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.