Ten years ago the notion that I would voluntarily spend hours gardening would have amused me and everyone who knew me. But this year, given a largely unpainted canvas of dirt and a willing partner, the gardener within me decided to emerge. There have been many days since May when I dig and weed and plant for hours at a time. At day’s end I take off my gloves, put away my tools, and come inside tired but satisfied.

I am rewarded for my efforts every time I go outside. I walk along the paths and take in an amazing variety of plant life. I notice everything about them– new growth, signs of stress, scent and blooms. The stands of iris and spiderwort around the pond; the calla lilies and Lilies of the Nile, the freesias and hosta, lobelia, rock roses, lilacs, and countless other plants: each have their own particular sort of beauty. I am humbled by my lack of knowledge about the world of gardening, but I am learning a little more every day.

It is a joke between us that my trips to the nursery are worse than the stereotypical man’s trip to the hardware store. Often I come home with more than can be planted before the day’s end. Yet there are still spaces to be filled, and the work will extend into the years ahead. The atypical beauty of this Seattle summer has been a catalyst for my sudden passion. I am grateful that for once the temperatures have been above normal and that unlike most years, this summer began well ahead of the fourth of July holiday.

It is not suprising, then, that my devotion to gardening has taken considerable time and interest away from fiber arts. But my loom, my glorious Glimakra, does not go ignored and there is a shawl on the knitting needles that gets enough attention every couple of days to grow by a few rows.

In April we lost our Whiskers to advanced kidney disease, poor old thing. We do miss him, but he had lived a long and happy life. We buried him in the back yard beside the koi that preceded him by two years; we like to think he gets a good laugh out of that.

Not too long ago we went in search of a feline replacement, for a home is incomplete without a cat.

“Let’s get a female this time,” I said.
“Let’s get a kitten, or at least one that is six months old or younger,” we said.

Thus it was agreed that we would look for a female kitten. And some days later, we brought home our new addition: two male cats, just over a year old. We thought we went to choose a cat, but it turned out (as it so often does) that we were the chosen ones.

The two who adopted us had always been together. They had been living with a bachelor who acquired a girlfriend who claimed to be allergic to cats, so he dumped them unceremoniously into an already crowded cat rescue house. The bachelor had given them the names Goose and Maverick, but this was all wrong. We knew right away that these two were Loki and Thor. Loki has proven many times that he is indeed like that mischief-maker of Norse mythology. For example, sitting atop the kitchen counter, he stages an object at its very edge and patiently waits for Claire (the lab mix) to pass by. He then pushes it ever so gently off the counter so that it will land on her head. He also thinks he can help me weave, though keeping his balance on top of the beater bar defies even his cat powers.

Thor is much more serious. A silvery Siamese mix, he sits gazing over all of us with icy blue eyes, surveying his new kingdom with satisfaction. He prefers to be affectionate on his own terms. He is a literary cat and will most often sit on my lap when I am reading.