Winter’s nadir?

While running errands this morning, we saw a sun dog. That means it was very cold and the sun was shining. Sun dogs need cold. Our dogs say they don’t, at least not this cold, this long. It’s getting harder to get them to take care of business because they just want to take a quick sniff around and head back into the warm(er) house. I understand their perspective but don’t expect to get them potty trained in addition to being housebroken, so we’ll continue our walks in the weather.

As I type this, I’m sitting in my arm chair in front of a picture window through which afternoon sun is pouring without any warmth. It’ll take a month or so before we can feel much warmth in sunlight. Meanwhile, I’ll be wearing heavy cardigans during the day and fleece-lined pj’s at night and typing blog posts about the North Country’s bitter, in more ways than one, cold.

If we continue to make progress, tomorrow is the day we can start to lay out fly rods and reels on a freshly cleared pool table so both the Better Half and I can mutually confirm whose is which. We have let playing with our toys deteriorate to the point that we’re not always sure whose rod one of us is about to grab. This isn’t a possessive about possessions concern as much as it is about different casting styles and preferences in line weights and actions. Fly fishing is usually more fun when your cast (my cast) feels good as well as hits the target.

flowers add color to winter

Photo by J. Harrington

As we ponder the eventual arrival of the equinox and the next season in the annual cycle we’re heartened and encouraged by the emergence of at least four bright yellow tulips in our indoor bulb garden, plus a red amaryllis starting to blossom and another starting to emerge from its bulb.

In case any of you are keeping track, the levain for the rye bread was a success although perhaps I “harvested” it too long after it had peaked. It floated nicely, but the dough it’s intended to rise isn’t yet rising. I have hopes than an overnight stay in the warming room (upstairs bath) will prompt it to rise. We’ll see in the morning.

Like Brooms of Steel (1252)

Emily Dickinson
1830 – 1886

Like Brooms of Steel  
The Snow and Wind  
Had swept the Winter Street -
The House was hooked  
The Sun sent out   
Faint Deputies of Heat -
Where rode the Bird  
The Silence tied  
His ample - plodding Steed
The Apple in the Cellar snug  
Was all the one that played.

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C-c-c-cold as a ... North Country January

If we’re lucky, next week will be the coldest of the winter. Lucky not because next week’s temperatures will be relatively mild (single digit highs) but because maybe that will be as bad as it gets. That would be nice. Record lows for next week are in the -30s to -40s range, although not all occurred in the same year. We got a taste of that five years ago at the end of January.

January 31, 2019: -31℉

Photo by J. Harrington

This morning a wild turkey, feathers all puffed up against the cold, skulked through the back yard. It’s rare to see a single bird in the winter so I’m not sure what was going on. It’s the only turkey we’ve seen near the house so far this year. No deer seen yet either.

There are four, I think, what look like yellow tulip buds developing in the indoor bulb garden that came for Christmas. I’m looking forward to seeing living, not cut, flowers in bloom as a precursor to real spring. Equinox is 66 days away. In our North Country, spring will arrive 30 to 60 days later. By then I expect to have our tax organizer filled out and delivered to the preparer. This time of year is just one treat after another.

If a January thaw actually arrives a week from Monday, I’ll be delighted, even if it’s just for one day. Meanwhile, next week looks like prime time to get a bunch of old files sorted (sordid?) into keep and dispose piles. That and play with some fly fishing gear and read some more fly fishing stories.

Furry Bear

A. A. Milne

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

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

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A month of several kinds of gales

In recognition of the anniversary of the sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald, please follow this link to read our prior postings on that tragedy. Locally, this week’s winds haven’t reached gale force (39 - 46 mph), but they have been strong enough to strip most of the leaves from the deciduous trees, including many of the oaks. My failure to remember, from year to year, about the gales of November probably means I’m repressing something related to my general distaste of winter.

not quite gale force

Photo by J. Harrington

It’s also hard to contemplate November’s gales when the weather forecast includes the prospect of several days with high temperatures at or near 60℉ next week. Our weather is getting crazier. our politics have followed suite, our governance is rapidly following along (any bets on whether the government will have to shut down in a week?), wars and/or international terrorism attacks are breaking out on several continents, and the international community is failing to adequately respond to climate breakdown and biodiversity losses. There are things for which we can and should be thankful later this month, but the list is getting shorter by the week.

On that shortened list we need to be sure to remember to thank those who have served US in uniform. Tomorrow is officially Veterans Day. We’ll be remembering my father (WWII, Korea) and father-in-law (WWII). Some years ago I learned about a wonderful program that benefits some veterans with an activity close to my heart, Project Healing Waters Fly Fishing, Inc. In recognition of the season’s holidays and the state of the world, you could consider sending them a donation. Living in a world where there is no need for such an organization is a much to be wished for but improbable circumstance. Until then, we all need to do the best we can with what we have and practice being kind(er) to each other.

Not to Keep

Robert Frost     1874 – 1963

They sent him back to her. The letter came
Saying... and she could have him. And before
She could be sure there was no hidden ill
Under the formal writing, he was in her sight—
Living.— They gave him back to her alive—
How else? They are not known to send the dead—
And not disfigured visibly. His face?—
His hands? She had to look—to ask,
“What was it, dear?” And she had given all
And still she had all—they had—they the lucky!
Wasn’t she glad now? Everything seemed won,
And all the rest for them permissible ease.
She had to ask, "What was it, dear?"
                                                               “Enough,
Yet not enough. A bullet through and through,
High in the breast. Nothing but what good care
And medicine and rest—and you a week,
Can cure me of to go again.” The same
Grim giving to do over for them both.
She dared no more than ask him with her eyes
How was it with him for a second trial.
And with his eyes he asked her not to ask.
They had given him back to her, but not to keep. 

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Mid-August phenology

This morning I mowed for just the first or second time this year. I’m not sure which. We had a very wet spring, No Mow May ran through June because spring had everything behind schedule and then drought returned so nothing was growing much and then the tractor was off for a couple of weeks getting repaired. Recent rains and briefly cooler temperatures prompted a return of better growing conditions so we tested the effectiveness of repairs. So far, so good.

wild cucumber (Echinocystis lobata)

Photo by J. Harrington

Wild cucumber is blooming. Male ruby-throated hummingbirds are still coming to the feeders. Acorn drop from the bur oak has increased. We’re guessing that the more rapid consumption of bird seed and sugar water is attributable to the successful production of fledglings who are now accompanying parents to the feeders.

The “breeze” is currently coming from the south at about 20 mph. Tree tops are tossing and turning. Any birds perched on nearby branches are probably suffering motion sickness. There’s a possibility of thunderstorms this evening, according to the forecast. After that, another dry spell. We’ll take that opportunity to do a little more picking up of last winter’s and this spring’s dead branches still scattered around the yard. I’m hoping to gradually increase outside time and decrease inside sedentary screen time, without overdoing it. I wouldn’t want anyone to know, but it did feel good to be out on the tractor this morning, and the place does look a little better.

Mid-August at Sourdough Mountain Lookout

By Gary Snyder

Down valley a smoke haze

Three days heat, after five days rain   

Pitch glows on the fir-cones

Across rocks and meadows

Swarms of new flies.

I cannot remember things I once read   

A few friends, but they are in cities.   

Drinking cold snow-water from a tin cup   

Looking down for miles

Through high still air.

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The day the leaves came down

A strong southerly wind is clearing the remaining leaves from the trees, including many of the oaks. The air is intermittently full of clusters and flocks of brown objects searching for places to land. I’m glad I haven’t yet cleared the garage roof and the gutters. I’d just have to do it all over again.

air cluttered with flutters

Photo by J. Harrington

As I write this, the local temperature is 72℉, which ties the 1978 high temperature for this date. Today’s high is forecast to reach 76℉ and that looks very doable from here.  I’m not really going to complain, because it’s definitely better than that white, flaky, stuff that sometimes starts falling around this time of year in the North Country, but it is weird, even for All Souls Day, to see the air cluttered with flutters.

Will we get a period of grace or will we, a week from now, immediately be subjected to campaigning for the 2024 elections? I am seriously thinking about foregoing television and social media and the news. I’m also wondering who profits from keeping the American public in a constant state of agitation or, perhaps I’m just more easily agitated than most.

In some non-segued good news, it appears that I have resurrected, once again, my sadly neglected sourdough  starter, using a technique from Sourdough by Science. I’lll report back further after I’ve made a levain and baked a loaf with this version. Other unrelated news: we’ve maintained our record of no trick or treaters at our door since we moved into this house. Our granddaughter did arrive in her dragon costume, leading both her parents, but since she’s family I’m claiming she doesn’t count as a “real” trick or treater.

Prayer for Words

N. Scott Momaday - 1934-

         My voice restore for me.
                           Navajo
 

Here is the wind bending the reeds westward,
The patchwork of morning on gray moraine:

 

Had I words I could tell of origin,
Of God’s hands bloody with birth at first light,
Of my thin squeals in the heat of his breath,
Of the taste of being, the bitterness,
And scents of camas root and chokecherries.

And, God, if my mute heart expresses me,
I am the rolling thunder and the bursts
Of torrents upon rock, the whispering
Of old leaves, the silence of deep canyons.
I am the rattle of mortality.

I could tell of the splintered sun. I could
Articulate the night sky, had I words.

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The day of the ground blizzards

The wind howled and more. The snow was scoured from the fields, turned and twisted and blown across the roads. We spent most of the day out driving around in some of the strongest winds I’ve felt in years. By the time we arrived home, the empty trash can had been blown across the road and the drive was littered with dead branches.

the wind filled the sky with snow and leaves

Photo by J. Harrington

It was a frustrating day trying to get shopping errands completed. The local Chuck and Don’s has again stopped carrying Canidae, our preferred brand of dog food and appears to have dropped the Dale Edgar supplement we give one of the dogs for her hips. Pet Smart had the dog food, but not the supplement. Then we tried to order dinner at the new Chipolte in Forest Lake. No go! They didn’t have crispy tacos for a taco salad the Better Half had been looking forward to. This came after four local Holliday stations failled to have functioning air hoses so I could tend to a low pressure in the Jeep’s right front tire. Maybe we’ve created a world too complicated for ordinary folks to keep up with? Maybe Mercury is in retrograde again. Some of each might help explain more of the world these days.

For example, this morning, before we went wind surfing in the Jeep, I was making up some more Irish flour dough. But I wasn’t sure we had enough  all purpose flour left so, instead of my usual sequence, I started with the ap flour. It wasn’t until hours later, when we got back home from the failed Chipolte run that I realized I had neglected to mix in the sourdough starter. I promptly took care of that oversight and worked starter into the dough. We’ll know sometime tomorrow if the dough was salvaged or savaged. So, we’ll file today under the heading of “it’s been one of those days so it won’t be hard for tomorrow to be better.”

After All

John Koethe - 1945-

“After all,” that too might be possible . . .
—John Ashbery

It isn’t too late, but for what I’m not sure.
Though I live for possibility, I loathe unbridled
Speculation, let alone those vague attempts
At self-exploration that become days wasted
Trying out the various modes of being:
The ecstatic mode, which celebrates the world, a high
That fades into an old idea; the contemplative,
Which says, So what? and leaves it there;
The skeptical, a way of being in the world
Without accepting it (whatever that might mean).
They’re all poses, adequate to different ends
And certain ages, none of them conclusive
Or sufficient to the day. I find myself surprised
By my indifference to what happens next:
You’d think that after almost seventy years of waiting
For the figure in the carpet to emerge I’d feel a sense of
Urgency about the future, rather than dismissing it
As another pretext for more idle speculation.
I’m happy, but I have a pessimistic cast of mind.
I like to generalize, but realize it’s pointless,
Since everything is there to see. I love remembering
For its own sake and the feel of passing time
It generates, which lends it meaning and endows it
With a private sense of purpose—as though every life
Were a long effort to salvage something of its past,
An effort bound to fail in the long run, though it comes
With a self-defeating guarantee: the evaporating
Air of recognition that lingers around a name
Or rises from a page from time to time; or the nothing
Waiting at the end of age; whichever comes last.

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Cooling it

Local waters that were open over the weekend are now covered (again) with ice, which is covered with snow. We haven’t checked larger waters since the beginning of the most recent really cold spell, which continues to linger. All morning we had snow showers and around mid-day a couple of sun snow showers. We don’t yet seem to have reached the “all is calm, all is bright” phase so there’s something to look forward to.

a member of the local red squirrel band

Photo by J. Harrington

The local band of red squirrels seems really appreciative of the heated bird bath as a source of drinking water. Black-capped chickadees more than other bird species also stop frequently for a quick sip. Without birds at the feeders and squirrels in the trees and on the deck, winter would be almost too dismal and dreary to open the drapes to look out. (Can you tell I’m not a winter person?)

black-capped chickadee in line for feeder

Photo by J. Harrington

I’ve been practicing, albeit very imperfectly, themes of mindfulness such as acceptance, impermanence, non-clinging (‘letting go”), and compassion. It seems to help quite a bit in coping with the state of the world these days. In fact, this practice reminds me of something I learned long ago when I was much younger. There is no good reason to wander the world with all your hot buttons held out so anyone and everyone can punch them. Gather them up and keep them in your pocket or back pack so you can be an actor rather than constantly being a reactor after someone has punched your button. Other folks might refer to such behavior as practicing self control. Do you do that? What do you call it? Does it help?

Sapphics Against Anger

By Timothy Steele

Angered, may I be near a glass of water;

May my first impulse be to think of Silence,

Its deities (who are they? do, in fact, they

Exist? etc.).

May I recall what Aristotle says of

The subject: to give vent to rage is not to

Release it but to be increasingly prone

To its incursions.

May I imagine being in the Inferno,

Hearing it asked: “Virgilio mio, who’s

That sulking with Achilles there?” and hearing

Virgil say: “Dante,

That fellow, at the slightest provocation,

Slammed phone receivers down, and waved his arms like

A madman. What Attila did to Europe,

What Genghis Khan did

To Asia, that poor dope did to his marriage.”

May I, that is, put learning to good purpose,

Mindful that melancholy is a sin, though

Stylish at present.

Better than rage is the post-dinner quiet,

The sink’s warm turbulence, the streaming platters,

The suds rehearsing down the drain in spirals

In the last rinsing.

For what is, after all, the good life save that

Conducted thoughtfully, and what is passion

If not the holiest of powers, sustaining

Only if mastered.

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the dogs of winter

Temperatures in single digits, windchills in the minus mid-teens, and it’s not even winter solstice yet. At least the sun is shining and the snow depth is, so far, manageable. Neither the dogs nor the dog walker enjoyed the mid-day walk today. And next week's temperatures are forecast to return to the lower forties. I have no idea how wildlife adapt to the kind of rollercoaster weather we’ve been experiencing except for those in hibernation or torpor. I’m finding it enough of a challenge figuring out how many of what kinds of layers do I need for a few minutes outside.

Now that we’re back inside after our post lunch walk, both dogs are curled up in their own warm spots and taking a nap. I’d do the same but probably wouldn’t like what I'd find upon awakening. Bored dogs can find strange mischief to get into and they seem to have an ability to tell when their humans are paying the least amount of attention, including taking a nap. We’re still having challenges getting Harry the beagle to settle down in a dog crate. Even with SiSi next door, literally, he tries to escape and complains loudly when he can’t. The adjustments needed aren’t impossible, we’ve done them with other dogs, but they do take time and psychic energy and are more readily undertaken in weather that doesn’t require several minutes to put on warm outdoor clothes.

Harry the chair warmer at work

Photo by J. Harrington

On the other hand, each of the dogs is pleased to hop into my arm chair and keep the seat warm any time I get up to refill my coffee cup. Both of them, especially Harry, seem to think the door bell signals an imminent attack and bark loudly any time it rings, so we’re well guarded in that way. They’re always ready to volunteer to help us with any extra cookies, peanuts, pretzels, chips and the like and have excellent memories about the fact that they get milk bone deserts after the humans have had supper.

As I’m typing this, I look out the window at the suet feeder and can see three fluffed up, puffed up, downy woodpeckers helping themselves to suet and/or sunflower chips. The napping dogs are oblivious to activity at the feeders. Nevertheless, I bet if next week’s temperatures do climb back into the forties, the birds, the dogs, and a dog walker we know will all think that Christmas arrived early this year and brought some wonderful presents that allow unwrapping of the receivers.

Winter

By Billy Collins

A little heat in the iron radiator,

the dog breathing at the foot of the bed,

and the windows shut tight,

encrusted with hexagons of frost.

I can barely hear the geese

complaining in the vast sky,

flying over the living and the dead,

schools and prisons, and the whitened fields.

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'Tis time for a new world and a new year

Have you noticed today a thinning of the curtain between this world and tother? Has it thinned enough to peer through? Did you grasp a curtain corner and pull it back a bit to peek and see what’s beyond? Do you know that before there was All Hallow’s Eve [Halloween], there was Samhain.

Halloween’s origins date back to the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain (pronounced sow-in). The Celts, who lived 2,000 years ago, mostly in the area that is now Ireland, the United Kingdom and northern France, celebrated their new year on November 1.

This day marked the end of summer and the harvest and the beginning of the dark, cold winter, a time of year that was often associated with human death. Celts believed that on the night before the new year, the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead became blurred. On the night of October 31 they celebrated Samhain, when it was believed that the ghosts of the dead returned to earth.

visitors crossing the  curtain?

Photo by J. Harrington

It doesn’t take much imagination to picture leaves blown from the trees this afternoon, sailing through the air, as visitors passing through the curtain that separates those living in this world from those in tother. If, as science tells us, we are indeed made of stardust, then belief in reincarnation of one sort or another could also be scientific, couldn’t it be? Is the entire universe in which we live an oversized recycling bin and the big bang a remanufacturing center? How you answer such questions probably depends on your basic world view, of which  there are many. One of my favorites is portrayed by Joni Mitchell and shared below. Another is described by Joy Harjo and, because tomorrow begins Native American Heritage Month, is shared here as A Map to the Next World.

Woodstock

by Joni Mitchell

I came upon a child of God
He was walking along the road
And I asked him where are you going
And this he told me
I'm going on down to Yasgur's farm *
I'm going to join in a rock 'n' roll band
I'm going to camp out on the land
I'm going to try an' get my soul free 

We are stardust
We are golden
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden

Then can I walk beside you
I have come here to lose the smog
And I feel to be a cog in something turning
Well maybe it is just the time of year
Or maybe it's the time of man
I don't know who I am
But you know life is for learning

We are stardust
We are golden
And we've got to get ourselves
Back to the garden

By the time we got to Woodstock
We were half a million strong
And everywhere there was song and celebration
And I dreamed I saw the bombers
Riding shotgun in the sky
And they were turning into butterflies
Above our nation

We are stardust
Billion year old carbon
We are golden
Caught in the devil's bargain
And we've got to get ourselves
back to the garden

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On the Friday before Easter weekend

The good news about this week's winds is that Minnesota's inland stream trout fishing season doesn't open until April 17. My fly-casting ability, under the best of circumstances, is limited due to lack of practice. Winds of 20 mph and more far exceed my ability to compensate.

trout flies awaiting better days

Photo by J. Harrington

We had actually been contemplating dragging out a rod and reel and practicing on the grass behind the house. The wait between lulls would have been too long for us to maintain the necessary level of interest. (It's different when on a real stream with live trout.) We give ourselves credit for even contemplating practicing before we get back on or in a stream.

Since this is Easter weekend and today is Good Friday on the western Christian calendar, we'll keep our post to a minimum. We may even do that through the balance of the weekend. Tomorrow we support a local farm to table operation and pick up a precooked Easter dinner. Maybe, after this weekend, the winds will become tempered and this blogger will get out and about and have more to report on.

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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Marching toward open water

The pond North of the property is now more open water than ice-covered. The Sunrise River pools still are fully covered with  ice, but there's at least one place where the ice is noticeably thin. Lots of crows or ravens walking around on the frozen marsh. No signs of waterfowl, yet, nor red-winged blackbirds. Maybe by St.Patrick's Day?

today's neighborhood pond open water

Photo by J. Harrington

The Better Half this morning reported seeing a flock of a dozen or so swans on a large puddle in a cornfield she drove past. We suspect that may have been some of the swans we read about from time to time that winter over on the St. Croix River near Wild River State Park, but we can't be sure. In fact, even if we had seen them ourselves we couldn't be sure if they were natives or migrants but we suspect it's still too early for migrants to arrive. At the moment, Spring remains more promise than reality, although our driveway is almost ice free and the fields behind the house are somethings like 50% to 66% snow free. If we really get rained on tomorrow, will that melt the snow remains?

Stillwater parking lot kite flying

Photo by J. Harrington

The breezes for which March is so often noted are blowing again today from a southerly direction. We need to find a really good kite-flying location somewhere nearby. Our prevailing winds from the North are winter conditions but we need northerly winds to keep from flying our dragon kite toward the trees.

Kites

By Robert Gibb

Come March we’d find them 

In the five-and-dimes, 

Furled tighter than umbrellas 

About their slats, the air

In an undertow above us

Like weather on the maps. 

We’d play out lines

Of kite string, tugging against

The bucking sideways flights. 

Readied for assembly,

I’d arc the tensed keel of balsa 

Into place against the crosspiece,

Feeling the paper snap 

Tautly as a sheet, then lift

The almost weightless body 

Up to where it hauled me

Trolling into the winds— 

Knotted bows like vertebrae 

Flashing among fields

Of light. Why ruin it

By recalling the aftermaths? 

Kites gone down in tatters, 

Kites fraying like flotsam 

From the tops of the trees.

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Merry Christmas Eve!

We hope those of you wishing so hard for a white Christmas are satisfied. Merry White Christmas Eve! Yesterday's storm-induced power outage only lasted a couple of hours. Thanks Xcel! We're glad we didn't have to clear downed branches, or whatever it was, during yesterdays snow and howling winds. Our chore comes later this morning, clearing 9 inches ± of snow from the drive in windchills around -20℉. By the time we've finished, we hope the roads will be clear enough to make our trip to pick up Christmas dinner less hazardous. Grumble, grumble, grumble--our Eeyore side has been brought out this morning. No watching Poohsticks on a frozen, snow-covered river.

male cardinal at snow-covered feeder

Photo by J. Harrington

Actually, we're truly grateful the power wasn't out for longer. As Joni Mitchell sings: "Don't it always seem to go, you don't know what you've got 'til it's gone" [Big Yellow Taxi]. We used the time to look through some photo albums, the kind with real prints, at pictures of Christmas past, when our children were young, and so were we. We're also quite pleased that the storm triggered an appearance at the feeders by a male cardinal, the first one we've seen in weeks. He added a very bright spot in the midst of yesterday's whiteout.

Our fingers are crossed that our new [last year] Husqvarna snow blower will function during and after driveway clearing. Last year the cables and controls kept freezing. Another example of poor design? execution? making things more complicated and less reliable? The dealer has been hesitant to replace the freezing cables so we are hoping no moisture gets into the cables and controls. We may wish we had stuck with Toro. Our fingers are also crossed that Santa lands safely on all the freshly snow-covered roofs and leaves our heart's desires and moves on without injury or contagion. He'll have to take off his mask to eat cookies and drink his milk. Maybe the Beach Boys could do a new classic: Superspreader Santa? Run, run, Rudolph!

Eeyore showing off his previously snow-covered tail

Photo by J. Harrington

Enough of this Scrooge-like nattering, We can do without visits tonight by the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, and Future. Eeyore joins us in wishing all a safe, healthy, warm and merry Christmas! He's really happy that he found his tail under all the fresh snow.

The Snow Storm

Ralph Waldo Emerson - 1803-1882

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

   Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.

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If only our averages weren't created by such extremes

 It's mid-afternoon, Sunday, October 18. The "weather app" on my smartphone says the outside temperature is 32℉. Normally, a high temperature at the freezing mark occurs around here on December 1, about six weeks from now. That same smartphone forecasts no significant improvement in temperatures for the next week or ten days. Snow days keep shifting around but about every other day snow is in the forecast. If this continues, combined with the pandemic and any election chaos, we can expect a long Winter of Our Discontent. The "normal" high for today is 57℉, a pleasant temperature for working on and/or in the yard.

October's winds whipped oak leaves

Photo by J. Harrington

Meanwhile, I suspect what appears to be the early arrival of winterish weather has caught a number of folks needing another week or two of autumn to finish off the chores that get our places ready for real winter. We still need to clear the drive of lots of leaves, shut down the lawn mower, start up the snow blower, and put the back blade on the tractor. There's also gutters to be cleaned and a cap to be reattached to the fireplace chimney. It got blown off a week or so ago during one of our wind storms and it's been too wet, windy or cold since then to climb up and replace it.

All of the preceding strongly suggests that what we are facing is climate breakdown, disruption, or volatility more than "global warming." That perspective is reinforced by the National Weather Service's extended outlook for our upcoming winter, "cooler, wetter conditions in the North, thanks in part to an ongoing La Nina." To be clear, we're quibbling about the terminology climate scientists and mainstream media types have been using. We're not questioning that humans have disrupted a stable climate era by emitting too many / much green house gases. We're also angry that a country that once qualified as a world leader is on track to pull out of the international agreement intended to respond to the green house gas emissions and adapt to the climate perturbations triggered by the consequences of those gases.

Letter to Someone Living Fifty Years from Now

Matthew Olzmann

Most likely, you think we hated the elephant,
the golden toad, the thylacine and all variations
of whale harpooned or hacked into extinction.

It must seem like we sought to leave you nothing
but benzene, mercury, the stomachs
of seagulls rippled with jet fuel and plastic. 

You probably doubt that we were capable of joy,
but I assure you we were.

We still had the night sky back then,
and like our ancestors, we admired
its illuminated doodles
of scorpion outlines and upside-down ladles.

Absolutely, there were some forests left!
Absolutely, we still had some lakes!

I’m saying, it wasn’t all lead paint and sulfur dioxide.
There were bees back then, and they pollinated
a euphoria of flowers so we might
contemplate the great mysteries and finally ask,
“Hey guys, what’s transcendence?”   

And then all the bees were dead.

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Turning over other leaves

Local birds have noticed the persistent wind and drop in temperatures. Visits to the feeders have increased by about an order of magnitude. Visits to the birdbath, mostly for drinking, will be more productive and easier now that we've cleaned the ice and leaves out, plugged in the heater, and refilled it. From what we've been watching the past few days, black-capped chickadees and goldfinches must have had awesome breeding success this past warm season. They're stacked up waiting for an opening at a feeder they way planes get stacked up at busy times at busy airports such as Chicago's O'Hare.

oak leaves often hang on all winter

Photo by J. Harrington

We're still, and on a year to year basis, once again, trying to figure out why and how it is that a West wind can and will blow many more leaves onto the driveway than it blows off of that same drive. We've cleared the drive of leaves twice already this season, so we know it's not just our imagination. Once again the drive needs clearing before the snow arrives and wet leaves get an opportunity to clog the snow blower. It just seems kind of pointless to clear that drive again until we get a couple of days forecast to be more calm than howling. Less than half of the oak leaves are on the ground, although the local maples are mostly bare. Leaf drop that occurs for almost half the year is one of the things we like least about oaks.

Next week is the last for our autumn Community Supported Agriculture [CSA] share. Our winter CSA, at a different farm, starts that same week in October. The Better Half also found a reasonably close source of pasture-raised beef. We are weaning ourselves off of CAFO (concentrated animal feeding operation) meat slowly but surely. The autumn 2020 issue of Orion magazine has a number of interesting and different perspectives on food, people and nature, of which we've only read a couple so far. Also, as a relatively long-time artisan sourdough baker, with our own "made from scratch" starter, we're also looking forward to reading Yes magazine's recent article The Radical Power of Your Sourdough Starter.

happy, home-made sourdough starter

Photo by J. Harrington

With luck and gods' grace, we'll get through the Winter of Our (COVID-19) Discontent aided and abetted by local foods, fresh bread, the joy-full activity  of birds, squirrels and who knows who else, good books, coffee and company and a Blue Tsunami to wash the place clean over the next couple of months.

Autumn Leaves

Marilyn Chin

The dead piled up, thick, fragrant, on the fire escape.
My mother ordered me again, and again, to sweep it clean.
All that blooms must fall. I learned this not from the Dao,
   but from high school biology.

Oh, the contradictions of having a broom and not a dustpan!
I swept the leaves down, down through the iron grille
and let the dead rain over the Wong family’s patio.

And it was Achilles Wong who completed the task.
   We called her:
The one-who-cleared-away-another-family’s-autumn.
She blossomed, tall, benevolent, notwithstanding.

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February, blown away #phenology

Midweek last the snow-covered slope behind the house, the one whose crest runs North-South, the one on which the pear tree stands, was marked by several well-defined deer trails leading to and from the pear tree. Then, we had several days and nights of strong Southerly winds. Now, the snow covering the slope looks unviolated, scoured clean, deer trails filled in with wind-blown snow. The heavily-hoof-trampled snow along the wood's edge has also been wind-wiped clean as a new whiteboard, untouched by any dry marker. Even snowmobile tracks along the road have been mostly erased. Since, thanks to our thaw-freeze cycle, much of the snow was crusted over and the recent snowfall was pretty light, it's not clear where the loose snow came from. I don't recall ever seeing anything quite like it.

before the wind, hillside snow with tracks

Photo by J. Harrington

The local squirrels, at least the reds and grays, are now chasing each other (reds on reds and grays on grays more than mixed) and wrestling in irrational exuberance of forthcoming Spring and expanded squirrel populations. The sun has returned North to the point that it's rising at the midpoint of the East-facing window in the office. We are now less than two weeks from the start of meteorological Spring. If the weather forecast is accurate, by this time next weekend we should be in the midst of a major melt. But first, there's tonight's and tomorrow's snow plus freezing drizzle mix to enjoy, with the possibility of more snow at the beginning of the week following next.

after the wind, hillside snow without tracks

Photo by J. Harrington

With luck, and good karma, sometime soon we should start to see the return of goldfinches and the arrival of Spring migrants headed North. Personally, I'm looking forward to enjoying a couple of morning sipping coffee and watching the downspouts flow and, maybe, the gutters overflow. I've enjoyed this season long enough. I'm hoping that the next strong breeze, come March?, will help me fly my dragon kite. There was too much snow cover around here to celebrate the official National Kite-flying Day on February 8.

Agoraphobia

By Linda Pastan

"Yesterday the bird of night did sit,
Even at noon-day, upon the marketplace,
Hooting and shrieking."

—William Shakespeare

1.

Imagine waking

to a scene of snow so new   

not even memories

of other snow

can mar its silken

surface. What other innocence   

is quite like this,

and who can blame me

for refusing

to violate such whiteness

with the booted cruelty

of tracks?

2.

Though I cannot leave this house,   

I have memorized the view

from every window—

23 framed landscapes, containing   

each nuance of weather and light.   

And I know the measure

of every room, not as a prisoner   

pacing a cell

but as the embryo knows

the walls of the womb, free

to swim as its body tells it, to nudge   

the softly fleshed walls,

dreading only the moment

of contraction when it will be forced   

into the gaudy world.

3.

Sometimes I travel as far

as the last stone

of the path, but

every step,

as in the children's story,

pricks that tender place

on the bottom of the foot,

and like an ebbing tide with all

the obsession of the moon behind it,   

I am dragged back.

4.

I have noticed in windy fall

how leaves are torn from the trees,   

each leaf waving goodbye to the oak   

or the poplar that housed it;

how the moon, pinned

to the very center of the window,

is like a moth wanting only to break in.   

What I mean is this house

follows all the laws of lintel and ridgepole,   

obeys the commandments of broom   

and of needle, custom and grace.

It is not fear that holds me here but passion   

and the uncrossable moat of moonlight   

outside the bolted doors.

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Autumn is a restless time

The local woods are full of florescent orange. Firearms deer season opened this morning. We've heard a couple of shots and seen a couple of pickups parked in nearby road ditches. At least for opening weekend, local weather is almost comfortable, but without "tracking snow." November in the North Country is deer time for many. For others it may be a time to go.

in November, geese get the urge for going

Photo by J. Harrington

In my younger days, I've sometimes spent opening weekend of deer season in a waterfowl blind, feeling foolish wearing florescent getting to and from the blind. One year, as cold as the past few days have been, we had to use the duck board to keep the water around the decoys from freezing solid, until we finally had enough sense to pick up and go.

You may have noticed we've added a countdown 'til Thanksgiving to the right sidebar to remind us of how many days we still have to focus on what there is in our lives to be thankful for. Today I'm thankful for two people who have created some works that have a common theme I hadn't noticed until this morning, although it's been staring me in the face for years.

On the opening page of the November chapter of A Sand County Almanac, Aldo Leopold writes about "If I Were the Wind". The concluding lines on the page, in the version I've been reading for years, are:

IT IS WARM BEHIND THE DRIFTWOOD NOW, for the wind has gone with the geese. So would I—if I were the wind.

Today, (re)reading those lines, I immediately remembered Joni Mitchell's wonderful song Urge for Going, whose lyrics are today's poem.  I hope you find as much beauty in your life as Aldo and Joni have brought into mine, especially on cold, cloudy November days leading up to Thanksgiving, when many of us suffer an urge for going, but we never seem to go.

Urge For Going

by Joni Mitchell

This lyric has been formatted exactly as Joni preferred it to appear (capitalization, punctuation, line breaks, changes in wording, etc). Joni collaborated with Lisa and John Sornberger by making these changes for presentation in their book, Gathered Light.

I awoke today and found
the frost perched on the town
It hovered in a frozen sky
then it gobbled summer down
When the sun turns traitor cold
and all the trees are shivering in a naked row...

I get the urge for going
But I never seem to go

I get the urge for going
When the meadow grass is turning brown
And summertime is falling down and winter is closing in

I had a man in summertime
He had summer-colored skin
And not another girl in town
My darling's heart could win
But when the leaves fell on the ground
And bully winds came around
and pushed them face down in the snow...
He got the urge for going
And I had to let him go

He got the urge for going
When the meadow grass was turning brown
And summertime was falling down and winter was closing in

Now the warriors of winter give a cold triumphant shout
And all that stays is dying all that lives is gettin' out
See the geese in chevron flight
Flapping and racing on before the snow...
They've got the urge for going
And they've got the wings to go

They get the urge for going
When the meadow grass is turning brown
And summertime is falling down and winter is closing in

I'll ply the fire with kindling now
I'll pull the blankets up to my chin
I'll lock the vagrant winter out
And I'll bolt my wandering in
I'd like to call back summertime
And have her stay for just another month or so...
But she's got the urge for going
So I guess she'll have to go

She gets the urge for going
When the meadow grass is turning brown
And all her empire's falling down
And winter's closing in.

And I get the urge for going
When the meadow grass is turning brown
And summertime is Falling Down.

© 1966; Siquomb Publishing Company

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As snow season approaches...

We're a little overdue in announcing that our record is still in tact. Approximately 25 years in this house and not a single Trick or Treater. We know there are a few children in the area because we see them on occasion at the Little Free Library kiosk. Someone around here is going to have to eat that Halloween candy we bought "just in case." Maybe I'll volunteer.

It's windy and cold enough that we've decided doing more to clear the drive of leaves would be a fools errand today. While walking the dogs, we're pretty sure we noticed the wind come from every one of the 360° in a compass. That makes it almost impossible to work with nature since at some point the wind ends up in your face instead of from behind you. In fact earlier today we watched a number of wind-blown leaves head straight up toward the overcast sky.

last year, November 6

Photo by J. Harrington

Juncos are back, perhaps blown in on the Northwest gusts of the wind, both birds and wind directions are clear signs that Winter is headed this way. Before we get too carried away with complaints, last year about this time we started to accrue snow cover. Memory repression can do funny things to our sense of phenology. That's one of the reasons we take pictures that are self-dated. We also forgot that last year something, probably deer, ate the faces out of our pumpkins. We need to remember to be sure the Better Half keeps in mind that fancy carving of jack-o'-lanterns may be for naught unless we keep them inside where no one will see them. But then, with no Trick-or-Treaters, who, other than us, would see them anyhow?

the deer have made a habit of this

Photo by J. Harrington

November

By Maggie Dietz

Show's over, folks. And didn't October do

A bang-up job? Crisp breezes, full-throated cries

Of migrating geese, low-floating coral moon.

Nothing left but fool's gold in the trees.

Did I love it enough, the full-throttle foliage,

While it lasted? Was I dazzled? The bees

Have up and quit their last-ditch flights of forage

And gone to shiver in their winter clusters.

Field mice hit the barns, big squirrels gorge

On busted chestnuts. A sky like hardened plaster

Hovers. The pasty river, its next of kin,

Coughs up reed grass fat as feather dusters.

Even the swarms of kids have given in

To winter's big excuse, boxed-in allure:

TVs ricochet light behind pulled curtains.

The days throw up a closed sign around four.

The hapless customer who'd wanted something

Arrives to find lights out, a bolted door.

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