Six o’clock on a Sunday morning is about the only time anymore that a guy can wander around on the road out front of his house without being run down.  I’m not sure why everyone’s in such a hurry, or even why there are so many of them for that matter, but they’re out there these days, there’s no doubt about it.  Oregon’s lazy little capital city has grown since I came here in ‘86.

So I wandered around and snapped some pictures.  A beautiful morning - sun coming up, chirping birds, dew on the grass, the smell of fresh cut hay coming from somewhere off in the distance, the azaleas in bloom along the front of the house - the whole pastoral nine yards, you might say.  The cars going by will begin to ruin the effect in an hour or two, but for the moment, I have the road to myself. 

I snap some pictures.  The azalea is called Everest, a nice specimen, easy to grow, with large, pure white flowers.  I love white in the garden and use it freely when designing for others.  Nothing brings a garden together with as much ease as the soothing tones of white as it threads its way from bed to bed.  I try out the panarama feature on the camera that helps you line things up, which I later will fool around with in Photoshop.  Turns out you still need to do some work to make it look right, blending the contrasts and brightness, hiding the transitions, etc.  The picture above is of the farm, and is comprised of five separate shots.  Something to do while I watch the birds at the feeders and listen to roosters crowing over at the neighbors. 

Before going inside, I take a picture of our new screen door - bought by the boy for a buck while hitting some garage sales yesterday with his mom.  As we hung it last night, he says to me, “Finally you’re cooperating, Dad,” which is in reference to my refusing to go into the free couch business with him.  The boy is a junk collector at heart, and wants us to stop and pick up every broken down couch and recliner we see along the road, no matter what condition.

“We’ll put tarps out in the yard and sell them,” he tells me.  “We’ll make tons of money.”

As is the case with old, uncooperative dads like me, I’ve failed to recognize the beauty of his business plan.

And yes, that’s Scrine out there, sunning himself on this fine morning.  The only bird around who doesn’t feel the need to poop on the back porch.  That alone makes him dear to my heart.