16 Little Flowers

The birds are building their nest in the customary place below my garage gutters, and I'm seeing tiny rabbits, and does sitting in my yard.  Spring must be here, so it's time to plant.  I started work on my pots and fairy gardens; here is what I have done so far.

I'm also trying to nurse a small monarch butterfly back to health, with to dark purple flowers, one from a butterfly bush, and a capful of canned fruit nectar.  Poor thing; I found it on the curb at a truck stop yesterday.  It was moving it's little feet, and was able to flip over; don't know if she can fly yet.

I couldn't bear to leave her.  I've saved a Polyphemus moth before, and other butterflies and insects, the occasional spider.  Once a baby bird and another time a baby mouse.  One year, we fostered two  nests of baby rabbits that made it.  You never know.

In honor of my mom who loved frogs.

This deep red marigold may stave off pests, too.

The Garden Witch begins her reign

Miniatures houses, dolls, and animals live in the fairy gardens

As for everything else, frustration and rain are killing me.  I don't know where it was written that I became all things to all people.  I can't even get a quiet morning to start the day; so called care givers are more care causers.  I'm sorry; but this is an industry profiting from others' misery if not done right.  I've cared now for my entire family, for years on end.  I traveled cross country, and dealt with one idiot after another.  It doesn't end.  I have cable and security companies that won't cancel accounts, medical frauds sending equipment no one ordered, people taking advantage of elderly people right and left.  I keep hitting my hand, and the farm and fleet worker who crushed my hand on her way into the bathroom is to be commended; it sill hurts.  I type for most of my living.  Do the math.

My mother, my dad, her youngest brother, my baby sister, should all be here to do this; not me.  I'm worn out, as Pym would say, cumbered with much serving.

I have news, folks.  My life is dwindling away.  Who will do the grunt work without me.  Who will pay the family members who want an income and reimbursement for each kindness, each tiny thing they do that I have done for years, as if we were strangers?    My parents didn't ask for anything when they took care of them, and when they had to pick out everyone else's coffins.  I haven't asked for it, and it takes a terrible toll on me. go figure.

I will try to stop griping, but I'm not well, either, and this museum needs a building, and I have books to write, and my own family.

With spring and with flowers and tiny animals come hope.  Maybe there is some for me.