The Irony of Parking

         I often look for a parking spot far away from other cars. If it means walking farther than necessary, I will still seek a spot that will prevent dings on my car from other drivers flinging their doors open. And so I felt amazed and amused when I found a crotch rocket parked alongside my car, leaning against its side, denting it, and scratching it. The boy who rides this bike had no license, no plates, and no insurance. He did, though, have a helmet to protect his vacant head.

Tortum in Turkey

It might have occurred during the Quaternary, or it might have occurred a few centuries ago, that a landslide in the valley of Choruh created the Tortum lake and the waterfall. 

Enjoying the Pure Life

        Tattoo art on the arm (and who knows where else) of a young American sipping Nestle's Pure Life water. 

         Interesting pictorial of a Japanese sub-culture's significance of tattoos at this site:

BBC In Pictures I found the photo above in public domain and do not know the name of the photographer.

Frankly, Frank . . .

       In assisting JoAnn with her book, Emil Hermann, His Life and Art, I photographed over one hundred paintings by the artist. One of them I show below of the murderer Frank Collier.

       I learned a little bit about him from JoAnn: That while he served as mayor of Wichita Falls during the mid-1920s he shot and killed a seventeen-year old man; that he played well for the baseball team Spudders, and that his daughter, the widow of the deceased man, became an artist. His crime "was swept under the rug," said JoAnn, as she described the life he lead subsequently in Wichita Falls as parks commissioner.
       Yesterday JoAnn and I delved a bit more deeply into the story of the murder. I came away feeling disdain for the Colliers. His wife, Dorothy, assisted him in the murder, going to a relative's house to find the pistol he used to murder the young man. Then, after he shot him, Dorothy told him to back up the car to show under the light of its headlamps that the man was dead. Ugh. Jerks. This was the murderess that Governor Ma Ferguson pardoned after the trial in which she was found guilty. Augh. More jerks.
       My mission: I am to instroduce a local writer whose book is based on this tragedy. My intention is to discover on my own as much as I can about the event before I read the novel. In this way I can perceive in his writing the insights that he gives to the reader, and thus appreciate more in depth the story-telling. My friends say that he wrote the story from the young widow's point of view, and that he indicates that a sort of tension lead up to the day of the murder. I hope to discover on my own why these people were so  . . . despicable.
      Mostly I will describe the importance of this book as a part of local history. A poem was written about the dead man, lyrics were sung about his murder, and now a novel may redeem him.

Another Rump Shot Wyman Would Not Take

Titan, Golden Eagle, the owner of the rump in the image above.

This eagle convalesces at South Plains Wildlife Rehabilitation Center in Lubbock. 

Please consider a donation to assist them in coping with the severe drought.

Visit their Website for details. 

Two Species, Same Wing Span

Which one is the Mississippi Kite, and which one is the Cooper's Hawk? 

         Wild Bird Rescue released last week several juvenile Mississippi Kites. Lila and the volunteers provide food and water for them while they wait to migrate south. In the meantime, a juvenile Cooper's Hawk joins the kites in aerobatics over the center.  

The Mayor's Daughter

The Museum of North Texas History will host a book signing on Sunday, 11 September, 2 - 4 pm.

Fall Semester Begins

Geese on the campus at Midwestern State University.

Drought from Above

     It was a gorgeous day for flying. Along the way, my camera clicked away as I took photographs of the countryside over which we flew, North Central Texas in the tightened grip of a drought. Lakes levels are low and ponds are dry. Cattle have no food, and wild life suffers from lack of insects and moisture.

        The barrow pit so often mentioned in Penny's blog this summer provides very little water for shorebirds during this drought. 

Ponds everywhere have dried up.

Farmer's driving across dry wheat fields leave a sort of art on the field.

Farmer's swirls.

       The wider angle of the countryside shows the mesquite plants, in green, doing just fine in the drought, as expected, a dry pond to the left, and a swath to the right, from bottom to top, following the dirt road, of dead foliage. The crop-duster sprayed a new kind of herbicide that kills the mesquite plant. Along this section, he experimented with the efficacy of the new herbicide. Mesquite plants provide shelter for wild life, in addition to cattle, which is what annoys the cowboys and why they strive to eradicate the plant. The cowboys cannot see the cattle in the mesquite to find them, and then when they ride through the mesquite looking for the cows, thorns tear into their skin and their horses.

         Is that a crater caused by a meteorite? No, it is a pond that, having dried up, was cleaned by the bulldozer guy. When and if it ever fills up again, it will hold more and cleaner water for the cattle. 

What are these ladies eating? 

The shadow of the helicopter flying over dried grasslands and thriving Prickly Pear cacti. 

The shadow of the helicopter quickly approaches and oil pump.

       Sometime ago an attempt to drill for oil yielded nothing except this peculiar land mass, now eroding into the surrounding hill.

       A closed gate that leads to the oil pump holds a sign that says, "No Smoking," and a sign to its right says, "320 acres more or less." That's Prickly Pear cacti to the right of the sign. 

      Some of the water looks green. Eek. Here we see a wild hog enjoying the mud, in spite of the green, and creating circles in the still water. This image, enlarged, looks highly intriguing, for the circles and for the loneliness of the hog, an over-populated species now pursued ruthlessly by landowners. 

The white birds in the water are Pelicans. They have elected to remain at Lake Wichita all year. 

Geckos in the House

It feels so hot outside that the gecko folk have moved inside with us. Eek. 

The Outer Clouds of Hurricane Irene

Departing Teterboro, fleeing from Hurricane Irene, I spot the New York City skyline. 

At 16,500 feet we followed the sunset.

For more details on this flight, see my Journal of an Aviatrix (link at right).

City Lights, Bumpily

Louisville during a bumpy landing. 

Mopping Slop

       This week I rescinded my resignation from the LAR as much in a huff as I had left a year ago, and began work as its editor. I could not allow it to go to publication in the shape I saw it in last week, so I've spent most of the past few days mopping up the slop that was tossed upon its innocent pages. One section reminded me of Jackson Pollock's work: Lift a bucket full of text and hurl it upon the page. Thoughts of Pollock's work carried me through the painful editing period of that section, so riddled with run-on sentences, omissions, and repetition. I wish that the LAR could have more information about the art work it shows, such as the kind of media and the dimensions, and I can pursue those next week. Our focus for next year will lie in publishing all new artists with strict exceptions. A group of directors will manage the content of the LAR from now on; our hope is that with a larger group of people gathering for content, the book will seem refreshed with the work of new artists and writers with each passing year.
       The theme for the next issue is "Looking Toward the East."

We are casting our net for more artists and writers. 

Rump Shots Wyman Likely Would Not Take

Great Egret and Great Blue Heron.

Sunday Sundaes at Dotti's

         Returning from Dotti's cottage on the hill where she shared a sundae today, I noted the clouds building up over the countryside. 

Pearl's

        If you ever find yourself in Oklahoma City and have a hunkerin' for . . . fish tacos, a mug of clam chowder, or a crispy Caesar's salad . . . visit the folks at Pearl's Fish House. Watch the video to familiarize yourself with their charm. Scroll below for some images I took today while MyMrMallory and I munched on hush puppies. Not one to feel willing to eat hush puppies, I ate these with relish for their crunchiness and tasty seasonings.  In addition to tasty food, the ambiance seemed fun and the music peppy.

We will! We will!

Pitiable Sock

        No wind for the sun drenched -- not rain drenched sock at Kickapoo Airport. The sock sags pitiably, seemingly forgotten by the wind and the repair crews. As a pilot I gaze at it to check the wind direction and strength. Today I noted with further dismay its ragged looks. Pessimistically, the winds will come again, and from the north, too, bringing cooler temperatures and maybe even some rain, and the sock will blow again, and will become frayed at its small end, or the strength of the winds will finish yanking it off its frame.

Alaska's Ptarmigans: Mother and Chick.

Releasing Egret and Kestrel

       Mama Bird Lila and the volunteers devoted to saving lives at Wild Bird Rescue raised these two souls. MyMrMallory and I drove into the countryside -- a most pitiable-looking countryside -- to release them.

         There seem plentiful crickets around for the American Kestrel. Pitiable as it looks, the pond, though, has mussels and fish for the Cattle Egret. In addition, several head of cattle ambled in for a sip of water. The egret has own herd of cattle.