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There’s a certain Slant of light

26 Sunday Jan 2020

Posted by victoriaperpetua in Emily Dickinson, Photography, Poetry, Television, Uncategorized, Winter

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Emily Dickinson, photography, Poetry, Winter

Dickinson

Emily Dickinson (Hailee Steinfeld) writing poetry at her desk.

We are currently watching, with much enjoyment, the AppleTV series on American poet, Emily Dickinson (1830-1886). The series is based on Dickinson’s life but uses modern language (and some modern sensibilities) to treat viewers to a glimpse inside the life of this quirky poet.

Therefore, it seemed apropos to post one of her many poems:

WinterJekyll

A winter’s afternoon on Jekyll Island.

There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons – 
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes – 

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us – 
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are – 

None may teach it – Any – 
‘Tis the Seal Despair – 
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air – 

When it comes, the Landscape listens – 
Shadows – hold their breath – 
When it goes, ’tis like the Distance
On the look of Death – 

dickinson-series

The cast of Dickinson having fun during The Shakespeare Club. Can you guess the play;-)

March

20 Sunday Jan 2019

Posted by victoriaperpetua in A Sand County Almanac, Aldo Leopold, Books, Canada Geese, Daffodils, Earth, Ecology, Environment, Flowers, March, Nature, Photography, Spring, Winter

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A Sand County Almanac, Aldo Leopold, photography

“One swallow does not make a summer, but one skein of geese, cleaving the murk of a March thaw, is spring,” Aldo Leopold begins his chapter on March in A Sand County Almanac.

march geese

Canada geese by Charles W. Schwartz

While ruminating on the yearly patterns of geese, Leopold wonders, “Is education possibly a process of trading awareness for things of lesser worth? The goose who trades his [awareness] is soon a pile of feathers.”

In warmer climes, one can find Canada geese year-round, but in Leopold’s Wisconsin, they appeared only twice yearly to proclaim the arrival of two seasons–winter and spring.

“November geese are aware that every marsh and pond bristles from dawn till dark with hopeful guns, ” he writes. March geese, on the other hand, are a different story.

“They wind the oxbows of the river, cutting low over the now gunless points and islands, and gabbling to each sandbar as to a long lost friend.”

Later, Leopold writes, “Once the first geese are in, they honk a clamorous invitation to each migrating flock, and in a few days the marsh is full of them. On our farm we measure the amplitude of our spring by two yardsticks: the number of pines planted, and the number of geese that stop. Our record is 642 geese counted in on 11 April 1946.”

Leopold later discovers that “goose flocks are families, or aggregations of families, and lone geese in spring are probably just what our fond imaginings had first suggested. They are bereaved survivors of the winter’s shooting, searching in vain for their kin.”

march dews pond

Our daughter, at 11 months, visiting with the geese.

Canada geese were very much a part of our life when we lived on Dews Pond near Calhoun, Georgia. They often nested in our yard and that of our neighbor, and we would look forward to the time when the goslings would emerge from the eggs. They became so tame that they would eat from our hands, and we would spend hours watching their antics. To this day, the honk of a goose brings back fond memories.

march daffodils and crocuses

In Savannah, March sees the blossoming of our daffodils and crocuses.

march loquats

And the loquats that were beginning to ripen in January are finally edible.

February

13 Sunday Jan 2019

Posted by victoriaperpetua in A Sand County Almanac, Aldo Leopold, Earth, Ecology, Environment, history, Nature, Photography, Winter, Wisconsin

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A Sand County Almanac, Aldo Leopold, history, photography

february squirrel

Illustration for A Sand County Almanac by Charles W. Schwartz

Aldo Leopold begins his chapter on February this way:

“There are two spiritual dangers in not owning a farm. One is the danger of supposing that breakfast comes from the grocery, and the other that heat comes from the furnace.”

Wendell Berry would agree.

He continues, “To avoid the first danger, one should plant a garden, preferably where there is no grocer to confuse the issue.

“To avoid the second, he should lay a split of good oak on the andirons, preferably where there is no furnace, and let it warm his shins while a February blizzard tosses the trees outside. If one has cut, split, hauled, and piled his own good oak, and let his mind work the while, he will remember much about where the heat comes from, and with a wealth of detail denied to those who spend the week end in town astride a radiator.”

february clouds

A mackerel-scaled February sky signals an impending winter storm.

I was fortunate enough to have lived on a very small-scale farm during a few of my teenage years. Although we had a garden, our cows (and at one point, pigs) accounted for more of our diet than vegetables. Having helped slaughter, clean, and grind meat, I am now always keenly aware from whence my meat comes (which is one reason I am attempting to eat less of it).

The house we lived in at the time (Briarpatch) was heated by wood stoves. That meant a large portion of the year, after school and on weekends, was dedicated to cutting and hauling wood to be later burned in those stoves. It was never easy but it was particularly difficult when it was cold and my numbed fingers could barely feel the logs I was hoisting into my arms.

Following college, I was once again reminded about heat when my husband and I spent a winter either crouched before the fire place or locked in a room with a space heater when the gas company refused to turn on our heater because they didn’t want to be responsible for a possible leak. Although we were both employed by a daily newspaper, we were still too poor to have the heater fixed and had to suffer through a colder than normal mid-Georgia winter, in which the temperatures plummeted more than 6º below 0º Fahrenheit.

february daffin

A view from a February morning walk around Daffin Park.

In A Sand County Almanac, Leopold takes us back in time as he discusses the history of the oak that is burning in his fire place. When the tree was cut, he calculated that it was a seedling about 1865, at the end of the Civil War. But, he writes, the acorn that produced it most likely fell during the preceding decade “when covered wagons were still passing over my road into the Great Northwest.”

A bolt of lightning put an end to the 80-year-old tree during a July thunderstorm. Leopold and his family let the wood season for a year “in the sun it could no longer use” and eventually felled it on a crisp winter’s day.

“Fragrant little chips of history spewed from the saw cut,” he wrote, noting that the saw was carving its way “into the chronology of a lifetime, written in concentric annual rings of good oak.”

The from the reign of the bootlegger who had previously owned his farm in the 1930s, forced out by the Dustbowl droughts of that era, Leopold takes us back to the 1920s. From 1929 when the stock markets crumpled to 1925 when Wisconsin saw the demise of the last marten to 1922 and the “Big Sleet” of March, that tore the limbs from the surrounding elms.

Further back, from 1910 to 1920, the oak continued to grow despite even as the Supreme Court abolished state forests in 1915. In 1910, “a great university president published a book on conservation (Charles Van Hise, University of Wisconsin-Madison), and then 4 years earlier (1906) when the first state forester took office not knowing state forests would be abolished not even a decade later. That same year, fires burned 17,000 acres of the sand counties.

The ring from 1899 was mute about the last passenger pigeon, which had “collided with a charge of shot near Babcock”, two counties to the north of Leopold. 1893 saw the year of “The Bluebird Storm” when a March blizzard killed nearly all of the migrating bluebirds.

february chickadee

Chickadee illustration by Charles W. Schwartz.

Then further back–1890–and the year of the Babcock Milk Tester and why Wisconsin is known as “America’s Dairyland” today. The previous year, a drought year in Wisconsin, was the year Arbor Day was first proclaimed. At the beginning of that decade, in 1881, the Wisconsin Agricultural Society debated the question: How do you account for the second growth of black oak timber that has sprung up all over the county in the last thirty years?

“My oak was one of these,” Leopold writes.

The decade of the 1870’s saw Wisconsin’s “carousal in wheat”. By the end of the decade, farmers realized that they had lost the game of “wheating the land to death.”

“I suspect that this farm played its share in the game,” Leopold writes, “and that the sand blow just north of my oak had its origin in over-wheating.”

1874 saw the arrival of the now ubiquitous factory-made barbed wire. Finally the rings have reached the center of the tree:

“Our saw now cuts the 1860’s,” writes Leopold, “when thousands died to settle the question: Is the man-man community lightly to be dismembered? They settled it, but they did not see, nor do we yet see, that the same question applies to the man-land community.”

The pith of the oak, 1865, is the year that John Muir offered to buy the home farm from his brother. Thirty miles east of Leopold’s oak, this land was a sanctuary for the wild flowers that had gladdened Muir’s youth. While his brother refused to sell the farm John, the dream remained, and as Leopold notes, “1865 still stands in Wisconsin history as the birthyear of mercy for things natural, wild, and free.”

february honey creek

A February day at Honey Creek on the Georgia salt marshes.

January

06 Sunday Jan 2019

Posted by victoriaperpetua in A Sand County Almanac, Aldo Leopold, Books, Earth, Ecology, Environment, Flora, Flowers, January, Macro photography, mushrooms, Nature, Photography, Winter

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A Sand County Almanac, Aldo Leopold, macrophotography, photography

The first section of A Sand County Almanac by Aldo Leopold is devoted to a month-by-month description of the natural world as the year passes in Wisconsin, a state located in the north-central part of the United States. Before I go more into that, though, I would like to draw your attention to a fellow writer’s blog, which captured what Aldo Leopold writes about in A Sand County Almanac.

The author of the Lif4Gd blog used a Gerard Manley Hopkins poem that captured this concept beautifully. See more here: Lif4Gd

I particularly liked this stanza:

What would the world be, once bereft    

Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,              

O let them be left, wildness and wet;               

Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

Back to January . . .

january1

Illustration from A Sand County Almanac by Charles W. Schwartz.

“Each year,” Leopold writes, “after the midwinter blizzards, there comes a night of thaw when the tinkle of dripping water is heard in the land. It brings strange stirrings, not only to creatures abed for the night, but to some who have been asleep for the winter. The hibernating skunk, curled up in his deep den, uncurls himself and ventures forth to prowl the wet world, dragging his belly in the snow. His track marks one of the earliest datable events in that cycle of beginnings and ceasings which we call a year.”

Living in the South, as I do, it is not the tinkle of melting snow that we hear, but the drip, drip, drop of a steady rain. Gone are the torrential downpours that have pelted us from May through October.

january2

Winter rains keep the bird bath filled.

Winter in the Savannah, particularly as the weather becomes more tropical by the year, is marked by three types of weather. It is either clear and cold, warm and wet, or grey and what I think of as Raynaud’s weather–neither warm enough not to worry about keeping my fingers warm nor cold enough that I have to wear my mittens. That means it is somewhere in the 50s (Fahrenheit) and I may or may not lose the feeling in my fingers.

Because we live in the south, we also experience things that only happen during warm winters–Painted Buntings perched on the bird feeder, Camellias about to burst into bloom, and the slow swelling of the Loquat fruit.

january3

Camellia buds

january4

Macro Camellia bud

january5

Loquats, which may or may not ripen this year because of our unusually cold November and December.

january6

A macro shot of a clathrus columnatus mushroom about to burst forth.

 

Next week: February

Nepenthé Nevermore

31 Sunday Jan 2016

Posted by victoriaperpetua in Cemetery, Edgar Allan Poe, Nevermore, Photography, Poetry, The Raven, Winter

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photography, Poetry

A relatively warm, if somewhat breezy, midwinter day beckoned Nevermore to another Savannah cemetery–Hillcrest. We arrived just as the sun was beginning to set, which offered us amazing shadows and some beautiful light to work with.

Nevermore and Mockingbird at Hillcrest Cemetery.

Nevermore and Mockingbird at Hillcrest Cemetery.

See more photos of our visit at my website here: Nevermore at Hillcrest

 

Mother Nature: 2; Forecasters: 0

07 Monday Apr 2014

Posted by victoriaperpetua in Animals, Hiking, history, Spring, Tennessee State Parks, Wildlife, Winter

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Rainy Trail of Tears

Rainy Trail of Tears

And weather, that is, inclement weather, wins again. Cold, windy and drizzly and some rain. Lousy writing-on-a-pad-of-paper weather, but I did it anyway. The drizzle at David Crockett State Park was heavy enough that I had to wear my rain jacket, and keep my phone and notepad protected with a bandana so I could write on it (though it stayed damp. Fortunately, the first trail I hiked in the park was historically interesting in that sections of it were part of the original Trail of Tears route. And, because of the drizzle, more wildlife was out than would have been on a sunny day. A female wild turkey tried to get away from me by scampering down the trail ahead of me. It finally dawned on her to take off into the woods. Fortunately, it was a one-way trail because by the time I was hiking the 2.5-miles back to the starting point, the drizzle had turned to light rain and I was glad I didn’t have to stop and take notes and GPS points.

In the afternoon, I drove to Mousetail Landing State Park, which turned out to have only one trail. I was definitely happy about that because by then it was both cold, windy and a bit drizzly. I looked at the barren hillside above the Tennessee River willing myself to just hike the trail and get it over with. Once I started, I was treated to a lovely hike–the drizzle subsided, the wind quieted and the path was a carpet of moss the entire two miles. The drizzle picked up again as I left the park, but it was no longer a problem. I definitely felt like I was being watched over.

Moss trail at Mousetail

Moss trail at Mousetail

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