Autumn, approaching

I missed posting yesterday. The day was devoted to celebrating the birthday of a certain 5 year old granddaughter and I obviously failed to plan ahead and post on Saturday in anticipation. The celebration(s) was / were successful and everyone enjoyed the party, presents and cake, especially the guest of honor.

Over the past week or ten days I’ve noticed half-a-dozen or so new dandelion flowers along our roadway and three or four (common?) lilac bushes in bloom in the area. This is not the Minnesota I moved to about fifty years ago.

a hint of color tints nearby trees

Photo by J. Harrington

As we enter October in a day or so, temperatures are forecast to exceed 80℉ and approach ninety℉ by Friday.The regular waterfowl season opened Saturday last to weather too warm to get serious about duck hunting. Local leaf color looks to be about 5% so far, maples showing best. The bur oak at the end of our drive is dropping leaves faster than changing color.

Someone (deer?) knocked over and off the wire protector cage from one of the replacement serviceberry bushes. Neither bush is showing any color yet but at least they’ve lived longer than last spring’s plantings. Our fingers remain crossed these bushes will make it through the winter and beyond.

And Now It’s September,

By Barbara Crooker

 

and the garden diminishes: cucumber leaves rumpled

and rusty, zucchini felled by borers, tomatoes sparse

on the vines. But out in the perennial beds, there’s one last

blast of color: ignitions of goldenrod, flamboyant

asters, spiraling mums, all those flashy spikes waving

in the wind, conducting summer’s final notes.

The ornamental grasses have gone to seed, haloed

in the last light. Nights grow chilly, but the days

are still warm; I wear the sun like a shawl on my neck

and arms. Hundreds of blackbirds ribbon in, settle

in the trees, so many black leaves, then, just as suddenly,

they’re gone. This is autumn’s great Departure Gate,

and everyone, boarding passes in hand, waits

patiently in a long, long line.

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Evolution or Revolution?

The snow is melting!!! It will take a few days to get gone. Fortunately, we’re in for a string of 40+℉ all week. Can you tell that I’m not one of those who has to have their ice house removed by a week from tomorrow? I have two objectives for next week: 1) finish organizing the tax information, and 2) get much of the dog droppings cleaned up as melting continues. If I succeed at both, I’ll reward myself with a trip to one of the local fly-fishing shops.

February hoar frost on the trees

Photo by J. Harrington

The dogs are much happier now that the temperatures have gone to positive numbers. The warmer, moister, air seems to hold more enticing aromas (smells if you’re a dog) so they enjoy that too. We’ve come into hoar frost and rime ice season. If we get some it’ll be beautiful, as usual. Soon the song birds will be singing their spring songs and tom turkeys will be gobbling to impress hens.

I’m rarely sorry to see February go. In Minnesota, winter is usually three or four weeks longer than I’d like. I’m crossing my fingers that this spring may actually be like a springtime, instead of just a jumbled-up change from winter to summer. Next month we’ll get this year’s fishing licenses and start planning some trips. The older I get, especially since last November, the more I’m taking to heart John Voellker’s Testament of a Fisherman.

I’m also looking forward to digging out one of the presents I got last Christmas and doing more local exploring based on Angie Hong’s Exploring the St. Croix River Valley. The best part of the year is ahead of us and we need to enjoy as much of it as we can.

We’ll close out Black History Month this year and respond to a wannabe king with an all too fitting

Declaration 

Tracy K. Smith
1972 – 

He has 

              sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people



He has plundered our—



                                             ravaged our—



                                                                   destroyed the lives of our—



taking away our­—



                                 abolishing our most valuable—



and altering fundamentally the Forms of our—



In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for

Redress in the most humble terms:

                                                                Our repeated 

Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury.



We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration

and settlement here.



                                    —taken Captive



                                                              on the high Seas



                                                                                             to bear—

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Welcome, February!

Yesterday was the Feast of Imbolc. It was also the first day of Black History Month. Today, on Groundhog Day, Punxsutawney Phil is reported to have seen his shadow, which means six weeks more of winter. That brings us to mid-March, several weeks after the March 1 beginning of meteorological spring and about a week before the spring equinox, the start of astronomical spring. However, according to NOAA, Phil has a history of not being very accurate with his forecasts.

If you’re reading this, it’s a good indication you made it through January with us. This morning, for the first time this year, I heard the spring song of a chickadee. The little snow we got yesterday and last night is melting. More flakes are forecast for tonight and tomorrow morning, followed by daytime highs in the upper teens and low twenties for at least a week or so. Normal highs this week should be in the mid-twenties, so Phil looks to be on target for the first week of February.

Valentine's Day hearts and candy

Photo by J. Harrington

Valentine’s Day will be a week from Friday. Last night we helped the Daughter Person and Son-In-Law, and many of their friends, celebrate the 20th anniversary of their first date. Several of the folks whose blogs I follow are focusing this month on the need to love the world and all our neighbors, both human and more than. I find that I can love much of the world but have severe difficulty with creatures like viruses that make folks sick or worse. I have similar issues with many people who seem to have been placed here primarily to cause suffering and/or serve as a bad example. Neither do I believe in unilateral disarmament. I suspect sainthood isn’t in my future.

In light of events of the past couple of weeks, and those anticipated for the foreseeable future, I can think of no better way to begin celebrating Black History Month than with this poem of Langston Hughes:

Let America Be America Again 

by Langston Hughes 

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me?
Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!

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Seasonal adjustments

According to our copy of the Minnesota Weather Guide, the normal high temperature this week is 82℉ and next week it’s 81℉. The ten-day forecast doesn’t have a high of 80℉ or more. Early Autumn on the horizon? More mice have been showing up in the mouse traps this month. For some of us, especially me, Autumn’s early arrival would be a pleasant surprise, as long as we don’t revert to 90’s next month. The last time I checked, the average number of days in the 90s in Minneapolis is 13 but

As of August 6, there have been 6 days this year where the high temperature has reached at least 90 degrees Fahrenheit in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

The last time it reached at least 90° F was August 2, 2024.

We’ve been enjoying letting fresh air into the house today. With Summer temperatures, air conditioning, and windows closed, after a while the air does tend toward stale.

local trout stream at "normal" flow

Photo by J. Harrington

The rains and more rains have repeatedly spiked the flows in our local trout streams. Maybe the next week or so will provide better conditions to check out in person how they’re flowing. I may even bring along my Tenkara rod to play with. The simplicity of that approach appeals to me, at least enough to give it a try. The rod has sat in a corner for a couple of years now.

Despite being retired, I’m running into a time and energy crunch. There are a couple of other writing projects I’d like to get started on but posting here on a daily basis, and doing enough from time to time to post about, has been getting in the way of my getting started on those other projects. So, I’m considering going to less than daily here, maybe even once a week for awhile. When and if I get those other projects rolling, I may return to daily here, or not. We’re almost at 825,000 posts and many of our page views appear to be from bots, which isn’t very satisfying as far as I’m concerned. Plus, Blogger is again failing to upload images. [The image  above was added the day after original posting. I don't know what changed.]

The Trout

Amy Lowell
1874 – 1925

          Naughty little speckled trout,
          Can't I coax you to come out?
          Is it such great fun to play
          In the water every day?

          Do you pull the Naiads' hair
          Hiding in the lilies there?
          Do you hunt for fishes' eggs,
          Or watch tadpoles grow their legs?

          Do the little trouts have school
          In some deep sun-glinted pool,
          And in recess play at tag
          Round that bed of purple flag?

          I have tried so hard to catch you,
          Hours and hours I've sat to watch you;
          But you never will come out,
          Naughty little speckled trout!

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Welcome, October?

I believe we’re in the process of setting a new high temperature record for today. The existing one is 87℉. In light of the temperatures, the Twin Cities Marathon, scheduled for today, has been canceled. Come midweek, high temperatures are forecast to peak in the upper 50s and low 60s. Meanwhile, we’re grateful that the air conditioning is working, in Minnesota! on October 1! We’ve reached a point where our weather is as absurd as our politics. We know what to do about each, but the question remains, will enough of US do what’s needed to turn down the heat in the atmosphere and in political capitals by turning up the heat under extremists who put personal gain ahead of community and country?

The Better Half and I stopped by to see our son in his group home midday. After the visit, we headed into the big city of Minneapolis and its suburb of St. Louis Park to visit Birchbark Books and Orvis, not in that order. Nothing was purchased at the outdoor clothing and fly fishing shop. At Birchbark, I picked up a copy of Heather Cox Richardson’s Democracy Awakening: Notes on the State of America. For some time I’ve been reading her Letters from an American and have been impressed. I’m looking forward to reading the book and hope her suggestions about how we get out of the state we’re in involve more than Vote. You’ll probably get exposed here from time to time to my reactions to Awakening’s content and prescriptions.

Sans segue, despite the heat and in honor of the start of Banned Books Week, I did wear my “Banned Books Club” sweatshirt to the book store and was mildly disappointed that there didn’t appear to be any specific display of banned books on the shelves or tables. I also recommenced reading Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass this morning. Later, I noted with interest, that Democracy Awakening begins with a Whitman epigram:

We have frequentlly printed the word Democracy. Yet I cannot too often repeat that it is a word the real gist of which stilll sleeps, quite unawaken’d.

Walt Whitman
Democratic Vistas, 1871

It will be interesting to watch what plays out over the next 45 days as Congress again faces the need to fund the government. I’ve just about reached the conclusion that there are no good autocrats and most Republicans are autocrats.

Democracy

By Dorianne Laux

When you’re cold—November, the streets icy and everyone you pass

homeless, Goodwill coats and Hefty bags torn up to make ponchos—

someone is always at the pay phone, hunched over the receiver

spewing winter’s germs, swollen lipped, face chapped, making the last

tired connection of the day. You keep walking to keep the cold

at bay, too cold to wait for the bus, too depressing the thought

of entering that blue light, the chilled eyes watching you decide

which seat to take: the man with one leg, his crutches bumping

the smudged window glass, the woman with her purse clutched

to her breasts like a dead child, the boy, pimpled, morose, his head

shorn, a swastika carved into the stubble, staring you down.

So you walk into the cold you know: the wind, indifferent blade,

familiar, the gold leaves heaped along the gutters. You have

a home, a house with gas heat, a toilet that flushes. You have

a credit card, cash. You could take a taxi if one would show up.

You can feel it now: why people become Republicans: Get that dog

off the street. Remove that spit and graffiti. Arrest those people huddled

on the steps of the church. If it weren’t for them you could believe in god,

in freedom, the bus would appear and open its doors, the driver dressed

in his tan uniform, pants legs creased, dapper hat: Hello Miss, watch

your step now. But you’re not a Republican. You’re only tired, hungry,

you want out of the cold. So you give up, walk back, step into line behind

the grubby vet who hides a bag of wine under his pea coat, holds out

his grimy 85 cents, takes each step slow as he pleases, releases his coins

into the box and waits as they chink down the chute, stakes out a seat

in the back and eases his body into the stained vinyl to dream

as the chips of shrapnel in his knee warm up and his good leg

flops into the aisle. And you’ll doze off, too, in a while, next to the girl

who can’t sit still, who listens to her Walkman and taps her boots

to a rhythm you can’t hear, but you can see it—when she bops

her head and her hands do a jive in the air—you can feel it

as the bus rolls on, stopping at each red light in a long wheeze,

jerking and idling, rumbling up and lurching off again.

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As Autumn -- leaves fall

Today. for the first time in months, I'm wearing a heavy flannel shirt. The outside temperature is 60℉ and I’m enjoying every bit of it except the chronic cloud cover. Sunshine tomorrow, rain over the weekend, and not an 80℉ temperature in sight. Things are looking up, and, while we’re looking up too, we’re seeing more and more leaves turning color. The Department of Natural Resources Fall Color Finder is predominantly green, less than 10% color, but we’re seeing overnight increases in leaf color other than green.

color changes have started

Photo by J. Harrington

No signs yet of roadside pumpkin sales, and I’ve not yet picked up our usual pots of chrysanthemums to go along the driveway. Maybe later today or tomorrow. When I looked about a week ago, the selection was both sparse and poor.

I’m sure you’ve been waiting with bated breath to learn that it appears we’ve been successful restoring our sourdough starter. We won’t know for sure for a few more days, until we’ve made dough and baked, and tasted, a loaf, but the starter looked all happy and bubbly yesterday and we’ve started a levain that should rise overnight and be the basis for dough making tomorrow. This could work out with wonderful timing, filling the house with warm bread aromas over a rainy, cool weekend ~ if only I’d planned it that way! But, that reminds me: “No amount of planning will ever replace dumb luck!”

Fall

Edward Hirsch     1950 –

Fall, falling, fallen. That's the way the season 

Changes its tense in the long-haired maples 

That dot the road; the veiny hand-shaped leaves 

Redden on their branches (in a fiery competition 

With the final remaining cardinals) and then 

Begin to sidle and float through the air, at last 

Settling into colorful layers carpeting the ground. 

At twilight the light, too, is layered in the trees 

In a season of odd, dusky congruences—a scarlet tanager

And the odor of burning leaves, a golden retriever 

Loping down the center of a wide street and the sun 

Setting behind smoke-filled trees in the distance, 

A gap opening up in the treetops and a bruised cloud 

Blamelessly filling the space with purples. Everything 

Changes and moves in the split second between summer's 

Sprawling past and winter's hard revision, one moment 

Pulling out of the station according to schedule, 

Another moment arriving on the next platform. It 

Happens almost like clockwork: the leaves drift away 

From their branches and gather slowly at our feet, 

Sliding over our ankles, and the season begins moving 

Around us even as its colorful weather moves us, 

Even as it pulls us into its dusty, twilit pockets. 

And every year there is a brief, startling moment 

When we pause in the middle of a long walk home and 

Suddenly feel something invisible and weightless 

Touching our shoulders, sweeping down from the air: 

It is the autumn wind pressing against our bodies; 

It is the changing light of fall falling on us. 

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When are the tipping points?

It’s hard to believe that only four months ago our back yard was snow covered. Today we are, again, under an “Excessive Heat Warning” until 10 pm tomorrow. The actual temperature is 95℉. The humidity makes it feel like 105℉. Normal high temperature for this date is 80℉. The earliest snowfall in our area was September 24, 1985. It will be interesting to see how much things cool off over the next month, but I’m not getting my hopes up. In fact, I fully expect next winter, when it arrives, to be colder and snowier than “normal” to compensate for this summer’s weather. That way, on an annual average basis, our extremes won’t look as anomalous.

back yard: April 22, 2023

Photo by J. Harrington

I’m just hoping the weather and the water temperatures moderate enough that I can go fly fishing on a trout stream without triggering a guilty conscience. (Releasing a stressed fish into water temps at the upper limits of its tolerance invites mortality.) Maybe next week I at least need to go for a ride and check water temperatures for myself. Perhaps by then I’ll have overcome my heat and humidity induced lethargy.

Male hummingbirds are still coming to the feeders. Sandhill cranes are beginning to flock up. Sandhill colts are nearly grown. Summer won’t last forever and in six months I’ll be complaining about cold and snow that seems never ending.

Heat

H.D.     1886 – 1961

O wind, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop
through this thick air—
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.

Cut the heat—
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.

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Are we sure this is “Spring?"

With the possible exception of questioning if we’ll enjoy enough snow cover for a white Christmas, the arrival of real spring stresses what little patience I have more than any other seasonal change. I don’t recall every getting antsy about when the leaf color will appear in autumn, but I do begin to wonder about when we’ll get leaf-out (usually around early May). Once the ice is off local trout streams, I wear insulated waders until water temperatures climb enough to make light-weight waders or wet wading comfortable. No big deal. I don’t even get too concerned about ice out on our local lakes and, since I’m not really an ice angler, I never care about when the ice will be thick enough to walk on.

some “Springs" mid-April looks like this

Photo by J. Harrington

Now, if you’re feeling brave, ask me how much I want the ice off our driveway and the snow gone from our yard. I’ll give you an earful. It’s possible, now that I’m learning about no mow May and leaving dead leaves in place until we start mowing, rather than “tidying” the yard as soon as the soil dries and grass turns green, I’lll have to repress old habits and urges but it will be worth it to be able to get out and walk around with the dogs without having to break trail.

I suspect that growing up on the Atlantic coast, literally within ten miles or so of the ocean, has me biased against the kinds of winters we get in the North Country. I became imprinted on winters that were neither as long nor as deep as those we get here. The fact that we may get a couple of inches of snow this week and another inch and a half next week and, in between, may see our first 50℉ high since some time months ago doesn’t help. It feels as if Mother Nature keeps teasing us with a promise of spring only to snatch it away and say “Not yet!!” That kind of inconsistency is maddening, in both (all?) senses of the word.

Spring Snow

By Linda Gregerson

A kind of counter- 

blossoming, diversionary, 

doomed, and like 

the needle with its drop 

of blood a little 

too transparently in 

love with doom, takes 

issue with the season: Not 

(the serviceberry bright 

with explanation) not 

(the redbud unspooling 

its silks) I know I've read 

the book but not (the lilac, 

the larch) quite yet, I still 

have one more card to 

play. Behold 

a six-hour wonder: six 

new inches bedecking the 

railing, the bench, the top 

of the circular table like 

a risen cake. The saplings 

made (who little thought 

what beauty weighs) to bow 

before their elders. 

The moment bears more 

than the usual signs of its own 

demise, but isn't that 

the bravery? Built 

on nothing but the self- 

same knots of air 

and ice. Already 

the lip of it riddled 

with flaws, a sort 

of vascular lesion that 

betokens—what? betokens 

the gathering return 

to elementals. (She 

was frightened 

for a minute, who had 

planned to be so calm.) 

A dripline scoring 

the edge of the walk. 

The cotton batting blown 

against the screen begun 

to pill and molt. (Who 

clothed them out of 

mercy in the skins 

of beasts.) And even 

as the last of the 

lightness continues 

to fall, the seepage 

underneath has gained 

momentum. (So that 

there must have been a 

death before 

the death we call the 

first or what became 

of them, the ones 

whose skins were taken.) 

Now the more- 

of-casting-backward-than-of- 

forward part, which must 

have happened while I wasn't 

looking or was looking 

at the skinning knives. I think 

I'll call this mercy too.

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What color is March?

Some time this month, this year probably in the second half, we will see a reduction in winter’s white and return of colors to the landscape. Not as spring wildflowers, those come later in the season. The first colors often arrive in the stems, branches and twigs of bushes and seedlings, or in the swelling of leaf buds. They bring a welcome respite from a monotonously monochromatic view dominated by white, the combination of all colors in the visible spectrum.

as color returns in March

Photo by J. Harrington

As the snow melts and the ground unfreezes, sap begins to flow in plants, think maple sugaring. Color begins to return as reds and yellows [see picture above]. Soon, green will become dominant in late spring and summer, just as white was during winter. For now, we get to enjoy a prelude to autumn’s beautiful leaf colors, but lower in the trees. Open water, blue skies and bright sunshine help heighten the beauty of early spring. Replacing snow with more than mud is an aesthetic treat that comes for a brief period each year in country that enjoys more than one season.

Come April and May, our eyes are often cast down to discover spring ephemerals. In March, once we no long have to watch for icy patches underfoot, we can look around and observe life, and color, returning. Soon, very soon, but not quite yet.

Colors passing through us

By Marge Piercy

Purple as tulips in May, mauve

into lush velvet, purple

as the stain blackberries leave

on the lips, on the hands,

the purple of ripe grapes

sunlit and warm as flesh.

Every day I will give you a color,

like a new flower in a bud vase

on your desk. Every day

I will paint you, as women

color each other with henna

on hands and on feet.

Red as henna, as cinnamon,

as coals after the fire is banked,

the cardinal in the feeder,

the roses tumbling on the arbor

their weight bending the wood

the red of the syrup I make from petals.

Orange as the perfumed fruit

hanging their globes on the glossy tree,

orange as pumpkins in the field,

orange as butterflyweed and the monarchs

who come to eat it, orange as my

cat running lithe through the high grass.

Yellow as a goat’s wise and wicked eyes,

yellow as a hill of daffodils,

yellow as dandelions by the highway,

yellow as butter and egg yolks,

yellow as a school bus stopping you,

yellow as a slicker in a downpour.

Here is my bouquet, here is a sing

song of all the things you make

me think of, here is oblique

praise for the height and depth

of you and the width too.

Here is my box of new crayons at your feet.

Green as mint jelly, green

as a frog on a lily pad twanging,

the green of cos lettuce upright

about to bolt into opulent towers,

green as Grand Chartreuse in a clear

glass, green as wine bottles.

Blue as cornflowers, delphiniums,

bachelors’ buttons. Blue as Roquefort,

blue as Saga. Blue as still water.

Blue as the eyes of a Siamese cat.

Blue as shadows on new snow, as a spring

azure sipping from a puddle on the blacktop.

Cobalt as the midnight sky

when day has gone without a trace

and we lie in each other’s arms

eyes shut and fingers open

and all the colors of the world

pass through our bodies like strings of fire.

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Is Phil full of it?

Phil saw his shadow this morning. That means, according to legend, six more weeks of winter. But, Phil is only correct about 40% of the time, so two to three more weeks of winter? I don’t think that’s how it works. Beginning Saturday we’re forecast to experience a spell of above normal [at or above freezing] temperatures. If it stays above freezing and there’s not a lot of snow, I can tolerate six more weeks but I’d like it more if Phil is just plain flat-out wrong.

Nature’s Notebook at the USA Phenology Network has a helpful graphic comparing this year’s trends with NOAA’s forecast for the next six weeks. See for yourself. [click the llink under the graphic to see the source]

source: Nature’s Notebook

Soon I’ll begin to more carefully and frequently track the approach of spring to our North Country. For the next several weeks [months?] that will be more wishful thinking than informative. First we need to melt the snow and ice because snow reflects sunlight while bare ground absorbs heat (as do black road surfaces especially). The Minnesota Department of Agriculture tracks soil temperatures. Many seeds germinate when the soil has reached 60℉. Locally, we’re told to plan on frosts any time up until Memorial Day. So, in the North County, we plan on a long, often volatile, spring with, often, a sudden transition into summer.

Before that change bears will be birthing cubs about this time of year, waterfowl will return in about a month, and many non-migrants will enter into the frolics of their own breeding seasons. Spring is when many a young animal’s fancy turns.

Spring

by Mary Oliver

Somewhere
a black bear
has just risen from sleep
and is staring

down the mountain.
All night
in the brisk and shallow restlessness
of early spring

I think of her,
her four black fists
flicking the gravel,
her tongue

like a red fire
touching the grass,
the cold water.
There is only one question:

how to love this world.
I think of her
rising
like a black and leafy ledge

to sharpen her claws against
the silence
of the trees.
Whatever else

my life is
with its poems
and its music
and its glass cities,

it is also this dazzling darkness
coming
down the mountain,
breathing and tasting;

all day I think of her -—
her white teeth,
her wordlessness,
her perfect love.

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After mid-winter comes spring

Today’s (and yesterday’s) local weather will set a baseline for some of us that clearly demonstrates the validity of William McDonough’s assertion that “Here's where redesign begins in earnest, where we stop trying to be less bad and we start figuring out how to be good.” If it’s not clear to you, being less cold is not the same as being warm. The remainder of this week, temperatures will be less cold than yesterday and today, but won’t warm enough to begin to thaw, let alone hot enough to melt. I am so looking forward to warm weather instead of these dangerous, bad, cold below zero days. (I think the dogs agree with me although the Better Half is as strongly opposed to “too hot” as I am to “too cold.”) Meanwhile, in my olld home town of Boston, it’s currently in the mid 40s. I come by my intolerance honestly.

actually, this is progress toward Spring

Photo by J. Harrington

As we’ve noted elsewhere, our local temperatures normally get above freezing about the same time we reach eleven hours of daylight, during the last few days of February. Four weeks from now we should begin to enter mud season, except on our driveway, which probably will be thawing and melting for most of March. I’ll probably be grumping about the slippery ice covering the drive unless we get a major melt or I get creative with  the tractor and the backblade. The dogs don’t seem to care much about ice or mud because neither freezes their paws the way this morning’s seven below did. I don’t seem to be able to convince them to spend less time sniffing when it gets this cold and we’ve tried and failed to get them to wear boots. C’mon Spring, hurry fast!

We may get some more really cold days before meteorological spring (March 1) or astronomical spring (March 20) arrive, but I’m going to proceed with the Celtic first celebration of spring on February 1 and 2, by honoring Imbolc.

Although we would think of Imbolc as being in the midst of Winter, it represents in fact the first of a trio of Spring celebrations, since it is the time of the first appearance of the snowdrop, and of the melting of the snows and the clearing of the debris of Winter. It is a time when we sense the first glimmer of Spring, and when the lambs are born. In the Druid tradition it is a gentle, beautiful festival in which the Mother Goddess is honoured with eight candles rising out of the water at the centre of the ceremonial circle.

Imbolc by Damh the Bard

As the dark, cold morning gives way to light,
And the world shows its face dazzling in her nakedness,
So the twigs and leaf-bare branches,
Bow to the passing dance
Of old Jack Frost.
His crystal breath on the earth,
And the corners of houses weep icicles of joy.
But where is the Sun’s warmth?
Where is life?
A small flower, delicate and pure-white,
Looks to the earth,
As if talking to the waiting green,
“Not yet,” it seems to whisper.
“When I fall, then you can return.”
And she nods her head,
as the Lady passes by,
Leaving more flowers in Her wake. 

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Easing into a new year

Driving a local back road late this morning, we saw something unusual, at least something we’ve neither seen before nor read about. There were a couple of flocks of pheasants and wild turkeys mixed together. It looked like they were picking up gravel from the roadside. With the countryside buried under deep snow, it’s not clear what those birds may be finding to eat these days.

wild turkeys in snow field

Photo by J. Harrington

In our yard the songbirds and woodpeckers continue to freeload at the feeders. The hawk that was hanging around a week or ten days ago seems to have moved on. As the latest really cold spell eases, we’ll get out more often and see who’s up to what. Maybe this year we can avoid severe cabin fever and keep bouts of Seasonally Affective Disorder to a minimum. Getting up and out and off our butt will also help keep our legs in shape. It seems that part of the aging process is an intensified battle in the war against gravity, in both meanings of that word.

My last loaf of bread displayed the results of a lack of practice and engagement and a failure to keep my starter properly refreshed. We won’t repeat it today, but pretend you read [here] Beckett’s quotation on “fail better.” The bread is edible but more toward the heavy, crusty side than I prefer.

One of the Christmas cards we received this year was from the Academy of American Poets. It contained a couple of stanzas from a poem that we finally tracked down in its entirety. You’ll find it below. I’m going to keep it in mind all year. I’m also going to check out  more of the  poet’s work and see if one or more of his books would make a find present for Father’s Day, or, perhaps, a Valentine.

Holding the Light

Stuart Kestenbaum

^{for Kait Rhoads}

Gather up whatever is  
glittering in the gutter, 
whatever has tumbled  
in the waves or fallen  
in flames out of the sky, 

for it’s not only our 
hearts that are broken,  
but the heart 
of the world as well. 
Stitch it back together.  

Make a place where 
the day speaks to the night 
and the earth speaks to the sky. 
Whether we created God 
or God created us 

it all comes down to this: 
In our imperfect world 
we are meant to repair 
and stitch together  
what beauty there is, stitch it  

with compassion and wire.  
See how everything  
we have made gathers  
the light inside itself 
and overflows? A blessing. 

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Happy Solstice!

Tomorrow, very slowly, the days will begin to grow longer, at least for the first half of the year. Temperatures will begin to increase on a schedule that lags behind the day length. The Minnesota Weather Guide calendar notes we reach our normal daily low high temperature (23℉) in mid-January and begin to see an increase in average daily highs the last week of that month. So, for some of us, there’s that to look forward to after the holiday season.

I’ve noticed that, since I’ve been paying more attention to the details of seasonal changes, and not just the broad brush awareness of which of the four general seasons we’re in, I’ve been more inclined to take in stride inclement weather and seasonal abnormalities. This morning I went off through the snow to get gas for the snow blower. I’m of the opinion that risking an insufficient fuel supply to clear the drive after the snowfall stops is an invitation to have record-setting snow amounts befall us. It’s a variant of the old saying “the best defense is a good offense.”

tomorrow our sun starts creeping northward

Photo by J. Harrington

Meanwhile, the Better Half has either taken pity on me or become fed up with my complaints about winter being worse than usual, perhaps both, because I got an early Christmas present, a bulb garden of paperwhites, tulips and others that will help bring early signs of spring to our windowsill in 5 to 6 weeks. That may be a little after the amaryllis bloom. We failed to give those bulbs their cool, dark treatment on a timely basis this year.

Birds are piling in to the feeder as the snow falls. It’s fun to watch them and makes me happy that I can do more than fluff my feathers to stay warm in this bitter cold. There’s been a flurry of present wrapping going on inside the house. That’s slowly winding down. My assessment of last week, that we were very, very likely to be assured of a white Christmas is turning out to be an understatement. Nevertheless, may we all find that next season, and the ones after that, are better and more enjoyable than the preceding one.

Winter Solstice

Ray McNiece 

Late December grinds on down.
The sky stops, slate on slate,
scatters a cold light of snow
across a field of brittle weeds.

Each boot step cracks a stalk.
The pigments have been dragged
earthwards and clasped. The groundhog
curls among the roots curling.

Towards home I peel blossoms
of frozen mud from my pant legs
and pull off burrs that waited
for wind or the flashing red fox.

In my jacket pocket I find
a beechnut, slightly cracked
open, somehow fallen there,
and, enfolded inside of it,

a spider that unclenches
yellow in my steaming palm –
a spider that is 
the sun.

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Has winter arrived?

We have once again confirmed that getting off our duff and actually cleaning up some of the mess along the drive is much more productive than sitting on our duff in the house and complaining about the mess along the drive. We have also confirmed that, despite living in Minnesota for half a century, we’re still not acclimated enough to remember to wear warm boots or shoes when working outside and standing around in cold damp weather. Each of these observations further demonstrates the accuracy of the saying “We get too soon old and too late smart!” 

Does anyone have any hopes or expectations for an extended warm spell before we get a January thaw, if we get a January thaw? I don’t like these autumns when, within a day or two, we go from low 60s to low 30s and high 20s and then stay there. I feel as though mother nature owes me a couple of weeks in the 40s to get my outside chores done. [Even the Better Half has been discombooberated by this weather. She planted some peonies today but others are still en route. All were supposed to be planted end of October.] Autumn has become too much of a mirror image of spring when we do weeks in the 60s and then jump to the mid 80s and stay there.

pear tree, pumpkins, whitetails

Photo by J. Harrington

Despite my complaints, it felt good to be outside for more than  a quick dog walk. I used the fire pit to burn a bunch of the small branches left over from the tree removal on Tuesday. It’s been too long since I enjoyed an outside fire and the smell of woodsmoke. The pumpkins, all five of them, have now been deposited under the pear tree. Some time over the next week or two I expect the local whitetails to find them and feed on them.

Final observation on this Veterans Day: I remain very grateful that my Dad, Uncle,  Father-In-Law and their peers did such a great job stopping fascism through WWII. It will be even better if we can eradicate it from our country without another civil war.

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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So the North Wind said “Chill out!”

Morning wind chill in low teens; not what we expect in mid-October, even here in the North Country. Brings us to a version of “it’s not the cold, it’s the windchill,” as an alternative to those in the southwest who try to convince us that “yes, but it’s a dry heat” as the thermometer tops 100.

There was a disconcerted red squirrel this morning, trying to figure out  how to get at the plants and pumpkins we had covered with a flannel sheet to protect from frost and freezing. It’s supposed to get really cold again tonight, so we’ll just leave the cover on all day and night. Things, such as temperatures, are supposed to improve after tomorrow night, until the next unseasonable cold snap gets here.

migrating waterfowl

Photo by J. Harrington

We drove past the Sunrise river pools in the Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area today. This morning as we were heading out of town there was one pair of swans. When we returned several hours later, the water was still very high, but there were no birds in sight anywhere. Waterfowl numbers should pick up over the next couple of weeks as the migration begins to include divers and geese.

As this was being typed, we had what I think was a robin at the bird bath. If I’m correct, it’s the first time in the years we’ve had the bath on the deck rail that I’ve seen a robin at it. I’ve seen robins in the puddles in the driveway, but never at the bird bath. This world seems to get stranger by the day.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

By Robert Frost

Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

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Time to chill out!

Only a few days left in September. There was a skim of ice on the bird bath this morning. Frost covered the low spot in the back yard and most everywhere else in sight too. That should be it for local frost advisories for the next ten days and maybe more. I’d rather cope with intermittently covering the plants than cleaning up after a hurricane. One of the nice things about Minnesota is that very few hurricanes reach us.

bird bath with ice cover

Photo by J. Harrington

We took a drive today to do some errands and can confirm that the MNDNR Fall Color Finder map is accurate, although  we’d lean toward the lower end of their 10% - 25% peak color estimate around here. Most of the oaks are still very green. Maples, sumacs and others are showing more color by the day.

This morning’s predawn dog walk reminded me of just how cold it’s likely to get four or five months from now. But, before that happens we get to enjoy Samhain / Halloween; Thanksgiving; and, Solstice / Christmas. I’ve not yet tackled the 72 seasons a year we mentioned awhile back, but neither have I forgotten about it. Maybe we’ll save that up for an upcoming snow day!

Leaves

Lloyd Schwartz - 1941-

                        1 

Every October it becomes important, no, necessary
to see the leaves turning, to be surrounded
by leaves turning; it's not just the symbolism,
to confront in the death of the year your death,
one blazing farewell appearance, though the irony 
isn't lost on you that nature is most seductive
when it's about to die, flaunting the dazzle of its 
incipient exit, an ending that at least so far 
the effects of human progress (pollution, acid rain)
have not yet frightened you enough to make you believe
is real; that is, you know this ending is a deception
because of course nature is always renewing itself—
        the trees don't die, they just pretend,
        go out in style, and return in style: a new style.





                        2 

Is it deliberate how far they make you go
especially if you live in the city to get far 
enough away from home to see not just trees 
but only trees? The boring highways, roadsigns, high 
speeds, 10-axle trucks passing you as if they were 
in an even greater hurry than you to look at leaves:
so you drive in terror for literal hours and it looks 
like rain, or snow, but it's probably just clouds
(too cloudy to see any color?) and you wonder, 
given the poverty of your memory, which road had the 
most color last year, but it doesn't matter since 
you're probably too late anyway, or too early—
        whichever road you take will be the wrong one
        and you've probably come all this way for nothing.






                        3 

You'll be driving along depressed when suddenly
a cloud will move and the sun will muscle through
and ignite the hills. It may not last. Probably
won't last. But for a moment the whole world
comes to. Wakes up. Proves it lives. It lives—
red, yellow, orange, brown, russet, ocher, vermilion,
gold. Flame and rust. Flame and rust, the permutations
of burning. You're on fire. Your eyes are on fire.
It won't last, you don't want it to last. You 
can't stand any more. But you don't want it to stop. 
It's what you've come for. It's what you'll
come back for. It won't stay with you, but you'll 
        remember that it felt like nothing else you've felt
        or something you've felt that also didn't last.

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Yes, thanks, it’s hot enough for me

We’ve not noticed any yet this year, but we’re coming into wild cucumber blooming time. If you think you’re seeing ghosts drifting along tree lines or fence lines, maybe you’re seeing wild cucumber flowers. We’re back into a spell of above average temperatures over the next ten days or so. Thundershowers late tomorrow and then a dry spell. It’ll make autumn’s cooler weather all the more appealing when it arrives.

wild cucumber among the cat tails

Photo by J. Harrington

I’ve reached an age, and a stage, at which, if it feels too damn hot to do outside chores, it IS too damn hot to do outside chores, except, maybe, for very, very, brief periods. I’m also learning to take in stride that the weather rarely cooperates with my plans. Some weeks back, I mentioned the prospect of burning one of the brush piles in honor of Lughnasadh. Tomorrow evening would have been the most appropriate time for that. When is the only time in our extended forecast that includes thunderstorms? Tomorrow evening. Sigh. Well, there’s always Autumn Equinox and Samhain, if I have the patience to wait.

Six months from now, I’m pretty sure I’ll be complaining about snow and cold and ice and wind all seeming everlasting but at least then we avoid bugs and road construction. Meanwhile, I’ll look for that magic spot after the morning dew has dried but before the temperature has climbed too high and see if I can get a few things done outside before the heat of the day.

“HEAT” BY H.D.

O wind, rend open the heat,

cut apart the heat,

rend it to tatters.

Fruit cannot drop

through this thick air–

fruit cannot fall into heat

that presses up and blunts

the points of pears

and rounds the grapes.

Cut the heat–

plough through it,

turning it on either side

of your path.

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