November's heritage: memories and memorials

It was fifty years ago tomorrow that the Edmund Fitzgerald sank in Lake Superior. Gordon Lightfoot memorialized the tragedy with his song The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Please pause for a moment of silence after following the link and listening to him perform. Then check some interesting background to the song.

Minnesota's Split Rock Lighthouse on Lake Superior

Photo by J. Harrington

Locally, on November 10 the Split Rock Lighthouse and the Minnesota Historical Society will host a memorial to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the Fitzgerald's sinking, as has been done for the past four decades or so.

Our area's firearm’s deer season opened yesterday with colder temperatures than we’ve seen so far this season. Warmer days are forecast for later in the week. One of the reasons I was more of a grouse and waterfowl hunter than a whitetail seeker is that I can't manage to sit still enough to blend into the landscape when experiencing the frequently cold temperatures we get during deer season in the North Country. Plus, when I tried deer hunting back in New England, before moving to Minnesota, I did it with a mixed group of bow hunters and bird hunters. It rarely failed that the bird hunters spooked deer and the bow hunters watched grouse strutting around their stands.

UPDATE: Local ponds are forming ice cover. First snow of the season is falling as graupel and forming snow snakes along the roads.

Since November is Native American Heritage month, as well as the season for early gales on Superior, and since Lightfoot referred to Superior by her Ojibwe/Anishinaabe name, Gitche Gumee, it seems fitting to close today with a Kimberly Blaeser poem. Water, in Great Lakes and elsewhere, has long been a source of both life and death.

Wellspring: Words from Water

A White Earth childhood water rich and money poor.
Vaporous being transformed in cycles—
the alluvial stories pulled from Minnesota lakes
harvested like white fish, like manoomin,
like old prophecies of seed growing on water.
Legends of Anishinaabeg spirit beings:
cloud bearer Thunderbird who brings us rain,
winter windigo like Ice Woman, or Mishibizhii
who roars with spit and hiss of rapids—
great underwater panther, you copper us
to these tributaries of balance. Rills. A cosmology
of nibi.  We believe our bodies thirst. Our earth.
One element. Aniibiishaaboo. Tea brown
wealth. Like maple sap. Amber. The liquid eye of moon.
Now she turns tide, and each wedded being gyrates
to the sound, its river body curving.
We, women of ageless waters, endure;
like each flower drinks from night,
holds dew. Our bodies a libretto,
saturated, an aquifer—we speak words
from ancient water.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Listening for the land to speak

The November section of our Minnesota Weatherguide Calendar and Almanac has a timely epigram from Linda Hogan:

There is a way that nature
speaks, that land speaks.
Most of the time we are 
simply not patient enough,
quiet enough, to pay
attention to the story.

November is Native American Heritage month but, with the federal government shut down since the beginning of October, most .gov websites haven't been updated. November is also the month when the North Country begins to accelerate its slide from autumn into winter. As I was poking about the corners of the internet yesterday, looking for some North Country phenology material, I came across the University of Minnesota's Center for Community-Engaged Learning's Sites of Resistance and Resilience in the Twin Cities on the UMN's Season Watch Resources page. The fortuitous discoveries above remind me of the old dictum: "No amount of planning will ever replace dumb luck."

early November North Country snow [2013]

Photo by J. Harrington

Winter, among those who live close to nature and her seasons, is often a time for quiet hunkering down and storytelling. We're headed in that direction. Summer's ants are disappearing and winter's mice are looking for warm places to nest. If this year is near typical, our "permanent" snow cover will begin about a week before Thanksgiving. If you haven't yet come across a copy of National Geographic's 1621 A New Look at Thanksgiving, I suggest you try to order a copy from Birchbark Books. I'm going to start this year's (re)reading later today.

Harvested cornfields are being gleaned by growing flocks of swans and Canada geese. A few of those waterfowl may winter over on the St. Croix river near Hudson WI. Most will migrate south as open water grows ice cover and harvested fields are covered by more and more snow. Since we lack a snow bird's cottage in the warm south, we'll practice a lethargic, hibernation-approximating existence, as much as we can get away with, until the seasons change again and spring returns.

Map

Linda Hogan

This is the world
so vast and lonely
without end, with mountains
named for men
who brought hunger
from other lands,
and fear
of the thick, dark forest of trees
that held each other up,
knowing fire dreamed of swallowing them
and spoke an older tongue,
and the tongue of the nation of wolves
was the wind around them.
Even ice was not silent.
It cried its broken self
back to warmth.
But they called it
ice, wolf, forest of sticks,
as if words would make it something
they could hold in gloved hands,
open, plot a way
and follow.

This is the map of the forsaken world.
This is the world without end
where forests have been cut away from their trees.
These are the lines wolf could not pass over.
This is what I know from science:
that a grain of dust dwells at the center
of every flake of snow,
that ice can have its way with land,
that wolves live inside a circle
of their own beginning.
This is what I know from blood:
the first language is not our own.

There are names each thing has for itself,
and beneath us the other order already moves.
It is burning.
It is dreaming.
It is waking up.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Ice in

All the small to moderate size ponds and lakes I drove past this morning are ice covered shore to shore. Green Lake had a flock of about a dozen swans resting on the ice, near a flock of Canada gees about half that size. All had their heads tucked up under their wings. (I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.) Even the Sunrise river pools are iced in. We’re another step closer to a landscape frozen until spring and eventual ice out. I doubt this week’s warm up will return open water, but we’ll see.

Christmas lists are getting shaped up. I’m trying to not get too annoyed with today’s email flood of Giving Tuesday requests piling in a couple of weeks after Minnesota’s Give To The Max Day. Lots of good folks doing, or trying to do, good work, need support. Most of them seem to believe that the best indication you may give again is that you already gave once. But, as famous song writers once wrote “It ain’t necessarily so.”

have a holly, jolly Christmas

Photo by J. Harrington

Some of the amaryllis bulbs are beginning to show signs of life in emergent green shoots. Others appear to be hibernating. It’ll be fun to see if we end up with red flowers for Christmas, New Year’s or Valentines. This reminds me, it’s almost time to go on my annual, sometime fruitless, search for holly plants or bouquets. At some point along the line, I became convinced it’s not really Christmas without holly. Even without being successful, the search is usually fun and often prompts unusual expressions on the faces of staff at local florists and nurseries.

This afternoon has brought blue skies, sunshine, and somewhat moderated temperatures. I’ve managed to pick up a few stocking stuffers. The rest of the week is supposed to be closer to seasonal temperatures. Friday is December 1. Whether or not we’re ready or in the mood, Christmas is on the way!

Fire and Ice

By Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice.

From what I’ve tasted of desire

I hold with those who favor fire.

But if it had to perish twice,

I think I know enough of hate

To say that for destruction ice

Is also great

And would suffice.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Frank: incensed! Mirth!

This morning’s wind chill was below zero (-3℉), actual temperatures about 12℉. Since none of today’s errands are critical, they’re getting deferred until tomorrow or Wednesday. This kind of unseasonably cold weather makes it hard to stay motivated to respond to “global warming,” especially in a state concerned about abnormal winter warming.

Lest you classify me as a climate change denier, rest assured I’m really only complaining about weather events that stray well below the overall trend. In fact, I’ve noted a remarkable similarity in many of the themes found in Sustainable Happiness and Earth for All: A Survival Guide for Humanity. The idea that surviving our current crises doesn’t need to be a “suck it up,” dreary affair has some surprising appeal, doesn’t it? We simply can’t afford, in any sense of the term, to pursue a business as usual scenario. This holiday season you may want to consider giving a copy of either book, or both, to friends or relatives.

November: full moon

Photo by J. Harrington

Today’s full moon, reflected off the dusting of snow in the driveway this morning, made everything so bright I almost wondered if the garage yard lights had been triggered. According to the Minnesota Weatherguide Calendar,  the Lakota call this full moon the Starting Winter Moon and the Ojibwe know it as the Freezing Moon. Both fit well the current season and weather. We’re less than a month from the shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere. In five weeks or so, days will slowly begin to increase and temperatures will lag by several months. May is less than half a year away.

But first, if we’ve been good boys and girls, we get to celebrate a visit from Santa. Christmas is also our son’s birthday, so the holiday ends about noon and the other birthday boy’s celebration takes over. All of which suggests I stop typing this and get to work on lists of who gets what from whom, when. Unlike Santa, I’m my own crew of elves.

Velvet Shoes

Elinor Wylie     1885 – 1928

Let us walk in the white snow
    In a soundless space;
With footsteps quiet and slow,
    At a tranquil pace,
    Under veils of white lace.

I shall go shod in silk,
    And you in wool,
White as white cow’s milk,
    More beautiful
    Than the breast of a gull.

We shall walk through the still town
    In a windless peace;
We shall step upon white down,
    Upon silver fleece,
    Upon softer than these.

We shall walk in velvet shoes:
    Wherever we go
Silence will fall like dews
    On white silence below.
    We shall walk in the snow.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Winter, settling in

We’ve been snow showered on, again. I expect the snow on the ground to be gone by week’s end, at which time folks should begin fretting about whether or not we’ll have a white Christmas. I just hope it won’t get to be too white.

view of today’s neighborhood

Photo by J. Harrington

The house is now all sparkly and lighted both outside and in. Next weekend will probably be tree time. Meanwhile, the Jeep’s carpet floor mats need to come out and be replaced by rubber ones. I’m sharing that here as a reminder to me since I’ve not yet made the change. The transition from autumn to winter feels more like work than the one from winter to spring, but I believe there’s actually more work involved in the latter.

Minor progress has been made on Christmas lists and shopping. We still have several weeks before it becomes time to get panicky, but first we need to be sure to not succumb tomorrow to the wiles of Cyber Monday. We’ll see about getting a new bag of bird seed at the local feed and grain instead. Then we can share with our feathered friends through the rest of the holiday season. At the moment, we’re seeing chickadees, nuthatches, goldfinches, hairy, downy, and an occasional red-bellied woodpecker and, at dusk some days, a cardinal or two. Still no signs of juncos.

That’s about it for today. We’re in a post-Thanksgiving lull ahead of the pre-Christmas frenzy, and I intend to take advantage of every moment of it.

November for Beginners

By Rita Dove

Snow would be the easy

way out—that softening

sky like a sigh of relief

at finally being allowed

to yield. No dice.

We stack twigs for burning

in glistening patches

but the rain won’t give.

So we wait, breeding

mood, making music

of decline. We sit down

in the smell of the past

and rise in a light

that is already leaving.

We ache in secret,

memorizing

a gloomy line

or two of German.

When spring comes

we promise to act

the fool. Pour,

rain! Sail, wind,

with your cargo of zithers!

November 1981

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Presence, practice, presents

The orange pumpkins are gone from the “back yard," presumably consumed by deer. Smaller ponds are once again ice covered, maybe this time to stay until spring, maybe not. Most trees are now not much more than bare, wind-blown branches. The Better Half and I foraged some fresh, leafless, winterberry branches this morning. They look very wabi-sabi like in a ceramic vase on top of a stereo speaker.

We avoided Black Friday and celebrated Buy Nothing Day yesterday. It felt good. There will be presents exchanged at Christmas, but we’ll do our best to avoid seasonal madness in favor of peace, quiet, nature and family. If that seems unpatriotic somehow, please consider this recent headline: World stands on frontline of disaster at Cop28, says UN climate chief.

Christmas cookies: presence making presents

Photo by J. Harrington

Have you every thought about the idea that time spent wishing and working for something new and/or improved is time not spent enjoying what you now have? I had to face that kind of question not long ago when I was reading one of Tom Rosenbauer’s books on fly fishing and he noted something I’ve avoided: “Practice casting no matter what you do.” In younger days, I fished often enough that I didn’t need to practice. Now, not so much. Practicing casting isn’t dependent on buying another rod, reel, line, etc. I’m going through similar adjustment with my sourdough bread baking and my writing. Reading and thinking about things is a start (and helps sell books) but doing something, practicing something, necessitates spending time more than money.

Life Cycle of Common Man

By Howard Nemerov

Roughly figured, this man of moderate habits,

This average consumer of the middle class,

Consumed in the course of his average life span

Just under half a million cigarettes,

Four thousand fifths of gin and about

A quarter as much vermouth; he drank

Maybe a hundred thousand cups of coffee,

And counting his parents’ share it cost

Something like half a million dollars

To put him through life. How many beasts

Died to provide him with meat, belt and shoes

Cannot be certainly said.

                                     But anyhow,

It is in this way that a man travels through time,

Leaving behind him a lengthening trail

Of empty bottles and bones, of broken shoes,

Frayed collars and worn out or outgrown

Diapers and dinnerjackets, silk ties and slickers.

Given the energy and security thus achieved,

He did . . . ? What? The usual things, of course,

The eating, dreaming, drinking and begetting,

And he worked for the money which was to pay

For the eating, et cetera, which were necessary

If he were to go on working for the money, et cetera,

But chiefly he talked. As the bottles and bones

Accumulated behind him, the words proceeded

Steadily from the front of his face as he

Advanced into the silence and made it verbal.

Who can tally the tale of his words? A lifetime

Would barely suffice for their repetition;

If you merely printed all his commas the result

Would be a very large volume, and the number of times

He said “thank you” or “very little sugar, please,”

Would stagger the imagination. There were also

Witticisms, platitudes, and statements beginning

“It seems to me” or “As I always say.”

Consider the courage in all that, and behold the man

Walking into deep silence, with the ectoplastic

Cartoon’s balloon of speech proceeding

Steadily out of the front of his face, the words

Borne along on the breath which is his spirit

Telling the numberless tale of his untold Word

Which makes the world his apple, and forces him to eat.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Happy Thanksgiving!

In our family, at these times, grandfather and grandmother go over the river and through the woods to enjoy Thanksgiving at the  house of Daughter Person, Son-In-Law, and Granddaughter. The old folks don’t yet need diaper bags nor car seats and, for a while longer, can get out of the Jeep with fewer complications than faced by the parents of a three year old. So far this year, we’ve been lucky to not need a sleigh nor 4WD on the Jeep for the trip.

Photo by J. Harrington

May each of you and all of yours enjoy a happy, healthy, and together Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving Day [“Over the river and through the wood”]

By Lydia Maria Child

Over the river and through the wood,

    To grandfather's house we go;

         The horse knows the way

         To carry the sleigh

    Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river and through the wood--

    Oh, how the wind does blow!

         It stings the toes

         And bites the nose,

    As over the ground we go.

Over the river and through the wood,

    To have first-rate play.

         Hear the bells ring,

         "Ting-a-ling-ding!"

    Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river and through the wood,

    And straight through the barn-yard gate.

         We seem to go

         Extremely slow--

    It is so hard to wait!

Over the river and through the wood--

    Now grandmother's cap I spy!

         Hurrah for the fun!

         Is the pudding done?

    Hurrah for the pumpkin-pie!

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

On Thanksgiving Eve

Today I’m thankful the world isn’t any more complex than it already is and have a Christmas wish that we all find ways to make it simpler. Repeat after me: "Analogue is Awesome; Digital is Disastrous!” If you think I’m overreacting, check the stories on /. Slashdot each day for a week or more. When was the last time a computer really made your life better? Or, do they just help US to make the same dumb mistakes even faster, with fewer options available to correct those mistakes? Was identity theft a real problem when we all relied on snail mail? When was the last time someone hacked the postal system?

Are you tired of being nagged to sign up for auto-payment by one or more basic service corporations? At the moment, trash, phone and power companies want to get into my banking accounts. One credit card company, after selling my account to a different organization, keeps asking me to see if I’m prequalified for one of their accounts. 😏

Sven in his canoe

Photo by J. Harrington

While I spent the morning wrestling with one of my “It just works!” computers, the Better Half dug out and set up more or our holiday decorations. Sven in his canoe and Ole on his skies are now perched on top of various pieces of furniture. Seeing sparkles and candlelights has boosted my holiday mood. Last night I noticed the subtle simplicity of the lighted wreathes and angels and wondered if adding the icicle lights might be too garish. We’ll see this weekend.

Ole on his skis

Photo by J. Harrington

I’m well aware of my privileged status and how much less I have to complain about than Gaza or Ukraine or other refugees. That doesn’t keep me from wondering what it would be like if the “developed” countries put as much effort into simplifying production, making less that works better for longer and is more repairable than creating as much toxic waste and unrepairable and largely unrecyclable junk as they do. I’d give a lot more thanks if I, and you, could live in a simpler, more wholesome and healthy world than the one we leave behind daily. New, improved, bigger, faster isn’t always, and we don’t have enough earths for all of US to live the way some of US do. We can do better.

When the Burning Begins

Patricia Smith     1955 – 

          ^{for Otis Douglas Smith, my father}

The recipe for hot water cornbread is simple:
Cornmeal, hot water. Mix till sluggish,
then dollop in a sizzling skillet.
When you smell the burning begin, flip it.
When you smell the burning begin again,
dump it onto a plate. You’ve got to wait
for the burning and get it just right.

Before the bread cools down,
smear it with sweet salted butter
and smash it with your fingers,
crumple it up in a bowl
of collard greens or buttermilk,
forget that I’m telling you it’s the first thing
I ever cooked, that my daddy was laughing
and breathing and no bullet in his head
when he taught me.

Mix it till it looks like quicksand, he’d say.
Till it moves like a slow song sounds.

We’d sit there in the kitchen, licking our fingers
and laughing at my mother,
who was probably scrubbing something with bleach,
or watching Bonanza,
or thinking how stupid it was to be burning
that nasty old bread in that cast iron skillet.
When I told her that I’d made my first-ever pan
of hot water cornbread, and that my daddy
had branded it glorious, she sniffed and kept
mopping the floor over and over in the same place.

So here’s how you do it:

You take out a bowl, like the one
we had with blue flowers and only one crack,
you put the cornmeal in it.
Then you turn on the hot water and you let it run
while you tell the story about the boy
who kissed your cheek after school
or about how you really want to be a reporter
instead of a teacher or nurse like Mama said,
and the water keeps running while Daddy says
You will be a wonderful writer
and you will be famous someday and when
you get famous, if I wrote you a letter and
send you some money, would you write about me?

and he is laughing and breathing and no bullet
in his head. So you let the water run into this mix
till it moves like mud moves at the bottom of a river,
which is another thing Daddy said, and even though
I’d never even seen a river,
I knew exactly what he meant.
Then you turn the fire way up under the skillet,
and you pour in this mix
that moves like mud moves at the bottom of a river,
like quicksand, like slow song sounds.
That stuff pops something awful when it first hits
that blazing skillet, and sometimes Daddy and I
would dance to those angry pop sounds,
he’d let me rest my feet on top of his
while we waltzed around the kitchen
and my mother huffed and puffed
on the other side of the door. When you are famous,
Daddy asks me, will you write about dancing
in the kitchen with your father?
I say everything I write will be about you,
then you will be famous too. And we dip and swirl
and spin, but then he stops.
And sniffs the air.

The thing you have to remember
about hot water cornbread
is to wait for the burning
so you know when to flip it, and then again
so you know when it’s crusty and done.
Then eat it the way we did,
with our fingers,
our feet still tingling from dancing.
But remember that sometimes the burning
takes such a long time,
and in that time,
sometimes,

poems are born.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Beginning to see the lights

This year’s pumpkins are now in the field under the pear tree. Soon a whitetail dear or two will notice them and shortly thereafter, they’ll be all gone. A couple of potted asters got planted out near the road, but it will be a miracle of the first order if they start to green up next spring. Nothing ventured [....] Tomorrow, Outside Christmas lights will get got hung this afternoon and tomorrow a couple of angels will alight near the front stoop, keeping an eye on wreaths and other decorations.

almost done

Photo by J. Harrington

At the risk of messing things up, I want to acknowledge that we’re enjoying some partly sunny, seasonable weather. It’s a very pleasant change for which I’m thankful. A milder, drier winter than normal would be a wonderful seasonal present from Mother Nature that some of us can enjoy one day at a time for months in a row, except skiers or snowmobilers and the like.

Local folks, including our nuclear and extended family, seem to be doing Christmas decorations earlier than usual this year. I suspect it has a lot to do with a world with more woes than we’re used to, that seem never ending. The 2016 elections, Covid pandemics, insurrections, wars, climate breakdown and weather disasters and on and on. And none seem readily fixable. Time to regroup, boost our spirits, spend time with family and/or friends and plan how we can make next year better for everyone of good will.

For everyone who tried on the slipper before Cinderella

Ariana Brown

^{after Anis Mojgani and Audre Lorde}

For those making tea in the soft light of Saturday morning 
in the peaceful kitchen 
in the cool house 
For those with shrunken hearts still trying to love 
For those with large hearts trying to forget 
For those with terrors they cannot name 
upset stomachs and too tight pants 
For those who get cut off in traffic 
For those who spend all day making an elaborate meal 
that turns out mediocre 
For those who could not leave 
even when they knew they had to 
For those who never win the lottery 
or become famous 
For those getting groceries on Friday nights 

There is something you know 
about living 
that you guard with your life 
your one fragile, wonderful life 
wonder, as in, awe, 
as in, I had no idea I would be here now. 

For those who make plans and those who don’t 
For those driving across the country to a highway that knows them 
For the routes we take in the dark, trusting 
For the roads for the woods for the dead humming in prayer 
For an old record and a strong sun
For teeth bared to the wind 
a pulse in the chest 
a body making love to itself 

There is every reason to hate it here 
There is a list of things making it bearable: 
your friend’s shoulder Texas barbecue a new book 
a loud song a strong song a highway that knows you 
sweet tea an orange cat a helping hand 
an unforgettable dinner 

a laugh that escapes you and deflates you 
like a pink balloon left soft with room 
for goodness to take hold 

For those who have looked in the mirror and begged
For those with weak knees and an attitude
For those called “sensitive” or “too much” 
For those not called enough
For the times you needed and went without
For the photo of you as a child 
quietly icing cupcakes your hair a crackling thunderstorm

Love is coming. 
It’s on its way. 
Look—

******************************************** c Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Sweet autumn’s days slide away

This morning’s low temperatures, in the mid-20’s, brought the first ice cover of the season to shallow pools and ponds. Local families of Canada geese are beginning to flock up as migration season nears. Deciding how much of what to wear at any particular hour of almost every day is a challenge. Must be mid-November near mid-Autumn in southern North Country.

approaching a season of bare branches and murders of crows

Photo by J. Harrington

We took a drive along parts of the Sunrise River as we returned from a morning visit with the Daughter Person, Son-In-Law, and Granddaughter. I‘ve noticed my old habit of poking around just to see what’s there has faded over the past few years. Today seemed like a prime time to check out some places not recently visited. We do live in some pretty country and would no doubt appreciate it more if we explored more often. It seems entirely too easy to create ruts by going the same ways to the same places almost all the time. Then, again, the world at large, with local spillover, appears to be getting more chaotic by the day. Discovering how to balance on the bubble is never easy.

As ice forms, stays and thickens, many local critters enter some form of hibernation or diminished activity. No pollinators until Spring. But, also no mosquitoes or biting flies. Ticks can be active any time the temperature gets over 40℉, so next week should end their feeding season for the year. Once again I’m hoping to spend time between New Year’s and Valentine’s, maybe even St. Patrick’s, regrouping and getting organized. Most years recently, I’ve ended up spending too much of that time snow blowing and or sulking with cabin fever. Next year offers another fresh start. Once again I intend to “do better,” but first I need to figure out what I mean by that. If I succeed by Thursday, next week, I’ll really have something special to be thankful for.

The Flight of the Crows

Emily Pauline Johnson

The autumn afternoon is dying o’er
   The quiet western valley where I lie
Beneath the maples on the river shore,
   Where tinted leaves, blue waters and fair sky
   Environ all; and far above some birds are flying by

To seek their evening haven in the breast
   And calm embrace of silence, while they sing
Te Deums to the night, invoking rest
   For busy chirping voice and tired wing—
   And in the hush of sleeping trees their sleeping cradles swing.

In forest arms the night will soonest creep,
   Where sombre pines a lullaby intone,
Where Nature’s children curl themselves to sleep,
   And all is still at last, save where alone
   A band of black, belated crows arrive from lands unknown.

Strange sojourn has been theirs since waking day,
   Strange sights and cities in their wanderings blend
With fields of yellow maize, and leagues away
   With rivers where their sweeping waters wend
   Past velvet banks to rocky shores, in cañons bold to end.

O’er what vast lakes that stretch superbly dead,
   Till lashed to life by storm-clouds, have they flown?
In what wild lands, in laggard flight have led
   Their aërial career unseen, unknown,
   ’Till now with twilight come their cries in lonely monotone?

The flapping of their pinions in the air
   Dies in the hush of distance, while they light
Within the fir tops, weirdly black and bare,
   That stand with giant strength and peerless height,
   To shelter fairy, bird and beast throughout the closing night.

Strange black and princely pirates of the skies,
   Would that your wind-tossed travels I could know!
Would that my soul could see, and, seeing, rise
   To unrestricted life where ebb and flow
   Of Nature’s pulse would constitute a wider life below!

Could I but live just here in Freedom’s arms,
   A kingly life without a sovereign’s care!
Vain dreams! Day hides with closing wings her charms,
   And all is cradled in repose, save where
   Yon band of black, belated crows still frets the evening air.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

May the seasons fly toward spring

I recently gave myself an early Christmas present, a copy of Peter Kaminsky’s Fly Fisherman’s Guide to the Meaning of Life. Last night I got to the chapter on A Fly Fisher’s Essential Reading, and was pleased to note I’ve read a lot of the books listed:

• In Our Time, Ernest Hemingway, read;
• Trout Madness, Robert Traver, read;
• A River Runs Through It, Norman Maclean, read;
• Tarpon Quest, John N. Cole, nope;
• Fly Fishing Through the Midlife Crisis, Howell Raines, read;
• Superior Fishing, Robert B. Roosevelt, nope;
• Spring Creek, Nick Lyons, nope;
• Hatches, Al Caucci and Bob Nastasi, read;
• The Fly and the Fish, John Atherton, nope;
• Fishing with McClane, A. J. McClane, read

One or two of the “nopes" are going to go on a "to be read" list, but overall I’m pleased to see that I’m a reasonably literate fly fisher. Now, if my casting were as competent as my reading... but then I’d need to spend lots more time casting and less time reading.

these are dry flies, not ice flies

Photo by J. Harrington

In addition to having reached the Essential Reading list last night, today’s theme is brought to you by a significant drop in today’s high temperature compared to yesterday’s, with daytime highs consistently below freezing expected a week from now. Those conditions mean I’ll be doing lots more reading than casting for at least the next several months. That gives me two things to look forward to rather than complain about if I follow Yeats’ approach.

The Song of Wandering Aengus

By William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Seasoned giving, this hard thing

Here in Minnesota, today is “Give to the Max Day.” My email inbox and our snail mail box have been getting loaded with notices about how much we can help everyone and everything by donating early or today. I’ve contributed to a few organizations and rejected more opportunities than I’ve supported. Many requests don’t do a good job of explaining what the organization actually accomplishes. That’s unfortunate. I realize that we’re better off than many and feel an obligation to help, but I also feel an obligation to be responsible in my giving.

At one point I must have supported an organization that sold my name and email address because I’m getting requests from folks i’d never consider giving a donation and, as I get more and more of them, I become more critical in my screening of all potential contributions. That’s not really how I like to enter the giving season. Of course, I also fail to understand why “moderate” Republicans and all Democrats haven’t made it clear to the dozen or two radical Republicans that they’ll never get any support because they’re making everyone look bad.

what are you hoping for under the tree?

Photo by J. Harrington

On a brighter note, I’m thankful we’ll get through the holidays before the country faces the next government shutdown crisis. I’m thankful things aren’t worse than they are. I’m looking forward to being thankful that governments throughout the world have become more responsible, less warmongerish, and more focused on addressing climate change and loss of biodiversity. (It doesn’t cost any more to wish big than small.) The package I’m looking for is me, happy and healthy; plus the same for those in my family, my friends, my home state, my country, and my (our) world. We can do it if we all try. Just ask Carrie Newcomer.

You Can Do This Hard Thing

by Carrie Newcomer

There at the table

With my head in my hands

A column of numbers

I just did not understand

You said “Add these together

Carry the two, now you."

You can do this hard thing

You can do this hard thing

It′s not easy I know but

I believe that it's so

You can do this hard thing

At a cold winter station

Breathing into our gloves

It would change me forever

Leaving for God knows what

You carried my bags

You said "I′ll wait for you"

You can do this hard thing

You can do this hard thing

It's not easy I know but

I believe that it's so

You can do this hard thing

Late at night I called

And you answered the phone

The worst it had happened

And I did not want to be alone

You quietly listened

You said “We′ll see this thru"

You can do this hard thing

You can do this hard thing

It′s not easy I know but

I believe that it's so

You can do this hard thing

Here we stand breathless

And pressed in hard times

Hearts hung like laundry

On backyard clothes lines

Impossible just takes

A little more time

From the muddy ground

Comes a green volunteer

In a place we thought

Barren new life appears

Morning will come whistling

Some comforting tune for you

You can do this hard thing

You can do this hard thing

It′s not easy I know but

I believe that it's so

You can do this hard thing

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

Will woollybear prognosticate winter?

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

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

wandering woollybear

Photo by J. Harrington

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

November

Helen Hunt Jackson

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

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

On Veterans Day

In the past day or so, we’ve seen a few deer and even fewer hunters. Neither was in any sort of proximity to the other. It almost reminds me of the days, long ago, when the folks I hunted with were stuck in a pattern in which the grouse hunters kept spooking deer and the deer hunters, on their way to and from deer stands, flushed grouse. Even when hunters swapped quarry, the pattern held.

The Daughter Person, Son-In-Law and Granddaughter have their Christmas tree up and partially decorated. Lights have been strung on their outdoor tree. This morning the Better Half brought home poinsettias for the top of our piano. Christmas decorations are going up unusually early this year it seems. I believe lots of folks are doing what they can to boost their spirits. I hope whatever they try, works for them.

poinsettias on the piano

Photo by J. Harrington

On this Veterans Day, I find myself pondering about what those who have served US think about the state of the country they served. We’re within a week of a government shutdown if Congress fails to enact funding legislation. It’s the second or third time this kind of crisis has come up in the past year or so? Pope Francis has recently relieved a Texas bishop for being obstructionist. We would be better served if we had such decisive leadership in Congress. Elimination of a dozen or so of the most radical extremists might be all it takes for Congress to reach the kind of necessary, but distasteful, compromises needed for government to function.

I don’t know if Neville Chamberlin was the first or most obvious example of why it’s useless to negotiate with terrorists, but he did make it clear that giving in to the Nazis’ demands only yielded more Nazi demands. Both my father and my father-in-law became Veterans to help fix that mess. I’m projecting here, but I doubt either of them would be very admiring of what we’ve made of the world they, and their peers, gave back to US. By this time next year we will have made it clear whether their, and their compatriots, sacrifices were in vain or not.

Democracy

By Dorianne Laux

When you’re cold—November, the streets icy and everyone you pass

homeless, Goodwill coats and Hefty bags torn up to make ponchos—

someone is always at the pay phone, hunched over the receiver

spewing winter’s germs, swollen lipped, face chapped, making the last

tired connection of the day. You keep walking to keep the cold

at bay, too cold to wait for the bus, too depressing the thought

of entering that blue light, the chilled eyes watching you decide

which seat to take: the man with one leg, his crutches bumping

the smudged window glass, the woman with her purse clutched

to her breasts like a dead child, the boy, pimpled, morose, his head

shorn, a swastika carved into the stubble, staring you down.

So you walk into the cold you know: the wind, indifferent blade,

familiar, the gold leaves heaped along the gutters. You have

a home, a house with gas heat, a toilet that flushes. You have

a credit card, cash. You could take a taxi if one would show up.

You can feel it now: why people become Republicans: Get that dog

off the street. Remove that spit and graffiti. Arrest those people huddled

on the steps of the church. If it weren’t for them you could believe in god,

in freedom, the bus would appear and open its doors, the driver dressed

in his tan uniform, pants legs creased, dapper hat: Hello Miss, watch

your step now. But you’re not a Republican. You’re only tired, hungry,

you want out of the cold. So you give up, walk back, step into line behind

the grubby vet who hides a bag of wine under his pea coat, holds out

his grimy 85 cents, takes each step slow as he pleases, releases his coins

into the box and waits as they chink down the chute, stakes out a seat

in the back and eases his body into the stained vinyl to dream

as the chips of shrapnel in his knee warm up and his good leg

flops into the aisle. And you’ll doze off, too, in a while, next to the girl

who can’t sit still, who listens to her Walkman and taps her boots

to a rhythm you can’t hear, but you can see it—when she bops

her head and her hands do a jive in the air—you can feel it

as the bus rolls on, stopping at each red light in a long wheeze,

jerking and idling, rumbling up and lurching off again.

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.

A month of several kinds of gales

In recognition of the anniversary of the sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald, please follow this link to read our prior postings on that tragedy. Locally, this week’s winds haven’t reached gale force (39 - 46 mph), but they have been strong enough to strip most of the leaves from the deciduous trees, including many of the oaks. My failure to remember, from year to year, about the gales of November probably means I’m repressing something related to my general distaste of winter.

not quite gale force

Photo by J. Harrington

It’s also hard to contemplate November’s gales when the weather forecast includes the prospect of several days with high temperatures at or near 60℉ next week. Our weather is getting crazier. our politics have followed suite, our governance is rapidly following along (any bets on whether the government will have to shut down in a week?), wars and/or international terrorism attacks are breaking out on several continents, and the international community is failing to adequately respond to climate breakdown and biodiversity losses. There are things for which we can and should be thankful later this month, but the list is getting shorter by the week.

On that shortened list we need to be sure to remember to thank those who have served US in uniform. Tomorrow is officially Veterans Day. We’ll be remembering my father (WWII, Korea) and father-in-law (WWII). Some years ago I learned about a wonderful program that benefits some veterans with an activity close to my heart, Project Healing Waters Fly Fishing, Inc. In recognition of the season’s holidays and the state of the world, you could consider sending them a donation. Living in a world where there is no need for such an organization is a much to be wished for but improbable circumstance. Until then, we all need to do the best we can with what we have and practice being kind(er) to each other.

Not to Keep

Robert Frost     1874 – 1963

They sent him back to her. The letter came
Saying... and she could have him. And before
She could be sure there was no hidden ill
Under the formal writing, he was in her sight—
Living.— They gave him back to her alive—
How else? They are not known to send the dead—
And not disfigured visibly. His face?—
His hands? She had to look—to ask,
“What was it, dear?” And she had given all
And still she had all—they had—they the lucky!
Wasn’t she glad now? Everything seemed won,
And all the rest for them permissible ease.
She had to ask, "What was it, dear?"
                                                               “Enough,
Yet not enough. A bullet through and through,
High in the breast. Nothing but what good care
And medicine and rest—and you a week,
Can cure me of to go again.” The same
Grim giving to do over for them both.
She dared no more than ask him with her eyes
How was it with him for a second trial.
And with his eyes he asked her not to ask.
They had given him back to her, but not to keep. 

********************************************
Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.