Will woollybear prognosticate winter?

It’s not every November I end up doing yard work near mid-month, but today I was mulching leaves with the mower deck and knocking down pocket gopher mounds with a drag harrow. I felt almost exuberant bouncing around on the tractor. There are enough trees and leaves scattered around on our property that I’m not going to get concerned about over-wintering habitat for pollinators and related critters. I also promise not to complain if there’s so little snow this winter that clearing the driveway to make it ready for snow blowing becomes a wasted effort.

This being Minnesota, I know the standard response to a weather respite such as we’re enjoying is “We’ll pay for this.” At the moment, my reaction is “It’ll be worth it.” I wonder if the milder weather helps explain why there have been no signs of dark-eyed juncos or woolly bear / worms [see UPDATE below]. We do have a couple of handfuls of winterberry holly that will get scattered around the (sometimes) wet spot behind the house just to see if anything germinates, sprouts, and grows. This morning I stripped dried berries from winterberry branches we had in bouquets that are getting replaced with fresher holiday greens. I’m slowly coming to realize that, even when much of the rest of the world is a mess, it can still be worthwhile to make life as enjoyable as possible. In fact, my sister gave me a cookie jar a few years ago with a very helpful motivational phrase on it “Life is short. Eat the cookies.”

wandering woollybear

Photo by J. Harrington

[UPDATE: on the way back from walking the dogs, crawling across the middle of the driveway was a woolly bear. It had limited black bands at each end and a wide brown band in the middle. Prediction: mild winter. (Also consistent with El Nino forecast.)]

November

Helen Hunt Jackson

This is the treacherous month when autumn days
With summer’s voice come bearing summer’s gifts.
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts
Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze
Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,
And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,
The violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts
Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning’s rays
Will idly shine upon and slowly melt,
Too late to bid the violet live again.
The treachery, at last, too late, is plain;
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.
What joy sufficient hath November felt?
What profit from the violet’s day of pain?

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