The most beautiful Christmas tree!

xmas tree 06-a.jpg
Originally uploaded by rebetsky.

...and I've learned it's darned hard to photograph a Christmas tree!

Do you doubt climate change?

It generally seems pretty abstract. Sure, it's warm this December, but some years are colder, some warmer than others. I remember more snow when I was a kid, but then, everything was better when I was a kid!

Here's the reality, though: The National Arbor Day Foundation has just "re-issued" the USDA's plant hardiness zone map, and it shows the real impact of global warming. Here in Carroll County, I've always figured us to be a 6 to 6.5. Now, we're clearly a 7. That's a big difference on a scale of 10.

Look your zone up here. The USDA, too, is revising its map, but hasn't released it yet.

As reported in the New York Times: "Cameron P. Wake, a research associate professor at the Climate Change Research Center at the University of New Hampshire, said that winter temperatures in the Northeast have increased an average of 4.3 degrees over the last 30 years."

It's good news and bad news for us gardeners. On the good side, barring the inevitable cold snap, we can shave a week or two off our earliest safe planting times, and get a week or two more out of the season. And it means we can grow some varieties that previously were too risky.

On the minus side, less cold means more insects overwintering, less successful kill-off of harmful disease-causing bacteria and fungi such as apple scab, and more vigorous growth of invasive species including poison ivy, Japanese honeysuckle and English ivy. For us allergy sufferers, too, it means exponential growth in the release of pollen — 10x as much from ragweed as in the old, cold days.

I've always felt that good, long freezes are critical in our area to keep the plant cycles viable (from a human perspective, to serve our needs, of course) and also to kill off germs that make us sick.

So, we'll see how the rosemary does — that should be a good test. We'll know in the Spring.

Does he speak for Iran?

This from the New York Times, reporting on a recent speech by Iran's president at the same university that spawned the revolutionaries who took the hostages in 1979:

"At one point, the head of a moderate student guild complained to Mr. Ahmadinejad that students were being expelled for political activities and given three stars next to their names in university records, barring them from re-entering. The president responded by ridiculing him, joking that the three stars made them sergeants in the army.

The president was eventually forced to cut his speech short and leave. But angry students stormed his car, kicking it and chanting slogans. His convoy of four cars collided several times as they tried to leave in a rush. Eventually the students were dispersed."

Elsewhere, the article quoted students saying nuclear technology was Iran's right, but may not be worth the price. The protests are in response to crack-downs on moderates, reformists and liberals on the campus and elsewhere. Seems like Ahmadinejad has a hard time speaking about anything important without ridiculing something or somebody. If only he were just a figment of the imagination, as he claims the Holocaust is.

Incidentally, one of the slogans the students chanted was "Death to the dictator!" Is death the only option?

Welcome Winter!

It arrives 12/22 at 0:22 GMT; this evening, 12/21 at 7:22 p.m. EST. This from The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keilor, which/whom you often find quoted here:

"In the northern hemisphere, today is the Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year and the longest night. It's officially the first day of winter and one of the oldest known holidays in human history. Anthropologists believe that solstice celebrations go back at least 30,000 years, before humans even began farming on a large scale. Many of the most ancient stone structures made by human beings were designed to pinpoint the precise date of the solstice. The stone circles of Stonehenge were arranged to receive the first rays of midwinter sun.

Ancient peoples believed that because daylight was waning, it might go away forever, so they lit huge bonfires to tempt the sun to come back. The tradition of decorating our houses and our trees with lights at this time of year is passed down from those ancient bonfires."

If you'd like to visit The Writer's Almanac, click the title of this post (there's another good Robert Bly today) or point your browser here:

http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/

Praising Manners

We should ask God
To help us toward manners. Inner gifts
Do not find their way
To creatures without just respect.

If a man or woman flails about, he not only
Smashes his house,
He burns the whole world down.

Your depression is connected to your insolence
And your refusal to praise.
If a man or woman is
On the path, and refuses to praise — that man or woman
Steals from others every day — in fact is a shoplifter!

The sun became full of light when it got hold of itself.
Angels began shining when they achieved discipline.
The sun goes out whenever the cloud of not-praising comes near.
The moment that foolish angel felt insolent, he heard the door close.

—Robert Bly

Do You Have A Prayer?

Ran across this interesting description:

"I've heard various descriptions of how prayer works. Some say God listens, some say our thoughts affect the energy of the universe and create change; some say that we're conditioning ourselves to transform our own attitudes, and that attitudes, good and bad, are contagious. It's a mystery but it does work."

I agree.

Ouch! Did You Have To Tell Us?

"Bush is another president we deserve. He, too, is often accused of betraying Americans — by campaigning as a humble man and governing as something else. But this is also wrong. Bush has governed as he promised to — with the kind of phony-demotic cocksureness that many people like in pickup-truck commercials and think of themselves as embodying. When he let it be known that he didn’t “do nuance,” it was an invitation to say: “Good. Neither do we.” But this banty self-assurance — our self-assurance — appears not such a great trait when it leads you into a bloodbath in Iraq. The feeling circulating since the election is relief — relief that this unflattering mirror is a bit closer to being taken away. It should not surprise us that this feeling is as strong among those who supported the president as among those who did not."

Christopher Caldwell is a contributing writer for the New York Times magazine and a senior editor at The Weekly Standard.

Another Successful Hunt!

Well, daughter unit and I didn’t come close to our record of two years ago — twenty minutes start-to-finish — but in just under an hour this morning we were driving away from Sewell’s Tree Farm with a fine, tall Frasier Fir in the truck. $40, not bad. It’s a little on the narrow side, and mighty tall, over 8’ to be sure, maybe pushing 9. It was a fine morning to be tree-hunting, sunny and crisp but not too cold. Lights go on it tomorrow. Monday, the traditional Chinese food and tree-trimming. I guess there is a tradition or two that endure.

Speaking of tradition, I’ve started my Autumn ritual reading of Faulkner’s The Bear, a little late this year. Year after year, I’m in abject awe of the lambency of that man’s writing. A chronic alcoholic, whose wife tried to commit suicide on their honeymoon (not sure at what point he became an over-drinker, but that was probably enough to get him started!). A man who called the King of Sweden to tell him he wouldn’t be attending the ceremony to receive his Nobel Prize because it was hunting season. Would that I could be so true to my being!

The vocabulary lesson for me from his liquid, seamless flow of pearls:

lambent: 1. playing lightly on or over a surface: flickering 2. softly bright or radiant 3. marked by lightness or brilliance especially of expression. Latin lambent-, lambens, present participle of lambere to lick

abject: 1. sunk to or existing in a low state or condition 2a. cast down in spirit 2b. showing hopelessness or resignation 3. expressing or offered in a humble and often ingratiating spirit . Middle English, from Latin abjectus, from past participle of abicere to cast off, from ab- + jacere to throw

Priam: the father of Hector, Paris, and Cassandra and king of Troy during the Trojan War. Latin Priamus, from Greek Priamos

Caffe Trieste

I saw the man’s picture
on the post while I waited
in line at the Caffe Trieste.
He would be reading
November first, but I
would be two days gone
by then. Pity.
And while I waited
I witnessed what seemed
to me
to be
a supreme feat of pan
handling, not twenty-five
cents for the bus or
the burger but
five dollars for the
grande cappuccino
(it’s come to this?)
but he promised to pay
her back next week
(did he know her?
perhaps by sight)
and she said if not
the week after was OK
(did she know him?
perhaps by plight)
(I’ve seen so much pan
handling this week
past huddled hordes
with ratty
blankets piled and
tarps and shopping
carts)
And I moved several
places up in line
and looked over
there, next to the
girl with the painted
geisha face and
black hair with a
stick in it or two
and there he was
the man in the photo
bristled white eyebrows
and snow-white goatee
cheeks a bit flushed
(some vision of Christmas?)
nursing a stemmed
glass with a last toast
of shining red wine.
There was wisdom on
his face and in his eyes
and I wanted to ask
if it was really him?
I was happy to find him
and then a bit sad
that this would never
be me
enjoying the spoils
of age and some small
notoriety in a stemmed glass.
Perhaps something frothy
for me instead
(if I’ve not been banned
from even coffee)
and if not recognition
then maybe reminiscence
of something worth reading
out loud. Then
to come home to you, Khanoum
with tales of the characters
I’ve seen
to read out loud to you
again.

29 October 2006

Wait, don't wait!

Two years in the U.S. Senate sure...and a bunch in the Illinois legislature. 4 out of the 5 most recent presidents went to the White House with only state, no national credentials. Conservative media trying to scare America (again)? (And how much experience did our current president have?)

American Values

As if all this holiday consumerism wasn't bad enough, this from the New York Times. Analysis of census data describes college freshmen's reasons for going to college:

"In 1970, 79 percent said their goal was developing a meaningful philosophy of life. By 2005, 75 percent said their primary objective was to be financially very well off."

Not even just well off...very well off. There's a life philosophy for you! And something tells me it's not a uniquely American phenomenon, either.

One Year Update

Well here it is a year-plus later since I moved into “Brambly Hedge” in Uniontown. Ai, what a year!

The wall and patio sit unfinished. Memorial Day 2007, that’s the deadline now, with some kind of party to inaugurate it. I’d like to get at least the kitchen painted this winter, maybe a new counter and sink. Upstairs bathroom needs paint, too, but I’m not that optimistic.

It’s still a great house, and a great yard. I finally got the office more-or-less settled. Last week, the seed catalogs started arriving, first Territorial, then a bunch more — one just tomatoes, one just beans!

Definitely: Blueberries. A pair of short and a pair tall, to form the wall and doorway to the far “room” of the yard. I’m thinking maybe two semi-circular beds behind them, maybe one all lavender. A center shape with the angel is pretty much a given. I need to move a couple hydrangeas, boxwoods, and a yucca or two. Lots of rearranging (that’s cheap!). Can’t decide if I have a place for strawberries. Have to get out those initial sketches and dust them off.

And of course, the more I read, the more compelled than ever I feel to grow as much of my own food as possible.

And so Christmas approaches. Going to go cut a tree down tomorrow. The whole damned season is bittersweet (yet again), still another Christmas without a life-mate. I think this is what it’s going to be. Not that it’s bad, but the holidays are a perennial challenge.

Worse this year because of serial trauma. But it will get better. Sorry for the downer. Meantime, there are poems to write, gardens to plan, prayers to make, blessings to count…many, many blessings to count. Count yourself as one, dear reader!

Three Deer Day

It was a good morning for Dom and I — three deer down. Another unseasonably warm day, but nice and overcast. Dom hunted behind the house, and I in the usual spot by the lower pond. I had deer on the ground and Dom had hit one but not recovered it yet. He came down and got me and we went to find or flush the little doe he had shot. We walked through the high brush, about 30 yards apart; I was closest to the big field below the house. Dom called that he found it, but it jumped up and started off. I saw it jump and head toward the fence, and figured it would probably head back toward the mountain. I was by a fence post, standing, and braced myself against it. I shouldered my rifle and looked through the scope, but everything was too close, so I dialed it back. I found the doe, angling at a run (not a sprint, just a run) and tracked her for a few strides then fired. She crumpled on the spot. So go figure — I manage to hit a running doe at 75+ yards, standing braced against a fence post, but yesterday morning, I couldn’t hit a buck at 30-40 yards, standing still, me sitting with my rifle resting on a railing. I would say today’s shot was a lot of luck, though I don’t really believe in luck. Anyhow, we were glad we got that deer, and I had a 6-point as well.

Dom had a job interview this afternoon, so I borrowed his truck and took one of the deer in to the butcher in town. The other two, I skinned and quartered and put in the fridge. Two deer — one, one of the bigger ones I’ve shot, and the other a little tender one — and barely filled two shelves in the refrigerator. Tomorrow we’ll cut them up for the freezer.

It’s been a physically demanding couple of days, and I am sadly feeling my age. Yesterday I helped Dom and Kenny load hay on a trailer. After 80 bales or so, the dust totally got to me; my throat started closing up and my voice got real high. I quit and came down to the house and took an antihistamine and drank a bunch of water. Since then, I’ve gotten winded quickly with just the slightest exertion.

It doesn’t help that I’m way overdressed. I knew it was going to be warm, but this is ridiculous! I didn’t pack any of my lightweight hunting clothes. The only blaze orange I brought to wear was my winter coat and bibs. I could go without the bibs, but I really had to wear the coat, including when I was field-dressing the deer. Ugh!

Didn’t see a thing tonight. It was a beautiful night, though, warm, completely still, with a sky completely covered with wispy, puffy, floating clouds.

Tomorrow morning will be the last PA hunt for me this year (more than likely), then chores, then back to Uniontown.

The Buck Doesn't Stop Here!

Saturday I shot a doe in Maryland in the morning. Today was opening day in Pennsylvania. I was ready to shoot buck or doe, as I have expensive tags to fill, and didn’t shoot anything in Pennsylvania last year. Early, about 6:40 a.m., I had a deer come across the field in front of me, casually grazing and walking in the grass. I couldn’t tell what it was, other than an adult deer. I thought it was a doe, and was getting ready to shoot, but then I saw a glint of antler. Damn! I had to figure out if it had 3 points on one side, the legal minimum now in PA. It kept moving along, slowly, then went through the fence and that was when I could tell it had a nice basket rack. It was now traveling though, between me and the pond, walking. I got it in the scope, then grunted softly. Didn’t stop. I grunted more loudly and then it did stop. I was a bit too far back on it, so I swung the rifle forward a bit, and squeezed. He took off into the woods and down the hill. I heard him crashing through for what I guess was about 30 yards or so into the woods, and then it was quite again. Awesome, I thought, he’s lying down there waiting for me. I didn’t want to get out of the stand and mess things up for Dom, and I wanted to see what else might come along. A couple little ones came right underneath me, and that was it. About an hour later I got out, went down to where I thought I hit him. Nothing. Went to the woods where he went in, walked back and forth, nothing. Did a grid search in the field, nothing. Not a drop of blood anywhere. Went into the woods, and I could see clearly where he went straight down the hill, stiff-legging it and skidding. Nothing. A clean miss. Damn.

So I took the long way out of the woods, came back up the hill, went back and looked again, still in disbelief. Oh, well. Hooked up with Dom and we started heading back. Near the top of the road, I spied a nice buck heading down into the field at about 75 yards. We couldn’t shoot because he was right in front of the neighbors’ houses. We watched him work down behind a rise — just antlers over the hill, then disappeared — and waited for him to come out the other side of the rise. Meantime, we moved down some, I laid down on the ground and made a shooting rest with my pack. He crossed over and went into the field we call the oat field, even though it hasn’t been planted in oats in some years. It was 350 yards or more, but we each took a couple shots; it was, after all, a really nice buck! No luck, of course. He continued trotting into the woods, right underneath the stand I had been in an hour earlier.

Giving Thanks

I am thankful for all the people I've known, and all the people I will come to know...for the people I thought I knew but didn't know, and that I don't know some people anymore whom I did know...for friends and family and all the friends of Bill.

I am thankful for creatures of all kinds — food and friends, pests and pets. For all things that grow and flower and fruit, I am grateful. For rocks and the dirt they become.

For this roof over my head and my warm bed and full belly.

For prayers heard and prayers answered. For the angels Therese, Michael, Malachi, and Jezebel.

For artists of all types and the misery they bring.

For bifocals.

For rhythm of all kinds — the cadence of words and music, the flow of the seasons, the rhythm of two bodies meeting. For lightness and for darkness. For ebb and flow. For all sorrows and the lessons they bring. For joys that can be shared. For gentleness and the brutality of life and death and all creatures. Most of all for forgiveness. Because of that, I am able to be thankful for everything. No exceptions.

And of course, for you, gentle reader, I am most grateful.

Seen on a church marquee...

"Lord, help me to be the kind of person my dog thinks I am."

Excuse ME!

This is for real, from the 11.6.06 New York Times. Why not just stay home? Or put on a latex glove and slap anyone who gets too close?

The Excuse Me flag is a little yellow banner mounted on a lightweight pole, which is attached to one’s waist so it swings back and forth in front of the wearer during walking. Any other pedestrian who walks too close will be slapped in the face by the pole or the yellow flag, which reads “Excuse Me.”

“It generates a cubic yard of free walking space between you and a sneezer,” Ms Beck, a former New Yorker, said from her home in Delaware. “It makes it so you don’t have to touch anybody or talk to anybody in New York.”

Go west, old man!

I have seen California at last. My first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean was on Friday, October 27, 2006, in Santa Monica.

The first five days of my trip were spent in L.A. From the very first, as the plane flew over the city to land, I wondered why anyone would want to live there. My opinion changed little throughout my stay. I stayed in Hollywood (not my choice), and saw some the L.A.’s worst neighborhoods. More on that later.

On Saturday, October 28th, I took the Coastal Starlight train from Los Angeles to San Francisco/Oakland. It should have been called the Coastal Daylight, at least until sunset, as it departed at 10:15 a.m. But I suppose there was plenty of starlight for those going on to Oregon and Washington.

What a magnificent ride! A couple hours along the coast with a fabulous view of the ocean — beaches, cliffs, dolphins, seals, surfers. On the other side, brown corrugated mountains, not dissimilar to many I’ve seen in New Mexico, although the vegetation was different. (Not dissimilar to those I’m flying over now, east of Lake Tahoe, although these appear from 39,000 feet to be completely devoid of vegetation.)

Shortly into the ride I discovered the observation car, with glass all around and outward-facing seats. What a wonderful way to travel! A few hours into the trip, somewhere around San Luis Obispo, the route turned slightly inward and became a mix of those mountains and farmland in the valleys. We passed fields of cauliflower, broccoli, onions, strawberries (that went on a ways, but not forever) tomatoes, lettuce, lemon trees, grapes, a bunch of green things I couldn’t identify, and one field of flowers. Interestingly and not surprisingly, in most places the green and cultivated fields were surrounded by browness, a sure sign that nature did not intend this place to be America’s produce market. There was a field or two of organic tomatoes, distinguished by the abundance of weeds.

Most of the fields and mountains were, in fact, brown. The National Park Service guide (a retired gentleman, volunteer; the first third or so of the journey included interesting narration of the sights) explained that after the rains (Jan/Feb) everything turned green, but it didn’t sound like it lasted long.

Training was so much more pleasant than planing. You could move around and there was lots of room (it was not full). People talked to each other; there was even a fight, a young couple, punky/ghetto, drinking; she ripped his shirt off. They were greeted by police in San Luis Obispo. At one point, my ticket stub fell out of my pocket, which was somewhat disconcerting. I didn’t need it, but wanted it as a souvenir. I retraced my steps — back to the coach, down to the bathroom, back to the observation car, down to the lounge, back to the observation car to a different seat. I chatted it up a little bit with the remaining ghetto drinkers (one an aspiring filmmaker, the other a musician), and about a half hour later some guy came up and handed me a folio and asked if it was my ticket stub. Sure enough, it was.

Lunch and dinner in the dining car, seated with strangers. An entertainment lawyer from L.A., a mental health worker from Oregon, a retired (at 20-something, injured but fine) Army photographer from San Diego going to Oregon to photograph her brother’s wedding. The food was not bad, not great, kind of expensive.

I had brought books, work, the computer, lots of diversions (plus planned sleep) to pass the time on an 11-hour train ride. Once we left the station in LA, they all sat ignored for 11 hours. It was that good.

San Francisco was, of course, fantastic. I was staying below Oakland (the train came into Oakland, and I needed to be near the airport for this morning’s 7:15 flight). I took a cab to the BART and the BART to the city, getting off in the Mission District sometime before 10 a.m. Visited Mission Dolores (oldest building in SF, dedicated to Saint Francis of Assisi), then wandered down to one of the alleys to see and photograph the murals. I didn’t go as far as the one with the real Hispanic political murals; it was another 8 blocks or so, and I was trying to pace myself. Then back onto the BART to head downtown, on the trolley car (not the cable car, I learned the difference eventually) to the waterfront, past most of the tourist traps. I did go out on the pier by the Cannery to get a view of the Golden Gate, Alcatraz, etc. It was a beautiful, sunny, breezy day. I half thought about hiking up that incredibly steep hill to see Lombard Street; one-quarter thought about it, actually, before I turned around and headed back down to scope out a cable car.

So this was a tourist trap, catching the cable car at the turnaround. It took at least a half an hour or more to get a much more expensive ticket and wait in line for the car. The whole time serenaded by the world’s worst street musician, a grizzly pony-tailed old guy playing electric guitar, approximating (vaguely) some of the great rock hits of the sixties and seventies. Reminded me of the time I almost learned a song on the guitar.

The cable car, although packed, was a good idea. Up way steep, down way steep, up way steep, etc. I got off in Chinatown, wandered around, randomly picked a place and ate some very bad Chinese food. The marketplaces of the streets were teeming, fascinating, and stinky. As I was working my way out of Chinatown, I thought they were having a parade for me, but it turned out to be a marching band leading a funeral. Nice way to go!

So, then North Beach to the City Lights bookstore (pilgrimage), haunt of the beats. Then, climbed up the incredibly steep hill to Coit Tower, with magnificent views of the whole Bay area — bridges left and right, mountains, the city, wow! I was just a bit too late; the sun was still lighting the Oakland/Sausalito side, but not the rest. Twenty minutes earlier would have been perfect.

Back down the incredibly steep hill to have cappuccino at Caffe Trieste (see separate post), then up to Saints Peter and Paul church (beautiful) for prayers, then wandering around narrating the sites to my love over the cell phone. Waiting in the Steps of Rome for Farideh and Joseph, who picked me up and gave me an after-dark (but not nightlife) tour. Up to the “twin peaks” to see the lighted city laid out below, down through the Presidio to the Golden Gate (the park beneath) which was just magically lit. Around through town, here and there, down the switchbacks of Lombard Street, to end up, surprise! at the North Beach Pizzaria. Faradeh and Joseph were delightful, entertaining, and absolutely gracious. I’d never met them before, and I would not normally do that sort of “arranged” thing, but I was glad I did. (See, I can still try new things and learn!)

Enough of this for now. I need to sleep; only got four hours last night. No mood to write about homelessness now, but I will later. Now, it won’t be long until I am in welcoming and long-awaited arms.

It was a great trip. Especially the last part. And coming home.

P.S. You packed me so well, but you forgot the hand sanitizer!

30 October 2006

When life gives you...

I saw my first lemon tree yesterday.

Requiem: Self-Service

Did you prepare for this?
How well and how long?
You must have packed
silk pajamas and leather slippers
Your hair neatly trimmed and
smoothed, shiny, clean shaven
nails precisely rounded
(even in these small ways
the wisdom of your plan was
coming to fruition, with little left
to be done but dab a little
make-up on your face and
lift and place you into your box
arms still folded across your chest;
but still you left them to pick out
your suit and carry your pajamas home
in what kind of bag?)
Surely you broke your voluntary
if imperfect abstinence
and picked a wine from the hotel’s
cellars, a vintage you would know
and of which the sommelier would
nod his approval. Did you sip it
as you jotted a few last details
or did you leave it all to us?
What thoughts did you have?
What were you thinking?
Or did you ask the wine’s
forgiveness and drink it far
too fast, chasing away those
pictures that would force their
way in front of you like a screen
in a darkened theater?
Her jet black hair and pale silken
skin, his smiles and squeals of glee
on a swing, her blossoming into
womanhood, carrying the boxes into
her first apartment, his first Little
League hit, and him, the first time
(not that long ago) that he said
daddy.
Two pills, then three then four
finding their way on a velvet red
river with earthen overtones
another glass, five-six-seven-eight
no pictures now, all effort focused
on the task at hand: bottle, glass,
bottle, nine-ten-eleven-twelve
Concentrate! Head up, hand
steady, get this done now, don’t
screw this up, enough, more than
enough has been screwed up already
finish this at this desk, finish!
Make sure it is enough
and this finally, finally thank god
will finally be enough
enough at last
stumble to the bed, lay down now
lay your head gently on the
pillow, smooth the silk of
your pajamas, lay your head
down and lay your arms
gracefully, peacefully on
your chest.
There.
All is done at last.
Lay you gently down now
Little lamb, God made thee
God keep thee, God
take thee
Take thy troubles from thee
and leave them here
with us
We’ll take care of everything
We’ll take care of you
You are safe here now
as you have always been
unbeknownst to you
Little did you know
how much we wanted you here
(little did we know how much
we wanted you here)
Little do you know now
how much you still are here
in the empty spaces that
find thoughts of you
in the hearts you’ve left
with nothing but
yearning for you.
Farewell! Sweet dreams!
May the angels keep you well.

23 October 2006

A President and a Poet: Two Quotes

"Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired, signifies, in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed."

— Dwight D. Eisenhower

"To be nobody-but-yourself—in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else—means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting."

— e.e. cummings

Islamic Thought

"Have mercy on that which is on earth, so that which is in heaven will have mercy on you."

Roger's thought:

"If the children of Islam are not happy, your children will never be happy."

And I suspect that, no matter what happens, the children of Islam will not be happy.

Suddenly...

Would it not take one
Who slept alone to know it?
Who could have told you
That the nights in autumn
Are indeed extremely long?

— Takashina Kishi

Autumn, not so fast!

Not until Saturday morning, 9/23, at 12:03 a.m. Awfully late this year!

Yes, that's what I want...

"Success is getting what you want. Happiness is wanting what you get."

— Heard on the radio; I missed the source.

Press on!

"Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful men with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is filled with educated derelicts. Persistence and determination are alone omnipotent. 'Press on!' has been and always will be the answer to every human problem."

Calvin Coolidge

Long Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond

As for life
I'm humbled,
I'm without words
sufficient to say
how it has been hard as flint,
and soft as a spring pond
both of these
and over and over,
and long pale afternoons besides,
and so many mysteries
beautiful as eggs in a nest,
still unhatched
though warm and watched over
by something I have never seen—
a tree angel, perhaps,
or a ghost of holiness.
Every day I walk out into the world
to be dazzled, then to be reflective.
It suffices, it is all comfort—
along with human love,
dog love, water love, little-serpent love,
sunburst love, or love for that smallest of birds
flying among the scarlet flowers.
There is hardly time to think about
stopping, and lying down at last
to the long afterlife, to the tenderness
yet to come, when
time will brim over the singular pond, and become forever,
and we will pretend to melt away into the leaves.
As for death,
I can't wait to be the hummingbird,
can you?

– Mary Oliver
from Owls and Other Fantasies: Poems and Essays

Lord, It Is Time

Lord, it is time. The summer was very big.
Lay Thy shadow on the sundials,
and on the meadows let the winds go loose.

Command the last fruits that they shall be full,
give them another two more southerly days,
press them on to fulfillment and drive
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Who has no house will build him one no more.
Who is alone now, long will so remain,
will wake, read, write long letters
and will in the avenue to and fro
restlessly wander, when the leaves are blowing.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Autumn in the Air

How quickly the change comes —
A few cool nights
And suddenly the deer
can’t get enough to eat;
they come out earlier and
linger later, hurrying to
put on fat against the winter.
The night sounds, too, go on through
these overcast days, insects
frantic for mates, for offspring.
Me, I consume peaches voraciously
peach dumplings, peach pie
fists full of peaches, not ready
to give them up, not ready yet
to embrace apples. Reluctant
like the trees whose chlorophyll
begins its slow bleeding toward
the roots, already a shade paler
but green still, still thirsting for
the sun. I know that thirst,
I know that draining feeling,
that anxious urge to take in more,
just a little more
against the chill
and the quickening days,
reluctant to let go of a
lifelong season of dreams and desires
and face the inevitably waning light.

12 September 2006

9/11

Grant them rest, grant them peace, grant us peace...

For the Falling Man

I see you again and again
tumbling out of the sky,
in your slate-grey suit and pressed white shirt.
At first I thought you were debris
from the explosion, maybe gray plaster wall
or fuselage but then I realized
that people were leaping.
I know who you are, I know
there's more to you than just this image
on the news, this ragdoll plummeting—
I know you were someone's lover, husband,
daddy. Last night you read stories
to your children, tucked them in, then curled into sleep
next to your wife. Perhaps there was small
sleepy talk of the future. Then,
before your morning coffee had cooled
you'd come to this; a choice between fire
or falling.
How feeble these words, billowing
in this aftermath, how ineffectual
this utterance of sorrow. We can see plainly
it's hopeless, even as the words trail from our mouths
—but we can't help ourselves—how I wish
we could trade them for something
that could really have caught you.

by Annie Farnsworth from Bodies of Water, Bodies of Light
© Annie Farnsworth. Courtesy of the Writer's Almanac

Yes, my life...

"Utter chaos punctuated by extreme humiliation."

A Beautiful Garden Poem

...courtesy of the Writer's Almanac.

Touch Me

Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that's late,
it is my song that's flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it's done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am.

Stanley Kunitz

from Staying Alone, Real Poems for Unreal Times

Catching Up

Where to begin? With apologies for being so long.

August is fully here, and so few words about the garden so far! It seems I haven’t spent much more time gardening than blogging, although the results far outweigh the efforts. The one semi-perennial border I put in along the west fence has done amazingly well, with all my old favorites — Russian sage, achillea, rudbekia, santolina, salvia, sage, rosemary, thyme, and the annuals Mexican heather, eucalyptus, basil, parsley, red-leafed lettuce, a couple tomatoes (insurance), a pepper and an eggplant. Petunias in the shed window box. A few scattered pots of coleus, double-petunia, two leftover poinsettias from Christmas, and the scented geranium moved out to the front porch.

The vegetable patch — not big enough to be a garden — yielded some cabbages and broccoli early, and now is a dense, tall thicket of tomatoes. Neighbor Fred made fun of my “oil derrick” tomato towers when I first set them out over the young plants. (It didn’t help that they blew over in a storm before I had them anchored.) But now! Several plants have topped out at 7’. They are dense and lush, putting the neighbors' plants to shame. The only ones bigger all season were my Mom’s, but now mine have eclipsed even hers. Fried tomatoes for dinner tonight, the second time this season. The fruits are beautiful and heavy — the new favorite, pineapple red, and large lemon yellows, smaller lemon boy, tasty green zebra, and a massively sprawling volunteer red currant (the tiny South American variety; it must have sprouted from the compost). Plenty of fruit. I just hope it lasts into the Fall. I never have paid close enough attention to maturity dates to extend the crop, although I remember one year getting lucky and having tomatoes right up to Thanksgiving.

If I get time and motivation, I’d like to pull out that red currant and plant some beets, turnips, kale, and another crop of lettuce. My salad has been delicious but pathetically thin. What can I say? My attentions have been divided…

…as is evidenced by the project from hell, the patio retaining wall. I had to laugh when I walked by it this evening. There it was, half done, with the rest of the stones scattered all over the patio area. I could fill in the gaps with sand and I’d have a finished patio. It’s tough to get anything done when I am away every weekend.

August already, and I have spent hardly any time just sitting out back. When I think back to Taneytown, just a short year ago, with morning coffee outside on the porch or in the garden every day, and the sunset behind the mountains every evening from the porch swing. (sigh)

A couple weeks ago I was complaining that the night sounds had not yet started. This evening, sitting out back at dusk with my book, it was so loud it was almost painful. What a lovely cacophony of insects, although still not loud enough to drown out the yapping of Farmer Sebastian’s mutts coming up from the hollow. The full moon was making its way up through the trees. I was hoping a deer would come in, as I’ve seen once or twice this summer, but no luck. I’m sure I’ll see them again coming after my apples and my neighbor’s.

Other news of the summer: a bout of Lyme disease, which seems to have been knocked out with a nasty course of antibiotics. Daughter unit worked a six-week gig at summer camp. No steady employment for the son. The dogs are beginning to show their age, especially Trixie. I need to be more religious in walking her.

Oh, I started re-reading The Contrary Farmer tonight. I thought of it after I heard something about Wendell Berry the other day, thinking he wrote it. It was funny how I went right to it among the hundreds of books on the bookcases. I was mistaken, it is written by Gene Logsden, but it starts with a long Wendell Berry poem. Has it been years already since I first read it? Four? Five? Six? His simple wisdom still resounds with me, perhaps more than ever. Encouraging and depressing all at once. It would be such a better world if we held such simple, straightforward values. But we will never go back, or forward, to that. The only way to do it is to be…contrary. I shouldn’t mind being that.

It is this...

But what is happiness except the simple harmony between a man and the life he leads?

— Albert Camus

Night Songs

Tonight
you have to listen through
the hum of air conditioners
to hear the crickets sing
and those other insects
whose names I don’t know
cicadas? locusts?
Beats me.

What I do know is
that for many years now
these night songs of
unnamed insects have
serenaded me and
echoed in my bones
Because for many years now
all of them, in fact

I have never been far from trees.

17 July 2006

Day of the Sun

We praise You, Lord, for all Your creatures,
especially for Brother Sun,
who is the day through whom You give us light.
And he is beautiful and radiant with great splendor,
of You Most High, he bears your likeness.

Laudato sie mi signore cum tucte le tue creature spetialmente messor lo frate sole. lo quale iorno et allumini per loi. Et ellu e bellu e radiante cum grande splendore. de te altissimo porta significatione.

— St. Francis of Assisi

Summer, By My Calculation

According to the U.S. Naval Observatory, the 2006 Summer Solstice occurs 12:26 GMT on June 21. By my calculation, that means it occurs tonight, 6/20, at 8:26 p.m. EDT.

It's the perfect time to get your bearings. Observe where the sun sets (@ 20:29) tonight, and note that direction as true west. Starting tomorrow, it will take the first step on its journey south (yes, I know the sun isn't really moving, it's the Earth's tilt, but just go with it, OK?) and the days will begin getting shorter again. :-(

Happy Summer!

Another Great Bumper Sticker

"If you voted for Bush, a yellow ribbon isn't going to make up for it."

Eight Thumbs Up!

It was a big week for movies. Last weekend, the holiday, my betrothed and I made the trek to suburban D.C. to see Water, since it didn't seem like it was ever going to play in Baltimore. We got there too late for the show, so instead we saw The Lost City, a family story set during the revolution in Cuba that brought Castro to power. Andy Garcia starred and directed. There were a few weak moments, but overall a really nice film. Garcia's love for his subject matter showed.

From there, on to the traditional Chinese symphonic concert in Rockville. It was quite good, but too lullabye-like; we didn't make it past the intermission, and instead headed back to Bethesda for Water. This Indian movie was powerful and very well-done.

The next day, The da Vinci code. Much better than the reviews. And I was proven wrong in my ranting about casting Tom Hanks. I still think it could have been better-cast, but he did fine. Enjoyed it. And Audrey Tautou was quite good. She earned this role from her stellar performance in Amelie, and I'm sure a bunch of other movies I have not seen. It didn't bother me that her hair was not red.

Last but not least, go see it even if it's so inconvenient you have to travel: An Inconvenient Truth. Took three of the kids to it Saturday. They were not particularly moved. But it was informative and compelling. It's real, and urgent. Made me think Al Gore should try to get re-elected in '08.

Coincidence?

A story on NPR this morning reported that psychiatric professionals have codified "rode rage" as "Intermittent Explosive Disorder," or IED. These initials have also become familiar in the reporting from Iraq, referring to "Improvised Explosive Devices," the most common roadside bombs. Coincidence? Maybe we should just stop driving.

A Waste of Energy

From the New York Times:

David Pimentel, a professor at Cornell University, published a paper in 2005 with Tad W. Patzek of the University of California, Berkeley stating that the corn-to-ethanol process powered by fossil fuels consumes 29 percent more energy than it produces. The results for switchgrass were even worse, the paper said, with a 50 percent net energy deficit. “I’m sympathetic, and I wish that ethanol production was a net positive and a help to this nation,” Dr. Pimentel said in an interview. “But I’m a scientist first and an agriculturalist second. I don’t think the U.S. will meet its goals with biofuels.” He also said the United States did not have enough agricultural land to displace gasoline with biofuels. “Even if we committed 100 percent of the corn crop to making ethanol, it would only replace 7 percent of U.S. vehicle fossil fuel use,” he said.

Who you gonna call...

...if you're on United 93?

What is a poet?

"An unhappy person who conceals profound anguish in his heart but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music."

— Soren Kierkegaard,
born this day in Denmark 1813

"Eat Your View"

I wish I could get that bumper sticker, seen in Europe. It’s quoted in Michael Pollan’s latest, The Omnivore’s Dilemma. I would put it on both my vehicles. What a beautifully succinct phrase of protest and sustainability all in one.

By all means, if you are reading this, go out and get the book and read it. He is an outstanding writer. I immensely enjoyed his two earlier books, The Botany of Desire (thank you Aimee) and Second Nature/A Gardener’s Education. This one, though, while being entertaining and highly informative, leaves me mostly…disturbed.

I feel further from Taneytown than ever. There, many a meal was prepared and consumed entirely with the fruits of the farm and woods, except for some spices and condiments. I had actually eliminated store-bought meat from our diet, between the broilers I raised, the deer, and an annual ration of pork from the hog or two Scott butchered in the spring. And of course, the eggs. And everything from the garden. With some help canning and preserving, the garden could have fed us all year long.

So now I read this book, and it painted a more vivid picture of industrial agriculture than I needed to have. Truly, I don’t want to eat factory meat anymore. I still have plenty of venison. And there is a local producer of grass-fed beef I intend to patronize. There are other local growers to be found, I’m sure, short of heading down to Polyface Farm in Shenandoah to buy from Joel Salatin. And there are the farmers markets I used to frequent, and intend to frequent again. But most I look forward to the day when I can again get firmer control over my own food destiny. That day will come.

But read the book. You’ll learn a lot. Including that Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s and so-called organic and free-range aren’t close to the answer. And that the price we pay for our food is never high enough.

Think about it: If we paid what we should for our food; if we paid what we should for our gas (which we are beginning to, but unfortunately just to profit the oil companies), then many fewer people could afford those McMansions…and the view might once again be good enough to eat.

Canticle of Spring

This landscape is taking on its verdant mantle
Given by You, Lord
Full, rich, lush
Calling my hands
And I cannot resist
The temptation to shape it
To my own will and desire and sustenance.
Give me this one indulgence, Lord
Bear with my audacious attempts
To embellish Your handiwork
Cede me this bit of Earth
To create a humble oasis —
A place for me to welcome your angels
And rest in Your presence.

18 April 2006

Out of Africa

"All sorrows can be borne, if you put them into a story."

– Isak Dinesen, born this day in 1885

Lighting the Passover Candles

We begin by honoring the Light.
We light these candles for our families, our beloveds, our friends, for all our relations;
For those who are near and for those from whom we feel an unwanted distance;
For the newborn, for the elderly, and for all the wounded children.
May the candles inspire us to use our powers to heal and not to harm, to help and not to hinder, to bless and not to curse.
May their radiance pour out upon our hearts, and spread light into the darkened corners of our world.

– Adapted from a Passover Haggadah by Rachel Altman and Mary Jane Ryan

The Sight of Your Face is a Blessing

Don't hide. The sight of your face is a blessing.
Wherever you place your foot, there rests a blessing
Even your shadow
Passing over me like a swift bird
Is a blessing
The great spring has come
Your sweet air, blowing through the city,
The country, the gardens
And the deserts are a blessing
He has come with love to our door
His knock is a blessing.

– Jalal al-Din Rumi, Persia, 1207-1273 (Western calendar)

Wise William

"The course of true love never did run smooth."

– William Shakespeare

What is it you seek?

What is it you seek
O my friend?
You would find only
What you seek!
If you are
Truly thirsty,
Remember:
Some drops of dew
Would not satisfy
Your thirst:
You must dive into
The river!

– Kabir: India 1450 – 1418

ILNY

Lights define the New York skyline receding behind me, and the western sky has the glow of twilight as my train heads south for Baltimore. It’s that magical time of evening and I’m feeling light after a two-day respite from routine, and happy to be heading home to welcoming arms and a warm bed. I bought a set of ear buds and am listening to Joshua Redman; the current track is a beautiful saxophone version of the early Joni Mitchell folk ballad, “I Had a King.” Soon, I will have a queen, and my heart is anxious for the day.

(These ear buds — either my ears are anatomically incorrect, or I am too stupid to figure out how to use them. I’ve never been able to get them to stay in my ears and play full sound. Better than nothing, though.)

I am finally starting to get comfortable getting around New York. I found my way everywhere without having to backtrack, and rode the subway a couple times a day without getting on the wrong train or off at the wrong stop. I was pretty pleased that I was able to find the station two blocks from my hotel, and that was my jumping-off point. I was a little dismayed though this morning, when I turned the corner from my hotel and found a stop right there, 20 yards from the hotel door. Oh, well. It was only a daytime station anyway.

Sunday afternoon I took the subway to Greenwich Village and wandered all around, ending up in Gramercy Park for dinner at Khyber Pass. The eggplant appetizer was wonderful, the lamb entrée so-so. Wandering back to the 4th Street subway station, I stopped for some good music at Washington Square Park. Almost back to the station I passed the Blue Note and couldn’t resist the temptation to go in and see the Larry Carleton show. I bought a $20 bar seat. He was awesome — guitar, tenor, electronic keyboards, drums, his son on bass, and a guest trombonist from NYC. Cool show.

Monday was a trip to a mansion in Scarsdale. A different world than I’ve seen much of, starting with the iron gates at the driveway. Huge house, incredible furnishings, beautiful finishes, impeccable grounds…multiple millions to build it. 24 hours later, the opposite extreme — way up in the Bronx. When my two compatriots and I got off the subway and asked for directions, a local lady looked at us and offered some help, including the advice, “You shouldn’t be down on the street here the way you look.” Not that we were that dressed up or anything. I guess we just obviously weren’t from the Bronx. We did our photo shoot — the empty lot we were anticipating turned out to be filled with cars and surrounded by a razor-wire topped fence, so not sure how those photos will turn out — then one of our local contacts took us up to the Arthur Avenue Market for lunch. The most amazing Italian deli stand, then out to Little Italy/The Bronx for cappuccino. Everywhere we went we were the odd ones, but we got back without incident.

Last night I saw Spike Lee’s new movie, Inside Man, at Loew’s Theatre on Times Square (where I saw the first Star Wars, what? 30 years ago? before it was a phenom). I give it a thumbs up. Music by Terence Blanchard.

A good trip. Lots of walking around. Good things to eat. Time to think and reflect. Not a lot of people interaction. I have a feeling I’ll be back in the next week or two for more meetings. And I’m sure I’ll try to milk it again for more distraction.

Yes, this is love, this, the truth...

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.

Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,

So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

— Kahlil Gibran

Triple Header

Always think of what you have to do as easy and it will become so.

—Emile Corie

Patience is needed with everyone, but first of all with ourselves.

—Saint Francis De Sales

Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forward.

—Soren Kierkegaard

Stolen From The Writer's Almanac

Manners
by Howard Nemerov

Prig offered Pig the first chance at dessert,
So Pig reached out and speared the bigger part.
"Now that," cried Prig, "is extremely rude of you!"
Pig, with his mouth full, said, "Wha, wha' wou' 'ou do?"
"I would have taken the littler bit," said Prig.
"Stop kvetching, then, it's what you've got," said Pig.
So virtue is its own reward, you see.
And that is all it's ever going to be.

from Trying Conclusions. © University of Chicago Press. Reprinted without permission.

Joy

From joy I came,
For joy I live,
And in Thy sacred joy
I shall melt again.

– Yogananda, Whispers from Eternity

Season Opener: Pennsylvania

November 28, 2005. It was a windy, muddy walk down to the stands for the first day of Pennsylvania’s whitetail deer rifle season. The temperature rose overnight, and the random patches of snow on the field edges had shrunk by half. In the woods, the more-or-less solid snow cover of last evening, which promised outstanding visibility, had become patchy at best.

The stand felt solid under my feet after yesterday’s repairs. Yes, I guess we’re no better than those last-minute hunters who wait until the day before the season to fire their rifles to check the sighting, alerting every deer for miles around that it’s time to go stealthy. In our case, it was trying to fix the effects of a year’s worth of wind and rain and sun and cows on our two favorite home-built stands. Dom, though, is a wizard at impromptu fixes, and with the come-along, some chain, a couple hands-full of nails and some random pieces of weathered 2x4’s, the two stands were more-or-less vertical, solid, and safe to hunt for at least the next two weeks.

The stand I hunt is the hottest corner on the farm proper — where deer funnel up from the bottom, and down and up from the mountain in the evening, and around which they trickle back up to the mountain and down to the swamp at daybreak. It was always Dom’s son’s stand, but when he is not here — all of bow season, and lately rifle season, too — yours truly, Dom’s enthusiastic protégé, is given the privilege of waiting there for the deer to appear. I took my first deer ever with a bow from that stand, and a nice buck with a bow, and various does with rifle and bow.

It was still full dark when I settled in at 6:10, 50 minutes from dawn, and the air was damp and thick. There would be no sunrise this morning. After the darkness lightened a bit, I snapped the clip of four .270 Winchester shells into my rifle, and waited. With a little more light, I chambered a round, clicked the safety on, and waited. A little more light, and I flipped the covers up off of the scope, turned the dial from the 3x setting I used for the close-in brush hunting at Sweet Surrender, to 9x for maximum magnification across the open field. I waited some more.

By now it was light enough to see as far as I was going to see this morning, which was not far at all. There was a persistent wind off the mountain, from the East, and as it blew the fog across the fields it looked like blowing snow. I would have preferred blowing snow to this muddy dampness with droplets splatting off the trees. The thick atmosphere made it as quiet as I think it’s ever been for me for hunting. No motor sounds, no human sounds at all, just the plop of water droplets and the wind hissing in the trees. It could have been an ancient hunt on a primordial hilltop, the timeless pursuit of food and clothing and survival, matching wits with wary prey at the upper end of the food chain, but for beautifully engineered Swiss masterpiece of cold steel and polished wood resting on my lap.

The scraping and chirping of a flock of turkeys echoed through the fog. Eventually, a lone hen took to low flight and landed halfway between me and the patch of woods that separated Dom’s treestand from mine. She seemed to be involuntarily separated from her flock, and spent much time calling. She worked her way down to and around the pond and eventually disappeared, evidently rejoining the flock and moving off into the silent woods.

The temperature warmed, but the fog never lifted. It was a morning of few rifle shots. Over the course of two and a half hours, I counted just ten, including those from an obvious distance. How many would ring out on a “normal” opening day? 30? 40?

After a while, Dom left his stand, crossed the field, and went into the woods, up the rise to where we leaned a ladder stand last year. He was caught by surprise by a lone buck, and couldn’t get a shot off. I didn’t see one deer.

Clearly, the deer held the day this morning. All the better for this evening, if this fog lifts and the rain holds off. That was the first morning of the first day of rifle season in the Laurel Highlands of southwestern Pennsylvania.

*******
Later… The fog lay thicker and thicker all day long, and didn’t budge by afternoon hunting time. Visibility was 50 yards at best. Dom decided to hunt nearby, straight behind the house at the edge of the woods that lead up to the mountain. I opted for the ladder stand where he saw the buck this morning, since 50 yards is as far as you could see in there even without any fog. It is at a spot where I used to climb to hunt with the bow, 50 yards in from the field, at the crest of a hillock where several game trails cross. Back when deer were plentiful, that patch just before the field used to be a staging area, where a number of deer would pause and browse and make sure there was no danger before they entered the open. Now, with deer more scarce than ever here, not much staging gets done. There was, however, an active trail directly in front of the stand, which was very evident last night when there was snow on the ground.

It is a magical perch. High in the trees, looking down an open glade to the right, and into thicker stands ahead and to the left, the air was thick and damp. Though the wind was gustier than earlier, and the droplets fell incessantly from the branches onto the sodden leaves below, there was an almost sacred silence and stillness — an open air cathedral and I was the lone worshiper.

It was no wonder, though, that nothing came. If I were a prey species, I would think more than twice about going out on a night like this. 100% humidity and swirling, erratic winds made scenting predators impossible; the constant splattering of drops on the forest floor and wind in the treetops masked all other sounds; and the fog rendered the range of vision dangerously short. Yes, I imagine a dense thicket felt pretty good to a deer tonight. But hopefully, the rumblings of their stomachs will make them move tomorrow.

Season Opener: Maryland

November 26, 2005. Dawn broke cool and clear on the first morning of the Maryland whitetail deer season. It was chilly but not frigid and the sky turned beautifully purple as the sun broke the horizon. Dom and Steve were in their usual stand in the narrow treeline that marked the northern edge of the property. Little Dom was in the Eagle’s Nest, perched high where two treelines intersected at the center of the farm. I was in the bow stand I built two seasons ago, on the southern perimeter, on a corner between two fields; my shots would be either be just into the edge of the eastern field, or in the trees.

This was my first hunt of the year. I missed the entire early bow season, mostly because of moving plus work and other life-evolving experiences. I hadn’t yet become at ease in the trees and field again, had not become attuned to the breathing of the woods, had not memorized the various weeds and shrubs that formed dark deer-like shapes in the distance. The clattering of water over rocks and the erratic scamper of squirrels on the dry leaves still were mistaken for footsteps. Nonetheless, I settled into my perch high above the forest floor, and felt at home.

This was the third year of our tenuous new tradition — tenuous because of the uncertain access to hunting ground here in Maryland. This year, though I gave up the house at Sweet Surrender, Scott still leased the hunting rights to me. Hopefully, there will be more years. But today, rather than simply walking out the back door, we had to make the 15-minute drive from Uniontown and don our gear from the trucks. Small price to pay for exclusive access to 120 not-bad hunting acres. (Exclusive, that is, except for the trespassers; as one of the three bears noted, someone’s been hunting in my treestand, and was rude enough to steal my bow hooks.)

The first deer I saw were three small ones crossing in the greenway mid-way into the field. They were relaxed and looked like they might work their way toward me, until a shot rang in the not-too-far distance. They disappeared into the treeline, and soon I saw them b-lining across the neighbor’s back field.

Shortly after, I heard footsteps close, and a lone deer was working its way by me through the trees. It was small but not too small, and close. It would have been a not-bad bow shot. I turned and put the crosshairs behind its shoulder, waited for the pause, and then dropped her (actually, him as it turned out, a button buck). A clean, instant kill. A blessing.

There were a few shots here and there in all directions. Before long, movement caught my eye in the corner of the treeline. It looked like the first three had circled around and come back the other way. I turned around to face them. It was thicker where they were; I waited for one to clear the brush and tree trunks, and shot. Some took off to the left, and the one I shot jumped and went off to the right. I saw three run back through the neighbor’s field again; either the original three had picked up a fourth, or it was a new group of four, or I had missed completely.

I waited for another half-hour or so, and then climbed down. I went to the tree I marked when I shot and circled around a couple times. It didn’t look good; not a drop of blood. I circled a little further; still no blood. So I started walking in the direction I thought she went, and within a few yards spotted bright red blood. The trail was solid and short. I could see the deer twenty yards away. Another button buck. The freezer would have some good meat in it now.

As I was walking up the field, Steve called to say Dom had gotten a 6-point. I retrieved the lawn tractor and cart, which I hadn’t moved yet (obviously) and made the rounds to pick up the deer. Not a bad morning’s hunt.

Steve left before the afternoon hunt. The two Dom’s hunted the north-edge treestand, and I went back to my bowstand. After a while I heard a shot, and shortly after, Dom called and said there were two more, did I want another one? I decided not. Little Dom had shot a little doe. I saw nothing that evening but a beautiful crimson sunset. It was a good day’s hunt.

First Post From Uniontown

Your patience, gentle reader, in this transition to my next phase is greatly appreciated. A week ago Tuesday, I moved my residence to Uniontown, Maryland, proudly listed on the National Register of Historic Places. My new home is the Susan Brown house, circa 1861 — just (or already) two years old when General Winfield Hancock bivouacked his troops here en route to the battle of Gettysburg.

Historic, indeed. I am fast becoming the poster boy for This Old House. Before moving, it was a new septic system. Then, I made a significant contribution to my friendly painter's fall business to get the upstairs shutters, window frames, trim, and roof painted. Then the plumber. Then the carpenter to replace several rotted German lap siding boards on the new section in the back (where the former Summer kitchen was incorporated into the main house as kitchen, family room and laundry). Then the plumber to get the downstairs heat back. Now the carpenter again to replace some of the rotted elbows in the downspouts. Etc., etc.

You who have followed these sporatic posts can guess how bittersweet the move is from Sweet Surrender in Taneytown. From unusually low ceilings to generously high. From vinyl siding and sheet rock to double-thick brick and horsehair plaster. From unlimited vistas, ample gardens, and walk-0ut-your-backdoor hunting to...well, 1/3 acre. (Sigh.) Yet, I can do as much garden here as there (especially now, with tabula rasa from back door all 75 yards to the back property line, thanks to the septic contractor). You get a pretty good view of the stars here, and there's certainly plenty of green. The town itself, a hamlet really, is just one house-lined street of perhaps 40 houses, with farms on all sides. A short walk up the street to the hilltop cemetery promises exquisite views of the sunset over the Catoctin Mountains — better even than Taneytown. And this season at least, I can still hunt Sweet Surrender, if I ever get any time.

Now, if only I can get out from under this sea of boxes! It is an exercise in surrender. I want it done now. But I'm still doing the final clean-up in T-town, and paying the price in work for taking a week off to move. All in time, I suppose, all in time. More regular posts will be coming again, I promise.

Sedum Spectacular

Sedum 2
Originally uploaded by rebetsky.

One of the few things that thrived in this drought; propogated by Mom from a cutting. She has more started, so I guess I'll leave this one in Taneytown and bring a new one to Uniontown.

Garden Companion

Garden Companion
Originally uploaded by rebetsky.

It's always more fun to garden with a friend.

Yes.

"The greatest gift my friendship can give to you is the gift of your Belovedness. I can give that gift only insofar as I have claimed it for myself. Isn't that what friendship is all about: giving to each other the gift of our Belovedness?"

--Henri J.M. Nouwen, Life of the Beloved

Heaven?

"It is significant that in most ancient civilizations and religions, the life hereafter and the place of eternal happiness are depicted as gardens. In the ancient cultures, the basic ingredients of the earthly paradise are the same: plants that flower and fruit, shade that protects, and water that cools and irrigates."

Garden Design
Douglas et al

Spoken Words

"I like not only to be loved, but also to be told that I am loved . . . the realm of silence is large enough beyond the grave."

— George Eliot

Why I Wear My Watch "Upside Down"

This, from drweil.com:

"Feel like your memory is getting worse with every passing birthday? It happens to all of us as we age, but a growing body of medical evidence suggests that lifelong stimulation is the key to building brain cells, staving off memory loss and maybe even preventing Alzheimer's disease. Research has found that doing interesting work (paid or volunteer), pursuing hobbies and engaging in an active social life can help. Try challenging yourself with music, language lessons, or a new computer program; plan a trip with friends; or just hunker down with a good crossword puzzle this weekend - anything that makes you think in different ways is challenging for the brain - and beneficial to your memory. And while you're at it, do it all with a smile. Studies show that a positive emotional state is also good for your brain."

Nothing ventured...

Our doubts are traitors,
And make us lose the good we oft might win
By fearing to attempt.

—William Shakespeare

He's baaaaack!

Not me, but someone much more important. I had occasion to roust extra early this morning, before the sun, and when I went outside, there he was: Orion rising majestically in the pink-and-azure eastern sky, shoulders straight and strong, bow at the ready. How quickly this summer is passing! The kids are on their way back from Bermuda and California, and will start school next Wednesday. Next Wednesday, I'll have the keys to my new-old house, and a whole new chapter will begin.

The tomatoes are still coming in. I was pleased to have the green zebras again, to add zing to the summer salads. My new favorite now, though, is the pineapple: yellow streaked with red, and oh so mild and sweet!

This night-time chill and Orion remind me to savor the peach pies I've been making by the pair every weekend, before they soon turn to apple. I have my PA hunting license, and the doe tag should be here any day. Two weeks left still to pick up my MD license. I think it's time to start some daily shooting!

Who has time to blog?

Lately, I like to sit on the porch swing (which daughter just stained/sealed to earn spending money for her various vacations; what a lovely rich dark color now) and watch the pears hang on the pear tree. They are lovely shaped and green, framed by their elongated leaves. I hope to harvest some before they over-ripen and fall and attract hordes of bees. It seems to be a good year for pears.

Last evening, spent a small fortune outfitting son for his 12-day Outward Bound trek in the high Sierras. Not much time for him to break in those hiking boots, but so it goes.

It's that mid-season, I'm-so-behind time in the garden. The tomato harvest is a dam waiting to burst. The weeds have gotten the upper hand. Much of the vegetable garden needs to be pulled, cleaned, and turned. And I can hardly keep up cutting the zinnias, dahlias, glads, sunflowers, and miscellaneous other beauties. The bounty of summer!

So who has time to blog, when there's pears to watch hang? I gotta mow...

The House on Uniontown Road

The House on Uniontown Road
Originally uploaded by rebetsky.

Built by Susan Brown in 1861. That ivy's gotta go!

True Happiness

True happiness, we are told, consists in getting out of one's self, but the point is not only to get out you must stay out; and to stay out you must have some absorbing errand.

– Henry James

Hosta to the rescue

Every garden has a problem area it seems, and mine is the spot closest to the house. The hollyhock experiment worked well — beautiful flowers, although the leaves were decimated by insects. And the columbine under the pin oak is thriving, too. But after pulling the third flush of nettles that threatened to drown the rest of the area, I figured it was time to do something about it.

I declared a three-foot Weed-Free Zone (WFZ) along the length of the narrow walk (with the help of landscape cloth). Then I planted nine hostas (three varieties), on sale from Dana’s, my new favorite nursery in Littlestown, all in a neat, measured row. Finished with a heavy layer of mulch, and an impromptu bamboo border fence. Bamboo is a theme in this year’s garden, one that I like a lot.

So one-third at least of that problem is solved. I’m glad I bit the bullet and went for the hostas; I am a borderline garden snob sometimes, and hosta is one of those plants that many consider pedestrian. But I’ve had them before, and they can be quite striking in bloom, and certainly pull their weight in civilized greenery as a low border plant. In this kind of service, I think of them as a sort of working man’s boxwood.

Now I will have to relocate some of the herbs again; the spot is just too damp for the lavender, and my prized santolina is simply misplaced. Stay tuned…

Coming soon: Photos of some exciting new blooms, including my favorite new discovery, peacock orchid (speaking of peacocks, had four of the real thing strutting through the yard this morning).

Believe it...or not. How much per gallon?

This seems a bit extreme, but who knows? Thanksgiving? His point about negligence is hard to dispute. From today's New York Times:

"Oil supplies will diminish, that's geology," said Kenneth S. Deffeyes, a professor emeritus of geology at Princeton University and the author of "Beyond Oil: The View From Hubbert's Peak" (Hill & Wang, 2005). Professor Deffeyes predicts that global oil production will reach its peak around Thanksgiving Day and decline after that. "The negligence comes from doing nothing about alternative fuels or conservation measures over the past 20 years. Now it is too late. The oil is gone."

The Gettysburg Address

On this day in 1863, the battle of Gettysburg came to its bloody conclusion with Pickett's ill-fated charge, following orders from General Robert E. Lee. In November of that year, Abraham Lincoln delivered what I would argue is the most powerful oratory of any American president and indeed, among the greatest in all of human history. Here are the words he scribbled, partly on "Executive Mansion" stationery, and partly on plain lined paper, that shall live on as long as our nation endures.

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate — we can not consecrate — we can not hallow — this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Chinese Proverb

A bit of fragrance always clings to the hand that gives you roses.

Beckoned?

When love beckons to you, follow him, though his ways are hard and steep.

– Kahlil Gibran

Another view

The T-Town Tomato Towers

Soon to be Taneytown’s newest tourist attraction... The tomato towers are complete and installed. The structure system is a combination of the towers themselves, from a design in Mother Earth News, and a trellising idea I saw at the Rodale Institute test farm in Emmaus, Pennsylvania last summer. Still have to add the bamboo cross-pieces to separate the plants. As configured, one “run” of two towers handles four tomato plants. In a long row, with an extra tower, it would handle seven. (I wasn't planning on the towers, of course, when I planted, so I ended up with a too-small variety under that right one; maybe it will catch up.) If the tomatoes grow to fill them — which they should, based on past years’ experience — they should be awesome. There will be lots to can, although I seem to be coming up two jars short.

Hands-free gardening

I've adopted a new habit: Walking the garden with my hands clasped behind my back. It tames that ceaseless compulsion to pull "just a couple" weeds in passing, and lets me focus on how pretty everything (other than the weeds) is.

Only a gardener would care...

It was a good weekend in the garden, despite the heat. It’s been a while since I’ve had an uncommitted weekend to tend to it (although I’m not complaining), and what a difference it made. I cleaned up “the edges” in the cottage garden, around the gate, the main sidewalk, the back door; pulled everything around the dahlias in preparation for their show of white; somewhat ruthlessly pulled much bergamot, which was taking over every empty space; continued the never-ending trimming of the buddleia; discovered (hopefully) the shoot of the calla lily (white, too) that I thought was a dud; and freshened up the mulch all along the way. About a 1000% difference in the look and feel.

I’m ever impressed with the geometry of garden spaces; the plans I was recently working on, with compass and ruler, were just a tapestry of tangents and intersections, circles and squares…just like life, I suppose. Here on Saturday, I added a small, narrow, linear bed along the side of the chicken yard that marks the passage from cottage garden/dining space to the production garden/fire space, and planted it with foxglove (for next year’s bloom). What an amazing effect that little bed has. It pulls you right into the production garden, and straight to the central angel.

In that garden, the tomatoes, peppers, and beans are taking off. Started picking peas, beets, and turnips. Most of the lettuce, except for the red heads, is bolting. Cauliflower and broccoli are all done. Already(?) scanning the catalogs for fall planting.

Daughter helped me to put cages around the last eight tomato plants tonight (more on the first eight tomorrow). It was way too late, they were way too big, but we got them on.

By this time it was dusk. I lit the torches and lumieres, and we reveled in a veritable ocean of fireflies in the surrounding fields. We dined al fresco on grilled pork chops (Scott’s) and broccoli steamed minutes after it was picked. I suggested that, for something different, we not put our napkins in our laps, but daughter rejected the idea.

All in all, it was just a magical evening. Summertime, and the living is fabulous!

P.S. BTW, three kittens have shown up here (or more likely, were born here). I started feeding them Saturday. Cute white-and-black ones. Need some homes.

P.P.S. The hazard of gardening here in this part of the world, where poison ivy is the next largest crop after soy beans and corn — I have patches of it virtually from head to toe.

Unrelated thoughts

Something I overheard recently:
"Take the leap, and grow your wings on the way down."


Something that occured to me recently:
There's a big difference between really caring about someone and just caring about how someone makes you feel.

Today...

"The dance of a Summer day calls my steps; may I respond to the rhythm and melody of its music."

– Caitlin Matthews

Worth

"It is a piece of great good luck to deal with someone who values you at your true worth."

– Baltasar Gracian

Another Season's Change

The garden has kicked into official summer gear. Harvested lots of lettuce, strawberries (though I ate few myself, and the June-bearers seem to have choked out the ever-bearers), broccoli, cauliflower. Everything is taking off. Soon, the house will be lush with fresh bouquets.

Meantime, I’ve gathered up and shelved all the poetry books from my bedside and reading chair. It’s time to stop reading verse and start writing some. It is sure to be bittersweet, perhaps sad, at first, but still optimistic, if only between the lines. There is a core of joy, a (perhaps naïve) belief in surrender to love, and a peace bestowed by values that are well-founded, deeply rooted, and true, that cannot be denied.

Neighbors

I wonder what the neighbors think
of my wandering
shirttail hanging out from my coat
like some robed Persian
zig-zagging through garden and fields
talking
to no one
saying your name
head bent up
toward the stars
I must not seem right

that man who lives alone
they say
with his chickens and dogs
he is some kind
of gardener
you can see his flowers
and tomatoes
all the way from the road

(and you can see cars
parked there too
sometimes at night
and in the early mornings)

he talks to the chickens
and the dogs
and to no one in
particular
if you had to guess
you’d say he seemed
happy
or maybe just a little
cocked
or maybe just
too much
alone
they debate
whether he’s harmless
or dangerous
where he comes from
what he does
in that house
all alone

or maybe they pay him
no mind at all
don’t even notice
his perambulations
or his
bergamot
the Russian sage
that he inherited
or the English cultivar
he planted

maybe they don’t notice
the angels that hover there
or the way the light
of the stars
shines there
or how when he calls
to heaven
heaven answers
and accepts his
sweet surrender
to things that grow
to things that breathe
to things that give
light and lightness
to any willing heart.

Breath Taking

You come and you go
Like the whim of the wind
That reminds me to breathe
Or to resist and
Seek shelter.

Or a gentle breeze
Carrying night perfumes
The sweet scent of nicotiana
And the palpable dampness
of midnight.

And then you disappear
Leaving in your wake
A rustling of leaves
And yearning, only
Yearning.

Prayer on the Solstice

A new season begins today, Lord...
Bless our garden with blossoms and fruit
Let the butterflies come and
drink their nectar
Let the bees spread the pollen
Bless the soil with sunshine and rain
and warm nights
and not more weeds than we can pull.
Let us harvest with joy and thanksgiving
Your generous bounty.
Help us, Lord, to tend our lives
as a garden —
with gentleness, patience, hard work,
loving care, respect, humility,
and acceptance.
Let us grow to bear the
full fruit of Your Love everyday,
To feed each other
and all of Your creation.

Happy Summer!

Huh?

"Do not fear mistakes. There are none."

– Miles Davis

Garden Rapport

A week of temperatures in the nineties and adequate moisture, and the garden has transformed. Last week, I was selectively thinning lettuce to get enough for a salad; this week, I can’t pick it fast enough. Last week, I was pulling every other beet to use the greens; this week, they are already too big.

The tomato plants have doubled in size and are blossoming. The potatoes are blossoming. The squash seem to grow inches every day. Probably five quarts or more of strawberries so far. And soon, I will pick the first zinnia.

The weeds of course, are having their day as well. I pulled five wheel-barrow loads from the cottage garden alone. So it grows.

Finally, something from Bill...

"There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so."

– William Shakespeare

When I awake...

When I awake in the morning,
It is either the very next day
after many, many days
Or it is the very first day.
Today, it is the very first day
Of what exists now.

–Twainhart Hill

Someone said...

"What's let go of provides space for what's to become."

The Last Hafiz...For Now.

AND LOVE SAYS

And love
Says,

"I will, I will take care of you,"

To everything that is
Near.

–Hafiz

Just a few more, Hafiz...

THERE

There
I bow my head—
At the feet of every creature.

This constant submission and homage,
Of kissing God
All over,

Someday,
Every lover will
Do.

Only
There I prostrate myself—
Against the beauty of each form—

For when I bring
My heart close to any object
I always hear the Friend
Say,

"Hafiz, I am
Here."

–Hafiz

Blue Indigo

Blue Indigo
Originally uploaded by rebetsky.

Kind of Blue

I guess it's by accident, but the first wave of blooms in the garden is dominated by blues and purples. The striking blue Indigo, right on schedule for Memorial Day, salvia, sage, and masses of purple-blue bergamot. For balance, there is a splash of pink and white Columbine (and a blue one), the pink multiflora rose, and white spirea.

Speaking of blue, I have long held that the Miles Davis album, Kind of Blue, is perhaps the greatest single recording in the entire jazz repertoire. Evidently, I'm not far off. I recently heard that the disc, recorded in 1959, still sells some 5,000 copies a week. That's over a quarter-million copies a year, 45 years later. The all-star band features Miles on trumpet, Cannonball Adderly on alto, John Coltrane on tenor, Bill Evans on piano (except for Wynton Kelly on one track), Paul Chamers on bass, and Jimmy Cobb on drums. If you don't own it, you should.

Maxim

"What we do in life echoes in eternity."

– Maximus

Epidermis

Skin on skin,
I want to read you.

Skin
hiding wounds,
and storms of tears
becomes a blanket
in the sun.

Your skin
will shout for me.

Blind
in the dark,
you will peruse my body,
your silent fingers
dancing on my flesh.

Sentence
by sentence
you will write and trace
an ancient hieroglyph
of passion.

My skin
will shout for you.

– Hope Maxwell-Snyder

Varekai, The Betrothed

The betrothed
Originally uploaded by rebetsky.

Without Brushing My Hair

The
Closer
I get to you, Beloved
The more I can see
It is just You and I all alone
In this
World.

I hear
A knock at my door,
Who else could it be,
So I rush without brushing
My hair.

For too
Many nights
I have begged for Your
Return

And what
Is the use of vanity
At this late hour, at this divine season,
That has now come to my folded
Knees?

If your love letters are true dear God
I will surrender myself to
Who You keep saying
I
Am.

– Hafiz

How possibly?

Lord, when I think
How could You possibly bless me more?
You amaze me yet again
And I am left speechless.

I beg Your forgiveness
For ever letting one minute pass
Without proclaiming infinite
Gratitude to You.