Riverdaze…

FOOL'S GOLD

2012-01-27T17:39:00.002-05:00

The sun is not long from sinking below the horizon-line to the west. Dusk will begin as shadows steal across the water, swallowing the light. Darkness comes to the river valley bottom to top, beginning at the lowest points and moving upward, from stream surface to the stark crowns of the tallest sycamores. That's night's way, to pour in slowly like black oil into a long trough.

A few minutes ago everything was gold—light, sky, moving water. I made a photo. What the image doesn't show is that the water is high, up maybe eight feet from its normal level. High and running fast. A fool's gold river.

Earlier today, while I was working at my desk, I looked up and out the window at the moving river fifty feet from where I sat. As I was watching, a cow floated past. I've watched lots of things float by over the years—countless huge logs and fresh-toppled trees; barrels and buckets; bottles by the gazillion; bright plastic toys of all sorts and every type of ball imaginable; washers and dryers; a car or two; sheds, dog houses, chunks of porches and decks; a red canoe; several dead deer; one dead pig; small dead animals of all sorts, especially dogs and raccoons. One dead person.

But today's cow was a first. I watched it bobbing along, close to the bank, one front leg stuck into the air as if waving a greeting to anyone on shore. In less than a minute the fast current of the fool's gold river had carried the waving cow three hundred yards downstream and around the bend, and I returned to my work.

———————

TO BLOG…OR NOT?

2012-01-26T13:02:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, a lady in the Midwest whose blog I've followed and enjoyed for a couple of years, announced she was quitting blogging. She pointed out how she'd noticed posts on many blogs were coming ever farther apart, and wondered if the "craze" for blogging wasn't winding down. Time had become an issue for her. So had having something to say—or at least she felt she'd wish to say on her blog. Finally, she admitted she'd lost her joy in blogging, and felt she needed friends with "real skin" to relate to in person rather than online.

Please understand, I'm not taking her to task. She has every right to make such a decision, though I'm truly sorry to see her go. Still, I understand her reasoning because I've mulled over several of the same points, and asked myself the logical end question: Keep blogging…or not?

The answer, I found, centered on three things—motivation, goal, and personality.

First, why did I begin blogging? My first post pretty much summed it up…I'd failed repeatedly at keeping a journal, diary, daybook, or other form of written record, but for a number of reasons wanted to do so—and thought the online format of a blog, along with the feeling of responsibility to any readers I happened to garner, might supply that extra impetus to keep going.

I did not begin because I thought I had anything particularly newsworthy, insightful, or entertaining to relate. I wasn't looking to convert the world, or make folks love me. And didn't need a platform for regular ranting.

Second, my goal was, as the welcome to Riverdaze states, "simply to report, as regular as I can manage, on life and the seasons from my home perspective of a modest stone cottage beside a small, sycamore-lined Ohio river."

That hasn't changed.

Third, the part personality plays cannot, I think, be ignored. As many of you know, I'm a professional writer. I'm comfortable sitting down writing as a form of communication. I'm also an inveterate reader. I've had my "head in a book," as my mother used to say, since before I began kindergarten. I was also an only child, and chronically ill. For years, I regularly spent more time inside the house—and inside my head—than out. Alone but rarely lonely.

Paradoxically, I love people, gatherings, parties, crowds, and don't mind mixing with strangers. I'm definitely a "people person." Yet I can toss a sleeping bag into the pickup and go off into the north woods for a couple of weeks of fishing, hiking, camping, and just poking along overgrown two-tracks, never speak to a soul, and have a perfectly delightful time.

However, the fact is, a blog reader, someone I'm talking to on the telephone, or that living, breathing "in the flesh" visitor in my home or at a meeting in a café over a meal, are equally real to me. Sure, I'd like to get to know in person everyone who reads these posts. But we're truly scattered all around the globe—so there's not much likelihood of that ever happening. Yet you're nonetheless real, I'm still real, and we can read each other's blogs, look at each other's photos, and be genuine friends.

Yeah, I know I've been slacking lately on posts. And really slacking on comments on other blogs, though I do usually visit. Time is partially to blame. So is the fact that I often read other blogs on my iPod…which is an abomination for me when it comes to leaving a comment. But at the heart of the slacking is mostly just procrastination and laziness—which I'm constantly trying to counteract. Honest.

I still don't think I have anything earth-shattering to say. But I've realized that several blogs I regularly read are no more or less chronicles of their rather equally boring life (no, not yours…don't go all paranoid on me), and yet there's something about this ordinary minutiae that is oddly interesting and very enjoyable. So I guess it follows that you could consider this admission fair warning.

I've been humbly surprised by many of your comments over the years, and so very grateful for your words of encouragement and understanding. Moreover, I've been astonished by the pleasure occasionally expressed over a certain post or photo, and the fact that you often get a kick out of my shared small adventures. To me, life's greatest joy is all about sharing. The fact that I now have 114 followers is also an astonishing mystery—but I do treasure each and every one. While the number varies from time to time, when I lose someone, I always worry that it was because of something I said, some thoughtless remark which struck them as unkind. I hope not, for everything else aside, I want you enjoy your visits to the riverbank.

Bottom line…to blog, or not? For me, blogging is not a fad. I promise, I'm here for the long haul.

———————

LISTENING TO SILENCE

2012-01-21T12:09:00.000-05:00

One of this first things you notice here on the riverbank is the silence. Well, not true silence, but a soft, natural quiet—the purling of water over gravel, the murmur of wind in the sycamores, the constant music of countless birds. Nature sounds. Soothing sounds. Sounds which don't grate upon the ear or disturb the peace.

City folks often find this silence unsettling, even disturbing. It makes them anxious, all this space in time without noise. Perhaps its because without sound's distractions, they're forced to think, reflect, listen to their own inner voices; come to personally know themselves.

But live here awhile and just the opposite occurs…you find such quietude a balm to the incessant clang and clatter of modern urban life with its bleating horns, wailing sirens, traffic roar, and persistant shouting. Soon you come to realize that silence is a treasure. A place of silence is a gift, a blessing, a refuge and retreat that comforts and heals, and you vow to never ever move anywhere that lacks genuine natural silence.

The exterior walls of our modest cottage are built of limestone, 17-inches thick, which act as a formidable sound barrier. It's practically impossible to hold a conversation between rooms, even when you yell. While it may be a natural silence outdoors, it's an anomalous silence inside. You can easily hear the fire burning on the hearth, or water for tea boiling in the kettle on the stove. A dripping faucet is like a jackhammer. A summer mosquito keening in flight, can be heard all the way across the great room, a distance of almost thirty feet.

About three-quarters of a mile upstream from the house, an interstate highway bridge crosses the river; the road carries constant traffic. In summer, when the leaves are full in the riparian woods along the stream, you can barely hear the cars and trucks crossing—a mere whisper. But come autumn, as leaves start pouring down, that sound multiplies daily, though in truth the volume probably doesn't go up by more than a few decibles. However it always takes us weeks to get used to the increase.

One final observation. Perhaps you remember the famous exchange in A. Conan Doyle's mystery, Silver Blaze, between Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Gregory of Scotland Yard.

Gregory: "Is the any other point to which you would wish to draw my attention?"

Holmes: "To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time."

Gregory: "The dog did nothing in the night-time."

Holmes: "That was the curious incident."

Due to the big riffle directly in front of the cottage, the sound of the river is a constant, a dull shhhhoooossssh, always there, audible from anywhere outside, or inside providing we have a window open. Except during the coldest weather, we often keep a bedroom window up, and the sound through the screen is the perfect background to falling asleep. But when it rains a fair amount, and the river rises a few feet, the water no longer churns through the riffle. At which point the river's voice is quelled, an unnatural silence that's immediately missed.

More than once I've awakened into the darkness, alert, wondering what drew me from my slumbers. I listen, and hear the silence…and can then relax because I know that all is well. The curious incident of the silence in the night-time has been solved.

———————

[I was inspired to write this because I read Pat's wonderful post on silence earlier today. If you're not a regular Weaver of Grass reader, you should be, for it's one of the most interesting and readable blogs around if you like rural life, quiet matters, and excellent writing. I've been a fan since I discovered blogs on the Web, and I urge you to make her a stop on your daily rounds.]

WATCHING THE WATCHER

2012-01-20T14:48:00.000-05:00

It has been cold here today—a measly 4˚F when I got up at 5:30 a.m., a balmy 16˚F now in mid-afternoon. Certainly the coldest day we've had so far, though not a cold predicted to linger. According to the forecasts, it will warm up a dozen degrees tomorrow, and make it almost to 50˚F by Monday, remaining in the 40s˚F throughout the rest of the week.

We also got a bit of snow yesterday, plus an additional dusting this morning. Again, less than an inch total, which won't, of course, last beyond tomorrow. We've had three snows so far this winter, none of them deep enough to cover the grass completely. No need yet to break out the salt and shovels.

I've spent most of the day at my desk. There was work to get out, and a backup hard drive that decided to go on the blink yesterday and which I've been fiddling with intermittently since. With computers, their hardware and software, it's always something. Considering how big a part they play in my life—personal and professional—I'm reaching the point where I no longer think of them as mere machines, but sort of android-like members of the family, chip-equipped children who never manage to stay out of trouble for long.

At one point earlier, when I was digging through various files and sub-directories, well out of my depths of technical competency, I looked up and saw a Cooper's hawk sitting on a nearby limb. It's piercing yellow eyes were staring directly my way—the bird probably trying to figure out if that big indistinct blob on the other side of the window was something good to eat. If I were a mouse or chickadee, I'd have gone into cardiac arrest. Instead, I sat still and when the hawk looked the other way, plucked my camera from the desktop and made the above image.

The hawk kept looking around, watching, and I kept watching the hawk. Nothing moved outside, neither bird nor squirrel; everyone knew Doctor Death was in attendance.

I admit that in a moment of fantasy, I thought about tossing the Cooper's my recalcitrant backup drive.

———————

RED SKY AT MORNING…

2012-01-19T08:59:00.000-05:00

Well, the dawn sky this morning was certainly red…and pink and magenta and orange and violet and lavender and—well, colors and hues they haven't yet gotten around to giving a name. Moreover, the whole kaleidoscopic sky-swirl of shades changed every instant, a constant process, evolving, metamorphosing, so that any photo was already outdated before the completion of the shutter's wink.

Some moments simply can never be captured—not with digital images or carefully-chosen words. The beauty of nature is regularly too powerful for such paltry human restrictions. The world's greatest painters, with their finest brushes and oils, will forever lack the talent to render even a mediocre sunrise onto a canvas.

Which doesn't keep any of us from trying, and shouldn't, in spite of it being an unachievable goal. So here's a shot of this morning's sky, a mere blink of a moment, as seen looking east from the front yard. I know it's inadequate…and I'm glad. For some things, you really need to be there.

———————

COLD AND SUNSHINE

2012-01-15T16:09:00.000-05:00

Today was the coldest one yet here along the river. When I got up the temperature was in the single digits, somewhere between 7-9˚F, depending on which weather report you believe. Certainly cold enough to put frost on your pumpkin regardless of who was right. Real winter temperatures…but not bad at all seeing as how there was no wind. Plus, the sun was bright and the sky a crisp, clean blue. Light shimmered in the slushy pools and sparkled through the riffles.

We've been working in the house most of the day—getting some winter wear from the attic which we hadn't bothered with heretofore, since winter had failed to materialize. Also putting some things away from the fall, plus leftover Christmas decorations which turned up after we'd already stored the bulk of our items. I'm readying several boxes of books to go up, as well. Seeing as how we've had a nice hearthfire going all the time, music playing, and the river and feeder birds and a gleaming January sky to glance out at whenever we liked, it wasn't exactly hard labor.

Earlier, when I stepped out with the dog, I made a shot of ice on the big boulder in the riffle in front of the cottage. I like the juxtaposition of sun-warmed stone, snow and ice, and clear water reflecting the blue sky overhead.

———————

SLEEP

2012-01-14T18:38:00.000-05:00

We spent the latter half of today out and about, picking up prescriptions and running errands. When we pulled down the drive to the back of the cottage, I noticed the sun going down across the river and the way the bronze-gold light gleamed off the water…so I went inside, grabbed a camera, and made this shot.

Another cold day here along the river—but mostly clear. As it's also the weekend when Myladylove has Saturday off, we got to sleep in a bit—which is to say I got up an hour later than usual and she slept an extra five; something like a solid fourteen hours, depending on when she fell asleep on the couch before we went to bed.

I don't begrudge her such a long sleep; if anything, I envy it. But I haven't managed that much snooze time in decades…and never then unless I was exhausted or sick. Five to seven hours is my usual; I can make do on less, but seldom manage more.

Once, however, when I was in college, I spent about five days more-or-less awake taking finals, then I got on a train at midnight in Chattanooga, Tennessee, which took twelve hours to reach Cincinnati, Ohio, and managed to miss the connection to Dayton—at which point I and a couple of other unfortunate passengers had to pile on a Greyhound bus for the 50-mile ride north. At the bus terminal, I called home and learned there was no one available to come pick me up because my Aunt Grace's husband, Howard, had suffered a massive heart attack that morning, was in the hospital struggling to survive, and everyone except my mother was gathered at his bedside. So I grabbed my multiple pieces of luggage and, uh, lugged myself and my stuff a few blocks to a stop where I could catch the trolly which ran from downtown to the semi-rural township beyond the city limits where we lived. By the time I'd caught that bus, rode to the end of the line, and lugged my suitcases and self to the front door of the family home, I was desperately beat.

Mom had fried two chickens, mashed potatoes and made gravy, and baked a chocolate pie. I ate all the chicken, a lot of the potatoes and gravy, three-quarters of the chocolate pie, and drank a half-gallon of milk. Then I crawled into bed and slept twenty-two hours, barely moving…and would have slept longer, except Dad got worried and woke me up to make sure I was okay.

My Uncle Howard eventually recovered, though it was along time before he could work again, and I don't think he was ever quite the same. Mom had fixed lots more of my favorites foods while I was asleep, including another chocolate pie. And I've never slept so long or so deeply since. But to this day, I don't know where I put all that food.

———————

FINALLY WINTER?

2012-01-13T13:38:00.000-05:00

Winter finally arrived last night here along the riverbank.

Of course yesterday's high was an unseasonable 43˚F, with sporadic light rain throughout most of the day. But the rain changed to snow an hour before dusk as temperatures dropped. And when I got up this morning, the thermometer read a brisk 14˚F, and we've only gained three degrees since. Burrrrr!

The snow didn't amount to much, maybe half an inch. But still enough to whiten the ground and give the squirrels an excuse to chase each other around when they finally roused themselves from their snug bed in the hollow sycamore, and followed the tree-top trail over to the cottage to check out what sort of breakfast I'd provided.

Now, the feeders are busier than they have been for months—possibly as far back as late-February or early-March of last year. Our lack of winter—or what might prove to be a late-starting winter, though I think we'd better give it a week or two before proclaiming it officially in session—has kept the usual feathered crowds thinned considerably.

Today, however, the birds are coming in. Still not as many as I'd expect, nor do they seem as frantically hungry, practically mobbing the suet, sunflowers seeds, and cracked corn. Maybe it takes a day or two for word to get out. Or it could be today's wintry intimation is as suspect to the birds as it is to me, and they're also adopting a wait-and-see attitude.

The snow continued all morning, and is going still, though it's mostly just the same flakes blowing around in white swirls. I don't think there a millimeter of additional accumulation. The weather service claims some of these gusts will reach 40 MPH—which should certainly make for a nasty windchill. I'm going to dig my parka out of the closet and go for a tramp along a nearby trail, just to enjoy this tardy bit of seasonally-appropriate weather. There's nothing like a cutting wind and some ice in the eyes to make you delightfully miserable.

Maybe a short winter walk will also cure the ennui which seems to have afflicted me recently. Since the first of the year I've been tired, lazy, and, for no good reason I can discern, bored by most of the usual pleasures—given instead to staring out the window at the river, or sitting by the fireside scribbling at poems and listening to darkly complicated stuff by Hovhaness, Orff, and Glass on the CD player. I haven't written because I didn't think I had anything worthwhile to say. This post doubtless proves that point.

Yup, a breath of winter may be just what I need…

———————

FIRST SNOW, FIRST COLD

2012-01-03T18:46:00.000-05:00

We had our first stick-to-the-ground snowfall yesterday. Not that it amounted to much—a few tenths of an inch of ragged white frosting. Not enough to completely cover the grass and leaves, or count as a "tracking snow"…but enough that we heretofore snow-free southern Ohioans could look out our windows and see a landscape which finally looked wintry.

Actually, the snow began long after dark on New Year's Day, arriving in the form of tiny rounded pellets, or graupels, which some folks refer to as "hominy snow," because it looks like uncooked white grits. When I stepped out with Moon-the-Dog just before midnight, this granular hominy snow was peppering down like gangbusters. You could hear it pinging through the branches of the big hackberry near the door. In the yellow glow from the porch light, I watched as the gusting wind swirled it around the eaves and across the deck's planking.

Along with the snow came our first fairly cold temperatures—17˚F (-8˚C) last night and a time or two today, with only a couple of degrees rise at the high-point. Not cold by northcountry standards, I know, but cold enough when you've been used to daytime highs in the upp-50s and above.

Oddly, the bird feeders weren't as busy yesterday as they usually are when it's snowing. Typically, when snow begins falling, the birds crowd in like grocery shoppers at the supermarket right before a blizzard. It's often all I can do to keep the feeders stocked for the noisy hordes.

Feeder traffic was up somewhat today. Busy, but still not the mob scene I've come to expect. Why? Could be the immediate neighborhood has a surfeit of well-stocked feeders out. My best guess would be that given the unseasonably mild weather, many birds simply haven't needed to depend so heavily on feeder offerings to keep them fed; maybe a fair amount of natural foods have remained available in nearby fields and forests.

The morning's arrivals did include the first group of juncos I've seen this winter. And even before the sun came up, as Myladylove and I were having breakfast, cardinals by the dozens began appearing. My best count was 47 males and females visible at once in the dim light, and I didn't get to those birds in the cedars over by the fence. Conservatively, I'd say there were 75 cardinals within a 50-foot radius of the front door…a sight which never fails to amaze me, though our riverbank corner has always seemed like Redbird Central, even if I don't quite understand exactly why; I nevertheless appreciate the gift.

———————

HERE WE GO AGAIN!

2012-01-01T10:14:00.000-05:00

While it's been unseasonably warm here along the riverbank…it certainly hasn't been this warm! I made this indigo bunting image back in the latter part of the summer—and I think it's one the better shots I managed all year. I thought I'd save it to share on a special occasion. What could be more special than the start of a brand new year?

Well, here we are…the first day of the first month of a brand new year. Are you excited? Apprehensive? Or simply indifferent to the whole business of having just embarked again on the great circular journey?

After all, if it weren't for calendars, almanacs, and all the media hoopla, none of us could tell any difference between yesterday and today. Nature doesn't give anything away by celebrating. The raccoons and owls don't spend the evening together drinking excessively. Squirrels never ring bells or toot on noisemakers. Cats don't blow their car horns, nor do police dogs wail sirens. Possums, thank God, never mess with fireworks or firearms. And though you might think otherwise, rabbits aren't prone to kissing any stranger they can latch onto come the stroke of midnight.

Nope, that's just purely human behavior. We are the party animals.

Some of us. Others—after a low-key but delicious late supper of shrimp sautéed in olive oil with garlic, scallions, salt and a few flakes of red pepper, plus some excellent blue cheeses, toast squares, clementines, and mint chocolate chip ice cream—fall asleep on the couch or sitting in the rocking chair before the fire, and barely awaken in time to stumble out onto the deck and stand wrapped in blankets, listening to all the firecrackers, gunfire, and small ordinance explosives the neighbors are setting off.

It was clear and mild here on the riverbank when the new year arrived. Stars glittered in the darkness and a waxing moon dangled above the western horizon. This morning it is bright-cloudy and, currently, 48˚F (8.8˚C)—though the temperature is supposed to start dropping by afternoon and the prognosticators claim the possibility of snow flurries throughout the next few days. Maybe winter is going to start acting and looking more like winter.

I would like to wish each and every one a happy New Year! May the coming year be one of health, happiness, prosperity and peace…and may at least a few of your wishes and desires come true.

———————

MORNING LOW

2011-12-30T10:30:00.001-05:00

He sits there like an impatient flame in the dim light of another cloudy winter morning, watching me out of the corner of his eye as the wind ruffles his scarlet feathers. His punk-rocker crest is stuck straight up, adding to the look of restlessness.

"I don't know what you're waiting for," I say, in a conversational voice. The cardinal is perched on a limb no more than ten feet away, and I slide my glance from the bird to the river beyond, which is up maybe two feet and slightly muddy. "The feeders are filled with sunflowers seeds and cracked corn, and there's more cracked corn on the ground and the stump, 'cause I know you don't like socializing with the sparrows and finches."

The redbird gives me the sort of imperious look the patrician classes are wont to employ on uppity tradesmen who deliver their groceries. I fling out another half-scoop of cracked corn. "There! Satisfied?"

In these final December days, as the old year wanes and the new one speeds our way, the usual quiet interim between holidays is somehow neither restive nor reflective. There are still things to do, preparations to make, a bit of shopping, a sort of low-key party at one of the newspaper offices which I need to attend a couple of hours from now. Tomorrow the tree will come down and the decorations will be packed away and stored for another year. I don't know how to explain it, but this year the holiday season seems to have gotten away from me. I'm not disappointed or sad…just emptier than normal. Why?

Maybe I'm just tired. That old redbird isn't the only one out of sorts….

———————

FOR UNTO US A CHILD IS BORN!

2011-12-24T23:35:00.000-05:00

I sing the birth was born tonight,
The Author both of life and light…

For as long as I can remember, every Christmas Eve I go outside for awhile and look up into the night sky. Some years, the snow is coming down so fast all I can see is a rush of white. Other years, it's sleet, which stings my face and eyes. A few times it's been rain—light sprinkles or a hard downpour, and I'm soaked in moments with cold water running into the neck of my shirt.

Yet more often than not, when I look up late on this twenty-fourth of December, I see stars—maybe just a few, the brightest ones if the night is hazy, or ones that appear, disappear, reappear if there are clouds and a light wind. But sometimes, like tonight, the sky is clear and filled with their gleaming points of light, like a king's ransom in diamonds strewn across the velvet-blue heavens.

It is so beautiful and I am so moved that my heart overflows. If you asked me what I'm looking for up there in the cold night sky, I would tell you I'm looking for Christmas. And I'll tell you true…no matter whether it is raining, snowing, sleeting, or clear, regardless of whether the wind is blowing or calm, or the temperature sub-zero or shirt-sleeve warm, I always find what I'm after. Because some two-thousand years ago, in a place far away, a baby was born in the night—born in love, given to die that I might have grace; a baby whose life would change the world forever.

Christmas is not just a holiday or a date on the calendar; it's certainly not simply a mood, and it's more than a spirit. Christmas is a gift, the greatest of all gifts. The older I get, the more I appreciate that fundamental truth.

To each of you, I wish you the best and merriest of Christmases ever! I hope your day is filled with love and joy and laughter, and your heart be given peace.

———————

RING OUT WILD SKY

2011-12-22T12:42:00.000-05:00

Ring out wild bells to the wild sky

The flying cloud, the frosty light;

The year is dying in the night

Ring out wild bells and let him die.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Winter began today with the passing solstice, which, here in southwestern Ohio, occurred at 12:30 a.m. EST. Yes, I know you folks on the other side of the globe changed your seasons yesterday, or on your twenty-first day of December. That's because unlike, say, the celestial event of sunrise, which moves around the globe and is governed by the horizon, an astronomical happening such as the solstice takes place everywhere in the same hemisphere at once. For us riverbank denizens. that was half-past midnight this morning.

In looking at numerous headlines and bylined coverage from various publications around the country, I see the facts of this particular solstice have apparently confused journalists and nature writers by the dozens. This is one of my pet peeves. Sad to say, confusion is typically the case for many writers attempting to cover a solstice. But these are folks you think would either know better—or at least would know how to research well enough to avoid making such incompetent public mistakes.

The rampant blunders and misunderstandings fall into two basic categories—the actual time of the event itself, and what happens to our days following the passing of the winter solstice.

For the record—the 2011 Winter Solstice occurred December 22 at 5:30 UTC (Universal Time Coordinated) which was 12:30 p.m. here on the Atlantic coast time zone of the U.S. and 9:30 p.m. yesterday (December 21) on our Pacific coast. So for you pseudo-druids in California, St. Louis, Cleveland, and New York who got up early yesterday to don your robes and dance and chant on some dawning hilltop…you'll not be pleased to learn you did it all a day early, and I'm guessing your ignorance went uncorrected, so you probably then missed out on a second larking-about try on the real first post-solstice sunrise today. Bummer, dude. Better check out the ol' almanac a bit closer next year.

Now, here's a word to those who've recently published pieces about how the winter solstice ushers in the season of darkness…wrong-o, bongo! You've gotten it precisely bass-ackwards. Winter's start is the beginning of sunlight's increase—the days get longer and brighter from here on out; not shorter and darker. Again, a glance at the almanac's LENGTH OF DAYLIGHT tables would keep you from penning such drivel.

Okay, I feel better now that I've had my little rant.

Finally, allow me to say I'm delighted today because no photo I've made recently has so well fitted with a favorite bit of verse chosen to preface the day's post. I'd already planned on using the lines from Tennyson—figuring they could work as well for a passing season as a passing year—but the wild sky, as seen when looking west across the river from the cottage, was pure, perfect serendipity. As you can see, the river is up and muddy from yesterday's rains—though from the look of the stream level, it obviously rained a lot more somewhere upstream than it did here. And in case you're wondering, this isn't a worrisome height. Moreover, I think the brown water goes dramatically well with the brooding sky and hard crosslight.

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (5)

2011-12-22T09:21:00.000-05:00

It is within the darkness and the silence

That the magic of Christmas starts;

Somewhere between the glimmer of lights

And the first breathless moment

When children come

Stumbling like new-born angels

Into morning light.

It is here, between the darkness

And the light,

That we wait, uncertain,

Seeking the moment,

That challenges us to believe

In a freshly minted miracle

Born every Christmas Day.

——John Matthews, The Winter Solstice

The Solstice is a time of quietude, of firelight and dreaming, when seeds germinate in the cold earth and the cold notes of church bells mingle with the chimes of icicles. Rivers are stilled and the land lies waiting beneath a coverlet of snow. We watch the cold sunlight and the bright stars, maybe go for walks in the quiet land.

——[ibid.]

The Twelve Days of Christmas stand outside of "ordinary time," and celebrations focus on the return of the sun and a continuation of the eternal cycle of life.

——[ibid.]

The Yule Log itself is above all a reminder of the importance of fire in the depth of the cold and darkness of Midwinter.

——[ibid.]

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I've collected Christmas books for years, and must have at least a couple hundred. Their contents range from anthologies of seasonal poetry, short stories, and novels, to histories of the holiday and its customs and traditions, sketches and narratives of remembered Christmases by various writers, cookbooks, even a craft book or two, though Myladylove collects the latter two categories and probably has upwards of a hundred Christmas volumes of her own.

This year, starting on the first day of December, I thought it might be fun to dip into a few of these works and share a quote or two from their pages—a few lines of poetry, a bit of prose, maybe even a recipe—on a daily basis, a sort of "Christmas Quotedown," which I'll put up in addition to my regular posts. I'll also include a photo of the book's cover, from which the day's quotes are taken—though a few, lacking a dust jacket or any sort of fancy cover design, might be decidedly non-photogenic. On the other hand, several of my favorite Christmas works are quotably rich troves, indeed, and thus might end up furnishing more than a day's worth of quotes—though I'm starting out with the notion of a different book each day.

Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (6)

2011-12-20T21:03:00.003-05:00

The bells upon the church were rung

with a mighty jovial cheer;

For it's just that I should tell you how

(of all days in the year)

This day of our adversity

was blessed Christmas morn,

And the house above the coastguard's

was the house where I was born.

O well I saw the pleasant room,

the pleasant faces there,

My mother's silver spectacles,

my father's silver hair;

And well I saw the firelight,

like a flight of homely elves,

Go dancing round the china-plates

that stand upon the shelves.

——Robert Louis Stevenson, Christmas At Sea, from Christmas Observed, edited by Owen Dudley Edwards & Graham Richardson

"The most beautiful crime I ever committed," Flambeau would say in his highly moral old age, "was also, by a singular coincidence, my last. It was committed at Christmas. As an artist I had always attempted to provide crimes suitable to the special season or landscape…"

——G.K. Chesterton, The Flying Stars, from Christmas Observed, edited by Owen Dudley Edwards & Graham Richardson

Christmas Day, 1661. In the morning to church; where at the door of our pew I was fain to stay, because that the sexton had not opened the door. A good sermon of Mr.Mills. Dined at home all alone, And taking occasion, from some fault in the meat, to complain of my maid's Sluttery, my wife and I fell out, and I up to my Chamber in a discontent. After dinner my wife comes up to me and all friends again; and she and I to walk upon the Leads; there Sir W. Pen called us and we went to his house and supped with him.

——Samuel Pepys, From The Diaries, from Christmas Observed, edited by Owen Dudley Edwards & Graham Richardson

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Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (7)

2011-12-20T16:02:00.000-05:00

Christmas is a time for the crunch of snow, spiced wine, and tinseled trees. Christmas is a time for giving, meeting friends, and feasting. Christmas is a time for carols, family gatherings, gaudy greeting cards, and all the jollity of the seasonal spirit. Christmas is also a time for science.

Chemists are hard at work in the Christmas kitchen. Experts on thermodynamics have drafted equations to help us cook turkeys to perfection, scanners have scrutinized streaming plum puddings, and pharmacologists have traced the baroque metabolic pathways of the brain to explain why chocolates can be so addictive.

——Roger Highfield, The Physics of Christmas

Reindeer have a curious arrangement of gadgetry on top of their heads which we call antlers and naively assume exist for the males to do battle to win females. This is absolute nonsense. The antlers are actually fractal vortex-shedding devices.

——[ibid.]

There is growing evidence that those who respect relegious traditions, and preseumably those who take Christmas seriously, can expect a healthier life.

——[ibid.]

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Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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MYLADYLOVE'S BIRTHDAY

2011-12-19T17:54:00.000-05:00

Happy Birthday, Sweetie!

Love you! Hope you have a wonderful day.

CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (8)

2011-12-18T16:04:00.000-05:00

The Star of Bethlehem has been a mystery for many centuries. At Christmastime it is usually discussed around the world by scientists and nonscientists alike, all of whom are fascinated by its meaning and history.

But what was this mysterious apparition in the heavens? Will we ever know? There are opinions for all tastes: some people say the Star never existed but was added to the Bible to give significance to the birth of Jesus; others feel it was a simple astronomical event; and many Christians feel it was a miracle, a sign placed in the heavens by God to indicate the divine nature of the infant Jesus.

——Mark Kidger, The Star of Bethlehem

If the Biblical account is taken literally, then no scientific explanation is necessary or even possible; it could only be a miraculous event.

——[ibid.]

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Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (9)

2011-12-17T21:07:00.001-05:00

It was freezing, and up aloft it got so cold that the devil kept shifting from one hoof to the other and blowing into his palms, trying to warm his cold hands at least a little. It's no wonder, however that somebody would get cold who had knocked about all day in hell, where, as we know, it not so cold as it is here in winter, and where, a chef's hat on his head and standing before a hearth like a real cook, he had been roasting sinners with as much pleasure as any woman roasts sausages at Christmas.

——Nikolai Gogol, The Night Before Christmas, from Christmas Stories

Then they all went to church, as a united family ought to do on Christmas Day, and came home to a fine old English early dinner at three o'clock—a sirloin of beef a foot-and-a-half broad, a turkey as big as an ostrich, a plum pudding bigger than the turkey, and two or three dozen mince-pies. "That's a very large bit of beef," said Mr. Jones, who had not lived much in England latterly. "It won't look so large, said the old gentleman, "when all our friends downstairs have had their say to it." "A Plum-pudding on Christmas Day can't be too big," he said again, "if the cook will but take time enough over it. I never knew a bit go to waste yet."

——Anthony Trollope, Christmas At Thompson Hall, from Christmas Stories

Vanka gave a tremulous sigh, and again stared at the window. He remembered how his grandfather always went into the forest to get the Christmas tree for his master's family, and took his grandson with him. I was a merry time! Grandfather made a noise in his throat, the forest crackled with the frost, and looking at them Vanka chortled too. Before chopping down the Christmas tree, grandfather would smoke a pipe, slowly take a punch of snuff, and laugh at frozen Vanka…

——Anton Chekhov, Vanka, from Christmas Stories

It was quiet as it can only be on a bright, frosty day. Sleptsov raised his leg high, stepped off the path and, leaving blue pits behind him in the snow, made his way among the trunks of amazingly white trees to the spot where the park dropped off toward the river. Far below, ice blocks sparkled near a hole cut in the smooth expanse of white and, on the opposite bank, very straight columns of pink smoke stood above the snowy roofs of log cabins. Sleptsov took off his karakul cap and leaned against a tree trunk. Somewhere faraway peasants were chopping wood—every blow bounced resonantly skyward—and beyond the light silver mist of trees, high above the squat isbas, the sun caught the equanimous radiance of the cross on the church.

——Valdimar Nabokov, Christmas, from Christmas Stories

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Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (10)

2011-12-16T18:43:00.000-05:00

When the angels appeared to the wondering shepherds, as they kept watch over their sheep, in the fields near Bethlehem, the celestial chorus sang "that glorious song of old"—"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men." So began our most beloved religious festival—Christmas, or Christes Mass.

——Maymie R. Krythe, All About Christmas

"Magi," a word meaning "august," was the name given to the priestly caste among the ancient Medes and Persians. These men were, in addition to "the keepers of the scared things, the learned of the people, the philosophers and servants of God," also highly esteemed as diviners and astrologists. No matter of importance took place without their being consulted."

——[ibid.]

During the sixteenth century, the English poet, George Wither, wrote his delightful Christmas poem, containing these lines:

So now is come our joyful feast

Let every man be jolly.

Each room with ivy leaves is dressed

And every post with holly.

Nowadays, in our busy modern world, we still enjoy "decking the halls." And, in doing so, we are following an ancient custom that has many interesting beliefs and legends associated with it.

——[ibid.]

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Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (11)

2011-12-15T18:50:00.003-05:00

If it hadn't been so close to Christmas, I should never had had Scrubby McDonnell for a passenger. My most substantial friends advise me never to pick up fellows who beg rides along the road.

Throwing caution and caste out of the car window, I stopped. "You can ride if you'll be good," said I. He began being good by taking out of his mouth a much-chewed chew of tobacco. As the closed car windows furnished no exit, he put it in his coat pocket. In the course of many miles I found out that that was all he had had to chew, whether tobacco or anything else, for an even 24 hours.

——Walter Locke, Scrubby McDonnell's Christmas

This is a complicated world. Out of the tussle and confusion of it some of us come to the top and ride in furnace-heated automobiles, and some of us, just as anxious to be at the top and trying just as hard, slip down to the pavement. All the year around I know this sorry fact with my head; but it's only in the friendly rush of Christmas that I feel it and see the cure for it.

The power of Christmas, our great sample Christian day, to solve the Scrubby McDonnell problem is going to grow on me all these coming pre-Christmas days. I find brewing in me a radical idea. By Christmas Eve, I feel it in my bones, I shall be rising up and calling upon all the world to end the world's woes by making the spirit of Christmas the spirit of all our days.

——[ibid.]

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Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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RELUCTANTLY I GO

2011-12-15T11:20:00.000-05:00

Fog and drizzle, damp and cold,

days like this are getting old.

Not what I need this time of year,

to fill my heart with Christmas cheer.

I want the land all snowy white,

a scene that fits the season right.

Instead I'm faced with soggy mud.

As weather goes—today's a dud!

———

Yes, it takes a lot to make me commit such doggerel. But, I have my reasons.

Dud day or not, I'm soon preparing to haul my arthritic carcass out and onto the traffic-choked freeway for at least a partial day of Christmas shopping—though I can't say I'm looking forward to the ordeal. It's dark and cloudy and sprinkling. Parking lots will be jammed and messy. Stores will be crowded. Clerks and cashiers will be harried and short-tempered. Fellow shoppers surly, ruthless, and devious.

If that isn't bad enough, Thursday is the day when area retirement homes and senior-citizen centers often decided to load buses with their ambulatory inmates and foist them off on the general public—as if the malls and big-box shopping marts were a sort of free-for-all day-care facility. Never mind that half these folks get lost making the round trip from their room to the cafeteria, or must use a cane or walker to remain upright—a mile of lookalike storefronts illogically arranged on three levels, divided by all manner of escalators, elevators, ramps and stairs are disregarded as no problem by the captors who've set them temporarily free. "Why," they say, "they'll manage to get around and find their way just fine."

Wanna bet?

And let's not forget that seniors sometimes get a bit, er, cranky as they age; I certainly am. But I'm not yet to the point of those cantankerous oldsters who have at some point advanced from curmudgeonly to homicidal. Give them a shopping cart and they're armed and dangerous…and those sweet little old blue-haired ladies who look like Miss Marple are the worst! They'll lacerate your shins in a heartbeat, bang you in the hipbone for a bruising you'll wear until Twelfth Night, and if you still haven't fled for your life, flatten you over like a highballing steamroller—leaving nothing but wheel tracks along your spine and little waffle marks on your ears from the white tennis shoes with the sparkly pink laces they always wear.

Nevertheless, reluctantly I go.

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SHOPPING TONIGHT?

2011-12-15T00:01:00.001-05:00

Today was Myladylove's half day at work. As usual, we're rather behind on our Christmas shopping. We'd therefore planned on a serious session when she got in—one of those marathon hit-every-store-you-can-manage assaults which, with a little luck, just might have seen us finish out the remaining gifts still on our list.

But when Myladylove came home, she was feeling really bad—and showed it. Whether just a combination of doing too much recently without sufficient rest (we were up until midnight last night), sinus issues from the up-and-down weather we've been having lately, or the beginnings of a cold or a touch of flu…who knows.

I fed her a late lunch and suggested she go bed for a few hours and see how she felt. "We can always visit a few stores later tonight if you're up to it," I said. "If not, you'll have a head start on getting well."

I'm thinking we're probably staying home. Which may be for the best, anyway, since I need to keep an eye on the Christmas tree.

I'm concerned because when we got up at 6:30 this morning, Myladylove noticed the tree had developed a serious lean during the night. It's a big tree, somewhere around 9 feet tall, and surprisingly heavy. We managed most of the decorating the other day, stringing lights and hanging countless ornaments, but still hadn't gotten around to the mylar icicles, not to mention all the other things we stick on, under, and around the tree…plus there's doubtless another box of ornaments, yet to hang, lurking in the back corner of a closet or up in the attic.

Tree-decorating is an evolving task the way we operate, ongoing over several days.

Now, the semi-loaded tree was listing at about a fifteen degree angle. Not good. I held the trunk and Myladylove released the catch on the bucket part of the holder into which the tree sits, where it is held in place by screw-clamps tightened down against the trunk. This bucket, in turn, is clamped into a sort toothed ratchet. A lever allows the bucket to move free so you can stand the tree plumb; when you push the lever down, the ratchet's teeth hold the bucket in place.

Theoretically. At least that's been the case for Christmas trees in the past. Only this morning, when I had repositioned the tree where I wanted it and Myladylove set the clamp we heard a burrrr-bur-burrrrr! as the ratched clamp failed and I had to hang onto the tree to avert disaster. We tried again: burrrrrr-burrr! And a third time: buuuuurrrrrrr!

Myladylove and I looked at each other. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"No idea," I said.

"What are you going to do?"

"Dunno," I said.

"Well," she said, "you have to do something!"

Why oh why did I have to be the one who had to "do something?" Especially given that I had no idea how to immediately solve the problem. It was early. I hadn't had my coffee. Doesn't Santa provide elves for such emergencies?

"Let's try it one more time," I said, not exactly rising to the occasion. But the way I figured it, unless the stand worked, all I could do was either lean the tree into the corner until inspiration struck, or continue with the status quo and become a human tree stand for the day.

Luckily, the fourth time was the charm and the ratchet-clamp held. I know because I just checked—the tree's still vertical…though, alas, Myladylove remains horizontal.

Nope, we're definitely not going shopping.

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (12)

2011-12-14T15:21:00.002-05:00

Miss Bugle could say no more, for the Christmas Eve secret she had held so long was now too much for her to bear and her voice began to break.

"Christmas Eve, Mr. Mole, is never a time to be alone, and I have been alone on this day too often The lights of Christmas candles surely shine brighter in the sympathetic company of others."

"They do, Miss Bugle, O, I know they do!" said the Mole with considerable sympathy and feeling.

"Well then…" she said, pushing her door open with a curious gesture of shy hopefulness and indicating that he should go ahead of her.

What he saw when he entered quite took his breath away. It was a parlour like no parlour he had ever seen. One so filled and resplendent with the Christmas spirit that all the gloom and unhappiness the Mole had recently felt fled from his heart, to be replaced by that sense of simple joy and wonder he had last felt as a child, standing before his first Christmas tree.

——William Horwood, The Willows At Christmas

Mole's Christmas Eve was nearly done.

Yet not quite.

He still had to propose the final toast of the night. He opened his front door and raised his glass to such stars as he could see. "To the memory of my family," said he…

——[ibid.]

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Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (13)

2011-12-13T16:46:00.000-05:00

December saw the first of the great blizzards of the year. The wind howling down out of the Canadian wilds a few few hundred miles to the north had screamed over frozen Lake Michigan and hit Hohman, laying on the town great drifts of snow and long, story-high icicles, and sub-zero temperatures where the air cracked and sang. Streetcar wires creaked under caked ice and kids plodded to school through forty-five-mile-an-hour gales, tilting forward like tiny furred radiator ornaments, moving stiffly over the barren, clattering ground.

Preparing to go to school was about like getting ready for extended Deep-Sea Diving. Longjohns, corduroy knickers, checkered flannel Lumberjack shirt, four sweaters, fleece-lined leatherette sheepskin coat, helmet, goggles, mittens with leatherette gauntlets and a large red star with an Indian Chief's face in the middle, three pairs of sox, high-tops, overshoes, and a sixteen-foot scarf wound spirally from left to right until only the faint glint of two eyes peering out of a mound of moving clothing told you that a kid was in the neighborhood.

There was no question of staying home. It never entered anyone's mind. It was a hardier time, and Miss Bodkin was a hardier teacher than the present breed. Cold was something that was accepted, like air, clouds, and parents; a fact of Nature, and as such could not be used in any fraudulent scheme to stay out of school.

My mother would simply throw her shoulder against the front door, pushing back the advancing drifts and stone ice, the wind raking the living-room rug with angry fury for an instant, and we would be launched, one after the other, my brother and I, like astronauts into unfriendly Arctic space. The door clanged shut behind us and that was it. It was make school or die.

——Jean Shepherd, A Christmas Story

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Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (14)

2011-12-12T16:01:00.001-05:00

Christmas—how many images the word calls up: we think of carol-singers and holly-decked churches where people hymn in time-honoured strains the Birth of the Divine Child; of frost and snow, and, in contrast, of warm hearths and homes bright with light and colour, very fortresses against the cold; of feasting and revelry, of greetings and gifts exchanged; and lastly of vaguely superstitious customs, relics of long ago, performed perhaps out of respect for use and wont, or merely in jest, or with a deliberate attempt to throw ourselves back into the past, to re-enter for a moment the mental childhood of the race. These are a few of 19the pictures that rise pell-mell in the minds of English folk at the mention of Christmas; how many other scenes would come before us if we could realize what the festival means to men of other nations. Yet even these will suggest what hardly needs saying, that Christmas is something far more complex than a Church holy-day alone, that the celebration of the Birth of Jesus, deep and touching as is its appeal to those who hold the faith of the Incarnation, is but one of many elements that have entered into the great winter festival.

——Clement A. Miles, Christmas Customs and Traditions

When and where did the keeping of Christmas begin? Many details of its early history remain in uncertainty, but it is fairly clear that the earliest celebration of the Birth of Christ on December 25 took place at Rome about the middle of the fourth century, and that the observance of the day spread from the western to the eastern Church, which had before been wont to keep January 6 as a joint commemoration of the Nativity and the Baptism of the Redeemer.

The first mention of a Nativity feast on December 25 is found in a Roman document known as the Philocalian Calendar, dating from the year 354, but embodying an older document evidently belonging to the year 336. It is uncertain to which date the Nativity reference belongs; but further back than 336 at all events the festival cannot be traced.

——[ibid.]

The log placed on the fire on the Vigil of the Nativity no longer forms an important part of the English Christmas. Yet within the memory of many it was a very essential element in the celebration of the festival, not merely as giving out welcome warmth in the midwinter cold, but as possessing occult, magical properties.…The English customs can hardly be better introduced than in Herrick's words:

“Come, bring, with a noise,

My merry, merry boys,

The Christmas Log to the firing:

While my good Dame she Bids ye all be free,

And drink to your hearts’ desiring.

With the last year's Brand Light the new Block, and

For good success in his spending,

On your psaltries play, That sweet luck may

Come while the log is a-teending.”

——[ibid.]

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Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (15)

2011-12-11T18:40:00.001-05:00

The finest Christmas gift is not the one that costs the most money, but the one that carries the most love.

But how seldom Christmas comes—only once a year; and how soon it is over—a night and a day! Surely that need not and ought not to be the whole of Christmas—only a single day of generosity, ransomed from the dull servitude of a selfish year—only a single night of merry-making, celebrated in the slave-quarters of a selfish race! If every gift is the token of a personal thought, a friendly feeling, an unselfish interest in the joy of others, then the thought, the feeling, the interest, may remain after the gift is made.

The little present, or the rare and long-wished-for gift (it matters not whether the vessel be of gold, or silver, or iron, or wood, or clay, or just a small bit of birch bark folded into a cup), may carry a message something like this:

"I am thinking of you to-day, because it is Christmas, and I wish you happiness. And to-morrow, because it will be the day after Christmas, I shall still wish you happiness; and so on, clear through the year. I may not be able to tell you about it every day, because I may be far away; or because both of us may be very busy; or perhaps because I cannot even afford to pay the postage on so many letters, or find the time to write them. But that makes no difference. The thought and the wish will be here just the same. In my work and in the business of life, I mean to try not to be unfair to you or injure you in any way. In my pleasure, if we can be together, I would like to share the fun with you. Whatever joy or success comes to you will make me glad. Without pretense, and in plain words, good-will to you is what I mean, in the Spirit of Christmas."

—Henry Van Dyke, The Spirit of Christmas

* * *

It is a good thing to observe Christmas day. The mere marking of times and seasons, when men agree to stop work and make merry together, is a wise and wholesome custom. It helps one to feel the supremacy of the common life over the individual life. It reminds a man to set his own little watch, now and then, by the great clock of humanity which runs on sun time.

But there is a better thing than the observance of Christmas day, and that is, keeping Christmas.

Are you willing to forget what you have done for other people, and to remember what other people have done for you; to ignore what the world owes you, and to think what you owe the world; to put your rights in the background, and your duties in the middle distance, and your chances to do a little more than your duty in the foreground; to see that your fellow-men are just as real as you are, and try to look behind their faces to their hearts, hungry for joy; to own that probably the only good reason for your existence is not what you are going to get out of life, but what you are going to give to life; to close your book of complaints against the management of the universe, and look around you for a place where you can sow a few seeds of happiness—are you willing to do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.

Are you willing to stoop down and consider the needs and the desires of little children; to remember the weakness and loneliness of people who are growing old; to stop asking how much your friends love you, and ask yourself whether you love them enough; to bear in mind the things that other people have to bear on their hearts; to try to understand what those who live in the same house with you really want, without waiting for them to tell you; to trim your lamp so that it will give more light and less smoke, and to carry it in front so that your shadow will fall behind you; to make a grave for your ugly thoughts, and a garden for your kindly feelings, with the gate open—are you willing to do these things even for a day? Then you can keep Christmas.

Are you willing to believe that love is the strongest thing in the world—stronger than hate, stronger than evil, stronger than death—and that the blessed life which began in Bethlehem nineteen hundred years ago is the image and brightness of the Eternal Love? Then you can keep Christmas.

And if you keep it for a day, why not always?

——[ibid.]

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Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (16)

2011-12-10T12:53:00.001-05:00

Each year at Christmastime, candles blaze in churches and homes across the world in honor of the birth of Jesus Christ, whose birth we celebrate this time of year. The custom of placing candles in our windows follows a centurie-old tradition. The candles represent the hope that the Christ Child might be guided through the darkness to our homes. In ancient times, a stranger who approached a house lit by Christmas candles was assured of a warm welcome, for the families believed every visitor could be Christ Himself seeking refuge.

——The Traditions of Christmas, edited by Nancy J. Skarmeas

In no other facet of Christmas is there such a rich and sumptuous heritage as in the traditions of holiday fare. This yearly celebration has demanded a table extended with family and friends and groaning under the load of rich candies, fruit-filled puddings, glazed sweet breads, roasted meats and fowl, every kind of vegetable, and, of course, decorated, squeezed, rolled, filled, cut, and iced cookies from almost every country in the world. As children, we each become so entranced with the smells of roasting turkey, baking pumpkin pies, or steaming plum puddings that thereafter, for the rest of our lives, only a slight whiff of a certain odor instantly unlocks the treasurers of our memory as we are transported back to those wonderful Christmas feasts at home with Mother, Father, and our family of childhood.

——William Powell Firth

The days and nights of the Christmas season are alive with music. In churches, on street corners, on dorrsteps, and at the family fireside, voices join together and are lifted in praise and celebration of the season. The roots of the popular carol stem from common folk displaying the joy of the holidays and spirits full of happiness; whereas the great oratorios, seasonal ballets, and moving hymns that mark the season were written in a state of euphoria and celebration, each note and echo of the song sung by the angels to the shepherds in the fields on that night two thousand years ago.

——The Traditions of Christmas, edited by Nancy J. Skarmeas

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Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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A BRIEF REPORT…

2011-12-09T16:47:00.000-05:00

I finished lunch an hour ago and have since been sitting by the hearth, enjoying the cozy warmth while reading bits from various Christmas books and trying to decide on quotes for upcoming posts. My lunch was so late because I got sidetracked when I finished the last of my desk work for the week after ambling into the kitchen to see what could be warmed up for a quick meal. I remembered the bags of sunflower seeds and cracked corn I'd bought on Wednesday were still in the back of the pickup. Along with the 9-foot Christmas tree, tied compactly in netting, which Myladylove and I had tracked down, claimed, and carried out from the most remote corner of the 500-acre farm where we always cut our own.

Lugging 50-pound bags of birdfood to their storage bins on the deck took awhile, especially if you stop every so often to listen to the sweet caroling of a Carolina wren. And of course I had to refill all the feeders before I got mobbed by chickadees and titmice.

Then there was the tree to be brought around, de-netted, and shook a bit—a task which got interrupted by the need to chase Moon-the-Dog up the hill and across the road and back to this side of the road and through the neighbor's yard and back down the hill—where I finally caught up with her long enough to administer a well-deserved swat to the backquarters with a leafy branch for putting me through such an ordeal, unrepentant though she remained. In case you've been wondering how my fine old dog is doing since her surgery, let me just assure you her acts of truancy and misbehavior have increased dramatically—a sure sign of positive progress.

Anyway, all that required way more time than you might guess. At which point I decided to build the fire…so…wood and kindling was gathered, a fire was laid and lit, and then, finally, I got around to fixing something to eat.

Now, the day is winding down. The light is fading. A scattered snow is falling from a dim, gray sky.

Myladylove will be home in a few hours and we'll spend the evening decorating the tree—pulling the familiar old ornaments from their tissue wrappings, worrying with the lights, disagreeing about the amount of tinsel and whether or not to add those silver icicles. Somewhere in there another meal will occur, probably a sort of extended snack with apples and oranges and cheese and sausage and crackers and nuts, then cookies and candy, or mugs of hot chocolate. The fire will be warm and glowing. The room will smell of woodsmoke and cut pine. I already have carols playing—lovely old tunes, ancient in their melodies and harmonics, which somehow capture so well the mood of today as well as of the season…gray skies, falling snow, the changing light.

And just now, outside my workroom window, a lady redbird has arrived to keep me company….

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (17)

2011-12-09T13:10:00.000-05:00

Carl Rudd first arrived in the timeless hollow, near a small town named Blue Creek, in the late 1960s. The automobile worker was searching for pocketknives to add to his collection, but instead he found another treasure. He bought a 150-year-old converted log house on forty acres on Cassel Run, sent for his wife and ten children in Dayton, and started life anew in rugged Adams County. Local people, usually shy and taciturn around strangers, accepted Carl right away. He was friendly and natural, and he shared with them his peculiar dream.

He wanted to build one of the nation's larger private Christmas displays right there in the hollow. Never mind that it was in the middle of nowhere, or that the one-lane gravel road was barely accessible, or that he refused to charge admission….He just felt that this was the right time and place.

——Randy McNutt, "A Hollow Christmas", from Christmas Stories From Ohio, edited by Dorothy Dodge Robbins and Kenneth Robbins

* * *

"Have a joyous Christmas, my friend," he would say in his friendly way, and I would feel warm inside. The man really meant it. Carl exuded a faith and happiness that he could not conceal. To thousands of people, he meant Christmas in Appalachian Ohio.

——ibid.

* * *

When I visited Carl in December of 2003, at the start of the display's final season, he seemed enthusiastic. In his early seventies by then, Carl suffered from cancer and Alzheimer's disease, and could no longer tend to the massive display. "I have built up this farm to tell the Christmas story. The Lord took an old man and used him to send the message all over the world."

——ibid.

* * *

One million lights. Two millions Vistors. A multitude of joy.

That was the tally after a lifetime of enlightenment.

——ibid.

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Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (18)

2011-12-08T15:56:00.000-05:00

Ah! friend, dear friend, when life's glad day with you and me is passed, when the sweet Christmas chimes are rung for other ears than ours, when other hands set the green branches up…may there be those still left behind to twine us wreaths, and say, "We miss them so!"

* * *

A cabin in the woods. In the cabin a great fireplace piled high with logs, fiercely ablaze. On either side of the broad hearth-stone a hound sat on his haunches, looking gravely, as only a hound in a meditative mood can, into the glowing fire. In the centre of the cabin, whose every nook and corner was bright with the ruddy firelight, stood a wooden table, strongly built and solid. At the table sat John Norton, poring over a book—a book large of size, with wooden covers bound in leather, brown with age, and smooth as with the handling of many generations. The whitened head of the old man was bowed over the broad page, on which one hand rested, with the forefinger marking the sentence. This was the scene on Christmas Eve. Outside, the earth was white with snow, and in the blue sky above the snow was the white moon.

* * *

As the evening wore on, the great clearing round about it remained drearily void of sound or motion, and filled only with the white stillness of the frosty, snow-lighted night. Once, indeed, a wolf stole from underneath the dark balsams into the white silence, and running up a huge log that lay aslant a ledge of rocks, looked across and round the great opening in the woods, stood a moment, then gave a shivering sort of yelp, and settled back under the shadows of the forest, as if darkness was warmer than the frozen stillness of the open space. An owl, perched somewhere amid the pine-tops, snug and warm within the cover of its arctic plumage, engaged from time to time in solem gossip with some neighbor that lived on the opposite shore of the lake. It seemed as if the very angels, who, we are taught, fly abroad over all the earth that blessed night, carrying gifts to every household, had forgotten the cabin in the woods…

—— W.H.H. Murray, How John Norton the Trapper Kept His Christmas

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Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (19)

2011-12-07T11:48:00.001-05:00

I walked past the meetinghouse and noticed Frank had left a light on, so I went in to turn it off. Frank was there, seated by himself in the third pew, right-hand side.

I wasn't going to disturb him, but he looked up, noticed me, and motioned for me to sit beside him.

"Hey, Frank."

"Hey Sam."

"Everything all right?"

"Oh, sure. I don't know. I was just walking past and thought I'd sit for a while. It's nice in here."

"Yes it is," I agreed. "Very peaceful."

"So I'm sitting here thinking old man thoughts."

I didn't know what to say so I kept quiet.

"Mostly remembering when my daughter was little and we'd sit here on Christmas Eve. She'd be in her pajamas. Right here." He patted his lap. "Now she's in North Carolina. I wonder how she is."

"I'm sure she's just fine," I said.

He didn't speak for several moments. "I missed this tonight. I missed the Gospel of Luke and going to the basement for cookies."

"I did, too, Frank. I missed it, too."

We grew quiet, remembering, Frank with his Yule thoughts, and me with mine. Sitting at the dinning-room table writing out Christmas cards with my wife. Finding that exquisite tree at Grant's Hardware, eight feet tall with vertical integrity, a tree among trees. Walking the isles of the Five and Dime searching for the perfect gift, my sons in tow. My boys sitting on Santa'slap—one a skeptic, the other a true believer. Tucking them into bed not an hour before, their little bodies squirming with excitement. Still little, and still with me…

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Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (20)

2011-12-06T09:51:00.001-05:00

Oh, Papa, come look! Oh, Mama, can you see?

I've been waiting for so long for this to come to be.

Oh, Papa, come look! Oh, Mama, can you see?

Here comes the Christmas Ship with all the Christmas trees.

——Lee Murdock, "The Christmas Tree Ship"

Herman [Schuenemann] was taking the business of bringing trees to Chicago in a new direction…with his idea of locating a schooner in a central location and selling tress directly off the deck of the boat.

A newspaper article from 1898 describes "a score of girls and women" busily employed in the garland "factory" under a temporary deck housing. "the girls on the starboard side make endless strings of green for decoration, weaving the lycomodium sprigs together with fine soft wire. They get for this 1 cent a yard and a good worker will make 200 to 250 yards a day. On the other, port, side of the table the girls are making the round rings of evergreen so common this time of year. These are built up about a willow wreath and are more difficult to make, one not making more than five or six dozen a day. For this they get 2 cents a wreath."

——Fred Neuschel, Lives and Legends of the Christmas Tree Ships

However festive or sad the occasion, however gay or gloomy the streets may be, whatever our surroundings, the Christmas spirit is there. No one may say just wherein it lies. It is like an unseen halo that glorifies and makes holy every good thought and impulse, while it reveals in darker relief whatever is tragic, unworthy or vicious. A great disaster on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day shocks us as it does at no other season; a great joy comes in that sweet raiment of gladness that only Christmas brings.

——Detroit Free Press, December 13, 1903

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Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (21)

2011-12-05T07:53:00.001-05:00

On Christmas morning, the family gathered in the living room, in pajamas and bathrobes, and opened presents. There was no designated Santa Claus, no master of ceremonies, no orderly opening of gift and thanking of giver one by one. No, this was a kind of melee, with every man for himself. Some of the gifts were expected every year. Gran knit us each something warm and practical; Aunt Lib gave us something silly and unsubstantial and sure to be broken by evening. Usually, Mother and Aunt Mary presented each other with identical gifts, not by design but because, as twins, they thought the same way. Vixen always got a new dog dish, which she ignored, and a big Christmas bow, which she hated.

Mim always gave me a book, and it was almost always a book about heros. She introduced me to Robin Hood, The White Company, Ivanhoe, Ben Hur, and, when she thought I was ready, Malory's Morte d'Arthur.

Aunt Em gathered up the discarded ribbons and bows, smoothed out any wrapping paper that had not been ripped to pieces, and put them all away for next year. It was signal that one part of Christmas was over.

——Jane & Michael Maas, Christmas in Wales

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Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (22)

2011-12-04T13:16:00.000-05:00

How silently, how silently

The wondrous gift is giv'n!

So God imparts to human hearts

The blessings of His heav'n.

No ear my hear His coming, But in this world of sin,

Where meek souls shall receive Him still,

The dear Christ enters in.

——Phillips Brooks

What human being could know all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge hidden in Christ and concealed under the poverty of his humanity? What are those divine riches unless they be that which satisfies our longing? And what is that multitude of sweetness unless it be what fills us?

—Saint Augustine of Hippo

See how far upon the eastern road

The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet:

O run, prevent them with they humble ode,

And lay it lowly at His blessed feet;

Have thou the honour first the Lord to greet,

And join thy voice unto the angle quire,

From out his secret alter touched with hallowed fire.

——John Milton

Low in the east, against a white, cold dawn,

The black-lined silhouette of the woods was drawn,

And on a wintry waste

Of frosted streams and hillsides bare and brown,

Through thin cloud-films, a pallid ghost looked down,

The waning moon half-faced!

In that pale sky and sere, snow-waiting earth,

What sign was there of the immortal birth?

What herald of the One?

Lo! swift as thought the heavenly radiance came,

A rose-red splendor swept the sky like flame,

Up rolled the round, bright sun!

And all was changed. From a transfigured world

The moon's ghost fled, the smoke of home-hearths curled

Up the still air unblown.

In Orient warmth and brightness, did that morn

O'er Nain and Nazareth, when the Christ was born,

Break fairer than our own?

——John Greenleaf Whittier

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Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (23)

2011-12-03T09:11:00.002-05:00

Christmas is a'comin',
The goose is getting fat,
Please put a penny in the old man's hat.
If you haven't got a penny, a ha'penny will do,
If you haven't a ha'penny—Go bless you!

——Traditional

And I do come home for Christmas. We all do, or we all should.

——Charles Dickens, Dr. Marigold's Prescription

Through the Christmas fires of morning

Streaming upwards in the East,

Leaps the sun with sudden dawning,

Like a captive king released;

And Decenmeber skies reflected

In the dreaming of the snow—

It is winter, little children,

Let the summer singing go.

——Mrs. L.C. Whiton, A Day in Winter

Close by the jolly fire I sit

To warm my frozen bones a bit;

Or with a reindeer-sled explore,

The colder countries round the door.

Black are my steps on silver sod;

Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;

And tree and house, and hill and lake,

Are frosted like a wedding cake.

——Robert Louis Stevenson, Winter Time

How far is it to Bethlehem?

Not very far.

Shall we find the stable room

Lit by a star?

God in His mother's arms,

Babes in the byre,

Sleep, as they sleep who find

Their heart's desire.

——Frances Chesterton, How Far Is It To Bethlehem?

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Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (24)

2011-12-02T09:02:00.001-05:00

Getting ready for Christmas was the most organized activity of the year…

Auntie was the cake-maker in the family. She made the fruitcake first and she always liked to have that one, with its richness of nuts and citron and pineapple and cherries and rasins, out of the way well before Thanksgiving so that it would season. She kept it stored in a tightly-lidded lard can and twice a week would douse it with blackberry wine. This was wine that she had made herself, and for a teetotaling Baptist she was inordinately proud of it.

That lard can was the most fragrant one in Georgia, and by Christmas day the cake weighed considerable more than when it came from the oven. It had the spicy, fruitful aroma of foreign lands, of forbidden nectar, and Auntie could slice it so thin that the light glowed through the cherries and pineapple and citron as beautifully as through medieval stained glass.

——Ferrol Sams, Christmas Gift!

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Along the way, I hope I select some things you enjoy.

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CHRISTMAS QUOTEDOWN (25)

2011-12-01T11:05:00.006-05:00

Christmas began in the heart of God.

It is complete only when it reaches the heart of man.

——Vance Havner

Because the beginning

shall remind us of the end,

And the first Coming

of the second

——T.S. Eliot

The search for Christmas begins, not on the day of the Nativity, but in the prophecies of Old Testament Scripture, and it continues through the birth of Jesus and the anticipation of his second coming.

——From the introduction,

In Search of Christmas

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FIRE & FLOOD

2011-11-30T18:35:00.002-05:00

We've had rain for days now…and yesterday evening, our first snow—big, wet flakes that chilled your neck and drenched your face and eventually managed to accumulate an inch of slush on the ground.

Today I had to do some errands and when combined with my usual loitering, gabbing, and a stop by a local used book store, managed to swallow the entire day. And a pretty day it was—bright sunshine throughout. Cold, though. And of course the river is now up.

About 4:00 p.m. I managed to make it back to the cottage for a late lunch. Turkey soup, which I gulped, because I wanted to make a quick run upriver before sunset and see if any Canada geese were poking about the backwaters. Dusk comes early along the river.

As it turned out, the geese were absent from their usual hangouts. But just before the sun slipped below the ridge on the west side of the stream, the foamy current washing through the flooded timber turned into a fiery molten gold. Lovely. Worth a rushed meal and short drive.

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THE OTHER RED HAT SOCIETY

2011-11-26T13:03:00.000-05:00

On this day after the day after Thanksgiving, I've been sitting benumbed at my desk, still lethargic from repeated doses of turkey-feasting tryptophan, watching my favorite member of the Original Red Hat Society hang upside-down and eat.

No, it isn't one of the middle-age neighbor ladies acting out while on a pumpkin pie suger high. I'm talking woodpeckers…pileated woodpeckers; females. Big ol' silly looking birds who were wearing red hats and feeding with much ado and gusto long before those women who sometimes take it upon themselves to suddenly invade your favorite country café, swiped the headgear idea for their own group. The upside-down hanging ORHS member in my yard is feeding on a suet block.

(Y'know, there is a rather remarkable resemblance…)

Anyway, I just want to write and say we have survived another Thanksgiving. Thanks to preplanning and prep work the day before, I didn't exhaust myself cooking this time around. We managed to forego the heady excitement of a kitchen fire this time, too. And there were no territorial squabbles in the kitchen, not even minor ones during the last hour when space becomes tight and the pace turns near-frantic as the bird comes out of the oven to rest under its foil tent, the dressing goes in, pies are readied, the green beans are stir-fried, potatoes mashed and gravy made. Even the dogs and guests behaved.

The menu: The centerpiece was a 22-lb bird, brined overnight, which I put in the oven at 9:30 a.m. and had ready three hours later. I also made cornbread and oyster dressing, mashed potatoes, giblet gravy, baked sweet potatoes, steamed brussel's sprouts, sautéd broccoli, green beans with ginger, garlic, and sesame seeds, creamed artichoke hearts, a fruit salad of cooked cranberries with bananas, oranges, pineapple, apple and grapes. Myladylove did pies—one apple, two pumpkin, one mincemeat. Plus we had various relishes, pickles, and cut veggies for munching. And of course, ice cream and whipped cream for pie topping.

I'm not kidding when I say that until we received word about 11 a.m. that Myladylove's son and his girlfriend were on their way, we actually were fixing everything above and figuring it would be just the two of us. And those side dishes were not in small amounts, either, but commensurate with the size of the turkey—based the notion we'd be able to feed, oh, two dozen or so hungry folks should they suddenly appear at the door. Not that such a crowd was possible, considering everyone was out of town except for the one son and his gal.

But to both Myladylove and myself, part of the fun of the Thanksgiving table lies in its abundance…so a refrigerator stuffed to the gills for a week afterwards with leftovers in various bowls and boxes, is all part of the celebration's plan.

That said, I wish we could always set our feast before a crowded table. I'd like to end the day with not a single morsel of leftover food. Such meals are always best shared…the more, the merrier. And there's nothing I'm more thankful for than family and friends. However, some years the logistics just don't work out. And in my case, the huge extended family I grew up in—grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins galore, inlaws and outlaws, and those familiar and welcome faces who surely belonged to some branch of the ancestral tree because they always showed up to eat—well…that joyous, laughing, wonderful throng has been too long gone to their eternal reward. What few third and fourth cousins remain are scattered to the far corners. Nor is the count much better among friends. Alas, I miss them with all my heart, and never more than during the holidays.

But I don't want to end this post on that note because we had a great Thanksgiving. The food was excellent (if I do say so) and the company warm and loved and wonderful. As fine a day as we've enjoyed in a long time. Moon-the-Dog was here to share it, and the son and his lovely lady brought their Jack Russell, Snoopy.

That's my report. Now, the ORHS pileated has just flapped off. I'm feeling something of turkey-and-dressing jones coming on. Myladylove will close her bank branch up in another fifteen minutes, and be home twenty minutes after that. I know she'll want lunch immediately. And she loves Thanksgiving leftovers almost as much as I do.

Soooooo…one must strike fast when opportunity presents. There's just enough time for me to dash to the fridge, snatch a drumstick and a dab of oyster dressing and pop them in the microwave, gobble everything down, and then set about warming up an array of dishes for our leisurely meal together, while pretending like I haven't eaten since breakfast. Remember, mum's the word.

And belatedly, though no less sincerely, HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

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STAYING HOME

2011-11-21T09:49:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was drizzly with a bit of fog, though quite mild for this time of November. A good day for staying home and staying in, which is exactly what we did, though that wasn't the original plan.

We'd intended to do a bit of running around, visiting a half-dozen stores, buying various items for the Thanksgiving table, maybe do a little Christmas shopping, check on some hardware for a wood-burning stove we're thinking about putting in. Have lunch out and make a day of it…which is pretty much what did Saturday, and why we were both so worn out before yesterday even started. The dreary weather turned out to be all the excuse we needed to scrap our plans, build a nice hearthfire, and den up.

Not that we rested much. I started us off with a pancake breakfast, using my favorite century-old recipe I got from an aging northwoods lumberjack, whose father was also a cook in the lumber camps of Michigan's Lake Superior country in the late-1800s, when axe and crosscut saw were felling the vast tracts of virgin white pine. Not that we had plans to work like those hardy men, of course! Still, one can not expect to laze around without a proper nutritional foundation.

Actually, Myladylove decided to shampoo all the carpets, move some furniture about, sweep kitchen and bath, move more furniture, and work on her beads while carpets dried…after which we put most of the furniture back into its original positions.

Somewhere in there I finished making the six quarts of mincemeat I'd started the day before. Then—between furniture wrestling—I did a few things in my workroom. Later, I baked a casserole dish of seasoned brown rice and when it was ready, sautéd beef chunks with onions, garlic, and peppers for a late lunch/early supper. In the evening, Myladylove baked peanut butter and chocolate chip cookies while we watched the last of the NASCAR championship race.

Not the most exciting day to report…but as you likely noted, we certainly ate well. And today I get to do most of that running round we dodged yesterday. Oh, joy!

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RAIN AND AN UNIDENTIFIED SINGER

2011-11-15T10:41:00.001-05:00

The cloudy, rainy, mild weather which began Sunday continues. Except for an overnight rise of the river of perhaps two feet, due mainly to a single hard shower which began about 7:00 p.m. and drummed on the roof for a good 45 minutes, there's not much to see in the way of seasonal change here along the river.

The yard is fairly covered in leaves, mostly from the many sycamores. I still have roses in bloom. The little weeping willow's narrow leaves are just now turning a cheerful lemon yellow.

Every once in a while, the sun pops out through a hole in the gray canopy. It never stays long, just a quick appearance sufficient to add a greenish hint to the river, brighten the rusty leaves which lie in heaps on the island across from the cottage, and add a dramatic glow to the whitewashed trunks of the big sycamores along the banks.

Feeder birds are, so far as I've witnessed, the usual gang…various sparrows, house finches, gold finches, titmice, chickadees, doves, downy, hairy, and red-bellied woodpeckers, cardinals, robins, Carolina wrens, nuthatches, blue jays. Oh, and the pair of pileateds which, every so often, flap in like pterodactyls to hang and hammer awhile at the suet block.

I did hear a bird singing yesterday morning which I didn't recognize, though it seemed vaguely familiar, making me believe that I should have been able to name the songster. Try as I might, I couldn't catch a glimpse of the mystery performer. Whatever the bird, it's song was loud and musical, as brightly swinging as a robin's, and much appreciated on such a dreary day.

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CLOUDY MORING WITH HERON

2011-11-13T09:29:00.000-05:00

It's cloudy this morning, the risen sun muted behind a heavy overcast thick as an old wool sock. The river is dark in the dim, flat light, not green but something of a tarnished gray, like old pewter that's badly in need of a polishing.

We're supposed to get rain starting early this evening and more rain over the next few days. Not particularly cold, though—the highs for today and tomorrow in the mid-60s˚F, the 50s on Tuesday, and still only down in the mid-40s Wednesday and Thursday, at which point the sun is predicted to reappear. Not bad for the middle of November in Ohio; I remember plenty of years when we'd already had a snow or two by this point on the calendar—some years a substantial snow.

If I've learned anything about weather over the years, it's that you'd best accept what you have and try not to grumble because it can always get worse.

I've been watching a great blue heron fishing in a riffle below the cottage. So far it has taken three small fish—minnows, really—plus a fourth about the size of my opened palm. This latter fish took some maneuvering to get properly placed in the mouth, head pointed down the gullet, before being subsequently swallowed. Prior to starting the procedure, the big bird waded to the very edge of the rocky shallows, I presume as a safety measure should his hard-won catch get accidentally dropped.

After eating the largest fish, the heron hopped up onto a large log that's down along the edge of the shallows. It's behavior I've noticed often—following a more substantial meal, a heron will often take a rest a bit away from the water. Sometimes this is on a handy log or rock, or they amble a dozen feet up the bank into the edge of the woods on the island; at other times they might choose a low overhanging limb, or occasionally, a limb that's 30-40 feet above the ground.

I know the feeling—more than once I've sidled lethargically away from a supper table after consuming an overly hearty meal, found a comfortable seat nearby, and spent some time in pleasurable discomfort contemplating this latest overindulgence. That old heron and I share more in common than just a love for rivers and fishing….

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PILEATED ON CUE

2011-11-03T14:18:00.000-04:00

Late yesterday afternoon I answered a comment from "Giggles" regarding the pileated shot I'd run with that post. I said I hoped to capture a better shot of the woodpeckers now that I'd started resupplying suet blocks as part of the fall/winter feeding routine—and mentioned that the big birds had already begun returning to the dooryard as part of their daily routine.

About then, I casually looked out my deskside window. Huh? What's that in yonder box elder tree?

In one of those amazing coincidences you hate to mention because it sounds too hokey to be true—there, even as I proclaimed my pileated portraiture intentions, sat one of the very birds themselves, perched on a limb perhaps twenty-five feet from where I sat. Actually, herself, since the pileated in question was a female. She was busily whacking away at what remained of a suet block which I'd put out the day before, and which sometime during the night, the raccoons had dragged up, wire cage and all, onto the limb.

Just as I grabbed my camera, the male pileated flew in. Unfortunately, I had the setting on "autofocus," which was problematic given the lighting conditions. While the lens was busy seeking this way and that, as I fumbled at the switch, the female flew off, leaving only the male for my through-the-window shot.

Is this image better than yesterday's? Giggles gets to make that call…but I think so. Though it's still not the one I'm after—one of those every-feather-in-detail poses which was not going to happen here given the backlit situation.

However, the annual game of sneak-and-snap has just begun…

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HERE COMES ANOTHER DAY!

2011-11-02T09:11:00.000-04:00

Another sunrise, and a really pretty one, with the sky to the west all in shades of coral and turquoise and mauve. When I walked around to the front of the cottage, the view upriver was spectacular, a great swath of salmon-pink that seemed to arch over the water above the leaning sycamores.

"Don't you get tired of living out here with the same old boring view?" a city-dwelling visitor once asked.

No, I don't…because no two days are ever the same. There's always a new sky, new colors, new pattern, new light. Each morning dawns differently. Each day unfolds in its own unique manner, special because it happens only once and will never be repeated.

Now the dawn colors are gone, replaced by golden sunlight which varnishes the tops of the sycamores on the island across from the cottage and sets the feathery crest of the pileated woodpecker yammering and hammering his way up the corner hackberry to glowing fiery red.

I'm battered and aching in pain from another all-day session of wood-splitting yesterday—but I'm excited, too, because there's a brand new day ahead, and I have a first-class view!

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PROGRESS

2011-10-31T16:42:00.000-04:00

Yesterday we spent the entire day loading, hauling, splitting, and stacking firewood. The fact that Myladylove and I are temporarily semi-crippled, beat, battered, sore and aching in places we'd forgot we had—doesn't override the satisfaction of the work completed. Yes, we gimp…but we gimp smugly.

We're not through with out wood chores, however. There are still several pickup loads of wood remaining to be hauled down from the neighbor's yard. Plus a lot of big stuff yet to split. Nevertheless, yesterday's endeavors made a big and satisfying dent in the project.

Moon remains on the mend. She seems a bit worn out today—probably from too many hours outside yesterday supervising our labors, along with too much time rolling in the leaves, and several protracted sessions of tail-wagging welcome when Everitt—the neighbor who gave us the great supply of wood—walked down to see how were were doing.

Autumn continues to advance, of course. Most of the leaves are now down, though a few reluctant sycamore leaves still cling to the trees along the river. Too, there are hackberries whose leaves remain surprisingly green and intact. Frost night before last got my zinnias and canna lilies, but one of the roses is still decorated with bight red blooms and the marigolds gleam a brilliant orange. Sometime during the next couple of days, I'll have to dig those canna lily roots up and store them away until next spring.

Another task, on a list which seems endless. Yesterday morning, before we started on the wood, I rewired one of the baseboard heaters in the great room. Now it looks like I'm going to have to pull up and replace the bathroom floor thanks to a leaky toilet. And I'm hoping to get a woodstove in before the end of the month…though I've have to build a hearth first. Still, things do get done, jobs completed. Progress is somehow managed, in spite of sore backs, aching muscles, and a paucity of available cash.

Now, I believe I'll crawl down the hall and look for that TO DO list….

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GREAT NEWS!

2011-10-28T18:14:00.000-04:00

The view upstream from the cottage just before sunset, a few minutes after we got back.

Because so many of you have been genuinely concerned and extraordinarily kind in your comments over the past couple of weeks, I just wanted to quickly share the great news re. Moon-the-Dog.

My fine old dog and I have just returned from the animal hospital in Cincinnati, where she had her 60-plus staples removed, along with follow-up blood work done to make sure the white-cell and liver counts were back where they should be and that no bile was showing up where it shouldn't following her emergency gall-bladder removal two weeks ago.

The odds originally were not good, but today's news simply couldn't be better! Everything looks great, the staples came out fine, the incision is healing well. Moon can now get out and take walks and do those dog-of-the-manor activities at which she excels. I can quite worrying so much and possibly get a bit more sleep. The E-collar can go into the closet unless she starts excessively licking her still-healing scar.

God knows how we'll pay for all this…but hey, caring for your family and counting dollars does not equate. You do what's necessary and deal with the aftermath.

Needless to say, I'm happier than I've been in weeks!

Again, I want to thank you one and all for your many wonderful words and prayers and thoughts; they were most appreciated. I've repeatedly thanked everyone—surgeons and staff—at the C.A.R.E. Center for their wonderful work and personal support—the way they've called and kept in touch, been straight about things from the get-go, and willing to answer my many questions. But finally, I don't want to be remiss and fail to also thank God for taking care of my dog, Myladylove, and myself during this entire crisis.

I am so truly grateful.

———————

SLOW-GOING BLUES

2011-10-26T13:24:00.000-04:00

I've been at my desk since breakfast, puttering away at a column for the Sunday paper. It's been rather hard going, which I choose to blame on the yet-to-materialize predicted rain. First the National Weather Service said an 80 percent chance of showers. They later dropped to 70 percent, and then to 50 percent. Now they've revised back up to 60 percent.

It's not that I particularly want rain. It's that no rain has meant a day which began as sunny, and though it has since gradually turned cloudy, is still a 68˚F day which looks constantly enticing through my deskside window. I want to chuck this writing task, go outside, and play…or at least kick around the new-fallen leaves, watch the river slip softly along, and breathe deep of the autumn-scented air.

That's what I want to do—that and take my fine old dog for a walk. Unfortunately, Moon is not supposed to be doing much walking other than whatever brief ambles necessary to manage her business, while I'm on deadline and must have my piece in this evening.

Any other day, I'd already be done with my work. It seldom takes me more than a couple of hours to write my column. Then, I give it an hour's rest—eat a snack, walk the dog, make a few casts in the Cottage Pool for smallmouth—before returning for a fresh read and edit and afterwards zapping the finished piece off. On a typical day I'd have accomplished that hours ago. Especially if it had rained.

But, as I said, I've been seriously distracted…by gray squirrels scrabbling amongst the leaves, chipmunks dashing along flowerbed rocks, birds at the feeders, and the long, sparkling sweep of moving river I only have to look up to see beyond my deskside window. Who knows when I'll finish!

P.S. I made the sparrow and downy shots earlier, which shows how long I've been suffering…

———————

UPDATE, OPTIMISM, OWL

2011-10-24T09:45:00.000-04:00

Last week was a sort of time-warped paradox—both numbingly tedious, and flying past like a highballin' freight train in one headlong rush. I suppose that's a result of worry and the pressure from the enforced routine of staying in taking care of Moon-the-Dog.

I'm hoping this week will see things getting back to some semblance of normalcy, though even during the best of times, "normal" is a hard-to-define term hereabouts.

As an update, Moon is doing much better. The weekend turned out nice, and as one of our neighbors had generously loaned a hydraulic splitter, Myladylove and I spent quite a bit of time turning huge log "rounds" into manageable chunks of firewood. Moon got to come outside with us on several occasions—generally for a "meet and greet" with the neighbors, whom she loves seeing. For the past couple of days she's been eating on her own, and is much perked up in her behavior. She's now taken all the medications the vets sent home with her following surgery. I'll have to take her to Cincinnati on Friday to have the 60 or so staples removed and some blood work done to make sure liver and white cell counts are back to normal, and that there's no sign of bile in the stomach since her "replumbing." But my beloved old dog seems to be doing really well, and I'm optimistic the news will be good.

I'm also hoping I'll be able to get out in the woods and fields before the final autumn leaf comes down. I've missed almost two weeks of photo-rambling time. However, in truth, this hasn't been much of year for fall color. Here along the river the tans and golds have finally dominated the greens…though plenty of green is still out there.

The barred owl photo is from an earlier excursion to a small patch of woods up the road.

———————

UPDATE ON MOON-THE-DOG

2011-10-18T14:10:00.000-04:00

Moon on the side deck the day before her surgery; you can tell she's not feeling good.

First off, Moon-the-Dog is back home, resting, and (I hope) slowly improving—though not yet out of danger from post surgical complications. Nor have we yet heard back from all the tests.

Here's the story…

Moon has not been doing well for some time. After a visit to the family vet's on Wednesday, and no clue as to what was going on from the blood work she ran following that check-up, last Friday afternoon I had to rush Moon to an emergency care center in northern Cincinnati (a bit over an hour from the cottage) for an ultrasound. This is a huge and absolutely remarkable, state-of-the-art facility serving the tri-state. Dozens of general veterinary doctors, surgeons, therapists, oncologists, and various specialists on staff, along with nurses, assistants, service staff and secondary caregivers—all available or on-call for 24/7 service.

The ultrasound revealed that Moon's gall bladder was enlarged, blocked with congealed bile, and either about-to rupture, or already doing so. This required immediate emergency surgery to remove the gall bladder, as it was an acute condition and life threatening…hours, vs. days. So I left her there and drove home; they did the workup followed by the two-hour surgery, finishing just after midnight.

This is a serious condition, major surgery, and comes with a 50 percent post-op survival risk. I was mighty relieved when the surgeon called to tell me Moon came through the operation.

One of the many wonderful things about this place is that you can call any time, day or night, to check on your dog. I called about daylight on Saturday, and was told she had made the night, and was at least holding her own if not improving slightly—though it was still a bit early to tell. I also talked to the surgeon later, after she'd completed her rounds, and she thought Moon was doing okay, but reiterated that we were still in the critical period. Later that afternoon, Myladylove and I went down to see her. She looked awful, of course, given what she'd been through only a few hours before, how sick she'd been prior to the surgery, all the meds she was now on, plus the shaved belly and 50–60 staples holding the incision closed. She wouldn't eat, but was at least still alive.

The worst of the post-surgical risk comes during the first 3-4 days. Moon continued to improve Sunday—an improvement we could see when we again went down to vist; this time we managed to get some some baby food in her via a syringe. They syringe fed her again that evening, and also Monday morning. After talking with the vet, and it was decided I could bring her home yesterday afternoon…which I did. She looked noticeably better than she had on Sunday. She rode well in the makeshift bed I fixed for her, seemed glad to be home, though is weak, sore, and still much in the midst of having had such a serious gall bladder issue and surgery.

Today she seems about the same as yesterday. Sleeping on a padded bed in my writing room most of the time, with the occasional brief outside potty break. I'm hand-feeding her and giving her her meds at the appointed hour. She's not out of the woods yet, but her odds are certainly improving—barring infections and a half-dozen other complications, and any unforeseen news from the tests. Maybe in the next day or two I'll get her to begin eating on her own. I have to take her back next week to check on various organ functions and replumbing matters. Then a week after that to have the staples removed.

Time will tell, as it always does…but I sure feel better than I have in days, though I could use a nap.

Finally…to each and every one of you who wrote, let me say you'll never know how much I appreciated your kind words and encouraging comments. Thank you so, so much.

———————

WHY I HAVEN'T POSTED…

2011-10-13T08:53:00.000-04:00

I apologize for my recent lack of posts. Things have been in something of a mess here since Monday, when Moon-the-Dog suddenly became quite ill. I've been worried, distracted, and busy trying to care for her and keep up with my usual work. After a trip to the vet, we still have no idea what's going. We are currently waiting the blood work results to see if they provide any answers.

Autumn continues to claim the lanscape here along the river, though it's becoming apparent this will not be a banner year for leaf color. Our hot, dry summer which morphed into a warm, dry autumn is not optimum weather when it comes to dazzling leaves.

Anthocyanin pigments, which gives the reds, purples, scarlets, and crimsons—Virginia creeper, sumac, nannyberry, dogwood, and sweetgum, among others—are best produced by bright, sunny days and crisp nights. Unseasonably warm weather, with daytime highs often exceeding the 80˚F mark, and balmy nights, favors the carotenoids, yielding mostly yellows, golds, and oranges…which is what we have this time around. And the overall lack of ground moisture means many of our leaves are already falling. That brilliant gold walnut I photographed for my previous post dropped all its leaves two days later.

————————

BLUE SKY, YELLOW WALNUT

2011-10-09T09:13:00.000-04:00

If I were a painter of nature and outdoor scenes, I would become thoroughly depressed come fall. For then, above all other times and seasons, I'd be faced with my total inability to render autumn's breathtaking light and colors into a credible likeness by merely daubing pigments on canvas.

Nature makes a mockery of the greatest artists, the most God-given talents. No painter who ever lived—or ever shall live—comes close to getting it right. No photographer, either, for that matter.

Yesterday, after we'd finished hauling and stacking firewood, and were gimping our way around the cottage to the deck and rocking chairs where we intended to sit a spell, watch the river, moan and groan from our new aches and pains, and contemplate whether we'd be able to clean and dress ourselves and drag our sorry carcasses out to dinner…I looked up the little hill and was stopped in my tracks by the sight of a little walnut tree by the road.

The walnut's leaves were a gleaming golden-yellow. The sky a rich azure blue. Two colors; two elements. Magical light. A scene that was simplicity itself, and one which had me standing and gaping. It was incredible, awesome, magnificent! A wonder for the eyes and a blessing for the soul.

And impossible to paint, photograph…or describe. Mankind in all his cleverness will never create anything so beautiful. All we can do is be thankful such treasures are ours to enjoy.

———————

SEASONAL COLOR SHOWING STREAMSIDE

2011-10-08T10:32:00.000-04:00

Saturday morning, going on ten o'clock, the sun is shining bright, it's 58˚F and heading for an 80˚ high. The river is low and clear, a slow-moving mirror that reflects the blue sky overhead and the patchwork progression of autumn along its banks.

Seasonal color has finally started to show its stuff streamside. Mostly yellows, oranges, and golds, and the pale, washed-out reds—almost pinks—of the Virginia creeper which twines up the boles of the big sycamore leaning over the pools. During the next few days I expect their red will darken, intensify, becoming a deep crimson. Unfortunately, there are no red maples hereabouts to punctuate the otherwise warmly burnished landscape with their vivid scarlet flame.

Today's agenda includes several necessary shopping errands, chores around the cottage, and somewhere in there time for a walk in the woods with Myladylove. Maybe we'll put a hunk of rat cheese, some smoked sausage, a few apples, and a bar of dark chocolate in a pack and make it a picnic.

———————

GREEN-GOLD AFTERNOON

2011-10-06T16:29:00.002-04:00

Buckeye butterfly on goldenrod.

What a day! The temperature outside is a balmy 75˚F. Bright afternoon sun is gleaming through the lush canopy leaves of the sycamore, hackberry, and box elder trees along the river, turning them an autumnish golden-green. Slowly but surely the new season claims the land, each day bringing a bit more color.

Yesterday, friend and fellow-father-in-law, Rich, and I spent several hours ambling around various prairies and old fields, looking for fall color scenes to photograph. It's still a bit early hereabouts, but the goldenrods and asters were lovely. Given the number of cold nights we've had recently, we were surprised at the number of insects—especially butterflies—we found still active—though as of yesterday morning, I still had a hummingbird at my dooryard feeder.

I've spent today mostly inside, working at the desk, looking out the window and wishing I could be casting for smallmouth bass in the sparkling pools, or driving some rural backroad in search of that perfect red maple for a photo. A couple of hours from now I'll have to head into the city to attend the monthly board-of-directors meeting of the area's community health centers.

Alas, there's always something needing doing; a necessary bit of work, a task best not put off any longer, a meeting to attend—something which takes time and energy and is important, which nevertheless also gobbles up another small piece of your finite allotment of life. That isn't a complaint, merely an observation—a sort of self-reminder to pick and choose wisely when agreeing to such matters.

I well know I'm luckier than most in the amount of free time I have to spend any way I want. Honest, I don't take such a blessing lightly. But I also must admit that it's never enough…especially not in October, when the days are mild, the river gleams, country byways beckon, and sunlight shines golden-green through riverside leaves.

———————

COLOR COMING…SLOWLY

2011-10-03T15:28:00.000-04:00

I took a drive up the road earlier to check on the progression of autumn color. Here along the river, things are still mostly green, with only a few rusty yellow hints. Even the Virginia creeper curling up the trunks of of the sycamores shows barely a blush of pink; it will probably be a week or two before it turns a flaming crimson.

This isn't unusual—the autumn patchwork of yellows and scarlets, oranges, golds, lemons, scarlets, burgundies, and a hundred other hues, always lags behind that of the nearby roadsides and woodlands a few hundred yards away from the stream corridor. Whether it's the mitigating effect of the water, the slightly lower elevation, or the degree of protection afforded by the banks, I'm not certain. All I know is that sometimes, when I've not been beyond the mailbox for a few days in a row, the short jaunt to the grocery can prove a revelation.

However, this morning's brief recon ramble proved surprising in that there was less color other than the usual green out there than I expected. More color than here…but only a bit. Leaves on a single maple branch that had jumped-the-gun on their neighbors and turned orange or red or yellow. A few twists of crimson woodbine. Here and there a clump of sumac whose long leaves show a mix of scarlet among the green. The most colored-up tree I found was the little sugar maple pictured at the top of this post.

Autumn is definitely making its way into the southwest corner of Ohio, but it's creeping in slowly, taking its time. Which is fine—good things are worth the wait.

———————

OCTOBER'S BELOVED POET

2011-10-01T00:01:00.002-04:00

When October rolls around, I always celebrate its arrival by reading a poem I've known and loved since childhood.

“When the Frost is On the Punkin” is, to my mind, James Whitcomb Riley at his evocative homespun best. It was also one of my father’s favorite poems. Each year, when the weather began to cool and leaves commenced to show their paintbox hues, Dad would invariably grin at me across the breakfast table and begin quoting the verses. I could quote half of them back to him by the time I was in grade school.

The rural scenes and situations the poem detailed were of another time and place, plucked from a way of life I knew nothing whatsoever about…at least not firsthand. James Whitcomb Riley was born in a log cabin in rural Indiana in 1849. Both my parents were raised on hill-country farms in eastern Kentucky in the early-1900s. Yet the word pictures Riley so wonderfully painted were almost identical to memories they shared with me daily in song, stories, food, and cultural attitude. I naturally grew up as countrified as if I’d been born to it in actuality.

When Riley talked about the “kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,” I could hear that fantailed bird loud and clear. When he mentioned “fodder in the shock,” or wrote of a “feller leaving the house, bareheaded, as he goes out to feed the stock,” I could, through vicarious history, identify wholeheartedly. What’s more, I knew firsthand about apples “poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps.” Dad always spread several bushels of apples out this way, every autumn, on the cool concrete floor of the basement’s coal bin. They kept well there until at least the end of winter.

I liked the way Riley wrote, the way he used language. The tongue-testing rhythm of such lines as “the husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,” were as sweet to me as a spoonful of sorghum molasses.

James Whitcomb Riley was a poet of the old school. His poems rhymed, a style now sadly out of vogue in today’s free-verse literary circles. Modern critics often dislike his use of dialect. They call his writing sentimental, proclaim its subject matter superficial, even refer to him a regionalist—as if that were a bad thing. Yet from the 1880s until well into the Twentieth Century, Riley was the nation’s most widely read poet. His books sold millions of copies and are still in print. When he went on tour across the country, tickets for his readings sold out almost overnight; audiences were huge. Newspapers called him “the poet laureate of America.” His writing became the basis for courses at many Ivy League colleges, and he received any number of honorary degrees—including ones from Yale, the University of Pennsylvania, Indiana University, and Wabash College. The National Institute of Arts and Letters made him a member and conferred upon him a special award for his poetry. To this day, the level of popularity he received has not been surpassed by any other poet during their lifetime.

You can tell James Whitcomb Riley knew and loved October. While the poem’s setting may reflect a bygone era, anyone attuned to nature, the outdoors, the rhythm of the seasons, and is familiar with rural life and country ways, will find the unerring ring of authenticity still remains. I find an absolute seasonal verisimilitude in the way the lines so perfectly capture the month’s marvelous mood.

Yessir, the old Hoosier poet, who looked like anyone's avuncular uncle, could make words dance and sing and sometimes practically jump off the page, into your heart and head. That’s why my father read him, why several of his books graced our hallway bookcase, why I still turn to this particular poem to usher in October.

———————

When the Frost is On the Punkin'

WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here—
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps;
And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!...
I don't know how to tell it—but ef such a thing could be
As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me—
I'd want to 'commodate 'em—all the whole-indurin' flock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

———————

(Note: I just found this wonderful recitation of the poem by the late Kent Risley. Moreover, his introductory story is lovely.)

———————

TODAY? TOMORROW?

2011-09-29T09:31:00.000-04:00

Each morning I look out, staring into the darkness, checking for movement…expecting, wondering, hoping.

A single question is uppermost in my mind: Is today the day?

I try to not be too discouraged by the empty moments. It is, after all a bit early.

Cold, too—48˚F according to the big thermometer just beyond the breakfast table window. That's getting down there. And the weather oracles are calling for a low of 38˚F tomorrow night, which has to be the—

Wait! What's that? A tiny moving shape among the shadows. Yes! The rubythroats are still here…at least one, though who knows for how long. Tomorrow is the last day of September. The weather has been rainy, windy, and decidedly cool for the past week. Surely the little hummingbird now sipping from the feeder is one of the few lingerers remaining.

The earth turns, time moves on, summer has given way to autumn which is following the endless circular path toward winter, a new year, another spring. So it has been; so it will be. To everything there is a season.

Nevertheless, I am blessed. Today I still have hummingbirds!

———————

RAIN AND RECOVERY

2011-09-26T10:44:00.000-04:00

Old field asters near the river. I took this photo a dew days ago.

It is dim and damp out, thanks to a heavy overcast and intermittent showers—some of them heavy—which began with a thunderstorm about 3:30 a.m. Additional rain is pretty much the outlook for the remainder of today. The same pattern is expected to last throughout Wednesday. The river is already up by several feet, and will likely continue to rise for awhile—the first round of high water we've had in months. Not that I expect it to become worrisome.

I'm still stiff and sore and gimping around to the point of near-incapacity from working on our woodpile most of Saturday, plus what litte we could manage yesterday. That's about par for my decrepit back…after just one day of mediocre work, I need several days of recovery before I can again walk upright without pain, or lift anything heavier than a cup of coffee. If I were a horse, someone would have shot me long ago and hauled my sorry carcass off to the fertilizer factory.

• • •

Yesterday morning, my daughter, son-in-law, fellow-father-in-law, along with a family friend and her twin daughters, were all on the way to church when they were T-boned by an elderly driver trying to make a left turn. The impact spun them around, popped the side-panel airbags, front and rear, and did significant damage to my daughter's new Honda Accord. However, God was watching over everything, protecting, guiding, minimizing, caring. Other than a few bumps and a bad scare, everyone—including the other driver—was unharmed. Cars can be repaired or replaced; family and friends are precious beyond words and irreplaceable. I'm grateful the auto's safety systems worked, glad that no one was injured, and more than anything, thankful to God for His countless blessings.

————————

HELLOOOOO, AUTUMN!

2011-09-23T11:55:00.001-04:00

On the way back from the eye doc's yesterday, I stopped at a little prairie patch up the road, where I made this photo of a southbound monarch nectaring atop a goldenrod.

Whoopee! Autumn is officially here and summer but a receding memory. Still, truth be told, the new season could have done a bit better with its premiere—a bit of blue sky, some sunshine, maybe a nice little breeze to rustle the drying leaves and blow the last wisps of the previous three months well away.

Instead, the temperature is currently 53˚F; it has been raining since just after midnight; and the morning sky didn't so much embrace the dawn as it did turn—reluctantly and by only a few degrees—from soppy black to a dingy gray the shade of an old wool sock.

Not the finest fall debut I've ever witnessed. But I'll take it and be glad, for I know better days are a'comin'.

HELLOOOOOO, AUTUMN!

———————

SUMMER'S LAST DAY

2011-09-22T10:00:00.002-04:00

Today is the last day of summer…and as if the season were trying to atone for its excessive weeks of sweltering heat, it has served up a parting gift of bright sunshine and refreshing cool temperatures. I'll take both, thank you very much, and consider this temporary reprieve from yesterday's prediction of continued showers a sort of peace offering until next year.

At a glance, you might not notice we're on the cusp of seasonal change. The vegetation along the river is still mostly green. You have to search for any leaf sporting a hint of color. But a close look reveals an overall rustiness to the landscape, a weary yellowing, like a tired carnival troupe at the end of long tour. Summer has lost its vibrant shine, time moves on, autumn's golden flames are starting to glow.

The weatherman still calls for rain tomorrow, which means it's not likely I'll be able to get out and about and welcome autumn with a long ramble afield. So, after my morning appointment at the eye doctor's, I think I'm going to jump the gun and do my seasonal-hello amble early.

———————

HERON IN THE RAIN

2011-09-21T12:02:00.000-04:00

It's raining here today—heavily at times. Tuesday's jade-green river is now brown and already a foot higher than it was yesterday. It will doubtless continue to rise throughout the day and night.

According to the weatherman, the rest of the week and the weekend will see more of the same. I've decided this calls for a big pot of chicken and vegetable soup, and plan to settle in and relax for the duration. With the cooler temps, I'm thinking Myladylove and I can have a hearthfire this evening.

Frankly, I'm good with the above scenario…or at least until the grub runs low, my supply of mysteries from the library need exchanging, and the lack of outdoor time starts threatening to give me a case of the heebie-jeebies. But the great blue heron who usually hangs around the Cottage Pool is bummed. When I looked out the window a few minutes ago, the big bird had sought a perch on the stump-end of a bankside log, back in the edge of the island's woods and some distance from the water. In the dim light he looked waterlogged and out-of-sorts, like any sustenance angler, underwhelmed by the prospects of having to fish the higher, muddy water for his supper.

I suppose I could offer to share my soup…

———————

RAGTAG REDNECK REDBIRD

2011-09-20T08:36:00.004-04:00

It happens to all of us every now and then…the seasons surprise you with an unexpected change and you get caught without quite having your new wardrobe fully put together.

At least I think that's the case with this male cardinal I saw in a hackberry tree near the cottage recently. Either that, or else he's just a fashion disaster when it comes to coordinating his outfit. A ragtag redneck redbird.

———————

WANING MOON, GREENING RIVER

2011-09-19T10:52:00.000-04:00

Yesterday morning, life-giving mug of coffee in hand, I stepped onto the deck for my usual look-about. The sky overhead was a radiant azure, with faint daubs of gossamer white clouds to the west. A waning quarter moon traced its arcing path toward the horizon. These next few nights will be the final appearances for this year's version of that fabled Harvest Moon; our next full moon, which will occur on October 11, will be the almost equally storied Hunter's Moon.

Time moves steadily on. Just like the river, which last Friday did its astonishing overnight color switch, turning from opaque brown to bright green. This annual phenomenon—so dramatic it's nothing short of natural magic—happens at that point when summer is transitioning onto autumn. The weather cools into the mid-50s for several nights in a row with a concurrent drop in water temperatures.

I've never seen any mention of this sudden "greening" of a stream in anything I've read, so I'm not sure exactly what's going on to cause such an abrupt color change. My best guess is that the water's heretofore impenetrable shade of gray-brown—which, if you didn't know better, might be mistaken for being muddy—is due to some species of algae that's been thriving in the stream's nutritious summer warmth. Then, as the water begins to cool, a critical point is reached which triggers a widespread die-off—like a group of houseplants you forgot to take indoors at night succumbing to frost. That would explain why one day the river is instantaneously a delightful luminous chartreuse—a green so impossible it looks unnatural, as if the water had been colored with dye.

Too, I've noted the peak of this brilliant crazy green lasts only a few hours. By the following day, the color has toned down considerably. This may indicate the glowing temporary green is the color of the dying algae rather than of completely dead plants, and might explain why the green continues to gradually fade over the next couple of months. By mid-November, and on through the heart of winter, the river's clarity is pristine—a colorless mirror which can look blue or gray, gold or black, pink, orange, turquoise or purple, depending on the sky and angle of light.

Today is cloudy with sprinkles. So…no waning Harvest Moon in the morning sky. But the river, now the color of old jade, is whispering the news of seasonal change.

———————

ADIOS AND FARE-THEE-WELL!

2011-09-16T11:43:00.000-04:00

Today is cloudy and rather bracing, 49˚F at the moment with a predicted high of 65˚. Yesterday was gorgeously blue, not a cloud in the sky, though even cooler—taking until late afternoon to rise above the 60˚F mark. None of which is offered by way of complaint.

When there's dew on the grass and a nip in the air, I feel grandly alive. While the world along the river remains dressed in summer's green, a close look reveals things are yellowing and somewhat tattered, like an old dress worn and washed too many times, before getting hung in the back of the closet. There's no doubt a corner has been turned. Personally, I welcome this seasonal change. I'll be glad to see the leaves begin donning their patchwork colors, glad to spend some days rambling about in fields rich with goldenrods and purple asters where I always feel like I'm walking through an antiquarian tapestry…glad to shiver when I first step outside, take a deep breath, and feel my blood zing.

Summer is my least favorite of the seasons. With me, a little goes a long way. This time around it's been too hot, too dry, for too long, a guest that's already overstayed its welcome. We'll have another torrid encounter next year. But for now…

Adios and fare-thee-well!

———————

FOG AND WAXWINGS

2011-09-13T10:09:00.000-04:00

A gauze of diaphanous fog hangs over the cottage pool this morning, softening the light, blurring the edges of distant objects. In what might be a natural paradox, the illumination seems both muted and more luminous, a silvery incandescence, glowing quietly, making the familiar island twenty yards away seem deliciously mysterious. From the island's downstream end comes the quick loud yelps of a pileated woodpecker, sounding a bit on the frantically manic side.

Though the sun hasn't yet cleared the tops of the sycamores along the river's eastern banks, the cedar waxwings are already busy swooping and diving over the water, working the moist air like flycatchers. There must be a dozen of them taking turns at whatever insects are available. Such behavior on the part of the waxwings is always a sure indicator that summer is drawing to a close. Between flights, the sleek waxwings with their yellow-tipped tails—as if the very ends of the feathers had been recently dipped in a bucket of paint—rest on an outmost limb of a streamside hackberry, box elder, or sycamore—watching, waiting, until time for their next swift flight.

A couple hours from now, I have to take Myladylove to the hospital for a bit of minor outpatient surgery. A short trip, since, as the crow flies, the hospital is no more 1500–2000 yards from here…across the stream, across a wide expanse of parkland, up a hill, and at the far side of a parking lot beyond. Close, yet except for a bit of distant tile rooftop we can just glimpse when the leaves are gone, you'd never guess such a facility was nearby. Of course we'll have to drive downstream to the bridge, then back up the highway on the other side; three minutes door-to-door.

The rest of the afternoon will be spent taking care of my recovering "patient." Which comes down to feeding her whatever she feels like eating, letting her sleep as much as she wants, and putting her in full charge of the TV remote. Moon-the-Dog will do her part, too…though I'll probably have to referee a disagreement or two between them over what programs to watch.

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TAKING HEART

2011-09-12T10:36:00.000-04:00

A spider…its web…a bit of morning sun. Simplicity itself, yet the result is more than a mere tableau of exquisite natural beauty. It is a message, a proclamation that while much is wrong out there, beyond the meadows and woods, across the stream—some good things remain.

The sun still shines. A red-tailed hawk again circles high in a clear blue sky. And a mossy-backed old snapping turtle, the diameter of a dinner plate, paddles slowly around the pool, looking for a bit of sunlight on a rock or log so he can clamber up and warm himself for an hour or two.

The earth endures.

A few feet from where I stand the river mumbles in ancient tongue as it slips across the rocky riffle—sparkling, swirling, inscrutable, untiringly finding its way along the sycamore-lined path leading to the sea. As always, I wish I were going along, a fellow sojourner sharing the journey. Oh, to have the carefree ambitions of a river. Wouldn't that be wonderful?

I don't, alas…and wishing and dreaming won't ever make it so. But I have the moment, and whatever my remaining allotment of time which lies beyond. Plus I have the river and birds and that cantankerous old snapper that's still searching for his warming spot—and I have the spider and web and sunlight shining through.

I take heart. A day which begins in such beauty and telluric augury is never all bad.

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