A visit to the past

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

Photo by J. Harrington

vendors setting up in the breeze

Photo by J. Harrington

dried flower bouquets for sale

Photo by J. Harrington

Porcupine Creek bluegrass band on log house porch

Photo by J. Harrington

apples really don't fall far from the tree

Photo by J. Harrington

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

By Maggie Dietz 

Hoarfrost coats and cuffs

the playing fields, a heyday

of glistening. So there’s hope

in my throat as I walk across them

to the woods with my chest

flung 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 color

of bulldozers!

            

          But something strange

is going on: the trees are tired

of meaning, sick of providing

mystery, parallels, consolation.

“Leave us alone,” they seem to cry,

with barely energy for a pun.

The muscular river crawls on

its belly in a maple coat of mail.

Muddy and unreflective, it smells

as if it too could use some privacy.

The sumac reddens like a face,

holding out its velvet pods

almost desperately. The Queen

Anne’s Lace clicks in the wind.

A deaf-mute milkweed

foaming at the mouth.

Back at the field I look

for what I didn’t mean

to drop. The grass is green.

                            Okay, Day,

my host, I want to get out

of your house. Come on, Night,

with your twinkly stars and big

dumb moon. Tell me don’t

show me, and wipe that grin

off your face.

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