I’ll write about the past weekend later. You have been warned.
Later that day at Eagle Creek State Park in Illinois
Category Archives: Weather
"Enjoy it while you can"
A young man passing by said to me, “Enjoy it while you can. Only two days left!” At first I thought he meant the pool, which may remain open as long as the weather holds out. Then I thought he meant summer, which, according to some calendars, ends with Labor Day. If he had excellent eyesight (better than mine, corrected), he may have been referring to Bristol Renaissance Faire, which is mentioned on my t shirt and which concludes tomorrow. I’m leaning toward the latter because of the oddness of the comment, shot at a stranger on the other side of a fence, and the way he was looking back at me when I glanced up, as though he were checking to see if I’d gotten the joke.
It does remind me that not everyone shares my view that summer is over only with the autumnal equinox.
When does your summer end?
Fall asleep to wind and rain; wake up to wind and snow
Early spring in Chicago — it makes me want to dance naked and barefoot in the grass.
Halloween with Puppet Bike and eating with Obama
We’re into November already, and it’s warm enough to sit outdoors comfortably at Bonjour in just a t-shirt. This may be the last opportunity of the year, so I marked the occasion by getting a chocolate espresso tart decorated with music notes as a treat for later.
I was going to celebrate Halloween by going straight home from work and vacuuming, then reading in bed — such are Friday nights for the reclusive introvert — but Puppet Bike (and artist/inventor Jason Trusty) saved me from myself with an invitation to a party at the Peter Jones Gallery.
After dinner at the convenient Lloyd’s Chicago (note: shuttered as of June 14, 2019), J. and I headed to the Brown Line at Washington and Wells. There, we ran into “Jesus” — a dreadlocked man dressed in fleecy robes with fashionably tattered jeans showing. He was with a typically dressed young woman, following her and talking seemingly nonstop at her. It was going to be an interesting evening.
As we were walking from Montrose to the gallery, J. stopped as he saw a middle-aged man emerging from a car and asked if he’d taught high school in the south suburbs — he resembled one of J.’s teachers. The answer was no. As we moved on, I pointed out that a teacher who looked like that man 30–35 years ago would be in his 70s or 80s now. The thought took J. aback momentarily — in his impulsive way, he hadn’t thought of that. Who but me would? In my mind, my teachers, most of whom I liked, are frozen in time in the prime of life, in their 30s, 40s, and 50s. Some of the older ones have passed away, and it’s difficult for me to picture even the younger ones as retired. How much the world and education have changed since then!
We ran into this couple a short time after we’d arrived. The man who was not J.’s teacher was dressed in a one-piece, sparkly red turkey costume, but he said the head was too hot to wear. The neck protruded from below his abdomen, with the head hanging limply. He must have picked up a subtle cue from my glance, because he said, “Hmmm, I guess it does look a little questionable.” Later we saw that he’d fastened the head to his chest with a small binder clip. In the meantime, his wife was dressed as a flapper, although he told her plan was to change into a chef’s uniform. I pictured her running him down while wielding a meat cleaver . . .
Homemade costumes can be the most creative, but the one I liked best was off the rack: a pantsuit that made the young woman look like a boa constrictor. To complete the effect, she carried a realistic toy snake over her shoulder and arm.
Alan Emerson Hicks’ “Time Machine” was under wraps for a show in the spring, and the front part of the gallery had been taken over by women’s art. Some of it was very good, and interestingly I can’t say that I would have guessed the theme was women’s art. The subjects were more varied than I would have expected, although not broad in scope. I found a pinhole tintype especially intriguing.
Several people introduced themselves. but rarely can I remember names. In general, the crowd was older than I expected and very friendly.
Puppet Bike, which had been entertaining at a park earlier in the day, appeared at about 9:15 p.m. — for a moment I thought it was going to run me down. J. had to be up by 6 a.m. on Saturday for work and wanted to catch the 11:05 p.m. train, so at around 9:50 I had to drag him and his camera away, successfully only after the third or fourth attempt.
While waiting for the bus, I noticed a lot of adults in costumes. Seeing them combined with the early exit and the ongoing issues I face daily made me wish I had enjoyed life more when I was younger — too many restrictions and too little energy now.
Yesterday J. came over for a pre-sunset walk at Osaka Garden and dinner at Medici on 57th, where their t-shirts proclaim, “Obama eats here.” The important questions are: What does he eat? When? And does he leave good tips? Am I the only person in Kenwood-Hyde Park who has never encountered Obama?
Medici is in a different building than it was when I was in college, and it has changed in other ways, too. Sunday brunch was introduced, and the menu has been expanded beyond burgers, pizza, and drinks like himbeersaft. Last night, something struck me as subtly different, and it took a few minutes before I pinpointed it — the silverware was wrapped in maroon (more or less) cloth napkins, with no paper napkins in sight. I drew J.’s attention to this detail and said, “That’s because Obama eats here.”
Throughout dinner, we admired the door into the kitchen, which is suspended from a vertical beam. On one side of the door is open space (not quite enough to comfortably fit through), and on the other are condiment shelves attached to the beam. If the open space doesn’t provide enough visibility of comings and goings to avoid accidents, there’s a cutout in the door. As busboys and servers dumped off glass after glass, cup after cup, plate after plate for a young man at the sink to rinse and stack for dish washing, I pictured him someday going insane and screaming, “NO! NO MORE OF YOUR GLASSES! I’M DONE! I’M NOT GOING TO TAKE IT OR THEM ANYMORE!”
After dinner, I visited the facilities and was surprised to pass through a door that hadn’t been there before. I was more surprised when it opened onto a room with a sink and three doors leading off it, like in one of those “Choose the door with the tiger behind it and you die” scenarios from a 1960s spy series. Two were labeled “GIRLS,” one “BOYS.” The old narrow, graffiti-covered stalls are history.
I entered the nearest “GIRLS,” which was surprisingly clean. It also had a sink with an automatic faucet. When I came out, I noticed that the room I had been in was also labeled for disabled access. I told J. that the restrooms had been upgraded because “Obama eats here,” although I did admit that ADA compliance was probably more of a factor.
Before Medici we had stopped at a TV screen in the window at Urban Search and lusted after huge area homes with hardwood floors, fireplaces, and, in some cases, medieval-style exteriors, mostly in the high six figures and on into seven figures. Next lifetime . . . afterward, we nipped into two more Medici ventures — University Market and the bakery. Does Obama shop there, too? I wonder. If so, I recommend the chocolate croissants — which, alas, were sold out.
And so on to the Flamingo for tea and a jackpot version of Antiques Roadshow. Imagine buying a chair that “looks old” at a garage sale and finding out it’s a Chippendale worth $1,500–$2,000 at auction. J. doesn’t understand how the sellers of such items don’t know their value. I told him my theory — that when people are in a hurry to move or clean up, they look at such things as “that old rickety chair that you can’t even sit on comfortably” and say, “Let’s get rid of the old thing.” The appraiser was beside himself with the excitement of such an extraordinary — and recent — find.
An older woman brought a lovely painting of Lake Louise that, if I remember right, she’d bought for $5 while on vacation. I can’t recall the exact appraised value, but I think it was more than $50,000 or $60,000. And to think she’d bought it mainly as a pretty souvenir.
Isn’t this the stuff of every junk collector’s dreams? Remember that the next time you are thinking of getting rid of an old chair or painting . . . it could be a down payment on one of those Urban Search mansions.
Piqued about peak color
There is no formula to predict fall color. The intensity and peak time of color are determined by complex environmental factors and the genetic makeup of the plants themselves. For example, trees and shrubs of European origin evolved where the growing season is longer and cooler, so they stay green into the fall.
Ed, the “Color Scout” at Morton Arboretum
The “best” fall color for an area occurs during the shortening days of autumn when days are bright, sunny and cool, when nights are cool but not below freezing, and when there has been ideal rainfall.
Here’s a photo I took November 3, 2007. I’ve always thought that most trees were bare by early November, but here they look like they’re about at peak.
And here’s one taken October 18, 2008. In this one, there’s still a lot of green.
I have to keep adjusting how I look at the seasons. My timing seems to be off.
Bristol Renaissance Faire, with rain
Just in case I wasn’t up to a post-UFE trip to Bristol Renaissance Faire, we went back on Sunday, August 17. This time J. succumbed to the claw game at the Tri-State O’Hare Oasis. Seeing that he was determined, I contributed $5 and five moves. After I had set it up, with a cue from me he got the drop on a furry, fuchsia, “Flirt” flower. There’s nothing like spending $12 on a $2 toy to make the male of the species feel good.
We arrived late enough to avoid the parking fee, but too early to get a pass on admission. Although the weather was perfect, to my untrained eye the clouds seemed to be moving in from the west in a determined way, and I wished I’d brought an umbrella.
While we were shopping — I for a wizard-style walking stick, he for CDs and later for a similar stick — the skies darkened abruptly. Just as we had recombined and were looking at beads under a couple of inches of awning, the downpour came. It rained, and rained, and rained. Suddenly there was great interest in beads [shelter], and we kept being nudged gently aside.
When there seemed to be a slight letup we ran across the way, only to find that the “awning” was really a trellis for plants and as porous as could be. Time for Plan C — dashing to a sheltered footwear store, where the amply bosomed matron informed all that dry shoes could be had and offered plastic bags as a practical headdress. Outside the opening, a few young people, already drenched, gave in to their inner child and danced in the puddles while their friends called out to them from the surrounding shops. The rain didn’t cease for more than a half hour.
Food was next on the agenda — shepherd’s pie for J., spinach and cheese calzone for me. It’s not easy, I assure you, to eat a very hot calzone with a plastic fork on wet table while standing in mud. Throwing all proprieties to the winds (or rains), after I dropped the fork in the mud I wiped it off with a dry paper napkin — and lived to tell of it. Let that be a lesson to the over fastidious.
After the rain stopped, I don’t think we did much except stop in at more shop. I haven’t felt brave enough to try to throw knives, battle axes, or brass stars this year, although I’ve done tolerably well in the past (the battle axe man once giving me a look of respect not to mention space).
To J.’s dismay, I wouldn’t let him stop anywhere to eat when we left a little after 7 p.m. We’d eaten enough, and I’d taken into account that he had to work the next day and that I had to be at the hospital by 7 a.m. It was also easy for me to decide, because I wasn’t supposed to eat anything heavy.
And so to bed around 11:30 p.m., wondering what tomorrow would bring . . .
Sand Ridge Nature Center
Saturday J. and I headed to the Sand Ridge Nature Center, another part of the Cook County Forest Preserve District. This one is close to the train station in Homewood, which is why I suggested it. Of course, we took several detours and didn’t go there directly, making the convenience moot. My mood improved when I saw a bumper sticker in the parking lot that still makes me giggle: A cartoon pig says indignantly, “No, I don’t have any spare ribs.”
First, we walked through the building, which has a number of educational exhibits and herpetologic and fish inhabitants. The educational information was punctuated by “Fun Facts,” for example, the saying, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat” refers to catfish. I had never heard of one of the species on display, a musk turtle or “stinkpot.” Nearby in the same aquarium, a painted turtle sprawled catlike on partially submerged rocks. It had extended its front legs straight out, as relaxed cats do, and pulled its head into its shell so that it looked like a comfortable headless turtle.
A woman who had been cleaning offered to help us. She gave us a map of the trails and samples of insect repellent to get us through our walk.
Cook County government has a poor reputation, and I developed a poor opinion of government employees based on an experience years ago at the State of Illinois Secretary of State’s Office downtown. I went with a friend who needed something and who was the only person there on business. A woman came to the window and told us to form a single-file line. I said, “Oh, I’m not in line; I’m with her,” to which the woman replied, more firmly, “Form a single-file line.” It soon became apparent that she would not assist my friend until I was standing precisely behind her in line. Her behavior and attitude clearly didn’t make her happy. I could picture her at home, telling her family about the difficult person who made her day hellish by not cooperating instantly and forming a single-file line of two, and her family commiserating with her about the horrors of coping with John and Jane Public every day. Today, she would be a natural for the TSA.
All of this is to highlight that the Cook County Forest Preserve District employees we’ve met have been eager to provide a good visitor experience. They have seemed to like, even to love, their jobs, with no inclination toward mindless bureaucracy. I noticed, too, that the District promotes a new Chicago Wilderness program of which I heartily approve: “Leave No Child Inside,” which tries to get children away from their electronics into the great outdoors. (My proposal: A similar program for adults.)
The sky was overcast, so the butterfly garden wasn’t buzzing with activity. J. did try to get photos or video of a red damselfly that posed for him for several minutes.
We didn’t have much time and my natural bent is toward water, so we took the Redwing Trail that skirts a man-made pond. Around this pond were large, showy orange and pink flowers of a variety we had never seen before. We also spotted tiny powder blue flowers whose little protruding centers fascinated me.
From the direction of the pond I heard a bird calling and saw a flash of gray and white. Although I couldn’t recall the sound, I remembered that belted kingfishers call in flight and was pretty sure that that is what I’d seen. J. also got a quick look at it on the return trip. As always, I wished I had brought binoculars.
As it was a cloudy, humid, relatively still day, the mosquitoes were out in force in the woods. J. offered me insect repellent, which would have helped with my arms and legs, but a large proportion of the bloodsuckers chose to bite my posterior. Next time I’ll know to spray my pants ahead of time.
Apparently, the forest proper, or portions of it, is fenced, so when we went through the gate beyond the pond, I had to pay attention to the amount of time it would take to return before it would be locked at 4:30 p.m. The fence may be intended to keep humans out when the preserve is closed, but it serves another purpose — a sign asks you to close the gate behind you to prevent white-tailed deer from destroying the gardens.
The forest preserves may be overrun by deer, but the only wildlife we saw was a rabbit sitting in the middle of the trail. More skittish than its Flamingo relatives, it dove into the cover when it realized we’d spied it. I saw a few birds, but not many — generally, most birds prefer areas that are more open.
The sun made an appearance just as we came to an open space next to the trail, and J. took a photo at my request. On the return trip, I explained that one fantasy of mine is to live in a clearing in the deep woods, not unlike Hansel and Gretel’s witch. Slapping himself, J. commented, “If you could keep the mosquitoes under control . . .”
Despite his discomfort, when we came to the Lost Beach Trail J. wanted to continue. I demurred because it was close to the time I’d decided we needed to turn around and backtrack to avoid being locked in with the unseen and unheard but voracious deer. This proved to be a good call, because when we were about halfway past the pond it began to drizzle. Shortly after we returned to the building, the skies poured in earnest. I wondered if the cheerful woman we had met as she headed out had been caught in it and if she were still happy.
We looked at the animal posters on the wall by the offices. In one, a green heron was doing what green herons do so well — taking a frog for dinner. “Poor frog!” J. exclaimed. Indeed. In this particular photo, the frog, its midsection trapped between the heron’s upper and lower mandibles, faces the camera and sports a facial expression eerily like that of Kermit the Frog.
Outside again we watched a couple of male goldfinches in the prairie garden area. One alighted on a tall plant that slowly dipped under its weight while J. again tried to capture the Kodak (Nikon) moment.
In the parking lot, impressive amounts of steam wafted up from the pavement, drawn toward the sun that had reappeared after the hard rain. After a brief detour to Hammond, Indiana, as far in ambiance from Sand Ridge as it is possible to conceive, we ended up at a Fuddruckers for a meal that probably negated any good we had done ourselves by walking. J., along with some seven-year-old boys, had his fill (or at least of taste) of video games, then we returned to The Flamingo. I admit I teased Hodge with the salmon that J. had picked up on the way at Treasure Island.
The poor, tortured cat.
Storm coming
A thunderstorm blows in from the west.
Wacky weather and dragonflies
After I picked up Hodge, who, I am told, was well behaved (I assume this is relative to his typical behavior versus relative to that of a normal cat), I went to Bonjour for coffee and sat inside. I noticed some cloud buildup in the west, and the temperature seemed a bit cooler when I came out.
On my way back, the sky to the east was mostly sunny, but a dark cloud loomed directly overhead, and when I reached Hyde Park Boulevard at 55th Street, the westerly wind began driving large, scattered drops of rain into my back and backside. A couple across the street held their umbrella straight in front in a defensive posture, but when it’s this windy, you’re simply going to end up wet with a torn-up umbrella.
The light changed, and I continued on. East of Everett Avenue, the sidewalks were dry — they weren’t even blotchy from the large, erratic raindrops. I looked back to the west and saw that the sky was clear in the same spot where the black rain cloud had hovered just minutes before. I wondered if it had moved over the lake that quickly and had stopped spitting rain as it moved.
This evening the wind has picked up, knocking over the pool and lawn furniture with abandon. Now the temperature is comfortably cool, and I would like to sit outdoors a while longer even as I batten down tea glass, notebook, and everything else that seems weightless to the gusts.
When I first came out, I spotted an enormous dull green dragonfly with a purplish “tail.” It tried to settle on one of the evergreens, but at that moment the wind kicked up and thrashed the bush around so much that I thought the dragonfly had had to let go or had been beaten to death by the flailing limbs.
During a brief lull, I was startled to see it take off and fly straight toward me, just a foot or two away. I thought it would dart past me, but it latched onto me, right in the middle of my left chest area, if you can picture that. “Great,” I thought, “if anyone sees me they’ll wonder why and how I’m nursing this giant dragonfly. ‘Do you often walk around with a huge dragonfly attached to your chest?’ they’ll think, and perhaps even ask.” How could I answer that, asked or unasked? Fortunately, my dragonfly friend and I were quite alone.
I love dragonflies and normally would enjoy the opportunity to see one so close at rest, but this seemed a little too intimate. With an unconscious, indiscernible movement, I persuaded the dragonfly to seek shelter somewhere more stable.
Nonetheless, perhaps it will bring me better luck.
(Almost) the lusty month of May
People here seem to feel it’s been a long, cold, lonely winter. I’m tired mostly of bundling up, the constraint of heavy clothes and a coat, and still feeling cold when walking about at night. Until this week, a few moments that felt like spring yielded to more winter wind and cold.
Inevitable every year, spring is being persistent, manifesting itself through manmade and natural signs.
Pregnant women. Years ago someone pointed out to me that, in spring, the world is full of pregnant women. Until then, I had not thought much about this, but, judging by the number of protruding bellies I’ve seen in the past few weeks the long, cold, lonely winter was not all that lonely for many.
Garden kitsch. In the seasonal products aisle of Walgreens, a frog chirped as I walked by. After every fourth chirp (two sets of two chirps apiece), his mutant pink tongue rolled out enticingly (or threateningly). As mankind displaces wildlife like frogs, the unspoken answer seems to be to replace the live creatures with mechanical plastic replicas.
Little brown jobs. While walking through The Flamingo garden, I startled what birders know as a little brown job (LBJ). Just as I realized that it was not one of the ubiquitous European house sparrows but one of the many interesting migrants of the Central Flyway, it flew off. Nuts.
Love is in the air. In J.’s neighbor’s back yard, a male grackle fanned his tail seductively and performed a rudimentary dance that clearly said, “Look at me! Look at me! Aren’t I handsome?” The female must have been duly impressed because an activity ensued that was definitely not suitable for children or more sensitive viewers. I don’t know about bees, but this pair explained why birds were singled out as an example.
The Flamingo pool. The cover has been removed, the winter meltwater drained, and the muck mopped out. Painting should be next. The pink-and-white deck chairs are piled up and waiting.
Come sail away. A few hardy sailors took their boats out Sunday, undoubtedly determined to pretend that it was a warm spring day, despite the chill and wind.
Garden goods. J. called me from a nursery; he is feeling the call of the perennials.
Puppet Bike. My favorite Chicago attraction is back on the street.
Insects and spiders. An insect parked itself on my window the other day for several hours, perhaps thinking it was a pickup joint. The spider brigade that uses my windows as a full-service hotel (with restaurant) has not reappeared, but Hodge and I do find individual members of the advance guard checking out the indoor comforts.
Increased workload. In the winter, when I dread bundling up and facing the cold and could put in extra time, my workload is lighter. The moment it’s warm and light enough in the evenings to enjoy the outdoors, suddenly pent-up projects are found to keep me busy after hours.
That’s all I can think of for now. I can’t wait for the sighting of the first butterfly.