Desert in Bloom

It's spring in the desert. On a good year (read: "when rain falls in winter"), flowers bloom in the parched sand and trees put on their party dresses for a few weeks. Apparently, this was a very good year--more than five whole inches of rain! (above normal, I'm told.) To anyone who lives in an area that is not desert, these purple and yellow flowers might look like scraggly weeds. But what they really are is a miracle. Imagine an area of practically no rain, only sand to grow in, and temperatures in the summer that can reach 120. Then try to imagine something--anything--growing there without irrigation. OK, you don't have to imagine; here's a picture.

Imagine several acres of these as seen from the road--a magical purple mist softening the harsh desertscape. Can you see it? My iPhone camera was not up to the task; I hope your imagination has a bigger lense!

I went in search of wildflowers yesterday because the naturalist who writes for the Desert Sun newspaper said this would be the weekend. In true American Idol/Dancing with the Stars tradition, he gave this year's showing a rating. "It's about a B+," he said. That was good enough for me. I do have to admit that was mystified as I drove about five miles down one country road looking for what he called "a good showing of desert dandelions." I drove and drove, wondering when I would see them. Then it dawned on me that the mounds of dusty green leaves with fat yellow flowers that lined the road were them. I'm not fully acclimated to the desert yet. My Seattle filter is still set to ignore all dusty green mounds with yellow flowers because weeds of that description are ubiquitous in the Pacific Northwest and not worthy of notice. I imagine that will be corrected after my first full summer here, when I expect my eyes will be hungry for the sight of living flowers.

This mesquite tree bloomed overnight, I swear it did. Oliver and I discovered it on our morning stroller walk around the green. The word "mesquite" conjures up visions of cowboys on the range with a mesquite fire, cookin' and strummin' guitars. I've never before come-face-to-branch with an actual living, blooming mesquite tree. Most impressive. This one is on our green, so it gets irrigation, but its cousins out on wild desert do not. They still manage to grow and bloom.

I'm waiting for the Palo Verde tree in my front yard to burst into bloom. A few small yellow blossoms are just beginning to open. My great Aunt Laura used to say the Palo Verde trees bloomed especially for her birthday, which fell on April 15. Some of the Palo Verde trees my the neighborhood were killed by bungling handymen pretending to be gardeners. The trees must be thinned so the wind will blow through their branches without uprooting them. I nurtured mine carefully and solicited the pruning talents of a landscaper who did a beautiful job on a tree in my neighbor's yard. I think I'm about to be rewarded by a full complement of gorgeous yellow flowers. And maybe some bumble bees.

I love bumble bees. I saw some big black ones busily exploring the few early blossoms of the Palo Verde trees in front of Trader Joe's today. Maybe they'll come visit my tree in a couple of weeks.

Try to imagine a nondescript little tree with green bark, its branches covered with glorious yellow blossoms. What? You're tired of this game? OK, I'll get you a picture. On Aunt Laura's birthday.

So Long, Davey Crockett

Fess Parker died yesterday. He was a successful real estate developer and winery owner. But to millions of us Baby Boomers who were at our most impressionable age in the 1950s, he will always be the coonskin-cap-wearing Davey Crockett.

The article in the paper this morning mentioned "The Ballad of Davey Crockett," then reminded us of the words: "...born on a mountain top in Tennessee..." in parentheses. That's all it took. The tune that lay dormant in my brain for about a thousand years leapt up and started playing over and over again. (It just got you, too, didn't it? You're welcome.) I just hope it doesn't have as long a run, this time.

Fess Parker portrayed the Disney version of Davey Crockett as tall and straight, kindly and righteous. We had a lot of those dads in our 1950s TV shows. We all wanted to have a dad like that, and about one in 25 kids actually did. (According to a very accurate study done by a really observant 10-year-old.)

TV gave us Pa Walton and Little House on the Prairie in the 1970s, but it's been kind of downhill since then. Instead of Disney fantasy dads, we have gritty reality shows, Ozzie Osborne fumbling around his house, and evening soaps about dysfunctional cops and lawyers barely able to cope with their personal lives. The closest thing to a kindly, smart dad we have now is Ed O' Neill (formerly of Married With Children) as patriarch of a diverse extended family in Modern Family. He portrays a good guy doing his best despite his human foibles. No coonskin cap and country homilies there.

It's a good thing. Women are no longer portrayed as two-dimensional, pie-baking nurturers, and men don't have to play infallible, gentle fixers-of-all problems. We can all breathe a sigh of relief.

That is not to say we can't indulge in a little nostalgia for our fantasy Disney parents. It was kind of nice to believe life's problems could be solved with some country wisdom and a tramp in the woods. (No, not that kind of tramp. The one where you tramp through the forest with big boots, feeling wild and free.)

So long, Fess Parker. Thanks for the great memories--and all the coonskin caps!

Found Bees

I'm going to write to the news outlets in Washington State that have been reporting for the last year about the missing-and-feared-dead bees in western agricultural areas. I found them! They live under a rectangular green utility cover in my front yard.

My next door neighbor knocked on my door to let me know that other neighbors were commenting and had reported our bees to the Home Owner's Association. She thinks we may have to split the cost of an exterminator, because they're smack in the middle of our property line.

Exterminator? Haven't they heard? We need bees to have food! I like food. I'm happy they're found. Of course--as the other neighbors (who apparently have nothing better to do than drive slowly down the street examining everyone's front yards) pointed out--they might be killer bees or killer bee hybrids. Sobering thought. Would they chase me into my house? Could I shoo them out and admonish them to go pollinate something?

Until this morning, I was blissfully oblivious to the the neighborhood uproar regarding my found bees. I wonder if I could just lie low and let the nattering nabobs (remember Sprio Agnew?) take care of it? Someone already put an orange traffic post on my curb in front of the commandeered underground utility hive. Sorry, bees. You've been outed. There is no hiding now.

I wonder if that's what happened to the missing bees? Did they get themselves killed by developing a fondness for underground utility hives? Ah, well. As long as fruits and vegetables continue to appear in my supermarket, I'm going to assume that somewhere, somehow, some of them survived.

Lost Flock?

Heavy winds blew tree fronds, patio furniture and sand everywhere last night. This desert is at the foot of steeply rising mountains, where wind funnels through the San Gorgonio Pass from the L.A. basin. Traveling through the pass in those conditions is not advised. I imagine flying through the pass would be pretty dicey, too.

Sauntering along at my end of Oliver's leash this morning, I happened to glance up at the blue sky. I saw three groups of white objects swirling about 300 feet above me. They sparkled white, then faded to gray, then flashed white again. It was as if a giant child flung handfuls of glitter in the air. At first I thought it might be bits of paper carried aloft by high wind currents, but I noticed their movements approximated those of fish in a large school. I watched, open-mouthed, as they morphed into large white birds with gray wingtips, apparently moving aimlessly as a group. Every few minutes another bird or small group of birds appeared and joined the swirl. If a strong flyer broke out and headed east or west, several birds followed until they changed their minds and went back to the larger groups.

Were they lost? Did the wind break them up last night? Do they just like to swirl? Whatever, they were beautiful and mesmerizing. I hope they got themselves together or found a safe place to rest. We're having wind again tonight.

The Elves and the Shoemaker

My favorite Grimm's fairy tale is The Elves and the Shoemaker. The elves come out at night to tidy up the poor shoemaker's shop while he sleeps. They make more shoes than possible from his last scrap of leather and have some left over. I thought it sounded fun when I was a kid. I desperately wanted my own elves when I was a single mother. Now I think I have one.

I understand people who say they black out after a couple of drinks and then wake up in different houses, cities, or even countries. After a couple of (alcohol-free) hours in front of the flickering TV screen, I'm properly zombie-ized and ready to fall into bed. But sometimes I notice the time on my bedside clock is oddly later than the time I remember leaving the living room. Those are the nights the elf is busiest.

My elf shops on the internet. I learn what she's ordered when I arise in the morning to find neat piles of papers on my desk and pictures of merchandise on my printer. A few nights ago, she ordered me some new swim goggles. She must have known my old ones are giving me a rash. A big bag of clothes arrived yesterday, each item in two different sizes. Spooky. I'm between sizes right now--how did she know?

I don't why, but she bought a 2-burner gas BBQ last night--$99 and free shipping (Oh, she's good!) I do know I muttered and fussed about stinking up the house when I cooked fish earlier in the evening. I may have sworn never to cook fish again until I got a BBQ. I may have sworn, period!

I'm not unhappy about this weird late-night service. I'd like to get her in touch with the shoemaker's elves, however. They made something out of nothing and had some left over. That technique seems eminently more practical than just whipping out my credit card, doesn't it?