Fate, TX (July 26, 2024) – I am drinking coffee from my Finnish cup. Espresso really, with a thick mound of foamed half and half crowning the hot, strong brew. Just one cup. This is not an indication of any resolute self-discipline, it’s just that the double shot satisfies me for the day. This cup of morning routine is prepared only after Bob Kilgore eats his morning treats. First, he sits and extends his paw in a high-five, with the only, almost obedient look he will express all day. Then the treats are proffered. This morning my hand scooped five from the bin. One fishie-shaped and four small rectangles, they look like tiny, shredded wheat, but burnt. He crunches his way through, as I crack open the can of tuna pate that he favors and plop it into the Peter Rabbit bowl. Only then dare I turn to the cabinet for a small glass to use for a swig of juice. Nearly every day I think “I ought look for smaller juice glasses” as I rarely drink a full glass. These French workingman glasses are ones I purchased twenty-eight years ago. They are familiar to me, and I still like them. My brain seems to think I could use a change in the drinking container department, but thus far, I am not moved to enact on that change.
We’ve come to the patio, and I have unrolled the bamboo shade that blocks morning sun from blazing onto the covered area. The shade and the ceiling fan spinning in the rafters extend the amount of time I can sit here on this old wrought iron chair and watch Bob prowling his domain. He pads over the garden pathways, disappearing behind tall stands of Phlox and blooming Abelia. Into the far corners, peering out under the brick garden wall, down each side of the house, his kitty feet silent on crunchy granite and flagstones. Sometimes he will sit down close to one gate or the other, staring at it, or staring back at the yard. Bob meanders and pauses his way through the morning routine, much as I do. Soon he will be in one of three spots; on his back on the inner patio, paws in the air; curled up, in deep snooze on one of the cushioned chairs near the door, the chairs that we purchased in haste a few years ago. I regret the purchase as they do not sit well with my aesthetic, but Bob really likes a nap in one or the other, or out here on the open patio with me, on a gray, gingham cushion that pad the seats of the wooden Adirondack chairs. The Adirondacks once sat on our front lawn, in the shade of large trees, creating a cool oasis for a glass of tea or evening martini. The other patio chairs are these three wrought irons with one ottoman, once my parents’ patio chairs, now ours. They are nearly fifty years old, and we’ve had them long enough that the replacement cushions we had made years ago, are now sunk a bit in the center, the covers fading softly. I seem less than inclined to replace them either. I’m a little worn around the edges too, probably a little outdated. I’m hoping not to be replaced.
The birds come in pairs, sometimes a trio. Not in flocks as they did when the bird feeders were kept filled. The feeders came down when a rat began to enjoy the fast-food lanes here in The Mildscape, and decided to become a squatter in an area of the fence where the pickets are doubled. I could not abide with a rat and spent weeks creeping through the garden in dread, shrieking one evening when something jumped and leapt away – it was a bunny. Funny, I can spot a snake curled up round the Coreopsis, or lying in the cool under the Crape Myrtle, and carry on calmly. But one glimpse of a rodent, and a total of six visible pellets of poop, and walking out the back door turned from my comfort zone to a state of unease for a good month. The feeders came down and before long all signs diminished, and I have carried on. The Finches still occasionally arrive in numbers atop the wall exclaiming loudly and with fervor, I’m certain voicing their disappointment in me. They must search for their food in the garden these days, no more silver platter. Still, the others come too, the Cardinals, a Blue Jay, Chickadees. I keep the birdbaths filled for their refreshment and splashing.
As I backtracked to add to a paragraph above, a most pleasant treat played itself out in the garden. I heard the morning chip chip cheep of the male Cardinal. He swooped from his perch on the wall, pausing atop the hook that holds the hummingbird feeder, to the rail of the tall, obelisk that allows a Clematis to climb. Stating his intention firmly, he landed in the small rock basin grounded just in front of a clump of Society Garlic and tipped his beak to the water several times before splashing thoroughly in the small pool. I will need to add more water before I go in so there will be enough through this hot day for other creatures. We have a large bath also, though it is tall, and the toads cannot reach that one. At the same time of the extended splashy bathing, a hummingbird swooped in. In the quiet of this morning, I hear the birds before they are sighted, even the Hummingbirds with the tiniest little chitter, and if they are close enough, the whirring buzz of wings. The little guy stopped at that same clump of Society Garlic, before dashing over to a Skullcap to test its diminutive blooms, then spotting the deep fuchsia bracts of the Bougainvillea; hovering at the center of each. He is as enchanted as I at the delicate, brightly colored leaves that surround the tiniest flower.
The small moments satisfy me, though I experience them nearly every day. There is no replacing the peace of the quiet scene. In this summer heat that makes garden chores onerous, these points in time keep my heart glad that the garden endures.
Sally Kilgore is a resident of Fate. She is married to her long-time flame, Judge Chris Kilgore. When not writing, gardening, filling in at the flower shop or hanging out with the grandkids, Sally devotes her time to serving Bob Kilgore, a well-sized Tuxedo cat with panache. Contact Sally at SallyAKilgore@gmail.com or via her website: SallyAKilgore.com
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