Hatching a plan

Technically, we, together with much of Minnesota, are no longer in or under drought conditions. Our cumulative year-to-date precipitation is a little above normal as we approach what has historically been our wettest month, June. Within the past week, local insects have been hatching or emerging in disgusting numbers. I know, birds and dragonflies and bats need to eat too.

male bluebird perched on mullein stalk

Photo by J. Harrington

We’ve been talking with a staff person at the county’s Soil and Water Conservation District about improving the ground cover on our little corner of the Anoka Sand Plain. The fields behind the house are sunny with sandy, well-drained soils. As rhe SWCD staff person noted: “It’s a tough site.” Maybe we need more details of what Aldo Leopold and his family planted, or discovered, on their Sand County property in Wisconsin. The wonderful Almanac makes reference to Draba, “a humble, easily overlooked plant,” “Altogether…of no importance.” A quick check at Minnesota wildflowers web site reveals that there are six species of Draba native to Minnesota, including some counties contiguous to ours. So, why not try some on our sand plain? We’ll do some more exploring before we decide, but it looks very interesting, to borrow a phrase from Arte Johnson.

Another interesting prospect is/are bristle-berry plants. Maybe some could help the elderberries defeat (shade out?) the reed canary grass growing around the wet spot in our back yard.

Our property was part of a farm field. Its natural state was probably like the oak savannah/ mixed coniferous woodlands on the east, north and west side of the property. The south is dominated by a pine plantation that looks like it was planted years ago. If we treat all of these rehabilitation efforts like a hobby and not a project, this may even turn out to be fun. Have you ever read A Naturalist Buys an Old Farm?

The Grass

By Jeffrey Yang

Bouteloua black

grama grass red

chino side-

oats blue grama grass

hairy buffalo-

grass toboso three-awn

land’s dawn 旦 sun

over sand, tumble

wind-

mill witch- cup- saltgrass

plains love- indiangrass, prairie

cordgrass, pink pappusgrass, sprangle-

top green knotroot

bristle, bluestem, tangle-

head, sacaton

panicles

open, golden drop-

seed blooms desert winter-

grass, awns twist, un-

twist, such

syllables flicker

out of grass

: Nanissáanah

thirst, ghost dance

native

spirits, active

roots, footstalks

to soil as to site, stems

bend, range-

lands wave, seiche

fields sway, clouds

pass over-

grazed grass

staked, fenced

dries, weakens, dies,

fallen

crowns, the grasslands

what

comes to pass, ranch-

hand lands, live-

stock livelihood

wildlife gone, displaced, migrations

impeded, scales im-

balanced

the years

spread, each itself

hitched to everything else

in the universe

nodes

hollowed, drought-

land years, drops

on the hardpan

nature

is endless

regeneration

trichloris, muhly, switch-

grass, wind misses

沙 沙 shasha through the pass-

es, whispering seeds

will pass, will pass

within leaves

listening

grasses, not only

the revelation

but the nature behind

to sustain it, over-

land grasses seeds

spread and grow, rhizome,

stolon to sod, curly

mesquite cotton-

top, draft

to draft 草

ten thousand

grasses, 草 dancing

culms 草 of grass

florescence, sheaths

and blades whorl

flower to

flower, wild

grass, knowing

wind strips, slips

of time, the leaves

words weave, un-

weave the

grass

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How to live today

This year’s prairie plants have been planted, a couple of dozen or so. Tomorrow it’s forecast to rain so that should help. Now I need to get busy with pocket gopher and mole traps to help protect fresh new roots. In a couple of months I’ll take pictures of whatever survived, sooner if anyone starts to burst into blossoms before then.

While the Better Half was directing me on where to make holes for the plant plugs, I noticed several seedlings, I think oak, growing where the field is trying to return to forest. Closer to the top of the slope is a pine tree seedling, probably thanks to a squirrel planting a cone for winter food, and beyond that a cluster of juniper(?) or cedar surrounding a “mother” tree. We’ll talk and think over the summer about whether to let Mother Nature take her course.

Getting the planting done was the second highest point of the day so far. This morning we got a new door bell, wireless, to replace the one that came with the house. We think the wiring developed a short behind the cement board siding and rewiring would have been both expensive and potentially unproductive. The electrician thinks the wires got pinched behind the replacement siding and the short developed as the house has expanded and contracted with the changing seasons. In really cold weather, sometimes the bell would ring by itself and other times it would buzzzzz for awhile. The latter drove the dogs crazy, which made the dog owners crazy. We hope it’s all taken care of now. We’ll see come winter and no, I’m not looking forward to checking it out.

how long until the first cutting of hay?

Photo by J. Harrington

One of the authors I’ve been reading recently, Laurie Allmann, cited a line from one of my favorite poets, Wendell Berry, in the piece I read this morning. It fits so well that today I’m going to share the entire Wendell Berry poem after I pique your interest with the cite: Be joyful / though you have considered all the facts.

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

by Wendell Berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.

And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.

When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.

Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.

Listen to carrion -- put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as Women do not go cheap
for power, please Women more than men.

Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go.

Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

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Thought for food

The Better Half has, quite understandably, tired of the bare dirt and mess created by moles and voles under the bird seed feeder. This morning we were pleased to assist with the initial implementation of a solution. There are now two hydrangea bushes, one at either end of the downstairs patio including the spot under the feeder. Yours truly was responsible for digging the holes for planting. Yesterday, he also carefully unpacked each of the plants from the ends of a Rube Goldberg class shipping container. Come October, he is given to understand, some unspecified quantity of peonies will arrive and also require planting. He is hopeful the new plantings will not attract fresh hordes of pocket gophers to accompany the moles and voles. [Note to self: study up on mole trapping this winter.]

sand burs, Summer hazard

Photo by J. Harrington

Current temps are in the mid-80s, headed toward the low 90s. No additional, meaningful, outside work will be undertaken today, barring unforeseen emergencies. There are parts of the property that need to be run over [overrun?] with a mower although, despite our best efforts to mow much of the recent eruption of sand burs with the bagging mower, Harry the Beagle promptly proceeded to get several stuck in his right front paw. Since I had neglected to bring a pair of pliers on our walk, I pinched the burs in the folds of my jeans’ leg and removed them from Harry’s paw. Said burs were removed from the jeans’ leg when we returned to the house and a pair of pliers was handy. The combination of poison ivy, sand burs, pocket gophers and moles is what stands between our little property and a veritable heaven on earth. I doubt I shall see that heaven in this lifetime.

This morning, well after sun rise, a whitetail doe walked through the back yard like she owned the place. She was promptly accompanied by two nicely grown fawns, at least one of whom has a zoomie complex. The Better Half accused the trio of being the perpetrators consuming her newly planted hostas. Since two new plants have been reduced to stems, the presumption that deer don’t eat hostas has been deemed questionable. The repellant in perforated plastic bags hasn’t been effective, so we are now adding used coffee grounds as repellants. Stay tuned.

Eating Words

By Katherine Hauth

When you know

that vore means eat,

you will know

that insectivores feed

            on grasshoppers, moths, and butterflies,

            mosquitoes, bees, and plain-old flies.

When you know

that carni means meat,

you will know

that carnivores eat

            snakes and lizards, deer and lamb,

            carrion, birds, fish, and ham.

When you know

that herb means plant,

you will know

that herbivores CAN'T

            eat anything that moves on a foot,

            just foods that spring up from a root.

When you know

that omni means all,

you will know

that omnivores call

Everything

            they can suck or chew—

            sometimes even me or you—

food.

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If you don’t know a wildflower's name, aster!

There are, according to Minnesota Wildflowers, some nineteen varieties of asters in Minnesota. About half of those are listed as being found in Chisago County. Most of them are listed as blooming in late summer through mid-autumn and many of them are happier in moist soils. Those of us living at the eastern edge of the Anoka sand plain, right on the border between USDA hardiness zones 4a and 4b, have more places with well-drained, sandy soils than with moisture. We’ve found five aster species that look promising. Since the local roadsides have what appear to be sky-blue asters growing, we’re planning on getting half a dozen or so to plant on the slope or hilltop behind the house. It’s unclear so far if we’re doing a fall 2021 or a spring 2022 planting. We need to try a new approach since the New England asters we’ve planted out front each of the past three years have failed to survive the winter. Wish us luck, please.

Sky-blue Aster (Symphyotrichum oolentangiense)

Photo by J. Harrington

Symphyotrichum oolentangiense (Sky-blue Aster)	part shade, sun; dry sandy or rocky soil; prairies, savannas, open woods, woodland edges
Symphyotrichum ciliolatum (Lindley's Aster)	part shade, sun; open woods, woodland edges, fields, roadsides
Symphyotrichum laeve (Smooth Blue Aster)	sun; dry; fields, prairies, open woods
Symphyotrichum sericeum (Silky Aster)	part shade, sun; dry sandy or rocky soil; prairies, outcrops, open woods, dunes, barrens
Symphyotrichum urophyllum (Arrowleaf Aster)	part shade, sun; dry to average sandy or rocky soil; open woods, woodland edges, savanna, glades, grassy railroads, bluffs

(Please forgive us for the pun in the title, we couldn't resist.)

The Flower Press

By Chelsea Woodard

It was the sort of thing given to little girls:

sturdy and small, round edged, wooden and light.

I stalked the pasture’s rough and waist-high grass

for worthy specimens: the belle amid the mass,

the star shaming the clouds of slighter,

ordinary blooms. The asters curled

inside my sweat-damp palms, as if in sleep. Crushed

in the parlor’s stifling heat, I pried

each shrinking petal back, and turned the screws.

But flowers bear no ugly bruise,

and even now fall from the brittle page, dried

prettily, plucked from memory’s hush.

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Working on balance

Today the breeze is freshening, or the wind is picking up, or some of each. If I were on a trout stream I'd be timing my casts between gusts. Instead, the breeze helped clear the air in the garage after I finished cleaning winter's crud from the side where the Better Half usually parks her Jeep. My side will get some attention tomorrow or the day after or sometime soon. After fifty or sixty years, I'm finally starting to find a balance between "the world will end if this doesn't get done now," and "the longer this gets put off, the more work it will be when it's finally time to tackle it." Sort of like realizing that it's not going to work well to let December's first snow just sit there until it melts come spring.

elderberry bush in the wet spot

Photo by J. Harrington

The wet spot in the back yard has an elderberry bush in bloom this summer. The Better Half claims she  just scattered a handful of seeds a year or two ago and, as if by magic.... Will it produce berries? Will we get to the berries before the birds? (or the bears?) We'll see. Meanwhile, there's no sign of the blazing star plants or the swamp milkweed I planted several years ago. Perhaps some blooms will appear later this summer, perhaps not. Maybe the competition from the grasses and sedges was too much for them. Maybe the aberrant weather this year put a crimp in their style. Then again, our track record in getting plants to grow where we planted them is even worse than the winning records of most Minnesota professional sports teams, in part due to our four-legged neighbors, like deer and pocket gophers, and  their appetites.

swamp milkweed from a past year

Photo by J. Harrington

Planting the Meadow

By Mary Makofske

I leave the formal garden of schedules 

where hours hedge me, clip the errant sprigs 

of thought, and day after day, a boxwood 

topiary hunt chases a green fox 

never caught. No voice calls me to order 

as I enter a dream of meadow, kneel 

to earth and, moving east to west, second 

the motion only of the sun. I plant 

frail seedlings in the unplowed field, trusting 

the wildness hidden in their hearts. Spring light 

sprawls across false indigo and hyssop, 

daisies, flax. Clouds form, dissolve, withhold 

or promise rain. In time, outside of time, 

the unkempt afternoons fill up with flowers.

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(Re)volution?

This morning, for the first time in  about 25 years, we saw a raccoon in the neighborhood. Actually, we saw 5 or 6 young raccoons at the road's edge near the pond North of the property. Sorry, no pictures, but it was a treat to see them. It will be even more so if they stay away from the bird feeders  and the trash and don't entice one of the  dogs into a chase. We know the bear has been tough on bird feeders, bluebird houses, and patio screens but we believe it's primarily been (unseen) raccoons who have, quite literally, "trashed" the yard a few times over the years.

a mature sandbur plant

Photo by J. Harrington

As more proof we've reached the epitome (or nadir) of Summer, sand bur grasses are putting out their "fruits." As soon as SiSi and I finished our post-lunch walk, I turned around and mowed the entire roadside stretch  where  we had  seen them, with the discharge chute directed toward the road. I'll keep watch  and mow again as many times as need be in an effort to minimize successful maturation of the fruit/burrs. SiSi, from time to time, still gets one of last year's burs in her paw.

Did any of last night's storms cause problems for you? I had thought we had dodged the proverbial bullet until I looked again into the back yard. Something, wind gust or lightning strike? [the tree came down against what are the usual Summer wind directions], took down one of the oaks at the edge of the  grassy / feral oregano area on the Northern edge of the back yard. It's too hot and humid today to go inspect it and, with more storms due tonight, there's the possibility of another unpleasant surprise by morning. Tomorrow looks like a good enough time to see what's what and begin to decide what restorative response may be appropriate. Since our  fireplace still isn't functional, turning the blowdown into fire wood hasn't much appeal. Perhaps dragging the branches into the woods to decompose and return their nutrients to the soil? See if I have any friends that want some free "pick your own!" fire wood?

Final observation for the day. I've been getting more and more frustrated about the deteriorating conditions in this country (and elsewhere in our  climate-broken, pandemic-stricken world) and upset that most of the suggestions about  what to do involve voting come November. I've already voted by mail for Minnesota's primary. It doesn't feel like enough. Today I read an essay that was even more disheartening, until I got to the last paragraph of The planetary climate clock, in human time. That heartened me. After reading that paragraph [see below], why not follow the preceding link and read the whole essay. (please do) It's both well written and important. Here's the paragraph:

So. Read Naomi Klein, Arundhati Roy, George Monbiot, Frantz Fanon, Rosa Luxemburg. Learn to become a revolutionary, get some courage and guts and analysis. Join Extinction Rebellion already (caveat: only the groups that put social & racial justice front & centre, obviously), and/or the Sunrise Movement, and/or Fridays for Future, and/or all of them. Let’s do this. GO.

Once the World Was Perfect

Joy Harjo - 1951-

Once the world was perfect, and we were happy in that world.
Then we took it for granted.
Discontent began a small rumble in the earthly mind.
Then Doubt pushed through with its spiked head.
And once Doubt ruptured the web,
All manner of demon thoughts
Jumped through—
We destroyed the world we had been given
For inspiration, for life—
Each stone of jealousy, each stone
Of fear, greed, envy, and hatred, put out the light.
No one was without a stone in his or her hand.
There we were,
Right back where we had started.
We were bumping into each other
In the dark.
And now we had no place to live, since we didn’t know
How to live with each other.
Then one of the stumbling ones took pity on another
And shared a blanket.
A spark of kindness made a light.
The light made an opening in the darkness.
Everyone worked together to make a ladder.
A Wind Clan person climbed out first into the next world,
And then the other clans, the children of those clans, their children,
And their children, all the way through time—

To now, into this morning light to you.

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A tale of two rodents

It is the best of times. It is the worst of times. (with apologies to Dickens) This morning I think I set a record for the earliest date I started pocket gopher trap setting. One of those rodents has been making mounds between the back yard's vernal pond and the edge of the small patch of oaks behind the house. If it weren't for their mounds, and their tendency to eat the roots of freshly planted fruit trees, I might be willing to take more of a live and let live approach. I truly wish we had more gopher snakes (Pituophis catenifer) on the property. I'd rather let them take care of the gopher population.

a pocket gopher predator looking for lunch

Photo by J. Harrington

A different rodent, one that I enjoy having as a neighbor, keeps trying to move back into the neighborhood. When we first moved here, a quarter century or so ago, a beaver, or two, lived in a den in the South bank of the pond up the road. We watched the pair for a year or two and then they were there no more. Whether they became coyote dinner or were trapped for their pelts we'll never know. Then, just last year, the flowage that feeds the pond sprouted a beaver dam.

is this a pond to which beavers are returning?

Photo by J. Harrington

Either the watershed district, or the county, or the township, or one or more of the contiguous property owners, or some combination thereof, decided that the large existing wetland that drains to the flowage shouldn't be allowed to hold more water. First about half the dam was removed. Then, I think someone set traps for the beaver. Then the rest of the dam was removed.

This Spring, we've noticed what we think are beavers back in the pond where we first saw some, across the road from where the dam was removed last year. We have no intention of telling anyone that they're back or where they are. Beavers have yet to eat any of our roots, bulbs, plants etc. I'd rather have them as neighbors than pocket gophers. At least we get to watch beavers every once in awhile. It's very rare that we every see a pocket gopher push dirt our of a tunnel.

Elegy for a Gopher

Ellen Bass

The pads of your paws scrabble
as I drag you from the tunnel
clamped to the shiny green trap,
a baby, hell-bent on saving
your twist of life, spun
from the same cells as I am, the common
intelligence of fins, wings, limbs.
The first time you see the sun
you’re splayed on your back, the shadow
of my blade above you.
Your ears, tiny colorless petals,
and at the tips of your articulated fingers,
ten frantic claws. When I strike,
your mouth opens stunningly
wide, a scream so silent
all sound is sucked down the naked
whirlpool of your throat. I hate
that I can salvage nothing.
I can’t skin and eat you, stuff or display
your fur on the mantel.
I won’t carve a needle
from your bone. Bit of breath
I bury under a stone.

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Time for sowing lavender bee balm

About this time in August, several years ago we took the photo below at the entrance to Wild River State Park. The lavender blooms are, we believe, wild bergamot [bee balm], a native wildflower that should be right at home in our little patch near the Eastern edge of the Anoka Sand Plain. It's attractive to pollinators so, with luck, the seed balls, a present from the Better Half, we placed this morning will germinate and add some late Summer color to the fields behind the house. (If you're wondering, we have no idea what created the streak of yellow flowers in the picture.)

We'll place additional seed balls after we've semi-leveled the pocket gopher mounds that have popped up during the past several weeks. Since the package the balls came in notes that it takes two years (or more?) for the plants to bloom, we'll have to try {Yoda: Do or do not! There is no try.} to take better care of ourselves if we hope to see the results of our labors.

Monarda at entrance to Wild River State Park

Photo by J. Harrington

We're discovering that figuring out what should get planted where, and how, is more of a challenge than extracting invasive plants such as buckthorn or noxious plants like sandburs. None of the wild flowers we've planted previously on the sand slope behind the house has lasted, bluestem grasses  excepted. (Feral oregano, that's taking over the yard, comes close to qualifying as an invasive species.) Perhaps we'll have better results with Monarda. It was happily growing near an old barn on a farm in nearby Amador one of the last times we visited.

Monarda growing near old barn in Amador

Photo by J. Harrington

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.

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Sandhills on the Sand Plain

Parts of yesterday and today have been devoted to Spring clean-up chores. We may need to research all the wonderful things tree leaves do for us, such as providing Summer shade and exhaling oxygen, and then compost or mulch, because we're annoyed at the scattered mess they make of lots of places where we don't want or need mulch or compost in the making.

The leaves along the drive are torn up in a number of places. We still haven't figured out if that's being done by deer, or squirrels, or both. It looks like someone's been trying to feed on what's left of last Autumn's chrysanthemums, and, maybe, pine cones and / or acorns. Although last year the acorn crop around here was poor.

sandhill cranes in flight

Photo by J. Harrington

Anyhow, one of the treats of putzing about outside while not running a noisy machine is that we've been able to hear the trumpeting calls of sandhill cranes. One day soon we need to see if we can further check the etymology of the word crane. We can't determine if it originated because humans craned their necks looking skyward for the creature making those sounds, or was it the other way around, cranes long necks became the source of humans craning their necks to gawk. It appears that the verb derives from the noun, but we're not sure.

sandhill cranes in Carlos Avery WMA marsh

Photo by J. Harrington

When we first moved into our current home, sandhill crane sightings were much rarer than they have been the past several years. The population has increased over the past 50 years or so and the east-central area of Minnesota is noted for its population of these magnificent birds. Hearing their calls, seeing them in flight, or feeding in the nearby marshes and fields is a worthwhile compensation for tolerating our North Country Winters while they enjoy warmer climes to which they've migrated.

The Sandhills 

The language of cranes

we once were told

is the wind. The wind

is their method,

their current, the translated story

of life they write across the sky.

Millions of years

they have blown here

on ancestral longing,

their wings of wide arrival,

necks long, legs stretched out

above strands of earth

where they arrive

with the shine of water,

stories, interminable

language of exchanges

descended from the sky

and then they stand,

earth made only of crane

from bank to bank of the river

as far as you can see

the ancient story made new.

        - Linda Hogan

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It's pasqueflower time #phenology

The Jewish people began celebration of Passover at sundown yesterday. Today, Christians consider Holy Saturday and tomorrow, they celebrate Easter Sunday. During our childhood, which occurred back in the last millennium, new clothes at and for Easter and displaying Easter lilies in the house were traditions, along with the Easter Bunny, Easter eggs, and Easter baskets. These days, in our dotage, we've still got Easter eggs and baskets, but it's been years since we got new clothes specifically for Easter, and, not quite as far back, pasque flowers replaced Easter lilies as our celebratory blossom.

According to the internet's Wikipedia, the pasque flower's name is:

Derived from the Hebrew word for Passover, "pasakh", the common name pasque flower, refers to the Easter flowering period[1]. Common names include pasque flower (or pasqueflower), wind flower, prairie crocus, Easter flower, and meadow anemone.

pasque flower in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

The flower in the picture grew on a sandy slope behind the house for the past few years. We planted it after spending lots of time several Springs in a row unsuccessfully searching places reported to have wild pasque flowers growing. We finally decided it was time for the mountain to come to Mohammed, so to speak. This year there's been no sign yet of the flower's blooming, although the day lilies are just starting to emerge from the ground. It has been a later start than usual for Spring around here, even for the North Country. We won't give up hope for another week or two, but maybe it's time to go get another couple of pots of pasques just in case. This is definitely a case where we can, with a clear conscience, argue more is better.

Cut Lilies 

Noah Warren

More than a hundred dollars of them.

It was pure folly. I had to find more glass things to stuff them        
       in.

Now a white and purple cloud is breathing in each corner

of the room I love. Now a mass of flowers spills down my                
      dining table—

each fresh-faced, extending its delicately veined leaves

into the crush. Didn’t I watch

children shuffle strictly in line, cradle

candles that dribbled hot white on their fingers,

chanting Latin—just to fashion Sevilla’s Easter? Wasn’t I sad?        
      Didn’t I use to

go mucking through streambeds with the skunk cabbage raising

bursting violet spears?  —Look, the afternoon dies

as night begins in the heart of the lilies and smokes up

their fluted throats until it fills the room

and my lights have to be not switched on.

And in close darkness the aroma grows so sweet,

so strong, that it could slice me open. It does.

I know I’m not the only one whose life is a conditional clause

hanging from something to do with spring and one tall room        
      and the tremble of my phone.

I’m not the only one that love makes feel like a dozen

flapping bedsheets being ripped to prayer flags by the wind.

When I stand in full sun I feel I have been falling headfirst for        
      decades.

God, I am so transparent.

So light. 

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Exploring the nature of a land ethic

Today is a packing and travel day. We're headed for country near Aldo Leopold's "The Shack." Returning Sunday.

"The Shack," a converted chicken coop

Photo by J. Harrington

We've noticed similarities between Leopold's country around The Shack and our own little piece of sand plain. They each bear a very slight resemblance to the scrub pine sand dune country of Cape Cod, one of our favorite parts of Massachusetts, where we grew up. That raises some themes we hope to explore here over the next several months. Meanwhile, if you haven't yet read Leopold's Land Ethic, and you hope to understand some of the basic problems our world is facing, you might want to start here.

The Shack in its natural environment

Photo by J. Harrington

Nature

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

As a fond mother, when the day is o'er, 

   Leads by the hand her little child to bed, 

   Half willing, half reluctant to be led, 

   And leave his broken playthings on the floor, 

Still gazing at them through the open door, 

   Nor wholly reassured and comforted 

   By promises of others in their stead, 

   Which, though more splendid, may not please him more; 

So Nature deals with us, and takes away 

   Our playthings one by one, and by the hand 

   Leads us to rest so gently, that we go 

Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, 

   Being too full of sleep to understand 

   How far the unknown transcends the what we know. 

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It's Lammas week #phenology

Wednesday is August 1. That's two days from today. In the Celtic culture, August 1 is the festival of "Lughnasad, or Lammas, the celebration of the cutting of the first crop." We've mentioned this in prior postings without mentioning that it seemed early to those of us who are most familiar with the row crops of soy beans and corn that are usually harvested closer to Samhain (Halloween). Then, today, as we were driving past one of the few small grains fields around here, what did we see but a combine, starting to harvest the field. It's nice to feel in touch with a larger, ancient, cycle of life.

according to some, but not all, field guides,
this is spotted horsemint (Monarda punctata)

Photo by J. Harrington

We're experiencing one of those occasional "will the real authority please reveal themselves?" sequences on the identification of spotted horsemint (Monarda punctata). A search on the (not USDA) Wildflowers of the United States yields "No Results for the search specified" whether we search on the scientific or common name. Prairie Plants of the University of Wisconsin-Madison, which has become "old reliable," lists it as "dotted horsemint" and spotted bee balm. What's Doin the Blooming'? (wildflowers of the Upper Great Lakes) lists only Monarda fistulosa, wild bergamot. Northland Wildflowers includes mint and wild bergamot, but neither spotted nor dotted horsemint nor Monarda punctata. Stan Tekiela's Wildflowers of Minnesota includes wild bergamot but not mint (it also fails to have an index of scientific names). Wildflowers and Weeds does include dotted mint.
Last, and perhaps most troublesome, The Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Wildflowers only includes M. punctata as an aside under plains bee balm (M. pectinata). If we were relying on the "wrong" one or two (or three) of these guides, there's no way we would have identified a native plant that occupies several swaths of our property. That's frustrating.

History

Linda Hogan

This is the word that is always bleeding.
You didn’t think this
until your country changes and when it thunders
you search your own body
for a missing hand or leg.
In one country, there are no bodies shown,
lies are told
and the keep hidden the weeping children on dusty streets.

But I do remember once
a woman and a child in beautiful blue clothing
walking over a dune, spreading a green cloth,
drinking nectar with mint and laughing
beneath a sky of clouds from the river
near the true garden of Eden.
Now another country is breaking
this holy vessel
where stone has old stories
and the fire creates clarity in the eyes of a child
who will turn it to hate one day.

We are so used to it now,
this country where we do not love enough,
that country where they do not love enough,
and that.

We do not need a god by any name
nor do we need to fall to our knees or cover ourselves,
enter a church or a river,
only do we need to remember what we do
to one another, it is so fierce
what any of our fathers may do to a child
what any of our brothers or sisters do to nonbelievers,
how we try to discover who is guilty
by becoming guilty,
because history has continued
to open the veins of the world
more and more
always in its search
for something gold.

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Musing a November muse

This morning we took a break from day-to-day stuff and a couple of projects we're working on and kept a promise we made to ourself last week. We spent a few moments reading Aldo Leopold's A Sand County Almanac chapter on November. [see p.10-11]

a sole survivor

Photo by J. Harrington

Although Wahoo is native to our current home county, our East coast, salt water fishing background keeps us thinking that it's a fish, not a bush. We're completely unsure whether to laugh or cry at Leopold's report that "The rabbit, despite his omnivorous appetite, is an epicure in some respects. He always prefers a hand-planted pine, maple, apple, or wahoo to a wild one." We experience this same behavior with rabbits, deer and pocket gophers. That explains why, over the two dozen or so fruit trees we've planted in our little patch of Anoka sand plain, only one pear tree is still standing. Maybe we'll try something different next Spring.

a troublemaker (for trees and bushes)

Photo by J. Harrington

Two of our favorite birds are mentioned prominently in November, the goose and the chickadee. The latter lives in our own little wood lot and takes advantage of our sunflower seeds. The former visits on occasion and lives during breeding season in the marshes a mile or so West of our property. Their Spring honks are one on the years most heart-warming sounds we know of.

a favorite, Winter or Summer

Photo by J. Harrington

Although there are many shortcomings in the world today, there are also many sources of hope and joy. Not the least of these are children. Today is World Children's Day Please help celebrate it for your sake as well as theirs.

                     Names of Children

By Rachel Sherwood

In early morning when the sun

is vague and birds are furious

names of children float

like smoke through the empty room:

Ariadne, dark as seal skin

Ian, fair-skinned baby

Marina   Terrence   Alex   John

after dinner   pulled back from

talk of war and morals

their names glow like light

around a candle —

Jack, my rampant youngest son

Celia, my daughter who sings

but no children call from other rooms

no soft faces turn to kiss

each guest goodnight

or whisper that stars are a giant's eyes

there is only the slow still wait

through the opaque night

for morning and more names.

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Bluebirds of Happiness? #phenology

A bluebird pair has been coming and going from the nest box for the past several days. Curiosity got the better of me and I snuck up and took a very quick peek inside while the adults were elsewhere. It looks like three recently hatched bluebird chicks, nestlings(?) are hunkered down, waiting for some food. They weren't sitting up and making noises as often seen with young birds. I hope that's just because they're barely out of their shells. We'll see how things look in a few more days, after I've had a chance to read up on monitoring bluebird nest boxes. (The hatched chicks in the linked monitoring photo look similar to, but more robust than, the ones I saw a bit ago.)

Eastern bluebird male

Photo by J. Harrington

Eastern bluebirds are one of the species I've decided to observe for Nature's Notebook and the Minnesota Phenology Network. Others will be ruby-throated hummingbirds and, probably, tamaracks, once I decide on which nearby location to monitor. That's three of the seven species MPN considers superstars.

ruby-throated hummingbird male

Photo by J. Harrington

A few more butterflies have appeared within the past few days. An eastern comma and a little wood-satyr have each flittered about the driveway and the front garden. (The photo quality is poor enough that I'm not going to post either.)

I've been noticing, based on my own reactions, that learning the names of local flora and fauna is unsatisfactory, if that's all I learn. The phenology observations will, I hope, provide a basis for learning more about the species I report and also provide some badly needed structure for my observations and interests. There's so much I don't know and want to know.

The Call of the Wild

by Alexander L. Posey

I'm tired of the gloom

In a four-walled room;

Heart-weary, I sigh

For the open sky,

And the solitude

Of the greening wood;

Where the bluebirds call,

And the sunbeams fall,

And the daisies lure

The soul to be pure.

I'm tired of the life

In the ways of strife;

Heart-weary, I long

For the river's song,

And the murmur of rills

In the breezy hills;

Where the pipe of Pan —

The hairy half-man —

The bright silence breaks

By the sleeping lakes.

I'm tired of the gloom

In a four-walled room;

Heart-weary, I sigh

For the open sky,

And the solitude

Of the greening wood;

Where the bluebirds call,

And the sunbeams fall,

And the daisies lure

The soul to be pure.

I'm tired of the life

In the ways of strife;

Heart-weary, I long

For the river's song,

And the murmur of rills

In the breezy hills;

Where the pipe of Pan —

The hairy half-man —

The bright silence breaks

By the sleeping lakes.

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Eve of the Ides report #phenology

Happy Pi Day! It's also the Eve of the Ides of March, a day when, once again, South-facing, sunny slopes are mostly snow free, even though the temperature's only in the mid-twenties. The local pond was partly open water exactly two years ago, and is entirely covered with ice and snow today. Oak and maple buds are swelling slowly, but I've not yet noticed any signs of bud burst. I suspect Spring transition activity will resume, and maybe pick up its pace, with the return of warmer weather, forecast for late this week into the weekend.

open water, March 14, 2014

Photo by J. Harrington

From time to time you may have read in these postings fusses and fumes, rants and raves, about the #*@%! pocket gophers and the damage they've done by eating the roots of most of the fruit trees we've planted over the years. As the recent snow fall was just beginning, it highlighted the gopher mounds left as they excavate their underground tunnels. Lord, do I wish there were more bullsnakes living around here. Maybe this year, as they come out of hibernation (brumation) a few more will decide to stick around and help thin out the pocket gopher population here.

a fieldful of pocket gopher mounds

Photo by J. Harrington

As a fallback, come warmer weather and thawed ground, I'll probably once again drive myself to frustration with unsuccessful attempts to trap the critters making all those dots. I've tried it in the past and rarely am I able to set the traps in an active tunnel. Hence the wish for more reptilian predators of pocket gophers. I've read enough Zen over the years to try to take a live and let live approach. Then a mouse will make a nest in the pocket of one of my favorite cardigans, and out come the mouse traps. Gopher mounds make cutting grass difficult to impossible (the phrase mowing lawn doesn't really fit much of our property). The mounds can be raked or harrowed level, but that's more reasonably accomplished if there are many fewer mounds, which requires fewer gophers.

Carrying The Snake To The Garden

by Mary Oliver

In the cellar
was the smallest snake
I have ever seen.
It coiled itself
in a corner
and watched me
with eyes
like two little stars
set into coal,
and a tail
that quivered.
One step
of my foot
and it fled
like a running shoelace,
but a scoop of the wrist
and I had it
in my hand.
I was sorry
for the fear,
so I hurried
upstairs and out the kitchen door
to the warm grass
and the sunlight
and the garden.
It turned and turned
in my hand
but when I put it down
it didn't move.
I thought
it was going to flow
up my leg
and into my pocket.
I thought, for a moment,
as it lifted it's face,
it was going to sing.

And then it was gone.

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