Bette Noir to the Romantic Heart #3 - WAR!

The Romance of War died along with General George C. Scott*. He said "Wonder weapons? By God, I don't see the wonder in them. Killing without heroics? Nothing is glorified? Nothing is reaffirmed? No heroes, no cowards, no troops, no generals. Only those who are left alive, and those who are left...dead. I'm glad I won't live to see it."

He did not. Having never been fired at, I am the least qualified to comment, but it seems to me that war is ugly and always has been. It's only saving grace, if it could be called that, is the romance that used to be attached to it. It meant something beyond the living or dying. Soldiers would not agree having been through it, but for others, at the very least, the ideals of honor, courage, and sacrifice, perhaps even the idea that the cause is worthy, was a coping mechanism we could draw on to get through the terror of a loved one coming home injured, maimed, partially alive or not alive at all. Now there is only the pushing of buttons or the pulling of a trigger in far away lands.

 

*yes I know George C. Scott is an actor and not a general. He played General George S. Patton in a very long movie. But I could not find an actual quote from Patton so I merged the two. Besides, from what I can tell, Patton, was not all that heroic in his own right. 

Bette Noir to the Romantic Heart #2 - VENGEANCE!

Comeuppance for a deed done wrong is one of those romantic notions, a Monte-Christ-ian trope, that peace can somehow be attained by yanking another's tooth after they had yanked yours. Superficially, that burn to lash out, to get back at, to inflict a mutual misery seems to provide that peace, that relief. But really, with the benefit of being fortunate enough to look back, it only serves to provide a distraction in the consuming purpose it provides.

Once vengeance is complete, there is an emptiness remaining where purpose once dominated time and space. For a while, this void appears to be a sort of peace; but reality shows that it is only depression disguised as serenity. He put your eye out. You put his eye out. In the end, vengeance and the hatred that comes with it leaves us all blind and toothless.

Bette Noir to the Romantic Heart #1

There is a great black beast that mauls, to death, the romantic heart. I think it is called reality. From the cries of "Chivalry is Dead" in the 70's to "Love Ain't A Love Song" in 2015, the hopeless romantic has been disappearing as the world realizes that real life has no end like the movies or our favorite love song. There is no Hallmark ending...perhaps there is no ending at all; perhaps life goes on in a singular, painful straight line, punctuated by the occasional euphoria of the hope of a happy ending. Maybe, just maybe, my heart is just broken and I will soon get over it. Maybe I am so happy I feel sad. Maybe, after all of this, it's just indigestion.


This is a new series of posts called Bette Noir (Black Beast) to the Romantic Heart - it is sad. Sorry.

Home Didn't Change While I Was Gone; I Changed Before I Came Back

Going Home

"You can't go home again?" Why? I've often pondered this question, usually, shortly after trying to go home again. I usually end up assuming that home had changed. "Why can't it all just be as it was?" After talking to a good friend, I've had a change of mind. He said, "Home isn't where you were, it's where you are and home changes with you. When you go back home you find that it has changed because you have changed because you've carried it with you the whole time."


I think he was right. The home I see and touch and hear and feel changes because I change. The drift between what I remember home to be and what it now, is because of the changing perspective I have during my absence. I can "see" home from the outside. But I can't "see" the "me" from the inside. As I drift on the inside, by degrees, it goes unnoticed by me and I assume I am standing still. I also expect Home to be standing still with me. But I am not standing still. I am drifting. Now separate yourself from home, for a year, two years, or more and come back. You've drifted. Home has not. Home now seems foreign and we ask why it did not stay as it was? It did.  It's me that has changed.


Life, if I recall my favorite but all too often forgotten philosophy, is meant to be lived in a straight line. Circling back is wasted motion.


"There is no such thing as a decision. There never was. There's whether you've had a good day or a bad day, there's going forward because there is nothing behind. And running forward- because if you stand still any longer you'll fall over. There's movement or there's stagnation, there's the past that drives you..."- John le Carre, The Night Manager

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Look-Know-See

 "Show me a man who is absolutely sure of his place in the universe and I will show you a bigot and a zealot - or a liar." - Anonymous

These observations are only useful if "one is ready to see the universe the way it really is, and recognize that the thoughts of man eventually work their way out through the motions of his actions and the words of his tongue" - Francis Schaeffer

The smallness of man when viewed against the largeness of nature is insignificant compared to the greatness of man from within it. - Anonymous

Nothing can be created unless it is first conceived. Even if we believe we are being random and taking a chance. The conception of randomness is, in itself, non-random.

Jackson Pollack attempted to demonstrate the randomness of the universe in his art. But even in these attempts, in his conception that randomness can be demonstrated visually, this creation of his showed him, and by some accounts sent him into deep depression, that the act of "setting up a test of randomness", is not random. And the seemingly random nature of this work of art, shows signs of an over arching order. Many believe his suicide was a result of the universe proving him wrong and the despair he felt in trying to live within this dichotomy. But either way, this painting could not have come into being unless, Jacksonn Pollack conceived it to be so. His attempt to reproduce randomness failed because the universe would not allow him to do so.


Man is a duality. He is like nature in many ways, but so unlike it in others. Apart from literary devices which are useful to enrich our imaginations, no one walks upon this earth and really lives like the tree, the deer, the flower, the bee, or the earth itself is operating with a conscience. And while mankind is forced to live in the cruel reality that is nature, he constantly endeavors to transcend nature and act its opposite.

We may say Nature is a cruel mistress. But I have never heard anyone say, and really believe, that Nature has done something wrong. Contrarily, we often attribute the "sin" in this case to the humans that build trailer parks in tornado alley; or the manufacturer's of these homes for profiting upon the backs of the poor. But let's look at this picture from the other perspective. What if I were to tell you that a human wreaked this destruction with one of his machines? Naturally we would make the assumption the man was

Evil?

So why the difference? This is a question that has been on the minds of philosophers since philosophy was a thing. Could it be that it is because, we as humans, in spite of our similarities to, are by our very nature and the way we think and act, different than the natural world we inhabit? I believe this is so.

We do not walk around in this world like we believe it is completely random.

Empty Words

John Cage's Empty Words (1974) is a marathon text drawn from the Journals of Henry David Thoreau. This is one of Cage’s most sustained and elaborate moves toward the “demilitarization” of language, in four parts: Part I omits sentences, Part II omits phrases, and Part III omits words. Part IV, which omits syllables, leaves us nothing but a virtual lullaby of letters and sounds.

John Cage is an interesting study of man trying to force randomness into the universe but being unable to do so. The universe, simply will not let him live his philosophy. The resultant dichotomies in his theories leave me no alternative - the world is not random. Above is a quote from his website describing one of his works where he attempts to liberate language from its structured form of letters making sounds, conjoined with other letters making sounds; joining to form words which, joined together, produce phrases; which joined together make sentences; which joined together make paragraphs. These letters, words, phrases, sentences, and paragraphs, if placed in proper order, create content: real communication. Without this order, John Cage proves, there is nothing but silence - or babbling. It is interesting to me, that the description of John Cage's Empty Words, is not at all random. Why? Because he could not communicate his theory of randomness, indeterminacy, the militarization of language without, himself, using the order and structure; the only method the universe has given us to communicate our ideas.

I am using John Cage as an example to paint a broad stroke of humanity. Again, this is the only thing the universe allows us to do when speaking of our philosophies. I believe this is so because there is no evidence for a random universe. We simply have no choice, ultimately, but to fit within the framework of what really IS.

When asked about his other passion; the hunting of mushrooms and the philosophical ramifications of randomness in the hunting of the fungi, Cage famously said, "It would be foolish to apply my theories of indeterminacy to my hobby. I would not be long for the world if that were the case." Mr. Cage's dichotomy is yelling loudly.

Don't get me wrong, I am not mocking Pollack or Cage, or anyone with philosophical dichotomies - I certainly have my own. In fact, Mr. Cage's philosophy has many interesting and, indeed, beautiful, sentiments.

"The first question I ask myself when something doesn't seem to be beautiful is why do I think it's not beautiful. And very shortly you discover that there is no reason."

"If you consider something boring, consider it for two whole minutes. If it is still boring, then consider it for four minutes, then eight, then 16, then 32 minutes. You will eventually find that it is not boring at all."

It is interesting to me, that in this quote, the time he asks us to wait when considering something boring increases exponentially. Exponentially increasing time intervals is not indeterminate, it is not random, it is further proof that even the philosophers can not escape the universal order that is our language.


I believe I came from somewhere. In fact, I am almost sure of it.

I refuse to use the image of Rodin's The Thinker sculpture. It is trite at this point. Furthermore, I refuse to even quote the caption frequently accompanying it. However, one can not escape the very real position it puts us in. The greatest philosophical dilemma, according to Francis Schaeffer, is the fact that we exist. To go one step further, it really doesn't matter where or why exist - we have the ability to ask the questions- that is what matters at this point. Our theories, as plausible or as insane, as they may be are just that. Theories, born out of a need, by most, to know what comes before or what might come after. If we stay rational, then we must admit, that what we do means something. It must. Let us recap. Nothing is created unless it is conceived. We are in nature but despite our similarities-we are different than it. The universe is not random. And I came from somewhere.

And now, here, I am stuck. Taking the next step requires asking the next question. So then, if there is order in the universe,that is, something we can rely on to repeat itself, some way, based on past events, to predict what is to come, or to explain the present, then one needs ask the most controversial of all questions. Which of the many philosophies, religions, or world views is the true one?

It is here that I stop. Because to go further would immediately enjoin the support of at least one group of zealots and bigots or liars and the disdain of the other zealots, bigots, or liars. It is here that I stop because to go further will stop all useful communication unless, unless, we can come to agreement on these few ideas:

An artist can't create art unless he first thinks the art.
The universe is not random (though perceived randomness may take place within it)
Man is different than the natural world he inhabits.
We mean something and we came from somewhere.
There is such a thing as kindness.

If we can't get there; we can't go on. And do not be mistaken in thinking that I have gone further in this discussion than I really have. - C.S. Lewis

 I have not yet even begun to speak of that.

"I make little account of victory. Nothing is so foolish as to vanquish. The real glory is to convince."- Victor Hugo, Les Miserable.

Rule for Farming (or really anything one tries to do)

Rule for Farming (or really anything one tries to do)

Follow these rules and it will lead to success or at least help one justify not achieving success/

1. Most deadlines are completely arbitrary.

Plant tomatoes starting in May in Arkansas. Except for this one. This is pretty much a sure bet unless one wants to overcome April 13th frosts. And taxes, the tax deadline is pretty much a solid deadline. But those are the only two I can think of right now.

2. You will never get completely done. There will always be something left to do or something you've completed before will change and turn to crap and have to be redone. I believe the proliferation of machines on the farm and in other walks of life is due to humankind attempting to over come this law. We are seeking a machine that will help us get completely done with something faster so we can sit and enjoy (s) the results of our labor, or more likely, try to find something else to do.

3. If you don't do anything, nothing will get done.Sometimes, we don't know where to start, or we've invested money enough to do it all, but realize we'll fail. Not doing anything will almost surely mean you won't get there.

4. If you do something, something will get done. Just because you can't do it all doesn't mean something shouldn't be done at all.

Wisdom from Carlos Mencia

From what I remember of  Mencia's standup routing describing an interview he participated in for inclusion in a political discussion roundtable concerning immigration reform.

Interviewer: So, what is your angle?

Mencia: Upright

Interviewer: I mean, where are you coming from?

Mencia: My home. Why don't you just be man enough to ask me the question you want to ask me?

Interviewer: Ok, are a Republican or a Democrat?

Mencia: Neither

Interviewer: What do you mean?

Mencia: Well, I consider myself reasonably intelligent and I don't like being half right all the time.

Interviewer: Okay, Are you conservative or liberal?

Mencia: Yes.

Interviewer: What do you mean by that?

Mencia: I have a teen age daughter. When it comes to her I am very conservative - Bible believing, bible belt buckle, thou shalt not, fire and brimstone, truth, good vs evil all the way.
But with your daughter - I am liberal.

Mencia was not asked to be on the panel to discuss immigration reform.

Failure Misunderstood

On my first day back on the job, at my old work place, before going half crazy and attempting to "live off the land", I was greeted by an old friend. It was not, however, the warm greeting I had hoped for.

"That whole farming thing didn't work out did it?"

At this point along my journey to reentering the rat-race, I was unprepared to answer this kind of greeting.


9 months later, after a serendipitous chain of unfortunate events, I find myself back in my old job as the department manager and, as a result, find myself speaking with many of my old manager coworkers in this, my new-old sphere of influence.


Friday was my first big "meeting" with many of these former, and once again, co workers. Again I heard many of the same comments on my return...."Farming thing didn't work out huh?" was the ubiquitous response to meeting me again for the first time. There was another, "I told you, you were crazy!"


And it struck me that many in our American society regard trying something and failing in that endeavor is somehow less honorable or sane than having never tried at all.


So let's break it down. Was my too o'er hasty "retirement" a failure?


If success in our attempt at full time farming is measured in dollars earned or in longevity in the endeavor, or a stubborn refusal to quit, then I would have to say yes to this question. We failed to do what we set out to do.


If success in our attempt at full time farming, meant we learned some very important things...


1) we learned just how little we can live on.
2) we learned that we really enjoyed the experience, over all, and I had a year of spending every day with my wife. Something I may never have again.
3) we learned that dreams can be realized and that it is okay if they are not what we expect.
4) we learned that failure is less tragic than "failing to try" something new for wont of courage
5) we learned that living life in a line is much more difficult than it sounds, especially when life offers you a circle back to try again.


then I would have to say that our attempt at full time farming was an overwhelming success!






Why is the failure almost always held to be more shameful than the failure to try? In the last three years, we've been called crazy; we've been called failures; we've been accused of going back on our word, one person actually chastising me for not letting my Yes be yes and my No be no. We've met people, who for forty or more years have never left the town they were born in; who can't comprehend the insignificance of social status, income, stuff. Its as if, they are still in terror of this mythical permanent record we've all been told about since grade school.


How do I measure or success or failure over the last 4 years? I guess I would have to say, it was neither a failure or a success; or to muddy the waters even more, we were successful in our failures even in our failure of achieving success. The greatest success derived from our failure is the conquering of the fear of trying something, just because you want to try something new.


Success then, is the acceptance of whatever comes one's way, either from the failure or the success one achieves.

Things I Think I've Learned This Week

The words one says - mean something.
The things one does - really affects real people.
I am not defined by my answers to Facebook quizzes.
You can not know me by what I like or dislike.
"We will never have goats again! Even if they are free!" does not mean what I think it means.
One can wear out his welcome.
Running out into the world shouting "This is me take it or leave it" is noble but rarely effective.
"Be all things to all men" has a great deal of Biblical Wisdom about it.
The things I could do, what I could be but for the lack of a single-minded purpose.
To speak well and to comprehend is accomplished, simply, by swallowing one's pride and surrounding himself with people who speak well and think well. Even if those people are in a book, on TV, or on a DVD.
From behind a desk is a dangerous place from which to view the world.
There is nobility, courage, and heroism in the world that is not measured by how much one owns, how much one owes, or how much one is liked.
There are few quiet places in the world - but seek them out, spend some time within them - one will be better able to help someone else after the rest.
Pride sucks.
Negativity is so...negative.
Grabbing hold of and keeping one's IS-ness is harder than it sounds.

Wasted on All the Wrong People

It has occurred to me, on more than one occasion, that sometimes, good things are wasted on all the wrong people.

"Youth is wasted on all the wrong people", said the old guy on the front porch, as George Bailey hesitates to kiss Mary in the hydrangea bushes in It's a Wonderful Life.

Tornadoes and hurricanes occur with unheard of ferocity, at least in my life time. Once lush, fertile farm land has, in these days, become dry, hardpan, cracked, surfaces of clay that extend feet into the earth. High winds topple century old oak trees killed by drought. This hard clay of earth, now holds no water, even if it comes hurling from the sky. Inches, nay, feet of water pounding, compacting the already hard-rock soil, runs off carrying things with it, into our low places. The timing is all wrong too. When once we counted on a bounty of Spring rains prior to the blast furnace of the western Arkansas summers, and then bountiful fall rains to replenish the soil for the winter greens and soon to come spring asparagus, we now get a deluge in late March or early April, and then nothing until November.

But that is not all. Climate change, or whatever you want to call it, also wastes the bounty we do receive on all the wrong people. Not only does the cool weather finally come up to a month later than it did at the turn of the millennium, the heat comes later and is more intense. Stretches of drought and 100 degree days, make the long hot summer that much longer and that much hotter, and the farmers like me that much grouchier. It makes us wonder why we do what we do...

As I left the office building in downtown Little Rock, where I am attending some training, the clouds rolled in, the thunder boomed lowly, and the lightning cracked. By the time I finished my taco to head back to class it had come a deluge. "I wish it would stop raining. Everyday this week its rained right at lunch time and I get soaked on my way back to the office", one fellow diner bellowed - not using her inside voice at all.

It was then that it occurred to me that this rain, this bounty from heaven has been wasted on this ignorant urbanite. Farmers in 91 counties in Arkansas would give, their whatevers, for an afternoon rain shower for a week. While I am taking city water from the reservoir to water my garden, the Big City is taking rain that should be falling on my garden, collecting it in gutters and drains connected to underground pipes and dumping these gallons of life sustaining liquid, now mixed with city-filth, into the Arkansas River.

This rain today and like the rain of the past week has been wasted - on all the wrong people.

I Had A Feeling - Deep Down In My Gut

Shamrock and Thistle Farm, 5:30 AM
Somewhere in the middle of Blast Furnace, Arkansas



Up early is the only way during this time of year. Work until 10:00 AM. This is when the too-close Sun breaks the top of the trees lining the eastern border of the property and begins to try the resolve of those humans and animals still living, or mostly living.

I was able to plant 60 feet of green beans in our slowly-being-renovated garden. I meant to take some pictures to post but as the sun cleared the trees, the batteries overheated; chemicals raised in increasing amounts of agitation, boiled over, rendering the electronic device obsolete. It occurs to me that, back in the day, when picture taken relied on mechanics, optics, and the inverse square law, batteries were not required. The chores were done and some staging for some night time projects completed, I surveyed the farm just to check up on some things. The cross garden is coming into shape and the tomato plant located there, which had given us our first tomato of the year, picked too soon as it always is, had turned two more smaller fruit that had turned a deep salmon color and felt soft to the squeeze. I almost picked them - almost, but remembering the tartness of the first I decided, against something in my belly telling me to go ahead, to give them one more hot day to ripen fully. I went inside, got some things in the house accomplished, a big breakfast gulleted, the nap time she comes and goes, and then, the time being fulfilled, I go outside to pick our tomatoes which should be very ripe and ready to eat.


Apparently something got to it before I did. An eyewitness described a Female, Black and White barred, rose come, slightly pink legs leaving the scene while they were closing the gate of the garden. A warrant was issued for the apprehension of the alleged perpetrator. It will be served tonight. A trial will be commenced. Due to the egregious nature of the crime, the proceedings will be without a jury and I will be the judge. The hen will get a fair trial, then I will incarcerate her in solitary confinement for a period no less than 3 days. If this hen doesn't lay 2 eggs during the 3 day sentence, she will be executed at dawn on the fourth day...

VietCong Grass, Miniature Roses, and PBA Backsliding

 Wow! There is Oregano in there! It took almost two hours to pull the Vietcong grass out of this 12 SqFt patch of Oregano. I found several dozens of Dutch Iris Bulb we had planted 5 years ago that had never been thinned. They are being moved to another area in the garden tonight. The VC grass was quite the challenge. I call it Vietcong grass because its roots burrow deep into the earth and criss cross in a network of interconnecting tunnels. And just when you think you have won, you look back and ask why did I spend so much time and energy reclaiming such a tiny patch of real estate. And then you realize that you didn't win - it's more like a tie. Eventually it will be back and you'll have to do it all over again.

 These are miniature roses that Martha Stewart says aren't worth the trouble to transplant. These are the kinds of roses you give to  someone else as gifts. You'll see them in grocery stores from time to time. Ostensibly, there purpose is to die shortly after the holiday for which you bought them is over, becoming root bound, if they are not root bound already when you bought them. To transplant these we used a technique described by Michael Pollan in his book Second Nature a Gardener's Education. Digging the hole twice as large as you think it needs to be, filling it with water, removing the plant, not so gently from the pot it was in, and then tossing it, again not so gently into the hole, covering with rich loose soil, and then watering again. Here Patt has mulched with leaves after removing VC grass. Through out the spring they have bloomed at least twice. Patt has dead-headed them in the hopes of more flowers in a couple of weeks.

 The gargantuan plan behind and to the left of the sunflower speaks to the fertility of our soil in the cross garden. A whole lotta plant but not a whole lot of tomatoes just yet. This variety is the Carbon tomato which will be a deep purplish, almost black color when they are ripe. The cross garden used to be part of the back yard, tree stumps, VC grass, and rocks. Now, after years of amending the soil with organic matter, digging, and planting, it has become the most fertile patch of land on the farm.

The sunflowers, as a side note, were planted by the many species of birds that feed from a nearby bird feeder.

After a week of mowing with a push mower and weed-eating the  thigh high grass and weeds that are goats are incapable of keeping up with we now have a clear path from the house to the barn. There's Disle, my truck off to the right. I told Patt that we are now officially Arkansas Rednecks in that we have 4 vehicles, only one of the running the way it should, and I just mowed around my farm truck, because, Disle won't start.

Farming Makes You Stupid Addendum - The Muscadines

One of the smartest men I know, Lester, was relating a conversation he had with his good buddy Ry one Saturday afternoon concerning his struggles with keeping weeds out of his Muscadine  beds.

"Ry, I've tried everything. Can't get a lawn mower in between the plants. A hoe goes too deep and it cuts some of the roots; the weed-eater slices up the trunk of the vines, or I end up clipping some of them off. Don't want to spray weed killer because if I put too much or get too close it deadens the plant," bemoans Lester, "you've got muscadine vines, what do you do?"

In one of those eternal moments where actions communicate more fully than words ever could, Ry gets down on one knee next to one of the vines and within 10 seconds has pulled every weed from around the plant, by hand.

The fact that Lester let everyone know this happened is a testament to his humility and to his understanding that modernity, while sometimes extremely nice in its convenience, is not always the best way of doing things.

This is another illustration of how our dependence on machinery to do our farming for us has made us dumber. Now, in the interest of full disclosure, I've been mowing and weed-eating all week - since another friend of mine fixed my Craftsman Lawnmower in exchange for two loaves of Patt's bread, and I finally figured out how to load string in the weed-eater.

I preach and preach on this blog to NOT use fossil fuels - or at least I encourage others to do as we have done and eliminate them wherever possible - in their small scale farming. From time to time, however, we find ourselves falling behind for various odd reasons and the only way to catch up is to crank up a gas powered machine. I guess that is the difference. In our case we use it only when necessary. In Lester's case, the machine has just always been there and, in a way, the machine trains us to use it to the point we sometimes forget the great joy and simplicity of simply stooping over and pulling the weed.

Pig Tractor Part 3

 After only three weeks on this patch, the pigs had tilled it all up, we moved them to the next area and we planted tomatoes and Mississippi Silver Crowder peas, mulching heavily with old hay the morning after our rainstorm described in "Struck By Lightning". Between the rows of peas on the right I have a bed prepared for a planting of garlic come October.

 After only two weeks (the pigs are now HOGS and becoming more efficient at pulling up the weeds) the second patch of garden space has been cleared. Now its our turn to lay out the beds and plant with something that will add nitrogen to the soil and something that will loosen it a little.

 Here are Squeal and Grunt in their final paddock in our garden area. This over grown area has already been obliterated by their tough jowls and muscular snouts. The picture was taken after only two days on the patch. Next up for them - they will do the same in our pasture areas where we will throw down grass and clover seed for the rest of the year.

This, in an unrelated note, is our asparagus bed (three 30 foot rows) all "ferned out". It has finally been weeded and mulched. Nothing else to do here until the first heavy frost kills the ferns. Then we snip them off at ground level, fertilize the area, lay down a heavy blanket of leaves, and then place the ferns on top to hold it all in place. Then, God willing, by the time the Irises bloom out next spring we will be up to our ears in asparagus!

It's Okay - I'm From Arkansas

I had the idea for a series of very short stories I would call "It's Okay. I'm from Arkansas" a few years ago on an ill-fated "family reunion" we "good" Hutchinses held in Branson Missouri. There were 12 of us on the trip. Mom, Dad, my sister,  Patt and me, and our three boys, and my brother and sister in law and their two lovely daughters. After a weekend of shopping and a "Hee Haw" type musical show, it was left up to us (Patt and I) to decide where to eat one last time before heading home.

We decided on an Irish Pub located around the Promenade there in Branson, much to the chagrin of my mother and sister. I checked with my brother to make sure it was okay if Patt and I ordered a pint of Guiness. He said he didn't mind. I was worried that our drinking a beer would cause an uncomfortable situation with he and his daughters. It did not...an uncomfortable situation with my sister and mother was, of course, inevitable. "What are you drinking?" they asked. "Root beer", I said.

We had all finished eating our meals. Every plate was still half full. Mine because I ordered too much, my sisters and mother's because they would not admit they liked it even if they did. The waitress came out to present the check and asked if we would like "To Go" boxes for our left overs. Mom and Sis said "no" because we were going to be driving 6 hours home.

Patt and I said yes. But since no one else wants their left overs, we would take them all. "Just bring out a garbage bag. We'll fill it up to feed the pigs when we get home." The waitress smiled and said "Sure!"

I glanced down the table  at Mom and Sis to be met with looks of incredulous disgust - shock really. I looked at them and said in my most reassuring, sarcastic laden tone:

"It's okay. We're from Arkansas!"

Struck By Lightning

I started writing "Hot and Dry and Humid" in my farm journal (which I hope to turn into Boyd's New Arkansas Farmer's Almanac someday), what seems like a year ago. Progress on the farm has been occurring in fits and starts, go out, work a little until I just start feeling a little dizzy, then back inside for a rest. Hot and Dry and Humid. Every day. Eventually I stopped writing it out and opted for just the acronym, "HDH". Once I tired of this exercise I start just making the "ditto" marks, then, this being too much to bear, day after long hot day, the entries are blank. So I really can't tell the last time we got any significant rain.

Today I worked a few projects until the heat got too bearable - 9AM Arkansas Time, then I reverted back the strategy of keeping the projects short and doable, so I could run back inside, shirt soaked, in front of a fan, reading my favorite book of all time until I fall into a catnap, then back outside for another little project.

The last project I started, out of desperation, was to set up a sprinkler in the portion of the garden where our tomatoes and cow peas are planted. My hope, in addition to watering the plants, was to soften the ground which has become hard and cracked, so I could do some easy weeding early tomorrow morning.

I performed my annual ritual of soaking my self with the sprinkler until I could get the range and direction set to only water what I needed watered and then did the evening chores. Hark! What do I hear? Is that the rumble of what we used to call thunder? And the flashing on the horizon? Could that be, what was it we called those bright flashes that immediately preceded this thunder. Lightning, that's it. No rain though, just the preamble. Kind of like a movie trailer that promises a laughing in the aisles comedy but fails to deliver once your in the middle of it.

The air did cool down a bit and the breeze picked up making it tolerable, at least, to be outside. So I decided to help Patt weed the strawberries in the Cross Garden. Then...it started to rain! Rain! Glorious Rain!

I continued weeding. Patt called the dogs and ran in the house. I thought she would have asked me to come in the house with her saying something like, "You'll get hit by lightning". To which I would have replied, "Then I will die doing something I like to do...or I'll survive and be one of those savants that can read people's minds..."

When she returned, wearing her straw hat and work gloves, I smiled inside. You know, like the feeling you get when you know that everything is going to be okay? By the time she got back out to the garden my white woven cotton work shirt was soaked through. I was dead sexy! Kind of like Colin Firth as Mr. Darcy coming up out of the lake sexy. Funny that Patt did not mention it.

Any way, we got the strawberries, rosemary, and thyme beds weeded. I ran to the barn to turn the sprinkler off while Patt went inside. The cool air refreshed me as I entered. Patt showed me the radar of West Arkansas out of Russelville. There was one storm on the screen. A small one, directly over our farm.

I told Patt that what happened made all the heat worth it. She said, "well I wouldn't go that far."

Now a nice dinner of beef in a wine reduction and swiss chard with raisins and pine nuts.

Operation Pig Tractor Part Two

 The above picture shows what the garden looks like after two years of our being away from the farm. Tired of hand digging in the heat we decided to put our pigs to good use, now that they are large enough to keep inside cattle panels.

 After 7 days locked into a patch of the garden, the above picture demonstrates the thoroughness and efficiency of the pig as a tractor. The large clumps of grass still standing have actually been rooted up so they are easily lifted out of the ground. They are simply waiting to wither up and die. Most of the grass was eaten by the hogs but that which remained was collected and tossed into the walk way as seen below.

 Now we have a bare patch of garden to set rows in and a mulched walkway. By simply flip-flopping the fence, we easily created a new section of garden for them to work in. They were turned out into this new patch this morning and wasted no time in eating down the tall grass and digging the clumps out by the roots.

This next patch is a bit larger and more overgrown than the previous one, but I suspect in about two weeks we will have another bare patch ready to plant. We will then repeat the process further down the garden. By mid summer we should have a weeded, tilled, and fertilized garden plot.

Tonight we will be planting cow-peas in this first patch, tomorrow we will plant tomatoes. In the next patch, once it is ready, we may plant our fall crops such as butternut squash and pumpkins.

Time is Out of Joint...

Time is out of joint, Oh Cursed Spite! That I was born to put it right. - King Hamlet of Denmark



Today was like....



...Nailing a raw egg to the wall.
...Trying to dribble a football.
...Trying to put an over-stuffed pillow into a sandwich bag.
...Untangling a box of coat hangers.
... shoving a wet noodle up a wildcat's butt.
... watching a streaming video on a dial-up modem.
...pushing a square rock up hill
...being stuck in rush hour traffic when you have to pee.
...herding house flies.
.... stepping on bubblegum dropped right by the car door.
...locking your keys in the house
...getting paged as you walk in the house
...Dan Akroyd in a santa claus suit in the rain
...and then, my sister-in-law stopped by with my nieces for a tour of the farm, my wife made me dinner, the asparagus got weeded and mulched -Finally!, the sun started going down, the air conditioner is off, the Razorbacks beat LSU, my list for Saturday is long but doable, Patt's making smoked pork chops for breakfast, and all is becoming right again.

Snake-Thief (or That's where all the eggs are going!)

Over the last several weeks our egg production has gone down, from about 36 eggs to 24 eggs to 19 or fewer out of a flock of 45 chickens. At first we blamed the dog. That's where the phrase - "Egg Suckin' Dog" comes from. And we have found the dogs carting an egg or two around in their mouths from time to time.

Today, about 4:30 PM I went down the hill to do the evening chores, which includes collecting eggs. Patt was busy putting the sheep and goats back in the barn in preparation for the culmination of Operation Pig Tractor, while I went to the coop to collect, what I hoped would be, a large harvest of eggs to sell out our local market (Conway Locally Grown) or to friends at work or our friends here in Perryville.

I stepped up into the coop and found a surprise. A large black snake had just crawled in before me and slithered its way into a nesting box full of eggs. Just coiled up in the box and started swallowing eggs, one by one, like it belonged there. I called for Patt, she brought my gloves and I reached into the nesting box, bravely I might add, and grabbing the reptile just behind the head pulled it out of the box.

It measured 5 and a half feet and as I was handling in and eventually carrying it to a far corner of the pasture to be set free, I accidentally crushed no less than 5 eggs it had swallowed and which were making its way down its belly.

This snake, we believe, is the same Black Rat Snake Patt rescued from our well back in 2006 when it was no more than 3 feet long. We've seen it several times on the property over the years and don't want to kill it because it does beneficial things in addition to stealing eggs. It's kind of our pet snake...

You Can't! Farm Widsom from Shamrock and Thistle Farm

Amid all the chatter one hears in the media, from teachers and coaches and parents, who say silly things like, "You can do anything - If you set your mind to it." Here are some things you can't do. Sorry to burst your bubble.

You can't reason with a goat.
You can't herd a chicken.
You can't milk a rabbit.
You can't kill bermuda grass.
You can't keep a set of wrenches complete and intact after the first time you use them.