Score
September 17, 2012 § Leave a comment
Jar of honey. Cutting board. Hand-picked (by me!) Haralson apples from Whistling Well Farm. And homemade vanilla from my sister and John. Happy kitchen.
After Apple Picking
September 16, 2012 § Leave a comment
My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
-Robert Frost, 1914
(I am about to go to an orchard myself. I can hardly wait – but here is the difference between a few hours of leisurely picking and the farmer’s long day of work.)
We slaughtered chickens
September 13, 2012 § 3 Comments
It is not something to get finicky about. We fed and cared for these boys and now it is their time to feed us.
Yes, there’s blood. There’s guts.
But by the time you get them all cleaned up and it’s nearly lunchtime, you’re thinking about chicken soup with rice.
Boats & boulders
September 12, 2012 § Leave a comment
We decided to canoe the St. Croix River. My sister, her husband, me, and my best friend. This river keeps drawing me back to where it winds between two of the Upper Midwest’s finest states, Minnesota and Wisconsin. As states go, you might call these two frenemies. Football fiercely divides us. Yet we are variations on a theme.
The small towns here in Wisconsin remind me so much of my Minnesota childhood. The geography of hills and trees, water, woods, and farmland – it’s the same. The snowmobiles. The jetskis. The shabby cafes, the corner gas stations that also sell bait, and the Dairy Queen in every town. Rows of cabins along lakes. Small golf courses. Many small churches and their faithful parishioners. There is one such church across the street. I listen to the bells.
The St. Croix makes for a happy meeting place for me and my Minnesota-dwelling favorite people. So. We found ourselves in canoes on the water.
We love boats.
A small island in the middle of the water simply had to be explored.
Chats with friends in nature are always welcome.
Canoe trips in general are welcome.
I wasn’t ready to be done. Next time, I want to camp overnight somewhere amidst evergreens and stars and the hooting and howling of wild creatures.
Instead, while the other three headed back to the Cities, I wandered around the boulders and potholes on the Minnesota side of Interstates Park.
Creepy.
Then I found a spot on a rock where the river view and the light were just right. I sat there and thought. I read. I journaled. I prayed. I let my spirit get all settled, and the day wound down.
As it should.
Close encounters
September 8, 2012 § Leave a comment
I nearly hit a deer this morning. A half-grown fawn darted across the road, in front of the traffic in the other lane, and then skittered in front of my truck. I stomped on the brakes and somehow, miraculously, did not collide with the deer – though by inches. Also miraculously, the frittata I had made that morning, sitting in the seat next to me, did not slide onto the floor. The fawn found her way into the ditch and I drove on, my heart pounding so heavily my chest that I started laughing.
Earlier this week an eagle swooped up from the side of the road and right in front of my windshield. He had something in his talons, though I couldn’t tell what, and if I hadn’t braked quickly I would have had an eagle in the cab with me. What oddly inappropriate moments to see wildlife closer than I ever have before: when my man-made machine nearly causes their death, and not for any good or natural purpose.
I am not sure what to do with these encounters, other than be glad for wild nature and, at the same time, glad for the fact that I avoided disaster in my nearness to it.
III. Nature, XXVIII, Autumn
September 8, 2012 § Leave a comment
The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I’ll put a trinket on.
-Emily Dickinson
September on the St. Croix
September 2, 2012 § Leave a comment
Yesterday evening we went hiking.
This is what one ought to do on one of the last weekends of summer, when the sun is warm and the breeze begins to feel cool.
Interstates Park (the states being Minnesota & Wisconsin) is full of climbable rocks, trails along the St. Croix River, a small lake, and many trees.
As the sun slanted its low evening light, we followed the terrain up and down.
Scrambled just enough to where I felt scared, momentarily, on a too-steep wall, which gives such a nice rush of adrenaline. Rested at the top.
The view!
We wandered back down the trail to another along the Lake of the Dalles, listening to children play at the beach and the shouts and conversation of kayakers. I tried to sit on a rock and read, but a certain golden retriever kept trying to pull me into the water.
So, we made our way down to the pet-friendly picnic area and watched the mist and the evening settle over the St. Croix.
Peanut butter and honey and a sweet sixteen apple.
I read Brennan Manning, whose words have often brought my spirit solace and joy.
“It is always true to some extent that we make our images of God. It is even truer that our image of God makes us. Eventually we become like the God we image. One of the most beautiful fruits of knowing the God of Jesus is a compassionate attitude toward ourselves. . . . Healing our image of God heals our image of ourselves.” (Manning, The Relentless Tenderness of Jesus)
It is right for me to be in these places of beauty. It is right to make time to reflect. And to remember my truest identity, which has been established by a Creator’s love.
Buckwheat in Bloom
August 31, 2012 § 4 Comments
I am pleased to have you know that I sowed this buckwheat.
Now it is doing its job: keeping the weeds down and providing nectar for the bees. I plan to sow a wildflower/prairie grass mix into this plot in the fall, to germinate the following spring. The buckwheat helps by suppressing the persistent weed species this year, so that the wildflowers will have a better chance when it becomes their turn (learn more about how this works here).
Isn’t that clever? And isn’t it nice that buckwheat, in addition to being useful, is so pretty?
Kinds of Honey 