Bill Felker

Host - Poor Will's Almanack

Bill Felker has been writing nature columns and almanacs for regional and national publications since 1984. His Poor Will’s Almanack has appeared as an annual publication since 2003. His organization of weather patterns and phenology (what happens when in nature) offers a unique structure for understanding the repeating rhythms of the year.

Exploring everything from animal husbandry to phenology, Felker has become well known to farmers as well as urban readers throughout the country.  He is an occasional speaker on the environment at nature centers, churches and universities, and he has presented papers related to almanacking at academic conferences, as well. Felker has received three awards for his almanac writing from the Ohio Newspaper Association. "Better writing cannot be found in America's biggest papers," stated the judge on the occasion of Felker’s award in 2000.

Currently, Bill Felker lives with his wife in Yellow Springs, Ohio. He has two daughters, Jeni, who is a psychologist in Portland, Oregon, and Neysa, a photographer in Spoleto, Italy.

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Ryan Dingman / Flickr Creative Commons

Summer solstice is history  now, and on June 23rd, the sun begins its six-month descent to winter solstice. Middle summer typically begins this week along the 40th Parallel, and it lasts until the Dog Days weaken in the first of the late summer high-pressure systems, about August 10. In these six to seven weeks, approximately an hour is lost from the day's length and the year turns toward autumn. 

raspberries
Vanessa Hernandez / Flickr Creative Commons

Having entered its second quarter on June 12, the gibbous Raspberry Moon waxes throughout the week ahead, reaching apogee (its position farthest from Earth) and becoming totally full at 6:02 a.m. on June 20. Summer solstice takes place on the same day, at 6:34 p.m.

Now is high tide in the year, and the berries grow fat and sweet beneath the glowing moon. “Taste the sugar berry sugar purple berry,” I once wrote under the influence of a little mulberry wine, “sugar wild hot sugar sunning sugar berry, sugar in the sun.”

Dicoplio Family / Flickr Creative Commons

Events in nature generally occur in a fixed sequence, based on precipitation, the declination of the sun, and the effects of warm or cold days.

And, usually, if something happens once, it will happen again.

Ezio Melotti / Flickr Creative Commons

A few afternoons ago I was sitting in the back yard enjoying the mild weather and the sun. By chance, I happened to look up into the tall locust tree at the edge of my property.

Jim Mullhaupt / Flickr Creative Commons

The Mulberry Moon wanes throughout the week, coming into its final quarter at 10:29 p.m. on May 29. Rising near midnight, setting in the late morning to early afternoon, the moon will be overhead before sunrise.

As the moon comes up, the Milky Way fills the eastern half of the sky, running from the north and “Z” shaped Cassiopeia, through Cygnus the Swan, then through Aquila and finally to Scutum and Sagittarius deep in the southeast.

Marcia Cirillo / Flickr Creative Commons

The Mulberry Moon waxes through its second quarter this week, becoming completely full on the 22nd of May, lying overhead and gibbous throughout the night.

Sweetening both white and red mulberries, the moon makes locust and buckeye flowers open and then fall as the high canopy slowly closes in.

Cedar waxwings migrate north as the flowers collapse. In warm and humid evenings, giant June bugs come to your porch light, and the first firefly glows in the grass.

Holly Sparkman / Flickr Creative Commons

I have been thinking that if every aspect of the landscape is predetermined by the spin of the Earth and biological clocks, how similar my own changes and progressions must be, all attached to the sun and the moon, to heat and cold, prearranged as if there were a cosmic map organic to my brain, as though, like some migrating species, I simply did what I needed to do in order to discover and fulfill my purpose.

Andrea Pullicino / Flickr Creative Commons

On a recent trip to the Museum of Glass in Corning, New York, I saw a small figurine: a prone girl of raku-fired ceramic, a glass replica of her rising from her waist.

The work was called “While You Were Sleeping,” and it was created by Christina Bothwell, a Pennsylvania sculptor. The artist’s statement said that the sculpture was “to make visible the idea that we are souls housed in skin bodies.” The medium of glass, stated the artist, “holds light in its mass, just as the spirit is held in the physical body.”

HUS0 / Flickr Creative Commons

Rick came over around noon, excited to find tiny praying mantises emerging out from their nest-like ootheca. The insects were maybe a fourth to three-eighths of an inch long and were scrambling helter skelter into the sun.

Cindy Zackowitz / Flickr Creative Commons

I was gone for a weekend, and the heat and rain pulled the last of middle spring down on top of everything. I look around and try to understand: the changes that have taken place, and I form a litany of events: And I recite the phenomena: the early yellow tulips gone, the mid-season tulips full, the yellow daffodils gone, the bicolor and white daffodils still strong.

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