Riled up clouds go lumbering by,
Stirring up unsettled sky,
Wispy, misty moisture passes,
Light diffused upon its masses.
Sun’s last efforts streaming low,
Just before it lets us go,
Into darkness for some hours,
As the clouds spit out their showers.
Promises of warmer rays,
Shining down in coming days,
Though Sun sleeps behind the hill,
It will rise again, it will.
Morning rays revitalize,
More than we can realize,
But for now it says good night,
Telling all of us, “Sleep tight.”
Orson, the Oregon junco, has found a sunny spot to rest.
“Ooooh! This is so toasty on my body. The sun has warmed the railing. It feels glorious after so much cold wind.”
“Ahh … this is SO nice! I’ll get some of that warmth on my throat too. Oh, my goodness, that is so wonderful.”
“Oops! Excuse me. Nature calls. I’m trying to be modest, turning my back, but why do I have the feeling I’m on Candid Camera?”
“Hmm … the evidence … it’s still there. What to do? What to do? Oh, no! I’m such a birdbrain.”
“I just can’t have anyone pointing an accusing feather, saying it was me. They’ll probably put it on Twitter. Still, I needn’t worry. If they put anything on Twitter, the birds would be canceled for expressing an unpopular opinion. Meanwhile, only one thing to do and that’s flee the scene of the crime.”
The evidence was left behind, but before a half hour passed by, the heavens opened up and the whole deck was full of evidence. Well … it looked like more evidence.
Loads of evidence covered the railing as a freak hailstorm blew in and then out again as quickly as it had come. Orson was spared many accusations, and he felt a lot lighter.
Whoever said that snow was white
For certain didn’t get it right.
I know in shade it has some blues
And purples adding pretty hues,
It’s sad when snow shows bleeding red,
A little bird may soon be dead,
If dusty specks turn snowflakes black,
Just turn, you’ll find a chimney stack,
Sometimes a doggie has to go,
So never eat the yellow snow,
But early sunrise glowing pink
Makes snow the prettiest, I think.
Please visit my other blog for writing tips and stories. Today’s post is about filter words.
Yesterday was like a usual West Coast winter’s day. Wind and rain, followed by rain and wind.
This morning it looked like Christmas on the hills. Luckily we don’t live up in the hills.
The air is still icy and I have to keep reminding myself that it’s March, still cold, but with a promise of warmer days to come. It reminded me of the stupid “Knock, Knock” joke which I’m sure you’ve all heard.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Marshall.
Marshall who?
Marshall come in like a lion and go out like a lamb.
May it be so!
There’s hope, if these daffodils are telling the truth.
The fir trees in the photo below are used to bending away from the prevailing southeast winds. The bay is loaded in whitecaps, a sure sign that only fools would go out there in a small boat. No fools visible today.
It blew so hard today that the firs in my backyard suffered in spite of being partly sheltered behind my house. When the rain let up somewhat, I went outside to take a picture of the branch that broke in the wind today. Apparently the rain hadn’t quite stopped, as you can see from the big drop that fell right in the middle of my camera lens. I was going to try to edit it out, but then I thought, “No, this is part of the picture. It was wet out there.”
If you look to the left of the tree closest to you, near the middle, you can see that a branch is near the ground, but still hanging on the tree. It is broken and hanging by a thread way up high. See the birdhouse on the tree? Go up about the same distance again as the birdhouse is from ground level and you will see the break.
Here is a close-up of the top of that broken branch.
I guess I could try swinging on the branch like Tarzan and it would come off, but if it broke mid-swing, that might not be too much fun.
Branches flying everywhere,
Look! A sliding patio chair,
Time to get some firewood,
Raining, so put up your hood,
Fir cones pelt the woodshed roof,
Put your hard hat on, you goof.
Quickly, fill that barrow now,
Gusts of wind are screaming – “Wow!”
Push the wood up to the house,
Knowing you’ve exposed a mouse,
Hiding by the firewood stack
She resettles farther back.
Birds are huddling in a shrub,
Dangerous to come out for grub.
Just get through this awful night,
Tomorrow things will be all right.
No, the moon is not blue. More like blurry, because of the clouds. But it is called a blue moon (and many other names) when a full moon happens twice in one month. The moon would have to be full on the first and the thirty-first of a month, and that would make it a relatively rare occurrence.
This time, it happens to be on October 31st, Halloween.
Halloween will be different this year because of the ongoing threat of the coronavirus. Trick-or-treating is being discouraged, and to be honest, I don’t want the munchkins coming to my door, no matter how sweet their costumes are. I don’t want to be picking up the virus at the door and then passing it on to my elderly family members.
The kids can have fun in other ways, just this once, until we get the virus under control. I know that missing out on trick-or-treating is survivable because I’ve done it.
So here is my story.
When I was very young, we lived in Germany. On All Saints’ Eve (what we call Hallowed Eve – or Halloween here in North America), my mother took me by the hand and we visited the town cemetery. My grandfather, who had died of cancer at the young age of 75, was buried there. I loved my grandfather and he loved me, so there was nothing spooky about going to visit his resting place. Several other village people were also visiting the graves of loved ones, and most brought candles in coloured glass containers to place on the graves. The cemetery was neat and well kept up. With the many lights glowing on the graves, the whole place was peaceful. I remember feeling close to my beloved grandfather and in awe of the pretty lights. The hushed conversation of other visitors showed their respect for their lost loved ones.
We came to Canada soon after that, when I was six years old. The following year, on Halloween, I heard about all the kids going out trick-or-treating. This would be fun! But my enthusiasm had cold water thrown on it when my mother laid down the law and said, “No child of mine is going door to door begging for candy.”
“But it’s not like that,” I whined. No amount of fussing would change her mind. For the next four years she stuck to her guns and our family became the weird ones that didn’t believe in Halloween.
By the time I was 11, she relented. She was beginning to understand that it wasn’t about begging. My younger brother and I were allowed to go out to a few houses on the block to trick-or-treat.
On the afternoon of the 31st, the radio told of a severe windstorm that was due to hit at six p.m. We didn’t really believe it. Not a breath of wind. We put on our costumes and got our goodie bags ready. As we tried to go out the door at six o’clock, we wondered why it wouldn’t open. We pushed against it and had to get our mother to help. As soon as she opened the door, it ripped out of her hand and slammed against the side of the house. The big windstorm had hit us at exactly 6 p.m. My mother yanked us back inside lest we might blow away, and pronounced, “You can’t go out in this. It’s too dangerous.”
Fast forward to the next Halloween when I was 12. I had grown into a tall skinny girl, but inside that gangly body lived a child who had yet to experience trick-or-treating. We trooped out with our goodie bags, anticipation ratcheted up into high gear. At the first house, we called “Trick or treat.” The owner came to the door and said to me, “Getting a bit old to be doing this, aren’t you? It’s supposed to be for little kids.”
I was glad I had a mask on so he couldn’t see me fighting not to cry.
I never went trick-or-treating again, and I suppose I have a warped idea of what Halloween is about. When I see scary spiders, monsters, ghosts and vampires flitting around neglected cemeteries, it is not something I find easy to relate to. My grandfather’s cemetery was clean and cared for. It had a manicured hedge and clean gravel paths between well-tended graves. It was not a scary thing to visit him. The North American version of Halloween jarred when I compared it to my first experiences of All Saints’ Eve.
Still, customs vary, and I’ve learned to accept that Halloween is not all bad. Most people love it and they are not easily scared by the horror they conjure up to celebrate this holiday.
I don’t like horror shows. They give me nightmares. I’m a wimp. I don’t begrudge others having fun, but I find it hard to get into the creepy spirit.
A tame Halloween is fine for me. Give me the pumpkin pie and a taste of that chocolate bar from the goodie bag, but keep the spiders away from me.
If you’d like to see posts on copy-editing horrors, please visit my other blog.
I found this odd plant growing along the side of my driveway this morning. It goes by several names: monotropa uniflora, ghost plant, ghost pipe, Indian pipe, and corpse plant.
It does look rather ghostly without its green chlorophyll, but more striking than that is the shape. I’ve only ever known it as Indian pipe, probably named for its shape similar to the traditional Indian peace pipe.
I’ve always found the Indian pipe fascinating because it is so different from most other plants. I thought it was a fungus, like a mushroom, but apparently it is considered to be in the family of Ericae, the heathers. I can’t see the connection, but I trust Wikipedia to have given me the correct information.
But the Indian pipe is parasitic on fungi, deriving its energy from the root systems of fungi rather than from sunlight. It can pop up very quickly after a rain. We did have quite a downpour yesterday and here they are!
By the way, you might have noticed that it is surrounded by Canada’s symbol, the “maple leaf forever,” looking a bit ratty around the edges, and no wonder, the way things are going.
Photo by P. Gerrie
It’s early May, or so they say,
The wind and rain’s like autumn.
The cherry tree sets blossoms free
That cover all the bottom.
The grass was green, but as you’ve seen
It looks like snow has fallen
The petals pink are fine, I think,
They tell me spring is calling.
The weather gods must have heard me saying all we get is wind and rain – and okay, a little bit (a lot) of snow – so they decided to send us something different just for a bit of variety.
Is it ice for the birds to put in their drinks? We could have a party for the birds! Maybe these are tiny marshmallows for their dessert?
Then so many of these icy particles came down that it was way more ice or marshmallows than we needed for the party. And all this, just a day after I noticed the “daffy dolls.”
Things got serious when the wind came up at the same time, causing chaos at the bird feeding station.
Oh, where is spring? I hear many of the Canadian groundhogs saw their shadow today and we’ll have six more weeks of winter. Others disagreed. I hope the others are right. I like to cheer for the under hog.
Please visit my website if you need more winter reading until spring comes for keeps.
After the blizzards of the last few days, the sun came out for a few minutes, just long enough to bring the whole city out to the grocery stores and create desperate parking lot jostling and unprecedented lineups at the tills.
That all changed overnight when the wind switched direction and brought strong winds (littering our yard with branches large and small) and plenty of rain to help dissolve the snow.
Notice the larger branch that came down next to the woodshed and the smaller bits all over the rest of the ground.
I looked out at the water this morning. Our usually sheltered bay is a wee bit rough today, but … “Surf’s up!”
I’ll take a wet and windy day any time over the freezing snow blizzards we’ve had.
