More flowerings of summer daze

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

milkweed plants with seed pods

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

Milkweed

Helen Hunt Jackson

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

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The rain on the plains has become a pain

We are under the second tornado watch declared within the past week. Tornado watches induce a similar level of anxiety in me that thunderstorms and lightning do the dogs. I haven’t yet tried one of their calming hemp seed oil treats, but I’m getting tempted. (Even with a calming treat, my dog, SiSi, was extremely anxious again last night during the midnight storms.) I honestly don’t remember an extended period of weather like we’ve been having the past few weeks during the 50 of so years I’ve lived in this state. It’s almost like we’ve disrupted the climate. If only the climate scientists had warned US that something like this could happen. Oh, wait!!!

backyard Iris versicolor (Harlequin Blueflag)

Photo by J. Harrington

There is some good news from all the rain. We have half a dozen or so blueflag iris blooming in the wet spot in out back yard. Although I don’t have a positive id, I’m going with Iris versicolor (Harlequin Blueflag) since the distribution maps show it in our county and the alternate species isn’t. This is the first time in several years we’ve seen blueflag blooms in the wet spot and the wet “summer” seems to be the major variable. I’ll drop the quotes from the season after the 20th of this month. As I’mmm sure you know, we’re in that shoulder season when the meteorologists have claimed it’s summer but the astronomical calendar hasn’t changed.

I’ve not got a close enough look to be sure which, but either a purple finch or a house finch has been visiting the feeder the past few days. That’s a nice surprise. The dragon flies seem to have thinned out the mosquitos a bit and the winds help prevent them from being able to land on me. I think it may be a good thing that I’m getting better at finding silver linings to our plethora of clouds, but wish I didn’t have so many opportunities to practice silver mining.

Praying

by Mary Oliver

It doesn't have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try
to make them elaborate, this isn't
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

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Hatching a plan

Technically, we, together with much of Minnesota, are no longer in or under drought conditions. Our cumulative year-to-date precipitation is a little above normal as we approach what has historically been our wettest month, June. Within the past week, local insects have been hatching or emerging in disgusting numbers. I know, birds and dragonflies and bats need to eat too.

male bluebird perched on mullein stalk

Photo by J. Harrington

We’ve been talking with a staff person at the county’s Soil and Water Conservation District about improving the ground cover on our little corner of the Anoka Sand Plain. The fields behind the house are sunny with sandy, well-drained soils. As rhe SWCD staff person noted: “It’s a tough site.” Maybe we need more details of what Aldo Leopold and his family planted, or discovered, on their Sand County property in Wisconsin. The wonderful Almanac makes reference to Draba, “a humble, easily overlooked plant,” “Altogether…of no importance.” A quick check at Minnesota wildflowers web site reveals that there are six species of Draba native to Minnesota, including some counties contiguous to ours. So, why not try some on our sand plain? We’ll do some more exploring before we decide, but it looks very interesting, to borrow a phrase from Arte Johnson.

Another interesting prospect is/are bristle-berry plants. Maybe some could help the elderberries defeat (shade out?) the reed canary grass growing around the wet spot in our back yard.

Our property was part of a farm field. Its natural state was probably like the oak savannah/ mixed coniferous woodlands on the east, north and west side of the property. The south is dominated by a pine plantation that looks like it was planted years ago. If we treat all of these rehabilitation efforts like a hobby and not a project, this may even turn out to be fun. Have you ever read A Naturalist Buys an Old Farm?

The Grass

By Jeffrey Yang

Bouteloua black

grama grass red

chino side-

oats blue grama grass

hairy buffalo-

grass toboso three-awn

land’s dawn 旦 sun

over sand, tumble

wind-

mill witch- cup- saltgrass

plains love- indiangrass, prairie

cordgrass, pink pappusgrass, sprangle-

top green knotroot

bristle, bluestem, tangle-

head, sacaton

panicles

open, golden drop-

seed blooms desert winter-

grass, awns twist, un-

twist, such

syllables flicker

out of grass

: Nanissáanah

thirst, ghost dance

native

spirits, active

roots, footstalks

to soil as to site, stems

bend, range-

lands wave, seiche

fields sway, clouds

pass over-

grazed grass

staked, fenced

dries, weakens, dies,

fallen

crowns, the grasslands

what

comes to pass, ranch-

hand lands, live-

stock livelihood

wildlife gone, displaced, migrations

impeded, scales im-

balanced

the years

spread, each itself

hitched to everything else

in the universe

nodes

hollowed, drought-

land years, drops

on the hardpan

nature

is endless

regeneration

trichloris, muhly, switch-

grass, wind misses

沙 沙 shasha through the pass-

es, whispering seeds

will pass, will pass

within leaves

listening

grasses, not only

the revelation

but the nature behind

to sustain it, over-

land grasses seeds

spread and grow, rhizome,

stolon to sod, curly

mesquite cotton-

top, draft

to draft 草

ten thousand

grasses, 草 dancing

culms 草 of grass

florescence, sheaths

and blades whorl

flower to

flower, wild

grass, knowing

wind strips, slips

of time, the leaves

words weave, un-

weave the

grass

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A roar, a...?

The first dragonfly of the year appeared in front of the Jeep’s windshield and flew over the roof yesterday. Since we’re half-way plus through spring, summer is beginning to shoulder in. Mother’s Day forecast is for a high of 83℉. I doubt the Better Half will approve of that since I’m the one that prefers warmth leaning toward heat.

We missed the aurora last night but have been enjoying photos and reports on social media. Some of the reports noted significant traffic jams in our general area as others tried to find better lines of sight. It’s hard to see much beyond the tree tops where we live and a visual check early this morning revealed a glow in the northern sky much like the urban light pollution to our south.

first a fiddlehead, then a fern

Photo by J. Harrington

Somehow this year, when I wasn’t watching, the ferns across the yard in front of the house, along the edge of the woods, snuck past the fiddlehead stage and are now mature ferns. It probably occurred while I was looking up at the trees for bud burst and leaf out. If I had decided to mow the front yard already, no doubt I would have seen the fiddleheads. I’m still reading and pondering the pros and cons of no mow May. It occurs to me that, with all the trees around, and all the leaf fall in the woods, it’s hard to rationalize leaving leaf cover for critters like caterpillars who have an abundance of options on where and how to overwinter around here. Plus, we’ve accumulated too many brush piles during the past few years and haven’t managed to torch enough of them. I’m losing the yard along with my personal filing system and the stacks of books that have leapt beyond my meager efforts to manage them. I think I need a fairy godmother with a magic wand.

Letter to the Northern Lights 

Aimee Nezhukumatathil

The light here on earth keeps us plenty busy: a fire
in central Pennsylvania still burns bright since 1962.

Whole squads of tiny squid blaze up the coast of Japan
before sunrise. Of course you didn’t show when we went

searching for you, but we found other lights: firefly,
strawberry moon, a tiny catch of it in each other’s teeth.

Someone who saw you said they laid down
in the middle of the road and took you all in,

and I’m guessing you’re used to that—people falling
over themselves to catch a glimpse of you

and your weird mint-glow shushing itself over the lake.
Aurora, I’d rather stay indoors with him—even if it meant

a rickety hotel and its wood paneling, golf carpeting
in the bathrooms, and grainy soapcakes. Instead

of waiting until just the right hour of the shortest
blue-night of the year when you finally felt moved

enough to collide your gas particles with sun particles—
I’d rather share sunrise with him and loon call

over the lake with him, the slap of shoreline threaded
through screen windows with him. My heart

slams in my chest, against my shirt—it’s a kind
of kindling you’d never be able to light on your own. 

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The man who planted bergamot

There’s a story, and a book, about the man who planted trees. I have a copy of the Heron Dance published edition. I’m starting to wonder, if I live long enough, if I’ll become know as the man who planted wild bergamot.

Most instructions refer to planting bergamot seeds as if they were more than microscopic in size. Some instructions refer to the plant as liking “wet feet.” Others caution to not over water. The plant prefers either full sun or afternoon shade. The planting medium that came in the seed trays comes close to being unmanageably fluffy which makes providing “good contact with the soil” a challenge. What started as a simple project is rapidly becoming a labor of love. We’ll see how it all turns out. Milestones, if we reach any, will be reported here. Germination is supposed to occur in ten to fourteen days. Stay tuned. Perhaps by the time the bergamot seeds have germinated, our ferns will have emerged and shown their fiddleheads.

fern fiddlehead in April

Photo by J. Harrington

When I started this effort, I neglected to do enough research to learn that blossoms are a year two reward. An opportunity to develop my patience has presented itself. As the “Planted Trees” cover notes, “Generosity of Spirit as a Source of Happiness.” I’m slowly, verry slowwly, learning that I can bitch about the world and be miserable, or I can seek joy and happiness, but I can’t multitask both. Most of the time I do try to practice “Yes, and,” but have my limits.

Some time over the next few days the Better Half and I will take a look at the front flower garden and see if we can guess how much damage was done by the extra mild winter followed by the freezing, snowy first week of spring. The reemergence of green, growing things (except for the local poison ivy vines) offers reasons to hope that things will get better, especially if we work for it.

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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A secret spring? A spring secret?

Today is the first day of the last week of March, 2024. The full moon (Ojibwe: Snow Crust Moon; Lakota: Snow Blindness Moon) occurred at 2:00 am this morning. In our neighborhood, it was well hidden by snow clouds. Tonight the aurora may be visible well south of the Arctic Circle, but rain clouds are expected to obscure it/them. As this is typed. heavy, very wet, melting snow covers almost everything outside. More snow is expected tomorrow, after tonight’s rain. By Easter Sunday, the snow may be gone and life returned to local flora. My anticipated wander to look for, or at, emerging skunk cabbage is rescheduled for much later this week or, maybe, Easter Monday.

emerging skunk cabbage

Photo by J. Harrington

An updated drought map should be issued later this week. It’ll be interesting to see if there’s any significant change. At the moment, most of Minnesota is rated as low fire danger and much of the state doesn’t require burning permits. Where we are, everything is too wet to burn, although we have several brush piles to be reduced to ashes. Maybe next month.

Meanwhile, there’s been an unusually large number of blue jays around today. I saw more than half a dozen along the driveway after I’d cleared the snow. They’ve been flitting amongst the trees and one even arrived at the bird feeder, which is quite rare in my experience, unless it’s a tray feeder, which ours isn’t. As more and more unusual events occur, I wonder if we’re well past time to redefine “normal.”

Winter: My Secret

By Christina Rossetti

I tell my secret? No indeed, not I;

Perhaps some day, who knows?

But not today; it froze, and blows and snows,

And you’re too curious: fie!

You want to hear it? well:

Only, my secret’s mine, and I won’t tell.

Or, after all, perhaps there’s none:

Suppose there is no secret after all,

But only just my fun.

Today’s a nipping day, a biting day;

In which one wants a shawl,

A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:

I cannot ope to everyone who taps,

And let the draughts come whistling thro’ my hall;

Come bounding and surrounding me,

Come buffeting, astounding me,

Nipping and clipping thro’ my wraps and all.

I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows

His nose to Russian snows

To be pecked at by every wind that blows?

You would not peck? I thank you for good will,

Believe, but leave the truth untested still.

Spring’s an expansive time: yet I don’t trust

March with its peck of dust,

Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,

Nor even May, whose flowers

One frost may wither thro’ the sunless hours.

Perhaps some languid summer day,

When drowsy birds sing less and less,

And golden fruit is ripening to excess,

If there’s not too much sun nor too much cloud,

And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,

Perhaps my secret I may say,

Or you may guess.

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A pleasant alternative to the RNC

Hot! Humid! Thundershowers! Last week of it for this season? Let's hope so. I am looking forward to comfortably wearing my chamois shirts again. Nevertheless, artisan sourdough bread will go into the oven tomorrow morning and, a little more than an hour later, will be placed on a cooling rack. Meanwhile...

wild cucumber on cattails

Photo by J. Harrington

The pleasant alternative we promised starts with the picture above. As we headed for the county household hazardous waste facility today we noticed that more sumac leaves are turning red. A few other trees are also beginning to show color. Roadsides are showing lots of bright yellow flowers such as goldenrod and smooth oxeye plants and several species of sunflowers. Wild cucumber is still climbing and Joe Pye weed is in bloom. I'm at the point of admitting that it's time to follow the old advice about "he who fights and runs away, lives to fight another day."

goldenrod and smooth oxeye(?)

Photo by J. Harrington

If you can, as you can, get outside. Go for a walk, or a bike ride. Bring a camera and maybe a field guide. Before we know it, we'll be shoveling walks and driveways. But first we get to enjoy wildflowers and apples and pumpkins and autumn leaf colors and ... oh, yeah, fresh cider and asters in bloom. Just don't forget to request your absentee ballot, complete it and return it, preferably without relying on the USPS. Enjoy nature, then nurture democracy by voting blue across the board. Both of these will undoubtedly be better for all of us than watching or reading about the madness and incompetence the RNC is promoting, because that's all they  have to offer.

Autumn

By Alice Cary

Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips 

   The days, as though the sunset gates they crowd, 

And Summer from her golden collar slips 

   And strays through stubble-fields, and moans aloud, 

Save when by fits the warmer air deceives, 

   And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower, 

She lies on pillows of the yellow leaves, 

   And tries the old tunes over for an hour. 

The wind, whose tender whisper in the May 

   Set all the young blooms listening through th’ grove, 

Sits rustling in the faded boughs to-day 

   And makes his cold and unsuccessful love. 

The rose has taken off her tire of red— 

   The mullein-stalk its yellow stars have lost, 

And the proud meadow-pink hangs down her head 

   Against earth’s chilly bosom, witched with frost. 

The robin, that was busy all the June, 

   Before the sun had kissed the topmost bough, 

Catching our hearts up in his golden tune, 

   Has given place to the brown cricket now. 

The very cock crows lonesomely at morn— 

   Each flag and fern the shrinking stream divides— 

Uneasy cattle low, and lambs forlorn 

   Creep to their strawy sheds with nettled sides. 

Shut up the door: who loves me must not look 

   Upon the withered world, but haste to bring 

His lighted candle, and his story-book, 

   And live with me the poetry of Spring.

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Is MNDNR's role on invasive species just information and enforcement?

Have you read the recent article about a new invasive species that threatens Minnesota's forests? ("University of Minnesota botanist discovers feared invasive Japanese stiltgrass in Wisconsin") It appeared shortly after I took some pictures of nearby wild cucumber and Joe Pye weed and some other local wild flowers. On the way home, I noticed some purple / lavender streaks in the rushes along the Sunrise River in Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area South  of County Road 36. I fear the streaks may be made by sizable stands of purple loosestrife.

is that a purple loosestrife stripe?

Photo by J. Harrington

I've noticed over the course of a number of internet searches, that the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources [MnDNR] provides lots of information to Minnesotans to help us manage invasive species, but I've yet to find a description of their own invasive species management programs for state parks, wildlife management areas and similar public properties for which DNR is responsible. And yet, since we live at the edge of a large wildlife management area, and near several state parks and Scientific and Natural Areas, we frequently see stands of buckthorn and loosestrife(?). According to one of DNR's web pages

Common buckthorn and glossy are listed as Restricted noxious weeds (link is external) in Minnesota. It is illegal to import, sell, or transport buckthorn in Minnesota.

But, apparently, there is no requirement to eradicate it although a number of responsible conservation organizations do organize buckthorn removal activities.

Perhaps it's just me but I find it more than mildly annoying and hypocritical that DNR' s aquatic invasive species [AIS] program is focused on enforcement of the prohibition of transporting such species, but DNR does not seem to feel obligated to remove AIS, or terrestrial invasive species, from their own properties. As long as major reservoirs of invasive species exist in Minnesota, we'll constantly be playing catch up and our efforts to manage invasive species are likely to be further hindered by the effects of climate breakdown.

Japanese Knotweed Killers 

By Jan Wrede

We smote and killed.

No broken needle.

Some chemical remains.

Needle too large for small stalks.

Injector refill problematic.

 

Victim mortally wounded.

Time for mercy

And finishing spray?

When is the coup de gras?

Killers are ready

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Let me introduce you to ...

I've seen several reports today about Michelle Obama's speech last night. Among other things, she implored us to vote for Biden / Harris. If I'm tracking things correctly, that would make Democrats, Independents and Republicans for Biden / Harris the Implorables and all other voters, such as the MAGAts that vote for tRUMP, the Deplorables. That works for me. Now, to more immediately pertinent things.

Once upon a time I believed, incorrectly, that a listing of the plants found in each of Minnesota's counties would be a fairly static list. Silly me. For Chisago County, the 2015 list of plants from the Department of Natural Resources web page, Species Lists and County Maps, included 865 species, of which 74 were listed as introduced. This morning's version of the list, from the same source, lists 903 species, of which  82 are identified as introduced. So, the plant population of this county has increased by almost 40 species in five years, but only 20% of that increase is listed as introduced. I think it's time to go play Dylan's "Ballad of a Thin Man," with its wonderful and appropriate for these days refrain:

Because something is happening here
But you don’t know what it is
Do you, Mister Jones?

A quick glance at the two versions I've downloaded demonstrates that, in 2015, balsam fir was not listed in Chisago County, but it is included in today's listing and was added prior to the version I downloaded last year. What triggered the addition? Did balsam firs move south? Did someone "discover" balsam fir in the county in the past five years or so? The instructions MnDNR provides don't offer any real explanations.

stiff sunflower (Helianthus pauciflorus)

Photo by J. Harrington

All of this has been prompted by my efforts today to identify a sunflower growing in our fields. According to Minnesota Wildflowers, there are nine species of sunflowers (not including Jerusalem artichoke) of which only six are native to Chisago County. (To my dismay, I also stumbled onto the fact that there are about a dozen species of goldenrod.) The sunflower in our field is a stiff sunflower. [photo above]

If anyone has an explanation about how the taxa of Minnesota vascular plants by county keeps growing by more than the introduced species, please leave it in the comments. Thanks!

Daisies

by Mary Oliver

It is possible, I suppose that sometime
we will learn everything
there is to learn: what the world is, for example,
and what it means. I think this as I am crossing
from one field to another, in summer, and the
mockingbird is mocking me, as one who either
knows enough already or knows enough to be
perfectly content not knowing. Song being born
of quest he knows this: he must turn silent
were he suddenly assaulted with answers. Instead
oh hear his wild, caustic, tender warbling ceaselessly
unanswered. At my feet the white-petalled daisies display
the small suns of their center piece, their - if you don't
mind my saying so - their hearts. Of course
I could be wrong, perhaps their hearts are pale and
narrow and hidden in the roots. What do I know?
But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,
to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly;
for example - I think this
as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch -
the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the
daisies for the field.

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Varmints, vermin, property, damage?

When I started up the tractor this afternoon, a field mouse scurried out from under the engine cowling. The tractor had only been in its parking pace overnight since it had been visiting the Daughter Person and Son-In-Law for a week or so. Last year or the year before a mouse or mice had cost me about $400 to have the wiring harness repaired after they chewed through it and left me with no functional instruments in the dashboard. I've re-baited and returned to their place the mouse traps that now live near the tractor's tires. If the field mice stay in the fields and woods they won't be tempted by the peanut butter on the traps.

our last remaining pear tree, with fruit

Photo by J. Harrington

As far as I know, mice are unprotected animals that may, or may not, be a nuisance. This refers to the piece I posted Tuesday, fussing about the poorly crafted language Minnesota uses to distinguish game animals and birds from unprotected and / or nuisance animals. Then today, I read a blog posting by Angie Hong at East Metro Water, about Gophers and muskrats, oh why?, in which she notes:

... The plains pocket gopher is more common and is often considered a pest when it tunnels through our lawns and gardens. In a native planting or restored prairie, however, gophers should be considered a friend. Their tunnels aerate the soil and provide homes for numerous other wildlife as well. In other words, gophers are just as much a part of the prairie as bison, bluestem, and butterflies. Yes, the prairie will be bumpy instead of flat, but nature tends to be that way.

As with mice and wiring harnesses, and the red squirrel that gnawed through our siding around ten years ago, pocket gophers in our reverting to prairie hillside would be safe to happily aerate the soil if they hadn't destroyed, by eating the roots, almost a dozen fruit trees we've planted over the years. (We were trying for a savannah in which fruit trees took the place of oaks.) Now we also have a recently arrived woodchuck that's moved under the brush pile and a chipmunk living under the front stoop. Much as I'd like to live in peaceful coexistence with the critters around here, even with the deer that have eaten to death two of our Aronia (chokeberry) bushes, pocket gopher mounds make it almost impossible to mow and climate change seems to be bringing more ticks every Spring. Ticks don't seem to find short grass a suitable habitat.

I honestly don't know how to reasonably assess when a critter has done, or may do, enough property damage to warrant being terminated with prejudice, nor do I see much chance of being certain that the guilty culprit is the one so terminated. This is one of the quandaries that keeps me from seriously considering becoming a Buddhist. My compassion doesn't appear to extend far enough to let varmints and vermin get a free ride on my dime. Anyone knowing of appropriate and effective solutions to such a conundrum are invited to note such in the comments.

The History of America

By Alicia Ostriker

     —for Paul Metcalf

A linear projection: a route. It crosses

The ocean in many ships. Arriving in the new

Land, it cuts through and down forests and it

Keeps moving. Terrain: Rock, weaponry.

Dark trees, mastery. Grass, to yield. Earth,

Reproachful. Fox, bear, coon, wildcat

Prowl gloomily, it kills them, it skins them,

Its language alters, no account varmint, its

Teeth set, nothing defeats its obsession, it becomes

A snake in the reedy river. Spits and prays,

Keeps moving. Behind it, a steel track. Cold,

Permanent. Not permanent. It will decay. This

Does not matter, it does not actually care,

Murdering the buffalo, driving the laggard regiments,

The caring was a necessary myth, an eagle like

A speck in heaven dives. The line believes

That the entire wrinkled mountain range is the

Eagle’s nest, and everything tumbles in place.

It buries its balls at Wounded Knee, it rushes

Gold, it gambles. It buys plastics. Another

Ocean stops it. Soon, soon, up by its roots,

Severed, irrecoverably torn, that does not matter,

It decides, perpendicular from here: escape.

A prior circle: a mouth. It is nowhere,

Everywhere, swollen, warm. Expanding and contracting

It absorbs and projects children, jungles,

Black shoes, pennies, blood. It speaks

Too many dark, suffering languages. Reaching a hand

Toward its throat, you disappear entirely. No

Wonder you fear this bleeding pulse, no wonder.

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Monarda mystery?

I have encountered, or created in my own mind, a mystery today. There are two plants in the Monarda Genus that are native to Minnesota:

• Monarda fistulosa, Wild Bergamot, and
• Monarda punctata, Spotted Horsemint

The former is more widespread in Minnesota and grows wild along roadsides in the county about 15 or 20 miles North of our property, but I've not noticed any growing in our area. The latter is growing abundantly all over the fields behind our house but only grows in a few counties in the state. The mystery that has occurred to me is "why one and not the other?" in each location. I'm going to see if I can figure out what's going on.

Spotted horsemint behind the house

Photo by J. Harrington

In the process perhaps I'll gain some additional insight into how people can go about learning what's native to their place and broader bioregion. Most of what I can find and have read is much longer and stronger on theory than application. For example, watersheds are considered to be one of the major elements of a bioregion. We live in the Sunrise River watershed of the St. Croix River watershed of the Mississippi River watershed. The first seems too limited to be a bioregional boundary; the second covers several ecoregions or biomes, and the last traverses several bioregions. How is one to determine relevancy?

Chisago County plant hardiness zones

Somewhere in our bookshelves I believe we have a county soil map. That may offer some clues to why we have punctata but not fistulosa growing in our fields. I doubt that there's much difference in annual precipitation in the two locations. There are three hardiness zones in the County and the area where I've been noticing the bergamot is mostly 3b while we're in 4b. That might help explain the distribution, or not. It will be interesting, at least for me, to see how far I can get at accounting for the locations of Monarda mysteries.

The Mystery of the Hunt

By Michael McClure

It’s the mystery of the hunt that intrigues me,

                   That drives us like lemmings, but cautiously—

The search for a bright square cloud—the scent of lemon verbena—

                    Or to learn rules for the game the sea otters

                                      Play in the surf.

                  It is these small things—and the secret behind them

                                    That fill the heart.

                        The pattern, the spirit, the fiery demon

                                That link them together

                      And pull their freedom into our senses,

             The smell of a shrub, a cloud, the action of animals

         —The rising, the exuberance, when the mystery is unveiled.

                                 It is these small things

                   That when brought into vision become an inferno.

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What's in a name?

Earlier today I managed to once again confuse myself about whether the understory plants I was pulling were actually buckthorn or some species of wild cherry. In part this tells me that, despite my best efforts  and intentions, I haven't been paying enough attention to details. I run into the same kinds of issues when faced with white and red pines; all of the local oak trees; and numerous other local flora. I do much better with local fauna, with certain exceptions such as purple versus house finches.

red pine? white pine?

Photo by J. Harrington

It also tells me that I continue my life-long dislike of learning things through brute memorization, compounded by the fact that photos and pictures in field guides for trees and wildflowers are rarely an exact match for what's in front of me in the field. The past week of so the Better Half and I have seen two foxes. Each was a red fox. We know this because, although the area where we live is within the range of both red and gray foxes in Minnesota, we aren't colorblind and the foxes we saw were both red. That identification is more readily accomplished while driving past a fox, or having one run in front of the Jeep, than counting the number of needles in a fascicle to distinguish white (5) from red (2) pine trees. It can't be done, even traveling as slow as 30 mph.

Admittedly, these are not matters of great personal significance. If they were, I'd hope I'd rapidly improve my knowledge of functions, purpose and identification of various species. Although, I've been an angler for trout for many years and I still readily forget which is the adipose fin. I keep confusing it with a different fin that also begins with an "a." Neither fin is of as much significance to me as they are to the trout.

So, which comes first, the nomenclature or the significance? Perhaps I'll gain some insight if I read an article I came across earlier today, How Oak Trees Evolved to Rule the Forests of the Northern Hemisphere. That may provide a useful context to hang other information about differentiating characteristics, or perhaps some mnemonic hints to make memorization easier and less brutal.

Naming the Trees

By Bruce Guernsey

At the national cemetery in Gettysburg

all the trees have names,

both family and genus

on small brass plaques at the base of each

to let the visitor know

the kind of oak,

whether red, white or black,

and is this rock or silver maple

looking once like any other

burlapped ball of roots

when it was lowered to earth

those decades after the war.

Colorful names like Tulip Poplar,

Weeping Beech, Buckeye,

Sweet Gum and Gingko—

sounding like nicknames almost, these trees

from every region and state

with broad leaves or skinny,

shiny, dull, or no leaves at all

like the Eastern Hemlock,

but all, all with names every one,

no matter the size and shape

amidst the many anonymous

mute stones in their shade.

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In June the blooms come soon #phenology

The roadside South of the house is about to burst into bloom after bloom of bird's-foot trefoil. There are a few spiderwort plants in bloom behind the house. I managed to avoid mowing them down the other day. Some sort of vetch is starting to develop flowers. A few red clover plants are now in bloom. I'm sort of pleased with how many local plants I've learned to identify. But...

bird's-foot trefoil in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

Other than knowing what a plant looks like, and its name, and, maybe, if it's considered invasive or noxious, or both, I know little about the roles our local wild plants may play. As an additional source of irritation, I can't decide if that's a noteworthy deficiency on my part, or not. Most of the little foraging I do requires me to identify fruits, not flowers, although I have noticed a number of "blackberry" bushes that have come into flower recently.

red clover blossoms

Photo by J. Harrington

I've also started to wonder how our ancestors learned about the different uses of plants; what's good to eat; what to avoid; how to treat a toothache or stomachache; what makes a good dye and similar matters. Gary Nabhan has written about the loss of such functional botanical information by a number of indigenous cultures, maybe one of his books will do more to provide insights on where the knowledge originated. I've not yet found a reasonably full description of how such knowledge was first acquired. Braiding Sweetgrass, which I've read several times, doesn't deal with the initial acquisition of such knowledge.

Innocence

By Linda Hogan

There is nothing more innocent

than the still-unformed creature I find beneath soil,

neither of us knowing what it will become

in the abundance of the planet.

It makes a living only by remaining still

in its niche.

One day it may struggle out of its tender

pearl of blind skin

with a wing or with vision

leaving behind the transparent.

I cover it again, keep laboring,

hands in earth, myself a singular body.

Watching things grow,

wondering how

a cut blade of grass knows

how to turn sharp again at the end.

This same growing must be myself,

not aware yet of what I will become

in my own fullness

inside this simple flesh.

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The Circle Game continues

The hoary puccoon is blooming in profusion. Pink tints are showing from the beardtongue buds that  should open soon. The poison ivy we sprayed last week is shriveling and disappearing. Today we cut the grass in the back yard. In the process we discovered some fresh pocket gopher mounds. Tomorrow, after we pick up our final Spring Greens CSA share, we'll probe for main tunnels and see about setting traps. At the rate we're getting the property tidied up, we'll be done just in time for Autumn's leaf fall and the cycle will continue. I'm trying to adjust my perspective to seeing life in terms of continuing cycles instead of a series of discrete projects. So far, fly-fishing keeps getting elbowed out of the cycle, That won't do so I'll just see where and how it can be worked in as an integrated aspect of my life cycle. At the moment, I'm thinking back to when I read Gene Hill's wonderful story "When Pheasant Season Was from Chores 'Til Dark," a country boy's view of how life is organized.

late Winter: pheasant

Photo by J. Harrington

A hawk, species uncertain, has been hanging around and perching along the wood line after flying low over the fields during the past week or so. Might we have a new neighbor? That would be cool. No fawn sightings yet. Occasional turkeys skulk or strut through the field behind the house.

The Better Half has weeded her lily garden so blossoms, when they arrive, won't have to compete with tall weeds. i think we're both finding that getting outside and being more active leaves us feeling tired but overall better than when we are but couch potatoes. Let's see if tomorrow I agree with that assessment.

late July lily blossom

Photo by J. Harrington

All in all, we're shifting into a Summer mode, tempered by coronavirus precautions. Driving the tractor, cutting grass, wearing bluetooth hearing protectors connected to a playlist on my smart phone is not a bad way to live. If the small engine doctor can get the tiller running, next week we hope to start a three sisters garden. The days to maturity should give us harvests around the end of August or early September if we get the planting done next week. Wish us luck.

The Garden Year

Sara Coleridge

January brings the snow,
Makes our feet and fingers glow. 

February brings the rain,
Thaws the frozen lake again. 

March brings breezes, loud and shrill,
To stir the dancing daffodil. 

April brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daisies at our feet. 

May brings flocks of pretty lambs
Skipping by their fleecy dams. 

June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
Fills the children's hands with posies. 

Hot July brings cooling showers,
Apricots, and gillyflowers. 

August brings the sheaves of corn,
Then the harvest home is borne. 

Warm September brings the fruit;
Sportsmen then begin to shoot. 

Fresh October brings the pheasant;
Then to gather nuts is pleasant. 

Dull November brings the blast;
Then the leaves are whirling fast. 

Chill December brings the sleet,
Blazing fire, and Christmas treat.

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Help ID what's growing on this tree branch, please!

On  a downed tree, species uncertain, along the roadside ditch, a dead branch is covered with lichen or fungus or something I've not been able to identify. One lichen that looks a little like it is reported to grow on rock substrate, not wood. If any readers can identify the tannish growth with a white underside in the photos below, or even suggest a good resource, please note as a comment. Thanks.

what is this tan/white growth?

Photo by J. Harrington

what is this tan/white growth?

Photo by J. Harrington

Whatever it is was growing just up the road from the daylily patch that's recovering from being "trimmed" by a road crew last year. That bunch is taller (more sun) that the just emerged lilies growing near the base of a pine [see below]. They were promptly greeted with an unfriendly dumping of snow. Today the April snow cover is slowly melting. Tomorrow promises to get close to 50℉. Today's wind still has a cold bite to it. Spring in the North Country is an interesting but untrustworthy season. The daylillies usually are in bloom by mid-June but, unlike much of the country, Spring around here seems to be coming slower and later than usual this year. Otherwise, I probably wouldn't be wondering about lichens or whatever, I'd be out looking for the first wildflowers. As it is today, I'm looking forward to looking for wildflowers.

do these daylillies think it's Spring?

Photo by J. Harrington

Spring

Edna St. Vincent Millay - 1892-1950

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

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