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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