Lies, damned lies, and statistics!

The sky is bright blue and cloudless from where I sit. Warm sunshine contributes to above seasonal temperatures. Almost all of the snow from earlier this week has melted. The Better Half and the two dogs are napping. I’m sitting here trying to figure out what happened to the bat house. I noticed this morning that the front is missing. Also, the box is now hanging by only one screw and I think part of the roof is missing.

bat house when new

Photo by J. Harrington

Earlier this year one of the bluebird houses got destroyed by what I believe was a bear. Unless the unseasonable weather prompted one out of hibernation, I don’t think it was a bear that dismantled the bat house, but there haven’t been any recent lightning strikes in the neighborhood either. I suspect we get to just chalk it up as another mystery of country living.

Actually, thanks to a recent annexation, technically we now live in a city, but in the rural portion. At the county level, according to the American Communities Project, we live in a “Rural Middle American” county: "Largely rural and white communities. Middle income and average educational attainment." [That doesn’t help explain the Trump signs we see driving around, unless educational attainment averages have plummeted recently.] Anyhow, the ACP uses fifteen different categories of community types. That certainly seems to complicate any urban-rural divide. I’ve become more and more interested in the emphasis being placed in the media on what divides US rather than what unites US. For next year, I’m thinking seriously of exploring such questions. As an example, when one thinks of rural areas, the role of the arts doesn’t often come to the fore, and yet, there’s Resounds: Arts and Culture on the High Plains.

Perhaps as a holiday present to ourselves, and a New Year’s Resolution, we could check our stereotypes at the door and learn more about the actual people who live in various parts of our country. Waaay back when I was in college, I learned in a sociology course that there are three kinds of lies. See today’s title.

Christmas Mail

By Ted Kooser

Cards in each mailbox,

angel, manger, star and lamb,

as the rural carrier,

driving the snowy roads,

hears from her bundles

the plaintive bleating of sheep,

the shuffle of sandals,

the clopping of camels.

At stop after stop,

she opens the little tin door

and places deep in the shadows

the shepherds and wise men,

the donkeys lank and weary,

the cow who chews and muses.

And from her Styrofoam cup,

white as a star and perched

on the dashboard, leading her

ever into the distance,

there is a hint of hazelnut,

and then a touch of myrrh.

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

Frost, freeze, frozen...

This is Minnesota, North Country. Although we’re a few days away from the end of September, I’ve seen a couple of reports of snow in the vicinity of the Boundary Waters. Tonight there’s a freeze warning that reaches into the Twin Cities metropolitan area (the Census version). A frost advisory looks like it extends to and beyond the state’s southern border. Last night we covered many of our vulnerable plants to protect them from frost. We’ll repeat the drill tonight and throw in some crossed fingers.

woolly bear September 26, 2022

Photo by J. Harrington

To speculate again, or more, about what kind of winter we can expect, yesterday I finally spotted a woolly bear caterpillar crossing the road. The brown bands predominate which portends a milder winter. But, the folks at NOAA have a high confidence that we’ll experience a La Nina autumn and early winter, which could mean a colder, snowier winter than whatever we consider “normal” these days. Perhaps the most reasonable approach is to take it a day at a time and look out the window to see what the weather is doing.

Yesterday when I looked out the window, I noticed we still have flowers in bloom. In fact, when I actually went outside and got closer, I noticed a bee on each of two blossoms on one of our plants. Again today as I walked by, I noticed there was a bee on each of two blossoms. Were they the same two bees? We'll probably never know. Two bees or not two bees, that is the question.

busy bees belaboring blossoms

Photo by J. Harrington

So, we now have enhanced volatility and uncertainty in the stock market, the climate, maybe the global economy and also in international and national politics. If we get a Halloween Blizzard this year, it may just remind us of the “good old days.”

When the Frost is on the Punkin

James Whitcomb Riley - 1849-1916

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.

Of myths and moods and attitudes

 According to myth, Sisyphus had his boulder to roll uphill. We have oak leaves to clear from the driveway and what laughingly passes for lawns and gardens on the property. In a good year we even get to clean most of the gutters on the house. The drive is the primary focus of attention so we don't have to spend too much time unclogging wads of wet leaves from the snowblower. Maples and aspens and black cherry trees are considerate enough to drop their leaves within a relatively short period. Oak leaves become more like the proverbial Chinese water torture for about six months of the year.

Today's weather cooperated and, once again, we've cleared most of the leaves from the driveway edges. Pumpkins are now lying near the pear tree. We suspect the deer will find them by Thanksgiving and will enjoy their own feast for a day or three.

preview of coming attractions

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half has replace pumpkins along the front stoop with pine and fir branches and red thingys and silver balls. Sometime within the next week we'll hang Christmas lights and the outside will be done for this year. Unless, of course, we find something new that just has to be added to what we have already. A deer statue covered in lights? Probably not, but we're learning to never say never.

We wouldn't want this to get out and be spread around, but, with a few exceptions, such as having our ear protectors/music players fall off our head at one point, and temporarily misplacing one of the pins that holds the back blade on the tractor, we almost had a good time today. That's something we could use more of and will work toward that end for at least the remainder of the holiday season. Something about blah, blah "good will toward men?"

Sisyphus and the Ants

By Jennifer S. Flescher

The story tells us Sisyphus is being punished.

Over and over he has to push that boulder

up and up. The mountain and God glaring.

And you, you have

your avalanche of moods.

Pills the size of stars to nearly quell

cascade and tumult.

And still you step

gravity amplified by incline, each hazard

in the way of the boulder a reminder

it should be easier. There should be

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

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

He learned to guide his wrists

and shoulder girdles safely to protect himself.

And later he worked to safeguard every insect

from here to the crest. Considers this his calling.

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

Your strength is kingly.

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

Don't forget to feed the Cat Sith!

Halloween is Saturday night, but you knew that. Did you also know that Saturday night is Samhain? That means this Saturday night it would be a really good idea to put out a saucer of milk for a Cat Sith. Here's why:

On Samhain, it was believed that a Cat Sìth would bless any house that left a saucer of milk out for it to drink, and those houses that did not let out a saucer of milk would be cursed into having all of their cows' milk dry.

a Cat Sith may have company Friday night

Photo by J. Harrington

The stock market has been going down steeply this week. There's a very significant election in which the voting ends next Tuesday. The current national regime has admitted it can't beat the COVID-19 virus. That virus is what's claimed to be responsible for the downturn in the US stock market. The value of stocks is a significant element in Individual Retirement Accounts and pension plans which provide income to a large and growing portion of the US population. Stocks are sort of our version of cows' milk, and we don't want to see them go dry. That means we need to suppress the COVID virus. That means this is not a good time to take a chance on many of US being cursed by a Sith Cat with a curse that could keep a qualified, capable, knowledgable, administration from being elected, based on the voting that ends Tuesday, and peacefully taking charge next January. So, four words to remember: Saturday; night; saucer; milk. Also, be sure to #VoteBlue!

Black Cat

Rainer Maria Rilke - 1875-1926

A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place
your sight can knock on, echoing; but here
within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze
will be absorbed and utterly disappear:

just as a raving madman, when nothing else
can ease him, charges into his dark night
howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels
the rage being taken in and pacified.

She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen
into her, so that, like an audience,
she can look them over, menacing and sullen,
and curl to sleep with them. But all at once

as if awakened, she turns her face to yours;
and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny,
inside the golden amber of her eyeballs
suspended, like a prehistoric fly.

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

The magic of Autumn's leaves

There are several scientific explanations of Autumn's leaf color change, including this one from the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources. While we understand and respect the scientific story, we've decided we much prefer attributing color change to flocks of fall fairies frisking fantastically each night. Different colors are due to the fact that fairies' magic wands have different powers that work sort of like paint brushes or felt tip markers.

a single red maple leaf

Photo by J. Harrington

We became believers in the fairies theory when we noticed this morning a single leaf in a maple tree in front of the house. Over night it alone had turned from green to red. Now, we find it difficult to impossible to believe that the red leaf had received less sunlight or rain over the course of this year's growing season than any of its immediate neighbors. And yet, this single leaf had turned red. How else to account for it except the magic of fairies?

oak leaves in bronze, copper and gold

Photo by J. Harrington

Further supporting evidence comes from the oak leaves on one of the trees behind the house. Most of them are still very green. A couple of patches, however, have turned metallic copper, bronze and gold. That's attributable to a fairy flock with wands of similar, but not identical, capabilities. The fairy flock arrived and got into a mild competition to see who could do the most metallic-looking leaf. By the time the contest was settled (it was a tie) several branches full of oak leaves had been turned from green to metallic hues. How else to account for the speckled, spattered patterns that emerge as Autumn briefly brightens our days before we enter the monotonous world of widespread whites? If there were more fairies, the color change would happen everywhere at once. This world can support only so many fairies, humans, elves, trolls, goblins, etc., so the colors move from North to South as the fairies migrate to warmer climes for the Winter.

A Celtic Miscellany

By Thomas McCarthy

Magic rain magic mist magic dew magic hail

Magic darkness magic sea magic waves magic

River magic fountain magic well magic spring

That bursts forth when a magic spear pierces

Rock magic oak tree magic ash magic lime tree

Magic bough magic yew magic hawthorn magic

Tree to make you young again magic tree to

Prevent hunger magic thorn magic ivy magic

Fern magic blossom, mistletoe and mandrake

Magic wild grasses magic wheat magic breath

Magic blood magic feather magic dung magic

Piss magic mantle magic trousers magic veil

Magic hat magic chain magic sword magic

Shield magic hearth magic bench magic door

Magic cry of a deer or cry of a magic deer;

Seven as a magic number magic the human

Head for divination magic also the head of

A dog, magic too vessels that burst in the fire

To uncover disobedience magic the river

That rises to drown liars magic the stone

That causes silence magic the deep lake

That causes forgetfulness magic the hazelnut

That makes a lover foolish magic the stone

That banishes sorrow magic the charm bought

Cheaply in the form of small poetry books,

Or nine the magic number and the magic

Number seven again and the magic twelve also

And green as that magic color violet as magic

Red as magic black as magic white as magic

Purple also as a magic hue and also red again;

Magic also the felling of two oak trees in a wood

And the magic wand used by the Druids to

Find your beloved carried away by fairies—

And, when all else fails, magic the new-fangled

Blessings of Christians swarming into our oak

Wood now, making even the disappeared speak.

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

Did St. Patrick ever fly a kite?

The snow falling this morning is Winter white. Mother Nature has failed to provide appropriately green snow on St. Patrick's day. In fact, she has failed to uncover any of our fields or show even hints of green so far. We'll have to make do with ☘☘☘☘☘☘☘☘.  That's enough to wish one and all a Happy St. Patrick's Day! and exclaim Éirinn go Brách!

March: kite over the St. Croix

Photo by J. Harrington

This upcoming week may finally free our local fields of snow cover, and free us to soar into solid Spring breezes instead of howling Winter winds. We keep threatening to get and learn to fly a dragon kite.

“… No country in Europe is so associated with the Serpent as Ireland, and none has so many myths and legends connected with the same… “Irish Druids and Old Irish Religions– James Bonwick, 1894. 

Maybe this will be the year. Maybe we'll change our mind and go for an octopus kite. instead. Maybe the snow won't melt until the breezes of Spring are gone and the heat of Summer arrives the next day. Spring in the North Country is such an intermittent and short-lived affair most years. But this may be the year to stand in readiness and be prepared despite white snow and no sign of shamrocks nor 4-leaf clovers this St. Patrick's Day. Ah, well, we've still soda bread, corned beef and cabbage, and Seamus Heaney to help celebrate the day. That'll have to do, for now, won't it?

A Kite for Aibhin

Seamus Heaney, 1939 - 2013

After “L’Aquilone” by Giovanni Pascoli (1855-1912)

Air from another life and time and place,
Pale blue heavenly air is supporting
A white wing beating high against the breeze,

And yes, it is a kite! As when one afternoon
All of us there trooped out
Among the briar hedges and stripped thorn,

I take my stand again, halt opposite
Anahorish Hill to scan the blue,
Back in that field to launch our long-tailed comet.

And now it hovers, tugs, veers, dives askew,
Lifts itself, goes with the wind until
It rises to loud cheers from us below.

Rises, and my hand is like a spindle
Unspooling, the kite a thin-stemmed flower
Climbing and carrying, carrying farther, higher

The longing in the breast and planted feet
And gazing face and heart of the kite flier
Until string breaks and—separate, elate—

The kite takes off, itself alone, a windfall.

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

Happy Father's Day!

Unaccustomed as I am to being presumptuous, today I'm going to speak on behalf of all the fathers that fit within my imagination. On their behalf, and my own, I want to say Thank you! to all those who have made us fathers, especially the mothers of our children and the children themselves. In today's society, were it not for the pleasures and pains of fatherhood, too many men like me would be stuck in an extended period of, not childhood, but childishness, for all of the waking hours of life instead of just most of them.

mural, NE Minneapolis, You were wild once here, don't let them tame you

Photo by J. Harrington

As I vaguely recall, childhood, given half a chance, is a time of wonder and awe and fascination with the world in which we live. It seems more and more these days that too many men are responsible for too many children having less than half a chance at childhood. How many women are active ISIL soldiers? Of today's political leaders in the "developed countries,", most of whom are men, how many are unwilling to accept, let alone welcome, refugee children? Do they really believe children should be used as pawns in political games? Didn't Dante create a special circle on Hell for those who abuse children? And how many of those same "political leaders" have delayed and dawdled before recognizing and beginning to respond to climate change, thereby condemning all earth's children to a childhood in a failing world.

Many years ago, at the time Robert Bly wrote Iron John, I read the media reports of men sitting in a circle, running through the woods and pounding on drums. I've since learned to be a little less trusting of the media's reports on most things. I've also read some of Bly's own words on what he was doing and why. Here's a sample:

The Center for Healing Arts in Los Angeles, the Jung Center in San Francisco, and others asked me to tell fairy stories to groups of men and women and relate them to ordinary life. The best stories for this purpose were from the Celtic clan, the Grimm Brothers, and the Russian collection by Afanasev. Two things became apparent. Women were much more willing to talk about their disasters and delights than the men. Most of the stories that we know—“Snow-White,” “Snow-White and Rose-Red,” “Rapunzel,” “The Goose-Girl,” “Thousandfurs,” “Sleeping Beauty,” “The Girl without Hands,” “The Goose-Girl at the Well,” “Maid Maleen,” and so on—were of great interest to women. Secondly, the men in these weekend seminars began to ask for a story that was specifically about the stages of masculine development.

When I read that men are the primary perpetrators of all but three of 129 recent mass shootings, I have to give Bly and those who participated with him in men's development exercises more credit than I have. Clearly, something has gone terribly wrong with the way both East and West raise the men who will become tomorrow's fathers. Too many have been, and are being, arrested in development at a sandbox level that believes "might makes right," which probably goes only too well along with "bigger is better," especially when it comes to explosions and mayhem and the size of firearms.

I think that poets like Bly, and writers like Richard Louv, are giving fathers and families the best kind of presence. They're opening doors so men and women, boys and girls, have solid reasons to spend  time together exploring real fields and glades and forests, plus those of fairy tales, so they, and we, can all grow  together and learn how to share failures and successes, joys and sorrows, a love for life, and a tolerance for "others."

Today's wonderful Poem-a-Day from the Academy of American Poets offers guidance to some of what I'm trying to say. It works for son's too. I learned this from my Dad.

Father’s Song

Gregory Orr, 1947

Yesterday, against admonishment,
my daughter balanced on the couch back,
fell and cut her mouth.

Because I saw it happen I knew
she was not hurt, and yet
a child’s blood so red
it stops a father’s heart.

My daughter cried her tears;
I held some ice
against her lip.
That was the end of it.

Round and round: bow and kiss.
I try to teach her caution;
she tries to teach me risk. 

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

Meet Vern L. Equinox

Welcome, Spring! Nice to see you again! It's been awhile. Yesterday, we watched two sandhill cranes walk across a snow covered hillside. It was a lot like the old "picture of a ghost in a snow storm," since the cranes were in pale gray plumage. The last we saw of them, they looked like they were planning on using the lower level walkout door to enter a McMansion at the top of the hill.  Closer to home, the male purple finch below posed nicely for a portrait yesterday.

purple finch in oak

Photo by J. Harrington

Tomorrow is World Poetry Day and next month is National Poetry Month. Why the two don't overlap somehow is beyond me. Trying to keep poets organized is right up there with herding cats. I've been reading Terry Tempest Williams' Finding Beauty in a Broken World. It contains a number of quotations I love, including this one from Mary Midgley:

"When some portion of the biosphere is rather unpopular with the human race -- a crocodile, a dandelion, a stony valley, a snowstorm, an odd-shaped flint -- there are three sorts of human being who are particularly likely still to see point in it and befriend it. They are poets, scientists and children. Inside each of us, I suggest, representatives of all these groups may be found."

I can find inside me, most days, several representatives from each of those groups plus a number of others including juvenile delinquents, beatniks, hippies, red necks and some mongrel mixes. It make me think of E. B. White's wonderful observation:

"If the world were merely seductive," he noted, "that would be easy. If it were merely challenging, that would be no problem. But I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve (or save) the world and a desire to enjoy (or savor) the world. This makes it hard to plan the day."

Enjoy the unruly season. Feed the wild child within you.

True Myth

By Heid E. Erdrich

Tell a child she is composed of parts

(her Ojibway quarters, her German half-heart)

she'll find the existence of harpies easy

to swallow. Storybook children never come close

to her mix, but manticores make great uncles,

Sphinx a cousin she'll allow, centaurs better to love

than boys—the horse part, at least, she can ride.

With a bestiary for a family album she's proud.

Her heap of blankets, her garbage grin, prove

she's descended of bears, her totem, it's true.

And that German witch with the candy roof,

that was her ancestor too. If swans can rain

white rape from heaven, then what is a girl to do?

Believe her Indian eyes, her sly French smile,

her breast with its veins skim milk blue—

She is the myth that is true.

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

Happy Samhain (Halloween)!

Las night we did a season's end trip to the Taylors Falls Drive-In and each had a healthy food bison burger. Winter isn't even here yet and already I have something besides the upcoming holidays to look forward to, the Drive-In reopening next Spring. I've been eating more Halloween candy than's good for me for the past week or so, so Halloween's not something I'm looking forward to, it's something I'm already enjoying. In the twenty-plus years we've lived here, I don't recall a single trick-or-treater ringing our door bell. We'll see if tonight's any different. The photo's a ghost of Jacko-lanterns past, since this year's pumpkins still await carving later today.

bats from the haunted castle's belfry

Photo by J. Harrington

Although I'm growing older, I continue to avoid, as much as possible, growing up. In the case of Halloween, I've discovered a story that it originated with the Celtic celebration of Samhain. I'll do more studying up on that over the Winter and see if I can be better prepared for an older but improved celebration this time next year. Maybe I'll have to decide whether to dress as a leprechaun or a Celtic poet.

Samhain 

By Annie Finch 

(The Celtic Halloween) 

In the season leaves should love,

since it gives them leave to move

through the wind, towards the ground

they were watching while they hung,

legend says there is a seam

stitching darkness like a name.

Now when dying grasses veil

earth from the sky in one last pale

wave, as autumn dies to bring

winter back, and then the spring,

we who die ourselves can peel

back another kind of veil

that hangs among us like thick smoke.

Tonight at last I feel it shake.

I feel the nights stretching away

thousands long behind the days

till they reach the darkness where

all of me is ancestor.

I move my hand and feel a touch

move with me, and when I brush

my own mind across another,

I am with my mother's mother.

Sure as footsteps in my waiting

self, I find her, and she brings

arms that carry answers for me,

intimate, a waiting bounty.

"Carry me." She leaves this trail

through a shudder of the veil,

and leaves, like amber where she stays,

a gift for her perpetual gaze.

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

Who's your Tulpa?

Sometimes the nicest surprises come wrapped in small packages. Earlier this week a new friend sent me an email with the word Tulpa in it. He provided a link to Wikipedia's definition:

"a being or object which is created through sheer spiritual or mental discipline alone. It is defined in Indian Buddhist texts as any unreal, illusory or mind created apparition.

"According to Alexandra David-Néel, tulpas are 'magic formations generated by a powerful concentration of thought.' It is a materialized thought that has taken physical form and is usually regarded as synonymous to a thoughtform."

Over the years, I've had an on-again, off-again love affair with Buddhism and Zen. I've read some of Alan Watts and lots of Gary Snyder. I don't recall encountering the word Tulpa before that recent email. The part that intrigues me is, in the past four or five years, I've developed an increased interest in shamanism, particularly Native American and Celtic. Some of those stories involve shapeshifting or human consciousness inhabiting an animal. I'm intrigued by what I see as similarity in such existences to a Tulpa. Perhaps I'm in error. If you'd like to read an example of what I'm talking about, find a copy of Yeats The Celtic Twilight, or Matthews' Celtic Totem Animals. The fit isn't perfect and that's what leaves room for the imagination. In the near future, I think I'll see what I might weave from these threads.

Here a photos of two other small packages of delight that arrived in the neighborhood this past week.

red admiral butterfly (Vanessa atalanta)

Photo by
J. Harrington

Yellow Wood Sorrel (Oxalis stricta)

Photo by J. Harrington

Never the Time and the Place

By Robert Browning 

Never the time and the place

         And the loved one all together!

This path—how soft to pace!

         This May—what magic weather!

Where is the loved one's face?

In a dream that loved one's face meets mine,

         But the house is narrow, the place is bleak

Where, outside, rain and wind combine

         With a furtive ear, if I strive to speak,

         With a hostile eye at my flushing cheek,

With a malice that marks each word, each sign!

O enemy sly and serpentine,

Uncoil thee from the waking man!

         Do I hold the Past

         Thus firm and fast

Yet doubt if the Future hold I can?

This path so soft to pace shall lead

Thro' the magic of May to herself indeed!

Or narrow if needs the house must be,

Outside are the storms and strangers: we

Oh, close, safe, warm sleep I and she,—

I and she! 

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

Bob Dylan's Way

According to a number of recent reports, Bob Dylan, in an interview for AARP magazine, said that "if I had to do it all over again, I'd be a schoolteacher." That quote must be from the extended version of the interview, because I couldn't find anything like that in the online version. But what I'm actually thinking about is what it might have been like to have had Mr. Robert Zimmerman of Hibbing, MN as a teacher in high school or college. What, if any, academic episode might there have been similar to when Dylan first played the electric guitar in England and members of the audience booed him and called him a Judas.

a sign of Dylan in Duluth

Photo by J. Harrington

As I understand it (from afar, of course) in academia a student demonstrates mastery of a topic as a precondition to reinterpreting it. I think that's comparable to what Dylan did with folk music during his early years. Then he insisted he wasn't a topical singer; he explored country music, he's done spirituals and a Christmas album (the latter standard for most garden variety "pop" singers); and now he's interpreting old standards iconized by Frank Sinatra. I don't think even Noam Chomsky has shown that kind of range and versatility.

another sign of Dylan in Duluth

Photo by J. Harrington

If the Iron Range wants to diversify its economy, it could do worse, it seems, than opening a west wing of Cleveland's Rock and Roll Hall of Fame devoted to Dylan, or expanding the concept to house a North American Folk Music Hall of Fame. I bet the IRRB would help fund it and we could convert an old mine pit into an amphitheater to add additional realism to Girl from the North Country. I claim such a thing would be no more a stretch than Dylan as a school teacher dealing with academic bureaucracies. Why should Duluth have all the fun? Why not more honor for the prophet in his own count(r)y?

Girl From The North Country by Bob Dylan 

Well, if you’re travelin’ in the north country fair
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline
Remember me to one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine

Well, if you go when the snowflakes storm
When the rivers freeze and summer ends
Please see if she’s wearing a coat so warm
To keep her from the howlin’ winds

Please see for me if her hair hangs long,
If it rolls and flows all down her breast.
Please see for me if her hair hangs long,
That’s the way I remember her best.

I’m a-wonderin’ if she remembers me at all
Many times I’ve often prayed
In the darkness of my night
In the brightness of my day

So if you’re travelin’ in the north country fair
Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline
Remember me to one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine 

Copyright © 1963 by Warner Bros. Inc.; renewed 1991 by Special Rider Music

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

Indigenous thoughts

© harrington

Hi! Thanks for coming. For those of you who need to see some real green, here it is. The red osier dogwood cuttings are leafing out nicely (see photo). On a directly related topic, I'm still struggling with depth of field. Maybe I need a macro lens? Anyway, today's sky is partly cloudy. I saw some sunshine. The temperature reached the mid-fortys. Snow is melting. Hawks are back perching on the Interstate light stanchions. Life is improving. Still no sign of geese or crocuses, so that's to be looked forward to. Have you ever wondered whether nature tries to achieve economies of scale? I haven't thought a lot about it, but given what seems to be her drive to diversity, I'm doubtful that economy of scale is a significant factor in many natural processes. Nature abhors vacuums and, I think, monocultures. Given my suspicions, I'm encouraged by the increasing attention being paid to local economies, slow food, local food, self-reliant, resilient communities. There seems to be a growing awareness of our interdependence on each other and the natural systems and services we rely on. From some of the reading I've been doing recently, Native Americans had a strong sense of community and interdependence. Since 2013 is the Year of the Dakota in My Minnesota, this might be a good year to learn more about their relationship with nature as a way to further reconciliation. You can probably expect to hear more about that on your return visits. Please come again. Rants. raves and reflections served daily.

Mything you

© harrington

Welcome. Thanks for stopping by. Did you see last night's spectacular sunset? The light pillar was one of the best reasons for ice crystals to exist that I've ever come across. This afternoon's dog walk was actually comfortable. I'm not yet ready to put the cushions back on the patio furniture, but I'm starting to believe (again) there will come a time... Have you come across the phrase "life is a mystery to be lived, not a problem to be solved?" How about "happiness is to be found along the way not at the end of the road?" This is a time of year I am more challenged than usual to accept the wisdom in those ideas. I want the ice gone, now. I want the snow melted, now. I want it to be warm, not warmer, but warm. And then I remember my grandmother asking me if I meant to wish my whole life away. Learning to enjoy now, to be fully in the present, does not come easily to me. And yet, the beauty of last evening's sky gave me pleasure, and hope, and a glimmer that there are many things we humans are incapable of improving on. Do any of you think that a genetically modified sunset would be more beautiful? How many of you were there to see the first earth rise? What did that do to your perspective on us humans and our home? Yesterday, I read about someone who is going to walk most of the way across the country because she believes we need "radical re-mythologization efforts in our communities and around the world." That started me thinking about Gary Snyder and Native American myths, especially those related to turtle island. Maybe we don't need new myths, we need to rediscover and share the ones that are indigenous to our home. Think about it. We'll talk some more tomorrow here at My Minnesota where rants, raves and reflections are served daily.