January thaw for Christmas?

Winter Solstice arrived at 3:20 am Saturday, local time. The dogs and I were there to greet the arrival of the season as we walked down the driveway so they could “take care of business” and I could enjoy a cup of coffee when we returned to the house. I think all three of us are looking  forward to longer, warmer days ahead. But first we’ll enjoy the Yule season and an early January thaw that starts on Christmas and is forecast to continue until 2025. Mother Nature’s Christmas presence?

We wish everyone, or at least the “good guys,” peace and joy now and through the coming year. I’d love to see everyone read, reread, and take to heart, the messages in The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse. It seems to me that could make for a year-round Christmas spirit without the cold and snow and commercialism.

my favorite Christmas tree ornament

Photo by J. Harrington

SiSi, my aging yellow lab rescue dog, and I got an early present. Last week she could barely walk, her hips hurt so much. It seemed to come on suddenly. The Daughter Person offered some pain pills one of their dogs didn’t need. That, followed by a call to our vet for a regular prescription, has SiSi walking about as well as I do these days. We are both very grateful for the assistance and the outcome.

As I’m sure you realize, today, December 23, is the Eve of Christmas Eve. We are now at “C” minus two and counting. We’re a day late with this posting ‘cuz we got busy with seasonal stuff yesterday and forgot to take pen/keyboard in hand until we were already sleepy-headed in bed last night. We’ll do our best to be more timely next Sunday.

For the Children

by Gary Snyder

The rising hills, the slopes,
of statistics
lie before us,
the steep climb
of everything, going up,
up, as we all
go down.

In the next century
or the one beyond that,
they say,
are valleys, pastures,
we can meet there in peace
if we make it.

To climb these coming crests
one word to you, to
you and your children:

stay together
learn the flowers
go light

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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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It’s not all bad this autumn

In several ways, this has been literally a shitty week My dog SiSi has had diarrhea for the past few days and, since we’re getting the septic tank pumped out soon, I had to locate and dig out the pumping port. Ah, the joys of country living! I won’t trouble you with a list of all the recent political stunts that fit the theme.

On the bright side, our son, a Vikings fan, is quite happy that they’re well ahead of the NY Giants at the beginning of the fourth quarter of today’s first game of the regular season. The Daughter Person is enjoying a weekend visit from a friend who was the maid of honor at Daughter’s wedding a decade ago. Granddaughter is excited about an upcoming fourth birthday and her weekly horseback riding lessons. Most to all of us have been enjoying the drop in temperatures and humidity that occurred this week. I’ve been pleased with autumn’s other encroachments such as increasing color in some trees and bushes,, although the temperature drop has lead to increased time for the sourdough’s bulk rise due to house temperatures several degrees less than 70℉. Plus, the Better Half informs me there are pears on the pear tree this year. Maybe some neighbors will come and help themselves.

a pair of whitetail deer at our pear tree

Photo by J. Harrington

Our community supported agriculture autumn shares started yesterday. The farm hasn’t yet sent a list of what’s in the box this week, or, they sent an email and I inadvertently lost it. If a list is found, we’ll add it next posting.

The latest issue of TROUT magazine arrived yesterday and included an announcement that one of the staff had won the 2024 Colorado Book Award for Poetry. You might want to check out Erin Block’s writing online and How You Walk Alone in the Dark at Middle Creek Publishing. Here’s a sample from an alternate source:

Swallows

Just before the storm moves in, violet-green 
swallows fly overhead. 
I thought they were mayflies,
like what trout eyes see, looking up 
from a plunge pool.
Like a hermit thrush being my mother’s voice 
before dawn. 
With nothing to measure against,
how do you size something up.
This is chasing a horizon.
This is looking valley to valley from a ridgeline 
saying, it’s not all that far. 
Saying, sure, we can get there by dark. 

(Published in The Dodge, Spring 2024 issue.) 

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Strange times on turtle island

The Better Half wanted to show me a turtle she noticed in the driveway yesterday. By the time she got the dogs back into the house and her spouse out into the heat and humidity, the turtle had disappeared. Where it went is unclear. I poked around the drive’s edges a little with no sign. I mean, how fast can a turtle move and why would one move very fast anyhow? Once again Nature has left me scratching my head especially since I think turtle nesting season is more in June and early July and the reported size was considerably larger than a hatchling. I’m also pondering why a turtle would have wandered onto the drive since the nearest real water, not counting the “wet spot" in the back yard, is about a quarter of a mile north of where s/he was observed.

where turtles belong in mid-Summer, sunning on a rock

Photo by J. Harrington

Also yesterday, during the evening, one of our dogs, I believe mine, made a puddle on the carpet. SiSi has lived with us for a decade and knows better. I don’t know what happened with her nor is it clear why her four-legged housemate would have thrown up several partially digested doggie treats midday today. If most things made sense, where would be the fun, right?

When I peeked at the forecast a bit ago, we’re supposed to be getting thunderstorms for about 24 hours, from 6 or 7 this evening through the same time tomorrow. I hope that’s inaccurate. My dog in particular, and the Better Half’s beagle less so, gets agitated by thunder and lightning. I don’t want to have to spend the night holding the paws of an aging yellow lab crossbreed instead of getting my much needed beauty rest.

May next month be filled with better news and activities.

The Little Turtle

By Vachel Lindsay

There was a little turtle.

He lived in a box.

He swam in a puddle.

He climbed on the rocks.

He snapped at a mosquito.

He snapped at a flea.

He snapped at a minnow.

And he snapped at me.

He caught the mosquito.

He caught the flea.

He caught the minnow.

But he didn't catch me.

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Saturday mornin’ comin’ down*

Have you visited your local independent bookstore today? We have, to help celebrate Independent Bookstore Day. The Better Half picked up a book. I’m still hacking away at my tsunduko stack(s). That visit was part of a loop that also included a stop at our local feed store where we purchased more coarse sunflower seeds for the birds and another jug of honey for my morning coffee. Finally, we swung by the farm and picked up this year’s first community supported agriculture [CSA] share. It includes:

• GREEN INCISED LETTUCE,
• RED KITTEN SPINACH,
• SUNFLOWER MICROGREENS,
• WATERCRESS, and
• BRIGHT LIGHTS CHARD

Today is special for at least a couple of other reasons. SiSi, the twelve year old yellow lab cross who rescued us, came to live with us in her forever home eleven years ago this week, when she looked like this. We’ve enjoyed each other’s company since then and are looking forward to more years together. SiSi and the Better Half’s rescue beagle, Harry, are an interesting, although sometimes noisy, combination.

SiSi our yellow lab cross at 1 year old

Photo by J. Harrington

Today is also the first time this year we’ve seen marsh marigolds in bloom. They’re growing and blooming in a ditch along a township road near the CSA pick up barn.

*with apologies to Kris Kristofferson

How It Begins

A puppy is a puppy is a puppy.
He’s probably in a basket with a bunch
of other puppies.
Then he’s a little older and he’s nothing
but a bundle of longing.
He doesn’t even understand it.

Then someone picks him up and says,
“I want this one.”

-Mary Oliver, in “Dog Songs”

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“Winter’s” last g(r)asp?

I know. It seems as though I keep going on about the weather, but let me provide a clear context. Winter season is officially over. It is now spring. All winter of 2023-24, our official snow total was 14.3 inches The forecast is we’ll get more than that amount over the next week or so, mixed with rain. Three months of winter exceeded by one week of spring! Gimme a break!

the back yard a year ago

Photo by J. Harrington

Fuel tanks on tractor (diesel) and snow blower (gas) have been topped off. Each has been started. Now we wait and see what comes, hoping most of the precipitation falls as rain. Most of the state is droughty and, until we get wet and green, the fire danger is moderate to high. Early this morning a bird song from a tree in front of the house could have been a territorial defense or a warning to “Get out while you can!” For that matter, the latter, if heeded, is a way of achieving the former. Clever bird.

The dogs, after an essentially snowless winter, are going to be quite disconcerted at having to cope with white stuff all over the ground as they go to take care of business, especially the short-legged beagle, if we actually get the 9 ± inches forecast for Sunday.

Since you’ve stayed with me this long, this confession may come as no surprise at all. By this time of year, almost every year, I’m like a little kid stuck in the back seat for a too long journey. No matter how wonderful the destination, in fact the more wonderful, the more frequent the whiny question: “Are we there yet? When will we get there? I’m tired!!!!” 

Spring Snow

By Linda Gregerson

A kind of counter- 

blossoming, diversionary, 

doomed, and like 

the needle with its drop 

of blood a little 

too transparently in 

love with doom, takes 

issue with the season: Not 

(the serviceberry bright 

with explanation) not 

(the redbud unspooling 

its silks) I know I've read 

the book but not (the lilac, 

the larch) quite yet, I still 

have one more card to 

play. Behold 

a six-hour wonder: six 

new inches bedecking the 

railing, the bench, the top 

of the circular table like 

a risen cake. The saplings 

made (who little thought 

what beauty weighs) to bow 

before their elders. 

The moment bears more 

than the usual signs of its own 

demise, but isn't that 

the bravery? Built 

on nothing but the self- 

same knots of air 

and ice. Already 

the lip of it riddled 

with flaws, a sort 

of vascular lesion that 

betokens—what? betokens 

the gathering return 

to elementals. (She 

was frightened 

for a minute, who had 

planned to be so calm.) 

A dripline scoring 

the edge of the walk. 

The cotton batting blown 

against the screen begun 

to pill and molt. (Who 

clothed them out of 

mercy in the skins 

of beasts.) And even 

as the last of the 

lightness continues 

to fall, the seepage 

underneath has gained 

momentum. (So that 

there must have been a 

death before 

the death we call the 

first or what became 

of them, the ones 

whose skins were taken.) 

Now the more- 

of-casting-backward-than-of- 

forward part, which must 

have happened while I wasn't 

looking or was looking 

at the skinning knives. I think 

I'll call this mercy too.

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Watch out for the Equinox, Vernal!!

I hope everyone, or at least the good folks, had a Happy St. Patrick’s Day and enjoys the first day of Spring tomorrow (local time) or Wednesday (UTC). To celebrate the arrival of Spring, the weather forecast calls for a cumulative foot or so of snow beginning later this week. I’m glad I left the back blade on the tractor and haven’t put away the winter parka yet. Sigh!!! But we need the moisture.

is this what Spring 2024 will bring?

Photo by J. Harrington

The dogs got their annual check-up at the vet’s this morning. A few weeks ago, I found one tick on me and spring brings mosquitoes (eventually) and the possibility of heartworms. The monthly tick and heartworm pills start later this month, probably after the snow melts.

In the present moment, the sun is shining, the sky is blue, but the mid-afternoon windchill is 24℉. Nevertheless, one of the folks up the road apiece just reported a bear on their patio. Some things are acting seasonally, but it looks like it would make as much sense to anticipate either the spring or summer weather patterns as to guess the next national political or economic event.

At least I’m sitting in a reasonably warm house, with two reasonably healthy dogs, one reasonably healthy spouse, and the start of a list of presents to be requested for an up coming birthday and father’s day. Things could be worse. I’m not trying to cover collateral for a half a billion dollar bond with a reputation for not paying my bills hanging around my neck.

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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Winter’s nadir?

While running errands this morning, we saw a sun dog. That means it was very cold and the sun was shining. Sun dogs need cold. Our dogs say they don’t, at least not this cold, this long. It’s getting harder to get them to take care of business because they just want to take a quick sniff around and head back into the warm(er) house. I understand their perspective but don’t expect to get them potty trained in addition to being housebroken, so we’ll continue our walks in the weather.

As I type this, I’m sitting in my arm chair in front of a picture window through which afternoon sun is pouring without any warmth. It’ll take a month or so before we can feel much warmth in sunlight. Meanwhile, I’ll be wearing heavy cardigans during the day and fleece-lined pj’s at night and typing blog posts about the North Country’s bitter, in more ways than one, cold.

If we continue to make progress, tomorrow is the day we can start to lay out fly rods and reels on a freshly cleared pool table so both the Better Half and I can mutually confirm whose is which. We have let playing with our toys deteriorate to the point that we’re not always sure whose rod one of us is about to grab. This isn’t a possessive about possessions concern as much as it is about different casting styles and preferences in line weights and actions. Fly fishing is usually more fun when your cast (my cast) feels good as well as hits the target.

flowers add color to winter

Photo by J. Harrington

As we ponder the eventual arrival of the equinox and the next season in the annual cycle we’re heartened and encouraged by the emergence of at least four bright yellow tulips in our indoor bulb garden, plus a red amaryllis starting to blossom and another starting to emerge from its bulb.

In case any of you are keeping track, the levain for the rye bread was a success although perhaps I “harvested” it too long after it had peaked. It floated nicely, but the dough it’s intended to rise isn’t yet rising. I have hopes than an overnight stay in the warming room (upstairs bath) will prompt it to rise. We’ll see in the morning.

Like Brooms of Steel (1252)

Emily Dickinson
1830 – 1886

Like Brooms of Steel  
The Snow and Wind  
Had swept the Winter Street -
The House was hooked  
The Sun sent out   
Faint Deputies of Heat -
Where rode the Bird  
The Silence tied  
His ample - plodding Steed
The Apple in the Cellar snug  
Was all the one that played.

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Winter wonders

Today I’m reporting on two events that are, unfortunately from my perspective, unrelated. A couple of mornings ago, wile taking our dogs for their very early walk, hours before sunrise, we heard a pack of coyotes in the nearby woods. Our dogs were unphased but I got excited, although I don’t understand dog psychology enough to have any sort of handle on why our two go crazy barking at some weird sound on the tv but ignore a pack of coyotes. Perhaps they didn’t want to attract attention by barking?

The second event is the discovery, a couple of days ago, of fresh pocket gopher mounds near the wet spot behind the house. In January, in Minnesota, the ground is still unfrozen enough for those critters to be tunneling instead of hibernating or whatever they usually do in winter. If only the pack of coyotes would pass through the yard and dig out and eat the gopher(s), I’d be one of those known as a “happy camper.” Instead, I’m going to see if I can shovel into a tunnel and set a couple of traps, unless gophers can tunnel through soil too tough for me to dig? In which case we’ve just started our list of spring chores.

September 2023: coyote passing through back yard

Photo by J. Harrington

At least we’re not (yet) dealing with bitter cold or deep snow. I’m truly grateful for a lack of both, especially after some of the polar vortices we’ve experienced the past few winters. It has been cold enough to make soup and stew entirely appropriate. For now, I’ll settle for that.

Developing the Land

By Stephen Behrendt

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

coyote voices fluting across the greening rise to the east

where the deer have almost ceased to pass

now that the developers have carved up yet another section,

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

Five years ago you saw two spotted fawns rise

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

only three years past came great horned owls

who raised two squeaking, downy owlets

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

behind some swift, more fortunate cottontail.

It was on an August afternoon that you drove in,

curling down our long gravel drive past pasture and creek,

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

three mounted Indians, motionless in the paused breeze,

who vanished when you turned your head.

We have felt the presence on this land of others,

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

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

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

their voices whisper on moonless nights in the back pasture hollow

where the horses snort and nicker, wary with alarm.

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We’ve been “rescued"

In honor of National Dog Day (today), we are pleased to bring you greetings from two of the dogs who are currently in the process of rescuing us. SiSi is a yellow lab cross (on the left) and Harry is a beagle who was rescued from a breeding farm.

SiSi the Lab and Harry the Beagle

Photo by J. Harrington

Harry’s predecessor crossed over the rainbow bridge almost two years ago. His name was Franco, a border collie cross. He brought the Better Half and I many years of joy tempered by hours of exasperation.

Franco still says “Hi!"

Photo by J. Harrington

Because SiSi is female, we ask that you be loose with the gender in today’s poem. She’s just (as much) my dog. And we are their humans for all too brief a time. Now, I have to go. I’ve been invited to join a couple of friends on a walk.

He is Just My Dog

He is my other eyes that can see above the clouds;
my other ears that hear above the winds.
He is the part of me that can reach out into the sea.
He has told me a thousand times over that I am his reason for being;
by the way he rests against my leg;
by the way he thumps his tail at my smallest smile;
by the way he shows his hurt when I leave without taking him
(I think it makes him sick with worry when he is not along
to care for me).

When I am wrong, he is delighted to forgive.
When I am angry, he clowns to make me smile.
When I am happy, he is joy unbounded.
When I am a fool, he ignores it.
When I succeed, he brags.

Without him, I am only another man. With him, I am all-powerful.
He is loyalty itself. He has taught me the meaning of devotion.
With him, I know a secret comfort and a private peace.
He has brought me understanding where before I was ignorant.
His head on my knee can heal my human hurts.
His presence by my side is protection against my fears
of dark and unknown things.

He has promised to wait for me… whenever… wherever, in case I need him. And I expect I will – as I always have.
He is just my dog.

by Gene Hill

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Just some stuff

Today’s posting is brought to you by SiSi and Harry, our two rescue dogs. SiSi’s continuing existence is somewhat miraculous, in light of how much she sheds I wonder there’s anything left of her. Harry, on the other hand, does a better job hanging onto his hair but does his best to destroy his crate every time we have to go out. SiSi necessitates ownership of a heavy duty vacuum; Harry a handful of cleanup tools to deal with the residue on and around the carpet outside his crate. Having dogs means having dog stuff like leashes and toys and food and dishes and collars and combs and crates. You get the picture. If SiSi could learn to run the vacuum and Harry the rug cleaner, today’s posting would be very different. But needing that extra stuff, in large part on their behalf, brought me again to wondering about how much stuff we have. (At the rate I’m exhibiting male pattern baldness, I soon won’t need a hair brush but I’m not shedding on the carpet.)

SiSi and Harry overseeing stuff

Photo by J. Harrington

So, it’s been quite a while since I watched The Story of Stuff. I’m overdue for a re-view. The Better Half and I have reached a point at which we need to start downsizing, No, not beginning with the dogs. At one point, we operated a home based business. We now have an accumulation of file cabinets and desks that don’t get nearly the use they once did. How long should we keep old files and insurance policies? Has a “Downsizing for Dummies” been published?

A decade or so ago I was much more active in fishing and hunting than I am now. I have duck decoys and a duck boat that haven’t been used in years. If I get rid of them will that trigger a sudden desire to take up duck hunting again? (I’m well qualified to write “Duck Hunting for Dummies,” I’ve lived it.)

At the time I acquired everything I now own, it seemed like a good idea but I hadn’t considered ultimate disposal. The Daughter Person and Son-In-Law have expressed no interest in ownership of any part of the three belly boat / float tubes the Better Half and I have acquired over the years. And let’s not even touch on the library of books about fishing, hunting, nature, etc. and -- poetry, that are overflowing shelves and stacks. I have a partial excuse in that libraries frequently fail to carry much of what I’ve wanted to read. So, I’m hoping for some inspiration when I rewatch The Story.... I’m beginning to feel more and more like an old Scandahoovian uncle with newspapers and magazine stacks filling the house with narrow passageways between.

The Green Stamp Book

Susan Wheeler
1955 – 

Child in the thick of yearning. Doll carted and pushed 
like child. The aisles purport opportunities — 

looking up, the women's chins, the straight rows 
of peas and pretzels, Fizzies' foils, hermetic 

boxes no one knows. I'll get it! What thing therein 
— bendy straws, powder blue pack Blackjack gum — 

will this child fix upon? On TV, women with grocery carts 
careen down aisles to find expensive stuff. Mostly, 

this means meat. This, then, is a life. This, a life 
that's woven wrong and, woven once, disbraided, sits 

like Halloween before a child, disguised in its red 
Santa suit, making its lap loom the poppy field 

Dorothy wants to bed. Can I have and the song's begun. 
O world spotted through more frugal legs. O world. 

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No explanation

We need the rain, but thunder and lightning at about 2 am made SiSi, my dog, anxious, so she decided to awaken me to provide reassurance. Naturally, since I couldn’t make the noises and flashing lights stop, I also couldn’t provide enough reassurance for her to go back to sleep. You can probably see where this is going. At SiSi’s urging, we got up about 3-ish, collected Harry the Beagle, got the dogs fed and walked, then sat around waiting for things to settle down. Fortunately, at the time we went for our early constitutional, it wasn’t pouring, it was only drizzling. When we got back in the house, Harry took a nap, I got a cup of coffee, and SiSi cowered next to my chair. I have no idea why some dogs are really sensitive to thunderstorms and others could care less.

As I mentioned, we need the rain. If we could have got rain without thunderstorms, all of us could have had a decent night’s sleep. If SiSi were as indifferent to thunder and lightning as Harry appears to be, we all could have gotten a decent night’s sleep. As it turned out, we didn’t get either enough sleep or enough rain. I wonder what will happen to our weather when the Gulf Stream stops because we didn’t do enough, fast enough, to curb climate weirding. Why aren’t more humans sensitive to existential threats? Life these days reminds me too much of the old joke about the farmer who won the lottery. When asked what he planned to do with all that money, the farmer allowed as how he’d probably just keep farming ’til the money ran out. Will we just keep on keeping on until we run out of time?

is a mother ship behind these clouds?

Photo by J. Harrington

Is it possible that our lack of sense is attributable to alien rays? I ask because of the report that:

The US government conducted a “multi-decade” program which collected, and attempted to reverse-engineer, crashed UFOs, a former American intelligence official told a remarkable congressional hearing on Wednesday.

Could those same aliens be the ones who “stole” the 2020 election? Or are we getting closer to finding real evidence that aliens are hiding a mother ship behind the moon and beaming a “stupid ray” at earthlings? Thus far, that’s the only way I can begin to account for all those who have voted for tRUMP, Gaetz, MTG, Gym J., LB (without a J) and several other MAGAts. I’m still unclear how, if we let idiots vote, we avoid electing idiots. Surely Liz Cheney isn’t expecting our political parties to do a better job of vetting who they nominate as candidates. Wouldn’t that be like expecting the Three Stooges to perform Shakespeare or Beckett? And if we’re not being bombarded with alien distortions, why did I write today’s posting?

A Partial History Of My Stupidity

By Edward Hirsch

Traffic was heavy coming off the bridge,

and I took the road to the right, the wrong one,

and got stuck in the car for hours.

Most nights I rushed out into the evening

without paying attention to the trees,

whose names I didn't know,

or the birds, which flew heedlessly on.

I couldn't relinquish my desires

or accept them, and so I strolled along

like a tiger that wanted to spring

but was still afraid of the wildness within.

The iron bars seemed invisible to others,

but I carried a cage around inside me.

I cared too much what other people thought

and made remarks I shouldn't have made.

I was silent when I should have spoken.

Forgive me, philosophers,

I read the Stoics but never understood them.

I felt that I was living the wrong life,

spiritually speaking,

while halfway around the world

thousands of people were being slaughtered,

some of them by my countrymen.

So I walked on—distracted, lost in thought—

and forgot to attend to those who suffered

far away, nearby.

Forgive me, faith, for never having any.

I did not believe in God,

who eluded me.

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Going to the dogs

Using a “best guesstimate” approach and the data from the CoCoRaHS web site, we got about .2 inches (two tenths of an inch) of rain late yesterday. Close to but better than nothing. The drought has deepened in much of the state, although we continue to experience lots of cloud cover, which makes days more dreary but helps keep temperatures down, or has so far. For next week’s forecast we get into the mid-nineties. Sigh!

Harry the Beagle warming my chair

Photo by J. Harrington

We’re pleased to report that Mr. Harry the Beagle’s sprained tail is much improved. Harry is the Better Half’s dog and she notes that she’s happy to see he has his wag back. SiSi, my blonde lab cross-breed, hopes that we get more rain but without the thunder and lightning, thank-you-very-much! If you’ve considered getting a dog, especially a rescue, and have some reservations, let me assure you they’re more than worth any inconvenience, and there probably will be some. If that’s not enough to motivate you, check out these Gene Hill quotes on dogs. Mr. Hill is one of my all time favorite out-door writers, but don’t just take my word for it, see what Sporting Classics has to say about him.

I need to make some major adjustments and spend more time with our dogs and my toys and less time on my duff in the chair pictured above with Harry seated in it. I may need to pull a Tom Sawyer on myself to accomplish that, like the way he got the fence whitewashed. I fear that, in the process of getting older, I’ve also become staider. I need to create a way to undo that or the MAGAt Republicans will win. I’ve decided that one of their primary  objectives is to make the rest of US as miserable as they are. If we can stay, or get, happy, we win and they lose. Playing with dogs, fly rods, shotguns and spending more time in the outdoors is one way I think I can destaidify myself. Check back from time to time to see how it’s going.

Happy as a Dog’s Tail

By Anna Swir

Happy as something unimportant

and free as a thing unimportant.

As something no one prizes

and which does not prize itself.

As something mocked by all

and which mocks at their mockery.

As laughter without serious reason.

As a yell able to outyell itself.

Happy as no matter what,

as any no matter what.

Happy

as a dog’s tail.

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It’s almost mid-Summer season

Today’s “big news” is that we finally confirmed the new arrival at the feeder this week is a house finch. Previously we’ve been visited by purple finches, but this is the first time we’ve felt certain that isn’t who arrived this week.

The male American goldfinches are in bright chrome yellow breeding colors. Roadsides are full of what I think are Canada thistle blooms. When we head off to pick up the CSA box today, we’ll see if the Better Half confirms that or not.

clouds without rain: promises unkept

Photo by J. Harrington

Last night brought lightning and thunder, making SiSi, our yellow lab cross rescue dog very nervous for an hour or so. We didn’t get any rain to go with the tribulations which seems par for the course this summer, but unfair. Harry, the rescue beagle who barks long and loud at any unusual noise, seems to have somehow sprained his tail. We’re keeping an eye on that and have already checked in with the vet. He doesn’t seem to be in any pain but neither does he wag it.

Have you noticed the days are getting shorter? Over the next week we’ll lose about 15 minutes of daylight. Early morning dog walks are now occurring in dark or moonlight, not pre-sunrise dawn. I’ve not noticed the evenings getting shorter but ymmv. By Sunday, we’ll be more than halfway through July which puts us in peak mid-Summer from a meteorological perspective. Astronomically we’ll get there at the end of the first week in August. I’m now beginning to actively resist the urge to look forward to Autumn. That should last until Lammas or Lughnasadh on August 1. Maybe by then thunderstorms will actually deliver rain.

Squall

Leonora Speyer

The squall sweeps gray-winged across the obliterated hills,
And the startled lake seems to run before it;
From the wood comes a clamor of leaves,
Tugging at the twigs,
Pouring from the branches,
And suddenly the birds are still.

Thunder crumples the sky,
Lightning tears at it.

And now the rain!
The rain—thudding—implacable—
The wind, reveling in the confusion of great pines!

And a silver sifting of light,
A coolness;
A sense of summer anger passing,
Of summer gentleness creeping nearer—
Penitent, tearful,
Forgiven!

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Going to the dogs

Lots of lightning and thunder last night. That makes SiSi nervous, so I did some paw holding until things quieted down. According to her paper work, SiSi is eleven years old this month and has been living in her forever home with us for the past ten years. Now that we’re “empty nesters” with children turned into grownups, it’s nice to be needed again when the thunder booms. It would be even nicer if the storms only made noise before eight or nine in the evening so we didn’t end up slightly sleep deprived the next day.

If I’m estimating correctly, in the time SiSi has lived with us she’s shed enough to make at least three or four more of her, or stuff a dozen or so pillows. Didn’t there used to be horsehair pillows? Do you suppose there’s a market for dog hair pillows? Our dogs could be profit centers!

SiSi, April 2013

Photo by J. Harrington

I’m grateful she’s rescued us, helps keep us honest and active, and gives us reason to get outside into the real world several times a day. There are few that I know of that write about dogs as well as the late Gene Hill. SiSi and I are each old enough that we’ve shared few days afield, but other than that, Mr. Hill captures us rather nicely (thunder and lightning are clearly demons that wait in the dark)

“I cannot imagine living in a house without a couple of dogs,” he once wrote. Without them, “my nights would be more restless and the demons that wait in the dark for me would be less easily fended.” He reckoned that nothing “brings me closer to tears than when my old dog—completely exhausted after a hard day in the field—limps away from her nice spot in front of the fire and comes over to where I’m sitting, puts her head in my lap, a paw over my knee, closes her eyes, and goes back to sleep. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve that kind of friend.” No doubt experiences of that sort explain why Hill believed “we never really own a dog as much as he owns us.”

Other than getting a gender wrong in SiSi's case, he captures most of the past ten years and all those before that I’ve been lucky enough to be owned by a dog:

“He is my other eyes that can see above the clouds; my other ears that hear above the winds. He is the part of me that can reach out into the sea. He has told me a thousand times over that I am his reason for being; by the way he rests against my leg; by the way he thumps his tail at my smallest smile; by the way he shows his hurt when I leave without taking him. (I think it makes him sick with worry when he is not along to care for me.) When I am wrong, he is delighted to forgive. When I am angry, he clowns to make me smile. When I am happy, he is joy unbounded. When I am a fool, he ignores it. When I succeed, he brags. Without him, I am only another man. With him, I am all-powerful. He is loyalty itself. He has taught me the meaning of devotion. With him, I know a secret comfort and a private peace. He has brought me understanding where before I was ignorant. His head on my knee can heal my human hurts. His presence by my side is protection against my fears of dark and unknown things. He has promised to wait for me... whenever... wherever - in case I need him. And I expect I will - as I always have. He is just my dog.”

I’m often grateful to be sharing days with SiSi and, not quite as often, grateful to Gene Hill for helping me find words to understand what living with dogs, rescue or other, are all about.

If Feeling Isn't In It

By John Brehm

You can take it away, as far as I'm concerned—I'd rather spend the afternoon with a nice dog. I'm not kidding. Dogs have what a lot of poems lack: excitements and responses, a sense of play the ability to impart warmth, elation . . . .  
                                                                                   Howard Moss

Dogs will also lick your face if you let them.

Their bodies will shiver with happiness.

A simple walk in the park is just about

the height of contentment for them, followed

by a bowl of food, a bowl of water,

a place to curl up and sleep. Someone

to scratch them where they can't reach

and smooth their foreheads and talk to them.

Dogs also have a natural dislike of mailmen

and other bringers of bad news and will

bite them on your behalf. Dogs can smell

fear and also love with perfect accuracy.

There is no use pretending with them.

Nor do they pretend. If a dog is happy

or sad or nervous or bored or ashamed

or sunk in contemplation, everybody knows it.

They make no secret of themselves.

You can even tell what they're dreaming about

by the way their legs jerk and try to run

on the slippery ground of sleep.

Nor are they given to pretentious self-importance.

They don't try to impress you with how serious

or sensitive they are. They just feel everything

full blast. Everything is off the charts

with them. More than once I've seen a dog

waiting for its owner outside a café

practically implode with worry. “Oh, God,

what if she doesn't come back this time?

What will I do? Who will take care of me?

I loved her so much and now she's gone

and I'm tied to a post surrounded by people

who don't look or smell or sound like her at all.”

And when she does come, what a flurry

of commotion, what a chorus of yelping

and cooing and leaps straight up into the air!

It's almost unbearable, this sudden

fullness after such total loss, to see

the world made whole again by a hand

on the shoulder and a voice like no other.

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S’now longer amusing

Melting snow, still frozen ground, other than the top inch or two, brings puddles and mud to the driveway where it intersects the road. I’m resisting an urge to try spreading a dark brown tarp over the ice near the garage to see if that accelerates melting ice at the western end of the drive. Getting the tarp out of the way so we can drive in and out of the garage seems more trouble than it’s worth. Maybe Santa will bring a flame thrower for Christmas or we’ll get the drive blacktopped so we can avoid this hindrance to safe perambulation next spring.

I believe we’re close to entering the top ten records for the longest stretch of consecutive days with at least one inch of snow cover at the Twin Cities airport. It’s no wonder I’m getting so giddy about sunny, warm days melting snow and ice. It’s been a long, snowy, winter, even for the North Country.

how long until budburst?

Photo by J. Harrington

We missed what’s been reported as a spectacular aurora display last night. I’m not sure what the dogs might have made of it and I regret missing it, but almost every time there’s an alert and we watch, we see nothing! I’m not sure if I’d still be an angler if I’d gone fishing 99 times and caught nothing any of those times.

Another sign of spring’s arrival occurred today. I began the cleanup of the dogs’ winter deposits. First I had to dig the scooper out of a snow bank on the south side of the garage. That’s done and we’ll be more likely to enjoy sunny episodes of cleanup along the road as we progress into spring. I mentioned to the Better Half that a great birthday present would be a robotic poopba, like a roomba but for cleaning up after dogs. I’m not sure if such a thing has been invented yet but I bet there’d be a market, especially if it could follow along as folks walked their dogs in places like city parks and trails where prompt pickup is legally mandated.

Near Spring Equinox 

Jeanetta Calhoun Mish

A ruby crocus near the porch sends up
hope—winter of sorrow is waning
the dire moon of almost-spring rises
full with promise of renewal,
shaming twinkling city lights in its splendor. 

I search for my faith, wonder where
I lost it, find it in deep cinnamon
mud smushing up between my toes.
Across a spent field, a lake in shadow
serenades curvature of earth.
As if on cue, a comet streaks
across somber roiling river of sky. 

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Is it work, or play?

Our neighborhood barred owl has returned and is perched on the same branch as it was a few days back. Looks like nap time now, or something close to it. Earlier today it was perched on the snow covered railing of the deck stairs. Meanwhile, woodpeckers, nuthatches, chickadees and the like continue to pile into the feeders. It’s possible that the persistent, repeated snow showers, snow storms, snow fall is making nature’s other critters as flaky as us humans. I’ve just about reached my limit of clearing the driveway every other or every third day and the continuing trend of below normal temperatures is also wearing thin. I think I’m getting a better understanding than I ever wanted of how Sisyphus felt.

napping barred owl in the oak

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning I found myself wondering, assuming someday we get repeated sunshine and the snow actually melts away, for how long will those new and different conditions make me happy. Will any euphoria last a week, two, a month? Or will I begin to take sunshine, warmth, greening, an approximation of spring, for granted after a couple of days? Trying to remember back to Christmas and birthdays when I was young, how long did the appeal of a new toy last before it became humdrum, commonplace? How is it that some toys or clothes became favorites, never boring but played with or worn, until broken, lost or worn out.

The dogs are about as fed up with snow, snow, and more snow as I am. Their run and the path to it haven’t been accessible since the end of last year. They’re no happier about feeling stuck in the house than I am so I just dug out a toy for each of them that the Better Half picked up some time ago. They’re soft vinyl squares with shallow patterns like honeycomb on one side and suction cups on the other. The patterned sides get slathered with a thin coating of peanut butter and the suction cups hold it on the kitchen floor while the dogs lick the peanut butter out/off of the combs. It’s challenging and rewarding for the dogs and they seem to be having a good time as I finish today’s posting.

Sisyphus and the Ants

By Jennifer S. Flescher

The story tells us Sisyphus is being punished.

Over and over he has to push that boulder

up and up. The mountain and God glaring.

And you, you have

your avalanche of moods.

Pills the size of stars to nearly quell

cascade and tumult.

And still you step

gravity amplified by incline, each hazard

in the way of the boulder a reminder

it should be easier. There should be

a hot fudge sundae at the top. A long nap in the shade.

The story forgot to tell us, though, Sisyphus thrived.

He learned to guide his wrists

and shoulder girdles safely to protect himself.

And later he worked to safeguard every insect

from here to the crest. Considers this his calling.

Even as the sun and the weight of time bears down.

Your strength is kingly.

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