tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55078904820493209532024-03-12T18:25:05.517-07:00Arabella's Garden -- The View From HomeThoughts from my garden in the sagebrush ocean of Central OregonAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.comBlogger159125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-65740252620104240872015-12-03T19:56:00.000-08:002015-12-04T07:49:48.370-08:00Good Little KittenThere's nothing wrong with bacon and eggs for breakfast. Add (coconut) pancakes with maple syrup, and you pretty much have la dolce vita, whether camping or in the home kitchen.<br />
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But for The Breakfast of the Gods, you must really have:<br />
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eggs and PIE.<br />
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My sweetheart and I ate out on Thanksgiving, letting some nice restaurant chef baste the turkey, smash the potatoes, slice the brussels sprouts and stir the gravy. All quite delicious and satisfactory, until we arrived at dessert. Which was pie. Pumpkin pie, and solely pumpkin pie. <br />
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And although the pie crust was a poor amateur effort by our own household standards, the main flaw in the menu was the pumpkin part. My sweetheart likes pumpkin pie well enough, but such slimy, slithery brown stuff is not for me. I am loyal, faithful and true to one pie, and one pie only: All-American, George Washington-approved, cherry pie. I will, when desperate, nibble on a slice of apple or pecan. Fresh apricot pie is a very close second to cherry -- but finding the requisite state of utter ripeness in a store-bought apricot is nearly impossible, so I don't even go there.<br />
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So imagine my disappointment when I was offered the dreaded brown-pap-in-a-crust at the end of Thanksgiving dinner last week. I waved it off, asking for the offending item to be boxed up for my sweetheart's future lunch. I must have pouted quite impressively, too, because last night, for no reason other than the goodness of his heart, this lovely man whipped me up my very own, personal cherry pie.<br />
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I must have been a good little kitten! <br />
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The man knows how to make a pie. Years ago I was fired as head pie maker, after an unfortunate altercation between myself and a recalcitrant crust that ended with me shouting some bad words as I hurled the offending piecrust across the room and against the wall. Ahem. Drawing a veil over that embarrassing scene, I can only say the therapeutic value of the crust toss was far greater than just the release of frustration. <br />
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For after a moment of shocked silence, my sweetheart stepped forward, barring my way from continued pummeling of the block of dough which now rested, trembling in fear, on the floor, and said, in his best manly tones, "I'll be taking over pie crust duties from now on...." and he has been as good as his word. <br />
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He claims he inherited his pie-making skills from his grandfather, who made all the pies daily for the family diner in Conrad, Montana. His grandparents had two diners in Conrad during the 1950's, located on the small main street just a block or so apart. There was a mini-boom going on at that time, as the US was building missile silos in the area as part of the Cold War preparations. <br />
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His grandmother, Minnie Ethel Leet, ran the place, but it was his grandfather, Richard, who made all the pies by hand for the 'main' diner. The other diner had to make do with store-bought -- shhhh, no one was supposed to know, but everyone came in early to get the real pies. We think these two photos were taken on Opening Day of the second diner.<br />
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Those diners were ordered from the Valentine Diner Company in Wichita, Kansas, delivered on a railroad car, and were erected in situ on an owner-prepared foundation. They contained everything needed -- tables, counters, etc. And they were well-made. Many are still around. The two Conrad diners have been moved more than once, but are still in Montana -- one is in East Glacier, and the other in the even tinier town of Chester:<br />
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Apparently my sweetheart spent a long summer visiting his grandparents when he was 14, and he claims that's where he learned to make pies. I don't know the whole truth, but I do know that he makes the best pies around, and I'm sure his grandfather would be proud.<br />
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He makes the crust and filling, while I am relegated to mere crustal decoration. I am no artist, but we have had fun through the years. Here are a few favorites:<br />
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this one was for the team party celebrating Cyclocross Nationals held in Bend one year.</div>
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for Pi Day, naturally....<br />
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for some May celebration, when roses were blooming sweetly in our garden....</div>
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and this epic set of chicken pot pies, prepared for the freezer before he headed off to Europe on a long bike holiday, to keep me fed while he was gone.</div>
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We do occasionally have guest celebrity pie makers. Here is our Scots friend Kevin, putting the finishing touches on that great Scottish culinary creation, Banofee Pie. </div>
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For the next day or so, I envision pie and soup for lunch, and pie and steak for dinner. And I am going to spend the rest of the winter keeping track of my mittens, on the off chance I will deserve another pie. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-57991961134276927822015-11-27T12:46:00.000-08:002015-11-27T12:46:00.048-08:00Date DayIt's been quite a few years now since my sweetheart and I started Date Day. We have arranged our work schedules to have Thursdays off together each week, and although we occasionally go for a bike ride or ski, most weeks we go for a hike. We originally met in the hiking club at Humboldt State University, the aptly named 'Boot 'n' Blister Club' in the late 1960's. Most of our first and best memories together come from hikes and outings we did with B&B. <br />
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After a hiatus of many years, when bicycling took center stage,<br />
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we have returned to feet on ground for our weekly outings. Distances and difficulty range from the 40 minute 'around the 'hood' stroll on our local river trail, to several hours' long hikes in the Cascades nearby, depending on time of year and energy level.<br />
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Although we love our spring and summer hikes on nearby mountain trails, there is something special about our fall and winter hikes. Trails are less crowded, and weather can range from amazing to 'interesting' to really cold. <br />
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Occasionally when there is too much to snow to walk very far, we opt for lunch and a movie. Naturally, since Thanksgiving always fall on a Thursday, at least one Date Day a year occurs on a holiday day. A couple of years ago we started a new tradition for those years when we aren't joining friends for a big Thanksgiving feast. <br />
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This year is one of those years, so, after a few Home Improvements yesterday morning, we started the day with a walk. With 15" of fresh snow on the ground in town, we thought maybe if we headed east to the real desert, the snow might be less deep. Well, no, it was about the same. But we put on our snow boots and did a short hike anyway.<br />
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Our trusty snow car, Oliver, plowed through the uncleared road to what is normally a mountain bike trailhead. No bikes, but plenty of parking.<br />
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No other people, but plenty of (invisible) company, as shown by previously made tracks in the snow. Several different folks met here over time:<br />
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This critter took off in one direction, but then circled back for some reason.<br />
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We did realize, belatedly, that possibly skis would have been slightly more useful.<br />
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But the sky was clear blue, the crystals in the fresh snow sparkled in the bright sunshine, and we had the place to ourselves except for a raven, croaking from a nearby juniper tree. In the end, we made a big loop,<br />
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and emerged back at the car via this snow-covered sagebrush area. <br />
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A lot of snow for a juniper forest.<br />
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We had a fine turkey dinner at a favorite restaurant, and finished the day with a movie. Another excellent Date Day for the record books.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-32243024021483396232015-11-07T10:48:00.003-08:002015-11-07T10:48:24.495-08:00We're Back!Computers. You can't live without 'em, you can't kill 'em.<br />
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Stymied by massive and labyrinthine computer problems, and my own computer ineptitude, I have been unable to post to this blog for many months. I was on the verge of simply starting a new one when suddenly -- miraculously -- the digital waters have cleared, and for reasons inexplicable to me, I was just now able to update my account with new email and password, and post to the blog.<br />
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Possibly it was a reward from the cybergods for deleting 1655 emails from my 'Archive' folder earlier this morning, though I'm not sure what Archive is. It just showed up one day. Or possibly a certain period of reflection and time was needed to settle the dust of all the changes, updating everything after our move, to a <u>new house</u>!<br />
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And hey: new house = new garden! After 37 years, we pulled up our tent stakes, got out the camels (U-Haul truck) and did the 'downsize' thing. The move itself was hellish. On top of trying to sort out, winnow and pack nearly 4 decades' worth of grut and memories, and shoehorn it into a smaller space, the week we moved the temperature was over 100 degrees, the people buying our old house scheduled their movers to move in before we could move out, and the piano movers screwed up big time. But let us allow the horror to continue to fade into memory and look around at the current situation.<br />
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We have gone from a 55 year-old suburban ranch style 2200 sq ft rambler on a third of an acre, to a brand, spanking new 'MidCentury Modern' 1650 sq ft bungalow on a little more than a tenth of an acre. <br />
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There are still boxes. We have reached the classic Downsizer's Dilemma point, where you have filled up the new house and there is still more stuff to unpack. Oh, you mean 'down'-sizing means less space? The biggest change is that our new house has far less storage space, in the way of drawers and cabinets. <br />
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The biggest problem is that we have too many books<br />
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and too much piano music<br />
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In the garden (which I guess is now Arabella's New Garden) I am thrilled to have a much smaller, more workable space in which to play. But I am glaringly aware that for the first time in 35 years, I have no place to overwinter my tender container plants. Since forever, I have been able to stash my geraniums, begonias, agapanthus, Spanish lavender, etc in my sunroom or greenhouse, along with containers of blooming annuals still bright and beautiful when the first frost hits in mid-October.<br />
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Although a proper greenhouse is in the long-range plan for the garden, this first winter at least there will be no shelter for these treasured darlings, short of bringing them inside. Maybe I will clear a space in the garage and hang some grow lights over a table. <br />
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For now, I am heeding Nature's signals that 'Winter is Coming' and battening down the hatches for coming cold and snow. One of the first things I did this fall was get my new address to all my favorite seed companies, so I can spend the winter planning my new garden for next spring.<br />
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Monty and I, exhausted after four hard days of moving.</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-51987206340953504412015-05-17T10:25:00.001-07:002015-05-17T10:37:19.550-07:00Making a List and Checking It Twice<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-size: 16px;">
After living for nearly 40 years in the same house, we are woefully out of practice for moving, or even buying a new one. The world of real estate has changed drastically in all that time, and so have we. Were we just young and dumb, back in 1974 (well, yes), and lucky (probably), when we found our first home through a classified ad in the newspaper? And the owner sold it to us for a song AND carried the contract? And when we moved into our present house 4 years later, the fact that it was filthy, unloved and battered didn't faze us -- we were young and strong and frisky and enjoyed fixing it up. And we could afford it -- always a plus.</div>
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Now, as two people perilously close to qualifying for the term 'senior citizens', we began our search for a new home with a<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> rather vague list of 'things we want in our next house if we ever do get around to moving someday' that soon crystalized into a very short list of requirements containing several seemingly mutually exclusive items:</span></div>
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1. New -- when we fell in love with a couple of small houses on the tour, which we could actually afford, we realized we were also in love with the idea of brand new plumbing, up-to-the-minute super energy efficient design and building, new roof, new floor, just ..... new. </div>
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Neither of us has ever lived in a brand new house in our whole lives, and suddenly we craved it. After spending so much time in older houses ourselves, and after much visiting with friends in the UK who live in houses much older, <br />
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it felt slightly ...... decadent. But fun. <br />
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2. Small, but with a living room big enough for a 7 ft grand piano. You'd be surprised how few houses have that much space -- which I naturally think is odd. Who doesn't want/need a grand piano in the living room? Or better yet, two? <br />
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Not too surprisingly, small houses tend to have small living rooms, and houses with big living rooms tend to be, well, big. Bigger than we wanted, anyway. This requirement reduced the number of available choices by a good percentage. Still, we carried on with our list.<br />
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3. A yard large enough for a modest sized garden. This is where the requirements really start crashing into each other. Most new houses being built in our town take up every square foot of land legally allowed by the city building codes -- 5 feet on each side, I think, and what yard there is, is mostly in the front. Most new houses seem to butt right up against the back of the lot, with another house just beyond the fence.</div>
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Not for me -- I need a decent-sized space in the front, and room for a real garden in the back. I'm not going to quit gardening, I just want a modest place in which to grow some tomatoes and flowers. Putter. Throw dirt around. With bambi-proof fencing. <br />
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The number of houses that met our requirements just shrank to almost zero.<br />
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4. Single story. Although I grew up in a single story house, I always fantasized about living in a two-story house, like I saw in books and movies. Child of California that I was, I thought they were romantic and old-fashioned. Now, though, I see the advantages of not dealing with stairs. We are still hale and hearty, but I have grown accustomed to the ease of having everything in a two-dimensional plane, and honestly, I don't like the idea of having to install one of those funky stair elevator chairs for old people if we ever get, um, old.<br />
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In the interests of finding a place with all of our other requirements, though, we decided we could deal with a second floor if necessary to achieve our other goals. And most homes, even new ones here, have two stories. Builders continue to assume their target home buyers are young couples with families. We know they are behind the times -- there is an emerging cohort of buyers who are Boomers, doing just what we are doing: downsizing, simplifying and looking for single story homes. <br />
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5. And probably the most important factor overall, we want to stay on the west side of town, where we have lived all of our 41 years in this town. Unfortunately, so does everyone else. It is the 'cool' part of town, for everyone from young hipsters to yuppies to wealthy retirees from L.A. and elsewhere. <br />
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Houses in this area are relatively much more expensive than anywhere else in town. So our modest home buying dollars will not go as far here as we would like. Plus there are relatively few new houses. This is the original residential area and since our town is relatively young, that means the bulk of the older houses are early 1900's Craftsman-style bungalows. I love the word 'bungalow', don't you? But these houses are mostly small and of course, being over 100 years old, thus don't qualify for our 'new construction' goal.<br />
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So we had our list, and we started looking at a few -- very few -- houses after the home tour. Most had only two or at most three of our required elements. All along, we had a couple of options in our back pocket: two small houses we had looked at on the tour that seemed doable. By the end of the summer, they were looking more and more like our only options, other than staying put. <br />
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Meanwhile, the gardener was panicking -- I can't leave this garden! I've put my heart and soul into it. I have grown up in it -- as a gardener and as a person. It is full of beloved plant friends, and plants given to me by beloved human friends. My Arrowleaf Balsamroot plants that I started from seed 8 years ago might be going to bloom this year for the first time...... all the native perennial flowers I planted in the 'desert woods' section three years ago are going to start looking big and impressive this year ......... my amazingly fertile and loamy soil, hand-built over 40 years of composting .... my mature fruit trees .... my greenhouse!!! ... my roses!!!<br />
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In short, despite my authentic enthusiasm for the move on one level, in my deepest, darkest, most fertile earth goddess soul, I was a wreck. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-9912169969176052082015-05-13T05:59:00.001-07:002015-05-13T05:59:37.907-07:00What the ------- ???!!!What the heck just happened to11 months? I'll tell you what happened. Arabella's Garden had a terrific shock, and the gardener has been paralyzed into inaction, i.e. silence on the blogging front. Wherefore art thou now, Arabella?<br />
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In reality, Arabella herself, my grandmother, split the scene long ago. But my garden, named in her honor, is still here, only now ... in transition.<br />
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Looking back I see that my last post was June 29 of last year. Right after I wrote that, baby chicks started hatching and I spent the next 48 hours scrunched down in the coop, watching mamas and babies do their thing.<br />
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All that bending over did my back in, and by the time I was walking upright again, Fate had Intervened, and you know how that goes. You can't argue with Fate.<br />
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Fate, in the form of a perfectly innocuous decision to check out a few houses on the annual Tour of Homes, put on by the local builders' association each summer. Mostly dedicated to showing off the kind of ridiculously humongous, bloated McMansions beloved of real estate agents everywhere, each year there are always two or three 'normal' homes, and my sweetheart and I like to check these out, for future reference. 'Future' defined as 'let's think about downsizing sometime in the next 5-10 years'.<br />
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Call us boring, but we have lived in this house and neighborhood for 38 years. We are homebodies, and we love our cozy, if unexciting 1950's ranch style house and big, roomy garden.<br />
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I love my 500 square foot separate music teaching studio.<br />
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But honestly, we don't need this much house -- or yard. After observing various friends, family members and aging parents through the years making decisions -- or lack of decisions -- about housing for the later years in life, we made a vow to be smart and plan realistically. Not move to a small town with no longtime friends, medical services or social networks, not move onto acreage needing mowing, disking, plowing, weed-whacking or moving irrigation pipe while we are in our 60's, 70's and 80's. Not move into an old house needing constant repair and maintenance. And also not stay in a too-large house on a hill with a huge amount of snow shoveling, pine needle raking, weeding, and watering until we were too old and too tired to make a move.<br />
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Despite this somewhat vague, long-range plan, no one was more surprised than we were to find a couple of small houses on the tour, that we really liked, and which were in our potential price range. Just like that -- *SNAP* -- we said "it's time!" and flipped over into Prospective Home Buyer Mode. <br />
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And there went the rest of last summer!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-5295200359794617492014-06-29T12:09:00.002-07:002015-04-12T12:21:12.088-07:00Buk Buk Buk Buk Buk <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It seemed pretty straightforward. Get some chicks at the feed store. </div>
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Procure a feeder, waterer, heat lamp, and a big box to start. Meanwhile, build a coop. Move chicks to coop when the time is ripe, watch them grow, and wait for eggs.</div>
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It actually worked fairly well, considering I was a complete novice, though well-read. </div>
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There were a few bumps in the road: Lucy, named after my feisty mom, turned out to be a hell-hen, bully supreme. Babe, a bantam cochin frizzle, was pecked featherless by one and all, until I gave her away to someone with a big, big barnyard and a whole flock of bantams. Samantha, my sole Australorp hen, turned out to be Sam. </div>
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But after Betty, my favorite hen</div>
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laid the first egg ever, on my birthday</div>
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I considered the whole backyard chicken endeavor a huge success.</div>
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I learned the value of craiglist, for finding homes for girls that needed to go away for one reason or other. Larger flocks on farms and ranches outside town have the ability to absorb hens with er, personality defects and slowing production, that small city flocks don't have. I've learned that space constraints are real, and that managing a small flock for maximum egg production requires some planning.</div>
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In my original vision, my flock would include one of as many different breeds as I could get. This turned out not to be such a smart thing, for a variety of reasons. First of all, if birds of a feather flock together, that means, for chickens, that everyone gangs up on the ones that look the most different. Secondly, not all chickens are content to lay eggs. Some breeds really, really, really want to be mothers.</div>
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My first broody hen was poor Maisie, a Dominique</div>
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who had already begun her sketchy laying career by becoming egg bound just a month or two after starting to lay, barely surviving to tell the tale. <a href="http://arabellasgarden.blogspot.com/2011/10/chicken-emergency.html">http://arabellasgarden.blogspot.com/2011/10/chicken-emergency.html</a> The following spring, she began parading around with all her feathers fluffed out, her tail stuck up straight behind her like a tom turkey, bukking constantly, like a chicken version of Mrs. Rochester in the attic. Broody hens are a pain unless you want babies, and with no rooster, and no space for extra chickens, I realized my mistake and passed Maisie on to someone who happily welcomed a prospective mama hen. </div>
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Some breeds are prone to broodiness, and some are not. Another newbie mistake. I should have learned my lesson with the Maisie incident, but then I saw some Speckled Sussex hens on a backyard coop tour, and fell in love. Forgot to check the broodiness factor. Penny went broody for the first time last fall, just a month after starting to lay.</div>
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It took a week to stop that, but of course she started up again a few months ago, just as soon as the first spring days hit. Grumbling, I put her in an isolation zone with no nest, and after a week her hormones settled down and we were back in the egg laying business. Predictably, Sassafras, her partner in crime, went broody a month ago</div>
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and Penny started again too. My choices were few: give it up as a bad choice (i.e. give them away immediately), continue to break their broodiness every few weeks for the rest of the summer, or ......... get some fertile eggs from a local farmer and give the girls a chance to do their thing.</div>
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By now they had both taken up residence in one of the two nest boxes, thus forcing the other girls to wait in line for the remaining nest. </div>
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Several days someone couldn't wait (picture chickens with their little knobby chicken knees held desperately together) and I found an egg on the straw under the nest box. When chickens go broody, they stay that way -- not eating, not drinking, not laying -- until ......... I don't know how long if they're not removed from the nest and deprived of a place to brood. </div>
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So I gave up. I moved them into the smaller outside enclosure, with their own dedicated nest. I had to forcibly remove them, as they stayed in the box while I unfastened it from the wall and moved it. Here's the rear view!</div>
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Then I called Mike, the hen expert at my favorite feed store, and ordered a dozen fertile eggs to be picked up the next day.</div>
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These are mutt eggs, collected from his large flock, which contains Rhode Island Reds, Ameraucanas, Barred Rocks and more. Just for fun, I dowsed for sex with my pendulum. 6 males, 6 females? We'll see how accurate it is.</div>
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Then I took them out and stuck them under the broodies, and left them to their work.</div>
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A few days ago I realized hatch day was coming right up! I got some chick feed, and after consulting with Mike, decided the two hens in the one small nest box was probably a bit much. A good chance babies would get squished. Against all internet advice, I set up a larger nest box, and moved the eggs, very close to hatching, over to the larger space. Carefully, carefully, trying not to change their orientation -- babies are in the final stages and apparently need to be stationery the last day or so.</div>
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Hmmmm, I could swear I put 12 eggs under those girls. Why are there only 10? I suspect one or two got broken in the press and shuffle, and the girls thriftily ate them. ?????</div>
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Sassafras tucks in the last egg</div>
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before Penny settles back in for the home stretch. Notice the intense look of concentration on their faces below. Not that chickens have a lot of expression, really, but these two have been in The Zone for three weeks now -- not even blinking when I pass my hand in front of their eyes. Whether or not these eggs hatch, these girls have proven to be dedicated to their task.</div>
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Today is Day 21, and so far no babies. I've read that chicks can be heard peeping while still in the shell, in the last day or so before hatching. The mamas are still setting patiently this morning, but are cocking their heads -- are they listening to the faint peeps coming from underneath their feathers? Stay tuned.... </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-31346281134358970552014-05-01T17:28:00.000-07:002014-05-01T17:28:26.105-07:00May Day comes againMany excellent things happen on May Day.<br />
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World Naked Gardening Day<br />
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<a href="http://arabellasgarden.blogspot.com/2009/05/world-naked-gardening-day.html">http://arabellasgarden.blogspot.com/2009/05/world-naked-gardening-day.html</a><br />
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Oh darn, it's not until Saturday this year.</div>
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May pole dances. May Day baskets of my youth (i.e. sneak out early in the morning, pick flowers from my mom's garden, stick them in the small basket made at school, from construction paper strips woven together, hang basket on front door knob, ring doorbell, run and hide while she opens the door and pretends to be surprised (and delighted) ... I wonder if kids still do this?</div>
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And our wedding anniversary. My sweetheart and I have been married for 43 years today, together for 45. </div>
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It's been pretty much a swell trip together, the usual ups and downs, but mostly ups. We are best friends and boon companions.</div>
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In addition to being a fun date, pretty much anywhere....</div>
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he's also very handy around the house,</div>
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fixing things</div>
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making pies</div>
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pasta</div>
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or moving pianos.</div>
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He fixes bikes,</div>
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races bikes,</div>
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wins often in his age group</div>
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but really just likes bikes!</div>
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Loves to camp,</div>
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hike <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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even in the rain<br />
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and play the piano.<br />
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He's the best and I'm so happy we found each other, all those years ago</div>
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Happy Anniversary, Sweetheart</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-75459089157051952202014-04-28T13:40:00.000-07:002014-04-28T13:40:27.036-07:00Who's in charge here, anyway?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
It's time for Action! in the garden -- but time does not always correspond to good weather. We are coming off of a week of rain showers, cold winds and the odd spring snowflake, but heading into some gorgeousness real soon. </div>
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My morning garden stroll reveals the pear trees in full bloom, their fragrant white glory undoubtedly unappreciated by the chickens, pecking and scratching below. They will appreciate the dropped fruit in the fall, and the shade will be welcome this summer. The foliage also hides and protects the girls from the view of hawks overhead.</div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">Shifting my gaze a little lower, I see the greening up of the controversial raspberry bushes in front of the coop. </span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">Controversial because they are both prolific (berries: good) and rambunctious (free-running vines: bad). I planted them a few years back as a hedge to divide the back yard into 'rooms', and soon afterwards I got the chickens and they were a good screen for them as well.</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">But somehow I didn't fully realize how invasive </span>raspberry bushes are, or why garden experts advised that they be planted in containers, or raised beds with deeply buried sides. I trustingly planted them right in the soil next to a path on either side. So of course they run everywhere, coming up under my brick paths, in my asparagus patch, my garlic, tomatoes, lettuce.... <br />
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Personally I'm not wild about raspberries -- they are ok, but for me, soft and blah compared with other sweeter, tarter berries like strawberries and blueberries. I can take 'em or leave 'em. My sweetheart adores raspberries, and I confess I planted them mostly for him. Here he is, picking breakfast a few summers ago.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lrUCDVpx4wY/U16wlUL5D_I/AAAAAAAACmc/BKAeOGg4Tl0/s1600/DSC03620.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lrUCDVpx4wY/U16wlUL5D_I/AAAAAAAACmc/BKAeOGg4Tl0/s1600/DSC03620.JPG" height="566" width="640" /></a></div>
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Every year I complain about spending precious spring gardening time digging up raspberry runners, and every year he gives me The Sad Look and points out that he never complains about anything I grow (hardly) and that he built the raspberry structure on my request (true). So every year I grumble more quietly and dig on.<br />
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I don't know why, but this year I woke up one day and thought: Right. That's it. I'm taking them out. Here's why. The raspberries literally groan with fruit every summer, but the height of the harvest is a time when the chief raspberry eater is gone for weeks at a time, working on bike tours. I'm all alone with the raspberries, and I can't eat them all, or keep up with them to freeze. Lame, I know. So a lot of the crop goes to waste. Even the chickens can't eat that many.<br />
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But I've been harboring an alternative plan and this year I'm putting it into action. <br />
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At the time I decided on a fruit hedge, I was debating between raspberries and blueberries (which I totally love). In the past 15 years I had tried growing blueberries in various places around the garden, and they never did well. They basically sat where I planted them, then eventually dwindled down and croaked. I concluded our climate is too hot and dry for blueberries, so in went the raspberries.<br />
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Then I met George Snyder 'deaf blueberry grower' from Culver, Oregon, who sells blueberry plants in pots and claims they are completely winter-hardy, even in Central Oregon. <br />
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<a href="http://www.patioblueberries.com/">http://www.patioblueberries.com</a><br />
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I was skeptical, but one day I saw a trio of his plants for sale at our local grocery store and when I got home I found they had slipped into my car along with my groceries. (Yes, I paid for them.)<br />
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My skepticism lasted exactly 6 months, until my plants, lined up in front of my greenhouse, not only made it through the winter with no additional protection, but flowered and produced fruit the following summer. Huh. Maybe old George was on to something. Next I dug up the last struggling survivors from my last garden blueberry planting, and put them into the same kind of pots. They perked up and thrived and, the following year, bloomed and bore fruit. <br />
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I did ask George what kind of potting mix he used, and he set me straight: straight shredded hemlock bark. I splurged on some acid-loving soil mix and used it half and half with the bark, and it seemed to do the trick. In retrospect I realize that my former blueberry failures came from several factors: too much shade/too much sun + too little water + soil too neutral. Go figure -- blueberries actually need acid soil, just like all the experts say. I guess those token handfuls of peat moss sprinkled around the original plants didn't quite cut it? <br />
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Here's my new plan. Take out the raspberry hedge and move the blueberries into their spot -- with plenty of acidifying soil amendments. I can't betray the man who built the support structure though, that guy who loves the raspberries, so I have dug up 8 raspberry canes and put them into pots. <br />
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We'll see how they do. Maybe by the time they are huge and out of control I will have figured out someplace else in the yard to plant them. The sweetheart will have his raspberries and I will have a blueberry bonanza, with a handy wooden and wire structure to hang bird netting from at harvest time. I call that win-win.<br />
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The morning stroll also took me inside the greenhouse, where I found this<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bHzgRmInLtU/U16sSl234YI/AAAAAAAAClo/7N_XCIYKjyc/s1600/IMG_0968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bHzgRmInLtU/U16sSl234YI/AAAAAAAAClo/7N_XCIYKjyc/s1600/IMG_0968.JPG" height="462" width="640" /></a></div>
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sitting on a potting bench, where it had fallen from the greenhouse roof. Empty, obviously, left over from last year. These clever structures are the creations of paper wasps that find the protection of the greenhouse the perfect place to raise their young. These guys, or rather, ladies, are quite mild-mannered, and so I don't sweep them down unless they are close to the door or other busy spot.<br />
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They start out like this<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-c_D0-JE-XDM/U16sO8M7Q-I/AAAAAAAAClY/yuUpw249f2U/s1600/IMG_0967.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-c_D0-JE-XDM/U16sO8M7Q-I/AAAAAAAAClY/yuUpw249f2U/s1600/IMG_0967.JPG" height="598" width="640" /></a></div>
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and just last week I saw several new nests going up in different corners of the greenhouse. Now there is only this<br />
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and the fallen giant in the earlier photo. Where did they go? Aha -- Several times in the last few days I have startled birds that were hanging around inside the greenhouse. I suspect they have been feasting on wasps and dismantling the nascent nests. No need to worry about being stung this year. Now perhaps I should get the broom and clear away the cobwebs?<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-57728390566239963442014-04-19T09:08:00.000-07:002014-04-19T09:08:17.596-07:00Goodbye to Ariel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HYJ--gCmYbc/U1KSbAz4uWI/AAAAAAAACjU/5fWlA-KlZug/s1600/DSCN0022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HYJ--gCmYbc/U1KSbAz4uWI/AAAAAAAACjU/5fWlA-KlZug/s1600/DSCN0022.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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Yesterday we said goodbye to our amazing cat, Ariel. All cats are amazing, all cats are unique, all cats are wonderful. But Ariel was just a little different than your average amazing, unique, wonderful cat.<div>
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She was super smart, and she was even more independent than most cats. She recognized other cats as fellow beings in the home,</div>
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and even adopted small waifs when they arrived in her house.</div>
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But she was eldest, she was first, and she never quite belonged with the common herd. She was pretty sure she was one of us -- 'us', as in human, rather than 'them' as in feline.</div>
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When she came to us, she was a tiny silvery gray fireball, feisty, hot-tempered, anti-social, and supremely athletic. Saying 'no' to her was often followed by the sight and feel of tiny claws and teeth digging into one's legs in a full-on angry attack. A Scots friend who was visiting during Ariel's early months with us was heard to refer to her as 'the little monsterrrrrr'. Oh, she had a temper. To be honest, the two of us often clashed in a battle of wills -- both of us bossy, controlling females who didn't like being told what to do (or not being obeyed).</div>
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When she wanted to escape the scene, she found a perch out of reach</div>
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but in later years was always ready with a cheery greeting, her little special double 'meow-wow', uttered on a friendly, questioning note.</div>
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When she eventually mellowed, she occasionally blessed one of the resident humans with a short visit </div>
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to desk or lap. She never stayed long, but she wanted us to know we were part of the same family.</div>
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She loved boxes of course, both large</div>
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and small,</div>
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and of course Christmas was a favorite time of year!</div>
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<br />She loved the game of 'papers on the floor' -- though this winsome pose<br />
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was usually followed by frenzied shredding. Ariel -- no!<br />
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She adored shoes and laundry baskets, the smellier, the better<br />
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She figured out how to open the French doors<br />
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by watching us. We had to keep it locked from then on, otherwise we risked returning home from an outing in midwinter and finding the living room door standing ajar. <br />
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The other doors had to be opened by us, and she was always ready to go out early in the morning for a wee jaunt around the premises.<br />
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In the end, that morning puttering was her undoing. Wednesday morning she was attacked by two coyotes, new to the neighborhood, and was fighting them off, hard, under a neighbor's window. The wonderful neighbors scared off the coyotes and took Ariel to the emergency vet, and for a while there it looked like she was going to be alright. She had surgery Thursday afternoon, and the vet was optimistic Ariel was doing well and would make a full recovery. She even told us we might be able to bring her home yesterday. Sadly, though, she didn't make it through the night. In the wee hours yesterday morning, she gave up the fight and came home to us in a much different way than we had expected.<br />
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She was beautiful, she was quirky, she was a friend and she did things her own way. We miss her and are feeling that double pull of conscience (that we let her outside into a world much larger than a small cat knows) and gratitude for the thirteen years we had with her, knowing she came to us a wildcat and left a happy member of a loving household. <br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-56425507161665522672014-04-18T07:22:00.002-07:002014-04-18T07:22:48.291-07:00Just another river walk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
There is no such thing as a boring walk along the river. Rivers everywhere are vital, nourishing places for many kinds of life. But in our dry climate, a river is an especially lively place, in all seasons and at all times of the year. Thursday is Date Day for us each week, and the sweetheart and I keep various local river walks in our back pockets, so to speak, to pull out when we are tired or the weather is bad or we just want to see the latest developments in the river flowing through our town.</div>
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One of our easy river walks is a loop leaving from Ye Olde Mille Districte -- our name for the former lumber mill on the banks of the Deschutes River, now turned into an upscale (for Bend) shopping mall, complete with restaurants, the usual chain clothing stores (Banana Republic, the Gap, and the naughty nighty place I can't recall the name of right now), movie theaters, etc. </div>
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The loop heads upstream along the river, and soon enters the pine forests and rocky bluffs of the canyon. This is a popular trail for shoppers, runners, dog walkers and people you would never expect to see on a 'hiking' trail. </div>
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There is always something to see, and yesterday was no exception. The first sight we saw leaving the parking lot was, apparently, The Lewis and Clark Expedition in red plastic boats.</div>
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There were several more, but, they were spread out all over the river. There were even a couple of stand-up paddle boarders, the first we've seen this year (background above). (We routinely ridicule these devices as the lamest, most uncomfortable things ever invented -- but these guys showed more intelligence than most by exiting the cold water soon thereafter).</div>
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On closer inspection, the boats turned out to be full of children, suitably bundled up for the weather (it was raining) and accompanied by a presumably knowledgeable adult at the prow of each boat.</div>
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Continuing past the shivering masses, we came upon one of the first plants to bloom here:<br />
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a wonderful native formerly known as Squaw Currant, but of course now more respectfully renamed Wax Currant. Sweet pink bells cover the bushes.<br />
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Sadly, although common everywhere here, the berries are mealy and tasteless, though deer eat them. </div>
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Continuing up the canyon, we eventually reached the turnaround point, the <a href="http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Bridge_of_Khazad-d%C3%BBm" style="color: #660099; cursor: pointer; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; text-decoration: none; white-space: nowrap;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Bridge of Khazad</span>-<span style="font-weight: bold;">dûm</span></a></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xCct51TVbIs/U1Ety5GQVAI/AAAAAAAACic/KIxu0eBb1oA/s1600/IMG_0880.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xCct51TVbIs/U1Ety5GQVAI/AAAAAAAACic/KIxu0eBb1oA/s1600/IMG_0880.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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and a good thing, too, because I was getting hungry and starting to bonk.</div>
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We did a group selfie by the bridge.</div>
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If you're wondering about the odd expression on my face, it was just because I was thinking about nibbling on some nearby earlobes. Why not, he didn't need them.<br />
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Fast forward to the final stretches of the trail, where it leaves the canyon and comes back out into open woodland. Someone had thoughtfully decorated a trailside tree<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7dvbqH2LxBk/U1EtygVe4MI/AAAAAAAACiY/cyj0uLLgHCo/s1600/IMG_0882.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7dvbqH2LxBk/U1EtygVe4MI/AAAAAAAACiY/cyj0uLLgHCo/s1600/IMG_0882.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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with a few words along with the easter eggs<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2j7EFAypmY0/U1EuE-ZLbrI/AAAAAAAACik/6Gmvy5Iu5IM/s1600/IMG_0883.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2j7EFAypmY0/U1EuE-ZLbrI/AAAAAAAACik/6Gmvy5Iu5IM/s1600/IMG_0883.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Seriously, this is a great trail. I don't know who the trail fairies are, but I appreciate their work.</div>
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Other local residents add their own special mark:</div>
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By this time I was so famished I even considered trying a bit of tree bark. But we made it back for a proper human lunch and left the beavers to their lignin feast.<br />
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Just another river walk.<br />
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<br /><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-9497966709532067662014-02-16T14:44:00.000-08:002014-02-16T14:44:18.504-08:00Digging out<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Winter was a long time coming this year. Oh, we had the bout of sub-zero temps with a few inches of snow on top, in early December, which was apparently the longest such cold stretch (down to -11 F at our house, lows down to -32 in other parts of the county) in 67 years. The downtown Christmas Parade was cancelled due to the cold temperatures. A lot of pipes in houses built since the last cold spell froze. And considering the growth in Bend in just the last 15 years, that was a lot of pipes. <div>
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Since then, we've been warm (high 50's) and dry until last week, when suddenly we got slammed. <div>
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It was one of those storms that starts out with a fine sifting of harmless-looking tiny snowflakes, and then keeps snowing and snowing and snowing. Not as much snow as the year our backyard nearly filled up, but a lot of snow all at once. Businesses closed early, church services and other events were cancelled, including a ski race, simply because no one could get there. </div>
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Many of us were trapped in our homes by walls of snow. Living on the downhill side of the street, with a house below street level, the snowplows always hit us hard. As they clear the street for the rest of the residents, our driveways are buried under feet of heavy, chunky snow.</div>
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The top of the wall o' snow was eye level from the house ground level.</div>
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As I started digging, I kept thinking: what does this remind me of? And then I realized it was The Wall erected to the north of Winterfell in Game of Gore, I mean, Game of Thrones, to keep the wildlings and ice ghouls out of the Seven Kingdoms. At one point I thought about building a wee elevator and putting in some tiny figures at the base, to represent Jon Snow and the Night Watch. But I opted to keep digging, hoping to create access to the mailbox for our faithful mail guy.</div>
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Previously, the manly guy and I had spent 40 minutes clearing the snow from the top of our other driveway, so w<span style="text-align: center;">e could get the car out. Sorry for the darkness - it was about 6:00 am and the sun wasn't quite up when we went out.</span></div>
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Meanwhile, in the back yard .....</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HYvpfBbaBQ0/UwEB9gDietI/AAAAAAAACfs/XDqErsBFbco/s1600/IMG_0604.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HYvpfBbaBQ0/UwEB9gDietI/AAAAAAAACfs/XDqErsBFbco/s1600/IMG_0604.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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.... it was time to dig out the girls. When I finished, they had about four feet square of open ground in their outside pen.</div>
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Some of the hens are veterans of at least one previous winter. But there are five newbies who care not for this white stuff. Previously I had scattered a bag of dried leaves over the shoveled ground, to lure them outside. A few leaves were still visible.</div>
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Poor Penny, at the bottom of the pecking order and nervous in general, was clearly not sure what this strange white world was all about.</div>
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Is it safe out there?</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-13553043698662576622013-10-28T10:35:00.002-07:002013-10-28T11:00:47.514-07:00Fall Color Along the Deschutes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A new pair of trail shoes ....<br />
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two weeks of glorious Indian Summer weather ...<br />
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a river ...<br />
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a boon companion ...<br />
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and it's time for our annual fall color walks along the Deschutes.<br />
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We feel so fortunate to have this magnificent river flowing right through our town. More often than not, our Thursday Date Day Hikes take place on or near the river. Although the arid West is not known for fall color the way New England is, and for good reason, we appreciate our aspens and larches all the more for their glorious light. They pop out against the backdrop of dark evergreens and lava rock.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nKKRfQ_vmAE/Um5_dobH1qI/AAAAAAAACZg/emTNSfX41zs/s1600/IMG_0040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="489" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nKKRfQ_vmAE/Um5_dobH1qI/AAAAAAAACZg/emTNSfX41zs/s640/IMG_0040.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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The river is quite low for this time of year, and the water, flowing more slowly, shows the deep green blue more commonly seen in the glacial meltwater lakes higher up in the mountains.<br />
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The past couple of weeks we have walked along the upper sections of the river trail, above Benham Falls, where the old railroad bed it follows are clearly evident.<br />
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The original railroad bed was converted to a haul road for huge log trucks in the 1950's and is now a wide, beautifully graded trail along long sections. It reminds me of the carriage roads outside Bar Harbor, Maine. <br />
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The rotting pilings of the old haul road bridge sit next to the new one. <br />
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Just upstream from the bridge is the old log jam, purposely created to slow the river and prevent loose logs from running into the bridge pilings.<br />
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Most of this area was clear cut in the early 1900's and the trees you see are new growth since then. There are still mature giant Ponderosa pines in the picnic area just beyond the bridge.<br />
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Just beyond the bridge, the trail bears south, after crossing the current railroad line, <br />
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and begins its run alongside the vast lava fields created by Lava Butte, visible in the distance here:<br />
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While playing with my telephoto....<br />
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I saw a flash of movement among out of the corner of my eye. I glanced over, expecting to see a ground squirrel, but was surprised to see this little guy peering at me from a nice secure rock pile:<br />
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He stepped out to get a better view of me...<br />
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then posed for a profile shot...<br />
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Although he was as cute as could be<br />
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I suspected he was a rather fierce creature up close and personal. Thinking he wasn't quite the right color for a pine marten or weasel, I did a bit of research once I got home. Although rare in our area, I believe this little fellow was an ermine, or stoat. A special wildlife bonus for the hike.<br />
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Then we headed back to our car, parked just above Benham Falls. Here's the final view downstream<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-4366742669293392202013-10-20T10:23:00.000-07:002013-10-20T10:34:36.805-07:00Our Rupert<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Our Rupert died this week. <br />
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He was the sweetest boy ever. I suppose he looked like every other black cat: black. But he had the cutest long tufts on the tips of his ears, a mellow disposition, and a loving nature that led him to take small newcomers under his wing and make them lifelong sleeping companions.<br />
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Despite a rather timid nature, he bravely defended us from various threats, including mice, frogs, birds and the Evil White Cat Across the Street.</div>
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When I started looking for photographs of the manly guy, I found only a few solo shots.</div>
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He rarely napped...<br />
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or sat guard duty<br />
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alone.<br />
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He loved his grub<br />
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and was famous for nibbling any bare toes he found standing in the kitchen while food was being prepared. We had to develop a special Rupert Dance to avoid his not-always gentle nips. After all, he was just trying to do everyone a favor by speeding things along.<br />
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He loved being outside in all weather<br />
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and he helped out in the garden whenever possible<br />
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He loved his special Rupert basket by the fire in winter,<br />
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but his favorite place was always cuddled up with as many friends as possible.<br />
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We buried him next to the woodpile, where he spent many hours on various projects known only to himself. We suspect he was monitoring the mouse population there.<br />
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In final tribute to our sweet boy, I give you the silly boy Rupert movie:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dw9obkC0Tivc0vYzJBixF1EVeiafulbb3_KpikLgDvi6nV5GtbWEk2KqbOv5FZY1PfVeFg8Xooj6d2-H-grVA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-369271866798916572013-08-28T09:09:00.000-07:002013-08-28T09:09:15.743-07:00I went, I saw, I got wet -- Backyard Farm Tour Day TwoWith my own duty as official backyard farm host completed last Saturday, I set out the next day to see what others had growing. Most of the tour stops on the second day were closer to actual farms than backyards. I only made it to three before getting rained out, but they were pretty cool.<br />
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The first was a garden in an alley, behind a row of traditionally (boringly) landscaped newer homes on fairly small lots. There are no backyards in this neighborhood, just an alley leading to garages. The gardener, Natacha, fills every patch of dirt in the alley, and along the narrow spaces on each side of her house. Here's the view from the entrance to the alley. Can you spot it, beyond the second fence on the right?<br />
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first hints of something a little different:<br />
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Hey, look at that.....<br />
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Natacha's farm!<br />
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What these photos don't show is a long row of raspberries along one narrow side yard, and a packed potato patch filling the other, along with a couple of rogue zucchini plants hiding amongst the standard shrubbery in the front. Birdfeeders, fountain and a big deck with planters full flowers and herbs complete the space. Every square inch is edible.<br />
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With a thunderstorm looming overhead, I headed east to look at two herb 'farms'. The first one, tucked into the back of a 1/2 acre lot (though it seemed much bigger), is still being created. At one side is a newish vegetable/herb garden with a small greenhouse. <br />
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Across the yard stands a 50 foot hoop house, with sod clearing underway for a second house. Are you sure this is only a half acre?<br />
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Under showery skies, I drove just a few blocks to another herbary, this one on a rocky, full acre lot. A longer-established garden included raised beds, cloches, a large enclosed area for ducks and chickens, various sheds and greenhouses, all interwoven with native juniper trees and sagebrush and grasses.<br />
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I love seeing what other people plant. Kale, strawberries, chard, and tomatoes are standard. Along with the green beings, there were other denizens to be seen. Chickens....<br />
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Bees .....</div>
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And my fellow tourers....</div>
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By this time thunder and lightning were right over the top of us. After spending 15 minutes huddled under the porch of the house, I headed back to my car, parked nearly two blocks away, when the rain let up. Before I got even halfway there, the storm redoubled its efforts, and despite my best sprinting form, I arrived at my car battered by hail and soaked to the skin.<br />
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At that point I decided to give up on the tour. I was hungry and the storm cell covered miles and looked like it was here to stay (according to the next day's news reports, the storm generated over 7000 lightning strikes in our area that day and evening.)<br />
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Besides, I had one more errand before I headed home. <br />
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A special sale of fine pianos, onstage at the Tower Theatre downtown, needed visiting. Pianos needed testing. To a piano lover, even a wet one, there is no prettier sight than a crowd of shiny grands under lights.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-40691648577474813332013-08-26T17:33:00.002-07:002013-08-28T09:13:09.106-07:00They came, they saw, they asked questions -- Back Yard Farm Tour Day One<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The 2013 Bend Backyard Farm Tour is history. On a beautiful sunny Saturday, I had over 100 visitors to my 'farm'. I was so busy I never had time to take a break, and didn't get 'lunch' until the last guest departed, a little after 4:00.<br />
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I was so busy I never even took out my camera, so I have no photos of the day -- sorry. Just for the record, though, here is some of what they saw, under this morning's cloudy skies rather than the bright sunshine of Saturday.<br />
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The entrance to the back garden<br />
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leads to a large selection of nursery pots, full of perennials waiting to be transplanted into the front yard. I think most people just thought they were colorful container gardens. Shhhh<br />
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I will say that I was surprised by some of the questions I got. I always expect to answer questions about tomatoes<br />
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and dealing with deer -- which I did. A large percentage of my visitors each year are newcomers to Bend and/or gardening in general. Most newcomers arrive from balmier and/or wetter areas such as Seattle, Portland, or California, and I share the usual caveats 'frost is possible any day of the year' 'add tons of organic matter, the soil here is mostly sand' and 'choose varieties for short season maturity'. This year, though, I had a most unusual experience, when I got to tell newcomers from Paisley, Oregon (south and east of here, even drier and colder and higher in elevation than Bend), 'hey, you'll love it -- it's warmer and we have a longer growing season'. <br />
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But I also found myself expounding on such random topics as: why the big old weeping birch trees are dying all over town (they are being stressed by rising temperatures), the need to water trees and shrubs, especially newly planted evergreens in the winter (they frequently die over their first winter because when the cold, dry air dries out the foliage, the moisture cannot be replaced via the frozen soil) ...... best non-bee-attracting annual flowers for restaurant window boxes (how would I know, since I plant everything I can that attracts bees?! ..... what to do for aphids and powdery mildew on lupine cultivars (take 'em out and plant native varieties which are never touched by either). It's amazing what knowledge you pick up in 40+ years of gardening.<br />
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Of course I answered lots of questions about chickens,<br />
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including 'what do you do to keep them warm in winter?' (nothing -- they have feathers and down that will protect them as long as they are dry and out of the wind), 'what kind are those spotted ones' (Speckled Sussex)<br />
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and 'why is that chicken in prison?' (because she has gone broody). <br />
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Also, does your cat attack the chickens? (no, but they definitely keep an eye on each other)<br />
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Every year there is one plant in particular that for some reason intrigues people, and everybody asks about it. One year it was asparagus -- most people have only seen the early spring sprouts that appear magically in grocery stores and don't recognize the beautiful ferny leaves of the mature plant. Another year it was borage, which I allow to go to seed because I love the blue, star-shaped flowers, and so do the bees.<br />
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This year people did ask about the borage and the asparagus, but the big surprises were fruit trees ('you can grow fruit trees here?!')<br />
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and my favorite question: 'what is that flower that looks like an artichoke?' (it's an artichoke). <br />
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Overall, it was just fun to talk with a bunch of really nice, curious and often well-informed people, many of them experienced gardeners themselves. Although there is a healthy locavore movement, and a recent crop of small farms raising vegetables and herbs locally, it seems many people still don't know much about how to raise their own food and are eager to learn. I hope some of them went away with a spark of an idea to try a few kale plants this fall and next year. <br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-63369854844085998992013-08-23T08:13:00.000-07:002013-08-28T09:13:33.499-07:00Uh Oh. They Are Coming...No, not goblins and a cave troll. <br />
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Visitors.<br />
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People who have bought the booklet and, clutching their maps, are touring the local area to look at backyard farms. Which apparently I have one of. Who knew? All these years I thought I was planting a not very organized vegetable garden and tossing in a few random flowers to go with the weeds. It has never fully lived up to my <strike>fantasies</strike> expectations of a proper vegetable garden, which tend to come from photos in books and Martha Stewart-type magazines.<br />
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But times have changed. There are locavores. There is urban farming. And there seem to be a heck of a lot of people living here who have either never gardened at all or have never planted as much as a radish seed in their lives, but who are worried about GMO's in their food and tired of the pink golf ball tomatoes found in ye olde giant grocery chain market. <br />
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Add to that the built-in challenges of growing many of the most traditional food crops in our short-season, cool night, frost-can-happen-any-day-of-the-year climate, and you have a lot of newcomers and even oldtimers who are interested in seeing what can be grown on a city lot. <br />
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If the numbers are anything like the visitors in these photos from the 2010 backyard farm tour, I may have a lot of people. The tour this year has a majority of larger gardens, including several actual farms, rather than smaller ones in people's backyards. I suspect the average person is more interested in gardens on in-city lots, and since I am designated #1 in the tour booklet, I am expecting a deluge of guests.<br />
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Along with recently having become the subject of a Beatles tune (see previous post), I have come to realize that I actually am a genuine 'oldtimer'. Sadly, along with the vast knowledge of useful oldtimer gardening tips and tricks, has come a bit of arthritis and weariness of limb. At least I can now blame the weeds on that. But that isn't going to stop me from tearing the heck out of a few last patches today, before the hordes show up tomorrow. Tomorrow?!!!!!! Help!<br />
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Come to think of it, the goblins probably wouldn't notice the weeds.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-25597515520009042732013-08-18T10:42:00.000-07:002013-08-18T10:46:35.268-07:00On Becoming the Subject of a Beatles TuneIt's amazing how wise the boys were, back then. So young (though older than I was) yet spot on with lyrics and titles about Life. I confess I haven't done rigorous scientific testing to compare the Fab Four's music with song titles of other classic rock groups, folk groups or any other genre of popular music. I just happen to love the Beatles, for both nostalgic reasons and because their music is so darned fine, musically, harmonically, philosophically and cosmically.<br />
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The titles of so many of their songs just WERE about the important things in life:<br />
<br />
And I Love Her (the words I never tire of hearing)<br />
Because (...... I said so)<br />
Good Day Sunshine (excellent philosophy of life)<br />
Help! (yes please, always and every day!)<br />
I Want to Hold Your Hand (ok)<br />
Strawberry Fields Forever (in the garden. Also raspberries, apples ....)<br />
With a Little Help From My Friends (more important as the decades pass)<br />
Yesterday (more poignant as the decades pass)<br />
I Am the Walrus (well, the less said about this, the better)<br />
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But of course there is one song title that is nudging at every Baby Boomer these days. You know the one I mean. Last week it came true for me ...<br />
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"When I get older, losing my hair ......"<br />
(dang)<br />
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'many years from now,"<br />
(hey, where did those years go?)<br />
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will you still be sending me a valentine,<br />
birthday greetings,<br />
bottle of wine?<br />
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If I'd been out till quarter to three,<br />
would you lock the door?<br />
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Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm 64?<br />
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You'll be older too.<br />
And if you say the word, I could stay with you.<br />
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I could be handy mending a fuse<br />
when your lights have gone.<br />
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You can knit a sweater by the fireside,<br />
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Sunday mornings, go for a ride.<br />
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Digging the garden, digging the weeds,<br />
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<span id="goog_819045064"></span><span id="goog_819045065"></span><br />
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who could ask for more?<br />
Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm 64?<br />
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Ev'ry summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight<br />
if it's not too dear.<br />
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We shall scrimp and save.<br />
Grandchildren on your knee;<br />
Vera, Chuck and Dave<br />
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(oops..... no photo here -- we forgot to have children)<br />
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Send me a postcard, drop me a line,<br />
stating point of view.<br />
Indicate precisely what you mean to say,<br />
yours sincerely, wasting away.<br />
Give me your answer, fill in a form,<br />
mine forever more.<br />
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Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm 64?<br />
Ho!<br />
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Now it's on to Medicare (one year) and Social Security (two years). How did this all happen? What a good thing it is to have friends and family, a roof over my head, and 64 years of memories. Thanks Paul, John, George and Ringo....<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-44413822085254276232013-05-12T08:39:00.000-07:002013-05-12T08:53:18.793-07:00Another coop tour<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The 2013 edition of the Bend (Chicken) Coop Tour was yesterday. This time I decided to take it easy and visit only the coops closest to my house, in the central part of Bend. I enlisted friend Jane, and, fueled by good coffee and an Ocean Roll from the local coffee roaster, we headed out on a hot (for early May) day -- 80 degrees and sunny -- with coop tour booklet in hand.<br />
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I had plotted a route, highlighting our selected coops on the map and was confident Jane could guide us hither and yon. When she initially claimed she had no sense of direction, didn't know the town at all, and would probably get us lost within seconds, I just laughed. But she was right. Not only that, but she had somehow forgotten her reading glasses, so she couldn't read the booklet all that well, either. Luckily, she was, as always, fabulous company and adored all the girls, gardens and coops as much as I did.<br />
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But I had cleverly chosen coops (mostly) in town, and ended up getting to show off my Bend Old Fart knowledge, as we visited the various 'hoods. I only made one bad turn, and that was after we had enlisted the help of Grace, my GPS. I failed to consult Grace on the way home from a distant coop, and had to apologize for doubting her original circuitous route on the way out. She was right. There was a dead end. Jane tactfully bit her tongue and just made encouraging comments.<br />
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Of the 9 coops we toured, our hands-down favorite was ........ a garden. <br />
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Tucked away on the west side of town was this jewel of a back yard. Converted from an initially sage- and bitterbrush-covered slope by the energetic homeowners, into a compact, terraced garden full of vegetables and fruit bushes. The coop was nice too, but the garden was wonderful!<br />
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There were many other fine coops and gardens (I consider the coop tour a stealth garden tour). One lovely home sported a tasteful welcome sign.<br />
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A surprising number of gardens contained beehives!</div>
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something I have fantasized about having in my garden for years and years and years.</div>
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Probably the most impressive coop had several sections. Here is the outdoor lounging area for the ladies. Check out the umbrella and flowering window box.</div>
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All in all, a most satisfactory tour. After dropping off Jane I headed home, re-inspired to spruce up my sadly-neglected spring garden and give my ladies some treats.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-31841109175170656272013-05-05T09:23:00.001-07:002013-05-05T09:40:24.672-07:00Harmonious Spring ActivitiesCourtyard striding ......... Check:<br />
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Leisurely morning strolling ......... Check<br />
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Sitting in scenic kiosks ........... Check<br />
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As per 16th Century Traditional Chinese Medical advice, see previous post here <a href="http://arabellasgarden.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-best-laid-plans.html">http://arabellasgarden.blogspot.com/2013/04/the-best-laid-plans.html</a> I have embarked on a program of Spring Health Promotion During the Wood Season. Determined to nourish the liver network, let down our hair, raise our spirits, and honor the qi of spring, my sweetheart and I decided to seek forests, gardens and scenic kiosks along the Crooked River, 40 miles east of Bend. It being our 42nd wedding anniversary and the weather forecast propitious, we took the Pinecone (teardrop trailer) attached to the new Cute Car (Oliver) and made it an overnight trip. And despite the fact that we have camped hither and yon, at all times of year, since before we married (we met in our college's hiking club), we can't remember ever camping on our actual May 1 anniversary before this. So we are calling it our first Campiversary.<br />
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We arrived around 7:30 pm, after a full day's work, and had the place to ourselves except for one distant fisherman. We spent a quiet night with only the sound of the nearby river to keep us company.<br />
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Camping in the bottom of a river canyon means the first job in the morning is to make coffee, start a little fire and wait for the sun to reach camp.<br />
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Hmm, sun still on the other side of the river. Should I get up?<br />
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Looks like the sweetheart has the coffee ready ....<br />
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And a wee campfire made ....<br />
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Here comes the sun!<br />
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And breakfast is coming... must go kiss the cook<br />
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Decades of practice have taught us the importance of eating a proper camping breakfast:<br />
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with concessions to modern healthful, organic 'glamping' practices, the bacon is uncured, natural, gluten and casein free; the eggs are locally pastured, and the pancake mix local and organic. The salt .....<br />
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well, the salt is not just pure, it is 'the purest salt on earth' and is, in point of fact, primordial. You can't get much better than primordial. Morton's salt, in the big blue box with the picture of the cute girl holding an umbrella, never claimed to be primordial.<br />
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Breakfast under our belts, we headed for the courtyard striding. Our destination: Chimney Rock, up on the canyon rim.<br />
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Along the way, we came upon our first scenic kiosk, with the full crookedness of the river displayed below us, along with our local Cascade peaks in the distance.<br />
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The second scenic kiosk is right at the base of Chimney Rock. Sitting on this bench, facing away from the canyon, I watched swallows hovering right in front of me, hanging in the wind pouring over the ground at my feet, in the shallow pass between rock tower and canyon wall.<br />
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Following that advice to 'roam through gardens and forests, taking in the tranquil sights of nature', I admired the 'forests' up here, which are pretty sparse, consisting of widely spaced western juniper, interspersed with bunch grasses, sagebrush and those gardens....<br />
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Every spring is dry in this desert, but this year perhaps a bit drier than most. Desert wildflowers are fairly restrained to most eyes, but they are all the more welcome and beautiful to ours. Native creeping phlox, townsendia and an early clump of lupine:<br />
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After a quick telephoto shot of our wee trailer down in the campground,</div>
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we headed back to the canyon floor. Back at the trailhead, we crossed the road to check out the local fisherman action. Crooked River is a local hotspot for fly fishing.</div>
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And with this final view, we hooked up the Pinecone and headed for home. A most relaxing and harmony-enhancing expedition! Honoring the qi of spring 'r' us.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-42978354541241827592013-04-29T10:46:00.002-07:002013-04-29T10:48:09.807-07:00The best laid plans ....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Ok, I know. These 'new' seed packets all say '2012' on them. That's because I don't have a picture of any 2013 seeds because I procrastinated ordering, and then got sick and couldn't lift a finger to do anything until just last week. <br />
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On April 1 it all started with a little tickle, which turned into a cough, which turned into the Dread Flu that kept me down and out for over 2 weeks. Emerging from the Bubonic Plague and Spanish Influenza Spa and Weight Loss Clinic at last, I rushed to get my precious tomato seeds started before our short WoO was closed. Happy to fire up my fabulous light cart, last year's Big Garden Splurge.<br />
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Despite a serious, ongoing case of the draggies, I've had to keep going and thus my recovery has been slower than normal. I have scheduled extra massage, gulped down extra supplements and had extra acupuncture sessions, all in an effort to get back on my feet and out into the garden.<br />
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After attending a special intensive class a couple of weeks ago on Chinese pulse diagnosis, my wonderful TCM/acupuncturist had a field day reading and interpreting my various pulses. Mmmm, she said ...... aha ....... interesting ........ and made some expected comments on lung, kidney and the like. Then she turned to my other arm, saying, 'I'm excited to see what your liver is up to!' and then she just started laughing. 'It's all over the place, very restless, up and down and all around.....' <br />
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Kind of like a carnival ride? I asked and she laughed again. 'Exactly' so she gave me some suggestions for calming and balancing the frisky organ, and a sheet to read about ways to act in harmony with the energies of Spring. <br />
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It talks about the need to move slowly and easily, transitioning from the still, more inward and inactive months of Winter. It advises one to: "Rest at night and get up early, stride freely through the courtyard, let down your hair and indulge in the leisurely feeling of a morning stroll; this is how you should raise your spirits in spring..."<br />
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"Spring is the season of harmony. This is the time to roam through gardens and forests, to sit leisurely in scenic kiosks and take in the tranquil sights of nature....."<br />
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I then noticed that these were the translated words of a 16th Century Chinese poet and 'medical scholar'. Wow, I thought, this sounds like pretty good 450-year old advice.<br />
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Of course my favorite parts are about striding freely through the courtyard. If only I had a courtyard! and indulging in the leisurely feeling of a morning stroll. So much more appealing than the constant underlying voice in my head to 'get out and start exercising!' 'lift some weights!' 'get fit!' and do it NOW!<br />
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I also love the advice to roam through gardens and forests, sitting leisurely in scenic kiosks. I am wracking my brain to come up with local scenic kiosks. Perhaps a covered bench in a downtown park -- or one of the trailside benches on Pilot Butte or the Deschutes River Trail would count as 'kiosks'. Or possibly this is a cosmic hint that I should get to work building a gazebo in the back yard.<br />
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At any rate, I am coming into harmony, I can feel it. The week of warm, sunny weather we've just had is helping. Sprouting tomato babies are helping. The scenic kiosks are beckoning later in the week, on our planned anniversary camping trip. I'm pretty sure they are out there. When I find them, I'll have photos. Meanwhile, I'm off to the courtyard/back garden to throw a little dirt around.<br />
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(scenic kiosk of a previous year)<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-9148952892280731082013-02-10T09:12:00.001-08:002013-02-10T18:55:06.862-08:00I See Your Owl, and Raise You an EagleI think the people who write headlines for newspapers have the funnest job going. Imagine the glee with which the headline writer for our local Bend paper, The Bulletin, created the above line. <br />
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In the same issue that saw a full-page article with photos about our newest wildlife icon,<br />
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the barred owl that has recently taken up residence in a busy Bend river park, we were treated to the above headline 'I See Your Owl, and Raise You an Eagle' and the photo below:<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qLGsOssffL4/URfRml7-tBI/AAAAAAAACCo/aog8m8UEzmg/s1600/bilde-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qLGsOssffL4/URfRml7-tBI/AAAAAAAACCo/aog8m8UEzmg/s320/bilde-1.jpeg" width="226" /></a></div>
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This is a bit of an insider joke for locals. It is a real eagle, for sure, but the tall 'pine tree' it is perched on is a fake. It is actually a 75-foot AT&T cell tower disguised as a pine tree to better blend in with the surrounding forest, just outside the city limits. Some might describe it as an extremely tall artificial Christmas tree. It's not a bad fake, and would be even more inconspicuous if it were planted in the middle of a forest. This one stands apart from other trees, and although at first glance it could be mistaken for the real thing, a longer, second look makes it obvious it is faux. </div>
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Apparently this is the coming thing for cell towers in scenic and/or populated open areas. Here's one made by the Nello Company of West Bend, Indiana, which calls them 'monopines'. </div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FjR40te0JyA/URfUpYz0bMI/AAAAAAAACC4/h35Q62vkrWM/s1600/45-ft-2-Branch-Monopine1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FjR40te0JyA/URfUpYz0bMI/AAAAAAAACC4/h35Q62vkrWM/s320/45-ft-2-Branch-Monopine1.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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Here is another being assembled:</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ujdKwxHVrzA/URfUrBvYz8I/AAAAAAAACDA/dmHC5xhmqd4/s1600/Pine-Construction.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ujdKwxHVrzA/URfUrBvYz8I/AAAAAAAACDA/dmHC5xhmqd4/s320/Pine-Construction.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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So we've got an owl. We've got an eagle. What will our next wildlife star be? Ante up, Mother Nature.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-64347738888859029102013-02-08T07:23:00.000-08:002013-02-08T07:42:20.481-08:00I finally saw the owlYesterday I finally saw the barred owl that has been the talk of our town for the last couple of weeks. My sweetheart and I were finishing up one of our favorite walks along the river, and almost walked right past this guy, who was sitting on a fencepost less then 6 feet away, at eye level.<br />
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He (she?) blended in so well with the surrounding vegetation, I nearly missed him. It was broad daylight, though a bit overcast, at 2:00 pm on a February afternoon, so the sun was weak. And there he was, not the least bothered by people walking by (stopping to take photos), a busy road 100 yards away, and although he turned his head away from full frontal viewing</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OBBWJCaxCLQ/URUVR0lgwUI/AAAAAAAACBM/s9v3fMr39Mk/s1600/IMG243.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OBBWJCaxCLQ/URUVR0lgwUI/AAAAAAAACBM/s9v3fMr39Mk/s320/IMG243.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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he clearly was perfectly at ease, even when I walked right up to him.</div>
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His plumage was beautiful! Fluffy yet silky, with delicious barring and spots. Well, he IS a barred owl. I had the strongest urge to reach out and stroke his beautiful feathers! He reminded me so much of my chickens. But I resisted mightily and we walked on, watching as other people came up, noticed the owl, and took their own pictures. Perhaps he knows he is the star of his own movie?</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-38901470337986203022013-01-27T11:13:00.001-08:002013-02-08T18:07:00.564-08:00Pen and Ink<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1YFdVhtUGZE/UQVPOe_7s-I/AAAAAAAAB5I/xXQWKiuX2w4/s1600/DSC00962.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1YFdVhtUGZE/UQVPOe_7s-I/AAAAAAAAB5I/xXQWKiuX2w4/s320/DSC00962.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I've loved fountain pens forever. After a recent bout of serious pen cleaning, I am indulging in some refilling, and am trying some new inks. For years I thought the pen was the thing. I've never owned a really expensive pen, at least not the kind serious fountain pen collectors pursue. But looking at the motley assortment above, I can see that a bit of pen greed has indeed sneaked in through the years. My standard solution to "this pen isn't writing the way I want" has clearly been "oh well, I'll buy another one."</div>
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I'm pretty sure my love affair with fountain pens started when I changed piano teachers in 7th or 8th grade. My beloved first teacher, Mrs. Claire Stewart, was retiring to full-time momdom, after producing a series of blonde babies in my first years studying with her. Somehow my parents discovered that the 'famous' Dr. Raymond Foote, who was reputed to be a higher level teacher, lived just across town from us. Though he was rather intimidating as a teacher (I later found out he had studied at Juilliard with Rachmaninov himself), I was fascinated by his studio and above all, by his pen!</div>
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An unspoken rule for musicians is to mark printed scores using pencil only. But Dr. Foote used a fountain pen! He wrote the date IN INK on the top of each new piece I studied</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GJIk7Bp4q6Y/UQVPYyROICI/AAAAAAAAB5Y/cdP25xHuDzw/s1600/DSC00997.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GJIk7Bp4q6Y/UQVPYyROICI/AAAAAAAAB5Y/cdP25xHuDzw/s320/DSC00997.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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and then wrote out my assignment sheet with the same pen. I almost stopped breathing when I saw the gold nib headed towards my music book for the first time. The boldness! The color! The style! Thus was pen lust born in my (flat-chested) bosom. <br />
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Somewhere I found and bought my first fountain pen, a cheap Sheaffer, and I filled it with the closest color I could find to Dr. Foote's ink: 'Peacock Blue'. I thought it was very romantic-sounding and grownup. I even thought the way I got ink all over my fingers whenever I changed cartridges was romantic.<br />
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Good thing, too, because 50 years later, I still get ink on my fingers most of the time when I refill a pen. And, silly me: I still think of it as romantic.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0mbk8oDS35s/UQVdhnrn8eI/AAAAAAAAB7A/Yz3TeEBhh58/s1600/DSC00990.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-0mbk8oDS35s/UQVdhnrn8eI/AAAAAAAAB7A/Yz3TeEBhh58/s320/DSC00990.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
I use mostly bottled ink -- thus the colorful fingers. Cartridges are expensive and eco-wasteful. A few brands only take cartridges, or, like some of the new, super cheap 'disposable' fountain pens, cannot be refilled at all. But there is a whole world out there of amazing inks, accessible online. And I have begun to stumble through it, rationalizing further purchases with the line, "hey, a new bottle of ink is so much less expensive than a new pen" ......<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-s1XhqN9cnyQ/UQVPcSJ7TNI/AAAAAAAAB5g/AazLDKTiOxc/s1600/DSC00966.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-s1XhqN9cnyQ/UQVPcSJ7TNI/AAAAAAAAB5g/AazLDKTiOxc/s320/DSC00966.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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My ink collection is small, but that can be changed:<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--pcpseE6Msw/UQVd6pQ4BrI/AAAAAAAAB7Y/euVs7jxtEmo/s1600/DSC00968.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--pcpseE6Msw/UQVd6pQ4BrI/AAAAAAAAB7Y/euVs7jxtEmo/s320/DSC00968.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
Still in love with Robin Hood? Try Sherwood Green. The 'fast dry' means it's good for lefties!<br />
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There are hundreds of blues. I haven't even scratched the surface yet. But give me time.<br />
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Who doesn't need a little extra mojo now and then?</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gjnWo8L_R5o/UQVeCB1UvtI/AAAAAAAAB7g/ydLZMSW5h0I/s1600/DSC00971.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="318" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gjnWo8L_R5o/UQVeCB1UvtI/AAAAAAAAB7g/ydLZMSW5h0I/s320/DSC00971.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Dull name, pretty good ink.</div>
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and the classic<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zZR4FJY85L4/UQVeG1EKWLI/AAAAAAAAB7w/_puiDaT9xz8/s1600/DSC00974.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zZR4FJY85L4/UQVeG1EKWLI/AAAAAAAAB7w/_puiDaT9xz8/s320/DSC00974.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
with the easy-to-fill inner glass pocket:<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-38C9UgX9KHk/UQVeLpo9kQI/AAAAAAAAB74/Aah-5eJj5fo/s1600/DSC00975.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-38C9UgX9KHk/UQVeLpo9kQI/AAAAAAAAB74/Aah-5eJj5fo/s320/DSC00975.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
This is America: instructions are on the lid. <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wvvzJioarDo/UQVeQaCdi0I/AAAAAAAAB8I/lOlZmR8BSI8/s1600/DSC00978.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wvvzJioarDo/UQVeQaCdi0I/AAAAAAAAB8I/lOlZmR8BSI8/s320/DSC00978.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Here's a new ink, and a new-to-me company. J. Herbin, making ink in France since 1670. No fooling.<br />
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The bottle is nothing to brag about. But read the list of colors on the box, and tell me ink can't be romantic!<br />
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I don't speak French, but I see Black Pearl, Blue Night, Wild Ivy, Golden Button, Tender Rose, Anchor Rust..... be still, my heart. I am smitten. I feel a wee ink order coming on.</div>
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After a protracted fling with calligraphy nibs (Osmiroid! Esterbrook!) in company with my wonderful college roommate, Mara, I devolved back to regular writing nibs in the early '90's and moved beyond the basic drugstore cartridge pen.</div>
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Although I am currently having a love affair with a new Lamy Vista demonstrator pen (clear barrel so you can see the ink supply), the bottom pen in this photo,</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CIfYv1ULT9E/UQWBYCv4tLI/AAAAAAAACAA/dd3_V9HdarE/s1600/DSC00983.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CIfYv1ULT9E/UQWBYCv4tLI/AAAAAAAACAA/dd3_V9HdarE/s320/DSC00983.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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my fave of faves is still Li'l Blue, a small Pelikan pen. </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8FcXyeUwK6w/UQVPiA6rbVI/AAAAAAAAB5o/Ls_cgPNYFKU/s1600/DSC00989.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8FcXyeUwK6w/UQVPiA6rbVI/AAAAAAAAB5o/Ls_cgPNYFKU/s320/DSC00989.JPG" width="284" /></a></div>
This is not the greatest photo, but if you look closely you can see that the gold clip of the cap is in the shape of a pelican's beak, eyes and all. I love pelicans and Pelikans. After a tragic fall a few years ago, Li'l Blue needed a new nib, and one of the magicians at nibs.com not only replaced the ruined nib but custom-ground it to the acme of flow/width perfection, for my personal use. <br />
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As I've perused pen blogs and tracked down pen & ink stores online, I've learned that real pen snobs, er, I mean, aficionados, like to add a little notation at the end of their handwritten letters, mentioning the type of pen and the ink they have just used to write it with. So imagine that I've handwritten this entire blog for you. And imagine this below my signature, at the bottom of the page:<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-65122790549713517892013-01-14T12:42:00.002-08:002013-01-27T17:49:58.851-08:00Cats in WinterWhat's a cat to do in winter, when it's cold and snowy outside? There are so many choices.<br />
There's:<br />
bathing...<br />
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snacking ...<br />
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hide and seek ...<br />
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seed ordering ...<br />
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ski bag time ...<br />
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shoulder time ...<br />
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looking handsome ...<br />
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looking innocent ....<br />
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keeping an eye on the 'hood ....<br />
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and of course, sleeping...<br />
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At Christmas time, there is a brief interlude of excitement, for aficionados of ...<br />
boxes ...<br />
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bags ...<br />
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gifts ...<br />
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and a certain amount of confusion about wrapping paper in one's basket.<br />
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After all that is cleared away, there is a return to<br />
sleeping...<br />
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and that perennial favorite....<br />
Kitty Television!<br />
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Of course they only watch one station, namely the Bird Channel.<br />
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It's on every day from dawn to dusk, and features a wide cast of characters. One sunny day last week, I took pity on the chickens and let them out to roam the dormant garden, where deep snow hid and protected my perennials from their destructive pecking and scratching. They found their way over to the back deck, where I had set out a tray of tasty grass for a winter greens feast.<br />
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Meanwhile, inside, sleeping cats awoke.<br />
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Hey, what's this? Kitty Television got a new channel. The birds are so much bigger and more real -- it must be IMAX 3-D!!!!<br />
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Question is, who's watching whom?<br />
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Meanwhile, the chickens, watching the Cat Channel, are asking themselves, "Who's that?!"</div>
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Baaaawwwwwwwkkkkkkkkk!</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5507890482049320953.post-64780980057150706512012-09-25T18:51:00.000-07:002012-09-25T20:06:06.991-07:00Hero of small town AmericaUncharacteristically, I watched a lot of the London Olympics. Catalyzed by the success of the British bike racing team at the Tour de France, I was curious to see how they would do at the Olympics in their home country. Thanks to a free app, I was able to watch many events live on my iPad. Here is the view of my breakfast table one day, with three cyber devices operating simultaneously.<br />
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Doing email on my laptop, watching live swimming on my iPad, following on-location OlympicsTweets from a local guy on my smartypants phone. And eating.<br />
<br />
Normally I don't watch people throwing odd-shaped, heavy and/or pointed objects, jumping over things, or running very fast in circles. But a local guy, Ashton Eaton, was competing in the decathlon, and was a favorite to win. Not that I know Ashton, but he seemed like such a nice kid, and sure enough, he won. Bend went Ashton Eaton crazy, before, during and after the games. A huge crowd gathered at a downtown theatre to watch the final decathlon events live on the big screen. School reader boards, tee shirt stores, dry cleaners, grocery stores and sandwich shops boasted signs saying 'Bend Loves Ashton Eaton'. And after the games were over and all the appearances on national tv, someone here in town came up with the idea of having a welcome home parade for Ashton.<br />
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For various reasons, Bend is the home of a number of other past Olympians, many of whom participated in nordic skiing, but also in track & field and other events. They too were invited to join the parade, with a few short speeches planned for the end of the parade route.<br />
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My sweetheart and I couldn't resist being part of such a hero's welcome, and along with several thousand other people, we walked downtown Sunday afternoon to watch the parade. I don't know when I've seen this many people downtown, certainly not for the annual Christmas parade or the 4th of July parade<br />
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First there were policemen on motorcycles,<br />
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followed by a bunch of people wearing military uniforms and twirling guns.<br />
Some really nice signs<br />
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then a bright red bus, borrowed for the occasion from a new company that gives tours of our town. <br />
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Hmmm, I wonder who's in the bus? Aha! The old fart Dixieland band - excellent<br />
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Before moving to Bend, Ashton lived the first 6 years of his life in the small town of LaPine, 35 miles south of here. LaPineans are as proud of Ashton as the Bendonians, so they had a vehicle of their own in the parade.<br />
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This being very small town America, next we had <br />
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Next came the past Olympians, many of them wearing the various USA uniforms from the Olympics year they attended, with a few Special Olympics and Paralympians for good measure.<br />
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You have to have some of these<br />
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and some of these<br />
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and at last, <br />
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not riding on a float or the back of a fancy convertible, but just walking down the street in jeans and a tee shirt, with his Olympic gold medal around his neck, waving to the crowd, smiling and jumping up and down with pleasure, <br />
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sorry it's blurry, but he was so sweet, waving and holding up his medal.<br />
At the end of the parade, he waded through the huge crowd and vaulted up onto the dais below the theatre marquee<br />
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politely listened to a speeches by local officials<br />
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and a short speech by his mom<br />
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Then he spoke briefly, saying how thankful he was to have grown up in this community, and he said something like "this (the gold medal) was for you". He truly seems to be a sweet, humble person. In an interview afterward, both he and his mother expressed amazement at how many people turned out for the parade. "Wow" was what they said to each other when the parade started.<br />
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Then -- wait for it -- the mayor gave him the key to the city!<br />
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The huge crowd listened and cheered<br />
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A sea of faces<br />
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After that, Ashton hopped down from the platform, a path was cleared down the middle of the street for a couple of blocks, and he led an informal 'run' of the littlest kids, down and back. We left to grab lunch, but apparently the line for autographs afterward stretched for many blocks, and people waited patiently and cheerily to talk with him.<br />
There's something about the Olympics, isn't there? It's not a world championship or, for the vast majority of the athletes, even the medalists, it doesn't lead to a lucrative career in sports or monetary payback or endorsements. 10 or 20 or 30 or 40 years later, Olympians look back and most of them, having gone on to live quite ordinary lives in many cases, must reflect that in the end, they did it for themselves.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15239798951473493987noreply@blogger.com0