No more "same old, same old!!!"

Depending on whether you count from Memorial Day or Summer Solstice, Summer's arrival is a little late or a little early. In either case, that season's heat and humidity are now conspicuous by their presence. Those factors have recently been joined by several species of biting bugs, which removes, at least for me, any doubts about whether Spring has burst into Summer.

'tis "that" season again

Photo by J. Harrington

On the brighter side, we are now enjoying corn on the cob, ripe cherries, watermelon, peaches that need more ripening, and regular consumption of ice cream cones. I''m trying to (re)train myself to not let all that's wrong with the world keep me from enjoying some of what's right with it. Sometimes I do have to admit my perfectionist tendencies (me? 😉) can be counterproductive. Plus, I find we live in an increasingly annoying and inept society, thanks to technology misapplication and growing numbers of kleptocratic billionaires and wannabes. I have recently encountered some encouraging resources with worthwhile guidance on how to to turn today's deficits into tomorrow's opportunities. Please don't let the writings at the other end of the links below turn into TL;DR's.

• from The Guardian: The three things Democrats must do to regain rural America’s trust
• from Kosmos: Nate Hagens and the Work of Resilient Futures and,
• Bioregioning and Our Felt Sense of Place

I'm heartened to find intelligent folks are thinking seriously about what it will take to get US and the rest of the world out of the multiple predicaments (existential issues?) we face. I'm even more encouraged that some of them are citing one of my all time favorite poems. Enjoy!!

For the Children

by Gary Snyder

The rising hills, the slopes,

of statistics

lie before us,

the steep climb

of everything, going up,

up, as we all

go down.

In the next century

or the one beyond that,

they say,

are valleys, pastures,

we can meet there in peace

if we make it.

To climb these coming crests

one word to you, to

you and your children:

stay together

learn the flowers

go light 

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Sliding toward Summer

Today is the last day of this Minnesota legislative session. The evening weather forecast for today is full of thunderstorms. Some of us don't think that's coincidental. Democrats have a one vote edge in the senate and the house is evenly split with a Republican speaker. Will we ever grow up enough to elect those who believe solving problems is more important than win-lose? Should we only vote for those with knowledge about Multi-solving?

One of my long-time favorite authors has a (relatively) new book. Robin Wall Kimmerer, author of Braiding Sweetgrass and The Serviceberry, has written Bud Finds Her Gift. I'm planning on sharing it with our five year old granddaughter soon. Meanwhile, Ive been enjoying it myself. (Evidence I'm just an aged kid? Perhaps!)

Large-flowered Trillium (Trillium grandiflorum) in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

Locally the trees are mostly leafed out with few bare branches visible. Lilac buds have developed on our bushes. It's about time to look for trillium in bloom. The rain we're supposed to get over the next several days should help bring some additional flowers into bloom but may make planting season messy and muddy for farmers in the area.

Yesterday, I baked a round loaf of sourdough bread full of blueberry jammies. The jammies turned the dough into a slippery, sticky mess, perhaps aided and abetted by suboptimal starter. The crust is darker than I like and the crumb more moist than I prefer. The bread is edible but I need to work on my technique. I'm not baking regularly enough to stay in shape; actually, to keep my loaves in shape. Time to adopt Samuel Beckett's perspective: "Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better."

For the Children

by Gary Snyder

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

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

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

stay together
learn the flowers
go light

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May the Fourth be with you this week! (couldn't resist)

Wild plum and other bushes are in flower. Some farmers have begun field preparation for this growing season. Trees are in various phases of leaf out. We enjoyed a small ceremonial fire to celebrate Beltane last Friday. Dandelions are in bloom everywhere. Pocket gopher activity is obvious in the field behind the house. Deer are shedding their winter coats. Marsh marigolds, which some call cowslips, are blooming. Even though we had a couple of overnight freezes this week past, Spring is peaking as we watch. You are watching, aren't you?

marsh marigolds in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

The next time we post here it will be Mother's Day. We've managed to get organized early this year so we''re hoping to avoid, or at least minimize, last minute panics. We'll see how the count down to and the holiday herself play out. Meanwhile, we hope all Moms everywhere (actual and surrogate) feel loved and appreciated every day.

The Minnesota Legislature is in its final weeks for this session. They look as if they'll be about as productive and useful as Congress. How do we find ways to elect politicians who are more committed to solving problems than to scoring political points. Perhaps we could be better represented if more folks knew about the Center for Effective Lawmaking it could be a start. We're rapidly reaching a stage where a majority party spends most of its efforts trying to undo what was done to them when they were in the minority. That doesn't help most of US most of the time.

As we approach Mother's Day this year, let's think about the Seventh Generation principle and look for ways to make mothers proud of US and our descendants.

On the Fifth Day

Jane Hirshfield
1953 –

On the fifth day

the scientists who studied the rivers

were forbidden to speak

or to study the rivers.

The scientists who studied the air

were told not to speak of the air,

and the ones who worked for the farmers

were silenced,

and the ones who worked for the bees.

Someone, from deep in the Badlands,

began posting facts.

The facts were told not to speak

and were taken away.

The facts, surprised to be taken, were silent.

Now it was only the rivers

that spoke of the rivers,

and only the wind that spoke of its bees,

while the unpausing factual buds of the fruit trees

continued to move toward their fruit.

The silence spoke loudly of silence,

and the rivers kept speaking

of rivers, of boulders and air.

Bound to gravity, earless and tongueless,

the untested rivers kept speaking.

Bus drivers, shelf stockers,

code writers, machinists, accountants,

lab techs, cellists kept speaking.

They spoke, the fifth day,

of silence.

—2017

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Countdown to Beltane

This coming Friday some of US will celebrate May Day and/or Beltane. Many of US also will do our best to participate in the May Day Strong General Strike, a "Workers Over Billionaires" plus updated #NoKings. As we move through Summer and, eventually, midterm elections, I hope frustrated folks will focus on a "lesser of two evils principle." The Democrats certainly aren't all I'd like to see, but they're better than what we've got now.

Yesterday, while cleaning up yet more recently fallen oak leaves, I was delighted to see signs of life in the two serviceberry bushes we planted last autumn. There's a hint of emergent leaves where, a week ago, all the branches looked lifeless. Their wire protective cages seem to have deterred the deer from nibbling them to death. Stay tuned for updates and, probably, even some pictures if we get picturesque blossoms.

forsythia blooming in April

Photo by J. Harrington

The forsythia bush in front of the house came into bloom this past week, a week or two later than in several recent years. And yet, the National Phenology Network claims that this year, according to their Spring Indices: "Minneapolis, MN is 16 days early, Buffalo, NY is 3 days early, and Bangor, ME is 6 days early." Maybe the Minneapolis urban heat island is accelerating Spring? We're in the exurban fringe where it's cooler.

Watching bud burst, leaf out, and other signs of life actively returning to the countryside helps me restrain my gloom and doom assessment of much that's in the news these days. No doubt in something like six or eight weeks I'll be complaining about heat and humidity, but first we need to get this year's fishing licenses and enjoy the rest of this year's Spring sproinging.

For the Bird Singing Before Dawn

Kim Stafford

Some people presume to be hopeful
when there is no evidence for hope,
to be happy when there is no cause.
Let me say now, I’m with them.

In deep darkness on a cold twig
in a dangerous world, one first
little fluff lets out a peep, a warble,
a song—and in a little while, behold:

the first glimmer comes, then a glow
filters through the misty trees,
then the bold sun rises, then
everyone starts bustling about.

And that first crazy optimist, can we
forgive her for thinking, dawn by dawn,
“Hey, I made that happen!
And oh, life is so fine.”

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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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May: be better days ahead

A mile or two up the road, I used to enjoy looking at a cluster of prairie smoke (Geum triflorum) in bloom in May or June. It's been a couple of years or more since I wandered that way. This year seems like a good time to see if it's still growing there. I suspect today's warm weather has made me think of that. We may actually get to enjoy a few days of real Spring over the next week or two.

prairie smoke in bud

Photo by J. Harrington

Although the buds on the maple trees in front of the house have swelled a lot this past week, there's still barely a hint of bud burst or leaf out. No green tinge on the tree tops yet. On the other hand, there's a lot of waterfowl and shorebirds in the area now. I flushed a flock of five wood ducks from the pond north of the property a couple of days ago. The pair of mallards on the other side of the road just swam away. This year there seems to be more swans than I remember in years past. It's always a delight to see and hear them in flight. A couple of Tom turkeys have been doing mating displays this week in the field behind the house.

I've long been interested in phenology and Emergence Magazine's current volume has an absolutely wonderful video/written piece about Seasoning a Kid. Please check it out. I'm finding that the return of life, and the promises that implies, are helping me minimize the dismay and despair triggered by the current regime in Washington and its aiders and abettors. I'm not sure we could last through sixteen years, the way Hungary has, and hope we don't even come close.

We're now less than three weeks from Beltane. I have my fingers crossed that conditions will permit burning the back yard brush pile that evening as a seasonal celebration. Many years it's been too dry and/or windy to safely have such a fire.

In recognition of National Poetry Month, and the state of the world, please enjoy

This Morning I Pray for My Enemies

by Joy Harjo

And whom do I call my enemy?
An enemy must be worthy of engagement.
I turn in the direction of the sun and keep walking.
It’s the heart that asks the question, not my furious mind.
The heart is the smaller cousin of the sun.
It sees and knows everything.
It hears the gnashing even as it hears the blessing.
The door to the mind should only open from the heart.
An enemy who gets in, risks the danger of becoming a friend.

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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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When thaw becomes flow

Today is Palm Sunday and next Sunday is Easter, for those who celebrate. Yesterday was the third (inter)national No Kings protest. (The Better Half and I braved mid-day local wind chills in the teens for almost an hour while participating.) This coming Wednesday is April Fools Day. I'm mildly troubled by the juxtaposition of those latter two events but the next demonstrations are planned for May Day, which is also Beltane. With only 365 days to work with most years, we have to do the best we can as we schedule things. It's not just western water rights that are subject to prior appropriation.

late March: time for new growth to flow

Photo by J. Harrington

April Fools Day also brings us the start of National Poetry Month, this year celebrating its thirtieth anniversary. In recognition of the times we're living in, and the times we've lived through, I'm going to celebrate the month by focusing my reading attention on Bob Dylan Lyrics 1962 — 2001. Some of his recordings have been showing up on the shuffle play list in my Jeep, and I find it both reassuring and disconcerting how well many of his lyrics from years ago seem to fit today's tempora et mores.

Large flocks of dark-eyed juncos and of robins have been observed this week past. I'm inclined to tempt fate and take the back blade off the tractor some warmer day this coming week, but not Wednesday. I'm hoping that one day soon warmer weather will arrive and stay and then hanging around outside will be something to look forward to, until the mosquitos and deer flies arrive. But that's weeks away, right? Meanwhile, the last mounds and shaded patches of snow still have to melt.

This year our country celebrates its 250th anniversary. Dylan wrote a song / poem that I believe fits and represents my birthday wishes for this and each succeeding anniversary.

Forever Young

Written by: Bob Dylan

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young          

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Spring is sprung, what's next?

Yes, thank you, I have almost recovered from the Spring cold I started coming down with last weekend. Also, once again, the snow cover has finally melted. Locally, things are looking up, but the skies are too often clouded. That hasn't kept the waterfowl from returning. The Sunrise River pools have lots of open water occupied by swans, Canada geese and diving ducks. I also saw the unusual sight of a handful of crows walking along the ice at the edge of open water. Surrounding marshes may contain red-winged blackbirds, but our observations weren't close enough to confirm identification.

returning Canada geese and ducks on Sunrise River in Carlos Avery WMA

Photo by J. Harrington

While suffering the sneezing, coughing, snuffling, nose-blowing, no energy miseries this past week, I had the pleasure of reading most of Rebecca Solnit's The Beginning Comes After the End. So far it's got me, Mr. Gloom and Doom, feeling more optimistic than I have in quite a while. I've lived through and been generally aware of almost all the changes she writes about, but hadn't put them together quite the way she does. Meanwhile, I'm still adjusting to the idea that the future isn't something out there that we adapt to but something all of us are creating by our actions (or inactions) every day.

I'm looking forward to bud burst, leaf out and green up, along with days growing warmer and maybe even occasional sunshine. However, I've lived in the North Country long enough to know better than to prematurely pack away our gear for snow and/or cold weather. Maybe the last few patches of icy snow on the shaded south side of the drive will actually finish melting one of these days and we can look forward to seeing ducklings, goslings and sandhill crane colts as the seasons go round and round.

Of Course It Hurts

by Karin Boye

Of course it hurts when buds burst.
Otherwise why would spring hesitate?
Why would all our fervent longing
be bound in the frozen bitter haze?
The bud was the casing all winter.
What is this new thing, which consumes and bursts?
Of course it hurts when buds burst,
pain for that which grows
and for that which envelops.

Of course it is hard when drops fall.
Trembling with fear they hang heavy,
clammer on the branch, swell and slide -
the weight pulls them down, how they cling.
Hard to be uncertain, afraid and divided,
hard to feel the deep pulling and calling,
yet sit there and just quiver -
hard to want to stay
                      and to want to fall.

Then, at the point of agony and when all is beyond help,
the tree’s buds burst as if in jubilation,
then, when fear no longer exists,
the branch’s drops tumble in a shimmer,
forgetting that they were afraid of the new,
forgetting that they were fearful of the journey –
feeling for a second their greatest security,
resting in the trust
                         that creates the world.

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Winter's last grasp?

Today is the Ides of March. Tuesday will be St. Patrick's Day. Friday is the Vernal Equinox, at 9:46 am locally. As I'm writing this, we have about half a foot of fresh snow on the ground and several more hours of continuing snowfall ahead of us. Will this storm reach the depth of the March 22, 2024 "Spring blizzard?" We'll see. Often, what's left of Winter grasps us by the proverbial short hairs. I consider "Winter's last gasp" a misnomer, in part because, here in the North Country, it's been known to snow every month except July. But after 9:46 am Friday, until Summer Solstice, precipitation will officially be known as "Spring showers."

almost 9 inches, March 22, 2024

Photo by J. Harrington

According to the ORDER OF BARDS, OVATES & DRUIDS:

"Winter sometimes seems so long, that we could be forgiven for wondering whether Spring will ever return. But the Goddess of Spring is merely sleeping through the darkness of Winter, and while she stirs at Imbolc, she is truly awake by the time of the Spring Equinox.

"The forces of light are equally balanced with the forces of darkness at this time, but light is on the increase – and will reach its apogee at the Summer Solstice three months later.

"The symbolic plant of the Equinox in Druidry is the trefoil or shamrock, which is also customarily worn on St. Patrick’s Day, 17th March – almost at the time of the Spring Equinox. The usual explanation for the use of the shamrock is that St Patrick once used its three-leaved shape to illustrate the doctrine of the Trinity, but in fact shamrock is probably the national emblem of Ireland because of its earlier Druidic associations, and it is seen by some authorities as a survival of the trignetra, a Christianised wheel or sun symbol."

Wouldn't it be wonderful if, once again, the forces of light truly became dominant in and for US and the rest of the world, starting with this week? Our world is not a monoculture. Our moon is closer to that, and closer to being lifeless. The more we learn about Earth, the more she appears comprised of interdependent relationships rather than a collection of objects. Truth, much like beauty, is often found in the eye of the beholder. Don't just take my word for that, ask a quantum physicist.

Meanwhile, we'll keep our fingers crossed that waterfowl, sandhill cranes, and other migrators that arrived last week can hang in there through a couple of cold days after this storm so that they don't give up on the North Country as a good place for nesting and raising families. Now, it's time to assess how we're going to make the driveway drivable and walkable. C'mon Spring!!!

 Instructions on Not Giving Up

Ada Limón

1976 –

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

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Spring Is a New Beginning

Today, as I hope you know, is the first day of meteorological Spring. Parts of the driveway are still ice-covered. Maybe by the time daylight savings starts next weekend, the ice will be gone. The dogs and I are tired of slip-sliding away during our walks.

a March full moon in a dark blue sky

Photo by J. Harrington

Emergence Magazine has a fascinating essay by Melanie Challenger about The Springing Time. I commend it to your attention as a worthwhile alternative to doom-scrolling in social media or reading the news.

Did you ever read Spring Is a New Beginning by Joan Walsh Anglund? We used to have a copy that, I suspect, now resides with the Granddaughter. My interest in phenology and seasonal changes has been growing for a number of years, enhanced by actual and potential effects of climate disruption. Challenger's essay and other writings offer some reassurance that all is not totally lost (nor yet won).

This Tuesday, March 3, is both a full moon and a lunar eclipse. I'm not sure if or how that (those?) may affect horoscopes for that day. The current weather forecast calls for cloudy skies during the eclipse period. We'll see if that improves or deteriorates.

You're correct, we've not mentioned the attack on Iran, pedophiles in office, or related matters. I vote. I donate to causes. I participate in protests. I even contact my elected officials from time to time. What I don't, can't, and won't do is charge enough rent to let treasonous politicians and their MAGAt followers live inside my head. See the title of today's posting. It's also the equivalent of a cerebral eviction notice to those who do all they can to make my days miserable. That includes most Republicans, billionaires, tech titans, and too many elected Democrats. If I can't or won't take action for or against something or someone, I don't need to know about it or them.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Grace

Joy Harjo    1951 –

                                    For Darlene Wind and James Welch

I think of Wind and her wild ways the year we had nothing to lose and lost it anyway in the cursed country of the fox. We still talk about that winter, how the cold froze imaginary buffalo on the stuffed horizon of snowbanks. The haunting voices of the starved and mutilated broke fences, crashed our thermostat dreams, and we couldn't stand it one more time. So once again we lost a winter in stubborn memory, walked through cheap apartment walls, skated through fields of ghosts into a town that never wanted us, in the epic search for grace. 

Like Coyote, like Rabbit, we could not contain our terror and clowned our way through a season of false midnights. We had to swallow that town with laughter, so it would go down easy as honey. And one morning as the sun struggled to break ice, and our dreams had found us with coffee and pancakes in a truck stop along Highway 80, we found grace.

I could say grace was a woman with time on her hands, or a white buffalo escaped from memory. But in that dingy light it was a promise of balance. We once again understood the talk of animals, and spring was lean and hungry with the hope of children and corn. 

I would like to say, with grace, we picked ourselves up and walked into the spring thaw. We didn't; the next season was worse. You went home to Leech Lake to work with the tribe and I went south. And, Wind, I am still crazy. I know there is something larger than the memory of a dispossessed people. We have seen it. 

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This is a taxing season!

One week from today, March 1, is the start of meteorological Spring. Astronomical Spring follows about three weeks later. Then, here in the North Country, we enjoy several months of false spring with intermittent periods of snow and melting. Then, usually in late May or early June, the temperature jumps from the 60's to the upper 80's within a week, and it's Summer. I find it distressingly rare for Minnesota to produce a gradual, progressive, temperature increase between winter and summer. The clothes hooks in the front hall are crowded with three seasons of coats and hats, but it's an improvement over single digit temperatures and freezing rain. Thanks for letting me me get that off my chest!

Spring will slog her way to Summer

Photo by J. Harrington

This past week SCOTUS announced a decision that partially clips FOTUS' wings on tariffs. A recent study indicates that almost all of the cost of tariffs is paid by American households and businesses. Other analyses indicate that tariffs cost the average household $1,000 or more last year. In skimming through the reports, I could find no indication of a compounding effect on household budgets caused by local and state sales taxes. In a nearby city where we do much of our shopping, the sales taxes we pay are listed as follows:

State    6.875%
Special 0.75%
Special 0.25%
Special 0.50%

The cumulative 8.375% state and local sales taxes would add $83.75 (approaching 10%) to the household cost if the goods on which tariffs were imposed are also subject to local taxes. Something to think about between now and midterm elections.

I don't know about you but I haven't seen any indication of receiving any kind of actual offset to the increases imposed by the current regime, have you? It sure llooks to me as though only billionaires and large corporations benefit from getting US to vote Republican.

The Tax Poem by Author Unknown

Tax his land, tax his wage, Tax his bed in which he lays. Tax his tractor, tax his mule, Teach him taxes is the rule. Tax his cow, tax his goat, Tax his pants, tax his coat. Tax his ties, tax his shirts, Tax his work, tax his dirt. Tax his chew, tax his smoke, Teach him taxes are no joke. Tax his car, tax his grass, Tax the roads he must pass. Tax his food, tax his drink, Tax him if he tries to think. Tax his sodas, tax his beers, If he cries, tax his tears. Tax his bills, tax his gas, Tax his notes, tax his cash. Tax him good and let him know That after taxes, he has no dough. If he hollers, tax him more, Tax him until he’s good and sore. Tax his coffin, tax his grave, Tax the sod in which he lays. Put these words upon his tomb, "Taxes drove me to my doom!" And when he’s gone, we won’t relax, We’ll still be after the inheritance tax.

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Spring melts ICE

Today is the Celtic feast of Imbolc. In Celtic country it would be the first day of Spring. Here in the North Country it's mid-Winter and snow is falling. We're a month from the start of meteorological Spring and about seven weeks from astronomical Spring (locally Friday, March 20, 2026 at 9:46 am CDT). At least the temperature is beginning to moderate from the well below 0℉ we've been experiencing for days.

when ICE melts it flows away

Photo by J. Harrington

It's also the first day of Black History Month. This year is the 100th anniversary. We as a country and as a collection of peoples continue to battle, 250 years after declaring independence, on the proper interpretation of the phrases in that declaration:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed

In a couple of weeks it will be Valentines Day, a fine time to acknowledge that Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness for all (men) are at the heart of what America keeps trying to be all about.

Too many of US try to insert a parenthetical (white) ahead of men and apply only a literal interpretation to that three letter term, erasing the Bill of Rights and the 14th and 15th amendments to our Constitution. Since this year we celebrate the 250th anniversary of our founding, it seems highly inappropriate to regress to making a black person equal to 3/5 of a white and rescinding the rights of women to vote, bodily autonomy, and health care.

Tomorrow is Groundhog Day. It's forecast to be cloudy until almost 10 am tomorrow in Punxsutawney, PA, so maybe Phil won't see his shadow and we can look forward to an early Spring and an accompanying destruction of ICE and the other negative forces supporting a kleptocracy of autocratic oligarchs who would turn US into a nation of slaves. We can do better!

I look at the world

Langston Hughes

1901 – 1967

 

I look at the world

From awakening eyes in a black face —

And this is what I see:

This fenced-off narrow space

Assigned to me.



I look then at the silly walls

Through dark eyes in a dark face —

And this is what I know:

That all these walls oppression builds

Will have to go!



I look at my own body

With eyes no longer blind —

And I see that my own hands can make

The world that’s in my mind.

Then let us hurry, comrades,

The road to find.

“I Look at the World” by Langston Hughes, copyright © 2009 by The Estate of Langston Hughes. Reprinted by permission of the Estate of Langston Hughes and International Literary Properties LLC.

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In some cultures, Spring is almost here

We've entered what is typically the coldest period of the year here in the North Country. I'm hoping Mother Nature and the Fates will be kind this year so we don''t have to wait until Spring for ICE OUT. Meanwhile, paperwork that let's us know we've entered tax season has started to arrive, along with junk mail. Can you tell this is not my favorite time of year? On the other hand, at least there's lots to look forward to during in January and February, like the return of melting and growing and waterfowl. We just have to hang in there.

winter is also sourdough bread season

Photo by J. Harrington

In the interim, the Better Half has three (Christmas) amaryllis plants with multiple blossoms now on two of them and the third coming along more slowly. Plus, one of her windowsill orchids is flowering! But, the lavender plant I got for Christmas seems "under the weather" due to lack of sufficient sunshine and ambient indoor temperatures five to ten degrees cooler than ideal. (Our downstairs is always cooler during heating season since heat rises.) I honestly can't remember an extended period of cloudiness like we've had for the past several months. I'd move the lavender upstairs but the sunny windowsills are full already with amaryllis and orchids.

If we were wise enough to follow more of the old Druid traditions, in a couple of weeks we'd be celebrating Imbolc on February 1. That's the first of three "Spring" festivals and arrives a couple of weeks ahead of Valentines Day. I'm going to polish my ""of Irish extraction" credentials and get ready to celebrate and enjoy Imbolc this year. That feels like it fits nicely with rereading Gary Snyder's The Practice of the Wild, as I started to do yesterday.

As Sergeant Phil Esterhaus said each morning at roll call on Hill Street Blues: "Let's be careful out there," especially as long as Minnesota is territory occupied by hostile forces.

Imbolc by Damh the Bard

As the dark, cold morning gives way to light,
And the world shows its face dazzling in her nakedness,
So the twigs and leaf-bare branches,
Bow to the passing dance
Of old Jack Frost.
His crystal breath on the earth,
And the corners of houses weep icicles of joy.
But where is the Sun’s warmth?
Where is life?
A small flower, delicate and pure-white,
Looks to the earth,
As if talking to the waiting green,
“Not yet,” it seems to whisper.
“When I fall, then you can return.”
And she nods her head,
as the Lady passes by,
Leaving more flowers in Her wake

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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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March into June during May

A recent spell of days with temperatures rising to the upper 80’s to low 90’s, plus sunny weather, was broken by a series of thunderstorms, leaving us with days full of wet, windy, cloudy, much cooler weather with temperatures reaching only the upper 50’s to mid-60’s. I took advantage of the cooler, wetter, weather to plant a pair of Serviceberry bushes in the back yard. My inspiration derived from Robin Wall Kimmerer’s book, Serviceberry, as well as Leanne Betasamosake Simpson’s theory of water. Plus, I planted the “shadbushes" in memory of the shad fishing I used to do long ago during May in Massachusetts and in memory of a long-time friend who walked on several years ago, after he followed a career in public service with a stint at the nursery where I bought the Amelanchier “Standing Ovation” cultivars.

The contrary mixed-up months' weather has hindered spring yard cleanup. Winter storms brought down more dead branches, as usual, and a couple of sickly trees. Before the wood gets gathered up, I want to reduce existing brush piles to ashes. Too much wind or too wet wood has been the case for the past month or so. Maybe next week? I’m trying to react to all of this piling on with a “learn to live with Nature” philosophy, but some days that’s a real struggle.

back yard lilac bush in bloom, last year

Photo by J. Harrington

The lilac bushes in front of the house have finally bloomed, about a week behind those south of us in the Twin Cities urban heat island. The bush in the back yard is just beginning to bloom. Seeing and smelling lilacs in bloom takes me back to grammar school and the yearly period just before summer vacation. The nuns prohibited lilac bouquets in classrooms because, they claimed, it made us students sleepy headed. I could never notice a difference in my friends or myself between lilac time and the rest of the year. Although, when weather approaches normal patterns, May, with or without lilac flowers, is often a sleepy-headed month as we gradually warm up and ease into summer’s “lazy, hazy, crazy days.”

Sprig of Lilac

Hyam Plutzik
1911 – 1962

Their heads grown weary under the weight of Time—
These few hours on the hither side of silence—
The lilac sprigs bend on the bough to perish.

Though each for its own sake is beautiful,
In each is the greater, the remembered beauty.
Each is exemplar of its ancestors.

Within the flower of the present, uneasy in the wind,
Are the forms of those of the years behind the door.
Their faint aroma touches the edge of the mind.

And the living and the past give to one another.
There is no door between them.  They pass freely
Out of themselves; becoming one another.

I see the lilac sprigs bending and withering.
Each year like Adonis they pass through the dumb-show of death,
Waxing and waning on the tree in the brain of a man.

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Spring is sprung

The week just ended our area "greened up." Grass that had been brown grew and greened. American goldfinch males are now mostly chrome yellow. Decorative bushes in urban yards are in pale pink flower. Thunderstorms, some of which may be severe, are forecast for tomorrow.

late April greening up

Photo by J. Harrington

Thursday this week coming is May Day. It's also "Beltane (Beltaine, Belltaine, Bealtaine, Beltain, Beltine, Bealteine, Bealtuinn, Boaldyn), meaning ‘bright fire’ or ‘lucky fire’ is held on May 1st (May 15th in Scotland) and celebrates the start of summer, the crop and pasturing season." Some local farmers have been working their fields already.

Yesterday, Independent Bookstore Day, the Better Half and I headed for our local Indie, Scout & Morgan, to pick up my recently arrived copy of Phenology by Theresa Crimmins. Earlier, I had enjoyed reading the beginning of Bookstores are arsenals of democracy. If we don't lose power tomorrow, I'll finish the essay while watching the rain. The theme is sadly fitting for current events and a reminder that we've been "here," or near here, several times before. With any luck, Kash won't last nearly as long as J. Edgar!

Instructions on Not Giving Up

Ada Limón 1976 –

 

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out

of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s

almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving

their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate

sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees

that really gets to me. When all the shock of white

and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave

the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,

the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin

growing over whatever winter did to us, a return

to the strange idea of continuous living despite

the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,

I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf

unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

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Life returns in Spring

On this Easter Sunday, I take a measure of hope from the blossoms on the forsythia bush behind the house, from the songs of the birds, the flights of the returned waterfowl and the fact that more precipitation is rain instead of snow these days. Despite our continuing destructive activities, we are alive on a living planet and are again celebrating the season of life returning in the northern hemisphere. I wish more of US carried that awareness close to our hearts.

much anticipated marsh marigolds in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

The driveway east of the house gets a mix of sun and shade in the mornings. An ell between the garage and the living room faces south and west and gets sun from late morning all afternoon. The day lilies along the driveway are less than three inches tall. Those in the ell are more than a foot tall. I think that's a good example of differences in microclimates. It also indicates spring's variability, since, in 2012, the day lilies in the semi-shaded front yard were a foot tall on March 24, a month earlier than this year.

The weather forecast includes April showers for the next several days. The water level in the "wet spot" behind the house is much lower this year than most. We're not listed as being even in an abnormally dry county despite an almost snowless winter, probably because precipitation for the past couple of months has been close to normal. We'll hold off until things green up lots more before we torch the brush pile in the back yard.

As far as I'm concerned, we have the best parts of the year ahead of us and I intend to spend at least part of my time paying attention to and enjoying the natural rhythms and beauties in our area. I refuse to spend all my time resisting the madness emanating from the state and national capitols. I also am entitled to enjoy, et alii, marsh marigolds coming into bloom sometime over the next several weeks, weather permitting.

For the Bird Singing before Dawn

Kim Stafford

Some people presume to be hopeful
when there is no evidence for hope,
to be happy when there is no cause.
Let me say now, I’m with them.

In deep darkness on a cold twig
in a dangerous world, one first
little fluff lets out a peep, a warble,
a song—and in a little while, behold:

the first glimmer comes, then a glow
filters through the misty trees,
then the bold sun rises, then
everyone starts bustling about.

And that first crazy optimist, can we
forgive her for thinking, dawn by dawn,
“Hey, I made that happen!
And oh, life is so fine.”

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As we approach a time of resurrection

We’re close to mid-April this Palm Sunday. Here in the North Country, April is a time of snow showers and wild flowers. Wild turkeys begin mating rituals. Song birds return. Pregnant whitetail does will be dropping fawns in a month or two. Plant life (re)emerges from its winter retreat. Lakes and ponds lose their ice cover and some of us begin to lose our cabin fever as we wander about noticing Spring’s buds and blooms and growing warmth and open waters.

SiSi the yellow lab in her new home

Photo by J. Harrington

It was twelve years ago this month that SiSi came to live with us. She was between one and two when she arrived as a "rescue." We have had many happy times since she came and she has definitely done a good job of rescuing me. I'm glad we get to enjoy another Spring together, even though the Better Half has already found the first tick of the season on her.

April is also National Poetry Month. As part of my celebration, I bought a copy of Heidi Barr’s latest book of poems, Church of Shadow and Light, at a local independent book store, Scout & Morgan. As soon as I finish posting this, I'm going to start reading some of those poems as a reward for beginning Spring chores today. The back blade came off the tractor; both the front and back hoses got hooked up and water turned on; pounds of winter's mud got rinsed off the Jeep. It feels really good to be out and about doing something other than blowing snow, although we didn't have much of that to do this past winter.

Ever since last November, I've grown more and more concerned about the direction the returning administration has been trying to drag US and about the limited resistance expressed by those who are intended to serve as checks and balances to unbalanced behavior. Our current situation makes me think off how Native Americans have felt about the trail of broken treaties left behind by US. Maybe we'll respond to the stresses we're experiencing by realizing that we've allowed our spirits to be broken by relying on transactions instead of engaging in relationships. Perhaps we can learn what to do if we read and remember this poem.

For Calling The Spirit Back From Wandering The Earth In Its Human Feet

by Joy Harjo

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

Turn off that cellphone, computer, and remote control.

Open the door, then close it behind you.

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

Give back with gratitude.

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

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

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

Let the earth stabilize your postcolonial insecure jitters.

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

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

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

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

Do not hold regrets.

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

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

Cut the ties you have to failure and shame.

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

Ask for forgiveness.

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

Call yourself back. You will find yourself caught in corners and creases of shame, judgment, and human abuse.

You must call in a way that your spirit will want to return.
Speak to it as you would to a beloved child.

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

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

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

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

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

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Time for a change (or two)

It’s actually starting to seem like Spring here in the North Country. Once again the snow has melted and, come midweek next, overnight low temperatures are forecast to stay above freezing. Leaf buds on the maple trees have burst and, but for a few outliers, the oaks have dropped their overwintering leaves as the new buds swell.

maple leaf buds opening

Photo by J. Harrington

I hate to admit this but I spent way too much time last week doom scrolling and being in an absolutely funky mood. Between laying off thousands of federal staff and laying on thousands of tariffs, it was down the rabbit hole time again. We’re going to be years, if not decades, working to recover once we rid ourselves of our first (and only?) FOTUS [Felon Of The United States]. Despite all the madness, I did complete a preliminary, informal, climate action VENN diagram. It turns out to be trickier than I thought it would, especially since the DrawDown listing doesn’t really cover my interest: the relationships among climate change, the hydrologic cycle, and stream restoration. I made some progress and will keep picking away at it. Stay tuned and, meanwhile, if you’re interested, here’s a link to some local postings that explore climate change and trout fishing.

Speaking of changes, I think this will be the week I take the bback blade off the tractor and start to clean up some of the leaves and branches that came down over the winter. It's also time to get this year's fishing licenses and begin some exploring. That's one of the better ways I can think of to shake the residuals of cabin fever.

Also, please note that April is National Poetry Month. Enjoy Paul Simon's lyrics to help celebrate the month and the changing of the seasons.

      April Come She Will

Lyrics:

April, come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain
May, she will stay
Resting in my arms again

June, she’ll change her tune
In restless walks, she’ll prowl the night
July, she will fly
And give no warning of her flight

August, die she must
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold
September, I’ll remember
A love once new has now grown old

© 1965 Words and Music by Paul Simon

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