Advice for these times from times past

There’s an old piece of advice that goes something like “If you can’t say something good, don’t say anything at all.” There will be no political commentary forthcoming from this source today. if we had a third major political party in our country, we could call the parties: Larry, Moe and Curly.

On to better news, we’ve made it to meteorological spring. Astronomical spring begins locally with the seasonal equinox on Thursday, March 20, 2025 at 4:01 am CDT. Snow is in the forecast for this coming Tuesday and, a week later, the high temperature is forecast to reach the low 60’s. Make of that what you will. I see few options but to try to ride the roller coasters of weather and politics as best I can and try to follow another old piece of advice: Illegitimi non carborundum [Don't let the bastards grind you down].

spring greening, life reviving

Photo by J. Harrington

Last week I successfully completed my two major objectives, I policed the dog droppings and, in a frustratingly similar effort, organized and delivered the tax data to the preparer. I’ll pick up the results from the preparer tomorrow. The dog’s materials are in the trash can for collection tomorrow. May all bad luck go with them to repeat another old phrase.

Back in the days when I went to grammar school, I was taught by nuns. They always counseled us kids if someone we knew was sick, we should pray for “a happy recovery or a speedy death." [Either would end the suffering if the individual was in a state of grace. If not, and a speedy death occurred, suffering could be eternal.] I can see no way that those who support #45 a&b [aka #47] could continue to do so unless they were suffering from some sort of disease. I think that means the Christian and humane behavior for US is to follow the guidance the nuns provided. Let’s all of US pray for a speedy recovery or happy death for all those supporting the current regime in D.C. and Mar-a-Lardo. It should do US a lot of good if our prayers are promptly answered. Maybe we could even avoid the worst of March’s snow jobs.

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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A fish in hand is worth....

Thanks to an invitation from the Son-In-Law and Granddaughter, I went fishing yesterday. My (not quite 4 year old) Granddaughter outfished me, I’m pleased to announce. In the time I was with them, she caught (and released) one sunfish while I, using a popping bug, had two strikes. Neither of the fish who took a swipe was big enough to get its mouth around a bluegill bug. I should have changed to a smaller fly but wasn’t sure I would be able to see it in the small waves that covered the lakes surface.

one of these might have been better than the popper

Photo by J. Harrington

Although I was outfished and came home empty handed, I accomplished several worthwhile objectives. First, I established I haven’t entirely forgotten how to cast a fly, even into a 10 mph (gusting to 15) headwind, despite a distressing lack of casting exercise over the past couple of years. Second, I demonstrated, to my satisfaction, that I know how to undo a “wind knot” in a leader, created by not being careful with my backcast into the aforementioned wind. Finally, I reconfirmed that the fun is in the fishing at least as much as in the catching. Now I need to haul myself off to a local trout stream and check out how my wading skills are holding up despite a lack of use. I will wait until the wind is topping out at 10 mph or less for that exercise. Today’s 20+ mph breeze is more than I can cope with.

Fishing Before You Know How to Fish

https://www.awakin.org/v2/read/view.php?tid=2574

Through the pines and the one maple I hear her.

I shouldn’t have gone fishing if I didn’t know how to fish.

I shouldn’t have gone fishing if I didn’t know how to fish.

There she stands

legs impossibly long

pink and black polka dot swimsuit baggy

pole in her hands

and a little oval sunfish impossibly on her hook.

I don’t tell her, but I do think

Oh, sweet girl, life is always like that.

Fishing before you know how to fish.

Leaving before you know how to leave.

Speaking before you know how to speak.

Fighting before you know how to fight.

Loving before you know how to love.

Dying before you know how to die.

We are all the child with the pole

worrying about who we’ve hurt.

And we are all the fish on the hook,

hoping for mercy.

Her aunt hears her muttering prayer

and though she hasn’t unhooked a fish in 30 years

grabs the wriggling innocent in her hands

and dislodges metal from cheek.

And this, too, is all of us.

Saved again and again by prayer we didn’t know we were saying

and a witness we forgot was listening.

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What is this “normal” you talk about?

If one considers just some of the events of the past week or two: an attempted assassination of a former present who's campaigning to return to the office; the withdrawal of a current president from campaigning for a second term weeks before the party's nominating convention; a software glitch that created continuing havoc world wide; a state senator threatening civil war if the candidate he supports doesn't win the upcoming presidential election, then apologizing (without retraction?), one might wonder if this IS a new normal and, if not, would one know a new normal if one saw it. The preceding list in far from inclusive and intentionally leaves out environmental issues that are global in scope and grossly under-addressed. The preceding sentences would not have been written if there appeared to be a comparable number of positive events offsetting the negative list.

It appears to me that too many of US are permitting those with a "my way or the highway" perspective to have entirely too much influence and power. How we achieve an appropriate reset remains an open question. I had some concerns about how effective Kamala Harris might be as a candidate until I was reminded of how she questioned Brett Kavanaugh at his confirmation hearing. She might not have made him cry, but she did make him quite uncomfortable. I just hope the Democrats don’t do anything stupid or untoward to mess up the likelihood of the American electorate having an opportunity to display some good taste and common sense. I’d like to avoid a repeat of 1968 in Chicago and 2016 nation-wide.

Little Summer Poem Touching The Subject Of Faith

by Mary Oliver

Every summer
I listen and look
under the sun's brass and even
into the moonlight, but I can't hear

anything, I can't see anything --
not the pale roots digging down, nor the green
stalks muscling up,
nor the leaves
deepening their damp pleats,

nor the tassels making,
nor the shucks, nor the cobs.
And still,
every day,

the leafy fields
grow taller and thicker --
green gowns lofting up in the night,
showered with silk. 

And so, every summer,
I fail as a witness, seeing nothing --
I am deaf too
to the tick of the leaves, 

the tapping of downwardness from the banyan feet --
all of it
happening
beyond any seeable proof, or hearable hum. 

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in the dirt

swing through the air.
How could I look at anything in this world
and tremble, and grip my hands over my heart?
What should I fear? 

One morning
in the leafy green ocean
the honeycomb of the corn's beautiful body
is sure to be there.

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Welcome, Spring?

Locally, Spring begins at 10:06 pm today. I’m pretending that doesn’t really count because it’s such a small percentage of the day so late in the day. Tomorrow is my first real day of spring, but not the first real spring day. That was some weeks ago. Got it?

Here’s the Weather Underground forecast for the beginning of Spring(?)!

10 day weather forecast

Snow on Thursday, Friday, maybe Saturday, 9.6 inches on Sunday, another 6 on Monday and 2.4 Tuesday. If ever I’ve hoped a forecast was wrong..! Just this morning the Better Half pointed out the green leaves emerging in the front garden and yard. I can easily envision them shaking off a three or four inch spring snowfall, but something approaching a foot and a half isn’t going to melt overnight or in a day or two. We are looking at (but not forward to) validation of a Minnesotan assessment of our almost snowless winter: “We’ll pay for this!”

I started the tractor yesterday, just to be sure the back blade is available. Tomorrow we’ll check on the snow blower and the diesel and gas supply. Maybe if enough of us show we’re prepared, Mother Nature will decide it’s not worth the trouble to harass us.

I don’t know about you, but each day I wish more and more the world would start making sense again. Then, again, maybe it rarely has:

If—

By Rudyard Kipling

(‘Brother Square-Toes’—Rewards and Fairies)

If you can keep your head when all about you   

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

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And the seasons March on

 Happy Leap Day!

about to take a leap!!

Photo by J. Harrington

Now that we’ve taken care of that, let’s move on. Tomorrow is March 1. March promises to be a busy month. Without getting personal with things like birthdays, etc., next month will bring many of us:

• Women’s History Month
• Super Tuesday (5th)
• Daylight Saving Time (10th)
• The Ides (15th)
• St. Patrick’s Day (17th)
• Spring Equinox (20th)
• Palm Sunday (24th)
• Good Friday (29th) and,
• Easter (31st)

There are others not listed I’m sure, plus whatever may pop up, like one or two government shutdowns. It occurs to me that, if we could force through a constitutional amendment limiting political campaigns to no more than 60 (30?) days before an election, we could undermine the effects of Citizens United and the amount of irritation related to constant seeking of donations and being subjected to ads. One can only spend so much in a limited time and it could serve as an intermediate step to using public funds only for political campaigns.

Dear March—Come in—(1320)

Emily Dickinson
1830 – 1886

Dear March—Come in—
How glad I am—
I hoped for you before—
Put down your Hat—
You must have walked—
How out of Breath you are—
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest—
Did you leave Nature well—
Oh March, Come right upstairs with me—
I have so much to tell—

I got your Letter, and the Birds—
The Maples never knew that you were coming—
I declare - how Red their Faces grew—
But March, forgive me—
And all those Hills you left for me to Hue—
There was no Purple suitable—
You took it all with you—

Who knocks? That April—
Lock the Door—
I will not be pursued—
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied—
But trifles look so trivial 
As soon as you have come

That blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame—

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First we adjust, then we adapt

Hello, again(?), from the cloud-covered, snow-showered, North Country. You’ve no doubt seen the news that last year was the hottest on record. I’m wondering if this year may qualify as the cloudiest. Here’s what we’re up against, according to the State Climatology Office: “... January 2020 followed a different path, finishing with less solar radiation than any January since records began at the U of M St. Paul Campus Climate Observatory in 1963.” 

cloudy, dreary, day after day

Photo by J. Harrington

According to our Minnesota Weather Guide, late next month is when “normal” daytime highs again reach freezing. That presents us with about six weeks before weather can really be expected to start to improve, as measured by those of us who consider open water, not ice, to be a normal condition. Meanwhile, with the help of the Better Half, I’ve sorted through my assortment of sweaters and reduced my holdings by a handful. It would be misleading to suggest we’re actually downsizing, but we are working on reducing clutter, including clothes that are rarely worn and that limit access to clothes worn more frequently, because closet space isn’t limitless. [If you’re old enough, remember Fibber McGee’s closet. If not, click the link.] All in all decluttering is a moderately productive way to spend time in the winter, given the kind of winter we’re “enjoying.” One of the ultimate rewards is that I’ll soon have space to actually sort out fly rods, reels, lines and gear before the season starts. I bet you suspected I had an ulterior motive, you sly devils.

Winter is a time when nature slows down and life is supposed to follow suite. I’ve racked up too many winters where that’s meant sitting on my duff and grumbling about the weather. As part of my efforts to improve my attitude, this winter I’m actually doing things other than grumble and wait for spring. So far, so good.

Winter Sun

By Molly Fisk

How valuable it is in these short days,

threading through empty maple branches,

the lacy-needled sugar pines.

 

Its glint off sheets of ice tells the story

of Death’s brightness, her bitter cold.

 

We can make do with so little, just the hint

of warmth, the slanted light.

 

The way we stand there, soaking in it,

mittened fingers reaching.

 

And how carefully we gather what we can

to offer later, in darkness, one body to another.

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A year’s end inventory

There’s a summer thunderstorm size puddle in the driveway. The wet spot behind the house is showing open water that suggests our moderate drought is over and done for now. Somethings with vivid green leaves (vivid vernal?) have emerged in the woods in front of the house. The creek/pond up the road is almost all open water. It is not feeling very much like Christmas time in the North Country. If we try to adjust and adapt, it will most likely trigger several eighteen inch snowstorms in a row.

a full moon in December looks like this

Photo by J. Harrington

Although  there was too much cloud cover to enjoy it, yesterday was the December full moon, know as Little Spirit Moon by the Ojibwe and Shedding Horns Moon by the Lakota. Come Saturday, days will be three minutes longer than they were a week prior. Spring Equinox is 83 days away (March 19, 10:06 pm locally). Around here, that rarely marks the end of winter weather. It’ll be interesting to see what next year brings.

We appear to be augmenting increasingly volatile weather patterns with comparable political instability. These are times when we should focus more and more on the reality that the future isn’t just something out there that happens to US, it’s something we create with every action we take and decision we make every single minute of each and every day.

There’s only a few days before the  start of a new year. What kind of year will we make of it?

A Map to the Next World

By Joy Harjo

for Desiray Kierra Chee

In the last days of the fourth world I wished to make a map for

those who would climb through the hole in the sky.

My only tools were the desires of humans as they emerged

from the killing fields, from the bedrooms and the kitchens.

For the soul is a wanderer with many hands and feet.

The map must be of sand and can’t be read by ordinary light. It

must carry fire to the next tribal town, for renewal of spirit.

In the legend are instructions on the language of the land, how it

was we forgot to acknowledge the gift, as if we were not in it or of it.

Take note of the proliferation of supermarkets and malls, the

altars of money. They best describe the detour from grace.

Keep track of the errors of our forgetfulness; the fog steals our

children while we sleep.

Flowers of rage spring up in the depression. Monsters are born

there of nuclear anger.

Trees of ashes wave good-bye to good-bye and the map appears to

disappear.

We no longer know the names of the birds here, how to speak to

them by their personal names.

Once we knew everything in this lush promise.

What I am telling you is real and is printed in a warning on the

map. Our forgetfulness stalks us, walks the earth behind us, leav-

ing a trail of paper diapers, needles, and wasted blood.

An imperfect map will have to do, little one.

The place of entry is the sea of your mother’s blood, your father’s

small death as he longs to know himself in another.

There is no exit.

The map can be interpreted through the wall of the intestine—a

spiral on the road of knowledge.

You will travel through the membrane of death, smell cooking

from the encampment where our relatives make a feast of fresh

deer meat and corn soup, in the Milky Way.

They have never left us; we abandoned them for science.

And when you take your next breath as we enter the fifth world

there will be no X, no guidebook with words you can carry.

You will have to navigate by your mother’s voice, renew the song

she is singing.

Fresh courage glimmers from planets.

And lights the map printed with the blood of history, a map you

will have to know by your intention, by the language of suns.

When you emerge note the tracks of the monster slayers where they

entered the cities of artificial light and killed what was killing us.

You will see red cliffs. They are the heart, contain the ladder.

A white deer will greet you when the last human climbs from the

destruction.

Remember the hole of shame marking the act of abandoning our

tribal grounds.

We were never perfect.

Yet, the journey we make together is perfect on this earth who was

once a star and made the same mistakes as humans.

We might make them again, she said.

Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end.

You must make your own map.

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Season’s greetings!

Effective this morning, we can expect longer, sometimes brighter, days for the next six months. Then it will take several more months before days start getting noticeably shorter. We have a whole growing season ahead of us after we finish our long winter’s nap. But first there’s Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, New Year’s Eve and New Year’s!

I’ve been rereading Donald Hall’s wonderful Christmas at Eagle Pond, set near a small town in New Hampshire in 1940, when the author was twelve years old. It’s triggering at least some nostalgia for the “good old days” when life was lived at a necessarily slower pace and I was among the grandchildren rather than the grandparents. We won’t go into how many years it’s been since I was twelve.

Christmas from bygone days

Photo by J. Harrington

This year’s weather in our North Country isn’t very Christmas-like: foggy; drizzly; cloudy; unseasonably warm, based on a historical record that precedes our awareness of climate weirding. If polar ice is going to disappear, what does that suggest about a white Christmas in the years ahead? But, as Hall portrays, Christmas is about more than snow and presents.

Winter Solstice, Christmas and New Year mark the beginning of another year’s cycle. Hall has a wonderful poem about yearly cycles, although in this case the cycle’s end and beginning occur a little prior to the Christmas season. The cycle he describes could be a solid basis for responding to climate breakdown and adjusting our priorities to fit a new year with new realities.

Ox Cart Man

By Donald Hall

In October of the year,

he counts potatoes dug from the brown field,   

counting the seed, counting   

the cellar’s portion out,   

and bags the rest on the cart’s floor.

He packs wool sheared in April, honey

in combs, linen, leather   

tanned from deerhide,   

and vinegar in a barrel

hooped by hand at the forge’s fire.

He walks by his ox’s head, ten days

to Portsmouth Market, and sells potatoes,   

and the bag that carried potatoes,

flaxseed, birch brooms, maple sugar, goose   

feathers, yarn.

When the cart is empty he sells the cart.   

When the cart is sold he sells the ox,   

harness and yoke, and walks

home, his pockets heavy

with the year’s coin for salt and taxes,

and at home by fire’s light in November cold   

stitches new harness

for next year’s ox in the barn,

and carves the yoke, and saws planks   

building the cart again.

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On Winter Solstice eve

Some folks consider tomorrow to be midwinter because it’s halfway between the autumn and spring equinoxes. Others count it as the first day of winter. Tomorrow’s high temperature is expected to be around 42℉. If we really are that warm at midwinter, we’ll be doing well. It’s what happens over the next eight to ten weeks that has me concerned. Unlike woods into which one can only go halfway, in the North Country some winters feel endless. Maybe this one won’t.

Today’s sunshine may be the last glimpse we get for the next week or so. It’s supposed to rain Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, plus the day after. That may help explain why Minnesota’s new state flag is mostly two shades of blue. Water, water everywhere or, as someone posted on social media: “Minnesota is now the LOON STAR STATE!” Look out Texas!

no critter complaints about our weather

Photo by J. Harrington

According to the Minnesota Weather Guide Calendar, sunrise and sunset occur at the same time today and tomorrow. However, the Time and Date web site lists similar times but tomorrow’s day length is four seconds shorter than today's and tomorrow night and Friday morning make up the longest night, I think (YMMV). Since locally days are always within a day, but nights are part of two “days” it does get a bit confusing. I just hope it doesn’t mess up Santa’s schedule next week. He has to stay ahead of, or is it behind?, the sunrise to get his work done. Then he, his elves, reindeer, and all the rest of us should take it easy until next year.

Re-Incarnation

By Eva Gore-Booth

The darkness draws me, kindly angels weep

Forlorn beyond receding rings of light,

The torrents of the earth’s desires sweep

My soul through twilight downward into night.

Once more the light grows dim, the vision fades,

Myself seems to myself a distant goal,

I grope among the bodies’ drowsy shades,

Once more the Old Illusion rocks my soul.

Once more the Manifold in shadowy streams

Of falling waters murmurs in my ears,

The One Voice drowns amid the roar of dreams

That crowd the narrow pathway of the years.

I go to seek the starshine on the waves,

To count the dewdrops on the grassy hill,

I go to gather flowers that grow on graves,

The world’s wall closes round my prisoned will.

Yea, for the sake of the wild western wind

The sphered spirit scorns her flame-built throne,

Because of primroses, time out of mind,

The Lonely turns away from the Alone.

Who once has loved the cornfield’s rustling sheaves,

Who once has heard the gentle Irish rain

Murmur low music in the growing leaves,

Though he were god, comes back to earth again.

Oh Earth! green wind-swept Eirinn, I would break

The tower of my soul’s initiate pride

For a gray field and a star-haunted lake,

And those wet winds that roam the country side.

I who have seen am glad to close my eyes,

I who have soared am weary of my wings,

I seek no more the secret of the wise,

Safe among shadowy, unreal human things.

Blind to the gleam of those wild violet rays

That burn beyond the rainbow's circle dim,

Bound by dark nights and driven by pale days,

The sightless slave of Time’s imperious whim;

Deaf to the flowing tide of dreams divine

That surge outside the closed gates of birth,

The rhythms of eternity, too fine

To touch with music the dull ears of earth—

I go to seek with humble care and toil

The dreams I left undreamed, the deeds undone,

To sow the seed and break the stubborn soil,

Knowing no brightness whiter than the sun.

Content in winter if the fire burns clear

And cottage walls keep out the creeping damp,

Hugging the Old Illusion warm and dear,

The Silence and the Wise Book and the Lamp.

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White Christmas?

For the past couple of days I’ve been enjoying my seasonal job as a volunteer Christmas cookie taste tester elf. So far I haven’t had to put in any overtime, but I’m willing to if the job calls for it. We’ve checked chocolate cookies, frosted sugar cookies, raspberry thumbprint cookies, madeleines, orange flavored cookies and maybe one or two more. No wonder I’m tired, and bloated. Fortunately, so far they’ve all passed the taste test. None have had to be returned to the baker for further work. Several packages have been shipped to their ultimate recipients to take some of the load off of Santa’s sleigh.

sparkly, frosted Christmas cookies

Photo by J. Harrington

The forecast high temperature on Winter Solstice is in the low 40’s. Christmas Eve and Day we’re expecting rain showers and more 40’s. I suspect there’s going to be lots of kids worried about how Santa will get around without snow. Maybe we can tell them Santa has always got around Hawaii and they (almost?) never have snow there. This isn’t our grandparents world or winter anymore.

Perhaps it’s time to look for seasonal events that are more stable than the idea of a white Christmas, with apollogies to Irving Berlin, Bing Crosby and Vermont Inns. Children crave security and familiarity. Each year, daylight shortens until the solstice, whether or not it snows. There are other seasonal traditions we can emphasize other than Santa’s visit. We might even consider being radical and emphasize the “wise" in three wise men rather than the presents they brought. Could gold, frankincense and myrrh be traded for Epiphany cookies? Would that be wise?

White-Eyes

By Mary Oliver

In winter 

    all the singing is in 

         the tops of the trees 

             where the wind-bird 

with its white eyes 

    shoves and pushes 

         among the branches. 

             Like any of us 

he wants to go to sleep, 

    but he's restless— 

         he has an idea, 

             and slowly it unfolds 

from under his beating wings 

    as long as he stays awake. 

         But his big, round music, after all, 

             is too breathy to last. 

So, it's over. 

    In the pine-crown 

         he makes his nest, 

             he's done all he can. 

I don't know the name of this bird, 

    I only imagine his glittering beak 

         tucked in a white wing 

             while the clouds— 

which he has summoned 

    from the north— 

         which he has taught 

             to be mild, and silent— 

thicken, and begin to fall 

    into the world below 

         like stars, or the feathers 

               of some unimaginable bird 

that loves us, 

    that is asleep now, and silent— 

         that has turned itself 

             into snow.

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Christmas is for kids

Yesterday afternoon, the three-year-old Granddaughter did her very first visit to Santa. Reports are, and photos confirm, it went well. This coming Wednesday, she’ll get to enjoy her first meal at a restaurant, to help Mom celebrate a birthday. We weren’t there for the Santa visit but plan to join for the restaurant trip.

Christmas tree up but unadorned

Photo by J. Harrington

Meanwhile, back at our home front, the tree that had been selected for this year turned out to be too tall. Fortunately, I had had an inspiration to use one of my fly rods [8’ 6”] to estimate how a tree prospect might fit the living room.The selection would have had to be cut at head height and that didn’t seem right. Last year we ended up having to make several trimming cuts and I didn’t want to go through that again this year. Anyhow, another Charlie Brown Christmas tree has come to visit for the holidays. Lights will go on later today and decorations over the next few days.

Yesterday, or the day before, we reported on a flock of birds, alleged by the Better Half [BH] to be cedar waxwings, that descended on the feeder. Today we can, and do, confirm that they are what the BH claimed. A half dozen or so landed around the bird bath while I was looking out the window. In another update, I’m better than halfway through the promised reread of The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse. I’ll finish after this is posted and be more in the spirit of the season.

Mole: What do you want to be when you grow up?....     Kind, said the boy

To be candid, I have to fantasize about the days when I believed in Santa. It was too long ago, and the world too different, to actually remember. I do better remembering when our kids were young believers, and now there’s a Granddaughter whose dreams of Santa need to be sheltered. Isn’t that what it’s all about?

 

When Santa Claus Comes

A good time is coming, I wish it were here,
The very best time in the whole of the year;
I’m counting each day on my fingers and thumbs —
the weeks that must pass before Santa Claus comes.
Then when the first snowflakes begin to come down,
And the wind whistles sharp and the branches are brown,
I’ll not mind the cold, though my fingers it numbs,
For it brings the time nearer when Santa Claus comes.

– unknown

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Winter, settling in

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

view of today’s neighborhood

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

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

November for Beginners

By Rita Dove

Snow would be the easy

way out—that softening

sky like a sigh of relief

at finally being allowed

to yield. No dice.

We stack twigs for burning

in glistening patches

but the rain won’t give.

So we wait, breeding

mood, making music

of decline. We sit down

in the smell of the past

and rise in a light

that is already leaving.

We ache in secret,

memorizing

a gloomy line

or two of German.

When spring comes

we promise to act

the fool. Pour,

rain! Sail, wind,

with your cargo of zithers!

November 1981

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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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Should these times be more taxing?

It seems as though, once upon a time or so, I read that, if a society wants less of something, they should tax it. If there’s any truth to such guidance, I’m afraid I don’t understand why we haven’t decided to tax red meat. There was an article the other day that claims Eating red meat twice a week may increase type 2 diabetes risk, study finds. That comes on top of long standing knowledge that Livestock emissions – from manure and gastroenteric releases – account for roughly 32 per cent of human-caused methane emissions. None of which begins to address the surface and groundwater pollution from confined animal feedlot operations (CAFOs). Perhaps that old guidance was off target. After all, in the midst of increasing effects of climate breakdown, we continue to subsidize the fossil fuel industry.

Is there a beef with bison?

Photo by J. Harrington

But, let’s assume the idea of taxing what we want less of is true. That means we could, and should, impose more and more progressive taxes on:

• fossil fuels
• red meats
• pharmaceutical price gouging
• executive pay that exceeds some reasonable ratio to regular employee income
• disinformation distributors
• who or what else?

We raised a question about the country’s priorities the other day, when President Biden announced a request for $106bn aid to Congress for Israel, Ukraine and Gaza at the same time that Home health access for Minnesota seniors at risk as Medicare keeps cutting.

As long as I'm at it, what about the idea of taxing Artificial Intelligence that does anything except making current software bug-free, interoperable and unhackable. I’m tired of the amount of time I have to spend dealing with workarounds and/or responses to some programmers screwup.

All of which means we need to stop electing Republicans, who have clearly demonstrated that, even when they win by cheating, they’re incapable of governing or even carrying their own weight.

Ox Cart Man

Donald Hall     1928 – 2018

In October of the year,
he counts potatoes dug from the brown field,
counting the seed, counting
the cellar's portion out,
and bags the rest on the cart's floor.

He packs wool sheared in April, honey
in combs, linen, leather
tanned from deerhide,
and vinegar in a barrel
hoped by hand at the forge's fire.

He walks by his ox's head, ten days
to Portsmouth Market, and sells potatoes,
and the bag that carried potatoes,
flaxseed, birch brooms, maple sugar, goose
feathers, yarn.

When the cart is empty he sells the cart.
When the cart is sold he sells the ox,
harness and yoke, and walks
home, his pockets heavy
with the year's coin for salt and taxes,

and at home by fire's light in November cold
stitches new harness
for next year's ox in the barn,
and carves the yoke, and saws planks
building the cart again.

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For an ever-changing world

Some years ago I wrote a poem that a friend of ours, Krista Detor, was subsequently kind enough to include in her book, Flat Earth Diary Notes from the Bridge. It’s the closing poem in that volume (p 217) and the title is A Way. It plays with the alternate word aweigh, as in anchors. At the time I wrote it, I was only vaguely aware of an undertone of the earth as a closed system, but now, reading it more than a decade later, I can find it, I think. It’s as nebulous as a nebula.

I was delighted today to see that the idea that there really isn’t anywhere that’s actually “away” has occurred to others. Humans and Nature, an organization that published a different poem of mine a few years ago, is now exploring It’s Time to Practice “No-Away” Living. I’m biased but I believe you would find it exceptionally up-lifting to follow the “No Away” link and read what’s there. To tempt you, here’s a key paragraph as a sample:

Supremacy culture is made up of ideologies that elevate one group over another—humans over “nature,” rich over poor, white people over people of color, for example. These ideologies are entangled with institutional policies and actions that extract resources, labor, freedom, dignity, and so much more from the arbitrary out-group(s)—those who do not “belong,” those who must be “managed”—to fortify the position of the arbitrary in-group—those who “belong,” those who “deserve power.”

If you’re interested in additional resources along the lines of the preceding, take a look at Weaving Earth. I’ll be exploring more of their resources, and those of Humans and Nature, in the near future. They offer what to me reads like a much more optimistic future, and way to get there, than anything else I’m seeing in the socio-politico publications these days. There’s an old saying among planners, “More of the same never solved a problem.” As a recovering planner, I’ve learned that the hard way years ago.

ever-changing prairie grasses

Photo by J. Harrington

Now, to save you another link to click, here’s the poem of mine the Humans and Nature published. With a little poetic license, it can be made to fit today’s theme(s).

Prairie Grasses

                                                          What if

Pasque flowers dwarfed you as you

Reclined under prairie stars

All heaven-scattered above prairie grasses

Infinite in their reach

Reminding you of your diminished

Insignificant role in a universal scheme of

                              things where

Even the prairie and the grasses are ever

                              changing

                                             Where now can you see

Great horizon-sized bison herds, when what

Remains are only clustered preserves of an

Antique land that was carved into plough-

sized plots

Sliced into fading fragments

Shorn of natural wealth

Ebbing from grass stems to corn stalks

               growing beneath prairie

Sunshine, starshine, embedded in a prairie

Sky

                                                                          Have you

Soared where Gulf warmth meets Arctic chill

Known by hawk and hopper

Yielding showers and sun for forbs, sedges

and grasses—home to prairie

Wind

               Have you heard it

Whistle through seedheads

Implode among grass stems

Never stay in one place

Dance across distances limited only by the

                                             prairie

Horizon

                              Have you seen the

Heavenly, hellish receding line

Over prairie grasses

Reaching beyond reach

Infinity experienced

Zestfully

Ontologically

Naturally, sometimes clouded by prairie

Wildfire

              Have you been there

When winter’s melted snows

Inflowed prairie soils

Leaving aged grass

Dry as bison wallows and

Fast as pronghorns

Incendiary tongues

Raced across stale sod

Ending grasses fallow plight leaving prairie

Roots

                                             Are you anchored by

Roots reaching deep into darkened soils

                             beneath the

Odor of hot metal from the drought-dry

               dusty top-soil to

Organic layers damp and deliciously fecund

To catch nourishment

Seeping from wild fire ashes next to prairie

Potholes

                              Would you wade

Ponds and potholes left by

Olden glaciers’ graves midst rolling hills

Trysting places for waterfowl and shorebirds

Hidden in plain sight

Outside

Lying summer-still in the

Endlessly

Susurrating prairie

(For Paul Gruchow)

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No explanation

We need the rain, but thunder and lightning at about 2 am made SiSi, my dog, anxious, so she decided to awaken me to provide reassurance. Naturally, since I couldn’t make the noises and flashing lights stop, I also couldn’t provide enough reassurance for her to go back to sleep. You can probably see where this is going. At SiSi’s urging, we got up about 3-ish, collected Harry the Beagle, got the dogs fed and walked, then sat around waiting for things to settle down. Fortunately, at the time we went for our early constitutional, it wasn’t pouring, it was only drizzling. When we got back in the house, Harry took a nap, I got a cup of coffee, and SiSi cowered next to my chair. I have no idea why some dogs are really sensitive to thunderstorms and others could care less.

As I mentioned, we need the rain. If we could have got rain without thunderstorms, all of us could have had a decent night’s sleep. If SiSi were as indifferent to thunder and lightning as Harry appears to be, we all could have gotten a decent night’s sleep. As it turned out, we didn’t get either enough sleep or enough rain. I wonder what will happen to our weather when the Gulf Stream stops because we didn’t do enough, fast enough, to curb climate weirding. Why aren’t more humans sensitive to existential threats? Life these days reminds me too much of the old joke about the farmer who won the lottery. When asked what he planned to do with all that money, the farmer allowed as how he’d probably just keep farming ’til the money ran out. Will we just keep on keeping on until we run out of time?

is a mother ship behind these clouds?

Photo by J. Harrington

Is it possible that our lack of sense is attributable to alien rays? I ask because of the report that:

The US government conducted a “multi-decade” program which collected, and attempted to reverse-engineer, crashed UFOs, a former American intelligence official told a remarkable congressional hearing on Wednesday.

Could those same aliens be the ones who “stole” the 2020 election? Or are we getting closer to finding real evidence that aliens are hiding a mother ship behind the moon and beaming a “stupid ray” at earthlings? Thus far, that’s the only way I can begin to account for all those who have voted for tRUMP, Gaetz, MTG, Gym J., LB (without a J) and several other MAGAts. I’m still unclear how, if we let idiots vote, we avoid electing idiots. Surely Liz Cheney isn’t expecting our political parties to do a better job of vetting who they nominate as candidates. Wouldn’t that be like expecting the Three Stooges to perform Shakespeare or Beckett? And if we’re not being bombarded with alien distortions, why did I write today’s posting?

A Partial History Of My Stupidity

By Edward Hirsch

Traffic was heavy coming off the bridge,

and I took the road to the right, the wrong one,

and got stuck in the car for hours.

Most nights I rushed out into the evening

without paying attention to the trees,

whose names I didn't know,

or the birds, which flew heedlessly on.

I couldn't relinquish my desires

or accept them, and so I strolled along

like a tiger that wanted to spring

but was still afraid of the wildness within.

The iron bars seemed invisible to others,

but I carried a cage around inside me.

I cared too much what other people thought

and made remarks I shouldn't have made.

I was silent when I should have spoken.

Forgive me, philosophers,

I read the Stoics but never understood them.

I felt that I was living the wrong life,

spiritually speaking,

while halfway around the world

thousands of people were being slaughtered,

some of them by my countrymen.

So I walked on—distracted, lost in thought—

and forgot to attend to those who suffered

far away, nearby.

Forgive me, faith, for never having any.

I did not believe in God,

who eluded me.

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