Thursday, June 25, 2015

Maybe the real reason South Carolinians have been slow to address the flag issue is that it has just been too much trouble:

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Too darn hot

The Weather Channel Presents: The Best of Smoo...
The Weather Channel Presents: The Best of Smooth Jazz (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The Weather Channel asked around in the Carolinas, and people say 90F is too hot. 

It seems like it has been 90 to 100 for a year, but only about two, three weeks. Today, at 3, it was still 100 when I ventured out for the mail. We get midafternoon cloudiness almost every day, but it rarely amounts to anything rainwise.

Today seemed muggier than usual; and my box fan feels like it is slacking off. The TV weathercritters are getting restive: every day, nothing happens, and nothing happening doesn't help their preference for predicting rain on your parade and other weatherpocalypses.

Time to take off some more clothes. There are advantages to working alone, at home.

Saturday, June 20, 2015

A Gardener's Diary: A Thunderstorm So Good, It Gave An Encore

NASA artist's rendering of a microburst. Many ...
NASA artist's rendering of a microburst. Many are invisible. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Two thunderstorms today, two hours apart, and almost identical to each other, and to yesterday's: Lowering skies, rising wind, a microburst of very high wind, then about 15-20 minutes of rain. Sun back out, humidity back up.

The evening did cool off a bit more than lately, though, for which I was- and am- grateful.

My peppers, blown off the deck by yesterday's wild, have come back nicely, if a bit tiltedly. I ran out to get them once storm 1 hit today. Of course, I had just watered everything outside.

Out of the blue, I sold a book today. That will, net after shipping, bring me within grasp of The One Pressing Bill at month's end. Who knew? Friends keep telling me, don't worry so much, things will work out. But countering that is centuries of dour Scots Presbyterianism, and decades of courts deciding, in my previous life, to take a perfectly good case of mine and upend it. If something hasn't gone wrong yet, I tend to believe, there is still time.

But I am grateful for some forward progress, I am grateful my roof hasn't blown off, and that I didn't lost my electricity, as friends in other parts of town did. I am grateful for my 85 year-old neighbor, who watches out for me like a hawk from her living room windows. If something did go amiss, she'd be on the phone to 911 in no time flat.

The riotous exoticism of my yard's bird population has dropped away to nothing. The robins rule the front and back yards; Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal venture out of the wood occasionally. But all the migrating and breeding season visitors have pretty much moved on. One pair of mockingbirds remains; they heckled me the other day when I was liberating the gardenias near the great cedar where they nest. "Go on with ya," I muttered. "You've got places to be. Go."

Yesterday and today, however, one surprise: a pair of barn swallows, their dark backs and white undersides easy to spot. My neighbor across the street has several bird houses of the sort they like on power poles and his vapor light, but I never see any activity around them. So I hope they enjoy their stay. But I do miss the bluebirds, who developed a particular liking for worms just outside my desk window. Such amazing flashes of color, now gone; I hope to see them again next year.

After dinner I went out and stacked five big limbs- 10 to 15 feet- the wind brought down from the oaks in the side yard. These willow oaks are standing kindling: the older, interior limbs die, but hang on, decaying slowly, until one day, crash, boom, snap. I thought about breaking out the chainsaw, but then thought, no, wait until tomorrow. It'll be hot and humid then, too, and- I think I heard on the radio- the longest day of the year.

Friday, June 19, 2015

A Gardener's Diary: Dreams of Streams

Well, we had a fifteen-minute thunderstorm this afternoon; it came on at 4.50 and ended at 5.05. The sun came right back out, and the wonderful cool breeze evaporated just like all that rainfall is now- into steam. Time to turn the fans back on.

Mid-storm, we got a surprising microburst of wind. With windows open for the draft, we got a sudden maelstrom of water blowing into the house and one window had its screen stripped out of the frame. A big pot of peppers on the deck leapt off and did a header on to the driveway; I'm hopeful most will make it, as it was the lot doing best so far.

We had another little storm like this last night after after midnight, though without the special effects. They are nice but not very long-lasting, and much of the water just runs off. This afternoon's burst reminded me I need to get moving faster on my dry stream bed. 

My yard tilts downward, north to south. Along the south side, running into the undeveloped, wooded lot next door, is a swale. It meanders a bit into the woods, and is an attractive, if undeveloped, feature. I realized it is, in fact, a dry stream bed about a month ago, when we had a real frog-strangling rainfall and suddenly I found most of the backyard under several inches of water- all headed that way. 

I decided to make something of what is there in potential, and, maybe, in the process, reduce erosion of the limited topsoil that has built up since the contractor scraped the land bare in 1985.

When you live a mile from a quarry that has been producing aggregate for over a hundred years, you don't lack for rocks, and when you have red clay soil getting backed daily at 100 degrees, you get lots of them heaved up to the surface. I walk around every few days, gathering a boxful, and lengthen the course of my dry bed a bit. It'll be about 30 feet when done: I'm maybe ten feet into it. I want to move some mondo grass along the sides, and some nandinas; both thrive in these conditions. Maybe it will amount to something. If nothing else we will have fewer rocks in the yard.

I transplanted eighteen nandinas week before last: a neighbor has a clump that is out of hand. Those went in at intervals in the front yard, along the wooded lot, where the ground drops off more sharply and heavy rains sheet over the driveway and down into the leaves. Grass won't grow there; it's too shady. But some test nandinas have done well, and mondo grass does well, and I hope to transform the red dirt from a rivulet-carded waste to something reasonably green, especially for winter, when all the leaves are gone and dullness prevails in view.

The general idea.

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

A Gardener's Diary

View of Vathy (capital of Samos)
View of Vathy (capital of Samos) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
There's lots of online references for what to do if you have the gardener's blues in winter.

After all there's little to do in winter, especially once the leaves are raked up. Go down to the cellar, maybe, and recount the root vegetables laid up.

Summer? That's a different animal.

Several things contribute to mine.

One- the big one- is that, in fact, I have too much time to garden.

Business is really slow. Nobody's buying over at Henry Bemis Books.

So I look for ways to keep occupied, and my mind off the serried ranks of troubles I can see coming from not making much of a living. So I head outside.

For a while, at least. Lately, it's been 80F when I got to bed and much the same when I get up; by 1:00 pm it's reliably 100 in the shade.

Not that much one can do in that sort of weather, and I'm not of the age for showing off. So I do 90 minutes to two hours, then come back in, cool off, and get back to work trying to figure out new ways to flog books.

When I am out there, though, I enjoy the work. Monday I liberated two of my neighbor's gardenias, long under siege by adjoining azaleas and volunteer trash trees growing up from their centers from seeds left behind by birds. The more crowded everything gets, of course, the more frantic and outreaching the plants get for sunlight. Long, branches with little outbreaks of leave three or four feet from the trunk are the result.

The gardenias are each about six feet tall, and easily three times that in diameter.  All I could do was pick a spot and start cutting inward, pulling out a layer of interwoven junk until I finally got to where I could start sawing out the trunks of the interlopers.

All that I got done Monday- about 15 trees, a few inches in diameter, up to ten feet tall. I piled them up and went home to sit in the semicool of my den.

Yesterday, my saw's batteries charged, I cut all the limbs off the trees taken out Monday, and cut up as much as the batteries would allow to fit the size the city mandates for pickup on Friday afternoons. That left a pile of tent poles, and I left them to retreat to my cool place.

Today, I finished the job, sawing the trunks up into three to five lengths. Everything got hauled out to the street. One of the gardenias looks pretty hollowed out- a perimeter of growth around an empty core- but this is no time for trying to shape or prune. That'll be next spring's work. The other did better: the trees in it shot straight up to spread over it. It's right presentable.

One nice thing about working in gardenias is that while you may be sweating like a Spartan galley slave crew trying to get past the Athenian anchorage at Samos in a Peloponnesian heartbeat, but all you smell is the fragrance of the blooms.

Today, after the trunks got cut up, I tackled a little circular planting area once offering pride of place to a bird bath. That got carried off last winter, when my neighbor, who had kind of let things go outdoors after her parents died some years ago, brought in a tree faller whose specialty is leveling everything vertical in sight. He got a lot of overgrowth cleared out, and left stumps everywhere that, in this climate, have been vigorously re-asserting themselves through new growth.

I'm trying to keep the junk stuff down so the bulbs and perennials can re-establish themselves. Maybe before long I can run another bird bath to ground. Now it has a big clay pot with some cutting I got from another neighbor, a bush with cucumber green leaves and yellow, streaky spots. It grows pretty well and my neighbor told me all I needed to do was stick them in a pot and water them. I did, with four cuttings. Three died over the spring; I suspect some root hormone would have improved their prospects, but until some book sales improve mine, that's a luxury item.

The one survivor is settling in and putting out new growth so, all in all, the planting circle- at the back of the driveway, a sort of point to the exclamation mark- looks pretty decent.

My one completely new undertaking this week came via a Facebook post a friend put up:

I saw that and thought, I can do that. And 45 minutes later, I had. It frees up space, and looks better than my old twiggery, if not as anally-retentively stacked as this one.

Enough bragging for this day. I need to email some more book catalogues. 

More, I hope, tomorrow.

Taking the "scary" out of alleys, for good.

Main sign of the Blue Moon Tavern, University ...
Main sign of the Blue Moon Tavern, University District, Seattle, Washington, 1993. This sign is now inside dates from the 1990s; the replacement is smaller and the woman is differently posed. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Some years ago, Seattle named the alley next to the University District's Blue Moon Tavern the Roethke Mews.

The moniker was for the poet Theodore Roethke, who- while teaching at UW- treated The Blue Moon as his home away from home, making the dive bar a hipster pilgrimage site ever since.

The idea of making better use of now largely-disused urban alley space must have been percolating since. Seattle has now unveiled a plan to start converting some of the city's alleys- wide enough for horse-drawn deliveries back in the day- into usable urban space. Here, for example, is a before and after of Pioneer Square's Nord Alley:

This is an idea that could find much traction in small towns with older downtown buildings. In West Seattle, businesses along California Avenue- the main commercial drag- put parking behind them, and built in rear entries and walkways through to the street, and it works well. In big cities, especially those- like Seattle- with water boundaries that preclude growing outward- making better use of the space they have, well, makes sense.

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

A little stargazing. Today, By day. You don't have to go outside.

Ever read about an interesting astronomical event but couldn't see it from where you are?

Science marches on...

Today at 21:30 Universal Time (5.:30 pm EDT), you can see the asteroid Icarus making a rare, near-Earth flyby online, thanks to The Virtual Telescope Project, a European venture. Just click here and enjoy the show.

What is Icarus? Sky and Telescope explains here.

Thursday, June 4, 2015

Many pieces, in the form of a life

Erik Satie was, above all, a character, as a wonderful London Review of Books appraisal reveals. Nick Richardson's conclusion?
Perhaps the best way to see Satie is not as a classical musician who failed to become a great composer, but as an art-rock star avant la lettre. His career contained all the phases of 1970s art-rock history, though not in the same order: a proggy occult phase, a glam phase, a Bryan Ferryish lounge pop phase, a Brian Enoish ambient phase, a David Bowieish decadent nightclub phase; Bonjour, Biqui, Bonjour! was his punk phase. Debussy and Ravel (not to mention Poulenc, Fauré, Milhaud and others) may have written grander pieces. But while they were busy with concertos and sonatas, Satie was working on surreal pop operas, shadow plays and lo-fi Gesamtkunstwerken, experimenting with film, flirting with Dada and hanging out with the couture crowd. He may not have been a great composer, but he was a great Satie.

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Before everything became political

Celebrity impressionist Jim Bailey has died, age 77. He carved out a lucrative niche, crossing drag shows with spot-on celebrity impressions, and was lucky to hit his peak when it was merely considered entertainment.

Tuesday, June 2, 2015

A Gardener's Diary: Spring evening, after a rain

Brought to England in the eighteenth century, and from there to America, the Cape-jasmine, Gardenia jasminoides, has become almost as much a part of our South as of the Cape of Good Hope. I have even found it growing along the roadside in South Carolina.

-Elizabeth Lawrence, A Southern Garden

I clipped these blossoms yesterday; they come from the large, tall gardenia in the front yard of one of my neighbors. It grows five feet tall, and probably fifteen feet in diameter, in solitary splendor, defying all the rules of placement for the bush. It is in our universal, hard, clay soil; there is no shade in sight. It gets sun pretty much morning to night.

And yet it blooms.

Our long dry streak broke today; it was the third driest May in the area since 1878. We had .6 of an inch in two hours, and the earth rejoiced. There were rumblings of a second wave in the afternoon, but they came to nought. Still, it was a glad time, hearing the steady drum of rain on the roof. My rain barrel is full again.

The absence of rain aside, it has been a pretty mild spring so far. Humidity on the light side most days; temperatures in the low 80s. The last few days both spiked like a fever, and one of my potato plants died. I gave the ground a good soak yesterday while getting a bunch of other yard tasks done. The television weather personalities were making it out like a rain of pharaonic-plague proportions was coming; reducing the direness by 2/3, I still figured I'd best get as much done outside as I could. And sure enough, today was an indoor-task day. Much cleaning, sifting and sorting, and my back has been voicing its objections all the evening long.

My bearded irises are either waiting for a really late entrance to the dance, or are taking the summer off. I dug them up from an area next to the house where, long grown over by weeds in the time the house was empty, they bided their time, and over which a deck was about to be built.

To see what I could get, I planted them in a very shady front bed, where they are now 18 inches to two feet tall, and not a sign of a flower anywhere. But they have all come up- 34 of them- and once they die back I have a sunnier spot with better soil- an old herb garden bed I dug out of the backyard weeds, where some tulips and grape hyacinth surprised me this spring. Both were joy in bloom, but what a Lord Marchmain-length death scene they put on, and what a mess they leave behind. Ditto the spanish bluebells in the front sidewalk bed, planted with a logic no man can discern. I have a long list of transplanting scheduled for September and October.

The bluebirds and mockingbirds seems to have graduated their young from flight school and left the area; the robins rule their roost in my front yard, the avian Charles II, restored to their London. An orchard oriole turned up the other day; common enough in the area, but the first in my precincts. Since I started conscientiously birding in the winter, 29 species have dropped in for a chat.

Early evening started, about a week ago, bringing out the fireflies- or, as I used to hear in childhood in the Sandhill Country, "lightning bugs." According to some regional usage studies, I now live right on the line where eastern North Carolina's lightning bugs get all gussied up and hit Charlotte as fireflies, proceeding onward from here to the resorts of the Smokies and, eventually to Nashville and Memphis and the real bright lights of the night.

Watching the bugs hover, UFO-like, in the air this year put me, suddenly and clearly, in mind of A Midsummer Night's Dream. Such a mystery they must have seemed in the era before science became, first, a know-it-all; then, a crackpot conspiracist. Arthur Rackham has an illustration that approximates my backyard reveries, stars and lightning bugs mingling among the tree branches:

Rackham loved the mysterious side of the summer night; his contemporary, Arthur Conan Doyle, was never more Watson-on-a-bad-day than when trying to catch fairies on photographic plates, using Holmes' most up-to-date scientific methods. There's always a killjoy, even when he claims he just wants to show everyone else the magic is real.

Friday, May 29, 2015

Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Now, wait: "Just a minute!"

English: Recording of BBC Radio 4's "Just...
Recording of BBC Radio 4's "Just a Minute'"at the Pleasance Grand, Edinburgh. Nicholas Parsons. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
A long, dull Memorial Day weekend here. Nothing to do in the yard. Nowhere else to be, and the month's end fiscal pinch beginning to bite as a customer who made a very nice purchase- then didn't pay for it- continues not to pay for it.

So I thought, as the long Monday wound down, to look for some distraction and amusement, and went to YouTube. I thought to look up an old episode of the long-running BBC quiz show, Just A Minute. Yesterday I caught the first episode of the current Series on BBC Radio 4, and thought a bit more would be fun.

YouTube surprised me. Up popped a set of television versions of the program. I'd never heard of such a thing, but, in fairness, the BBC does a lot of that. If a TV show is a hit they will do it up again as a radio program, and vice versa.

It developed that the TV Just A Minute was a tribute of sorts to its host, Nicholas Parsons, an actor in the 1950s and '60s (you can see him as a supporting character on Benny Hill reruns).

Well, in 1967 the BBC offered him the host's chair in a Radio 4 show to be called Just a Minute. Devised by Ian Messiter, it required the contestants to speak for sixty seconds, on a topic given by the chair, without repeating any word save the subject, deviating from the subject, or hesitating while speaking.

These are harder things to do than one might think, even for the very, very e sorts who became fixtures on the program: Clement Freud, the MP and grandson of the shrink; Peter Jones (the voice of The Book in the original Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy); actors Derek Nimmo and Kenneth Williams.

The show became immensely popular, and ran- and ran- and ran. Freud was a regular for 42 years, until his death in 1999. By 2012, when the program's 45th anniversary heaved into view, host Nicholas Parson was 88. Perhaps the Beeb's execs figured, how much longer can Parsons last?

As it happens, the show started its 70th series this past weekend. It has made it to Year 48; Parsons, apparently indestructible, will turn 92 later this year.

Here, from five years ago, is a half-hour of Just a Minute, with veteran guests Paul Merton (in his 23rd year); Stephen Fry, Julian Clary, and- making his first appearance- young actor Russell Tovey, who strives bravely.


Sunday, May 24, 2015

How we pronounce things is purely accidental. Except, of course, when it isn't

...[S]ometimes English takes it a step too far, does something so brazen and shameless we can’t just let it slide. That’s when we have to throw our shoulders back, put our hands on our hips and ask, point blank, what is the deal with the word “colonel”?
“Colonel” is pronounced just like “kernel.” How did this happen? From borrowing the same word from two different places. In the 1500s, English borrowed a bunch of military vocabulary from French, words like cavalerieinfanteriecitadellecanon, and also, coronel. The French had borrowed them from the Italians, then the reigning experts in the art of war, but in doing so, had changed colonello to coronel.
Why did they do that? A common process called dissimilation—when two instances of the same sound occur close to each other in a word, people tend to change one of the instances to something else. Here, the first “l” was changed to “r.” The opposite process happened with the Latin word peregrinus (pilgrim), when the first “r” was changed to an “l” (now it’s peregrinoin Spanish and Pellegrino in Italian. English inherited the “l” version in pilgrim.)
After the dissimilated French coronel made its way into English, late 16th century scholars started producing English translations of Italian military treatises. Under the influence of the originals, people started spelling it “colonel.” By the middle of the 17th century, the spelling had standardized to the “l” version, but the “r” pronunciation was still popular (it later lost a syllable, turning kor-o-nel to ker-nel). Both pronunciations were in play for a while, and adding to the confusion was the mistaken idea that “coronel” was etymologically related to “crown”—a colonel was sometimes translated as “crowner” in English. In fact, the root is colonna, Italian for column.
Meanwhile, French switched back to “colonel,” in both spelling and pronunciation. English throws its shoulders back, puts its hands on its hips and asks, how boring is that?

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Are you an introvert? Then come over and sit by me, and let's not talk for a while...

...while we watch this TED Talk, by Susan Cain, whose book on introversion has taken the world by storm (in a quiet, reserved sort of way, of course):

Sunday, May 17, 2015

A Gardener's Diary: Foraging

On Gardener's Question Time today- it's on BBC Radio 4 at 9 am EDT (also available for replay from the show website)- longtime panelist Bob Flowerdew dusted off one of his perennial favorite quotes. A woman forgot to bring along of a sample of the plant she wanted to ask about, so she admitted to snipping a bit off another specimen she saw while riding her bike to the taping:

"The best time to take cuttings is when no one is looking!"

A Gardener's Diary: Urban Bees

From The News Quiz, on BBC Radio 4:

Sunday, May 10, 2015

A Gardener's Diary: Life's for the Birds

English: Poison-oak
Poison-oak (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Yellow-bellied Sapsucker (Sphyrapicus varius)
Yellow-bellied Sapsucker (Sphyrapicus varius) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Black Vulture, very common around towns and ci...
Black Vulture, very common around towns and cities. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Turkey Vulture in Miami, Florida, USA.
Turkey Vulture in Miami, Florida, USA. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I've been a pretty slack-jawed gardener this past week, though I can plead medical exigencies. Allergies laid me low for a couple of days early in the week as I did some more brush clearing for a neighbor whose yard she has let go to ruin the last five years.

Then I took a few days off to let my latest poison oak outbreak subside. That seems to be an occupational commonplace in the wilds of outer suburbia, where people who kept up half-acre lots when they bought them thirty years ago are now rather older and more tolerant of vines and creepers and general junk. I am thinking of looking for a goat to rent and see if it will do some of the remaining dirty work for me.

All of which made it a good week for birdwatching from my desk. Gardening pays even less well than bookselling, and I had to redouble my efforts this week as an order booked three weeks ago has not yet turned into a check in my account.

The Battle of Britain continues being re-enacted in my front yard, between the established Robin Clan and the Upstart Grey Mockingbirds of recent arrival. The male mockingbird took time out from harassing the robins the other day to tear after a crow; he was right on the bigger bird's tail a good two blocks before breaking off the chase. The crow hasn't been back.

Mostly the robins have decamped to the back yard, where the grub is plentiful and the mockingbirds infrequent. Housemate put a bird feeder out on the railing of the deck- a fine, philanthropic gesture.

For the squirrels. Where I have gotten used to one around and about since the Day of the Red-Tailed Hawk Luncheon- there are now four bellying up to the buffet like it's all you can eat night at the Western Sizzler. And in less than a week, the feeder has gone empty. But I keep my counsel. Sometimes it is better to let events unfold rather than predict the inevitable. It's not inevitable to everyone, after all.

It has been a big week for big color! A pair of eastern bluebirds I first saw a few week ago are regular front yarders now, and don't seem to vex the mockingbird cops. Their backs and wings are truly dazzling when they leap into flight.

Four purple martins showed up last weekend and have been strutting about from day to day since; for a while I thought they were immature crows, but finally got close enough to see the blue-black iridescence of their coloring.

Common redpoll (right)

Red birds are in vogue at the feeder: I've seen some summer tanagers this week, and a yellow-bellied sapsucker, with its little red cap on. Most surprisingly, today- after two days' off and on research- I confirmed a pair I first saw day before yesterday at the feeder are common redpolls: a striking bird way out of its normal range, though. Mr. Peterson says they are tundra dwellers, though they sometimes "casually move south" in the winter as far as these parts.

Summer tanager

Yesterday my neighbor, Mildred, came over to tell me about a harrowing encounter with a singularly ugly creature in her driveway. It turned out to a be an opossum in extremis: by the time she got one of the other neighbors over, he determined it had died and bagged it in a shopping bag before leaving it out at the street. Animal Control was called, and confirmed they'd be over within one business day, which, it turns out, does not include weekends.

This morning, under overcast skies spilling out from the enfeebled Tropical Storm Ana, I looked up to see a right large bird pulling the hapless possum corpse from its bag and donning a bib for the pending feast.

I've seen vultures way up in the air, circling lazily as they do in film and television; mostly I see them in that operating theater over a very large wooded area about a mile from where I live.

But this one just plopped down at the road's edge and tucked in for a good hour. When I looked up again, I had gone and the possum looked rather less plump.

An hour later, as I went to the kitchen, the vulture was back, this time with company: a black vulture, funereal as an undertaker and, by the look of their interactions, an alpha male undertaker-vulture. The turkey vulture kept getting the corpse by the tale and trying to drag it off; the black vulture just clamped down on the other and and pulled back. Eventually honor was served and hungers sated, and both vanished into the air.

Five new species in a week! That makes 27 since I started paying attention to what goes on around me six months ago.

Saturday, May 9, 2015

Time for your closeup, Mona

One of the best things about the internet is that I can visit museums in far off places. Here's a video from Christie's, the auction house, about two views of the Mona Lisa:

Sunday, May 3, 2015

A gnarled rosemary is one of my chief treasures. I treasure it for the charm of its irregular outline, for the pale blue of its flowers in very early spring, and for the refreshing odor of its foliage as I brush against it in passing. 

Elizabeth Lawrence (1904-1985), A Southern Garden (UNC Press, 1942)

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Just trying out the ol' soft-shoe...

A picture of Matt Harding at Yoyogi Park in Sh...
Matt Harding at Yoyogi Park in Shibuya, Tokyo, Japan. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Matt Harding is a young man with a yen to see the world. At the turn of the century, bumming around overseas with a friend, he got the idea to have himself filmed doing a little, funny dance step he made up.

Then he did it at another place...and another.

That all led to a series of videos, "Where the Hell is Matt?"

His videos are funny, silly, moving, inventive, beautiful...and they say something about how a few minutes of fun can unite people.

Here's one:

Monday, April 27, 2015

A Gardener's Diary: It's been a quiet week in the outdoors.

English: Red Tailed Hawk in Mineola, NY
English: Red Tailed Hawk in Mineola, NY (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
KAZAN. Sabantui, a Tatar festival.
KAZAN. Sabantui, a Tatar festival. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
English: Materials in a compost bin.
English: Materials in a compost bin. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Willow Oak in autumn foliage.
Willow Oak in autumn foliage. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The sun is out after three really down, dreary days. The temp was in the 40s; it was drizzly and dark and as much as I tried to put on my best Pacific Northwest face, there is a reason I left after 28 years.

The Dandelion War has entered a new phase. Last week I called in mechanized backup: the lawnmower. Today I only had to behead 45 of the little nuisances.

Four of the six potato starts I planted have begun to sprout leaves, and two of four garlic cloves. Other experiments are less promising; two are complete fails. I stuck some ivy and some thrift in pots to see how they'd do, and they didn't. The thrift I probably moved too early; as for the ivy- well, there's more on the lot next door, and at least I have disproved its myth of invincibility in all places and situations.

Two species of salamanders have begun showing up around the house. One- a brownish type I haven't identified yet, likes sunning on the back deck in the afternoon. The other- a brilliant blue tailed skink- makes the rounds here and there about the heat pump in the back. They are furtive creatures, always looking- and succeeding- to go to ground whenever I come near.

Not so the contestants in the War of My Front Yard. It's nesting season and a full-grown turf battle has broken out between the long-resident robin and a newcomer, the northern mockingbird. The latter started singing about two weeks ago, and hanging out next door. But now, this avian Putin has annexed half my front yard as its Crimea, and chases off the robin every time he makes an appearance. These conflicts and noisy and prolonged. One of the squirrels out front- already traumatized by that day in March when the red-tailed hawk swooped down and invited a cousin to lunch- has gotten dive-bombed several times as well.

Today I got out and raked the remainder of my next-door neighbor's yard, clearing the thatch from a long-overdue mow last week. Her yard man apparently follows the Wimpy model of service provision: "I will gladly mow your lawn some day, for a down payment on deposit today." So we tackled it for her, and got ten barrow-loads of grass for the compost piles. Mother Compost, the first pile, now eight months along, is breaking down very well indeed. The Twiggery pile, a 12 foot long, two foot tall run on the far side of a run of fallen tree branches I break up and stack for winter kindling, is due for its first turn after six months of slowly compressing. And The Great Wall of Compost, built to screen off the results of my neighbor's belief that there is no need to carry junk off to the landfill when he can pile it behind his storage shed and make it invisible. To him. It's now about five feet tall and twenty long at the height of the canker worm parachute drop from the willow oak above the pile, so many happy little canker worms found themselves in leaf pile Eden, you could hear them chomping away: they made the pile sound like a bowl of rice crispies after the milk is added.

Sunday, April 26, 2015

Sunday, April 19, 2015

A Gardener's Diary: Catbird, seat nearby. Rain, endless.

I think we have had rain for a week now; the days- overcast and dark- seem to run together. Since last night we have had a very steady rainfall. The weatherman on Channel 9 last night was predicting a couple of inches. As I see water standing in paces in the yard I have not seen water standing before, I think he may be right.

Standing water and red Piedmont clay are rarely a happy combination; the top little bit of the clay soaks in as much as it can and turns soupy and generally disagreeable to be out and about in. The grass- already running riot- is going to be a hot mess to mow, as my friend Brian would say.

But I am not complaining. A week ago I was laid low by pollen, so thick about that breezes pushed it into berms and dunes all over the yard, and into my eyes and nose. Surely this mini-monsoon will drown most of it. Then we'll just have the revivified late-bloomers to deal with.

So I've been indoors, mostly. The temperatures have been clement, so on a day like this I have been able to work at my desk with the windows open, listening to the rain fall. The sonic effect is worthy of a relaxation CD.

During a lull this afternoon I ventured out to run my dandelion picket lines. Only 29 captured today. They will cut loose at the first sunshine, now predicted for Tuesday. While I was out, wringing their little yellow necks, I heard a new bird call, loud and shrill, and it finally penetrated my attention. I realized I have heard it for several days running; a little research revealed it is the call of the gray catbird, mimicking a woman shouting, "Heeeere, kittykittykittykittykitty...Heeeere, kittykittykittykittykitty..."

It's a good fit for the neighborhood, as Roger Tory Peterson says, in A Field Guide to the Birds East of the Rockies (1st.ed, 1st printing, 1980, paperback; yes, I will sell it out from under myself), says the are partial to undergrowth, brush, thorn, scrub and suburban gardens. Bit of a flirt, too: Peterson adds, "Flips tail jauntily." We're a bit west of the boundary of its breeding and year-round ranges, on the breeding side, but as I see reports that ranges are moving north as things warm, we may be new turf for them. Now I know what to in the coming months. The gray catbird is the the twentieth species I've noted on this little half-acre since last fall.

We have a lot of Bewick's wrens in the yard most days. They like gardens, underbrush and thickets, all of which we have around us; they also like nesting boxes, and our neighbor, Mr. Doug, has a number of those across the way. They are fairly quiet little birds; we had a set last fall who liked to hang out in the woodpile and let meals crawl out of the woodwork without having to go out. The robins have been busy hauling off nesting materials from the compost piles in the back yard; pine straw is popular for inner padding.

One can only work at the computer so much in a day, so I've been working my way into Elizabeth Lawrence's classic, The Southern Garden. I have the 1990 trade paperback; I was finally able to get it yesterday when eight crates of books I called out from storage were delivered. I'll be a typing fool the next few weeks, getting them all photographed and written up for Henry Bemis Books' summer catalogue (if you'd like the current spring issue, just hop next door to Henry's website and fill out the order form; I'll be pleased to email you one). Our weather this week- indeed, this year- is just as she described in 1942:
In the Middle South the difficulty is not that it is too hot or too cold, or too wet or too dry, but that the changes from one extreme to the other are so frequent and so sudden. In summer we cannot depend, as England, on steady moisture, nor, as in our Southwest, on continued drought. Instead, weeks when no rain falls are followed by weeks when it rains every day...

Esquire's Charlie Pierce:

Is it a good day for dinosaur news? It's always a good day for dinosaur news!
Wylie came across the fossil in September 2014, while digging for marine animal bones with his father. Researchers from Southern Methodist University, who excavated the remains last week, have tentatively identified the fossil as a heavily-armored nodosaur. The specimen could be more than 100 million years old – but Wylie didn't know it at the time. "My dad told me it was a turtle," Wylie told the Dallas Morning News. "But now he's telling me it's a dinosaur."
Geez, Dad. You may never live this one down.