This weekend, do you know where your memories are?

It's Memorial Day Weekend. The remembrance boards for my father and father-in-law are hung. Today is also Bob Dylan's 85th birthday. Here's a link to his Nobel Prize section. Dylan was highly motivated by the works of Woody Guthrie, who was noted for being, among other things, strongly anti fascist, for example, in this song he wrote: Tear the Fascists Down. I started to fuss about "where's our Woody Guthrie?" when I remembered the recent work of Bruce Springsteen: Streets of Minneapolis... not precisely on target, but close enough to satisfy me and shut down my fussing.

In memory of my father and father-in law

Photo by J. Harrington

As I think about it, these days we're still fighting much the same battles, against the same kinds of ideologies and idiots, that Guthrie and Dylan were singing about and my father and father-in-law fought against in WW II; and the North fought the South about in our "Civil War." Pete Seeger has observed the dismaying circularity of these battles in his hauntingly beautiful Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

I grew up during the Cold War period when "duck and cover" was supposed to protect US school kids from nuclear blasts. These days, in this country, we lose more kids to mass shootings than we've lost to nuclear weapons, at least as of the moment I'm writing this. If so many of US want to return to an era past, perhaps we could consider returning to the days of Lyndon B. Johnson and the Great Society. In fact, such an effort might even help unite the Democratic Party and provide respite to a perpetual rehash of what went wrong during 2024, demonstrating for the rest of US that, indeed, some wars don't have to be fought.

Masters of War

Written by: Bob Dylan

Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks

You that never done nothin’
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it’s your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain

You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people’s blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud

You’ve thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain’t worth the blood
That runs in your veins

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I’m young
You might say I’m unlearned
But there’s one thing I know
Though I’m younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul

And I hope that you die
And your death’ll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I’ll watch while you’re lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I’ll stand o’er your grave
’Til I’m sure that you’re dead          

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It's all a circle, game?

There appears to be a relative abundance of hummingbirds at the nectar feeders with some trying to scare others away. Parents trying to protect resources for their own fledglings? Each year about this time I see a similar pattern that's no where as obvious earlier in the summer. Meanwhile, more and more yellowjackets are showing up to feed on the sweetness and limited numbers are getting themselves trapped in the feeding reservoir and drowning. Based on relative size and numbers, I'm guessing that woodpeckers are the ones consuming most of the sugar water and I don't think hummingbirds can scare even downy woodpeckers in the least.

bur oak acorn

Photo by J. Harrington

Oak trees around the house have begun to drop acorns. Scattered leaf color is showing on some of the bushes and trees in the neighborhood. The flocks of birds lining up on the telephone and electric wires are getting longer and longer. We're more than halfway between Summer solstice and Autumn equinox. Days are noticeably shorter as sunrise arrives later. Seasons keep repeating their cycles. Before we know it, I'll be posting complaints about cold and ice and snow. But first, we get to experience harvest and migration and autumn seasons. Perhaps political sanity may return as temperatures drop, if we get really lucky.

Next weekend the Better Half and I celebrate our fortieth wedding anniversary. I find it hard to believe anyone could have put up with me for that long. She's also doing a much better job tolerating the madness coming out of state and national capitols this year, possibly because she's had me to practice on for more than forty years.

Two

By Linda Hogan

 

The weight of a man on a woman

is like falling into the river without drowning.

 

Above, the world is burning and fighting.

Lost worlds flow through others.

 

But down here beneath water’s skin,

river floor, sand, everything

 

is floating, rocking.

Water falls through our hands as we fall through it.

 

And when a woman and a man come up from water

they stand at the elemental edge of difference.

 

Mirrored on water’s skin,

they are fired clay, water evaporating into air.

 

They are where water turns away from land

and goes back to enter a larger sea.

 

A man and a woman are like those rivers,

entering a larger sea

 

greater than the sum of all its parts.

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Day lily phen(omen)ology

Neighborhood day lilies have started to bloom. That means it’s time to watch (out) for fawns, goslings and wild turkey poults. A couple of days ago we had two does and four spotted fawns scampering around behind the house. Goslings are down the road at the Sunrise River pools along county road 36. The Better Half has seen poults as she drove to the barn where the Daughter Person’s horse is boarded. I’m hoping to see some in the back yard any day now. Signs of any kind of normalcy are very much appreciated and valued these days.

whitetail fawn in flower-dotted field behind our house

Photo by J. Harrington

This month's weather has been almost as bad as the Washington regime's "governing." It's been wickedly rainy or humidly wet and/or windy and either well above or below normal temperatures. The bad news is: the weather has hindered getting out fishing. The good news is it's hindered yard cleanup and mowing. I think I'd prefer to deal with the tradeoffs created by better weather.

I'm not sure if it's a result of the weather or what, but this summer we've had two, maybe three, male Baltimore orioles at the feeders, together with a mob of male rose-breasted grosbeaks and a flock of male goldfinches. All more than I remember from past years. 

All-in-all, it wouldn't take much to make for a major improvement in folks' lives around here. Then, again, there's the old saying that "Things always look darkest just before they go totally black!" but I much prefer a line I wrote years ago: "It's better to light a candle than curse the darkness!"

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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Seasonal adjustments

According to our copy of the Minnesota Weather Guide, the normal high temperature this week is 82℉ and next week it’s 81℉. The ten-day forecast doesn’t have a high of 80℉ or more. Early Autumn on the horizon? More mice have been showing up in the mouse traps this month. For some of us, especially me, Autumn’s early arrival would be a pleasant surprise, as long as we don’t revert to 90’s next month. The last time I checked, the average number of days in the 90s in Minneapolis is 13 but

As of August 6, there have been 6 days this year where the high temperature has reached at least 90 degrees Fahrenheit in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

The last time it reached at least 90° F was August 2, 2024.

We’ve been enjoying letting fresh air into the house today. With Summer temperatures, air conditioning, and windows closed, after a while the air does tend toward stale.

local trout stream at "normal" flow

Photo by J. Harrington

The rains and more rains have repeatedly spiked the flows in our local trout streams. Maybe the next week or so will provide better conditions to check out in person how they’re flowing. I may even bring along my Tenkara rod to play with. The simplicity of that approach appeals to me, at least enough to give it a try. The rod has sat in a corner for a couple of years now.

Despite being retired, I’m running into a time and energy crunch. There are a couple of other writing projects I’d like to get started on but posting here on a daily basis, and doing enough from time to time to post about, has been getting in the way of my getting started on those other projects. So, I’m considering going to less than daily here, maybe even once a week for awhile. When and if I get those other projects rolling, I may return to daily here, or not. We’re almost at 825,000 posts and many of our page views appear to be from bots, which isn’t very satisfying as far as I’m concerned. Plus, Blogger is again failing to upload images. [The image  above was added the day after original posting. I don't know what changed.]

The Trout

Amy Lowell
1874 – 1925

          Naughty little speckled trout,
          Can't I coax you to come out?
          Is it such great fun to play
          In the water every day?

          Do you pull the Naiads' hair
          Hiding in the lilies there?
          Do you hunt for fishes' eggs,
          Or watch tadpoles grow their legs?

          Do the little trouts have school
          In some deep sun-glinted pool,
          And in recess play at tag
          Round that bed of purple flag?

          I have tried so hard to catch you,
          Hours and hours I've sat to watch you;
          But you never will come out,
          Naughty little speckled trout!

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Tsundoku cure time?*

If the weather were like today’s year ‘round, I might be willing to give up four seasons. That’s how nice today is after yesterday’s downpours (2+ inches in our area). Overnight we dropped into the mid50’s and reached the mid70s today with sunshine and a gentle breeze. I’m going to hope all stays dry and maybe mow tomorrow.

Meanwhile, remember the old tv program Hawaii Five-0? And the tag line “Book ‘em, Danno?” I’m applying that as I start to bring some semblance of organization to my stacks and shelves and boxes of books. Undoubtedly it would help if I had the sense to use a simple sort such as arranged alphabetically by author’s last name, but that’s not really how I think. I try to organize by genre and / or theme like rivers or poetry of place. Then I lose it when I have to decide where to shelve a book of poems about the St. Croix River and does the Kinnickinnic get a separate section to itself with mixed nonfiction and poems? Nor does it help that I confound my collection of unread and partially read books by rereading some at the same time. I wonder of there’s a local group therapy available for those like me, or am I alone in these conundrums?

bookshelves a decade ago now overflow

Photo by J. Harrington

I do realize how lucky I am that this is the kind of issue that gets my attention. There are many things about which I’m troubled but can’t really do a lot. There’s one book I’ve been looking for for about 10 days now and I can’t find it. That’s something I believe I should be able to do something about but I keep tripping over “but how to organize?” No doubt it would simplify things if I sold some of the excess but that would necessitate getting books organized well enough to decide what I might want to sell. Catch 22 strikes again. If I live long enough, I’ll probably make some progress, especially if I narrow down my eclectic list of interests. But that seems like throwing out baby, bathwater and bath tub, too radical a solution to a problem of limited shelf space.

* Tsundoku

Don’t Go Into the Library

Alberto Ríos
1952 – 

The library is dangerous—
Don’t go in. If you do

You know what will happen.
It’s like a pet store or a bakery—

Every single time you’ll come out of there
Holding something in your arms.

Those novels with their big eyes.
And those no-nonsense, all muscle

Greyhounds and Dobermans,
All non-fiction and business,

Cuddly when they’re young,
But then the first page is turned.

The doughnut scent of it all, knowledge,
The aroma of coffee being made

In all those books, something for everyone,
The deli offerings of civilization itself.

The library is the book of books,
Its concrete and wood and glass covers

Keeping within them the very big,
Very long story of everything.

The library is dangerous, full
Of answers. If you go inside,

You may not come out
The same person who went in.

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Another cloudy sunnie day

Once again I went fishing with my not-quite-four-years old Granddaughter and her Dad, my Son-In-Law. Once again she outfished me. This time quicker and better. She caught an 8 or 9 inch largemouth bass and a couple of small sunnies to my nada. I had swipes at my yellow ant, but apparently the hook was still too big. Next time we’ll scale down the rod, leader and try fishing teeny, tiny streamers. Fishing, like life, is a learning experience. All I knew from fishing different places years ago doesn’t readily transfer to much smaller fish in much tighter quarters around a city dock.

John Buchan: 'The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is
elusive but attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope.'

Photo by J. Harrington

The closest I’ve come to how and where we’re fishing these days was back in about the seventh grade, fishing late afternoon to early evening off the Hingham city dock for smelt, using seaworms as bait and a bamboo pole as a rod. I hadn’t thought about that for years, until this afternoon.

It’s encouraging to see the younger generations picking up where we’re leaving off. The tackle I’ve accumulated over the years may continue to bring pleasure once I can no longer use it. If I make a few adjustments and get back in practice, I hope that won’t be for awhile.

Bringing Forth

On the gold rock,
we used to sit
with our primitive poles.
Sticks we gathered
from grandmother’s
broken maples,
pins we tied by the head
onto white string.
The sunnies swam
brown-golden-rainbow
in her lake, near the sand beach
she brought in
herself. We always cheered
when we hooked
the surge of body and fin.
But I also cried
at the blood, the shining hole,
and more often than not
I threw the breathless sunnies
back in.

— L.L. Barkat

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The reign of rain

Well, we now know what it’s like to be the recipient of almost 3.5 inches of rain in less than 24 hours. Just to our west, and again to our south, reported amounts were less than a half inch and a little more than an inch, respectively. One might almost begin to believe the weather has become hyper-volatile, almost as if we were experiencing anthropogenic climate change, but Americans would have to be hyper-gullible enough to vote for a known con man as POTUS, believing that someone inept enough to bankrupt a casino is actually a successful business man, for that to happen, right?

this driveway was dry a few hours ago

Photo by J. Harrington

Anyhow, after our overnight deluge, we were visited this morning by a couple of whitetail bucks with antlers in velvet, a doe, a fawn who has lost its spots, and a flock of half a dozen or so turkey hens, but no poults that we could see. Yet another example of feast or famine? Each day there are hours and hours with no signs of wildlife in the fields behind the house other than the birds coming to the feeders. Some seasons, like late autumn through deep winter, there are weeks and months with little, if any, views of critters other than at the feeders.

By this point in the summer last year, we had had almost a couple of dozen days in the 90’s. This year there’s been two. There’s only one more in the ten day forecast. Which year should we consider “normal,”  or dow we average the two as normal? I think I’m trying to raise the issue of times of tempestuous change make it difficult to establish a new baseline that we can at least consider “normal.” Even if meteorologists use something like a 30 year rolling average for some factors, if we continue to experience the “hottest day on record,” year after year, that’s not going to tell us what humans used to consider normal before we created the Anthropocene. We all need to do more to keep context in mind. For more, check shifting baseline.

to the orange still green

Patty Seyburn

Your desire for metamorphosis heard and filed away:
frustration noted, conveyed to proper authorities,
soil and rain. Issues of identity never so labored as today.
I have heard, however, if you hail from Valencia,

it’s quite normal, and as far as dye—why would you
tamper with natural beauty in search of convention, 
in this state where the prophetic sun anoints every
being? Merely for the sake of reinvention?

O Orange, unmatchable trochee except by slant,
by dint of the imagined word, yet to be created,
word of a new world, green world, seamless sphere
content, unbruised by fear of being belated,

join the trend—shed your insecurity, take pride
in the mother country, Brazil, in the year yours arrived
here, 1873, planted by the future scions of Riverside.
Rumor has one of three founding trees still alive,

and that could be your branch, your seed—while my kin
found themselves in Jersey City, trying their damndest 
                                             to speak American.

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Ironic? You bet!

One of the folx down the road is a tRUMP supporter. In fact, there’s many of them in the county in which we live. The one I’m writing about however, has a sign in from of his house that claims: “Gun owners for Trump!,” or words to that effect. Maybe I’ll try to take a picture the next time I drive past if the sign is still there. Since the candidate was grazed by a bullet yesterday, and several folx are dead and others critically wounded according to the news, I wonder if the Trumpster MAGAt has a sense of irony. Even more, I wonder if the candidate does, but suspect not.

will we be the phoenix or the ash pile of democracy?

Photo by J. Harrington

Those of you who read this with any regularity have probably noticed I’ve ben on a kick lately, citing old sayings and quotations. The current opportunity offers too much to pass by. Heres a few that come to mind:

• Lie down with dogs, wake up with fleas
• Known by the company you keep
• Give as good as you get (or vice versa)
• What goes around, comes around (or vice versa)
• and the ever infamous Live by the sword, ...

If I left out any you think belong on the list, please note them in the comments.

Last nights thunderstorms awakened my dog and made her quite anxious, so of course she looked to me for reassurance at about 12:45 am. I gave here a couple anxiety calming treats and had her lie down while I rubbed under her chin. (She doesn’t like me to pet the top of her head.) After a while, the rain, lightning and thunder faded away and SiSi and I faded back to sleep. I figure SiSi’s about as likely to grow out of thunderstorm anxiety as most politicians are likely to grow into authenticity, integrity and transparency. Both of which are more likely to occur than for me to get to vote for the candidate [AOC] I’d really like to see as POTUS so I’ll just try to make the most of the world I’ve got to live in. Good luck to US all. We’ll need it if we continue to act as though we’ll settle any more by a next civil war than we did by the last one.

America

By Tony Hoagland

Then one of the students with blue hair and a tongue stud   

Says that America is for him a maximum-security prison

Whose walls are made of RadioShacks and Burger Kings, and MTV episodes   

Where you can’t tell the show from the commercials,

And as I consider how to express how full of shit I think he is,   

He says that even when he’s driving to the mall in his Isuzu

Trooper with a gang of his friends, letting rap music pour over them   

Like a boiling Jacuzzi full of ballpeen hammers, even then he feels

Buried alive, captured and suffocated in the folds   

Of the thick satin quilt of America

And I wonder if this is a legitimate category of pain,   

or whether he is just spin doctoring a better grade,

And then I remember that when I stabbed my father in the dream last night,   

It was not blood but money

That gushed out of him, bright green hundred-dollar bills   

Spilling from his wounds, and—this is the weird part—,

He gasped “Thank god—those Ben Franklins were   

Clogging up my heart—

And so I perish happily,

Freed from that which kept me from my liberty”—

Which was when I knew it was a dream, since my dad   

Would never speak in rhymed couplets,

And I look at the student with his acne and cell phone and phony ghetto clothes

And I think, “I am asleep in America too,

And I don’t know how to wake myself either,”

And I remember what Marx said near the end of his life:

“I was listening to the cries of the past,

When I should have been listening to the cries of the future.”

But how could he have imagined 100 channels of 24-hour cable

Or what kind of nightmare it might be

When each day you watch rivers of bright merchandise run past you

And you are floating in your pleasure boat upon this river

Even while others are drowning underneath you

And you see their faces twisting in the surface of the waters

And yet it seems to be your own hand

Which turns the volume higher?

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What if “highly irregular” becomes the new regular?

The good news is I wasn’t in the midst of yard chores, or standing in a river waving a stick, when the down pour let loose. A few rumbles of thunder, but no lightning that we saw, accompanied the rain. If I had been wading, I probably would have to have fallen into the river to get any more wet than the  “showers” would have left me. Then, it was all over in ten minutes or so. Will there be more today? Who knows? Certainly not the meteorologists who cover themselves in glory with a forecast that includes “isolated thundershowers” or “scattered thunderstorms.” 

our wildflower meadow, late June 2024

Photo by J. Harrington

At the moment, there are no rain events in the 10-day forecast, except for today. The (abnormally) wet weather we’ve had so far this summer created some beautiful patches in the fields behind the house. [see above.] To paraphrase a line from an old Tom Paxton song, “I can’t help but wonder where I’m [it’s] bound.” After all the years we’ve lived here and let much of the property enjoy benign neglect, this summer’s rain has transformed the fields from scraggly grass and sedges into wildflowers and/or weeds, depending on your perspective. What will be growing next year and where are this year’s mulleins? [Until today, I had no idea that mullein has so many medicinal uses.]

Some of us suspect that what we’re seeing this year may be the results of intermittent seedings over the years finally getting enough water to trigger germination. If that’s the case, and we refuse to install an irrigation system, will next summer provide only scruffy grass again? Last summer the extended drought triggered massive fields of yellow flowers in several local wetlands. So far this year, we’ve seen no sign of them but the season’s not over yet.

All of this makes me wonder what life may be like if the “new normal” doesn’t provide regular patterns and rhythms as much as it offers persistent inconsistencies in weather.

Characteristics of Life

Camille T. Dungy
1972 – 

^{A fifth of animals without backbones could be at risk of extinction, say scientists.
—BBC Nature News}

Ask me if I speak for the snail and I will tell you
I speak for the snail.
                          speak of underneathedness
and the welcome of mosses,
                                        of life that springs up,
little lives that pull back and wait for a moment.

I speak for the damselfly, water skeet, mollusk,
the caterpillar, the beetle, the spider, the ant.
                                                        I speak
from the time before spinelessness was frowned upon.

Ask me if I speak for the moon jelly. I will tell you
                        one thing today and another tomorrow
        and I will be as consistent as anything alive
on this earth.

                        I move as the currents move, with the breezes.
What part of your nature drives you? You, in your cubicle
ought to understand me. I filter and filter and filter all day.

Ask me if I speak for the nautilus and I will be silent
as the nautilus shell on a shelf. I can be beautiful
and useless if that's all you know to ask of me.

Ask me what I know of longing and I will speak of distances
        between meadows of night-blooming flowers.
                                                        I will speak
                        the impossible hope of the firefly.

                                                You with the candle
burning and only one chair at your table must understand
        such wordless desire.

                                To say it is mindless is missing the point.

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Are you a Solutionary?

I don’t know about you, but it doesn’t feel to me like next week should be the 4th of July, but here we are. One week from today is Independence Day! Tonight is the first presidential (presumed) candidate debate of this election season, at 8 pm our local (Central Daylight) time. I’m leaning toward the idea that it will make US think of one of Shakespeare’s plays. I would be delighted to be proven wrong.

On a brighter, more positive note, this morning I came across a refreshing source for optimism. The founder of the Institute for Humane Education, Zoe Weil, has a recently published book, The Solutionary Way. It ticks almost all of the checkboxes on my list for systems solutions, plus it covers most of the substantive sectors we need to be concerned with. The author and her approach are one of the more encouraging prospects I’ve seen in a long time.

Trout in the Classroom aquarium

Photo by J. Harrington

In another aspect related to education, I may be reengaging in Minnesota Trout Unlimited’s Trout in the Classroom [TIC] activities. For one class years ago I did a quick summary of the history of fly fishing for trout. Today I started to refresh and update my knowledge of the program by looking at the Minnesota and National web sections on TIC. I don’t really believe in coincidences, and the fact that this morning, as I was in a doom and gloom mode, two emails showed up related to The World Becomes What We Teach and shattered my dark ceiling can’t be coincidental.

There are lots of good, helpful, folks doing lots of positive work to make this world a much better place. They all too often get thirty seconds of human interest air time rather than being acknowledged as resources that can help US address many of the issues troubling US. Imagine if the evening news content didn’t emphasize “If it bleeds, it leads.” It could be time for US to adopt the line from Network: “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this any more!”

A House Called Tomorrow

Alberto Ríos
1952 – 

You are not fifteen, or twelve, or seventeen—
You are a hundred wild centuries

And fifteen, bringing with you
In every breath and in every step

Everyone who has come before you,
All the yous that you have been,

The mothers of your mother,
The fathers of your father.

If someone in your family tree was trouble,
A hundred were not:

The bad do not win—not finally,
No matter how loud they are.

We simply would not be here
If that were so.

You are made, fundamentally, from the good.
With this knowledge, you never march alone.

You are the breaking news of the century.
You are the good who has come forward

Through it all, even if so many days
Feel otherwise.  But think:

When you as a child learned to speak,
It’s not that you didn’t know words—

It’s that, from the centuries, you knew so many,
And it’s hard to choose the words that will be your own.

From those centuries we human beings bring with us
The simple solutions and songs,

The river bridges and star charts and song harmonies
All in service to a simple idea:

That we can make a house called tomorrow.
What we bring, finally, into the new day, every day,

Is ourselves.  And that’s all we need
To start.  That’s everything we require to keep going. 

Look back only for as long as you must,
Then go forward into the history you will make.

Be good, then better.  Write books.  Cure disease.
Make us proud.  Make yourself proud.

And those who came before you?  When you hear thunder,
Hear it as their applause.

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We’re in summer mode!

Today I think I discovered we have some yellow butterfly weed growing on the rise behind the house. As far as I know, all the butterfly weed I’ve seen previously was orange. I was today year’s old when I learned there is a yellow butterfly weed (or I may have it confused with hoary puccoon). Two of the regular, orange, butterfly weed plants appear to have survived the winter and are now blooming. Almost all the poison ivy I sprayed a week or ten days ago is looking very sickly. Once we get a cooler, drier spell, I’ll spray some that I seem to have missed or that grew since I sprayed.

Butterfly-weed (Asclepias tuberosa)

Photo by J. Harrington

Now that we’re living in a city (Chisago), that was annexed from the township (Lent) we used to live in, the city started mowing roadsides today in our area. (It’s not legal before August first outside a city.) Most of the township merged with Stacy and even though we ended up in Chisago, our mailing address remained in Stacy. Go figure!

Anyhow, today is the day I trimmed around our mail box, because the city skipped mowing close to it. Getting the weed whacker started in the heat and humidity was a treat, but once started it worked fine. (Another reason to convert to all electric yard tools.) I’ll whack around some flower beds tomorrow and the day after, if it’s not raining. All the rain that’s fallen the past several weeks has the Anoka Sand Plain section behind our house bursting with wildflowers. I don’t recall it ever looking so pretty in the quarter century we’ve been here.

Since I wore myself out with unaccustomed yard work this morning, I’m signing off until tomorrow. It’ll take awhile for me to get acclimated to the heat and “homditty.”

Wildflowers

By Reginald Gibbons

Coleridge carefully wrote down a whole page

of them, all beginning with the letter b.

Guidebooks preserve our knowledge

of their hues and shapes, their breeding.

Many poems have made delicate word-chimes—

like wind-chimes not for wind but for the breath of man—

out of their lovely names.

At the edge of the prairie in a cabin

when thunder comes closer to thump the roof hard

a few of them—in a corner, brittle in a dry jar

where a woman’s thoughtful hand left them to fade—

seem to blow with the announcing winds outside

as the rain begins to fall on all their supple kin

of all colors, under a sky of one color, or none.

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Recent sightings

On the way to pick up our box of community supported agriculture [CSA] shares this morning, there were several whitetail deer browsing along the side of the road, including one fork horn buck in velvet. Also sharing the road, ditches and adjoining fields were pheasants, turkeys, and a multitude of songbirds. Last night the Better Half and I sat patiently in the Jeep as a hen pheasant and more than a dozen chicks single filed across the road in front of us. There’s also been more than the usual number of cottontails and kits scampering along and across the road the past week or so.

In case it’s of interest, here’s what was in the CSA box this week:

• GREEN TOWERS ROMAINE
• KOHLRABI
• SPINACH
• BABY CARROTS
• MIXED RADISHES, and
• ARUGULA & CILANTRO BUNDLES

a woodcock enjoying the driveway puddle

Photo by J. Harrington

The thunderstorms earlier in the week refilled a puddle that lives in a low spot in our driveway. That puddle has recently been discovered by a handful of goldfinch males in bright yellow mating colors. Watching them thrash at water's edges and erupt into the trees has been an occasional source of beauty and pleasure. The same birds don’t seem particularly interested in the bird bath mounted on the deck railing, perhaps because it gets deeper too quickly?

The strangest sighting of the week came close to, in fact occurred inside, home. We’ve no idea where they came from, but yesterday I captured and released outside two bumblebees that were crawling sluggishly across the floor in the downstairs family room. Then, an hour or two later, I did the same thing with a third bee that was in almost the same spot as the first one. All I can say is “Go figure!”

While I have been writing this, rain has started falling again. It seems to be benefitting much of the local flora and fauna, particularly the non-human species. If I really wanted to live in this kind of climate, I would have moved to the northwest coast long ago. But, even such as I can only spend so much time sitting and reading. I’m looking forward to brighter days.

What Is June Anyway?

By David Budbill

After three weeks of hot weather and drought,

           we've had a week of cold and rain,

just the way it ought to be here in the north,

            in June, a fire going in the woodstove

all day long, so you can go outside in the cold

            and rain anytime and smell

the wood smoke in the air.

 

This is the way I love it. This is why

           I came here almost

fifty years ago. What is June anyway

          without cold and rain

and a fire going in the stove all day?

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Step this way, please!

I think I’ve finally figured out a way to spend more time appreciating, enjoying, and being grateful for what I have (instead of focusing on what I want that I don’t already have). Over the course of the summer, I’m going to get my stacks of books organized. They may not end up well organized, but whatever I end up with will be an improvement over the random, mixed stacks lying hither and yon. In the process, I hope to distinguish among those already read, those partially read, and those unread. At the risk of being excessively optimistic, I may also get my fly-fishing gear organized so that, if the wind stops blowing and the rain stops falling torrentially, I may get to go fishing.

these are now overfilled to overflowing

Photo by J. Harrington

It has slowly occurred to me that I can’t try to better organize my personal library until I’ve first organized my personal library. As Lao Tzu noted some years ago “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” My single step is this public announcement of my intent to organize my library. I almost typed “try to organize” until I remembered Yoda “Do or do not. There is no try.”

That’s all for now. I’m going to clean oak catkins out of the gutter so it will stop overflowing onto the front stoop. It will be interesting to see if my strength matches my growing ambitions.

Happiness

By Jane Kenyon

There’s just no accounting for happiness,

or the way it turns up like a prodigal

who comes back to the dust at your feet

having squandered a fortune far away.

And how can you not forgive?

You make a feast in honor of what

was lost, and take from its place the finest

garment, which you saved for an occasion

you could not imagine, and you weep night and day

to know that you were not abandoned,

that happiness saved its most extreme form

for you alone.

No, happiness is the uncle you never

knew about, who flies a single-engine plane

onto the grassy landing strip, hitchhikes

into town, and inquires at every door

until he finds you asleep midafternoon

as you so often are during the unmerciful

hours of your despair.

It comes to the monk in his cell.

It comes to the woman sweeping the street

with a birch broom, to the child

whose mother has passed out from drink.

It comes to the lover, to the dog chewing

a sock, to the pusher, to the basketmaker,

and to the clerk stacking cans of carrots

in the night.

                     It even comes to the boulder

in the perpetual shade of pine barrens,

to rain falling on the open sea,

to the wineglass, weary of holding wine.

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We need better constitutions and laws

There’s an article in the Minnesota Reformer claiming we need a full time legislature. As I read through it the other day, I couldn’t find a clear explanation of how going from part time to full time would improve the quality of laws or related decisions. Meanwhile, the Kansas Supreme Court has found the "state constitution does not provide the right to vote.” Finallly, although I wasn’t there at the time, I don’t recall reading that the framers of the US Constitution were under time pressures when they decided the qualifications to be president to be limited to the following:

Article II, Section 1, Clause 5:

No Person except a natural born Citizen, or a Citizen of the United States, at the time of the Adoption of this Constitution, shall be eligible to the Office of President; neither shall any Person be eligible to that Office who shall not have attained to the Age of thirty five Years, and been fourteen Years a Resident within the United States.

I believe the requirements to purchase and/or carry a firearm are considerably more stringent. Look at the situation we’re currently facing: a convicted felon, on 34 counts, is the presumptive candidate for president, expected to represent one of our two major political parties. Felons aren’t allowed to vote, why should one be allowed to serve the highest office? Don’t we think more of our democracy, and ourselves, than that.

Hieracium aurantiacum (Orange Hawkweed) invasive species

Photo by J. Harrington

At the state level, I’ve been looking at Minnesota’s laws defining invasive species. Although I am not a lawyer, they seem vague enough to be found unconstitutional, See what you think:

• 2023 Minnesota Statutes
• AGRICULTURE
• Chapter 18
• Section 18.77

Subd. 17.    Invasive plant.

"Invasive plant" means a nonnative species whose introduction and establishment causes, or may cause, economic or environmental harm or harm to human health. 

  

• 2023 Minnesota Statutes
• CONSERVATION
• Chapter 84D
• Section 84D.01

Subd. 9a.    Invasive species.

"Invasive species" means a nonnative species that:

(1) causes or may cause economic or environmental harm or harm to human health; or

(2) threatens or may threaten natural resources or the use of natural resources in the state. 

So far, I’ve not been able to find any description of a process or criteria to be followed in reaching a determination of the quantity and/or quality of “harm” that needs to be caused to the economy, human health or natural resources in the state for a terrestrial or aquatic species to be listed. 

The last time I checked, most educated, thinking people were familiar with and generally agreed with the  theory of evolution. That means ecosystems and their elements change over time. Then there’s the problem of human caused environmental pollution that’s causing massive amounts of economic and environmental and human health harm. I’m not holding my breath until the commissioner of agriculture or natural resources declares humans an invasive species but, if we look back far enough, I don’t think we fit the definition of native for this continent.

Don’t we need better laws to have better enforcement and attain the results we’d like? Do we really want to see a convicted felon in our highest office? Should our definitions of invasive species, and how they're applied, be more specific? How do we start to make that happen? We need to begin with better quality candidates and better defined issues!

Tomorrow I’ll share some questions I hope could help get a better handle on invasive species. Maybe we can work up to qualifications for president.

anti-immigration 

By Evie Shockley

the black people left, and took with them their furious

            hurricanes and their fire-breathing rap songs melting

the polar ice caps. they left behind the mining jobs,

           but took that nasty black lung disease and the insurance

regulations that loop around everything concerning

           health and care, giant holes of text that all the coverage

falls through. the brown people left, and took with

           them the pesticides collecting like a sheen on the skins

of fruit. they went packing, and packed off with them

           went all the miserable low-paying gigs, the pre-dawn

commutes, the children with expensive special needs

           and the hard-up public schools that tried to meet them.

the brown people left, railroaded into carting off those

           tests that keep your average bright young student outside

the leagues of ivy-lined classrooms, and also hauled off

           their concentrated campuses, their great expectations, their

invasive technology, and the outrageous pay gap between

           a company’s c.e.o. and its not-quite-full-time workers. they

took their fragile endangered pandas and species extinction

           and got the hell outta dodge. the black people left and took

hiv/aids, the rest of their plagues, and all that deviant

           sexuality with them. they took their beat-down matriarchies

and endless teen pregnancies, too. those monster-sized

           extended families, the brown people took those. the brown

people boxed up their turbans and suspicious sheet-like

           coverings, their terrifying gun violence, cluster bombs,

and drones, and took the whole bloody mess with them,

           they took war and religious brow-beating tucked under

their robes. they took theocracy and their cruel, unusual

           punishments right back where they came from. finally,

the white people left, as serenely unburdened as when

          they arrived, sailing off from plymouth rock with nothing

in their hands but a recipe for cranberry sauce, a bit

           of corn seed, and the dream of a better life. there were

only certain kinds of people here, after the exodus, left

           to wander the underdeveloped wilderness in search

of buffalo, tobacco, and potable water, following old

           migratory patterns that would have been better left alone.

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Pacing the seasons

A month or so ago, the crowns of trees around the house were all bare and skeletony looking. Now they’re mostly filled in, or out, as you prefer. and the tree-line is looking almost solid, although we know it isn’t.

tamaracks leafing out

Photo by J. Harrington

All of a sudden, it’s too warm (70℉) to comfortably do yard work. I know, for some of us it’s almost always too cold or too wet or too dry or too warm. There are those of us who are more in the hunter-gatherer mold than in the farmer or suburbanite mold. I should be standing in a river, waving a stick, to borrow from John Gierach. Instead, I’ve been mowing last year’s leaves into the mower’s bag and putting the contents onto the Better Half’s lily garden as mulch. Mother’s Day is Sunday, you know.

The older I get the more I find that the transition from a largely sedentary winter to more active, warmer, seasons to be full of discomforts. It reminds me of the old saying “I’m not the man I used to be, never was.” Although I know better than to expect to return to the vim, vigor, and resilience I had twenty or thirty years ago, I remain hopeful of remaining ambulatory and then some for at least a few years more. Under the heading of teaching an old dog new tricks, I think I’m finally learning to pace myself and quit before I collapse. I have taken to heart the Lao Tzu observation Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.

Way back when I was in high school and learning Latin, I came across a description of someone who wanted to enjoy all the bonus [good] with none of the onus [work]. We know that, except for politicians and the 1%, that’s not really viable.

Cloud

By Kay Ryan

A blue stain

creeps across

the deep pile

of the evergreens.

From inside the

forest it seems

like an interior

matter, something

wholly to do

with trees, a color

passed from one

to another, a

requirement

to which they

submit unflinchingly 

like soldiers or 

brave people

getting older. 

Then the sun 

comes back and

it’s totally over.

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Where’s the reset button?

Now that leaves are opening, it’s easier to see where winter kill has affected some of our trees. There seem to be more blowdowns this year than in any past year I can recall. Both conifers and deciduous are dying, presumably from different causes. I’ve heard of oak wilt and we had several oaks taken down and out last year. Something killed a large, mature white pine that was growing in front of the house and that was taken down along with the oaks. Other, smaller confers have died and been left standing. Now, this spring, it appears that a cluster(?) of aspens has died over the winter. Our woods are smalll enough that any commercial options are very limited I believe and I don’t feel like paying the rates for local crews to come in, cut down trees, go and sell the fire wood, and leave me with another mess of small branches to clean up. Dying tree management and disposal is one of the down sides of country living. Plus, we’re still trying to find someone to fix the flue in our fireplace which broke pre-pandemic.

did these trees die last winter?

Photo by J. Harrington

These, and similar malfunctions, make me yearn for the days of yesteryear when a tv repairman would come to the house to replace a burnt out vacuum tube so I could watch The Lone Ranger. In those times, all bills came in the mail and were paid by mail or in person. I wasn’t being harassed by some damn utility company to sign up for auto payment, thereby exposing not only personal, but banking information via incompetent corporate IT departments, so when hacking occurs, some overpaid CEO can tell those personally affected how “deeply sorry” he is.

It’ could be worse. I could be trying to live in Gaza or Ukraine. It could also be better if, for example, those in authority did a good job of enforcing the laws we have instead of passing more laws that will only inconvenience, and possibly criminalize, innocent folks while being ignored by scofflaws and criminals. How about if parents let their offspring have unsupervised access to loaded firearms, we let the parents keep the firearms and take the child(ren) permanently and place them in responsible foster homes. We seem to be moving more and more to a society that’s soft on criminals, especially ex-presidents, at the expense of everyone else. All of this is making it harder and harder for me to maintain my record of voting Democratic and coulld make it impossiblle for US to maintain a democracy..

While I Wash My Face I Ask Impossible Questions of Myself and Those Who Love Me

Charif Shanahan

Specks of toothpaste fleck the mirror.

A fan spins dust in the hall.

I find this is it impossible to accept

So I wait for a new starting point

As though life will begin there and then.

Do you know what I mean?

Not what I’m saying, what I mean.

Is it possible my function is to hold

All the intricate, interstitial pain

And articulate clarity?

Tie a boat to my wrist, I sprout wings.

Give me a pair of shoes, I grow fins.

Once an hour I trick myself into focus:

I look into the glass as I look through it.

When the new beginning comes, what then?

Does life suddenly reset like an Atari?

Does meaning emerge

Assertively and without invitation?

The task is to live well enough with you.

But how? How do you know what you want

If you don’t tell you? If you don’t hear you?

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