Hoya Ilagiorum

Day 230: While Hoya fitchii was trying to impress me with massed blooms, Hoya ilagiorum was preparing to enter the competition for "Most Colourful." Ilagiorum took its own sweet time to form and hold its first flowers, but once it figured out the procedure, the inflorescences have been becoming larger with each successive flowering period. They have also become richer in colour, more like the "red" depicted in the catalog. Although Ilagiorum only put on two clusters on this round, they were quite fragrant. Both species flower on woody spurs which must not be removed since new flowers form at the spurs' tips. This is characteristic of many (but not all) Hoyas.

The Sheepy Years

Day 229: As the spinning wheel revolved, drawing fiber from my guiding fingers, I was wool-gathering in the figurative sense, trying to recall the names of the sheep I'd raised so many years ago. Some came easily to mind: Cindy and Ivy (lower left), Shy and her lamb Paskha (right). They came in twos for the most part, like Dacron and Orlon (ewes) and "the boys" who never had proper names (old bit of farming wisdom: don't name anything you intend to eat). The ram was an exception as a solo. I called him Abo which, in that era, was not considered politically incorrect as it is today. He was black and beautiful, and one cannot consider sheep without a nod toward Australia. But as I mulled over the woollies who had been in my care, my tally was coming up short. Surely I had some old photos somewhere. Pulling down the albums, I found very little record of my sheep-keeping, but at least I had labelled the images and thus discovered the two wayward members of the flock, Champagne and May (upper left). Caring for sheep is one thing. Shearing is quite another. A once-a-year job best left to a professional shearer. I only attempted the task once under my shearer's guidance, and quickly gave it up as a bad idea and back-breaking work. What wool I did not keep for my personal use, I sold to Pendleton Woolen Mills or the Weaving Works (a Seattle-based fiber store). I still have a Fair Isle sweater knit from Cindy and Ivy's wool, memories of rainy-night lambings and sunny pastoral romps spun into its yarn.

Remembering My Father

Day 228: My father is a faint memory. I do not recall his voice, although his words sometimes come to mind. I do not remember his touch, only that he held me on his lap. My recollections of him are visual: at the saw in his wood shop, turning compost at the foot of the garden, driving through the wooden gate as I rode it closed behind the black Ford he always drove. But I cannot see him in my mind, digging in the flower beds among the peonies he so loved, although I know he tended them with care. They were his favourites, those blood-red blossoms, short-lived as was he. At 39 years of age, he passed from this world as a lingering victim of war, and on the following Memorial Day, my mother blanketed his grave with one bright bloom for each year of his life. Peonies, touching the world so briefly and with such beauty, and gone in the blink of an eye.

Intense Blue

Day 227: If you are looking for an intense blue perennial for your garden, it would be hard to beat Lithodora. The foliage of this ground cover remains green through the winter here in the Pacific Northwest, and begins flowering in early spring, reaching a peak in June or July. It spreads fairly rapidly, and while occasional patches die off now and then, they fill in quickly, often in the same season. The plant is pest-free and requires little care other than watering and cutting back if it becomes too rampant. I love having it spill out of the flower beds, where it covers the dandelions bordering my driveway.

Fitchii Goes Berserk

Day 226: I must be doing something right. Hoya fitchii, fondly known as "Fitch," has gone completely berserk. I might be off by one or two, but I have counted at least 14 umbels, most now fully open and perfuming my living room. A few more are still developing. This is by far the most lavish display Fitch has put on. Meanwhile, his cousin H. ilagiorum has two clusters, one nearly open and one still tightly closed. Both plants hang in a north window, which I think may be a major factor in bringing them into bloom successfully, along with allowing their soil to dry out almost completely before giving them water. To water, I drench the pots and allow them to drain before putting them back in the saucers. Oddly, my old standard H. carnosa has yet to develop a spur despite receiving the same treatment...and it's supposed to be easy to bring into flower.

Eurasian Collared-dove, Streptopelia Decaocto

Day 225: As if Band-tailed Pigeons weren't bad enough, I now have another unwelcome guest at my feeders. No, this is not a Mourning Dove, although it looks very similar. Note the black line on the back of the neck. This is a Eurasian Collared-dove, a bird whose range has expanded to include most of the United States outside the Northeast since an accidental release from a Bahamian pet store in the 1970s. In some locales such as Texas and Florida, Collared-doves are reported to be displacing native doves with whom they compete at feeders. As far as I'm concerned, they're just another (insert the purple-hued invective of your choice) pigeon, although they do contribute to my cardiovascular health, given the number of times each day I leap from my chair and run at the window, shrieking and flapping my arms.

Towel Day 2023

Day 224: "'This must be Thursday,' said Arthur to himself, sinking low over his beer. 'I never could get the hang of Thursdays.'"

I have to admit, it took me a long time to get the hang of Douglas Adams's books. Initially, I was put off by the sheer ridiculousness of a place where people were named Beeblebrox and Slartibartfast, but eventually, Adams' extraordinary understanding of physics and his linguistic tricks wormed their way into my consciousness, and I was able to put aside my conviction that, as far as these novels were concerned, popularity did not equate with quality. That said, as I re-read them again in observance of Towel Day, I am still convinced that Adams walked straight past the sign which read "Keep off the grass," and therefore managed to avoid being institutionalized as a danger to himself and others by being able to present himself as a rational being when in public. Thus, my friends, I wish you a happy Towel Day, and no matter how it goes wherever you are, "Don't panic."

(Background photo courtesy of NASA)

Tiger Stripes

Day 223: I didn't know what to expect when I pulled a fresh and illegal planting from a problematic site, but I brought it home and stuck it in the ground alongside several others I've removed from the same location over the years. The plastic tag, still in the soil, called them "Violas" (as opposed to "Pansies") and I was a little worried that they'd turn out to be of the "Johnny-jump-up" type I've worked so diligently to remove from my flower beds. When the buds opened up a few days ago, I decided I didn't really care how much they spread because their "tiger stripes" are absolutely enchanting. I've never seen Violas so finely and completely marked before. Unfortunately, the specific varietal name was not included on the tag, but I see them listed in seed houses as "Eye of the Tiger" and "Tiger Eye." They are an edible Viola. Imagine them sugared and placed on a cake top!

It's A Fig!

Day 222: It's a fig! Now if I can just keep that stinkin' squirrel from picking it like the varmints did last year, it may grow to an edible size. At this point, it appears to be the only one, but somebody has to be first, right? The tree is "Desert King," now about four feet tall and branching nicely. Last year, eight or nie figs began to form, but when they reached this point, they started disappearing. Examining the ground on my hands and knees, I could find no evidence that they had dropped naturally, but it was not until later in the season that I put two to two and came up with two candidates: raccoons and/or squirrels. Given that my squirrel population has been exploding these past few years, I think they're the culprits. So how do you squirrel-proof a tree? That question could go in the books as one of the greatest mysteries of all time.

Turning Over A New Loaf

Day 221: It's almost impossible to kill a sourdough starter, but between refrigerator failure and stress overload which compelled me to make quicker breads, my starter died. Or at least I thought it did, which is one and the same thing because I threw it out. Maybe there was something else going on. I'm not sure. In any case, I was unable to make sourdough for several months until my weaving friend Ed gave me a fresh start; literally, as in "half a cup." It needed to be bulked up before there was enough to make my usual recipe, but it turned out a nicely tangy loaf, although the rise could have been better. I settled down with YouTube in the hopes of finding some clue as to the reason, and in so doing, I discovered the enchanting subject of making bread in a Dutch oven. The technique is particularly suited to sourdough.

These days, anyone who has a camera and the ability to process videos can make themselves sound like they know their business. There are a lot of people on YouTube who do not. After watching any number of self-proclaimed experts, I turned to my favourite British chef for a workable recipe. John Kirkwood's instructions are clear, simple and virtually idiot-proof, as my first Dutch oven loaf proves. I did make a few minor adaptations, the first being that he did not allow for saving any of the sponge for a subsequent loaf. I fed my starter a couple of days ahead to be sure I had enough in reserve after removing the amount called for in his recipe. The second alteration I made was that I dumped the final proof out of the banneton onto a sheet of parchment paper which I then lifted into the hot Dutch oven rather than turning it directly into the pot. Otherwise, I followed his instructions exactly. The crust was a little less crisp than I'd expected, so next time, I will raise the oven temp from his recommendation of 430° F to 450° F, and will pre-heat the Dutch oven for 45 minutes instead of 30. Those changes are noted in the recipe below.

Sponge
100 g starter
100 g water
100 g bread flour

Dough
460 g bread flour
230 g water
1 Tbsp veg oil
1 1/2 tsp kosher salt (or 1 tsp table salt)

Feed starter 1:1:1 two days before Baking Day.

From the newly fed starter, make sponge the night before (at least six hours). No sponge will be returned to the starter jar.

Using the 300 g sponge, add water and mix well. Add oil and mix well. Add all the flour and the salt. Mix well. Dough will be wet at first, then may seem too dry. DO NOT ADD MORE FLOUR OR WATER. Cover and proof for 45 minutes. Pour dough out onto work surface and do a few rounds of stretch-and-fold. Wet your hands to keep the dough from sticking to them. Cover and proof for an additional 45 minutes.

Coat banneton with rice flour. This is how the dough is shaped for transferring to the Dutch oven. Alternately, if you want to dust some seeds on the surface of the bread, use a round-bottomed pan which has been greased with a little butter and oil instead of a banneton. Sprinkle seeds into pan.

Do another quick stretch-and-fold. Shape the loaf gently into a round ball, smooth on top. Transfer to the banneton/pan with the smooth side down. Dust lightly with flour and cover. Let rise for another hour. Fifteen minutes in, start preheating the Dutch oven in a 450 degree oven. It will be nice and hot at the end of the 1-hour rise period.

When the final rise is complete, tip the dough out onto a sheet of parchment paper and place into the HOT Dutch oven. Slash the loaf if desired. Put the lid on and bake for 30 minutes. Remove lid and bake for an additional three to five minutes to brown the surface.

Spring Whites

Day 220: Although one could hardly say it's a hard-and-fast rule, I've noticed over the years that there are "colour seasons" here in the Pacific Northwest. The blues come on first, followed by whites, then yellow, trailed slightly later by reds and oranges, then back into purples and blues to close. Certainly, there are strays, particularly when non-native species join the parade, but by and large, we have Camas, Dogwood, Scotch Broom, Paintbrush and Arnica, shading out into Asters and Gentians. Currently, we're in white mode, and that includes nursery plants. Snowball bush, Mountain-ash, Lily-of-the-Valley and Spiraea are in full flower in my yard, with the Columbines just beginning, and an embarrassed early Peony hiding its red face shyly behind their foliage. My flower beds will peak in two or three weeks, then slowly taper off until I start thinking I should buy some Chrysanthemums for fall. But I never do. It seems so silly to add them when I know first frost is just around the corner.

Matchmaking

Day 219: Ah, the matchmaking season has begun...in the horticultural sense, you understand. I've learned over the years that the two Akebia vines are only compatible when the females are purple and the males are white, so with a soft camel-hair paintbrush, I tease pollen from the anthers and transfer it to receptive stigmata, as evidenced by tiny drops of sticky secretion at the tips. This year, I improved on the system by first gathering the pollen into a tiny container (the bottom of an insect-magnifier box) rather than trying to carry it from one plant to the other on the brush. Last year, I got a little carried away and wound up with more Akebia fruits than I really wanted to eat (over 40!), so this year, I'm being a little more judicious with my hand pollination. While Akebia fruits aren't to most peoples' tastes, I rather enjoy having a few...operative word there: "few." A dozen will do nicely, thank you, and I may have already exceeded that number if all my attempts succeed. There does come a point, however, when matchmaking can become too fruitful (ahem!), no matter how much fun it is to pair up the boys and girls.

Scratch-and-Sniff

Day 218: I wish I could include a scratch-and-sniff patch with this post to carry to my readers the marvelous blend of fragrances rising from my yard on these over-warm afternoons. While the lilac dominates, an occasional current of air brings lily-of-the-valley into play, both scents riding atop a deeper, softer layer of mountain-ash. When these fade, the Philadelphus steps up, its sweet aroma filling the entire neighbourhood. It does my heart good to see the lilac strong again. When I moved here some thirty years ago, it was leggy and feeble, having grown in the shadow of an immense branch of Douglas-fir. When the branch was removed, I cut the lilac back radically per the instructions in a horticultural manual. They assured me it would benefit from the pruning and be back at full strength in just a few years. That was far from the case! It took close to twenty years before it bore a single flower. Since then, it has been putting on a few new spikes each year until now, at long last, it looks like a lilac again.

Hearts And Flowers

Day 217: Asian Bleeding-heart (a commercial hybrid) delivers hearts and flowers around Mother's Day here in the Pacific Northwest, larger and brighter than those of the native species. The plant itself is rather delicate in that the watery stems break easily, so place it somewhere it is not likely to be damaged. I learned this lesson the hard way shortly after moving here, but after I moved the plant to a north-side flower bed and set it back from the border where it could spread, it has done quite well. Hummingbirds are drawn to the bright pink flowers, but the main pollinators of bleeding-hearts, whether native or non-native, are the long-tongued butterflies and bees. While it is now regarded as the sole member of the genus Lamprocapnos (L. spectabilis), it may also be listed under the synonym Dicentra.

The Long Way Around

Day 216: The wooded lot adjacent to my property is home to an abundant population of Wild Ginger (Asarum caudatum). So abundant is it that a few years back, I decided to try to transplant some to my yard. The plants established in two of the three spots I chose for them and have been steadily spreading. Today I went next door to photograph the unusual flowers and, following a deer trail, cleaned out at least twenty occupied spider webs with my face. My ankles were savaged by trailing blackberry vines, my face scratched by dangling fir twigs as I tried to duck beneath them to get to the thickest ginger patch. When I arrived, I noticed that the leaves were still quite small. Closer examination found buds in the first formative stages, but none fully open. Having made the journey without profit, I forged a shortcut through the tangle to reach my back fence. Over the wire I went...to take a photo of the ginger growing in my very own yard. Sometimes, you just gotta do it the hard way.

Camas Prairie

Day 215: A regional legend tells us that at one time, Mt. Olympus (the highest peak in Washington's Olympic range) had three wives. The youngest was jealous of the other two, and decided to leave. Although she had no idea where she would go, she packed a cedar basket with food for her journey. Among the staples were the roots of the Blue Camas plant (Camassia quamash) which could be boiled or roasted and pounded to make flour. Leaving the Olympic Peninsula, she forged south, and after a few days of travel, she had reached the lower end of Puget Sound. By this time, she was tired and hungry and decided to rest and prepare a meal. As she worked, a few camas bulbs spilled from her basket, unnoticed. The next day, the young wife resumed her travel, eventually arriving at a place she thought would be a suitable home. There, she spread her skirts and settled onto the land to become the peak we now call Mount Rainier. The camas bulbs she had inadvertently left behind multiplied. Now you can see fields of them on the prairies around Yelm.

Evening Grosbeak Female

Day 214: Few things in life are certain: death, taxes and Murphy's Law. The latter was in full effect on Saturday when I should have been able to rack up several more species for Global Big Day but for the sudden disappearance of a few of my more common birds. And true to form, over the following two days, several of them showed up: the Red-winged Blackbirds (normally a constant nuisance), Canada Geese and a Red-breasted Sapsucker. On the other hand, only the atomic clock is more reliable than Evening Grosbeaks who have discovered an unlimited supply of black-oil sunflower seed, and they were arguably my most abundant bird in the count, even topping Steller's Jays. I never get tired of photographing them, and this was my best capture of a female. They'll be around all summer, sometimes in smaller numbers, sometimes greater, filling the air with their chirps.

A Little Big Day

Day 213: Well, I didn't break my record of 25 species, although if everyone in my crowd of "usuals" had shown up, I could have done. As it was, the three species of sparrow who were here on Friday failed to drop by, as did the Sapsucker and the Northern Flicker, both of whom are here almost every day. My grand total for 2023 was 21. Even odder was the fact that there were no Red-winged Blackbirds to chase away. Any other day, I'd have been shooing them off every fifteen minutes. There were no major surprises in my backyard Big Day unless you cound a few Barn Swallows who were the first I've seen this year. Temps near 90 kept bird activity to a minimum. In fact, there were long periods throughout the day when there were no birds anywhere in sight, and that in itself is worthy of remark. Still, I suppose many people would envy someone who can chalk up 21 species from the comfort of their chair at the window. It took me thirty years to reach this point.

Osprey, Pandion Haliaetus

Day 212: It is only appropriate that the subject matter of today's post should be a bird, but because it is Global Big Day and I'm in the midst of my own "backyard bird count," the Lake St. Clair Osprey will have to suffice. Lake St. Clair contains half a dozen or so small islands, the largest of which is probably close to an acre. Regardless of their size, most have a house or cabin on them. Having humans around has not deterred a family of Ospreys from nesting on one of them, for their nest is built at least 100' above lake level. It is a magnificent edifice of sticks, probably big enough for me to curl up in, stuck in the very tip-top of a Doug-fir. It's been there for as long as I've been visiting the lake, and sometimes I've been lucky enough to spot the chicks' heads when mom comes back from hunting with a gorge full of trout. I was not so fortunate this week, but I could hear the mewing of the younglings as the parent made repeated trips to feed them, and when she'd emptied her gullet, she would return to her perch in this ancient pine to survey the water. If a fish strayed too close to the surface, she would stoop on it with a great splash, sometimes missing her prey but for the most part, being successful with the grab. Soon, there will be more Ospreys in flight over Lake St. Clair.

Pond Slider

Day 211: Pond Sliders (Trachemys scripta) are an invasive species. Once sold in pet stores, many of them have been released into the wild by owners who became bored with turtle-keeping, and now they are proliferating in many lakes here in the Pacific Northwest. It's been several years since I spotted and identified my first one at Lake St. Clair, and I've watched the population grow. For that matter, I've watched the turtles themselves grow from palm-sized youngesters to foot-long behemoths like this long-clawed male. He was sunning himself on a floating log where I had seen three earlier in the day as I passed by two women kayaking together. They engaged me in conversation, and I mentioned the invasive nature of these turtles, and was shocked to hear one of the women respond, "I'm glad I rescued one I found a few weeks ago." This is the attitude of too many people when it comes to invasives. Plants are "pretty," turtles are "adorable." No thought is given to the damage they are doing to native populations and habitats, and regrettably, education appears to have no effect on the individuals who won't look beyond the visual appeal of cute varmints and showy weeds. Our short-sightedness will be our undoing for, as any turtle will attest, slow and steady wins the race.

Sundews Waking

Day 210: As I approached their log in my kayak, I was beginning to worry about my "kids." I could only see a few blushes of red in the moss and grass, and small ones at that. I wasn't thinking about the persistent cold weather which had carried winter into April until I got close enough to see that the Sundews' little sticky, insect-trapping paddles were still quite small, and in fact some of them were still tightly closed, looking rather like bean sprouts trapped in the moss. Then it occurred to me that they were only now emerging from their long winter's nap, having spent the cold season curled in on themselves to form a structure called a hibernaculum (plural, hibernacula). This is how they survive, husbanding their own warmth, minimizing exposure of delicate tissues to freezing temperatures. At this point, they're barely out of bed and haven't had their first cup of coffee. I have no doubt that the next time I visit, they'll be fully awake and possibly even flowering.

A Perfect Paddle

Day 209: It was an absolutely perfect day for a paddle on Yelm's Lake St. Clair, the first time I've been in the 'yak in two years. I spent about three hours on the water, covered a little over four miles, ate a cookie lunch in Pirate's Cove, saw five turtles, an Osprey and a Bald Eagle, and visited some old friends who will make an appearance in a subsequent post. A light breeze kept glare at a minimum, disturbing the surface of the water only slightly. Not too hot, not too cold...I think Goldilocks would have approved this day. But four miles was my limit, and I'm glad I didn't push for more even though I hated to leave. I'll be back. Those "old friends" I mentioned were only just waking up from hibernation.

Global Big Day

Day 208: You don't have to be as crazy about birding as the characters in the movie "Big Year," but being a little bit cracked on the subject helps. Basically, this project helps document bird species worldwide through the eBird website. For full details, go to https://ebird.org/news/global-big-day-2023. I do not submit my species records to them because you must give a location, and of course mine are all from my yard. If I should happen to spot an anhinga, I don't want Bostick showing up in my garden!

Checking my records, last year I tallied up 25, the last visitor of the day being a single Goldfinch, a species I had expected to see throughout the day. Over the next 10-14 days, several other notable blanks were filled in, but of course they didn't add to my count because they showed up late for the party. I made a master list last night, showing 52 possibilities, all of which I have seen from my living room window at some point in the last 30 years. Admittedly, the Snow Geese were in the pasture across the road, but since I didn't need to leave my property to observe them, they count as a "yard sighting." Temperatures in the upper 80s may swing the tally either way. Can I beat last year's count? Given the current number, I think I'll be lucky to hit 20.

Back In The Saddle

Day 207: Last year at this time, I was suffering. There was no question about going out in the kayak. I couldn't even lift a cup of coffee out of the microwave. Given that I'd already had a major rebuild of my right shoulder, I wasn't keen on repeating the experience, and in any event, I just don't go to the doctor if I can possibly avoid doing so. During this same time frame, my botany partner had a knee replaced. He was very pleased with the relief he got using a recirculating cold-water pack and suggested that I might try putting ice on my shoulder. I purchased a specially-shaped ice pack for the purpose and for several months, was icing the shoulder six or seven times each day. It seemed to be improving, and gradually, I tapered off the treatment. In hindsight, I realize that I had apparently dislocated it when I raised up under a kitchen counter. The ice reduced the swelling, and in confirmation of my suspicion, one afternoon, there was a loud POP as it snapped back into place, and any lingering pain simply disappeared. At that point, kayak season was behind me without a single outing, not even to visit the sundews, and I swore 2023 was not going to be a repeat. The 'yak rack is on the car, and if the weather cooperates later this week, I'm going for a paddle!

The Berry Pen

Day 206: Last year's garden was close to a total failure due to a late cold snap which was followed almost immediately by a very hot, dry spell. The only real success story was in my gooseberry crop which yielded up enough for two full batches of jam. The currants (left) were hit by disease and had to be pruned radically to remove infected branches, and consequently bore not a single berry to add colour to the mix. On the other hand, the gooseberries (right) produced a record number of fruits, to the point that at the very end of the season, I left a few on the bushes for the birds to enjoy. The Berry Pen is in full flower now, and if the weather cooperates, I should get fruit from both this year.

Sparrow Dipped In Raspberry Juice

Day 205: For all of the fact that David Sibley's bird illustrations are often even better than real life because he has placed subtle emphasis on critical field identification points, you cannot beat Roger Tory Peterson's lyrical descriptions. Take Purple Finch (Haemorhous purpureus) for example. Of its colouration, Peterson says that it looks like a "sparrow dipped in raspberry juice." How apt! Without its pinkish wash, this bird would be just one more LBJ ("Little Brown Job"), and indeed the females are just that, although their heavier bills will clue observant birders into their true nature. Both Sibley and Peterson point to the blurry breast markings to distinguish this species from House Finch. I say, "Houses have shingles," i.e., strong brown flecks on the breast, whereas Purples look like their dye jobs ran down their shirt fronts in the rain. Cassin's (another similar species) could almost be said to be a blend of the two. It has streaked flanks only slightly lighter than those of House Finch, but the blurry breast markings of Purple. A trained eye can distinguish brighter red on Cassin's crown, although this feature is fairly difficult to detect. Good luck to you if you live in an area where the ranges overlap as they do here!

Nepps

Day 204: I'm going to blame it on stress. My guiding rule about having no more than one project of any particular type in progress at the same time seems to have flown right out the window. Not only is my spinning wheel busy, I have yarn on one supported spindle and five...count them, five!...active drop spindles. Admittedly, two of the latter hold "leftovers," the bits I clean out of the carders when changing colours which therefore can't be spun in the worsted method I prefer, but still usable spun as woolen.

I have been wanting to spin some "confetti" yarn for the longest time, but was having trouble finding multicoloured nepps. Now, "nepps" is a word most of you won't recognize unless you've heard me talk about them before. Also spelled with one p, nepps are defined as "hopelessly entangled knots of fiber" which isn't as bad a thing as it sounds, at least in the right circumstances. Nepps can give a wonderful texture to a finished yarn, as well as visual interest. Since I couldn't find mixed-colour wool nepps through any of my suppliers, I went with a second option: a prepared wool/bamboo top with the nepps already built in, albeit only in two colours. I decided to spin the fiber on a drop spindle because it's slower, giving me broader opportunities to spread out any recalcitrant neppy concentrations as I go along.

Snowflakes In May

Day 203: I don't mind snowflakes in May at all, as long as they're of the Leucojum persuasion! Strongly resembling Snowdrops on steroids, Snowflakes are taller, the flowering stalks rising about a foot from ground level. The foliage is proportionately larger as well. The flowers are not borne as densely as those of Snowdrops, but again, they're bigger. Mine share a pot with the Fritillary Lilies and bloom at approximately the same time. Snowflakes of the other sort...the cold, wet kind...will not find a welcome here in May, but these may come in drifts as deep as they please and will never hear me object.

Parrot Season

Day 202: They're here, and they think they're starving! Yes, both species of "parrots" have returned to my feeders in droves. The amount of seed these birds can put away never ceases to amaze me. Sitting in the chair closest to the closed double-pane window, my ears are assailed by the sound of seeds being cracked continuously. It's not unlike the crackle of a fire on a chilly winter day, and equally warming to my spirit. Black-headed Grosbeaks (Pheucticus melanocephalus, left) sing a melodious carol; Evening Grosbeaks (Coccothraustes/Hesperiphona vespertinus/a, right) speak a strong "CHURP!" to voice appreciation for the ready supply of black-oil sunflower seed I provide. Of all the birds in my yard, hand-sitters aside, none gives me as great pleasure as my horde of "parrots."

Hummers' Delight

Day 201: The planting hummingbird and pollinator gardens has achieved great popularity in recent years. Who wouldn't want to help the birds and bees? However, there is a factor which receives very little discussion proportionately, and that is that by selecting non-native plants, we actually may be doing more harm than good. Y'see, native species of things kinda go hand-in-hand. A certain type of bee is drawn to a certain type of plant for a reason. Perhaps the plant has developed a unique structure which only that bee can reach. The plant benefits because the bee pollinates it. The bee benefits because the plant provides a nutritional source. The plant is dependent upon the specific bee, although the bee is not so restricted. Given another more easily accessible means of obtaining nectar, the bee may forgo visiting the plant which is dependent on it. Non-native species can be (and often are) stronger attractors of insects. By drawing the pollinators to them, the native species go neglected, and therefore cannot reproduce. A notorious example of a strong attractor would be Buddleia, commonly called Butterfly Bush. The name says it all. Its scent draws butterflies from far and wide, pulling them away from the native plants they should be visiting. Likewise, Elephant-head Pedicularis is buzz-pollinated by specific bee species whose wings vibrate at exactly the right frequency to initiate pollen release. If non-native plants make up the bulk of your landscaping, you're creating the equivalent of wall-to-wall fast-food joints for pollinators. Give them some healthier options with natives. Rufous Hummingbirds love our Red-flowering Currants here in the Pacific Northwest.

Mystery Object

Day 200: Some of my older readers may know what purpose this unusual object served in its day, although I am willing to bet that few of them know its proper name. It is roughly 7" tall (not counting the handle), 9" wide at the base tapering to 8" at the top, and has a red plastic liner 5" deep and 6" wide. The liner is not removable without loosening several screws which hold it in place. I use it to hold small balls of prepared wool top for spinning, since I'm sure that Tippy would love to play with them if he was given the chance. Oddly, I do not remember how I came into possession of a firkin, but there it sits, having found a second calling in fiberarts, its days of holding butter gone with the last moo of someone's family cow. In some households, it was more commonly called a "butter box." As near as I can tell from my research into the style and construction, it dates from 1900-1910.