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The fiery colors of the maples never materialized, but in November the yellows of the beeches and the russet leaves of the oaks gave the lingering summer a mellow closure.  A few half-hearted frosts killed off what remained of the garden vegetables and I harvested a large bowl of habaneros, maybe 8 or 10 orange, but a score or two still green.  And pulled a few premature parsnips to fashion an earthy hot sauce from them.  (I also belatedly dug a row of potatoes that I'd neglected to get out earlier.)

Porter went off to Washington, D.C.  with his class on a four-day field trip to have his head dunked in American patriotism.  Nico continued his easy way through the 5th grade, charming and challenging his teachers.  Monica complained that we work too much and don't travel enough.

At work we scrambled to wrap up research and put together video on three different projects -- and the others scattered -- A. to Washington, J. to Los Angeles.  I wrapped up what I could on our project about oil conservation, and on the 16th I dropped the boys at school and drove north to Montreal for the American Anthropological Association meetings -- a 6 hour drive.  I had an audio reading of a Tony Hillerman novel, Listening Woman, to speed the time.  It was an odd juxtaposition: vivid descriptions of Navajo country as I wended through the flood-battered valleys of Vermont.  I stopped in Waterbury for lunch.  The damage from the summer storms seemed to accentuate the poverty that is never perfectly concealed beneath white paint and stoic perseverance.  

Montreal, when I got there, was gloomy though it bustled with a vaguely European, cosmopolitan energy.  The tent city of Occupy Montreal was clustered in a narrow park, the bronze statue festooned with graffiti and a Guy Fawkes mask.  Young people in dark coats called to each other in French.

The conference center was exactly like an airport without planes or pat-downs.  Escalators lift you up and away from the ground-level shopping mall to a grid-work of little conference rooms.  And there, from midday Wednesday to Sunday, at any given moment three dozen papers were being read, ethnographic films were being shown, poster sessions being held; job interviews were taking place, business meetings held for journals, interest groups, and so on -- and of course everyone was meeting and talking.  It's a teeming anthill of anthropology.


So I ate and drank and talked, caught up with old friends, made new friends, sat in little rooms parsing the arcane jargon of the discipline.  Ate more, drank more, walked in the city, talked more and listened. On Sunday morning, the 20th, after I'd met a woman for breakfast and discussed cultural models of energy over croissants, coffee and cheese, I gathered up my gear and drove back out into the rain.


When the wet highways had gotten me away from Montreal, I left them for the flat byways of southern Quebec, then along Lake Champlain and up and across the Adirondacks through a damp fog.  Had lunch at the Blue Moon Cafe in Saranac.  Again, Tony Hillerman was playing as a strange distraction to shove time along.


I spent Monday and Tuesday at Lake Como -- at the cottage, which is becoming sadly run down.  Leaks in the roof and around the window sashes are spreading rot and the old concrete foundation continues to erode away beneath it all.  And the water in front of the house has gradually silted in where the current brings down material from the swampy upper lake.  When we spent summers up there as kids it was always a major project to clear out the muck and the beaver sticks -- I remember filling canoe-loads of gunk and weeds to haul aside.  The smell of methane and the rubbery feel of the occasional leech between thumb and forefinger if you happened to notice a one before it made off with its booty of blood.


No swimming this time of year, of course -- even the beavers seemed done.  They had cleared out a couple dozen large trees -- mostly aspen, birch and maple, taking the tops, and leaving us the trunks to cut and split for next year's firewood.  The wellstone was covered in chips where they'd trimmed their loads before dragging them down through the yard and over to the lodge.  They'd stolen a third of the big blueberry bush in the yard and added it to their store.


On my way out Tuesday I went over the property that my sisters, cousins and I own, because a neighbor had said the gate-cable was down.  There's an austere beauty to the Poconos this time of year. The vegetation has lost its leaves and died back, so the land is open, but not yet leveled or grayed by the winter snows.  A neighbor had put the cable back up, and I walked into the woods a ways to see if there was any sign of vehicles having trespassed, but there was nothing.  The old hunting shack was still there, slowly falling down as always.  The apple trees held no late apples and if any had fallen creatures had long ago taken them.  I had no orange to wear, so I wouldn't walk any further into the woods at the height of a Pennsylvania deer season.


The family gathers at my parent's house in Mt. Gretna for the Thanksgiving holidays -- where we cook and eat and clean up and eat again.  And pretty much keep eating.  But with breaks in between.  Dad put Porter to work paying off his iPhone debts -- hauling wood, raking leaves. There was an expedition to Lititz for boxes of chocolate (for holiday distribution); a roadside meeting with my cousin Scott to buy half a beef - and then the divvying of that between my sister and I; there were football games to watch and a football to throw around; a box of grandma's old letters to sort through; chainsaw work to clear the fallen oak crowns that storms brought down.   Those same storms had swept away a bridge that crossed the creek and left it a hundred yards downstream in a tangle of detritus.   One end was buried two feet deep in a bank of sand and gravel, so Dad, Porter, Eric, Fred and I spent a couple of hours excavating it (re-channeling part of the stream to do so) and levering it into a new position.  We'll see if the stream chooses to leave it there.


Saturday, after a final noontime feast, Monica and the boys headed back to Rhode Island, so Porter and Nico would have time to work on a couple of big school projects that had deadlines closing in.  On Sunday morning I headed out as well -- taking the northern route past Scranton and Danbury to avoid the worst of the traffic.  And after 6 hours behind the wheel it was good to be home.

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Via Rumproast:



And because Sally wanted the sentiments in classic limerick form . . . 


Oh this story of Wall Street wankers,
This passel of fuckshite bankers
They took all our money
And said, "What’cha honey!
Yer don’ even bother to thank us?”

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Friday night was the "spooky nature trail" at the nature center.  The path, flicker-lit by jack-o-lanterns, winds through dark and breezy woods  among us pirates, monsters, witches and wizards.  Nico this year was off at a birthday party, but Monica and Porter and I volunteered as actors once again.  She was dressed as Professor McGonagall, and walked the trails as a benign presence, making sure the pumpkins stayed lit.  I donned some wizardly gear - a purple robe, green skullcap, and a staff wrapped in purple and gold rags with a light dangling from it's grip.  Porter wrapped himself in my old gray swiss army cape.


We found a deserted stretch of woods between the great spiderweb maze at the edge of the meadow and a mixed witch and pirate pair further down the trail.  We could hear other pirate girls staging their swordfights on the wooden bridge behind the rocky ridge.  We're not given any script, but just expected to be spooky (but not too scary for the littlest kids) and/or entertaining.


Porter and I improvised a little schtick where he would huddle like a gray rock under his cape, then loom up and block the trail as some kind of hostile stone troll - to gasps or shrieks often enough.  Then I would emerge from hiding, yelling and brandishing my staff to drive him off.  When we'd scared some kids, I asked them if I should turn the troll back into a stone, "because I am a wizard of these woods, after all!"  and they all thought that was a great idea.  So thrusting my lit-up staff at the chest of the troll, I would turn him "back to the stone from whence he came!"  Porter, whose gangliness is hidden by the cape would spin and drop to the ground as a small boulder, nearly indistinguishable from the granite rocks all around.  Then I would usher the walkers politely around the corner entreating them to beware of the pirates that were infesting the forest.


It was a fun piece of improvisation, and never quite the same twice.  Sometimes the troll dodged my first spells; sometimes the stone came back to life.  A young astronaut helped out with a nerf gun that had a turn-to-stone setting.  One pre-teen who shrieked had to be restrained by her friends from beating the poor troll with a tree branch.  Sometimes I was a wizard who'd misplaced my troll, and could they let me know if they came across him.


Afterwards, as I was salving a parched throat with cider, I was thinking about conversations I'd had with friends lately about art and entertainment.  The "Occupy Wall Street" protests have been encouraging many people to think about ways to extricate themselves from the powerful financial and cultural institutions that seem to dominate us, and who seem not to have our interests at heart.  Withholding your money from the banks; withholding your obedience from the state; perhaps cutting the cable and withholding your attention from the television?


My grandmother and her sisters kept diaries in the 1920's and 30's, and reading them I have been struck by how much visiting they did -- despite the fact that traveling 5 or 10 miles during a Pennsylvania winter was no simple task.  I think there was often work involved, but there were also their own forms of entertainment and fellowship.  They were all well-read, and they memorized poetry and did recitations and music.  50 years later she could still rattle off silly, humorous poems to entertain her grandchildren.


There's a tremendous amount of effort put into making us passive consumers of entertainment - partly through the admittedly high quality of much professional production, but also by the marginalization and even mockery leveled at the amateur.  I'm no professional actor, but I'm capable of entertaining a stream of children and adults who are in good spirits and are willing to be pleased on their whimsical walk through the spooky nature trail.  If the Viacoms and Disneys and Time-Warners of the world are going to continue to throw their lot in with greed and cultural destructiveness, I for one am perfectly happy to fall back on the talents and good nature of the people around me -- where hidden talents lurk.

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The season's first snow is melting on the parsnip leaves.  More nights of this and they'll soon be ready to roust out and roast.

I put a cold frame over the harbenero to see if I could nurse another week's ripening for the chilis.  Probably too little too late, since the smaller leaves had already blackened in the cold nights.    I've chopped a dozen or so orange peppers from the volatile plant - which burned and smudged the fingerprints of my left hand.  But there are still a couple score green peppers that I'll have to figure out what to do with.  Create some vicious condiment that is not quite poisonous, I hope.

And certainly, the storm put an end to the beans.  They are Jacob's Cattle beans whose seed I'd let get damp, so I planted them very late on the chance that there was enough time to have them mature.  They stopped plumping in the weak autumn sun, so the result is over-mature string beans.  Still, there might be few pounds to shell, and maybe I can make a meal of some sort.

I've been ignoring the fact there is still a short row of potatoes that I never dug up.  Green Mountains, I think.

It's all an experiment this year.  (Of course, according to gardeners it's an experiment every year until you die or stop planting.)

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The cat

wants to play

with

the cavy.

_

So the tear gas came out last night in Oakland.  And billy clubs, flash grenades and "beanbags" if not rubber bullets.  Municipal paramilitaries around the country spent the rich years loading up on SWAT teams and riot control gear, and even if the Arab raids or Mexican roundups never quite materialized, well thank Ares for Wall Street's hubristic nobles and Main Street's disaffected youth.

The powers that be have begun to move against demonstrations in Atlanta, Boston, Oakland and doubtless other places.  They claim that "laws were being broken" that there were "reports of violence."  Or just that the damned hippies were attracting rats.

Now the question is, whether Americans really believe that the systems of law and democracy have been so destroyed by money and corruption that it is legitimate to disobey the law and spit at the ballot box.  To me there's no question.  Both political parties have been corrupted beyond any ability to look after the common good, and the Law just as often seeks to secure injustice as it does justice.  American's belief that they live in a meritocratic society is being openly flouted like never before.

Fox News and its many imitators have been amazingly adroit at channeling populist anger into a divisive, corporatist agenda, but it remains to be seen whether the people witnessing this current rash of populism are as eager to be conned as the typical Fox viewer.

Nevertheless, there's the rampant dementia of the Republican Party.  So as a parting shot, giving credence to the old adage that when fascism comes to America it will come wrapped in the flag and carrying a cross, here's a nice disturbing video.  "I want to follow a leader - a leader who follows Jesus . . . 

via Slacktivist

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In the woodstove, steam hissed from the ends of burning logs.  A reddish, armored centipede whipped along the length of one.  Misled by a hundred million years of evolution, it searched desperately for a crevasse to hide itself within.  In and back out.  Then out of the smoke and flames it tumbled from the firebox onto the stove's front ledge.  But instead of heading for open safety, it drove its sinuous body back under the rim of the stove's hot door.  And there it died, true to the imperatives of instinct. 

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The fiction I've been reading lately has been brain candy - space opera and Patrick O'Brien's sea-faring novels.  But a friend had urged Donald Ray Pollack's new novel, The Devil All the Time.  Its knotted tapestry of murder, rape, religious madness and boondockish ignorance is grueling, (like re-reading The Painted Bird, with the trek across 1950's and 60's Ohio and West Virginia rather than war-twisted Poland).  The book is all masterfully done and utterly convincing, but I reacted with my usual defensiveness toward authors who focus on the sick and twisted - who don't seem to have the skill for giving a fuller portrait of what human society is like.


But in honesty I thought about northeastern Pennsylvania - the shaggy woods and hills around Galilee, Damascus and Rileyville.  And how if you gathered the local tragedies, the murders and madness across those mid-century decades, you could distill just such a tale.  It wouldn't be the full story of the place; it wouldn't be the only story; but it would be a true story.  And terrible as it is, The Devil All the Time, feels like a true story.

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Two new kittens have moved in -- the gray one, Haru, and the younger black one, who hasn't settled on a name yet.  Our grumpy old cat, Chloe, just as she did when Wilbur arrived, moved outside for a week.  But now it's been raining and she can be spotted once in a while slinking by or growling menacingly at one of the kittens.


We've considered Aye-Aye, Snowball, Cole, Kaboodle, Ash, Gatico, or Steve.


Anyone have any good name suggestions?


UPDATE:  


Prince Haru's name has stuck.
Porter wanted to name the black one Medallion (for a white spot on his throat) and the rest of us accommodated that by calling him Leon.


So, welcome to Haru and Leon.

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The summer's hurricane whipped up enough salt from the waves that down toward the coast leaves turned prematurely crisp, and they fell like little brown scrolls in August.  Here we are six miles inland, and the trees only looked a bit discouraged.  But the autumn's warmish, damp weather, hard rains, and now a few days of blustery wind seem to be stripping trees even as they break into color.  So the fall forests are only gorgeous rather than mind-boggling.

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My brain is still all jellied from our current mind-melting pace.  The report on jobs quality was quality work and has gone out as a draft, but some reports on race, media and Black male achievement have come back to be synthesized and summarized.  The analysis on communicating sustainable food policy has been ricocheting around the virtual office (Manhattan, Berkeley, Maryland, Rhode Island) and growing tattered and bruised in the process, but the paper's due tomorrow and I'm still scratching out some internet surveys to settle a hundred nagging nuances.  Good, robust findings still rattling into final shape.  And all along I had planned to be out video-taping confirmatory interviews on the labor research with some taxation work piggy-backed on it.  But that'll have to wait to the weekend . . . .

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Like dishes in the sink, half-imagined blog entries can stack up, get rotten, begin to smell, and finally just make the kitchen a depressing place to be avoided.  Fortunately, unlike dirty dishes, half-imagined blog entries can just be swept away like a pile of paper plates.  So I won't write about the hurricane's snapped oaks and the flies that swarmed upon them.  Or our 5 days of house camping after Irene passed through, camp stoves and candles.  You won't hear about the Red Portage potatoes or why I had to replant a late crop of Jacob Cattle beans.  I won't discuss the boys' meander through the end of summer, Monica's days at camp, or Patti's visit from Japan.  My outrage and weariness with U.S. politics, our dysfunctional news media, my sense of being in a country steering toward the rocks -- all that swept into the bin.  Because otherwise I'd never start writing again.


A big part of my neglect of this blog has been due to work.  There's our usual pattern of laying the groundwork for a research project, conducting the research, reading and analyzing the data, re-tooling the research, drawing our conclusions, and writing up our reports.  Normally there is a fair amount of filler in those work-hours: administrative work, back burner issues of company infrastructure, and so on.  But in this late summer we have 4 distinct projects all coincidentally in full flood of research and analysis.  And we shift between them all the time.  One of the big labor unions has us working on how to frame the idea of unionizing in new ways.  For a science advocacy organization we're working on communicating about the importance of regional food systems for sustainability and loosening the hold of agribusiness.  We're analyzing the mediascape for a coalition that wants people to understand better the importance of improving job benefits and maintaining job quality even in hard times.  And finally we're working on how to talk to Americans about raising taxes rather than just hacking away at budgets.  They're all difficult and complex challenges, and haven't left much creative energy for blogging away.


So I'll just post a picture of a happy Nico to please the family relations, and start getting back to it.

A dapper bumblebee works the flox.

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The stock market took another stumble downward yesterday.  The press attributed it to a struggling global economy and especially the "debt crisis" in Europe.  But there is an idea that is being seriously discussed in parts of the blogosphere, but which gets no mention in any mainstream press at all.  The idea is that the world economic system as we know it is about to violently shake apart, because it is absolutely not designed to survive a contraction in the Global Economy.

Most people don't understand that economic growth is not just a happy by-product of our current capitalistic system, it is the crucial underlying ingredient.  To the extent that any of our wealth is counted in dollars or yen or euros - as opposed to beans or goats or clean shirts - the "value" is only and solely determined by what other people are willing to believe it is worth.  So far, fine, that's basic market economics.  But we have taken things one step further and built our economy of value on what we think things are going to be worth in the future.  If we think there is going to be more wealth in the future, then it makes sense to invest your money in something that will return your capital plus a bonus - or if there isn't a clear investment opportunity handy, to lend it to someone who can invest it.  You eventually get back your capital plus a bonus.  In fact those loans themselves, that empty spot in your wallet, since they are supposed to gather the bonus to itself, become valuable things themselves, to be sold or used as collateral to borrow more money to create more debt, more bets on the future.

However, if there is no growth, if there is stagnation or contraction, then those interest-accruing debts become burdens, whose value is shrinking rather than growing.  Investments become losses.   A stock market loss of 5% means that trillions of dollars in wealth that people thought they had - just vanished.  Next week trillions more may disappear.  

The main difference between the mass media and the blogosphere is that the mass media (which are all embedded in vast multi-national corporations wedded to the status quo) speak as though perpetual economic growth can be regained and sustained.  In the blogosphere you hear serious and well-articulated doubts.  Many economists and environmentalists have tried for decades to point out that our system wasn't sustainable over the long term - that physical and environmental limits (or just incompetence) would eventually bring growth to an end.

But the coming decline in fossil fuel accessibility could itself bring an end to growth.  So to could the disruptions of climate destabilization or the acidification of the oceans.  Even an expansion of unrest among the poor and dispossessed of the world could be enough to put an end to growth.  Because, when the fall of global finance happens, a vast amount of imagined wealth is going to go with it - and people are not going to have the things they thought they did.

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Mosquitoes have been rare this dryish Autumn.  Maybe they are around, but harried by the bats, swifts, dragonflies, swallows, robber flies and so on that dive and zig through the airspace.  And then there are the frogs, toads and snakes that hunt in the grass.  


It is grasshoppers, katydids and their kin seem to be ascendant at the moment.  I saw the garden spider among the herbs binding a good-sized brown one, but that can't put a dent in the population - (nor will the blister beetles at least for now) - and besides I think the wasps have been thinning out the spiders.  A few years ago I found coyote scat in the yard and it was entirely the casings of grasshoppers.  I hear the coyotes in the night, and something has been making off with the mouse carcasses we toss out, so maybe they are visiting and gorging themselves again.  For now, every stride in the yard is a splash of fleeing hoppers.

She feasts on a large, leaf-shaped katydid

We could eat them ourselves I know, but I'm not going to.  It's a very human thing to carve out a category, "food" from within the larger category of edible things - and until I'm a great deal hungrier than I am now, insects aren't food.  When we get chickens they can eat bugs and transform them into eggs for us.

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Porter was gone for all of July, 

off among the extended family in Pennsylvania and Maryland.  

He's back now.  With a voice an octave lower.

Iced Coffee on the front step.

Because it's August.

       

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I'm no orchardist yet.

But the peach crop increased fivefold.

From two peaches to ten.

One of the hard things to do in life

is to actually be in the moment.

To slow down and be.

But watch a peach 

grow from bud

to flower

to green marble

to vulnerable, unlikely fruit.

Steal it before the others can.

When you taste the wet flesh,

and chew the tart, berry-like skin,

and the rough, jagged stone grates against your teeth,

how can you not be in the that moment?

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A male Reddish-Brown Stag beetle (lucanus capreolus), 

picked up by Porter on the walk.

Harmless enough . . . 

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Since the early 1950's the Metz Family Reunion has been taking place at Brown's farm in Airydale, Pennsylvania.  This Saturday was the latest gathering, and here are a few pictures and some video of the barn dance.

My great grandfather, Samuel Metz had 12 brothers and sisters.  It's the clans that have descended from them who have returned here every July for the past 60 years.

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brachonid wasps and hornworms

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Garden Blogging

Here's a beautiful thing.  

A small hornworm with its burden of pupating wasps

A larger caterpillar climbs a squash stalk

The parasitic brachonid wasp (cotesia congregatus) uses its long ovipositor to lay eggs inside the body of the tomato hornworm.  When these hatch, they eat the innards of the hornworm before burrowing out and pupating in cocoons attached to the dying caterpillar.

All the gardeners say to leave such caterpillars be, since these wasps are the best ally you've got against the beasts.

I think people who use insecticides miss half the fun of gardening.