April Moon and other thoughts

If it weren't for the bloom of daffodils in the yards, I would swear that this was November, cold damp chill, leaden skys, a curious glimpse of sun, occasionally casts a long shadow, but quickly is covered by dense clouds. Waking up to snow, thought it is not unusual here, now seems to be the norm. The wind howls down the chimney.

But the calendar says April, there are a few struggling buds, and clown over daffodils and jonquils, all of which have been planted here long enough to have seen worse. The garden still to muddy to dig.
The April full moon has, many names, at present my favorite is the Mud Moon, but it is also known as the Egg moon, and the Grass Moon and even the Robin Moon. Because of the moisture in the atmosphere at this time of year, the moon can take on a pink, or lilac haze and so it is sometime known by the lovely name of Full pink Moon.

I have always liked this poem by Robert Frost. Not only because it is a poem about the changeability of Spring weather, it is about the joy of doing the the work you love and loving the work you do.

TWO TRAMPS IN MUD TIME

Out of the mud two strangers came
And caught me splitting wood in the yard,
And one of them put me off my aim
By hailing cheerily "Hit them hard!"
I knew pretty well why he had dropped behind
And let the other go on a way.
I knew pretty well what he had in mind:
He wanted to take my job for pay.

Good blocks of oak it was I split,
As large around as the chopping block;
And every piece I squarely hit
Fell splinterless as a cloven rock.
The blows that a life of self-control
Spares to strike for the common good,
That day, giving a loose my soul,
I spent on the unimportant wood.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You're one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you're two months back in the middle of March.

A bluebird comes tenderly up to alight
And turns to the wind to unruffle a plume,
His song so pitched as not to excite
A single flower as yet to bloom.
It is snowing a flake; and he half knew
Winter was only playing possum.
Except in color he isn't blue,
But he wouldn't advise a thing to blossom.

The water for which we may have to look
In summertime with a witching wand,
In every wheelrut's now a brook,
In every print of a hoof a pond.
Be glad of water, but don't forget
The lurking frost in the earth beneath
That will steal forth after the sun is set
And show on the water its crystal teeth.

The time when most I loved my task
The two must make me love it more
By coming with what they came to ask.
You'd think I never had felt before
The weight of an ax-head poised aloft,
The grip of earth on outspread feet,
The life of muscles rocking soft
And smooth and moist in vernal heat.

Out of the wood two hulking tramps
(From sleeping God knows where last night,
But not long since in the lumber camps).
They thought all chopping was theirs of right.
Men of the woods and lumberjacks,
The judged me by their appropriate tool.
Except as a fellow handled an ax
They had no way of knowing a fool.

Nothing on either side was said.
They knew they had but to stay their stay
And all their logic would fill my head:
As that I had no right to play
With what was another man's work for gain.
My right might be love but theirs was need.
And where the two exist in twain
Theirs was the better right--agreed.

But yield who will to their separation,
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes make one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future's sakes.

A few words from Ivy

Ivy just didn't want to get out of bed, It was so cozy under her quilt, ragged as it was getting, it held the memories of all the shirts and dresses she had made over the years. And the batting wasn't . batting but a folded flannel blanket that belonged to her Grandmother. The light shown in through her window, the sky was cloudless finally after several days of light snow, and a few birds were bravely singing their love songs.
Ivy snuggled under the covers again, but by now she was awake, and coffee was sounding very good.
It wasn't unusual for there to be snow in April, the year that Will bought the Chevy pick-up, there was 8 inches of snow on April 11th. Back then there was always something going on, the kitchen bustled with comings and goings. With the making of the leek sausage from the last of the venison, always had leek sausage at Easter time. Will would bring home sacks of leeks, watercress, wild asparagus, tree mushrooms and fiddlehead ferns and whatever else he could find. But after many years she had grown used to the house being so quiet.

The coffee was ready, and leasurly drank it while she looked out the window at her frozen garden and searched for the first signs of daffodils. Even the snowdrops were not blooming yet. Picking up her copy of "Martha Stewart Living" Ivy mumbled "I hope I look as good as you do at 70, ole girl!" as she lifted the cover off the cage she said "Right, Mr. Chips?"
The sofa looked so inviting, but she chose the chair near the window, and settled in to read.

Ivy awoke with a jolt, her magazine thudded on the floor, Mr Chips was chirping happily away, and she could hear a vehicle pulling out of the driveway. After she was sure that no one would see her in her panamas, she went opened the inside door and picked up the pot of miniature daffodils. "Who would...her voice drifted off, as she read the card...."I know you would rather have a plant than live flowers."
Ivy stood there in the sun porch, pot of daffodil in her hand. Picked up the glass egg from its perch on the windowsill and walked back into the house closing the door behind her.

my day

It was finally warm today, warm enough to be relished, warm enough to just sit on the steps and listen to the birds and the peepers, the sweet voices of spring. Peepers singing from the marsh down near the railroad tracks, their throats billow with each chirp, I have gone into the woods following their fairy bell song, but they see me coming, and go silent, only once did I ever get to see on singing.


And of course the leeks, those pungent little members of the garlic family, "ya love
'em or ya hate 'em" sometimes you even look forward to them. I put them to soak , changing the water often, and raked up winters litter of sticks and pine cones.
Once I had finished my raking for the day, sat on the steps and enjoyed the warmth and chorus of spring songs, set to work trimming and cleaning the leeks.



The miniature daffs rescued from the grocery stores garbage, who repay me each year with their cheerful color.
The flowering quince, who's blooms will attacked the first hummingbirds.
And the crocus, that were here before I got here, and will be here I hope long after I am gone.

Spring's small voice calls

They are calling my name. And I can't resist any longer, I don't need to resist any longer, because the snow has melted, and may-be it won't be back for months, or may-be not.
My shovel and my rake, and my hoe. my wheelbarrow, all standing propped up along the garage wall, since the large wooden box they were kept in got turned into a smokehouse, getting ready to say our prayer of thanksgiving that winter is finally over.
Waiting to rake up the pine cones and branches the squirrels had cut, the twigs and limbs that the wind and snows had brought down. Waiting to rake over the flowerbeds and plant new seeds.
Waiting to turn that first shovel of earth and to spread the compost of a winter's worth parings and peelings, eggshells and trimmings. And waiting to say that first thanksgiving, for these days we don't need to pray for good crops, we back yard gardeners will not starve if they fail, but that is no reason not to be grateful for the end of winter.

'to remember me that it won't be long'

the next day dawned cold and sunny
the power was on too

the branches made a musical clatter when the wind rushed through them

the ice underfoot crunched

the late March sun melted the ice into what sounded like a rainshower in the woods

the tress were sparkling


I was spellbound

a thousand pictures and a million words could not do this day justice

wish you were here

and in a very short time it was gone

the lights go out

It rained, rain
it iced, ice
it blew,wind
then it snowed. snow!!!

then the power went out
then the phone went out
then...I went to bed

I stumbled up the steps and smacked into the door frame, I should have turned on the flashlight, but, I was conserving batteries, because out here you never know how long a outage will last.
That is why I have an electric cook stove, and electric clocks.
Errrrr, no that can't be right.
Curled up under the flannel sheets and quilt and Mexican wool blanket, there in the dim light from outside I drifted off into a peaceful world of dreams.

Woke as usual, right before 7, but the house was still dark and sleet was tapping on the windows, and still no power.
The perfect excuse to enjoy and Coke and cookies for breakfast. Coke and cookies by candlelight,
what more could I ask for.

It is almost normal for the power to go out here, and when I get tired of playing "olden days" I can just go out and start the generator. But I usually don't, unless the outage goes on long enough for me to be concerned about the freezer thawing out.

I love the silence, it is awesomely powerful. Living so near a major road, people keep asking if the traffic noise bothers us. Quite simply it is just background noise, and there really isn't that much traffic to hear. However when there is little or no traffic, I do notice it's absence.

But thIs morning was muted, in color and in sound. And I was in no hurry for the power to come back on.

Howling at the supermoon

taken early Thursday evening,
"Halo round the sun or moon.."