June showers bring summer flowers

I was distressed that the city’s ditch mower had knocked out every milkweed plant growing between our driveway and the field entrance on our property, until this morning when I noticed how many milkweed plants are growing in the field behind the house. Rarely have we seen many milkweed plants growing in those fields, but this year’s rains have been far more than normal. Will that bring pollinators back to our property? We’ll see. Once again our pear tree, which was covered with blooms earlier this spring, has no fruit that I can see. I believe it’s due to a lack of pollinators but it could also be that there’s nothing to cross pollinate with, or both. Anyhow, our fields are full of rarely seen wildflowers and that pleases me more than the rainy, cloudy days have annoyed me.

back yard pear tree in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

The blossoms on the elderberry bush are looking much more abundant than usual. If any pollinators arrive in time, we could have a bumper crop of elderberries. Again, we’ll see. As we move into a less rainy pattern, I have to keep reminding myself that living here and managing the property is a life style, not a series of chores to get done. I “decided” toward the end of winter that I was going to take a more relaxed, less middle-class suburbanite approach to yard work. We can add one more to the list of easier said than done. Can you say OCD-type symptoms?

The tray of bergamot seedlings continues to look happy. Some day soon the Better Half and I will sketch out where we want to plant them but that’s a challenge for another day especially since the guides I’ve seen suggest planting them 18 inches apart and we have almost three dozen “cubes" of seedlings in the tray. This is beginning to remind me of the story of The Man Who Planted Trees.

Come slowly – Eden! (205)

By Emily Dickinson

Come slowly – Eden!

Lips unused to Thee –

Bashful – sip thy Jessamines –

As the fainting Bee –

Reaching late his flower,

Round her chamber hums –

Counts his nectars –

Enters – and is lost in Balms.

 

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

A roar, a...?

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

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

first a fiddlehead, then a fern

Photo by J. Harrington

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

Letter to the Northern Lights 

Aimee Nezhukumatathil

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Best management practices? US?

The sky has been spitting graupel off and on all day. The windchill is around 27℉. We just spent about an hour wandering around the property with a nice woman from the county Soil and Water Conservation District. We’re exploring the feasibility of turning an acre or so of Anoka sand plain into a patch for pollinators, especially monarch butterflies. We’ll post reports here from time to time as the project moves ahead (or doesn't).

fields to be improved for pollinators

Photo by J. Harrington

Temperatures dropped below freezing last night and are forecast to repeat that tonight and tomorrow. I’m amazed that any wildflowers manage to survive around here. The reality seems to be that nature is, in many instances, profligate with procreation to compensate for high mortality rates. The cold temps and graupel is no doubt coming as a shock to the forsythia. All three bushes have flowers on them. Sigh! Then, again, thousands of years ago our property was probably something like a mile under a glacier and there were no plants at all. Human time frames don’t align well with geologic periods.

Yesterday the dogs and I noticed a fresh dandelion flower along the road. This is the second time this year yellow blooms have appeared. The first time was ended when winter weather visited us for a week or two at the beginning of astrological spring, after our milld and largely snow-free winter.

As climate disruption and environmental pollution and species extinctions and ecosystem destruction continues, it might be wise to reconsider how we think we’re “managing the environment” and practicing restoration and responding to invasive species with herbicides and pesticides. There are few invasive species on a scorched earth but neither are there many indigenous inhabitants. What do you know about permaculture?

Franklin's Bees

By James McCorkle

Not seen for a decade, diver of lupine, horsemint, vetch in the high meadows

    of the coast

and Sierra-Cascade ranges, 190 miles south to north, from Mount Shasta to

    Roseburg, OR,

rarest of bumble bees, with the flamboyants—Wandering Skipper, Gabb’s

    Checkerspot,

Sonoran Blue, Santa Monica Mountains Hairstreak, California Dogface

(my father caught them, collected into cellophane envelopes each pair of

    wings hinged to dry

bodies, from the Sierras, the meadows above Tahoe his mother painted, the

    lake

a jag of sea-green blue through maize and ochers in her landscapes, after

    she stopped

playing the violin and tired of her sister’s theosophy; for years all I had of

    his was a cigar box

of light, all this to keep from sliding into darkness, each thing saved part of

    a constellation,

one chip of  light necessitating the next one’s proximity, forming an outline

someone will trace again and again, into wing or antennae, or hive, or a

    storm of bees

from a hollow, from the retreat of another form back into darkness,

    through a vent,

underground, and my father, gone for longer than my daughters’ lives,

    floats somewhere, talking

to me, whispering my wrongs, my failures, each syllable a bit of dust from

    wings),

the disappearing Frosted Elfin and Karner Blue, Mitchell’s Satyr, Taylor’s

    Checkerspot.

Who was Gabb or Taylor or Karner, to have their names attached to a streak

    of blue,

brushed flakes of cerulean, or orange, or drab brown; or Franklin, who

    noticed

the solid black abdomen or the gold U on the anterior of the thorax,

cohabitant on this range with the Western bumble bee, itself rare, and what

    we know

pinned to balsa wood, through abdomens, a bee or wasp,

a solitary zebra-stripe, above milkweed, vetch, or top-heavy goldenrod

netted and gassed, how quickly the last ones are with us

then not, a specimen tray in a cabinet pulled out, rows of  bodies, wings

    flared mineral

light, chitin brittle as pressed leaves. Pollinators, foragers. Signals of 


    summer’s height, the race

of wildflowers blooming before the dry grass fires. In a season, to spawn,

    wrap in self-made

husks, then unfold, moist, and float up toward the sun or nest and lay the

    colony

over the summer, queen and workers, caretakers of the burrow, foragers,

    and autumnal queens

to wait through winter laden with the future, laid on a mound of nectar, in a

    cup of wax.

This year the cherry-tree had no fruit—or if there was, it was high in the

    tree, out of sight—

no bees meticulous in their work, the tree was silent all spring and summer.

(Perhaps my father sought to find a Lepidoptera not yet named, in New

    Guinea or Borneo, something

mistaken for sky leaded between the tree canopy, but found none unknown—

or this would be my story, since he told nothing of time, his time in the war,

    working

the wounds, the tropic diseases, like most who returned, slowly from their

    theaters of conflict,

in silence, so turned to growing orchids, Phalaenopsis, white moth-orchids,

    dozens on a spray,

he would cross, hoping some new variant would take, our house filled then

    with possibility.)

One monarch drifted over the scattered milkweed plants. A cool spring and

    summer, warm

fall, the absence of dragonflies over the meadows and warm lawns. So I

    think of the entomologist

waiting in the August meadows of Mt. Ashland where he found the last

    Franklin bumble bee

and has come back each year to look again, his specimen box holds three,

    pinned, in the light

their thorax bristles golden as though always stained by pollen shaken loose

    by their thrum in C,

sorting across scents and chromatics, compounding the nectars, mortal

    pollens.

Does one know one is the last, no one answers, or there are no others on the

    path

across the wildflower meadows of Mt. Ashland, or no path, the last ones

    along it have been gone

for a season or two, the last one a leftover cell deep in a vole’s lair, or a

    half-buried fox, sun-

warmed from sleep’s knots. If gone, who would miss them—someone,

    searching for one

like a word hovering just beyond the tongue, its meaning he shapes with his

    hands, something

infirm, shapeless, “you know what I mean,” just to keep the conversation

    going or return it

to where we were, start again, a memory, you are still pitch-perfect, a 


    middle-C to tune

the rest by, or is it an A, the oboist’s, then picked up others, that dis-

ease you refuse to talk about, it can’t be you, to be the last one to remember

    this and then

no one afterward to call it back, say its name as you gently cup the stunned bee

to show the golden U, in moments it is released, groggy, knowing it must

    find its way, picking

its alphabet back from vetch, lupine, horsemint, to bone-hollowed-hive.

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

Return with us now...

Today is day fourteen of the 10 to 14 day germination period listed for the bergamot seeds we planted in two seed trays. There are minuscule signs of life in about 20% of the tray cells. We have our fingers crossed that more seeds will germinate over time since the trays have only had one day of warm sunshine for a couple of hours. Weather forecasts are threatening frost this weekend so... no planting yet. In fact, we’re not even ready to park the trays outside daily so seedlings can harden off. The wind has been gusting enough to blow over the trays. Plus, the “safety date” for frost is Memorial Day weekend. Welcome to spring in the North Country.

wild bergamot in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

A pocket gopher has been creating mounds in the real back yard, not just out in the fields behind the house. We’ll see about setting some traps tomorrow or later, after the Soil and Water Conservation person has visited. We’re exploring the possibility of getting some funding to help turn our fields into wild prairie, helping create habitat for local pollinators. Maybe some of our bergamot seedlings will become a step in our prairie restoration?

The day lilies are coming along nicely. Maple buds have burst and their “shells” now cover the ground. The Better Half recently dug out some CDs from our [much] younger days, including early Judy Collins, Ani DiFranco + Utah Phillips, and Janis Joplin. I’m taking that music plus my rapidly growing frustration with today’s “culture” as a cue that it’s time to revert, not to a second childhood (there are some who would claim I never left my first) but to a second Hippie-hood. It feels like a wonderful way to spend the rest of the year, and maybe the rest of my life. At least I could make more sense of people’s actions and inactions way back when. Now, not so much. (If you’re not old enough to remember the Lone Ranger, the rest of the title goes “to those thrilling days of yesteryear.......”)

Back Up Quick They’re Hippies

By Lani O'Hanlon

That was the year we drove

into the commune in Cornwall.

“Jesus Jim,” mam said,

“back up quick they’re hippies.”

Through the car window,

tents, row after row, flaps open,

long-haired men and women

curled around each other like babies

and the babies themselves

wandered naked across the grass.

I reached for the handle, ready, almost,

to open the door, drop out and away

from my sister’s aggressive thighs,

Daddy’s slapping hands.

Back home in the Dandelion Market

I unlearnt the steps my mother taught,

bought a headband, an afghan coat,

a fringed skirt — leather skin.

Barefoot on common grass I lay down with kin.

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

Good Friday thoughts.

Snow is melting. Cloudy skies have some thin spots and patches of blue even. It’s almost Easter weekend. There are enough good things happening that we shouldn’t be dismayed that too many humans turn April Fool’ into a daily event. This morning I saw an add for a helpful solution to much of the aggravation and agitation triggered by living in contemporary society. There’s a helpful new drug that wasn’t developed by big pharma. Take 500 mg of fukitol, followed by a nap.

bumblebee on purple lupine

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half sent me a link this morning to a story in the Washington Post that cheered me in at least two ways:

1. the subject matter offers hope for protecting pollinators, especially bees, (and so, much of our food) and;
2. it was one of the better written news articles I’ve read in a long time.

I don’t know if this link will work, but you’re welcome to try it: https://wapo.st/4cMGQYa

By this time next week, I expect most, maybe all, of the snow to be gone and the dogs and I will again enjoy our walks down the driveway and along the road instead of treating them as a necessary chore. I bet we’ll even return to walking to the pond north of us to see if Canada geese or wood ducks have stopped to rest. I wont’t be wearing Yak-Trax or a down parka and the dogs won’t be wondering why I filled their ditch full of snow. Shortly after that, we can start watching for spring ephemerals while listening for more bird song. Spring will have arrived in more than name only.

Do you suppose local news would be more successful if they/it published and practiced more solutions journalism stories? I’m more than a little tired of reading the abundance of bad news that mentions not a bit of what to do about it. In fact, for a couple of local newspapers I check regularly for projectsI’m trying to follow, they frequently lack any in depth coverage that didn’t come from a news release. At the time we originally were heavily dependent on a free press, we barely had a functioning postal system. Now we’re back to a barely functioning postal system and have a multitude of information sources full of mis and disinformation. Whatever happened to fact checkers and copy editors?

Not Ideas About the Thing But the Thing Itself

Wallace Stevens
1879 – 1955

At the earliest ending of winter, 
In March, a scrawny cry from outside 
Seemed like a sound in his mind. 

He knew that he heard it, 
A bird's cry at daylight or before,
In the early March wind.

The sun was rising at six, 
No longer a battered panache above snow . . . 
It would have been outside. 

It was not from the vast ventriloquism 
Of sleep's faded papier mâché . . .
The sun was coming from outside. 

That scrawny cry—it was 
A chorister whose c preceded the choir. 
It was part of the colossal sun, 

Surrounded by its choral rings, 
Still far away. It was like 
A new knowledge of reality.

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

Two bee, two bee, doo

It is the season of drowning bees, when many wasps and hornets and bees gather at the sugar water feeders. Some get greedy and force their way through the feeding port guards into the reservoir of sugar water. They can’t fly nor swim so eventually, they drown from too much of a good thing. Most people only notice the critters that sneak into their cans of sugar water through the pop tops. Those often get shaken out.

I spent some time yesterday watching several kinds of wasps or hornets or bees trying to feed at the red hummingbird feeder on a front window. Hummers, with their long bills and tongues, get some sort of nourishment. I have no idea if the buzzers could reach any of the sugar water or not. The feeding ports in the red feeder are just large enough to accommodate a hummingbird’s bill and too narrow to allow even small bees entrance. What also fascinates me is the feeders are rarely visited by insects at other times of the year. This year, in fact, the ants never discovered the feeder hanging from the deck railing.

bee on Blue Giant Hyssop

Photo by J. Harrington

Bees are also availing themselves of what’s left of the season’s flowers. I much prefer seeing them in a more natural setting like the one above, rather than on or at a hummingbird feeder. (The bee is about dead center in the picture.) Both honeybees and wild bee populations are declining at unacceptable rates, even in a state like Minnesota, home to more than 500 species of bees.

Last year we left many of the fallen leaves in place to provide overwintering habitat for at least some pollinators. Then came spring with “No mow May.” The yard has taken on a much more natural look. That’s been compounded by the past summer’s drought. We have our fingers crossed that some reseeding the Better Half did the other day will help create a bee friendly lawn. She had some really encouraging reports on the thyme that’s replacing “bluegrass” and rye in the yard. I think that got planted / seeded last year.

[If you haven’t by now recognized today’s title, go listen to Frank Sinatra’s Strangers in the Night.]

Bees, so many bees.

By Anna Jackson

After twenty years of marriage, we walked out

of the bush and on to a rough dirt road

we followed till we saw a pond

we might be able to get to.

The ground was boggy and buzzing.

The pond was thick with weed

and slime. It was not

the sort of pond anyone would

swim in, but we did — picking and sliding

into the water over the bog and bees,

bees we suddenly noticed were

everywhere, were settling on our hair

as we swam, ducks turning surprised eyes

our way. After twenty years of marriage

what is surprising isn’t really so much

the person you are with but to find

yourselves so out of place in this scene, cold

but not able to get out without

stepping over bees, so many bees.

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

It’s complicated!

Several times we’ve posted about respecting and following the recommendations for “No Mow May.” We were, therefore, more than a little annoyed when we saw a reference to What not mowing in May could mean for your lawn, guidance from UMN Extension. Today we took time to read (skim through) the whole article for these take-aways:

• The idea of not mowing a lawn during the month of May in order to promote flowers for early season pollinators was first promoted by a research paper that has since been retracted. 
• The lawn folks at UMN talked with the Bee lab folks about pollinators and lawn care 
• If you are interested in promoting pollinators in your lawn year round, we have several resources on planting and maintaining a bee lawn.

Quick facts

• Bee lawns have flowers mixed in with turfgrasses such as fine fescues and Kentucky bluegrass.
• The flowers of a bee lawn provide food (nectar and pollen) for pollinators.
• Bee lawns are environmentally friendly because they are managed using low-input methods that generally use less fertilizer and pesticides.
• Bee lawns can still be used recreationally by your household like a regular lawn.
• A bee lawn can attract over 50 species of native bees.

The folks at the Xerces Society and at Bee City are now referring to No Mow May; No Mow April; and Low Mow Spring. They also note that “Though no organization officially oversees No Mow May, many Bee City USA and Bee Campus USA affiliates choose to participate. And while not mowing in May isn’t right for everyone or every region, the campaign can be a good tool for getting new people involved in pollinator conservation.” 

bee on dame’s rocket

Photo by J. Harrington

I should have suspected that a less work, less thinking, more loafing approach to conservation might be way too good to be true. Turns out it is. If you’ll excuse me now, I have more reading to do. At least that’s less strain inducing than mowing (or blowing snow, for that matter.) I am in favor of pollinator conservation since I like berries, fruits and butterflies [and many other conservation dependent activities like fishing]. For now, I’ll read as I wait for the last of yesterday’s snow to melt. Then the ground has to dry out some before I’ll even think of mowing. Besides, almost everything that passes for lawn around here is still mostly flattened from winter’s snows.

The Tuft of Flowers

Robert Frost - 1874-1963

I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.

The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the levelled scene.

I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.

But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been,—alone,

‘As all must be,’ I said within my heart,
‘Whether they work together or apart.’

But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a ’wildered butterfly,

Seeking with memories grown dim o’er night
Some resting flower of yesterday’s delight.

And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.

And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.

I thought of questions that have no reply,
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;

But he turned first, and led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,

A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.

I left my place to know them by their name, 
Finding them butterfly weed when I came.

The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,

Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.

The butterfly and I had lit upon,
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,

That made me here the wakening birds around,
And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,

And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
So that henceforth I worked no more alone;

But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;

And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.

‘Men work together.’ I told him from the heart,
‘Whether they work together or apart.’

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

In search of better days

It’s the time of year when Agastache foeniculum (Anise Hyssop, Blue Giant Hyssop) comes into its own in our neighborhood. It’s difficult to impossible to see in the photo below, but our plants are literally crawling with small bumblebees. It’s a treat to see pollinators this year. Monarchs have been very few and very, very far between.

Anise Hyssop, Blue Giant Hyssop (Agastache foeniculum)

Photo by J. Harrington

Early mornings after a rainy evening or night, walking the dogs is accompanied by a chorus of frog chirps. We’ve not seen any frogs in person yet this summer. Occasionally, a tiny toad will appear somewhere in the yard, like the one that hopped under the brush pile as I mowed past on the tractor the other day. Most summers we’ve been visited by one or two green tree frogs by now. Another piece of what seems like a strange summer this year.

If somehow you’ve missed the memo, Minnesota’s state fair opened today. In the decades we’ve lived here we’ve been only two or three times and, I believe, two of them were work related. Compound my natural aversion to large, unwieldy crowds with my stronger aversion to potentially deadly viruses and pandemics, and you can be sure we won’t be going this year either.

One of the nice aspects of a subprime summer such as the one we’re closing out is that it doesn’t take a whole heck of a lot to really improve things. We realize there are lots of folks who are in much worse shape than we are, at least at the moment, but this summer has seen too much time expended on things that need to get done and not enough on things we want to do. We’re looking forward to falling into a better pattern next month, or, at least shaking off our funky mood. We are definitely overdue for a day or two or three of fishing and apple picking eating.

The Song of Wandering Aengus

W. B. Yeats - 1865-1939

I went out to the hazel wood,   
Because a fire was in my head,   
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,   
And hooked a berry to a thread;   
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,   
I dropped the berry in a stream   
And caught a little silver trout.   

When I had laid it on the floor   
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,   
And someone called me by my name:   
It had become a glimmering girl   
With apple blossom in her hair   
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.   

Though I am old with wandering   
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,   
I will find out where she has gone,   
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,   
And pluck till time and times are done,   
The silver apples of the moon,   
The golden apples of the sun.

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

Today, especially, I want to Beelieve

Pardon me for playing with part of a basic manifesto for the tv series The X-Files, but it seems to fit really well with today’s celebration of National Honeybee Day. Although honeybees play a significant role in agricultural production, they aren’t native to North America. I lean much more toward supporting most pollinators through the activities of the Xerces Society.

X Files: I want to believe

From the reading I’ve done, much of the honeybees’ decline can be attributed to agricultural pesticides. So some-to-many farmers seem to be cutting off their noses to spite their faces so to speak. If we focus on creating a world that’s healthier for native pollinators and let bee keepers and farmers sort out their priorities, we’ll probably all benefit.

Bee Whisperer

By Laura Secord

For weeks we’ve seen some wild winds.

Today, I find my hives knocked over.

A season’s honey smeared in rivers

on the ground. I stand their domes again.

The bees are swarming in the trees and fighting

against the gale. I watch one entire colony

trapped by a whirlwind, carried out and up

across the Green. I run to follow and see them

swept over the river and caught in a maple grove.

                  Can anyone call bees?

Alone before the water’s edge,

in desperate worry for my colony,

not knowing what to do, I hold

my arms high, as if to block the wind,

and cry like swarming bees. I speak

about our apple blooms, promise

them acres of blossoms and honey mounds.

                  Your domes are upright, your babies waiting.

Suddenly, in one black cloud, they return

across the water, above my raised

head and waving arms, over the Green.

When I return, almost

horizontal against the raging winds,

I climb to my orchard, and find

the hives filling back

with colonies of bees.

Notes:

This poem is from my historical verse narrative, An Art, a Craft, a Mystery (Livingston Press, 2022), the story of two women who immigrated to the colonies as indentured servants in the seventeenth century and lived along the Connecticut River. They were both healers and victims of the early witch-hunt delusion in colonial Connecticut. In this poem, Kate Harrison speaks about the harassment she suffered after her husband’s death, and her response to the harassment.

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

Is there a Jurassic Park for butterflies?

This year there seem to be more bees and/or hornets and/or wasps at the nectar feeder than I remember from years past. Yesterday, I saw what I believe was a baldfaced hornet (actually a yellowjacket) emerge from one of the feeding ports as I brought the feeder in for the night. Several yellowjackets, normal kind, have managed to get themselves trapped in the feeder and drowned. The insect activity doesn’t seem to bother the occasional Baltimore oriole that shows up at the feeder, but the hummingbirds are much more skittish.

You may have seen the announcement that the International Union for the Conservation of Nature (IUCN) has declared the monarch butterfly endangered. That doesn’t make it subject to the provisions of the United States Endangered Species Act since the US Fish and Wildlife Service has not listed it.

“We conducted an intensive, thorough review using a rigorous, transparent science-based process and found that the monarch meets listing criteria under the Endangered Species Act. However, before we can propose listing, we must focus resources on our higher-priority listing actions,” said U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service Director Aurelia Skipwith. “While this work goes on, we are committed to our ongoing efforts with partners to conserve the monarch and its habitat at the local, regional and national levels. Our conservation goal is to improve monarch populations, and we encourage everyone to join the effort.”

monarch butterfly emerging

Photo by J. Harrington

Several years ago we were fortunate enough to have a monarch chrysalis on the front of the house. I was lucky enough to be around with a camera when the butterfly began to emerge. This year we’ve seen a few monarchs around the property over the past week or so. I’m both surprised and disappointed there aren’t more since we have quite a few common milkweed clusters on the property. None of the plants along the road have signs of being gnawed on by caterpillars and I’ve not been back into the fields to check those plants.

Have you ever read the stories of lemmings driving themselves off a cliff to their death? The stories are untrue but seem to provide an example of how the human species has been behaving for the past century or so. The Earth will continue just fine without us, but we won’t survive, let alone thrive, without a habitable home planet. It is the only one we have.

I Don’t Know What Will Kill Us First: The Race War or What We’ve Done to the Earth

Fatimah Asghar

so I count my hopes: the bumblebees
are making a comeback, one snug tight
in a purple flower I passed to get to you;

your favorite color is purple but Prince’s
was orange & we both find this hard to believe;
today the park is green, we take grass for granted

the leaves chuckle around us; behind
your head a butterfly rests on a tree; it’s been
there our whole conversation; by my old apartment

was a butterfly sanctuary where I would read
& two little girls would sit next to me; you caught
a butterfly once but didn’t know what to feed it

so you trapped it in a jar & gave it to a girl
you liked. I asked if it died. you say you like
to think it lived a long life. yes, it lived a long life.

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

It’s (meteorological) Summer! #phenology

The property has several clusters of hoary puccoon in bloom. Dandelions are more seed heads than blossoms. Today’s weather is as close to perfect as we’re likely to see, sunny, mild, very light breeze. We kept our No Mow May pledge and waited until today to mow the patch near the bur oak down by the road.  The gravel shoulder the township installed last autumn it then plowed across the easement and onto our property. The mower was set as high as it goes and still managed to suck up some of the gravel. It’s unlikely we’ll get any satisfaction other than complaining about it. Mosquitos are as thick as, or thicker than, I’ve ever seen them. We need a major hatch of dragonflies and/or bats. The poison ivy down by the road ditch doesn’t seem to have been terribly sickened by the Roundup we sprayed on it last week. We’ll try hitting it again.

hoary puccoon cluster

Photo by J. Harrington

Goat’s beard is close to blooming. Milkweed is about a foot or fifteen inches tall. Turkeys are still playing as if it’s mating season. Dame’s rocket has come into bloom over the past few days. We’ve still not started our three sisters garden. Maybe the weather and other obligations will cooperate enough so that we can get started this week or next. We’ll see. Meanwhile, we’ll hope every summer day is this pleasant, with rain only during the night mid-week. Mary Oliver knows what we’re talking about.

The Summer Day

by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?

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

May: Spring fades to Summer

Back in the days when I had a boat, this was one of three weekends I traditionally stayed off the water. The other two were July Fourth and Labor Day. The proportion of boaters who didn’t really know what they were doing was usually distressingly high these weekends. This year: Memorial Day weekend; first barbecue of the season; main ingredient: turkey legs! The cooking will occur between the morning’s showers; midday’s thunderstorm downpour and evening’s forecast storms. The humidity and bugs (mostly mosquitos) are being tempered by a breeze from the south.

tom turkey, mating display

Photo by J. Harrington

Two tom turkeys were each displaying in a field way behind the house. So, they’re convinced it’s still mating season. Meanwhile, we’re noticing that we’ve seen no turtles crossing the local roads this year, and only one snake so far, apparently run over while sunning on the roadway. The unusual weather patterns this year may have something to do with our lack of sightings, plus, we’ve not been traveling every day the way we once did.

After the storms tonight and tomorrow, we may slide into a typical early June weather pattern. Then again, we may not. The phrase that keeps coming to mind is we’ll have to “play it by ear.” Unfortunately, musicianship is not one of our stronger talents. Next week we’ll start tidying our No Mow May grasses. The first steps will be to pick up the dead branches fallen from our oaks so they don’t mess up the mower blades. We’ll then mow fairly high and more frequently than later in the season, since the mulching mower will still be leaving grass clippings longer than ideal. If I approach these chores as a learning experience instead of a job to get done well and quickly, I may even begin to enjoy the experience and actually learn something.

Travelling Storm

Mark Van Doren - 1894-1972

The sky, above us here, is open again. 
The sun comes hotter, and the shingles steam. 
The trees are done with dripping, and the hens
Bustle among bright pools to pick and drink. . . . 
But east and south are black with speeding storm. 
That thunder, low and far, remembering nothing,
Gathers a new world under it and growls, 
Worries, strikes, and is gone.  Children at windows 
Cry at the rain, it pours so heavily down,
Drifting across the yard till the sheds are grey. . . . 
A county father on, the wind is all—
A swift dark wind that turns the maples pale, 
Ruffles the hay, and spreads the swallows’ wings. 
Horses, suddenly restless, are unhitched,
And men, with glances upward, hurry in; 
Their overalls blow full and cool; they shout;
Soon they will lie in barns and laugh at the lightning. . . . 
Another county yet, and the sky is still; 
The air is fainting; women sit with fans
And wonder when a rain will come that way. 

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

May the bluebirds of happiness prevail

Most local fields are planted or ready for it. Several have corn emergent already, about an inch or so high, just enough to define the rows. Today’s rain has freshened the soil, making it look rich and ready to produce.

Yesterday, a flock of four tree swallows, nesting in our “purple martin” house, were attacking the pair of bluebirds in their house in the back yard. After watching for awhile, I went and lowered the martin/swallow house on its pole in hopes that the attackers would be distracted and leave the bluebirds alone. If you think you can detect my bias toward bluebirds, you’re right. My efforts failed at the time. For much of yesterday afternoon, neither bluebirds nor swallows were in evidence. Nor have we seen any of either species so far today.

male bluebird atop pine tree

Photo by J. Harrington

It won’t be long until we’ll be in the midst of summer’s growing season. Many of the blossom-covered trees and bushes are beginning to look frayed and weather-worn. If there were sufficient pollinators, soon fruits will begin to develop. As leaf-out is completed and green comes to dominate the landscape, we’ll approach summer’s doldrums. For now, that level of ennui is weeks away. We’re still adjusting to seeing branches leaf-covered instead of bare. Even faded flowers are an improvement after weeks and months of snow shroud covered grounds.

There’s been no sightings of scarlet tanagers nor indigo buntings for the past couple of days. Perhaps they’ve all migrated north. Perhaps some have been busy nest building. The Baltimore orioles have been enjoying the nectar feeder and the grape jelly dish we’ve hung. Yesterday we saw a few bees, or yellow jackets, or...?, checking out the lily of the valley flower buds along the driveway. Weather permitting, we’ll break out of our No Mow May program next week, probably past midweek. Since the front yard was freshly reseeded this month, we’ll probably continue No Mow May until September for that area.

All in all, despite a cooler, wetter spring than we’re used to, nature’s events have progressed about as we’ve come to expect, give or take. It’s nice to have some aspects of life these days approximate something akin to normal.

THE BLUEBIRD
by Charles Bukowski

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I’m not going
to let anybody see
you.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he’s
in there.

there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I’m too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody’s asleep.
I say, I know that you’re there,
so don’t be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he’s singing a little
in there, I haven’t quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it’s nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don’t
weep, do
you?

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

Here Comes Summer

 In anticipation of the upcoming end of No Mow May, and because the Son-In-Law asked to borrow the tractor, we mounted the mower deck today. We’re only a week from Memorial Day and the unofficial beginning of summer. For the first time this year I’m wearing a short sleeved t-shirt, the house is open for fresh air and I’m not freezing. Meteorological summer starts in less than 10 days. Local garden centers have been mobbed the past few days. More and more road work orange detour signs are popping up. We’re getting close to North Country summer.

recently discovered trillium bed

Photo by J. Harrington

I’m not sure how I could ever prove it, but I’m starting to suspect that, if I just spent more time getting things done, instead of trying to optimize efforts because I have so many things to get done, I might at least get caught up and, maybe, get a little bit ahead. That would be nice and less stressful than trying to solve the classic “travelling salesman problem.” (No, there is no truth whatsoever to any rumor that I tend to overthink things.)

Our Minnesota legislature has ended its session without passing a number of significant pieces of legislation. I can’t think of very many places where employees could be that unproductive and remain employed, can you? I’ve been pondering ways and means to incentivize the #mnleg to actually complete the job(s) for which they were elected. One thought would be a constitutional amendment that requires return of all per diem payments to the general fund if the session ends the way this one, and many other recent ones, ended and a special session is required. I like this approach better than any that suggests going to a full time year round legislature will accomplish anything more than giving Minnesota a Minne-congress. There’s no way that would be an improvement.

In reality, I can’t do much except ponder and post about these issues. I hope you find at least some amusement in them. Maybe someone will think one or two of the ponders is worth pursuing and will pick up the metaphorical ball and run with it. Meanwhile, I have to get the snow blower summerized and the push mower running so I can mulch some oak leaves for use in the newly renovated day lily bed. And, somewhere in there, practice my fly casting so I’ll be in better shape when I finally get to the water.

The Summer Day

by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean--
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?

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

Spring: cool; cooler; coolest!

We’ve spent much of the past several months commenting on our unseasonably cool, wet, weather.  Here’s proof that we knew what we were talking about. We’re enjoying either the latest spring on record or one that comes only every 40 years [darkest or paler purple]. (Our validation also confirms an old saying that “even a blind hog finds acorns once in awhile.")

Status of Spring

Meanwhile, the front yard seeding project seems to be showing signs of success. Teeny, tiny, little blades of grass, about one inch tall, appeared overnight. If, over the next few days, we can avoid any of the strong thunderstorms with large hail that have been erupting elsewhere in eastern Minnesota, we may actually end up with a bee friendly lawn. Then, all we need are the bees.

This morning on social media we came across a poem we remember reading years ago. It’s attributed to Mother Theresa and some note it is very similar to a poem much like it, with spiritual tone modifications to the Mother’s version. We are not a terribly religious person, but we do try to maintain a spiritual element to what passes for our personality. We also recognize that we are not often enough grateful enough for all the many blessings we’ve enjoyed over the course of our life. We intend to reread today’s poem with more frequency than we have during the past 25 or 50 years. In today’s world it is more and more appropriate.

 

         People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered.  Forgive them anyway.

            If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives.  Be kind anyway.

            If you are successful, you will win some unfaithful friends and some genuine enemies.  Succeed anyway.

           If you are honest and sincere people may deceive you.  Be honest and sincere anyway.

            What you spend years creating, others could destroy overnight.  Create anyway.

            If you find serenity and happiness, some may be jealous.  Be happy anyway.

            The good you do today, will often be forgotten.  Do good anyway.

         Give the best you have, and it will never be enough.  Give your best anyway.

         In the final analysis, it is between you and God.  It was never between you and them anyway.

-this version is credited to Mother Teresa

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

Halfway through No Mow May

Yesterday we mentioned trilliums and lilacs. This morning we were pleasantly surprised to discover trilliums we hadn’t previously noticed growing along a road we frequently travel. A more obvious  hedge of lilacs has developed flower clusters and will be in full bloom soon. It makes us feel as if we’re coming to know an area when we’re familiar with a variety of locations where domestic and wildflowers grow. Now we’re reminded that it’s time to check on our local patch of prairie smoke. Maybe tomorrow.

Prairie Smoke (Geum triflorum)

Photo by J. Harrington

We’re more than halfway through May and so far we haven’t mounted the mower deck on the tractor nor have we fired up the mulching / bagging push mower. Looks like we may successfully celebrate all of No Mow May. On the other hand, we’re vacillating on brush piles versus burning the dead branches that keep falling from our oak trees. There’s only so much area I want to devote to brush piles and the branches decompose at a rate much slower than they fall from trees. We’ve yet to find an approach we’re comfortable with for managing dead branches in an ecologically sound fashion that isn’t more work than it seems to be worth. We’ve learned that throwing lots of branches onto a pile and then lighting the pile when weather conditions and our burn permit permit is less work than breaking up lots of branches so they fit in the burn pit and we don’t need a permit. We’ll keep working at this issue.

The Better Half claims she’s seen a handful or two of various kinds of bumblebees while she’s been gardening. I’ve not seen any except one on the violets earlier this month. It seems as though, this year, our bees have disappeared. We hope it's not permanent and will cross our fingers and keep our eyes open.

Pea Brush 

Robert Frost - 1874-1963

I walked down alone Sunday after church
   To the place where John has been cutting trees
To see for myself about the birch
   He said I could have to bush my peas.

The sun in the new-cut narrow gap
   Was hot enough for the first of May,
And stifling hot with the odor of sap
   From stumps still bleeding their life away.

The frogs that were peeping a thousand shrill
   Wherever the ground was low and wet,
The minute they heard my step went still
   To watch me and see what I came to get.

Birch boughs enough piled everywhere!—
   All fresh and sound from the recent axe.
Time someone came with cart and pair
   And got them off the wild flower’s backs.

They might be good for garden things
   To curl a little finger round,
The same as you seize cat’s-cradle strings,
   And lift themselves up off the ground.

Small good to anything growing wild,
   They were crooking many a trillium
That had budded before the boughs were piled
   And since it was coming up had to come.

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