Tomorrow is T Day!

At  the moment, I’m giving thanks that the snowblower started and ran and that I managed to change the oil in it without turning the garage into a (bigger) disaster. A cautionary note that I wish I had known about  years ago: some folks are selling stuff that’s not really well designed. My snowblower has two dipsticks but no drain pipe from the crankcase. One of the dipsticks is located right under the exhaust and muffler, presenting a wonderful opportunity to burn one’s hand if not very careful. I’m very grateful I bought other brands of snowblowers before the current one and won’t be foolish enough  to buy anything like it without  checking the details first. The manual doesn’t even list how much oil the crankcase holds. I’m grateful I could find that information on the internet.

some years November 23rd’s like this

Photo by J. Harrington

Things like the preceding make me grateful there are lots of capable folks working on helping design and create an economy that doesn’t depend on perpetual growth to be sustainable, because perpetual growth on a finite planet isn’t sustainable. I’m increasingly grateful that more and more of us are learning  that. There are no jobs on a dead planet.

I really enjoyed the Buffy Sainte-Marie documentary on PBS last night. Including some shots of Joni Mitchell was icing on the cake. I’m grateful to have lived at the same time as each of those wonderful artists and many others I’ve grown up with.

Yesterday the eye doctor gave me a relatively clean bill of health for an old fart (me, not the eye doctor), for which I’m grateful, although  the dilation eye drops hadn’t completely worn off by the time the B S-M documentary started so watching it was a little blurry at times. Today we’re enjoying another spell of blue skies, sunshine and above freezing temperatures. I have few doubts that, had I not checked out the snow blower today, T day would bring an Alberta clipper or an outright blizzard. Don’t bother to thank me, it was my (almost) pleasure.

America, I Sing Back

Allison Adelle Hedge Coke - 1958-

for Phil Young, my father, Robert Hedge Coke, Whitman, and Hughes

America, I sing back. Sing back what sung you in.
Sing back the moment you cherished breath.
Sing you home into yourself and back to reason.

Oh, before America began to sing, I sung her to sleep,
held her cradleboard, wept her into day.
My song gave her creation, prepared her delivery,
held her severed cord beautifully beaded.

My song helped her stand, held her hand for first steps,

nourished her very being, fed her, placed her three sisters strong.
My song comforted her as she battled my reason

broke my long held footing sure, as any child might do.

Lo, as she pushed herself away, forced me to remove myself,
as I cried this country, my song grew roses in each tear’s fall.

My blood veined rivers, painted pipestone quarries
circled canyons, while she made herself maiden fine.

Oh, but here I am, here I am, here, I remain high on each and every peak,
carefully rumbling her great underbelly, prepared to pour forth singing—

and sing again I will, as I have always done.

Never silenced unless in the company of strangers, singing

the stoic face, polite repose, polite, while dancing deep inside, polite
Mother of her world. Sister of myself.

When my song sings aloud again. When I call her back to cradle.
Call her to peer into waters, to behold herself in dark and light,

day and night, call her to sing along, call her to mature, to envision—

Then, she will make herself over. My song will make it so

When she grows far past her self-considered purpose,
I will sing her back, sing her back. I will sing. Oh, I will—I do.

America, I sing back. Sing back what sung you in.

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