Winter's last grasp?

Today is the Ides of March. Tuesday will be St. Patrick's Day. Friday is the Vernal Equinox, at 9:46 am locally. As I'm writing this, we have about half a foot of fresh snow on the ground and several more hours of continuing snowfall ahead of us. Will this storm reach the depth of the March 22, 2024 "Spring blizzard?" We'll see. Often, what's left of Winter grasps us by the proverbial short hairs. I consider "Winter's last gasp" a misnomer, in part because, here in the North Country, it's been known to snow every month except July. But after 9:46 am Friday, until Summer Solstice, precipitation will officially be known as "Spring showers."

almost 9 inches, March 22, 2024

Photo by J. Harrington

According to the ORDER OF BARDS, OVATES & DRUIDS:

"Winter sometimes seems so long, that we could be forgiven for wondering whether Spring will ever return. But the Goddess of Spring is merely sleeping through the darkness of Winter, and while she stirs at Imbolc, she is truly awake by the time of the Spring Equinox.

"The forces of light are equally balanced with the forces of darkness at this time, but light is on the increase – and will reach its apogee at the Summer Solstice three months later.

"The symbolic plant of the Equinox in Druidry is the trefoil or shamrock, which is also customarily worn on St. Patrick’s Day, 17th March – almost at the time of the Spring Equinox. The usual explanation for the use of the shamrock is that St Patrick once used its three-leaved shape to illustrate the doctrine of the Trinity, but in fact shamrock is probably the national emblem of Ireland because of its earlier Druidic associations, and it is seen by some authorities as a survival of the trignetra, a Christianised wheel or sun symbol."

Wouldn't it be wonderful if, once again, the forces of light truly became dominant in and for US and the rest of the world, starting with this week? Our world is not a monoculture. Our moon is closer to that, and closer to being lifeless. The more we learn about Earth, the more she appears comprised of interdependent relationships rather than a collection of objects. Truth, much like beauty, is often found in the eye of the beholder. Don't just take my word for that, ask a quantum physicist.

Meanwhile, we'll keep our fingers crossed that waterfowl, sandhill cranes, and other migrators that arrived last week can hang in there through a couple of cold days after this storm so that they don't give up on the North Country as a good place for nesting and raising families. Now, it's time to assess how we're going to make the driveway drivable and walkable. C'mon Spring!!!

 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.

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

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

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

Weather, or not

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

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

a "Christmas" amaryllis in January bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

Furry Bear

A. A. Milne

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

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

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

Approaching a New Year (and better days?)

I missed my usual posting yesterday. I became entranced watching the continuous, continuing, snow falling most of the day. It became hypnotically mesmerizing and I lost track of time, space and place. So this week's posting is a day late and is being written before I snow blow the mess in the driveway or bake the cranberry-sourdough bread that's been rising overnight.

Christmas cookies: much better than real snowflakes

Photo by J. Harrington

The dogs, especially the 13-inch beagle, were dismayed this morning to discover they'd gone from slipping on an icy driveway yesterday to floundering in multiple inches of snow this morning. I'm sure both Harry the beagle and SiSi the lab will appreciate my snow blowing activities so they don't freeze sensitive parts as they take care of business. This is the second time this season we've had enough snowfall to require blowing. The first was back near the beginning of the month. According to the 2026 Minnesota WeatherGuide Santa left in my stocking. our average daytime high gets above freezing on or about February 26. I may start a countdown if the crazy weather we've had so far continues. It''s hard to slow down and curl up with a good story when snow needs blowing and dogs need walking on slickery surfaces.

Many decades ago I made a New Year's resolution to give up making such resolutions. It's one of the few I've kept. In an effort to go from disgruntled to gruntled (yes, that's a word) I'm considering adopting new guidelines for next year because there's constantly something or other stupid or evil, or both, in the news. Not reading the news seems like irresponsible escapism. I'm open to suggestions on other approaches. Any thoughts about living in and enjoying "the moment" when that moment is anything but pleasant would be particularly helpful. Here's one approach:

For Calling the Spirit Back from Wandering the Earth in Its Human Feet 

Joy Harjo     1951 –

Put down that bag of potato chips, that white bread, that bottle of pop.

Turn off that cellphone, computer, and remote control.

Open the door, then close it behind you.

Take a breath offered by friendly winds. They travel the earth gathering essences of plants to clean.

Give it back with gratitude.

If you sing it will give your spirit lift to fly to the stars’ ears and back.

Acknowledge this earth who has cared for you since you were a dream planting itself precisely within your parents’ desire.

Let your moccasin feet take you to the encampment of the guardians who have known you before time, who will be there after time. They sit before the fire that has been there without time.

Let the earth stabilize your postcolonial insecure jitters.

Be respectful of the small insects, birds and animal people who accompany you.

Ask their forgiveness for the harm we humans have brought down upon them.

Don’t worry.

The heart knows the way though there may be high-rises, interstates, checkpoints, armed soldiers, massacres, wars, and those who will despise you because they despise themselves.

The journey might take you a few hours, a day, a year, a few years, a hundred, a thousand or even more.

Watch your mind. Without training it might run away and leave your heart for the immense human feast set by the thieves of time.

Do not hold regrets.

When you find your way to the circle, to the fire kept burning by the keepers of your soul, you will be welcomed.

You must clean yourself with cedar, sage, or other healing plant.

Cut the ties you have to failure and shame.

Let go the pain you are holding in your mind, your shoulders, your heart, all the way to your feet. Let go the pain of your ancestors to make way for those who are heading in our direction.

Ask for forgiveness.

Call upon the help of those who love you. These helpers take many forms: animal, element, bird, angel, saint, stone, or ancestor.

Call your spirit back. It may be caught in corners and creases of shame, judgment, and human abuse.

You must call in a way that your spirit will want to return.

Speak to it as you would to a beloved child.

Welcome your spirit back from its wandering. It may return in pieces, in tatters. Gather them together. They will be happy to be found after being lost for so long.

Your spirit will need to sleep awhile after it is bathed and given clean clothes.

Now you can have a party. Invite everyone you know who loves and supports you. Keep room for those who have no place else to go.

Make a giveaway, and remember, keep the speeches short.

Then, you must do this: help the next person find their way through the dark. 

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

Winter Solstice – Alban Arthan

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

as the sun turns northward

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

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

The Shortest Day by Susan Cooper 

 

So the shortest day came, and the year died,

And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world

Came people singing, dancing,

To drive the dark away.

They lighted candles in the winter trees;

They hung their homes with evergreen;

They burned beseeching fires all night long

To keep the year alive,

And when the new year’s sunshine blazed awake

They shouted, reveling.

Through all the frosty ages you can hear them

Echoing behind us—Listen!!

All the long echoes sing the same delight,

This shortest day,

As promise wakens in the sleeping land:

They carol, feast, give thanks,

And dearly love their friends,

And hope for peace.

And so do we, here, now,

This year and every year.

Welcome Yule!

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

Christmas horsing around!

As the Better Half and I approached the tack barn this morning at dawn, the temperature (not the windchill) varied from -21℉ to -23 ℉. It was cold! The Daughter Person's horse needed feeding and the horse's owner was otherwise occupied tending to her daughter, our granddaughter, ill with a cold. A similar routine had occurred twice Saturday, driving to the barn in my Jeep to feed the horse, but the cold hadn't been quite as ferocious. Of possible interest: the horse's name is Quinn and, triggered by the temperatures, I was starting to remember some of the lyrics to Dylan's Quinn the Eskimo. (I wonder if we could get Dylan's "Mighty Quinn" to visit the White House and Congress. Click link, see first verse.)

our Quinn: the horse, not an Eskimo

Photo by J. Harrington

Anyhow, the forecast is that Tuesday's temperature should reach 43℉, a more than 60℉ shift in about half a week. That's insane, but I'm looking forward to an early January thaw after which temperatures for the rest of the month may mostly be more reasonable and seasonable, in the 20's above zero range. Don't forget to celebrate Winter Solstice a week from today!

Much to the joy of my taste buds, and the dismay of my blood sugar, we have entered Christmas cookie season. Daughter person will be dropping off some frosted cookies later today and the Better Half has promised to bake some raspberry jam thumbprint cookies soon. I will do my best to pace myself rather than pig out. I don't want Santa to put me on the naughty list and deliver coal in my stocking, increasing my carbon footprint. I wonder if the IPCC, or anyone, has talked to the jolly old elf about a fossil fuel phaseout? Maybe instead of coal, he could leave naughty kids sand to pound?

This year's Christmas tree has remained upright for the past week, for which we are grateful. It's now decorated but I've not had an opportune time to take pictures.. Maybe this coming week. The outside lighting is delightful and cheery. I've already received an early present, an indoor lavender plant that is now living in a South-facing window well. It gives me something to enjoy from now until Spring green-up. Being "of Irish descent," I do prefer green to white and the color lavender, I think, looks better against a green instead of a white background.

Now, in alignment with today's posting and the season, please enjoy this poem:

Let’s just put it this way: They didn’t start calling him “Jolly” Old St. Nicholas until after he got the reindeer.

Poem by Lorraine Jackson

cc/wickimedia commons

 

‘Twas the night before Christmas,

And all through the stable,

Poor Santa was fretting if his horses were able.

The toys were all ready

But the horses were not.

With his sleigh pullers ailing,

Santa was quite distraught.

All the IVs were hung

on the stall fronts with care,

some legs had been cold-hosed

‘til the vet could get there.

Poor Bella had rainrot

And Gordo had thrush

Jellybean pulled a muscle

When he spooked at a brush

Though sometimes dear Rhoda

Could be very sweet,

Christmas Eve she decided to go into heat.

Old Roger was moonblind,

And Jake was too green

Pete had colic or gas–

It remained to be seen.

Trouble was best,

But he has the Cushings.

If he they took him unclipped,

He’d look like a Wookie.

Santa sat on a bucket,

And looked down the barn row

Wondering how he would get to and fro.

The vet bills were growing

They’d make Mark Cuban balk.

Half his elves don’t make toys now,

Instead they hand walk.

As Santa sat moaning

He looked out on the snow.

And saw eight wild reindeer,

With nowhere to go.

“It just might be crazy,”

Said St. Nick full of bliss

“But eight crazy reindeer

Would be better than THIS!”

So that’s how the reindeer

Came to be Santa’s hitch,

And there’s never a colic

Nor a last minute glitch.

The horses retired

But they still hear the bells,

And each Christmas Eve

all their knees start to swell.

Merry Christmas!

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

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.

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

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. 

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

Season's greetings to you and blessings upon you!

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

November usually brings a "dusting" of snow

Photo by J. Harrington

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

We Ain't Buying It

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

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

Perhaps the World Ends Here

By Joy Harjo 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Approaching Vernal Equinox

We have once again survived the conversion to daylight savings time. Tomorrow is St. Patrick’s Day. We wish a happy one to those who celebrate. This morning a ball of Irish soda bread dough went into the oven and made the house smell wonderful for awhile as it baked. The Better Half is cooking corned beef for tonight’s dinner. I’m wearing a green t-shirt, socks, and shoes today and will be attired in something similar tomorrow. I’m of Irish extraction as they say in my hometown of Boston

Unfortunately, since January 20, we appear to be blessed not by anyone good at driving out snakes, but with St. Upid. Many of US wish him a quick trip back to Apprenticeland, or wherever, until he learns how to behave with civilized people who lack the forbearance of, or for, some saints.

St. Upid, Patron Saint of Economic Collapse

We’ve already had our first 70 degree day and some thunder. Many waterfowl have returned over the past few days. Weeping willows are turning golden. Red osier dogwood has brightened. There’s only a few small patches of snow left, if that. There's snow in the forecast for the day before Spring arrives which, in Minnesota, isn't terribly surprising. In years past, we've had snow every month of the year but one. This year is looking like a tarriffic one for all kinds of volatility and roller coaster rides.

I spend too much time doom scrolling and hope to soon find something more enjoyable to do instead. Fly fishing, anyone? Then again, though I've not yet acquired the skill to turn away from watching an impending train wreck, I do hope we won’t soon be forbidden to wear certain colors, especially since “Spring Is a New Beginning."

"The Wearing of the Green" Lyrics

Oh, Paddy dear, did you hear the news that's going 'round?

The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground

Saint Patrick's Day no more to keep, his color can't be seen

For there's a bloody law again' the Wearing of the Green.

I met with Napper Tandy and he took me by the hand

And he said, "How's poor old Ireland and how does she stand?"

"She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen

For they're hanging men and women there for Wearing of the Green."

She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen

For they're hanging men and women there for Wearing of the Green.

Then since the color we must wear is England's cruel red

Sure Ireland's sons will never forget the blood that they have shed

You may pull the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod

But 'twill take root and flourish there, though underfoot 'tis trod.

When laws can stop the blades of grass for growing as they grow

And when the leaves in summertime their verdure dare not show

Then I will change the color too I wear in my caubeen*

But 'til that day, please God, I'll stick to Wearing of the Green.

She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen

For they're hanging men and women there for Wearing of the Green.

But if at last our color should be torn from Ireland's heart

Her sons, with shame and sorrow, from the dear old Isle will part

I've heard a whisper of a land that lies beyond the sea

Where rich and poor stand equal in the light of Freedom's day.

Ah, Erin, must we leave you, driven by a tyrant's hand

Must we seek a mother's blessing from a strange and distant land

Where the cruel cross of England shall never more be seen

And where, please God, we'll live and die, still Wearing of the Green.

She's the most distressful country that ever yet was seen

For they're hanging men and women there for Wearing of the Green.

*"Caubeen" is an Irish word for a certain type of hat, similar to a beret.

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

Time for rebirth

The snow cover is leaving, again. This time perhaps until the start oof next winter. We’ll see. It’s about time, since sandhill cranes should arrive soon. Signs of open water have appeared on the creek north of the property. The Sunrise river has been at least partly open for more than a week now. Perhaps the rebirth of nature will help trigger a similar rebirth of sanity and what passed for democracy for US. The continued and increasing insanity emanating from Washington, D.C. and Mar-a-Lardo has put me in a deep funk. I may have done better anticipating the outcome of last November’s election if I had kept in mind H.L. Mencken’s all too true observation: “No one in this world, so far as I know... has ever lost money by underestimating the intelligence of the great masses of the plain people.” I doubt we’ll accomplish much to increase their intelligence by banning books, words, or ideas but that won’t stop kakistocrats from trying.

ice and snow melts, open water flows

Photo by J. Harrington

I continue to hope that what we’re experiencing will turn into a non-fatal wake up call that facilitates a societal, economic and cultural transformation for US. Money has become too dominant a measure of success in life. I continue to look toward (the original) Robert F. Kennedy’s assessment:

Yet the gross national product does not allow for the health of our children, the quality of their education or the joy of their play. It does not include the beauty of our poetry or the strength of our marriages, the intelligence of our public debate or the integrity of our public officials. It measures neither our wit nor our courage, neither our wisdom nor our learning, neither our compassion nor our devotion to our country, it measures everything in short, except that which makes life worthwhile. And it can tell us everything about America except why we are proud that we are Americans.

Perhaps the current malaise among Democrats could be eased, even erased, if they read, contemplated, and responded to Kennedy's entire speech from which the extract above was derived. Some of US are reaching a point at which we are no longer “proud that we are Americans.”

Rebecca Solnit has written about “Hope in the Dark: Untold Histories, Wild Possibilities.” For any who ever claimed democracy was easy, they probably changed their mind when they discovered the barbarians inside the gates. We can do better. We have done better. We will do better. We must. It’s imperative for US to share why we are proud too be Americans as we work together to fulfill the promises embodied in our Declaration of Independence as we recognize our interdependence on each other and the air, water, soil and habitats on which we are totally dependent.

Narcissus

Patricia Hooper

Near the path through the woods I’ve seen it:
a trail of white candles.

I could find it again, I could follow
its light deep into shadows.

Didn’t I stand there once? 
Didn’t I choose to go back

down the cleared path, the familiar?
Narcissus, you said. Wasn’t this

the flower whose sudden enchantments
led Persephone down into Hades?

You remember the way she was changed
when she came every spring, having seen

the withering branches, the chasms,
and how she had to return there

helplessly, having eaten
the seed of desire. What was it

I saw you were offering me
without meaning to, there in the sunlight,

while the flowers beckoned and shone
in their flickering season?

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

Evolution or Revolution?

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

February hoar frost on the trees

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

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

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

Declaration 

Tracy K. Smith
1972 – 

He has 

              sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people



He has plundered our—



                                             ravaged our—



                                                                   destroyed the lives of our—



taking away our­—



                                 abolishing our most valuable—



and altering fundamentally the Forms of our—



In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for

Redress in the most humble terms:

                                                                Our repeated 

Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury.



We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration

and settlement here.



                                    —taken Captive



                                                              on the high Seas



                                                                                             to bear—

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

‘Twixt Valentines and Spring

We hope you had a warm Valentine’s Day full of hugs, kisses and loves. Ours did and added too much candy to be good for us since we were just finishing off the Christmas stash. Time to start practicing self control again. Wish me luck!!

Over the past few days we’ve watched a flock of a baker’s dozen turkey hens scratch the daylights out of our back yard. Where there had been a couple of inches of snow cover, after the birds’ visits, oak leaves cover the ground. They no doubt found most of the acorns they were looking for or they’d still be scratching for them. Yesterday, as they trod downhill, they looked like a division of miniature tanks coming toward the house. By sometime next month, toms may start to gobble as mating season begins.

red osier dogwood brightening

Photo by J. Harrington

At the moment, we’re under an “Extreme Cold Watch” with wind chills from minus 33 to minus 39 forecast for tomorrow and Tuesday. By next weekend, daytime highs are forecast to reach above freezing. Remember the old saying “If winter’s here, can spring be far behind?” Let’s hope it’s right (behind)!! Meteorologically we’re now less than two weeks from the beginning of spring on March 1.

It’s about that time of year when red osier dogwood begins to brighten tamarack swamps. Soon we’ll be hearing the tinkles and tunks of snowmelt dripping and flowing as nature begins to climb out from under her winter blanket. Spring is a season the Minnesota does not usually do well. The pattern is too often cold, cold, cool, warm, hot, over about that many days. Maybe this year will be an exception to the usual and we’ll get to enjoy an extended, gradual warming over weeks to come. Maybe some year the Vikings will win the Superbowl, too. Lots of natural, and naturalized, Minnesotans have become quite good at saying “Wait ’til next year.”

Here in the North Country, by the time we leave Black History Month, we will be entering the

Country of Water

Mahogany L. Browne

I know who I am because I believe it

The breath in my chest
Insistent in its choice

The skin that I’m in
The bones and blood and veins
It carries like a promise

          Have you witnessed the ocean

Moving with so much gust and life
Have you witnessed the river
Still waters bubbling the rebirth of school

           Have you witnessed your body

Its own country of water
Moving against the tide of a world
So heartbreaking      it’s forgotten its own voice

Be still friend
Be still
Be kind to yourself in the gift of stillness

I know who I am because I believe it
I know
I know
Who I
Who I
Believe
Believe
Believe
In three’s we will come
A drip of water moving against a boulder
Water slow and steady can turn rock
Into a pebble
Like anxiety
Like self-doubt
Smaller
Smaller
Until gone
Let your love for yourself be the water
Be the rise
Be the mist
Let you be

I know who I am because I believe it
I believe I am my mother’s daughter
I believe I am my grandmother’s prayers
I believe I am my great-grandmother’s backbone revealed

I am I am because I believe so
I am because a woman believed in me
What a continent I became
What a country of water I be
I flow and fluid and rise and ebb and I believe in me

           I am not wrong
I am wronged

In this skin I’ve reclaimed
From this trap of this country’s tourniquet
Only to find the sweet solace is a river bed
Its mud beckons me closer to its silt
Small fish and forgotten glass unearth themselves
Like baby teeth
Only one can cut into flesh purposely
Only one does not know what it is capable of

I believe in the air as much as I believe in the fire
I believe in the fire as much as the water consumes
I believe in a higher source
Energetic and wise
I believe in my ability to thrive

This body
        This body is a good thing

Turning two miles walked over a bridge into a family’s meal
Creating poems that become cashier’s checks
Dentist bills and rent
I’ve three holes in my teeth
And a nation that pretends I didn’t almost die for it to survive

I am I am still here still here
I am still here and like the ocean, full of salt and shells
Full of ship remnants and noble ones
I bleed and the sand grieves
I be because someone survived for me to be here
Today

Breathing this almost air
Marching for cleaner belongings
My front seat beneath the deadening stars
Is still a seat
Is still a ground
Is still a home that I can pronounce my given name
To write amongst the forgotten names
The taken and the ignored
But today

            There are no tombstones

Today
There is no true death

Only life
Only life
Only a song of the living
Maybe even a belief system
With water as its minister

            I am water

I dive into my own currents
I dress my dreams in the satin breath
Of my ancestors

I know
I know
I know who I am
I know who I am because I believe it

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

O tempora, o mores!*

We got five or six inches of snow late Friday and early Saturday. The birds have been pouring in to the feeders: goldfinches, juncoes, woodpeckers, cardinals, bluejays, nuthatches and chickadees for the most part. My aging shoulders ache from wrestling with the snow blower. Spring can’t arrive soon enough as far as I’m concerned. Unfortunately, we’re again looking at a week ahead full of days with high temperatures in the single digits, at least according to my smartphone weather app. The Weather Underground outlook is marginally more optimistic.

a forced bulb pot garden in bloom

Photo by J. Harrington

On a more pleasant theme, we got an early start baking Irish soda bread this week, instead of waiting until next month for St. Patrick’s Day. I’ve almost finished reading a book the Daughter Person lent me (which the Better Half assures me she read to our kids when they were young): Wise Child by Monica Furlong. I have no memory of it but find the current reading to be delightful. I’ll be curious to see how I react to the other two books in the series. Mentioned previously on these pages has been the forced bulb garden the Better Half gave me for Christmas. Watching it bloom has helped my sanity immeasurably during this interminable winter season. A version from 2023 is shown above.

Despite the goings on in D.C., this is still Black History Month. As a matter of fact, here’s a link to this year’s presidential proclamation announcing it. (I took a screen shot as backup.) Today’s poem feels fitting for all of US during the times and goings on the administration is shoveling on US. I wonder how much “love of country” will be in the air come Friday.

*O tempora, o mores! [click for translation  and explanation]

Still I Rise

By Maya Angelou 

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops,

Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame

I rise

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

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

Welcome, February!

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

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

Valentine's Day hearts and candy

Photo by J. Harrington

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

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

Let America Be America Again 

by Langston Hughes 

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

(America never was America to me.)

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

(It never was America to me.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The free?

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

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

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

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

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

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