Life returns in Spring

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

much anticipated marsh marigolds in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

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

For the Bird Singing before Dawn

Kim Stafford

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

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

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

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

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As we approach a time of resurrection

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

SiSi the yellow lab in her new home

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

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

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

by Joy Harjo

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

Turn off that cellphone, computer, and remote control.

Open the door, then close it behind you.

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

Give back with gratitude.

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

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

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

Let the earth stabilize your postcolonial insecure jitters.

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

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

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

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

Do not hold regrets.

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

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

Cut the ties you have to failure and shame.

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

Ask for forgiveness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Spring’s ap-pear-ance varies

A dozen years ago, the back yard pear tree was in bloom on Tax Day. Not this year. Plus, last year the blossoms were more abundant than the pollinators, so there were very few pears come autumn. From a handful of pictures I’ve taken over the years, the pear tree has been in bloom in May more than April. Another example of Minnesota’s erratic spring phenology?

pear tree in bloom on Tax Day

Photo by J. Harrington

According to the National Phenology Network, spring this year is barely ahead of typical in our region, despite a much milder and less snowy winter than has been typical. That probably means next month is when the majority of wildflowers will be blooming and colorful song birds arriving. Tomorrow’s rain should help green things up in anticipation. On a selfish note, a delayed warmup will provide more opportunities to bake sourdough loaves before it gets too warm to heat up the kitchen. Today’s loaf turned out pretty well.

I’ve noticed that the more I watch for what’s happening, rather than focus on one or two events and wait in anxious anticipation, the more I manage to enjoy the transition of the seasons. That’s kind of how I’ve approached autumn for years, but I tend toward antsy in spring since I really want winter to be gone. Becoming a bread baker hasn’t done much to diminish my aversion to cold and snow.

Since we’re in the midst of National Poetry Month, let me suggest, for your reading pleasure in these taxing times, a volume the Better Half suggested to me the last time we were at a book store, The Wonder of Small Things: Poems of Peace and Renewal. I’m about halfway through and find that reading a handful of its poems in the morning helps ground me for a good part of the day. It also offers a heartening alternative to the daily headlines.

A Blessing

James Wright
1927 – 1980

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,
Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.
And the eyes of those two Indian ponies
Darken with kindness.
They have come gladly out of the willows
To welcome my friend and me.
We step over the barbed wire into the pasture
Where they have been grazing all day, alone.
They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness
That we have come.
They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.
There is no loneliness like theirs.
At home once more,
They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.
I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,
For she has walked over to me
And nuzzled my left hand.
She is black and white,
Her mane falls wild on her forehead,
And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear
That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.
Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
Into blossom.

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We now have a sprung Spring

It feels good to have sun shining, green leaves emerging from the ground, Scilla blossoms opening -- as if Spring is here to stay for awhile. The outlines of many trees have been softened, almost made furry, but bud burst and the start of leaf growth. Maybe next week we’ll shut down the snow blower and fire up the lawn mower. The local drive-in restaurant has opened for the season. Earth day is rapidly approaching and, before that, Monday has the potential to be, as Arte Johnson would say, “verry interresting, but shtupid!”

winter’s harsh, bare, outlines begin to soften

Photo by J. Harrington

We have our fingers crossed that sometime next week we’ll see signs of gemination of the bergamot seeds we started last week. If there’s no sign by the end of next week, we’ll plant some more seeds and try again. I suspect the trays have been in a location with a temperature near the lower end of ideal for germination. Maybe, if it’s not too windy, we’ll put the trays out in the 70℉ sunshine this weekend to warm the “planting medium” in the trays.

All in all, if it weren’t for a world at war in too many places, and the uncivil political wars being fought on the home front, life would approximate good. Stay tuned.

Planting the Meadow

By Mary Makofske

I leave the formal garden of schedules 

where hours hedge me, clip the errant sprigs 

of thought, and day after day, a boxwood 

topiary hunt chases a green fox 

never caught. No voice calls me to order 

as I enter a dream of meadow, kneel 

to earth and, moving east to west, second 

the motion only of the sun. I plant 

frail seedlings in the unplowed field, trusting 

the wildness hidden in their hearts. Spring light 

sprawls across false indigo and hyssop, 

daisies, flax. Clouds form, dissolve, withhold 

or promise rain. In time, outside of time, 

the unkempt afternoons fill up with flowers.

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Enjoy from now ’til June’s rare days

Wind is mostly calm.
Sky is mostly blue.
Sun is mostly shining.

Many birds are chirping.
Many buds are swelling.
Many faces smiling.

Spring is almost here.

Soil warms.
Leaves emerge.
Wildflowers bloom.

Spring arrives.

Hearts warm.
Walkers stroll.
Lovers love.

A rare June day
Gets matched
In April, sometimes, May.

wild plum blossoms in April

Photo by J. Harrington

What Is So Rare as a Day in June? -

by James Russell Lowell

And what is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days;

Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,

And over it softly her warm ear lays:

Whether we look, or whether we listen,

We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;

Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers,

And, groping blindly above it for light,

Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;

The flush of life may well be seen

Thrilling back over hills and valleys;

The cowslip starlets in meadows green,

The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,

And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean

To be some happy creature's palace;

The little bird sits at his door in the sun,

Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,

And lets his illumined being o'errun

With the deluge of summer it receives;

His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,

And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;

He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,--

In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away

Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,

Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;

Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,

We are happy now because God wills it;

No matter how barren the past may have been,

'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;

We sit in the warm shade and feel right well

How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;

We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing

That skies are clear and grass is growing;

The breeze comes whispering in our ear,

That dandelions are blossoming near,

That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,

That the river is bluer than the sky,

That the robin is plastering his house hard by;

And if the breeze kept the good news back,

For our couriers we should not lack;

We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,--

And hark! how clear bold chanticleer,

Warmed with the new wine of the year,

Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;

Everything is happy now,

Everything is upward striving;

'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true

As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,--

'Tis for the natural way of living:

Who knows whither the clouds have fled?

In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake,

And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,

The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;

The soul partakes the season's youth,

And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe

Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,

Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.

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May you enjoy the luck of the Irish

The Irish soda bread has been baked, and partially consumed. Corned beef and cabbage are on the back burners of the stove. I’m wearing a dark green chamois shirt over a light green t-shirt over jeans over dark green socks and olive shoes. When I finish posting this, the latest Altan CD will be set to play on the stereo system. St. Patrick’s Day even brought a few snow showers this morning to remind us that we’re in the North Country, not on the Emerald Isle, more’s the pity.

I’ve been skimming through internet material on fly-fishing in gleeful anticipation of warmer, less windy, days soon to be spent along a local trout stream where I hope to enjoy “the luck of the Irish” as I watch the greening of the countryside around here. With the temperatures forecast for this week coming, I’m grateful and lucky to have a couple of warm, Irish fisherman’s knit sweaters to wear and expect to wait for the greening to prevail.

soon our trees will again begin wearing their green

Photo by J. Harrington

We’re at a time of year when normal high temperatures reach the mid-40s as night-time lows drop into the upper 20s. That’s pretty much what next week looks like, with mixed precipitation late in the week. After all, we’re rapidly nearing the “April showers” time of year. Sounds good to me. Now, please enjoy an Irish poem about trout fishing. It says much about why we spend the time we do trout fishing or wishing we were. Apples of silver or gold are magical and we are lucky to have an opportunity to pluck them.

The Song of Wandering Aengus

By William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

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Blooming in the door yard time

Some of the local fields are still being prepared for planting. Others have corn emerging already. Most of the trees have attained full leaf-out. The local river, the Sunrise, is back into its banks. With luck, we may get to enjoy a few days that approximate normalcy.

Many dead branches were collected from the yard today and burned in the burn pit. The CSA share was collected this morning, which is when we made the observations about farm field status. All in all, our plan for the weekend has worked so far. 🤞 Tomorrow is targeted for mowing and playing.

I’m looking forward to the arrival next week and thereafter of increasing numbers of dragonflies. The mosquitos took anything like fun out of today’s choring. Even while wearing a permethrin-sprayed light hoody, the bugs were often in and around my eyes. On the other hand, it did feel good to be outside and poking around without coming down with the chills.

soon lilacs will look like this

Photo by J. Harrington

We’re now about a month from summer solstice [Wednesday, June 21, 2023 at 9:57 am CDT]. Shortly thereafter days will again begin to shorten but for several months, we’ll enjoy summer weather before the temperatures begin to noticeably decrease. For now, it’s time to take pleasure in lilac season and crab apple blossoms.

Lilacs on My Birthday

By Joyce Peseroff

The flowerets look edible before they open,

like columns of sugar dots on tiny strips

I bought as a child. Hard to bite the candy without

some paper adhering, as adding machine tape will

to large, red numbers. Lilacs are like that: another year

unspools without major accomplishment,

while I question "major" and "accomplishment."

And when I find in Costco those clusters

of pointillist pastel, I hope they will become

someone else's nostalgia—honorable emotion

propelling Ulysses toward Ithaca, and a woman

to set lilacs in her dooryard as her mother did.

 

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Name that bloom!

“I can name that bloom in one petal.” Today meets almost anyone’s idea of a beautiful spring day. Dandelions are in flower all over yards and along roadsides. Winter-hardy magnolias are in bloom as are native wild plum bushes and several others. Even a curmudgeon like Yr obt svt finds it difficult to complain about most of Mother Nature’s activities today, the exception being much of the behavior of her apes that walk on two feet.

roadsides are a-flower

Photo by J. Harrington

Despite all the delightful happenings today, I still managed to find one source of frustration and another of concern. When walking the dogs, I noticed the breeze was primarily from the south. That indicated it would be timely to use the electric leaf blower to clear the driveway toward the west. Just as I got about halfway down the drive, several gentle gusts came at us from close to due east, blowing many of the leaves back toward the house. Around here leaf blowing requires about as much patience as hunting deer from a stand. In frustration, I put away the leaf blower until another day.

My concern is based on seeing a ruby-throated hummingbird approach the sugar water feeder and then veer away from the downy woodpecker already there. The aversion is understandable, given the difference in sizes. I’m hoping the different species can do some time-shares because I don’t want to loose the hummers nor do I know how to convince the woodpecker to stay away. [Solved. As this was being typed, the hummer returned for a quick fill up while the downy was away.]

The next week or two could be among the nicest of the season. Do your best to get out and enjoy the ephemeral pleasures of springtime. Summer will seem interminable soon enough.

Birds Again

Jim Harrison - 1937-2016

A secret came a week ago though I already
knew it just beyond the bruised lips of consciousness.
The very alive souls of thirty-five hundred dead birds
are harbored in my body. It’s not uncomfortable.
I’m only temporary habitat for these not-quite-
weightless creatures. I offered a wordless invitation
and now they’re roosting within me, recalling
how I had watched them at night
in fall and spring passing across earth moons,
little clouds of black confetti, chattering and singing
on their way north or south. Now in my dreams
I see from the air the rumpled green and beige,
the watery face of earth as if they’re carrying
me rather than me carrying them. Next winter
I’ll release them near the estuary west of Alvarado
and south of Veracruz. I can see them perching
on undiscovered Olmec heads. We’ll say goodbye
and I’ll return my dreams to earth.

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Golden days of Summer

This morning, returning from a reading session with the Granddaughter Person,  I was slowly cruising a gravel road when a whitetail doe and I noticed each other. She was about 20 yards ahead of the Jeep, on the righthand half of the road. She looked at me as if to say: “Do I know you? What are you doing here at this hour of the morning? Nevermind!” She then flowed up the grassy hill on the right. I had stopped for the doe’s inspection and now slowly rolled again toward home. I was going slow enough that I never even had to touch the brakes as another doe bounded across the road, followed promptly by a fawn yelling “Wait for me, mom!”  Encounters like these are among the reasons I spend much of my local travel time off beaten paths.

few-leaf sunflower (Helianthus occidentalis)

Photo by J. Harrington

It’s the time of year when black-eyed Susans, crowned beggarticks, and a multitude of species of sunflowers, among other yellow blooms, adorn the roadsides. It’s relatively easy to let the yellow of wildflowers combine with the yellow of a sunny August morning to improve any gloomy residual outlook leftover from reading the morning news.

bumblebee on sunflower

Photo by J. Harrington

Today, for the first time this season, I noticed some leaves beginning to turn color. The bright red leaves on the sumac weren’t much of a surprise. The golden yellow leaves on some other undergrowth might be attributable to heat stress / drought, or not. After all, the Autumn Equinox is but seven weeks away and meteorological autumn begins September 1, only four weeks from now.

August Morning

By Albert Garcia

It’s ripe, the melon

by our sink. Yellow,

bee-bitten, soft, it perfumes

the house too sweetly.

At five I wake, the air

mournful in its quiet.

My wife’s eyes swim calmly

under their lids, her mouth and jaw

relaxed, different.

What is happening in the silence

of this house? Curtains

hang heavily from their rods.

Ficus leaves tremble

at my footsteps. Yet

the colors outside are perfect--

orange geranium, blue lobelia.

I wander from room to room

like a man in a museum:

wife, children, books, flowers,

melon. Such still air. Soon

the mid-morning breeze will float in

like tepid water, then hot.

How do I start this day,

I who am unsure

of how my life has happened

or how to proceed

amid this warm and steady sweetness?

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Summer’s cusping

 Our local goats beard plants have gone to seed. The seed heads look like oversized dandelion plumes. Another sign that summer is on the cusp, although with today’s temperatures, it’s hard to tell.

yellow goatsbeard seed head

Photo by J. Harrington

Some plants growing in the roadside that I was convinced were milkweed haven’t yet produced blossoms. Most of the other milkweed I’ve seen along ditches had blossoms in abundance. I began to wonder: don’t all milkweeds flower? were these not milkweed? A little searching among the internets turned up some answers. Drought can limit blooming. We’re back into drought conditions around here. Also, some varieties don’t bloom their first season of growing. I’m not sure which variety, but the majority of plants around the property are common milkweed, so I suppose the non-bloomers are also. But I wasn’t sure, when they didn’t bloom, that the plants in question are actually milkweed, so what do I know? Maybe next year we’ll be able to tell for sure.

During the next few weeks, we’ll begin watching for whitetail bucks with their antlers in velvet. This is the time replacements for the antlers they dropped last winter will begin growing. It’s always a treat to see bucks in velvet, even though it’s been years since I’ve hunted deer.

MILKWEED

James Wright

While I stood here, in the open, lost in myself,
I must have looked a long time
Down the corn rows, beyond grass,
The small house,
White walls, animals lumbering toward the barn.
I look down now. It is all changed.
Whatever it was I lost, whatever I wept for
Was a wild, gentle thing, the small dark eyes
Loving me in secret.
It is here. At a touch of my hand,
The air fills with delicate creatures
From the other world.

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It’s (meteorological) Summer! #phenology

The property has several clusters of hoary puccoon in bloom. Dandelions are more seed heads than blossoms. Today’s weather is as close to perfect as we’re likely to see, sunny, mild, very light breeze. We kept our No Mow May pledge and waited until today to mow the patch near the bur oak down by the road.  The gravel shoulder the township installed last autumn it then plowed across the easement and onto our property. The mower was set as high as it goes and still managed to suck up some of the gravel. It’s unlikely we’ll get any satisfaction other than complaining about it. Mosquitos are as thick as, or thicker than, I’ve ever seen them. We need a major hatch of dragonflies and/or bats. The poison ivy down by the road ditch doesn’t seem to have been terribly sickened by the Roundup we sprayed on it last week. We’ll try hitting it again.

hoary puccoon cluster

Photo by J. Harrington

Goat’s beard is close to blooming. Milkweed is about a foot or fifteen inches tall. Turkeys are still playing as if it’s mating season. Dame’s rocket has come into bloom over the past few days. We’ve still not started our three sisters garden. Maybe the weather and other obligations will cooperate enough so that we can get started this week or next. We’ll see. Meanwhile, we’ll hope every summer day is this pleasant, with rain only during the night mid-week. Mary Oliver knows what we’re talking about.

The Summer Day

by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?

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Halfway through No Mow May

Yesterday we mentioned trilliums and lilacs. This morning we were pleasantly surprised to discover trilliums we hadn’t previously noticed growing along a road we frequently travel. A more obvious  hedge of lilacs has developed flower clusters and will be in full bloom soon. It makes us feel as if we’re coming to know an area when we’re familiar with a variety of locations where domestic and wildflowers grow. Now we’re reminded that it’s time to check on our local patch of prairie smoke. Maybe tomorrow.

Prairie Smoke (Geum triflorum)

Photo by J. Harrington

We’re more than halfway through May and so far we haven’t mounted the mower deck on the tractor nor have we fired up the mulching / bagging push mower. Looks like we may successfully celebrate all of No Mow May. On the other hand, we’re vacillating on brush piles versus burning the dead branches that keep falling from our oak trees. There’s only so much area I want to devote to brush piles and the branches decompose at a rate much slower than they fall from trees. We’ve yet to find an approach we’re comfortable with for managing dead branches in an ecologically sound fashion that isn’t more work than it seems to be worth. We’ve learned that throwing lots of branches onto a pile and then lighting the pile when weather conditions and our burn permit permit is less work than breaking up lots of branches so they fit in the burn pit and we don’t need a permit. We’ll keep working at this issue.

The Better Half claims she’s seen a handful or two of various kinds of bumblebees while she’s been gardening. I’ve not seen any except one on the violets earlier this month. It seems as though, this year, our bees have disappeared. We hope it's not permanent and will cross our fingers and keep our eyes open.

Pea Brush 

Robert Frost - 1874-1963

I walked down alone Sunday after church
   To the place where John has been cutting trees
To see for myself about the birch
   He said I could have to bush my peas.

The sun in the new-cut narrow gap
   Was hot enough for the first of May,
And stifling hot with the odor of sap
   From stumps still bleeding their life away.

The frogs that were peeping a thousand shrill
   Wherever the ground was low and wet,
The minute they heard my step went still
   To watch me and see what I came to get.

Birch boughs enough piled everywhere!—
   All fresh and sound from the recent axe.
Time someone came with cart and pair
   And got them off the wild flower’s backs.

They might be good for garden things
   To curl a little finger round,
The same as you seize cat’s-cradle strings,
   And lift themselves up off the ground.

Small good to anything growing wild,
   They were crooking many a trillium
That had budded before the boughs were piled
   And since it was coming up had to come.

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It’s plum beautiful!

 For the past several days, we’ve enjoyed the roadside beauty of wild plum bushes/trees in blossom. It’s one of our favorite events, along with other trees and bushes coming into flower. Speaking of which, our pear tree is just now coming into bloom. Many years it will reach peak bloom and the next day thunderstorms and winds will strip the blossoms. Maybe this year the sequence will be reversed since the storms this week have already passed through.

roadside wild plum blooming

Photo by J. Harrington

Last year the pear tree failed to produce fruit. I’m not sure if it was due to lack of pollination, we didn’t see any bees on the blossoms, or too brief a period of flowering, or something else. The failure to produce pears over the summer ended up with very few visits from the local whitetail deer during autumn and winter. We’ve got our fingers crossed that this year the tree will be more productive.

pear tree near peak bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

Oak trees have leafed out and the spaces between the branches are rapidly infilling with growing leaves. Dandelions in our backyard have finally produced flowers a week or so after the Daughter Person’s yard, despite the fact that she, Son-In-Law and Granddaughter live about 15 miles north of us. No signs of germination yet in the newly reseeded front yard but a mole tunnel that wasn’t there when we were raking has erupted. We’ll try again to use our mole trap, which has yet, over several years, to capture a mole. Moles, pocket gophers, dead oak branches all over the landscape and deer munching on the plants are among the frustrations of country living. Then again, they’re less annoying than some of the neighbors we’ve had to tolerate in suburban and urban locations.

May to April

Philip Freneau - 1752-1832

Without your showers, I breed no flowers,
    Each field a barren waste appears;
If you don't weep, my blossoms sleep,
    They take such pleasures in your tears.

As your decay made room for May,
    So I must part with all that’s mine:
My balmy breeze, my blooming trees
    To torrid suns their sweets resign!

O’er April dead, my shades I spread:
    To her I owe my dress so gay—
Of daughters three, it falls on me
    To close our triumphs on one day:

Thus, to repose, all Nature goes;
    Month after month must find its doom:
Time on the wing, May ends the Spring,
    And Summer dances on her tomb!

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Tick Talk! #phenology

No, not the video app but the arachnids that are out in very small sizes and relatively large numbers so far this year. Already today I’ve removed one from my t-shirt and another that was crawling across the keyboard of my laptop. There’s a distinct possibility that one or both of the dogs are sneaking the creatures into the house and leaving them on the furniture for humans to enjoy. I now have the creepy feeling of wondering how many I’ve missed that are still around on me or in the house. I’ve complained more than once about the existence of ticks, but one of my favorite authors, Gene Hill, has a wonderful explanation. It’s found in A Hunter’s Fireside Book under the title Jennifer Asks “Why?” 

Thanks to yeoman-like efforts by the Better Half, after I drove the tractor to drag a harrow over them, the front yard and most of the yard on the north side have been fertilized and seeded with a bee-friendly lawn mix. The next notable project for us is cleaning a day lily bed and preparing it for more planting. Meanwhile, if the rain doesn’t start too early tomorrow, I’m going to try to locate an active tunnel and set a couple of pocket gopher traps. Dirt mounds are popping up all over the south edge of the slope behind the house. Once the grass grows through the mounds, the mower deck catches hell on those mounds so I’d much rather trap, harrow 'til almost level and then mow.

mid-May: dandelion in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

The pear tree hasn’t come into blossom yet, nor have we seen the first dandelion. Maybe next week? No signs of marsh marigold flowers, either. On the other hand, this being Minnesota’s “fishing opener” (for walleyes), there were lots of little boats on trailers pushing pickups and SUVs down the highways. Early May is consistently the time in Minnesota when boats on trailers emerge, regardless of weather, unless it’s a late spring blizzard.

We hope all our readers have a wonderful Mother’s Day tomorrow. We’re looking at a relatively busy schedule so we may skip posting. Or not! We’ll play it by ear and see how it goes.

What I Learned From My Mother

By Julia Kasdorf

I learned from my mother how to love 

the living, to have plenty of vases on hand 

in case you have to rush to the hospital 

with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants 

still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars 

large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole 

grieving household, to cube home-canned pears 

and peaches, to slice through maroon grape skins 

and flick out the sexual seeds with a knife point. 

I learned to attend viewings even if I didn’t know 

the deceased, to press the moist hands 

of the living, to look in their eyes and offer 

sympathy, as though I understood loss even then. 

I learned that whatever we say means nothing, 

what anyone will remember is that we came. 

I learned to believe I had the power to ease 

awful pains materially like an angel. 

Like a doctor, I learned to create 

from another’s suffering my own usefulness, and once 

you know how to do this, you can never refuse. 

To every house you enter, you must offer 

healing: a chocolate cake you baked yourself, 

the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch.

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Our Spring has finally sprung! #phenology

An observation from this morning’s trip to collect our CSA share this week: the ridgeline trees near the St. Croix river have a softer outline these days. Budburst is tempering the skeletal harshness of winter’s bare branches. On returning home, I was startled this morning to notice the back yard forsythia has burst into bloom. It gets more sun than the forsythias in front of the house, which are beginning to show hints of leaves. Last year’s bloom was earlier and sparser than what we have now.

April 21, 2021 backyard forsythia blossoms

Photo by J. Harrington

The front flower garden has been cleaned out and the front yard is now prepared for seeding tomorrow. There’s more to be done, including adjusting my perspective so that I accept outdoor chores as a way of life in the country and a way to get exercise rather than something that keeps me from going fishing or hunting.

We’re still watching and pondering whether spring this year is going to be compressed or just delayed. Trees will eventually leaf out. Wild flowers will begin to bloom soon, if they haven’t already. Today we saw a small, blue butterfly that has remained unidentified for several years. There was a bumble bee visiting forsythia blossoms as we tractored past. There were also confirmed bluebird sightings yesterday, including one perched on top of the bluebird house.

Final observation for today is a word of warning: Harry the beagle brought the first tick of the year into the house this morning!

Last Spring

By Gottfried Benn
Translated by Michael Hofmann

Fill yourself up with the forsythias

and when the lilacs flower, stir them in too

with your blood and happiness and wretchedness,

the dark ground that seems to come with you.

Sluggish days. All obstacles overcome.

And if you say: ending or beginning, who knows,

then maybe—just maybe—the hours will carry you

into June, when the roses blow.

Notes:

Read the translator's notes on this poem. 

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In pursuit of hope

This morning bright sunshine sparkled and glittered in the ice-covered tree branches. It looked quite magical. This being the month of St. Patrick’s Day, we wondered if the little people had been about, casting spells on the trees or on us. By mid-day much of the ice and snow was gone from the trees but magic, in a different form, had been delivered to our front door. The UPS delivery man had brought another tall box from White Flower Farm. Last month’s contents were forsythia stems, which are now sitting in a bucket in the family room south-facing window well to see if any will produce roots.

Double Quince Flowering Branches

Today’s package was a couple of handfuls of double quince flowering branches, branches with some thorns. They have now been trimmed, placed in vases, watered and will soon give another promise of spring, although we are currently one hardiness zone colder than listed for quince trees, with climate weirding, we may see if we can get any of these branches to root and try starting a tree or two.

We’re slowly discovering that gardening, and spring in the North Country, share some characteristics with fishing. In earlier posts we’ve mentioned a wall hanging we have that tells us that:

The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is elusive but attainable * a perpetual series of occasions for hope *

 Approached properly, almost anything might fit that description, even making sense in today’s world.

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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Mysterious blooms in October #phenology

Mid-October+, high temperatures in the low 70’s, and fresh blossoms where we’ve seen none all growing season! Welcome to Minnesota’s autumn in the midst of our global warming climate breakdown!

since when do first blooms occur in October?

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning I stepped out the back door of the garage to fuel the tractor and saw a daisy-like flower. As I moved closer to inspect, the pink flower behind the one I first noticed became more evident. There have been no blossoms like these during spring, summer or early autumn. I have no idea what’s going on, do you? Reports on the effects of climate change in Minnesota claim our winters are warming the most, but spring is the primary season for blooming, isn’t it? A quick check of Minnesota Wildflowers' list of plants blooming in the third week of October showed nothing that looked to me like our two late bloomers.

All-in-all, my starting chores for our usual seasonal transition has been rocked on its heels by this morning’s discovery. Maybe we have moved into an alternate universe, since the Vikings won in OT yesterday. I’ll keep my eyes on the skies to be sure the birds are headed south and not north, but it must be autumn because the woods are showing more and more florescent orange vests and hats and we do hear the occasional gunshot. Just to be on the safe side, this morning we gassed up the snowblower and made sure it started. Now we just need the Better Half to watch the auger, since our arms aren’t long enough to hold the control and look at the front of the machine.

[UPDATE: The Better Half informs us that last May she planted cosmos seeds last May. According to this description, they should have bloomed a couple of months ago, in August. Our world continues to grow strange.]

Characteristics of Life

Camille T. Dungy - 1972-

^{A fifth of animals without backbones could be at risk of extinction, say scientists.
—BBC Nature News}

Ask me if I speak for the snail and I will tell you
I speak for the snail.
                          speak of underneathedness
and the welcome of mosses,
                                        of life that springs up,
little lives that pull back and wait for a moment.

I speak for the damselfly, water skeet, mollusk,
the caterpillar, the beetle, the spider, the ant.
                                                        I speak
from the time before spinelessness was frowned upon.

Ask me if I speak for the moon jelly. I will tell you
                        one thing today and another tomorrow
        and I will be as consistent as anything alive
on this earth.

                        I move as the currents move, with the breezes.
What part of your nature drives you? You, in your cubicle
ought to understand me. I filter and filter and filter all day.

Ask me if I speak for the nautilus and I will be silent
as the nautilus shell on a shelf. I can be beautiful
and useless if that's all you know to ask of me.

Ask me what I know of longing and I will speak of distances
        between meadows of night-blooming flowers.
                                                        I will speak
                        the impossible hope of the firefly.

                                                You with the candle
burning and only one chair at your table must understand
        such wordless desire.

                                To say it is mindless is missing the point.

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It’s October, blooming

Yesterday we noticed three separate, new, dandelion blossoms next to the roadway. It seemed late in the season for that but then we also saw what we think is a common evening primrose with one flower at its very stem top. As we were trying to discover the identity of the primrose, we took a look at the Minnesota Wildflowers’ list of native plants blooming in October. It contains more than 100 species, although the list shortens significantly after the first week of the month. That’s many more than we anticipated.

Common Evening Primrose (Oenothera biennis)

Photo by J. Harrington

Not to get too far ahead with our seasons, but the idea of blooming out of season reminded me that the Better Half recently came across an idea that looks really appealing as a mutual Christmas present: a three month subscription of once a month branches forced into bloom from January -- March or February -- April. Personally, I’m leaning toward the latter so there won’t be too large a gap between the subscription ending and actual spring in our North Country. No matter what the calendar says, March in Minnesota is much more winter than spring. In any event, the branches are tulip magnolia, double quince, and forsythia. For those of us who tolerate winter rather than actually enjoy it, signs that life may return some day seem wonderful. If we don’t work anything else out, I believe I’ll give myself a subscription and then share the branches as they’re forced into bloom. Remember the poem attributed to a 13th century Persian poet:

"If, of thy mortal goods, thou art bereft,

And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left,

Sell one, and from the dole

Buy hyacinths to feed the soul."

-Muslihuddin Sadi,

13th Century Persian Poet

Along the lines of feeding one’s soul, some time ago I expressed the hypothesis that one couldn’t pass away as long as one’s stack of unread books was sufficiently tall. Acting on that hypothesis, I’m now prepared to admit I may be destined to live until one week short of forever. This morning I started to reorganize the stacks of unread books, magazines and computer files in a benign but foolhardy effort to bring some order to bear. That would be easier if my stacks of partially read and reread books would keep to themselves in their own stacks. But no, in this increasingly pluralistic world, even my books feel free to intermingle in search of companionable volumes, the result: volumes of companions.

October

Evalyn Callahan Shaw

October is the month that seems 
All woven with midsummer dreams;  
She brings for us the golden days 
That fill the air with smoky haze,  
She brings for us the lisping breeze 
And wakes the gossips in the trees,  
Who whisper near the vacant nest  
Forsaken by its feathered guest.  
Now half the birds forget to sing,  
And half of them have taken wing,  
Before their pathway shall be lost 
Beneath the gossamer of frost.  
Zigzag across the yellow sky,  
They rustle here and flutter there,  
Until the boughs hang chill and bare,  
What joy for us—what happiness  
Shall cheer the day the night shall bless?  
‘Tis hallowe’en, the very last  
Shall keep for us remembrance fast,  
When every child shall duck the head 
To find the precious pippin red

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Coming into bloom #phenology

We now have about 25 minutes less daylight than we did back at Summer Solstice. Our daylight is now decreasing at 2 minutes or so a day. Personally, I've noticed it more in the mornings than evenings because, for a very brief period, there was light  in the sky when SiSi and I took our early morning walks back in June.

Spotted Horsemint (Monarda punctata)

Photo by J. Harrington

Earlier today I was fussing about how, in years past, our fields behind the house were full of spotted horsemint (Monarda punctata) and there's none to be seen this year. Silly me! When I checked the dates on my pictures of the spotted horsemint, they were all taken in very late July to late August. Minnesota Wildflowers web site says Monarda blooms from July - September, and a more detailed chart of what's blooming by week of the month shows it blooming each week of July. This prompted me to take a quick look through binoculars at our fields and I think I saw a few blooms beginning to show. We'll keep an eye open and see what, if anything, develops further. As Minnesota Wildflowers notes "Factors such as temperature and precipitation play a large role in how a plant fares year after year." This year we're ahead on temperature and behind on precipitation.

There's still no sign of swamp milkweed flowering around our wet spot, although there seem to be more common milkweeds flowering in ditches this year than I remember seeing in past years. That may, or may not, explain the increased number of butterflies flittering over and around township gravel roads these days. At a risk of jinxing us, I'll note that the deerfly population seems diminished these days, but then so does the dragonfly population.

Today

Mary Oliver

Today I’m flying low and I’m

not saying a word

I’m letting all the voodoos of ambition sleep.

The world goes on as it must,

the bees in the garden rumbling a little,

the fish leaping, the gnats getting eaten.

And so forth.

But I’m taking the day off.

Quiet as a feather.

I hardly move though really I’m traveling

a terrific distance.

Stillness. One of the doors

into the temple.

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