After Independence, what?

Are you familiar with Joni Mitchell's wonderful song, The Circle Game? It's one of my all time favorites. Despite my grumbles, I really enjoy the seasons. Some more so than others. I'm trying to learn to appreciate each season for its own delights, even heat and humidity that gives me a good excuse to stay inside and read or write. For my birthday aa while back, my son gave me a copy of Emergence Magazine Vol. 6: SEASONS. I'm enjoying its reads and the provoked thoughts that accompany. I take too much for granted and fail to appreciate and enjoy the day-to-day beauties and pleasures in my life. Can you relate?

Swamp Milkweed (Asclepias incarnata)

Photo by J. Harrington

One of our seasonal beauties recently came into bloom in the wet spot behind our house. Swamp milkweed is in flower. That may help to explain the orange butterflies we're seeing flutter around the property. I wish I were better at distinguishing Monarchs from Viceroys as they herky-jerky around.

Yesterday I was trying to get caught up (as if...) on outside chores, over-deferred due to uncooperative weather and persistent summer laziness. Progress was made but more work lies ahead than behind. Part of the challenge is attributable to dew-wet grasses early that becomes humidity as the grasses dry and the day's heat builds and work outside gets deferred to cooler times.

I missed getting a burn permit in time to have an Independence Day bonfire. Maybe we'll see if we can celebrate Lughnasadh / Lammas on August 1 with a fire. Most of the local corn was well above knee high on the 4th of July. The Better Half did a really creative job for the holiday dinner. She made white(ish) pancakes with embedded blueberries and strawberry slices for a red, white and blue meal that exceeded patriotism with tastiness. Yes, we enjoyed a relatively quiet holiday weekend, thank you for asking.

There are no kings in America

Aileen Cassinetto

 

we are not that kind of country.

We are sanctuary for the hungry,

the homeless, the huddled,

held together by an idea

our immigrant fathers believed in.

Rendered, it meant independence.

Pursued, it kindled war, ordinance,

a fighting chance. Forty thousand

musket balls, by themselves, did not

shape the boundaries on which we

map our days. To draw our borders,

we needed more than firecakes.

More than a pound of meat

with bone and gristle,

or salt fish and a gill of peas.

We needed the faith and grit of people

who were not yet Americans.

To be an American is to

recognize the sacrifice

of the widow and the orphan;

it is to understand the weft of tent

cities expecting caravans,

and the heft of a child in a camp

not meant for children, or sitting

before a judge awaiting judgement.

What do we say to the native

whose lands we now inhabit?

What do we say to our immigrant

fathers who held certain truths

to be self-evident?

Do we now still pledge to each

other our lives, our fortunes,

our sacred honor.

There are no kings in America.

Only gilded men we can topple

again and again.

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

Memorial Day weekend starts summer mode

The planters by the front porch have been freshly planted by the Better Half. I helped hang hanging baskets of fuchsia on which I will bump my head all summer. Cleanup of the autumn / winter / spring mess of fallen leaves and broken branches continues. We’ve even started mowing a little as the broken branches are collected and thrown on the brush pile. I keep trying to convince myself the fresh air and exercise are good for me and that I’m enjoying seeing the butterflies and wildflowers (mostly hoary puccoon) as I work. (They are and I do.)

a cluster of hoary puccoon, bright yellow wildflowers

Photo by J. Harrington

The serviceberry bushes I planted a week ago are persisting to live. The weather forecast indicates they’ll need hand watering this coming week. They arrived after flowering season this year but I’m looking forward to seeing their fall colors in four or five months, although I don’t want to rush the seasons.

Once again this year downy and hairy woodpeckers are feasting on the nectar feeder we’ve hung for the hummingbirds and orioles. The latter haven’t yet noticed a grape jelly feeder we hung a couple of days ago but the male red-breasted grosbeaks seem to like a taste from time to time. Male American goldfinches are in bright, chrome yellow plumage and frequently fighting with each other. Most of the wild turkeys have disappeared. Hens are incubating eggs. I’m not sure what the toms are up to.

One side benefit of getting outside and doing some yard work: not once in the several hours I was busy outside did I think about what the idiots in D.C. are down to, nor how much they’re wrecking, our country and the lives of many of US. I’m hoping for and looking forward to a similar mental status when I finally manage to get out fly fishing.

At the Retirement Home

Tony Barnstone

^{U.S. Soldier, 194th Armored Regiment, retired, Brainerd, Minnesota}

I’ve had both knees replaced. I’ve got a steel
pin in my hip. I don’t hear you so good,
but I’m not stupid, son. How would you feel,
surviving the Bataan Death March, no food
for days, no water, and the ones who fell
behind were bayoneted where they lay,
and now you’re marching off to death? Real hell
is not old age, though. No, taking away
the rights we died for, saying torture’s right,
that’s hell. Hand me the iron and those shirts,
would you? Thanks, son. As long as I have fight
in me I’ll love this country till it hurts.
And it does. This is worse than what I saw
overseas. Torture. In America.

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

Approaching Thanks! Giving?

Last night, for the first time in months, we had chili for dinner. It helped ease the dank and dreary weather we’ve been having and the even more dank and dreary results of Tuesdays elections. I suspect the deer hunters are wishing the showers, drizzle, and mist we’ve been living with would turn into tracking snow but, so far, the snow we got at the end of October is all that’s come and that melted before firearms season opened around here.

Nature's Halloween trick, now gone

Photo by J. Harrington

The tractor, lawn mower, and I have been struggling with an overload of wet leaves covering the lawns and driveway. Even the mulching deck on the tractor has been getting clogged with wet leaves and the bagging mower discharge chute keeps getting jammed. We’ll keep trying so that, come spring thaw, we’ll be in better shape for seeding and meanwhile, we hope to make the place less attractive to moles.

A major breakthrough appears to have been attained by blocking two gaps in the walls with coarse steel wool. The number of mice caught in traps has dropped remarkably since the illicit entrances were blocked.

Despite the trials and tribulations, we have a lot to be thankful for this year, as usual. I confess that I’ve caught myself focused too much on what’s wrong and not feeling and sharing enough gratitude for what’s still good in our lives. Robin Wall Kimmerer has a book that will be published in a little more than a week. I have preordered a copy and hope to have it read by Thanksgiving. If you’re interested, you can get more info here at Birchbark Books. Who knows, I may even start a gratitude journal. For Thanksgiving, I’m planning to read the version of the Haudenosaunee Thanksgiving Address found here before we enjoy the meal.

Tomorrow is Veterans’ Day. We’ll be remembering those in our families who have served in the armed forces and have defended freedoms we may well have to fight to retain during the next several years. Let’s do our best to help ensure the wars fought by our troops to preserve democracy weren’t fought in vain. Let’s also honor Native American Heritage Month by remembering the guidance below as we grapple with the differences among US.

Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings

by Joy Harjo

I am the holy being of my mother's prayer and my father's song
—Norman Patrick Brown, Dineh Poet and Speaker

1. SET CONFLICT RESOLUTION GROUND RULES:

Recognize whose lands these are on which we stand.
Ask the deer, turtle, and the crane.
Make sure the spirits of these lands are respected and treated with goodwill.
The land is a being who remembers everything.
You will have to answer to your children, and their children, and theirs—
The red shimmer of remembering will compel you up the night to walk the perimeter of truth for understanding.
As I brushed my hair over the hotel sink to get ready I heard:
By listening we will understand who we are in this holy realm of words.
Do not parade, pleased with yourself.
You must speak in the language of justice.

2. USE EFFECTIVE COMMUNICATION SKILLS THAT DISPLAY AND ENHANCE MUTUAL TRUST AND RESPECT:

If you sign this paper we will become brothers. We will no longer fight. We will give you this land and these waters "as long as the grass shall grow and the rivers run."

The lands and waters they gave us did not belong to them to give. Under false pretenses we signed. After drugging by drink, we signed. With a mass of gunpower pointed at us, we signed. With a flotilla of war ships at our shores, we signed. We are still signing. We have found no peace in this act of signing.

A casino was raised up over the gravesite of our ancestors. Our own distant cousins pulled up the bones of grandparents, parents, and grandchildren from their last sleeping place. They had forgotten how to be human beings. Restless winds emerged from the earth when the graves were open and the winds went looking for justice.

If you raise this white flag of peace, we will honor it.

At Sand Creek several hundred women, children, and men were slaughtered in an unspeakable massacre, after a white flag was raised. The American soldiers trampled the white flag in the blood of the peacemakers.

There is a suicide epidemic among native children. It is triple the rate of the rest of America. "It feels like wartime," said a child welfare worker in South Dakota.

If you send your children to our schools we will train them to get along in this changing world. We will educate them.

We had no choice. They took our children. Some ran away and froze to death. If they were found they were dragged back to the school and punished. They cut their hair, took away their language, until they became as strangers to themselves even as they became strangers to us.

If you sign this paper we will become brothers. We will no longer fight. We will give you this land and these waters in exchange "as long as the grass shall grow and the rivers run."

Put your hand on this bible, this blade, this pen, this oil derrick, this gun and you will gain trust and respect with us. Now we can speak together as one.

We say, put down your papers, your tools of coercion, your false promises, your posture of superiority and sit with us before the fire. We will share food, songs, and stories. We will gather beneath starlight and dance, and rise together at sunrise.

The sun rose over the Potomac this morning, over the city surrounding the white house.
It blazed scarlet, a fire opening truth.
White House, or Chogo Hvtke, means the house of the peacekeeper, the keepers of justice.
We have crossed this river to speak to the white leader for peace many times
Since these settlers first arrived in our territory and made this their place of governance.
These streets are our old trails, curved to fit around trees.

3. GIVE CONSTRUCTIVE FEEDBACK:

We speak together with this trade language of English. This trade language enables us to speak across many language boundaries. These languages have given us the poets:

Ortiz, Silko, Momaday, Alexie, Diaz, Bird, Woody, Kane, Bitsui, Long Soldier, White, Erdrich, Tapahonso, Howe, Louis, Brings Plenty, okpik, Hill, Wood, Maracle, Cisneros, Trask, Hogan, Dunn, Welch, Gould...

The 1957 Chevy is unbeatable in style. My broken-down one-eyed Ford will have to do. It holds everyone: Grandma and grandpa, aunties and uncles, the children and the babies, and all my boyfriends. That's what she said, anyway, as she drove off for the Forty-Nine with all of us in that shimmying wreck.

This would be no place to be without blues, jazz—Thank you/mvto to the Africans, the Europeans sitting in, especially Adolphe Sax with his saxophones... Don't forget that at the center is the Mvskoke ceremonial circles. We know how to swing. We keep the heartbeat of the earth in our stomp dance feet.

You might try dancing theory with a bustle, or a jingle dress, or with turtles strapped around your legs. You might try wearing colonization like a heavy gold chain around a pimp's neck.

4. REDUCE DEFENSIVENESS AND BREAK THE DEFENSIVENESS CHAIN:

I could hear the light beings as they entered every cell. Every cell is a house of the god of light, they said. I could hear the spirits who love us stomp dancing. They were dancing as if they were here, and then another level of here, and then another, until the whole earth and sky was dancing.

We are here dancing, they said. There was no there.

There was no "I" or "you."

There was us; there was "we."

There we were as if we were the music.

You cannot legislate music to lockstep nor can you legislate the spirit of the music to stop at political boundaries—

—Or poetry, or art, or anything that is of value or matters in this world, and the next worlds.

This is about getting to know each other.

We will wind up back at the blues standing on the edge of the flatted fifth about to jump into a fierce understanding together.

5. ELIMINATE NEGATIVE ATTITUDES DURING CONFLICT:

A panther poised in the cypress tree about to jump is a panther poised in a cypress tree about to jump.

The panther is a poem of fire green eyes and a heart charged by four winds of four directions.

The panther hears everything in the dark: the unspoken tears of a few hundred human years, storms that will break what has broken his world, a bluebird swaying on a branch a few miles away.

He hears the death song of his approaching prey:

I will always love you, sunrise.
I belong to the black cat with fire green eyes.
There, in the cypress tree near the morning star.

6. AND, USE WHAT YOU LEARN TO RESOLVE YOUR OWN CONFLICTS AND TO MEDIATE OTHERS' CONFLICTS:

When we made it back home, back over those curved roads
that wind through the city of peace, we stopped at the
doorway of dusk as it opened to our homelands.
We gave thanks for the story, for all parts of the story
because it was by the light of those challenges we knew
ourselves—
We asked for forgiveness.
We laid down our burdens next to each other.

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

The autumn leaves drift by my window

The local leaves are just about at peak color, sliding past peak any day now as the colors drift down with the leaves. It sure is pretty around here for now. Yesterday I noticed a new dandelion blossom. Today there’s a small cluster of little white flowers. Garter snakes are out and about. I wish they’d feast on more of the mice that keep getting into the house. We must have trapped almost two dozen since last Sunday.

Autumn's silver and gold

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half, plus our son, plus me, have all voted early. I wonder how long post November 5 the suspense may continue and how long after that the prospect of violence may hang in the air. Meanwhile, critical global and national issues continue to fester instead of getting the attention deserved and needed. For example, a report issued this past week calls to our attention, inter alia, the following:

Most gravely, while itself a victim of climate change,

the degradation of freshwater ecosystems including

the loss of moisture in the soil has become a driver

of climate change and biodiversity loss. The result

is more frequent and increasingly severe droughts,

floods, heatwaves, and wildfires, playing out across

the globe. And a future of growing water scarcity,

with grave consequences for human security.

Nearly 3 billion people and more than half of the

world’s food production are now in areas where

total water storage is projected to decline.

We’ve seen examples of these issues with recent hurricanes and flooding in major parts of our country. Most Republicans I’ve read about claim climate change is some kind of scam. Of course many of them also continue to incorrectly refer to the 2020 election as “stolen.”

Things got more than a little hectic around the homestead this week, especially today. The Better Half noticed one of the kitchen cabinets needs major repairs. An electrical circuit that, about this time last year,, started tripping the breaker for no reason that we or the electrician could figure out, is doing it again this year. My theory is that mice in the garage are biting into a hot wire because the breaker can be reset after a few hours. Anyhow, I’m tuckered so this posting is short and as sweet as I can make it. More next week.

Neighbors in October

By David Baker

All afternoon his tractor pulls a flat wagon

with bales to the barn, then back to the waiting

chopped field. It trails a feather of smoke.

Down the block we bend with the season:

shoes to polish for a big game,

storm windows to batten or patch.

And how like a field is the whole sky now

that the maples have shed their leaves, too.

It makes us believers—stationed in groups,

leaning on rakes, looking into space. We rub blisters

over billows of leaf smoke. Or stand alone,

bagging gold for the cold days to come.

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Please be kind to each other while you can.

The month peak color comes and goes

It looks like the weather may have finally turned the corner from Summer to Autumn, more than a month after the start of meteorological autumn and a couple of weeks after the equinox. Maple trees are showing more color. Pines are shedding their needles. Aspen and birch leaves are mostly gold. Seed heads from purple love grass are flying everywhere and the last few really windy days have turned a few trees almost leafless.

maples starting to show color

Photo by J. Harrington

Today we saw another wooly bear looking very much like the one we reported on last week, about four ginger bands in the middle and each end black. No frost yet locally. Most birds coming to the feeder are year round residents like woodpeckers, nuthatches, chickadees, cardinals and goldfinches. Every now and then a pair of bluejays stop by.

We’ve been going through an extended dry spell for the past month or so. Fire danger has been high enough that I’ve not even thought about torching the back yard brush pile. If it sits until spring, that’s no big deal although I would like to get it gone so we can replace it with more of the downed branches lying around. The electric weed whacker we recently acquired is helping to bring a modicum or orderliness to some of the overgrown areas around the place. That’s going to be a continuing project. We may see if the battery-powered chain saw diminishes the buckthorn that’s trying to overrun the woods.

All in all it’s been a mostly pleasant week up North here. We celebrated the Granddaughter’s fourth birthday and her parents tenth anniversary. No signs of Helene but we may well pay for it come blizzard season, or might climate change temper our upcoming winter? We’ll see.

Autumn's Gold

by George MacDonald

Along the tops of all the yellow trees,

The golden-yellow trees, the sunshine lies;

And where the leaves are gone, long rays surprise

Lone depths of thicket with their brightnesses;

And through the woods, all waste of many a breeze,

Cometh more joy of light for Poet's eyes—

Green fields lying yellow underneath the skies,

And shining houses and blue distances.

By the roadside, like rocks of golden ore

That make the western river-beds so bright,

The briar and the furze are all alight!

Perhaps the year will be so fair no more,

But now the fallen, falling leaves are gay,

And autumn old has shone into a Day! 

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Almost Alban Elfed time

Despite summer-like temperatures and humidity, Canada geese and sandhill cranes are beginning to flock up. Daylight is shortening. Bowhunting season for deer opened yesterday and the current election season has less than two months to go. I’m trying to find a local organization that teaches youth hunting that would like a donation of my old decoys and duck boat. The Son-In-Law just finished using the leaf blower to clean the gutters. We’ve got a microshield that accumulates crap from oak leaf droppings. All in all, except for unseasonable warmth and dampness, we’re enjoying a typical early (meteorological) autumn with gradually increasing amounts of color in the leaves.

one tree in autumn's scarlet finery

Photo by J. Harrington

After most of a week’s worth of “accidents” in the house, my yellow lab SiSi seems to be recovering from her diarrhea, thanks to the vet’s probiotics and the Better Half’s home remedy of rice and pumpkin and other good healthy stuff. It’s frustrating to have not a clue what triggered the episode so we know enough to not do it again.

Another sign of impending seasonal change has been increased rodent activity building, actually, trying to build, nests in the engine compartment of the tractor. So far we’ve live trapped two chipmunks and translocated them and mousetrapped two mice. The nest building was occurring on top of a couple of bags of last year’s rodent repellant, so this week we’ll replace that with fresh stuff and see if it works better.

Wasps and/or hornets are building nests under the roof peaks. The front peak is just beyond the reach of our “up to 20 feet” wasp killer so I’m looking for a local source for some that’s supposed to reach “up to 27 feet.” I’m not interested in spraying from up on a ladder in case they decide to swarm the attacker. If nothing else, we’ll put up with them until winter’s freezing temperatures and then finish the job. Country living strikes again.

The feast of Alban Elfed, Autumnal Equinox, occurs a week from today at 7:43 am local time. Between now and then, we have a Son-In-Law birthday, an annual furnace tuneup, and a septic tank pumpout on the calendar, among other things. At the rate we’re going, by the time autumn’s gone, we’ll have earned and be ready for a winter’s rest, if we don’t get too many blizzards.

WHEN I AM AMONG THE TREES

by Mary Oliver

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”

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Please be kind to each other while you can.

Weathering August

I finally managed to get some mowing done in the back yard. The tractor was moving slowly enough that a frog had no trouble jumping out of the way and into the water in the wet spot behind the house. We tore up a little of the still damp soil in areas that need reseeding anyhow. More rain is in the forecast for later today and tonight. Sigh! NOAA’s early forecast for the upcoming winter keeps our part of Minnesota wetter than usual. At least so far I’ve not had to shovel the rain.

Also on the home front, today we translocated a third chipmunk that’s tried setting up house under the front stoop. That’s about one a week for the past three weeks. Would that we could reduce the mole/vole/pocket gopher population as quickly and easily as live trapping chipmunks.

bees tending Giant Blue Hyssop

Photo by J. Harrington

Multitudes of bumblebees are visiting the Blue Giant Hyssop flowers in the yard. There are a few small clusters of flowers on the lilac bushes. Within the past week, several ruby-throated hummingbirds have begun battling over the feeder hanging from the deck. Morning temperatures are running in the mid50’s. The return of joy to the Democratic presidential campaign is almost giving me some hope for the future. Maybe it will turn into a joy filled autumn for many of US. Stay tuned.

For the Chipmunk in My Yard

By Robert Gibb

I think he knows I’m alive, having come down 

The three steps of the back porch 

And given me a good once over. All afternoon 

He’s been moving back and forth,

Gathering odd bits of walnut shells and twigs, 

While all about him the great fields tumble 

To the blades of the thresher. He’s lucky 

To be where he is, wild with all that happens. 

He’s lucky he’s not one of the shadows 

Living in the blond heart of the wheat.

This autumn when trees bolt, dark with the fires 

Of starlight, he’ll curl among their roots, 

Wanting nothing but the slow burn of matter 

On which he fastens like a small, brown flame.

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Tsundoku cure time?*

If the weather were like today’s year ‘round, I might be willing to give up four seasons. That’s how nice today is after yesterday’s downpours (2+ inches in our area). Overnight we dropped into the mid50’s and reached the mid70s today with sunshine and a gentle breeze. I’m going to hope all stays dry and maybe mow tomorrow.

Meanwhile, remember the old tv program Hawaii Five-0? And the tag line “Book ‘em, Danno?” I’m applying that as I start to bring some semblance of organization to my stacks and shelves and boxes of books. Undoubtedly it would help if I had the sense to use a simple sort such as arranged alphabetically by author’s last name, but that’s not really how I think. I try to organize by genre and / or theme like rivers or poetry of place. Then I lose it when I have to decide where to shelve a book of poems about the St. Croix River and does the Kinnickinnic get a separate section to itself with mixed nonfiction and poems? Nor does it help that I confound my collection of unread and partially read books by rereading some at the same time. I wonder of there’s a local group therapy available for those like me, or am I alone in these conundrums?

bookshelves a decade ago now overflow

Photo by J. Harrington

I do realize how lucky I am that this is the kind of issue that gets my attention. There are many things about which I’m troubled but can’t really do a lot. There’s one book I’ve been looking for for about 10 days now and I can’t find it. That’s something I believe I should be able to do something about but I keep tripping over “but how to organize?” No doubt it would simplify things if I sold some of the excess but that would necessitate getting books organized well enough to decide what I might want to sell. Catch 22 strikes again. If I live long enough, I’ll probably make some progress, especially if I narrow down my eclectic list of interests. But that seems like throwing out baby, bathwater and bath tub, too radical a solution to a problem of limited shelf space.

* Tsundoku

Don’t Go Into the Library

Alberto Ríos
1952 – 

The library is dangerous—
Don’t go in. If you do

You know what will happen.
It’s like a pet store or a bakery—

Every single time you’ll come out of there
Holding something in your arms.

Those novels with their big eyes.
And those no-nonsense, all muscle

Greyhounds and Dobermans,
All non-fiction and business,

Cuddly when they’re young,
But then the first page is turned.

The doughnut scent of it all, knowledge,
The aroma of coffee being made

In all those books, something for everyone,
The deli offerings of civilization itself.

The library is the book of books,
Its concrete and wood and glass covers

Keeping within them the very big,
Very long story of everything.

The library is dangerous, full
Of answers. If you go inside,

You may not come out
The same person who went in.

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More than one reason for “No Mow"

The power went out for no more than two seconds in one of last night’s thunderstorms. That was just long enough to require the microwave and stove clocks to be reset, but not the clock/timer in the coffee maker. WTH? It also caused an instant shut-down on my desk computer and when I rebooted that, it auto-selected a wifi network that doesn’t work with Gmail. Today I figured out how to solve that problem but am left wondering if our increasing reliance on less than totally reliable technology is worth it.

back yard "lawn" and wet spot in mid-Summer

Photo by J. Harrington

The back yard doesn’t need mowing as much as the front and North side. The rain made the front “lawn” area too wet to mow, although I tried. Damp soil and mole tunnels made for uneven cuts and poor bagging of the leaves left from Spring. Rain is forecast again tonight and tomorrow. In our area, we’re approaching the wettest year to date precipitation totals. Maybe raising goats would be less trouble and they could munch on the buckthorn in the woods too. At least I’ve never been overly concerned about having the greenest and best lawn in the neighborhood, so it could be worse.

Finding a balance between backwoods rustic and republican suburban is really challenging. More so if one doesn’t have a background in agroforestry or something like that and would really rather be fishing or reading poetry. After all, wild turkeys have moved into the Twin Cities so what’s the advantage of exurban living, especially with more and more tRUMP lawn signs popping up and no metropolitan mosquito control district to help thin out biting insects? Ah, yes -- fewer neighbors overall, except for biting insects.

Grass

By Joyce Sidman

I grow in places

others can’t,

 

where wind is high

and water scant.

 

I drink the rain,

I eat the sun;

 

before the prairie winds

I run.

 

I see, I sprout,

I grow, I creep,

 

and in the ice

and snow, I sleep.

 

On steppe or veld

or pampas dry,

 

beneath the grand,

enormous sky,

 

I make my humble,

bladed bed.

 

And where there’s level ground,

I spread.

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More flowerings of summer daze

On this penultimate day of July 2024, the weather forecast is changing by the moment. Thunderstorms come and go in the hourly forecast without, so far, arriving at our door. We’ve reached a time of year when fawns, wearing rapidly fading spots, stand in the road and stare quizzically at oncoming vehicles thinking “Who are you and what are you doing on my road?” We slowed to a crawl twice last evening, thanks to our policy of sharing the road with fawns.

milkweed plants with seed pods

Photo by J. Harrington

I’ll have to look more carefully because the milkweed growing along the road in front of the house doesn’t look anywhere near close to having developed seed pods. Perhaps the difference is that those in the picture are part of a rain garden at a local library and not subject to mowing as our roadside milkweed is. The photo above was taken early August several years ago. We saw Joe Pye weed in bloom recently, and that’s about on time. That was growing along a township road that’s generally not supposed to be mown before August 1. As with many things these days, it gets complicated.

Out in the fields behind the house, mullein are in flower. I couldn’t see any milkweed behind the house but will check on the far side of the rise one day soon, probably while doing some yard chores once the temperatures cool down a little. One of the nicer things about August is that October then is but two months or less away.

Milkweed

Helen Hunt Jackson

O patient creature with a peasant face, 
Burnt by the summer sun, begrimed with stains, 
And standing humbly in the dingy lanes! 
There seems a mystery in thy work and place, 
Which crowns thee with significance and grace; 
Whose is the milk that fills thy faithful veins? 
What royal nursling comes at night and drains 
Unscorned the food of the plebeian race? 
By day I mark no living thing which rests 
On thee, save butterflies of gold and brown, 
Who turn from flowers that are more fair, more sweet, 
And, crowding eagerly, sink fluttering down, 
And hang, like jewels flashing in the heat, 
Upon thy splendid rounded purple breasts.

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Summer scenes seens

I’m happy to announce that the fields behind the house are home to a handful of black-eyed Susans, plus an abundance of spotted horsemint and what I’m guessing is round-headed bush clover. As the soil slowly dries out, I’m again taking a crack at doing some yard work, without overdoing it. So I was driving the tractor this morning to dump a garden cart full of leaf rakings and grass clippings that had been unattended to because it has been either too hot, too wet, or I wasn’t in the mood. There’s most likely other plants that have grown and developed since I last was in the fields, but I was just noticing the obvious changes.

spotted horsemint (Monarda punctata)

Photo by J. Harrington

Yesterday afternoon, three wild turkey hens again escorted a mob of poults through the yard, this time they came right up to the house to check the droppings from the bird feeder that hangs on the deck railing. The feeder is constantly being visited by chick-a-dees, rose-breasted grosbeaks, goldfinches, hairy, downy, and red-bellied woodpeckers, white- and red-breasted nuthatches, occasional red-winged blackbirds, bluejays, and sometimes “others.” We even get ruby-throated hummingbirds at the sugar water feeders once or twice a day.

After today we’re looking at a ten-day forecast full of temperatures in the upper 80’s+. That’s going to limit my yard work ambitions but we’ll see if we can just pick away at it before it gets too warm each day. Then we’ll sit in the air-conditioned house and read more of Sarah Kendzior’s They Knew. I’m checking to see if my cynicism is well-founded or misplaced. We are in election season you know.

July prayer to survive the summer

Robin Walter

Today was the first day I saw
the father of the chicks
come to the antlers—First,

he landed on the doorframe—looked at me
hard—before making the short flight
to nest—

The mother came busily on his tail-feathers—
a small grey worm in her beak—
ushered him out of her way—

                                    *

I wonder about the day
these birds will first
take flight—

which instincts they’ll suspend
& which they’ll trust—which of the tiny birds
will last the Fall—

                                   *

I am ahead of myself again—wanted
to tell you about instincts—how sometimes
they betray the body—no, sometimes
I betray the body—
 

                                  *

The father is back again—nothing in his beak.
Their chirps are so much louder today—almost like tiny bells,
or water spilling—

 

                                  *

Here, there is a father.
There are not always
fathers—

but always, birds,
& sometimes, yes,

a window.

                                  *

My mind flips to a line
I love: You can fall a long way in sunlight.
You can fall a long way in rain.

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The roadsides look positively vetching

Lazy, hazy, sleepy, days of summer are here. If anyone stumbles over my ambition, please feed and water it until cooler temps arrive. Then leave a comment here and I’ll come and pick it up. It’s time to return to reading The Subtle Art of Not Giving a #@%! Journal, and to add watermelon to the shopping list.

The bright blue bug ball (for trapping horsedeerflies) is again functional, thanks to the Better Half’s completion of the tedious but essential task of painting sticky goop on the entire surface of the beach ball-size thing. I did the relatively mundane task of stringing and hanging the painted ball. Years of fishing and boating qualify me for spinning yarns, getting strung up, and getting tied up in knots.

crown vetch in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

Most of the local row crops, corn and soy beans, are looking decent, except for the field areas under water. Isolated and/or scattered thunderstorms are were briefly back in the forecast. "Isolated or scattered” disappeared sometime between mid-morning and mid-afternoon. Local ditches are overgrown with crown vetch in bloom. I’m very confused (think Vinnie Barbarino) about how and why crown vetch is simultaneously listed as an invasive species and still sold commercially. A case of left hand, right hand, not knowing? 

One other long deferred chore got completed this morning. The live trap set for the chipmunk living in tunnels under the front stoop was cleaned, freshened and placed in what we hope will be a more tempting location. If not translocated, the little critter is liable to put a tunnel near the garage entrance and create minor havoc as the Better Half comes or goes. Until tomorrow about this time .....

Travelling Storm

Mark Van Doren
1894 – 1972

The sky, above us here, is open again. 
The sun comes hotter, and the shingles steam. 
The trees are done with dripping, and the hens
Bustle among bright pools to pick and drink. . . . 
But east and south are black with speeding storm. 
That thunder, low and far, remembering nothing,
Gathers a new world under it and growls, 
Worries, strikes, and is gone.  Children at windows 
Cry at the rain, it pours so heavily down,
Drifting across the yard till the sheds are grey. . . . 
A county father on, the wind is all—
A swift dark wind that turns the maples pale, 
Ruffles the hay, and spreads the swallows’ wings. 
Horses, suddenly restless, are unhitched,
And men, with glances upward, hurry in; 
Their overalls blow full and cool; they shout;
Soon they will lie in barns and laugh at the lightning. . . . 
Another county yet, and the sky is still; 
The air is fainting; women sit with fans
And wonder when a rain will come that way. 

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The games we play

Today had been forecast to be cooler and wetter, so we made up some sourdough to bake. Today has turned out to be partly cloudy and quite warm (80℉ at the moment) but the dough had risen nicely, so it went into the oven. We’ll rely on the AC to get us through. If we believe the forecast, this may be the week that summer weather actually begins locally, no rain and the prospect of 90’s by next weekend. This isn’t a complaint. We’re not jealous of those who are experiencing wildfires and heat domes. On the other hand, we have been starting to think we understood how Noah felt around the 35th day.

if only they all turned out this well

Photo by J. Harrington

This looks like the time in the season to pick away at some outside chores and fit in a fishing trip or two, without overdoing either. But first, we have to rehang the horsefly trap, a big blue ball covered in sticky goo. The flies are back and last year we got a pleasant surprise when we saw how many ended up stuck in the goo. The dogs appreciate having fewer flies harass them at least as much as the humans. Then, if I get really ambitious, the Jeep could get washed, but that may bring back the rain. Sigh. I know, I’ll hold off Jeep washing until many of the flies are stuck where they can’t harass me as I’m holding a hose or a sponge.

For a recent birthday, I asked for, and received, a copy of Greg Brown’s wonderful album, The Poet Game. I already had a copy of Ani DiFranco's rendition of the title song and wanted to hear it sung by the writer. I’m very grateful I’ve never had to choose between, or among, fishing, poetry and music. Each brings considerable joy to my life. In these times, doesn’t each of us need as much of that kind of joy as we can get. Of course we do. Now, I hope you enjoy

the poet game

By Greg Brown

Down by the river junior year
Walking with my girl
And we came upon a place
There in the tall grass where a couple
Had been making love
And left the mark of their embrace
I said to her, "Looks like they had some fun."
She said to me, "Let's do the same."
And still I taste her kisses
And her freckles in the sun
When I play the poet game

A young man down in hill country
In the year of '22
Went to see his future bride
She lived in a rough old shack
That poverty blew through
She invited him inside
She'd been cooking, ashamed and feeling sad
She could only offer him bread and her name -
Grandpa said that it was the best gift
A fella ever had
And he taught me the poet game

I had a friend who drank too much
And played too much guitar -
And we sure got along
Reel-to-reels rolled across
The country near and far
With letters poems and songs..
But these days he don't talk to me
And he won't tell me why
I miss him every time i say his name
I don't know what he's doing
Or why our friendship died
While we played the poet game 

The fall rain was pounding down

On an old New Hampshire mill
And the river wild and high
I was talking to her while leaves blew down
Like a sudden chill -
There was wildness in her eyes
We made love like we'd been waiting
All of our lives for this -
Strangers know no shame -
But she had to leave at dawn
And with a sticky farewell kiss
Left me to play the poet game

I watched my country turn into
A coast-to-coast strip mall
And I cried out in a song:
If we could do all that in thirty years
Then please tell me you all -
Why does good change take so long?
Why does the color of your skin
Or who you choose to love
Still lead to such anger and pain?
And why do I think it's any help
For me to still dream of
Playing the poet game?

Sirens wail above the fields -
Another soul gone down -
Another Sun about to rise
I've lost track of my mistakes
Like birds they fly around
And darken half of my skies
To all of those I've hurt -
I pray you'll forgive me
I to you will freely do the same
So many things I didn't see
With my eyes turned inside
Playing the poet game

I walk out at night to take a leak
Underneath the stars -
Oh yeah that's the life for me
There's Orion and the Pleiades
And I guess that must be Mars -
All as clear as we long to be
I've sung what I was given -
Some was bad and some was good
I never did know from where it came
And if I had it all to do again
I am not sure I would
Play the poet game

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Fritillarying the summer away

It’s finally stopped raining long enough for me to do a second grass cutting of the season in the back yard. I was also going to mow our ditch where the dogs do most of their business but an orange butterfly, with spots, a fritillary I think, landed on some of the yellow wildflower/weed blossoms that would have been mown into oblivion. That deterred me from ditch mowing today.

Earlier, the Better Half and I headed off to the farm to pick up this week’s community supported agriculture [CSA] share. The share box contained:

• GREEN CABBAGE
• EITHER CARROTS OR GOLDEN NUGGET CHERRY TOMATOES (I think we got carrots)
• SNAP PEAS
• KALE
• BEETS WITH TOPS
• SCAPES
• BABY ONIONS
• SLICER CUCUMBER, and
• CILANTRO

During the drive we got a look at a couple of whitetail does and a few small flocks of wild turkeys. All in all a pleasant way to start a weekend.

box of fishing flies, mostly parachute Adams

Photo by J. Harrington

Yesterday we threatened, or promised, depending on your viewpoint, to spend more time engaged with fly-fishing. Last night, while (re)reading Peter Kaminsky’s Fly Fisherman’s Guide to the Meaning of Life, we reached the chapter on A Fly Fisher’s Essential Reading. I thought you might enjoy seeing what and who's listed:

• In Our Time, Earnest Hemingway
• Trout Madness, Robert Traver
• A River Runs through It, Norman Maclean
• Tarpon Quest, John Cole
• Fy Fishing through the Midlife Crisis, Howell Raines
• Superior Fishing, Robert B. Roosevelt
• Spring Creek, Nick Lyons
• Hatches, Al Caucci and Bob Nastasi
• The Fly and the Fish, John Atherton
• Fishing wth McClane, A. J. McClane

I was pleased to note that I’ve read about half of the titles listed and other works of several of the authors listed. Once I’ve confirmed whether or not a couple of titles are lurking somewhere on our book shelves, we may add one or two of these to an upcoming Christmas list. 

Speckled Trout

By Ron Rash

Water-flesh gleamed like mica:

orange fins, red flankspots, a char

shy as ginseng, found only

in spring-flow gaps, the thin clear

of faraway creeks no map

could name. My cousin showed me

those hidden places. I loved

how we found them, the way we

followed no trail, just stream-sound

tangled in rhododendron,

to where slow water opened

a hole to slip a line in,

and lift as from a well bright

shadows of another world,

held in my hand, their color

already starting to fade.

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We’re in summer mode!

Today I think I discovered we have some yellow butterfly weed growing on the rise behind the house. As far as I know, all the butterfly weed I’ve seen previously was orange. I was today year’s old when I learned there is a yellow butterfly weed (or I may have it confused with hoary puccoon). Two of the regular, orange, butterfly weed plants appear to have survived the winter and are now blooming. Almost all the poison ivy I sprayed a week or ten days ago is looking very sickly. Once we get a cooler, drier spell, I’ll spray some that I seem to have missed or that grew since I sprayed.

Butterfly-weed (Asclepias tuberosa)

Photo by J. Harrington

Now that we’re living in a city (Chisago), that was annexed from the township (Lent) we used to live in, the city started mowing roadsides today in our area. (It’s not legal before August first outside a city.) Most of the township merged with Stacy and even though we ended up in Chisago, our mailing address remained in Stacy. Go figure!

Anyhow, today is the day I trimmed around our mail box, because the city skipped mowing close to it. Getting the weed whacker started in the heat and humidity was a treat, but once started it worked fine. (Another reason to convert to all electric yard tools.) I’ll whack around some flower beds tomorrow and the day after, if it’s not raining. All the rain that’s fallen the past several weeks has the Anoka Sand Plain section behind our house bursting with wildflowers. I don’t recall it ever looking so pretty in the quarter century we’ve been here.

Since I wore myself out with unaccustomed yard work this morning, I’m signing off until tomorrow. It’ll take awhile for me to get acclimated to the heat and “homditty.”

Wildflowers

By Reginald Gibbons

Coleridge carefully wrote down a whole page

of them, all beginning with the letter b.

Guidebooks preserve our knowledge

of their hues and shapes, their breeding.

Many poems have made delicate word-chimes—

like wind-chimes not for wind but for the breath of man—

out of their lovely names.

At the edge of the prairie in a cabin

when thunder comes closer to thump the roof hard

a few of them—in a corner, brittle in a dry jar

where a woman’s thoughtful hand left them to fade—

seem to blow with the announcing winds outside

as the rain begins to fall on all their supple kin

of all colors, under a sky of one color, or none.

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Soggy is as soggy does

It’s wonderful that I have a stack of books to be read because we’re forecast to get almost an inch and a half of rain tomorrow and rain daily for at least the eight days following. This might explain the large wooden boat I saw one of the neighbors building in his side yard. There’s also been lots of animals walking by in pairs recently. I wonder if that could mean something.

a local trout stream in mid-June

Photo by J. Harrington

It looks like I may need to adjust my fishing plans if the local trout streams start flooding. Not much yard work will be doable. I may have to just relax, drink coffee, bake some more sourdough, and read. Could it be that Mother Nature is giving us an extended Father’s Day present? I wouldn’t want to seem ungrateful, so I may squeeze in a reconnoitering trip to personally assess the wadeability and fishability of my home waters. Remember, last year many of us we experiencing drought conditions.

Meanwhile, yesterday and today I managed to make a little progress in restoring the yard to almost manageable conditions. When, if?, the rain stops we’ll get caught up on mowing, leaf cleanup, and torching a burn pile or two. This year is providing lots of opportunities for me to practice shaking my obsessive-compulsive need to get it done, NOW! and to do better at going with the flow (heh, heh). Maybe some of you will get to enjoy a Father’s Day weekend that isn’t too soggy and can share with some of us what that’s like.

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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Now we’re cutting it

I spent much of the morning mowing overly tall, excessively thick, grass in the back yard. It’s not been tended to for weeks, thanks to our rain every day or other day pattern. There’s more to be done but at least we’re now at the beginning of summer mowed (heh, heh). I wouldn’t want anyone to find out, but it felt good to have my butt on a tractor seat instead of in an arm chair. Being outside and noticing what’s sprung up from seeds long dormant due to lack of rain is more fulfilling than doom scrolling on any and all social media and news platforms. Now I just need to remember to pace myself to levels of effort more consistent with my seriously advanced [but unspecified] age. The primary objective for the afternoon is to hit the poison ivy with some Roundup. Rain plus morning dew have hindered those efforts for about a week now.

whitetail doe and fawn

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half is excited because flax seeds that were sown several years ago have finally germinated and bloomed. We’ll see about some photos this afternoon. I’m going to take a chance on jinxing the effort and start to give serious consideration to where the germinated bergamot seeds should get planted. I’m thinking maybe at the top of the hill where the dead apple tree needs to get removed. Someplace that I’m not likely to be tempted to mow plus where we can watch for flutterbyes and bumbling bees.

Perhaps the best and most exciting news of the day is that this morning we enjoyed the first fawn visit of the year. As mom slowly munched her way through the field behind the house, junior scampered and gamboled south, west, east and north at top speed plus. I hope they become regular visitors for the summer and autumn.

Written Deer

Maggie Smith

Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?
                            —Wisława Szymborska

My handwriting is all over these woods.
No, my handwriting is these woods,

each tree a half-print, half-cursive scrawl,
each loop a limb. My house is somewhere
here, & I have scribbled myself inside it.

What is home but a book we write, then
read again & again, each time dog-earing

different pages. In the morning I wake
in time to pencil the sun high. How
fragile it is, the world—I almost wrote

the word but caught myself. Either one
could be erased. In these written woods,

branches smudge around me whenever
I take a deep breath. Still, written fawns
lie in the written sunlight that dapples

their backs. What is home but a passage
I’m writing & underlining every time I read it.

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... and the livin’ is easy

Forsythia blooms are gone. Lilacs are well past peak flowering. Purple vetch blooms are filling local fields. Butterfly weed, and black- and brown-eyed Susans will be blooming by month’s end or thereabouts. Father’s Day is next Sunday. Summer solstice occurs locally less than a week later, at 3:50 pm on June 20. Our community supported agriculture [CSA] summer shares start next Saturday. We’re sliding into deep summer and the weather patterns so far have left personal priorities' conflicts between catching up on yard work and catching up on fishing as the weather improves.

a field with butterfly weed and black-eyed  susans

Photo by J. Harrington

We’ve basically carried “No Mow May” well into June, largely due to persistent intermittent rain making the grass too wet to mow well. If it wasn’t raining, the wind was blowing hard enough to make casting a fly line potentially hazardous. This week we’ll make a dent in the yard clean-up and see if we can squeeze in at least one trip to check out a local trout stream. It looks like water levels are dropping to something close to normal and I refuse to get too bent out of shape about missed opportunities. Controlling the weather is well above my pay grade and my son just gave me an early birthday present that promotes me from codger to curmudgeon. That means I’m officially old enough to legitimately use age as an excuse to sit on my butt and read if I can’t go fishing and don’t wanna mow. It’s not like I’ve got a Home Owners Association breathing down my neck.

Summer

By Carlo Betocchi
Translated by Geoffrey Brock

And it grows, the vain

summer,

even for us with our

bright green sins:

behold the dry guest,

the wind,

as it stirs up quarrels

among magnolia boughs

and plays its serene

tune on

the prows of all the leaves—

and then is gone,

leaving the leaves

still there,

the tree still green, but breaking

the heart of the air.

Notes:

Read the translator's notes on this poem. 

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