The Feeder

The hummingbird feeder I put up a few weeks ago has been visited regularly by those it was intended for,and also by others.

First, a word about the hummingbirds. I had not realized how territorial these little creatures are. There's one (I'm 99% sure it's the same one) who will chase away intruders whenever they show up. He seems to own the feeder and the surrounding air. He's never far away, and usually he remains out of my line of sight as I look out the kitchen window. But the instant a trespasser comes near the feeder, out he swoops like a well-aimed crossbow dart and chases the newcomer away in a high-speed pursuit, until the two disappear into the trees across the backyard. You may think I don't know one hummingbird from the next, but I think I do. This guy is aggressive like you would not believe. I wonder how many intruders he may have damaged with his sharp little beak.

Second, hummingbird nectar is nothing more than one part pure sugar to four parts pure water. The manufactured stuff has red coloring added, because it is believed that the red will attract the birds. Maybe it does, and maybe it doesn't. When I'm out of the store-bought stuff, the next fill-up will be with sugar water. We'll see what the difference is.

Third, bees, wasps, and ants also like sugar water. Ants especially. They can really foul the feeder up. So I had a little plastic pill container filled with water, and added it above the contraption to act like a moat, keeping ants from getting down to the feeder. It works great. You should see the frustrated ants who tried desperately to crawl down the hanging wire, and had nowhere to go except back the way they came. Ant confusion is a very satisfying sight to behold. It was no picnic for them.

The end of September

Once more, with feeling, before the month ends. And at the end of Strauss's "September" click over to the lovely final trio from "The Rosenkavalier", with Soile Isokoski, Angelica Kirchschlager and Genia Kühmeier. My alltime favorite.

The Black Ball (a short short story)

The ceiling fan rattled. It did little to alleviate the late afternoon heat in the club's library, where a half dozen of the older members sat reading or dozing in wicker armchairs. A club servant in a white uniform and green fez went around collecting empty glasses, using a rag to wipe the tabletops.

Saunders saw that the servant was barefoot, and once again this annoyed him. It had been three months since he had proposed that cheap canvas shoes be provided to the club's native staff, and two weeks since he had again brought up the matter with the secretary. Why was the committee still so dilatory about it? No answer, not a word, just an impatient dismissive shake of the head. His son-in-law had a whole crate of the shoes in his warehouse by the harbor. If nothing was done soon, mildew and pilferage would overtake the inventory before you could say Jack Robinson.

Saunders ordered another gin and tonic, closing his eyes against the glare from the harbor beyond the veranda's balustrade. The servant nodded and padded away, his bare feet whispering softly on the varnished teak floor. "Make it a good one this time," Saunders called out after him

He dozed off for a few minutes, and then someone tapped him on the shoulder.

"Ballot time, old man."

It was McMartin, the membership chairman, who held out the ancient ballot box, a white cloth, and a sheet of paper.

"Who is it this time?" Saunders asked.

"Classmate of Kiernan's. Stanton by name. Just arrived in these parts a few weeks ago. Here's the application."

Saunders glanced quickly at the piece of paper. In the space for "occupation", the applicant Stanton had written "Importer". He looked up at McMartin. "What kind of importer?" he asked.

"Don't rightly know, old man. Whisky, Lancashire cotton, that sort of thing, I suppose."

Saunders opened the little drawer in the wooden ballot box that held the black and white balls. He placed the cloth in such a way that prevented McMartin from seeing his selection. "Whisky, eh?" he repeated. "God knows we have enough of that already."

McMartin said, "Wait, yes, now that I think about it, Kiernan did say something about shoes. Yes, cheap shoes. From India, actually."

Saunders glanced quickly under the white cloth, and picked up a black ball. He dropped this in the little square opening on top of the box. It fell with a thud in the felt-lined interior to register his vote.

"Shoes, you say?' Saunders muttered, handing the ballot box to McMartin, just as the servant returned with his gin and tonic on a tray. "Well, well, jolly good for him."

Our Place in the Sun

Or at least, that's what the banner on the light post proclaims . . .

Languages of Romance

How come Spanish is easier to learn than Portuguese? One reason: genderless possessive pronouns.

Leaving the Opera in the Year 2000

by Albert Robida

[1883]

The Onion

It seems the guy was trying to slice an onion. Now slicing onions is one of the most common tasks for any cook, even the rankest amateur. But to slice an onion right requires some skill and care. This guy was slicing an onion with neither care nor skill. He was not using the right kind of knife, and it was not sharp. He should have left the onion in the refrigerator for a time before slicing, so as to minimize the fumes that bring on tears. He did not do this.

He did not hold the onion correctly, which is to say, firmly, on the cutting surface, which was wet and slippery to begin with. The unsharp knife slipped a couple of times on the onion’s surface, and he used a crude sawing motion for the first couple of tries. This merely shredded a part of the onion’s skin, which should have been removed ahead of time, but had not been. The way he hacked at the onion was nerve-wracking to watch. He was not paying close attention to the task. And he performed the task with unrivaled clumsiness.

Inevitably his finger got in the way of the blade. There was much blood on the cutting surface as a result. It was first thought that a visit to the emergency room of the local hospital might be in the cards, but as it turned out no stitches were needed.

The throbbing lasted for several days, even with analgesics.

City Scenes

Chinese Hospital mural, Stockton Street, San Francisco

Sacramento Street at Stockton, San Francisco

Balcony and fire escape, Chinatown, San Francisco

Columbus Avenue at Stockton Street, North Beach, San Francisco

View of the Oakland Bay Bridge from Grant Avenue, Chinatown, San Francisco

Victorian Era Computer?

Anniversary

We will not forget

Never forget.

Never

*********************

Drain Cleaner

It does not require a fertile imagination to visualize the efficiency of the millions of tiny fibers from the ingested bran, coursing through the grease-encrusted interiors of arteries to scour their walls like a good dose of Drano in drainpipes. That's how I think of my daily bowl of oatmeal.

Library shelf

A few books in my library about film.

The Winton Train

A tribute to a 100-year-old man who saved 669 Jewish children during WWII, (Sir Nicholas Winton, the 'British Schindler', is still alive today).

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winton_Train

Watched on BBC TV the arrival today of the train at Liverpool Street station in London from Prague, Czechia .

The Hummingbird

Is this the same one

clinging to

the hanging planter

preening, with

his wings at rest?

Yesterday

the same pose

the same spot

a meter away

from the

feeder sparkling

like cranberry juice

in the sun.

He waits

while a sparrow

pecks at the red

and yellow

plastic,

and finds nothing

worth her trouble.

His turn comes

as she flies away.