The Eye of the Beholder

Things that caught my eye during the last few fly-overs:

• a perfect head of lettuce (enlarge it)
• poppies waking up (scroll through the others too)
• a couple of things that made me laugh and laugh again
• two great last lines
• Zhoen's link to this nightmare
• a view I hope to see in person, from the driver's seat of a dream machine
• decorating ideas for my workshop
• caddis fly lux home, found through link here (scroll down)
• more dream machines, from link here
• someone's peek into my soul this morning
• a website that explains why I'm a Skywalker
• an iris close-up to steal my heart

There are more, but this is long enough for tonight. See you around.

Quick Note

One by one...

I'm out visiting other blogs, my catch-up day, but wanted to leave this that I found over at Whiskey River blog:

"Stuff your eyes with wonder . . . Live as if you'd drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It's more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories."- Ray Bradbury

Desktop

Site of recent spidercide.

Not much to say this morning; working on payroll taxes for the little Quaker school at my Meeting, for which I volunteer to take care of the bookkeeping stuff.

I wrote, a few posts back, about duct tape being a girl's (old broad's) best friend. Just thought I'd show Duct Tape Use #976 - tea mug holder. Probably wouldn't need it if I kept my desktop clean, but since the tape was already there, and since there wasn't room enough anywhere else to place my mug, I plopped it into the space conveniently provided by the tape manufacturer.

I think this might qualify for one of those things that "works well," which blog-friend Barrett Bonden writes about in his blog. Maybe not. But it works well for me this morning.
(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

BBQ and My Old Man

Daddy

EcoRover of Montana posted about a BBQ he recently enjoyed. That prompted me to dig through my old files from when I used to participate on the newsgroup, rec.food.cooking, 14 or 15 years ago. I had written a piece, intended as humor, about my father, who loved everything Texas, despite the fact that he wasn't born there, nor did he grow up there. So, if you who drop by now and then will indulge me, I present it here:

M. L. McLemore’s Lone Star Baste
For those of you who like barbecue, I offer one of my late father's concoctions for basting, which I learned today is also called the mop (thanks, Richard Thead).
Recipe By : (c) 1996 Martha C. McLemore - BBQ Mailing List

2 Six Packs Lone Star beer -- one on ice, the other one doesn't matter

1 Quart cheap vinegar -- better to scrimp on the vinegar than on the beer

1 Small bottle Tabasco -- no substitutes

1 Large head of garlic -- peel & finely mince

1 4-oz Can black pepper

1 Small Jar French's Mustard -- baby crap, he called it, but he ate it on almost everything - go figure!

6 dried jalapeno peppers -- crushed; he called them firecrackers.

1 Pound butter -- melted, none of that greasy margarine, for crissake!

1 More 6 Pack Lone Star -- on ice

50 Pound Bag ice

1 side of beef -- OR 1 helluva big pig

2 young'ns with fly swatters -- on rotating shifts

1 wheel cheddar cheese -- the kind that smells like work socks at the end of the day

2 Boxes crackers

1 Case PIC coils

2 lawn chairs -- one for his butt, one for his feet

1 Stetson -- his cookin' hat, not the one he wore to the rodeo

1 Pair shades -- made out of welder's glass

2 Cartons Lucky Strikes or Camels -- filters?! Real men don't smoke filtered butts, what's the matter with you, FOOL?!

1 Zippo lighter, circa 1943 -- extra flints & fluid

1 More Six Pack Lone Star -- on ice

1 loud wind-up alarm clock -- the one he called "The Voice of God"

2 50-lb Bags mesquite or pecan chips -- soaked in water overnight in the dogs' washtub, which was actually one of those galvanized cattle troughs - nothing was too good for his 'dawgs'. (Jealous of his dogs, you say? Damn right, I was! He never hit his dogs and they didn't have to swat flies for him!)

1 Six Pack Pabst Blue Ribbon -- ice optional. Never give the good stuff to the neighbors who wandered over, but always have something to give them! M. L.'s personal Code of the West.

Empty one 6-pack of Lone Star into a 3 gallon stock pot. Add the vinegar, mustard, Tabasco, butter, peppers, garlic and a fifth of water. Bring to a high, rollin' boil to melt the butter; keep hot on the cool end of the grill.

Fire up the cooker when you get home on Friday night. Burn a couple or three mesquite logs (his preference) to get a foot-thick bed of cherry-red coals. Close the grill to keep in the heat. Add sufficient wet chips to produce enough smoke that the new neighbors call the fire department, but not so much that you put out the fire. (Long-time neighbors just bring in the wash, close their windows and wait him out.)

When the smoke dies down so you can get near the grill, unearth the beast of honor from the washtub, rub it dry, sprinkle with the lightest coat of salt and brown sugar, lay the carcass on the grill. Quick, close the lid and prepare for the rest of the event.

Ice down the rest of the beer in the washtub. (Hell, yes, in the same water! Just add more ice; eventually the water won't be pink anymore. Besides, you don't drink the water, now, do you?)

Set up "camp," as it were. Send the kids after whatever you forgot, like the Coleman lantern, your long-sleeved shirt and the tv-trays. And the pie-screen, to keep the bugs off the cheese. Those tiny sweet pickles and another jar of mustard. And that little portable transistor radio, don't forget the extra batteries.

Every half-hour or so, check the coals and the beast. Add chips to the one and baste the other. In the beginning, it's easy to keep which is which straight, but by Saturday afternoon, when this repast is *supposed* to be ready, the longs hours of no sleep and Lone Star have taken their toll. It was not uncommon to find wood chips charred to the carcass and the favorite basting brush singed beyond recognition. (They loved my father down at the paint store; sold him more 3" bristle brushes than any other two stores' customers combined.)

After around 3 am, those of us not on bug patrol were no longer awakened by the "Voice of God", M. L. having tossed it across the highway into the oil field. I think it gave him no end of joy to imagine that clock coming to rest next to some aged rattlesnake, vibrating the old viper out of its last 6 buttons, at least.

In the morning, the rest of us would enjoy a good breakfast then wander out to see how the sacrifice was coming along. Daddy's breakfast empties were neatly placed back into the wooden case, courtesy the second shift bug patrol, or my mother. I guess she didn't object to his drinking in public, as long as he didn't appear to be a slob about it.

He hardly ever used the full case of PIC coils. After midnight or so, no self-respecting mosquito or fly came with 100 yards of M. L. or the grill. If the beer didn't do the trick, there was always that marvelous baste simmering on the back of the grill.

Although the bugs gave Daddy's barbecue a wide berth, he had to quietly let only a few trusted friends know when he was planning to cook because his was the absolute best barbecue for miles and miles around. Even his enemies acknowledged his expertise: "That McLemore is one sorry s.o.b., but god-almighty, can that man cook!"

Around noon, the friends who were invited and the dogs' pals began to gather. You know how it is said that dogs and their owners often resemble one another after a few years of cohabitation? Well, you could certainly tell which of the 20 or so mutts criss-crossing our yard on barbecue day belonged to Daddy. They were the ones lapping up spilled Lone Star, wolfing down stinky cheddar loaded with mustard, and the only ones all the other dogs refused to sniff.

There's a recipe somewhere in all of this, but danged if I remember where I put it.
(c) 1996 Martha C. McLemore

That list should have read 6 kids; there are three boys and three girls in his second family.
Re: PIC coils - mosquito repellent in flat coil shape that you burn to keep all sorts of bugs away. Worked well, most of the time. Except on those Corpus Christi mosquitoes, which were rumored to carry off livestock left unattended - one horse or cow per mosquito. Okay...yes, I made that rumor up just now, but they could have done it, you know, they are that big! Everything's bigger in Texas.

(2009) Martha McLemore

When I Grow Up...

I want to be like Helen.

Murder at Midnight

Such sad eyes

There is a tiny hole in the backdoor screen I've been meaning to repair since last fall. What's that old line about the road to hell and good intentions?

...

Anyway, the evening was nice and cool so I opened the backdoor to enjoy the night air while I sat at the computer catching up with blogs. I noticed a few of the smaller flying insects and a couple of moth-like creatures, about 6mm or 7mm, flitting about, making a slight nuisance of themselves. No big deal, really. I don't mind sharing my space with a couple of little bugs, as long as they don't bite or bring the plague in on their tiny little feet.

...

Out of the corner of my eye, I see what I think is one of the moths flying low just above the cord to my phone charger, which dangles down from the top shelf of the desk to the bottom one. Moving rather oddly for a flying insect, I think to myself. I reach for my glasses, the hair at the back of my neck beginning to stand up. That primitive brain is already poised for danger, telling my feet to get ready to take my body out of harm's way.

...

Holy crap, it's a SPIDER!!!

...

Oh, good god, look at the size of that thing! And it's walking this way! Oh, geeze, oh geeze, ogeeze-ogeeze-ogeeze! Here it comes!

...

Do I kill it or just get out of the way? KILL IT--KILL IT!! You have to ASK!?!

...

A slightly used tissue leaps into my hand and I strike with rattlesnake precision at the spider the size of a shetland now doing the fireman slide down the cord.

...

"I'm sorry, geeze, I am so sorry! Please forgive me."

...

Squish-squish-smack, grind and squish.

...

"Please forgive me, spider!"

...

Shudder, shake and squirm. Pulled three or four more tissues from the box at once, wrap them around the dead (god, please let this thing be dead, I'm begging you, pleasepleaseplease!) spider.

...

I shiver in the chair, the adrenalin coursing through my body way out of proportion to the threat, long after the spider is pulverized and can do absolutely nothing to me. Sort of like how a cat's neck fur stands up long after whatever frightened it is gone, you know. The body stays on alert for about five minutes after the spider is dead. Can't help it, just made that way. At least I didn't scream this time.

...

I know that the spider was probably doing me a service by coming out of its hiding place after some of those flying bugs that came in through the hole in the screen. Can't help my reaction. It was a SPIDER! This was a wolf spider, about the size of a dime, a young one, probably didn't even have its gaboon viper fangs in yet. And I do feel contrite and remorseful and guilty...somewhat.

...

SPIDER! Hello, people! It was a honking huge, fang-bearing, too-damned-many-legs, freaking-me-out SPI-DER!

...

I'm fixing that screen first thing in the morning. As soON as all this adreNALine has run THROugh my SYStem!

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

Waffles, Mwawk and Catching Up

Gastric Beast was awake before I was this morning. I tried to put it off for a couple of hours, but it was having none of it. GB propelled my body out of bed, down the stairs and to the kitchen, but I had to go to the throne room first. It grudgingly waited until I emptied my bladder and brushed my teeth, grumbling louder with each passing minute.

"Feed me," GB warned, twisting and turning my stomach into a pretzel of discontent.

"Just a minute, there, Hotfoot!" I sassed back. "Just who is in charge of this body?"

A loud growl and slight discomfort in the midsection answered my question. (Made me think of a verse in one of Friend BB's poems, this one about rock climbing, which suggested to me that the sole purpose of our arms and legs is to move the body around, that perhaps we would be limbless, brainless, if Torso were content to spend its life in one spot: but, I digress.)

GB and I fixed waffles. I fixed, GB supervised, decided which toppings, decided not to wait for tea or coffee, pinched when I picked up the camera to take the picture above.

I really hate it when GB wakes up before I do. Starts my day off on a sour-stomach note, know what I mean?

I slept in a little longer than usual this morning - which is why GB pushed me out of bed - and I missed the Sunrise Concert. The choir had moved on to other chores, having fulfilled its obligation to the world to raise the sun, so there was very little birdsong. Except for Mwawk, who called off and on for about fifteen minutes, with no answer from Kwawk. Is there trouble in Paradise? Perhaps Mwawk didn't perform the Twig Dance to Kwawk's satisfaction? Mwawk bwawked when Kwawk tocked, and was found tuneless, therefore unsuitable? Cat got Kwawk's tongue...ooooh, I shouldn't even joke like that. I take that back.

Maybe Kwawk will show up later today and there will be a reunion worthy of its own blog-post.

I follow so many blogs I have difficulty reading all of them during my down time throughout the week, so I spend some time this morning catching up. Joe Hyam has added to the ongoing poetry call-and-response he and Lucy are writing together. I was particularly taken with this one.

Oh! You must go read Lucy's Garden Haiku, if you don't do anything else today! Then check out her cathedral photos.

Lindsay has taken me to Africa with lovely pictures and journaling. Michelle posted pictures of some new-to-me flowers. Susan told of carrying rocks for the Atlantic Ocean to its friend the Pacific Ocean. Zhoen introduced me to Paul Erdős, and has posted photos of some dream machines, one of which, a 1965 Triumph TRW, looks like the motorcycle I had my first adventure on, clinging for dear life to the body of its driver, praying I would live to tell my children and grandchildren about it. Harlequin has taken me on an internal journey with her poetry.

These are just a handful of the blogs I read, and I'd better get back to the others, or another day will slip by without being refreshed by glimpses of their worlds.

After that, I'm going for a walk. Today is a knock-em-dead gorgeous day, couldn't possibly be finer. I think the wet weather system of the last couple of days was being pushed along by this high-pressure cell. Lucky us!

(c) 2009 Photo and text. Martha McLemore

Bw-wah-h-h-h! (Backstory to Grandchild)

When my grandson was born, I had an experience I’d never had before, or since. I call it emotional hurling.

The day after he was born, several of our family members met in the maternity ward waiting room for visiting hours to begin. We were joyful, filling each other in on the details of his birth, how his mom was doing...all the details the others had not been there to know firsthand. We were having a good time.

From out of nowhere, I felt my body heave, starting in the pit of my stomach. A wave of nausea came over me, but instead of throwing up stomach contents, I threw up emotions.

“Bwa-a-awhhhh! Bw-w-wa-a-h-h-h!”

Only sound came out of my mouth. My eyes filled with tears which flooded down my cheeks. I was sobbing, but I wasn’t feeling sad, nor were these tears of joy. It was really weird. I felt detached from what was happening.

I tried to apologize and say that I was okay, but another rush of emotion came flying out of me, more sobbing, buckets more tears. My behavior was uncontrollable and was beginning to upset everyone else in the room. I went to the women’s restroom, thinking perhaps splashing cold water on my face would help.

Before I could do that, the heaving stopped, as did all the other symptoms. I didn’t know what to think.

One of my friends came in to check on me. She’s a retired RN. I asked her if she had ever heard of such a thing. She said it likely was stress, or maybe relief that my daughter and grandson were fine – a subconscious response to an unconscious fear, a motor reflex kind of thing.

Made sense to me, so I didn’t give it another thought.

I had the same experience a couple more times, in the restaurant where my ex-Beloved and I went for lunch after spending time with mother and son. This time the “bwwahhh” was louder, longer and my face was soaked with tears; I mean instantly flooded, no trickle and then a torrent – just immediately soaking wet.

People looked at my husband as if he were responsible for my outburst; maybe they thought he had hurt me. We turned back to our food and I was trying to make light of the outburst when it happened again! I was mortified!

Ex-Beloved looked around at the tables close to us and said, simply, “New grandmother, today.” Lots of smiles, knowing nods, then we were ignored.

In talking with other women afterwards about the emotional hurling, none of them had ever had it happen to them or anyone they knew. One of my friends said it reminded her of the scene in the movie, "An Unmarried Woman," where Jill Clayburgh’s character is so overwrought about losing her husband to another woman that she vomits on the street.

Over the next couple of months after D’s birth, I told the story a few times, but never had anyone tell me they had had the same sort of thing happen to them. I decided it was an anomaly, and let it go. But the brain stored the experience away, as it does everything, in all of us.

When Grandpa Joe and Jeep-Man had their brief exchange in the coffee shop Thursday morning, I recognized the sound of an emotional hurl coming on when Joe said, “Thank you” to Jeep-Man. There was a soft quiver at the beginning of ‘thank’ that was swallowed down by the time he got to ‘you.’

I knew that sound, and the brain said, “Oh, yeah, that was what you sounded like when D was born, remember?”

Maybe I projected onto Joe my memories of how my body reacted to the ancient, id-driven fears surrounding birth. In writing what I think Joe was reacting to, perhaps I was completely wrong. After all, I don’t know men and their emotional lives. Maybe a man would never have such a dissociative reaction, like I did. Maybe no other human being on the face of the earth has ever had my reaction, for any reason.

But I know that sound, and Joe made it, probably unconsciously. It was the beginning of “Bwa-ah-hh!”

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

Grandchild

What prompted this post was a chance encounter at my local coffee shop Thursday morning. I was standing in line behind a man whom Linda, the cashier, addressed as Joe. He is a regular, hangs out with a small group of men who gather there in the morning before going off to work, or golf, or fishing, or whatever it is they do each day. Until Thursday morning, I didn't know his name, barely paid him any attention, in fact. Just knew his face from being a semi-regular, myself.

Linda placed a coffee mug on the counter before Joe had a chance to say anything.

"Your regular order, Joe?" she asked, reaching for a fork and spoon to add to his tray. She had started to walk toward the bagel display, but stopped, awaiting his response.

"No, I think I'll have one of those cherry danish things," he said. "I'm celebrating this morning."

Linda lifted her eyebrows in mild surprise and asked him the cause of his celebration.

"I was awakened at midnight last night," he said, pausing, his face reflecting wonder or puzzlement - I couldn't tell which.

"My son called to tell me I am a grandfather!"

He and Linda chatted for the few seconds it took to fill his order and pay for it. How nice, I thought, a brand-new Grandpa. Joe took his mug and tray to the coffee urn area, while I got my order and found a booth. I intended to work on a story I've been trying to finish for several weeks now, but I was taken by the exchange between Joe and one of his unnamed coffee buddies.

"Did I hear right? You're now a grandfather?" asked the Jeep-Man. (He owns a big red Jeep and parks in 'my' spot almost every morning. I'd deflate his tires, but his Jeep could pulverize my ancient, rusting Jimmy, so I don't do it.)

"Yep, my son called me at midnight! It's a boy!"

Lots of good wishes from the other coffee-buddies, most of it lost to me because I couldn't follow all the voices at once. Then Jeep-Man spoke up again under the din of all the other talk; his voice a bit different, as if just the two of them were in the room, or as if what he had to say was a very private conversation in some sort of code. Made me listen intently.

"Everyone okay?"

"Yes," answered New Grandpa, "they seem to be. Thank you."

In the space between "be" and "thank you" barely a breath was taken, but there was a monumental change in tone and meaning in that space. I heard the ragged edge to the 'thank you' and felt it.

Both men instantly went back to their regular hale-and-hearty, good ol' coffee-buddy patter, as if nothing had transpired, but it did. It did. Jeep-Man and New Grandpa Joe let the door to the world of male emotions crack open just a wee bit, and I was witness.

In that exchange, I heard and felt the fear of a spectre as old as humanity itself, whispered underneath the words of polite inquiry. Joe and Jeep-Man spoke the Unspeakable, the spectre of Death-in-Childbirth, the Scourge of ancient man, of man before we had language to express our fears. The Scourge that plagues us still, despite our advances in medicine.

I was gobsmacked, the best word I could think of at the time to describe the impact of that exchange on me. See, I don't know anything about men, other than their physiology, their anatomy. Men are a mystery to me, unfathomable, so not-me that I am leery of them - if I'm honest with myself about it.

New Grandpa Joe and Jeep-Man let me peek into the emotional life of men, which they are so very good at keeping to themselves.

I'm talking about the core-of-the-animal kind of stuff. The raw emotion, protect at all costs, vulnerable stuff. The emotional hurl kind of feelings, like I had when my grandchild was born. It was there in Joe's "Thank you," about to puke itself all over Jeep-Man's quilted jeans vest and fawn-color, buckskin-leather hiking boots - all over the tiled floor of the coffee-shop. Fresh-kill raw, uncontrollable, unstoppable, scary as hell.

For that split-second glimpse, I knew men. They aren't so different from me, after all. They just don't talk so readily about their atavistic responses as I do, but they're there, right beneath the skin. Who knew?

Happy Father's (Grandfather's) Day, New Grandpa Joe, Jeep-Man and all your coffee-drinking, back-slapping buddies down at my local coffee shop. And thanks.
(c)2009 Text and photo of my grandson. Martha McLemore

When It Rains

(Foreword: this report is in response to Barrett Bonden's post about DIY jobs. I mentioned I should show him the pictures I took when I tried to repair my furnace last spring. He suggested I post about my plumbing-repair misadventures. So, here you go, BB.)
...
Last spring, I heard a noise in my house, on all floors, that sounded a little like water running. A check of the indoor plumbing showed all faucets were operating well, no leaks. Checked the outside faucet, near the front of the house, with the same result - no drip, no running leak. Satisfied everything was okay, I let the noise slip my mind. Other matters moved to the front of my attention, and I didn't think anymore about the noise until I went to the basement a couple of days later to do a load of laundry. I noticed water on the floor. A lot of water. Then I noticed a hissing sound, much like a gas pipe leak, only I don't have gas lines in my house.
...
I followed the trail of water across the room to near the furnace/boiler. Water was dripping heavily from one of the horizontal copper pipes leading to the boiler, or so I thought. I was working in the dark on that side of the house, so I backtracked to my downstairs tool box, fumbled around for the flashlight and retraced my steps back to the furnace/boiler. That's when I discovered there was a huge crack in the flow regulator (first picture) on one of the pipes leading into/out of the boiler, from which water was spraying all over everything in that corner.







Okay...so this repair was going to involve replacing the flow regulator, which meant shutting off the main from the street, opening a faucet on each floor to drain out the water already in the pipes; then gathering my various wrenches and pliers, some gloves, nylon pipe tape and that stuff you wrap around the threads inside a valve stem; gloves, the flashlight affectionately called Skull-crusher, maybe some solder and a propane torch, my reading glasses and a 10-gallon bucket on which to set my tools (and my butt when I got tired).
...
The ex-Beloved had always handled the plumbing and electrical repairs in the house, but he had moved out a couple of months before the fountain in the basement, so I was on my own.
...
Suddenly, I heard Mary Martin and Ethel Merman in my head, singing “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better” (from Annie Get Your Gun). I hiked up my imaginary tool-belt, cocked my imaginary cowboy hat at the same angle John Wayne used to do his in all those Western movies, and told my imaginary Number One to “Make it so!” (We all have our little gimmicks to get ourselves psyched-up for those DIY jobs that intimidate us; this is mine, okay?)
...
I needed to remove the cracked regulator so I could take it to the big-box hardware store to show the plumbing expert (HA!) there exactly what I wanted. (Learned to do that during a previous plumbing repair experience. Don’t ask.)
...
I thought I was making remarkable progress loosening that coupler and was congratulating myself, with Mary and Ethel providing musical encouragement on the sidelines.
...
That’s when things started going downhill.
...
I noticed that the coupler wasn’t coming loose, just turning, and that the top part of it was bending. Surely, that wasn’t right. Mary and Ethel stopped singing. (See the second picture.)



Did you know copper pipe would twist like that in the jaws of a monkey-wrench? Yeah, well I didn’t, see? I also forgot to use two wrenches, turning in opposite directions, so I wouldn’t create additional problems. ..
...
Five trips back to the big-box hardware, three different lengths of copper pipes, more brass fittings than I’ll ever need in my remaining lifetime, a small hand-held propane torch, nine hours and seven scraped knuckles later, I finished repairing the pipe (last picture).




Only one problem: I used galvanized iron pipes attached to copper, which I read somewhere is a no-no. But the plumbing expert (ha!) at the big-box hardware assured me the pipes won’t corrode for years to come, and I’ll “probably be worm-food long before it happens.” His words. Lovely man.
(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

Song Birds

Hard to imagine crows as songbirds, isn't it? I was surprised when I first heard they are, too.

...

"You call that croak a song?!" Well, I can't sing very prettily, either, and I call my yowling "singing", so who am I to criticize my feathered brethren?...

Today I was awake before the sun broke the horizon, and was treated once again to the avian Sunrise Concert. I sat outside on the back steps, closed my eyes and listened to all the songs of the morn.

...

When I was a child, someone read me a pourquoi story about some tribe's belief that birds sang the sun up each day. That was why(pourquoi) people began keeping birds as pets, to be certain there was at least one bird around to carry out the task.

...

This morning, I could understand the thinking of those ancient ones, because, as I listened with eyes shut to the world, I felt the rising sun's heat on my cheeks and throat. When I opened my eyes - lo! and behold! - the sun was, indeed, rising over the rooftops at the end of the alley! The world was safe and warm for another day. Life was good, all because of the birds.

...

The crow family that thinks it owns my yard and my trees (they do, of course; I just pay the taxes on the property) joined the other birds in the sun-bringing ritual. Bless their little corvid hearts! They try so hard to warble but it just doesn't come out that way....

...

Eventually, the sun is far enough above the horizon that the concert winds down and most of the birds fly off, searching for whatever heads their individual to-do lists for Sunday morning. The crows are the last to leave and they do so quietly, in sharp contrast to how they arrived.

...

My daughter's cats join me on the steps, looking for attention, bumping against my wrist and hand until I pet them. For a couple of minutes, we three creatures lean against each other, basking in the gentle warmth of the early sun's rays.

...

"Mwawk!"

...

The two cats sit upright, ears scanning the backyard to locate the sound.

...

"Mwawk, mwawk." A crow has returned. I think it is one of last year's brood, judging by the gap in primary feathers on its left wing.

...

The cats, who probably have had unpleasant encounters with crows, slink off to their outdoor hide-away, low to the ground, as inconspicuously as possible for big, fluffy cats. They are comical to watch.

...

Mwawk is soon joined by another crow. They hop up to the topmost branch of the larch, which bends almost in half under their combined weight. They begin to 'sing' to one another.

...

The second crow, whose call is more like "Kwawk" instead of "Mwawk," throws its head back and calls four times. Its call sounds like laughter: "Kwawk-kwawk-kwawk-kwawk!" (Mwawk must have said something funny. I didn't get the joke, but, then, I wasn't meant to, probably.)

...

They entertain each other this way for half a minute or so, then grow quiet. They move closer to each other and rub their beaks together. I've never seen crows do this before and am astonished.

...

Softly, they mwawk and kwawk to each other, rubbing beaks between sets of calls. Fascinating!

...

Mwawk leans over Kwawk's neck and begins to coo. "Coo" isn't exactly the right word, but the sound reminds me of dove cooing. This sound is more like gargling, which I've heard crows do before, but never in conjunction with the behavior I observe this morning. Kwawk makes a softer cooing in response and leans in a little closer to Mwawk. They sit quiet, then, facing the sun.

...

I am stunned! What does this behavior mean? Are they bonding? Is this the yearling, reassuring the younger crow under its care? Has the yearling found a mate?

...

While I'm thinking through the few things I know about crow behavior, Mwawk and Kwawk begin bowing and gargle-cooing toward one another. For usually raucous, ungainly big birds, they are gentle and delicate in their movements and sounds. I suddenly feel awkward, which is silly of me, I guess, but I feel like an intruder or voyeur, peeping in on a moment where I do not belong.

...

Kwawk stops bowing and cooing. Instead, she/he (I can't determine which) begins making a sound similar to that made by tapping two blocks of wood together - a soft "tock-tock." Mwawk does the same, only his/hers sounds like "bawk-bawk."

...

I wanted a closer view and tried to ease my way back into the house for my binoculars. The first slight move I made to rise from the step caused the crows to turn in my direction: both let out a very loud "CAW!" and flew off toward the arboretum a couple of blocks away.

...

Blast, and double-blast! God bless a milk-cow! I hate when that happens! Grump!

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On the other hand, how fortunate I was to have been given this glimpse of new-to-me crow behavior. If I am lucky, maybe I will get to watch the continuing story unfold next Sunday morning...and you can be darned sure I will have those binoculars with me before I step foot outside again!

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

Sunday Morning

Too early for church bells; just lots of birdsong. Sun peeps coyly through the leaves.

The old birdbath, pedestal long ago broken, captures a piece of the early morning sky in its rainwater. Shards of fossilized sea-floor keep it company.

(c) 2009 Photos and text Martha McLemore

Six

No, the title of this post is not a typo: the word is Six, not Sex...although one is the root of the other, is it not?
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Anyway, Michelle Frost has tagged me to "list six things that are unimportant but make me happy, then tag six others." Rather than tag six others, though, I'll leave this to the discretion of any who might read this post. If you care to list 6 unimportant things that make you happy, please do so.

Here are my six, in no particular order:

Christmas tree lights
sharp pencil leads

the smell of line-dried sheets

mist rising from the mountains

smooth river rocks

sparkling glassware

Thank you, Michelle, for making me think about some of the joys in life.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

Here, Kitty-kitty!

Kitty

Another Saturday morning and all is right in my little corner of the universe…or is it?

Is it, for one thing, my little corner of the universe? How is this corner defined? If this is the only thing I’ve ever known, wouldn’t my view of the universe be skewed? What if what I think of as my little corner of the universe (hereinafter called MLCOTU), is not the way things really are, and what if all around me, the universe is going to hell in a hand basket?

Is the universe, as I perceive it, the only universe there is? If it is, would that mean that my perception of MLCOTU is universal? Would an ant, crawling about on the ground of MLCOTU, see things the same way I would? Would it think that all was right with the universe, too?

All these universes, existing at the same time – assuming the ant and I each have a concept of time and that those concepts are exactly the same – begs the question, which one is real?

What is reality? Is it concrete, absolute, irrefutable? Is it situational, in the eye of the beholder, shifty, unimportant?

My mother grew up with the understanding that some things were set in stone: the sun rose in the east, set in the west; the earth orbited the sun; the atom was the smallest unit of measure in the universe.

Then, she worked on the Manhattan Project, briefly, and helped do some of the research that led to the first atomic weapon developed here on this planet.

Her reality changed when that first atom was split, even though she was unaware of the precise moment that occurred. For her, the paradigm shift took place when news of the bombing of Hiroshima reached her ears. Then, again, when she realized her part in that catastrophe, even though her part in the drama had been miniscule.

What happened to the universe she knew when it ceased to exist for her? Did it live on as a parallel reality for her metaphysical doppelganger?

Do parallel universes exist? Do we create our own realities?

Yesterday, I spent my book-budget on three small volumes I thought would add more to my life than if I bought my intended purchase, Martha Stewart’s Cupcakes. I bought them not because I would be getting three for the price I would have paid for hers (that was a plus – icing on the cupcake, so to speak), but because I was seduced by the titles: 50 Mathematical Ideas You Really Need to Know, and its counterparts, 50 Philosophy… and 50 Physics..., et cetera. I believe there are ideas worth learning about, and I have been on a quest to learn as many of them as possible before I die. (Some publisher saw the likes of me coming, and came up with titles that not only drew me to that shelf in the store, but made me plunk down my hard-earned, hard-saved money for these three books.)

I spent a couple of hours in my favorite coffee shop skimming through the books. Time slowed down and became wobbly, like gelatin. My reality was shifting before my very eyes, then back again because what I read was still being digested…or was that because of the pastry I was munching upon while reading?

At some point, long after I returned home, my brain cried out, “Enough, already!” I went to bed and dreamed of Alice’s Cheshire cat in a multi-dimensional box full of constantly shifting portals into other multi-dimensional, theoretical boxes -- and images from high school science classes of the atomic bomb blasts. The God Particle became an article God wrote for Playboy magazine. In the interview section of that issue, God sounded like Bill Cosby, talking to Noah about building a boat. I saw my mother – rather, multiples of my mother – through what must have been honeycomb glasses: rows and rows of tiny Evelyns in tiny hexagonal compartments, all the same, yet each one different from the other because each existed in a separate ‘reality.’

Maybe the dream wasn’t the result of reading the books. Maybe it was because of the anti-histamine I took so I could breathe easier and sleep more deeply.

I liked Saturday mornings better when it was just birdsong and breakfast odors wafting through the backdoor screen. After breakfast, I think I’ll tackle the chapter in the mathematics book on Latin squares. It’s supposed to provide me with the secret to solving Sudoku puzzles.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore