Welcome, June

Last night, in honor of the summery weather and the turning of the month, we enjoyed slices of the first ice cream cake of the season. It hit the spot. Over the past couple of weeks we’ve been switching back and forth between turning on the heat and the air conditioning. The outside heat is back, accompanied by smoke streams from Canadian wildfires to our north.

The neighborhood deer have been nipping at my freshly planted, “deer resistant” serviceberry bushes. I suppose deer “resistance" is to deer proof as water resistant is to water proof in rain jackets. I have now sprayed the bushes with deer and rabbit repellant and hung a mesh bag of the Better Half’s hair clippings on each bush. One of these days I may remember to not believe everything I read or think.

Chalk-fronted Corporal (on left) Common Whitetail [female] (on right)

Photo by J. Harrington

Columbine are now blooming, joining hoary puccoon, lilacs, and wild strawberries. Dame’s rocket started flowering the past day or so. The cloud of lilac aroma in front of the house is heady and delightful. I’d spend more time standing around outside sniffing but the bugs are getting worse by the hour.

A few dragonflies are flitting about. The mole population seems worse than ever it’s been since we moved in. This week I’ll spray encroaching poison ivy if we get a dry spell with temperatures under 80℉. Thunderstorms are forecast tomorrow night after highs near or at 90℉. Dogs will probably need their THC treats.

We finally picked up this year’s fishing licenses and Wisconsin trout stamp. Minnesota doesn’t require a stamp for those over 65. No, I won’t mention how much over 65 I am but this isn’t the first year I didn’t need a Minnesota trout stamp. Now that we’ve made a little progress tidying the yard, if I don’t get out fishing this week, I will manage to do some practice casting in the back yard (he wrote hopefully). These are times to enjoy simple, basic pleasures.

Thankful for Now

BY TODD DAVIS

Walking the river back home at the end

of May, locust in bloom, an oriole flitting

through dusky crowns, and the early night sky

going peach, day's late glow the color of that fruit's

flesh, dribbling down over everything, christening

my sons, the two of them walking before me

after a day of fishing, one of them placing a hand

on the other's shoulder, pointing toward a planet

that's just appeared, or the swift movement

of that yellow and black bird disappearing

into the growing dark, and now the light, pink

as a crabapple's flower, and my legs tired

from wading the higher water, and the rocks

that keep turning over, nearly spilling me

into the river, but still thankful for now

when I have enough strength to stay

a few yards behind them, loving this time

of day that shows me the breadth

of their backs, their lean, strong legs

striding, how we all go on in this cold water,

heading home to the sound of the last few

trout splashing, as mayflies float

through the shadowed riffles.

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

A bag mixed with gratitude

In my younger days, a mixed bag might have meant returning from an afternoon’s hunt with a rabbit, a squirrel or two, and maybe a grouse or a woodcock. These days it’s more likely to refer to counting my/our blessings as well as those things that aren’t going the way we think they should, such as November 5’s outcome.

One of my favorite local writers has an interesting piece that’s worth the time to read and then to think about this Thanksgiving week and for the rest of the season (no, not autumn, the “holiday season”). Speaking strictly for myself, I have a tendency to take the good stuff for granted, as my due, and complain about both the other, and about wanting more and/or better. At least these days I’m more aware of such tendencies and am working toward reducing my malcontentedness. Here’s a link to Heidi Barr’s perspective on Gratitude practice.

Gratitude is also a theme in a book I’ve been reading for the past week or so. Robin Wall Kimmerer’s THE SERVICEBERRY Abundance and Reciprocity in the Natural World. An abbreviated version of the book can be found here in Emergence magazine.

As you no doubt already know, November is Native American Heritage Month and November 29 this year is Native American Heritage Day. Some argue that honoring Native Americans on the day after Thanksgiving is disrespectful or, at best, in poor taste. My preferred perspective on the subject is well covered by a Native American poet and former Poet Laureate of the United States, Joy Harjo. Please pay particular attention to the second line.

This Morning I Pray for My Enemies

Joy Harjo
1951 – 

And whom do I call my enemy?
An enemy must be worthy of engagement.
I turn in the direction of the sun and keep walking.
It’s the heart that asks the question, not my furious mind.
The heart is the smaller cousin of the sun.
It sees and knows everything.
It hears the gnashing even as it hears the blessing.
The door to the mind should only open from the heart.
An enemy who gets in, risks the danger of becoming a friend.

’Tis the season of looking forward to...

With the unusually warm weather we’ve been enjoying, I started thinking about reconnecting the outside hoses and turning on the water supply. The prospect of grassfires remains moderate in our area so a readily available water source might be advisable. Then again, we can expect below freezing overnight temperatures through the rest of this month. Frozen hoses wouldn’t be very helpful. Then again, I didn’t drain the hoses last autumn when we shut off the water to the outside faucets. Maybe the best option will be to check things out next week if we really get several days in the 60s.

winter woods with leaf-covered ground

Photo by J. Harrington

Even with, perhaps especially with, an almost snowless and coldless winter, I’m feeling pent up and penned in as a consequence of excessive time spent resting on my gluteus maximus muscles during the past several months, combined with day upon day spent looking at a drab, oak-leaf covered landscape.

Sometime, I think last year, the Better Half gave me a copy of Things to Look Forward to. I believe it’s time to reread it, perhaps several times. The next seven+ months are likely to be trying, regardless of the results come November. Many, probably most, of US are going to need things to look forward to and (re)learn to be grateful for. Trials, tribulations and turmoil are likely to beset US until we again reach a more stable balance and restore a modicum of, if not tranquility, at least tolerance for those with variant viewpoints.

Nuns Fret Not at Their Convent’s Narrow Room

By William Wordsworth

Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room;

And hermits are contented with their cells;

And students with their pensive citadels;

Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,

Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,

High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,

Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:

In truth the prison, into which we doom

Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,

In sundry moods, ’twas pastime to be bound

Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;

Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)

Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,

Should find brief solace there, as I have found.

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

There’s good news and ....

Because it is both depressing and irritating these days to try to comment intelligently on either politics or public policy, I’m pleased to report that we’ve recently learned that there’s a small flock of pine siskins visiting the feeder this winter. I confess to not paying much attention and thinking they were goldfinches until a couple of days ago. Cornell’s All About Birds notes the two species can be seen as similar.

some years it’s really hard to tell who’s there

Photo by J. Harrington

The other piece of recent good news is that a person or persons unknown have been using our Little Library [L.L]. I find it really encouraging when folks actually take and leave books instead of just one or the other. I’m only aware of one other L.L. on the routes we regularly travel here in the exurbs which probably says something. Then there’s also the issue that those of us whose reading taste strays far from the best seller list find it challenging to get a hard copy of what we’d like to read through our local public libraries.

Speaking of books and reading, at the moment there are two books I’m looking forward to reading once they’re published this year. In March, Rose McLarney’s Colorfast will be released on the 5th. Later this year, Chris La Tray’s Becoming Little Shell is scheduled for publication on August 20. In the interim, I’m rereading some of Thomas R. Smith’s poetry and Linda Legarde Grover’s latest novel, a song over miskwaa rapids.

All told, things could be much worse and I’m slowly learning to be grateful for what I have instead of being frustrated and aggravated by what’s missing. At least I’m not a pregnant woman in Texas or Tennessee, nor a family in Gaza. If only we had a Congress that understood they’re supposed to earn their pay by solving problems, not making them worse.

I wanted to be surprised.

Jane Hirshfield
1953 – 

To such a request, the world is obliging.

In just the past week, a rotund porcupine,
who seemed equally startled by me.

The man who swallowed a tiny microphone
to record the sounds of his body,
not considering beforehand how he might remove it.

A cabbage and mustard sandwich on marbled bread.

How easily the large spiders were caught with a clear plastic cup
surprised even them.

I don’t know why I was surprised every time love started or ended.
Or why each time a new fossil, Earth-like planet, or war.
Or that no one kept being there when the doorknob had clearly.

What should not have been so surprising:
my error after error, recognized when appearing on the faces of others.

What did not surprise enough:
my daily expectation that anything would continue,
and then that so much did continue, when so much did not.

Small rivulets still flowing downhill when it wasn’t raining.
A sister’s birthday.

Also, the stubborn, courteous persistence.
That even today please means please,
good morning is still understood as good morning,

and that when I wake up,
the window’s distant mountain remains a mountain,
the borrowed city around me is still a city, and standing.

Its alleys and markets, offices of dentists,
drug store, liquor store, Chevron.
Its library that charges—a happy surprise—no fine for overdue books:
Borges, Baldwin, Szymborska, Morrison, Cavafy.

—2018

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

Presence, practice, presents

The orange pumpkins are gone from the “back yard," presumably consumed by deer. Smaller ponds are once again ice covered, maybe this time to stay until spring, maybe not. Most trees are now not much more than bare, wind-blown branches. The Better Half and I foraged some fresh, leafless, winterberry branches this morning. They look very wabi-sabi like in a ceramic vase on top of a stereo speaker.

We avoided Black Friday and celebrated Buy Nothing Day yesterday. It felt good. There will be presents exchanged at Christmas, but we’ll do our best to avoid seasonal madness in favor of peace, quiet, nature and family. If that seems unpatriotic somehow, please consider this recent headline: World stands on frontline of disaster at Cop28, says UN climate chief.

Christmas cookies: presence making presents

Photo by J. Harrington

Have you every thought about the idea that time spent wishing and working for something new and/or improved is time not spent enjoying what you now have? I had to face that kind of question not long ago when I was reading one of Tom Rosenbauer’s books on fly fishing and he noted something I’ve avoided: “Practice casting no matter what you do.” In younger days, I fished often enough that I didn’t need to practice. Now, not so much. Practicing casting isn’t dependent on buying another rod, reel, line, etc. I’m going through similar adjustment with my sourdough bread baking and my writing. Reading and thinking about things is a start (and helps sell books) but doing something, practicing something, necessitates spending time more than money.

Life Cycle of Common Man

By Howard Nemerov

Roughly figured, this man of moderate habits,

This average consumer of the middle class,

Consumed in the course of his average life span

Just under half a million cigarettes,

Four thousand fifths of gin and about

A quarter as much vermouth; he drank

Maybe a hundred thousand cups of coffee,

And counting his parents’ share it cost

Something like half a million dollars

To put him through life. How many beasts

Died to provide him with meat, belt and shoes

Cannot be certainly said.

                                     But anyhow,

It is in this way that a man travels through time,

Leaving behind him a lengthening trail

Of empty bottles and bones, of broken shoes,

Frayed collars and worn out or outgrown

Diapers and dinnerjackets, silk ties and slickers.

Given the energy and security thus achieved,

He did . . . ? What? The usual things, of course,

The eating, dreaming, drinking and begetting,

And he worked for the money which was to pay

For the eating, et cetera, which were necessary

If he were to go on working for the money, et cetera,

But chiefly he talked. As the bottles and bones

Accumulated behind him, the words proceeded

Steadily from the front of his face as he

Advanced into the silence and made it verbal.

Who can tally the tale of his words? A lifetime

Would barely suffice for their repetition;

If you merely printed all his commas the result

Would be a very large volume, and the number of times

He said “thank you” or “very little sugar, please,”

Would stagger the imagination. There were also

Witticisms, platitudes, and statements beginning

“It seems to me” or “As I always say.”

Consider the courage in all that, and behold the man

Walking into deep silence, with the ectoplastic

Cartoon’s balloon of speech proceeding

Steadily out of the front of his face, the words

Borne along on the breath which is his spirit

Telling the numberless tale of his untold Word

Which makes the world his apple, and forces him to eat.

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

On Thanksgiving Eve

Today I’m thankful the world isn’t any more complex than it already is and have a Christmas wish that we all find ways to make it simpler. Repeat after me: "Analogue is Awesome; Digital is Disastrous!” If you think I’m overreacting, check the stories on /. Slashdot each day for a week or more. When was the last time a computer really made your life better? Or, do they just help US to make the same dumb mistakes even faster, with fewer options available to correct those mistakes? Was identity theft a real problem when we all relied on snail mail? When was the last time someone hacked the postal system?

Are you tired of being nagged to sign up for auto-payment by one or more basic service corporations? At the moment, trash, phone and power companies want to get into my banking accounts. One credit card company, after selling my account to a different organization, keeps asking me to see if I’m prequalified for one of their accounts. 😏

Sven in his canoe

Photo by J. Harrington

While I spent the morning wrestling with one of my “It just works!” computers, the Better Half dug out and set up more or our holiday decorations. Sven in his canoe and Ole on his skies are now perched on top of various pieces of furniture. Seeing sparkles and candlelights has boosted my holiday mood. Last night I noticed the subtle simplicity of the lighted wreathes and angels and wondered if adding the icicle lights might be too garish. We’ll see this weekend.

Ole on his skis

Photo by J. Harrington

I’m well aware of my privileged status and how much less I have to complain about than Gaza or Ukraine or other refugees. That doesn’t keep me from wondering what it would be like if the “developed” countries put as much effort into simplifying production, making less that works better for longer and is more repairable than creating as much toxic waste and unrepairable and largely unrecyclable junk as they do. I’d give a lot more thanks if I, and you, could live in a simpler, more wholesome and healthy world than the one we leave behind daily. New, improved, bigger, faster isn’t always, and we don’t have enough earths for all of US to live the way some of US do. We can do better.

When the Burning Begins

Patricia Smith     1955 – 

          ^{for Otis Douglas Smith, my father}

The recipe for hot water cornbread is simple:
Cornmeal, hot water. Mix till sluggish,
then dollop in a sizzling skillet.
When you smell the burning begin, flip it.
When you smell the burning begin again,
dump it onto a plate. You’ve got to wait
for the burning and get it just right.

Before the bread cools down,
smear it with sweet salted butter
and smash it with your fingers,
crumple it up in a bowl
of collard greens or buttermilk,
forget that I’m telling you it’s the first thing
I ever cooked, that my daddy was laughing
and breathing and no bullet in his head
when he taught me.

Mix it till it looks like quicksand, he’d say.
Till it moves like a slow song sounds.

We’d sit there in the kitchen, licking our fingers
and laughing at my mother,
who was probably scrubbing something with bleach,
or watching Bonanza,
or thinking how stupid it was to be burning
that nasty old bread in that cast iron skillet.
When I told her that I’d made my first-ever pan
of hot water cornbread, and that my daddy
had branded it glorious, she sniffed and kept
mopping the floor over and over in the same place.

So here’s how you do it:

You take out a bowl, like the one
we had with blue flowers and only one crack,
you put the cornmeal in it.
Then you turn on the hot water and you let it run
while you tell the story about the boy
who kissed your cheek after school
or about how you really want to be a reporter
instead of a teacher or nurse like Mama said,
and the water keeps running while Daddy says
You will be a wonderful writer
and you will be famous someday and when
you get famous, if I wrote you a letter and
send you some money, would you write about me?

and he is laughing and breathing and no bullet
in his head. So you let the water run into this mix
till it moves like mud moves at the bottom of a river,
which is another thing Daddy said, and even though
I’d never even seen a river,
I knew exactly what he meant.
Then you turn the fire way up under the skillet,
and you pour in this mix
that moves like mud moves at the bottom of a river,
like quicksand, like slow song sounds.
That stuff pops something awful when it first hits
that blazing skillet, and sometimes Daddy and I
would dance to those angry pop sounds,
he’d let me rest my feet on top of his
while we waltzed around the kitchen
and my mother huffed and puffed
on the other side of the door. When you are famous,
Daddy asks me, will you write about dancing
in the kitchen with your father?
I say everything I write will be about you,
then you will be famous too. And we dip and swirl
and spin, but then he stops.
And sniffs the air.

The thing you have to remember
about hot water cornbread
is to wait for the burning
so you know when to flip it, and then again
so you know when it’s crusty and done.
Then eat it the way we did,
with our fingers,
our feet still tingling from dancing.
But remember that sometimes the burning
takes such a long time,
and in that time,
sometimes,

poems are born.

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

Thanks! giving?

Last night, somebody (deer? raccoons? both?) was playing with the pumpkins we left in the field behind the house. They’ve been moved quite a distance from where we dropped them. but not very munched on yet, it appears. When deer were noshing on pumpkins in front of the house, it took them several days to eat much of the body of the vegetable. We’ll keep an eye on things and report anything noteworthy.

deer like the taste of Jack O'Lanterns

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half has adjusted the sparkly holiday bouquet on the book case behind her right shoulder. The "alien eyes” [see yesterday’s posting] are gone. It now looks much more holidayish. There’s also a miniature angel on top of a hutch keeping an eye on the dining-living-and-kitchen area. We may yet end up with some holiday spirit.

The oven’s preheating for the afternoon bread baking. That both helps take any chill off the living room and kitchen and, in a couple of hours, the place will smell great too. Then later, on Thursday, we’ll enjoy the aroma of roasting turkey. If I can only remember to stay away from news headlines and social media, the week could be quite pleasant, more so if the sun ever returns.

So far, a high point of the day has been a very close look at three sandhill cranes as they burst from a wetland next to I-35 and flew almost over the hood of the Jeep. They are beautiful birds. In the Marshland Elegy chapter of A Sand County Almanac, Aldo Leopold notes how close we came to losing them. We can be thankful on Thursday, and every day, that we didn’t. Then we can do all we know how to do to protect other threatened critters and their habitat so we can be thankful we still get to enjoy their company next year at Thanksgiving time.

When the Frost is on the Punkin

By James Whitcomb Riley

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,

And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,

And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;

O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,

With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,

As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere

When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—

Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,

And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;

But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze

Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days

Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,

And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;

The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still

A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;

The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;

The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!—

O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps

Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;

And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through

With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! ...

I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be

As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me—

I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

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

A question of focus

If there’s a name for the shade between gray and white, that’s what this afternoon’s sky is. No sun, no blue, flat wall-to-wall cloud cover that would be worse if it were snowing, but is gloomy all by itself. That means I can add joy at the return of the sun by Thanksgiving to things to be thankful for come Thursday. Meanwhile, we continue to add bit by bit to seasonal decor. Icicle lights are on the garage, greenery and angels highlight the front porch/stoop. The Better Half has put a sparkly red and green bouquet behind her seat. Two of the green bulbs in it look like the eyes of an alien monster about to leap on her from behind. I haven’t yet mentioned that to her. (shh!)

a new November day dawns

Photo by J. Harrington

It is waay too early in the season, and the weather hasn’t been that bad, but I'm showing signs of early onset cabin fever. It’s almost like having an anti-Goldilocks syndrome, “this one’s too big, this one’s too little, and none are just right!” This is no doubt what I get for trying to keep up on world affairs and maintain a modicum of presence on social media. Week after week after week It’s Good News Week! [click the link and see that ennui and sarcasm have been with US since at least 1965]

But, I have dough rising in the warming room [upstairs bathroom with the door closed]. Tomorrow, if all goes well, will be bread baking day. Before the weather turns too cold I need to get the back blade on the tractor. Tomorrow or Wednesday look like likely candidates. Wednesday the latest Carrie Newcomer album is scheduled to arrive, and Thursday's Thanksgiving day. Maybe the source of my discontent isn’t so much the state of the world as it is the state of my expectations. I’m going to look around and see if they can be lowered a little more without triggering unintended consequences.

Gratitude

by Mary Oliver

What did you notice?

The dew-snail;
the low-flying sparrow;
the bat, on the wind, in the dark;
big-chested geese, in the V of sleekest performance;
the soft toad, patient in the hot sand;
the sweet-hungry ants;
the uproar of mice in the empty house;
the tin music of the cricket’s body;
the blouse of the goldenrod.

What did you hear?

The thrush greeting the morning;
the little bluebirds in their hot box;
the salty talk of the wren,
then the deep cup of the hour of silence.

When did you admire?

The oaks, letting down their dark and hairy fruit;
the carrot, rising in its elongated waist;
the onion, sheet after sheet, curved inward to the pale green wand;
at the end of summer the brassy dust, the almost liquid beauty of the flowers;
then the ferns, scrawned black by the frost.

What astonished you?

The swallows making their dip and turn over the water.

What would you like to see again?

My dog: her energy and exuberance, her willingness,
her language beyond all nimbleness of tongue,
her recklessness, her loyalty, her sweetness,
her strong legs, her curled black lip, her snap.

What was most tender?

Queen Anne’s lace, with its parsnip root;
the everlasting in its bonnets of wool;
the kinks and turns of the tupelo’s body;
the tall, blank banks of sand;
the clam, clamped down.

What was most wonderful?

The sea, and its wide shoulders;
the sea and its triangles;
the sea lying back on its long athlete’s spine.

What did you think was happening?

The green beast of the hummingbird;
the eye of the pond;
the wet face of the lily;
the bright, puckered knee of the broken oak;
the red tulip of the fox’s mouth;
the up-swing, the down-pour, the frayed sleeve of the first snow—

so the gods shake us from our sleep.

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

May the seasons fly toward spring

I recently gave myself an early Christmas present, a copy of Peter Kaminsky’s Fly Fisherman’s Guide to the Meaning of Life. Last night I got to the chapter on A Fly Fisher’s Essential Reading, and was pleased to note I’ve read a lot of the books listed:

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

One or two of the “nopes" are going to go on a "to be read" list, but overall I’m pleased to see that I’m a reasonably literate fly fisher. Now, if my casting were as competent as my reading... but then I’d need to spend lots more time casting and less time reading.

these are dry flies, not ice flies

Photo by J. Harrington

In addition to having reached the Essential Reading list last night, today’s theme is brought to you by a significant drop in today’s high temperature compared to yesterday’s, with daytime highs consistently below freezing expected a week from now. Those conditions mean I’ll be doing lots more reading than casting for at least the next several months. That gives me two things to look forward to rather than complain about if I follow Yeats’ approach.

The Song of Wandering Aengus

By William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

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

Easing into the season

The weather is beautiful today, blue skies, not much wind. Nevertheless, I have no intention of clearing leaves from the driveway again, because tomorrow the wind returns and the branches aren’t yet bare of leaves, so I’d just have to repeat driveway clearing for the 5th or 6th time this year. I’m just going to enjoy as much of the day as I can and let tomorrow (or the day after) take care of tomorrow. Next week we compensate for this week’s above normal temperatures so....

Today the Better Half and I started getting seriously, but joyously, organized for the holidays. She’s been playing Santa’s little Elf much of the year. I’m just starting to get into holiday moods and modes although, as noted recently on these pages, I’ve but begun to contemplate my own Christmas wishes, other than for, literally, peace on earth, good will to all. Have you noticed that the number of Scrooges has grown phenomenally over the last decade or two? May each and every one of them be visited by the requisite ghosts of past, present and future, so that they change their ways, each and every one.

some Novembers look more Christmassy than others

Photo by J. Harrington

Since I’ve already referenced Dickens’ Christmas Carol, I may as well pile on and include a Wordsworth sonnet that popped into my head this morning. It appears that concerns that arose during the first industrial revolution remain with US, changed in form but not substance. Perhaps it is well past time to reconsider our definition of “progress?” There’s an old dictum in planning that “more of the same never solved a problem.” Einstein has noted that “No problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it.” I wonder if spirituality is a different level of consciousness than materialism.

Today’s poem could be considered to be little more than a downer, or, viewed more opportunely, it can be seen as a caution for how to better enjoy and benefit from the upcoming holidays and holydays.

The World Is Too Much With Us

By William Wordsworth

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

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

A wish for all of US and them

On this World Mental Health day, I was remembering an afternoon last week when we saw a double rainbow against a sky of broken clouds and sunlight. Later on that same drive, the Better Hall pointed out a flight of half a dozen or so swans over the harvested fields. Gray-white bodies against gray-white clouds was enough to make me believe in angels. Each of these delights was rare and ephemeral. I’m grateful for the sights and the memories.

I suspect there are many things in my life that are more common, and I take for granted, in part because I was raised to always want more and better. It was called “getting ahead” decades ago when I was in college. As near as I can tell, most folks were brought up to get ahead, but I don’t think that’s what Robert Zimmerman meant when he sang “he not busy being born is busy dying.” 

For some reason, perhaps because I needed it, this morning the shuffle function on my Jeep’s music system kept playing Joan Baez singing one or another of Dylan’s older poems. Finally, as I went in to pay the second half property taxes for this year, she started to sing one of my most favoritist of Dylan’s songs. When I returned to the Jeep and headed for home, I punched the repeat button and listened to it all from start to finish. The lyrics are today’s poem. Think what a wonderful world we could live in if these wishes came true for each of US and our children and all the world’s children from now on. As Carrie Newcomer sings “We can do this hard thing.”

May you stay forever young

Forever Young

Written by: Bob Dylan 

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young

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

National Code Talkers Day

 Today’s posting speaks for itself in gratitude and apology.

• History of Navajo Code Talkers Day


• Navajo Code Talkers and the Unbreakable Code (CIA)


• The Past, Present, and Future of the Navajo Language


• The Diné Reader: An Anthology of Navajo Literature

A Blessing

By Luci Tapahonso

For the graduates of the University of Arizona.

This morning we gather in gratitude for all aspects of sacredness:

the air, the warmth of fire, bodies of water, plants, the land,

and all animals and humankind.

We gather to honor our students who have achieved the extraordinary

accomplishment of earning doctoral or master's degrees.

We gather to honor their parents, grandparents, children,

family members, and friends who have traveled with them

on their path to success. They have traveled far distances to be here

this morning: we honor their devotion.

 

May we remember that holiness exists in the ordinary elements of our lives.

 

We are grateful for a homeland that has always thrived

on a glorious array of people and their diverse cultures, histories,

and beliefs. We acknowledge the generosity of the Tohono O'odham

in granting this land on which we learn, teach, celebrate

accomplishments, and sometimes mourn losses.

 

May we always cherish our ancestors as we prepare for the days ahead.

May we remember that we exist because of their prayers and their faith.

 

We are blessed with distinct and melodious tongues.

Our languages are treasures of stories, songs, ceremonies, and memories.

May each of us remember to share our stories with one another,

because it is only through stories that we live full lives.

 

May the words we speak go forth as bright beads

of comfort, joy, humor, and inspiration.

We have faith that the graduates will inspire others

to explore and follow their interests.

 

Today we reflect a rainbow of creation:

Some of us came from the east, where bright crystals of creativity reside.

They are the white streaks of early morning light when all is born again.

We understand that, in Tucson, the Rincon Mountains are our inspiration

for beginning each day. The Rincons are everlasting and always present.

 

Those who came from the south embody the strength of the blue

mountains that encircle us. The Santa Ritas instill in us

the vigorous spirit of youthful learning.

 

Others came from the west; they are imbued with the quiet, yellow glow of dusk.

They help us achieve our goals. Here in the middle of the valley, the ts'aa',

the basket of life, the Tucson Mountains teach us to value our families.

 

The ones from the north bring the deep, restorative powers of night's darkness;

their presence renews us. The Santa Catalina Mountains teach us that,

though the past may be fraught with sorrow, it was strengthened

by the prayers of our forebearers.

We witnessed the recent fires the mountains suffered,

and in their recovery we see ourselves on our own journeys.

We understand that we are surrounded by mountains, dziił,

and thus that we are made of strength, dziił, nihí níhídziił.

We are strong ourselves. We are surrounded by mountains

that help us negotiate our daily lives.

 

May we always recognize the multitude of gifts that surround us.

May our homes, schools, and communities be filled with the wisdom

and optimism that reflect a generous spirit.

 

We are grateful for all blessings, seen and unseen.

 

May we fulfill the lives envisioned for us at our birth. May we realize

that our actions affect all people and the earth. May we live in the way

of beauty and help others in need. May we always remember that

we were created as people who believe in one another. We are grateful,

Holy Ones, for the graduates, as they will strengthen our future.

 

All is beautiful again.

Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’.

Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’.

Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’.

Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’.

Where are we now?

Have you ever heard the saying “even a blind hog can find acorns once in a while?” That sort of describes much of my morning as I poked about the corners of the internet, although I take umbrage at comparisons involving me and the porcine aspects plus, my new glasses are a notable improvement over my prior prescription.

The web site of Hatch Magazine has an interesting article on Fly rods for beginner and intermediate anglers. On a good day I qualify as an “intermediate” so I was curious to see what the article claimed. For one thing, it recommends avoiding “fast action” rods unless you really know what you’re doing. That had me trying to remember if any of my graphite rods are classified as fast. Of course, I don’t remember but I was delighted to read, further on, regarding fast action rods, that: 

Rather than moth-balling those rods, the folks who own them should try going up a line size with their fly line. A couple of my favorite 5 weights are actually fast action 4 weights that I fish with a one-size-heavier line. It won’t work for every rod — some models are truly beyond redemption — but utilizing a heavier line can indeed help certain fast action rods perform far better on the water.

Years ago I picked up the practice of going a line weight heavier for several of my rods for entirely separate reasons. It’s encouraging to find one of your practices validated for more reasons than the one(s) that started it. I was interested in getting a decent but short cast with my trout rods since most of the rivers I fish aren’t very large. Maybe we’re talking about similar results using different words but I can confirm that the combination of a 4 weigh rod and a 5 weight line often works well for me. Now, if only I could find a better way to label the weights of my lines so I can keep track more easily as I swap reels from rod to rod.

Over the weekend, more and more dismal news stories started me wondering [again] how we ended up where we are after the “Woodstock Generation.” I searched online to see if anyone thought they had an answer to that question. Did everyone sell out? One interesting article from a few years ago, What Happened to the Woodstock Generation?, concludes:

Because although we have new issues and causes to fight for: global warming, starvation and poverty around the world, wars in Afghanistan, Syria, Yemen, Iraq, so many others, “the “clash of civilizations” between Islam and the West, getting universal health care in America (my own personal cause celebre)… we must “still keep up the fight.” Not give up “hope.” Not fall prey to the current diatribes of our political and religious leaders.

Woodstock lives! That’s what I say! Social justice. Peace, love, sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll forever!

What about you?

In the late sixties Sonny and Cher had a hit song titled The Beat Goes On. With only a slight modification, we have an answer to the question of what happened to the Woodstock, and every other, generation. It’s called evolution and aging, on and on, unless we make our home planet uninhabitable.

Woodstock

by Joni Mitchell

I came upon a child of God
He was walking along the road
And I asked him where are you going
And this he told me
I'm going on down to Yasgur's farm *
I'm going to join in a rock 'n' roll band
I'm going to camp out on the land
I'm going to try an' get my soul free 

We are stardust
We are golden
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden

Then can I walk beside you
I have come here to lose the smog
And I feel to be a cog in something turning
Well maybe it is just the time of year
Or maybe it's the time of man
I don't know who I am
But you know life is for learning

We are stardust
We are golden
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden

By the time we got to Woodstock
We were half a million strong
And everywhere there was song and celebration
And I dreamed I saw the bombers
Riding shotgun in the sky
And they were turning into butterflies
Above our nation

We are stardust
Billion year old carbon
We are golden
Caught in the devil's bargain
And we've got to get ourselves
back to the garden

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

It’s T Day

Depending on your perspective, “T” stands for Turkey or Thanksgiving. It’s a day many of us give thanks for our blessings. Some would argue that we should give thanks daily, or more often, but this is not a day for arguing, even with wrongheaded family members.

“T” also stands for Today and/or Tomorrow. Tomorrow is Buy Nothing Day. It is also Native American Heritage Day. Today, Thanksgiving, Turkey Day, has a significant Native American element to it, an element that is too often distorted. Today, this morning, I found a web site, Many Hoops Around Thanksgiving, that reflects on Thanksgiving with a Native American perspective from Massachusetts, my home land. I hope you will visit it and spend some time contemplating its message, which includes:

This website is many hoops made up of historical and current information, recipes, arts and crafts, and a variety of resources all of which are historically accurate and do not include any form of stereotyping of either the Pilgrims or Indians. For instance, the recipes unless otherwise noted are made of ingredients available in the early 1600's in the Plymouth Massachusetts area. It is an adventure into authenticity that is not readily available elsewhere. Information pertaining to the Wampanoag is from the Wampanoag themselves. The arts and crafts are based on authenticity and do not include activities that are commonly available. 

From that same site, we will close today’s posting with this prayer for you, those you love, those who care about you, and all our relations:

Prayer from Princess Red Wing Narragansett/Wampanoag

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

Tomorrow is T Day!

At  the moment, I’m giving thanks that the snowblower started and ran and that I managed to change the oil in it without turning the garage into a (bigger) disaster. A cautionary note that I wish I had known about  years ago: some folks are selling stuff that’s not really well designed. My snowblower has two dipsticks but no drain pipe from the crankcase. One of the dipsticks is located right under the exhaust and muffler, presenting a wonderful opportunity to burn one’s hand if not very careful. I’m very grateful I bought other brands of snowblowers before the current one and won’t be foolish enough  to buy anything like it without  checking the details first. The manual doesn’t even list how much oil the crankcase holds. I’m grateful I could find that information on the internet.

some years November 23rd’s like this

Photo by J. Harrington

Things like the preceding make me grateful there are lots of capable folks working on helping design and create an economy that doesn’t depend on perpetual growth to be sustainable, because perpetual growth on a finite planet isn’t sustainable. I’m increasingly grateful that more and more of us are learning  that. There are no jobs on a dead planet.

I really enjoyed the Buffy Sainte-Marie documentary on PBS last night. Including some shots of Joni Mitchell was icing on the cake. I’m grateful to have lived at the same time as each of those wonderful artists and many others I’ve grown up with.

Yesterday the eye doctor gave me a relatively clean bill of health for an old fart (me, not the eye doctor), for which I’m grateful, although  the dilation eye drops hadn’t completely worn off by the time the B S-M documentary started so watching it was a little blurry at times. Today we’re enjoying another spell of blue skies, sunshine and above freezing temperatures. I have few doubts that, had I not checked out the snow blower today, T day would bring an Alberta clipper or an outright blizzard. Don’t bother to thank me, it was my (almost) pleasure.

America, I Sing Back

Allison Adelle Hedge Coke - 1958-

for Phil Young, my father, Robert Hedge Coke, Whitman, and Hughes

America, I sing back. Sing back what sung you in.
Sing back the moment you cherished breath.
Sing you home into yourself and back to reason.

Oh, before America began to sing, I sung her to sleep,
held her cradleboard, wept her into day.
My song gave her creation, prepared her delivery,
held her severed cord beautifully beaded.

My song helped her stand, held her hand for first steps,

nourished her very being, fed her, placed her three sisters strong.
My song comforted her as she battled my reason

broke my long held footing sure, as any child might do.

Lo, as she pushed herself away, forced me to remove myself,
as I cried this country, my song grew roses in each tear’s fall.

My blood veined rivers, painted pipestone quarries
circled canyons, while she made herself maiden fine.

Oh, but here I am, here I am, here, I remain high on each and every peak,
carefully rumbling her great underbelly, prepared to pour forth singing—

and sing again I will, as I have always done.

Never silenced unless in the company of strangers, singing

the stoic face, polite repose, polite, while dancing deep inside, polite
Mother of her world. Sister of myself.

When my song sings aloud again. When I call her back to cradle.
Call her to peer into waters, to behold herself in dark and light,

day and night, call her to sing along, call her to mature, to envision—

Then, she will make herself over. My song will make it so

When she grows far past her self-considered purpose,
I will sing her back, sing her back. I will sing. Oh, I will—I do.

America, I sing back. Sing back what sung you in.

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

T minus 2 and counting

As you know, we’re rapidly approaching Turkey day. I’ve hunted wild turkey quite a few times, always in the spring. Autumn was reserved for hunting grouse and ducks, occasionally deer, and, when I lived in Massachusetts, striped bass fishing. Several of us from Minnesota used to travel to the Dakotas for spring turkey hunting, at that time you could hunt with a rifle. I only got one shot in a number of trips, and I missed the bird’s head at about 75 yards. All of this is a lead in to saying  that I’m full of gratitude for the times I’ve spent fishing, hunting, getting ready to fish or hunt, messing with hunting (and other) dogs, fiddling with boats, canoes, belly boats and duck boats.

I grew up at a time when outdoor magazines like Field and Stream, Outdoor Life and Sports Afield published writers like Gene Hill, Corey Ford, and A.J. McLane. That meant I could get three or four times as much  pleasure from any outdoors outing: thinking about going; going; memories of having gone; and, reading about similar trips by others. I’m grateful I grew up where, when and how I did. These days I’m working on following the old advice: “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because t happened.” I don’t get out as much as I used to but I’m grateful I can still get out at all.

turkey hens in the front yard

Photo by J. Harrington

So, instead of shooting turkeys with a gun, I’ve managed to shoot quite a few with my camera. The taste is a little on the flat side but I get to enjoy the pictures more than for just one or two meals. That’s something for which to be thankful too, right?

Haiku Journey

By Kimberly Blaeser

         i. Spring

the tips of each pine

the spikes of telephone poles

hold gathering crows

may’s errant mustard

spreads wild across paved road

look both ways

roadside treble cleft

feeding gopher, paws to mouth

cheeks puffed with music

yesterday’s spring wind

ruffling the grey tips of fur

rabbit dandelion

         ii. Summer

turkey vulture feeds

mechanical as a red oil rig

head rocks down up down

stiff-legged dog rises

goes grumbling after squirrel

old ears still flap

snowy egret—curves,

lines, sculpted against pond blue;

white clouds against sky

banded headed bird

this ballerina killdeer

dance on point my heart

         iii. Fall

leaf wind cold through coat

wails over hills, through barren trees

empty garbage cans dance

damp September night

lone farmer, lighted tractor

drive memory’s worn path

sky black with migration

flocks settle on barren trees

leaf birds, travel songs

october moon cast

over corn, lighted fields

crinkled sheaves of white

         iv. Winter

ground painted in frost

thirsty morning sun drinks white

leaves rust golds return

winter bare branches

hold tattered cups of summer

empty nests trail twigs

lace edges of ice

manna against darkened sky

words turn with weather

now one to seven

deer or haiku syllables

weave through winter trees

Northern follows jig

body flashes with strike, dive:

broken line floats up.

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