Banning books: a snow job?

Leaf color is increasing in patches and splotches. (I should spend more time just sitting and watching the leaves change color.) Conifer needles started dropping all over the driveway a few days ago. Most of this years goldenrods have been pulled from in front of the lilac bushes. Autumn is settling in for her seasonal visit.

October 14 snow

Photo by J. Harrington

As far as I can tell, we've not yet had our first local frost, although we have had several advisories. Some years we get our first touch of snow by mid-month. With a super El Nińo pending, I expect we won't see a repeat of the Halloween blizzard of 1991, but I've also learned to Never Say Never.

I'm planning on voting around the end of next week or early the following, depending, in part, on whether Saturday voting is a local option. Plus, the local chapter of Indivisible is holding a NO KINGS- VOTE EARLY rally on Saturday, October 17. I hope and plan to be in attendance, weather and health permitting. (Flu season has started, right?)

Today is the beginning of Banned Books Week. That means it's time for a trip to our friendly, local, independent book store, while wearing my ACLU banned books club sweatshirt. I'm down to no more than a couple of dozen new, unread books stacked on the book cases, so I can at least look for additions before Christmas arrives.

Snow in October

Alice Dunbar-Nelson
1875 – 1935

Today I saw a thing of arresting poignant beauty:

A strong young tree, brave in its Autumn finery

Of scarlet and burnt umber and flame yellow,

Bending beneath a weight of early snow,

Which sheathed the north side of its slender trunk,

And spread a heavy white chilly afghan

Over its crested leaves.

Yet they thrust through, defiant, glowing,

Claiming the right to live another fortnight,

Clamoring that Indian Summer had not come,

Crying “Cheat! Cheat!” because Winter had stretched

Long chill fingers into brown, streaming hair

Of fleeing October.

The film of snow shrouded the proud redness of the tree,

As premature grief grays the strong head

Of a virile, red-haired man.

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No April Fools here!

April is the month
of poetry
of snow melt
of snow fall
of the return
of ducks, geese, swans, and
of herons and cranes, and
of red-winged blackbirds

April 4, 2014

Photo by J. Harrington

April is the month
of bud burst
of leafout
of showers of rain
of snow
of sunshine and
of wild flowers

April 2, 2012

Photo by J. Harrington

April is the month
of greening
of flowing
of Easters
of growing
of nesting
of warming
of cooling

Here in the North Country
April is the month
when life that survived
begins again to thrive

Welcome April!

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Weather, or not

Another day with some episodes of freezing drizzle and rain. Side roads are sloppy and slippery. If AI is the upcoming thing, why aren't our weather forecasts more accurate and internally consistent? It looks like we've got a January thaw lined up for much of the week ahead, except for periods of fog or freezing rain showers or freezing drizzle.

The Christmas tree and almost all the decorations came down today. Usually we wait until the Feast of the Epiphany, but this year that occurs tomorrow so we're declaring "Close enough." Now it's time to settle in and hunker down until Spring, which too often arrives some time in May around here. If you're getting the impression that I don't approve of the weather aberrations and bizarre volatility that may well be related to "global warming," you're very perceptive. Tuesday or Wednesday this past week the mid-morning temperature was 15℉, a light rain, not snow, was falling and freezing on the windshield and wiper blades of my Jeep. That's far from normal around here.

a "Christmas" amaryllis in January bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

On a brighter note, the Better Half has three amaryllises close to blooming. I was fussing about their varying development rates until she mentioned they're three different species. I was given a potted lavender plant for Christmas. It's in a south facing window but with our persistently cloudy skies, I doubt it's getting the amount of sunlight it needs to stay healthy. We'll just have to watch and see (and hope for the best).

You're correct that there was not a mention of the current regime, Epstein files, or Venezuela kidnappings. I''m trying to follow the old guidance about "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." But I don''t think it applies to winter weather.

Furry Bear

A. A. Milne

If I were a bear,
   And a big bear too,
I shouldn’t much care
   If it froze or snew;
I shouldn’t much mind
   If it snowed or friz—
I’d be all fur-lined
   With a coat like his!

For I’d have fur boots and a brown fur wrap,
And brown fur knickers and a big fur cap.
I’d have a fur muffle-ruff to cover my jaws,
And brown fur mittens on my big brown paws.
With a big brown furry-down up to my head,
I’d sleep all the winter in a big fur bed. 

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Winter Solstice – Alban Arthan

Tonight is the longest night of the year. Soon the days will begin to lengthen as the sun returns to our northern skies, followed, many weeks later, by the return of warmth. But first comes Christmas and the New Year. And we have an extra celebration on Christmas because it is also the birthday of our very own son. Our Christmas ends at noon after which the festivities become our son's birthday celebration.

as the sun turns northward

Photo by J. Harrington

For too much of the world, including US, the past year has been too dark. Although resisters and rebels have had their moments, the Dark Side of The Force has prevailed too often. After Santa's visit, may the New Year bring a return of Yoda, Han Solo, and Luke Skywalker, and may the Democrats find Jedi Knights to lead their rebel alliance to brighter days. What more could we ask for this holiday season?

This week I am expecting early presents from Mother Nature, temperatures above freezing scattered over several days between Solstice and New Year. There's even the threat of sunshine in the forecast. May the forecast portend better days  ahead.

This will be our last posting before Christmas. We hope each of you has a happy, healthy, holiday, full of hope, warmth and love that continues through 2026.

The Shortest Day by Susan Cooper 

 

So the shortest day came, and the year died,

And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world

Came people singing, dancing,

To drive the dark away.

They lighted candles in the winter trees;

They hung their homes with evergreen;

They burned beseeching fires all night long

To keep the year alive,

And when the new year’s sunshine blazed awake

They shouted, reveling.

Through all the frosty ages you can hear them

Echoing behind us—Listen!!

All the long echoes sing the same delight,

This shortest day,

As promise wakens in the sleeping land:

They carol, feast, give thanks,

And dearly love their friends,

And hope for peace.

And so do we, here, now,

This year and every year.

Welcome Yule!

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Tis the season for ....

Yesterday the Better Half [BH] and I selected and cut down a youngish pine along the driveway for this year's home-grown Christmas tree. Getting it to balance in the tree stand was tricky because we hadn't noticed a crook in the trunk about half way up. The top half of the tree is slightly off center. We managed to fiddle with the tree stand a little and the tree stood tall all night. Today the lights went on. Other decorations are coming out and getting hung. Now I just need my mood to include more Christmassy spirits. Maybe if I keep away from the news until after the start of the New Year? Anyhow here's a picture of last year's home grown tree.

Home grown pine Christmas tree 2024

Photo by J. Harrington

Friday we helped the Daughter Person celebrate her birthday with lunch at a place in Stillwater called Brick and Bourbon. My cheeseburger was good and the BH raved about the meat loaf she ordered. Son-In-Law, Granddaughter and Granddaughter's "nanny" all had a good time and the place was festively decorated for the season. Snow showers during the day made the roads messy but driveable.

As this is being written, the temperature is in the single digits with a slight wind chill. That helps explain the diminished joy I'm feeling. Too damn cold. If you don't believe me, ask the dogs. They are not happy about their "walks."

Most of the Christmas shopping is done. There's still wrapping to be tended to and stockings on Christmas eve. Winter solstice happens in two weeks at 9:03 am. Days will start getting longer a week or ten days later. Then there's the two month lag before temperatures approach daytime averages above freezing. I suppose it would be curmudgeonly to ask for an early spring as a Christmas present.

More snow is in the forecast for the coming week. That makes Robert Frost's poem seem quite timely for this native New Englander transplanted to Minnesota decades ago.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Robert Frost  1874 – 1963

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

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Winter didn't wait for the solstice

Today it's time to say good-bye to November, since tomorrow we welcome the arrival of December. Signs of Thanksgiving past arrive later today in the form of hot turkey sandwiches for tonight's dinner, while the Christmas season arrived earlier this week in the form of snowflake lights and wreathes adorning the house and reflecting in the snow from the two separate storms we had this last week. In fact, another snow shower has started since I began writing this post. Sometimes we get too much of a good thing.

Christmas cheer comes in many shapes and sizes

Photo by J. Harrington

Juncos are back at the feeder, probably for the rest of winter. There's a pair of cardinals that occasionally arrive at the feeder just as dark is setting in. Maybe, if we ever shake the chronic cloud cover, they'll show up during the day to bring bright Christmas color to the woods. Male cardinals agains a snowy background are about as cheery as winter woods get, it seems to me.

The Better Half [BH] and I have yet to select a home grown Christmas tree from the woods around the house. The aforementioned snow storms required enough snow blowing and shoveling to preempt woods wandering. I'll try a reconnoiter tomorrow and see if I can spot some candidates for the BH's approval. We've been cutting our own, on our own, for several years now and it's become a fun tradition.

Another holiday season tradition around here, blooming amaryllis, was renewed today when the BH put three separate, newly arrived, bulbs into three planters on the south-facing window sill. I''ll be curious to see how long it takes them to blossom. I should have paid more attention in years past.

This is supposed to be a season of peace to men of good will and / or peace, good will toward men. Holding aside the archaic, sexist phrasing, peace and good will seem sparse this year. Perhaps, if each of us tries, just a little bit harder, as Janis used to urge us, we can make this season a pleaasant memory for many more of both young and old than would otherwise be the case. It's worth a try, don't you think?

Since this is the last day of Native American Heritage Month, let's have Joy Harjo help us welcome winter and December.

 

Grace

Joy Harjo   1951 –

                                    For Darlene Wind and James Welch

I think of Wind and her wild ways the year we had nothing to lose and lost it anyway in the cursed country of the fox. We still talk about that winter, how the cold froze imaginary buffalo on the stuffed horizon of snowbanks. The haunting voices of the starved and mutilated broke fences, crashed our thermostat dreams, and we couldn't stand it one more time. So once again we lost a winter in stubborn memory, walked through cheap apartment walls, skated through fields of ghosts into a town that never wanted us, in the epic search for grace. 

Like Coyote, like Rabbit, we could not contain our terror and clowned our way through a season of false midnights. We had to swallow that town with laughter, so it would go down easy as honey. And one morning as the sun struggled to break ice, and our dreams had found us with coffee and pancakes in a truck stop along Highway 80, we found grace.

I could say grace was a woman with time on her hands, or a white buffalo escaped from memory. But in that dingy light it was a promise of balance. We once again understood the talk of animals, and spring was lean and hungry with the hope of children and corn. 

I would like to say, with grace, we picked ourselves up and walked into the spring thaw. We didn't; the next season was worse. You went home to Leech Lake to work with the tribe and I went south. And, Wind, I am still crazy. I know there is something larger than the memory of a dispossessed people. We have seen it. 

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Season's greetings to you and blessings upon you!

It's Thanksgiving week. Around here we are starting the week with well above average temperatures and look like we're going to have snow cover for Thanksgiving. The thirty-day forecast suggests that snow cover may last until January thaw or what passes for spring in our North Country. That's why we're behind schedule posting this. Yesterday was committed to changing the oil and checking out the snow blower (and cleaning up most of the mess I made in the garage) as well as cleaning up more fallen leaves plus the dead plants from the front porch planters that will soon (before the soil freezes) hold Christmas angels and greenery. By Thanksgiving, the "back yard" may look like this:

November usually brings a "dusting" of snow

Photo by J. Harrington

We've already started shopping for Christmas presents and received our first "holiday greetings" card. The weekend after Thanksgiving is traditionally when we put up lights. A pair of poinsettias is perched on the piano already. My long-standing dedication to deferring all Christmas activities until after Thanksgiving is being eroded by retail temptation, especially since the family is going to do our best to honor the Black Friday / Cyber Monday boycott from Thanksgiving until December 2, shopping only local and with cash (if stores still accept that😉).

We Ain't Buying It

Today we're planning on changing the oil in the tractor without increasing the mess in the garage, we hope. Then we get to mostly sit and watch what Mother Nature delivers late Tuesday and early Wednesday. We promise not to complain at all if the storm misses us entirely. That would give us something else to be grateful for come Thursday.

Many decades ago we lived a little north of the former Plimouth Plantation. It looks as though they've been increasing recognition of Wampanoag contributions to the first celebration since I moved to Minnesota. I'm please to see that during this Native American Heritage month. Check out Plimoth Patuxet this week but first, enjoy Joy Harjo's Thanksgiving poem:

Perhaps the World Ends Here

By Joy Harjo 

 

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

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November's heritage: memories and memorials

It was fifty years ago tomorrow that the Edmund Fitzgerald sank in Lake Superior. Gordon Lightfoot memorialized the tragedy with his song The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Please pause for a moment of silence after following the link and listening to him perform. Then check some interesting background to the song.

Minnesota's Split Rock Lighthouse on Lake Superior

Photo by J. Harrington

Locally, on November 10 the Split Rock Lighthouse and the Minnesota Historical Society will host a memorial to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the Fitzgerald's sinking, as has been done for the past four decades or so.

Our area's firearm’s deer season opened yesterday with colder temperatures than we’ve seen so far this season. Warmer days are forecast for later in the week. One of the reasons I was more of a grouse and waterfowl hunter than a whitetail seeker is that I can't manage to sit still enough to blend into the landscape when experiencing the frequently cold temperatures we get during deer season in the North Country. Plus, when I tried deer hunting back in New England, before moving to Minnesota, I did it with a mixed group of bow hunters and bird hunters. It rarely failed that the bird hunters spooked deer and the bow hunters watched grouse strutting around their stands.

UPDATE: Local ponds are forming ice cover. First snow of the season is falling as graupel and forming snow snakes along the roads.

Since November is Native American Heritage month, as well as the season for early gales on Superior, and since Lightfoot referred to Superior by her Ojibwe/Anishinaabe name, Gitche Gumee, it seems fitting to close today with a Kimberly Blaeser poem. Water, in Great Lakes and elsewhere, has long been a source of both life and death.

Wellspring: Words from Water

A White Earth childhood water rich and money poor.
Vaporous being transformed in cycles—
the alluvial stories pulled from Minnesota lakes
harvested like white fish, like manoomin,
like old prophecies of seed growing on water.
Legends of Anishinaabeg spirit beings:
cloud bearer Thunderbird who brings us rain,
winter windigo like Ice Woman, or Mishibizhii
who roars with spit and hiss of rapids—
great underwater panther, you copper us
to these tributaries of balance. Rills. A cosmology
of nibi.  We believe our bodies thirst. Our earth.
One element. Aniibiishaaboo. Tea brown
wealth. Like maple sap. Amber. The liquid eye of moon.
Now she turns tide, and each wedded being gyrates
to the sound, its river body curving.
We, women of ageless waters, endure;
like each flower drinks from night,
holds dew. Our bodies a libretto,
saturated, an aquifer—we speak words
from ancient water.

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Spring preparations

Much of this morning’s snow has melted. (I hope my screams didn’t disturb anyone.) Repeat after me: We need the moisture! Yesterday’s bag of bergamot seeds has been joined by two planting trays. Those should get seeded today or tomorrow. Planting is scheduled for the first or second week of June (if the snow cover is shallow enough by then). This year's efforts are very different than the years when we harrowed the field, scattered seeds, and prayed for rain. We’ll see if the extra effort is worth it in terms of success.

will we see green-up anytime soon?

Photo by J. Harrington

Although I’m not exactly looking forward to it, I suspect it’s going to feel good to get outside and do chores other than snow blowing, especially if they’re done under a shining sun. I’ve been spending way too much time on my butt and in my head, reading and thinking, with little actual doing. It’s not an optimum combination, at least for me.

There was a flock of what I think were bufflehead on the Sunrise river pools near County 36 in Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area today. I didn’t get a really good look but they were riding low in the water like divers and there were white patches on at least some heads. The neighborhood lawns are overrun with robins. Increasing numbers of Canada geese are loafing on local ponds and feeding in fields. Mother Nature must be thinking it’s time for Spring. Even one of the local big box stores is stocking its garden center.

Our Singing Strength

Robert Frost
1874 – 1963

It snowed in spring on earth so dry and warm
The flakes could find no landing place to form.
Hordes spent themselves to make it wet and cold,
And still they failed of any lasting hold.
They made no white impression on the black.
They disappeared as if earth sent them back.
Not till from separate flakes they changed at night
To almost strips and tapes of ragged white
Did grass and garden ground confess it snowed,
And all go back to winter but the road.
Next day the scene was piled and puffed and dead.
The grass lay flattened under one great tread.
Borne down until the end almost took root,
The rangey bough anticipated fruit
With snowball cupped in every opening bud.
The road alone maintained itself in mud,
Whatever its secret was of greater heat
From inward fires or brush of passing feet.

In spring more mortal singers than belong
To any one place cover us with song.
Thrush, bluebird, blackbird, sparrow, and robin throng;
Some to go further north to Hudson's Bay,
Some that have come too far north back away,
Really a very few to build and stay.
Now was seen how these liked belated snow.
the field had nowhere left for them to go;
They'd soon exhausted all there was in flying;
The trees they'd had enough of with once trying
And setting off their heavy powder load.
They could find nothing open but the road.
So there they let their lives be narrowed in
By thousands the bad weather made akin.
The road became a channel running flocks
Of glossy birds like ripples over rocks.
I drove them under foot in bits of flight
That kept the ground, almost disputing right
Of way with me from apathy of wing,
A talking twitter all they had to sing.
A few I must have driven to despair
Made quick asides, but having done in air
A whir among white branches great and small
As in some too much carven marble hall
Where one false wing beat would have brought down all,
Came tamely back in front of me, the Drover,
To suffer the same driven nightmare over.
One such storm in a lifetime couldn't teach them
That back behind pursuit it couldn't reach them;
None flew behind me to be left alone.

Well, something for a snowstorm to have shown
The country's singing strength thus brought together,
That though repressed and moody with the weather
Was none the less there ready to be freed
And sing the wildflowers up from root and seed.

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It’s World Water Day

We got a bunch of water in celebration of today. Unfortunately, it came as flakes, not drops, and we were the recipients of more than twice the amount that fell in most of the area. Measured on our deck and the railing, there were 9 inches of fresh snow this morning. Last night’s forecast was for 1 to 3 inches. Almost everywhere around us topped out at 4 inches. Sunday’s forecast is for an additional 10 inches. Sigh! Spring in the North Country brings blizzards before wildflowers.

the Kinnickinnic River,
a relatively clean trout stream

Photo by J. Harrington

World Water Day this year is about Water for Peace, consistent with the UN’s Sustainable Development Goals, particularly Number 6. In Minnesota, and much of the rest of the country and the world, water quality is being deteriorated, largely through human activities, much like the climate is being disrupted through human greenhouse gas pollution. Do you see a larger pattern here? At the rate we’re going, we won’t be able to colonize Planet B or it’s successors in time to save what’s left of the human race. And if the pattern continues to be consume, dispose, destroy, we’ve no business infecting the rest of the solar system or galaxy. Time to make ecocide a capital offense for countries, corporations,, and their executives?

On a brighter note, at least for now, as the snow melts and rain falls and spring springs, water willl seep into the ground and flow overland to our rivers and streams. Some of us will grab a rod and head out to see what, if anything, we can catch. I’ve been pondering how many of us would be interested in protecting access to and the quality of local waters if we didn’t fish, canoe, kayak, swim, etc. It’s been more than 50 years since the Clean Water Act Amendments of 1972 were enacted, with the goals of:

• "to make all U.S. waters fishable and swimmable by 1983;"
• "to have zero water pollution discharge by 1985;"
• "to prohibit discharge of toxic amounts of toxic pollutants".^[120]: 1

We are failing miserably and seem headed backwards from attaining those goals. Unless we make more progress, faster, we’re unlikely to attain peace in our time with those who recognize “Water Is Life.”

Water

By Ralph Waldo Emerson

The water understands 

Civilization well; 

It wets my foot, but prettily, 

It chills my life, but wittily, 

It is not disconcerted, 

It is not broken-hearted: 

Well used, it decketh joy, 

Adorneth, doubleth joy: 

Ill used, it will destroy, 

In perfect time and measure 

With a face of golden pleasure 

Elegantly destroy. 

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Cast your bread upon the seasons

In celebration of Spring’s official arrival, I baked scones this morning and finished off much of what remained of the St. Patrick’s Day Irish soda bread. It was a very pleasant start to the day and the season. I wonder what would be appropriate for honoring the summer solstice, berry scones? Feel free to offer suggestions in the comments.

The buds on the maple trees in front of the house have swollen noticeably but I suspect the return of cold and snow will slow down bud burst and leaf out. A few ducks have shown up on the Sunrise River pools, but no signs of a major northbound migration yet. If we’re lucky, the snow and rain we’re supposed to get over the next week could actually mark the start of seasonal spring weather and a return to gradually warming temperatures with rain showers come April.

rustic, artisan, sourdough bread

Photo by J. Harrington

Soda bread baking supplanted my rustic, artisan, sourdough bread efforts for the past few weeks. Time to freshen and feed (feed and freshen?) my starter and get back to it. The loaf that came out of the oven two or three weeks ago included about a third of the total flour amount from King Arthur’s regeneratively-grown climate blend flour and two thirds+ bread flour. The regen flour brought a nice nutty flavor to the bread. Now I want to see if I can increase the sour in sourdough, although I believe I’m the only one in the family that likes it that way, I haven’t tried such in quite a while. I think I recall a section in Sourdough by Science on making dough sourer. I’ll take a look after this is posted.

I feel as though, after our non-winter, followed by a wintry start to spring, we’re kind of in a holding pattern. I accept that it could be worse, but it could also be better. That’s something to look forward to.

An Earth Song 

Langston Hughes
1901 – 1967

It's an earth song,—
And I've been waiting long for an earth song. 
It's a spring song,—
And I've been waiting long for a spring song. 
    Strong as the shoots of a new plant 
    Strong as the bursting of new buds
    Strong as the coming of the first child from its mother's womb. 
It's an earth song, 
A body song, 
A spring song, 
I have been waiting long for this spring song. 

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Watch out for the Equinox, Vernal!!

I hope everyone, or at least the good folks, had a Happy St. Patrick’s Day and enjoys the first day of Spring tomorrow (local time) or Wednesday (UTC). To celebrate the arrival of Spring, the weather forecast calls for a cumulative foot or so of snow beginning later this week. I’m glad I left the back blade on the tractor and haven’t put away the winter parka yet. Sigh!!! But we need the moisture.

is this what Spring 2024 will bring?

Photo by J. Harrington

The dogs got their annual check-up at the vet’s this morning. A few weeks ago, I found one tick on me and spring brings mosquitoes (eventually) and the possibility of heartworms. The monthly tick and heartworm pills start later this month, probably after the snow melts.

In the present moment, the sun is shining, the sky is blue, but the mid-afternoon windchill is 24℉. Nevertheless, one of the folks up the road apiece just reported a bear on their patio. Some things are acting seasonally, but it looks like it would make as much sense to anticipate either the spring or summer weather patterns as to guess the next national political or economic event.

At least I’m sitting in a reasonably warm house, with two reasonably healthy dogs, one reasonably healthy spouse, and the start of a list of presents to be requested for an up coming birthday and father’s day. Things could be worse. I’m not trying to cover collateral for a half a billion dollar bond with a reputation for not paying my bills hanging around my neck.

Instructions on Not Giving Up

Ada Limón
1976 – 

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

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Here there be dragons

After last night’s snow fall of four to five inches, the neighborhood looks more typical for February in the North Country. Most of the winter we’ve been looking at bare ground which neither looked nor felt proper. Once again there’s no precipitation in the forecast for at least the next ten days. Lack of snow this winter doesn’t bode well for easing our ongoing drought.

I’m going to adjust or adapt (or both) to the sliding baseline the current world has obviously encountered. There are entirely too many things in today’s world that don’t work they way I learned they were supposed to and I keep getting bent entirely too far out of shape about it. One example: our Frontier internet service was out for twelve to eighteen hours overnight last night, after providing no functional service for an even longer period a week or so ago. We’ve not yet found a viable alternative ISP but as service continues to deteriorate, that becomes a little easier. Meanwhile, neither the county nor the state offers more than lip service and “thoughts and prayers," if that, as we pay for service not rendered.

Ursula K Le Guin's speech at National Book Awards

Along the lines of enhanced accountability, the Minnesota Reformer has published a commentary that I wish I’d written. Take a look at: I do not want to vote for the Metropolitan Council     Will someone, somewhere, just once, be accountable for something, even a little?

I think I’d be less frustrated if I didn’t feel caught between Auden and Le Guin. The former noted ‘Poetry Makes Nothing Happen’ and the latter’s assessment is captured in the photo above. Can each of them be right at the same time? How? Perhaps the treasure below by Le Guin helps answer that question.

Dear Reader,

Most dragons don’t know how to read. They hiss and fume and guard their hoard. A tasty knight is what they need
For dinner (they spit out the sword),
Then go to sleep on heaps of treasure. They’ve no use for the written word.
But I learned early to take pleasure
In reading tales and poetry,
And soon I knew that I preferred
Reading a book to fighting knights.
I lived on apple pie and tea,
Which a kind lady made for me,
And all my days and half my nights
Were spent in reading story-books,
A life more thrilling than it looks.
Now that I’m old and cannot see
To read, the lady’s youngest child
Comes every day to read to me,
A cheerful child named Valentine.
We’re both as happy as can be
Among the treasures I have piled
In heaps around my apple tree.
No other dragon watches curled
Around such riches as are mine,
My Word-hoard, my dear Library:
For every book contains a world!

       Yours truly,
       Bedraug (Smaug’s Second Cousin Once Removed)

Death, taxes, and technology failures

Short posting today. Our internet service provider, Frontier, is having some sort of network problem that is delivering about .1Mbps [yes, that’s POINT ONE Mbps] to us and a good sized surrounding area. It’s been that way since late yesterday afternoon. Would that we could find a viable alternative ISP. Our credit union also had some IT issues this week that caused me to use an alternate mechanism to pay some bills. Why can’t technical types make sure everything works well before and after they add “improvements?” 

Back on the home front, there’s snow on the ground, again. Flurries off and on since this morning, early. It doesn’t make the countryside look a whole lot better, but it’a a change.

The Better Half and I are pulling together the info needed to fill out our tax organizer so we can deliver it to our tax preparer. It’s every bit as much fun as you might guess, even though we try to stay organized throughout the year. At least there’ll be some sense of accomplishment when the taxes are done and filed for another year. Again, the process of filing taxes is more complicated than should be necessary and that benefits few except the top 1% and those like them.

I hope this uploads some time in the next day or two.

I Am Waiting

By Lawrence Ferlinghetti

I am waiting for my case to come up   

and I am waiting

for a rebirth of wonder

and I am waiting for someone

to really discover America

and wail

and I am waiting   

for the discovery

of a new symbolic western frontier   

and I am waiting   

for the American Eagle

to really spread its wings

and straighten up and fly right

and I am waiting

for the Age of Anxiety

to drop dead

and I am waiting

for the war to be fought

which will make the world safe

for anarchy

and I am waiting

for the final withering away

of all governments

and I am perpetually awaiting

a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the Second Coming   

and I am waiting

for a religious revival

to sweep thru the state of Arizona   

and I am waiting

for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored   

and I am waiting

for them to prove

that God is really American

and I am waiting

to see God on television

piped onto church altars

if only they can find   

the right channel   

to tune in on

and I am waiting

for the Last Supper to be served again

with a strange new appetizer

and I am perpetually awaiting

a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for my number to be called

and I am waiting

for the Salvation Army to take over

and I am waiting

for the meek to be blessed

and inherit the earth   

without taxes

and I am waiting

for forests and animals

to reclaim the earth as theirs

and I am waiting

for a way to be devised

to destroy all nationalisms

without killing anybody

and I am waiting

for linnets and planets to fall like rain

and I am waiting for lovers and weepers

to lie down together again

in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed   

and I am anxiously waiting

for the secret of eternal life to be discovered   

by an obscure general practitioner

and I am waiting

for the storms of life

to be over

and I am waiting

to set sail for happiness

and I am waiting

for a reconstructed Mayflower

to reach America

with its picture story and tv rights

sold in advance to the natives

and I am waiting

for the lost music to sound again

in the Lost Continent

in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the day

that maketh all things clear

and I am awaiting retribution

for what America did   

to Tom Sawyer   

and I am waiting

for Alice in Wonderland

to retransmit to me

her total dream of innocence

and I am waiting

for Childe Roland to come

to the final darkest tower

and I am waiting   

for Aphrodite

to grow live arms

at a final disarmament conference

in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting

to get some intimations

of immortality

by recollecting my early childhood

and I am waiting

for the green mornings to come again   

youth’s dumb green fields come back again

and I am waiting

for some strains of unpremeditated art

to shake my typewriter

and I am waiting to write

the great indelible poem

and I am waiting

for the last long careless rapture

and I am perpetually waiting

for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn   

to catch each other up at last

and embrace

and I am awaiting   

perpetually and forever

a renaissance of wonder

First we adjust, then we adapt

Hello, again(?), from the cloud-covered, snow-showered, North Country. You’ve no doubt seen the news that last year was the hottest on record. I’m wondering if this year may qualify as the cloudiest. Here’s what we’re up against, according to the State Climatology Office: “... January 2020 followed a different path, finishing with less solar radiation than any January since records began at the U of M St. Paul Campus Climate Observatory in 1963.” 

cloudy, dreary, day after day

Photo by J. Harrington

According to our Minnesota Weather Guide, late next month is when “normal” daytime highs again reach freezing. That presents us with about six weeks before weather can really be expected to start to improve, as measured by those of us who consider open water, not ice, to be a normal condition. Meanwhile, with the help of the Better Half, I’ve sorted through my assortment of sweaters and reduced my holdings by a handful. It would be misleading to suggest we’re actually downsizing, but we are working on reducing clutter, including clothes that are rarely worn and that limit access to clothes worn more frequently, because closet space isn’t limitless. [If you’re old enough, remember Fibber McGee’s closet. If not, click the link.] All in all decluttering is a moderately productive way to spend time in the winter, given the kind of winter we’re “enjoying.” One of the ultimate rewards is that I’ll soon have space to actually sort out fly rods, reels, lines and gear before the season starts. I bet you suspected I had an ulterior motive, you sly devils.

Winter is a time when nature slows down and life is supposed to follow suite. I’ve racked up too many winters where that’s meant sitting on my duff and grumbling about the weather. As part of my efforts to improve my attitude, this winter I’m actually doing things other than grumble and wait for spring. So far, so good.

Winter Sun

By Molly Fisk

How valuable it is in these short days,

threading through empty maple branches,

the lacy-needled sugar pines.

 

Its glint off sheets of ice tells the story

of Death’s brightness, her bitter cold.

 

We can make do with so little, just the hint

of warmth, the slanted light.

 

The way we stand there, soaking in it,

mittened fingers reaching.

 

And how carefully we gather what we can

to offer later, in darkness, one body to another.

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Please be kind to each other while you can.

A New Year’s Phoenix

We’re closing out the month and the year with another cloudy, frosty day. Today is the second last day of 2023. New Year’s Eve arrives tomorrow. Snow showers are forecast for tonight. Tomorrow evening brings the Vikings Packers game, a “must win” for both teams to keep alive playoff hopes. I’m sure some fans may be excited but Lucy Viking has snatched the football away from this Charlie Brown once too often, four time Superbowl losers!

a New Year arises from the ashes of the old

Photo by J. Harrington

As is all too typical around here, today we found and delivered the stocking stuffers and Christmas presents that fell out of Santa’s sleigh. By some strange coincidence, all were destined for the Better Half. I’m blaming it on friction on the sleigh runners (no snow) and the way the sleigh was packed by elves. Maybe they’ll do better next year.

The crazy warm weather we’ve been experiencing is getting me antsy for next fishing season and I know I’m headed for a fall -- snow fall that is. There’s two+ months of North Country winter ahead of us. At least I have books to look through and gear to clean and organize. Maybe next year will be the year the Son-In-Law gets induced to seriously try bass bugging with a fly rod. We know his brother-in-law gave him a couple of bass flies for Christmas and his father-in-law haas a spare bass weight rod available to borrow. (I think I may have just given away a New Year’s resolution.)

Burning the Old Year

By Naomi Shihab Nye

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.   

Notes friends tied to the doorknob,   

transparent scarlet paper,

sizzle like moth wings,

marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,   

lists of vegetables, partial poems.   

Orange swirling flame of days,   

so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,   

an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.   

I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,   

only the things I didn’t do   

crackle after the blazing dies.

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

On Christmas Eve

Almost a decade ago we re-sided and re-shinglled the house. We also had some bracing added to the roof, to be sure it would hold a "miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.” The white stuff on the ground is called snow, which some years arrives in the North Country for Christmas. 

make sure your roof will hold Santa

Photo by J. Harrington

“‘Twas the Night Before Christmas” turns 200 this year

A Visit from St. Nicholas

By Clement Clarke Moore

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds;

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,

When what to my wondering eyes did appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,

With a little old driver so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

So up to the housetop the coursers they flew

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too—

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.

His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round belly

That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

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