Wish It Were Different

About a year and a half ago, or maybe it was a hundred years -- it seems like that some days -- I left the house to walk in the early morning, trying desperately to shed the pain I felt after talking to my mother on the phone.

She hadn't yet been diagnosed as having Alzheimer's disease, but I knew that something bad was happening to her. A few months before, I'd made a commitment to call her on the phone every day to keep tabs on her. With each passing day she vomited into my ear such bitterness and hateful memories that I would come away from each encounter shaking, feeling battered to the heart. I heard things about her life that I should never have been told; I would rather have gone to my grave without knowing the secret feelings she harbored.

Anyway, on that morning, a hundred years ago, I walked and walked, and cried, and prayed, because there was just nothing else I could do. After a while I turned to head home, and there in the sky was a rainbow, which the Bible tells us is God's promise to never again destroy the world in a flood. I really felt that the rainbow, for me, was a promise from God that eventually, everything would turn out all right.

I remember that rainbow every day, just about.

I remembered it last night when I got a call from the Pennsylvania State Police, asking me to please call my mother and "reassure" her. She'd called 9-1-1 to complain that she couldn't get her caregiver to leave the house. I explained to the trooper that she has Alzheimer's and doesn't understand that she must have 24-hour care. He was understanding, but I could imagine him rolling his eyes at the ceiling in exasperation.

So I called Mom's house, and she answered the phone, even though it was after 11pm her time, and she should have been in bed. I tried to "reassure" her, and she reacted just as I knew she would, with invective and curses, threats to cut me out of her will, loud and angry demands to be given a competency exam, and just plain old mean ass shit-talk. Nothing I could say made any difference in her anger. Finally I just gave up, and as she shouted, just said over and over again, "I love you, Mom," hoping that somewhere in that ravaged mind the woman I admired so when I was growing up would hear my words.

She hung up on me in her fury, and after a few minutes I called back and asked to speak to her caregiver, which she let me do, to my surprise. I had a long chat with the caregiver, a pleasant chat; the woman is surely earning a place in heaven putting up with this aggressive, nasty stage of Alzheimer's.

I'm trying to keep the rainbow foremost in my mind.

Mollissima

There, in the shadows of the lemon tree, a very fiend of the jungle lurks.

Yes! It is the scarlet macaw of the house, the dirty-fighting biting bee-yotch, Molly!

Alex and John adopted Molly last September, while I was gone at the other end of the country and could not say, "Do not bring a #@!!##! parrot into this house!" In chagrin and fear, I have tried to be friends with the bird, in spite of the fact that I still cannot forgive her for the nasty bite on a finger she gave me during the first couple days of NaNoWriMo, which caused me to limp while typing for the rest of the month.

If only she didn't bite, I would be crazy about her.

Today was her very first ever day OUTSIDE. John has a kind of leash to keep her from climbing too high, and Bernie let her climb up in the lemon tree. She was clearly bemused by the sounds and sights of the world, biting off the lemon blossoms, tasting tiny unripe lemons, gnawing on the grapevine that has looped over into the tree.

She wasn't too thrilled about the harness (called a "Feather Tether") but put up with it until she was indoors again, and then chomped it to bits.

Molly is only a little over a year old, a mere baby in a species that lives to be over 70. She has to be either indoors or on her leash: if she gets lost, like a little child, she might not be able to find her way home. And in this season, in this land, there isn't a year-round selection of fruits available in a jungle canopy.

She looks great against the green lemon leaves, though, and she had a great time climbing on a little clump of branches.

For me, the best part about her behavior was seeing her watch a bee that was buzzing from blossom to blossom. You could see INSTINCT kick in as her eyes focused on the bee, and she tracked that insect with such interest that I know macaws eat bugs.


Macaws do have expressions on their faces. This last picture is of Molly, La Mollissima, with a happy smile on her face about her first play-date with the great, wide world.

Poem In Your Pocket Day

I thought a lot about what poem I would like to share with someone today, almost too long as today is nearly gone.

But finally, I decided on an excerpt from Don Marquis' book Archy and Mehitabel, from the chapter entitled, "mehitabel dances with boreas." Mehitabel is a cat with loose morals and no home. She's a free spirit, who will not buy into conventional life. At times, that makes her suffer, but she's willing to suffer, just so she doesn't have to cave. Since I was in Junior High, Mehitabel's spirit (not her sexual morals) have been an inspiration to me in hard times.

"whirl mehitabel whirl
spin mehitable spin
thank god you re a lady still
if you have got a frozen skin

blow wind out of the north
to hell with being a pet
my left front foot is brittle
but there s life in the old dame yet

dance mehitabel dance
caper and shake a leg
what little blood is left
will fizz like wine in a keg

wind come out of the north
and piece to the guts within
but some day mehitabel s guts
will string a violin

moon you re as cold as a frozen
skin of a yellow banan
that sticks in the frost and the ice
on the top of a garbage can

and you throw a shadow so chilly
that it can barely leap
dance shadow dance
for you ve got no place to sleep

whistle a tune north wind
on my hollow marrow bones
i ll dance the time with three good feet
here on the alley stones

freeze you bloody december
i never could stay a pet
but i am a lady in spite of hell
and there s life in the old dame yet

whirl mehitabel whirl
flirt your tail and spin
dance to the tune your guts will cry
when they string a violin

eight of my lives are gone
it s years since my fur was slicked
but blow north wind blow
i m damned if i am licked

girls we was all of us ladies
we was o wotthehell
and once a lady always game
by crikey blood will tell

i might be somebody s pet
asleep by the fire on a rug
but me i was always romantic
i had the adventurous bug

caper mehitabel caper
leap shadow leap
you gotto dance till the sun comes up
for you got no place to sleep"

That's not all of it, by any means, but that last stanza has been a billboard for me, all my life. Hard times come. They hurt, and they're cold. But

"you gotto dance till the sun comes up
for you got no place to sleep"

Still dancin', Mehitabel.

Thanks for the thought, Don Marquis.

Gorgeous Weekend

A lovely weekend, it was indeed.

On Saturday we spent a day on a friend's patio beside his pool. He threw a grand barbecue for his wife's birthday, and Bernie's and my 33rd wedding anniversary. The temperature was in the 80's, the food was good, the company delightful. For a brief time, I got into the pool with the kids and swam around in the perfect water. (He had solar heating put in, just so he could stretch the season.)


Sunday was downright hot, and yet our pool was just a tad too cold for me to get in. I did wade a lot, and played water games with the dogs, fixed the north side sprinkler system (I do that when it's running -- a great job for a hot day), and made liberal use of the "mist" function on the hose.

Alex, after doing some heavy-duty cleaning, was hot and itchy enough to wade right in.

Later, Lil came out and spent about an hour in the pool, and her lips didn't even turn blue.

By time for bed, I was hot enough to brave anything, and took my skin out in the dark and yes! The pool was chill ... but oh, so nice.

Telemarketers and the F-word, Be Prepared

I truly hate using the phone; I have ever since I quit smoking cigarettes.

And that drawing of a phone really dates me, when the concept "phone" brings such an image to mind.

Phones have been on my mind for the last few days, after Bern started getting nuisance calls from heavily-accented women demanding he tell them what medications he was taking.

He hung up on them, of course. But after some days of being called twice a day, he got fed up on Monday morning, and when his phone woke him up and he heard the garbly voice, he just climbed out of bed, found me in the kitchen, and handed me the phone, saying, "It's for you."

There's a reason he would do that.

Because I hate the phone, and hate being required to answer the phone, I [hate squared] telemarketers. I have been known to revile them. On one memorable occasion, I delivered a long and intense lecture to a telemarketer about finding another job, a job with some honor to it, a job that would not accrue the bad karma that she was attracting to her soul. I'm not sure why she listened to me for 20 minutes. Maybe she went on to find another job.

In any event, Bernie's handing me his violated phone was exactly like pointing out an intruder to a junkyard dog and saying, "Sic' em."

And so, I did. I allowed all my inner Darth Vader to spill into my voice, and added to that my usual morning grouchiness (never have been a morning person), my fury at someone having disturbed my husband's sleep (over-protective -- well, yeah, a bit), and my hatred of telemarketers. I demanded the name of the company that was calling. I demanded that the caller speak slowly and clearly. I informed the caller that I was going to report them to the FCC for calling a phone number on the "Do Not Call" list. I explained forcefully that their company faced a $500,000 fine for violating the Do Not Call list. (I think I read that somewhere.)

Some time during the sentence that boomed "I want you to remove this phone number from your calling list right now and never call this number again," the caller hung up on me.

Heh, I said to myself.

And then the shitheads called Bernie again after he'd gone to work.

Clearly, some new strategy was necessary. If they could withstand my Roar of Anger, there was no point in me roaring at them again.

Oddly, they would call at specific times. 9am. 5pm. I kept Bernie's phone with me this morning, and when the phone rang at 9am, caller ID showed me it was our buddies at US Pharmacy (which Google identified as a source for "phentarmine"), I cleared my throat and answered, in my most professional receptionist voice, "Ruess Writers' Group, may I have your account number?"

Click.

They called back at 11:30 and I did the same. A man's voice expostulated some foreign word three times, then he hung up on me, too.

Tomorrow, when they call, if they call, I'm going to ask them which writer they have an account with, and when they futter around, I'm going to give them the number to our main office ... which will be the police department's non-emergency number.

If I can't get rid of them, I may as well fuck with them.

So to speak.

Water, Water, Everywhere

I'm dry now.

Today was the day I had been waiting for, for weeks. I am well again (though still experiencing a round of morning coughing): that's one criterion for The Day; two, I actually had some energy; and the third requirement was a genuinely warm day, because I knew that I would be soaked before I was done.

Today was Fix the Back Bank Sprinkler System Day.

Along the 60 foot stretch of garden, I have installed a "drip" irrigation system. None of it "drips", however, as each emitter is a sprayer of some sort. The ground doesn't freeze here, so I don't have to worry about split pipes except in freak years ... and in such a year I'd just replace the whole thing for about $30. No worries there.

The main line is 1/2" tubing, and little 1/4" flexible lines come off of that, each ending in a spray emitter of high or low flow as required. Easy. Kind of like plumbing tinkertoys. Every spring, once the need for watering returns, the system has to be checked, groomed, and if necessary, repaired. After an initial test run about two weeks ago, I knew I had some repairs that needed to be done; the streams of water spraying 20 feet across the garden gave me a hint that winter had been cruel to my emitters.

Today I donned my reading glasses, squinted at the automatic sprinkler instructions in the garage, and turned on the system. There's just no efficient way to find out and fix broken emitters and sprung tubing without the water running.

Some of the emitters had just fallen over, but others, being plastic and in the full California sun, had disintegrated. I started at the south end of the bank and carried my bucket of parts, pulling the emitters out from under weeds, setting them up where they had fallen down, replacing the ones which were dead-o. All of them, of course, were emitting water. Cold water. And if you try to replace a tube or an emitter while the water is running, of course, it sprays all over the place under high pressure.

Howie thought it was a wonderful project, water spraying everywhere, his Mama soaking wet and shouting "Aughhh!" every time a new emitter failed to make positive connection with the water line. He helped so much by following me along and pulling the emitters out of the ground the better to bite the spray.

But now it is done, and my cherry tree and my nectarine tree are assured of regular irrigation. Not to mention all the rest of the plants, too.

Refreshing.

I'm dry now.

Another Frackin' Cold

You gotta love the original "Battlestar Gallactica" series for their introduction into the language of the word "frack".

Yes. As in "Frack you," or "Those frackin' Cylons" ... we all knew what they meant.

At a low ebb, I am deep in the throes of yet ANOTHER frackin' cold. This has been the WORST frackin' winter for illness I think I have ever experienced. I can remember an illness as a small child that kept me bedridden for two weeks; I can remember one bout with the flu that convinced me of my mortality; but I cannot ever remember a fall-winter-spring when I was so sick for so long.

Can't sleep right, can't breathe right, can't do shit without sending myself into spasmodic hacking.

Also, the wind was up big time today here, and as we all know, I HATE THE WIND. So I didn't go outside and try to take pics of the new tulips and freesias and my neighbor's lilacs. Nor did I walk the dogs or ride the horse. It was Stay Indoors, Don't Move Too Much, and Read a Book Day.

The book is "Pretender" by C. J. Cherryh.

Sometimes I love her "Foreigner" series, and sometimes I resent that she's probably paid by the word. Or by the concept.

Later.

March Day: Equinox Eve

Gotta love a camera with macro capabilities.

This is a close up of an orange that was on the counter. The lens was closest to the side of the orange; but in the dim light of the morning kitchen, the camera insisted on flash, which illuminated the topside.

Still, it was a groovy picture, inspite of the strange streak of dust which contaminated the lens for many subsequent shots. I have no idea where the streak of dust came from, as I am obsessive about keeping the lens cap on the inactive camera.

Nor does the streak appear on the portrait of my first freesias in the planter in the back yard.

Who could figure? It's Spring, and cold weather is pretty much gone until next November. I'm a wuss; I won't miss it.

Seder was last night. It wasn't a bad Seder, as Seders go, but the foodstuffs were kind of lackluster. Mostly overcooked casseroles. A competitive Filthy Piker chef who also attends our Seder said that my legs of lamb had outdone him and other Seder chefs. That was kudos enough to last me until next year.

The singing was great, though the attendance was about half of what we planned for. Well, duh. That's what happens when you don't tell anyone that Seder is on -- three days hence.

Still, the light turnout was yet another moment of grace. I'm so emotionally fragile yet that preparing even for a small crowd gave me the shakes and mental gray-out. Alex was kind enough to sit at my left hand and lead the singing, and offer me support.

I think that Seder showed me not only that there is a grace in relying on others, but also how shattered I am. I literally could not pull together in my mind what needed to be done. By the time the next Seder rolls around, I hope to be in ... firmer control.

That's what the Control Freak part of me says.

The More Rational part says, "Time to start training someone to handle overseeing parish Seders in the future."

Stacking: Pot Feet

These are "pot feet," used to elevate a potted plant off the ground so that it will drain properly.

But that's not what's cool about them. When I swept off the patio the other day, and cleaned up the winter drift of leaves, I found the pot feet in amongst the plants, and put them to the side of the brick structure.

Later in the day, having sat at my desk listening to Lillian noisily playing on the back patio for an hour or so, I looked out to see that she had made lovely use of the clay items.

Perhaps she's a born rock stacker. Maybe that's why she's so madly in love with Jerry Seeger. (He's got rock stacking pics in his gallery.)

Lillian also gave me pause for thought as I passed by her room and saw her standing at her easel, drawing, the a couple days ago. She had a sheet of paper about 15 inches tall and as wide, and on it, she had drawn a figure that went from border to border, top to bottom.

I usually leave a lot of space around my sketches, and they are always in the middle of the paper. I even have a traceable grid to make sure I center the sketch.

Looking at Lil's off-center and stretched drawing, I was stunned. Why not? Why not use every bit of the dimension of the paper? If it looks drawn out (so to speak) -- so what?

I've got to experiment more.

A Wonderful Time of the Year

Back East, during the third month of the year, every morning, I would get up and look out the window and say, "I hate March."

When March was done, until the ground thawed from its frozen state, I would get up, look out the window, and say, " ... and I'm not too fond of April, either."

Not so my reaction to Central Valley months. Mid-February the almond blossoms dominate the vision of the farming landscape and the scent of the air. Then the plums, peaches and nectarines take the stage, raising March to a pinnacle of beauty.

No frozen ground here; I sat out in the afternoon sun for a goodly amount of time yesterday and got a bit of color to my undead-like winter skin. Not a burn, mind you, but color.

Our nectarine is loaded with blossoms, simply beautiful in the back yard. We might even get a fruit or two this year! (Last year the tree was 'way too little.)

Now as to the scent of nectarines' and plums' and peaches' blossom, I cannot attest, for this is also the season that ornamental pears bloom richly, attracting hundreds of bees to their flowers, and turning my stomach with their aroma, which is exactly like rotting meat. And unfortunately, the idiot who landscaped this development went strictly for looks -- Ooh! Streets lined with poofy white blossoms of ornamental pears in the spring!

Beautiful, to be sure. But not the kind of air you want to open windows to.

Good Job, Crows!

I've been hearing the hawk screeching almost every morning, and it sounds like the bird is right above the back patio.

But every time I'd open the back door to see where the hawk was, he (or she) would shut up. Or I'd catch a glimpse of him gliding silently away.

This morning, before I heard the hawk, I heard the crows shouting up a storm, and could tell from their calls that they had found either an owl -- or a hawk!

Leery of being crapped on by a mob of crows, I grabbed my camera and went out the door. Crows were circling the neighbor's nearest palmetto, so I thumbed my zoom and went to the far end of the yard, and caught the hawk's image -- indistinctly, I must admit, but there he is. Or she. Shortly after, the hawk swooped away, and the crows went back to their own spring business.

Now I wonder if, because the crows have spotted the hawk, if the hawk will leave and find another place to live. I wouldn't mind a hawk for a denizen of the neighborhood, but I am glad that the crows cued where the hawk was perched.

A Man With Many Legacies

E. Gary Gygax died yesterday.

He was someone, he was no one. He didn't prevent George W. Bush from destroying our nation's reputation around the world; he didn't eradicate smallpox.

He invented "Dungeons and Dragons."

And had he not, there would be no "Aser Stories", as the stories found their inspiration as I listened to a bunch of maniacs playing D & D, and could not help laughing at their co-operational jokes.

My life without Aser would have been unimaginably poorer.

Thanks, Mr. Gygax, and may you be rewarded for the joy you gave countless individuals.

You can't see him, but he's in there somewhere.

For the last week or so, I've been hearing what sounded suspiciously like a hawk screeching in the neighborhood. At times it seemed as though it was just above the patio, it was so loud.

Yesterday I heard the clamor and scrambled out of bed to stare out the window to see if I could spot the vocalist. This time I did. A gorgeous red-tailed hawk sailed across the yards and landed in the palmetto tree in my neighbor's yard. I watched the bird for a few minutes, then walked to the kitchen to get my camera. By the time I got outside, of course, the hawk had moved, though I could still hear him calling.

Maybe resident hawks would be a good thing ... there is this one cat in the area who thinks my finches are snack food ...

Almost Six, with a Good Dog

Sebastian is Lillian's dog, and she's really starting to bond with him.

At 75 pounds, he weighs more than she does. Even so, one of their games is for her to sit in this comfy chair and call him. He then climbs onto her lap (and chest and legs) and sits on her. She thinks it's hysterically funny.

In this pic, he was helping her put on her shoes for school. I was hoping for a view that would give some perspective of her "puppy's" size, but he's so dark that you can't see his head clearly.

What I'd really like to catch is him dragging her across the carpet with his tug toy.

I had my reservations about a border collie - hound cross, but there is no denying that this dog is perfect for her.

Almonds and Riding

The weather continues to be perfect for almond blossom pollination.

The afternoon temperatures are in the mid- to high sixties, giving the bees a long warm stretch during the day to be active.

I did go riding on Thursday, and had a safe and pleasant ride, though I felt a bit stiff throwing my leg across the saddle.

Friday I was really sore, in spite of taking valerian before I went to bed. Sore legs? No, not much. Sore hand!

You see, Dink is shedding. It's that time of year, for horses to get rid of their shaggy fur and uncover the glossy summer coat. So I used the shedding blade on Dink, and got a ton of white and roany hair scattered about on the ground. Then I used the deeply toothed curry, that charmingly makes round waffle-like patties of hair and added lots more hair to the ground. Then I used the shedding blade again to take away more hair loosened but not picked up by the big curry. Then it was time to use the small curry. Finally I was able to use the stiff-bristled brush, and then it was time for the softer brush.

I made the mistake of putting lip balm on my lips before I went out to the ranch. I probably had enough horsehair sticking to my face that I could have passed for Santa Claus.

But it was a good ride, though we kept it short.

If there's any sweeter time of year to be riding, I'd be hard put to think of it.

Spring, and Almond Blossoms Once More

It's just a fact that you're going to hear about almond blossoms for a while.

The air is incredibly fragrant with them here in the Almond Capital of the World, and the orchards on all sides are gracing the landscape with flowers.

Today I took Howie and the Sony camera for a walk along one of the nearby orchards, and this was just about my favorite shot. I like how the blossoms are backlit by the sun, and I like the contrast between the shade on the stems and the white of the petals.

It was hazy today, not a harsh sunlight. The air was delightfully warm, and the bees were active enough that near the trees, the hum of their wings was the main sound to be heard.

I was ready for some sweet weather. I even shaved my legs today, preparing for some brief sitting in the sun in shorts.

Tomorrow I ride for the first time since my riding partner was thrown from her horse last October and had her wrist shattered. I have to say that seeing her fall, screaming as I thought the horse fell on top of her, and the ensuing drive to the hospital really have put me off riding. It's up to clever Dink to bring me back.

Flocking

This sinister crowd congregates in the evenings in my neighbor's sycamore tree.

It's a mixed flock, containing cowbirds and common grackles. When the evening deepens, and the time of perching approaches, the flock begins circling the neighborhood.

Why they circle the neighborhood is unknown to me; I know where they are going to finish up their swooping flight, surely they do, too?

They are going to end up in the blue gum eucalyptus in my front yard, which houses seasonal grackles, sparrows, warblers, finches, robins, a rude kinglet, and hummingbirds. The flock of grackles and cowbirds trace elliptical paths over our block, making tighter and tighter passes at the blue gum. As they swerve in the air above us, if there is no traffic on the street, if there isn't some moron blasting a car radio, we hear them change direction with an amazing swooshing sound, a sound you might expect to hear if you took a fan made of feathers and brushed it rapidly and gently over your ear.

Maybe it's a kind of dance for them to share with each other, a last pledge of flockdom for the night. "We fly together, we turn together, we hold together, and as the sun goes down, we rest together." At the end of the flight, all at once, they fly into the eucalyptus. There is a rattling of leaves as they settle themselves, a few complaintive chirps, and then they are done, home for the night, until the sun wakes them from the other side of the sky.

Pantsleg Grocery Bags

I know I've presented this material before, in the Piker Press, in an article called "Grocery Shopping: Panstlegs or Plastic."

However, I wanted to make the information as widely known as I know how to do, and Google is very interested in Blogger information; maybe other people can find this little demonstration more easily if it's on the blog as well as in the Press.

The first time checkout people see the denim shopping bags, I have to explain what they are; usually the checker picks them up and starts looking for a bar code to scan. After I explain that these are my shopping bags, the next question is "You MADE these?" (I don't know why that's so unusual.)

The baggers get really friendly with the bags then, and handle them a lot, stroking the fabric and opening them to look inside. The first time they load them, they seem a bit awkward and tentative -- it is a different shape of a bag for them, after all.

The next time is quite different. They handle the bags confidently, and will even lecture a co-worker on how to load them for maximum efficiency.

Other customers have admired the bags, too, but most of them have no idea how simple the construction is. That's why I'm reprinting (with permission) the plans from the article in the Piker Press.

Cut the pants legs away from the rest of the pants.

Cut the weaker inside seam away.

Cut off the seam of the cuff. We cut off the seams because they are bulky bits our sewing machines will not want to deal with. I have known otherwise dependable sewing machines to go on strike and walk out of the house when asked to sew over blue jean seams.

Fold the bottom of the split leg to the top, inside out; even the top line if necessary.

Sew the sides together, top to bottom; don't worry if one side is wider than the other -- that just makes it more basket-like. Fold down a half inch along the top to make a hem and sew that.

Cut two denim strips about 2 1/2 inches wide by 27 inches long.

I sewed a line of stitching 1/4 inch away from each edge of the strips; these will be the handles, and I wanted to be able to stop the raw edges of the denim from raveling. Certainly I could have made the strips wider, turned the edges under and made proper hems on all sides, but my cheapie sewing machine hasn't that much power, I haven't that much patience, and we're talking grocery bags here, not red carpet accessories.

Attach the handles to the bag, giving them five inches of attachment for strength. I tested the prototype with a full large box of doggie treats, a small sack of apples, a box of tea, some canned goods from the pantry -- and the handles held, at that point secured only by four dressmaker's pins. Sewn onto the body of the bag, the handles could easily safely carry a watermelon.

I made four of the bags in an afternoon. They will take the place of six to eight paper grocery bags easily; probably take the place of ten or twelve plastic bags.

Just Because I Can!

What are those? Apples? Tomatoes?

Guess again, they are berries from nandina domestica, otherwise known as Heavenly Bamboo, and they are in real life, only about 3/8 of an inch across. Now, besides the fact that I like Heavenly Bamboo, with its colorful foliage and graceful habit, what does the size of the berries have to do with anything?

The "anything" is my new camera, the Sony Cybershot DSC-H7, and its fascinating "macro" feature.

I can set the camera to "macro" mode, and put the lens as close as 1/2 inch away from the subject, and it will focus.

The trick is to keep my hands from shaking! I went through the Jitters Phase with my first digital camera, thinking that apparently I was better off with film than with digital because all my pictures were coming out blurred. Eventually I got a few to come out well, and my confidence returned.

It rained here a few days ago ... all right, I'll be honest, it rained for a week here a few days back, and on the first sunny morning, I went out and played with the camera. The droplets on the fern pine (not a fern, not a pine, but rather podocarpus gracilior) came out unexpectedly well, considering that the area is in shade at that time of day.

That's the kind of shot I've always wanted to be able to take since I got my first cheapie B/W plastic camera when I was seven. (And couldn't, of course.)

Cheerfully, in the wet backyard, I went around snapping photos not only close up, but also to catch one of my favorite phenomena in this part of the world: the mysterious smoking fence.

The first spring I lived in California, I saw the smoking fence and rushed out the gate to see what vandals had set fire to my side yard, only to find that it was steam from the heat of the sun on the wet boards of the fence.

Such is the power of the California sun, and oh, how I welcome it again!

Last of the Sansanquas

Sasanqua camellias are so lovely.

I planted this one on the back bank in a spot that has become semi-shady due to the growth of the shrubs around it. It's been almost two years since I planted it; this year I wasn't sure it would bloom at all after the freezes of the year before, and my neglect of my gardens this past year.

Much to my surprise, a week before Halloween last year, I spotted a bright pink flash of color: the sasanqua had begun blooming.

October is a little early for their bloom; I usually think of them as being Thanksgiving color. When the blossoming began so soon, I thought surely that by Christmas all the color would be gone.

Not so, not so. True to form, the camellia continued blooming through January, and although I'll have to wait until next fall to see them again, these last flowers are welcome: their disappearance means ... it's Spring.