Please don’t tell me how the story ends*

leaning day lilies

Photo by J. Harrington

About this time each summer, local day lilies put on a show like the one above. For some years now the stem posture of the lilies has made me think of the haunting lines from Leonard Cohen’s wonderful song Suzanne:

They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever

During the past few days, due to the writings of Heidi Barr, I’ve (re?)encountered an essay by Charles Eisenstein, The Space Between Stories. It resonates strongly with me because over the past few years I’ve developed my own sense that we are living in times of significant transition. One of the more concerning aspects, to me, can be found in the gross inconsistency between a global economic system based on the concept of perpetual growth and the status of our planetary boundaries. 

PLANETARY BOUNDARIES

From much of the reading I’ve been doing over the past few years, I’m coming to believe that integrating Native American worldviews with our stories and, eventually displacing our treating Nature as an object subject to our exploitation can give US the new story we need. Will we learn to tell the necessary stories to keep democracy alive on a habitable planet? That’s up to US and those like us.

*<https://oldtimemusic.com/w3/the-meaning-behind-the-song-please-dont-tell-me-how-the-story-ends-by-kris-kristofferson-rita-coolidge/>

Remember

Joy Harjo 1951 – 

Remember the sky that you were born under,
know each of the star’s stories.
Remember the moon, know who she is.
Remember the sun’s birth at dawn, that is the
strongest point of time. Remember sundown
and the giving away to night.
Remember your birth, how your mother struggled
to give you form and breath. You are evidence of
her life, and her mother’s, and hers.
Remember your father. He is your life, also.
Remember the earth whose skin you are:
red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth
brown earth, we are earth.
Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their
tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,
listen to them. They are alive poems.
Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the
origin of this universe.
Remember you are all people and all people
are you.
Remember you are this universe and this
universe is you.
Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.
Remember language comes from this.
Remember the dance language is, that life is.
Remember.

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A precautionary story

The only newspaper I read regularly these days is The Guardian’s US edition. Sometime in the past day or two, I’ve noticed a sudden increase in stories raising or reflecting concerns about technology and its effects on humanity. Here’s some examples:

• ‘There are no serious safeguards’: can 23andMe be trusted with our DNA?


• ‘Humanity’s remaining timeline? It looks more like five years than 50’: meet the neo-luddites warning of an AI apocalypse


• ‘I write all my poems with a quill by candlelight’: John Cooper Clarke on the joy of life without tech

I’m wondering if this is a brief editorial excursion or if it may become a longer-running feature. You’re probably not surprised to learn I hope the latter. It’s my observation that we are no more responsible with the development and application of technology than we are with our herbicides, pesticides, and politics. Once upon a time there was a policy to the effect that “the polluter pays.” Take a look at water quality in “farm country” and see how well we’ve followed that policy. More? How many abandoned mines are polluting water quality?

“The ultimate test of man's conscience may be his willingness to sacrifice something today
for future generations whose words of thanks will not be heard.” ― Gaylord Nelson

Photo by J. Harrington

Over the past five to ten years, we’ve been notified a couple of times that our personal data has been hacked. Each time the weak link was one of our health service providers. You know, the folks that try to keep us safe by reminding us to wash our hands frequently don’t seem able to protect their information systems and our data from infectious intrusions.

Are you familiar with the precautionary principle? Have you ever considered how much better off we’d be if it had been applied more rigorously to information technology, or mining, or the fossil fuel industry? Isn’t it past time we ceased to enrich a few at the expense of the health and sanity of most of the rest of US?

The Story of Everything

Kealoha 

dad?
yes, my love
where do we come from?

and we come from all of this
this is a story about a time
a time of strange times
what happened during the Big Bang?
what came after our Sun and planets were created?
throughout the first nano nano nano milli centi second of this Universe
that’s when this story takes shape
in the valley of our birth place
and we cried out to the Universe that we were here
that we were here
and we were many
so many
trillions upon trillions upon trillions
so countless and beautiful

every atom of carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, and phosphorous that makes up our bodies was forged in stars
and as the world continued to change
we evolved our ways
we honor the ancestors and the elders
we pass on the knowledge from generation to generation

maybe we go cyborg
incorporating technology into our skin, bones, and brains
if we all had biological Bluetooth, USB, or WiFi, 
i could’ve just beamed this presentation to y’all
it’s hard work up here you know

there will be the pulling and pushing of emotions
there will be laughter, and tears, and everything in between

for all the racism and hatred that the color of our skin has produced through the history of
our humanity, and for all the conflict that exists even till this very day
it all comes down to vitamin D

if we held hands for a moment and listened
we could become the power of love
the power of unity
and the power of understanding

we gathered together as a community in peace
we showed the universe how great we could all be
if we just sat and listened to the music

if you happen to be down to help create a global self-sustaining reality,
imagine the impact we could have
because the moment we perfect this
the moment we get this
we all win
together
game on
because energy is the currency of the universe

tonight, I want you to think about your life
and go out there and live it

Hānau ka iʻa hānau ka Naiʻa i ke kai lā holo

this is our chance to write our own history
do we destroy ourselves?
or do we take care of ourselves
and give our species the best chance of making it to the future unscathed?

the time to listen to each other has just begun

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Demography :: Destiny

Many, many years ago I encountered the quote: “Demography is destiny,” probably in a college sociology course. This morning, and in other recent readings, I’ve seen the truth of the observation in question.

From today’s Daily Yonder story, Commentary: Wyoming Puts Moms – and Rural Communities – at Risk with Gaps in Maternal Care. But Wyoming isn’t the only state to face inadequate maternal care: Less than half of the rural hospitals in America even offer labor and delivery services. Writing about one particular mom, the author notes:

Today, her county of Fremont, a New-Hampshire-sized area home to 40,000 people, has gone from two birthing hospitals and many obstetricians, to one delivery facility and a single pregnancy doctor for the general population. The trend prompts women in increasing numbers to travel out of the county to give birth—an expensive and logistically challenging option. “I just think it’s insane,” Wachter said. “It puts women at risk.”

The statistics bear out her observation. Women who live farther from delivery hospitals are more likely to experience adverse medical outcomes, such as requiring neonatal intensive care. 

What troubles me deeply, is the lack of mention of another aspect of maternal health care, as noted in Obstetric Volume and Severe Maternal Morbidity Among Low-Risk and Higher-Risk Patients Giving Birth at Rural and Urban US Hospitals.

Conclusions and Relevance  In this cross-sectional study of births in US rural and urban counties, risk of SMM [severe maternal morbidity] was elevated for low-risk and higher-risk obstetric patients who gave birth in lower-volume hospitals in rural counties, compared with similar patients who gave birth at rural hospitals with greater than 460 annual births. These findings imply a need for tailored quality improvement strategies for lower volume hospitals in rural communities.

rural farm field, few people here

Photo by J. Harrington

Urban and rural fertility rates appear similar enough that one distinguishing major variable is likely to be total population and density differences between urban and rural areas. For example, Fremont County, Wyoming’s popullation of 40,000 compares to New Hampshire’s 2024 population of about 1.5 million. The former has shown a significant decline in births by mother’s county of residence between 2008 and 2022. This, of course doesn’t address the chicken and egg question of which came first, loss of birthing centers or decline in number of births. It does suggest that Earl Butz took an extremely short term, short sighted, view years ago when he suggested farmers and ranchers should “Get big or get out.” Perhaps rural areas would have been better served over the long term if he had said “Use it or lose it.”

Ultrasound

By Rachel Richardson

Novel unbegun,

half-loaf rising,

lighthouse northward

and anchor south.

 

Lemon to grapefruit,

you sleep-step sidewise,

turnover, pop-up,

tongue in the mouth.

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Circumstantial evidence

Yesterday we promised to share another bear story. We confess we think this is a bear story but do not have proof of such. Last Thursday we mentioned the destruction of the post on which our backyard bluebird house once was mounted. Yesterday we showed a bear visiting the feeder in the front yard about nine years ago. We also were troubled to notice that the back yard blluebird house had been smashed from its new, improved, stronger post. We didn’t see the perpetrator but can’t picture any local critter other than a bear, very hungry in June, that would have the inclination and ability to do this:

who but a bear would do this?

Photo by J. Harrington

We don’t know if there were eggs or fledglings in the house. We hope not although we suspect fledgling noises might have attracted the culprit’s attention. The remnants of the nest are on the ground between the lilacs and the post. Someday soon we’ll remove the nest and pull the post. Until and unless we figure out how to install a bear-proof bluebird house, we won’t set another adult pair up for the kind of frustration and failure the pair pictured below seem to experience. Pardon the anthropomorphism, but they look much like a “WTF happened?” pair.

bluebirds perched on smashed house

Photo by J. Harrington

Last year we had lots of conflict between the tree swallows that nested in a tall aluminum house up on a tall pole on the hill and the bluebirds. This year we didn’t mount the swallow house (supposedly designed for purple martins) back to the top of its pole. So far this year, neither swallows nor martins are resident. This summer we’ve gone from too much moisture to none locally and too many birds last year to none except at the feeders. I don’t like the pattern that shows.

THE BLUEBIRD

by Charles Bukowski

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

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

Watch an animated version of the poem at the marginalian. 

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How bad is it?

I’ve noticed lots of comments (complaints) on social media about how bad the mosquitos are this year. Local, and, I think, national, news has done a story on it. Somehow, I think I recall similar stories almost every spring turning into summer. It all puts me in mind of one of my outdoor adventures from years ago.

The Better Half had given me, as a birthday present, maybe combined with father’s day, a bow and arrow bear hunting trip to a camp in Saskatchewan or Manitoba. One afternoon, as I was sitting 15 or 20 feet up in an aspen tree, a bear came to the bait. I drew my bow and, in my excitement, ended up shooting a little high. The bear disappear immediately after the arrow passed over his(?) front shoulder. When the guide later came to collect me, he decided we should track the bear to be sure I hadn’t drawn blood or, if I had, to fill my tag. Off we went on a late afternoon in June through scrub brush in Canada.

While 15 or 20 feet in the air, exposed to what breeze there was, I hadn’t noticed any mosquitos. On the ground, tracking a bear, I was literally coated and crawling with them. For fear of spooking a possibly wounded bear, I did minimal swatting while we walked. After 45 minutes or an hour, with no sign of the bear or any blood, the guide accepted that I had indeed missed. We headed for his truck and I swatted freely.

this bear visited our front yard in June, 9 years ago

Photo by J. Harrington

Since that afternoon, Minnesota has produced mosquito swarms thick enough to annoy me, but not in sufficient numbers to impress me as much as the Canadian skeeters had. I’ll share another, more current, bear story tomorrow. Just remember, no matter how bad something is, it might well find a way to get worse. Find something that’s going ok (like not encountering a wounded bear) and be thankful for that.

Mosquitoes

By Katherine Hauth

Mosquitoes,

with needle-noses

sucking blood

from elbows, cheeks, and chin

why were you not

designed to thrive

on brine, on swine,

or likewise-spiny

porcupines?

                       SLAP!

SLAP!

                                          SLAP!

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T’was the day of the Night Before Christmas

 And all through the house, the cold was still seeping, through holes made by a mouse.

We’re still under a wind chill advisory. It looks like Santa will be taking the Arctic chills back North with him as he returns to the Pole. If you’re at all like me, be sure to leave him an extra cookie or two as a way of saying thanks. If I wanted to live in this kind of weather, I’d move to North Pole, Alaska, where someone named Santa Claus actually lives.

what stories does the snow tell?

Photo by J. Harrington

I bought myself a Christmas present, a book entitled From What Is To What If. In an effort to approach the world more optimistically, or at least more enthusiastically, I’m reading it as part of my makeover for next year. I’m curious to see whether my cynicism or the book’s positivism prevail as I read it. Odds are my reactions will appear in these postings from time to time.

As an interesting, perhaps telling, coincidence, yesterday brought us an article in MinnPost about how progressive some elements of our “Republican-leaning” county can be: One farmer set off a solar energy boom in rural Minnesota; 10 years later, here’s how it worked out. I’m flashing back to when I used to watch The X-Files on tv and the scenes with the poster on the wall, noting “I want to believe.” 

Isn’t this a time of year when we celebrate many of our beliefs and the start of a new year? What stories will shape how we spend that year? Are there other, better, stories to which we should pay more attention? Who is telling those stories. Are we doing anything to create new stories? What new story, or variation on an existing story, would we like to put under the tree next year to share with our loved ones and, maybe, the world? Think about it.

The Story of the Christmas Guest

Adapted by Helen Steiner Rice from an old German Legend>

It happened one day at the year's white end;
Two neighbors called on an old-time friend.
And they found his shop, so meager and mean,
Made gay with a thousand boughs of green.

And Conrad was sitting with face a-shine,
When he suddenly stopped as he stitched a twine,
And said, "Old friends, at dawn today,
"When the cock was crowing the night away…

"The Lord appeared in a dream to me,
And said, 'I'm coming your guest to be'.
So I've been busy with feet astir,
Strewing my shop with branches of fir.

"The table is spread and the kettle is shined
And over the rafters, the holly is twined.
And now I will wait for my Lord to appear,
And listen closely so I will hear.
His step as He nears my humble place,
And I open the door and look in His face."

So his friends went home and left Conrad alone,
For this was the happiest day he had known.
For long since, his family had passed away,
And Conrad had spent a sad Christmas Day.

But he knew with his Lord as his Christmas Guest,
This Christmas would be the dearest and best.
And he listened with only joy in his heart,
And with every sound, he would rise with a start.

And look for the Lord to be standing there,
In answer to his earnest prayer.
So he ran to the window after hearing a sound,
But all that he saw on the snow covered ground…

Was a shabby beggar whose shoes were torn,
And all of his clothes were ragged and worn.
So Conrad was touched and went to the door,
And he said "Your feet must be frozen and sore.
And I have some shoes in my shop for you,
And a coat that will keep you warmer, too.

So with grateful heart, the man went away,
But as Conrad noticed the time of day,
He wondered what made his dear Lord so late,
And how much longer he'd have to wait.

When he heard a knock, he ran to the door,
But it was only a stranger once more;
A bent old crone with a shawl of black,
A bundle of faggots piled on her back.

She asked for only a place to rest,
But that was reserved for Conrad's Great Guest.
But her voice seemed to plead, "Don't send me away,
Let me rest for awhile on Christmas Day."

So Conrad brewed her a steaming cup
And told her to sit at the table and sup.
But after she left, he was filled with dismay,
For he saw that the hours were passing away.

And the Lord had not come, as He said He would.
And Conrad felt sure he had misunderstood.
Out of the stillness, he heard a cry,
"Please help me and tell me where am I?"
He stood disappointed, as twice before.

It was only a child who had wandered away,
And was lost from her family on Christmas Day.
Again Conrad's heart was heavy and sad
But he knew he should make this little girl glad.

SO he called her in and wiped her tears,
And quieted all her childish fears.
Then he led her back to her home once more,
But as he entered his darkened door,

He knew that the Lord was not coming today
For the hours of Christmas had passed away.
So he went to his room and knelt down to pray,
And he said, "Dear Lord, Why did You delay?

"What kept you from coming to call on me?
For I wanted so much Your face to see."
When soft in the silence, a voice he heard:
"Lift up your head, for I kept My Word.

"Three times My shadow crossed your floor,
Three times I came to your lonely door.
For I was the beggar with bruised, cold feet.
I was the woman you gave to eat.
And I was the child on the homeless street."

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A prayer for the season

There is a loaf (boule) of sourdough bread in the oven. The oven is both baking the bread and warming the house. I am enjoying a rare sense that, if not all, most is well, at least in my immediate purview. The dogs are fed and walked. When they get to their regular afternoon crazy time, I’ll be on my way, with the bread, to the Daughter Person’s for a birthday dinner.

I have spent little time on social media today, or yesterday, for that matter. I seem to be much happier than those days I end up doom-scrolling things about which I can do little. I’m reverting to some of the approaches I learned waaayy back in my college days. That’s when I was learning about and reading folks like Abraham Maslow and Fritz Perls. The latter is the source of a “Gestalt prayer” that I find I can honor better than the concept of trying to love everyone. Here’s the prayer:

I do my thing and you do your thing.

I am not in this world to live up to your expectations,
and you are not in this world to live up to mine.
You are you, and I am I,
and if by chance we find each other, it's beautiful.
If not, it can't be helped.

— Fritz Perls, Gestalt Therapy Verbatim, 1969

It seems to me that the world would be a better place if more of US prayed the Gestalt prayer rather than trying to convert, forcefully or otherwise, everyone into believing some one true belief. That brings me to another quotation, this one I believe new to me, that I found in a Jim Harrison book. The quote is from Simon Ortiz. “There are no truths, only stories.” When I read that my immediate reaction was “how true!” Here’s an example:

if...we find each other, it’s beautiful

Photo by J. Harrington

Maslow is noted for, among other things, describing a hierarchy of human needs. However, there are those who claim his work was derived from or influenced by Native American Blackfoot wisdom. If you’re not yet convinced about the relationship between truths and stories, I call to your attention the time-space continuum or almost any aspect of quantum physics. Schrödinger's cat, anyone?

This is the season in which we can and should do our best to find each other and make the world a little more beautiful. Once we learn to share and live the stories of Christmas, we can share them all year round, right?

The Oxen

By Thomas Hardy

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.

“Now they are all on their knees,”

An elder said as we sat in a flock

By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where

They dwelt in their strawy pen,

Nor did it occur to one of us there

To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave

In these years! Yet, I feel,

If someone said on Christmas Eve,

“Come; see the oxen kneel,

“In the lonely barton by yonder coomb

Our childhood used to know,”

I should go with him in the gloom,

Hoping it might be so.

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The trouble with October

At the moment, the only complaint I have about October is the amount of political ads and commentary we have to suffer. I suppose an alternative is to forego tv, social media and newspapers from now until Thanksgiving. Go ahead, tell me what’s wrong with that approach.

A well known Native American writer phrased it more positively when she wrote:

“The only way to get change is not through the courts or — heaven forbid — the politicians, but through a change of human consciousness and through a change of heart. Only through the arts — music, poetry, dance, painting, writing — "can we really reach each other,” 
― Leslie Marmon Silko, Ceremony

I’m bringing this up in part because this month is National Arts and Humanities Month. I can’t decide if it’s consummately ironic celebrating arts and humanities the month before elections or, perhaps, incredibly hopeful that politics may some day improve enough to be encompassed by the humanities. That’s something to be wished for devoutly, right?

what’s the story behind this sign?

Photo by J. Harrington

One of the losses in politics these days  that troubles me the most is we seem to have lost interest in trying to really reach each other. Democrats and Republicans, liberals and conservatives, have moved beyond seeing and treating each other as opponents and now behave as if those who do not concur are enemies. That shifts the terms of politics from compromising on solutions to the country’s problems to winning a war by vanquishing the enemy. That may be what some of US prefer but I hope it isn’t what most of US want.

Some time ago it occurred to me that I could fix a problem or I could fix the blame for the problem, but I didn’t have the time and resources to do both, especially if the alleged cause of the problem was instrumental to its solution. Yes, you’re correct, I’m referring to training dogs. Scaring a dog into obedience is not likely to produce a satisfactory relationship. How can we get beyond corporate funding in politics and only nominate those who represent the best in humanity? Isn’t that how it’s supposed to work?

Why We Tell Stories

by Lisel Mueller

For Linda Foster

I
Because we used to have leaves
and on damp days
our muscles feel a tug,
painful now, from when roots
pulled us into the ground

and because our children believe
they can fly, an instinct retained
from when the bones in our arms
were shaped like zithers and broke
neatly under their feathers

and because before we had lungs
we knew how far it was to the bottom
as we floated open-eyed
like painted scarves through the scenery
of dreams, and because we awakened

and learned to speak

2
We sat by the fire in our caves,
and because we were poor, we made up a tale
about a treasure mountain
that would open only for us

and because we were always defeated,
we invented impossible riddles 
only we could solve,
monsters only we could kill,
women who could love no one else
and because we had survived
sisters and brothers, daughters and sons,
we discovered bones that rose
from the dark earth and sang
as white birds in the trees

3
Because the story of our life 
becomes our life

Because each of us tells
the same story
but tells it differently

and none of us tells it
the same way twice

Because grandmothers looking like spiders
want to enchant the children
and grandfathers need to convince us
what happened happened because of them

and though we listen only
haphazardly, with one ear,
we will begin our story
with the word and 

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moonstruck about names

There’s less than a week remaining until the December moon is full (December 18). It occurs a few days ahead of the winter solstice and a week before Christmas.

Native Americans have a variety of names for each full moon. The American Indian Alaska Native Tourist Association provides the names listed below for December’s full moon.

Little Spirit Moon	Manidoo-Giizisoons	Anishinaabemowin (Ojibwe)
Big Winter Moon	Gichi-bibooni-giizis	Anishinaabemowin (Ojibwe)
Storytelling Moon (I will tell you)	Hiinaiwi Nuti (hee-ee-nah-ihwih noong-tee)	Catawba Language, Catawba Indian Nation, South Carolina
Snow Month	vsgiyi	Cherokee, Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians, North Carolina
Dead of Winter Moon	Ukiugraq	Inupiat Language, North Slope, Alaska
Long Night Moon	Kwne tpoʔkut Neepãʔk	Mahican Dialect, Stockbridge-Munsee Band of Wisconsin
It’s a Long Night Moon	Wahsutes	Oneida
Winter Moon	Tahch’asap’ara	Tunica, Tunica-Biloxi Tribe of Louisiana
	Joto:h	Seneca

December’s “Storytelling Moon"

Photo by J. Harrington

We find each of the Native American names more evocative than “December’s full moon.” December was, at one time in ancient Rome, the tenth month of the year. That accounts for the origin of the name. Since it’s now the twelfth month, perhaps we should seriously consider using Native American names in the US. I’m partial to “Storytelling Moon,” how about you? December could become Storymonth. According to Smithsonian Magazine:

Like many events in American Indian culture there is a proper time and place for all activities. Traditional storytelling is reserved for the winter months for many tribes. This was a practical choice given the fact that during the other season's, people were busy growing, gathering, and hunting food. It was in the winter, with the long dark evenings, the snow and wind blowing outside, that telling stories was a way to entertain and teach the children. Another reason is that many traditional stories contain animal characters. To be respectful, people waited until the winter when animals hibernate or become less active so they cannot hear themselves being talked about.

The Storyteller Gets Her Name

By Ari Tison

My dad used to call me Eagle Eyes. I was the one to find eagles, owls, blue jays

on a dark day. He called me so until my brother was born infant and grew to boy.

Having heard my name, as younger siblings often do,

he wanted to be called Eagle Eyes too. He studied the birds’ flight, kept his

eyes to the skies for hours, and soon he knew their long names

and could correct me. Except, at sixteen, I never liked to be corrected.

But my brother showed me the work, and I had to learn to give.

Give him all I could as my elders did for me.

So I tugged on my heart to let go, as I knew he had earned Eagle Eyes

more than I ever could. And what I found instead was new room, for a new name.

I am Siwa’köl, storyteller.

And my brother, he is Eagle Eyes.

I tell his tales and mine so someday when we join the elders,

my stories may be told and his birds can take to the sky.

But for now, I will share with you my story so that you can know who you are—

and maybe you are Siwa’köl too. 

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Some stories of Spring

Yesterday, we watched three sandhill cranes land in a nearby stubble field. This morning we noticed a flock of four cranes flying  toward the marshes surrounding the Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area Sunrise River pools. The pools themselves are hosting growing numbers of waterfowl. Before you conclude that Spring has actually arrived in the North Country, let us point out that this afternoon's weather forecast includes several hours of snowfall, continuing well into the night. If anything ever consistently demonstrates the pattern of "two steps forward, one step back," it's Springtime in the North Country.

sandhill cranes in Carlos Avery marshes

Photo by J. Harrington

As we've been writing this, we've also been baking some Irish Soda bread in preparation for St. Patrick's Day on Wednesday. The house smells wonderful. Fortunately, we promised the Daughter Person and Son-In-Law that we'd bake a loaf for them, and we'll bake another loaf later this week for the Better Half [BH] and "himself." (That's me!) If we time it well, the house should smell a bit like a kitchen in "the old country" for the rest of the week, since BH is planning on serving corned beef and cabbage on Wednesday.

Still no sightings of robins, red-winged blackbirds or pussy willows. If we don't get too much snow this afternoon and tonight, tomorrow might be a good day to go poking around for awhile to see what we can see. Or, to enjoy the luck o'the Irish, we can wait until Wednesday.

Unlike objects, two stories can occupy the same space

By Charles Peek

Out along the last curve in the brick walk

the grass has begun to green,

with the freezing cold and coming snow

its certain fate.

The cranes make the same mistake,

fields of red capped heads attest their arrival

just before the worst blizzard of winter

makes it impossible to tell the field from the river.

And we, too, have known these mortal mishaps,

miscalculated our time, found ourselves out of step,

arriving too early, staying on too late,

misjudging the nearness, the vengeance of the storm.

The cranes, the grass, they tell us:

this can go on for millions of years.

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Happy Birthday, Mr. Yeats!

On this day in 1865, William Butler Yeats was born. That makes today the 154th anniversary of his birth. There's a British-Irish folk rock band, The Waterboys, that's recorded a number of Yeats' poems put to music. There's a CD titled An Appointment With Mr. Yeats, which we've been enthralled by listening to for a few years now.

We find ourselves intrigued that Yeats was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1923, although none of his poems, that we know of, served as lyrics until Mike Scott of the Waterboys created the songs for "An Appointment." Conversely, The Nobel Prize in Literature 2016 was awarded to Bob Dylan "for having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition." Dylan's poems are all lyrics. We find Dylan's words as representative of American culture as Yeats are of Irish culture. Try listening to "An Appointment" and to "Highway 61 Revisited" in sequence and see if you find other similarities .

The Song of Wandering Aengus

By William Butler Yeats

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

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Christmas traditions

More years ago than we can be sure of, the Daughter Person assigned us the responsibility of getting a new Christmas book every year at this time. Or, maybe she simply mentioned that we read the same book or two at Christmas each year and couldn't we find something different. Over the years we've acquired a couple of handsfull of these books. There's:

• Christmas in Minnesota, Ziebarth & Horrigan, Ed.
• A Minnesota Christmas Anthology, Stephen Engels, Ed.
• Dogs Think That Every Day Is Christmas, Ray Bradbury
• Christmas Here in Northern Lands, Haavik & Kloss
• A Christmas Wish, Lori Evert
• The Christmas Box, Richard Evans
• The Woodcutter's Christmas, Brad Kessler
• The Glass Angels, Susan Hill
• A Dog Named Christmas, Greg Kincaid
• Christmas at Eagle Pond, Donald Hall
• The Night Before Christmas, Clement Moore, and,
• An Aboriginal Carol, David Bouchard

Minnesota Historical Society

This year we're back to being Empty Nesters so the idea of yet another Christmas book seemed up for grabs except that it has become one of our longer-standing Christmas traditions. While browsing a bookstore today, an irresistible title leapt out at us. We could no more resist that we can pass up a Christmas cookie. Whether we read it at our house, or in the Daughter Person's new home (more likely), the family tradition continues. We'd tell you more about this year's book but it's a secret surprise until shared with the family. Maybe ofter Christmas we'll do a book review.

Another tradition that has come to be affiliated with Christmas in our family is a run to Candyland for a mix of candy treats for the holidays, including some Sour Santas and salt licorice. That got done today after we'd stopped by our favorite potter's [top of sidebar to right] Open House (continues tomorrow). We also managed to find some variegated holly at the co-op in Stillwater. The Better Half bought some, no doubt in pity for us, since we've been a failure in finding any growing in pots this year. Holly has become a bit of a personal Christmas tradition.

the ghost of Christmas cookies past

Photo by J. Harrington

The tree is up. The outside lights and decorations taken care of. Most of the inside decorations are in place. Christmas cookies are still to be baked by the Better Half and Daughter Person. More shopping  is still to be done, as well as making and curating some Christmas lists. The holiday this year isn't in the books yet, but it's shaping up to be one for the books.

The Christmas Holly

Eliza Cook, 1818- 1889

The holly! the holly! oh, twine it with bay—
   Come give the holly a song;
For it helps to drive stern winter away,
   With his garment so sombre and long.
It peeps through the trees with its berries of red,
   And its leaves of burnish’d green,
When the flowers and fruits have long been dead,
   And not even the daisy is seen,
Then sing to the holly, the Christmas holly,
   That hangs over peasant and king:
While we laugh and carouse ’neath its glitt’ring boughs,
   To the Christmas holly we’ll sing.

The gale may whistle, and frost may come,
   To fetter the gurgling rill;
The woods may be bare, and the warblers dumb—
   But the holly is beautiful still.
In the revel and light of princely halls,
   The bright holly-branch is found;
And its shadow falls on the lowliest walls,
   While the brimming horn goes round.
Then drink to the holly, &c.

The ivy lives long, but its home must be
   Where graves and ruins are spread;
There’s beauty about the cypress tree,
   But it flourishes near the dead:
The laurel the warrior’s brow may wreathe,
   But it tells of tears and blood.
I sing the holly, and who can breathe
   Aught of that that is not good?
Then sing to the holly, &c.

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Déjà vu, all over again

It's been years since we read Joseph Heller's Catch 22. Despite that passage of time, recently we've been more and more haunted by the perspective encapsulated in it, especially since November 8, 2016. Take a look at the following quotes and you may begin to understand why we believe it has become, god help us, the (we hope temporary) new "normal," at least until sanity returns to the electorate and we "vote them out."

“It was miraculous. It was almost no trick at all, he saw, to turn vice into virtue and slander into truth, impotence into abstinence, arrogance into humility, plunder into philanthropy, thievery into honor, blasphemy into wisdom, brutality into patriotism, and sadism into justice. Anybody could do it; it required no brains at all. It merely required no character.”
―Joseph Heller,Catch 22

“What a lousy earth! He wondered how many people were destitute that same night even in his own prosperous country, how many homes were shanties, how many husbands were drunk and wives socked, and how many children were bullied, abused, or abandoned. How many families hungered for food they could not afford to buy? How many hearts were broken? How many suicides would take place that same night, how many people would go insane? How many cockroaches and landlords would triumph? How many winners were losers, successes failures, and rich men poor men? How many wise guys were stupid? How many happy endings were unhappy endings? How many honest men were liars, brave men cowards, loyal men traitors, how many sainted men were corrupt, how many people in positions of trust had sold their souls to bodyguards, how many had never had souls? How many straight-and-narrow paths were crooked paths? How many best families were worst families and how many good people were bad people? When you added them all up and then subtracted, you might be left with only the children, and perhaps with Albert Einstein and an old violinist or sculptor somewhere.”
―Joseph Heller,Catch 22 

“Why are they going to disappear him?'
I don't know.'
It doesn't make sense. It isn't even good grammar.”
―Joseph Heller,Catch-22

“The country was in peril; he was jeopardizing his traditional rights of freedom and independence by daring to exercise them.”
―Joseph Heller,Catch-22 

The Things That Count

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Now, dear, it isn’t the bold things,
Great deeds of valour and might,
That count the most in the summing up of life at the end of the day.
But it is the doing of old things,
Small acts that are just and right;
And doing them over and over again, no matter what others say;
In smiling at fate, when you want to cry, and in keeping at work when you want to play—
Dear, those are the things that count.

And, dear, it isn’t the new ways
Where the wonder-seekers crowd
That lead us into the land of content, or help us to find our own.
But it is keeping to true ways,
Though the music is not so loud,
And there may be many a shadowed spot where we journey along alone;
In flinging a prayer at the face of fear, and in changing into a song a groan—
Dear, these are the things that count.

My dear, it isn’t the loud part
Of creeds that are pleasing to God,
Not the chant of a prayer, or the hum of a hymn, or a jubilant shout or song.
But it is the beautiful proud part
Of walking with feet faith-shod;
And in loving, loving, loving through all, no matter how things go wrong;
In trusting ever, though dark the day, and in keeping your hope when the way seems long—
Dear, these are the things that count.

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Happy New Year! It's deep Biboon

The January first morning sunlight (at least that's what we think it is) caused the local trees to cast Northwest-pointed shadows across the snow. The morning shadows point toward the direction from which Winter's prevailing winds blow. An infrequently appearing sun has reached its nadir and started a slow climb back toward the Northern sky. By Summer, remember that season?, our tree-shadows will be aimed West-Southwest. Although it never gets too cold to snow, snow is more frequent when warmer temperatures seem to bring cloudy skies, or maybe it's the cloudy skies that bring warmer temperatures.

According to Linda LeGarde Grover, author of Onigamiising, seasons of an Ojibwe year, the Ojibwe people consider Winter (Biboon) the story telling season. We caucasians are members of a culture based on the written word rather than oral tradition, so many of us view Winter as a story-reading season. With books, we gain in breadth and convenience of access to stories, but lose in warmth of access to and contact with live story-tellers.

Nevertheless, we are grateful for all of the books full of wonderful stories to read. We are even more grateful that we can spend most of our Biboon time inside a warm home reading those books when it gets as cold as it has been the past few days. We'll be surprised if temperatures around here get above zero today. The last time we checked, our wind chill was still hovering around minus 25℉.

It was much rarer for temperatures as cold as we regularly get in Minnesota to occur in eastern Massachusetts, especially right along the coast where we were most often to be found. Sometimes, though, it did get cold enough for even the salty brackish water in Boston Harbor to freeze. Those were notable days, but we don't remember if the very cold temperatures were accompanied by sunshine, clouds, or some of each.

look for a super full moon tonight

Photo by J. Harrington

Later today, early tonight, don't forget to bundle up and take a look at tonight's supermoon, the first of two this month,

                     Windigo

By Louise Erdrich

For Angela

The Windigo is a flesh-eating, wintry demon with a man buried deep inside of it. In some Chippewa stories, a young girl vanquishes this monster by forcing boiling lard down its throat, thereby releasing the human at the core of ice.

You knew I was coming for you, little one,

when the kettle jumped into the fire.

Towels flapped on the hooks,

and the dog crept off, groaning,

to the deepest part of the woods.

In the hackles of dry brush a thin laughter started up.

Mother scolded the food warm and smooth in the pot

and called you to eat.

But I spoke in the cold trees:

New one, I have come for you, child hide and lie still.

The sumac pushed sour red cones through the air.

Copper burned in the raw wood.

You saw me drag toward you.

Oh touch me, I murmured, and licked the soles of your feet.

You dug your hands into my pale, melting fur.

I stole you off, a huge thing in my bristling armor.

Steam rolled from my wintry arms, each leaf shivered

from the bushes we passed

until they stood, naked, spread like the cleaned spines of fish.

Then your warm hands hummed over and shoveled themselves full

of the ice and the snow. I would darken and spill

all night running, until at last morning broke the cold earth

and I carried you home,

a river shaking in the sun.

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What's the point? #phenology patterns

One area of my education that is sadly lacking includes painting and art history and related topics. I know there's something called "Pointillism" and that it has to do with painting of and by dots. That's both the extent and depth of my knowledge on that theme, but it's enough to help me recognize that nature often imitates the art that imitates nature.

pointillated aspens

Photo by J. Harrington

We have several clusters of aspens on our property, mixed in with mixed conifers. I don't know, but am suspicious that the aspen clusters are all clones, part of one grove. This Spring, their leaf development is reminiscent of the reproductions I've seen of some pointillist paintings. The mixed oak leaves in our woods have now developed to the point that the spaces seen between bare branches are occluded. When the breeze rustles them, they whisper a soothing susurration. The word for music that's played in a pointillist manner is punctualism or klangfarbenmelodie. Once again I'm in over my head, past the tops of my ears.

a lawn being pointillated

Photo by J. Harrington

Ground cover such as our white violets(?) and the ground ivy encroaching on the "lawn" from the wood's edge, often creates impressions of splashes of one color from different multitudes of flowers. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that we form our impressions of cultures, communities, clans and congregations from a multitude of individual impressions, cultural or social dots, to which we are exposed daily. Each by itself may not make sense enough to create a coherent impression. It's how all of us connect the dots differently, be they ever so small, that makes all the difference in the stories we tell about the pictures we see, the music we hear, and the lives we live.

Patterns for Arans

By Linda Norton

We could paint semi-darkness in semi-darkness. And the ‘right lighting’ of a picture could be semi-darkness.                                                             Wittgenstein
                                                            from Remarks on Color

These islands lie off the west coast of Ireland

as if nothing matters.

The people have lived here for centuries

with only a thin covering of soil over the surface.

Great use is made of the seaweed,

the cattle swimming out.

The women here are justly famous.

They weave their own tweed

and make a type of belt called criss.

The heavy Atlantic seas,

the slip stitch.

The difficulty of the patterns

are never written down.

Most impressive and rich, the trellis pattern

and the rope, the tribute to the hardworking bee.

But sometimes their knitting shows mistakes,

with a true Irish touch of nothing

really matters, a careless nonchalance

of the crossing of their cables.

And note mistakes in the simple patterns:

forked lightning or cliff paths,

small fields fenced with stone,

the ups and downs of married life,

the mosses.

The openwork has a religious

significance or none.

Sometimes the clarity of the pattern is

lost through the use of

very fine wool.

Green from the mosses, brown

from the seaweed, grey and cream

color from the stones and pebbles:

many are distinctly over-bobbled.

No matter. They are too lovely

to be lost. Wool and knitting

leaflets can be obtained.

In no case is the whole pattern given.

There are certain gaps and yawns

and part of the pattern is left out

as if it doesn’t matter,

or was too lovely,

so was lost.

Some of the simple patterns

are charming for children’s jerseys.

This one, for example,

would be lovely on a child.

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