Even though we didn’t get the rain, things have cooled down and the air feels wonderful this morning.
Yesterday I felt a little hint of fall in the air as clouds rolled in and the temperature stayed lower than usual.
Today, with the clear clean sky and the birds singing, it feels more like spring or maybe what a summer morning would feel like someplace where the season is not so cruel. I hear there are such places, but my experience with them is so distant that I question my memory and their very existence.
Days like yesterday give me a little hope to help me make it through the month that starts tomorrow. August, the long hot month, makes me wonder what we are in for, having had such a merciless July. Then, of course there’s September too because I’ve learned that around here it’s a good idea to not expect too much of autumn until October.
At least I now have that little bit of hope and believe once again that fall does exist.
Friday evening and the white-winged dove makes its plaintive cry somewhere nearby. Sometimes they are relentless, going on and on like a lonely vendor in an out of the way stall at closing time, crying out to passers by as it tries to make a few more sales before having to go home to a hungry family.
This is that Friday time. This is that time—that expectant time that feels so full of possibilities, so full of freedom. This is that time—that time that never quite was and never is, always nostalgic without having any definable basis in past events. This is that time—filled with falsehoods and nothing solid, yet always feeling wonderful just the same. It’s that Friday evening feeling and the plaintive cry of the white-winged dove fits it perfectly.
Sunset on a Friday evening
This artichoke plant is taking over the whole bed in which it was planted.
I planted a tiny artichoke plant last fall and now I’m starting to wish I had planted it somewhere else. It’s only mid March and the plant is already huge. Shooting this plant from above led to some fun working with the shadows.
Cabbage, cabbage where’s my cabbage?
Can you find the tiny cabbage in the shadow of the out of bounds artichoke? This plant might be shading the whole house by the time summer rolls around.
Who dares to venture into the ancient dark forest of artichoke?
Up close it makes me think of some kind of prehistoric plant.
I was thinking of putting “Your Ad Here” on the stone next to my rain gauge.
Much of what I think about water these days has to do with rain. When I grew up in south Louisiana, I took water for granted. It rained a lot, we lived right next to a bayou and there was water nearby in every direction.
Now I appreciate every drop. Gardening viability, tree health, drinking water supplies — these things are on my mind frequently. The first real post on this blog was about rain.
This is a rain gauge that Julie gave me for our anniversary. Who knew that 21 years is frog yard art! So far I’ve been very glad to see this little garden helper get plenty of action. The frog seems okay with it too.
This always ready frog and I love the same things – being in the garden and rain.
Down past the feral cat village and the compost pile lies the bamboo grove. The mysterious path, best navigated if you are less than a foot tall, winds on down Critter Avenue past the tree where the pair of Great Horned Owls share their song on even the darkest of nights. In the daytime hawks and crows cast unfriendly glances toward each other and each evening the possums and raccoons hurry along in route to the scroungers buffet. Who knows what else traverses this urban nature passage…
This path is an urban wildlife thoroughfare.
These are some of things that make me feel like I’m home. My wife and I love the interaction of various colors as well as quirky objects. I always smile when I arrive home and see my happy little dianthus blooming away — as it seems to do almost year round in our not too cold climate.
I always get a boost when I arrive at our cheery home.
The Last Time it Flooded This Bad in Houston
These photos are not from the recent floods. They are from the floods in 2001 when my wife and I spent 14 hours on a freeway overpass in north Houston. Our hearts go out to all those who have lost love ones and pets and homes in the recent flooding.
Wanted to get the last of the wintertime shots in
No more until next year — I promise.
Bee caught taking its last drink.
Leo is learning to negotiate this strange substance.