Helpful Rain

Mercifully, a thunderstorm rolled through downtown Welch last evening. Even those of us in the suburbs received a good soaking. The sunflowers and sweet potatoes I planted all look happy this morning. The place does not have that smell of dried hay that lingered during the last few hot and dry days. From the looks of the clouds on the horizon, we may have another downpour today. No complaints here.

This retirement stuff is harder than it looks. I have been at it for almost two months (five weeks of that was spend on the road) and already I am finding it disorienting to be without some sort of schedule. I obviously lack purpose, something I can repair if I work up enough energy. I do wonder if I will work at a substantive job ever again. I may have bailed too early. What keeps going through my head are those insightful lines of poet and philosopher Neil Young: "It is better to burn out than to fade away." What I am doing now is dimming my bulb. There are just so many activities with which one can fill his/her day. I have not lived for activities for almost sixty years. I thought I lived for purposes. Comfortable, quiet, restful retirement is not a purpose. My labors on the land are hobbies. Where is the substance?

After Action Review (Hotwash)

Our two-day offensive against the Privet has concluded. The enemy's stronghold is wiped out. But not without costs. Tinker suffered a sinking spell mid-way in the battle today. He managed to clear the field of battle and retreat to his friendly confines. The after effects, however, were grim. He had terrible cramping in his legs and hands. Exhausted, he dozed most of the afternoon. He seems better now. I managed to escape the sap-letting with only minor scraps and scratches. I did sustain a blow to my right thigh when I pulled on a Privet stump. The stump dislodged violently, striking me on the upper leg. I thought nothing of it at the time but now am administering Ben-Gay and Alleve for the soreness. To demonstrate the insidious nature of our foe, once we waded into the Privet nest, we discovered to our horror that the King Privet surrounded himself with several locusts. The locust are particularly beautiful trees but have a nasty characteristic -- three to four inch long torns protruding from the bark. Our efforts were waylaid momentarily by this surprise defense but thick gloves and sheer daring prevailed. Soon, the innocent but dangerous locust were subdued and sent to the chipper. I took particular warrior glee in sentencing King Privet to his doom.

This afternoon I paid a visit to the Chambers County Courthouse. I was scheduled to meet with the County Manager and the septic tank guy. I was struck by how hollow the place sounded when I walked in. The county manager, as it turns out, worked Tuesday and Wednesday of this week then took a long weekend. Same for the septic tank guy. The folks at the Agricultural Extension Service, across the street, apparently decided that if the County is taking a long weekend, they should, too. They closed their offices at noon on Thursday with a note that said they would return to work (if one dared call it that) on Monday. Dismayed, I visited the rural electricity people to arrange for electricity on my land. Everybody was gone. The nice lady who waited on me gave me a form to fill out. She said that I would get a call from the service guy soon. No date specified. Still presisting, I visited the 911 Office. They are the people who assign addresses. The office was closed until Monday. I might have stumbled on one reason few things get done in Chambers County. Nobody is working. I walked back over to the Courthouse to talk to the commissioner who represents my district. He was only available by telephone. Finally, I gave up and returned home to have several gin and tonics.

By the way, an After Action Review is a military term I picked up in Iraq. It is a skull session after an engagement. It is sometimes called a "hotwash" since it attempts to get the gist of a meeting or encounter. My good friend Kevin taught me the terms and I find them most useful in this situation.

The hotwash from today: 1) The Privet is not dead but badly damaged. 2) We suffered battle scars but will recover. 3) It is hard to manage a county if you don't work at it.

Major Offensive

I cleared away the pesky sweet gum yesterday for a major assault on the Privet stronghold this morning. I don't think the Privet know what is to befall them. As I cut away the sweet gum, I made sure not to look in the direction of the Privet, that alone should lull them into a sense of security. We are locked and loaded. Chain saws, bow saws, limb shearers. The weak of stomach might want to turn away when the pitch of battle reaches its height. It will not be pretty. To seal the fate of the Privet, I've hooked up the chipper to the tractor and strategically positioned it to make quick work of the stubborn enemy. A quick and decisive slash with a chanin saw, a fast dissection, then into the chipper. Before the Privet know what hit them, they will be mulch for the garden. Whipping out this core of Privet strength, the scattered Privet will be easy prey. Without leadership from the center, an army quickly falls into disarray.

This is the "shock and awe" of the Privet War. On the edge of battle, I feel the nervous twitch of a warrior, ready for the sap-letting. The cause is just. The enemy is easily identifiable. The weapons of war are prepared and ready for action. Failure to prevail rewrites history, something I will not allow.

For oaks, hickories, maples, pines, and poplars! Destroy the foreign horde! Be of one mind, victory is ours!

Tomato Season

The 4th of July is not only the celebration of the Declaration of Independence but is the unofficial start to "Tomato Days" in the South. A few smart alecks have tomatoes earlier -- once, I picked my first ripe tomato on the 14th of June -- but, by rights, the 4th ushers in the splendid season. Most of the tomato vines will play out around Labor Day.

Several years ago, the Bible of all things Southern, Southern Living, ran an article on the tomato sandwich, a staple of cultured living down here. Tomato sandwiches are right up there with banana sandwiches, mustard potato salad, and Vienna sausages in terms of of popularity and taste appeal. All of the suggested ways of constructing a tomato sandwich provided by Southern Living sounded delicious. But, most complicated the tar out of the simple sandwich; most, in fact, took the focus off the tomato and put it on some exotic component that added little in the way of regional flavor.

Here is my favorite tomato sandwich. The right ingredients are essential. No substitutions allowed.

I prefer sturdy bread. The best I found is Sara Lee's Whole Wheat. It is the kind that has wheat straw stuck to it as if someone dropped it on the floor of the bakery and invoked the five second rule. Some prefer to toast the bread. I most certainly do not.

Slather both pices of bread with generous helpings of Hellman's Real Mayonnaise. Sure sign of a Yaknee trying to pass is Miracle Whip. No self-respecting tomato grower in Albama -- and that is damn near all of us here -- would permit the use of Miracle Whip on a genuine tomato sandwich. In fact, I think there are counties in Alabama where Miracle Whip is prohibited. If that is not factual, it ought to be. Besides, who the hell knows what is in Miracle Whip? It could be some French culinary experiment gone horribly wrong and callously passed along to unsuspected Americans as a chic sandwich condiment. Boy, the French and Miracle Whip burn me up!

Select a juicy, red, fresh-picked, vine-ripended tomato. Some folks like those whopping Beef Steak tomatoes. I think they are pretentious. One slice will cover the entire piece of bread. No, I prefer medium sized tomatoes (recommended varieties include JetStar, Arkansas Traveler, Atkinson, or Bonnie Select). Take one medium sized tomato and cut it horizontally to produce four meaty slices, excluding the top and bottom. Discard the top and bottom as they will detract from the consistency and taste of the slices selected to make the sandwich. Arrange the four slices on the previously greased bread.

Now, it is time for the seasoning. Salt to taste. Pepper with abandon. It is practically impossible to put too much pepper on a tomato sandwich. A peppermill is the best but liberal amounts from a standard shaker will work fine. Next, crumple up a couple of tablestones of feta cheese. As a topper, add several basil leaves. Covers with the second slice of bread. Do not cut nto halves.

Eat quickly, holding the sandwich with both hands. As an aid in cleaning up, place a dish, wash rag, or several paper towels beneath the sandwich. I like to a side of potato chips and enjoy a big glass of real (meaning, sweet) iced tea.

Upon completion, wash hands, face, and arms since a well-made tomato sandwich will leave its love dripping on you. Next, fix another one. They just get better.

Two Old GIs

One of "those" moments occurred last evening. I took The Old Goat to the rodeo up north of Roanoke. As is standard with rodeo, there were lots of flags, pagentry, and over-the-top patriotism. The announcer asked all the veterans to stand for a round of applause from the crowd. My dad stood up. Then he grabbed my arm and said, "Stand up, boy, you're a veteran, too." Well, I stood up next to my dad, proudly. I never thought of my service as equating with his in the Great War. But, he did. There you have it, a moment I will remember for the rest of my life.

The Tire Saga Continues

I hoed the garden until almost sundown last night. By the time I quit, I was drenched in sweat and felt little crawly things all over me, probably just my imagination. I was in desperate need of a shower. If you have not taken a garden hose shower, referred to as hosin', you have not lived. Now, when I lived in a city, I would routinely hose. Even built myself a private little hosin' area in my backyard that afforded me some privacy. In the country it is easier, no voyeur neighbors living within a few feet of you. The real difference though in city hosin' and country hosin' is the temperature of the water. In the city, after the initial shock of cold water, the temperature moderates a bit since most of the water is stored in above ground tanks. During the summer, water out of a city tap could be in the 70 to 80 degree range. In the country, the water comes right out of the ground at about 50 to 60 degrees. The water is heart attack cold. And, I will not even comment on the shrinkage factor.

This morning, The Old Goat and I drove up to the tractor place to get the bush-hog tire fixed. Tinker knocked it off mowing Miss Sherry's field. Without the guide tire, the apparatus is inopertive. Got the tire fixed for a grand total of $6 which I thought was a good bargain.

Afterwards, and seeing how it was barely after 7 am, we decided to drive down to the Courthouse about the tires that have yet to be picked up by the County. Rather than bolt in with a complaint about non-existent services, I took a different tact.

Me: M'am, somebody is playing a cruel trick on the County and me.

Nice lady at the County: What ever do you mean?

Me: I asked the County to pick up a bunch a tires some scoundrel dumped on my property over a month ago. At the time, the County said it would pick up the tires in the next couple of days. Now, I know the County must have picked them up. But, these sorry buzzards who dumped them went to the landfill, loaded up those same tires, and dumped them again in the same place as last time. Surely, something can be done to stop these rascals.

Nice lady at the County: That is terrible. Let me just make sure that a work order was filled out on those tires. (She shuffles through some papers and pulls out a pink slip.) Dr. Simpson, I hate to tell you this but our crew did not pick up tnose tires and I am so sorry that it has taken so long to get to them. I'll make sure we get out there the first of the week.

Me: You are so kind. Thank you. I'll be back next week to thank you for your efforts. Have a nice 4th of July.

Sweet Home Welch

It is good to be home. Leaving Memphis early this morning was a good strategy. I arrived in Welch about dinner time (for the uninitiated, dinner time is noon while supper time is around 6 pm, although The Old Goat thinks supper should be served no later than 4 pm, and whines like a sick puppy when it is not). I honked the horn when I passed The Old Goat's house. Within minutes, he was in his car and driving to welcome me home. Naturally, as I set up the Airstream, he plundered through it as if on an inspection tour. Fortunately, I dug out the gift I bought him -- a silver tipped bolo tie with an exquisite holder also of silver. He seemed pleased. I bought it Durango and while driving across Arkansas and Mississippi, fought off boredom by wondering where I had put it.

Couple of hours later, Tinker came home from his second job at Home Depot. He did his inspection of the trailer and truck and pronounced both to be satisfactory. By that time, The Old Goat was off to see one of his many lady-friends (he has more energy and enthusiasm than a rabbit). Tinker and I had a couple of beers and talked trailers, and travels, and the West. I bought him a money clip with embedded turquoise. He, too, seemed pleased. Even though Tinker and I are in our late 50s, neither of us drink in The Old Goat's presence. The blessed St. Rebecca and The Old Goat were steadfastly opposed to demon rum, in any form. Out of respect for them, Tinker and I keep our beer swilling private. Years ago, when we were kids, we hide our beer stash in the chimney of a house that burned down, across the dirt road from where my land is now. Then, when we drank a beer on Saturday night, we'd both chew pine needles to freshen our breath. Sounds silly, but neither of us wanted to give the folks heart-burn about something like beer drinking.

Tinker's garden has withered from lack of rain. He has a few tomatoes, some squash. The Old Goat told me that it had rained once since I left. I don't think my travel plans had anything to do with the weather patterns. The bush-hogging I did before leaving needs to be done again. The sunflowers I planted before leaving are about a foot high. They need weeding; another thing for the "to do" list tomorrow.

There is a rodeo in Roanoke this Friday. And, on Saturday, one of my uncles his hosting a BBQ at his house. There will be plenty of good food and lots of new people to meet.

It is good to be home.