Rosings Park

There are 109 posts filed in Rosings Park (this is page 4 of 11).

Video: Sammy the Friendly Jay

Earlier in the month I wrote about Sammy, our blue jay of happiness. Sammy is the semi-tame jay who loves Kris. (Well, he loves her peanuts, anyhow.)

Last weekend, I set out my camera and filmed ten minutes while Toto and I sat at the picnic table, eating fresh strawberries and feeding the jays. I’ve trimmed that down to the following three minutes, which Kris and I think are fun.

Be warned, however, that when Andrew watched this he was unimpressed. “This is boring,” he said. I’m sure most of you will find it so. But I like the way this captures late spring/early summer at Rosings Park — the lazy pace, the birds, the cats.

The Case of the Too Tall Grass

You’d think that if I were home all the time, I’d be able to keep the grass mowed. Heck, I’d certainly think that. Well, it just hasn’t been the case.

It’s been a constant battle this spring to keep the lawn at its proper length. I don’t mind mowing — in fact, I find it therapeutic. (Some of my best blog posts have come to me while mowing the lawn.) But in order to get the job done:

  • The grass must be dry.
  • I must be home.

Again, I’m not away from home very often lately, but I have missed some key windows of opportunities due to other commitments (running, biking, hanging out with friends). Most of all, the weather hasn’t co-operated.

At the moment, the grass is taller than I’ve ever let it get before. Ever. Well, parts of it, anyhow.

I’ve been trying to mow when the weather looks right, but I never get a long enough spell to finish. The sun was out all Saturday (well, it was dry anyhow), but I spent six hours in the morning trimming the arborvitae hedge. I started mowing the lawn in the mid-afternoon, but then had to stop midway through in order to leave for dinner with Marcela and Pierre.

I was going to finish on Sunday, but the weather didn’t cooperate. On Tuesday, I thought I had another shot at the yard, but the grass was too wet. The mower couldn’t handle it. I only managed to trim a small patch. I considered mowing late yesterday evening, but the grass was still too wet (it had rained earlier in the day).

Finally this morning I deemed the grass dry enough to mow. I went outside and began to plow through the green waves. The mower jammed, but not too often. I was making good progress, except that I was frequently interrupted by the guys who were here to suck the insulation out of the attic. Then, after they left a few minutes ago, I went outside to finish the job only to find it had begun to rain again.

Argh!

I am so frustrated. My lawn is now four different heights: short, not-so-short, tall, and savannah. And the forecast doesn’t look good. It contains rain, rain, and more rain. There’s a chance we’ll get a dry spell on Sunday or Monday, I think, but by then I’ll need to re-mow the entire yard.

I’m too the point where I’ve actually contemplated calling a yard service to see how much they’d charge to mow our half acre. I can’t bring myself to do it, though. Maybe I should call my brother Jeff and see if he needs to make some extra cash — he loves to mow!

Blue Jay of Happiness

Our yard is filled with birds. Since we moved in to Rosings Park, we’ve developed a passion for spotting and identifying birds. Kris is much more devoted to the hobby than I am, but I like it too. I like being able to recognize the call of the flicker, or to know that it’s the bushtits clustered on the suet feeder.

But for the most part, the birds don’t interact with us.

Sometimes a hummingbird will zip in for a closer look, but that’s only because she knows that we move like molasses. Last night there was a pigeon outside the kitchen who seemed very curious about us as we were preparing dinner. Usually if we’re working at the kitchen counter, the pigeons will fly away. This bird did not. And, of course, every summer the juvenile jays demonstrate a complete lack of fear toward humans.

Some people consider blue jays a nuisance bird, but I kind of like them. They’re cute. They’re also relatively smart. It’s fun to watch them interact with the squirrels and the other birds. Kris loves to give them peanuts to bury.

This spring, she’s actually befriended a jay (or pair of jays — we’re not sure). She calls him Sammy.

If Kris is outside, Sammy will fly in close to be near her. He watches her at work. She’ll be working in the roses, and Sammy will alight on a nearby branch. If she’s at the picnic table, he might sit on the gas grill. Or even on the opposite corner of the table. Kris and Sammy are buddies.

It’s quite possible that they’re only buddies because she carries peanuts, however. Blue jays like peanuts.

And cats like birds. Meatball, in particular, thinks that the new friendship between Kris and Sammy is exciting. It’s especially exciting to sit nearby when Kris throws a peanut into the lawn for Sammy to fetch. Meatball is convinced that what’s really happening is that Kris is trying to provide him a tasty snack.

The crazy thing is: Sammy doesn’t seem to mind cats. He’s a little wary, sure, and he doesn’t like to be charged by them, but mainly he’s just a gregarious little jay. While I was trimming hedges the other day, Sammy sat in the lowest branch of our mugo pine. He didn’t flinch at all as Simon spied him and crept closer. In fact, Sammy flew down to the grass, only six or eight feet from Simon, and hopped around doing bird stuff. Perhaps Simon was stunned by the bird’s brazen behavior. Or maybe he found Sammy’s actions worthy of respect. Whatever the case, he relaxed, and did not make a provocative move. So there we were: human, cat, and bird, hanging out like it was the most natural thing in the world.

On a final note, Sammy doesn’t actually eat all the peanuts Kris feeds him. Mostly, he hides them, but not very well. Recently, in a fit of desperation, he hid one in a rhododendron blossom:

I don’t know what will happen with Sammy. It’s very difficult to tell one jay from another. But I hope that he’ll stick around for at least a few more months. He brings a little character to the yard.

Note: I hope to eventually capture some video of Sammy in action. No promises.

Oregon Mist

It’s one of those days I love. It’s about 15 degrees centigrade (which is 59 for those of you in Oregon City), the skies are grey, and there’s a light rain falling. A perfect Oregon day: warm and wet.

Over the past month or so, Kris has developed a system to ensure I don’t spend my entire day on the computer. She pulled a dry-erase board out of storage, and every day before she leaves, she writes down a chore (or two) that I need to complete.

To many of you (all female), this probably sounds like a terrible system. I should just do what needs to be done, right? In theory, yes. In reality, I’m easily distracted. I like having the dry erase board because it lets me know which of those tasks in my chore cloud Kris deems most important.

Today my primary task was to weed the grapes.

When we planted the raspberries and grapes, their 20-foot beds were empty of weeds. In fact, we even planted some strawberries alongside the raspberry canes. Now, however, the grass has crowded its way in and is dominating the base of that row. It’s threatening to do the same by the grapes, too, but it’s being held at bay by a variety of noxious weeds. Including raspberries. (Those raspberries are invasive!)

This afternoon I went outside in shorts, a t-shirt, and a cap. No shoes. No socks. I spent half an hour enjoying the misty air, pulling grass, hoeing weeds. It was a soggy mess, of course, but I loved it. As I say, it’s one of those days I love.

Story Time at Rosings Park

Every day, it’s the same thing.

The alarm goes off at 5:30. Kris hits snooze.

The alarm goes off at 5:39. Kris pulls herself awake and heads downstairs for a shower. I pull of my C-PAP mask, roll over, grab my laptop, and then set it on my belly. While Kris is getting ready, I’m doing my morning stats.

Each day, I log the same numbers from Get Rich Slowly. I have a spreadsheet containing traffic, subscriber, link, and revenue information. It’s a little anal-retentive perhaps, but it’s probably no surprise to most of you. I also process e-mail and then check to be sure there are no fires to be put out. (Believe it or not, sometimes there are.)

At about 6:05, I put away the laptop, grab some clothes, and tromp downstairs. I brush my teeth, etc. as Kris gets out of the shower. At 6:10, I get into the tub and begin to soak. I don’t have as long as I’d like (and in the winter, I never get as warm as I want) — I need to be out of the house at 6:25, which means I need to be out of the tube at 6:20.

Some days — like today — Kris throws a monkey wrench into things. Some days — like today — she begins to talk to me about work. At 6:18.

Kris is a good storyteller, and I like to hear about all her little friends, but her stories are not short. In fact, they’re always quite long. I’d rather she told them to me in the evening, as we’re eating dinner. “I’m tired when I come home,” she said tonight when I mentioned this.

I understand. But when she starts telling me stories about work at 6:18 am, my heart sinks. I want to be a good husband and listen, but I also don’t want to be late for work. If I’m on time every day during a pay period, I get a $50 bonus. If I’m not, I don’t. And when Kris begins to tell a story at 6:18, I know it’s going to be a near thing.

Things get even worse when she slips into lethargy mode. She’ll go through periods where she hits the snooze button twice. Or when she won’t get into the shower until 6:04. When I come down to take my turn, she’ll have only just begun.

When this sort of thing begins to happen on a regular basis, I practice social engineering. Before she gets home from work, I go through the house and set back every clock by three minutes. (I can’t set them back any further or it’s too obvious. Though not as obvious as writing a blog entry about it.) This usually helps mitigate the problem, though it never quite solves it.

Ah, the strange dynamics of the husband-wife relationship.

Cats Like Birds

I was pleased this afternoon to come home and remember that I was supposed to do prep work for dinner. I took out the chicken breasts, cleaned them, and cut them into chunks. Kris had asked me to put the chicken pieces into a bowl, and so I did.

I was nearly finished with my task when I was distracted by the zhoop of a chat window opening in the other room. It was my “imaginary colleague” Leo from Zen Habits. We chatted for a few minutes, discussing possible guest posts.

When we’d finished, I came back to the kitchen to finish my work. What did I find? My three hairy sons on the counter, clustered around the bowl of chicken. “A feast!” they sang. “Dad left us a feast!” They saw me come in. “Thanks, Dad! We always did like you better than Mom.”

Their praise was short-lived. I clapped my hands and shouted, sending the two younger boys in various directions. Simon, however, took this as an invitation to choose the choicest piece.

When I tried to take his prize from him (after snapping this photo, of course), Simon growled his low, nasty growl. “I hate you, Dad,” he said. “I always did like Mom better.”

I guess our chicken dinner will have tooth marks. We’ll give those pieces to Tiffany.

Meanwhile, as I’ve sat here in the kitchen typing this story, all three boys have returned to the counter, eagerly searching for the delicious treasure that was there only moments before. (They glare at me from time-to-time — they know I’m responsible for spoiling their fun.)

Anyone want to come over for dinner tonight?

A Chip Off the Old Block

Several weeks ago, I drove to Brownsville to purchase a chipper from my cousin Mart. It was a long drive. I left early from work, taking the van through the scenic Willamette Valley highways. I was intentionally trying to avoid the freeway.

After nearly two hours of driving, I reached Mart’s house. I chatted with him and Elizabeth for a bit, and then we loaded the chipper into the van. I wanted to set it on its side, but when I did, it leaked gasoline. We managed to tied it to one of the van’s inside walls.

At this point I might have returned to the freeway. Instead, I decided to take the same scenic highways home. Things went well at first, but then I reached Lebanon and got lost. I went around and around in circles for twenty minutes (seriously), before saying “to hell with it” and striking north on the first road I could find. Much to my dismay, this road wound through country, eventually leading southwest, almost to the point where I had started. Meanwhile the stench from the leaked gasoline was making me woozy. I was not happy.

I tried a couple of other routes across the valley, navigating by dead reckoning, but after an hour and only a few miles of northward progress, I gave up. I found the freeway and zoomed home.

When I went to start the chipper a few weeks later, I was concerned. The pull cord was jammed. It didn’t take long, however, to discover that a single thickish twig was lodged between the blades. Simple to fix, yes? No. Chippers are dangerous. Because of this, they’re designed so that it’s almost impossible for a person to reach the blades. Even when I laid the chipper on the ground (letting it leak gasoline), I couldn’t reach the jam. Eventually I had to find a long stick, which I used to whack on the twig in question until it came loose.

In the 3-1/2 years since we moved to Rosings Park, we’ve become accustomed to dealing with yard debris. We ship most of it off in the yard waste container, but the big stuff just won’t fit. To make matters worse, we’d really need two or three containers to transport the waste we generate. As a result, we’ve accumulated a huge pile of branches and twigs (and, in some cases, entire trees) underneath the redwood.

Two weekends ago, Kris and I began our quest to eliminate this pile.

For three hours, Kris cut branches into smaller pieces. She made stacks next to the chipper, and I fed the wood into the hoppers. The chipper did it’s thing, grinding things to mulch, and spitting it into a bag. We produced about six wheelbarrows full of mulch, which we spread around the base of our blueberries. Eventually, however, the dust and fumes became too much — I developed a splitting headache and began to sneeze uncontrollably. I called it a day.

This weekend, we decided to try to finish the job. Though it was cold, the sun was shining and the birds were singing. It was nice weather for yardwork. Again, Kris made stacks for me, and I fed the wood into the chipper. We managed to work our way through most of the pile, until all that was left was nasty little twiggy twisty branches that don’t fit well into the chipper. I’m not sure how we’re going to get rid of these. I’d like to burn them, but Kris is convinced that we can’t. I’m not so sure. (Anyone know what the law is for unincorporated Clackamas County?)

Next we decided to tackle the oak leaves. The chipper makes short work of leaves. The problem comes, however, when you also feed acorns and twigs in with the leaves. The leaf hopper isn’t designed to take twigs, and even small pieces can cause big problems. We were nearly finished when the chipper jammed to a halt.

Ugh.

Suddenly I was transported to that strange, unfamiliar world: the world in which I’m required to be Mr. Handyman. I spent an hour banging on the chipper, opening various access points, searching for a jam. Eventually I found it. Two twigs had independently become stuck between blades. I had to use a screwdriver and rubber mallet to free things, but eventually I did get the machine working.

I’d had enough, though.

It’s nice to have a chipper — it makes short work of a lousy chore — but the beast has been a burden. I put it away for the winter. Maybe we’ll finish chipping next spring.

Autumn at Rosings Park

The past two Sundays have been lovely here in Oak Grove: cool and grey and damp. Last week Kris called me downstairs to look at the dew-covered spider webs, like tiny crystal structures hanging from the house, from the roses, from the camellias. I grabbed my camera to make a quick video tour of the place.

The unexpurgated edition of this video features 20 seconds of Kris playing Dance Dance Revolution, but she has exercised spousal privilege and prohibited me from posting it. If you’d like to see the full thing, let me know in person.

The rain has been falling thick and heavy lately. We’ve had nearly 1-1/2 inches of rain in the past three days. I know that’s not a huge total, but it’s seemed to come in downpours rather than our constant Oregon drizzle. (Of course, we’ve had a month of that constant Oregon drizzle, so maybe a change of pace is welcome.)

The Dangers of Purging

If you’ve been following along elsewhere, you might be aware that Kris and I have been on a purging kick lately. We’re getting rid of all our stuff! Well, maybe not all of it, but vast quantities.

For one thing, I’m purging books. You know how painful this is for me. I’m sure those that helped us move the books three years ago are none too pleased to see them being sold (or worse — given away). But I’ve finally realized that it’s senseless to keep books that I never intend to read. Plus, we’re not far from the public library.

So, we’re purging many books. That means, of course, that we can purge bookshelves. I also bought a new desk, one that I can actually work at without experiencing pain. That means we have an old desk to purge. We’re purging old computer disks, manuals, and supplies. We’re purging our media collection.

Some of this stuff has just been thrown in the trash. I just want it gone. We’re selling other items on Craigslist. I’m selling some stuff online, too.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt to get rid of my comics. I thought it would. It’s actually something of a relief to mail them to somebody who will read them. I’m not losing much on them, either. I bought them for an average of $25/book, and am selling them for about $20/book.

What did hurt, however, was selling our old RCA Victor “Living Sound” console stereo. We never used it — Kris thought it was ugly and wouldn’t let it anywhere in the main living area — but I always dreamed of having it sitting in our living room, providing its warm, rich tube-born sound. But I sold it for $25 yesterday to a guy who’s going to gut it to use as a computer-based music server. (He’ll wire the computer output to the console’s speakers — he loves the warm, rich sound, too.) Selling that thing hurt.

Imagine how awesome that thing would have looked with the chairs from Mac and Pam:

I knew there was something I was missing when I agreed to sell that console. It was a perfect match for those chairs. One of our projects for the next few months is to convert the study (the red room downstairs) into a proper Man Room. I could have made huge strides toward this goal if I’d put the console down there with the chairs.

I’m kicking myself now.

How I Spent My Labor Day Weekend

I had hoped to have the new foldedspace up-and-running by now, but you know me: I’ve found other things to keep me occupied. Instead, things are only about a quarter of the way moved over. The last 72 hours have basically been spent “re-modeling” the house. I put re-modeling in quotes because we’re not actually doing construction; we’re simply moving furniture all over the place.

To summarize what has come before:

  • I’ve always been a bookworm. In the old house, I had a lot of space devoted to books. (A rough calculation leads me to estimate at least 2000 linear inches of shelf space, and probably closer to 2500 linear inches.)
  • When we moved to Rosings Park in June 2004, our friends and family helped us move all these books upstairs to the guest room.
  • Within a year, I decided I didn’t want the books there. They were too remote, and the guest room floor has questionable support, especially for that many books. I moved all the books downstairs to the den (the “red room”), which became the library.
  • In January 2006, I purged a vast number of my books. I’m guessing I reduced my collection from ~4000 to ~3000.

If you’ve been following along at Get Rich Slowly, you know that I’ve been on an anti-clutter kick lately. I feel as if we have too much Stuff. It’s driving me crazy. Everywhere I look, there’s Stuff. I proposed a change to Kris, and she accepted it. This weekend we began the first steps toward this change.

Here’s what we did:

  • With Dave’s help, we hauled Kris’ old computer desk (which she hated) from the media room to the garage. It’s now in pieces, and I hope to sell it for $20 on Craigslist.
  • We moved my computer desk (which I hated) from my office to the media room (which has, essentially, become Kris’ office).
  • We bought a new desk at OfficeMax (I wanted to make my first-ever trip to Ikea, but Kris exercised veto power), and Dave helped me lug the thing upstairs to my office. It was heavy.
  • Kris and I each scrubbed our respective offices, removing as much cat evidence as possible. (HA!)
  • We began Book Purge II. I trimmed my comic books from two bookcases to one. We went through our literature shelves and our science fiction shelves, keeping only those books we plan to read (or re-read) in the future.
  • I hauled a ton of bookcases upstairs to my office, and then hauled up books to place on them.

I spent this morning putting the final touches on my office. It’s still not finished completely, but it’s mostly clean, and that’s what counts. I’m actually rather pleased with how things have turned out. Here’s a picture (or three) for you. As you might expect, there are a lot of stories behind these photos. Let me elaborate…

This is what you see when you enter the room. This is the messiest remaining area. To the far left are the French doors to the balcony. Just to the right of them is my new filing cabinet. This cabinet is currently empty, but there sure is a pile of Stuff on top of it! On the wall above the filing cabinet are a photo of my grandfather and his Model T, a Getting Things Done flowchart, a letter dated 12 May 2007 from my pal Paul Carlile telling me I can do anything I want to do, and a poster from Dave promoting the Bicycle Oregon touring event. (There’s also a dirigible print from Dave above my monitor.)

That’s my new desk dominating the room. I like it. It has a keyboard tray, which means I don’t have to elevate my arms 4″ to type anymore. Rock on. The cactus is a “gift” from Kris, who didn’t want it downstairs, and who decided it was a “manly plant” and thus suitable for my “manly office”. The monitor was the first thing I purchased with Get Rich Slowly money. Yes, I was stupid and didn’t start paying off debt before buying toys. But that was last year. This year, I’m paying off debt, and am nearly finished! (The laptop was also purchased with GRS money, but I don’t consider it a toy. It’s my most important tool.)

If you step into the room and turn to your right, this is what you see behind my work area. On the desk, you can see Brothers K ,this month’s book group book, which neither of us have started yet. You may recognize the chair as originating at Mac and Pam’s new house — I took a photo of Hank in this chair a couple of years ago. In theory, this chair (and its mate, which lives at Custom Box) is destined for Craig’s possession. In reality, he can’t have it. I love the thing.

Behind the chair is a short little shelf that only lives in that space until I can figure out something better to do with it. On top of the shelf is a jar of fruit and nuts. The two bookcases, of course, hold my current comics collection. It is much reduced, as I mentioned, but still quite bulky. The left shelves hold comic book compilations, and the right shelves hold comic strip compilations. The right shelves are far more important to me.

If you were to sit at my desk and look back toward the room’s entrance, this is what you’d see: more bookshelves. Surprised? I didn’t think so. Of course, you also see water stains. These are remnants of that shitty insulation contractor (Gale Contractor Services) who left a gaping hole in our roof. We believe the leak has been sealed finally, but we haven’t repaired the water damage yet since we know that next year we’re going to have the electrical system replaced, and that’s going to require attic access. There’s no attic access except through the water-damaged area, though. Complicated, isn’t it?

As you can see, there’s a short, empty bookcase. That’ll be remedied by the end of the week. The two taller bookcases contain:

  • Left: My collection of movie serials on DVD, my collection of music from 1890-1956, my books on chess, baseball, and the 1920s.
  • Right: Books on personal finance and “success”, writing manuals, photography books.

Yes, there’s still some work to be done before this office is finished, but I feel like I have most of the hard stuff licked. Now it’s just piddly stuff.

And that, my friends, is why the foldedspace remodel is not yet finished, and probably won’t be for a week or two…