Cardinal Holidays

Day 79: Call this a sneak preview, if you will. I like to have Cardinals on my Christmas cards, and over the last half dozen years or so, appropriate ones have been impossible to find. When this little fellow flew in and lighted among my gifts, he seemed to be applying for the job. A timely snowfall completed the scene for a custom-made holiday greeting: Happy New Year, my friends!

Took The Leap

Day 78: When I turned sixteen, there was only one thing I wanted for my birthday: a telescope. Money was tight in those days, but when a long, skinny box showed up shortly after Christmas, I knew my request had been met. On the morning of my birthday, I tore into the wrappings with great excitement and spent the rest of the day peering through the limited optics of a $29 Tasco. I was thrilled, and spent much of my young adulthood looking at the moon and trying to make out the faint rings of Saturn.

As the years progressed, I moved across the country and the Tasco went into storage, forgotten until more than forty years later when I bought my present home. Like the Bubble Tree whose story was told earlier this month, my precious telescope had spent too much time in an unheated outbuilding, and the mirrors were damaged by moisture and cold, beyond any reasonable hope of repair. I told myself I'd get another one some day, but by then, I had learned enough about the subject to know I didn't want to waste my money on a cheap department-store model.

There were some stellar events which almost pushed me to a purchase. I'd seen the naked-eye spectacle of Comet West in 1976, and when Hale-Bopp came around in 1997, I observed it through binoculars, still reluctant to make the leap into serious astronomy, even at the entry level. But with Lovejoy on the horizon (literally, at this latitude), that old desire for a 'scope resurfaced.

It's easy to Clint-Eastwood yourself out of your price range when you're considering a telescope. "For a few dollars more," you can get clearer optics, a wider field of view, finer adjustments, etc. and so forth until you find yourself talking in four figures instead of three. At that point, you have to step back and ask yourself what you really need. Are you going to be searching for heretofore undiscovered deep-sky objects? Not likely! But do you really want to look for nebulae and galaxies, or would you be content to see a few double stars? Since my primary interests are comets, planets, lunar features and sunspots, I looked for a telescope which would give me the best possible viewing of those objects on a limited budget. After reading dozens of reviews and conferring with my "pet astronomers," I settled on the Orion StarBlast 4.5 reflector, present-to-self for a reprise of the occasion of that first acquisition.

Elegance

Day 77: Oh, my...! An unexpected gift showed up in my mailbox today, one with particular personal significance. These pens were hand-turned by a dear friend from the trunk wood of an unidentified tree which had stood for more than 20 years in my front yard. When the tree was attacked first by disease, then by insects and subsequently by a determined Red-breasted Sapsucker who was trying to be helpful, I was forced to take it down. Di put in a request for a piece of the wood for her lathe, so after a period of curing and drying, I mailed it off and forgot all about it. She tells me the dark band in the center of the Celtic knotwork pen is a pine cone from her own yard. What elegance! Makes me feel like I should be writing four-figure checks!

Finding Lovejoy

Day 76: Comet Lovejoy is coming! I've given a very rough map here, translated from the "Sky & Telescope" version onto a star chart oriented specifically to my latitude, but it will give you an idea of where and when to look for this binocular/naked-eye object. It promises to be a real treat for anyone with a telescope, weather permitting. Get it now, folks! It won't be back for approximately 8,000 years!

Off The Loom

Day 75: The project I began at Christmastime 2013 is off the loom at last! I am now engaged in tying 756 bundles of fringe and then the fabric will be ready for fulling.

Woven in traditional birdseye and tabby using natural 6/2 and colored 8/2 cotton on 27' of warp and 210 ends, these pieces will finish at approximately 14" x 21" (allowing for shrinkage). They make excellent fingertip/kitchen towels, but are also heavy enough to serve as placemats on the table.

And of course hindsight is always clearer than foresight. I wish now that I had used a heavier warp or a lighter weft so the birdseye patterns would have been more obvious. However, weaving threads are not as easily obtainable as they once were, and my favourite supplier closed his shop for health reasons years ago. I do not like to purchase fiberart supplies without being able to finger the goods, limiting me to one shop in Seattle (a major expedition, by my standards). Alternately, I could have warped at 15 dents per inch instead of 12, but that would have resulted in a harder fabric which would have been unsuitable as towels. That said, I am pleased with these, and subtle woven textures have their own appeal.

Christmas 2014

Day 74: Thank you, my readers, for the wishes you asked me to convey to this wonderful man who has been my friend and fishing buddy for many years. Some few of you have met him; others know him only from my descriptions. He knows and remembers your personal stories as well, because I often speak of you to him. Occasionally he surprises me with a question: "How are the girls back east doing? How's that man in New Zealand who lost his leg? Do you still hear from your friend in Chicago, the geocacher?" "Yes," I reply, "he/she asked me about you last week." You are a part of his world, and he loves you for caring about him, even though you may only be known to him as a name or a photo. He is touched by your sentiments, which through me, become bright spots in his day. When I passed your greetings along to him yesterday, he said, "Tell them thank you for me," and so I am, by bringing you this image from our Christmas, a good Christmas because it was spent with my old, dear friend.

Merry Christmas From The Bird House!

Day 73: They're out! And they'd like to wish you all the best for the holiday season. For most of the year, my bird collection resides on shelves and in an enormous tin, safe from the predations of pussycats and protected from dust fallout. For a few days in December, they emerge to occupy furniture and floor space and are generally allowed to remain until Skunk or Tip gets a little too interested and drags somebody off. I hate to admit that only a few of them have names, but each one is loved and petted as they are put in place. So, without further ado, I will speak on their behalf and wish you the merriest of Christmases and a happy New Year!

Noel Of Small Birds

Day 72: Many years have passed since I penned this carol and performed it on the harp. I hope it will inspire my readers to remember our feathered companions this holiday season.

Noel of Small Birds

All the birds of winter gather in to find a shelter,
Begging for a bit of food and warmth in the cold weather.
From their homes in barren trees, sparrows go, and chickadees.
Finches search for bright berries, flying back with treasure.
From a journey returning laden, they sing merrily.
Song fills the sky, and the snow is so white,
And red's the rowan tree.

Gifts of Man shall help in need, crumbs of bread and scattered seed:
Thankful small birds all, indeed! Merry to a feather!
Singing, soaring over the forest, freely they shall fly.
Dance on the wind over moorland and glen
In the sparkling winter sky.

All the birds of winter gather in to find a shelter,
Begging for a bit of food and warmth in the cold weather.
All along the hedgerow gay, bird-song beckons in the day,
From the holly and the bay, and the hoary heather.
Tiny birds take wing to go wassailing. Questing they shall go.
Thicket and bush for a moment are hushed
By the silence of the snow.

Masters of their frosty hall, they announce the minstrel's call,
Pleasure to accord to all, singing all together.
Thus their carol rises unbounded, joyful hearts in flight.
Echoing trills lie like mist on the hills
On a starry winter night.

Warped

Day 71: The project currently on my loom has been there since Christmas 2013, and I have no excuse for having largely ignored it for the better part of the last year. I would occasionally sit down at the bench and make a few nominal throws, once even completing six inches in a half-hour marathon of weaving, then again letting the shuttles go idle for another two or three months. I enjoy weaving, and perhaps my flagging energies in that direction were due to the project being a simple over-and-under tabby. I had warped for a birds-eye design, but the weft should have been heavier to do it justice; in lieu of making another trip to Seattle, I reverted to the simpler weave.

Recently, I sent my piano to a new home with the thought of moving the loom into the living room. Although I don't think that's actually going to happen, it was sufficient motivation to set the shuttles flying once again. As I considered the logistics of moving the loom, I realized I'd have to get the project off the beams in order to dismantle it so it would pass through the doorway. In two days' time, I've woven three towels/placemats and only have one to go (I'd warped for seven).

Weaving in and of itself is repetitive work. You raise a shed, pass the shuttle through, then change sheds and pass the shuttle the opposite direction. The pattern is determined beforehand as the threads are sequenced through the heddles. The weaver's art lies in the accurate threading of hundreds of "eyes." Any error will be apparent when the weaving is begun and will require some very tedious undoing to set to rights.

Crystal Tree

Day 70: A gift from one of my "sisters of the heart" several years ago, this little glass tree is one of my favourite pieces of holiday decor. It stands about four inches tall from base to top of its globe and goes through a rotation of colors which include red, blue, purple and gold.

Dance The Holly! Dance The Mistletoe!

Day 69: The Solstice finds the Pacific Northwest under a thick layer of dripping cloud, grey in the manner so typical of the area, yet those of us who are governed more by Nature than by the arbitrary structures of clock and calendar feel this turning in our bones. The Light is returning, a lengthening of daylight imperceptible at first, noticeable by those attuned to the change in a week or ten days, obvious to all by mid-January.

It is unsurprising that many mid-winter festivals incorporate illuminations into their observances, whether by candle, sparkling lights or a shining star atop the Christmas tree. For some, light is a metaphor (Christ as "the Light of the world"); for others, it is a physical thing (the flame in the darkness or the sun rising over a specific landmark). It is a theme which joins the hands of one faith with another and another, until all are standing in a great circle, linked by that one commonality. We are brought to unity by Light.

In peace and in harmony, turn your hearts to the Light.
Let it shine on you and within you; be its messenger.
Carry the Light to one and all, and live its beauty as your motto.
Celebrate the Solstice and the returning of the Light.

A Little Background Radiation

Day 68: As you might guess from the 25-cent price tag, these ornaments date back a few years. In fact, they're almost as old as I am, and come from an era when nuclear power was envisioned as the solution to all the world's energy problems. Radiation was very poorly understood, and radium was used in a wide variety of household applications ranging from glow-in-the-dark watch faces to Christmas ornaments such as the icicles shown here. Interestingly, the amount of glow emitted by the icicles has changed very little over more than half a century, and in an even stranger turn of events, the plastic snowflakes which were NOT "glow-in-the-dark" but were stored in the same box seem to have picked up traces of radiation. When the room is entirely darkened, their shapes can be made out on the tree, faintly apparent but nevertheless glowing. Oh, for a Geiger counter!

Knitting 4-Needle Socks

Day 67: Seriously, no aspiring knitter should be afraid of making four-needle socks. Knitting in the round is easy, and turning a heel presents no problem as long as you pay attention to the count. Even if you lose track, there are visual clues you can't miss unless your attention is really wandering. Making socks is loads of fun! I just wish I had an extra pair of hands so I could make more.

Upon The Bounding Main

Day 66: The presence of the Welsh Dragon confounded me for a bit until I recalled Black Bart, arguably the most successful pirate of all time - Bartholomew Roberts who set one of the first codes of conduct for pirates, a sketchy outline to keep honesty among thieves. Bart was a Welshman, driven like so many to piracy as an alternative to the scant wages given the crews who plied legitimate business upon the sea. As did many before and after him, Black Bart died in battle, having lived but 39 years of the "merry life and short one" he once claimed to prefer.

The Greeter

Day 65: We enlisted the help of a special volunteer to serve as greeter at the Ed Center for last night's Park Christmas party. The event was attended by about three dozen guests and featured children's activities, a silent auction (my hand-knit socks were a big hit), door prizes and enough food to throw us all into hibernation until Spring. Bear was not allowed to partake of pulled pork and may have been somewhat disappointed at being stationed next to a bear-proof bin.

Christmas Presence

Day 64: The presence is...are...is under the tree. Okay, he doesn't know about homophones, but Tippy is a pretty smart little (well, not so little) boy. He knows he's not supposed to play with the garland or remove any ornaments, and although ribbons on packages offer an even greater temptation, he mostly leaves them alone. That said, I have to treat the tips of the branches with a bitter-tasting spray to keep either cat from chewing them (an appeal I fail to understand, since the tree is artificial).

Christmas is a stressful time for the smaller members of the family. There are lots of comings and goings, dozens of new smells and things which look like they should be toys. It doesn't take a lot to make your holidays pet-friendly, so please keep them in mind when you're decorating.

Bubble Tree Memories

Day 63: I don't really know which came first, the Bubble Tree or your narrator, but as far back as I can remember, it was set up for every Christmas of my early years. It was not always as you would see it today. No, its boughs were originally white, the needles made of a (presumably) fire-retardant paper. Its lights were somewhat squatter than these, although almost as tall, and encompassed a wider range of colored plastics and bubble tubes. Over the years, however, the white paper yellowed with age, and my mother's attempts to salvage it with spray-on flocking were disastrous. She wanted to toss it in the trash, but I protested and was allowed to save the poor, sad thing in the hopes of some day restoring it. When I moved away from home, it was consigned to an old steamer trunk in an unheated outbuilding where in a further indignity, it mildewed. The next time I saw it, I was in my twenties, but still I could not bear to consign it to the bin. Instead, I stripped off the moldy paper and salvaged the metal armature which held the lights. The lights themselves were no longer functional and were discarded as well. The base (a plaster pedestal) was in good shape, so I saved it as well.

Bubble lights had by this time disappeared from the market, so I held very little hope of being able to restore my childhood treasure. Then one year, they reappeared on the market shelves in the form you see them here. The tree required nine lights; the new strings only held seven. I did the necessary rewiring and installed them on the armature. Then I wrapped the framework with green garland, having failed to find the white I'd hoped to buy. It was a small concession to make when considering that I was giving my favourite item of Christmas decor a new lease on life. I also laid in a supply of extra lights, just in case.

That was about thirty years ago now. Today, fully lighted, the Bubble Tree again stands in my home, merrily bubbling away for a conservative half a dozen nights or so during the holiday season. At the rate the lights burn out, my stash of spares will last throughout my remaining years.

Kevin In Character

Day 62: Of all the roles Kevin has played, none suit him so well as those when he wears the costumes of the mid- to late 19th century. As P. B. Van Trump (one of Mount Rainier's pioneer spirits), he seems to have just stepped down from a horse-drawn stage, ready to take his walking staff in hand to go on an adventure at Indian Henrys. Night before last, I saw him in another period guise as the Narrator of his church's Christmas pageant. Although I captured this portrait in color, I wanted my readership to see him more appropriately represented for the era and therefore converted the image to the old albumen process of my grandfather's time. He caught me framing the shot and held his pose, just as photographers would have demanded of their subjects in a studios circa 1900.

Pig-Sticker

Day 61: You won't find many of these around. This is a stiletto, a dagger with a three-sided blade. It was custom-made for me to go with a mediaeval costume about 35 years ago when I was involved with a group called the Society for Creative Anachronism. Members of the group dressed in elaborate period costumes for events, and my involvement with the group led me to engagements in the "mundane" world as a performer on the harp. While I didn't carry the stiletto to my gigs, it was part of my regular regalia for group functions. I thought I'd lost it somewhere along the way, but just last week, I was searching for something else and came across it in a box appropriately labelled, "Odd bits."

Bud Blancher Trail

Day 60: Since discovering the new Bud Blancher bike path/walking trail, I have been wondering who Mr. Blancher was and why he got a trail named after him. Asking locals who were walking the trail got me nowhere, so I resolved to take the puzzle to the next level. I figured the newspaper office was a good place to start, but the receptionist said that she knew the story poorly and was reluctant to give out any information which might prove to be wrong. She suggested I call the town clerk. The town clerk referred me to the planner's office where I left a voice message. When Doug Beagle returned my call this afternoon, he gave me a brief history before we got sidetracked onto discussing future, larger plans for the trail system.

So who was Bud Blancher? Was he a former mayor or something? No, he was an aviator and an inventor, and made his fame and fortune by developing a shoulder harness for pilots. He was also an avid bicyclist who once spent 13 months riding around the periphery of the United States. When he passed away in 2007 at the age of 75, his family donated funds from his estate toward development of the trail which now bears his name. Now when I walk along this lovely path, if someone asks me if I know who Bud Blancher was, I'll be able to tell them, "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do."

Tin Lizzy

Day 59: The origin of the phrase "Tin Lizzy" is unknown to me, but it refers specifically to Henry Ford's famous Model T, here shown in the 1926 "roadster-pickup" version. This grand old gal can often be seen parked on the road or in her driveway in downtown Eatonville, her dark red paint job spanking clean and bright. I've only seen her motoring once or twice, but I'm sure she attends the annual antique car show in Packwood even though it might take her several hours to get there at a top speed of 35 MPH. Still, it's a real thrill to watch her pull through the intersection, chugging along as faithfully as ever, her owner in period dress behind the wheel.

Music

Day 58: I shall soon be saying farewell to an old friend, a 1890 Sohmer upright grand piano purchased in 1966. I was living in the greater Washington DC area at the time and was just starting life as a married woman, and if memory serves, the piano was a birthday gift from my new husband. I had moved across the country, leaving another piano in the keeping of my foster sister who was also a musician, and not having had one around for several months, I could feel my fingers losing their agility almost daily. This was a circumstance not to be endured, and thus I put "piano" at the top of my birthday wish list.

Not long after that, we relocated and the piano went into storage. There it remained for a year until another move brought us back out to the west coast. We arranged for our household goods to be shipped, and when they arrived, I remember clearly the shocked look on the movers' faces when they discovered that "pinio" (as it was listed in the inventory, along with "chester droors") was in fact a very heavy object that the two of them could not handle. The "pinio" went into storage again until they could find a third crewman to help get it off the truck.

Its subsequent history was no less amazing. When we divorced, I was again forced to find a temporary home for my instrument. My current music tutor offered space in his shop in exchange for allowing students to use it. When he suddenly lost his lease, my contact with him was broken and for six months, I had no idea where he had gone, nor did I know what he'd done with the piano. By the time I tracked him down, I had entered into another relationship with a man who had several strong, strapping friends, so once again, the piano (which had been foisted off on yet another person who thought it was theirs to keep) moved back into my home.

In the last iteration, another divorce found the poor piano stranded in an empty farmhouse until I could arrange to bring it here. Somewhere along the line, it had lost one of its wheels and had to be dollied in through the back door because it wouldn't fit through the front. An upright grand is slightly wider than your standard upright, by virtue of having a deeper and heavier sounding board.

You may be wondering why, after all this history, we are parting ways. There are several reasons, the first being that I simply don't play any more. The second is that I'm not getting any younger, and I know that somewhere down the pike, a move to smaller quarters is going to be unavoidable. I do not want to be caught at the last minute trying to offload a piano. Besides, we're old friends, and an old friend needs to be found a good home. I have to admit it makes me sad to let it go, but it's for the best.

First, Always

Day 57: The tree goes up, the garland is strung along the branches, and now it's time to decorate. I go through both boxes, looking for one special container and the ornament it contains. Always, this little cockatoo is the first one hung.

Y'see, it goes back to when a real cockatoo was part of my life, and if you've never shared your world with a highly intelligent bird with a very human sense of humour, the significance of this post will probably be lost on you. Cocoa was a very special little fellow, so much so that when he passed away, I could not bear to consider getting another bird. For one thing, my years on this earth are limited, and it would not be proper to a long-lived creature to enter into a contract of care and love, knowing that you would probably predecease your companion. Nor would it be fair to that creature to have expectations which might not be possible for it to fulfill. Cocoa was unique, as all real personalities are, and our time together was far too short.

It's been almost fifteen years since I lost him despite heroic veterinary intervention, but he lives in my heart like no other companion I have ever known. First, always, and in a place of prominence, Cocoa's ornament goes on the tree, and then I settle into the business of hanging other memories on the boughs.

The Spirit Of The Season

Day 56: The tree is up and decorated, the house smells of freshly baked cookies, the wreath is over the mantel and the jingle bells are on the door; I'm over halfway done with a second shawl (a gift), plus I made this lovely card for you, my friends and followers, to wish you all the best for the holiday season, however you elect to observe it. Don't forget our little feathered neighbors while you're thinking about goodies!

Traditions

Day 55: Okay, call me a sappy sentimentalist if you will, but even though there's no one around to share them with me, there are certain traditions I observe in connection with the holidays. One of them is baking cookies on St. Nicholas Day, and it usually takes form as Spritz, those wonderfully almondy, butter-rich "cookie-press" cookies. I'm always rather heavy-handed with the sugar sparkles...cookies should be festive, don't you agree?...and in the days that follow, I will ration myself to no more than half a dozen each day in the interest of keeping my uniform trousers zippable.

Giving Credit Where It's Due

Day 54: I cannot take full credit for this piece of surrealist art, only for rendering it in three dimensions. The concept originated with my mother, and was executed as a pen-and-ink sketch which she presented to my grandmother with a book of original poetry on Mother's Day 1945. I believe she may have drawn her inspiration from a greater mind, that of Salvador Dali. In any event, the idea has gone through so many permutations that I feel no shame in claiming this as "mine," since it is said that in art, there are no new ideas, only new ways to represent the same old things.

Surrealist art is meant to jolt the mind by presenting things out of context, nonsequiturs to the natural state of their existence. It is often laced with hidden references and meanings, but not always. Sometimes, as here, it is simply a mental meandering down a convoluted path through hyperreality, art for Art's sake, without agenda.

The Finished Shawl

Day 53: No sage philosophy today, folks. Friends in several different venues have been after me to post a photo on completion of the shawl I've been knitting for my fishing buddy. You're probably going to ask, "For a man?" Yes, because he's always cold these days, and with shaky hands and arms he can't always control, it's hard to stay covered up in a blanket. This drops over the head and can't come loose because the center section is made of "fingers" woven together. The remainder of the shawl is knit in basket-weave, carrying the theme.

For many years, I fished alone. Then one chilly day in March when I was working the waters of Alder Lake to no avail near the mouth of the Nisqually River, I spotted someone coming along the bank, fishing pole in hand. I watched him carefully, ready to bawl somebody out for fishing in the river out of season (the lake was open, but not the river), but he seemed to be coming steadily on toward my spot. When he got within speaking distance, we exchanged the typical civilities of fishermen and he settled in to fish beside me.

Neither of us were having any luck, and I was just starting to think that I might go home and warm up when I got a bite. I could tell it was a good-sized fish, so I was playing it carefully. My erstwhile companion sidled over a little closer...closer...and I was seized with a sudden fear that he was going to try to be "helpful" by grabbing my line, not realizing what I was doing. My attention shifted to him and off the fish, and as luck would have it, just as I got it near the shore, it got stuck between two rocks. My reaction was to jerk (bad move!), and I heard a sickening "ping" as my line parted. I looked down, and saw the fish, somewhat dazed, only inches away from my feet. I made my second bad move of the day, and thirty seconds later, rose out of the water with nothing dry but one spot on the back of my head. A slick rock had been my undoing, and I'd gone face-first into the cold, clear waters of the lake.

Now frozen to the bone and wet besides, I announced that I was going home for a change of clothes. At that moment, Sande hooked a fish. The Bite was on! I do not believe there is a fisherman alive who could have walked away at that moment, nor did I. I cast my line and reeled in a nice silver. We kept fishing, the two of us, until we'd limited. Halfway through when he noticed I was visibly shivering, Sande gave me his jacket like a true gentleman.

As we walked back to our respective cars, the man I'd just met asked me a question: "Would you like to go fishing with me again some time?" And that was how our relationship began.

Sande is 94 now, suffering with Parkinson's and living in an elder-care facility. I see him often, and when he's able, we talk about the good old days and all the fish we caught. Once upon a time, he wrapped me in his jacket. Now I will wrap him in this shawl, our friendship coming full-circle.

Light

Day 52: They say that photography is all about the light. The right light is what that guy with the 40-pound lens is waiting for up at Reflection Lake, and he's so wrapped up in getting the shadows at just the perfect shade of purple that he's oblivious to being eaten by mosquitoes. Light can change the mood of a photo and its ambience, casting a pall on a happy event or brightening a dour one. Photographers talk about light in many terms: backlight, key light, highlight, harsh light, fill light, catch-light, and so on. They carry umbrellas and external flash attachments, strobes, reflectors. Light is an obsession and a passion with us, and yet it is elusive, a perfection never quite attainable, a nirvana just beyond our reach. Too much or too little, and our creations turn commonplace. Poor lighting defeats even our most valiant attempts.

Someone (you know who you are) recently commented on my "good vision." I know you weren't speaking in regard to my sight, but that was my first thought when I read those words. You see, my vision (sight) is lousy, even with corrective lenses. That said, I've learned to compensate. A shadow with a bump in the middle tells me I might trip over a rise in the land, and a bunch of shadows warns me of roots and rocks on the path. I can't see for diddly, but I get by because I've learned to read the light. Does that help my photography? You bet! Light is what brings out those minute details in a subject and turns it into something special, so when you go out to take pictures, don't look for interesting subject matter. Look for interesting light.

Ice, Stone And Flow

Day 51: In my hand is a dog-chewed, yellowed, taped, and altogether cherished book entitled "Water Wonders Every Child Should Know," by Jean M. Thompson, published in 1914. It was my mother's when she was a child, and I came to love it long before I understood the science. In fact, it was my introduction to the fantastical frozen world I later sought out as a mountaineer, that realm where ice takes form as complex crystalline structures with a beauty found otherwise only in the arctic lands. In my climbing years, I saw ice-coated rocks, each face bearing an entirely different series of shapes: curls, coils, bubbles, prisms, columns and the like, and whole mountaintops blanketed in long feathers of wind-etched rime. I first met snow-rollers in those pages, and only later discovered them on the high slopes of Mount Rainier and other northwestern peaks, and in some alpine meadows as well, where conditions favoured their formation. In the depths of crevasses, I found perfect hexagonal plates, seemingly pierced through their centers, arranged on a central spindle of ice like tomatoes on a shish-kebab skewer. I will not say that I have seen all the wonders described in Ms. Thompson's book, but I have had a fair sampling.

Even though my tolerance for cold is growing less as I age, the magical kingdom of frost and snow still fascinates me. Stiff in layers of wool and fleece, I may still be found on my hands and knees at the base of some small fall of water, admiring Nature's most impermanent art.

Fir Fur

Day 50: I went walking during a slow time at work today with my mind focused on taking photos of the larger winter scene, but it was not icicles hanging from the buildings at Longmire which caught my eye, nor the clear prisms of ice dangling from every bough. It was not the waterfalls halted in mid-flow, nor the unsullied white canvas of Longmire Meadow. It was the sight of one brave young Douglas fir defying the soulless frost, a paradigm of survival, which gave the dimensions of the season's footprint. I read in this stalwart, strapling youth's determination a lesson it would do well for us all to remember: in adversity, you will come to know that you are greater than you believe yourself to be.

No Idle Hands

Day 49: Of the many things my grandmother taught me, one basic piece of philosophy stands out: keep your hands busy. She expressed this tenet by saying, "Idle hands are the devil's playground," and while I don't believe in devils, it's quite true that boredom opens doors for mischief in most people, mild or otherwise. It may manifest as something as simple as snacking too heavily. After all, your hands want something to do. Why shouldn't they pick up a scoop of nuts or a piece of chocolate and convey it to your mouth? Busy hands are happy hands, and as you might infer, mine have had plenty to do with more to come. This display doesn't show what's already boxed for shipping, just a few last-minute projects to keep my fingers out of trouble.