HNY

Granted, my most recent essay is about regional art, both the "regional" and "art" perhaps meriting little attention from your eyeballs, and even though I address some larger issues concerning art, the same might still hold true.

I would be inclined to not link it at all if I didn't think there was more to be gleaned.

It does not escape me that Christmas is upon us. Nevertheless, I can't say I am well-prepared. I have a plan, and I do plan on proceeding with it later today, even though it may require more energy and creativity than I can muster, especially since I have no idea what materials I might find to make it come to fruition.

However, since I'm here and don't now when I might return, I'll wish you, my readers, a Merry Christmas now. And if you don't celebrate, please know that my gratitude, warm thoughts and well-wishes are still extended.

If it's personal is it a parable?

Well, if you find of interest the fact that I noticed a house on my way into town I had never seen before three large firs were cut down in front of it, then you've come to the right place.

Oh, there's another essay up and another on the way; I've written some poems; after a vicious cold snap, we've replaced pretty much everything associated with the well except the pump house; pretty much all the the Christmas packages have been shipped (wife did the heavy lifting, meaning the buying and wrapping); Christmas Eve, Christmas and New Year menus have been planned; photos; and there's another dog in the house, big, fat and blind. Looks a lot like me.

Well, it's white.

The wife has taken to fostering senior dogs in need of rescue.

Like me.

And the house has had to be rearranged to accommodate.

Like...

I was walking said dog the other day when something rather remarkable happened.

Every winter since we moved here I've noticed a flock of small birds that quickly flit between trees. They are so small and elusive they seem almost unnatural, yet in reality they are about the same size as a wren. They also make a noise, a high-pitched tweet not unlike the sound a Cedar Waxwing makes. Thing is, they move too fast and are generally too far away from me to see any markings.

The dog and I were out by the barn when I heard them. Accustomed to seeing them in the air, I didn't spot them right away and had to focus on where the noise was coming from. They were along the front of the red barn, the adjoining fence row, on up to the metal barn, about a dozen of them. And although they kept moving in short bursts of flight, they were close enough for me see markings. I was excited.

Then one flew up, did a little looping swirl and landed for a couple seconds right at my feet.

I was ecstatic.

The dog was oblivious.

Golden-crowned Kinglet

Like I would have forgotten...

Just for you, 36.

Miss me?

I suppose I should write something...

...which is another way to pretty much say what I write every time I sit down to post here...

...which is the same turn of phrase on its head as is my wont...

...and then the gratuitous self-effacing remark that follows...

I've been home a couple days now, paying for it coming as going. And as restful as it was supposed to be, it was not. Not that I expected more, but less would have been nice. Suffice the wife and mother for two weeks, neither of which I spend in that close of proximity for extended periods. Nor they.

But now with two days in the Dungeon, from here on out referred to as the Low Residency, a sense of normalcy (loose use) slowly returns. Thumper again beats out his usual dirge although my gut has yet to cease its frequent purge.

TMI, even couched in rhyme? Then how about some pictures?

 No wonder, really, huh?

Hitting the water

The one regret I had about going to Illinois when I did was I would miss the primary run of salmon at the beginning of October. I also knew since we had company coming the week of my return, there would not be any chance of getting out on the rivers. Yet, I still wanted to give it a shot, and as soon as could get away, I headed out to the Coast Range and to a river I was told was still holding fish in the lower elevations.

Nicer weather days had passed and even though the forecast called for some rain, last Thursday had to be the day. All others were booked. And rain isn't such a bad thing for salmon as a swollen river means they can move easier and more fish will then make the trek. But it was a spitting rain, not enough to make a difference except in my comfort. Still, I dressed appropriately and in that I would be in chest waders anyway, the rain wouldn't really be a factor.

The spot I picked to fish is well known on this river, yet I thought a weekday might be a good day to have some elbow room. There were five others with the same idea, two in a boat and three on the opposite shore. I stood a bit downriver from them, which might have put me at a disadvantage without a prime spot, yet I also avoided the tangle of lines they were experiencing. No thanks.

All of the other guys were using salmon eggs for bait and were having some limited luck. I thought to bring eggs but I was not after the same type of fish they were catching, ones starting to color up for mating. No, I was hoping for a bright chrome, fresh, young salmon and therefore went with spinners and spoons.

Cast, cast, cast, cast, nothing. I applied scent religiously. I bumped a fish and it rose. An old male. "Didn't want it anyway." I said to the two men in the boat after I prematurely yelled "Fish on!" More casting, casting, casting. I changed lures again and again.

And then!

The line screamed off of my reel as the fish headed first over to the other bank and then downstream about sixty yards. I could gain no advantage. A conference was held. I first expressed hope the fish was not foul-hooked. The consensus was that it likely was not, and furthermore it would be a fish of my liking. A gentleman on the opposite bank advised me to bring my rod tip closer to the water, a trick that makes the fish come back on the line or at least stop resisting. I thanked him when it worked.

I soon had the fish within twenty feet of me. It was then I became somewhat confused for my lure was sixteen feet from my rod tip. But the confusion did not last much longer for I saw that the fish was coming in tail first, a small hook in that end with a leader running up to my lure. I was disheartened.

The fish had fought well but was clearly exhausted. I grabbed her tail and pulled her up onto the bank. I estimated her to be about thirty pounds.

Foul-hooked fish must be released. I tried to think of a loophole, for it was not I who had technically foul-hooked the fish. Still, when a consensus was offered I knew I had no choice. I also knew I should take the injurious barb from her tail.

Problem was, her tail was up on the bank, away from me and her head was still very much in the water. I needed to get her further up on the shore and somewhat restrained, and the only thing I had to push with was my hand. Yet, there is nothing to grasp on the front end of a fish except for going through the gills or into the mouth. Grabbing her by the gills might do more harm to the fish so I opted for the latter, which worked well until she clamped down.

I can't say it hurt. Stung a bit, perhaps. She didn't hold on but I did notice blood as I removed the hook from her tail. And as I pushed her from shore I noticed a fair bit more blood, which might have been just enough of a distraction for me to trip over the log behind me and end in the drink myself.

As I righted myself I felt the water run down the inside of my waders. "Kinda insult to injury, eh?" said one fellow in the boat.

"Yeah, fuck me. And yesterday was my birthday. You'd think..." I cut myself short, not only because I knew no sympathy would be forthcoming, but because I should not expect any and instead soldier on.

I wrung out my fleece and tossed it onto the grass bank. My overjacket, being merely water-resistant, was also useless. I now was in shirtsleeves. I found a band-aid for the deepest incision. I had dry underwear, pants and socks in the car but I wanted to fish more. Besides the rain had stopped.

And then it started again.

I took my cue.

Nice view though.

Free time

Yikes! Look at the time!

Not the clock. Days are time, as are weeks. At least I didn't let a month go by.

Those with long memories will know I've been away. Oh, I had my computer with me and I could have posted updates of my travels, like visiting with Lightening 36 (Thanks for lunch!) and highlights from the wedding I attended (my dead brother's middle daughter) and a host of things that came before and in between, but somehow the moment didn't arise, perhaps because I was in it.

A lot happened, so much so that it soon became apparent that were I to sit and document it all, length would become an issue of time for everyone, reader and writer alike. Even deciding what events to put out there would have required dedicating time that I may not have had. And believe me, some things are better left off of the page trail.

Suffice it to say I will be returning next September for a repeat performance.

No, I can't leave it at that.

At the mid-point of last May I wrote this:

Let's just say a friend who carries great influence in the world I play in is coming to town. Not to knight me but to choose among others those to be knighted. I have been asked to select some potential candidates, and again, if not for this appointment then perhaps for other opportunities she is prepared to offer. (This has not stopped me from preparing my own materials, just in case.)

While away, I had dinner at the home of said person and her husband. They run a small gallery, which I was able to visit as well, as it is on the same property. It is an important exhibition space despite its size. My work will hang there in eleven months. 

This could very well be considered the highlight of my trip.

If I were in a reflective mood today I might also speak to reconnecting with friends from forty years ago, even seeing my HS girlfriend and coming to the realization that I could have done much better. If I were in a reflective mood... Other meet-ups were much more positive. Touching.

And then I came home to more of the same. My college mentor and I went to a philosophy conference together. And I will tell you, being taught how to think is not the same as what to think. Thirty years away from the literature, I still held my own.

But this comes too close to reflection. We also spoke at length about fishing.

Finally, I will say that I thought to write here last night but then something made me opt for a few hands of poker. WTF? PS now offers play chips for a price? Perhaps $1.99 for 350K worth of chips is a bargain for some but I wonder what ever happened to the old-fashioned idea of working for one's virtual clay coinage. While proud to say I have no need for buttressing my roll, I am a little chagrined to think what I do have is worth no more than six dollars.

No wonder I more often than not choose to do other things these days.

Countdown

When, exactly, does one begin a countdown? What initiates it?

I'm leaving town in about 36 hours, or at least that's the plan, provided nothing happens between now and then to prevent it. I suppose it's understandable I'm a little jumpy.

Dog is getting better. Appetite and all else except for steadiness on her legs. It's a bit fun to watch her shake off the rain and she still takes sharp turns around corners her butt sometimes can't quite clear. Everyone needs a smile then and again, eh?

And the weather looks clear for the foreseeable future.

Check.

Yep, still good to go.

Pretty much packed. Bringing enough coffee as presents that TSA is sure to pull me aside, so I'm going to the airport extra early.

Just need to mow the lawn tomorrow and pick up a few things I've left laying around.

So, when did I start the countdown? Not including the aborted one? Who knows? But it's begun.

****

Have a new essay up. I'm glad it's out of the way but I'm afraid, dear readers, that there are aspects to it that those who have a minor in English will have problems with.

You know who you are and I'm going to be in your neck of the woods. Twice.

Bluster(y) fall(ible)

No sooner than I hit "Publish" on that last little piece, a blast of rain and wind, the likes of which I haven't seen in a good while, came through and the wife called downstairs, "How do you think the gutters are?" She meant, "Have you checked the gutters this fall? Are there leaves?"

You see, if the gutters don't take the water down under the house, through the smaller pipes and into the six-inch pipe that empties in the ditch/creek out back, the water spills out into the basement window wells. They, in turn, fill to a point where the water starts to come into the house around the bottom of the window frames. I know this because it happened the first year we lived here.

Since then, we have been fairly vigilant regarding the accumulation of leaves. But since the leaves are still on the trees, my answer was more of an assurance than an accounting of my recent actions or inaction.

So, you know what comes next, right?

Better I get wet in the rain than spend my evening with a wet vac.

Remember two years ago when I spent a day and night standing guard over pumps to keep our basement from flooding after a big snow was followed by a big rain? Well, I remember it and thought to check the drain in the laundry room. Good thing, too.

But spotting a problem and assessing the problem are two different things. There was plenty of water around the drain but the water was draining. Still, the water level wasn't going down. That was when I saw there was quite a bit of water making its way under the door from the outside. There's a sloped brick area outside with a grate drain right before the doorway. It gets clogged as well.

Or rather, it gets covered in leaves and such. It didn't help that we had compost sprayed into the flower beds last week and the clean-up in that recess was less than stellar. And I knew it.

While I did the gutters, the wife cleaned the grate. I mopped the floor and all was well.

Except the lights kept flickering until just an hour ago. Or, perhaps I should say it's been an hour or so since they last flickered.

A mighty wind

First off, the dog is better. Not completely, and maybe never 100% again, as if a 14 y/o dog can be. Still, thanks for the kind thoughts.

We've got some wind and rain. I'm thinking it's much too early but what do I know? Maybe it's merely a yin and yang thing with the weather coming in to the east side of the country. Cooler and wetter over the last five or six years is all I'm saying. Early tomatoes were split and they stayed that way throughout the season.

Accordingly, the buzzards started doing their circle and file off south a couple days ago, before this thing hit. Geese and cranes have been in route for over a week. In that the gusts are coming from down that way, everything else gearing up will have to hold tight for a couple days, so says the red lettering on the weather sites.

We lost power earlier today and I would imagine it'll happen again before this is all over. Estimated time of a return of service was 2.5 hours. Pretty good, I think, and well before dark. The wife thought the assurances optimistic, so I brought in a bucket of wood. Not that we need it quite yet, but a light overhead does make things seem warmer. I figured I'd wait it out on the couch with my eyes shut, the return of power to wake me up. "I give it an hour." I said.

Sixty-five minutes later but I said nothing.

Some things just ain't worth mentioning, especially when it's guess work, and even less so when you don't know what the hell you're talking about.

There, I said it.

Dog and such

The wife is asleep on the couch and the dog is on her pad and there both will stay until one or the other needs to go potty, at which point my spouse will rouse and stumble to the john, but the dog will require assistance. I will have to carry it out to the yard, put on its harness and lift her so that she might approximate walking on her own.

The vet told us it was Idiomatic ("Old Dog") Vestibular Disease. Think of it as being so disoriented that the world appears to be on a 45° angle. She has a nystagmus, which no doubt complicates the situation.

We've just finished day two of carrying her around, feeding her by hand and giving her water via a syringe. According to the vet, while this disease comes on quickly (overnight!), it may take a month or more for it to resolve itself. They don't know what causes it and therefore there is no cure (not that those two things always go hand in hand).

We had a cat die a couple years ago due to another type of vestibular issue, a parasite, and the wife is therefore in association mode. If you knew her and her attachment to these animals, you would understand how traumatic this is for her.

I'm being a guy. My pain is reserved, and when not, only for my wife in these situations.

To mention anything about my trip next week to Illinois would be selfish. In fact, it is on hold until we see significant improvement. And the notifications to Illinoisans, while begun, will be timed to that improvement. But right now, things look grim.

Not for me, mind you, for as I say, I'm being a guy, but to varying degrees for those expecting my presence, and with my wife's current state, for the dog. Between the two of them, it is uncertain whose misery is greater. It is also a quality of life issue, although different for each: emotional pain that seems to be unrelenting with the demise of three beloved pets in the past two years and an aging animal who has been under the knife three time this year.

It is times like this I am glad I was raised as a farm kid, yet —and this wasn't always so, so it's not always easy— I am also grateful to have learned that a guy can also give comfort and show love.

On a lighter note, the electrician that came today told us of the yuppies up north who all seem to have fly fishing gear mounted somewhere in the house.

Back

Five days in the big city doing big city things in a small town guy way, mostly hanging by myself or a bit of the one-on-one and rather fulfilling conversations, and when in urban mode, a few of the hit-and-runs, not much more than an hello with the other looking about to see who else there is to talk to. It's okay, this latter interaction, the glow of the former lingering.

Yes, I wrote. Quite a bit and not so much, meaning that deadlines demanded that I spend as much time as possible at the 'puter but a few hundred words shorter than the usual, and the quality just as suspect as those latter engagements mentioned above. I covered myself by making it rather clear I did not particularly like either assigned exhibit. Yet, I did have a bit of fun with one, whether at its expense, I'm not certain.

There was more good and bad to be had as well. I saw a dance performance that blew me away, so much so that I insisted a friend attend the next night's performance with me just so I could watch her be similarly left in awe. And the bad? A building façade that I consider a landmark (in my own mind) had been altered with a mural of a face. Disfigured, really, the thing is.

So, now I have another essay to write.

I could get used to having an opinion.

Of course, a fair amount of scotch was thrown in the mix as well. Not while writing, of course. (Note-taking, yes.) I have a perch I like to take when weather permits, and there I sat in the wee hours. Or, when due for a bit of the 'baccy, in my rig, the view not much save for the homeless woman who seemed to have a monitoring type of relationship with the solar-powered trash can/compacter on the street corner.

And not surprisingly, I've been sleeping a lot since coming home.

Scroll through this for my articles and a flavor of this fest. I saw some of the other pieces reviewed.

Let me see if I have any photos to share... Nope.

Rollin' rollin' rollin'

 Not that you folks expect a daily missive from me. Those days are long past. It's just that I see it's been a few days and it's likely to be several more before I get around to posting something.

Of course, that may change, for as I have for the last couple of years, I am headed north to cover an arts festival. No doubt there will be oddities that I will feel obliged to share.

How could anyone forget the self-flagellating woman from last year's foray?

Hope you have an interesting weekend.

At it

I was beginning to embarrass myself, unable to find the above image among my photo files, searching further and further back and still not seeing it. Could it have been more than two weeks since I took the photo? Then I remembered it was on my phone.

No, I shot it a mere six days ago, long enough for me to get up the gumption to return to the building and continue my task. Long enough to not feel it in my hands and shoulders.

I took the photo after I removed all of the old tape from the seams of each panel on the bottom row. It was well past time to take care of this matter, and as it was, I spent three hours one day and five the next to complete the row.

The clouds are nice.

Today I hit the next level of panels. A six foot ladder leaning against the sides was of sufficient height to reach. And I worked at it a full seven hours. Until done. And now my arms are just-flew-in-from-Chicago tired. Hands pretty sore as well.

I think I'll do something else tomorrow, like paint the remaining weeds blue before ordering four units of compost to blow in. I could have it just dropped,  move the thirty yards around with my front end loader and then spread it by hand.

I could. But then I doubt I'd be able to finish the greenhouse. Beside taking off the rest of the tape, which should be fun as I will be climbing onto the structure itself, I then have to scrub it and re-tape. And then, if I have time, install flashing over the tape, a feature I wish would have come with the kit when we bought it ten years ago. Many of the wood panels need replaced as well.

But then the yard is going to look better than it did when we bought the place.

(Note the freshly painted roof in the background.)

The fact that I'm leaving in three weeks for another three might have something to do with the pace.

Not that it means anything

I found out this week that some of my art has been published in a book. While available at the linked site, I have not bothered much with the particulars of the publisher, leaving it sufficient that I am familiar with the editors of the anthology. Yet, I was not surprised that copies of the book were not freely forthcoming to those included within its pages and ordered a couple copies, one to peruse and the other to tuck away.

In preparing for this announcement to you folks, I went to the above site to get the link. It was then I discovered the price has dropped from the list to about four bucks less, this in its first week. Sure, I could have saved a few dollars but that's not the rub.

And there is a second volume in the works.

While he's away

I don't have all of the details, and even the broad strokes might be missing components, left behind in the second and third hand telling.

He, the wife and kids moved to the country. Wife hooked up with another and left another after a brief fling, meaning that she jumped the gun, yet it was too late to return. The boys left but the daughter stayed behind. Then her teen years came and she went.

Then his heart gave out and the place went to shit.

Now he's off spreading his mother's ashes.

We offered to watch his place.

Among other things

Rain.

Not that we don't need it, if only to knock back a few wildfires. The farmers will still irrigate their fields tomorrow, the precipitation merely a bonus, and I have no doubt there are overhead systems spraying away even as I write this at one o'clock in the morning.

Scheduled to kick on at 0430 hrs, I turned ours off. Not that the lawn doesn't need it. I just don't want it to have any. Tomorrow will be sunny and by Saturday new weeds will be sprouting, just in time for me to paint them blue one final time this year. In the next week or so we'll haul in four units (30 sq. yds.) of compost for mulching the flower beds and under the trees, and pray we'll be done with all but touch-ups until we're out of here for good.

I've been on 'em all summer and done a heckuva job browning. (Just had to.)

I'm a wee bit proud of myself, you see, for this is the first year in five I've had the energy or been without fear of a Thumper tantrum.

Even cut and split a quarter cord today.

Now watch...

Speaking of watching, I've been burning a good deal of petrol rubberneckin' field burns this last week. A few good shots but cloud cover has been an issue. Wispy don't cut it, nor does overcast, and the smoke coming up from the southern forests make for lousy horizons.

While I'm hoping this will be the last year for chasing fires and char, there is one thing I wish I had, and that is some good video of run-off from these fields.

And here's your flags, 36:

No doubt run over by an implement or two.

How far is from out of town?

 

I gave this photo the provisional title, "The Door," although it was more a nod to an observation I made —not while taking the shot, but after—or perhaps an assumption, except I know that we've all been there, either looking or being looked at when the door opens.

I was out looking for burned fields yesterday. I had already made a big loop north of town and the plan was to go south. I was passing back through town when my belly said "Lunch." But I didn't want to stop in my town as the temptation might have been too strong to just head home afterward and take a nap. And, if I was going to go home after lunch, well then, I might as well get some food at home and save a few bucks.

Not wanting to go home quite yet made the decision for me and I passed my turn-off with a destination in mind in the next town over, some ten miles further.

I am quite certain the two men in the foreground, the only other customers at the time, turned to see when I opened the door, but I did not bother to notice. Had I not been attired in a variation of their uniform, I might have.

The special was a cheeseburger and fries, which made it easy, and I already had a preview as the two men had just been handed theirs. The older gent was talking about his 25th wedding anniversary when the young Mennonite couple came in, and again, I took no notice if the two men turned then either.

And again, my phone paid attention to the particulars. I merely wanted to get a flavor of the place.

But I did notice the young couple spending quite a bit of time looking over my way. So much so and in such a way —smiles, giggles, whispers— that I had to do a quick inventory: No, my ball cap did not have any witty saying stitched into it, my t-shirt a simple gray, and my pants a simple denim carpenter's.

Not that I had not made my own quietly discreet assessment.

Putz or putzing

I can't say I've ever been called one, though my activities, both constructive and less so merit such a leveling.

Let's see: I cut down a tree and dragged the limbs to an interim pile halfway to the burn pile; other wood, old rotten rounds made it all the way by way of the front end loader; campfire area was weed-wacked, as was an are around two squash plants volunteering up from the old Beuys' squash pile; the greenhouse deck was swept; and a couple gopher mound traps were set. Above me, two guys sprayed aluminum paint on the outbuilding roofs.

Which is why, when I saw multiple pillars of smoke rising both near and far, I wished I was elsewhere.

They started early today, around 1:30, as opposed to around 5:00 as has been the norm this year. (In past years it was usually about 3:00) And the fires continue now, some 4.5 hours later.

Except I'm a bit tuckered to go chasing, plus the sky is not ideal for shooting, what with all of the smoke. I'll try to go out a half day tomorrow, or wait until my good camera gets back from the shop and then take a day to go looking for the blackened field.

Judging from the sky, they shouldn't be too hard to find.

Oh, and as a noun? Depends on who you ask.

Making the most of lazy hazy

There are some photos on my phone I think I should show you, but the cable is upstairs in the bedroom and I am of sufficient sloth to not make that trek unless I need to for other reasons such as getting outdoor clothes on my body. But then it will be too late, even if I was to remember to grab the chord, as I will already be thinking about those things needed doing elsewhere. Those priorities.

I would say that much is getting done around the 'stead these last few days, my intention if not for overdoing it a bit one day last week and thus reminding myself again that 100% is not yet within my reach, even if the new 100% is 75%. Judging from the amount of sleep, I may be at 40%.

But you didn't come here to read about my issues. And I am reminded that there are other who have it much worse, a future uncertain, or, unfortunately, more certain.

It was within a point of exhaustion that I ran errands Friday. The list had grown since leaving home and encroached upon my own plans for the rest of the day. Add to that an email telling me that multiple fires would be set at about the same time I would be winding my way home. Sleepy and without a cooler for perishables,  I had no choice but to keep moving. Until I just had to stop.

I had passed this field of bales several times in the last week and thought to stop each time, or when the light was right, except that I am not in the business of photographing bales no matter how picturesque. And believe me, I have passed up some nice shots of long shadows in the pink light of a sunset. But here it was, just how it should be.

Then I went home, took a nap, went to play poker and more than doubled my money.

On the road

I thought about fishing. I wished to go but just enough that if the guy called and said "Let's go," I would abide. He didn't. I cannot recall much of what I did instead except run a few errands, eat, nap and make vague stabs at resolves. Then early to bed. That was Sunday.

I needed to be well-rested for Monday. An old college friend, up from the Tahoe area, was going to be skiing on Mt. Hood. It was 1982 since we last laid eyes. Two hours to get there, two more to visit. I could have extended the time it took to pull into my drive had I chased a couple grass field fires a few miles to my east but needed a nap.

Headed to the mountain I saw something I did want to photograph on my way home. I needed no encouragement or accompaniment.

Depending on your eyesight, you might have to click on the image to get the chuckle.

And now I have to back up.

I left home with time to spare, mostly so I could stop if I saw things like the above, and should the spirit move me, take some up-close-and-personals of that big mountain. I was a good hour early for our lunch, and with my friend still up on the slopes, I had plenty of time to contemplate the composition of this one.

Blip

New essay is up. It contains lost episodes of my trip to the east side of the state. Thanks for reading.

For the birds

Call me goofy, but I talk to the birds out by the barns. Not long conversations, mind you, just a "good morning" or "evenin'," addressing them by type. Then they fly away.

What can I say? I like them and if I'm in a mood, they undo it. I pay attention to their comings and goings, what they're feeding their chicks under the bridge, up in the houses and under the eaves. I know when those babies fledge and congratulate them all.

In the past week the turkey hen walked off with her poults, two families of wrens flew off, the green and purple swallows celebrated the way they do, all, students and teachers, flying around in a cloud of swoops and dives, and there is a noticeably larger number of white-crowned sparrows on the fence line.

The barn owl is still sitting on eggs, that is if she has eggs up in the nesting box, and that is if it is not a he. Whatever sex, I suspect it is the reason we found a large pile of feathers in a back paddock the other day. Feathers large enough and of the right colors to be those of a small falcon. I have cleaned falcon talons out of that nesting box in years passed.

And just today, as I was driving into town, I gathered there must be something dead down by the river.

Probably a fish.

I'm thinking about going fishing this weekend.

New art-related essay

You will remember I took a trip last month. I'm sure I mentioned I have been writing about it. Seems like ages, doesn't it?

Well, I've actually written two articles. The first one is here and the other will be published later in the week after I've tweaked it a bit more.

Thanks for reading it.

No photos

In other news, the turkey hen crossed the road and went into the woods with about eight poults. (That's right, Google spellcheck, "poults.")

I was taking a nap in the dungeon when the wife called from upstairs. I grabbed my camera but was too late. My count might be a bit off as well.

Another nap was in order when I came home from town today. I had some sinus issues, I imagined caused by whatever was constituting the haze beside and along with the wheat harvest. I medicated and as I sat down on the couch and propped up my legs, decided to check email one more time. Here is was just shy of quitting time for state employees and my friend from ODA was letting me know some burns were about to commence.

Tough. I needed to sleep. Yet, I did stand back up and have a look northward, just to get a bearing for later.

I have just returned from "later." I thought to maybe photograph the fields with some long shadows falling. The big bales of hay looked nice in the rolling fields but I drove on.

I came home skunked. Must've been far off the roads.

So, you get these from yesterday:

And this one from a whole two weeks ago:

I rather like this last one.

I wish they'd get crackin' on more fields cracklin'.

Mostly smokey

Mojo asks if the field burns ever get out of control. The short answer is: Not very often.

I have seen where the water truck that dampens the perimeter of a burn area may have missed a spot and the fire has crept out toward the road, and I have heard a story or two over the years of a jump, yet these are rarities. Meteorological conditions are considered, roads blocked and fires orchestrated. It is actually a spectacular sight to behold. Imagine an eighty-acre field where once the fire is sufficiently sparked, the plume rises five thousand feet into the air with the grass chaff and stubble is blackened in five minutes.

First of the season

As anticipated, I received the email announcing the burns for the day. I was on the road at the time and rerouted with the hope my knowledge of the fields and roads that run along them would find me lucky.

These are jpegs. I shot RAW as well. After all, I don't want to burn myself again.

Oh, and after more than doubling up at the home game last night, I left with a very small profit but with a belly full of laughs.

Where there's smoke

It seems fitting to check in again, in that the neighbor with the wood pile worked four days this week, waiting to start splitting today.

I did a bit of firewood-related this week, not to his scale, mind you, but I will not let that stop me from remarking as a way to provide an update on another subject.

As a dedicated bunch (bless your hearts), you know of the issues with Thumper, the gut and attitude that have kept the heavier farm-related activities to a minimum over these past —sheesh— five years or so. You may also recall I was told last September that further rest —up to a year— was the best option, despite my fret of neglecting said duties as they mounted.

Well, I think it safe to say the gut issues are finally under control, and with that some energy returned, evidenced by the firewoody thing. The bucked logs strewn about the place since last October have been picked up and hauled to outside the barn; the cord and a half of split that sat under a tarp most of the winter is short a quarter of being put up; and, although pooped from that effort, I talked myself into seeing if I could still swing a six-pound and hit a wedge "just so" to see what I was up against for the estimated half-cord of oak, crab apple and cherry now waiting.

Thumper complained only once. And although I was ready for bed three hours earlier than usual and slept nine, I can only minimally complain about a corresponding level of soreness and fatigue this morning. A day of rest and I'll be right as rain.

But that's not the only news.

Hay season is here. Actually, it's been here for several weeks now, some bales still sitting in the fields while windrows abound.

It's in those windrows, you see. I was mistaken.

I received my first email from the State two days ago that a field burning would be taking place that afternoon.

Indeed, a drive yesterday into the rolling hills south of us brought with it hundreds of acres of windrows and a smaller proportion of chaff.

Yesterday's winds no doubt prevented more burns (couldn't find the one that happened Wednesday), but given conditions today, I reckon this afternoon will find me chasing plumes.

And then a home game this evening.

I should probably take a nap.

Over the course

You'll remember our neighbors, the ones who mow their lawn twice a week, sometimes twice a day. Industrious folks. Well, I should take a picture of their yard right now, and if he isn't taking the day off tomorrow I might just do that before the sun reaches their side of things and poses a problem for my lens.

Yesterday morning they received a log truck's load of fir logs, I counted about twenty in all with bases all around eighteen inches in diameter and tips a good fifty feet further on. Just as they have every other year since we've been here.

By 10:30 he had his 30-inch chainsaw in hand and started bucking away in eighteen-inch lengths. He took a half hour break at dinner time, worked another hour and a half and packed it in after a total of ten hours of sawing. It being the Sabbath and all today, he waited until 10:00 to begin again and by 4:30 he was done.

While he cut, the wife moved the cut and stacked the pieces end-to-end and three high all about a perimeter until a nice little fort was made, the yard of the enclosure covered in chips. This is what I'd like to photograph. I would have earlier today, but like I said, the sun.

Always impressive, even more so given he's likely five years my senior.

I am curious about the removal of the wood chips, how they will do it and where they will burn them, but more what direction the wind will be when that time comes.

So, in response, I painted weeds blue for four hours. The yard is pretty much under control but the back paddocks and pasture had  their surprises. A few previously camouflaged scotch broom presented their green selves amid the dying grasses, as did the tansy that had yet to bloom. All were dispatched. And I put a dent in the blackberries as well. But Lord, the thistles this year! An impossible feat.

"Can you mow them?" asked my wife.

"I could." But I changed my answer to "I will later" when I remembered what I wanted to tell her earlier in the day.

"There's a turkey hen sitting on eggs in the east field, not too far from the pond."

"Are you sure?"

The type of bird and gender, yes, although I will admit that I saw no eggs. Yet, given that she did not move as I hit a bit of tansy five feet away and my nose detected a funk I hadn't experienced since we offed the ducks, meaning that she wasn't moving for much of anything, I figured she had her reasons.

So, we wait.

If the neighbor took the week off from his job, I could be SOL on the photo because he will no doubt split tomorrow and the next day while the wife stacks in the shed.

Then I reckon it'll be time for them to paint their house as they do every year.

And the heads on the thistles turn purple.

UPDATE

Got it.

Photo Dump 2

Up close.

Winding roads make for slow, careful travel. Add narrow as a descriptive and not only does speed decrease further and caution increases, stopping to photograph is not always an option for fear of the odd vehicle coming around a bend blind.

Similarly, although I saw many place I would have liked to try my luck with rod and reel, I was in Diamondback territory.

 This fellow's name is Leonard. He's a miner with a stake or two in the mountains and fifteen miles off a paved road. He mines Thundereggs, our state rock. His mine is linked in my link. He told me he's almost 100 years old and he was a bit wobbly to be sure. Yet, see that buldge under his jacket on the right side? That's a .44.

 While I worried a bit about bears in my campsites, this bunny was somewhat reassuring that there were either none in this area or I wouldn't be low enough on the food chain.

 Qucickdraw contest in Canyon City. 

Everyone was packin'. Nice blade. Note the iPhone.

 Shoe tree out in the middle of nowhere.

 

Sumpter train and dredge in an old gold mining town. Tailings for miles on end.

 

 No idea.

Cooperative goats.

Photo Dump 1

I returned home from my eastern Oregon journey last evening and I have a lot of catching up to do in my social networking obligations, domestic duties and farm chores. I have stories to tell, yet I am not certain time will allow any to make it to these pages as I did take this trip in part to find material for my publisher, and making something of that will no doubt account for much of my time and thinking for the next week or more.

Still, I will find time to go through the many photos I took along the way and dump a few your way over the next couple of days, some with commentary, others without.

Today will be vistas.