I love books. Real, paper books. I love the feel of the paper, the weight on my chest, the smell… I purchase books to support the authors and so I can make notes in the margins and underline passages. I only keep the books I might read again and donate the others to local library.
With the recent discovery of some new (to me) authors (Robert Crais, Walter Mosley, Mick Herron, Don Winslow), I was out of room. Stacks of books everywhere. So time for more bookshelves. I can almost hear them sigh.
Raining off and on all day. While I’m more than ready for warm, sunny days, I never mind a good rain.
Regionally, the American Southwest is in the grips of a 22-year megadrought, the worst in recorded history and the driest since at least the year 800, according to a new analysis of tree ring records. (KQED)
We have a lot of Bluebirds coming to our feeders this year. We keep them supplied with meal worms which they seem to love. We only have one house which is home to the nest below.
I thought this was a male, based on the plumage but apparently not.
Only the female incubates the eggs. The male does not participate in the incubation of the eggs. The male protects the territory and brings food to the female while she is incubating the eggs. The female takes breaks to feed and poop in the morning hours and throughout the day. — Bluebirds Nests and Eggs: All you Need to Know
My buddy George has been playing with drones for about eight years. (You can see some of his amazing video here, here and here.) In 2015 he got his drone snagged in a very tall tree while shooting some video of our place. So I was a little surprised when he agreed to come back and shoot some video of our recently expanded homestead.
As you might imagine, the technology has gotten a lot better in the last half dozen years and George has gotten even better at flying the things. The video below runs right at 2:30.
This was shot from an altitude of about 400 feet so the drone was just a black dot but the quality of the video was even better than what I’m streaming here.
I love trees. I love being surrounded by them. And I’ve tromped around our acreage over the years so I know there’s a bunch of them. But it took this birds eye view to give me a real sense of just how many trees surround us.
We’ve been living in our home for 35 years. We built it in 1986 on about 3.5 acres of wooded land (A). In January of 2020 we purchased an additional 3 acres (B) when the lady who owned it died. Our closest neighbors (a woman and her adult daughter) have been talking about selling their home (C) for a couple of years but never seemed serious, until this year when they bought a house in “in town,” as we used to say.
One day a couple of months ago she told us she was going to put her home on the market. When she told me the asking price, I said we’d buy it. No inspection, no appraisal, no haggling. We closed on the sale yesterday at noon. We haven’t told many about the purchase because it happened pretty fast. But the first question is always, “So, what are you going to do with the property? Sell it? Rent it?” The answer is, nothing. The woman and her daughter are — in all likelihood — the last people who will ever live in that house. Why, you might ask?
Have you ever lived next to a really bad neighbor? It can make every day a living hell. But you could sell the place to some nice folks, you say. But you can’t control to whom they sell it, I reply. No, the best neighbor is no neighbor. And we didn’t buy the property for the house. We bought it for the towering, hundred-year-old oak trees. I think of it as a tiny nature preserve. The thought of someone cutting down those trees so their whiny little brats can have a swimming pool was… unthinkable. Or coming home to that TRUMP 2024 sign every day. Or their pit bull terrorizing our dog. No way, Jose.
To my way of thinking, we don’t really own the land. We own the privilege of living on it. Or saying who does or does not live on it. But we are nothing more than temporary stewards. And as we enter our Golden Years, Barb and I place great value on privacy. How does one put a price on something so precious? Oh yeah, did I mention the quiet? You can hear your heart beat. And at night the only light you can see is a yard light a mile or so away.
So we called the propane people to come get their tank. A plumber will winterize the house. The phone and electric are disconnected. And we’ll start giving away the appliances. What remains will be a big old storage building I’ve been calling The Annex.
This chapter is just beginning so watch this space for updates.
One of the best features of where we live is the gravel road that leads to our place. It comes up a moderatly steep hill and dead-ends at our driveway. It can be a booger in the winter and bone-jarring after a good rain. The roads are owned — and maintained — by our homeowners association so we all kick in to a road fund a couple of times a year. A few neighbors have lobbied for paving but it would cost a fortune and most of us are fine with living on a gravel road. A feature, not a bug.
Living at the end of the road, at the top of a hill, there is never any traffic. If I see or hear a car or truck it is a) someone coming to see us, b) someone coming up to turn around, or c) someone who is lost. I wouldn’t know how to put a price on that.
But you probably know them as Papilio cresphontes, the largest butterfly in North America. I’m told what I witnessed this afternoon in Barb’s Zinnia bed was a mating ritual. Amazing to behold.
As one (female?) flitted from flower to flower, the other (male?) hovered a couple of inches behind, never landing on a flower.
