A New Year’s Phoenix

We’re closing out the month and the year with another cloudy, frosty day. Today is the second last day of 2023. New Year’s Eve arrives tomorrow. Snow showers are forecast for tonight. Tomorrow evening brings the Vikings Packers game, a “must win” for both teams to keep alive playoff hopes. I’m sure some fans may be excited but Lucy Viking has snatched the football away from this Charlie Brown once too often, four time Superbowl losers!

a New Year arises from the ashes of the old

Photo by J. Harrington

As is all too typical around here, today we found and delivered the stocking stuffers and Christmas presents that fell out of Santa’s sleigh. By some strange coincidence, all were destined for the Better Half. I’m blaming it on friction on the sleigh runners (no snow) and the way the sleigh was packed by elves. Maybe they’ll do better next year.

The crazy warm weather we’ve been experiencing is getting me antsy for next fishing season and I know I’m headed for a fall -- snow fall that is. There’s two+ months of North Country winter ahead of us. At least I have books to look through and gear to clean and organize. Maybe next year will be the year the Son-In-Law gets induced to seriously try bass bugging with a fly rod. We know his brother-in-law gave him a couple of bass flies for Christmas and his father-in-law haas a spare bass weight rod available to borrow. (I think I may have just given away a New Year’s resolution.)

Burning the Old Year

By Naomi Shihab Nye

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.   

Notes friends tied to the doorknob,   

transparent scarlet paper,

sizzle like moth wings,

marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,   

lists of vegetables, partial poems.   

Orange swirling flame of days,   

so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,   

an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.   

I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,   

only the things I didn’t do   

crackle after the blazing dies.

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Ch-ch-ch-changes

Since next weekend occurs after September 1, today is the last weekend of (meteorological) summer. A little hoppy toad in the driveway help us say goodbye. We’re moving into autumnal mode, although there are still peaches and watermelon available. Fresh, local, sweet corn marks, for me, a transition. Last night’s low temperatures dropped below 60℉. That’s another indication a transition is underway.

hoppy toad time

Photo by J. Harrington

Yesterday was another marker. The Vikings lost the last of their three preseason games. From what we’ve seen so far, it will be a pleasant surprise if they have a .500 season. The Better Half is speculating the coach is deliberately lowering expectations, so the team can take their opponents by surprise. I believe that only works for a few games, if that. We’ll see what happens.

The afternoon was spent collecting and burning yet more of the perpetual fall of dead branches from our trees. Many of the branches are remains of last autumn’s tree removal. The crew had promised to do a good job of cleaning up but their best intentions were hindered by an early season snow storm. This year’s abundant acorn drop from our bur oaks is compounding the mess. I’m trying to convince myself that this is the life stylle I signed uo for when we moved to the country. Since our property, and an additional six plus sections of land, have been annexed by an adjoining city, I’m no sure we’re still enjoying country living. Stay tuned. At the moment we’re not even sure whether it will be the township or the city that will be ploughing snow next winter. Do not ask me if I believe our annexation laws and procedures represent any kind of government by the consent of the governed.

In any case, hanging out around the fire pit this afternoon was a bit of an atavistic pleasure. The flames and woodsmoke aroma were a little reminiscent of many a pleasant an autumn and winter day ensconced by the fireplace in a comfy chair with a good book and pleasant company. May there be more days like that in our futures, but not until we’ve enjoyed some sunny but cooler days full of apples and leaves turning colors.

Autumn

By Sydney Lea

Why not write something for those

who scratched out improbable livings here?

Someone has managed to sow

This broken field with stones, it appears,

 

So someone’s scratching it still,

Although that Japanese knotweed has edged

The tilth. Two wasps in the child

Attempt to catch sun on a rail of the bridge.

 

The old local doctor has passed

At almost a full decade past ninety.

He never seemed depressed.

Seventy now, if barely,

 

I consider the field again:

Someone will drag these rocks away

But they’ll be back. The air smells like rain,

Which is fine, the summer’s been much too dry.

 

Nothing is left of the barn

But some rusty steel straps in some nasty red osier.

The stone fence still looks sound,

But even there the knotweed steps over.

 

Hadn’t I pledged an elegy

To the old ones who worked here? You couldn’t claim

They thrived, exactly, but maybe

They likewise scented good wind full of rain,

 

Lifted eyes above this old orchard

To the cloud-darkened hills and found their support

Somehow, somewhere. No matter,

They kept going until they could go no more.

 

The trees’ puckered apples have gathered

A flock of birds, and as they alight,

They’re full of unseasonable chatter,

As if to say that all will be right.

 

The old ones I promised a poem

Must have said it too. It’ll be all right.

I never knew them. They’re gone.

I say it out loud, It’ll be all right.

 

 

—Caledonia County, Vermont

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Halfway through No Mow May

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

Prairie Smoke (Geum triflorum)

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

Pea Brush 

Robert Frost - 1874-1963

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Twosday before Thanksgiving

Once again the people, the marriage, and the house, have survived the hanging of the outside Christmas lights. This year some gratuitous yard work was accomplished concurrently. In the process, we noted that at least one string of lights needs replacement for next year. Somehow there are a couple of dead spots along the string, in between sections nicely lit. I remember the strings where, if one bulb was burnt out, the whole string was dead, and others where only one bulb wouldn’t light but the rest of the string was fine, but never before extended sections that were dead while the rest of the string lit. For this year, what we have will do. Maybe we’ll watch for post-Christmas sales.

soon the house will look something like this

Photo by J. Harrington

Thanks to the Better Half going above and beyond, many of the dead branches brought down by this week’s winds are picked up, stacked and ready to be fed into the burn pit if the weather ever cooperates. Meanwhile, the birds (goldfinches, chickadees, nuthatches, and woodpeckers) and squirrels (gray and red) are pouring into the feeders as if it were time for free Thanksgiving dinner. This morning’s moon was still visible and high in the sky at 9’ish. We had to abandon leaf blowing because today’s wind was largely  blowing in a direction opposite where we were trying to blow the leaves. Maybe tomorrow prevailing winds will be more favorable.

post-Halloween pumpkins nibbled on by ....?

Photo by J. Harrington

The Halloween pumpkins have been hauled up the hill to the vicinity of the pear tree and left for deer and/or whoever else may be desperate enough to eat them. Every year the pumpkins do seem to disappear over the winter before the pear tree is in bloom the following spring. Some years the deer, or rabbits, or .... don’t wait for us to dispose of pumpkins before they start nibbling on them.

All told it’s been a mostly productive day, enough so that we will remember to be grateful on Thursday for the  fact that we live in beautiful country even if leaves fall from the oaks for six or seven months of the year. We still need to take a trip to say Hi! to the St. Croix river. We’ve not visited her enough this year, but  remain grateful we live in the watershed.

Thanksgiving

By Ella Wheeler Wilcox

We walk on starry fields of white
And do not see the daisies;
For blessings common in our sight
We rarely offer praises.
We sigh for some supreme delight
To crown our lives with splendor,
And quite ignore our daily store
Of pleasures sweet and tender.

Our cares are bold and push their way
Upon our thought and feeling.
They hang about us all the day,
Our time from pleasure stealing.
So unobtrusive many a joy
We pass by and forget it,
But worry strives to own our lives
And conquers if we let it.

There's not a day in all the year
But holds some hidden pleasure,
And looking back, joys oft appear
To brim the past's wide measure.
But blessings are like friends, I hold,
Who love and labor near us.
We ought to raise our notes of praise
While living hearts can hear us.

Full many a blessing wears the guise
Of worry or of trouble.
Farseeing is the soul and wise
Who knows the mask is double.
But he who has the faith and strength
To thank his God for sorrow
Has found a joy without alloy
To gladden every morrow.

We ought to make the moments notes
Of happy, glad Thanksgiving;
The hours and days a silent phrase
Of music we are living.
And so the theme should swell and grow
As weeks and months pass o'er us,
And rise sublime at this good time,
A grand Thanksgiving chorus. 

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Country chores

With excellent assistance from the Better Half  [BH], the mums are now planted along the north side of the  drive. Some time in the  next few days, I’ll wander off and see if I can find a couple of aster plants.

asters, still on the “To Do” list

Photo by J. Harrington

Once the mums were in the  ground, the BH watered them and I proceeded, on my own, to pick up the trash along our stretch of country road, much of the litter had blown out the top hatch of one or more of the solid waste collection trucks that service the township. After that, I burned the latest batch of broken, dead branches brought down by recent storms. In that process, the sand burs and grasses previously mowed from along the road were consumed by fire (in the fire pit).

Tidying the place up has been aided and abetted by members of the local deer herd, one or more of whom have been consuming  the bur oak acorns that were dropping onto the drive. This morning we caught a glimpse of one of the guilty parties, or an accomplice, in the field behind the house. Life around here would be vastly improved if whitetail deer added poison ivy to their favorite foods list.

All in all, I’ve reached a point where my middle-class upbringing, focused as it was on neat and orderly, is slowly yielding to a countrified emphasis on ecological function. Instead of cleaning all the oak leaf and pine needle mix before planting  the mums, I left the mix there as mulch. There’s plenty of other places around the property I can gather leaves to feed brown material into the compost.

That’s it for now. Although not technically a chore, I baked another loaf of artisan sourdough bread this morning. For the first time ever, I think, the Better Half told me a loaf of my bread needed more salt. I’m going to go taste it for myself now. We’ll be back tomorrow, dog willing and the river don’t rise too much.

Mowing

By Robert Wrigley

Sleepy and suburban at dusk,

I learn again the yard’s

geometry, edging around the garden

and the weedy knots of flowers, circling

trees and shrubs, giving

a wide berth to the berry patch,

heavy and sprawled out of its bounds.

Shoving such a machine

around a fairway of dandelions,

it is easy to feel absurd.

The average lawn, left alone

one hundred years, could become

a hardwood forest. An admirable project.

Still I carry on, following week on week

the same mowing pattern, cutting edges,

almost sprinting the last narrow swaths.

And tonight, as I mow over

the bushels of fallen peaches,

sending pits soaring over the neighbors’ fences,

seems hardly any different.

But on one crooked march I walk

across the thin hidden hole

to a yellowjacket hive. The blade pulls

them up from their deep sweet chamber

just as my bare legs go by.

A bee lands heavily,

all blunder and revenge, and the sting

is a quick embrace and release,

like the dared kid’s run and touch

of a blind man. I’m blind now

with the shock and pain of it,

howling in a sprint toward the house,

the mower flopped on its side, wild blade loose

in the darkening air.

                                 Later,

the motor sputtered quiet, starved by tilt,

I’m back in the twilight,

a half-dozen stings packed in wet tobacco,

carrying a can of gasoline, a five-foot torch.

The destruction is easy: shove can

slow to entranceway lip, pull

back and light torch, use torch

to tip can. One low whump and it’s over.

A few flaming drones flutter out and fall.

Stragglers, late returners, cruise

wide circles around the ruins.

In the cool September night they fly

or die. In the morning I finish my chores.

All the way to winter the blackened hole

remains. On Christmas Eve a light

late snow covers it and all

the lawn’s other imperfections: crabgrass

hummocks, high maple roots,

the mushroom-laden fairy ring that defies

obliteration and appears every spring

more visible than ever. Standing

in the window, the scent

of pine powerful around me,

the snap of wood undoing itself in the stove,

I wonder at this thin and cold

camouflage, falling,

gradually falling over what has gone

and grown before. And I hear

that other rattle and report, that engine

driven by another fire. I think of a gold

that is sweet and unguent, a gold

that is a blaze of years behind me.

I hear wind in its regular passes

blowing across the roof,

feel in my legs a minute and icy tingling,

as though I have stood too long

in one place or made again another wrong step,

as though the present itself

were a kind of memory, coiled, waiting,

dying to be seen from tomorrow.

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'Tis almost time to celebrate Winter Solstice

Tomorrow we celebrate the Winter Solstice. Tonight's weather forecast calls for some overnight snow, an appropriate prelude to the 4:02 am local arrival of the Solstice, since the ground is currently bare. We've found, during the past few years, that the Druid perspective on the Winter Solstice is helpful and satisfying.

A Winter Solstice celebration

Photo by J. Harrington

"... the Winter Solstice, called in the Druid Tradition Alban Arthan [the Light of Arthur]. This is the time of death and rebirth. The sun appears to be abandoning us completely as the longest night comes to us. Linking our own inner journey to the yearly cycle, the words of the Druid ceremony ask “Cast away, O wo/man whatever impedes the appearance of light.” In darkness we throw on to the ground the scraps of material we have been carrying that signify those things which have been holding us back, and one lamp is lit from a flint and raised up on the Druid’s crook in the East. The year is reborn and a new cycle begins, which will reach its peak at the time of the Midsummer Solstice, before returning again to the place of death-and-birth."

just a light dusting would be nice

Photo by J. Harrington

A Christmas present ordered for someone in the family disappeared for almost two weeks in the USPS system. It was finally delivered this morning. We've been fussing off and on for ten or more days and accomplished absolutely nothing thereby. Aided and abetted by the Better Half, a duplicate of the missing present is on its way, not via the USPS. We'll make arrangement to return the duplicate after Christmas or whenever it arrives. In the process, we've almost convinced ourselves of the futility of getting exasperated. In fact, when we were much, much younger, we hung around with a crew whose approach to life's disruptions was "don't get mad, get even." Somehow, we've let that slip away from us. We've been relearning this holiday season that we enjoy life more if we simply deal with what's in front of us and move on. That reminds us of another old saying that's eluded us during the past four years or so. Remember that "Living well is the best revenge." The way we're feeling this afternoon, it's almost as though Santa came early this year and left some presents between our ears and in our heart.

The Snowfall Is So Silent

Miguel de Unamuno - 1864-1936

translated by Robert Bly

The snowfall is so silent,
so slow,
bit by bit, with delicacy
it settles down on the earth
and covers over the fields.
The silent snow comes down
white and weightless; 
snowfall makes no noise,
falls as forgetting falls, 
flake after flake.
It covers the fields gently
while frost attacks them
with its sudden flashes of white;
covers everything with its pure
and silent covering;
not one thing on the ground
anywhere escapes it.
And wherever it falls it stays,
content and gay,
for snow does not slip off 
as rain does,
but it stays and sinks in.
The flakes are skyflowers,
pale lilies from the clouds,
that wither on earth.
They come down blossoming
but then so quickly
they are gone;
they bloom only on the peak,
above the mountains,
and make the earth feel heavier
when they die inside.
Snow, delicate snow,
that falls with such lightness 
on the head,
on the feelings,
come and cover over the sadness
that lies always in my reason.

---

La nevada es silenciosa

La nevada es silenciosa,
cosa lenta;
poco a poco y con blandura
reposa sobre la tierra
y cobija a la llanura.
Posa la nieve callada
blanca y leve;
la nevada no hace ruido;
cae como cae el olvido,
copo a copo.
Abriga blanda a los campos
cuando el hielo los hostiga;
con sus lampos de blancura;
cubre a todo con su capa
pura, silenciosa;
no se le escapa en el suelo
cosa alguna.
Donde cae allí se queda
leda y leve,
pues la nieve no resbala
como resbala la lluvia,
sino queda y cala.
Flores del cielo los copos,
blancos lirios de las nubes,
que en el suelo se ajan,
bajan floridos,
pero quedan pronto
derretidos;
florecen sólo en la cumbre,
sobre las montañas,
pesadumbre de la tierra,
y en sus entrañas perecen.
Nieve, blanda nieve,
la que cae tan leve 
sobre la cabeza,
sobre el corazón, 
ven y abriga mi tristeza
la que descansa en razón.

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Is this the week that autumn peaks?

Isn't today close to a peak autumn day? While doing some outside chores, I found myself waxing nostalgic for the "good old days" when leaves got raked into a pile into which children and puppies jumped and which was later burned, filling the air with a classic autumn aroma of burning leaves.  We get some of that when we light one of our brush piles. This week has been too dry and windy for us to be comfortable torching the pile in the back yard. (Last night the wind blew the aluminum cap off the fireplace chimney.) We hope the burning conditions improve before we have to disconnect the outside hose to keep from bursting a pipe with freeze-up. At least this involves annoyance level issues rather than anything critical.

whose blood is staining the bird feeder?

Photo by J. Harrington

Some time ago, we posted about the mystery of blood splotches on the outside of our deck walkout door. This morning, we noticed a similar pattern on the top of one of the bird feeders that hangs off of the deck. This reinforces our theory that an owl or hawk grabbed one of the red or gray squirrels that are constantly at the bird feeders. We're pretty sure there was no blood last night when we brought the feeders in. We only noticed it later in the morning as we took a break from the aforementioned outside chores.

We've lived in our house for about a quarter century and are still adjusting to the idea that we'll never actually be caught up on chores as we could be when we were much younger, single and living in a small apartment with a landlord to take care of the yard. We had only to take care of our truck, boat, and miscellaneous sporting equipment. As has been true for most of our life, we failed to appreciate just how good we had it at the time we had it so good. At least we know we don't have to look over our shoulders for hawks or owls while we're enjoying dinner or morning coffee.

Autumn

By Adam Zagajewski

Translated by Renata Gorczynski

Autumn is always too early.

The peonies are still blooming, bees   

are still working out ideal states,

and the cold bayonets of autumn   

suddenly glint in the fields and the wind

rages.

What is its origin? Why should it destroy   

dreams, arbors, memories?

The alien enters the hushed woods,   

anger advancing, insinuating plague;   

woodsmoke, the raucous howls

of Tatars.

Autumn rips away leaves, names,   

fruit, it covers the borders and paths,   

extinguishes lamps and tapers; young   

autumn, lips purpled, embraces   

mortal creatures, stealing

their existence.

Sap flows, sacrificed blood,

wine, oil, wild rivers,

yellow rivers swollen with corpses,

the curse flowing on: mud, lava, avalanche,   

gush.

Breathless autumn, racing, blue

knives glinting in her glance.

She scythes names like herbs with her keen   

sickle, merciless in her blaze

and her breath. Anonymous letter, terror,   

Red Army.

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On Summer's downslope

The brush pile burn in honor of Lughnasadh (Loo-nah-sa) went well yesterday evening. The scattered thunderstorms passed to our North. There was no sign of a woodchuck bolting from under the brush pile so we now get to ponder where s/he went. In a day of so we'll start building a new brush pile, trimming the small, leafy branches from the oak that came down in a recent storm. That, plus continuing to pull buckthorn, should provide for a burn in honor of Alban Elfed or Light of the Water in the Druid tradition on the Autumn Equinox (Tuesday, September 22, 2020 at 8:30 am CDT, locally).

a brush pile bonfire

Photo by J. Harrington

There were several pickups and SUVs at one of the Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area parking places today. I'm not sure why unless folks are scouting for archery deer season, which opens September 19. Or, I suppose it's possible foragers are becoming active as fruits and berries start to ripen. Speaking of foraging, I foolishly scattered grass seed yesterday on some areas that had been washed out by recent very heavy rains. I should have raked it in because the local bird flocks helped themselves and foraged about 99.9% of the grass seed despite all the sunflower seeds available nearby. Striking that balance of nature can be a real challenge some days. I'm trying a new approach and seeing if I can just count the grass seed debacle as a lesson learned rather than getting all perturbed about it. Plus, I want to include some white clover seeds. I appears as though the local rabbit population foraged most of the existing clover that the Better Half (and maybe the Daughter Person) planted some years ago.

We're looking forward to several days of cool, Septemberish weather with fewer clouds than normal before next weekend's heat and thunderstorms arrive. When we're outside picking away at getting the place more in shape we tend to not think very much about politics, viruses, climate breakdown and many other of this year's trials and tribulations. Instead, we ponder if we could have a barn cat to help control rodents or would that mean we have to stop feeding birds and would the local coyote pack find our  barn cat to be but a midnight snack and do we need to build a barn to have a barn cat. Country living keeps us from getting  bored.

Unlocking

By Alice B. Fogel

But it is not always quiet here.

Things go on while we sleep the sleep of soldiers.

Ancient branches crack and splinter into dust.

Large wings snap open in spring

like carpets splayed out over the railing.

Granite splits apart at the seams

and great animals cleave roads through woods.

Daily, in the density, there is life

on the edge of the knife that cuts the world

into hemispheres of sense and death.

Trees are born and die, bones turn to humus,

glaciers to meadowland. It is time

to turn yourself loose, like new leaves,

like big lakes on which swim enormous birds

at a distance deeper in breadth than the water's depth.

Their shadows pull you to the shore.

Their size fills your lungs with sky. It is time

to heave aside the boulders and the dams,

to come back out like a bear after the thaw, to be

ready for the forest, for the forage, for the full

and waning moons. You will get soaked in wet grass,

feel the insects pierce your skin. You will learn

to balance between gravity and light. There will be

hot and sticky nights, sharp songs at dawn,

long and bright ineffable days.

This is your chance to crash your way

through underbrush unlocking like so many doors.

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May the blessings of Lughnasadh bring you joy

Another name used for Lughnasadh is “Lammas”, from the old-anglosaxon “hlaef-mass” (loaf mass, mass where the first loaf of bread is consecrated), which developed into the later medieval English and Scottish “Lammas”. As such it is first mentioned in old anglo-saxon chronicles as early as 921 CE as “Feast of the First Fruits”. In an agricultural society the begin of the harvest was a natural occasion to celebrate and to give thanks to the Divine for Its gifts.

artisan rustic sourdough bread

Photo by J. Harrington

We're looking forward this month to receiving our first order of kernza flour and including some in our rustic sourdough bread. If the weather cooperates at all, we'll honor today's feast by torching the current brush pile. That's likely to displace our recently arrived woodchuck and we'll hope s/he decides to move on rather than dig a burrow in the yard.

the new neighbor, a woodchuck

Photo by J. Harrington

This afternoon we discovered a newly dug tunnel along the foundation with its entrance/exit among the timbers serving as a retaining wall behind the garage. The Better Half reasons it must be fresh or the storms a week or two ago would have washed away all the excavated sand. There's now a live trap baited and set. We'll see who, if anyone, ends up in it. The mousetraps set around the tractor have been more successful than we expected. It seems as though this year we've been underrun by burrowing rodents, which fits with  all the other vermin and varmints making 2020 a year to bemoan.

But, in six weeks or so we look forward to a Celtic feast of "The Autumnal Equinox, on September 21st or thereabouts, is called Alban Elfed or Light of the Water in the Druid tradition."

Hay for the Horses

Gary Snyder - 1930-

He had driven half the night
From far down San Joaquin
Through Mariposa, up the
Dangerous Mountain roads,
And pulled in at eight a.m.
With his big truckload of hay
        behind the barn.
With winch and ropes and hooks
We stacked the bales up clean
To splintery redwood rafters
High in the dark, flecks of alfalfa
Whirling through shingle-cracks of light,
Itch of haydust in the 
        sweaty shirt and shoes.
At lunchtime under Black oak
Out in the hot corral,
---The old mare nosing lunchpails,
Grasshoppers crackling in the weeds---
"I'm sixty-eight" he said,
"I first bucked hay when I was seventeen.
I thought, that day I started,
I sure would hate to do this all my life.
And dammit, that's just what
I've gone and done."

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Making what we can of July

Today starts our Community Supported Agriculture [CSA] farm's Summer Shares Season. I see it as the beginning of harvest season. The days are getting shorter, but not much cooler or less humid yet.  That's something to which we still look forward, along with, but hopefully arriving sooner than, leaves turning color.

mid-July acorn

Photo by J. Harrington

A replacement brush pile is almost in place so that, weather permitting, we can light it for celebrating "the time of Lughnasadh on August 1st...." (We'll not be sending a flaming wheel "rolling down the hillside at this time to symbolise the descent of the year towards Winter....") Acorns have started to develop in our oak trees. Last year we had an acorn mast drop the size of which we  hadn't seen in the quarter century we've lived here. This Summer we've seen a bumper crop of both red and gray squirrels. Several of the acorns tried to take root in the middle of some bare spots in the gravel drive. Buried by squirrels or pressed into the ground by vehicle tires? We've pulled each one that we've noticed so far. Oak acorns quickly develop tap roots that become near impossible to pull.

We're still looking forward to doing some fly-fishing. It seems as though every time the weather starts to cooperate, something else, like a CSA share pick up trip, comes along to disrupt the day and defer a fishing expedition. The streams we want to fish are about a 90 minute drive, one way, so, to make the ratio of fishing time to travel time reasonable, we want to be able to fish for at least a couple of hours. That requires better than half a day and this is not the time of year  when mid-day fishing is optimum. We know, everyone should have such problems. If the deer flies weren't as bad as they've been the past couple of weeks, we would at least have been in the  back yard practicing casting instead of inside reading about  fly  fishing. Have you noticed it's become more challenging to attain any kind of reasonable balance these days? Then again, the weather and the bugs have provided motivation to stay inside a cool, air-conditioned house as much as possible, which has helped limit our exposure to the COVID-19 virus. Would that we didn't have that silver lining to our clouds.

Black Oaks

by Mary Oliver

Okay, not one can write a symphony, or a dictionary,

or even a letter to an old friend, full of remembrance
and comfort.

Not one can manage a single sound though the blue jays
carp and whistle all day in the branches, without
the push of the wind.

But to tell the truth after a while I'm pale with longing
for their thick bodies ruckled with lichen

and you can't keep me from the woods, from the tonnage

of their shoulders, and their shining green hair.

Today is a day like any other: twenty-four hours, a
little sunshine, a little rain.

Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from
one boot to another -- why don't you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists
of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money,

I don't even want to come in out of the rain.

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#HappyFathersDay!

Last night's solstice was duly celebrated with a backyard "bonfire" after dinner. We lucked out with a brief period of showers ending at 4:30 pm or so and friends we'd not seen for awhile showing up. As we were watching the fire, I wandered into the field behind the house and noticed, for the first time this year, that the sheep sorrel has matured and is about to start flowering. When that happens it will add a nice reddish tone to the fields.

Summer solstice: torching the brush pile

Photo by J. Harrington

On the North side of the brush (mostly buckthorn) pile, I noticed a few poison ivy vines that had started growing. Usually, poison ivy grows at wood's edge, not in the midst of a grassy field. My speculation is that birds had fed on the poison ivy berries; subsequently perched on the brush pile branches; defecated the seeds from the berries, and the ivy got enough shade / edge effect from the brush pile to feel right at home. Fortunately, I avoided stepping in it or burning it yesterday. Today I sprayed it with poison ivy killer. The same seed deposition pattern would explain a cluster of poison ivy I've already sprayed that "magically" appeared in a field near the road next to a telephone pole. To paraphrase Joe Cocker, "like a bird on a wire..." helps explain the magic of those new strands of poison ivy.

Sometime this week we'll start rebuilding a brush pile in time for another fire to celebrate one or more of the feasts of Lughnasadh (August 1), the Autumn equinox (around September 21) or Samhain (Halloween). There's more buckthorn to be pulled and burning seems the most straightforward way to get rid of it.

May all of you, and your fathers, and your grandfathers, and your sons and daughters and wives and mothers enjoy a healthy, safe, happily memorable Father's Day that carries through the Summer.

Digging

By Seamus Heaney

Between my finger and my thumb   

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound   

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds   

Bends low, comes up twenty years away   

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.   

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.

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Welcome to Summer, solstice!

Today, in the Northern hemisphere, the sun will reach its most northerly point at 4:23 this afternoon, our local time. If we stop to think about it, for one half of the year, the days get longer. For the other half, they get shorter. There is no extended period when they are all the same length. Things, including daylight and length of night, are always changing. And yet, unless we are among the relative few whose days are actually governed by the length of daylight, we pay little or no attention to anything but artificial time measured by mechanical or electric clocks.

Summer solstice, the dawning of a new season

Photo by J. Harrington

The (quasi-)mechanical portrait of our solar system that I was taught about in grammar school may have been an improvement over the concept that the sun revolved around the earth, but does it fit with the concept that "our" universe is expanding? Sometimes I ponder such questions as I pull buckthorn. Occasionally I wonder about them instead of pulling buckthorn. If I overindulge in heat, humidity, stubborn buckthorn, and bugs, I can do unhealthy things to my blood pressure.

a solstice celebration

Photo by J. Harrington

With luck, and some cooperation from the weather, this evening we'll celebrate the solstice by ignighting the brush pile (of mostly buckthorn) in the back yard. Perhaps some friends, whom we haven't seen in too long, may stop by. We'll maintain proper social distances. Some, perhaps all, of us will wear face masks. COVID-19 is slowly becoming but another speed bump in our lives' highways. Its repercussions may be more serious than the slowly healing tick bite on my leg, but with proper precautions and some luck, neither ticks, nor mosquitos nor COVID-19 will result in premature termination of our journey. Would you think Summer's heat had melted my brain if I asked "What was there before the big bang went boom?" May today's solstice bring us Northerners an enjoyable, healthy and safe Summer.

Solstice

Tess Taylor

How again today our patron star
whose ancient vista is the long view

turns its wide brightness now and here:
Below, we loll outdoors, sing & make fire.

We build no henge
but after our swim, linger

by the pond. Dapples flicker
pine trunks by the water.

Buzz & hum & wing & song combine.
Light builds a monument to its passing.

Frogs content themselves in bullish chirps,
hoopskirt blossoms

on thimbleberries fall, peeper toads
hop, lazy—

            Apex. The throaty world sings ripen.
Our grove slips past the sun’s long kiss.

We dress.
We head home in other starlight.

Our earthly time is sweetening from this.

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On the eve of Winter Solstice

If life were a movie, the next few days would be the trailer for late February, early March. That's when average daytime highs once again reach and exceed freezing. We're considering this December thaw an early Yuletide present. It goes nicely with the fact that, starting the day after tomorrow, daylight becomes microscopically longer each day. Later today or early tomorrow it will be time to see if the portable fire pit can be made portable, rather than frozen in place, so we can enjoy a Solstice fire in the drive. Alternatively, if we keep the flames small enough, we can leave it where it is. Come Spring we'll get some pavers to put under the fire pit legs that keep freezing into the ground. We could use the tractor to loosen it, but the fire pit may not survive that exercise.

Winter Solstice, 2018

Photo by J. Harrington

Yesterday we touched on the Center for Humans and Nature "Kinship Project." That seems to fit well with our growing interest in zen and druidry. Although we suspect that Christmas will bring a new collection of unread books, we're getting a sense that this Winter it's time to reread some books that have been on our shelves for awhile. Among those are Robin Wall Kimmerer's Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge and the Teachings of Plants and Gathering Moss. We hope, over the next couple of weeks, to lay out some strategies, activities and priorities for next year. High on that list will be a three sisters garden we never got around to planting this year and doing a better job of journaling so we'd be able to tell if it was the weather, laziness, competing priorities or none of the above that hindered us this year. We have the seeds and a vague memory about needing to get the Mantis tiller serviced so we could create mounds with it. This all brings back memories of a former landlord who often noted it wasn't doing the work that was so much trouble, it was getting organized and ready to do the work that took the most time and effort.

Anyhow, a Christmas present we promised ourselves is that next year we will bring (I almost wrote "try to bring" but, as Yoda teaches us "Do or do not. There is no try!") focus and order to our scattered interests. We're making limited progress following the Taoist observation that the longest journey begins with a single step.

We wish you a warm, wonderful, and brief Winter Solstice. May your days soon grow in light and wisdom!

Winter Solstice

By Hilda Morley

A cold night crosses

our path

                  The world appears

very large, very

round now       extending

far as the moon does

                                        It is from

the moon this cold travels

                                        It is

the light of the moon that causes

this night reflecting distance in its own

light so coldly

                                          (from one side of

the earth to the other)

                                        It is the length of this coldness

It is the long distance

between two points which are

not in a line        now

                                       not a

straightness       (however

straight) but a curve only,

silver that is a rock reflecting

                                                      not metal

but a rock accepting

distance

                     (a scream in silence

where between the two

points what touches

is a curve around the world

                                                      (the dance unmoving).

new york, 1969

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Many Happy Returns to Smokey the Bear!

Today is Smokey the Bear's 75th birthday. One of our favorite poets, 50 long years ago, said what is even more important today and tomorrow and thereafter:

Gary Snyder: Smokey the Bear Sutra

.
Once in the Jurassic about 150 million years ago, the Great Sun Buddha in this corner of the Infinite Void gave a discourse to all the assembled elements and energies: to the standing beings, the walking beings, the flying beings, and the sitting beings–even the grasses, to the number of thirteen billion, each one born from a seed, assembled there: a Discourse concerning Enlightenment on the planet Earth.

“In some future time, there will be a continent called America. It will have great centers of power called such as Pyramid Lake, Walden Pond, Mt. Rainier, Big Sur, Everglades, and so forth; and powerful nerves and channels such as Columbia River, Mississippi River, and Grand Canyon. The human race in that era will get into troubles all over its head, and practically wreck everything in spite of its own strong intelligent Buddha-nature.”

“The twisting strata of the great mountains and the pulsings of volcanoes are my love burning deep in the earth. My obstinate compassion is schist and basalt and granite, to be mountains, to bring down the rain. In that future American Era I shall enter a new form; to cure the world of loveless knowledge that seeks with blind hunger: and mindless rage eating food that will not fill it.” 

And he showed himself in his true form of

SMOKEY THE BEAR

A handsome smokey-colored brown bear standing on his hind legs, showing that he is aroused and watchful.

Bearing in his right paw the Shovel that digs to the truth beneath appearances; cuts the roots of useless attachments, and flings damp sand on the fires of greed and war;

His left paw in the mudra of Comradely Display–indicating that all creatures have the full right to live to their limits and that of deer, rabbits, chipmunks, snakes, dandelions, and lizards all grow in the realm of the Dharma;

Wearing the blue work overalls symbolic of slaves and laborers, the countless men oppressed by a civilization that claims to save but often destroys;

Wearing the broad-brimmed hat of the west, symbolic of the forces that guard the wilderness, which is the Natural State of the Dharma and the true path of man on Earth:

all true paths lead through mountains—

With a halo of smoke and flame behind, the forest fires of the kali-yuga, fires caused by the stupidity of those who think things can be gained and lost whereas in truth all is contained vast and free in the Blue Sky and Green Earth of One Mind;

Round-bellied to show his kind nature and that the great earth has food enough for everyone who loves her and trusts her;

Trampling underfoot wasteful freeways and needless suburbs, smashing the worms of capitalism and totalitarianism;

Indicating the task: his followers, becoming free of cars, houses, canned foods, universities, and shoes, master the Three Mysteries of their own Body, Speech, and Mind; and fearlessly chop down the rotten trees and prune out the sick limbs of this country America and then burn the leftover trash.
Wrathful but calm. Austere but Comic. Smokey the Bear will Illuminate those who would help him; but for those who would hinder or slander him… 

HE WILL PUT THEM OUT.

Thus his great Mantra:

Namah samanta vajranam chanda maharoshana Sphataya hum traka ham mam

“I DEDICATE MYSELF TO THE UNIVERSAL DIAMOND BE THIS RAGING FURY BE DESTROYED”

And he will protect those who love the woods and rivers, Gods and animals, hobos and madmen, prisoners and sick people, musicians, playful women, and hopeful children:

And if anyone is threatened by advertising, air pollution, television, or the police, they should chant SMOKEY THE BEAR’S WAR SPELL:

DROWN THEIR BUTTS

CRUSH THEIR BUTTS

DROWN THEIR BUTTS

CRUSH THEIR BUTTS 

And SMOKEY THE BEAR will surely appear to put the enemy out with his vajra-shovel.

Now those who recite this Sutra and then try to put it in practice will accumulate merit as countless as the sands of Arizona and Nevada.

Will help save the planet Earth from total oil slick.

Will enter the age of harmony of man and nature.

Will win the tender love and caresses of men, women, and beasts.

Will always have ripened blackberries to eat and a sunny spot under a pine tree to sit at.

AND IN THE END WILL WIN HIGHEST PERFECT ENLIGHTENMENT

…thus we have heard…

(may be reproduced free forever)

.

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Note: Smokey the Bear Sutra is a 1969 poem by Gary Snyder which presents environmental concerns in the form of a Buddhist sutra, and depicts Smokey as the reincarnation of Vairocana Buddha. Snyder composed the poem in one night for a February 1969 Sierra Club Wilderness Conference, at which he distributed the first copies. The poem “may be reproduced free forever,” and has since been widely disseminated in print and electronic forms. [Wikipedia]