Greenhouse Compost

My cross-training for Hellgate continued today with a short (6-mile) run followed by composting.  I finished building the compost box for the greenhouse yesterday, after Karen helped the day before.  Here it sits like an altar at the far end of the greenhouse.

If you were sitting in the compost, here's what you might see.

Or lying down, looking up.

Today I covered the walls with plastic and made our first deposits.

"I'd say that's enough about goat poop," says Virginia. "What ever happened to that wheat you planted?"

I thought she'd never ask about our November babies, the green tinge in this photo.

Here's a close-up.  Aren't they just the sweetest ever?

Finally, here's a photo for my mother and anyone else who's been wondering exactly where we put the new greenhouse.

Greenhouse Plastic

Today, with some assistance, we installed the plastic on our greenhouse.

As Susan drove away, she yelled, "It looks like a Conestoga wagon!"

I almost called this blog entry, "Greenhouse Construction Complete," but it's not.  At the far end (West), I'm going to build a big compost box and fill it with kitchen scraps, fresh manure and other goodies.  I'm hoping that will add heat in the winter and carbon dioxide for the plants. Around the bottom, on the outside, I plan to add planters -- to keep air from rushing under the greenhouse "crawl space." 

"So when are you going to plant something?" asks Virginia.

Maybe tomorrow -- winter greens and lettuces.

Pooville

Undercover, content, here is Pooville West, then East.

Twenty truckloads have been loaded, disbursed and spread.  If I can summon up the energy, I'll gradually cover the aged manure with mulch.  First, I must squirrel away more firewood for winter and stretch plastic over the greenhouse.  Then we'll begin to discover what we can grow this time of year.

"Do you still have plans for a pile of droppings on the West side of the greenhouse?" asks Virginia.

Can't hurt, except my back.  It would have been nice to install it before the plastic. 

Fire in the Window

Do you see what I see?  Is it a man stretched across a diamond?

Maybe it's Senator Miles Poindexter, the ghost who used to live in our house.

"Now I see the photographer," says Virginia.  "You."

Here's what was on the other side of the window.  It's fun trying out a new camera.

Why Run Hellgate?

Why run Hellgate? I know some folks think it's crazy and can't imagine why someone would. One answer is the perennial "I guess you've got to be there" to understand.

I haven't done it yet, so I don't really know the answer. A previous winner of the run, Jason Schwartzbard, has written: "...those reasons that we share with acquaintances over cocktails at holiday parties only skim the edges of our reasoning....Just as the painter, dancer, mathematician or corporate executive creates, so does the runner. But while the painter, dancer, mathematician or corporate executive feel[s] both the joy of meeting the human need to create, and the pleasure of seeing some final product, the runner only has the former....So at those cocktail parties, the reasons that come out for running long distances in the woods tend toward values that are meaningful after the fact. But as I ran down that grassy road, a little more than half way through the race, a few minutes before sunrise, what drove me forward had nothing to do with pushing myself to new heights or being able to eat more pie the following week. What drove me forward was the transcendent satisfaction of creating my experience."

I touched on a similar idea in an earlier blog posting ("Ordinary People," December 26, 2009) -- the idea that artists, writers, dancers, and other creators must find satisfaction in the act of creation and not in the "final product."

"Oh, what I'd give to re-experience the event, itself," says Virginia. "Second, give me the memory, not the sterility of a recording."

Well, Virginia is a pro, one of the few who peaked in her profession, however briefly. As an amateur musician who enjoys performing, I hesitate to focus on the moment of performance. Musicians, like athletes, train for weeks, years, for their performances, and then can stumble because something takes a wrong turn -- maybe another musician's error, a broken string, a memory lapse, or an overheated room. I don't want my satisfaction to depend on the performance. The performance means little if I'm miserable practicing by myself or working with other musicians.

Likewise, Hellgate. I'd be disappointed if I didn't run the race. The moment when I cross the finish line will be a special moment. But -- race director, you may stop reading now -- I have already experienced an incredible amount of satisfaction before toeing the starting line, running alone in the forest in Fall colors and sunshine, dry leaves swishing at my feet, spying a white tail bouncing through the trees or a flock of turkeys lifting off, and being grateful my body parts are able to complain. The creative process can feel very good, good, not-so-good, not-so-bad, bad and very bad, but most of all creation feels.

Let the Children Play

This morning I ran past an elementary school playground. Little bodies scurried up the ladder of a slide. No one yelled, "One at a time!" I expected them to hurry back to climb the ladder again, but as soon as they slid off the metal they raced to the nearest swingset. Memory tugged. I found myself on the playground of Bluffton Elementary, about 50 years ago. Rushing to the swing instead of the ladder felt exactly right.

We gathered in a circle to choose teams for kickball. I forget how we designated team captains. Maybe we remembered whose turn or birthday it was. Some of us knew we'd be picked first and who would be last. Selection happened fast because we wanted to play. The next day, if Jimmy remembered his bag, we might shoot marbles.

"Where are the teachers?" I wondered this morning. They were where they should be, gathered under a tree, visiting. The children, like 50 years ago, didn't need someone telling them what to do or worrying about being a few feet away in case they fell off the ladder or bumped heads running to the next attraction.

I hope this playground is not unusual, with its old-fashioned equipment and laissez faire attitude. It reminds me of our 2000 trip to New Zealand, when we showed up to sea-kayak Milford Sound. I asked, "do you want us to sign a waiver?" Our guide laughed, "no need, you'd be thrown out of court if you sued us." We need that -- a culture of knowing risk-taking, of taking responsibility for our choices. If you drink coffee, you know it's hot, so don't spill it.

"Too many rules spoil the broth," says Virginia.

Sweet Carrotissimi

Almost nothing beats fresh sweet carrots direct from a home garden. I picked a few amazing samples this evening. They're very small, having been planted in August, and may need to be covered with straw as the mercury drops lower and lower -- or maybe they won't last that long if I can't resist the little twerps.

What else waits in my garden? Small plantings of many vegetables, including onions, kale, spinach, parsnips, Chinese cabbage, chives, peas, lettuces, garlic. And lots of arugula. Want some? Across the way are ducks, chickens and goats. I've been putting off calling the goat abattoir, as one of our friends insists on calling it. The very local chicken abattoir has been called into service recently, though.

"Was that you working in the garden today?" asks Virginia.

Right, as if she doesn't know. Yes, I was a triathlete again -- 10 miles running, 2 1/2 hours holding a chainsaw, and 3 hours loading and unloading aged manure. Only 2 more garden beds await their application.

Today's Triathlon

A friend finished her first marathon on Saturday while we were trying out the Hellgate course. Today, according to Karen, she was struggling down stairways, full of good feelings overcoming the bad (pain). She said she loved the experience, had planned on doing only one, and now wants to do the same course next year. Meanwhile, someone reminded us that the "first marathoner" died after his run. If my facts are right, that's true, but he didn't run only 26.2 miles; he ran 153 miles from Athens to Sparta and then back again and he probably wasn't wearing fancy running shoes. Today's "Spartathlon" attempts to replicate his run, one-way only. To qualify for the race, you must first: (1) finish a 100K race in less than 10 hours, 30 minutes; (2) compete and complete a 200K race; and (3) compete in the Spartathlon and reach the Nestani 172K checkpoint in less than 24 hours, 30 minutes. You thought Hellgate was crazy?

I decided today was time for a triathlon. After running 10 miles, I cut firewood for 2 1/2 hours, then used 2 1/2 more hours to load and unload my pickup with aged manure. I'd include a picture of our garden beds, but our camera's broken so I'll wait until the other three of ten are ready for winter. I'm hoping to be able to walk out in the spring, rake over some mulch, wait a day or two for the soil to dry, and drop the seeds in.

I hear rain falling, so my timing was good. If it rains often enough, maybe I can return to my preferred schedule of working on my legal writing when it's raining and the garden, greenhouse or firewood when it's not.

"You're a slough-off," says Virginia.

Oh, and my illegal writing everyday.

Names

In final preparation for the Hellgate 100, we've invited a few friends to help me carbo-load two nights before the event. Most of them laughed and said they've been carbo-loading for quite awhile, and for me, they'd be glad to keep it up. I'm fortunate to have friends willing to make the sacrifice.

Karen noticed something unusual about our dinner guests. We've invited three married couples. Not one of those six people has the same last name. What's the chance of that? Karen said, "I think I'll change my name."

What's in a name? Do you think these folks are likely to be Republicans or Democrats, feminists or male chauvinists, foodies or McDonald's fanatics, urban or rural dwellers, Unitarian or Catholic, readers or couch potatoes? Look at your answers. What do they say about you?

[Break time, to clip the chickens' wings. The fences I bragged about recently are useless unless the chickens can't fly. It's hard to catch them during the day, but now, after dusk, they've returned to their pens and tranced into laziness. Done.]

"So is carbo-loading a good idea?" asks Virginia.

Hey yes, as an excuse to pull some friends together. Maybe not for the running. I've read that so-called expert marathon physicians say carbo-loading has been dropped by most serious marathoners in favor of eating a balanced diet with 60-70% carbohydrates and no increase in calories the week before a race. I've also read that carbo-loading is good so long as you don't put on extra weight to carry around. Who really knows? It's probably like eating eggs -- one year they're bad for you and the next year they're good.

Hellgate Official Training Run # 1

Knowing I had to be on the road by 5:45 this morning to meet other Hellgate crazies at Blue Ridge Parkway milepost 80.4, I crawled into bed about 8:30 last night with 1491, a slow-going but very interesting guesstimated history that would probably destroy most readers' (certainly my) paradigms about native Americans. I read a few pages before letting the book fall onto our heavy bedspread. I suppose I lacked confidence in my cellphone's alarms -- I had set number one for 5:15 and number two for 5:16 -- because I began squinting through my curled forefinger when the digits flicked 4:00, nodding on and off until 5:00 when I slid onto the floor to do my good morning crunches. I then pulled on the running gear I had carefully selected the night before, cancelled the alarms, drank my daily apple cider vinegar tea, and ate a piece of toast with grape juice. After brushing my teeth, I hugged and kissed Karen goodbye only to hear her laughing like a hyena. I suddenly realized the fur wasn't hers. Rosie (one of our two boxers) had claimed my spot as soon as I left. This required a re-kiss. I grabbed my readied bottle belt, which contained banana goo, a peanut butter sandwich, an orange vest, a tee shirt, and two water bottles.

I had included an extra ten minutes for contingencies, so thickly frosted car windows didn't bother me. 24 degrees did. I headed South and then skyward on Petites Gap Road. The drive affected me more than usual, probably because the darkness allowed my mind's eye to vividly picture the steep cliffs a couple yards to the right of my tires. With the Blue Ridge Parkway making me even more nervous than usual, I tried to admire the beginning sunrise and what looked like city lights 3,000 feet below. The reading on the car's thermometer surprised me, showing at least 12 degrees warmer than our house.

A cluster of cars waited at Floyd's Field (mile 80.4) when I arrived at 6:25. We waited 10 minutes for possible late-comers, consolidated into two cars, and headed back down to Big Hellgate Lane, the start of our run, a little over a mile from where Karen and Rosie rested. At 7:30 we headed into the forest. I'd guessed right. I knew the beginning of the course quite well, up to aid station two, except -- I suppose I should have anticipated this from the Mountain Masochist Trail Run -- the same race director's insistence on making the course as difficult as possible. For example, ignoring a convenient footbridge that crosses Elk Creek at the Belfast trailhead, David Horton takes his course directly across the creek less than a hundred yards West and then, instead of stepping up onto the nearby paved road, he first requires us to trek a few hundred yards across rocks sometimes hidden under fallen leaves. Not a big deal? Remember, Hellgate begins at 12:01 December 11th, so we'll be running this part of the course in the dark.

After Belfast (this trail leads to the Devil's Marbleyard), Petites Gap Road took us steeply up to the Parkway. Along the way, Horton longingly eyed the Glenwood Horse Trail to the South. "I'd love to take this course up that even steeper trail," he said, "but we aren't allowed to take a group this large into that wilderness area." I guess I'll "run" that another day.

Rather than bore you with the entire first third of the Hellgate course, let me simply mention that today's pack quickly divided into two groups -- under 30 and over 49 (perhaps this suggests that the 30-49 age group is uniformly sane) -- and we older guys, after crossing the Parkway and heading down the other side of the mountain, quite promptly made a wrong turn. Here's how we discovered our mistake. "Look there," says one, "two more tractors like the first two." "Ummm, those are the very same tractors," say I. "Damn," says runner number 3. "This means, instead of finishing 45 minutes behind the faster group," says the first one, "they'll be waiting an additional hour for us." Slow to understand the implications of that comment, I tap the top of my head, "Oh, are you saying our three cars are the only ones at the end?" "Exactly," says he, "someone should have planned that a little better."

"How thoughtful and considerate," says Virginia. "What did you do?"

We pulled out a map and hunted for a solution. I believe the older group ended up running a little farther, while the younger guys ran harder. We completed two thirds of the Horton course and then gradually found our way to mile marker 76 on the Parkway and finished with an easy 4.5 mile downhill to Floyd's Field. I forgot to ask how long they'd been waiting.

A Little Kindness

Perhaps you read or heard about the "missile" sighting off the coast of California. It reminds me of the tendency of some people to hear bits and pieces and jump to a conclusion that bears no resemblance to reality. I'm not exempt, although I try to be. Sometimes my nosiness gets the better of me.

If inclinations had DNA, they would share DNA with worrying. At its worst in the middle of the night, when some sound has awakened me and my sluggishness isn't dull enough to return to sleep, my mind catches a random factoid and begins to spin a yarn that begins to feel more and more factual until I become almost certain disaster is about to happen or already has.

Similarly, but in a more positive sense, this sort of thing can happen on a long run. The mind takes off on a tangent, blindly darting this way and that until it lands on a brilliant solution, invention, story, or approach to the future. Perhaps this exemplifies "the runner's high." Inevitably, return to reality exposes flaws in the masterpiece.

"What on earth are you talking about?" says Virginia.

Oh, mindfulness, or mindlessness, I guess. Recognizing the way minds work, and that minds work differently, might bring a bit of tolerance to our lives -- a sympathetic reluctance to accept an utterance as a true expression of what someone else thinks. If I said, or described, every worry or runner's high thought, a person might think me crazy, demented, stupid, inconsiderate or foolish. Sometimes I do say those things, with immediate regret. When I hear others say them, I'd be much better off to ignore them or wait a while to find out if they really meant them or were just reeling out the working of their minds.

I'm often grateful I'm not famous, a politician or newscaster or reality show participant, always on camera. As hard as I'd try to bite my tongue, eventually I'd forget and say something unfortunate. Let's try harder to be kind.

Plastic Fence Protection; Monster Concert Holiday Singalong

Our winter wheat and garlic are now resting comfortably under sun-drenched November soil, preparing to spread their roots in a head-start on Spring.  This slow-learner took no chance that free-range chickens or ducks would attack new wheat seedlings.  I constructed an 18-inch high yellow plastic fence, made of STO mesh left over from Karen's outdoor kitchen stucco job. 

"You're over-stating your case," says Virginia.

She's right.  I didn't take no chance.  But I think the chance is slim, based on my trial with my latest planting of green beans.  The birds didn't pester them.  I managed to land a first picking last week, just before our first hard killing frost.  I would have liked the beans to ripen sooner and yield a bountiful harvest, but I knew the risk I was taking.  It's great having a few fresh tender green beans in November, and no fault of the birds that we won't have any more until next year.

By the way, for nearby readers, or anyone who wants to risk a cold stay in Arrowhead Lodge, I'm pretty excited about an event scheduled for Wednesday, December 15.  The news release follows:

Monster Concert Holiday Singalong

Four pianos and four pianists invite the Rockbridge community to join them in holiday singing for the benefit of the Rockbridge Symphony, Wednesday, December 15, at 7:30 p.m., at the David and Linda Krantz residence.  Tim Gaylard, Kirk Luder, Betty Bond Nichols, and James Pannabecker will tickle the ivories while encouraging the audience to sing familiar tunes such as Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire, Blue Christmas, Frosty the Snow Man, (There’s No Place Like) Home for the Holidays, Jingle-Bell Rock, Let It Snow, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and many more.

The idea of bringing together an “orchestra” of keyboards is centuries’ old. J.S. Bach gathered friends in the 1730s for midweek concerts of the Collegium Musicum at Zimmermann's coffeehouse in Leipzig. These were casual events, where the players and audience relaxed while playing and hearing the latest music. More recently, multiple pianos and pianists on stage became known as "monster concerts." The December 15 get-together at the Krantzes will be a relaxed affair, encouraging singing for fun by everyone. Light refreshments will be available and participants are invited to add their favorite holiday treats to the tables.

Reservations are required; email lkrantz@cfw.com or call 463-3333. A minimum $15 contribution per participant is requested, to be collected at the event. The Rockbridge Symphony is supported by Fine Arts in Rockbridge (FAIR).

Cut the Budget!

It's been a whole week already and I haven't heard any announcements about how we're going to reduce the federal budget -- but then I've been out getting my garden ready for Spring.  A few legislators did say they aren't going to cut military funds.  Oh, and a couple (Boehner and McConnell) have said we have the best health system in the world -- even though we're way down the list when it comes to infant mortality (children who live to their first birthday) and 49th in life expectancy.

"I suppose some leftist think tank provided those statistics?" says Virginia.

Actually it was the CIA (Central Intelligence Agency), probably not very leftist.

It's easy to understand why Boehner and McConnell think our health care is so great.  They can go to places like the Bethesda Naval Hospital, run by the government -- socialism at its finest.

I can't wait to see the hypocrites "take our country back."  To 1791, perhaps.

"Look who's calling the kettle black," says Virginia.

Yep. Or white.

The Consumption Assumption

As the G-20 nations plan their get-together to gang up on China for its high savings rate and low currency policies, no one wants to face the real issues.  Almost everyone seems to think the only answer to our economic woes is spending.  If we can't spend, then get the Chinese to spend (on our much finer quality merchandise, of course).  Their savings rate is 50%, ours is 15%, which by the way is an improvement over past years when we headed toward a negative savings rate.

No, they tell us, it's not an improvement.  We must get out and buy Ninja blenders, hot tubs, greenhouses, knick-knacks at jewelry and cosmetics parties, whatever we can think of to use for a few months, then toss into our next garage/yard sale.  Better yet, buy a brand new car to gobble more mid-East petroleum.  Oh, if only we would spend, spend, spend, our troubles would end, end, end.

Ours would.  But only if we're selfish in our definition of "ours."  Only if we forget the generations to come, which don't matter much because they'll be smarter than we are and able to figure out how to make something of almost nothing, we hope, we think, well, maybe not.

"God will provide," says Virginia.

Right, or take all of us to our heavenly homes, where life is better forever.  I think we can do better.  I think we have the talents to do better.  Are we on the right track, saving more, or are we simply waiting to resume our historically high consumption?

If we put our minds together, I'm sure we can do better than spend, spend, spend.

The Greenhouse Vision

Welcome to my future greenhouse.  It waits for walls.

"It's not too early to imagine," says Virgina.

I need to trim the top of this orange tree.

"Fat chance," she says.  "Be reasonable."

All right.  These shelves are loaded with flowers for Valentine's Day, maybe including a cold-loving Lady's Slipper (Cypripedioideae, thanks to Wikipedia). 

At the West end, beyond these shelves, is a big bin holding a ton of fresh manure.  It's keeping the place warm, at least above freezing.

On the shelves to the left (South), and on the ground, greens are growing for winter-long salads.

Here, hanging from heavy baskets, are ripe red tomatoes.

Pie

Our house smells as if a low of 28 is approaching.  A hint of oak wood smoke accompanies a freshly baked turkey pie.  After a day mostly occupied with sawing firewood, I'm looking forward to a healthy helping of pastry.  I could handle an apple pie for dessert, but decided to bake that another day.

Maybe the lattice top will satisfy me -- for now.

"I don't see you cooking very often," says Virginia.

My gourmet chef, the reason I generally stay away from the stove, left early this morning for her annual trek to Seagrove, North Carolina.  Within the hour she'll be opening bags to show me this year's additions to our pottery collection, or maybe nothing caught her eye.

Cross-Training

Having met my deadlines for the moment, today was an outdoors day.  My body still feels like summer, pampered by months of tee shirts and shorts without shivering.  Three months from now, I will delight in Indian summer and shed my long sleeves and sweat pants.  For the moment, I'm one of those well-wrapped souls I found remarkable when we showed up at our first road race after moving from St. Louis to North Carolina, back when an empty golf course on a sunny, fifty-degree morning had me wondering if we were in the midst of a depression or an air raid.

First thing, I pulled on a couple shirts, a sweatshirt, warm jeans and a pair of gloves and attacked a weed-patch.  With our son heading home for the weekend anxious to earn a few bucks, I wanted to get a head-start on the agenda -- weeding, manuring, mulching, maybe planting some wheat and garlic, and gathering supplies for our nearly empty woodshed.  Weeding was so much fun lunchtime surprised me.

Lunch was part of my plan for today's run.  My training for Hellgate must include "eat and run" because it's not a good idea to run 66 miles on an empty stomach.  In turn, my run was part of a landlord's chore, having received word that the roof of our cottage had leaked during the last rain and one of the floor registers was delivering no heat from the furnace.  After running 4 miles, I changed into a dry shirt, climbed onto the roof, swept off a large collection of leaves and pine needles, then squeezed into the crawl space underneath the house to check the furnace ducts.  I welcomed the 4-mile downhill return to Elk Cliff (home).

"Nice cross-training regimen," says Virginia.  "Why didn't you mention the bear that attacked you on the way home?"

I guess it slipped my mind.

November Garden

Dahlia, dahling.

I'd better pick our green beans tomorrow or Saturday, before our first hard frost.

I doubt these Wandos will fill out any more, so we'll probably eat them like snow peas.

The Chinese cabbage doesn't worry me.  I planted cabbage in the spring but they did so poorly we snared none of them.  They seeded themselves and now we can enjoy the offspring.

Swiss chard will be just fine, too.  This is going on its fourth year.  I should pick some for Kitty Tilson.  She considers it candy.

"I think your arugula is out of control," says Virginia.  "See how it grew outside the garden bed?"

Yes, I'm told we could sell it for big bucks in a city.  There's cilantro, too.  They both volunteered like crazy this Fall.

Will I Run Hellgate?

"Will you run Hellgate?" Virginia asks.

I ask myself that at least every other day.  The past 3 or 4 days my legs didn't loosen up until they'd beaten out 4 miles or so.  Overtraining?  Not really, unless you count the 20 hilly miles on Thursday, followed by 8 on Friday plus a hike to Apple Orchard Falls, and then about 6 hours standing or walking on Saturday.  Oh, and distributing a load of manure on Sunday after running 4 miles, 8 miles on Monday, and 4 miles up Thunder Ridge Tuesday followed by several hours of cutting firewood and hauling a load of 6-8 foot logs a couple hundred feet to my Dodge Ram.  Maybe those log lifts helped make my feet so heavy today.

I hear your miniature violins playing.  Cut them off, conductor!  I'm not asking for sympathy.  Some of the Hellgate registrants may be plodding away their 120-mile weeks.  This dabbler refuses.  Call me a cross-trainer if you wish.  I'd rather write a poem I like, plant a few square feet of winter wheat, and prepare for the Arrowhead's January concert than run another 65 miles.

I'm putting my trust in an old friend, veteran of more than 100 ultramarathons, who insists you don't need to run more than 20 miles at once to prepare for an ultra.  So John, may I stop?  I now have three 18-milers, a 22-miler, a 20-miler and a 28-miler notched in my belt.  And seven 50+ mile weeks.

No, not quite ready.  Still almost a month of training to go.  And I've got to try out a miner's light in the dark.  December 11 is a week after the new moon.  I hope it's a very bright sliver, with no clouds in the sky.  Who will talk to me to keep me sane?  That's the big question.

More Rally4Sanity

If you look closely after clicking on this photo, you might see the stage where Jon Stewart briefly kicked off his comedian's shoes. His feet didn't stink.

We discovered we'd driven from horse country to horse city.  I found myself wondering:  If these mounted policemen were called into action, what would they do?  Trample the crowd?

 Unlike these people, I didn't get around to making a sign.

"You should have," says Virginia.  "How about 'Invest in the Future' with a picture of one of your manure piles?'"

Maybe "Organiculture" or "Organic Sanitocracy."  One of my libertarian friends might have been willing to hoist these signs.

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.

Leaf Collection

After our visitors left this morning, I couldn't resist the blue sky, sixty degree temperature and changing colors. I laced my shoes, loaded my bottle belt, and aimed at Wildcat Mountain.  This jogger almost tripped when he traded waves with some loggers he recognized.  For a while after, I kept my eyes on the ground. (Be sure to click on each photo if you want to see the entire view.)

I noticed many colorful maples, tulip poplars, Virginia creepers and sassafras, but only brown oaks.  Ah, here's one.

Then it was time to raise my eyes.  Here's the Devil's Marbleyard.

Today, as I approached the top of Wildcat Mountain, I chose Cave Mountain Lake instead of the Blue Ridge Parkway.

Having reached a smoother surface, my eyes gazed higher...

and higher.

"I'd bet there was a lot of traffic up there," says Virginia.

Not a single car.  Just me and the leaves.

Value

I'm sure you've noticed that many nonprofits set up various categories of giving.  I like the images conveyed by the titles used by our local environmental organization, Boxerwood Education Association, which include "Garden Angel" and "Great Oak Society." 

I don't care for the tendency to specify benefits for various levels.  I realize you don't have to accept the chatzkas and whatnots.  I recognize that some people like them.  As for me, I'd rather not fuss whether an entire contribution is tax-deductible or whether it has to be adjusted to reflect value received.

I imagine experts on this topic have all kinds of suggestions.  I haven't Googled or researched them.  What makes sense to me is trying to understand a particular organization and community and what motivates people to contribute.  I'd bet an organization is most successful when its categories of giving match those motivations.

Let's return to the benefits.  Some people like to see their names on lists, for example, as "Garden Angels."  I know people who turn to the lists as soon as they're seated at a concert.  I also know people who never look at the lists, even if they're on them.

Some folks like being invited to special events that recognize similar givers, to mix with the prominent, the monied class (as if "class" has anything to do with wealth or inheritance).  Others are content giving under the title, "Anonymous."  Why?  Perhaps because anonymity is the highest form of generosity.  Or because it doesn't invite solicitations from every other organization in town.

Sometimes it's nice to find a package in the mailbox containing a tasteful tee shirt even if boxes of unworn fabric wait in the attic.  On the other hand, another monogrammed coffee cup -- or a CD of an assorted collection of music worth one listening session -- might not be so welcome.  Someone who already has almost everything doesn't need more clutter.

"I'm not sure why, but this reminds me of the pricing of 'art,'" says Virginia.  "Say you visit an art show and admire a painting priced at $195.  What does that price say?"

Maybe it means the artist is either insecure or doesn't value the work.  A confident buyer might think it's a bargain.  An uncertain viewer might consider it overpriced -- that something's wrong with the piece or the artist would have priced it at least as high as $200.

"In Bangladesh, it might be a gem," says Virginia.  "In New York, it's a dabbler's junk.  Or maybe it's just...."  She lifts her head and peers over her nose, "Poo-poo."

Everything is in the eye of the beholder.

Mr. Know Nothing

Here is Mr. Know-Nothing in front of his newly installed greenhouse.

Three other essential ingredients should be in this picture, but we forgot to bring out the camera -- Karen, the puzzle mastermind; John, the squarest fellow around; and Susan, the predictor of truth despite our denials.  Karen, having photographed Humpty before we took him apart, figured out how to put Dumpty back together again.  John, builder and carpenter extraordinaire, brought his transit and showed us how to properly layout the mini-foundation.  When I set about to do something wrong the first time, as is my custom, Susan consistently pointed out what I would do second.  Susan, who knows greenhouses, having done this before, brought me a gift, a book on greenhouse gardening, and predicted that soon I will understand the various zones inside this one.  Thank you again, all three of you.

Meanwhile, I know nothing about this thing, except what I learned today while putting it together.  As you can tell, that part isn't yet finished -- the thing isn't "green" yet because it has no roof, sides or plants.  Maybe I'll read the book before the plastic shows up.

So tell me, what should I put in this thing?  Broccoli, greens, tomatoes?  Orange and grapefruit trees?  How about some comments for this neophyte?

"I think you have your work cut out for you," says Virginia.  "So much for my future."

Buying Time

I'd like a few extra hours each day, same lifespan, same aging per day.  It's possible, you know, although I've been a pretty slow learner.

For the past 10 days, off and on, we've been scraping, re-glazing and re-painting our second story windows.  After watching me stretch my calves for a couple days and holding on with one hand, while my feet took turns gradually sliding down the slippery copper roof, Karen called our local roofer for suggestions.  He had two.  One, use C-clamps to fasten a couple small boards to the vertical seal where two roof sections meet, then place a ladder or board above the C-clamp contraption.  This worked wonderfully, no more slipping and less need to hold on with one hand.

For extra safety, I wrapped a tie-down around each end of the 2x4 and fastened it to the window shutter hinge base.   Here's a photo of one of the tie-downs.

And here's me in action.

"Enough of that stuff," says Virginia. "What was his other suggestion?"

It was a much better one.  He suggested we buy time -- the time of two of his employees.  They showed up today and nearly finished the job for us. Hallelujah!

"I am not...."

"I am not a witch and I am not a bigot," says Virginia.  "I am not the murderer."

When I was a child, hearing "Thou dost protest too much," I would protest even more.  "But I'm not!  I didn't do it!  I promise!"

"Now James, don't make promises you can't keep."  As the knife sunk into my sorrowful heart, I knew I was falling farther into a hole I would soon yearn to escape.

"I am not..." is one of those sayings adults should use very carefully.  If the answer isn't clear by observation and independent facts, then denying isn't going to help very much. 

Well, you could say "witches do not exist."  Do they?

It depends on how you define "witch."

As for bigots, I dare say most of us have a bit of bigotry in our hearts, perhaps buried under lust, gluttony and other deadly sins.

"I am not the murderer," yells Virginia.

Oh give me a break.  Climb off that broomstick, will you?

"Don't forget Peter," says Virginia.

How could I forget the rock?  Since I was a child, I feared the day I might have to deny the truth if I wanted to save my life, another reason to avoid politics.

Meanwhile, the sun is shining today, so here are a couple more shots from the window of my study.

Getting Away With It

Did you know that corporate fraud often, if not usually, involves employees who: (1) have a need; (2) see an opportunity; and/or (3) feel justified in engaging in the fraud?  Not surprising, is it?  If you come up with an observation like that, you might see your name in lights -- the "James rule" or something like that.  Putting a name on something can help people in the dark fight crime.

For example, you've been working at WalMart for a year, you're still earning the minimum wage, and your rent payment looms large.  One of the guys who often punches in when you do frequently breaks for a cigarette and takes twice as long as you to stock a shelf, yet he's paid the same.  You notice that if you pretended to smoke, you could carry a stack of torn-down cardboard boxes out back with you, stick it on a recycling cart, and dilly-dally a few minutes while sucking on an electric smoke.  You might be able to stash a few CDs, some fishing lures or maybe a watch in that stack of cardboard boxes, then drive around back to retrieve them after you get off work.  Don't forget the surveillance cameras.

Or maybe you've been taking the subway to work while the guy in the next cubicle drives a snazzy new Jaguar.  Besides, your penthouse condo could use a new paint job because your housekeeper, though gorgeous, doesn't clean well.  You happen to work for a firm like Goldman-Sachs and decide to create nothing from nothing -- say, maybe a debit delinquent swipe -- and sell it to clueless investors long enough to collect a few eight-digit bonuses.

"I'll take two," says Virginia.

Right.  Her fingers are crossed.

Dartboards and Hay Bales

On a morning when my mind feels like a dartboard, the view from my office window lulls the spinning to rest.  Click on the picture to better see 7 hay bales resting in rain.  I guess they won't be good for horses, but I understand cattle will eat almost anything, and Kenny's got cattle.  In an ordinary year, we'd see ten times as many bales.  I imagine the shortage of rain this summer will make for a frustrating winter for him and other nearby farmers, who may have to bite the bullet and import hay.

Here's another picture.  I've pushed up the window to let the sky inside.  Click again.  Would you like to go for a James River sail?

Cutting Corners

Have you been wondering what the foreclosure fuss is all about?

"A little," says Virginia.  "Fill me in, please."

Two years ago, I reported a series of opinions by Judge Shack, New York, who began to throw foreclosure plaintiffs out of court because they had failed to show their appearance in the chain of title. 

"What's that?" says Virginia.

All right, let's go back to the beginning.  When you take out a home mortgage loan, you sign a stack of paperwork.  Two very important papers to the lender are: (1) a promissory note and (2) a mortgage (a/k/a security instrument, deed to secure debt, security deed, deed of trust).  The promissory note (a/k/a note) is your personal promise to repay the loan.  The mortgage is your pledge of your home to secure your promise to pay; if you don't keep your promise, it gives the lender the right to take your home and sell it to repay what you owe.

When you close your loan and sign the documents, the closing agent (attorney, title company or escrow agent) scurries with your mortgage to the appropriate land records office.  In general, the first to record has priority over later recordings, so your lender wants to be first.

In not so olden times, you paid your lender each month and eventually, after 15-30 years or when you sold your home, you paid off the entire loan and your lender released the mortgage -- at which time you owned your home "free and clear" (if ever so briefly, perhaps). In modern times, the lender wants to recycle its funds and re-lend them, so it sells your loan to someone else.  That helps explain why you make the first few payments to your lender, then for a couple years you pay X and then for several more years you pay Y. 

Also in not so olden times, each time your loan was sold, the buyer recorded an assignment of mortgage in the land records office so everyone knew it now owned your loan.  That cost a few bucks.  In modern times, the lender sold your loan to Fannie Mae or Freddie Mac or some other firm that collected gobs of loans and "securitized" them, breaking the various loans into categories (such as prime or high quality, subprime or low quality) and even separating individual loans into pieces (such as the right to receive principal, the right to receive interest, the right to receive late payments, etc.).  In turn, the securitizer sold the various pieces to investors and, to encourage them to buy, included a few warranties and representations in the governing documents.  Rather than record assignments for each transfer of the various interests (and pay the land records office for each one), Fannie Mae, Freddie Mac and others in the mortgage industry set up a private company to keep track of who owned what and called the company Mortgage Electronic Registration Systems, Inc. or MERS.  Reportedly, MERS hasn't done a stellar job so things have gotten confused.  Besides, some of the land records offices aren't happy about being sidestepped and some of their lawyers (in the form of state attorneys general) are challenging the MERS system.  And other folks messed up outside the MERS system.

If you stop paying your mortgage loan, the current owner or owners won't be happy with you.  Your original lender sold the loan, so it's pretty much out of the picture (although it made some warranties when it sold your loan that could come back to haunt it).  The current owner or owners generally are represented by the servicer to whom you're supposed to send payments, so the servicer or someone it hires eventually will sue you to take possession of your home, relying on the mortgage you signed (it might be able to do this through a nonjudicial process without suing you, but for simplicity's sake we'll limit our discussion to the use of courts).  The challenge for the servicer or the person it hires is to show it has a right to sue you -- by tracing its right back through various documents to the mortgage you signed, that is, a good chain of title.  If MERS or one of the previous owners messed up, that can be tough to do.  Or even if no one messed up, it might be troublesome to gather all the relevant documents and present them to a court in a meaningful way.  As a result, the servicer or its representative might be tempted to skip some of the necessary steps or even forge a document that appears to make some of those steps unnecessary.

That's where we are today -- in one big mess, thanks in part to some of the same folks to whom we generously donated many of our tax dollars a couple years ago.  Oh yeah, they repaid us, hmmm....which has much to do with the big bundle of so-called toxic assets the U.S. Treasury now holds, many of which are gummed up in the foreclosure mess?  Maybe the U.S. Treasury is busy checking out the warranties mentioned above?

Ginseng

After scraping paint off windows for 4 hours, sore calves and a blister on my palm rang the closing bell.  I went inside to check emails and found a small, insulated manilla envelope resting on my keys.  Someone has discovered that's the best way to remind me to do something.  Oh yeah, that someone is me.

The envelope contained instructions and a packet of seeds.  I read them, retrieved the phosphorescent green number one key that starts my whopper of a Dodge RAM, and aimed the pickup toward our field.  It was time to make a withdrawal from my bank of aged horse droppings, sawdust and wood chips.  The instructions prescribed 75% composted bark mulch and 25% horse manure.

Under a giant oak tree, near the woods' north edge, I piled the mixture in a rectangle formed by 4 locust logs, formerly fence posts, gifts from a friend.  As welcome rain fell, I carefully laid ginseng seeds 1/2 inch underground.  Now all I have to do is wait 7 or 8 years.

"Yoo-hoo."  I was afraid of that.  It's Virginia calling.  "Have you forgotten?"

No, I haven't.  Fortunately,  my readers either have or don't want to take me to task.  I looked for that darn stove the other day and couldn't find it because of all the foliage.

"May I have an extension?" I ask.

"Of course," says Virginia, "not that I have any choice."

Less Than Half

Yesterday, knowing Karen was accompanying her friend, Susan, to pick up a ram, I figured I might as well get out and enjoy the cloudless blue sky, changing leaves and legs itching to be battered to a pulp. I hunted up Karen's 2-bottle belt, emptied the donkey treats, and refllled it with things I might need -- toilet paper, home-made peanut butter crackers, my cell phone and water. I kissed her goodbye, promised to check in now and then, and aimed south.

A mile down the road I looked up where the Blue Ridge Parkway cuts across Thunder Ridge. Depending on how I felt a few miles later, that's where I was headed. It seemed too far, shaded by the mist of morning as if it were still trying to wash out the sandman's gifts. I often wonder, as I gaze at these mountains, how many people within my sight are hiking the Appalachian Trail, which trolls the mountaintops.

First, though, I visited Arrowhead Lodge, less than a third of the way up, where I added some banana-flavored Gu to the supplies in my bottle belt. To prepare for the Hellgate 100, I need to get used to eating on the run, which I discovered by accident is not hard for me. One day in my life as a corporate rat, I was about to head out for a run when I received word that I was desired in the corner office, but not for another half hour or so. I grabbed lunch and waited. "Cancelled," said my secretary, "something else came up." So I ran.

Up, up, up, the same route I described in my September 19 post, "22-Miler," so I won't repeat it, except to say I encountered a few people this time. The first group was doing the logging I moaned about last spring when I found their equipment stashed along the trail. The second was a couple, wearing camouflage and carrying matching bows. Good, I thought. It's still bow season. I had worn an orange vest because I knew hunting season had begun. I trust bowmen more than riflemen. (By the way, Karen is a Bowman.)

This time I approached the golf ball-looking weather observatory with even more gratitude than last because I'd added the 4 miles from our house to Arrowhead Lodge. Fourteen miles up yielded to 14 miles down. I would have covered it faster had I not run into Rodney filling his bottles at the artesian well on Petite's Gap Road. "You're running long today," he began. "Yeah, 28," I said, pretty proud of myself, "did you pass me somewhere?" "Up on Apple Orchard Mountain," said he, standing up his bicycle, which led to introductions and his history as a runner who had run 4 Mountain Masochists in the 1990s before his back said, "no more." From Lynchburg, he had worked for the natural gas company before taking early retirement and had learned this area pretty well because of his work with local businesses. Now he paints, landscapes. "Lawn," he said, "spelled like laugh on."  See www.rodneylaughon.com.

After that break, the last 6 miles got me thinking, "If I feel this bad, what makes me think I can run more than twice this far?"

"Because you can," says Virginia.

Accepted

Since we moved here, neighbors have told us that on the second Saturday of December, just after midnight, if you look carefully, you'll see a series of dim lights ascending a rocky path on the James River Face. The ghosts of Arnolds Valley past, perhaps? I haven't bothered to stay awake long enough to confirm this story. This year I will.

In fact, my miner's light will be among the hopeful, at the beginning of a long day's trail run. Next to mine will be Larry's, I hope, who hasn't yet heard if his application has been accepted. Not only must you train for this event, you must apply and persuade the race director, the famous ultramarathoner David Horton, that he won't regret depositing your $150 check. Yesterday, October 7, he posted the application form on-line.

The post office kept its promise, because Dr. Horton emailed me around noon today, expressing concerns about my ability to finish. He asked how many ultras I'd completed and what my times were. The challenge is, you must finish the 66-mile course in less than 18 hours and you must meet two cutoff times: (1) you must reach the Headforemost Mountain aid station (21.9 miles) by 6:30 a.m. and (2) you need to get to Bearwallow Gap (42.5 miles) by 12:30 p.m.

I responded immediately. I've run three ultras: a Fat Ass 50K (4:48:08), a Fat Ass 50 Miler (8:29:28), and Horton's own 52-mile+ Mountain Masochist (10:49:50). I threw in 27 marathons, the fastest being 3:01:51. None of these were impressive, but he mailed back, "OK, you're in." To my blatant "I will finish," he added "Talk is cheap."

Actually, in this case, talk is pretty expensive, when you consider, for free, I could run 1 mile down the road to reach the start of this course -- the Hellgate parking lot. Hence its name, the Hellgate 100K (although it's longer than 100K).

"So that's why you've been bumping up your weekly mileage," says Virginia, "and disappearing for four or five hours at a time?"

Right. At first, I blamed it on Born to Run, which persuaded me it was all right to enjoy running at my advancing age. When Larry sent me the novel, Hellgate, about this ultramarathon run in my own backyard, I started thinking maybe I could enjoy running even longer.

My friends, you'll probably soon be groaning about another Hellgate training posting. On the other hand, next year you might be up there with me.

What's Going On?

I didn't see the gorilla. I miscounted the number of times the folks in white passed a ball. All this in a short video on paying attention, I was a dismal failure, or maybe not. So, in life, I know I'm missing much, if not most, of what goes on. More or less than most, I have no idea, which doesn't matter, it's not as though it's a competition, or is it?

Perhaps I only see a little bit of what I'd like to see. And you see a little bit of what you'd like to see. Then, there's the little we see we'd rather not see, and the lot of what neither of us wants to see, but others want to see and do.

"No wonder we disagree on so many things," says Virginia.

Running Circles

A sliver of a moon watched over me as I jump-started my heart this morning. My protective vest was nothing until low-beams turned it orange. Have you noticed that motor vehicles are especially noisy in the morning after a night of ear-rest? I decided to head to the old Natural Bridge High School track.

Years ago, John Zerger, who first explained ultra-running to me, also introduced me to the benefits of long-distance circles. Running in the round eliminates the need to watch for traffic, potholes or uneven ground, which can become a challenge after four hours on foot. Once you lock into a pace, a watch can keep track of the laps. Best of all, you can call it quits whenever you want, with home not far away.

Boring, you say? Not this morning. I arrived at a track of dark blues and grays, the shiny crescent looking down. Each lap brought a change in hues, as Jill Color (Jack Frost's sister?) gradually emptied her palette. I watched the mountaintops to the East brighten and cast a faint pink light on the Western clouds. Lap by lap turned pinker into redder into white. The last year's football schedule on the side of the old field house slowly appeared in worn pastels. Not until my twentieth revolution did the ball of fire crest the James River Face. Two more trips around and I heeded the warning, "don't look me in the eye."

Drama over, I finished seven more lucky quarters and headed for home.

"You're lucky you didn't have to rush off to work," says Virginia.

Darn tootin! Instead, I soaked in the hot tub with my morning constitutional (cider vinegar and honey in hot water), nibbled a bit of breakfast, and climbed upstairs to my office.

Drop-Off

I checked my mother out for a blockbuster weekend and had to return her this morning. Don't take me wrong; she's 88 and lives independently. A couple from her church planned a whirlwind drive to Charlottesville with Lexington right on their way, so Mother hitched a ride like a college student. Thanks to cell phones, I waited only 5 minutes on Friday and no more today, at the same gas station drop-off. In the meantime, we spent half of Saturday at the annual Mennonite Relief Sale in Harrisonburg. Anyone up for a $2,700 quilt or a $1,000 Martyrs' Mirror?

This takes me back about 22 years to the day I traveled to our employer's processing center in Woodcliff Lake, New Jersey with a fresh face from law school. As we waited to check in at the hotel I asked if he'd like to go for a late-night drive to the city. His jaw dropped, "The Big Apple?" I nodded. "Sure," said he.

We agreed to meet in the lobby in 10 minutes. Off we went. When we approached the Holland Tunnel, my passenger muttered, "A toll? What's this for?" It was my jaw's turn to drop, "You've never paid a toll?" He said, "Never. How ridiculous! We have to pay to drive on a road?" Where had he been all his life? In the Midwest, I guess.

This short drive remains one of my favorite trips to the city. If it had happened today, he'd have used the word "awesome" so many times -- in reference to the lights, the action, the landmarks, the people -- I'd feel obliged to give a lecture on what the word once meant. "It's noon at midnight!" he exclaimed at one point.

"Don't forget," says Virginia, "why are you remembering this?"

On our return, before we crossed the river, I said, "Oh, we haven't been outside the car. Would you like to step out so you can say you walked a few steps in New York?" I could have pulled his door shut and driven away, but I wasn't up for that much excitement. Instead, a black stretch limo stopped behind us and as I waited for my friend to return, several people stepped from the shadows and approached its back right window, one-by-one. "Hey!" I shouted, finally the one with ants in his pants. He jumped in and off we went. I'm glad to report that today's drop-off did not offer that kind of excitement.