As the Farewell Tour continues — as we say goodbye to old friends who, unaccountably, choose to remain in Ottawa rather than to move en masse to Calgary — my phone also continues to capture moments that lower my blood pressure. May at least one of them be therapeutic for you, also.
First up, a bee methodically coating itself in hollyhock pollen.
Next, an in-traffic study in red and yellow . . .
The choice of coffin is often a task that causes emotional reaction among the bereaved. Most large funeral homes have a “casket room,” a display area filled with the variety of available coffins. For many, walking into this room brings the bereaved into stark confrontation with the reality of death facing them. For some, it can be a terribly disconcerting experience. For others, it brings a sense of peace and relief. Whatever the reaction, it is a task that must be done.
– My Jewish Learning
As you see, the excerpt is from a site called My Jewish Learning, but this bit about choosing a coffin is not, in fact, a specifically Jewish learning. Nor is it religious in any sense, really.
For some, it can be a terribly disconcerting experience. For others, it brings a sense of peace and relief. Whatever the reaction, it is a task that must be done.
We’re moving from Ottawa to Calgary in August, so my attendance here has been spotty for a while and will likely continue so. But I still see stuff . . .
Like faces. (Scroll all the way down if you want the version with the decoding legend.)
Like reflections and clouds and a teeny-tiny sundog.
Like reflections of clouds. Continue reading
Not, you note, “Bees sweat.” Bees do not sweat. Neither, apparently, do insects in general, a fact I confirmed through rigorous Google search. The only exception Google found for me? The arid-land cicada.
Unlike mammals, which regulate body temperature through metabolic heat production or sweating to cool off, insects must use behavioural adjustments
(Ed’s note – flapping wings or hanging out in shady areas) to reach their desired body temperature. – Journal of Experimental Biology
All right, then. Bees, sweat. What do I mean? Based on my extensive bee knowledge, I’m thinking like an index:
Bees, honey
Bees, killer
Bees, sweat
They are usually called sweat bees, although I prefer to emphasize the bee, not the sweat.
Hot weather is the mother of procrastination —
my energy is at ebb tide —
I’m getting caloricly stupid —
Tried to read . . . mind stumbled
on a ponderous perioration (sic) (I think)
and fell in between two paragraphs
and lay unconscious for ten minutes . . .
– Diary of Thomas Edison, July 20, 1885
Thomas Edison kept a diary for all of 10 days in his 84 years, but clearly someone else kept it on his behalf and on ours. I thought it was cute, so I posted it.
I had to look up perioration.
– A correspondent of mine, July 03, 2026
I might have looked it up too, but I had decided to ignore my faint misgivings about the spelling and go with my vague sense of its meaning from context — A long-winded thought or argument, yeah? — because there was a delightful image beckoning to me from the far side of this peculiar word.
(My) mind . . .
Fell in between two paragraphs
and lay unconscious for ten minutes.
I’ve had reading experiences just like that.
One advantage of going to familiar places is that I know what to look out for: in this case, the in-full-leaf trees reflected in the sunroof, windshield, and hood of our SUV parked in its usual spot, as viewed from my usual spot on the second-storey deck.
New vistas can be exciting; familiar ones can be exquisite, joining hands across time to draw from and add to each other’s beauty.
Heigh ho, heigh ho,
It’s off to work we go.
– Song from Snow White
How did the Seven Dwarfs get into things this week? Well, I was reading The Invention of Clouds, a book whose existence I stumbled across when trying to find out whether clouds had seasonally distinctive appearances, in order to justify my belief that a given cloudscape was a harbinger of spring which, in turn, would justify the associated photographically induced departure delay. I was not entirely successful in this quest, which is often the case when searching for self-justification, but I got a new book out of it, so there’s that.
It’s your turn.
Silence.
It’s your turn.
People online have to introduce themselves, too.
I sigh inwardly and speak my name, rather than the thought in my head.
Oh. You’re talking to me?
Or, perhaps . . .
What exactly do you think I can see?
Because I can’t see you lookin’ at me.
You’re a good woman.
(slight emphasis on the good)
If you’re not a woman you won’t have heard this addressed to you, but you might have said it or heard it used — it, or this punchier variant.
Good woman.
(slight and entirely optional emphasis
on the 1st syllable of woman)
