Keeping the Election in Perspective

Several months ago, I wrote the following stuff. I guess I just forgot to post it but I suspect that I dipped my beak in the Scotch and plain out forgot to post it. I wrote this early in this year's charade we call the election. You can tell from the events, I was not imporessed then which matches how I feel now. Reading this today makes me wonder how I became so cynical? I think I have been paying far too much attention to these morons who run the joint. They really don't deserve the attention. It only encourages them. Anyway, here is what I wrote last year (at the end of October 2011) and I haven't changed my mind, yet. Interesting day. Herman Cain is the subject of sexual harassment charges. So what. That is what I say. So what. The Hermanator and Clarance Thomas together don’t make an afternoon of Bill Clinton. Case closed. Jesus, give me a break. I feel sorry for Politico who I suspect wants to be taken seriously in the future. They can just about forget it. Pathetic.

Meanwhile, O’Bama is trying to buy off the student vote with relaxed repayment plans for federal loans. Hey, anybody notice that the unemployment rate is over 9%? Who gives a whack about student loans when so many people don’t have jobs? Mark your calendar, it is the 31st of October and I am predicting that O’Bama gets his ass kicked in the November 2012 election. He is this generation’s Jimmy Carter.

Of course, leave it to the Republicans to spoil a great prediction. No party in American history has demonstrated the ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory like the Republicans. In 2008, how could you not defeat a mediocre state senator from Illinois who didn’t (and doesn’t) know his ass from a hole in the ground? Well, the Republicans figured out a way to lose that election. What a bunch of dumb asses. They are responsible for O’Bama. And, left to their own devices, they could very well do it again in 2012.

I have studied politics all of my adult life. There has not been a point in my life when I have been as cynical of the American political system. It is so thoroughly bankrupt. I am not sure it is capable of cleansing itself. O’Bama is the end of the line. If we actually get worse than this, there is absolutely no hope.

Don’t for a moment think that I am advocating for a Republican president. The Republicans are just as worthless as the Democrats. An election in the US today is a genuine choice between two evils. Both are awful. Maybe it is time we suspend government for a while. Surely it could not be worse than what we currently endure? Think of it, a break from presidents and congresses. No crises to endure. Of course, the cable news channels will go out of business. Without the foolishness of the government, there would be little to report. The state governments can continue because they actually provide a few services. Not many, though. It used to be that the states funded agricultural extension services. Now it is a figment of your imagination. The county agent in my county is a beef agent. She doesn’t have a clue about vegetables and could not care less. If she went away for a while, I would not be adversely affected. I never see the sheriff and have chronicled here how ineffectual law enforcement has been regarding transgressions on my land. So, if the sheriff went away for a while, I doubt if I would notice. Especially since I have loaded 30-06 standing by. It may be the appropriate time for government to just go away for awhile. Enough of your non-sense, enough of your ego-centric posturing, enough of your election-year charades. The gig is simply up. You sons of bitches are out.

Time for a new boss. (Same as the old boss…we won’t get fooled again, yeah, right.). While I am in favor of democracy, I share James Madison’s fear of it. Democracy destroys itself. “Hence it is that such democracies have ever been spectacles of turbulence and contention; have ever been found incompatible with personal security or the rights of property; and, have in general been as short in their lives as they have been violent in their deaths.” [Federalist 10] We Americans have been a great experiment. It just hasn’t worked out. Our greed and our laziness got in the way. We grew tired of keeping a sharp eye on our politicians. We let the bastards get away with murder. And they have. That is how I explain O’Bama. No rational nation would elect such an amateur to its highest office. An indifferent nation would.

Bottom line: we are screwed. Regardless of how 2012 turns out.

High Pressure Farming

High pressure farming. That is what I call it. Behind in planting with rain in the forecast. Now is the time to get the seeds in the ground. Delay and it could be a week before you get back in field. So, it all comes down to getting it all done right now. High pressure farming. To complicate things, I am a slow and deliberate farmer. Not exactly a Luddite but I do like hand-work. There is no room in high pressure farming for hand-work or slow and deliberative days. I made a couple of compromises under the circumstances. I used the tractor to lay out my rows. Normally, I use a shovel. I did not go as far as planting watermelons and cantaloupes in rows; I hung on to my principles and planted them in mounds, each with a generous wreath of mulch to preserve precious moisture and ward off excessive heat. I stuck to soaking the okra seeds overnight before planting. The corn went in after soil preparation was done completely by tractor. Until I get a pump and water lines installed to bring water from the lake to the field, I am do selective watering. I discovered that by using a hand-operated bilge pump (the type used on small boats), I can half fill the water tight utility trailer I attach to the lawn tractor. It sloshes about a bit but I get to the field with most of the water still in the trailer. Once on site, I use the hand pump to fill water cans that can then provide liquid sustenance to plants in dire straits. It takes some time but is good water-saving strategy. I mulch heavily in hopes that water demands will decrease. As a general rule, mulching helps achieve that goal. Last year was dry but my tomatoes produced a bumper crop without me watering them. The mulch aided in holding on to more of the rain we did receive. Mr. Jimmy down at the liquor store told me that it is going to be another dry year. That means more mulch, continued use of the bilge pump, and hauling water with the yard tractor. Then, long term, pump water from the lake. The forecast does call for increased chances of showers. Now that I am finished with the corn, okra and melons, I am hoping we get a good rain. As a reward for holding up under High Pressure Farming conditions, I treated myself to a margarita and an Aleve for dinner.

The Original "Roll Alabama"

Long before frenzied fans bellowed for the Crimson Tide to roll, ale-swilling sailors and fellow-travelers gustily sang the sad tale of the CSS Alabama. By all accounts, the CSS Alabama was a terror of the high seas to Yankee shipping during the Civil War. The Alabama sent Union ships to Davy Jones locker from Texas to North Carolina. While in Cherbourg, France, in 1864 the Alabama was surprised by the USS Kearsage. The Alabama met a watery grave. The ship took on legendary status and was soon memorialized in song. Here is some timely art work to illustrate this post.

This is a depiction of the USS Kearsage sinking the CSS Alabama off Cherbourg, France, in 1964. I think it is an artist conception since this was a long time before CNN or FoxNews. The rest of this story is that I had never heard of the song until a friend of mine brought it to my attention. The chap was none other than Trevor Killen, once introduced to the Alabama Legislature as the ambassador of Northern Ireland. Trevor is, indeed, from Northern Ireland and a devotee of all-things Alabama. We became close friends over a bottle of Scotch while both of us were in Basra, Iraq. If I could figure out how to make the record function work on my computer, I would sing into this blasted machine and share this wonderful song with you. While planting corn today, Trevor leaped into my mind. Funny how that stuff works, huh? Trevor was part of the team that created the economic boom in Ireland several years ago. Unfortunately, poor Ireland is now falling on hard times. As a representative of the Northern Ireland governing authority, Trevor was sent on a goodwill mission to the United States. All this happened in the 1980s. He was treated well on his tour but when he got to Alabama, he fell in love. He related to me that he was treated as if he were royalty. Amazing what doors an Irish accent will open. When he got to Montgomery, he was invited to address a joint session of the Alabama Legislature. That was when he was introduced as an ambassador. What a guy! Here are the words of the song honoring the CSS Alabama. You can thank Trevor for providing them. By the way, he dictated the words of the song to me. I call that close to being a miracle since he remembered them and I was able to write them down in long hand on the back of an envelope after we polished off a terrific 12-year old bottle of Scotch. God bless the Irish. They scoff at weepy concerns of alcoholism and bravely provide guidance for a thirsty world. Trevor is one of my household heroes. Roll Alabama Roll When the Alabama's keel was laid Roll, Alabama, Roll It was laid in the yards of Jonathan Laird O roll, Alabama, roll It was laid in the yards of Jonathan Laird It was laid in the town of Birkenhead Down the Mersey way she sailed then And Liverpool fitted her with guns and men Down the Mersey way she then sailed forth To destroy the commerce of the North To Cherbourg port she sailed one day To collect her share of the prize money And many a sailor lad he met his doom When the Kearsage appeared in view A shot from the forward pivot that day Blew the Alabama's stern away Off the three mile limit in sixty-four The Alabama went to her grave Trevor, my friend, I pray that the road always rises in front of you and that the wind is always at back. When you tire of the Emeral Isle, come on home to Alabama.

The Trouble with Travel

Never fails that every time I travel to some distant spot, I fall in love with it and wonder why I am not living there. It has been that way all of my life. While I am not a big travel maven, I like seeing new places. Knowing that I fall in love with where ever I am, I have tried to keep my adventures to a minimum. No reason to invite dissatisfaction. My bud Bobby and I went to San Francisco for several days. That trip created such mental turmoil that I swore off venturing any farther than the local Wal-Mart for almost a year. I love San Francisco. And, I have absolutely no clue why I don’t pack up the truck and strike out today for that golden city on the bay. Just thinking about walking up and down those marvelous hills gives me pangs of anxiety. Why the hell am I here? I had similar adverse reactions after visiting Mexico, Costa Rica, the British Virgin Islands, practically any place in Texas, everywhere in the great Southwest, any place in the Rockies, the Smokies, the Ozarks, even Mobile and Montgomery. Now that I think about it, there are places I’ve visited I don’t want to live. I would not live in Detroit, Washington DC, Atlanta or Birmingham. All are failed cities. All of this is on my mind because I spent a week on the Gulf Coast last week. The whisper in my head asking why I was not living in Gulf Shores on Monday was a scream by Friday. And, predictably, I returned home and fell into a funk, wondering why I am still here. I went through the normal checklist of why I live in Welch. The farm. The Old Goat. Family and friends. St. Barnabas. The chickens. The dogs, cats and ducks. The peace and quiet. Ummm… If I left after lunch, I could toast a gorgeous sunset over Mobile Bay this afternoon with "that frozen concoction that helps me get through". The pull to change latitude is powerful. Ummm... Better get back on the tractor. The corn will not plant itself. Dammit.

Things Political

I am doing my best to stay away from things political. It is a difficult for me. I am a trained political scientist. PhD even. Not talking about things political is difficult for me, I hope you understand. Older I get the more I realize how much I don’t know. It is true that I spent most of my life reading books about politics and considering the grand questions but, truth is, I am no better informed of things political than any other citizen. What I have learned is that I am a single voice. I have an obligation to make that voice meaningful in direct proportion to the intent to which I want our society to be just and kind.

My faith in Jesus tells me that just and kind are things to be sought.

That leads me to the conclusion that I cannot hide my political feelings beneath a bushel. To shy away from difficult issues is to let chance decide fate. Do you truly believe that your vote is essential in an election? I do. Never doubted that how I voted mattered.

Voting means there is opinion. Since I vote, I have opinions. In several entries here I have expressed some of my opinions. Those opinions did not resonate well with some of my closest friends. Sadly, they are no longer friends. I miss them mucho. But, keeping my friends would have meant that I stay away from things political. And, while I am doing my best to do so, I am battling my responsibilities as a citizen to decide elections and make difficult selections. As a citizen, I have to make judgments. I was assailed once because I was judgmental. Well, yes, I am. I have opinions. Some of my opinions are particularly important to me. To betray them by renouncing what I truly believe is a big lie. It is dishonest. So, I had friends who would remain my friend if I would lie, betray my honest judgment of a politician or policy. Much to my regret, I sacrificed the friend.

So, what are some of those simple truths that I believe? Here is one that I expressed several times before: Obama is an amateur and should be defeated. He is a community organizer, nothing more. Here are more. Joe Biden is an idiot. Partitioning Iraq? Global tax? He is the crown prince of zany. The Tea-baggers are unguided missiles, the American version of the Taliban. George W was not the moron that the Left portrayed him. In fact, the democratization of Iraq will eventually be determined to be the root trigger for the Arab Spring. It will take a generation of Bush-hating historians to pass before the real history is written. Never trust the historians of the present. History is like bread. It has to proof before it is edible. Few, if any, in Congress deserve being reelected. Most ought to be declared hazards to the State. Chaney, if tried, would deserve the title war criminal.

There, that should be enough to convince what few friends I have left that I have lost my mind and deserve renunciation. Oddly, I feel better for admitting my citizenship with all the incumbent responsibilities. I am a citizen and I vote. I care deeply for our country. I will not permit tempered acceptance to dictate how I care for our democracy.

Some things deserve a festival

If he were not 86 years old and having difficulty remembering where he put his teeth, the Would-be Mayor of Welch would have declared today a celebration in the community. He did not but it did not interfere with the festive mood that infects my little wide-place in the road. Today marks the Return of the Bodines.

American progress has its champions: Whitney, Fulton, Edison, Ford, Jobs. Lost among such giants is that humble agricultural engineer and backwoods hobbyist, Jethro Bodine. Or, at least, that is what the folklore is around here. Perplexed by how to assist a tomato to grow upwards instead of creeping along the ground being the vine it is, some scholars might speculate that Bodine undertook rigorous examination of a variety of structures that would provide support without doing any harm to the tender tomato. After hours, maybe even minutes, of experimentation, so the story goes, Bodine happened upon using the lowly privet with which he assembled the now-famous Bodine Tomato Cage. As everyone knows, privet is the sworn enemy of all that is decent and just. Eliminating it is a virtue of the highest order. The genius of Jethro Bodine was his ability to transition beyond the mundane and view the lowly privet as a tool to serve a higher purpose. His inspiration was an instant success in Welch. Numerous neighboring farmers, possibly numbering as many as seven and certainly as many as one, threw themselves into copying the design and gaining insights into construction techniques at the foot of the master inventor. Since those halcyon days, Bodine Tomato Cages are a common sight in Welch and in the surrounding burbs.

The Return of the Bodines signifies the real coming of Spring. The Bodines are brought out of storage and strategically placed over the newly planted tomatoes. During the growing season, these clever structures will provide support for the ripening fruit. It is a day that transforms the garden from field to treasure. The day could be marked by marching bands, pretty little girls twirling batons and intoxicated fireman driving their shiney equipment through downtown Welch, assuming there were one. Perhaps someday it will. In the meantime, the absence of fireworks, fly-overs, political speeches and bar-be-que does not diminish the excitement of the Return of the Bodines to the fields. They mean warm days, ice tea under the oak tree, fishing instead of hoeing, screen doors, and fans. The Return of the Bodines is one of the best days of the year.

Feast Day for St. Rebecca

Today is the celebration of the nativity of the Blessed Saint Rebecca. She was born 82 years ago. I prayed for her soul today at Mass. When I dropped by to see The Old Goat, I detected that he was aware of the significance of the date although we did not discuss it. Still, her absence is a source of deep regret.

In November before she died in February, I woke up one morning and needed to talk to my Mom. I was living in Missouri at the time. I drove the 700 miles to sit in her kitchen and talked with her about nothing in particular. As I have indicated in previous posts, the Blessed Rebecca was an extraordinary cook. She felt her boys ought to be able to cook for themselves. I am happy to say that Tinker and I learned early about feeding ourselves. She was a sweet, sweet person. I know The Old Goat misses her. I certainly do.

I offered a prayer for her kind spirit this morning at Mass, safe in the assurance that a person of such genuine beauty is always welcomed into God's enternal busom.

You know how Irish boys are about their mothers. You can steal my truck, kick my dog, destroy my crops, kill my chickens. But, never, ever, speak ill about my mama.