Enormo

I’m sure there’s such a thing as Blog sense, wherein the blogger writes new posts, adhering to something resembling a consistent schedule.  Since nothing in my life is consistent (and no I don’t feel like talking about it right now), please forgive my current lack of a timetable.

Being new at this, I’ve fallen prey to the idea that each story must be replete with pathos, humor, and clever photos.  It’s gotta be perfect, in other words.  Failing perfection, I reluctantly present the result, then take a long rest before I tackle yet another leviathan.

That is way too much like work.  This is supposed to be Fun.  Perhaps I can write the longer, more painstaking tomes during short breaks in my day, polishing them lovingly and at my leisure with no particular self-imposed deadline.

I take photos every day.  I see stuff every day.  There’s no rule that says I can’t be succinct while sharing an occasional tale that some readers might find entertaining.  So, with brevity in mind, I’ll give you a synopsis of my Sunday.

Anybody who’s read this blog, or has seen my Facebook photos is aware that I’m into back yard creatures.  Except spiders.  Can’t summon up the presence of mind to ready my camera and shoot with calm hands.  Besides, I’d still need a telephoto.  A long one.

A couple of weeks ago, I posted some photos of “Grand Master Bee” (Bombus Ternarius).  Today, I was carrying trash to the alley, and spied a bee so colossal that I stopped in my tracks.  He was perched on a flower, and was of a size that I first thought I’d encountered some beast of an insect that didn’t belong anywhere near me.  Grand Master Bee is no longer the largest bee I have ever seen.

Meet Enormo.

Note the difference in proportions between Enormo and that flower he’s using for a runway.

He was kind of jumping from one flower to the next, then lumbering to the center for his pollen fix.  Clicking on the photos will give you a better idea of his vastness.

Unfortunately, I was not able to get shots of other bees doing their gathering from this plant.  They were probably terrified of Enormo.  But I assure you, this guy dwarfs any non-avian critter you’ll ever see hovering over a bloom. 

What is that thing between his shoulder blades? Do bees have shoulder blades?

I went straight to Dave’s Garden to determine what type of character I had discovered.  These people have a near encyclopedic knowledge of the insect world, and they informed me that Enormo is called Bombus griseocollis (aka Brown-Belted Bumblebee).  I’ll refrain from corny analogies to the martial arts.  Really.

These guys are aggressive to other bees, even those of the same species.  No worries.  His bulk alone is enough to ignite my flight response.  I overcame the trepidation for long enough to dash into the house for my trusty long lens.

I never did learn anything about the marking on top of his head.  It’s probably a tattoo identifying him as a bad-ass.

RAM

Batman Interrupted

Am sure everybody has heard by now of the crazy (genius?) kid who shot up the theater at the Aurora Mall today.   His apartment house is five blocks due East of us, and there are fears that it's wired with a number of sophisticated explosive devices.

Just before he lawyered up, the suspect apparently told the lawmen that he had booby-trapped his apartment on the third floor.  To add weight to his claim, a tenant who lives directly below him enlightened the authorities further.  At around midnight, she was awakened to insanely loud music coming from the unit above.  She went upstairs and banged on his door, not getting a response.  Of course her neighbor wasn’t there, since he’d gone to the movies.  She put her ear to the door, and as she did so, it seemed like it moved a little as if it was slightly ajar.  She thought about pushing it open, but then thought better of it (possibly gaining an everlasting respect for intuition).  She tried to report the issue to police, but they told her that every unit was tied up with an emergency.  You bet your ass they were.  Then, at 1:00 am, the music stopped.

Armed with this information, the FBI or the Swat team or the Bomb Squad were especially cautious.  They knew better than to kick the door down.  So a ladder was brought in with a cherry picker whereby they could use small cameras to look inside.  There, they observed large numbers of jars sitting on the floors, filled with a clear liquid, each of them next to boxes of what appeared to be ammunition.  Wires were running all over the place from jar to box to jar and so on.  Elaborate.  Maybe, just maybe, he is a Joker with a dark sense of humor, and it’s only 7Up and speaker wire.

But I don’t think so.

I mean, how freakin’ diabolical is that?  If the jars and wires and stuff are for real, and if the suspect's neighbor had opened the door, the cops would have been occupied with an apartment building disaster.  Immediately afterward, they would get a call regarding the Theater massacre.  Or they might just have been summoned to both events at the same time.  What if, what if.  Hypothetical, sinister shit, huh?

Earlier today, we were taking Wingman’s dad on an errand, and I had my trusty little point and shoot with me.  Unfortunately, we were driving while I was taking most of these photos.  Therefore, this was the only shot I was able to get of the cherry-picker they used to spy into the apartment.

There were a number of confabs among various authorities, and cameramen (?).

The sound of choppers woke Wingman up at 3:00 am, and it hasn't stopped all day.  Not just police, media, and hospital choppers, but Buckley Airbase seems to be in the act with Huey's, Blackhawks, Chinooks, Harriers (not really, I no longer can tell one chopper from another, and I’m sure they quit making Harriers).  They are huge and dark and loud.  And they are hovering - thok thok thok thok - earplugs tonight for sure.

Wingman walked down there, and saw a reporter lady interviewing a guy who claimed to have had beers with our alleged shooter at The Zephyr Lounge a couple of nights ago.  Wingman suggested to the media lady that if he had her job, he’d trot down Colfax to the Zephyr, get a tall cool drink (it's currently 100º in Aurora), and chat up the patrons and the bartender.  Human interest stuff if nothing else.  She was all kinds of grateful, and thought it was a great idea.  Of course, a very fine looking reporter lady walking down Colfax in a short skirt and spike heels might be mistaken for another kind of professional.  So that wasn’t very nice of Wingman.

The various FBI teams or Swat Teams or Bomb Squad teams have taken over the little Latino bar and parking lot directly across the street from the apartment building.  Base ops, you know.  They’ve also evacuated several buildings in the area.

We initially heard that, at 6:00 pm, the authorities would be closing a major street that runs by the building.  They would then send in a robot to either remove or detonate the jars and boxes and wires. That sounds like a whole shitload of explosives to me.

Several people wanted to come to our place this evening for the festivities.  A big day for Kodak moments, and I was sure the whole gang would be walking down there to get as close as possible to the action.  There's no place close to park, and there's no way this lily liver is going to attempt walking that far.  Remember - 100º or thereabouts.

I was distressed at the idea of missing a chance for more photos, but then I heard that they’d decided instead to close the street sometime over the weekend.  Good thinking; Friday, rush hour, traffic streaming out of the massive medical center.  Lookie loos all over the place.  Saturday is way better.  Suspected shooter's apartment building shows just above the fire truck.  Wingman's rear-view mirror ornaments comprise that weird crap in the center.

Swat boy there looks thoroughly prepared.  I think he's eating CornNuts.  Apartment building is the one with the sign on it.  Recently remodeled to attract med students at University of Colorado Hospital (the suspect's recent Alma Mater).  Whoo boy.  All those people are currently hanging out elsewhere.

We were across the street for both of the above photos, and I zoomed in for this one.  Used my new little Canon PowerShot ELPH pocket camera.  Canon rules.  But I digress.
 

And here’s a cameraman outside one of ghetto-type places soon to be remodeled for housing more med students.  Free rent?  Wonder if there’s a vacancy.

Everyone will know how this all shakes out tomorrow or Sunday, and if the ending turns out to be anticlimactic and non-photo-worthy, I won’t talk about it anymore.  And so much the better.

Besides, I might miss something else while I'm hunched over the laptop.


RAM

Queen for a Day

Who remembers that old television program “Queen for a Day”?  Jack Bailey would have three (usually female) contestants on his show. Each contender related separate tales of sorrow regarding their pathetic circumstances.  Despite being poverty stricken, the candidates were there to ask for only one thing.  A wheelchair for little Timmy who was struck by an ice cream wagon, hearing aids for the war hero husband who was deafened by a missile explosion, or perhaps new tires for the old beater she drives to haul around the house trailer.

Jack then walked behind the three seated ladies, holding his hand above their heads as the audience applauded in turn for each of them.  The applause-o-meter, looking much like a gas gauge on the dashboard of a '53 Plymouth, measured the decibel level of the applause.  This highly modern mechanism determined which contestant’s tale of woe was the most heart-rending.

When the winner was announced, an orchestra struck up Pomp and Circumstance while roses were placed in the trembling arms of our lucky winner.  She was led to a throne, shedding tears of joy and disbelief.  They always cried buckets.  The overwhelmed title-holder would then be seated and a crown deposited on her head, followed by Jack’s summation of all the prizes being awarded to the new Queen.

This was the part that bothered me when I was a kid.  The other two contestants disappeared immediately from the camera’s field, destined to trudge back to their hopeless lives.  I don't think they were even given a consolation prize.  What about Timmy who has to drag himself from room to room.  What about the valiant husband who for years has been shouting “WHAT?”.  No - the bitch who wants tires is given a new car, a houseful of furniture, the latest and most newfangled appliances, and a sturdy awning for the trailer’s back door.  Where’s the justice in that?

Anyway, Q4ADAY wasn’t always so cheesy.  Prior to becoming a television show, it was a radio program/contest. To enter, the hopefuls only needed to complete in 25 words or less why they would like to become "Vacation Queen".  In 1948, my mother, Kathryn, sent in her entry which stated she wanted to be Vacation Queen because she believed it would help her recover her identity, which she seemed to have lost somewhere between the maternity ward and the washing machine.

In May of 1948, a letter arrived.

      

A whole shitload of stuff huh?  In addition to the items listed in the letter, a four week “vacation” was included.  The Queen would travel across the country in a caravan, giving interviews, making personal appearances, being wined and dined with celebrities and of course, Jack.  Following the working part of the tour, she was to be treated to two weeks at a resort in Vermont, then two weeks in Bermuda.

There was only one problem.  At the time Kathryn received the letter about her winnings, she and her 8 year old son, David, were living with her mother, Ava, on a cotton farm.  Kathryn and her husband Glen were separated and planning on a divorce.

Kathryn notified the Prize Committee that Glen needed to skip the travel portion of the festivities.  She was then informed it might be “scandalous” for her to travel alone, and the honor would have to be awarded to the next runner-up.  Rather than forfeit all those many, many cool prizes, Kathryn and Glenn conjured up a cover story for the press, packed their bags and got out of Dodge.  They might have been on the outs, but not so much they weren't willing to attempt the pretense of marital bliss.

Guys, you've got to do better than that.  Those initial loving glances are not cutting it.  You look like you're at a royal funeral.  Don't blow the charade.

As time went on, it appears they managed to get past their differences enough to enjoy the adventure.  Check out that hotel doorman.

Get a load of the dude with the microphone.  Love the suit.

Here we are at Slapsy Maxie’s:

                  

Then at Cocoanut Grove: 

 

That's Jack Bailey in the center.  Notice the two pretty people sitting beside him.  No idea who they were, but those teeth fairly scream “starlet”.

Now, if this were a screenplay for a movie, I could imagine several possible feel-good endings. Our two characters have lived apart for awhile, probably having numerous squabbles, then forced to spend two months in continual proximity to one another.  Constantly in the public eye, looking all happy, holding hands.  There are probably many comic and near romantic episodes as a result.  Like Bogie and Bacall. One would expect that Bogie would get his woman back.  Right?

Nope, not my mother.  Kathryn and her husband returned to the tiny farming community of good old boys and devout Baptists - where they were already the talk of the town.  Their neighbors were named Johnny and Alvina.  After a fairly short period of time, in a move that set jaws to flapping and church ladies to clucking, Glen left his Queen and moved in with Alvina.  Johnny, who was a really cool guy, then moved in with Kathryn.  How much of this was planned beforehand, and how it happened, I'll never know.  But it's a hell of a story.

Everybody got all married up, and in 1950, Johnny and Kathryn produced a child of their union.  That would be me, and this is my favorite chapter in the divine play over which I have no control whatsoever.  Alls I know is I’m still here, entertaining and being entertained.

I've still got Kathryn's other gift from Jack.  This double strand of hand-tied royal pearls will eventually go to her grandchildren.  I wore them last when Wingman and I sealed the deal.

Thank you Mother.

RAM

Backyard Bees

Every summer, we see all different kinds of bees hovering in the flowerbed.  There’s one we’ve come to know as “Grand Master Bee” because he’s Ginormous.  I mean this is a huge bee, quite fuzzy.  Black, red, and yellow.  Every time we’ve spotted him, I’ve dashed into the house to fetch my camera.  By the time I’d return, he’d have flitted off someplace else.  This year, however, he not only stuck around, but he brought his twin.  Therefore, I cannot tell you which one is Wilbur, nor which is Orville.  They seem to have taken a particular shine to our lavender.

Please do click on these photos to enlarge for detail.

I attached a super long lens because, given his size, I suspected his stinger might be proportionally scary.

I figured this imposing insect must possess some sort of scientific name, so I went to my trusted source.  Dave’s Garden has taught me the sum total of what I know about nature’s critters, flora, fauna, and birdies.  I posted photos of our friend, and found that he has a befitting moniker.  Bombus Ternarius.  Almost sounds prehistoric, doesn’t it?  He’s also known as the Tricolored Bumble Bee.

Yep, I definitely see three colors there. I was also informed that these fellows don’t sting unless they’re seriously provoked.

Freakin’ beautiful, isn’t he?  Now that I know they’re semi-friendly, I won’t be afraid to wade in there and get some better images.

Speaking of Dave’s Garden, a few years back we noticed a little round area of earth taking up about three or four inches of our lawn.  Then we saw tiny metallic green bees flying in and out of a hole in the center of the circle.  Off I went to Dave, armed with photos of our intriguing new guests.

I found out they’re called ground bees, and was assured that their underground hive would not cause our lawn to collapse.

The entrance in the photo above is atop a mound.  Whereas, the portal in the image below is on flat earth.  Interestingly, it seems that the only time they mound the passage is before it rains.  How in the hell do they know, when the 9 News meteorologist isn't aware enough to take an umbrella to work?

I haven’t a clue where bees go in the winter, but the ground bees didn’t return to us until this summer.  I’ve spent hours observing them and getting as many super-close up shots as they’ll allow.  I sit cross-legged in the lawn, and scoot up a little closer to their doorway over a period of time.  After awhile, they get pretty used to me and put on a show.  Other times, I might approach the fortress while they’re at lunch, and get a sunburn waiting for activity.

Actually, what I've been hoping for is the Pulitzer winning moment when they fly in formation, spelling out some profound truth regarding the Higgs Boson particle.

In the meantime, I'll have to settle for my own amateur efforts.

However, I did get them on film.  (Hmm - film?  Not really.  No such thing anymore.  I guess that’s a phrase destined for extinction.)

 

 

RAM

Tough Love

Yesterday, I heard the raucous call of a red-shafted Northern flicker, and it was quite close.  I spotted him on a utility pole, and hurried to attach a long lens to my camera without dropping it and putting an end to my blogging days.

As I was doing this, two more flickers arrived.  Just as quickly, two of them took off, leaving behind what was obviously a fledgling.  By then, my lens was secured in time to get a shot of this confused baby.  When they took off without so much as an adios, the little guy started bitching at the top of his lungs.  Where’d everybody go?

Growing up in relative isolation on a cotton farm with my grandmother gifted me with an active  imagination.  I immediately embraced the idea that the first adult woodpecker was making all that noise to encourage the fledgling to fly up and join him.  After several attempts on the part of adult #1, the other adult flew to the pole, shamefully tricking the youngster into coming along.  “Don’t worry.  Just fly up there and we’ll take care of you.”  Lies.

After he saw that nobody was listening to his indignant screeching, he began pecking around as if he knew perfectly well why he was there and what he was supposed to do.  Just act natural, I do stuff like this every day.  No big deal.  I can take off any time I want.

Every once in a while, one of adult birds would swoop by like, “what’re you still doing there?  why aren’t you flying?”  The youngster would flap his wings experimentally, then think better of it and return to the business of doing his woodpecker thing.

Oh crap.  I think I found something, and I don’t know what to do with it.  Can’t fly off with it.  Nope, not doing that.
 
Then both adults would swoop by making noises that sounded like laughter to me.  A robust imagination can be quite entertaining.  Wingman jumped right in there with me, providing dialog.

The youngster didn’t respond to the heckling, but continued to flap his wings every once in a while, and with little confidence.
 
I was standing in the sun on a 100+ deg. day, and just couldn’t do it any longer.  This is why I am not a wild life photographer.
 
Wingman told me later that Junior finally soared into the sky, then pointed him out as he swooped over our roof.
 
I guess that experience was an example of parental tough love.  Except, I was under the impression that the female woodpecker’s only parental activity is to lay the eggs.  She moves on to further conquests, leaving Dad to watch the eggs, feed the babies, and teach them all the stuff they need to know.  (correction - I've since Googled this interesting tidbit, and found it to be untrue.  My impression must have been an hallucination.)

If that’s true, I wonder if daddy woodpeckers partner up with other daddies for flight training.  Or if they form little fledgling schools and they all take part in teaching.
 
I wonder all the time these days, only because life is a wonder.

RAM