As proven by the stump of this recently removed terrace tree. The roots continue to do their job although no superstructure remains to accept the sap.
The old black maple alongside the driveway also knows spring has arrived and is enthusiastically sugar coating the truck.
And a perfect day for it. Sunny and warm. Sandhills heard and seen; robins heard.
…for this and that, including an early Mimi birthday celebration.
…for the RC Schooner.
In the photo above—from top to bottom, horizontal—foresail gaff, jib boom, foresail, boom, attached by means of a gooseneck to the foremast (which is more or less vertical), and then the main mast, attached by means of a gooseneck to the main boom (which is more or less vertical). If you please, notice the spar tapers, the boom bails, and the handcrafted goosenecks. Fiddly work, requiring a steady hand and nerves of steel.
…on the schooner. Main and fore-sail sheets attach to the line on port side, jib sheet to line on starboard.
Royal pain to set up. My hands were too clumsy; Sue had to tie the knots.
…snow mostly gone. Maybe a little early, but it does feel good.
Robert Frost
To think to know the country and now know
The hillside on the day the sun lets go
Ten million silver lizards out of snow!
As often as I've seen it done before
I can't pretend to tell the way it's done.
It looks as if some magic of the sun
Lifted the rug that bred them on the floor
And the light breaking on them made them run.
But if I though to stop the wet stampede,
And caught one silver lizard by the tail,
And put my foot on one without avail,
And threw myself wet-elbowed and wet-kneed
In front of twenty others' wriggling speed,-
In the confusion of them all aglitter,
And birds that joined in the excited fun
By doubling and redoubling song and twitter,
I have no doubt I'd end by holding none.
It takes the moon for this. The sun's a wizard
By all I tell; but so's the moon a witch.
From the high west she makes a gentle cast
And suddenly, without a jerk or twitch,
She has her speel on every single lizard.
I fancied when I looked at six o'clock
The swarm still ran and scuttled just as fast.
The moon was waiting for her chill effect.
I looked at nine: the swarm was turned to rock
In every lifelike posture of the swarm,
Transfixed on mountain slopes almost erect.
Across each other and side by side they lay.
The spell that so could hold them as they were
Was wrought through trees without a breath of storm
To make a leaf, if there had been one, stir.
One lizard at the end of every ray.
The thought of my attempting such a stray!
…assuming she floats.
…at the Milwaukee Domes.
And, happily, the temperature outside the Domes is slowly moderating.
…in Minocqua, and to a slightly lesser extent, here. Quite a bit of snow, and deep cold.
No wind. Sitting by the breezeway fireplace watching snow come straight down, and accumulate.
…sunning itself quite close to the gang of squirrels under the bird feeder.
All curled up when I first spotted it, i mistook it for a big dead squirrel.
Quite a process, possibly done sufficiently well. The proof will be in the sailing
Rudder post mount dry fit
…Wisconsin fish fry. Strangely enough at Paddy’s Irish Pub. Best fish for miles around.
Place jammed, but we found a quiet corner at the back bar, and all was perfect.
…and game night.
…of the mighty Amaryllis.
… on the old standard bike, not the e-bike—still too much salt lying about.
Much more fun than a stationary gym bike.
2025, on Lake Winnebago
Giant sheet of clear thick ice. Trucks driving all over. We were able to drive right out to the windward mark.
In the video below Bri is rounding the windward mark in first place on leg one of the sixth race.
…all day. And the nights are worse. Feeder constantly filled with high energy food.
Not watertight, but heading that way.
Today, January 20, is the eve of St. Agnes. That’s the important occurrence today; forget about anything else, (except MLK, of course).
The Eve Of St. Agnes is also the amazing, 42 stanza poem by John Keats that deserves an annual reading. A tale of star-crossed lovers…but with a happy ending. Perhaps the most luxuriant use of words and images in all of English literature.
”St. Agnes' Eve—Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold…”
Brutal cold. Filling the bird feeder a chore; walk around the block decidedly unpleasant. I marvel at how the wildlife can bear it, can survive.
