Skywatch Friday in the Park with Alan

 

Morning mist with crows and grackles at the ball fields

I've been meaning to post about our progress with civilizing Alan, our sixteen month-old pointer mix (with border collie, maybe?) but have been too wrapped up with that process and other life issues. We adopted him way too soon after suddenly losing our lovely Nylah, and just as he was entering adolescence. I'll probably recount that experience, but for now let's just say that he's growing up and calming down. Mainly I wanted to get in a Skywatch Friday post, which I've been neglecting for too long, and this morning's skies at the local parks where we take Alan on his "taste of freedom" excursions (part of his training program) were just splendid. 

We get out early to miss the disc golfers who take their off-leash dogs out on the course with them, and that meant that this morning, still in the midst of our post-drought rain benefits, we got mist!

Same view, moments later.

Further along this particular path, we came to a pass under one of the major cross-town streets, where at some point someone had gussied up the concrete pylons nicely. Along an adjacent path we visited a pond where a fella had been fishing the other day, and it was nicely misted up as well.

El Dorado underpass

One of the creek-fed ponds along the way

After that, we headed home, with Alan all calm and happy. 

The true benefit of getting out several times a week with the pup is that we've discovered some real treasures: places to walk and explore, several nature trails, and parts of town we hadn't even known were there! And we've lived here for over a quarter century!! So at some point I'll try to show off some of what is beginning to reconcile us to the necessity of staying in Texas, on our own little patch, with an "accidental" dog whose presence has opened up a new way to tolerate a place we have been trying for most of our lives to escape. 

Alan
Named after Joyce's adopted mutt who made his debut
in Richard Osman's The Bullet That Missed.

Note: in my haste to get this post finished so I can get at dinner construction, I seem to have mucked up the settings. For now if everything ends up in the right order, I'll be happy. But if I have time, I'll try to figure out how to get it right.

Perhaps Resistance Isn't Really Futile

A North Texas winter sky

Since my last post, I've been experiencing what many like-minded folk have, when practical solutions to current political chaos seem, well, futile. I've often joked that with all of the artificial gadgets that now occupy my body (chief among them an artificial aortic valve--but also stents in old bypass grafts and interocular lenses in both eyes) I'm well on my way to Borghood. The Collective's warning upon meeting any new species is that resistance to assimilation is futile. Try as one might, becoming a fellow cyborg is inescapable. 

Now that this country is in the process of being overwhelmed by the Collective-like apparatus of the fomenters of Project 2025 (including our current president and his minion-in-chief--or is it the other way around?), finding ways to escape the doomsday scenarios that emerge daily seems unlikely, if not (yet) a completely futile effort.

And so, rather than give in to the probably-inevitable cultural and political emergence of true dystopia, and given that most of us (especially fixed-income retirees with ties to hearth, home, and animals) aren't well fitted to actual Revolution, I thought I'd share some of the strategies I've been pursuing to combat utter depression and ease unavoidable anxiety. If you are in a position to actively Do Something (or, as Revrunner advised in a comment after reading my last post, to follow Nancy Pelosi's advice to stop agonizing and start organizing), please do. Please do. Alas, my days of protesting, marching, and sitting in are long behind me, so I have to content myself with sending a few bucks to worthy causes. And--as a few of my loyal readers have advised--keep blogging.

It's probably a very good idea to keep reading, as well, since there are so many wonderful writers and websites and newsletters out there that I keep running across during my weekly exercises in rabbitholery. In terms of actual strategy, here's an idea that's working wonders with my attitude and with keeping my brain from shriveling up and crawling somewhere dark and dank: Re-read the people whose work got you where you are today, intellectually, politically, religiously, or whereverly. For example, I'm currently in the midst of rereading Ursula K. Le Guin's Earthsea works.  Shortly after her death in 2018, I was given the collection of her stories (in the volume at the link). It's a heavy tome, and so I've taken to reading it downstairs in my living-room comfy chair, then continuing with individual volumes upstairs when I go to bed. The troubled universe she describes in the books is disturbingly like ours in its current configuration, minus the mages and magic. But her astonishingly wise take on human frailty--race, gender, economics, art, craft, and the nature of wisdom itself--is both frighteningly prescient and reassuring at the same time. Even though I generally prefer science fiction over fantasy, I have long enjoyed these books and stories. But the science fiction segment of her work explores many of the same themes, which novels such as The Left Hand of Darkness, The Dispossessed, and The Telling consider in equal depth. [Even though I haven't joined their affiliate program, I would urge anyone who wants to buy these books to order from Bookshop.org, or directly from the publishers, rather than to enrich Mr. Bezos more than we have to. Another option: buy them used from a local bookshop.]

I also plan to revisit Octavia Butler's Parable of the Sower, which begins in what was then the "near future" of 2024 (the book was first published in 1993) and in the very LA neighborhoods (Altadena and Pasadena) that have been devastated by the recent fires. Although Butler died in 2006, her legacy has survived in part because of her own prophetic vision--and the diligence with which her readers preserve her work and its messages. 

In addition to reading, I urge folks to write--to blog, to start a Substack, to send letters to the editors of local newspapers, and to avoid the attention-culture as much as possible. Although I do have an Instagram account, I only use it to follow a few writers and a local prairie gardener. I use Pinterest only as a curatorial tool for myself; I don't engage with anyone on it. I visit Quora less and less, and usually just to answer questions about cookery and being old. I've avoided twitterhood entirely, and see no reason to subscribe even to Bluesky--although if you find such a platform necessary, it's probably the best available choice at the moment. I try to subscribe to media populated only by folks who think and write about what they're thinking, but when I do, I resist requests to follow platform "recommendations." I will shortly be going through my own blog roll to make sure any links are active, relevant, and worthwhile. If you're interested in the cultural can of worms the Attention Economy has dumped on us, try reading Jenny Odell's How to Do Nothing [a web search will turn up videos, workshops, and discussions on the book] or Chris Hayes's The Sirens' Call: How Attention Became the World's Most Endangered Resource. [Again, there's a great deal online about this book, including interviews and Hayse's own podcast.] 

The benefits one can derive from keeping a journal in dark times seem, at the moment, immeasurable. In part because of what I often describe as "sleep-related marble-leaking" I tend to forget things quickly. It does, therefore, help considerably to spend an hour or so several times a week trying to record things that might be needed at some point in the future. My father's deathbed advice to my children was to "write at the end of your stint," which I've taken in earnest during the last decade or so. But don't wait! Do it now! My son will be fifty next year, and although I can plainly remember the jollity with which he posted a sign on my office door (during his brief studenthood at the Art Institute) announcing my own fiftieth birthday, that's just another indication of how quickly it all goes by. And keeping journals (I now have several, on reading/thinking, cookery, gardening, and design ideas) helps organize the brain, provides a creative outlet, and gives you something to do with all the free time you have if you give up futzing around on Tik Tok or Instagram or Facebook. If you need to keep in touch with people, write them letters in email and keep a record of the correspondence. I still have the letters my father and I wrote to each other via email from about 1997 to 2004. I copied them, printed them out, and cherish them to this day. They're like journals, only with more dimensions.

Finally, try a bit of Tikkun Olam--the Jewish practice of finding ways to heal the world. The link is to a page on the Orthodox understanding of the term, and it provides some useful ways to think about taking care of an increasingly endangered planet.  Every little thing we do, especially if multiplied by others, helps to stem the tide of of demise. Keeping even a little garden, providing even a tiny bit of habitat for wild critters, home-keeping, spending time in the out-of-doors, helping neighbors, buying less stuff, driving less, using less energy,  paying attention to the planet--even simply sky-watching. 

We really do need to enjoy what we have while we have it--and to do what we can to keep from losing it. 

A Bleak Midwinter Journal

12 January 2024

The Beloved Spouse and I are well into our hunkering down preparations, because we're about to be slammed by some real winter weather. I'm hoping it will include a dusting of snow, instead of the deadly icicles we usually end up with. Our first single-digit temperature should happen on Tuesday, with a low of 9F and a high of only 24. The Fort Worth Star-Telegram weather people are in a tizzy about "three days of record freezing temps" and wondering how this could possible happen to Texas.

Our heating bill is already higher than it's ever been (even during Snowmageddon--but that's because we didn't have the electricity needed to start our gas furnace), and will only get higher. One of the pre-winter prep jobs TBS accomplished was to set up a switch that will allow our backup Bluetti power station to turn the furnace on if ERCOT (the state-wide power distributor of ill repute) shuts the grid down. We can also keep critical appliances going via another Bluetti, and will be stoking our lovely enameled cast iron log burner with the surfeit of seasoned pecan and elm firewood we've accumulated over the last couple of years. We can spend most of our days snuggled up with Molly and Nylah in the living room and conserve quite a bit of electricity in the process--although the furnace will still be cranking away helping to keep the pipes from freezing. 

100 year-old houses can be lovely, but are difficult to insulate. Rugs on the hardwood floors help, as do the insulated curtains we installed last summer to keep the air con bill under control. And because our study and bedroom both have expanses of south-facing windows, we get lots of helpful sunlight when it's not cloudy. In fact, one of the things that may make a big difference with the Texas grid this winter is that the wind does keep blowing out west (ferociously at the moment) and there's usually plenty of sun to follow whatever precipitation descends to wreak havoc on this hapless state. To their credit, the renewable energy purveyors in Texas have been amassing battery storage facilities so the power can stay on even when the wind's calm and the sun don't shine--and the fossil fuel sources fail for lack of foresight and need of more robust infrastructure.

Plans are underway for us to spend some of next spring and summer insulating the north walls of the house that lie behind built in cabinets and drawers, and trying to figure out how to keep some of the heat and cold from our small uninsulated attic from creeping into our bedroom and living room. 

One project, a decorative insulating quilt designed to cover the massive wooden grille that masks our two immense attic fans, is in progress. Now that I seem to be recovering from last year's medical "challenges," I've got the basic planning done, and over many years I've collected a delightful assortment of fabrics. So I'll be able to spend the upcoming chilly days putting it together--perhaps finishing it soon enough that it can be put in place before the next wintry spell. I look forward to being able to show it off here on The Farm, since I haven't done any quilting since my kids were tiny folk (and easy to quilt for), and I miss the satisfaction of actually getting something done. All those years of gathering textiles and hoarding them in the Museum of Unfinished Projects* may finally be bearing fruit. 

16 January 2024

The weather is, quite literally, all over the map. We got some snow yesterday, but it lasted just long enough to dust the sidewalk and thrill our Great Pyrenees mix, Nylah, who seems to long for French mountain weather. (Those are her prints on the sidewalk photo below.) This morning's wake-up temp was 9, on its way to (maybe) 26. Tomorrow's low should be 13 with a high of 41, and Thursday the low is forecast at just freezing, with a high of 53 (before it goes back down to 22/37).

Three winter moments, light snow remaining

So far, the prep has been worthwhile, and as long as the sun shines, things don't get too depressing. We can take the animals out for wee runs and then they're happy to run back in. TBS has lit morning fires in the wood-burner for the past three days, and it's lovely to sit in the living room, wrapped in blankies to read the papers and keep warmish. The overall average for the house (with a thermostat set at 65) is 55. So, we're clad in sweats and jumpers and serape-like garments. The furnace is working, and we haven't needed to jumpstart it because the electricity has stayed on. The power brokers have asked us to conserve ("turn your thermostat down two degrees"--which makes me giggle; even if we did that, the furnace would be running constantly), so we tend to occupy one or two rooms at a time and turn off lights where we aren't.

I've kept myself amused by a thread on NextDoor where there's nattering back and forth about how horrible electric vehicles are, especially in the winter, and how stupid renewable energy is when we're just fine with natural gas and gas-powered vehicles. I've actually participated a bit, but mostly by posting links to good articles that counter the "arguments" (low on logic, high on vitriol). One or two folks give me little hearts to signify agreement, but I know where I live, and around whom, so I don't expect to develop a fan club. We do own an ICE (a Jeep Gladiator), and won't be getting an EV until Jeep makes one with enough range for us to pull Porco out to California and back. But I have been going on about how much better off we are this year with the Bluettis than we were in 2021 (although we did have our first one then, and were able to use our travel solar panels to keep the fridge and freezer running, ironic as that may sound). If the juice goes out this winter, we can fire the furnace up with the new switch. 

What work I can get done (like writing this post) is pleasant enough because there are two heating vents here in the study, and I can open a south-facing Roman shade/curtain combo to let the sun in--and it gives Molly a place to perch for spying on the neighbors and basking. I am thus reminded of T. S. Eliot's Old Gumbie Cat:

I have a Gumbie Cat in mind, her name is Jennyanydots;

Her coat is of the tabby kind, with tiger stripes and leopard spots . . . .  

Her equal would be hard to find, she likes the warm and sunny spots. 

Molly in the wan sun, yesterday

The Gumbie cat just demanded that I uncover the west window behind my Mac so that she can peer at birds and squirrels, and I've obliged her because it does let in some sun at this time of day (two-ish).

Our family is a bit preoccupied with cat-naming these days, because my son and his wife have just adopted two Gumbie cats of their own, and are thinking hard about naming them. As is always the case, his sister and I are in on the fun, but I'm wondering how one goes about naming two sibling kittens. How can they (or their cat-parents) figure out whose name belongs to whom? Ruminating on hard questions like these does help take one's mind off the weather, however. 

The quasi-absurdity of Texas's preoccupation with transient cold weather is not entirely lost on me. When I first started thinking about leaving Texas (and the too many trees around us) some ten years ago, I ached for Big Sky, and started house-hunting on Zillow for places near Anaconda, Montana. The high there today is 23, after a low overnight of -6. And a winter storm watch in effect for tomorrow with 6 to 10 inches of snow and wind gusts of 40 mph. As Margot Zemach reminds us in her lovely rendering of an old Yiddish folk tale, It Could Always Be Worse. 

18 January 2024

After a night that barely licked the freezing point (31 when we arose from our cocoon), it's now sunny and 55. And even though we should be getting another three days of sub-freezing temps, after that the weatherfolk are predicting a bit of rain and much balmier weather. TBS has just returned from whacking tennis balls around a local parks and rec court (one tennis court, eight for pickleball), taking advantage of the amenable conditions. 

Donc**, we've managed to make it through our Chicago-like weather, snickering at all the angst generated by the freeze. Our two years in Chicago (1991 and 1992) taught us a great deal about dealing with real cold, when we lived in a little rat-hole flat near Wrigley field (and still had to get to work and classes; no "snow days." The NextDoor app has seen a bit of chuckling from other folks who moved to Texas from the north and northeast, and who are getting a good laugh out of the pathos. Unfortunately, our own fortitude has diminished somewhat, since we've been back in Texas for the last thirty-odd years, and it took February 2021 to remind us of what a large part of the rest of the country has to put up with on a much more regular basis. With climate change making itself more and more of a tangible phenomenon, though, these early '20s winters may be but a harbinger.

At the moment, though, a pretty Skywatch Friday view is available upon looking upward, so I actually do have something to share this week. 

Wispy cirrus clouds, bald trees, and a balmy January day

Thus ends the winter-weather note-taking, at least until we get smacked with something worse. Time to get back to listening to TBS remark about how astonishingly bright the light is in Melbourne for the Australian Open. It's good to be reminded that it's summer somewhere.

Keep warm, Folks. And stay safe. 
 

Notes and Credits:

*The main takeaway achieved from watching interminable French murder mysteries; essentially, French for "So . . . ."
**The link is to a post on my long-neglected blog, Owl's Cabinet of Wonders--another item on my list of things to attend to during inclement weather (both the blog, and the since re-cluttered museum).

"The Old Gumbie Cat," from T. S. Eliot's Old Book of Practical Cats (with drawings by Edward Gorey). Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 1967 (Eliot) 1982 (Gorey). I've just discovered (rather than remembered) that I posted an obituary for my previous Gumbie cat, Biscuit, on January 17, 2009. I hope Amy sees this; I miss her Gumbie cat, Tigger, too.

Weather map: "Tracking Freezing Temperatures in the U.S." The New York Times, Updated January 16, 2024 at 7:11 a.m. E.T.

Looking Up

Pelicans migrating over Cooper Lake, Texas, October 2022

As autumn progresses into winter, I spend a lot of time looking skyward. This particular photo was taken just as we arrived for last month's sojourn at Cooper lake, and we weren't really sure what we were seeing. The magnified version (taken on a newish iPhone 13 mini) shows them a little more clearly:

They were caught on the fly (ahem), so neither photo is particularly well composed, but I was happy to get them--especially after we asked the folks in the park office what we had seen. American White Pelicans migrate over and into Texas for the winter, and these were apparently making a flyover on their way to lakes south of Cooper. 

While we were scouting the South Sulphur Unit of the park for future stays, we caught some pretty interesting clouds and cloud-contrail combos overhead:

Back home, I caught a hot-air balloon on the camera for the first time this year. They're a fairly typical sight over this area during the fall, but iffy weather has prevented earlier appearances. The annual festival is held south of us, in Plano (quite close to where my kids were raised and The Beloved Spouse spent most of his teaching career) during the last week or so of September, but it's too crowded for us, so we have to make do with what floats north.  Our dog Arlo used to bay like a hound whenever they fired up their burners overhead. Nylah ignores them.

The tree canopy is still pretty thick over our little "farm," which means that our access to sky is still somewhat limited. But I did see some pretty stuff overhead yesterday while I was taking Molly out for an afternoon squirrel-stalk.

These days things are somewhat less dramatic than they were at the end of August:

While I was looking for the above, I ran across the first shot I got of our baby Mississippi Kite (the one who fledged and flew for my last post). I'm not terribly quick on the mark these days, but at least his (?) colors are showing.

In general, I'm in a much better mood than I have been in some time. The ticker is working just fine, and the elections turned out far better than we had even hoped (although Texas is--well, Texas). Feeling as though we have dodged a bullet, we've entered a stage of equanimity that's become rare and unfamiliar. It was good to see that the "Zoomers" are coming into their own. This is particularly reassuring, because they're the ones who're inheriting the world we've made. Here on the farm, we're trying to do what we can to keep things from getting worse, at least environmentally, but there's so much damage that repair will take far longer than I have any hope of living to see. 

Still, things are certainly looking up. And that means that my Skywatch Friday post this week is much more appropriate than usual. Have a good one, People. 

Earth Day 2022: Avoiding Apocalypse

Swallowtail on Honeysuckle

It's getting so much more difficult not to submit to pessimism that writing my annual celebratory post for Earth Day is turning into a chore. And even though spring is burgeoning beautifully around the Accidental Garden, other stuff keeps impinging on my optimism--and my enjoyment. 

In fact, the impending arrival of family from Idaho and Baja has boosted my morale somewhat, and hastened aspects of Swedish Death Cleaning that I've been avoiding. Calling it "spring cleaning" is probably less morbid, but it's all part of the same process. If it weren't for concurrent Old House Plumbing Problems, things would be relatively peachy. In fact, though, we're getting some practice with off-grid living, what with using Porco's loo as an outhouse, and disposing of dishwater on the north lawny bit of the garden. 

Having pretty much abandoned dreams of moving to somewhere more amenable, we've chosen to treat the property as an oasis from Texas nincompoopery. Re-wilding proceeds apace, with only a few domesticated areas, and the perennials are beginning to bloom. I'm promised an amazing show of Byzantine gladioli this year, since they've spread into odd corners of the garden, and the newcomers are actually blooming first--peeking out from spots far away from the original patch. I keep thinking that I should transplant more purposefully, but never seem to get around to it. So these lovely flowers (which began as a single plant under the nandina shrubs that came with the house) are doing it all themselves. A few have even made it around to the front border via the iris bed. This is what they looked like last year at about this time (in the right foreground):

However, everything's late this year. The wisteria bloomed about a week late, but now the vines and blooms have filled out and the amazing scent is already depleted. The Chinaberry tree suffered much from last year's bad freeze, and never did recover. It's leafed out in straggly bits, but there haven't been any blooms and there's just too much dead wood for safety. So it will have to be cut down when the arborists come to do their every-so-often pruning next month. 

But now, by Earth Day, the yard is teeming with wildlife. There have been some gratifying butterfly visits, including the swallowtail in the opening photo, and even an orgy of monarchs: three, all having at each other. The honeysuckle has grown to welcoming proportions for pollinators, and we get to enjoy them over a nice tipple in the evening. Two resident toads have appeared, as well as numerous anoles. Unfortunately for them, Molly is an expert lizard hunter, and we've had to rescue two, sans tails. But they love the greenhouse, which is being transformed into a wunderkammer*  (housing my collection of oddments as well as gardening tools). I have no way of heating it yet, so it's useless for starting plants. Better as an inviting outbuilding for gathering old nests, owl pellets, bones, skeletons, fossils, and little treasures picked up in our travels. Plus the abandoned egg cases Shelob left when she departed last fall. The anoles can easily escape through the vent when it gets too warm, so I don't have to worry about broiling them alive when I close the door.

Baby birds and animals have been abundant. Bunnies and squirrels mainly, and myriad wrens. We did have a bit of drama when Molly caught one little wren and injured it slightly. I managed to help it recover, and left it where the parents could do their work. I last saw it hopping down the alley with mom and dad in attendance, after a couple of days' recovery.
 

The occupant of a knothole in the pecan outside our study.

Baby wren recovering in a cushy nest of rabbit fur.

Even though she's done some damage to the wildlife population, Molly has become such an obedient and charming cat that if there is mayhem, it's almost entirely our fault for not keeping an eye on her. So when there's real work to do, we have to take turns cat-watching, or confine her to the house until we can be more responsible cat wranglers.

In 1970, when I celebrated the first Earth Day in Philadelphia, I was owned by another tabby--a manx born with spina bifida, and as a result couldn't wreak much havoc on local wildlife. At the time I had no idea of what my life would be like over fifty years later. We were all so sanguine then, sure that in the next half century we'd have addressed the problems that were becoming so apparent then. 

But we haven't. Things are much worse, and peril confronts us at every turn. I keep trying to find sources of hope, like Barack Obama's new Netflix series on the world's national parks and the possibilities they embody, and these serve as anodynes to help salve the anxiety of living in this moment. The best way to get through all of this, though, seems to be to keep the garden going and to enjoy the companionship of our two rescue beasts. And to enjoy their enjoyment of their own little peaceable kingdom.

Happy Earth Day, people. May next year bring better news, and renewed hope.

Photo notes: The leafing-out of trees has reduced available sky considerably. But if you look closely at the butterfly picture, you'll see some blue peeking through. So happy Skywatch Friday, too.

 

*Turning the greenhouse-that-isn't-really-a-greenhouse into a Cabinet of Curiosities is a new project whose progress will be documented on Owl's Cabinet of Wonders.

Deep Summer Busy-ness

As the summer begins to wane, we on the Farm find ourselves busier than we've been in quite a while. There are injured trees to fell, caravan projects to complete, software programs to learn, clearing out to accomplish--all in addition to the daily necessities of newspaper reading, puzzle solving, cooking, cleaning, laundry, and pet service. 

I suppose I've mentioned innumerable times that we do a large measure of the daily stuff without benefit of central air conditioning. This isn't generally a problem, at least in the morning, when things are cool enough (if we're sitting under fans) to read the paper, do the crosswords, and even tidy up. But after noon, we try to shut down and work in one of the rooms with a window unit (living room, snug, study, bedroom) in order to conserve power. Fortunately, Porco has its own air con, so any of the projects we're undertaking in preparation for our rather ambitious, month-long road trip west can be done in relative comfort.

We still take time in the morning and evening to spend time out of doors with the animals, and so our activities are pretty well-paced. Not long ago, we installed a more efficient ceiling fan in the kitchen, which makes it easier to cook. If I'm on the ball, I get something prepped and put together in the morning, then put it in the oven to bake later, rather than simmer on the stove top. Or we have salad nights. Having come from pioneer stock that made their lives in the western Nevadan and eastern Californian basin and range deserts, I have good models for dealing with heat, and because the humidity demonstrates the relative abundance of water in north Texas, there is really little to complain about. 

But climate change is certainly "messaging" us, and strongly nudging us in the direction of some preparatory gestures. Last winter's Big Freeze (as they're now calling it in the Daily Poop) has prompted us to buy a lovely ceramic cast iron log burner, which will take its place in front of the fireplace at the end of this month. The greenhouse also falls into the prepper device category, and after we're home from our trip, stepped up efforts to fortify our food-growing capabilities will begin: enhancing the veg space wherever we can. My old, battered copy of Ruth Stout's No Work Garden Book (saved from some flood or another), and Helen and Scott Nearing's books on the Good Life are on my autumn reading list, and there are several more books on my shelves with similar themes: making do with less, all written before it became trendy again to "make do and mend."

Work on Porco Rosso has produced new "classic" faucets with metal handles, a cargo carrier for hauling what TBS quaintly refers to as the "honey wagon" (don't ask) and extra water. We also installed, inexpertly but eventually adequately, a new awning. The old one was once white, but the spring rains and dying trees had ruined it, so we got something a bit too cute but much more serviceable. 

There are also a new lock and new keys, after it proved too difficult to get a damaged key replaced. We also got better locking devices for the exterior storage bins. Interior storage will be enhanced with numerous IKEA amenities, from boxes to baskets to small shelves for stashing spices. And my makeshift pillowslip curtains will finally be cut to fit and insulated. We're planning to leave just before the solstice, camping first at Cedar Breaks State Park on the night of the Full Corn Moon (they call it the Harvest moon around here, but I grew up with the Corn moon). The new binoculars TBS gave me for my last birthday will be put to use taking photos for a later Skywatch entry, from a good Dark Sky site.

The travel planning is pretty much complete now, and we've had time to clear out some of the winter damage and tired remains of spring's extravagant growth. Pottering around in the yard has led to a few wildlife discoveries, the best of which is another spider. Last time, I included a shot of a tiny argiope in a cedar tree--the first I'd seen in years. This last week, however, we discovered a much larger variety and I've been watching it faithfully over several days. The first time I noticed her, Nylah had already barged through her very large web (strung between the downspout and rain butt on the northwest corner of the house, and a large pecan tree about six feet away), and the spider (now known as Shelob; much smaller, but with similar habits, for those of you Tolkien fans) was already busy repairing it.

My feline correspondent, Tigger (see last post's comments) hasn't seen this variety before, so I thought I'd provide her a much larger example. Two days ago, there was also ample evidence of mayhem. I'm including a sequence of photos to illustrate the dramatic goings on, and to give you (perhaps) an idea of why my family has always been so fascinated by these industrious beasties.

Argiopes are orb spinners, which you should be able to see in the last picture; it and the one above it were taken after she had devoured her packet of Japanese beetle. The opening shot on this post is the only one taken from behind the web. At first she was pretty skittish, and every time I came near, she'd run up to the eave to hide. But more recently, I've been able to get closer--although getting my cheesy excuse for a Skywatch Friday entry required crouching down in back of the web. 

The next few days are forecast to be a little cooler (93F instead of today's 97), although the rain promised for the weekend seems to have left the map. But now that the major project work is done, I'll be spending a few more hours trying to master a new web design program (Pinegrow) which I'm hoping will allow me to get back to work on revising the old owlfarmer.com page and a couple of other web efforts.

Stay safe, folks. And have a good weekend (to those of you for whom weekends still mean something).

Here There Be Dragons

 

 

 

When I took this photo a couple of weeks ago, I was in the midst of my morning-in-the-garden-with-Molly Qigong practice, so the actual pareidolic "moment" got a bit fuzzy. It was somewhat more solid and dragony before I got the phone out of my pocket, got the photo app up, and actually shot it. But I think it's still pretty suggestive of the hot, fire-breathing critters that have found their way into so many human fantasies.

 

In fact, I had been considering a post on heat, in order to pull away for a bit from my rantings on things political and pandemical, but a front stormed through last Sunday night. Since then, the 100F temperatures have scooted down to the low nineties, the humidity has dropped, and we haven't even had the air con on for the last three days. Mind you, we're not your typical denizens of north Texas, since we only have four window units (there are thirty windows), and keep the thermostats at around 75F. At this very moment (1:15 pm CDT) it's only 89F and the ceiling fans (and one of two attic fans) are doing their jobs quite nicely for us all. Large Hairy Dog included.

So, I can't bitch too much about the heat. I've even been doing some put-off cooking projects (making ricotta and moussaka from stuff the co-op delivered last week--fresh cream-on-top milk and "exotic" eggplants). Last night I made a very nice pasta dish that was linked to Melissa Clark's New York Times recipe for fresh ricotta, and tomorrow will use up the rest to make a berry tart. Tonight we get leftovers from last night and a use-up-the-lettuces salad, because tomorrow is also delivery day from the co-op.

The same "farmlet" that provided the eggplants is now making baba ghanoush, which I ordered, so we'll be snacking on that for a bit, too. It's probably time to make some pita out of the Barton Springs Mill flour I've been squirreling away.

What I didn't realize about the consequences of buying from seasonal producers is the pressure to get it all used up before it spoils. Hence the cooking frenzy. But as I get used to the regularity of the delivery, the reduced need to hit Costco for anything but wine and San Pelligrino, and the occasional order to Whole Foods, my creative juices have been flowing (ahem), and my Culinaria board on Pinterest is getting a lot more use. 

Anyway. Back to the dragons.

Just the other day we had another visit from our friendly neighborhood Neon Skimmer dragonfly (Libellula croceipennis), an annual occurrence, at what seems to be mating time. The piece of rebar stuck in next to Molly's pond is really there to support a bit of Astilbe that comes up in the spring and needs support.

But it also seems to provide a nice resting spot for the male, who seems to spend most of his time trying to get the female (who's usually hanging about in the Inland Sea Oats patch next to the former fire pit/now watering hole) to pay attention. The image below was taken just about a year ago, when I did manage to get a closer-up image.

I suppose I should include the dragonfly sightings in my Phenology 101 collections from now on. It might help make up for some of the phenomena that aren't showing up.

It is rather reassuring that some of our wildlife is doing well enough to come back for a visit. The scarcity of bats and fireflies is troubling, but we've actually benefited from some of the environmental incursions occurring just to our south. A new housing/retail complex next to the highway "necessitated" the cutting down of a rather nice little suburban forest, which, in turn, de-homed several hawk families.  So, of late we're being treated to hawk vs. crow skirmishes and wonderful aerial ballets whenever the thermals provide the opportunity for raptor frolics. 

Sunday's storm inflicted some serious damage to the scraggly old elm tree growing on the property line with our next-door neighbor. A huge limb broke off on her side of her fence, and proceeded to bounce off her garage roof into our yard, where it took out a large swath of sea oats and knocked off some of the Virginia creeper that helps to mask the offensive fence.

But things could have been worse. The patch hit hardest was where we should someday have a greenhouse; had it actually been in place, there would have been serious damage--although since it won't be a glass house (due to the abundance of aging pecan trees nearby) at least it wouldn't have shattered spectacularly and rendered the whole place unusable. Sometimes procrastination (this time brought on by our reluctance to visit the retailer who handles the greenhouse we want during the Plague) has its benefits.

The Beloved Spouse was able to take care of our side of the fence and the limb is now in bits on one of the strategically located woodpiles, ready to house whatever critters decide to use it for living space.

The weather and the somewhat hopeful DNC broadcasts have lightened our moods a bit, although I'm sure the next atrocity and/or heat wave is just around the corner. Nonetheless, I thought it prudent to take this opportunity to post something appropriate for Skywatch Friday and spend the next couple of days seeing what other folk looking skyward are finding. 

Stay safe and be well. And happy Skywatch Friday.

The Seventieth Solstice

There is something quite wonderful about being born on the winter solstice. Some of those born in December rue the fact, due to the proximity of Christmas and other holidays. My sister is especially unlucky in that regard because she was born on Christmas day, although, as a devout Christian, she probably doesn't mind. But for me, having arrived on "The darkest evening of the year" (as Robert Frost so memorably put it in "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening") has always seemed appropriate. I've long been interested in science in general, and in planetary sciences in particular, and the solstice is really what all the celebratory fuss is about anyway this time of year. In fact, according to an article in today's New York Times, were it not for the winter solstice, we probably wouldn't be here at all.

Five years ago, in 2012, I was happy to announce to my students (some of whom were alarmed by the promise of the end of days) that the only thing of any real importance happening on December 21 was my sixty-fifth birthday. The Maya did not, in fact, predict the end of the world on that day. Most cultures do celebrate the moment of "sun return" in some fashion, and others mold their calendars to include the moment, more or less. So the birth of Christ, for which there is no good information about an exact date, has traditionally been celebrated on the Roman date for the solstice, December 25.

The solstice marks the gradual return of longer days and shorter nights, leading up to the vernal equinox in March, the beginning of spring, and the path to the summer solstice. Daylight Savings Time, of course, throws a sabot into the machinery, but it's over before December, making the longer sunny minutes all the more important. I keep hoping that DST will go away eventually, as some states are trying to accomplish already, so we don't have the additional, artificial adjustment to make and can just go by seasonal changes.

My seventieth solstice celebration began last Saturday, when family gathered at my daughter's house. Her significant other shares the birthday with me, his fortieth, so we were joined by some of his family and my son, who flew in from Seattle. On Sunday, we all joined over sixty friends (including some of my favorite former students) at a local draft/movie house to watch The Last Jedi. My incomparable, amazing daughter had been planning this event for the past year, and it was quite a bash. Included in the group were the friend/colleague/teacher who inspired our interest in Continental philosophy, along with his travel writer/filmmaker wife and their astonishing daughter, and my oldest friend in the world (whom I hadn't seen in over fifty years) who happened to be making a road trip from the east and whose arrival coincided with the festivities. A smaller group congregated at our house later for more conversation and conviviality, providing a pleasant end to a memorable weekend.

The year has been a good one for some of my more distant friends, and my California family managed to escape the Lilac fire in Oceanside by living just outside the mandatory evacuation area, so despite our own lack of optimism about the state of the nation, things--as old Jews like me are fond of saying--could always be worse.

I should also mention that this solstice is made even more significant by the retirement from teaching of The Beloved Spouse. What optimism we can now gather is buoyed up by the fact that the current national lack of success in fostering education will not continue to rule our lives. The last twenty years have been more trying than rewarding, and we're now looking forward to doing what we haven't had the time or energy to do until now.

It thus seems fitting that Skywatch Friday occurs at just the right time to share a photo I took on December 21, 2014 on our last trip west, near Midland, Texas. There we spent our first night in our new "old" trailer, bought in anticipation of the retirement that is here at last.

So happy holidays, everyone; have a felicitous Sun Return.

Sunrise, Sunset

Although I'm not terribly happy about this photo (I generally avoid power lines and try to frame photographs without stray house bits, like the corner of the gable on the upper right), it and its companion below represent this post rather nicely, and were taken on the same day about a week ago. The "Sunrise" shot (above) was taken from the front porch with my new iPhone 7.

The "sunset" shot, taken in the back yard, also includes power lines, so there's an additional aspect of symmetry; I usually stand atop chairs and other furniture to try and avoid them. However, I wanted to submit something to Skywatch Friday for the first time in ages [as usual, thanks to the crew--and do go see what folks from all over have posted], so here we are; what you see is what I got, and I'm making do.

As I am with all manner of things these days. I will not be viewing any of the inaugural festivities tomorrow, and since the weather should be warmer, will instead be doing some early garden prep, reading some Wendell Berry and Joseph Wood Krutch, and watching a couple of episodes of Netflix's wonderful adaptation of Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events. I can't imagine anything more appropriate, given the state of the Union. Thus, the photos seem to hold out a little promise for a not completely bleak future, but I won't be holding my breath.

Despite my usual less-than-optimistic view of things, I've decided to find ways to muddle through the next four years. I'll be rethinking and redesigning my website (and changing the name from Owldroppings to Owl's Farm; this blog will be linked to it), clearing out the detritus in the garage and attic (in case we decide we just can't abide Texas any longer), and finding more ways to live more sustainable lives.

Inspiration for all this has come from several places, including my new subscription to Australia's Slow magazine, ecopoets like Krutch and Berry, and even the latest issue of American Craft. The editor, Monica Moses, has written a wonderful little essay on the role of craft in keeping one's sanity in uncertain times: "The Tough Make Art," in which she describes her own plan:
 

Like a lot of us, I’m looking for ways to cope with the discord, to feel hopeful again. I’m returning to the basics: eating well, exercising, trying to sleep, spending time with loved ones. But I’m also doubling down (as the pundits would say) on art. (American Craft, Feb/Mar 17, p. 10)

My own map of the next few months includes efforts to accomplish much the same sorts of things, including the art part. Her sentiments are in tune with much of what I read among the thoughtful writers whose works I frequent, now that I find myself sticking to the Arts & Life section and the funnies in the Daily Poop,  and the Books and Trilobites sections of the New York Times. Never have I felt more grateful for the library we've amassed, because it should prove most valuable over the next four years, reminding me that sanity might well prevail.

So, for what it's worth, here's what I have in mind:

Eat Real Food. I stole this designation from my Whole Foods Market newsletter, which offered its customers meal plans in several categories. But it's really what I've been trying to do for years, with the help of Michael Pollan and Mark Bittman and others. I've become rather more serious about it since my retirement awarded me with more time for contemplating and planning. We also recently invested in a smaller refrigerator, which facilitates consciousness of how much we buy and where we have to store it. It's also a terrific deterrent to food waste. The Beloved Spouse gave me Lidia Bastianich's new book, Mastering the Art of Italian Cuisine, and The Big Book of Kombucha for the holidays (plus Cooking With Loula, a lovely Greek cookbook I noticed while shopping for other people's gifts). I have always loved cookbooks that are more about history, philosophy, and culture than technique, and these are all inspirational additions to the "food" segment of our aforementioned library. Over the last two weeks I've spent more time planning meals and enjoying the process than I'd been able to do for several years.

Get Real Exercise. The realization that the new, pricey drug I'm taking is likely to prolong my life significantly (and my favorite cardiologist's reminding me that exercise won't do squat for my cholesterol but will do massive amounts of good for my brain and overall well being) has made me more conscious than ever of movement. What finally got me perambulating the neighborhood was the death of our sweet dog Woody last summer. His brother Arlo no longer had a reliable source of exercise, so I started walking him, dropping him off at the house when he got tired, and then continued on my own several times a week. TBS would join me on weekends and holidays, and we've gotten to know the topography of the neighborhood better than we had in the previous sixteen years. Over his winter break from teaching we kept up the dog walking, but neighborhood exploration slacked off due to weather and family obligations.  But a movement-tracking app on my phone has helped keep me from being completely sedentary, and as the weather warms up and I get into the garden more (as I plan to this afternoon), I should hit the "active" category much more frequently (now "lightly active" rescues me from couch potatohood). The goal is to use my body better, get stronger, and get out much more.

Make Stuff.  Some time ago I bought a lovely journal with a William Morris design on it (actually, a sketch for a wallpaper design) in which I've been writing down and sketching out ideas for art books and other little projects. I'll try to get some of these done--including the redesign of my web pages. But I've been wanting to go back to painting and "making" things,  which I haven't done since my children were small. This includes working on the house and garden--painting and plastering and staining and the like, along with general homekeeping, mending, knitting, and quilting. Using one's creative juices seems to be a particularly satisfying way to make it through trying times.

Write More. Having received my first rejection slip (for a story in a science fiction anthology), you'd think I'd have sworn off any desire to publish more than for myself  (and my one or two faithful readers). But I've decided to do what I used to urge my students to do: take the criticism to heart, and use it well. I'm not sure I agree with all of the comments, but I'll have them in mind when I revise the story and submit it somewhere else. I also need to work on More News From Nowhere, and to go back to the old-bats-in-space novel I started working on a couple of years ago. I actually posted on the Cabinet recently, and have lots of ideas for more entries. Letters to friends are on the list, too.

Read Even More. I probably read more than I do anything else, but now that I've made it through the entire run of Midsomer Murders twice on Netflix, I've got no afternoon distractions from the telly. TBS and I have stuff we watch when he gets home (because he's too brain dead after teaching to accomplish anything more impressive), but when I'm not out moving and growing things, I have a huge stack of books to begin or to finish. And then there's always Cat-watching time in the garden, which will need to be extended as the weather improves. Emma likes company when she's out, and I can't leave her entirely unsupervised. In  addition, there's nothing quite as peaceful as watching a cat and a dog snoozing away in the afternoon sun.

This is all very ambitious, I know. But since I'm too old and tired to be politically active any more, if I get even a little of it done, I'll have accomplished something. And so, Dear Reader(s), may the future be better than we have any right, at this moment, to expect.

Skywatch Friday: You CAN Take the Sky from Me

A view of sky and snow from bygone days

The theme song for my all-time favorite television show, Firefly, was written by the writer/director/producer Joss Whedon and performed on the show by Sunny Rhodes.  I just love it--an anthem to the kind of independence and freedom that attracted fans from both ends of the political spectrum:

Take my love, take my land,
Take me where I cannot stand;
I don't care, I'm still free,
You can't take the sky from me!

But those of us who don't have Firefly-class transport ships to tootle around space in, and who've moved to the 'burbs in search of peace and quiet, may be in for a rude surprise. 

New neighbors, it seems, absent zoning codes that prohibit them, can build 6.5 foot privacy fences and block what was once a rather nice view.

Now, I've only spoken to this woman once, so I don't much know her; but then, I don't really care to, either.  She aimed the arse-end of the fence at me (metal support posts on my side), and put up a cheesy plastic garden shed that shows about three feet above it.  We then hired her fence guy (bad decision) to build a Craftsman style short picket fence and gate to open up our side yard (despite our snarkyness, we do try to make the best of things).  It looked okay, but was badly designed; we should have insisted on cedar 4x4s instead of boxed in metal posts, and they didn't finish the top, so that the nubs of the posts showed.  Our own contractor's fence guy has finished it up so it looks right, but our solution to a problem caused by someone else will end up costing us as much as a space-shuttle toilet seat.

I used to enjoy looking out the window in the breakfast room as I poured my coffee, at the twin-gabled house next door, which bears a passing resemblance to Kelmscott Manor. The air flow between the houses helped to mitigate the heat of a summer afternoon, and kept everyone from broiling.  Now, however, it's up to me to construct the view from that same window. There will be no more fairy-tale winter views of the Tudor; instead, we'll see (if it ever does snow again) something entirely different, and it will depend on how well we furnish the side yard. The fence will become the backdrop before which we stage our own tableau.

 Then

Now

It's much the same in the back yard, where I'll no longer be able to shoot unobstructed sky shots, like the one that opens this post. There is now a sense of increased privacy that's only enhanced by the newly painted garage, and the promise of uncluttering around the yard. But the trees below are the same ones that appear, covered with snow, in the opening photo.

This doesn't do much to enhance the sense that we belong to any kind of a community around here, stuck as we are now between the isolating fence and the "We Don't Call 911" and Confederate flags  on the other side.

On the other hand, the compliments on the house we've received from other local folks walking by have been encouraging, and we've met some interesting new people who stop to chat about their experiences fixing up their old relics.  This is, after all, an historic district, and its existence is why we're here in the first place. 

After all the work is finished on the house, and the weather has cooled down enough to sit on the front porch (having dutifully sprayed ourselves down with insect repellent), we're looking forward to further community engagements. Perhaps home improvement might make us a little less hermit-like and more neighborly ourselves.