Some sources of hope

With some luck, tomorrow we will celebrate Lammas / Lughnasadh. The sourdough loaf I baked a week or so ago is almost gone. Tomorrow I’ll freshen the starter again and bake around midweek. I just read a paragraph that highlights for me how this feast fits these times.

The essence of Lughnasadh is the joy of life under the knowledge that darker times are moving in. We take in the warming rays of the Sun and store their power for the times coming. At the time we celebrate the next festival, Alban Elfed, it will be fall and the warm summer days will already be a memory.

we live by bread, but not alone

Photo by J. Harrington

If you’re concerned about our own darker times, you should consider taking a look at a book to be published next month, Democracy Awakening NOTES ON THE STATE OF AMERICA, By Heather Cox Richardson. I’ve been reading her Letters from an American for some time and find it heartening and reassuring. We’ve been through dark times before and, no doubt, will again. In large part it’s up to US how things get resolved.

In Democracy Awakening, Richardson crafts a compelling and original narrative, explaining how, over the decades, a small group of wealthy people have made war on American ideals. By weaponizing language and promoting false history they have led us into authoritarianism — creating a disaffected population and then promising to recreate an imagined past where those people could feel important again. She argues that taking our country back starts by remembering the elements of the nation’s true history that marginalized Americans have always upheld. Their dedication to the principles on which this nation was founded has enabled us to renew and expand our commitment to democracy in the past. Richardson sees this history as a roadmap for the nation’s future.

Another level headed source of hope that I think I’ve mentioned before is Tristan Roberts. Today he asks, and answers quite satisfactorily, the question: do you have hope for our kids? He concludes his answer this way:

 I don't need to summon hope for the kids. They were born for this world. They've got everything they need.

That includes us, showing up every day, expressing ourselves.

Tomorrow is a first attempt at a Tweetless Tuesday. I’m going to do my best to avoid that platform tomorrow and may even see if I can forego my daily dose of doom and gloom by not reading the news media. If the world does end tomorrow, would one of you ber so kind as to mention it in the comments here? Thanks!

The Power of Hope Today

Gabrielle Marshall

Today’s hope is a flickering candle that dwells in a snow-dusted window, 
circulating the prayers of Christmas mornings. 
Today’s hope is the crisp daffodil in colorless photos,
containing the soul of a small 
child,
who only wishes and knows of 
peace and love.
Today’s hope is the sparkling eyes that
truly believe in achieving
anything to reach unity.
Today’s hope is the palm to palm connection
bracing each other for the climb neither expected,
but couldn’t abandon.
Today’s hope is peering
beyond
the lingering barrier,
but still recognizing the diversity in ourselves.
Today’s hope has been dimmed and tossed recklessly,
but still generously stays with us,
for we cannot help but come back
like wide eyed children to candy.
We are said to be weak to rely on such strength,
but we are only believers.
That spark 
That gives science a baffled case
And oceans an infinite plane,
is the eagle that dips 
and soars
and fights,
which stands for
the hope of 
today. 

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Just some stuff

Today’s posting is brought to you by SiSi and Harry, our two rescue dogs. SiSi’s continuing existence is somewhat miraculous, in light of how much she sheds I wonder there’s anything left of her. Harry, on the other hand, does a better job hanging onto his hair but does his best to destroy his crate every time we have to go out. SiSi necessitates ownership of a heavy duty vacuum; Harry a handful of cleanup tools to deal with the residue on and around the carpet outside his crate. Having dogs means having dog stuff like leashes and toys and food and dishes and collars and combs and crates. You get the picture. If SiSi could learn to run the vacuum and Harry the rug cleaner, today’s posting would be very different. But needing that extra stuff, in large part on their behalf, brought me again to wondering about how much stuff we have. (At the rate I’m exhibiting male pattern baldness, I soon won’t need a hair brush but I’m not shedding on the carpet.)

SiSi and Harry overseeing stuff

Photo by J. Harrington

So, it’s been quite a while since I watched The Story of Stuff. I’m overdue for a re-view. The Better Half and I have reached a point at which we need to start downsizing, No, not beginning with the dogs. At one point, we operated a home based business. We now have an accumulation of file cabinets and desks that don’t get nearly the use they once did. How long should we keep old files and insurance policies? Has a “Downsizing for Dummies” been published?

A decade or so ago I was much more active in fishing and hunting than I am now. I have duck decoys and a duck boat that haven’t been used in years. If I get rid of them will that trigger a sudden desire to take up duck hunting again? (I’m well qualified to write “Duck Hunting for Dummies,” I’ve lived it.)

At the time I acquired everything I now own, it seemed like a good idea but I hadn’t considered ultimate disposal. The Daughter Person and Son-In-Law have expressed no interest in ownership of any part of the three belly boat / float tubes the Better Half and I have acquired over the years. And let’s not even touch on the library of books about fishing, hunting, nature, etc. and -- poetry, that are overflowing shelves and stacks. I have a partial excuse in that libraries frequently fail to carry much of what I’ve wanted to read. So, I’m hoping for some inspiration when I rewatch The Story.... I’m beginning to feel more and more like an old Scandahoovian uncle with newspapers and magazine stacks filling the house with narrow passageways between.

The Green Stamp Book

Susan Wheeler
1955 – 

Child in the thick of yearning. Doll carted and pushed 
like child. The aisles purport opportunities — 

looking up, the women's chins, the straight rows 
of peas and pretzels, Fizzies' foils, hermetic 

boxes no one knows. I'll get it! What thing therein 
— bendy straws, powder blue pack Blackjack gum — 

will this child fix upon? On TV, women with grocery carts 
careen down aisles to find expensive stuff. Mostly, 

this means meat. This, then, is a life. This, a life 
that's woven wrong and, woven once, disbraided, sits 

like Halloween before a child, disguised in its red 
Santa suit, making its lap loom the poppy field 

Dorothy wants to bed. Can I have and the song's begun. 
O world spotted through more frugal legs. O world. 

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Going local (again, some more)

We’re almost through with July. It remains to be seen if summer is through with US. The flowage / creek / pond complex north of our place is close to dry. The Sunrise river, downstream of the dam in Carlos Avery, is way below bankfull. Yesterday’s storms varied enough that some northern parts of the county got almost 3 inches of rain, while southern locations only received a little more than half an inch. Water temperatures in the area exceed 70℉ and are more than 80℉ at some nearby stations. Time to leave the heat-stressed trout alone until things cool down.

few local corn fields look this healthy

Photo by J. Harrington

It’s not as though there’s a shortage of things to be tended to around the place. The ever present dead branches need collecting. If we avoid wildfire smoke for a bit, I may even burn some of them. The tractor's off being repaired, so mowing and related efforts are deferred until it’s healthy and functioning again. I have a multitude of tsundoku stacks that can stand to get organized and some fly fishing gear that still needs cleaning and checking out (for when things cool down).

As we begin the transition from summer to harvest season, and approach my favorite half of the year, I need to refresh my awareness that I can only live one day at a time and that, if everything’s important, nothing’s important. I’m noticing more and more that the local newsletters from Trout Unlimited chapters frequently contain stories of local folks doing good works that improve pieces of and places on the earth and the lives of those who live and play there. That’s frequently more than I see in national and international headlines. Could it be that the secrets to a happy life are underfoot? Does the Mad Farmer offer the secret(s) to real success?

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

by Wendell Berry

 

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,

vacation with pay. Want more

of everything ready-made. Be afraid

to know your neighbors and to die.

And you will have a window in your head.

Not even your future will be a mystery

any more. Your mind will be punched in a card

and shut away in a little drawer.

When they want you to buy something

they will call you. When they want you

to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something

that won’t compute. Love the Lord.

Love the world. Work for nothing.

Take all that you have and be poor.

Love someone who does not deserve it.

Denounce the government and embrace

the flag. Hope to live in that free

republic for which it stands.

Give your approval to all you cannot

understand. Praise ignorance, for what man

has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.

Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.

Say that your main crop is the forest

that you did not plant,

that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested

when they have rotted into the mold.

Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus

that will build under the trees

every thousand years.

Listen to carrion — put your ear

close, and hear the faint chattering

of the songs that are to come.

Expect the end of the world. Laugh.

Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful

though you have considered all the facts.

So long as women do not go cheap

for power, please women more than men.

Ask yourself: Will this satisfy

a woman satisfied to bear a child?

Will this disturb the sleep

of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.

Lie easy in the shade. Rest your head

in her lap. Swear allegiance

to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos

can predict the motions of your mind,

lose it. Leave it as a sign

to mark the false trail, the way

you didn’t go. Be like the fox

who makes more tracks than necessary,

some in the wrong direction.

Practice resurrection.

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Some errors of our era

We finally got lots of rain last night. The telltale puddle in the driveway was close to full this morning. Yesterday brought several severe storms to our north with winds and hail bringing down lots of leaves and some trees. Meanwhile, the UN secretary general has announced that “the era of global boiling has arrived.” Nevertheless the Biden administration has chosen to not (yet?) declare a climate emergency. Neither have I read that there are any pre-established triggers or criteria for such a declaration.

Meanwhile, closer to home, yet another aquifer puncture has been discovered along Enbridge's Line 3. I’ve not yet learned how all the fines in the world will actually restore the environment, sort of similar to how long it’s estimated to take for earth’s climate to begin to return to “normal” if we ever minimize greenhouse gas discharges. The Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources is being sued to keep it from requiring approved manure management plans for Concentrated Animal Feeding Operations [CAFOs]. In Minnesota, I wonder if there’s any state agency that does as much to support metals recycling as the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources does to support metals mining.

recycling before extraction

Photo by J. Harrington

Back when Manifest Destiny was aspirational, the colonizing powers gave away land to get the country “developed.” In 1972, the Clean Water Act Amendments updated and expanded the “Rivers and Harbors Act (1899), the Federal Water Pollution Control Act (1948), the Water Quality Act (1965), and the Refuse Act (1970)” Folks are still debating the interpretation and coverage of that legislation. There has been no comparable update to the Mining Act of 1872. We have long “settled” and colonized the country from coast to coast. We no longer need to promote extractive industries as an economic development strategy. Protecting and restoring clean air, water, food sovereignty and, probably, manufacturing are more critical priorities if we wish to have a survivable future, let alone a sustainable one.

There’s an old saying in the planning profession: “More of the same never solved a problem.” The same is true of law and politics. We can and must do better and stop the “same old, same old” solutions.

Value Added

By Stephen Sandy

No one knew what the stones like squatting frogs

signified. There they were, fuming in rows, out

of the ground; every critic had his explanation

or hers. But—we had to remember—they

 

came to nothing, every one; those large stones

out of the earth served the systems

of those who considered them, as explaining

something about the past it was important

 

for the explainer to explain. And yet

no one had any idea truly; there was no

basis in fact for any view of them, and

they remained like their origins—or like

 

smiling Olmec babies, sweet but ominous figures

come from the earth to reproach us, almost

cheerfully, for our ignorance—a mystery, just

as the probe of our feelings came up with nothing.

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Hot enough to ...

Yes, I’m in one of those moods again. It just occurred to me that there’s at least one benefit to the god-awful heat spells and smoke advisories we’ve been enduring. Come next January and February I won’t be looking forward to next summer. Climate weirding has taken the pressure off of wishing my seasons away Even if I could find someplace that’s October (my favorite month) year round, I’d probably find that monotonous after a few years.

remember looking forward to Summer?

Photo by J. Harrington

Tomorrow I have another invitation to go fishing again with the Son-In-Law and Daughter Person. After yesterday and today’s early morning “warmth” and humidity, I’m leaning heavily toward staying in my air conditioned abode. That’s no doubt a sign I have gotten (past pluperfect) old. It also indicates I may have avoided, at least in part, the problem of “We get too soon old and too late schmart!!” I mean even our local outdoor writer, Dennis Anderson, is taking note of the heat: Minnesota can get too hot for proper fishing — and we could be there now. If we get lucky, the thunderstorms in tonight’s forecast won’t be enough to trouble SiSi, my dog, who will then not trouble me.

I haven’t yet gotten around to setting up a comparison of our Community Supported Agriculture [CSA] weekly shares between last year and this, but I do have this week’s box contents:

• SUNFLOWER BABY GREENS
• BROCCOLI
• SUGAR BABY WATERMELON
• CUCUMBERs
• PIRAT LETTUCE
• SUMMER SQUASH
• SWEET BANANA PEPPER
• GREEN MACHINE ZUKE, and
• HAKUREI TURNIPS

Have you noticed the list is getting longer? Last night the Better Half did something creative with summer squash and some kind of cheese topping / sauce. If I hadn't been raised in New England eating mostly boiled veggies, I might have developed more appreciation for the flora as well as the fauna on my dinner plate. Better late than ...

Summer Heat

by Eugene Field

Nay, why discuss this summer heat,
Of which vain people tell?
Oh, sinner, rather were it meet
To fix thy thoughts on hell!
The punishment ordained for you
In that infernal spot
Is het by Satan's impish crew
And kept forever hot.
Sumatra might be reckoned nice,
And Tophet passing cool,
And Sodom were a cake of ice
Beside that sulphur pool.
An awful stench and dismal wail
Come from the broiling souls,
Whilst Satan with his fireproof tail
Stirs up the brimstone coals.
Oh, sinner, on this end 'tis meet
That thou shouldst ponder well,
For what, oh, what, is worldly heat
Unto the heat of hell?

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No explanation

We need the rain, but thunder and lightning at about 2 am made SiSi, my dog, anxious, so she decided to awaken me to provide reassurance. Naturally, since I couldn’t make the noises and flashing lights stop, I also couldn’t provide enough reassurance for her to go back to sleep. You can probably see where this is going. At SiSi’s urging, we got up about 3-ish, collected Harry the Beagle, got the dogs fed and walked, then sat around waiting for things to settle down. Fortunately, at the time we went for our early constitutional, it wasn’t pouring, it was only drizzling. When we got back in the house, Harry took a nap, I got a cup of coffee, and SiSi cowered next to my chair. I have no idea why some dogs are really sensitive to thunderstorms and others could care less.

As I mentioned, we need the rain. If we could have got rain without thunderstorms, all of us could have had a decent night’s sleep. If SiSi were as indifferent to thunder and lightning as Harry appears to be, we all could have gotten a decent night’s sleep. As it turned out, we didn’t get either enough sleep or enough rain. I wonder what will happen to our weather when the Gulf Stream stops because we didn’t do enough, fast enough, to curb climate weirding. Why aren’t more humans sensitive to existential threats? Life these days reminds me too much of the old joke about the farmer who won the lottery. When asked what he planned to do with all that money, the farmer allowed as how he’d probably just keep farming ’til the money ran out. Will we just keep on keeping on until we run out of time?

is a mother ship behind these clouds?

Photo by J. Harrington

Is it possible that our lack of sense is attributable to alien rays? I ask because of the report that:

The US government conducted a “multi-decade” program which collected, and attempted to reverse-engineer, crashed UFOs, a former American intelligence official told a remarkable congressional hearing on Wednesday.

Could those same aliens be the ones who “stole” the 2020 election? Or are we getting closer to finding real evidence that aliens are hiding a mother ship behind the moon and beaming a “stupid ray” at earthlings? Thus far, that’s the only way I can begin to account for all those who have voted for tRUMP, Gaetz, MTG, Gym J., LB (without a J) and several other MAGAts. I’m still unclear how, if we let idiots vote, we avoid electing idiots. Surely Liz Cheney isn’t expecting our political parties to do a better job of vetting who they nominate as candidates. Wouldn’t that be like expecting the Three Stooges to perform Shakespeare or Beckett? And if we’re not being bombarded with alien distortions, why did I write today’s posting?

A Partial History Of My Stupidity

By Edward Hirsch

Traffic was heavy coming off the bridge,

and I took the road to the right, the wrong one,

and got stuck in the car for hours.

Most nights I rushed out into the evening

without paying attention to the trees,

whose names I didn't know,

or the birds, which flew heedlessly on.

I couldn't relinquish my desires

or accept them, and so I strolled along

like a tiger that wanted to spring

but was still afraid of the wildness within.

The iron bars seemed invisible to others,

but I carried a cage around inside me.

I cared too much what other people thought

and made remarks I shouldn't have made.

I was silent when I should have spoken.

Forgive me, philosophers,

I read the Stoics but never understood them.

I felt that I was living the wrong life,

spiritually speaking,

while halfway around the world

thousands of people were being slaughtered,

some of them by my countrymen.

So I walked on—distracted, lost in thought—

and forgot to attend to those who suffered

far away, nearby.

Forgive me, faith, for never having any.

I did not believe in God,

who eluded me.

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Lammas loaf

Lammas, or Lughnasadh, is celebrated one week from today, on August 1. In its honor, I have a sourdough loaf in the oven. It’s been months since I last baked bread and the house’s AC is coping with having the oven on while outside the temperature is exceeding 90℉. This year, between spring burning prohibitions and summer drought, and skies smoke filled from Canada, we’ve not been able to work celebratory bonfires into our schedule at appropriate times. I know it’s early for “baking season,” but it feels good to be getting back into the routine.

sliced sourdough loaf

Photo by J. Harrington

Now, it’s not my intent to do a “bread and fishes” routine with this posting, but earlier today I (re)discovered an organization known as the Native Fish Coalition which is developing an approach for holistic stream restoration. The pilot is on a stream in my state of origin, Massachusetts. The target species is brook trout. This serendipitous sequence has re-enthused my waning interest in fly fishing, brookies, and habitat restoration. Those interests had, like bread baking, drifted to the wayside over the past few months. Summer ennui?

As a long-time member of Trout Unlimited, I was curious to learn TU’s perspective on native fish conservation. Turns out TU has a National Workgroup on the subject. I hadn’t picked up on that over the years. Now I’m going to do some reading on what each organization has accomplished and hopes to achieve in the future, particularly regarding brook trout, and see what volunteer opportunities that presents. Not bad for a sultry summer weekday.

We hope you keep cool during our hot spell and that the thunderstorms we’re expecting don’t become another severe weather alert. However, since I’m not doing bread and fishes today, I’m not above casting (some of) my bread upon the waters, if we get enough waters. If not, I may see what happens if I cast a fly upon them. (I know. I’m ashamed. The heat’s got to me.)

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.

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No more heads in the sand?

Do you see a troublesome pattern here?

• Texas governor defies federal order to remove anti-migrant buoys from river 


• Lawsuit says US environmental agency ignores harm of biofuel production


• ‘No one wants to be right about this’: climate scientists’ horror and exasperation as global predictions play out


• Greta Thunberg fined for disobeying Swedish police at climate protest

What else do we need to do?

Photo by J. Harrington

More and more headlines note political leaders and executive branch institutions undermining the rule of law rather than setting an appropriate example. Disinformtion and misinformation are being spread at increasing rates while a major social media platform focuses on “rebranding,” as if that’s the problem. Climate deniers have hindered the scale and speed of responses needed to avert the kinds of climate weirding effects we’re experiencing this summer. More and more folks, including pundits much more qualified than I, are expressing growing concerns about “saving” democracy without being specific about what steps we should be taking.

Scientists told us what we needed to do but it would mean radical changes in lifestyles so we continue as we were because “What else ya gonna do?” If we continue to ignore the threats posed by those individuals and institutions that fail to respect science and/or the rule of law, might we find ourselves embroiled in a second civil war come next year? Would there be any real winners or would that make US all losers?

How to Write a Poem in a Time of War

By Joy Harjo

You can’t begin just anywhere. It’s a wreck.

                                                                                       Shrapnel and the eye

Of a house, a row of houses. There’s a rat scrambling

From light with fleshy trash in its mouth. A baby strapped to its mother’s back

Cut loose.                                                                     Soldiers crawl the city,

The river, the town, the village,

                                      The bedroom, our kitchen. They eat everything.

Or burn it.

They kill what they cannot take. They rape. What they cannot kill they take.

Rumors fall like rain.

                                     Like bombs.

                 Like mother and father tears swallowed for restless peace.

                                     Like sunset slanting toward a moonless midnight.

Like a train blown free of its destination.         Like a seed fallen where

There is no chance of trees                 or anyplace       for birds to live.

No, start here.                           Deer peer from the edge of the woods.

                                                                        We used to see woodpeckers

The size of the sun, redbirds, and were greeted

                                          By chickadees with their good morning songs.

We’d started to cook outside slippery with dew and laughter, ah those smoky sweet sunrises.

We tried to pretend war wasn’t going to happen.

Though they began building their houses all around us and demanding 
more.

They started teaching our children their god’s story,

                                                               A story in which we’d always be slaves.

No. Not here.

You can’t begin here.

This is memory shredded because it is impossible to hold by words, even poetry.

These memories were left here with the trees:

The torn pocket of your daughter’s hand-sewn dress,

The sash, the lace.

The baby’s delicately beaded moccasin still connected to the foot,

A young man’s note of promise to his beloved —

                                                                              No! This is not the best place to begin.

Everyone was asleep, despite the distant bombs. Terror had become the familiar stranger.

Our beloved twin girls curled up in their nightgowns, next to their father and me.

If we begin here, none of us will make it to the end

                                                                                                               Of the poem.

Someone has to make it out alive, sang a grandfather to his grandson,

His granddaughter, as he blew his most powerful song into the hearts of the children.

There it would be hidden from the soldiers,

Who would take them miles, rivers, mountains from the navel cord place

Of the origin story.

He knew one day, far day, the grandchildren would return, 
generations later

Over slick highways                             constructed over old trails

Through walls of laws meant to hamper or destroy, over the 
libraries of

The ancestors in the winds, born in stones.

His song brings us to his home place in these smoky hills.

Begin here.

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Lazy. hazy, crazy days

We’re beginning the end of July. It’s now the last full week of that month. Canada’s wildfire smoke is again drifting through our skies. The recent 24 hour, ten inch rain that fell in Nova Scotia would have been better placed on the wild fires. Lots of folks have it much worse than we do these days, despite our increasing drought which is about to be exacerbated by a dry week of temperatures at and above 90℉.

On a cheerier front, I seem to have convinced Son-In-Law that there’s something to this fly-fishing stuff. Reports are that he’s now adding tackle and gear (rods and flies) for his next go at the panfish and small bass we were playing with last Friday. I, on the other hand, am still nursing some aged legs that haven’t been in a boat for years and aren’t used to getting the exercise that maintaining balance while fly-casting from a floating platform requires. It’s probably more accurate to note that I’m obviously not getting enough exercise or the right kind if a few hours in a boat does this to me. After the heat wave I’ll literally stretch my legs more than I have been.

lazy, hazy, crazy days of Summer

Photo by J. Harrington

St. Croix river flows are at 50% to 60% of long term median flows for July 23 but as we drove along the river last Friday, just north of Taylors Falls, water levels look much like bank full conditions. It’s hard to get a feel for what’s really happening. It’s not good, but it prompts the old question Ed McMahon used to ask Johnny Carson: “How bad is it?” Naturally, under these conditions, the tractor has developed some sort of very serious condition and won’t be back from the  dealer’s service department for a week or more. Details may follow when we get some, but for now I may stretch my legs hauling a watering can up to help our spring plantings make it through the next week or so. We’ll see.

You’re correct. We’re not sharing much that’s really new and exciting and different. What can you expect during the slow, sultry, hot, humid summer days of the Anthropocene with an El Niño developed?

Travelling Storm

Mark Van Doren
1894 – 1972

The sky, above us here, is open again. 
The sun comes hotter, and the shingles steam. 
The trees are done with dripping, and the hens
Bustle among bright pools to pick and drink. . . . 
But east and south are black with speeding storm. 
That thunder, low and far, remembering nothing,
Gathers a new world under it and growls, 
Worries, strikes, and is gone.  Children at windows 
Cry at the rain, it pours so heavily down,
Drifting across the yard till the sheds are grey. . . . 
A county father on, the wind is all—
A swift dark wind that turns the maples pale, 
Ruffles the hay, and spreads the swallows’ wings. 
Horses, suddenly restless, are unhitched,
And men, with glances upward, hurry in; 
Their overalls blow full and cool; they shout;
Soon they will lie in barns and laugh at the lightning. . . . 
Another county yet, and the sky is still; 
The air is fainting; women sit with fans
And wonder when a rain will come that way. 

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Please be kind to each other while you can.

Babes in the woods

For the past few days, we’ve been seeing a small flock of wild turkey hens traveling with their assorted poults through our yard and across the street in the neighbor’s field. Yesterday morning a whitetail doe stood on the hill behind the house for quite a while. She was briefly joined by a spotted fawn who did a series of zoomie circles around the yard and disappeared back into the woods. Some time in the past few days, a young downey woodpecker knocked itself out on the walkout door to the deck. An hour or two after seeing the “body” lying on the deck, it was gone. Flown away with a headache? It’s that time of year when young’uns learn their way around a home range and some, while exploring, make more mistakes than others. Watching fawns and poults dash and scurry around is one oof the joys of country living.

back yard: whitetail doe

Photo by J. Harrington

Then, today, after having lived in the country here for something like twenty-five years, for the first time we saw a pair of sandhill cranes in our very own back yard. Before now, we’ve seen them in the neighbor’s fields, on mown lawns at a subdivision down the road, in distant farm fields, and, often, in the nearby Carlos Avery marshes. We can now largely confirm the old British saying “All things come to Thames that wait!” Unfortunately, patience has never been one of my stronger points, but I no longer feel discriminated against by the crane population.

back yard: sandhill crane

Photo by J. Harrington

This afternoon we’re getting thunder with no rain. Yesterday we had a brief downpour with no thunder and almost no clouds. Sun-shower, anyone? More thunder is in the forecast for the evening. We can use the precipitation, preferably without any severe side effects. As of today, we’re down to just over 15 hours of daylight and dropping. It’s less than two weeks to Lammas, or Lughnasadh, the beginning of harvest season. In anticipation, I’m again back to refreshing (resurrecting?) my sourdough starter. That’s it for now.

In Harvest

By Sophie Jewett

Mown meadows skirt the standing wheat;

I linger, for the hay is sweet,

New-cut and curing in the sun.

Like furrows, straight, the windrows run,

Fallen, gallant ranks that tossed and bent

When, yesterday, the west wind went

A-rioting through grass and grain.

To-day no least breath stirs the plain;

Only the hot air, quivering, yields

Illusive motion to the fields

Where not the slenderest tassel swings.

Across the wheat flash sky-blue wings;

A goldfinch dangles from a tall,

Full-flowered yellow mullein; all

The world seems turning blue and gold.

Unstartled, since, even from of old,

Beauty has brought keen sense of her,

I feel the withering grasses stir;

Along the edges of the wheat,

I hear the rustle of her feet:

And yet I know the whole sea lies,

And half the earth, between our eyes.

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Getting hooked on self care

Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.

Henry David Thoreau

Well, thanks to the Daughter Person and Son-In-Law, I’m already ahead of last year on at least one front that’s important to me: fishing. Plus, the weather couldn’t have been more pleasant. We spent a couple of hours this morning in their boat on a nearby lake, playing with little bluegills and a couple of pint-sized bass. The official reports on the lake note an abundance of both species but below average sizes. I can vouch for that. Many of the bluegills were so small they couldn’t mouth a size 14 or 16 wooly worm, but it was fun watching them try to eat it within a few feet of the boat. It has been entirely too long since I’ve been fishing. Last year we (the Better Half and I) totally failed to wet a line. We’ll try to do better from now on. (I just remembered Yoda's “Do. Or do not. There is no try.”)

It turned out my fly casting isn’t as rusty as I feared it might have become, but I established a new personal worst by somehow entangling the leader in the innards of the fly reel. I’ve never done that before. The old phrase “Use it or lose it!” comes again to mind since the fly rod I took this morning hasn’t seen daylight for several years. Slowly but surely all my fly tackle will get sorted out, organized, and put to good use. In fact, I just realized that some gold-ribbed hare’s ear nymphs I tied years age, that may well not fool a trout, could be just the thing for playing with pan fish next time we go out. I’ll also remember to bring a fly rod more in line with the diminutive size of the fish, which will undoubtedly make for excitement when something bigger eats the fly.

flies for pan fish or trout

Photo by J. Harrington

Come afternoon it's time again to do the weekly Community Supported Agriculture [CSA] pickup. This week’s box contents include:

• COLLARDS
• KOHLRABI
• GREEN BELL PEPPER
• CUCUMBER
• SUMMER SQUASH, and
• GREEN CABBAGE

Last week there was a note in our box that Bilko cabbage was missing. We probably ended up with extra summer squash and green beans. Part of the fun of CSA membership is there are no guarantees of what will be delivered. It’s not the same as going to a big box store and picking one of these and one of those. I have mixed feelings about the lack of green beans this week. They’ve been really tasty but we’ve eaten quite a few the past couple of weeks. As unreasonable as it may sound, I really wish someone would figure out how to make fresh vegetables as tasty as junk food. Else, it feels as if doing something that I know is good for me is almost a punishment, despite the Better Half’s creativity with salads and side dishes and quiches.

Now, I’m sharing with you a challenge I’m making to myself: over the duration of at least the summer, I’m going to engage in one or more of these 60+ self care ideas every day. Feel free to join in. It’s a variation on the concept that “Living well is  the  best  revenge.” 

Remember

Joy Harjo
1951 – 

Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star’s stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is.
Remember the sun’s birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother’s, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life, also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe.
Remember you are all people and all people
are you.
Remember you are this universe and this
universe is you.
Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember language comes from this.
Remember the dance language is, that life is.
Remember.

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Please be kind to each other while you can.

Going to the dogs

Using a “best guesstimate” approach and the data from the CoCoRaHS web site, we got about .2 inches (two tenths of an inch) of rain late yesterday. Close to but better than nothing. The drought has deepened in much of the state, although we continue to experience lots of cloud cover, which makes days more dreary but helps keep temperatures down, or has so far. For next week’s forecast we get into the mid-nineties. Sigh!

Harry the Beagle warming my chair

Photo by J. Harrington

We’re pleased to report that Mr. Harry the Beagle’s sprained tail is much improved. Harry is the Better Half’s dog and she notes that she’s happy to see he has his wag back. SiSi, my blonde lab cross-breed, hopes that we get more rain but without the thunder and lightning, thank-you-very-much! If you’ve considered getting a dog, especially a rescue, and have some reservations, let me assure you they’re more than worth any inconvenience, and there probably will be some. If that’s not enough to motivate you, check out these Gene Hill quotes on dogs. Mr. Hill is one of my all time favorite out-door writers, but don’t just take my word for it, see what Sporting Classics has to say about him.

I need to make some major adjustments and spend more time with our dogs and my toys and less time on my duff in the chair pictured above with Harry seated in it. I may need to pull a Tom Sawyer on myself to accomplish that, like the way he got the fence whitewashed. I fear that, in the process of getting older, I’ve also become staider. I need to create a way to undo that or the MAGAt Republicans will win. I’ve decided that one of their primary  objectives is to make the rest of US as miserable as they are. If we can stay, or get, happy, we win and they lose. Playing with dogs, fly rods, shotguns and spending more time in the outdoors is one way I think I can destaidify myself. Check back from time to time to see how it’s going.

Happy as a Dog’s Tail

By Anna Swir

Happy as something unimportant

and free as a thing unimportant.

As something no one prizes

and which does not prize itself.

As something mocked by all

and which mocks at their mockery.

As laughter without serious reason.

As a yell able to outyell itself.

Happy as no matter what,

as any no matter what.

Happy

as a dog’s tail.

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Peak summer phenology

Earlier today we saw a small flock of turkeys on the rise behind the house. The exciting news is that there was a bunch of poults scurrying around among the adults. We’ve not seen any poults this year until this morning, and if memory serves, there were few sightings last year. It’s encouraging to see the next generation has arrived and is ready to thrive if we give them the chance.

Canada thistle

Photo by J. Harrington

Roadside Canada thistle is developing fluff or down. American goldfinches will be collecting some to line their nests. In a month or so, there should be goldfinch hatchlings.

Again, and again, forecast rain hasn’t arrived. Maybe this evening’s thunderstorms will dampen the ground as well as the dog’s spirits? The grasses and other plants on the rise behind the house are in very poor shape. All of the state is abnormally dry to moderate drought. On the rise, turkeys have turned several locations into sandy dust baths. A handful of black-eyed Susans provides a little color. Meanwhile, at the foot of the rise, the grasses surrounding the wet spot are flourishing.

Some to much, but not most, of the field corn is beginning to tassel. A number of the local corn fields are full of bald spots where seeds were washed out last spring or otherwise failed to germinate. A second cutting of hay is getting baled and a few nearby small fields are up for sale. Will they soon be growing single family detached houses?

The Drought

By Gary Soto

The clouds shouldered a path up the mountains

East of Ocampo, and then descended,

Scraping their bellies gray on the cracked shingles of slate.

They entered the valley, and passed the roads that went

Trackless, the houses blown open, their cellars creaking

And lined with the bottles that held their breath for years.

They passed the fields where the trees dried thin as hat racks

And the plow’s tooth bit the earth for what endured.

But what continued were the wind that plucked the birds spineless

And the young who left with a few seeds in each pocket,

Their belts tightened on the fifth notch of hunger—

Under the sky that deafened from listening for rain.

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Please be kind to each other while you can.