Taking Stock

I am not feeling too good about myself. Mostly, I have not worked a real job since I left Iraq in May 2010. I have drilled through the money I had set aside. Bought the farm from my brother and now find myself without a lot of options regarding fiscal flexibility.

That part is actually pretty good since being without debt in today’s economic environment is a positive thing. I am working on a job with a not-for-profit group, the Alabama Sustainable Agriculture Network (ASAN). I joined the group when I relocated back here. My good friends Jim and Judy are involved with ASAN. It did not take very long to figure out that the group needs an executive director. So, I put myself forward as a candidate. I recognize that if I am going to be paid by ASAN, I will have to figure out how to do it.

Farm-wise, the place is doing fine. I have been busy the last couple of days putting up (as in canning and freezing) peppers and tomatoes and pears. Previously, I put beans and peas in the freezer. The sweet potatoes are about to be harvested. The fall garden is planted and most of it has emerged thanks to 1.7 inches of rain this week – collards, rutabaga, beets, cabbage, spinach, sweet peas and garlic. I am also preparing the newly renovated greenhouse for a planting of herbs and tomatoes. I am thinking of plowing the melon, flower and corn patches now, applying compost and letting it rest over the winter in anticipation of spring planting. New chickens are on-order and will arrive on 26 September – 25 Buff Orpingtons. After cleaning out the houses, the current brood of hens went on a laying frenzy, producing about eight to ten eggs daily. I am one person. I cannot eat that many eggs so I am giving them away, a dozen at a time. As I write this, there are five dozen eggs in my refrigerator. The lake is about four feet low, evidence of the long and sustained drought that has impacted east Alabama. We’ve had about 25 inches of rain this year – our normal is in excess of 50 inches. I also had the great pleasure to contribute my meager resources to the whimpering American economy. I had to buy a new water well pump. After a mere thirty years, the pump when tits-up. I was so pissed that I vowed not to replace it. After three days of no shower, a sink full of dishes, and nasty hands, I relented. Tinker came down and helped me install the new machine. It works fine. I am also on a decluttering jones in the house. What cannot be moved to some other location is donated to the Salvation Army. Amazing how nice the house looks when you can actually see the walls and floor. I am picking colors out for a painting party. Everybody is invited.

Truth is, this is as good a life style as any son of bitch could ever hope to live. And, that is the problem I am having. This is so damn good that it cannot be moral or legitimate or genuine. I get up when I wake up. I go to bed when I am tired. I linger over strong coffee in the morning. I take the dogs for swims everyday in the steadily shrinking lake. Sometimes I have a glass (or two) of wine with lunch. I set my own agenda and work until I don’t want to anymore. There have to be huge problems with all this. There is a strong possibility that I will not make lots of (perhaps, any) money doing this but it is the most rewarding “job” I have ever had. Still, I don’t feel good about myself. I am a product of conditioning that required an income, a family and debts. As much as I loved the Blessed Rebecca, I am a bit pissed that she made me believe in all that shit. Truth is, I have never really cared much for money (to qualify, I love to spend but otherwise, so what?). As far as my family, I am divorced. That should tell you something. My son lives in Europe and I have seen him once in six years and I rarely hear from him. My daughter is on the west coast and never answers her phone. And, as far as debt, I live without it, praise be to God. To owe is to not sleep until that debt is satisfied. Debt is the original four-letter word.

I was once a City Manager. I was once a Professor. I was once a Diplomat. Once I mattered.

Missed Events

My friend, Kev, was married last weekend. I did not attend even though I was invited. Part of the reason I stayed home was that he is at Yale. For a boy from Alabama, Yale is purely intimidating. Mark my words, Kev will be Secretary of State one of these days. I hope. Brilliant kid with wonderful insights. The other part of the reason is that WitchWoman and I are working out the after-shocks of the tornado in Joplin. To add to the confusion, her mother broke her hip and is now in a nursing home. WitchWoman did have an offer accepted on a house in Kansas City. She closes on it in November. How that works into our relationship, I am unsure. She is naturally drawn to her kids. And, now, there is another grandchild on the way. Makes perfect sense that she would want to be near them. It is a long way from Kansas City to Welch.

As for me, I plan to stay here in Alabama, even though I may be losing my ass in doing so. I have been unable to land any sort of job. I even offered a non-profit to work for free. They will get back to me. I guess the economy is as bad as I hear on radio or else I have a greatly inflated self-image.

Sweet potatoes are coming out of the ground next week. Stuff coming out of the ground includes collards, rutabagas, beets, peas and spinach. The cabbage plants are doing well under the protective shield of wire baskets to keep the deer from eating the tender sprouts. Tomorrow, I will spend most of the day making pear preserves.

Today I completed the roof from the new greenhouse. By this time next week, I should have a few items sprouting. The objective is, of course, to produce the perfect tomato.

Speaking of which, I have the best recipe for tomato sauce I have ever tasted. It is so easy. In a large pot, sweat a finely chopped onion, a green pepper and three or four garlic cloves in olive oil. Add a quart of canned from-the-garden tomatoes (or a big-ass can of from-the-store diced tomatoes), a fat tablespoon of tomato paste, a palm full of dried basil, a bay leaf, salt and pepper, a slug of red wine. Simmer for about an hour or so. Delicious. I use it for spaghetti and lasagna.

I wish I had gone to Kev's wedding if for no other reason than to give him this great recipe. But, I didn't. Life got in the way.

Stuff

Yes, it is hot and humid. But, this morning I worked up a brow-mopping sweat pulling out the first planting of corn. Some promising rain clouds obscured the sun, so there I was, harvesting the fodder and feeling an unusually cool breeze. All of a sudden, it was Fall. Summer was playing hide-and-seek with me. The dogs and I sat under the tractor shed and shucked the dried ears to be used for duck food. It was nice to take a mental break from the heat of mid-summer. I was not day-dreaming of cooler temps. If you know me at all, you know that I love this sticky, sweaty Alabama weather, even the winters. The reason I like the winters here is because, more often than not, they are mild, rarely replicating the savage freezes through which I suffered while living in the Midwest.

On a more sober note, WitchWoman’s mother fell and broke her hip yesterday. Ironically, she was preparing to attend her 91st birthday party at WitchWoman’s house. The family was gathering when news arrived that an accident had occurred. Of course, nobody wants to look at the statistical outcome of this incident. I don’t blame them. My biggest fear is that The Old Goat will suffer a similar fate. Recently, while visiting my Uncle, his home health nurse, who knows The Old Goat, told me that “it is only a matter of time” that he falls. He does have issues with balance. In fact, he has fallen a few times recently. Fortunately, none of his falls, so far, have had serious implications.

The 26-horse power, 54 inch cut lawn tractor I bought last Fall broke. A bolt holding on one of the cutting deck pulleys dislodged. The bolt is stripped so I monkeyed with it for a while before driving into town and buying a new bolt. Surprisingly, the simple repairs I attempted, worked. The tractor is back in operation and powering through the rapidly growing grass of the expanded yard. First thing I noticed when I returned home was that Tinker had greatly decreased the size of the yard. To the contrary, I have progressively expanded it. Now I cut a couple of acres every week. It takes me most of the day to mow it all, then another half day to trim and primp the place.

The debt talks in Washington are pointing out to Americans just how dysfunctional the federal government is. What amazes me is that this is the same government to which we are entrusting health care. Too many of us have filters. We acknowledge what we want to hear and see and discard that which does not make us feel tingly and warm. Baseline truth is probably that most of us don’t care what is happening in Washington. The problem is that what the folks there is doing, or not doing, potentially can harm us. We may be in the middle of a major ideological battle that few want to recognize. The Civil War was an ideological clash that could not be ignored. Today, however, not caring what happens beyond the limits of our experience is the norm. That is, until a bunch of peckerwoods fire canons on the local national guard armory. Our republic may be in its death rattle. That is not without precedence. Remember Rome? Its glory days were not during the republic but the dictatorship. I am just having a difficult time envisioning O’Bama in the same context as Caesar. Et tu, Nancy?

Kids

Witchwoman put an offer on a house in Kansas City. That tells me that she has worked through her issues and arrived at a direction. She rightly wants to be near her children and grandchildren. I look forward to helping her with the place. Moreover, I look forward to visiting her there. Perhaps she might visit me here. I have to believe that we will be fine as a “thing”. I have come to care deeply for her family. She has a sister and brother-n-law who are quintessential parents. They raised the three great kids. Their oldest child, a boy, is in his 30s, married to the perfect wife, with three beautiful kids. He is the most responsibility young man I have ever met – and, being a former professor and advisor to hundreds, perhaps thousands of young people, that is saying a lot. Their middle child, a gorgeous girl, is married to the embodiment of responsibility, an accountant who is probably making contributions to his 501K and planning out his retirement now even though he is in his early 30s. The third child, also a girl, is Little Cutie. Her boyfriend and future husband would be a finalist in the best kid ever should there ever be such a contest. I sometimes wonder if the sister and brother-in-law know how lucky they are? I love my kids. They are wonderful people. But, they are not in the same ilk as the kids of the sister and brother-n-law. My kids are renegades. My dear son, a truly wonderful boy, is gifted and cursed by music. He can play anything. He abandoned the United States six years ago, opting for life in Prague, Czech Republic. He plays music there. Lots of music. Jazz and rock. He composes and experiments. I garnered from information from other sources that he has a girlfriend, although he has never told me about her. I doubt I will ever see him again in the US. If I want to see my grandkids, I will have to fly to Prague. My little girl, now 25, graduated from MU last December. Smart as a whip. Waiting tables at beer joints in Columbia. She is the combination of brains and beauty. The bottom line is that I sired independent children. Both are creative, fiercely self-contained, and tradition rejectionists. Yet, I love them beyond comprehension, as only a father could. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have the sister and brother-in-law children. I am not sure I would know how to deal with ideal children. My kids are exactly as they were raised. Perhaps, they are exactly like their parents. Sometimes I would like to sit down and split a bottle of wine and share a conversation with my kids but I realize that is not likely to happen. Neither has visited me here since the last time I paid for them to visit – a little over two years ago. The boy is not coming home from Europe anytime soon and the girl is talking about traveling internationally, not a word of coming to Alabama. I have learned some lessons from watching the wildlife here on the farm. As a rule, off-springs are expected to leave and live independently. Animals don’t seem to invest their relationships with as much sentiment as humans do. A friend told me recently about walking upon a fawn, laying in the grass, all alone. He went on to tell me that in deer culture, parents will often leave the fawn alone for long periods. I didn’t know that. But, it makes sense. Humans probably don’t do that enough, leave their off-springs alone. Rather, we hover and, in the end, wreck our kids future. I tried to avoid that and am now paying the price for raising two free-thinkers. So, I guess you pick your poison as a parent. Either you are a footnote in their lives or remain the flagpole around which they rally. The sister and brother-in-law have a great life with their kids constantly visiting and never really leaving while I, also, have a great life with kids who might remember my birthday but are not bothered by such artificial constructs as Fathers’ Day.

Talking

The news media is making quite a fuss about it being summer. It is July. It is hot. It is humid. This is Alabama. The real news story would be snow drifts in Birmingham, ice storms in Montgomery, or polar bears coming ashore in Mobile. I’d buy a paper to read about such stuff. At least we can take some comfort in the fact that the media actually got this one right. Hot and humid. Good. Now, just try to avoid editorializing about it.

I was thinking today that environmental conditions affect behavior. Specifically, it occurred to me that one’s desire and ability to talk is tied to heat and humidity. I’ve noticed that when it is blue blazes hot and sauna-soaking humid, I do not want to talk. The effort is too exhausting. My mind is too hazy to properly form words and thoughts. Nor am I listening in such conditions. Likewise, in frigid conditions, who wants to engage in a conversation? As a service, here is a simple guide to knowing when to open your trap and when to clam up.

Clearly, temperatures 95+ with humidity anywhere above 50% are dangerous conversation conditions. Avoid all discussions. Never attempt to respond to a question. There is no telling what you might say or to what you might commit yourself. The best strategy is to fill a cooler with ice and beer, find a big shade tree, and hide out until the sweat stops soaking your underwear. Above all, remain silent.

Limited conversation is recommended when temperatures range from 87 to 94 degrees and humidity is high. Restrict all conversations to grunts and groans. Refrain from asking any questions that might demand extended listening and occasional coherent responses. For instance, NEVER ask, “Honey, what if we paint the living room red?” Should you be forced into conversation, remember to slow down your words. Add extra syllables and let your tongue roll fat and lazy. By following this procedure, you might be able to avoid breaking into a pouring sweat.

Regular conversation is possible when temperatures are 65 to 86 assuming the humidity is reasonable. Chit-chat, talks, discussions, robust debates, even jokes (as long as they do not contain the “F” word) are all theoretically possible. However, caution should be exercised when engaging in any conversation. Good weather will not save you should you be confronted with truth or pinned down on where-were-you-last-night-while-I-waited-on-your-sorry-ass-with-the-dinner-sitting-on-the-table-and-I-called-your-office-for-three-hours-and-when-are-you-going-to-mow-the-damn-grass-and-clean-out-the-extra-bedroom-because-Mother-is-moving-in. Live ammo drills – calling one of those 900 numbers advertised on late night television or talking to a cab driver – can prepare you for the verbal gymnastics when a real live person approaches you with words on his/her lips. Remain calm and soak up the moderate temperature and the comfortable humidity. Practice will turn your into a regular magpie.

Adverse temperatures, those 64 degrees or lower, are not conducive to conversation. Nothing life-affirming could possible come from a conversation in which your brain is near freezing. If forced into a verbal exchange in such conditions, seek immediate assistance of Scotch or similar medicinal application prior to uttering any responses. Frigid conditions will mask any slurring since those with whom you are engaged in conversation will assume you are shivering. It is a scientific fact, or at least it should be, that societies in cold climates have fewer words in their languages. Further, some even practice silence except when the commercials are playing.

Having suffered through dozens, perhaps hundreds, of conversations in my life, I am keenly aware how taxing and potentially dangerous talking can be. One misplaced word, an attack of honesty, or an unintentional misidentification can lead to pure misery. Few good things come from unscripted conversation. Unthinkingly, you can wind up buying a used 87 Plymouth Duster, or find yourself being fitted for a kayak for that whitewater trip you said you would attend, or picking up the check at a fancy restaurant for your reprobate brother-in-law and his chicken-faced wife.

Since conversation will continue to plague modern life until that day soon when all of our thoughts are beamed to I-phones then transmitted to every person you have ever friended, the best strategy is to check the weather before you open your mouth. Your fate is written in the stars.

House Plans

Dr. Mingus has departed. It was a great visit. We talked and laughed well into the night, then did a little touring of Alabama. As if scheduled, the heat and humidity were sky high. I would say that his first visit to the Heart of Dixie went well. He got a taste of living in paradise and seemed to enjoy eating freshly picked and prepared vegetables out of the garden.

With Mingus the focus of my attention, I paid scant mind to anything around the place. The chickens are clucking for notice, the survivor duck is parading around the house demanding his afternoon snack, and Daisy is whining because I have not taken her swimming in the lake. After the good doctor left, I took care of those things I had let slip, even giving Daisy an extra half hour in the lake. I did manage to make sure that The Old Goat got his supper Monday and today. He enjoyed the banana pudding. Tomorrow everything here will be back to normal. The grass will get mowed, the weeds in the garden will receive Last Rites and swift execution, and the house will get a good cleaning. All of those chores are a small price to pay for such a good visit.

This house has been on my mind lately and I gained much from discussing the place’s possibilities with Dr. Mingus. He has lots of good ideas and keen insights on building and remodeling. By the time he left, he had given me a number of appealing alternatives for making this dump more livable. For instance, this is a square house. What better ways to open it up than to, first, build a veranda around the entire house, and second, raise the roof? Both ideas are exciting. I liked his idea of an outdoor canning kitchen and thought his suggestion to take down the unused chimney was practical and good way of freeing up space in the kitchen. The boy knows building and is a top-notch thinker. Armed with such sound advice, it is time to make some changes.

Naturally, we talked about Iraq. In the end, we agreed that Iraq is, well, complicated. But, the sweeping events of the Arab Spring clearly changed the calculus in the Middle East. I am more convinced than ever that the democratization begun in Iraq is a major contributor to the striking events unfolding in Syria, Libya and Yemen. As imperfect as Iraq is, she is the first olive out of the bottle. Walter Gonce taught me that lesson many years ago. Walter was a banker in one of the city’s I managed. We worked together in economic development projects. When I got dispirited by our lack of initial success, Walter would assure me that the first olive out of the bottle is the hardest. After it pops out, though, the rest are easy. He was right about attracting new employers. I think his observation is right when applied to the changes in the Arab world.

Every time I think of Walter (who departed this life several years ago, bless his soul), I am reminded of a story he told me about his first job. He was in charge of repossessing farm equipment for a bank. He was tasked to repo a piece of equipment from a farmer in western Kansas. Walter said he drove half a day to get to the general area of the farmer. At one point he was lost and stopped to ask if anybody knew the particular farmer he sought. A guy at a crossroads store said it was easy to get to the fellow’s place. Just go north and turn at the first road to the left. Then, go to the first tree you see, turn right, and the man’s place is on the right. Walter said he drove another day and a half before he found that damn tree.

Mingus

Good friend and Iraq teammate, Dr. Mingus, is coming for a visit. He lives in the far reaches of heathen country (Michigan) but was lucky enough to have a conference that brought him South. None of us in Iraq were ever sure if Mingus had a first name. I think it actually may be “Doctor”. Ol’ Kev and I used to mimic Seinfeld when he discovered that his obnoxious neighbor, Newman, was up to no good. We’d realize that something was afoul and automatically clinch our fists and rue the name, “Mingus”. Far from being a fly in the ointment, Mingus was a valuable addition to our team and did a very good job. The rascal could put together the best powerpoints in our group. He will be the first of my Iraq buddies to visit me. Kev might eventually pay a visit to Welch. I doubt if Dennis will. Or, JR or Danny or Jerry. Alabama is a little off their paths. In honor of Mingus’ visit, I picked and shelled purple-hull peas this morning. Picked a mess of squash and some pretty tomatoes. Thought I would make a pone of cornbread. And, I have the wild idea of making a banana pudding for dessert. On Monday, we are driving down to Montgomery to catch a Biscuits’ game. He has to leave very early on Tuesday morning. I cleaned the house and changed the sheets. Used half a gallon of Pine-Sol in hopes of getting the cigarette smoke and dog smell out of the house. While I was in Joplin last week, Tinker and his girlfriend stayed here. Both smoke and she has two indoor dogs. Mingus is a clean freak and will probably opt to sleep in my truck rather than in the house. I tried to warn him that my life is pretty simple here. Of course, it was in Iraq, too. But, nobody is firing rockets at me here which makes Welch a bit more casual and relaxed.

I have been fortunate to have had met some very good people in my life. But, I tend to practice minimalism in my private life just I do in my material one. I have let too many good friends go. It is a case of being entirely my fault. I write Christmas cards every year but that is a tacit admission that I do not do the things necessary to keep a friendship alive. To my recollection, I do not have any boyhood friends, no college friends, no grad school friends, a slim few Missouri friends, and a few Iraq friends that, because of my neglect, are hanging by a thread. I do have a couple of friends from my days as a city manager. I am determined to hang on to them. Just as I am determined to hang on to Mingus and Kev and the others from Iraq. Like a garden, a friendship has to be tended. Don’t expect to enjoy the fruits without the sweat to grow them.