Who Is Virginia?

On Strike?

2012-02-11T21:21:00.000-05:00

I've been accused of going on strike. That hasn't happened since I was 16 and a member of Retail Clerks International, when I learned what a scab is. For me, striking was a vacation. I wanted my wages to buy doughnuts and records. I didn't need them to pay rent and buy groceries. I showed up now and then to carry a placard, walk back and forth along the sidewalk, and feel sorry for the older guys whose spouses and babies depended on them for food.

No, I've been the opposite of on strike. After years of "working" part-time and filling the rest of my time with constructive play, this year has found me clocking 40-hour+ weeks and struggling to play. I've neglected my blog partly because it seems to get as many visitors when I don't post as when I do. Who among you wants to read about Dodd-Frank and banking stuff anyway?

"I do," says Virginia.

Don't listen to her. She's green because I have been writing some other things, not about her, things I'm not about to put on this blog.

"Poems," she says.

Yeh, them too. If I put them here, others might not want to publish them. Not that anyone's pounding on my door.

Something else, too. Maybe she'll let me finish it some day.

Winter Pizza -- The Pompeii Brick Oven

2012-01-29T15:16:00.005-05:00

It's been a while since we fired up the brick pizza oven, almost two months. Yesterday a friend called, saying he wants to build one, could he come and check it out. I suppose I should say "acquaintance" since he's never been to Elk Cliff Farm, but he seems like a friend. He's one of those guys who sends out good vibes whenever I run into him, two or three times a year. He retired from the Federal Reserve, which I don't hold against him since I have my own banking skeletons in the closet.

Anyway, Karen said if you wait until tomorrow (which now is today), we'll share some pizza with you. She didn't have to twist his arm. My job is warming up the big mass in our backyard kitchen. I couldn't wait, so first thing this morning I started a small fire and have kept it going. About two hours before dinner I'll stoke it up and we'll watch the firebricks get hotter and hotter, from char-black to white and then to clear, which should be about 850 or 900 degrees.

Actually, last I checked they were already turning white. You can see this in the photo, below. The lower bricks inside the oven are black, but the higher and hotter bricks are turning white. (You may have to click on the photo to make it larger.)

Here's a picture taken two hours later, 20 minutes before dinnertime. Note how all the bricks are clear, back to their original yellowish color.

"No scale," says Virginia. "Your pictures give no idea of the mass of this oven."

All right. Here are a few more.

Home School Dad

2012-01-25T21:21:00.007-05:00

I confess. I'm a homeschooler, super-nerd from way back. I had a couple good teachers. One was my pa, whom we called Dad. Circulating on Facebook is a picture of him holding our baby more than 20 years ago. They're both laughing. I think he liked to laugh. He certainly liked to tell jokes, sneakily, with a straight face. I took one course from him, Genetics, and I remember other students mentioning that they'd be listening and taking notes and suddenly, whack, a funny had almost slipped by unnoticed.

When Dad was struggling with cancer, carrying things from one room to another presented a challenge. During a visit, I noticed an open Scientific American on a lamp table, a novel near his bed, and other magazines and books waiting almost everywhere. At the time, I thought it said something about his health. Looking back, I'm not sure. It might have been the way things always were.

I'd bet the decor of each of my siblings reflects his bookworm gene. Whether their brains also store starts and wait for finishes, I don't know. Let me take back "finishes." Homeschooling never ends.

"Sounds like multi-tasking to me," says Virginia.

Not really. It's more like Dumbledore's Pensieve, storing the memory and letting it rest while taking up another page, one topic at a time.

A Token Solution

2012-01-21T09:38:00.008-05:00

I've had it with our pervasive socialism, haven't you? It's so bad even the City of Lexington's having budget problems. I feel guilty every time I drive into town. No toll at the city gate. No parking fees. No charge to visit Traveller's grave. I feel like a Marxist freeloader.

Here's a token solution. To use any social service in Lexington requires a token. You earn one for every dollar you pay in city taxes. You can buy them for a dollar apiece, or you can earn them by working: sweep streets and sidewalks, be a judge for a day, lay asphalt on Nelson Street, sign up to collect tolls at points of sale.

Look. Isn't it time we pay for everything we use? One could even rent a flagpole for a day, with enough tokens. And once Lexington is established as a model city, who knows where this could spread?

"You're getting pretty local here," says Virginia.

Nah. It's globally translatable.

Nighty Night, Sleep Tight

2012-01-14T16:55:00.000-05:00

A little later than hoped, our garden beds are now tucked in and waiting for Spring.

"It looks as if Olga's ready, too," says Virginia.

Er, um, Keri couldn't resist her. I guess I can't blame her, can you? Maybe we should rustle up some new clothes before a prude complains.

The grape arbor needs some reconstruction, too, and I'd better put up a trellis for the tomatoes when I find a lull.

Lots of lulls (LOL).

Elk Cliff Bank

2012-01-07T21:38:00.000-05:00

Some of you know I played law professor this Fall, teaching a "practicum" course at Washington & Lee University School of Law. Under a new program, students in their final year at this school take only clinical and practicum courses intended to acclimate them to next year's "real life." (Occasionally a student might take a "doctrinal" course if he or she has a prospective employer who requires a particular course not yet taken.)

Actually I didn't play law professor; I stepped back in time and re-played "General Counsel." I was the boss of the Office of General Counsel, Elk Cliff Bank. The students were attorneys in the Office of General Counsel and employees of the bank.

"What's Elk Cliff Bank?" asks Virginia.

Colonel Francis Anderson founded Elk Cliff Bank in 1832. The bank was a state-chartered “wildcat” bank. A wildcat bank issued its own money. That money was only recognized and honored by Elk Cliff Bank, so you might imagine how much or little comfort the bank's customers felt back then.

The bank was headquartered in the plantation house of Elk Cliff Farm, which had a safe room in its basement. Folks would stop by to make appointments, then return to meet with the Colonel. So the bank has a long history of personalized service.

Beginning in 1863 and 1864, when the National Bank Acts were enacted and national currency arrived, the bank made a point of looking forward. Unlike many family banks, Elk Cliff was not afraid to hire qualified, experienced “outsiders” who favored innovation. That tradition continues today.

Our big job was to implement the Dodd-Frank Wall Street Reform and Consumer Protection Act. Our second class began in the Fall of 2008, then we gradually stepped into 2011.

Afternoon Break

2012-01-05T21:22:00.001-05:00

This afternoon, as i loaded mulch onto the bed of our pickup, the three mammoth donkeys, who steer clear of running pickup engines, gradually grazed their way closer and closer. I'd said hi on my way in, and then kept up a steady monologue.

"Thanks for cleaning up this pile. I really don't like transplanting wiregrass with my mulch, so you've done me a big favor. Sorry about the bottles and cans. The Asplundh guys toss them in with the chipped branches. I'll get them out of your way soon. Don't come too close, you don't want to get stabbed by a pitchfork...."

All of a sudden Jaz blew her horn so loud i almost fell off the mulch pile. So much for the monologue. "Let me finish this job, then I'll groom you before I head back." She seemed happy with that answer. I kept my promise.

Meanwhile, Thorpe had called, suggesting a run while the rest of his family visited Karen, the donkeys, and Fiona, their Nubian we've been kid-sitting since they went to Italy. My timing was perfect, so they and my load of mulch shared our driveway, saving a couple stops to open and close the gate. "Let's run to our house," he greeted me, "I figure it's about 14 miles."

I'm pleased to say this blog posting will end soon with no fantastic story about what happened as we crossed the mountain. The sky did not blacken until we walked up his driveway. Neither of us sprained an ankle when our trail crossed a creek countless times. No hunter mistook us for bears. Losing the trail was not an option because yellow triangles and a well-trod path told us where to go. Rhododendron groves invited us back for blooming in a few months, and time flew with continuous conversation.

Fool's Gold

2012-01-03T22:36:00.000-05:00

Water froze in buckets in the greenhouse last night, so obviously the compost heap isn't heating things up very well. The lettuce sprouts don't seem to mind, so it's not a bother. I suppose the folks who asked me to keep their plants in the greenhouse over the winter might not be too happy, although they were warned.

Is a warning enough? Adam, our son, probably would have recommended a waiver because assumption of risk seems to have become a thing of the past since the suit against McDonald's over a coffee spill.

On the other hand, we probably wouldn't get very far if we sued our investment advisors for losing money over the past 10 years. By now, most of us feel lucky to see a 2% gain instead of a downtick. Maybe that's why we let the executives who presided over the subprime lending fiasco walk away scot-free. It's the Golden Rule and a giant waiver.

Someone's looking out for us. Judge Rakoff, a federal judge in New York, recently refused to approve a consent judgment filed in his court by the SEC and Citigroup. He thought the proposed $285 million settlement was not reasonable, fair, adequate, or in the public interest. The complaint filed by the SEC had alleged fraud -- that Citigroup Global Markets had realized in early 2007 that the market for mortgage-backed securities was beginning to collapse, so it created a billion-dollar fund that allowed it to dump lousy assets on misinformed investors. According to the SEC, Citigroup said the assets in the fund were attractive investments that had been carefully selected by an independent investment advisor, although in fact Citigroup had arranged to include in the portfolio a bad bundle and had then taken a short position in those very assets. Citigroup netted profits of around $160 million, while the investors lost more than $700 million. The proposed consent judgment wanted to treat it more like negligence than fraud, so the judge sent the parties back to the drawing board and scheduled their case for trial. The Rolling Stone offered this summary of the case: "Just imagine a mugger who steals $70 from some lady’s wallet being sentenced to walk free after paying back twelve bucks.”

"It's the golden rule," says Virginia.

Right, the folks with the gold make the rules.

Nothing Stays the Same

2011-12-26T17:29:00.000-05:00

We've been wondering what to do with our field ever since we acquired Elk Cliff Farm. The year of 2011 finally saw some movement -- pigs in the almost-abandoned garden, a fence, a well, and now....

three mammoth donkeys.

Soon our goats will be rotating with the donkeys, pigs and chickens, and that field will be on its way to revival. The pigs have done a good job roto-tilling what once was my biggest garden. By summertime, it may grow grain for the animals, and corn, pumpkins and squash for both animals and people.

Here's another look at the big ones (and 1 1/2 little ones).

GW Christmas

2011-12-25T14:56:00.000-05:00

This morning I ran to Washington's Crossing for a history lesson, jogged up the towpath a couple miles and back, then plopped myself in a parking spot to save it for Karen and Adam. George drew a large crowd this year.

That's George, in the boat just leaving port. They paddled upstream before drifting downstream. Here's a closer look.

And one of the spectators....

Halyomorpha Halys

2011-12-19T19:12:00.003-05:00

Every time the air warms, stink bugs begin crawling. One of them woke me the other night with a French kiss, about 2 a.m. I spit it across the room and within a couple minutes found another one, or maybe the same one, taking a walk on my neck.

I understand these guys crossed the U.S. welcome mat in 1998. Like kudzu, they forgot to apply for green cards. Now they're permanent residents, attacking orchards, hopefully not mine. Talk about immigration reform.

Some people turn down our addition of cilantro to salads, saying cilantro smells like stink bugs. There's some truth to that. My 2 a.m. friend tasted something like cilantro.

"Sounds delicious," says Virginia. "I think they're maligned."

Not if they kill fruit trees. Keri, our Great Pyrenees, joined us because of fruit poachers. We may have to train Yogi, our African gray parrot, to guard the orchard. Or the chickens. Maybe that's why their eggs have taken on a different flavor (just kidding).

Frank Incensed

2011-12-16T23:14:00.005-05:00

I've sort of been on the fence for a while about the Durbin Amendment (the provision of Dodd-Frank that restricts debit card interchange fees), but let me be frank.

"Hi Frank," says Virginia.

No, no, no, I don't mean that Frank. I mean the other one, with the little "f."

This past week, the Electronic Payments Coalition issued a study concluding that retail merchants haven't lived up to their "promise" to lower prices in response to lower debit card interchange fees. The study, which actually proved nothing at all -- oops, I'm getting ahead of myself, touted itself as settling the issue once and for all.

Its pretty charts, tables and puffball rhetoric almost pushed me off the fence. I don't like lobbyists and arguments that treat me like an idiot.

Let me summarize the "study." The "researchers" looked at the prices of several "baskets" of goods sold by 21 stores of four giant retailers -- Wal-Mart, Walgreens, Seven-Eleven and Home Depot -- located in five big cities -- Boston, Little Rock, Atlanta, Portland and San Francisco. The baskets included a subset of these items: Cheerios, a hammer, batteries, milk, eggs, bread, sugar, peanut butter, Coke 2L, duct tape, Slurpees, Mac&Cheese, Bud Light, paint and frozen burritos. The Coalition shopped these baskets the last week of September and then the first week of December. The conclusion? That these retailers, rather than lowering prices, raised their prices an average of 1.7% in the 2 months following the implementation of Federal Reserve Regulation II, which implemented the Durbin Amendment on October 1, 2011.

If my alarm clock rings every morning, does it cause the sun to "rise"?

"That's not fair," says Virginia.

All right. Here are some initial questions for the Coalition:

1. Over time, do prices tend to rise?
2. Could the prices have risen higher but for Regulation II?
3. Was anything else in the baskets you aren't mentioning?
4. Did you consider asking the retailers for their complete inventory pricing?
5. Did wholesale prices (that is, the prices paid for the baskets by the retailers) change between September and December?
6. What happened a year ago between September and December, or six months ago, between March and June?
7. Why didn't you have an impartial third party conduct the study? (The Coalition consists of banks, credit unions and payment services who have been opposing the Durbin Amendment since it was proposed).
8. Is 2 months a sufficient time period?
9. Would you supply brand names and product details so we can replicate your results?
10. What about retailers in my town?

"Stop," says Virginia. "I want to see the retailers' study."

Oh no, I hope not, but I suppose that's bound to come out soon. Let's see, what would they look at? Wheaties, nails, solar panels, Pepsi, Heineken...

"Minimum balances for 'free checking,' more likely," says Virginia, "debit card replacement fees, fees people don't notice."

Good point. Na-na-na-boo-boo.

The Truth Makes Free -- Not Today?

2011-12-04T22:35:00.001-05:00

We live in a time of premature verdicts delivered by sponsored sound bites. Dodd-Frank is a failure, pundits cry, with burgeoning regulations driving small banks out of business, making “too big to fail” as certain as death.

To the contrary, the Secretary of the U.S. Treasury Department touts Dodd-Frank as the builder of a pro-growth, pro-investment financial system. Deputy Assistant Secretary Wolin attempts to dispel the “myth” that Dodd-Frank hurts small banks by saying that it helps to level the playing field between large banks and small ones and holds big banks to much stiffer standards than small ones.

So what’s the truth? Will Dodd-Frank spell the death knell for community banks? Is Dodd-Frank swamping banks with regulations, creating job security for compliance officers and attorneys? According to the General Accounting Office in November 2011, “little is known about the actual impact of the final Dodd-Frank rules, given the short amount of time the rules have been in effect.”

Several major criticisms of Dodd-Frank ring true. First, Dodd-Frank did not reinstate Glass-Steagall, the depression era legislation that separated commercial from investment banks, repealed during the Clinton presidency. Second, Dodd-Frank does not explicitly attack the credit default swap exposure that brought down AIG and now poses unclear risk regarding U.S. bank exposure to European sovereign debt.

Most important, if one were to assume that the Dodd-Frank provisions were designed to prevent another financial crisis on the order of the 2008 debacle, a year and a half has passed and most of the legislation remains unimplemented.

Well, say the doubters, banks still aren’t lending, sitting on their cash, all because of Dodd-Frank. That’s easy to say, but what in Dodd-Frank has caused this? Perhaps the specter of Dodd-Frank regulations (such as proposed ability to repay regulations), not yet adopted. More likely, concern about the loosey-goosey practices that led to the crisis and the resulting closer scrutiny of bank examiners, not Dodd-Frank. Even if Dodd-Frank hadn’t come to be, we’d most likely be working through the subprime fallout and banks would be reluctant to lend.

I’m not about to brag on Dodd-Frank. My biggest beef with the bill is its multitude of provisions that will, if they haven’t already, affect institutions that had nothing to do with the financial crisis Dodd-Frank was enacted to prevent. Most lenders did not make NINJA (no income, no job, and no assets) loans. It isn’t fair to treat them all as if they did. Dodd-Frank should have an exemption for the good guys. How to word the exemption and keep it constitutional is something I don’t know much about.

“When you do, let us know, will you?” says Virginia.

Yeah, sure.

"And, by the way, have you bought a Ninja blender yet?" she tosses in.

What?

Frost-Free Morning

2011-12-03T18:37:00.003-05:00

Frost is free. It comes with no conditions, no fees. Kind of like toasters and certificates of deposit, we as consumers don't have any choice. Actually, with toasters and certificates of deposit, we have a choice -- take it or leave it. With frost, all we can do is take it (or leave it by remaining inside, I suppose).

"I think you're stretching this from nothing," says Virginia.

No, I think I need to tell you where I'm coming from, though. As some of you know, I've been reading a lot of articles about the Dodd-Frank Act (a/k/a financial reform or the banking bill), payday lending, and other sources of loans for folks who don't have accounts with banks (i.e., "poor" folks). Many of the authors talk about "free checking," except they don't seem to know that "free checking" has a specific meaning in the banking industry. If an account requires a minimum balance or imposes a per transaction fee, it isn't "free checking." The Truth in Savings Act and Federal Regulation DD make that very clear. The authors' misuse of the term "free checking" doesn't much matter, except it points out to those in the know that they aren't in the know.

"You're definitely stretching this from nothing," says Virginia.

All right. I give. Here's what I really had in mind for this posting, another garden tour.

Chinese Cabbage

Rouge D'Hiver Lettuce (I think)

Butterhead Lettuce

Beets

Doyle's Thornless Blackberry

Carrots

Parsnips

Rosemary

Frost has got to be among the best things that are free.

Monster Concert Christmas Singalong Reprise

2011-11-30T17:29:00.000-05:00

I keep forgetting to mention that 4 pianists on 4 pianos are reprising the monster concert holiday singalong we held last year. If you haven't heard 4 pianos played at once, come and discover why it's called a "monster concert." If you have heard them, well then, you've probably already made reservations. With that much sound, you'll feel free, as the crowd did last year, to belt out favorites such as "Jingle Bells," "White Christmas," "Blue Christmas," "Joy to the World," "Frosty the Snow Man," "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire," and many more. Tim Gaylard, Bill McCorkle, Betty Bond Nichols, and this blogger will be at the pianos. We'll be joined by singers, trumpeters and maybe a tuba player, on numbers like "The Christmas Shoes" (cry, cry, cry), "Pie Jesu" (Andrew Lloyd Webber), and "Santa Baby."

For reservations (they're necessary because space is limited), email ldkrantz@gmail.com. The event, on Wed., Dec. 14, at 7:30 p.m., benefits the Rockbridge Symphony, so $20 admission contributions are suggested. Children are welcome and often gather in the basement of the Krantz home (Possum Hollow Road, Lexington, Virginia) to play ping pong, shake old-fashioned pinball machines, and watch movies on a huge TV screen.

Member FDIC. Equal housing lender. [Just kidding].

Togetherness

2011-11-26T08:16:00.000-05:00

Karen and I sat on the back porch of our cabin yesterday, listening to Opossum Run. We thought about people elsewhere who walk miles each day to collect a little water to meet their needs. The time to pan for gold, if that time ever existed, has passed. Water has become golden.

As I mentioned in this year's Thanksgiving Day blog posting (immediately preceding this one, entitled "Thank You"), we're fortunate to be able to "make" Thanksgiving dinner. This is a result of a choice we made 17 years ago, after asking ourselves, "Is this really what we want to do until we retire?" We didn't realize then where we were heading, and I suspect that 17 years from now we'll look back at today and say we didn't realize in 2011 where we were headed.

Traveling always does this to me. Stepping outside our box forces me to look at our choices from a different perspective. As we walked around Manhattan, we didn't see many gardens or wellheads. We visited a small community garden in the Upper West End. Each participant had a few square feet, where growing potatoes or raising turkeys would be very hard. The only way they could "grow" a significant amount of food was to pay someone else to grow it for them. Enter, grocery stores and farmers' markets.

That's okay, I suppose, assuming the buying doesn't accompany an attitude that looks down on the labor and the places that make their food possible. Something is out of whack if we call farmers and other laborers names like "rednecks," sort of like the names given the slaves brought here to do the work white people thought was beneath them. These are the people who feed us.

We spent an afternoon art gallery-hopping in Chelsea. At first, I didn't know quite what to think of an exhibit of works by Robert Kinmont at Alexander and Bonin. A wooden box sat on the floor next to what presumably had been its contents, a small pile of soil, entitled "A Cubic Foot of California." Another work, entitled "Evidence," consisted of 127 willow forks, that is, forked willow tree branches. Near the entrance stood half of a hollowed-out log, clean and smooth. These and other pieces seemed like a tractor driving down Wall Street. Then I thought, yes, that's exactly what we need to see. We cannot, must not, live such specialized, compartmentalized lives.

"So are you going to drive a tractor down Wall Street?" asks Virginia.

I hope I don't have to.

Thank You

2011-11-24T19:03:00.002-05:00

Today, our huge family of three celebrated Thanksgiving together with old friends. Well, they were not so old. All were very good friends.

Every holiday, especially Thanksgiving, amazes me by the effort put into making food and the speed with it is dispatched. Even more now. I'll tell you why.

Turkey and Gravy. A year ago last April, our local postmaster telephoned us to announce the arrival of a box of turkey poults, including this year's Thanksgiving turkey and 19 adoptive siblings. We got to know the tiny fellows pretty well over the next 5 1/2 months, as they grew into irritating adults who demanded our help putting them to bed each night while they pecked at anything shiny. Then came a day I've already blogged about and a deep sleep in the freezer. See http://whoisvirginia.blogspot.com/search/label/Turkeys. Today, a few hours in the oven provided our main course and gravy.

Mashed Potatoes. St. Patrick's Day is the prime day for planting potatoes around here. As I recall, a nice rain postponed this year's planting to March 21. Now, growing potatoes isn't just a waiting game. They require weeding now and then, hoeing into hills, and several weeks handpicking Colorado potato beetle larvae during my early morning rounds. Digging them isn't easy, but it's sort of like panning for gold.

Corn. This year our first planting of corn went into the field garden at the end of April. The promise of 130 dozen sprouts proved illusory, dwindled to 5 dozen ears by summer drought. Series of smaller plantings in the garden beds, where I could keep them watered, saved the season. Then came picking, husking, cutting off the kernels, freezing or canning.

Stuffing. Karen used home-made bread for our stuffing this year. Some of the wheat berries and flour came from winter wheat planted either last fall or the year before.

Pumpkin pie. Not really pumpkin, this year's pie came from frozen Georgia Candy Roaster squash we grew last summer. The squash were monsters, relatively easy to put away because we could slice them in half, remove the seeds and pulp, cook them cut side down on cookie sheets, whirl them up in a food processor, and stuff them in freezer bags.

Whipping cream for the pie. Not really whipping cream, goat milk and free-range eggs served as the base for home-made ice cream churned on the patio this afternoon.

"I guess you're saying it took almost two years to prepare this dinner?" says Virginia.

And fifteen minutes to eat it.

Uselessness

2011-11-18T17:44:00.003-05:00

My shoes are packed, I'm ready to go. From 90th and Broadway, where to run first? Maybe down to Wall Street, to see if any demonstrators remain after the cleanup. Maybe north to a cross-country 5K. Or over to Central Park. And then walking. When we visit cities we walk like crazy. It's in the genes, I suppose. My octogenarian mother visited Chicago a few years ago and walked five miles, ending up in a hospital.

Taxis, buses and subways have their place, but nothing beats feet on the ground, body controlling movement, stopping on a dime to check something out, eyes watching people, places and potholes.

It'll be a little bit different from this afternoon's chore of planting wheat in the dirt piled above the new water pipes in our field. We're hoping the wheat takes, despite being planted so late. It will hold the soil in place, as well as offer a treat for grazing goats and donkeys.

I broadcasted the wheat first with my right hand, then with my left. My right hand continued to shake as the left did its job. I had to concentrate to shut it off.

"Why didn't you use a spreader?" Virginia asks.

A spreader, right, like I'm going to rush out to buy a spreader for a rare occurrence. This reminds me, someone said not to buy a tractor unless we planned to use it at least 2,000 hours per year. We already have more than one vehicle per person in this household, ten pairs of shoes, twenty towels and six pairs of sheets. Maybe we should get rid of a hundred items by Christmas, or two hundred.

Side-tracked again. I was going to write about the importance of uselessness. Some people I know would say planting wheat by hand indicates I have time to waste, like moving mulch without a front-end loader, shelling peas, canning pickles. (I could be writing a book, an article, a newsletter.) Yes, it'd be a lot easier to hire people to do these things, as we do, in effect, when we pluck stuff off the Kroger shelf (or pay Ms. Handywipe to do the shopping).

That wouldn't feel right, too much distance between the soil and table. I like doing useless things, including running on cobblestones in a city I barely know.

The Negativity Quotient

2011-11-16T21:37:00.000-05:00

An informal survey conducted at Elk Cliff Farm recently found:

1. Negative people like to subtract, not add.
2. Negative people like to divide, not multiply.
3. The only power negative people have is to repel positives as well as negatives.
4. Negative people don't know what they're missing.
5. Negative people cut themselves from other people's lives.

"That's sad," says Virginia.

Don't be so negative.

Suffering Paradigm

2011-11-09T20:56:00.001-05:00

“We should consider that the boosters of the prevailing economic paradigm have the most to gain from its continuation, and that this economy is predicated on training us to be dissatisfied and ungrateful consumers.” Wendell Berry

We often hear that greed caused the ongoing financial crisis. Critics point at the greed of a broad cross-section of our citizenry – homebuyers who had eyes bigger than their wallets, mortgage originators and real estate agents who helped those eyes bulge, lenders and securitizers anxious to book ‘em and sell ‘em, investment banks ready and willing to bet for and against them, and others, too.

How do we recover from the effects of this greed? Most economists say the resumption of consumer spending is the key to financial recovery. Some of them recognize that if the rest of the world consumed like Americans do, our Earth would cry for help even louder than it already does. So, greed got us into this mess and perhaps now we need greed to get us out.

Or maybe we need a new paradigm, one in which we develop a disciplined approach to spending, not so influenced by the boosters of the status quo who want us to be dissatisfied with what we have, an approach that forces those boosters to offer us true value instead of snazzier cars, shoes, clothes and prepackaged foods our grandparents would not have recognized.

"You're getting carried away," says Virginia.

Carry me back to old Virginny. I understand our Commonwealth retired that State song. Maybe we could retire some other habits.

The Lucky Fiasco

2011-11-07T22:07:00.001-05:00

I understand Thomas Edison said something similar to "luck is 99% perspiration and 1% being in the right place at the right time." Well, today luck was luck, not perspiration and certainly not smarts.

A tree died along our fence line. For several months, or maybe a year or two, we've watched that tree, wondering if a storm might tip it onto the road. This morning, chainsaw in hand, I decided it was time to beat the storm. A few weeks ago I attended a seminar entitled "Law and Literature." Nothing's relevant to today's experience except for the keynote speaker's joke that "lawyers think they can do anything." I've mentioned that to my students and warned them that maybe certain lawyers can do anything if they adequately prepare.

I set out to prove that joke. I gnawed a nice notch on the fall-in side, carved exactly the way I'd read it should be done, and the way I'd done it a fair number of times before. Then I got nervous. Maybe the funeral procession that passed by had something to do with it. What if the tree fell the wrong way? I almost called a friend or two, for last rites perhaps, but heck, give it a go, I decided. I hadn't read, or at least hadn't remembered, that it might be a good idea to hammer in a wedge or two as I made the final opposite-side cut.

As the tree began to move, I noticed a little twist and thought one of those words I wish young people wouldn't say so readily, like the day my father remembered the hammer he'd hung on a tree branch as he swung down from that very same branch, except his words were "darn it!," the nastiest language I ever heard him utter.

Now came luck. The neighboring tree reached out and caught its long-time companion, as if to say "don't leave me yet." And more luck. When I called Dudley's Tree Service, he'd just finished a job and was on his way over. Karen and I pretended to be traffic cops for an hour or so, then the job was done.

"You had me worried," says Virginia.

You worried? Think how we'd have felt tonight if Mr. Dudley hadn't been so handy, if strong winds blew or rain turned to ice, and we feared some poor soul might drive under that leaning tree at exactly the wrong time. Phew!

Apple Cider, Worms and All

2011-11-06T20:33:00.001-05:00

This afternoon, after several hours of making cider (see Karen's blog at http://holesinmyjeans-kpannabecker.blogspot.com/, the man in charge looked at Karen and me and said something like, "All this has been given to us. Aren't we fortunate?"

When we finished and were getting ready to leave, Karen handed him a check. Holding his hands back, as if we were playing "hot potato," he said, "No, after all that work, you certainly don't have to pay." "That wasn't work," we said, "and yes, we must pay." After all, although the apples had been given to us (speaking in a generic, world-wide sense), he had paid for them. Besides, in truth, it wasn't work. All I did was cut apples into quarters, listen and say something once in a while. Ten gallons in, I thought, what a great way to relax after yesterday's mulching of a garden bed and digging up potatoes.

The day had begun with a covering of white, our first hard frost, but the sun soon warmed everything to comfort, an afternoon so perfect for being outdoors that a few yellow-jackets joined our celebration. A month earlier we would have joined the yellow-jackets and the result might not have been so delightful.

The people who gathered to press apples probably wouldn't have met anywhere else. We didn't ask what each other "did." For today, all that mattered was that we shared the same boat, doing something our ancestors have done for centuries rather than taking a bottle off a shelf and placing it in our grocery cart.

Next weekend we'll be making apple butter and a couple months from now, instead of cutting apples, we'll be cutting pork. That's what we do.

"Together we eat the land that someday will eat us," said Virginia, summing it up. "Everything is connected."

Don't Stop!

2011-11-05T08:42:00.000-04:00

So Fall frosts have killed the summer garden, don't stop. Spring will be here before we know it. Let's prepare.

So another year is nearly over and we've met many goals and objectives, don't stop. Fun lies ahead.

So the big banks dropped plans to impose monthly debit card fees, don't stop. Move the money where the mouth is. LocalMore!

So the exam is done, the paper written, the project complete, stop for a moment. Enjoy the feeling. Relax sore muscles, tired brain, worried forehead. Notice things we've been "too busy" to notice.

Virginia says, "Remember when the schedule may have seemed almost too much to bear? It wasn't, almost, maybe, never, is."

Freezing New Zealand Spinach

2011-11-03T19:39:00.000-04:00

1. Pick a big bowl of spinach.

"Big bowl, maybe," says Virginia, "but not a big bowl of spinach."

She can be so critical. It was a big bowl of spinach until I emptied half of it.

2. Heat olive oil in a saucepan and toss in the spinach.

3. Cook and stir constantly.

4. Cook down to dark green, then cool in a colander.

5. Stuff in a plastic bag or box and freeze.

More LocalMore

2011-11-02T10:18:00.002-04:00

I understand the giant banks have nixed their plans to impose $5 monthly fees on debit cards.

"Why?" says Virginia. "Because so many customers complained?"

Maybe, but I don't think it was just the talk. More likely, it was because so many customers put their money where their mouths were, and moved their accounts to smaller, more local banks. See my blog posting for October 5, "Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is -- LocalMore" at whoisvirginia.blogspot.com/2011/10/put-your-money-where-your-mouth-is.html. I wish I could say that my posting made a difference, but I can't. Hardly anyone reads this blog.

Now what? LocalMore. My brother-in-law, the former editor of a small town newspaper and now the creator of a successful on-line small town newspaper (The Bluffton Icon), many years ago made a point of encouraging readers to buy local. This was long before the "Buy Local" food movement. He thought it made sense for people to support their own townsfolk, especially the ones who offered products and services in downtown stores, rather than tripping off to Lima or Findlay or even farther to Toledo or Columbus. (And it probably helped sell ads for the newspaper.)

That's what I mean by LocalMore. It makes sense to buy things made near us, by people we know. Among other things, those items then don't need to be shipped hundreds or thousands of miles, back and forth, to fill our orders.

"But we don't know what's made nearby," says Virginia.

That's probably true, in large part. So we should find out. It's taken a lot of work for folks to coordinate the sale of food grown nearby (LocalVore). After all, it's often inefficient to drive here for a gallon of milk, there for a cabbage, and yon for a basket of strawberries. So someone has to accept the challenge of setting up a farmers' market or local food store. The same cooperation is necessary to pull together other products made locally.

"So are you going to do it?" says Virginia.

Well, um, I'm so busy as it is.

"Yea, right," she says. "That's what they all say. So the banks get bigger and bigger until they're too big to fail."

November Gardening Month

2011-10-30T17:04:00.000-04:00

November gardening month is almost here. Checking my calendar, I noticed last November was a very busy month in the garden, and it paid off come Spring. Ditto, I think, for this year.

As a prelude, yesterday I finally created a doorstep to the greenhouse, so air doesn't rush through the opening under the sliding doors.

See, under the doors?

And here, a doorstop.

"Oh, vapors," says Virginia, "you're making me dizzy."

Right. What color should I paint it? Porchy gray?

"I heard a racket out back." Virginia's talkative today.

Yes, I diced a hickory, I think, and an ironwood into chunks of future firewood. That's another project for November, should have been done in April or May.

Halloween

2011-10-29T21:01:00.003-04:00

"Who was that masked girl?" said Virginia.

Liquid Gold

2011-10-29T08:53:00.000-04:00

"What's the tower in the middle of that picture?" says Virginia. "It looks like you're drilling for oil."

Not oil. Something even more valuable, considering where Earth is headed.

If you click on the picture, perhaps you can see that the welldriller appears almost suspended in air, its four wheels up and off the ground. After digging 140 feet, the watermen went home to get some more equipment. Maybe they'll finish on Monday.

Happenings in the Field

2011-10-27T14:01:00.000-04:00

I always thought it'd be cool to travel by tunnel.

"I don't think that's deep enough," says Virginia, eyes rolling.

Gotta start somewhere.

Our new water pipeline for feeding animals and campers now lies in the bottom of this ditch.

Here's a view from the corner of our new fence.

And from the center fence that divides the field roughly in half.

Someday maybe we'll stage an Elk Cliff 5K or a donkey pulling a cart around the outside edge.

Fall Shopping Spree

2011-10-26T10:52:00.001-04:00

"So you've closed down the garden for winter, right?" says Virginia, who seems to be on the mend but doesn't get out much.

Hardly. Would you like to go shopping? How about a salad? Lettuces, spinach and beet greens.

Maybe add some bok choy or chinese cabbage.

Let's toss in a few leaves of kale and broccoli raab (in memory of my friend, Peggy).

Of course, we need carrots, maybe some nips (turnips and parsnips), and dill, too.

Chives, basil and sage add flavor.

Maybe fennel and rosemary.

We almost forgot parsley, radishes and New Zealand spinach.

Adam and I missed an eggplant the other day when Mr. Frost stayed away. He still hasn't arrived.

For more substance, we might add potatoes, green tomatoes or kohlrabi.

Now, before you go, how about a good cry? We'll dig up and grind some horseradish.

Greenhouse Happenings

2011-10-20T17:48:00.001-04:00

Last night, Susan asked what's happening in our greenhouse.

You may remember my tomato grower's post, filed after a friend from Mississippi visited while interning at Polyface Farms, home of Joel Salatin. I've been following his instructions.

"Those aren't tomatoes," Virginia croaks from her sickbed.

Did I say they were? He suggested applying the same rules to cucumbers, so I have. Check out these little guys. Maybe they'll flavor our salads in a couple weeks. Oh, I should mention, their vines have been growing about 2 inches each day.

Here's a tomato plant.

Yes, over to the left, that's basil.

Not so Grumpy Old Men

2011-10-08T15:44:00.002-04:00

Back in Ohio for a visit with my mother and sister, my mother fed me to the wolves. On Saturday mornings at 10 she likes to attend a "coffee klatsch" in the dining room of her retirement living center. When she invited me, I said, sure, I'll come with you even though I don't drink coffee. Upon our arrival, she led me to a nearly full table of men. Wondering where she was going to sit, I looked for another chair to bring to the table. Oh no, I'll be over there, she said, pointing at a larger table filled with women (and one man).

Gulp. Well, maybe it'll be okay, I thought, as I identified myself to Russell, one of my mother's double first cousins, the result of two sisters marrying two brothers so as to deprive their offspring of a set of cousins. Slimming down may be a good idea when you come from a heritage as big as mine that includes a set of great-great-great-grandparents (Christian and Maria) who had 16 children and 165 grandchildren. Rumor has it they once appeared in the Guinness Book of World Records for this feat. Imagine having 16 children! Then, imagine each of them averaging more than 10 children! Ouch!

My double first cousin, once removed, was my first boss, actually co-boss because I worked for him and his brother, Gene, on their "truck" farm. No, we didn't grow trucks, we grew strawberries, corn and melons. Gene and Russell probably deserve much of the credit, or blame, for the fact that my wife and I now "farm" (using the word loosely and generously) a few acres.

Before long, one of my college math professors squeezed into our group, helping to keep my armpits dry. What do elderly men talk about? Russell passed around a puzzle he had made several years ago. Like the proverbial ship in a bottle, the question for the day was how he had managed to get the little wooden sculpture into a very small-mouthed medicine bottle. Maybe that's what men of their generation have in common, an interest in puzzles.

When Russell asked if we kept up with politics, John, the man who chased this once-upon-a-time grade-schooler down after he lit a cherry bomb, said something like "not now." That was the end of that, probably a good thing. We turned to sex -- polygamy in the goat world, to be precise. Perhaps a relatively large group of men, even older ones, can never escape penis envy. One fellow mentioned he'd read about a man who'd answered an ad seeking immigrants to a country that allowed polygamy. The guy discovered he should have done a bit more research, returning home disappointed and poorer. The ad had been placed because women needed men to join harems of 20 husbands.

"Harems?" Virginia mutters from her bed.

For an interesting few minutes, Google "male harem" if you think I used that term wrong.

Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is -- LocalMore

2011-10-05T09:28:00.001-04:00

Are you upset about big financial institutions and their failure to show any remorse for the way they've been behaving, after taking us to the brink of financial disaster, getting the country to bail them out, then resuming giant salaries and bonuses, messing up mortgage servicing, ignoring the Servicemembers' Civil Relief Act, while watching the unemployment rate rise?

And now, Bank of America, again perched on a cliff -- with what some analysts say includes $200 billion of bad mortgage loans it may need to write off -- announces a $5 monthly fee for debit cards, blaming the "need" to impose the fee on the financial reform bill (Dodd-Frank), the very same bill whose unimplemented provisions were supposed to come down hard on too-big-to-fail institutions.

If you're out there complaining about the big banks, get with the program. Bring your money home, to local financial institutions. Go LocalMore! First, Localvore, now LocalMore! They're FDIC-insured, too, and they're not too-big-to-fail. Retire your Bank of America debit and credit cards. You've got plenty of other options. Bring CEO Moynihan to his knees, like NetFlix chairman Hastings after 1,000,000 customers quit, who had the good sense to admit: "I slid into arrogance based upon past success."

For more, check out my February 10, 2010 blog posting: "Keep $$ Local." You can find it easily by clicking on "Banking" among the list of topics on the right side of this blog.

"Enough, enough," gasps Virginia, still struggling. Her attention span is very short these days.

All in the Family

2011-10-02T20:50:00.005-04:00

Karen's best friends might be her animals, mine my vegetables, depending, of course, on how you define "best friends." Sometimes I think we don't spend enough time defining what we mean.

Both yesterday and today I froze spinach, New Zealand spinach. I planted New Zealand spinach seeds three years ago. No need to replant, maybe ever. If I didn't like it, I might call it a weed. Instead, it's a good friend, gradually taking over the garden bed under the special ash tree. It's a great friend to have because it's the longest standing spinach I've ever known. Unlike the "regular" varieties of spinach, it lasts three seasons, through the heat of summer into the cold of winter.

By the way, Virginia's very sick. In fact, she told me to stop writing this blog for a while. I'm thinking about taking her up on it. I get as many visitors when I don't write as when I do. Two years of blog posts can do that to you. Besides, my handwritten journals say what I want to say, probably better than this.

The latest issue of Time has an article on favorite children. I never gave that much thought until my sister talked about it ten or fifteen years ago. The article mentions a woman who blogged about her favorite child. As you might imagine, she took a lot of heat for it. It's one of those taboos good parents keep to themselves.

I've known people who live for their families. They seem to get together with their parents and siblings whenever they've got spare time. Of course, they live close together. They're so busy with their atomic family they have trouble squeezing in time for friends. At the other end of the spectrum, I've also known people who admit they rarely see their siblings and would never choose them for friends. I suppose most of us fall somewhere in between.

Many families are like animals and plants. Animals and plants often let you know they like you, at least they seem to, but they don't talk much. That is, they don't mention the pain they suffered when an offspring went through a divorce, or the job they left because, well who knows, they quit, were fired, or laid-off. They avoid discussing why the partner of their gay son or daughter doesn't show up at albeit rare family gatherings or how they felt when their nudist uncle invited them to a club meeting, after discovering he and aunt judith have been living separate for years and finally signed divorce papers. Instead, about all you really know is what they ate for dinner.

Good friends, the ones I see frequently, talk about those things. Who's family?

Wheelbarrows

2011-09-24T19:36:00.000-04:00

100,000 poets around the world celebrated their art today, including a few in nearby Lexington. We strolled around the local Kroger store, adding items to shopping carts while speaking random lines from "The Red Wheelbarrow" by William Carlos Williams. Local shoppers must be accustomed to weirdos talking to themselves. They didn't pay us much mind. When one of our group began beating his drum in the front of the store, we headed that way and gathered around him. Our leader shouted out the poem, then we began calling it out and repeating it line by line. After a few minutes we returned to our carts and checked out. For more, check out Karen's blog at http://holesinmyjeans-kpannabecker.blogspot.com/.

Next project, sweet corn. I seeded many plantings of sweet corn this year. Several were miserable failures, but persistence paid off. We have more than we need at the moment. I reined in our black wheelbarrow, loaded it with ears, and rolled it over to a paddock. There, Karen and I served dessert to goats and donkeys. I continued to the outdoor kitchen, where I cut off the kernels. Finally, down in the basement kitchen, I canned and froze 20 quarts.

Here's one instance in which the best is the easiest. To freeze the corn, I put a quart of kernels in a large cereal bowl and microwaved it for 3 1/2 minutes. I immediately stuck the corn in a plastic bag and into the freezer. This has worked well for years. The only thing I worry about is the Mideastern (?) petroleum that makes the plastic bag. You tell me. Is that okay?

Canning is more complicated, as has been explained in earlier blog entries.

"Yeah, but how about showing us what the canner's supposed to sound like?" says Virginia.

All right. Here it is.

Beanucopia

2011-09-17T20:38:00.000-04:00

We are now harvesting my last plantings of green beans for 2011. Today we cleaned a bucketful I picked this morning, plus some guys we'd stored in the refrigerator.

Here are the jars ready to go, filled with boiling water.

"So green!" says Virginia.

Yes, it's too bad canned beans turn such an ugly -- I'm not very good at this color thing, but after looking through a color chart I'd pick -- ooze. Oh well, they're good in soup, and soup colors are almost always far from fresh.

Ending up with 14 quarts, I decided to put two pressure canners to work, including one we found a couple years ago in a Goodwill store. Perhaps that was a risky proposition since I haven't tested its pressure gauge. I basically ran them side-by-side, overdoing the pressure and the time on the unknown canner. So far so good.

Gobbledygook and Psychobabble

2011-09-15T21:18:00.000-04:00

Finally, in September, it's time to freeze sweet corn. Three or four ears have been favoring my lunch plate for more than a month, and now the last two plantings are ripening too rapidly for us to eat. Same with green beans. In fact, at the moment I'm behind on everything. My editors probably think I should be working on a deadline that's passed instead of writing a blog entry.

"Are you going to mention why?" says Virginia.

Why what? Maybe. Sometimes a little diversion goes a long way. I could admit that teaching a law school class has bled time from my usual pursuits, offering a captive audience for someone hungry to share tidbits after more than 17 years of fairly solitary studying. Two classes, two drops. When I left the building, it was raining. I don't know if that's a bad sign or nothing at all.

I let the writing get away from me, consume me, as if 17 years of passing persistence called for redemption. Maybe I had to be doubly sure it was real work. Are these the doubts of a possible imposter? Peel the onion. Does it stink?

Please Don't Cut Off My Nose

2011-09-10T07:17:00.000-04:00

Our friend, Marilyn, dropped by with some bulbs this spring, gifts from gardener to gardener. I buried them here and there, marked by labels the chickens soon removed.

"Did the flower appear all of a sudden?" asks Virginia.

Like a surprise lilly, does she mean? Maybe. It "appeared" to our noses yesterday, which led us to the flower.

Some of a Man's Best Friends

2011-09-07T10:11:00.000-04:00

Each morning I look for treats. A rich, soaking rain helped bring up some lettuce the night before last.

These little beets are several days old.

Consider the innocence of raindrops on eggplants.

New Zealand spinach volunteers every spring, then produces for three seasons. I think it may be calling us home.

Merry Christmas in September. Plant the red balls for spring asparagus, three years hence.

Here's a sweetheart.

We usually have to wait all summer for these to thicken.

"Don't forget your best friend," says Virginia.

Words, Words, Words

2011-09-05T21:32:00.005-04:00

As rain pours, making ponds of our goat paddocks, I ponder the practicality of being proud. We met a woman the other night who insisted her husband is the only man she ever met who has no ego. That's what she said. Maybe she meant he isn't egocentric. Perhaps that's why I liked him. I don't think so.

When we lived in North Carolina, many people said, "I'm proud of you." In a way, it was like being in a non-English-speaking country. Someone who barely knew us would say, "I'm proud of you." The statement was believable, said with confidence and certainty. It was not fluff. Well, maybe it was, but it sounded sincere, not like the "love ya" that gets tossed about so easily. For me to believe that phrase, it must be said fully and completely, "I love you," with no ambiguity as to who loves whom.

Many religions view humility as a virtue and pride as a deadly sin. I understand that St. Augustine wrote that pride "is the love of one's own excellence" and in the words of Meher Baba, "Pride is the specific feeling through which egoism manifests." Some philosophers consider pride a virtue. Funny thing, in one week one can receive a compliment for humility and a suspicion of pride. Hmmm, maybe it's okay coming from someone else but not from oneself or, like ice cream, chocolate and almost everything else, in moderation.

"I thought pride was a pack of lions," says Virginia.

Of course she's right. Rrrrr.

Planting Fenceposts By the Light of the (Full) Moon

2011-08-27T23:31:00.004-04:00

I used to roll my eyes when someone suggested herbal remedies. Then I met a physician who made fun of "old wives' tales." Maybe I began to change my mind because she also seemed amazed that anyone would choose to live in Arnold's Valley, where we live. Yes, a childish response, but hey, under stress we typically turn childish, don't we? Maybe I misinterpreted her comments. Since then, she's earned a reputation for being open to alternative treatments, such as bee sting therapy.

And then came Darla. This little goat contracted an infection in her neck within 2 weeks after birth. The spot grew and grew. Darla became our in-house guest for a little while. A vet aspirated the abscess, we aspirated it, a vet removed a lymph node, and Virginia Tech vet experts also tried to remove the growth. Each time we followed treatment with a penicillin regimen. When the thing began to grow again, Karen cried, convinced she'd have to say goodbye to Darla.

Wait a minute. Let's call our friend, L, who's into herbal treatments. Maybe they work for humans, maybe they work for goats. She suggested grapefruit seed extract and oregano oil. Karen gave Darla the grapefruit seed extract (GSE) orally a few times, and rubbed the oregano oil, and sometimes the GSE, on her neck twice a day. The swelling gradually disappeared. A couple months later, Darla seems to be a normal, healthy goat -- well, above normal actually, she's a lover girl.

"Until you wrote this blog entry," says Virginia.

Hush. That's nonsense, an old wives' tale. It'd better be.

A few days ago, the lower right palm of my left hand began to hurt like crazy. I don't remember any trauma. Maybe I pricked myself when I pulled a couple thistles and some mature pokeweed. The pad of my hand swelled and during the first night throbbed badly enough to disturb my sleep, not a simple thing, I've been sleeping like a baby after all the exercise I've been getting this summer.

All right, no big deal, except my left leg way up high began bugging me a few days before the hand thing. Could they be connected, like, um, I won't mention the word that comes to mind in my family and many others these days?

Hmmm, what should I try? Tea tree oil is supposed to be good for treating insect bites. Karen rubbed some on last night, and some calendula oil this morning. Tonight the hand feels almost normal.

"Like wow," says Virginia, "as if the same thing might not have happened without the oils."

Yeah, she's right. But I think I'll rub some oil on that leg tonight.

Earthshake, Oooooo

2011-08-23T15:28:00.001-04:00

As I munched on 5 ears of sweet corn (some reflected the lack of rain and weren't filled out), the house shook for 15-20 seconds. I thought Karen and Fred, our friend the electrician, were shaking wires in the ceiling of the basement kitchen. I almost said, "It sounds like Clifford, the big red dog, down there." The house shook again a minute or two later.

I didn't think anything of it until Fred's wife called to say there was an earthquake in DC or somewhere east of here. She'd seen something on television, I guess. Inquiries began coming in from around the world, Kansas first.

"I didn't know you had any friends," says Virginia, "until a government action brings them out."

What do you mean?

"Well, you said you didn't give it any thought," says Virginia, "until someone, probably a government agency, reported an earthquake. Then you assumed it was an earthquake."

Heck, she's right, sort of. Maybe it wasn't an earthquake, just a sympathetic vibration imagined by a few hundred thousand or million people. After all, one of our nieces in Ohio didn't feel it, while people around her did. The air may just have been full of brain farts, nothing new.

Tomato Man

2011-08-21T12:38:00.004-04:00

We've been known to invite complete strangers into our home, actually, not complete strangers, I mean, how complete a stranger could an Appalachian through-hiker be? To some people they might seem strange or irresponsible, but to us, they seem, maybe, adventurous, energetic, thoughtful, perhaps even wild or romantic.

What's the worst that could happen? They're not going to steal much. After all, they've chosen to hike 2100 miles with a backpack and by the time they get to Virginia they've learned to keep that pack as light as possible.

"Stink up your washing machine for a month?" Virginia offers. Yes, Karen would probably agree with that.

What's the best that could happen? They might become friends. Several have returned after summiting Mt. Kathadin. One fellow came back yet another time to house-sit while we spent a month in Italy, and again after that. Our current guest is a through-hiker friend of a through-hiker friend of our house-sitter, who stayed here 2 years ago during his own walk in the woods. He's helping Karen move pigs as I write this. I'll be the cameraman shortly.

Before the pigs, he gave me a lesson in tomatoes. He knows tomatoes because he and his dad grow tomatoes for production in Mississippi. Never put tomatoes in a refrigerator, he says. That will kill their nutritional value. Don't put them on a sunny windowsill either. They'll last longer in an open paper bag. Spreading them apart is a good idea because the more they're exposed to the ethylene gas they put off, the sooner they ripen. If you want a red one, put it in a paper bag with a banana. The gas from the banana will ripen it fast. (My sister will love this news, as much as she loves bananas.)

Don't they taste best when they've ripened red on the vine? Probably not, he says. Pick them when they first begin to "break red," that is, begin to turn red. Supposedly, the vine shuts down on a tomato at that stage, so there's no point leaving it on any longer. Besides, leaving it on longer might take energy from the other unripened tomatoes.

"Hmm, if the vine shuts down on it, why would that take energy from the other fruit?" asks Virginia.

Search me. Anyway, I was more interested in how to prune my tomatoes for best production. Start early, after the plant's grown a foot or so and has put out a sucker. Limit growth to two vines per plant by breaking off all but the main stem and the first sucker. As those two vines grow, continually pick off suckers. Each vine will grow three leaves, fruit, three leaves, fruit, etc. Tie the vines up a wire or stake and train them along for as long as they'll go, sometimes 60 feet. Chickens may get the first fruit to ripen, down low, but they won't be able to reach the higher tomatoes. The fruits will ripen in order from the bottom of the vine up. As you pick them, remove the leaves below, so you basically have a bare vine up to the bottom fruits still ripening. You want the vine's energy going into the necessary leaves and fruit, not to needless leaves. The number of leaves required per vine depends on the variety of tomato; generally, 20-30 leaves is sufficient. (A "leaf" consists of a frond with all of what I previously might have called "leaves.") By the way, these instructions assume your variety is "indeterminate," which means the fruit ripens gradually from bottom up. The seed packet should say whether the seed is indeterminate or determinate. Determinate varieties, for which all the fruit ripens at the same time, are used by many commercial growers that use automated pickers.

Our friend worked on a farm in Colorado last summer. Before he came, the farmers found themselves stuck with picking green tomatoes because they couldn't get their plants to produce fast enough in their climate. With his help, they had red tomatoes for 2 months.

My work's cut out for me this Fall. Gotta get some more tomato plants in the greenhouse and see what we can do by Christmas. Maybe try the same with cucumbers. Next year, do this outdoors with tomatoes, cucumbers, vining squashes, and more.

Still Life II

2011-08-15T18:57:00.001-04:00

"How sad!" says Virginia.

Last Spring I had an itch to plant something while I waited for my fairly full garden to sprout. So I grabbed sunflower seeds and buried them here, there, and all around. A couple months later their yellow heads livened everywhere. This fellow took a donkey blow, faring a little better than his devoured neighbors. I planted a few more last week, hoping they might mature before our first frost.

Not so sad, Karen and my niece, Kendra, helped me prettify these breath mints for use this winter.

Lest you think we'll run out, here are two buckets and a basket with more of the same, without the stalks. Want some?

At the other end of the gardening spectrum, here's whazup right now.

October Beans A-Comin' with Turnips on the Side

Lettuce Under an Ash Tree

Eggplants Trying

Sweet Potatoes Seeming Happy

The Parsley and the Pea

Still Life

2011-08-13T11:31:00.005-04:00

Finish Line

"What on earth is that?" says Virginia.

It's what I collected at the end of my run this morning, littering the roadside along the edge of our field. I decided it would make a nice still life. Several titles crossed my mind, including "Dr. P Rejected."

"Were you feeling rejected this morning?" says Virginia.

Not at all, nor was I feeling like a "doctor." The Dr. Pepper bottle struck me deepest because there it lay, barely touched. Who threw it and why?

Maybe a rich man had seen soft drinks on the shelf at Tee Pees and bought a bag of a bunch of brands. After he mounted his Mercedes, he grabbed a bottle and took a sip. "Yuck," he said as he threw it out his window.

Perhaps a poor fellow had reached into his pocket and found barely enough coins to buy one bottle. He savored the first sip and another as he walked down the road, carefully screwing the cap on after each drink. "Oh no." He pretended to trip and set the bottle on the ground. A car stopped to give him a ride. "Close one," he thought, knowing the driver, his "fiancee," would have leveled him with a tongue lashing if she'd seen that he'd wasted money on a Dr. Pepper.

"You're being too kind," says Virginia.

All right. Some slob threw the thing out his window with no thought, the same kind of attention he gives most of his life as he gripes about government spending, how much trouble he goes through to get his disability claims paid, and how seldom his wife cleans house.

Did you know still lifes were popular in ancient Greek tombs because some people believed the subjects in a still life would become real with reincarnation? May "Finish Line" or "Dr. P. Rejected" be the first thing our litterbug sees when he or she begins the his next life.

Keri, our Great Pyrenees Pup

Perceptions

2011-08-10T22:27:00.002-04:00

I've been reading the fascinating book, Musicophilia, by Oliver Sacks, a neurologist. He writes about musical maladies and phenomena, such as those of folks who get struck by lightning or are injured in an accident and suddenly discover a new interest in playing piano, composing or listening to classical music. He includes a chapter on "idiot savants," who typically are male and have one amazing ability -- such as total recall of music they've only heard once with the talent to play it on the piano and transpose it to any other key. Another chapter addresses people who lose hearing in one ear and then compensate for not being able to hear in stereo by moving their heads slightly while listening and/or compensating by developing additional brain skills.

A chapter on absolute or perfect pitch suggests that most of us might have been born with absolute pitch but failed to recognize and develop it, and therefore lost it, when we learned language skills. This is supported by the high percentage of people who speak a tonal language, such as Chinese, who have perfect pitch, compared to persons who speak non-tonal languages such as English.

The general concept that struck me most is that listening to music requires the coordination of a multitude of skills. Of course, we hear the basic elements of pitch and rhythm, but we also hear tone, timbre, loudness, tempo, contour (rise and fall), spatial location, and reverberation. People with absolute pitch notice another element, which some call "chroma" -- such as the personality of an F# or Ab. Hairs in our ears, the shapes of our inner and outer ears, and other aspects of our ear physiology receive these elements and our brains combine our receptions into a listening experience. Some ears and brains lack certain capabilities, bringing a different experience to their humans, which at times can be irritating or disappointing, especially in the event of a change caused by an injury or illness. Similar differences happen with sight and, I suppose, the other senses.

"So what I see and hear may be different from what you see and hear," says Virginia.

Exactly. I recently discussed this with an artist friend, who recalled that once upon a time when she was lying in bed with one eye closed, she noticed that the wall was -- I forget what she said -- let's say pink. She happened to close that eye and open the other and saw that the same wall was another color, let's say orange.

I had a similar experience about 25 years ago, but mine was auditory. I was on a telephone call. When I was put on hold I noticed that the music being played to entertain me while I waited moved up a half-step. I thought, "now, why would they do that?" A little later, it moved back down a half-step. Then it moved up again. Eventually I realized the pitch changed whenever I got tired of holding the phone with one hand and switched it to my other ear. This hasn't bothered me. My brain normally takes what I'm hearing through two ears and interprets it as one pitch, which happens to be the "correct" one. At least, people who hear me sing say I'm in tune. I suppose they could be humoring me.

I recently heard a singer performing flat, on every song. I had enough bad taste to ask a couple other people if they agreed with me. They did. Having read Musicophilia, next time I'll be more considerate.

Pressure Canning -- Don't Blow Your Top

2011-08-07T14:58:00.002-04:00

Many people have told me they don't pressure can because they've heard stories about canners blowing up and making a mess of kitchens. Maybe this will help allay their fears.

First, if appropriate, heat up what you're canning. In this case, we're canning pizza sauce, so we need to make it hot.

In the meantime, check the petcock/counterweight hole on the canner's lid. Can you see daylight through it?

If you can, great. If not, you need to clear the way. Sterilize your jars. I rinse clean jars with water and microwave them for 3 minutes, or pour boiling water over them. Fill them with pizza sauce or whatever you're canning, leaving the proper headroom, 1/2 inch from the top for this pizza sauce. Place a sterilized canning lid on top of each jar and screw the ring tight. Place the jars inside the canner with enough water to rise two inches up the side of the canner.

"Only four jars?" says Virginia.

I hate to use a 7-quart canner for only 4 jars, but in this case that's all I have to can.

Check the gasket for the canner's lid, making sure it's properly lined up, then turn the lid on tight. This is hard to do with our canner. I do the best I can. The less tight, the more likely it will leak and drip water onto your stovetop, which is no big deal so long as it doesn't drip too much and you have enough water inside.

Now for a step some folks forget. Don't put the counterweight on yet. Turn on the stove burner and wait for steam to come out the hole on which you will set the counterweight. After the steam begins escaping, wait at least 10 minutes to be sure the air is expelled from inside the canner. Air trapped in the canner lowers the temperature for a given pressure and may result in under-processing. This step is very reassuring. You see the steam coming out the right place, so it's hard to picture an explosion in the wrong place. After 10 minutes, set the counterweight on. (Some of your pressure cookers have pressure gauges; I haven't used them, so I can't help you there.)

Use the 10 pound hole for this pizza sauce.

Wait for the counterweight to begin to jiggle as it lifts up to let out pressure and down until the pressure builds up again. Listen until the jiggle goes at a good clip (the directions for your canner should provide better advice on what to listen for), then set a timer for the appropriate time, 40 minutes for this pizza sauce.

As time passes, if the jiggle sounds too aggressive, turn the heat down, but not so low the jiggling stops.

When the time's up, turn off the burner, remove the canner from the burner and let it cool. Don't try to take off the pet cock until the pressure has relieved or you may get burned. Ditto, opening the canner. Probably the best thing to do is something else so you forget about it for a while. After it's cool, open her up and remove the jars. Presto!

By the way, you can remove the rings now. If the lids have properly sealed, the rings are no longer necessary and there's no need to keep a huge supply of rings around. And -- if I've messed up -- let me know, please.

A Tit for a Tat?

2011-08-06T11:32:00.006-04:00

You've probably heard or read that S&P downgraded U.S. debt from AAA to AA+. AAA supposedly means the obligor has "extremely strong" capacity to meet its financial commitments, while AA+ means the obligor has "very strong" capacity to meet its financial commitments, differing from AAA only a tad. I understand that earlier this year, four companies were rated AAA: Exxon/Mobil (XOM), Automatic Data Processing (ADP), Johnson & Johnson (JNJ) and Microsoft (MSFT). For more on S&P ratings, see http://www2.standardandpoors.com/spf/pdf/fixedincome/Ratings_Definitions.pdf.

To add a little perspective, I understand that yesterday S&P rated Ireland's debt as investment grade (AAA, AA, A or BBB), giving it a BBB+, a few notches above junk. Meanwhile, Moody's rates Ireland as junk -- Ba1. S&P rates Greece as CCC -- very bad junk indeed.

But what exactly is S&P saying about the U.S.? The U.S., unlike Exxon or Microsoft, can print dollars to repay its debt. Does S&P think the U.S. Mint is about to explode?

"It sounds like a case of the pot calling the kettle black," says Virginia.

She's right. If I'm not mistaken, S&P was one of the credit rating agencies that rated subprime mortgage-backed securities as investment grade -- and remember what happened just three years ago! Some people place some of the blame for our current financial crisis on agencies such as S&P. Presumably the credit rating agencies have changed their practices since then.

Or maybe it's all politics. I don't know about you, but I'm finding it pretty hard to distinguish fact from fiction, honesty from dishonesty. If S&P were a child, I might suggest its latest downgrade is a little tantrum, thrown at the government that, in the Dodd-Frank Wall Street Reform and Consumer Protection Act, included a subtitle aimed at credit rating agencies, now called "nationally recognized statistical rating organizations" (NRSROs). That subtitle -- Subtitle C of Title IX (Title IX being the Investor Protection and Securities Reform Act of 2010) -- comes down very hard on the credit rating agencies that granted inaccurate or misleading AAA ratings to securities backed by subprime mortgage loans. Among other things, it empowers the SEC to regulate NRSROs and requires all government agencies to reduce reliance on credit ratings by removing references to credit rating agencies and NRSROs from their regulations.

"Slap me, I'll slap you back," says Virginia.

Buy or Sell

2011-08-04T16:38:00.008-04:00

When I mentioned to a brother that the Dow Jones Industrial Average had fallen 270 points this morning, he said, "Time to buy?" I said, "When it hits 7,000, maybe 8,000."

"What's wrong with you?" says Virginia. "Don't you believe in our resilience?"

I guess so, long-term. Unfortunately, there's no good economic news out there and it's not raining. Fortunately, our pump is located near the garden so I can water every day. The next planting of green beans is coming along nicely. Can't say the same for our representatives in the National Capital.

"Now that they've raised the debt ceiling, maybe they can concentrate on jobs," says Virginia.

Right, when we get to the final quarter, or more likely, the last five minutes, maybe, like a sports team, saving energy until the end. The big problem with that approach is -- unlike a game, we don't know when the end will be. Think global warming, for example. It's happening and there are things we can do, whether or not humans are solely responsible for it. I'm afraid, until the end is nigh (or past), we'll keep our heads buried in the sand.

"It's in God's hands," says Virginia.

I see the smile on her face. God passed the ball, "Show me what you can do." I have this sinking feeling we may have dropped it about the time we decided to let someone pursue McDonald's for spilled hot coffee. Come on, team, let's show what we can do! I think I'll go do some watering. I hope I haven't waited too long.

Home-made Goat Milk Ice Cream

2011-08-01T20:15:00.000-04:00

At least once a week we make ice cream -- goat ice cream, of course. All it takes is 1 quart of milk, 1 cup of sugar, 1 tablespoon of vanilla, and 2 eggs. if we feel like using alien material, we add 8 ounces of evaporated milk or cream. Otherwise, we add 8 more ounces of milk. Plus, ice, ice cream salt, and the electric 2-quart ice cream maker my mother gave me when she down-sized her living quarters. Of course, the milk mixture goes in the stainless steel cylinder that spins around the beaters. After that's locked in, we fill the plastic bucket one-third with ice, sprinkle salt on top, and repeat twice. Then add a couple cups of water.

After 20-30 minutes of noisy mixing, we sit down to deep bowls of udder delight. We don't re-pack it like some folks do. We like soft-serve. If we wanted the hard stuff, we'd run next store to Tee Pee's for Hershey's, and try not to worry about what's in it.

"Why would you worry?" says Virginia.

Unlike ours, Hershey's is made from industrial milk, probably heated to kill all the good stuff and leave white nothingness. Ours is full of free-ranged omega-3 fatty acids and other wellness-promoters. Yum!

Global Rupture?

2011-07-25T22:16:00.000-04:00

The pigs are doing a good job roto-tilling a garden bed, their test site. We're getting a little sweet corn from the field garden, which will be their next project. Some winter squash seems to be doing all right in that garden, too. If we put the pigs out there, will they stay inside their electric fence? We plan to gradually move them around the big garden. A fence break could badly mess things up. Hitting a deer is no fun. Hitting a pig wouldn't be, either.

If the field garden experiment works, then we may move the pigs or their replacements around the field. Bit by bit we might be able to plant the field with native grasses and animal food, such as oats and barley. Or blueberries, pumpkins, strawberries, etc. I don't know about monoculture planting though, a quarter acre or twenty-five. How big does it have to be before it becomes monoculture?

Reading Silent Spring, including Rachel Carson's account of the use of DDT on elm trees in Michigan and elsewhere, leads me to wonder if, 60 years later, the robins have returned. Have we learned from that experience or are we doing the same sort of thing with "safe" treatments like Roundup? There's so much we don't know. We should be wary of introducing any inventions into our planet's ecosystems. I'm inclined to apply the grandmother test -- if grandmother wouldn't recognize it, don't eat it, and think ten thousand times before spraying it on plants.

"Hey, what's it matter?" says Virginia. "The rapture is coming soon."

She's a kidder. Too bad many other people aren't.

Mirrors and Tombstones

2011-07-24T16:07:00.004-04:00

Imagine looking in the mirror every morning (for a week or two) and seeing this:

You might hear, "Dahling, quit dilly-dallying."

Or this might be cool, sort of Fonzarellian (think Arthur Herbert Fonzarelli, "the Fonz" on Happy Days):

Here are some pretty bugs -- pretty darn nasty. Our chickens have been getting most of them this year. If you don't have chickens, I understand spraying them with a mixture of warm water, vinegar and some dishwashing liquid will send them to la-la land. They suck, trying to destroy all the brassicas before moving on to other crops. These two Harlequins are enjoying Brussels sprouts. Aren't they beautiful?

Here are some German Cushaw squash I trained to hang on the fence.

"Are you sure?" says Virginia.

Well, the seeds came from a Southern Exposure Seed Exchange packet labeled "green-striped cushaw." A Google search of cushaw brings up several pictures of what I thought were Georgia candy roasters, which happen to be growing to the left of these guys. Here's one:

Whatever, these are giant winter squash. Cut one open and it feeds two people for two weeks.

If you read my blog entry from yesterday, about cleaning up the greenhouse, here you can see what I've been doing -- pulling weeds, then covering with a layer of black plastic under a layer of black mesh cloth, and in the aisles, a rubber mat. The wooden 2 x 6's will form the back sides of two more beds -- I'll be cutting and removing the plastic to the rubber runner -- in which I'll plant, who knows, maybe lettuce, broccoli, artichokes? In each corner, I covered the black mesh with mulch and then four 2 x 6s that hold a broken marble tombstone that's intended to keep the greenhouse from blowing away in a storm. No grave robbing; a friend of ours who digs graves brought us four rejected broken tombstones.

Greenhouse Reconstruction

2011-07-23T18:18:00.000-04:00

A rush job almost always has to be redone, doesn't it?

On our 22nd anniversary last October, having received an email that a local business was shifting gears and selling their greenhouse, we checked it out and bit. Two weeks later its pieces were in a pile near our older and littler greenhouse. Then in a few more weeks it was up and ready to go, except I hadn't given much thought or attention to the floor. That was fine until this summer, when the place entered the first stages of becoming a forest.

This week, after meeting pressing deadlines, I attacked the weed patch, put down black plastic covered by black mesh cloth and, in the two aisles, laid long rubber mats, all despite 110+ degrees even with big fans blowing. I was not about to plant fall garden things and winter greens while having to push aside wiregrass growing like cobwebs. I also began to close gaps in an attempt to get the place ready for cold weather. I'm not finished yet, but it's looking civilized again.

"Fans blowing?" says Virginia. "In your greenhouse?"

Umm, haven't I mentioned that for our birthdays this year, we had electricity installed in the barn and the greenhouse? Now my plants can listen to classical music.

Gotta Live in the Present

2011-07-22T16:44:00.000-04:00

My cellphone's on the blink. It didn't work for a couple days. I could send out, but couldn't hear anything coming in.

"Not so unusual," says Virginia, "for you."

She's right, as usual.

Happy Birthday, Dodd-Frank!

2011-07-20T20:22:00.002-04:00

Most of us have awakened in the middle of the night and fretted. Something about the peace and quiet of a dark space often invites focus on something, anything, that suddenly takes on incredible importance. Next time this happens I think I'll turn on a light, in the hope that seeing other things will turn my thoughts to more realistic matters.

I used to wish that aging would turn me into the kind of wise man people liked to visit. Phooey. What a self-centered thought, like the patient who wants everyone to know what he's going through! I have a feeling wise men have other things to do than hope people want to visit them to learn their secrets.

"Where are you heading with this?" says Virginia.

All right. You probably don't care one bit that tomorrow, July 21, 2011, is the first anniversary of the enactment of the Dodd-Frank Wall Street Reform and Consumer Protection Act, a/k/a the financial reform bill or the banking bill. I, on the other hand, who has been immersed in it day in, day out for the entire year, see the day almost as light at the end of a tunnel, albeit a temporary end.

But yes, I get it. It means nothing to most people. It's time to pull weeds in the greenhouse.

Arrowhead

2011-07-17T20:16:00.001-04:00

Today, I dug holes for a couple peach trees.

"You should plant trees in the spring or fall," says Virginia.

Yes, maybe. Anyway, I lifted a shovel of dirt and dropped it onto the pile I would later return to the hole, and a tiny stone caught my eye.

Front

Back

"How do you know which was front and back?" asks Virginia.

Picky, picky. What do you think happened a few thousand years ago when this arrowhead dropped to the ground? Squirrel, rabbit, bird? Maybe not. I understand even projectile points of less than an inch could drop a deer (http://archaeology.about.com/cs/lithics/a/thepoint.htm).

The stone may be worth 87 cents. The experience is not.

Feeling A Draft (Draught, Dray)

2011-07-09T20:38:00.003-04:00

When we lived in our cottage and cabin 4 miles up the road, the relatively unusual sound of a car would announce that someone was coming several minutes before they arrived. We had time to prepare. Now, comparatively, we live in a city. Everyone coming into or going out of the valley drives past our house, and you can't get to Yogi Bear's Jellystone Park without sending at least a little road noise our way.

Maybe we keep getting more animals because we hope they'll drown out the engines. They're pretty effective at slowing down traffic, as people gawk, "Hey, look at the cute goats. What is that, a mule?" Many people think a donkey's a mule. More and more often, it seems, strangers drive down our lane, as if it's a petting zoo.

When I read this ad in the local paper, I had to call: ""Farming with Horses -- I am seeking a working farm and farm family in Rockbridge County who could be interested in, would enjoy, and whose farm would have work for and might benefit from a pair of light draft horses and horse drawn equipment, wagons, harnesses, tack etc. ready to go to work farming, logging, giving wagon rides and being ridden. Along with the horses and the needed equipment would come their owner several days a week, ready and wanting to go to work and pitch in to the best of his ability. I'm on the lookout for a working farm family that will be real particular about any addition of livestock or people to their farm, just as I'll be in finding the right farm and family. I will greatly appreciate hearing from anyone having possible interest, thoughts or leads regarding this quest."

I can picture traffic slowing way down if a man and a horse were working our field. It might be necessary to open the gate so folks could park and watch, rather than frighten the horse with screeches, screams, sirens and ambulances. Maybe in 5 or 10 years, I'll be ready to try a draft horse.

"It'd be so cool," says Virginia.

Hmmm, maybe not on a summer's day like today.

Garden Grocery

2011-07-05T22:40:00.001-04:00

Olga doesn't feel lonely for long this time of year because she has frequent visitors.

Eleven young chickens peck around all day, attacking insect pests and occasionally, young seedlings, which I try to overlook because I think generally they're doing a good job, especially on the Mexican bean beetles. We're fattening a few rabbits, too, the worst of the pests. A few humans show up quite often, because the garden's in full production now and if all goes well, will supply our table with fresh groceries until October or November.

Of course, she has cohabitants, from towering sunflowers to prone garlics. The garlic has been gradually saying goodbye.

The sunflowers want to stay around a while. Their seed pattern reminds me of running with John Zerger, a mathematician, who in turn reminded me of Fibonacci from a college mathematics class, maybe group theory.

You might notice two series of curves, one winding one way, the other winding the other way. As I recall, the number of spirals going each way is different -- typically 34 and 55, 55 and 89, or 89 and 144 -- part of the Fibonacci sequence -- 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, 89, 144.... (notice that each number is the sum of the two preceding numbers).

"Whoopee!" says Virginia, "and why is that?"

I understand it's the most efficient way of filling the space, but we'll leave the proof of that to someone else some other day.

My sister might be envious of this row of vegetables.

Kohlrabi

This year, for fun, I planted some spaghetti squash.

"I guess you planted this next guy for the squirrels?" says Virginia.

Yes, for the giant squirrels that live in the manor, this vies with butternut as their favorite squash.

Threshing

2011-07-03T13:09:00.001-04:00

The biggest challenge of growing your own wheat is harvesting it. So, knowing 30 young people would be camping in our field a few days before setting out on a "teen adventure," we invited them to help out. To get ready, Karen and I cut off the tops of our wheat plants and stored them in giant plastic bags.

Trimmed wheat; already being converted to a sweet corn garden.

When the young people arrived, we laid out plastic and set them "a flat-footin.'"

Stomping on the right; separating the wheat on the left.

The separated wheat went into a bin, where it was washed several times. The chaff and straw floated to the top, while the grains of wheat (wheat berries) sank to the bottom. Then we spread the grains out to dry.

Sun drying wheat berries.

Ditto.

Soon we'll be able to grind it in the NutriMill and turn the flour into bread (or pizza dough).

"Wouldn't that have taken days by yourselves?" says Virginia.

Exactly. With all this help and conversation, it was fun for all of us.

One-Third, not One-Twelfth

2011-07-01T22:13:00.004-04:00

Someone stuck a summons on our front door a couple weeks ago, for me, to join a panel of peers at the courthouse. Karen's been wondering why I haven't blogged about this, since I returned to Elk Cliff at 7:30 Wednesday evening. She could tell right away my day hadn't been pleasant.

The prosecutor had finished his rebuttal about 3:30 and a couple hours later I was afraid the others, anxious to go home, one of them to work, would be throwing darts at me at midnight. By the time I left the parking garage at seven, I was very grateful for the three jurors who had come to the same conclusion as I. Hopelessly deadlocked, the judge called us "hung" and declared a mistrial.

Two days later, I'm confident four of us arrived at the "right" answer, although I'm sure some of the others think we wasted their and the government's time. In fact, near the end, the foreman gave a little speech about how a hung jury would disappoint him, that it would mean our system of justice had failed. I couldn't let that one go and added my own speech that, no, the system had worked just fine. If the prosecution wanted to try again, and perhaps do a better job, it could do so and might learn from it, or it might decide the matter wasn't worth another twenty or more person-days of effort and learn from that. Another fellow pointed out that one reason we require a unanimous verdict is to help prevent like-minded people from railroading a conviction or acquittal.

"Hmm," says Virginia. "I bet you voted not guilty."

Now why would she think that? Was it something I said, the tilt of my head, a glint in my eyes? Let me just say, one of the attorneys might regret not kicking me off the jury. I would have bet I'd be one of the first disqualified. If there's a next time, I'll probably disqualify myself if given the chance (as we were this time).

Words. Recently I observed that the Federal Reserve Board writes regulations that contain more than 10 times as many words as the underlying statute. If that's really necessary, it might seem peculiar that criminal statutes, and jury instructions, tend to be quite short, leaving lots of gray area -- especially when you consider the drastic penalties they entail. Please don't blame other members of your jury who read the same words differently.

Silent Spring

2011-06-30T18:26:00.001-04:00

My online bookclub associate and I have begun reading Silent Spring by Rachel Carson as our "classic" for June. Many credit this book for kicking off the "enviromental movement." My father, a biologist, read it back in 1962 when it came out and promptly began using it in his university classes and occasionally at our dinner table.

I'm still near the beginning of this book, but I'm astounded how "current" some of it remains. I read recently that the purple boxes hanging from trees in Virginia are part of an effort to study the movement of emerald ash borers from North to South. When I heard a couple years ago that my hometown of Bluffton, Ohio has lost most, if not all, of its mature ash trees, I thought, does this mean the ash trees on our farm will soon follow suit?

Here's what Rachel Carson wrote about elm trees. I imagine we could insert "ash" each time "elm" appears and it would remain fairly accurate:

"The same thing happens in other situations. A generation or more ago, the towns of large areas of the United States lined their streets with the noble elm tree. Now the beauty they hopefully created is threatened with complete destruction as disease sweeps through the elms, carried by a beetle that would have only limited chance to build up large populations and to spread from tree to tree if the elms were only occasional trees in a richly diversified planting."

I remember thinking back when elm trees were being destroyed that it was such a shame, that nature would do this to a variety of tree. I didn't know then it was our fault -- concentrated planting. Or that the same sort of thing happens when farmers plant thousands of acres of one crop -- and we find ourselves "needing" pesticides to control insects that descend on huge fields. And then, as Carson wrote so long ago, the insects develop super-species immune to those pesticides, while the pesticide residues remain in soils, streams, water supplies, and eventually, human cells, mother's milk and embryos.

50 years later, the processes described in Silent Spring continue. Most of us are oblivious. History remains a class we suffer through and forget.

"Shame on us," says Virginia.

Backyard Grocery

2011-06-27T22:15:00.001-04:00

The rooster that simmered for several hours in our oven this afternoon offered very little meat to three young men, Karen and me, which is fine for me, perhaps disappointing for them. A plateful of vegetables is enough to make me smile.

Soon it may be time to post the "Fresh Vegetables" sign on Elk Cliff Farm.

"Save money on paint," says Virginia, "'Vegetables' will do the trick. Of course they're fresh."

Some tomatoes have turned red.
I always miss a few cucumbers when I look for "future pickles of America."
The garlic is about ready to be pulled out, dried and braided.
We should eat potatoes every day so they don't sprout in the basement this Fall.
It's about time to surrender beets to winemaking.
The next planting of green beans is blossoming, so maybe two will overlap and swamp us.
Twelve varieties of lettuce are bitter and bolting, save one and the summer crop that's growing under an ash tree.
We need to get more olive oil to make pesto from parsley, basil, oregano, garlic and home-made cheese.
The broccolis are forming little heads again, while the cabbages have become downright arrogant (big-headed).
The straw of winter wheat waits to be pulled and replaced with corn, beans and other things.
We might have enough carrots for wine.
It may be time to dig a root cellar for onions and others.

"You forgot something," says Virginia.

I covered everything from "a" to -- oh, zucchini, in a few days we'll have some. I noticed two dark blackberries today, grapes getting fat, and tasty nasturtiums shriveling.

Gotta keep planting the grocery store.

June's Sweet Pickles

2011-06-25T15:09:00.002-04:00

What do you do when you have lots of cucumbers? Make pickles, of course.

My favorite pickle recipe is for June's Sweet Pickles, which originated from my mother, and is named after her. As the joke goes, most things these days were named after my mother, 89 as of last weekend. No, seriously, they were named after her (Wanda June) and the month of June, although I'd be willing to bet she never made them in June.

"So, what's the recipe?" says Virginia.

Slightly altered by me, here it is.

1. Gather 3 quarts of cukes, the smaller the better. Wash them.

2. Make a brine of 2 quarts water and a cup of pickling salt, and drop in the cukes. Let them soak overnight.

3. On the next day, mix 4 cups of sugar, 4 cups of vinegar, 1 cup of water, 2 tablespoons of whole allspice (or pickling spices), 2 tablespoons salt, and 1 tablespoon of celery seed. Stir these ingredients well in a kettle on the stove. Add the cucumbers (not the brine) and bring to a rolling boil (one that can't be stirred down).

4. The original recipe says "not long." I'd say boil for 3-4 minutes. Put the pickles in canning jars and add the hot sugar/vinegar solution so as to leave up to 1/2 inch of headroom. Screw the lids on tight. A 10-minute stay in a hot water bath canner is recommended to be sure they seal properly, but probably isn't necessary.

Hypocrisy

2011-06-24T15:05:00.003-04:00

The bank reform bill that's received a lot of press the past year -- the Dodd-Frank Wall Street Reform and Consumer Protection Act -- is approaching its one year anniversary, July 21. On that date, several provisions take effect, including Section 627, which allows banks to pay interest on business checking accounts.

"Sounds like a winner," says Virginia. "It seems as though banks would be delighted. A little deregulation for a change."

Uh-hum. So why did the Independent Community Bankers of America (trade association for smaller, local banks) send a letter to Federal Reserve Board Chairman Bernanke urging the Fed not to implement the deregulation? Because it fears the big banks will get all the business and the little banks won't be able to compete on price (interest rate). It fears the change will result in "bidding wars for business deposits among banks" and "expose banks to potential liquidity problems." It says money may move from money market funds, which already pay interest, to the megabanks, further increase the concentration of bank assets, and exacerbate the too-big-to-fail problem. Welcome to a reprise of "Wall Street" meets "Main Street."

"Let me get this straight," says Virginia. "So the little banks are upset because the big banks may get the free cookie?"

Well, there ain't no such thing as a free cookie. Someone has to pay. There are two sides to this cookie -- the interest on deposit side, and the interest on loan side. As the trade association argues, banks will have to pay more for their funds and businesses (as well as consumers) will have to pay more to borrow those funds.

"So is it right?" says Virginia.

Is it right? That's a good question. Is what right? Is it right for retailers who have cash on hand not to earn interest on their deposits? Is it right for Wal-Mart-sized banks to predatorily price little banks out of business? And is it right for people pushing for deregulation to change direction depending on the issue?

A Fruitful Day

2011-06-22T21:12:00.004-04:00

According to local lore, in the very early 1900s a large package of what looked like raspberry canes arrived at the post office. No one claimed it and rather than letting it go to waste, the postmaster hiked around the county, planting canes hither, thither and yon. Now, as July 4th approaches, wineberries ripen. After the first husks pop open, we have a 2- or 3-week window to harvest them. The wineberry is a non-native invasive, one person's flower and another's weed. I claim it as a flower.

Today I awoke with a plan. After rounding my garden to gather cucumbers and green beans, and after milking, I would hike up "our" mountain to see if "my" wineberry patches were close to ready. Probably too early, I thought, but maybe I could guess how much longer, and besides, I didn't want to miss out.

Aha! I lucked into the first picking of the season. Any earlier would have been too early.

With more than a gallon in my backpack (in plastic containers), I headed straight to our basement kitchen, where we "put food by." I heated 16 cups of berries, put them in a jelly bag, and hung the bag over a pot. While the juice dripped, I stir-fried green beans and broccoli in olive oil and bagged them up for the freezer.

"May I taste the berry juice?" says Virginia.

Go ahead.

First, I made jelly strictly according to the recipe in a box of Sure-Jell, using 4 1/2 cups of juice. Mix the pectin (Sure-Jell) with a quarter cup of the 3 cups of sugar and add it to the juice, then bring the juice to a rolling boil (the kind that can't be stirred down). Add the rest of the sugar and bring to a rolling boil again. Boil for 1 minute. Pour into jars.

Then I had 7 3/4 cups left, too much for 1 batch, too little for 2. Time to do what I usually do -- wing it, without store-bought pectin.

Here's my standard recipe: Measure juice into the pot (in this case 7 3/4 C.). Bring to a rolling boil. Add the same amount of sugar. Bring to another rolling boil, then stick a thermometer in the juice and take it on up to 220 degrees F. (8 degrees F. above boiling). When it hits 220, keep it there for 9 minutes. Pour into jars and seal.

That's what I did, except for one thing. Remembering the Sure-Jell instructions -- measure and follow these directions exactly -- I had a thought. Another old package of the stuff waited in our cabinet. Might as well experiment. I tossed it into the juice, before the first boil. I had picked a combination of very ripe red berries and some not so ripe, because, from what I've read, the not-so-ripe fellows have more natural pectin in them. So I figured I didn't need to add any pectin. But since I had some, I dropped in a little box, enough for less than half the recipe I was making. Otherwise, I followed my standard recipe.

I figured if it failed, we'd at least have runny raspberry syrup, which tastes mighty fine on pancakes and waffles. It turned out great, maybe not quite as stiff as the Sure-Jell batch, but that's okay, I prefer jelly that gives.

First Boil

Second Boil

In the Can

See the white 1/2 cup measure? It holds the froth I skimmed off before pouring the jelly into the jars, a special treat. The white cup and the jar without a lid hold the extra jelly from each batch. I can compare them for thickness and taste.

"And where was your wife during this exercise?" says Macho Man.

"She was hunting around town for a new faucet to replace the one in our canning kitchen, which has a couple holes that spray its user and several leaky connections. If she hadn't had to order one -- sometimes it's hard to find appropriate fixtures for a mid-18th century house -- she probably would have installed it while I 'put food by.' Thank you, sir!"

Summer Soiree

2011-06-21T22:52:00.003-04:00

Happy Summer!

Johnny Mac, former big band leader who played with Herbie Hancock, welcomed summer to Lynchburg (make that Madison Heights), Virginia, at a "Summer Soiree" held at Winridge Manor (http://www.winridgemanor.com/). I went along for the munchies.

"Pretty hot, huh?" says Virginia.

Yes, even after a giant gray cloud descended and we moved under cover. We alternated short classical numbers with jazz standards.

Would you believe this fellow crashed the party?

"What brand is he smoking?" asks Virginia, as if she cares. Click on the photo to enlarge it and, if your eyes are better than mine, you might know the answer.

Flower Power

2011-06-15T22:38:00.004-04:00

This year's gardenscape includes a variety of flowers. Here's an edible one that often appeared on dishes at The Blue Heron, our local favorite vegetarian restaurant, now defunct.

Nasturtium

Here's another edible flower, known for its seeds.

Sunflowers (edible) and Larkspur (toxic)

Take a look at this week's version of next week's sunflower.

Of course, veggies have flowers, too. I couldn't bring myself to eat the artichoke, so here's what happened.

And here's a bloomin' onion.

Carrots anyone? Actually, at this stage, the root's nasty woody.

If we're lucky, the cilantro will re-seed itself and we'll be able to toss it in our August salads.

This acorn squash has grown like crazy in the past 10 days.

"How's the bread doing?" says Virginia.

Sometimes it's hard to keep her on topic. No flowers, but the wheat is almost ready to harvest. Our 2-month old chicks discovered this garden bed today, so we're going to have to get busy soon.

Tired by Bedtime

2011-06-12T22:33:00.003-04:00

A friend said she'd tell us when someone she knows hosts her next walk on hot coals. I thought I wasn't interested until I found myself, for the second time in a week, splitting wood on a 90-plus degree day. What were we thinking on New Year's Day when we decided it was too cold to kayak down Elk Creek to the James River? After all, less than a month before that I started running up a mountain at midnight on a trail of snow.

"Gripe about heat, get hotter?" says Virginia. "Gripe about cold, get colder? Certainly you weren't fueling the woodstove?"

Right, walking on hot coals could be a good thing. Twice this week we stoked the Pompeii brick oven to make wood-fired pizza. I had to split beautiful purplish walnut because our woodshed isn't ready for winter. In five minutes I was ready to enter a wet tee shirt contest, maybe the womanless beauty pageant held this weekend at the Glasgow Riverfest. For the third time today -- number 1, my morning run; number 2, picking the last peas and pulling out the plants

Time for a shower. Cold or hot?

Sweet Potato Dreaming

2011-06-09T22:23:00.001-04:00

Thunder seems to be passing us by, again. Daily rains stopped a couple weeks ago and switched to not even weekly rains. Most gardeners want at least an inch a week. After pulling out the sugar snap pea plants, I did something I rarely do any more -- spaded the bed. I'm generally a "no till" gardener, keeping the garden well mulched so whenever you plant you push aside the mulch, pull a hoe through, and plant the seeds. Inexperienced with sweet potatoes since I've only planted them once several years ago, I decided to follow the advice of the experienced, including putting them in a soft bed. It was probably a good idea, as that bed was pretty hard. Still, a few inches under, it remained nicely moist, which explains why my other plants aren't complaining yet about low rainfall.

So yes, on June 7 sweet potatoes joined the Elk Cliff clan, imported from Elyria, Ohio, from a retailer who sells on EBay. I didn't have much luck finding them around here. Several years ago, a fellow who grew up here looked down his nose at me and said, "We don't plant sweet potatoes." I may find out why. The farmers' co-op had a flat of six earlier when I wasn't ready. I figure buying them once should be enough. If they grow well, I'll use a couple of them to grow my own slips next spring. I'd ordered two batches of 18. The retailer, who promised to send a few extra, lived up to his or her word. I planted 48.

Now I need to water them every day for the first week, every other day for another week or two, then at least weekly -- unless we get nice doses of rain. Sweet potatoes, being tropical plants, should enjoy the hot weather we've been having -- 96 degrees yesterday, 90 today. Today, I carried some ice outdoors and it steamed or whatever you call what ice does in the heat, sort of like dry ice.

"I guess the peas are over?" says Virginia.

Not quite. We still have another picking, small I think, of Wandos (shelling peas). But in a few days, after I finish the book update I've been postponing in favor of preparing for a couple music gigs, including a wedding Saturday, the peas will come out and in will go sweet corn and maybe some beans. I'll probably try the "3 sister" thing native Americans are known for -- corn, squash and green beans planted together. The squash spread around to form a mulch-like cover and the green beans help fix nitrogen for the corn, a "heavy feeder."

Salatin at Pharsalia

2011-06-08T23:27:00.001-04:00

Joel Salatin held court at Pharsalia this evening, a 150-year old estate over the mountains northeast of here. Salatin, the "beyond organic" Polyface farmer, author of many books on farming, including "Everything I Want to Do is Illegal: War Stories from the Local Food Front," mainly discussed three principles the original owner of Pharsalia followed that still rule industrial farming: (1) focus on importing (guano then, fertilizer now) and exporting (hams and wheat then, more stuff now), rather than local community production; (2) use of labor from outside the community (slaves then, immigrants now); and (3) now what was the third, a senior moment hits (who was there, Liz?, finish this, please)?

Questions led to comments about the US-Duh (USDA) and regulatory restrictions on food as a means of promoting agri-business interests. He mentioned how the government regulates both sides of drugs -- both the seller (distribution and selling are crimes) and the buyer (possession is a crime) -- while it only regulates the sellers of food (selling without complying with restrictions is a crime, but you can give it away and possession is not a crime). Not that he thinks possession should be a crime, but the laws suggest it's the selling, not the product, that is the problem being addressed (in other words, little guys competing with the big boys).

He didn't address this, as I recall, but it's curious that agribusinesses push food safety as a reason for regulation, yet the problems with food safety we've been hearing about involve agribusinesses, not the little guys. This is no different from other areas. Some lawyers don't want nonlawyers handling real estate closings, even though west of the Mississippi most closings are handled by nonlawyers, and the reason given against nonlawyers doing the work is consumer protection. Same thing with banks in the ongoing debate about debit card interchange fees -- the consumer will end up paying, they say. When the regulated uses consumer protection as its argument for or against something, a little skepticism is appropriate.

"It's getting late," says Virginia.

Fava Me, Will Ya?

2011-06-06T18:18:00.002-04:00

For some reason, I think we may be having cabbage and fava beans for dinner.

Here's Karen, the decapitator, and...

the anatomy of the interior, a/k/a the cabbage tree of life.

Here's the decorative supplement...

shelled, but still in its "pajamas."

"Aren't you going to provide a recipe?" says Virginia.

Maybe some other day. To be honest, we're virgins so far as fava beans go.

Of course our garden doesn't make promises, but it looks promising.

The chickens think the wheat is ready to harvest. See the brown chick on the left? He's hard to see even if you click on the photo.

These are Cylindra beets -- long and cylindrical.

I think I'll pick this guy tomorrow.

As you can tell, I took one of these off the shelf.

"Tell me another one," says Virginia.

Okay, okay. I ate the other two, too.

I hope the squirrels don't get this acorn squash before it's ready this fall.

Any time we want, we have potatoes, onions...

and fried green tomatoes.

I'm about ready to pull these blooming peas out and replace them with corn and sweet potatoes.

Actually it's a purple larkspur among Wando peas. Now I've got to figure out how to pull up the peas and leave the larkspurs.

How to Freeze Green Beans and Sugar Snap Peas

2011-06-03T09:12:00.001-04:00

Are you tired of knocking chunks of frost or ice off frozen green beans or peas? For this reason, Karen and I used to turn down our noses on frozen green beans. No more.

Instead of blanching green beans in boiling water, we stir fry them in olive oil. We do this for 4 or 5 minutes until the beans turn a uniform bright green. Sometimes we grill some garlic before adding the green beans. We don't ice them afterwards. We keep them away from water. Otherwise, we'll end up with the same problem we're trying to avoid. We let them cool a few minutes, stick them in bags and pop them in the freezer. You can even put the beans in gallon bags; they won't stick to each other, at least not much. When you want to use them, take out what you need, put the bag back in the freezer, quickly stir fry again and enjoy. They taste almost like fresh vegetables.

Today I extended this treatment to sugar snap peas.

"That's cool," says Virginia. "Show us something else, please."

I thought she'd never ask. Here's a view of the parsnips I'm letting flower so we'll have seeds to plant this fall.

Don't try this unless you have tomato plants to waste. I've been depositing fresh goat manure along our fence line. I planted a bunch of tomato seedlings right into that hot manure. Will they grow?

Check out these beets, ready to roast...

our first cucumber of 2011...

and nice stands of peas, carrots and potatoes.

Finally, the big question: Will this tiny guy develop into a 35-pound Georgia Candy Roaster?

Colorado Potato Beetles

2011-06-02T11:08:00.003-04:00

Over a month ago I began my quest for these:

My goal? To find only a few and eliminate them before they lay eggs. My first objective? To keep an eye on my potato patch so I don't find any for a while, then spot the first arrivals. These guys overwinter in the soil, then crawl out when the potato plants are pretty far along. I planted the potatoes March 19 and didn't see any of these guys until about 3 weeks ago. Next year, I'll keep a closer eye open for eggs. I still haven't spotted any, but wait -- maybe I have. Look at this picture, very bottom, 1/3 over from the right (click on the photo to enlarge it). Those yellow-brown sacs look like eggs. Shoot, think I'll find them tomorrow?

Of course, the eggs have got to be there because I've found plenty of these.

"Why are your fingers orange?" says Virginia.

Sorry folks, but that's the best way to get rid of these pests. Squish them. Queasy gardeners might carry a cup of soapy water to drop them in, but that's sort of like going to a gym to exercise when you can step outside for a run. When you see 'em, you squish 'em.

By the way, these larvae come in all sizes -- from pinpoint to 1/2 inch, growing to full size in an average of 5.8 days. I overheard these two talking, "Hey, if we double-team it, we can finish off this leaf in no time, but watch out for....pfffft."

Every morning when I tour the garden to see what's happened since yesterday, I devote 15-30 minutes walking along each row of potatoes. I can't do 2 rows at once; I'll miss too many. Funny thing, sometimes I knock a fellow onto the ground and can't find it. I used to think maybe that would kill it because it might not have the energy to find another leaf. Now I've discovered that if it's old enough, it might just burrow into the earth because that's where it goes anyway to develop wings and a harder shell.

Now that I have the potato beetles under control (fingers crossed), I mosey over to the green beans and guess what?

OH NO! It's not a ladybug. It's that darn Mexican bean beetle. Another squishing campaign begins.

Carrot Sticks

2011-05-30T17:05:00.000-04:00

The last blog posting nearly killed me, but here I am, sputtering, sweating and, thank goodness, un-Skyped. Karen and I finally got on the river today, kayaking to Glasgow. It's been a couple years since we took that route, so it seems more isolated and unfamiliar than the Gilmore's Mill and Alpine Farms sections upstream from our place. The Glasgow take-out was packed with maybe a hundred cars, mostly folks traveling to Balcony Falls, we presume.

We're swamped with peas, a couple hours picking and a couple hours shelling every other day. In between, we have sugar snap peas, which are much quicker because you simply string them and eat the entire package. Our freezer still has peas and corn from last year, so I have to shift things around and put the new guys on the bottom. Same story for the 30 quarts of strawberries frozen this year. Today, 4 bags of broccoli joined the frozen family. Soon we'll pull up some potato plants to see what's happened since March 17.

"Tell them about the carrots," says Virginia.

She knows one of my favorite vegetables is the carrot. When a friend suggested I take vitamins instead of eating all those carrots, and all that sugar in the carrots, I told her she's crazy. She is.

After the Bubble

2011-05-26T17:19:00.005-04:00

“Tell me a story,” says Virginia....

When I knocked, I heard Charlie stomping in his kitchen, not a good sign. “Come in,” he yelled, as if hollering at a stubborn goat. I knew he knew why I’d chosen this time to visit. He pointed at a chair. I said “How ya feelin'?” as I sat.

“About the same as yesterday,” he said. “I don’t know why we raise our kids the way we do, or don’t. Whatever. We oughta let 'em out as soon as they can feed themselves, like most animals do. Instead, we rant and rave about things that are never the same as when we were their age, wishing they’d work as hard as we did, save their money – our money – and sacrifice for their futures. What for? When they finally settle down, they latch onto the latest false prophet and give him everything, figuring they won’t need it when the judgment day comes. Then they start all over, with our help."

“I get your drift,” I said. “Have you heard from her?”

“Of course not,” said Charlie. “She’s not going to crawl back here until our memories fade a little. She doesn’t want to hear my ‘told you so.’”

“Are you planning to say that?” I said.

“Hell no,” said Charlie, reddening, “but I might as well. It’ll hang in the air as thick as fog over the James.”

“Call her and tell her,” I said.

“What?” said Charlie. “That I believe people who can should live life in reverse? Retire first, work later if they need to? No kid should be told that.”

“She’s not a kid any more, Charlie,” said I.

He looked at me real hard, frowning, eyes partly closed, like an ex-girlfriend when I’d done something she didn’t like.

“I’m not a kid any more either, Charlie,” I whispered.

“You should've married her,” he said.

“Right, you know why I didn't,” I said. “I didn’t believe in myself enough, or anyone else for that matter, to not work hard, save my pay and sacrifice for the future. You wouldn’t have respected me.”

“So now we’re stupid together,” said Charlie. “What’s wrong with us anyway?

“We’re definitely not that,” I said, “and nothing’s wrong with us, other than we get played for suckers, one bubble after another. The others depend on people like us. We pay our debts, suffer our trespasses, and deliver them from evil.”

“Cut it out,” said Charlie. “You’re beginning to sound like that preacher.”

“Would you really want it any other way?” I said.

Power Nap

2011-05-25T22:20:00.001-04:00

Every afternoon, right after lunch, a piano professor at UNC-Chapel Hill took a nap. Today I finally followed his example, laid down on the bed in my office -- everyone needs a bed in the office, or at least a couch -- and watched the world turn. Counting the turns directly to -- I was going to write "nether-land" but that's down isn't it? -- no, floating in and out and gone. Thirty minutes later I was raring to go and I did, nearly finishing a book update by dinnertime. That's production.

"Cool," says Virginia, "better make it a habit."

Fire in the Belly

2011-05-24T22:34:00.002-04:00

In case yesterday's blog had anyone wondering, I didn't mean to condemn the corporate world. I had lots of fun clambering over my colleagues, trying to become a bigger dog than they were. Those were fifteen good years, more than a fourth of my life. It's a good way to use younger years, when fire's in the belly.

"Right, clambering, sounds like you," says Virginia.

More like trying to do the best I could. I was lucky to join a Virginia bank holding company that valued its law department, not merely as coordinators of out-house counsel, but part of the business team. One of my first projects was a review of all the forms customers saw. We went through them with other departments, word for word, and deleted many provisions we decided were clutter -- because they were poorly drafted, out-of-date, or likely to be relied on once in ten years. Does that sound like something Professor Warren, head of the new Consumer Financial Protection Bureau, talks about doing?

In a way, I was also lucky to leave that company for a mortgage business that filed for bankruptcy 6 months after I arrived, and then to work for a Maryland bank that didn't expect much from its legal department. Changing jobs develops skills you might not learn if you stayed in the same company your entire career. Sort of like moving to a new place, people greet you with, "who are you?" and "why should we trust you?" After locating grocery stores, dry cleaners, and ATMs, the honeymoon is over and it's time to show why you're worth knowing. After a couple changes, you find yourself thinking both, "I know you know more than I do about this place" and "yeh, you can trust me because I know what I'm doing and I can help."

What else can explain the gumption to quit after a year in what I'd long thought would be a dream job? Number one, a supportive spouse. Number two, a different kind of fire in the belly and another dream.

Just Desserts

2011-05-23T22:30:00.001-04:00

We've been at this farming thing for 5 years now, maybe settling in. Karen mentioned rabbits at dinner tonight. Bambi (venison) I've gotten used to, and Billy (goat), Donald (duck), Chanticleer (rooster), Tom (turkey), I suppose Roger might as well be next. I have yet to name a plant. Maybe I should.

Before that seems very long ago. Talking to some new friends on Saturday reminded me of 17 years ago and earlier, when I was their age driving to work each day. "You never regretted it, did you?" they asked, referring to dropping out of the corporate rat race. Yes, no regrets, to quote a tattoo that's seen around these parts. Maybe I should get one.

I've kept in touch with only one person from those days. He's the only one I bounce ideas off and the only one I know who reads my books now and then. No one around here except Karen has any idea what's in them. What are all those rats up to? Same old, same old, or have they moved on to new horizons? Hey, any of you rats raising rabbits?

I understand a former boss has retired, appeared on MSNBC not long ago. He used to convene all of us every Monday morning at 8 to review our weekly reports. His language was worse than another former boss sentenced to 7 years in a penitentiary (mail fraud and racketeering; interstate transportation of forged securities) who kicked a hole in his office wall one morning and splintered a fake antique chair by tossing it across the room. By the way, soon after he got out of prison, he was charged again, with a similar mortgage fraud scheme. He pled guilty and went back to jail. The judge said during sentencing that his criminal activity could not be stopped "short of isolating him from all contact with humanity, like putting him on a desert island."

"Those were the days," says Virginia.

Jammin'

2011-05-22T14:35:00.000-04:00

Yeh baby, ya pick 'em and squish 'em...

stir 'em up and cook 'em...

to a rollin' boil...

add sugar, bring 'em to another rollin' boil for one minute and skim off the foam, which is as good as Pixy Stix or Sweet Tarts,...

then put 'em in sterile jars for a very hot water bath.

Jammin' done, cruise the garden and stir-fry some veggies.

Apocalypse Not Now

2011-05-21T22:08:00.001-04:00

I understand that Family Radio spent millions on more than 5,000 billboards and 20 RVs plastered with the doomsday message. In 2009, the nonprofit reportedly claimed in IRS filings that it received $18.3 million in donations, and had assets of more than $104 million, including $34 million in stocks or other publicly traded securities.

"That's a fair amount of money folks turned over," says Virginia.

It's not worth much if you know you won't be around any more after May 21, 6 PM. It reminds me of the mathematician, whose name I forget, who suggested discussing the existence of God in terms of probabilities. Ask yourself how important is the existence of God. What value would you place on it? A million dollars, a billion dollars, a trillion dollars? Let's say a billion dollars. Consider, if you think the chance that God exists is 100%, then the expected value to you of belief in God -- 1.0 x $1,000,000,000 -- is $1,000,000,000. Then consider, if you think the chance that God exists is 50/50, the expected value to you of belief in God -- .5 x $1,000,000,000 -- is $500,000,000. That's still a lot of green bills. Now consider, if you think the chance that God exists is only 1 in 100, then the expected value to you of belief in God -- .01 x $1,000,000,000 -- is $10,000,000. That's still worth a lot to most people. So is it worth believing? (By the way, a short youtube video on expected value is available at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DAjVAEDil_Q.)

"That's downright silly," says Virginia. "What's the point? Belief is cheap? God is rich?"

Yeah well, belief may require more than nothing, like maybe changing the way you live or putting your life on the line once in a while. No formula is going to answer the real question.

Animals in Trouble

2011-05-20T21:32:00.001-04:00

He's pretty hard to see in this picture, but the Imposter, our number two rooster, is sitting in this tree. Double-click on it and look for dark feathers right in the middle.

"Now why is he up there?" says Virginia.

Because he's a smart rooster. Of the 9 that arrived a month or two ago after a friend called to ask if we wanted some roosters, he's the one that slipped away before meeting his fate in the killing cone. And now, he knows that to escape the weasel or whatever it is that killed 4 hens a few nights ago, the higher the better.

Okay, here's a better picture, but you needed to see the whole tree first.

Now that we're down to 3 hens, while we wait for our 13 month-old chicks to grow up, Lex and Rosie (our Boxers) are missing their daily egg treat. Karen would hand each of them an egg, which they would crack open, lick from the shell, then for a snack dessert, eat the shell. Come and admire their coats, will you?

To brag a little on our trained hens, they lay their eggs here.

See the hinge at the bottom of the photo? The door you can't see, down below in the picture, is only open when we retrieve the eggs (or take pictures). Karen cut these doors inside the barn, so we can reach into a coop she built outside on the front of the barn.

Yesterday, Karen asked me to take some pictures of Darla, just in case, I think.

That is, just in case Darla failed to survive surgery this morning. Her vet removed an abscess and lymph node nestled between her carotid artery and jugular vein. She seems a bit tired, but gobbled down a bottle of milk in no time.

The Abilene Paradox

2011-05-17T22:53:00.001-04:00

Soup Bones?

Today, a different kind of root, not the kind you find in gardens, occupied this writer's time. I was scheduled for a root canal on the left side, but the endodontist quickly determined the badly cracked tooth couldn't be saved. "Back to your dentist," said he, "for extraction." As we shook hands goodbye, he added, "Maybe I'll see you again someday." Convinced that this endodontist wasn't looking for work, I said, "I may be back soon to see you about a tooth on the other side." "What's that about?" said he. I explained that the area above a molar was sensitive when I touched it with my tongue, more so after eating. "Should I look at it?" he said. "Sure."

Several probes and x-rays later, we agreed to shift the scheduled root canal to the other side and the doctor was back in business. To see what he did, minus the peg, check out this video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cs0RIh3hPAM. An hour later he said, "Don't forget to call your dentist and schedule a crown," as we shook hands again.

Before I spun a goat milk ice cream fruit smoothie for lunch, I left a message for my dentist, asking to schedule the crown, and before I finished drinking the smoothie, my phone rang. "Can you come at 3? We just had a big cancellation." "Sure." Off I went.

I arrived at my dentist's office partially numb, assuming he wouldn't work on both sides of my mouth the same day. When he asked, "Which should I do first?" I thought he meant which tooth today. After a few minutes of hemming and hawing, I figured out he was willing to do both procedures today if I were game. As usual, I preferred to get as much as possible over with instead of sleeping (or not sleeping) on it.

This reminds me of the Abilene Paradox, the tendency of humans to have as much trouble managing their agreements as their disagreements. "What on earth are you talking about?" says Virginia. Without realizing we agree on something, we do something else because we're willing to go along with the group. In this case, I figured the dentist wouldn't do something he was perfectly willing to do (both procedures at one appointment) and if we hadn't kept talking, he might have assumed I didn't want to have them done during the same visit. See http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z_iGdiYO7gI and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abilene_paradox.

An hour and a half later, I said goodbye, numb on the left, renumbed on the right, and $2,000 poorer for the day. By the way, those aren't soup bones in the picture up above. That's my tooth.

Morning Stroll

2011-05-14T15:53:00.003-04:00

This morning's garden tour discovered Doyle's Thornless Blackberry almost-blossoms,

wild raspberries invading the blackberry patch,

soon, peas,

broccoli brains,

pea brains,

a flying saucer landed,

oh, and speaking of brains, some sage flowers,

a potato flowering,

cilantro,

arugula,

"and don't forget Chy's bouquet," says Virginia. Chy was in a dressy mood this morning.

First 2011 Strawberries

2011-05-11T17:53:00.000-04:00

While reading court decisions this afternoon, the western sky grew gray, warning that too long a wait might deprive us of dessert. That did not happen.

"Dessert?" says Virginia. "They look more like a main course to me."

And she's not a fruitarian.

Found Objects

2011-05-09T22:41:00.003-04:00

An older brother bemoans the lack of rain in Kansas, where the mercury reached 100 degrees (F) today. A year ago, or maybe two, they had a season of record rains. Meanwhile, some folks around here complain they can't get their gardens in because it's been too wet. Silver Queen sweet corn climbed into our garden this afternoon. After several more plantings, with luck, we might have sweet corn into November like last year and the year before.

For now, cheer the chives,

nurture the nasturtiums,

and peek at the pea.

These guys are hard to find, but you know they're there because your cabbage leaves are holey and, as you can see in the little web, they make deposits. Forget about dropping them in gasoline or soapy water. Around here they simply get squished. At least this one did.

Some thinning is in order, in this lettuce bed.

Speaking of lettuce, volunteers are always welcome.

"Tell me," says Virginia, "who's guarding the artichokes?"

Maybe some child or parent knows. Let's call him Art for now. When our son was little, he would often ask me, after I returned from a run, "What did you bring me?" I would hand him something I found, like this guy, who was sitting by the side of the road a few days ago, waiting for a rescue.

Macroprudential

2011-05-08T21:24:00.004-04:00

Macroprudential. That's a word most of us don't use very often, or even knew before last week. In a sense, "macroprudential" is the current Federal Reserve chairman's bookend to "irrational exuberance," coined by his predecessor on December 5, 1996. Irrational exuberance expressed Greenspan's concern about what led to the current financial crisis (which, by the way, isn't over yet, don't kid yourself) and Bernanke is using it to describe what the federal government is doing to prevent more trouble -- regulating with an eye to possible effects on the entire financial system (macroprudential regulation), in contrast to simply looking at whether a particular institution might have problems or fail (microprudential regulation).

"Stop," says Virginia. "That's all we need to know."

She's right. That's all you'll read here about it.

It's interesting to think about words and expressions we know today that we didn't know 20 or 10 years ago. A lot of tech words come to mind, these are easy to think of -- camcorder, CD, flash drive, boot, email, DAT, download, upload, MIDI, cellphone, text message.

Reaching a little bit -- s/he, what's her face, foodie, localvore, Jazzercise, muggle, blamestorming, gaydar, grrrl, threequel, frankenfood.

And with the recent revival of Ayn Rand, "Who is John Galt?" (character in Atlas Shrugged)

This reminds me of a children's book I wish I'd written -- "The Frindle" by Andrew Clements, with its main character, a fifth grader named Nicholas Allen.

Promise

2011-05-05T10:04:00.001-04:00

Promise, an indication of something favorable to come:

A garden does not promise, in the sense of assuring that something will happen. A garden is never "mastered." A gardener doesn't know what will come along -- a tornado, hail, windstorm, varmint, pest, disease, or thief-in-the-night. Something stole our six 3-week-old chicks a few nights ago. We naively thought they were safely enclosed in an antique chicken coop. This, too, could happen to a strawberry...

or to future wheat berries...

to my grove of young pomegranates...

or to the whole shebang -- flowering arugula (left forefront), cilantro, garlic, potatoes, carrots, peas and beyond.

Meanwhile, it's fun to watch green beans grow fast...

and parsnips big and tall. This one, planted last fall, looks as if it may provide seeds for this fall.

The parsnips offer rich leaves and thick celery-like stalks. Can we eat them? Yes, but what will happen next? Tony, in The Two SmallFarms Newsletter. Issue Number 270 - March 31st , 2004, writes: "...parsnip leaves are toxic and exude natural chemicals called furocoumarins. These toxins can provoke an irritating rash somewhat like poison oak if you get them on your skin or rub them in your eye. The roots don't carry the furocoumarins at all, but you will notice you never see bunched parsnips in the supermarket" (see the mention of parsnips in my immediately preceding blog entry).

On the other hand, on September 29, 2010, "Dustee Pines" wrote: "Parsnip leaves are absolutely lovely to eat! I enjoy eating them! I just made a batch of beet soup with them for supper tonight. I use the relatively younger leaves or the small to mid size. Wash them and chop them up and cook them in your favorite dishes. if the stalks are small, I use them and if they are large I just use the leaf. I am not partial to them raw -- just cooked. They add a lovely aroma and flavor to your food. I put them in mashed potatoes, soups, stews and savory pies! I am Alive and Well! I typically put them in recipes for a longer cooking time. For mashed potatoes, I put them in right at the beginning of the cooking time. For soups, I put them in with my other vegetables. So for chicken soup -- it is lovely! If you are not concerned about allergies, give it a try -- maybe in smaller quantity -- just one or two leaves to see how you do.~ Cheers to Beautiful Food!"

"She was alive then," says Virginia. "Is she still?"

I'd bet on Dustee and her "give it a try -- maybe in smaller quantity." Sometimes we're quicker to lean on legend than learn the truth.

Concert Talk

2011-05-02T07:54:00.002-04:00

I didn't run into anyone during my run in a sprinkle yesterday afternoon. Au contraire later, at the intermission and reception for the Marlborough Quartet's concert at Wilson Hall. You know those columns in local newspapers that mention people for the sake of mentioning people, such as: "Natural Bridge. Mr. and Mrs. George Leicester enjoyed a three-day visit by their son and his wife, Jack and Jody Leicester of Wilmington, North Carolina. Ruby Redd received first prize for the first mature Wando pea of the season at the NB Garden Club meeting on Tuesday." Well, here's the latest concert report.

T, who's been on sabbatical, recently returned from four months in New York City working on Liszt, practicing on two grand pianos in his mother-in-law's home. She used to have three. He'll be performing guess who -- Liszt -- in September. Liszt is hard, with big bulky chords swiftly changing.

Bob -- the physician who warns his 50-year old male patients that their libidos are about to wane; his clients blame him and their wives thank him -- says he works seven days a week but is a big fan of chamber music. He played baritone horn (and was it trombone?), in high school. When he arrived at VMI, the talent he thought he had abandoned was coaxed into commission. That was the end of that, except I urged him it wasn't/isn't and told him about my other Bob friend who picked up his saxophone after 50 years and hasn't let go of it since.

"What's Karen up to?" asked an octogenarian. "Milking." "You have cows?" "No, goats." "What do you do with the milk?" "Drink it, make yogurt, cheese, etc." Then the inevitable, "I don't like the smell or taste of goat milk." "Taste ours and if you're like everyone else who tastes it for the first time, you'll say, 'it tastes like milk.'" "No," said she, "I've had it; I don't like the taste." Back and forth, persistent, until she wore down, "I guess my son must have done something wrong."

"We missed you this spring," says E, referring to Garth Newel's adult chamber music weekend. "Yeah, the application deadline came too fast." "Are you going to Lexington Play Week?" "No, I have trouble being cooped up a whole week in the summer." "I understand," she says, "that's why I feel claustrophobic in the summer."

C says, "You're always wearing that big smile." It's the monkey on my shoulder. "How's your flute?" "It's there; that's about it." "Are you playing it?" "Well, our flute group gets together now and then, sounds terrible and goes home. Can't get around to practicing."

On to Jim, who like us used to live in North Carolina. "How's your garden?" One year he got behind and needed help thinning his parsnips. His daughters didn't want to help, but they did. Soon they developed a rash and he took them to a dermatologist. The doctor couldn't figure it out and consulted with another, who went through a list of plants that cause similar rashes. Parsnips. "That's it, they were pulling parsnips." So be careful. When you harvest parsnips, wear long sleeves, long gloves, or be careful, just in case. "My peas have blossomed," I said. He shook his head, "Mine are pitiful, about this tall." He opened his thumb and forefinger to one inch. "Must be missing nitrogen," he said. I said, "In North Carolina, I always planted my peas February 2. This year I heard February 22 is the magic date around here, like March 17 for potatoes." "I planted them in March," he said, "when we lived in North Carolina we planted by the signs; summer garden on Good Friday."

D wo-manned the drink table. She seems to have settled into her husband's retirement from piloting tugboats in Alaska. For years he'd been gone two months, home two months, gone two months; now he's home all the time. D was accompanied by F, plant purveyor and D's former part-time summer boss. "How's the greenhouse?" "Great, almost full of tomatoes and other seedlings. Do you use sterile media? It seems to me that wouldn't be good for the good stuff in the soil." F laughs, "No, except for seed starting." "There's no reason except to cut down on weeds, so you know that what's coming up is what you planted?" "That's right."

"That's it for this week's concert report?" says Virginia.

That's it.

Connections

2011-05-01T20:48:00.001-04:00

Yesterday, after milking, I drove off to pick up a load of manure, wending my way down our lane with about ten people milling around, four or five unexpected to look at goats and four or five planned to pick up some kids. Where did we put that sign? "Elk Cliff Petting Zoo: $ 8.00 entrance fee."

My soil amendment suppliers, not the horses but their owners, have turned into good friends. I'm afraid I often overstay my welcome. This time we talked about rabies, which appears to be more of a mystery than settled fact, infected by notions aimed at protecting humans from faint possibilities to the detriment of animals that haven't a hint of disease. And trout. Three hundred rainbows were delivered to their almost-all-natural spring-fed pond. "They'll grow fast. Karen and Adam are welcome to bring their rods in a month or two." And performers. They recently attended a 3 1/2 hour concert. Important: You've got to quit while the listeners still want more.

After laying a couple rows of black plastic in the field garden, it was time to fire up the brick oven. While we ate pizza with friends of our son, I thought to ask, "Is your father named Owen?" "No, but my uncle is." Owen Young, cellist with the Boston Symphony, stayed with us in Salisbury about 10 years ago, a guest who felt like a friend. Having professional musicians as guests came with our association with the Salisbury Symphony, which offered to place guest soloists in homes rather than hotels, if preferred. Who would have guessed that 10 years later his niece would connect with us, too?

"Cool," says Virginia. "Connections, old and new."

[See http://holesinmyjeans-kpannabecker.blogspot.com/ for Karen's take on this coincidence -- "It's a small world afterall," April 30, 2011.]

The Turnaround

2011-04-30T22:01:00.000-04:00

"That commenter, Judy, who said maybe you could write a book about the people you meet while running," says Virginia, "makes a good suggestion."

Here's something from 7+ years ago.

I run like the wind. Four miles uphill has earned me four miles down, gradual, easy on my knees. I glide like an eagle. Perhaps a runner’s high feels like this. I lean into a good pace, picture my legs cranking circles on a mountain bike. I am Bill Rodgers and Greta Waitz, heading for victory. The gravel road turns rocky, ridged and rutted. Spring rains persisted into summer, then fall. Had to make up for five years of drought, and they did. Road crews got behind. It will take them longer to catch up. I wish the reason: they ran out of prisoners. Fat chance. The war on drugs drags on longer than the war in Iraq, so far. I bet we could beat it with eighty billion dollars well-spent. This diversion does not bring me down, but I slow to avoid twisting an ankle. I spot a well-aged man standing next to a Mazda pickup. (I used to think my Volvos were un-American, but now they are Fords.) If he and I were grapes, we would be raisins. He appears to be gunless, something I like to know before I become too involved. Tell me, do folks lock their firearms to the racks in their windows? Or might that slow them down too much? One by one, he lifts plastic milk jugs from a neat pile on the ground and sets them in his truck bed. Water gushes from a three-inch metal pipe drilled into rock. I have noticed it before, never touched it. Giardia are not my friend. He ignores me, maybe he does not notice me, until I ask, “Is it good to drink?” “Oh yes, I’ve drunk many a gallon over the years. My daughter lives in Roanoke and hates the taste of city water. Whenever I visit, I take this to her.” I cup my hands and sip. I had forgotten running makes me thirsty, left my water belt at home. I am not nearly as smart as some people think. The water is cool, tastes shiny, wet, not special. “Comes from an artesian well,” he says. “Folks at the old quarry put it in.” He eyes me closely, “Do you live around here?” I tell him where and he nods, “I know you. Played piano a couple times at the Methodist church.” Fast friends, brothers I suppose, we introduce ourselves. And he is hungry for company. “I used to work for Mr. Burks, who owned your cabin long ago. I was a boy, fifteen, sixteen. Had to pay me cash, I was too young. With six kids and a house burned down, we pitched in, taking work wherever we could find it. He had that place fixed up real nice. ‘Course anything looked good to me back then. He had lots of company, Saturday nights.” Two octogenarians had already told me about those parties. Bring your own bottle, leave your guns at home. Not that everyone did. Gun control was no more popular then than now. “Did you go?” I ask. “Hell no,” he says, “I was too young. I just kept the yard looking sharp. Were you in the service?” “No,” I almost wish I could say yes, as if military service were a game, something I know I could do well, but my parents told me war is wrong and it took. “I was, but I didn’t care for guns. Never liked hunting, not like my brother, passed away now, who hunted all these mountains. Traveled all over the South, I did, Georgia, Louisiana, North Carolina. They never sent me overseas. Well, I better be going. Want a lift?” He has finished threading a rope through the handle of each plastic bottle and ties the loose end to his tailgate. I resume my run. He slowly bumps behind me. The cloud-studded blue sky turned gray while we talked. Perhaps I should have accepted the ride. The road smoothes and my new friend passes me, yelling out his open window, “You run faster than I drive, don’t you?” A mile later, drops begin to fall. I am warm and they refresh me. I love the smell of rain. Hard to believe it trickles down to the artesian well and becomes tasteless. The rain stops and starts several times before it gets serious and pours. In minutes I am sopping wet. I feel like a girl in a wet T-shirt contest. No, I am too self-conscious, though that’s silly up here where cars seldom pass. But a chance is enough for me. I start to mutter. Don’t like it when my shoes squish with every step. Prime time for blisters. Bill Rodgers has abandoned me. I’m running slowly and I want to be home. The colored leaves were beautiful when the sun was shining, but now they drip brown all over me. I’m almost home, and I slow to a walk. I’m glad to be done, feel the coolness of the rain. My pink legs tingle with goose bumps. I could run naked and no one would ever know. I step onto our deck and untie my shoes. Lay them upside down on a bench. Take off my socks and wring them like dishrags. Same for my shirt, and my shorts. Standing in the rain feels good. No neighbors to disturb, no policemen nearby. I am home.

James Pannabecker

October 30 – November 3, 2003

Butterfly Effect

2011-04-29T15:03:00.000-04:00

Look who greeted me in the greenhouse this morning.

Here's another view.

"Is that a zebra swallowtail?" says Virginia.

I'll tell you what it is. It's a wonderful way to start a day.

"Makes you want to run inside and work on a book deadline?" says Virginia.

Exactly. We may be picking strawberries in a week or two.

And peas, too (Wandos).

How about some broccoli?

Cramped salad, anyone?

And later, much later, maybe some grape juice or raisins?

Nice Guys Always Finish First, Not

2011-04-27T21:10:00.005-04:00

Selling goat's milk for human consumption poses legal challenges where we live; not so if selling for use with pets and farm animals. We've discovered that selling goat's milk for animal consumption, or selling anything else for that matter, presents other challenges -- human relations concerns. Slow learners, are we?

When my career began, I met several women who had refused to take typing classes because they didn't want to have to answer "yes" to the question, "Can you type?" Times have changed. Can you imagine high school girls today who can't type? Maybe not proper QWERTY typing, but who cares any more? Forgive me, this blog isn't about typing, it's about the culture that prompted girls to refuse to type. Our culture has changed quite a bit since then, but maybe not so much.

"What does this have to do with goat milk?" says Virginia.

Maybe nothing, bear with me. Let's say you have 5 gallons of goat milk in the refrigerator, and it's homogeneous product. Not "homogenized," but homogeneous, that is, a tablespoon from this bottle is for all practical purposes the same as a tablespoon from that bottle. You know you could buy similar milk from another goat farm for $11 per gallon. Now, someone wants to buy some of that milk from you. She says she wants to feed it to lambs who have been rejected by their mothers. Remember too, you value each gallon of that milk and have plans for it -- making cheese, for example, which will save you at least $11 the next time your family wants cheese and would otherwise have to buy it somewhere else. How much will you charge her?

It depends, doesn't it? If she's a good friend, you might charge her nothing. If she has something you'd like, you might barter with her. Okay, say you decide to barter and know she sells processed lamb for $6.50 per pound. You also know she's doesn't have much extra cash lying around and maybe not much extra lamb either. $11.00 divided by $6.50 equals 1.69. Rather than offer a gallon of milk for 1.69 pounds of lamb, which you think seems pretty steep, you offer a gallon of milk for a pound of lamb, saying "X sells milk like this for $11 a gallon; how about a pound of lamb for a gallon of milk?" Does that sound like a good deal for her? To you it does. In fact, you might even think you're being generous.

It depends on what her substitutes are. Can she buy goat milk elsewhere for less than the value she places on a pound of lamb? Can she buy something else to feed her lambs, such as a milk mix or cow's milk at Kroger?

A friendly person responds, "I'm sorry, I guess I'll buy some milk at Kroger. That's too expensive for me and asking you to accept less isn't fair because it's obviously more valuable to you."

A mean person responds, "That's ridiculous. The most I can give you is maybe a pound of ground beef."

To the first, you might think, "Hmmm. It sounds as if she really cares about me. Maybe I don't need to make as much cheese as I planned."

As for the second, what does she think I am? A typist? She's clueless as too how much effort it takes to get each gallon of milk into its bottles. Get lost.

Well, whether she's inconsiderate, mean or simply clueless, she appears to value her pound of lamb more than your gallon of milk. Could it be because deep down inside she thinks "men" (or "real farmers") raise lambs and women (or "hobbyists") milk goats?

"I think she could use some serious coaching," says Virginia. "Maybe yodeling would help."

Rain Running

2011-04-26T15:53:00.000-04:00

Two weeks ago, on the train back from Washington, a fellow passenger in the row ahead let everyone know "we've had too much rain." In Tennessee where he's from, maybe, but not here. Someone I know resisted the urge to interrupt his cell phone conversation. Does he know how much rain is "too much?" Do you? One decent rain per week certainly isn't, nor are two. Come August, he might choke on that.

Today's trip to the bank, a little more than a mile from home, began with a sunny sky and gray clouds to the southwest. This runner hesitated only briefly, didn't even put on a baseball cap to keep raindrops off eyelashes and contacts. Bring it on. I don't mind running in the rain, unless it's in the thirties or forties.

The bank brought sprinkles. A little farther down the road Mother Nature started throwing buckets. With zingers. As I said, I don't mind running in the rain, but I'm no Ben Franklin. Two men beckoned from the nearest garage. "That opened up in a hurry, didn't it?" "Yep, we need it." "April showers." "My garden loves it; saw pea blossoms this morning, won't be long." "Peas are early, aren't they? You garden, huh?" "Yeah." "We used to, down along there, before that house was built, long patch between the road and the mountain. Last week I bought a new batch of pinwheels. Went out the next morning and those big winds had blown them all over creation. Got some more yesterday. See all that's left?" "Yeah, I always enjoy your pinwheels." "Air Force. I guess I like to see things spinning." "Where were you?" "Germany, three years, then Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, then California for a year, then Nam. A year. Came back and volunteered for gunship training in Columbus, Ohio. Back to Nam. We'd go out at dusk, reconnoiter, then empty our Gatling guns on the way back." "How long were you in?" "Twenty-and-a-half." Turning to the other fellow, kneeling by his weedwhacker, "When it lets up, I'll take you home, let's even things up." "Thirty, does that sound fair?" "Thirty cents?" "Yeah, sounds fair." Laughter. "When I was a boy, it was hard finding work. I worked alongside a crew of men in the fields. Fifty cents a week. When I got older I got a raise, to one dollar." "A week?" "Yep." "Things were cheaper then." "For sure." "I think that's it." "See you later."

"So you ran home in the sunshine?" says Virginia.

Yep. The sky cleared up and when I got home the patio was almost dry.

Imposter

2011-04-25T17:32:00.001-04:00

A month ago, a friend asked if we could use some roosters, less than a year old. Sure, we said, contemplating the usual destination of roosters. When they arrived, nine of them, Karen wasn't feeling up to par, so we sentenced them to the garden shed, formerly a chicken coop. After a few days, with no change in disposition, Karen advertised them on Craigslist.

The response was quick and enthusiastic. Several asked if we would prepare the roosters for pick-up. Right, we'll go to that trouble and post on Craigslist because we enjoy doing the deed for the fun of it. Then Karen found a taker. On his way, he informed her that he lived in a small apartment. Could he kill them on our property? Good grief. I was in town at the time. When I returned home, the man was holding a dead rooster. Karen, knife in hand, was waiting for the next to expire. So why did we advertise on Craigslist?

Off in the distance, a rooster ran. "He escaped," Karen said. Lucky guy. After the bloodletting, he gradually wandered back to our brood and food.

For most of the day, he treads carefully along the periphery of our flock. Rooster number one keeps a sharp lookout. The Imposter has become the only named chicken on our farm, except for Soossey, the Sussex. He looks something like rooster number one, but he's smaller, he has a double comb, and he's a serf. Or is he something else? Check out his shadow in the photo. Maybe he's a cat in disguise. He nibbles after the others are satisfied.

At dusk, squawking to himself like me in the garden, he sets off across the lawn to a white pine tree, pecking all the way. At the tree, he circles, catches a little more dessert, then flies to the lowest branch. Fiddle, faddle, he jumps up a limb, another, and another. The branch wobbles as in a stiff breeze and lets loose a final cock-a-doodle-doo. A few more cackles and he settles down for the night.

"He's waiting," says Virginia, "like Prince Charles and his sons."

Maybe.

Easter Parade

2011-04-24T16:46:00.003-04:00

Fifty or sixty years ago in Lima, Ohio, Easter Straker, to whom Oprah may owe a thank you, had a show on WIMA entitled "The Easter Parade." A mid-day show, it covered issues of interest to women. We kids didn't watch it, unless our brother had won a bicycle or something.

"Of course you didn't watch it," says Virginia. "You didn't have a television."

Good point. If it played at our house, it was the radio version. To see the bicycle awarded, we had to traipse over to find Channel 35 at a neighbor's house, the same neighbor who welcomed hordes of kidlings for cartoons on Saturday mornings, and maybe on Sunday nights for Walt Disney Presents and, although it kept us up pretty late, the Ed Sullivan Show.

This blog was going to be about the names parents choose, such as April Showers, who attended our Sunday School class. When we were sifting through child's names, we promptly discarded Peter Pannabecker and Peanut Pannabecker, both relevant enough to peanut butter, which briefly served as a nickname for one, maybe more, of the Pannabecker kids in our grade school.

Anyway, Happy Easter!

Living Fence and Other Things

2011-04-23T22:16:00.000-04:00

Has anyone noticed my absence from blogville? The thought crossed my mind that I've had nothing interesting to blog about, and then I thought, how arrogant! Meaning -- my 400-some blogs in the last year and a half have been interesting and suddenly they aren't? Put the blame on blogger ambivalence. I write this blog for myself. It's a handy reference for the future when I can't find my journals. On the other hand, I'd like to think hundreds or thousands of readers find value in these postings. If only a few readers check it out, well, maybe it's time to do what the local library does -- toss the book.

"That's garbage," says Virginia and she's right, except for the fact that what you feel is true even if it's not logical.

I mentioned being ill earlier in the week. I'm not often sick, although if you've been reading this blog since I attempted the Hellgate 100K in December you might question that statement. This time I was clearly, objectively ill, with a fever to prove it, and recovery wasn't a 2-day trick like getting over the flu often is. Maybe that's why I haven't been blogging. Who cares?

Gardeners might. Perhaps the biggest trick to gardening is doing something every day, even if it's a little something. Generally, every morning I survey the night's developments, carrying my cup of apple cider vinegar/honey tea. This past week, I passed on big things until Thursday. I transplanted some seedlings into larger pots. I carried a trowel and a bag of sunflower seeds around the yard and buried a seed here and there, randomly, so later in the summer big round sunflower heads will smile at me from unexpected places. I stuck in another row of beets.

On Thursday I planted a living fence, something I read about last fall in Mother Earth News, a technique that was common before posts and wire or milled wooden fences. In October, I had gathered osage oranges from the woods near the law school, brought them home, and put them in a 5-gallon bucket of water in my smaller greenhouse. All winter long they froze and thawed, gradually turning into a stinky black slurry. Thursday I topped off the bucket with water and noticed a few oranges that still looked fresh and green. Not so. Several jabs and stirring with a spade sliced them into bits and pieces. I dug trenches along two sides of my field garden, about a foot deep and a foot wide, and dribbled the osage orange liquid into the trenches. I put some of the earth back in the trenches so they were about 1/3 full. Now I wait for fall, when I hope to bend over many young trees and cover them, not all the way, with the rest of the soil. Next spring, I hope to find "lateral" branches pointing up vertically all along the trenches, and the next fall I'll weave those branches together about 2 feet off the ground. In a few years I'll have a fence.

Today I tackled another fairly big gardening job -- a slightly raised bed on the South side of the big greenhouse. The bed has two main purposes: (1) to close up the underside of the greenhouse so air won't pass through so readily next winter; and (2) to give me more planting space for flowers, artichokes, tomatoes, and more (more, more, always more). For the sides of the bed I'm using locust fenceposts Bob and Geri donated last year, thanks guys.

Cycle, recycle.

Greenhouse Ghosting

2011-04-20T10:11:00.000-04:00

When I was closing up the greenhouse last night, I came upon this image on the back wall. Oo, oo, oo.

"Oh, my heart!" said Virginia. "What can it be?"

She can be as silly as an 85-year old on a skate board. It's the back-side of the shadow of a potted pomegranate tree.

Lifestead

2011-04-19T16:02:00.003-04:00

Creating a new word isn't easy. I don't care for amortality -- living agelessly -- because of its automatic association with death and because it seems contradictory -- you're praised to be better at it the more aged you are. It also seems too artificial, LasVegasy, soon-to-be waterless.

I moved on to alife and belife, already used as product or company names, then joylife, which a cancer support group has taken. I like the timelessness of joylife. To paraphrase "The Christmas Song" (a/k/a "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire"), joylife could apply to anyone "from one to ninety-two." If Mel Torme and Robert Wells were writing the song today, I bet they'd find a way to fit in a bigger number than 92. After all, our life expectancies have increased nearly 30 years since not long before they wrote that song. Haplife came to mind, as a combination of happiness and the idea of viewing any given day as a half point in your life, but haplife also is taken -- not just by an insurance company.

Lifestead grabbed me and has stuck for the moment. Lifestead.com appears to be defunct and no one else is using it (are you?). It bugs me that someone else thought of it, but that's life, isn't it? Lifestead suggests steadiness -- through good and bad times with strength and persistence. It offers a parallel to another word I like, homestead or homesteading -- seeking a level of self-sufficiency, higher than most, on your own piece of land. Lifestead -- seeking a high level of existence during the life that is all you have, whether or not it be everlasting.

"Where did this come from?" says Virginia.

A bunch of places. Rob Bell, the evangelical minister who questions the existence of hell. Shirley MacLaine, who has been here and there again and again (I don't mean hell). Life Line Screening. National healthcare. Marathoner Grete Weitz killed by cancer today at 57; the vision of Waitz finishing the 1992 NYC Marathon with 60-year-old Fred Lebow who was fighting brain cancer at the time. Mastering a spring flu or cold or combination and taking a "brake" from running. A summer garden soon to be planted. Free-range eggs and raw goat's milk. Karen walking with a friend. Books, updates, poems, stories to write. Music to play and be written. Son to watch man-becoming. Artichokes waiting to be transplanted outside. Life to be, life to watch, smile.

Lifestead on Elk Cliff Farm. Like.

Crow and Crew

2011-04-17T19:18:00.002-04:00

Illness has reminded me to slow down and pick the broccoli, spinach and asparagus, and to head to the greenhouse for rainforest temperatures and humidity. Finding me there in long sleeves, Karen nodded, "yes, you must still have the fever."

I spent the afternoon with Wendell Berry after finishing one of my least favorite chores of the year, income taxes. Thank you, Liz, for Jayber Crow, and the salty drops sliding down my cheek on the final page. Only two, mind you, "I'm a man, after all," which reminds me of the recent silliness about pink toenails on the 5-year-old boy in a J. Crew's ad. I think "talking heads" is a misnomer; "talking pie-holes" would be more accurate, mouths moving without any clear connection to their brains.

"We have a black one," says Karen from the basement, "that makes ten chicks so far." This incubator batch is proving much more successful than the first one. I've become so accustomed to hearing chirping from the basement that yesterday when the first one popped out of its shell -- and I mean "popped," no dawdling, that one -- I kept working on our taxes without mentioning it. I'd forgotten she'd moved the other batch outdoors to what used to be our duck house.

"You guys are quite the farmers," says Virginia.

Hardly. To call us farmers is inconsiderate and demeaning to real farmers, who are truly Renaissance people. I balk at buying a tractor for two reasons: (1) I don't need one; and (2) I wouldn't know how to repair it, unlike a real farmer.

A Dinner of Worms

2011-04-16T11:26:00.000-04:00

I've been gradually covering the field garden -- that's the 100' x 100' square in our field -- with cardboard, newspapers, magazines and topsoil, as a solution for a serious Johnsongrass (crabgrass) invasion. My friend Rob would say only someone with too much time on his hands would attempt this project. He might be right, although time is something I'd buy if I could. I tend to think of it as meditation time, sort of like raking a Japanese stone garden I suppose. Eventually I may finish.

"Don't you worry about colored ink?" says Virginia.

Not really, although I prefer cardboard (I tear off any plastic tape first) and black and white newspapers. When we attended the 2010 annual convention of the Virginia Association of Biological Farmers, someone asked Will Allen, of Growing Power, the same question in a different context -- that is, regarding his gigantic composting operation (see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3EpTWQWx1MQ). He said no, he didn't worry, the worms would handle it.

I see many worms while I meditate in my garden, so I'm leaving it to the worms, too.