Forty-five years ago today Martin Luther King Jr. made a speech in Washington, DC. It wasn't anything like anyone expected. Washington, DC had almost been shut down in anticipation of riots, tear gas and blood. All elective surgeries had been cancelled, extra plasma had been stockpiled, even the Washington Senators' baseball game had been postponed, all in fear of the planned rally. It could have been a bad scene, but it wasn't. He started out with one of his standard speeches, and it was okay, but not rousing. He was a good speaker, but not a great one. Then he put aside his prepared text and started talking. He talked about his dream, and about how all of God's children should share in that dream. He talked about better times, and how to get there without fighting and bloodshed. And he talked about that dream, and made the reality of it almost tangible. How many speeches can you call to mind right now? It was that memorable.
I was 12. I lived in rural southern Mississippi, and most of my time was spent on football, fishing, and reading every book Mrs Grady could get for me in the tiny library in Collins, MS. But I watched the news every night, and I read the paper every day, and I knew as much as anyone else about what was going on in my state and my country. "Freedom rider" was not a historical phrase for me. I saw them get off buses, I watched them march and heard them chant and sing. I read the statistics on how many were arrested, how many were on hunger strikes, and how many were sent back home. I watched as my home state was pilloried night after night on the national news networks, and yes, I wondered if we couldn't just send the cameras and the slick talkers in front of them back home. But of course that didn't happen.
It wasn't about race for me, or for my little world then. It was about people from outside coming in and telling us how ignorant, trashy and utterly worthless we were. I resented it. I still do. And I know now what I didn't know then, that it was about race for the larger community, or at least about basic human rights. A few years later, in another state, I was refused service in a cafe because one of the guys in our group was black. I was irate, he was inured to it. I wanted to fight, he led me out into the parking lot and calmed me down. That may be as close as I will ever get to understanding why several hundred thousand people marched to Washington that day. I clearly remember signs that said "whites only" and "colored" on restrooms and water fountains, and I wonder if we would have gotten where we are today without confrontation back then. Then I am reminded of the dream, and the day, and the speech, and I think maybe, just maybe we would have. We'll never know.
Of course I've been watching the Democratic convention, and Bill Clinton's speech last night brought all this back to me. No, I'm not a democrat, but I think it's important that we all watch both conventions. I'll be watching the Republicans next week (I'm not one of them, either). If you want to talk politics with me, email me at lindsey@surfmore.net, and we can talk, but this forum is not for that. If its for anything, its an outlet for me to marvel to whomever finds this and reads it about all that's happened, is happening, and will happen, all in a part of one person's lifetime. What a great time to live. And Bill said it right last night: this race is between 2 good men, both of whom love their country. I'm going to try real hard to remember that over the next few weeks. Whoever wins will be my President. I hope all of you will say the same. I'm real tired of red and blue unless it's on our flag, and I'm real tired of liberal and conservative unless it's liberal doses of scotch and conservative modes of dress. I believe that all of us, down deep, want pretty much the same things. Don't we all want children to have good food, and access to a doctor when they're sick? Don't we all want old folks (whom I desparately want to be one of someday) to have good lives, enough resources, and dignity? Don't we all want good jobs and careers for our children and theirs? Don't we all want a world that doesn't demand blood sacrifice of our bravest young people way too often? Our enemies are hunger, poverty, tyranny, greed, racism, intolerance and ignorance, not each other.
I'm looking forward to putting people who live to stir us up against each other out of business after this election, and actually working together not only so that dear old Dr. King can realize his dream, but so that all of us can re-focus on the American Dream. I'm for that.
Send this to someone else, and tell me what you think.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Jewel
I saw my Aunt Jewel today. At least she could have been Jewel, but my dear aunt has long since passed. Every family has a Jewel, I think, and ours was the real thing. My first memory of her was sitting on my uncle’s bed, brick red hair and blood red lipstick. She had a cigarette holder that was longer than the cigarette that was in it, and a can of beer in her other hand. Now, I had never seen a cigarette holder except on TV, and I didn’t know any women who smoked (after all, this was the 1950’s). Add the fact that I had never seen a can of beer before, and it was all in all a very memorable sight. Her voice was as loud and raspy as you would expect, and I learned over time that I was at that moment in the presence of the family’s blackest black sheep. That made her my favorite, and she never lost that distinction.
Jewel actually had the same teacher in the 8th grade that I had, 40-something years later when I was in the 7th, Mrs. W.W. Allred. Mrs. Allred was an institution in Collins, Mississippi, having taught both my parents a decade or so after Jewel, and a couple of decades before me. She was a hard taskmaster, and never showed us any sense of humor, but I still maintain that she was the single person responsible for teaching me more grammar than any other. She drilled it in, plugged the hole, and dared you to forget. I was afraid of her, and can still diagram sentences and discuss gerunds, largely because of her.
But she and Jewel didn’t have the same relationship. You see, Mrs. Allred had this habit of demanding attention from students, and when she thought she was not getting it, she would throw things at the offenders. It would usually be a piece of chalk or an eraser, but with Jewel it turned out to be a shoe. Apparently she ran out of chalk. Jewel’s response, though, was not to pay attention, or even to throw the shoe back. She got up, went to the back of the room, jumped out the window, and thus ended her education, then and there. Yep, black sheep.
I don’t know a lot about her life, but a few good stories leaked out from time to time. Probably the best was about a framed certificate I saw on her wall the one and only time I visited her in Texas. Apparently there was a time when unescorted women in Mexico were believed to be women of the street looking to ply their trade. They were routinely rounded up, hauled to the local hoosegow, and charged with public prostitution. Now let’s set the record straight right now. Jewel was not that kind of woman. But she and a couple of her friends cooked up a scheme which resulted in their being in a restaurant in a Mexican border town, sans male accompaniment. Sure enough, they got rousted, hauled away, and locked up.
Archie (how that man put up with her, I’ll never know) and his friends waited long enough, then went down to bail the girls out. Prostitution was legal, but controlled. The fine for practicing without a license (yes, the pun is unintentional) was more than the cost of a license, which is what Jewel and her friends had counted on. You can figure out the rest. For the rest of her life, she had a license to practice her art in Mexico. Go figure.
I stayed long enough with her to wreck her golf cart (she made sure Archie never knew too many of us were riding way too fast on it), and to learn her daily routines. She wasn’t much of a coffee drinker, but would pop a top on a diet Crème Soda at the crack of dawn. She sipped those things all morning long, and left a trail of Crème Soda cans behind her. At the stroke of noon, though, everything changed. She had a big wall clock that chimed the hour, every hour, and when 12 o’clock came, it never got past the third chime before I heard the sound that Hoyt Axton made famous for Busch beer. I can’t write the sound, but I can approximate it -- ke chew’ -- Jewel popped the top on her first Pearl of the day. From there on Crème Soda was just a memory, and the Pearl cans took their place. That’s the Jewel I knew and loved.
I saw her today, but she was 50 years too young, her hair wasn’t near red enough, and she’d lost the cigarette holder. Okay, maybe it wasn’t her, but the woman I saw sure triggered a lot of memories in me, and just for a little while Jewel was right back with us, smoking, drinking, cussing, and having a heck of a lot of fun. It had been a while since I had thought of her, and I realized that I miss her. Everyone should have an Aunt Jewel.
Jewel actually had the same teacher in the 8th grade that I had, 40-something years later when I was in the 7th, Mrs. W.W. Allred. Mrs. Allred was an institution in Collins, Mississippi, having taught both my parents a decade or so after Jewel, and a couple of decades before me. She was a hard taskmaster, and never showed us any sense of humor, but I still maintain that she was the single person responsible for teaching me more grammar than any other. She drilled it in, plugged the hole, and dared you to forget. I was afraid of her, and can still diagram sentences and discuss gerunds, largely because of her.
But she and Jewel didn’t have the same relationship. You see, Mrs. Allred had this habit of demanding attention from students, and when she thought she was not getting it, she would throw things at the offenders. It would usually be a piece of chalk or an eraser, but with Jewel it turned out to be a shoe. Apparently she ran out of chalk. Jewel’s response, though, was not to pay attention, or even to throw the shoe back. She got up, went to the back of the room, jumped out the window, and thus ended her education, then and there. Yep, black sheep.
I don’t know a lot about her life, but a few good stories leaked out from time to time. Probably the best was about a framed certificate I saw on her wall the one and only time I visited her in Texas. Apparently there was a time when unescorted women in Mexico were believed to be women of the street looking to ply their trade. They were routinely rounded up, hauled to the local hoosegow, and charged with public prostitution. Now let’s set the record straight right now. Jewel was not that kind of woman. But she and a couple of her friends cooked up a scheme which resulted in their being in a restaurant in a Mexican border town, sans male accompaniment. Sure enough, they got rousted, hauled away, and locked up.
Archie (how that man put up with her, I’ll never know) and his friends waited long enough, then went down to bail the girls out. Prostitution was legal, but controlled. The fine for practicing without a license (yes, the pun is unintentional) was more than the cost of a license, which is what Jewel and her friends had counted on. You can figure out the rest. For the rest of her life, she had a license to practice her art in Mexico. Go figure.
I stayed long enough with her to wreck her golf cart (she made sure Archie never knew too many of us were riding way too fast on it), and to learn her daily routines. She wasn’t much of a coffee drinker, but would pop a top on a diet Crème Soda at the crack of dawn. She sipped those things all morning long, and left a trail of Crème Soda cans behind her. At the stroke of noon, though, everything changed. She had a big wall clock that chimed the hour, every hour, and when 12 o’clock came, it never got past the third chime before I heard the sound that Hoyt Axton made famous for Busch beer. I can’t write the sound, but I can approximate it -- ke chew’ -- Jewel popped the top on her first Pearl of the day. From there on Crème Soda was just a memory, and the Pearl cans took their place. That’s the Jewel I knew and loved.
I saw her today, but she was 50 years too young, her hair wasn’t near red enough, and she’d lost the cigarette holder. Okay, maybe it wasn’t her, but the woman I saw sure triggered a lot of memories in me, and just for a little while Jewel was right back with us, smoking, drinking, cussing, and having a heck of a lot of fun. It had been a while since I had thought of her, and I realized that I miss her. Everyone should have an Aunt Jewel.
Picking Blackberries
It started out as just another Friday morning, which is of course more than all right with me. Friday is one of the days I get to stay at home and work all day instead of having to clean up and drive to Huntsville. I treasure those days and, like probably most of us, dream of the time when that will be every day instead of just one or two extra days a week. The way fuel prices are going, and the way food prices are headed, that day may not be so far away. If I just hadn’t spent all of my future earnings prematurely! Oh well, someday I’ll have caught up, and then if you want to see my smiling face you’d better have a photograph handy, because I’ll be holed up in southern middle Tennessee, and it will take several sticks of dynamite to get me out.
We had answered a listing on our local Swap and Shop page for blackberries. Or at least we had tried to. The way it works is that you can post something for sale, and it stays on the page until enough people put their postings after you that you get crowded off the bottom of the page. Sometimes your stuff will stay there a week. This time, only a day and it was gone. So I did what the locals always do. I posted an ad that said “Will the person with blackberries please call me”, and added my number. Sure enough, the phone rang, and a fellow said he had put the ad up for his dad, who did in fact have berries, and he gave us the number to call.
Okay, back to Friday (one of the days I don’t have to ….. you know). We fed, milked, ate, got ready, loaded the car and took off. The man whose house we were going to had said we might get 2 or even 3 gallons of berries, and I had begun to think we were likely to catch as many wild geese as berries, but we were committed, and off we went. Two towns and an hour later, we found the right house, and met the owner. What a gracious man! He led us to the berries, helped us pick them, and pretty much told us his entire family history. And it was uplifting and good. Here was a man who has been married to his sweetheart for more than 49 years, and for the last 6 months has been helping her recover from a succession of things, several of which could have done her in. He is very proud of the fact that he was able to go every day for months to the hospital, and then to the rehab center and sit with her, and it was evident that he is very much in love with her. She’s still recovering, and he cooks her breakfast every day, cleans the house, and helps her get stronger.
All this while we’re picking what turned out to be 7 gallons of berries, the biggest and sweetest I’ve ever seen. They are the Triple Crown variety, in case any of you want some berries, but I warn you they are much better for jelly than for cooking, as the seeds are very big.
We went to the house to wash some of the stains from our hands, and from Wendy’s lips (we may actually have picked 8 gallons, but our baskets only had 7 in them), and we met his wife. She is finally ambulatory, and a sweet, spirited, and witty woman. He threatened to leave her on the patio and go fishing, and she informed us in an aside that she has her own fishing gear that he knows nothing about, stashed away in the basement. She said one of them may sneak off to fish, but it may not be him. After 49 years, she said, he just may not know everything there is to know.
She told us that in addition to 49 years of marriage, they had dated for 4 years, and that she was only 16 when they married. Wow. They adopted a child way back when it was not fashionable to do so, and then proceeded to have a couple of their own. All have done well, and are still close enough to home that they can be a family. What a refreshing day, what a refreshing couple, and what a refreshing affirmation that people are good, kind and loving. We see way too much of the other side.
We had answered a listing on our local Swap and Shop page for blackberries. Or at least we had tried to. The way it works is that you can post something for sale, and it stays on the page until enough people put their postings after you that you get crowded off the bottom of the page. Sometimes your stuff will stay there a week. This time, only a day and it was gone. So I did what the locals always do. I posted an ad that said “Will the person with blackberries please call me”, and added my number. Sure enough, the phone rang, and a fellow said he had put the ad up for his dad, who did in fact have berries, and he gave us the number to call.
Okay, back to Friday (one of the days I don’t have to ….. you know). We fed, milked, ate, got ready, loaded the car and took off. The man whose house we were going to had said we might get 2 or even 3 gallons of berries, and I had begun to think we were likely to catch as many wild geese as berries, but we were committed, and off we went. Two towns and an hour later, we found the right house, and met the owner. What a gracious man! He led us to the berries, helped us pick them, and pretty much told us his entire family history. And it was uplifting and good. Here was a man who has been married to his sweetheart for more than 49 years, and for the last 6 months has been helping her recover from a succession of things, several of which could have done her in. He is very proud of the fact that he was able to go every day for months to the hospital, and then to the rehab center and sit with her, and it was evident that he is very much in love with her. She’s still recovering, and he cooks her breakfast every day, cleans the house, and helps her get stronger.
All this while we’re picking what turned out to be 7 gallons of berries, the biggest and sweetest I’ve ever seen. They are the Triple Crown variety, in case any of you want some berries, but I warn you they are much better for jelly than for cooking, as the seeds are very big.
We went to the house to wash some of the stains from our hands, and from Wendy’s lips (we may actually have picked 8 gallons, but our baskets only had 7 in them), and we met his wife. She is finally ambulatory, and a sweet, spirited, and witty woman. He threatened to leave her on the patio and go fishing, and she informed us in an aside that she has her own fishing gear that he knows nothing about, stashed away in the basement. She said one of them may sneak off to fish, but it may not be him. After 49 years, she said, he just may not know everything there is to know.
She told us that in addition to 49 years of marriage, they had dated for 4 years, and that she was only 16 when they married. Wow. They adopted a child way back when it was not fashionable to do so, and then proceeded to have a couple of their own. All have done well, and are still close enough to home that they can be a family. What a refreshing day, what a refreshing couple, and what a refreshing affirmation that people are good, kind and loving. We see way too much of the other side.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Rosie
Wendy disappeared one afternoon while on the way back from deliveries. We were talking right up to the time she got off the interstate, somewhere between 20 and 25 minutes from home. Now I guess I should admit that I'm a fretter (if anyone hasn't figured that out by now), so when an hour passed and she wasn't home I started fretting. It's not like I need to know everywhere she goes and how long she'll be there, it's just that she hadn't mentioned anything other than being ready to be home after a long day. So I called - no answer. I called again - still no answer. So I went on about what I was doing, with the usual what-ifs running through my head; low-key, but running just the same.
Not to worry. She came wheeling into the driveway soon enough, and out of the car jumped two long-legged, tail wagging hounds-from-hell puppies. Yeah, hounds. One was black and tan, the other a bloodhound. The kids went crazier than usual, and she gave me that "they followed me home" look. That was three months ago, and Rosie, the black and tan, and Sounder, the bloodhound quickly became part of the farm. Rosie was the alpha, and made every step we made, learning as a pup which pigs needed chasing and which kittens needed chewing on. Sounder was content for the most part to roll and romp with Rosie, help out with the kitten chewing, and learn the deepest, most mournful baying you've ever heard. My initial reluctance lasted no time at all, and I figured we would have good companions for a long time from these two.
Last Wednesday Rosie didn't go with us to feed pigs and milk, which was unusual but not unique. On the way back from the milk barn, though, we saw her down below the springhouse, drooping, drooling, and almost non-responsive. She had been slower than usual the day before, but we didn't think a lot about it. Puppies get into things, and sometimes they pay for it for a day or two. But this morning she was down. I went on to work in Huntsville, and around mid-morning Wendy called and said she had taken Rosie to the vet. I was worried, yes, and to be completely honest a bit reluctant. All I could see for a few moments was a large vet bill. Unfortunately, my experiences with veterinarians have been universally bad. I had never taken an animal to a vet and ended up bringing a live animal home. That's not a knock on the skill or knowledge of vets, that's just been how it's gone for me.
They tested her, medicated her, and kept her overnight for observation. The next morning she was better, then worse again. Wendy and the kids decided they would rather have Rosie home with us than let her spend the 4th of July weekend in a cage in the vet's office. They went to pick her up and got home with her seconds before I came into the driveway from Huntsville. One look at Carleigh's face was all I needed, and I walked over to the truck with dread. They told me Rosie had quit whimpering as soon as Noah walked in, and had settled down in his lap for the ride home. Just before they got home, she took a big sigh, and died quietly.
For the first time in over 20 years I cried when a pet died. I'm not sure if I was crying for Rosie, who had won my heart over completely, or for Noah, who was heartbroken that he had lost his pet, or for Wendy, who loved Rosie as much as Noah, and whose little boy was holding his pet in his lap and sobbing. It was probably for Carleigh, too, whose pet was wagging his tail and not really knowing what was going on while Carleigh cried. It may have been for all the dogs I ever had, and for how I felt when I lost them. I lost pets every way you can think of, and a few more ways besides. And I still remember them all.
We laid her to rest in a shady place. Sounder is already taking over some of Rosie's chores, and he's a good pup, but we sure miss her.
Not to worry. She came wheeling into the driveway soon enough, and out of the car jumped two long-legged, tail wagging hounds-from-hell puppies. Yeah, hounds. One was black and tan, the other a bloodhound. The kids went crazier than usual, and she gave me that "they followed me home" look. That was three months ago, and Rosie, the black and tan, and Sounder, the bloodhound quickly became part of the farm. Rosie was the alpha, and made every step we made, learning as a pup which pigs needed chasing and which kittens needed chewing on. Sounder was content for the most part to roll and romp with Rosie, help out with the kitten chewing, and learn the deepest, most mournful baying you've ever heard. My initial reluctance lasted no time at all, and I figured we would have good companions for a long time from these two.
Last Wednesday Rosie didn't go with us to feed pigs and milk, which was unusual but not unique. On the way back from the milk barn, though, we saw her down below the springhouse, drooping, drooling, and almost non-responsive. She had been slower than usual the day before, but we didn't think a lot about it. Puppies get into things, and sometimes they pay for it for a day or two. But this morning she was down. I went on to work in Huntsville, and around mid-morning Wendy called and said she had taken Rosie to the vet. I was worried, yes, and to be completely honest a bit reluctant. All I could see for a few moments was a large vet bill. Unfortunately, my experiences with veterinarians have been universally bad. I had never taken an animal to a vet and ended up bringing a live animal home. That's not a knock on the skill or knowledge of vets, that's just been how it's gone for me.
They tested her, medicated her, and kept her overnight for observation. The next morning she was better, then worse again. Wendy and the kids decided they would rather have Rosie home with us than let her spend the 4th of July weekend in a cage in the vet's office. They went to pick her up and got home with her seconds before I came into the driveway from Huntsville. One look at Carleigh's face was all I needed, and I walked over to the truck with dread. They told me Rosie had quit whimpering as soon as Noah walked in, and had settled down in his lap for the ride home. Just before they got home, she took a big sigh, and died quietly.
For the first time in over 20 years I cried when a pet died. I'm not sure if I was crying for Rosie, who had won my heart over completely, or for Noah, who was heartbroken that he had lost his pet, or for Wendy, who loved Rosie as much as Noah, and whose little boy was holding his pet in his lap and sobbing. It was probably for Carleigh, too, whose pet was wagging his tail and not really knowing what was going on while Carleigh cried. It may have been for all the dogs I ever had, and for how I felt when I lost them. I lost pets every way you can think of, and a few more ways besides. And I still remember them all.
We laid her to rest in a shady place. Sounder is already taking over some of Rosie's chores, and he's a good pup, but we sure miss her.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Feeling my age
It all started on ebay. I should never have bid on that old derelict tractor, but my finger had a mind of its own, and awful a sudden there it was. I had won the auction, and an Allis Chalmers G model tractor was my very own. All I had to do was brave the elements, risk life and limb, dodge morons and the worst semi-paved roads in the nation, flatten my posterior by sitting on it for over 24 hours, and it was in the driveway. Now all I have to do is regain the ability to do anything other than limp around the house holding on to various body parts and groaning. Maybe when I grow up a bit I'll learn some restraint. At any rate, there are now 3 (count 'em, three) G models lined up in military precision under a shade tree next to the driveway. They are easy to keep lined up, since none of them run. Of course I have high hopes; combined with my vast mechanical knowledge and oodles of spare time, those babies should be field ready in no time at all. What was I thinking?
The tractors are part of a three-pronged attack we plan to implement. Weeds(plenty of), water (lack of) and bugs (way too many of) are our three big enemies. In my constant search for a way of staying on the farm all of the time instead of trudging to Huntsville part of every week, we are working on a plan. The tractors are our answer to weeds. Pushing a hoe around has its limitations, as satisfying as it may be, and this particular type of tractor is the best ever made for cultivation. They were only made for 5 years, 1948 through 1953, in Gadsden, Alabama. We now have one from 1948, one from 1952, and one that doesn't appear to have a serial number, so we don't know if its real or my imagination. But if it isn't real, we did a whole lot of driving for nothing. I'll get some pictures and post them, but in the meantime, do a search for Allis Chalmers G, and you can get some cool pictures. It's worth it. They look more like dune buggies than tractors. The ultimate plan is to convert them to electric, and charge them from solar panels, but for now I just need to get them going. The weeds aren't playing fair - they already started.
Water is an ongoing issue. Some of you know we drilled a 700 foot well last year, and capped it when we ran out of money before we hit good water. When I win the lotto next week, I'll pull the cap off and drill some more. We'll either hit water or molten rock sooner or later, and if it isn't water we'll probably take a vacation until the eruption is over. In the meantime, though, we're pushing as much water as we can through miles of hose, and hoping for the best. It's been a little over 4 weeks since we've gotten enough rain to germinate seeds. At least there's no mold growing in the basement. Not damp enough down there. But it will rain, sooner or later.
Bugs are loving it so far this year. Warm, dry, and plenty of weeds to hide in. But we've sent out eviction notices this week. We finally found something that is organically approved, and deadly to all manner of beetles and other bad guys, and it's coming to town today. If you're a bug, and if you want to live to see your children and grandchildren grow up to destroy things like you've been doing, you have until sundown to get out of this town. It's not big enough for all of us, and we've brought in a hired gun to take you out.
On a lighter note, my arms are scratched up from picking blackberries, we have juice from wild plums in the freezer waiting patiently for cold weather, when we prefer to make our jelly, and the main crop of tomatoes are starting to come on. Wendy has rescued the eggplant (we hope; man, that stuff is hard to grow in our clay!), and if it ever were to rain, all manner of good things would pop out of the ground. We've had a couple of spectacular crop failures already this year, but some things have been more successful than we thought they would, so on balance, the first half of 2008 has been a good one. Yes, that's right. We're at the halfway point. If there is something that you decided to accomplish in 2008, and you're not well along the way, get going. You've waited as long as you can.
I just remembered about 128 things I've been supposed to be pushing along this year, so I'll take my own advice and push along, too.
The tractors are part of a three-pronged attack we plan to implement. Weeds(plenty of), water (lack of) and bugs (way too many of) are our three big enemies. In my constant search for a way of staying on the farm all of the time instead of trudging to Huntsville part of every week, we are working on a plan. The tractors are our answer to weeds. Pushing a hoe around has its limitations, as satisfying as it may be, and this particular type of tractor is the best ever made for cultivation. They were only made for 5 years, 1948 through 1953, in Gadsden, Alabama. We now have one from 1948, one from 1952, and one that doesn't appear to have a serial number, so we don't know if its real or my imagination. But if it isn't real, we did a whole lot of driving for nothing. I'll get some pictures and post them, but in the meantime, do a search for Allis Chalmers G, and you can get some cool pictures. It's worth it. They look more like dune buggies than tractors. The ultimate plan is to convert them to electric, and charge them from solar panels, but for now I just need to get them going. The weeds aren't playing fair - they already started.
Water is an ongoing issue. Some of you know we drilled a 700 foot well last year, and capped it when we ran out of money before we hit good water. When I win the lotto next week, I'll pull the cap off and drill some more. We'll either hit water or molten rock sooner or later, and if it isn't water we'll probably take a vacation until the eruption is over. In the meantime, though, we're pushing as much water as we can through miles of hose, and hoping for the best. It's been a little over 4 weeks since we've gotten enough rain to germinate seeds. At least there's no mold growing in the basement. Not damp enough down there. But it will rain, sooner or later.
Bugs are loving it so far this year. Warm, dry, and plenty of weeds to hide in. But we've sent out eviction notices this week. We finally found something that is organically approved, and deadly to all manner of beetles and other bad guys, and it's coming to town today. If you're a bug, and if you want to live to see your children and grandchildren grow up to destroy things like you've been doing, you have until sundown to get out of this town. It's not big enough for all of us, and we've brought in a hired gun to take you out.
On a lighter note, my arms are scratched up from picking blackberries, we have juice from wild plums in the freezer waiting patiently for cold weather, when we prefer to make our jelly, and the main crop of tomatoes are starting to come on. Wendy has rescued the eggplant (we hope; man, that stuff is hard to grow in our clay!), and if it ever were to rain, all manner of good things would pop out of the ground. We've had a couple of spectacular crop failures already this year, but some things have been more successful than we thought they would, so on balance, the first half of 2008 has been a good one. Yes, that's right. We're at the halfway point. If there is something that you decided to accomplish in 2008, and you're not well along the way, get going. You've waited as long as you can.
I just remembered about 128 things I've been supposed to be pushing along this year, so I'll take my own advice and push along, too.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Accidental Leisure
It finally happened. Like always, just when you don't suspect it, it happened. We got up early, rushed around putting baskets together and packing milk for Saturday delivery, and made it to Nashville only 10 minutes late, which is in reality early for me. After chatting with customers and guzzling Tandy's coffee (City House), we headed for home close to noon. We arrived after 4pm. I'm still not completely sure what went wrong.
According to Wendy it all started last Thursday, when the smallest bladder in the world (Carleigh's) began screaming for relief as they drove home from Nashville. The closest exit was #37, so Wendy pulled off, and there it was - a small sign that just said "Raspberries". All I heard for 2 days was how pretty that little sign was, how cute the lettering, what nice colors the people had picked out for it, and on and on like e-i-e-i-o. Slow to pick up on things like most men, it never really occurred to me what was likely to happen next.
Fast forward to Saturday, and after I had blown past exit 37 without stopping, I realized (was reminded of) the error of my ways a few miles further south, jumped the median and went back. Silly me, I had thought I was on my way home. The sign was still there, in all it's radiant glory, proclaiming that there were berries just a mile or so down the road, so off we went. A half hour later, armed with all the berries the very gracious ladies had picked, after sampling their blackberries and with Wendy clutching a bag of cherries, we waved goodby to our new friends and headed even further away from home searching for a cherry/peach orchard they told us about, you guessed it, just a couple miles on down the road.
When we got to the dead end, a very nice young woman insisted upon searching the local phone book for "Forgies", calling them, and getting directions to their orchard. Of course she also learned that they were between cherry and peach crops, and had nothing for sale. But intrepid traveller that I am, I valiantly drove past the orchard, turned around and drove past again, to indelibly stamp the sight and location in the feeblest (is that a word?) part of me. The time? Oh, maybe 2pm.
Now I did have to get some money from the machine and go pay for the last load of hay we'd put into the barn, and of course the debit card was at home, so I'll have to admit that we did go straight home at that point, but we immediately left again, so I'll claim it as a pit stop only. We weren't home even 15 minutes, and off we went, first to the bank, and then on to Lonnie's house with cash in hand. We almost got there. There's a fellow whose retirement plan for over 20 years has been to buy antiques at estate auctions and store them in various places. He has a flea market that is right between the bank and Lonnie's house. Fortunately for us, most of his stuff is really antique, not just cute junk, so we didn't find any got-to-haves there, but we looked for a while. And to make it worse, less than a half mile further there's a true junk market that we'd been eyeing for a while. No more luck there than at the first place - this one was truly junk.
We finally made it to Lonnie's, paid him and started home. By now my hands are twitching, because I forgot to mention that in the brief time we were at home, our new hoes had arrived, and all we got to do was look at them, caress the handles, and jump into the car. I had a good head of steam worked up, and was headed for the house when I saw something that instantly made me 14 again. Right by the side of the road was a grove of wild plum trees, and that thing in the middle that was bright red was not a bird. It was a plum! If you have never had wild plums, go get in your car and drive south until you either hit salt water or find plums. The house and job will still be there when you get back. It's worth the trip. I won't say that I'd kill for plums, but to be on the safe side, don't block my path.
What could I do? I did the only thing a man in my condition could do. I started knocking on doors. The cherub-faced little Amish girls sweetly informed me whose property the plums were on, but no one was home, so I trudged on back empty-handed. We did stop at one more flea market on the way, but my heart wasn't in it. All I could think about was those little Amish girls with a step ladder picking plums that were meant for me. Wendy was a lot of help, though. She kept hitting the Heisman pose and suggesting that's what I'd look like stiff-arming the little girls as I grabbed a bonnet full of plums from them and ran. The idea that I'd stoop to stealing plums from children! Still, I'll bet I could outrun them, at least to the car.
Home again, home again, jiggity jog. Yes, we took our hoes out for a spin. Yes, we actually got to sweat some before dark. Yes, the house was full of fresh cherry pits. But there was no joy in Mudville, mightly Casey had struck out in the plum quest(with apologies to Ernest Thayer-don't ask who he is, just go read the poem) . I'll find some plums, but I won't share. Go find your own.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Our Next Day Off
Okay, since we've never been ones to quit after only one try, we decided to have another day off. Sunday seems to work better than any other day, for a lot of reasons, one of the biggest being tradition brought on by our society's predominantly Protestant work ethic. In our case, our delivery schedule is such that we don't have to pick and pack on Sundays, and I'll admit that I have a fond habit of walking the fields on Sunday mornings, searching for arrowheads, smushing bugs and kicking up dirt clods. I can easily fit into the country bumpkin stereotype, in fact more easily than I can fit into some of my not-so-old clothes. (As an aside, we just got a new stove after going for longer than my manly pride will 'fess up to without one, so my girth is growing.) Anyhow, Sunday is our only chance for a weekly day off.
Now I'm a planner. I have at various times been called schemer, dreamer, plotter and conniver, but I think all of those words are just euphemisms for planner. So I'm busily planning our next day off, and I have to admit it's not going well. Our next door neighbor tends to mow parts of his large yard 6 days a week, and I'm pretty sure he has a turbocharger and a set of glass packs on his industrial strength mower. Working in the fields is always fun, but a lot less so with him drowning out all the birds, bees, and shrieks of the bugs I'm stomping. So on Sundays when he doesn't mow the temptation is very strong to get out and listen from the vantage point of mid-bean row or pea patch. And you can't just stand there....
The other reason our next day off is not looking real good is Wendy. She's too hard to please, but I've hit on the one thing that is sure to bring a smile to her face. I just ordered her a brand new, personalized, state-of-the-art scuffle hoe. I know, I know, but I'm that nice a guy. Nothing's too good for my partner. And it should be delivered Saturday afternoon. I said I'm a planner, didn't I? I will recommend to her that she spend Sunday lolling in the shade, sharpening the blade, seasoning the handle, and plotting her attack on Johnson grass and cockleburrs, but I fear she will sneer at me, sniff the air, grab the hoe and take off. She's not one to sit while weeds are growing bigger and tougher. Pity the weeds, and share my chagrin - another day off spent on. We'll try again.
Now I'm a planner. I have at various times been called schemer, dreamer, plotter and conniver, but I think all of those words are just euphemisms for planner. So I'm busily planning our next day off, and I have to admit it's not going well. Our next door neighbor tends to mow parts of his large yard 6 days a week, and I'm pretty sure he has a turbocharger and a set of glass packs on his industrial strength mower. Working in the fields is always fun, but a lot less so with him drowning out all the birds, bees, and shrieks of the bugs I'm stomping. So on Sundays when he doesn't mow the temptation is very strong to get out and listen from the vantage point of mid-bean row or pea patch. And you can't just stand there....
The other reason our next day off is not looking real good is Wendy. She's too hard to please, but I've hit on the one thing that is sure to bring a smile to her face. I just ordered her a brand new, personalized, state-of-the-art scuffle hoe. I know, I know, but I'm that nice a guy. Nothing's too good for my partner. And it should be delivered Saturday afternoon. I said I'm a planner, didn't I? I will recommend to her that she spend Sunday lolling in the shade, sharpening the blade, seasoning the handle, and plotting her attack on Johnson grass and cockleburrs, but I fear she will sneer at me, sniff the air, grab the hoe and take off. She's not one to sit while weeds are growing bigger and tougher. Pity the weeds, and share my chagrin - another day off spent on. We'll try again.
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