wordsfromanneli

Thoughts, ideas, photos, and stories.

Category Archives: Hobbies


by 32 Comments

Flowers at the Beach

Today we spent a few hours on a nearby island beach that sees little use because it is only accessible by boat.

I was surprised to see the sandy fields blooming with tiny wildflowers.

I don’t know the names of all these flowers but the blue ones (below) look like tiny violas. I’m sure they have a proper name but I don’t know what it is. The little white flowers on the reddish stems might be saxifraga.

 

But this one I know. It is Oregon grape (berberis aquifolium, or holly-leaved barberry). Those yellow flowers turn into blue berries that look like a cluster of tiny grapes. I’ve read that the berries also have many health benefits, but they should be washed before eating. I’ve never enjoyed eating them raw. They are very tarty, but they make an excellent Oregon grape jelly.

Notice the dry moss all around the flowers. Even the moss has tiny blooms. The island has a rather dry climate so it makes its own unique, messy, but very pretty, flower garden.

More flowers will bloom here in the next weeks. I recognized leaves of lupins, and many other new shoots from various plants coming up from last year’s stock that has gone to seed.

Tiny but precious and ever so frail,

Bravely we bloom though the chill may prevail,

Few eyes will see us, and fewer admire,

We’ll  stand courageously ’til we expire.

 


by 23 Comments

O is for Octopus

Octo is for the eight arms of Oscar the Octopus. That’s a lot of knitting for Christmas mittens.

Did you know that the giant Pacific octopus ( Enteroctopus dofleini) usually weighs up to 33  lbs. and has a tentacle (arm) spread of about 14 feet?

But the heaviest and largest scientifically recorded octopus of this species weighed 157 lbs. Claims have been made of even larger octopuses, but these have not been documented.

The smallest octopus (Octopus wolfi) is a tiny little fellow weighing only one gram. (It would take 454 of them to make a pound.) It is only about an inch long.

Most octopuses have a mild venom in them, but are not out to hurt people. However, the four types of blue-ringed octopuses (Hapalochlaena) can inflict a deadly bite, injecting a toxin called tetrodotoxin which can paralyze muscle and prevent breathing. If the victim of a bite from a blue-ringed octopus can get to a hospital immediately, and be kept breathing artificially, he may be able to recover within about 24 hours. Many of these blue-ringed octopuses are found near Australia.

There is so much more to know about octopuses – their relatively short lifespan, their method of defense by squirting ink. They are fascinating creatures (and so tasty to eat – sorry, Oscar).

Now to lighten your mood, here is a poem by Ogden Nash about:

The Octopus

Tell me, O Octopus, I begs,

Is those things arms, or is they legs?

I marvel at thee, Octopus,

If I were thou, I’d call me Us.

 

by Ogden Nash

O is for Oscar the Octopus

 


					
		
	



							



	

				

			
 by 							29 Comments					

	


	

		
A Thousand Words

	


	

					
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. This one may not do quite a thousand, but it says a lot.


This man may or may not still be alive. The picture was taken 47 years ago. I never knew his name but he was kind enough to pose for a photo because he had his unique working outfit on.


His job was to clean the chimneys.




So what do you see  (anywhere) in the photo?


Some of what I see horrifies me, so please don’t be afraid to say what you see. You won’t hurt my feelings.


I’m looking forward to hearing your observations.

					
		
	



							



	

				

			
 by 							39 Comments					

	


	

		
A Love of Reading

	


	

					
When I started grade one in Canada, I couldn’t speak English, and it took a while, even after I learned the basic language, to become familiar with vocabulary beyond the day to day necessities. Reading was a chore because of this, all through elementary school, I struggled to find books that were what we now call “high-interest, low-vocabulary.”


My older sister helped solve my reading problems.  She was much older than me, and had a very young family. I was a responsible girl and felt privileged to babysit for her when she and her husband went shopping for groceries on a Friday afternoon, fed me supper, and then went out to a movie.  My sister didn’t pay me with money, but she paid me with a far greater treasure; she brought me a book every Friday when she came home from shopping.


I still remember that Ginny Gordon and the Lending Library was the first of many books to follow.


Below is a photo of the few books that I have left from my babysitting days. I think I might have been about eight, nine, or ten years old then, although it would be illegal now to babysit at that age, it was just family and I was very responsible. Also, it was the 1950s and a very small town. Not much danger.


 




These books were my start in learning to enjoy reading, and I’m happy to say that they were the beginning of a lifetime of wonderful reading experiences.


I see that you can still find Ginny Gordon and the Lending Library on Amazon for about $29.99.


In the mid-fifties, my sister paid about 69 cents for each of these books, but that might have been an hour’s wages then (I’m guessing).


My sister died about 12 years ago, but I will never forget what a wonderful person she was, and what a beautiful gift she gave me –  a love of reading.

					
		
	



							



	

				

			
 by 							34 Comments					

	


	

		
Hello World

	


	

					
You may remember the junco who guarded her nest in an unusual place.




My poor hanging basket had to go without its usual amount of water.




I didn’t want to drown the eggs in the nest the junco had made in the flower basket.




Today I thought I would check its progress and had a surprise. This little guy looks exhausted but he’s here.




I pecked and pecked for hours and hours,


And hoped it was not time for showers,


I know the flowers have to live,


But it’s a nest and not a sieve.


 


I slept and slept and snored and snored,


My mother left when she got bored,


It took so long to crack that shell,


But now I’m doing very well.


 


I panted, panted, smiled and smiled,


I have a brother, oh, how wild!


I’m not alone, in this big world,


Can’t wait to get my wings unfurled.

					
		
	



							



	

				

			
 by 							49 Comments					

	


	

		
It’s Just Lunch

	


	

					
This is a post I did ten years ago, but I was reminded of it this morning when I heard the unmistakable DEE-di-di-di-di of a merlin in our nearby wooded area.


Warning: This is from a sad but true story that happened in my own yard back then (ten years ago).


 


The songbirds always let it be known when there’s a killer in their midst, be it a cat, a raccoon, a hawk, or a crow. Today, it seems that every bird in my little acre was shrieking with alarm — not just the usual robin whose nest was threatened, but the chickadees, nuthatches, and many others as well. When all the birds sing happy songs, it’s background music, but when they sound like several fire alarms going off, something is wrong. I went out onto the deck to have a look.


In the tall firs next to the house, many songbirds were divebombing a predator who sat and watched from her perch on a dead broken branch. I ran back into the house for my camera. The merlin (a small falcon) didn’t seem to care about me being there. She was either a juvenile or brazen or both. However it was, she allowed me to take many pictures, even posing a bit.


She ruffled her feathers, being Mrs. Cool. I’m not afraid of you!


??????????


The songbirds set up the alarm in the whole mini forest around my yard. A chickadee and a nuthatch, both tiny birds who are often chosen by the falcons as appetizers, bravely sat on the branch directly behind the merlin, scolding her.


The merlin merely gave them a look that said, “Who? Me?”


031


Then she looked down at the ground to see if her lunch was still there. I suspected she had done something because she had blood on her hands … er … beak.


033“Yes, it was me,” she said. “I’m not proud of myself.”


035


She shrugged her shoulders.  “It’s just lunch.”


039My little puppy, Emma, found the falcon’s intended lunch, lying on the ground below the tree. A juvenile red-shafted northern flicker, one of my favourite birds in this area.


??????????


I was choked. I don’t want to hear another person say a word about “Mother Nature.” There is nothing “motherly” about nature. As beautiful as nature is, it is also very cruel when we apply our human values to it. But that’s how it has to be.


And I do think the falcon was sorry.


003


I waved my arms but the falcon didn’t want to fly away. It was only when I opened the big patio umbrella that she flew off. The songbirds settled down and silence hung in the air.


??????????


When I picked up the flicker, a single tail feather fell to the ground and as I walked away, I heard one lonely bird calling. It had to be the mother giving one last quavery call to say an anguished goodbye to her baby.


 


My apologies that the story is so sad, but life can be like that sometimes.

					
		
	



							



	

				

			
 by 							43 Comments					

	


	

		
Red Hot Pokers

	


	

					
The hummingbirds and Bullocks oriole share the red hot pokers, but not at the same time.  These photos are from another year, as it’s a bit early for the pokers to bloom, but I was inspired by Cindy Knokes’ oriole photos to dig out my oriole photo. Please visit Cindy’s blog too, if you haven’t already done so. https://cindyknoke.com/2024/04/21/goldies-2/




The red hot pokers soon will bloom,


Just waiting for some sun,


Then to their petals I will zoom,


And hover till I’m done.


 




The juicy nectar waits for me,


I stretch my long tongue down,


To lap the sweetness running free,


Within the petals round.




 


I need to hurry – sip and fly,


Ere Bully Bullock comes,


I do my best to drink it dry,


‘Cause he and I aren’t chums.




 




 


I am an emperor of birds,


You see my royal stance,


I rule the land with so few words,


It only takes a glance.


 




It could be that it is my size,


I’m not a little hummer,


I feed on flowers, they’re my prize,


Especially in summer.


 


 


But one thing hummers share with me,


That is our love of bugs,


The creepy crawlies that we see,


They simply call us thugs.


 


 


The hummers take the tiny ones,


To suit their appetite,


While I eat big ones by the tons,


I’m not a little mite.


 


 


And so we share the poker plants,


There’s food enough for all,


In time I’ll go and eat some ants,


And any bugs that crawl.


 


 




 

					
		
	



							



	

				

			
 by 							32 Comments					

	


	

		
We Do It All the Time

	


	

					
Photo by Ken Thorne
Photo by Ken Thorne


A True Horror Story as told by “The Captain”


 


What a day for fly fishing! Coho jumping and finning in front of us. A beach fisherman’s dream. But how quickly things can change. Here I was, loading my fly rod back into the truck to return to town without even wetting a line.


I had set up my friend, Brad, for fly fishing; even giving him one of my hot, specially tied blue-green streamer flies to guarantee his success. But I hadn’t counted on his lack of technique. With beginner’s luck, he was into a finning coho right away, but within seconds, the lightning fish spit the hook. In his eagerness to hook another fish, Brad’s backcast became an errant sidecast. The fly whipped by my head and on its return stung me on the nose like a mad hornet.


And there it stayed.


I tried to work the hook out of my nose, thinking of the coho slime now embedded in my face. It wouldn’t budge.


“You won’t get it out without help,” Brad said. “It’s stuck right in the cartilage.”


On the way back to town, Brad stole frequent glances at my nose and sporadic snorts of laughter escaped him. “Sorry,” he wheezed.


I glared at him, but moments later his shoulders bounced again.


It was a relief to drop off Brad at home. I continued on to the hospital with the truck’s sun visor down in case I passed anyone I knew. I parked close to the Emergency entrance. Head down and hand cupped over my nose, I strode up to the reception desk. A bubbly young nurse looked up at me. “Can I help you, sir?”


Uncovering my nose for her eyes only, I said, “Can you get this off me?”


“Ooh! Oh, my goodness,” she blurted out. “We’ll put you behind this curtain. I’ll get the doctor right away.”


Quick, light footsteps approached. A short, slight woman stood by my bed. “Been fishing, have we? I’m Doctor Payne.”


“Hi. Can you get this thing off my nose? Have you ever dealt with this kind of thing before?”


“Don’t worry. We do it a-a-all the time,” she assured me. She brought a needle up to my nose. “This may sting a little, but it will freeze the tissue so we can pull the hook out.”


“I don’t think so,” I hurried to inform her. “There’s a barb on the end. I crimped it, but apparently not enough. Believe me, I tried to pull it out and it won’t budge. Hurt like hell, too.”


“In that case I’ll push it through to the other side and cut the barb off. Then I can pull it back out.” I was thankful for the freezing as she pushed the hook through.


Dr. Payne left to find a tool. I was puzzled and disappointed when she came back with a pair of worn, old wire cutters. I had envisioned something more sterile and surgical. With much squeezing of wire cutters and accidental twisting of my nose, the tiny woman worried the tempered steel of the fly hook, all to no avail. At this point, I offered to go find my gear pliers and do the job myself, but she insisted, “We do it a-a-all the time.”


When she left the cubicle, I touched my nose gingerly. It was swollen and probably bright red. Add the decoration of blue-green feathers and I was thankful for the curtain surrounding the bed.


The intercom paged Dr. Birley and momentarily he and Dr. Payne appeared at my bedside. The man dwarfed the little woman. He took the wire cutters and, with an outward flip of his elbows, and a shuffling of his feet to find the most comfortable stance, he prodded the hook to find a good grip.


Dr. Payne’s face was almost as close to mine as Dr. Birley’s. “NO, Doctor, NO!” she exclaimed. “You’ve got tissue. Doctor Birley! You’ve got tissue!”


Dr. Birley straightened up, raised his head, and looked down his long nose at Dr. Payne. He tossed the wire cutters onto the tray by my bed. The last I saw of him was his wide back passing between the cubicle curtains.


Dr. Payne hurried after him. A moment later, the intercom announced, “Maintenance … call Emergency. Maintenance … call Emergency.”


All was quiet and I was drifting off to sleep, but my eyes flashed open when I heard the receptionist’s shrill voice. “Oh, my goodness! I wouldn’t let anyone go near my face with those things.”


Alarm bells clanged in my mind. My eyes must have been huge when Dr. Payne walked in carrying a pair of red-handled bolt cutters that were almost half as big as she was. I wondered what grungy task Maintenance had last used them for. The tool’s great iron beak settled on my nose like a turkey vulture, but seconds later, the hook was out.


I thanked the doctor and as I left the hospital, free of my feathery affliction at last, Dr. Payne’s words still echoed in my ears. “We do it a-a-all the time.”




 

					
		
	



							



	

				

			
 by 							47 Comments					

	


	

		
Calling All Girls

	


	

					
*Turn on your sound for the video clips.


 


I sense it is that time again,


When I should find a gal,


Someone whose looks drive me insane,


Someone to be my pal.


 




She’ll hold me close and nuzzle me,


What bliss is yet to come,


I’ll call her and she’ll fly, you’ll see,


To visit when I drum.


 







 


I hear so many songbirds call,


My drumming will be loud,


Beware the chimney and don’t fall,


Just stand here tall and proud.






 


Ah, here she is, she’s come at last,


Now I need to be cool,


I can’t acknowledge her too fast,


And then be played a fool.






 


 

					
		
	



							



	

				

			
 by 							47 Comments					

	


	

		
Paragliding

	


	

					
 


Flying free and weightlessly,


O’er the motion in the sea,


Breezes briskly cut a pace,


Tears of wonder streak my face.






The electric wires in the bottom of this picture are enough to make me think twice about ever trying paragliding. This paraglider is much farther from the wires than it looks on the photo, but still, it makes me wonder about the many obstacles a paraglider might come into contact with.


This fellow was just over my neighbour’s house so I tried to get a picture. It’s still too far for a good photo, but enough for you to get the idea.


In the video  below, he continued on his gliding trip just beyond the houses and over and along the beach below. From my house, I couldn’t see what the paraglider could see, but it must have been a wonderful trip for him, flying above the ocean. Just at the end, a faraway eagle flies into the frame, perhaps to join him on his trip or to check him out.


Full screen is best.