Out of the Frying Pan

Monday mix

Mild shock and major exhaustion has set in after the end of work on the B.A. The shock is that, 39 years in, I got 'er done. Oh, there is major elation around here. DC and I keep looking at each other and laughing joyously as I exclaim, "Done! Did it!" Right: those mountains didn't move, but another one sure did.

So it's back, in staggering steps, to routines like the Monday mix.

• A link to a site devoted to the rose botanicals of Pierre-Joseph Redouté is buried in an entry below. The link deserves its own mention, so here it is.
• Birding by county in Colorado is a canonical list of sites of good birding here. Nothing I've run across comes close to its exhaustive inventory.
• Compare digital cameras side by side. Recently I was swayed by John Gerlach's point out about the number of lenses made by Canon compared to that of other camera makers. So Canon it is now; go to dpreview.com if you're thinking of a change.
• Rethinking talent, an article about its role in nature photography, but applicable broadly, I think: When I believed in talent I waited for talent to do the work for me. When I realized that talent is really the ability to set specific goals and deadlines, to focus my efforts in a specific direction, to not give up and to seek help from people that are where I want to be, I stopped waiting and started moving forward. Such a fine essay.
• Big Bend National Park, almost 900 miles from here, is a bit of a drive but its reputation for flora and geology sure is a draw.

Got it!

For six years, the identity of...

...has been a mystery to me. A while back, a photo flashed by at Vintage Gardens that made me exclaim, "That's it!" Except I couldn't figure out what IT was until today I noticed that they've identified all the photos that play on their front page.

It's Souvenir de la Malmaison, which makes sense for a number of reasons. Château de Malmaison might be my favorite "famous" house in the world. Joséphine de Beauharnais chose and bought the house herself, decorated it, and aggressively sought out plants -- especially roses (her full name is Marie Josèphe Rose Tascher de La Pagerie, but "a rose by any other name...") -- for the gardens.

One year the date on which I visited Malmaison coincided with the anniversary of Joséphine's death. The gardeners had gathered a great variety of roses for a small tribute left in front of Joséphine's "ceremonial" bed (my history-based illustration, right; notice the Redouté botanical -- whee, is THAT a great link -- to the right of the bed), not a great floral installation, but a typically understated, but elegant bunch of roses drooping over the lip of a bowl. Beautiful.

In my ruminations about the mystery, at times it seemed like Souvenir might be the right identification, but so many alternatives were suggested and my mind could not quite get around the idea that I might have forgotten making a small tribute to Joséphine in my garden. There was a long period when I could not remember. For now, that time has passed.

Not at the lake

Neighbors

A wonderful bird is the pell-i-cane,
His bill will hold more than his belican,
He can take in his beak
Enough food for a week
But I'm damned if I see how the helican!
--Dixon Lanier Merritt, 1910

Although a number seem to have travelled on, dozens and dozens of white pelly cans stay on. Their primary settlement is in the northwest corner, visible from the main road but, closer up, completely obscured by the rushes.

Still, they are active creatures and easy to spot. The elders are often out in the middle, apparently checking the fishing forecast, and the youngsters like this fine fellow glide near the shore, letting the wind tickle their feathers as guardians soar overhead, ready to warn off the birds who do not come in peace.

At first glance, it is too easy to anthropomorphize pelicans because of their looks and behavior, viz.... The more I watch, the more pely cans become no more or less than the miracle of pelllycans, creatures plainly visible and plainly alien.

The bad news down south makes me value the plenitude of pell1c@ns in our backyard. (If you haven't done so, read the erudite Bob Sutton on BN's handling. Moral outrage is seldom as deftly expressed. Look at his update, too.) Here are some first-rate sources of information about these splendid birds:

New glass

Where the wild thing was.

One time Rod Stewart nailed it: "My love for you is immeasurable, my respect for you immense..."

Done.

I'll be back RSN - probably over the weekend.

Near Red Fox Hills

One of the trees in the back garden dropped a heavy limb in last night's wet snowfall. And this morning our neighbor found a large limb spanning his driveway. It's cold.

But at the lake, ardor is uncooled...

...and, emboldened by the dusk, Sister Fahx takes a sidewalk survey.

Tra la! It's May...

...and, again, the Front Range does not disappoint.

One way to know it's May is to see how easily we could have been led down the garden path. It's May! The cobbles are warm, obviously.

But the biggest news of the day is not the snow, but that we are great. Seriously. Less than an hour ago, DC and I had greatness bestowed upon us. Our great-nephew Jordan is here, a carrier of some of DC's DNA and loving good wishes from us both.

On Mother's Day

The robins have come again to their nest in the crab apple tree in the garden.

I am glad for the distraction of needing to study hard today, because I find the day difficult. I miss my own mother and her mother, too, and yet I dislike the obsequies of the day because I sense in them more obligation than celebration.

But I must admit that this is not what I saw early this morning. The parking lot of our grocer in Cherry Creek was half-full at half-eight and the produce section was practically taken over by sheaves of irises and tulips and roses. Although there might have been an exception, even the young adults -- men, mostly, interestingly enough -- walked along with little smiles as they tried to figure out how to hold a bouquet without looking like a beauty queen.

One little boy beamed as he walked with his father toward their car. He carried a pot with frilly heads of pink hydrangea. Hydrangea, as you can tell by the name, are iffy here in the high desert. But today, but this week: they will be wonderful and I think the little boy will smile broadly to himself whenever he sees them.

DC did something a little different this year to honor his mother: he shared some of her gift of mothering with the world. I think that's just lovely.

I was tempted to write out more of my ambivalence about the day and, in fact, I did. But computers have what life does not: a delete key for our mistakes. I used it here.

Happy mother's day to mothers who are happy today; happy mother's day to children who are happy with their mothers. To the others, may some measure of peace come to the heart and with it, perhaps a little comfort.

My father's birthday often coincided with Mother's Day, which seemed somewhat unfair to him and to my mother. Regardless, today he would have been 89. Unbelievably to me, 24 years have now past since we last celebrated his birthday. May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.

+ Roger Monroe

Please pray for the repose of the soul of Roger Monroe. Yesterday Roger, 81,  died after a course of lung cancer than ran even shorter -- perhaps blessedly shorter, it must be acknowledged -- than expected. He was the husband of my cherished and deeply admired friend, Alice.

Roger was a raconteur, artisan and craftsman, and a man with opinions. To me, he was affectionate and generous. I shall miss him.

Requiescat in pace, friend.