The Other Shoe Looms

One of my reverential uncles on my mother's side called yesterday to extend an invitation to The Old Goat, Tinker, and me to attend an inpromptu dinner party. The ostensible reason was that the other reverentiall uncle was in town for his high school class reunion. With the Simpson extravaganza last weekend and now this gathering of the Perrys, I am awash in family. I can't swing a cat without hitting somebody related to me. Not that I am complaining... too much. It is a natural consequence of moving home; family comes as part of the deal. Everybody is being exceedingly kind to me. They figure that I need a little adjustment time. That tells me that soon, the other shoe will drop. I will be sucked into family machinations and feuds. I will be expected to pick sides and circulate the latest intelligence on activities and attitudes. I dread that part. And, it is the primary reason that I am not taking the wheels off my Airstream or getting rid of the hitch on the truck. Never know when I might need to make a run for the coast or the mountains to escape a pot-luck or a fish-fry. For now, I am having a fine time and enjoying some terrific food. The wife of the younger of the reverential uncles prepared herb-roasted vegetables, layered salad, potato salad, grilled chicken. It was all delicious. I think she may have taught Paula Deen how to cook. I am willing to risk the slings and arrows of internecine familial warfare if I can continue to feast on such taste treats.

Special Offer

Here is a special offer to Welch Super Service readers. As you know, I am knee-deep in the IOW Project in which I am putting the Federalist Papers into everyday English. I have completed a number of them and would love to share them with you. But, only if you are interested. If you are, simply send me an email (Alabaaama@gmail.com) stating your interest and the email address to which you want the translated Papers to be directed. As I complete them, I will send them along to you for your reading pleasure. If you have comments, of course, I want to hear them.

Biophilians, Unite!

The famous biologist (and fellow Alabamian) Edward O. Wilson (here's a picture of him, friendly looking guy, huh?) has suggested that everyone is born with biophilia, a love a nature. Hank Thoreau and Johnny Muir, both heroes of mine, would expand that to every living thing and not limit
themselves strictly to humans. Hank would go one better by including rocks and such. He wonders if rocks have souls. I do not think that the genome project will uncover a nature gene in human DNA. I doubt if probes, physical or magnetic, will discover the “nature center” in human brains. More likely, biophilia is a reality because most of us want it to exist. I think, therefore, it is. Who among us does not think he/she has a special relationship with Nature? Further, every one of us has a place – a mountaintop, a stream side, a lake, a grove of trees – that reassures us of that fidelity.

What got me thinking about nature today was a story about the Gulf oil spill. Scientists are perplexed because they can’t find the oil. What? Can’t find millions of gallons of crude oil? I thought it was washing up on the beaches and ruining Louisiana, again. According to one story I listened to today on NPR, it could be that that the disaster about which all of us were assured had happened may not be as bad as we were lead to believe. It seems that maybe microbes are munching away on the oil and it is being broken down far faster than our dire predictions anticipated. I wonder if FEMA is funding the microbes?

Then, I was on my land, chopping down privet as fast as I can position the saw. I asked myself, is this the right thing to do, chop down these perfectly healthy trees? Think of the cleansing effect these trees have on the air. Think of global warming and how these trees help mitigate it. I actually stopped what I was doing to consider the point. What drives me to rid the land of privet is how the privet has acted so much like humans. Think of privet as the school-house bully. They refused to play nice with any of the other trees and bushes. Instead, privet wanted it all. To my way of thinking, what I am doing is dealing out some good old rural justice. If you can’t behave yourself, then you have to go.

But all of that is far-afield from biophilia. I am not sure I agree with Dr. Wilson. I think people think they love Nature when, in fact, they fear it. I am firmly in Thomas Hobbes’ camp when it comes identifying the driving force of human behavior. It sure isn’t love or charity or kindness. It is fear. Pure and simple. Imagine the terror of being dumped in the wilderness with your survival dependent upon your skills and luck. Most of us would wither at the thought. Or, on a less dramatic level, think about snakes. I used to walk cautiously on my land for fear that I might step on one of the nasty serpents. I don’t think about it much anymore but I still fear the things. I keep telling myself that the black-hearted devils serve some kind of purpose.

What I have discovered is that the more you live with Nature, the more it grows on you. I mean, you lose your fears and hesitations the more you are a part of it. Rather than there being an instinctual connection to Nature, I tend to think it is more acquired and learned. To appreciate Nature, you have to make your peace with her.

The Evolving Schedule

Slowly, imperceptive in the course of weeks and months, my life is evolving a discipline. It is unintentional but emits from a desire to matter. I suspect that deep down inside of me, and perhaps in every individual, there is a hope for limits and a desire for direction. Discipline is the key to both and stewardship of time is fundamental to discipline. None of us want the day to end without having accomplished something. An old friend of mine, Walt the Banker, advised me to ask myself if I had "earned my hundred dollars" on a daily basis. It was his way of keeping check on his level of effort.

Getting up early is a part of life in rural Alabama. As with Thomas Jefferson, I rise before the sun. The Old Goat and I have breakfast. I, then, head to my land to do battle with the privet. A few hours of genuine work and plenty of perspiration make a real difference on the property's livability.

When the body is exercised and the energy is depleted, I clean up and gather my notes, a few books, and computer and drive to Starbuck's in LaGrange. The coffee shop is my make-shift office. Settled with a medium cup of house coffee, black, I work on the translation of the Federalist Papers. It is still a hobby but yearns to be considered a mission. I tried not to set milestones but I expect myself to put one paper per day into regular English. Some days, it takes a couple of hours to work through a single article; on other days, it takes four or five hours. It all depends on the Paper's author. John Jay wrote in a stand-up style that is fairly easy to put into other words. Alexander Hamilton wrote beautifully and is a touch more challenging to rephrase. James Madison is down-right difficult. His ideas are ornately complex and convincingly elegant.

A paper translated, I head back to Welch. On the way home, I pick up items that might be necessary for dinner. Arriving home, there is usually time for a short nap before preparing supper that is now served at 6 pm.

The time after supper is devoted to reading. That usually lasts for a couple of hours until I begin dozing on the book.

The day is spent. Well, did you earn your hundred buck today? Yes, I did.

Lady Friend

The Old Goat has a lady friend. Imagine, an 85-year-old-man acting like a teenager. He visits her every afternoon. He used to visit her after dinner which is why he insisted that we dine at 4 pm. Well, Tinker and I double-teamed him to force a later hour for dinner. We now gather at 6 pm. So, from 3 pm until 5:30, he goes visiting. The lady is also in ther eighties.

I have no way of knowing how lonely The Old Goat's life must be. The Blessed Saint Rebecca was his world. When she died, unexpectedly, it is devastating. He floundered badly. But, as she used to say all the time, a man who can't take care of himself is worthless. So, Dad took care of himself. He still does. I know he must be lonely. And, I know that he must feel as if he is cheating on the Blessed Saint by seeing somebody else. He is, after all, a pretty devote guy.

Tinker and I are of different minds on this issue. I generally support him seeing this woman. Tinker thinks she is sissifying him. Making him act older and more feeble. I suspect that he is not acting feeble but is, in fact, feeble. My God, he is in his eighties. Nevertheless, we both accommodate his romance knowing that not much will come of it. If it gives The Old Goat and his lady friend pleasure, good for them. A little happiness is damn hard enough to come by in the world.

Big Weekend

The Simpson Reunion is now over. No arrests, no fights, no knifings. Yeah, I am just as surprised as you. I kept hoping for a cat-fight to break out but everybody was on their best behavior today. The Old Goat presided over the festivities with admirable sanguinity. His two sisters attended -- The Old Goat, Lola Bea, and Mattie Ruth are the only children left from John and Ola Mae, the founts of this brand of Simpsons. I did not know the overwhelming majority of the people but it did not seem to matter. Simpson women hug. So, I hugged a load of them, some more than once. (These women need to patent their hugs. It is far more than merely throwing their arms around you. No, they wrap you into themselves. Only an angel embracing you with its wings could replicate the experience. And, they smell fabulous and I have always been a sucker for a good smelling woman. In fact, the combination of incredible hugs, perfrumed skin, and a Southern accent is proven to be fatal. I had to remind myself several times that these were cousins.)

This has been, in fact, a big weekend for me. On Friday, I drove up to Atlanta to spend the night with some dear friends. We enjoyed a terrific dinner at a nice restaurant -- I had a wonderful tuna steak with a good wine -- then attended a Melissa Ethridge concert. Sad to say, I have never given Melissa Ethridge much thought. That is my loss because she put on a heck of a show. As interesting as the music was the audience. It was a lesbian happening. And they were in the mood for some hard-driving, mad lesbian music. We all got an earful. I walked away with a new-found regard for Ethridge. And, I made a mental note never to get into a fist fight with a lesbian unless I was looking to have my ass handed to me.

The weather continues to be hot and humid. No serious sign of ran for the next couple of days. We are certainly in the Dog Days. I will have to put a little water on the garden tomorrow. The tomatoes are in production overdrive. That means that tinker and I will be stewing and stocking them im the freezer this week. I am going to try my hand at pepper relish. We have more peppers than the Mexican Army could eat in a weekend. (I had better be careful; the US Justice Department could interpret that comment as ethic profiling.)

Reunion Fever

We are in serious countdown to that most dreaded event -- the Simpson family reunion. The one-day carnival is Sunday. It will feature one sideshow after another. The faces and names will whirl, the alibis and excuses will pile up hip-deep, and the lies and prevarications will fly like crows into a corn field. It is hard to imagine that we hold this extravagana without benefit of alcohol.

The Old Goat will be in his glory on Sunday. He has lived long enough to become the undisputed patriarch of the family. He is treated with considerable deference. I think he deserves it. He is, after all, the Simpson who "made" it. He got off the farm, out from under the share-cropping grind, by virtue of being drafted into the military during WWII. When he returned, he landed a steady job in the cotton mill. He married well, bought a solid house, raised two boys -- both of whom stayed out of jail -- and is now retired. He made it.

As prince of the Simpsons, The Old Goat is expected to provide a fair amount of the food for the cloud of locusts. Tinker and I discussed the preparations. We are doing a ham, some side dishes, and a dessert or two, all on Dad's behalf. I think he appreciates our meager efforts.

Naturally, the Simpsons would pick the hottest, most humid Sunday in the heart of the summer and in the Deep South on which to hold an outdoor spectacle. The mosquitoes are sharpening their beaks, the ticks are practicing close order drills, and the flies are forming up for a massive air strike. This is the jackpot. What bug could resist scantily-clad Simpson skanks, hordes of red-headed children running about in wild abandon, and mountains of fried food?

Considering that I have been absent for the last forty of these reunions, and since the family is large, it is a given that I will know practically nobody at the soiree. I have fifty-three first cousins, most of whom I would not know if they walked up and hit me with a stick. We Simpsons are a lusty and prolific lot. So eager are we to "go and multiply" that we have 15-year old mothers, 30-year-old grandmothers and 50-year-old great-grandfathers within the tribe. There are so many of us around here that it is highly likely that the Wal-Mart clerk, the fast-food server, and the guy who picked up your trash are all relatives.

I recently went to one of my uncle's for a cook-out. Got talking to a very nice looking women who appeared to be about my age. Come to find out, she is one of my first cousins. I suppose it is as Tinker one time commented, "Time to go to the reunion and pick up a date."

With all those Simpsons gathered in one place, if I were the police, I might show up with a list of unsolved crimes. Sunday could be their lucky day.

The IOW Project

Back in my one of my former lives, I taught political science at the university level. In the truest sense of egalitarianism, even full professors, a rank I actually attained, were required to teach one or two freshmen introductory classes. In my classes, I noticed that when I assigned a number of readings from the Federalist Papers, the essential bedrock collection of arguments in support of the Constitution’s ratification, few of my students learned much from the experience. They whined of the dated language, the difficult and confusion sentence structure, and the obtuse reasoning. Feeling compelled to provide them with a glimpse at the minds of Madison, Hamilton, and Jay, and assured that no student of mine should walk about the Earth unaware of the Federalist, I did the unspeakable. I “translated” a few of the Federalists Papers into modern-usage English. It seemed to help. Some in the Academy might suggest that I dummied down the Federalist. I admit it freely. Sue me. I saw it as an issue of accessibility and opted for an easy fix. OK, enough of the background. Bringing this up to today, I am still translating the Papers. I have dubbed it the “In Other Words” Project, IOW for short. My first inclination was to publish the final product but now I am doing it as a hobby. I am under no “publish or perish” dictum any longer so if I finish all eighty-five papers, fine. If I don’t, no sweat. But, think about it. I am living in a travel trailer in the backwoods of Alabama. I am lucky to get a radio signal. My sole stimulation is a conversation with The Old Goat or Tinker and that usually centers on how the tomatoes in the garden are doing or what kind of gas mileage I am getting on my Ford truck. It is not like I have such a pressing social calendar that I don’t have a little time for something purely cerebral.
Here is where you come in. I am attaching a translation of Federalist 1, written by Alex Hamilton in 1787. If you want to see the difference in the original then my doctored version, google Federalist 1 and read through it. Then, access the attached offering. I am keenly interested in your reaction. If you go through all this effort (and a thousand blessings on you and your children if you do), please send me an email giving me some feedback on the readability, the faithfulness of the translation, and your general reaction to the product. You are under no obligation and no salesman will call on you in your home.

Federalist 1 Translated
Written by Alexander Hamilton
Published in the Independent Journal on Saturday, 27 October 1787
Entitled: General Introduction

To the people of the State of New York:

The government under the Articles of Confederation is awful. It is now time to decide if we want a new constitution for the country. This is a serious issue. The decision we make could make or break the country, could insure or endanger the various state governments, and determine if the American experiment works. Americans can choose the type of government that best suits their needs or else they can have one forced on them. Now is the time for us to make that choice. If we fail in this, it will not be a loss for Americans alone but for people everywhere.

This appeal asks you to consider the nation and calls upon your patriotism. It would be ideal if we could consider the issues of the new constitution solely in terms of the principles of good government. But who are we kidding? The new constitution impacts so much of our society that it is practically impossible to discuss it without inviting examination of all sorts of issues, many of which add nothing to the core consideration of the document.

A big hurdle for the new Constitution to clear is the entrenched politicians and officeholders in every state who resist any effort to dislodge them; likewise, there are many men who hope to profit by the continued lack of a strong national government. I am not, however, directing my attention against these entrenched politicians and self-promoters. It would be unfair of me to label all politicians and opportunists as opposed to the new Constitution. Truth is that even politicians and self-interested types can support worthy causes; and many of those who oppose the Constitution will do so because they are led by jealousies and fears. Making a judgment is a complex thing. Every individual has biases. We have seen honest and smart leaders on both sides of important issues. That is the reason that each of us should exercise careful deliberation when asked to deliver a judgment. We have to be careful that leaders who advance a cause are motivated by integrity and honesty. Personal ambition, greed, petty feuds, and political party maneuvering can be found among those who support the right side of an issue as well as in those who oppose it. Be particularly careful with political parties. They have an intolerant spirit about them. In politics, as in religion, it is impossible to gain adherents by intolerance and destruction. Nor can you curb defection by torture.

We know that the fight over the new Constitution will be messy. Those opposed to the new Constitution will try to increase their numbers by the volume of their rhetoric and the bitterness of their criticisms. Those of us who support a strong national government will be held up to ridicule as tools of kings and opposed to individual liberty. Opponents of the new Constitution will claim their motivation is to protect the rights of the people. In doing so, they are pandering for support rather than advancing that which is in the public interest. Never forget that those who scream the loudest about liberty are also just as likely to be the first to deny it. A strong government is necessary to secure liberty. Those in opposition cannot separate their own personal interests from what the nation requires in order to admit this simple fact. The rhetoric about the rights of the people is a show that masks their true ambition that would be impaired by an effective government. History teaches us that liberty is secured by government, and also that the road to despotism is often blazed by individuals who began their careers as servants of the people. They started as demagogues and ended up as tyrants.

My purpose in this article is to warn you that attempts will be made to influence your decision regarding the new Constitution by using false information. Obviously you know from this article that I support the new Constitution. I have given the document a thorough examination and believe it is in your best interest to adopt it. I am convinced that the new Constitution is the best guarantee of your liberty, your dignity, and your happiness. I have no reservations about the document and the government it creates. I will not pretend to be objective about the Constitution since I have made up my mind to support it. In these articles I will lay out the reasons that lead me to recommend the new Constitution to you. By this effort, you will have a clear picture of what the new Constitution contains. I do not pretend to know it all. And my reasons for attempting this project grow from deeply held beliefs. I will lay out my arguments and then you decide. Regardless, I will write the truth.

The plan is to write a series of papers that detail the contents of the new Constitution. The papers will cover the following topics: The importance of the union to your political life; the inability of the present Articles of Confederation government to preserve the union; the need for a strong government; how the proposed new Constitution sets up a republican government; how the proposed document is similar to your state constitution; and, how the new Constitution will preserve liberty and protect property.

In the papers I will try to respond to objections that have been raised to the new Constitution. You might ask why it is necessary to justify the union since everybody embraces it? But, there are those opposed to the Constitution that would rather the union be broken into a number of smaller countries. Whispering about breaking up the union will grow louder until there are enough believers in it to make it acceptable to say it out loud. Reduced to its basic element, the argument over the Constitution could be a choice of it or the end of our union. I will, therefore, begin these papers with an examination of why the union makes sense and the dangers we would invite if we disbanded it.

So, let’s begin.

What's for Supper

The Simpson boys are swapping the cooking chores in Welch. Each of us has his own specialties. The Old Goat is a master of cheap-ass frozen pizza. Tinker enjoys the lavish Sunday dinner with all sorts of fried dishes. My niche is to introduce "new" food to the mix. This week I served up a shocking dish -- sweet and sour pork. The Old Goat and Tinker sniffed around the edges for a while beforing deciding it was worthy of tasting. The next night, I wheeled out Costa Rican black beans and chicken. It was met with the same hesitation. What saved both dishes was Left-Over Wednesday. That is the day we clean out our refrigerators of all the scraps left from meals of the previous suppers. Both the sweet and sour pork and the black beans and chicken improve after sitting in the frig for a couple of days. The Old Goat and Tinker devoured both. I have to admit that they were delicious, so much so that both are now in the culinary rotation. As a vote of confidence, I have the cooking duties for Sunday. We are really climbing out on a limb -- lasagna.

The ultimate compliment of a good dish is tthat it compared to something that the Blessed Saint Rebecca would prepare. Fact is, she was one hell of a cook. What seems inconsistent to me is that she was always trying out new recipes yet The Old Goat and Tinker balk when something different is introduced. I don't recall any of us ever picking over anything she served. To the contrary, growing up we never had Left-Over Wednesday. There were no left-overs. The food was always so tasty that it quickly disappeared at suppertime.

The Blessed Saint Rebecca's special call, though was funeral food. It was her ministry to be the provider of "food fo rthe family" after the loss of a father, mother, brother, sister, husband, wife, or child. Within hours of news of a death, the Blessed Saint would have The Old Goat drive her to the home of the departed, laden down with delicious food to sustain the grieving. She as legendary in our community for her special mission. People still talk of her Kraut Salad, her Corn and Bean Salad, her fried chicken, her au gratin potatoes, her fried pies, and especially her cakes. Once, one of her Red Velvet Cakes was auctioned off at the farmers' coop annual meeting for $50 -- a staggering amount for a cake in Welch. Ironically, when the Blessed Saint ascended to Heaven, the food for the family was primarily eaten out of a KFC bucket. Funerals in Welch have not been the same since she departed.

Wringing Wet

Hard to put into words the feel of temperatures in the mid-90s with the humidity in excess of 50%. It rained yesterday in the afternoon. After the shower, I walked outside to enjoy the freshened environs. The sun was out and the trees were dripping from the rain. I was not prepared for the sauna that was Welch. Immediately, my mind associated the experience to the time I spent an incredible weekend at the Grand Hotel Spa. It was the stream room all over.

We do have an expression that sums up the effect of an Alabama summer day -- wringing wet. As in, you walk up to The Old Goat's house and by the time you get there, you are "wringing wet." Sweat is pouring out of every pore in your body. You are comparing yourself to a fish, sucking in and expelling water. Your hair is dripping, sweat drips from your fingers, and perspiration rolls down your legs, filling your shoes.

Fearing wringing wet, we have developed strategies to avoid the misery. We slow down. Dry region residents and Yankees thak we are lazy because we do things slowly. We are not disturbed by their views since taking note of them certainly trigger wringing wet. The exception to slowing down is our driving. We speed up. And, we drive with the windows down. Using the basic physics of evaporation, we figure that the faster we drive and the more wind blows into the vehicle, the combination of heat and movement of air will yield cooling to our sweat-saoked bodies. We speak slowly. Fast talking is a heat producing activity. There is no reason to exacerbate a trying situation. We get up early and take to the shade before midday. Getting up at 4:30 am sounds exacting but the pure joy of the cool morning makes it worth the effort. By 7 am, breakfast is over, the dishes are washed, the garden is hoed, the dogs fed, and the flowers weeded. It is then time to find some shade or get under the air conditioning. Most activities will be held in abeyance until much later in the afternoon, maybe even tomorrow. To avoid wringing wet, you have to be prepared to amend plans, temper ambitions, and tamp down expectations.

A guy from the power company was by yesterday doing some work on the line. We talked for a while about the Airstream. He admired it and enjoyed his tour of the trailer. His retirment plan is to travel the country and we talked, slowly, about adventures that were to be had on the open road. As he was leaving, he asked out of his window, "Why did you come to Alabama in July? Why aren't you somewhere cool and dry?" I tried to respond to him with my reaons for settling in this sweat-lodge but felt perspiration beads breakiing on my brow, the first sign of wringing wet. Fast thinking, like fast talking, spealls trouble. We both realized that to offer to an explanation would be painful. He drove off shaking his head. I retreated to the shade.

Election Day

Elections have changed since I was a kid. That thought hit me this morning as The Old Goat, Tinker, and I drove down to Stroud to cast our ballots in the primary run-off election. As usual, we were voters #1, #2, and #3. The Old Goat likes being the first person to vote in our precinct. The elections have changed because they are less personal, less like neighbors asking for votes. The Alabama governor's race is downright embarrassing. Two bright guys seeking the nomination by hacking the other to pieces. Candidates don't get and visit anymore. They are polished cut-outs instead of real people. The Old Goat is devoted to a fellow running for county commissioner because he sat on Dad's front porch and talked about how how the weather was. Didn't matter what was discussed, the fact that the guy took the time to talk to Dad was all that it took to gain his support. That kind of personal politics are lost now. No other candidate dropped by the house.

My political maturation was greatly influenced by my Grandfather Simpson and Grandmother Perry (the Blessed Saint Rebecca's mother). In the first instance, Grandfather Simpson, who was illiterate, would save all of the cards given to him by candidates. The cards were nothing more than a business card with a picture of the candidate and some vitals on party affiliation, office sought, and the required line about appreciating your vote. On the back was either the Alabama or Auburn football schedule for the upcoming season. That, in itself, would be reason to keep the card. Don't want to lose track of the football season. Anyway, Grandfather Simpson would stack all of the cards then shuffle through them for days prior to election day. As a little boy just learning to read, I would read each card to him as he weighed the relative merits of each candidate. The candidates for whom he decided to vote he would stick on the right side of the front door jam. One election day, he would take that stack of cards to the polls, give them to the lady who conducted the voting, and she would vote his choices for him. One has to assume that she complied with his wishes but it was all a matter of trust. Election evening, I would sit with him as the results were announced. It was a personal triumph when the results agreed with his choices; it was cause for worry when the majority disagreed with him. I don't think he ever talked to an elected official in his life but he took his job as a voter very seriously.

My Grandmother Perry was a closet anarchist. She complained bitterly about the government. She went beyond cynicism. She had an abiding dislike for things political. I've thought about her animosity and have ascribed it to the Depression, the Great War (in which she lost family), then Korea (where her sons served) and the Southeast Asia experience (when her grandsons served). She was the genuine article peace-nik, no pot or LSD required. Once she was complaining about how candidates were visiting the house, asking for support. She said, "you can't even throw the dishwater out the backdoor without hitting a candidate." I think it pained her that I spent most of my life in public service.

Trees on Wild Ass Acres

I've talked about the trees on the land quite a bit so I thought I would show you some of them. The Southern Yellow Pine is the most ubiquitous. Hard to swing a wet cat without hitting one. Long-term the pines are money in the bank assuming I have the heart to chop them down and sell them. That is not a foregone conclusion.





Couple of happy discoveries include this one, maples. I've found a number of them struggling under the yoke of Privet oppression. Once freed and given access to sunlight, the maples flourish. This surprises me since I associate maples with colder climates. I am unsure of the variety but I think it is either the soft yellow or red maple. For sure, it is not the trashy silver maple that is more weed than tree. Every time I discover a maple, it is a particular pleasure to whack down its competitors and give it a leg-up on survival.





A tree that gets instant respect and protection is an oak. There are a number of varieties of oaks on the land. I have counted half a dozen so far including water oak, pin oak, white oak, red oak, and turkey oak. This one is a particular favorite of mine and will be a hallmark of Wild Ass Acres in the decades to come.





During the heat of the Privet Wars, I noticed some strange leaves fighting for air among the thick Privet. After the successful destruction of the Privet command structure and its headquarters, I found this locust defying all odds at survival among the heathens. It is a prickly little tree with sharp torns protruding from truck and limbs. The leaves are willowy things that look playful in the breeze. The tree has bean-pods that give it an exotic look. Glad to have this hearty tree in the mix.





This is a beautifully shaped poplar with large pale green leaves and a light gray bark. It is one of those trees that you build around. The plan is to remove competitors from its immediate area to allow it to spread to its full potential.


The undisputed king of the trees on the property is this grand old pecan. It is over forty feet tall and will serve the shade for afternoon cocktail parties and fall tailgates and campfires.



Often called pioneer trees, here is an example of the countless sweet gums on the land. I intend to keep a number of them. They do make a nice fall palette with oranges and reds. If I cut half of them down, I would still have too many. I've cut strategically in order to give them ample space for spreading.





Another trashy tree that I sort of like in small doses is cedar. I have kept a number of them. They usually sprout up along side another tree so they are rarely found well shaped. This one struck me as a keeper so I cleared away other competitors to give it a chance to shine.



No tour of the place would be complete without a look at the enemy. This is the notorious Privet. It is the siren of weeds. It is an attractive plant. It attracts the birds and gives wildlife cover. But, it is so aggressive that it crowds out other plants. It is in the same vein as kudzu, an invasive specie that quickly wears out Southern hospitality. As idealistic as it sounds, I am on a quest to rid the land of ALL the Privet. One plant remaining is an invitation to all of its relatives. Practically overnight Privet can own the land.



Not pictured here are the dogwoods, the serviceberries, sassafrass, hickories, and what I think to be hawthornes. Discovering these little gems is half the fun of hacking away at the place.

Helpful Rain

Mercifully, a thunderstorm rolled through downtown Welch last evening. Even those of us in the suburbs received a good soaking. The sunflowers and sweet potatoes I planted all look happy this morning. The place does not have that smell of dried hay that lingered during the last few hot and dry days. From the looks of the clouds on the horizon, we may have another downpour today. No complaints here.

This retirement stuff is harder than it looks. I have been at it for almost two months (five weeks of that was spend on the road) and already I am finding it disorienting to be without some sort of schedule. I obviously lack purpose, something I can repair if I work up enough energy. I do wonder if I will work at a substantive job ever again. I may have bailed too early. What keeps going through my head are those insightful lines of poet and philosopher Neil Young: "It is better to burn out than to fade away." What I am doing now is dimming my bulb. There are just so many activities with which one can fill his/her day. I have not lived for activities for almost sixty years. I thought I lived for purposes. Comfortable, quiet, restful retirement is not a purpose. My labors on the land are hobbies. Where is the substance?

After Action Review (Hotwash)

Our two-day offensive against the Privet has concluded. The enemy's stronghold is wiped out. But not without costs. Tinker suffered a sinking spell mid-way in the battle today. He managed to clear the field of battle and retreat to his friendly confines. The after effects, however, were grim. He had terrible cramping in his legs and hands. Exhausted, he dozed most of the afternoon. He seems better now. I managed to escape the sap-letting with only minor scraps and scratches. I did sustain a blow to my right thigh when I pulled on a Privet stump. The stump dislodged violently, striking me on the upper leg. I thought nothing of it at the time but now am administering Ben-Gay and Alleve for the soreness. To demonstrate the insidious nature of our foe, once we waded into the Privet nest, we discovered to our horror that the King Privet surrounded himself with several locusts. The locust are particularly beautiful trees but have a nasty characteristic -- three to four inch long torns protruding from the bark. Our efforts were waylaid momentarily by this surprise defense but thick gloves and sheer daring prevailed. Soon, the innocent but dangerous locust were subdued and sent to the chipper. I took particular warrior glee in sentencing King Privet to his doom.

This afternoon I paid a visit to the Chambers County Courthouse. I was scheduled to meet with the County Manager and the septic tank guy. I was struck by how hollow the place sounded when I walked in. The county manager, as it turns out, worked Tuesday and Wednesday of this week then took a long weekend. Same for the septic tank guy. The folks at the Agricultural Extension Service, across the street, apparently decided that if the County is taking a long weekend, they should, too. They closed their offices at noon on Thursday with a note that said they would return to work (if one dared call it that) on Monday. Dismayed, I visited the rural electricity people to arrange for electricity on my land. Everybody was gone. The nice lady who waited on me gave me a form to fill out. She said that I would get a call from the service guy soon. No date specified. Still presisting, I visited the 911 Office. They are the people who assign addresses. The office was closed until Monday. I might have stumbled on one reason few things get done in Chambers County. Nobody is working. I walked back over to the Courthouse to talk to the commissioner who represents my district. He was only available by telephone. Finally, I gave up and returned home to have several gin and tonics.

By the way, an After Action Review is a military term I picked up in Iraq. It is a skull session after an engagement. It is sometimes called a "hotwash" since it attempts to get the gist of a meeting or encounter. My good friend Kevin taught me the terms and I find them most useful in this situation.

The hotwash from today: 1) The Privet is not dead but badly damaged. 2) We suffered battle scars but will recover. 3) It is hard to manage a county if you don't work at it.

Major Offensive

I cleared away the pesky sweet gum yesterday for a major assault on the Privet stronghold this morning. I don't think the Privet know what is to befall them. As I cut away the sweet gum, I made sure not to look in the direction of the Privet, that alone should lull them into a sense of security. We are locked and loaded. Chain saws, bow saws, limb shearers. The weak of stomach might want to turn away when the pitch of battle reaches its height. It will not be pretty. To seal the fate of the Privet, I've hooked up the chipper to the tractor and strategically positioned it to make quick work of the stubborn enemy. A quick and decisive slash with a chanin saw, a fast dissection, then into the chipper. Before the Privet know what hit them, they will be mulch for the garden. Whipping out this core of Privet strength, the scattered Privet will be easy prey. Without leadership from the center, an army quickly falls into disarray.

This is the "shock and awe" of the Privet War. On the edge of battle, I feel the nervous twitch of a warrior, ready for the sap-letting. The cause is just. The enemy is easily identifiable. The weapons of war are prepared and ready for action. Failure to prevail rewrites history, something I will not allow.

For oaks, hickories, maples, pines, and poplars! Destroy the foreign horde! Be of one mind, victory is ours!

Tomato Season

The 4th of July is not only the celebration of the Declaration of Independence but is the unofficial start to "Tomato Days" in the South. A few smart alecks have tomatoes earlier -- once, I picked my first ripe tomato on the 14th of June -- but, by rights, the 4th ushers in the splendid season. Most of the tomato vines will play out around Labor Day.

Several years ago, the Bible of all things Southern, Southern Living, ran an article on the tomato sandwich, a staple of cultured living down here. Tomato sandwiches are right up there with banana sandwiches, mustard potato salad, and Vienna sausages in terms of of popularity and taste appeal. All of the suggested ways of constructing a tomato sandwich provided by Southern Living sounded delicious. But, most complicated the tar out of the simple sandwich; most, in fact, took the focus off the tomato and put it on some exotic component that added little in the way of regional flavor.

Here is my favorite tomato sandwich. The right ingredients are essential. No substitutions allowed.

I prefer sturdy bread. The best I found is Sara Lee's Whole Wheat. It is the kind that has wheat straw stuck to it as if someone dropped it on the floor of the bakery and invoked the five second rule. Some prefer to toast the bread. I most certainly do not.

Slather both pices of bread with generous helpings of Hellman's Real Mayonnaise. Sure sign of a Yaknee trying to pass is Miracle Whip. No self-respecting tomato grower in Albama -- and that is damn near all of us here -- would permit the use of Miracle Whip on a genuine tomato sandwich. In fact, I think there are counties in Alabama where Miracle Whip is prohibited. If that is not factual, it ought to be. Besides, who the hell knows what is in Miracle Whip? It could be some French culinary experiment gone horribly wrong and callously passed along to unsuspected Americans as a chic sandwich condiment. Boy, the French and Miracle Whip burn me up!

Select a juicy, red, fresh-picked, vine-ripended tomato. Some folks like those whopping Beef Steak tomatoes. I think they are pretentious. One slice will cover the entire piece of bread. No, I prefer medium sized tomatoes (recommended varieties include JetStar, Arkansas Traveler, Atkinson, or Bonnie Select). Take one medium sized tomato and cut it horizontally to produce four meaty slices, excluding the top and bottom. Discard the top and bottom as they will detract from the consistency and taste of the slices selected to make the sandwich. Arrange the four slices on the previously greased bread.

Now, it is time for the seasoning. Salt to taste. Pepper with abandon. It is practically impossible to put too much pepper on a tomato sandwich. A peppermill is the best but liberal amounts from a standard shaker will work fine. Next, crumple up a couple of tablestones of feta cheese. As a topper, add several basil leaves. Covers with the second slice of bread. Do not cut nto halves.

Eat quickly, holding the sandwich with both hands. As an aid in cleaning up, place a dish, wash rag, or several paper towels beneath the sandwich. I like to a side of potato chips and enjoy a big glass of real (meaning, sweet) iced tea.

Upon completion, wash hands, face, and arms since a well-made tomato sandwich will leave its love dripping on you. Next, fix another one. They just get better.

Two Old GIs

One of "those" moments occurred last evening. I took The Old Goat to the rodeo up north of Roanoke. As is standard with rodeo, there were lots of flags, pagentry, and over-the-top patriotism. The announcer asked all the veterans to stand for a round of applause from the crowd. My dad stood up. Then he grabbed my arm and said, "Stand up, boy, you're a veteran, too." Well, I stood up next to my dad, proudly. I never thought of my service as equating with his in the Great War. But, he did. There you have it, a moment I will remember for the rest of my life.

The Tire Saga Continues

I hoed the garden until almost sundown last night. By the time I quit, I was drenched in sweat and felt little crawly things all over me, probably just my imagination. I was in desperate need of a shower. If you have not taken a garden hose shower, referred to as hosin', you have not lived. Now, when I lived in a city, I would routinely hose. Even built myself a private little hosin' area in my backyard that afforded me some privacy. In the country it is easier, no voyeur neighbors living within a few feet of you. The real difference though in city hosin' and country hosin' is the temperature of the water. In the city, after the initial shock of cold water, the temperature moderates a bit since most of the water is stored in above ground tanks. During the summer, water out of a city tap could be in the 70 to 80 degree range. In the country, the water comes right out of the ground at about 50 to 60 degrees. The water is heart attack cold. And, I will not even comment on the shrinkage factor.

This morning, The Old Goat and I drove up to the tractor place to get the bush-hog tire fixed. Tinker knocked it off mowing Miss Sherry's field. Without the guide tire, the apparatus is inopertive. Got the tire fixed for a grand total of $6 which I thought was a good bargain.

Afterwards, and seeing how it was barely after 7 am, we decided to drive down to the Courthouse about the tires that have yet to be picked up by the County. Rather than bolt in with a complaint about non-existent services, I took a different tact.

Me: M'am, somebody is playing a cruel trick on the County and me.

Nice lady at the County: What ever do you mean?

Me: I asked the County to pick up a bunch a tires some scoundrel dumped on my property over a month ago. At the time, the County said it would pick up the tires in the next couple of days. Now, I know the County must have picked them up. But, these sorry buzzards who dumped them went to the landfill, loaded up those same tires, and dumped them again in the same place as last time. Surely, something can be done to stop these rascals.

Nice lady at the County: That is terrible. Let me just make sure that a work order was filled out on those tires. (She shuffles through some papers and pulls out a pink slip.) Dr. Simpson, I hate to tell you this but our crew did not pick up tnose tires and I am so sorry that it has taken so long to get to them. I'll make sure we get out there the first of the week.

Me: You are so kind. Thank you. I'll be back next week to thank you for your efforts. Have a nice 4th of July.

Sweet Home Welch

It is good to be home. Leaving Memphis early this morning was a good strategy. I arrived in Welch about dinner time (for the uninitiated, dinner time is noon while supper time is around 6 pm, although The Old Goat thinks supper should be served no later than 4 pm, and whines like a sick puppy when it is not). I honked the horn when I passed The Old Goat's house. Within minutes, he was in his car and driving to welcome me home. Naturally, as I set up the Airstream, he plundered through it as if on an inspection tour. Fortunately, I dug out the gift I bought him -- a silver tipped bolo tie with an exquisite holder also of silver. He seemed pleased. I bought it Durango and while driving across Arkansas and Mississippi, fought off boredom by wondering where I had put it.

Couple of hours later, Tinker came home from his second job at Home Depot. He did his inspection of the trailer and truck and pronounced both to be satisfactory. By that time, The Old Goat was off to see one of his many lady-friends (he has more energy and enthusiasm than a rabbit). Tinker and I had a couple of beers and talked trailers, and travels, and the West. I bought him a money clip with embedded turquoise. He, too, seemed pleased. Even though Tinker and I are in our late 50s, neither of us drink in The Old Goat's presence. The blessed St. Rebecca and The Old Goat were steadfastly opposed to demon rum, in any form. Out of respect for them, Tinker and I keep our beer swilling private. Years ago, when we were kids, we hide our beer stash in the chimney of a house that burned down, across the dirt road from where my land is now. Then, when we drank a beer on Saturday night, we'd both chew pine needles to freshen our breath. Sounds silly, but neither of us wanted to give the folks heart-burn about something like beer drinking.

Tinker's garden has withered from lack of rain. He has a few tomatoes, some squash. The Old Goat told me that it had rained once since I left. I don't think my travel plans had anything to do with the weather patterns. The bush-hogging I did before leaving needs to be done again. The sunflowers I planted before leaving are about a foot high. They need weeding; another thing for the "to do" list tomorrow.

There is a rodeo in Roanoke this Friday. And, on Saturday, one of my uncles his hosting a BBQ at his house. There will be plenty of good food and lots of new people to meet.

It is good to be home.