be out and about this morning. I saw a flicker and some hummingbirds, heard the kingfishers down by the creek, visited the chickens and admired the sun shining through sycamore leaves. Now, though, I'm staying indoors. After a long wet spring, the summer sun has come to stay.

 

The wild columbines make these lovely seed pods.

Sentinel beneath the birdfeeders.