Fighting With Google

Apparently I ask the impossible. AI almost  helps, last resort, but it's a delusion.

Back up a bit. Yesterday's post had an odd little plant in it, very ordinary looking for a roadside weed, except it was totally white, so white that in the right angle of light seemed to flash silver. I sent a copy of the photo to Crex, letting them know where it is to be found, in case they were interested in seeing it for themselves, asking for identification, as well as letting them know it looked about to bloom, just in case it was invasive and should be pulled.

I actually hope not, or not yet, because I'd love to go back there and shoot the flowers. I want to see them! They have to be very tiny, so there'll be some camera work, but I. Just. Want. To. See. What. They. Look. Like!

I haven't heard back from them yet, but they have their own priorities. I also sent a query off to my sister-in-law, with a degree and profession in those kinds of things, and my usual go-to when I wish to be absolutely correct in an identification. I'm waiting to see what she can come up with as well.

Because Google is a total failure! I type in descriptive terms, the most telling of which ought to be that it is all white. Google seems to "think" I'm shopping, sending me all kinds of pictures of plants I know very well, both from my own plant-keeping as well as having worked in a garden center. The results have white flowers. Yes, I actually do recognize strawberry blossoms! Did you notice the green on the rest of the plant, Google? Or Google picks plants with white spots on their leaves, apparently common in some stores these days as varieties. I know those better as "variegated".  I've grown lots of those, like the '70's favorite fad plant, the spider plant.  Maybe Google can't identify "all" or "completely" when paired with "plant"? But look, if it weren't rare, I wouldn't be online asking what it was, right? I do understand the misdirection of shopping, sources and prices listed with photos, since I have done a fair bit of that online lately, working on variety for my several gardens. GOOGLE DOES REMEMBER YOU, FOLKS!

I finally took off the restriction against letting AI into the hunt. It actually found a couple of WRONG answers for me, though kudos for working on the "all white" part. One is a succulent, and yes, I'm growing one of those and it's not actually white, but more covered with white fuzzy skin. Green underneath though, very plainly.  The other wrong answer was "ghost plant", which actually is white but also more fungus in character than having normal plant structure. It can't do photosynthesis so it gets nutrition from the dirt. Much as I'd get some fun out of shooting one of those, it's not the plant in the photo, repeated here for those who missed yesterday's post and don't want to bother going back for it:

As you can see, typical weedy plant structure, not "shroomy" in nature, and no green anywhere else. I don't do camera editing tricks, as regular followers know, aside from cropping and color changes which affect the entire photo, like adding a bit of red when I had one camera that malfunctioned on it in every single shot. For example the red rocks of the desert southwest were all turned a greyish tan. A quick fix, that I can do. But it's for the entire picture, like brightening or darkening exposure. Can you imaging the hours it would take -if I even knew how - to outline every bit of these plants to perfectly make them white and nothing else?

I can manage to severely crop to show details better. Like the fact that there is no green in this plant, but plenty in the grasses behind it. What is interesting is what now shows up at nearly every leaf 's join to the stem. Seeds? Unopened flowers? I may just have to go back in a couple days to see what changes. So what if it's over 40 miles each way in these gas prices? (Gulp)

Maybe if I could just send a picture to Google and get it to identify what it is. I believe that it takes an actual, well-educated on the topic, human... with a more thorough vocabulary for search terms than I have to tease out the answers.  

Good thing I know one of those. 

And she reads this.

Just Another Roadside Distraction

My eyes are all over the place when I'm driving. Lest you think that's reckless, they are scouting constantly in all directions for any and all hazards in the process. Sometimes there are bonuses of entertainment, or education, or beauty along my way. Do you wonder that I stuck around to put over two million work miles on various cars during that part of my life? And still love driving?

Lately local authorities have been putting up electric signs along the hiway to let drivers know we all  know how fast everybody is driving. No tickets, or none that I've seen being given. But these don't just give a number. They comment as well. When I pass two miles under the limit, they'll flash "GOOD JOB" like we're all kindergartners, or driving is T-ball. I was getting a little complacent and realized I was approaching one of the signs a single mile per hour fast. The sign gave a gentle scold:  "HEY NOW."

Today I was well past being in the house or working on the yard for long enough. Temperatures were finally reasonable, at least for one day. Gotta get out! Steve and I had planned for a break where I drove to and from Crex, but he'd drive inside Crex so I could shoot out the passenger window, which is the side of the car most of the water is on, meaning most of the large birds are outside that  window, and I could steady the camera on the window ledge, or even over the side mirror if the subject were out front instead of trying to shoot through a never pristine tinted windshield. When I have a passenger they always get that side of the car. If I'm lucky, whatever the attraction is they're fascinated with and getting their own shots of is still around and visible when they finally sit back and clear the window for my turn. Mostly, not so much. As it turned out, he was dealing with enough pain that not only did he want to stay home, he needed pain meds that made driving illegal. So with his blessing I left him home to recuperate and I headed up alone.

My goal for the day - for a lot of days actually - was to spot an eagle. A NICE, ADULT, CAMERA - READY ADULT EAGLE. OK, I confess, eaglets would be way cool too. I do dream. Their usual old locations simply don't exist any more. I'd heard the Crex crew had put up a platform for them to nest on ... somewhere out  where I usually don't go, and they only kind of hint at the location if you ask.  I wouldn't have  minded a nest with young, but it's late in the season, and that high in such strong light they'd only be shapes.

Like whatever this raptor in a tall tree was. I could identify the curved beak for category of bird,  and by size was either a young eagle from the last year or so,  or very large hawk. Against the sky.... everything else by contrast black... who could tell what it was? At best, with the sun coming down on the branch tops, was  it just giving definition to the branches' shapes? Neither helped in giving an ID.

But with a bit of hope, I hit the visitor center first. Among other things, I needed new maps as the old ones disappear, and better clarification of better places to hunt. The fellow behind the counter introduced himself and answered a question of mine. I'd hoped to find out who won the most technically impressive of all the photos submitted for their annual contest, and hoped there might be a badge or ribbon on the winner. One person judges that kind of quality, but they wouldn't be in until next week. I offered my opinion on two photos where there was exquisite detail in the individual feathers and the water surface of each. After a bit more discussion, he asked my name, recognized it, shook my hand and congratulated me on my 3rd place win, indicating subtly that there were differences of opinion among the staff as to who should have won in certain categories. He obviously had a good opinion of some of my work, even my quirky sense of humor in some titles,  congratulating me again as I left to do more shooting. Meanwhile I had more information on the general area where the eagle platform had been built.

I headed that way on the county road as I left. As I cleared the woody surroundings of the visitor center for cleared fields and homes, I noticed crows circling up in the air ahead, occasionally making a half dive before rising again. Something was going on.

I actually passed it before that unmistakable white head caught my attention. Checking no traffic was moving either ahead or behind, I pulled over almost onto the very narrow shoulder, carefully as the ditch could have rolled my compact, and made sure slowly backing up was safe. I winced as a truck approached and passed me, indifferent to my errand, but its passing had no impact on my goal, the bald eagle in the ditch on the other side of the road.

It kept its eye on me, but never indicated a desire to leave its location. It didn't look injured, so I checked out the ditch between us.

Whatever it had been, it now was dinner for whoever could claim rights the most fiercely. Those crows hadn't a chance as long as the eagle was there. I tried to identify more than skinned meat and ribs. I was unsuccessful. That carcass had been feeding a multitude already. From a glimpse of iridescent feathers on the far side, with none of the rest of the carcass resembling anything that could fly, I concluded something feeding on it had itself become another creature's dinner. Well, there are also foxes and wolves in the area, possible future goals for my camera. But here was my eagle!

After continuing to keep an eye on traffic while taking several photos, aware of my own precarious location should two vehicles cross in that spot, I reluctantly put the camera down, gave myself a mental high five, and eased back on the road.

I GOT MY EAGLE PHOTO!!!!  I FINALLY GOT MY EAGLE PHOTO!!!!

Did I turn around and head home, mission accomplished?  Are you kidding? Next year that nesting platform goes on my list. I think this requires winter visits, with the leaf canopy missing and long views revealed. Hope for little ice, eh?

Meanwhile there is always more to shoot here. I'm in the habit of starting with Phantom Lake. I hoped for fauna, but lake levels through out the acreage were very low from severe drought, so I settled for an unusual - to me - bit of flora.

I have no clue yet what is is, but it does qualify as a flower, and I barely had to pull over to get a couple shots. The photo shows white, the reality showed silver to the eye.

A little further down the lake there was a stop for a rare - so far this day -  blue heron.

It was smart enough to stick to the far side of the pond across the road, so my zoom managed this much of a shot. There were a couple others in widely scattered locations, but none willing to pose. It must have been dinner time all around the area. Then again, water levels so low, it probably took all day to find fish.

There was some floating detritus well out from shore, itself collecting more random trash, plus some odd birds. I'm not used to the long highly-bendable necks on local water birds, so I'm going to start a search to identify whatever these are.  These guys were way out there, and I had to zoom past my usual optical zoom to a setting that risks a lot of blurring to get this much of a shot, so I took almost a dozen, just in case. A couple weren't too blurry.

There were a very few scattered trumpeter swans and sandhill cranes, no visible mallards, loons, or geese in the usual locations.  I embarked on a lot of driving and map checking trying to locate that alleged eagle platform. The osprey platform I'd seen occupied by two parents on my last trip here was still in place, and had earlier been raising this year's family. I saw no activity this time and have no idea if drought means harder hunting, or fishing was great until recently and all have already left the nest safely. Compared to the usual numbers I see here, I'm sceptical of a lot of breeding success this year. 

Come to think of it, most summers I can't drive  or sit with windows down or the car fills with  flies and other tiny pests. It hasn't been an issue this summer. It's been so pleasant it took a while to notice the lack.

A lot of driving produced a lot of nothing, with three exceptions. One dried up bowl with a mostly grassy bottom except for that last bit of black mud, the last to completely dry out,  now had several turkey vultures in it, the same place I shot a few photos of a larger flock of them several years ago when it was also this dry. 

Another basin, very large and mostly mud with a couple dribbles of water, held a generous and very shy collection of both egrets and blue herons. No photos were possible as the very tinniest movement of my car set them all in flight. Stopping set more up ahead in flight. Dang!

The third  sighting was on a road I'd never explored yet, along the eastern boundary of Crex. I came around a corner, slowly of course, being the optimist I am, and on the right edge of the road were three sandhill cranes. They started to walk across the road, right to left, and I stopped to grab my camera, wondering if it would be worth the effort , as I'd have to both shoot into the sun and through the windshield, and they were striding steadily out of my view. I got my camera up in time to catch wing curves above tall grass tips as they disappeared. Two sets only. There had been three birds, all adult sized, the first two the red brown from preening dirt through their feathers. The third one was very light in color, and as I watched in in the five seconds or so I had before they also disappeared into tall grasses below a bank holding a pond and even more grasses, showed itself to be white, not brown or cream as I'd first thought, with the outer half of its underwings being black!

WTF? Do sandhills come in that color? If it weren't for the size my initial mental correction of its ID was pelican, like some I'd seen months earlier in a different corner of the refuge. But it wasn't small enough, as the first sight of the three birds together said that all were cranes. I took my mystery back with me to the visitor center, along with my questions, and pointed out on the map specifically were I'd sighted... whatever. I'd been paying careful attention to my location since there is a tangle of roads on that side, and I wanted to be able to return to the eagle platform easily if indeed I was in the right location. As for eagles, I never found the platform. I did exit the tangle of roads smoothly, despite mulling what that third bird had been. 

I'm not too disappointed about that platform, at least not right now. I GOT MY EAGLE SHOTS!  Of course, I believe those are technically outside of the official bounds for where photos have to be taken to be permitted in the photo contest... by a few feet. Sighhhhh.....

At least there's nearly a year before submissions for the next contest. I figure there'll be a couple hundred new shots by then, of whatever.

Monk's Hood

 Somebody somewhere decided that August was the month where all the networks could take time off and play old stuff for the 97th time, or send you the overlap of end of summer season sports with pre-game  fall sports. 

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ......  

We're just not into TV sports around here, unless it's certain parts of the Olympics, or one of the two favorite football teams of Steve's: Vikings or Broncos, each representing a state he lived in many years. Even the usual multi-show-per-day runs of old TV shows have mostly disappeared, or cut off wherever you were watching and replaced by something different before the series ended and/or resolved.

I suppose it's a good thing it's transplanting time, eh? Or at least that there's a home library full of books read so long ago that most of the details are again surprises. I know I've read every single volume in there, and find it weird when I have to ask myself "who was that character?" or ""whodunit?" or even "did that happen in a character's life before or after this other thing?" so that makes rereading worth it. There had to be a reason I kept the series or even single books.

PBS did a replay on the Driftless Area along the Mississippi in south Minnesota and a bit further. I'd never seen the program, and didn't know how special it was for being an area skipped by glaciation. I knew, for example, that the river bluffs by Red Wing were about the only place in MN where poisonous snakes lived, in this case the timber rattler. There's a lot to say here (watch that show next time!) but just one part of it is what this post is about: a plant called Monk's Hood. It grows there too.

I'd been introduced to it during my first trip to Alaska with my mother-in-law Lylah a few years before she died. It was one of those marvelous trips that retired teachers get good deals on. We flew up from MSP to Fairbanks, went on bus tours in that area, mostly educational including learning about salmon fishing the old traditional way, or showing us the damage to buildings from melting permafrost before zoning laws required special insulation at ground level, not for the building but for protecting the permafrost! As long ago as that was, I suspect even those precautions are less useful these days. From there we headed south to Denali for a day, rode a train to Anchorage with a top transparent dome where we could see the bald eagles in the treetops at our level as we sped past, and eventually boarded a bus down to Seward for a cruise along the Inside Passage with daily stops for tours like whale watching, or seeing other animals in their habitat,  before a flight back to MSP. It was totally amazing and I fell in love with Alaska... in summer. Winters in MN are still enough winter for me. 

All in all, I loved Alaska enough that years later I went again, this time with a son and granddaughter, and a much more modest set of tours.

During that second trip, noted because of finally having a digital camera along, resulting in the below photos, we were introduced to native plants, including Monks Hood. The first, middle, and last thing we were taught, repeated very firmly because, you know, ignorant  adventurous tourists, was DO NOT TOUCH THE MONK'S HOOD!!! If you happened to touch it, wash thoroughly and ASAP. In the meantime, do not touch your eyes, any food, or get your hands near your mouth. It sounds extreme, until you understand two things: how lovely and unique a flower it is, and how deadly every part of it is. And of course, we were ignorant tourists, not close to a hospital in the middle of Denali, and our guide was responsible for not killing us, as much as he was able to prevent it. For some of us with cameras, it was a challenge, since it doesn't hold itself where all parts are easy to see, being meant only to be crawled into from the bottom by the right pollinator.

This is how lovely the flower is from a side view, how innocuous it seems, how touchable. Those of us on the trip mostly only had experience with garden flowers that wouldn't hurt you, unless anybody perhaps was used to desert plants with all their spines. Of course these have no spines, and the temptation to get a close sniff for perfume,  or even pick one can be overwhelming, even in somebody else's wildflower garden.

The driftless area has its own version of monk's hood - or perhaps it's a seasonal change in color. Front on, the center of their version of blossoms is white. The Alaskan version is black.

Yes, this photo does show our guide's hand behind the blossom, angling it so we could see the heart of it without touching it ourselves. Yes, he did take proper precautions like that fuzzy small stick, and explained them to us several times. We took the warning to heart, but were still able to get the photos we wanted. He was patient, because of course if he didn't help us get the "right" pictures, we'd be back on our own. They don't hire dummies for those jobs.

(Now if you REALLY manage to tick one off, it might appeal to their sense of humor to "explain" that the reason the grizzly bears in Denali Park have blonde fur is because they are tame and cuddly. Personally, I'd treat your guides very well!)

But it all leaves me one burning question. Are the two plants the same? Is the white vs. black a part of the life stage changing, like attracting a special pollinator vs. producing seeds? Is the one in the driftless area as deadly as the one in Alaska? No precautions were shown in the PBS program, so aren't they needed? Or were the team filming the plant taking reckless precautions?  We're just not used to having to take precautions to not touch plants around here, unless it's a very spiky rose, or poison ivy, and that "merely" raises a rash... for most of us. If we are wary with strange plants, it's mostly just a thought not to eat them (or their berries) unless proven safe. Nobody thinks to ask why is there no Monks Hood in everybody's gardens, because nobody sensible keeps it there to remind us it even exists.

Twist Of Fate

We tend to expect our oldest to die off first, then the next generation, and so on. Of course we know life and death don't work like that. Young hopes are dashed while our elders are left bereft. Let me tell you about a friend of mine.

Her name is Rosemary, and I met her about a decade ago down in Arizona. Other long term friends from  many years introduced me to her back when we all were gathered on a busy Sun City street corner protesting on Saturday mornings for peace. My best friend Joan from back in Minnesota, whom I met at the same support group where I met Steve, was a member of Grandmothers For Peace. Her husband Bob was also a friend from way back then. We each wound up post retirement a suburb away from the other couple, Sun City, and Sun City West. Together they organized the protests, provided signs and banners which they hauled back and forth for us to choose from, much simpler than figuring out your own slogan and toting it around in a tiny car with a folding chair, then emptying it out again until the next protest.  One didn't have to join something to protest, but I liked the cause as well as the people, and did my best to get passing drivers to "Honk For Peace" like my favorite sign invited them to. I personally honk and wave at all protestors I pass these days, as none of them are promoting hatred or meanness or wars. Sometimes I join them, like for "No Kings", and I'm one of the ones waving to the honkers... again. We'll just not have those long conversations during and after again.

Bob and one other man joined us grandmothers, and were part of the "Grandfather's Auxiliary". I never knew whether that was a "thing" or not, but the more the merrier. I met lots of people in the process. Most of us brought our favorite comfortable folding chair, some water since this was the Phoenix area, and a willingness to protest for a couple Saturday morning hours twice a month before going to brunch together, though some of the fitter members preferred to stand or walk. During the time I used a scooter to get around, before getting my knees replaced, I would join one of the men going around the intersection, corner to corner, waiting at each next corner for another green light. It was a busy enough intersection that we were never in a hurry or at risk, due to long lights. If you're ever at 99th and Bell Road, you'll see what I mean. We won't be there of course.

This is part of our regular group, a shot taken by a reporter for a story she was working on. She sent a copy of the photo for us to have. Joan and Bob are standing on the right, I'm sitting in front of them. It wasn't a day Rosemary made it to join us.

I'm the only snowbird in this photo.  Another snowbird at that time, Rosemary, was a very part time member, based in Michigan in warm months, back south for winters. She wasn't always free from family's and her own health complications to join us regularly. We got to chatting one day. I told her about selling my house to my son on a Contract for Deed, and all the different considerations and particulars. One of the best parts, for both of us (because she did it too after getting my information and talking with her own lawyer) was a clause in the contract where we'd have a bedroom in the northern house in summer months, with access to the house and yard, and during that time would pay our son (in both cases) something for the increase in utilities while we stayed there. It was the best of both worlds, not your standard mortgage, but lawyers wrote in safeguards for both sides that all agreed to.

Over the years I found out more about Rosemary. She was a concert pianist, and still put on occasional programs as well as performed for her church, as age and health allowed. I was given tickets to one performance, which I loved, and met her husband who didn't join our protests. His health didn't tolerate it, even if most of it was sitting, chatting, and waving.

It was about five years later when covid struck. Activities screeched to a halt, including our protests with the brunches following them where most of the socializing happened. I heard that one of her sons, a doctor, died from the pandemic. She and her husband relocated in Sun City year round into a senior apartment complex which offered lots of assistance... until he was gone as well. From there she lived together with her remaining son so he'd be around to assist his Mom. He was also the local computer guru that everybody could call for non-Apples with issues, and I got reports of excellent work. While her health improved enough to perform occasionally again, she still wasn't completely independent. Shortly after that we moved back north for good, with occasional emails our only communication.

During those years before we moved back north, our friends Bob and Joan died. He simply dropped while walking into a lawyer's office to adjust some financial papers. that never happened of course.  Something over a year later she entered hospice and I kept the friendship as long as she could appreciate visits. They were the heart of the group and it never came together again. We lost track of nearly everybody, aside from the occasional missive online from Rosemary. I'd reply, bringing her up to date on our news, sending photos occasionally, sometimes passing along jokes or cartoons.

It's her last email which broke my heart. Her last son, the youngest who'd moved south years before to live near her, then with her after his father died, had a fall, hit his head, and never woke up. This is the man who planned to take care of his mother as long as she needed him. 

Sometimes life is both fickle and cruel. I wonder how she'll deal with this last loss. It's not just the grief and loneliness. Will there be enough funds to make sure she's cared for properly, somewhere she has friends already, perhaps? That's what I wish for her, for as long as she wishes it for herself. Above all, I wish her as much peace as she can find. Good music too, of course, whether from her hands or others.

Since we communicate via email, I have no address to send flowers or even a card. I'd lost track about two moves ago. I did my own message for her, and then added one of my recent photos of a delicate flower, in both form and color. As I wrote to her, any real ones I might send would wither and have to be thrown. This one would stay the same as long as she wanted it to.

I don't expect somebody to come along and send out a final email to her large group list of email  friends. How would they know to? I'll just have to keep in touch and someday there won't be an answer. In this world of electronic communication, I expect it will happen for all of us. From what I have known about her and from her in the years we've known each other, I'm confident she'll head to wherever the music is and offer her skilled hands once more. She'll play that celestial keyboard sure that others will value her gift the way they have here through her many years, and know that they valued her for herself as well - her giving heart, her gentle humor, her kindness, her determination.

Not "Goodbye"... Yet

I'd thought this would be my last visit to my shoulder surgeon this morning. There was my third post-op visit this long after the first shoulder got fixed. That's when we planned the second shoulder. This one was the same length of time after surgery for a final visit  as one was after my other shoulder got fixed. But surprise! He wants to see me somewhere between 6 and 9 months after both are fixed - that's one visit, not one each - so he can evaluate my overall progress now that both are done. 

Is there a difference in recovery? Any difference in procedure? Differences in my life which yield different results? Unless there is some kind of problem, I figure this could be more about what he learns to use in his next procedures than how I'm doing. Besides, I won't be fully healed from either until over a year has passed. Things are good. Just not finished.

I did demonstrate my flexibility for him in how well I could do (or not as it turns out) an old favorite arm move from my belly dancing days called the Egyptian Sun Sign. Arms extended down your sides, palms in. Go from straight down, to out in a circle at the sides, where you gracefully flip your hands to face up, to complete  the circle up over your head. There hands smoothly face each other, arms and fingers straight up, palms touching. Each move is an undulation, one of the hardest simple things for some people to learn. For me it was easy.

Slowly bring them down along the front of you undulating the hands alternating their positions, until they are fully down, when you move them into some other position, or just repeat a sun sign. Depends who is choreographing. (In the classes I took, our instructor choreographed a group dance for each of our end of term  recitals. We each worked out out own solitary performance. ) The entire move is slow, continuous, and sensual, not jerky. (I see modern videos looking like some modern American jazz fest.) I hadn't done it since my 30s when I had it perfected. A recent try a couple years back declared both shoulders incapable. I had to try it again now. There's hope of completing one properly with some work. They won't go straight up yet, but at their highest stick out forward.  That would never do! But what a reason for regular home PT!

He sent his assistant in to schedule something for me as a final appointment. We all understand this is more of a reminder to set an actually keepable, final appointment, what with how life tends to change these days for all of us. Do you know how and where you will be in another 9 months? I don't. I can, however, make some major guesses about the weather. That kind of decision ruled when I chose shoulder #2, going for warm weather and easy clothing to fight with.

The 6 month gap puts us into February. Pretty easy to plan on ice and snow for a long drive, even longer since his practice is moving shortly, and the office visit will be nearly as far away across the metro as the surgery was. So we looked at 9 months. May sounds like a good choice. No ice likely on the roads. I don't mind the drive per se. I hate driving on ice when not necessary. Hell, I hate it even when it IS necessary. There are still too many Minnesota idiots out there who can't keep the thought in their heads that in the absence of friction, INERTIA ALWAYS WINS! The first major snow of the season usually sets a few of them straight... again... for a bit. But by February, any little thaw fools the fools into thinking they have traction back, wherever they go, and can stop on that proverbial dime even if that dime is stretched out for half a mile. Hey, I know my money doesn't stretch that far! Does yours?

Hmmmm, wonder if any of them are in finance, spending their days convincing normal people that money always grows? I can see the parallels in the thought processes, as well as the predictability of them being correct... not!

May sounds better and better. By then the idiots tend to rely on DUIs and texting to maintain their idiot driver status. I ought to have enough traction by then to get out of their way.

A Knock On The Door

I'm not one who thinks there's a reason to avoid answering the door. These days I understand a lot of people do have that reason, and not for anything they may have done, but for the bad intentions of the knocker. I suppose in  a different neighborhood, with ICE on the prowl to fill their "quotas", someone with a surname that would easily be mistaken for hispanic, that might change. (Nevermind the surname comes from my late ex husband, and around two centuries ago was a misspelling of Rousseau, from the French side of his family.)

Here and now, most people at the door are delivering something, or home care nurses and PT people here for Steve while he's still recovering. The unexpected ones usually are selling something, or at least trying. The usual answer is "No" but they keep coming. Mom trained me to always be polite, but sometimes after the door closes again my honest reactions surface. So it was the other day.

It didn't help that I was on the phone with a friend I'd missed for three years. While polite, I was still as short as possible. The young man was "in the neighborhood helping my neighbors, and could he help me too?" Last one of those was a roofing crew who would be happy to see "if I needed a new shingle or two.... sides of the roof done" is how I'm sure he would have finished that if I let him. 

I wasn't interested then. I was only mildly curious this time, having several new neighbors and wondering what they thought they needed help with. So I asked. It seemed they were having an incursion of weeds in their lawns. My reaction is if it stays greener than the grass does (usually) and doesn't grow a foot tall between the required weekly mowings here (never) , who the heck cares? I would have expressed an opinion on that but he kept going with more "vital" services to sell. It seems the neighbors were also having an incursion of mice.

Seriously? What on earth were they leaving out and around that would attract mice to their yards? Squirrels, yes. Rabbits, yes. People do set out food for them, whether or not on purpose. Gardens are also food stores for the right hungry crittters., though never mice in my experiences here. Some neighbors do like to watch squirrels and give tips on how to lure them, as well as setting out bird feeders.

I don't need tips. The peanuts and peanut butter that I bait live traps with do the job  just fine. Then the squirrels humanely go bye-bye to that patch a few miles away where oak trees abound. I've also sent a rabbit and a raccoon to the same place, all of them alive and healthy upon arrival, if temporarily frightened. What I don't do is eat outside and leave food crumbs all over. Mice don't cross the street to visit our yard. We have no droppings inside our home, no nibbles on a plastic bread bag left on the counter overnight or cracker boxes in the pantry. So what exactly could the neighbors stop doing - for free - to end a mouse problem? More money than sense was my (unspoken) reaction. I simply indicated I wasn't interested and returned inside.

I was polite, if abrupt. Honest! I didn't actually laugh in his face. Doing it here isn't rude, is it?

Thoughts On Being Feminine

 What brought this up? It's one of those things one looks back on from the perspective of age. In this case, seventy-seven years of living on this planet, and being at a place in life where few would find it - me - particularly feminine. I recently got a haircut and held a chat with the woman doing it on how hair changes over the years and does or doesn't fit in with fashion trends, particularly since I currently do not have a hair on my head over two inches long, just how I like it for practicality. Let's top it off with my finally watching "The Devil Wears Prada" on TV. Yeah, I know, but it was free (promoting the new movie sequal)  and I was bored  enough that a tiny bit of curiosity pushed the decision.

Societies have - as far back as we can tell - had different ways of setting the genders apart, presumably so they can get together in approved ways with approved rituals. The more leisure one has while still surviving, the stronger the differences. It is a luxury, after all, only available when survival is mostly taken for granted. When the next bite of food is assured, unimportant things can become rules. Childhoods include play, the need to work is pushed off, and older lifespans are expected and achievable. A lifespan of 40 is much different than four score and seven. Femininity goes beyond reproduction of the species and turns into status, where it gets complicated.

I was born into the time when status was key. As a species we'd spread across the planet into every survivable space and even into many not so survivable. We weren't ready to acknowledge it yet, but were were already overpopulating, destroying our resources. Where societies decreed one man could only "have" one woman, choices had to be made, limitations imposed. The choice became heavily laden with concerns for status. She had to be amenable, attractive, healthy, wealthy enough to contribute to his holdings. If she managed to survive childbirth, he was pretty much stuck with her. If she died, he was free to switch, publicly. Privately he still did pretty much what he wanted with whomever he wanted. But in order to be secure about which children were his, she had to be restricted to just his attentions.

Have you  noticed yet that these rules developed along the lines of possession? The feminine had become a matter of ownership. She was his property. Matriarchies disappeared, patriarchies arose. The "rules" for what was feminine revolved around possession. If the male, the "owner", had to be out doing things, according to his set of imposed rules, he needed assurances that his property would be there and waiting for him upon his return. He could hire bodyguards and build fences and walls. Those were costly and even risky, unless the bodyguards were eunuchs. Or societies could develop approved fashions. What was approved was whatever imprisoned the female, kept her property.

In some places and times, this meant keeping her hidden. Veils, even burkas were required if she appeared among unrelated men. Adding beauty to them kept her happier, a relatively small price to pay. Changing the kind of beauty, styles, color, amounts of ornaments, kept her bound to the person able to pay for those new things, and in turn his need for status kept him, at least to some extent, paying for those changes. Maybe you couldn't look upon his woman but you could admire the outer coverings.

There were other ways fashion kept her bound, and more literally. In China feet were bound to stay tiny, painful, and mostly useless. She literally could not walk away. Western societies demanded tiny upper torsos, requiring binding again, this time preventing the deep breaths needed for movement, for work, for any kind of independence. Pregnancy then required months of being kept out of sight since that bulge violated the size requirement, while it also served to keep the prized female out of the sight of others who might desire her, as well as her without options to observe and value other males.

Women mostly weren't schooled either, and in places still aren't. An education gives one options. One can provide one's own livelihood, think one's own thoughts and not depend on the masculine viewpoint to make all decisions. Feminine became more self-defined, at least by some. It may well have cost a price unwanted, or welcomed for being unpaid and thus a divide to separate one from the expectations of others. Much depended on whether the price to be paid became one's life, whether from violence imposed from without, or being prohibited from earning enough to stay fed and sheltered. Having new territory to spread into generally added options, especially if it became an escape from a determined foe, aka owner, or at least into a new society with easier rules for a single independent female to survive in safely. If she came equipped with, or quickly learned the local plant lore, she became valued. Other job skills could save a life, offer a future, and may have avoided the trap of being labeled a "witch" for having too much knowledge with concoctions feared poisonous, ammunition against ultimate destruction ... or its eventual cause.

Primary Elections, Arizona versus Minnesota

 I got a phone call out of the blue from a long-lost friend yesterday from Arizona. We bonded almost instantly at our first meeting in one of the activities clubs in Sun City. I'd been there a while, she was new, and I stepped over to greet her. A typical introduction down there due to so many people being snowbirds includes your other state or country of domicile. Yes, we had members from Canada and even England, as well as that real rarity, permanent residents. Joyce was permanent, just new to Sun City from Phoenix proper. When I mentioned Minnesota, she referred to a town there called Mora where her ancestors came from. Between that and personalities, we clicked. We literally could talk for hours, and did, several days a week in the walking pools getting our cardio workouts. We'd stop for a leg cramp or a sudden realization we'd been in the pool for three hours!

We lost touch after Steve and I returned to Minnesota for good, except for Christmas cards. I tried to call occasionally, but her voicemail box  was always full and she was seldom near her phone. Eventually I gave up. So it was pure delight when she called in the early evening. This time we only talked for two hours because I hadn't had supper yet, and was also worried that my phone battery would die since I hadn't charged it the night before. 

I mentioned to her we had our primary election here today, when she informed me she never voted in those. I was surprised, knowing her strong viewpoints matched mine. She clarified that she didn't feel comfortable having to ask for the ballot for her particular party. It was nobody's business which side she supported, but everybody would know who  she voted for by which ballot she requested. It's not something that bothered me when we voted there, but we also got our ballots in the mail and the only people who would know were the ones sending them out.  Like here, the general election lets you cross party lines with any selection but the primary won't. Their primary has a different sheet of paper for the primary so all your selections on it are the same party. They know which party you vote for. Joyce didn't want that information shared,  period.

Here in Minnesota the primary election ballots also are the same piece of paper given to everybody, and your vote remains secret until you feed it into the machine. Even then, no person is close enough to read your choices. They sit a few feet away and point to the machine, demonstrating if you need it which end goes in first and which side is up. 

In the Minnesota primary, a column on one side of the ballot is Republican, on the other is DFL - our version of Democratic - and all your marks have to be on only one of the sides. If you put any mark on the other side your vote is void. Any non-partisan contests go on the back in their own columns where everybody can vote. All the election workers know here is who showed up. They can't even plan ahead precisely because we have "motor-voter laws where we can show up and vote the same day, provided you bring ID and certain kinds of address verification.

Like A Cosmic Rose (screen shot)

I've become a fan of certain programs on public TV. In this case I've been following Nova programs about the universe and what we know - at this time - about its creation. The photo below is a screenshot captured after several tries - since I saved the program on DVR just to do this -  of a shot sent back to us from Hubble. Remember that "failed" space telescope? Forgot about that mission to make corrections/repairs? This is a clumsy version of one of my favorite pieces of photography sent back and used in the program about the Big Bang. 

It's been called the Cosmic Rose, or the Rose galaxies.  It shows two galaxies colliding with each other. Note the faint tip up of stars on the point of the small one closest to the large one. Its light took so long to get here that this is what it looked like 300 million years ago. Or we could just say it's 300 million light years away from us. UGC1810 is the name of the larger galaxy, and from a previous program which mentioned colliding galaxies, it's likely there was so much space between stars that very few had any kind of a physical impact on anything else. Look how far we are from our nearest star. It's not that we'll ever know of course, though we were told our own Milky Way had its own collision with another smaller galaxy, and just judge from that.

Notice the TPT logo in the lower right corner's middle, along with the channel's symbol, illegible in this photo, plus whatever is in the three lines on the far right. At any rate, I make no claims for anything but rewinding and shooting again, and again, doing my best to capture what the screen showed. This is my personal best of over a dozen tries. First my camera over-compensated for a dark room at night. Flash! Then daytime shots tended to be about a second late for a fast-moving screen and wording across it, as well as catching some window glare. Oh well, this is just a teaser anyway. I expect research could get you a much more impressive online shot of the two. Maybe somebody will make and sell posters, eh? I wouldn't mind one, right over my bed.

 

Addendum:  Yes there is an uploadable file and much clearer:

https://science.nasa.gov/wp-content/uploads/2024/06/hubble-poster-2024-arp-273.pdf

More "Artificially Stupid Stupidity"

Do they call that "ASS"?  "AI" just seems so tame sometimes.

Somewhere in the depths of this blog is an earlier rant on  AI failing on the job, specifically manning the phone lines at my pharmacy. That is, unless you consider its job is actually to annoy and confuse customers until they either take their business elsewhere, or simply refuse to refill their meds any more and just crawl off and die. 

Sometimes that almost does seem the more sensible option.

There's a lot of uneasiness about AI these days. People are so leery of getting bad information online that Google offers the option of cutting it out of its system completely (just one search at a time though) when you simply add -AI (minus sign with  AI ) at the end of your question. Three key strokes and AI's gone... until the next inquiry when you have to block it again. (Should I repeat that again?)

There was a repeat run of a TV show earlier this week, NCIS  Sydney, where first AI appeared in a much too friendly fridge, creeping certain characters out and amusing others at their expense... because we're supposed to think mean is funny, I guess, It was followed by the main plot of AI being put in drones and killing people it considered a threat. Spoiler alert: it opens with killing a kid. 

In the real world, people as yet unidentified around the Twin Cities apparently fear AI in "flock" cameras so much for tracking them in their cars, that daily there are increasing reports of them being stolen by cutting down the entire pole of them and removing them, a whole "flock" at a time. They get replaced, with tax dollars which could go elsewhere or stay in our pockets. Such is our fear when a system isn't restricted. The three laws of robotics are still just fiction. (Read Asimov.)

My issue is nowhere so scary, just annoying or amusing, depending on my mood of the moment. I'm assuming the big pharmacy chain my Part D insurance approves of is cutting prices by installing machines for routine tasks so they could cut costs from not employing real people. Shame on them!  Every one of the people I've met across their counter has been doing a great job, on their feet all day, non stop, error free over the years. The lines we wait in have gotten longer, enough that they have a twisting pattern of stanchion and rope barricades to guide people back and forth and back and forth while they inch their way forward to get their needed meds,  or occasionally a chat with the pharmacist about a new med and how to take it or what not to combine it with. Were another covid-type pandemic to break out again, even two-foot distancing would be a royal challenge, nevermind six feet, with people surrounding you in all directions. Cozy! Cough, cough, gag, gasp, drop.

Is this a share-your-germs-and-we-can-sell-more-meds program? Just a beta test?

Meanwhile there's an AI manning their phones, very reluctant to give up its power to thwart understanding. The first thing it does, if you as a customer hadn't been paying attention to your meds levels at home, is to call you and remind you that it's time to refill something. Perhaps a few somethings. It identifies each by giving you part of its name, like this: "...starting with lis" or whatever the drug name starts with. If you are lucky, you not only know what it's referring to, you have only one medication starting with those three letters, and know whether it needs refilling yet or not. Perhaps you've been taken off of it for a bit, or have been under medical care in a hospital for a bit, and still have plenty in the bottle. Perhaps your doctor has changed the medication or the dose or even stopped it. Do you want that one?  Are you sure? It's not like you can ask the AI a clarifying question. The AI doesn't give you more than a few seconds to decide if you need that medication in the next few days. My first impulse is always to hang up and go check what's low in my supplies. 

But impulses aren't always actions, or I can be busy, or away from home or in a noisy place. So who knows what I'll do right then in response? There have been times I've responded to "you have three medications..." with a blanket yes and hung up. Even in retirement I can occasionally be busy. It can be sorted out at the counter in the.... OMG! Ten days before it's ready?!?! It really takes that long to refill? Somebody give this staff more human help! 

Oh, right. Sighhh.

Then of course, nobody has apparently figured out how to get AI to correctly pronounce a medication name. My earlier rant on this centered around metoprolol. Humans have enough of a problem with that, usually inserting an "r", reading the first half of the name as "metro"instead of "meto". These days AI can't figure out how to divide longer (as in just 4 syllables) names and just where to accent the syllables. Monotone would be easier to understand most days. But many names are compound words made with one familiar term in it, or at least have a simple word incorporated into a product name. 

Take the category of statins. They keep fats from building up in your blood vessels and clogging them. Everybody who needs to take one can pronounce it with the first syllable getting the emphasis. "STA - tin." The names get more complicated by brands distinguishing their statin from the next company's statin. The "STA-tin" part of the name is still pronounced the same, so the rest of the syllables get accents assigned accordingly, keeping the longer word as simple to pronounce as possible.  The one I happen to be taking these days, because at my age one does take them... or else ...  is atorvastatin. Pronounced uh-TOR-vuh-STAT-in. STA-tin is still emphasized the same for easy pronunciation and identification.

Did you think AI has been programmed to deal with that? Of course not! Obviously either that lesson was skipped or the programmer hasn't a clue how to pronounce the specialized terms of the art it will be used for.

But let's start that day back at its beginning. I had to go pick up some meds for Steve. I hadn't gotten my AI robocall that I had meds to pick up, but thought I'd ask while I was there. Mine was ready, I grabbed both, and drove home.

NOT the end of the matter. Because of course not, or why would I write this?  Or you keep reading it? About an hour after getting home, I got a robocall telling me I had one to pick up.Timing is always fun, right? I had no clue what was to be picked up, whether I had just done so but the programming didn't pick up on outgoing orders to stop calls to "come and get them" after the fact, or there was something else in my cue I needed to go back for.... some other time. That was already a 24 mile trip. Gas costs more then the meds. I'd at least wait until I needed ice cream again.

So I called the store to find out.  AI answered, as expected. Most times there is a way to get it to stop insisting it can handle your order faster and it will (protestingly)  shoot you over to a real human. "Transfer prescription" usually works since it doesn't have any references in its records... yet. You go straight to a human with actual intelligence. For whatever reason I continued to deal with the store AI, asking what did I have ready to pick up? Maybe I was just bored? It's programmed to tell me it recognized  my phone number, and asks me to verify I'm the name they just gave me from their records.  (Hey guys, ANYBODY with my phone could fib and say yes and get my medical info just by calling your machine. You want security? Make me give you the name instead of you giving me the name !!!)  But of course I did verify myself, and the AI provided its own rapid-fire unique version of the medication it still thought was in the store:  "Ah-tor-VAY-stuh-TIN" !

Righhhhhht!  I wonder if a pharmacist would actually understand that if I said it that way. I have met some who couldn't pronounce metoprolol but usually even it's not garbled that badly.

I think it's time to go play in the gardens for a while.

Dastardly Disappearing Diaper Pins!

 It's a mystery wrapped in a conundrum liberally sprinkled with the never loosening pesky glitter of frustration. Where do all the diaper pins go? Especially when I'm the only one in the house who finds a use for them.

I remember decades old humorous writings about other things common in homes that would disappear regularly with seeming no explanations on a regular basis. Things like socks, clothes hangers, pens. Some would apparently transform into others which only grew more numerous. Clothes dryers were regularly blamed, especially for the wild increase in unpaired socks. In this case I'm not buying that laundry is to blame, because even the spare diaper pins have vanished, and nobody (sane) throws  a diaper pin holding several other spare diaper pins on it still waiting years to be used into the laundry. Seriously, nobody does that, right?

First, let's clear the air. I don't use them for diapers. I used to, fifty years and more ago, when I was taking care of my own babies. Pampers were just coming on the market but - and this is a big but - home laundry was much cheaper than shopping for packages every week of disposable diapers. Sure the adhesive tabs were "safer" - if you were ever klutzy and ignorant enough to poke the baby instead of the fabric. Yo, parents: Just slip your hand under the cloth and then push the pin through and up again. Instant education on which direction to send the pin! You bleed until you learn, baby doesn't. Simple.  If you don't do that, baby tells the world you're a monster!

One can also open a pin, check the diaper, and decide it's not soiled yet, so instead of tossing away a whole clean disposable diaper because the adhesive already has stuff stuck to it and won't adhere to anything again ever, one can just pop the pin back and it's as good as it was. One also learns early that opening up a warm diaper for a check on a full baby can easily cool the kid down, contracting the bladder into the newest loveable bathroom fountain. Boys perfect that trick instantly. Use discretion!

One could also rant at length on how all the plastics in disposable diapers fill up the landfills in a growing hazard to the environment. But for me the big drawback was always the cost, with a functioning washer and dryer already in the basement, and a diaper pail with a fairly good seal plus an (alleged) deodorizer in the lid. Dip in the bowl, wring out, and accumulate a load for laundry.

 Have you tried to locate diaper pins these days? One store will have them in the baby department, the next in pharmacy with diaper creams, the third disavows all knowledge of such items. Well made ones are still the best large safety pin available! It doesn't matter why you need a large safety pin, eventually you'll find a reason. Or perhaps it will find you. It's a way to fasten something on a hanger so it stays with the rest of what's on the same hanger. It can hold coils of wire in one spot when the distance between outlet and appliance is a third of the length of the cord and it's tangletown on the floor when you need to replug that phone or laptop or 90 other things. (One assumes a power strip of course.)

It also can keep your pants up. I'm talking the ones without belt loops because fashion doesn't think women need belts. When the waist elastic wears out as it will in, say, your favorite pair of sturdy. old, reliable jeans, they're great. You do know they mostly make women's denim pants without loops, right? And sure, elastic is mostly comfortable. And halleluia that the denim is sturdy enough to last for years, gets softer with age, and the elastic is adaptable as your sizes change. Now lots of other fabrics for pants have drawstring wastes as well as elastic, helping simplify that problem of drooping drawers. And some budgets are flexible enough to cure the problem with another bout of shopping... except that those favorite pants just don't stay on the market with all the features and colors that you fell in love with after you've loved them long enough to wear them out....uh, make them comfortable.

And then of course there's the issue of changing weight. I happened to lose a bunch of it over recent years, mostly with health issues contributing. I've been noticing the summer wardrobe, hung up for 9 months or so, is becoming a star in the "How Fast Can You Drop" contest for pants. Yes, thank you, thank you for your applause and well wishes. but it happens gradually through the day as the fabric molds and relaxes around your shape.  If I'm not paying attention, or mostly just delighted that I can pull my own pants up with just one arm while the other is still in a sling healing, I have been known to ignore exactly how loose the waistband has gotten until I'm somewhere out in public and the legs of the shorts are sliding over the kneecaps.

If you see me clinging to a handful of shirt hem bunched in my fist, you are not supposed to notice that the phone and keys in my pockets are aiming for the floor. On a bad day it's the tissue determined to slither away with whatever it can drag along, And no, it's not full of buggers! Honest! (OK, not full exactly.)

A decade or so ago, after an early weight loss, I hunted and hunted for diaper pins. That's how I know how ignored they are by the shelf stockers. That was back when my knees hated me, hated shopping, and determined to make every unnecessary step agony. OK, even the needed steps. I hate hate hate shopping! even more I hat stores than can't settle in a single place to keep something so I don't have to hunt.

For those pants issues, not trusting a weight loss if forever, I gather a fold over my front (navel) and pin it together on the inside. The pants keep that pin in them through dressing, the laundry, remaining ready straight off the hanger to fit well again. The things never spring open, never poke, don't rust, and only when I'm lucky do they need to collect up a bit more fabric. Since my shirts have been aging in the same manner and for the same reasons, there usually is the same allowance inside them so pins and extra folds don't show, nor the fabric lumps collected therein.

I never used to lose those pins since they stayed where they were placed until adjustments were again needed. I kept the extra pins in the bottoms of some of my shallow southwest pottery bowls on my shelves, handy but invisible in the catch-all where folks were busy either looking at the designs or just scurrying quickly past on their way to the bathroom. But now the pins have started disappearing. Clothes come off their closet hangers sans pins. The bowls no longer hold spares. And pants are sliding, sliding.....

I keep telling myself I need to order some when I put in grocery orders so I don't have to hunt through a huge box store. Of course I forget when I'm concentrating on the right kind of yogurt or chunky soup or raisin bread or crackers. But this morning Steve was putting in an order and asked if I wanted to add something. I finally remembered, and he pulled up the choices. I chose. They arrived! A bit tired from some garden transplanting I was delighted to avoid half an hour in the store. Yesterday's jean shorts needed the security since they were already showing mud streaks from tugging up while I was digging down. 

I took my next break from anything to break open a package while tucking the other two packages in the kitchen hardware drawer. The extras from the opened package went into a pottery bowl while I opened one pin to deal with my pants. Or at least I tried to. 

Has anybody mentioned they're not making them......... as strong as they used to? Maybe because they haven't made then for so long they forgot they needed to be sturdy. The wires in these were bent! 

Now you're scratching your head, envisioning diaper pins, and mentally counting all the bends in them that are need to make them work properly, and wondering just how crazy I am in complaining that diaper pins are bent! Right? These have the straight parts of them bent, and badly enough they come out of the package tangled together. Worse, I had to pull the long ends apart enough to allow the sharp point to come out of the safety cap holding it in place. THAT should tell you just how flimsy the metal in the pins is, if I both need to and can adjust them that way. It sure isn't steel!

I guess, since one is currently holding my pants up, that I'll keep them.  I'll know to use them carefully, and if they won't stay fastened, I'll have to get out and do some quality shopping. Maybe a fancy baby supply store, where I can expect the pins to actually be stocked where every clerk knows where to find them, and they bother to go for good steel pins. Or... I wonder if the several local thrift stores take them in to sell.  We'll see.

Not Something Of Value???

 Morning news was interesting today. There was a complaint against Mike Lindell's disregard of campaign laws in Minnesota.

You've heard the name. He's the "My Pillow guy", and a buddy of Trump. He decided to run for Governor of this state - as a Republican of course. Somehow making pillows which are reputed to be totally uncomfortable for sleeping on, and being a buddy of our Idiot In Chief, qualify him to be our next governor. So far as I know, he doesn't live here and never has - but I could be wrong of course, having been out of the state for a few years. Allowances are made for relocating after an election is won, though the relocation is not always followed through. Oopsie!

Trump's endorsement? Looking over his cabinet picks and their "qualifications", which seem to begin and end in slathering the praise on Trump the way he slathers ketchup on the White House walls, creating numerous scandals and making us the laughingstock of the world, just don't seem to me to qualify Lindell for any carpetbagging office. 

I also wouldn't trust Trump's good wishes for what happens in Minnesota after we had the temerity to put up our Governor to run with Kamala Harris against his slate for President/Vice President last go-round. We've been high on his target list ever since. So anybody Trump endorses for any office starts off with strikes against them rather than any supposition of good will or competence, in general but especially for us.

None of that violates campaign laws of course. The complaint came out of Lindell's campaign people distributing his pillows at his campaign events in the state. The law prohibits exchanging anything of value for votes. It's illegal to buy votes here, as it should be everywhere. Lindell's campaign counters that the pillows are not something of value, within the parameters of the law which put a limit of $5 for the definition of value. $4.99 is legal, $5 not. The pillows which were distributed - per the campaign - sell for $4.99. They are smaller than bed pillows, hence the low price. So no problem, right?

Well, if the claim is true, not a legal one. Of course to buy one a person would have to pay sales tax, meaning the price would be above $5.  Over the threshold in practical terms, but legal? Not my area of expertise.

But I clearly recall the results of a psychology experiment many years back, with results so unexpected at the time that it still resonates.  They were testing for the amount of a reward which had the most power to persuade another person to do whatever you wanted, a detail specified in the experiment, whether it was a specific action, or loyalty, or simple gratitude. The expected results were that a higher gift value would be more persuasive. The stunning result was that a very modest one worked much better. If I recall correctly, the small gift was seen as an act of friendship, no strings attached. In turn, the recipient was much more inclined to reciprocate, a gift for a gift, friendship for friendship. A large gift was seen with strings attached and more likely to cause resentment for its implied obligation.

So perhaps the Lindell campaign knows exactly what it is doing. Unless those pillows are as uncomfortable as the large ones and it backfires, eh? Just what are their value?

Plant Confusion

I went out this morning to dig up the bleeding heart - pink variety, not white - in order to give it away to a more loving home and make room for iris to relocate. Yes, it gets complicated. The rhubarb does have to move out. But I have tiger and Asiatic lilies also taking up space in what needs to be a nearly all iris bed, and they are already sending up several new shoots each from the single bulbs I sprouted indoors and set out this spring. They'll all go into the lily bed, but the available room is in two small remaining patches, one of which just got rid of its bleeding heart plant. The other is still getting rid weekly of its weeds. By hand of course. At least without me falling again. 

                       Tiger lily with dragonfly.

Did I say bleeding heart? Singular? At least that's what I expected after dividing it last fall for my new next door neighbor. As I was digging out the remainder this morning the pieces started falling away from each other. I thought at first I had two plants. OK, no problem, I'd just talked to one of Steve's visiting nurses to see if she'd want them  - why waste any? - and she indicated she'd love them (especially free no doubt) because she lived on wooded land and could use something pretty in it first thing in spring. Great!

 

                         This is it before the 1st division, last year.

So, pull out violets, grass, sorrels, avoid where last fall's bulbs were planted, then start vertical digs around the plant. Lifffftttt.... and SPLIT apart! OK, no biggie, so we had two plants now. There were long fat roots leading off in different directions, but were old plant parts that crumbled into rotten wood as they separated from the ground... and everything else. I walked everything over to the rain bucket to soak and clean up, making them friendly new neighbors for their new homes.  Eventually there were 5 cleaned, shortened, sound roots with their tall dead spring stems cut way back, enough left so even those unfamiliar could tell up from down and approximate depth in their hole. 

We get all kinds of plastic bags around here. Delivered grocery orders come in them, which we've had a lot of this year. Produce comes in their own bags. We put them all to use, hopefully many times. I pulled out the produce bags when I thought there were only two plants. I wound up with five plants in two bags, both bags in a larger one, its handles knotted at the top, ready to go when the nurse left. They'd had a really good soak, enough to last them a good while, and I gave directions to soak them in a pail again before planting this evening. Off they went. 

All the weeds and rotten plant parts left went in the box we're accumulating compost contributions in, to be taken to my son's house. I'll do that tonight, but by this time it was getting too hot for more work in the sun.

That's when I cleaned up and went online. With the plants I intend to move, it was time to recheck variety names and planting requirements. Besides, why hide a 12 inch plant behind a 28" one? I went into last year's records of what varieties went where and what they looked like. It was revealing in how many varieties I forgot I had, much less all their names. I had even noted which company certain ones had come from, just in case they'd sent duds so I'd avoid them. Or to remember if they sent great stock.

I'd google a plant name. I'd get dozens of pictures, often no two alike. Hmmm, looks like anybody can give any plant any name and nobody complains that it's copyrighted or anything. Nobody complains that this yellow one has the same name as that red or orange one, or that single petaled one has the name of this double petaled one, or a different formation from the next or ... or... or.... In other words, I better start keeping better records if I wish to replace something I'd thought by name was different and dug out what should have been a tiny selection of a large set of flowers but turned into the only example, and dang! It was gorgeous! (You've never done that, right?)

Well, at least it went to a good gardener who should be very happy with what it actually turned into, and who'll nurture it well. I better remember to give her the correct name though, for what that's worth.

Meanwhile we need to teach the plant world that there are more words needed for so many different plant types, and for growers to just go out and find some! Thesaurus maybe? Meanwhile never, never, never  buy or sell your flowers without accurate photos that actually match the flowers in question, OK? Got it? Everybody?

Now: make note to self.....

Are You A descendent Of Richard And Rebecca Maxson?

I'm told I am, and therefore my descendants as well.  I was sent an ancestry chart that listed my name. Unfortunately it had several errors in my data, including the supposition that I married my father-in-law. No, I married his son, and we named one of our sons after my then husband with a "Junior" attached.

For me, that brings into question a whole lot of other details in the chart. Let's just start with, first, I'm pretty easy to find. You're reading about me right now. My life is pretty well recorded. But nobody ever asked me a few simple important questions, or a chance to make corrections in the "facts" listed. I tried to contact the source of the list I was sent, never heard back, no clue if corrections were made, and assume nobody actually cares.

Why should anybody care? I mean aside from the idiocy of reactions to where I appended Rosa as my last name after my first marriage and kicked off the former middle one, keeping the "Maxson". That is causing problems, but only recently. It was never a problem before since no fraud was intended. I just joined a long time-honored history of similar behaviors.  I grew up with family stories on my father's side that went way back to before America was founded, some to William Wallace's time causing various relocations and name changes, all of which may be apocryphal. Somebody give me a reliable time machine and modern healthcare to take along, and I'll let you know. Just don't forget the healthcare!

My father was named after the first in our known line to be born this side of the Atlantic. His father arrived in Massachusetts as an indentured servant in the very early 1600s with a seven year obligation of work to fulfill. He was essentially owned by the Puritans who held his contract. Once those seven years were paid, he was kicked out of that community, not for any crime other than being - Horrors! - a Baptist. So those honored first arrivals came here for religious freedom... only for themselves. Somehow it tarnishes their noble quest for freedom, doesn't it? We got ours, now you have to join us or scram!

Humans!!!

Of course it has become a time-honored tradition in this country, where groups tribalize to "I've got my sacred freedoms, now you go scram and find your own if you can earn them but we get to decide that for you!" Our national history is a long tale of "US" versus "THEM", with, of course, every "US" being unquestionably superior... in all things.

That ancestor scrammed all the way to the island of Rhode Island. Every time that tale was told "Island" was strongly emphasized. Make no mistake, it was only and exactly that island. The ancestor married, they had a son who held the distinction of being the very first white child born on that island,  and who was named John Maxson. (Don't leave off the "s".) My father was named after him, but with a middle name added, from elsewhere in the family, of "Dufty". He hated it, since he grew up teased by other kids who turned it into bathroom humor. When he was drafted into the army in WWII to serve in Europe, he hated his middle name so much he was willing to swear, even risking perjury, his middle name was a single initial only, a "D". He was buried with that initial in Fort Snelling Cemetery, showing he never got in any trouble with the military for it. He chose to be named with a single middle initial only for the rest of his life. His mother, Jane Elizabeth (Price) Maxson, spilled the beans to me. She was proud of the family name and wasn't going to diminish it to a mere initial. 

Of course, she in turn hated the "Jane" and was always known as Elizabeth. I only knew about "Jane" when I read a copy of her autobiography after she'd died which she wrote as a young adult. At one time I held paper copies of it in my hands. I have no idea where those papers got to. Luckily, I took photos of each page and store them in my photo library, right next to all the photo pages from one of Dad's sisters proving her eligibility to be a member of the DAR. As her niece, I could join, as could my daughter, granddaughter, and great-granddaughter. If they ever wanted to of course.

When I needed to get a copy of my first marriage license from St. Paul to help prove my identity after moving back to Minnesota, having all my documentation still locked up in a PODS sitting in Arizona, they got my dad's middle initial wrong! I was too annoyed by all the documentation hassle at that point to even notice it for a few days, much less consider trying to point it out to them and get it corrected. I needed my driver's license and all the other duplicate ID crap to get on with life back in this state. I'd qualified for all that Real ID stuff when we moved to Arizona years before with the same kinds of documentation, but MN insists AZ didn't do it "right enough". It wasn't a problem with my documentation, just that it came from Arizona. Start over!

I'm pretty sure in the distant future if/when people are trying to trace me in the genealogy - particularly since I married into a (partly) Mormon family with at least one member who relishes keeping all those records - I'll be a mystery and/or source of confusion. I'm already sure it's a problem because I can't get everything all together enough to qualify for Minnesota's version of Real ID. I have an ordinary ID. I can't get a passport without hiring an attorney. I can't get on a plane without either a passport or a Real ID, either way requiring hiring an attorney and jumping through expensive hoops. 

Good thing I can still pretty much drive wherever I really want to go. My shoulder surgeon approves on behalf of both arms now.

As a result I can't put too much blame on whoever has been keeping the family tree from way back for allowing stupid errors to creep in. I've been assured all the claims of descendance from Charlemagne are hogwash, for example. Even his many bastards were thoroughly documented, along with theirs, and theirs.... I've forgotten some of the errors specific to me, but the idea of my marrying my father-in-law was just so repulsive I've never forgotten it. (Incest!!! ICK!!!) I bet if anybody was keeping up they'd miss my divorce (in Georgia) and second marriage (in Arizona) as well. But it's still me, and I'm still a piece of that lineage, where ancestors got scalped, and all sorts of other human things happened... and some were gotten wrong in the telling or writing. 

But if you're keeping those records these days, and are interested in fixing one teensy part of them by the person who lived it, go ahead and reach out. The state of Minnesota  can find me if you can't. So can the FBI, though I haven't given them a reason for years now, except to be cleared for carrying a hidden gun or as responsible for paying rent. I'm still around. And mildly annoyed.

In addition, I'm chuckling a bit at the absurdity of it all. It's fun to think you know this long line of people who resulted in you, hearing their alleged stories making them more than just names and probable dates on paper somewhere. Someday I'll be just a name and probable dates on paper - or a file of electrons - or some new technology - where even the people who knew and loved me weren't keeping track of those kinds of details, just the bits that impacted their lives at whatever level. That will be my legacy, for whoever cares. I know somewhere way back in history there is a string of humans (or near humans), themselves preceded by strings of cells put together from molecules made from patterns of protons, neutrons, and electrons, preceded by.... who knows? Just like everything else. Various zigs and zags resulted in me. I've continued the chain by producing descendants, and my atoms or ashes will enter other chains which may or may not ever become parts of humans ever again. I might be billions of years as part of some layer of rock. Talk about immortality!

Right now people still exist who try to keep track of those chains. But as long as they still find it important, why not do their best to get it right?

If You Could Just Mix Tech With Clothing this Way....

 I caught a flash of a commercial this morning - no clue what it was for, of course, aside from the usual "buy something" - that looked totally weird. I know I didn't actually see what I thought I saw, and it wasn't at all whatever the commercial was about, but trying to figure out what I had seen got me thinking.

What I thought I was was somebody wearing a shirt where a hole went through it - and them - showing what was behind them  and changing as the person moved. You know, like a window through the person. Since the person was apparently alive and unhurt, there was obviously no window/hole through their torso. But oh, what an illusion/delusion!

I bet somebody could put the current tech we have together and make a shirt that would create that effect. You'd need matching coverage, front and back, pick a shape: circle, rectangle, oval, irregular with edges shaped like a cannonball or shotgun blast had gone through. 

The back of the shirt would need  some kind of camera(s) catching the shape lined up facing back as if there really were a hole there, with wiring under the shirt coming around the body or over the shoulders to display on whatever the "hole" screen shape was. They'd have to match in real time as well as angles of course, so as the person turned the view would instantly match, just as if you were actually seeing through a hole in their torso. If somebody walked behind them you'd see that part of them pass as if through a window.

In its simplest it would just be a weird party trick. Think something like a window frame with a view matching the person's movements. But think of what one could do with it for Halloween! One would need a border that appeared to be the dimensional sides of the hole - all with apparent edges gory with blood, bones, organs as if you were seeing through the person... who was still apparently alive, not noticing they must have died.

Or were they undead?

I'll be waiting to hear somebody managed to make it work. No fees will be asked, though I'd love to see it in use.  

Anybody?