September operating report

This morning my Better Half pointed out a blue flower she doesn't recognize and claims not to have planted. It's growing from the area where she transplanted poinsettias from last Christmas season. Here's a picture:

Unidentified blue flower bud

Photo by J. Harrington

It looks a little like a Bottle Gentian, but they're described as "A cluster of flowers sits at the top of the main stem." I'll watch and see what, if anything, develops.

A day or two ago I finally spotted a couple of woolly bear caterpillars, one of which, unfortunately, had been run over. Each looked to me as if the brown band was about 4 sections wide and the black bands on either end were relatively narrow. If we believe the folklore (your choice) we're in for a relatively mild Winter. Personally, because it cheers me up, I'm buying in to the folk lore prediction until it's proven wrong. After all, we may experience an El Nino this Winter, right? In the meanwhile, since the local dragonfly population is severely reduced, I wouldn't mind a couple of hard frosts to clear out the late season hatch of a multitude of small, vicious mosquitos that is making being outside an annoyance.

Autumn day

Photo by J. Harrington

The house is surrounded by hornets looking for a place to overwinter. A few leaves are starting to drift down from the trees, while many of the leaves are still green. I'm ahead of my usual schedule and got my flu shot already this year. This morning, opening day of duck season, sounded like WW III for about 15 or 20 minutes. Not a sound since then in our bluebird weather. All in all, it looks to me as though My Minnesota is within normal operating parameters, much as things were in Flanders as the leaves fell.

The Falling Leaves

By Margaret Postgate Cole 

November 1915 

Today, as I rode by,

I saw the brown leaves dropping from their tree

In a still afternoon,

When no wind whirled them whistling to the sky,

But thickly, silently,

They fell, like snowflakes wiping out the noon;

And wandered slowly thence

For thinking of a gallant multitude

Which now all withering lay,

Slain by no wind of age or pestilence,

But in their beauty strewed

Like snowflakes falling on the Flemish clay.

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