This Sunday morning, the view from my bedroom window was so cheering I had to sit a while and enjoy it. I’ve had those two geraniums in hanging baskets for years – as long as I’ve been in the house, which is over thirty years. The baskets are new, and the proliferation of flowers must be their cheerful response to being in fresh potting mix. The fox gloves beyond come up wherever they like each year, as do the aquilegias and geums, and are full of bees.

Usually on Sunday morning, a friend and I walk on the beach. Today was a little wet for that, so we opted to walk the new city promenade which opened today.

I took no photos. There was so much to look at, I didn’t know where to stop for a photo. I just had to keep looking at everything: the  sculptures, buildings, gardens, people…it was overwhelming and joyful, tinged with a little sadness and nostalgia. Every time I’m in the central city there is more to take in, more to hope for, more to farewell.

We walked from the Margaret Mahy Playground to the Pegasus Arms, pausing to fill in answers on the quiz cards handed out by volunteers to celebrate the opening of the promenade. We admired eight part-grown Paradise ducklings, the Tree Houses for Swamp Dwellers, and the Pou Whenua in Victoria Square. I contemplated ways of removing the duck-poo which was all about, looked for Ada Wells among the women on the Kate Sheppard memorial, and touched the greenstone by Oi Manawa, Canterbury Earthquake Memorial. 

My friend left me at Turanga, the new central library, and I explored all four levels. I found it very moving; a wonderful building built for people  – and it was full of people of all ages, notably parents or grandparents, and probably aunts, with children. I took one very inadequate photo, and that was of part of the children’s section.

Children can sit on cushions on the roots of the tree sculpture. This section, on the first level, looks wonderful from outside too, through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The circular lamps are magical features and there were many cheerful children beneath them.

There are a great many books of all kinds, and play areas, reading areas, interactive areas, relaxing spaces, working spaces, discovery spaces – with people looking at home in all of them. This is a place with heart.

The view of the city from the upper levels is breath-taking, even when it is of the wrecked cathedral, and fenced-off spaces yet to be developed. I was drawn to the view of the cathedral, framed by a huge crane, with the hill suburbs in the distance and moody, misty skies above the hills. Below, opposite the other side of the library, there was a young girl dancing joyfully on the Gap Filler Dance-o-Mat and children playing on the giant green chairs beyond that.

And so, fully cheerful, I headed home for lunch. By the playground, I photographed the real roots of a poplar tree. There’s something magical about them too.

It’s a week since Cosmo died. It doesn’t seem that long. 

The things I have, at times, looked forward to without him seem a little hollow, as if part of the heart of our home has gone.

I can walk into the living room without looking for puddles  – or worse – on the wood floor. I have put away the bucket and mop. We can keep the warmth in the house now we don’t have to leave the back door open. I can get to my computer without taking a large, sometimes perilous, step across Cosmo’s bed.

I have stored his bed in the rafters of the garage. The towel we kept by the back door to dry him off if he had come in from the rain is on the line (in the rain). 

His blankets have been washed and stacked in a corner.

His bowls have been washed, but sit empty (for when Jock comes to stay again).

His treats are still in a basket on top of the fridge.

His collar and lead are by the front door.

The bag holder is also ready by the door, convenient for setting out on a walk.

And this is on the back door:

Cosmo had soft little dark ears and nose like that, a ginger tinge to his rough coat, a white patch on his chest, and deep brown eyes, but never an expression which was quite so malicious – although a hedgehog or rabbit might disagree. 

We miss him.

Sadly, Cosmo died yesterday. The vet came to the house, and the end was peaceful and in familiar surroundings.

Cosmo was on his bed sleeping mid-afternoon, and it seemed right that that was where his day ended.

It was a sleepy sort of day for everyone, overcast and cooler.

It seemed fitting that Cosmo had an active day on Friday, enjoying the grass on a sunny day (see previous post). 

Pete drove many miles yesterday to share the grieving and the happy memories. He was Cosmo’s first owner.  Cosmo came from a Masterton breeder, and was 12 weeks old when Pete collected him in November 2003, and we celebrated his 15th birthday on 1 August this year.

Cosmo was a feisty little border terrier, curious and eager to be part of everything, a companion for Pete and for Kate and Will. Pete’s sister, Jean, once commented that Cosmo had the ambition to be a hood ornament as he pressed his nose to the windscreen, eager to be on the move and going somewhere interesting. And he did go to lots of interesting places – sometimes unaccompanied, until Pete worked out that Cosmo was climbing the ladder to the tree house and launching himself over the fence to freedom.

With me, he had daily walks, mostly with Nola as he got older, and a weekly visit to the beach, followed by a bath in the wheelbarrow. And there were camping trips and rabbit hunts with Pete. 

He recovered well from a pit-bull attack, tooth extractions and a bout of Cushings, to have a more settled old age.

This morning, the first dog I saw at the beach was a border terrier who seemed quite unconcerned to be made a fuss of and wept over. Dogs are much more matter of fact than we are.

It was great to see that there are many more dogs having their day on the beach, on the street with owners on leads, and in cars with their ears in the breeze.

Now, particularly that cheerful, distracting little Jock has returned to his home, it is Cosmo’s absence we are noticing about the house, whereas it was his presence we were always conscious of before. 

Here is his grave, beneath the apple tree and grape vine, close to the house so he is part of the embrace of home and of us, with his old companions, Mack (border collie, died 2012, under the raspberries) and Skipper (cat, died 2016, by the rosemary, near previous cat, Holly), not far away.

Rest in peace, wee chap.

Relaxing with my mates of an evening.

And, on a fine day like today, feeling the grass beneath my paws.

Rotating, meditatively.

Emerging from under the garden seat.

Stuck in the garage. Where’s reverse?

Indignities heaped on indignities.

First a visit to the vet for vaccinations and toenail clipping, then wee Jock comes to stay. Here he is making sure his owner has left.

Then he ingratiates himself with my humans.

And gets taken to the beach, while I turn in ever-decreasing circles at home.

He sneaks onto my bed.

And invades my personal space.

Whoever said life’s one long drink of water had the right idea.

I’m getting to the bottom of that glass, it seems. Legs not working so well. Mind going. Wetting the bed. Getting lots of treats, though. Somebody loves me.

There are some amazingly creative librarians in our library. They make displays for every occasion. At the beginning of Spring, they used old CDs and paper to make a little picket fence and daffodil design on the automatic glass doors.

At the moment there is a display for Diwali and one for the race season. I’m not keen on horse races and listened uneasily to the Melbourne Cup today. The race coincided with the news at five o’clock, as I was driving home, and Radio NZ interrupted the news to broadcast it on both National and Concert programmes, so there was no escape. I later heard that a horse was injured and did not survive its injuries.

But the library display is rather wonderful, and all made with found materials – whatever was at hand. The dress is made of newspaper.

Note the related books beside the mannequin. Here’s a close-up of the paper jewellery. Note the blue flower on the hem.

The shoes are made of foil and paper.

There is a display case as well:

One of the creative librarians showed me the book about Creative Paper Art which gave them the inspiration.

Another triumph for books.

Five of my students presented me with a clever card featuring the banner they had made at the start of the year. The banner has been hanging in the corridor outside our classroom all year and cheers me up with its bright colours and cheerful message. It was made for our whanau group for Gala Sports day in February. All the banners this year were supposed to show the values of the school and how we celebrate diversity. We didn’t win the prize, but it’s my favourite.

So, I was thrilled to be presented with the card last week before the Year 11s left for exams. This is the front of it:

Inside, it’s a pop-up card:

Heart-warming, despite (or especially because of) the grammar and spelling. Just think, if they’d produced it on a computer it would have been automatically corrected and have no personality at all. Plus, we need a little irony in our lives to give us perspective. Really, I’m thinking, “What have I taught them?” But mostly, I look at their faces and think, “Awww!”

Whichever way you look at it, today got off to a slow start.

Mysteriously, it didn’t get light until nearly midday.

My mother read us books by the fire after our baths and before bed.  We had no television.  I remember “Masterman Ready” by Captain Marryat and “Anne of Green Gables” by L. M. Montgomery.

We went to the Invercargill Library regularly, where the children’s librarian, Miss Miller, helped us to choose.  I became an avid reader and because I had read all my books before it was time to return them, I was allowed to go to the library by myself on the bus at the age of eight.

I still have some books from my childhood. Each year, I saved up 12/6 to buy the School Friend Annual.

I still enjoy children’s books, including pop-ups. The pile, top left, is mainly Tintin  – the full set.

Limited shelf space means things get a little mixed up, but here is my crime fiction collection (in the living room with a rope).  There are also some DVDs of film or television versions of books.  Gardening books are on the bottom shelf.

There’s a shelf of books about books, next to my book journals and book bags, book cards, book pencils, book marks…

There are classics – and poetry:

And just old books.  The one on the far left is a Bobbsey Twins, The Greek Hat Mystery.  Intriguing.  I have read only one of these (the poetry) but have read Little Women and The Girl of the Limberlost by Alcott and Porter respectively.  I just like the age and look.

The Girl Crusoes was a childhood book of my mother’s.  I loved it as a child, but cringe reading it now.  It’s more or less a girls’ version of The Coral Island by R.M. Ballantyne, which William Golding satirised in Lord of the Flies.  Enid Blyton, however, was not approved of at home, so a teacher used to lend me the books, beginning with The Secret Seven.  I try to pass on the reading bug to my students too.  Colourful bunting across the room says: READ LOTS.  Many of my books, suitable for young adults, are on flat-pack shelves in my classroom and can be borrowed freely.  Often they don’t get returned, I don’t keep a record, and I hope they are out there somewhere circulating.  Sometimes I give them to a student who clearly loves a particular book.  And anyway, there’s not room for them all at home!  I have even resorted to reading books on the Kindle app, particularly when travelling, or when it isn’t a book I would particularly like to keep.

General fiction and non fiction, are overflowing in this bookcase:

Mixtures, including Little Grey Rabbit’s house (Alison Uttley) on the top shelf:

Bed-side books, most of them waiting to be read:

P. G. Wodehouse is “balm for the troubled soul” according to Stephen Fry.  I agree.  To keep us calm, Mum and I watched the full box set of Jeeves and Wooster after the February earthquake.  Here’s a favourite piece from The Inimitable Jeeves. Bertie is saying how he doesn’t get dragged into family rows, “the occasions when Aunt is calling Aunt like mastodons bellowing across primeval swamps”.

I made this bookcase at night-class in the 80s.  It’s ugly but it holds books!

All of Shonagh Koea’s books, which I wrote a thesis on in the late 90s, are on the bottom shelf.   My father made the bookcase when he was at school.  I painted it blue in the 80s.

More New Zealand books:

There are cook-books, of course.  More often looked at than used.

In addition to books, I have a compulsion to collect book-related things.  Here are Hunca Munca from The Tale of Two Bad Mice and Rupert.  I always found the Rupert books a bit strange, but it’s the only book I remember of the huge pile of books that a boy from down the road staggered into the house with (despite mum protesting that we were all infectious) and deposited on my bed to cheer me up when I had chicken pox or mumps or measles as a child.

That looks like a home-made bookcase too; probably made by one of my brothers.

Bookends which spell BOOK (if you look closely) bought at Trade Aid.  Note Mr Pecksniff, a Dickens character from Martin Chuzzlewit, top left.

A lamp which looks like a book when it is open:

And when it is closed:

My key ring features a dog reading a book:

This painting by Dunedin artist, Pauline Bellamy, interprets the annual book sale:

And, even though I’m not a fan of garden statuary on the whole, I couldn’t resist this one of a child reading.  The staff at the garden centre, where I found him, had already called him Hamish.  I added a little plaster bookworm.

So, a slight obsession…don’t you think?

My eye was caught by this accidental arrangement of objects yesterday.  A still life, I thought.

The iris was accidentally broken as it was hanging over the path, and had been rescued.  It was a bud when broken, and yesterday it opened in the vase, as did the other irises in the garden, perfectly synchronised.

This happy arrangement sent me around the house looking for other potential “art work”.  I made a rule that nothing was to be moved, just photographed as found.  The framing is the only editing.

The shopping list:

The printer:

This is were it all becomes more shelf life than still life.

Mum’s tea cups on the piano:

The kitchen mantelpiece:

Games and a witch with pumpkin on top of a bookcase:

The top shelves of the dresser:

Pangur Ban on the picture rail, next to “Senior Moment”:

A book shelf (note Dad with a considerable cauliflower):

Cats are great commentators on events.  Here’s a case in point on the picture rail:

Picture rails are useful places.

Such clutter, and all is vanity, as we know.