Snakes

Let’s get this established right now: I hate snakes. I mean, I scream like a school girl at the sight of one of the black-hearted devils. But, this week, I had no less than two close encounters with the beasts. Both right around my house. I have never known so many snakes close to the house. Must be something in the climate. Perhaps climate change has altered their patterns. Nevertheless, they are here and I have to deal with them. At the beginning of the week there was a corn snake that wanted to use my house as a place of refuge. I discouraged him although I did not kill him. Guess I could have. And, today, an unidentified reptile was the subject of interest of my cats when I noticed it. As much as I dislike the devils, I could not bring myself to kill them. I kept thinking about the ecological benefit that snakes provide. I just have to overcome the fact that they are snakes. Not an easy task. What I have decided is to deal with my own irrational fear and let the snakes be snakes. They don’t seem to want to come in the house and they feed on mice, one my other great fears. So, learn to live with them.

Summer Storm

A strong summer thunderstorm moved through the greater Welch area this afternoon. We received an astounding 2.4” of rain in about an hour. Along with the rain came hail that did some damage to the garden and piled on the back deck as if we were living in the Rockies. The winds that accompanied the storm knocked over two of the Bodines – no simple task given the stability for which the Bodines are famed. Problem with a Bodine being blown over is that it takes the tomato with it. Several of the precious fruits are damaged and will have to stage a dramatic comeback to survive. In addition, several of the peppers were denuded by the hail. The rows stand about a foot high. At one point, though, the tops of the rows were barely visible due to the surge of water that drained across the garden. I watched in horror, knowing there was nothing I could do. After assessing the damage a few minutes ago, I concluded that in a couple of days I will replant a number of things, even a few new tomatoes and peppers. The beans and peas are pretty hardy and should recapture their energy and begin climbing the sticks, again. The potatoes are about to come out so I am not too worried about them. The cabbages, corn, melons, okra and onions seem fine. The squash and zucchini washed away so replanting is on the calendar for Thursday. All the flowers need replanting with the exception of the volunteer zinnias and the breath-taking daisies that are absolutely showing out and survived the storm still in bloom. Even though it was disheartening to see the garden ripped and drowned, the storm was magnificent! During the height of the storm, poor ol’ Daisy whined about the rain, thunder and lighting. I let her in and she laid down in the living room. Then, when the storm moved away, she was ready to return to the front porch. Likewise, as I was surveying the damage, all the cats joined in the inspection tour. It was funny to see the kittens playing in the rain run-off. I checked on the chickens and they were smart enough to take shelter in their houses. After the storm passed, they were out scratching and pecking the ground. So, there you have it. A summer storm passes through and, temporarily, all of our behaviors change. And, our schedule changes for the rest of the week. What a welcomed change of pace.

Joke Time

This is WitchWoman's and my favorite joke. An elderly couple is rocking on the front porch. The lady stops, looks at the old man, and says: One of us needs to die so that I can go live with my sister. Rat-ta-tat... thank you... I will be here all week...

Strange signs

I am perplexed by strange signs that appeared today. These are signs that might portend something is out of the ordinary in Welch. The first was at breakfast. I cracked a particularly large brown egg that I gathered from my chickens early this morning. What appeared but a two yoke egg. It was delicious. But, does it mean something? Two-yoke eggs are fairly rare. Here I picked one out of the morning haul and was treated to this pleasing sight. Surely this must mean something good. Then, a little after 7 am, the ever-faithful and vigilant Daisy, veteran guard dog she is, raised all sorts of hell when workmen appeared on the highway side of the property. Naturally, I hiked up to determine their intent and method. Come to find out they are from Charter Communications and are installing fiber optic cable up and down the highway. In a few short months, I will have high speed internet, multi-channel cable and crystal clear telephone services delivered to my home should I decide to subscribe. Internet is a problematic feature out here in the country. The way I access the cyber-super highway is through an air card for which I pay a premium each month. Even then, the air card provides weak connectivity and is not reliable. Access to high speed fiber optics will be a welcomed addition to country living. The third and final sign occurred a few minutes ago as I was enjoying an adult beverage on the back deck while delighting in a chorus of frogs and crickets as the fireflies buzzed in the pasture. I thought for a moment that there was lightening in the distance but there is a distinct lack of clouds this evening. After an initial moment of confusion, I remembered that workmen are putting the final touches on a cell tower at the other end of the big curve on the highway. Less than a quarter of a mile from my house, a new tower now stands and atop it is a beacon. What I thought was lighting is that very same beacon putting out a warning flash to air traffic. For me, it was as if a storm was brewing. So, what to make of these strange occurrences? Double yokes, fiber optic connectivity and improved cell telephone services. Is change crashing in on Welch? Is the world turning without me noticing? Is it the end or the beginning? If you get up every day and pay a little attention to stuff happening around you, it is amazing what you will find. I guess I should include in my list of astonishments today that I found the corn I planted three weeks ago is coming up as is the okra. Neither was expected. In fact, I discovered the corn sprouts when I was preparing to replant the rows. There it was, about an inch high, green and fresh, full of Nature’s desire to live on. Same for the okra. I have never been successful in producing much okra. If even half of this survives I will be wrapped up in the stuff in a month or so. What to make of all this? A priest of mine years ago told me that the early church never questioned miracles, rather they focused on what they meant. By contrast, modern man questions the very existence of miracles. I am not saying that what happened today was miraculous. I just wonder what all these strange things mean.

Expecting too much

In my morning prayers this morning at Mass, I asked that God give me a word of direction for my life. I petitioned the God of Hosts to give my priest, the very lovely Father Al, the words that would give me direction, words that would set my path on the right path. After my prayers, I settled in for the appreciated and comforting liturgy. To my surprise, Father Al did not deliver. There was nothing in his homily that spoke to me. It was all about mothers and Moses’ mother and Solomon and stuff that did not speak to me. It was most disappointing to me. After Mass, I realized that my “demand” that God perform was arrogant, as usual. I am left to my own devices, just as God intended. All I really want is some direction. But, supposing that it would come to me serendipitously is absurd. Father Al had no idea that I had laid such a burden on him nor would he have responded if he had. To carry the disappointment even further, The Old Goat assumed that I had forgotten about him today. He drove to my house to ask about lunch. At the same time, I was preparing sauce for spaghetti, from scratch. He was convinced that I had forgotten him. It demonstrate show I don’t get much credit for the care I provide him. The Old Goat transmits his wishes through Tinker who seems particularly attuned to his needs. I guess I never developed the sensitivity to TOG’s inner most thoughts. Nor do I plan to develop such sensitivity. One of the ladies in my church used eggs she bought from me to make deviled eggs. She brought them to church today and after Mass a number of us boys gathered around the snack table to scarf up the delicious offerings. The deviled eggs and the finger bologna sandwiches went fast. Pretty good stuff. Making deviled eggs out of really fresh eggs is difficult. The lady who made them told me that she punches a hole in the eggs before she boils them. That way, they peel easily. I will give it a try. You try it and let me know if it works for you.

Authentic Men Hall of Fame

One of my favorite former students and I began a conversation years ago about authentic men. It seems to me that the dialogue began about the same time that the term metrosexual was making its debute. The student and I were reacting to a minor, almost inperceptible, academic dust-up over the future of boys and the general resignation that the era of "real" men was over. John Wayne was dead. Gary Cooper was dead. Teddy Roosevelt was dead. At the time, the most "manly" men on the scene were Bill Clinton (he of $200 haircuts), Bob Dole (he of Viagra fame) and Sean Penn (a terrific Harvey Milk). The result of our conversation lead to the proposition that there had to be authentic men to serve as role models for the rest of us. Characteristics of the authentic man would include the ability to survive on one's wits without crying like a school girl. The authentic man knows something about tools and how to use them. He knows how to clean up. He does not present tatoos as the best means of enunciating his world view. He does not behave as a knuckle-dragging bafoon. He usually avoids face paint, anything camo, and NASCAR. Mostly, he likes to test himself, to find out the depth of his spirit. He is not necessarily committed to making the world better. In fact, it might be that the authentic man turns his back on the world and lives reconciled to forces of Nature that are not silly, petty or cheap. To date, there are seven inductees into the Authentic Men Hall of Fame. The first member, unanimously elected, was

Henry David Thoreau. The second class included

Constantine Shanklin (actually Nevil Shute, Shanklin's real life counterpart),

Earnest Shackleton and

John Muir. Inducted since are

Capt. James Buchanan Eads and

John Wesley Powell. Our newest member is

Dick Proennecke. Nominations are welcome but please understand that my former student and I reserve the right to reject any nominee. When I mentioned the Authentic Men Hall of Fame to WitchWoman, I got an ear-full. She did not like it one tiny bit. And, after kicking my ass for a while, I finally conceded that it should be the Authentic Person Hall of Fame. Which means that I am automatically disqualified for induction to the Authentic Men Hall of Fame. There is no room in the Authentic Men Hall of Fame for a milk-toast who folds like a cheap suit case when challenged by a stinking woman. I don't know much about sociology. Never took any courses in the discipline. But, I believe our society will reap different fruit than expected from nuturing a generation of boys without manly men as heroes and role models. I am at the age that I no longer care if I am viewed as a neaderthal. Maybe I am listening to too much country music -- no gender confusion there -- and trying to live a simple life but it seems to me that Walt Kowalski (from Gran Torino) would be more valuable to society now than Chaz Bono. Make sure you hear what I am saying. I am not talking about sexuality. A manly man is about attitude. Making sexuality the defining characteristic that categorizes us is short-sighted. A gay man who can fix a leaking drain, prepare a tasty dinner, act to protect his home and loved ones, and mets his social obligations is as eligible for induction to the Hall as a straight dude who does the same. Sexuality is a convenient label employed by the lazy. More than anything else, what I am saying with this post is that there is no reason to apologize for being a man. There are differences between the sexes. Good. Variety makes for a more interesting life. Strong men will make strong women. Just as the tide raises all boats, honoring the best of men does not diminish any women. In fact, it has nothing to do with women. Imagine that, I can use this phrase that I have wanted to use for most of my adult life: "hey, it ain't about you."

Emily is dying

One of the Bronte sisters is dying. It is Emily but, I admit, it is difficult to tell them apart. She is hold up in the house, sitting on her perch with eyes closed. She is slowly fading away. I made the rookie mistake of naming my chickens. The three Orpingtons I named the Bronte sisters. They are big-breasted, Rubinesque, lusty, and always looking for a quick snack. Good layers who produced big, fat brown eggs. Now, Emily is dying. When chickens are dying, they remove themselves from the flow of events in the hen house. Sometimes, they will hid their heads and crouch in a corner. They quit eating. They don’t drink water. When I went into the house on Sunday I found Emily disengaged, glassy eyed, and looking as if she had given up. I knew in an instant that it was over for her. She was saying her good-byes. She continues to remain detached and sinking today. I expect her to die within the next 48 to 72 hours. I have buried a number of aged chickens who died in the same way. I prefer this to me chopping off their heads. Old birds have lived long enough to deserve more respect than ending up in a stock pot. I am sorry to see Emily go but I prefer she have her end in her way rather than mine. When she passes, I will dig a grave near the stream that feeds the lake and place her in it. The Old Goat says that animals don't have souls. He learned that from Jimmy Swaggert. As far as I am concerned, I will bury Emily and I will ask God to accept her into His hen house, trusting that He recognizes her authetic heart and genuine nature.