Dirt

This is a public space. When I read what some people write (and sometimes my own material) I cringe at what the future may bring. In 1984 we feared Big Brother, now we invite him in. A body of law has grown up around "a person's legitimate expectation of privacy." I wonder if we have voluntarily surrendered any expectation, nude pictures almost nothing compared to unloading our innermost thoughts for public consumption.

So I won't mention the possible end of a friendship, one might say two autocrats re-entering orbit after colliding into a double triplet. Or have I already? "Managing People," a Citicorp course pretty much mandatory for managers, pointed out that people under stress tend to revert to child-like behavior. Maybe it wasn't "Managing People," maybe it was a Personalysis session or an article in Psychology Today. And maybe I've been reading too much Woolf, Proust and Joyce. James Joyce.

Nine piglets nibble people. Green beans grow big. Mammoth donkeys must diet. Wire grass worries gloves. Japanese cucumbers jam crisper. Tall parsnips take planning. Sweet corn soon coming.

This week, our visiting niece and her boyfriend seemed to look forward to harvest day, every day this time of year. We gather bowls or buckets and grocery shop in our garden, today's solar power fueling today's and winter's table, goat ice cream for dessert. Thank you, dirt.

Minners, Polecats, Wineberries and Green Beans

A fellow with white hair leans on a walking stick and peers into Hopper Creek. I've met this smiley guy, so I take a break from running. "What are you watching?"

"Minners," says he, "not as many as they used to be. I'd leave my light burning out back to gather bugs, then bring 'em here to feed these guys. I knew exactly where two watersnakes'd be lying, over on the right under a couple rocks. They'd glide out, mouths open [he forms an "O" with his mouth] and swaller a couple minners. They're not here any more. One day, two polecats, biggest I ever seen, were lyin' there belly up [he points to the far bank], with a couple dead babies behind 'em. Now who'd do somethin' like that? They's some mighty crazy people 'round here. I used to fish every single day. Never kep' 'em, threw 'em back. Brook trout. Don't see many any more. There's a pool up thar by the cabin, used to have lots of trout. Haven't been in years. I lived in that brick house next to your'n, married to Frances 25 years. She still lives there, with her mother. She's somethin', about 90 now, still ridin' that mower with an umbrella on it. Duck and me, we used to gather up the road, the one that wanders by the Devil's Marbleyard, and drink home-made moonshine. I had a still back then. And beer. No trouble, just good fun. Another meetin' place was old man Marshall's farm. He had an old black buggy, you know the kind with the top rolls down, he loved that thing. We'd get together Sundays, drink a lil beer, and watch the college girls ride by nice and fancy. [He pretends he's holding reins and posting up and down, up and down.] 'Let's get those horses,' Marshall'd say, he loved that buggy, and we'd go tearin' after. His horse liked pullin' that thing, too. He'd stand up tall, proud-looking, in front of that buggy. I never got a DUI for driving horses. Not that I ain't been in jail. One night down in Fincastle, I called Frances and she got her dad to come for me. When he showed up to bond me, I said 'that's that, I'll never do this again.' Looking at him, I didn't want to ever see him come after me. Not that I haven't been in a couple times for other stuff."

About this time, he ambles over to his pickup. "Well, you have a good day," I say. "You, too," says he.

That was yesterday.

"I guess he didn't find out much about you," says Virginia.

Many blog visitors seem to be interested in two things this time of year -- wineberries and freezing green beans. This is a banner year for wineberries, thick as can be on our mountain. In 4 trips I've picked about 13 gallons, more to come. I made juice with the third picking because a shortage of jelly bags had maxed out Karen's winemaking capacity. She says she wants us many as I can find, so I'll keep picking. For hints on using wineberries, click on "Wineberries" on the right, under Labels. Some day maybe I'll show how to make juice: add water to cover, simmer about 10 minutes, mash, strain through a jelly bag or cheesecloth in a colander (not a flimsy plastic one), add sugar to taste, bring to simmer again, put in jars, then can in a water bath (30 minutes boiling for quarts).

A flag's waving for green beans, too. I've been picking them small, so each time I go out they seem to be making fun of me by ripening faster. I've stir-fried and frozen 6 gallons so far. For instructions on freezing green beans, my most popular blog posting ever, click on "Freezing Vegetables" on the right, under Labels, and go to June 3, 2011, "How to Freeze Green Beans and Sugar Snap Peas."

Dime Time

One of the truths I've heard about self-employment is a tendency to work when there's work to be had to the detriment of spare time, which cannot be called "free time" because time is no longer "free" (as if it ever were), all of your time being on your dime. Those who work for others, feel free to disagree and brag about all the hours you put in. I remember that not being able to count on someone else giving me a paycheck of a certain amount every period took some getting used to.

My morning run pointed out the cost of dime time.

Although I didn't run as far as I often do, I was out there longer. First, I ran into SJ walking his dog and we got to talking, about the 22 pistol in his hoodie's pocket, which he was about to pull out when he heard my feet pounding up behind him (had I known that I would have yelled hello SJ earlier), twisting the necks of rabbits destined for pan-fry, building a windmill near a mountain cabin, the increasing affordability of solar power (now at par with the grid in many instances), reading Mother Earth News for 20 years, digging gardens by hand, using Subaru parts to fix a 1952 Ford 8N tractor like the one at yesterday's Effinger Auction (yes I could learn some engineering at our advanced age, both of us being within a year of 60), finding enough manure (for which I offered a solution because I know a guy who will load you up for free), killing wiregrass with agricultural vinegar, using muriatic acid to clean the two-thirds full 5-gallon bucket of copper pennies he found next to the dumpster over near the Natural Bridge (who would abandon so many pennies because they were too dirty to roll?), a wife who's apparently become addicted to online gaming and says she exercises on a treadmill while he walks but probably doesn't (48 years younger than a certain person I know who recently finished something like her 18,000th game of FreeCell and still exercises at least three days a week), the mammoth "jacks" in our field, spaquaponics, and white roof coverings reflecting sunlight to keep houses cooler. 

No sooner had I left SJ than I stopped in the Trading Post parking lot among four fifty- to sixty-something males soaking up the sunlight that had just broken through what's been a dependably gray sky (actually it was the beginning of a clearing that led to a blue-sky afternoon). "Did Karen like her cake?" I asked KC, who we'd seen waiting at the Wal-Mart (oh no, I let that one slip) cake counter yesterday. "Yep, she ate some for breakfast." "Good," I said, "that's what cakes are for, like donuts." "This is the first time I've seen those steel legs stopped," one familiar-looking fellow said through the window of his pickup. I responded, "My Karen suggested a couple days ago that maybe they don't stop enough."

"Is that what you meant by the cost of dime time?" says Virginia.

That's part of it. Hide away working and you'll never hear the compliments of strangers. More important, you'll miss out on life passing outside your window.

Not so Grumpy Old Men

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.

Concert Talk

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

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

"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

Visit to a Portal

I don't know why it took me so long to recognize Tank Hollow as a great running route.  Maybe I was scared away by the bear hunters who gather at its entrance during September dog training and the real thing in December, or maybe it was this:

"What is it?" asks Virginia.

Maybe it's a portal, although I stepped inside and nothing happened, but then, as I walked away, I heard something and had the presence of mind to click.

Whoa!  Running, I shot another...

and again...

before everything went blank.

A Day in the Life of a Writer Who Has Caught Up with Deadlines

The greenhouse thermometer read 30 degrees this morning, versus an outdoor temperature of 23.  I'd like to think the manure pile in the greenhouse is making a difference, but I suppose the gauges could be faulty.  The warmer days are helping my 10 varieties of lettuce grow faster than they were.

I'm getting into a habit of every third day stopping by the woodshed to practice using the heavy-duty splitting maul I ordered from Lehman's a few years ago (http://www.lehmans.com/store/Stoves___Wood_Cutting__Splitting__and_Hauling___Heavy_Duty_Splitting_Maul___12450), well worth the $50 investment. My lessons began with the black walnut tree cut down by request of the family of the fellow who ran into it on May 10, 2010.  I probably could have dropped the maul on a walnut chunk and watched it split, but I needed to perfect my aim and my swing because a pile of locust waits for me.  A month ago, I gave the locust a try and failed miserably.  Now I've graduated and am able to add some of that yellow wood, nicely split, to our backstairs bin.

After emptying my cup of apple cider vinegar tea and doing a tiny bit of work "in my office," it's usually time for a morning run.  Last night I realized our bank account was dwindling, so this morning the bank was my destination.  "You still running?" the teller asked, not impressed by the stocking pulled over my face and the pistol in my hand.  "Always, unless I'm injured" was my answer.  The branch is a little more than 3 1/2 miles from our house, so I added a detour to make an 8-mile loop.  As I left Glasgow, Randy waved from his garage, which is stuffed full of things he's trying to sell.  "Since we built this house, we've parked a car in the garage twice," he told me,  "been admiring your greenhouse, started plants myself last year, we'd like to drop by for a tour some day."  Please do, I said.  A few years ago we traded sweet corn for green peppers.

I read the local weekly over a late breakfast, then resumed what I started yesterday -- garden fence building.  Because I dug 17 holes yesterday, I had to match that today, leaving only 16 to finish, tomorrow I hope.

"To keep out the deer?" asks Virginia.

No, the chickens.  My little yellow mesh fences, mentioned in earlier blog entries, haven't worked well except for the first few days after we trim wings.  I figure a 6-foot fence will do a better job and reduce feather-clipping to a monthly task.  The fence will only extend along two sides of the garden area.  Let's hope the chickens don't wander all the way around.

Rally4Sanity

Our 3-hour drive to the Vienna Metro Stop ended with a half-hour cruise through exit 62, past a parking lot with no room left, up to section 3-3 of a scissored building we feared would have no spots left.  Were we imagining things or did a thick line of people stretch a couple hundred yards outside the subway terminal? 

Check out those two hats.  That's what today was all about -- at the Jon Stewart/Stephen Colbert Rally for Sanity on the National Mall in Washington, D.C.  You may have to click on the picture to see that the "E" has been crossed out.

Here's the reason I joined the crowds that came from everywhere to express their interest in restoring sanity to the anger we hear and read about.  The sunglassed man in blue emailed me a couple months ago, "let's go."

I wonder if the Washington subway has ever been this full of people.

I think this woman must have been busy before today.

"Is that Dorothy?" asks Virginia.

We arrived home in time to greet our first trick-or-treater.

Maximum Wage

What's a reasonable annual income?  $600 a year in Somalia?  $43,000 in Norway?  I guess these numbers, supposedly for the poorest and the richest country, measured per capita, are based on gross domestic product divided by the number of people in the country.

How about $50 million for a country singer (Chesney)?  Or $2.3 billion for the head of an investment firm (Paulson)?  Something inside me approves the first but is very suspicious of the second, possibly because I'm trying to finish The Big Short.  Maybe when someone earns these amounts of money, the FBI should join the IRS to try to determine if something's wacky.  Maybe the IRS should send a note to the new Bureau of Consumer Financial Protection. 

Virginia says, "I read somewhere that people who earned their wealth are happier than people who inherited it."

That's just like her, changing the subject, trying to get me thinking about something worth thinking about.  No, of course I wasn't about to mention the un-American idea of a maximum wage or income.

"People who earn their wealth are more likely to say it contributes to happiness," says Virginia.

That's not a big surprise.  Most of those who inherited wealth never learned what it's like to be poor.

Socialite

Twelve hours of writing brings me to a short, bleary-eyed respite before bedtime.  Our brittle grass is soaking up a dose of gentle rain, after a day of gray skies threatened to pass without a drop.  A deer had been visiting my dear young American Chestnut tree, so yesterday I enclosed it with a couple cattle guards Karen had fashioned into a temporary dog kennel.  Its branches already seem to be taking leaf.

Yesterday was neighborhood visiting day.  I stopped twice during my early morning run.  First, I visited three men who were waiting.  For what?  A logging truck.  They claimed Thunder Ridge is too wet to drag giant logs from the woods.  If it's too wet now, then I can't imagine when it'll be dry enough.  One of them was Magic's dad.  Magic, a springer spaniel, often races next to me, nipping so close a slight misstep could draw blood.  I always maintain a continuing monologue with her, but if I stop she won't come near.  With Dad nearby, she let me pet her.  A first.

I suppose if you wanted to know who in our Valley has begun an exercise program because his or her doctor recommended it, I could introduce you.  Yesterday's newcomer was Dalmus, a handsome and friendly man whose Aunt Ruth plays Scrabble with Karen.  He's walking 1 1/2 miles each day and isn't happy about his doctor's opinion that his usual two glasses of milk daily isn't good for him.  Why?  Because of the salt.  Although we haven't had an analysis done of our milk, I suggested goat's milk.  He gave me the same weird look 8 out of 10 people offer us whenever we mention goat milk.  When they finally taste it, they inevitably say with a certain amount of shock, "It takes like milk!" Does it now.

Eight hours later found me on the road to town.  The mayor had invited us to "drinks and conversation."  Karen remained elbow-deep in a plumbing project, so I was on my own.  I left 2 1/2 hours later with a few new friends and a reputation for boring conversation about the financial reform bill.

"But they kept asking you questions," says Virginia, like Amahl in Menotti's Amahl and the Night Visitors.

Maybe they weren't bored.

A Moment with Greatness

Home, James.  My older brothers waited years to use that line.  When I finally earned my driver's license, they got kick after kick out of it.  Yesterday, I climbed into the front seat of my Enterprise rental and homed home, 471 miles in 8 1/2 hours.  Not entirely uneventful, I alternated between National Public Radio and an "essential" 3 CD collection of Leonard Bernstein's works. 

Listening to Bernstein brought to mind my stint with the Choral Arts Society of Washington, 1979-1981.  At the time, I was studying voice with Naomi Blake, characterized by a University of North Carolina instructor as having "the most relaxed singing voice in the world," who had recommended Naomi, to the effect, "if she teaches how she sings, she can't be beat."  Naomi earth-mothered her students into her modest Crystal City living room studio, reaching far into our diaphragms to seek out any talent we might have.  She could make a modicum listenable.  When I tried out for the Washington Opera, the director admonished me, "Listen to Naomi.  She knows what she's doing."

I mentioned Choral Arts because its director, Norm Scribner, had a famous friend in New York who joined us for a concert each year.  He would arrive in flamboyance, surrounded by an aura of super-energy.  The young man who carried the maestro's silver water cup surprised me once, when Mr. Bernstein took a break and asked him to fill in for a few minutes.  He took up the baton and didn't miss a beat.  I wonder what it was like to travel in close company with the great man's photographic memory, Renaissance charm and unusual moral character. As a chorus, we never doubted where his beat was.  He may have lied, but he knew how to inspire our confidence.  Once, after finishing the rehearsal of a movement of his Kaddish symphony, he said something like, "that was great."  Hearing a bass mutter, he said, "what's wrong?"  "We didn't sing the right notes," said the bass.  "Don't worry about the notes," said Bernstein, "the rest is what's important."

"I would have loved to sing under his direction," says Virginia.

I say, "He would have loved you, too."

Twinless

Twinless

If I had a twin,
could we share boyfriends
and watch each other being me?
Would I have a guaranteed
best friend for life?
My luck, I’d go to prison
for something she did
and she’d forget to visit me on Sundays,
or my parents couldn’t afford
more than one of anything.
It would be tough
always trying to be better,
constantly seeking a way to stick out.
I like being twinless,
but does she?


These are the words to a song I wrote several years ago. The Arrowhead Trio will be performing it in a benefit concert Friday night, along with guest soprano, Catherine Gaylard.

The husband of the soprano who premiered this piece asked me this when he heard it, "What were you smoking when you wrote that?"

"He didn't know you very well, I guess," says Virginia.

True, but then how well does anyone really know anyone else? 

Working Vacation

Set your suitcase down at our house and you're liable to find yourself aching for a nap and early bedtime.  At 5:45 this morning, Larry and I were nibbling cereal and imbibing grape juice.  By 6:30 we were gently paddling the James River.  Mist obscured Blue Ridge peaks, draping curtains from the sky.  "Do you see them?" I asked, hoping I didn't have a detached retina.  I relaxed as our kayaks parted the low-floating sky.  This sort of thing, cool temperatures, and no one in sight, make a morning float worthwhile.

"See the drooping pawpaws?" points Larry, "in Alabama we rarely find ripe fruit because wildlife gets there first."  "Not so in Virginia," I answer, "we picked ten grocery bags last summer.  Karen made a pie and pawpaw wine."

Larry's my go-to guy for nature lessons.  Last week on his way North, he gave us an American chestnut tree to plant (mostly American, perhaps as much as 1/8th Chinese to make it blight-resistant).  Knowing he was stopping again on his way South, I made sure I got that sucker in the ground.  Besides, I believe we should invest in future generations and, if I'm lucky, we may get to roast some of its chestnuts before we die.  I also like the symbolism of blending Chinese and American cultures, a sign of future times as well as the past -- my father, though he was born in Bluffton, Ohio, lived until his early twenties in that land that no longer seems far away.

Needing more mulch for my garden, Boxerwood Gardens was a perfect fit for our next stop. Boxerwood, in Lexington, is an environmental education center.  I like contributing to Boxerwood (http://www.boxerwood.org/) because I can support two interests at once -- the environment and childhood education.

KB loaded up my pickup while Larry and I toured the grounds.  Quickly recognizing Dr. Munger's passion for exotic trees, Larry said, "I've never seen such a large grove of human-planted Bottlebrush Buckeyes, native to Alabama.  The evening fragrance of these blossoms is incredible."  They didn't smell too bad in the morning either.  Everywhere we went, different varieties of Japanese maples greeted us.  Admiring what is affectionately called "The Great Oak" prompted a short lecture on dendrochronology, tree-ring dating.  Larry anxiously awaited a dendrochronologist's report on a beam sample recently taken from his wife's family homestead.  Later, back at Elk Cliff Farm (our home), Larry identified two post oaks (quercus stellata) and explained that these 3-4 foot diameter trees easily could be older than the 10-foot plus "Great Oak" because post oaks are very slow-growing trees.  Later he complimented a cedar-crowded American Elm that stands along our fence line.  Let me tell you, Larry can come again any time -- he helps make our place feel very special.

Then came that nap I warned you about, two hours for Larry.  I nodded briefly, then planted a few rows of Blue Lake green beans and some sweet corn.  Remember that pickup full of mulch?  When Larry came to, off we went to my field garden to carefully lay the mulch on a protective barrier of miscellaneous materials (magazines, newspapers, cardboard boxes, rugs, blankets and plastic) underneath my electric fence.  While he kindly agreed it should prevent me from having to periodically whack weeds so they don't short the fence, I don't think it reassured him of my sanity. 

"I'm not sure anything could do that," says Virginia, "ask Jerry and Kathy."

At 9:15, Larry began to hint that his 2-hour nap needed renewal.

Portability

Not too many years ago, this pianist often felt lonely and neglected, more so, I dare say, than a harpist.  Hauling a piano wherever we played was impossible, so piano players either stayed home or were at the mercy of good or bad fortune.  Many ugly tuned and poorly voiced instruments greeted us at gigs.  I had to smile 12 years ago when my Kurzweil keyboard arrived.

Unlike earlier machines, this one has touch-sensitive keys.  Almost like a real piano, the keys respond to finger pressure -- loud when I press hard, soft when I touch lightly, and numerous gradations in between.  I haven't quite figured out why -- perhaps because the gradations are not infinite -- it still doesn't match the feel of a fine grand piano.  For classical music I much prefer my concert grand.  For popular music, it's hard to beat the variety of sounds generated by the Kurzweil.

Two weeks ago, we were thrilled to perform in a huge bank barn.  As wooden as life can be, the sound in this barn was like Carnegie Hall.  Wherever you stood, the volume and quality was the same.  Acoustic architects try to create this environment in new halls and have been known to fail.  Here I am accompanying Lauren Warus, an aspiring opera and crossover artist from New Jersey.  She sang a set of show tunes and the famous aria from Puccini's Gianni Schicchi, "O Mio Babbino Caro."

Now, a view of the party, looking down from the loft of the rehabilitated antique structure (both pictures, courtesy of Gerri Wenz).

"What a wonderful venue!" says Virginia.  "Sign me up, would you?"

Local Heroes

Fifteen years ago, after I resigned my corporate position, I thought I'd wander in and out of downtown establishments and get to know the local heroes.  I think I devoted one morning to the project before becoming involved in other things and forgetting all about it.

When our friends, Jerry and Kathy, from St. Louis, arrived last Friday, Jerry began to explain his idea of a working vacation.  He wanted to photograph some Virginians who carry the experiences of their lives in their faces.  He'd given us a bit of an advance warning, so Karen and I had begun listing candidates.  We weren't sure what he had in mind, but his blog had offered guidance (www.jerrytovo.com).

Kathy and Jerry jumped into the local music scene by joining us at a twice yearly music party thrown by our dear friends, David and Linda Krantz.  A couple months before each party, David and Linda invite folks to register for 10-20 minute slots. The result is an eclectic mix of music performed by musicians with varied skill levels -- from novices to regular professional performers.  Jerry had a double motive -- to hear some interesting music and find models.

Soon after we arrived, I began to realize that something about Jerry's proposition was motivating me to resurrect my dream of wandering among local heroes.  I was surprised by how many of them I knew.  So I wandered.

We were so preoccupied with the party we forgot to pick up goat feed.  As a result, Saturday found us on an outing to Lexington.  "Whoa," said Jerry, as he spotted an empty storefront.  He pulled into a parking spot and dialed the number on the "FOR RENT" sign.  "This guy's serious," I thought.  "Would you be interested in renting this space for a day or two?" he asked the lessor.  A back-and-forth exchange followed, with a call-back or two, and, wouldn't you know, he'd rented the space for Monday and Tuesday.

By Sunday afternoon, our hunt for portrait subjects had resumed with a sense of urgency as had Jerry's planning, which obviously had been clicking through his brain for quite some time.  Monday morning was filled with preparations, as Jerry and his new assistant, me, proceeded to track down models and a few props for the unfurnished space -- a cardtable, a computer stand, a stool, and some bottled water.  We also visited City Hall to see if we needed a business license and to find a fax machine to receive the certificate of liability insurance required by the lessor. We arrived at 115 S. Main fifteen minutes early.

At 11:01, Sallie the lessor sallied forth.  "You're a minute late," said Jerry, somehow confident she would take it with the good humor he intended.  He was right; Sallie did.  We proceeded to set up the equipment Jerry had packed into the back of his Honda Pilot.  I changed into a tux shirt and bow tie, becoming the new studio's test case.  Soon I made a follow-up phone call and, as luck would have it, one of our prize candidates was hooked.  "I drove 800 miles to take your picture," Jerry repeated the line he had used on Rooster at the Krantz party on Friday night.  A half hour later the posing stool was no longer mine.  Jerry's dream was off and running.

Mine, too.  After two sessions, my dream resumed.  We strolled around town, like two Mormons on a mission trip, dropping in on possible subjects.  At Jerry's nod, negotiations would begin, or a shake of his head and off we'd go.  By 2 PM Tuesday, when his lease ran out, Jerry had completed nine sittings and I'd talked to more than twenty local heroes.

"I wish you'd let me pose," says Virginia.

Uh-hum.

Old Man River

"Water is gold," a friend of ours insists.  Elk Creek and the James River border our little farm on three sides.   Strangers flock to fish from our shores or take out or put in for a day's float.  We feel fortunate and inclined to say yes.

Sometimes we wonder at presumptuous users and takers, like those who carve a tree without asking, who plop down and don't look up as we walk past, who leave their trash for us to dispose, or, almost incredibly, have the nerve to pass our permissions along to others.  Do they listen to the words when they sing along "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" with Aretha?

Sunday, as we relaxed on our peninsula, a flotilla of tubes approached, floating suspiciously close to our shore.  I hesitate to use the word "our" -- to claim ownership of this natural beauty seems almost a sacrilege -- but then when I see what too often happens (for example, BP in the Gulf of Mexico), I wish I could buy more and exclude every stranger.

The apparent captain of the flotilla hailed us as his cohorts stuck their toes back into their shoes, dismounted and shoved their gear onto our shoreline.  This explained the presence of the unfamiliar pickup we had earlier considered locking into our field.  Captain B inquired, "Enjoying the River?" I said, "Yes, and you?"  "Hi, I'm _____; R gave us permission and unlocked the gate for us this morning."  "Oh he did?" said I, "...well, things have gotten out of control so we're going to put a different lock on the gate and from now on we'll expect everyone to ask us for permission each time they enter."

Not an auspicious beginning perhaps, but Captain B grew on us, proving to be loquacious and somewhat likeable.

"Lived here all my life," said he, and eventually, "if anyone bothers you, let me know and if I can I'll make things right."  He mentioned that his grandparents were cremated in a trailer fire a few years ago and the big C claimed his father shortly after.  His grandmother left him a house free and clear.  "All I have to do is foot the taxes," he said. 

"You've got a great place here," he continued, "fenced in so my pit bull, basically an overgrown chihuahua, can't get out and a guy can drink a couple beers without a hassle.  Lots of good-lookin' women pass by.  I can look but can't do anything about it, now that I'm married."

I asked, "Do you have any kids?"  He said, "No, but I like practicing."  I laughed, "That's good for you."

"He didn't really say that, did he?" asks Virginia.

He did, indeed.

Poindexter

Poindexter:  Choose one or more of the following:

(A) A bookish or socially unskilled person.
(B)  Someone who is overtly nerdy, geeky or bookish.
(C) The nerdy young nephew of The Professor, Felix the Cat's archenemy and bad guy scientist.
(D) Deceased U.S. Senator from the State of Washington, former resident ghost of our farmhouse.

I hope that in the future, like today, people who Google, Yahoo, Bing or whatever "Pannabecker" don't find a definition like the first two, although in a weak moment I might admit it would be appropriate.  I'd prefer "an eclectic friend" or something like that.

"Why Poindexter?" Virginia sets me up.

Because Miles Poindexter, sometimes pronounced "pawndextuh," grew up in our house and then moved to Walla Walla, Washington, where he practiced law.  Drawn to Spokane to be a prosecuting attorney and judge, he was elected as a Republican to the U.S. Congress and, in 1910, to the U.S. Senate.  From 1923 to 1928 he served as U.S. Ambassador to Peru, where he was reportedly known for partying and being popular among the fairer sex.  He lost a bid for the U.S. Senate in 1928 and returned to Elk Cliff Farm where he died on September 21, 1946. 

That reminds me.  I must build a classy sign to post near our driveway:  "Elk Cliff Farm."

Since we moved here, several members of the Poindexter family have dropped in.  Today it was Miles Poindexter, III, the original Miles Poindexter's great-great-nephew, returning to Florida after captaining a "rich guy's yacht" to Maine for the summer.

Purple and Red

Last year, for the first time, I planted purple salsify.  Its sometime moniker, the "vegetable oyster," teased me into ordering seeds. Although I'm not a big fan of oysters, I am a fan of growing as many varieties of vegetables as reasonably possible.  And, once I grow them, I tend to like them (ground cherries excepted).  Our salsify crop was meager, and I will try to grow more.  One plant remains from last year.

The flower is a gem, isn't it?  Even more interesting are the stages of this flower.  Here, I'll show you.  On the right, brown, seeds are developing that I hope to plant this Fall.  See the flower that hasn't yet opened?

Let's turn now to what our son has called his "favorite vegetable."  Much maligned, I don't know why, a fresh beet, roasted, is sweet and tender.  Here, a friend of ours picks her first beet ever.  Tug a little.  It doesn't take much because the bulb sits near the surface of the ground.

"She seems pretty happy with the size of that puppy," says Virginia.

"May I see it?" says a hollyhock.

 Sure. Open wide.

Now don't cry.

Soon, tomatoes...

and daisies. "Phone home!"

Returning to our theme for the day, here are some larkspurs, volunteering among the peas, from a planting 3 years ago.