Mazama-catBy BOB SPIWAK

Here it is Monday mid-morning and already it is getting hot. Temperatures in the 90s are predicted through Wednesday, followed by cool high 80s.

Whether or not there is global warming, it sure as heck is Methow warming.  We motored to Chelan to visit family yesterday, and there it was a bit over 99.

What with the warm spring and accompanying moisture, the terrain is extra lush. This makes it nice for calendar and greeting card shots but also portends the possibility of major fires later in the season. The green lush foliage will turn to dry brush and the understory will be tinder, so take extra care that the fire in the barbie or campground fire circle is soaked several times and stirred like an ash pudding.

Here the hummingbirds are swarming like a steroid infested beehive. Ms. Gloria tends to two feeders, down from three, at least thrice a day. On the pond the wood ducks have disappeared, as have most of the mallards except for a mamma who emerged from the sheltered area with six offspring. We never saw them in the infant stage when they look and swim like ping pong balls; they were one-third of mom’s size when we they appeared about two weeks ago and already they are approaching her size.

No idea how many males for females there are in the entourage that heads for the generous servings of cracked corn we put out. Mom is always alert, even if we move past the windows, and in a most dignified manner alerts the little ones that it’s time to head for shelter, and they sedately paddle off to the chest-high water weeds. Human chest, that is.

I thought about doing an interim car count after seeing the mob at the Rhythm and Blues Festival on Sunday, but gave up the idea when, half a mile from home, the Lincoln puked. As noted earlier, the thermometer was brushing 100 and we came from Chelan with the air conditioner on.

I suspect it was just overheating because as a Winthrop Motors tow truck was driving by (on his way to tow a breakdown at our driveway) and stopped, the car then decided to start and we beat feet for home, 7,000 yards away. Don’t you just love “check engine” followed by failure before you have time to absorb the message?

I think this is retribution by the ghost of Henry Ford, whose Edsel of the 1960s was ridiculed by almost every auto magazine, and I had written an article along the same vein. After focus groups and thousands of solicited suggestions for a name for the “revolutionary” new vehicle, it was decided to christen it after Henry Ford’s son. Overall, a big mistake. Like the hull on the Exxon Valdez, but with far lesser consequences, except for those who bought one.  It may be that my ’93 Lincoln is an Edsel in disguise.