The End

Friday is my last day on the farm. I am leaving. Tinker and his new wife are moving in here to pursue their new interest in raising rabbits. That is good since they will be around to take care of The Old Goat’s needs. Dad raised the idea of moving to a nursing home with Tinker. When Tinker asked me what I thought of the idea, I pulled an Iraqi and wished him enshalla since I fought and lost that battle almost two years ago. In lots of ways, I am done here. My job with the sustainable agriculture folks fell apart when I had the heart attack in late July. I could not develop a passion for the organization after that and felt disingenuous taking money from them (even though I have not received any salary since June and no expense reimbursement since last year). Fortunately, I landed a part-time job teaching courses in the Master in Public Administration program at Columbus State University, beginning in January. In addition, I qualify for a Social Security payment beginning next month. My plan is to live in WitchWoman’s basement until I move into an apartment in Columbus in January. She is allowing me to take refuge with her until I get my “stuff” together (as we used to say back in my youth). In lots of ways, I am becoming a ward of the state. I am now firmly a part of the 47%. I have even considered voting for O'Bama since I am now a parasite who lives off the real producers in America. But, even though I am a taker, I am not a fool. Voting for a community organizer who has failed more certainly than I ever envisioned I would have here is unthinkable. Certainly, considering the last 28 months, I consider the return home a failure. In response to Tom Wolfe’s question about coming home, the answer in my case is an unvarnished “no”. So, having answered the question posed by Mr. Wolfe, I am putting a mercifully end to the farming experiement and along with it Welch Super Service. I will miss taking with you. Thanks for reading.

Recovery

With an easy two-day drive from Kansas City, I am back home. I spent the last ten days under the watchful eyes of WitchWoman who made sure I did nothing more strenuous than read. I feel good albeit a bit lazy. Now it is time for me to figure out what I want to do next. I am going to redirect my farming interests by continuing to grow enough vegetables to feed the immediate area but not for sale. The sheep initiative will move forward but the alliums concentration will not. Improvements to the house beyond cosmetics will probably not happen. I was unsuccessful in attracting my daughter to take up a life here. That makes me wonder what to do with the farm. There is no reason to make any decision immediately, just remain mindful that I am probably the last generation to want to live on this place. After falling out of the saddle with my job with the Alabama Sustainable Ag Network as a result of this cardiac event, I have a boot in the stirrup and should be sitting high and steady soon. It will take a little longer to become fully harnessed than I thought. My concern has been that I might allow myself to become a “cardiac cripple”. The key to avoiding that road is to regain strength, stamina and heart health with daily progress, even if it seems to be slow, almost imperceptible. My blood pressure is perfect, my diet is ideal, my exercise program is appropriate and my head is right. I am going to be fine because I choose to be.

Heart Attack

Few people want to be reminded of their limitations. I am among that number. But, last Thursday, July 26th, I got a clear, unfiltered reminder of Nature’s indifference to my plans and schemes. If you read the post regarding healthcare and the VA, then you know that I have been trying to get on the government tit for my medications and for treatment of a couple of conditions. Last Wednesday, the skies parted, angels began singing, and sunrays filled the air when I got the call from VA to be in their clinic the next morning at 10 am. I was excited. Thursday morning, I rose early, went through my normal routines quickly and with a renewed sense of purpose since in just a couple of hours I would sneak back into the tent for the healthcare show. It is 55 miles from my house to the VA clinic at Tuskegee. Before I had driven ten miles, my left arm began to ache. A few miles later, I broke into a sweat. Further down the road, I became sick to my stomach. By the time I got to Gold Hill, about half way, I was in full form heart attack mode. I stopped at the convenience store in Gold Hill to purchase two aspirin (325 mg) and throw up beside the truck. I arrived at the clinic ten minutes before my scheduled appointment. The clerk gave me directions to the third floor lab to which I walked. Arriving at the lab, I signed in and told the lady at the desk that “I am not trying to be dramatic but I am having a heart attack.” At that point, things got a little confusing for me. The lady to whom I spoke, Cheryl, marshaled forces to confront the enemy. Within minutes, I was surrounded by an array of lifesavers, all the time feeling Cheryl holding my hand and talking to me. At one point, I remember her saying to me, “Tom, your eyes are glazing over.” To which I responded, “My eyes always glaze over when I see pretty women.” A brilliant repartee, if I don’t mind saying so myself. A tough VA physician, Dr. Audrey Hodges, took immediate control of the rescue mission by barking orders while at the same time arranging my transfer to East Alabama Med Center at Auburn. At one point, I “coded” which is ER talk for damn near dying. All the time, there was Cheryl holding my hand and talking to me, saving my life. Within minutes of arriving at the medical center in Auburn via ambulance, I was in the heart catherization lab. A mechanical balloon was installed in my heart, and I was sent to the ICU. Two days later, back in the cath lab for removal of the balloon and angioplasty of a 100% blockage in one artery and a 89% in another. Back to the ICU then finally to the cardiac step down unit for two days. I was released on Tuesday. I am a miracle of modern medicine. My brother, Tinker and his partner, Theresa, took immediate control of my farm responsibilities. WitchWoman flew in from Kansas City, arriving a matter of hours after I landed in the ICU. My little girl, Grace, drove in from New Orleans. The folks at ASAN have been generous with their concern and good wishes. Folks at St. Barnabas visited, called and emailed to express their concern. Old buds now have another chapter to add to our collective histories. I am still the flawed human I was last Thursday before all of this. But, surviving a heart attack leaves me with some sober realities that generally fall into the category of a “man knowing his limitations.” I am unsure what my role will be in ASAN from here on. I don’t think I can continue the farm operation. How does WitchWoman fit into the picture? What about my Dad? I want to spend some time thinking on how I will live whatever time I have left? To work through some of these issues, I am taking refuge in Kansas City with WitchWoman for a while. I’ll just have to figure out what is next.

Dickin' 'round

In the South it is called “dickin’ ‘round”. In the Midwest, the term is “piddling”. I am unsure if folks up North have a go-to word to describe it. And, I am relatively sure people way out West don’t have a clue about what I am describing. Dickin’ ‘round is bucket-sitting with occasional flashes of inspiration followed by bursts of activity. A full day of dickin’ ‘round usually results in a long list of small jobs accomplished, much to the surprise of dicker. Yesterday is a good example. Up early as usual and I knew in my bones that it was a day made for dickin’ ‘round. I even blew off Mass in anticipation of what might unfold from the bucket’s prospective. Sure enough, I had not been sitting long until I thought, “well, I might as well cut down the privet near the chicken house.” That job done, I returned to the shade of the tractor shed and had my first beer of the day. Then, why not hang the mop and broom from hooks off the back deck? While looking for hooks in my loose stuff box, I sorted nails, bolts and screws into like groups then rigged up a dandy storage arrangement using jelly jars. Found the hooks and created a home for the tools of household cleaning. By that time, it was time for another beer and more bucket-sitting. Why not clean out the bluebird houses since the birds have migrated for the summer? That job done, another beer and more shade. As part of my campaign to keep the tractor shed neat and orderly, I rearranged some planks. It did not escape my attention that there were a number of salvaged 2x4s in the pile. Why not do something with them? That lead to some nail-pulling and paint-scraping. After some quick sketching on the back of a feed sack and some Pythagorean math, I pulled out the saw and whacked the boards into suitable lengths. Further scrounging uncovered the perfect sized wood screws. Within a couple of hours, I constructed an ideal work bench to accommodate the potential of fixing things. Strong, stable, utilitarian. The last screw was tightened as the sun dropped below the horizon. If I had sat down Saturday night and made a list of things to do on Sunday, I would not have included on it privet eradication, mop handing, screw sorting, birdhouse cleaning, lumber stacking or work bench construction. That is the genius of dickin’ ‘round. It invites free association and creativity. It makes plenty of room for beer-drinking, listening to country music (thanks to a previous dickin’ ‘round session in which I ran an electrical line to the shed), shade enjoyment and unpressured effort. Yet, at the end of a wandering day, the accomplishments are impressive. And, none of it was planned. People need to spend far less time working and a hell of a lot more time dickin’ ‘round. They’d get more accomplished.

Barney's investment portfolio

As referenced earlier, I was elected to the Vestry at St. Barnabas Episcopal Church (also referred to as Barney’s). To my regret, I find myself in a conflict with my fellow vestry members. Barney’s is not a wealthy parish. It is, however, fiscally stable. We have some investments, a money market account, certificates of deposit, and some stocks. Specifically, we have stocks in an auto parts company and in Bank of … well, rather than name the entity in which we have stock let me say that we have shares in a large American bank, a veritable banking gorilla. The bank stocks came as a gift from a now deceased communicant. Holding onto the bank stock is the crux of the troubled waters that now characterize our happy little Vestry. I want to dump the bank stock. Even though we profit from the, I want to dispose of the stock because this bank is a wicked, greedy and despicable company, bordering on a criminal enterprise. This bank obtained a get-out-of-jail card from the morons at the US Department of Justice by paying almost $26 billion for its criminal activity in shady mortgage lending. This bank was scamming retailers with fixed swipe fees and got a second reprieve from jail with a $6 billion settlement of a class action suit. Now, this bank is in the middle of the LIBOR scandal that brought down the head of Barclays and will result in years of litigation and billions in fines and penalties and yet to be experienced pain on the part of interest paying consumers. The bottom-line is that this bank is as bad a corporate citizen as a drug cartel or an extortion ring. Holding stock in this bank is, to me, sharing in the company’s dastardly deeds. Ironically, this bank was founded by an Italian immigrant with the expressed aim of assisting the community. The company gave Italian immigrants employment and access to capital to build lives in their adopted home when no one else would consider investing in the immigrant community. Now, this bank is a villain that squeezes middle class home purchasers with rate rigging and sinister sleight of hand to build its own profits. The company would steal the coins off a dead man’s eyes, to use an expression taught to me by my grandmother. The controversy at Barney’s will solve itself and I have to tell myself not to get too excited by the issue. Instead of pushing too hard, every month at our meeting, I remind my fellow vestry members that we are in bed with banksters. As almost daily reports of new and shocking crimes committed by this bank appear in the media, my monthly reminders are beginning to have an impact. Good-hearted people do not want to be associated with marauding pirates. Barney’s Vestry will eventually dump these bums. Good judgment will one day prevail. And, when it does, we will return to our bucolic repose as if these banking vermin had never disturbed it. As my Iraqi friends would say, “enshalla.”

Health Care

My big, fat retirement from the University does not include health insurance. For a while after I left the ivy-covered halls of Academe, I had insurance through the State Department. But, now that is gone and I am left exposed. Now that there are couple of issues I need to address (a small case of skin cancer and some cardiac-related issues), I am forced to look at my options. Getting conventional insurance is not an option since the cardiac issue is pre-existing. I have been turned down by some of America’s “best” companies. Many years ago, I served in the US military and, as a result, am entitled to benefits from the Veterans’ Administration. So, I have begun the arduous task of scaling the monolith that is socialized medicine in the VA. It has been nothing short of a nightmare so far. After six months of forms and applications and visits, I have yet to get an appointment. Even when I do succeed in getting to see a so-called health care professional, I have co-pay requirements that might break the bank. I write all of this in the midst of the national discussion of the Affordable Care Act. My conclusions are that if the VA is anything like what will happen under the ACA, it will be slow, cumbersome, bureaucratic and not free. And, I have not even addressed the issue of effectiveness. I have yet to learn how effective VA care is since I have spent the last six months filling out forms and signing privacy statements acknowledging that the VA will not share my age, my sexual preference or my race with anyone. Let me take care of those right now: I am 61, diminished heterosexual, and white. OK, there. One of the talking points of the health care debate has to do with rationing. The health care system can provide a finite number of services. Some have argued that the ACA will ration services. Well, if the VA is a model, then there is rationing. I am in Priority Group 6. That means that veterans who have a 10% disability or more, former POWs, Purple Heart winners, Medal of Honors recipients, no-income veterans, addicted and unemployed vets all have priority to me when it comes to getting appointments with so-called health care providers. I am just a veteran. I did not get shot. I did not win heroic medals. I just did my time, did my job, and got out and on with my life. Why did I not develop some post-traumatic stress? I had a great time in the service. Met lots of interesting people and saw places I would have not seen on my own. The little skin cancer is getting out of hand so I called today to inquire if I was any closer to getting an appointment. I talked to an answering machine and did not receive a return call even though I left a carefully crafted message, well-articulated and clearly delivered. I apologize if I sound a little bitter about this experience. Our political leadership, on both sides, has failed to seriously consider the consequences of the availability of health care on the ordinary American. I think the ACA is as well designed as the anti-poverty programs of the 1960s. And, I think ardent opposition to addressing the issue is an attempt to resurrect the Know-Nothings of the 1850s. I recognize that I should have to pay more for health insurance than a studly 20-something. At least give me the opportunity to make the calculation as to my ability to pay the price for it instead of summarily excluding me from eligibility because I have the genes I have and have lived six decades. Sometimes I get the feeling we are quietly but cruelly criminalizing aging.

Little Honey

Nothing makes me feel more useless than when one of my animals gets hurt. I’ve watched as some of the older hens died, knowing there was nothing I could do to extend their lives. Now, one of my cats sustained a serious injury and will have to be put down. Back in January, Sassafrass gave birth to five kittens. The runt of the litter, Little Honey, quickly wormed herself into my heart. She is a cute little multi-colored cat and with a sweet disposition. Yesterday I discovered her in the weeds at the edge of the yard. Her left back leg was hanging lip. Worse, her leg bone was sticking out of her skin. Either she was playing on the highway and was hit or some roving carnivore attacked her. Whatever the cause, she is doomed. Rather than putting her out of her misery myself, something I am loathed to do, I am taking her to the vet this morning. It will be her first and last truck ride. I am getting better at living through losing animals. The first hen I buried was grim. Since then, several more have passed on, along with Dolly the Dog and now Little Honey. Living close to elemental life makes me revere it more. While I might have killed snakes and mice in the past, now I generally leave them alone. Life itself is precious and, whatever the form, deserves respect. It is hard enough to enjoy what short time we have on this spinning top that ending it should be done thoughtfully and infrequently. Nature seems to have her own timetable for living things. That may be the reason I don’t hunt. Even fishing gives me pause. It is all about catch and release except for those I eat. Ripping out beets, yanking beans off the vines, picking tomatoes all mean the end of life, too, and I am working on what I think about that. The Buddhists have helped me think through some of these issues. I remember enjoying a delicious fish dinner with a group of Buddhists. First thing the priest did was give respect to the fish before we wolfed it down. All of this is me delaying the inevitable drive to the vet and the end of Little Honey. I am not in a rush to do it.

Wild Journals

Some time ago, I started keeping journals on the wild animals around the place. I have a journal on birds, journals on foxes, coyotes, turkeys, deer, interesting insects, snakes, and today I added a journal on muskrats. Every time I spot one of these critters, I annotate the appropriate journal with a description and the behavior I noted. I eschew word processing for such a venture, instead relying on old fashioned hand writing in an anachronistic book. I have no idea why I do it. It is not like I am making scientific inquiry or adding to the environmental historical record. It just seems to me that something ought to be said when a wild creature rubs up against us. Today’s journal entries had to do with a muskrat that makes the shallow end of the lake home. Considerably bigger than a field mouse, a muskrat is a creature of both size and weight. The little devils burrow homes into the banks of the lake. Also of note today, my duck has a companion, a wood duck. I have no idea if the visitor is male or female or whether it is a visitor or a new resident. I do know from observation that my duck likes the company. The two of them are rarely far apart as they forage the shallows for food. I hope the wood duck sticks around for awhile. Can’t help but wonder about the ducks’ conversation. All of the wilds are reacting to the heat and the lack of rain. The turkeys are staying close to the water. The snakes are venturing all over the place. I spotted two yesterday. Hot weather to them is like alcohol to a teenager. Makes them do stuff that often proves to be self-destructive.

Cleaning the Shed

After two days of piddlin’ work and lots of beer, the tractor shed is clean and easy to access. The place was a source of embarrassment since it looked like the aftermath of a tornado. I got to the point where I couldn’t find anything. I looked for the small sledge for an hour before I cleaned the place. I found the sledge. It was exactly where I left it, under the fertilizer spreader. All the tools are where they should be, the tractor attachments are properly placed for easy use, and all those things for which I used to search are at my fingertips. And, as an added benefit, I have discovered “bucket sitting”. After the work is done and the sun is going down, there is nothing finer than to sit on a turned-over five gallon bucket and enjoy some cold suds. The only thing missing is some music. So, tomorrow my plan is to wire into the chicken house electricity and run a line to the tractor shed. Once installed, I think I will run some white, twinkly lights in the shed. How redneck is that? It is hard to beat a hot Southern summer night and some sunset songs.

A Fowl Day

It has been a day for the birds. Cardinals, house finches, bluebirds, a heron and chickens. A couple of cardinals are making a nest in one of the oak trees by the driveway. I watched them argue about building materials, stick arrangements and morning and evening views. It was difficult to tell who had the upper hand but he did seem to work hard. That suggests that when it comes to hearth and home, a man is mostly labor. The fourth hatching of finches is happening in the same nest in the rafters of the front porch. Last year, there were two broods. This year there were also two. The young ones scream as all infants when mom or dad approaches with nourishment. It is fun to hear. Last spring I placed two bluebird houses without serious thought that any would take up residence. I was wrong. Both houses, about three hundred meters apart, are full to capacity. Adults move in and out of the secure houses, safe from the ardent attention of my pride of cats. When I get close to both houses, I can hear the young behaving as typical youngsters. This fall, I will clean out the houses in preparation for next year’s residents. I like the thought of bluebirds sitting near their winter fires and talking about where to spend the summer. “Say, honey, I really liked that place we stayed last year in Alabama.” If only bluebirds could fill out customer satisfaction surveys. Then there is the heron. The one now visiting the lake was likely to have been the one born there last year. Maybe he is visiting his home place on his way to bigger lakes where all the pretty girl herons are flocking. It is good to assume that herons have a sentimental streak. And, finally, the chickens. As I was putting everybody to bed last night, I discovered one of my old hens had passed on to the golden hen house in the sky. I was a little tired and figured I would give her an appropriate burial this morning. So, when I approached the chicken yard with shovel in hand, I could not find the body. I felt a pain of guilt that I did not take the time to do my duty last night and that the result was that she left this world as dinner for a critter. It was one of many lessons the chickens have taught me. From now on, I am not going to put off for tomorrow what should be done today.

The rational world

We exist in a rational world. Nature is ordered. It is a complex and often difficult to understand arrangement but it is predictable. Nature has cause and effect. We humans exist in the web of these assured outcomes but we have creativity and imagination. As a result, we live irrational lives. Either we are too arrogant to admit that we are specks of insignificant matter floating in the universal soup or we place our bets on probability. If the former, we would be faced with the utter futility of life. If the later, we might be semi-irrational, given that the riskier the behavior the greater the return. How else can you explain smoking cigarettes? Or, drinking excessively? Or, eating cheeseburgers as a staple in a diet? I speak with some experience in all three since, as embarrassing as it is to admit, I have done them all and so much more. I think that if we lived rational lives, most of what we know and love would disappear. Our politics would be mechanical. The advantage of that would be that none of us would have heard of Joe Biden. Newspapers and talk radio would have no audiences. Sitcoms and reality TV would disappear. In fact, most of what makes us human and severely irrational would vanish. It is our irrationality that makes living the crap shoot that it is. I gleaned these ideas from my farm. My cabbages never give a thought to rolling a number and cranking up the Grateful Dead. Rather, they bask in the Alabama sunshine and await with patience the day that I behead them. Never a whimper, never a regret. My chickens don’t seem to learn any lessons except the noises and movements that are associated with feeding. If they ever thought through their situation, I might well be mobbed by pissed off hens who work hard to lay eggs, only to have me steal them on a daily basis. Even the gorgeous flowers that are now abundant in the garden grow and blossom for no greater reason than to produce seed for next year’s crop. Wonder what they think when I cut them for ornamentation in my house? Do you think that makes them fret, why did I work so hard to grow only to wind up in a glass of water on some fool’s coffee table? I see no evidence that it matters to them. The cabbage, the chickens and the flowers live by a different set of rules. In their world, things are simple. If you get the right amount of nutrients, the right amount of rain, the right amount of sunlight, you will fulfill your destiny. If you don’t, you won’t. We humans make achieving our destiny considerably more problematic. We complicate the journey with emotions and desires and aspirations. We want more than our lot. We want more than the rational universe affords. It is our creativity and imagination that determines how we play out our hands. Nothing is predictable. It is completely luck. And, it is absolutely irrational.

Cucumber Salad

After 130-something posts, I got my first request to re-run something. What a treat! Just when you think all you are doing is throwing bottles with messages into the ocean, somebody actually says “howdy.” I am not going to complain that the request was for a recipe, rather than some of my sharp social commentary. A request is a request. And here it is. Here is what I am doing with the bumper crop of cucumbers this year. I picked up this recipe from Mollie Katzen’s, Moosewood Cookbook. The book was a gift from The Deb and I have worn it into a dog-eared, page-stained treasure. Balkan Cucumber Salad 4 medium cucumbers ¾ c sour cream ¾ c yogurt 2 cloves crushed garlic 4 fresh mint leaves, minced ½ c very thinly sliced red onion (Don’t use any other kind of onion. Red is the only kind that works raw this way.) ¼ c very finely chopped parsley ¼ c minced scallion greens 1 tsp salt Lots of black pepper 1 Tbsp freshly chopped dill 1 c toasted walnuts (I use sunflower kernels) Peel and slice the cucumbers (unless they are home-grown and unwaxed, in which case, don’t peel them). Combine all ingredients except walnuts (or sunflower kernels). Chill thoroughly and serve on a bed of fresh, crisp greens, with walnuts (or sunflower kernels) on top. Garnish lavishly with hard cooked egg slices or tomato wedges, chopped black olives, or carrot slices, or all four. Enjoy. Keep those cards and letters coming.

Hard to dismiss factoids

Two factoids in the news this week have been on my mind. The first is that median family wealth has declined 39% since President O’Bama took office. The second is that there are 4.6 million fewer jobs in the private sector now than three years ago. In my world, that spells lights out for O’Bama. Ronald Reagan trounced Jimmy Carter in 1980 by asking the simple question, are you better off now than you were four years ago? If I were advising Mitt Romney, I would tell him to pose that same question. Then, once put forth, sit down and let the community organizer explain why it was all Bush’s fault or why we are in trouble because of Europe or why we are turning the economy around, it just takes time. He has used all three so far. Only fools believe him. I was in a meeting today of the State Food Policy Council. One of our members is the head of SNAP (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, formerly food stamps). She told the group that 912,000 Alabamians are enrolled in her program. That is a quarter of the population of the State. One quarter. It is the highest rate of food assistance in the State’s history. And, our experience here is repeated in practically every state. Ironically, Wisconsin where the evil Scott Walker beheaded the state’s public sector unions, did not raise taxes and did not fire a single public employee, a quarter of the Wisconsin is not on SNAP. But he was hauled up on a recall that fell on its face. Seems rational thought still exists somewhere. I am a little surprised it was in Wisconsin. The 4.6 million private sector jobs contrasts with a decline of 400,000 public sector jobs. Yet, O’Bama tells us that the private sector is doing fine while we need to pump up the number of public sector jobs. He is living on another planet. I have concluded that to ask someone to do a job for which that person has no ability is cruel. The most humane thing we can do for the President is to retire him to a life of community activism. To expect him to execute the duties and responsibilities of President is cruel. It is like expecting me to pitch in a World Series or kick a winning field goal in the Auburn-Alabama game. It is not true that you can do anything you can dream. That is rubbish. And, we have perpetrated a crime against mediocre people. We have to sober up. This self-indulgent, new-age horse-shit that passes for societal assumptions has to be challenged. I am sure some enthusiastic guidance counselor told young O’Bama that he could be President one day. What a crime. Instead, that well-intended melon-head should have reminded him of the words of Dirty Harry: “a man has to know his limitations.”

Some Days

Some days are better than others. Today was one of the good ones. Couple of good things happened with my little group of sustainable farmers. I was happy to be a part of it. These type of days makes the bad ones fade. Like a good golf shot. All it takes to bring you back to the links is one good shot. As soon as the ball leaves the blade of the club, and you know it is going to go as far as you had hoped and will land right where you hoped, well, it makes you forget the dozens of muffs and scalps and shanks. That one good shot brings you back to play again. Today renews my energy and my spirit and makes me look forward to tomorrow. I have to be careful writing about good things because it makes me think that things are good when, I know, we are all doomed and it is only a matter of time until the sky falls. I am happy to report that The End is forestalled for at least one day. Today was a good one. So much so that getting up tomorrow now makes sense. You would think that as we get older, life would become simpler, easier to navigate. After all, few things happen that you have not seen before. Problem is that now I see all the ramifications that will follow events. So, I know that as good as today was, there will be a balancing day that will be perfectly dreadful. That is the good-bad, black-white, in-out, the ying-yang of life. All you can really hope for is a balance, what some have called the golden mean. All that really means is that life is essentially mediocre. The logical way to approach good and bad days is with a casual indifference so as not to be disappointed. I admit that I have a hard time with that approach. I really love the highs you get from great days. Likewise, I wallow in the blues on the days that are down. Chemicals might help. I only have the courage to use beer, sometimes Scotch, to even out living. But even those wonder drugs have limits. Even after a bender, there is life. You can run, but you cannot escape. So, enjoy the good ones, endure the bad ones. And, hope that occasionally you have one that will bring you back.

Talk Radio

After arriving home after a long trip, I had to drive to Birmingham to man the ASAN (Alabama Sustainable Agriculture Network) booth at a festival. It went well. Made several new friends. Rain is coming this evening but that did not discourage me from smoking half a chicken. I need the protein since next week’s schedule calls for more travel and more meetings. Montgomery on Monday, Birmingham on Tuesday, Montgomery again on Wednesday. The garden is weeping from my neglect although the pinto beans and the butterbeans look good. The nut grass loves my travel schedule. It riots. My new opening line in talking to farmers is, so, what do you do about nut grass? It is now my favorite conversation starter. Prior to the nut grass opening, I used, so, what varieties of tomatoes are you growing? That one is a time-tested conversation starter, especially in the South where sliced tomatoes are next to being sacred. Being confined in the cab of my truck these last few days, I have received a political education on events transpiring around the country. Talk radio is something. I delighted, for instance, in the defeat of public sector unions in Wisconsin. Nothing offends me more than public servants unions. They got their asses kicked in Wisconsin and in San Diego and in San Jose. Good. All three are blows for freedom. The President’s announcement that the private sector is doing just fine economically confirms my belief that this joker doesn’t have a clue about how this country operates. After thinking about O’Bama’s comments, I concluded that he, like Clinton, really believes what he says when he says it, even when it is outrageous. Then it occurred to me that O’Bama’s idea of the private sector is Hollywood and the fashion industry. They both seem to be doing well. Thus, his conclusion that things are just fine there. It seems almost like picking on the weak when you remind El Presidente that the unemployment rate tops 8%. I know this is only June but my prediction is that Romney will win by a landslide. I consider it a correction of the 2008 election when America went off the rails and voted for a community organizer as president. We were trying to prove that we were not racists. So, we sacrificed the country to ease our egos. The results have come home to roost and it is not pretty. There is nothing wrong with being a one-term president. I have considerable admiration for Jimmy Carter. I don’t think O’Bama has the same stuff as a Carter but he will be entertaining in retirement. As far as Romney, he will be fine. The country needs a yeoman CEO for a while. Times are hard and we face issues that rock stars are incapable of understanding. O’Bama will be a better former president than a president. He’ll be a good fund-raiser for the Democrats and a popular speaker. Just as long as you don’t listen too carefully to what he is saying. I do like his Al Green impression. Pretty cool.

Daisy, The Wonder Dog

I arrived home late last night and was greeted with a gift from Daisy, The Wonder Dog. There, lying on the porch, exactly in front of the door, was the carcass of a rabbit. It is hard for me to believe that Daisy, The Wonder Dog, chased it down and ended its life. More likely, one of the cats did the dirty work. But, since I was not around to witness the act, TWD took the credit and laid it out for me as a welcome home present. She was proud of the offering. What was striking was that Daisy seemed to treat the rabbit as if he/she was a pup. She nuzzled it. She slept next to it. This morning, the rabbit was gone. But, mid-afternoon, TWD strolled across the front yard with the poor rabbit in her mouth. I watched as she laid it down in the cool, freshly mown grass, and protected it as if it were her own. My inclination was to take the rabbit and bury it but TWD would dig it up. Daisy keeps her toys close. She has a yellow ball that has been around here for years. She leaves it and always manages to find it. Once I found the yellow ball floating in the lake. The yellow ball is instructive. Could be that Daisy wants the poor little rabbit to feel a little love as it exits this world. Maybe Daisy is dreaming that one day, she and the rabbit will run in the fields together. Or, else, she’ll eat it and confirm that she is, in fact, a dog.

Snakes

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

Summer Storm

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

Joke Time

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

Strange signs

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

Expecting too much

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

Authentic Men Hall of Fame

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

Henry David Thoreau. The second class included

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

Earnest Shackleton and

John Muir. Inducted since are

Capt. James Buchanan Eads and

John Wesley Powell. Our newest member is

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

Emily is dying

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

The Not-So-Simple Life

Tinker's middle child, George, married over the weekend. The box scores for Tinker's kids are: 4 marriages, 2 divorces, 7 children. By comparison, the numbers for my kids are: 2 kids, 0 marriages, 0 children. Hummm. I have to remind myself that life is more than a numbers game. More than what I have yet to figure out. For sure, success is measured by accumulated assets. The guy who ends up with the most stuff wins, right? I've mentioned my on-going wrestling match with the Scriptural reference to the "lilies of the field." And, also previously discussed, Thoreau's advise to simplify, simplify, simplify haunts me. So, last week while spending some time on the Coast I had a conversation with Rick, a small business owner from Kansas. As the conversation unfolded, it was obvious that I am not making much sense. Rick questioned why I removed the air conditioners from my house. It gets hotter than Hades here in mid-summer. He challenged my refusal to use petro-chemicals on my garden. I lose a significant part of my produce to bugs, weeds and fungi. And, when I told him about my make-shift outdoor shower, I felt as if I was showing my Luddite credentials. My in-door shower works perfectly well. I have been thinking about all this stuff about living the simple life. Even though I am making a nod to the simple life, I have not made a full committment to it. I try to grow much of my food but I routinely patronize the grocery. I still use electricity and continue to watch television and listen to radio. Obviously, I fire up my computer every day. If I were to calculate my "stuff" it would not support any claim that I might make to living a simple life. This self-evaluation is disappointing. Here I thought I was making some progress to an ideal. Instead, upon serious and sober examination, the evidence produces a different conclusion. This means it is back to the drawing board to figure out what the hell I am doing. This does tell me that living a simple life is no where as simple as it may sound in theory. I spent some time with the Buddhists and now I wonder how a Buddhist would view the life I lead? Is it authentic? Is the life I lead one that rests with itself? Am I living a life of simplicity? Thing is, simplicity is not about denial necessarily. Just as the Buddhist life is not about self-denial. Rather, a simple life is about opting for different demands and priorities. Instead of fulfilling a list of chores, the simple life calls one to see the joy in elemental things. I made a note to myself this morning how it felt to fill the chickens' water jugs. The richness of the experience is made essential when it is considered in its fundamental parts. The clear, cold water, the swirl of the flow of the water, the weight of the filled jugs, the welcomed relief the filled jug brought to the chickens. They are, after all, captives under my control. I never really thought of them as such but it is true. Had I decided not to fill the jugs, another life form would have suffered from my indifference. Is the simple life not considering the discreet acts of everyday life and how they fit into a broader flow of events? It is not about rejecitng but accepting something different. A divergent path that seeks to find the joy in mundane experience. Sometimes when I am walking and I am tired, I focus on my legs and will them to move. I am exhilerated by the willful movement of my muscles and can feel my body respond to the focus I am giving it. In that instant, I am not working on a project, I am focusing on movement. At times, I swear, I can feel the blood course though my legs and can feel the tendons and muscles contract and relax as I propel myself forward. There is exquisite pain and pleasure in it. That is essential. That is real. That is simple. In all of its complexity, to take a step and move forward is a remarkable event that deserves celebration. Yet, normally I do it dumbly and without thought or recognition of its miraculous nature. What I generally do is focus on the task at hand without regard to the elemental parts that accomplish it. That is the ultimate rejection of living the simple life. It is not about things. The simple life has never been about things. It is about the mind. A person with lots of things can lead a simple life. A person with nothing can lead a simple life. Thoreau would have lead the simple life even without Walden Pond. Jesus lead the simple life even with the crowds of Palm Sunday. Ghandi would have lead the simple life even without the British.

Fat

I am fat. More appropriately, I am getting fatter. Before I went off to Iraq, I was a trim 150 pounds. Now I am a regular hog tipping the scales at 175. For years, I wore 32 waist size pants. Now I struggle to get into 36s. My God, what a blob! I can feel how fat I am. It is like I am carrying around a Mini-Me. My gut hangs over my pants, I can’t contain it. Fat, blubber, repugnant and disgusting lard, hanging off me. What happened? I work harder now that I have in years. I sweat like a whore in church practically every day. I don’t eat junk food. True, I do consume a fair amount of alcohol. How could something so beneficial be the problem? It is true that I quit smoking a few years ago and that might have contributed to my ballooning. But, this much? At one point in my adult life, I weighed in at 133. I was told once that I looked like something out of a concentration camp. Strangely, that appealed to me. During those days, I could eat anything without fear of gaining an ounce. Now, if I look at a doughnut, I gain pounds by osmosis. I cannot remember the last time I ate a doughnut. And, remember, this is the South, home of Krispy Kreme, the original fat pills. Now, if I eat a single Hersey Kiss, I will gain a couple of pounds AND get zits on my chin. True. Chocolate goes directly to my chin and erupts with a gross looking pimple. Image, a man my age with pimples? If I ever get hauled into court for eating chocolate, all the prosecution will have to do is point to my chin for the evidence. The complexion never lies. I do not like being a hog. I feel cumbersome, bloated, awkward. Since I believe we are what we eat, my weight has nothing to do with my physical labors. I have cut back on bread and pastas. I eat lots of vegetables and fruits. I avoid sweets and snacks. I try to eat a good breakfast and a modest lunch. I usually drink dinner. But when I do have an evening meal, it is usually something grilled with lots of vegetables. It hardly seems fair that I should enter my golden years as a fat pig. All those years as a slim chap now are memories. I wonder if the stores have husky jeans for old farts? Mostly, my weight is an assault on my self-image. I still see myself as a strapping blade, trim and comfortable in his skin. But, in reality, I am a hulking ogre, close to breaking into profuse sweating and grunting. In the profound words of Cosmo Kramer, “look away, look away, I am hideous…”

Keeping the Election in Perspective

Several months ago, I wrote the following stuff. I guess I just forgot to post it but I suspect that I dipped my beak in the Scotch and plain out forgot to post it. I wrote this early in this year's charade we call the election. You can tell from the events, I was not imporessed then which matches how I feel now. Reading this today makes me wonder how I became so cynical? I think I have been paying far too much attention to these morons who run the joint. They really don't deserve the attention. It only encourages them. Anyway, here is what I wrote last year (at the end of October 2011) and I haven't changed my mind, yet. 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.

High Pressure Farming

High pressure farming. That is what I call it. Behind in planting with rain in the forecast. Now is the time to get the seeds in the ground. Delay and it could be a week before you get back in field. So, it all comes down to getting it all done right now. High pressure farming. To complicate things, I am a slow and deliberate farmer. Not exactly a Luddite but I do like hand-work. There is no room in high pressure farming for hand-work or slow and deliberative days. I made a couple of compromises under the circumstances. I used the tractor to lay out my rows. Normally, I use a shovel. I did not go as far as planting watermelons and cantaloupes in rows; I hung on to my principles and planted them in mounds, each with a generous wreath of mulch to preserve precious moisture and ward off excessive heat. I stuck to soaking the okra seeds overnight before planting. The corn went in after soil preparation was done completely by tractor. Until I get a pump and water lines installed to bring water from the lake to the field, I am do selective watering. I discovered that by using a hand-operated bilge pump (the type used on small boats), I can half fill the water tight utility trailer I attach to the lawn tractor. It sloshes about a bit but I get to the field with most of the water still in the trailer. Once on site, I use the hand pump to fill water cans that can then provide liquid sustenance to plants in dire straits. It takes some time but is good water-saving strategy. I mulch heavily in hopes that water demands will decrease. As a general rule, mulching helps achieve that goal. Last year was dry but my tomatoes produced a bumper crop without me watering them. The mulch aided in holding on to more of the rain we did receive. Mr. Jimmy down at the liquor store told me that it is going to be another dry year. That means more mulch, continued use of the bilge pump, and hauling water with the yard tractor. Then, long term, pump water from the lake. The forecast does call for increased chances of showers. Now that I am finished with the corn, okra and melons, I am hoping we get a good rain. As a reward for holding up under High Pressure Farming conditions, I treated myself to a margarita and an Aleve for dinner.

The Original "Roll Alabama"

Long before frenzied fans bellowed for the Crimson Tide to roll, ale-swilling sailors and fellow-travelers gustily sang the sad tale of the CSS Alabama. By all accounts, the CSS Alabama was a terror of the high seas to Yankee shipping during the Civil War. The Alabama sent Union ships to Davy Jones locker from Texas to North Carolina. While in Cherbourg, France, in 1864 the Alabama was surprised by the USS Kearsage. The Alabama met a watery grave. The ship took on legendary status and was soon memorialized in song. Here is some timely art work to illustrate this post.

This is a depiction of the USS Kearsage sinking the CSS Alabama off Cherbourg, France, in 1964. I think it is an artist conception since this was a long time before CNN or FoxNews. The rest of this story is that I had never heard of the song until a friend of mine brought it to my attention. The chap was none other than Trevor Killen, once introduced to the Alabama Legislature as the ambassador of Northern Ireland. Trevor is, indeed, from Northern Ireland and a devotee of all-things Alabama. We became close friends over a bottle of Scotch while both of us were in Basra, Iraq. If I could figure out how to make the record function work on my computer, I would sing into this blasted machine and share this wonderful song with you. While planting corn today, Trevor leaped into my mind. Funny how that stuff works, huh? Trevor was part of the team that created the economic boom in Ireland several years ago. Unfortunately, poor Ireland is now falling on hard times. As a representative of the Northern Ireland governing authority, Trevor was sent on a goodwill mission to the United States. All this happened in the 1980s. He was treated well on his tour but when he got to Alabama, he fell in love. He related to me that he was treated as if he were royalty. Amazing what doors an Irish accent will open. When he got to Montgomery, he was invited to address a joint session of the Alabama Legislature. That was when he was introduced as an ambassador. What a guy! Here are the words of the song honoring the CSS Alabama. You can thank Trevor for providing them. By the way, he dictated the words of the song to me. I call that close to being a miracle since he remembered them and I was able to write them down in long hand on the back of an envelope after we polished off a terrific 12-year old bottle of Scotch. God bless the Irish. They scoff at weepy concerns of alcoholism and bravely provide guidance for a thirsty world. Trevor is one of my household heroes. Roll Alabama Roll When the Alabama's keel was laid Roll, Alabama, Roll It was laid in the yards of Jonathan Laird O roll, Alabama, roll It was laid in the yards of Jonathan Laird It was laid in the town of Birkenhead Down the Mersey way she sailed then And Liverpool fitted her with guns and men Down the Mersey way she then sailed forth To destroy the commerce of the North To Cherbourg port she sailed one day To collect her share of the prize money And many a sailor lad he met his doom When the Kearsage appeared in view A shot from the forward pivot that day Blew the Alabama's stern away Off the three mile limit in sixty-four The Alabama went to her grave Trevor, my friend, I pray that the road always rises in front of you and that the wind is always at back. When you tire of the Emeral Isle, come on home to Alabama.

The Trouble with Travel

Never fails that every time I travel to some distant spot, I fall in love with it and wonder why I am not living there. It has been that way all of my life. While I am not a big travel maven, I like seeing new places. Knowing that I fall in love with where ever I am, I have tried to keep my adventures to a minimum. No reason to invite dissatisfaction. My bud Bobby and I went to San Francisco for several days. That trip created such mental turmoil that I swore off venturing any farther than the local Wal-Mart for almost a year. I love San Francisco. And, I have absolutely no clue why I don’t pack up the truck and strike out today for that golden city on the bay. Just thinking about walking up and down those marvelous hills gives me pangs of anxiety. Why the hell am I here? I had similar adverse reactions after visiting Mexico, Costa Rica, the British Virgin Islands, practically any place in Texas, everywhere in the great Southwest, any place in the Rockies, the Smokies, the Ozarks, even Mobile and Montgomery. Now that I think about it, there are places I’ve visited I don’t want to live. I would not live in Detroit, Washington DC, Atlanta or Birmingham. All are failed cities. All of this is on my mind because I spent a week on the Gulf Coast last week. The whisper in my head asking why I was not living in Gulf Shores on Monday was a scream by Friday. And, predictably, I returned home and fell into a funk, wondering why I am still here. I went through the normal checklist of why I live in Welch. The farm. The Old Goat. Family and friends. St. Barnabas. The chickens. The dogs, cats and ducks. The peace and quiet. Ummm… If I left after lunch, I could toast a gorgeous sunset over Mobile Bay this afternoon with "that frozen concoction that helps me get through". The pull to change latitude is powerful. Ummm... Better get back on the tractor. The corn will not plant itself. Dammit.

Things Political

I am doing my best to stay away from things political. It is a difficult for me. I am a trained political scientist. PhD even. Not talking about things political is difficult for me, I hope you understand. Older I get the more I realize how much I don’t know. It is true that I spent most of my life reading books about politics and considering the grand questions but, truth is, I am no better informed of things political than any other citizen. What I have learned is that I am a single voice. I have an obligation to make that voice meaningful in direct proportion to the intent to which I want our society to be just and kind.

My faith in Jesus tells me that just and kind are things to be sought.

That leads me to the conclusion that I cannot hide my political feelings beneath a bushel. To shy away from difficult issues is to let chance decide fate. Do you truly believe that your vote is essential in an election? I do. Never doubted that how I voted mattered.

Voting means there is opinion. Since I vote, I have opinions. In several entries here I have expressed some of my opinions. Those opinions did not resonate well with some of my closest friends. Sadly, they are no longer friends. I miss them mucho. But, keeping my friends would have meant that I stay away from things political. And, while I am doing my best to do so, I am battling my responsibilities as a citizen to decide elections and make difficult selections. As a citizen, I have to make judgments. I was assailed once because I was judgmental. Well, yes, I am. I have opinions. Some of my opinions are particularly important to me. To betray them by renouncing what I truly believe is a big lie. It is dishonest. So, I had friends who would remain my friend if I would lie, betray my honest judgment of a politician or policy. Much to my regret, I sacrificed the friend.

So, what are some of those simple truths that I believe? Here is one that I expressed several times before: Obama is an amateur and should be defeated. He is a community organizer, nothing more. Here are more. Joe Biden is an idiot. Partitioning Iraq? Global tax? He is the crown prince of zany. The Tea-baggers are unguided missiles, the American version of the Taliban. George W was not the moron that the Left portrayed him. In fact, the democratization of Iraq will eventually be determined to be the root trigger for the Arab Spring. It will take a generation of Bush-hating historians to pass before the real history is written. Never trust the historians of the present. History is like bread. It has to proof before it is edible. Few, if any, in Congress deserve being reelected. Most ought to be declared hazards to the State. Chaney, if tried, would deserve the title war criminal.

There, that should be enough to convince what few friends I have left that I have lost my mind and deserve renunciation. Oddly, I feel better for admitting my citizenship with all the incumbent responsibilities. I am a citizen and I vote. I care deeply for our country. I will not permit tempered acceptance to dictate how I care for our democracy.

Some things deserve a festival

If he were not 86 years old and having difficulty remembering where he put his teeth, the Would-be Mayor of Welch would have declared today a celebration in the community. He did not but it did not interfere with the festive mood that infects my little wide-place in the road. Today marks the Return of the Bodines.

American progress has its champions: Whitney, Fulton, Edison, Ford, Jobs. Lost among such giants is that humble agricultural engineer and backwoods hobbyist, Jethro Bodine. Or, at least, that is what the folklore is around here. Perplexed by how to assist a tomato to grow upwards instead of creeping along the ground being the vine it is, some scholars might speculate that Bodine undertook rigorous examination of a variety of structures that would provide support without doing any harm to the tender tomato. After hours, maybe even minutes, of experimentation, so the story goes, Bodine happened upon using the lowly privet with which he assembled the now-famous Bodine Tomato Cage. As everyone knows, privet is the sworn enemy of all that is decent and just. Eliminating it is a virtue of the highest order. The genius of Jethro Bodine was his ability to transition beyond the mundane and view the lowly privet as a tool to serve a higher purpose. His inspiration was an instant success in Welch. Numerous neighboring farmers, possibly numbering as many as seven and certainly as many as one, threw themselves into copying the design and gaining insights into construction techniques at the foot of the master inventor. Since those halcyon days, Bodine Tomato Cages are a common sight in Welch and in the surrounding burbs.

The Return of the Bodines signifies the real coming of Spring. The Bodines are brought out of storage and strategically placed over the newly planted tomatoes. During the growing season, these clever structures will provide support for the ripening fruit. It is a day that transforms the garden from field to treasure. The day could be marked by marching bands, pretty little girls twirling batons and intoxicated fireman driving their shiney equipment through downtown Welch, assuming there were one. Perhaps someday it will. In the meantime, the absence of fireworks, fly-overs, political speeches and bar-be-que does not diminish the excitement of the Return of the Bodines to the fields. They mean warm days, ice tea under the oak tree, fishing instead of hoeing, screen doors, and fans. The Return of the Bodines is one of the best days of the year.

Feast Day for St. Rebecca

Today is the celebration of the nativity of the Blessed Saint Rebecca. She was born 82 years ago. I prayed for her soul today at Mass. When I dropped by to see The Old Goat, I detected that he was aware of the significance of the date although we did not discuss it. Still, her absence is a source of deep regret.

In November before she died in February, I woke up one morning and needed to talk to my Mom. I was living in Missouri at the time. I drove the 700 miles to sit in her kitchen and talked with her about nothing in particular. As I have indicated in previous posts, the Blessed Rebecca was an extraordinary cook. She felt her boys ought to be able to cook for themselves. I am happy to say that Tinker and I learned early about feeding ourselves. She was a sweet, sweet person. I know The Old Goat misses her. I certainly do.

I offered a prayer for her kind spirit this morning at Mass, safe in the assurance that a person of such genuine beauty is always welcomed into God's enternal busom.

You know how Irish boys are about their mothers. You can steal my truck, kick my dog, destroy my crops, kill my chickens. But, never, ever, speak ill about my mama.

Strange Week on the Homestead

Some weeks pass normally -- Saturday morning breakfast at Jacks, Thursday night, fish at the Happy Trails, Friday, burgers at BurgerKing. That went on for months. Then, The Old Goat up and fell apart. Since then, it has been a different story around here. He has not been out of his house in two weeks. He now has a lady sit with him during the days. He is weak and seems to reflect his age. All of this has thrown my routine off. Instead of having dinner ready at my house Sunday through Wednesday at 4:30, I have to have dinner at his house by 3 because his caretaker wants to make sure he eats his dinner before she leaves at 4. I am not bitching too much about the earlier times. Having his caretaker around has made life mucho easier. Just that having to stop whatever I am doing in order to prepare dinner for mid-afternoon is troublesome. I am falling into a pattern of getting up a litter earlier, usually around 5 or so, and working until mid-day then stopping to cook dinner. Whenever it is finished, I package it up and take it to The Old Goats house. Then, I can return to my labors. There is nothing wrong with the schedule. It is just different and, as such, strange. It will remain so until it becomes the routine then any deviation will be castigated as innovative and repugnant.

Regarding real work, I spent the last two days (both beautiful with warm temperatures and sunny skies) mowing, bushhogging, cleaning, and burning, especially in the pasture. There are five pipes of stuff scattered in the pasture -- piles of limbs, brush, old cornstalks, and other miscellaneous items. Instead of waiting for it all to degrade naturally, I am opting to speed up the process. I am taking to the flame. Eliminating the piles certainly helps the looks of the grounds. In addition, today I trimmed around the lake and it looks great.

Rainy day in the Deep South

Last year I was certain that my lake would dry up and would become a grassy low spot in the pasture. Now it is full, brimming full in fact. We have had lots of rain. Today, when the ground is saturated, we had almost an inch. Fortunately, it is warm and Spring is certainly in the air. The coming warmer days work well in combating the natural depressant of cloudy, rainy weather.

I had hoped to take off this morning for some time with WitchWoman but cancelled my plans when it was apparent that too many things are up in the air. The Old Goat, my job with ASAN, my personal business affairs, timely planting. Lots of things got in the way. Then, it rained ... again. And, it rained some more. Water is standing in the rows of my gardens. What is a man to do? Naturally, drink heavily. But, because so much education, I don't swill cheap beer or tacky whiskey. No. I imbibe fine wine. Stuff that cost real money. Luckily, it doesn't take much to remove me from drab reality and grainy living.

I spent most the day in brain work. Taking care of every day affairs then turning my attention to my job. The Alabama Legisture, perhaps the worst in the country, is gutting funds for farmers' markets, an act ASAN opposes. Then, there is a bill to set up a fund to reimburse restaurants for purchasing Alabama produced vegetables, fruits and meats. Go figure. Caesar gives and Caesar takss.

I want to talk about my farm but I know what an impossible bore that is. There is really nothing else going on in my life besides growing stuff and working hard every day to live a simple, sincere, serene and solitary life. I am doing my best to become active in my parish. I was elected to the vestry. I am responsible for the parish garden. It is a conservative parish which is fine even thought I have a more expansive interpretation of Jesus' directives.

It is a rainy day here. Nothing worse when all you really want to do is get outside and dig in the dirt.

Taking care of The Old Goat

The Old Goat is sick. He spent ten days at the University of Alabama-Birmingham hospital. They finally installed a shunt in his head to treat hydrochephelus but I doubt if it will make much difference. He may not fall as often as before but the real issue is that he is aging. Tinker and I secured the services of a very nice lady to sit with him. Mrs. Phillips. She cleans and cooks. Generally, she watches him to make sure he does not hurt himself. Lately, he has taken to forgetting to turn off water faucets, close refrigerators, turn off his electric razor. So far, nothing he has forgotten to do has been a threat to his health. Mrs. Phillips will help prevent dangerous situations.

On other fronts, I got my onions and cabbage in during the one day I had of dry weather. The night I planted it rained over an inch here. The lake that looked as if it would dry up last summer is now brimming full. The ground is saturated and it will be a week before it is dry enough to sustain any real work. Not only did I get my cabbage and onions in, I was also able to put in the same for the parish garden, albeit on a smaller scale. In a week or so, I will go back and plant English peas, lettuces, beets and spinach. I have an attraction to the cool weather crops. Naturally, I love tomatoes and okra and corn – all hot weather characters – but the freshness of the cool weather guys is rewarding. In six weeks we will be enjoying all sorts of spring vegetables. The taste differential between what is grown in the garden and what comes out of a can is remarkable. Unless you have done the taste test, you would not believe the difference.

I could spend the rest of this commentary talking about the work of the Alabama Sustainable Ag Network but I will refrain. They are such good people, working hard every day to bring the best to the tables of Alabama folks. It is honorable work.

I put Sassafrass and her five kittens out in the greenhouse today. I enjoyed watching them scamper all over the house but they were getting a bit messy. I am hopeful that two will find homes soon. I have no prospects for the other three. I might keep one, maybe two. Somebody will lose in the end. It is such a shame because they are beautiful little creatures.

The new chickens are just now beginning to lay eggs. The older bunch has essentially quit which means I am feeding them to entertain themselves. I am so gutless that I won’t chop off a few heads and put the old girls in the freezer. I know that if I intend to live this life, that is part of it. I am avoiding the inevitable. A friend of mine suggested that I follow his example – he has modified his chopping block with Velcro strips to affix the chicken to the block in order that the chop can be administered quickly, efficiently and humanely. I have not taken it to that level, yet. It is, however, just a matter of time. Can it be that a killer’s heart lurks in every farmer?

Inevitability of Old Age

My time has been devoted exclusively to The Old Goat these last two weeks. He was falling. So, I took him to a doctor who referred him to the UAB Hospital, Neurosurgical Section. After ten days of testing, they concluded it was hydrochephalus. Yesterday, a drain pipe was installed in his head and today they cut him loose. Now, I am wondering how he will make it on his own since he can barely walk unassisted. TOG has claimed all of my time in the last two weeks. I missed a number of meetings with my job with the Alabama Sustainable Ag Network (ASAN). In fact, I missed the Georgia Organics/ASAN conference this weekend. It is the cost of having an aging (or is it ageing?) parent. I drove to Birmingham every day early and returned to Welch late. By the time I got home I have enough time to close up the chickens, feed the animals before going to bed.

I think my life is on hold for the time being. I hope my employer will understand. Truth is that my Dad and I have never been friends. My brother, Tinker, and Dad are big buddies but I guess I was a Mama's boy. The Blessed Saint Rebecca and I understood each other. TOG and I clashed ... often. Sort of ironic that now, all these years later, I seem to have responsibility for his care. I am learning something about what my own old age will be. Certainly, I don't expect my children to care for me. It is for that reason that if I make it to 75, the day I do, I am going to the store and buying three or four cartons of cigarettes and all the Scotch my truck will hold and I am going to commit slow suicide, with a great deal of joy. Nothing good happens to the body after turning 80. Trust me. I am seeing this truth every day.

You can't help but feel a pang of sadness for TOG. For so long he was a full-bodied, energetic, able man. Now he can barely climb the two steps into his house. If nothing else, he is instructive.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

Mick Jagger is a god, worthy of praise and adoration. You can't always get what you want but if you try, sometimes, you get what you need. Tell me that is not pure genius. What I have learned in my sorry life is that I am at my best when I live simply and seek those things that are essential and real. Simple stuff, like true love and actual commitment. Jez, how elusive are those things?

The Old Goat and I shared some father-son time today. I drove him to see his dying sister. It was heartbreaking. My aunt gasping for breath, with no clue of she was and who these people were who kept calling her name and asking her inane questions. My Dad cried. The whole scene broke my heart. The Old Goat actually had feelings for somebody other than himself. As we drive to see her, we talked about his childhood and about his father. He was a cruel man. Hard on his kids, eager to take any advantage open to him, not above exploiting any opening. Maybe The Old Goat was an improvement. If so, it had to be the civilizing affect of the Blessed Rebecca.

Spent an enjoyable evening with my friends Jim and Judy. They invited me to join them for dinner while they entertained guest, John and Nicky. What a treat. Great food and wonderful conversation although I think I might have imposed upon the general flow of exchange. Still, it was a much appreciated evening.

If all goes well, the tractor will be back in operation by the end of the week. Assuming we don't have heavy rains, I will spend the end of the week plowing in anticipation of planting onions and potatoes. It is also the time to turn over the parish garden. I want to get the lettuces, cabbage, brussel sprouts and broccoli in as soon as the weather permits.

I spent a couple of days battling privet. Again, assuming the tractor is back in operation this week, I will be able to chip up the slain enemy. I use the chips for middles of my rows in the garden. Mostly, I chip up the privet because I do not like it. I think the bush is a bully and deserves the crushing defeat dealt it at the hands of my chipper. I have lost no sleep over its demise.

Mostly, I am happy with my life. Of course, you don't always get what you want. But, I keep trying and, sure enough, I pretty much get what I need. Mick is a god. And the real God is in heaven, graciously looking over my sorry ass, generally protecting me from myself. Life continues to chug along in the wilds of Alabama.

The Daily Hundred

The last couple of days have been good ones. I feel as if I have earned my hundred bucks each day for the work I have done around the place. One day I installed a frost-free faucet near the chicken houses. The next I staged a frontal attack on the privet in the old pig pen. After a day of struggle, I emerged victorious. It has been a while since I felt that I earned my daily hundred. Maybe it is just the season. Piddling around the greenhouse does not strike me as work. Spending a day in front of the computer is not work. Driving to or sitting in the meeting, neither is work. Busting your butt, working up a sweat in the middle of winter, getting dirty, needing a shower and a cold beer, that is work. It is on those days of real work that I feel as if I have earned my hundred.

Speaking of the greenhouse, I have blooms on my heirloom tomato plants. I intentionally and with forethought selected two of the two dozen plants to survive. The two are now three feet tall and filled with blooms. In a couple of weeks, I might actually have tomatoes. In the meantime, I am sprouting a couple of herbs, basil and lavender. I placed my order for seeds. My onions will arrive next Thursday; two hundred sweets and two hundred reds. At the same time, I will put in my potatoes.

My parish, Barney’s Church and Bar, has agreed to let me plant a parish garden. My thought is that we will put in a salad crop. That will allow us to plant early and harvest well before the heat of summer. Then, we will come back in the fall and put in a crop of greens. Barney’s has a beans and rice ministry so the garden will complement it well.

The Old Goat (TOG) and I headed out last evening for our usual Friday burger night. As we approached the fine eating establishment, TOG lost his balance and landed on his ass in the parking lot. He sustained no injury, as far as I could tell. He was a little embarrassed but nothing permanent. He does seem to have issues with his balance. We subscribed to that service that answers anytime he presses a button on his alarm bracelet. Couple of weeks ago when we arrived home after another spectacular night of burgers we found the yard at TOG’s house filled with an ambulance, a fire truck, and a sheriff’s deputy, all their blue and red lights flashing. Apparently, TOG had accidently hit the Help button. I guess it is good to know that the system works.

WitchWoman joined me in Little Rock for an agriculture meeting last week. We discovered the Capital Hotel. Better, we discovered the chef at the Capital Hotel. What food! A brunch that featured Southern favorites in a new and fresh ways, bar food featuring the best quail I have ever tasted, and a breakfast that rivaled anything that the Blessed Rebecca ever cooked. Overall, Little Rock is working hard for respect. Having Bill Clinton as a key selling point hurts but the place has some redeeming features. It may come as a surprise to many but I paid to tour the Clinton Library and Whore House. It was a three-story advertisement for Bubba and Hilary. I had to fight nausea during the entire experience. And, to think that I paid to see this shit! In sharp contrast, I enjoyed touring Heifer International. WitchWoman and I walked all over the place and enjoyed the time in Little Rock.

A New Year

A new year. Yeah, right. Another opportunity for a measure disaster or a timed opportunity for the world to fuck you over. Aw, that is just the negative Tom talking. I am better than that.

The Christmas holiday, the so-called Holy Days, were wildly varied. At one moment I was the subject of blistering condemnation, the next I was the source of all pleasure and satisfaction. Hard to find a median in that confusion. The bottom line is that I dislike the holiday. It encommpasses too many disappointments, too many exhilerations. The essense of the good life is to live the golden median. Christmas always violates that rule.

Spent some time with my daughter over the holiday. She is involved with a guy whom I distrust. She complains that I do not like him. Well, seems to me that he has to earn a little confidence. Same for her. Tried to talk to her about joining me on the farm but she would have nothing to do with it. I think that is a big mistake on her part.

WitchWoman was a joy to be around. It was hard to leave her to drive back to the farm. But, I did. I drove from Kansas City to Welch, stopping only for fuel.

When I arrived home, I discovered that my heater was not working. And, because the temperatures were plunging, my water lines from the well froze. I spent a very cold night. This morning, I spent hours thawing out the pipes. I gave them blow jobs. (That is, I used a blow dryer to heat up the pipes.) When they were thawed, I turned my attention to the heater. I fixed it but did not trust my effots. So, I called an expert (a high school drop-out) who verified that I had fixed the situation but still charged me $50. Tonight, I am warm and have water. It is a considerable advantage over last night.

Sassyfrass, my cat, is pregnant. She is real pregnant. Due at any time. I let her out to wander a bit this afternoon. It is almost 7 pm now, dark and cold, but she has yet to return. I am a natural worrier. I hope she did not drop the kittens in the woods. If she did, they will never survive the cold temperatures.

I worked on the herb garden again today. I will continue tomorrow. I have to get the tractor repaired before I plow the area for the millet, milo, corn and sunflowers. I still have time but would like to get it done in order to put down some nutrients before planting in early spring.

My regret is that I am not more excited about a new year. It is just routine. And, that, in itself, is a sad commentary. New starts ought to generate some genuine enthusiasm. Instead, it is just another January with some routine chores and tasks.

I know that I really dislike the cold.