I was about to cancel my Netflix subscription because I’m getting damn tired of watching dark crime shows where everybody mumbles and everybody gets naked and sweats and groans all over everybody else. Everybody struggles against the evil but it doesn’t matter because everybody knows the bad guys are going to win in the end . . . unless some zombie comes along and eats them all. Well, I exaggerate, but only slightly.

And then I happened onto this movie:

It hadn’t been promoted by Netflix at all and so I had no idea what it was about. Ignorance of the subject matter turned out to be a good thing. I’ve watched far too many movies about the Nazis and WWII. If I’d known the subject matter, I probably would have passed.

However this movie is different. We’ve all been in situations where we know we could have done more to right a wrong, but didn’t. Either we were afraid for our physical safety or we needed to keep our jobs or we felt helpless, believing it wouldn’t matter what we did. Nothing would change.

We’re not alone. It’s a perfectly human response, particularly during paranoid times. The thing is, that extra step doesn’t have to be a big one. Sometimes it’s just a matter of doing your job properly. A tiny clog can bring down a powerful machine.

Anyway, the acting is superb. I watched it in Swedish and had no trouble understanding what was happening. Most notable was the actor playing Gösta Engzell, Henrik Dorsin. I read that in Sweden he’s considered more a comedian, singer and revue artist than an actor. That was hard for me to believe!

This post is for Sustainabilitea over at This, that and the other thing who posts interesting photos and asks readers what they see. What do you see?

Also at this same location:

An exhibit of low rider bikes, the two wheeled variety. The one above is called: By Reason of Insanity.

Once again proving that art is everywhere.

Not a good way to start a week. One small round egg smashed by the door.

I have no idea what happened; nor will the Mourning Dove ever be able to tell me. This morning, quite early, my husband said aloud “Who’s knocking at the door?” I’d been drifting in and out of sleep and hadn’t heard a thing.”You were dreaming,” I said. “No one is knocking at the door.”

Perhaps only in nightmares is the truth ever known.

He, or perhaps she, looks a little sadder, a little grayer this morning but perhaps it’s just me. I’ve never been good at handling the harsh realities of needing to eat to live which always means a sacrifice by the smaller and weaker.

Perhaps I will sleep on the porch tonight. Think that would help?

I hope your week has started off a lot brighter than mine.

I have no idea when Mama Mourning Dove laid her eggs. I first noticed that the nest (which someone had begun to build at the end of April) had occupants on June 7 while I was still preoccupied with other guests. And, as you can see from the following shots, the nest is not easy to spot.

She could have been for who-knows-how-long, silently tending her eggs.

According to AI, it could take up to 15 days for the eggs to hatch and then another 12 to 19 days for the baby birds to fly away. There will probably only be two baby birdies, if we’re lucky. If we can help protect the nest from predators. Like raccoons and squirrels.

I was worried about the poor mother bird because she never seemed to leave her nest. Was she getting enough food and water? And then I read that both mother and father mourning dove tend to the nest and . . . to their offspring. So perhaps Mother takes the day shift and Dad the night shift?

Or I could have the process in reverse. Does anyone know how to tell a male mourning dove from a female?

From 2024 – perhaps the grandparents to be?

Lately I’ve had guests. Out of town guests who came and went at different times and from different airports.

Out of town guests who once lived here and wanted to catch up with friends and other family members which meant hosting an endless stream of mostly hungry folks for days. Out of town guests who wanted to make the four hour drive to Reno to visit other family members where barbecues had to accommodate the gluten-free, lactose intolerant, vegan mocktailers . . . and the rest of us slovenly alcoholic beasts who will eat and drink anything.

Those guests were called Adult Children. Mine were especially brilliant: They knew and diagnosed everything wrong with me and presented viable solutions such as: “It’s time for the Assisted Living, Mother.”

Thank you persons formerly known as CHILDREN. Thank you very much.

Perhaps I should warn this Mourning Dove that the eggs she’s spent days sitting on will hatch and become Out of town guests before she knows it. What do you think?

I’m going to take a break from blogging to try to finish several writing projects. It’s a foolish thing for me to do because the one book I have managed to republish is dying on the vine but I have stories to tell and they won’t let me be. That doesn’t mean I won’t be enjoying your posts! Just not as often.

PS. I will let you know how Mama Mourning Dove does with her offspring.

Memorial Day is my least favorite day of the year even though it often coincides with my birthday. There’s nothing grimmer than a day set aside to honor the dead, primarily those who died in battle, that’s been co-opted by cook-outs and door buster sales. And so I’m feeling crabby. And cranky. And battling the urge to eat junk food. Tons of junk food. Fried, salty, spicy and terribly, terribly fattening!

It’s also the official start to my least favorite season: summer. When I was a kid, summers meant endless hours of swim team practice, ear infections, blurry vision, and slimy, yellow-green hair. And that was during the week. Then… yippee! Weekend backpacking trips into the High Sierra. Nothing could be more fun for a teenage girl than trudging uphill, carrying a thirty-pound backpack, and breathing in the dust from the mule train ahead of her. I never did get the “glories of nature” bit my father promised from those “vacations.”

Now if I could have ridden this beast up the mountain, I might have enjoyed backpacking!

I was in a hurry but the next time I’m over at the park, I’ll make sure of jot down the name of the artist. What a masterpiece of imagination!