Have we become Borgs with our Happy Halloween?

'Tis a warm Halloween, but with a cold wind blowing. Leaves and tumblegrass provide camouflage and cover for restless other world spirits seeking --- what? Closure, resolution, revenge, return, renewal, or just a visit with loved ones? And what effect, if any, do you suppose two feet of snow had on any fairies, demons and ghosts that were about 25 years ago this day?

uninhabited Jack O'Lanterns?

Photo by J. Harrington

If we have Halloween because Catholic missionaries assimilated Celtic Samhain, and Spanish invaders absorbed and moved the Aztec "Day of the Dead," and we do so little to acknowledge and honor the cultures from which our current folk festivities originated, are we not well on our way to becoming "Borgs?" ("Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated.")

Jack O'Lanterns inhabited by?

Photo by J. Harrington

Tomorrow is All Souls Day. That's what makes today All Hallows Eve (Halloween). If it weren't for emigrants and immigrants and "unAmerican" customs, there'd be neither tricks nor treats this evening, except for the occasional unseasonable blizzard delivered by Mother Nature and her goblins. Think about whether crystal balls and ouija boards were predecessors to todays internet and WiFi routers. Are we living so we can be comfortable with whatever comes next?

Toward the Solstice

by Mark Perlberg

We burned our leaves on the bluest October day,
the sun still warm on our backs,
frost just a ghost in the shrubbery.
We raked the leaves into shifting piles on the lawn,
scooped them into deep round baskets
and spilled them in the street against the curb.
The vein of fire, unseen at first in diamond light,
whispered through oak leaves brown as butcher paper,
and maple still flushed with color like maps
torn from The Book of Knowledge.
We were letting go of October, relinquishing color,
readying ourselves for streets lacquered with ice,
the town closed like a walnut, locked inside the cold.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

A waiting time #phenology

Summer is gone. Autumn colors are well past their peak. Much of the harvest is in. More and more bare branches reach into overcast skies. Humming birds and butterflies have moved on. And yet--

several dozen hard to see sandhill cranes near treeline

Photo by J. Harrington

Waterfowl and cranes are still around in numbers. Songbirds gather on telephone wires and murmur in the air. All the local waters are open. Temperatures hover in the 50s and 40s. There's no snow cover as yet. Nature seems paused between seasons, as if catching her breath before tending to the rigors of Winter. The feeling is more pensive than the lazy idleness of a warm Summer evening, but the sense of having earned a rest after the immediate chores are caught up is there. And yet --

Winter's harsh winnowing time is still ahead. Election results may, or may not, soon be settled. Now is a season to collect ourselves with who and what we care about, and be grateful for any peace at hand or promised. Soon it will be time to give thanks for what we have been blessed with this year and, for those who keep them, to do a Winter Count. For many, I hope this will be the year of Standing Rock, NoDAPL and the power of cooperation. May next year then become known as a year when People and Places Healed together.

Wearing Indian Jewelery

By Heid E. Erdrich

I was wondering why that guy

wore the blanket coat, bone choker, rock

watch, woven buckle, quilled Stetson—

I was wondering why he wore

that beaded vest, like a ledger drawing

or a Winter Count, its skinny figure

forever sneaking after two bison

around belly to back,

around back to belly—

I was wondering why, when he said,

I wear these getups every day—

Every day, because these things

are sacred, these things are prayer.

Then I knew I could live this life

If I had blue horses

painted around and around me,

shells and beads like rain in my ear

praying Prairie open in me

at stoplight, hard city, last call, bank line,

coffee break, shopping cart, keycode,

Prarie open in me

Prarie open in me

every day every day every day.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Samhain celebration

I remember from my schooldays Washington Irving's Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Somehow, though, I never thought to wonder about the origin of Jack O'Lanterns. I may have been told the story by one or more of my Irish relatives, which would explain my subsequent lack of curiosity. If so, it was long enough ago that I heard about Jack that I've forgotten both the original hearing and the story itself.

Jack O'Lanterns lit

Photo by J. Harrington

Does anyone bob for apples anymore? I know caramel apples are still around. The history of Halloween as I knew it didn't go back as far as it could or should, nor did I ever associate Halloween with future events. Once again I've been caught on the "It's not what we don't know that gets us in trouble..." hook. I thought I knew the "important stuff" about Halloween when I could carve a pumpkin myself, go trick or treating myself, and decide for myself how quickly to eat my treats. I missed much of the history and community aspects.

Trick? or Treat?

Photo by J. Harrington

Where I grew up, Boston and its suburbs, there were few out houses to tip over. The tricks usually involved soaping windows or mischievous door-bell ringing and, sometimes, TP'ing. As more of us become more aware of our food sources and the seasons of the year through urban agriculture, community supported agriculture and the like, I wonder if we'll also start to return to the natural origins of many of our holidays. That could be another way to build the community spirit we all so desperately need.

Samhain

By Annie Finch

(The Celtic Halloween) 

In the season leaves should love,

since it gives them leave to move

through the wind, towards the ground

they were watching while they hung,

legend says there is a seam

stitching darkness like a name.

Now when dying grasses veil

earth from the sky in one last pale

wave, as autumn dies to bring

winter back, and then the spring,

we who die ourselves can peel

back another kind of veil

that hangs among us like thick smoke.

Tonight at last I feel it shake.

I feel the nights stretching away

thousands long behind the days

till they reach the darkness where

all of me is ancestor.

I move my hand and feel a touch

move with me, and when I brush

my own mind across another,

I am with my mother's mother.

Sure as footsteps in my waiting

self, I find her, and she brings

arms that carry answers for me,

intimate, a waiting bounty.

"Carry me." She leaves this trail

through a shudder of the veil,

and leaves, like amber where she stays,

a gift for her perpetual gaze.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Casting a spell of imagination

The ghosts of Summer past are leaving us, floating through the air today, National Chocolate Day, the day on which I learned just how limited my imagination is. Never in my life had the possibility occurred to me that plants might be farming humans. Doesn't that put a dent in your hubris, making humans the equivalent of aphids farming for some ants?

Spirits of Halloween past

Photo by J. Harrington

Speaking of hubris, do you suppose it would help if we moved election day (much) further from Halloween? I'm wondering if the nearness of evil spirits is what accounts for so much of the insanity we seem to experience each election season, which now approaches year round. That may or may not support moving the actual election from near Halloween. Of course, we've the early voting season has grown by weeks or months. This can't be good for us in the long run. Imagine a perpetual campaign with year-round voting. We could have that with the Internet of things. Perpetual elections and referenda! Wouldn't that be wonderful!

In case you can't tell, I'll be very glad when my email in-box and TV broadcasts are no longer full of campaign literature. It's gotten really spooky and has become a lot like Chinese water torture, or maybe closer to waterboarding.

The Tragic Condition of the Statue of Liberty

By Bernadette Mayer

                                      A collaboration with Emma Lazarus

Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!

Give me your gentrificatees of the Lower East Side including all the well-heeled young Europeans who’ll take apartments without leases

Give me your landlords, give me your cooperators

Give me the guys who sell the food and the computers to the public schools in District One

Give me the IRS-FBI-CIA men who don’t take election day off

Give me the certain members of the school board & give me the district superintendent

Give me all the greedy members of both american & foreign capitalist religious sects

Give me the parents of the punk people

Give me the guy who puts those stickers in the Rice Krispies

Give me the doctor who thinks his time is more valuable than mine and my daughter’s & the time of all the other non-doctors in this world

Give me the mayor, his mansion, and the president & his white house

Give me the cops who laugh and sneer at meetings where they demonstrate the new uses of mace and robots instead of the old murder against people who are being evicted

Give me the landlord’s sleazy lawyers and the deal-making judges in housing court & give me the landlord’s arsonist

Give me the known & unknown big important rich guys who now bank on our quaint neighborhood

Give me, forgive me, the writers who have already or want to write bestsellers in this country

Together we will go to restore Ellis Island, ravaged for years by wind, weather and vandals

I was surprised and saddened when I heard that the Statue of Liberty was in such a serious state of disrepair & I want to help

This is the most generous contribution I can afford.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Snow birds moving South #phenology

Junco in April snow

Yesterday afternoon for the first time this season, there were juncos hopping across the deck. Some snow birds migrate into Minnesota for the Winter. At the feeder, house finches(?), I think, but maybe purple finches, are showing up from time to time. When I approach a window for a better look, the splash of purple flies away. I'll keep trying to get a better look for more certain identification. A scan of the comparison table below gives an indication of how much time I may have to spend with field guides. I think I've discovered yet another way to train myself to "pay attention." (All photos J. Harrington)

house finch	purple finch
small-bodied; wings are short, making the tail seem long by comparison	large and chunky
fairly large beaks and somewhat long, flat heads	powerful, conical beaks
relatively shallow notch in its tail	tail seems short and is clearly notched at the tip
Adult males are rosy red around the face and upper breast, with streaky brown back, belly and tail	Male Purple Finches are delicate pink-red on the head and breast, mixing with brown on the back and cloudy white on the belly
? (March 2015)	? (December 2014)

Birds Again

Jim Harrison, 1937 - 2016

A secret came a week ago though I already
knew it just beyond the bruised lips of consciousness.
The very alive souls of thirty-five hundred dead birds
are harbored in my body. It’s not uncomfortable.
I’m only temporary habitat for these not-quite-
weightless creatures. I offered a wordless invitation
and now they’re roosting within me, recalling
how I had watched them at night
in fall and spring passing across earth moons,
little clouds of black confetti, chattering and singing
on their way north or south. Now in my dreams
I see from the air the rumpled green and beige,
the watery face of earth as if they’re carrying
me rather than me carrying them. Next winter
I’ll release them near the estuary west of Alvarado
and south of Veracruz. I can see them perching
on undiscovered Olmec heads. We’ll say goodbye
and I’ll return my dreams to earth.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Water ethic: fail? #WaterWednesday

In later August of this year, at the urging of WaterLegacy, I submitted comments to the Minnesota Pollution Control Agency (MPCA) on their updated impaired waters list and Total Maximum Daily Load schedule. As WaterLegacy noted in their alert:

"the MPCA also said that the TMDL (Total Maximum Daily Load) studies to start limiting pollution and reducing contamination in these impaired waters need not be completed until 2029!

"The MPCA still has not restarted the mercury TMDL study of the St. Louis River that the Agency derailed in 2013.

"Finally, the MPCA has refused to list any wild rice waters impaired due to sulfate pollution. Despite commitments to the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) since 2012, the Agency has never listed even one Minnesota wild rice impaired water!"

St. Louis River at Jay Cooke State Park

Photo by J. Harrington

Since Minnesota's Governor, Mark Dayton, has made this a Year of Water Action, I had hopes that my comments, along with those of others who care about Minnesota's water quality and public health and environmental justice, might do some good. I guess some of the staff at the MPCA may not have received the memo about Water Action legacy. I'm going to quote the entire body of the message I finally received in response to my comments.

"Thank you for your recent message regarding the Minnesota Pollution Control Agency’s (MPCA) draft 2016 impaired waters list, and for sharing your concerns about mercury contamination in fish, and sulfate impacts on wild rice in Minnesota. 

"Under Section 303(d) of the Clean Water Act, states submit lists of impaired waters to the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (U.S. EPA) every two years for review and approval. Following the close of MPCA’s public comment period, the state will submit a final 2016 impaired waters list to U.S. EPA. U.S. EPA will take your concerns into consideration as it reviews MPCA’s final impaired waters list. Thank you for your interest in protecting the quality of Minnesota waters." (emphasis added)

St Louis River at Duluth Harbor

Photo by J. Harrington

My understanding of an ethic is that it goes beyond laws and regulations and motivates those who hold it to do what's called for above and beyond minimum legal requirements. At least that's what I believe caring is supposed to be all about. My reading of the MPCA response above is that the agency is "passing the buck" to EPA (you know, that same federal agency that "protected" the water supply of the citizens of Flint, MI). Given EPA's "emergency protection," MPCA's deferral to EPA is not what I would hope for or expect from an agency that should be setting an example in how to live up to the Governor's statement “It is time now to take action, as individuals and as a state, to leave a legacy of clean, safe, affordable water for ourselves, and for future generations of Minnesotans.” Mercury and sulfate impaired waters that won't be improved for decades even after they exist as known problems isn't the kind of legacy I'd want for future generations.

Dear Mr. Fanelli,

By Charles Bernstein

I saw your picture

in the 79th street

station. You said

you’d be interested

in any comments I

might have on the

condition of the

station Mr. Fanelli,

there is a lot of

debris in the 79th street

station that makes it

unpleasant to wait in

for more than a few

minutes. The station

could use a paint

job and maybe

new speakers so you

could understand

the delay announcements

that are always being

broadcast. Mr.

Fanelli—there are

a lot of people sleeping

in the 79th street station

& it makes me sad

to think they have no

home to go to. Mr.

Fanelli, do you think

you could find a more

comfortable place for them

to rest? It’s pretty noisy

in the subway, especially

all those express trains

hurtling through every

few minutes, anyway when the

trains are in service.

I have to admit, Mr. Fanelli, I

think the 79th street station’s

in pretty bad shape

& sometimes at night

as I toss in my bed

I think the world’s

not doing too good

either, & I

wonder what’s going

to happen, where we’re

headed, if we’re

headed anywhere, if

we even have heads. Mr.

Fanelli, do you think if

we could just start

with the 79th street

station & do what

we could with that

then maybe we could,

you know, I guess, move

on from there? Mr.

Fanelli, when I saw your

picture & the sign

asking for suggestions

I thought, if

you really wanted to

get to the bottom

of what’s wrong then

maybe it was my job

to write to you: Maybe

you’ve never been inside

the 79th street station

because you’re so busy

managing the 72nd street

& 66th street stations,

maybe you don’t know

the problems we have

at 79th—I mean the

dirt & frequent

delays & the feeling of

total misery that

pervades the place. Mr.

Fanelli, are you reading

this far in the letter

or do you get so

many letters every day

that you don’t have

time to give each

one the close attention

it desires? Or am I

the only person who’s

taken up your invitation

to get in touch &

you just don’t have enough

experience to know how to

respond? I’m sorry

I can’t get your attention

Mr. Fanelli because I really

believe if you ask

for comments then you

ought to be willing

to act on them—even

if ought is too

big a word to throw

around at this point.

Mr. Fanelli

I hope you won’t

think I’m rude

if I ask you a

personal question. Do

you get out of the

office much?

Do you go to the movies

or do you prefer

sports—or maybe

quiet evenings at a

local restaurant? Do

you read much, Mr. Fanelli?

I don’t mean just

Gibbons and like

that, but philosophy—

have you read much

Hanna Arendt or

do you prefer

a more ideological

perspective?

I think if I understood

where you are coming from,

Mr. Fanelli, I could

write to you more cogently,

more persuasively. Mr.

Fanelli, do you get out

of the city at all—I

mean like up to Bear

Mountain or out to

Montauk? I mean do you

notice how unpleasant

the air is in the 79th

street station—that we

could use some cooling

or air-filtering system

down there? Mr.

Fanelli, do you think

it’s possible we

could get together

and talk about

these things in

person? There are

a few other points

I’d like to go over

with you if I could

get the chance. Things

I’d like to talk to

you about but that

I’d be reluctant to

put down on paper.

Mr. Fanelli, I haven’t

been feeling very good

lately and I thought

meeting with you face

to face might change

my mood, might put

me into a new frame

of mind. Maybe we

could have lunch?

Or maybe after work?

Think about it, Mr.

Fanelli.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Going batty #phenology

I suppose it makes sense to have international Bat Week the week before Halloween. Minnesota is home to seven species of bats, about half of whom hibernate in Winter while the other half migrates south. Here's a link to eleven facts about bats, including information on white-nose syndrome.

new bat house

Photo by J. Harrington

On Summer evenings, we often see bats flying and feeding over the wet spot in our back yard. For years we had a bat house in an oak tree next to our deck. Eventually, the branch holding the bat house died, fell down, and took the bat house with it. The Son-In-Law person built a new bat house (the old one had been "store boughten") and we installed it where it should be more visible to our furry, flying friends. One of these days I'll stroll up the hill and see if there are any signs under the house that bats have moved in, now that it's been up for a couple or three years.

"new" bat house after weathering

Photo by J. Harrington

This past Summer, a new (to Minnesota) species of bat was discovered in Arden Hills. That will make eight species but I don't know how many times the new species will have to be seen before it counts as a Minnesotan. Shortly after we moved into our house, we discovered a bat. It was flying around the bedroom ceiling and the downstairs family room. I decided that a firearm might do more harm than good and retrieved a large fishing net from the garage while the Better Half monitored the invader's location. After a few missed swipes, the bat was entangled in the net, transported outside and released. At least that's how I recall my brave response to the situation. I suspect the bat was considerably more scared than the humans.

How to Love Bats

By Judith Beveridge

Begin in a cave.

Listen to the floor boil with rodents, insects.

Weep for the pups that have fallen. Later,

you’ll fly the narrow passages of those bones,

                                                       but for now —

open your mouth, out will fly names

like Pipistrelle, Desmodus, Tadarida. Then,

listen for a frequency

lower than the seep of water, higher

than an ice planet hibernating

beyond a glacier of Time.

Visit op shops. Hide in their closets.

Breathe in the scales and dust

of clothes left hanging. To the underwear

and to the crumbled black silks — well,

give them your imagination

and plenty of line, also a night of gentle wind.

By now your fingers should have

touched petals open. You should have been dreaming

each night of anthers and of giving

to their furred beauty

your nectar-loving tongue. But also,

your tongue should have been practising the cold

of a slippery, frog-filled pond.

Go down on your elbows and knees.

You’ll need a spieliologist’s desire for rebirth

and a miner’s paranoia of gases —

but try to find within yourself

the scent of a bat-loving flower.

Read books on pogroms. Never trust an owl.

Its face is the biography of propaganda.

Never trust a hawk. See its solutions

in the fur and bones of regurgitated pellets.

And have you considered the smoke

yet from a moving train? You can start

half an hour before sunset,

but make sure the journey is long, uninterrupted

and that you never discover

the faces of those Trans-Siberian exiles.

Spend time in the folds of curtains.

Seek out boarding-school cloakrooms.

Practise the gymnastics of web umbrellas.

                                             Are you

floating yet, thought-light,

without a keel on your breastbone?

Then, meditate on your bones as piccolos,

on mastering the thermals

beyond the tremolo; reverberations

beyond the lexical.

                                           Become adept

at describing the spectacles of the echo —

but don’t watch dark clouds

passing across the moon. This may lead you

to fetishes and cults that worship false gods

by lapping up bowls of blood from a tomb.

Practise echo-locating aerodromes,

stamens. Send out rippling octaves

into the fossils of dank caves —

then edit these soundtracks

with a metronome of dripping rocks, heartbeats

and with a continuous, high-scaled wondering

about the evolution of your own mind.

But look, I must tell you — these instructions

are no manual. Months of practice

may still only win you appreciation

of the acoustical moth,

hatred of the hawk and owl. You may need

to observe further the floating black host

through the hills.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Coolin' it #phenology

This morning there were many thirsty, frustrated young birds trying to figure out why they couldn't drink the clear (frozen) water in the bird bath. By 11 am or so it was still mostly ice-covered. That's when I plugged in the heater that should keep it from freezing all Winter, although it also makes it obvious how quickly unfrozen water evaporates in dry, below-freezing, air.

frozen bird bath with oak leaves

Photo by J. Harrington

Now we've reached the time to start watching morning mist/fog accompany heat loss from our local lakes and ponds. Soil-freeze is probably six to eight weeks away. Ice-up on larger lakes? Your guess is as good as, or maybe better than, mine. Local lakes should experience turnover, when the water is  briefly the same temperature from top to bottom, about this time of year. Then, cooler water will sink until it gets colder than 39 degrees, at which water is the most dense. I'm still trying to get my head around global warming versus La Nina for the upcoming Winter. We're expecting rain, not snow, tomorrow, for which I'm grateful.

In her Nature Anatomy, Julia Rothman offers a useful definition of a pond as

"a body of standing water too small
for significant waves or depth-based
temperature variations."

Lake Superior from Minnesota

Photo by J. Harrington

Unfortunately, due, I'd guess, to space limitations, she doesn't elaborate on the depth-based temperature variations and how they change seasonally in lakes. Even a lake as large as Superior undergoes stratification and turnover. I used to be much more familiar with the details and timing of turnover, ice-in and ice-out when we lived on Big Carnelian Lake, but that was many years ago. Knowledge seems to be one of those things that comes under the heading of "use it or lose it."

Thin Ice

Ellen Doré Watson

Reedy striations don’t occlude the beneath—
earthy mash of leaves, flat pepper flakes, layered,
tips protruding, tender-desolate above a mirror
surface, gently pressing on horse-mane, nest material,
tickle-brush, fringe. Buff block-shapes further down,
ghost-bits of green-green, a lone leaf burned white.
My thrown stone skitters on ice. The next, larger,
plunks through and for a moment I am a violator
but then I see it opened a bubble cell, a city,
a lesion, a map—the way in cold and luminous.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Gettin' a move on #phenology

Last evening the Better Half and I were driving north from Osceola to St. Croix Falls and noticing the beautiful sunset. That was about the time we were passing through Dresser. We then saw several large flocks of geese high in the air. They were somewhere between the upper limit for local feeding flights and the lower limit for migrating flocks. Then, we noticed some large flocks still feeding in the fields. About the time we reached St. Croix Falls and crossed the river to Taylors Falls, we spotted a couple more flocks in the far distance over Minnesota. These were definitely high enough that they were most likely migrating from somewhere, but where? And why?

Autumn sunset

Photo by J. Harrington

I haven't heard of any major freezes or storms north of us, so I'm not sure what would be moving geese south from open water and food. Maybe these flocks read the reports about the upcoming Polar Vortex?  I do know that seeing several large, high flocks made this old waterfowler's heart patter with happiness. If you're not sure why that might be, let me suggest you read some Gordon MacQuarrie Stories of The Old Duck Hunter or Gene Hill's A Hunter's Fireside Book.

a high pair of Canada geese

Photo by J. Harrington

Leaves have been dropping and blowing today. The wind is starting to have a bite to it. It's going to be a fine evening for home baked sourdough bread and chicken with wild rice soup. Last night the Daughter Person and Son-In-Law had friends over for pumpkin carving festivities. As Summer undergoes a belated departure, real Autumn is shaping up nicely. We'll let the waterfowl migrate while we stick around to see what happens next.

The Geese

By Jane Mead

slicing this frozen sky know

where they are going—

and want to get there.

Their call, both strange

and familiar, calls

to the strange and familiar

heart, and the landscape

becomes the landscape

of being, which becomes

the bright silos and snowy

fields over which the nuanced

and muscular geese

are calling—while time

and the heart take measure.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Changing menus #phenology

The other day we shared a concern that we Minnesotans will pay for this beautiful weather we've enjoyed intermittently this extended Autumn. Soon thereafter reports of a forthcoming "Winter Vortex" appeared in the local news media. At a personal level, weather is one of those things I try to put under the heading of "accept the things I can not change," although that too rarely stops me from complaining if the weather doesn't fit my mood or plans. Conversely, I have no doubt I'd be bored out of what passes for my mind if I lived somewhere that didn't have four seasons worth of weather.

home-baked sourdough bread

Photo by J. Harrington

I can't imagine living somewhere that didn't regularly get cold enough to make hearty and delicious soups and stews really enjoyable, especially with home-baked bread. This year so far we've only flirted with that kind of weather, and soon it will settle in for the season. After all, Halloween is less than a week and a half away. One aspect of Winter that I find reassuring is that I can comfortably curl up inside where it's warm, enjoy a cup of coffee and a good book, and not feel as though I should be doing something else, or that I'm missing something.

Halloween Jack-O-Lanterns

Photo by J. Harrington

This Winter we're going to add trout fishing back onto the list of options. We'll see if the Tenkara rod and line (no reel or line guides to freeze up) we got for our birthday last Summer makes a helpful difference in Winter fishing. I've not the patience to sit around for ice fishing, and it's been years since I've enjoyed actually playing in the snow instead of enjoying its beauty from inside where it's warm.

bare aspen branches

Photo by J. Harrington

Before we get to that point, I'm going to enjoy the beauty of the oak leaves still in the trees. Most of the others have come down in the winds of the past week. It seemed as though the pear tree dropped all its leaves in just one night this past week. Maybe some early "haunts" scared them off.

Bread

By Richard Levine

Each night, in a space he’d make

between waking and purpose,

my grandfather donned his one

suit, in our still dark house, and drove

through Brooklyn’s deserted streets

following trolley tracks to the bakery.

There he’d change into white

linen work clothes and cap,

and in the absence of women,

his hands were both loving, well

into dawn and throughout the day—

kneading, rolling out, shaping

each astonishing moment

of yeasty predictability

in that windowless world lit

by slightly swaying naked bulbs,

where the shadows staggered, woozy

with the aromatic warmth of the work.

Then, the suit and drive, again.

At our table, graced by a loaf

that steamed when we sliced it,

softened the butter and leavened

the very air we’d breathe,

he’d count us blessed.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Winter: for the birds #phenology

If weather forecasters were at all civilized, they would have waited until the pain of election season was over before bringing up the possible pain of another "Winter Vortex." Minnesota seems to be targeted this year for below average temperatures and above average snow fall. The real question will be how much below or above average are we going to get?

downy woodpecker

Photo by J. Harrington

This unseasonable pain and aggravation does have a brighter side (that's brighter, not bright). It's started me thinking about Winter bird sounds that replace Spring and Summer calls. Based on who (whom?) I expect to see at the feeder between now and late March, are the wilder "pet sounds" of the season to come:

• blue jay - "jeer"
• chickadee - "dee - dee - dee"
• red-breasted nuthatch - "yank-yank"
• white-breasted nuthatch - "wha-wha-wha"
• downy woodpecker - "pik"
• hairy woodpecker - "peek"
• red-bellied woodpecker - "kwirr"
• pileated woodpecker - "wuk - wuk - wuk"
• goldfinch - "po-ta-to-chip" 
• cardinal - "cheer - cheer - cheer"
• others - to be determined

pileated woodpecker

Photo by J. Harrington

Away from the feeder, we'll hear the occasional crow caw and raven krawk. Evenings we sometimes hear coyotes howl. Turns out that, in addition to howling winds and whispering, sifting snow, our North Country's silent season isn't all that quiet after all. What would you add that we've left off our list?

A Question About Birds

by Billy Collins

I am going to sit on a rock near some water
or on a slope of grass
under a high ceiling of white clouds,
 
and I am going to stop talking
so I can wander around in that spot
the way John James Audubon might have wandered
 
through a forest of speckled sunlight,
stopping now and then to lean
against an elm, mop his brow,
 
and listen to the songs of birds.
Did he wonder, as I often do, 
how they regard the songs of other species?
 
Would it be like listening to the Chinese
merchants at an outdoor market?
Or do all the birds perfectly understand one another?
 
Or is that nervous chittering
I often hear from the upper branches
the sound of some tireless little translator?

~ from horoscopes for the dead (Random House, 2011)

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Our "new normal" is flooding us with opportunities #phenology

The current issue of Trout Unlimited (TU) magazine focuses on adaptation to global warming. One article in particular caught my attention. After the Flood describes the infrastructure and economic effects of our increased weather volatility. Minnesota has experienced several 1,000 year storms during the past decade or so. That strongly suggests to me that we need to do a major revamp of our environmental and infrastructure design, construction and regulatory approaches to guiding development and redevelopment. If we do it correctly, we'll save money as well as protect both our built and our natural environments.

Minnesota River bridge, high clearance

Photo by J. Harrington

One approach could be based on something like the Department of Transportation's ongoing work to minimize crashes between vehicles and wildlife. Conversely, some of the reports coming out of North Carolina make me wonder if our Concentrated Animal Feeding Operation (CAFO) and tailings basin design and management rules are overdue for revisions. Flooded animal operations and ash basins from Hurricane Matthew may leave lingering public health problems for North Carolina residents trying to recover from flooded property problems. Admittedly, Minnesota isn't in hurricane territory, but did Duluth and Rushford and other communities think they were in the path of the kind of floods they've experienced in the recent past? [NC CAFO update]

Stillwater "lift" bridge, limited clearance

Photo by J. Harrington

An example from the Trout Unlimited article should motivate us to take a careful look at the risks and savings potential we face.

"Little Schoharie Creek [in New York state] cut deeper into its streambed, prompting a project initially budgeted at $12.1 million that grew to exceed $20 million to fix the damage, while experts agree that appropriate emergency measures would have cost only $1.5 million using recommended actions."

 It may be a coincidence that the arrival of the TU magazine arrived within a few days of the state's consideration of a request from thousands of medical personnel to do a Health Impact Assessment on proposed copper-nickel-sulfide-hard-rock mining. I prefer to think it's due to serendipity. We can't well manage a new normal with old tools. Examples, like truths, are out there. Will we pay attention? Fewer, more intense storms will affect fish that have evolved to different stream flow patterns. They'll have to adapt or become evolutionary failures. So will we.

Providence

By Natasha Trethewey

What's left is footage: the hours before

             Camille, 1969—hurricane

                         parties, palm trees leaning

in the wind,

            fronds blown back,

a woman's hair. Then after:

            the vacant lots,

            boats washed ashore, a swamp

where graves had been. I recall

how we huddled all night in our small house,

            moving between rooms,

                        emptying pots filled with rain.

The next day, our house—

           on its cinderblocks—seemed to float

           in the flooded yard: no foundation

beneath us, nothing I could see

                          tying us                      to the land.

                          In the water, our reflection

                                                               trembled,

disappeared

when I bent to touch it.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

No denying late bloomers #phenology

I had to go check my calendar and my GPS location. This IS Minnesota. It IS October 19. This doesn't seem to be the right time or place for plants to start blooming, but, within the past few days, no fewer than three new blossoms have opened in the front garden. See for yourself.

late blooming day lily

Photo by J. Harrington

late blooming mandevilla

Photo by J. Harrington

late blooming marigold

Photo by J. Harrington

I recognize the day lily (top) and the marigold (bottom) [see the other flower buds?]. When Now that my Better Half informed me gets home later today, I'll fill in the name of what was the unidentified bright red bloom in the middle. (I'll also catch some grief because this will be the third or fourth time she's told me the name of that plant.) I'm not terribly surprised that the mums are still going strong. I am surprised that the plants by the front door have held out so well. Stunned and amazed would be the correct description of how I feel about our late bloomers. You'd think the climate was warming or something and that we keep setting record after record of high temperatures month after month, but the remaining two climate deniers must be more correct than all those scientists. That leaves us with the quandary of, if you can't kid a kidder, can a denier deny denying? (Some of us know that de Nile is not just a river in Egypt.) The problem is, even if we all voted early, it wouldn't make them stop, would it? Is there such a thing as a "killing frost" for political ads and debates and Tweets? Shouldn't there be? Where do we go to surrender?

Denial

By Patricia Frolander

He called it “his ranch,”

yet each winter day found her beside him

feeding hay to hungry cows.

In summer heat

you would find her in the hayfield—

cutting, raking, baling, stacking.

In between she kept the books,

cooked, cleaned

laundered, fed bum lambs.

Garden rows straight,

canned jars of food

lined cellar walls.

Then she died.

I asked him how he would manage.

“Just like I always have,” he said.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.