Homecoming

Tomorrow I am flying out to Tulsa for the opening night of the Tulsa Opera’s production of La Traviata. My plan is to pick up Witchwoman and enjoy all that Tulsa has to offer. Before heading off though I tried to do my civic duty. I met today with my reverential uncle, his delightful wife, Judy, and Jim about the political forum I am moderating on 19 October. It was fun. The discussion around the lunch table today got sidetracked when Judy mentioned the Ku Klux Klan. It seems that one of the candidates who will be participating in the forum is the grandson of an Imperial Lizard (Wizard) of the Klan. In the context in which it came up, it seems like we were discussing ancient history. The Klan? Surely, the Klan belonged to a different era? The disturbing question lingered after lunch . As my lovely aunt reminded me, though, this is Alabama.

My alma mater. Handley High School, is 6-0. I took The Old Goat to the homecoming game last Friday night. What strikes me is the racial harmony that exists when the issue is football. I m not convinced that it carries over to other areas of social interaction. We were seated in an area of the stadium that accommodated general admission tickets. The crowd was mixed, black and white. But everybody seemed to express the same Handley spirit. My senior year at Handley was the year that the courts ruled that we had to integrate the former Randolph County Training School into Handley. Obviously, RCTS was the black school. Most of the seniors at RCTS dropped out rather than join us at HHS. A few came over. One was a very attractive girl for whom I fell. At our graduation dance, I fulfilled a high school boy’s dream of dancing with her, close and personal. The chaperone, Spud Krissler, came up to me and told me that it was time for me to leave. That ended my time at Handley High School. I have not looked back since.

More Plurals

All the talk of plurals the other day got me thinking about plurals for human groups. Failing to find a good catalogue of them, I thought that I would offer some of my own.

A single painter is fine but a brush of painters is always better. But, we should not overlook a crack of plumbers, a board of carpenters, and a wall of bricklayers.

Who can resist a pot of chefs or a swish of florists?

If you have ever been around a farmer then you know that when you get several together what you have is a subsidy of farmers.

I was once a part of a lecture of professors. But, not anymore. Now I would like to be a part of a neurosis of novelists. Most of us wanted to be part of a blast of astronauts when we were kids.

Most of us deal with a nightmare of in-laws at some point.

Professionally, there is a fret of guitarists, a buzz of barbers, a deal of realtors, a collection of preachers, and a treatment of nurses.

Then there is an investigation of defense contractors, a campaign of politicians, a profit of bankers, a lemon of car dealers, an intoxication of drunks, and an indictment of lawyers.

Fresh Wind

I am on the bone pile for the job in Chattanooga. It is maddening not to even make the interview round. It is maddening and humbling and hurtful. I wonder if I will ever work again. If I were asked to write the perfect job description for me, it would be the job in Chattanooga. Well, shucks! During a particularly painful family dinner on Sunday, a nephew gave me a job announcement for the executive director of the Lagrange Symphony Orchestra. What? I thought about it and did two things today: first, I bought a season ticket to the LSO; and, second, I hand delivered an application packet this afternoon. Now the question is, do I really want to do this? The simple answer is, I don’t know. What I do know is that I see the balance in my banking accounts declining and there is no income. Maybe I don’t recognize retirement when I see it and if this is it, I don’t like it.

I feel a “fresh wind blowing against the empire” as Grace Slick sang. I know in my bones that I am not done. It may turn out that I am exactly what the Lagrange Symphony needs. Or, there is something I have yet to identify waiting for me. I have prayed earnestly for meaning and I have no doubt that something will appear. I just have to have patience. I do believe, as the Baptists, that you have to put wings to your prayers. It is not enough to just pray. You have to take responsibility and do something. I honestly believe that God will ask, what did you do for yourself? I don’t want to be the one who says, “I waited on you.”

Plurals

Ever have something that is generally useless, even mundane, but genuinely entertains you? Here is one that entertains me – plurals of animals. Here are some of my favorites.

A colony of ants is not surprising but a shrewdness of apes is. A pace of asses must be somehow related to a congress of baboons. A cete of badgers sounds Greek to me. Alabama anglers long for a shoal of bass while hunters in other regions seek out a sleuth of bears. A colony of beavers make sense but you have to wonder who came up with a grist of bees, a volery of birds, and a troop of bison. I am not familiar with a sounder of boars but know a bit about an army of caterpillars, a rain of cats and dogs, a peep of chickens, and a bed of clams. What fun! There is a rag of colts, a flink of cows, a siege of cranes, an orchestra of crickets, and a murder of crows. Imagine, a rag, a siege, a murder and what is a flink? I like a dole of doves, a brace of ducks, and a knot of eels. Who could not like a convocation of eagles? How regal does that sound? For the pure imagery of plurals, consider a parade of elephants, a gang of elks, a cast of falcons, a business of ferrets. I have never been around ferrets but I gather they are busy little critters. I like a charm of finches, a leash of foxes, and a cloud of gnats (not that I like a cloud of gnats but I do like the words). There is a tribe of goats (that must smell awful!), a band of gorillas, a cluster of grasshoppers, and a kettle of hawks. Some plurals are downright perplexing. How do you come up with a prickle of hedgehogs or a drift of hogs, a harras of horses, a husk of jack rabbits, a smack of jellyfish, or a mob of kangaroos? Some make sense, though, such as a cry of hounds, a hover of hummingbirds, an exaltation of larks, and leap of leopards. Everybody knows about a pride of lions but few have heard of a tiding of magpies, a sort of mallards, a stud of mares, a richness of martens, or a labor of moles. It wasn’t until I got interested in plurals that I learned of a barren of mules, a watch of nightingales, a parliament of owls, a yoke of oxen, a company of parrots, a ostentation of peacocks (although that seems reasonable). How poetic is a bouquet of pheasants, a congregation of plovers, an aurora of polar bears, a bevy of quails, or a conspiracy of raven?. Some plurals are so descriptive that they leap to your mind when you see more multiples – a crash of rhinoceroses, a harem of seals, a stench of skunks, a cornucopia of slugs, a slither of snakes, and a murmuration of starlings. And, finally, to close this out, consider the pure beauty of a ballet of swans.

Motorized Gift

My dear brother gave me an early gift in observation of my sexagenary. You have to know that Tinker has a motor fetish. His idea is that if something can be motorized, it can be improved. If he had his way about it, he would have motorized brow moppers for the chronically worried. He would put motors on his chickens if he thought it might improve egg production. His fascination does not extend to electronics. The cyberworld is a black hole to him and that includes cell phones and email and Google. But, he trusts motors. Pistons, alternators, belts, gaskets, the stuff of an industrialized America give him confidence and the sense of accomplishing more than a man could hope without help. The gift Tinker gave me is a Black & Decker Alligator. It is a combination chain saw and limb loppers. It is a heck of a tool. I unveiled it today in an early engagement with the Privet. True to its billing, the Alligator went through Privet like a rich Republican at an aged widow’s foreclosure sale; or, a feeling Democrat at a cocktail fundraiser for iceberg-deprived polar bears. Here are a couple of pictures of the Alligator.





It is a dandy. It does exactly as Tinker expected. It makes easier work of Privet eradication. But, therein is the reason that I don’t want to use it often. Making easy work of brush clearing is not an objective for me. More, it is not even desired. These few acres are my gymnasium. It has been years since I have worked as hard as I have since taking up the sword against the Privet. I have not perspired as much or drank as much water – I emphasize, water – since playing football in high school. The result is that I have added a little muscle to my aging frame, rendered some lard off my fat ass, and have the clinical evidence of improved health. I do appreciate Tinker’s gift. I will absolutely use it, especially when he is around. But the gift is in the effort.

Hard Lesson

I received a hard lesson from Mother Nature today. Before heading off to Bob from Coffeyville’s wedding, I cut and put the sunflower heads into a five gallon bucket. Knowing that I would not have time to shell them for their seeds, I put the bucket in the washhouse to keep it out of the elements. Today, I settled in to shell the seeds from the flowers. To my disappointment, the week spent in a bucket in a dark washhouse produced sunflowers that were molded and rotting. Instead of the two gallons of seeds I expected from my little crop, I managed to pick out about a quart of seeds. Good thing I am not relying on the sunflowers for survival. What irritates me is that I knew better. I knew that the flowers had to dry but I cut corners and Nature smacked me upside the head. It was richly deserved.

I just finished Tony Shadid’s Night Draws Near. He is the best writer I have read on Iraq. This book is all about lives of everyday Iraqis. It is chilling. I knew these people. Tony begins a story and I inevitably finish it for him. I do not remember ever meeting an Iraqi that did not have a story of personal loss. I remember the chairman of the Taji Qada council pleading with me to help him find his brother who disappeared in 2006. Try as I did, I never found him. It was the cloud under which Lazem Abbass operated on a daily basis. I cannot imagine what it would be like to wake up every day wondering if my brother was alive and, if so, where he was. Estimates are that over 100,000 Iraqis died between 2003 and now for reasons directly tied to the war. The overwhelming majority of them were innocents. Blown up by an explosion in a market or by truck bombs guided toward some public building. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time is deadly in Baghdad. I remember the Abu Graib Qada council not having a quorum for months because of the fear of assassination. Tell me the last time a city councilmember in your town feared for his/her life by attending a meeting.

A couple of my academic buddies are upset with me for my post regarding my version of President Obama’s speech on Iraq. It breaks my heart to disappoint my buds. But, to have written anything different would have been to pander. I like President Obama. I think he is over his head and lacks the maturity and sobriety to be president but I like his idealism. I am absolutely convinced that he is clueless regarding Iraq and Afghanistan, just as I am convinced that most Americans are unaware of the threat posed by radical Islam. Regardless, I am not writing a polemic. I am just writing. Enjoy the stuff I write that agrees with your world view and dismiss that which does not. Far be it from me to try to convince anybody of anything.

Autumn's Here

Autumn arrived a few minutes ago. The steady and depressing descent into winter begins. In anticipation, I stocked up on Vitamin D. A friend of mine told me that it helps with Seasonal Affective Disorder, SAD for short. It plagues me. Every year about this time, I can feel it start. I withdraw. By mid-winter, I am sullen, depressed and desperate. My friend went on to advise that in addition to taking Vit D, I need to eat right, drink less, and get plenty of exercise. This is the year that I beat SAD. I have a sufficient supply of flannel shirts and long underwear for outdoor activities. I’ve told the guy who owns the liquor store where I shop not to be offended if I make fewer visits until spring. There is plenty of privet to be prosecuted. And, I have flexibility. That is important since I might need an emergency trip or two to the beach. If you note that I am slipping under the surface, it will not hurt my feelings if you shout an email at me. Now, I know SAD is a made-to-order Oprah disease. And, trust me, I am embarrassed that I have it. My original plan was to move to the Gulf for a couple of months this winter. That would be easy since I have the Airstream. But, honestly, like I am moving to the beach for two months on account of my mental condition, leaving The Old Goat and Tinker here to take care of the place and each other. How selfish is that? If I had a real job that required me to move, that would be different. Moving because I am depressed is just too silly to admit. This is the winter that I sail through, chin up, jackass-eating-briars grin on my face, and content with where and whom I am. Now, if you will excuse me, I am popping a handful of Vit D then doing a few dozen push-ups.

Return from the Midwest

I arrived home this afternoon after a week in the Midwest. Bob from Coffeyville married Sweet Melissa.. As weddings go, this was strictly top drawer. I was happy to have been invited. Along the way, I got a chance to spend a little time with my little girl – she’s attending the University of Missouri. Great to see her. She seems genuinely happy and is doing well in her classes. She finishes in December. After that, who knows? Show me a man who isn’t wrapped around his daughter’s finger and you’ll have one miserable guy. I admit it. She’s been the light in my life since the moment she was born. (I’ll never forget in the delivery room, some misguided nurse gave my daughter the once over and announced she was an 8, on a 9 scale. I objected vociferously. She’s perfect! )

Spent some time with Big Boy and Queen Bee. Big Boy and I plotted a golf adventure that was sniffed out and crushed in seconds by QB. Guess we will have to play it legitimately.

I buzzed around WitchWoman so much that she took to swatting me.

I did not, however, have enough time to do all that I planned. I missed seeing a couple of my former students who remain dear to me. I did not visit the academic department where I spent my career. Shucks. It just slipped my mind. I did, however, visit with the guy who the president of the university when it was for real. It was a great pleasure to talk and laugh with a fellow for whom I have deep respect.

Otherwise, it was an indulgent week with spirits flowing freely, all sorts of back-slapping, and outrageous lying the order of the day.

Before leaving, Tinker and I worked out the details of me taking care of the livestock while he enjoys a few days of R&R on the Gulf. The place is under my wing until Friday.

Fact is, I am back. Privet, beware. Hostilities commence early Wednesday morning.

Pix of Wild Ass Acres

The weather was beautiful last evening. With such ideal conditions, I took a few photos to share with you. Almost none of the land was open and clear of undergrowth in May when I got busy. I can see some progress.

Cooler Weather

A dry cold front moved through the South and it was a welcomed break from the heat and humidity to which we are so accustomed. I battled in the Privet Wars last Friday without soaking my t-shirt and overalls. And, the temperatures at night made sleeping a sheer delight. I turned off the air conditioner in the Airstream and enjoyed the 58 degree coolness. The only problem is, of course, this means that winter cannot be far behind. I am a warm weather guy. My tentative plan is to drag the Airstream down to Gulf Shores at about 3 pm on Christmas Day and staying there until it is safe -- probably mid-February or early March.

The Old Goat was all exercised today. He gat his car tag renewal in the mail and was sleepless until it was paid. Some might call him anal retentive, me included. No problems, though, because I had him at the Chambers County Courthouse at five minutes till 8 this morning. He likes being first in line. We paid our for our tag renewals then I treated him to a Starbucks coffee over in LaGrange.

The Bishop is visiting Barney's Church and Bar this Sunday. The crowd is expected to be 35, maybe even 40. I offered to assist in the preparations for the annual visit. A sweet matriarch of the parish patted my arm and said, "well, dear, thank you but the women have it well in hand." I can just imagine my daughter hearing that. Which is why neither of my kids are communing with the Anglicans. By my estimate, the Episcopal Church in America will cease to exist in about 2040. There is no youth to speak of. That is really too bad because we are the good guys. We are the ones who take Jesus at his word to love your neighbor, even is he is gay or she is a lesbian. We get a little carried away when we are confronted by Scripture about lilies of the field. Last week the Lectionary had a passage from Luke about in order to be a disciple you had to give away all your possessions. Episcopalians skip over those Sundays. We are far better at writing checks than checking on rights.

The Privet Wars continue unabated. Major fighting was reported in the area of Sharp Turn with heavy casualties on the Privet side. The only injuries reported on the side of truth, beauty and justice side were minor scrapes. From field reports, there are piles of privet chips littering the battlefield.

I will be a foreign correspondent next week. Bob from Coffeyville is getting married. I am attending the wedding, something I am loathed to do but am, strangely, excited about in this case. Nice guy marrying a nice girl. I still like my idea of term-limited marriages. The idea is to marry young. Breed immediately. When the kids are gone, you are freed from the obligation in order that you can pursue your real life. The women I know don't seem to share my enthusiasm for the idea.

And, finally, Tinker has not been feeling well these last few days. It concerns me but he is in the same mold as The Old Goat, stubborn. We were going to plant the winter garden yesterday but he slept the entire day away. It worries me. Keep him in your thoughts, if you would.

Chipping Privet

It has been a good week for forces of truth, justice, and the American Way in the Privet Wars. We had decisive victories at Sharp Turn, Pine Crest, and Garden Spot. The chipper has been a valuable weapon on our side. There are piles of chips now ready for use as mulch around the place. Prior to pressing it into service, I just piled the fallen and waited to burn it at some time in the future. In doing so, I felt the job was not quite over. The chipper gives you instant gratification and definitive results. The best kind of privet is chipped privet.

I took my camera along this morning to give you an idea of the difference it makes to eradicate the nasty bush. The shots are taken during the mop up phase of the Battle at Garden Spot. After removing most of the enemy from the area, there were a few stragglers hanging on at the margins. In the first picture, here is the enemy, the despicable privet. Doesn’t look notorious, does it? Don’t be fooled. This rascal is about 12’ tall and has roots that spawn new privet in every direction. Each trunk is 2-3” in circumference. I have encountered privet with trunks as large as 15-18”. The problem privet poses is that it drapes over lower growing vegetation and deprives light. Hence, an invasive species that is destructive to natives.



After a little work and some hand-to-hand, the privet is gone. Lo and behold, what is this? A black cherry tree managed to survive the suffocating privet. This one was a joyful surprise. The black cherry is a native. This one has a nice shape and is about 8’ tall. In the spring it has little white flowers. In summer, it produces bitter cherries. According to my tree book, this species was one of the first New World trees transplanted to England, in 1629. The third picture is a close-up of the black cherry. That discovery justified the effort required to remove the privet.





When the dust settles, here is result – a big pile of chips. The chipper makes the job considerably easier. Plus, I like the instant justice that can be delivered on the spot. Psychologically, I like to chip the fallen in full view of the remaining privet, just so they know that I am serious and their fate will soon follow suit. I probably should not be laughing hideously as I stuff the privet in the chipper. I just can’t help myself.

The President's Speech

Here is the speech I would have liked for the President to have delivered last night.

Good evening.

I am happy to tell you this evening that America’s combat involvement in Iraq is over. This is good news and my inclination is to take credit for ending the war but too many of you remember my previous comments on the conduct of the conflict. I can tell you now that I had my head up my ass on Iraq. I was for cutting and running ever since the war’s poll numbers dropped below 50% approval. The moment the war was out of fashion, I was in the vanguard calling for our surrender. If you think about it, though, there are perfectly understandable reasons for me getting Iraq wrong.

First, what do I know about military conflict? The closest I’ve ever come to anything military is being surrounded by a phalanx of Chicago cops escorting me to a political rally. I’ve never worn the uniform nor have I ever wanted to. As my bud John Kerry says, the military is for folks who can’t get through school. I went to Harvard Law. Would you really expect me to risk that by going into the Army? But, you knew I had no military experience when you elected me.

Second, I know less about foreign policy than Joe Biden. And, what I am learning is that my idea of bringing him onto the ticket to give me some international wasta was pretty stupid on my part. The boy is a dunce. My background is community organizing in Chicago. I can’t be expected to know about Sunnis and Shias and Kurds and all that. But, you knew that I no international experience when you elected me.

Third, how was I supposed to know that the surge would work? When I said that the surge would backfire and that it would be a recruiting tool for the jihadists, boy, did I get that wrong. But, hey, I’ve never run a business, a city, a state, and certainly never a military, in my life. Say this with me, community organizer. That means that I know how to confer, to discuss, to debate. Occasionally, I’ve had to organize a group for a demonstration but that is a far cry from planning and executing a military maneuver in a shooting war. Truth is, I don’t know how to do shit. I don’t have calluses on my hands. Everything I’ve learned has been from a textbook or from my circle of friends. None of them have ever worked either. So, when asked if the surge would work, it was Bush’s policy and I was trying to take his place so, naturally, I had to say it was a disaster even though, hell, I didn’t have a clue. But, you knew that I had no experience running anything when you elected me.

Fourth, the brief period I spent in the Senate was all about running for president. I could hardly be expected to be an expert in every issue that came along. I was under enormous pressure to fend off Hillary – there’s one tough witch -- in order to get the nomination. I did get a break when the Republicans put McCain at the head of their ticket and he picked that wing-nut Palin – best two things that happened to me. The point is that with all those political machinations going on in my head, it is unfair to hold me accountable for actually knowing where I intended to lead the country. There was an election to win. It was the confluence of cosmic forces – a term-limited and unpopular opposition party president, no heir apparent, the election was up for grabs. And, I went for it. I had no choice but to criticize Bush and draw a picture of him as a moron. It worked. But, you knew that I was a political animal when you elected me.

And, fifth, who actually thought that these crazy jihadists actually believe some of the shit they espouse? I mean, who actually believes in all that religious hocus-pocus? Church is something you do on Sunday and it is good for the kids, keeps them busy. But, I am not going to live as the “lilies of the field,” or give away all I have and follow some preacher, or spend time with the homeless, the widows, and the orphans. Who has the time to do that? Nobody. It has come as a genuine surprise to me that these Islamists actually believe all that Muslim crap. Imagine believing that if you off a bunch of Christians you will be rewarded with seventy virgins. What? So, when I was shooting off my mouth about Bush’s policies inviting attacks against the United States, I was so full of shit that my eyes were brown. Little did I know that these Arab motherfuckers are crazy. Making excuses for them seem to make more sense to me at the time and it played well in the press so I was happy to mouth the words. But, you knew that I was an Islamic apologist when you elected me.

Oh, by the way, let me put to rest this bullshit about my faith. I am a Christian, just as devote, just as dedicated to the faith, as the overwhelming majority of Americans. So, shut the fuck up about Jesus.

Here we are, then, success in hand. Do you realize that I am the first president since Truman to be able to claim victory in a war? OK, that was a little cheap of me but you might want to keep that in mind in a couple of years. Me and Harry. And, did you know that Democratic presidents bring peace – Wilson, Truman, me.

We are sort of stuck in Afghanistan. I like to call it the good war. I had to fire McCrystal for pointing out my utter lack of military savvy. Patraeus is better. He is popular with the press. I have this plan to win the war in Afghanistan. I call it The Surge. My idea is to send a shitload of Army guys over there and tell them to kick ass and take names later. I expect victory in a matter of days. I have a sneaking suspicion that I might be the first double winner of the Nobel in history. If I could win it after less than a month in office, then I am an odds-on favorite to win it after bringing peace to Afghanistan.

I am on the job, presiding over the country and loving every minute of it.

Are you registered to vote? If not, call or go on-line to www.MoreHope.org and a friendly operative will assist you.

Good night, America.

The End of the War

On a day when the President will address the American people on the end of the Iraqi War – a President who denounced President Bush’s surge, a President who voted against funding the American effort in Iraq, and a President who chose as a running mate a moron who wanted to partition Iraq into three separate countries thereby guaranteeing bloodshed for a generation – yes, on this auspicious night when our President takes to the airwaves to tell us how he ended the war (turn off your bullshit meters, they will peg and probably explode in your hands), I am not thinking about Iraq. I am thinking about banana pudding. I am thinking about banana pudding because I don’t want to think about Iraq. I don’t want to think about the stupidity of American foreign policy. I am not thinking about Iraq because I am sickened when a green-horn amateur presumes to speak for a nation as if he had a clue about how to guide a military and direct a nation’s foreign policy. Banana pudding makes more sense to think about. Banana pudding, as far as I know, never killed or maimed anybody. It doesn’t explode, vaporizing a 12-year-old boy and your friend to whom he is clinging. It does not land in the wheel well of your vehicle and destroy the life of an honest, decent kid from New Jersey just trying to do his duty. And, banana pudding does not play fast and easy with facts and it does not presume that everyone has forgotten what you said and did.

The Blessed Saint Rebecca made the best banana pudding in the world. I am convinced that the reason she died when she did is because God looked around Heaven and concluded that, after tasting what his chefs offered Him, he needed a real banana pudding. And, since, BSR made it, He called her home. Called her to the Big Kitchen. Cooking for the Lord of Hosts. What a job! She made it all from scratch, except the vanilla wafers. She bought those. The key to a real banana pudding is the pudding. No packaged mixes for the Blessed Saint Rebecca. I was shocked to read Paula Deen’s recipe for banana pudding and she says up front, use a packaged pudding mix. Disgusting.

The people I left behind in Basra are being shelled routinely these days. While I was there, we experienced rocket attacks every week or so. Usually on Thursday nights. Now, it is almost daily. A convoy with one of my former team members was hit by an IED last week. No one was hurt. The bastards who shelled us were usually working for the Iranians. Couple hundred bucks to set off a couple of rockets aimed generally at the Americans. Sure. Lucky for us, no guidance systems and lousy aims. But, then, ever so often the bastards would get lucky and kill an American. I am not sure if they received bonuses for rockets that scored.

Instead of watching the President announce the end of the war tonight, I am making a banana pudding. To watch and listen would probably cause my eyeballs to pop out of my head and my ears to melt. I don’t mind political hacks jockeying an issue. It is a practiced art. I’ve seen it throughout my career, even helped hacks ride the pony myself. But, this one, when the lives of people for whom I care deeply is concerned, duplicity of this magnitude is unworthy of any occupant of the Oval Office. It would be unworthy of the Chambers County dogcatcher. If we had one.

By evening’s end, I will be feasting on a real banana pudding while the country stuffs itself with a packaged pudding mix.

Play Day

With Tinker's help, the main concentration of Privet is gone. I have spent the last week (and will spend the next several weeks) cleaning up the stragglers. Even though they are not in concentrated formations now, Privet is still a dangerous and crafty foe. They do not go to the chipper without a fight. I fought with so many of them on Wednesday that I woke up this morning with an aching back. My boss gave me the day off to recover, even filled the truck up with gas. What a guy!

I mentioned that Sambo and I went for a little hike while I visited there last week. It was a lot of fun. With that hike fresh in my mind and having checked out trails in this region earlier in the week, I decided to put foot to path and test-walk the Pinhote Trail today. Figured it would be theraputic for my back, allowing me to stretch out the sore muscles. I jumped off from the Cheaha State Park trailhead and did a south and back hike.

The trailhead at Cheaha State Park.

Wow!

It was great. Up and down the craggy Alabama mountains, with spectacular visas and impressive woodland scenes. The trail was well marked and well maintained. I was on the trail for probably three hours and encountered no other hikers. The weather was warm and I returned to my truck wringing wet but satisfied with the effort.

The Pinhote runs from Weogulfka, Alabama (a crossroads near Flagg Mountain, just south of Sylacauga) to near Blue Ridge, Georgia. I think this is right, the trail is about 300 miles but I don't remember the full distance. I think it would be grand to hike the entire thing, either a piece at a time or all at once. I guess that depends on how else one spends his time. For sure, I have found a great activity that restores my soul and balances my world. Happy trails.


What better invitation could a person have to lace up the boots and go for a walk than this first turn of the trail?

Busy Day

Busy day. Early breakfast with The Old Goat. Time on the land doing hand-to-hand combat with privet. Shower. Then off to LaGrange for coffee and some time with the Federalist Papers. Then, all hell broke loose. While checking several websites that I normally troll, I found, lo and behold, there are jobs there! Excitedly, I spent the rest of the afternoon applying. Naturally, it was all done on-line – letter of interest, curriculum vita, references, and writing samples. I applied for three jobs before dinner. I will apply for another two this evening. All total, then, I have six applications hanging – four in Montgomery, one in Chattanooga, and one in Atlanta.

Over the weekend, I accompanied my bud, Sambo, on a hike up a mountain. It wore me out. At the time, I was drenched with sweat and my legs felt like jello. But, the next day, I felt wonderful. I concluded that the strenuous exercise was good for me. Battling the privet causes me to sweat like a field hand but it does not tax my heart and lungs. So, I looked up hiking trails near to Welch. Bingo. The Pinchot Trail, 35 miles along the spine of the Appalachians a few miles north of me. So, tomorrow, instead of whacking privet, I plan to drive to the trailhead and hike for a couple of hours. The plan, then, is to do that three times each week. Sambo says we need to put the Appalachian Trail on our bucket lists. There is no way I would even consider it without a fair amount of training. Perhaps this is the start of such an ambitious undertaking.

While with Sambo, I once again enjoyed the fine cooking of The Deb. She so impresses me that for dinner tonight, I prepared a baked fish, killer salad, and baked garlic potatoes. I think The Deb would be proud. She is the best cook I know and she always gives me inspiration to eat healthy. Lots of vegetables and fruits and whole grains. The Old Goat and Tinker seem to be impressed by the new fare although you can tell that they are suffering deep fried withdrawal. Tinker and I were shopping the other day and he said that he wanted to get a box of Hamburger Helper. I shrieked. No way in hell that is going to happen. Since then, control of the dinner menu has been a bit more contentious. Tinker makes distinctions in the degree to which a food item is fried, as in, “it ain’t fried too much.” When I told him that I intended to bake the fish tonight, you could tell that part of him groaned. I guess you can take the boy out of the country but you can’t take the fat-back* out of the boy.

*If unsure the meaning of the term fat-back, ask any Southerner.

Great Town

I am in Chattanooga, looking for a job. No, that’s not honest. I am looking for a place to live. And, since I will need a job in order to live, by necessity, I am looking for a job. There is a ideal job here with my name all over it with a non-profit public interest development center. I arrived here Thursday and liked it immediately. Chattanooga is a busy city with an active and alive downtown. A number of big companies have discovered the place and are investing here – Volkswagen, Blue Cross/Blue Shield. Tennessee Valley Authority is already here. Around these anchors, the City added a dandy Aquarium, free electric shuttles downtown, to the existing Hunter Museum, Rock City, and Ruby Falls. The place has a lot going for it. The River is impressive and the folks here have made good use of it. Housing prices are a bit high, especially the lofts and townhouses clustered around the many restaurants, bars, and attractions.

Tonight I went to Nightfall, a weekly free concert series held at a park in the downtown area. The music was excellent, the beer was cold, the evening was pleasant, and the crowd was huge. I hate to estimate the size of a crowd but I think there were 3,000 to 5,000 people there. It was one big cocktail party.

I am staying at a hotel across the street with the Aquarium out the front door and the minor league baseball stadium out the back. To the right is a micro-brewery (I recommend the Southern Flyer Lager). To the left is Ben & Jerry’s. Roanoke, and certainly not Welch, has none of these things. Worse, they don’t have any interest in such things.

I’ve submitted all the paperwork in application for this ideal job. The deadline is Monday. If this doesn’t work out, perhaps the Wal-Mart here is hiring greeters. I can actually say hello to people in a several languages. Those kind of qualifications are the result of years of education.

Differences

There are a number of things that I do that give The Old Goat heartburn. And, there are things that he does that cause me to wonder if he and I are of the same genetic material. None of this is new. It has been this way all of my life. Now that he and I are of a more mature age, we’ve moved to a deferential acceptance of the other. He is not going to change and neither am I. In that way, we are both stubborn.

Dad likes Hee-Haw. Every Saturday night he watches re-runs of the show on RFD-TV. It never ceases to amaze me how a grown person could sit through an hour of such non-sense. But, he likes it. He laughs even though he has seen each episode a number of times. He likes the music and the corn.

I like opera. My Dad thinks it is noise, and unpleasant at that. He usually says something to the effect, “how can you stand all that screaming?” when he visits and I am listening to a Verdi or Puccini piece.

The Old Goat loves flea markets. He was telling me about the guy at the flea market who was selling a Stradivarius violin. I mentioned to Dad that every known Stradivarius has been accounted for but the fact does little to dissuade him. The guy at the flea market wants $2,000 for his treasure. The Old Goat is mulling it over. A few years ago, a genuine Stradivarius sold for $3.5 million. I think the one at the flea market might be a fake.

I like golf. I am a bogey golfer. My abilities are measured against how often I play. Regular rounds produce lower scores. My Dad can’t figure out why anybody would chase a little white ball around a pasture. According to him, he played once but did not care for it. Yeah, right.

Dad likes buffets. A good buffet has nothing to do with flavor or taste. It is all about how much can be piled on the plate and how little it cost. His favorite buffet was in Branson where he and The Blessed Saint Rebecca pigged out at Starvin’ Marvin’s for $2.98 each. He still speaks of it with lip-smacking fondness. To me, buffets are slopping the hogs. Just dump it in the trough and stand back.

I am a reader. Started early and continues to be one of my favorite things to do. But, it is more than a pastime. Reading is fundamental to learning and growing. Dad figures there is no reason to read when you can just as easily watch it on TV. As a kid, I set up a “reading room” in the wash-house. It was the place where I could escape Hee-Haw and discussions of treasures discovered at the flea market.

It is easier to have these differences with The Old Goat now than when I was a teen living under his roof. Now, if I don’t want to watch re-runs of the Porter Waggoner Show, I head for my place and put on some Bizet, Delibes or Offenbach. That way, Dad and I can pity the other for what he is missing.

SWM Seeking Clarity

I am just as confused as ever.

First, the local utility serving Welch informed me that it would cost me $6,600 to run electricity to my land and, further, that I am responsible for obtaining the rights-of-way from my neighbors whose properties are crossed by the line. The property on the immediate west of me is soon to be ready saw timber. In order to get an easement for my electrical line, I would have to “buy” that timber, a strip of land thirty feet wide and about 500 feet long. I have idea what the remaining few hundred feet of easement will cost since the guy who owns it is a survivalist and keeps busy stocking up for the approaching Armageddon. He would probably insist upon payment in gold coins since he does not recognize the sovereignty of the US Government or the paper script it backs as legal tender.

Second, my Dad received a call from some women in LaFayette (we pronounce it “la FET”) who inquired about how much I “was asking” for the Airstream. I didn’t know I was asking at all.

And third, I spent the last couple of weeks with friends in Texas and then Missouri/Kansas. I did not realize it but there is a pool among my buds on how long I will last in Welch. The consensus seems to be that I will relocate by Christmas.

Is the cosmos trying to tell me something? Am I just not listening?

Then, at the funeral for my friend Jim, it all became eerie. You may remember that I have this running commentary in my head about the Biblical injunction regarding the lilies of the field. It is a passage that has been at the core of my thinking for several years. In fact, I was mulling it over in light of the cost of the utilities, the marketability of the Airstream, and the office pool on my rural retreat during the opening hymn and Old Testament lesson and Psalm at Jim’s funeral. Those thoughts were tying themselves into knots when the priest read the Gospel passage Jim had selected. It was the lilies of the field. This is no accident. Now I am convinced that there is a pony somewhere under this pile of manure. I just have to keep digging to find it. Keep asking, keep wondering, keep seeking. Don’t settle for any life but root out the life. Be as completely yourself as possible, given the constraints of law and social custom. Just BE.

Jim

My friend, Jim Spradling, died on Monday. He was a good man. A lawyer, he was the Director of the Missouri Department of Revenue under Governor Bond. I didn’t know him then. We became friends as fellow Episcopalians, fellow political junkies, and fellow teachers.

As Episcopalians, Jim, Carolyn, and I survived the four years of training that is the Education for Ministry program. Every Monday evening we would meet to discuss the week’s readings and implications for our individual work in the world. You get close to somebody with whom you spend so much time. Come to find out, Jim was an ordained Methodist minister, even had a church in his younger days. He migrated to the Episcopalian faith as most people who read eventually do. And Jim was a reader. We swapped titles and reviews. He had a highly spiritual bent to his reading, far more than mine. I remember one year, Jim became fixated on the writings of Pope John Paul. I admired Jim’s genuine intellectual curiosity. He felt he could never read enough. Most are unwilling to entertain such a humbling thought.

As a political junkie, Jim almost won a seat in the State Senate. He missed by a handful of votes. He would have been a remarkable senator. Articulate, thoughtful, clever. He had all the manners of a country preacher in the frame of a Carthagian blue-blood. I was proud to write a few speeches for his campaign. I was very sorry he lost. He would have been an instant success in the Senate. Dignified, eloquent, wise. We, citizens, were the losers.

As fellow teachers, Jim was an adjunct at the university where I worked. He taught intro courses to government. What I liked about it was that I got to spend a few minutes every other day in conversation with Jim. He had a refined sense of humor and keen insights to political events and personalities that I appreciated.

Jim represented me in a couple of legal matters. He was the consummate professional. Yet, he was still my friend. And, he never let me forget it. Jim added to the quality of my life.

Jim’s was a life well lived. I am glad to have made your acquaintance. Good-bye friend.

Dog Day Break

Feeling the need to take a walkabout, I requested a couple weeks off. My employer immediately agreed and even bellied up the money for airline tickets and expenses. What a guy! Now, travel should be neither all work nor all pleasure. Variety and balance are the keys to a pleasant experience. Accordingly, I've engaged in some business and dabbled in some fun. Along the way, I've done some work on the Federalist Papers, read a couple of books (one steamy one that makes me wonder if I should be writing porn instead of politics -- some might suggest that the two are not that different), enjoyed hours of engaging and entertaining conversation, and satisfied myself that there is life outside of Welch. I am only half way through my little break and already I am thinking that I would like living in a more urban setting. It is not an intentional thought at this point; rather, it invades my thinking when I am in that setting. I don't necessarily mean Dallas, Kansas City, or Atlanta. But, Mobile, Montgomery, Birmingham, perhaps. While I am not a people lover -- I defy any humanist to fly commercially and emerge from that experience with a shred of concern for the fate of his fellow person -- I like the lifestyle that cities afford. I did, after all, train and practice as a city manager. When such thoughts hit me, I usually resort back to my gut feeling that cities are not sustainable. At some point, the doomsayers could be proven right. The only thing that will matter then is land. The question is, then, how much confidence do I have in our ability to overcome energy and environmental challenges? Again, my gut says, we are not. New light bulbs and smart cars are not going to save the planet. We have become accustomed to our lifestyles and nothing short of castrophe will make us change them. Even then, the change will be difficult. How far off is that change? And, how lucky do I feel? Given my age, I might have time to sqeeze out the last little drop of primo urban living before it ends.

Here is an example of what I started this post talking about. If you work all the time while on a break, you will miss the fun. And, vice versa. Here I have worked myself into an ecological nightmare future and, in doing so, have missed all sorts of fun I could have had. Got to keep on an even keel. The Golden Mean.

Sometimes, vacations are as difficult to manage as everyday living.

Best Job I Ever Had

For those of you worried that I might starve to death for lack of legitimate work, I am happy to report that I have landed the best job I have ever had. Get this, my employer is providing me with a hell of a benefit package -- health insurance, housing, a vehicle, and a liberal expense account. I am even provided with a travel allowance to wander where I want. My employer does not insist that I show up at a specific time. If I want to work on Saturday or Sunday, or Tuesday, it is up to me. What a job. I never wonder if a social expense will pass accounting muster. Any and every expense I incur is paid without question. If I want to order a dozen books from Amazon, no problem. If I want a case of wine, bring it in. I have never had a job as agreeable.

Now, you may ask, how you could land such a position. The answer is to work for yourself. I realized that I am fully employed working for me. I have plenty of work to do -- work ont he Federalists Papers, take care of The Old Goat and befriend Tinker. That, in itself, is a heavy workload. (Maybe I should talk to the Union about overtime).

So, for those of you who were concerned that I might go nuts without a real job, rest easy. I am fully employed. Working every day. And, I love it. It is the best job I ever had.

My Hometown

Writing about my hometown, Roanoke, is akin to drafting an obituary. To make it tougher, the expected recap of the deceased's life lacks examples of greatness. There are no towering achievements around which to build a tribute. There are a few crumbs of honest effort in the city's past but looking at the sweep of a life it is as non-descript as a Southern Plains landscape. The city's core is abandoned and boarded. The infrastructure is rusting, eroding, peeling and crumbling. Surviving residents are old, sour, and dispirited or young, lost, and hopeless. Decades of low-ball-cheap-seats-less-is-less expectations have produced exactly those results. Yard sales, flea markets, payday loans, and pawn shops are growth industries here. Even the Wal-Mart is a scaled-down version that closes at midnight. Roanoke is Blanche DuBois depending on the kindness of strangers.

I drove through town last night on the way home after dinner. Two physical things sum the picture. The first was the olfactory fact of mold. Think of the smell you sense when you open a closet in an elderly aunt's house. Unmistakably, it is decay. The second was the visual look of the place. Empty. Dead.

During my forty year absence, the Skinner Furniture building burned. It was on a prominent corner of Main Street, across from the First Baptist Church -- which, ironically, also burned but was rebuilt exactly as it had been but without the squeaking floors. From what I learned the charred ribs and bones of the Skinner Furniture buiding haunted the community to the point that the owners of the property razed the remains. On the spot where the building once stood the owners planted grass. Today, that spot is a flat, green, manicured lawn. It is pretty. The City should consider doing the same with the rest of the so-called downtown. A truly green downtown with empty land on which to build would be more of an invitation to entrepreneurs than Alabama's version of Dresden. When I was in grad school, we used to refer to this apocalyptic rememdy for challenging case studies as "D-9 therapy" as in a Catapiller D-9 bull-dozer. Crank those suckers up and let 'em rip.

Across and down the street from the Skinner Furniture building is the Martin Theater. It burned before I left Roanoke. The hulk still looms over Main Street. Next door, the old bank building was recently purchased by an aspiring revivalist lawyer with ambitions of restoration and rejuvenation. Good luck.

Is the fat lady singing for Roanoke? Worse, has she done her business, packed her rags and moved on to the next small town exhibiting a death rattle? I suspect the latter. The autopsy will show that lack of vision, weak leadership, civic deficiency, and dedication to minimalism conspired to rob the body of vitality and extinguished the future.

Rest in peace.

The Other Shoe Looms

One of my reverential uncles on my mother's side called yesterday to extend an invitation to The Old Goat, Tinker, and me to attend an inpromptu dinner party. The ostensible reason was that the other reverentiall uncle was in town for his high school class reunion. With the Simpson extravaganza last weekend and now this gathering of the Perrys, I am awash in family. I can't swing a cat without hitting somebody related to me. Not that I am complaining... too much. It is a natural consequence of moving home; family comes as part of the deal. Everybody is being exceedingly kind to me. They figure that I need a little adjustment time. That tells me that soon, the other shoe will drop. I will be sucked into family machinations and feuds. I will be expected to pick sides and circulate the latest intelligence on activities and attitudes. I dread that part. And, it is the primary reason that I am not taking the wheels off my Airstream or getting rid of the hitch on the truck. Never know when I might need to make a run for the coast or the mountains to escape a pot-luck or a fish-fry. For now, I am having a fine time and enjoying some terrific food. The wife of the younger of the reverential uncles prepared herb-roasted vegetables, layered salad, potato salad, grilled chicken. It was all delicious. I think she may have taught Paula Deen how to cook. I am willing to risk the slings and arrows of internecine familial warfare if I can continue to feast on such taste treats.

Special Offer

Here is a special offer to Welch Super Service readers. As you know, I am knee-deep in the IOW Project in which I am putting the Federalist Papers into everyday English. I have completed a number of them and would love to share them with you. But, only if you are interested. If you are, simply send me an email (Alabaaama@gmail.com) stating your interest and the email address to which you want the translated Papers to be directed. As I complete them, I will send them along to you for your reading pleasure. If you have comments, of course, I want to hear them.

Biophilians, Unite!

The famous biologist (and fellow Alabamian) Edward O. Wilson (here's a picture of him, friendly looking guy, huh?) has suggested that everyone is born with biophilia, a love a nature. Hank Thoreau and Johnny Muir, both heroes of mine, would expand that to every living thing and not limit
themselves strictly to humans. Hank would go one better by including rocks and such. He wonders if rocks have souls. I do not think that the genome project will uncover a nature gene in human DNA. I doubt if probes, physical or magnetic, will discover the “nature center” in human brains. More likely, biophilia is a reality because most of us want it to exist. I think, therefore, it is. Who among us does not think he/she has a special relationship with Nature? Further, every one of us has a place – a mountaintop, a stream side, a lake, a grove of trees – that reassures us of that fidelity.

What got me thinking about nature today was a story about the Gulf oil spill. Scientists are perplexed because they can’t find the oil. What? Can’t find millions of gallons of crude oil? I thought it was washing up on the beaches and ruining Louisiana, again. According to one story I listened to today on NPR, it could be that that the disaster about which all of us were assured had happened may not be as bad as we were lead to believe. It seems that maybe microbes are munching away on the oil and it is being broken down far faster than our dire predictions anticipated. I wonder if FEMA is funding the microbes?

Then, I was on my land, chopping down privet as fast as I can position the saw. I asked myself, is this the right thing to do, chop down these perfectly healthy trees? Think of the cleansing effect these trees have on the air. Think of global warming and how these trees help mitigate it. I actually stopped what I was doing to consider the point. What drives me to rid the land of privet is how the privet has acted so much like humans. Think of privet as the school-house bully. They refused to play nice with any of the other trees and bushes. Instead, privet wanted it all. To my way of thinking, what I am doing is dealing out some good old rural justice. If you can’t behave yourself, then you have to go.

But all of that is far-afield from biophilia. I am not sure I agree with Dr. Wilson. I think people think they love Nature when, in fact, they fear it. I am firmly in Thomas Hobbes’ camp when it comes identifying the driving force of human behavior. It sure isn’t love or charity or kindness. It is fear. Pure and simple. Imagine the terror of being dumped in the wilderness with your survival dependent upon your skills and luck. Most of us would wither at the thought. Or, on a less dramatic level, think about snakes. I used to walk cautiously on my land for fear that I might step on one of the nasty serpents. I don’t think about it much anymore but I still fear the things. I keep telling myself that the black-hearted devils serve some kind of purpose.

What I have discovered is that the more you live with Nature, the more it grows on you. I mean, you lose your fears and hesitations the more you are a part of it. Rather than there being an instinctual connection to Nature, I tend to think it is more acquired and learned. To appreciate Nature, you have to make your peace with her.

The Evolving Schedule

Slowly, imperceptive in the course of weeks and months, my life is evolving a discipline. It is unintentional but emits from a desire to matter. I suspect that deep down inside of me, and perhaps in every individual, there is a hope for limits and a desire for direction. Discipline is the key to both and stewardship of time is fundamental to discipline. None of us want the day to end without having accomplished something. An old friend of mine, Walt the Banker, advised me to ask myself if I had "earned my hundred dollars" on a daily basis. It was his way of keeping check on his level of effort.

Getting up early is a part of life in rural Alabama. As with Thomas Jefferson, I rise before the sun. The Old Goat and I have breakfast. I, then, head to my land to do battle with the privet. A few hours of genuine work and plenty of perspiration make a real difference on the property's livability.

When the body is exercised and the energy is depleted, I clean up and gather my notes, a few books, and computer and drive to Starbuck's in LaGrange. The coffee shop is my make-shift office. Settled with a medium cup of house coffee, black, I work on the translation of the Federalist Papers. It is still a hobby but yearns to be considered a mission. I tried not to set milestones but I expect myself to put one paper per day into regular English. Some days, it takes a couple of hours to work through a single article; on other days, it takes four or five hours. It all depends on the Paper's author. John Jay wrote in a stand-up style that is fairly easy to put into other words. Alexander Hamilton wrote beautifully and is a touch more challenging to rephrase. James Madison is down-right difficult. His ideas are ornately complex and convincingly elegant.

A paper translated, I head back to Welch. On the way home, I pick up items that might be necessary for dinner. Arriving home, there is usually time for a short nap before preparing supper that is now served at 6 pm.

The time after supper is devoted to reading. That usually lasts for a couple of hours until I begin dozing on the book.

The day is spent. Well, did you earn your hundred buck today? Yes, I did.

Lady Friend

The Old Goat has a lady friend. Imagine, an 85-year-old-man acting like a teenager. He visits her every afternoon. He used to visit her after dinner which is why he insisted that we dine at 4 pm. Well, Tinker and I double-teamed him to force a later hour for dinner. We now gather at 6 pm. So, from 3 pm until 5:30, he goes visiting. The lady is also in ther eighties.

I have no way of knowing how lonely The Old Goat's life must be. The Blessed Saint Rebecca was his world. When she died, unexpectedly, it is devastating. He floundered badly. But, as she used to say all the time, a man who can't take care of himself is worthless. So, Dad took care of himself. He still does. I know he must be lonely. And, I know that he must feel as if he is cheating on the Blessed Saint by seeing somebody else. He is, after all, a pretty devote guy.

Tinker and I are of different minds on this issue. I generally support him seeing this woman. Tinker thinks she is sissifying him. Making him act older and more feeble. I suspect that he is not acting feeble but is, in fact, feeble. My God, he is in his eighties. Nevertheless, we both accommodate his romance knowing that not much will come of it. If it gives The Old Goat and his lady friend pleasure, good for them. A little happiness is damn hard enough to come by in the world.

Big Weekend

The Simpson Reunion is now over. No arrests, no fights, no knifings. Yeah, I am just as surprised as you. I kept hoping for a cat-fight to break out but everybody was on their best behavior today. The Old Goat presided over the festivities with admirable sanguinity. His two sisters attended -- The Old Goat, Lola Bea, and Mattie Ruth are the only children left from John and Ola Mae, the founts of this brand of Simpsons. I did not know the overwhelming majority of the people but it did not seem to matter. Simpson women hug. So, I hugged a load of them, some more than once. (These women need to patent their hugs. It is far more than merely throwing their arms around you. No, they wrap you into themselves. Only an angel embracing you with its wings could replicate the experience. And, they smell fabulous and I have always been a sucker for a good smelling woman. In fact, the combination of incredible hugs, perfrumed skin, and a Southern accent is proven to be fatal. I had to remind myself several times that these were cousins.)

This has been, in fact, a big weekend for me. On Friday, I drove up to Atlanta to spend the night with some dear friends. We enjoyed a terrific dinner at a nice restaurant -- I had a wonderful tuna steak with a good wine -- then attended a Melissa Ethridge concert. Sad to say, I have never given Melissa Ethridge much thought. That is my loss because she put on a heck of a show. As interesting as the music was the audience. It was a lesbian happening. And they were in the mood for some hard-driving, mad lesbian music. We all got an earful. I walked away with a new-found regard for Ethridge. And, I made a mental note never to get into a fist fight with a lesbian unless I was looking to have my ass handed to me.

The weather continues to be hot and humid. No serious sign of ran for the next couple of days. We are certainly in the Dog Days. I will have to put a little water on the garden tomorrow. The tomatoes are in production overdrive. That means that tinker and I will be stewing and stocking them im the freezer this week. I am going to try my hand at pepper relish. We have more peppers than the Mexican Army could eat in a weekend. (I had better be careful; the US Justice Department could interpret that comment as ethic profiling.)

Reunion Fever

We are in serious countdown to that most dreaded event -- the Simpson family reunion. The one-day carnival is Sunday. It will feature one sideshow after another. The faces and names will whirl, the alibis and excuses will pile up hip-deep, and the lies and prevarications will fly like crows into a corn field. It is hard to imagine that we hold this extravagana without benefit of alcohol.

The Old Goat will be in his glory on Sunday. He has lived long enough to become the undisputed patriarch of the family. He is treated with considerable deference. I think he deserves it. He is, after all, the Simpson who "made" it. He got off the farm, out from under the share-cropping grind, by virtue of being drafted into the military during WWII. When he returned, he landed a steady job in the cotton mill. He married well, bought a solid house, raised two boys -- both of whom stayed out of jail -- and is now retired. He made it.

As prince of the Simpsons, The Old Goat is expected to provide a fair amount of the food for the cloud of locusts. Tinker and I discussed the preparations. We are doing a ham, some side dishes, and a dessert or two, all on Dad's behalf. I think he appreciates our meager efforts.

Naturally, the Simpsons would pick the hottest, most humid Sunday in the heart of the summer and in the Deep South on which to hold an outdoor spectacle. The mosquitoes are sharpening their beaks, the ticks are practicing close order drills, and the flies are forming up for a massive air strike. This is the jackpot. What bug could resist scantily-clad Simpson skanks, hordes of red-headed children running about in wild abandon, and mountains of fried food?

Considering that I have been absent for the last forty of these reunions, and since the family is large, it is a given that I will know practically nobody at the soiree. I have fifty-three first cousins, most of whom I would not know if they walked up and hit me with a stick. We Simpsons are a lusty and prolific lot. So eager are we to "go and multiply" that we have 15-year old mothers, 30-year-old grandmothers and 50-year-old great-grandfathers within the tribe. There are so many of us around here that it is highly likely that the Wal-Mart clerk, the fast-food server, and the guy who picked up your trash are all relatives.

I recently went to one of my uncle's for a cook-out. Got talking to a very nice looking women who appeared to be about my age. Come to find out, she is one of my first cousins. I suppose it is as Tinker one time commented, "Time to go to the reunion and pick up a date."

With all those Simpsons gathered in one place, if I were the police, I might show up with a list of unsolved crimes. Sunday could be their lucky day.

The IOW Project

Back in my one of my former lives, I taught political science at the university level. In the truest sense of egalitarianism, even full professors, a rank I actually attained, were required to teach one or two freshmen introductory classes. In my classes, I noticed that when I assigned a number of readings from the Federalist Papers, the essential bedrock collection of arguments in support of the Constitution’s ratification, few of my students learned much from the experience. They whined of the dated language, the difficult and confusion sentence structure, and the obtuse reasoning. Feeling compelled to provide them with a glimpse at the minds of Madison, Hamilton, and Jay, and assured that no student of mine should walk about the Earth unaware of the Federalist, I did the unspeakable. I “translated” a few of the Federalists Papers into modern-usage English. It seemed to help. Some in the Academy might suggest that I dummied down the Federalist. I admit it freely. Sue me. I saw it as an issue of accessibility and opted for an easy fix. OK, enough of the background. Bringing this up to today, I am still translating the Papers. I have dubbed it the “In Other Words” Project, IOW for short. My first inclination was to publish the final product but now I am doing it as a hobby. I am under no “publish or perish” dictum any longer so if I finish all eighty-five papers, fine. If I don’t, no sweat. But, think about it. I am living in a travel trailer in the backwoods of Alabama. I am lucky to get a radio signal. My sole stimulation is a conversation with The Old Goat or Tinker and that usually centers on how the tomatoes in the garden are doing or what kind of gas mileage I am getting on my Ford truck. It is not like I have such a pressing social calendar that I don’t have a little time for something purely cerebral.
Here is where you come in. I am attaching a translation of Federalist 1, written by Alex Hamilton in 1787. If you want to see the difference in the original then my doctored version, google Federalist 1 and read through it. Then, access the attached offering. I am keenly interested in your reaction. If you go through all this effort (and a thousand blessings on you and your children if you do), please send me an email giving me some feedback on the readability, the faithfulness of the translation, and your general reaction to the product. You are under no obligation and no salesman will call on you in your home.

Federalist 1 Translated
Written by Alexander Hamilton
Published in the Independent Journal on Saturday, 27 October 1787
Entitled: General Introduction

To the people of the State of New York:

The government under the Articles of Confederation is awful. It is now time to decide if we want a new constitution for the country. This is a serious issue. The decision we make could make or break the country, could insure or endanger the various state governments, and determine if the American experiment works. Americans can choose the type of government that best suits their needs or else they can have one forced on them. Now is the time for us to make that choice. If we fail in this, it will not be a loss for Americans alone but for people everywhere.

This appeal asks you to consider the nation and calls upon your patriotism. It would be ideal if we could consider the issues of the new constitution solely in terms of the principles of good government. But who are we kidding? The new constitution impacts so much of our society that it is practically impossible to discuss it without inviting examination of all sorts of issues, many of which add nothing to the core consideration of the document.

A big hurdle for the new Constitution to clear is the entrenched politicians and officeholders in every state who resist any effort to dislodge them; likewise, there are many men who hope to profit by the continued lack of a strong national government. I am not, however, directing my attention against these entrenched politicians and self-promoters. It would be unfair of me to label all politicians and opportunists as opposed to the new Constitution. Truth is that even politicians and self-interested types can support worthy causes; and many of those who oppose the Constitution will do so because they are led by jealousies and fears. Making a judgment is a complex thing. Every individual has biases. We have seen honest and smart leaders on both sides of important issues. That is the reason that each of us should exercise careful deliberation when asked to deliver a judgment. We have to be careful that leaders who advance a cause are motivated by integrity and honesty. Personal ambition, greed, petty feuds, and political party maneuvering can be found among those who support the right side of an issue as well as in those who oppose it. Be particularly careful with political parties. They have an intolerant spirit about them. In politics, as in religion, it is impossible to gain adherents by intolerance and destruction. Nor can you curb defection by torture.

We know that the fight over the new Constitution will be messy. Those opposed to the new Constitution will try to increase their numbers by the volume of their rhetoric and the bitterness of their criticisms. Those of us who support a strong national government will be held up to ridicule as tools of kings and opposed to individual liberty. Opponents of the new Constitution will claim their motivation is to protect the rights of the people. In doing so, they are pandering for support rather than advancing that which is in the public interest. Never forget that those who scream the loudest about liberty are also just as likely to be the first to deny it. A strong government is necessary to secure liberty. Those in opposition cannot separate their own personal interests from what the nation requires in order to admit this simple fact. The rhetoric about the rights of the people is a show that masks their true ambition that would be impaired by an effective government. History teaches us that liberty is secured by government, and also that the road to despotism is often blazed by individuals who began their careers as servants of the people. They started as demagogues and ended up as tyrants.

My purpose in this article is to warn you that attempts will be made to influence your decision regarding the new Constitution by using false information. Obviously you know from this article that I support the new Constitution. I have given the document a thorough examination and believe it is in your best interest to adopt it. I am convinced that the new Constitution is the best guarantee of your liberty, your dignity, and your happiness. I have no reservations about the document and the government it creates. I will not pretend to be objective about the Constitution since I have made up my mind to support it. In these articles I will lay out the reasons that lead me to recommend the new Constitution to you. By this effort, you will have a clear picture of what the new Constitution contains. I do not pretend to know it all. And my reasons for attempting this project grow from deeply held beliefs. I will lay out my arguments and then you decide. Regardless, I will write the truth.

The plan is to write a series of papers that detail the contents of the new Constitution. The papers will cover the following topics: The importance of the union to your political life; the inability of the present Articles of Confederation government to preserve the union; the need for a strong government; how the proposed new Constitution sets up a republican government; how the proposed document is similar to your state constitution; and, how the new Constitution will preserve liberty and protect property.

In the papers I will try to respond to objections that have been raised to the new Constitution. You might ask why it is necessary to justify the union since everybody embraces it? But, there are those opposed to the Constitution that would rather the union be broken into a number of smaller countries. Whispering about breaking up the union will grow louder until there are enough believers in it to make it acceptable to say it out loud. Reduced to its basic element, the argument over the Constitution could be a choice of it or the end of our union. I will, therefore, begin these papers with an examination of why the union makes sense and the dangers we would invite if we disbanded it.

So, let’s begin.

What's for Supper

The Simpson boys are swapping the cooking chores in Welch. Each of us has his own specialties. The Old Goat is a master of cheap-ass frozen pizza. Tinker enjoys the lavish Sunday dinner with all sorts of fried dishes. My niche is to introduce "new" food to the mix. This week I served up a shocking dish -- sweet and sour pork. The Old Goat and Tinker sniffed around the edges for a while beforing deciding it was worthy of tasting. The next night, I wheeled out Costa Rican black beans and chicken. It was met with the same hesitation. What saved both dishes was Left-Over Wednesday. That is the day we clean out our refrigerators of all the scraps left from meals of the previous suppers. Both the sweet and sour pork and the black beans and chicken improve after sitting in the frig for a couple of days. The Old Goat and Tinker devoured both. I have to admit that they were delicious, so much so that both are now in the culinary rotation. As a vote of confidence, I have the cooking duties for Sunday. We are really climbing out on a limb -- lasagna.

The ultimate compliment of a good dish is tthat it compared to something that the Blessed Saint Rebecca would prepare. Fact is, she was one hell of a cook. What seems inconsistent to me is that she was always trying out new recipes yet The Old Goat and Tinker balk when something different is introduced. I don't recall any of us ever picking over anything she served. To the contrary, growing up we never had Left-Over Wednesday. There were no left-overs. The food was always so tasty that it quickly disappeared at suppertime.

The Blessed Saint Rebecca's special call, though was funeral food. It was her ministry to be the provider of "food fo rthe family" after the loss of a father, mother, brother, sister, husband, wife, or child. Within hours of news of a death, the Blessed Saint would have The Old Goat drive her to the home of the departed, laden down with delicious food to sustain the grieving. She as legendary in our community for her special mission. People still talk of her Kraut Salad, her Corn and Bean Salad, her fried chicken, her au gratin potatoes, her fried pies, and especially her cakes. Once, one of her Red Velvet Cakes was auctioned off at the farmers' coop annual meeting for $50 -- a staggering amount for a cake in Welch. Ironically, when the Blessed Saint ascended to Heaven, the food for the family was primarily eaten out of a KFC bucket. Funerals in Welch have not been the same since she departed.

Wringing Wet

Hard to put into words the feel of temperatures in the mid-90s with the humidity in excess of 50%. It rained yesterday in the afternoon. After the shower, I walked outside to enjoy the freshened environs. The sun was out and the trees were dripping from the rain. I was not prepared for the sauna that was Welch. Immediately, my mind associated the experience to the time I spent an incredible weekend at the Grand Hotel Spa. It was the stream room all over.

We do have an expression that sums up the effect of an Alabama summer day -- wringing wet. As in, you walk up to The Old Goat's house and by the time you get there, you are "wringing wet." Sweat is pouring out of every pore in your body. You are comparing yourself to a fish, sucking in and expelling water. Your hair is dripping, sweat drips from your fingers, and perspiration rolls down your legs, filling your shoes.

Fearing wringing wet, we have developed strategies to avoid the misery. We slow down. Dry region residents and Yankees thak we are lazy because we do things slowly. We are not disturbed by their views since taking note of them certainly trigger wringing wet. The exception to slowing down is our driving. We speed up. And, we drive with the windows down. Using the basic physics of evaporation, we figure that the faster we drive and the more wind blows into the vehicle, the combination of heat and movement of air will yield cooling to our sweat-saoked bodies. We speak slowly. Fast talking is a heat producing activity. There is no reason to exacerbate a trying situation. We get up early and take to the shade before midday. Getting up at 4:30 am sounds exacting but the pure joy of the cool morning makes it worth the effort. By 7 am, breakfast is over, the dishes are washed, the garden is hoed, the dogs fed, and the flowers weeded. It is then time to find some shade or get under the air conditioning. Most activities will be held in abeyance until much later in the afternoon, maybe even tomorrow. To avoid wringing wet, you have to be prepared to amend plans, temper ambitions, and tamp down expectations.

A guy from the power company was by yesterday doing some work on the line. We talked for a while about the Airstream. He admired it and enjoyed his tour of the trailer. His retirment plan is to travel the country and we talked, slowly, about adventures that were to be had on the open road. As he was leaving, he asked out of his window, "Why did you come to Alabama in July? Why aren't you somewhere cool and dry?" I tried to respond to him with my reaons for settling in this sweat-lodge but felt perspiration beads breakiing on my brow, the first sign of wringing wet. Fast thinking, like fast talking, spealls trouble. We both realized that to offer to an explanation would be painful. He drove off shaking his head. I retreated to the shade.

Election Day

Elections have changed since I was a kid. That thought hit me this morning as The Old Goat, Tinker, and I drove down to Stroud to cast our ballots in the primary run-off election. As usual, we were voters #1, #2, and #3. The Old Goat likes being the first person to vote in our precinct. The elections have changed because they are less personal, less like neighbors asking for votes. The Alabama governor's race is downright embarrassing. Two bright guys seeking the nomination by hacking the other to pieces. Candidates don't get and visit anymore. They are polished cut-outs instead of real people. The Old Goat is devoted to a fellow running for county commissioner because he sat on Dad's front porch and talked about how how the weather was. Didn't matter what was discussed, the fact that the guy took the time to talk to Dad was all that it took to gain his support. That kind of personal politics are lost now. No other candidate dropped by the house.

My political maturation was greatly influenced by my Grandfather Simpson and Grandmother Perry (the Blessed Saint Rebecca's mother). In the first instance, Grandfather Simpson, who was illiterate, would save all of the cards given to him by candidates. The cards were nothing more than a business card with a picture of the candidate and some vitals on party affiliation, office sought, and the required line about appreciating your vote. On the back was either the Alabama or Auburn football schedule for the upcoming season. That, in itself, would be reason to keep the card. Don't want to lose track of the football season. Anyway, Grandfather Simpson would stack all of the cards then shuffle through them for days prior to election day. As a little boy just learning to read, I would read each card to him as he weighed the relative merits of each candidate. The candidates for whom he decided to vote he would stick on the right side of the front door jam. One election day, he would take that stack of cards to the polls, give them to the lady who conducted the voting, and she would vote his choices for him. One has to assume that she complied with his wishes but it was all a matter of trust. Election evening, I would sit with him as the results were announced. It was a personal triumph when the results agreed with his choices; it was cause for worry when the majority disagreed with him. I don't think he ever talked to an elected official in his life but he took his job as a voter very seriously.

My Grandmother Perry was a closet anarchist. She complained bitterly about the government. She went beyond cynicism. She had an abiding dislike for things political. I've thought about her animosity and have ascribed it to the Depression, the Great War (in which she lost family), then Korea (where her sons served) and the Southeast Asia experience (when her grandsons served). She was the genuine article peace-nik, no pot or LSD required. Once she was complaining about how candidates were visiting the house, asking for support. She said, "you can't even throw the dishwater out the backdoor without hitting a candidate." I think it pained her that I spent most of my life in public service.

Trees on Wild Ass Acres

I've talked about the trees on the land quite a bit so I thought I would show you some of them. The Southern Yellow Pine is the most ubiquitous. Hard to swing a wet cat without hitting one. Long-term the pines are money in the bank assuming I have the heart to chop them down and sell them. That is not a foregone conclusion.





Couple of happy discoveries include this one, maples. I've found a number of them struggling under the yoke of Privet oppression. Once freed and given access to sunlight, the maples flourish. This surprises me since I associate maples with colder climates. I am unsure of the variety but I think it is either the soft yellow or red maple. For sure, it is not the trashy silver maple that is more weed than tree. Every time I discover a maple, it is a particular pleasure to whack down its competitors and give it a leg-up on survival.





A tree that gets instant respect and protection is an oak. There are a number of varieties of oaks on the land. I have counted half a dozen so far including water oak, pin oak, white oak, red oak, and turkey oak. This one is a particular favorite of mine and will be a hallmark of Wild Ass Acres in the decades to come.





During the heat of the Privet Wars, I noticed some strange leaves fighting for air among the thick Privet. After the successful destruction of the Privet command structure and its headquarters, I found this locust defying all odds at survival among the heathens. It is a prickly little tree with sharp torns protruding from truck and limbs. The leaves are willowy things that look playful in the breeze. The tree has bean-pods that give it an exotic look. Glad to have this hearty tree in the mix.





This is a beautifully shaped poplar with large pale green leaves and a light gray bark. It is one of those trees that you build around. The plan is to remove competitors from its immediate area to allow it to spread to its full potential.


The undisputed king of the trees on the property is this grand old pecan. It is over forty feet tall and will serve the shade for afternoon cocktail parties and fall tailgates and campfires.



Often called pioneer trees, here is an example of the countless sweet gums on the land. I intend to keep a number of them. They do make a nice fall palette with oranges and reds. If I cut half of them down, I would still have too many. I've cut strategically in order to give them ample space for spreading.





Another trashy tree that I sort of like in small doses is cedar. I have kept a number of them. They usually sprout up along side another tree so they are rarely found well shaped. This one struck me as a keeper so I cleared away other competitors to give it a chance to shine.



No tour of the place would be complete without a look at the enemy. This is the notorious Privet. It is the siren of weeds. It is an attractive plant. It attracts the birds and gives wildlife cover. But, it is so aggressive that it crowds out other plants. It is in the same vein as kudzu, an invasive specie that quickly wears out Southern hospitality. As idealistic as it sounds, I am on a quest to rid the land of ALL the Privet. One plant remaining is an invitation to all of its relatives. Practically overnight Privet can own the land.



Not pictured here are the dogwoods, the serviceberries, sassafrass, hickories, and what I think to be hawthornes. Discovering these little gems is half the fun of hacking away at the place.