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.