Skywatch Friday: A Midsummer Sunrise

These are nothing spectacular, but given their source (my antique, first-generation iPhone) I consider myself lucky to have been in the right place at the right time.

I took the opening shot as soon as I parked for my morning class last Monday. The sun had risen splendidly during my thirty-minute ride down to Dallas, and I'm somewhat surprised that I didn't wreck poor Vera in my efforts to keep an eye on the drama in her rear-view mirror. At this time of year, the sun rises in the northeast, and I was headed south, so I didn't get to enjoy it much.

The next two photos were taken a few seconds after the first, and do catch some of the changes that happened so rapidly that I'm grateful to have caught anything at all.

Busy-ness has kept me from posting recently, so this may be it for another week if I don't get caught up. I usually use this blog as a means of thinking things through, but there seems to be so much going on that I don't have much time to think, much less write. I haven't had time, either, to check out the wonderful blogs I try to keep track of, and I miss you guys.

Still, the weekend's coming up, and there's Skywatch Friday to meander through, so I'll try to take some time tomorrow morning to see what's up--literally! Happy Skywatch Friday, and thanks once more to the team who keep it going.

Skywatch Friday: Summer Garden Surprises

After staying indoors for most of yesterday morning, I braved the heat and bugs in quest of figs and pears, hoping to rescue both from the barbarian critters (mostly mockingbirds and squirrels) that nibble and run. Don't these guys know you're supposed to finish what you put on your plate?

Anyway, I took a few quick (i.e. not very carefully framed or composed) shots of hot, sultry, summer clouds and of the garden and was rather amazed to find late-blooming wisteria and fairly dangerous-looking mushrooms--as well as a streak of white fungus that, on first glance, looks like old wet loo-paper. I didn't include that one, and I haven't had a chance to identify the 'shrooms. They'll be gone by the time I go out again--but the recent wet weather and abundance of rotting wood around here has turned this place into a mushroom aficionado's dream.

The Rose of Sharon bushes are still in bloom, although the white one's dropped most of its flowers, and the purple one has gone pink. This happened once before; the first round of blooms are followed by smaller, pinker flowers for a second show. It'll stop now, for most of the rest of the summer, and then bud up and bloom again in early fall.

The Chinaberry (opening shot; I know it's cheating, but the sky really is peeking through the leaves) is fruiting, although it'll be a while before they ripen and start attracting grackles. The Cedar Waxwings seem to have left for less balmy climes, but there will be plenty of drunken poopy birds after the berries are fully ripe.

As I sit in my study typing this morning, I'm enjoying a veritable parade of birds taking advantage of the two bathing areas outside my window. The goldfinches are out in posses of three to six, but get out of Dodge as soon as the mourning doves decide to take over. There have been robins, brown thrashers, cardinals, and sparrows as well. I'll have to refill before long, because they've splashed out so much of the water.

Thanks, as always, to the Skywatch Friday team for giving me something to do besides grouse. I wish you all a happy third anniversary, and hope everyone has a great weekend.

In the Doldrums

Classify this one under meteorological metaphors: a weather-related phenomenon that applies to mood, most commonly in hot, sticky, muggy, calm summer conditions.

Like now.

The "doldrums," or (according to the Glossary of Meteorology) "equatorial calms" refers to very specific conditions occurring in a very specific region of the world: the Intertropical Convergence Zone where the tropical winds from the northern and southern hemisphere meet and generate the trade winds.

I was watching Serenity (yes, again) the other night, and Mal's remark about the albatross sent me back to Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner, where we get the sailors' experience of being becalmed in the region when the winds die down (often for significant periods) described for us in grim but painterly detail:

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
’Twas sad as sad could be;
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea!

All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.

Landlocked as we are here in north Texas (and the map that opens the post shows just how far away the Doldrums are), we can nonetheless sympathize at times, especially after a period of relatively cool, rainy days when the temperature starts rising and the humidity with it.

This is the first July I can remember when we haven't had a single day over 100F into mid-month. Because of the humidity, though, the heat index makes it feel much hotter and these conditions persisted well into last evening in some areas. For the last several weeks we've been able to sleep without the air conditioning on, but no longer. And this morning I didn't even shut it down and open up for a few hours. We're only talking two rooms here, but to me that's an extravagance.

I may be more sensitive than some to this kind of weather because of the time I spent in the tropics, where spells of 90 degree temperatures accompanied by 90 percent humidity characterized our summers. We had no air conditioners in those days, and running through a sprinkler offered no respite. A few hours at a spring-fed swimming pool or a trip to the beach or a local lake offered our only relief before I moved back to the States.

Years ago, when I lived in Philadelphia, I remember a particular summer during which a tropical depression hung over the city for the better part of a week. My memories of the time run in slow motion, and are so palpable that I can remember being conscious of my blood flowing through my veins (back when it could do so without the aid of anticoagulant drugs!):

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion . . .

Things aren't much different now, although the present moment lacks the kind of intensity twenty-somethings can feel. Still, the weight of the air will make it hard to do anything today that doesn't take place in the air-conditioned study. As inviting as the back yard looks, with its shady areas and comfy chairs, the air will be too thick with moisture and mosquitoes for me to accept. I'll have to brave it all for a few minutes if I want to snag a few figs before the mockingbirds take their daily toll, but that'll be the extent of out-of-doors activity this morning.

Perhaps the only good thing I can imagine about climate change and its local effects is the element of surprise: who knows what will happen next? The usual patterns are changing so rapidly that the next two months might not turn out as expected. The albatross may yet show up to bring us luck--unless, of course, it's befouled by the mess in the Gulf.

I find myself checking in at least once a day on the hurricane watch app I've installed on the iPad; except for Alex (and the tropical depression called "'Two"), there hasn't been much activity so far, but he season promises to be "interesting" according to the forecasters. One can only hope that we don't get another big storm until the leak gets capped and they've had a chance to do some more cleanup down there.

As I was moderating comments this morning I noticed that this is my 200th post on the Farm, a couple of weeks past my third anniversary on Blogger. Although I don't get around to posting as often as I'd like these days, I did want to let anyone reading know that I have appreciated all the comments and input over the last three years.