Joe ($#^%) Biden

NPR, leftist radio in the US paid for by the US taxpayer, ran a story yesterday featuring Joe Biden discussing the US withdrawal from Iraq. It drove me into a fever. I quickly accessed the NPR website, had to register, then frantically typed in my response to Biden's remarks. My input was not published because I guess it was not civil. Any criticism of O'Bama and his fellow travelers is considered incivil. Here is the truth I learned from everyday Iraqis: Joe Biden is an idiot. He is widely held in disrepute by Iraqis. He is bright bulb who proposed that we divide Iraq into three separate countries, thus guaranteeing civil war in the region well into the foreseeable future. The man did not learn a thing after thirty years of serving on the Senate's Foreign Relations Committee. Poor ol' Joe is evidence that once stupid, always stupid.

Of course, I decided at the same time not to send NPR any more money. The system has biases to which they are completely blind. If Hilary Clinton ever left the national scene, NPR would collapse. Sad commentary. But, you can always read a person by whom he/she holds in esteem. Here is a woman who sleeps with Bill Clinton. Naturally, she is qualified to be Secretary of State. Only on NPR.

The Old Goat

Wednesday I had to drive down to Columbus for a meeting. Yeah, a meeting. I actually got a job and now have to be places at precise times and take regular showers and shave. I'll write about my job later but right now I have something else on my mind. Wednesday was cloudy and rainy. I left early. The Old Goat, up early as usual, went to Wal-Mart to pick up a few things. When he got back to his house, he lost his balance while carrying in his treasures, fell onto the rock driveway, and was unable to get up. He laid there for a quarter of an hour when, fortunately, Tinker and Squeeze drove up to visit. They found The Old Goat sprawled out on the driveway, a little bruised, and a bit dazed. Scared the holy spit out of them. When I arrived home that evening, I got the low-down from Tinker. I talked to The Old Goat. He dismissed it as nothing. I thought about it at length and realizing that since I am now a working stiff there would be many times when The Old Goat would be here without me nearby. We went to dinner as usual at the catfish place on Thursday night. While fine dining, I just let it blurt out. "Dad, it is time for you to move to assisted living." That went over real well. On Friday morning, I met with the lady that runs the assisted living in Roanoke, toured the facility, met the other staff members and several of the residents. I walked away from that meeting feeling positive. I talked to The Old Goat and he thought I had lost my mind. Yet, he agreed that he would have dinner at the assisted living facility tonight (Friday) instead of going out for our usual Hamburger Night. The food was delicious. The residents welcomed The Old Goat as if he were a nice guy. He toured the place. I think he liked it. On Monday I am meeting with the director again. This time our discussion is about payments and move in dates. These last 48 hours have been stomach-churning. Putting my Dad into an assisted living facility is something I knew was coming. Just, it come faster than I thought. Tinker is absolving himself from any responsibility for the decision. I guess that is the reason I come home afterall. If I thought Dad would be better off continuing to live out here in the country, I would not have done the things I've done in the last couple of days. But, I think I have acted in his best interest. The country can be lonely. And, he is lonely. He misses the Blessed Rebecca terribly. He only interacts with me or Tinker. Even his dog spends most of her time at my house. Television is fine but it is not a friend. The assited living place gives him the chance to interact, to engage. I think he welcomes the opportunity but, of course, he will not admit, yet. I think in time he will. Or, at least, I hope he does.

No more politics, OK?

OK, enough of politics. Every time I mention anything about O’Bama, I get a ration from former friends about my wrong-headedness. OK, enough of politics. I won’t mention another thing about the community organizer who now is the chief executive of the national government.

Rather, I am going to talk about gardening. Fall and Winter are the times to talk about gardening. Larry, my neighbor, came up today and used his garden tiller attachment to his tractor to run over my gardens for next spring. What I will do now is plant a cover crop that will add some nitrogen to the soil until it goes under the plow next March. I have no less than ten gardens: the Kitchen Garden, the Herb Circle, the Flower Square, the Berry Run, the Strawberry Field, the Spud Ditch, the Squash Plot, the Melon Patch, the Asparagus Bed, and the Corn Bottom. All total, I have over an acre under cultivation.

God, I love this stuff. Growing stuff. Nurturing plants that produce all sorts of fruits. The temps dropped below freezing for a couple of nights. I had no choice but to yank up the tomatoes and the peppers and the eggplants. Thing about the peppers is that there were a number of peppers left on the plants. And, they were good despite the frost. So, I picked them and now am trying to figure out what to do with them. I do have a greenhouse in which I have lettuces and tomatoes. When I was a kid, I took baths in that wash-house that is now the greenhouse.

Looks like I might end up with a job with the Alabama Sustainable Agriculture Network (ASAN). Imagine, somebody is willing to give me a job? If it works out, I will be the Executive Director of the organization. Again, imagine that?

Keeping the Election in Perspective

Interesting day. Herman Cain is the subject of sexual harassment charges. So what. That is what I say. So what. The Hermanator and Clarance Thomas together don’t make an afternoon of Bill Clinton. Case closed. Jesus, give me a break. I feel sorry for Politico who I suspect wants to be taken seriously in the future. They can just about forget it. Pathetic.

Meanwhile, O’Bama is trying to buy off the student vote with relaxed repayment plans for federal loans. Hey, anybody notice that the unemployment rate is over 9%? Who gives a whack about student loans when so many people don’t have jobs? Mark your calendar, it is the 31st of October and I am predicting that O’Bama gets his ass kicked in the November 2012 election. He is this generation’s Jimmy Carter.

Of course, leave it to the Republicans to spoil a great prediction. No party in American history has demonstrated the ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory like the Republicans. In 2008, how could you not defeat a mediocre state senator from Illinois who didn’t (and doesn’t) know his ass from a hole in the ground? Well, the Republicans figured out a way to lose that election. What a bunch of dumb asses. They are responsible for O’Bama. And, left to their own devices, they could very well do it again in 2012.

I have studied politics all of my adult life. There has not been a point in my life when I have been as cynical of the American political system. It is so thoroughly bankrupt. I am not sure it is capable of cleansing itself. O’Bama is the end of the line. If we actually get worse than this, there is absolutely no hope.

Don’t for a moment think that I am advocating for a Republican president. The Republicans are just as worthless as the Democrats. An election in the US today is a genuine choice between two evils. Both are awful. Maybe it is time we suspend government for a while. Surely it could not be worse than what we currently endure? Think of it, a break from presidents and congresses. No crises to endure. Of course, the cable news channels will go out of business. Without the foolishness of the government, there would be little to report. The state governments can continue because they actually provide a few services. Not many, though. It used to be that the states funded agricultural extension services. Now it is a figment of your imagination. The county agent in my county is a beef agent. She doesn’t have a clue about vegetables and could not care less. If she went away for a while, I would not be adversely affected. I never see the sheriff and have chronicled here how ineffectual law enforcement has been regarding transgressions on my land. So, if the sheriff went away for a while, I doubt if I would notice. Especially since I have loaded 30-06 standing by. It may be the appropriate time for government to just go away for awhile. Enough of your non-sense, enough of your ego-centric posturing, enough of your election-year charades. The gig is simply up. You sons of bitches are out.

Time for a new boss. (Same as the old boss…we won’t get fooled again, yeah, right.). While I am in favor of democracy, I share James Madison’s fear of it. Democracy destroys itself. “Hence it is that such democracies have ever been spectacles of turbulence and contention; have ever been found incompatible with personal security or the rights of property; and, have in general been as short in their lives as they have been violent in their deaths.” [Federalist 10] We Americans have been a great experiment. It just hasn’t worked out. Our greed and our laziness got in the way. We grew tired of keeping a sharp eye on our politicians. We let the bastards get away with murder. And they have. That is how I explain O’Bama. No rational nation would elect such an amateur to its highest office. An indifferent nation would.

Bottom line: we are screwed. Regardless of how 2012 turns out.

On the Environment

I am not in the bag for human-induced global warming. That claim is man-made hubris. Worse are the public policy implications for subscribing to the remedies proposed to save us from global disaster. Scratch a devout environmentalist and you will find a stink-eye socialist. That does not mean, however, that I reject climate change. Nor does it mean that I reject respect for Nature or relieve individuals from genuine stewardship responsibilities. The planet will survive us but there is no reason to trash it while we are renting the premises. I am sure that the Earth’s climate is changing, just as it has changed for eons.

What has happened to my lake over the course of the year has shocked me. Instead of receiving our normal 60 inches of rain this year, East Alabama received about 30. As a result, my lake is about five feet low. It has taken on a bizarre shape as it literally dries up before my eyes. I know that the fate of a micro lake in the Deep South is minor in relation to the larger questions of drought throughout the South and especially in Texas but it worries me. The stream that once fed the lake has quit running. My neighbor, Mr. Jimmy, thinks that the water table has dropped because of all the new folks punching the aquifer to obtain water to drink, water livestock, fill pools, and wash trucks. One of my plans is to put a pump off the dock and run water up to an elevated storage tank near the gardens. If we fail to get monsoon rains this winter, I can forget that idea. The moment I run that line, though, I am admitting a fundamental climate shift – my grandparents never considered running a water supply line from the lake to the garden. An organic farmer friend of mine told me that if I was serious about growing produce for market I had no choice but to irrigate. Remember, Alabama’s average annual rainfall is about 60 inches. Something is out of whack.

Then, as I was thinking about the lake drying up, I opened an email from a gardening group of which I am a member. I am linking you to the information I found. Check this out: www.arborday.org/media/mapchanges.cfm. It shows that the frost dates are dramatically different than they were just two decades ago. If the trend continues, I will be able to grow tomatoes outdoors year-round. Now that is some kind of climate change.

Every time I start getting serious about environmental degradation, I listen more carefully to weather report. Every event, tornado, flood, heat, cold, snow, ice is always report as the worst or most or highest or lowest SINCE sometime in the recorded past when the environment was rebelling more intensely than now. Worst weather SINCE …

I am torn on the extent to which modern living costs the environment. Since I believe all change begins with me, I removed all of the air conditioners from the house because they gobble energy. I use low wattage bulbs. I cook on the grill as often as possible. I use as little hot water as hygienically acceptable. I wear more clothes in winter and fewer clothes in the summer. The redo of the house is focused on energy conservation, from extended eves to beefed up insulation. Not surprisingly, I enthusiastically support locally produced and organically grown food. I produce them myself. So, I send in my dues to the Sierra Club every year even though I ignore every suggestion it offers on candidates and “calls to action”. I like the Club but don’t want them running the country.

I put most of my hope in the theory that Nature is indifferent to us. It is what it is. Inexorable. The Universe is ruled by the laws of physics, chemistry, and biology, perhaps some mathematics. The stars and planets are still exploding and that rate of outward movement is accelerating. Who knows where that will lead?. What we do on this little jewel of a planet is meaningless in the cosmic scheme of things. It does, however, matter to us right now. For that reason, we should behave ourselves and respect Nature. Walk gently on the Earth. Enjoy her incredible beauty. Celebrate her bounty. Marvel at her mysteries.

Friday Stew

Several things are on my mind this evening. Hope you don’t mind me bouncing around a bit.

First, El Presidente

Leave it to O’Bama to smoke Muammar Gaddafi. Go figure. First it was Osama bin Laden, now Gaddafi. If I were Bashra al Assad, I would keep my movements secret, at least from the American president. Mr. O’Bama has shown a keen taste for knocking off rogue heads of state, and their lieutenants. Remember just a few days ago, O’Bama pulled the trigger on Anwar al-Awlaki who was an American citizen. That raised all sorts of questions about a citizen’s civil liberties and rights. Nevertheless, the President steeled his resolve and ordered the hit. You can’t but wonder if O’Bama is doing it because of electoral politics or some sense of historic mission or because he is psychologically trapped – forced to use the power possessed by the Commander-in-Chief while all the time despising the mission of the military. Regardless, I applaud the President. Doesn’t change my mind about his unworthiness for the job but I do admire him for acting with firmness regarding terrorists.

[Some of you may be offended by my use of O’Bama for the President. Accept my half-hearted apology in advance. My use of the fraudulent name honors his lack of qualifications for the office.]

Second, The Winter Garden

A good variety of vegetables are booming in the garden, despite the cooler temperatures. I’ve never grown rutabaga but it seems to like where it is. I had to thin it by pulling up hands full of it. The collards look great. The cabbage is beginning to spin. The broccoli, English peas, spinach, beets, and turnips all are doing well. But, the best thing I am currently doing is growing Romaine and leaf lettuce in the greenhouse. What a treat to have a place to sprout and grow stuff. Just for the fun of it, I sprouted three dozen tomato plants, all heirlooms. I am learning how to use a greenhouse so these are my test cases.

I spent the last couple of days plowing the new garden spots. My plan is to break up the soil only enough to kill the grass then plant winter wheat as a cover crop. I’ll come back next spring and plow the wheat under then plant. There are actually three new garden spots. The biggest is the Melon Field, 36 x 130, designed for watermelons, cantaloupes, honeydews, squashes (writ large, meaning all sorts of squashes, including pumpkins), cabbages and okra. The existing kitchen garden will feature mostly beans, peas, onion, eggplants and peppers. In addition to the Melon Field, there is the Flower Garden, 36 x 36, because I really, really like cut flowers in the house. I also am making a specific bed for spuds. From February to May, Irish potatoes will be featured with sweet potatoes going in the ground in May and coming out in October. All in all, the additional growing space is exciting. It even raising the possibility that I might evolve into a regular capitalist if I can ever reconcile myself to sell food.

And, finally, Good-bye Iraq

I spent two years in Iraq. I am proud of that service. I made many friends there and think I advanced America’s best foot forward to the Iraqis. The President announced today that all American troops will exit Iraq by year’s end. The only American presence in the country will be the Embassy in Baghdad. That is most unfortunate. The Embassy is as dysfunctional as any too-big-to-get-it bureaucracy. Did you know that the Embassy in Baghdad is the largest US embassy in the world? It is bigger than the embassies in China, Germany, France, even England. The Embassy saw Iraq only in terms of Baghdad. It is out in the country that the vitality of Iraq is real and palpable. I pray for Iraq daily, the people I know specifically and the society in general. I have deep fears of Iranian interference. The governance is fragile but I trust a genuine desire for democracy and freedom. It is too soon to write the history of the Iraqi adventure. I am confident that decades from now, Iraqis will describe the Americans in terms far kinder than the language in use today.

Farm Photos

I took some photos around the place today about stuff I have discussed recently here.

There is a picture of the new cat. She is a cute little thing and is quickly assuming dominance over the house.

There is a picture of the new chicks. They look like a bunch of adolescents now but, trust me, they were balls of fur a week ago. The red tint of the photo is from the heat lamp under which they live. It will remain a part of their world for another month or so. I can see them developing some character. I know they eat like crazy and make a mess of their water.

The last photo is the newly created greenhouse. There are two types of lettuce growing in pots – romaine and leaf, sometimes called red, lettuce, three fig tree sprouts that I have been nursing along, and some marigolds, daisies, and some wild flowers I have grown from seeds, plus a tray of tomato plants that I sprouted from seeds. My next project is to install a heating source to protect the plants from the occasional cold weather that intrudes on our paradise here.

Occupy Wall Street

I am in sympathy with the kids occupying Wall Street. I know that most of them are dunder-headed anarchists and that to live in a world of their design would be sheer hell. But, when I think of the crimes against society committed by the bastards on Wall Street, I get angry. Billions of dollars of taxpayer money funneled to bail-out schemers and slicks whose speculations and market manipulations caught up with them. They did not deserve a rescue. The Congress and President initially provided $750 billion to cover the exposed asses of the criminals on Wall Street. It was not enough to save the economy. I recognize that our fine Federal government deserves much blame for the market disaster through which we are now living. It was the President and Congress who compelled banks to loan to folk who had no hope of repaying home loans. It was the President and Congress who rolled up trillions of dollars in debt. It was the President and Congress who sat back and let the jackels eat our babies. I curse them. And, here and now, urge you to vote for candidates NOT in power. Turn the incumbent sons-of-bitches out. Fire them as they deserve. But, let us not forget the sorry dogs on Wall Street who wrecked the economy in order to pad their portfolios. They deserve prosecution. And since that is not likely to happen because of the fine Federal government we elected, then we are left with occupation. Go for it kids. If I could suffer through a night sleeping on the ground, I would join your protest.

Every day I hear NPR report on the happenings on Wall Street. Is there anything more inane than a news reader saying that the reason the Dow Jones went up or down was because of European debt or unemployment figures or Japanese earthquakes or any of the countless reasons used to explain why the market did what it did? Well, all of that is bullshit. Here is the reason the market goes up or down: THE BASTARDS FIGURED OUT HOW TO MAKE A BUCK. So, if the Dow falls a few points, it means the bastards figured out a way to make a few pennies from sliding stock prices. Likewise, if the market goes up, the bastards figured out how to make a profit off upward movement. The bastards on Wall Street care about the Greeks only as they relate to their ability to realize a profit, even if it comes from Greek misery. The bastards care for the unemployed only in context of how the number plays into stock valuation. After all, unemployment if just a number; the bastards could not care less if there are every day people standing behind those numbers. So Japan gets smacked by an earthquake. To the bastards, how will the "event" impact profitibility and supply trains? If the market reacted on a daily basis in the way the news readers at NPR say they do, then the bastards on Wall Street act like my chickens. The hens live in a constant state of terror, afraid of every fresh breeze, any movement, the slightest noise. They really do act like Chicken Little, with the sky falling at any moment.

I hope that is the way the bastards on Wall Street live. I hope they live in constant fear. I hope they drink Maalox by the gallons. I hope they sleep fitfully, waking often and always in a cold sweat. I hope their lives are haunted by fear and worry. The one thing the bastards on Wall Street don’t fear is exactly what they deserve: prosecution.

I don’t think Occupy Wall Street is a Howard Beale moment in US history. It will, however, be an amusing footnote in a dissertation in the future by an insightful doctoral student studying the collapse of the American Empire. I can see it now. When faced with naked greed and self-aggrandizement by the bastards of Wall Street, the fine Federal government rushed to indemnify the thieves from their crimes. With a laugh, the fine Federal government passed the bill on to the American people.

After thinking about all of this for a while, I am left with only one thought: we deserve exactly the government for which we voted.

New Life Forms

For reasons unknown to me, I have been particularly busy these last few days. Before I realized it, I had bush-hogged the whole place, brought down the wrath of the civilized world on dastardly privet lurking in the shadows, plotted and channeled run-off ditches in the garden and, to top off the day, plowed up a melon patch, flower garden, and spud bed. All of that in one day. What makes it even more remarkable is that when I started out this morning, I had only a vague idea of how the day would unfold.

I have new life forms on the farm. I resolved I would get cat after Lily went missing several months ago. It is not that I am a big cat fan but, truth is, if you live in the country, you need a mouser, even if your roommate is Mr. Clean or the Pine-Sol maid. My best intentions were hanging around unfulfilled when one day I caught sight of a stray cat streaking from behind the chicken house to the woods just west of the garden. WitchWoman recommended that I put out some cat food in hopes of enticing the feline to make this her home. As usual, I followed the recommendation. Long story short, there is a cute little cat now on patrol in the house and on the grounds.

Tinker and I went in on some new chickens. I bought 18 Golden Orpintons. Tinker got four Rhode Island Reds and four Pearl Leghorns. For now, all of them are in one of my chicken houses. When they arrived they were nothing more than balls of fur. After a few days, they are developing feathers and starting to look like chickens. I check on them several times each day to make sure they have water, food and heat.

In order to make room for the new chicks, I had to move the four hens and one rooster (Ferdinand) who lived in the upper house (upper only in that it is closer to the house) to the lower house. The lower house has a dozen hens and a rooster (The Other Guy). Well, the moment I put Ferdinand in with The Other Guy, they started fighting. That went on for several days. I knew that the fight was over when I found The Other Guy hiding behind the feed bucket. Ferdinand had whaled on him properly. Nature can be tough sometimes.

Here is the point to all of this. Since inviting the cat into the house, I have seen no evidence of mice. It is as though just having the cat here intimidates the rodents. Then, you see the battle between Ferdinand and The Other Guy with the outcome being supremacy in the hen house. (Let me add that all the hens from both houses are long of beak with no interest in raising broods of chicks. In other words these guys are fighting over strutting rights for an audience that is ambivalent.) Just makes me suspect that Nature imposes her own kind of Order onto the Chaos of everyday life. My friend Rog (a physicist) would argue that Chaos rules. I am not so sure. Rats and roosters seem to support my suspicion that there is something to Natural Order.

Boy Kicks My Ass, Deservedly So

Every so often I write something that is so hopelessly sappy that I deserve to have my ass kicked for writing it. Well, Boy never hesitates to apply the required treatment. What follows is him opening a can of Whop-Ass on my last post. Thanks, Boy. You know I love you.

Quote The Boy:

I write masterpiece comments to your blogs but for some reason they won’t post. I wonder if others have that problem. When I try to post these wonderful tomes I write they simply disappear. So, I’ll try to recreate my post to your last blog.

So, once you mattered. To whom did you matter & what did that mean? Matter to family? In our culture, mattering to family typically means creating income to be spent by our “loving” family members who are too busy with their own lives to pause to consider how someone else matters to them. Matter to your lover? All that should matter to a lover is the warmth created in their heart by simple contact, emotional or physical, not our place in the corporate world. Matter to friends? The fact that you have learned out to “matter” to yourself, the fact you have found joy in planting a new crop, creating the world’s best tomato, lingering over a cup of coffee, taking the dogs for a swim & sitting down exhausted from tilling your soil means you matter to us because you have proven Tom Wolfe wrong.

You have been to funerals, more than you wanted to attend (except perhaps when an enemy or two met their overdue demise). Did you ever observe an ATM machine in any of the caskets so the deceased could access their monetary wealth? I have never witnessed that phenomenon so I think it means that true wealth is in the heart, not the 1st National Bank.

You are living on your Golden Pond. You are exploring what life really means, or at least should mean to people. Perhaps instead looking behind your present state when you “mattered” in your own self esteem, you need to look forward to how you matter in the future. Perhaps, as Thoreau did through his golden pond experience, your inner significance may be best achieved by sharing what life joys can be found in the simpler things through your phenomenal writing ability. After all, the majority of us are too busy “mattering” that we miss living.

Thoreau figured all this out long before we were created:
“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.”
“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer.”
“I learned this, at least, by my experiment; that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.”
“I have a great deal of company in my house; especially in the morning, when nobody calls.”
“I too had woven a kind of basket of a delicate texture, but I had not made it worth anyone's while to buy them. Yet not the less, in my case, did I think it worth my while to weave them, and instead of studying how to make it worth men's while to buy my baskets, I studied rather how to avoid the necessity of selling them.”

“Nay, be a Columbus to whole new continents and worlds within you,
opening new channels, not of trade, but of thought.”

Convert your blogs into columns to be shared with the world. The county seat of Heaven is located in Welch, Alabama.

Taking Stock

I am not feeling too good about myself. Mostly, I have not worked a real job since I left Iraq in May 2010. I have drilled through the money I had set aside. Bought the farm from my brother and now find myself without a lot of options regarding fiscal flexibility.

That part is actually pretty good since being without debt in today’s economic environment is a positive thing. I am working on a job with a not-for-profit group, the Alabama Sustainable Agriculture Network (ASAN). I joined the group when I relocated back here. My good friends Jim and Judy are involved with ASAN. It did not take very long to figure out that the group needs an executive director. So, I put myself forward as a candidate. I recognize that if I am going to be paid by ASAN, I will have to figure out how to do it.

Farm-wise, the place is doing fine. I have been busy the last couple of days putting up (as in canning and freezing) peppers and tomatoes and pears. Previously, I put beans and peas in the freezer. The sweet potatoes are about to be harvested. The fall garden is planted and most of it has emerged thanks to 1.7 inches of rain this week – collards, rutabaga, beets, cabbage, spinach, sweet peas and garlic. I am also preparing the newly renovated greenhouse for a planting of herbs and tomatoes. I am thinking of plowing the melon, flower and corn patches now, applying compost and letting it rest over the winter in anticipation of spring planting. New chickens are on-order and will arrive on 26 September – 25 Buff Orpingtons. After cleaning out the houses, the current brood of hens went on a laying frenzy, producing about eight to ten eggs daily. I am one person. I cannot eat that many eggs so I am giving them away, a dozen at a time. As I write this, there are five dozen eggs in my refrigerator. The lake is about four feet low, evidence of the long and sustained drought that has impacted east Alabama. We’ve had about 25 inches of rain this year – our normal is in excess of 50 inches. I also had the great pleasure to contribute my meager resources to the whimpering American economy. I had to buy a new water well pump. After a mere thirty years, the pump when tits-up. I was so pissed that I vowed not to replace it. After three days of no shower, a sink full of dishes, and nasty hands, I relented. Tinker came down and helped me install the new machine. It works fine. I am also on a decluttering jones in the house. What cannot be moved to some other location is donated to the Salvation Army. Amazing how nice the house looks when you can actually see the walls and floor. I am picking colors out for a painting party. Everybody is invited.

Truth is, this is as good a life style as any son of bitch could ever hope to live. And, that is the problem I am having. This is so damn good that it cannot be moral or legitimate or genuine. I get up when I wake up. I go to bed when I am tired. I linger over strong coffee in the morning. I take the dogs for swims everyday in the steadily shrinking lake. Sometimes I have a glass (or two) of wine with lunch. I set my own agenda and work until I don’t want to anymore. There have to be huge problems with all this. There is a strong possibility that I will not make lots of (perhaps, any) money doing this but it is the most rewarding “job” I have ever had. Still, I don’t feel good about myself. I am a product of conditioning that required an income, a family and debts. As much as I loved the Blessed Rebecca, I am a bit pissed that she made me believe in all that shit. Truth is, I have never really cared much for money (to qualify, I love to spend but otherwise, so what?). As far as my family, I am divorced. That should tell you something. My son lives in Europe and I have seen him once in six years and I rarely hear from him. My daughter is on the west coast and never answers her phone. And, as far as debt, I live without it, praise be to God. To owe is to not sleep until that debt is satisfied. Debt is the original four-letter word.

I was once a City Manager. I was once a Professor. I was once a Diplomat. Once I mattered.

Missed Events

My friend, Kev, was married last weekend. I did not attend even though I was invited. Part of the reason I stayed home was that he is at Yale. For a boy from Alabama, Yale is purely intimidating. Mark my words, Kev will be Secretary of State one of these days. I hope. Brilliant kid with wonderful insights. The other part of the reason is that WitchWoman and I are working out the after-shocks of the tornado in Joplin. To add to the confusion, her mother broke her hip and is now in a nursing home. WitchWoman did have an offer accepted on a house in Kansas City. She closes on it in November. How that works into our relationship, I am unsure. She is naturally drawn to her kids. And, now, there is another grandchild on the way. Makes perfect sense that she would want to be near them. It is a long way from Kansas City to Welch.

As for me, I plan to stay here in Alabama, even though I may be losing my ass in doing so. I have been unable to land any sort of job. I even offered a non-profit to work for free. They will get back to me. I guess the economy is as bad as I hear on radio or else I have a greatly inflated self-image.

Sweet potatoes are coming out of the ground next week. Stuff coming out of the ground includes collards, rutabagas, beets, peas and spinach. The cabbage plants are doing well under the protective shield of wire baskets to keep the deer from eating the tender sprouts. Tomorrow, I will spend most of the day making pear preserves.

Today I completed the roof from the new greenhouse. By this time next week, I should have a few items sprouting. The objective is, of course, to produce the perfect tomato.

Speaking of which, I have the best recipe for tomato sauce I have ever tasted. It is so easy. In a large pot, sweat a finely chopped onion, a green pepper and three or four garlic cloves in olive oil. Add a quart of canned from-the-garden tomatoes (or a big-ass can of from-the-store diced tomatoes), a fat tablespoon of tomato paste, a palm full of dried basil, a bay leaf, salt and pepper, a slug of red wine. Simmer for about an hour or so. Delicious. I use it for spaghetti and lasagna.

I wish I had gone to Kev's wedding if for no other reason than to give him this great recipe. But, I didn't. Life got in the way.

Stuff

Yes, it is hot and humid. But, this morning I worked up a brow-mopping sweat pulling out the first planting of corn. Some promising rain clouds obscured the sun, so there I was, harvesting the fodder and feeling an unusually cool breeze. All of a sudden, it was Fall. Summer was playing hide-and-seek with me. The dogs and I sat under the tractor shed and shucked the dried ears to be used for duck food. It was nice to take a mental break from the heat of mid-summer. I was not day-dreaming of cooler temps. If you know me at all, you know that I love this sticky, sweaty Alabama weather, even the winters. The reason I like the winters here is because, more often than not, they are mild, rarely replicating the savage freezes through which I suffered while living in the Midwest.

On a more sober note, WitchWoman’s mother fell and broke her hip yesterday. Ironically, she was preparing to attend her 91st birthday party at WitchWoman’s house. The family was gathering when news arrived that an accident had occurred. Of course, nobody wants to look at the statistical outcome of this incident. I don’t blame them. My biggest fear is that The Old Goat will suffer a similar fate. Recently, while visiting my Uncle, his home health nurse, who knows The Old Goat, told me that “it is only a matter of time” that he falls. He does have issues with balance. In fact, he has fallen a few times recently. Fortunately, none of his falls, so far, have had serious implications.

The 26-horse power, 54 inch cut lawn tractor I bought last Fall broke. A bolt holding on one of the cutting deck pulleys dislodged. The bolt is stripped so I monkeyed with it for a while before driving into town and buying a new bolt. Surprisingly, the simple repairs I attempted, worked. The tractor is back in operation and powering through the rapidly growing grass of the expanded yard. First thing I noticed when I returned home was that Tinker had greatly decreased the size of the yard. To the contrary, I have progressively expanded it. Now I cut a couple of acres every week. It takes me most of the day to mow it all, then another half day to trim and primp the place.

The debt talks in Washington are pointing out to Americans just how dysfunctional the federal government is. What amazes me is that this is the same government to which we are entrusting health care. Too many of us have filters. We acknowledge what we want to hear and see and discard that which does not make us feel tingly and warm. Baseline truth is probably that most of us don’t care what is happening in Washington. The problem is that what the folks there is doing, or not doing, potentially can harm us. We may be in the middle of a major ideological battle that few want to recognize. The Civil War was an ideological clash that could not be ignored. Today, however, not caring what happens beyond the limits of our experience is the norm. That is, until a bunch of peckerwoods fire canons on the local national guard armory. Our republic may be in its death rattle. That is not without precedence. Remember Rome? Its glory days were not during the republic but the dictatorship. I am just having a difficult time envisioning O’Bama in the same context as Caesar. Et tu, Nancy?

Kids

Witchwoman put an offer on a house in Kansas City. That tells me that she has worked through her issues and arrived at a direction. She rightly wants to be near her children and grandchildren. I look forward to helping her with the place. Moreover, I look forward to visiting her there. Perhaps she might visit me here. I have to believe that we will be fine as a “thing”. I have come to care deeply for her family. She has a sister and brother-n-law who are quintessential parents. They raised the three great kids. Their oldest child, a boy, is in his 30s, married to the perfect wife, with three beautiful kids. He is the most responsibility young man I have ever met – and, being a former professor and advisor to hundreds, perhaps thousands of young people, that is saying a lot. Their middle child, a gorgeous girl, is married to the embodiment of responsibility, an accountant who is probably making contributions to his 501K and planning out his retirement now even though he is in his early 30s. The third child, also a girl, is Little Cutie. Her boyfriend and future husband would be a finalist in the best kid ever should there ever be such a contest. I sometimes wonder if the sister and brother-in-law know how lucky they are? I love my kids. They are wonderful people. But, they are not in the same ilk as the kids of the sister and brother-n-law. My kids are renegades. My dear son, a truly wonderful boy, is gifted and cursed by music. He can play anything. He abandoned the United States six years ago, opting for life in Prague, Czech Republic. He plays music there. Lots of music. Jazz and rock. He composes and experiments. I garnered from information from other sources that he has a girlfriend, although he has never told me about her. I doubt I will ever see him again in the US. If I want to see my grandkids, I will have to fly to Prague. My little girl, now 25, graduated from MU last December. Smart as a whip. Waiting tables at beer joints in Columbia. She is the combination of brains and beauty. The bottom line is that I sired independent children. Both are creative, fiercely self-contained, and tradition rejectionists. Yet, I love them beyond comprehension, as only a father could. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have the sister and brother-in-law children. I am not sure I would know how to deal with ideal children. My kids are exactly as they were raised. Perhaps, they are exactly like their parents. Sometimes I would like to sit down and split a bottle of wine and share a conversation with my kids but I realize that is not likely to happen. Neither has visited me here since the last time I paid for them to visit – a little over two years ago. The boy is not coming home from Europe anytime soon and the girl is talking about traveling internationally, not a word of coming to Alabama. I have learned some lessons from watching the wildlife here on the farm. As a rule, off-springs are expected to leave and live independently. Animals don’t seem to invest their relationships with as much sentiment as humans do. A friend told me recently about walking upon a fawn, laying in the grass, all alone. He went on to tell me that in deer culture, parents will often leave the fawn alone for long periods. I didn’t know that. But, it makes sense. Humans probably don’t do that enough, leave their off-springs alone. Rather, we hover and, in the end, wreck our kids future. I tried to avoid that and am now paying the price for raising two free-thinkers. So, I guess you pick your poison as a parent. Either you are a footnote in their lives or remain the flagpole around which they rally. The sister and brother-in-law have a great life with their kids constantly visiting and never really leaving while I, also, have a great life with kids who might remember my birthday but are not bothered by such artificial constructs as Fathers’ Day.

Talking

The news media is making quite a fuss about it being summer. It is July. It is hot. It is humid. This is Alabama. The real news story would be snow drifts in Birmingham, ice storms in Montgomery, or polar bears coming ashore in Mobile. I’d buy a paper to read about such stuff. At least we can take some comfort in the fact that the media actually got this one right. Hot and humid. Good. Now, just try to avoid editorializing about it.

I was thinking today that environmental conditions affect behavior. Specifically, it occurred to me that one’s desire and ability to talk is tied to heat and humidity. I’ve noticed that when it is blue blazes hot and sauna-soaking humid, I do not want to talk. The effort is too exhausting. My mind is too hazy to properly form words and thoughts. Nor am I listening in such conditions. Likewise, in frigid conditions, who wants to engage in a conversation? As a service, here is a simple guide to knowing when to open your trap and when to clam up.

Clearly, temperatures 95+ with humidity anywhere above 50% are dangerous conversation conditions. Avoid all discussions. Never attempt to respond to a question. There is no telling what you might say or to what you might commit yourself. The best strategy is to fill a cooler with ice and beer, find a big shade tree, and hide out until the sweat stops soaking your underwear. Above all, remain silent.

Limited conversation is recommended when temperatures range from 87 to 94 degrees and humidity is high. Restrict all conversations to grunts and groans. Refrain from asking any questions that might demand extended listening and occasional coherent responses. For instance, NEVER ask, “Honey, what if we paint the living room red?” Should you be forced into conversation, remember to slow down your words. Add extra syllables and let your tongue roll fat and lazy. By following this procedure, you might be able to avoid breaking into a pouring sweat.

Regular conversation is possible when temperatures are 65 to 86 assuming the humidity is reasonable. Chit-chat, talks, discussions, robust debates, even jokes (as long as they do not contain the “F” word) are all theoretically possible. However, caution should be exercised when engaging in any conversation. Good weather will not save you should you be confronted with truth or pinned down on where-were-you-last-night-while-I-waited-on-your-sorry-ass-with-the-dinner-sitting-on-the-table-and-I-called-your-office-for-three-hours-and-when-are-you-going-to-mow-the-damn-grass-and-clean-out-the-extra-bedroom-because-Mother-is-moving-in. Live ammo drills – calling one of those 900 numbers advertised on late night television or talking to a cab driver – can prepare you for the verbal gymnastics when a real live person approaches you with words on his/her lips. Remain calm and soak up the moderate temperature and the comfortable humidity. Practice will turn your into a regular magpie.

Adverse temperatures, those 64 degrees or lower, are not conducive to conversation. Nothing life-affirming could possible come from a conversation in which your brain is near freezing. If forced into a verbal exchange in such conditions, seek immediate assistance of Scotch or similar medicinal application prior to uttering any responses. Frigid conditions will mask any slurring since those with whom you are engaged in conversation will assume you are shivering. It is a scientific fact, or at least it should be, that societies in cold climates have fewer words in their languages. Further, some even practice silence except when the commercials are playing.

Having suffered through dozens, perhaps hundreds, of conversations in my life, I am keenly aware how taxing and potentially dangerous talking can be. One misplaced word, an attack of honesty, or an unintentional misidentification can lead to pure misery. Few good things come from unscripted conversation. Unthinkingly, you can wind up buying a used 87 Plymouth Duster, or find yourself being fitted for a kayak for that whitewater trip you said you would attend, or picking up the check at a fancy restaurant for your reprobate brother-in-law and his chicken-faced wife.

Since conversation will continue to plague modern life until that day soon when all of our thoughts are beamed to I-phones then transmitted to every person you have ever friended, the best strategy is to check the weather before you open your mouth. Your fate is written in the stars.

House Plans

Dr. Mingus has departed. It was a great visit. We talked and laughed well into the night, then did a little touring of Alabama. As if scheduled, the heat and humidity were sky high. I would say that his first visit to the Heart of Dixie went well. He got a taste of living in paradise and seemed to enjoy eating freshly picked and prepared vegetables out of the garden.

With Mingus the focus of my attention, I paid scant mind to anything around the place. The chickens are clucking for notice, the survivor duck is parading around the house demanding his afternoon snack, and Daisy is whining because I have not taken her swimming in the lake. After the good doctor left, I took care of those things I had let slip, even giving Daisy an extra half hour in the lake. I did manage to make sure that The Old Goat got his supper Monday and today. He enjoyed the banana pudding. Tomorrow everything here will be back to normal. The grass will get mowed, the weeds in the garden will receive Last Rites and swift execution, and the house will get a good cleaning. All of those chores are a small price to pay for such a good visit.

This house has been on my mind lately and I gained much from discussing the place’s possibilities with Dr. Mingus. He has lots of good ideas and keen insights on building and remodeling. By the time he left, he had given me a number of appealing alternatives for making this dump more livable. For instance, this is a square house. What better ways to open it up than to, first, build a veranda around the entire house, and second, raise the roof? Both ideas are exciting. I liked his idea of an outdoor canning kitchen and thought his suggestion to take down the unused chimney was practical and good way of freeing up space in the kitchen. The boy knows building and is a top-notch thinker. Armed with such sound advice, it is time to make some changes.

Naturally, we talked about Iraq. In the end, we agreed that Iraq is, well, complicated. But, the sweeping events of the Arab Spring clearly changed the calculus in the Middle East. I am more convinced than ever that the democratization begun in Iraq is a major contributor to the striking events unfolding in Syria, Libya and Yemen. As imperfect as Iraq is, she is the first olive out of the bottle. Walter Gonce taught me that lesson many years ago. Walter was a banker in one of the city’s I managed. We worked together in economic development projects. When I got dispirited by our lack of initial success, Walter would assure me that the first olive out of the bottle is the hardest. After it pops out, though, the rest are easy. He was right about attracting new employers. I think his observation is right when applied to the changes in the Arab world.

Every time I think of Walter (who departed this life several years ago, bless his soul), I am reminded of a story he told me about his first job. He was in charge of repossessing farm equipment for a bank. He was tasked to repo a piece of equipment from a farmer in western Kansas. Walter said he drove half a day to get to the general area of the farmer. At one point he was lost and stopped to ask if anybody knew the particular farmer he sought. A guy at a crossroads store said it was easy to get to the fellow’s place. Just go north and turn at the first road to the left. Then, go to the first tree you see, turn right, and the man’s place is on the right. Walter said he drove another day and a half before he found that damn tree.

Mingus

Good friend and Iraq teammate, Dr. Mingus, is coming for a visit. He lives in the far reaches of heathen country (Michigan) but was lucky enough to have a conference that brought him South. None of us in Iraq were ever sure if Mingus had a first name. I think it actually may be “Doctor”. Ol’ Kev and I used to mimic Seinfeld when he discovered that his obnoxious neighbor, Newman, was up to no good. We’d realize that something was afoul and automatically clinch our fists and rue the name, “Mingus”. Far from being a fly in the ointment, Mingus was a valuable addition to our team and did a very good job. The rascal could put together the best powerpoints in our group. He will be the first of my Iraq buddies to visit me. Kev might eventually pay a visit to Welch. I doubt if Dennis will. Or, JR or Danny or Jerry. Alabama is a little off their paths. In honor of Mingus’ visit, I picked and shelled purple-hull peas this morning. Picked a mess of squash and some pretty tomatoes. Thought I would make a pone of cornbread. And, I have the wild idea of making a banana pudding for dessert. On Monday, we are driving down to Montgomery to catch a Biscuits’ game. He has to leave very early on Tuesday morning. I cleaned the house and changed the sheets. Used half a gallon of Pine-Sol in hopes of getting the cigarette smoke and dog smell out of the house. While I was in Joplin last week, Tinker and his girlfriend stayed here. Both smoke and she has two indoor dogs. Mingus is a clean freak and will probably opt to sleep in my truck rather than in the house. I tried to warn him that my life is pretty simple here. Of course, it was in Iraq, too. But, nobody is firing rockets at me here which makes Welch a bit more casual and relaxed.

I have been fortunate to have had met some very good people in my life. But, I tend to practice minimalism in my private life just I do in my material one. I have let too many good friends go. It is a case of being entirely my fault. I write Christmas cards every year but that is a tacit admission that I do not do the things necessary to keep a friendship alive. To my recollection, I do not have any boyhood friends, no college friends, no grad school friends, a slim few Missouri friends, and a few Iraq friends that, because of my neglect, are hanging by a thread. I do have a couple of friends from my days as a city manager. I am determined to hang on to them. Just as I am determined to hang on to Mingus and Kev and the others from Iraq. Like a garden, a friendship has to be tended. Don’t expect to enjoy the fruits without the sweat to grow them.

Futures

WitchWoman has done a remarkable job of organizing her stuff into workable order in the temporary house. She is thought to be the single largest supplier to the DAV Thrift Store. There is a pile of discarded things on the front porch, ready for transport to the DAV warehouse. I know that it has been difficult for her to part with some of her treasures. Some folks accumulate – she is a master of it.

More than the logistics of salvaging and relocating, though, are larger and more demanding questions of what is next. For WitchWoman, does she rebuild her house in the same place, does she take the insurance settlement and move to Kansas City to be near her kids, does she build a place on family land in Kansas, or does she chuck it all and sell flip-flops on a Costa Rican beach? All legitimate opportunities. Then there is the lingering question of what to do with me. How do I fit into her picture?

For me, I am slowly concluding that Tom Wolfe was right and wondering what is the next step to take. If Alabama is not working out, and there is little enthusiasm for returning to Southwest Missouri, then where? I think I am not old enough to retire. More accurately, I am not mature enough to retire. I don’t know how to behave as a retiree. Likewise, what do I do with WitchWoman? How many times in my life am I going to find a person, especially a woman, for whom I have such regard?

So, in lots of ways, this trip to Joplin is about futures. Sounds serious and it is.

Love, romance and relationships are different when you are in your 60s as compared your 20s. Instead of being blinded by love, today I am blinded by reality. My body is falling apart, the number of medications I take daily is increasing, and mobility and mental clarity are declining. I am heading to the barn, not firing out of the gates. That said, and celebrated as appropriate, I am fortunate to have nurtured a romance with WitchWoman. I suspect too many folks my age suffer from loneliness. But, both of us have familial obligations in our respective places. She has her mother (91 and in a nursing home) and I have The Old Goat. As previously mentioned I am a bit restless and casting about for a different pasture. WitchWoman is not adverse to radical relocation but is more inclined to keep her tap root firmly planted here and explore by travel. I would not mind working for a few more years. She is done with it.

Without plumbing the depths of this issue for fear of boring you, suffice it to say, we are engaged in a think and strategy weekend. We are just trying to make some sense out of the circumstances in which we find ourselves. Both of us recognize how fortunate we are to be where we are in our lives and to have the pleasure of each other’s company. That is the foundation upon which we will decide what sort of structure to build.

Mice

While plundering around the kitchen before bed last night, I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of a mouse scurrying across the floor heading for the pantry. Such unwanted visitors are a part of country living. It would not surprise me to find possums in the well-shed or coons in the tractor barn. I am convinced there is a snake in one of the chicken houses. There have been no eggs to collect from that house in a week. Something is up and I suspect it is big, fat chicken snake. My point is that country living inspires one to be a bit more tolerant of other beings. But, I hate rats and, by extension, mice, too. WitchWoman hates spiders. The Old Goat hates crows. Tinker hates most everything. Everybody probably has something that fills them with revulsion. It was inevitable that filthy mice would invade the house. Several weeks ago, Lily, our trusted and reliable mouser, went missing. As a rule, I am not a cat man. But, I liked Lily. She had a job – kill rats – and she did it well. Then one morning, Lily was no more to be found. It is not unusual for farm animals to go missing. I mentioned that a few days ago, Afro the Duck went missing. Lily was adventuresome. She wandered all over this place. I was out bush hogging over by the dirt road once and there Lily was hot on the trail of some nasty vermin. When she did not show up for her usual saucer of milk one morning, I kind of knew she had fell victim to some of the indiscriminating jackals that roam this area. Without mousers like Lily, I am not a good rat-fighter. Traps are marginally effective. And, I am not crazy about laying poisons around the place. I suppose I could capture the mice and train them. We could go on tour, performing for packed-houses in every crossroads across the country. I’d be rich because I would pay the rats in cheese. But, that is not going to happen. I sure as hell don’t want to stake my financial future on a bunch of rodents. (Wait a minute, I had better revise that statement in light of the news that the president and leaders of Congress are negotiating the country’s financial future.) When I return from Joplin, I will visit the humane society and pick out the meanest mouser I can find. I want a cat that when you walk up to her cage, she snarls and sticks out her claws at you, daring you to adopt her. I want one with beady, cold-blooded eyes that will show no mercy to her prey. I want to bring her home, throw her in the house, lock the door, and listen for all hell to break loose. Shock and awe, that’s the ticket. Shock and awe.

Around the Farm

There was a tragedy on the farm this week. Afro, the Duck, is missing and presumed dead. There are varmits in the woods around here. Two ducks survived from the original dozen that Tinker purchased a couple of years ago. Afro was a big duck. He got his name by virtue of a tuff of feathers on top of his head that gave him a distinctly Stokley Carmichael look when the light hit him just right. If there is anything I have learned about ducks it is that they are creatures of precision. Every morning about half an hour after first light, the ducks are at the back door demanding their morning ration of corn. Then, about 4pm at the height of summer and varying depending on the sunlight, they are back for an afternoon snack. His absence on Thursday morning told me immediately that he was no longer with us. My heart goes out to the last duck standing. We've never had a name for him so I guess No Name Duck fits well. Farwell, Afro. You were a good duck and we will miss you.

In minor tragedies, I ran over two trees that I had intended to nurture. The first was a struggling magnolia. The second was an aspiring pin oak. In both cases, I ran over them with the tractor and bushhog. A PhD in political science does not necessarily equip one to drive a tractor.

On the more joyful side of things, one of the daily delights I enjoy is Daisy's swim. In the mid-afternoon, Daisy, the overweight Golden Retreiver that my reprebate nephew dropped off on my brother after he grew tired of her, nugs me toward the lake for her afternoon swim. Poor thing suffers from all sorts of ailments and the swimming lets her move without having to suffer the pain of carrying all of her sigificant weight. Here is a picture of her paddling away. You know that it has to feel good for her. I am more than happy to sit on the bank and yell encouragement to her which she seems to need. What I have noticed is that unless I am watching her, she will not swim.



Of note is that the picture on the Welch Super Service is of my garden and was taken today. It has produced well and I have learned much about what to grow and what to avoid. Next year will be even more productive.

My Aunt June and Uncle Cooper visited this afternoon. It was good to see them. To put things in perspective. Cooper is the brother of the Blessed Saint Rebecca. He is disabled having suffered a stroke a decade ago. Uncle Cooper bought the farm after my Grandmother Perry (the Blessed's mother). He sold it to Tinker. I bought it from Tinker. Now we have everybody straightened out.

I spent the day weed-eating and mowing the lake. It takes a full day to do it all. But it is certainly worth it when done.

I talked to WitchWoman today. She had a cadre of folks in to move stuff around within the house. As I mentioned, she accumulates. Stuff sticks to her. The Joplin Tornado brought all of this to the fore since most of our efforts in the week after the storm was to recover her treasures. It is tought to drag around all that stuff. My plan is to drive to Joplin next Wednesday. My hope is to convince WitchWoman to come to Alabama to visit me. It would be good for her to get out of Joplin for a while. Living with disaster can wear on a persosn.

It was just a routine day on the farm.

Joplin

I’ve avoided writing about the Joplin tornado. Older I get, the harder some things are to put into perspective. I find myself getting emotional when I think of a good, solid, earnest community being ripped apart so quickly and so dramatically. Just as I still have dreams of good people being harmed in Iraq. This Joplin thing touches a sympathetic nerve. There is immediacy to the storm for me. WitchWoman’s house was badly damaged with her in it. Thank God, she is fine although still rattled. Friends of mine lost everything except their lives. The numbers are so impersonal. Things like 150+ dead and 2,000 homes destroyed, thousands of jobs lost. From a used city manager’s point of view, the storm was the worst case scenario. Image a three layer cake missing the middle layer. That is Joplin. Bisected. Cut in half. The guts of the City are gone. Much credit goes to Mark Rohr (Joplin’s City Manager) for his work. From what I can tell, he has performed admirably. But this is not a cynical case of not letting a disaster go to waste. Mark, nor anybody else in Joplin, seems to be thinking of anything but recovery, rebuilding, weathering the storm. It is exactly the attitude you expect from a blue-collar town like Joplin. Get back in the saddle and get on with it. I admire the folks there immensely.

I spent twenty-five years in the Joplin area. The place means something to me. To see the folks there dig through the rubble of their lives breaks my heart. I am heading back up there next week. My initial three weeks there were primarily focused on making sure WitchWoman was safe and protected.

I ran into one of my former students who came home when the tornado destroyed her parent’s home. With tears in her eyes, she told me that place matters. She now has a life in Washington, DC, but when her hometown was hit, she came home to help. It made me want to cry, too.

Place does matter. It is the disconnection to place that opens the body to infections such as apathy, indifference and disengagement. Too many Americans suffer from not being a part of something larger than themselves. One of the contributors to the frenzy of our presidential elections is that too many of us see the president as the person who “runs” the country. In reality, the president could just as easily be a cardboard cut-out that is trotted out for photo opportunities. It is not likely you are going to have a beer with O’Bama (unless you are a hypersensitive Harvard professor). I am more confident that we actually landed men on the moon than I am that O’Bama is a real person. But, I know for a fact that the mayor of Roanoke is real. The same for my county commissioner, the high sheriff, the county probate judge. I have looked each in the eyes and shared thoughts and idea, concerns and aspirations. What unites me to them is this place. Yes, O’Bama is a US citizen (assuming he exists at all) but so are 300 million others. Place is being “writ large” as we used to say in the State Department but place is actually intimate and personal. I can’t take responsibility for the United States. I can’t take responsibility for the State of Alabama. But I can take responsibility for Welch. I can be a good neighbor. I can work with them to make all of our lives better.

Well, that is what I feel about Joplin. It is the crystallization of place matters. Even though I don’t live or work there anymore, once I did and was a part of that community. It felt good. I know Joplin will rebuild businesses and houses. Those were all material things that were lost. What was not lost was that deep and abiding sense of place. That is why Joplin will be fine.

Juicy Storm

A big, fat, juicy summer shower rolled through this afternoon. The temperature dropped from in the 90s to the 70s in minutes. When I checked my rain gauge, it showed that we received .60 inch. We are sorely in need of moisture. This part of Alabama continues in a prolonged drought. The lake is about a foot to maybe a foot and a half low. The squash, zucchini, and cucumbers droop from lack of rain. When I checked on them just before dark, they appeared to be happier.



As promised, here is a picture of the newly painted and hung screen door. The Old Goat opened it, walked through the door, then promptly asked me if I had finished painting the screen. A few of his cylinders aren't firing at full stroke. During dinner tonight he twice mentioned how tomorrow is Friday. When I pointed out that it will be Thursday tomorrow, I think he was briefly confused. His eyes are not sparkling as they did in years past. I think he is tired, maybe a little depressed. I know he misses the Blessed Rebecca. It is not a lot of fun to see such a brute of a man become frail and unsteady. My Grandfather told me that my Dad could plow the straightest rows in Chambers County. That was back when they plowed with mules. He has always been a hard worker. Part of me wants to relocate him into an independent living situation where he would have buds with whom to pal around, have all the buffet food he could stuff down, and his own little place with a television. Mostly, there would be skilled nursing available. I didn't take many geriatric care courses in my collegiate days. But, I know how stubborn he is. On more than one occasion he has made clear his thoughts on a nursing home. In his mind, when you surrender your keys and move out of your house, your life is essentially over. The other part of me wants him to enjoy his place and his freedom. The issue is deciding when to put an end to that liberty before it endangers him. Either way, I know that I will be the focus of his anger when the time comes. Tinker has already surrendered the field. He has no intention of being held in any way responsible for the decision.

Just to make sure, tomorrow is Thursday, right?

The Screen Door

This is one of those posts that really needs pictures. But, that will have to wait until tomorrow when I complete the work. I got it in my mind to paint the raw wood that Tinker had installed on the front door four years ago. At the same time, I decided to paint the screen door and to "fix" it. Like most screen doors, part of the screen is hanging out, blowing in the breeze, keeping out nothing. Bugs laugh at our screen door. I can hear them. Most fly in and tune the TV to their favorite shows. You would think that since all Southerners are raised with screen doors, we would know not to push on the screen but on the door frame. Ours has been flapping for years. And has yet to see its first brush full of paint. A regular unvarnished virgin, sort of speak. Anyway, painting the door jams white was not rocket (or political) science. But, the screen was a different story. It occurred to me to make a statement. I paged through the Bible-of-all-things-Southern, Southern Living, for ideas. I came across this line in advice from a decorator in Birmingham: "Say hello with color!" The exclamation point sold me. I returned from the Home Depot with a quart of pigment that will shout "HOWDY, Y'ALL!!!" This screen will have folks veering off the highway in astonishment. Right now, drying on the front porch is my freshly painted "Crimson Sky" screen door. The hot red color speaks volumes. I am just not exactly sure what it will be saying. We Episcopalians paint our parish doors red. It is supposed to signify the blood of Christ. I do not ascribe anything as noble to this screen. I think it looks great and I am excited to reinstall the hardware and hang it tomorrow. I promise I will take a few photos and post them.

The door is my first step in a diabolical plan to remake this old house. Next is the dining room. First step is to declutter it. Tinker has The Blessed Rebecca's gene for keeping stuff. Every drawer is crammed full. Every flat surface is covered. No cabinet door shuts properly because of the surplus. I am happily without the hoarder disease. I like simple. Several years ago I formulated the idea that the winner is the guy with finishes with the least, as long as that to which he adheres is of the genuinely precious. Few things in this world are truly precious. And, those things that are, are seldom contained in a physical form. Before I get off sounding highly principled, I have to admit to a weakness for cowboy boots. I have six pair. I will not live long enough to wear out all of them. I will put that fetish on my list of sins to confess at Mass next Sunday.

I figure it will take me an hour to reinstall the screen, put the hardward back on the door and hang it. By mid-morning tomorrow, we will have a new calling card for the world. So, if you are ever driving up or down US 431, my house is the one with the "Screaming Screen".

Twang

Close friends of mine know that I am an insufferable opera snob. I affect disgust when a moron three rows behind me crinkles the wrapping of a peppermint during a performance. I thrill at the ear-splitting high notes, the resonance of a pitch-perfect baritone, and become giddy when a genuinely gifted tenor powers through a climatic aria.

It is all closely cultivated behavior.

My deep dark secret is that, dare I say it, I was raised on the Grand Old Opry. It is true. My dad would tune in clear channel out of Nashville every Saturday night and we would sit around and laugh at Grandpa Jones, croon with Marty Robbins and Eddy Arnold, howl with Minnie Pearl (How-deee!), and stomp and clap when Flatt and Scruggs broke into a little Orange Blossom Special. My God it was great music. And, still is.

Even more difficult to admit is that since settling in Welch, I am increasingly tuning into Eagle 102.3, WELR, the Country Giant in Roanoke. You probably hear it playing in the background now.

I haven't been to an opera since Norma back in May in Tulsa. And, I am not renewing my season tickets.

Instead, these days I am wearing cowboy boots routinely, rolling the windows down in the truck when I drive into town, swilling lots of beer, and sweating like a Hebrew slave in the humid Alabama sun. And, I am tapping my foot when I hear the twang of a steel guitar, the whine of a fiddle, and sweet beauty of a band of rednecks singing about lost loves and remembered roads not taken.

Today, country music speaks to me. It is basic and simple. When I hear it, I take my tie off and reach for a cold beer. I don't know many of the new country stars. Much of their music sounds like the stuff I listened to in the early 1960s. It is essentially rock and roll with a Nashville twist.

If you ever want to spend a deeply introspective and probing evening, tank up on more suds than you should drink, then put on any Hank Williams or George Jones album. All of your past regrets will flood back, you'll cry like a school girl, and feel immeasurably better in the morning. Nobody gets under your skin like a country singer.

This land, this house, this place, they all demand a music of their own. To be a part of this, I have to turn from the opera house and take the dirt road.

It is a comfortable, familiar, and pleasant ride.