Justfolk's photos

That's damsel-fly, not dam-selfy. I'm not that thin.

Neither my wife nor I am very averse to weeds. We like lots of non-native plants but we figure the ones the bees and other bugs like best are the ones that have established themselves in the wild. So we are not as picky about weeds, or as energetic about weeding, as some people. And we tend to tend the weeds, succouring them somewhat rather than pulling them out at first sight. For a month or so, this plant has been growing in a pot with my 40-year-old pet pine. I think it is Senecio vulgaris, common ragwort. But I'm not sure. I like its looks.

He was parked on the window of our kitchen door so I took advantage to photograph him. He left right away after I got the shot.

This morning, this is what I saw on the deck beneath the potted dahlia -- the petals of one flower. Overnight they'd dropt out and fallen, with no wind to scatter them.

So says a friend of mine. Pushed, he'll relent and say *these* ones are yellow-hammers, the Yellow finches. They don't hammer much that I've ever seen. But they sure are yellow.

Every year we leave a box or two alone to see what comes up. Sometimes we can recognise what's there, sometimes not. This box primarily has these two plus some white clover. It's a good thing we like the surprises.

Sitting on the deck after supper drinking our tea, waiting for a downy woodpecker to come a little bit closer, this Tricoloured bumblebee started amusing us. First, he was checking out the Bacopa. But then he turned to the white clover, and that's what he really got face and eyes into. His paniers looked full of pollen by the time he left. Okay: his corbiculae. Or pollen baskets. And, yeah, I know I spelt tricoloured two ways. Those -our spellings have huge variation in Canada. And, willy-nilly, I'm Canadian. And panniers the *very* old-fashioned way. But there you go. You can take a man from his history of English books, but you can't take the history of English from the man.

Around here the chuckleypear (Amelanchier of some sort; known elsewhere by a half-dozen other names like serviceberry and Saskatoonberry) is well loved by people. But it is as well-loved by a fungus that prevents people from eating about a quarter of the berries on most bushes. Generally, if you have chuckleypears, you have the chuckleypear fungus. Or rust. Or whatever it is.

I was at my little garden plot today in the heat of the day and a constant companion was this four-spot dragonfly. Plus a couple of his friends. They were all darting around finding things in the air to eat, some of which were intent on eating bits of me. So I was glad to have the dragonflies there. And I didn't begrudge them their short rests. I think this is a "four-spot dragonfly," so-named for the black mark on the edge of each of the four wings.

Last night while we waited for a table at a sidewalk restaurant, this European ("Essex") skipper was doing his due reflection.

The blackberries are exuberant in their showing their wares to the bees. The bees are being compliant. Our yard is abuzz. We await the fruits.

Apparently these are -- somewhere -- known as King Billy butterflies, arriving in those areas around King Billy's day, July 12th. Not so here -- I don't think I've seen them much earlier than now, almost two weeks after Billyday (although I *did* see one a couple of years ago a whole week before Billyday. . . .). The connection to Billy is also through his, William's, royal House of Orange, the Billybug's main colour. Just the same, I grew up calling them the rather more standard name, Monarch butterflies. I used to see them from time to time as a child. But as an adult I did not. And I started doubting my memories when I heard people say that we have no Monarchs on the island of Newfoundland. Well, we do. This one complaisantly perched for a minute on a compost pile at the community garden I have a plot in. He showed me both sides of his wings and flew away. I hope he found some milkweed.

Fifty-some years ago, a good friend of mine lived behind the door numbered Four. His father ran the college whose service entrance was the door numbered Three. We partied there a lot. No one lives there now and no one worries about the dock established in the crack between the foundation and the asphalt. I doubt there are parties in there now.

The view over a neighbour's house at noon today.

In a straight line, I live five or six km from this airport. We see and hear (and feel the vibration from) more and more of these military cargo planes. When they take off across the Atlantic Ocean, as this one did an hour after I took this picture, they appear to carry very heavy loads.

We spent an hour last night watching the sunset across the bay from my bern&sternlaw's deck. And then we did a scowlery. I thought the sunset and the scowlery might look good together, so I clapped 'em to each other. It does look like the poster for a cheap crime comedy film of 45 or 50 years ago.

It's not full-full. It won't be full-full for another two days. But it's apparently 94.5% illuminated. That's close to full. And, seen through the warm evening sky as it rises just after sunset, it's very orange. This was the view from our back garden a few minutes ago.

I went to the local motor vehicle registry to drop off an application for my nephew and discovered an empty parking-lot and locked doors. The darkened doors were almost resplendent with bright signs indicating why -- it is Orangemen's Day. That's a day celebrated hardly anywhere other than here. It is a day that -- even a half-century ago when I started working -- was being officially called in collective agreements some rather less divisive name (it was "Mid-July Holiday" in my first union contract). Thirty years ago I tried to get a public wave of support to have it transmogrified into an inclusive day for all people of this province, but my idea fell flat. Everyone still calls it Orangemen's Day (or Orangeman's Day as it is here on these signs). I was surprised anyway. There was a mail slot and my nephew's application is inside it now.