WEEKEND BATH

I know you've seen this before but wothehell . . .

The Spotted Towhee was back at it again this morning, using our birdbath for his daily cleanup.

He splashes merrily in the water, then moves his upper wings at near-Hummingbird speed to shake the sloshing off.

In between dousings, he keeps his orange eye peeled on me watching him but it's a defiant glare as if to say "Yeah? Are you lookin' at me?"

Yes, I am.

IS THIS AN OMEN?

While on my daily perambulation (to the mailbox and back) the other day, I spied an early indication of the changing of the seasons.

A tiny leaf fallen from the Red Maple in our front yard.

Now this is August and the mercury is still climbing to nearly 100 degrees on an almost daily basis.

So it seems a bit early for the leaves to be changing color from their summertime green to the autumnal red.

I am no arborist but I'm thinking if one leaf came loose in a gusty wind and blew free from its mooring, perhaps in it's death throes it may turn from nile to scarlet.

I don't know if that is correct or not but I picked up the leaf and brought it inside to photograph anyway.

I like the red leaves and, though I dread the icy days of winter, I must admit I look forward to the entire tree turning carmine.

Wouldn't you?

FRIDAY FUNNIES

Ooooooohhhhh, it's Friday again, already.

Let us begin then by paying tribute to what's really important in all of our lives.

The Olympics.

But enough hilarity, Gentle Readers.

Go ye out unto the huddled masses and have a fahn-tahs-tic weekend and always remember to keep on laughing, inside and out.

Of your body as well as your house.

Here kitty-kitty . . .

(Oh, no, she's hooked up with that dog again!)

THROWBACK THURSDAY

Back in 1969, a friend of mine had gone to work at a radio station in Indianapolis, Indiana.

The legendary Orly Knutson called me at the station I was working at in Bismarck, North Dakota and said the Indy station was looking for a newsman and I should apply.

I didn't know about that.

I was a corporate news director, responsible for three television stations and a couple of radio stations, and a television anchorman and, frankly, kind of a big frog in a small pond.

Plus, I'd never worked outside of the Dakotas and this was in a city of a million people or so.

I didn't know if I was good enough.

But Orly kept pushing, saying if it didn't work out I would still have the station on my resume and could go back to probably anywhere in the Dakotas or Minnesota.

So I took a flyer and this guy hired me.

His name was Fred Heckman and he was a legend in Indianapolis, having been there for decades.

He scared me a little at first with his demeanor but once I got to know him I found him to be a kind man and a good friend.

Another guy I worked with at that station was, for those of you who grew up listening to the radio broadcast of the Indy 500 auto race, another legend.

This was the witty, sardonic Lou Palmer, who lived all year for the month of May, in which he spent his whole month at the track, chumming around with people like A.J. Foyt and Mario Andretti.

Also on the staff was the "Voice of the 500", Sid Collins.

Well, suffice it to say that I had a mostly wonderful three years at WIBC.

I met my lifelong pal, Tom Cochrun and his lovely wife, and I met and married Judy, aka SWMBO.

Fred, Lou and Sid are all gone now but I have memories of them that are as clear as day.

And Tom, who retired to California and writes the blog Light Breezes, has been here to visit several times and we keep in touch.

Orly retired outside Indianapolis after a 50 YEAR CAREER as a disc jockey and I hear from him occasionally.

Oh, and Judy?

Amazingly, she's still with me.

Indy was very, very good to me.

EVER MORE

We have ravens.

Lots and lots of ravens.

Usually there are a couple sitting on rooftops, crowing and cackling with their very loud voices.

But I heard a lot of todo and saw a couple of low-level swoops this morning so I went to the window to check on them.

What I saw was a veritable cloister of ravens.

A quick count revealed at least nine of them in my front yard and across the street.

They were all on the ground, strutting around and talking raven talk.

A check with the Almighty Google leads me to believe most, if not all, were young ones who hadn't picked out a mate as yet.

As the Google noted they were picking up sticks and twigs and leaves and then discarding them, apparently to determine which were useful.

I eased the front door open to get a better look but I haven't greased the hinges yet and the sound scared them all off.

A short time later, I spotted a trio sitting for a long time on a neighbor's wall, cackling along in their chuck-a-whuck-a-cack-a way of communicating, no doubt comparing notes on their morning's adventure.

I know some people will say these are crows.

They're not.

They're ravens.

And, yes, referring back to the title of this post, I know the word in the Poe poem is "Nevermore."

RUGGED MANIACS AND . . . BRASIL!

To those of you among my Gentle Readers who may have read my post about Timmer in Rio last week, I offer a couple of other intrepid souls from his family.

They are his youngest daughter, Brigid, and his wife Jeanne, known hither and yon as the legendary Beaner.

They are sporting THEIR medals after competing in Denver's version of the Olympics: The Rugged Maniac.

You can Google it, as I did, and learn that it is a race and obstacle course that involves a lot of mud.

Jeanne has long been a runner, competing in races in the Denver area, and it appears Brigid is following in her footsteps.

By the way, don't you think they look like sisters in the above picture?

Well, just to make sure you don't forget about the Olympics, here is a fantastic piece by Pink Martini, featuring the singer Storm Large.

It's "Brasil"!

THE LAW OF THE JUNGLE

What follows is a sad story for bird lovers.

A couple of months back I noticed one of those blasted mourning doves in the tree outside my window.

I chased him off but he/she returned to drink from the bird bath.

The weather was very hot and I figured he/she needed a drink as well as all the other birds so I stopped disturbing him/her.

A few days later I went out to refill the bath/fountain and the dove exploded out of the tree over my head.

When I had finished cursing him/her I glanced up into the tree and discovered a rudimentary nest.

Oh, no!

Just what I need.

A mourning dove nesting right outside my window.

I considered tearing it down but the soft-headed hearted SWMBO convinced me to leave it.

A week or so later, having watched the damnable dove return time after time, I espied a small egg in the nest.

Now I HAD to leave the nest and the dove alone.

Mother dove was there most of the time, sitting on her egg, and finally one day I saw a tiny bit of fluff where the egg had been.

Over the weeks I watched as the new baby or dovelet as I called it, grew slowly until it was nearing the size of its mother.

Both parents took turns coming to the nest, presumably feeding the dovelet, though I never witnessed that.

As I came out to fill the bath on a daily basis I would carefully peek up at the nest and soon the dovelet was staring back at me.

Unlike mother or father he showed no fear.

As I had been there for all of his life so far I guess he thought (if doves think) that I was just a friendly co-inhabitant of his space.

I put that to the test with my trusty camera but he/she still just treated me with curiousity.

And then, a couple of days ago, as SWMBO and I were sitting in our living room watching television, my wife suddenly got up and went to the door.

I heard her say "Oh, dear" and I got up to see what had alarmed her.

She pointed to the wall at the back of our yard and said "Is that a hawk?"

Just then it flew off, pursued by one of the adult doves.

She told me she had seen a large bird fly into the tree, then into the yard, up to the wall and away.

The hawk had taken the dovelet.

There were a few feathers scattered in the yard.

And that was the last we saw of my friend.

As both SWMBO and I agreed, it was sad but it is, after all, the way of life in the animal and bird kingdom.

I tore the nest down the same night and discarded it.

TIMMER'S IN RIO!

You've all heard my mentions of my friend of many decades, Timmer.

Officially, he is Tim D., a vice-president at a Denver television station.

But his wife calls him Timmer, possibly because she (Jeanne) earned the nickname Beaner from him.

At any rate, Tim has gone to the Olympics many times over the years.

This time he was setting up equipment and hotel rooms and such in Rio de Janeiro for 25 people from 11 different television markets, including my old station in Phoenix.

He went to Rio well in advance of the arrival of the athletes and everyone else.

And as such, he's had a chance to do a little touring.

Tim began his long television career as a photographer.

Now he just carries a still camera for his own pleasure.

He is sitting on the Selaron Steps in the above picture.

They are the work of the artist Jorge Selaron of Chile who decorated the steps with over 2,000 tiles from more than 60 countries around the world.

Like me, you may have never heard of them but the Google tells me they are a famous Rio landmark.

But just to prove that Tim really is in Rio, here he is in front of an even more famous landmark.

So there you have it: my longtime friend Timmer, become his own Redeemer.

Incidentally, the night before he left for Rio, Tim was inducted into the Silver Circle of the Rocky Mountain Emmy Chapter in Denver.

So I guess I can cut him a little slack.

FRIDAY FUNNIES

Some times the political scene in the United States becomes so bizarre that the only way to handle it is to drink.

So . . .

Now I have heard that there are people who don't consume alcohol.

At all.

If there are any of you lurking among my Gentle Readers, I offer an alternative method to defeat your stress.

Riot!

All right, my friends, that's it for this week.

I hope you all have an extremely pleasant weekend and that you'll all remember to keep laughing at all times.

If others think you've lost your mind, just laugh at them.

Here, kitty-kitty . . . (uh-oh)

THROWBACK THURSDAY

Back in the day a young man grew up on a homestead in the German-speaking town of Strasburg, North Dakota.

The youngster left school during the fourth grade to work on the family farm.

But he loved music and he persuaded his father to buy him a mail-order accordion for $400, with the promise that the boy would work on the farm until he was 21 to pay off the debt.

On his 21st birthday, he left the farm to pursue a career in music.

That was in  1924.

Forty years later, Lawrence Welk and his Champagne Music, shown every Saturday night on television, were as familiar on the American landscape as apple pie and just as wholesome.

In 1964 or 1965, Welk made a triumphant return to his home state for a visit and was greeted at the airport in Bismarck like a conquering hero.

I was working for a television station there at that time and went to the airport to film the arrival.

I took along my wife and two small children and they were standing along a ropeline as Welk came through and shook everyone's hand.

But my youngest son was only two or three years old then and, as he was just a little tyke, Welk passed right over him without seeing him.

I noticed Scott crying and my wife told me what had happened.

So I picked Scott up and took him over to the maestro.

The next moment was captured by a still photographer.

Lawrence Welk was a millionaire many times over, thanks to his savvy investments in Southern California real estate, but he remained just a nice guy from North Dakota.

(Cue the bubble machine)

AN ORIENTAL TRIM

SWMBO had grown tired of the small Red Tip Photinia bushes in our back yard.

She said they just look like blobs.

But she said they have a good bone structure and with her artistic ways something could be made of them.

So she got busy with her clippers and attacked.

The first result looked pretty good though some lower branches needed to be sawed off.

You can see the difference by comparing with the two smaller bushes behind it.

Another evening and they were also given their first trim.

The three now look pretty darned good, I think.

It's amazing what one can find under all that overgrown shrubbery if one knows how to look.

Meantime, the Rocketman Russian Sage continues it's explosive blooming nearby, much to the joy of the bees and the finches.

And the Gato azul (blue cat) entertains an occasional guest.

Just one big happy family.

TUESDAY TRAVELS

Guadalajara is the second most populous metropolitan area in Mexico with a population of nearly 4 and a half million people.

One of the municipalities surrounding the city proper is Tlaquepaque, a name which may strike a note of familiarity to those of you Gentle Readers who may have visited Sedona, Arizona.

A shopping area there is modeled after the architecture of the Mexican city.

When we lived in Guadalajara in the 1980's and 1990's, one of the favorite places to take visitors was Tlaquepaque, which was a center of pottery and the arts.

There are the usual street vendors in abundance, especially around El Parián and El Jardín Hidalgo, two plazas that are the heart of the city.

But there are also tony shops with high art, like the gallery of the sculptor and artist Sergio Bustamante.

(That one is for the ladies.)

I believe these were some of the works in Bustamante's gallery.

SWMBO posed with this lovely sculpture.

And I posed with this brass chacmool, a replica of a pre-Columbian Mesoamerican sculpture that first appeared around the 9th Century.

I'd have loved to have taken him home but my appreciation far outstripped my income.

Then there was this svelte young miss.

After a morning spent browsing the shops with our visitors, we would usually repair to the indoor patio of El Fuerte restaurant for beer, food and a visit from the resident macaw, who would gladly perch on your arm for a photograph.

We always enjoyed Tlaquepaque as much as our visitors did.

And, unlike them, we could return again the next week.

ROCK ON!

Monday morning Catalyst . . .

. . . with attitude!

PETER COTTONTAIL

With the onset of rain the bunnies are back.

I know they've just been lurking down in the Savannah but the rain really brings them out of hiding.

A couple of weeks ago, I stepped out onto my front porch just before 8 in the evening and saw a couple of white puffy tails bounding through the yards and into the Savannah.

Then to my amazement I also spotted a mangy coyote standing in the middle of the street watching them go, and then me.

He just stood there, fearless, staring at me until I clapped my hands and shouted a "hey!" at him.

Then he turned and casually loped after the bunnies, perhaps planning his evening meal.

Several cats have disappeared in our development in the past few months and one of my neighbors and I have agreed that they probably became "coyote candy".

This bunny in my backyard has been slightly color-enhanced by my computer but you can see how they can stand without the slighest move and be virtually invisible to the human eye.

But perhaps not to the eye of the wily coyote.

BAKING DAY

Yesterday I decided to try a recipe I had read recently for a Russian Black Bread, a sort of pumpernickel with caraway seeds, fennel, cider vinegar, espresso powder, chocolate, molasses and butter, as well as three different kinds of flour and wheat germ.

Never mind that it was one of the hottest days of the summer.

In the kitchen, my ambition is sometimes frequently exceeded by my foolhardiness.

SWMBO could and would tell you.

And so it began.

I had two jars of instant bread yeast in the fridge, one nearly empty, one new.

I combined all of the old with some of the new to get the amount I needed.

It didn't bloom well and I showed it to Judy and said I didn't think it was right.

It wasn't foamy, it was lumpy, but she said it smelled all right and to go ahead.

"Our" mistake.

Once all of the 20 or so ingredients had been combined and the bread rested for a couple of hours, it had risen barely at all. 

So we gave it another couple of hours.

Then a call to the West Coast, hoping to find some help from some regular bread makers there.

It pretty much sounded like a loss.

But eventually it was divided into two loaf pans and allowed to rise for another hour or so and it seemed to have come up some so I baked it.

An hour later and about 7 hours after starting, I had bread.

It seemed pretty heavy but "the knock" sounded right and so we set them on a rack to cool.

A little while later we tried a loaf and you know what?

It was pretty darned good with a decided caraway aroma.

Rich and flavorful, I thought.

SWMBO grudgingly agreed but told me to never use old yeast again and to never combine it with new yeast.

The real test comes today when a slice gets toasted.