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.