Rose Campion With Hoverfly

Day 260: I can't count the number of times I've seen a Park visitor freak out when a "bee" hovered in front of their face, to then be disbelieving when I try to explain that the insect in question is a hoverfly, a bee-mimic and harmless. The combination of yellow and black stripes pushes the panic button in most people, and not without good reason. This of course works in the hoverfly's favour, keeping it from being snatched up by a bird. Besides not having a stinger, hoverflies (aka "flower flies" or syrphid flies) differ in appearance from bees in several ways, most notably that they possess only one pair of wings. Bees and wasps have two. Adult Hoverflies are known to suck "honeydew" from both aphids and scale (another insect pest), and Hoverfly larvae feed primarily (and voraciously!) on aphids. "Flower flies" are important pollinators, so count yourself doubly lucky if you have syrphids such as this specimen of Eupeodes fumipennis in your garden.

A Garden Long Ago

Day 259: When in my late 20s I married for the second time, I convinced my husband to let me tear up our suburban back yard to put in a vegetable garden. Togerher, we dug the sod by hand, screened out the larger rocks and worked in some fertilizer, and at that point, he decided gardening wasn't his cup of tea, turning over the tasks of planting and weeding to me. I have to admit I wasn't as dedicated to the task of pulling weeds as I would be today, but by mid-summer, the corn was shoulder-high, the squash had spread its leaves and vines, and the bush bean plants were in flower, shading out all but the most vigorous of the undesirables. No garden is complete without a few sunflowers, and mine soon towered over me. Then as now, they were grown specifically with birds in mind, and a good thing: they were so full of earwigs that after picking one or two heads for our own enjoyment, we abandoned any idea of keeping a few for human consumption. The soil proved too rocky to grow carrots, and the radishes were riddled by worms, but shallowly rooted crops kept us in fresh veg right up to the final zucchini. But my initial foray into growing produce was short-lived. The following year, we moved. The ground at our new abode was nothing but rocks, large and small, and although I eventually coaxed a few beans from it and some potatoes from a bedding of straw, the only thing which ever did well was a slip of Greek oregano I'd been given by a neighbour. It eventually covered a patch ten feet on a side, more determined than even the prairie grass and weeds.

Goldenseal Garden

Day 258: Growing Goldenseal (Hydrastis canadensis) provides both a refreshing and beneficial tonic and a lesson in conservation. The tea made from the leaves takes a bit of getting used to, as it is somewhat acrid and earthy, but when chilled, a single swallow quenches thirst better than lemonade. I never sweeten my goldenseal tea, having become accustomed to and even enjoying the taste. The roots may also be used to make tea, but this is where the conservation lesson enters in. Each plant produces only two leaves. Admittedly, they're the size of a Big-Leaf Maple leaf, but you only get two per root. Obviously, harvesting the roots would be counter-productive in the strictest sense of the term. Likewise, if you were to pick all the leaves, the plants would be unable to photosynthesize and would die off. I began with two commercially-grown plants thirty years ago. This is my Goldenseal Garden today. As you can tell, they've multiplied over the years, and that's due to my harvesting practices. When they reach this stage, I cut my first batch of tea by scissoring off no more than one lobe from any given leaf, only taking what I require for brewing. I made two quarts yesterday, using about a dozen lobes.As the season progresses, I will trim the leaves which weren't used in the first round, cycling through all of them. As the end of the growing period approaches and the leaves begin to show faint signs of yellowing, I will take a second lobe if there are no uncut leaves available. This process allows the plant to complete its cycle and remain healthy. I never harvest the berries in the hopes that fallen seeds will generate more plants, although Hydrastis generally propagates clonally from the root rather than from seed. That said, I'm apparently doing it right. This year's Goldenseal crop is the best it's ever been.

Two Pine-Needle Baskets

Day 257: Pine-needle basketry is not easy on the fingers, so it's been slow going. I have yet to make the lids for these two (or at least for the taller one). They are both 3.5" in diameter and are worked in fern stitch (aka V stitch or wing stitch) except for wheat stitch on the base. Fern stitch is simply wheat stitch with a second diagonal stitch travelling the opposite direction. It's been twenty years or more since I did any pine-needle work, and my hands are not as strong as they used to be, but almost every day I put on a row or two. In between sessions, I wrap the pine needles in a damp towel and put them in the fridge to keep them supple.

Fledge Day

Day 256: For the last two hours, I have been sitting on the countertop with my feet in the kitchen sink watching a miracle happen. I fully expected the young Tree Swallows to fledge yesterday while I was gone, but they waited for me. This morning, I watched as each one of the SIX youngsters tumbled from the box and spread their wings in their first flight. SIX! But for rare exceptions, that is the maximum number of eggs Tachycineta bicolor lays in a clutch. I tried to capture the moment of fledging on video after the first four had launched themselves into a strange new world, but missed the crucial second as twice I fumbled for the record button on the camera while keeping my eyes on the bird in the doorway. More important to me was observing the moment of first flight. After the first three, I was surprised when a fourth head appeared in the opening, even more surprised when it vacated the house and a fifth little beak came into view. When the fifth one flew and a sixth appeared, I could hardly believe it. To the best of my knowledge, the previous record for the House of Chirp was four. The fledglings joined the parents in flight, returning to the doorway to offer chirps of encouragement to those still inside: "Look! I can do it! Flying is fun!" Of the lot, #4 was the most reluctant, taking a full half hour to decide to make the plunge. #5 was out the door ten minutes later, and #6 joined the family two minutes later. It's been a good day.

Proudly Representing...

Day 255: I am proud to be one of six uniformed personnel representing Mount Rainier National Park in Seattle's Pride Parade today, joined by another half dozen employees and their family members who will be on personal time. While the theme of Pride is specifically LGBTQIA+ rights, in my heart and soul, I am walking for everyone who is in any way marginalized. We should celebrate our differences, for only by examining them and exploring them can we progress toward global unity. It probably won't happen in my lifetime, but at least I'll have put my best foot forward.

Butterfly Magnet

Day 254: The Philadephus buds are just beginning to open, and already the Swallowtails are flocking in dozens to nectar at the blossoms. This highly fragrant type (Philadelphus lewisii) grows as a leggy cluster of trunks and may reach heights of 15' or more. It is native to the Northwest, as opposed to the popular shrub P. coronarius. Both are known commonly as "Mock Orange" for their heady scent. Mine towers above the garage roof, serving birds and butterflies alike. At peak bloom, its perfume fills the neighbourhood for a quarter mile radius, particularly on warm afternoons. Although the tree itself is not particularly lovely, the scent more than makes up for its shortfalls. Its ability to draw Swallowtails and Parnassians is a bonus.

Almost Time

Day 253: Any day now, the little ones will fly the coop, and the House of Chirp will have served its purpose through another season. The parents are still delivering food directly to wide gapes, not yet trying to tempt the youngsters from the safety of the nest. This year's parents have been more protective than in years past, apparently seeing me as a threat, dive-bombing me so close that I have been struck by a wing in passing, and cursing swallow swear-words from the telephone line any time I'm in the yard. I applaud their diligence, however it might inconvenience me if I need something from the garage. In the twenty-plus years the House of Chirp has been used, only one chick failed to thrive. That's a pretty good record. So while we're on the subject of nestlings, let me say it: there is nothing...absolutely nothing!...cuter than baby birds.

A Good Ear

Day 252: When my sourdough starter died of causes unknown approximately a year ago, I was plunged into a period of existential crisis which lasted about six months. During that period, I could not turn out a decent loaf of bread. Oh, they were fine as far as taste was concerned, but invariably, the second rise would be weak and I would get very little oven spring. I blamed the weather. I blamed the cold. I blamed the yeast and the wheat crop and the flour mills. I tried waiting for a warm sunny day. I changed brands of flour and yeast. I bought a bread machine. But for the life of me, I could not figure out what was causing my loaves to be flat and dense. In over fifty years of bread-making on a ten-day schedule, I had had a few unresponsive doughs, but never such a long run of failures. "I think," I said to myself, "that I've lost my mojo."

I was lamenting the issue to a friend one day, and he offered me some of his sourdough starter. I am tempted to say I prefer sourdough over yeast breads, but the truth of it is that I simply prefer homemade bread regardless of the type. I took Ed up on his offer, and after doubling his starter a couple of times, I made a sourdough loaf. The results fell somewhat short of my expectations, but I could see there was hope. Then I started poking around for different recipes and came up with a high-hydration "artisan" loaf which required baking in a Dutch oven. It has now become my favourite version of sourdough.

This loaf should have the perfect "ear" typical of artisanal breads, i.e., it must be shallowly scored with a bread lame or sharp knife so that when oven spring occurs, it does not burst along the top or sides, but opens along the cut. It tends to get rather crisp along the edge and is inconvenient when slicing the bread, so after my loaves have cooled, I make a horizontal cut to prune the "ear" from the top of the loaf. You understand, of course, that this is for purely functional reasons. It has nothing to do with wanting to have a piece of fresh-baked sourdough lavished with butter for a nibbly-bite, nothing at all.

Fruit Of The Indian Plum

Day 251: Now more often referred to by the name of Osoberry, Oemleria cerasiformis will be listed in many field guides as "Indian Plum." I learned it that way, and since the "oso-" prefix means "bear" and an entirely different plant is called "Bearberry," I find it difficult to shift to the new common name. Again I will say it: this is why I prefer the Latin nomenclature. There can be no mistaking Oemleria for Arctostaphyllos. Yes, bears do enjoy these small "plums" when they can get them, and it's not uncommon to find bear scat liberally salted with the stones which resemble a cherry pit, but most likely the birds will beat them to the fruit. The native peoples of the area used the thin flesh in pemmican, and made tea of the leaves and bark. The wood rarely reaches a sufficient diameter to be of any major use, but is straight-grained and strong, and can be carved to make spoons, knitting needles and other small implements.

Great Horned Owl, Bubo Virginianus

Day 250: My botany partner Joe has sharp eyes, so when I noticed him staring at a large glob of moss in a distant maple in the deep shade of the Chehalis-Western Trail, I knew I wasn't seeing the whole picture. "Whatcha got?" I said. "I think it's a Great Horned Owl," he replied. As the only person of the four of us with any zoom capability, I brought my camera up for a better look. Owl's "horns" were obvious even in profile, and when it turned its head, I could see the distinctive feather pattern around the eyes. But Owl was having a little snooze, eyes closed. I took a series of twenty or so photos, and then we walked on. At the two-mile mark, 97-year old Bronka Sundstrom suggested we turn around before the rain moved in. As we again approached the owl's maple, we saw a crow harrassing the larger bird. Owl was now awake and watching the crow, although it wasn't particularly concerned about it. I sat down on the ground at the edge of the trail so that I could stabilize the camera on my knee, hoping that the owl would turn to face the lens. After several minutes with no luck, I tried hooting. Then I tried cawing. The owl wasn't impressed. Over to my left, Joe was fussing with his phone and eventually brought up a series of recordings of Great Horned Owl vocalizations. One, harsher than the others, carried to our subject and made it turn toward us briefly. In that moment, I snapped this photo which, with the magic of post-processing, I've been able to enhance sufficiently to record the sighting.

Grand Finale

Day 249: The flower beds are winding up in a grand finale, with a last, lavish display of colour from the columbines, honeysuckle and delphinium, and will soon yield the stage to the lesser players of volunteer snapdragons, Nigella and the rest of the supporting cast. I have never been one for putting in bedding plants, although every year I give the thought a brief moment of consideration. It seems so wasteful to plant something, only to have it wither in the hot summer spotlights. Let the stage crew have its day in green workman's overalls. Foliage! Without it, the show could not go on.

Potential

Day 248: We've been down this path a few times before, the kiwi vine and I, and I keep hoping that This Will Be The Year that nothing interferes with production. Last year, it formed eight fruits on a plant which thickly covers two seven-foot trellis arches and three feet of fence on either side of them. Theoretically, it is a self-fertile variety, but you'd never guess it. The fruits, gods of weather permitting, should be smooth and small, end-of-thumb sized nuggets which pack all the flavour wallop of their larger fuzzy relatives. However, a shortage of pollinators, excessive heat and protracted cold have all played the role of the villain in years past. This year...this year has got to be The Year. The vine is so covered with buds that if even a tenth of them develop into berries, I should have enough to share with friends, but "if" is the operative. Our current weather pattern is cool and moist. I don't see many bugs. But I see buds, hundreds and hundreds of buds. Come on, kiwi! Do your thing!

Marah Oregana, Wild Cucumber

Day 247: Don't be fooled by the name. The small spiny fruits of Wild Cucumber (Marah oregana) are not edible. In fact, all parts of the plant contain cucurbitacins, compounds which can cause severe gastrointestinal reactions. Like many other cucurbits, Marah (an alternate common name) is a vine. The curling tendrils it produces will be familiar to anyone who has ever grown cucumbers or squash, and allow the plant to climb fences or any other available support (a tightly curled mass of tendrils can be seen in the photo just to the right of the unopened buds at the top of the inflorescence). Male and female flowers are borne on the same plant, generally with a spike (raceme) of male flowers appearing above a single female flower in the axil. Plants are self-fertile, and pollination is done by a variety of insects. Fruits can be up to three inches long by two inches in diameter, are dotted with spines in varying degree, and contain a few large seeds which are released when the "cucumber" ripens and bursts. The plant is also known as Manroot (Man-root or Bigroot) for its large tubers.

Hattie's Cousin Rhip

Day 246: Recently, I featured Hatiora rosea in a post, and discussed the taxonomic shifts the species has undergone. Some authorities refer to it as Rhipsalidopsis or even Schlumbergera. The same debate rages over a similar group of epiphytic cacti. For no scientific reason other than dissimilar foliage to that of Hatiora, I choose to refer to these as Rhipsalidopsis. Sometimes, you just have to put your foot down with those dang taxonomists! This, therefore, is Hattie's cousin Rhip. Rhip is supposed to bloom at Easter, but he's decided to go full bore now instead. Although the species (Rhipsalidopsis gaertneri) comes in a range of warm colours from pink/lavender to peach, rose and white, this flame-red version is my favourite. It can be brought into bloom more easily than Hatiora, even if it doesn't follow the calendar.

Clivia In Full Glory

Day 245: Some things deserve a second mention. It has now been 12 days since the Clivia's first flower opened. That initial blossom has dropped, but five more have replaced it and there are three still in bud. Although Clivia belongs to the same family as Amaryllis and resembles that popular winter-blooming plant in both foliage and flower, its habits are dissimilar. Clivia does not have a fully dormant period like Amaryllis, and holds onto its leaves year-'round. It grows from roots rather than from a bulb, and prefers lower light than its cousin. However, it does require a rest period during which time it needs cool nighttime temperatures and less frequent watering. The normal flowering period for Clivia is in March or April, according to everything I've read, so perhaps mine still needs to adjust its schedule. After all, it took twenty years of sitting in the shaded west window of my bedroom before this beauty decided to put on a show.

Hypericum Anagalloides, Tinker's-penny

Day 244: The genus Hypericum contains almost 500 species, all of which..."ALL," I said...can be referred to by the common name "St. John's wort," and if that doesn't convince you of the value of specific taxonomic epithets, nothing will. Hypericum anagalloides is one of the smallest, and is native to western North America where it is commonly called "Tinker's-penny" or "Creeping St. John's wort" (a term which may also apply to another Hypericum species). It can be found in bogs and mountain meadows as a dense mat no more than two inches high, its bright yellow flowers hidden among chartreuse-green foliage. Ironically, the second half of its Latin binomial has its roots in Greek: "ana" meaning "again" and "-agallein," "to delight in," referring to the fact that the flowers close at night and re-open the following day.

A Proper Basket Base

Day 243: Recently, I decided to pick up pine-needle basketry again, a craft I have not done for at least 25 years. I didn't have the proper thread to use for the stitchery, and the gauge I had cut from an old ball-point pen was really rather larger than I wanted. I made a 5" trivet using 8/4 cotton rug warp, and while it was good to have the practice, it is by no means a thing of any beauty. I ordered some waxed polyester thread and then began searching the house for anything I could use for a smaller gauge. The gauge is used to control the diameter of the coils. As the weaver reaches the end of one bundle of pine needles and the gauge begins to feel loose, more needles are inserted until the gauge is snug. The ends of the needles are concealed in the center of the coil as work progresses around. Any stray points can be clipped off when the basket is finished (and there will be a few). The pen I had cut to make my first gauge had an internal diameter of 6 mm. I wanted to reduce that by 1-2 mm. I must have tipped out the contents of every drawer in the house in search of suitable gauge material before a liquid-soap dispenser caught my eye. The tube on the pump had an internal diameter of 4 mm, perfect for the job. The stitches I have used in this flat basket base start with plain wrap to form the center, followed by several rows of split stitch. After a few rounds, I switched to V-stitch. The outer round shown here is an increase row with new V-stitches being added between those of the previous round. I will continue working V-stitch until the base is as wide as I want, and then as the edges of the basket are brought up, I will change to the decorative three-pronged fern stitch which is so characteristic to pine-needle basketry.

Triantha Occidentalis

Day 242: The day began like any other Botany Day. Team Biota had a list of five "target plants" which either hadn't been seen in the Park for 20+ years or whose habitat was in jeopardy due to the perfectly natural process of succession. We spent a couple of hours feeding ravenous mosquitoes at one location, and only turned up one of the plants on the list: Triantha occidentalis, also known as Western False Asphodel. There were half a dozen stems, none fully in bloom, and it was all too obvious that in a few more years, their plot will be filled in by other vegetation. That said, even though we hadn't checked off the whole list, we found a few uncommon species which were not among those we were seeking. Moving along, we made a few other stops and then decided to check on some of our other favourites to see if they were in bloom.

We have a secondary goal when we are in the field, and that is to find additional sites where some of the less rare species occur. We call these "non-Biek locations" because they are not listed in "Flora of Mount Rainier National Park." At the close of every year, I turn in a report of "non-Biek locations" for addition to the Park's database. As we were walking along the edge of the road, spread out, I looked down-slope and thought I could see an example of one particular plant. I sized up the angle of incline and potential hand-holds, and in a rash moment decided that finding a new non-Biek location took priority over anything else, I started down the hill. I had descended 15 feet or so when the sandy footing gave way and sent me sliding into a clump of small alders. The momentum was such that when my toe tangled in the base of the clump, I was pitched face-first through the branches. They collapsed under my weight and I began a rapid downhill slide on my front, head first like a toboggan. When I came to rest, my first thought was, "I can see. Therefore my glasses are still on my face." I had thought I felt them pull off. Then without moving, I assessed my extremities. Nothing felt like it was broken, so then I began the process of getting turned around without sliding further down the hill, and dragging myself back up to road level. Being rather rattled by the experience, I neglected to check the damn plant to see if it was the right one as I crawled past it. On reaching the road, I discovered a broad smear of vegetative matter on my glasses which at first I took for a major scratch, but after washing it off, I saw that the underlying scratch was minor. However, my poor carcase had taken quite a beating, and by that evening, I was aching in every muscle and the bruises were beginning to colour up. I knew there was no way I could hide the evidence, and reluctantly confessed to Kevin. His utter silence was more painful than a reprimand. Worse than the injuries to my various parts and ego is that inflicted on his trust in my judgment. That's going to take a long time to heal.

Castilleja Identification

Day 241: There are five species of Castilleja (Paintbrush) known from Mount Rainier National Park, and a couple of subspecies within them. The most common are vibrantly red, orange or magenta, and the least common of them is often described as "yellow." This has led to many erroneous reports of its occurrence when in fact the observer has found the yellow variation of Harsh Paintbrush (Castilleja hispida). As readers will undoubtedly know, the colourful portion of the Castillejas are not the flower of the plant. Rather, these are bracts, modified leaves. Observation of their shape can assist with making an identification of the species. Note that in the photos above, the tips are divided into several "tongues." This clearly defines both plants as C. hispida. When the true flowers appear, they will emerge from between the coloured bracts as pointy "beaks" like those just visible at the top of the red plant in the image.

Rhododendron Groenlandicum, Labrador-tea

Day 240: When people hear the name "Rhododendron," most likely an image of the shrubby ornamental varieties commonly used in landscaping will come to mind. However, there are over 1000 species of Rhododendron worldwide, and some may grow to heights of 100 feet or more. Washington's State Flower is the native pink Rhododendron (R. macrophyllum), similar in size and flower structure to the garden cultivars. It does not occur in Mount Rainier National Park, but at least three other native Rhododendrons grace our slopes: R. albiflorum, R. menziesii and R. groenlandicum. The latter (above) is also known as Labrador-tea or Bog Labrador-tea, and can be found in bogs and swamps at low to mid-elevations in western Washington. Its star-shaped white flowers are carried in terminal racemes, and it is not uncommon to find last year's spent seed capsules dangling beneath them. As the name suggests, it was widely used by Native peoples and early settlers in the northern regions as a tea, but the leaves contain alkaloids which may be toxic if ingested.

Almost Lonesome Myrio

Day 239: My botany partners and I went out on our first field trip of the year yesterday, and although we did not succeed at our primary mission to find a particular plant, we got to visit some old friends. Myriosclerotinia caricis-ampullaceae proved very elusive, and it was Joe who finally called out, "Found one!" It was a small specimen, but as perfect as could be hoped. Evaluating the conditions in the meadow, we were dismayed to find it drier than usual, a factor which certainly had an impact on Myrio's presence, but it was also possible that we had arrived past the fungus' peak fruiting period. Was there only one? Joe's keen eyes eventually brought one more example to light, even smaller than the first. We were unable to check any of the other sites where we have found this rare and elegant fungus.

Lantana

Day 238: Although some species of Lantana are considered invasive in the warmer climates of the southern states, they do not survive the winters of the northern regions and are popular raised as annuals in the summer garden. There are many cultivars on the market, in just about every colour of the rainbow. This one is trademarked as "Hot-Blooded Red." The umbels often exhibit several shades in their specific colour range, the flowers changing hue with age. While most animals avoid eating them, it should be noted that they are poisonous to dogs, cats and ruminants. However, butterflies and other insects are drawn to them, and birds enjoy the small fruits when they are mature. This solitary plant has been given a task. I am growing it in a pot adjacent to my hardy kiwi vines in the hopes of drawing pollinators to the hundreds of kiwi flowers almost ready to burst open.

A Fragrant Craft

Day 237: The last time I did any pine-needle basketry, the internet had not yet come to this area. There was no Amazon, no Etsy, and I was working with a small handful of needles I'd gathered during a trip to Eastern Washington. I'd only picked up enough to make a coaster-sized disk before I was forced into retirement by lack of supplies. Recently, I found a source for Loblolly needles, about three times the length of anything growing in Washington. I thought, "Well, why not?" and ordered a one-pound bundle. I'm a bit out of practice, but I haven't forgotten the principles. What did slip my mind was how delightfully fragrant this craft can be. After soaking in hot water for half an hour, the needles become quite pliable. I prefer to make a wrapped center as a base for the stitching, which here is cotton rug warp. It's not the material I would have preferred, but I had it on hand. In the future, I'll use waxed polyester cord or synthetic raffia for durability. When making pine-needle baskets, it's advisable to employ some kind of gauge to keep the coils uniform. In this case, I'm using a 1.5" long section cut from a ball-point pen. The diameter is very close to that of a soda straw and a good size for this project. By now it should be obvious to my readers that getting started in pine-needle basketry requires very little outlay, and if you have a pine tree nearby, you can probably start without spending a dime. You only need pine needles, a sharp, large sewing needle, some cord or twine and a gauge, and you can have the scent of Christmas in your home at any time of year.

Dorsal, Ventral

Day 236: I always feel a little like I should be singing "Here We Go Gathering Nuts In May" when I'm out chasing butterflies with the camera, but this one was very interested in the columbine. There were several others as well with varying amounts of bird damage to their wings. They tend to look rather tattered later in the season, so I was anxious to capture the ideal example while I could. The dorsal (topside) and ventral (underside) views are of the same specimen. This is Western Tiger Swallowtail, Papilio rutulus. It is very similar to P. eurymedon, and light individuals of Western are frequently mistaken for Pale where the ranges overlap as they do here. Had I only seen the ventral view, I might have questioned the identification, but the dorsal view showed distinctly yellow wings, fresh and bright, and probably only recently emerged.

Hatiora Rosea

Day 235: We could debate the taxonomy all day. The currently accepted nomenclature for this cactus is Rhipsalidopsis rosea, with Schlumbergera rosea and Hatiora rosea listed as synonyms. It was Hatiora when I first learned it shortly after the internet became "a thing" and I was able to research the plant after cultivating it for a decade or so, and thus it became "Hattie" for short. Some of my plants have nicknames like that: Fitch (Hoya fitchii), Knob (Ceropegia woodii), Bella (Hoya bella). Hattie earned her moniker when she bloomed after spending years as a tangled mass of prickly stems. She'd been known as my "Swedish Christmas cactus" before that, solely because I'd been given a slip by a Swedish friend. Then, as I mentioned, the internet came along and I was able to determine her real name: Hatiora rosea. However, her name was not carved in taxonomic stone, or else taxonomic stone is in the same mineralogical category as talc. In any event, the next time I looked up "Hatiora rosea," she'd undergone a name change. Neither "Schlummy" or "Rhippy" suits her, so Hattie she remains.

Scrubby Is Back!

Day 234: Oh, Scrubby is back! He showed up for dinner late, and with the feeders momentarily empty, resigned himself to picking seed fragments off the ground. He's very shy, and when he noticed me standing at the window with the camera, he flew off. I took advantage of the moment to put out more seed. California Scrub-jays are relatively new to our local area, although I used to see them while I was bicycling through the prairies south and east of Olympia, a good thousand feet below my present elevation. I've only seen them here in the last four or five years. They are as large or slightly larger than our Steller's Jays, and somewhat bulkier overall. A very handsome bird, to my way of thinking, and in any event, all Corvids are welcome here.

A Twenty-Year Wait

Day 233: Twenty years. Twenty years, or maybe even more. That's how long I have been waiting for this to happen. My Clivia is finally blooming! I had just watered it a few days ago and didn't notice buds, but neither was I looking for them. I mean, the Clivia has been nothing but strappy, amaryllis-like leaves for as long as I've had it. Why would I bother to look for buds? A friend had one which bloomed regularly in her north window with very little care, so I figured it would be easy to bring one into flower. Ah, how wrong that assumption was! When mine got too big for its pot, I divided it and tried planting one of the pieces outdoors, a system the experts assured me would result in flowering once I brought it inside for the winter. The experiment failed miserably and that offshoot ("pup") died, but I had kept the second piece in a smaller pot and it was still doing well. Or rather, it was producing healthy leaves but nothing else, and so it continued for at least ten years beyond the division. I resigned myself to thinking of it as a foliage plant. My enforced patience has at long last been rewarded. My Clivia is blooming!

Gooseberry Season

Day 232: Here they come! And unless we get a prolonged hot spell which causes them to drop from the bushes, I should have another bumper crop of gooseberries to turn into jam. I like to pick them when they first begin to show some "give" when squeezed. That's the "Goldilocks point" for gooseberries: the perfect balance between tart and sweet...not that a gooseberry can ever be called "sweet," but as soon as they develop the characteristic brown blush which indicates their full ripeness, the birds begin harvesting them. I don't mind sharing as long as I've put enough back for a batch of jam. And how those little stinkers get around the thorns is beyond me. I don't go as far as putting on welder's gloves to pick them like some growers do, but harvesting gooseberries should come with hazard pay. Is it worth it? You bet! Gooseberry jam is one of my favourite spreads for breakfast toast.

What Pride Means To Me

Day 231: I celebrate Pride not because I'm gay (I'm not...not that it's any of your business what goes on in my bedroom), but because I have friends who are gay. They are not gay "by choice." They are gay because their biology draws them to same-sex companions. The idea of this being somehow "sinful" was instituted by organized religion and its lust for power over individuals. Religions thrive on control, demanding certain diets, certain behaviours, modes of dress, etc. Any action deviating from that which is approved is seen as an offense against God. But religion is a construct, and varies from culture to culture. It is largely in those societies where the Christian influence is felt that homosexuality is viewed as "unnatural." In the US today, the number of Christians who are strongly homophobic is growing and becoming more vitriolic with every passing day. The hate is almost palpable. It strikes me that this is rather opposite to the purported teachings of Christ and indeed looks more to me like the Devil's work in light of the fact that these peoples' very Christianity is being used to promulgate hatred. Isn't that how Satan is said to work? But then, who am I, godless heathen, to suggest that maybe we should all respect each other for who we are rather than trying to remake others into something they are not.