Tending Summer's bucket list

As we headed toward the Daughter Person and Son-In-Law's home earlier today, we were set upon, almost, by a semi-suicidal hen turkey. She leapt from a tree beside the road and landed almost in front of the jeep. This was the first local turkey we've seen in some time. We missed her by a foot or two and she promptly dashed for the safety of the field next to the road.

late Summer, backyard turkey flock

Photo by J. Harrington

Yesterday, as we were driving through Northern Washington County, we saw several small flocks of turkeys, including some poults. They've been really scarce around the property this year. We've no idea why nor, for that matter, if they actually are scarce or we just haven't been seeing them. Other years we often got to watch flocks of hens and poults pecking their way through the fields behind the house. We've seen only one or two appearances so far this year.

Although this is Labor Day weekend, and the last day of meteorological Summer, we'll save waxing nostalgic for some other posting. There's no "back to school' excitement around here, the kids are all grown up and have been for many years. We basically had a staycation this Summer and we're still trying to figure out how it is that we managed to not do lots of the things we had on our list, things like more trout fishing and day trips to places like Crex Meadows. Fortunately, we still have some opportunities to work those in before the snow starts to fly. At least, we sure hope we do. But today is a quiet, lazy, end of Summer day so we're going to keep this short and sweet. Enjoy the holiday weekend and the start of meteorological Autumn tomorrow and, keep you eyes open for the rumored Northern Lights!

Three Songs at the End of Summer

Jane Kenyon- 1947-1995

A second crop of hay lies cut   
and turned. Five gleaming crows   
search and peck between the rows.
They make a low, companionable squawk,   
and like midwives and undertakers   
possess a weird authority.

Crickets leap from the stubble,   
parting before me like the Red Sea.   
The garden sprawls and spoils.

Across the lake the campers have learned   
to water-ski. They have, or they haven’t.   
Sounds of the instructor’s megaphone   
suffuse the hazy air. “Relax! Relax!”

Cloud shadows rush over drying hay,   
fences, dusty lane, and railroad ravine.   
The first yellowing fronds of goldenrod   
brighten the margins of the woods.

Schoolbooks, carpools, pleated skirts;   
water, silver-still, and a vee of geese.

*

The cicada’s dry monotony breaks   
over me. The days are bright   
and free, bright and free.

Then why did I cry today   
for an hour, with my whole   
body, the way babies cry?

*

A white, indifferent morning sky,   
and a crow, hectoring from its nest   
high in the hemlock, a nest as big   
as a laundry basket....
                                    In my childhood   
I stood under a dripping oak,
while autumnal fog eddied around my feet,   
waiting for the school bus
with a dread that took my breath away.

The damp dirt road gave off   
this same complex organic scent.

I had the new books—words, numbers,   
and operations with numbers I did not   
comprehend—and crayons, unspoiled   
by use, in a blue canvas satchel
with red leather straps.

Spruce, inadequate, and alien   
I stood at the side of the road.   
It was the only life I had.

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Woolly bear confirms Old Farmer's forecast?

A few weeks ago we noted we hadn't yet seen any woolly bear caterpillars this year. Today we saw one on the road as we walked our dog at midday. We even have photographic proof. Now, consider what the National Weather Service has to say about what you're seeing:

today's woolly bear sighted

Photo by J. Harrington

According to folklore, the amount of black on the woolly bear in autumn varies proportionately with the severity of the coming winter in the locality where the caterpillar is found.  The longer the woolly bear's black bands, the longer, colder, snowier, and more severe the winter will be.  Similarly, the wider the middle brown band is associated with a milder upcoming winter.  The position of the longest dark bands supposedly indicates which part of winter will be coldest or hardest.  If the head end of the caterpillar is dark, the beginning of winter will be severe.  If the tail end is dark, the end of winter will be cold. In addition, the woolly bear caterpillar has 13 segments to its body, which traditional forecasters say correspond to the 13 weeks of winter.

We believe we see notably less brown and consequently more black in the photo above. We also believe that the black seems weighted toward the head end of the caterpillar so Winter could start with a bang. This assessment, plus the folklore, unfortunately seems to correspond with the Old Farmer's Almanac forecasts for a Winter that's more snowy and colder than normal in the Midwest. We wonder if the folks at Old Farmer's have their own stash of woolly bear caterpillars.

meanwhile, yellow hawkweed blooms in sunshine

Photo by J. Harrington

Meanwhile, we're really enjoying another wonderful late Summer day full of yellow hawkweed and sunflowers blooming in the sunshine. We have at least the psychological satisfaction of having mowed the sand burrs along the property's road edge in hopes that we can diminish their continued encroachment and expansion into our property, and maybe spare the dog and the dog walker some burr-picking exercises. Much as we prefer living an "organic" life, we're seriously considering pre-emergent herbicide use next Spring, although the Better Half noted that an early start on mowing might keep the plants from producing burrs. We'll see how we feel about which option to go with after we've made it through Winter's rigors. We are once again reminded of our Dad's observation that "It's a great life, if you don't weaken."

He Watches the Weather Channel

Carrie Shipers

                   After Reagan Lothes
 
Because nothing else is on so early 
in the morning when he drinks coffee 
in an empty house.  Because almanacs 

are of limited use compared to satellites.
Because spring will have to come somehow 
and cold reminds him which bones 

he’s broken.  Because every flight delayed 
or canceled is one he won’t be on.  Because 
people should stay where they’re from, 

except his children, who were right to leave.  
Because a flood will take what it can 
and move uphill.  Because just once 

he’d like to see a tornado touch down 
in an empty field and go away
hungry.  Because his wife nearly died 

on an icy road.  Because he can’t prepare 
for disasters he doesn’t understand.
Because wind keeps him awake.  Because 

his boots are by the door, but his slicker 
is in his truck.  Because he can’t change 
a damn thing forecast and uncertainty aches 

like a tired muscle, an unhealed wound.

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UnSAD weather for flying dragons

Our Better Half refuses to concede there's such a thing as Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), despite having to tolerate our foul moods come mid-January and most of February. On the other hand, much of our typical Eeyore gloom and doom has been severely diminished the past couple of days. Low humidity, sunshine, pleasant temperatures and refreshing breezes tend to have that affect on us, unless we're anxious to go fly-fishing. Then the refreshing breezes should be very gentle zephyrs.

The pleasant weather encouraged us to get most of the overgrown back yard grasses cut. We'll give it a couple of days to dry out some more and then go back and recut the cuttings so they can decompose more quickly and completely and enrich our Anoka Sand Plain soils. The storms that came through yesterday and the day before left many more blown-down dead broken branches from our oaks scattered in the drive and at the edges of the grass. We'll get those cleaned up before we recut. The post-storms refreshing breezes we mentioned have induced an abundance of caution on our part so we haven't yet burned either the back yard brush pile or used the fire ring to burn the collected branch pieces. There must be a name for blown down branches, other than fuel, one that we haven't yet learned.

the dragonfly that landed on our finger

Photo by J. Harrington

We're pleased to report that dragonflies and hummingbirds are still hanging around. In fact, we had a relatively small dragonfly land, only too briefly, on our right index finger today. That's a first. No way could we take a picture single-handed with our left hand so you'll have to take our word for it. We also saw a large blueish dragonfly cruising around a cedar tree when we walked our dog midday. In many ways we'll miss dragonflies during Winter more than the hummingbirds, since the feeders will still be visited by chickadees, nuthatches, woodpeckers, and, sometimes, whitetail deer. There's no Winter substitute for dragonflies that we know of. Part of this premature waxing nostalgic for not yet departed dragonflies is due to the report we saw a bit ago that dragonflies are on the move around the Chicago region. As the prevailing winds come from the Northwest, we finally may get around to flying our dragon kite, making it the largest dragon fly we ever expect to see.

The Vanity of the Dragonfly

By Nancy Willard

The dragonfly at rest on the doorbell— 

too weak to ring and glad of it, 

but well mannered and cautious, 

thinking it best to observe us quietly 

before flying in, and who knows if he will find 

the way out? Cautious of traps, this one.

A winged cross, plain, the body straight 

as a thermometer, the old glass kind 

that could kill us with mercury if our teeth 

did not respect its brittle body. Slim as an eel 

but a solitary glider, a pilot without bombs 

or weapons, and wings clear and small as a wish

to see over our heads, to see the whole picture. 

And when our gaze grazes over it and moves on, 

the dragonfly changes its clothes,

sheds its old skin, shriveled like laundry, 

and steps forth, polished black, with two 

circles buttoned like epaulettes taking the last space 

at the edge of its eyes.

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Autumn goes to the dogs for the birds

Things are getting back to what passes for normal around here. The tractor and mower deck are back home and functioning. We'll get more grass cutting and related chores done over the next several days, but first there are more storm-thrown dead branches to be picked up. Up until recently, we had never really put yard chores in the same category as stewardship. That's a major oversight on our part.

We suspect we may have been lead astray in our younger days by one of our favorite authors, Gene Hill, and his story When pheasant season was from chores 'til dark. Here's a sample of how:

One of the important jobs a farm dog has to undertake is to raise a boy. He has to accompany hime on his chore rounds, trap lines, general excursions and hunting trips. In the times before yellow dragons swallowed up children and carried them away, the dog was allowed to follow him to school and wait outside until recess. (Some dogs I know became fairly reliable centerfielders in this way.) But the sight of a gun always made the dog's eyes sparkle.

Winter pheasant

Photo by J. Harrington

Chores were clearly in a different class than fun in Hill's world of farm boys. That's how we used to see cutting grass and similar stuff. Now we live, not on a farm, but on a piece of country that has an occasional pheasant and an even more occasional grouse. Uncut grass, unlike in the city or its suburbs, becomes a place where ticks lurk, and the dogs don't always collect the lurkers before they's latched onto and into a human's skin. Self preservation doesn't make cutting grass fun, the fun part comes from riding on the tractor instead of pushing a lawn mower. To that we can add the pleasure of listening to our own playlist through our bluetooth-enabled hearing protector ear muffs. (We'd rather listen to bird calls, but the sound of the tractor engine drowns them out.)

We think our shift from chores to stewardship may have started with another author, one we first read but a few years ago. Robin Wall Kimmerer's Braiding Sweetgrass

... shows how other living beings—asters and goldenrod, strawberries and squash, salamanders, algae, and sweetgrass—offer us gifts and lessons, even if we’ve forgotten how to hear their voices. In a rich braid of reflections that range from the creation of Turtle Island to the forces that threaten its flourishing today, she circles toward a central argument: that the awakening of a wider ecological consciousness requires the acknowledgment and celebration of our reciprocal relationship with the rest of the living world. For only when we can hear the languages of other beings will we be capable of understanding the generosity of the earth, and learn to give our own gifts in return.

roadside ruffed grouse

Photo by J. Harrington

We've learned enough over the years to be able to put together the need to protect the habitat of those "other beings" if we want to be able to rely on their offering their gifts to us. No farm fields and sloughs, few, if any pheasants. No aspens of mixed age stands, few, if any, ruffed grouse. Protecting habitat, whether our own and/or that for there beings, because we do share a lot of habitat with nonhuman persons, involves work, but we no longer see it as being a chore. We're learning to turn much of it into some form of fun. It's all in how we look at things, right?

Chores

byMaxine Kumin

All day he’s shoveled green pine sawdust
out of the trailer truck into the chute.
From time to time he’s clambered down to even
the pile. Now his hair is frosted with sawdust.
Little rivers of sawdust pour out of his boots.

I hope in the afterlife there’s none of this stuff
he says, stripping nude in the late September sun
while I broom off his jeans, his sweater flocked
with granules, his immersed-in-sawdust socks.
I hope there’s no bedding, no stalls, no barn

no more repairs to the paddock gate the horses
burst through when snow avalanches off the roof.
Although the old broodmare, our first foal, is his,
horses, he’s fond of saying, make divorces.
Fifty years married, he’s safely facetious.

No garden pump that’s airbound, no window a grouse
flies into and shatters, no ancient tractor’s
intractable problem with carburetor
ignition or piston, no mowers and no chain saws
that refuse to start, or start, misfire and quit.

But after a Bloody Mary on the terrace
already frost-heaved despite our heroic efforts
to level the bricks a few years back, he says
let’s walk up to the field and catch the sunset
and off we go, a couple of aging fools.

I hope, he says, on the other side there’s a lot
less work, but just in case I’m bringing tools.

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August: journeys South begin #phenology

This is the month that the monarch butterfly migratory generation emerges in Minnesota and elsewhere in the North country. If you're interested, you can sign up and report your sightings at the "Journey North" web site. Monarchs aren't the only subject of interest, bald eagles, ruby-throated hummingbirds and other autumnal happenings are also of interest. However, in the Great Lakes region, and especially Minnesota, there have already been some reports of peak monarch migration.

a member of the migratory generation emerges

Photo by J. Harrington

Hummingbirds are still active at our feeders, along with yellowjackets. They may hang around until late next month. Every time we compare the size of these birds with the length of their migration, we realize their bodies must be about 90% heart. Maybe this year we'll actually note the first day the feeder remains unvisited?

hummingbirds keep coming to the feeders

Photo by J. Harrington

According to Jim Gilbert's Nature Notebook, this is the time of year to look for ripe fruit on common elderberry bushes. That's what we already reported that the Better Half has done. The elderberry pie we enjoyed last night was delicious, although eating a pie filling comprised of many, many BB-sized berries was a very different experience. It's far from apple chunks, cherries, peach slices, etc., but it doesn't approach Gertrude Stein's observation about Oakland, "there's no THERE, there."

August

Lizette Woodworth Reese

No wind, no bird. The river flames like brass.
On either side, smitten as with a spell
Of silence, brood the fields. In the deep grass,
Edging the dusty roads, lie as they fell
Handfuls of shriveled leaves from tree and bush.
But ’long the orchard fence and at the gate,
Thrusting their saffron torches through the hush,
Wild lilies blaze, and bees hum soon and late.
Rust-colored the tall straggling briar, not one
Rose left. The spider sets its loom up there
Close to the roots, and spins out in the sun
A silken web from twig to twig. The air
Is full of hot rank scents. Upon the hill
Drifts the noon’s single cloud, white, glaring, still.

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Fruits of the season #phenology

There are a few black cherry trees (Prunus serotina) around the property. One or two of them have been dropping their fruit on the drive and along the township road. When the road was gravel, the fruits eventually disappeared. We wonder how long the cherry stains will last on the blacktopped road. We're not about to climb high enough to forage a worthwhile amount of cherry fruit, but, in a good year, the Autumn color of the leaves is just astounding.

black cherry's flaming October leaves

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half [BH] is, these days, in a more venturesome mode than Yr. Obt. Svt. so she went off and successfully foraged some elderberry fruit from a nearby location. What the fruit will be used for hasn't yet been disclosed to us layabouts. No doubt we'll learn in due time. [BH mentioned her mother used to love elderberry pie, so we'll take that as a strong hint.]

an apple a day ...

Photo by J. Harrington

Meanwhile, a nearby orchard informs us that we are now (late August) in the local harvest season for these apple varieties:

• State Fair,
• Redfree, and
• Zestar

Additional varieties will come on from the beginning of next month through mid-October. [The braeburns that BH brought home today are a product of Chile, not good for our carbon footprint, but weeks ahead of when locally grown will be ripe.] We vaguely remember bobbing for apples at Halloween time when we were a kid but we can't remember the last time we had a caramel apple, another childhood treat at this time of year, give or take a month or two. That could become a personal goal for this Autumn.

Several areas in Minnesota are noted for their apple orchards. We wonder how they're planning on adapting to climate modification. Will temperatures stabilize such that the existing trees will be able to continue to produce for at least some varieties? And how will warmer temperatures effect Minnesota wineries? Manufacturing can be and usually is done inside, away from the weather, in at least a semi-controlled climate. Not so growing most fruits and vegetables.

Song of Fairies Robbing an Orchard

By Leigh Hunt

We, the Fairies, blithe and antic, 

Of dimensions not gigantic, 

Though the moonshine mostly keep us, 

Oft in orchards frisk and peep us. 

Stolen sweets are always sweeter, 

Stolen kisses much completer, 

Stolen looks are nice in chapels, 

Stolen, stolen, be your apples. 

When to bed the world are bobbing, 

Then's the time for orchard-robbing; 

Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling, 

Were it not for stealing, stealing. 

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As Autumn starts to flower #phenology

Two flowers in particular signal for us the emergence of Autumn into Summer: asters and chrysanthemums. We've not yet seen asters in bloom along our local roadsides, but the mums have arrived at the local flower stores. We'll confer with the Better Half about how soon and how many mums we'll get this year. We've yet to have any that manage to "over-Winter" along our drive so each Autumn the pumpkins and mums have to be bought fresh. Local whitetail deer help us take care of the pumpkins at season's end, but don't seem much interested in mums.

roadside sky-blue asters

Photo by J. Harrington

We confess to having been pleasantly surprised a few years ago when we discovered that asters are actually wildflowers in Minnesota. Of the fifty-nine Minnesota wildflowers whose name contains 'aster,' we think it's the sky-blue aster (Symphyotrichum oolentangiense) that we see along the local roads. This year we think we'll again try planting some potted New England asters (Symphyotrichum novae-angliae) as well as implanting some of the remaining aster seed balls the Better Half gave us awhile ago. Maybe they'll all take root and brighten up the drive next year, especially if we plant them far enough from the road edge that the township crew isn't likely to mow them.

potted New England asters with bee

Photo by J. Harrington

Purple Aster

 by: May Riley Smith (1842-1927)

Bravely my sweet flower resists

Heat of August, autumn cold;

And though she has amethysts

For her dower, and some gold,

Never roadside beggar passed her

Without nod from purple aster.

Dear plebeian, but for thee

And thy lover, golden-rod,

Lonesomer the road would be

Which the country folk must plod;

And each little maid and master

Would regret thee, purple aster!

When November winds blow chill,

And the fields are brown and sear,

You will find her, cheerful still,

With her lover standing near,

While old Winter fast and faster

Comes to claim brave purple aster.

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Golden opportunities, missed again #phenology

The Minnesota State Fair is going on. The upcoming weekend will bring Labor Day. Overnight temperatures have been dropping into the low 50's. Another Summer is almost gone. In fact, one week from tomorrow is the start of meteorological Autumn.

black-eyed Susans or sunflowers or ...?

Photo by J. Harrington

I remember my mother telling me, time and again, to "stop wishing your life away," so we'll focus more on the here and now. We we believe are black-eyed Susans have been coming into bloom this past week, although there are a number of similar yellow flowers that also bloom at this time of year and, as we've noted before, botany isn't our strong suit. We might have been looking at one of the native sunflowers or one of many yellow wildflowers that come into flower at this time of year. Maybe this Winter we'll actually park our butt long enough to study fundamentals of botany. We've been threatening for years to do just that. We've yet to rise to our own challenge.

prairie coreopsis or sunflowers or ...?

Photo by J. Harrington

On the other hand, we've been telling ourselves that we have to notice before naming. Form many years we paid little or no attention to plants that weren't injurious to us or likely to attract whatever it was that we might have been hunting any given Autumn. In Minnesota, we learned about aspen and grouse. Back in New England, we were more likely to look for abandoned apple orchards that attracted both grouse and whitetail deer. Rarely did we pay attention to wildflowers. These days we're taking a more holistic perspective although we still lack much motivation to study local grasses and forbs. But, we don't have to start there.

The End of Summer

By Rachel Hadas

Sweet smell of phlox drifting across the lawn—

an early warning of the end of summer.

August is fading fast, and by September

the little purple flowers will all be gone.

Season, project, and vacation done.

One more year in everybody’s life.

Add a notch to the old hunting knife

Time keeps testing with a horny thumb.

Over the summer months hung an unspoken

aura of urgency. In late July

galactic pulsings filled the midnight sky

like silent screaming, so that, strangely woken,

we looked at one another in the dark,

then at the milky magical debris

arcing across, dwarfing our meek mortality.

There were two ways to live: get on with work,

redeem the time, ignore the imminence

of cataclysm; or else take it slow,

be as tranquil as the neighbors’ cow

we love to tickle through the barbed wire fence

(she paces through her days in massive innocence,

or, seeing green pastures, we imagine so).

In fact, not being cows, we have no choice.

Summer or winter, country, city, we

are prisoners from the start and automatically,

hemmed in, harangued by the one clamorous voice.

Not light but language shocks us out of sleep

ideas of doom transformed to meteors

we translate back to portents of the wars

looming above the nervous watch we keep.

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We've succeeded with eagles and sandhill cranes, now let's tackle GHGs

Small flocks/families of sandhill cranes (adults and colts) are foraging in local fields that have been harvested of small grains, or weren't planted at all this year. We're not sure where or when our fondness for sandhill cranes originated, we do know A Sand County Almanac had a lot to do with it. Although, when Leopold wrote his Marshland Elegy essay, he was quite concerned about the prospects for the survival of the species. They've recovered from their population low points, as have many endangered species. It's important to learn and remember about our past successes in conservation and restoration of our lands, waters and wildlife as we continue to be beleaguered by reports of melting glaciers, Western wildfires, flooding rivers, the burning Amazon and Australia's persistence in coal mining.

sandhill crane families foraging in a field

Photo by J. Harrington

We've seen and read a little about granting legal rights to rivers. As an alternative, perhaps we should consider making ecocide and related behavior a crime against humanity. Several major fossil fuel companies have known the implications of using their product for many decades and withheld that information, putting humanity at risk of a severely diminished existence. It seems increasingly clear that our international institutions aren't sufficiently robust to promptly limit the actions of one nation, such as Brazil or Australia, that threaten the health and prosperity of many others. It will be interesting to see what happens at the upcoming G7 meeting that begins tomorrow.

Remember in the old time Western movies and tv series how the "town folks" were at the mercy of the rowdy bad guys until a good guy with a fast gun bought law and order to town. Well, these days the world needs to tell nations and corporations to "check their GHGs when they come into town," or something like that. If the world as we know it has become too much like Dodge City, Kansas in "Gunsmoke," who's going to be Marshal Dillon? Or would the movie "High Noon" better fit our current situations?

One reason we believe that much stronger international regulations and enforcement are required can be found in the fact that the United States, since at least 1972, has been relying on farmers' voluntary behavior to limit pollution from agricultural runoff. A news story this morning tells us that "MPCA reports show need for dramatic reduction in soil entering rivers." As noted in those reports,

While none of the area watersheds or Minnesota River meets standards in a variety or areas, the Clean Water Act does not generally allow for regulatory action against “nonpoint souce” pollution, which includes runoff and erosion. “Point source” pollutants — typically things like a pipe coming out of a factory or a city’s wastewater treatment plant — are regulated.

But states are required to develop programs to manage nonpoint source pollution and meet standards if they want to get certain federal funding.

Unfortunately, not enough of us think or act like the poet W.S. Merwin, who noted that:

On the last day of the world
I would want to plant a tree
– W.S. Merwin

Remember, if we all behaved better we wouldn't need the highway patrol to enforce speed limits. We're more like the mother and father in the following poem.

Native Trees

By W. S. Merwin

Neither my father nor my mother knew

the names of the trees

where I was born

what is that

I asked and my

father and mother did not

hear they did not look where I pointed

surfaces of furniture held

the attention of their fingers

and across the room they could watch

walls they had forgotten

where there were no questions

no voices and no shade

Were there trees

where they were children

where I had not been

I asked

were there trees in those places

where my father and my mother were born

and in that time did

my father and my mother see them

and when they said yes it meant

they did not remember

What were they I asked what were they

but both my father and my mother

said they never knew

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Some pleasant and artful surprises

Goldenrod blooms have arrived in more and more places. Might we enjoy a golden autumn? Art Reach St. Croix is helping to make it so with their Take Me to the River events. We found this year's schedule while reading a recent post on the East Metro Water blog. And if those activities aren't enough, there's the upcoming "Friday Night Writes" organized by the St. Croix River Association and St. Croix 360.

goldenrod blooming around the backyard wet spot

Photo by J. Harrington

A few of the "Take Me to the River" events may be concurrent with the September 20th Climate Strike -- Global Day of Action. So far, the closest local event we've found that's related to the Climate Strike is in St. Paul [follow the "Sept. 20" link above].

We confess to being at least mildly embarrassed that, until today, we had missed the "Take Me to the River" schedule and the Franconia Sculpture Park poetry installation described in the East Metro Water blog. Clearly we've been too focused on invasive species, climate breakdown, malfunctioning tractors, dysfunctional governance and other negative matters. We need to spend more time enjoying and posting about the positive aspects of life in the early decades of this 21st century.

One of those positive aspects that we have been enjoying is reading Joy Harjo's recently published An American Sunrise and celebrating her appointment as the Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry. It seems highly likely to us that the world would be a better place, and we would enjoy life more if we learn to emulate Harjo's guidance and

Praise the Rain

BY JOY HARJO

Praise the rain; the seagull dive

The curl of plant, the raven talk—

Praise the hurt, the house slack

The stand of trees, the dignity—

Praise the dark, the moon cradle

The sky fall, the bear sleep—

Praise the mist, the warrior name

The earth eclipse, the fired leap—

Praise the backwards, upward sky

The baby cry, the spirit food—

Praise canoe, the fish rush

The hole for frog, the upside-down—

Praise the day, the cloud cup

The mind flat, forget it all—

Praise crazy. Praise sad.

Praise the path on which we're led.

Praise the roads on earth and water.

Praise the eater and the eaten.

Praise beginnings; praise the end.

Praise the song and praise the singer.

Praise the rain; it brings more rain.

Praise the rain; it brings more rain.

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Don't let buckthorn get your goat!

Sometime within the past week or so we mentioned that we're (re)considering managing the buckthorn growing on our property using goats to graze the invasive. This morning we discovered that the University of Minnesota has started looking at How Goat-Grazing Research is Helping with Buckthorn Control. We were unaware that there's "a deadly brain parasite that puts goats in the field at risk." The research is part of the work being done at the Minnesota Invasive Terrestrial Plants and Pests Center.

backyard buckthorn before removal

Photo by J. Harrington

As we were getting some needed chores done today (the "quick-connect mower deck" for our John Deere tractor doesn't connect all of a sudden, so both are off at the dealer's service department), we were thinking about invasive species, like buckthorn. If and when we get buckthorn gone from our property, there will be the perpetual(?) threat of reinvasion since seeds can and will be dropped by birds as long as the neighbors, including the public sector, haven't also cleaned up their buckthorn. That's kind of a discouraging prospect for us and, we suspect, others in a similar situation. It suggests that invasive species management is not a project by project approach but more like an annual activity.

When we search the internet about terrestrial invasive species in Minnesota, we discover that, in addition to the University's programs and projects, the Department of Agriculture is involved, as are the Department of Natural Resources, the Department of Transportation, the Science Museum of Minnesota, plus counties and other units of local government. There's probably some federal agencies involved also. It's a little frustrating that there doesn't appear to be a designated lead agency responsible for pulling all the pieces together. We also would like to see more consideration of permaculture approaches to invasive species management.

On an unrelated and brighter note, we'll soon take a new kind of bread boule from the oven. The last loaf we baked using our current formula and flour sources tasted different than any of the prior versions. We "restarted" our home grown sourdough starter, and the Better Half bought some pricey local flour for us to play with. Today's loaf/boule will be the first production with the renewed starter and new flour. Tomorrow or Friday we'll let you know how it turned out .

Invasive Species

by Samn Stockwell

The bulldozer paws and pauses

at the edge of the marsh.

Water is easy to direct,

impossible to stop, serpentine

in its empire.

The third settlers were chased here

by the second settlers and early death

but not before a softening hand

planted bouncing bet in the yard,

now in scallops and pools along

the train tracks, hiding

the diary wrapped in waxed canvas. 

And everything that follows

seized and scattered: 

another woman kneeling on the floor,

coat on the back of the chair

repairing a fraying rug —

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The Green New Deal: construction jobs in Northern MN?

A house divided against itself, cannot stand. ~ A. Lincoln

Remember the old saying about how "when you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop digging!"? There's some fussing and fuming coming from the general area of the Iron Range now that presidential candidate, Sen. Elizabeth Warren, supports better alternatives than #Line3 and the Twin Metals project. Warren is a Senate cosponsor of S.Res.59, A resolution recognizing the duty of the Federal Government to create a Green New Deal.

Salon magazine (online) has picked up an insightful piece from TomDispatch that explores

Jobs, the environment, and a planet in crisis: How the Green New Deal is changing America

Unions vs. environmentalists or unions and environmentalists?

Fleshing out the concepts in the Green New Deal resolution, and funding the projects that emerge and get approved, including repairing much of the US' infrastructure, should provide lots of local, living wage or better construction jobs on or near the Range.

Minnesota has too many divides

Photo by J. Harrington

According to several reports we've read, unions and Native Americans each have concerns about how the Green New Deal may get implemented. We would respectfully suggest that clearly identifying what changes are needed may be a more beneficial course of action than simply complaining about what's in the resolution or the extent to which some interests were or were not consulted in the drafting process.

One area that the Salon/TomDispatch article flagged is the interest of some unions in carbon capture and storage (CCS) construction jobs. The Drawdown project lists Direct Air Capture as a "Coming Attraction," not a readily implementable element of current climate breakdown solutions. Approaches like "clean coal" aren't mentioned at all.

Building pipelines for energy sources that worsen the climate breakdown problem when there's an electric grid that needs rebuilding and all the deferred maintenance projects on roads, bridges, airports, wastewater treatment plants, etc. seems highly counterproductive. These efforts, plus the necessary shift to a low carbon economy will increase demand for copper, The copper industry is aware of that and making international efforts to make the mining and processing of copper more sustainable. It would be interesting and informative to compare the best practices in Minnesota with the environmental solutions undertaken in Europe.

If we are to function as #OneMinnesota, we need to learn to have conversations instead of throwing brickbats. Has anyone really looked at how much of Minnesota's mining best practices meet or exceed international best practices for copper mining? Is there a report or has there been a symposium? And,by any chance, does Minnesota actually have any sort of minerals policy?

The Planet Krypton

By Lynn Emanuel

Outside the window the McGill smelter

sent a red dust down on the smoking yards of copper,

on the railroad tracks’ frayed ends disappeared

into the congestion of the afternoon. Ely lay dull

and scuffed: a miner’s boot toe worn away and dim,

while my mother knelt before the Philco to coax

the detonation from the static. From the Las Vegas

Tonapah Artillery and Gunnery Range the sound

of the atom bomb came biting like a swarm

of bees. We sat in the hot Nevada dark, delighted,

when the switch was tripped and the bomb hoisted

up its silky, hooded, glittering, uncoiling length;

it hissed and spit, it sizzled like a poker in a toddy.

The bomb was no mind and all body; it sent a fire

of static down the spine. In the dark it glowed like the coils

of an electric stove. It stripped every leaf from every

branch until a willow by a creek was a bouquet

of switches resinous, naked, flexible, and fine.

Bathed in the light of KDWN, Las Vegas,

my crouched mother looked radioactive, swampy,

glaucous, like something from the Planet Krypton.

In the suave, brilliant wattage of the bomb, we were

not poor. In the atom’s fizz and pop we heard possibility

uncorked. Taffeta wraps whispered on davenports.

A new planet bloomed above us; in its light

the stumps of cut pine gleamed like dinner plates.

The world was beginning all over again, fresh and hot;

we could have anything we wanted.

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Will Winter be wild and woolly? #phenology

Short posting today. We spent the morning catching up on field work chores and this afternoon got interrupted by a request to assist with the dogs belonging to the Daughter Person and Son-In-Law. The house/dog sitter got tied up at work and considerately asked if we could let the dogs out so they didn't have to hang around with their legs crossed. More chores tomorrow, weather permitting.

To be candid, we're being assisted by the Better Half with a number of deferred chores that, year to year, didn't seem to need attention until, all of a sudden, the benignly-neglected maintenance became overwhelming. Some of what we want to attend to will be better done come November, like pruning those oak branches that are hindering access to buckthorn we want to pull. Getting organized to do two or three branches every Autumn didn't seem worth the trouble. Several years later we're cursing where all the dead branches came from. But enough of that.

woollybear caterpillar on porch screen

Photo by J. Harrington

It's getting to be the time of year to watch for woollybear caterpillars. That's one of our favorite folklorish things to do each Autumn, regardless of whether the Winter is more or less comparable to what the woolybear foretold. We're not aware of any woollybear festivals in Minnesota, but maybe we missed one? Just remember, we're looking for wide rusty brown middles for a mild Winter.

We traveled the internet to Scotland to find today's poem about the

Woolly Bear 

by Valerie Gillies

Woolly, woolly bear
Who feeds on the weeds,
Hurry furry chestnut,
Move at speed.

Wee hairy wobat
Warming in the sun,
On curlywurly loops
Many feet run.

By dandelion and nettle
Wriggly-squiggly crawl,
When you are touched,
Curl up in a ball.

Woolly, woolly bear,
Ginger-beer froth,
Vanish and change
Into a tiger moth.

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Does a "Rogers curve" fit with #phenology?

Canada gees are finishing their molt, growing new flight feathers, and more and more of them are taking practice flights to get in shape for the autumn migration. This morning we saw small flocks, probably a family, and large flocks, several families together, silhouetted against the cloudy sky. We're rapidly approaching that time of year when we put one of our favorite Joni Mitchell songs on a repeat loop and leave it there for awhile.

Canada geese in flight

Photo by J. Harrington

After enough really warm (hot?) and humid days, Summer begins to stultify, proving, like an overdose of vanilla ice cream, that it's possible to have too much of a good thing. The growing restlessness as the seasonal change grows stronger becomes invigorating. When we lived on the East Coast, this is the time of year we began to look forward to bluefish and striped bass going on near shore feeding sprees as they began to head South for warmer Winter waters. Nature's Notebook and the Minnesota Phenology Network focus on seven Minnesota species, three of which, loon, monarch butterfly and bluebird, migrate South each Autumn. Major movements of most waterfowl, wood ducks and teal being exceptions, occur closer to the time that Autumn edges toward Winter.

monarch butterfly feeding

Photo by J. Harrington

Do you find yourself getting restless about this time of year? Are there certain Autumnal changes you look forward to? The Minnesota Department of Natural Resources has its Fall Color Finder to help us track that seasonal highlight. Peak color starts near our border with Canada about a month from now. There's a theory about the diffusion of innovation, the Rogers curve, that looks like it also could cover much of our seasonal phenology changes, from innovators and early adopters through laggards. It also complements the idea that we don't all get an urge to go at the same time.

Urge For Going

by Joni Mitchell

I awoke today and found
the frost perched on the town
It hovered in a frozen sky
then it gobbled summer down
When the sun turns traitor cold
and all the trees are shivering in a naked row

I get the urge for going
But I never seem to go
I get the urge for going
When the meadow grass is turning brown
Summertime is falling down and winter is closing in

I had me a man in summertime
He had summer-colored skin
And not another girl in town
My darling's heart could win
But when the leaves fell on the ground
Bully winds came around
Pushed them face down in the snow

He got the urge for going
And I had to let him go
He got the urge for going
When the meadow grass was turning brown
Summertime was falling down and winter was closing in

Now the warriors of winter
They gave a cold triumphant shout
And all that stays is dying
And all that lives is gettin' out
See the geese in chevron flight
Flapping and racing on before the snow

They got the urge for going
And they got the wings so they can go
They get the urge for going
When the meadow grass is turning brown
Summertime is falling down and winter is closing in

I'll ply the fire with kindling now
I'll pull the blankets up to my chin
I'll lock the vagrant winter out and
I'll bolt my wanderings in
I'd like to call back summertime
Have her stay for just another month or so

But she's got the urge for going
So I guess she'll have to go
She gets the urge for going
When the meadow grass is turning brown
All her empire's falling down
And winter's closing in.
And I get the urge for going
When the meadow grass is turning brown
And summertime is falling down.

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Late Summer sightings #phenology

We noticed this morning the (re)appearance in our sand plain fields of some of the purple love grass whose disappearance we were wondering about several weeks ago. As we write this, the afternoon temperature's in the low 80's, definitely a Summertime range. The plants growing around the wet spot in the back yard are dominated by goldenrod, with a blossom or two of swamp milkweed thrown in and some impressive vervain on the Western bank. The landscape is showing more and more Autumnal shades as counterpoints to Summer temperatures.

purple love grass and round-headed bush clover

Photo by J. Harrington

The scattered clumps of bluestem grasses, both big and little, are displaying their seed heads. Round-headed bush clover has begun to bloom. We also may have seen this year's first tumbleseed from the purple love grass get blown across the field by the Southerly breeze.. When the late afternoon sun shines on and through these grasses, the fields look magical.

Hummingbirds are still around, chasing each other back and forth to see who gets to claim the nectar feeder. We've no idea how to tell if migrants show up on their way South. Another sign of one season sliding into another.

the magic of late afternoon sun on late Summer grasses

Photo by J. Harrington

Since we're contemplating pulling more buckthorn and trimming some oak branches, we once again started to explore less laborious ways to manage our woods and fields. The idea of goats eating buckthorn seems more organically sound than burning the buckthorn after it's bee pulled or cut, but the idea to caring for goats must be at least as much work as pulling, piling and burning buckthorn. The Friends of the Mississippi River have a helpful web page about the what's and why's of buckthorn control. We even came across reference to the idea that the MNDNR has actually engaged in buckthorn control using goats. We'll keep picking away at what's growing and do more research this Winter.

Meanwhile, please repeat after us "Life is a mystery to be lived, not a problem to be solved."

300 Goats

By Naomi Shihab Nye

In icy fields.

Is water flowing in the tank?

Will they huddle together, warm bodies pressing?

(Is it the year of the goat or the sheep?

Scholars debating Chinese zodiac,

follower or leader.)

O lead them to a warm corner,

little ones toward bulkier bodies.

Lead them to the brush, which cuts the icy wind.

Another frigid night swooping down — 

Aren’t you worried about them? I ask my friend,

who lives by herself on the ranch of goats,

far from here near the town of Ozona.

She shrugs, “Not really,

they know what to do. They’re goats.”

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