Acceptance

I've been to Florida and back. It might have been jet lag. Perhaps I was verklempt. I've been back a couple days.

I would have put the age of my grandparent's house at 88. A recent claim was made for 97. It's an old house. That claim does make the gardens 97 at a minimum. They could be older. I know my people. The gardens began the moment they owned the land. All the structures came after. The house was the last of three living quarters that got built.

I have known this garden my entire life. It has changed the entire time.

Round about one hundred years later, this house and garden is our family's version of Grey Gardens. I imagine it is a pretty common scenario these days. There isn't enough money or energy to keep things in tip top shape. We get by. Decomposition can only be slowed so much.

The dominant aspect of the garden is close to two acres of azaleas under massive oak, magnolia and pine. A plethora of vines, including the thorned, twine, crawl and clamber to the top of deep thickets of azalea. It is an ongoing assault of the last thirty years.

Some camellias have managed to remain. The gardener this land needs has moved on in a blur of familial vibrations.

My nieces and nephews are all adults in their mid-twenties. Their parents have aches and pains and issues of some sort or another, the early signs of decrepitude. This house is older than everyone who gathered in it on Christmas Day, save verification for one with the claim of 97 for the house.

The interstate south of Columbia, South Carolina to the Georgia border sucks. I have found a most enjoyable and time efficient scenic bypass. I saw lots of cotton and black people and log trucks hauling pine. A little church glittered at me on the way. I stopped for a closer look coming back.

Robertville, South Carolina.

The small rural towns I drove through were as old and decomposed as my destination. The railroad tracks they hugged used to bring life. There is not enough money anymore to keep things in tip top shape. A time passes away.

Solly, the solstice kitty was here when I returned. She was looking much perkier and feeling a lot less bony. A scab on her lower right jaw had come off and was hanging by some hair. That got cut off. It revealed a well healed cut on the jaw. Two lumps on her neck turned out to be ticks. Those were quickly removed.

She got some canned food, cats like gravy, and a good bit of loving. Three other cats who had been cooped up for days also needed to be out. If Solly is going to live here, the pecking order will have to be worked out. All I can do is let it happen. There has already been close contact and pretty good civility. Her status as a bony kitten helps no doubt.

Later that evening I heard a couple of quick shrieks. Solly was gone for the night. She was back the next morning. The next day she had her dinner and promptly left, headed into the forest. I didn't worry. If that cat has been living here for months, she has a safe nest out there some where.

She wasn't here this morning or when I got home this afternoon. I stood in the hollering next door spot and called. She showed up half an hour later. Everything seems to be on track. Next up is an end to baby making for Solly. I won't be having a feral cat colony.

Solly has had a bad hair life.

With Button in charge there are bound to be a few more bad hair days. He likes to jump on people's heads just so they know. I just told him wait until she gets bigger.

The purple glass knob from the front door of the long abandoned garage apartment is certainly close to one hundred years old. It was not easy to get it off. Metal from a hundred years ago is the real thing. It's not like the current cheap crap from China we are being consumed by.

Shiny objects and gardens are in my gene pool. A time passes. Memory clings to objects.