By the time this is posted, we will have officially attained the Northern Hemisphere’s Autumnal Equinox. I’m sure of that because I control when the daily blog gets posted and today that will be after 1:50 pm CDT.
woollybear caterpillar (Isabella Tiger Moth)
Photo by J. Harrington
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Still no signs of woollybear worms, but the Climate Prediction Center already claims we may have a warmer, drier winter than normal, thanks to El NiΓ±o. Of course, their forecast is framed as a 40% to 60% chance. As I figure it, that averages at 50%, which equals a coin toss, which isn’t much of a forecast. In fact, it’s about as helpful as the banding on a woollybear caterpillar, which doesn’t foretell winter’s severity, or lack thereof, according to the U.S. Weather Service. Normally, I’d be heartened by the prospect, no matter how slim, of a milder, drier winter, but, over the past few years, I’ve noticed that warmer winters usually bring more freezing rain and ice storms than we used to get pre-Anthropocene. I can blow snow or scrape wet snow with the tractor’s back blade. Freezing rain leaves me with no tools except prayer that it melts soon.
a nice collection of prior year pumpkins
Photo by J. Harrington
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Back to autumn: looking toward the week ahead, one of our goals will be to get a few pumpkins. I saw the first ones for sale yesterday as I drove past a local feed and grain store. When we dropped off the Daughter Person’s CSA portion yesterday, I saw a couple of pumpkins on their front steps and instantly suffered some pangs of jealously. But, as I’ve learned over the years, it’s good to have at least one goal in life.
Football Weather
By Paul Carroll
As a kid I tried to coax its comingBy sleeping beneath light sheetsWeeks beforeThe funeral of the summer locusts in the yard;Then when Granny peeled down the crucifix offlypaper that dangled from the ceiling of thekitchenMagic wasn't needed any longerTo fill the air with pigskins. The air itselfAcrid, lambent, brightAs the robes of the Chinese gods inside theirhouse of glassIn the Field Museum by the lake.Even practice could be fun—The way, say, even sepia photographs of old-timeAll Americans could be pirates' goldLike my favorite Bill Corbus, Stanford's "Baby-Face Assassin" crouching at right guard, thelast to play without a helmet on—And the fun of testing muscles outLike new shoes; the odor of the locker roompungentAs the inside of a pumpkin;And the sting of that wet towel twirled againstbare butt by a genial, roaring Ziggy, Mt.Carmel's All State tackle from ImmaculateConception Parish near the mills;And then the victory, especially the close shaves,could feelLike finally getting beneath a girl's brassiereShe'll let you keepUnhooked for hours while you neckUntil the windshield of your Granddad's Ford V-8Becomes filled by a fogNot even Fu Manchu could penetrate. Jack,Next football weather my son Luke will be in highschool,Bigger than I was and well-coordinated—butCouldn't care a plenary indulgenceIf he ever lugs a pigskin down the turfOr hits a long shot on the court. At times, I wish hewould.So he might taste the happiness you knewSnagging Chris Zoukis' low pass to torpedo ninelong yards to touchdownAnd sink archrival Lawrence High45 years ago come this Thanksgiving Day. Still,He has his own intensitiesAs wild as sports and writing were for us:Luke's the seventh Rolling Stone,His electric guitar elegant and shiny blackAs a quiet street at nightGlazed by rain and pumpkin frost.
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