Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Autumn's wind down winding up?

Last Summer, while on the way (actually, a different way) home from the WEI CSA farm in Amador, we saw a really well made, really dilapidated, outbuilding on one of the farms near Wild River State Park. I took several pictures and continued home. Several weeks later, out of idle curiosity, I retraced that route, or so I thought. The building wasn't where I'd left it. As dilapidated as it was, I didn't think it had totally collapsed and disappeared. It would have left some sort of trace. Because it troubles me when I misplace my car keys, let alone an entire building, today's activities included a very methodical search, using the county plat book. I had a helpful navigator, the daughter person's fiancee. Each road was checked off as it was driven. After we had covered about 7.5 miles, criss-crossing the township, there it was, right where we'd left it.

old out building
old out building                 © harrington
I'm still toying with the question of what could be done with the lumber if the building were purchased and deconstructed. Bookshelves and coffee tables come to mind. I don't think the logs are wide enough for that to work well. Maybe it will still be there if I ever come up with a reuse idea. Yesterday's photos of the Christmas lights weren't the best. After dark, but before supper, I played with my camera and got a couple of pictures that provide a better sense of the magic of Christmas lights. Here's hoping your holidays are at least this bright and cheery and you home warm and full of love (and loved ones), a setting more comfortable than Thomas McGrath portrays in his poem.

Christmas house lights at night
  Christmas house lights at night        © harrington

Christmas lights and greenery closeup
Christmas lights and greenery closeup    © harrington

Beyond the Red River

By Thomas McGrath 

The birds have flown their summer skies to the south,
And the flower-money is drying in the banks of bent grass
Which the bumble bee has abandoned. We wait for a winter lion,
Body of ice-crystals and sombrero of dead leaves.

A month ago, from the salt engines of the sea,
A machinery of early storms rolled toward the holiday houses
Where summer still dozed in the pool-side chairs, sipping
An aging whiskey of distances and departures.

Now the long freight of autumn goes smoking out of the land.
My possibles are all packed up, but still I do not leave.
I am happy enough here, where Dakota drifts wild in the universe,
Where the prairie is starting to shake in the surf of the winter dark.

Thanks for listening. Come again when you can. Rants, raves and reflections served here daily.