Approaching Samhain

This Friday morning past, the wind was finally calm after a hard frost night. I watched the maple trees in front of the house drop leaves like oversized snow flakes. Soon, what passes for our front lawn was colored yellow. Today we mulched the lawn's leaves. Yesterday and today we had collected windrows of leaves along the south side of the driveway and dumped several garden cart loads at the wood's edge behind the house. Most of the oak leaves are still hanging on. Autumn is my favorite season except for leaf fall.

While emptying one cart load of fallen leaves, I tripped over what at first I thought was a dead branch that turned out to be a mouse-eaten four-point antler, shed from a white-tail buck that would have been an eight-pointer. First time in my life I've come across an antler shed. It's now a keepsake.

may only friendly spirits visit you

Photo by J. Harrington

From what I've noticed during my recent drives, all of the soy beans and most of the corn has been harvested. Fields and treetops are looking more and more bare by the day. As we approach Samhain at month's end we recognize we're entering the dark half of the year. The cycle continues through the Circle of the Year. I was contemplating some of those kinds of thoughts and accompanying feelings when my Jeep's music system started playing Joni Mitchell's fantastic song The Circle Game. All the thoughts and feelings mixed together were enhanced because our granddaughter had recently celebrated her fifth birthday.

It seems to me that we would do well to live so that we are more aware of the passing seasons and what's seasonal. Such an adjustment might help us to more readily live in the moment. Ms. Mitchell captured the essence of that in her song Big Yellow Taxi. "Don't it always seem to go / That you don't know what you've got / Till it's gone...."

You''re right, I've stayed away from politics and world events in this posting. remember the old advice about not saying anything if you can't say something good? Now is the time for me to share below these much better than good lyrics and thoughts from Ms. Mitchell and wish US all a Happy Halloween and Blessed Samhain.

The Circle Game

by Joni Mitchell

Yesterday a child came out to wonder
Caught a dragonfly inside a jar
Fearful when the sky was full of thunder
And tearful at the falling of a star

Then the child moved ten times round the seasons
Skated over ten clear frozen streams
Words like when you're older must appease him
And promises of someday make his dreams

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game

Sixteen springs and sixteen summers gone now
Cartwheels turn to car wheels thru the town
And they tell him take your time it won't be long now
Till you drag your feet to slow the circles down

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game

So the years spin by and now the boy is twenty
Though his dreams have lost some grandeur coming true
There'll be new dreams maybe better dreams and plenty
Before the last revolving year is through

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game

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Changing tunes and times

I missed noting that yesterday was Lughnasadh, the first of two harvest festivals, the second being Alban Elfed (the Autumn Equinox). Today, the first Fall catalog arrived in the mail. I walked down the drive with temperatures in the upper 80’s to collect that mail, so, as usual by this time each Summer, I’m really looking forward to Autumn, even if summer weather haas been cooler and wetter, like this year.

goldenrod blossoms in a field of green grasses

Photo by J. Harrington

There’s a strange mix of blossoms in the yard, with a few lilac blossoms (Spring time) and some goldenrod (Autumn). Many of our lilies have already bloomed and faded. One of these weeks we’ll notice the first hints of leaves changing colors and I’ll start trading short-sleeved, cotton t-shirts for long-sleeved flannel and chamois shirts.

There are several songs that haunt me about this time each year. One is Joni Mitchell’s The Circle Game, with its all too true refrain:

And the seasons they go round and round 
And the painted ponies go up and down 
We're captive on the carousel of time 
We can't return we can only look 
Behind from where we came 
And go round and round and round 
In the circle game

In my mind that song complements her Autumn focused Urge for Going and the chorus lines:

I get the urge for going

When the meadow grass is turning brown

And summertime is falling down and winter is closing in

The neighbor’s meadow grass hay field has turned brown and is one of the few meadow grass fields in our area not already cut and baled.

We’re at at time when one cycle appears to be nearing completion and a new one is barely emerging. It’s too soon to tell what our next American dream may be, but it’s not likely to be the same as the one we chased after WWII. Infinite growth on a finite planet doesn’t work as well as figuring out how to continually produce better quality lives for the next generations.

Autumn

By Sydney Lea

Why not write something for those

who scratched out improbable livings here?

Someone has managed to sow

This broken field with stones, it appears,

 

So someone’s scratching it still,

Although that Japanese knotweed has edged

The tilth. Two wasps in the child

Attempt to catch sun on a rail of the bridge.

 

The old local doctor has passed

At almost a full decade past ninety.

He never seemed depressed.

Seventy now, if barely,

 

I consider the field again:

Someone will drag these rocks away

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

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

 

Nothing is left of the barn

But some rusty steel straps in some nasty red osier.

The stone fence still looks sound,

But even there the knotweed steps over.

 

Hadn’t I pledged an elegy

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

They thrived, exactly, but maybe

They likewise scented good wind full of rain,

 

Lifted eyes above this old orchard

To the cloud-darkened hills and found their support

Somehow, somewhere. No matter,

They kept going until they could go no more.

 

The trees’ puckered apples have gathered

A flock of birds, and as they alight,

They’re full of unseasonable chatter,

As if to say that all will be right.

 

The old ones I promised a poem

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

I never knew them. They’re gone.

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

 

 

—Caledonia County, Vermont

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Summer, time

We saw the first “Back to school” ads recently. Many of the local roads are under repair in various and sundry places. Weather is heated, humid, and gusty. The county fair ended last week. Our state fair starts in about a month. If the Jamies were around, they’d be singing “Summertime, Summertime.” (That proves how old I am.)

a field of round bales of hay

Photo by J. Harrington

About all the corn fields are tasseling / have tasseled. Most of the local farmers are cutting, raking, baling and hauling hay. I was delighted to see a dragonfly this morning. Thunderstorms are in this evening’s forecast. At least we don’t have to shovel thunder and lightning and the dogs seem to enjoy their Hemp treats for calming when the storms arrive.

As an early riser most days, I’ve noticed that the days are getting shorter at the top end. Times that a month ago were sunrise are now first light. Turkey poults have grown a bunch. The season of growing continues although mid-week this week, on August 1, is Lughnasadh, the Celtic festival marking the start of harvest. This week is looking like a great time to dig out our copy of Janis Joplin’s version of “Summertime” and mellow out.

In Summer Time

Paul Laurence Dunbar
1872 – 1906

When summer time has come, and all
The world is in the magic thrall
Of perfumed airs that lull each sense
To fits of drowsy indolence;
When skies are deepest blue above,
And flow'rs aflush,—then most I love
To start, while early dews are damp,
And wend my way in woodland tramp
Where forests rustle, tree on tree,
And sing their silent songs to me;
Where pathways meet and pathways part,—
To walk with Nature heart by heart,
Till wearied out at last I lie
Where some sweet stream steals singing by
A mossy bank; where violets vie
In color with the summer sky,—
Or take my rod and line and hook,
And wander to some darkling brook,
Where all day long the willows dream,
And idly droop to kiss the stream,
And there to loll from morn till night—
Unheeding nibble, run, or bite—
Just for the joy of being there
And drinking in the summer air,
The summer sounds, and summer sights,
That set a restless mind to rights
When grief and pain and raging doubt
Of men and creeds have worn it out;
The birds' song and the water's drone,
The humming bee's low monotone,
The murmur of the passing breeze,
And all the sounds akin to these,
That make a man in summer time
Feel only fit for rest and rhyme.
Joy springs all radiant in my breast;
Though pauper poor, than king more blest,
The tide beats in my soul so strong
That happiness breaks forth in song,
And rings aloud the welkin blue
With all the songs I ever knew.
O time of rapture! time of song!
How swiftly glide thy days along
Adown the current of the years,
Above the rocks of grief and tears!
'Tis wealth enough of joy for me
In summer time to simply be.

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Do you harvest honorably?

In recognition of Indigenous Peoples’ Day, I want to share a resource I recently discovered. NYU, a few years back, chose Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass as their NYU Reads Book. One section of their online resources focuses on the Honorable Harvest. I hope you follow the link, explore, learn, and enjoy. It’s now about six weeks until Thanksgiving. We have much for which we should be thankful, plus much work to do to share, with honor, the blessings we have harvested.

Franklin Avenue, Minneapolis

Photo by J. Harrington

Once the World Was Perfect

By Joy Harjo

Once the world was perfect, and we were happy in that world.

Then we took it for granted.

Discontent began a small rumble in the earthly mind.

Then Doubt pushed through with its spiked head.

And once Doubt ruptured the web,

All manner of demon thoughts

Jumped through—

We destroyed the world we had been given

For inspiration, for life—

Each stone of jealousy, each stone

Of fear, greed, envy, and hatred, put out the light.

No one was without a stone in his or her hand.

There we were,

Right back where we had started.

We were bumping into each other

In the dark.

And now we had no place to live, since we didn't know

How to live with each other.

Then one of the stumbling ones took pity on another

And shared a blanket.

A spark of kindness made a light.

The light made an opening in the darkness.

Everyone worked together to make a ladder.

A Wind Clan person climbed out first into the next world,

And then the other clans, the children of those clans, their children,

And their children, all the way through time—

To now, into this morning light to you.

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A purview of coming attractions

We're in the last week of the seasonal crossover. On Saturday next, both the meteorological and the astronomical autumns will be in alignment. In a week, we’ll be enjoying less than twelve hours of daylight, and the days will continue to shorten until December 21. Then they’ll get longer by a few seconds on the 23rd and thereafter lengthen more and more.

time for autumn colors to emerge

Photo by J. Harrington

This is a busy time of year for us. I keep feeling that the Better Half and I should have done a more careful management of the Daughter Person and Son-In-Law’s scheduling. His birthday is mid-month September. Their daughter was born near the end of the same month and their wedding anniversary is early October. It sort of replicates my unfortunate circumstances of having been born within a week of Father’s Day. Families and individuals should be authorized to rearrange things so important dates don’t all pile up on each other. Our son is a classic example of bad timing. He was born on Christmas which, while kind of a bummer for him, is the best Christmas present I could ever hope for. We always make sure to end Christmas by noon so the afternoon can be his birthday.

The thunderstorms in the extended forecast make the prospects of a brush pile burn on the equinox look iffy. Living where we do, there’s always the possibility of a blizzard around Halloween. Which reminds me, I need to remember to change the oil and gas up the snowblower. Sigh! If we avoid any significant snowfall before Christmas season begins (or beyond), I’ll have a great Thanksgiving celebration.

In addition to autumn being the traditional harvest season when row crops are combined, we’re entering a period in which, if we’re lucky, we can harvest another crop of wonderful holiday memories of times spent with family and friends, weather permitting.

Untitled [Each crisp autumn]

Rose Styron

Each crisp autumn
there are fewer leaves, more clarity—
light cycles of the haymound
odors of late roses
rivers rushing where we
once meandered
content in the casual chaos of each
season, plotting no espionage
because we did not know
the world as terror then.

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October’s Ides are upon us

The month is half gone. According to my copy of The Pagan Book of Days, “In ancient Rome, the tradition of Winter’s Day was held a day later than in the north. Here, the season of combat ended, and weapons were put away until the following year.” I don’t like pondering about the kind of world in which combat had a season. It seems to imply combat always occurring somewhere but perhaps it was like boxing under the Queensbury rules.

October’s fields

Photo by J. Harrington

Once again this week I neglected to post the contents of our Community Supported Agriculture [CSA] share box on the  day we picked it up. The excitement of the season’s first snow fall took precedence so here’s the list of goodies we got yesterday, in our penultimate share:

• APPLES
• CABBAGE, CAULIFLOWER, or BROCCOLI [we got cauliflower]
• DELICATA SQUASH
• GREEN ONIONS
• GREEN TOMATOES
• RAINBOW CHARD and
• WINTER SQUASH SURPRISE [blue hubbard, red kuri, or turban]

Next Friday we collect the final box of veggies. It truly marks the end of summer and this year’s growing season. We could be sad, and we may let such feelings prevail for a day or two, but we’ll be quickly moving into a period full of holidays, plus the insanity of the upcoming election, so the philosophy of “life goes on” will soon dominate. There’ll be Halloween candy to eat and share at Samhain, drumsticks at Thanksgiving and presents to share at Christmas, plus whatever the Pagan Book lists during the next several months. We’re not Caesar, the Ides aren’t yet falling in March, so we’ll cross our fingers, hope for the best, and enjoy as much as we can of the rest of the year.

Late October

By Maya Angelou

Carefully

the leaves of autumn

sprinkle down the tinny

sound of little dyings

and skies sated

of ruddy sunsets

or roseate dawns

roil ceaselessly in

cobweb greys and turn

to black

for comfort.

 

Only lovers

see the fall

a signal end to endings

a gruffish gesture alerting

those who will not be alarmed

that we begin to stop

in order simply

to begin

again.

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The many faces of autumn

The October decorations: gourds, pumpkins, halloween candy, are now in place on the stoop and the dining table. Pumpkins will become Jack-o’Lanterns about a week before Halloween. Meanwhile, summer’s hardier flowers continue to bloom despite overnight temperatures close to freezing. The drive to get the candy and pumpkins was a treat, as was watching children select pumpkins for their parents. It’s been a long time since our kids were in grade school. Yesterday was the family and friends birthday party for our 2 year old granddaughter. This is a busy month, more so for farmers.

creative “pumpkin" baling

Photo by J. Harrington

Most of the local soy bean fields are harvested. Some of the corn fields too, but more corn is standing and drying than harvested as of this weekend’s driving around. Based on the traffic, there were lots of folks out taking in the fall colors today. Soon they’ll be gone for another year, the colors, that is. Traffic is sometimes heavier but almost always there.

Only two more weeks of this year’s Community Supported Agriculture [CSA] shares. I appear to have missed listing what was in Friday’s box so we’ll take care of that now.

• APPLES
• CARAFLEX CABBAGE
• DELICATA SQUASH
• KALE
• POTATOES
• TOMATOES, and
• YELLOW ONION

Last, and far from least today, I just noticed that there are fresh flowers on the lilac bush in front of the house. I suppose that goes along with this being the time of year for ghosts, goblins and what not coming back to life.

Song for Autumn

by Mary Oliver

Don’t you imagine the leaves dream now
how comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of the air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees, especially those with
mossy hollows, are beginning to look for

the fires that will come—six, a dozen—to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
stiffens and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
its long blue shadows. The wind wags
its many tails. And in the evening
the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

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How can we harvest honorably?

Three books have had a disproportionate influence on me in both my professional and my personal life. They are Ian McHarg’s Design with Nature; Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac; and, Robin Wall Kimmerer’s Braiding Sweetgrass. Today’s posting explores a section of the third book because I’m in  the process of deciding if I can figure out how, and how much, of the principles of an honorable harvest can actually be applied in today’s world.

deer eat the bushes, birds the berries, we harvest what’s left

Photo by J. Harrington

Here are the principles under consideration:

The Honorable Harvest, a practice both ancient and urgent, applies to every exchange between people and the Earth. Its protocol is not written down, but if it were, it would look something like this:

Know the ways of the ones who take care of you, so that you may take care of them.
Introduce yourself. Be accountable as the one who comes asking for life.
Ask permission before taking. Abide by the answer.
Never take the first. Never take the last.
Take only what you need.
Take only that which is given.
Never take more than half. Leave some for others.
Harvest in a way that minimizes harm.
Use it respectfully. Never waste what you have taken.
Share.
Give thanks for what you have been given.
Give a gift, in reciprocity for what you have been given.
Sustain the ones who sustain you, and the Earth will last forever.

There are several versions of these principles in publication, but they all convey essentially the same message. As I read them, many, perhaps all of these principles fit much better in a foraging or hunter-gatherer culture than one which depends on industrialized agriculture. But, many (most?) can be applied to small scale agriculture (know your farmer) and foraging and home gardening. (Do any farms have kitchen gardens anymore?) Here are the ones that look to me as if, in one way or another, we could readily do a much better job of respecting:

Know the ways of the ones who take care of you, so that you may take care of them.
[ecosystem services and biodiversity]
Take only what you need.
Harvest in a way that minimizes harm. 
Use it respectfully. Never waste what you have taken.
Share.
Give thanks for what you have been given.
Sustain the ones who sustain you, and the Earth will last forever.
[ecosystem services and biodiversity]

The adaptation isn’t perfect but it does represent a profound transformation in attitude and perspective. It may, or may not, offer an alternative to the Gordian knot of using legalistic standards such as “organic” food and regenerative farming. I’m reminded of a very true assessment in a book I recently finished reading. One cannot force another to love them. If we all do much, much better at learning to love and respect the Earth, we may need fewer regulations and have a better chance of lasting forever.

One final observation for today. Notice that the Honorable Harvest protocol is not written down. Now note that Aldo Leopold informs us that:

“I have purposely presented the land ethic as a product of social evolution because nothing so important as an ethic is ever ‘written’… It evolves in the minds of a thinking community.” The Land Ethic, A Sand County Almanac.

We could stand to do a lot more these days to (re?)create “a thinking community.” to help figure out how to harvest honorably, right?

Praise the Rain

By Joy Harjo

Praise the rain; the seagull dive

The curl of plant, the raven talk—

Praise the hurt, the house slack

The stand of trees, the dignity—

Praise the dark, the moon cradle

The sky fall, the bear sleep—

Praise the mist, the warrior name

The earth eclipse, the fired leap—

Praise the backwards, upward sky

The baby cry, the spirit food—

Praise canoe, the fish rush

The hole for frog, the upside-down—

Praise the day, the cloud cup

The mind flat, forget it all—

Praise crazy. Praise sad.

Praise the path on which we're led.

Praise the roads on earth and water.

Praise the eater and the eaten.

Praise beginnings; praise the end.

Praise the song and praise the singer.

Praise the rain; it brings more rain.

Praise the rain; it brings more rain.

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Autumn-triggered nostalgia

The dogs and I got a really good look at an almost full moon this morning. It was bright white and high in the sky when we took our early after breakfast walk. As we reached the end of the drive and turned onto the road, I looked around and started to hear in my head the lyrics to a wonderful Cat Stevens hit from years ago. Although we posted yesterday that some call the September full moon the Harvest moon, I’ve always considered a harvest moon to be mellow yellow rather than bright white. Perhaps I’m remembering the years in which the Harvest moon occurred in October rather than September.

October full moon 2014

Photo by J. Harrington

Late night, early, early morning temperatures were in the low 40’s when the dog walking under the Harvest moon was going on. That contributed a lot to an autumnal atmosphere, although the deer we saw the other day are still in their summer coats. That must mean we’re in the midst of what I think of as a shoulder season, like the shoulder on a road is neither road nor field, we’re in the transition time between summer and autumn. Then shortly after peak autumn, we enter the shoulder between autumn and winter in late November, early December, unless, of course, we get another Halloween blizzard.

Lest we forget amidst the other trials and tribulations of the day:

Photograph from September 11

By Wisława Szymborska
Translated by Clare Cavanagh

They jumped from the burning floors—

one, two, a few more,

higher, lower.

The photograph halted them in life,

and now keeps them   

above the earth toward the earth.

Each is still complete,

with a particular face

and blood well hidden.

There’s enough time

for hair to come loose,

for keys and coins

to fall from pockets.

They’re still within the air’s reach,

within the compass of places

that have just now opened.

I can do only two things for them—

describe this flight

and not add a last line.

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Lammas/Lughnasagh blessings to you

May your harvest be abundant and well shared. I’m feeding sourdough starter to craft this Lammas’ week a loaf of bread. Unfortunately, we can no longer tell which is the first grain harvested, so we’ll have to fake it. The thoughts and love and appreciation for a successful harvest will be baked in, regardless. The loaf will look very much like the one below.

artisan sourdough bread

Photo by J. Harrington

I’ve become increasingly concerned that too many of US have come to take for granted food security while too many others among US are too often exposed to the fragility of life through hunger and malnutrition. I believe we’re severely misguided in the amount of subsidized agriculture we support that’s devoted to “biofuels” that produce more greenhouse gases than they save. About one third of corn production is used for ethanol. There’s no way ethanol comes under the heading of “feeding the world.” 

There’s a 2014 article in Vox that provides worthwhile insights into how much agricultural land is used for food production. As noted in the article:

Feeding 9 billion people won't be easy: that's basically like adding two new Indias to the world in the next few decades. And, making matters even trickier, humans have now cultivated most of the world's arable land and are pushing up against the limits of freshwater consumption. So the traditional strategy of "find new farmland to grow more food" is getting even harder.

We also must focus on reforestation, restoring wetlands and floodplains and related land uses in response to climate breakdown. Land use competition is likely to become furious. All of this was before the world food situation became even more complicated with the Russian invasion of Ukraine.

As a hobby baker, I’ve noticed an increase in the price of flour over the past few years. Thus far I’ve been able to accommodate that increase. I know there are others who are not as fortunate. Meanwhile, to further point out more of the work yet to be done, Minnesota, as an example, had 67,000 agricultural operations in 2021, with 25,400,000 acres in operations. “As of October 31, 2020, there are 965 certified farms that represent 674,871 acres.” that are water quality certified. That represents 1.4% of the farms and 2.7% of the acres. We must do better.

Bread

By Richard Levine

Each night, in a space he’d make

between waking and purpose,

my grandfather donned his one

suit, in our still dark house, and drove

through Brooklyn’s deserted streets

following trolley tracks to the bakery.

There he’d change into white

linen work clothes and cap,

and in the absence of women,

his hands were both loving, well

into dawn and throughout the day—

kneading, rolling out, shaping

each astonishing moment

of yeasty predictability

in that windowless world lit

by slightly swaying naked bulbs,

where the shadows staggered, woozy

with the aromatic warmth of the work.

Then, the suit and drive, again.

At our table, graced by a loaf

that steamed when we sliced it,

softened the butter and leavened

the very air we’d breathe,

he’d count us blessed.

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As summer peaks...

For the record, as of today, I’m looking forward to Autumn. Fortunately for folks like me, temperatures appear to be on a gradual downward slide. According to my copy of the Minnesota WeatherGuide Calendar, all last week and this week the average high temperature is 84℉. On Sunday the 24th, the average high drops to 83℉ for ten days or so. Your/our mileage may vary. Remember, Minnesota’s averages are often comprised of extremes. In any case, as far as I’m concerned, what are usually the best days of the year are still ahead of us, despite being interrupted by election season inanities and insanities.

goldenrod, not ragweed

Photo by J. Harrington

We’re rapidly approaching ragweed season, another insult to my chronically drippy nose. Ragweed and goldenrod are often confused. Check the link to learn the differences. Meanwhile, in a compassionate move that borders on brilliant, since we’ll be in thunderstorm season for quite awhile yet, the Better Half [BH] bought some calming treats for SiSi my labrador, who comes unglued at thunder. Tomorrow may be an opportunity to see how well the treats work. The lab’s anxiousness is disruptive of a good night’s sleep when we get middle-of-the night storms, so it will be nice to have an option to help settle her down.

Tomorrow, or Sunday, will be bread baking day. If the dough rises enough overnight to shape and bake before tomorrow’s heat, we’ll bake in the morning. Otherwise, baking day will be Sunday. This time we’re working on a sourdough with kernza flour, craisins, and white chocolate chip loaf. If it turns out okay, maybe we’ll look for some wild rice flour for a couple of loaves come Autumn.

Only ten days until Lughnasadh. “The Christian version of this festival is Lammas, which has recently been revived in some churches. The word Lammas comes from hlafmasse – ‘loaf-mass’ – since bread is offered from the newly harvested grain.” This year I’ll see what kind of bread seems to fit the times as well as hope to be able to light a brush pile to celebrate the festival.

Country Summer

By Léonie Adams

Now the rich cherry, whose sleek wood,

And top with silver petals traced

Like a strict box its gems encased,

Has spilt from out that cunning lid,

All in an innocent green round,

Those melting rubies which it hid;

With moss ripe-strawberry-encrusted,

So birds get half, and minds lapse merry

To taste that deep-red, lark’s-bite berry,

And blackcap bloom is yellow-dusted.

The wren that thieved it in the eaves

A trailer of the rose could catch

To her poor droopy sloven thatch,

And side by side with the wren’s brood—

O lovely time of beggar’s luck—

Opens the quaint and hairy bud;

And full and golden is the yield

Of cows that never have to house,

But all night nibble under boughs,

Or cool their sides in the moist field.

Into the rooms flow meadow airs,

The warm farm baking smell’s blown round.

Inside and out, and sky and ground

Are much the same; the wishing star,

Hesperus, kind and early born,

Is risen only finger-far;

All stars stand close in summer air,

And tremble, and look mild as amber;

When wicks are lighted in the chamber,

They are like stars which settled there.

Now straightening from the flowery hay,

Down the still light the mowers look,

Or turn, because their dreaming shook,

And they waked half to other days,

When left alone in the yellow stubble

The rusty-coated mare would graze.

Yet thick the lazy dreams are born,

Another thought can come to mind,

But like the shivering of the wind,

Morning and evening in the corn.

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Once there were greenfields

Most mornings the dogs and I are up early. This morning that was a major disadvantage because early brought skies full of thunder and lightning and pouring rain. We waited on the front porch, joined by the Better Half, in hopes of an interruption, pause, or diminution of the downpour. Meanwhile, the dogs quivered and shivered in anxiety at the fireworks and explosions in the sky. Eventually, there was sufficient opportunity for dogs and dog walkers to chance getting wet without getting drowned and dogs to relieve themselves after a long night.

Later, as the countryside dried out, we headed off on a mission. Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) Summer shares started today. Our drive through the countryside revealed a much greener, lusher landscape than several weeks ago. Much of the corn is waist to shoulder high. Soy bean fields look healthy. Storms last night and early this morning brought down a few branches and trees that partially blocked some places on the road, but nothing we couldn’t drive around by using the shoulder. A high point of the drive to pick up our share was noticing how much bee balm (bergamot) has come into bloom.

Wild Bergamot (Monarda fistulosa)

Photo by J. Harrington

This week’s CSA box contained:

• ARUGULA
• GARLIC SCAPES
• KALE
• LETTUCE
• PURSLANE
• RADISH

[I don’t believe I’ve ever eaten purslane before. No doubt the Better Half will sneak some into a salad to see if I notice.]

As we pulled onto the township road after picking up our CSA share, a whitetail doe was standing in the middle of the road where we needed to turn left. We slowly pulled onto the road. She looked at us with disdain and jumped toward the ditch. I pulled the Jeep forward very slowly and the Better Half got to chat with the doe from about twelve feet away. All in all, a noteworthy improvement from the way the day started. Remember, “Trend is not destiny.” 

cutting greens

By Lucille Clifton

curling them around

i hold their bodies in obscene embrace

thinking of everything but kinship.

collards and kale

strain against each strange other

away from my kissmaking hand and

the iron bedpot.

the pot is black,

the cutting board is black,

my hand,

and just for a minute

the greens roll black under the knife,

and the kitchen twists dark on its spine

and I taste in my natural appetite

the bond of live things everywhere.

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A day of delights

This morning I headed north to spend some time reading with my 1 year-old granddaughter. The sun was low in the sky so I mostly took gravel back roads to take advantage of roadside tree crown cover to block the sun. On the way, i enjoyed seeing:

• two ruffed grouse standing near the middle of our road
• one whitetail deer doe in darker pelage for winter
• two pileated woodpeckers land on a telephone pole
• one rooster pheasant strutting the edge of what was a soy bean fiekd
• several bunches of crows
• the usual menageries of horses, sheep, cows, cattle and goats at small farms along the way.

sandhill cranes in corn stubble

Photo by J. Harrington

The corn and bean fields look to be about 80% to 90% harvested. I was mildly surprised that I didn’t see any geese, cranes, deer or anyone else gleaning whatever was left in or on the harvested fields. Nevertheless, the trip’s sightings left me in a better mood than I’ve enjoyed for some time. I then compounded it by spending time with the Granddaughter. Even though it was morning and not bedtime, in honor of the time of year, we read Hush Hush, Forest.

After about 45 minutes of reading aloud, drinking coffee, naming things and playing “UP,” I headed off to do some errands, including a stop at our favorite local book store, Scout and Morgan in Cambridge. That’s where I picked up a copy of The Dawn of Everything: A New History of Humanity by David Graeber and David Wengrow. Both the Better Half and I are looking forward to reading it.

Overall, the morning was spent engaged in activities much better for my mental and emotional health than my usual doom scrolling on social media or even being outside collecting fallen leaves.  More things to put on my list of what to be grateful for this Thanksgiving. For now, I probably can’t avoid dealing with leaves, but I can, and will, spend less time staring at a screen full of mostly not good news.

Then, in the midst of typing this posting, I looked out the  window and saw a small flock of robins at the bird bath. I have no idea what prompted the visit unless it relates to the drought and a lack of puddles. It was fascinating to watch.

May we all enjoy more days as full of treats as today has been for me!

The Delight Song of Tsoai-talee

By N. Scott Momaday

I am a feather on the bright sky

I am the blue horse that runs in the plain

I am the fish that rolls, shining, in the water

I am the shadow that follows a child

I am the evening light, the lustre of meadows

I am an eagle playing with the wind

I am a cluster of bright beads

I am the farthest star

I am the cold of dawn

I am the roaring of the rain

I am the glitter on the crust of the snow

I am the long track of the moon in a lake

I am a flame of four colors

I am a deer standing away in the dusk

I am a field of sumac and the pomme blanche

I am an angle of geese in the winter sky

I am the hunger of a young wolf

I am the whole dream of these things

You see, I am alive, I am alive

I stand in good relation to the earth

I stand in good relation to the gods

I stand in good relation to all that is beautiful

I stand in good relation to the daughter of Tsen-tainte

You see, I am alive, I am alive

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Signs of the changing seasons

We’ve gone from a misty morning to a long, soaking, much needed rain. Perhaps soil moisture and groundwater levels may approximate where they need to be before the ground freezes. As of the end of September, our area was still in moderate drought.

With luck, today's additional moisture may coax another blossom or two from the aster that miraculously bloomed the other day after disappearing all summer.

pine tree in midst of needle drop

Photo by J. Harrington

Although many of us don’t think that conifers change colors during autumn, this is a time of year when the local pine trees drop many of their needles after they’ve changed from green to golden. On the other hand, we’ve not noticed any signs of color change in the local tamaracks. We’ll look for that later this month, about the time we reach peak color on the maples and the oak leaves begin to really change from green to metallic colors.

This week past both corn and soy bean harvests have started. The range in maturity of local corn fields is startling. Many are tan and drying, others still mostly green. Some may not get harvested until after spring’s melt.

Fall Song

by Mary Oliver

Another year gone, leaving everywhere
its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,

the uneaten fruits crumbling damply
in the shadows, unmattering back

from the particular island
of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere

except underfoot, moldering
in that black subterranean castle

of unobservable mysteries - roots and sealed seeds
and the wanderings of water. This

I try to remember when time's measure
painfully chafes, for instance when autumn

flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing
to stay - how everything lives, shifting

from one bright vision to another, forever
in these momentary pastures. 

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Autum preparations

There are wasps or hornets flitting about in the wind, looking for...? This is about the time of year when hornets(?) begin building a nest up in the rafters of the deck and near the peak of the roof. In a couple of weeks I’ll give the nests a shot of hornet / wasp killer. I’m thinking about cleaning off the gutters (they’re filled with a sponge-like material) but they’ll just recollect a layer of leaves and twigs before spring. Maybe if prime weather conditions occur at the same time my energy peaks I’ll get to it. It’s also the time of year when mice start looking for winter quarters. The traps in the garage caught one the other day. That means it’s time to put fresh mouse repellent in the tractor dashboard.

putting up winter’s hay

Photo by J. Harrington

The grass needs to be cut at least once more and maybe twice. I’m hoping the weather cooperates and we can torch the brush pile as an autumnal equinox bonfire. We’ve not seen any hummingbirds for a couple of days now, They may well be gone for the season. The township road crew recently installed a compacted sand and gravel wear edge on the chipsealed road and, in the process, mowed all the asters along the east edge of the roadway. We’ll keep our fingers crossed that the asters regrow next spring and bloom again next autumn.

It’s a little early for pumpkin sales but I’m shopping for some this week to help decorate for a party next weekend. That provides a wonderful excuse to climb into the Jeep and wander our local roads Tuesday or Wednesday. We’re seeing flocks and families of Canada geese and sandhill cranes crossing skies morning and evening on feeding flights. It’s too early for them to be migrating yet.

Neither corn nor soy bean fields are in full harvest mode yet in our area, although more and more large combines and other farm machines are clogging up roads and creating traffic hazards. It’s challenging enough coping with them on township and county roads, but encountering them on a two lane state highway where the speed limit is 60 mph and they're driving about 20 mph is just not right.

In Harvest

By Sophie Jewett

Mown meadows skirt the standing wheat;

I linger, for the hay is sweet,

New-cut and curing in the sun.

Like furrows, straight, the windrows run,

Fallen, gallant ranks that tossed and bent

When, yesterday, the west wind went

A-rioting through grass and grain.

To-day no least breath stirs the plain;

Only the hot air, quivering, yields

Illusive motion to the fields

Where not the slenderest tassel swings.

Across the wheat flash sky-blue wings;

A goldfinch dangles from a tall,

Full-flowered yellow mullein; all

The world seems turning blue and gold.

Unstartled, since, even from of old,

Beauty has brought keen sense of her,

I feel the withering grasses stir;

Along the edges of the wheat,

I hear the rustle of her feet:

And yet I know the whole sea lies,

And half the earth, between our eyes.

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A Lughnasadh blessing

Today's feast of Lughnasadh is celebrated by many. It marks the beginning of the harvest season, a time for a blessing such as:

May your harvest be bountiful and

sustain you through the cold winter months ahead. 

May the love of friends and family always be with you.

According  to the Minnesota Weather Guide calendar, "In southern and western Minnesota, potato farmers have begun  the harvest and fields of sunflowers are in full bloom." In our area, some farmers have begun to harvest small grains and others their second cutting of hay.

bales of hay await transport

Photo by J. Harrington

In Harvest

By Sophie Jewett

Mown meadows skirt the standing wheat;

I linger, for the hay is sweet,

New-cut and curing in the sun.

Like furrows, straight, the windrows run,

Fallen, gallant ranks that tossed and bent

When, yesterday, the west wind went

A-rioting through grass and grain.

To-day no least breath stirs the plain;

Only the hot air, quivering, yields

Illusive motion to the fields

Where not the slenderest tassel swings.

Across the wheat flash sky-blue wings;

A goldfinch dangles from a tall,

Full-flowered yellow mullein; all

The world seems turning blue and gold.

Unstartled, since, even from of old,

Beauty has brought keen sense of her,

I feel the withering grasses stir;

Along the edges of the wheat,

I hear the rustle of her feet:

And yet I know the whole sea lies,

And half the earth, between our eyes.

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Time to extinguish a few crises

So, yesterday's good news is that I had enough sense to begin wearing a COVID-19 face mask while outside for any period of time in the smoke-filled air of east-central Minnesota, such as when walking the dogs. We all know the bad news, that we're setting Minnesota records for bad air quality from forest fires to our north and others to our west. If face masks are a means to help keep teeny, tiny virus particles out of my airways, they should also work to reduce inhalation of smoke and/or fine particles (PM 2.5).

this time last summer, spotted horsemint was more abundant

Photo by J. Harrington

Meanwhile, the drought continues; the current administration continues to avoid the implications of not suspending or revoking the permits allowing  construction to continue on Enbridge's new Line 3 tar sands transport pipe; folks are beginning to suffer whiplash from "adjustments" to indoor mask "guidelines" related to the delta variant of COVID; and, in a much lesser vein, I became thoroughly embarrassed to learn that Minnesota's sharp-tailed grouse range extends much further east and south than I ever knew. (I know about the Northcentral zone and have almost since I moved to Minnesota. Somehow, the East-central zone has stayed off my radar screen until this morning.)

It's no doubt timely for information affecting hunters and hunting seasons to begin to be released by the Department of Natural Resources in late July, since Sunday, two days from now is Lughnasadh, the beginning of Gaelic harvest time in the Druid Way. As we continue toward autumn, may the wildfires and their smoke be contained and extinguished; may all of US who can safely do so get vaccinated, extinguishing the COVID virus; and may the state and/or federal governments extinguish the Line 3 permits and honor the treaties which Line 3's construction fails to honor.

Tiger Mask Ritual

By Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni

When you put on the mask the thunder starts.

Through the nostril’s orange you can smell

the far hope of rain. Up in the Nilgiris,

glisten of eucalyptus, drip of pine, spiders tumbling

from their silver webs.

The mask is raw and red as bark against your facebones. 

You finger the stripes ridged like weals

out of your childhood. A wind is rising

in the north, a scarlet light

like a fire in the sky.

When you look through the eyeholes it is like falling.

Night gauzes you in black. You are blind

as in the beginning of the world. Sniff. Seek the moon.

After a while you will know

that creased musky smell is rising

from your skin.

Once you locate the ears the drums begin.

Your fur stiffens. A roar from the distant left,

like monsoon water. You swivel your sightless head.

Under your sheathed paw

the ground shifts wet.

What is that small wild sound

sheltering in your skull

against the circle that always closes in

just before dawn?

Note

The poem refers to a ritual performed by some Rajasthani hill tribes to ensure

           rain and a good harvest.

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