Melanerpes carolinus

This is a first: I’ve had plenty of downy woodpeckers, but none of their larger cousins. Until a couple of days ago, when this red-bellied guy showed up.

I’m not sure that he actually got to eat anything—he’s definitely big enough to have tripped the mechanism that closes off access to the seed. But he certainly looks like he’s trying.

And he’s as good a way as any to end this week.

Birds in their little nests...

I do get a kick out of watching the birds. I have my issues with them—mostly the bigger ones with a well-earned title of “bully birds”. (Yeah, I did not make that one up. I just refer to them as greedy buggers.)

But the rest of them are just fascinating.

One of the things that cracks me up is how long the juveniles harbor the expectation that mom and dad are going to go on literally shoveling food into their little beaks. I’ve seen it with the starlings, but also with finches and goldfinches.

This behavior isn’t just on the East Coast; I noticed it in The Valley They Call Silicon, too. But here’s some video from yesterday:

I wanted to yell, “Little dudes—you’re on the feeder! You’re standing in the seed. Just start eating it!”

But, no, they’ve got to flap and squawk until someone sticks something in their beak.

Kind of like human teens.

Slinging again

You may or may not recall my wonder at finding “Bob’s Best” cow manure at the Cupertino Whole Foods store a few years ago. You can refresh your recollection here, because I certainly had a good time with it.

Now, this is my third summer in the District They Call Columbia, but I came across something at the local WF indicating that the East Coast will not be outdone by the West when it comes to froofy animal excrement for your garden:

Yes, folks: that’s lobster poop. 

(And yes, it's compost. But amongst the various lobster parts, I'm betting there's poop.)

I did not examine closely to determine the fair tradecomponent, but it’s obviously organic although not vegan. I mean—I’m assuming that if organic matter has passed through a crustacean’s alimentary tract it doesn’t count as vegan, even if it started out that way, right? I’m presuming free range, but if the lobsters are farmed, that would kibosh that one. I guess?

There was also the lobster-adjacent “premium potting soil”. No poop, but “very old dark bark…enriched with…seaweed”.

Too rich for my budget, but y’all feel free.

Southern woman

I confess that I spent a good deal of yesterday avoiding news of the Kleptocrat and his KGB handler. What I couldn’t escape was bad enough. Hadn’t thought he could perform much worse than at NATO and in the UK, but he managed.

Here’s someone who might be happy with his treason:

Being educated and all.

Gratitude Monday: mid-day wisdom

When I’m home, I try to take my walks in the morning, because summer. I mean—I like to get out before the midges and mosquitos are up for the day, and before the temperatures and humidity hit the 90s, because once they’re up there, they’ don’t go down until tomorrow morning.

But the other day, I’d had my walk, sat through a conference call, had the flooring contractor walk through to assess the water damage (and discover that flooring contractors don’t do anything to remediate the mold under the floor; that’s Someone Else, “with a fan”), spent a couple of hours wrestling spreadsheets and joined a weekly Twitter careers chat. And I just decided to go out again.

I needed new runners, because the ones I bought two years ago have worn through to the plastic core at the Achilles tendon area. I do not fancy developing bone spurs. And there’s a poncy running shop over to the faux urban center in the People’s Republic about half a mile away.

So around 1300 I suited up and headed out.

As I was turning onto the W&OD Trail, I passed an old fellow who—from the looks of his tan—spends a good amount of time in the sun. I smiled, nodded and said, “Good morning,” because I’m accustomed to being out and about before noon. Then I caught myself and amended it, “I mean afternoon.”

And his reply has kept me wondering all weekend. In a not terribly noticeable Slavic accent he brushed my correction aside with his hand and said, “You are a happy one. Russian wisdom says that the ones who are happy are not bothered by time.”

Well, I have never numbered myself among those who have the gift of happiness. (When I was taking part in a drug trial in the last century and being asked every week by one of the principal investigators “Where are you on a scale of one to ten with ten being extremely happy?”, my answer never rose above a four. One day he put down his Cross pen and asked, “On your best day ever, what were you?” After careful consideration, I replied, “A seven.” In the years since, there has been once—well, maybe three times—when I hit a nine, but my life is generally a grey sludge and the advent of our current political situation has driven me back below the five mark.) Plus, it was friggin’ hot and I’d already started to sweat and I still had almost the full half-mile to go. But Russian wisdom guy thought I was “one of the happy ones.”

Huh.

I pondered this all the way to the poncy running shop, where they had no Mizunos in subtle colors. (In fairness: Mizuno doesn’t really do subtle.) As I stared at the electric blue pair, I pondered whether to have them order in a pair of trainers in grey with aqua accents (or whether to go online and see if I could find them for $5 less than in the shop). Then I though about Russian wisdom and said, “Maybe it’s time for me to bust out.”

So I bought them and walked home, reveling in how nice it is to have shoes that provide some cushioning again.

I’m still thinking about Russian wisdom. I’m not convinced that he parsed me correctly, but I’m willing to play with the notion. And I’m grateful that I chose to go out at that precise time, so I could have that prompt from the universe.