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.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Our Day Off
It's not a big secret that it's hot. We're both several shades darker than a month ago, and I feel several years older. May and early June is perhaps the busiest time of the year for us, and as most of you already know, our picking crew is Wendy and me, with help from Carleigh and Noah. So we sometimes get stretched a bit thin.
Finally this weekend we decided to take a day off. Never mind that the weeds need attacking, or the August veggies need planting, or that the pigs have decided to worm out from under their fence, and they've been meeting us halfway to the barn every morning for a week. Never mind that the deer have found us, and we need to get some kind of barrier up, or that we literally have a fox in the henhouse. Everybody deserves a day off occasionally, right? Of course, cows have to be milked, pigs fed, and the other daily chores, but heck, that's just everyday stuff. We're talking about a day off. Maybe we'll even go for a drive, or fishing, or even sit in the swing and read a book. So here goes.
We started off in good shape, not even going out to feed and milk until 7am. That's a real relaxed schedule, and even the cows didn't seem to mind. Of course the sun was up already, and it was a bit warm by then, but what the heck. It's our day off. Since we're both pretty much workaholics, I did have a few little piddly things I wanted to take care of, so after the milk was put up and breakfast over we set out. We decided to walk through the blackberries and gauge whether there'll be any this year (indecisive) , then picked the tomatoes (a real early treat this year). So far so good. By now it's after 10, and in the low 90's. There was this one section of fence that I didn't get to last week, to finish off our little kitchen/trial garden here next to the house, so I spent a few minutes on it. Meantime Wendy was watering newly seeded flats and pulling the last few things out of the oven/greenhouse. Still not too bad. Then my stupidity ramped up. I found some watermelon seeds, and it just so happens that there is a long row full of weeds that is sadly in need of melons. So in the second hottest time of day, on our first day off in months, here we are pushing hoes through endless ranks of weeks in the broiling sun. But we were having fun!
While recovering in the shade and trying to decide what leisure activities to engage in, I remembered the two rows of pole beans we had meant to put trellises up for. Most of the posts were in, but I had run out before getting to the end of the last row. Oh well, that shouldn't take too long, and it really needs doing, because the beans are starting to run. And 96 is just a number, and we'll still have some time left over to frolic.
So all of the starch is now drained out of me, and I finally did get to sit in the swing with a cool, refreshing beverage in hand. I think I enjoyed it, too, but I'm not real sure because Wendy (who spent the last couple of hours of her day off cooking) woke me up to tell me dinner was ready.
What's a guy to do? Maybe next Sunday. We're lousy examples of how to relax.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
The Perfect Day?
The last day of May was as close to a perfect day as I can recall. I'm already living in the past, if only a week past. We were up and out early, marveling at the dawning of a new, misty day, and picking for Saturday's baskets. For those of you who haven't seen dawn in a while, wake up! It's worth it. And just tell me one good thing that happens late at night. I didn't think so.
The cabbage loopers hadn't made an appearance yet (can't say that anymore), the harlequin beetles were under control (can't say that anymore, either), and the day promised to be hot, bright, and good. All three happened. Then something else happened. I picked, sliced and ate a tomato, ripe on the vine. In May. A first for me in my entire life. Even as a kid in southern Mississippi we never had ripe tomatoes in May. This year I got lucky, guessed right, and got rewarded. With any luck at all, you basket-getters out there will be rewarded very soon, too. There should be enough for a small tomato or two real soon.
The squash is coming along, and has started blooming. We have our fingers crossed that the blossoms make squash and don't just drop off like they sometimes do. Tomatoes and squash in June makes my head go all giddy. And I'm not a giddy kind of a guy.
We're hauling hay right now, and it goes like this: After we work all day, and have decided to knock off and try some new cold beverage instead of working until dark, the phone invariably rings. The folks we get hay from are very good at calling us first, but it's always after 6pm, and it's always "we've got 150 bales of hay if you want it. Come get it and bring money." So we heave ourselves more or less upright, hook up the trailer, and head for the hayfield. After 3 years of buying from the same people, we've started paying them to load it for us, but we still have to get it home and throw it up into the hayloft. It's a lot of fun early in the morning, less so late in the afternoon. Anything over 90 degrees is just a bonus, too. That's how I keep my skin smooth, and my countenance so youthful. Sweating out pork fat will do that, you know. Every time I take my shirt off and wring out close to a quart of liquid from it, I thinnk I'll sell off all the animals. But when I go down to the barn the next morning and catch the smell of new hay, and feel the welcome tightness of muscles seldom used, I change my mind. Just think of all the money I save by not going to the gym. Plus, the gym isn't full of ticks, so I'd still have to find a way for blood transfusions if I didn't work outside at home. Whoever said that guineas will keep ticks under control was just trying to sell guineas. The only control for them is a pair of tweezers.
But back to May. After a genuinely good day, and just as night was falling, I went to get the tractor and trailer from where I had parked it in the middle of the field (having stopped halfway to the house to move cows from one pasture to another), I saw the first lightning bug of the year. Last year Wendy saw the first ones in mid-April, and we had decided this year that the drought had killed them all off. But finally they've come out. Not in the numbers we're used to, but at least they are here. We've been looking for weeks. In those areas where Roundup is used routinely, they never come back anymore. That poison kills them, just like it kills honeybees. Another time I'll tell you my opinion of the poisons that are routinely used, and the monstrous companies that push them off onto us, but for now, I'll just smile and remember a good day.
The cabbage loopers hadn't made an appearance yet (can't say that anymore), the harlequin beetles were under control (can't say that anymore, either), and the day promised to be hot, bright, and good. All three happened. Then something else happened. I picked, sliced and ate a tomato, ripe on the vine. In May. A first for me in my entire life. Even as a kid in southern Mississippi we never had ripe tomatoes in May. This year I got lucky, guessed right, and got rewarded. With any luck at all, you basket-getters out there will be rewarded very soon, too. There should be enough for a small tomato or two real soon.
The squash is coming along, and has started blooming. We have our fingers crossed that the blossoms make squash and don't just drop off like they sometimes do. Tomatoes and squash in June makes my head go all giddy. And I'm not a giddy kind of a guy.
We're hauling hay right now, and it goes like this: After we work all day, and have decided to knock off and try some new cold beverage instead of working until dark, the phone invariably rings. The folks we get hay from are very good at calling us first, but it's always after 6pm, and it's always "we've got 150 bales of hay if you want it. Come get it and bring money." So we heave ourselves more or less upright, hook up the trailer, and head for the hayfield. After 3 years of buying from the same people, we've started paying them to load it for us, but we still have to get it home and throw it up into the hayloft. It's a lot of fun early in the morning, less so late in the afternoon. Anything over 90 degrees is just a bonus, too. That's how I keep my skin smooth, and my countenance so youthful. Sweating out pork fat will do that, you know. Every time I take my shirt off and wring out close to a quart of liquid from it, I thinnk I'll sell off all the animals. But when I go down to the barn the next morning and catch the smell of new hay, and feel the welcome tightness of muscles seldom used, I change my mind. Just think of all the money I save by not going to the gym. Plus, the gym isn't full of ticks, so I'd still have to find a way for blood transfusions if I didn't work outside at home. Whoever said that guineas will keep ticks under control was just trying to sell guineas. The only control for them is a pair of tweezers.
But back to May. After a genuinely good day, and just as night was falling, I went to get the tractor and trailer from where I had parked it in the middle of the field (having stopped halfway to the house to move cows from one pasture to another), I saw the first lightning bug of the year. Last year Wendy saw the first ones in mid-April, and we had decided this year that the drought had killed them all off. But finally they've come out. Not in the numbers we're used to, but at least they are here. We've been looking for weeks. In those areas where Roundup is used routinely, they never come back anymore. That poison kills them, just like it kills honeybees. Another time I'll tell you my opinion of the poisons that are routinely used, and the monstrous companies that push them off onto us, but for now, I'll just smile and remember a good day.
Friday, May 23, 2008
What can we all do to feed ourselves?
Get this. You can either mow, trim, prune, edge etc., that space behind or beside your house, or you can beat fuel prices, pesticide contamination, or just plain old lousy food. Extra benefits include sweating (one of the healthiest things your body can do), toning, muscle-building, and yes, even dosing with vitamin D. Where do you think your vitamin D comes from, WalMart?
How's that for an "in your face" paragraph? Okay, now I'll settle down and talk. Wendy was relating a discussion she had yesterday with some friends about the food crisis we all think is upon us. The topics were things like "who will pick the stuff when all the illegals have gone", and "how will we be able to afford food shipped across the country with diesel costing over $4.50 already", and "will we ever be able to eat good food again". The standing joke on our farm now is that whenever anything seems to be heavier than it should, we call it Chinese. Thank WalMart for that slightly ethnic, mostly true, not-funny-at-all thought.
Here's the whole point I'm trying with little subtlety to make. If you have a flower bed, plant 3 tomato plants across the back. Instead of weeding that border, plant radishes. In 30 days you can eat the greens and the roots, they are attractive, and they crowd out weeds. Nothing is prettier than a small spot of curly mustard, or red giant mustard, or even a nice lettuce mix. I defy you to find a better ground cover - and it's edible. Farming is not an art, and it's not just for people with tens or thousands of acres. Do you know how much you can grow in borders, along walks, and among your flowers? Go get in your car right now and find a used bookstore. No, wait, read this first! Then go get Square Foot Gardening by Mel Bartholomew. It doesn't matter if you get the original or the revised one, they're both good for the soul. Then look on line and find Two Acre Eden by Gene Logsden. If those two books don't make you go buy a new trowel and sunbonnet, something's wrong with you.
I said all that drivel to say this. We are in the beginnings of a food crisis that will become a food revolution. I'd like for all of us to take it on head-on. If you don't have seeds, Wendy and I will toss a small packet in your CSA basket. If you don't know what to do, or how to do it, it's easy. Stir the dirt with a stick, drop in a seed and cover it. If it doesn't rain soon, water the spot. In days you will see an absolute miracle. It never gets stale, never loses its magic power. And the sense of satisfaction you get when you pick, pluck or dig a meal that you started and nurtured is just as magical. It's not too late, not too hot, and not too hard Dig in and dig it.
And oh, by the way, we can use this blogspot for comments and commentary. It has started getting some hits from outside.
How's that for an "in your face" paragraph? Okay, now I'll settle down and talk. Wendy was relating a discussion she had yesterday with some friends about the food crisis we all think is upon us. The topics were things like "who will pick the stuff when all the illegals have gone", and "how will we be able to afford food shipped across the country with diesel costing over $4.50 already", and "will we ever be able to eat good food again". The standing joke on our farm now is that whenever anything seems to be heavier than it should, we call it Chinese. Thank WalMart for that slightly ethnic, mostly true, not-funny-at-all thought.
Here's the whole point I'm trying with little subtlety to make. If you have a flower bed, plant 3 tomato plants across the back. Instead of weeding that border, plant radishes. In 30 days you can eat the greens and the roots, they are attractive, and they crowd out weeds. Nothing is prettier than a small spot of curly mustard, or red giant mustard, or even a nice lettuce mix. I defy you to find a better ground cover - and it's edible. Farming is not an art, and it's not just for people with tens or thousands of acres. Do you know how much you can grow in borders, along walks, and among your flowers? Go get in your car right now and find a used bookstore. No, wait, read this first! Then go get Square Foot Gardening by Mel Bartholomew. It doesn't matter if you get the original or the revised one, they're both good for the soul. Then look on line and find Two Acre Eden by Gene Logsden. If those two books don't make you go buy a new trowel and sunbonnet, something's wrong with you.
I said all that drivel to say this. We are in the beginnings of a food crisis that will become a food revolution. I'd like for all of us to take it on head-on. If you don't have seeds, Wendy and I will toss a small packet in your CSA basket. If you don't know what to do, or how to do it, it's easy. Stir the dirt with a stick, drop in a seed and cover it. If it doesn't rain soon, water the spot. In days you will see an absolute miracle. It never gets stale, never loses its magic power. And the sense of satisfaction you get when you pick, pluck or dig a meal that you started and nurtured is just as magical. It's not too late, not too hot, and not too hard Dig in and dig it.
And oh, by the way, we can use this blogspot for comments and commentary. It has started getting some hits from outside.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
A preview of June
Okay, I'm cheating. This one is a slightly rewickered one I wrote a couple of seasons ago that I ran across this morning. If you think it's too early for it, don't read it until it really gets hot next month.
I got to thinking about places I’ve been. Now, I’ve never been much of a tourist, and I’ve traveled way too much at times in my early years. But the two decades I spent in uniform were for the most part enjoyable. I got to spend 3 years in Alaska and 3 more in Nothern Italy. Both were places a ragged, barefoot boy from southern Mississippi would never have visited, let alone lived for years, were it not for the Army. And they are really the only two places that I can think of that I would willingly leave home to visit again. But not now. I’m having way too much fun on Crooked Hill Road. My fun meter is all the way to the right and holding steady.
That ticklish, crawly feeling just to the right of my spine turns out to be a bead of sweat running down my back. It’s not perspiration, it’s sweat. I have a hoe in my hands, a small section of clean row behind me, and an enormous expanse of grass and weeds in front. I’m all decked out for the morning, though – my shoes are back at the beginning of the row, my shirt is tossed on them, and my shorts are rolled up to the decency level. I am fully aware that I’m 57 years old, and some may say I’m pretty ludicrous standing out there looking for all the world like a teenager in swimming trunks at poolside. That’s okay with me. I figure I’m old enough to be as ridiculous and outrageous as I want to be. And anybody that doesn’t want to see that sight shouldn’t look. I’m a self-actualized man.
Yes, I know that the sun can give me skin cancer. Yes, I hear all the time about how much of that sun-block stuff I should smear on my shoulders, etc. And yes, I consistently ignore all of that. The way I see it, sweating is one of the most healthful of occupations. It cleanses the body and rinses out all of the nasties that collect in there over time. One of these days I’m going to go out in the woods and build a Navaho sweat lodge and start heating rocks. I’ll invite all of you over, and I’ll guarantee that afterwards you’ll feel better than you have in too long. But for me and for now I don’t need even that artifice. All I have to do is grab a hoe and trudge out into 90-something degrees. It’s a great feeling.
I also hear that it’s childish to be out there working on my tan. Okay, again. Stop to think for a minute. You spend half your life with people older than you telling you to act like them (old), or else telling you to act your age (and when you are a kid, and you do act your age they want you to act like them again – old). I’m done with all that. I still do childish things every day, and I’m only going to act my age when two things happen. One is when I feel like it, and the other is when I figure out just how people my age are supposed to act, because from what I’ve seen most of them could use a good dose of happiness and a change of attitude. There aren’t too many of them I choose to emulate. In fact, anyone who is in the mood for a change of attitude should go buy themselves a hoe – mine is not for hire – and get out in the sun for a while with as little clothing as decency permits. At the end of the day or at the end of the stamina you’ll feel different. Either you’ll know that this is not the life for you or you’ll know that you’re missing something that you want more of. I know which side of that particular coin I’m on. It just took me too many years to figure it out.
I’d love to ramble on, but I hear a hoe handle calling my name, and the sun is already burning hot. Life is good. I’ve found what makes me happy, and I highly recommend it.
I got to thinking about places I’ve been. Now, I’ve never been much of a tourist, and I’ve traveled way too much at times in my early years. But the two decades I spent in uniform were for the most part enjoyable. I got to spend 3 years in Alaska and 3 more in Nothern Italy. Both were places a ragged, barefoot boy from southern Mississippi would never have visited, let alone lived for years, were it not for the Army. And they are really the only two places that I can think of that I would willingly leave home to visit again. But not now. I’m having way too much fun on Crooked Hill Road. My fun meter is all the way to the right and holding steady.
That ticklish, crawly feeling just to the right of my spine turns out to be a bead of sweat running down my back. It’s not perspiration, it’s sweat. I have a hoe in my hands, a small section of clean row behind me, and an enormous expanse of grass and weeds in front. I’m all decked out for the morning, though – my shoes are back at the beginning of the row, my shirt is tossed on them, and my shorts are rolled up to the decency level. I am fully aware that I’m 57 years old, and some may say I’m pretty ludicrous standing out there looking for all the world like a teenager in swimming trunks at poolside. That’s okay with me. I figure I’m old enough to be as ridiculous and outrageous as I want to be. And anybody that doesn’t want to see that sight shouldn’t look. I’m a self-actualized man.
Yes, I know that the sun can give me skin cancer. Yes, I hear all the time about how much of that sun-block stuff I should smear on my shoulders, etc. And yes, I consistently ignore all of that. The way I see it, sweating is one of the most healthful of occupations. It cleanses the body and rinses out all of the nasties that collect in there over time. One of these days I’m going to go out in the woods and build a Navaho sweat lodge and start heating rocks. I’ll invite all of you over, and I’ll guarantee that afterwards you’ll feel better than you have in too long. But for me and for now I don’t need even that artifice. All I have to do is grab a hoe and trudge out into 90-something degrees. It’s a great feeling.
I also hear that it’s childish to be out there working on my tan. Okay, again. Stop to think for a minute. You spend half your life with people older than you telling you to act like them (old), or else telling you to act your age (and when you are a kid, and you do act your age they want you to act like them again – old). I’m done with all that. I still do childish things every day, and I’m only going to act my age when two things happen. One is when I feel like it, and the other is when I figure out just how people my age are supposed to act, because from what I’ve seen most of them could use a good dose of happiness and a change of attitude. There aren’t too many of them I choose to emulate. In fact, anyone who is in the mood for a change of attitude should go buy themselves a hoe – mine is not for hire – and get out in the sun for a while with as little clothing as decency permits. At the end of the day or at the end of the stamina you’ll feel different. Either you’ll know that this is not the life for you or you’ll know that you’re missing something that you want more of. I know which side of that particular coin I’m on. It just took me too many years to figure it out.
I’d love to ramble on, but I hear a hoe handle calling my name, and the sun is already burning hot. Life is good. I’ve found what makes me happy, and I highly recommend it.
Drinking before noon is sadly underrated
Most of the time the hardest part of writing is writing. If I could capture the thoughts, dialogue and sharp repartee’ that come almost unbidden in the middle of the night, you’d all no doubt know my name well. At times I’ve jumped out of bed and begun scribbling furiously, but I guess genius is fleeting. Two perfect sentences just fall short of a Pulitzer winner. That’s all that I seem to be able to remember. For a long while I took a pad and pen to bed with me, and carefully placed them next to the bedside lamp. Same result. I finally came to believe that something in the incandescent light bulb sucks all the brain waves out of my head. Come to think about it, I need to follow up on that idea. I seem to do a lot better in the light of day.
At any rate, until I can somehow capture my thoughts and words while sleeping, I appear to be doomed to rising at 4-something and clicking the keys for a while. I’m not necessarily more lucid, or coherent, but at least while close to upright I can translate from cranium to screen in a somewhat consistent manner. And besides, it gets me up and going at my favorite time of day. Ernest Hemingway I’m not, but I’d bet you could find him drinking coffee and scrawling at dawn when he was “on” (correct me if you know that he was a slug-a-bed, and didn’t get up until late. On second thought, please don’t correct me. I like that mental image, right or wrong).
It was a great weekend at the Lindsey hacienda. We got to do the kind of stuff all 30-year-old men should fill their time with. Of course, the last time I was 30-something was almost 30-something years ago, so I sort of rolled off the side of the bed and cranked myself upright (albeit stooped over) this morning, and tottered into the kitchen to brew some very strong coffee. It was tempting to splash a little something extra into the cup, but like a good temperance union man I resisted. One of these days I’m going to give in to it, and test a pet theory of mine. For a long time I’ve believed that drinking strong spirits before noon is sadly underrated. My friend Joe agrees with me, and he’s even tried it a time or two. He has this killer homemade wine, and reports that it helps your bones get the right amount of lubrication in the morning. There are very few things that I will argue with Joe about, and this is not one of them. When I’m his age I’ll just be glad to be his age. Anything else will be gravy (not groovy, gravy. I might be from that generation, but I was more into food than flowers then). I don’t know anyone who works as hard and as long as he. I can’t begin to keep up with him. Of course, all that does is strengthen my theory, and make me want to test it sooner, and over an extended period. Any good researcher knows that the primary conclusion of all longitudinal studies is that more study is required. I’m liking where this is going more and more all the time. If I get less coherent than usual in the next paragraph (my detractors are wondering right now how they’ll know), it just may be that I’ve begun my grand experiment. No, another day. It’s already too late for today. It’s nearly time to head out the door for the pigpen. Tomorrow for sure!
At any rate, until I can somehow capture my thoughts and words while sleeping, I appear to be doomed to rising at 4-something and clicking the keys for a while. I’m not necessarily more lucid, or coherent, but at least while close to upright I can translate from cranium to screen in a somewhat consistent manner. And besides, it gets me up and going at my favorite time of day. Ernest Hemingway I’m not, but I’d bet you could find him drinking coffee and scrawling at dawn when he was “on” (correct me if you know that he was a slug-a-bed, and didn’t get up until late. On second thought, please don’t correct me. I like that mental image, right or wrong).
It was a great weekend at the Lindsey hacienda. We got to do the kind of stuff all 30-year-old men should fill their time with. Of course, the last time I was 30-something was almost 30-something years ago, so I sort of rolled off the side of the bed and cranked myself upright (albeit stooped over) this morning, and tottered into the kitchen to brew some very strong coffee. It was tempting to splash a little something extra into the cup, but like a good temperance union man I resisted. One of these days I’m going to give in to it, and test a pet theory of mine. For a long time I’ve believed that drinking strong spirits before noon is sadly underrated. My friend Joe agrees with me, and he’s even tried it a time or two. He has this killer homemade wine, and reports that it helps your bones get the right amount of lubrication in the morning. There are very few things that I will argue with Joe about, and this is not one of them. When I’m his age I’ll just be glad to be his age. Anything else will be gravy (not groovy, gravy. I might be from that generation, but I was more into food than flowers then). I don’t know anyone who works as hard and as long as he. I can’t begin to keep up with him. Of course, all that does is strengthen my theory, and make me want to test it sooner, and over an extended period. Any good researcher knows that the primary conclusion of all longitudinal studies is that more study is required. I’m liking where this is going more and more all the time. If I get less coherent than usual in the next paragraph (my detractors are wondering right now how they’ll know), it just may be that I’ve begun my grand experiment. No, another day. It’s already too late for today. It’s nearly time to head out the door for the pigpen. Tomorrow for sure!
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Sometimes we get reminded
Last week Wendy and I went shopping. Not for clothes, and not directly for food. We have just about run out of pigs. Business is good, but the real reason is that our porkers had a bad winter. We lost several of what we call junior pigs during our coldest nights. Pigs literally pile up to stay warm, and unfortunately the big ones occasionally end up at the top of the heap (they are, after all, a lot like humans). Combined with a spate of vulture attacks on newborn litters, our inventory has been drawn down.
So after conversations with our steady customers, we got permission to fill in when we need to with "outsourced" pork, and off we flew to the local friendly sties. I had found a phone number on our local swap and shop web site, and got directions to Jeff's house.
I arranged for us to meet Jeff on Saturday, two weeks ago, so like a good pig shopper I called him the Thursday before. He answered his cell, and I asked if we were still on for Saturday. His reply startled me. He said "I'm on the way home from Nashville. A tornado just went through my farm and I've got to see what's left."
We were out working in the field, in full sunshine at the time, and Jeff lives less than 20 miles from us, so we beat feet to the house and turned on the weather channel. It was unbelievable. Our neighboring county and the north end of Giles county were right in the path. I waited a couple of days and called Jeff back. He said it wasn't too bad at his farm, that he had "only" lost his roof, one barn and part of another, that a lot of his neighbors had been hit harder.
To make a long story even longer, we arranged our shopping trip for Saturday, April 19. Wendy and I drove up the long hill from Campbellsville to his house, through as beautiful and idyllic scenes as you will ever see. I think we saw every shade of green possible, all reflecting bright sunlight. It was as pretty a day as I can recall. Then we got to the top of the hill and the scene changed abruptly. I had seen tornado videos, but I guess I have never actually driven or walked through areas that had been hit. After a week it still was raw and stark. Piles of rubble marked home and church sites, and assortments of things were strewn everywhere. Jeff's house was more or less intact, with a blue tarp for a roof, but the barn less than 100 feet away had been taken down to the concrete foundation. It had been an Amish barn, and help 6,000 bales of hay.
We parked, got out, and I noted that there was not a lot of activity, especially odd given that there were 7 Amish buggies parked in the yard, and horses tethered nearby. I wandered over and found a group of 20-25 men and boys, all dressed in traditional Amish blue, all eating lunch with little conversation and lots of gusto. They weren't interested in talking to me, so I went to find Jeff. We looked at his pigs, then went to a neighbor's house and did the same. When we got back to Jeff's, the crew were all over the barn foundation, hammers in hand. Some of the younger ones were perched 20 feet up on posts, nailing beams into place. We sat and watched for a few minutes, and Jeff started talking. He said that the mornng after the storm, his Amish neighbors started showing up. The adults sorted through piles of lumber and tin, stacking the reuseable neatly, while the children pulled nails out. No one had called them (they don't have phones), no one had asked them to come, and no one had hired them. They are neighbors. All they asked was how he wanted the barn re-built. In less than a week they had cleaned up the debris, salvaged everything still usable, re-built the foundation and started on the barn itself. He held his hands as far apart as he could reach, and said "It makes my heart feel like it's this big."
We're going back this Saturday to load pigs and to see a real neighborhood again. One of my first thoughts was that I'd like to move up there and be a part of them. I think this shopping trip won't be the only one we'll be making to that community. It moved something very deep in both of us.
So after conversations with our steady customers, we got permission to fill in when we need to with "outsourced" pork, and off we flew to the local friendly sties. I had found a phone number on our local swap and shop web site, and got directions to Jeff's house.
I arranged for us to meet Jeff on Saturday, two weeks ago, so like a good pig shopper I called him the Thursday before. He answered his cell, and I asked if we were still on for Saturday. His reply startled me. He said "I'm on the way home from Nashville. A tornado just went through my farm and I've got to see what's left."
We were out working in the field, in full sunshine at the time, and Jeff lives less than 20 miles from us, so we beat feet to the house and turned on the weather channel. It was unbelievable. Our neighboring county and the north end of Giles county were right in the path. I waited a couple of days and called Jeff back. He said it wasn't too bad at his farm, that he had "only" lost his roof, one barn and part of another, that a lot of his neighbors had been hit harder.
To make a long story even longer, we arranged our shopping trip for Saturday, April 19. Wendy and I drove up the long hill from Campbellsville to his house, through as beautiful and idyllic scenes as you will ever see. I think we saw every shade of green possible, all reflecting bright sunlight. It was as pretty a day as I can recall. Then we got to the top of the hill and the scene changed abruptly. I had seen tornado videos, but I guess I have never actually driven or walked through areas that had been hit. After a week it still was raw and stark. Piles of rubble marked home and church sites, and assortments of things were strewn everywhere. Jeff's house was more or less intact, with a blue tarp for a roof, but the barn less than 100 feet away had been taken down to the concrete foundation. It had been an Amish barn, and help 6,000 bales of hay.
We parked, got out, and I noted that there was not a lot of activity, especially odd given that there were 7 Amish buggies parked in the yard, and horses tethered nearby. I wandered over and found a group of 20-25 men and boys, all dressed in traditional Amish blue, all eating lunch with little conversation and lots of gusto. They weren't interested in talking to me, so I went to find Jeff. We looked at his pigs, then went to a neighbor's house and did the same. When we got back to Jeff's, the crew were all over the barn foundation, hammers in hand. Some of the younger ones were perched 20 feet up on posts, nailing beams into place. We sat and watched for a few minutes, and Jeff started talking. He said that the mornng after the storm, his Amish neighbors started showing up. The adults sorted through piles of lumber and tin, stacking the reuseable neatly, while the children pulled nails out. No one had called them (they don't have phones), no one had asked them to come, and no one had hired them. They are neighbors. All they asked was how he wanted the barn re-built. In less than a week they had cleaned up the debris, salvaged everything still usable, re-built the foundation and started on the barn itself. He held his hands as far apart as he could reach, and said "It makes my heart feel like it's this big."
We're going back this Saturday to load pigs and to see a real neighborhood again. One of my first thoughts was that I'd like to move up there and be a part of them. I think this shopping trip won't be the only one we'll be making to that community. It moved something very deep in both of us.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
The Crazyness Gets Crazier
Whoever convinced everyone that a farm is a laid back, bucolic place to relax, chew on a straw, go fishing, and just be lazy obviously never saw or visited a farm. It's crazy. Not some of the time, all of the time, and then some more. Our craziness has gone into overtime. Here's a typical time slot:
Get up before dawn, make coffee, wash the milking equipment, get dressed. Feed hogs, milk cows, strain milk, rinse containers. Feed quail, chicks and chickens. Wolf down breakfast (thanks to Wendy, we at least all get breakfast). Then go chase sheep out of the neighbor's pasture. Some of us go to the greenhouse - it gets watered 3 times daily right now - while others go to the field. School starts for the kids at 9, but is usually delayed while we chase sheep out of the hay field. Mulching, manuring, weeding, planting, plowing, tilling, and maybe a wee bit of harvesting are interspersed with school, and chasing sheep out of the crops. Did you know that one sheep times 2 days can take a quarter acre of kale down to ground level? Neither did we until recently.
There's always fence to be built or repaired. Some of the fences are vintage 1950. They qualify as genuine antiques, but nobody is buying. And the sheep don't care. You'd think they would appreciate something that is as old as me, but I guess I should know better. They don't respect the fences any more than they respect me. The problem is getting some better. All the ones I can identify as repeat offenders are given a free one way ticket to the butcher.
All this takes us up to and through the lunch hour. You wouldn't know it from looking at me, but I've forgotten what lunch is for. I think it's punctuated by chasing sheep from somewhere to somewhere else. Come to think of it, I guess the solution has been staring me in the face all along. I just need to figure out where the sheep want to be, and take them there. Problem is, they are so fickle.
Things are growing very slowly this spring. I thought it had been a warm March, but the fact is, it's been the coolest one for some years. What lulled me to sleep was the fact that we've had very little truly cold weather this spring; we've just had very little warm weather, either. Just this week is it warm enough for things to take off and grow. I can tell that, because where we had tiny peas last weekend we have giant weeds now. Where we had greens showing through, we have grass now. Oh well, at least something is growing. Maybe if I let the sheep in to graze?
Not all of the news is bad. The blackberries appear to be coming back after last year's late freeze. Some of the fruit trees didn't survive, but the blackberries, a few raspberries, and some of the strawberries that we feared were gone have come back. It's too early to tell whether they'll fruit this year or not, but at least they came back. And the chicks that survived our bout with wormer-resistant parasites are laying eggs. We lost over 150 of the 200 layers we had nurtured over the winter. In desperation we fed them diatomaceous earth, and it worked. They appear to be hale and hearty. The sheep are looking at them hungrily, though. Thank goodness sheep are not carnivores.
I'll update crops at least weekly. Right now I need to go -you guessed it. I haven't run nearly enough yet. I hear sheep noises from the wrong direction. Lamb chops, anyone?
Get up before dawn, make coffee, wash the milking equipment, get dressed. Feed hogs, milk cows, strain milk, rinse containers. Feed quail, chicks and chickens. Wolf down breakfast (thanks to Wendy, we at least all get breakfast). Then go chase sheep out of the neighbor's pasture. Some of us go to the greenhouse - it gets watered 3 times daily right now - while others go to the field. School starts for the kids at 9, but is usually delayed while we chase sheep out of the hay field. Mulching, manuring, weeding, planting, plowing, tilling, and maybe a wee bit of harvesting are interspersed with school, and chasing sheep out of the crops. Did you know that one sheep times 2 days can take a quarter acre of kale down to ground level? Neither did we until recently.
There's always fence to be built or repaired. Some of the fences are vintage 1950. They qualify as genuine antiques, but nobody is buying. And the sheep don't care. You'd think they would appreciate something that is as old as me, but I guess I should know better. They don't respect the fences any more than they respect me. The problem is getting some better. All the ones I can identify as repeat offenders are given a free one way ticket to the butcher.
All this takes us up to and through the lunch hour. You wouldn't know it from looking at me, but I've forgotten what lunch is for. I think it's punctuated by chasing sheep from somewhere to somewhere else. Come to think of it, I guess the solution has been staring me in the face all along. I just need to figure out where the sheep want to be, and take them there. Problem is, they are so fickle.
Things are growing very slowly this spring. I thought it had been a warm March, but the fact is, it's been the coolest one for some years. What lulled me to sleep was the fact that we've had very little truly cold weather this spring; we've just had very little warm weather, either. Just this week is it warm enough for things to take off and grow. I can tell that, because where we had tiny peas last weekend we have giant weeds now. Where we had greens showing through, we have grass now. Oh well, at least something is growing. Maybe if I let the sheep in to graze?
Not all of the news is bad. The blackberries appear to be coming back after last year's late freeze. Some of the fruit trees didn't survive, but the blackberries, a few raspberries, and some of the strawberries that we feared were gone have come back. It's too early to tell whether they'll fruit this year or not, but at least they came back. And the chicks that survived our bout with wormer-resistant parasites are laying eggs. We lost over 150 of the 200 layers we had nurtured over the winter. In desperation we fed them diatomaceous earth, and it worked. They appear to be hale and hearty. The sheep are looking at them hungrily, though. Thank goodness sheep are not carnivores.
I'll update crops at least weekly. Right now I need to go -you guessed it. I haven't run nearly enough yet. I hear sheep noises from the wrong direction. Lamb chops, anyone?
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Today I made the decision to wash and put away the Carhart jacket for the season. This is not something I decide lightly, because it just might backfire on me with snow, hail, sleet and other forms of nastiness. But I feel lucky. I heard this week that the global warming that's going on right now is backing up average temperatures to the tune of 8 hours annually since 1988. So here's the King Of Rationalization in action:
Last average frost in our zone --April 15 (traditionally, according to USDA numbers)
"New" last average frost in our zone -- April 18 (do the math from the paragraph above)
Current 10 day forecast -- No temp less than 42F
Here's what all that complicated math means to me - take the gamble and plant beans!
Fast Forward to April 2. No April Fool here. Guess what went into the ground today? Yes, that's right. Beans. Actually we've been out planting greens, choi (lots more Wendy than me, but I think I actually did plant one or two, so I could claim "we" did it), more snap peas, broccoli, and thousands of onions. Hope they bulb this year; it's always iffy given our clay and climate.
We've been planting between rains. That's a wonderful thing, especially considering that last year, and a large part of the year before that, rain was hardly a consideration. No complaints about too much water falling from the sky. I agree with my father's belief that rain is just the liquid form of sunshine. I hope it keeps on coming on.
Thunder and daylight together mean that it's time for coffee and morning chores. I'll blog faster if you flog me harder with comments.
Last average frost in our zone --April 15 (traditionally, according to USDA numbers)
"New" last average frost in our zone -- April 18 (do the math from the paragraph above)
Current 10 day forecast -- No temp less than 42F
Here's what all that complicated math means to me - take the gamble and plant beans!
Fast Forward to April 2. No April Fool here. Guess what went into the ground today? Yes, that's right. Beans. Actually we've been out planting greens, choi (lots more Wendy than me, but I think I actually did plant one or two, so I could claim "we" did it), more snap peas, broccoli, and thousands of onions. Hope they bulb this year; it's always iffy given our clay and climate.
We've been planting between rains. That's a wonderful thing, especially considering that last year, and a large part of the year before that, rain was hardly a consideration. No complaints about too much water falling from the sky. I agree with my father's belief that rain is just the liquid form of sunshine. I hope it keeps on coming on.
Thunder and daylight together mean that it's time for coffee and morning chores. I'll blog faster if you flog me harder with comments.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Near the Ides of March
I love weather, especially in the lower middle Tennessee area. It is never boring, never predictable, always a challenge. This week, though, is shaping up to be absolutely splendid. The snow we had over the weekend stimulated everything that could germinate, I think.
I've been remiss about posting plantings here, so here goes with the list as of March 10:
Garlic - not nearly enough, but all sizes, all green, all growing
Onions - We've stuck a bunch into the ground, more to come, and they are just now showing green tips. Time for more mulch and a happy dance or two over them.
Radishes - my personal favorite. You can stand at the end of the rows and see green stripes along the ground. They are only about an inch tall, but this week will make them shoot up.
English peas - the kind you shell, not the sugar snaps. They're up, checking things out, looking around for deer, sheep, and other dangers. They'll likely shoot on up this week, too.
Wheat - This is a maybe you'll get it, maybe you won't kind of thing. We planted a bushel of wheat in October, and it's coming on now, having been grazed sporadically all winter by our escape artist sheep (who went to the butcher this week). If it comes on, we'll be sending out small amounts for you to try in late May. It's truly an experiment, both in growing and in recipes, but we'll see.
Collards - The ground looks like algae has escaped and crept all over it. Cross your fingers for rain, sun, and a little time for some good cooking greens.
Beets - We are determined to have beets this year, after nothing last year. Stand by for news.
Salad mix - Just yesterday a brave few poked up. With luck in a week the field will be green with baby lettuce, mizuna, mustard, arugula, and a few other goodies.
Broccoli - one flat went into the ground yesterday, another will today, and more later.
Potatoes - They are still in burlap sacks, and it makes my back hurt, but probably this weekend we'll be plantind several hundred pounds of seed potatoes. Our favorite is Irish Cobbler, but we'll have some other varieties also.
Finally, to the greenhouse. I should wait for Wendy to list off all the things she is waving her magic watering wand over in there every day, but suffice it to say that the Choi, the cippolini, and the Fuyo Shomi are almost ready for transplanting. Flowers are germinatine, she even has eggplant poking up all over the place. Yesterday she found peppers pushing up for air, too.
March is a great month. We've got to burn 2 woodstoves all night every night, and then vent the place all day because of the heat buildup. If anyone knows how to shift temperature 12 hours either way, let us know.
TTFN
I've been remiss about posting plantings here, so here goes with the list as of March 10:
Garlic - not nearly enough, but all sizes, all green, all growing
Onions - We've stuck a bunch into the ground, more to come, and they are just now showing green tips. Time for more mulch and a happy dance or two over them.
Radishes - my personal favorite. You can stand at the end of the rows and see green stripes along the ground. They are only about an inch tall, but this week will make them shoot up.
English peas - the kind you shell, not the sugar snaps. They're up, checking things out, looking around for deer, sheep, and other dangers. They'll likely shoot on up this week, too.
Wheat - This is a maybe you'll get it, maybe you won't kind of thing. We planted a bushel of wheat in October, and it's coming on now, having been grazed sporadically all winter by our escape artist sheep (who went to the butcher this week). If it comes on, we'll be sending out small amounts for you to try in late May. It's truly an experiment, both in growing and in recipes, but we'll see.
Collards - The ground looks like algae has escaped and crept all over it. Cross your fingers for rain, sun, and a little time for some good cooking greens.
Beets - We are determined to have beets this year, after nothing last year. Stand by for news.
Salad mix - Just yesterday a brave few poked up. With luck in a week the field will be green with baby lettuce, mizuna, mustard, arugula, and a few other goodies.
Broccoli - one flat went into the ground yesterday, another will today, and more later.
Potatoes - They are still in burlap sacks, and it makes my back hurt, but probably this weekend we'll be plantind several hundred pounds of seed potatoes. Our favorite is Irish Cobbler, but we'll have some other varieties also.
Finally, to the greenhouse. I should wait for Wendy to list off all the things she is waving her magic watering wand over in there every day, but suffice it to say that the Choi, the cippolini, and the Fuyo Shomi are almost ready for transplanting. Flowers are germinatine, she even has eggplant poking up all over the place. Yesterday she found peppers pushing up for air, too.
March is a great month. We've got to burn 2 woodstoves all night every night, and then vent the place all day because of the heat buildup. If anyone knows how to shift temperature 12 hours either way, let us know.
TTFN
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Fffreezing in February
Last week I was on my tractor, shirtless, pulverizing dirt clods and calling it fun. It was. Right now I'm sitting with a blanket wrapped around myself in front of the computer, at 20 degrees. I know, if you're sitting somewhere with snow all around that may seem warm, but given our February weather up till now, the change is kicking me.
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