It may not seem so cold in the Bay Area, but at 7:00 a.m., waiting outside for birds to show up at the feeder, it’s not so comfortable. Especially if you stand and stand while the chickadees dart in, grab something and take it back to their warm beds somewhere.

I’m trying to take pictures with some holiday elements, like poinsettias. The ones I bought in a hurry over the weekend succumbed quickly to wind and a lack of fullness, so that I had to keep rearranging them. It’s hard to fluff out inadequate poinsettias. Last night I went out and got some very full ones and put them to the test today.

Except they sagged and rolled around. Then I had to periodically clean up the seeds the birds disperse when they take off and land on the table. In other words, I spent a lot of time prepping. The chickadees didn’t really mind, they waited in the bushes nearby.

A few hours later, they weren’t leaving the table when I had to adjust something. One landed on a leg of the tripod as I was using it. I gave them some of the roasted grubs as a reward.

I managed to get up early enough to catch them, the downside being that it was also start time for a soccer game in that field, so the players were chasing them away. No worries, they always come back.

Just as the afternoon slump approached, I considered the mountain of footage to go through. The juvenile hawk I’ve been hearing for two days did not choose to land in any trees in our yard. There aren’t that many shopping days till Christmas. Sigh. I sank back in my chair, and glanced out the window.

New bird. Large new bird on the table (not the feeding table) by the door. Looking in at me curiously. Woodpecker. Normally a shy bird that I catch a glimpse of now and then high up in the oak trees. Now about three feet away, looking friendly.

I had heard they would come to feeders, but maybe not so much in the Bay Area. Only one way to find out. I shall be messing with suet.

I don’t think Sparky is quite ready to do this just yet. Such amazing footage from Russ Thompson.

There’s only one feeder at the moment. Over the weekend, I found another that is an inverted bottle-type, but the bottle has been gathering rainwater and outdoor debris for some time. Once it’s cleaned, it will be interesting to see how he reacts to it.

Yesterday I lowered the tripod, parked myself in a chair and waited to see if he would do anything different if I put the feeder on the other side of the tomato cage. I tilted the feeder so the nectar would pool to one side. When he showed up, he went to his usual side, then became frustrated at not finding his food at the usual place. He bounced around, beak down, then he did a flyby under the roof overhang, where he’s more used to finding the feeder. Eventually, he was able to get at the nectar, but not where I wanted him to be. Maybe today I’ll plug up the other holes.

The feeding station has been in place almost a year now. Regulars are the typical visitors to backyard feeders: chickadees, dark-eyed juncos, California towhees, titmouse, and occasionally, wrens. The hummingbird feeder is dominated by Sparky, a fierce but somewhat friendly fellow. On the periphery are woodpeckers, crows, blue jays, robins, cedar waxwings (at berry time), sparrows and a couple of lovely but as yet unidentified visitors. They don’t partake from the feeder.

Back in the spring, there were lively young chickadees that took a keen interest whenever I watered the raised vegetable beds. I assumed they were juveniles from their lack of grace when landing on branches. They took to hanging out in either the plum tree or the pyracantha bush next to it. One day I aimed the hose spray upward.

They went crazy. Such a racket, and before I knew it, there were ten or so, all calling happily to each other, shaking out their wings, holding their heads upward. Clearly this was a great treat. After a few days, a wren or two would show up, and sometimes, a hummingbird. At this point, there was no hummingbird feeder, but they visited the fuchsia plants and Mexican sage regularly.

I wanted a video of this so that family members wouldn’t think I had gone off the deep end. But before I knew it, the young chickadees were gone. Vanished. On to greener territories perhaps. The whole summer went by without a single one noticing when I watered. If I pointed the spray at the remaining chickadees, they flew away.

Today, I went out to check on the green beans and the last tomato plants that are still producing. More on those another time. Was that a happy chickadee sound? Yes, and several were answering. There was the buzz of a giant bee, which I suspected was Sparky. I sprayed up into the pyracantha, which needs pruning very badly. One by one, they flew into the bush, which is more like a tree. Even the juncos were there, but more subdued than the rest, who had their wings out, heads up, shaking their feathers. Giant bee buzz again. There he was, in the middle, little wings out and chirping away, bobbing up and down, my resident hummer.

Will they do this for at least another week? Temps are warm, in the 70s. I must figure out the movie function on the camera. I’m thinking this is at least a 2-man project.

For a few seconds, I inverted the cup. This is one fast spider that I did not want loose in the house. Did I mention that it’s really, really big?

The lone ruby-throated hummingbird has been by more than a dozen times this morning, happy that I finally refreshed its nectar supply. Yesterday during the terrible storm, it refueled much more than usual.

Because we accidentally/on purpose manage to meet up at various places in the yard, I decided to give him a name. His bright magenta gorget is dazzling when the light is just right so that he sparkles. I’d like you to meet Sparky:

although you have probably seen him in earlier posts.

Sometime this morning, when I was deep in work, Sparky spotted a lady friend. When I say he’s the lone hummer, I merely mean he’s the only one that dines at the feeder. So far he has chased away everything else.

Thus began the curious courting behavior of head bobbing. The female sat quietly, but Sparky went beserk. Finally I got the camera and, sans tripod, tried to get a shot or two. He never stopped moving, and was all puffed up as well. Of course my hands weren’t steady, but then neither was he.

Next time I’ll just take movies.

On Friday, I didn’t find much at the estate sale. The only things that caught my eye were the flags in pristine shape. When I held one up, someone behind me said they thought it was either the Australia or New Zealand flag. I put them back. Useful for props, but not at those prices.

Meanwhile, a family member became enamored of an ancient vise in the garage. He planned to return later with his tools to remove it.

Today was 50% off everything. Removing the vise took a lot longer than planned, so I looked around again. The flags were still there. An elderly gentleman was checking out all the smalls on the table next to me. When I asked a seller the price, he said $5 for each. That seemed very reasonable for very large fabric flags. The seller said one flag had to be New Zealand, what with the British flag in one corner and the stars. The old fellow spoke up, and said it was the Hawaii flag.

I admitted I didn’t know what the Hawaii flag looked like. In my mind I pictured something like the Hong Kong flag, a flower motif. I didn’t understand why it would feature the Union Jack. The gentleman looked around, found a packet of maps, and said, ‘Here’s a map of Hawaii, maybe there’s a flag on it.’

It wasn’t really that important, but he went to a lot of trouble spreading the map out. In his ongoing conversation with the seller, he said he knew the man who owned the house, and that he was 93 years old to the owner’s 95.

I paid for the flags, and went out to the car to wait. When the family member returned, he said none of the sellers bothered to help him, but finally a really old fellow came over and gave him assistance.

The flag in question turned out to be Australian. But thanks to a 93-year old, I now know that Britain once had political authority over Hawaii. I will probably think of him every time I pick up that flag.

Octomom, via SFGate’s Mommy files. Gimme money!

So I got on the phone, taking care of some business which is a long series of automated questions, at the end of which a human would come on the line and save me a trip to some office downtown where I don’t particularly want to go today. I glance out the window into the remains of the vegetable garden.

Where a woodpecker, probably the one I’ve been stalking in the front oak tree, is flitting around. Chasing it is the male, bright red head gleaming in the noon sun. I’ve never seen him before. They cling to a couple of posts, one of which holds a small wood birdhouse. Then they make their way up the posts, stopping at the birdhouse. Some sort of courting behavior is going on, lots of flying back and forth, then they land on the pyracantha bush.

Throughout all of this highly photogenic action, I am glued to the phone, unable to take one shot.

Maybe this happens more often, it’s just that my desk faces the other way. However, when I do get around to taking any pictures, there are two very large spiders resting in their jars.

It’s 46° at 7:45 a.m. Brrrrrr. Absolutely wonderful. Might have to turn the heat on early this year. Yesterday I went for an impromptu walk with an old friend in the bracing wind. It took some time to warm up since I was somewhat underdressed. Few fallen leaves, but in that neighborhood some of the ginkgo trees are female, and there were nuts underfoot.

In a new book, Return to the Hundred Acre Wood, by David Benedictus and Mark Burgess (illustrator), an otter joins the group. Nothing like a character of the female gender to shake things up a bit.

When the boys were young, there was the occasional LAN party, usually on someone’s birthday. Food was not particularly important, and the present-opening tended to be anti-climatic, with everyone anxious to get back to whatever they were doing. The pizza and cake disappeared as the night went on, and the guys didn’t leave till morning, taking all their monitors and games with them.

Compared to the birthday parties of their younger days, it was easy. And thank goodness, no one had to resort to this at our house.

In which the poor beast is compared to Tom Cruise.

Dear Mass of Teeming Insect Life,

My lone brain is obviously inferior to your collective genius. Despite my peppering the ground below with a potent ant poison, you have managed to sidestep this formidable obstacle, and once again reach the holy grail of hummingbird nectar. You have gathered those among you who have mastered the art of swimming, and breached the defenses of the double moats.

The grail of endless sweetness has been temporarily moved to its original position under the roof overhang. Where you will no doubt send your mighty armies in the stealth of night.

Meanwhile, the hummingbird and I are pondering possible solutions. It has nixed the vaseline. But is probably grateful for the protection of the overhang, although I don’t think the average hawk will go for a hummer. See next post.

It has resided in the pimento jar on my desk for several days. I haven’t been anxious to take a photo, thank to the vivid memory of a family member’s experience as he leaned in to shoot one years ago. His subject made a sudden move, prompting him to drop his camera.

As I was setting up, there was a loud buzzing on the window. A crane fly had somehow gotten in, and for a moment, I contemplated the obvious. But I took the fly outside. Which is where I will put this jar. Right now. (Now if it had been a housefly, that would have been different.)

For over a month now, I’ve been trying to photograph the lone hummingbird that comes to the feeder. He and I are old friends now, and he has been quite patient with my efforts to get closer. Yesterday I did away with the tripod to see if I could do hand-held using my 75-300mm lens. Surprisingly, he was very tolerant as long as I didn’t move laterally.

Today, I assumed he was distracted by the missus, who dove in repeatedly as he tried to eat. But after a bit, I realized it was another male since both looked very much alike.

Now I find that whenever I go out to try for a shot, he darts away. Has this one chased the other away? Just as I got it tame enough to put up with my constant shooting? I won’t know for sure till I actually get a photo.

It used to be home to a number of salamanders living under a large, rotting stump. Not sure if they are still around, but the local raptors like to dine in the branches above. If the collections of feathers aren’t a giveaway, the whitewash on the blades of the clivia certainly are. Not much grows here, mostly because I forget to water. Due to a massive network of fine oak tree roots, if something is put in the ground, it had better be tough and low maintenance. Most everything is in pots.

This is where the monstrous fern bought earlier this summer resides. It is thriving, mostly because it is big enough to have established its own microclime. Smaller ferns are encouraged by this, and are coming around. There used to be hostas, but they gave up years ago. A few pots of bamboo, some steppingstones. And, apparently, a kajillion ants, all lined up on the hose, ready to climb up my arms and legs.

Actually, I was prepared this afternoon. Not only for them but for the strange gnats that fly into the eyes. But I didn’t see the remains of the small bird underfoot until too late.

And so a little later than usual this season, I had the swarming-ants-on-the-person moment. Once safely in the house, I saw a leaf on my shirt that I tried to flick off.

Except it was a reddish spider of a kind I’d not seen before. After I screamed, I managed to get it in a jar. It actually played dead, and was hard to move because it had spun an obstacle around itself. Perhaps I will get a photo later. But then again, maybe not. It is suspended in the jar, looking sinister.

I don’t know about you, but headlines like this make my morning a little more cheery.

I go to give the hummingbird feeder a close-up check for ants, as in ‘Is that an ant in there or a shadow of something’, and the hummingbird decides to fly in at the same time. Jeez.

As if the ants have that much of a chance. The feeder is still hanging from a tomato cage in a pot with a struggling tomato plant. However, I took the trouble to put the pot in the pot bottom that my giant fern arrived in. This is filled with water. There is this moat and the moat built into the feeder itself.

Two of the younger members of the flock of dark-eyed juncos that empty the feeder on a twice/daily basis. They seem to make it their goal to deplete the supplies by nightfall.

A surefire method to get several of these is to move the feeder from its customary place, then arrange the camera, tripod and chair directly under the original feeder position. I didn’t do this on purpose.

Having gotten hundreds of shots of the bird from one side, I wanted it feeding from the other. In order to force it to eat from only one opening, I had to plug up the other holes. When it found short evergreen sprigs (closest things I could find that fit) emerging from these holes, it had a moment of surprise which I did not manage to film.

But the flybys, which sound like a giant bumblebee in your ear, might start up again as I get ready for some more shooting later in the afternoon when the light is not so harsh.

So how many things are wrong with this photo?

Yesterday afternoon he showed up and perched on a tomato cage. I haven’t been shooting hummingbirds very long, so this particular situation unnerved me. Usually, he bobs up and down at the feeder, then zooms away. That I can deal with.

He was distracted by his mate, I suspect, and looked as if he might raise that cap of iridescent feathers on top of his head any minute. And he kept on staying fairly still, showing me first one side, then the other, then straight on.

After a bit, I checked the camera display. Oops. Earlier, the feeder was in the shade, and all the settings were for that. By the time I corrected, he was deep into the feeder.

Overexposed. Dark shadow. The cage. The aphid at his feet. Not sharp enough.

I’m lucky he returns many times every day. For sure, I need the practice.

Less than a minute after I cleaned out the feeder and put fresh nectar in, he checked out the results.

We did make progress today. He allowed me to get within about two feet, and didn’t mind that I kept opening the screen door to go in and out. Still no sign of the missus today.

Friday, he was contorting his neck this way and that, fluffing up his body feathers, then lifted the ones on his head like a shiny cap. This seemed bizarre till I spotted the missus sitting primly off to the side. Aha! But so far, he is lord of the feeder, and nothing has tried to dispute his claim.

Part of the morning was spent moving the feeder around to get a better angle on the bird that comes by every 15 to 30 minutes. Most of the sites were in the sun, and I got a couple of good shots, so a few minutes ago, I hung it back in the shade, got my magazine and sat back to wait. Sure enough, here he comes. As I adjust the settings for shade and mess with the ISO, he buzzes by, inches away from my face and camera.

Scary, but very cool indeed.

The wind has been blowing most of the day, and my eyes are itchy and feel gritty. Is it because it’s Friday after another week of PhotoShopping numerous photos and therefore, simple eyestrain, or is there stuff blowing from Santa Cruz?

Enough work for now. Tonight I get to choose between Coraline, Slumdog Millionaire and a British series, Pie in the Sky for a dinner movie. The latter seems promising for supper: the cop is also a chef.

Just before my usual wakeup time, I tend to have the most aggravating dreams, possibly to serve to do just that, get me up. I haven’t had a test dream in a while, maybe a couple of months. This time, it was history that I hadn’t read.

And this time, it was particularly vivid to the point of specific questions and glimpses of the text that I had neglected. Pictures of metal machinery. The actual content of the text, however, eluded me. Most of my test dreams occur during my college years, but inevitably, my kids are in class with me. They hadn’t read the material either. We had probably been watching movies instead of studying. (But they don’t have these dreams.)

Question number 1: What age are we studying?

Omg. How could I fake this one without looking ridiculous. Machinery. Iron Age? Industrial Age? Could not decide. One of the classmates brought over a little card that he placed on a shelf. It had no answers. My mind held no historical facts. At least I had physically made it to class instead of being lost in a maze of unfamiliar buildings. At least I knew what the text kind of looked like, which meant I had opened the book at some point.

Oh, and the teacher said the exam would be 50% of our overall grade. I did what any sensible person would have done.

I woke up.

Sporadically for the past few days, I’ve been trying to get closer to the hummingbirds at the feeder. It’s shady at the usual feeder spot, so from time to time, I would move it to the only conveniently sunny area, which is on the tomato cages.

As you can see, some of the underachieving tomatoes are nowhere near reaching the modest height of these cages, so they may as well be put to good use.

I set up the laptop, managed to get a power supply going, and got my Pepsi too since this was going to take some time. But I was not really prepared for this little fellow to pose for several minutes while I tried frantically to get the right settings for the camera. The shots showing the lovely ruby throat were too blurry. No worries, I plan to get out there again in just a few minutes.

It’s better without the sound (Whitney Houston singing I Will Always Love You), and the story is right below the video.

Oh, and the leopard and shark photos are pretty amazing too.

Fortunately, I no longer watch these while trying to eat supper. Unfortunately, I have a good idea who’s getting killed next, thanks to checking an episode guide.

Why did I feel the need to do this, knowing how there are spoilers everywhere, especially on the soundtracks I bought? Because I was concerned there was an episode missed.

Now I must carve out time after dinner to sit on the edge on my seat.

For a short time today, ShutterStock contributors were seeing their numbers doubled, in both photos sold and earnings total. It was baffling to see all of a sudden, but of course it was a bug. Some bug.

I had forgotten the frenzy that this can be, although we didn’t manage to go till the last day, which is always ‘by the bag’ day. While a lot of the good stuff is gone, there is still a wealth of books there. We got two bags at $5 each. So what did I do? I headed for the cookbooks, which were severely depleted. My stash of mysteries is at an all-time low, and at Palo Alto, the fiction is outside, where I was overwhelmed by the choice. The rest of the cookbooks were mixed in with the fiction, which made no sense.

It is always amusing to watch how people stuff their bags. The younger family members refer to this as ‘bin packing’, and I always thought they were indulging in some sort of codespeak. One day, one of them explained that in all honesty, they learned how to pack enormous amounts of material into small spaces because of some video game they used to play.

Originally, I set up the bird feeding area directly in front of my desk for one reason: to force me to look up from work occasionally. It definitely accomplished that, and for a few months, it has been absorbing to watch the antics of a group of regulars as they flew in daily.

Except for the odd squirrel now and then, the area has stayed free of annoyances. I get to rest my eyes frequently, the birds get unlimited food, I accumulate an endless series of bad bird photos. Until very recently when the sparrows arrived.

Everything negative you hear about house sparrows is true. I actually didn’t mind at first, but they overwhelm not only in numbers but in appetite as well. I thought the towhee was the champ in the chowdown area, but they don’t hold a candle to the sparrows.

Therefore, I have temporarily suspended the feeding. The towhees keep landing on the empty table, peering in at me in what can only be interpreted as supreme irritation. For a short time in the early morning, the sun creates a glare on the feeding table, so I turn the laptop to block it. The towhees crane their necks around the barrier of the monitor, and stare at me.

As soon as I’m convinced the sparrows are gone, I’ll set up again. I just don’t have the time to put up sparrow deterrents.

I’m always on the lookout for bears with character - used ones at garage and estate sales. They sit fairly still for photos, and if they won’t lean the right way, a well-placed heavy rock does the trick. (I know what you’re thinking, but I am very kind to my bears.) Tape sticks to plush badly, but given a little time and persistence, my bears generally do what I ask.

This morning found me at a Palo Alto sale where a very large old bear slumped in a dark corner with a pink pig. Quite used and full of personality, it was, sadly, missing an eye. Rejected.

At the next sale, there were masses of new stuffed animals. Not a good sign. Prices were high, but when I picked up the lone large bear, a woman exclaimed, ‘Name a price! We’re open to anything!’

The fur was suitably old-looking, but it looked more like a dog with upright ears. ‘Oh, no,’ she said, ‘It’s definitely a bear.’ I poked around the face, looking for eyes in all that thick fur. ‘You can trim back the fur if you like, but it’s got eyes.’

So what did we settle on? ‘You can have it for a dollar.’ Sold.

Some birders feel that house sparrows are pests, taking over whole feeder areas. One day I looked up, and there they were, five or six at a time, eating every grain of cornmeal in sight. Having large numbers all at once was such a novelty that I wasn’t bothered at all.

As far as bullying the regulars, no way. As soon as the towhee sweeps in, they all flee. The juncos are bullies themselves, and judging from the racket, have new nestlings to feed, so they’re not going to let a few sparrows stop them. Chickadees seem oblivious, taking what they need, then going to shower in the raised bed sprinklers.

However, a flock will eat quite a lot. In an effort to slow this down this morning, I didn’t replenish the cornmeal, but put out sunflower seeds instead. The towhees have to extract the kernels, which takes a lot of time, therefore, they’re not kicking up the food.

But when I left the room for a few minutes to shoot some photos, a squirrel saw an opening and scattered the seeds everywhere before taking off.

The family member who is a father had chosen Park Chow as his preferred place to dine on the week-early Father’s Day celebration last Sunday. Another family member, the Seattle one, is on call on the actual date, so we made do.

As we prepared to circle the block once more, hoping someone would leave, a slot opened up at just the right moment. After we parked, we realized it would be hard to forget where we were leaving the car.

Sure, he looks innocent here, but he’s merely taking a deep, cleansing breath before inhaling most of the food.

After he and his male peers finished flinging food around, I decided to take another approach. The towhees are the largest birds to come to the feeding table. Part of their food strategy is to scratch around, and I’ve tried to modify this behavior through the judicious use of a cowbell-like noisemaker.

This is a bird that jumps in fear when a big morsel of food (that it has just gotten and dropped) rolls on the table a bit. I thought maybe if I applied a loud noise when it started flinging, it would learn that this was inappropriate behavior. Silly me.

It took a couple of days. Soon, the towhee only turned around slightly when it heard the noise. Cornmeal flew everywhere.

Today, guess who was the first to line up at dawn. (I bring the food indoors at night.) But this time, I moved the cornmeal dish slightly under a flowering plant on the table. The smaller birds could reach the food easily. The towhee could too, but flinging would require some acrobatic maneuvering.

By late afternoon, it had figured things out. Tomorrow is another day.

I know it’s a terrible photo. See previous posts for reasons why. But I plan to sponsor an eating competition very soon between a few of the male towhees that frequent my feeding table.

But first, I need to go out and buy a 50-lb bag of cornmeal and two Costco-sized jars of peanut butter.

I don’t know about you, but I’m not real fond of the rat crowd scenes in Ratatouille and The Tale of Despereaux. While there are many who feel that squirrels are very cutesy-poo, I beg to differ. Rather, I consider squirrels to be, very simply, rats with bushy tails, and there are others who agree wholeheartedly. Which is why I scream when one edges onto my birdfeeding table.

But back to rats. Here’s one that found its way into a hapless UK gentleman’s life in a manner most unusual.

I talk to this bird a lot. Sometimes I say, ‘Do you think you can get a little more in there?’ (It can. Because there’s peanut butter in the mix, it has learned that breadcrumbs and seed will adhere to the main gob.)

And yes, I know that little dish serves the small birds well, but is way tiny for the big guys. I’m working on it. To think that once upon a time, the towhees were too shy to come feed on the table. And I’m still trying to figure out how to take decent photos through the window, which has a fine coating of cornmeal from the multiple flingings of these same towhees, despite my constant windexing.

The California towhee’s normal foraging behavior consists of scratching the ground with both feet to uncover tasty bits under leaves and other debris. While this works well in its natural environment, it wreaks havoc in a feeding station.

Yesterday, I cleaned the whole area where I leave bird food. Turns out the raisin bread crumbs gave some of them the runs. As certain family members would put it, kinda like having to go to the restroom before even leaving the restaurant.

Then I ran errands. Upon my return, something had urinated on the table. I suspect the squirrels, which keep watch on my comings and goings. Then the towhees came, and sent the cornmeal flying in all directions. This irritates me no end.

When I started feeding the birds, only a few juncos showed up. Now it’s wildly successful, with accompanying problems. When I leave, I have to cover the food.

This morning when I got back from more errands, I got a glimpse of the departing squirrel, who had managed to remove the cover, which was weighed down with the ceramic seagull. No matter, I have figured out a solution. More later.

Next to the feeder table, which is full of seeds and other tasty fare, is another table where I put the seeds I’m getting ready to plant. Well, there’s other stuff there too, an old semi-broken tabletop fountain, assorted hose nozzles, the odd cactus. But right in the middle is a container full of hollyhock seed pods from last fall.

What keeps me from planting them? There were pink hollyhocks and white ones. I forgot which is which. But today, I noted the heavy bird traffic to this table, mostly juncos. They’re after the hollyhock seeds, maybe as a palate cleanser to all that peanut butter and cornmeal.

If I get those seeds planted, there should be plenty of extras to go around by late summer.

Last night, as usual, I went out to cover the bird feeding station. Faithful readers know that we have varmints of various sizes and kinds, all with voracious nocturnal appetites for birdseed and the cornmeal/peanut butter in a bowl.

I use a lid from some forgotten plastic container, and to make sure it stays where it should, I put one of two things on top. One is a heavy seagull ceramic thing that a relative gave me which was headed for the trash till I found a use for it. The other is a heavy rock. Sometimes I can’t face the seagull, even in the dark. I reached for the rock.

It was quite dark. It wasn’t the rock. It was the rock-sized cactus that I bought for a photo session last year. So there it was, stuck to my hand, and all I could do was shake it till it fell off.

My fingers were a little numb for hours after.

Known as brown milk among my family members, it is proving to be better than your average sports drink for muscle recovery after strenuous activity.

Mr. Towhee is under the apple tree doing his mating dance. I’m not sure about the chickadees, but the juncos are starting to get territorial wherever there is enough groundcover to hide a nest, though you’d think they’d just reuse the old one. Meanwhile the chickadee fledglings are hanging out in the pyracantha, waiting to get a bath from the upturned hose.

If I’m not paying attention, and just aim the hose upward, they can topple off the limbs. Which doesn’t seem to really deter them. But if I get it just right, word gets out, and this afternoon, there were five or six making their happy sounds and getting a shower. As soon as I set up one of the old lawn sprinklers, maybe I can get a movie of them. Well, as soon as I figure out how to take movies with the new camera.

The grub? It defecated a tremendous amount in its container, and I released it this morning.

The hummers that live in my yard (I found a nest last week) love their showers, and as it turns out, a dip in the pool now and then. This is the water pump on my small pot with the deer scare that is not visible here.

I never do handheld photos well, but only had a few seconds to take the shot.

It was wriggling in the dish this morning. After a bit of cleanup, there was another photo session, during which I decided it must be some form of June bug, both due to its appearance and the remarkable ability to navigate on its back.

After taking the photos, I went into another room to see if these turned out better than the ones yesterday. When I returned a few minutes later, it was nowhere to be found. Oh no! A fat larva almost two inches long lost in the living room.

But happily, there it was on the carpet, some three feet from where I left it. For all its dormant appearance, it can really move when the need arises.

The pot had not been moved for at least a year. Underneath was quite a surprise. After a brief photo session, I put it in the bowl reserved for the cornmeal/peanut butter mix that the birds at the feeder are addicted to.

Usually, the grubs I find are perhaps 1/2″ long. Once a live thing is in the bowl, I turn around, and something has seized it. However, the birds came by for a look and shunned this offering. Why, they could cut it up into a few steaks, a couple of roasts and maybe some spareribs and a ham or two. (I only show a portion of this beast to stay within the constraints of decency.)

Curiously, it seemed the first chickadee that happened by buried it in the cornmeal. I pulled it back to the top. Later, a family member came home, noticed that it was once again covered, and excavated it. It took a while, but I finally realized that the grub was doing the burying.

By nighttime, it was still trying very hard to cover itself.

Tomorrow I will try to find out just what it is, or what it will become. Don’t worry, I will share.

Meanwhile, here are some similar-looking brethren. The ones on the top row appear to have been bathed, compared to my specimen in its unwashed glory.

Thanks to my continuing efforts to thwart the squirrels, today is the first day that a dove could feed relatively undisturbed. I had placed metal pie pans around the edges of the feeding table in hopes of splashing the occasional curious squirrel. Over the weekend, the water evaporated, and the poor dove kept upending the pans when it landed, terrifying itself with the racket.

Even more interesting, the sight of the dove didn’t intimidate the smaller birds. When the towhee eats, nothing else comes by, but the chickadees, juncos and titmice all shared at the same time, more or less. However, the dove was the champion eater.

Perhaps tomorrow I can bring out the 5D and get some decent shots without giving it a heart attack.

The baby was in the raised beds, enjoying a morning shower. The parents were frantic in the oaks above, screaming while trying to gain a foothold on the tips of the branches that didn’t really support their weight well.

I thought it was another photo op.

As soon as I got out there with the tripod, one dove at me. Then the other parent came from another direction. Meanwhile, the baby found the fence to be a formidable obstacle. When I say baby, I mean fledgling, and full-sized at that. I crept closer.

In the past, I’ve had parent crows swoop down before. One year, a fledgling was down somewhere in the neighborhood. To make sure no human would bother it, Mom and Pop attacked everyone out for a walk. This went on for several days.

The morning’s fledgling was unnerved by the sight of the tripod and camera plus moving human. Suddenly, it had the ‘Oh, right, I can fly’ moment, and took off for the top of the fence. The parents went beserk, unsure of whether to keep going after me or to encourage their baby.

Not a single shot did I manage to get. But I am wide awake.