In search of better days

It’s the time of year when Agastache foeniculum (Anise Hyssop, Blue Giant Hyssop) comes into its own in our neighborhood. It’s difficult to impossible to see in the photo below, but our plants are literally crawling with small bumblebees. It’s a treat to see pollinators this year. Monarchs have been very few and very, very far between.

Anise Hyssop, Blue Giant Hyssop (Agastache foeniculum)

Photo by J. Harrington

Early mornings after a rainy evening or night, walking the dogs is accompanied by a chorus of frog chirps. We’ve not seen any frogs in person yet this summer. Occasionally, a tiny toad will appear somewhere in the yard, like the one that hopped under the brush pile as I mowed past on the tractor the other day. Most summers we’ve been visited by one or two green tree frogs by now. Another piece of what seems like a strange summer this year.

If somehow you’ve missed the memo, Minnesota’s state fair opened today. In the decades we’ve lived here we’ve been only two or three times and, I believe, two of them were work related. Compound my natural aversion to large, unwieldy crowds with my stronger aversion to potentially deadly viruses and pandemics, and you can be sure we won’t be going this year either.

One of the nice aspects of a subprime summer such as the one we’re closing out is that it doesn’t take a whole heck of a lot to really improve things. We realize there are lots of folks who are in much worse shape than we are, at least at the moment, but this summer has seen too much time expended on things that need to get done and not enough on things we want to do. We’re looking forward to falling into a better pattern next month, or, at least shaking off our funky mood. We are definitely overdue for a day or two or three of fishing and apple picking eating.

The Song of Wandering Aengus

W. B. Yeats - 1865-1939

I went out to the hazel wood,   
Because a fire was in my head,   
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,   
And hooked a berry to a thread;   
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,   
I dropped the berry in a stream   
And caught a little silver trout.   

When I had laid it on the floor   
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,   
And someone called me by my name:   
It had become a glimmering girl   
With apple blossom in her hair   
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.   

Though I am old with wandering   
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,   
I will find out where she has gone,   
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,   
And pluck till time and times are done,   
The silver apples of the moon,   
The golden apples of the sun.

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