It is now January 1st, 2008. In New Zealand.
We've still got 20+ hours to go of the old year here.
This end-of-the-year meme has been going around the blogosphere, and I thought I wouldn't catch it. But I guess I'm not immune, after all.
The instructions say to take the first sentence of the first post of each month, and post them. But I do have a mind of my own (if ever so weak), and I chose another sentence, instead, of the designated posts.
So here goes the list:
This month's CotS is up, at Christopher Taylor's blog, Catalogue of Organisms. Something to read as we unwind from the mad rush of the last week or so.
And the most beautiful, astounding, amazing butterfly of them all. Would you believe transparent? Go see!
The day started off with rain, but ended with snow.
And in between, we got a hand-made, hand-delivered Christmas card.
My grandmother (1888 - 1975) made this, long, long ago. I have hung it up every Christmas since I inherited it.
It is old felt, with sequins and wool stitching, each letter different. The white felt has long since turned brown with age, and the sequins have lost much of their colour; some has run into the felt. But I love it; I can "see" my Nana, still young, sitting in the sunroom off her upstairs bedroom in Toronto, cutting and stitching. Oh, so long ago!
That was yesterday, at the winter solstice.
This is cool: a site I ran across calculates, for any location, the actual times of sunrise, sunset, and length of daylight. (Look up your own, on Sunrise, sunset, daylight in a graph.)
It gives the time for sunrise today at around 8:00 AM. Sunset is shortly after 4:00 PM. Around 4:15, by my clock.
And the daylight only lasts about 8 hours. 1/3 of the day. No wonder people suffer from SAD around here!
I didn't know this: at mid-summer, the longest days of the year, the sun is at its highest. But it is never directly overhead here, even then. The graph gives its maximum angle at 65 °: straight overhead would be 90 °. In winter it goes down to 16 ° from the horizon. At its highest point.
No wonder even our sunny days are chilly!
The photo is from an afternoon around this time last year, at 4:30 or thereabouts, at the White Rock Pier. And in a drizzly rain, of course.
My family blends a variety of traditions, from around the world. So our get-togethers are rather unpredictable. Since I was giving my son tips on cooking the meal (he's the chef in his house), I also promised you recipes from this year's Christmas menu: Mexican.
First, the menu.
For quite a few years, we lived across the Fraser River, in the Burnaby/New Westminster area. We formed the habit, first separately and then together, of going down the hill to the Burnaby Fraser Foreshore Park, and following the trail along the riverbank.
In those early days, the space between the river and the main road was taken up by old farms, "weed" trees, and swampy mixed bush. There was a small "improved" area at the foot of Byrne Road, with lawn grass and picnic benches; for the rest, the main attraction was the river itself, the old cottonwoods and their bird population, and for me (and the birds), the berries; salmonberry, blackberry, serviceberry, and the occasional thimbleberry.
As for birds, the sparrows and chickadees kept up a constant chatter all year round. Robins patrolled the lawns, seagulls, geese and mallards the river. We watched goldfinches, great blue herons, buffleheads, the occasional woodpecker, once a kingfisher. On the other side, a pair of eagles had a nest, easily visible from our vantage point.
That was then. This is now.
Earth-moving machinery moved in in the last years of the old millennium. The farms were eradicated, the bush scraped away, the creeks filled with gravel and sand. The whole strip along the shore, for miles, is now industrial park.
But our benevolent government did try to soften the blow to the environment; in their bumbling bureacratic way, they widened and gravelled the trails, built cement and metal viewpoints, added signs, telling us about the "habitat" they were creating. To do this, they stripped the soil and bush from another segment of the remaining green belt, and built ponds and waterways to contain and control the creeks.
And the industries moved in across the widened road.
I remember being there one winter around the time we moved to Delta. A large pond, its edges bare mud sloped down from the road to the water's edge, and adorned by a sign proclaiming the "reclamation" effort, and those ratty orange webs they use instead of fences, was showing a bit of greenery at one end; a few reeds in orderly lines, obviously planted. A half-dozen buffleheads were diving there for something; there was hope for the future.
We don't get over there now as often as we did, but there is progress. The grass has grown; the ponds softened with a mix of vegetation. Dragonflies dance over the top. In one, we occasionally see frogs, or heron stalking them.
This spring, the frog pond had been colonized by a plant I hadn't seen before. Attractive enough; like an oversized moss growing underwater, leafing out just above the surface. Very pretty. We photographed it.
I was disappointed not to see any frogs or herons, this time. No dragonflies, either. Just the green, quiet pond.
Two days ago, on the UBC site, Botany Photo of the Day, I found this new plant. Myriophyllum aquaticum, a.k.a. Parrot feather, or Brazilian water-milfoil. And yes, it is beautiful; a commenter loves it because it looks like Christmas trees. But it is deadly.
Daniel Mosquin, of PotD, writes,
Attractive as it is, it can form a thick layer at the water surface, blocking light from penetrating deeper into the water body. Subsequent population declines in microscopic algae lead to an eventual withering of invertebrate and fish populations.Not good news. I asked about this, wanting to confirm the ID, and Daniel wrote on to the invasive plants forum. (See the comments on the PotD page.)
The bad news is that it is a really nasty aquatic invasive that spreads quickly and seriously alters the physical and chemical characteristics of lakes, ponds and streams. It shades out algae that serve as the basis of the aquatic food web. And it's prime habitat for mosquito larvae.How did it get here? Easy. It usually does not propagate by seed; most plants here are female. But it's like the invasive blackberry; a small piece of the rhizome, dumped in the water, will take root and grow. Chopping it down won't get rid of it; all those little pieces spread out and become new plants.
It's also very difficult to control. Its deep rhizomes make mechanical methods a short-term bandaid at most. Some herbicides do work to control (but not eliminate), and can also affect native aquatic flora and fauna. And that control comes at a cost: In Washington, the Longview Diking District estimates that it spends $50,000 a year on parrot feather control in drainage ditches.Locking the stable door.
The hope is that an effective biocontrol will eventually be found for this species. In the meantime, we can all help prevent the spread of Myriophyllum aquaticum by ensuring that we don't dump our aquatic plants or aquarium plants into local water sources.
... until Christmas. And already, I am too tired for words.*
Instead, go on over to A Local Naturalist's blog; he took my snow theme and elaborated on it, with some great info about hoar frost. And photos, too.
*(A Mexican Christmas dinner this year; recipes anon.)
Just because it's winter, and cold. But the snow is last year's.
... I promised, long ago, to post 5 science-related links per week. I've been remiss; the last one was six weeks ago. No excuses, either.
Getting back on track, here's the mid-December edition of "Weekly Five", including some I've been saving for a whole month; you may have seen them already elsewhere. Or maybe not.
A departure from my regular fare, but ... it's Christmas!
Long ago, when I had a tree like this, and a family to feed, I used to make spiced crabapples every year for an addition to the Christmas table. The red colour matured in the jars, and made a very festive show. Besides, they are delicious!
The recipe I used was similar to this one, although I left out the allspice, put the cinnamon and cloves right in the jar with the crabapples, and put them up in 1/2 pint jars.
My recipe:
... not together, mind you; I just decided to post a few photos I like.
We are having crazy weather. They keep telling us, day in and day out, that it is going to rain, and it doesn't. But on the brightest, driest days, it freezes hard. Today it was warmer, and raining steadily. We went shopping and the rain stopped. Good. But coming out of the second store, we found that it was snowing. 10 minutes later it was raining again. Back at home, one of the cars in the parking lot was topped with several inches of snow. The rest of us were rain-washed.
Looks like whoever's in charge of booking our weather-makers has been doing his scheduling with a dart board again.
This photo was taken during the snowstorm we had a week and a half ago; a fuzzy photo due to the falling snow. A junco huddles under the rhododendron, looking wet and cold.
From time to time, we find unexpected faces peering at us from clouds, from puddles and leaf patterns, from rocks and lichen.
(I have blogged before about some of these: see the Jesus rock, an alien spaceship, and quite a few more.)
A couple of weeks ago, I almost stepped on this figure on the beach. I see a pilgrim; hooded, bearded, in a long traveler's robe, leaning on a sturdy walking stick.
A sign? A talisman for the long road ahead? A visitation? A wandering monk? A Saint of some stripe? A wizard strayed from the LOTR? A figure for a Nativity scene? Good old Joseph himself? Or a Buddhist arhat?
Should I put him on a high shelf and light candles to him, bring him fruit and flowers, or just rub his hood for luck?
Ah, me! For those actions to bring any benefit, one must believe. And I don't. I think it's a piece of driftwood, molded by waves and rocks, turned into a pattern by my meddling brain. Pareidolia, they call it. I'm out of luck.
So I'm happy to have met him, and he can sit on my table for a while and later go to join the oddities on my shelves. But I won't light candles for him.
Here's another face I found. This one, I couldn't bring home. It was a water stain on the ceiling tiles of a coffee shop washroom. Luckily, my camera rides comfortably in my purse.
A girls face in pink and brown. Lots of hair floating in the breeze. Just the thing for a ladies' washroom!
On Rock, Paper, Lizard, A Local Naturalist posted a quiz, consisting of photos of the trunks of 6 trees for us to identify. Laurie and I got 2 1/2 right. Can you do better? Go check it out.
Bonus question: What is this?
(Notice that I'm more helpful than ALN; I give you the trunk, a close-up, the growth pattern, and needles.)
Can you identify this one?
I've been looking at this house by the White Rock waterfront for a few years. We finally walked over to get a closer look.
They keep it freshly painted, always. And always the same colours.
The objects in the windows change with the seasons, but the colour scheme remains.
We didn't get a decent photo of the chimney up top; it is made of brick, and each brick is painted yellow, orange, or green. It looks like life-sized Lego, but the wrong colours.
We tend not to notice pigeons, living in urban areas. They are always underfoot, like stray bits of windblown paper; they sit on ledges of old stone buildings and smear them with white droppings, they beg at the open-air tables around coffee shops. Beautiful or not, they are considered a nuisance; the only ones delighted to see them are the three-year-olds chasing them at the quay.
And Laurie, who definitely is not three years old. And now me; his enthusiasm is catching.
Did you ever watch a flock of them flying on a windy day? They indulge themselves in elaborate aerial maneuvres; a warm-up of circles and figure-eights, a sprint down the river and back, wings flashing in the sunlight. Soon, the large flock will split in half, each contingent veering off in a different direction, swirling, dipping and soaring. Then suddenly, the two half-flocks will spin towards each other and merge, head-on. You would expect a crash or two, a pigeon falling out of the sky, but, no, they twist and turn, merging seamlessly. And then they're off, racing around the tallest building, getting up speed before they divide, to do it all over again.
For the last 5 or 6 years, Laurie has been documenting a different behaviour, first in Burnaby, and now here in Delta.
Almost every morning and evening throughout the years, a group of pigeons has gathered on a wire in an open spot, to watch the sun rise and set. (We imagined other reasons; waiting to be fed, no evidence for that; "report", as nurses do, before going on shift -- nah; "morning devotions", ditto. Watching the sun it is.)
They gather sometimes well before dawn, and often at the first hint of sunset. As soon as the sun is full down, they leave, but they hang around longer in the mornings, sitting quietly, almost reverently. Very little fidgeting, no billing and cooing. Just sitting, it seems, meditating (Om...) on the light and colours. They mostly sit facing the position of the sun at the moment; sometimes in the evening, both the western and eastern skies are lit up; at those times, some sit one way, some another.
Here, just above the church parking lot next door, about 50 - 60 pigeons meet. After the festivities are over, they leave, to spend the day, probably, around the malls to the north and south of us. Wherever it is, we don't see them around here. Except at these times.
... I've been reading the riot act to my computer all day. And saying uncomplimentary things about Bill Gates.
Somehow, my start menu got corrupted. And it's all his fault. I know that. Because I wouldn't delete the wrong thing by mistake, now would I? So there!
It's working now; all I have left to do is clean up the greasy rags and put away the pipe wrench.
See you tomorrow!
... once again, that she's a pushover.
The evidence? Nap time:
Blogging the Culture Crawl: sixth of a few more.
Laurie keeps reminding me that I haven't finished with the Vancouver Eastside Culture Crawl photos yet. I have a good excuse; life is just too full. But still, I did promise.
So here's yet another installment.
This was after dark; the Crawl officially ended at 6:00 PM, but in November the sun sets long before then. Along the south side of the park, tall houses cut off what little light there was. In a garden/patio area, "Robrobrob", as his handouts* name him, had set up his display around a goldfish pond, under lights on orange and yellow extension cords.
He works in bamboo.
Question; how is it that my pillows on the bed have to be just "so", or I can't sleep, but I can manage to sleep with my head on papers on the desk?
And now I've woken up, at 2:30 AM.
And I'm going to bed.
It is snowing hard. Our first real snowfall of the year; yesterday's was just a dusting.
As soon as the cold weather sets in, I step up my provision of bird seed. Yesterday, instead of the half-dozen or so juncos I usually see, I had a regular flock of them. I threw out a small handful of peanuts onto the bare cement under the roof, to give them something extra to ride out the cold on.
This morning, besides the juncos, chickadees, and the pair of nuthatches that are always here, I saw a Jenny wren and a very large sparrow-like bird that flew away as soon as my shadow showed up at the window. And, of course, one of the black squirrels that live in the cedars.
I replenished the feed, adding plenty of peanuts. Since it was snowing hard, I threw a couple of handfuls under the hedge, where there is shelter from the snow.
And this squirrel promptly showed up to collect peanuts.
Juncos in the snow:
Junco tracks.
Second week of November.
All these 'shrooms were in a small area of the gardens along the walkway. There were none to be seen in any other section. The spores must have come in with the soil or the plants from the nursery.
And I'm making no attempt to identify them; location and season are probably all off.
But aren't they great? I especially like the big curly one.
