If seasons ran on a stop watch, today would present a huge temptation to hit "stop." Bee's are buzzing and foraging on the remaining flowers. I actually saw a couple of monarch butterflies landing on some roadside ditch milkweed. The midday temperature is right around 70. If I were trying to fly-fish, I might find the breeze troublesome, but not difficult. The Daughter Person invited a handful of friends for brunch. Rather than seem unfriendly and leave shortly after the guests arrived, my Better Half and I left early for our rendezvous with the Almelund Apple Festival and stopped on the way for coffee at Taylors Falls.
One of the fundamentals of community and economic development is to build on local assets. Chisago County has a notable asset in its well documented (Vilhelm Moberg - The Emigrants) and preserved history of Swedish settlement. The Apple Festival benefits the Amador Heritage Center which helps preserve that heritage. (Coming from Boston, I like to believe I know something about heritage.) Today's beautiful weather, and a lifelong love affair with apples, led to our overdue exploration of the festival.
Amador Heritage Center Swedish Immigrant Log Farm
vendors setting up in the breeze
dried flower bouquets for sale
Porcupine Creek bluegrass band on log house porch
apples really don't fall far from the tree
Once we'd explored the festival and purchased some beeswax candles and a few knick-knacks, we took a scenic road toward home, along which we discovered a good-looking sumac grove with lots of seedheads. The original batch of sumac-ade had turned out well, once the tartness was adjusted, so more was in order and there are relatively few sumac stands with terminal clusters remaining, so we promptly foraged a dozen or so clusters. During snow season, defrosted sumac-ade will be a pleasant reminder of warmer days, as will apple pie.
North of Boston
Hoarfrost coats and cuffsthe playing fields, a heydayof glistening. So there’s hopein my throat as I walk across themto the woods with my chestflung open, spilling its coins.The light so bright I can hear it,a silver tone like a penny whistle.
It’s fall, so I’m craving pine cones.Hundreds of maples the colorof bulldozers!But something strangeis going on: the trees are tiredof meaning, sick of providingmystery, parallels, consolation.“Leave us alone,” they seem to cry,with barely energy for a pun.
The muscular river crawls onits belly in a maple coat of mail.Muddy and unreflective, it smellsas if it too could use some privacy.
The sumac reddens like a face,holding out its velvet podsalmost desperately. The QueenAnne’s Lace clicks in the wind.
A deaf-mute milkweedfoaming at the mouth.
Back at the field I lookfor what I didn’t meanto drop. The grass is green.
Okay, Day,my host, I want to get outof your house. Come on, Night,with your twinkly stars and bigdumb moon. Tell me don’tshow me, and wipe that grinoff your face.
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.