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.