Autumn Images

One of our favorite places is Carlos Avery Wildlife Refuge.

We head there to see what is happening from early spring to late fall.

Sometimes we go to ground ourselves,

to seek solitude,

or when the weight of writing projects

becomes unwieldy and we need to regain perspective.

As Clem says often, "May there always be wild places."

Cycle of the Seasons

No matter where a person lives, the cycle of the seasons are embedded themselves in us. Disruptions in those cycles disturbs the soul - and complaining is likely to follow.

After several grey-sky days, people in checkouts lines in the grocery store and pharmacy declare loud and clearly their strong feelings about the sun's absence. When the weather disrupts our lives with drought, snow storms, or floods, our noticing takes on even more importance. At such times, meteorologists hedge their bets, even though their predictions often are more accurate than indicators regarding the rise and fall of the stock market.

Few of us lead lives anymore in which it really matters if the the sun shines or not, whether the rains come in a timely fashion, or the first snow fall comes at the "right" time. We go to work, engage in indoor exercise, and shop whenever pantry shelves are getting empty.

It is hard to say why humans are still so wired to the cycle of the seasons. The people who built the structures of Chaco Canyon in northwestern New Mexico have moved on, assimilated into contemporary cultures. But their engineering and astronomical skills remain an elaborate testimony to a time when the cycle of the seasons was essential. In my travel memoir, There is No Future in the Past, I describe how these people planted their calendars into a landscape "saturated with cosmological meaning. One wall of Pueblo Bonito is perfectly aligned with the cardinal directions and connects the heavens with the earth, predicting the spring and fall equinoxes. Other Chaco structures foretold the solstices, by situating them in relationship with distant sun-watching stations chiseled in the rock."

No matter where you live in the world, your ancestors depended on the regularity of the season's cycles. When weather patterns changed, they migrated to some place else - or starved. Diverse cultures resulted, giving us our rich human heritage. But perhaps we all share this connection to the seasons embedded in our bodies.

Of course it is possible to put your head down, go about your life, and ignore the seasons. Looking up occasionally when weather diverts your agenda. But how much richer it is to pay attention. Notice the sun - and the grey skies. Smell the differences in the air. And listen, if you are lucky to live where honking geese flying overhead are practicing before migrating.

What Goes Around

The heavy vise-like tool
slips from an astronaut's grip.
Released to orbit.
Assumed to
never-to-be-seen-again.

After three days -
a fifteen-pound emergency
looms.

Shuttle rockets fire to avoid
an insipient disaster
almost not seen.

What goes around,
comes around.

                                  September 23, 2011
               Written on the day that pieces of a bus-sized
               chunk of space junk is to hit the earth somewhere.

BEING VIGILANT, HARRY WOULD LIKE THAT

Harry’s house across the street

stands empty.

I miss Harry.


He was only eighty-five. His dear spouse, Florence, died three
years ago. He was by her side so faithfully. They had both loved flowers and growing things. In recent years, a little more than
once, they walked together through our garden paths. At least,
that’s what Harry told me.

Up to just last year, Harry would predictably be sitting at a card
table just inside his open garage and read and write. He was an
avid student of words and ideas. He loved my poetry and I would
read to him. Often, something I read reminded him of some poet
of the past and he would spout off their lengthy poems from
memory!


Once, last fall, I saw him sitting at his table playing a harmonica!
I took my mountain dulcimer down from its shelf and crossed
the street to join him. As I got closer I realized that Harry was
eating ears of buttered corn with gusto! We laughed and I had
an ear of corn . . . and then played a tune.


More than once, when winter was just about to come . . . he would
start up his big self-propelled orange snow blower and, when I saw
him begin to leave his garage, I would start up my little, red Honda
Snow Pup and we would time it so as to meet out in the middle of
the street where our two snow machines would face each other, turn and twirl their rotor blades! A kind of ritual . . . never a word would be uttered.Then, back to the garages to wait for the first blizzard.


This morning, I saw billowing smoke coming from behind Harry’s
house! Neighbors have an unspoken pledge to be on the lookout for
problems. I quickly crossed the street, unlatched the backyard gate,
and saw that the smoke was from his neighbor burning yard waste.


As I turned to leave, I saw his abandoned flower bed along side the
back of the empty house. All that was left was a withered, spent hosta plant.


And a single, tiny, slender marigold in full bloom with its one bright,
orange blossom. Must have been self-seeded.


Wish Harry could have done the same.

Too Late?

Late spring this year,
an early fall followed.
Geese amassing,
maple leaves turning.
Yellow flowers of wild cup plant
gone to seed, now play grounds
for goldfinches.
Trumpet flowers of the climbing
honeysuckle vine are
finally out in force,
a favorite of hummingbirds.

But where are the ruby-throats?
A freeze is predicted for sooner-
than-later . . . did the little hummers
take off for somewhere
later?

Wait!

What was that?

Politics and Home-made Jam

I have a pretty good set of boundaries that allow me to follow the political conversations of the day. But this morning, I am distraught.

It is my custom to check into the world every morning with several on-line news media that offer different perspectives. This morning one of my usual sources included an op-ed piece with some inflammatory statements regarding last night's CNN Tea Party presidential debate.  I was torn about pursuing the reliability of this particular op-ed piece. I did not want to watch excerpts from the debate. If what this particular writer stated was true, the pain in my heart would only grow. Yet, my horror would not let me blow-off the possibility that what was referenced actually happened.

It has always been our policy on this blog to not spread inaccurate information. My dilemma: other than venting with close friends, I was unwilling to write my reflections in any public way. Finally I could not stand it and listened to video clips. Indeed, the op-ed writer was reacting to the televised debate as it actually happened.

What disturbed me the most was when a question was posed to Ron Paul about the hypothetical plight of a man, who opted not to carry health insurance, needing considerable medical care if he was to live. Now I know Ron Paul's position that in a non-socialist country, people ought to be able to do as they please and take responsibility for the consequences. It was the audience's response that horrified me. As the questioner pushed Ron Paul about whether the man should be allowed die and not receive medical care , the audience broke out in applause. Later, the audience booed Ron Paul for saying that not all Muslims are terrorists.

Compassion? What is happening in my country? Everyone for themselves and damn the rest? Have we taken down the welcome sign that greeted my immigrant grandparents? Do we let people die without treatment, even if they have made the foolish choice opt out of health insurance? Is our fear of everyone who looks different or worships in a different way sufficient grounds to call the whole lot of them terrorists?

When I back away from this segment of the population who advocate such extreme positions,  I slowly regain my belief in this country in which I live. Another news article today described how a motorcyclist swerved to avoid hitting a car and ended up under the car, which burst into flames. People who observed what happened tipped the burning car far enough so that someone else could pull the man into safety. Split-second reactions on their part saved his life. Nobody asked him if he had insurance - or if he was a Muslim.

When I watched excerpts from the commemoration of 9-11, I was equally proud of my fellow Americans. The tributes made were not hate-filled or fear-filled. They came from people who have struggled honestly with the events ten years ago, some of them still missing loved ones who died.

Home-made jam? On my kitchen counter stand our latest batches of jam. Such a simple, homely tribute to ordinary life. Jam for the coming winter, some made from our own fruit. I remind myself that life is not about hate and fear. Life is about compassion. Compassion toward my neighbors. Compassion toward the people who live in my city. Compassion for people everywhere, who go about their ordinary lives. Some of us make jam. Some of us gather with friends and family. And some of us suffer terrible losses.

I think I need to stand in my kitchen for a while and admire our jam.

Article in MinnPost: the Horrifc Cost of Violence

Go to http://www.minnpost/, "online high quality journalism," as they aptly describe themselves. They just published an article by me (Elizabeth).  Click on Community Voices on their home page and go to the Thursday, September 8th featured article.

I have been haunted by the horrific abuse suffered by a nanny in the Qaddafi household. After reading a graphic report of what happened to her, I needed to write about it. And I needed to "give the writing away." As another writer stated once, what you write belongs to you until you finish it/publish it. Then it is not yours anymore. It belongs to its readers.

MinnPost was the best place I could think of to publish what I wrote. Although their greatest number of readers come from Minnesota, they are read across the nation as well as internationally. Its is satisfying to "have voice" and to be able to address issues such as this terrible abuse and the price we all pay for violence.

Grape Jelly and Pesto

Our garden is showing the first signs of autumn. The pleasurable days of summer were much too few this year between a cold June and a torrid July. But our garden has not objected. Hostas have flourished and we have raised the best crop of cucumbers ever. The cukes have been like the proverbial over-abundance of zucchini - the neighbours are glad to receive the excess and we have resorted to leaving them in little baskets at random homes.

And the grapes - what a mystery. I have concluded I do not understand grapes. The old vines, possibly wild, in the back corner of the garden produced lots of grapes - the first grapes we have seen on these vines in the fourteen years we have lived in this house. I had concluded the vines were all males and incapable of making fruit. What gives? Unfortunately the vines grew with abandon, attempting to choke off every thing nearby, including several trees. So Clem got out the long pruner - after harvesting the grapes - and cut the vines down to size. Probably means we will have wait another fourteen years to see a second crop!

The domestic grapes we planted at least five or six years ago are another mystery. I have long forgotten what varieties we planted.We've read the books on how to prune grape vines to be productive. We've admired vineyards in Europe and Chile. We have tried all the theories with the result of not a grape to be seen. This year our life was crowded with remodeling our house, teaching classes, and lectures. By the time we got to the grape vines, any pruning was out of the question. So the vines ran wild, threatening the bittersweet's existence on a nearby trellis.The bittersweet is no modest vine itself, but an aggressive variety. We usually have to keep an eye on it as it ascends up the huge white pine a number of feet away.

But guess what? Our uncared-for grape vines outdid themselves. What puzzles me is that we planted 3 vines on this trellis - and all the grapes we harvested are the same. Either two of the varieties are buried - or the three varieties decided to merge into one corporation. All of our precious abundance of grapes means Labor Day has been designated as grape jelly day.

It also is time to harvest our basil and make pesto for the freezer, which is already loaded with various batches of jams and conserves. I've learned the secret of growing basil is to not be impatient. Mid June or even later is the time to sprinkle the little black seeds in the raised bed gardens and rake them in gently with the fingers.

Jams for the freezer are a must in our house. We take advantage of available fruit when it is in its prime. I acquired a new cook book for canning while standing in the checkout lane at Home Depot - not the sort of place I would have gone looking for new jam possibilities. My purchase opened up wonderful new horizons in the jam-making department this year.

Any recipe seems amenable to half or a third of the recommended amount of sugar, producing a jam fuller in flavor than supermarket jams - and much better for us. Stashing it in the freezer means no worry about things like hot water baths and the like. And if the jam is a bit runny - no matter - it fills up the holes in Saturday waffles just fine. Strawberry margarita jam, complete with tequila and Triple Sec, anyone?

January will be good eating at our house.