So. Our county fair is this week. I LOVE the fair and look forward to it all year long. We decided to go tonight because the weather forecast for the remainder of the week looks awfully hot. Plus, some friends from work were going and my co-worker’s daughter was singing in the *talent showcase*. We got there late and I missed my friend’s daughter and then this terribly rude woman behind us actually put her hands on me and pulled me down into my seat because I was blocking her view of the stage as I said hello to my friend. I was so angry I nearly spit. At her. Rudeness abounds in NJ whenever you get a bunch of us together in 90 degree heat. Add women who have been paying through the nose for singing lessons for their precious one-of-a-kind daughters and a video camera and you’re just asking for a catfight.

Glutton for punishment that I am, I always visit the 4-H bunny tent. I walk around feeling bad for all the overweight bunnies panting in the heat on wire-floored cages without a scrap of hay in front of them. Today at least some had frozen water bottles to keep cool with. I really don’t understand the point of the whole thing – the 4-H people won’t talk to any of the people streaming by, there is no educational information made available for those who are interested in learning something about rabbits. Nothing but these bunnies laying there like rag dolls. Oh and plenty of signs for bunnies for sale (when the 4-H project is over, of course). Every year I fantasize about setting up an alternative bunny display, with my bunnies in an x-pen with toys and litterboxes, so that people can get to see something other than a bunny in a cage being boring. Can anyone explain the whole 4-H philosophy to me in a way that makes sense? What exactly are they teaching kids in the small animal programs that is socially responsible? I took this pic of a French Lop for Michelle – this big boy was the only one who looked comfortable – notice the *happy feet*.

I have some more pics and ranting to do, but wonder of wonders! Blogger won’t let me load anymore pics! Why am I not surprised? Maybe Blogger’s trying to tell me that I’m too cranky tonight and should just go to bed.

The fair got rained out tonight – my husband and I stood around in the tractor tent for about an hour waiting for the rain to let up. Hopefully I can get back before the fair ends. I didn’t even get to see the pig races or the lumberjack show!

One day last week I visited a horticultural park nearby to photograph flowers and butterflies. I’ve spent many hours volunteering in this park as part of my master gardener hours, but haven’t really experienced it the way a first-time visitor would. I know many of the nooks and crannies, and where all the nastiest weeds grow, but to wander around with my camera and a few spare hours was a treat. The gardens are pretty diverse and my interest is mostly in the wildest parts of the park where the hands of the horticultural staff or the master gardeners haven’t much reached yet. Blogger has fits if I try to load more than two or three photos per post, so I’ll share some of the nicer pics from the different gardens on an occasional basis.

I had to call and ask the staff about the shrub in the above photo. From far away it looked like a humungous butterfly bush, but I knew better. The shape of the flowers was similar to a butterfly bush also, but they were formed more like those of a lilac. I got my answer today – it’s a Chaste Tree (Vitex agnus-castus) – a non-native, but from what I’ve read seems to be popular in the south and in arid regions of the country. I’d be interested to hear more about it from anyone that is familiar with it. The flowers were covered with bees and small butterflies, I walked round and round a few times to get a look at all the insects that were feeding on it.

I’m awful with skippers, but my handy-dandy naturalist friend says this is probably a Peck’s Skipper.

He suggested these might be Delaware or European Skippers. I don’t have a clue!

I thought this might be a sootywing, but he says it’s a duskywing, either Wild Indigo or Horace’s.

Today would have been my dad’s 75th birthday – here he is on his 73rd. He fully planned to live to be at least 100 and told us so all the time. There were a lot of things, I guess, that he still wanted to do.

This is probably the only pic I have of my dad sitting in front of a birthday cake, and it’s a sad one for me to look at. He looks so frail and sick; I wish I couldn’t see his catheter for dialysis poking out of the collar of his shirt. We’re standing around him there in the darkness, watching him make his wish before blowing out the candles. I wonder what he wished for on his last birthday.

I’m still at the point where I can’t think of my dad without thinking of the burdens of sickness he faced during the last months of his life. I want to be done with this part of remembering. His life was not about being sick and dying – I want to be able to think of all the rest.

I hardly remember my dad ever being sick; until the hospital got a hold of him. We brought him in because his feet and lower legs were swollen and full of sores. The doctors kept talking about cancer and kidney failure and heart problems. All my dad wanted was for the doctors to fix his feet! He told them so and refused most of the tests they wanted.

He was doing pretty well when I first brought him home with me, even though the swelling in his feet and legs never much improved. Within a month he was sick and back in the hospital and on dialysis. Dialysis, at least, took away the swelling, but made him so weak. He refused any treatment for the cancer; always said he wanted to wait until he was stronger. Only, he never got stronger, just weaker and more frail. Then he got shingles, lost his appetite, stopped being himself.

My friend Debbie lost her father early this year. She used to see my dad on his dialysis days when she was at the hospital visiting her own dad. She often told me how good he looked and that she always saw him smiling and concerned with others. That was his way.

There are some happy memories from that time: the way my dog Buddy would greet my dad each morning, tail wagging, when I went in to wake him and my dad’s greeting to us, “There’s the sunshine”; driving from my brother’s to my house with my dad on Thursday nights and passing the horse farms and the one field planted with giant sunflowers; my dad calling the bus that brought him to dialysis the “scat-wagon” (SCAT stands for senior citizen activity transportation); the pretty flowered finger bowl my dad insisted on having his meds served in, otherwise he might not take them; packing a lunch bag on dialysis days with anything my dad might eat, even if it was on the *prohibited* list – sometimes I would add a little love note or a chocolate for him to find.

This is the type of remembering I ought to be doing – it makes me smile to think of these things. My friend Debbie, with the loss of her dad, is a few steps behind me. She is marking the milestones of the first year without her dad. It’s so very hard for her, I know. I am anxious to see her get to where she can remember her dad with a smile, rather than tears; but I am hardly there myself.

Just trying this on for size. What better way to spend a rainy Saturday afternoon than trying out a new look?

Let me know if you think it’s awful.