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Wednesday, April 30, 2014

The Returning of the Swans.


(This is a improved addition used in the Community spirit)
Last night, or was it early morning, in the distance, we could hear what sounded like a band of angry Southern Cheyenne moving in our direction. In my half sleep, half dream state, I  recalled sleeping out on the Republican River, snug in our tepee back in '75. It was a place where only 150 years earlier the Kiowa and Cheyenne ran wild chasing buffalo, and rummaging the river bottoms for wood and food. It was also not far from Julesburg, a town on the frontier, the Natives burned down three times and ran off the weary settlers who were trying to make a home Indian land.

Laying in a soft bed very early in yesterday’s morning, we heard the sound, the yelping to the south. I flashed on the smell of the Cottonwood fires in the prairie shelter, and of the clattering of the brittled, frozen Cottonwood leaves still clinging, but fluttering in the nighttime breeze.  There were brief little visions of our kids screaming about all covered with the days food and the evenings sooty fires. That was almost forty years ago on the Republican River, not far from the mighty Platte, not far from what is now Kansas.

Here in Wisconsin, only a few days before, we were struggling with our day-to-day lives trying to hold off the penetrating cold, the incessant polar vortexes, dumped on us by human’s desire to consume the fossil energy with reckless abandon . We did not cry out loud but grumbled and growled about the house, wishing spring would show her face.

When our minds unfogged there in bed, it became apparent this yelping was actually the majestic Swans moving northward, returning. They came from the southeast and passed over the house, headed to the northwest, not high, just steady and intent. The entire flock was jabbering among themselves, maybe trying to get a read on a place to settle, maybe the Mead Reserve. There was a moon out, not full, but still bright, and it would seem there was plenty of light to lead them to a moon-lit lake---if there was one unfrozen.

In the morning, the mighty swans poured over the quiet town, necks straight out and wings barely moving. They still talked, probably commenting on the  various possibilities but appeared not to fancy our ice-free village pond. It was impossible not to notice the discipline, the thousands of years of  a pattern that had worked for them, the rigidity of their movements, the tactic of riding a slip stream from the leading birds. There was a certain efficiency in it, a sense of power, a sense of time spanning thousands of years of habit, of genetics.

 There were hundreds of them today. Some we saw flying a half mile high driving into the wind. It is a sound we knew from the west but out there the calling was more commonly the Snow geese, the Canadians. Last night they were night flying as if they were behind schedule. Today about town, the word was out they were moving through and were flooding onto fields to refuel and dropping into lakes to rest. It is a long flight to the north. What grace and beauty in their flight.

Later in the day another flight passed over but appeared rather dysfunctional, almost as if they were fighting amongst themselves. A small group would break away, talking loudly as if to say, “Lets go to Spring Lake you idiots. Give me a wing tip if you think it’s a good idea.” The other batch, even louder, would respond, “Get lost dude. The Mead has more action. A little crowded, but has a nice algae platter.” A few would leave the south-bound group and rush back to the westerners. Both groups would falter, stutter in an undecided way, then, maybe from  a terse command from the head goose, I heard, “ Straighten up, you jackasses. Your looking like a bunch of fools. Look at this flight line.” In an instant, they reformed and headed northwest. There were some rules to follow, apparently. 

For us, they brought spring, and the western memories, as we laid half asleep. Spring is much needed now, and today felt better. The yard is starting to look like spring, the remaining snow consists of a few piled lumps. More swans came over so high the telephoto lens could barley reach out to the formations. A few Snow geese joined in as the weather warmed. A walk on the old rail berm was accompanied by the frantic calling of love struck geese and there in the low ground, the first distant call of the peepers.

But tonight the forecast was for more snow. We can take it for we are not weaklings, and we know the swans are surely dragging in the warmth.







Monday, April 14, 2014

Spring Snow

Just when we all thought the affectations of winter had flown the coop, here comes another go around, but it was not the evil kind, but the good kind, the little reminder that it is not all sun, spring rains and green grass. We heard it arrive in the middle of the night, first the patter of wind-blown rain on the stove pipe that passes through our bed room. Later, it seemed to shift to a softer impact and it was still obvious something was falling out there and that the wind was pushing.
There was something comforting in that sound. Ann even mentioned she could not wait until morning to see the results of what she knew would be snow. Why she seemed delight was a bit beyond me but she was excited almost not wanting winter to be gone. Over 60 days with nights below zero and she is still waiting for snow with a certain amount of glee. I felt she wanted to be confined in the morning, confined and unable to go out. Oh well.
In the morning it was there as planned, not just snow on the ground but snow attached to every item that could touch the snow. Under the pines there was dark bare ground as the branches held every ounce that had touched the needles,. They let go of nothing. It was if the white stuff was actually Elmer's Glue. Every branch, ever spoke of  my bicycle. The wind had packed it on twigs and grasses, even the wire that held the bird feeder had four inches of clinging snow.
It was a winter wonderland. High twenties, soft wind, but gust that had no luck pushing the snow off it's now abundant found objects. It was the type of snow that no person could dislike because of the beauty of it all. There were shadows and puffy objects, and forms accentuated as if art pieces. Interestingly, it stayed most of the day so it was like being in a kinetic art gallery for hours on end. In ever nitch was a new creation. Not bad for a couple of days before tax payment. Made me feel better.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

The Returnng of the Swans---Spring

It was but a fortnight ago when the lot of us were struggling with our miserable lives trying to hold off the penetrating cold, the polar vortex, dumped on us by our own behavior of idiotic consumption. We did not cry out loud but grumbled and growled about the holdings, wishing spring would show her face.

Last night, or was it early morning, in the distance we cold hear what sounded like a band of angry Southern Cheyenne moving in our direction. It was almost possible to imagine ourselves sleeping out on the Republican River snug in our tepee back in '75. It was a place we camped on Lake Bonny, a place where only 100 years earlier the Kiowa and Cheyenne ran wild chasing buffalo, and rummaging the river bottoms for wood and food. It was also not far from Julesburg, a town on the frontier they burned down three times and ran off the weary travelers who were trying to fleece them of their land. People died out there, many people. It was part of that history.


Laying in a soft bed yesterday morning, we heard the sound, the yelping to the south. I still remember the smell of the cottonwood fires in the old shelter and the kids screaming about all covered with the days food and the evenings sooty fires. 40 years ago on the Republican River not far from the mighty Platte, not far from what is now Kansas.

But this yelping was actually the returning Swans moving northward, not the Native Americans of my slumber induced-dreams. There were thousands of them today they said, some we saw flying a half mile high driving into the wind. It is a sound we knew form the west but out there it was more commonly the, snow geese, the honkers. Yesterday, they were night flying as if they were behind schedule, which is not hard to imagine. Today, the word was out they were moving through and were flooding onto fields to refuel and dropping into lakes to rest. It is a long flight to the north. What grace and beauty in there flight.

For us, they brought spring, and the memories as we laid half asleep. I'm ready, and today felt better. The yard looked like spring, the snow just in piled lumps. More swans came over so high the telephoto lens could barley reach out to the formations. A few Snow geese joined in as the weather warmed. I am not sad--but the winter, in all its splendor, is quickly gone, one more gone.

Monday, April 7, 2014

Maple Sugar. Another Year Gone

Each year the size of my sugar bush has declined. Last year I had 5 trees and 17 taps but this year 2 trees. I will admit that one of my trees, the giant Silver Maple in the back yard, had 7 taps and on a good day it can produce damn near ten gallons of sap. The other tree has but three so in total I have my ten taps. The goal this year was to get one gallon of syrup.


Interestingly, I did not even tap the trees until April and by the 7th, I was done. Due to a couple of great days of frozen nights and warm days the 35 gallon storage container was filled and even beyond. The struggle was not great, the work was pleasant and my demeanor thankful.

Last year some of the locals tapped in February because it was so warm. By March the weather was so odd it became impossible to collect anything. The buds came out on the trees, shut down and told us to buzz of or worse. I think they were concerned we humans had made a mess, so they refused to do what they have been doing from the beginning of tree time. For my big maple that would be at least 100 years, maybe more.

This year again it was odd but in a different way. Cold beyond all recollection with not a single day of melt until late in March. It has to be confusing out there. Still, this year I am content for I have my syrup and while it is dark it is tasty beyond any other sweet known to man except that of the honey bee. This is not simple sugar of the corn plant, not a GMO Maple, just sugar the same as was gathered by the Native Americans for thousands of years. I am like so primitive, so paleo but I do have nice aluminum things

I suspect that my sugar bush is shrinking, in part, because of me. It hurts to go into the woods in deep snow and at the end of this March there was still 2 feet of the stuff in the woods across the street. I am getting older and lugging the sap through snow and branches is loosing its appeal. The joints bark out and tell me to knock it off, but it seems I have a genetic message that says gather, gather food. Revel in it.



Next year I am hoping for some sort of normality where the snow and cold are reasonable, not deep and 60 some days of night time subzero. Then too, next year I will be 71 and just that many more pains. Today Tony and I decided next season he and I would work together and tap the maples around town, maybe the ones right next to the side walks, get us a cart, some buckets and each day go on a circuit then head back to a boiling fire to play some tunes and tell some lies.Pancakes tomorrow.


Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Missionary's Position---Thoughts of Others

 I collect quotations, particularly ones I find interesting, maybe outrageous, but usually ones that fit my own mind. I would be the first to admit I am not of the mainstream and might, just on occasion, offend a few folks but what the hell. It is more fun to have one's brain rattled than just sitting their with a forty foot stare in a ten foot room. Truth is most of he tidbits I save, are pretty much in line with my own thinking. I know, I am a bit of a cynic but a real happy one, one always amused with the trappings of mankind. 
The Unholy Trinity
Economics, religion, and nationalism are utter nonsense, and their teachings and organizations are destroying the ecological basis of being. Organized religion, nanny government, and authoritarian corporatism together combine to enslave humanity in abusive hierarchical structures, leading to overexploitation and even murder of other people, species, ecosystems, and the Earth for profit, god, and country.

Islamo- and Christo-fascists try to out-crazy each other. Christo-fascists lack none of the craziness of their Islamo-fascist counterparts, and are no less loony and dangerous, equally ready to murder for their false god. Indeed, right-wing nut-job Christians are much the greater threat to Earth and all peoples as they have nukes, money, and power over resources to utterly destroy being. In fact, Earth’s destruction is their goal as they fully expect to leave this tawdry world of their own making and be whisked away to paradise.

There will never be long-term ecological sustainability – or universal justice, equity, and rights – as long as corporatists, churches, nanny governments, and their media hold power. An economic system based upon infinite growth in a finite world can only spectacularly collapse. Despite being brainwashed to worship mythical ghosts and indoctrinated to salute authoritarian power, people have no excuse for ecocide, fascism, or stupidity.
Dr Glen Berry

"our culture's general instruction manual is enough to puke a maggot."
Jim Harrison


I particularly sympathize with your point about zero-growth. Not only is the phrase "sustainable growth" an oxymoron, but more honest phrasing would be "sustainable rape".


"My grandfather rode a camel, my father rode a camel, I drive a Mercedes, my son drives a Land Rover, his son will drive a Land Rover, but his son will ride a camel."
~ Rashid bin Saeed Al Maktoum
Stephen Hawking, "Heaven is for those who are afraid of the dark". Another of my favorites is "science flies you to the moon, religion flies you into buildings..."

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

Burial Ceremony at Arlington

My personal experience in the military consisted of taking an officers exam and a physical back in 1966. This was done prior to being drafted. I did well enough. In fact, I was told I did particularly well. I laughed.  Circumstances and critical occupations prevented me from serving. I was not sad for even at that time I knew too much---part of which came for Lt. Col. Al Herzog, my wife's father. .

Ann's family has a long distinguished military history with her father being in WWII, Korea and Viet Nam as well as serving in the Pentagon. Her sister's husband served as a soldier in Viet Nam and there son has been twice in Iraq and once in Afghanistan. Quite a commitment and one that has, I suppose, had a price.

While her father lived to old age, her brother-in-law recently passed away at the age of 62 of melanoma. It was no secret he had been exposed to agent orange and like many of his comrades, he may well have paid a price. He also received a Purple Heart and as such, the good Srg. Brandon Whittington was buried in Arlington in Washington.

Having never been to a military funeral, and having a very bad taste in my mouth from losing a good friend in that war, I probably never wanted to go to one. I have never even been able to go to the monument while there because of the anger I hold. My children rubbed the name of Norm Billip for me. I am still pissed.

For this funeral I went almost wanting to know not only my own feelings but to see the traditions, maybe to get a sense of what the military really is, to see the regimentation, maybe to just reflect. I'll admit my emotions were all over the place, flying off to the monuments of Lincoln and Jefferson to the East, the Federal Capitol just behind them. So many many dead, so many wars, lives cut short, a majestic hillside of white stones, some 600,000 we were told. A civil war, the European conflicts, the stupid wars all represented, lined up there over-looking the capitol and the politicians that too often caused these deaths. Yes, some were noble others not so.

For him, a man who lived a good life, a noble life as a father and a husband this seemed fitting. The solemn dignified, highly formal ceremony was, I suspect, much like the army, All crisp and clean and on time, intent, yet personal. The gun salute for some reason got me as did the taps. Music and guns, different aspects of our culture. I could see how this strict regimentation holds the hearts and souls of those who belong, but I find myself standing back wondering if that is what it takes to get men to walk into battle. Is it good or bad?

The ceremony was impressive and I felt gratitude. I felt that he had been honored. I thought of the many veterans who are still suffering and not given proper care. I guess I know too many anti war songs, "Johnny I Hardly Knew Ya." May he rest.