Happy Father's Day / Welcome Summertime

Today's title is only valid in the northern hemisphere. But you knew that, right? South of the equator they're starting winter. Since Minnesota is (in)famous for its two seasons of winter or road construction, I think we should again follow the old Celtic practice of dividing the year into only two seasons, summer or winter. As climate breakdown continues, spring and autumn are becoming more challenging to relate to as distinct seasons. We could help solve that by turning the solstices into midsummer or midwinter between each of the equinoxes.

goose and goslings celebrating Father's Day

Photo by J. Harrington

I do hope that all who celebrate Father's Day today enjoy warm wishes, wonderful company, and good to great weather. To those who get to share the day in person with Dad, enjoy! For those who must depend on memories, may they all be happy ones! I am a son whose father has walked on and am now both a father and grandfather, but still my father's son. Such relationships have brought much joy and satisfaction into my life.

I'm beginning to suspect this summer's weather is going to remain in a roller coaster pattern with excess amounts of cloudiness, wind and temperature swings. At least it provides lots of excuses for not cutting the grass. We did manage to celebrate the solstice with a seasonal fire in the fire pit that disposed of the latest batch of branches downed by the aforementioned weather.

My claim to being "of Irish extraction" explains my poem choice for this posting.

Digging

By Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb   

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound   

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds   

Bends low, comes up twenty years away   

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.   

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.

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