Two Thousand One Hundred Ninety-two...

...posts, and counting.  

This daily blog was begun in November, 2011. As my high school music teacher often said, "if you can't play good, play loud." Or, perhaps, eventually, the law of large numbers will provide some justification.

Merry Autumn

Paul Laurence Dunbar

It’s all a farce,—these tales they tell
     About the breezes sighing,
And moans astir o’er field and dell,
     Because the year is dying.

Such principles are most absurd,—
     I care not who first taught ’em;
There’s nothing known to beast or bird
     To make a solemn autumn.

In solemn times, when grief holds sway
     With countenance distressing,
You’ll note the more of black and gray
     Will then be used in dressing.

Now purple tints are all around;
     The sky is blue and mellow;
And e’en the grasses turn the ground
     From modest green to yellow.

The seed burrs all with laughter crack
     On featherweed and jimson;
And leaves that should be dressed in black
     Are all decked out in crimson.

A butterfly goes winging by;
     A singing bird comes after;
And Nature, all from earth to sky,
     Is bubbling o’er with laughter.

The ripples wimple on the rills,
     Like sparkling little lasses;
The sunlight runs along the hills,
     And laughs among the grasses.

The earth is just so full of fun
     It really can’t contain it;
And streams of mirth so freely run
     The heavens seem to rain it.

Don’t talk to me of solemn days
     In autumn’s time of splendor,
Because the sun shows fewer rays,
     And these grow slant and slender.

Why, it’s the climax of the year,—
     The highest time of living!—
Till naturally its bursting cheer
     Just melts into thanksgiving.

BFFs

You have to go a long way to find a friend like this.  

On a different note, vast amounts of moisture in the Michigan/Huron basin. Heavy thunderstorms across Wisconsin, Lake Michigan, Michigan, and Ontario last night, with continued precip (mix of rain and snow) all day. With Lake Superior at near record levels and lots of water spilling down the St.Mary's River, could be quite a high water year comng up.

Tiny Dog.

   Huge drive.  

Cute little Norfolk terrier from a very backwoods farm down by the Ohio River near Cincinnati.  

Hunting Season

So Pax has been reluctant to take our afternoon run/ride. With him unwilling, I went myself on a long cold pedal.

Epistemology

Catherine Barnett

Mostly I’d like to feel a little less, know a little more.
Knots are on the top of my list of what I want to know.
Who was it who taught me to burn the end of the cord
to keep it from fraying?
Not the man who called my life a debacle,
a word whose sound I love.
In a debacle things are unleashed.
Roots of words are like knots I think when I read the dictionary.
I read other books, sure. Recently I learned how trees communicate,
the way they send sugar through their roots to the trees that are ailing.
They don’t use words, but they can be said to love.
They might lean in one direction to leave a little extra light for another tree.
And I admire the way they grow right through fences, nothing
stops them, it’s called inosculation: to unite by openings, to connect
or join so as to become or make continuous, from osculare,
to provide with a mouth, from osculum, little mouth.
Sometimes when I’m alone I go outside with my big little mouth
and speak to the trees as if I were a birch among birches.

Thunderstorm Last Night...

...and quite a bit of rain.  Relatively warm today (which is good for mast painting), with the sun breaking through by late afternoon.

Inclement Weather

Pax and I are out walking this evening, just after sunset. The whole afternoon has been dank and foggy, and now ice is starting to crisp twig tips and fallen leaves. The damp cold comes right through my jacket, and my fingers are going numb inside my gloves.

Pax doesn’t usually mind this weather, but I begin to look forward to the end of our walk and coming back indoors, where the furnace, though not running much, has removed all traces of damp and chill, and where I can sit on a couch, read a good book, and sip a cup of hot tea.

But then I get to thinking about what it would be like if, rather than going inside, I stayed right here and, instead, traveled back in time.

I’d keep it mid-November (changing seasons is tricky) but I’ll go back a hundred years…so…

Pocketa, pocketa, queep.

Oh, this is different! My house isn’t here. I’m standing in a pile of frozen leaves near the bank of a small stream. The big willow and the three big oak trees I’m familiar with are still here, but there’s no street out front, and the only houses are a ways away, up on the main street.  I can see a couple of lights off in the distance. It’s damp and cold.

Better get out of here, I think, before Pax and I freeze in place. Let’s try going back… another hundred years…and…

Pocketa, pocketa.

Well, this is different, but not that much. I’m still standing in a pile of frozen leaves. There’s nothing around me except trees, and nothing in sight except maybe the edge of a prairie off in the distance. I think I might recognize my three oaks and my willow, but if so, they’re just little saplings mixed in with lots of others. There are no lights and no sounds (except the crinkle of freezing leaves).

Better get out of here, I think.  How about going back 500 years in time this time?

Pax does not object, so…

Pocketa, queep.

What? It doesn’t look all that different from when we just left! I’m still standing on a pile of frozen leaves, and I can’t see anything besides trees and maybe the prairie off in the distance.  But wait, over towards the prairie we see something that looks like a long mound, and smoke is coming out of it.

It’s still dark, damp, and cold, but this looks interesting. Pax and I decide to head that way—to investigate.

We walk up to some kind of structure, not just a mound. As we get closer we can see it’s a long, domed building of some kind made of straight poles and bent poles with a roof and walls made of bark or reeds or some kind of mats. Out front is a kind of courtyard with benches and racks and a fire pit.

We seem to have scared the owners away because we have the place to ourselves.

While Pax sniffs around, I pull back the heavy leather flap that covers the opening at one end of the building. We step quietly inside. It’s dim and smoky, but we can see that three small fires are spaced in a row along the center, with the smoke curling  upward to roof holes right above. Raised platforms run along both side-walls and these are covered with furs and are separated into “rooms” by mats hanging from cross-poles. Furs, and dried food, and sheaves of herbs or something, hang from the walls and ceiling. We look around but can’t see anything resembling a bathroom.

But it’s snug and cozy, and a wonderful shelter from the cold and damp. Maybe we should snuggle down here, I suggest, on one of the platforms, under one of the furs, and warm up.

Then Pax gives his leash a mighty tug— the kind of tug that says, “what are we doing here, just standing around in a freezing mist? Don’t you know we are right outside our house and it’s almost dinner time?” 

Five Mushroom Bisque

And a first coat of paint on 351's mast.

Shiitake, crimini, oyster, portabella, and white; along with onion, leek, garlic, and rice. Pureed. Delicious.

And, a first coat of paint on Nite 351's renovated mast. Only difficulty, an unheated garage, but with the temp now well above freezing, and a little help from a space heater, all seems to be going well, and the paint seems to be drying.

So, with acquiring supplies, sanding and painting, cooking and eating, very little walking got done. Pax seems fine about it, however.

Ice on the Ponds

The three big white oaks out back back drop a lot of leaves, and today we raked up two trailers-full. Normally, what I like to do is grind fall's fallen and compost them in situ, but the leaf litter in the back yard is invariably smothering, and has to go. (Of course, the method used by our neighbor across the street—wait for a very windy day and then rake upward—is another approach to the problem.)

Above are frosted catalpa leaves, primarily, beneath a catalpa tree in the park. Our oak litter was not quite this heavy.

And, the little lake in town has lightly frozen over, which is, perhaps, a good omen.

Successful Party

All the planning and prep paid off.  

And while the ladies enjoyed shower activities, Bri, Tony, and I took the younger crowd out to a park and then to a brew pub in downtown Milwaukee. Good fun.

More Shower Prep...

...at Fox Point. (Actually, Will and I played a lot of football while the ladies did other things.) Good chance to hang out with MaryJo and Katy Mac; as well as Sue, Abby, Katy J., and Will. Lunch at the very crowded Anvil in very crowded Cedarburg. (Notice in the photo below that MaryJo and Will are engaged in a game of Uno. Playing against Will is not for the faint of heart.)

Picture Hanging

At Bywater Lane—helping a bit with prep for the Sunday shower.

Speaking of showers, a little lake effect snow.

Tentative layout (on the rug) of one group of photos needing to be hung.

Will's "Leaning Tower" — all the way to 5 feet before toppling.

Day Too Short...

...to accomplish all the morning's worthy objectives. (Not much daylight anymore, either.)

However, Pax and I got in our first "big loop" walk (including two "obstructing dog" detours) since getting back from Manitoulin. We both felt good before, during, and after the walk. It was a perfect day for walking—invigorating north wind, and a dappled sky replete with flocks of sandhills getting an almost free ride south.

And, the garden got its fall tilling, with fall, as we now know, being the right time for tillering. Ice and snow, and frost and thaw, will finish the job, and it should be an excellent seedbed come May. (Will 22 quarts of pickled beets be gone by then?)

And, the iceboat trailer is 100% done, although with the temperature so low the paint won't dry.

Below freezing even before sunset. With the sky now completely clear, it's going to be a long, cold night—which is what you want when you have a finished iceboat trailer.

Heart of Darkness?

Perhaps not totally. 

Joan Didion says: "I suppose I am talking about just that: the ambiguity of belonging to a generation distrustful of political highs, the historical irrelevancy of growing up convinced that the heart of darkness lay not in some error of social organization but in man’s own blood.”

But does it? Given even just the recent news, one might ask, "what are we as a species?"

Perhaps she is right. Personally, I think social organization is the way to go—but carefully. No bolshevism, no fascism, no Saudi style totalitarianism. No FoxNewsism.

It seems to me the Scandinavian countries have found a way—thinking together to develop a program that makes life as good as possible for every citizen. (But perhaps I'm naive.)

Will we eventually be able to do that here?

Those Were The Days

When we did stupid things.  

The other day I encountered (or imagined) a smell that brought back memories. So I sent an email to John entitled, "What Was That Stuff?"

For some reason yesterday I smelled a smell that brought back memories. An odd smell, close to unpleasant, but actually attractive.
The smell I remember came from some kind of rubbery/plastically substance that we used to roll into little balls, into which we stuck tiny straws in order to blow out big rubbery balloons.The balloons had great texture, and if one ever developed a hole you could just pinch it closed.
Probably double-hydrogenated plutonium???
Can you help me out?

John wrote back with a link:   

Super Elastic Bubble Plastic was the brand name for a children's toy manufactured from the 1970s through the 80s by Wham-O. It consisted of a tube of viscous plastic substance and a thin straw used to blow semi-solid bubbles. A pea-sized amount of liquid plastic was squeezed from the tube and made into a tiny ball. One end of the straw was then inserted into the ball, and the user would blow into the other end, inflating the plastic into a bubble. The bubble could then be removed from the straw by pinching the hole closed, sealing the air inside.

And...
Chemically, the bubbles contained polyvinyl acetate dissolved in acetone, with ethyl acetate plastic fortifiers added. The acetone evaporated upon bubble inflation leaving behind a solid plastic film.

One of those toxic chemicals had a memorable awful/alluring aroma. And, if I'm not mistaken, we would sometime chew a wad of the stuff.

Of course, we also played with liquid mercury, rubbing it on our fingers. And we were quite unrestrained in our use of cherry-bombs (which we were quite sure worked under water), actually setting one off in the laundry tub in a friend's basement. Needless to say, the only thing left after that experiment was a huge puddle littered with bits of concrete.

Somehow, some of us survived childhood.

Twenty-two Quarts

Perhaps a record.  A lot of work, but now unlimited beets and cottage cheese until just about this time next year.

Some jars not pictured.

One of those somewhat magical mornings when, after a hard frost, the maples let their leaves loose.

I stand quietly under a maple in the still cold air, and let the leaves flutter down around me (Pax is busy elsewhere). Scores drop every minute, and how the tree decides which go when is beyond my understanding. Then, a slight zephyr sends scores fluttering down every second. In an hour or two the tree, mostly bare, stands on the center of a thick and colorful carpet. It's a sight to behold.

Day at Fox Point

Playing with kids and helping with odd jobs.  

Beat By Beets

We tried...but were eventually overwhelmed. Hundreds of little beets, scores of medium-sized ones, and dozens on the biggish side.

All had to be washed several times and in various ways. Then boiled until soft. Then peeled. Then trimmed and sliced.  With this many beets, a process with this many steps takes time. But we plodded along, and all was well...until Slicing Sue dumped two big soup pots-full of boiling beet water down the drain. The first potful took a while to gurgle away, but the second potful drained instantly—and then began running out over her shoes.

This heavy shot of hot water had released the P-trap gasket (and associated piping), and we had a leak—a leak with bloody beet water—swamping the kitchen rug and dripping down to redecorate the laundry room below.

Of course we took everything in stride, but we did experience a temporal setback, and by by four p.m. we came to realize that the entire pickling and canning process might well last into the wee hours of the night.

That's when discretion became the better part of valor, and pickling beets became a two day event.

Tonight, the mini-fridge in the basement is chock full of sliced and boiled beets while the upstairs fridge has zippy-bagged sliced onions sticking out the top of the salad crisper. Gallons of apple cider vinegar line the wall, and the kitchen countertops are covered by Ball jars, lids, and screw-on tops.

Today was also homecoming for UWW, so actually a good day to be inside getting beet up. Unfortunately for the college crowd, the day was dark, drizzly, and dismal. That dampened things a bit, but there was still plenty of noise—lots of shouting (which is what collegians do), and, of course, unlimited sirens.

It Doesn’t Have To Be A Standout Day

Pretty good is good enough. 

The trailer is 98.7% complete A few pieces of trim and then some paint...and that's it.

Starting early and running on low all day, a brisket in the Green Egg.

Partly cloudy, cool, but mostly pleasant. Pax was in the mood for speed again, and ran at least half of our (at least) two mile bike/run.

Warm Front

With a little rain now and then.  

Sue off to Irene's big birthday bash; luckily Pax and I excused. Good opportunity for a locally sourced dinner—home grown butternut squash along with grilled peppers courtesy of the neighbors across the street.

Morning spent filing a "Chronic Nuisance" complaint (through our homeowner's association) on an obnoxious student rental in the neighborhood. Also an unnecessary eye doctor appointment. Afternoon better—work on the iceboat trailer, a nice long dog run/ride, and horn practice. Nap, too, of course.

The Eleventh Month Named Nine

Welcome to November.  Thanks Julius and Augustus for inserting yourselves between June and September.

(N.B.  September is special in that it's spelled with 7 different letters and 9 total letters -- numbers which correspond elegantly to both its root meaning and its calendar placement.)

Cool and cloudy, and now rainy.

Chilly Halloween

Creatures are knocking at the door as dusk descends. 
(Ray Bradbury would like this, but Halloween, like The Fourth of July, is not optimized for Paxton.) 

Theme in Yellow
BY CARL SANDBURG

I spot the hills
With yellow balls in autumn.
I light the prairie cornfields
Orange and tawny gold clusters
And I am called pumpkins.
On the last of October
When dusk is fallen
Children join hands
And circle round me
Singing ghost songs
And love to the harvest moon;
I am a jack-o'-lantern
With terrible teeth
And the children know
I am fooling.

~~~~~~~~

Halloween Party
BY KENN NESBITT

We’re having a Halloween party at school.
I’m dressed up like Dracula. Man, I look cool!
I dyed my hair black, and I cut off my bangs.
I’m wearing a cape and some fake plastic fangs.

I put on some makeup to paint my face white,
like creatures that only come out in the night.
My fingernails, too, are all pointed and red.
I look like I’m recently back from the dead.

My mom drops me off, and I run into school
and suddenly feel like the world’s biggest fool.
The other kids stare like I’m some kind of freak—
the Halloween party is not till next week.