October is the month to give careful thought and consideration about your cats safety. There are a lot of nuts out their cat lovers. Your cats don’t have to be black to have someone want to harm them, and it’s not just Halloween night that you should have concern about. There is volumes of information out their folks on this subject, so lets all educate ourselves and be loving cat protectors in this month of October.
Did any of you do this ? Every fall my mom would have my brothers and I get a paper bag and go for a walk in the woods and collect colored leaves. When we got them home we would pick out the very best leaves, perfect shape and colors counted. We would then place them on a sheet of wax paper placing another sheet on the top and then go over it with a sightly warm iron. Mom would tape them to the glass on our windows. It reminded me of stained glass windows when the sun shown directly on the glass, awesome. The nice thing was that they lasted for a long time right through the winter if you like. It’s such a little thing but I loved the time we spent doing this and I did the same with my children on down to my grandchildren and we all loved it and every fall looked forward doing it.
I was thinking about it yesterday and wondered, do they even make wax paper anymore ? So I would try to find some pictures of pressing leaves by doing a google search and wow! I was quite surprised and delighted to see how many people still do this. Interesting thing is folks have found new ways to preserve their beautiful leaves and display them in very interesting ways and yes, they still do make wax paper! We kids called it pressing leaves, today some call them Suncatchers. It’s the little things that kids remember.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,–
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
John Keats, 1795 – 1821
Taste and Aroma: Notes of cinnamon, and pumpkin abound.
Cup is like the “nip” in the air during Northern autumns.Fun Fact: Ninety percent of the pumpkins grown in the United States are raised within a 90-mile radius of Peoria, Illinois. Most pumpkins are processed into canned pumpkin and canned pie mix. Libbyâs brand pumpkin processing plant cans more than 85 percent of the worldâs pumpkin each year
.Image:Saved from sugarpiefarmhouse.com
Dark hills against a hollow crocus sky
Scarfed with its crimson pennons, and below
The dome of sunset long, hushed valleys lie
Cradling the twilight, where the lone winds blow
And wake among the harps of leafless trees
Fantastic runes and mournful melodies.
The chilly purple air is threaded through
With silver from the rising moon afar,
And from a gulf of clear, unfathomed blue
In the southwest glimmers a great gold star
Above the darkening druid glens of fir
Where beckoning boughs and elfin voices stir.
And so I wander through the shadows still,
And look and listen with a rapt delight,
Pausing again and yet again at will
To drink the elusive beauty of the night,
Until my soul is filled, as some deep cup,
That with divine enchantment is brimmed up.
by Lucy Maud Montgomery