sleep year day?

Gioachino Rossini would be celebrating his 57^th birthday today if he hadn’t died 152 years ago; and if you’re a fan of Gilbert and Sullivan you know about Frederick. Born in Leap Year on the 29^th of February and indentured till his 21^stbirthday, he found himself bound to be a pirate’s apprentice to the age of 84.

My local news reveals that seven such Leap Day babies were born today in Flint; no word on how many in Ann Arbor, but presumably as many as are born on February 28^th or March 1^st. Somehow it doesn’t strike us that way. We know about the Flint babies because someone

deer too drunk to leap?

considered it a photo op and made cute little Leap Day infant onesies for them, but I’ve already seen online comments suspecting a conspiracy. They haven’t said what kind yet, but they will. This is our human heritage: assemble two or three random facts, and draw wild conclusions. It’s harmless enough where birthdays are concerned, but then we apply it to everything from the political opinions of our erstwhile friends, to the spread of coronavirus. Could we please stop that?

The operetta ended happily; some of Rossini’s operas ended in tragedy, but some were happy, too. Let’s hope things work out well for the new crop of Leap Day babies.

This year the entire outdoors is suitably lacy for Valentine’s Day. The snow is piled artistically on every tree branch, the cardinals flit about like red paper hearts, and I spent some time in the kitchen making fudge for Doug. The three classical radio stations I listen to (interspersed, not all at once) have been playing Puccini arias, Brahms intermezzi, slow movements of Mozart, and other blissful romantica all day. The UPS man delivered a long, green florist box that opened to a dozen long-stemmed red roses.

I love all of it, but there’s something especially romantic to me about Valentine’s Day in the snow. Red roses are more special against the white winter of Michigan. In California they had to compete with spring in full sway, cherry and plum blossom, azalea, geranium, tulips – a banquet in a yard that never went hungry. But here came my roses, my box of roses, delivered by a figure booted and hatted against a temperature barely out of single digits. We’re halfway through winter, sledding into spring. Let’s enjoy the ride.

There is something very soothing in the call of owls at dusk, the long, smooth vowels like the flight of the owls themselves.

Wiki Owl

It’s not so soothing to be awakened at 5 a.m. by these same calls right outside the bedroom window. I don’t get out of bed at 5 a.m. to look, so I can only identify them by their voices. There are two voices, having a conversation. Their calls overlap a bit, as conversations may. Not speaking owl, I don’t know if they’re saying “how was your hunt?” or “let’s go to bed now, sweetheart,” or “this is my tree, get out.” My neighbor tells me it’s owl mating season, so probably one of the last two.

Doug found a nest of birdcalls to listen to on the internet some hours later, and reported back. Definitely Great Horned Owls, he said. None of the other owl files sounded anything like our morning owl alarm.

I wondered why owls are considered wise. In ancient Greece they were the symbol of Athena, goddess of wisdom; but are they wise through association with her, or are they associated with her because they were already considered wise? The internet was less help with this than it was with birdcalls. It offered circular arguments, and a claim that owls are assumed to be wise because they look old. But really, with those big, round eyes they look very child-like. And feathers don’t wrinkle. You want to see an old-looking bird, try a buzzard. No one claims buzzards are wise.

Cat as Owl

And now it strikes me, thinking of those big eyes, that owls are like cats. They can see at night; they will clear vermin from granaries without having to be trained or asked; and, apparently, they are noisy during mating season. Flying cats. Maybe not wise, but definitely cool.

Here’s the great thing about cleaning out closets: you find things. Things you thought you’d lost. Things you thought you threw away last time you cleaned out the closet. Things you didn’t know you had in the first place. True, it’s counterproductive to have all this missing stuff back in your universe exactly when you’re trying to thin it out; and yes, it means you are stopping, sitting down, inspecting, and losing momentum. But stopping and taking stock is a good idea in general; and when there’s a chance to turn an ordinary chore into a treasure hunt, so much the better.

Treasures I found include: Girl Scout camping gear from my daughter’s childhood; programs from operas; an interrupted crochet project; the list I made last year of excellent ideas for Christmas this year. Oops.

Among the things I couldn’t believe I still had: rotary telephones; manuals for long-vanished electronics; a fax machine (a fax machine!); and a twenty year old laptop, saved because I was warned tossing it meant some malefactor could recover my private information from its disc drive.

The laptop is now on Doug’s workbench, waiting for him to, I don’t know, maybe drive nails through it. Like killing a vampire. Though probably it’s sufficiently obsolete to have rendered my data irrecoverable on its own.

Two mess kits from the Girl Scout camping gear are on their way to my daughter. Not the latest in camping technology, but irreplaceable in sentimental value. I hope she and my grandson will make good use of them.

The Roman god Janus, the god of doors and gateways, of beginnings, transitions, passages, and ends, gives his name to January. As a god he languishes uncelebrated today, but he is with us in spirit: we write up events of the past year for our holiday greeting cards, and then we make resolutions for the year to come.

calling the bloom out of the bulb

Even if you don’t actually write out cards and resolutions, it feels natural that this would be the time for it. Sing about Old Acquaintance and choose a diet. List your family’s achievements over the last twelve months, and pick up your Marie Kondo. Eat the last of your frozen tomato sauce, and plan next summer’s garden.

I’m already deep into seed catalogs and I’m probably going to clean out some closets, but there’s a great deal of evidence that a more substantial new start needs to be made.

Add up all the plastic you used last year, and get some glass jars and tote bags instead. Think of people you believed were political idiots last year, and try to see the world through their eyes, which may cause vertigo, but maybe also conversations. Pick any of the ways the world’s been hurting in the last twelve months, and put some energy into healing it. Start anywhere.

Ring out the old, ring in the new.

One of the many fine things about living in Ann Arbor is getting to meet students from all over the world. It’s especially fun to invite them over for holiday dinners, and experience our typical events through a new filter. Most recently, we had guests from China.

One, a young woman, took out her phone as we came to the table, which at first I thought rude, but it turned out she wanted photos for her family back home. She documented the place settings, the turkey, and the centerpiece, causing me to take a second look at them. Yes, a 22-pound turkey’s pretty large; there were a darn lot of pieces of silverware at each plate; and those were certainly a mix of dead, dried hydrangeas and fresh chrysanthemums in the vase.

The reigning Greatest Holiday Dinner Hit for our guests over several events is cranberry relish, the kind with oranges and sugar, but not too sweet. I love the look on the face of a guest trying it for the first time: surprise, and then delight. Very like the first time I tasted a soup dumpling.

When the meal’s over we like to say, ok now, what part seemed the strangest to you? Pumpkin pie? Bread stuffing? In the case of our guests from China it was unanimous: the strangest thing was to serve a hot dessert with cold ice cream on top. So maybe we should say “American as pie a la mode.”

I’m pleased and grateful for these insights into things I take for granted. It’s only a very small step toward sympathy for other people’s points of view, but sympathy is in dire short supply these days. We need all of it that we can get.

I don’t swim, hate to get wet, and think palm trees look ridiculous. But I love mountains, flowers, waterfalls, local histories, and legends. Plus Hawaii was the only of the 50 states that I’d never visited. And the volcanoes sounded interesting. So when Doug had a meeting in Hawaii, I tagged along.

The place was so beautiful, you could be blindfolded and still take gorgeous pictures of it. Just wave your camera around and hit the shutter at random. Doug thought I’d be disappointed that there was no lava flowing, but ground that was hot underfoot, steam rising eerily out of it, — well, that was enough excitement for me. They say Pele, the Goddess of Volcanos, goes where she wants, and when she does there’s nothing for it but to get out of her way. She is the hot red flowing lava; she created the chain of islands that are the State of Hawaii today. She fights with the Rainforest God, and they barge in on each other all the time. I could see all around me that this was true.

These are some of the details at the heart and history of the Hawaiian people, and I don’t know nearly enough of their traditions to treat them properly. But look at us – look at people: no fur, no fangs, no claws. We wouldn’t have survived anywhere except in a climate like Hawaii’s, however far away it was from Pele’s islands: comfortable day and night all year long; fur not necessary; food falling from the trees. But it was only after we learned to handle fire and make clothes and tools and canoes and spread all over the world, that people made it to Hawaii, finding again the conditions that gave us all our start.

Birds are passing through Ann Arbor on their way to summer elsewhere, and the yard is sporadically full of songs I don’t usually hear. A frost was predicted for last night, so I gathered what was left to gather in the garden and brought it inside. The frost didn’t come, but even so, it’s interesting to see how different plants react to the slacking of the light: the zinnias and cosmos carry on, while the tomatoes have decided that’s enough for one season. Trees are starting to turn; the sugar maple brings on its famous red-gold slowly, from the top down.

Burning Bush Deer Topiary

One of the most beautiful color-turners around here is the burning bush, with a glow that bursts through even stormy days. I have several burning bushes in my yard, clearly planted deliberately, long ago, as landscaping elements. In some parts of the country they’re considered invasive, and I’m sure they would like to be invasive here, but the deer won’t let them. The large, older bushes date from a time before the deer population was out of control, but have now been deer topiaried to look like enormous, leggy bonsai. Any little sprouting ones that pop up get nipped down to nothing. I’ve been told they’re poisonous, but no one told the deer. It’s nice to see the deer being useful.

The frost didn’t come, but it’s only a matter of days till it does.

bird snacks

Harvest is over, and cleanup has begun. And then more planting: one hundred more narcissus bulbs will go out in the yard, and a few dozen tulips will flourish beyond reach of browsing deer, inside the garden fence. And then we all get a well-deserved rest. Except for the migrating birds, who have a long trip ahead of them. Feed well on the seedheads I’ve left standing for you, birds. Buen viajes on your way south and I’ll see you in April.

A chipmunk got into the garage today, and thence into the house. I can’t say for certain whether Zerlina brought him in or chased him in, but by the time I was aware of him she was in hot pursuit.

Oh great, I thought. I’ve brought in all the tomatoes, so the chipmunk has come inside to dine on them.

A mouse that gets under a bookshelf will hide for a while, but eventually will come out for food or water, and the cat on stake-out will pounce. But experience shows that a chipmunk, freaked out by finding itself in a living room, will stay under the furniture

do I look like I care?

until it dies. This causes Zerlina to lose interest, so we have to locate the moldering critter and dispose of it ourselves. Therefore when a chipmunk gets in, we wait until Zerlina inevitably corners it in the living room, close the living room doors with the protesting cat on the other side of them, arm ourselves with a broom, and open wide the doors from living room to the deck. Some chipmunks seize opportunity when first it knocks; others need encouragement, which is what the broom is for. This was a brighter than average chipmunk and made for the door right away, though it chose to squeak through the crack between door and doorjamb, rather than the big wide open space.

Considering the damage chipmunks do in my garden, I was not full of tender regard for this one. I wouldn’t have wept if Zerlina had killed it, but I wasn’t up to doing the job myself. Zerlina, my hench-cat, taking on the burdens for which nature has prepared you, here is my gratitude: a handful of kitty treats; a scratch behind the ears; ten thousand years’ accumulation of civilized respect.

Zerlina’s point of view is here.

This is not a metaphor or hyperbole or anything like that. No. I know there are more critters than you can shake a stick at in my yard, because I’ve tried it. Shaking sticks, fists, and random gardening tools in the front yard causes the deer, squirrels, woodchucks, chipmunks, and rabbits to run to the back, which causes the critters already in back to run around to the front.

wikipedia chipmunk; mine’s too fast for photos

The new pair of juvenile eagles haven’t discovered the joys of sitting around for hours on my fence and deck posts the way last year’s did. This has emboldened the earthbound deer, rabbits, and woodchucks to tramp on my flowerbeds, and the aeronautical squirrels and chipmunks to invade my barricaded tomatoes.

The chipmunks, if they’re having a world-weary day and not in the mood for climbing and jumping, run right up to the chickenwire, say some magic chipmunk word, and materialize on the other side. You may think they squeeze through, but I never see them do it. I see them run up to the fence and then suddenly there they are inside it, on their way to rip the critterproof netting over the tomatoes. My best defense turns out to be a nose-irritating spray

hole in the chew-proof netting

that keeps them from staying in the garden long enough to bite through the netting. It’s very satisfying to see them run in, turn around, and run out again, foodlessly.

And yet, they are cute, and they’re just trying to live. They have a libertarian attitude to private property: every critter for himself. Herself. Itself. They fight each other tooth and nail for seeds, nuts, possession of my deck. Chipmunks know nothing of government being instituted to secure everyone’s rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Unlike us.

 
But what does the cat say? Read it here.