In some cultures, Spring is almost here

We've entered what is typically the coldest period of the year here in the North Country. I'm hoping Mother Nature and the Fates will be kind this year so we don''t have to wait until Spring for ICE OUT. Meanwhile, paperwork that let's us know we've entered tax season has started to arrive, along with junk mail. Can you tell this is not my favorite time of year? On the other hand, at least there's lots to look forward to during in January and February, like the return of melting and growing and waterfowl. We just have to hang in there.

winter is also sourdough bread season

Photo by J. Harrington

In the interim, the Better Half has three (Christmas) amaryllis plants with multiple blossoms now on two of them and the third coming along more slowly. Plus, one of her windowsill orchids is flowering! But, the lavender plant I got for Christmas seems "under the weather" due to lack of sufficient sunshine and ambient indoor temperatures five to ten degrees cooler than ideal. (Our downstairs is always cooler during heating season since heat rises.) I honestly can't remember an extended period of cloudiness like we've had for the past several months. I'd move the lavender upstairs but the sunny windowsills are full already with amaryllis and orchids.

If we were wise enough to follow more of the old Druid traditions, in a couple of weeks we'd be celebrating Imbolc on February 1. That's the first of three "Spring" festivals and arrives a couple of weeks ahead of Valentines Day. I'm going to polish my ""of Irish extraction" credentials and get ready to celebrate and enjoy Imbolc this year. That feels like it fits nicely with rereading Gary Snyder's The Practice of the Wild, as I started to do yesterday.

As Sergeant Phil Esterhaus said each morning at roll call on Hill Street Blues: "Let's be careful out there," especially as long as Minnesota is territory occupied by hostile forces.

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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Tis the season for ....

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

Home grown pine Christmas tree 2024

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

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

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

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Robert Frost  1874 – 1963

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

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

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

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

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Winter didn't wait for the solstice

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

Christmas cheer comes in many shapes and sizes

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

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

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

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

 

Grace

Joy Harjo   1951 –

                                    For Darlene Wind and James Welch

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

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

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

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

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Advice for these times from times past

There’s an old piece of advice that goes something like “If you can’t say something good, don’t say anything at all.” There will be no political commentary forthcoming from this source today. if we had a third major political party in our country, we could call the parties: Larry, Moe and Curly.

On to better news, we’ve made it to meteorological spring. Astronomical spring begins locally with the seasonal equinox on Thursday, March 20, 2025 at 4:01 am CDT. Snow is in the forecast for this coming Tuesday and, a week later, the high temperature is forecast to reach the low 60’s. Make of that what you will. I see few options but to try to ride the roller coasters of weather and politics as best I can and try to follow another old piece of advice: Illegitimi non carborundum [Don't let the bastards grind you down].

spring greening, life reviving

Photo by J. Harrington

Last week I successfully completed my two major objectives, I policed the dog droppings and, in a frustratingly similar effort, organized and delivered the tax data to the preparer. I’ll pick up the results from the preparer tomorrow. The dog’s materials are in the trash can for collection tomorrow. May all bad luck go with them to repeat another old phrase.

Back in the days when I went to grammar school, I was taught by nuns. They always counseled us kids if someone we knew was sick, we should pray for “a happy recovery or a speedy death." [Either would end the suffering if the individual was in a state of grace. If not, and a speedy death occurred, suffering could be eternal.] I can see no way that those who support #45 a&b [aka #47] could continue to do so unless they were suffering from some sort of disease. I think that means the Christian and humane behavior for US is to follow the guidance the nuns provided. Let’s all of US pray for a speedy recovery or happy death for all those supporting the current regime in D.C. and Mar-a-Lardo. It should do US a lot of good if our prayers are promptly answered. Maybe we could even avoid the worst of March’s snow jobs.

Instructions on Not Giving Up

Ada Limón
1976 – 

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

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Approaching Samhain

Great clouds of leaves have floated away from their homes of origin. They now clutter the ground and complicate the last grass cutting of the past growing season. Bare branches begin to dominate country skylines. Halloween / Samhain arrives Thursday. Candles are lit at dinner time. Autumn is here and next weekend we begin to anticipate celebrating Thanksgiving in hope that “our fellow Americans(?)” will leave US something to celebrate after November 5.

All Hallow's Eve visitors

Photo by J. Harrington

Not only was Halloween itself more fun when I was a kid, I didn’t know enough in those days to worry about elections and outcomes. An example that getting older doesn’t always mean getting wiser? Anyhow, I’m anticipating that, again this year, we’ll have at least one Trick or Treater, our 4 year old granddaughter. I think she’s the only one that’s shown up in the 25+ years we’ve lived here. I’ll spend some time over the next few days debating whether to bring in our political signs for the haunted evening rather than leave them subject to pranks or vandalism.

Flocks of Canada geese and sandhill cranes are still to be seen in our local airways. So far there’s still plenty of food and open water so no reason for them to head south. The Son-In-Law has captured some pictures of a nice buck oor two on his trail cam. I tried deer hunting off and on over the years. I just don’t enjoy sitting that still for that long to get good at it. When I was younger, I’d rather bust brush for grouse or fiddle with decoys for ducks than sit in or on a deer stand. If I had had an enclosed stand, I’d probably been guilty of too much napping. This reminds me, after Samhain, I need to send Santa a letter asking for more accommodating weather next fly fishing season.

Samhain

By Annie Finch

(The Celtic Halloween)

In the season leaves should love,

since it gives them leave to move

through the wind, towards the ground

they were watching while they hung,

legend says there is a seam

stitching darkness like a name.

Now when dying grasses veil

earth from the sky in one last pale

wave, as autumn dies to bring

winter back, and then the spring,

we who die ourselves can peel

back another kind of veil

that hangs among us like thick smoke.

Tonight at last I feel it shake.

I feel the nights stretching away

thousands long behind the days

till they reach the darkness where

all of me is ancestor.

I move my hand and feel a touch

move with me, and when I brush

my own mind across another,

I am with my mother's mother.

Sure as footsteps in my waiting

self, I find her, and she brings

arms that carry answers for me,

intimate, a waiting bounty.

"Carry me." She leaves this trail

through a shudder of the veil,

and leaves, like amber where she stays,

a gift for her perpetual gaze.

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A New Year’s Phoenix

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

a New Year arises from the ashes of the old

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

Burning the Old Year

By Naomi Shihab Nye

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.   

Notes friends tied to the doorknob,   

transparent scarlet paper,

sizzle like moth wings,

marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,   

lists of vegetables, partial poems.   

Orange swirling flame of days,   

so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,   

an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.   

I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,   

only the things I didn’t do   

crackle after the blazing dies.

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On Christmas Eve

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

make sure your roof will hold Santa

Photo by J. Harrington

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

A Visit from St. Nicholas

By Clement Clarke Moore

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

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds;

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

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

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

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

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

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

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

Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,

When what to my wondering eyes did appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,

With a little old driver so lively and quick,

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

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

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

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

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

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

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

As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

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

So up to the housetop the coursers they flew

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

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

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

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

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

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

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.

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

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

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

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

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

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

He had a broad face and a little round belly

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

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

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

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

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

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

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

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

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

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

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

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’Twas the week before Christmas....

Last night someone must have left open the door between northern Minnesota and Canada. Today is about half the temperature yesterday was and tomorrow is expected to be. At least we’re finally enjoying some sunshine. My sister, who lives in a Boston suburb, informs me today’s weather on the East coast is like a hurricane, not what one expects around Boston in mid December. It’s almost like something has disrupted the climate.

the Star of Bethlehem

Photo by J. Harrington

With the exception of light pollution, satellites and space junk, I think earth's night skies are pretty much the same as they’ve always been. That isn’t true of the surface of the planet. The dinosaurs are no more. The atmosphere is now oxygen rich. At one time it wasn’t. At various times and places, parts of the earth’s surface have been covered by sheets of ice miles thick. Now there are forecasts that both poles could be mostly free of ice in less than one hundred years. When we consider baselines, I think we should learn to be more nuanced than we generally are. According to most historical records, there were no christians slightly more than two thousand years ago. That means there was a significant baseline shift about two millennia ago.

Although many (most?) of us would do well to live more in the present, i.e., now, we also need to become more sensitive to the realization that change is constant; that it frequently results in differential changes, some for the better for some folks, some not so much. We have reached a point at which our technology allows us to reach toward the star of Bethlehem but our ethical capabilities lag far behind. If you doubt this assessment, please consider Ukraine, Syria, Gaza, Israel and numerous other current war zones and the growing pushback against more inclusive cultures and politics. Once there were few, if any, oxygen-breathing creatures on earth. Is that a state of purity to be desired?

If evolution is to be believed, almost all of us are, or were at one time, immigrants. Our predecessors developed on the plains of Africa and/or China. Then again, at one time, before there were humans, all the continents are theorized to have been part of Pangaea.

In one week, we will again celebrate the birth of one who was first known as King of the Jews, not founder of Christianity. Is nothing sacred?

Museum of Tolerance

By Michael Miller

The shirtless man by the ticket counter

  has already broken the gloom here, his crowd

    of two boys and the cashier with the Star of David

      gathered around and mouthing astonishment

as he tells the tale behind every scar.

  Yes, this one on the side was from the camp—

     he tells them not to be shy to ask—

       when he tripped into the ditch

on the run after stealing cigarettes,

  the one on the knuckle from punching the soldier

   in the bar, brave with whiskey, a decade after.

     Touch it, he snarls, jutting out his fist.

That split a real Nazi’s lip.

  In the rooms behind him, the voices lay low

    but touch is the rule, the extended families

      passing in fours and fives as tight

as at church or the carnival. Are they

  all survivors here, dazed and exhilarated

    by the fate that dropped them so far from blight?

      A father heads the line, shirt fat with muscles

and a single proud thumb pushing the stroller;

  the woman and girl hug sideways, then again,

     tight as dancers in a row. At each display,

       the time lines and the whispered assurances

reiterate that what is done is done.

  Pol Pot is dead, the children of Kampuchea

    reading again to go to college; Rwanda

       has forgiven itself and opened supermarkets;

the ghettos are demolished, the Cold War won.

  Sudan, they skip. For now, the beasts are gone.

    They face the new life, the one after the mending,

      after the last mistakes were made.

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’Twas 10 days before Christmas

I bet at least once you’ve gone down a flight of stairs that had one more, or less, step than you expected. It threw you off balance for a bit. That’s how I’m feeling every time I think we’ve finally got squared away for Christmas. This morning we nearly ran out of packing tape. Spare C cell batteries had been placed in service, so backups were needed. Another package of Christmas cookies needed a ride to the post office. (The union for Santa’s elves is starting to nag me to join.) And, since we burn candles more at this season, candle lighters are getting exhausted with spares needed. Maybe next week will be more quiet.

my preferred kind of snow flake

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half informs me that most, but not all, the Christmas cookie baking is attended to. I keep reminding myself that cloudy, rainy weather could be worse. It could be snow or ice (freezing rain). Anyhow, tomorrow morning we’ll visit the Granddaughter and I’ll attempt to read a solstice book to her. Several years ago we picked up a copy of The Shortest Day, and I’ve come to really enjoy it, even if I’m the closest we can come to pass for a young’un to read it to.

Many years Christmas has brought wonderful presents such as clothes, books or food, but no toys for me to play with. This year I’ve figured out a solution to that issue. I will have dug out of storage and have set up, ready to play with, several fly-tying kits I bought a year or two ago and never got around to assembling. Post-Christmas tying will keep my hands, eyes and mind busy and provide something to fantasize about when warmer weather comes. After all, a guy can only wear so many clothes, each so much food and read so many books at one time. If this seems strange in a Christmas posting, take a look at yesterday’s blog.

We’ve cut it close, but today is the best available time for today’s poem, just like the best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago and the second best time is today.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

By Anonymous

The first day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The second day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The third day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The fourth day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The fifth day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The sixth day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The seventh day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Seven swans a-swimming, 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The eighth day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Eight maids a-milking, 

Seven swans a-swimming, 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The ninth day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Nine drummers drumming, 

Eight maids a-milking, 

Seven swans a-swimming, 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The tenth day of Christmas, 

My true love sent to me 

Ten pipers piping, 

Nine drummers drumming, 

Eight maids a-milking, 

Seven swans a-swimming, 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The eleventh day of Christmas 

My true love sent to me 

Eleven ladies dancing, 

Ten pipers piping, 

Nine drummers drumming, 

Eight maids a-milking, 

Seven swans a-swimming, 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree. 

The twelfth day of Christmas 

My true love sent to me 

Twelve fiddlers fiddling, 

Eleven ladies dancing, 

Ten pipers piping, 

Nine drummers drumming, 

Eight maids a-milking, 

Seven swans a-swimming, 

Six geese a-laying, 

Five gold rings, 

Four colly birds, 

Three French hens, 

Two turtle doves, and 

A partridge in a pear tree.

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We’re almost there

Winter solstice is a week from tomorrow. Christmas follows a few days later. Are you beginning to feel a sense of relief that, no matter what else happens, soon the days will be getting longer and, in a couple of weeks, we’ll have the clean slate of a whole new year ahead of us? It’ll be up to US to see what we can make of it.

For the past two years, I’ve been intending to try planting a three sisters garden. There’s an old saying that the third time's a charm. Maybe next spring I’ll break ground. We’ll see what the weather holds in store. Meanwhile, I’m wondering why we haven’t been seeing cardinals more frequently at the feeders. Maybe I need to try a tray feeder again, although all they usually do is attract squirrels.

presents under the tree

Photo by J. Harrington

A package arrived today from my sister in Massachusetts. We now have the first present under this year’s tree. No doubt it’s the start of a short-term trend until the tree looks something like the picture above from a Christmas past. This Christmas is going to be more convoluted than usual. Usually we celebrate the holliday in the morning and our son’s birthday from noon on. This year staff from his group home are ony available in the morning so we do Christmas/birthday for him, birthday for all in morning and Christmas for the rest of the family in the afternoon, except for the three-year-old Granddaughter who gets to celebrate what she wants when she wants.

Now, if only we can locate the missing package of Christmas books, we’ll be in even better shape. Holidays are such fun!

December

Christopher Pearce Cranch      1813 – 1892

No more the scarlet maples flash and burn 
       Their beacon-fires from hilltop and from plain; 
The meadow-grasses and the woodland fern 
       In the bleak woods lie withered once again.

The trees stand bare, and bare each stony scar 
       Upon the cliffs; half frozen glide the rills; 
The steel-blue river like a scimitar 
       Lies cold and curved between the dusky hills.

Over the upland farm I take my walk, 
       And miss the flaunting flocks of golden-rod; 
Each autumn flower a dry and leafless stalk, 
       Each mossy field a track of frozen sod.

I hear no more the robin's summer song 
       Through the gray network of the wintry woods; 
Only the cawing crows that all day long 
       Clamor about the windy solitudes.

Like agate stones upon earth's frozen breast, 
       The little pools of ice lie round and still; 
While sullen clouds shut downward east and west 
       In marble ridges stretched from hill to hill.

Come once again, O southern wind,—once more 
       Come with thy wet wings flapping at my pane; 
Ere snow-drifts pile their mounds about my door, 
       One parting dream of summer bring again.

Ah, no! I hear the windows rattle fast; 
       I see the first flakes of the gathering snow, 
That dance and whirl before the northern blast. 
       No countermand the march of days can know.

December drops no weak, relenting tear, 
       By our fond summer sympathies ensnared; 
Nor from the perfect circle of the year 
       Can even winter's crystal gems be spared. 

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Small? Beautiful!

To show how old, and old fashioned, I am, today we received four CDs of Christmas music I ordered a week or so ago. As I’m typing this, the Better Half and I are listening to An American Christmas: Shapenote Carols from New England & Appalachia. As native Minnesotans would say: “It’s different.”

The other three CDs are Windham Hill albums, one guitar, one winter solstice, one Christmas. We’re building on years of enjoying George Winston and a few Celtic Christmas albums. Last night’s snow provides a wonderful setting for listening to Christmas and Solstice music. Now, if we can learn to keep away from news media and social media platforms for a couple of weeks, we may get to relax and enjoy the holidays.

another Charlie Brown Christmas tree

Photo by J. Harrington

This year’s tree is pictured above. To its right are the sprigs of winterberries we foraged a couple of weeks ago. [Look for sprigs arising from the brown vase on the stereo speaker.] I think we’ve got the Christmas greens taken care of. Presents are getting acquired, sorted and wrapped. Soon it will be time for attention to be turned to cookies for Santa, and his helpers.

Before we sign off for today, we want to share something that showed up in our email inbox this morning. A bit of background: twenty-five years ago was the 25th anniversary of E.F. Schumacher’s Small is Beautiful: Economics as if People Mattered: 25 Years Later ... with Commentaries. Today’s quote from Schumacher seems to fit the times and the season quite well. I’m going to take it to heart as a resolution for next year and offer it here for your consideration. You might want to take a look at the book also.

Everywhere people ask: "What can I actually do?" The answer is as simple as it is disconcerting: we can, each of us, work to put our own inner house in order. The guidance we need for this work cannot be found in science or technology, the value of which utterly depends on the ends they serve; but it can still be found in the traditional wisdom of mankind. 

The Way We Love Something Small

Kimberly Blaeser

The translucent claws of newborn mice

this pearl cast of color,

the barely perceptible

like a ghosted threshold of being:

here     not here.

The single breath we hold

on the thinnest verge of sight:

not there   there.

A curve nearly naked 

an arc of almost, 

a wisp of becoming

a wand—

tiny enough to change me. 

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As the year winds down

Thanks to temperatures in the mid-40’s, much of the snow has melted. Tomorrow is supposed to be even warmer. No complaints here, although the persistent cloudiness is wearing, or at least wearying.

We did a birthday lunch today at the Nicollet Island Inn for the Daughter person. Everyone had a good time and the Granddaughter was extremely well behaved. (I suspect that comes from her maternal grandmother’s side of the family.) it’s been some time since we ate at the Inn and I’d sort of forgotten how much I like the place. 

Nicollet Island Inn

Photo by J. Harrington

So, there’s some odds and ends of holiday shopping still to tend to but, for the most part, it looks like we get to glide into Christmas after we’ve celebrated Winter Solstice. As the days grow longer again, we’ll snuggle down and settle in until spring thaw, baking bread, reading poems, wearing sweaters and eating soup for several months(?).

Left off that list are filing taxes, organizing books, and clearing snow. As a present to myself, I can avoid at least two, and maybe alll three of those chores until New Years or later. As the world continues to deteriorate, we do what we can to make our life livable and enjoyable. May you do the same and may we all support love, kindness and sanity and disown the opposites now and through the future.

When Giving Is All We Have 

Alberto Ríos     1952 – 

                                              One river gives
                                              Its journey to the next.

We give because someone gave to us.
We give because nobody gave to us.

We give because giving has changed us.
We give because giving could have changed us.

We have been better for it,
We have been wounded by it—

Giving has many faces: It is loud and quiet,
Big, though small, diamond in wood-nails.

Its story is old, the plot worn and the pages too,
But we read this book, anyway, over and again:

Giving is, first and every time, hand to hand,
Mine to yours, yours to mine.

You gave me blue and I gave you yellow.
Together we are simple green. You gave me

What you did not have, and I gave you
What I had to give—together, we made

Something greater from the difference.

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REMEMBER

Today is Native American Heritage Day. November is Native American Heritage Month. In Minnesota, Native American Heritage is acknowledged in and through:

• Native Governance Center, "a Native-led nonprofit dedicated to assisting Native nations in strengthening their governance systems and capacity to exercise sovereignty.”
• Why Treaties Matter
• Teaching Native American History and Culture (Minnesota Historical Society)
• Indian Affairs Council
• American Indian Cultural Corridor (Minneapolis)

American Indian Cultural Corridor Minneapolis

Photo by J. Harrington

The linked resources above include additional resources that can help US learn about and honor our diversity while acknowledging the high and low points of our histories and conflicts.

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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’tis a ghastly, ghostly Halloween landscape

Last night and this morning we got flurried on to the tune of a couple of inches of sticky, wet, snow. Unless we get lots of melting this afternoon, it will be hard to spot ghosts this evening but at least, unlike 1991, it’s not going to snow for the better part of three days straight. The dogs were mildly traumatized as they stepped into a newly snow-covered world this morning. It wasn’t there when they went to bed. They’re now sleeping off the shock, napping in the living room.

Getting a dusting of snow on or around Halloween is par for the course [note to self: stop using golf metaphors] in our region, but a couple of inches is more than reasonable. Psychologically, we may be in for a longer than usual winter unless the temps warm up and stay there for the next month or two. Our average high for today is 50℉. The actual high won’t br much more than the normal low of 35℉. I wonder if there’ll be enough snow still covering the driveway this evening to look for ghoul and goblin tracks tomorrow. I have no intention of clearing the mix of snow and leaves from the driveway since there’s a better than fair chance Mother Nature will take away the snow and continue to dump more leaves for a while.

Happy Halloween from the Jack O'Lanterns

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half and I have behaved as responsible adults and foregone (until this evening) eating our special Halloween candy that’s been sitting on the dining table. It’ll be a nice desert starting today. Maybe we’ll be able to stretch it out until almost Thanksgiving. Each adult has one chocolate bar and two chocolate pumpkins. 🎃 

We’re expecting a three year old granddaughter to arrive for a late afternoon Trick or Treat visit and will be surprised if anyone else shows up during the evening, but will leave the front light on. Meanwhile, may you and yours enjoy the magic of Samhuinn. Tomorrow is the traditional Celtic New Year. May it bring US all of what we need and some of what we want.

Chansons Innocentes II

E. E. Cummings     1894 – 1962

hist     whist 
little ghostthings 
tip-toe 
twinkle-toe 

little twitchy 
witches and tingling 
goblins 
hob-a-nob     hob-a-nob 

little hoppy happy 
toad in tweeds 
tweeds 
little itchy mousies 

with scuttling 
eyes     rustle and run     and 
hidehidehide 
whisk 

whisk     look out for the old woman 
with the wart on her nose 
what she’ll do to yer 
nobody knows 

for she knows the devil     ooch 
the devil     ouch 
the devil 
ach     the great 

green 
dancing 
devil 
devil 

devil 
devil 
     wheeEEE 

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Some sources of hope

With some luck, tomorrow we will celebrate Lammas / Lughnasadh. The sourdough loaf I baked a week or so ago is almost gone. Tomorrow I’ll freshen the starter again and bake around midweek. I just read a paragraph that highlights for me how this feast fits these times.

The essence of Lughnasadh is the joy of life under the knowledge that darker times are moving in. We take in the warming rays of the Sun and store their power for the times coming. At the time we celebrate the next festival, Alban Elfed, it will be fall and the warm summer days will already be a memory.

we live by bread, but not alone

Photo by J. Harrington

If you’re concerned about our own darker times, you should consider taking a look at a book to be published next month, Democracy Awakening NOTES ON THE STATE OF AMERICA, By Heather Cox Richardson. I’ve been reading her Letters from an American for some time and find it heartening and reassuring. We’ve been through dark times before and, no doubt, will again. In large part it’s up to US how things get resolved.

In Democracy Awakening, Richardson crafts a compelling and original narrative, explaining how, over the decades, a small group of wealthy people have made war on American ideals. By weaponizing language and promoting false history they have led us into authoritarianism — creating a disaffected population and then promising to recreate an imagined past where those people could feel important again. She argues that taking our country back starts by remembering the elements of the nation’s true history that marginalized Americans have always upheld. Their dedication to the principles on which this nation was founded has enabled us to renew and expand our commitment to democracy in the past. Richardson sees this history as a roadmap for the nation’s future.

Another level headed source of hope that I think I’ve mentioned before is Tristan Roberts. Today he asks, and answers quite satisfactorily, the question: do you have hope for our kids? He concludes his answer this way:

 I don't need to summon hope for the kids. They were born for this world. They've got everything they need.

That includes us, showing up every day, expressing ourselves.

Tomorrow is a first attempt at a Tweetless Tuesday. I’m going to do my best to avoid that platform tomorrow and may even see if I can forego my daily dose of doom and gloom by not reading the news media. If the world does end tomorrow, would one of you ber so kind as to mention it in the comments here? Thanks!

The Power of Hope Today

Gabrielle Marshall

Today’s hope is a flickering candle that dwells in a snow-dusted window, 
circulating the prayers of Christmas mornings. 
Today’s hope is the crisp daffodil in colorless photos,
containing the soul of a small 
child,
who only wishes and knows of 
peace and love.
Today’s hope is the sparkling eyes that
truly believe in achieving
anything to reach unity.
Today’s hope is the palm to palm connection
bracing each other for the climb neither expected,
but couldn’t abandon.
Today’s hope is peering
beyond
the lingering barrier,
but still recognizing the diversity in ourselves.
Today’s hope has been dimmed and tossed recklessly,
but still generously stays with us,
for we cannot help but come back
like wide eyed children to candy.
We are said to be weak to rely on such strength,
but we are only believers.
That spark 
That gives science a baffled case
And oceans an infinite plane,
is the eagle that dips 
and soars
and fights,
which stands for
the hope of 
today. 

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