Season's greetings to you and blessings upon you!

It's Thanksgiving week. Around here we are starting the week with well above average temperatures and look like we're going to have snow cover for Thanksgiving. The thirty-day forecast suggests that snow cover may last until January thaw or what passes for spring in our North Country. That's why we're behind schedule posting this. Yesterday was committed to changing the oil and checking out the snow blower (and cleaning up most of the mess I made in the garage) as well as cleaning up more fallen leaves plus the dead plants from the front porch planters that will soon (before the soil freezes) hold Christmas angels and greenery. By Thanksgiving, the "back yard" may look like this:

November usually brings a "dusting" of snow

Photo by J. Harrington

We've already started shopping for Christmas presents and received our first "holiday greetings" card. The weekend after Thanksgiving is traditionally when we put up lights. A pair of poinsettias is perched on the piano already. My long-standing dedication to deferring all Christmas activities until after Thanksgiving is being eroded by retail temptation, especially since the family is going to do our best to honor the Black Friday / Cyber Monday boycott from Thanksgiving until December 2, shopping only local and with cash (if stores still accept that😉).

We Ain't Buying It

Today we're planning on changing the oil in the tractor without increasing the mess in the garage, we hope. Then we get to mostly sit and watch what Mother Nature delivers late Tuesday and early Wednesday. We promise not to complain at all if the storm misses us entirely. That would give us something else to be grateful for come Thursday.

Many decades ago we lived a little north of the former Plimouth Plantation. It looks as though they've been increasing recognition of Wampanoag contributions to the first celebration since I moved to Minnesota. I'm please to see that during this Native American Heritage month. Check out Plimoth Patuxet this week but first, enjoy Joy Harjo's Thanksgiving poem:

Perhaps the World Ends Here

By Joy Harjo 

 

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

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Please be kind to each other while you can.

A bag mixed with gratitude

In my younger days, a mixed bag might have meant returning from an afternoon’s hunt with a rabbit, a squirrel or two, and maybe a grouse or a woodcock. These days it’s more likely to refer to counting my/our blessings as well as those things that aren’t going the way we think they should, such as November 5’s outcome.

One of my favorite local writers has an interesting piece that’s worth the time to read and then to think about this Thanksgiving week and for the rest of the season (no, not autumn, the “holiday season”). Speaking strictly for myself, I have a tendency to take the good stuff for granted, as my due, and complain about both the other, and about wanting more and/or better. At least these days I’m more aware of such tendencies and am working toward reducing my malcontentedness. Here’s a link to Heidi Barr’s perspective on Gratitude practice.

Gratitude is also a theme in a book I’ve been reading for the past week or so. Robin Wall Kimmerer’s THE SERVICEBERRY Abundance and Reciprocity in the Natural World. An abbreviated version of the book can be found here in Emergence magazine.

As you no doubt already know, November is Native American Heritage Month and November 29 this year is Native American Heritage Day. Some argue that honoring Native Americans on the day after Thanksgiving is disrespectful or, at best, in poor taste. My preferred perspective on the subject is well covered by a Native American poet and former Poet Laureate of the United States, Joy Harjo. Please pay particular attention to the second line.

This Morning I Pray for My Enemies

Joy Harjo
1951 – 

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.

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!

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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.

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Thanks! giving?

Last night, somebody (deer? raccoons? both?) was playing with the pumpkins we left in the field behind the house. They’ve been moved quite a distance from where we dropped them. but not very munched on yet, it appears. When deer were noshing on pumpkins in front of the house, it took them several days to eat much of the body of the vegetable. We’ll keep an eye on things and report anything noteworthy.

deer like the taste of Jack O'Lanterns

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half has adjusted the sparkly holiday bouquet on the book case behind her right shoulder. The "alien eyes” [see yesterday’s posting] are gone. It now looks much more holidayish. There’s also a miniature angel on top of a hutch keeping an eye on the dining-living-and-kitchen area. We may yet end up with some holiday spirit.

The oven’s preheating for the afternoon bread baking. That both helps take any chill off the living room and kitchen and, in a couple of hours, the place will smell great too. Then later, on Thursday, we’ll enjoy the aroma of roasting turkey. If I can only remember to stay away from news headlines and social media, the week could be quite pleasant, more so if the sun ever returns.

So far, a high point of the day has been a very close look at three sandhill cranes as they burst from a wetland next to I-35 and flew almost over the hood of the Jeep. They are beautiful birds. In the Marshland Elegy chapter of A Sand County Almanac, Aldo Leopold notes how close we came to losing them. We can be thankful on Thursday, and every day, that we didn’t. Then we can do all we know how to do to protect other threatened critters and their habitat so we can be thankful we still get to enjoy their company next year at Thanksgiving time.

When the Frost is on the Punkin

By James Whitcomb Riley

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,

And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,

And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;

O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,

With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,

As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere

When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—

Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,

And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;

But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze

Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days

Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,

And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;

The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still

A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;

The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;

The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!—

O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps

Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;

And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through

With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! ...

I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be

As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me—

I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

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A question of focus

If there’s a name for the shade between gray and white, that’s what this afternoon’s sky is. No sun, no blue, flat wall-to-wall cloud cover that would be worse if it were snowing, but is gloomy all by itself. That means I can add joy at the return of the sun by Thanksgiving to things to be thankful for come Thursday. Meanwhile, we continue to add bit by bit to seasonal decor. Icicle lights are on the garage, greenery and angels highlight the front porch/stoop. The Better Half has put a sparkly red and green bouquet behind her seat. Two of the green bulbs in it look like the eyes of an alien monster about to leap on her from behind. I haven’t yet mentioned that to her. (shh!)

a new November day dawns

Photo by J. Harrington

It is waay too early in the season, and the weather hasn’t been that bad, but I'm showing signs of early onset cabin fever. It’s almost like having an anti-Goldilocks syndrome, “this one’s too big, this one’s too little, and none are just right!” This is no doubt what I get for trying to keep up on world affairs and maintain a modicum of presence on social media. Week after week after week It’s Good News Week! [click the link and see that ennui and sarcasm have been with US since at least 1965]

But, I have dough rising in the warming room [upstairs bathroom with the door closed]. Tomorrow, if all goes well, will be bread baking day. Before the weather turns too cold I need to get the back blade on the tractor. Tomorrow or Wednesday look like likely candidates. Wednesday the latest Carrie Newcomer album is scheduled to arrive, and Thursday's Thanksgiving day. Maybe the source of my discontent isn’t so much the state of the world as it is the state of my expectations. I’m going to look around and see if they can be lowered a little more without triggering unintended consequences.

Gratitude

by Mary Oliver

What did you notice?

The dew-snail;
the low-flying sparrow;
the bat, on the wind, in the dark;
big-chested geese, in the V of sleekest performance;
the soft toad, patient in the hot sand;
the sweet-hungry ants;
the uproar of mice in the empty house;
the tin music of the cricket’s body;
the blouse of the goldenrod.

What did you hear?

The thrush greeting the morning;
the little bluebirds in their hot box;
the salty talk of the wren,
then the deep cup of the hour of silence.

When did you admire?

The oaks, letting down their dark and hairy fruit;
the carrot, rising in its elongated waist;
the onion, sheet after sheet, curved inward to the pale green wand;
at the end of summer the brassy dust, the almost liquid beauty of the flowers;
then the ferns, scrawned black by the frost.

What astonished you?

The swallows making their dip and turn over the water.

What would you like to see again?

My dog: her energy and exuberance, her willingness,
her language beyond all nimbleness of tongue,
her recklessness, her loyalty, her sweetness,
her strong legs, her curled black lip, her snap.

What was most tender?

Queen Anne’s lace, with its parsnip root;
the everlasting in its bonnets of wool;
the kinks and turns of the tupelo’s body;
the tall, blank banks of sand;
the clam, clamped down.

What was most wonderful?

The sea, and its wide shoulders;
the sea and its triangles;
the sea lying back on its long athlete’s spine.

What did you think was happening?

The green beast of the hummingbird;
the eye of the pond;
the wet face of the lily;
the bright, puckered knee of the broken oak;
the red tulip of the fox’s mouth;
the up-swing, the down-pour, the frayed sleeve of the first snow—

so the gods shake us from our sleep.

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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—

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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.

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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.

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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

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Easing into the season

The weather is beautiful today, blue skies, not much wind. Nevertheless, I have no intention of clearing leaves from the driveway again, because tomorrow the wind returns and the branches aren’t yet bare of leaves, so I’d just have to repeat driveway clearing for the 5th or 6th time this year. I’m just going to enjoy as much of the day as I can and let tomorrow (or the day after) take care of tomorrow. Next week we compensate for this week’s above normal temperatures so....

Today the Better Half and I started getting seriously, but joyously, organized for the holidays. She’s been playing Santa’s little Elf much of the year. I’m just starting to get into holiday moods and modes although, as noted recently on these pages, I’ve but begun to contemplate my own Christmas wishes, other than for, literally, peace on earth, good will to all. Have you noticed that the number of Scrooges has grown phenomenally over the last decade or two? May each and every one of them be visited by the requisite ghosts of past, present and future, so that they change their ways, each and every one.

some Novembers look more Christmassy than others

Photo by J. Harrington

Since I’ve already referenced Dickens’ Christmas Carol, I may as well pile on and include a Wordsworth sonnet that popped into my head this morning. It appears that concerns that arose during the first industrial revolution remain with US, changed in form but not substance. Perhaps it is well past time to reconsider our definition of “progress?” There’s an old dictum in planning that “more of the same never solved a problem.” Einstein has noted that “No problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it.” I wonder if spirituality is a different level of consciousness than materialism.

Today’s poem could be considered to be little more than a downer, or, viewed more opportunely, it can be seen as a caution for how to better enjoy and benefit from the upcoming holidays and holydays.

The World Is Too Much With Us

By William Wordsworth

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

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May a peace full season be upon US

Briefly, very briefly, this morning’s sunrise was spectacular. Then the clouds finished closing in and the array of pinks and roses and tangerines disappeared. Speaking of the loss of vibrant colors, today is the final day of firearms deer season in our area. Tomorrow the fluorescent orange (and pink) goes back in the closet until next November. Now we can really focus on the reds, greens, and whites of the impending holiday season.

Photo by J. Harrington

As an early present to myself, and for which I’ll be truly full of thanks, I’m going to minimize the attention I pay to politics and world affairs for the rest of this year, unless the topic is something about which I can do something other than fuss and fume. I’ve let the crazy MAGAts squat rent free in my head too much for too long and I’m hereby evicting them. As insensitive as it may seem, the last time I read the Bible, it was full of stories of the peoples of the Mideast making war on and/or enslaving each other. So what else is new? I wonder if we could make current warring inhabitants of the region sit still and listen to all of the many, different, artists performing covers of Pete Seeger’s Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

A good part of the problem is evidenced in Congress and its continuing demonstration that it doesn’t take too many self-centered, greedy, extremists to wreck things for everyone else. When I was young, we used to refuse to play with kids like that. Why can’t “grownups” remember that lesson? Properly done, shunning, isolation, rejecting obstreperous obstructionists could have a beneficial effect on the rest of US and the world.

Gates of Eden

Written by: Bob Dylan 

Of war and peace the truth just twists
Its curfew gull just glides
Upon four-legged forest clouds
The cowboy angel rides
With his candle lit into the sun
Though its glow is waxed in black
All except when ’neath the trees of Eden

The lamppost stands with folded arms
Its iron claws attached
To curbs ’neath holes where babies wail
Though it shadows metal badge
All and all can only fall
With a crashing but meaningless blow
No sound ever comes from the Gates of Eden

The savage soldier sticks his head in sand
And then complains
Unto the shoeless hunter who’s gone deaf
But still remains
Upon the beach where hound dogs bay
At ships with tattooed sails
Heading for the Gates of Eden

With a time-rusted compass blade
Aladdin and his lamp
Sits with Utopian hermit monks
Sidesaddle on the Golden Calf
And on their promises of paradise
You will not hear a laugh
All except inside the Gates of Eden

Relationships of ownership
They whisper in the wings
To those condemned to act accordingly
And wait for succeeding kings
And I try to harmonize with songs
The lonesome sparrow sings
There are no kings inside the Gates of Eden

The motorcycle black madonna
Two-wheeled gypsy queen
And her silver-studded phantom cause
The gray flannel dwarf to scream
As he weeps to wicked birds of prey
Who pick up on his bread crumb sins
And there are no sins inside the Gates of Eden

The kingdoms of Experience
In the precious wind they rot
While paupers change possessions
Each one wishing for what the other has got
And the princess and the prince
Discuss what’s real and what is not
It doesn’t matter inside the Gates of Eden

The foreign sun, it squints upon
A bed that is never mine
As friends and other strangers
From their fates try to resign
Leaving men wholly, totally free
To do anything they wish to do but die
And there are no trials inside the Gates of Eden

At dawn my lover comes to me
And tells me of her dreams
With no attempts to shovel the glimpse
Into the ditch of what each one means
At times I think there are no words
But these to tell what’s true
And there are no truths outside the Gates of Eden

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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.

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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. 

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Will we soon be able to give thanks for peace?

Early this morning, the dogs and I saw a beautiful crescent moon almost cradling Venus in the predawn eastern sky. It was beautiful enough to make it worthwhile to be up and out at that hour walking the dogs. Perhaps an even bigger surprise was that the sky was finally clear enough to see the moon and Venus and the stars. Even the wind had a temporary lull in its howling. A rare moment of peace in our corner of the world. Would that others could share moments like that for even longer periods.

Tamaracks have turned golden. Many have shed half or more of their needles. Our local swamps, bogs and wet lands are looking somewhat shorn and forlorn but ice free so far. The local big box grocery store already has Christmas greenery for sale. (They might have had it on display before today but I’ve not been there for a week or more.) Thanksgiving is two weeks from today so the greenery is almost in season. Not only have I not started Christmas shopping, I’ve barely begun a Christmas list for me.

may all enjoy the peace of Nature

Photo by J. Harrington

Looking ahead, one of my wishes for the season, and a great reason to get a jump on the season, is for peace on earth, good will toward men, especially in the region where Christ walked the earth, and anywhere else ravaged these days by war or hatred. Although we’re still in the phase where days get shorter, may those with good will hope for a solstice that brings not only longer, but truly brighter days for all. That would obviously be something for which men of good will would give thanks. That’s how we can tell if they’re men of good will.

Perhaps the World Ends Here

Joy Harjo     1951 – 

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

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