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?