THE WATCHERS

The patriarch of the Gambel's Quail family always gets up high on a bush or a tree or a wall when the young'uns are out perambulating around.

Keeping an eye out for potential danger.

Meantime, mi gato azul keeps an eye on the birdbath.

Incidentally, the blue cat is not named after the tapas restaurant in Prescott, run by my friend Barry Barbe.

But you might stop in for a bite once in awhile.

I haven't been there for a long time but I love the place.

A VERY POPULAR BIRD BATH/FOUNTAIN

As the temperatures hover in the upper 90's I am finding our bird bath more and more frequented by the birds of the area.

They come in all sizes, from the tiny Goldfinch above to the larger warbler below.

And the camp-robbing Jays are showing up more often now that they've learned about it.

Earlier in the week a Gambel's Quail approached it but then ambled away.

We've had the Rufous Towhee drinking and bathing in the basin.

We had a very surprise visitor one day with a hawk perched on the edge.

Mourning doves pay their visits.

And yesterday, just for an instant, there was a big-assed PIGEON who jumped up and cooled off his feet.

As I was grabbing for the camera he flew away so you have to take my word for that one.

SUMMERTIME

It is June fourth, 2016, and I have a fan blowing on me as I sit typing this.

It's cool, even as the indoor/outdoor thermometer resting near me says it isn't.

It seems early this year.

The Weather Gods tell me the average high temperature for this date is 83.

But in 1996, just 20 years ago, the mercury soared to 98.

We've topped that already today and the period of highest heat is still several hours away.

And the official beginning of summer is still 16 days into the future.

This is, after all, an era of much publicity about Global Warming.

It causes my mind to drift into the distant, murky past.

To period of time when an uncle had a cabin on tiny Camp Lake in Minnesota, near to the gigantic Mille Lacs Lake.

It was only about 100 miles north of his home in Minneapolis.

But it was a wonderland to a young boy from North Dakota when we would make our occasional visits there.

My aunt Alla had fixed up the interior to resemble a small lodge, with knotty pine walls and breakfast nook.

My brother and I and our cousins loved the lake.

Boyhood then was something like this*.

Yes, memories of those days long ago provide a spirit of cooling when the temperature scorches us here in sun-blessed Arizona.

*This picture doesn't come from my family. It was only borrowed from the World Wide Web to illustrate a memory.

FRIDAY FUNNIES

O.K., neighbors, put those garbage dumpsters back by your houses.

Monday was a holiday so the truck won't be around until tomorrow.

There.

I feel so much better.

With that out of the way, it's on to the Friday Funnies!

And there will ALWAYS be an Ireland, right?

(Oh, that's England?  Never mind.)

Thank you to the contributors among my Gentle Readers, have a specially splendid weekend and remember to always keep a little laughter in your heart.

Here, kitty-kitty.

(Uh-oh)

THROWBACK THURSDAY

Back in 1972, I was preparing to leave WIBC Radio in Indianapolis for an uncertain future in Phoenix.

One day in the newsroom as I stretched my very long legs I was joined by my young colleague, Tom Cochrun, (behind me) and the wizard of our associated FM radio station, WNAP.

That long-haired goofball was the legendary Cris Conner, also known on the air as Moto Groove.

Sorry about the exposure. The picture was an old Polaroid taken against a bright window behind us.

You will notice that Tom and I are properly clad in our neckties and striped shirts while Cris (one of the resident hippies from the station called The Buzzard) is in his much more comfortable tee shirt.

That may account for his big smile.

Tom and Cris have both been inducted into the Indiana Broadcasting Hall of Fame for their years in Indianapolis.

Good guys.  Good memories.

CHANGES IN LATITUDE, CHANGES IN ATTITUDE

The temperature rose to 92 degrees F. here today.

By Saturday, it's supposed to top out at 103 before skidding back into the 80's by the end of next week.

But it's not bad.

I was just sitting out on the patio at 85 degrees or so and there was a cooling breeze blowing and a relative humidity of around 11 per cent.

Contrast that with Key Largo, where my blogger friend Stephen, aka The Chubby Chatterbox, was recently with it's humidity of 100 per cent!

So, like they say, "it's a dry heat."

However.

Think of the poor citizens of Phoenix, just 80 to 90 miles from where I live.

On Saturday, the Weather Gods say their forecast high temperature will be 117 degrees Fahrenheit.

To those of you who live in a Centigrade/Celsius universe, that equates to around 47 degrees C.

And that, my friends, is hot.

Hot by any standard.

As hot as the open door of a blast furnace.

And it's only June.

But I was looking through some pictures from the home I grew up in, in North Dakota, today and I offer them as contrast.

And perhaps relief to my Phoenix friends.

Now granted, I exaggerate the contrast.

Judging from the wreath on the front door, this was sometime in December of a time long ago.

But still.

This is why I no longer live in North Dakota.

You don't have to shovel sunshine.

TUESDAY TRAVELS

I worked for a radio station in Indianapolis from 1969 to 1972.

I started in late April, just after my 29th birthday, and I had no idea what I was getting into.

The Indy 500 is always in late May, around the Memorial Day weekend, and the track is open for the entire month of May as race crews practice and fine tune their cars getting ready for Qualifying Day when only 33 drivers and cars will make the field.

My friend from North Dakota had gone to work at the same radio station about three months before me.

One day we went out to the track to watch the practice sessions.

With our media passes we were allowed to walk right out onto pit row.

So there is the blond-maned and bearded Orly Knutson, known on the radio as The Happy Norwegian.

And, as I have said before, that really was his name.

People often asked him if it was real and his response was always the same - "If I wanted to make up a name for the radio, do you think I'd pick something like Orly Knutson?"

Orly retired after 50 years on the radio in various markets.