I don’t like tile.
Oops. Did that just come out of my mouth? In a, you know, tile store? Yes, yes it did.
I’ve carried the shame of that moment for more than 30 years, which really is a shame since what I said isn’t even true. I mean, it would be one thing–not a good thing, exactly, but at least an on-the-other-hand thing–if I had stood up rudely but fearlessly for some principle. If I had spoken truth to power. Instead, I just spoke frustration to a tile salesperson.
My photographic focus? Chasing photos of birds. OK, and reflections. OK, OK, and bridges. Indeed, when it comes to photography-and-me, it might be unreasonable to use “focus” in anything but its strictly technical sense: Getting the subject in the desired degree of sharpness. Which brings us to last week and some bees.
While chasing birds (OK, OK, and bird reflections), I was momentarily diverted by some tiny bees, maybe half the size of most bees at home, in the largely shaded flowering bush right beside me. Their size alone would be tricky enough, but I also had my longer lens on, the better to capture the target birds. That meant I had to be farther away from the bees to get them in focus — far enough that, to my aging eyes, they were mere specks through the view finder.
It wasn’t a vermilion-flycatcher day: There was no Gasp! moment. On the other hand, when I got home out of the glare I found that it had been a good day, nonetheless. Thank goodness for a camera that sees more clearly than I do.
What *was* that bird-shaped lump across the pond? A bird!
I’ll have the Combo, please:
crepes with mixed berries.
I pause before specifying how I want my eggs; before choosing sausages over bacon. On Shrove/Fat Tuesday, this pancake house is full. I’m trying to be considerate by optimizing my use of the server’s time, but there’s only so much information a guy can take in at once.
I glance up at the young server. I mean, they’re all young these days, but he’s high-school young. Right now, he’s head-down over his iPad. His fingers are not flying. He’s looking for something. He speaks slowly, mostly to himself.
You want . . . the Combo . . .
Ah. He’s still finding the overarching category for my order. I sit still. I sit quiet.
I slow down. Groups of dog-walkers and just-plain-walkers ahead of me don’t break stride, but I can see a man stopped at the intersection of two trails, gazing intently at something I can’t yet see. I don’t want to scare whatever-it-is into moving by moving precipitously myself.
Reaching the corner, I finally see the object of the man’s gaze: I gasp involuntarily and immediately clap my hand over my mouth.
A feathered ember in a desert landscape,
the male Vermilion Flycatcher
is exactly what its name says:
a brilliant red bird
that hawks flying insects
from conspicuous perches on shrub tops and fences.
– All About Birds
As other photographers and birders come and go–and as exercisers and conversers go by, oblivious to this avian event–Buddy flits from one exposed (aka conspicuous) perch to another, with only brief forays into hard-to-photograph shaded areas or behind brambles of branches.
Some bird sightings come after hours or days of preparation, researching populations, habitats, and migration patterns. After talking to locals about the best season to spot the target, even the best time of day. After packing binoculars or spotting scopes. After remembering back-up batteries and SD cards for the camera. After flying, driving, and/or walking great distances. After waiting great periods of time.
Some bird sightings come in a moment of grace, with no effort at all on my part beyond just showing up. It’s a welcome reminder that tiny unearned delights can be around any given corner.
It started with a gentle sail-by and a flick of that magnificent tail.
It continued with a thorough preening to show off those amazing feathers to best advantage.
Then someone decided to get into the spirit of things, it being the Feast of Saint Valentine.
I think we’re on to something here. On such a beautiful day, what could be better than sitting under an umbrella with a cold drink and a savoury snack, while enjoying these all-too-temporary reflections in your very-own and very-transitory neighbourhood oasis? Sic transit gloria mundi, and all that.
Lunar years don’t line up neatly with our Gregorian calendar, but it will be the Year of the Dragon from this weekend until sometime between late January and late February in 2025, with the exact date determined by the timing of the second new moon after the next winter solstice.
The dragon is my sign: this Year of the Dragon will be the seventh I’ve seen, counting my kick-off in 1952. The underlying mythology of zodiacs does not speak to me, but a 12-year cycle does offer a different template for thinking about my life in a longer chunk of time than a season or a year. My default for that long view has always been to go by decades (perhaps a side-effect of Canada having gone metric just before the start of my third dragon cycle).
Ah, I remember how much energy I had
in my twenties.
Or was it my thirties?
Clearly, my seventies will be the “Or-was-it?” decade.
It can be good, bad, or irrelevant.
Choice is good when it gives me entirely new options I don’t have at home, or when it gives me variations that matter to me:
Choice is bad when it overwhelms me with options at the end of a lengthy initial provisioning trip and I have to decipher new categories to find what must be here (Mustn’t it?): regular, original, plain Kleenex, dagnab it. Neither ultra soft nor anti-viral; nor yet a tissue infused with greasy (sorry, soothing) lotion. As the residual option, “trusted care” might be what I’m looking for, but the graphic suggests it’s either a heart-healthy option or something to give your sweetie for Valentine’s Day, soon upon us, so who knows?
Choice is irrelevant when it offers me options that don’t appeal to me and that can’t possibly appeal to anyone: flavours of peach, ale, and habanero. And not just singly: combined in one tray of defenceless bratwurst.
And yet. Someone is buying anti-viral Kleenex and peach-ale habanero brats. Maybe together. Just imagine.
Thank goodness no one gave me the job of selecting a reasonable range for choices. Thank goodness no one person has that job.
Posted: 2025 Apr 19
Thanks to John Whitman for this slightly dismayed face from downtown Ottawa.
This space is available for other submissions.
