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.
Friday, May 23, 2008
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!
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