Wednesday is Earth Day

Some leaf bud scales have dropped. Our day lilies are a couple of inches tall. A few flowers have appeared in the front flower bed. Hints of leaves-to-be have appeared on the lilac bushes. Spring is getting sprung. This morning, in the dark early, we got about an inch of snow. Friday the wind chill was in the low teens. Such is Spring in our North Country.

mid-April 2020: emerging day lilies in snow

Photo by J. Harrington

The local high temperature forecast for Earth Day is 85℉, which will be about 40 ℉ higher than this weekend's highs. Clearly, the flora and fauna of our North Country have to be highly adaptable, resilient and regenerative. That includes us Homo saps. We'll head north or south, east or west, depending on the extant of the glacial and oceanic coverage, as the climate responds to our abuse of Earth's gifts.

If I had one wish that the Earth Fairies could grant me for Earth Day this year, it would be that everyone, everywhere, read, remember, adopt the philosophy and follow the guidance of Braiding Sweetgrass and The Serviceberry. My intent to celebrate Earth Day is to get out to somewhere near the St. Croix River, park my butt, be quiet, and pay attention to my surroundings. I'll hope to experience some awe and remember to feel gratitude for living in a basically beautiful region that I keep taking for granted because it's there every day.

May you enjoy the week and make every day an Earth Day.

An Earth Song 

Langston Hughes   1901 – 1967

 

It's an earth song,—

And I've been waiting long for an earth song. 

It's a spring song,—

And I've been waiting long for a spring song. 

    Strong as the shoots of a new plant 

    Strong as the bursting of new buds

    Strong as the coming of the first child from its mother's womb. 

It's an earth song, 

A body song, 

A spring song, 

I have been waiting long for this spring song. 

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No April Fools here!

April is the month
of poetry
of snow melt
of snow fall
of the return
of ducks, geese, swans, and
of herons and cranes, and
of red-winged blackbirds

April 4, 2014

Photo by J. Harrington

April is the month
of bud burst
of leafout
of showers of rain
of snow
of sunshine and
of wild flowers

April 2, 2012

Photo by J. Harrington

April is the month
of greening
of flowing
of Easters
of growing
of nesting
of warming
of cooling

Here in the North Country
April is the month
when life that survived
begins again to thrive

Welcome April!

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Christmas horsing around!

As the Better Half and I approached the tack barn this morning at dawn, the temperature (not the windchill) varied from -21℉ to -23 ℉. It was cold! The Daughter Person's horse needed feeding and the horse's owner was otherwise occupied tending to her daughter, our granddaughter, ill with a cold. A similar routine had occurred twice Saturday, driving to the barn in my Jeep to feed the horse, but the cold hadn't been quite as ferocious. Of possible interest: the horse's name is Quinn and, triggered by the temperatures, I was starting to remember some of the lyrics to Dylan's Quinn the Eskimo. (I wonder if we could get Dylan's "Mighty Quinn" to visit the White House and Congress. Click link, see first verse.)

our Quinn: the horse, not an Eskimo

Photo by J. Harrington

Anyhow, the forecast is that Tuesday's temperature should reach 43℉, a more than 60℉ shift in about half a week. That's insane, but I'm looking forward to an early January thaw after which temperatures for the rest of the month may mostly be more reasonable and seasonable, in the 20's above zero range. Don't forget to celebrate Winter Solstice a week from today!

Much to the joy of my taste buds, and the dismay of my blood sugar, we have entered Christmas cookie season. Daughter person will be dropping off some frosted cookies later today and the Better Half has promised to bake some raspberry jam thumbprint cookies soon. I will do my best to pace myself rather than pig out. I don't want Santa to put me on the naughty list and deliver coal in my stocking, increasing my carbon footprint. I wonder if the IPCC, or anyone, has talked to the jolly old elf about a fossil fuel phaseout? Maybe instead of coal, he could leave naughty kids sand to pound?

This year's Christmas tree has remained upright for the past week, for which we are grateful. It's now decorated but I've not had an opportune time to take pictures.. Maybe this coming week. The outside lighting is delightful and cheery. I've already received an early present, an indoor lavender plant that is now living in a South-facing window well. It gives me something to enjoy from now until Spring green-up. Being "of Irish descent," I do prefer green to white and the color lavender, I think, looks better against a green instead of a white background.

Now, in alignment with today's posting and the season, please enjoy this poem:

Let’s just put it this way: They didn’t start calling him “Jolly” Old St. Nicholas until after he got the reindeer.

Poem by Lorraine Jackson

cc/wickimedia commons

 

‘Twas the night before Christmas,

And all through the stable,

Poor Santa was fretting if his horses were able.

The toys were all ready

But the horses were not.

With his sleigh pullers ailing,

Santa was quite distraught.

All the IVs were hung

on the stall fronts with care,

some legs had been cold-hosed

‘til the vet could get there.

Poor Bella had rainrot

And Gordo had thrush

Jellybean pulled a muscle

When he spooked at a brush

Though sometimes dear Rhoda

Could be very sweet,

Christmas Eve she decided to go into heat.

Old Roger was moonblind,

And Jake was too green

Pete had colic or gas–

It remained to be seen.

Trouble was best,

But he has the Cushings.

If he they took him unclipped,

He’d look like a Wookie.

Santa sat on a bucket,

And looked down the barn row

Wondering how he would get to and fro.

The vet bills were growing

They’d make Mark Cuban balk.

Half his elves don’t make toys now,

Instead they hand walk.

As Santa sat moaning

He looked out on the snow.

And saw eight wild reindeer,

With nowhere to go.

“It just might be crazy,”

Said St. Nick full of bliss

“But eight crazy reindeer

Would be better than THIS!”

So that’s how the reindeer

Came to be Santa’s hitch,

And there’s never a colic

Nor a last minute glitch.

The horses retired

But they still hear the bells,

And each Christmas Eve

all their knees start to swell.

Merry Christmas!

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Memorial Day weekend starts summer mode

The planters by the front porch have been freshly planted by the Better Half. I helped hang hanging baskets of fuchsia on which I will bump my head all summer. Cleanup of the autumn / winter / spring mess of fallen leaves and broken branches continues. We’ve even started mowing a little as the broken branches are collected and thrown on the brush pile. I keep trying to convince myself the fresh air and exercise are good for me and that I’m enjoying seeing the butterflies and wildflowers (mostly hoary puccoon) as I work. (They are and I do.)

a cluster of hoary puccoon, bright yellow wildflowers

Photo by J. Harrington

The serviceberry bushes I planted a week ago are persisting to live. The weather forecast indicates they’ll need hand watering this coming week. They arrived after flowering season this year but I’m looking forward to seeing their fall colors in four or five months, although I don’t want to rush the seasons.

Once again this year downy and hairy woodpeckers are feasting on the nectar feeder we’ve hung for the hummingbirds and orioles. The latter haven’t yet noticed a grape jelly feeder we hung a couple of days ago but the male red-breasted grosbeaks seem to like a taste from time to time. Male American goldfinches are in bright, chrome yellow plumage and frequently fighting with each other. Most of the wild turkeys have disappeared. Hens are incubating eggs. I’m not sure what the toms are up to.

One side benefit of getting outside and doing some yard work: not once in the several hours I was busy outside did I think about what the idiots in D.C. are down to, nor how much they’re wrecking, our country and the lives of many of US. I’m hoping for and looking forward to a similar mental status when I finally manage to get out fly fishing.

At the Retirement Home

Tony Barnstone

^{U.S. Soldier, 194th Armored Regiment, retired, Brainerd, Minnesota}

I’ve had both knees replaced. I’ve got a steel
pin in my hip. I don’t hear you so good,
but I’m not stupid, son. How would you feel,
surviving the Bataan Death March, no food
for days, no water, and the ones who fell
behind were bayoneted where they lay,
and now you’re marching off to death? Real hell
is not old age, though. No, taking away
the rights we died for, saying torture’s right,
that’s hell. Hand me the iron and those shirts,
would you? Thanks, son. As long as I have fight
in me I’ll love this country till it hurts.
And it does. This is worse than what I saw
overseas. Torture. In America.

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A corner turned

The fuel line shutoff has been turned off on the snow blower. The lawn mower’s electric start batteryis charging. I may even wash the Jeep one of these days. Although the record shows there’s only one month of the year in which we haven’t had snow in Minnesota, we’re declaring winter of 2023-24 over. The best times of the year (according to me) are ahead of us.

green is busting out all over

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning, as a band of rose began to brighten the eastern sky, we noticed three or four whitetails gnoshing their way through the narrow band of woods between the front of the house and the road. Today was the first time we’ve seen deer in that location. Yesterday afternoon a displaying tom turkey and his harem of hens were parading around the hill behind the house. It’s truly encouraging to see the country come alive. On my way home from an errand this morning I saw a fair-sized flock of what I think were teal zipping over the Sunrise River pools near HWY 36. The water there is up and flooding most of the surrounding marshes. If we get a bunch of rain (is “bunch" the correct technical term?) there may be some issues about where the water all goes before it flows to the St. Croix.

Leaf-out is becoming more prominent by the day. Dandelions are popping into bloom overnight. With the rain expected Friday through Monday, I won’t be surprised if we can actually hear trees, bushes and plants growing, sounding like a susurrating bowl of rice crispies. Spring can be an awesome time in the North Country.

At the Spring Dawn

Angelina Weld Grimké
1880 – 1958

I watched the dawn come,
    Watched the spring dawn come.
And the red sun shouldered his way up
    Through the grey, through the blue,
Through the lilac mists.
The quiet of it! The goodness of it!
    And one bird awoke, sang, whirred
A blur of moving black against the sun,
    Sang again—afar off.
And I stretched my arms to the redness of the sun,
    Stretched to my finger tips,
        And I laughed.
Ah! It is good to be alive, good to love,
    At the dawn,
        At the spring dawn.

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Return with us now...

Today is day fourteen of the 10 to 14 day germination period listed for the bergamot seeds we planted in two seed trays. There are minuscule signs of life in about 20% of the tray cells. We have our fingers crossed that more seeds will germinate over time since the trays have only had one day of warm sunshine for a couple of hours. Weather forecasts are threatening frost this weekend so... no planting yet. In fact, we’re not even ready to park the trays outside daily so seedlings can harden off. The wind has been gusting enough to blow over the trays. Plus, the “safety date” for frost is Memorial Day weekend. Welcome to spring in the North Country.

wild bergamot in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

A pocket gopher has been creating mounds in the real back yard, not just out in the fields behind the house. We’ll see about setting some traps tomorrow or later, after the Soil and Water Conservation person has visited. We’re exploring the possibility of getting some funding to help turn our fields into wild prairie, helping create habitat for local pollinators. Maybe some of our bergamot seedlings will become a step in our prairie restoration?

The day lilies are coming along nicely. Maple buds have burst and their “shells” now cover the ground. The Better Half recently dug out some CDs from our [much] younger days, including early Judy Collins, Ani DiFranco + Utah Phillips, and Janis Joplin. I’m taking that music plus my rapidly growing frustration with today’s “culture” as a cue that it’s time to revert, not to a second childhood (there are some who would claim I never left my first) but to a second Hippie-hood. It feels like a wonderful way to spend the rest of the year, and maybe the rest of my life. At least I could make more sense of people’s actions and inactions way back when. Now, not so much. (If you’re not old enough to remember the Lone Ranger, the rest of the title goes “to those thrilling days of yesteryear.......”)

Back Up Quick They’re Hippies

By Lani O'Hanlon

That was the year we drove

into the commune in Cornwall.

“Jesus Jim,” mam said,

“back up quick they’re hippies.”

Through the car window,

tents, row after row, flaps open,

long-haired men and women

curled around each other like babies

and the babies themselves

wandered naked across the grass.

I reached for the handle, ready, almost,

to open the door, drop out and away

from my sister’s aggressive thighs,

Daddy’s slapping hands.

Back home in the Dandelion Market

I unlearnt the steps my mother taught,

bought a headband, an afghan coat,

a fringed skirt — leather skin.

Barefoot on common grass I lay down with kin.

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Mine, all mine (almost)!

Last evening, for the first time in a long while, I saw a pair of cardinals visit the feeder on the back deck. After days of clouds and flocks of dark-eyed juncos, the splash of bright color was heart-warming. Maybe it’s worth encouraging freeloading squirrels by hanging the kind of feeder preferred by cardinals (and squirrels).

cardinal pair on snowy rail

Photo by J. Harrington

Despite below freezing temperatures today, there’s enough warmth in the sun to begin melting snow, especially where there’s a dark color (e..g., tree trunks and plowed roads) to absorb and concentrate that warmth. I’m hoping most of the ground will again be bare by Easter.

We now come to a sudden transition from observations about weather to touch on an economic and environment issue that is significant here in Minnesota's Congressional District 8: mining, in particular, iron mining. There are those who have asserted that Minnesota’s mining rules and regulations are among “the most stringent in the world,” or words to that effect. And yet, to the best of my knowledge, neither Minnesota nor the mining companies that operate here, are active participants in the Initiative for Responsible Mining Assurance (IRMA), which has recently announced a webinar to review the results of audits of two iron mines in Africa. {The obvious question that occurs to me is, if Minnesota’s requirements are among the best, how would an IRMA audit of a Minnesota mine compare to those done in Africa?) Here’s an extract from an email I received yesterday:

First IRMA Audits of African Iron Ore Mines Released

Anglo American subsidiary Kumba Iron Ore's Kolomela, Sishen both achieve IRMA 75

Webinar to discuss the audits on 4 April

Today, March 27th, IRMA released independent audits of Kumba Iron Ore's Kolomela and Sishen (IRMA 75) iron ore mines in South Africa.  

IRMA 75 means the audit firm ERM-CVS verified that the operations met all critical requirements of the IRMA Standard, as well as at least 75% of the Standard’s criteria in each of the four areas: social responsibility, environmental responsibility, business integrity, and planning for positive legacies.

To learn more, join us April 4th for a webinar about the meaning of the audit results, and how the increased transparency an IRMA audit provides can be used by stakeholders to drive more responsible mining:

Many of Minnesota’s mining proponents are quick to point out that elsewhere in the world, mining doesn’t have to meet Minnesota’s standards. There’s often an uneasy silence about the recent court decisions about how the states’s regulatory agencies have enforced those standards (or not). Wouldn’t it make sense to require all mining operations in the state to participate in IRMA so we would be able to compare not just standards, but in the ground and in the community results?

Locally, MCEA is beginning to broach such questions with a special event on Monday, April 1, on

Global Mining Justice: Water, Climate, and Community Advocacy from Honduras to Minnesota

I hope you'll look into either or both of these events. As Carl Sandburg reminds us, mining is important.

IRON

By Carl Sandburg

GUNS,
Long, steel guns,
Pointed from the war ships
In the name of the war god.
Straight, shining, polished guns,
Clambered over with jackies in white blouses,
Glory of tan faces, tousled hair, white teeth,
Laughing lithe jackies in white blouses,
Sitting on the guns singing war songs, war chanties.

Shovels,
Broad, iron shovels,
Scooping out oblong vaults,
Loosening turf and leveling sod.

     I ask you
     To witness--
     The shovel is brother to the gun.

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Return of the prodigals

Many (most?) of our feathered neighbors become “snow birds” and migrate south during ice and snow season, only to return “home” with spring thaw. Today we saw a number of these prodigals as we were traveling around taking care of errands. The first pair of sandhill cranes appeared in a pasture across the road from a local sheep farm. Several pair of Canada geese floated on several different local ponds. A pair of low flying swans managed to startle me early today as they passed behind us [the dogs and I] and started honking. A different swan almost caused several vehicle crashes as s/he walked/flapped along a local highway centerline. More and more robins are flitting about treetops. Abundant life is returning to the North Country. Soon we may even see fresh blades of grass.

how long ’til pastures green up?

Photo by J. Harrington

This has been about the gentlest winter in the five+ decades I’ve lived here, but that doesn’t bring the equinox or solstice any quicker. Seasonal change is part of life in the temperate zone and toning down the extremes reduces winter’s pains, at least for many humans. But others have missed some skiing, ice fishing, and other outdoor winter activities. Now it’s time to enjoy freeze-free activities for six or eight months,, remembering that in Minnesota, there’s only one month of the year in which it hasn’t snowed.

A Blessing

James Wright
1927 – 1980

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

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False Spring?

Other years I’d be looking forward to melting snow starting to expose the ground. This year I’m concerned that cold spells and blizzards may damage or kill those who have been suckered into believing winter may be over and start to emerge from dormancy. Will waterfowl head North prematurely, only to be faced with a refreeze and lack of food? I hope not. As is always the (often unacknowledged) case, we live one day at a time and have to play it that way.

early Spring arrivals, February 21, 2017

Photo by J. Harrington

Not quite a decade ago, in 2017, at the beginning of the third week of the month, the Sunrise River pools in Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area looked like the picture above. (The gray and white color spots in the center are swans and Canada geese.) So early arrivals of Spring to the North Country are not without precedent. We intend to keep our fingers crossed that the pattern holds and no harm is done.

As a matter of fact, the Ojibwe have a story about the annual battle between winter (Biboon) and spring (Ziigwan). That seems to indicate early or late arrivals of Spring are relatively normal in the natural order of things and life goes on. Perhaps if we spent more time during winter telling stories and sharing legends, we’d have a better sense of what’s normal and what’s not.

Windigo

By Louise Erdrich

For Angela

The Windigo is a flesh-eating, wintry demon with a man buried deep inside of it. In some Chippewa stories, a young girl vanquishes this monster by forcing boiling lard down its throat, thereby releasing the human at the core of ice.

You knew I was coming for you, little one,

when the kettle jumped into the fire.

Towels flapped on the hooks,

and the dog crept off, groaning,

to the deepest part of the woods.

In the hackles of dry brush a thin laughter started up.

Mother scolded the food warm and smooth in the pot

and called you to eat.

But I spoke in the cold trees:

New one, I have come for you, child hide and lie still. 

The sumac pushed sour red cones through the air.

Copper burned in the raw wood.

You saw me drag toward you.

Oh touch me, I murmured, and licked the soles of your feet.

You dug your hands into my pale, melting fur.

I stole you off, a huge thing in my bristling armor.

Steam rolled from my wintry arms, each leaf shivered

from the bushes we passed

until they stood, naked, spread like the cleaned spines of fish.

Then your warm hands hummed over and shoveled themselves full

of the ice and the snow. I would darken and spill

all night running, until at last morning broke the cold earth

and I carried you home,

a river shaking in the sun.

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Winter’s nadir?

While running errands this morning, we saw a sun dog. That means it was very cold and the sun was shining. Sun dogs need cold. Our dogs say they don’t, at least not this cold, this long. It’s getting harder to get them to take care of business because they just want to take a quick sniff around and head back into the warm(er) house. I understand their perspective but don’t expect to get them potty trained in addition to being housebroken, so we’ll continue our walks in the weather.

As I type this, I’m sitting in my arm chair in front of a picture window through which afternoon sun is pouring without any warmth. It’ll take a month or so before we can feel much warmth in sunlight. Meanwhile, I’ll be wearing heavy cardigans during the day and fleece-lined pj’s at night and typing blog posts about the North Country’s bitter, in more ways than one, cold.

If we continue to make progress, tomorrow is the day we can start to lay out fly rods and reels on a freshly cleared pool table so both the Better Half and I can mutually confirm whose is which. We have let playing with our toys deteriorate to the point that we’re not always sure whose rod one of us is about to grab. This isn’t a possessive about possessions concern as much as it is about different casting styles and preferences in line weights and actions. Fly fishing is usually more fun when your cast (my cast) feels good as well as hits the target.

flowers add color to winter

Photo by J. Harrington

As we ponder the eventual arrival of the equinox and the next season in the annual cycle we’re heartened and encouraged by the emergence of at least four bright yellow tulips in our indoor bulb garden, plus a red amaryllis starting to blossom and another starting to emerge from its bulb.

In case any of you are keeping track, the levain for the rye bread was a success although perhaps I “harvested” it too long after it had peaked. It floated nicely, but the dough it’s intended to rise isn’t yet rising. I have hopes than an overnight stay in the warming room (upstairs bath) will prompt it to rise. We’ll see in the morning.

Like Brooms of Steel (1252)

Emily Dickinson
1830 – 1886

Like Brooms of Steel  
The Snow and Wind  
Had swept the Winter Street -
The House was hooked  
The Sun sent out   
Faint Deputies of Heat -
Where rode the Bird  
The Silence tied  
His ample - plodding Steed
The Apple in the Cellar snug  
Was all the one that played.

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C-c-c-cold as a ... North Country January

If we’re lucky, next week will be the coldest of the winter. Lucky not because next week’s temperatures will be relatively mild (single digit highs) but because maybe that will be as bad as it gets. That would be nice. Record lows for next week are in the -30s to -40s range, although not all occurred in the same year. We got a taste of that five years ago at the end of January.

January 31, 2019: -31℉

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning a wild turkey, feathers all puffed up against the cold, skulked through the back yard. It’s rare to see a single bird in the winter so I’m not sure what was going on. It’s the only turkey we’ve seen near the house so far this year. No deer seen yet either.

There are four, I think, what look like yellow tulip buds developing in the indoor bulb garden that came for Christmas. I’m looking forward to seeing living, not cut, flowers in bloom as a precursor to real spring. Equinox is 66 days away. In our North Country, spring will arrive 30 to 60 days later. By then I expect to have our tax organizer filled out and delivered to the preparer. This time of year is just one treat after another.

If a January thaw actually arrives a week from Monday, I’ll be delighted, even if it’s just for one day. Meanwhile, next week looks like prime time to get a bunch of old files sorted (sordid?) into keep and dispose piles. That and play with some fly fishing gear and read some more fly fishing stories.

Furry Bear

A. A. Milne

If I were a bear, 
   And a big bear too, 
I shouldn’t much care 
   If it froze or snew; 
I shouldn’t much mind 
   If it snowed or friz— 
I’d be all fur-lined 
   With a coat like his! 

For I’d have fur boots and a brown fur wrap, 
And brown fur knickers and a big fur cap. 
I’d have a fur muffle-ruff to cover my jaws, 
And brown fur mittens on my big brown paws. 
With a big brown furry-down up to my head, 
I’d sleep all the winter in a big fur bed. 

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Weather or not

It’s another cloudy, dreary day and the forecast is for more of the same for the next week. Last night’s snow showers left about a half an inch of fresh powder on the ground. While poking around the digital photo library, I came across some pictures that cheered me considerably. Take a look at one example:

Carlos Avery pools, 2/21/2017

Photo by J. Harrington

Seven years ago we had waterfowl on open water at the start of the third week in February, 2017. That discovery perked me up enough that I went and dug out a fly reel that needs a touch of lubricant and its line cleaned and conditioned. We’ll start on that tomorrow. If I sit and stare at the gray on gray outside while I wait for “things” to get better, I’ll miss opportunities to make things better in the interim. I think that also works in politics.

We are making some progress around the house. Several bags of clothing and household equipment, like a spare griddle, have been carted off to Goodwill. Some “junk,” like a CB radio I haven’t used in several decades have been trashed. We’ll keep picking away at it until the place is less cluttered and more livable. I grew up with the New England “put it aside, wear it out, use it up” approach, so I doubt I’lll ever accept the “if you haven’t used it in a year, get rid of it." Then again, there’s an outside chance I’ve leaned a little to far in the other direction. If I live long enough, I may attain a balanced life but that doesn’t take care of now and tomorrow.

Back in the last millennium, when I was much younger, there was a popular song, Let’s Live for Today, performed by the Grassroots. If I had a playlist, I’d add it for awhile. Instead, I’ll just play it a couple of times and suggest you give it a listen. If enough of US pull together, we can enjoy today, not worry about tomorrow, and still be okay.

Oh, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes

By Charlotte Smith

Oh, Hope! thou soother sweet of human woes!

      How shall I lure thee to my haunts forlorn!

For me wilt thou renew the withered rose,

      And clear my painful path of pointed thorn?

Ah come, sweet nymph! in smiles and softness drest,

      Like the young hours that lead the tender year

Enchantress come! and charm my cares to rest:

      Alas! the flatterer flies, and will not hear!

A prey to fear, anxiety, and pain,

      Must I a sad existence still deplore?

Lo! the flowers fade, but all the thorns remain,

      ‘For me the vernal garland blooms no more.’

Come then, ‘pale Misery’s love!’ be thou my cure,

And I will bless thee, who though slow art sure.

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Winter wonders

Today I’m reporting on two events that are, unfortunately from my perspective, unrelated. A couple of mornings ago, wile taking our dogs for their very early walk, hours before sunrise, we heard a pack of coyotes in the nearby woods. Our dogs were unphased but I got excited, although I don’t understand dog psychology enough to have any sort of handle on why our two go crazy barking at some weird sound on the tv but ignore a pack of coyotes. Perhaps they didn’t want to attract attention by barking?

The second event is the discovery, a couple of days ago, of fresh pocket gopher mounds near the wet spot behind the house. In January, in Minnesota, the ground is still unfrozen enough for those critters to be tunneling instead of hibernating or whatever they usually do in winter. If only the pack of coyotes would pass through the yard and dig out and eat the gopher(s), I’d be one of those known as a “happy camper.” Instead, I’m going to see if I can shovel into a tunnel and set a couple of traps, unless gophers can tunnel through soil too tough for me to dig? In which case we’ve just started our list of spring chores.

September 2023: coyote passing through back yard

Photo by J. Harrington

At least we’re not (yet) dealing with bitter cold or deep snow. I’m truly grateful for a lack of both, especially after some of the polar vortices we’ve experienced the past few winters. It has been cold enough to make soup and stew entirely appropriate. For now, I’ll settle for that.

Developing the Land

By Stephen Behrendt

For six nights now the cries have sounded in the pasture:

coyote voices fluting across the greening rise to the east

where the deer have almost ceased to pass

now that the developers have carved up yet another section,

filled another space with spars and studs, concrete, runoff.

Five years ago you saw two spotted fawns rise

for the first time from brome where brick mailboxes will stand;

only three years past came great horned owls

who raised two squeaking, downy owlets

that perished in the traffic, skimming too low across the road

behind some swift, more fortunate cottontail.

It was on an August afternoon that you drove in,

curling down our long gravel drive past pasture and creek,

that you saw, flickering at the edge of your sight,

three mounted Indians, motionless in the paused breeze,

who vanished when you turned your head.

We have felt the presence on this land of others,

of some who paused here, some who passed, who have left

in the thick clay shards and splinters of themselves that we dig up,

turn up with spade and tine when we garden or bury our animals;

their voices whisper on moonless nights in the back pasture hollow

where the horses snort and nicker, wary with alarm.

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On Christmas Eve

Almost a decade ago we re-sided and re-shinglled the house. We also had some bracing added to the roof, to be sure it would hold a "miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.” The white stuff on the ground is called snow, which some years arrives in the North Country for Christmas. 

make sure your roof will hold Santa

Photo by J. Harrington

“‘Twas the Night Before Christmas” turns 200 this year

A Visit from St. Nicholas

By Clement Clarke Moore

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds;

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,

When what to my wondering eyes did appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,

With a little old driver so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

So up to the housetop the coursers they flew

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too—

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.

His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round belly

That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

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December March(es) out

Despite the attentions and appetite of a certain lovable but unnamed blogger, it looks like there will be enough cookies for Santa and at least a few of his elves, although not necessarily all flavors will be equally represented. 

We’re close to confirming that the Christmas spirit isn’t dependent on snow but does have a lot to do with sharing good wishes with friends and family. Last night a friend dropped by and today the Granddaughter brought her parents to visit and inspect our tree and decorations. We’ll reciprocate on Christmas Day as we also celebrate our son’s birthday. There are two other family birthdays this month, which adds to the business and happiness.

a special snowflake for Christmas

Photo by J. Harrington

All the fog is making me extra nostalgic for Boston and the South Shore of Massachusetts, where I did my growing up and a white Christmas was less frequent than it has been in the North Country. This weekend’s weather feels more like we skipped winter and jumped ahead to March. So far this month there’s only been one day that hasn't had temperatures above “normal.”

The unseasonable weather and the seasonable visit from the Daughter Person, Son-In-Law and Granddaughter created the fortuitous circumstances of the S-I-L getting up on the roof and clearing an accumulation of branches and leaves left over from autumn’s storms. Having a now clearer landing space should make the landing and take-off for Santa’s visit easier for the jolly old elf. Heaven forbid grandparents having to explain that Santa didn’t get to Granddaughter’s chimney because his sleigh got caught on roof debris at Gramma’s and Grandpa’s.

It looks like next month we’ll return to cold temperatures and may catch up on snowfall. Then, again, maybe not. By the third week in February, we can almost smell spring equinox, which arrives as a belated, but much loved, Christmas present from Mother Nature. (What do you mean I sound like I don’t enjoy winter?)

Before Christmas

By Landis Everson

Almost

the first reindeer

shipped North by boxcar from Lapland   

but a toy model

got there first.

A dwarf invented reindeer on his own.   

He was Santa’s favorite. He

hadn't known

they already existed.

This discouraged dwarf

was close to taking his life but

Santa showed up

encircled by snow.

He said, “I will use the real reindeer for my sled

always in yoke

to your original invention.”

That night the gears that turned the Pole   

stopped

and began to turn the other way,   

so it be so.

My love is a toy model waiting

for a reindeer to carry me.

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Is Christmas becoming “all wet?"

Predawn weather this morning at 7 am included patchy ground fog and rain. Combined with darkness and no fog lines or center stripes on township roads, the trip, with the Better Half [BH] in the passenger seat, to deliver several bags of Christmas and birthday presents to the Daughter Person, Son-In-Law, Granddaughter’s home was quite an adventure. Visibility was much improved, with dreariness increased, during the trip back to our place. Mission accomplished, per BH.

Today’s day length is less than half a minute more than that of the winter solstice on Thursday. That’s barely noticeable. The dreary days added to the long nights prompt conscious efforts to offset excessive moodiness. I’ve been preparing to take advantage of dark, but clearer, skies by reading a book, Spirits Dancing, about the aurora, Milky Way, and the universe in which we exist. In the twenty-five plus years we’ve lived in the country, light pollution has grown noticeably. I have seen the aurora a few times, but don’t recall ever seeing the Milky Way except in photos.

Next Thursday will bring astronomical winter into conformance with the meteorological season which began on December 1. If you wonder why they don’t match, you can find an explanation here. Our current atypical weather is consistent with the three month outlook from NOAA. Will El Nino continue until or past spring? We’ll see. Santa may need to add wheels to his sleigh’s runners this year.

December driveway puddle (12/29/2019)

Photo by J. Harrington

Four years ago we had a large puddle in our driveway a few days after Christmas. Three years ago we watched boaters launch into an ice-free St. Croix river at Franconia in early December. At the moment, the forecast is for rain showers on Christmas Eve and a rain-snow mix the next day. One might almost think North Country winters are getting warmer and shorter.

“Your Luck Is About To Change”

By Susan Elizabeth Howe

(A fortune cookie)

Ominous inscrutable Chinese news 

to get just before Christmas, 

considering my reasonable health, 

marriage spicy as moo-goo-gai-pan, 

career running like a not-too-old Chevrolet. 

Not bad, considering what can go wrong: 

the bony finger of Uncle Sam 

might point out my husband, 

my own national guard, 

and set him in Afghanistan; 

my boss could take a personal interest; 

the pain in my left knee could spread to my right. 

Still, as the old year tips into the new, 

I insist on the infant hope, gooing and kicking 

his legs in the air. I won't give in 

to the dark, the sub-zero weather, the fog, 

or even the neighbors' Nativity. 

Their four-year-old has arranged 

his whole legion of dinosaurs 

so they, too, worship the child, 

joining the cow and sheep. Or else, 

ultimate mortals, they've come to eat 

ox and camel, Mary and Joseph, 

then savor the newborn babe.

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I’ll be gnome for Christmas...

We live in a region of Minnesota that was heavily colonized by Scandihoovians. That becomes more evident at certain times of the year, like now. Figures are popping up along roadsides demonstrating that, for some, there’s no place like gnome. To put it slightly differently, when in gnome, do as the gnomens do!

roadside Christmas gnome

Photo by J. Harrington

The sighting above occurred on a county road in Isanti County this morning. There's actually more bigfoot sightings along semi-local roads, including at least one that’s dressed as one of Santa’s elves, but they generally aren’t as photogenic so we haven’t bothered. Besides, I don’t know of any folk tales about bigfoots saving Christmas, but there is one about Tomten saves Christmas.

I wonder if any of the adirondack chairs along Highway 8 have tomte seated on them. Someday soon I’ll take a drive to see.

Tomten 

Viktor Rydberg

Deep in the grip of the midwinter cold

The stars glitter and sparkle.

All are asleep on this lonely farm,

Deep in the winter night.

The pale white moon is a wanderer,

snow gleams white on pine and fir,

snow gleams white on the roofs.

Only tomten is awake.

 

Gray, he stands by the low barn door,

Gray by the drifted snow,

Gazing, as many winters he's gazed,

Up at the moon's chill glow,

Then at the forest where fir and pine

Circle the farm in a dusky line,

Mulling relentlessly

A riddle that has no key.

 

Rubs his hand through his beard and hair,

Shakes his head and his cap.

"No, that question is much too deep,

I cannot fathom that."

Then making his mind up in a hurry,

He shrugs away the annoying worry;

Turns at his own command,

Turns to the task at hand.

 

Goes to the storehouse and toolshop doors,

Checking the locks of all,

While the cows dream on in the cold moon's light,

Summer dreams in each stall.

And free of harness and whip and rein,

Even Old Pålle dreams again.

The manger he's drowsing over

Brims with fragrant clover.

 

The tomte glances at sheep and lambs

Cuddled in quiet rest.

The chickens are next, where the rooster roosts

High above straw filled nests.

Burrowed in straw, hearty and hale,

Karo wakens and wags his tail

As if to say, "Old friend,

Partners we are to the end."

 

At last the tomte tiptoes in

To see how the housefolk fare.

He knows full well the strong esteem

They feel for his faithful care.

He tiptoes into the children's beds,

Silently peers at their tousled heads.

There is no mistaking his pleasure:

These are his greatest treasure.

 

Long generations has he watched

Father to son to son

Sleeping as babes. But where, he asks,

From where, from where have they come?

Families came, families went,

Blossomed and aged, a lifetime spent,

Then-Where? That riddle again

Unanswered in his brain!

 

Slowly he turns to the barnyard loft,

His fortress, his home and rest,

High in the mow, in the fragrant hay

Near to the swallow's nest.

The nest is empty, but in the spring

When birds mid leaves and blossoms sing,

And come with her tiny mate.

 

Then will she talk of the journey tell.

Twittering to all who hear it,

But nary a hint for the question old

That stirs in the tomte's spirit.

Now through cracks in the haymow wall

The moon lights tomte and hay and all,

Lights his beard through the chinks,

The tomte ponders and thinks.

 

Still is the forest and all the land,

Locked in this wintry year.

Only the distant waterfall

Whispers and sighs in his ear.

The tomte listens and, half in dream,

Thinks that he hears Time's endless stream,

And wonders, where is it bound?

Where is its source to be found?

 

Deep in the grip of the midwinter cold,

The stars glitter and sparkle.

All are asleep on this lonely farm,

Late in this winter night.

The pale white moon is a wanderer,

Snow gleams white on pine and fir,

Snow gleams white on the roofs.

Only tomten is awake.

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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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