Chipmunk Heaven

  Chippy is no longer alone.  There are now at least three chipmunks chasing each other around the woodpile and the network of tunnels under what passes for our lawn has expanded so much that I fear if I were to jump up and down we'd all go down into one enormous sinkhole. But the little chaps in their striped pyjamas are so charming that I am putty in their paws. Always busy, they'll soon start stuffing their cheeks with grub to take down for the winter. This is one specimen of American wildlife I can't get enough of. I've conveniently forgotten that, last summer, they gobbled up all my blueberries.

A Wild WNY Sunset

  The heavy, humid, stormy weather reached its peak last night; there was a severe thunderstorm warning and we eyed the generator anxiously, especially as we've got guests staying. But it was a mild goodbye by local standards and this morning the air was cool and fresh at last.
 Last night's sunset was one of the most extraordinary I've seen, with light effects from brilliant white to scarlet, mingling with the billowing thunderclouds still hanging on -

I can't decide which one to choose - have 'em all.

I'm probably getting a reputation around these parts as a madwoman, driving up and down our lane, trying to do a tiny bit of justice to the spectacular display with my unsophisticated camera..

I must have turned round in the Five Mile Baptist Church car park at least three times, to go back up the lane and get just one more shot. Unfortunately it was wednesday night - church night - and the departing  worshippers could be forgiven for casting me some odd looks..

But it was worth it - I don't think we'll get a sunset like this again in a hurry...

But of course it was at its most beautiful along the Five Mile Road, where it's not easy to stop.

It was as bad as trying to get a pic of the leaves last autumn. You should see the ones that got away.

Have a Safe Holiday

  I am perplexed at the ubiquitousness of this slogan. At the start of the summer holidays, the two neighbourhood high schools both display it on their electronic signs.  It wouldn't be the first thing that would come to my mind. "Have a good holiday", perhaps, or a "pleasant holiday", or a "happy holiday", certainly. But a safe holiday? What sort of danger are these kids going to be in in Cattaraugus County?  Getting a stiff neck from sitting at the computer? Tennis elbow from too much texting? Even the bears around here are black bears which don't normally eat people.
  I think it's just a symptom of the nervous nanny state that America has become, something constantly derided by baby boomers, who think back with nostalgia to a time when parents sent their children out on bikes without helmets, knee pads and suntan lotion, let them eat nuts, swim in rivers without a lifeguard and actually walk to school, when coffee cups didn't carry a "Warning: Hot!" label, etc etc. "How did we ever survive?" they ask.  The Wall Street Journal had a whole spiel about it at the weekend.. But it falls on deaf ears. These days, there are serried ranks of bureaucrats whose only task is to come up with new scenarios to be scared of and more laws to ban them.  As soon as they stop,  they'll be out of a job. And they're cheered on by legions of Accident and Injury lawyers whose mugs smile down from giant billboards all along the motorway.
  Having said that, the local citizenry, being mostly of the huntin', shootin' and fishin' persuasion, still includes some more old-fashioned parents. The lad who mows our lawn got marched down by his dad to get his gun licence on his fourteenth birthday and shot his first wild turkey soon after.
   Still, I spotted the following on a skip (dumpster in Americanese) somewhere in town.

Spoilsports.

WNY Pleasures: the Bisonburger

   We get bison meat from a buffalo ranch up in the beautiful hills behind our house. It's lean and healthy and delicious, from animals ranging in spacious rolling meadows and grazing on succulent Western New York grass. I have to be careful not to get too attached to the bison, though - they're such magnificent beasts. The herd galloping over the hill is an unforgettable sight. Many centuries ago, our neighbourhood was part of the great migration route for giant herds of bison moving up and down from what's now North Carolina. Of course the early pioneers and hunters put paid to all that.
   Some other neighbours keep a few highland cattle - they're pets, really, with names and only once did they slaughter one. It was for a family reunion; everyone was sitting round the table ready to eat roast beef when someone piped up, "Is this someone we know?"
  "Er, yes, actually, it's Fred".
  And no one could eat a thing.

Happy Fourth of July

To my American friends. Sadly, we are having traditional British weather - perhaps as revenge.Rain, rain and more rain and the lawn is a soggy morass.  Our local town has admitted that the fireworks won't be up to snuff this year, as they can't afford it.  That's really going to bring in the crowds. Though some little girls heard about it and have been frantically fundraising, selling lemonade. Incidentally you can't buy your own fireworks in New York - you have to drive to Pennsylvania. The nanny state par excellence in action.
  In honour of Independence Day I've just read the book de jour, "Revolutionary Summer" by Joseph J. Ellis.  Despite having been a historian in a previous life, I'm embarrassed at how little I know about the American Revolution. Or perhaps we got a quickie version in Britain.
  Revolutionary Summer tells me that, in 1776, most of New York City was on the British side (well Western New Yorkers will tell you the Big Apple lot are still a law unto themselves). Hubby speculates that might be something to do with the Dutch connection, the Dutch preferring to trade rather than fight.  Secondly just how badly Washington messed up in his early career as commander of the American troops. He apparently had little concept of defensive tactics and preferred all-out attack in impossible situations. Well that was all going to change. The British of course messed up as well. If they hadn't been so heavy -handed, America might now be Canada.   The British forces also nearly won in 1776 but despite all the men and ships and firepower and the untrained American soldiers running away at every opportunity (all that was to change too) they still managed to lose. I suspect that, as with most freedom movements, America would in any case have won in the end. Another thing - the amazing erudition of the Founding Fathers, particularly John Adams, who read the Classics widely and studied Ancient Greek and Roman fighting methods to get some good ideas. Alas American education standards have gone down ever since. Plus, there's the wit of Benjamin Franklin, who refused to have anything to do with the Declaration of Independence as he didn't want to write something that would be edited by a committee afterwards. So Thomas Jefferson went ahead and did it and spent the rest of his life grumbling that they changed his immortal words. "Told you so", said Franklin. I sympathise with them, having suffered badly from sub-editors in my life.

They Just Don't Get It

  There they go again. Why is America the only country in the world that doesn't get the beautiful game? I mean football of course. Real football, the sort played with a round ball which one actually kicks.
  Today I was watching Wimbledon, more precisely the Djokovic match, getting ready for Andy Murray and the camera lingered on the handsome visage of Nemanja Vidic, Manchester United's captain and arguably the greatest defender in the world. In a natty suit and tie, he was in the audience, presumably cheering on his fellow Serb. And what does the American commentator say, "Oh um,dunno who that is, must be some well-known British athlete (sic). We have to take the pictures the BBC gives us and they keep showing him .... etc etc." Now I defy any sports commentator from any other country not to recognise Nemanja Vidic when he sees him. Lamentable. Utterly lamentable.
  In the same vein, the Wall Street Journal columnist, Joe Queenan, is usually good for a mild laugh. But last weekend he went too far. Suggesting, tongue somewhere near his cheek I trust, that, should there be a boycott of the World Cup in Brazil, it would be a good thing - I ask you!  It appears Mr Queenan's main beef with our football (I can't bring myself to call it "soccer" since I saw our local paper refer to the World Cup as the "Men's World Soccer Championships"), a sport, he claims,  "short on thrills" and "rooted in cowardice and duplicity",  is that there are not enough goals. In one match he watched there was just one goal.  Doesn't he see that that's the whole point? Football is not basketball where goals come with tedious regularity and nothing much happens except goals. Blink and you've missed one. They are debased currency. No, goals in football are precious things. Their comparative rarity makes them so. And contributes to the subtle build-up, the wild anticipation, the terrible anti-climax of the miss, the frustrating "what might have been" of the struck post.  And at last the glorious ecstasy of that bulging net. I love Americans but in too many aspects of their lives, they just want instant gratification.

Marina Sunday Scenes

 And amazingly, while the skies were emptying around our house, an hour and twenty minutes to the north, in Buffalo,  the sun was out. As were some pretty boats.

This one was adorable and reminded hubby of a Winslow Homer painting and me of Swallows and Amazons..

Meanwhile as we were coming in to harbour, we just dodged Miss Buffalo, the local pleasure boat, chugging her way past City Hall .....

.
.....and out to sea - or rather, lake.

Some excitement as the sheriff's helicopter landed in the grass over by the restaurant.  I don't know where he left his horse.  Or why he was there at all.

But he was soon off  again.

Meanwhile in the car park it was family day again. They've grown since last week and are getting lessons on what to do with (and on) the grass, to maximum effect.

 Dad would rather be sailing.

They'll slip all right when we're finished...

Oi!  Gizza handout!

 Or a lift at least.

Some nice cars tend to gather at the Marina on Sundays, like this early Mustang in great nick. Now, once again, with all these people here, could we please have somewhere to get a decent cup of coffee?