Animals at Christmas

The Winter Solstice is a week from tomorrow. With luck, the impending storm will be over by then. My smartphone’s weather app forecasts high temperatures in the single digits come the astronomical beginning of winter. The rain--snow mix for several days, followed by rapidly dropping temperatures down around zero, will be annoying and aggravating for many of us humans. It may well be life-threatening for local wildlife. We’ll keep the feeder filled and the suet looks good for at least a few days.

female and male cardinal

Photo by J. Harrington

You probably know that snow has insulating qualities that freezing rain doesn’t. The critters that are in various forms of hibernation will probably be less troubled by the unseasonable precipitation pattern than those that are active year round. For example, I’m set up to blow snow but not to melt an ice-covered driveway. Maybe it’s not too late to ask Santa for a flamethrower for Christmas.

In the 25 years plus that we’ve lived here, this is the first winter I’ve seen pocket gopher mounds develop in December and emerge through the snow cover. Climate change? Probably. I just can’t work up the energy to dig through mostly frozen ground to set traps though.

Meanwhile, the pileated woodpecker we mentioned the other day is back. This time s/he (haven’t got a good look yet) perched on the deck railing and leaned toward the feeder ports. It looked like this might have been a successful tactic, but s/he still hasn’t tried the suet feeder. I don’t get it!

If you remember the biblical stories of the first Christmas, animals, mostly domestic, played their own roles. Later, the reindeer helped Santa get around to deliver presents. And how many animals are mentioned in the Twelve Days of Christmas?

The Oxen

By Thomas Hardy

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.

“Now they are all on their knees,”

An elder said as we sat in a flock

By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where

They dwelt in their strawy pen,

Nor did it occur to one of us there

To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave

In these years! Yet, I feel,

If someone said on Christmas Eve,

“Come; see the oxen kneel,

“In the lonely barton by yonder coomb

Our childhood used to know,”

I should go with him in the gloom,

Hoping it might be so.

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To be opened on Christmas Eve

One of the ways I find poetry most full of life is that, as often as not, poets surprise me with their poems. I've enjoyed many Christmases in my life. I've also read many of Mary Oliver's poems. Until this Christmas Eve, I hadn't unwrapped The Gift or her Christmas Poem. Many families enjoy a tradition of opening one gift on Christmas Eve. It's in that spirit we share today's posting.

a star shone and angels watched

Photo by J. Harrington

May your Christmas Eve be full of love and warmth. May you always find room at the inn. May the days ahead be better for you, and to you, than those you've left behind. May Christmas angels and shepherds watch over you year round and may we all finally learn to listen to Wise Men, whether or not they come bearing gifts.

no room at the inn

Photo by J. Harrington

Christmas Poem

by:  Mary Oliver

Says a country legend told every year:
Go to the barn on Christmas Eve and see
what the creatures do as that long night tips over.
Down on their knees they will go, the fire
of an old memory whistling through their minds!

[So] I went. Wrapped to my eyes against the cold
I creaked back the barn door and peered in.
From town the church bells spilled their midnight music,
and the beasts listened –
yet they lay in their stalls like stone.

Oh the heretics!
Not to remember Bethlehem,
or the star as bright as a sun,
or the child born on a bed of straw!
To know only of the dissolving Now!

Still they drowsed on –
citizens of the pure, the physical world,
they loomed in the dark: powerful
of body, peaceful of mind,
innocent of history.

Brothers! I whispered. It is Christmas!
And you are no heretics, but a miracle,
immaculate still as when you thundered forth
on the morning of creation!
As for Bethlehem, that blazing star

still sailed the dark, but only looked for me.
Caught in its light, listening again to its story,
I curled against some sleepy beast, who nuzzled
my hair as though I were a child, and warmed me
the best it could all night.

The Gift 

By Mary Oliver

Be still, my soul, and steadfast.
Earth and heaven both are still watching
though time is draining from the clock
and your walk, that was confident and quick,
has become slow.

So, be slow if you must, but let
the heart still play its true part.
Love still as once you loved, deeply
and without patience. Let God and the world
know you are grateful. That the gift has been given.

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Where have all the ... gone?

One of the most challenging things to see is what isn't there. We haven't seen a single chipmunk around the property this year and it was only today we realized that they're gone. There was a strong hint yesterday, when the live trap we use for small varmints, after it had sat on the front stoop baited with peanut butter for a couple of days, finally caught a --- red squirrel. Since, for reasons beyond our understanding, Minnesota seems to consider red squirrels a game species, we promptly released it.

catching chipmunks two at a time

Photo by J. Harrington

Several Summers ago we were overrun with chipmunks. Something like 16 of them were trapped over the course of that Summer. This year -- nada. Not that we're complaining, as they said on Seinfeld. Anyhow, it must be moles or voles or something other than chipmunks that's making the tunnels around and under the stoop. The "mole" trap we bought a few years ago has never worked worth anything. Maybe it's time to consider an alternative or two, although a friend of ours, who successfully traps moles, claims we're setting it wrong. The number and locations of tunnels is getting out of hand so, even though it's Summertime, we can't just sit back and enjoy the easy living'. Maybe come Winter we'll relax and read The Wind in the Willows.

Catching the Moles

By Judith Kitchen

First we tamp down the ridges 

that criss-cross the yard 

then wait for the ground 

to move again. 

I hold the shoe box, 

you, the trowel. 

When I give you the signal 

you dig in behind 

and flip forward. 

Out he pops into daylight, 

blind velvet. 

We nudge him into the box, 

carry him down the hill. 

Four times we’ve done it. 

The children worry. 

Have we let them all go

at the very same spot?

Will they find each other?

We can’t be sure ourselves, 

only just beginning to learn 

the fragile rules of uprooting.

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For the birds! (and watchers) #phenology

Today we repaired the bluebird house that the bear attacked earlier this year. One day soon, when we get our post hole digger back from the folks that borrowed it, we'll mount it on the 8 foot 4" X 4" we bought and park the 4 X in a hole in the ground near the back yard's forsythia and lilac bushes. (Speaking of which, the lilacs in front of the house finally started blooming, but none of the 3 forsythias produced any flowers this year. It's been that kind of Spring.)

eastern bluebird male

Photo by J. Harrington

Did you know Minnesota has a bluebird recovery program? If we did, we'd forgotten. Here's a link to their top ten tips for successful bluebirding. We will do our best to follow these. In years past, we've avoided checking our boxes during nesting season for fear of triggering nest abandonment. Once again we've served as an example of how a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. Then again, while poking about the internet for information on eastern bluebirds, we came across the Minnesota Breeding Bird Atlas, which we've somehow missed in all the time we've lived in Minnesota and had internet access (many years for each).

November: time to clean out the house for Winter

Photo by J. Harrington

We note that several resources on the placement of bluebird nesting boxes recommend half-inch steel pipes. In light of our experience this year with the bear, we believe s/he stood up and leaned on the 2" X 4" the box had been mounted on, snapping it off at the base. We suspect that a pipe would be equally susceptible to being bent by a hungry bear. That's why we're using a 4" X 4". We'll have to figure our some sort of baffle arrangement. We have been cleaning out the houses to prevent rodent nesting over Winter, so that's not going to change. What we hadn't known is that deer mice can carry the hantavirus. Amazing what you can learn f you really start to pay attention. (If you look carefully, there's a mouse in the upper-right corner of the nesting box pictured.)

Since we've posted about bluebirds from time to time, we've used Charles Bukowski's poem Bluebird several times. It's become almost a tradition. Here's a link to an animated version of that poem. Here's the poem:

Bluebird

by Charles Bukowski

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

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Thaws melt snow tracks

The Minnesota Weather Guide marks today as the first day that normal temperatures reach 32℉ as Spring slowly approaches. The weather app on my phone says we should get got there this afternoon. Now, instead of continuing a trend of slowly rising temperatures, we can expect to drop back into the freezer for the next ten days or so. Maybe longer? Sigh. Will the tenacity of Winter make Spring all the sweeter when it arrives. Today's slightly milder temperatures suggest that will be the case.

deer track without the deer

Photo by J. Harrington

While researching muskrats yesterday, an interesting web page full of snow tracks popped up. Since our local snow is softening but remains on the ground, in fact, last night it got added to, today's probably a good time to share it with you. With luck, in a month or so it will be useless until next Winter. The Minnesota DNR has a nice set of tracking sheets that can help children learn about some Minnesota common animal tracks. I'm sure that we once again have a runny rabbit living under the front porch this Winter, not from the tracks (s)he leaves in the snow but the little round brown pellets left on the snow.

turkey tracks without the turkey

Photo by J. Harrington

Deeper snow, like the 12"+ we have in the front yard, makes it hard to identify tracks. Good tracking snow is only an inch or so, or even less, deep. We went back later in the day yesterday, when there was more light, but couldn't find any tracks left by the muskrat. That doesn't mean we didn't see one. Ted Kooser tells us about a similar experience in one of his Winter Morning Walks: one hundred postcards to Jim Harrison.

january 26

Overcast, cold and still.

A hundred yards ahead,
a coyote crosses the road at a lope,
stops on a rise, looks back,
runs on. It is less like
the shape of an animal running
than the shadow of something flying.
When I get to the place where I saw it,
no tracks in the snow.

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So Human an Animal

Late yesterday, a little before sunset, we watched a doe and her yearling daughter emerge from the oak woods and head toward the pear tree behind the house. Another doe, already under the pear tree, by herself, wasn't noticed until she dashed out from under the tree's branches and chased away the newcomer mother doe. The yearling stood still as mom was pursued over the hill. When it became clear that mom wasn't returning anytime soon, the yearling followed over the crest of the hill looking for mom and her aggressor. About ten minutes later, a single doe, presumably the chaser, was again feeding under the pear tree.

whitetail doe under pear tree

Photo by J. Harrington

All Summer we've watched similar aggressive behavior from at least one of the couple or more pairs of hummingbirds feeding at the nectar feeders we hang. Even if it's not feeding, just let another hummer arrive at a feeder and someone arrives, streaking past as if on a strafing run. As Summer has gone on, the other hummers have become less readily intimidated and a game like whack-a-mole, but with hummingbirds, gets played around the feeders.

panorama at International Wolf Center

Photo by J. Harrington

We've watched films of wolves and ravens, and sometimes eagles, feeding on deer carcasses. The wolves would have it that no one eats until they're finished, and, maybe not even then. Although we're not very inclined to lean toward Social Darwinism, perhaps it would behove us humans to more readily remember that, on an evolutionary scale, we're not all that far removed from the rest of the animals. Our lizard brain stick has more than enough capacity to get us into more trouble than we can easily handle. Just ask Rene Dubos.

The Future is an Animal

Tina Chang, 1969

In every kind of dream I am a black wolf 
careening through a web. I am the spider 
who eats the wolf and inhabits the wolf’s body.
In another dream I marry the wolf and then 
am very lonely. I seek my name and they name me 
Lucky Dragon. I would love to tell you that all 
of this has a certain ending but the most frightening
stories are the ones with no ending at all. 
The path goes on and on. The road keeps forking, 
splitting like an endless atom, splitting 
like a lip, and the globe is on fire. As many
times as the book is read, the pages continue
to grow, multiply. They said, In the beginning, 
and that was the moral of the original and most 
important story. The story of man. One story. 
I laid my head down and my head was heavy. 
Hair sprouted through the skin, hair black 
and bending toward night grass. I was becoming 
the wolf again, my own teeth breaking 
into my mouth for the first time, a kind of beauty 
to be swallowed in interior bite and fever. 
My mind a miraculous ember until I am the beast. 
I run from the story that is faster than me, 
the words shatter and pant to outchase me. 
The story catches my heels when I turn 
to love its hungry face, when I am willing
to be eaten to understand my fate.

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Antigonish, or there's no there, there!

We bet you may remember a poem many children learn that ends like this:

Last night I saw upon the stair
A little man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
Oh, how I wish he’d go away...

Now, substitute deer flies for the little man and we're pleased to report they seem to be slowly fading away. At least the dogs have been a little less bothered the past day or two.

livetrap chipmunk "two-fer"

Photo by J. Harrington

Have you been taught that one of the hardest things to see is what isn't there? We learned that some time ago. Then, just today, we realized we've seen almost no chipmunks around the house this Summer. That's a far cry from a couple of years ago when we ended up translocating something like 15 or 16 of the little, striped rodents. The dogs have been sniffing around the front stoop as if one might be burrowing under the steps, and we caught a quick glimpse of one in the back yard a week or so ago, but that's been about it. Maybe the word got out among the chipmunk clans?

Other than that, we've not much to report today unless we comment on state or national politics and we just don't want to go there. Most days these days we can only conclude that alien mother ships are bombarding the United States with some ray that makes large portions of the population excessively venal, short-sighted, greedy, xenophobic, racist, and stupid. Or, perhaps many people have always been like that and the rays are finally enabling the rest of us to see them as they are. We'll not settle that this afternoon nor do we want to spoil the weekend debating it. Instead, watch a chipmunk scamper away from a livetrap.

Antigonish [I met a man who wasn’t there]

Hughes Mearns

Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
I wish, I wish he’d go away...

When I came home last night at three
The man was waiting there for me
But when I looked around the hall
I couldn’t see him there at all!
Go away, go away, don’t you come back any more!
Go away, go away, and please don’t slam the door... (slam!)

Last night I saw upon the stair
A little man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
Oh, how I wish he’d go away...

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Shades of green or Hades of green?

The unidentified bush on the roadside south of our property started blossoming sometime in the last 24 hours. It hadn't yet started yesterday around mid-day. When we drove past again this morning about 9:30, there were a number of flower buds that had opened. We'll try to get some better pictures with the DSLR in the next day or so, but the roadside blooms are growing in the middle of a short but very narrow stretch of gravel road, so we need to figure out where, if at all, we can park within a safe walking distance.

April 21, 2016 --> May 7, 2018

Photo by J. Harrington

Some years ago, we discovered Simon Jennings' Artist's Little Book of Color. It informs us that "Green is the largest color family discernible to the human eye. Prior to the standardization of pigment nomenclature many names were used to describe hues of green.Some of the following names are still in current use, while many have now disappeared." The "Little Book" goes on to list 35 or 40 hues of green, followed, several pages later, by a separate listing of a dozen "green tints," and then an entirely different section on "Terra Verte or Green Earth,"which adds more than a dozen additional hues of green.

green palette from Ingrid Sundberg's Color Thesaurus

Much has been written over the years about the relationship between/among names or words and human perception. Our species ability to discern something is claimed to be affected by whether or not we have a name or word for what we're looking at, hearing, tasting, touching.... (We have now started to wonder how that relates to the color perceptions non-human creatures have of the world about them. ) Computers attend to color using hexadecimal triplet codes. Since we Americans have yet to accede to using the metric system, and describing colors in red (#FF0000), lime green (#00FF00), and blue (#0000FF0 variants lacks a lyricism. Now we've started to wonder whether a hexadecimal code is sufficiently equivalent to a name or word to affect our perception. Sigh. We thought this would be a simple exploration of the shades of green and maybe a little on the symbolism associated with the color(s) green. Remember the saying about the first thing to do when you find yourself in a deep hole? "Stop digging!" We'll join you again tomorrow. For now we'll just hope you're green with envy!

Sir Gawaine and the Green Knight

By Yvor Winters

Reptilian green the wrinkled throat,   

Green as a bough of yew the beard;   

He bent his head, and so I smote;   

Then for a thought my vision cleared.

The head dropped clean; he rose and walked;

He fixed his fingers in the hair;

The head was unabashed and talked;   

I understood what I must dare.

His flesh, cut down, arose and grew.   

He bade me wait the season’s round,   

And then, when he had strength anew,   

To meet him on his native ground.

The year declined; and in his keep   

I passed in joy a thriving yule;   

And whether waking or in sleep,   

I lived in riot like a fool.

He beat the woods to bring me meat.   

His lady, like a forest vine,

Grew in my arms; the growth was sweet;   

And yet what thoughtless force was mine!

By practice and conviction formed,   

With ancient stubbornness ingrained,   

Although her body clung and swarmed,   

My own identity remained.

Her beauty, lithe, unholy, pure,   

Took shapes that I had never known;   

And had I once been insecure,

Had grafted laurel in my bone.

And then, since I had kept the trust,   

Had loved the lady, yet was true,   

The knight withheld his giant thrust   

And let me go with what I knew.

I left the green bark and the shade,   

Where growth was rapid, thick, and still;   

I found a road that men had made   

And rested on a drying hill.

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Hedging a bet

What to do on a Minnesota March day: dreary, dank, depressing? Remember that Easter comes early this year; that the March solstice is little more than a week away; that evenings will now be longer as we search for the multitude of timepieces that need to "Spring ahead." Consider whether another Liam Clancy CD is needed to help celebrate St. Patrick's Day in a week.

hedgehogs as sentries

Photo by J. Harrington

the sentry up close

Photo by J. Harrington

Minnesota's dismal March days are also a great time to wonder why Minnesota's only hedgehogs are inanimate and chocolate. Appreciate that two of those hedgehogs are now standing sentry on a nest full of Easter eggs, playing roles similar to the lions guarding the portals of libraries. Ponder about why it is that Britain still has real hedgehogs while they became extinct in North America. Perhaps it's due to the fact that on this continent, we have an insufficient supply of smeuse.

                     Hedgehog

By Paul Muldoon

The snail moves like a

Hovercraft, held up by a

Rubber cushion of itself,

Sharing its secret

With the hedgehog. The hedgehog

Shares its secret with no one.

We say, Hedgehog, come out

Of yourself and we will love you.

We mean no harm. We want

Only to listen to what

You have to say. We want

Your answers to our questions.

The hedgehog gives nothing

Away, keeping itself to itself.

We wonder what a hedgehog

Has to hide, why it so distrusts.

We forget the god

Under this crown of thorns.

We forget that never again

Will a god trust in the world.

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Country living, a Christmas tale

Life in the country can be tranquil, but not always. Several weeks ago we had a visitor, a springer spaniel that belongs to someone more than a mile up the road. It took awhile, but we managed to get dog and owner together again.

This morning the Better Half left for work at her normal early hour. Shortly thereafter, she reentered the house with an announcement: "There's three horses at the end of our driveway!" (No photos, it was still morning-dark and we feared a flash might spook the animals.)

neighbor's horses (not the ones at the driveway this morning) in Summer

Photo by J. Harrington

Daughter Person assigned us to grab a few apples. Son-In-Law called the sheriff's office. On our own, we thought to grab some of the longer ropes and leads we have hanging in the garage and back hall. The Better Half remained as an observer at the road end of the driveway. By the time we reinforcements arrived, we looked around and said "What horses?" (Actually, we had seen them earlier through the front door sidelight windows.) The animals had wandered off.

Daughter Person headed for the house of the neighbor we know keeps horses (but the ones we saw didn't look like the draft animals that live across the road). Neighbor get's awakened. Says all his horses are where they belong; dresses; slowly drives down the road, looking for the horses and to check with another horse-keeping neighbor near where the dog came from.

Winter sunrise over neighbor's fence

Photo by J. Harrington

We've been know to misplace our truck keys on occasion, and once upon a time we were infamous for misplacing our check book. We can, gratefully and honestly, say we've never misplaced a dog or a horse, let alone three horses. We'd also note that such things never happened when we lived in the city, except that we've learned to Never Say Never!

We hope this turns out to be another "all's well that..." and look forward to soon providing a happy ending to this Christmas tale. For now, all we can say is "stay tuned."

Oh, and don't forget to enjoy whatever that strange light is up in the sky. We hope it's not an omen of something to fear.

                     All Your Horses

By Kay Ryan

Say when rain

cannot make

you more wet

or a certain

thought can’t

deepen and yet

you think it again:

you have lost

count. A larger

amount is

no longer a

larger amount.

There has been

a collapse; perhaps

in the night.

Like a rupture

in water (which

can’t rupture

of course). All

your horses

broken out with

all your horses.

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Going to the dogs? Damn right!

Yesterday was #WorldWaterDay but I didn't go out and dig a well or buy a canteen. Today is National Puppy Day and that's a much tougher challenge to resist. In past postings we've already introduced you to our (no longer) puppies: Franco and SiSi, each a "rescue" dog, although the rescuing goes both ways.

Franco, the Better Half's part border collie

Photo by J. Harrington

SiSi, my part yellow Lab

Photo by J. Harrington

Franco has dedicated his life to raucously greeting anyone and everyone who approaches or enters the front door, no matter how well he knows them. He also does his best to keep the bird feeders safe from squirrels and the property unmolested by tigers, both of which actions require more raucousness. Fortunately, when not acting as a greeter or protector, he naps a lot.

SiSi may be the happiest and most energetic creature I've encountered, with the possible exception of Tigger in the Hundred Acre Wood. Hence, her name, Spanish for "Yes, Yes" meaning "I'm ready any time to try any thing. Let's go!"

Neither of our aged-out puppies has shown much interest in flowers, but those are one of the few things they don't regularly try to eat. Franco, in particular, shows a disconcerting interest in oak leaves, dead and dried. SiSi is a bit more discerning and frequently causes me to remember the prayer "Lord, help me to be the person my dog thinks I am." Despite occasional trials and tribulations, remember that puppies and dogs are one of our few sources, perhaps our only source, of unconditional love.

My Puppy Loves Flowers

By Bruce Lansky

My puppy’s in the garden.

He loves to smell the flowers.

To help them grow my puppy always

sprinkles them with showers.

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On the Eve of Christmas Eve

Snow is falling gently. Chick-a-dees, nuthatches and woodpeckers are flocking to the feeders. Squirrels dust snow from the top of oak branches as they travel through the trees. Much of Minnesota seems destined to have a white Christmas. I've gained an insight into cultural conditioning.

I've never, at least since I learned to drive, been a big fan of snow. If it stayed on lawns, forests and fields I might feel differently. It doesn't, it accumulates on roads and sidewalks and driveways, each of which then requires shoveling or snow-blowing or plowing. The diminished traction induces irrational exuberance by drivers of 4-wheel-drive pickup trucks, many of whom sport lift kits higher than the operators I.Q. Travel in snow requires an ability to turn and stop as well as go, but you know that. Despite all of that, I'm willing to admit that it does look more like Christmas now than it did a day ago. Since this is Christmas Eve Eve, that's a good thing.

celebrating Winter Solstice

Photo by J. Harrington

Last night the younger generation shared a Solstice celebration, including a small fire, out of the wind in the lee of the house and garage. (Yes, of course it was in a fire ring.) The Daughter Person and Son-In-Law had a handful of friends and relatives, some still local, some back in town for the holidays, some back in the country for the holidays, over for pasta and catching up. It brought to mind times when I would gather with friends in Mad River Vermont or on Cape Cod. Christmas was for "family," but Solstice, Winter or Summer, was pretty much for fellow heathens and pagans, many of my friends in those days. I was pleased we had at least a small, local celebration of this Winter's Solstice. I fret about how much we've become a rootless nation where too many fail to recognize our dependence on Nature and each other. One of my Solstice wishes for all of us is that, as Joni Mitchell wrote and sang, we "get ourselves / Back to the garden…" After all, I don't think it was coincidence that Christ's birth took place in a stable.

Speaking of birthday's, Happy Birthday and many happy returns to Robert Bly!

A Christmas Poem

by Robert Bly 

Christmas is a place, like Jackson Hole, where we all
agree
To meet once a year. It has water, and grass for
horses;
All the fur traders can come in. We visited the place
As children, but we never heard the good stories.

Those stories only get told in the big tents, late
At night, when a trapper who has been caught
In his own trap, held down in icy water, talks; and a
man
With a ponytail and a limp comes in from the edge of
the fire.

As children, we knew there was more to it —
Why some men got drunk on Christmas Eve
Wasn’t explained, nor why we were so often
Near tears nor why the stars came down so close,

Why so much was lost. Those men and women
Who had died in wars started by others,
Did they come that night? Is that why the Christmas
tree
Trembled just before we opened the presents?

There was something about angels. Angels we
Have heard on high Sweetly singing o’er
The plain. The angels were certain. But we could not
Be certain whether our family was worthy tonight.

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Please be kind to each other while you can.

Being "there" in September

Except for an occasional specialized class, my formal schooling ended during the last millennium in the century prior to this one. Over time, now that my own children are also out of school, September has lost its relevance for me as "back to school" time. When I was in school, I did notice that the leaves were changing color and starting to fall but I never learned that September is the time when monarch butterflies and ruby-throated hummingbirds begin their southerly migration. Later when I learned about fishing for striped bass and bluefish on the East Coast I also gained knowledge that neither of them were year round inhabitants of the waters near Cape Cod. Depending on the weather and the storm patterns, they headed south sometimes in late September, but usually not until October.

September colors

Photo by J. Harrington

After I'd become a neophyte duck hunter, late September and early October brought terrible conflicts about the amount of time I could devote to catching the Autumn "blitz" of stripers and blues feeding as they headed toward the Chesapeake and Carolinas compared to time spent sitting in a duck blind waiting for fall's first migrant flocks. A surfeit of opportunities can sometimes be almost, but not quite, as bad as having none at all. Remember being a kid trying to decide among 26 (Howard Johnson's) or 31 (Baskin-Robbins) flavors of ice cream? I learned to take my "Summer" vacation in October.

hawk migration

Photo by J. Harrington

Duck hunters may not know that hawks, as well as ducks, migrate south, but naturalists are supposed to, I think. I lived in Minnesota for many years and visited Duluth many, many times before I made it to Hawk Ridge. While I lived in Massachusetts, I never did make it to Wachusett Mountain to observe hawk migration there, but then, until very recently, I never knew that some dragonflies migrate along with hawks. Learning doesn't have to stop when formal schooling ends.

dragonfly on Duluth screen

Photo by J. Harrington

Fishing, and, much later, hunting, became some of the early doors that opened wide to invite me into a love affair with the outdoors. Others involved gathering driftwood with my "family of origin" along a Winter's beach, to later become magical blue and green flames in the fireplace at home, and picking blueberries with my mother and sister at a local conservation area. I don't recall my parents urging me to learn about the natural world around me, but they did make sure I had lots of opportunities to explore it in a no pressure kind of way. I probably never did properly or adequately thank them for that.

Each year when Autumn rolls around, I'm reminded of the wonderful description written by Gene Hill, one of my favorite "outdoor" writers, about the pleasures of Being There. I wish you as much joy from being wherever or whenever your "there" may be as Mr. Hill and I have found. Now I'm going to go see about getting some pictures of what I think are recently come into bloom New England asters I noticed growing along the road nearby. Flowers may be observed at 30 miles per hour but such identifications are chancy.

The Ruby Throated Hummingbirds Are Gone

By Daniela Gioseffi 

They've flown south now

and one Great Egret fishes the pond

as broad-winged hawks begin their migrations,

kenneling on thermal currents of wind

off above yellowing mountains.

Now, snakeweed blooms along the trail choking

white and purple asters. A few bleeding

leaves fall amidst wilting greenery. Poison

Ivy turns red with warning. 

My eighty-three-year-old mother still argues

with my father, twelve years dead. Their hatred

reverberates in a back room

of my head, rattling memories of my lonely childhood.

Their loathing for each other

colors all my days with pain. I loved him

because he loved me best, but I look like her,

my face and spirit tear at each other.

Am I the child of hate? 

A wounded love sprouts like a weed

from watery depths, uncultivated,

flowers, white and purple, bloom,

       even in these days of dying leaves.

Beyond winter,

       no one grieves.

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

Help Valentine's Day go to the animals?

Today we're suggesting a creative way for you to show love to your Valentine and some other fellow creatures all at the same time. Here's how and why. Down the road a few miles from The Property on which we live is the Wildlife Science Center. We've been supporters of the work that they do since shortly after we moved to the neighborhood (the "neighborhood" being Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area which The Property abuts). The creatures WSC cares for, that help them to educate the rest of us, include wolves, a bear, raptors, a porcupine, foxes, a cougar and other wild cats.

center plate favors St Croix Chocolate Co.

Photo by J. Harrington

For Valentine's Day this year, WSC has teamed up with one of our favorite, local, sustainable businesses, St. Croix Chocolates, who, by the way, did a fantastic job with the favors for a recent wedding in our family. They're offering a Wild at Heart package which was created through

A special collaboration between St. Croix Chocolate Co., artist Cindy Lindgren and the Wildlife Science Center (WSC), “Wild at Heart” offers four beautiful, delicious chocolates and an opportunity to learn more about the research and education the Center is known for.

So, if you get a Wild at Heart package for your Valentine, some of the proceeds will go to support WSC, much of your purchase helps support SCCC, and your loved one will really enjoy the look and taste of the chocolates. Plus, two of you get a discount on an educational tour of WSC. That's a win-win-win deal that's as hard to beat as Rita Dove's:

Chocolate

By Rita Dove 

Velvet fruit, exquisite square

I hold up to sniff

between finger and thumb -

how you numb me

with your rich attentions!

If I don't eat you quickly,

you'll melt in my palm.

Pleasure seeker, if i let you

you'd liquefy everywhere.

Knotted smoke, dark punch

of earth and night and leaf,

for a taste of you

any woman would gladly

crumble to ruin.

Enough chatter: I am ready

to fall in love!

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Have a great weekend!

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

Feathered frenzy at the feeders

It's been a busy day at the feeders. The suet has attracted a red bellied, a downy and a hairy woodpecker. The sunflower feeders have been visited by black capped chickadees, white and red breasted nuthatches, purple and gold finches, and ...? The flurry of fine flakes falling from yet another gray sky no doubt helps to account for some of the activity.

chickadees, woodpecker, finches at feeders

Photo by J. Harrington

Over the past several days, we've noticed that there's been a small explosion in the local red squirrel population. One of the parents, most likely "mom," has been showing five young'uns the territory. As the Son-in-Law Person noted, you can tell they're youngsters because they run across the open, snow-covered field, exposing themselves to hawks, if any are around. 

Something I don't know enough about is how the hawk population that migrates south over Hawk Ridge in Duluth relates to the Winter resident hawks I often see perched on light stanchions along the Interstate. What determines whether a hawk migrates south, and how far? There's a fair amount of information available about where to see and how to identify migrating hawks, but explanations on migration motivation is pretty general. And, as I was poking about the nooks and crannies of the Internet trying to learn what else might feast on red squirrels, I learned that the red squirrel is "the third most abundantly commercially harvested furbearing, wild animal in North America!)." Since I don't recall ever seeing a red squirrel coat or cape, I'm now going to have to try to discover what all those pelts are used for (faux fox?). Curse you Don Rumsfeld and your known unknowns!

barred owl

Photo by J. Harrington

On the other hand, it looks like there's a possibility our local barred owl(s) may help thin out the red squirrel population before the hawks return from their southern sojourn.

Squirrels

By Nate Klug

Something blurred, warmed

in the eye’s corner, like woodsmoke

becoming tears;

but when you turned to look

the stoop was still, the pumpkin

and tacky mum pot wouldn’t talk —

just a rattle

at the gutter and a sense

of curtains, somewhere, pulled.

Five of   them later, scarfing the oak’s

black bole,

laying a dream of snakes.

Needy and reticent

at once, these squirrels in charred November

recall, in Virgil,

what it is to feel:

moods, half-moods,

swarming, then darting loose; obscure

hunches that refuse

to speak, but still expect

in some flash of   luck

to be revealed. The less you try

to notice them,

the more they will know of  you.

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

Jump starting Autumn's first full day

I can only surmise that when James Russell Lowell wrote

And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;

he had never spent a September day like today in Minnesota. Even the local white pines are getting into the act, turning their clusters of five needles yellow before letting them drop. I bet neither had he spent a late, late night, bordering on early morning, watching the big dipper and listening to several packs of coyotes responding to each other, or to the low-key whoo-whooo of the owl in the nearby woodlot, a call that may have instigated all the coyote commotion.

White pine needles turning color

Photo by J. Harrington

I was out in the pitch dark wrestling with a tripod on a crowned gravel road, trying, unsuccessfully, to take some photos of the stars, when the Better Half took Franco for a walk in the dark. It's still not clear whether Franco or I startled each other more. I'm not sure what he though I was, but for a moment I was concerned that the rumbling sounds I heard were coming from the neighborhood black bear. No serious damage seems to have been done to any of the parties involved, but it could have qualified as a cardiac stress test for both dog and man.

Maroon, copper (?) and yellow chrysanthemums

Photo by J. Harrington

This year's assortment of chrysanthemums will remain unplanted until after the wedding. Some or all of them will be used to decorated the locale of the ceremony then they'll go into the ground in the unrealistic hope that they may survive the winter and return to life come Spring. Meanwhile, we have to pay careful attention to the leaf color and the color of the seeds to confirm our suspicion that the maple trees on the property are red maple and not sugar maple. Red maple will also produce sap for making syrup, but I've read that it takes half as much sugar maple sap as red maple to make an equivalent amount of syrup. It might be fun to play with anyway, come next Spring. It would be for, as they say, personal consumption. Speaking of next Spring, I was both saddened and gladdened to learn that a class I had wanted to take, that conflicted with a certain wedding, has been canceled but a variant may be offered next Spring or Summer. A good reason to strive to survive another Winter in My Minnesota, but not until after we all finish enjoying the rest of this freshly started Autumn and remember to leave some land wild.

Developing the Land

By Stephen Behrendt 

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

coyote voices fluting across the greening rise to the east

where the deer have almost ceased to pass

now that the developers have carved up yet another section,

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

Five years ago you saw two spotted fawns rise

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

only three years past came great horned owls

who raised two squeaking, downy owlets

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

behind some swift, more fortunate cottontail.

It was on an August afternoon that you drove in,

curling down our long gravel drive past pasture and creek,

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

three mounted Indians, motionless in the paused breeze,

who vanished when you turned your head.

We have felt the presence on this land of others,

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

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

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

their voices whisper on moonless nights in the back pasture hollow

where the horses snort and nicker, wary with alarm.

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