Equinox equity

In our neck of the woods, Equinox occurred at 3:22 am. As for Summer's passing, “Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened.” (Dr. Seuss?)

One year ago we were in the midst of final preparations for a wedding. Autumn's colors were a little more fully developed than they are now, so we have much to look forward to before we even get near the holidays. (And, as much as I enjoyed the Daughter Person's wedding to the Son-in-Law, I'm glad we don't do that every Autumn.)

Speaking of holidaysand celebrations, this year October 12 will bring Indigenous Peoples Day to both Minneapolis and St. Paul, along with a handful of other progressive cities who celebrate Native American culture (and the fact that there was someone here to welcome the white immigrants) instead of an adventurer who discovered something that hadn't been lost. Native Americans -- First Peoples knew where they were all along. It was Columbus who had misplaced a continent or two.

I'm going to use this year's Indigenous People's Day celebration to try a recipe  or two from one of our cookbooks of Native American foods. Of course, this being Minnesota, wild rice will be part of the meal, as will either venison or bison, unless I decide to cheat a little and cook some wild rice brats instead. If you're curious about the cookbooks, Original Local is by Heid E. Erdrich, a Native American living in Minnesota, and Spirit of the Harvest covers foods from throughout North America. For something different and appropriate to do on October 12 this year, you could visit Birchbark Books and/or Minneapolis' Native American Corridor. Autumn, be glad it's here!

early color, St. Croix Valley

Photo by J. Harrington

autumn maple leaves

Photo by J. Harrington

Autumn Movement

Carl Sandburg, 1878 - 1967

I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper 
sunburned woman, 
       the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, 
new beautiful things 
       come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the 
old things go, 
       not one lasts.

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