It is, it’s a Sandra Boynton creation, and very funny.

Continental drifts of words reversing to Pangea form, glacially.

I do think we need to call it a night, though, hon.

Someone up in the hills posted a video on Nextdoor of a mountain lion coming up the driveway at night; she had already been watching it carrying a deer for a half mile up the steep hill before it came in view of her Ring.

It had had to stop and catch its breath a few times.

Then mama lion found herself stuck with a wrought-iron fence between her and her cubs another half mile up an even steeper part of the hill. She checked: yes it was on both sides of the driveway she’d just come up. Rats. (The house was next to an open space preserve. I imagine dragging the deer up the driveway was easier than through thorny scrub–until it wasn’t.)

She paced a bit, triggered bright lights that direction, looks like she growled a little, decided it had to be done, and then with the lightness of a ballerina leaped clear over the six foot fence. While carrying an entire deer held high enough that it sailed above it too.

The poster then watched her continue on that long climb to her den to feed her kits.

She noted that no, those weren’t insects flitting across the front of the camera–those were bats.

She ended with the thought that you might want to keep your pets inside at night.

Link to video here, if you want to see it.

Ohmygoodness.

You know I love Ukrainian vyshyvankas, their embroidered shirts, and Ukrainian gerdans, their traditional beaded necklaces woven on beading looms.

I have a particular favorite artist on the latter.

My father the art dealer spent decades helping keep the hundreds of years old French Aubusson tapestry weaving guild alive, and in many ways I am my father’s daughter.

Etsy at the beginning of the war in Ukraine forgave all debts and waived all fees for all sellers there. So everything you pay goes directly to the seller.

But also, according to what I have read, they have a policy in response to scammers such that if the computer address where your shop is listed doesn’t match what you later use, they’ll block payment. In war zones where people too frequently have to flee, the seller has to work out with Etsy that they are still legit.

Which brings me back to Lyubov. Many of her projects are one-offs and the designs are her own with the work carefully done with finer beads than most and an artist’s eye for where the light travels in the piece vs the matte beads.

My cherry tree gerdan came from her.

And frankly, you pay for that talent. She had one with a field of sunflowers on one side and above, a seagull with black wing tips taking off into the bright sky opposite a lighthouse where the tide was coming in below, the blue waves and white foam forming the curls framing the head of a woman rising from the water with a sun tattoo. Such tiny beads. So. Much. Detail. (I loved that one but just couldn’t afford it.)

Her home is–was?–in Kherson. Last year she showed me pictures of the bombardment her apartment had taken and vowed to rebuild. She had family whose home was entirely gone.

It’s easy to want to support someone who deserves it in every way.

She created some new pieces–and then her shop went down.

A few weeks later, hoping she was okay, I sent her a note asking after her. I told her I was hoping to buy her new Lilies gerdan if it was still available because I have a four year old granddaughter named Lily.

She reposted her shop, albeit with fewer pieces. There it was.

But the payment wouldn’t go through. I tried. I contacted Etsy. I sent a note to her. I tried again. And again, hoping something had changed. I bought a $4 sunflower sticker to prove to Etsy there was no problem with my credit card. Nothing.

I didn’t hear back from her and feared for her safety.

It turns out she had been hoping to surprise me, and in fact she very much did: she had my address so she simply packed it up and put it in the mail so that I would have it. Five other people had put it in their carts but she knew where she wanted that one to go.

After our busy weekend, I tried again today to see if everything was fixed and if my payment might go through this time, and as usual it did not. So I sent her one last note.

And with that she told me what she had done.

I was speechless. And thrilled. For the necklace, absolutely, but also very much for how it confirmed the goodness of this woman I’d love to meet on the other side of the earth.

I wanted to do my part and asked if I could pay for it, and how?

She decided to let me PayPal her. I would have anyway. She would have waived it anyway. I did it anyway.

After all the times I tried to be there for her the best I knew how from my distance these past few years, she was the one who chose to be there for my granddaughter and me. I am in awe of the person she is in the middle of all she and her family have been put through, and so grateful.

Slava Ukraini!

I knew Andy’s Orchard sells at the Santa Monica Farmer’s Market down south, which caters to top-tier chefs.

What I didn’t know is that Ken’s mom whom I wrote about last night discovered Andy’s there and loves his stone fruits as much as I do. She told me that out of all the vendors, there was just one who had a line fifty people long and she had to find out why. The rest is history. But she and her husband have since moved away.

I told her we’d driven past his freeway exit yesterday and since he’s not far from it, had almost talked ourselves into stopping. We just weren’t sure we would arrive in time with the traffic, and as it turned out we got there at exactly when we’d hoped to.

Had I had any idea, we would have left sooner and made time for all the peaches and apricots and the last of the cherries that they could have hoped for and for their grandkids.

But at least for any next time, now I know.

Hottest day in the heat wave, the Saturday after the Fourth of July, thirty-five degrees cooler at the beach than inland, where are you gonna go. Right?

Except it happened to be the day of a family get-together with a cousin who actually lives near the beach. Otherwise we would never ever…

Much Waze and Googlemaps checking ensued.

Ken’s brother later exclaimed, Four hours forty-five minutes?! (For an 83 mile route.) You could walk it backwards!

Which made me laugh, and no we didn’t take that route, and it was a 6 pm event so we left late enough that most people who wanted to spend the day at the beach were already there (or trying to be) so the extra 45 minutes wasn’t too bad.

The dinner was outside, but at 7 and under the shade of a huge oak so I pulled up a chair.

Cousin-in-law Ken’s mom, who lives in Arizona, sat down next to me to catch up a bit. There are only so many weddings and baptisms and the like to get to do that.

That close to the ocean and in the thick fog and breeze it was getting cold. I’d grabbed a silk cowl on my way out the door with the fleeting thought of, since anyone can wear silk (well yes it matches my blouse?)

It matched her dress even better, and she was quite grateful for the rescue. It is amazing how much warmth something around your neck can add. (It’s the Fettucia tubular silk in that link in blue, bought at a half off sale, just so she doesn’t worry about that price tag if she sees this.)

When it was time to go I told her, When am I ever again going to have a chance to totally match your outfit? It’s for you. Loosely spun silk has a tendency to stretch over time, so it may, just so you know.

Richard wanted to go before the two hour trek home (reverse beach traffic ended up demonstrating that it was a thing) so we didn’t linger too long from there. But I’m so glad for those limited times that she and I have had.

And eight-year-old Caleb, who was who the day was about in the first place, was celebrated and loved by all.

I had several pounds of apricots from Andy’s Orchard and they needed to be used. It would be criminal to let any Anyas just sit there.

In this heat wave I ended up warming the pan for the air fryer function on my Breville microwave+, halving the apricots, tossing them with a couple of tablespoons of melted butter, single layer, and cooking them at 400 for seven minutes. Repeat with the rest. Didn’t add any sugar yet; I wasn’t sure how this was going to work out and I didn’t want to burn anything.

My gadget came with 400F as the preset and I have yet to figure out how to turn it down. Up, yes, down, no.

The result was revelatory. No apricot will ever go unused in my house again. I started out by making pumpkin almond muffins and substituting pureed apricots and adding almond extract. Might add a tablespoon or two of liquid next time, but those were good.

Or I could make a cookie crust base, add the apricots, sprinkle some streusel on top. I did put some in my oatmeal this morning.

They had started to get a little dried, as apricots do. They are entirely revived now and the flavor and texture are all you could hope for.

I have a pie’s worth in a ziplock. I just need to remember when I take it out of the freezer that they still do need that sugar.

They are! They’re actually eating the leaves. Goldfinches love sunflower leaves specifically and this site recommends planting them near your veggies as a decoy because you might as well make use of this, right?

They said it mostly happens in California. I have questions.

My phone could see the details my eyes no longer can, and upon embiggening that’s exactly what those two birds were.

But I like my sunflowers… So I took a bit of bright pinkish-red thick yarn and tied it around the upper stalk of the one they were going after the hardest.

It didn’t take long before I saw another one swooping in–and then whoawhoawhoa!!! it about did a backflip in the air trying not to continue in that direction. Close!

It went to ground. It started eating the weed seeds. The little tiny stabby ones that attack your socks and wedge themselves into the yarn and you can hardly see them but man can you feel them. Hey you guys! Eat those!

Next thing you know we had a small flock doing exactly that.

Postscript: Most cities around here canceled their fireworks, given the intense heatwave and the wildfires already going, but it turns out the ones closest to us were still on. They apparently were moved so as to be completely over the water, which means we could stand in our front yard and see almost everything. Well into it, the kids and mom across the street finally opened the door to ask questions; we called to them to come on over, our place was on enough of a rise that they would see a lot more from here.

They had lived all over the world and then here the past few years and the kids had questions about the Fourth of July. I couldn’t hear much over the booms but Richard gave them a bit of Fort McHenry history.

There was one again! Did you see the sunflower?! Oh that’s so cool!

And then yet another sunflower. YES.

And good memories were made for all.

Two volunteer sunflower plants, presumably with the same parent (I only grew one last year) but they did not come out the same variety at all. Cool.

I saw a small chickadee type landing on the multi-headed one this afternoon and I thought at first it was coming to inspect for seeds. Wrong plant, bird, you want the one over there, that’s where they’re starting to fill in.

But that’s not what it was after.

It carefully stabbed then shredded a leaf.

I hadn’t known I’d taken a before picture.

There are more sunflowers along the fence, and I actually planted those, and it bugged me yesterday when the leaves of the tallest were suddenly mostly gone. I blamed snails. And I had spent a lot of time hand-picking them out of my yard.

Side note: some idiot in the Gold Rush days thought he was going to make his particular fortune by selling escargot to the 49er types and imported French snails towards that end. When the business somehow did not take off among that segment of the American population, the snails were released around the river that runs by San Jose Airport. Where even the local wildlife mostly turned up their noses.

But this looked like what I’d just watched.

I found myself flashing back to my late neighbor proudly showing me their garden and the squash plant leaves that were totally shredded: birds had used them to build their nests and Jim loved that they’d contributed to the next generation.

I would never have known if not for that. Birds? Steal zucchini leaves? But of course it made sense.

And now here I was actually watching how it was done.

July 3 is awfully late for nest-building–but on the other hand, if a clutch fails, bereaved songbird parents will throw the year a do-over if the weather is good. Um. It hit 102F these past two days and I wouldn’t call that good for much, but I’ll let them do them.

I’m hoping that means that in another month I’ll get to see baby birds learning to fly all over again. It is always such a kick.

The San Jose peregrines: one sister did not survive fledging, the other three are doing fine.

There have never been all females before.

They are notably more social than past fledglings. They hang out. They have sleepovers–none of this snoozing on separate buildings nonsense.

They are so funny. They play mid-air. They hang around the home nest and runway instead of dispersing further and further away. They tease each other. They dance with their heads. They’ll repeatedly put out a foot to hold up a sibling: You didn’t say Simon Says! Or actually push her with it. And step on her tail if that didn’t get enough attention. Or pull on a feather. (28 seconds in) or (Mom! She’s not sharing!) reach between her sister’s feet to steal the prey. (2:40.)

From the cool of early morning, before it hit 102F in our town: Bouncy bouncy bounce! Skid! Bounce!

2.41 lbs.

These are getting to be a habit.

One of the things I like about the Fourth of July is that it’s celebrated on the actual Fourth of July.

Not when it would make a long weekend, much though that would be nice, but with a firm declaration that it’s not about having time off nor about the distractions of the day, it’s about our whole country celebrating together the actual privilege it is of having this democracy that belongs to all of us, every single person from every background and all of us in it together with every person’s vote of the same importance and impact as every other person’s vote.

My family can tell you that I have never been a puzzle person. Spectator sport. He loves them, though, and had a great time playing one with his sister when she was in town. I knitted and kept them company.

My friend Holly told me a few years ago about Nautilus wooden puzzles and they have some gorgeous ones; I bought him one for Christmas a year or two ago.

He never touched it.

Who did he think he was, me?

But puzzles are a collective endeavor, he explained.

Two weeks ago they sent me a sale teaser that had this Grand Canyon in it. 253 pieces. Surely even I could manage to put up with that, and our anniversary was coming right up and it seemed the thing.

It takes four hands to hold them together when you move a connected bunch to the edges that he insists must be done first.

I thought the number of pieces meant it was going to be simple. I loved that some of the puzzle pieces looked like wildlife. What I hadn’t thought of was how much my brain was going to resist putting a bear in upside down and stop picturing it as a bear. Or a condor. Or whatever.

It took the two of us two nights, and I was mentally apologizing to my granddaughter for the 25 piece one I sent her from them: puzzles may be her favorite thing and she may be really good at them but four years is just not old enough to handle those wooden parts that don’t click in place but keep sliding around and separating with any movement.

He found a little octopus puzzle he’d bought himself that had no outer edges, just freeform. I contributed a very little. That took him two nights to finish, which surprised us both. Okay, maybe I’m not so bad after all.

I found the older Nautilus. It’s a bay, underwater and overwater, gorgeous, and we started in on it tonight.

I was surprised at how much faster it was going than the canyon.

That’s because you’re better at it, he said.

I guess all I’d had to do all along was to want to try.

Enough already.

Got out the Sharpie.

So there.

Only took me 44 years to decide to do that.

44. 65. 66.

Also, another 2.2 lbs of sour cherries (I’m keeping a running tally for the year here where I know where it is) were picked, pitted, and this time baked and we did indeed celebrate.

 (That subject line was for my dad. He’d have loved it.)

Sink, bowl, plate, small bowl. Far right, right, middle, left. Faucet for occasionally washing leafy bits off.

Pick up a cherry, swivel it in your fingers to where you feel and see the belly button of the thing pointing towards the left. Gently squish the pit out and grab it with your left hand and into its bowl while dropping the fruit onto the plate with your right. Each hand going in its natural direction, thus less likely to mix up which goes where.

With the small soft tart cherries, doing it by hand is faster than dealing with the pitter and you know you’re not missing any stones.

When I was done I drained the pits and added their juice to the bag.

I’d always wanted to know what the weight ratio of pit to pulp was. So now I know: for my English Morellos, it was 2.29 lbs of fruit for today’s picking and .314 lbs of pits.

The chance of randomly landing that second number hints at a sense of humor of the Divine. Love it.

Okay, so, divide the one into the other and you get 7.3 times and it’s all good.

Don’t forget Thursday’s debate. Whatever one’s political affiliations, we’ll get to see the candidates as they actually are, not as presented by political hacks doing video slices-and-dices.