Apostle Islands Cruise

I've been asked several times just how I came up with this idea of taking this trip with as  many people as I/we could persuade to come along. (It wound up being 6 of us.) By the time those questions arose, there had been so many plans for so many destinations already that I totally spaced just how it had come about, other than finding it on the internet. Yesterday, finally, my brain clicked. It was the reminder that the Apostle Islands are a part of the National Park network.

Oh yeah. Back when I was researching everything related to spring/summer travel, we had made it a goal to hit as many national parks as feasible along the way. Somewhere I read a totally ridiculous number - I thought - about how many national parks we have. Well, perhaps they just slightly misspoke, or whatever the concept is when it is the written word.  The link contained in that tidbit listed not just parks but monuments, historically important sites, even nationally protected waterways, like the St. Croix River I've lived near to and enjoyed since about 1981. As expanded as that list was, the enormous number was correct. Parks system. Not just parks.

Among the listed locations, one that popped out was the Apostle Islands. I'd heard about them, particularly when my daughter related walking into some of the caves when Lake Superior was frozen enough to make that a safe activity. Ice? No, not for me. Big boat? You bet. I'd also stayed on Madeline Island 20-some years ago while taking the Lake Superior Circle Tour. It hadn't occurred to me it was one of those islands, and technically it isn't in the park system. The reason, our tour guide informed us yesterday, was that it was pretty well inhabited by the time the islands were bought up by the parks system, and Madeline would have been way too expensive to buy out. Let it stay private.

Steve's fishing buddy and his wife decided to join us, as well as my daughter and her husband. We four retirees traveled together, and many of the trip decisions were theirs. Like motel choice. Neither Steve nor I had ever stayed anywhere quite so pricey, but didn't quibble, knocking it off to using our covid stimulus funds and helping stimulate the tourism economy, (There is still some left in the budget even now, and we're looking at a possible fall trip, but that's a whole other thing.) My budget has never included a dinner menu that didn't put prices on it, but the weather was thunderstorms and we all were too tired to look further than the hotel after the drive up. I may not even have winced outwardly at the final bill, and other than the onion rings - not that crispy and lacking salt - the meal was delicious.

The hotel itself provided us with a room overlooking the bay in Ashland, WI, along with a marina, a well-utilized opportunity for my camera. It happens to be another one of those hotels that somehow insist that beds be too tall to just sit on, but require you to barely perch on the edge and wiggle your way in far enough that you don't fall out immediately. Is that some kind of a fad these days? Some famous interior designer's fancy bondoggle to appeal to the high status set? Not a fan.

I hope our companions liked their bed better, especially since, even having chosen the place, they got stuck with a view of the parking lot instead of the bay. Once the weather cleared, however, there was an abundance of decking and walkways from which to view it at leisure. Peggy, youngest and spryest of the bunch,  even treated herself to a late walking tour of the murals on many of the downtown buildings, pointing some out to us on our way out of town the next morning.

Don't get me started on the five pillows they provided. First, each was about the size of 2/3 of a regular pillow, more square than rectangular. Each was too soft to offer more than 47 seconds of support to your head, but too fat and unwieldy to stack for more comfortable use. In short, the primary use of a hotel, providing comfortable sleep to the weary traveler, was it's one big lack. I noted that they felt like they were filled with chunks of foam, and wondered if they were the ones from My Pillow Guy that so many people complain about. It wasn't worth checking.

Steve liked the 12' ceilings. I liked the tall windows, private enough that we never drew the drapes but had the view the whole stay. Lights at the marina docks after dark gave it a whole other feel. There was a comfy stuffed chair in front of one window. There was also an office chair in front of the desk, but the desk was low and the chair lower. Lucky I've had plenty of practice since my knee replacements at getting up from low places. I needed it.

On the plus side, the continental breakfast the next morning provided everything each of the four of us at our table could have asked, and we all had different preferences. It seems that I somehow was chosen to be the one to locate where they put the salt and pepper packets, cocoa mix, salsa cups, and those other wonderful little things that make the food taste like it should. No problem.

We were out early, traveling north to Bayfield where our cruise started. With a few extra minutes, Steve and I hit the gift shop next door to the ticket office. He got his Apostle Islands cap, and I got my Apostle Islands mug. (And a book.) After checking in at the office and told where on the dock to get our boat, we started looking for my daughter. They'd traveled independently, staying in Bayfield for two nights. Luckily I spotted them waving at us from a gazebo across the street from the ticket office, and settled on the benches inside while we waited to all come together. There is no long term parking at the dock, so again, our spryest member moved the car and hiked back.

The lineup at the dock was huge. The company currently had two tour boats, the first of which was pretty filled by the bus of seniors which disgorged them while we were working through accumulating our group members. By the time we got to the line, 3/4 of our boat's customers were waiting ahead of us. I simply asked the man checking whether we were waiting on the right boat what we needed to do when one of us simple had to sit down rather than stand in line for however long. (Steve of course.) He simply pointed us to the head of the line for priority boarding, A couple of other people were sitting there in (company provided) wheelchairs already, and we were indeed boarded almost immediately. Of course, not before I managed to take a few shots around the marina. The one of the bow of our boat showed very clearly its double hulls. Somehow I always pictured a catamaran as the size of large canoe or small sailboat with something buoyant connected alongside, not the double-decker 150 person capacity boat we were boarding.

I had planned to sit up top, and arranged to meet our party there other than Steve's fishing buddy who also wouldn't be climbing the stairs. I wanted a view without shooting through dirty windows. But we found two things as we boarded with total choice of seating on the lower deck. First, most of the windows were opened on their front half allowing glass-free shooting, and second, there was an aisle with extra space ahead of its seats so we could easily get in and out to move around without disturbing everybody else in the row. We sat there. At least when we were sitting. 

Steph and Ben were topside, full up when they got there except for center seats immediately behind the captain's cabin, with little view for shooting. Since the sky was pretty white from all the Canadian fire smoke, Ben resigned himself to not bothering too much anyway. He wouldn't get the pictures he wanted. Perhaps anther time. Being low, with mostly open windows to shoot through, even if I had to go full zoom to get what was offered through the openings, I wasn't getting much sky in my shots anyway. Not likely to be back, I took advantage of what was. (Steve teased be afterward that I must have taken 500 shots. Nope, just something under 300, before culling. Those other 200 were already on the SD card. I always figure shoot a lot, find a few you love if you're lucky. Ain't digital great?) Steve shot from his window seat and chatted with his buddy. We wives wandered around, depending on what offered itself to view from which side and who was or wasn't crowded there trying to do the same thing, occasionally returning to our row. And it was our row. While the top deck was packed, fewer folks sat below, so we had the row to ourselves.

Our cruise was accompanied by an information monologue, packed with tidbits and stories. Mostly I listened for what was coming up, assessing how likely I was to want to relocate ahead of time. I had asked the fellow tending the beverage counter whether all the pictures were going to be on the port side of the boat, as we were sitting starboard. He reassured me that for the "interesting" parts, they would swing the boat around so there would be a good view out both sides. Reassured for Steve, planted as he was, I continued to roam after I got back to the seat to pass on the information.

So what were the best parts? Well, the company of course, and the comfort of the boat itself. I shot the rocks along the island shores, seabirds perched on a warning "island" declaring shallow water depth, a couple of lighthouses and their accompanying buildings as we passed. We passed groups of kayakers as our guide noted they require lots of rescue calls on this lake, several tall masted sailboats, some anchored, some underway, even a few cabin cruisers. We had eagles pointed out to us, both parents sitting away from the nest and two eaglets still on it, all visible from the boat. Still, my favorite of all was Devil's Island, full of caves carved out by centuries of wave action against the rocks. While I haven't taken an exact count, I know my shutter finger was working steadily the whole time we passed, before and after swinging around for both sides to view them. I'd made sure to pop in a fresh battery once I knew Devil's Island was next.

Back at the dock, first boarded became last off, as we decided we could wait rather than fight the crowd. A spare wheel chair was left, and I asked if it was reserved for anybody in particular. Hearing it was available, I garnered Steve a ride back up the long ramp to the company office, along with a pusher.

Once again we needed to collect everybody and decide on where to have lunch. Steph recommended the building across the street from the gazebo as well as, from the other direction, from the cruise company. They have a long outer deck with large umbrellas and tables which can each seat six. Our waiting time was half an hour, since we were at the tail end of the cruise customers. The weather was pleasant, the gazebo comfortable enough, and the timing perfect to gather our group together again.

The menu was quite varied. Our cruise guide had refused to offer recommendations regarding places, but commented on possible menu choices we might like. Whitefish was the most available, with some lake trout as well. The most unique we might find was whitefish livers. After he endorsed them, and they appeared on our menus, Ben actually ordered some for an appetizer, hoping we might try them with him. Steve gamely had one, said it was OK. We all noted he didn't ask for a second one however. I found an intriguing appetizer, fitting my appetite, still satisfied hours later from breakfast: a naan pizza. Don't mistake it for anything Italian in flavor. It resembles pizza only in that the naan is cut into 4 wedges with various items piled on top. I wanted my menu back again so I could remember all the toppings, but alas. Anyway, there was smoked trout, a rich dark sauce - did that say maple? - caramelized onions, sliced cherry tomatoes, and generous blue cheese. Possibly more. Something lightly balsamic? I was in love after the first bite, and highly recommend it for anybody to try. 

The restaurant name? Well, it's the large red and grey building on the corner across from the gazebo on one side and Apostle Island Cruises on the other, all at the head of the dock. It's almost worth driving back up there to order some to go so I can get their name. As well as the get-more-to-go part. Heck, it's only 4 hours. Each way. Yummmmmmmmmm....

Olympics: Commentary To Date

We've been watching... some of the action. Part of that is the coverage. We'd love, for example, to see all the gymnastics. But NBC gives us most of the American athletes and a highlight or two from other countries' top athletes. Boo Hiss! I can only hope they do better coverage in other countries, or we again get relegated to Ugly Americans.

One particularly sensational bit of coverage we missed completely. It's sensational for all the wrong, and some of the right reasons. We missed it for one of the worst reasons: DISH  kicked us out for most of the day. Paul has his bill paid automatically by taking it out of his bank account, just like I do for many of mine. Some unknown factor intervened and kicked him out of that payment plan so we had to wait until he got home from work to fix it. So no morning news, no Stephanie Miller, no afternoon Jeopardy, just old programs we'd already set timers on but hadn't gotten around to watching and deleting. Right now I'm waiting on the system to catch up to itself and list program information (aka guide) so the timers can record tonight's lineup of everything.

As far as the sensational coverage, I'm referring to Simone Biles withdrawing from the Olympics. Having the best woman gymnast of all time step back was truly a shock. She'd been working on newer, harder stuff, and showed how much more powerful she was than everybody else, to the point of working herself right off the mats. True, not the best way to support her team, by overpowering the facilities and accumulating deductions. But that's what makes her stepping down happen for one of the best reasons - to support her fellow teammates and giving them the chance to truly shine without her. In my book, she's even more worthy of the label greatest of all time.

There have been new events that we've watched, mostly me more than Steve, because they are totally new to us and it has been interesting to see how the competitions are laid out and how they are scored. Skateboarding is one of them. With all the falls involved, I wonder how they can continue to compete without getting serious injuries. Or am I just too old? After all, the top two finishers are only 13, one setting the record for youngest gold medalist in 85 years. (Let's note that's still longer than I've been on the planet. Closer all the time but....)

I watched a canoeing slalom competition for a bit, and while not a new event, it was new to me. I'm looking forward to surfing coming up. Paul cued me into rock climbing next month. I skip through on fast forward all the beach volleyball events, not only because I find it boring, but because I deplore the requirement for the women to wear bikinis when other attire can be just as comfortable if not more and not affect the results. Should we put men athletes in thongs? I'd rather see skill than what else bounces besides the volleyball. Further, I'm not too old to have forgotten how itchy sand is when trapped inside tight clothing while you're moving.

Covid of course is affecting the games, restricting audiences and disqualifying athletes.The numbers of positive tests are increasing just like the numbers of cases around the world are. Japan isn't happy about having us all there now, worrying about their own people in what must be a superspreader event, despite the best reasonable efforts to slow the spread. For whatever reason, vaccinations have been fairly sparse there up to now, when it's all but too late.

Scientists have come up with some new information,  published in JAMA, from their research, on the effects of covid on the human body, as well as of the vaccines. Remember those blood clots wreaking havoc all over? We know about brain fog, resulting in something resembling alzheimer's, lungs and many other organs being damaged long term, even an increase in needed amputations. We've heard about reservoirs of the virus remaining behind in various parts of the body even after one has "recovered" from it. And we've also, ironically, heard the lies spread about alleged complications from the vaccines, including infertility and erectile disfunction.

Well, guess what? It's not the vaccinations which have those effects. It's the virus itself in men leaving that legacy!!! And autopsies show that the testes do store a viral load in men who have died after - not necessarily from - having covid.

Ya suppose that would change anybody's mind about getting vaccinated?

Yeah, me neither.

So let's all go back to rooting for our favorites at the Olympics. And dig out those masks again. And for those like me, maybe think about getting a booster now that the jabs are closing in on their 6 month anniversary, remembering our co-morbities in conjunction with our weakened immune systems due to age.

Bless Teenagers!

About 2AM I was awakened by a light show and steadily rolling thunder. A bit later rain arrived, about 1 1/2" in the bottom of a bucket. I was back asleep for that part. For the wind as well. My first inkling was trying to put the dog out first thing in the morning. Dead stop at the door frame, total refusal to step out even though the sun was shining by then. While trying to coax her out (she had to be carried out later - hates anything wet tickling her belly) I noticed the milkweeds we leave in the yard in case a Monarch stops by to drop off some eggs were bent nearly horizontal. So were the 6' tall cup flowers,  except for those which were now tangled in each other.

All this is just setting the scene for why it's so nice to be able to utilize a friend's teenage son for a couple hours this morning. My friend and I had made plans for her to get some of my double-blossom daylilies for her yard, as well as a bucket of raspberry plants which had been planted - aka neglected - in a 5 gallon nursery bucket for who knows how long. Without her having a car for the moment, I drove over to get her and her son.

I already knew we'd need assistance. The bucket of raspberries was so full of dirt that I had Paul bring it out next to the car last night from the back yard. I wouldn't have carried it even if I hadn't overdone my yard work yesterday, to the point where I'm still feeling it today. I hadn't counted on how heavy the rain made the bucket this morning. Even with Eli's hard work to get it into the car, it took extra help to get it up and in.

Even before that bucket, he was useful this morning. When I drove up their long driveway to get them both, I had to dodge tree branches downed by the storm. He went out and cleared the road of them before we left.

Once we'd gotten the raspberries into the car it was time to dig out a bunch of the daylilies. I had the perfect spot to clear them from. They had spread between the river birch trees and the driveway. In order for you to appreciate that task, understand that those trees had been planted in a clump about 2 feet from the driveway 30 years ago. They love that location! They have grown over 50 feet tall, and spread so wide that they've pushed the dirt up about 6 inches higher between their closest trunk and the edge of the driveway. Take into consideration that the dirt used to head downhill from the driveway and now heads uphill. Not only have the daylilies invaded, the elevating dirt has been filling up with new tree roots.

The job definitely needed young muscles!

I had to show him how to dig, first of all. He was completely prepared to chop them horizontally about a half inch below the soil level. There was also using the clippers to go through those tree roots which were now mixed with the lily roots which were mixed with each other. At least the storm had helped loosen the dirt so it no longer resembled concrete. Once we got the first lily clump out, the rest came easily, until, even after shaking dirt off, a 3-gallon pail was filled.

Back at their house, there was discussion of how far to spread them, how deep to dig, how deep to plant, how often to water. That was my contribution to the task, the discussion. She'd already picked a spot along a chain link fence with about a 4 feet wide dirt area and full sun. 15 holes were dug, a couple filled with small twin plants, one with the addition of all the little fat root "bulbs" which had broken off. It's been my experience when trying to eradicate these plants from one area to relocate them, even those little bits are perfectly capable of making new plants. The digging was again accomplished by Eli, with his mom contributing by planting and putting dirt back in the holes. Eli also pulled the hose over, first to fill the bucket about 6" deep before planting to soak the roots, and second to water the planted lilies.

I think my friend was disappointed. She had seen my batch of them, undisturbed and blooming. She'd been hoping for her yard to look the same after the end of the morning's work. Instead, not only had we avoided anything blooming, as those stalks would simply snap during the process, but many of the leaves of the transplants were bent or broken as well. I assured her that these were hardy plants, and so long as they continued to water them per directions, any new leaves would be straight, and next years growth, now that they had proper room and light in their new home, might very well produce several blooming stalks.

Let's hope she can be patient... enough.

Meanwhile the raspberries, being in dirt rather than bare root, will wait for planting tomorrow. Even marvelously helpful teenagers can use a little break. I heard swimming at Grandpa's had been planned for the afternoon.

Discoveries

You never know what you may find when you're taming a neglected yard. Of course, had I written those words a week ago I would have thought it would be about weeds, or what survived the neglect and what didn't, even the various bugs around.

Like spiders! Shudder! While no longer phobic, they're still not my favorite critters. However I can appreciate - in my own way - how short-legged the local daddy-long-legs are this summer, or the fuzzy white behind of one spider and the weird shape and colors of another one.

But even that didn't surprise me like my discovery yesterday. Having finished the main front flower garden - for the year, at least - I'd been working on the north side of the front yard, mostly removing buckthorn from everywhere. Needing a short respite,  I sat at the corner of the driveway and let my gaze wander to the fern bed lining the house. They're very tall ferns, and once anywhere, seemingly impossible to remove. I was contemplating the challenges of tomorrow's task, removing a  many-trunked box elder which had fought back to hydra-like life after the main trunk had been cut near ground level some years before, and now rising well above the level of the ferns. 

The real challenge was going to be how uneven the ground was there. When the basement had been dug, the builder left the level a couple feet short so the first floor would be that much higher than the surrounding ground level, mainly so water would run off rather than sheer laziness, I presume. But with only 10 feet to the property line, there is nothing flat on which to set a chair while I am wading between ferns, chopping or sawing branches depending on how thick they've grown, and then painting each new stump with brush killer. And much as my physical condition and balance have improved these last couple months, I still dread both uneven ground and compensating by being on my knees post-replaement. It hurts. So that bit of the job has been put at the end of the to-do list for the area.

After repeatedly glancing at the troublesome spot, I spied something odd. Straight lines. Actually, straight lines of empty spaces between other straight things. In green. Almost like our green resin chairs we use in the yard, but it would have to be lying down at an angle in the middle of the ferns with some of them growing up between the slats in the back. And that would mean that green bit just a ways over would be....

It was! There was the foot of the chair sticking up between fern leaves. Exactly like the one I was currently sitting on, resting and contemplating. Tomorrow was going to be even more interesting than I'd imagined. 

I wonder if it's still unbroken - rare in any of the resin chairs after all these years - or if that might be how it got there in the first place. That, plus somebody's frustration (I'm not saying tantrum, note) with how and when it may have happened.

Planting Time

I've been killing stuff in the yard since I got here, so about 7 weeks now. I'm seeing progress, but nowhere near done. Still, it's time for something new. 

Literally. It's time for something new in the yard. Space is opening up, though mainly it's so that what's supposed to grow here can actually do so. It's not the time you usually think of for planting, in the heat of late July. Yep, all week is forecast to be in the 90s for highs.

And yet....

I fell in love. With a flower. One I'd never seen before, at least not in that color. I never knew it was possible in that color. But there it was, two lovely healthy clumps of them, blooming along the drive-through lane at the Dairy Queen, up on the top of the hill in St. Croix Falls, WI, next to the WalMart which handles my prescriptions during the summer. Steve offered, since I drove him there for some of his necessary shopping and he's not up for driving these days, to reward us both with the small blizzard of each of our choices before heading home. There was a long line at the drive through, plenty of time to stare out the window and notice things. Like two fat clumps of blue-purple daylilies massively blooming.

Instant lust. Must-have time. Upon returning home I perused the internet looking for whatever I could find on the market that closely resembled these. I'm not sure if these are rare or whether something I always knew is in fact still true, that cameras hate purple and tend to select towards red instead. All the pictures I could easily find for purple daylilies were reddish, magenta or fuchsia rather than violet. By the time I decided to actually search for violet, then blue, rather than just purple, I managed to find some pictures actually showing my preferred color range, including a particularly exquisite one ("blue mule") not for sale anywhere, and a few similar ones for sale but only for $300. Each.

Gasp!

No, I'm not that much in love. And no, I'm not contemplating heading out in the wee hours with a shovel and swiping a couple from one of the DQ clumps. Way-y-y-y too public. But I did find one that seems close, finally, and decided to put in an order for some. That was Saturday. They arrived this morning! Right now they are sitting in water in preparation for some help from Paul digging holes this afternoon. Huge root clumps, and about a dozen stems, so should make 3 or 4 plantings of them. And just because other varieties only added a dollar each to shipping costs, I got a few others for fun. 

The daylilies I planted 30 years ago - or 28 or 29 as I filled in spaces in the garden - are blooming nicely right now, particularly as they are getting more sun now. There are reds, oranges, pinks, corals, yellows. Even one I fondly remembered but thought lost, finally opened a bloom this morning. Nearly black, the variety is called "root beer". In a bit I'll head out to take a picture, proof of life if you will. I'm still recovering from a very ambitious morning. I need to find just the perfect spots for the holes for the new arrivals, as well as getting better shots of the ones already blooming. I tried the day we had that morning fog, but the front garden hadn't been cleared out enough yet to get decent shots without weeds half obscuring them.

I've decided to help a friend with planting some in her yard too. Those buggers are hardy, plantable nearly any time you can get in the ground, and taking real effort to kill off. Back when I had the house built, I dug up some from the back yard where my parents lived, orange with double petals. Those now fill from the driveway to the property line, even choking out the grass that used to live there. I asked her would she like some for her yard, bringing along a blossom so she could make an intelligent decision. No hesitation: "Yes!" Her teenage sons will help her with the digging, as well as planting some raspberry plants from the yard.

Remember Stella D'Oro daylilies? If you don't recognize the name, about 25 years back they sprang on the market with short foliage, creamy gold small blossoms barely higher than the leaves, reblooming through the summer. I just discovered they now have a "Purple D'oro", same except for the color. Now the only question is whether I can reasonably  locate some of those this time of year, or need to either order some for Paul to plant this fall or next spring. Might just need to clear some new spaces first. Or even see if the Stella D'oros I planted under the picture window at the back of the house have been killed off by the influx of ferns under the wigelia bushes. Still can't get to those due to unstable footing, but plan to make sure I get there before heading back to Arizona. Maybe relocate any that survive, if in fact any do.

Hey, it's not really an addiction!

212 to 142, First Cull

OK, I'm better now. That really was thunder, ending my last post, but it didn't stop a little more yard work. True to form, a pair of storms went by on either side of town. So many of them miss us that way, no matter their direction of travel. There was finally some late evening rain,  with the result of a nice morning fog.

You know what that means, right? CAMERA TIME!!

Ahhhhhh.......

Without stopping for coffee, morning pills, or even combing my hair (it just frizzes anyway so who can tell?) I got a few shots of the front yard, then decided to grab the dog and head out to a favorite scenic spot nearby and get a few shots. It's usually much foggier along the river than 4 miles away here in town, and the subject matter is much more interesting. Translate that to "it isn't this yard" if you like, but regardless of my summer chores, it's way more interesting.

In that respect, the subject is a nationally protected scenic riverway, the St. Croix as it divides Minnesota from Wisconsin. Add a park / boat ramp / bridge and a high cliff on the opposite side of the river valley, Osceola, WI, and I'm in hog heaven. The river was as still as a river can be and still flow, so reflections were perfect, even capturing the fog. Spider webs littered the ground, so full of dew that the ground was freckled white in many places. Trees fall along the bank periodically, leaving some roots occasionally, otherwise bare trunks and branches in several tones of grey and brown, their reflections making unusual architecture. The bridge disappears into the fog as distance increases, and even what passes for morning rush hour leaves all kinds of opportunities for shots of an empty bridge, perfect for the atmosphere.

I worried that the sun, now above the horizon and visible as I descended from the west into the island park, would chase the fog away. Instead it seemed to congeal clouds around itself, allowing the fog an extra hour of grace. It almost broke through once, and I managed a rather orange shot as it tinted the river, though it tricked the light meter into turning everything into silhouettes except the water.

Birds were out scooping insects out of the air above the water, but all my camera would have caught was black blurs, so I didn't even bother, just watched them for a bit. Fish were jumping, and while I never caught a shot of one I did get one of spreading ripples on the smooth river surface.

By the time I decided I was finished, a few more humans and a dog had entered the scene. It was still way to early for canoeists to be pulling out, were it a sunny day, waiting for their ride + canoe back upstream to where the rental company was set up. I've enjoyed the river that way several times, years ago when my knees were young, and loved every minute of it.

On my way home I found more reasons to take pictures. This is rural Minnesota, and there are farms with photogenic red barns and silos, an orchard/vinyard, fields of corn tasseling or round hay bales scattered around, roadside flowers, ponds, flocks of turkeys, families of sandhill cranes, and who knows what all. I found detours - of my own making - just to see what there was to find, While the fog was mostly lifted around this higher land, the clouds were still heavy and the light appealed to me. The radio promised more rain later, though for now it was still down in the southwest corner of the state...  "But Stay Tuned! Next announcement at ...."  Gravel washerboard roads yielded a horse out to pasture, a weathered barn of many colors, like a Joseph's coat in reds and greys, an old shed with a 10 degree tilt on one side and a 15 degree tilt on the opposite, somehow still standing despite the challenge. I spied a different stage of a flower I've known all my life but never noticed looking like this, so I let my camera study several of them for a while.

Eventually I found home again, but still wasn't ready to quit shooting in favor of breakfast, coffee and morning pills. My work in the front garden yielded views of several flowers in bloom, and with the light still good, I fumbled my way around and between remaining weedy trees and plants I needed to avoid crushing if at all possible. It wasn't, of course, not completely. (Shhhh!) A couple blossoms were inhabited by katydids, and the front yard toad was out in the grass waiting for the bugs to shake off the damp and spread their various parts again so it could see its breakfast. Breakfast was starting to sound good to me -  my kind, not the toad's - so my excursion finally ended.

The upshot of all this was 212 new shots for the morning. Once uploaded into my laptop and culled for what I actually liked, I was down to 142. More will "fall" later, but the day is making other demands. The sky is still white, but somehow it's not as bothersome as it was yesterday. Somehow? Who an I kidding? It's the camera that makes the difference, of course. Just when I needed it.

White Skies Summer

Much is weird about this summer. 

Global warming is rearing it's ugly fangs, giving us deadly heat in formerly cool parts of the continent, fires running amok out west (totally predictable once the beetles destroyed so many trees in the mountains these last few decades), the jet stream forms an omega squatting across half the country as if to announce "The End". 

This summer was to be our freedom from the pandemic, and while we are vaccinated, it turns out we're not a ubiquitous as I'd assumed we'd be. Too many covidiots are refusing to take advantage of their chances to become  a full part of the society they inhabit by not catching the virus themselves, not mutating it within their bodies, not sharing it with everybody in reach, not stretching our medical personnel beyond their limits one more time. They fear unreasonable things, listen to un-sane sociopaths with the $$$ agendas of con artists who revel in the profits gleaned from spreading their virulent poison and hate. Delta is the variant in the news, and while it is much worse than what we've gone through, more are already out there, no end in sight, perhaps not even possible to curb any longer. But the states have gotten smug in their recent success and have quit even reporting - for the most part - their cases. Hospitalizations are rising, and so are the deaths, number harder to obscure. The masks are still kept handy, while consciences are examined and judged on whether this coming round of deaths, predicted to rise exponentially, which would have been preventable, can be considered to be deserved.

This was to be the great get-out-and-away again, super post-covid vacation, and it was, kinda , but now nearly every day begins with yard work, to which my long deteriorating body has responded by becoming fitter than in over a dozen years in many ways. The planned route home has changed its plans. Steve's back requires the easiest, shortest way home, so he'll be flying for the first time in nearly a decade. The rest of the list of national parks is at least postponed.

I've seen relatives I didn't have before, been listened to by other people's kids who found I had information they were curious about, as well as by adults who also seemed to discover something in this 72-year-old brain. My granddaughter even told me I wasn't allowed to grow any older or do anything else which might remove me from her availability to have me listen to her and give advice. Wow - who knew that would ever happen? It was only my dearest hope during all those years I fought for visitation (with her mother, after granted by the courts), now handed to me by this wonderful new grownup raising her own family, making those years worth while.

My shooting expectations for this summer may have been seriously overreaching. I have gone practically  nowhere where a camera could go along to capture the pictures I imagined ready to shoot. Time's not up yet, but even as I think about scheduling, say, a day up at Crex Meadows, something inescapable gives me pause. I look out my window practically every day only to find that any shot I took other than close subjects would be marred by the quality of the sky.

Day after day after day, the sky is white. Not cloudy. Just white. Some humidity. Some smoke. Lots of excuses, leaving my mood more blue than the sky. I'd had hopes for  more chances at night photography. So far the most visible night view is of the tree frog(s) clinging on the outside of the living room window. I don't bother getting the camera, for besides difficulty of decent focus in that light, how could I possible out-do that years ago shot of one hanging out in the wren house up in the sugar maple, sitting in the opening looking out at the world? 

Stars occasionally point out which way is north, lest I lost all my marbles and didn't already know after 30 years in this house where that was. There are more stars than I see from Sun City, but light pollution has not crept but raced outward from the metro. The sun sets a deep orange for its last couple hours above the horizon, occasionally with bands of deeper color rather than any indication of clouds crossing its surface, the sun the only color left in the sky other than unrelenting white. Even where sun occasionally breaks through, it's still set in a white sky, not blue.

It's just... wrong. I've read so many sci-fi books about people living on other planets with other color skies, somewhat puzzled by their reactions to the different color. Sure, orange is weird, for one example,  but should it make somebody go nuts? Be a reason not to colonize an otherwise human-friendly planet? On days like this I begin to understand the author's  point of view. What is it about the blue -  aside from making the desired photograph? Have we evolved hard-wired to need it? Or to need the conditions which either produce it or result from it? 

Or am I just in a mood, tired from working a double shift outside this morning, wondering if there is ever any end? I did, after all, discover that some coneflowers have survived the chaos of these last years of neglect, along with a couple liatris - if I don't break them in clearing out the weed trees - along with Stella D'oros and another five colors of daylillies, balloon flowers thriving, Alaska daisies spreading into several locations. I still need to clear deeply enough to see if the painted daisies did also. Maybe that's what I need, to go out and give it another shot.

Let's see, bandana Check. Shoes? Check. Hand pruner? Check. Stump killer? Check. Out we g....

Wait! Is that thunder?

"But We're Not Going To Tell You In Time..."

 Just finished another fruitless call with another company goosing up its charges. This time is was Dish, our satellite TV company.

We'd switched over from Direct TV six months ago. Direct's charges were going up, and Dish came in with a lower offer, guaranteed to be the same for two years. During install, there was already an issue. We were given a "hopper", their term for their DVR, which only recorded one thing at a time. Steve and I have different choices in TV and like to be able to watch all of them, which means recording several at once during certain times of the day, and watching at our convenience. It's what a DVR is for, just in case you've been living without one for the last decade or so. We immediately contacted Dish and agreed to pay the extra for them to bring around, next day, their top capacity model.

Sigh.

At least we did get the $300 credit card for making the switch. We weren't that unhappy.

Fast forward 6 months. I get emails announcing the charge upcoming to be taken out of my checking account. Many of my regular bills  come with that advance notice. I pay attention to those so I can be sure the  money is where it needs to be when it needs to be there, especially with variable charges. I learned many many years ago about bouncing checks. This time there was an increase in the monthly withdrawal, around $10.00. I immediately called them up, willing to fight through trying to understand the accents of their offshore phone staff. I'm usually about 90% successful, unless they start to talk over me and I have to back them up to repeat what they said or have them let me finish what I'm saying. Annoying!

That time there was a "protection package" which had been free for the first 6 months, and now was being charged for. The upshot is it covers the charges when/if they need to come out to repair their equipment. Upon being questioned, they insisted it didn't mean their equipment is only good for 6 months and we should expect to need the program. (Maybe I should have recorded that part - after all they record the calls on their end.) I declined the service and the need to pay a monthly charge. They agreed to drop the charges.

But of course I'm going to keep track to see that they have dropped the charge when the next bill comes through to make sure they followed through. They kinda did. Just not all of the charges. Admittedly it wasn't much, but my bank keeps records of everything and I double checked the current charge against what I thought I remembered was the regular charge. I was correct. So again I called them.

This time the person I got ahold of insisted they had dropped the charges. Oh wait - but it had been in place for a day or two before I called them, so I had to be charged for those two days during which I had not used the declined service and hadn't called yet because I hadn't been notified yet. Dont'cha see?

Nope. I don't see. They were late in notifying me their price had changed. I responded immediately to cancel. But... but... but.... 

Getting absolutely nowhere, I decided my blood pressure was better served by blowing off steam in the back yard chopping out trees instead. I signed off with letting him know that I fully understood that after they pulled that on 100,000 customers, I bet they made quite a bundle on that scam.

I wonder what they'll think of next. We're locked in for another 18 months.

*     *     *     *     *

Lest you think I'm unhappy with all the companies I do business with, since I blow off a lot of steam here, let me tell you about one I never have issues with, not even once, SunRun Solar. For this one we're locked in for 20 years, and I'm very happy about it. I'd wanted solar for several years, but it was priced beyond my budget. Until, that is, a knock on the door.

The deal was, after checking my roof layout and condition, making sure I shouldn't need to re-roof and had plenty of sun access, they would put solar panels on the roof for free. Yep, $zero. How they made money, because you know they had to, was in putting up more panels than needed to meet our needs. Those extra panels were to collect power for SunRun. Their profit. Our panels would meet our needs based on the previous year's usage. We then would owe SunRun a straight $45 a month, and APS, the local power company, their monthly administrative costs only, usually under $15 a month. The total matched our previous year's bill. Billing didn't have those big ups and downs, easy to budget for. Win-win. During these 20 years, SunRun takes care of any maintenance if needed, free to us. No issues, no extra charges, not once.

Of course, should our electric usage increase, say during a pandemic when staying home and running the AC ( set at 85!) during a record breaking hot summer rather than shutting everything down and heading north, then we'd pay the local power company for the extra. If we used less, there would be a refund at year's end. I still find that perfectly reasonable, despite paying APS nearly $300 dollars extra for each of those summer months last year. Still cheaper than covid. Should we sell the house within those 20 years, the solar deal follows the house so the new owner gets the deal. We bought in 2012, so if we move out by 2032....

Hmmm, I wonder if I will need to disclose to a buyer that there are two dead pigeons that had gotten trapped and died under the panels where they couldn't be removed last year. They are currently enclosed by the wire mesh we hired a contractor to surround all the panels with to keep any more pigeons out. Can't even see them. Heck, already they should be nothing but bones and feathers, pigeon mummies. No poop, no bugs, no spooky rising from the dead.....

Repercussions From The "Lawn Nazi"

Did I ever tell you about the "Lawn Nazi" we had as a neighbor for a while? Even if I did, it must have been so long ago that you're likely to have forgotten details. Even if you recall the tale, parts of it have become relevant again.

He was the temporary boyfriend of my neighbor across the back fence. While he was here, he was the kind of guy that made us worry about her. He wasn't popular with any of the neighbors, since he made a regular habit of racing his car noisily and at high speed around the streets in a neighborhood where pretty much everybody was trying to raise small children. It was twenty years ago or so, and I was a rare exception unless my granddaughter was up here. He did it after work, timed just when kids got out of school, making him extra dangerous. We complained but somehow the local cops never managed to catch him in the act.

My son Paul nicknamed him the Lawn Nazi after watching how he mowed his girlfriend's lawn. One week he'd mow it straight across, the next diagonally, the next on the other diagonal. She had two beautiful blue spruce trees in the yard, about 6 feet tall, bushy and beautifully formed. I was envious because I was struggling to keep a couple alive in my own yard. Unfortunately for hers, they interrupted his mowing pattern. He chopped them down.

Need I say he didn't appreciate our informal mowing schedule? Or our non-grass plants (dandelions, violets, clover, etc.,) thriving in the yard? He confronted us about it one day, and we simply weren't willing to be persuaded. He decided to retaliate for some reason. It wasn't that we'd been rude or anything. Just a difference in yard philosophy. So he took out a significant length of the chain link fence facing us.

It was hers. When we put our fence in so our dogs could run the yard without us needing to walk them or anything, we had asked her whether she would mind if we connected ours to hers. She was agreeable so we went ahead. Later, since the dogs had discovered digging as a possible escape, we anchored the bottom of the fence to the ground, using a similarly strong gauge of wire bent in a "U" shape. We never had any problems over it or with her, and she never complained about the dogs.

Not only did we now have to take the dogs out on a leash in our own yard, but in his meanness, he'd thrown all those anchor wires all over the yard. Our yard. Paul had to hunt to find them or risk kicking them up with the mower with injury a likely result. He'd even thrown a couple so far they landed in our fish pond, the one next to the house, lined with a thick plastic sheeting. I suspect he hoped they'd make a hole when we stepped down into the pond either spring or fall when we cleaned it out or restocked it. Luckily that didn't happen. One was found early and the bottom of the pond searched carefully.

We did contact the company who'd put in the original chain link fence, putting another one in across the back just inside our property line, meaning about 6" from the other one. It left a space that couldn't be mowed, which must have grated on the Lawn Nazi as he maintained his "perfect" and orderly world. Not our problem. Not any more. It wasn't much longer until he was gone, kicked out, letting peace return to the neighborhood, with parents relieved that their kids could safely play and ride their bikes in the streets again. Just before he left, making his final point, he replaced her fence along the back.

Things grew there, in that space between the fences. We tried to fill it with flowers known for spreading, hoping that would solve the problem. After 20 years however, trees have grown tall there, trunks starting to fill the spaces, branches poking out into both yards. I've identified box elders, maples, honeysuckle,  and find several I don't know. It keeps us - well, Paul - from mowing close to the fence. The "jungle" is creeping out into the yard, a few inches more each year, as sturdy branches sprout up further inside into the yard where mowers no longer go. The trees shade our own trees, making ours grow tall and spindly back there. A large dogwood bush had nearly died in the corner, even as shade tolerant as those are. After removing lots of dead wood, along with several middling box elders and a large maple growing out of that clump, and doing a little research to identify remaining leaves, I was delighted to discover there still were dogwoods, now about 2 feet tall in a short swath. It still has some hope.

A single elderberry bush has turned into a half-live, half dead patch mostly filling the corner, about twenty feet in all directions. It is impossible to mow between them, or even walk among them to harvest the fruit, and as I carry out detritus of all sorts, stuff catches and breaks the greenest of the shoots as it goes by, revealing still more small trees to remove - and paint with brush killer, lest this need to be done next year as well.

Dead branches of all sorts litter the ground, crunching under nearly every footstep. The remains of two vary large weeping willow trunks have rotted to spongy texture, making footing there interesting. Tall weeds work to catch my legs as I pass, so I pull them in retaliation. I have to be careful to avoid the two holes in that part of the yard, each larger then both feet together and about 6" deep - tripping isn't part of my plan. There is also a hole under the very corner of the fence, likely made by rabbits going through to escape any and all of the neighborhood dogs, since this yard hasn't held dogs for several years, until now. It's just large enough for Heather Too to squeeze through, so I may have to find and move a large rock. We have plenty.

I know all this because this has been my project for the last couple days. It's been cool enough that these two days have produced 4 days' worth of energy for the task. I'm cutting everything back that hangs over or pushes through the fence, and I'm painting the stumps. I actually hope most of these weedy trees die. In another couple of years some of the trunks will be wide enough to start destroying both fences if not removed or at least killed. Right now I'm thinning them out so our yard can get some sun. 

Some time in the near future there will have to be a conversation with the new neighbors who live there. I haven't been able to see them but I hear children over there frequently. I'm hoping they will be as happy as I will to get that under control, considering their fence is also involved. At least, we won't be dealing with the Lawn Nazi again.

Compassion Overload

I'm getting so tired of it. When there were no alternatives, or at least unknown alternatives besides quarantining at home or masking up, washing hands for 20 seconds, I had abundant compassion for those suffering from covid, or the families of those who became ill. I still feel for a friend with a son who's a long-hauler and for whom there is no known hope for any recovery. Just a machine prolonging survival, such as it is. It's just a matter of time now, and I ache for them.

But we've had vaccines now for over 6 months. Not only were they well tested, using well-proven technology in their development, but over the last few months were getting approved for younger people and more widely available than they were being used. And that is where the hiccup in my compassion level dug in -the not being used part.

I do still worry about young children, and for those immunosuppressed who still can't take the vaccines. However....

For those with eyes to read and ears to hear, the news has been out for a while now what the consequences of covid are, how much worse in terms of both contagion and lethality the Delta variant is, how young its victims can be. It's well known to be here. News is full of warnings, of pleas for assistance in those areas where vaccinations have been widely refused. We have known for a while how effective the existing vaccines are against even this variant. But people refuse to believe. Refuse to act. Fear a needle poke or a possible day of feeling sick. Believe they'll be "turning into a magnet" or "getting microchipped" or whatever the latest nonsense is.

Now that they're finding out the hard way the truth of what we've been warning them about, they want our help. They need ventilators. Repiratory therapists. More hospital spaces. And of course we as a nation are doing our best to respond. I just find it harder to care about them this time around. Just like I find it harder to care about the shooter dying when they turn their gun on a crowd and finally on themselves. It's not a private choice for those shot, just like covid isn't a private choice for those unwittingly infected by those around them. Particularly for those who get infected by those in defiance of the science and somehow believing they have some magic protection that will keep them from dying of the "hoax", or can somehow live through it just fine, thank you, and never consider that those around them can be affected by these actions. Or lack of actions.

It's called public health for a reason. Viruses are contagious. Often it's by something as simple as breathing somebody else's air, or touching where another has touched. The contagious aspects of covid are why this is a pandemic, not just a school-wide outbreak like head lice, fairly easily contained by sending notes home to parents.

For those of you who flaunt your stupidity, your stubbornness, your refusal to learn and act, who let your paranoia outweigh all common sense, I wish you ... well, just that you somehow do the least harm to others around you. I've stopped caring how you fare, or at least as much as I can giving what I know about how you are affecting others. For that I remain angry with you.

When learning how to raise children, I came across the concepts of logical and natural consequences. Natural consequences are like running without looking where you are going. You are likely to run into something, or tripping and falling. Naturally you are vulnerable to getting hurt. Logical consequences are like when you are driving and speed through an intersection on a red light with a cop sitting there. You are likely to be arrested and have fines imposed or worse. Refusing to get vaccinated during a pandemic brings both the natural consequences of the illness to you and yours, and the logical consequences of the scorn of those around you for your part of spreading covid,  the denial of care and/or hospital space to others who need it because you and your victims are monopolizing it, the resulting damage to the economy, to the education of school children, and other societal damage such choices bring.

May somebody else have mercy. I'm tapped out.

How To Tell When It's Really Progress

There are lots of ways not to tell when you're meeting your goals. In my case, it's about when my morning yard work is actually accomplishing anything, whether for me, or for the yard. For example, I can't tell by checking how much sweat is soaking my bandana. While it is accomplishing its goal of keeping sweat out of my eyes so I don't have to stop earlier than I'd prefer, the sweat is going to start early and continue doing so at least partly because it's just plain muggy out. Those of you Arizona natives can only imagine what that means. Up here sweat can break out by walking across the street to the mailbox! I assure you it's not that long a driveway.

I'm not sure it counts that the new birdhouses are here. Sure, it's progress in depleting my checking account. But the fact that the old birdhouses no longer hang from their posts simply means that Paul threw them in the bonfire last weekend, while no cooking was happening. The news ones still sit on the living room floor, needing to be wired to their steel posts and having their stapled-on labels removed.

Sometimes you can tell what you're accomplishing by the size of the piles of removed vegetation as compared to the day before. Then again, the bottom layers do compact after being severed from their roots, so I try not to be discouraged. On other days, the whole workout might simply be fighting with hundreds of pieces of wire in old fencing to separate them from their other side or from other pieces, even from branches which have grown through, even around the wire. Fencing in places where it is no longer needed merely serves to keep an area from being mowed, allowing even more weedy vegetation to grow there. When the fencing removal takes more than two days for a six foot section, it is even easier to become discouraged that no progress is being made.

Some days progress is measured by sunlight shining into places where it hasn't shone for years. It may be thick weeds opening up the ground by their absence, or a removed canopy - vines or  branches - letting it shine where desired growth has been stunted. Progress might be where the house is again visible, or access to various corners of the yard is enabled, or even where the firewood pile grows taller. Granted, Paul cuts branches into sections of firewood, but I'm the one providing the piles of brush.

Todays' progress was counted in several ways. First, I cut branches back along the fence to create a path back to my real goal, cutting back an amur maple before it has a chance to mature and spread this years crop of thousands of seeds. Trust me, there can't possibly be enough chipmunks in the world to eat them all before they sprout. That unfortunate fact is the reason we've been fighting to eradicate them from the yard for over 25 of the 30 years we've been here. They have spectacular fall color, the reason they were planted in the first place, but on balance, well, bye bye. 

The path along the fence was blocked until this morning. First, Paul mowed  a solid cover of foot tall weeds and baby chokecherry bushes lining the way last weekend. Then today I cut back the lower branches (under 6') from the row of mature chokecherries which seeded the babies. The amur maple was at the far end of that row, along the fence for the back yard. Lest you think walking this path after it had been mowed was easy, know that the mower is set high for this lumpy yard, about 5". So my path was littered with 5" baby tree spikes sticking up every few inches. (Never walk in our yard barefoot!!!) As I worked my way back through this, an abandoned bicycle was discovered, moved out where it could be seen and was out of the way of the path I was working on. It needed to be nearly four feet wide, not just for me and tools, but for hauling back out all the leafy branches I was bringing back out for the day's new brush pile.

Resting for a few minutes revealed a different kind of progress, one not my own. Looking back at my recent progress I was also looking into the sun. Several strands of spider silk stretched across this new clearing, showing how several young spiders had just launched themselves into the light breeze to stretch across into the trees where presumably better meals could be found. Then again, I realized my own progress in ridding myself of the phobia that just a few decades earlier would have prevented me from walking back through that path, through those silk strands, because, spiders!!! (Hey, I'm not claiming cure, just a little more sense about it.)

By the time I got to the corner with the tree, young chokecherries were replaced by large ferns, hiding a lower ground cover of abandoned cut firewood and smaller branches, never having been moved to where they could be used. In order to help ensure safe(r) footing, those needed to be removed before I started getting ambitious in my cutting. As I did so, I had occasion to note that the uneven footing wasn't bothering me as much as it had when this project first started a month ago. Ah hah! Progress!

Another sign of my personal progress was my balance while reaching the loppers up over my head to cut all the branches I could reach. There is a single one left, as it doesn't get small enough for the loppers to cut through until about 7 feet up. Don't even try to imagine me climbing a chair or ladder to get up that far! Eventually, Paul will have to come out with the chain saw for the main trunk, followed by me with stump killer, but that can wait till later in the season. For now, I'll ask Paul to cut that final branch this afternoon, so it's not left to mature its seeds, as there are hundreds on that one alone. Meanwhile we have two bonfires planned for family to come over this holiday weekend, weenie roasts plus s'mores, and as soon as the food cooking is done these seedy branches can go on it - for entertainment. There is plenty of dry wood to keep the fire going strongly enough to burn the green.

But there was one final sign of my personal progress today. While I was reaching up with the loppers for the last highest branch I could reach, I felt something really weird. Something completely new to me. Something I'm not sure was really what I was feeling. Something I had to take my gloves off to confirm. My jeans had just slid down to my hips and were in danger of sliding further!

Blush! 

I am so glad my next door neighbors had already left for work. Also glad I hadn't trampled down all those tall ferns around the tree. At the time, I wasn't concerned about trampling them. We've discovered over the years that is it impossible to discourage those ferns from growing, especially where you don't want them to because they choke out shorter flowers. They will be back. But right then I was glad to have them around me.

With a little reflection, I decided not to get too excited about the jeans. Sure, I couldn't squeeze into them at all not so long ago. I still have to make sure the zipper pull is left pointed up when it's open so there's room for fingers to reach it for pulling up, or it gets jammed in place at the bottom. On the other hand, they haven't been laundered for a couple weeks. They are just working duds, after all. The longer I wear them, they more they stretch out. The drier sets them back to their baseline size. So we'll really have to wait till next laundry day to find out if I'm really shrinking, right? Meantime, maybe a belt? Or maybe not, since they're hanging right where they ought to now.

Another way it's really kinda weird, though. After being out in the yard sweating away, when I come inside I have to sit around both to cool off and to dry out. My shirt when damp sticks to my back so hard I can't pull it off over my head. Steve often is asleep that time of day, so I'm on my own. It's also gotten baggier after I worked in it for several days, but it still sticks to me. I'm just not used to a "sliding" wardrobe.

I'm still putting a plus check in the improved balance column though. And maybe one in the "not-completely-insane-due-to-unreasonable-hope (yet)" column. 

To be determined.