My brother called tonight to tell me that he got the house in Natchez. This is news of high good order.

I've never thought it quite fair that he brought me here then had to leave.

He's coming home.

Now, what to do about my sister ...

Charlie & squash

Charlie is adept at holding food for eating. That's zucchini in his fist.

Shellie gets letters.

One this week contains this line in reference to Southerners:

We don't worry if our relatives were on the Mayflower; we worry about how they behaved during the trip.

Things I didn't know, not that I ever knew much, about Jimi Hendrix.

Lucy and Charlie are fighting over a toy.

The good thing about the big Viking rangetop is that it breaks down for cleaning.

The bad thing is that it breaks down into 32 pieces.

That doesn't include the hood.

Lucy is such an old biddy.

Charlie was begging her to preen his head tonight and she did nothing but yawn.

And he has perfected his wolf whistle. Scrubbing the stove is a lighter chore when a boy is whistling in the background.

This thing makes me laugh.

The very notion that a battery-powered object could affect anything in this house is absurd.

Even my vib... Never mind.

I think I have made it clear that I'm a fool for a good speaking voice.

I just spoke to the gentleman half of the snowbirds who have rented our condo since 2000.

My, my.

Ms. Huberman, seems to me if a comfort is desirable enough to complain about, it's worth a minute or two in your day to assure it.

Any man with good sense will follow Charlie's lead.

He has incorporated the call whistle with the wolf whistle.

The first two notes are the call whistle, and the third note finishes the wolf whistle.

Nature is so efficient.

I have no idea if Harry Anderson's show in New Orleans is worth admission, but I can tell you ladies, without any reservations at all, that pianist Gilles Marschall is worth the price. A charmer, in all the best senses, and some you forgot you had.

Laissez le bon temps rouler.

UPDATE: Here's another story about the club.

Charlie does a very good call whistle, taught him at the Johnsons, must be.

Now he's learning to wolf whistle.

Lucy is not a whistler.

James Joyner points to Robin Givhan's criticism of John Roberts' family's clothing choices.

I don't have young ones, so I've not been in the market for children's dress-up clothing.

What would alternatives be that were both appropriate to the occasion and the season? (And all that blond hair.)

Apart from puff sleeves, which I would have chosen for the little girl. There are only so many years a girl can wear puff sleeves. My time is up, for sure.

I loved my little dresses with puff sleeves, gathered skirts and bow sashes. And Mary Janes with lacy anklets.

My question would be why do they look so much like Southerners ready for church?

UPDATE: David C, commenting on that post, probably has it right.

Now what gives?

Charlie is holding a piece of millet in his foot and both birds are eating from it.

No problems so far, but there's plenty left.

I bet you didn't get this phone call anytime recently:

Hey. I take care of Ms. Alec across the street, and I just wanted to tell you that your tree is missing an eye.

A squirrel knocked it off, of course.

From Smiley Anders today:

Empty threat

Hunter W. Barrilleaux Jr. says when daughter Logann was 5, "I told her that if she wasn't good Santa wasn't going to visit her that year.

"She immediately responded with, 'No, no, Daddy; I was bad last year and he came.'

"She was right on both counts."

But, he says, she's been good ever since, "and is a hard-working student at my favorite school, LSU."

Lyman grew up as a child with Fox McKeithen.

He always meant to call him.

Fox was a mother's nightmare. He walked across a bridge railing as a boy. Lyman watched him, and defied the dare. It wasn't the only time.

Sheesh. Good news. I have an appointment with the hairdresser Thursday afternoon. I wake in the morning looking like Don King.

I prefer reading to watching movies, but I will be on the lookout for "March of the Penguins" after Mr. Balko's recommendation.

This is a little bizarre.

Rain is falling at the rate of 3.50" per hour, thunder is cracking, and the sun is shining from the west.

We have a toll block on our phone at the coast. When Lyman's dad called on Thursday night to say they were leaving Friday before Dennis struck, he called collect.

Lyman and his dad spoke for 8 minutes.

The charge is $24.24 including tax.

UPDATE: Some people at the coast don't rent and don't have blocks on their phones. Some are seeing large long distance bills for calls to Mexico.

UPDATE II: $2500 to South America.

Miss Jordana asks about musical tastes.

Who do I like enough to have bought more than one CD of? It's been years since I bought much music, but I bought more than one vinyl of these:

Henry Purcell
Joan Armatrading
Emmylou Harris
Janis Joplin
Bonnie Raitt
Tracy Nelson
Dolly Parton
Sandy Denny
Patsy Cline
Aretha Franklin
Laurie Anderson
Waylon Jennings
Willie Nelson
Jackson Browne
Nat King Cole
Tom Waits
David Bowie
Rolling Stones
Talking Heads
Roxy Music

There are more, but those are representative. I haven't bought much recently. Parrot toys, you know.

I haven't posted much about progress in relations between Lucy and Charlie.

All in all, they're pretty sociable these days. They have the occasional dispute over who occupies what space when, and there can be fusses over food.

Lucy, in keeping with her overall demure and elegant persona, is a delicate eater who takes her time about things. Charlie is an avian lawn mower-vacuum cleaner -- perhaps because he is a growing boy.

Take almonds. Lucy, whose beak is not as tough as Charlie's, will pick one up and gnaw at it for some time before she gets to the nut. Charlie cracks them open, sucks up the contents, and moves along. So now, to keep some for herself, she has taken to tossing some over the side of the cage onto the windowsill where Charlie can't go, yet. Then she can eat at her leisure.

Lucy and Charlie are different about self-defense. If threatened, Lucy will get as far away as possible, screech, and make a lunge if truly threatened. Charlie will stand his ground, puff himself as large as possible, and growl ominously.

At one time when the sibs were here, Charlie and Lucy were both on the top perch of the tower. My sister came near the cage. Charlie moved just beside Lucy, then puffed and growled. He planned to defend Lucy, too.

You often see them mirroring each other during preening. Then there's Lucy preening Charlie's head.

So we're coming along. They've been together two months.

Today is Lucy's hatch day! She is four years old.

UPDATE: And those spots on the window? She splashes in her little 8 oz. water cup on the tower. Give her a larger bowl and she just looks at it.

I am putting this link up because Mr. von Drehle has, I think, captured the nature of political blogging in his piece.

Without speaking at all of political leanings, I can tell Ms. O'Brien that a journalism degree will hardly assure you a step up the ladder. I know. I have one.

Become an upholsterer, a machinist, an electrician, a plumber, and see where that takes you. Perhaps a manicurist or a hairdresser. We didn't know, did we?

Early Friday morning, call it 1 a.m., Lucy was in her cage, asleep with her head tucked tightly back over her wing, laughing and laughing away.

Then she muttered a comment or two and laughed some more.

What was she dreaming?

Here's an interesting paragraph from the official City of Natchez site that Tricia found while she was here:

Eliza Baker, writing in 1803 not long after her arrival from New Jersey, documents not only this propensity to travel but also her shock at the level of society, for she wrote: “The women are so immoderately attached to dancing that they appear to think of little else besides. We have had many polite invitations to their parties, which we have thought proper to decline. Among so many fashionable people I am not ashamed to appear singular. People here think nothing of going round to New York or Philadelphia, but I will not flatter myself with such a prospect.”

The air-conditioning unit has gone out in the condo. $1650.

I have been tagged by an Australian, of all people, to participate in a food survey.

When it comes to such things, I usually tell people to get stuffed, but given that kitchen hand is a brand new father, I'll make an allowance.

What is your first memory of cooking on your own?

Hard to say. As the youngest child, as I've said before, I spent a lot of time getting in my mother's way in the kitchen.

I started helping in a serious way at about ten, making cakes and cookies. And that wasn't just licking the bowl.

Who had the most influence on your cooking?

At one time I would have said my mother, who was a great home cook, but now I would say Lyman.

If he took off with a 28-year-old blonde tomorrow I'd appreciate him for that. And clean the house in his absence. Believe me, she'll send him home.

Do you have an old photo as evidence of an early exposure to the culinary world?

There aren't fifty photos of me in the world. Cameras steal your soul.

'Mageirocophobia' - do you suffer from any cooking phobia?

Pressure cooking makes me nervous enough to make mistakes.

What are your most valued or used kitchen gadgets or what was the biggest letdown?

The biggest letdown was an apple peeler-curly potato maker from Idaho.

The West Bend double kitchen timer is the most useful gadget in the kitchen, apart, of course, from knives, measuring cups, spoons, etc.

Name some funny or weird food combinations or dishes you really like, at which others turn up their noses.

I like raw oysters. By the dozens.

What are three edibles or dishes you simply don't want to live without?

Butter, black pepper, salt. Coffee.

Your favorite ice cream?

Berry-flavored Italian ice.

You will definitely never eat:

Eyes or insects. I once ate the worm from a bottle of mescal. Not again.

Your own signature dish:

In our family, hot water cornbread.

For myself, sauteed chicken livers with wine, herbs and onions.

So there you go.

UPDATE: I'll tag Kate, Peg Britton, and Craig Johnson.

shoe

When it comes down, a crystal slipper don't cut it.

This is my shoe.

Patricia and I also visited Saint Mary's Basilica in Natchez on Saturday. I failed to take a camera, of course.

This family didn't.

On their RV trip to Mississippi they visited the church and took pictures.

Here is the exterior.

Here is the interior. Not to fault their technique, but this photo barely captures the ornateness of the place and doesn't show how lovely the windows are.

(Mine would be so much better. NOT!)

Thank you, Cook family.

Apart from storm-watching we had a pleasant and fun weekend with the sibs.

Friday evening Lyman broiled hamburgers and we were joined by Patricia, Charles, Michael and a ladyfriend of his. It was Michael's first time to meet my sister and brother. Jason met them both years ago. We still had some of those huge garden tomatoes, and everyone sighed as they ate.

Saturday, Patricia and I went to downtown Natchez to look around. We visited antique stores and found a good sale at a little shoe store there. On to the mall, where Patricia helped me pick out some comfy Adidas for walking.

I spent most of Saturday night watching and reading reports about Dennis.

On Sunday, we went with Charles and realtors to see a restored 1854 house in town. It's not a grand house, but a small pretty one, with a courtyard that can become a gem. I knew Charles was planning to come back to Natchez, but I had no idea it would be so soon. He has made an offer on this house and it has been accepted.

Later, we had coffee at Joe Stone's house, which is now lovely and comfortable after several years of work.

We ate bacon and tomato sandwiches for dinner, at Tricia's request.

Monday morning, Patricia woke me and we went down to the river for a walk. The Vidalia Landing project adds serious value to this little town.

We started at 7:30 in a breeze and wound up at about 8:30 in the heat. One needs an earlier start. And I need a cap or visor against the sun. She insists that I take up walking. She worries about me.

Charles came at about 11:00 and there were goodbyes.

She said it was a good visit, and I thought so, too. Maybe a little short. Another day would have given us a bit more touring time.

Zeus was always a fool for pretty girls. I know three who were awake last night until nearly 5 a.m.

Hell's bells!

This is when one needs to be acquainted with Greek mythology. Hera would do a little mischief, and Zeus would follow with one greater.

I once said the mother of hurricanes was coming. Now it seems the father is.

Well, crap!

The windows held at 130. I don't know about 140.

God bless everyone in Dennis' path.

UPDATE: Our building in the complex received its certificate of occupancy on Friday, July 1.

My in-laws went down to the condo on Tuesday and came home on Friday to beat the evacuation crowds.

They might not see the place again for a long time.

We haven't stayed there since May of 2004.

And Girl tells me somebody took all the damned spoons - teaspoons, soup spoons, serving spoons - every spoon in the house.

I assume the contractor borrowed them to dig the hole for the swimming pool.

I received this in e-mail this morning:

"I guess Lyman won't have time to bake any of those yummy cookies will he? It sure would be nice, but it is awful hot for baking. However, you do have that nice vent-a-hood that takes all the heat out. I'm sure that whatever he decides, will be fine with me, though I don't get to see you very often."

Charlie

I am fated to live with handsome and interesting boys.

All right, that's it. Fourteen pints and four quarts of tomatoes are on the shelf. Enough, already.

Time to move along now.

Here's something new.

Lucy and Charlie were sitting on the topmost perch of the parrot tower.

Lucy was busy working on her toes, and Charlie bowed his head, wanting her to preen it. Lucy was occupied, and ignored him. Charlie nipped the foot that she was standing on.

Then there was a fracas and both of them fell to the top of the cage.

Charlie still wants her to preen his head, and Lucy is still refusing.

Birds.

Tomatoes on buns

These two tomatoes are sitting on halves of regular-sized hamburger buns.

Pity that they go into the pot, too. Lyman picked 29 pounds of tomatoes today, nearly all without a blemish.

Lucy on the Fourth

Lucy sends greetings, too.

Tomatoes

Bacon and tomato sandwiches for dinner.

Happy Fourth to you, too!

Give me a little serious money and I would buy a Cesare Toffolo.

We saw something similar to this one when we were in Venice.

Mr. Toffolo is about 4 years my junior. Since 2000 he has refined his vision, and this is more beautiful and interesting than what we saw before.

He had nothing like this then.

kitchen

This is also high on my favored list.

This is the front of Commander's Palace restaurant's menu in about 1997. The artist is Tim Trapolin, who has a studio in New Orleans. He specializes in oil portraits, but I like this gesture drawing.

Time flies. He signed the drawing in '92.

Scroll down if you haven't seen a picture of Charlie.

I have another question. Of what possible biological advantage can his red tail be? He's a grey and white bird with a bright red tail. And it's not a guy thing. The girls look the same. That's why we had a DNA test for sex.

What gives?

My little blogger universe has a pretty new denizen way down Melbourne way.

Welcome, William!

A question for bird behaviorists regarding one bird preening another:

Is there any sort of hierarchical relationship between the "preener" and the "preened"?

Interesting thing today, Lucy was preening Charlie about the head and stopped. Charlie put his head down and gently butted her, asking her to continue, I guess.

She declined.

Rug

I'm a fool for village scenes.

This is my second favorite artwork in the house, an "imagination rug" that we bought in Jerusalem, probably woven in Egypt of dyed camel hair yarn. (Stinks when wet.)

Seven more pints of tomatoes for the shelf.

Wall hanging

I'm just experimenting with the USB cable and camera.

This is a portion of my favorite piece of art in our house, a textile work from Zimbabwe that we found in the gift shop of the Gulf Breeze zoo several years ago.

I am enjoying the ease of using flickr.com for posting photos.

It's adequate for anything I do on the web, and I haven't begun to look at all its features.

If I could just find the USB cable for the camera, it would be easier still.

UPDATE: Aha! Got you, little device!

Law, law. Just go visit this post by Radley Balko.

(Will I ever overcome my desire to call that man "Boo"? Can it be that offensive to be called "Boo Balko"?)

Possum on the patio

Possum in pine on patio with orchid

Possum in the patch

Possum in the tomato patch

(at least it's not a squirrel)

It's been since 1999 or 2000 that we've had tomatoes like these.

Kiddos

Gratuitous bird picture, using lower resolution and changed settings, according, ahem, to the camera instructions

One of Lyman's baseball buddies' wives is expecting a baby, going into forced induced labor tomorrow. They're in Jackson, MS, tonight.

Lyman said, "I bet they're on nins and peedles."

I'm fond, but I also like that Spoonerism.

IMAG0015

Possum perches on pencil midst posies

Forest face

There was a little possum and he lived in a tree.
He lived in a tree by me ...

I am speechless.

Daniel Craven, Esq. (I always like that pretentious touch), our lawyer, has a brief article in the Summer 2005 edition of Condo Owner magazine titled "Communicating During Troubled Times."

A key point that he makes:

There is a difference between what owners want to know and what they need to know.

Says it all, doesn't it?

UPDATE: The last line of the piece is eloquent:

In conclusion, the key to better relations, especially in troubled times, is communication, communication, communication.

Esquire Craven, I couldn't have said it better myself.

I learned something from these beans.

My oldest brother called on Sunday to chat.

He said, "I remember when grandmother would serve beans that were half shelled and half not."

"Are you talking about field peas and snaps?"

"No, I'm talking about plain string beans."

He was talking about home-canned string beans.

Well, rats.

We made a mistake, maybe more than one, and they're all mine.

You have to remember that this canner was made somewhere between the forties and fifties. I don't have a manual.

I forgot that you should leave the petcock on the valve until the pressure goes to zero.

There's no broken glass, and the mess is small, but our poor little beans lack about an inch of liquid.

But the seals are tight!

Yack. Such good beans.

Lyman also thinks the gauge might be off.

Yack.

As Lyman says, "Some people can, and some people can't."

UPDATE: Put them in the refrigerator and eat them soon, they say. I can go for that.

And do a cold pack next time.

I'm stalling.

It's been over three years since I used the pressure canner. It's a big old Presto thick-walled model that Lyman's mother gave us.

It works perfectly well, and the gasket and stopper are fairly new.

The whole process makes me nervous for no good reason, but I grew up with the legends of the exploding pressure cookers, too.

UPDATE: That's all set up.

Now, hot pack or cold pack?

Do-de-do.

UPDATE: Hot pack. Some of these little fellas aren't youngsters.

Tomatoes

Aren't the tomatoes pretty?

I believe Lucy is preening Charlie. Do say.

I understand, honey. I like to touch him, too.

Here is good news!

We are able to can three pints of tomatoes today -- first time since 2002.

Our crops have been wretched for a few years.

UPDATE: And a question for you:

We are growing a nice lot of Italian flat green beans this year, faster than we can eat them.

I would like to can some, and know they'll have to be canned under pressure. Is it my imagination that you should always fill your pressure canner completely with jars? That you should not do just four or five at a time? Or did I make that up?

UPDATE II: Presto says no, it does not have to be full.

"Fabio, honey, what should I do?"

"Stroke my manly chest and lose yourself in my less than luxurious hair."

"But, but, there's Lyman, and Lucy and Charlie, and Patricia and ... hmmph."

Uh oh. We just gave the list of the board of directors and their numbers to my father-in-law.

I hope they want some sweet corn. Or maybe they'd like to open his condo first.

UPDATE: I can hear it. Director says, "My lawyer says..."

Big Daddy says, "Lawyers? You want lawyers? I breed lawyers. Two sons, a grandson and a grandaughter coming. What now?"

UPDATE II: Uh oh. He just gave it back.

The introduction to Mr. MacDonald's book, Condominium (1977), reads this way:

It's a very dangerous thing to go so long between hurricanes. It just causes a larger number of incredulous people -- nonbelievers.

Dr. Robert H. Simpson, Former Director, National Hurricane Center, Miami, Florida

Not that I spent a lot of time planning what I was going to be when I grew up, but I can't remember a day that I planned to be a mother of disparate tropical birds.

Michael has been in, laughing at me and his little brother and sister.

I tapped him on the shoulder and said, "When I married your father, Jason was 18. I thought I was beyond this."

"You can't escape it," he said.

My sister's delay in coming has resulted in an unexpected benefit -- I've picked up a brother! They'll both be coming in a couple of weeks.

Since Charles prefers more privacy than can be offered in our house, I spent some of yesterday morning talking to Joseph Stone, owner of this house.

During part of the interval between his father's death and Joe's return from New York City to renovate the house, I lived there for six months. In fact, during one of his visits, Lyman and I fed Joe in his own kitchen.

He has worked hard at the restoration, and behold, has a lovely small bed and breakfast. Charles will be staying in the detached cottage.

We hope to have the benefit of Joe's performance on the piano. He is quite a good player. He's also a collector of antique maps, etchings and books.

Joe, Lyman and I have all been busy these past ten years and fell out of touch. It was a pleasure to talk to him again, and I expect even more from seeing him and his lovely house.

Julep time!

Odd what constitutes a nightmare now.

I dreamed this morning that I opened an attachment that unleashed virulently delirious pop-ups on my computer -- an almost kaleidoscopic display.

Which of course meant that I couldn't use it, which, in turn, left me nothing to do but housework.

Egads!

Did that work?

Why, yes, it did.

Thank you, hon.

I lost my full signature on my posts. How did I do that? How do I fix it?

Continuing the book meme that I hadn't consciously begun to follow, we have about 70 feet of books in this house, give or take a couple.

Lyman ditched his law books, so those aren't included, though we kept Black's dictionary. That does include cookbooks, gardening books, other reference and literature.

Like Kate, I try to keep acquisitions down through borrowing. I like books, but I also like space to walk, to dance, and to sew (one day, again).

I left most of my humanities collection in Oregon, also a good many books in New York.

To a desert island, I would take my translated edition of Proust's Remembrance of Things Past, an untranslated edition, a definitive French grammar, a definitive French dictionary, and a Bible, and pray that I could finally get through that sucker.

Happy Birthday, Peg Britton!

I finished reading Ward Just's An Unfinished Season last night.

It is the first book I have read by the well-respected author, a coming-of-age novel set in Chicago environs in the '50's. One could go into a bag of tricks and bring up comparisons to other such writers, and talk about his device of not using quotation marks.

Having given up most literary criticism years ago when I left the big school, I'll leave that to others.

I can say that at my age, these novels of young men or women struggling with their identities don't interest me anymore. I like a good whodunnit now, though I would read Mr. Just again on another topic. This was his 14th novel.

Coming-of-age reading to me now is standing in the drug store aisle of Wal-mart reading the ingredients in anti-wrinkle creams.

The headline of this story in the Baton Rouge Advocate today doesn't look nearly as odd as the 48-pt headline strung across the top of the business page in the print edition.

Think about that:

LaCAEDA gets own budget line in 48-pt type.

Looks like it could be a typographical error, doesn't it? I might think about altering my acronym.

It gets worse.

Mr. S, our resigned member, called last night and informed us that he was both set up and threatened with legal action by these godforsaken people.

Daddy, I won't even have to make anything up.

upsidedown

This should be the cover photo, don't you think?

(I'm seeing a good many views of this photo. If it's yours, let me know. I'll be glad to give you credit.)

Because I am ticked off enough, mean enough, and feeling helpless, I am going to take up the challenge of writing about "that terrible night last September."

Just last night I ordered "Condominium" from master John D. MacDonald.

That will help to get me started.

Quoth the Craven (as Lyman says), "Nevermore."

My daddy wanted me to be a writer.

Have I told you recently that I love my husband and his sons? Be so informed.

Here's a small reason why:

"Lucy, leave Charlie alone. Go do something else." And she listens.

Yes, I know it's very small. Would it be love otherwise?

I am continually amazed by the president of the board of the condo association.

We were told by the property management group that to be reimbursed for the carpet in the seaside bedroom that was taken out after Ivan, and that we replaced at our expense, that we would need to send a receipt for our expense to the president (I don't know, honey, beats me), which she would approve for payment.

Lyman called the accounting company the other day (the people I write the checks to for association fees), and she told us that the president had spoken to the contractor, and he said it wasn't time to write those checks to owners.

Can you be a bitch, a boor and a bozo at the same time? I guess you can.

I told you so.

PhotosUSB 011

This was my daddy.

He was a modest man, and not of this new and welcome generation of fathers who feed and bathe babies and put them to bed at night.

But he was a terrific father in times of trouble. We miss him.

He shocked me something fierce when he said that he, too, had read Anna Karenina.

How about that Vronsky?

I received the greatest piece of good sense from my high school freshman English teacher, Susan Cochran, yesterday (she's in the address book).

I told her that I have been putting off this transfer because my mother is in the old book.

"Put her in the new one," she said.

I'll put both my mother and father in -- Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Lee Davenport. That works.

I always liked her.

Happy Father's Day, y'all!

One year for Christmas, my mother-in-law gave me a gift of an address book. It was a good gift , and I used it.

Lyman brought me another book many months ago. The book needs changing. There are two serious changes needed. My mother is dead, and P. D. sports a mention.

Get that sucker!

(From Instapundit)

What in the world has gotten into Lucy? She's being nice today.

Sharon Syx, Gail Weldon, Andrea Cross and Daniel Craven are people that you don't want to know, associate with, or hire. Leave them be.

Oops, let's not forget David Sharpe.

Alabamans beware.

My father-in-law is craving the coast. I doubt he's stepped foot in sand for 30 years, and he wouldn't be caught dead in a swimsuit, but he's itching to go.

The board is putting him off. Bad board. Bad board.

He is 86.

We received another catalog for In the Swim yesterday, that ticks me off.

We filled in our swimming pool two years ago. If I want to swim, I'll go to a friend's house, and put a buck or two toward the chemicals.

I have called these people and told them to take my name off their mailing list. Little as it shows, I don't like waste.

The girl I last spoke to took my catalog or identity number and I thought that was the last of it.

Not so.

If repetition is the rule for parrots' learning language, then Charlie's first phrase will be "Stop that, you little biddy!"

Ahem. I shouldn't write this, but here goes.

We have two four-drawer file cabinets in the corner of the office. I cleaned the tops of them off yesterday. There were two food pages from the Baton Rouge Advocate up there. One was dated in May of 2000 and the other in June of 2000.

Ahem.

Lucy needs training in discretion.

This afternoon, while she hung over the side of her cage in her vulture pose, she practiced her "emergency scream." That's the one that makes you think she might have gotten hung up on a toy or is being chased by a tarantula or something.

She has begun using it more frequently in the morning to get me up -- after the telephone rings and door knocks and straight-up rawwks fail.

Funny thing today.

Around four o'clock Lucy is tired, and sometimes hangs off the back edge of the cage next to the window, dozing and observing, perhaps fantasizing or dreaming, whatever tired birds do. I call it her vulture pose.

Charlie went down next to her, and did his best to stay with her. Like a puppy or a kitten with an elder he was antsy, and preened and poked at the mintons, and carried on like a small child.

Lucy didn't attempt to correct him.

We're making progress.

To this point, however, the boing is off-limits.

IMAG0020

Lucy and Charlie are not getting along in this picture, despite appearances.

The little buggers do better together when I'm not around. I can arrange that.

I am joining the large chorus of satisfied customers mentioned in this article in praise of Mr. Clean's Magic Eraser.

I bought some months ago on Jordana's recommendation. Trust a mother of small children to know what will clean well.

I have been using it on smudges and marks on the walls. It works great without soaps or solvents.

My, here are older friends.

UPDATE: Not so bad.