A Rose-plosion

Spring has sprung. Maybe. Fingers crossed. The winter has been relatively warm, without the hard, dry freezes that do so much damage to roses. And it has been relatively wet, so there’s good soil moisture. I’m cautiously optimistic for the rest of the spring. The roses? Are not cautious, on no. It looks as if there was an explosion in a chintz weaving mill around RedQuarters.

Maiden’s Bower and semi-buried roses. The low blue stuff are salvias. The weeping plant is over nine feet tall.

A vigorous climbing Old Rose. Those thorns are serious. There’s a painful semi-joke around Redquarters that roses require blood sacrifices to do well. We go through a lot of small bandages and stain-stick between March and November.

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Christus Resurexit!

He is risen indeed!

A light shone in the darkness, and the darkness overcame it not.

A most blessed Easter to my Christian readers, and hopes for a wonderful, rich day and bright future for all my readers.

I love this Russian choral piece, because of the music, and because of how it describes spring. It is “Alleluia! Christ is Risen” by Andre Kopolyoff, arranged by Harvey B. Gaul.

Farm Fun!

There’s just something cool when you turn a bunch of history-minded people loose in a museum. I earned serious street creds from a group of professors in Oklahoma City by helping them identify which theme went to which Western TV series. I’ve heard interesting stories while lurking behind the next display, pretending not to be listening in. And this was no exception. After all, it is not often that you can spend time looking at something like this, and talking to people who grew up riding on them or working on them, or yes:

First came tanks, then tractors, then more tanks. You’ll still see large treaded tractors on the northern plains.

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Choral Stillness

After a concert, or an especially good rehearsal, I find I can’t listen to other music for several hours. Certain compositions and performances set up a resonance inside me, for lack of a better word, echoing and reverberating. A stillness lingers, a song-shaped silence that allows nothing to disturb it. To turn on the radio in the car seems, not a sacrilege, but something almost as unwanted. Continue reading