Snow is a book

Walking in the crisp, glistening snow on a bright, clear, gloriously sunny day, the new snow revealed many fascinating stories for the careful observer to read.  Here a coyote dug for a mouse.  There a ring neck pheasant flew down to a clump of dry grass, hoping to find unshattered seeds to fill its hungry belly.  There three deer were wandering in search of a morsel of green sustenance beneath the snow's covering.  Over here a mouse emerged through a tiny hole, for a breath of fresh air, after tunneling for several yards beneath the soft snow. 

Yesterday, as my beloved and I walked the field near the pasture fence row we read the saga of a brave little ermine who went far afield in search of a meal and narrowly escaped becoming a meal.  The regularly spaced ermine tracks emerged from  beneath a snow drift surrounding a small clump of snowberry bushes in the fence row.  The little furry creature ventured a distance of well over fifty yards out into the barren field, apparently looking for unsuspecting rodents when, suddenly, out of the clear blue sky, a sharp-eyed hawk swooped down with outstretched wings scraping across the smooth snow, sending the soft white powder flying with its heavy body.  The little mustilid, with a mighty leap, narrowly escaped the sharp talons of its predator.  Following the terrified animal's escape route, we traced its long leaps through the deep snow as it fled back to the safety of its home beneath the fence row.  Safe, but still very hungry.  

Continuing down along the fence row, where clumps of tall, old, rugged maple willows with smooth red-brown twigs emerging from every healthy branch, hang over the fence row, we observed that a moose had meandered by, feeding on the nutritious tiny leaf buds just beginning to form at the ends of the twigs.  Though any telltale tracks had been obliterated by recent snowfalls, we knew it must have been a moose browsing rather than deer or elk because the buds were chewed off as high as seven to nine feet above ground level; too high for deer of elk to reach even by rearing up on their hind legs. 

I praise God for the fascinating stories concerning His creation that we have the privilege of reading.  Though His creatures are hidden from our eyes, yet we read, with clarity, their stories vividly told in the new fallen snow

Signs of Winter's Passing

In the Disney movie, "Bambi", the hungry little fawn moans, "Winter sure is long, isn't it mother?"  North of the 45th parallel, it does seem long even when unusually mild.  The signs of winter's passing are a welcome sight for those of us who prefer the warmth of summer's bright sun overhead and brown earth beneath our feet.  Great chunks of ice breaking off and gliding down the rushing river; black-headed, snow-white Mergansers paddling in the swift, icy, waters; tiny, soft, furry pussies just beginning to emerge from under their brown hoods on pinkish willow stems; green sprigs of herbaceous things pushing up from under the snowbanks; tree squirrels chattering as they skitter to safety high up in tall evergreens; chickadees singing "dee, dee, dee" in the willow maples; and the sun setting nearly an hour later than it did two months ago, are a few among the many signs God has given that He keeps His promise that spring will return.  

While many devour books written by men, I devour that which was written by God in his marvelous creation.  Observing the intricacies of the God-created order of the earth on which he has placed us is akin to watching a great artist unfolding his masterpiece.  As the poet Joyce Kilmer said, "Poems are written by fools like me, but only God can make a tree".   

Winter's Wonderland

Autumn scarcely had time to take it's last breath before Winter came close on it's heels, breathing icy flakes that blanketed the brightly colored leaves which mighty winds had strewn over dry grass and brown earth.   Yes, the climate above the 45th parallel is rapidly changing and totally unpredictable. 

Maple tree glorious in autumn dress.

Quaking aspen clothed in gold.

Grandad beside the wild rose bush along the fence row. Covered with red berries. 

Winter reflections in the river.

GIVING THANKS

In 1621, the Pilgrims celebrated  by feasting on their bountiful harvest, after the previous bitter winter which killed nearly half the population.  The gave thanks to God for preserving their lives and liberty.  According to Governor Bradford, the feast included  "a great store of wild Turkies".

November 1777, the First Thanksgiving Proclamation was issued by the Continental Congress.  It was authored by Samuel Adams from Boston.   It read, in part, "Forasmuch as it is the indispensable duty of all men to adore the superintending providence of Almighty God; to acknowledge with gratitude their obligation to him for benefits received - - together with penitnent confession of their sins, whereby they had forfeited every favor; and their humble and earnest suplications that it may please God through the merits of Jesus Christ, mercifully to forgive and blot them out of remembrance - - it is therefore recommended - to set apart Thursday the eighteeenth day of December next, for solemn thanksgiving and praise, that with one heart and one voice the good people may express the grateful feeling of their hearts and consecrate themselves to the service of their Divine Benefactor- -acknowledging with gratitude their obligations to Him for benefits received - -To prosper the means of religion, for the promotion and enlargement of that kingdom which consisteth 'in righteousness, peace and joy in the Holy Ghost'"

Oh, that America would turn back to the roots of our founding fathers' faith.

Farewell Gardens

With mixed emotions the author watched as the three large gardens were tilled for the season leaving only soft brown earth mixed with a few telltale traces of corn husks and potato and pumpkin vines where once productive gardens flourished through the summer.   In truth, the garden plants met their demise several weeks ago with the series of frosts that came too early this season.  Prior to that, most of the produce had been harvested, stored away and/or preserved to delight our palates during winter's dark, cold, stormy, months.  The last produce to be harvested was an abundant crop of large, red, boiling potatoes and huge, overgrown, baking potatoes, sufficient to feed a small family with one spud.   (Top photo: George Callihan displaying huge spuds. Bottom photo: Alyssa Kizer & Robert Callihan manhandling the sacks, George supervising, and Grandad Bob Callihan leaning on the shovel.)

I use the term "mixed emotions" because there is something esthetically pleasing and richly rewarding about watching the garden seeds, planted so carefully in springtime, sprout tiny plants which rapidly grow and flourish in the warmth of the summer sun.  Adding plenty of clean irrigation water from the well, they then produce an abundant crop of delicious, hearty, vegetables and fruits for the table.  No supermarket produce, regardless of how colorfully displayed, can begin to compare with the flavor of home-grown garden produce which goes immediately from garden to table, via hands of the country cook. 

On the other hand, a properly tended garden requires a great deal of hard physical labor.  The constant weeding, the trimming, the tying up vines, the harvesting, the transporting of produce from gardens to storage leaves one exhausted with many aches and pains of muscles and joints at the end of the day.  Thus, it is with a sigh of relief that the author watches the finality of the gardens' life - - - until next spring when the cycle begins once again. 

"While the earth remains, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease", says the Lord God, the Creator of Heaven and Earth. (Genesis 8:22).