Autumn prelude

For the past eighteen hours or so, there were storms to the east of us; storms to the west of us; storms to the north of us; and storms to the south of us. Amidst the torrents, we got drizzled on. To quote an old saying: “close to, but better than, nothing.”

a damp autumn day

Photo by J. Harrington

Under this morning’s cloudy, drippy skies, we watched a skein of geese in their classic V plus a flock of cranes in a ragged line. That was in addition to several gaggles of geese feeding on a local lawn and two or three (four?) flocks and families of wild turkeys out foraging in the drizzle. Autumn’s urge for going is growing. The preceding observations were made as we headed for the credit union to deposit our 2021 tax rebate check, the one that looks suspiciously like some sort of junk mail or scam. Wouldn’t it be nice if we lived in a world where folks didn’t feel a need to be so skeptical? The last time I emptied my email spam folder, there were more than 250 messages that had accumulated. Sigh!

Despite a number of interesting and appealing new books on the shelves and tables of our favorite local bookstore, located just down the road from the credit union, I uncharacteristically behaved myself. The number of unread and partially read books sitting on my tables and shelves is enough to give even me a slightly guilty conscience. Writers keep writing, poets keep poeting, and publishers keep publishing faster than a guy can read. Definitely not a case of “close to, but better than....” 

Next to the book store is one of the food coops to which we belong and where the Better Half took a walk through to emerge with a bag of “First Kiss” apples (juicy and delicious and traditional deep red) plus a small collection of pumpkin candles that will bring the dining room table more into seasonal alignment. I’m going to have to watch my step. A few more mornings like this and I might end up in a good mood!

September

by John Updike

The breezes taste
Of apple peel.
The air is full
Of smells to feel-
Ripe fruit, old footballs,
Burning brush,
New books, erasers,
Chalk, and such.
The bee, his hive,
Well-honeyed hum,
And Mother cuts
Chrysanthemums.
Like plates washed clean
With suds, the days
Are polished with
A morning haze.

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Mums the word ’til you aster for an apple

A short burst of thunder early on this cloudy, cool, rainy morning prompted me to react that “It’s too early for waterfowl opener.” Can you guess how much I’m anticipating a change of seasons? We return to seasonal temperatures tomorrow for a week or so but today, with the thermometer at 60℉, I’m wearing, for the first time this season, a chamois shirt.

mums lining driveway, 2020

Photo by J. Harrington

The pots of mums and asters for the drive are in place awaiting planting. That may be a tomorrow or Sunday project. In between showers today I managed to scatter more mole repellant on the peony bed to be. We’ll see about getting that bed dug before the temps climb too much next week. It’ll give us a place to use much of the summer’s production of compost.

a bowlful of apples

Photo by J. Harrington

In celebration of the start of apple season, we’re having my famous grilled sourdough apple and cheese sandwiches for tonight’s dinner but this time I’m adding some sliced Virginia ham to the mix. Wish us luck. For a beverage, I’m planning on a glass of apple cider. The Better Half is welcome to share the cider if it appeals to her. It may be too much of a good thing for her taste. It’s the time of year when I get restless and miss New England a whole bunch. I’m working on compensating for my hiraeth.

A Short History of the Apple

Dorianne Laux - 1952-

The crunch is the thing, a certain joy in crashing 
through
living tissue, a memory of Neanderthal days.
   —Edward Bunyard, The Anatomy of Dessert, 1929


Teeth at the skin. Anticipation.
Then flesh. Grain on the tongue.
Eve's knees ground in the dirt
of paradise. Newton watching
gravity happen. The history
of apples in each starry core,
every papery chamber's bright
bitter seed. Woody stem
an infant tree. William Tell
and his lucky arrow. Orchards
of the Fertile Crescent. Bushels.
Fire blight. Scab and powdery mildew.
Cedar apple rust. The apple endures.
Born of the wild rose, of crab ancestors.
The first pip raised in Kazakhstan.
Snow White with poison on her lips.
The buried blades of Halloween.
Budding and grafting. John Chapman
in his tin pot hat. Oh Westward
Expansion. Apple pie. American
as. Hard cider. Winter banana.
Melt-in-the-mouth made sweet
by hives of Britain's honeybees:
white man's flies. O eat. O eat.

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In search of better days

It’s the time of year when Agastache foeniculum (Anise Hyssop, Blue Giant Hyssop) comes into its own in our neighborhood. It’s difficult to impossible to see in the photo below, but our plants are literally crawling with small bumblebees. It’s a treat to see pollinators this year. Monarchs have been very few and very, very far between.

Anise Hyssop, Blue Giant Hyssop (Agastache foeniculum)

Photo by J. Harrington

Early mornings after a rainy evening or night, walking the dogs is accompanied by a chorus of frog chirps. We’ve not seen any frogs in person yet this summer. Occasionally, a tiny toad will appear somewhere in the yard, like the one that hopped under the brush pile as I mowed past on the tractor the other day. Most summers we’ve been visited by one or two green tree frogs by now. Another piece of what seems like a strange summer this year.

If somehow you’ve missed the memo, Minnesota’s state fair opened today. In the decades we’ve lived here we’ve been only two or three times and, I believe, two of them were work related. Compound my natural aversion to large, unwieldy crowds with my stronger aversion to potentially deadly viruses and pandemics, and you can be sure we won’t be going this year either.

One of the nice aspects of a subprime summer such as the one we’re closing out is that it doesn’t take a whole heck of a lot to really improve things. We realize there are lots of folks who are in much worse shape than we are, at least at the moment, but this summer has seen too much time expended on things that need to get done and not enough on things we want to do. We’re looking forward to falling into a better pattern next month, or, at least shaking off our funky mood. We are definitely overdue for a day or two or three of fishing and apple picking eating.

The Song of Wandering Aengus

W. B. Yeats - 1865-1939

I went out to the hazel wood,   
Because a fire was in my head,   
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,   
And hooked a berry to a thread;   
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,   
I dropped the berry in a stream   
And caught a little silver trout.   

When I had laid it on the floor   
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,   
And someone called me by my name:   
It had become a glimmering girl   
With apple blossom in her hair   
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.   

Though I am old with wandering   
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,   
I will find out where she has gone,   
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,   
And pluck till time and times are done,   
The silver apples of the moon,   
The golden apples of the sun.

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Summer goldrums

My favorite time of year usually starts when the local New England asters come into bloom and lasts through leaf fall on the maples. (Our local oaks drop their leaves up to and including leaf out next spring, so there’s almost no end to their leaf fall season.) During this period, Canada geese start their goslings on training flights to develop flight muscles and chevron practice. The local sandhill cranes begin to assemble in larger and larger flocks in anticipation of their migration south. We’ve already seen some crane assemblies as the small grain fields get harvested and cranes begin gleaning and feeding where the harvest is completed.

Canada geese: training flights begin soon

Photo by J. Harrington

If our township hasn’t mown them into extirpation, the local roadside asters should start showing their lavender flowers in the next week or two (or three). Over the years, I’ve planted a half dozen or so New England asters around our property. So far, none have survived more than a year or twos of my benign neglect. Maybe we’ll try again this year. At least we can enjoy them during this autumn.

According to my cheat sheet from a local orchard, apples won’t be ready for picking until near month’s end. We’ve noticed that honeycrisps grown elsewhere are lacking in something compared to the Minnesota homegrown variety. This apple season offers me yet another chance to take notes on my preferences among apple varieties. For the past several years I’ve intended to but you know what they say the road to hell is paved with, right?

For the most part, today’s rain has been more gentle showers than downpours. There’s been enough rumbles of thunder to get SiSi’s attention, but not enough to make her really nervous. With luck, this afternoon’s, evening’s and tomorrow’s precipitation will be no more severe. The plants seem much happier than this time yesterday.

The Sandhills

By Linda Hogan

The language of cranes

we once were told

is the wind. The wind

is their method,

their current, the translated story

of life they write across the sky.

Millions of years

they have blown here

on ancestral longing,

their wings of wide arrival,

necks long, legs stretched out

above strands of earth

where they arrive

with the shine of water,

stories, interminable

language of exchanges

descended from the sky

and then they stand,

earth made only of crane

from bank to bank of the river

as far as you can see

the ancient story made new.

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The apples of my eye

Yesterday's rain remains an unfulfilled promise in our area. Tonight's outlook is more promising but we'll  not hold out breath while we wait. Meanwhile, thanks to an inspired suggestion from the Better Half [BH], and the effectiveness of our  air  conditioning, tonight we'll push summer into apple season. I'm going to fix grilled cheddar cheese and sliced apple on sourdough sandwiches. I first discovered the recipe in my copy of The Apple Lover's Cookbook.

a bowl of ripe apples

Photo by J. Harrington

Friday nights are usually my turn to take care of dinner. Many of my standbys have become shopworn and this morning I awoke with an urge to fix grilled cheddar apple sandwiches but no desire to run around to pick up the ingredients. That's when the BH suggested a trip to our local bookstore and the food coop next door. I can only conjecture that the heat and humidity has affected my brain to the extent that such an obvious solution never occurred to me.

So, we now have local food, independent local book dealer, contributions to our local economy, and no subsidy for a billionaire space cowboy, leading to a tasty Friday night meal. After dinner I'll start to read the book I bought at Scout & Morgan, All We Can Save, Truth, Courage, and Solutions for the Climate Crisis. I am, admittedly, late to arrive at the particular party described in that book but, as we note, better late than never. I continue to vacillate between desires to save our world versus the urge to condemn the world we've created, or allowed others to create on us. As I bounce back and forth, I keep remembering the Japanese saying about resilience: "fall down seven times, get up eight."

A Short History of the Apple

Dorianne Laux - 1952-

The crunch is the thing, a certain joy in crashing through
living tissue, a memory of Neanderthal days.
   —Edward Bunyard, The Anatomy of Dessert, 1929


Teeth at the skin. Anticipation.
Then flesh. Grain on the tongue.
Eve's knees ground in the dirt
of paradise. Newton watching
gravity happen. The history
of apples in each starry core,
every papery chamber's bright
bitter seed. Woody stem
an infant tree. William Tell
and his lucky arrow. Orchards
of the Fertile Crescent. Bushels.
Fire blight. Scab and powdery mildew.
Cedar apple rust. The apple endures.
Born of the wild rose, of crab ancestors.
The first pip raised in Kazakhstan.
Snow White with poison on her lips.
The buried blades of Halloween.
Budding and grafting. John Chapman
in his tin pot hat. Oh Westward
Expansion. Apple pie. American
as. Hard cider. Winter banana.
Melt-in-the-mouth made sweet
by hives of Britain's honeybees:
white man's flies. O eat. O eat.

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Autumn treats

September's full moon occurred this morning at 12:22 am locally, when I was sound asleep. We are now in the waxing gibbous phase of the moon the Ojibwe call "Waatebagaa-giizis (Leaves Turning Moon)" and settlers often refer to as the corn moon.

Leaves Turning Moon

Photo by J. Harrington

We've not yet seen corn being harvested, possibly due to late planting in a wet Spring? Also, it's only the 2nd of September. This year's acorn crop looks like it will be much less of a mast crop than last year's. Tougher on the wild critters that eat acorns, but appreciated by those of us who are still cleaning up the remnants from last year.

When we were out cutting our grass the other day, the breeze picked up as it has today. We were surrounded by the tumbling seed heads of the purple love grass as we sat on the seat of the tractor. It felt sort of like we had tumbled into the story of Dorothy catching a ride out of Kansas. We're now watching the seed heads fly about as this is being typed. Seeing them rise and float off into the treetops is almost as unsettling as the time, many years ago, I was visiting a friend's office about forty storeys up in December and watched snow fall up.

is this a monarch butterfly?

Photo by J. Harrington

While walking SiSi today after lunch, we saw what we think was a monarch butterfly. Twice it landed on SiSi's back. A photo would have been great but we were short a hand or two needed to manage a dog on a leash, plus a smart phone camera, and a twitchy butterfly. We did get the picture above when the butterfly landed on a plant and SiSi sat still for a moment.

The artisan sourdough bread we baked this morning turned out to taste about as good as it looks. Now that cooler weather is here, we're looking forward to fixing apple and mustard grilled cheese sandwiches, as described in The Apple Lovers Cookbook, some Friday night soon. Apple season is another great thing about Autumn.

The Song of Wandering Aengus

W. B. Yeats - 1865-1939

I went out to the hazel wood,   
Because a fire was in my head,   
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,   
And hooked a berry to a thread;   
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,   
I dropped the berry in a stream   
And caught a little silver trout.   

When I had laid it on the floor   
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,   
And someone called me by my name:   
It had become a glimmering girl   
With apple blossom in her hair   
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.   

Though I am old with wandering   
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,   
I will find out where she has gone,   
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,   
And pluck till time and times are done,   
The silver apples of the moon,   
The golden apples of the sun.

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The Year's Wheel is turning

On the drive home from doing some errands this morning, we were startled when we noticed a bright red clump of sumac leaves. That, plus an increasing number of trucks and trailers hauling round bales of straw or hay to and fro through ours and nearby counties, look like early indicators that Summer has begun to slide into Autumn and harvest season.

sumac's sudden splash of Summer red

Photo by J. Harrington

The goldenrod that's recently come into bloom and a few poison ivy leaves turning (prematurely?) red were last week's hints that the Circle of the Year is turning toward the next season. This Saturday is Lughnasadh, "which marks the beginning of harvest time..." according to Druids. Our human calendar, the one that marks seasons that begin and end on certain dates, is a mechanical contrivance which fails to properly portray the organic overlapping that occurs in the real world. It works for kids, for whom Summer lasts from end of school to start of school, but not so much for farmers, naturalists, anglers and others more attuned to nature's rhythms.

goldenrod has started to bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

Sometime around a month from now, local apple season begins! My favorite time of year ever since I graduated from school permanently. Back in Massachusetts it also meant that striped bass and bluefish were starting their Southern migration preparations and feeding heavily. Here in the Midwest, it's time to squeeze in a few more trout fishing trips before the seasons close for awhile to let many of the fish (brown and brook trout) spawn in peace. It's also when deciduous tree leaves change color before falling to the ground. Throw in cool nights and warm, not hot nor humid, days and it's hard to beat for a time when we can be glad to be alive after shaking Summer's lethargy.

Midsummer

William Cullen Bryant - 1794-1878

A power is on the earth and in the air,
  From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid,
  And shelters him in nooks of deepest shade,
From the hot steam and from the fiery glare.
Look forth upon the earth—her thousand plants
  Are smitten; even the dark sun-loving maize
  Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze;
The herd beside the shaded fountain pants;
For life is driven from all the landscape brown;
  The bird hath sought his tree, the snake his den,
  The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men
Drop by the sunstroke in the populous town:
  As if the Day of Fire had dawned, and sent
  Its deadly breath into the firmament.

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Fruits of the season #phenology

There are a few black cherry trees (Prunus serotina) around the property. One or two of them have been dropping their fruit on the drive and along the township road. When the road was gravel, the fruits eventually disappeared. We wonder how long the cherry stains will last on the blacktopped road. We're not about to climb high enough to forage a worthwhile amount of cherry fruit, but, in a good year, the Autumn color of the leaves is just astounding.

black cherry's flaming October leaves

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half [BH] is, these days, in a more venturesome mode than Yr. Obt. Svt. so she went off and successfully foraged some elderberry fruit from a nearby location. What the fruit will be used for hasn't yet been disclosed to us layabouts. No doubt we'll learn in due time. [BH mentioned her mother used to love elderberry pie, so we'll take that as a strong hint.]

an apple a day ...

Photo by J. Harrington

Meanwhile, a nearby orchard informs us that we are now (late August) in the local harvest season for these apple varieties:

• State Fair,
• Redfree, and
• Zestar

Additional varieties will come on from the beginning of next month through mid-October. [The braeburns that BH brought home today are a product of Chile, not good for our carbon footprint, but weeks ahead of when locally grown will be ripe.] We vaguely remember bobbing for apples at Halloween time when we were a kid but we can't remember the last time we had a caramel apple, another childhood treat at this time of year, give or take a month or two. That could become a personal goal for this Autumn.

Several areas in Minnesota are noted for their apple orchards. We wonder how they're planning on adapting to climate modification. Will temperatures stabilize such that the existing trees will be able to continue to produce for at least some varieties? And how will warmer temperatures effect Minnesota wineries? Manufacturing can be and usually is done inside, away from the weather, in at least a semi-controlled climate. Not so growing most fruits and vegetables.

Song of Fairies Robbing an Orchard

By Leigh Hunt

We, the Fairies, blithe and antic, 

Of dimensions not gigantic, 

Though the moonshine mostly keep us, 

Oft in orchards frisk and peep us. 

Stolen sweets are always sweeter, 

Stolen kisses much completer, 

Stolen looks are nice in chapels, 

Stolen, stolen, be your apples. 

When to bed the world are bobbing, 

Then's the time for orchard-robbing; 

Yet the fruit were scarce worth peeling, 

Were it not for stealing, stealing. 

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Labor Day brings Autumn's coming attractions

All day rain has threatened to fall, but hasn't. Temperatures have been neither hot nor cool. Skies have been cloudy all day. We've spent much of the day napping. It's been that kind of a day around here. We were almost tempted to do some more yard work, but the Better Half told us to go sit on the patio, or maybe she just said "Sit on it!" All of this may explain why we've been at a loss to come up with something worth sharing, then we realized today may just be the calm before the storm of Autumn's delights.

bread to be baked

Photo by J. Harrington

pumpkins to be carved

Photo by J. Harrington

apples eaten

Photo by J. Harrington

leaves watched

Photo by J. Harrington

Plus, flowers to be planted and, perhaps, even a trip or two to be taken. If only Lake Superior had striped bass and bluefish schooling up and feeding their way South. But, enough of nostalgia!

To Autumn

John Keats, 1795- 1821

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 
  Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
  With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, 
  And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 
    To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 
  With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
Until they think warm days will never cease,
    For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 
  Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 
  Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, 
  Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
    Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
  Steady thy laden head across a brook; 
  Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
    Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? 
  Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 
  And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
  Among the river sallows, borne aloft
    Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 
  Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
  The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, 
    And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

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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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First freeze, first hard frost #phenology

first frozen birdbath of the season

Photo by J. Harrington

It's almost 1 pm as we start this post. The bird bath, which is shaded by the house for much of the day, still has a skim of ice over much of the water. We had a "hard frost" last night. Early morning dog walks revealed sparkly grasses covering the fields. Fortunately, we covered the asters and the mums. Now, if we get some really warm weather, it can bring what historically we have called "Indian Summer."

first frosted fields

Photo by J. Harrington

Maple  and sumac leaves are reaching peak color. Patches of woods have turned chrome yellow, florescent orange and flame red. Oaks are also turning, but more slowly, in more subdued hues from an earth tone palette. This morning's clear, blue skies, sunshine, and abundant splashings of  bright fall colors enhanced by our first really cold night and made us plain old "happy to be alive." (This is also our acknowledgement that today is World Mental Health Day.) How do you suppose we'd react if, instead of Summer's chlorophyl green, tree leaves were Autumn colorful for all the months that deciduous trees have leaves? Would we begin to take the beauty for granted? Would the variegation fade to background, as Summer's greens often seem to? If paradise didn't have four seasons, and dogs, given a choice, would you go?

sourdough-apple-cinnamon flatbread

Photo by J. Harrington

Several days ago we promised to let readers know how our apple-cinnamon-sourdough-flatbread turned out. The short answer is "better than we expected." A longer answer involves noting that there's clearly room for improvement, but it's good enough to be worth the effort to play with. Instead of making an apple-spice cinnamon syrup to drizzle (love that word) over the apples, we're going to mix the cinnamon spices and syrup with the apples and boiled cider, to give the apples a more uniform coating. At least, that's the intent. We also want to work on making the flatbread more uniform in thickness and to keep the edge crusts smaller. One thing we're considering is to leave out the yeast and see what happens with just the sourdough. On a scale of 0 to 10, we'd rate our first effort somewhere near a seven. We'll see if we can bring it up around a nine. Wish us luck.

Indian Summer Ritual

Alma Luz Villanueva, 1944

I was born in Indian Summer,
by the sea, at sun set—

I slid from my mother’s womb,
face to the sea—

I felt a dolphin leap
from the sea for joy—

I cried in agony because
I was naked, cold, beached—

It was Indian summer
and the clouds were purple—

It was Indian Summer
and Venus glowed in the West—

It was Indian Summer
and the moon rose, a ripe, gold melon—

It was Indian Summer
and fire was in the ascendant—

It was Indian Summer
and I danced and danced with dolphins

all the first night of my birth,
until the eagle’s cry brought the sun—

It was Indian Summer,
light wolves and dark wolves howled through the day—

It was Indian Summer
and a snake shed its skin.

Then, and only then, was I properly
human. 

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October's first #phenology

If today's weather were a little wetter and a little colder, it would qualify as "raw." We're just back from a lull between heavy showers in which we snuck in walks with both dogs. The wind's direction has been highly variable. We've observed it blow from the southwest, southeast, northeast, and points in between in almost random order. This isn't the kind of weather that comes to mind when we picture October, which has often been a very good month for us.

can you spot the barred owl among the branches?

Photo by J. Harrington

Back in New England, October was a prime month for surf or inshore fishing for striped bass and bluefish as they schooled up, feasted on baitfish, and headed toward southern waters to overwinter. Of course, that created conflicts with our desire to head north from Massachusetts to harass ruffed grouse in Vermont. For a long while, the ruffed grouse harassment carried over after our relocation to Minnesota, but here it conflicted with waterfowl hunting, especially Canada geese. October, for many of us, presents a surfeit of pleasures before we even come near Halloween's treats and tricks.

great blue heron wading October's waters

Photo by J. Harrington

During recent years in October, we lucked into one of the few semi-decent photos of an owl we've ever managed. Same for a great blue heron. The Daughter Person and Son-In-Law married in early October a few years ago. That year things were quite a bit more hectic than they are now, since the wedding took place in our "back forty," with guests seated on hay bales borrowed from a neighbor. The ceremony occurred in an opening of several hours between storms. The bride and groom to be worked hard to earn that shot of luck.

hay bale pews in an outdoor cathedral

Photo by J. Harrington

Much as we enjoy all four seasons, some much more than others, we wouldn't be too upset if we got stuck in October year round. Then again, we'd miss maple sugaring, Spring ephemerals, and mayfly hatches. Then, after October there's  Thanksgiving in November and, and.... Maybe we'll just do our best to enjoy October while we have it. Soon, many creatures, and our warmer weather, will feel an urge for going.

                     October

By Robert Frost

O hushed October morning mild,

Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;

Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,

Should waste them all.

The crows above the forest call;

Tomorrow they may form and go.

O hushed October morning mild,

Begin the hours of this day slow.

Make the day seem to us less brief.

Hearts not averse to being beguiled,

Beguile us in the way you know.

Release one leaf at break of day;

At noon release another leaf;

One from our trees, one far away.

Retard the sun with gentle mist;

Enchant the land with amethyst.

Slow, slow!

For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,

Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,

Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—

For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

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It's sourdough, not sour dough

In our youth, before society became concerned about fine particulates, classic signs of Autumn were the crunch of leaves underfoot, piles of leaves on the lawn so we could jump into them, and the smell of burning leaves to turn leaf piles, sans children, into ashes. Alas, no more the latter. Now the classic smell of Autumn is the return of bread baking season filling the house with the aroma of fresh sourdough or artisan breads.

an end result

Photo by J. Harrington

When I grew up in New England, lots of folks who raked leaves also strongly believed in the attitude of "wear it out, use it up, make do, do it yourself." That's no doubt where we built a foundation for our dismay at the prospect of throwing out the discards every time we feed the sourdough starters. (We now have two starters, one from King Arthur flour a few years ago and the other we raised from scratch this Summer, following guidance that started with Michael Pollan.) Unless we notice a distinct difference in the flavor or structure of bread baked with one versus the other, we suspect both starters will eventually start cohabiting. For now, however, feeding two starters is creating lots of discards.

King Arthur starter

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half used to use most of our starter discards to make crepes, but the amount of discarded starter we're producing seems to have exceeded her appetite for those delicacies. We are now in the process of being overrun with a jug/jar filling with excess starter. Internet to the rescue. We found a recipe for cinnamon-apple flatbread that's supposed to work equally well with fed starter or starter discards. As this is being written, we're boiling down (reducing) apple cider to boiled apple cider and have plans to try the flatbread one of the upcoming cool, wet days in our forecast for next week. We'll also try a recipe using starter discards for soft pretzels. The weather won't dampen our spirits with the schedule we're planning.

home made starter

Photo by J. Harrington

As we were poking around some of the flour-filled corners of the internet, we did discover what looks to us like one of the better sets of instructions of how to bake with sourdough. That author, like yours truly, started with artisan bread and moved on to sourdough. I did try her float test with starter that was fed yesterday; it sank; and starter that had been fed several hours earlier today; it floated. Here comes the old cliche: "if we can bake good sourdough bread, anyone can." It's true! Also, it's fun and even most of our mistakes taste good, better than the paste we made in kindergarten from flour and water that we were often admonished not to eat.

                     Bread Soup: An Old Icelandic Recipe

By Bill Holm

Start with the square heavy loaf

steamed a whole day in a hot spring

until the coarse rye, sugar, yeast

grow dense as a black hole of bread.

Let it age and dry a little,

then soak the old loaf for a day

in warm water flavored

with raisins and lemon slices.

Boil it until it is thick as molasses.

Pour it in a flat white bowl.

Ladle a good dollop of whipped cream

to melt in its brown belly.

This soup is alive as any animal,

and the yeast and cream and rye

will sing inside you after eating

for a long time.

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August: asters and apples and Autumn

Today's winds are out of the northwest, a sign of seasonal transition. The local extended weather forecast has daily high temperatures ranging from the upper 60s to the mid 70s. The Minnesota State Fair starts Thursday. Soon Summer vacation will be over. State Fair, Redfree and Zestar apples should be ripe. Cooler weather will be more conducive to pulling more buckthorn. By Spring next year we expect to have a better idea of what gets planted to take its place. (In case you're keeping track, hummingbirds are still visiting the feeder.)

August through Autumn are aster time

Photo by J. Harrington

Last year, about this time or a little later, we planted some asters that were, subsequently and inadvertently, dug up by someone who thought they were annuals. It's time to decide where this year's asters will get planted and make up some signs to protect them. Since we have rabbits and other critters that might find asters succulent, we doubt the signs will be total protection.

Fallen Apples

Tom Hansen

Wasps at work in the soft
flesh of rotting apples.
Food of the gods,
all day they mine it in busy
hushed movements.

I pick up a mushy corpse
one cold morning.
Carefully turn it over.
Its congregation tumbles
into the cupped
bowl of my hand.

Dazed, drunk, still
chilled from overnight cold,
they blunder like sleepwalkers
feeling around for the light.
Tiny antennae test my skin
in search of something
now gone.

Warmed by my hand,
warmed by the sun,
they stagger and fall into flight.
They scribble orbits
the air erases
and whine at last out of sight.

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Apples of my eye #phenology

Apple season isn't simply a time for picking apples, as we all know. It's also time for pressing apples and drinking apple cider; time for dipping and eating caramel coated apples; around Halloween, time for bobbing for apples. Do people/kids still do that? (Personally, I haven't for half a century or so.) Time for baking apple pies and for baked apples with brown sugar. It wouldn't surprise me to learn I'm actually part bear, the way I like to load up on calories during apple season so I can read during much of the Winter while hibernating in my "den" in the kitchen or near the pantry. Although before we get to that time of year, the traditionalist New Englander in me, raised on Cortland and McIntosh apples, is grateful to the University of Minnesota Extension for the work they've done creating luscious new cold tolerant apple varieties.

Minnesota apples for Autumn

Photo by J. Harrington

Jim Gilbert, one of Minnesota's renowned naturalists, tells us that juncos may begin to arrive next week. Since the Better Half and I are headed to our North Country for a few days next week, we may cross paths with some as they head South while we do the opposite. A few years ago, and yet later in the season, we had a trip up the Arrowhead brightened as we encountered snow buntings along the North Shore of Lake Superior. That was a surprise, as is the prospect of seeing juncos, which I always consider a Winter bird, near the beginning of "apple season." In fact, with the weather pattern we've had this year, I don't really expect to see juncos much before Halloween, if then.

snow bunting without snow

Photo by J. Harrington

So, here are some of the ways Autumn in the North Country becomes a feast for the senses:

• The color change of the leaves pleases our eyes.

• Apples and pumpkins and the spices and caramel and all that go with them treat our taste buds.

• Whistling wings of waterfowl and whispers of wind-driven snow flakes alert our hearing to the constant shifting of this too short season.

• Flannel shirts and warm socks and heavier blankets at night treat our sense of touch.

• We've lost the smell of burning leaves but still have the fecund aroma of dank, dark duff if we slow down enough during our leaf-peeping. If that's missed, we hope there's at least the scent of roasting turkey at Thanksgiving. Speaking of which, there's about two months between now and Thanksgiving.

To improve your sense of self worth (sort of like a sixth sense), you could spend some time each of the next eight weeks tallying up what you have to be thankful for and some additional time sharing whatever wealth you have with those who have less. Done properly, the Autumn season can out-do the Christmas season with reasons to be joyous and deck the halls, don'cha think?

Apples

Grace Schulman

Rain hazes a street cart’s green umbrella
but not its apples, heaped in paper cartons,
dry under cling film. The apple man,

who shirrs his mouth as though eating tart fruit,
exhibits four like racehorses at auction:
Blacktwig, Holland, Crimson King, Salome.

I tried one and its cold grain jolted memory:
a hill where meager apples fell so bruised
that locals wondered why we scooped them up,

my friend and I, in matching navy blazers.
One bite and I heard her laughter toll,
free as school’s out, her face flushed in late sun.

I asked the apple merchant for another,
jaunty as Cezanne’s still-life reds and yellows,
having more life than stillness, telling us,

uncut, unpeeled, they are not for the feast
but for themselves, and building strength to fly
at any moment, leap from a skewed bowl,

whirl in the air, and roll off a tilted table.
Fruit-stand vendor, master of Northern Spies,
let a loose apple teach me how to spin

at random, burn in light and rave in shadows.
Bring me a Winesap like the one Eve tasted,
savored and shared, and asked for more.

No fool, she knew that beauty strikes just once,
hard, never in comfort. For that bitter fruit,
tasting of earth and song, I’d risk exile.

The air is bland here. I would forfeit mist
for hail, put on a robe of dandelions,
and run out, broken, to weep and curse — for joy.

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Cedar spirits

The cedar trees on and about our property are eastern red cedar trees, not northern white cedars. In fact, according to Welby Smith's Trees and Shrubs of Minnesota, there are no northern white cedar trees in Chisago County, although they can be found to the north in Pine County, to the south in Washington County and to the west in Anoka and Isanti Counties. By the way, if you are looking for cedar trees in the index of Smith's tome, you need to look under "E" for eastern or "N" for northern, instead of "C" for cedar. The index makes as much sense to me as the fact that northern white cedars exist in every surrounding county but not right here in Chisago.

snow, fallen on cedars

Photo by J. Harrington

Fortunately, there's a listing of Chisago County plants on my computer, and I searched that for the word "cedar" and from there made progress with Trees and Shrubs. I'm not sure how the eastern red cedar got its name, possibly it's due to the fact that the foliage turns maroon in the winter? I had been unaware (unconscious?) of that change until recently, when I noticed that trees I thought I remembered looking green during Spring and Summer weren't green any more. Since we've been trying to establish some apple trees, and cedar trees are hosts to a rust that can infect apple trees, I've been concerned about rust management, but, according to the University of Minnesota Extension "Although the bright red and orange leaf spots and orange gelatinous galls symptomatic of these diseases are quick to draw attention, the disease rarely causes serious damage to its hosts and often does not require management in a home landscape." Now we can be less concerned about rust and focus more attention on the management of the damn pocket gophers that keep eating the roots of freshly planted fruit trees. I think I may be starting to get the hang of this bioregional stuff, which, like Zen, involves paying attention.

Before we go for today though, I want to be sure you get a chance to learn about one of the coolest cedar trees ever. The Spirit Tree, as far as I know, still overlooks Lake Superior. I'm going to try to see it in person sometime this year, since we're planning at least one trip "up north" some time next Summer.

End Fetish: An Index Of Last Lines

By Alice Fulton

a face stares back.

across the hostile centuries.

add a twist — delicious.

and never feel a thing.

commercial — added stretch to every gesture.

how it is made.

I almost admire it. I almost wrote despise.

I’d be all give. Let me put it like this==

in the nocturnal, recessed bed==

of nettles.

resembles the bird it will fly into.

Right now I’m trying to open wide.

she turns to a tree.

she would be neither-nor.

smoky field.

that is space.

the bride.

the exdream — the world gone into god again?

the night.

the white between the ink.

the white navel — I notice — in the O.

their harsh done crust.

then some inbetween?

to a nuptial lace.

to ever dwell again.

to mask the screen in dumb expanse.

touch in linen walls.

Turn — her — loose —

What — does not console?

who could bear to save her.

yes, god her saurian voice into the ground.

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