Still waiting for spring --

In spite of reports that this state, along with the rest of the west, is warming faster than the rest of the country, we have snow today. Even near the water it's coming down in flakes instead of drops, and I wonder what the tourists on the sightseeing boat out in the lake will have to say once they are back on land!

On better days, the lake looks like this. (That's the police fireboat, checking nozzles.)



I know spring is coming, because I have now seen at least two crows carrying nesting material. Yesterday the bird had so long a stick in its beak that it had trouble finding a place to land.


Best bird sighting yesterday was the Rufous Hummingbird (Selasphorus rufus) that flew out of a flowering quince just ahead of me. It landed in a bare tree nearby, long enough for a good look. However they manage it, two species of hummingbirds - Rufous and Anna's - winter over in the Pacific NW. (Thanks to a hummingbird fanciers' site on the web for this picture.)

Chickadees have checked out the nesting box once or twice, but show no interest in starting a nest. Perhaps if I added a heat lamp...

Reunion

What I have been working on this week is an upcoming 50th high school reunion - mine.

"How can we be old enough for a 50th?" That was the reaction of a previously lost classmate, whose comment was passed along to me by another classmate - her former sister-in-law.

We went to high school in a small town. In the class were two sets of cousins, and at least three class couples married after graduation. It was common to have parents who had graduated from the high school.

Many classmates still live in town, although a significant number of us live over here, "at the Coast." We've managed to put together a reunion committee from both groups.

Thanks to the internet, we've located people who had been out of touch for years. A 50th reunion gets the attention of many who have avoided all previous gatherings.



I was delighted to find this vintage picture of the high school, because since our time it has undergone some ill-advised remodeling. A part of every reunion is a tour of the building, which can be almost unbearably evocative at times.

The school was built sometime in the 1930's, to what seems to have been a standard plan. My husband's high school, built about the same time on the south side of Chicago, looks almost the same.

Venice

When I dream about being somewhere else, the first place that comes to mind is almost always Venice. After five or six visits there, I still want to go back, as often as possible.

I'm a Venetophile, according to Judith Martin (aka Miss Manners), whose most recent book, No Vulgar Hotel, is a wonderful read for anyone who loves the city. Martin, who goes to Venice twice a year, writes about the daily life, history and literary associations of Venice with her customary attention to detail and deceptively light touch. She knows that small shops are disappearing in favor of tourist traps stuffed with "Venetian masks" made in China; that day-trippers fill the walkways from wall to wall; and that high water (aqua alta) happens all too often - Venice remains fascinating.

Not all the small shops have disappeared. So far as I know, this violin maker is still in business, somewhere near the Campo Santa Margarita. I liked the watery effect of the old window glass - Venice, after all, is defined by water.

First day of spring?

Somewhere the weather must be warm and truly springlike, but not here.

Nevertheless, the Pike Place Market celebrated the first day of spring by stationing volunteers (bundled in parkas and boots against the cold) to give away 30,000 daffodils on all the busiest corners in downtown Seattle this morning. It was a wonderful gesture - in spite of cold wind and intermittent drizzle, most people smiled and reached out for the offered flowers.

Next month we can look forward to fields blazing with tulips in the Skagit Valley, just north of here. For now, we have wind, rain, and the possibility of snow tonight!

Keeping up -

After the first poetry class, I feel encouraged enough to work on something to take in next week. Class lasts 2 hours, so there should be enough time for everyone to read, even if all 15 students bring poems. The teacher is able to keep the class discussion focused, without making his guidance too obvious.

Keeping up with music, knitting (the sweater is growing nicely), working on a class reunion, and other aspects of daily life means I'm not reading many books. The New Yorker and the Economist arrive each week without fail, and recently, just to complicate things, I subscribed to Paris Match. The magazine is the French equivalent of People or Us, and almost qualifies as a guilty pleasure - while catching up on the latest about M. and Mme. Sarkozy (she has been on the cover of Match at least three times since the wedding) I'm learning new vocabulary and contemporary expressions. Really. (For another approach to contemporary French, see this website.)

Match does cover current events differently from American media. Its pictures of the riots in Myanmar were far more comprehensive and disturbing than anything I saw here.

So I think about Paris when the magazine arrives, and promise myself I'll get the French dictionary out before I settle down with the latest issue, instead of trying to get the stories from context. But it's so hard to stop reading long enough to look up that ONE word that I should know anyway...

J. S. Bach

Since I have more than one phrase of Bach's Cantata 21 running through my head tonight, I'll honor him with a picture.

Our choir's Easter presentation is actually given on Palm Sunday. Though the day was cold and rainy, the church was full of flowers, and a big crowd turned out for both services. We sang with a small chamber orchestra - two violins, a viola, cello, string bass and an oboe player. The music director conducted from the harpsichord, and another pianist played "organ" on an electronic piano. For the gloriously over the top last chorus of the cantata, we even had a tympani (of sorts): two drums and a Zildjian cymbal. We had worked hard on the choruses, and the soloists were splendid, by themselves or in duos or quartets.

Not spring yet.

Cold rain today. Even the birds were quiet, except for a crow bouncing up and down on on the bare maple tree, rasping at the world.

Sparky the cat ventured out on the balcony, staying on the part that's sheltered except for a quick pounce to check out the fuzzy ball she carried out there last night. Surprise - it was wet. She came back inside, to observe the world from her cat tree.

Yesterday I took advantage of the only sun we've had for days, and transplanted a few primroses. All the ordinary colors were gone - gathered into prepared planters at the nursery. What remained is these odd-colored blossoms - which I now think I quite like, especially in terra-cotta pots.

Once a band nerd . . .

Off to band rehearsal tonight, with the Ballard Sedentary Sousa Band. The band, which has been around for 23 years, is known far and wide (Ballard to Federal Way at least) for its devotion to those old-fashioned marches, by John Philip Sousa and his contemporaries (O. R. Farrar, Henry Fillmore, and other luminaries of the 19th and early 20th century march genre.)

We're a sedentary band in part because members range in age from 20-something to 80-something, and because...well, why NOT a sedentary Sousa band? We even have a sedentary majorette.

I joined about 3 years ago, urged on by my son, who plays French horn. "Get your flute out and start practicing," he said, after I incautiously said "That looks like fun" after one of the band's outdoor concerts.

It is fun. We play for a variety of spring and summer events in Seattle, usually beginning with the Syttende Mai parade in Ballard (celebrating Norwegian Independence Day, May 17.) One year the only transport we could find was a yellow school bus, not the easiest venue for a full-throated band performance. But the trombones pointed their slides out the windows, the drums held back a bit, and we were off! When we played the Norwegian national anthem, elderly ladies in national costume waved their miniature flags and cheered us on!

Even on a gray day ...

Spring is coming! In this mild climate, there are trees that send out blossoms in January, but this one, on a street where I walk almost every day, doesn't flower until days are longer and the sun grows warmer.

Today I was thinking about poetry, wondering why I've written so little in the past two years. (It's definitely not from a dearth of subject matter.)

Next Monday I begin a workshop at Richard Hugo House, one class a week for several weeks with a well-known Northwest poet. This already feels like a jump into the deep end of the pool, or dashing into Lake Washington for a polar bear swim (no, I haven't tried that particular exercise) but sometimes it's the best way to get going again.

If I can finish knitting the sweater I started last week, and produce a couple of decent poems, it will be a good spring.

A little more about Malta

Malta has three major types of tourist attractions - prehistoric sites, 16th century buildings and fortifications, and World War II.

Above is a picture of Hagar Qim, one of the largest monuments. It's on a hillside overlooking the Mediterranean - a perfect lookout spot.

A good tour will take you to most of the major sites, but you can easily visit on your own, using the island's extensive bus system (or taxis, for some more remote places.)

Through the gate behind the kitties is a very long staircase leading to the Lascaris War Rooms, located deep in the thick 16th century walls of the Grand Harbor. During the WWII these rooms were the nerve center for British and Maltese resistance to Axis bombing. If you go, be prepared for steps - many steps.

After the war the island and its people were presented the George Cross, for collective bravery and sheer grit in the face of famine and bombs.

More about Malta here.

Malta

Since this blog started as a place to talk about travel, I should follow up on that first post, from last year. I did indeed go on a tour to Malta, and Sicily, and Italy.

I came to Malta a few days early (when you live on the west coast of North America, a trip to Europe brings on major jet lag.)

It's a fascinating small country, consisting of two large islands - Malta and Gozo - and five smaller ones. Located more or less in the middle of the Mediterranean, Malta has been explored, invaded or colonized by almost everyone - Phoenicians, Romans, Byzantines, the Knights of St. John, the Ottomans and the British. After 150 years of British rule, the islands became independent in the 1960's. English is still one of two official languages. The other, Maltese, sounds a bit like Arabic mixed with Italian and English, and features an amazing number of words spelled with "x" or "xx."

The picture is a closeup of a Maltese fishing boat, painted in traditional colors. The eye design, painted or carved on each side of the bow of these boats, is a good-luck symbol.

To let ...

The birdhouse is up, awaiting tenants.

This will be its 4th or 5th season. Each year a pair of chickadees has successfully raised a brood. Occasionally I've managed to see a fledgling make that long, scary first flight, from the box to the nearest tree. It's a rare treat to see this happen - more often I'll glimpse a young bird poking its head out of the box, then the next day I'll sudenly realize there is no more chatter from the nest - everyone has gone.

Once a fledgling landed on the deck, on a rainy day. For a few minutes it sat, looking miserable, but soon found its way under the railing and into the air.

Most bird books say chickadees rarely use nesting boxes, preferring holes in trees. However, I've had a birdhouse on my third-floor city deck for at least 10 years, and the chickadees keep returning. This morning one landed briefly, perhaps to check things out. The cat instantly went into "hunting alert" mode, but the door to the deck was closed - all she could do was to look. The house hangs too high for her to disturb, although she will sometimes crouch beneath it, looking up as if to calculate the distance. The adult birds keep flying in and out, calling "big bad cat" alerts to each other.

Back again.

This blog is a little like the sweater I started to knit years ago. After finishing more than half the garment, I put it away in the cedar chest, and didn't look at it again until last week. At that point, I spent an entire evening ripping it back, and rewinding. Result: five balls of somewhat crinkled yarn (and nine more skeins still untouched.)

Now I'm reknitting the yarn, in an entirely new pattern. Perhaps this time a finished garment will emerge.

At least I don't have to rip back this blog - all the posts I might have written have just come and gone in my head. Blogging during an organized tour is a nice idea, but difficult and expensive to put into action. (And you could die from secondhand smoke in most European internet cafes!)

It's still cold in Seattle, but the sun is out. I'm on my way out to the hardware store, to find a couple of toggle bolts to hold up the refurbished chickadee house. A gentleman friend built the birdhouse a few years ago, adding a custom touch - a bird-shaped perch under the opening. Sometimes the chickadees sit on it - at other times they fly straight through the hole, something which seems impossible no matter how many times you actually see it.

Pictures later. First I have to hang the house.