Frigid Forecast

Hidden under a pile of newly fallen leaves is the entrance to a tunnel 

that leads to this chipmunk's snug home.

Inside is a chamber where the nuts are stored,

and in the dining area, on the table, 

The Farmer's Almanac is open to the forecast for a cold winter.

Apparently inspired by that prediction, he's been storing up acorns...

and a large helping of sunflower seeds.

It's cold out tonight, but some of us are ready.

Winter Home

A chattering noise drew my attention to the front porch the other day.  

A Carolina Wren peered out from between the logs of the wood pile.

It flitted around the stack of wood looking for some juicy morel to eat, then paused to preen.

Carolina wrens have made themselves at home on our front porch over the years, often raising their young in an old basket that hangs there.  Three years ago, when I hung a sunflower seed head from the porch eves to feed the birds, the titmice cleaned out every seed, but two wrens made their winter shelter in the small cavity in the underside of the seed head.

They came the following winter, and last week, when the weather turned cold, they were back again, flying in at dusk to tuck into their winter home.

It's nice to think of providing shelter for these pert little beauties,

but if we think about property rights,

their forebears were probably here long before we were.

Linking with Wild Bird Wednesday

Anybody out there use Zazzle?

Check out my store here, if you like.

You can find find an existing design, personalize it, or make your own,

by clicking CREATE at the top of the Zazzle page.

Sky Dragons and a Million Dollar Bridge

When the Theodosia Bridge was completed in 1952, it was called "The Million Dollar Bridge". A few years ago, the government mandated that the old paint be removed and replaced with one that was more environmentally friendly, and the new paint job cost more than it did to build the bridge.  The material didn't hold up as well as the original, and it's slated to be painted again soon.  They're estimating four million this time.

Aside from all of that, it certainly looked like a Four Million Dollar bridge this morning,

enveloped in sun-lit fog.

The breeze was constantly changing the formation of the fog, 

swirling it to form hawks and dragons...

before the sun started to burn its way through, casting its gold on the water.

A window in the fog revealed distant hilltops.

Nearby, a fisherman had parked his boat and trailer, and was out on the chilly water, 

but in this particular spot, it was only God and me 

and a lone gull, soaring over the bridge.

It wasn't a bad way to start the day.

I headed home through the fog, and contrary to appearances, 

the other end of the bridge was still in place.

Priceless.

Linking with Weekly Top Shot
and Skywatch Friday

Mom's Incredible Apple Pie

It's impossible for me to make a pie without thinking about Mom. I made an apple pie today, and every motion of my hand is something she taught me. Before I could walk, I was watching her roll out the dough, and while I was still in pigtails, she was including me in the process, giving encouragement and patiently correcting my blunders. Making a pie is like stepping back into Saturday night in Mom's kitchen.

I can still see Mom as she slips her apron off the peg in the closet and ties it around her waist. In her big white mixing bowl, she cuts Crisco into the flour mixture with two knives, sprinkles in a little ice water, and gathers the dough into a ball. Humming a tune, she presses it flat and rolls it out thin.

She glances at me over her shoulder. "When I'm in a good mood," she says thoughtfully, "the pie crusts turn out, and when I'm in a bad mood, they don't." Judging from the results, Mom wasn't in a bad mood very often.

Mom had a varied resume when it came to pies; there was rhubarb (my favorite), and blackberry and lemon meringue, cherry, pumpkin and mincemeat.This night's project was one of her specialties, her Incredible Apple Pie.  The fruit had to be firm and tart, and this time of year in Washington state, where I grew up, such apples were abundant.

Mom peals the apples, and I help. "When I was young," she tells me, smiling, "my sisters and I used try to get the whole peal off in one long spiral. We'd see who could get the longest one."

Mom slices the apples thin, adds sugar and spices, a top crust, and pops her masterpiece in the oven. When the pie is nicely browned, she takes it out of the oven and leans down to listen. It's bubbling, so it's done.

The aroma is mouth watering, and for her children who can't wait 'til Sunday dinner, there are scraps of pie crust with cinnamon and sugar. Oh, what bliss!

Mom's been gone for a long time now.  

If there are pies in heaven, and it's hard to imagine otherwise,
she certainly has her apron on.