Thursday, September 16, 2011— (On September 20, the full moon, “Harvest”, will rise nearest to earth.)

This September’s sky is offering what seems another world full of entertainment and wonder. Raise your head and look around at incredible colors that highlight unique cloud shapes.

Yesterday’s late afternoon overhead simply amazed. At almost-evening, as the sun set behind the Oregon Cascades, it turned the sky into a total knockout.

From behind those western mountains and under massive clouds, the sun sent countless streaks. Some of the bright oranges were narrow, others wide. All seemed to stretch from south to north.

I ran to find a camera, happily managed to capture final gasps of those amazing colors.

Dear Friends: In just a few days, September’s sky will offer a full, glorious Harvest Moon! Diana

Wednesday, September 15, 2011— (On September 20, the full moon, “Harvest”, will rise nearest to earth.)

This month is slipping away. In a few days the full Harvest Moon will appear at its strongest, most beautiful. This moon is one that many love best.

It’s my favorite, maybe because I grew up in middle America and knew well all four seasons. It introduces my favorite months, September and October, season-changers, and when natural daylight and evening darkness appear and disappear in environmental changes indicating winter’s onset.

Here in Oregon we have seasons, but with murkier comings and goings. Annually, we might see indications for spring, but awaken one morning to deeply freezing temperatures. Looking outside we sense bitter cold and see new snow, conditions often continuing through weeks that ought to be introducing spring.

Maybe my childhood memories are wistful, and in contrast central states also experience murky seasonal changes. Childhood memories often confuse, some are better than reality and some worse. Anyway about the seasons, I believe that I knew them, felt each, and sensed delight on seeing a clear lovely moon lighting an evening as farmers finished harvesting.

Sure, my memories are from the old days. Then, a farmer stepped onto an open tractor (lacking a radio and computer), and helped by spouse and kids drove into fields. Manually, the family did much of the laboring. Modern technologies have changed harvesting, this might mean that modern kids are less in tune to Harvest Moons.

I wanted to photograph the current half-moon, that coming Harvest. It’s still very distant but clear. I couldn’t find a vantage point appropriately lit for my camera. The caption photo, borrowed from Getty, looks like the moon I’ve seen from the ground.

Dear Friends: Half moons, or “waxing gibbous”, are triggers–for redirection, adjustment, flexibility. Diana

Tuesday, September 14, 2011— (On September 20, the full moon, “Harvest”, will rise nearest to earth.)

I can’t resist this photo, of AOC making a controversial political statement while attending one of NYC’s most richest glitziest events, the Annual Met Gala. Young, physically attractive, self-confident and intelligent, she’s gained political influence during a career still in its early stages.

Crossing the world and focusing on another highly-visible woman, nations soon will lose the influence and guidance of Angela Merkel, Germany’s leader since 2005. Merkel grew up in a divided East Germany and studied to become a scientist. After the Berlin Wall opened in 1989, she moved into the larger Germany and toward political leadership. Her years in office have shown her to be a stalwart among other leaders on their very complicated world stage.

One career is beginning as another moves toward closing. Between an auspicious beginning and a successful ending come years of practicing and learning. The most able politicians understand ways to navigate among complex ideas and individual passions. They gain success from learaned abilities to negotiate for what seems most right in current and potential circumstances.

Our world has changed so much and so soon, we’re bewildered about the future. Who’ll be in power? Who’ll make key decisions? Who’ll have a right to decide what can or will be shared?

Moreover, how much will individual beauty and brains count? How many decisions might be inspired by technology and algorithms?

I was planning to focus differently, but AOC’s dress-message reawakens a recognition of our shifting social behaviors. Such unexpected and well-planned public displays do impact our typical expectations and connections. AOC’s dress illustrates a rising readjustment of social tolerances.

Dear Friends: BTW, the little chipmunk recovered completely, runs again free and happy. Diana

Monday, September 13, 2011— (On September 20, the full moon, “Harvest”, will rise nearest to earth.)

I set humane critter traps in my RV garage where I play around with hobbies. The traps designed to capture mice and pack rats occasionally yield other species, sometimes a lizard or angry chipmunk. These get released immediately to my rocky property.

Recently, I was lazy about checking the traps. On doing so, I found a tiny chipmunk, appearing sleepy, and without any interest in leaving the trap. I set the trap with critter inside, its door open, on a rocky area and left. On returning, I saw the little guy outside the trap, asleep only inches away.

I’d gone too long before checking that trap. This baby, tiny and skinny, seemed at death’s door. I lifted it, got no reaction. Nearly lifeless, was it dehydrated and starving, or might it be ill? Gambling that too many hours trapped had taken their toll, but maybe the little one could be revived.

I have a critter-keeper, a small cage with a lid and litter inside. I added bird seed, but chipmunk wasn’t interested, still appeared dead. I picked it up, rubbed its body, and seeing little claws trying to reach out, hoped for the slim chance of bringing it back.

As some background, earlier this summer I rescued a baby bird, a helpless, only half-ready fledgling fallen from the nest. I hand-fed until it grew strong enough to fly. Its most critical need beside nutrition was hydration. A syringe inserting water might harm by putting moisture into lungs. To hydrate that bid, I offered food-bits only after dipping them into water.

As to the chipmunk, without some way to feed it, best to try hydrating. I probed with a small syringe at the clamped mouth. On opening lips a little, I provided only a drop or two. As moisture ran down the critter’s coat, I rubbed to awaken its body. After many attempts, a few water drops were met with tiny-tongue licks. The continual rubbing, probing, and encouraging returned the body gradually to life. Not lots, but that squirming and pawing pointed toward revival.

Inside the critter carrier, that chipmunk tried eating but couldn’t handle much. Chewing consumed energy, and again, it fell asleep. I set a lid with water into the carrier, above it rigged a heat lamp, and went to care for my household animals.

When next I checked, the chipmunk was moving around. I saw it discover and lap the water, and try again to eat before falling asleep.

Happily this morning, chipmunk’s on its feet, has eaten and is trying to escape. I might keep the animal in that carrier until tomorrow, to ensure it’s good and strong before being released.

More about this little rescue. It’s a Townsend’s Chipmunk, a variety common to this area near the Oregon Cascades. Chipmunks are a species of rodent in the squirrel family and considered ecologically beneficial for helping to spread spores of fungi around in the forest. I enjoy watching them running rapidly with straight upright tails, and gathering seeds. They’re very social and get along well at food sources.

This chipmunk has provided another, very cool learning experience. Even so, I promise to be more diligent about the frequency of trap checking.

Dear Friends: Real, and country-like environments bring close-up learning about wildlife. Diana

Sunday, September 12, 2011— (On September 20, the full moon, “Harvest”, will rise nearest to earth.)

I spent most of yesterday working to rescue and keep safe a beloved old hen.

She’s the last survivor, 11 years old, from my first flock. She came home with me at just days-old, out of a “sick tank”, and at a marked-down price. I rigged a special baby tank and heating-light in the living room. In it she grew, became strong, and later became integrated with the other chicks, all still very young.

Welsummer matured into a beautiful and sweet hen. She wasn’t the most dominant and always took care of herself among the flock. I knew each bird as an individual and loved the entire group. They communicated constantly, a flock with leaders and losers, with clowns, thinkers, and hunters.

Well, few places might be more violent than a hen-house. The birds huddle and constantly vie for dominance. Stronger ones pick on those less aggressive. My first hen that passed did so from natural causes when the flock was five years old. After that, maybe once-a-year, a least-dominate bird would pass away.

I hated losing any bird and tried keeping one or two of the declining hens alive. An experienced veterinarian medicated them and helped me do all possible to bring each from the brink. My successes were brief, and finally and clearly, I understood that when a hen gives up eating and drinking, and behaves differently, she’s decided to go.

This spring, knowing Welsummer won’t last and realizing I’d miss my chickens, I acquired new babies and brought home seven, all different breeds. I raised them apart from old Welsummer, who didn’t want them around. They were visible and interactive with her through fencing, and as they matured, I periodically released them with old Welsummer. She chased and frightened them greatly until they grew larger.

Eventually, all the birds became integrated.

Meanwhile, it tured out that one baby’s a rooster and happens to be huge, He’s a Jersey Giant breed, and already taller and heavier than all the others. He’s begun watching over and protecting the hens.

Yesterday, it became evident that he fears and dislikes Welsummer.

While hurrying from the hen-house to greet me, in mid-tracks she had to reverse and run squawking. The rooster chased and leaped attempting to attack her. She escaped, and he left no doubt abouts what he’d have done if managing to capture the old hen.

Yesterday, Welsummer moved into new quarters, in my garage. She hasn’t yet enough space but is protected. There’s a roost on which to perch, and best, she’s willing to eat and drink. Today, I’ll figure out how to enlarge and improve her area. Once she’s accustomed to and comfortable in the garage, we’ll proceed. I’ve always thought it would be cool to have a “house chicken”.

Long as she independently eats and drinks, Welsummer’s old age will be safe and comfortable.

Dear Friends: Who’d have imagined? That danged rooster better not ever attack me! Diana

Saturday, September 11, 2011— (On September 20, the full moon, “Harvest”, will rise nearest to earth.)

Twenty years ago today, people throughout the world, horrified, numb, unable to process information, saw on television, and in real-time, passenger jets destroying New York’s Twin Towers. The world’s attention followed Flight 93’s diversion from D.C. to Pennsylvania fields, to more total destruction.

As a little kid watching Movietone News, and later periodically on television screens, I’ve seen the aftermath of an event, equally-awful and equally-surprising, of planned mass destruction with civilians as innocent victims.

From the early days of atomic development, we’ve seen videos showing enormous plumes of deadly black smoke arising after American planes dropped the most powerful bombs ever created on Japanese cities.

The world never has nor ever will recover completely from such vicious attacks, they’re so-beyond-violent, against mass humanity.

Before the advent of modern communications, the whole world didn’t witness horrific events, but learned about them from group or individual memories. Learned from news stories, books, and history lessons. These days, we learn differently.

In December, 2001, the Pentagon released a video of Osama bin Laden discussing with his colleagues the terrorist attacks on America.

In May, 2011, the world applauded news, that the U.S. military and CIA operatives, upon raiding a compound in Pakistan, had located and killed Osama bin Laden.

Now, and again in real time, the world is witnessing an aftermath of war. The world is fearing a potential for mass destruction of innocent civilians on Pakistan’s streets.

Dear Friends: Humanity is vulnerable to such powers as leadership, ideology, technology. Diana

Friday, September 10, 2021 —(On September 20, the full moon, “Harvest”, will rise nearest to earth.)

It’s raining and predicted to continue steadily all morning, becoming lighter or more shower-like this afternoon.

Goodbye to the smoke! Hello to easier breathing, a sky that reveals clouds, and to a horizon of visuals from solar variables.

Yes real moisture, and now beginning to fall more forcefully. I’m thinking about rain from inside a shelter and experiencing moisture through my nasal and auditory senses. More abstractly I’m also considering moisture’s reality, its possibilities.

We know moisture is essential for everything living. It freshens and keeps skin healthy. It increases oxygen transference through blood vessels. Experiencing moisture can be one that’s partly-physical, like a combo of nose-ear-brain phenomena. It can be even more completely wonderful, for when stepping directly into moisture, it becomes a totally physical experience.

It might seem weird to compare moisture-related and movie-related thoughts, but my brain interweaves these topics. I’ve been studying the pros and cons of old movies from the sixties and seventies, the “new movies”, mostly were foreign films. They were a contrast to America’s more fantasy-like concoctions. The films were imports from Britain, Germany, Japan, Italy, Sweden, and France. Learning to watch and interpret them altered how many of us began to view all sorts of artwork.

The best art is that which touches all our senses. It creates an experience, visual, tactical, pleasing, suggestive, compelling, and the more art touches us, the better it is. Similarly, one views rain as a complex occurrence. It can be broken into parts, affects various senses, separately and together, and is a total experience.

Dear Friends: Today, no horse-driving, but one among a circle of dogs while streaming old movies. Diana

Thursday, September 09, 2021 —(On September 20, the full moon, “Harvest”, will rise nearest to earth.)

My next-to-last glimpse of last night’s sunset, above, red ball against a grey palette.

A wildfire burning in the Willamate National Forest named the “Middle Fork Complex” actually is two big fires. They’re burning in an area of snags and steep terrain, over 24,930 acres, and worse, are under an inversion layer trapping their heavy smoke. Well, not quite, for that smoke slowly is traveling directly west and into Central Oregon. All this week, Bend’s environment has been smoke-filled, murky, and not hinting at clear air coming soon.

Middle Fork is one of this season’s many wildfires spreading smoke, making breathing difficult, and transforming sky views. Last night over Bend, neither clouds nor mountains were visible. But against a sky of total grey was a setting bright red sun.

I’ve photographed previous smoky setting suns and this one, too, called me. After snapping the camera’s shutter a couple of times and seeing the sun seeming high enough for me to pause, I went into the barn and released horses from feeding stalls. It seemed only an instant later, looking upwards I found the sun totally had disappeared.

Where? It had been positioned high moments earlier. Too high surely to quickly have slipped behind the Cascade Mountains. Its glow must have been hidden by smoke thick enough to obliterate everything about a big bright-orange globe. Wherever that sun was, it didn’t leave a peripherally glowing wake, that I knew after searching the sky.

My last capture shows the sun starting to settle into darkness. If I’d have paused before attending the horses, wouldn’t have missed a narrow window that allowed more grabs of the unusual fading.

Almost nightly, smoky suns have been visible. But each evening’s combination of sun and sky has been unique, and all worthy of capturing.

Dear Friends: I’ll not miss smoke, obliterated sky, crappy air, but will miss eye-catching, unusual sets. Diana

Wednesday, September 08, 2021 —(On September 20, the full moon, “Harvest”, will rise nearest to earth.)

That’s the little squirt. She’s loose, supposed to be following the horses and me. She actually was following, but on her own terms, and couldn’t ignore the temptation of summer bunch-grasses.

I was bringing her home from a neighbor’s pasture, leading her with the horses. My property is hilly, and to make my climb easier, I release the donkey’s lead rope. Once I have the horses safely in a holding area, I look around for the donkey. If she’s not visible, I’ll go searching.

She’ll be nearby. She diligently follows her horses wherever they may lead.

Searching means I’ll start trudging upwards to find her. Less work than trying to lead her uphill with the horses. The donkey willingly walks with us, but it’s her nature to balk frequently and “think about” next steps. Releasing her rope eases my own walk uphill. Without a donkey-drag the horses moving faster sort-of pull me upwards.

Anyway, as I began climbing in search of the donkey, she came over the hill toward me while avoiding her dragging lead rope. I could see that she felt pulled in two directions. One toward those temping sweet natural grasses, the other toward a carrot in my high-held hand.

I can count on her adoration for treats to save my energy.

She’s smarter than a horse and a wonderful pet. I wish though that she’d walk normally with us all toward known destinations.

I’m anticipating daily struggles after an upcoming first deep freeze, when grasses stop producing sugars that cause weight-gains. Then my equines may graze freely. Daily I’ll walk my trio a third of a mile down-the-road to a larger pasture. For sure, during the travels there and our homecomings, my donkey will balk often. Pulling on her lead rope will wear me out.

Dear Friends: Happy she’s here, wouldn’t trade her for anything, but ohmigosh! Diana

Tuesday, September 07, 2021 —(On September 20, the full moon, “Harvest”, will rise nearest to earth.)

The French film star Jean Paul Belmondo has died. I’m fondly remembering him along with “those days” of new foreign films.

Everybody loves movies and for years Hollywood cranked them out, one after another, usually using tried and true script formulas. Some notable rebellions made it into Hollywood shootings, becoming standouts, like the creative actor Marlon Brando and the genius innovator Orson Welles.

In the early sixties, alternatives to the “Hollywood look” began arriving in tiny experimental theaters, usually refurbished old movie houses that sold tickets cheaply. They showed the films considered as “New Waves” from France, “Italian realism” from (of course) Italy, and (along with the Beatles) refreshing British views of youth and social maturing.

My family loved movies. They were family nights out. They were afternoon babysitters for kids out of school. I grew up watching Hollywood’s weekly putouts. As a youngster living in Oklahoma, I couldn’t get enough of popular singing cowboys with beautiful horses who always won against the bad guys.

As I matured and at first, I disliked new films popping up from overseas. Not the “usual movies”, they seemed pointless and silly against Hollywood patterns. It took my head awhile to “get it”, or to understand that a couple of hours of film content hinted at larger human stories, more complicated than a viewing episode captured.

The upshot was that new films taught me to view and appreciate art. They taught to look carefully at screen action and listen to dialogue, while my viewer’s brain toyed with often-abstract possibilities. They could broaden a film’s palette by hinting at and enlarging ideas into all-human stories.

Belmondo was a capable actor, a cool guy, his face not nearly Hollywood handsome, who spoke always in French. His on-screen work made everything come across, through voice, meanings, and intent. That era produced many more great, memorable non-Hollywood actors. Belmondo’s passing reminds me of many and some fabulous films in which they acted.

It’s time for me to stash these memories, get into the moment and go outside to feed horses. I’ll add that the actors, fine as they were, weren’t the New Wave’s primary driving force. Behind that new film art were creative directors, writers, and camera-folks who created the ideas, made the films. They occupy a special category in the history of great film art.

Dear Friends: Pauline Kael’s (1965), I LOST IT AT THE MOVIES, tells how film touches human hearts. Diana