I was looking for something else yesterday when I came across this video. The musician is Poss Slaney, the tune is Jim Payne's "Wave Over Wave". No frills, just a pleasant little tune.
Here is a neat sung version of the same piece, by a St. John's band called Tarahan:
And here is the tune I was looking for in the first place. Poss Slaney again, this time playing "I's the B'y." Somehow I get the feeling that it is very odd of me to not know this tune. . .but I didn't. Now I'm working on it.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Another View
I took a few photos at the park last Saturday with the intention of taking them home and editing them into black and white. 
Back in the days when this log still had bark, beetle larvae had their heyday tunneling around beneath it. (Yes, it would make a much better story to tell you that the picture below features mysterious Viking carvings but really, they are what's left of the tunnels, now that the bark is gone.)
The best part about the river was the way the water rearranged itself around each snag. (Well, that and the fish, who didn't make it into the picture.)
The sun was too high and bright for some shots, such as landscapes, but it certainly did make nice, sharp shadows.
Back in the days when this log still had bark, beetle larvae had their heyday tunneling around beneath it. (Yes, it would make a much better story to tell you that the picture below features mysterious Viking carvings but really, they are what's left of the tunnels, now that the bark is gone.)
The best part about the river was the way the water rearranged itself around each snag. (Well, that and the fish, who didn't make it into the picture.)
The sun was too high and bright for some shots, such as landscapes, but it certainly did make nice, sharp shadows.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The Pipes, the Pipes!
See, I knew Facebook was good for something! If you post that you are listening to Planet Pipe, as one of my friends did this morning, other folks might have a listen as well. . .and what a great listen it is! It is (aw, you never would have guessed, would you?) an online piping show, but they seem to lean towards the ensemble aspect of the pipes, largely featuring groups who use pipes alongside fiddles, guitars and all. It's dangerously listenable.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Does that mood ever take you. . .
when nothing will do but accordion music from Newfoundland? I'm not the biggest fan of all accordion styles, but this one gets me every time, especially if the tune is a toe-tapper like "Mussels in the Corner." Here's "Mussels in the Corner" in a set with "Rowed up in a Dory" and played by a group called the Baccalieu Rovers.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Cool, Clear Water
You expect the desert to be hot and dry, but for some reason, brittle brown grass and soaring temperatures come as a bit of a surprise in other places--even if it happens that way year after year. It seems, if possible, drier than a desert, just because you have the memory of a promising green spring to hold up in comparison.
That was what I was thinking as I was walking in the American River Parkway on Saturday; it was a little inaccurate, since I never saw the place before at all, let alone in the spring. Still, the place was terribly dry, as if just thinking the word "spark" might be too much for it. The dry margin of the riverbed, with a grove of eucalyptus trees growing out of a vast, alien plain of sunbaked rocks, was surreal.
Impressive as the thirsty, forgotten borders of the river were, the river itself was a grand contrast. At the edge, where the current had slowed, tiny fish darted about in two or three inches of water.
Further out, the river was running with a good will. Raft after raft of boaters passed by swiftly, riding the current with little assistance from the oars. One group, which I didn't see, as I was behind the willows looking at the fish, was singing, "Row, Row, Row Your Boat," and they had plenty of breath for singing.
It was an interesting place to sit and watch for a bit. All of the bright rafts floating by made it look as though the American River was the latest and greatest place to be on a Saturday afternoon, but its history goes back much further than that. Part of the land across the river from me had been owned by John Sutter of gold rush fame--indeed, the discovery that touched off the gold rush happened on this same river. A sign in the park informed the passerby that bits of gold are still panned out of it at times. . .but until the weather cools, I think I myself would prefer to watch the fish.
That was what I was thinking as I was walking in the American River Parkway on Saturday; it was a little inaccurate, since I never saw the place before at all, let alone in the spring. Still, the place was terribly dry, as if just thinking the word "spark" might be too much for it. The dry margin of the riverbed, with a grove of eucalyptus trees growing out of a vast, alien plain of sunbaked rocks, was surreal.
Impressive as the thirsty, forgotten borders of the river were, the river itself was a grand contrast. At the edge, where the current had slowed, tiny fish darted about in two or three inches of water.
Further out, the river was running with a good will. Raft after raft of boaters passed by swiftly, riding the current with little assistance from the oars. One group, which I didn't see, as I was behind the willows looking at the fish, was singing, "Row, Row, Row Your Boat," and they had plenty of breath for singing.It was an interesting place to sit and watch for a bit. All of the bright rafts floating by made it look as though the American River was the latest and greatest place to be on a Saturday afternoon, but its history goes back much further than that. Part of the land across the river from me had been owned by John Sutter of gold rush fame--indeed, the discovery that touched off the gold rush happened on this same river. A sign in the park informed the passerby that bits of gold are still panned out of it at times. . .but until the weather cools, I think I myself would prefer to watch the fish.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Safari
Yesterday morning I went down to the Effie Yeaw Nature Center to see a presentation on insects. I had a pretty good idea that it was going to be aimed at people much younger than myself (and I was right), but I hoped I might thereby get a gentle introduction to the local bugs. It would have been worth going anyway just to hear the questions the people much younger than myself were asking: "Does a bug see like us?" asked a small person, who had just had compound eyes explained to her, "Or does it see the same thing lots of times?"
After the presentation the group was lead on a short walk around the nature center to see what we could see. A tiny child, with a fluff of fine blonde hair that made her look rather as though a hearty wind could blow her away like a milkweed seed, spotted the first bug--really a bug, I mean, something like this one, but after that, the pickings were rather slim. The naturalist in charge had thought ahead in case of such an emergency and knew where we were likely to find a few galls. Here are some on a black walnut leaf.
Yes, they are a bit freakish, especially when you stop to consider that they are made from cells of the leaf itself. I'm not sure what sort of critter was responsible for these; it may have been a mite.
The oaks were becoming a bit of a neighborhood. Whose neighborhood, again I can't say. 
Off the subject of galls altogether, a plant which the naturalist pointed out in particular was the Dutchman's Pipe Vine. Here is a specimen from the hands-on exhibit inside the nature center. 
It's not blooming season now, so the real live Dutchman's Pipe Vine lacks those fantastically shaped flowers.
The plant was pointed out because of its status as the host plant of a very picky eater, the Pipevine Swallowtail.
That is a pipevine swallowtail's favorite trick, but it has others. Occasionally it tires of waiting on a flower and looking picturesque, and it takes off while you are still fifty feet away. It flies towards you. To optimize the effect, it usually calls one of its friends over and they hold a mock-dogfight right over your head. If you even think about the camera, they part company and fly up into the highest, darkest branches of the nearest oak.
("See, I told you I got a picture of a pipevine swallowtail!"
After the presentation the group was lead on a short walk around the nature center to see what we could see. A tiny child, with a fluff of fine blonde hair that made her look rather as though a hearty wind could blow her away like a milkweed seed, spotted the first bug--really a bug, I mean, something like this one, but after that, the pickings were rather slim. The naturalist in charge had thought ahead in case of such an emergency and knew where we were likely to find a few galls. Here are some on a black walnut leaf.
Yes, they are a bit freakish, especially when you stop to consider that they are made from cells of the leaf itself. I'm not sure what sort of critter was responsible for these; it may have been a mite.
The oaks were becoming a bit of a neighborhood. Whose neighborhood, again I can't say. 
Off the subject of galls altogether, a plant which the naturalist pointed out in particular was the Dutchman's Pipe Vine. Here is a specimen from the hands-on exhibit inside the nature center. It's not blooming season now, so the real live Dutchman's Pipe Vine lacks those fantastically shaped flowers.
The plant was pointed out because of its status as the host plant of a very picky eater, the Pipevine Swallowtail. After the presentation was over, I went a-hunting through the wilds of the American River Parkway. It was a glorious place, full of sun (okay, I don't like it, but the bugs seem to) and trees and deep grass and all things fine. Fabre would have loved it. Then again, possibly even Fabre would have been driven out of his mind, because of The Rule: you are kindly reminded to stay on the paths, please, thank you very much.
This is a logical rule, since it is not an enormous park, and, judging from the number of visitors in there today, could be walked right down to nothing in short order. But the pipevine swallowtails take heartless advantage of it. You might think that they have plenty of space to go on living their little butterfly lives, off in secluded nooks. Perhaps they do live that way, but if so, they like, at least, to take an extended lunch hour (which probably lasts all day) and spend it perched on the flowers nearest the paths. They're clever about it, gracefully lazy, opening their wings up to just the right angle so the naive photographer thinks, "Man, that pose couldn't be more perfect if I set it up myself. . .now if you'll just wait for me to turn on the camera. . ." The butterfly watches out of slitted compound eyes as the camera comes up. It stretches drowsily, and examines its fingernails, and then, in the millisecond just before the shutter closes, it takes to the air and begins to do an interpretive dance to "Flight of the Bumblebee."
"And it was such a perfect picture," the photographer sighs. But wait! The miniature cyclone is settling down over the flower it just left. Down, down. . .and the camera is following. . .down, and--vrooom! the butterfly, was just doing a low fly-by, and accelerates into the centre of the patch of star thistles where it once again becomes a delicate, picturesque insect, meandering from flower to flower well out of the reach of the macro lens. Of course, the photographer feels cheated if she doesn't get some sort of shot, so she switches to a longer range setting and presses the shutter in a state of panic. The results are not particularly stellar:
That is a pipevine swallowtail's favorite trick, but it has others. Occasionally it tires of waiting on a flower and looking picturesque, and it takes off while you are still fifty feet away. It flies towards you. To optimize the effect, it usually calls one of its friends over and they hold a mock-dogfight right over your head. If you even think about the camera, they part company and fly up into the highest, darkest branches of the nearest oak. Another popular move is the quail imitation. With any other butterfly I would lay the phenomenon to my own clumsiness, but judging from its other habits, I must give the credit entirely to the pipevine swallowtail. It lurks unseen in the grass at the border of the path, and then, just as you come within what would have been excellent macro range, it takes to frantic and almost vertical flight. I did not see that it had yet perfected the skill to a point where it had gathered a covey of other butterflies for the maximum effect, but it is an impressive start. The finish is, as above, in whichever patch of flowers contributes to the most impossible camera angle.
With the aforementioned methods, combined with its uncanny ability to gauge the difference between too far away (which can be shrugged off) and just too far away (which is excruciating for the photographer) when landing, one insect can keep a human occupied indefinitely. (It helps, of course, if the human is is unused to thinking of insects as sly, manipulative creatures.) Add to that the fact that there were dozens of swallowtails in the park. . .and the result is more than enough pictures like this one which fall into the Loch-Ness-Monster-could-be-just-about-anything category of photos:
("See, I told you I got a picture of a pipevine swallowtail!""That's not a pipevine swallowtail! Nobody gets pictures of The Pipevine Swallowtail. It's a hummingbird. . .maybe. Or a bat."
"No, really! I was looking at the flower, and it was there, and--"
"Enough of your tall stories! Clean that smudge off your lense and go chase a ground beetle! And stay on the path!")
I did make one very interesting discovery:butterflies laugh. And it sounds like this: "Mwahahahaha!"
Saturday, July 25, 2009
And More Education
I am trying to get over a severe attack of writer's block. That is neither here nor there, except that the cure is worse than the disease. I found a book which suggested several ways to get words (any words) on paper. The most fun--and the most alarming--exercise so far is a redo of a game my sister taught me a year or two ago. You open the dictionary at random, latch onto the first word you see, and spend five minutes madly writing anything that the word brings to mind. Well, I'll tell you what! I opened the dictionary at random and the word I got was diadromous. Nice, eh? So I wrote:
No doubt I could have added an extra sentence or two had I not had to take up time repeatedly to look up the spelling of diadromous, but there you have it. With cures like that, no wonder I let myself think I have trouble writing!
A fish, if it is diadromous, spends its life running back and forth between
fresh water and salt water. Well, probably not running--even a diadromous
walking catfish probably couldn't run. . .I feel kind of like that
sometimes--migratory, I mean, not like a walking catfish. Going from one place
to another, but always knowing someday it will be time to pack up and leave
again. I do hate packing, and so would a walking catfish, diadromous (I still
can't spell that) or not, if it had any sense. . .
No doubt I could have added an extra sentence or two had I not had to take up time repeatedly to look up the spelling of diadromous, but there you have it. With cures like that, no wonder I let myself think I have trouble writing!
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