Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Dry leaves before the wild hurricane...

Today's temperatures have been a pleasant change from recent experiences, even though my windshield may now be perpetually road-muck covered. The wind though has been ripping many of the remaining leaves from the local oak trees and sending them whirling around the yard and down the road. They make interesting patterns on the snow out back.

snow with oak leaf clusters
snow with oak leaf clusters              © harrington

They also make it obvious where someone has been walking (as if the snow didn't do the job). I think these are my oak-leaf filled foot prints from a trip to the compost pile, mixed in with those from a deer who wandered through (perhaps thinking the compost pile is a feeding station).


But leaf-filled footprints  look best, I think, when they can be photographed from a high angle in a single line disappearing into the brush. From the drag marks, I'm guessing these are deer tracks (plus, I'm pretty sure none of the human occupants of the property, or their dogs, have been walking in this location).


If it didn't get much colder than today for the rest of Winter, and the wind died down, and the sun actually shone, I could enjoy our Winter weather. Maybe for Christmas? (But not the night before.)

Account of a Visit from St. Nicholas

By Major Henry Livingston, Jr. 
’Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro’ the house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar plums danc’d in their heads,
And Mama in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap —
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below;
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and call’d them by name:
“Now! Dasher, now! Dancer, now! Prancer, and Vixen,
“On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Dunder and Blixem;
“To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
“Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys — and St. Nicholas too:
And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound:
He was dress’d all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnish’d with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys was flung on his back,
And he look’d like a peddler just opening his pack:
His eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples how merry,
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow.
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face, and a little round belly
That shook when he laugh’d, like a bowl full of jelly:
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laugh’d when I saw him in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And fill’d all the stockings; then turn’d with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprung to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle:
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight —
Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

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Thanks for listening. Come again when you can. Rants, raves and reflections served here daily.

Monday, December 16, 2013

Christmas cookie time

This morning, early, there was no need for a flashlight while walking the dog. Full, full moon occurs tomorrow. This morning it was only full. How often do you suppose the full moon occurs on Winter Solstice? The Farmers' Almanac has a list. Yesterday and today I had the honor of helping to get several packages of Christmas cookies sent to various locations around our country. That's usually a sign that holiday preparations are almost done and the madness is winding down. I'm happy to vouch for the fact that there will be some very lucky cookie recipients sometime soon.

Two kinds of Christmas cookies
my favorites                 © harrington
While driving through the light snow on my way back from a meeting in St. Paul, I stopped at the Forest Lake library and requested a copy of the book for next month's Art book club reading. For January 2014 (do you believe that, 2014?) we're talking about Maya Angelou's Gather Together in My Name, the second volume in her multi-volume autobiography. I've been very pleasantly surprised with the breadth and depth of the discussions that have centered on, but not been limited to, the content of the two books read thus far. The discussions have been almost as good as Christmas cookies.

snow flake sugar cookies
snow flake sugar cookies       © harrington
Good coffee, good books, good conversation and good cookies make for a great Christmas as far as I'm concerned. (It doesn't always take four "goods" to make one "great." That's just the way it worked out this time.) Speaking of good books, Braiding Sweetgrass goes somewhere beyond good in my mind. Robin Wall Kimmerer has some wonderful concepts on what it means to be indigenous and an exploration of what it means to be "naturalized" if not indigenous. Since I've long admired Wes Jackson's Becoming Native to This Place, it's encouraging to see a new perspective on how we can develop better relationships with the only home we have. Speaking of home, did you know sweetgrass is native to Minnesota (although, apparently, not to Chisago County), and, in fact, the Minnesota Historical Society and the Mille Lacs Indian Museum are offering a sweetgrass basket workshop this coming April. That goes on my list of possibilities for next year. If you work it right, and don't get greedy, you can manage to have bits of Christmas all year round (but Christmas cookies come only at Christmas). In honor of my very own Christmas elf cookie baker, I want to share Noel by Anne Porter.

Santa, holly, and Christmas tree cookies   © harrington

Noel


When snow is shaken
From the balsam trees
And they're cut down
And brought into our houses

When clustered sparks
Of many-colored fire
Appear at night
In ordinary windows

We hear and sing
The customary carols

They bring us ragged miracles
And hay and candles
And flowering weeds of poetry
That are loved all the more
Because they are so common

But there are carols
That carry phrases
Of the haunting music
Of the other world
A music wild and dangerous
As a prophet's message

Or the fresh truth of children
Who though they come to us
From our own bodies

Are altogether new
With their small limbs
And birdlike voices

They look at us
With their clear eyes
And ask the piercing questions
God alone can answer.  

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Thanks for listening. Come again when you can. Rants, raves and reflections served here daily (and sometimes Christmas cookies).