Strange times on turtle island

The Better Half wanted to show me a turtle she noticed in the driveway yesterday. By the time she got the dogs back into the house and her spouse out into the heat and humidity, the turtle had disappeared. Where it went is unclear. I poked around the drive’s edges a little with no sign. I mean, how fast can a turtle move and why would one move very fast anyhow? Once again Nature has left me scratching my head especially since I think turtle nesting season is more in June and early July and the reported size was considerably larger than a hatchling. I’m also pondering why a turtle would have wandered onto the drive since the nearest real water, not counting the “wet spot" in the back yard, is about a quarter of a mile north of where s/he was observed.

where turtles belong in mid-Summer, sunning on a rock

Photo by J. Harrington

Also yesterday, during the evening, one of our dogs, I believe mine, made a puddle on the carpet. SiSi has lived with us for a decade and knows better. I don’t know what happened with her nor is it clear why her four-legged housemate would have thrown up several partially digested doggie treats midday today. If most things made sense, where would be the fun, right?

When I peeked at the forecast a bit ago, we’re supposed to be getting thunderstorms for about 24 hours, from 6 or 7 this evening through the same time tomorrow. I hope that’s inaccurate. My dog in particular, and the Better Half’s beagle less so, gets agitated by thunder and lightning. I don’t want to have to spend the night holding the paws of an aging yellow lab crossbreed instead of getting my much needed beauty rest.

May next month be filled with better news and activities.

The Little Turtle

By Vachel Lindsay

There was a little turtle.

He lived in a box.

He swam in a puddle.

He climbed on the rocks.

He snapped at a mosquito.

He snapped at a flea.

He snapped at a minnow.

And he snapped at me.

He caught the mosquito.

He caught the flea.

He caught the minnow.

But he didn't catch me.

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More flowerings of summer daze

On this penultimate day of July 2024, the weather forecast is changing by the moment. Thunderstorms come and go in the hourly forecast without, so far, arriving at our door. We’ve reached a time of year when fawns, wearing rapidly fading spots, stand in the road and stare quizzically at oncoming vehicles thinking “Who are you and what are you doing on my road?” We slowed to a crawl twice last evening, thanks to our policy of sharing the road with fawns.

milkweed plants with seed pods

Photo by J. Harrington

I’ll have to look more carefully because the milkweed growing along the road in front of the house doesn’t look anywhere near close to having developed seed pods. Perhaps the difference is that those in the picture are part of a rain garden at a local library and not subject to mowing as our roadside milkweed is. The photo above was taken early August several years ago. We saw Joe Pye weed in bloom recently, and that’s about on time. That was growing along a township road that’s generally not supposed to be mown before August 1. As with many things these days, it gets complicated.

Out in the fields behind the house, mullein are in flower. I couldn’t see any milkweed behind the house but will check on the far side of the rise one day soon, probably while doing some yard chores once the temperatures cool down a little. One of the nicer things about August is that October then is but two months or less away.

Milkweed

Helen Hunt Jackson

O patient creature with a peasant face, 
Burnt by the summer sun, begrimed with stains, 
And standing humbly in the dingy lanes! 
There seems a mystery in thy work and place, 
Which crowns thee with significance and grace; 
Whose is the milk that fills thy faithful veins? 
What royal nursling comes at night and drains 
Unscorned the food of the plebeian race? 
By day I mark no living thing which rests 
On thee, save butterflies of gold and brown, 
Who turn from flowers that are more fair, more sweet, 
And, crowding eagerly, sink fluttering down, 
And hang, like jewels flashing in the heat, 
Upon thy splendid rounded purple breasts.

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The reign of rain

Well, we now know what it’s like to be the recipient of almost 3.5 inches of rain in less than 24 hours. Just to our west, and again to our south, reported amounts were less than a half inch and a little more than an inch, respectively. One might almost begin to believe the weather has become hyper-volatile, almost as if we were experiencing anthropogenic climate change, but Americans would have to be hyper-gullible enough to vote for a known con man as POTUS, believing that someone inept enough to bankrupt a casino is actually a successful business man, for that to happen, right?

this driveway was dry a few hours ago

Photo by J. Harrington

Anyhow, after our overnight deluge, we were visited this morning by a couple of whitetail bucks with antlers in velvet, a doe, a fawn who has lost its spots, and a flock of half a dozen or so turkey hens, but no poults that we could see. Yet another example of feast or famine? Each day there are hours and hours with no signs of wildlife in the fields behind the house other than the birds coming to the feeders. Some seasons, like late autumn through deep winter, there are weeks and months with little, if any, views of critters other than at the feeders.

By this point in the summer last year, we had had almost a couple of dozen days in the 90’s. This year there’s been two. There’s only one more in the ten day forecast. Which year should we consider “normal,”  or dow we average the two as normal? I think I’m trying to raise the issue of times of tempestuous change make it difficult to establish a new baseline that we can at least consider “normal.” Even if meteorologists use something like a 30 year rolling average for some factors, if we continue to experience the “hottest day on record,” year after year, that’s not going to tell us what humans used to consider normal before we created the Anthropocene. We all need to do more to keep context in mind. For more, check shifting baseline.

to the orange still green

Patty Seyburn

Your desire for metamorphosis heard and filed away:
frustration noted, conveyed to proper authorities,
soil and rain. Issues of identity never so labored as today.
I have heard, however, if you hail from Valencia,

it’s quite normal, and as far as dye—why would you
tamper with natural beauty in search of convention, 
in this state where the prophetic sun anoints every
being? Merely for the sake of reinvention?

O Orange, unmatchable trochee except by slant,
by dint of the imagined word, yet to be created,
word of a new world, green world, seamless sphere
content, unbruised by fear of being belated,

join the trend—shed your insecurity, take pride
in the mother country, Brazil, in the year yours arrived
here, 1873, planted by the future scions of Riverside.
Rumor has one of three founding trees still alive,

and that could be your branch, your seed—while my kin
found themselves in Jersey City, trying their damndest 
                                             to speak American.

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Summer, time

We saw the first “Back to school” ads recently. Many of the local roads are under repair in various and sundry places. Weather is heated, humid, and gusty. The county fair ended last week. Our state fair starts in about a month. If the Jamies were around, they’d be singing “Summertime, Summertime.” (That proves how old I am.)

a field of round bales of hay

Photo by J. Harrington

About all the corn fields are tasseling / have tasseled. Most of the local farmers are cutting, raking, baling and hauling hay. I was delighted to see a dragonfly this morning. Thunderstorms are in this evening’s forecast. At least we don’t have to shovel thunder and lightning and the dogs seem to enjoy their Hemp treats for calming when the storms arrive.

As an early riser most days, I’ve noticed that the days are getting shorter at the top end. Times that a month ago were sunrise are now first light. Turkey poults have grown a bunch. The season of growing continues although mid-week this week, on August 1, is Lughnasadh, the Celtic festival marking the start of harvest. This week is looking like a great time to dig out our copy of Janis Joplin’s version of “Summertime” and mellow out.

In Summer Time

Paul Laurence Dunbar
1872 – 1906

When summer time has come, and all
The world is in the magic thrall
Of perfumed airs that lull each sense
To fits of drowsy indolence;
When skies are deepest blue above,
And flow'rs aflush,—then most I love
To start, while early dews are damp,
And wend my way in woodland tramp
Where forests rustle, tree on tree,
And sing their silent songs to me;
Where pathways meet and pathways part,—
To walk with Nature heart by heart,
Till wearied out at last I lie
Where some sweet stream steals singing by
A mossy bank; where violets vie
In color with the summer sky,—
Or take my rod and line and hook,
And wander to some darkling brook,
Where all day long the willows dream,
And idly droop to kiss the stream,
And there to loll from morn till night—
Unheeding nibble, run, or bite—
Just for the joy of being there
And drinking in the summer air,
The summer sounds, and summer sights,
That set a restless mind to rights
When grief and pain and raging doubt
Of men and creeds have worn it out;
The birds' song and the water's drone,
The humming bee's low monotone,
The murmur of the passing breeze,
And all the sounds akin to these,
That make a man in summer time
Feel only fit for rest and rhyme.
Joy springs all radiant in my breast;
Though pauper poor, than king more blest,
The tide beats in my soul so strong
That happiness breaks forth in song,
And rings aloud the welkin blue
With all the songs I ever knew.
O time of rapture! time of song!
How swiftly glide thy days along
Adown the current of the years,
Above the rocks of grief and tears!
'Tis wealth enough of joy for me
In summer time to simply be.

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On the transformation of plants

It’s time for the weekly report on our community supported agriculture [CSA] share. Here’s what was in our box this morning:

• Broccoli Raab
• Summer Squash
• Tomatoes
• Green beans
• Onions
• Cucumbers
• Carrots with tops
• Parsley

Meanwhile, a messy field of weeds that was growing along the northern side of our driveway a couple of days ago has become a beautiful field of wild flowers that’s attracting several butterflies who enhance the attractiveness of the blossoms. One of the advantages of being a procrastinator is that it sometimes keeps me from making horrible mistakes. The “weed field” now looks like this:

our transformed "weed field"

Photo by J. Harrington

The picture, and the flowers, remind me of the paintings in our copy of American Wildflowers: A Literary Field Guide. As I recall, some of the a field guide entries include recipes for wildflowers good enough to eat. I wondered if anyone had focused a field guide on edible wildflowers when I remembered we used to have a copy of Euell Gibbons' Stalking the Wild Asparagus. A quick online search revealed the existence of several more recent volumes of a similar nature but they also cover wild plants rather than primarily wildflowers. This may be fun to explore some rainy day (or next winter).

Wildflowers

By Reginald Gibbons

Coleridge carefully wrote down a whole page

of them, all beginning with the letter b.

Guidebooks preserve our knowledge

of their hues and shapes, their breeding.

Many poems have made delicate word-chimes—

like wind-chimes not for wind but for the breath of man—

out of their lovely names.

At the edge of the prairie in a cabin

when thunder comes closer to thump the roof hard

a few of them—in a corner, brittle in a dry jar

where a woman’s thoughtful hand left them to fade—

seem to blow with the announcing winds outside

as the rain begins to fall on all their supple kin

of all colors, under a sky of one color, or none.

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A fish in hand is worth....

Thanks to an invitation from the Son-In-Law and Granddaughter, I went fishing yesterday. My (not quite 4 year old) Granddaughter outfished me, I’m pleased to announce. In the time I was with them, she caught (and released) one sunfish while I, using a popping bug, had two strikes. Neither of the fish who took a swipe was big enough to get its mouth around a bluegill bug. I should have changed to a smaller fly but wasn’t sure I would be able to see it in the small waves that covered the lakes surface.

one of these might have been better than the popper

Photo by J. Harrington

Although I was outfished and came home empty handed, I accomplished several worthwhile objectives. First, I established I haven’t entirely forgotten how to cast a fly, even into a 10 mph (gusting to 15) headwind, despite a distressing lack of casting exercise over the past couple of years. Second, I demonstrated, to my satisfaction, that I know how to undo a “wind knot” in a leader, created by not being careful with my backcast into the aforementioned wind. Finally, I reconfirmed that the fun is in the fishing at least as much as in the catching. Now I need to haul myself off to a local trout stream and check out how my wading skills are holding up despite a lack of use. I will wait until the wind is topping out at 10 mph or less for that exercise. Today’s 20+ mph breeze is more than I can cope with.

Fishing Before You Know How to Fish

https://www.awakin.org/v2/read/view.php?tid=2574

Through the pines and the one maple I hear her.

I shouldn’t have gone fishing if I didn’t know how to fish.

I shouldn’t have gone fishing if I didn’t know how to fish.

There she stands

legs impossibly long

pink and black polka dot swimsuit baggy

pole in her hands

and a little oval sunfish impossibly on her hook.

I don’t tell her, but I do think

Oh, sweet girl, life is always like that.

Fishing before you know how to fish.

Leaving before you know how to leave.

Speaking before you know how to speak.

Fighting before you know how to fight.

Loving before you know how to love.

Dying before you know how to die.

We are all the child with the pole

worrying about who we’ve hurt.

And we are all the fish on the hook,

hoping for mercy.

Her aunt hears her muttering prayer

and though she hasn’t unhooked a fish in 30 years

grabs the wriggling innocent in her hands

and dislodges metal from cheek.

And this, too, is all of us.

Saved again and again by prayer we didn’t know we were saying

and a witness we forgot was listening.

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Summer scenes seens

I’m happy to announce that the fields behind the house are home to a handful of black-eyed Susans, plus an abundance of spotted horsemint and what I’m guessing is round-headed bush clover. As the soil slowly dries out, I’m again taking a crack at doing some yard work, without overdoing it. So I was driving the tractor this morning to dump a garden cart full of leaf rakings and grass clippings that had been unattended to because it has been either too hot, too wet, or I wasn’t in the mood. There’s most likely other plants that have grown and developed since I last was in the fields, but I was just noticing the obvious changes.

spotted horsemint (Monarda punctata)

Photo by J. Harrington

Yesterday afternoon, three wild turkey hens again escorted a mob of poults through the yard, this time they came right up to the house to check the droppings from the bird feeder that hangs on the deck railing. The feeder is constantly being visited by chick-a-dees, rose-breasted grosbeaks, goldfinches, hairy, downy, and red-bellied woodpeckers, white- and red-breasted nuthatches, occasional red-winged blackbirds, bluejays, and sometimes “others.” We even get ruby-throated hummingbirds at the sugar water feeders once or twice a day.

After today we’re looking at a ten-day forecast full of temperatures in the upper 80’s+. That’s going to limit my yard work ambitions but we’ll see if we can just pick away at it before it gets too warm each day. Then we’ll sit in the air-conditioned house and read more of Sarah Kendzior’s They Knew. I’m checking to see if my cynicism is well-founded or misplaced. We are in election season you know.

July prayer to survive the summer

Robin Walter

Today was the first day I saw
the father of the chicks
come to the antlers—First,

he landed on the doorframe—looked at me
hard—before making the short flight
to nest—

The mother came busily on his tail-feathers—
a small grey worm in her beak—
ushered him out of her way—

                                    *

I wonder about the day
these birds will first
take flight—

which instincts they’ll suspend
& which they’ll trust—which of the tiny birds
will last the Fall—

                                   *

I am ahead of myself again—wanted
to tell you about instincts—how sometimes
they betray the body—no, sometimes
I betray the body—
 

                                  *

The father is back again—nothing in his beak.
Their chirps are so much louder today—almost like tiny bells,
or water spilling—

 

                                  *

Here, there is a father.
There are not always
fathers—

but always, birds,
& sometimes, yes,

a window.

                                  *

My mind flips to a line
I love: You can fall a long way in sunlight.
You can fall a long way in rain.

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Where are the dragonflies?

For reasons I don’t understand, the photos I took of dragonflies are clustered around May and June and again in late July, August and September. Local dragonflies appear to go on vacation during July, along with many other Minnesotans. Several years ago I made a bar chart of the flight weeks of dragonflies based on information from Dragonflies of the North Woods [First Edition]. Although there are some noticeable gaps, there isn’t an overwhelming break in July, but we rarely see dragonflies for much of mid-month. It’s unfortunate, since there are so many deer flies they could feed on during July.

four-spotted skimmer dragonfly, late May

Photo by J. Harrington

Perhaps this is the time dragonflies are clustered around the marshes and water bodies in mating season? It is the time when many bird songs disappear since mating territories are no longer being defended, or so I’ve read. I can vouch for the fact that mornings are quieter now than they were in May and June.

A related matter that also troubles me is if I learned what’s going on with the disappearance of dragonflles, would I remember what I’d learned. The old saying of “use it or lose it” seems particularly relevant to my memory and learning things. If I don’t have a frequent use for a piece of information, it seems to drift toward the bottom of my memory banks, making access more difficult.

Fly, Dragonfly!

By Joyce Sidman

Water nymph, you have

climbed from the shallows to don

your dragon-colors.

Perched on a reed stem

all night, shedding your skin, you dry

your wings in moonlight.

 

Night melts into day.

Swift birds wait to snap you up.

Fly, dragonfly! Fly!

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What is this “normal” you talk about?

If one considers just some of the events of the past week or two: an attempted assassination of a former present who's campaigning to return to the office; the withdrawal of a current president from campaigning for a second term weeks before the party's nominating convention; a software glitch that created continuing havoc world wide; a state senator threatening civil war if the candidate he supports doesn't win the upcoming presidential election, then apologizing (without retraction?), one might wonder if this IS a new normal and, if not, would one know a new normal if one saw it. The preceding list in far from inclusive and intentionally leaves out environmental issues that are global in scope and grossly under-addressed. The preceding sentences would not have been written if there appeared to be a comparable number of positive events offsetting the negative list.

It appears to me that too many of US are permitting those with a "my way or the highway" perspective to have entirely too much influence and power. How we achieve an appropriate reset remains an open question. I had some concerns about how effective Kamala Harris might be as a candidate until I was reminded of how she questioned Brett Kavanaugh at his confirmation hearing. She might not have made him cry, but she did make him quite uncomfortable. I just hope the Democrats don’t do anything stupid or untoward to mess up the likelihood of the American electorate having an opportunity to display some good taste and common sense. I’d like to avoid a repeat of 1968 in Chicago and 2016 nation-wide.

Little Summer Poem Touching The Subject Of Faith

by Mary Oliver

Every summer
I listen and look
under the sun's brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can't hear

anything, I can't see anything --
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green
stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves
deepening their damp pleats,

nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
And still,
every day,

the leafy fields
grow taller and thicker --
green gowns lofting up in the night,
showered with silk. 

And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing --
I am deaf too
to the tick of the leaves, 

the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet --
all of it
happening
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum. 

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt

swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear? 

One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn's beautiful body
is sure to be there.

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Values for the seventh generation

It’s the time of year when fawns and goslings and cygnets and sandhill crane colts are adulting, i.e., growing into their adulthood. It’s never been very clear to me how much of animal behavior is genetic and instinctive versus learned from adults of the species. If anyone has a recommended source on this topic, please leave a comment.

almost grown Canada geese goslings and adults

Photo by J. Harrington

I recently watched a video of our almost four year old (more than 3 1/2) granddaughter learning to lead and ride a pony that’s several orders of magnitude larger than she is. She looks comfortable and unfazed both in front of and on top of the pony. I think I was in my late teens or early twenties before I took riding lessons. I never did get really comfortable on a horse.

Part of today’s theme is prompted by an article I recently read on Slashdot: Should Kids Still Learn to Code in the Age of AI? The phrase that caught my attention is “... the idea that learning to program is the cornerstone of computational thinking and an important gateway to the problem-solving, critical thinking, and creative thinking skills necessary to thrive in today's digitally driven world.” It left me wondering what other gateways are there in today’s curricula to problem solving, critical thinking and creative thinking and where does humanism and characteristics that define humanity fit in?

Before I cane across the Slashdot trigger, I was considering getting my hands on a copy of The Blind Spot: Why Science Cannot Ignore Human Experience, although first I need to finish reading The Systems View of Life. I’m about 2/3rds of the way through at the moment. Recent events, compounded by a pandemic and four years under the rule of a wanna-be dictator, have made me concerned about the kind of future our Granddaughter and her cohorts will grow up in and if anyone can anticipate the kind of country she’ll have to live in when she is grown up. It seems to me that the seventh generation principle becomes more challenging to apply the greater the rate of change triggered by (mostly) human factors.

All of the preceding is a convoluted and long-winded way of expressing my view that we have become too short-sighted and focused on the cost of things rather than their value. For some years now I’ve tried to be guided by a speech of a former presidential candidate, Bobby Kennedy. Here’s an essential excerpt:

Yet the gross national product does not allow for the health of our children, the quality of their education or the joy of their play. It does not include the beauty of our poetry or the strength of our marriages, the intelligence of our public debate or the integrity of our public officials. It measures neither our wit nor our courage, neither our wisdom nor our learning, neither our compassion nor our devotion to our country, it measures everything in short, except that which makes life worthwhile. And it can tell us everything about America except why we are proud that we are Americans.

These are the values I want to see expressed by any presidential candidate that wants my vote. These values are timeless.

For the Children

The rising hills, the slopes,
of statistics
lie before us.
the steep climb
of everything, going up,
up, as we all
go down.

In the next century
or the one beyond that,
they say,
are valleys, pastures,
we can meet there in peace
if we make it.

To climb these coming crests
one word to you, to
you and your children:

stay together
learn the flowers
go light

Gary Snyder
From: Turtle Island

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Some ways to wisdom

The Better Half and I spent much of the afternoon listening to a wise and interesting white man, Kent Nerburn, talk about the wisdom of Native Americans. Nerburn has written a number of books on the theme of his talk and he read excerpts from several, plus answered questions and spoke a bit from his own notes. The presentation took place in an art gallery in Sandstone, about an hour’s drive north of our place. The trip home was disrupted by a several mile long traffic backup north of Hinckley and another one near the Pine / Chisago county boundary on I-35. If it’s not winter blizzards messing up Minnesota’s roads, it’s summer road work making drivers harried.

Thinking about Nerburn’s comments while sitting in the southbound backup pretty much convinced me, not that I needed much, that Native Americans have more sustainable and resilient cultures than ours. Plus, ours is headed in the wrong direction. We have much too much emphasis on individuals and not enough on community; we place waayyy too much value on money and not enough on intangible values like friendship and kindness; we confuse religion with spiritual. Over the past several decades, I’ve noticed increasing awareness of, and acceptance of, Native American culture. More is needed. I hope we become wise enough to include many indigenous teachings in our children’s education. Whether he intended to or not, I believe President Biden reflected honor on the role of elders in a healthy culture when he decided to not campaign for the nomination and became a potential elder advisor to the next president. We need more of that kind of thinking and doing.

sometimes an owl symbolizes wisdom

Photo by J. Harrington

If you’re interested in learning more about how Native American and Western Judeo-Christian perspectives can complement each other, try reading any of these:

• Gathering Moss, Robin Wall Kimmerer
• Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer
• Medicine Wheel for the Planet, Dr. Jennifer Grenz
• The Seven Generations and The Seven Grandfather Teachings, James Vukelich Kaagegaabaw
• The above linked list of books by Kent Nerburn
• Almost any Joy Harjo poem such as this

For Calling the Spirit Back from Wandering the Earth in Its Human Feet 

Joy Harjo
1951 – 

Put down that bag of potato chips, that white bread, that bottle of pop.

Turn off that cellphone, computer, and remote control.

Open the door, then close it behind you.

Take a breath offered by friendly winds. They travel the earth gathering essences of plants to clean.

Give it back with gratitude.

If you sing it will give your spirit lift to fly to the stars’ ears and back.

Acknowledge this earth who has cared for you since you were a dream planting itself precisely within your parents’ desire.

Let your moccasin feet take you to the encampment of the guardians who have known you before time, who will be there after time. They sit before the fire that has been there without time.

Let the earth stabilize your postcolonial insecure jitters.

Be respectful of the small insects, birds and animal people who accompany you.
Ask their forgiveness for the harm we humans have brought down upon them.

Don’t worry.
The heart knows the way though there may be high-rises, interstates, checkpoints, armed soldiers, massacres, wars, and those who will despise you because they despise themselves.

The journey might take you a few hours, a day, a year, a few years, a hundred, a thousand or even more.

Watch your mind. Without training it might run away and leave your heart for the immense human feast set by the thieves of time.

Do not hold regrets.

When you find your way to the circle, to the fire kept burning by the keepers of your soul, you will be welcomed.

You must clean yourself with cedar, sage, or other healing plant.

Cut the ties you have to failure and shame.

Let go the pain you are holding in your mind, your shoulders, your heart, all the way to your feet. Let go the pain of your ancestors to make way for those who are heading in our direction.

Ask for forgiveness.

Call upon the help of those who love you. These helpers take many forms: animal, element, bird, angel, saint, stone, or ancestor.

Call your spirit back. It may be caught in corners and creases of shame, judgment, and human abuse.

You must call in a way that your spirit will want to return.

Speak to it as you would to a beloved child.

Welcome your spirit back from its wandering. It may return in pieces, in tatters. Gather them together. They will be happy to be found after being lost for so long.

Your spirit will need to sleep awhile after it is bathed and given clean clothes.

Now you can have a party. Invite everyone you know who loves and supports you. Keep room for those who have no place else to go.

Make a giveaway, and remember, keep the speeches short.

Then, you must do this: help the next person find their way through the dark. 

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Getting real

No matter how inane our politics get, it's hard to be grumpy when faced with an abundance of wildflowers along roads and in summer fields. Again this morning I was reminded that I need to get out of the house and into the countryside more. Folk music on the Jeep radio as we head to the farm pick up barn, combined with an occasional sighting of does and fawns, or sandhill cranes, provides a wonderful respite from doom scrolling and headline scanning.

a field of black-eyed Susans

Photo by J. Harrington

Here’s what’s in our community supported agriculture [CSA] share this week:

• CUCUMBERS
• SUMMER SQUASH ASSORTMENT
• GREEN or RED SALANOVA LETTUCE
• TOMATOES
• ONIONS
• PARSLEY, and
• KOHLRABI

The Better Half has been flexing her creativity muscles finding new, and relatively appetizing, ways to use up the fresh vegetables I keep signing us up for each year but hate to eat. I’m not sure I can live long enough to actually enjoy veggies but I like to idea of supporting organically grown and local. These days it’s similar to the way I like the idea of being a Democrat more than the reality. Then, again, when I look at much of the rest of the world, our trials and tribulations are so much less than being bombed or jailed for doing your job as a journalist or just being who you are. That level of problem makes junk mail, spam calls and texts and even software system failures not less annoying but put in a different perspective.

Beans

Mary Oliver
1935 – 2019

They’re not like peaches or squash.
Plumpness isn’t for them. They like
being lean, as if for the narrow
path. The beans themselves sit qui-
etly inside their green pods. In-
stinctively one picks with care, 
never tearing down the fine vine,
never noticing their crisp bod-
ies, or feeling their willingness for
the pot, for the fire.

I have thought sometimes that
something—I can’t name it—
watches as I walk the rows, accept-
ing the gift of their lives to assist
mine.

I know what you think: this is fool-
ishness. They’re only vegetables.
Even the blossoms with which they
begin are small and pale, hardly sig-
nificant Our hands, or minds, our
feet hold more intelligence. With
this I have no quarrel. 

But, what about virtue?

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Another mixed bag

I’d be outside doing some yard work if not for a fresh hatch of deer flies that set upon the dogs and I a little earlier. I decided that today’s “better part of valor” was to freshen the permethrin spray on my bug hoodie and wait for the flies to die off a little. It’s not like I live in suburbia with a home owner’s association breathing down my neck. So, despite delightful weather, I’m inside learning to take the biter with the sweet.

turkey poults and hens

Photo by J. Harrington

Speaking of sweet, this morning brought to the back yard the first visit of the year by a flock of turkey poults, chaperoned by three hens showing the young’uns around the neighborhood. Their appearance brightened my spirits, which had been dampened by the past week’s political turmoil. I’m left with concern for the future of democracy and our species, since we seem to be losing the ability to govern ourselves effectively. At least I hope we don’t take the rest of nature with US. Thank heavens Mother Nature isn’t dependent on computers or Microsoft and CloudStrike software. (I refuse to make the obvious joke about different kinds of turkeys appearing on the same day.)

This Sunday we’re off to hear one of our favorite local authors, Kent Nerburn, at an art gallery about an hour north of our place. According to the description: Kent joins us to speak primarily on “what we as a dominant culture can learn from Native America” rather than on the art of writing. That’s a theme I’ve been exploring in my reading recently. Given Nerburn’s background, it should be interesting.

The Way In

By Linda Hogan

Sometimes the way to milk and honey is through the body.

Sometimes the way in is a song.

But there are three ways in the world: dangerous, wounding,

and beauty.

To enter stone, be water.

To rise through hard earth, be plant

desiring sunlight, believing in water.

To enter fire, be dry.

To enter life, be food.

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Signs of deep Summer

Roadsides are sporting patches of bergamot and black-eyed Susans. Some fields of corn are starting to tassel. Flocks of swifts or swallows (both?) are gathering on phone and electric wires. We’re into the second half of July, deep Summer. Are we now at Summer’s nadir or its peak, or is there a better word? Remember, one can only go halfway into a forest before starting back out. Is this also true of seasons?

roadside bergamot in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

Last night the temperature dropped into the mid-50’s. This morning’s air held the slightest hint of autumn. The Druid harvest festival of Lammas, or Lughnasadh is two weeks away, on August 1, followed by the beginning of meteorological Autumn on September 1 and then the Equinox, about three weeks later. There’s still plenty of time to enjoy summer before we reach my favorite season.

This morning I ate one of the juicier peaches I’ve ever enjoyed. Peaches are one of my summer symbols, along with heat, humidity, thunderstorms, ice cream cones, and bugs. Guess which are my favorites.

Yesterday I finally caught in a live trap the chipmunk that lived under the front stoop. Apparently mice ate the peanut butter I had been using for bait. I reset the trap with an apple core for bait and a day or so later, success! The critter has been translocated to some woods across a nearby river so I’m not expecting a return. We now have to keep our eyes open to see if anyone else moves in.

Summer Haibun

Aimee Nezhukumatathil

To everything, there is a season of parrots. Instead of feathers, we searched the sky for meteors on our last night. Salamanders use the stars to find their way home. Who knew they could see that far, fix the tiny beads of their eyes on distant arrangements of lights so as to return to wet and wild nests? Our heads tilt up and up and we are careful to never look at each other. You were born on a day of peaches splitting from so much rain and the slick smell of fresh tar and asphalt pushed over a cracked parking lot. You were strong enough—even as a baby—to clutch a fistful of thistle and the sun himself was proud to light up your teeth when they first swelled and pushed up from your gums. And this is how I will always remember you when we are covered up again: by the pale mica flecks on your shoulders. Some thrown there from your own smile. Some from my own teeth. There are not enough jam jars to can this summer sky at night. I want to spread those little meteors on a hunk of still-warm bread this winter. Any trace left on the knife will make a kitchen sink like that evening air

the cool night before
star showers: so sticky so
warm so full of light

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Make America Great Again, Vote, but NOT for Felons!

I may have known, but forgot, or maybe I missed the announcement when it was made, but today I (re?)learned that there’s no incumbent in our Legislative District in this year’s election. I’m doubtful that will lead to being represented by a Democrat in our area, although that was the case when we first moved in. According to Ballotpedia, our district has leaned more and more Republican for the past decade or so. Since I have neither aspirations to nor any probability of becoming a billionaire, I lean heavily toward the left and find few, if any, uses for Republicans and even fewer for MAGAts. I truly never thought I’d live to see the day when a major political party would nominated a convicted felon and adjudicated rapist as its presidential candidate. So much for American exceptionalism. How about Make America Great Again, Don’t Vote for Felons!

Then again, the contrarian in me (yes, me) raises the question: If Joe Biden were more like Mitch McConnell, would we have Clarence Thomas, aided and abetted by Gini, on the SCOTUS? And why, when they had their trifecta, didn’t the Democrats incorporate Roe V. Wade in legislation? As long as I’m at it, the country would be better served, in my opinion, if we had a mandatory retirement age of 70 or so for all those elected or appointed folx who are on the federal payroll.

If you’d like to gain some insight into why I’m negative on both major parties and both elected and appointed officials, pick up a copy of Andrea Wulf's The Founding Gardners and read it. Those who first served as POTUS seemed to have a preference for the real life of the plantation and/or garden more so than a life of politics. We should be wise enough these days to realize that anyone’s strong aspiration to be elected nationally should disqualify them from office. If major sports leagues can have a draft, why not politics? As a former Speaker of the House from Massachusetts, Tip O’Neill, noted “All politics is local.” If you haven’t played on farm teams, you shouldn’t be allowed to buy your way into the big leagues. That would also help the bench strength of booth parties, but we shouldn’t be limited to two. Can you imagine if there were only two banks, two sports leagues, two tv networks, two internet providers? Why are there only two major political parties who are more indebted to a few corporations than to millions of taxpayers?

Why I Voted the Socialist Ticket

By Vachel Lindsay

I am unjust, but I can strive for justice.

My life’s unkind, but I can vote for kindness.

I, the unloving, say life should be lovely.

I, that am blind, cry out against my blindness.

Man is a curious brute—he pets his fancies—

Fighting mankind, to win sweet luxury.

So he will be, though law be clear as crystal,

Tho’ all men plan to live in harmony.

Come, let us vote against our human nature,

Crying to God in all the polling places

To heal our everlasting sinfulness

And make us sages with transfigured faces.

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does GOP = BORG?

I grew up with a story of America as a “melting pot,” which I incorrectly pictured as a stew pot in which the carrots and corn kernels and pieces of potato all retained their individual identities as they contributed to a wholesome and filling meal. Later, as a fan of the Star Trek tv series. I learned of the Borg and assimilation and the phrase “Resistance is futile.” As I read about and see stories of the Republican National Convention and their nominees for president and vice-president, and Project 2025, I wonder when and how the Borg landed and assimilated MAGAts using nanoprobes and what that means for our future if they are not promptly and resoundly driven back to wherever they came from. If you wonder what life as an assimilee might be like, check news stories about life in Russia, China, Hungary or Gaza.

Another part of the story I grew up with in Massachusetts is that Colonial America was largely founded by religious emigrants (who didn’t invade and usurp the territories of indigenous peoples). For those emigrants, the separation of church and state was endemic to the creation of a country from separate colonies. To become a christian nationalist country in November would, in my opinion, put US in BORGian territory and I want no part of it or those who would assimilate US that way. 

If you believe I’m overreacting to the deconstruction of a political party in the creation of an alien Borganization, let me leave you with these thoughts:

• "I’m from Appalachia. JD Vance doesn’t represent us – he only represents himself"
• "Hillbillies Need No Elegy"
• “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose,” and, it could be this:

Freedom

By Jill McDonough

I talk to the students in jail about freedom, how in America

we obsess over it, write it over flags on T-shirts, spread

it around under eagles. It has something to do with guns

and fireworks, Harley-Davidsons, New Hampshire, living free

until you’re dead. I tell the students I think the people

fetishizing freedom don’t mean it. That they really mean

look over here, away from all the slavery

we did, away from all the jail! I tell them they

are the experts, ask them to write what freedom means:

privacy is freedom and if  you feel held back, afraid

to do something, you’re not completely free.   No fear

of  loss. No fear of  hunger, no fear of  pain.   A body

to call my own, a voice driven by my own mind.

The security of a dry, warm place to sleep.   To own

my own time left here.   Being able to hold my son

at night.   Showering in private.   Freedom to me

is having the choice to walk away from a fight. Freedom

a work in progress. Everyday freedom, the real work for us all.

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1968: deja vu all over again?*

FIRST: We WIN!    Then: we FIGHT!

Of the Democrats (Senior and Junior) that have called for President Biden to step down, or aside, as a candidate for this years election, have any of them suggested a stronger standard bearer? I suppose not, since there’s plenty of time [36 days] between now and the start of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago on August 19. How hard could it be to pull together a majority of delegates from a coherent, well structured, tightly organized political party like the Democrats. After all, a similar approach worked in France for Macron, didn’t it?

Then, after having won the nomination at the convention, there’s a whole additional 75 days, approximately two and a half months, to convince a heavily fractured electorate to vote for a Johnny or Hilary come lately, because all the alternatives to President Biden are so well know and liked. Right?

I wonder how many of the Democratic leadership are old enough to remember the debacle that was the 1968 Democratic National Convention? Follow the link if you need a refresher. This year is beginning to look disturbingly similar. In 1968 the Democrats performed so well that they put Richard Nixon in the White House. I’ve stopped making any contributions to Democratic candidates this year until and unless the party strongly coheres behind the best available option to beat the orange turd and his hurd of MAGAts. Remember, there’s always the 25th Amendment once Biden wins. Republicans aren’t ever likely to try something like that.

* apologies to Yogi Berra for the plagiarism. AI made me do it!

The Soul of Spain With McAlmon and Bird the Publishers

By Ernest M. Hemingway

In the rain in the rain in the rain in the rain in Spain. 

Does it rain in Spain? 

Oh yes my dear on the contrary and there are no bull fights. 

The dancers dance in long white pants 

It isn’t right to yence your aunts 

Come Uncle, let’s go home. 

Home is where the heart is, home is where the fart is. 

Come let us fart in the home. 

There is no art in a fart. 

Still a fart may not be artless. 

Let us fart an artless fart in the home. 

Democracy. 

Democracy. 

Bill says democracy must go. 

Go democracy. 

Go 

Go 

Go 

Bill’s father would never knowingly sit down at table with a Democrat. 

Now Bill says democracy must go. 

Go on democracy. 

Democracy is the shit. 

Relativity is the shit. 

Dictators are the shit. 

Menken is the shit. 

Waldo Frank is the shit. 

The Broom is the shit. 

Dada is the shit. 

Dempsey is the shit. 

This is not a complete list. 

They say Ezra is the shit. 

But Ezra is nice. 

Come let us build a monument to Ezra. 

Good a very nice monument. 

You did that nicely 

Can you do another? 

Let me try and do one. 

Let us all try and do one. 

Let the little girl over there on the corner try and do one. 

Come on little girl. 

Do one for Ezra. 

Good. 

You have all been successful children. 

Now let us clean the mess up. 

The Dial does a monument to Proust. 

We have done a monument to Ezra. 

A monument is a monument. 

After all it is the spirit of the thing that counts.

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Ironic? You bet!

One of the folx down the road is a tRUMP supporter. In fact, there’s many of them in the county in which we live. The one I’m writing about however, has a sign in from of his house that claims: “Gun owners for Trump!,” or words to that effect. Maybe I’ll try to take a picture the next time I drive past if the sign is still there. Since the candidate was grazed by a bullet yesterday, and several folx are dead and others critically wounded according to the news, I wonder if the Trumpster MAGAt has a sense of irony. Even more, I wonder if the candidate does, but suspect not.

will we be the phoenix or the ash pile of democracy?

Photo by J. Harrington

Those of you who read this with any regularity have probably noticed I’ve ben on a kick lately, citing old sayings and quotations. The current opportunity offers too much to pass by. Heres a few that come to mind:

• Lie down with dogs, wake up with fleas
• Known by the company you keep
• Give as good as you get (or vice versa)
• What goes around, comes around (or vice versa)
• and the ever infamous Live by the sword, ...

If I left out any you think belong on the list, please note them in the comments.

Last nights thunderstorms awakened my dog and made her quite anxious, so of course she looked to me for reassurance at about 12:45 am. I gave here a couple anxiety calming treats and had her lie down while I rubbed under her chin. (She doesn’t like me to pet the top of her head.) After a while, the rain, lightning and thunder faded away and SiSi and I faded back to sleep. I figure SiSi’s about as likely to grow out of thunderstorm anxiety as most politicians are likely to grow into authenticity, integrity and transparency. Both of which are more likely to occur than for me to get to vote for the candidate [AOC] I’d really like to see as POTUS so I’ll just try to make the most of the world I’ve got to live in. Good luck to US all. We’ll need it if we continue to act as though we’ll settle any more by a next civil war than we did by the last one.

America

By Tony Hoagland

Then one of the students with blue hair and a tongue stud   

Says that America is for him a maximum-security prison

Whose walls are made of RadioShacks and Burger Kings, and MTV episodes   

Where you can’t tell the show from the commercials,

And as I consider how to express how full of shit I think he is,   

He says that even when he’s driving to the mall in his Isuzu

Trooper with a gang of his friends, letting rap music pour over them   

Like a boiling Jacuzzi full of ballpeen hammers, even then he feels

Buried alive, captured and suffocated in the folds   

Of the thick satin quilt of America

And I wonder if this is a legitimate category of pain,   

or whether he is just spin doctoring a better grade,

And then I remember that when I stabbed my father in the dream last night,   

It was not blood but money

That gushed out of him, bright green hundred-dollar bills   

Spilling from his wounds, and—this is the weird part—,

He gasped “Thank god—those Ben Franklins were   

Clogging up my heart—

And so I perish happily,

Freed from that which kept me from my liberty”—

Which was when I knew it was a dream, since my dad   

Would never speak in rhymed couplets,

And I look at the student with his acne and cell phone and phony ghetto clothes

And I think, “I am asleep in America too,

And I don’t know how to wake myself either,”

And I remember what Marx said near the end of his life:

“I was listening to the cries of the past,

When I should have been listening to the cries of the future.”

But how could he have imagined 100 channels of 24-hour cable

Or what kind of nightmare it might be

When each day you watch rivers of bright merchandise run past you

And you are floating in your pleasure boat upon this river

Even while others are drowning underneath you

And you see their faces twisting in the surface of the waters

And yet it seems to be your own hand

Which turns the volume higher?

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Boules and boletes

This week just ending yielded a first for the Better Half and me, a previously unseen mushroom species growing along the south edge of the driveway, old man of the woods. Until this discovery, I had been the holder of that title around here. Finding photos to aid in identification was an issue until I thought to check Minnesota Seasons, mushrooms (select “The List” tab). Here’s an example of our specimens.

“old man of the woods” mushrooms

Photo by J. Harrington

The sourdough we made up yesterday baked up wonderfully this morning. I think the problems with the prior loaf were that the starter was overdue for a major refresh, that I “pushed” the starter before it had been freshened enough, and then I messed up baking it in an oven that was 50℉ hotter than the recipe called for. Each of those were avoided this time and the Better Half informs me this loaf is even tastier than the one before last, about which I was bragging recently in these pages.

today’s sourdough boule

Photo by J. Harrington

I suspect that the appearance of the old man mushrooms, together with several others thaat have cropped upp on the property this summer, is largely due to the abundance of precipitation we’ve “enjoyed” this summer. Better now than in January and February, I suppose.

We’ve been leaving the tray of bergamot seedlings out on the deck overnight, to harden them off. This morning they experienced their first ever real rain, some of which came down pretty hard. The more fully developed seedlings seem to have come through fine. It may take a day or two to see if those that were on the fragile side survived being pounded on.

Mushrooming

Jeffrey Harrison

Christopher and Helen, our new expatriate friends,
meet us at their favorite winery
where they fill their plastic jerry cans from hoses
exactly like the ones at gas stations,
as though they were planning to go back home to Aix
and treat their lawnmower to a nice red.
Instead, they take us in their forest green Peugeot
to the home of their old friend Brigitte
in a village at the foot of Mont Ventoux—
actually, not a village, Brigitte corrects me,
but “un hameau,” a hamlet. The French
are exacting about such distinctions, but Brigitte
has a kind, mischievous smile. Back in the car,
we tear along a series of rutted, stony roads
that web the mountainside, with Brigitte
directing Christopher, “à droite, à gauche, encore à gauche,”
until we come to a grove of pines, cedars, and oaks,
where she says the mushrooms are hidden.
We fan out under the trees, searching the slope,
while Brigitte, looking elfin in her orange hoodie,
waves a stick like a wand, pokes at the dried pine needles
or the dead leaves under the wild boxwood bushes,
and sings, “I think there are some over here,”
like a mother leading her toddlers toward the Easter eggs.
We laugh and follow after her, cutting the stems
with a tarnished knife she lends us, warning
“Faites attention,” because the blade is sharp.
And gradually we fill our plastic shopping bags
with gnarled orange caps, stained green,
which, much later, back in the States, I learn
are called Lactarius deliciosus or
orange-latex milky, like a shade of paint,
the field guide commenting “edible, although
not as good as the name deliciosus suggests”—
but we already suspect that (they look awful),
and we will later unload most of ours on
Christopher and Helen who clearly think of them
as a delicacy… but right now we’re
having fun just hunting for them
among the sunspots on the forest floor,
filling our bags, and shouting through the trees
to one another, the whole afternoon gathering
into the giddy moment that Brigitte keeps
calling us back to—and it’s delicious.

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