Summer’s cusping

 Our local goats beard plants have gone to seed. The seed heads look like oversized dandelion plumes. Another sign that summer is on the cusp, although with today’s temperatures, it’s hard to tell.

yellow goatsbeard seed head

Photo by J. Harrington

Some plants growing in the roadside that I was convinced were milkweed haven’t yet produced blossoms. Most of the other milkweed I’ve seen along ditches had blossoms in abundance. I began to wonder: don’t all milkweeds flower? were these not milkweed? A little searching among the internets turned up some answers. Drought can limit blooming. We’re back into drought conditions around here. Also, some varieties don’t bloom their first season of growing. I’m not sure which variety, but the majority of plants around the property are common milkweed, so I suppose the non-bloomers are also. But I wasn’t sure, when they didn’t bloom, that the plants in question are actually milkweed, so what do I know? Maybe next year we’ll be able to tell for sure.

During the next few weeks, we’ll begin watching for whitetail bucks with their antlers in velvet. This is the time replacements for the antlers they dropped last winter will begin growing. It’s always a treat to see bucks in velvet, even though it’s been years since I’ve hunted deer.

MILKWEED

James Wright

While I stood here, in the open, lost in myself,
I must have looked a long time
Down the corn rows, beyond grass,
The small house,
White walls, animals lumbering toward the barn.
I look down now. It is all changed.
Whatever it was I lost, whatever I wept for
Was a wild, gentle thing, the small dark eyes
Loving me in secret.
It is here. At a touch of my hand,
The air fills with delicate creatures
From the other world.

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Yes, thanks, it’s hot enough for me

We’ve not noticed any yet this year, but we’re coming into wild cucumber blooming time. If you think you’re seeing ghosts drifting along tree lines or fence lines, maybe you’re seeing wild cucumber flowers. We’re back into a spell of above average temperatures over the next ten days or so. Thundershowers late tomorrow and then a dry spell. It’ll make autumn’s cooler weather all the more appealing when it arrives.

wild cucumber among the cat tails

Photo by J. Harrington

I’ve reached an age, and a stage, at which, if it feels too damn hot to do outside chores, it IS too damn hot to do outside chores, except, maybe, for very, very, brief periods. I’m also learning to take in stride that the weather rarely cooperates with my plans. Some weeks back, I mentioned the prospect of burning one of the brush piles in honor of Lughnasadh. Tomorrow evening would have been the most appropriate time for that. When is the only time in our extended forecast that includes thunderstorms? Tomorrow evening. Sigh. Well, there’s always Autumn Equinox and Samhain, if I have the patience to wait.

Six months from now, I’m pretty sure I’ll be complaining about snow and cold and ice and wind all seeming everlasting but at least then we avoid bugs and road construction. Meanwhile, I’ll look for that magic spot after the morning dew has dried but before the temperature has climbed too high and see if I can get a few things done outside before the heat of the day.

“HEAT” BY H.D.

O wind, rend open the heat,

cut apart the heat,

rend it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop

through this thick air–

fruit cannot fall into heat

that presses up and blunts

the points of pears

and rounds the grapes.

Cut the heat–

plough through it,

turning it on either side

of your path.

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Summer pleasures in the mid-North

A small handful of Baltimore oriole fledgelings arrived at the nectar feeder this morning, or is it that a handful of small Baltimore oriole fledglings arrived? The fledglings weren’t much smaller than their parents, and neither was there a superabundance of them. In either case, having had adult birds visiting off and on all season, it was a real treat to see “the kids.” As one of my favorite poets observed “In three words I can sum up everything I have learned about life: it goes on.” ~ Robert Frost

One of our local tv stations occasionally labels a forecast as a “top ten weather day.” If I had had my wits about me, I would have tracked the number of times they’ve labeled a day “top ten. ” I suspect it may be more than ten times over the season. I just started a spreadsheet. Now I need to remember, as Mary Oliver tells us, to “pay attention.” Plus, I can poke around and see if I can find some weather archives online. I have nothing against top ten days. I do think we would all be better off if more things actually meant what they said. Maybe that’s already the situation here. Nowhere can I find the rest of the phrase “top ten weather day for the week, month, season, year....”  See what paying attention can do for you?

We’re off to pick up our Community Supported Agriculture [CSA] share this afternoon. This week’s goodies include:

• BROCCOLI
• CUCUMBERS
• PURSLANE
• ROMAINE LETTUCE
• ZEPHYR SUMMER SQUASH
• ZUCCHINI

roadside veggies season

Photo by J. Harrington

Many decades ago I developed an intense dislike for zucchini when all our friends had gardens producing an excess of it that got donated at us. Enough is enough. There IS such a thing as too much vanilla ice cream if served over a short span. Plus, in those days, I’m not sure that things like zucchini fritters had been developed by folks suffering the tortures of excess zucchini. I’m looking forward to trying zucchini fritters. Maybe I can avoid eating zucchini bread this year.

Photosynthesis 

Ashley M. Jones 

When I was young, my father taught us
how dirt made way for food,
how to turn over soil so it would hold a seed,
an infant bud, how the dark could nurse it
until it broke its green arms out to touch the sun.
In every backyard we’ve ever had, he made a little garden plot
with room for heirloom tomatoes, corn, carrots, 
peppers: jalapeno, bell, and poblano—
okra, eggplant, lemons, collards, broccoli, pole beans,
watermelon, squash, trees filled with fruit and nuts,
brussels sprouts, herbs: basil, mint, parsley, rosemary—
onions, sweet potatoes, cucumber, cantaloupe, cabbage, 
oranges, swiss chard and peaches,
sunflowers tall and straightbacked as soldiers,
lantana, amaryllis, echinacea, 
pansies and roses and bushes bubbling with hydrangeas. 
Every plant with its purpose.
Flowers to bring worms and wasps. How their work matters here. 

This is the work we have always known,
pulling food and flowers from a pile of earth.
The difference, now: my father is not a slave,
not a sharecropper. This land is his and so is this garden,
so is this work. The difference is that he owns this labor.
The work of his own hands for his own belly, 
for his own children’s bellies. We eat because he works. 

This is the legacy of his grandmother, my great-granny.
Ollie Mae Harris and her untouchable flower garden.
Just like her hats, her flowerbeds sprouted something special,
plants and colors the neighbors could only dream of.
He was young when he learned that this beauty is built on work,
the cows and the factories in their stomachs, 
the fertilizer they spewed out—
the stink that brought such fragrance. What you call waste,
I call power. What you call work I make beautiful again.

In his garden, even problems become energy, beauty—
my father has ended many work days in the backyard, 
worries of the firehouse dropping like grain, my father wrist-deep
in soil. I am convinced the earth speaks back to him 
as he feeds it—it is a conversational labor, gardening.
The seeds tell him what they will be, the soil tells seeds how to grow,
my father speaks sun and water into the earth,
we hear him, each harvest, his heartbeat sweet, like fruit. 

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Too little, too late? Let’s hope not!

Another week, another month is winding down. Monday will be August 1, Lughnasadh. Local farmers already have small grain harvests underway. Several fields of alfalfa looked like they had already had a second cutting. One day soon, I need to use the bagging mower and get after the sand burs along the road, before the dogs start picking them up in their paws.

Earlier, a Minnesota DFL Senator Tweeted a slightly unsenatorial message: 

“Holy shit. Stunned, but in a good way. $370B for climate and energy and 40% emissions reduction by 2030.

BFD.” 

Much as I usually admire the Senator’s position(s) on most issues, I’m tempted to send her a link to The Who - Won't Get Fooled Again. Senator Manchin always reminds me of the story of the scorpion and the turtle

One lazy afternoon day a turtle was swimming happily along a lake. As the turtle was nearing land he heard a scorpion hail it from the muddy shore. A scorpion, being a very poor swimmer, asked the turtle if he would carry him on his back across the lake. The turtle thought it was the craziest thing he ever heard, “Why would I carry you on my back?” he boomed, ‘You’ll sting me while I’m swimming and I’ll drown.” 

“My dear turtle friend,” laughed the scorpion, “if I were to sting you, you would drown and I would go down with you and drown as well. Now where is the logic in that?”

The turtle pondered this for a moment, and eventually saw the logic in the scorpion’s statement. “You’re right!” said the turtle with a smile. “Hop on!” So the scorpion climbed aboard and the turtle paddled his big fins in the water. Halfway across the lake the scorpion gave the turtle a big sting, and he started to drown. As they both sank into the water the turtle turned to the scorpion with a tear in his eye. “My dear scorpion friend, why did you sting me? Now we are both going to drown…” the turtle was gasping for air. “Where is the… logic in that?” 

“It has nothing to do with logic” the scorpion sadly replied, “it’s just my nature.”

turtle sunning on a St. Croix river rock

Photo by J. Harrington

I’m not in the least suggesting our Senator Smith is a turtle, but I did send a reply she should withhold tweets on the legislation until the votes are actually counted. Senator Manchin has made his nature obvious, time and time again.

It would be nice to see legislation enacted that actually does something about climate change. I am frustrated enough by the Democratic failures to take initiative on some of the critical issues that I continue to follow the tactic of funding candidates, not the party. If the party can legitimately claim several significant accomplishments over the next month or so, I may revise my approach.

Winter Morning

By James Crews

When I can no longer say thank you

for this new day and the waking into it,

for the cold scrape of the kitchen chair

and the ticking of the space heater glowing

orange as it warms the floor near my feet,

I know it’s because I’ve been fooled again

by the selfish, unruly man who lives in me

and believes he deserves only safety

and comfort. But if I pause as I do now,

and watch the streetlights outside flashing

off one by one like old men blinking their

cloudy eyes, if I listen to my tired neighbors

slamming car doors hard against the morning

and see the steaming coffee in their mugs

kissing chapped lips as they sip and

exhale each of their worries white into

the icy air around their faces—then I can

remember this one life is a gift each of us

was handed and told to open: Untie the bow

and tear off the paper, look inside

and be grateful for whatever you find

even if it is only the scent of a tangerine

that lingers on the fingers long after

you’ve finished peeling it.

It’s heel-dragging time

“There is more to life than increasing its speed.”  Mahatma Gandhi

Often, I drive township gravel roads rather than city, county or state paved ones. “Why?” you may ask. Have you heard of slow food? How about slow water? Each is premised on slowing down and  working with nature’s systems more than engineering a quick profit. In a similar vein, I’m working on slow travel, trying to learn how to enjoy the trip as much as arriving safely at the destination.

It’s rare that I drive less than the speed limit on a paved road or highway. On a gravel road, I’m more likely to slow down, put the windows down, and watch for roadside wildflowers. Not every rural road in Minnesota has prairie plants blooming between a cornfield and the ditch, but enough do that it’s worthwhile to enjoy the black-eyed Susans, bee balm/bergamot and occasional cluster of purple coneflowers. Sometimes there are even butterflies on the flowers and swallows on the telephone wires as further enticements to let beauty and pleasure, not speed, be my driving force.

a field of wild bergamot and ???

Photo by J. Harrington

One soy bean field I drove past this morning had a whitetail doe toward the back edge and her adventurous  fawn close to the road. As I approached, the fawn looked up, saw the Jeep, turned around, and started bounding toward mom with a whitetail flag waving and the fawn yelling: “Mom, mom! Did you see it? Why didn’t you warn me about those big, shiny monsters? I promise I’ll never go near the road again!” (Until the next time.)

Wise people from cultures much older than ours have advised us to slow down. The above quote by Gandhi is one example. Another is “Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”  Lao Tzu

I was delighted the other day to learn that Joni Mitchell, who has written much of the soundtrack of my life, closed out this years Newport Folk Festival with a performance, her first in about two decades. Joni knows a lot about the problems going too fast can cause.

The Circle Game

by Joni Mitchell

Yesterday a child came out to wonder
Caught a dragonfly inside a jar 
Fearful when the sky was full of thunder 
And tearful at the falling of a star 

Then the child moved ten times round the seasons
Skated over ten clear frozen streams 
Words like when you're older must appease him 
And promises of someday make his dreams

And the seasons they go round and round 
And the painted ponies go up and down 
We're captive on the carousel of time 
We can't return we can only look 
Behind from where we came 
And go round and round and round 
In the circle game

Sixteen springs and sixteen summers gone now 
Cartwheels turn to car wheels thru the town 
And they tell him take your time it won't be long now
Till you drag your feet to slow the circles down 

And the seasons they go round and round 
And the painted ponies go up and down 
We're captive on the carousel of time 
We can't return we can only look 
Behind from where we came 
And go round and round and round 
In the circle game

So the years spin by and now the boy is twenty 
Though his dreams have lost some grandeur coming true
There'll be new dreams maybe better dreams and plenty
Before the last revolving year is through

And the seasons they go round and round 
And the painted ponies go up and down 
We're captive on the carousel of time 
We can't return we can only look 
Behind from where we came 
And go round and round and round 
In the circle game

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Summer daze

It’s been dry enough that the local flock of five or so hen turkeys are now pecking their way through the “wet spot” in our back yard. Few things look sillier than a single hen’s head, no body visible, popping up through the grasses, sedges and weeds. Since no one has bothered them while they peck their way through the yard, (get those ticks) they’re getting braver and feeding closer and closer to the house.

wild turkey hens with poults, 2016

Photo by J. Harrington

Poults have only accompanied hens through our yard once this year, that we’ve seen. I hope there are many more poults somewhere and these are “grandmother” hens or nannies. (I don’t even know if there are such things.) If you’re curious about the way poults grow, and their survival rate, there’s a nice version here.

The day has been quiet, partly to mostly cloudy with a few showers and a forecast threatening thunderstorms. There were thunderstorms in the forecast the other day so I gave thunderstorm-anxious SiSi one of the new anxiety reducing tablets the Better Half bought. The thunderstorms never arrived but SiSi was as mellow as ever I’ve seen her. Although there’s a recommended dosage, dependent on dog’s weight, the packaging makes no mention about how long it takes to affect the dog. Maybe we’ll get a more successful run today, but not in the middle of the night.

Storm Ending

Jean Toomer - 1894-1967

Thunder blossoms gorgeously above our heads, 

Great, hollow, bell-like flowers, 

Rumbling in the wind, 

Stretching clappers to strike our ears . . .

Full-lipped flowers

Bitten by the sun

Bleeding rain

Dripping rain like golden honey—

And the sweet earth flying from the thunder. 

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Is anyone accountable here?

Yesterday I went on a rant about the lousy utility service we get from Xcel and frontier. Also, there’s no longer a good source I can find for tv antenna repairs. I laid much of the source of the problems on local government, internet service providers and public utility commissions.

Today, again, frontier internet was out for hours. Back on, out again. I may, or may not, be able to post this today. Midafternoon, just after the internet came back on again, the power went out. I’m not sure whether to consider this validation for my rant or karma catching up with me after that rant.

There have been a number of extra-large heavy duty dump trucks going down our road today. The county has a number of construction projects in the area. I’m highly suspicious that someone is not doing a good enough job monitoring construction around power and internet systems.

O Karma, Dharma, Pudding And Pie

By Philip Appleman

O Karma, Dharma, pudding and pie,
gimme a break before I die:
grant me wisdom, will, & wit,
purity, probity, pluck, & grit.
Trustworthy, loyal, helpful, kind,
gimme great abs & a steel-trap mind,
and forgive, Ye Gods, some humble advice—
these little blessings would suffice
to beget an earthly paradise:
make the bad people good—
and the good people nice;
and before our world goes over the brink,
teach the believers how to think.

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Some problems with mass markets

I remember when I was a kid, we weren’t the first family on our block to have a tv. I watched Howdy Doody and similar programs at a neighbors and had to be sure to get home in time for supper. Here we are almost three quarters if a century later and, thanks to “progress,” things haven’t improved much. In fact, in many ways they’re worse. Having no service in many ways  improves on having shoddy service.

Using our less than broadband internet service, I can’t locate a local serviceman to check and/or replace  our Over The Air [OTA} antenna and coax cable. I’m not sure if HDTV would be a better option. Where we live, cable is as much of an option as broadband.

Between our antenna and the broadcast towers, several oak trees west of the house are now taller and broader than they were when we bought the place. Because of oak wilt, ideally we shouldn’t prune until November. I’m not inclined to take some sort of technical course to learn how to select and install an antenna since I’m not likely to need to do it more than once. I’d rather hire someone qualified, if there were anyone.

our internet service

Photo by J. Harrington

We know what a lousy job government has done at insuring availability of rural broadband internet. I know for a fact that our county has been “studying” broadband for about five or more years. To the best of my knowledge, there is no good, reliable, source identifying OTA broadcast availability, nor is there a mandate that cable providers service an entire township by date certain.

Add to the above the fact that our township supervisors have decided to merge most, but not all, of the township with an adjoining city, leaving several sections of the township to be potentially annexed by other cities that, as far as I can tell, will do little, if anything, to benefit current township residents, and combine that with  the failure of our state government to enact critical legislation despite a $9 billion surplus, and the outcomes of the January 6 hearings in D.C., and I’m developing severe doubts about the viability of democracy in a global, neoliberal, mass market economy. Once upon a time we had the TVA and the Rural Electrification Act. These days it seems to be mostly “I’ve got mine. Vote with your feet.”

Rural Reflections

a poem by Adrienne Rich 

This is the grass your feet are planted on.
You paint it orange or you sing it green,
But you have never found
A way to make the grass mean what you mean.

A cloud can be whatever you intend:
Ostrich or leaning tower or staring eye.
But you have never found
A cloud sufficient to express the sky.

Get out there with your splendid expertise;
Raymond who cuts the meadow does not less.
Inhuman nature says:
Inhuman patience is the true success.

Human impatience trips you as you run;
Stand still and you must lie.
It is the grass that cuts the mower down;
It is the cloud that swallows up the sky.

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When neighbors come to call

We’ve seen almost no frogs and very few toads this year. I’m not sure if it’s because they aren’t around or we’re not looking at the right times in the right places. A few days ago there was a tiny toad hopping along in front of the garage, trying to not get washed away in the flow from a downpour. This morning, a much larger toad was hopping across the front porch as the dogs and I returned from a walk. Once the dogs and I were inside the house, I watched through a side window for a minute or two. The toad kept hopping against, as in “into,” the side of the live trap we have set for chipmunks. It was like the toad couldn’t recognize the open lattice as an obstruction.

one of our hoppy toads, American Toad (Anaxyrus americanus)

Photo by J. Harrington

One night during the past few weeks, another local critter didn’t let a larger, more sturdy, open lattice deter him or her. We have a “gate” at the top of the deck stairs to keep the dogs from bolting down the stairs. I noticed yesterday that the “gate” had been bent inward at the middle. The last time the gate looked like that we had had a visit from a neighborhood bruin. I’ve been pretty regular, although not perfect, at bringing the bird feeders in every evening so I suspect someone came to check out if there was anything good to eat on the deck. The visitor left the grill alone and this time didn’t leave a calling card, although it is early in the season for berries to be ripe.

Most of the time we manage to get by with a “live and let live” philosophy around here. Exceptions get made for deer flies, mosquitoes and a ground hog that wanted to tunnel next to the foundation. Even inside the house we try to transport the occasional spider or cricket back outside using the cup and cardboard capture routine. Maybe we could try that with Republicans and turn them loose someplace like the Jim Bridger wilderness.

Toad dreams

By Marge Piercy

That afternoon the dream of the toads rang through the elms by Little River and affected the thoughts of men, though they were not conscious that they heard it.--Henry Thoreau

The dream of toads: we rarely 

credit what we consider lesser 

life with emotions big as ours, 

but we are easily distracted, 

abstracted. People sit nibbling 

before television's flicker watching 

ghosts chase balls and each other 

while the skunk is out risking grisly 

death to cross the highway to mate; 

while the fox scales the wire fence 

where it knows the shotgun lurks 

to taste the sweet blood of a hen. 

Birds are greedy little bombs 

bursting to give voice to appetite. 

I had a cat who died of love. 

Dogs trail their masters across con- 

tinents. We are far too busy 

to be starkly simple in passion. 

We will never dream the intense 

wet spring lust of the toads. 

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As summer peaks...

For the record, as of today, I’m looking forward to Autumn. Fortunately for folks like me, temperatures appear to be on a gradual downward slide. According to my copy of the Minnesota WeatherGuide Calendar, all last week and this week the average high temperature is 84℉. On Sunday the 24th, the average high drops to 83℉ for ten days or so. Your/our mileage may vary. Remember, Minnesota’s averages are often comprised of extremes. In any case, as far as I’m concerned, what are usually the best days of the year are still ahead of us, despite being interrupted by election season inanities and insanities.

goldenrod, not ragweed

Photo by J. Harrington

We’re rapidly approaching ragweed season, another insult to my chronically drippy nose. Ragweed and goldenrod are often confused. Check the link to learn the differences. Meanwhile, in a compassionate move that borders on brilliant, since we’ll be in thunderstorm season for quite awhile yet, the Better Half [BH] bought some calming treats for SiSi my labrador, who comes unglued at thunder. Tomorrow may be an opportunity to see how well the treats work. The lab’s anxiousness is disruptive of a good night’s sleep when we get middle-of-the night storms, so it will be nice to have an option to help settle her down.

Tomorrow, or Sunday, will be bread baking day. If the dough rises enough overnight to shape and bake before tomorrow’s heat, we’ll bake in the morning. Otherwise, baking day will be Sunday. This time we’re working on a sourdough with kernza flour, craisins, and white chocolate chip loaf. If it turns out okay, maybe we’ll look for some wild rice flour for a couple of loaves come Autumn.

Only ten days until Lughnasadh. “The Christian version of this festival is Lammas, which has recently been revived in some churches. The word Lammas comes from hlafmasse – ‘loaf-mass’ – since bread is offered from the newly harvested grain.” This year I’ll see what kind of bread seems to fit the times as well as hope to be able to light a brush pile to celebrate the festival.

Country Summer

By Léonie Adams

Now the rich cherry, whose sleek wood,

And top with silver petals traced

Like a strict box its gems encased,

Has spilt from out that cunning lid,

All in an innocent green round,

Those melting rubies which it hid;

With moss ripe-strawberry-encrusted,

So birds get half, and minds lapse merry

To taste that deep-red, lark’s-bite berry,

And blackcap bloom is yellow-dusted.

The wren that thieved it in the eaves

A trailer of the rose could catch

To her poor droopy sloven thatch,

And side by side with the wren’s brood—

O lovely time of beggar’s luck—

Opens the quaint and hairy bud;

And full and golden is the yield

Of cows that never have to house,

But all night nibble under boughs,

Or cool their sides in the moist field.

Into the rooms flow meadow airs,

The warm farm baking smell’s blown round.

Inside and out, and sky and ground

Are much the same; the wishing star,

Hesperus, kind and early born,

Is risen only finger-far;

All stars stand close in summer air,

And tremble, and look mild as amber;

When wicks are lighted in the chamber,

They are like stars which settled there.

Now straightening from the flowery hay,

Down the still light the mowers look,

Or turn, because their dreaming shook,

And they waked half to other days,

When left alone in the yellow stubble

The rusty-coated mare would graze.

Yet thick the lazy dreams are born,

Another thought can come to mind,

But like the shivering of the wind,

Morning and evening in the corn.

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Is there a Jurassic Park for butterflies?

This year there seem to be more bees and/or hornets and/or wasps at the nectar feeder than I remember from years past. Yesterday, I saw what I believe was a baldfaced hornet (actually a yellowjacket) emerge from one of the feeding ports as I brought the feeder in for the night. Several yellowjackets, normal kind, have managed to get themselves trapped in the feeder and drowned. The insect activity doesn’t seem to bother the occasional Baltimore oriole that shows up at the feeder, but the hummingbirds are much more skittish.

You may have seen the announcement that the International Union for the Conservation of Nature (IUCN) has declared the monarch butterfly endangered. That doesn’t make it subject to the provisions of the United States Endangered Species Act since the US Fish and Wildlife Service has not listed it.

“We conducted an intensive, thorough review using a rigorous, transparent science-based process and found that the monarch meets listing criteria under the Endangered Species Act. However, before we can propose listing, we must focus resources on our higher-priority listing actions,” said U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service Director Aurelia Skipwith. “While this work goes on, we are committed to our ongoing efforts with partners to conserve the monarch and its habitat at the local, regional and national levels. Our conservation goal is to improve monarch populations, and we encourage everyone to join the effort.”

monarch butterfly emerging

Photo by J. Harrington

Several years ago we were fortunate enough to have a monarch chrysalis on the front of the house. I was lucky enough to be around with a camera when the butterfly began to emerge. This year we’ve seen a few monarchs around the property over the past week or so. I’m both surprised and disappointed there aren’t more since we have quite a few common milkweed clusters on the property. None of the plants along the road have signs of being gnawed on by caterpillars and I’ve not been back into the fields to check those plants.

Have you ever read the stories of lemmings driving themselves off a cliff to their death? The stories are untrue but seem to provide an example of how the human species has been behaving for the past century or so. The Earth will continue just fine without us, but we won’t survive, let alone thrive, without a habitable home planet. It is the only one we have.

I Don’t Know What Will Kill Us First: The Race War or What We’ve Done to the Earth

Fatimah Asghar

so I count my hopes: the bumblebees
are making a comeback, one snug tight
in a purple flower I passed to get to you;

your favorite color is purple but Prince’s
was orange & we both find this hard to believe;
today the park is green, we take grass for granted

the leaves chuckle around us; behind
your head a butterfly rests on a tree; it’s been
there our whole conversation; by my old apartment

was a butterfly sanctuary where I would read
& two little girls would sit next to me; you caught
a butterfly once but didn’t know what to feed it

so you trapped it in a jar & gave it to a girl
you liked. I asked if it died. you say you like
to think it lived a long life. yes, it lived a long life.

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The neutrality of gravel roads

We’re enjoying another windy day, although the direction from which it’s blowing has changed. I noticed corn at the tasseling stage in several cornfields this morning as I drove to the Granddaughter’s to share readings. The drive also showed roadsides are now beautified with scattered clumps and clusters of bee balm and black-eyed Susans. Sumac bushes are developing fruit clusters. We must be approaching peak summer. As to the visit,  I think I enjoyed “The Cat on the Mat” more than she did, but she’s a little young to appreciate the finer nuances of verse and rhymes like cat, mat, rat, hat, fat. I found them inspirational.

Early this morning, in the field behind the house, we saw the first wild turkey poults of the year. It looks as though a whitetail doe was working as a guard deer while the hens showed the poults around. Scenes like that are part of what folks talk about when they mention the healing powers of nature. Being able to notice the beauty of flower-filled roadside ditches while driving past at 30 mph instead of twice that is another.

gravel road: where people are just people

Photo by J. Harrington

There were a couple of folks walking the gravel country roads this morning. We waved as I slowly drove past. It occurred to me that civility and neighborliness comes easier if we don’t try to pass that kind of behavior through a political filter. I might have been neighborly with a MAGA tRump supporter to whom I wouldn’t give the time of day if I knew that’s what they were. Each of the walkers might have extended a middle finger instead of an open-handed wave if they knew I was a left-leaning liberal who votes Democratic. Might country roads, the ditch-lined, gravel-surfaced, hobby farm surrounded kind, be a kind of neutral corner where we could meet as people not wearing labels? Could that help turn down the intensity of chronic irritation many of us are constantly experiencing? Right up until a couple of teens come roaring past on ATVs.

Night Drive

by Ted Kooser

Ten seconds ahead, a red reflector
on a fence post turns and looks back,
and, seeing our headlights, skips into

the weeds on the shoulder. It’s never in
much of a hurry but it sees that we are,
and lifts a glowing mitten as we pass.

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A couple of systemic failures

We had a power outage last night [again]. This time with not a thunderstorm nearby. Too many folks with the AC turned up tripping a circuit breaker at Xcel? According to their web page, the outage was shared by us and thousands of our neighbors. A smaller scale instance of the fragility of our power grid? The outage we had a week or two ago at least had a thunderstorm for context. I’m not sure but I believe crews had the outage fixed before Xcel’s web page announced an estimated time when power would be restored. Maybe it is time to take another look at solar panels and a battery wall.

the failure wasn’t this local

Photo by J. Harrington

All is not sour grapes today, however. This is a day I decided not to go fly fishing, despite yesterday’s posting. Why is that good news? The wind is out of the SSW at 15 to 25 mph. My casting isn’t good enough to cope with that kind of “breeze.” Today is also the day I discovered one of my favorite poets, Ted Kooser, has managed recently to sneak not one, but two, volumes into publication without my knowing. Actually, the second volume is published in September, so I don’t feel so bad. What I do find strange is neither volume is mentioned on the books page of Kooser’s web site.

A Man with a Rake was published in March of this year. Cotton Candy, Poems Dipped Out of the Air will be published come September. I bet the author spends lots less time doomscrolling social media than I do. There’s a lesson there if I’m smart enough to learn it. Maybe I need to go and write 500 times “Reading good poetry is more rewarding than reading great Tweets.”

Walking on Tiptoe

By Ted Kooser

Long ago we quit lifting our heels

like the others—horse, dog, and tiger—

though we thrill to their speed

as they flee. Even the mouse

bearing the great weight of a nugget

of dog food is enviably graceful.

There is little spring to our walk,

we are so burdened with responsibility,

all of the disciplinary actions

that have fallen to us, the punishments,

the killings, and all with our feet

bound stiff in the skins of the conquered.

But sometimes, in the early hours,

we can feel what it must have been like

to be one of them, up on our toes,

stealing past doors where others are sleeping,

and suddenly able to see in the dark.

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Time to take a flying...

This is not a good day for outside work. Temperatures exceed 90℉. I confirmed that when I emptied the compost bucket into the tumbler. This is a good day to get something done inside. The house is air conditioned. My fly-fishing gear needs organization. I will make some progress organizing some of the pockets in my fly-fishing vest.

I keep trying to find the book with the ideal arrangement of flies so I can imitate it. There’s dry flies and nymphs and terrestrials and streamers and... There’s also attractors and imitators. There’s also spring and summer and autumn and winter. Then there’s the cross combination of dry flies and nymphs for winter organized by attractors or imitations. You have just read an explanation of why my flies and fly boxes aren’t better organized. But, there’s an even more significant reason. I’m not fishing enough these days.

I’ve noticed over the years that one of the better ways for me to decide how to organize something is to do a fair amount of that something on a regular basis. I think that may be the basis for the old saying “Use it or lose it.” It’s been too many months since I’ve wet a line (“The road to hell is paved with good intentions.”). The weather has been too cold, too wet, too windy....(“Do not let the perfect be the enemy of the good.”)

caddis (top) and tricos

Photo by J. Harrington

So, all the abstract organizational schemes needed to be tested against reality. Since it’s my fly vest with my flies and other gear, it needs to be tested against my reality. How do I want to fish? Since most of my fishing skills were developed on or near the Atlantic Ocean, I’m pretty much a chuck and chance it angler. That probably means I’m most at home fishing an attractor and matching the hatch comes second. I’ve also noticed, through a lot of reading and rereading over the past year or so, that many flies are hybrids, between an imitation and an attractor. That makes it even easier for me to get more confused in the abstract over something that may have no real importance on the stream. Last winter I picked up some size 18 or 20 tricos that have florescent pink wings. There is, to my knowledge, no such critter in the real world, but the pink makes it easier to see where the fly is on the water. So, rather than spend time sitting in my chair thinking about whether that flly is an imitator or an attractor (of fly anglers), I’m going to get me to the stream and see if it spooks any fish or attracts one.

The next time you end up reading a post like this, it will probably be because I started overthinking my artisan bread baking, or my poetry, or something. One of my long-standing skills is taking something intended to be fun and turn it into work. I hope I live long enough to break that habit.

Trout

By Kathryn Starbuck

I do my best 

to keep pointlessness 

at bay. But here, 

wet above my 

knees, I let it fly. 

Here, hot and cold, 

fingers thick with 

thinking, I try to 

tie the fly and look 

for the net, loosening 

the philosophical   

knot of why I came 

here today, not yet 

knowing whether 

I’ll free or fry 

the rainbows 

and browns once 

they’re mine.

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An attitude of gratitude

We’re not quite three weeks from mid-Summer, which will occur on or about the end of the first week of August. Summer temperatures are at their normal peak this week and next. Our mileage may vary with climate breakdown continuing. The heat, humidity and bugs have me in a state of lethargy approaching comatose-level. I’m fending off feelings of guilt and starting to look forward to early October.

I’ve not tried for a close look, but distant views show few, if any, acorns on the oaks or pears on the pear tree. If I get swamped by a wave of ambition this week (heh, heh) I’ll take a closer look when I get around to mowing the yard on the north side of the house. That area still needs a bunch of dead branches picked up after the last few thunderstorms that came through.

Spotted Horsemint (Monarda punctata)

Photo by J. Harrington

We’ve reach the time of year for spotted horsemint to come into its own, but haven’t noticed any showing up in the fields around the house. Last month our county was almost 1.5” below normal for precipitation, so that may be affecting wildflower growth this month.

A small flock of wild turkeys has been wandering through the property most evenings. Deer have been seen a few mornings or evenings. All in all, we’ve been enjoying a fairly typical summer lull. These days we’re grateful things aren’t worse.

Thanks

W. S. Merwin - 1927-2019

Listen 
with the night falling we are saying thank you 
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings 
we are running out of the glass rooms 
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky 
and say thank you 
we are standing by the water thanking it 
standing by the windows looking out 
in our directions 

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging 
after funerals we are saying thank you 
after the news of the dead 
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you 
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators 
remembering wars and the police at the door 
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you 
in the banks we are saying thank you 
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us 
our lost feelings we are saying thank you 
with the forests falling faster than the minutes 
of our lives we are saying thank you 
with the words going out like cells of a brain 
with the cities growing over us 
we are saying thank you faster and faster 
with nobody listening we are saying thank you 
we are saying thank you and waving 
dark though it is

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Ethics -- wuzzat?

Six months ago it was mid-January and I was complaining about snow and cold. These days I’m complaining about heat, humidity, deer flies and thunderstorms. Does that make me a chronic malcontent, or a realist? But complaints don’t change anything so why bother to complain? I could take the same approach to snow shoveling, it’s just going to snow again; vacuuming, the dogs will keep shedding; window washing, they’ll just get dirty again; or eating, I’ll just get hungry again. The answers all seem to come down to priorities and how each of us chooses to live. If you never dust, vacuum or clean, you probably qualify as a slob. If you spend most of your time dusting, vacuuming and cleaning, you probably qualify as a boring person with obsessive-compulsive disorder. And what of those who have been known to rake the wall to wall carpeting after vacuuming? Let’s not even go there.

ethics: more than rules

Photo by J. Harrington

What prompted all this reflection? This morning I came across an article complaining about the inappropriate behavior of many recently "enjoying" the outdoors: Paradise Trashed. It started me thinking about where, how, and from whom folks learn their outdoors manners. I know I didn’t learn mine from my parents, neither of whom was much of an outdoors enthusiast. In school? Not really. The ethics I was taught in school seemed to have limited relevance to hunting, fishing, camping, foraging, etc. I picked up my behaviors from reading writers in "hook and bullet" magazines, from those I spent time with in the outdoors, and from experience.

An angler in a hurry, splashing through trout pools I hoped to fish, spooked the fish before I could cast to them. If I cared about what others thought of me, I wouldn’t act that way. Why bother to be considerate of someone you don't know? While in a duck blind, I learned that “skybusters,” those shooting at out of range ducks, spoiled it for everyone else hunting that marsh. The only apparent solution was to skybust first, and that was neither fun nor productive, but maybe it taught the original skybusters a lesson?

Aldo Leopold, in A Sand County Almanac, writes about a land ethic being the product of a thinking community. From what I can see, these days we have too little of either thinking or community. That's part of the problem we face in a culture and economy that overemphasizes individualism and individual success.

All is not hopeless though. There’s the 

• Federation of Fly Fishers Code of Angling Ethics
• Boone and Crockett Club's Fair Chase
• Trout Unlimited has a broad Code of Ethics ranging from conservation to personal integrity
• Leave No Trace has Seven Principles

No doubt there are other organizations with comparable codes. Would it make sense to try to get some version of such ethical principles included in our national curriculum? I believe we would see fewer ethical lapses in our politicians and police if the recognition that ethics exist and should be adhered to were more widespread. Maybe we could start with fishing and hunting and progress to Elinor Ostrum's 8 Principles for Managing a Commons. It would be a more productive and rewarding use of our time than hearing more about Hilary's emails or Hunter's laptop.

The Enigma

By Anne Stevenson

Falling to sleep last night in a deep crevasse

between one rough dream and another, I seemed,

still awake, to be stranded on a stony path,

and there the familiar enigma presented itself

in the shape of a little trembling lamb.

It was lying like a pearl in the trough between

one Welsh slab and another, and it was crying.

I looked around, as anyone would, for its mother.

Nothing was there. What did I know about lambs?

Should I pick it up? Carry it . . . where?

What would I do if it were dying? The hand

of my conscience fought with the claw of my fear.

It wasn't so easy to imitate the Good Shepherd

in that faded, framed Sunday School picture

filtering now through the dream's daguerreotype.

With the wind fallen and the moon swollen to the full,

small, white doubles of the creature at my feet

flared like candles in the creases of the night

until it looked to be alive with newborn lambs.

Where could they all have come from?

A second look, and the bleating lambs were birds—

kittiwakes nesting, clustered on a cliff face,

fixing on me their dark accusing eyes.

There was a kind of imperative not to touch them,

yet to be of them, whatever they were—

now lambs, now birds, now floating points of light—

fireflies signaling how many lost New England summers?

One form, now another; one configuration, now another.

Like fossils locked deep in the folds of my brain,

outliving a time by telling its story. Like stars.

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Once there were greenfields

Most mornings the dogs and I are up early. This morning that was a major disadvantage because early brought skies full of thunder and lightning and pouring rain. We waited on the front porch, joined by the Better Half, in hopes of an interruption, pause, or diminution of the downpour. Meanwhile, the dogs quivered and shivered in anxiety at the fireworks and explosions in the sky. Eventually, there was sufficient opportunity for dogs and dog walkers to chance getting wet without getting drowned and dogs to relieve themselves after a long night.

Later, as the countryside dried out, we headed off on a mission. Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) Summer shares started today. Our drive through the countryside revealed a much greener, lusher landscape than several weeks ago. Much of the corn is waist to shoulder high. Soy bean fields look healthy. Storms last night and early this morning brought down a few branches and trees that partially blocked some places on the road, but nothing we couldn’t drive around by using the shoulder. A high point of the drive to pick up our share was noticing how much bee balm (bergamot) has come into bloom.

Wild Bergamot (Monarda fistulosa)

Photo by J. Harrington

This week’s CSA box contained:

• ARUGULA
• GARLIC SCAPES
• KALE
• LETTUCE
• PURSLANE
• RADISH

[I don’t believe I’ve ever eaten purslane before. No doubt the Better Half will sneak some into a salad to see if I notice.]

As we pulled onto the township road after picking up our CSA share, a whitetail doe was standing in the middle of the road where we needed to turn left. We slowly pulled onto the road. She looked at us with disdain and jumped toward the ditch. I pulled the Jeep forward very slowly and the Better Half got to chat with the doe from about twelve feet away. All in all, a noteworthy improvement from the way the day started. Remember, “Trend is not destiny.” 

cutting greens

By Lucille Clifton

curling them around

i hold their bodies in obscene embrace

thinking of everything but kinship.

collards and kale

strain against each strange other

away from my kissmaking hand and

the iron bedpot.

the pot is black,

the cutting board is black,

my hand,

and just for a minute

the greens roll black under the knife,

and the kitchen twists dark on its spine

and I taste in my natural appetite

the bond of live things everywhere.

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Branching out

I don’t really believe this happened just because I’m currently reading Finding the Mother Tree. On the other hand, I’m not foolhardy enough to completely disregard the possibility that Mother Nature arranged conditions to reward my reading habits. A couple of days ago, after several outrageous downpours, pine trees on the hill behind our house displayed halos. See for yourself. (There’s a second tree glowing near the base of the bird house pole.)

small pine trees with halo

Photo by J. Harrington

Creating the halo effect no doubt took the right amount, and angle, of sunlight, the proper amount of rain, someone to notice and take a picture, and who knows what other factors, to all come together at the same time and in the same place. Coincidence or karma, take your pick, but I’m becoming a believer in the wood wide web.

Today, for the first time this season, I mowed the front yard. The Better Half and I are working on making it more pollinator friendly, so last spring I did the prep and she seeded with a clover-rye(?) mix. What grass had been there was rapidly being overgrown with wild violets, which continue to spread. Much of the pre-mow greenery appeared to be violet leaves. I was concerned that mowing the taller violet leaves would end up with the yard looking baldish. I’m pleased to report my concerns were misplaced. With the mower set to mulch and the cut height set high, the post-mow yard still looks nicely green and a bit neater. Slowly but surely I’m becoming a practical, as well as an intellectual, hypothetical, theoretical, environmentalist. If you remember George Peppard in the old tv series The A-Team, “I love it when a plan comes together!”

When I am among the trees

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

Mary Oliver

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A memory trigger

There’s clusters of orange day lilies growing along roadsides all over our county, at least the parts I drive most often. The other afternoon I noticed one cluster that suddenly put me in mind of some of the lyrics of one of my all time most favorite songs ever, Leonard Cohen’s Suzanne. If you’re not familiar with it, or Cohen’s other work, you’re missing something truly wonderful.

They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever...

Photo by J. Harrington

Tomorrow I plan to share a picture of a haloed pine tree, taken shortly after one of our recent downpours. For today, enjoy what you can, when you can, with whom you can. Be kind when you can, to whom you can, including yourself.

Suzanne

by Leonard Cohen

Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she's half crazy
But that's why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her

That you have no love to give her
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover

And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you've touched her perfect body with your mind

And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said, "All the men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"

But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone

And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body with his mind

Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbor
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers

There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever while Suzanne holds the mirror

And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body with her mind

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