It's back!!!!!

I left town for the weekend.

My garden looked fine. Some of the spinach leaves were being eaten by aphids, but for the most part it looked fine.

Oh, you naive Finnish gypsy.

Fine, indeed!

There's a hole in my garden, dear Liza, dear Liza, there's a hole in my garden, dear Liza, a hole.

A hole....over by the brussel sprouts and celery!

Is this the return of the gopher?

Not sure. Too early to tell.

Although things are looking suspiciously similar to the last hole that annihilated my spinach.

That problem seemed to solve itself though...once I left town.

It's obvious what I need to do next, isn't it?

Yes, I agree.

ROAD TRIP!

16

Is it possible that 31 is the new 16?

I've always been a late bloomer.

I didn't get my license until I was nineteen.

My younger sister had a boyfriend before me.

We're not even going to discuss my cleavage development.

Remember 16?

The time of your life where you start to put together your dreams and figure things out and make embarrassing moments because you've rushed into things based on emotion rather than logic...or even prayer?

I think I may have skipped that whole season.

In fact, I'm pretty sure of it.

Most girls used curling irons then.

I bought my first one when I was 25.

Is it possible that you can experience "16"...some 16 years later?

Sometimes it feels like I'm just really beginning to discover who I am or how relationships really work.

Sometimes I over analyze everything to death and take myself way too seriously.

And sometimes I make a drama out of nothing, just like a 16 year old.

But I think I've matured a little in that area.

(Oh please, dear Lord, say 'yes, you have, my daughter')

Sometimes I feel like I'm just now putting on a dress that makes me look grown up. And I'm smiling shyly and feeling awkward but liking the advancement all at the same time.

Thank God I have the cleavage to hold the dress up this time around.

Experience I may be without, but time has rounded out a few things!

How is it possible that I've grown up when I still feel like a girl in so many ways?

I still eat my peanut butter out of jar with a spoon.

I still crank up the tunes, and lip sync to a song, looking in the rearview mirror and imagining I'm in my own music video.

I still get butterflies when he winks at me and fumble with my words when he's staring at me.

Maybe it's not so bad.

Discovering who I am, what I like and what I don't, realizing who God is to me and how I desire to live for Him.

That's what summer is like when you are sixteen.

At least it is this time around.

My life is in a bundle

On the move again.

From glory to glory.

Instead of fighting or resisting the work God does in my heart, I have learned to rest in Him.

He carries me, you know.

You too.

I was reminded of that while reading this book.

Remember when David is angry and he's going to kill Nabal and Nabal's wife Abigail smoothes everything over and tells David that his life is carried by the Lord in a bundle.

In David's era people did not travel with suitcases.

Instead, they put their most precious treasures in a bundle when they moved from one place to another.

Your life is in a bundle.

Mine too.

Thank God.

And lo, there was a great big empty hole

Well, I've returned from my h ometown.

Back into the garden to learn the fate of my spinach.

Dead.

All of it.

Killed and destroyed by the ravages of the yard war between the gopher and the cats.

The gopher?

Dead.

All of it.

Destoryed by the claws of the cats, I suppose.

I don't really know.

I wasn't here.

And the cats?

Dead.

I hope.

Wouldn't that be a great way to end this little saga? Everyone dead and me left standing in the wasteland of it all.

It's the stuff novels are made of.

Novels that are made into movies.

As my aunt said to me the other day, "Hi, my name is Allie and I like to be dramatic."

It follows me everywhere.

Lucky me, no evidence to prove that the cats killed the gophers...therefore I don't need to thank them.

Drama, drama, drama. Real and imagined.

Definitely imagined.

Solitude

Emergency has brought back to my hometown.

An aunt with a potato salad and a plate of veggies brought me here.

To my true home.

The one that never leaves my heart even though my feet takes me miles from its solitude.

In spite of everything, it's good to be back.

The pause before the storm

The clouds are grey and hang heavy.

The wind is blowing fiercely and reminding us that it truly has the power to keep us indoors.

We haven't seen the sun in 6 days.

All is quiet.

No action from the cats.

No action from the gophers.

Not a problem. I am patient like a lion waiting to pounce and devour its prey.

The spinach recover from the shell shock of past battles.

My brave spinach.

The battle is on hold...for now.

I'll keep you posted.

Let the Fur Fly

My garden has become the official battleground where nature has decided to re-enact the Crimean War.

Oh, I know the Crimean War was a long fought saga. But with all this rain and dirt, Crimean works better than relating this to the trenches that housed our soldiers in Dieppe. Although, the trenches may have been infested with the same animals from the rodent Geomyidae family, as well.

It’s a toss up-- Crimean War or WW2 orgin.

The point is my garden has now been seized as a battle zone.

My sidewalk is no man’s land.

And I am an innocent villager being pillaged by the effects of this horrible war.

The ground is no longer mine.

But we still gather to watch what is happening. We are, if nothing else, avid spectators.

Gopher flies through the air. Point for cat.

Cat dodges agilely and is left sticking its paws into a hole, maddeningly empty-handed. Point for gopher.

It goes on like this all day.

It makes for great discussion and lively activity around our little house. You can’t be in the kitchen and not look out the window and wonder what will happen next.

We’re all thinking it: when will the carnage begin?

I’m trying to do a little reconnaissance of my own.

I’m looking to start an underground resistance. Not a literal one because, as we know,the underground is occupied. I’m starting to strategize on how I can kill two birds with one stone.

I’m calling it Operation Fur Fly.

My objective is simple: end the drama of this cat and gopher game and finally plant the rest of my garden.

Sweet pickles that will bring me comfort in the dead of winter are depending on my plan of attack. So is the wanting-to-be-made strawberry jam.

And my spinach desperately needs back up.

My brave spinach.

The battle rages on.

I’ll keep you posted.

And the Plot Thickens...

The cat has got my tongue.

I’m not meaning to be glib, but it has.

I’m not apologizing or taking back what I have said about the cleverly disguised rodents called felines, but I will, hopefully in a few days hence, go so far as to say this:

Thank you, cat.

And that’s a great deal coming from me on this issue.

What has brought me to this point? Not a vision that has knocked me off my high horse, but a reality that is too strong to ignore.

I, once again, have been duped into thinking that the stray cats have had a penchant for my strawberries and spinach which lay in full sun.

If I had used my logic skills and connected the fact that they were here, lying in wait, even on rainy days, I may have deduced the following:

We have gophers.

Go ahead. Laugh it up. Diva needs redeeming once again!

Apparently, we have had a gopher living in our garden....right next to the spinach plants.

There is a neat little tunnel that suggests they are quite adept at excavation just like the nature books describe.

I was blind.

Not blind to the fact that cats are annoying. No, I am well aware of that fact. Some things you can’t paint over in life. This is one of them.

But I was blind to this existence of species descending from the RODENT family that has moved into our garden; as if we were members of a Beatrix Potter book and Peter Rabbit will be coming along any moment for tea.

They live in my garden!

But now, thanks to the cats: they live in terror.

I am willing, for the next few days, leastwise, to let the cats stay and kill and catch the intruders.

I figure it’s a more natural way of dealing with them than the age-old drowning method.

Plus, that particular method requires a bit more work than I am prepared to put forth at this moment in time. One must keep all manner of options available, but still use the course of action that requires others to work harder. (This is not a rule I live by in my life, but just a general observation).

The cats wrestle and try to catch the gopher. When they are successful and if, IF, they do not leave the remnants of the eaten carcass in my garden, then I will say thank you. But until that happens, the words remain on the tip of my tongue.

Out there remains my spinach.

My brave spinach.

The battle rages on.

I will keep you posted.

Shouting Out My Window is Becoming Quite Normal

The carnage continues and my yet my spinach battles on.

I believe they are convinced that they are spears that will eventually stab the underside of their attackers.

One can only hope.

It's a lazy lot of stray cats that I have in my yard.

Unwelcome and unwanted.

If they were writing a story about their lives it would be filled with scavenging, loneliness and a crazy lady who repeatedly opens her windows and shouts loud vernicular at them.

Away with you, dreaded beasts!

When I first wrote of their horrid existence, I shared with you my distaste for all things feline.

And then I wrote about how a new stray came to lay in the sun and lick body parts in a way that was less than modest and leave their evidence behind.

And our next adventure comes in the form of sopping rain, my other enemy to happiness this summer.

It’s shaping up to be a cold summer. The kind of summer where no one comes of age and all diary entries start and end with whining due to the inelegance of continual downpour.

And now we have cats.

Cats and rain. It’s raining cats and cats.

It’s all a vicious circle reminding me that a gardener must battle the elements if there is any hope to be organic.

They may have won the battle but I will win the war.

I need a new strategy.

I will keep you posted.

The Cat Came Back the Very Next Day

A second cat has join the massacre of my spinach.

I looked out my window and, behold, a new cat. It's the other local stray. It is sitting all plucky, like a hen laying eggs, on top of my spinach.

My brave spinach.

Worse, it has left offerings of the most gruesome kind.

Hair balls.

On the ground, the gobs of hair are lying next to my brave green soldiers, who try their best to rise to the sun above.

Blasted beasts.

Is there no end to the torture they inflict on my life?

How to rid them....how I ask, to no one in particular, and especially now since I’ve diasbled comments?

Blast!

Checking online for methods of trapping cats humanely and releasing them into the wild, wild bush far from my house. (I would never really do this. That you think I would shatters my soul. Really.)

There must be alternative methods of removal.

I need to talk to someone wise and all-knowing.

I need to talk to someone in town who knows how to get rid of unwanted animals.

Pest control, perhaps?

I’ll keep you posted.