Home, Sweet Home

These photos were taken a few years ago with my 35 mm camera. I happened to find them in my fruitless search for another image for a recent blog I wrote a few days ago, and there are so many more that I drool over in retrospect. I think I’m up to about 18 thousand images and if I had nothing but time, I’d purge the ones that aren’t the best and probably get rid of a few thousand.  I’m constantly taking pictures of our life here.

The raw beauty of the land and our animal companions weaving their way throughout our many gardens are such compelling subjects for me.

I really can’t help myself.  This practice gives such meaning to these days spent here.

Life was different then. So I’ve decided to write about this in memorium.

On the first photo on the main page of this blog, my nameless roses that I planted so many years ago in a half wine barrel, were moved here when we moved here. They had a lot of sunlight and support against the front wall of the cottage and have thrived ever since. En masse they are quite irresistible, like this photograph shows. With that door open there’s such a sweet welcome beckoning us to come inside.

Then when we’re rested from our long journey back to the past, we see some clever hens having their rest and relaxation on my very old chaise cushion that was made up using thick canvas by an upholsterer in Van Nuys. That happened in the mid to late 80s. I sure got my money’s worth.

I didn’t raise chickens when we first arrived on these shores in 1994.

I was too consumed with getting my bearings and trying to understand what these people were saying every time they spoke. That was hard slog for that first year or more. Although I can now understand John perfectly most of the time, I did have some issues with his speech patterns too, although he lived in the States for a couple of decades before we met, so he hardly talked like most New Zealanders. But still there were many embarrassing moments when I was completely lost in my ignorance as I feigned some sort of understanding of what was being discussed. I might have gotten a word or two but that was about it. John and I even had our first fledgling fights over miscommunications. Nowadays we know quite well how to push those buttons. Funny how things change so dramatically from innocence to snarky commentary meant to disarm. But love evolves over the decades and finds many ways to communicate, both good and bad.  That just seems like a natural progression. Nothing is ever 100% right or wrong.  Those perpetual shades of gray keep showing up. 

The last photograph of the bunch here makes me laugh. This was taken close to dusk before the girls and their suitors retire for the evening. They know the exact moment when it is the right time to walk to their appropriate roosts in the pine trees behind the chook house. But what’s so funny to me in this particular scene is that all the white hens are together as are the brown hens in their separate line. Considering the pecking orders of these feathered friends, I’d say that the brown hens have a somewhat superior standing in the community of chickens at the House of Cluck-Cluck, which is why they are in the elevated position on the bench. Or perhaps they just got there earlier. Another thought is that the white hens are a little meeker than the brownies, although none fare very well with some of the rooster bullies. Usually though I often see one white hen with black markings and her suitor, a similarly colored rooster, and they are a couple. They go everywhere together, like us really, especially lately, and are always looking out for the other. 

Such was life here then and it’s pretty much like that now. But the world has had so many twists and turns that have been so difficult to endure in the interim between then and now. But I feel something’s about to change, as a whiff of positivity comes closer every day. I hope I’m right. Although I don’t exactly want to go back to yesterday, I sure don’t want to stay in this saga without some big changes. Perhaps this is a metamorphosis for all of humanity.