The Blob has grown!

There's a quiet spot on the FRC campus surrounded by the various wings of the MAIN building.  Beneath one of the outdoor stairways there's a stump of what was a 3-foot diameter Ponderosa Pine.  Several years ago, this was a great spot to see the Orange Peel Fungus.  Due to some landscaping changes, they no longer grow there. But late last summer I spotted a small bracket fungus emerging from a crack in this stump.  It has grown.  Probably quadruple the size it was last August.  That's not to mention the portion of the fungus that lies underground.  It could spread hundreds of feet fro this point, going under buildings and paved walkways.  I don't have the means to investigate the extent of the fungus such as this, but just seeing its small, above-ground manifestation fires up my imagination. I also find the reddish brown pigmentation beautiful.  I hope they leave this stump and surrounding area alone for a few years.  Maybe the Orange Peel fungus will come back.

Early Morning Light

Not an original title, for sure.  Many photographers, including Ansel Adams, have names one or more photographs with this title due to the impressive shadows and and lighting on the warmer end of the spectrum compared to mid-day.  When I got to work at FRC the other day, the sun had not risen. But when I walked up the pathway from the parking lot, the sun appeared.  Just before entering the classroom building, I saw this scene.  It took my breath aware.  My phone camera didn't capture the special lighting that my eyes beheld, but I had a strong urge to hike into the forest at this point and go up the hill where there's a view over American Valley and the town of Quincy.  But, instead, I decided I'd better go to class.

Sightings

 During winter break, especially early in the morning, there were few, if any, humans walking around on campus, so the wild turkeys were bolder. And there were more (14) than I used to see before Thanksgiving.  Sort of counter-intuitive.:)

Yesterday my middle son Greg and I took a nice, muddy hike on My. Hough.  The road was muddy, and still had patches of snow, but wonderful views of Quincy and Claremont Ridge in the distance. The trees in the canyon right below us glozed as the low light glistened off frost and dew. Click on either photo for a closer view.

Trying to remember high school physics

Click on the bottom photo in order to read (if you need to,  I do).

I've traveled widely in Quincy

 Borrowing a quote from Henry Thoreau, who "traveled widely in Concord," I just happened to choose a different parking space on my way to my office.  This gave me a whole new perspective.  Instead of the "view" from the driver's seat being a sign reading "Faculty Parking Only," I was enthralled by my view of a large White Alder surrounded by the variety of other trees that characterize our campus.  Immediately behind the Alder was a Black Oak, and bother were then backed by a mixture of Incense Cedar, White Fir and Douglas-fir. So, I got the camera (AKA phone) out of my pocket and moved in for a closer look.

 The clusters of female cones (foreground) always bring back memories of my model railroading days when I used these Alder cones to adorn my home-made, scale model pine trees.

 Then the male cones, which are similar to the catkins found on oaks and birches were also photogenic.

 On my way back to the parked truck, evidence of Black Oak and Ponderosa Pine on the pavement caught my eye. I resisted the temptation to pick up the acorn shell and practice my whistle.  It was too cold to take off my gloves. 

 Another piece of evidence of the California Black Oak, Quercus kelloggi, was the inspiration for this blog, now 14 years old.

Finally, as I walked across the "green" [I usually avoid the paved pathway], I found this lone Alder beautifully framed by a panorama of FRC's major tree species.  The place where I love watching Ravens and various squirrel species come and go and wild turkeys seeking cover, just in case they think I'm hunting for dinner.

Puzzled

 Lots of people love cat videos.  I love to mock people who love cat videos. But this scene of our cat Dolce I couldn't resist. No video clip needed as he stayed still in this position for a long time. What impressed me is the notion that he might be aware of how attached the family is to this puzzle. Normally, I would expect a cat to enjoy bashing the loose pieces with his paws as if practicing for playing with mice before the kill.  But, instead, Dolce daily hops from the back of the nearby sofa to the bare edge of the card table, then very carefully lies down on the puzzle without disturbing the work in progress.  I am not usually one to anthropomorphize, but this I couldn't resist.

 On the theme of "puzzled," this imaginative cover of Kafka's Metamorphosis  rekindled my interest in Kafka's writing - talk about being puzzled!  I like being puzzled by Kafka's writing.  I also like discussing with my literature students stories about which the critics disagree.  There is no definitive "answer book" for Metamorphosis. Being an insectophlle, I recoil at the idea that the German name for the insect that Gregor becomes means something like vile vermin in English. On the other hand, some critics believe the real metamorphosis the title alludes to is the gradual changes in Gregor's sister over the course of the story, especially after Gregor's death.  I enjoy this kind of puzzle, and Metamorphosis is a relatively short work, so I might have to find the time to read it again.

Finally, another example of puzzlement is the Showy Milkweed, Asclepias speciosa, which, to me, has some of the most beautiful flowers in the plant kingdom, yet, except for butterfly lovers, tends to be relegated to the "weed" category. Since I'm partial to most kinds of weeds, I find beauty even in the dried up remains of last season's crop.  In fact, last week I purposely stopped at one of my favorite "milkweed stops" along the road to Greenville to see if an of these remained.

An Omen?

I just revisited and updated my post of last October 16.  I was beginning a theme of daily, early-morning observations when I got distracted after posting only a photo of the spectacular sunrise.
Then, further distracted, mostly by school work, I never got back to my blog until New Year's Day. I'm now determined to fix that.  The above photo was taken on a more recent early-morning walk.  I'm sure I'll work this into a lesson in my English classes.  In light of this past weekend's goings-on in the Middle East, the cartoon felt like an omen to me.  This cartoon was posted inside a glass case near the entry door of the Plumas County Museum on Jackson Street.

Looking for Frost

 On my Monday drive to Greenville, I thought I'd find photogenic scenes of frost and/or icicles, but every time I stopped for a closer look at frost, I was disappointed or distracted.  In the photo above, is a panoramic view of the north-facing side of Mount Hough. This scene takes me breath away, at least partly because I recognize all sorts of nooks and crannies I've visited while hiking on said mountain.

 A little further down the road,  by a turnout I've visited many time in every month of the year, I got a good view of this water pipe.  I've never seen it dry up, and since the water is considerably warmer than the ambient temperature, it supports a nice patch of moss and algae.  Still, no frost.  I'm really out of practice with winter photography.  But I still have a couple of months to go.  When I got home, I realized I had the most photogenic frost I've seen in quite a while right at arm's length.  My rear view mirror!  I'm not usually one to take pictures from the comfort of the driver's seat, but this situation was special. Click on any of these photos for closer looks.

When does a year begin? Or end?

       I last posted to this blog in October when I was inspired by a sunrise on my way to a local coffee shop.  I titled the piece "what I saw today" with the intention, by day's end, of posting a number of photos I took while wandering around town.  It the time, we had poor Internet service with such low bandwidth that I gave up on uploading the remaining photos and the thoughts they inspired.   I still have the photos on file, but not necessarily the thoughts.  I may yet add the photos, but at the turn of the year, I have other things in mind.
      I set out on Monday to look for wintery photo ops.  I'm a springtime photographer at heart, so I thought of it as a personal challenge to find beauty in what most people would call a dreary day. Thus, the above photo of a first-season Mullein covered with frost. A nearby Mullein (photo below) was not quite so thoroughly covered, so evidence of its greenness was visible. My plan was to write on New Year's Day about the question in today's title. 

      Calendars were invented by humans, but the the seasonal revolution of Earth around the Sun had been going on long before hum ans came along.  The beginnings and endings of years that are acknowledged by our culture are political in origin, and history of our calendar is well known. However, it seems to me that, to paraphrase Alfred Korzybski, that we have come to "confuse the map with the territory." I have always related more strongly to the significance of the winter solstice (December 22 in 2019) than to New Year's Day.
      An ancient party called Saturnalia celebrated the beginning of the lengthening of days (at least in the Northern Hemisphere) involved  lot of drinking - celebratory drinking, thankful drinking. As compared to current trends on New Year's Eve of drinking, more often than not, to forget things or to give  oneself a respite from the strain of appearing to be moral.
      So, this leads me to ponder other questions.  When does a year end? Or a decade? When does a life begin and end? Again, I find the life cycle of the Mullein to be instructive.
      During the first season of life following the germination of a seed, Mullein grows a whorl of soft, fuzzy, green leaves that doesn't get more than a few inches tall.  Toward the end of that first season, the leaves seem to die, but life goes on beneath the surface. [Mark the spot.] During the second season, a new whorl of green leaves emerges, but in a matter of a few weeks a tall stalk grows from the center and by mid-summer can be a good deal taller than me and bear a cluster of small yellow flowers. Toward the end of that second summer of life, millions of tiny seeds fall (or get eaten by birds) and the entire plant seems to die.  We call such plants biennials. However, the dry, brown stalk may persist for several more years. To me, this statuesque, 6-foot-tall stalk still has life in the same sense that any inanimate object, like a piece of furniture, has a life.

      A few miles further along on my New Year's exploration, I was enthralled, as I had been man times before, by stopping to gaze at Dog Rock (known by many other names, not all pleasant) and contemplating beginnings and endings orders of magnitude greater than those of the Mullein.

      Then, I see myself as somewhere in between.  I'm not sure if I identify more with the green, flower-bearing Mullein in its second summer, or the Mullein that has dropped its seeds by the end of its second summer, or, having raised five children and possibly nearing retirement, perhaps I'm closer to that stalk of Mullein that could be three or more years old and will persist until the ravages of winter or CalTrans take it down. Like the Mullein, and many other so-called weeds I love, I hope to get the last laugh. Here's to seeking renewal in the new year.