As Solstice nears

For those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, Winter Solstice is three weeks from today. Druids celebrate it as Alban Arthan (The Light of Arthur). By December’s end, days will again be growing longer, although we in the North Country still will face several months of cold and snow.

If you visit this blog with any regularity, you’ve probably noted by now that I’m not much of a winter person. In my younger days I enjoyed ice skating, tried skiing, both downhill and cross-country, rode a snowmobile once, and even drove on ice a couple of times. I have also put a four-wheel-drive vehicle into a full skid twice on snow-covered roads. I do better with boats, shotguns and fly-fishing rods when temperatures are well above freezing. If the weather we’re enjoying this week continued until April, you’d not hear a peep of complaint from me, as long as the lack of snow didn’t cause the septic system to freeze up.

cardinals often look their best in winter

Photo by J. Harrington

Winter, for me, is a wonderful time to try playing with any Christmas toys Santa left, and reading poetry, and reorganizing and repairing gear for next spring, summer and autumn’s outdoor activities. It’s also prime time for reading poetry, tying flies, baking bread and recuperating from the aforementioned three seasons’ activities. This winter we’re also trying to organize and thin out our almost excessive book collection. That will depend on the amount of time we need to spend blowing and/or plowing snow, walking dogs, and other winter chores, all the time looking forward to the arrival of Spring Equinox.

Winter in all of Our Lives

There is a winter in all of our lives, 
a chill and darkness that makes us yearn 
for days that have gone 
or put our hope in days yet to be. 
Father God, you created seasons for a purpose. 
Spring is full of expectation 
buds breaking 
frosts abating and an awakening 
of creation before the first days of summer. 
Now the sun gives warmth 
and comfort to our lives 
reviving aching joints
bringing colour, new life
and crops to fruiting. 
Autumn gives nature space 
to lean back, relax and enjoy the fruits of its labour 
mellow colours in sky and landscape 
as the earth prepares to rest. 
Then winter, cold and bare as nature takes stock
rests, unwinds, sleeps until the time is right. 
An endless cycle
and yet a perfect model. 
We need a winter in our lives 
a time of rest, a time to stand still 
a time to reacquaint ourselves 
with the faith in which we live. 
It is only then that we can draw strength 
from the one in whom we are rooted
take time to grow and rise through the darkness 
into the warm glow of your springtime 
to blossom and flourish 
bring colour and vitality into this world
your garden.
Thank you Father 
for the seasons of our lives.

- Author Unknown

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The sweetest season approaches

A boule of sourdough bread is about ready to come out of the oven. The house smells great and the oven has taken the edge off any late November chilly drafts, although this afternoon’s weather (mid 40’s) is a big improvement over yesterday’s. Last week’s snow along the edges of the road is actually melting in the sun. The Daughter Person, Son-In-Law, and Granddaughter are visiting for dinner. Things are looking better than okay, at least for the moment, in our little corner of the world.

The dogs and I took a stroll to check the ice cover on the “pond” north of the property. The ice is still there, although a couple of places look a little soft. But then it is more a creek than a pond. It drains, very slowly, to the Sunrise river about half a mile away.

a seasonal favorite

Photo by J. Harrington

I’m looking forward to cutting down and putting up the tree this weekend. The Better Half and I did a quick scan a few days ago and picked out this year’s tree, but then I noticed several pines growing on the south side of the drive that I’ve not looked at carefully. Some time over the next few days I’ll go peek and see if there’s one I think looks even better than the already carefully selected specimen.

Still to come are the wonderful sights, smells and tastes of the Better Half’s Christmas cookie baking. I have a particular fondness for thumbprint cookies filled with raspberry jam, but, in a pinch, will settle for frosted cookies. I do promise to leave at least a few for Santa on Christmas Eve.

[little tree]

By E. E. Cummings

little tree 

little silent Christmas tree 

you are so little 

you are more like a flower 

who found you in the green forest 

and were you very sorry to come away? 

see          i will comfort you 

because you smell so sweetly 

i will kiss your cool bark 

and hug you safe and tight 

just as your mother would, 

only don't be afraid 

look          the spangles 

that sleep all the year in a dark box 

dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine, 

the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads, 

put up your little arms 

and i'll give them all to you to hold 

every finger shall have its ring 

and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy 

then when you're quite dressed 

you'll stand in the window for everyone to see 

and how they'll stare! 

oh but you'll be very proud 

and my little sister and i will take hands 

and looking up at our beautiful tree 

we'll dance and sing 

"Noel Noel" 

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Ice in

All the small to moderate size ponds and lakes I drove past this morning are ice covered shore to shore. Green Lake had a flock of about a dozen swans resting on the ice, near a flock of Canada gees about half that size. All had their heads tucked up under their wings. (I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.) Even the Sunrise river pools are iced in. We’re another step closer to a landscape frozen until spring and eventual ice out. I doubt this week’s warm up will return open water, but we’ll see.

Christmas lists are getting shaped up. I’m trying to not get too annoyed with today’s email flood of Giving Tuesday requests piling in a couple of weeks after Minnesota’s Give To The Max Day. Lots of good folks doing, or trying to do, good work, need support. Most of them seem to believe that the best indication you may give again is that you already gave once. But, as famous song writers once wrote “It ain’t necessarily so.”

have a holly, jolly Christmas

Photo by J. Harrington

Some of the amaryllis bulbs are beginning to show signs of life in emergent green shoots. Others appear to be hibernating. It’ll be fun to see if we end up with red flowers for Christmas, New Year’s or Valentines. This reminds me, it’s almost time to go on my annual, sometime fruitless, search for holly plants or bouquets. At some point along the line, I became convinced it’s not really Christmas without holly. Even without being successful, the search is usually fun and often prompts unusual expressions on the faces of staff at local florists and nurseries.

This afternoon has brought blue skies, sunshine, and somewhat moderated temperatures. I’ve managed to pick up a few stocking stuffers. The rest of the week is supposed to be closer to seasonal temperatures. Friday is December 1. Whether or not we’re ready or in the mood, Christmas is on the way!

Fire and Ice

By Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

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Frank: incensed! Mirth!

This morning’s wind chill was below zero (-3℉), actual temperatures about 12℉. Since none of today’s errands are critical, they’re getting deferred until tomorrow or Wednesday. This kind of unseasonably cold weather makes it hard to stay motivated to respond to “global warming,” especially in a state concerned about abnormal winter warming.

Lest you classify me as a climate change denier, rest assured I’m really only complaining about weather events that stray well below the overall trend. In fact, I’ve noted a remarkable similarity in many of the themes found in Sustainable Happiness and Earth for All: A Survival Guide for Humanity. The idea that surviving our current crises doesn’t need to be a “suck it up,” dreary affair has some surprising appeal, doesn’t it? We simply can’t afford, in any sense of the term, to pursue a business as usual scenario. This holiday season you may want to consider giving a copy of either book, or both, to friends or relatives.

November: full moon

Photo by J. Harrington

Today’s full moon, reflected off the dusting of snow in the driveway this morning, made everything so bright I almost wondered if the garage yard lights had been triggered. According to the Minnesota Weatherguide Calendar,  the Lakota call this full moon the Starting Winter Moon and the Ojibwe know it as the Freezing Moon. Both fit well the current season and weather. We’re less than a month from the shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere. In five weeks or so, days will slowly begin to increase and temperatures will lag by several months. May is less than half a year away.

But first, if we’ve been good boys and girls, we get to celebrate a visit from Santa. Christmas is also our son’s birthday, so the holiday ends about noon and the other birthday boy’s celebration takes over. All of which suggests I stop typing this and get to work on lists of who gets what from whom, when. Unlike Santa, I’m my own crew of elves.

Velvet Shoes

Elinor Wylie     1885 – 1928

Let us walk in the white snow
    In a soundless space;
With footsteps quiet and slow,
    At a tranquil pace,
    Under veils of white lace.

I shall go shod in silk,
    And you in wool,
White as white cow’s milk,
    More beautiful
    Than the breast of a gull.

We shall walk through the still town
    In a windless peace;
We shall step upon white down,
    Upon silver fleece,
    Upon softer than these.

We shall walk in velvet shoes:
    Wherever we go
Silence will fall like dews
    On white silence below.
    We shall walk in the snow.

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Winter, settling in

We’ve been snow showered on, again. I expect the snow on the ground to be gone by week’s end, at which time folks should begin fretting about whether or not we’ll have a white Christmas. I just hope it won’t get to be too white.

view of today’s neighborhood

Photo by J. Harrington

The house is now all sparkly and lighted both outside and in. Next weekend will probably be tree time. Meanwhile, the Jeep’s carpet floor mats need to come out and be replaced by rubber ones. I’m sharing that here as a reminder to me since I’ve not yet made the change. The transition from autumn to winter feels more like work than the one from winter to spring, but I believe there’s actually more work involved in the latter.

Minor progress has been made on Christmas lists and shopping. We still have several weeks before it becomes time to get panicky, but first we need to be sure to not succumb tomorrow to the wiles of Cyber Monday. We’ll see about getting a new bag of bird seed at the local feed and grain instead. Then we can share with our feathered friends through the rest of the holiday season. At the moment, we’re seeing chickadees, nuthatches, goldfinches, hairy, downy, and an occasional red-bellied woodpecker and, at dusk some days, a cardinal or two. Still no signs of juncos.

That’s about it for today. We’re in a post-Thanksgiving lull ahead of the pre-Christmas frenzy, and I intend to take advantage of every moment of it.

November for Beginners

By Rita Dove

Snow would be the easy

way out—that softening

sky like a sigh of relief

at finally being allowed

to yield. No dice.

We stack twigs for burning

in glistening patches

but the rain won’t give.

So we wait, breeding

mood, making music

of decline. We sit down

in the smell of the past

and rise in a light

that is already leaving.

We ache in secret,

memorizing

a gloomy line

or two of German.

When spring comes

we promise to act

the fool. Pour,

rain! Sail, wind,

with your cargo of zithers!

November 1981

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Presence, practice, presents

The orange pumpkins are gone from the “back yard," presumably consumed by deer. Smaller ponds are once again ice covered, maybe this time to stay until spring, maybe not. Most trees are now not much more than bare, wind-blown branches. The Better Half and I foraged some fresh, leafless, winterberry branches this morning. They look very wabi-sabi like in a ceramic vase on top of a stereo speaker.

We avoided Black Friday and celebrated Buy Nothing Day yesterday. It felt good. There will be presents exchanged at Christmas, but we’ll do our best to avoid seasonal madness in favor of peace, quiet, nature and family. If that seems unpatriotic somehow, please consider this recent headline: World stands on frontline of disaster at Cop28, says UN climate chief.

Christmas cookies: presence making presents

Photo by J. Harrington

Have you every thought about the idea that time spent wishing and working for something new and/or improved is time not spent enjoying what you now have? I had to face that kind of question not long ago when I was reading one of Tom Rosenbauer’s books on fly fishing and he noted something I’ve avoided: “Practice casting no matter what you do.” In younger days, I fished often enough that I didn’t need to practice. Now, not so much. Practicing casting isn’t dependent on buying another rod, reel, line, etc. I’m going through similar adjustment with my sourdough bread baking and my writing. Reading and thinking about things is a start (and helps sell books) but doing something, practicing something, necessitates spending time more than money.

Life Cycle of Common Man

By Howard Nemerov

Roughly figured, this man of moderate habits,

This average consumer of the middle class,

Consumed in the course of his average life span

Just under half a million cigarettes,

Four thousand fifths of gin and about

A quarter as much vermouth; he drank

Maybe a hundred thousand cups of coffee,

And counting his parents’ share it cost

Something like half a million dollars

To put him through life. How many beasts

Died to provide him with meat, belt and shoes

Cannot be certainly said.

                                     But anyhow,

It is in this way that a man travels through time,

Leaving behind him a lengthening trail

Of empty bottles and bones, of broken shoes,

Frayed collars and worn out or outgrown

Diapers and dinnerjackets, silk ties and slickers.

Given the energy and security thus achieved,

He did . . . ? What? The usual things, of course,

The eating, dreaming, drinking and begetting,

And he worked for the money which was to pay

For the eating, et cetera, which were necessary

If he were to go on working for the money, et cetera,

But chiefly he talked. As the bottles and bones

Accumulated behind him, the words proceeded

Steadily from the front of his face as he

Advanced into the silence and made it verbal.

Who can tally the tale of his words? A lifetime

Would barely suffice for their repetition;

If you merely printed all his commas the result

Would be a very large volume, and the number of times

He said “thank you” or “very little sugar, please,”

Would stagger the imagination. There were also

Witticisms, platitudes, and statements beginning

“It seems to me” or “As I always say.”

Consider the courage in all that, and behold the man

Walking into deep silence, with the ectoplastic

Cartoon’s balloon of speech proceeding

Steadily out of the front of his face, the words

Borne along on the breath which is his spirit

Telling the numberless tale of his untold Word

Which makes the world his apple, and forces him to eat.

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REMEMBER

Today is Native American Heritage Day. November is Native American Heritage Month. In Minnesota, Native American Heritage is acknowledged in and through:

• Native Governance Center, "a Native-led nonprofit dedicated to assisting Native nations in strengthening their governance systems and capacity to exercise sovereignty.”
• Why Treaties Matter
• Teaching Native American History and Culture (Minnesota Historical Society)
• Indian Affairs Council
• American Indian Cultural Corridor (Minneapolis)

American Indian Cultural Corridor Minneapolis

Photo by J. Harrington

The linked resources above include additional resources that can help US learn about and honor our diversity while acknowledging the high and low points of our histories and conflicts.

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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Happy Thanksgiving!

In our family, at these times, grandfather and grandmother go over the river and through the woods to enjoy Thanksgiving at the  house of Daughter Person, Son-In-Law, and Granddaughter. The old folks don’t yet need diaper bags nor car seats and, for a while longer, can get out of the Jeep with fewer complications than faced by the parents of a three year old. So far this year, we’ve been lucky to not need a sleigh nor 4WD on the Jeep for the trip.

Photo by J. Harrington

May each of you and all of yours enjoy a happy, healthy, and together Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving Day [“Over the river and through the wood”]

By Lydia Maria Child

Over the river and through the wood,

    To grandfather's house we go;

         The horse knows the way

         To carry the sleigh

    Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river and through the wood--

    Oh, how the wind does blow!

         It stings the toes

         And bites the nose,

    As over the ground we go.

Over the river and through the wood,

    To have first-rate play.

         Hear the bells ring,

         "Ting-a-ling-ding!"

    Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river and through the wood,

    And straight through the barn-yard gate.

         We seem to go

         Extremely slow--

    It is so hard to wait!

Over the river and through the wood--

    Now grandmother's cap I spy!

         Hurrah for the fun!

         Is the pudding done?

    Hurrah for the pumpkin-pie!

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On Thanksgiving Eve

Today I’m thankful the world isn’t any more complex than it already is and have a Christmas wish that we all find ways to make it simpler. Repeat after me: "Analogue is Awesome; Digital is Disastrous!” If you think I’m overreacting, check the stories on /. Slashdot each day for a week or more. When was the last time a computer really made your life better? Or, do they just help US to make the same dumb mistakes even faster, with fewer options available to correct those mistakes? Was identity theft a real problem when we all relied on snail mail? When was the last time someone hacked the postal system?

Are you tired of being nagged to sign up for auto-payment by one or more basic service corporations? At the moment, trash, phone and power companies want to get into my banking accounts. One credit card company, after selling my account to a different organization, keeps asking me to see if I’m prequalified for one of their accounts. 😏

Sven in his canoe

Photo by J. Harrington

While I spent the morning wrestling with one of my “It just works!” computers, the Better Half dug out and set up more or our holiday decorations. Sven in his canoe and Ole on his skies are now perched on top of various pieces of furniture. Seeing sparkles and candlelights has boosted my holiday mood. Last night I noticed the subtle simplicity of the lighted wreathes and angels and wondered if adding the icicle lights might be too garish. We’ll see this weekend.

Ole on his skis

Photo by J. Harrington

I’m well aware of my privileged status and how much less I have to complain about than Gaza or Ukraine or other refugees. That doesn’t keep me from wondering what it would be like if the “developed” countries put as much effort into simplifying production, making less that works better for longer and is more repairable than creating as much toxic waste and unrepairable and largely unrecyclable junk as they do. I’d give a lot more thanks if I, and you, could live in a simpler, more wholesome and healthy world than the one we leave behind daily. New, improved, bigger, faster isn’t always, and we don’t have enough earths for all of US to live the way some of US do. We can do better.

When the Burning Begins

Patricia Smith     1955 – 

          ^{for Otis Douglas Smith, my father}

The recipe for hot water cornbread is simple:
Cornmeal, hot water. Mix till sluggish,
then dollop in a sizzling skillet.
When you smell the burning begin, flip it.
When you smell the burning begin again,
dump it onto a plate. You’ve got to wait
for the burning and get it just right.

Before the bread cools down,
smear it with sweet salted butter
and smash it with your fingers,
crumple it up in a bowl
of collard greens or buttermilk,
forget that I’m telling you it’s the first thing
I ever cooked, that my daddy was laughing
and breathing and no bullet in his head
when he taught me.

Mix it till it looks like quicksand, he’d say.
Till it moves like a slow song sounds.

We’d sit there in the kitchen, licking our fingers
and laughing at my mother,
who was probably scrubbing something with bleach,
or watching Bonanza,
or thinking how stupid it was to be burning
that nasty old bread in that cast iron skillet.
When I told her that I’d made my first-ever pan
of hot water cornbread, and that my daddy
had branded it glorious, she sniffed and kept
mopping the floor over and over in the same place.

So here’s how you do it:

You take out a bowl, like the one
we had with blue flowers and only one crack,
you put the cornmeal in it.
Then you turn on the hot water and you let it run
while you tell the story about the boy
who kissed your cheek after school
or about how you really want to be a reporter
instead of a teacher or nurse like Mama said,
and the water keeps running while Daddy says
You will be a wonderful writer
and you will be famous someday and when
you get famous, if I wrote you a letter and
send you some money, would you write about me?

and he is laughing and breathing and no bullet
in his head. So you let the water run into this mix
till it moves like mud moves at the bottom of a river,
which is another thing Daddy said, and even though
I’d never even seen a river,
I knew exactly what he meant.
Then you turn the fire way up under the skillet,
and you pour in this mix
that moves like mud moves at the bottom of a river,
like quicksand, like slow song sounds.
That stuff pops something awful when it first hits
that blazing skillet, and sometimes Daddy and I
would dance to those angry pop sounds,
he’d let me rest my feet on top of his
while we waltzed around the kitchen
and my mother huffed and puffed
on the other side of the door. When you are famous,
Daddy asks me, will you write about dancing
in the kitchen with your father?
I say everything I write will be about you,
then you will be famous too. And we dip and swirl
and spin, but then he stops.
And sniffs the air.

The thing you have to remember
about hot water cornbread
is to wait for the burning
so you know when to flip it, and then again
so you know when it’s crusty and done.
Then eat it the way we did,
with our fingers,
our feet still tingling from dancing.
But remember that sometimes the burning
takes such a long time,
and in that time,
sometimes,

poems are born.

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Thanks! giving?

Last night, somebody (deer? raccoons? both?) was playing with the pumpkins we left in the field behind the house. They’ve been moved quite a distance from where we dropped them. but not very munched on yet, it appears. When deer were noshing on pumpkins in front of the house, it took them several days to eat much of the body of the vegetable. We’ll keep an eye on things and report anything noteworthy.

deer like the taste of Jack O'Lanterns

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half has adjusted the sparkly holiday bouquet on the book case behind her right shoulder. The "alien eyes” [see yesterday’s posting] are gone. It now looks much more holidayish. There’s also a miniature angel on top of a hutch keeping an eye on the dining-living-and-kitchen area. We may yet end up with some holiday spirit.

The oven’s preheating for the afternoon bread baking. That both helps take any chill off the living room and kitchen and, in a couple of hours, the place will smell great too. Then later, on Thursday, we’ll enjoy the aroma of roasting turkey. If I can only remember to stay away from news headlines and social media, the week could be quite pleasant, more so if the sun ever returns.

So far, a high point of the day has been a very close look at three sandhill cranes as they burst from a wetland next to I-35 and flew almost over the hood of the Jeep. They are beautiful birds. In the Marshland Elegy chapter of A Sand County Almanac, Aldo Leopold notes how close we came to losing them. We can be thankful on Thursday, and every day, that we didn’t. Then we can do all we know how to do to protect other threatened critters and their habitat so we can be thankful we still get to enjoy their company next year at Thanksgiving time.

When the Frost is on the Punkin

By James Whitcomb Riley

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,

And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,

And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;

O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,

With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,

As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere

When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—

Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,

And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;

But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze

Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days

Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,

And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;

The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still

A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;

The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;

The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!—

O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps

Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;

And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through

With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! ...

I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be

As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me—

I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

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A question of focus

If there’s a name for the shade between gray and white, that’s what this afternoon’s sky is. No sun, no blue, flat wall-to-wall cloud cover that would be worse if it were snowing, but is gloomy all by itself. That means I can add joy at the return of the sun by Thanksgiving to things to be thankful for come Thursday. Meanwhile, we continue to add bit by bit to seasonal decor. Icicle lights are on the garage, greenery and angels highlight the front porch/stoop. The Better Half has put a sparkly red and green bouquet behind her seat. Two of the green bulbs in it look like the eyes of an alien monster about to leap on her from behind. I haven’t yet mentioned that to her. (shh!)

a new November day dawns

Photo by J. Harrington

It is waay too early in the season, and the weather hasn’t been that bad, but I'm showing signs of early onset cabin fever. It’s almost like having an anti-Goldilocks syndrome, “this one’s too big, this one’s too little, and none are just right!” This is no doubt what I get for trying to keep up on world affairs and maintain a modicum of presence on social media. Week after week after week It’s Good News Week! [click the link and see that ennui and sarcasm have been with US since at least 1965]

But, I have dough rising in the warming room [upstairs bathroom with the door closed]. Tomorrow, if all goes well, will be bread baking day. Before the weather turns too cold I need to get the back blade on the tractor. Tomorrow or Wednesday look like likely candidates. Wednesday the latest Carrie Newcomer album is scheduled to arrive, and Thursday's Thanksgiving day. Maybe the source of my discontent isn’t so much the state of the world as it is the state of my expectations. I’m going to look around and see if they can be lowered a little more without triggering unintended consequences.

Gratitude

by Mary Oliver

What did you notice?

The dew-snail;
the low-flying sparrow;
the bat, on the wind, in the dark;
big-chested geese, in the V of sleekest performance;
the soft toad, patient in the hot sand;
the sweet-hungry ants;
the uproar of mice in the empty house;
the tin music of the cricket’s body;
the blouse of the goldenrod.

What did you hear?

The thrush greeting the morning;
the little bluebirds in their hot box;
the salty talk of the wren,
then the deep cup of the hour of silence.

When did you admire?

The oaks, letting down their dark and hairy fruit;
the carrot, rising in its elongated waist;
the onion, sheet after sheet, curved inward to the pale green wand;
at the end of summer the brassy dust, the almost liquid beauty of the flowers;
then the ferns, scrawned black by the frost.

What astonished you?

The swallows making their dip and turn over the water.

What would you like to see again?

My dog: her energy and exuberance, her willingness,
her language beyond all nimbleness of tongue,
her recklessness, her loyalty, her sweetness,
her strong legs, her curled black lip, her snap.

What was most tender?

Queen Anne’s lace, with its parsnip root;
the everlasting in its bonnets of wool;
the kinks and turns of the tupelo’s body;
the tall, blank banks of sand;
the clam, clamped down.

What was most wonderful?

The sea, and its wide shoulders;
the sea and its triangles;
the sea lying back on its long athlete’s spine.

What did you think was happening?

The green beast of the hummingbird;
the eye of the pond;
the wet face of the lily;
the bright, puckered knee of the broken oak;
the red tulip of the fox’s mouth;
the up-swing, the down-pour, the frayed sleeve of the first snow—

so the gods shake us from our sleep.

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Please be kind to each other while you can.

Beginning to see the lights

This year’s pumpkins are now in the field under the pear tree. Soon a whitetail dear or two will notice them and shortly thereafter, they’ll be all gone. A couple of potted asters got planted out near the road, but it will be a miracle of the first order if they start to green up next spring. Nothing ventured [....] Tomorrow, Outside Christmas lights will get got hung this afternoon and tomorrow a couple of angels will alight near the front stoop, keeping an eye on wreaths and other decorations.

almost done

Photo by J. Harrington

At the risk of messing things up, I want to acknowledge that we’re enjoying some partly sunny, seasonable weather. It’s a very pleasant change for which I’m thankful. A milder, drier winter than normal would be a wonderful seasonal present from Mother Nature that some of us can enjoy one day at a time for months in a row, except skiers or snowmobilers and the like.

Local folks, including our nuclear and extended family, seem to be doing Christmas decorations earlier than usual this year. I suspect it has a lot to do with a world with more woes than we’re used to, that seem never ending. The 2016 elections, Covid pandemics, insurrections, wars, climate breakdown and weather disasters and on and on. And none seem readily fixable. Time to regroup, boost our spirits, spend time with family and/or friends and plan how we can make next year better for everyone of good will.

For everyone who tried on the slipper before Cinderella

Ariana Brown

^{after Anis Mojgani and Audre Lorde}

For those making tea in the soft light of Saturday morning 
in the peaceful kitchen 
in the cool house 
For those with shrunken hearts still trying to love 
For those with large hearts trying to forget 
For those with terrors they cannot name 
upset stomachs and too tight pants 
For those who get cut off in traffic 
For those who spend all day making an elaborate meal 
that turns out mediocre 
For those who could not leave 
even when they knew they had to 
For those who never win the lottery 
or become famous 
For those getting groceries on Friday nights 

There is something you know 
about living 
that you guard with your life 
your one fragile, wonderful life 
wonder, as in, awe, 
as in, I had no idea I would be here now. 

For those who make plans and those who don’t 
For those driving across the country to a highway that knows them 
For the routes we take in the dark, trusting 
For the roads for the woods for the dead humming in prayer 
For an old record and a strong sun
For teeth bared to the wind 
a pulse in the chest 
a body making love to itself 

There is every reason to hate it here 
There is a list of things making it bearable: 
your friend’s shoulder Texas barbecue a new book 
a loud song a strong song a highway that knows you 
sweet tea an orange cat a helping hand 
an unforgettable dinner 

a laugh that escapes you and deflates you 
like a pink balloon left soft with room 
for goodness to take hold 

For those who have looked in the mirror and begged
For those with weak knees and an attitude
For those called “sensitive” or “too much” 
For those not called enough
For the times you needed and went without
For the photo of you as a child 
quietly icing cupcakes your hair a crackling thunderstorm

Love is coming. 
It’s on its way. 
Look—

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Please be kind to each other while you can.

Sweet autumn’s days slide away

This morning’s low temperatures, in the mid-20’s, brought the first ice cover of the season to shallow pools and ponds. Local families of Canada geese are beginning to flock up as migration season nears. Deciding how much of what to wear at any particular hour of almost every day is a challenge. Must be mid-November near mid-Autumn in southern North Country.

approaching a season of bare branches and murders of crows

Photo by J. Harrington

We took a drive along parts of the Sunrise River as we returned from a morning visit with the Daughter Person, Son-In-Law, and Granddaughter. I‘ve noticed my old habit of poking around just to see what’s there has faded over the past few years. Today seemed like a prime time to check out some places not recently visited. We do live in some pretty country and would no doubt appreciate it more if we explored more often. It seems entirely too easy to create ruts by going the same ways to the same places almost all the time. Then, again, the world at large, with local spillover, appears to be getting more chaotic by the day. Discovering how to balance on the bubble is never easy.

As ice forms, stays and thickens, many local critters enter some form of hibernation or diminished activity. No pollinators until Spring. But, also no mosquitoes or biting flies. Ticks can be active any time the temperature gets over 40℉, so next week should end their feeding season for the year. Once again I’m hoping to spend time between New Year’s and Valentine’s, maybe even St. Patrick’s, regrouping and getting organized. Most years recently, I’ve ended up spending too much of that time snow blowing and or sulking with cabin fever. Next year offers another fresh start. Once again I intend to “do better,” but first I need to figure out what I mean by that. If I succeed by Thursday, next week, I’ll really have something special to be thankful for.

The Flight of the Crows

Emily Pauline Johnson

The autumn afternoon is dying o’er
   The quiet western valley where I lie
Beneath the maples on the river shore,
   Where tinted leaves, blue waters and fair sky
   Environ all; and far above some birds are flying by

To seek their evening haven in the breast
   And calm embrace of silence, while they sing
Te Deums to the night, invoking rest
   For busy chirping voice and tired wing—
   And in the hush of sleeping trees their sleeping cradles swing.

In forest arms the night will soonest creep,
   Where sombre pines a lullaby intone,
Where Nature’s children curl themselves to sleep,
   And all is still at last, save where alone
   A band of black, belated crows arrive from lands unknown.

Strange sojourn has been theirs since waking day,
   Strange sights and cities in their wanderings blend
With fields of yellow maize, and leagues away
   With rivers where their sweeping waters wend
   Past velvet banks to rocky shores, in cañons bold to end.

O’er what vast lakes that stretch superbly dead,
   Till lashed to life by storm-clouds, have they flown?
In what wild lands, in laggard flight have led
   Their aërial career unseen, unknown,
   ’Till now with twilight come their cries in lonely monotone?

The flapping of their pinions in the air
   Dies in the hush of distance, while they light
Within the fir tops, weirdly black and bare,
   That stand with giant strength and peerless height,
   To shelter fairy, bird and beast throughout the closing night.

Strange black and princely pirates of the skies,
   Would that your wind-tossed travels I could know!
Would that my soul could see, and, seeing, rise
   To unrestricted life where ebb and flow
   Of Nature’s pulse would constitute a wider life below!

Could I but live just here in Freedom’s arms,
   A kingly life without a sovereign’s care!
Vain dreams! Day hides with closing wings her charms,
   And all is cradled in repose, save where
   Yon band of black, belated crows still frets the evening air.

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Please be kind to each other while you can.

May the seasons fly toward spring

I recently gave myself an early Christmas present, a copy of Peter Kaminsky’s Fly Fisherman’s Guide to the Meaning of Life. Last night I got to the chapter on A Fly Fisher’s Essential Reading, and was pleased to note I’ve read a lot of the books listed:

• In Our Time, Ernest Hemingway, read;
• Trout Madness, Robert Traver, read;
• A River Runs Through It, Norman Maclean, read;
• Tarpon Quest, John N. Cole, nope;
• Fly Fishing Through the Midlife Crisis, Howell Raines, read;
• Superior Fishing, Robert B. Roosevelt, nope;
• Spring Creek, Nick Lyons, nope;
• Hatches, Al Caucci and Bob Nastasi, read;
• The Fly and the Fish, John Atherton, nope;
• Fishing with McClane, A. J. McClane, read

One or two of the “nopes" are going to go on a "to be read" list, but overall I’m pleased to see that I’m a reasonably literate fly fisher. Now, if my casting were as competent as my reading... but then I’d need to spend lots more time casting and less time reading.

these are dry flies, not ice flies

Photo by J. Harrington

In addition to having reached the Essential Reading list last night, today’s theme is brought to you by a significant drop in today’s high temperature compared to yesterday’s, with daytime highs consistently below freezing expected a week from now. Those conditions mean I’ll be doing lots more reading than casting for at least the next several months. That gives me two things to look forward to rather than complain about if I follow Yeats’ approach.

The Song of Wandering Aengus

By William Butler Yeats

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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Seasoned giving, this hard thing

Here in Minnesota, today is “Give to the Max Day.” My email inbox and our snail mail box have been getting loaded with notices about how much we can help everyone and everything by donating early or today. I’ve contributed to a few organizations and rejected more opportunities than I’ve supported. Many requests don’t do a good job of explaining what the organization actually accomplishes. That’s unfortunate. I realize that we’re better off than many and feel an obligation to help, but I also feel an obligation to be responsible in my giving.

At one point I must have supported an organization that sold my name and email address because I’m getting requests from folks i’d never consider giving a donation and, as I get more and more of them, I become more critical in my screening of all potential contributions. That’s not really how I like to enter the giving season. Of course, I also fail to understand why “moderate” Republicans and all Democrats haven’t made it clear to the dozen or two radical Republicans that they’ll never get any support because they’re making everyone look bad.

what are you hoping for under the tree?

Photo by J. Harrington

On a brighter note, I’m thankful we’ll get through the holidays before the country faces the next government shutdown crisis. I’m thankful things aren’t worse than they are. I’m looking forward to being thankful that governments throughout the world have become more responsible, less warmongerish, and more focused on addressing climate change and loss of biodiversity. (It doesn’t cost any more to wish big than small.) The package I’m looking for is me, happy and healthy; plus the same for those in my family, my friends, my home state, my country, and my (our) world. We can do it if we all try. Just ask Carrie Newcomer.

You Can Do This Hard Thing

by Carrie Newcomer

There at the table

With my head in my hands

A column of numbers

I just did not understand

You said “Add these together

Carry the two, now you."

You can do this hard thing

You can do this hard thing

It′s not easy I know but

I believe that it's so

You can do this hard thing

At a cold winter station

Breathing into our gloves

It would change me forever

Leaving for God knows what

You carried my bags

You said "I′ll wait for you"

You can do this hard thing

You can do this hard thing

It's not easy I know but

I believe that it's so

You can do this hard thing

Late at night I called

And you answered the phone

The worst it had happened

And I did not want to be alone

You quietly listened

You said “We′ll see this thru"

You can do this hard thing

You can do this hard thing

It′s not easy I know but

I believe that it's so

You can do this hard thing

Here we stand breathless

And pressed in hard times

Hearts hung like laundry

On backyard clothes lines

Impossible just takes

A little more time

From the muddy ground

Comes a green volunteer

In a place we thought

Barren new life appears

Morning will come whistling

Some comforting tune for you

You can do this hard thing

You can do this hard thing

It′s not easy I know but

I believe that it's so

You can do this hard thing

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Please be kind to each other while you can.