The Goshawk

A few months ago I read a review in the New Yorker magazine about a new book called "H Is for Hawk."  It became a bestseller in the UK and won several literary awards.  The author, Helen MacDonald, is a naturalist, artist, historian and research scholar at Cambridge University.  She's also an experienced falconer, and while grieving her father's sudden death she decides to buy and train a Goshawk, the most notoriously difficult and high-strung of all the hawks.  Her book is about this experience, and much more.

The New Yorker book reviews are often so dense and long that by the time I've read them,  I don't feel any desire to pick up the actual book. But in this case-- the subject matter!  It seemed like a must read for anyone interested in birds.  As a treat to myself I picked up a copy at Costco, of all places.

I won't try to rehash the book here, other than saying it is very good.  But this video gives you some idea of this amazing creature.

On the other hand..

There's an advantage to letting Nature run its course: our little urban Eden is beautiful this time of year. The roses have never been prettier. I suppose the best gardens are a balance between constant, finicky work (plenty of that around here) and leaving well enough alone (plenty of that too, because there's only so much one person can do.)

Of course sixteen yards of compost and 35 years of mature plantings help.  Things have evolved naturally into areas of shade and sunlight with lots of overgrown corners the birds love.  Add a little water and lay off the pesticides, and you've created a wildlife sanctuary.

Speaking of that, each spring we seem to hear more unusual song from nesting birds in the yard.  Yesterday I saw a baby wren just out of the nest (probably a Bewicks) sitting on top of the gazebo begging while his mom and dad went crazy in the hedge. He hasn't learned yet that "wrens don't do that" and hopefully he won't learn the hard way.  Wrens are shy birds and secretive nesters, so I think it's pretty neat they found a place a few yards from our house, probably up in the impenetrable holly tree or laurel.

This is not my picture but he looked just like this. Like all nestlings, adorable and pathetic.

As for the bamboo grove, removing this mess would leave five foot craters and a nice view of our falling down fence, some power lines, and the backside of other people's garages across the alley. That's enough to give a person pause, before bringing in the wreckers. The one good thing you can say about bamboo is it has a relatively short growing period here, then it mercifully stops for another year.  And it's beautiful, in a horribly messy sort of way.

Life in the jungle

If you feel like planting bamboo, here's a good reason to just stick to a lucky bamboo plant in an indoor vase. I've chopped off dozens of these new shoots that are popping up overnight like mushrooms 20 feet out into our lawn.

The bamboo "hedge" has entered its frightening 3-month growing season, and the rhizomes are spreading across the yard. I'm hacking them off as fast as I can.  If anything, this just encourages more growth. But the real fear is, what if they decide to head east across the back alley, and spring up on a neighbor's property? People are terrified of bamboo, and rightly so. Then John and I will have to pack up and move to Alaska under cover of darkness.

Bamboo is the worst thing we have ever planted, or hopefully will ever plant again on poor Mother Earth.  But like many innocent mistakes, it seemed like a good idea at the time and wow, it sure screened that ugly view of the neighbor's trailer. No, we didn't bother to install an underground "barrier" but from what I've learned, flimsy barriers are mostly useless for these varieties with giant culms that can punch through asphalt. 

Yes, you can get rid of it, you can get rid of anything in Seattle, but that can take years. And it requires bringing out the expensive professional bamboo removal company.  And maybe heavy equipment.  And possibly herbicide.

On a happier note, the gloomy weather that's been bugging us for days has finally moved into Idaho and Montana.  The warm sun is back, garden chores are calling today.

Granny Squaredom

The "June gloom" arrived early in Seattle, and the entire holiday weekend looked pretty much like this.  This morning we're still under the fleecy grey blanket but should finally get some warmth by the end of the week.  The garden is dried-out and damp at the same time. Kind of depressing. Believe it or not, I have to water already.

You can read the Cliff Mass weather blog for a long, geeky explanation as to why this always happens on the west coast in early summer.  June in San Francisco is also notoriously gloomy and cold. The short explanation is the entire eastern Pacific ocean is full of clouds.

Never mind the chilly weather, we had a fun weekend and Amanda got home safely yesterday afternoon with the girlies.  This morning it's back to the regular old grind of work and school.

The other day it suddenly occurred to me that my age is closer to 70 than 60. Maybe I'm kidding myself, but I like to believe I might have a few meaningful things yet to do with my life, other than learning Home on the Range on the ukulele and crocheting granny squares.

But I'd better get busy on that list, because it took me about five years make this one.  Well, not five years of constant effort, but a lot of frustrating fits and starts and a plastic bag stuffed with squares gone wrong.

Now I finally seem to have it down, so I think I'll keep going until I run out of this pretty yarn. By then, the pattern should be permanently imprinted on my senior brain. AARP says learning new things is good for us.

Big kids

Maya and Nova

The weather has been dry, grey and chilly so far this weekend.  Of course that beats wet, grey and chilly, but a peek of sunshine would be nice.

I walked the girls to the park on Friday and Nova was sure she didn't need a jacket-- until we got there. It's summer already on her side of the mountains.  The girls cuddled up on the swing together to get warm, which made a sweet photo opportunity.

Seeing them both sitting relatively still in the same spot is a rare occasion. Ice cream helps!  I had good intentions, but my photography has been pretty hit or miss this weekend. Busy Nana.

Let the good times roll

Weekend forecast

The light is beautiful on the roses in their first May bloom, especially in the early morning and evening.  Sunset isn't until almost 9 pm now.

I was propped up in bed about that time last night reading, and feeling like an old fogey listening to the neighborhood kids shrieking in their yards.  There's plenty of energy to spare this time of year. It must be the light. Everyone loves it, but I suppose some tired parents miss those dark winter early bedtimes.

It's the noisy time of year. I heard snarling outside early this morning, and the young raccoons were wrestling around in "their" garden.  Not a great picture, because as soon as I poked my phone out the window they gave me a dirty look and took off.

Can you believe it's Memorial Day weekend?  The year is almost half over already.   The weather looks like a mixed bag here for the next few days-- clouds and showers in the morning, but if we're lucky it might burn off by late afternoon.

We're looking forward to seeing Amanda, Nova and Maya this afternoon (Tom is driving over later) and they will stay with us.  It will be a full house of fun and definitely not quiet!  :-) I should have some new pictures of those big girls to post soon.

If your weekend plans involve travel, remember be patient, be safe. 

Thought for the day

Aphrodite riding a goose (detail) white ground bowl

circa 480 BC, found in Kameiros (Rhodes)

Now in the British Museum

An exquisitely delicate bowl, preserved for 2,500 years....
What will be left of today's art in 4515?

Meanwhile...

Down in the rescue pit, the transportation officials found the damage to Big Bertha is much worse than expected.

From the DOT this week: "the drilling machine's outer seals and the steel retainers that hold them in place are destroyed. There was also damage to the cutter drive motor pinions and the main bearing bull gear."

The drilling machine was set to resume work in August, but now that's not going to happen. The project is already 2 years behind schedule. The machine is stuck near Pioneer Square, just 1,083 feet into the 9,270-foot tunnel route.

Contractors have blamed the stall on a leftover steel pipe that Bertha hit underground, but the extensive damage suggests the machine might not be up to the task.

Everyone wonders if Bertha will survive another mile and a half of drilling?  Or for that matter, can she even get started again? We'll have to throw a few more billion dollars at it to find out.

Other Seattle news. Yesterday morning, the "Paddle in Seattle" protestors took to the streets and blocked entrances to Terminal 5 where the giant oil rig is moored.  Shouting "Shell No" they shut down traffic for a while on the lower West Seattle bridge.

This is about a mile from our house as the crow flies, so the news helicopters were coming and going all day.  And the military flew a giant helicopter over us, I guess "keeping the peace."  

There was an impressive turn-out on Sunday for the kayak protest flotilla.  If there's one thing we have plenty of in Seattle, it's boats. 

That looks like a blast.  But can they make a difference? Well, Shell might regret their decision to bring such a visibly negative environmental symbol to Seattle. These unusual protests are getting some wide press.

The London Evening Standard wrote that Shell is braced for criticism at its annual meeting in The Hague this week for its plans to drill in the Arctic this summer.

Shades of blue

Royal, navy, sapphire, indigo, azure, cerulean, beryl, ultramarine, cobalt, midnight, powder, turquoise...

And then, the Himalayan Blue Poppy.  A natural blue color so perfect it almost defies description.

I took these pictures yesterday at the Rhododendron Species Foundation & Botanical Garden in Federal Way. We took a morning walk to find the poppies that usually bloom there in May.

I've already written about them twice-- just type "poppy" in that blog search box. What else can I say, except there is something about this flower that captures the imagination and attracts the photographers.

And of course, every gardener craves them, even though Meconopsis betonicifolia will usually let you down once you start trying to grow it yourself in Seattle.  For starters, they are native to the lush, mountainous regions of south-eastern Tibet. 

Definitely not West Seattle.  The trick is to try and mimic their native growing conditions: sheltered position, no competition, morning but not afternoon sun, high nutrient requirements and most important, the roots must never, EVER dry out.

OK, then.  Advice on the Seattle garden forums ranges from "find a good place and pray over it" to "treat it like an expensive annual." 

Despite all this, seedlings are offered for sale in pricy little pots to hopeful gardeners at the garden nursery gift shop.  The last two visits down there I resisted temptation, but this time they got me.  I was in an impulsive mood.  Ten bucks.  On the way out, clutching my little pot,  John just said, "sucker." I just said "yes."

The first planting requirement (after deciding on the perfect spot in your crowded flower bed) is digging an 18-inch square hole and filling it with compost and "well-rotted manure."  As if we all have piles of that laying around!

Well, what is gardening (and life) without something special to hope and pray over?

The sea is our garden

The welcome map sure wasn't out for the Polar Pioneer oil platform when the tugs dragged it into Elliot Bay yesterday.  It docked at the Port of Seattle anyway, just down the hill from West Seattle. We listened to the news helicopters circling for about an hour over the kayak demonstrators.  How could a flotilla of paddle boats believe they could stop a behemoth like that?  Well, activists called yesterday's event "Shake Your Paddles at Shell," in defiance of the arrival. Things are just getting warmed up.

"We want to unwelcome it to our waters here in Seattle," said Carlo Voli, a volunteer with ShellNO, an activist organization that opposes Shell coming to Seattle. And let them know we are unhappy with them using our waters as a staging place to go up to the Arctic and attempt to drill for oil up there. They can come into our waters, but when they try to leave, it will be a completely different story. A lot of folks are going to try to prevent it from leaving, by putting our kayaks and bodies on the line."

Goodness. And the poor oil company says they never received such a response to their "Alaska program."

But they haven't been to Seattle now, have they?

Walleye for dinner

One of John's friends at work gave him a package of frozen Walleye fillets last week. If I have the story right, the fish was caught during a Walleye fishing tournament at Potholes Reservoir in central Washington.

Potholes is part of the enormous Columbia Basin Irrigation Project. If you've ever driven through this area or looked on a map, it's almost impossible to tell where the natural Columbia River once flowed. The desert is now covered with vast lakes and wide waterways, full of wily fish.

 Potholes Reservoir

The lake, or "pothole" is an interesting combination of natural and man-made.  The potholes were initially carved out during the Pleistocene Age by flood waters from Glacial Lake Missoula.  Later, the Columbia River dams raised the water table high enough for these topological depressions to become lakes.

The lakes are popular for Walleye and Bass fishing. Walleye are lethargic fighters on the line, although hauling them out sounds interesting because they have wickedly sharp canine teeth and a dorsal fin like a razor.  But the real excitement for the fisherman is their hefty size, not to mention, the anticipation of eating what many people consider to be the best tasting fresh water white-fish.

If you live in the Midwest, then you know all about Walleye.  But they are not native to Washington, and no one knows how they entered the state. The first Walleye was identified in Banks Lake in 1962. Since then, they've spread all over the Columbia Basin, probably by traveling through irrigation pipes and pumps. Walleye are very prolific; a large walleye female can lay up to 600,000 eggs per year.  They can live up to 20 years, but seldom do in heavily fished areas.

Catching Walleye sounds like my kind of lazy fishing:  fish on the bottom; fish very slowly; and use night crawlers.   Walleye hang out in the dark and don't spend a lot of energy chasing food.  But you can also trick them with those wonderful gaudy lures, jigs, and spinners that women love. Especially if a live night crawler is attached.

Cooking Walleye

I would have made the fillets on the grill yesterday, except it was pouring rain.  Being a popular eating fish, there are thousands of stove-top Walleye recipes on the internet.  Honestly, though-- curried Walleye?  I think simple is best, if you're lucky enough to have truly fresh fish. 

So I dipped it in a little seasoned flour and fried it slowly for about 15 minutes in a blob of butter.  Added a squirt of lemon juice and a few capers right at the end, then spooned the good stuff over the fillets.

Along with a few roasted vegetables, our plates were clean in a jiffy.
Thanks, Lee!

Cloudy skies

The storms are roaring through tornado alley this week.  In our quiet corner of the country, May is turning out cooler and wetter than predicted.  Actually, it's more like a normal Seattle spring.  We've all planted our tomatoes, and now they sit there doing nothing until it finally warms up in June.

The weather might be blah, but there is some excitement on the local news today. A flotilla of environmental "kayaktivists" is organizing in the attempt to prevent this humungous Shell oil drilling rig from heading to the Arctic.

The activists hope to have a "massive presence on the water" to escort the rig when it arrives in Seattle this week. Everyone who can paddle is welcome to join the protest.

Needless to say, training for a rapid kayak response is different from a street march. Planning is going on now behind closed doors.  A flotilla of kayaks doesn't sound like a formidable presence on treacherous Puget Sound, but hey-- stay tuned.

International Nurses Day

International Nurses Day is celebrated on May 12th, the birthday of Florence Nightingale (1820-1910.)   Her father was a wealthy landowner and liberal Unitarian, so she had an advantaged childhood.  She was close to him because he didn't have a son and he treated her as a friend and companion.  Her domineering Victorian mamma was primarily concerned with finding Florence a good husband.

Her father took charge of her education and she learned Greek, Latin, French, German, Italian, history, philosophy and mathematics.  While her mother and sister were content doing charitable works around the estate, Florence and had bouts of depression and feelings of unworthiness. At seventeen she felt called by God to some unnamed great cause.

Florence refused to marry several suitors, and at the age of twenty-five told her parents she wanted to become a nurse. Her parents were totally opposed, because nursing was a low-class occupation with about the same status as cleaning lady.  She persisted, and in 1851 her father relented.  She studied at the Institute of Protestant Deaconesses in Germany and two years later she was appointed "resident lady superintendent" at a women's hospital in London.

During the Crimean War, Florence Nightingale volunteered her services to the military and was eventually given permission to take a group of thirty-eight nurses to Turkey. There was considerable prejudice against women in medicine.  When she arrived, she found the conditions in the army hospital filthy and appalling.  Typhus, cholera and tetanus killed thousands more than battle wounds.

The no-nonsense Nightingale quickly set to work. She procured hundreds of scrub brushes and asked the least infirm patients to scrub the inside of the hospital from floor to ceiling. Nightingale herself spent every waking minute caring for the soldiers. In the evenings she moved through the dark hallways carrying a lamp while making her rounds, ministering to patient after patient. The soldiers, who were both moved and comforted by her endless supply of compassion, took to calling her "the Lady with the Lamp." Others simply called her "the Angel of the Crimea." Her work reduced the hospital’s death rate by two-thirds.

Florence Nightingale Bio

She came back to England an unlikely hero, and received an award of $250,000 from the British government. Poems, books and plays were written about her. At some point the "Florence Nightingale lamp myth" overtakes her real contributions to medicine.  Thanks to her, nursing became a respectable and honorable occupation for women. The books and articles she wrote on preventing disease set new standards for cleanliness and hospital care.

Nursing School Graduation, June 2014

There wasn't a dry eye in the auditorium when Amanda and her classmates recited the "Nightingale Pledge" at the graduation ceremony. Some people question that Nightingale does not represent modern nursing, and certainly her pledge language from 1893 is outdated for contemporary nursing.  But the new modified pledge is still beautiful and meaningful, and refers to providing non-judgmental care for all who need it, regardless of social status.

Today is the day to thank a special nurse in your life.  We are proud of you, Amanda!

Sunday treats

I'm not sure how appetizing Oyster Rockefeller looks on Monday morning, but they were pretty good yesterday afternoon with happy hour drinks at the Brooklyn Seafood House.  We went to a chamber music concert at the Benayora recital hall, then John took me out for a treat.   

If you google "Oyster Rockefeller" you'll pull up dozens of recipes, but the original was created at the New Orleans restaurant Antoine's in 1899, where it remains a secret to this day. The appetizer was considered so rich that it was named after the richest man of the day, John D. Rockefeller. The recipes contain varying amounts of butter, cheese, bacon, chopped greens, etc.  And of course, fresh oysters.

At the Brooklyn, you get three of these big guys for only $6 during Happy Hour. With all the cheese, they just about make a meal.  

The poor live oyster is smothered with good stuff then broiled right in the shell.
This is a desecration to oyster purists, who only eat them raw.  Indeed, the people around us were scarfing them down as fast as the bar man could shuck.  

I like them raw but only in the "r" months:  September, October, November, December, January, February, March.  I think they taste better when it's cold, plus I'm old-fashioned and superstitious about food.

It was a beautiful, sunny weekend in Seattle. I had a good time driving around the community yard sale on Saturday.  I didn't find much to buy, except cute clothes for the girls and old kitchen knives for John to hone his sharpening skills. 

But I ran into some West Seattle friends I hadn't seen for years, which made the day.  Boy, I was tired by Saturday night though.  My FitBit device said I walked almost 9,000 steps, just getting in and out of the car and wandering around the blocks!  That gives you an idea of how seriously I take the community yard sale :-) John stayed home in the basement sharpening knives.

Summertime, and the livin' is easy

A few snapshots from Amanda...bathing suits and sprinklers in the Methow Valley. Bring on summer.

Ahoy, fair weather

It's going to be a spectacular weekend. Close to 80 tomorrow! The big community yard sale coming up and Mother's Day on Sunday.  Everything in the garden is fresh and perfect for these few short weeks in May.  Not a faded flower or a nibble mark (yet.)

And the first roses are blooming...

 

Isn't May just the sweetest month?

A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period-
When March is scarcely here
A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.
It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.
Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay-
A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.

Emily Dickenson