More Pictures

Here are more pictures of back yard "stuff":

Pictures

It's hot.  It's humid.  It's South Florida in summer.  Brilliant, steamy sun followed by threatening clouds, thunder, lightning, downpours, then more sun.  In the midst of this, plants grow like a Stephen King novel.  Keeping the status quo is like fighting a battle each weekend.  This past week, I trimmed Cape Honeysuckle off the house wires, then bagged up the cuttings.  We go through more lawn bags......if shredders weren't so expensive, I'd buy one.  We'd have our own mulch and then some.  This coming week?  Bagging up the bougainvillea cuttings from 2 weeks ago and cutting some more.  

In between this, I watch the butterflies flit around from plant to plant.  This, more than winter, is their season, and there are hundreds that make their home in my yard.  I do hate to trim, because these same butterflies make cocoons on plant branches.  The best I can do is to check each branch when I cut, say a quick prayer - and if all is clear, off it goes.  If I didn't trim, we'd truly have "Jurassic Park" in no time and it would be hard to find my house.

The following are some pictures I've taken in my yard:

Above is a peanut plant - whether it actually grows peanuts or not, I don't know, but it is used for ground cover.  I prefer it to grass, although some grasses are butterfly larval plants, so we don't get rid of all grass.

Above is our Poinciana tree taken from down the street as we approach the house.  It is SO beautiful this year.  There are Poincianas everywhere, all breathtaking in their blooming beauty.

We have mosquitos, so we have dragonflies.  I try to only go out in the middle of the day or I have to wear mosquito spray - I don't like this at all, and we don't have any standing water, but they breed in amongst the damp leaves on bushes and vines.  We've had a particularly wet beginning to summer, so the mosquitos are inevitable. 

This is a skipper butterfly - not sure which species skipper - resting on the leaves of the Mexican sunflower (Tithonia) vine.  I see the eggs under the leaf, but don't know whether they are a butterfly's or not.   I do not see the plant listed as a larval plant for any butterfly, but it could be for a moth - we have some beautiful sphinx moths at night, too.

Another view of the skipper butterfly.

Mr. Squirrel thinks he is incognito.......

 
This little lizard was only about an inch long - very tiny.  Must have been newly hatched.

Above is a weed plant that butterflies and bees love, so we don't pull it up.  the flowers are lovely .

I Try My Hand at Story Writing

What the heck - I'll post the "story" I attempted to write here.  It was fun - but I wish I had more imagination.....maybe with practice, I'll get better.  It does reflect how I've felt at times......

"The rain poured down from the sodden, bleak sky for the fifth straight day.   There was only so much hot tea one could drink, seeking solace in a comforting beverage.  After a while the caffeine gave her the jitters.

Summer in upstate New York can be ever so beautiful, but the weather makes or breaks the loveliness, rain turning the landscape melancholy and bleak. 

She gazed again at the open book in front of her, the history of Saratoga interesting, but unsatisfying.  After all, all that was spoken of were famous people and she wasn’t looking for traces of them.  Since her father had died, all she could think of was his face, remembered from her childhood, his aging, vacant eyes of the last few years erased.  He had dreamed once, when his final illness began and he could no longer stand on his own legs that he was walking through Congress Park, his whole life ahead of him.  Then he awoke.

Richard James Bootier was born March 26, 1919, into a very young 20^th century.  His parents had witnessed the first aeroplanes, the first cars, and then he would live into the age of total destruction and the mass impersonality of America’s post industrial revolution.  And then he would die and go…..where?  Where was he now?

Looking up at the quiet brick interior of the library, she was conscious of her own mortality.  The scythe that had cut him down was hiding in the shadows, sharpening it’s blade for another cut.  If only she could hop off the assembly line heading inevitably to the blankness where he had already gone.

Sarah had tucked a small Bible into her pocket before she came out.  Its ancient words, although she wondered if she could really believe them, were so sure, so majestic.  Eternal life.  All one needs to do is look around at the tattered chaos of life, read a little history, and the words don’t seem to have as much power.  But she carried it with her anyway as a sort of talisman.  It had been her father’s, and he had been as unsure of it as she.

A damp draft teased the back of her neck.  Her hair in a ponytail, she could feel the change in temperature and it brought her a little frisson of chill.  Someone must have opened the door of the library to the outdoors, and the cold wet air of a rainy Adirondack day swept behind her chair.

Closing her eyes, she felt the empty dull sadness roll over her.  The one person who had admired and loved her was gone, the one of whom she was a female carbon copy.   It had been a mistake coming  back to Saratoga,  walking the streets of her father’s childhood, imagining his world, introducing the phantom boy to the child inside of herself.  She just felt old and lonely.

Shrugging back into her rain gear, she was startled by the feeling of a sleek, furry creature rubbing against her leg.   Imagining a rat, she quickly looked down and identified a ginger tabby cat gazing up at her, its’ green agate eyes filled with what could only be described as sympathy.

“Stuck out in the rain, buddy?” she asked gently, and the cat began to purr loudly, making movements as if it would jump into her lap.  “How the heck did he get in here,” she wondered.  He was obviously someone’s pet.  As she gathered her things to leave, he followed her.  “Great,” she thought.  “Now what do I do.” 

Walking through the revolving door, he kept close to her legs, and, slipping out next to her, he followed her the five or so blocks to her father’s old house. 

“Hey – you want to come in?” she asked.  The house felt so empty, so bare.  Even though many years before it had been her grandparents’ house and the home in which her father was born, it had been sold to strangers and remodeled.  It took all of her savings to buy it back.  She could never afford now to get rid of the modernization, to restore the huge kitchen complete with Hoosier cabinets that she remembered from childhood.

Ginger cat meowed and stepped right in, hopped up on the reclining chair, curled up, its paws folded under, and watched her confidently.

“Calm down.” he seemed to say.  “I’m here now and I’m going to answer some of your questions.”  Sarah shook her head for a minute, thinking she really had to stop drinking so much tea.  It truly was as if Ginger boy had spoken.  This is what happens to lonely, old women, she thought.  They become daft.  Just another sign of the Grim Reaper.

Sarah hung up her coat and laid her purse in the corner behind the chair.  She pushed Ginger boy off the recliner, sat down and, releasing the foot rest, sighed deeply as she sank into the plush chair. “I’ve got to come up with a name for you,” she thought – “I sure can’t keep calling you Ginger boy.”  Clear as a bell, the name, “Gabriel,” came to her.  “Are you a Svengali cat,” she asked, gazing into his inscrutable eyes.  “Well, Gabriel it is,” she said out loud.  “You can stay here as long as you want – I can use the company.” Feeling a bit guilty, she checked and found no collar and noted his fur looked a bit scruffy as if he had been living outside for a while.

“Poor fellow,” she crooned, and he promptly leaped into her lap and began making biscuits on her chest, purring all the while.  “Gabriel, you’re going to snag my sweater,” she said, but allowed him to continue contentedly.  Finally, he laid still, his paws resting on her chest, his face close to hers, his eyes half closed in utter relaxation.  As she watched him and stroked his fur, a strange peace came over her, something she hadn’t felt for a very long time.  “He’s magic,” she thought, and fell asleep.

“There’s a cell phone ringing,” she thought as she struggled up from the depths of her nap. 
Yawning, she realized she hadn’t felt so rested since, well, forever.  Fumbling for her phone, the call was just a sales call.

Gabriel was sitting on the end table next to the chair.  He looked alert and his eyes were so impelling, it was, for all the world, as if he was trying to talk.  Protruding from under his paws was a piece of folded lined paper.  As she picked it up she noticed it was fragile and yellowed.  “Where did you get this, Gabriel,” she asked, carefully unfolding the paper.  It was written on in pencil, in a childish hand, the letters carefully formed.  It was the Lord’s Prayer, the “Our Father.”  At the top of the page was her father’s name, Richard Scott, and the date, February 2, 1926.  Under the prayer was adult handwriting, somewhat feminine in its curves, the penmanship lovely and spidery.

“Today my son understood that Jesus Christ is his savior.  I am so relieved.  He will be in heaven and I will see him again after I die.” 

How macabre, I thought.  Lovely sentiment, but why would she, so young, be thinking about death?  Perhaps the realities of life, especially in the days before penicillin and great medical care, made people more pragmatic about life.

Underneath her words were some, I assumed, Bible verses.  Gabriel, at that moment, decided it was time to eat.  I put down the paper, wondering where it had come from, and, rummaging around the fridge, found some cooked chicken.  I put it in a dish and warmed it a couple of seconds in the microwave and placed it on the floor for the cat.  It met with his approval, evidently, because it was gone in about three minutes.

My attention went back to the little lined paper.  I thought how comforting it must have been for my grandmother to believe as she did, and I got out the small Bible.  Looking up the verses written on the paper, Gabriel once again in my lap purring, I began to consider this line of thought, of faith, more seriously.  And I began to read."

The Usual Backyard Photos

 Beas, the Cockatoo

Beas's Dinosaur Toes

 Beas eating a Florida cherry

 Fibonacci special

 Florida cherries

 Florida Lilac

 Tick weed flowers

 Wild grass close-ups

 Java Glory Bower

 New Pink Flower (of course I've neglected to learn it's REAL name.

 Seeds on the pavement

 Stephanotis

 Sunflowers growing from bird seed falling to the ground.

 White winged doves eating spilled seed

Touch of Innocence

I don't know if this has happened to other people, but it has now happened to me three times in my life - and each time has been a beautiful surprise.

The first time was at a local park maybe 15 or so years ago.  I was walking through a wooded area with picnic tables.  It was late afternoon on a workday and I decided after work to stop and visit nature for a bit.  There was only one family nearby.  A man and woman and a small, perhaps 3 to 3 1/2 year old little girl playing on the nearby playground while her parents chatted.  She had dark hair, very curly, like a halo around her head and she appeared quite happy and content as she talked to herself in her little playworld.  I only noticed all this afterwards, for, as I walked slowly, looking for a place to sit down in the shade, the little girl ran headlong to me, looked up at my, to her, great height, and,  grinning widely, threw her arms around my legs.  Taken totally by surprise, I  smiled down at her and lightly touched her arm.  My first thoughts were practical - where were her parents and why did they allow their child to hug strangers.  I asked her where her mommy and daddy were and she pointed.  By now, they had noticed and called her back to them.  She went back to her playing and never paid attention to me again, to my knowledge.  

But the lovely surprise of two sweet little somewhat sweaty arms wrapped around my legs and a totally trusting smile had taken my breath away.  It was as if I had been touched by angels with maybe a little message of love from heaven in such a wicked world.  I worried a bit about her, hoping her parents would discourage further such displays, but at the same time, felt it was serendipity.  Perhaps this wasn't a habit of hers at all - perhaps it was just a little gift from God through the innocence and joy of a child.

The second time, the child knew me.  He was perhaps 5 or 6 years old, the grandchild of the Jamaican lady who lived in the condo across the parking lot from me.  They had lived there for years and we smiled politely at each other when passing, but that was all.  The little boy had never looked my way before that I know of, except on this one day, I came out of my condo and walked to my car and, as I did, he did the same thing the little girl had done.  He ran over to me and literally threw his arms around my waist and smiled a great big smile up at me.  I ruffled his hair and said hello, or some such inane thing, and looked to see his family's reaction.  They seemed to take it in stride and I smiled at them and laughed at the child's spontaneity.  But, once again, I felt when his innocent and joyful eyes met mine, that a little gift of God had been given to me - a touch of the angels.

The last time happened today.  I was shopping in the local grocery store, concentrating on which can of tomatoes to buy, comparing prices and sizes, when I felt a light, caressing touch run across the back of my sweater, somewhat in the manner that my husband does when he comes up behind me.  I looked up nonplussed - the thoughts running through my head, "it can't be my husband, he's at work, who on earth ...???" and I looked into the face of an 11 or 12 year old boy.  He reminded me a bit of a deer, very shy, but curious.  As he walked on and got closer to his dad down the aisle,  I could see the worry on his father's face that I would yell something or complain or make a scene.  But when I met the boy's eyes, I smiled and said, "that was nice - thanks."  I looked at the dad, thinking perhaps the child has some sort of condition, and smiled.  He said that most people don't react the way I did and I reassured him that his son's gesture was sweet.  How very unusual.

Once again, to be touched by God through the innocence of a child.  Perhaps this sounds weird or silly, but, if it has happened to you - if a child, a total stranger, throws their arms around you in what seems like love, or caresses your back - you'll know what I mean. 

The Secret Holocaust Diaries - And What I Discovered

I read some blogs daily and one of these is "The Common Room."  Lately, they have published several posts listing free or very inexpensive (as in $.99 or $1.99) books to download to Kindle.  Although I do not have a Kindle, I have the Kindle App on my iPad and I have downloaded lots of books.  It's almost addictive to read lists of free books and, intrigued by the titles and the positive comments of those  who make up the lists at The Common Room, download them all.  Needless to say, there are several I have yet to read.  

One of the downloaded titles covers a part of history that has always fascinated me in the way people rubber-neck at accident scenes - WWII Europe. The other historical subject that is equally interesting to me is Russia just before, during, and right after the revolution.  The book, "The Secret Holocaust Diaries," includes both, so I not only downloaded it, but read it in one afternoon, AFTER leaving work at 3:30pm, WHILE getting my hair done.  

It is the story of a woman who is remembering her lovely childhood as a member of a wealthy Cossack family right after the Russian Revolution.  Her family lives in the Eastern Ukraine and the small village of her mother's mother, Konstantinovka, has not felt the reverberations of the Bolsheviks just yet.  Nonna Lisowskaja  is the daughter of Cossacks on her mother's side and possible Jewish roots on her father's side, which she never nails down.  Her father is of Polish birth and changed his name from Lisowicz to Lisowskaja to sound more Russian and, perhaps, less Jewish.  Once the events of the late 1930's hurled Poland into war her father's family, murky to her at best (she never met them since traveling outside the Soviet Union even in the early days after the Revolution was impossible), disappeared entirely.  If they were, indeed, Jewish, they mostly likely perished.

Nonna's happy memories are luminescent.  Her descriptions of the Last Great Russian Christmas that her grandmother was determined her family should experience, especially the children, in the old fashioned pre-revolution way, in 1932, are the most beautiful.  The visions of her grandmother's large house and the woods nearby blanketed in yards, not feet, of snow, and the sleigh ride by horse to the Orthodox Church on Christmas Eve remain with Nonna forever and are surrounded by the nimbus of cherished memory.  

The problems come when the Revolution finally hits Konstantinovka, and Nonna's grandmother is forced to "donate" all her farm animals, family keepsakes and most of her land to the newly created local collective.  Next, WWII officially begins with the invasion of Poland by Hitler.  Soon Hitler is breaking his non-aggression pact with the Soviet Union and attacks Russia through the Ukraine.  Nonna's beautiful childhood is over.  She relates her experiences from this point on with vivid anguish.  

I devoured this book, turning each page waiting for the family pictures that Nonna saved and that are mentioned so many times.  After all, before the bad times came, her father was a professional photographer with his own dark room.   The pictures are not published in the book.  I couldn't believe it.  The images of this woman and her beloved family, in words, were burned into my brain and I really wanted to look into their eyes.  

Not one to give up, I began to surf the Internet.  First  I  typed the title of the book into Google and clicked on "Images".  Sure enough, there were a few sepia and black and white photos that looked promising.  I clicked on one and found the book's official web site, "Secret Holocaust Diaries.com".

At the top of the home page is a link called "Photos and Documents".  I had hit the motherlode.  All Nonna's pictures are there.

Next, I clicked on another, more modern 1960's image and found this blog,"Becoming Ukrainian".    This is a blog written by Nonna's children after finding and reading their mother's memorabilia, and then publishing her diaries posthumously.  Like any normal children in the modern age, they try to find their mother's Ukrainian village, Konstantinovka, to walk in their mother's footsteps and to see what, if anything, is still there.

They find their great grandmother's house idealized in Nonna's diaries, the one where she spent that idyllic Christmas, somewhat the worse for wear, but still there.  They also find some cousins that remember Nonna and were contemporary with her, and their grown children.  It is fascinating reading.  

The one most painful thing in Nonna's story is the loss of her mother at a very late date in the war.  It is April, 1945 and Nonna has heard from her mother in Ravensbruck.  After that she never hears from her again.  She receives an anonymous letter from someone after the war has ended that tells her that her Mama has been incinerated in an oven at Ravensbruck.  She still doesn't give up hope.  She encounters a woman in the hospital where she is working who has had a stroke, depriving her of speech, yet when Nonna shows her a picture of her mother, the woman becomes very excited and has to be given a sedative.  She recognized her, but could not say, or, presumably write, any information, and so Nonna gives up.  Her mother's last letter tells her to go to America if she survives the war.  And, in 1950, that's just what Nonna does.  After a wonderful marriage to a kind American named Bannister, three lovely children, and a much happier life Nonna passes away in 2004, never having seen her native land or her family again.

Here's the kick in the stomach.  Guess what her children find out when they visit the Ukraine in 2010?  They find out Nonna's mother, Anna, DID live.  She made it back to Konstantinovka, and she came back with a new husband and a baby son.  She taught music and painted up until she died in 1975.  She raised her son to love music, and so Nonna's children have a half brother in the Ukraine.  

I sat back from the computer screen and just stared into space.  Poor Nonna.  She never knew that her mother was alive and well and lived until 1975!  She could have seen her mother again, could have had a whole 25 more years with her, but Nonna kept all of her past life a secret to both her husband and children, only once in a while bringing out some of the old photos to show her children who their ancestors were.  By essentially burying this portion of her life and never openly acknowledging it, she lost the possibility of finding her mother, whom she adored.  Nonna lamented at war's end that she was the only one left and there was no one with whom she could share memories, both good and bad.  They were alive in her head alone - she thought.  She had a beloved brother who, for his protection from being drafted into the Russian army, was sent to Riga  in 1938.  His name was Anatoly and she never saw him again either.  Perhaps Nonna's children will go there next and try to find traces of him.

Oh - and one more site - where you can hear Nonna's voice  in a recording she made for her children in 1993 for Christmas. When Nonna came to the US, she landed in New Orleans.  She must have stayed there for a long while because her English is American Southern.  It is the most delightful accent I've ever heard - a thickly Southern tinged Russian accent.

 

Holy Cow!! It's Almost Aprl!!

How did THAT happen???  It was just Christmas and next week is Easter break.

 

Hubby and I have been VERY busy.  In the yard, both front and back, in the house, and, of course my favorite, the dumb daily chores that often take up so much of my time (besides full time work outside the home) that I haven't time left for extras.  This past weekend I took down all the baskets I have attached to the top of the walls near the ceiling.  I was cooking one day and feeling all cozy and clean and using a shiny new pan...and I glanced up at the baskets.  BIG MISTAKE.  Their dust bunnies had children it was so bad.  Then I made the additional mistake of looking at the ceiling fan - ewwwwwww.   It sure spoiled that oh-so-homey-clean feeling.  So.....this past weekend I took down the baskets and took them out in the back yard, power sprayed them with the hose and set them in the sun to dry.  When they dried, I took them back in and displayed them again in the same place, but added some metal signs that were on sale at JoAnn's Fabrics (is it still called that?) at 75% off.  At that price I thought I was finally paying what they should have cost to begin with.  Here are some pictures and you can even see the clean blades of the ceiling fan!!

 

 

 

While I was working on the baskets AND, incidentally, moving the microwave to another counter (and moving all the stuff on THAT counter to where the microwave was), hubby was emptying an old bookcase in the living room by the door so we could discard it (old and made of fiberboard) and replace it with a nicer looking  Ikea bookcase - no better made, but wood look finish and much newer.   Once the old bookcase was removed, the floor underneath and the wall behind had to be scrubbed.  Then, once the new one was in place, all the books had to be dusted and replaced, except for some we decided to give to Good Will. 

 

I know this doesn't sound like a lot of work, but it was exhausting for one 57 and one 60 years old, both not in the best of physical shape.  

 

It sure does feel good, though, to look toward the corner with the new bookcase and feel satisfaction, and to look above when I'm cooking or doing dishes - and see CLEAN.  

3D Printing

I have what may be, to those who write articles about 3D printers, a stupid question.  Printers - normal ones - use paper.  They print images of things.  If you print something in 3D, aren't you just printing a 3D image of something?

The articles I read make it sound like someone could buy a 3D printer and start "printing" their own guns or phones or chairs.

What do you put in the printer?  Wood chips for the chair?  A gooey mix of liquid plastic, memory chips and color for the phone?

Something is missing in these stories.  I cannot be convinced that, if I buy a 3D printer, I'll be able to create my own knockoff designer purses.

Am I crazy?  Perhaps the printer just prints a plan?  Which, for designer purses, would mean you have to buy leather and make a purse just like anyone would make an old fashioned dress - from a pattern.  Why would you need an expensive 3D printer for that?

This kind of thing annoys me.  Somewhere between the sentence about famous knock-offs (like copies of expensive watches, purses, etc.) and the sentence that states that 3D printers are a threat to the business of name brands, there should be some sort of explanation.

Like - what the $%#^%#@# is a 3D printer and what do you put in it to make it print.

Pet Birds and Other Things

If anyone posted a REAL LIVE comment to this blog and didn't see it show up until now, it's because I've been spammed to death - so please forgive me!! 

As some of you know one of my pet birds met with an unfortunate end last week.  I slipped up just ONE time and my killer cat got the bird. I had Mrs. Greenberg, a peach faced lovebird, for over 7 years, so I had a good track record.

I sobbed and cried over the sweet little thing.   It was the most affectionate love bird I've ever had.  Never bit.  Loved to be petted and get it's feathers rubbed.  

But now that the dust has cleared, I am - I'm ashamed to say it - relieved.  I have too many pets, most of which were acquired from my daughter or, in the case of the cockatoo I have, Beasley, a rescue bird.

As much as I loved the little peach faced boy bird, he had some peculiar habits that grossed me out.  He thought he was about to find the love of his life every second, so he took to heaving up half digested food on favorite objects, making a sicky sweet smelling mess that hardened  into cement.  He did this on stuffed animals, he did this on the top of my new curtains, he did this on various toys in Beasley's cage.

I got the lovebird as a sort of companion to Beasley.  Cockatoos are very high maintenance parrots. They need constant love and attention, and, if you work full time, like I do, it's hard to satisfy that type of bird. He was a rescue from a local tourist attraction because he was a feather plucker and was no longer attractive for show purposes.  Poor baby - that immediately put me in his corner.  That and my daughter, then about 12 years old, begging me to bring him home.  Sucker that I am, I did.  I had always secretly wanted a parrot but don't think they should be pets, so I would never buy one, even if I could afford it.  

I bought him a giant cage.  At that time, I had a middle aged 13" beagle named Shady. Period.  No cats.  So Beasley was allowed to walk around the house, threatening to bite people's feet (my daughter ran up onto a chair more than once to save herself).  He rode on my shoulder, and slept in my bedroom in his giant cage that I bought and placed by a window looking out at a golf course.

Life changed when I got remarried and my daughter went off to college.  She tried to keep a cat in her dorm, got caught - I took the cat, incidentally, this is the killer cat that did in my lovebird last week - named Neko ("cat" in Japanese - I did not name him).

When my daughter moved to an apartment and took Neko back, my husband and Imissed him and wanted a cat, so we both went to the shelter and brought home Buster.  For some reason I can't remember, Neko became ours again. So now we have a very old 13" beagle, 2 cats and a big cockatoo.

Beasley decided he did NOT like my husband - his competition - and so he was relegated to my computer room, no longer sharing my bedroom.  He had slipped to second place in my attentions when home and he knew it, although I spend a LOT of time in my computer room.

A few years went by, Shady passed away, daughter got another kitten and over time decided to move to Colorado from Jacksonville, FL - as one does.  This kitten was the all time cutest, most adorable, most cuddly Maine Coon cat I'd ever seen.  I wanted him, and when Ashley moved, she let me keep him.  So now we are up to 3 cats and 1 cockatoo - Neko, Buster, Squeebles (best name EVER) and Beasley, the bird.

After hurricane Wilma in 2005, friends of ours brought over a peach faced lovebird that had been lost in the storm.  When they opened their front porch door after the storm passed, a small bird just walked in.  Luckily, they were looking down.  They had several cats and dogs and did NOT want to keep the poor little orphaned bird. We put up announcements and signs around the neighborhood, but no one came forward to claim him, so I now had acquired a peach faced lovebird.  Not knowing whether it was male or female, I named it "Mrs. Greenbird" or "Mrs. Greenberg", whichever came to mind.  Once I realized this bird would never lay an egg (as previous lovebirds I had in the past-and THAT is a whole 'nother story) as he was not a she, it became Mr. Greenbird/Greenberg.

Able to get in and out of the bars of Beasley's big cage, Mr. Greenbird could come and go and hang out with Beasley.  They got along famously and the big bird never tried to hurt the little bird, although he chased him around the cage now and then.  Beasley would wait patiently while Mr. Greenbird was belly deep in his food bowl eating Beasley's food or taking a bath in Beasley's water dish.

I only let Mr. Greenbird out during the day, but once he started chewing my books and my bookcases, as well as heebing (my term for his unfortunate upchucking for love habit) on curtains, stuffed animals and other various things, I curtailed his "out" time to when I was actually in the room.  Even then, he made a noise when he was preparing to upchuck food that positively made my hair stand on end.  I would have to put my headphones on so I couldn't hear it.  He couldn't help it - this is what male parrots do, although Beasley is a male and - THANK GOD - never exhibited that habit. Maybe it's only certain parrots that do it.

So - now that Mr. Greenbird has moved on to heaven, along with Shady the Beagle and a couple of hamsters my daughter had when she was small, I am finding that it's a relief to close the curtains at night and not have moist bits of birdie seed upchuck come flying down on me and my surroundings.  It's nice not to hear that noise, and it's nice to have one less cage in my room, and one less area of bird debris to vacuum every day.

Now Beasley is a different story.  I've had him for over 20 years and the lifespan of a Cockatoo is as long or longer than a human.  Considering I did not acquire him at my birth, and I have no idea how old he is - he could outlive me.  So now, I am looking for a bird sanctuary where he can live the life of a retiree bird.  There is one north of Tampa, FL that looks wonderful.  Beasley will be angry that I didn't put him there years ago.......so I'm working on that.  It will probably be months before we actually take him there, but I will be down to 4 cats then - I forgot to tell you about the last cat, a stray kitten we found in our back yard trying desperately to eat a shelled peanut that we put out for blue jays.  That did it  - we took him in and he is now ours, and, incidentally, Squeebles' best bud.  His name is Junior Beans.

Tent Life in Siberia, and Adventures among the Koraks and Other Tribes in Kamtchatka and Northern Asia

Like that title?  That is the title of a book I've been reading on Kindle.  It was originally written in 1864-65 and it's about a group of Americans who travel to Kamchatka to see if telegraph wires can be installed through Siberia and down through Russia and then into Europe.  The stringing of telegraph wire under the Atlantic Ocean shortly after that made the trip to Siberia a moot point.  However, the adventures of the young men in Siberia at that time in history is fascinating.

 

One of my favorite activities when I'm trying to fall asleep is to imagine the safest or coziest or most beautiful place in the world in which to go to sleep.  I have imagined small snug cabins built into the tops of huge strong trees - or - being wrapped in layers and layers of furs and warm blankets out under the Arctic sky, surrounded by sled dogs and a fire circle inside of which no wolves will come (I hope).  I have pictured the velvet ice cold sky and me lying warm in the middle of the frozen waste and the painting of the Aurora Borealis across the heavens. 

 

This book is like that second imagining of mine - the Arctic one, except it really happened back in the time when men loved to adventure in obscure or untrodden places.  Kamchatka at that time, and maybe even some of it today, was wild and untrodden. 

 

The writer, George Kennan,  was an American explorer, noted for his travels in Kamchatka region and in Russia.  He was a cousin, twice removed, of diplomat and historian George F. Kennan (2/16/1904 - 3/17/2005). 

 

Here is his picture from Wikipedia:
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In his book "Tent Life......." (I don't want to repeat that loooong title) he describes the native peoples and the Yurts they live in.  It doesn't sound very comfortable.  The Yurts are round and fur covered.  In the middle is a fire over which, in the roof, is a round hole.  The smoke doesn't go up through the hole completely, but spreads around inside, and the hole in the roof is also the door into the Yurt.  You must climb up on top and drop feet first into the Yurt.  How you avoid the fire, I don't know.  Little fir compartments are created around the wall of the Yurt by hanging fur robes as walls.  Inside those are the various wives and children of the natives.  The little fur rooms are stuffy, smokey, smelly, dark and cold. The whole inside is cold - just not freezing and windy like being outside.  I did NOT fantasize about sleeping in one of these. 

 

There are also Russian people in villages that the author travels to.  Invariably, because he and his comrades are important Americans, they stay in the nicest house in the village, maybe of the priest or the mayor.  This turns out to be a snug wooden house with fur and animal skin rugs soft on the floor that your feet sink into.  There is a roaring fire in front of which one can warm up and drink hot cups of tea.  Slipping into clean sheets and blankets (after themselves bathing, of course) just sounds so delicious considering they have been slogging around freezing Siberia getting frostbite and staying in the same layers of clothes for weeks at a time.  It's the coziest reading ever when I come to one of those chapters.  The other delightful reading was when a group of Russian Siberians led the group through an area with trees.  At night, the dog sleds were arranged in a "U" shape and the Russians proceeded to dig a large round hole in the snow inside of the U.  Then many furs and skins were laid down around the outside of the shoveled area and a roaring fire was built in the middle.  The men said they were truly warm in this setup and enjoyed sleeping under the stars.  Later that night the skies erupted with some of the most dramatic auroras ever seen, even by the natives, who were almost frightened by the display.  I have to look up if there was a volcanic eruption in the world - or a giant sunspot eruption at that time to cause such a display.

 

This has been my go-to-sleep reading on my Ipad as I lay under my own cozy sheets and feather blankets.  It fires up my imagination and I can't wait to read more about this man's travels (he later went to the Caususus region) in Russia back in the Good Old Days.