Christmas horsing around!

As the Better Half and I approached the tack barn this morning at dawn, the temperature (not the windchill) varied from -21℉ to -23 ℉. It was cold! The Daughter Person's horse needed feeding and the horse's owner was otherwise occupied tending to her daughter, our granddaughter, ill with a cold. A similar routine had occurred twice Saturday, driving to the barn in my Jeep to feed the horse, but the cold hadn't been quite as ferocious. Of possible interest: the horse's name is Quinn and, triggered by the temperatures, I was starting to remember some of the lyrics to Dylan's Quinn the Eskimo. (I wonder if we could get Dylan's "Mighty Quinn" to visit the White House and Congress. Click link, see first verse.)

our Quinn: the horse, not an Eskimo

Photo by J. Harrington

Anyhow, the forecast is that Tuesday's temperature should reach 43℉, a more than 60℉ shift in about half a week. That's insane, but I'm looking forward to an early January thaw after which temperatures for the rest of the month may mostly be more reasonable and seasonable, in the 20's above zero range. Don't forget to celebrate Winter Solstice a week from today!

Much to the joy of my taste buds, and the dismay of my blood sugar, we have entered Christmas cookie season. Daughter person will be dropping off some frosted cookies later today and the Better Half has promised to bake some raspberry jam thumbprint cookies soon. I will do my best to pace myself rather than pig out. I don't want Santa to put me on the naughty list and deliver coal in my stocking, increasing my carbon footprint. I wonder if the IPCC, or anyone, has talked to the jolly old elf about a fossil fuel phaseout? Maybe instead of coal, he could leave naughty kids sand to pound?

This year's Christmas tree has remained upright for the past week, for which we are grateful. It's now decorated but I've not had an opportune time to take pictures.. Maybe this coming week. The outside lighting is delightful and cheery. I've already received an early present, an indoor lavender plant that is now living in a South-facing window well. It gives me something to enjoy from now until Spring green-up. Being "of Irish descent," I do prefer green to white and the color lavender, I think, looks better against a green instead of a white background.

Now, in alignment with today's posting and the season, please enjoy this poem:

Let’s just put it this way: They didn’t start calling him “Jolly” Old St. Nicholas until after he got the reindeer.

Poem by Lorraine Jackson

cc/wickimedia commons

 

‘Twas the night before Christmas,

And all through the stable,

Poor Santa was fretting if his horses were able.

The toys were all ready

But the horses were not.

With his sleigh pullers ailing,

Santa was quite distraught.

All the IVs were hung

on the stall fronts with care,

some legs had been cold-hosed

‘til the vet could get there.

Poor Bella had rainrot

And Gordo had thrush

Jellybean pulled a muscle

When he spooked at a brush

Though sometimes dear Rhoda

Could be very sweet,

Christmas Eve she decided to go into heat.

Old Roger was moonblind,

And Jake was too green

Pete had colic or gas–

It remained to be seen.

Trouble was best,

But he has the Cushings.

If he they took him unclipped,

He’d look like a Wookie.

Santa sat on a bucket,

And looked down the barn row

Wondering how he would get to and fro.

The vet bills were growing

They’d make Mark Cuban balk.

Half his elves don’t make toys now,

Instead they hand walk.

As Santa sat moaning

He looked out on the snow.

And saw eight wild reindeer,

With nowhere to go.

“It just might be crazy,”

Said St. Nick full of bliss

“But eight crazy reindeer

Would be better than THIS!”

So that’s how the reindeer

Came to be Santa’s hitch,

And there’s never a colic

Nor a last minute glitch.

The horses retired

But they still hear the bells,

And each Christmas Eve

all their knees start to swell.

Merry Christmas!

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Wishing you seasons full of happiness

Were it not for our persistently cloudy skies, about 3 am this morning we could have enjoyed seeing December's full moon, known as Little Spirit Moon by the Ojibwe and Shedding Horns Moon by the Lakota, according to my copy of the Minnesota Weather Guide calendar. The dogs and I were taking our early morning constitutional about that time. As Minnesota sports fans, we have lots of practice with the phrase “wait ’til next year.” This year we’re in a typical Minnesota pattern of really cold and sunny or warmer and cloudy and often snowy. Yesterday and today are like the latter.

Proof that it’s been cold can be seen on local lakes where portable ice fishing houses are popping up like woodland mushrooms in a wet spring. While doing seasonal errands, we noticed the houses on not just one, several local lakes. I’ve tried ice fishing years ago. I’m too restless to sit still in an ice house or on a deer stand for the amount of time required for success.

Christmas thumbprint cookies: bet you can’t eat just one!

Photo by J. Harrington

Slowly we’re making progress with Christmas shopping. The Better Half [BBH] just finished baking Christmas cookies, including lots of raspberry thumbprints and lemon bars(?) for me. Plus I still have more than a dozen white chocolate, cranberry scoop cookies from Taste of Scandinavia. My holiday wealth isn’t measured in gold!

On our way to the barn yesterday, to visit and feed the Daughter Person’s horse, the BH and I spotted a flock of three to four dozen turkeys in a field along the way. I don’t recall ever seeing that many in one place before. They were foraging during our drizzle/ snow showers and had disappeared by the time we were returning home.

It’s now less than a week until Winter Solstice (locally 3:20 am CST). At the moment we’re in that shoulder season between the start of meteorological winter and the solstice. I’ve already reached a point at which I’m looking forward to Christmas and to days starting to lengthen just before then.

Happiness

Jane Kenyon
1947 – 1995

There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never
knew about, who flies a single-engine plane
onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes
into town, and inquires at every door
until he finds you asleep midafternoon
as you so often are during the unmerciful
hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.
It comes to the woman sweeping the street
with a birch broom, to the child
whose mother has passed out from drink.
It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing
a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,
and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots
in the night.
       It even comes to the boulder
in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,
to rain falling on the open sea,
to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

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White Christmas?

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

sparkly, frosted Christmas cookies

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

White-Eyes

By Mary Oliver

In winter 

    all the singing is in 

         the tops of the trees 

             where the wind-bird 

with its white eyes 

    shoves and pushes 

         among the branches. 

             Like any of us 

he wants to go to sleep, 

    but he's restless— 

         he has an idea, 

             and slowly it unfolds 

from under his beating wings 

    as long as he stays awake. 

         But his big, round music, after all, 

             is too breathy to last. 

So, it's over. 

    In the pine-crown 

         he makes his nest, 

             he's done all he can. 

I don't know the name of this bird, 

    I only imagine his glittering beak 

         tucked in a white wing 

             while the clouds— 

which he has summoned 

    from the north— 

         which he has taught 

             to be mild, and silent— 

thicken, and begin to fall 

    into the world below 

         like stars, or the feathers 

               of some unimaginable bird 

that loves us, 

    that is asleep now, and silent— 

         that has turned itself 

             into snow.

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’Twas 10 days before Christmas

I bet at least once you’ve gone down a flight of stairs that had one more, or less, step than you expected. It threw you off balance for a bit. That’s how I’m feeling every time I think we’ve finally got squared away for Christmas. This morning we nearly ran out of packing tape. Spare C cell batteries had been placed in service, so backups were needed. Another package of Christmas cookies needed a ride to the post office. (The union for Santa’s elves is starting to nag me to join.) And, since we burn candles more at this season, candle lighters are getting exhausted with spares needed. Maybe next week will be more quiet.

my preferred kind of snow flake

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half informs me that most, but not all, the Christmas cookie baking is attended to. I keep reminding myself that cloudy, rainy weather could be worse. It could be snow or ice (freezing rain). Anyhow, tomorrow morning we’ll visit the Granddaughter and I’ll attempt to read a solstice book to her. Several years ago we picked up a copy of The Shortest Day, and I’ve come to really enjoy it, even if I’m the closest we can come to pass for a young’un to read it to.

Many years Christmas has brought wonderful presents such as clothes, books or food, but no toys for me to play with. This year I’ve figured out a solution to that issue. I will have dug out of storage and have set up, ready to play with, several fly-tying kits I bought a year or two ago and never got around to assembling. Post-Christmas tying will keep my hands, eyes and mind busy and provide something to fantasize about when warmer weather comes. After all, a guy can only wear so many clothes, each so much food and read so many books at one time. If this seems strange in a Christmas posting, take a look at yesterday’s blog.

We’ve cut it close, but today is the best available time for today’s poem, just like the best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago and the second best time is today.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

By Anonymous

The first day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The second day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The third day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The fourth day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The fifth day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The sixth day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The seventh day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Seven swans a-swimming, 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The eighth day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Eight maids a-milking, 

Seven swans a-swimming, 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The ninth day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Nine drummers drumming, 

Eight maids a-milking, 

Seven swans a-swimming, 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The tenth day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Ten pipers piping, 

Nine drummers drumming, 

Eight maids a-milking, 

Seven swans a-swimming, 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The eleventh day of Christmas 

My true love sent to me 

Eleven ladies dancing, 

Ten pipers piping, 

Nine drummers drumming, 

Eight maids a-milking, 

Seven swans a-swimming, 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The twelfth day of Christmas 

My true love sent to me 

Twelve fiddlers fiddling, 

Eleven ladies dancing, 

Ten pipers piping, 

Nine drummers drumming, 

Eight maids a-milking, 

Seven swans a-swimming, 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree.

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Finding the season’s warmth

If this year is like most years, we’ll realize at some point we’re short a present for some certain someone or other, but for now, after cross-checking with the Better Half [BH], it appears we’re down to wrapping, putting under the tree and helping the elves on Christmas Eve with stocking stuffing. Yay! Oops! Almost forgot about Christmas cookies, plus I’lll be getting back into a bread baking rhythm. A levain is rising and dried cranberries are soaking. Tomorrow, with luck, sourdough will get assembled for baking late in the day or, more likely, Wednesday.

The seasonal CDs, while not as exuberant as Brenda Lee’s rockin’ ‘round the Christmas tree, provide mostly mellow sounds that fit the season well. We’ll listen to such songs as we wrap presents and the BH tends to cookies. I may even break out an original 33 1/3 rpm Elvis’ Christmas Album one of these days if I need to boost my energy level. (Told ya’ I’m that old!)

woodpecker at suet feeder

Photo by J. Harrington

Mother Nature is delivering an early present, the sun trying to break through through a persistent cloud cover. Warmer temperatures are promised for later this week. December’s full moon occurs the day after Christmas, following a "better late than never" pattern set by the three wise men. Meanwhile, the marshes are frozen but we saw several flocks of airborne Canada geese earlier this week. I’ve no idea where they’re roosting. Snow covered fields are empty of sandhill cranes. We’ve seen few turkeys and no deer for a week or more. Woodpeckers and chickadees have been enjoying the suet feeder. The official start of winter is almost here and critters are acting accordingly, except, of course, for us humans, who try to largely ignore the effects of seasons.

The Sun in Bemidji, Minnesota

Sean Hill

The sun isn’t even a pearl today—
its light diffused, strained gray
by winter haze—this the grayest
day so far, so when I enter the Wells
Fargo parking lot the last thing I expect
is to see the sun in the car next to mine.
I watch a woman make out with the sun,
and I’m jealous of the sun. Beautiful
beyond her desire—wanting the sun
so—she almost glows as she tugs
sweetness from his whiskers with
her teeth, and his drool runs down
her chin. I think the sun is a man,
but it’s hard to tell in this light. No,
it’s a mango, and I’m jealous of her.

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Small? Beautiful!

To show how old, and old fashioned, I am, today we received four CDs of Christmas music I ordered a week or so ago. As I’m typing this, the Better Half and I are listening to An American Christmas: Shapenote Carols from New England & Appalachia. As native Minnesotans would say: “It’s different.”

The other three CDs are Windham Hill albums, one guitar, one winter solstice, one Christmas. We’re building on years of enjoying George Winston and a few Celtic Christmas albums. Last night’s snow provides a wonderful setting for listening to Christmas and Solstice music. Now, if we can learn to keep away from news media and social media platforms for a couple of weeks, we may get to relax and enjoy the holidays.

another Charlie Brown Christmas tree

Photo by J. Harrington

This year’s tree is pictured above. To its right are the sprigs of winterberries we foraged a couple of weeks ago. [Look for sprigs arising from the brown vase on the stereo speaker.] I think we’ve got the Christmas greens taken care of. Presents are getting acquired, sorted and wrapped. Soon it will be time for attention to be turned to cookies for Santa, and his helpers.

Before we sign off for today, we want to share something that showed up in our email inbox this morning. A bit of background: twenty-five years ago was the 25th anniversary of E.F. Schumacher’s Small is Beautiful: Economics as if People Mattered: 25 Years Later ... with Commentaries. Today’s quote from Schumacher seems to fit the times and the season quite well. I’m going to take it to heart as a resolution for next year and offer it here for your consideration. You might want to take a look at the book also.

Everywhere people ask: "What can I actually do?" The answer is as simple as it is disconcerting: we can, each of us, work to put our own inner house in order. The guidance we need for this work cannot be found in science or technology, the value of which utterly depends on the ends they serve; but it can still be found in the traditional wisdom of mankind. 

The Way We Love Something Small

Kimberly Blaeser

The translucent claws of newborn mice

this pearl cast of color,

the barely perceptible

like a ghosted threshold of being:

here     not here.

The single breath we hold

on the thinnest verge of sight:

not there   there.

A curve nearly naked 

an arc of almost, 

a wisp of becoming

a wand—

tiny enough to change me. 

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The sweetest season approaches

A boule of sourdough bread is about ready to come out of the oven. The house smells great and the oven has taken the edge off any late November chilly drafts, although this afternoon’s weather (mid 40’s) is a big improvement over yesterday’s. Last week’s snow along the edges of the road is actually melting in the sun. The Daughter Person, Son-In-Law, and Granddaughter are visiting for dinner. Things are looking better than okay, at least for the moment, in our little corner of the world.

The dogs and I took a stroll to check the ice cover on the “pond” north of the property. The ice is still there, although a couple of places look a little soft. But then it is more a creek than a pond. It drains, very slowly, to the Sunrise river about half a mile away.

a seasonal favorite

Photo by J. Harrington

I’m looking forward to cutting down and putting up the tree this weekend. The Better Half and I did a quick scan a few days ago and picked out this year’s tree, but then I noticed several pines growing on the south side of the drive that I’ve not looked at carefully. Some time over the next few days I’ll go peek and see if there’s one I think looks even better than the already carefully selected specimen.

Still to come are the wonderful sights, smells and tastes of the Better Half’s Christmas cookie baking. I have a particular fondness for thumbprint cookies filled with raspberry jam, but, in a pinch, will settle for frosted cookies. I do promise to leave at least a few for Santa on Christmas Eve.

[little tree]

By E. E. Cummings

little tree 

little silent Christmas tree 

you are so little 

you are more like a flower 

who found you in the green forest 

and were you very sorry to come away? 

see          i will comfort you 

because you smell so sweetly 

i will kiss your cool bark 

and hug you safe and tight 

just as your mother would, 

only don't be afraid 

look          the spangles 

that sleep all the year in a dark box 

dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine, 

the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads, 

put up your little arms 

and i'll give them all to you to hold 

every finger shall have its ring 

and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy 

then when you're quite dressed 

you'll stand in the window for everyone to see 

and how they'll stare! 

oh but you'll be very proud 

and my little sister and i will take hands 

and looking up at our beautiful tree 

we'll dance and sing 

"Noel Noel" 

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Growing a culture as well as crops

The amaryllis bulbs, which were tucked away in a cool dark place at Christmas last year, are now repotted and showing signs of life. Maybe we’ll enjoy Easter amaryllis blooms this year?

There’s now more than half a dozen jonquils blooming on the downstairs bookcase in the west-facing window. The hyacinths and tulips in the planter are emerging and getting ready to flower.

The Better Half is baking one of my favorite kinds of cookies. That, and coffee, and good books, may help me make it until spring moves from inside to out. Would that snow season were as brief as lilac season.

local lilac season: mid-May

Photo by J. Harrington

I’ve, once again, knocked down icicles growing over the front stoop steps and thrown more chunks of ice melt salt onto the roof over the stoop. I think part of the issue is that the downspout gets blocked with ice so melt water also fills the gutter and overflows and refreezes.

Last night’s celebration of the Land Stewardship Project’s 40th anniversary, with Robin Wall Kimmerer as keynoter, was heartening. I’d like to see US phase out industrial agriculture and CAFOs. Meat raised for food is a significant source of greenhouse gases. This morning I finished reading Arwen Donahue’s Landings, a Crooked Creek Farm Year. I enjoyed reading the words and looking at the drawings. Donahue flagged one concern that troubles me deeply. As a society, how do we enhance the opportunities available to rural residents so they don’t feel compelled to move away to urban centers for what are perceived to be better opportunities? Industrializing agriculture to produce field corn (ethanol) and soy beans (biodiesel) is not feeding the world and it is contributing to automation of agriculture and consolidation of farms, reducing rural populations.

The Farm

By Joyce Sutphen

My father’s farm is an apple blossomer.

He keeps his hills in dandelion carpet

and weaves a lane of lilacs between the rose

and the jack-in-the-pulpits.

His sleek cows ripple in the pastures.

The dog and purple iris

keep watch at the garden’s end.

His farm is rolling thunder,

a lightning bolt on the horizon.

His crops suck rain from the sky

and swallow the smoldering sun.

His fields are oceans of heat,

where waves of gold

beat the burning shore.

A red fox

pauses under the birch trees,

a shadow is in the river’s bend.

When the hawk circles the land,

my father’s grainfields whirl beneath it.

Owls gather together to sing in his woods,

and the deer run his golden meadow.

My father’s farm is an icicle,

a hillside of white powder.

He parts the snowy sea,

and smooths away the valleys.

He cultivates his rows of starlight

and drags the crescent moon

through dark unfurrowed fields.

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Just one of those days...

The beauty of today's snowfall has been tempered because it fell not only on woods and fields and waters, but also on roads and driveways and parking lots. It’s a heavy, wet mess to clean up. We decided to start early, after the power went out for a second time and the phone outage did in our internet access. I suspect that utilities aren’t paying enough attention to hardening the grid and making the local distribution system less vulnerable to what appears to be an increase in the number of heavy, clingy snowfalls we’re getting as the climate breakdown continues. Generating clean power with fusion won’t help much if it can’t be delivered.

A 7 am Zoom meeting I was scheduled to present at this morning was rescheduled because the convener just came down with COVID. The reschedule would have been necessary anyhow since our power and internet were out. Meanwhile, the Federal Reserve has again raised interest rates and the Dow Jones has shown its displeasure by dropping close to 900 points by early afternoon.

Tomorrow is trash and recycling pickup day but I don’t dare to put the cans out by the road until after the township plow comes by. The plow driver is sometimes a bit exuberant even with a powdery snow. With this heavy stuff our cans could end up in the next county over if they’re at all close to being in the way.

Here is the good news:

snow covered trees and fields are pretty


Photo by J. Harrington



• The trees and fields really are pretty, even on another cloudy day.
• I haven’t yet eaten all the Christmas cookies
• Once again I am reading and trying to follow a wabi sabi outlook based on

Nothing lasts forever 

Nothing is perfect

Nothing is ever finished

Also, I just rediscovered a book on poetry that I put aside a couple of years ago. It's going near the top of next year's reading list. It’s not unreasonable to think that this will be the last messy snow storm until next March. 

Removing the Dross

By Thomas R. Moore

After snowstorms my father

shoveled the driveway where it lay

open to a sweep of wind across

a neighbor’s field, where the snow

drifted half way down to the paved

road, before snow-blowers, before

pick-ups cruised the streets with

THE BOSS lettered on red plows.

He heated the flat shovel

in the woodstove till the blade

steamed, like Vulcan at his furnace

removing the dross, then rubbed

a hissing candle on the steel

so the snow would slide unchecked

as he made each toss. He marked

blocks with the waxed blade, lifted

and tossed, lifted and tossed again,

squaring off against the snow.

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Seasonal observations

We live in strange and interesting times. Usually a pileated woodpecker feeds on the suet chunks in the suet feeder. Not this morning. The pileated was turning that long, tall body sideways trying to get at the coarse sunflower chips in the “squirrel-buster” feeder. Unfortunately for the woodpecker, its size and weight were sufficient to close the feeding ports, the way it’s supposed to work with squirrels. Meanwhile, right next to the “squirrel-buster,” a tiny red-breasted nuthatch was feeding on the suet. I stood watching and scratching my head.

pileated woodpecker on suet feeder

Photo by J. Harrington

My trip into the big city failed to produce the results I had gone seeking. The local book store’s web site yesterday said a book I wanted was on their shelves. It wasn’t when I arrived late this morning. My drive along Grand Avenue was traffic-laden and it seems the city is losing much of its character to new development. I had a similar observation as I drove through Stillwater to check out Valley Booksellers. Backordered there. On the bright side, I saw stretches of the country (and city) side I’ve not visited for months. Passing a few of the small beef-raising operations closer to home, I was reminded of the animals in the stable at the inn in Jerusalem. so the entire trip wasn’t a downer.

Back home I was attacked by a handful of the Better Half’s orange Christmas cookies. Using my teeth and tongue in a savage defense, I survived the attack and am on standby should the Christmas cookie rebellion become active again. As the tough folks say “Bring it on!” 

The tippy Christmas tree seems to be stabilized. Lights and ornaments are ever so slowly being added. The dreariness of the weather and the urban settings won’t dampen out spirits. We did get to notice the St. Croix, immediately upstream of downtown Stilllwater, is ice covered bank to bank. That means we can now look forward to the return of open water next spring. Remember, there are only 89 days between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. Thank you, February!

“Your Luck Is About To Change”

By Susan Elizabeth Howe

(A fortune cookie)

Ominous inscrutable Chinese news 

to get just before Christmas, 

considering my reasonable health, 

marriage spicy as moo-goo-gai-pan, 

career running like a not-too-old Chevrolet. 

Not bad, considering what can go wrong: 

the bony finger of Uncle Sam 

might point out my husband, 

my own national guard, 

and set him in Afghanistan; 

my boss could take a personal interest; 

the pain in my left knee could spread to my right. 

Still, as the old year tips into the new, 

I insist on the infant hope, gooing and kicking 

his legs in the air. I won't give in 

to the dark, the sub-zero weather, the fog, 

or even the neighbors' Nativity. 

Their four-year-old has arranged 

his whole legion of dinosaurs 

so they, too, worship the child, 

joining the cow and sheep. Or else, 

ultimate mortals, they've come to eat 

ox and camel, Mary and Joseph, 

then savor the newborn babe.

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The more things change...

The tree has been cut, shortened to fit the house, and is likely to get decorated over the weekend. Tomorrow the Better Half will bake her famous orange Christmas cookies and I will head for the big city to do a little shopping. Once again I will enter a book store sans the company of a responsible adult, so who knows what may happen.

If the sourdough rises overnight, tomorrow afternoon will be baking time for me (the kitchen isn’t big enough for two bakers at a time) since, in our  house, cookies usually take precedence over bread. A few years back, before we became empty nesters, Christmas cookie baking was a bigger deal. One year, or maybe two, I even got involved in the creation of a gingerbread village. All of this is leading to the observation that some of the best Christmas presents ever are happy memories from Christmases past with family and close friends, both four and two legged. Think about that the next time a MAGA relative sounds off at a family gathering. Remember that the Magi brought frankincense, myrrh and gold and that silence is golden.

Santa’s gingerbread village

Photo by J. Harrington

Among the ornaments going onto the tree this year are three new (to us) owls, antique french ornaments. I have long had a thing about owls and the Better Half often humors me with owl ornaments of various kinds. I just noticed several other owl ornaments on the tree and am beginning  to contemplate, for next year if the fates allow, a separate, smallish tree with all, but only, owl ornaments. Thinking  about that, maybe Mother  Nature will provide a Christmas present with an actual owl, probably barred, sitting in one of our trees where I can see it. It’s been quite some time since any owls have been seen around the yard, at least by me.

This posting was interrupted by a case of tipping (over) Christmas tree. I went off to get a bigger stand which seems to be helping. Stay tuned. All of which is causing me Christmas flashbacks to my father wrestling some Christmas trees into submission in the bay windows of the dining room in our Dorchester triple-decker. Some things may go into remission, but they never really change.

Christmas Cookies By C. F. Kelly

The mixer in the kitchen purrs; it twists and tosses as it stirs the cookie batter Mom will bake and then let me help decorate. The silver cutters wait in lines to shape their own unique designs when rolling pin has done its job and flattened out the doughy blob. She wipes her brow, adjusts her sleeves, and starts to cut out holly leaves, then picks the joyful rocking horse and stars and bells and birds, of course. The trees and Santas wait their turn, while angels, next to snow men, yearn to don their robes and join the crowd? I’m sure they want to sing out loud. The powdered sugar frosting spreads with ease and forms the sticky beds on which the colored sprinkles rest, where red-hot buttons look their best. And I would like to make it clear that these creations disappear because in spite of looking neat, they’re really baked for us to eat.

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Merry Christmas to all!

Today is a hectic day so we’ll make this post short and sweet. We hope the season and the New Year brings not just tidings of, but real, comfort and joy to all who believe in love, kindness and kinship.

Santa believes in share and share alike. He didn’t eat all the cookies we left for him. He left these behind last night but did drink all his milk.

cookies Santa left to share with us

Photo by J. Harrington

We’re off to celebrate Christmas and our real Son’s birthday with the Daughter Person, Son-In-Law and Granddaughter. Until tomorrow, enjoy, as best you can, all of today and these

Christmas Cookies by C. F. Kelly

The mixer in the kitchen purrs; it twists and tosses as it stirs the cookie batter Mom will bake and then let me help decorate. The silver cutters wait in lines to shape their own unique designs when rolling pin has done its job and flattened out the doughy blob. She wipes her brow, adjusts her sleeves, and starts to cut out holly leaves, then picks the joyful rocking horse and stars and bells and birds, of course. The trees and Santas wait their turn, while angels, next to snow men, yearn to don their robes and join the crowd— I’m sure they want to sing out loud. The powdered sugar frosting spreads with ease and forms the sticky beds on which the colored sprinkles rest, where red-hot buttons look their best. And I would like to make it clear that these creations disappear because in spite of looking neat, they’re really baked for us to eat.

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adapting Christmas traditions

The cookies with the red centers are known in our family as thumbprint cookies. In my family of origin, my mother used to bake a similar cookie but the jam was between dough on top and bottom instead of open. I’m not sure if my mother picked the recipe from a cook book or learned it from her mother. Anyhow, the Better Half [BH] and the Daughter Person [DP] have been baking Christmas cookies as long as I can remember. This year though there’s a new wrinkle in an old tradition.

a plateful of Christmas thumbprint cookies

Photo by J. Harrington

Our one+ year old granddaughter has an allergy to eggs. Our traditional recipe for thumbprint cookie dough includes eggs, or at least an egg. Yesterday the DP asked the BH to try a recipe for thumbprint cookies without eggs in the dough. Someone then needed to serve as a taste tester and I bravely volunteered, after all, grandfathers need to be prepared to make sacrifices for their grandchildren, especially at Christmas time.

The first batch of cookies came out of the oven; was allowed to cool for a few minutes; and then a sample was thrust into my hands accompanied by the command “Taste!” After ascertaining that the jam filling the thumbprint wouldn’t singe my tongue, I bravely followed orders. The sample lacked a certain necessary crunch (underbaked slightly) and didn’t taste quite the same as the original, but was within acceptable parameters. A second sample, in the oven for slightly longer than the first, was an improvement. All that remains is to see whether and how much the granddaughter likes them. I’m guessing they’ll do just fine.

Eating the Cookies

Jane Kenyon - 1947-1995

The cousin from Maine, knowing
about her diverticulitis, let out the nuts,
so the cookies weren’t entirely to my taste,
but they were good enough; yes, good enough.

Each time I emptied a drawer or shelf
I permitted myself to eat one.
I cleared the closet of silk caftans
that slipped easily from clattering hangers,
and from the bureau I took her nightgowns
and sweaters, financial documents
neatly cinctured in long gray envelopes,
and the hairnets and peppermints she’d tucked among
Lucite frames abounding with great-grandchildren,
solemn in their Christmas finery.

Finally the drawers were empty,
the bags full, and the largest cookie,
which I had saved for last, lay
solitary in the tin with a nimbus
of crumbs around it. There would be no more
parcels from Portland. I took it up
and sniffed it, and before eating it,
pressed it against my forehead, because
it seemed like the next thing to do.

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Moving toward autumn moods and modes

Each week the trip to pick up our community supported agriculture [CSA] share box takes us past the ridges near Wild River State Park. Effective today, the leaf color there is past peak. We’re just about 15 or so miles west of the park and near here it looks like we haven’t yet hit 50% color. The photo below was taken on October 9 last year and it doesn’t look to us like it’s anywhere near peak. If the weather cooperates, we’ll bring a camera this Thursday afternoon and see if we can capture the colors on the same ridge about 53 weeks apart.

wooded ridges near Wild River State Park

Photo by J. Harrington

Our cooler weather now feels a bit more autumnal, but the extended spell of warmer than normal weather has hindered settling into a typical fall feeling. We’ve managed to get overheated almost every time we’ve worn a chamois or wool shirt. Perhaps the lack of sightings of woolly bear caterpillars is also a contributing factor to our unseasonal mood. Plus, we haven’t really begun to tackle autumn leaf management yet. Some day soon we need to clamber onto the garage roof to clear the branches and leaves and clean the gutters before the onset of snow season, but not during tomorrow’s rain.

The Better Half just finished baking oatmeal-apple cookies (or maybe they’re apple-oatmeal), one of my favorite favorites, so that helps shift the mood from summer to autumn. We caught a cricket on the downstairs carpet this morning (and subsequently turned it loose far from the front door), another sign of seasonal change. (We’re not sure if it’s the same one we heard chirping in the living room yesterday.) This upcoming weekend the leaf-covered back yard should have dried out enough to make it worthwhile to mulch / mow, perhaps for the last, or the penultimate time, this year?

Lightness in Autumn

By Robert Fitzgerald

The rake is like a wand or fan,   

With bamboo springing in a span   

To catch the leaves that I amass   

In bushels on the evening grass.

I reckon how the wind behaves   

And rake them lightly into waves   

And rake the waves upon a pile,   

Then stop my raking for a while.

The sun is down, the air is blue,   

And soon the fingers will be, too,   

But there are children to appease   

With ducking in those leafy seas.

So loudly rummaging their bed

On the dry billows of the dead,

They are not warned at four and three   

Of natural mortality.

Before their supper they require   

A dragon field of yellow fire

To light and toast them in the gloom.   

So much for old earth’s ashen doom.

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On the sweetness of Christmas

This morning we headed South to Marine on St. Croix to lay our hands on some now "world famous" St. Croix Chocolate Co. chocolates. Today's the last day to get any before the holiday season is gone. There was a line already beginning when the Better Half climbed out of the Jeep to become second in line. We're delighted for Robyn and Deidre's "sold out" success and will craft a quick note to ourselves about what can happen when a local artisan get's discovered. We think it feels similar to when a neighborhood gets gentrified.

On the way to Marine, we drove past a harvested corn field being gleaned by two large flocks of wild turkeys with close to a dozen birds in each flock. Not only was that a treat for this old turkey hunter to see, it reminded us of the time, several years ago, when a local flock of turkeys visited the front yard in early December.

a flock of "Christmas" turkeys

Photo by J. Harrington

Now that we're back home, the Better Half is again baking her infamously wonderful orange cookies. It appears we may be getting surreptitious visits from elves who are absconding bit by bit (bite by bite?) with the products of prior sessions of baking Christmas cookies. We can't think of how else they might be disappearing as quickly as they have. 😇 At least with this latest batch we should be able to save enough to leave for Santa to go with  his glass of milk on Christmas eve.

As we pulled into the drive we noticed a large package on the stoop. Upon opening it, we discovered smaller boxes of frozen lobster pies sent from Maine by our sister in Massachusetts. We're truly looking forward to tasting a "flavor from home" this Winter and are very grateful to have a sister who is considerate and knowing enough to brighten our holidays considerably.

Johnnie's Christmas

Libbie C. Baer - 1849-1929

Papa and mama, and baby and Dot,
Willie and me—the whole of the lot
Of us all went over in Bimberlie’s sleigh,
To grandmama’s house on Christmas day.

Covered with robes on the soft cushioned seat,
With heads well wrapped up and hot bricks to our feet,
And two prancing horses, tho’ ten miles away,
The ride was quite short, on that bright Christmas day.

When all were tucked in and the driver said “Go!”
The horses just flew o’er the white, shining snow;
The town it slipped by us and meadow and tree,
And farm house till grandmama’s house we did see.

Grandmama was watching for us, there’s no doubt;
She soon come to meet us, and helped us all out;
And kissin’ and huggin’ said how we boys growed,
And big as our papa we’d soon be, she knowed.

And Dot she called handsome and said: “Ah! I guess
Grandmama’s woman has got a new dress.”
And said that the baby was pretty and smart;
“Dod b’ess it and love its own sweet ’ittle heart.”

And O, the red apples, and pop-corn on strings;
And balls of it, too, and nuts, candy and things;
And O, such a dinner and such pumpkin pie;
I eat and I eat till I thought I would die.

And grandmama urgin’, “Now, Johnnie, my man,
I wants you to eat; just eat all you can.”
When I eat all I could then I eat a lots more,
And I didn’t feel good as I had felt before.

At last it came time for us all to go back,
And into the sleigh again, all of us pack;
With grandmama kissin’ and sayin’ good byes,
With smiles on her lips, but the tears in her eyes.

We seemed much more crowded, and Bimberlie’s sleigh
Kept jerkin’ and hurtin’ me most all the way;
The robes were so stuffy I couldn’t get breath,
And Dot and the baby most squeezed me to death.

All night I kept tumblin’ and tossin’, ma said,
And frowed all the cover half off of the bed;
I dreamed of roast turkey and pop-corn and pie,
And fruit cake and candy, piled up to the sky! 

And I dreamed I was sick and just lookin’ at it,
A wantin’ and yet I could not eat a bit;
And grandmama urgin’, “Now, Johnnie, my man,
I want you to eat, just eat all you can.”

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The presence of presents

We're in another calm before the storm, to the extent there's calm during Christmas season before late Christmas Eve. Christmas cookies and candy are being consumed by elves and wannabes. Too many of any kind of Christmas sweets can de-elf the best of us.

Today we started rereading J.R.R. Tolkien's Letters From Father Christmas. The atmosphere outside is pensive, with snow and bitter cold pending. Christmas, children, Tolkien fantasy and, perhaps, a cup of hot chocolate (and a cookie or two) seems like a beneficial combination to keep from getting sulky and doomy at the prospect of once more snow blowing the drive. As an early Christmas wish, dare we hope the bulk of the snowfall stays North of us instead of getting the 4" to 6" forecast. Fortunately, if the season's trend continues. we're facing more of an annoyance than a serious problem. 🤞

We are currently kicking ourselves though, since we blew through the Summer and Autumn without conditioning the dogs to their booties. The snow isn't a concern, but the real cold is. With any luck we can get through a couple of days of minus temperatures and then return to seasonable. The dogs handle that pretty well.🤞 (again)

Tomorrow, while it's snowing, I need to check the status of the Christmas shopping I need to get done. The Better Half has already taken care of a bunch of things for the Daughter Person, the Son-In-Law(?) and the Son Person, but I've little idea of what has been scratched from the Christmas lists. Sounds like time to share some coffee and communications. I may yet manage to avoid being the Grinch or the Grump this season.🤞 (again)

While there's nothing yet under the tree this year, we're aiming for something like the picture above. When you're empty nesters (again), there's not as much to go under, or on, the tree.

a white pine from our own property

Photo by J. Harrington

[little tree]

By E. E. Cummings

little tree 

little silent Christmas tree 

you are so little 

you are more like a flower 

who found you in the green forest 

and were you very sorry to come away? 

see          i will comfort you 

because you smell so sweetly 

i will kiss your cool bark 

and hug you safe and tight 

just as your mother would, 

only don't be afraid 

look          the spangles 

that sleep all the year in a dark box 

dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine, 

the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads, 

put up your little arms 

and i'll give them all to you to hold 

every finger shall have its ring 

and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy 

then when you're quite dressed 

you'll stand in the window for everyone to see 

and how they'll stare! 

oh but you'll be very proud 

and my little sister and i will take hands 

and looking up at our beautiful tree 

we'll dance and sing 

"Noel Noel" 

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