It was this kind of day.

It was a day in which unusual and beautiful yellow birds (goldfinches, I think) appeared to brighten my yard.

It was a day in which I got useful writing done.

It was a day [...]]]> It was a day before which I got a decent sleep. A day in which I exercised well.

It was this kind of day.

It was a day in which unusual and beautiful yellow birds (goldfinches, I think) appeared to brighten my yard.

It was a day in which I got useful writing done.

It was a day in which I walked with my wonderful dog.  It was a day in which I savored nature.  It was a day in which I saw Sandhill cranes, outstanding in their field.  It was a day in which I saw a Cooper’s hawk, and a probable pheasant.

It was a day in which I got key insights into how to live my life more fully.  It was a day in which I committed an embarrassing faux pas, and was able to laugh heartily at it.

It was a day in which I enjoyed time with friends.

It was a day in which I write this with my best little friend, TJ Cat, lying on my chest with his forehead pressed to my wrist (and I can manage to write anyway!)

It was a day in which I lived.

That was the kind of day it was.

Okay, if you know me (and if you don’t, it may be for the best, on the whole) you already know what I thought: an image popped instantly into my mind of Soviet-era Naval officers trudging across [...]]]> So today one of my Twitter friends posted a link to what the Tweet called a Red Admiral Migration.

Okay, if you know me (and if you don’t, it may be for the best, on the whole) you already know what I thought: an image popped instantly into my mind of Soviet-era Naval officers trudging across the polar ice.

Nope. This guy.

Sometimes it’s entertaining being me. Keeps me amused, anyway.

Also today I got a kind shout-out from freedom writer Claire Wolfe, whom I’ve never met but still consider a friend of sorts. She even links to my last post.

Those who know me (that again) may wonder why I don’t write much about politics these days. While I probably should go into that in more detail someday, a hint can be got from the name I give this site’s companion blog, which I use for those occasions when I can’t refrain from the subject.

If you’re interested in freedom-oriented political writing that’s passionate, compassionate, and always sensible, and for some reason haven’t already found Claire, please check her out. She’s good people, and always interesting.

On the one hand it means my favorite time of year is at hand:  autumn. It’s cooler than summer, warmer than winter, and less ridiculously windy than spring. it’s perhaps the most beautiful time of year in New [...]]]> With the advent of my birthday comes a bittersweet time for me. It means summer’s on the wane.

On the one hand it means my favorite time of year is at hand:  autumn. It’s cooler than summer, warmer than winter, and less ridiculously windy than spring. it’s perhaps the most beautiful time of year in New Mexico. Plus autumn segues straightaway into the holiday season, which I also love.

But I still feel pangs of what the end of summer used to mean, long ago though it was: when I’d be sentenced to school again, for the crime of being a kid. It was hard, facing that.

Beyond the unpleasant memories … things start to die, this time of year. The trees will explode into glorious color, only to fade to brown and grey and then bare branches. The ditches will be drained. It’ll be trickier walking Emma Dog because it’ll be harder finding places she can drink, unless I can at last persuade her to drink from a little bowl or saucer I can tote along in my water carrier.

Still, still … it’s my favorite time of year.

In a few days, if things follow their customary course, the signs of the season-shift will start to manifest. Mornings and evenings will be touched with cool. The quality of light will change, as will the feel of the air – the texture as well as the temperature. Summer’s sharp edges will begin to round. Around the first day of September, autumn will unmistakably have arrived.

The air will smell subtly different then. That’s leaving aside one of my favorite harbingers of fall, the smell of roasting green chiles. And well before it gets cool enough for piñon smoke from fireplaces.

One of the pleasures autumn brings is the bird migrations – a lot of species pass through here, following the Rio Grande.

Meanwhile, yesterday when Emma and I were walking the ditch east of the Rio Grande Nature Center, there were a bunch of swallows sitting on the phone wires. Most of them weren’t my favorites, Barn Swallows, which are colorful and have the long distinctive swallow tails. These were mostly short-tailed kinds, pretty much dark brown and white. I’m guessing Bank Swallows or Northern Rough-winged Swallows, or a mixture – I don’t know enough to tell them apart.

I tried taking pictures of them. That didn’t work out too well; I need a better camera for that sort of thing. They came out looking like knots in black thread.

What I really wish I could have gotten pictures, or better video, of was them doing these screaming Death Star trench runs (Almost there! Al-most-there!) down the ditch, between the banks and skimming a foot or so above the water.

Ah, well. Not getting near as much done as I want and need to do. Though it hasn’t been a hot summer the heat’s gotten oppressive. I haven’t been sleeping any too well of late.

Need to let go of this day, and take a run at the next.

Update - whew! Upgraded both WordPress and my Atahualpa theme to the latest releases. Everything seems squared-away.

If you get hitches in your gitalong, please let me know. Gods know if I’ll be able to do anything about them. But I should, like, know. Because.

Like these.

They happened to be approaching a culvert beneath a dirt road. Mama Mallard steered the brood expertly clear.

Except for [...]]]> Emma Dog and I were walking south down Bear’s Ditch, headed back for the car on a pleasant summer evening, when we encountered a Mama Mallard and her family of maybe 6-8 adorable ducklings.

Like these.

They happened to be approaching a culvert beneath a dirt road. Mama Mallard steered the brood expertly clear.

Except for one who did not get the message in time. She began thrashing frantically and uttering panicked peeps – “Oh noes!” – as racing current swept her right into the culvert.

I waited anxiously on the other side. For a moment I thought she’d never emerge – although I thought I could hear her continued peeps for help. Her mother also was quacking steadily to help everybody formate on her.

Then the duckling came shooting out, still flapping and fussing. I started scoping out possible ways to help, and saw a watergate maybe thirty feet downstream where I figured I could either maybe steer her to the bank or even, worst case, snag her before she got hopelessly separated from her family. She was certainly way too small to survive on her own – these were bitty ducklings, sparrow-sized.

But I underestimated Mama. Here she came waddling down the ditchbank with the rest of the brood trooping obediently after. She led them safely past the race of the culvert and back down to the water, quacking the while.

Meanwhile the unlucky duckling had got her bearings enough to paddle toward the bank on her own, where the current was less and she was able to regain control over her navigation. Mama steered the brood into the main flow and sailed past serenely, with the whole flotilla following.

Except for one who swam right up to the one who’d gotten separated, as if to say, “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Then the two buddies paddled out after their fellows, and joined the procession safely, to my immeasurable relief.

I kept an eye on Emma for a while lest she decide she needed to retrieve some for me. She did seem to feign a certain interest in sniffing a grass clump not far past the flock. I called her on it and we, and the ducks, went our respectively merry ways.

Pictured: Spring

After a blessedly mild winter – sorry, rest of the Northern [...]]]> Today I took Toshi, Jr., my notebook computer, to Village Inn for what we’ll (continuing yesterday’s theme) euphemistically call a late breakfast.  Right outside the door a fruit tree was in full bloom. I could even smell a hint of it.

Pictured: Spring

After a blessedly mild winter – sorry, rest of the Northern Hemisphere! – Spring arrove, as it usually does, promptly on March 1^st. If it didn’t cheat a little.

(Oh – stole a trick from the excellent webcomic xkcd: don’t neglect to mouse-over the above image. You might want to check a few previous pix as well, in case you haven’t.)

Also, before we go to the jump, a reminder that if you’re in Burque this Saturday, the Wild Cards: Busted Flush signing at Page One from 4-6:00 PM is the place to be!

So, anyway … got some good writing done, got around some good huevos rancheros (do not think about ordering them at a VI outside New Mexico!) and imbibed enough coffee to function.  Then off to Wally World and Costco to shop for supplies such as food and batteries.

Tramping around on cement in my going-out shoes, as opposed to my walking Converse knockoffs, made my feet sore. But I was adamant. Emma and I needed our walk! After getting home and unpacking I rested my feet briefly, and wrote some more. Then, on with the Convos and out with the dog!

Didn’t see any cranes at the Nature Center field. Heard some, eventually, off toward the river. It’s late in the season for them to still be here, but apparently they are. They always head to the river around sunset, which is what time it was. Otherwise it was pretty much all crows’n'Canadas.

Back up briefly: Emma, you may’ve gathered, doesn’t like dogs. Yes, I’m the only mammal in the house who doesn’t like cats better than dogs. She’s a lot calmer about that than she was when I got her; she was full-on crazy back then.

Nowadays she very occasionally even seems to make friends with dogs, or try to. There’s a brown, medium sized dog often in a yard along the ditch whom Emma has even bumped noses with in apparent amity. Emma always looms for her as we go past if she’s not in evidence.

Today as we were walking back down the ditch her friend emerged on the far side with her humans. She noticed Emma right away and got happy. Emma was distracted watching another dog and didn’t spot her until we were almost past.  She looked pleased to see her, if a bit nervous.

For years Squeak the cat and the late, lamented Bear Dog were best friends – through the back screen.  But for a long time they acted very uncomfortable when they were actually inside together. It may be that Emma, like Squeak, feels easier about her dog friend with a physical, if not sight, barrier between them.

Maybe I do too, thinking about it.

But, c’mon, guys. This is making it too easy.

Disporting itself in public, no less!

Spring has, at least here, at least for the present. Only a fool (and not this one) would state with any [...]]]> It’s long been an axiom of my existence that any word or phrase can be used as a euphemism.

But, c’mon, guys. This is making it too easy.

Disporting itself in public, no less!

Spring has, at least here, at least for the present. Only a fool (and not this one) would state with any confidence we’re not going to get slammed with some kind of awful Arctic storm here directly.

Tonight it’s cloudy and the air smells of rain. Weather radar shows rain appearing to come this way.  That doesn’t mean it’ll actually fall.

There are, or were as of yesterday, at least twenty cranes still hanging out at the RGNC field. This is late in the season for them to still be here.

Rambling?  Yes. Basically I’m just checking in to show I’m still alive. I’m not yet as productive as I need/want to be, but I’m starting to get more writing done. Otherwise … thought I had something significant to say but it’s fallen out of my head.

Oh. Here’s a cute site that lets you write upside (sadly, WordPress won’t.) If you want to screw with people’s heads. And who doesn’t?

Hat tip to Scott Bieser, who put it up on Twitter. Check out his online graphic novels-in-progress Odysseus The Rebel and Escape From Terra. He does great work. He also did the artwork for L. Neil Smith’s wacky and delightful pulp SF alternate-history graphic novel, Roswell, Texas. Which you can read free online in color, or buy the handsome print version (B&W only, sadly, for cost concerns) conveniently here by clicking on the title.

Enough for now. I’m tired. It’s late. I’m off.

Great Sky Demon hunting near scene of today's attack

Got a bit of a late start today; got to sleep about 1 AM, didn’t wake up to stay until almost 11. I’m still a bit drained and catching up.

Anyway, I took myself off to VI, ate [...]]]> - from Great Sky Demons; plus When Purse Dogs Attack!

Great Sky Demon hunting near scene of today's attack

Got a bit of a late start today; got to sleep about 1 AM, didn’t wake up to stay until almost 11. I’m still a bit drained and catching up.

Anyway, I took myself off to VI, ate huevos rancheros and wrote some. Next I did some errands, then came home, snagged Emma Dog, and took off for the Vineyard.

It was a beautiful day: clear and bright blue sky, calm, warm. Of course that last varies: if the wind’s not blowing, 50 is warm for me. Today was at least 60, I’d say. Really a delightful day, that filled me with a sense of happy well-being.

As usual there were plenty of Canada geese grazing, as well as a number of cranes, grazing in groups of four or five. The fields were full of meadowlarks; some seemed to be signing. Also mourning doves were marking territory; around my house they started over the weekend.

We walked down to the end of the first lane, turned around and headed back. We had a brief encounter with a pair of long haired yellow and white Corgis – I’m guessing Pembrokes.. At least one of them wanted badly to start something, displaying what someone in the classic novel The Travels of Jaimie McPheeters terms “the poorest kind of judgement,” since the two of them together made maybe a quarter of Emma. They got so insistent Emma actually growled back, something she hasn’t done in a long time.
Fortunately I dissuaded her from punishing their disrespect; she’s a good girl, and responds well to “no.”

As we walked on I saw, away to the northwest, a hot air balloon – I originally typoed that “hot hair balloon,” which is just gross – hanging against the sky. I enjoyed seeing it. They’re cool and rather exotic, except for a week in October when they become a plague upon the sky.

Then another appeared, a blue and yellow balloon low down and pretty much due west. I thought that was really cool.

Then I noticed it was floating fairly briskly toward us. And it occurred to me why that wasn’t so cool.

I may enjoy seeing hot air balloons. Emma decidedly does not. She knows them for what they really are: vast disembodied floating carnivorous heads, who scan the terrain below for prey with big terrible eyes. And their favored prey is, of course, helpless dogs.

Of course, Emma is as helpless as a killer robot with chainsaw arms. But she thinks she is, in the face of the malice which is a Great Sky Demon!

So it turned into a race. I didn’t run, just walked fast. My big concern was, aside from the fact I don’t want my beloved dog terrified by aerial monstrosities, that if she got too freaked out she’d never want to go walk in the Vineyard again – given that it’s a hunting ground of the Great Sky Demons.

The wind cooperated, pushing the balloon a bit higher and northward. Then when we reached the bridge across the ditch to where my car was parked, we faced a new menace.

Killer Purse Dogs.

There were a pair of them, tethered to a nice little older lady (must … resist … obvious … joke.) They were terriers, not the real minute teacup kind, but quite small. Like each about half a Corgi.

We halted on the south bank to let them pass – it’s my practice to avoid stress by always yielding right of way. Despite that Emma’s presence provoked them into becoming balls of snarling fury. Tiny, fuzzy, balls of snarling fury.

With difficulty the lady wrestled them across the bridge and onward. They kept trying to fling themselves at Emma and getting brought up short, like attack yoyos with a ranging problem.

There seems to be a size cutoff line, below which Emma doesn’t seem to take dogs seriously as threats. Evidently it lies somewhere between Corgis and Purse Terriers. Emma mostly watched them with great curiosity.

And then we got in the car and made our escape before Emma could see the Great Sky Demon or hear its fearful roar. The end!

(As always, feel free to click on the link above to purchase The Travels of Jaimie McPheeters (Arbor House Library of Contemporary Americana) from Amazon and support this site and me! It’s a great book. I need to reread it OOTD.)

Here in this stretch of the Rio Grande Valley, anyway, we’re enjoying a mild winter. A pleasant surprise, inasmuch as most of the rest of the country, and I guess the Northern Hemisphere, is getting slammed by savage cold and snowfall for the second year [...]]]> No, seriously. The day is beautiful. It’s not about the band.

Here in this stretch of the Rio Grande Valley, anyway, we’re enjoying a mild winter. A pleasant surprise, inasmuch as most of the rest of the country, and I guess the Northern Hemisphere, is getting slammed by savage cold and snowfall for the second year in a row. At the same time we seem to also be enjoying, once again, record or near-so snowpack in the higher elevations, meaning upstream. Meaning we should have pretty good supply of water once spring melt begins.

It’s just about dead mid-winter. Of course, that’s here in the real world, where season change pretty reliably around the beginning of the appropriate month – March, in the case of the next one. Indeed it should start feeling and smelling like Spring in the latter half of February. Not that spring here is unmitigated joy, especially early on: it can still be cold and tends to be brutally windy.

I was moved to all this when sitting on the porch briefly around noon, having returned from breakfast with Joe at our favorite VI. I was soaking in some sunshine and communing with a friendly neighborhood cat, and I noticed a House Finch with a beautiful red head hanging out in one of the two currently bare elm trees out front. With him was a drabber greyish-brown bird that I’m supposing was Mrs. Finch. The bird books offer little help other than to confirm that female House Finches are indeed drab and nondescript.

I don’t know if House Finches actually go away for the winter; I suspect not. I still regard them as harbingers of spring, That’s usually when I first notice them. It may be because they’ve gotten their new plumage so you can tell them (the males at least) from all the other little drab birds, or it may be that I start being outdoors more often and longer.

Robins never really go away from around here, although I do see more of them in spring than over the winter when walking Emma. Years ago an expert in local birds who was giving a seminar at the RGNC said that the real sign of spring was when the vultures returned to Albuquerque. Make of that what you will.

On other fronts – I note with sadness that Number Six has finally left The Village for good.

The Danger Man site linked to in this article on “Patrick McGoohan and The Prisoner in France” (which is subtitled How TV’s most individualist character made a communitarian country swoon, and is worth a read itself) brought me something I’ve wanted for a long time. As a kid I hugely enjoyed McGoohan’s Danger Man, broadcast here as Secret Agent (and for fans of both series: The Prisoner’s Number Six was totally a retired John Drake from the first series, right? Right?) While I found the Johnny Rivers theme for the US version, “Secret Agent Man,” deeply okay, I loved the harpsichord music that was always played at the opening of each episode.

The Danger Man site offers free MP3 downloads of music from the show, including both “Secret Agent Man“ and the piece I really liked, which it turns out is called “High Wire“ (ignore that the site lists it as “Hire Wire.”) Listening to it – for the first time in 40-odd years – some odder than others, granted – *rimshot!* – I wonder if it’s really a harpsichord. But it sounds like a harpsichord, and I still enjoy it.

As an added bonus they offer Ron Grainer’s haunting and excellent theme to The Prisoner.

Much as I admire Captain Mal’s, “I aim to misbehave” from Serenity, nothing can match the thrill I used to feel hearing McGoohan’s defiant cry: “I am not a number! I am a free man!” Even if it was followed by the mocking laughter of the New Number 2. (Of whom the best was Leo McKern.)

Anyway, Patrick – be seeing you!

Finally, on the off chance you’re still interested, here’s another picture of that Airbus floating on the Hudson. Airbus and US Airways must hate people like me. Even though it appears neither company had much to do with the crash, which seems to’ve been caused by Canada geese. Or elite al-Qa’ida Suicide Geese Commandos, as Faux News undoubtedly has it.

(Crap!  Was that just a sonic boom?  A big blustery puffing boom just came from out back somewhere. Emma barked but doesn’t seem [...]]]> Okay, “mug” is probably not the right verb.  Actual mugging would be notably unwise, given Emma Dog’s size and disposition. Call it raconteur’s license (a concept I just made up, having no shame.)

(Crap!  Was that just a sonic boom?  A big blustery puffing boom just came from out back somewhere. Emma barked but doesn’t seem frightened enough to want in.  I went back to check and heard a jet, making me wonder if some flyboy’s getting a little fly with the law. Also there seems to be a near-subliminal rumble continuing … dwindling now.)

Okay, back to our tale. A few minutes ago I sat at the dining room table eating what I guess is brunch, and drinking an enormous mug of coffee to prepare me for the horrors of the writing life. (Okay, they’re not all that horrid. Who’s telling this?) It’s a warm NM autumn day and I had the back door open partway for ventilation. Something, possibly the clacking of greedy little beaks on plastic, drew my attention to the brick back porch.

Where I saw at least three mourning doves around and even in Emma’s food bowl, scarfing her chow. Outraged, I yelled at them, “Hey, you dang symbols of peace! Get out of there!” (I really did. I talk that way. If you’ve met me, you know. Because I’m in a creative field, I get to be called eccentric. As opposed to, you know, nuts.)

They ignored me. Apparently icons tend to feel entitled in the animal kingdom too.  But then from the left came an avenging black streak as Emma raced to defend her food.

You can bet the doves took off pretty briskly then.

All apparently escaped unscathed. Emma isn’t really bloodthirsty so much as she is protective. Very, very protective.

On other fronts … hope you had a fine Halloween and Day of the Dead. Mine went fine, especially Halloween, which I spent watching old horror movies at John and Gail Miller’s. Been a bit busy to log on the last few days, what with the new Annja, Wild Cards rewrites, and forging happily ahead on The Dinosaur Lords.

Expect great news on the writing front soon.  I do!