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.