Pic

This is a propos of absolutely nothing. Just a photograph, from the short days of winter. On the third day of summer.
The latter of which will be gone soon enough and the former of which will be here even sooner.
Isn't this a gorgeous sky?

Patter and play

Raining very softly this evening as Twist and I walked through the park.

How do you describe the sound of billions of gently falling raindrops on a canopy made of young green leaves? To me, it sounds like a lazy, jittery "shrrrr" with an occasional gentle "splat."

Rarely for her, Twist was unfazed by the barometric conditions; I think they were all perfectly aligned to soothe, not scare. (At least if you are a high-strung brindle girl greyhound.)

We rounded the first path loop by the ditch and saw four tween boys playing a jumping game. I knew it was a game because they were calling out very specific rules to each other, rather, I should say the head boy was calling and the others were following. Must jump so far, no touching branches, can't land in water, etc., etc.

It's been a long time since I was a child and I don't remember what the rule-making in play is supposed to work out. Seems so dull to me now. Being a grown-up has plenty enough rules.

I liked better the daydreaming part of being a kid. Good practice for figuring out what spring rain in the park sounds like.

Moth

You are dark brown and about half the size of a pinkie finger. With a couple of lighter brown spots low on the wings. Let's call you Moth. You have been living for at least a week in the women's restroom, east, of the second floor at 34 Boulevard of the Allies.

Living motionless. For days on end.

On Wednesday, you move from bathroom stall window (this is a very old building) to the counter by the bathroom mirror. And remain motionless after that.

Then, late in Thursday afternoon, I go in to brush my teeth and you are grooming yourself, then fluttering. Up and around. Grey ceramic tile walls on one side, fluorescent lights above. A window on the other side of this old room, but your are too far from it to escape, if you want to. Fluttering away from me as I contemplate catching you in a coffee cup. (Yes, I am at work here.) Moth-like, you head for the fluorescent lights and rest.

Today is Friday and you are gone. I had pushed open a window, so maybe you flew out from four to six walls and escaped. Hope you fluttered to good place, Moth.

Ray Bradbury, thanks very much

Dear Ray Bradbury,
Thank you. For transporting me into fantastic worlds that were so near to me.
For "The October Country" (Uncle Einar), which will always be my favorite collection, and for "The Illustrated Man," of which my favorite is "The Last Night of the World."
Thank you, Ray. For summer nights of fireflies, for circus mirrors and rockets, for illustrated men, for hope, and for the mysteries of the deep and quiet Illinois summer night.
Much, much love,
Katy

To the ground

The early 20th century building I work in is yellow brick, but it has a metal skin covering it that was installed sometime in the 1970s or so in an attempt to update it.

It's not easy on the eyes, but the Downtown Pittsburgh starlings don't care. It's nest heaven for them. But it's a dangerous heaven. Every spring around the building are fallen baby birds, squawking and cheeping for Mom. Sometimes they manage to flap to some kind of cover and survive. Usually not, but I only see the sad remains of their ends, black patches of flattened feathers on the sidewalk.

This morning, my blissful blindness to baby bird death ended. As I pulled up my bicycle to the light rail station, I watched a starling (or grackle) pick up a baby bird that had fallen from a locust tree. At first I thought it was mother trying to rescue baby. Then big bird dropped baby bird and flew off, leaving it fluttering weakly on its back. For a millisecond I thought to pick it up, but no, I can't save it, I know that.

Tulip poplar blossom from Bird Park, Mt. Lebanon. Photo by Katy Buchanan

The predator returned and this time, successfully snatched its victim in its beak and flew off, presumably with its lunch, or lunch for its own brood.

So my day started sadly, with a baby fallen to the ground. Unlocking my bike at the station after work, there was a purple finch chattering away in the locust, but I couldn't see any nest.

It's also the season for tulip poplars to bloom. And every spring, I always find a few blossoms, fallen to the ground in the park.

Rare things

Trillium, Bird Park, PA. Spring 2012. Photo by Katy Buchanan

I spend a great deal of time with my head in the clouds; daydreaming, engaging in made-up conversations, talking to myself.
It's a wonder my face is not close personal friends with every utility pole out there. Which is not to say I haven't accidentally kissed a few. That's OK. Means I made someone (or several someones) split their collective guts.
If my head is not floating, it is hanging; my gaze fixed on the peculiar delights of the American sidewalk. But we won't go into too much detail here. Suffice it to say black, Rorshach wads of discarded gum are the loveliest things you'll see down there.
Here is something nice I've seen recently. It's a trillium.
And I didn't even bump into anything.

Chicago: Black City, White City

Not too long after the middle of the last century, my parents were married in St. Louis.
It was a small ceremony, with parents and close friends, followed by a wedding breakfast, followed by a short honeymoon in Chicago. In February.

Times being what they were, it was cold and snowy in the Windy City. My dad, 6 feet plus a few, probably weighed not more than 140 pounds. He was a beanpole. Mom remembers he somehow fell in a snow drift, limbs askew, and all his bride could do was laugh. That was a good sign, though. There was a lot of laughter in their marriage.
I've never been to Chicago, but took a trip through a small section of its late 19th century history this month through the pages of "The Devil in the White City," by Erik Larson, a book with two parallel stories: of the planning, building and destruction of the 1893 World Columbian Exposition and the emergence and crimes of the man believed to be America's first urban serial killer.

The book is meticulously researched and well-written (if with a slightly too scholarly tone). It's amazing to think of the scale of the exposition, taking up the space between Washington and Jackson Parks, and of how quickly it was built. And of how many things debuted there that we take for granted, like incandescent light bulbs and Cracker Jacks and Ferris wheels.

The fair's chief architect was Daniel Burnham and the serial killer was H.H. Holmes. The two men never met, but their lives existed in parallel in Chicago. Burnham, with help from a sorely tasked Frederick Law Olmsted, saw the fair as a way to show Americans that urban life could be civil, beautiful and clean (unlike the "Black City" of smoke and the stench of offal that Chicago then was). Holmes saw it purely as a way to take advantage of the thousands of visitors who would descend on the city, and pluck from among them the most innocent and vulnerable, and alone, who would likely not be missed. At least not at first.

The last part of the book, after the close of the fair, follows the detective who revealed Holmes' crimes and feels a little rushed, as if the author was in a hurry to finish. Still, I felt as if I had taken a trip back to 1893.

Leonardo di Caprio has the rights and the movie is scheduled for release in 2013.

Read the book first. It is populated with great names who made their marks on American society the end of the century and interestingly, reveals that the more times change, the more they stay the same.

The image (via Wikipedia) is of the Court of Honor and Grand Basin, presided over a statue representing the Republic, an affectionately known as "Big Mary."