A different kind of Christmas bird

The Daughter Person and Son-In-Law just stopped by, looking for some bits and pieces for a Christmas project they're working on. Christmas is family time in more ways than one. The lights are on on the tree and Sigurd, the canoeing Christmas voyageur has a string of lights brightening his canoe. We're doing well for happy holiday vibes as long as we don't look outside at yet another gray, dreary, sky or at the thermometer, which barely made it into double digits this afternoon. It would seem even more Christmasy if a white pine had the fragrance of a balsam or a Fraser fir. Maybe a scented candle will be brought by a ghost of Christmas future.

our home grown tree with lights, no ornaments yet

Photo by J. Harrington

Those who track such things tell us that Minnesota is getting warmer and wetter. They even have a neat graph showing how our Winters actually are warming.

Most of Minnesota’s observed warming has been when it’s coolest. Since 1970, winter has warmed 13 times faster than summer, and nights have warmed 55% faster than days. The frequencies of -35F readings in northern Minnesota and -25F readings in the south have fallen by up to 90%. We don’t get as cold as we once did, and even though Minnesota always will see periodic severe cold spells, the long-term decline in cold extremes is all but guaranteed to continue.

a Christmas cardinal, Mr.  Red Bird

Photo by J. Harrington

I suspect the fact that we're no longer as young as we used to be, and our joints aren't as spry as they once were, may have a lot to do with our inability to appreciate the good points of our warming trend. Or, gaining from -25℉ to -20℉ or even -15℉ might be akin to what our lawyer friends refer to as a distinction without a difference. Fortunately, there are occasional surprises that brighten the prospects, even on yet another dreary day. A male Cardinal, perched on an oak branch, or the sunflower seed feeder, is enough to bring a piece of the Christmas spirit to the neighborhood, regardless of whether the neighbors have put up lights. We got lucky with our camera the other day and captured the shot above.

Red Bird

by Mary Oliver

Red bird came all winter

Firing up the landscape

As nothing else could.

Of course I love the sparrows,

Those dun-colored darlings,

So hungry and so many.

I am a God-fearing feeder of birds,

I know he has many children,

Not all of them bold in spirit.

Still, for whatever reason-

Perhaps because the winter is so long

And the sky so black-blue,

Or perhaps because the heart narrows

As often as it opens-

I am grateful

That red bird comes all winter

Firing up the landscape

As nothing else can do.

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Making some senses of Summer

The monarch butterfly caterpillars on our front yard milkweed have disappeared. Two likely options are that predators got one or both, or, that each of them is now healthy somewhere in a chrysalis. Since we've not seen any chrysalis, nor are we sure of where to look for them, we'll just continue to keep our eyes open and hope for the best.

monarch caterpillar on milkweed

Photo by J. Harrington

We're discovering more and more about how much we've never noticed in the world about us because, in large part, we rarely look carefully. A quick glance to be sure there's no bear lurking nearby in the woods, no cars or trucks on the road, and we're no about to walk into a tree or fall into a hole or trip on something underfoot is our normal level of observation. This seems to be in major contrast to the intensity with which our dogs scent the areas where they're walking us, although the dogs appear even less observant about what they see than we are. Then again, we rarely rely on our nose to check on who's about in the neighborhood.

turkey hens with poults

Photo by J. Harrington

Thinking about who's in the neighborhood these days, we're watching to see our first glimpse this year of hen turkeys with poults. The Better Half reported a sighting the other day but we've had no such luck yet. Maybe because few turkeys try to hide under milkweed plants, where we've been looking a lot recently?

Caterpillar

By Paul Hostovsky

After Ian Sanborn’s ASL poem of the same title

A man with eyes as blank

as the indifference of nature

is staring straight ahead

as the whole thing unfolds.

He has a black beard, black

shirt, black woolen cap — 

he could be a thief — you better

keep your eyes on his hands

which have begun clearing

a clearing. Here he plants

a seed as small as his own

fingernail, and shazam! it sprouts

roots, shoots, stems, branches — 

a whole tree shouldering up,

tossing and swaying in the air

between the sun’s magic hands

and the man’s indifferent eyes.

Next thing you know, an orphan

index finger is worming its way

across the stage that wasn’t

a stage until your eyeing it

made it so. It inches over

to the tree like a lost knuckle

finding its way home, its feelers

testing, feeling, sniffing, finding

purchase, finding a toe-hold,

the tiny, spiny, hairy, leg-like

appendages beginning to wiggle,

to climb, to shinny up the tree,

the elbow, the sheer escarpment,

pausing to send out a line,

a lasso, a long rope as fine

as the filament of a spider

launched from its abdomen

and hooking the thumb

of the lowest branch. A rope for

rappelling, for jumping off

this cliff, taking this dive,

twisting as it untwists, enfolding

as it unfolds, holding on for

dear life as it spins itself into

silk, those indifferent eyes

almost imperceptibly squinting

in sympathy with this closing

up, this cloaking, this cloistering,

this hanging upside down with

a pulse inside. A fluttering

pulse. A pulse like the flutter

of eyelids. Like the flutter

of wings. A heartbeat growing

stronger, stronger, breaking

out, breaking free, the wings

opening, the eyes opening as if

all this time they were closed — 

the blank eyes opening to the

wings, taking them in, incredulous,

in love with them — and the black

and white has grown iridescent;

the orphaned knuckle has found

the hands; the hands have found

their wings, and we are all

utterly blown away.

Ian Sanborn's ASL poem may be viewed here.

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Leavening our cold weather

Amidst the trials and tribulations transitioning from one year to the next, we pulled off a mitigated success. Our first loaf of Artisan Sourdough, using absolutely no yeast, turned out edible, and with decent crumb. The mitigated part of our success arises (see what we did there?) from the fact that we didn't follow directions carefully enough. The directions called for bread flour. We used all purpose flour. Our dough did not shape up, at least before it was about two-thirds baked. We also used too large a bowl for the overnight rise, making it difficult to see how much, if at all, the dough had risen.

first loaf of artisan sourdough

Photo by J. Harrington

But, for the first time ever, we baked sourdough without yeast! In the process, we also discovered a few other, a-hum, anomalies in baking artisan bread. The Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day formula calls for baking for about 30 minutes at 450℉. Artisan Sourdough calls for a total of an hour at 450℉. When we used the Five Minutes baking time with our gluten-free flour last week, the bread came out mostly unbaked with a nice golden crust.

So, one of our bottom lines are that we're having fun playing with following directions and learning in the process. Next time we bake some gluten-free artisan bread, we'll use the artisan sourdough technique and timing. We're also learning to pay more attention to adjustments that need to be made with flour substitutions. As some of the creative types we read from time to time declaim, if we never make mistakes, we're unlikely to learn anything new. Plus, as we were reviewing the Five Minutes contents, we rediscovered a Vermont cedar bread recipe we've been meaning to try. It had sort of fallen off of our radar screen. We'll get to it next week, since the forecast "January thaw" isn't likely to come close to putting a dent in our baking program. Winter baking warms the house as it fills the house with wonderful smells. That's almost enough to make us be more tolerant of temperatures well below zero. Almost!

       Aubade with Bread for the Sparrows

By Oliver de la Paz

The snow voids the distance of the road

and the first breath comes from the early morning

ghosts. The sparrows with their hard eyes

glisten in the difficult light. They preen

their feathers and chirp. It’s as though they were one

voice talking to God.

                                    Mornings are a sustained hymn

without the precision of faith. You’ve turned the bag

filled with molding bread inside out and watch

the old crusts fall to the ice. What’s left

but to watch the daylight halved by the glistening ground?

What’s left but an empty bag and the dust of bread

ravaged by songsters?

                                       There are ruins we witness

within the moment of the world’s first awakening

and the birds love you within that moment. They want

to eat the air and the stars they’ve hungered for, little razors.

Little urgent bells, the birds steal from each other’s mouths

which makes you hurt. Don’t ask for more bread.

The world is in haste to waken. Don’t ask for a name

you can surrender, for there are more ghosts to placate.

Don’t hurt for the sparrows, for they love you like a road.

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Bluebird weather? #phenology

Early this morning, the weather was Spring-soft: damp, mildly foggy, mild temperatures and no wind to speak of (usually goes with fog). It brought a promise of good things to come. But, after all, this is Minnesota where, even in times of global warming, an early April morning can look like this.

Minnesota Spring (sometimes)

Photo by J. Harrington

During the past few days, I've come down with a severe case of bluebird envy. Reports on Twitter from Belwin Conservancy are that male bluebirds arrived about three weeks ago and females within the past day or so. We're about 30 miles or so North of Belwin's location and we've had bluebirds nesting in our box about every year since we put it up. So far this year, nada! The good folks at eBird have a cool Occurrence Map that intimates "my" bluebirds should be here momentarily. I suppose, if I anticipated a major snow storm in the near future, I might be hesitant to prematurely head North myself. I don't seem to have any photos of backyard bluebirds in residence before early May, so, as usual, I'm probably being impatient.

early May, bluebird weather

Photo by J. Harrington

Have you ever read Aldo Leopold's wonderful A Sand County Almanac? Do you remember the section in July titled Great Possessions? In it, Leopold recounts listening to the sequence of bird songs, starting at 3:35 am with a field sparrow and continuing through sunrise with a growing mixed chorus. [If you've never read Sand County, you really should. If you've never been out at false dawn to listen to the world awaken, you should add that to your bucket list and do it sooner than later.]

I was reminded of Great Possessions while reading the final poem in Alice Oswald's Falling Awake. TITHONUS, 46 MINUTES IN THE LIFE OF THE DAWN, translates a Greek myth and tragedy into poetically human terms and time. If you enjoy poetry that remarkably captures a spirit of place and time, see if you can find some of Oswald's pieces. I think you'll really enjoy them. I have.

A Short Story of Falling

By Alice Oswald

It is the story of the falling rain

to turn into a leaf and fall again

it is the secret of a summer shower

to steal the light and hide it in a flower

and every flower a tiny tributary

that from the ground flows green and momentary

is one of water's wishes and this tale

hangs in a seed-head smaller than my thumbnail

if only I a passerby could pass

as clear as water through a plume of grass

to find the sunlight hidden at the tip

turning to seed a kind of lifting rain drip

then I might know like water how to balance

the weight of hope against the light of patience

water which is so raw so earthy-strong

and lurks in cast-iron tanks and leaks along

drawn under gravity towards my tongue

to cool and fill the pipe-work of this song

which is the story of the falling rain

that rises to the light and falls again

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Apples of my eye #phenology

Apple season isn't simply a time for picking apples, as we all know. It's also time for pressing apples and drinking apple cider; time for dipping and eating caramel coated apples; around Halloween, time for bobbing for apples. Do people/kids still do that? (Personally, I haven't for half a century or so.) Time for baking apple pies and for baked apples with brown sugar. It wouldn't surprise me to learn I'm actually part bear, the way I like to load up on calories during apple season so I can read during much of the Winter while hibernating in my "den" in the kitchen or near the pantry. Although before we get to that time of year, the traditionalist New Englander in me, raised on Cortland and McIntosh apples, is grateful to the University of Minnesota Extension for the work they've done creating luscious new cold tolerant apple varieties.

Minnesota apples for Autumn

Photo by J. Harrington

Jim Gilbert, one of Minnesota's renowned naturalists, tells us that juncos may begin to arrive next week. Since the Better Half and I are headed to our North Country for a few days next week, we may cross paths with some as they head South while we do the opposite. A few years ago, and yet later in the season, we had a trip up the Arrowhead brightened as we encountered snow buntings along the North Shore of Lake Superior. That was a surprise, as is the prospect of seeing juncos, which I always consider a Winter bird, near the beginning of "apple season." In fact, with the weather pattern we've had this year, I don't really expect to see juncos much before Halloween, if then.

snow bunting without snow

Photo by J. Harrington

So, here are some of the ways Autumn in the North Country becomes a feast for the senses:

• The color change of the leaves pleases our eyes.

• Apples and pumpkins and the spices and caramel and all that go with them treat our taste buds.

• Whistling wings of waterfowl and whispers of wind-driven snow flakes alert our hearing to the constant shifting of this too short season.

• Flannel shirts and warm socks and heavier blankets at night treat our sense of touch.

• We've lost the smell of burning leaves but still have the fecund aroma of dank, dark duff if we slow down enough during our leaf-peeping. If that's missed, we hope there's at least the scent of roasting turkey at Thanksgiving. Speaking of which, there's about two months between now and Thanksgiving.

To improve your sense of self worth (sort of like a sixth sense), you could spend some time each of the next eight weeks tallying up what you have to be thankful for and some additional time sharing whatever wealth you have with those who have less. Done properly, the Autumn season can out-do the Christmas season with reasons to be joyous and deck the halls, don'cha think?

Apples

Grace Schulman

Rain hazes a street cart’s green umbrella
but not its apples, heaped in paper cartons,
dry under cling film. The apple man,

who shirrs his mouth as though eating tart fruit,
exhibits four like racehorses at auction:
Blacktwig, Holland, Crimson King, Salome.

I tried one and its cold grain jolted memory:
a hill where meager apples fell so bruised
that locals wondered why we scooped them up,

my friend and I, in matching navy blazers.
One bite and I heard her laughter toll,
free as school’s out, her face flushed in late sun.

I asked the apple merchant for another,
jaunty as Cezanne’s still-life reds and yellows,
having more life than stillness, telling us,

uncut, unpeeled, they are not for the feast
but for themselves, and building strength to fly
at any moment, leap from a skewed bowl,

whirl in the air, and roll off a tilted table.
Fruit-stand vendor, master of Northern Spies,
let a loose apple teach me how to spin

at random, burn in light and rave in shadows.
Bring me a Winesap like the one Eve tasted,
savored and shared, and asked for more.

No fool, she knew that beauty strikes just once,
hard, never in comfort. For that bitter fruit,
tasting of earth and song, I’d risk exile.

The air is bland here. I would forfeit mist
for hail, put on a robe of dandelions,
and run out, broken, to weep and curse — for joy.

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It's not easy being green

In case you were looking, we left out yesterday's shades of green. They didn't seem to go well with the rest of the posting. Today we'll skip any rants, or at least keep them to a minimum, and get straight to today's shades of green:

• Cobalt Green:        Definition     Images
• Copper Green:       Definition     Images
• Dingler's Green:     Definition     Images

We're not quite halfway through the list, but I think I'm learning something. When I look at the variety of greens that often show up under a search for a single color, I start to wonder if my original idea makes sense: to learn the names of shades of green so I can better describe Spring's leaf out and development. As you probably know, on the Internet and in computers, colors are mostly defined by hexadecimal codes. I just can't find myself relating to 2e4242 nearly as well as I do British Racing Green (not that I'm suggesting 2e4242 is BRG, mind you). There's also the fact that not everyone perceives colors the same way (remember the gold-white : blue-black dress from sometime last month?) It's almost enough to make me sympathetic (or at least pathetic) about former President Clinton's "It depends on what the meaning of the word 'is' is...."

I also these days encounter setbacks when I notice the stunning colors that show up before sunrise and try to decide if they're fuscia, rose, pink or purple, fading into saffron as the sun climbs above the horizon. We truly live in a world of color and wonder, but, sometimes, I wonder how we ever manage to communicate. One way is with pictures. Here's what our currently snow-free back yard looked like one year ago. The dominant color was white, tinged with gray shadows. Today it's shades of brown and tan.

what a difference a year makes. no snow cover in 2015

Photo by J. Harrington

My sister, who lives in the Boston area, recently expressed concern that, after all they'd been through this Winter, they still needed 2" more snow to set the all time record. I shared with her this morning the piece in Writer's Almanac about today being the anniversary of the great blizzard of 1888 that dropped 50" of snow along the eastern seaboard (scroll below the Almanac poem). I  much prefer continuing to sort out what the meaning of the word green is.

Orange Berries Dark Green Leaves

By John Taggart 

Darkened not completely dark let us walk in the darkened field

trees in the field outlined against that which is less dark

under the trees are bushes with orange berries dark green leaves

not poetry’s mixing of yellow light blue sky darker than that

darkness of the leaves a modulation of the accumulated darkness

orange of the berries another modulation spreading out toward us

it is like the reverberation of a bell rung three times

like the call of a voice the call of a voice that is not there.

We will not look up how they got their name in a book of names

we will not trace the name’s root conjecture its first murmuring

the root of the berries their leaves is succoured by darkness

darkness like a large block of stone hauled on a wooden sled

like stone formed and reformed by a dark sea rolling in turmoil.

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Almost there

Hi! Thanks for checking in. If you're wondering why the blog looks different, please check with Blogger. I haven't intentionally changed anything. Much as I've always wanted to "fly like an eagle," these days I'd settle for being able to caw like a crow. Sharp noises and rapid movements hurt my head. I know, those of us who have survived traumatic surgery should be more grateful. I'm sure I will be as the experience of random pain and twinges diminishes. For now though, I again want to let Sue and the crew at Subtext know how much I appreciate their efforts in keeping alive our list of twenty five books every Minnesotan should read. Yesterday I updated the list [below]. It now has links (to local independent stores as much as I could). Here it is [although we're still not up to 25]:

Paul Gruchow:	Journal of a Prairie Year
Robert Bly:	Silence in the Snowy Fields
Howard Mohr:	How to Talk Minnesotan: A Visitor’s Guide
Craig Blacklock:	Lake Superior Images
Paul Gruchow and Jim Brandenberg:	Minnesota: Images of Home
Mary Lethert Wingerd:	North Country: The Making of Minnesota
John Tester:	Minnesota’s Natural Heritage: An Ecological Perspective
Jim Gilbert:	Minnesota’s Outdoor Wonders
Sigurd F. Olson	Wilderness Days
Bill Holm:	The Music of Failure
Laura Ingalls Wilder	Little House on the Prairie [series]
Lorna Landvik	Angry Housewives Eating Bon Bons
Helen Hoover	The Gift of the Deer; Place in the Woods
Grace Lee Nute	The Voyageurs Highway
Justine Kerfoot	Woman of the Boundary Waters
Lucy L. Morris	Old Rail Fence Corners: Frontier Tales Told by Minnesota Pioneers
Sarah Stonich	Vacationland; These Granite Islands
Louise Eridrich	The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse
Kent Nerburn	Neither Wolf nor Dog
Claudia Poser	Dreaming in German
Donna Tabbert Long	Tastes of Minnesota
Danielle Sosin	The Long-Shining Waters

I'd also like to thank readers of this blog for their patience with the irregularity of recent postings. I can but suggest how much I wish I were in shape to do better. I'm planning on getting back to rants, raves and reflections served here daily as soon s I can. In the interim, I'll do what I can and continue to appreciate your patience. Both will be needed for the near future. Mother Nature seems to be determined to teach me that neither growing a plant nor recovering from an injury can rightly be hurried. I think the student is ready.

Dog days?

Welcome. Please join me as we experience the present, or rapidly approaching, dog days of Summer. As we avoid perspiration by turning the fan up and the air conditioning up and the thermostat down, we might want to consider at least one basic alternative: slowing down. Can you tell me what a sunrise smells like? Have you listened to the sound of s Summer zephyr playing the leaves of a field of soybeans? Have you looked out your window and seen "the sun pour in like butterscotch and stick to all [your] senses?" Can you describe the mist rising over the local pond on a damp and humid morning? Aren't these the days you dreamed about last January and February as the cold and snow encapsulated your life like a mausoleum? How good, or great, or new does something have to be for you to really appreciate it? What's sufficient? How much is enough? Is anything short of perfection a failure, to be thrown on the trash heap? Is you iPhone the latest? Are your clothes the hippest, most fashionable? Do you actually enjoy a cup of coffee or tea in the morning or do you just go through the motions from long established habit? Is walking the dog a chore or a pleasure? I've heard there's a saying among small plane pilots that "any landing you can walk away from is a good one." Would you be happier and you life more satisfying if you believed that any day you've lived through is a good one? By the way, have you read any poetry recently? Who's your favorite poet? Who have you helped in the last twenty-four hours? Who have you thanked? Summers are short enough we might want to seriously consider enjoying every bit of them, whether they meet our standards of perfect Summer day, or not. Thanks for listening. Come again when you can. Rants, raves and reflections served here daily.

Beauty is as beauty does?

© harrington

Hi! Doesn't that butter-fly weed just look like Summer? It's also known as orange milkweed. In addition to making lots of butterflies happy, it had lots of medicinal uses for Native Americans. I had no idea. Did you? How many other things do we take for granted when we should be in awe of their potential uses beauty? How easy it is to slip into the mode of judging on utilitarian values alone. How easy to think utility pertains only to us. Do butterflies see aesthetic beauty in orange milkweed or do they recognize it primarily as a source of nectar? Does a butterfly salivate at a field of orange milkweed the way I do when I smell a Juicy Lucy and onion rings? I discovered over the weekend that we have an Audubon field guide to North American butterflies but that it doesn't include moths. (I know, moths and butterflies aren't the same.) The latest issue of Big River magazine has photos of moths and then I noticed a very large moth on the kitchen window screen on Saturday. That combination got me started looking through our field guide library for moth references. I soon discovered that I can probably figure out any butterfly I come across in My Minnesota, but I'm strictly OTL (out to lunch) when it comes to moths. Such are the challenges of being an armchair naturalist. On the other hand, I did come across a web site on Butterflies and Moths of North America, that's worth checking out if you're into Lepidoptera and whatever. I bet you didn't know that later this month (July 20-28) is National Moth Week. Did you? I'm starting to feel that we've made it to "those lazy, hazy, crazy days of Summer" and I'm even less focused than usual. I'll stop now before I begin prattling, if it's not too late already. Thanks for listening. Come again when you can. Rants, raves and reflections served here daily.

Weave me the sunshine?

© harrington

Welcome. Thanks for stopping by. There's a tiny light spot in the right-center of the picture, a little less than midway between the tree line and the top of the picture. That's the crescent moon. It was much more intriguing "in person" as I was leaving for work the other morning. Spring is once again stutter-stepping into Minnesota. The days are getting longer, Skies are, on occasion, clear. Grass is greening up and the sound of lawn mowers and tractors can be heard throughout the land. his is getting to be the time of year when rustic and idyllic start to become synonymous. Hornets are building nests on the soffits. Reports are coming in that the local tick population is thriving. Yesterday, four white tail does bedded down on the top of the backyard hill. Soon they'll be giving birth to this year's batch of fawns. Do you know what biophilia is? E.O. Wilson wrote a book about it suggesting that there is an instinctive bond between humans and other living systems. I'm not sure but I suspect it might be the antithesis of cabin fever. Another way to think about it however is to find nature wherever you are. Although we often lose track or intentionally think otherwise, we are part of nature and nature is part of us. Too often we mistake the mechanical metaphor of the universe and the world we live in with a reality that is organic, emergent and self-organizing. Thinking or believing we have the ability to manage the world (geo-engineering anyone?) is as legitimate as thinking we can control the sunrise because we know what time it will occur. It seems to me the world would be a better place if more of us were more humble more of the time. Speaking strictly for myself, I have good cause to show more humility. What about you? Can you create something as beautiful as the sunrise? Thanks for listening. Rants, raves and reflections served here daily.

Spring signs

© harrington

Hi! Thanks for stopping in. Are you enjoying the "warm" weather? Tonight we're supposed to have a waxing, gibbous moon, 86% full. With the cloud cover this afternoon, I'll be surprised if we get to see any moon at all, thus, today's photo. When I filled the bird feeders this afternoon, I noticed the woods were full of bird sounds. Walking the dog, my nose told me the neighbor had either just mucked out the barn or really needed to very soon. Several days ago, in the cold and wind, none of these Spring signs were evident. Franco the Rescue dog is spending more and more time, much to the annoyance of his walker, listening and sniffing (head down) and smelling (head raised). Is Spring the season of senses? Not only does the earth awaken from Winter's near-death experience, but those of us who have spent Winter bundled and booted found most of our senses wearing mittens. What's the sense of listening through a hat or earmuffs covering our ears? We "know" there's nothing to hear. Once you've smelled below-zero cold, it hardly ever changes, especially through a drippy nose. I remember reading that scenting conditions for dogs are improved by some humidity. Winter air is about as unhumid as it gets around here. With so much snow cover in a normal Winter, there's clearly nothing to see except white and more white. And yet, the neighborhood barred owls manage to find mice and voles under the snow. The deer I see don't seem to be any less alert in Winter. I know the local turkey population notices my approach as soon as, or sooner than, they do when the ground cover is plants rather than flakes. I've never really been a Winter person so perhaps I'm one of the few who finds his senses dulled and dimmed by Winter. Do you? How common do you suppose it is? Will warmer Winters help us Minnesotans feel more alive or less Minnesotan? Thanks for listening. Feel free to share some answers in the comments. Raves, rants and reflections served daily here at My Minnesota.