Risky Business

 Our most-expensive-ever pickup load of firewood:

"Why do you say that?" says Virginia.

I'm not allowed to go into details. Suffice to say, if my good friend who helped me harvest this and carve it with a log splitter were a piano player, he would not be touching any keys for at least several weeks. We're hoping that the UVa orthopedist he's seeing right now, this minute, will set things right.

Even on a day like today, when mountains bathe in a light blue sea and every breath tastes as fine as your favorite, a moment's lapse can prompt the question: "Is all this work worthwhile?"

Yes, I say, although I'm not the one in an operating room. Perhaps some future day, a condominium will call me home. And then what will I do? Finally finish Virginia's story, perhaps.

Twenty-Five Years

Twenty-five years ago, actually about a year before that, I went on vacation and never returned. Or so it has seemed. If I were to wish one thing for our son, this would be it.

Before that, my inclination was to play it safe, exceptions aside, as people who knew this guy back then would attest. Last week, a recent acquaintance observed, "You and your siblings seem to be strongly grounded." That may be true, but like almost every young person, at least I among them made some decisions with no serious thought to their implications. A few of those, thankfully a few, with a bit of luck, set me on track to safety and, maybe, firm grounding. I suppose one never knows for sure. A superstitious person might knock on wood.

Then, about twenty-six years ago, things changed. Someone taught me to assess each day and change if something didn't seem right, and to not look back. Well, sometimes I had trouble not looking back, but never for long. Today she's reading The Happiness Project and, though she doesn't say it, from what she reports I'd say it's old hat to her. Some of the books you most admire simply confirm what you already believe.

Let me think. How did Karen show me the way? Here's an example. She earned a promotion at work, one that some of the MBA management associates envied, but before she started the new job, she told me, "I'm going to The Broadcast Center. I tested well and got accepted." "What about your job?" I said. "I'm quitting" was her answer. That was that. Before long, she landed a plum internship at Channel 5, KSDK, an NBC affiliate in St. Louis. It ended on a Friday. As I've since learned, her timing is impeccable. She delivered Adam in a hospital the following Monday.

We began talking about redoing our bathroom. No matter what we did, we couldn't get rid of mold growing around the tub. A "professional" advised, "You'll have to replace this with modern tile. No one could repair this without breaking them." I returned from work soon after to find a pile of carefully numbered glassine tiles outside the bathroom. "I guess you're remodeling the bathroom." And each tile found its way back home.

Our kitchen was next. Those who know me can guess how the planning would have proceeded if I had anything to do with it -- very slowly. I came home one day to find the ceiling down and the sink disconnected. "I guess we're remodeling the kitchen?" I said. (Of course, "we" weren't.)

My teacher was a good one. We saw a home advertised in a newsletter of the National Trust for Historic Preservation, in a town in North Carolina we had visited several years before. I had a week of vacation available, so off we went. We looked at it, signed a contract the next day, and on the drive back to St. Louis I said, "I guess this means I'm quitting my job?" Karen smiled.

"Did you notice the similarity in the titles of your blog postings?" says Virginia.

Not until now. Check out http://holesinmyjeans-kpannabecker.blogspot.com/.

Contradictions

A recent dinner found me sitting between a thirty years younger me, on my left, and someone I might have been, on my right. A mix of metaphors confused me, a right-hand man and a left-of-center nonconformist, misplaced on either side. If you're confused, welcome to the crowd.

I used to dream my eulogist would say, "He was a man of integrity." A whole man. Yes, that would be fine. But a moral man? By whose morals? Those of the beer salesman in his suit with side vents or those of the medical marijuana master? Those of the corporate toad who thinks a tattoo means trash, or those of a hare krishna bearing side curls? The fellow with blue Bud Light or the Phish groupie?

That night I dreamed I was trying to return two books to my 4th floor Manhattan office. I'd just met with two lobbyists and given them a great idea. Then I remembered I'd moved to the 6th floor. I looked up and saw it smoking, "Grab Karen and Adam and get away from here?" We ran onto the street as a building several blocks away imploded. "They're all going to fall," I shouted. We wound our way through blockade after blockade, dust rising everywhere. "To the farm!"

"I guess you had more fun talking about growing marijuana?" says Virginia.

What's wrong with her, always trying to interpret things? Cannabis has little to do with farms and soil and sunshine.

Today my suits hang in closets. I haven't thrown them away. They might come in handy.

Goodbye, Mac

Goodbye Mac. The field looks much emptier without our gentle giant grazing. He decided to rest instead.

Karen has blogged about Mac on numerous occasions, the latest being:

http://holesinmyjeans-kpannabecker.blogspot.com/2013/05/donkey-dentist.html

Mac helped me better understand why some of our friends rescue animals. We must remember that many people need rescue, too.

Weather Views

A friend recently commented that she had visited Taos, London and Vermont. Everywhere, she said, the weather was "better" than here in Virginia. Double-take! "Better than Virginia?" I thought about how wonderful our weather has been this year and then, boom, I realized, some people don't like all the rainy days we've been having.

Virginia says, "I wonder what the farmers near Taos would say."

Well, Virginia, those farmers probably plan and plant for little rain. A lot of water might ruin them.

Here at Elk Cliff Farm we couldn't have asked for better weather (okay, some rotting has occurred, but begging for better would be, um, downright ungrateful). Everyday our gardens urge us to fill baskets. We've plugged in a third freezer. Perhaps we should buy a generator just in case. And we've canned and dried as well.

The thing is, the season's only half over. Our fall gardens have just begun. Here's a bed with fall green beans (Blue Lake), round zucchini (Ronde de Nice), French wax beans (Buerre de Rocquencourt), beets, eggplants, Brussels sprouts, snow peas, and summer holdovers of kale, St. John's wort, lemon balm, stevia, and pennyroyal.

As I carved a Pear melon for breakfast this morning, I remembered I had a blog, so I added a few vegetables some folks might find unfamiliar -- long green beans and a black brandywine tomato (our favorite juicy sweet tomato).

Perhaps you'd like to see where the long green beans live. They grow on the tipi-shaped trellis, right rear here.

Our blackberries have been especially prolific for three weeks. They're finally winding down. Let's see one of the paths I've worn to the interior of our patch.

Looking east toward our house you can see a little bit of most of our beds. Some young parsnips grace the foreground, in our tree-shaded garden with lettuces and Egyptian walking onions. Tall asparagus "trees" block our view of two beds. Mostly corn grows on the left, planted in succession with the intention of providing ears through the first frost. Butternut squash, peas, beets, tomatoes and cucumbers hide underneath.

Oh, I almost forgot, this is the Year of Basil. We have five varieties, but most of all, holy basil has sprouted everywhere like weeds. If anyone wants basil, let us know.

Speaking of weeds, some of you have heard me complain about the rain in this respect, good-naturedly I'd like to think. After all, if I didn't get this exercise, what would I do? Weeds can be good for mulch -- in-ground, pulled and laid on the ground between desirable plants, or later, after aging in a pile like this one.

Of course, rain can't take all the blame. Some fingers point to what else makes a garden grow, gifts of rabbits and goats:

Before we say goodbye, here are a few more pictures.

Thank you, Marion, for the pomegranates. Our grove appears to be doing very well.

Eggplants are coming along.

 Here is a Cambodian Green Giant eggplant.

These eggplants find their home in a thin garden that runs along the south side of our greenhouse.

Finally, credit also must be given to millions of friends, including this Swallowtail butterfly.

On Listening

Very few of us sit at the top of our vocations or avocations. We may envy the few who do, but imagine how tough that must be. Fail to stay current, take a break from practicing, and the fall can be immediate. Having lost top place, it may be impossible to recover.

The rest cluster underneath. 

Take music, for example. The top performers tend to be geniuses with talents we the people cannot comprehend. Charisma plus marvelous marketing make them “unbeatable.”

The next level lacks something, if only the marketing that tends to focus on the top.

Each pond has its big fish, from countries to regions to states to counties to towns.

Then we come to the parlor, where at the beginning of the previous century, someone could do at least a little bit with an upright piano and the rest could sing. Most music happened there or in the yard or woods...or even here.

Recordings changed everything, providing everywhere-access to “perfect” performances. Almost everyone became a critic. “He was good, but no Rubinstein.”

In our area, the Krantzes are famous for their twice-per-year music megaparties. Folks (everyone is invited) gather in their music room, where three grand pianos, over a hundred seats, 360-degree views of the Appalachians, and complete openness invite music-making. A couple months before the next party, the host and hostess invite people to sign up for 10-, 15- or 20-minute performance slots, first-come, first-served.

The lack of discretion makes these parties unique. Anyone can perform. Anyone does. Natural selection does or does not take its course.

“I suppose this results in some very bad performances,” says Virginia. “On the other hand, I’d bet it frees some who might otherwise be reluctant and yields some very fine sets?”

That’s the point, I think. It attempts to release attendees from definitions like “good” and “bad,” to allow them to view music in different, more generous ways. To be “fun” and “funny,” and at the same time “serious” and “grave.”

“Ah, maybe even to see some music as the hoax it is?” says Virginia.

Yes. Even the stuffed-shirt might leave a bit tickled, realizing that each level of music-making is golden.

More on Aerial Views

don Juan, commenting on yesterday's blog entry, asked if viewing Elk Cliff Farm from the sky has changed my perspective on the place. I've been thinking about his question ever since.

I'm reminded of Wendell Berry's essays on community. It's easy sometimes, going about your life on your property and in your house, to live on an island, separate from the people who live on the other side of the creek, lawn or wall. But whether or not we like the idea, we are not independent.

The aerial views of our farm point out very clearly that our home is part of a landscape of homes. The James River, Elk Creek and Arnold's Valley Road surround our property and, as the deed to our property will attest, physically delineate it. The higher you go, the less clear those boundaries become.

Without my help, you probably wouldn't recognize the borders of our farm. You'd notice clusters of homes -- our neighbors and us. A higher, broader view might see Natural Bridge Station, then our zip code 24579. If we'd gone higher, perhaps Rockbridge County, Virginia, the United States, North America, Earth, and beyond. An economist might call these macro and micro perspectives.

All of these are communities, in a sense. In the warmest view, our neighbors and us make a community. We know, or quickly learn, what happens in our neighborhood. Some of us interact almost daily, sharing talents, the bounties of our gardens, tools, carpools. Others choose to stay apart or to note our presence in limited ways -- waves as we walk or drive past, lawnmower and weed-whacker whines, the bangs of target practice.

Of course, we also relate in communities not based on geographies. For example, we belong to a community of farmers (if you define this term loosely enough) -- goat farmers, donkey farmers, organic farmers, tractor-less farmers, farmsteaders, etc. Musicians. Runners. Gardeners. Outdoor lovers. Writers. Raw milk users. Aerial views aren't very helpful here.

This morning, as I foraged for wineberries below Thunder Ridge, I came across this fellow:

"You put him there," says Virginia.

No, I didn't. It's hard to tell from this aerial view, but that snail is about 3 feet off the ground. How did it get up to that leaf and why?

I realize this is stretching things a bit. Indulge me, please, and forgive me if need be. Aerial views show only a little bit of anything. We use them at great risk of oversimplifying. So, dear donjuan, know that I'm very skeptical of drones.

"You're droning," says Virginia.

Aerial View

Today we sprouted wings. Here's a picture of Elk Cliff Farm:

And another:

And yet another:

Here's our field:

A little closer. See the pig-aerated garden in the right bottom corner? (Click on the pictures to make them bigger.)

"All right, cough it up," says Virginia. "Whose plane had that wing?"

Our neighbor. Here he is taking off with the next load.

[Note: After I originally posted my photographs, my good friend Jerry Tovo, a master of all things camera (and internationally known for that), worked his magic on 4 of them. Can you guess which four (hint -- not the last one)? If you can't, go to jail, do not pass go.]

The Disordered Garden

A couple Ronde de Nice squashes await picking tomorrow. Says Baker Heirloom Seeds:

"50 days. This is a delicious French heirloom variety. The flesh of this round, green zucchini is very tender and fine flavored, making it an ideal squash for stuffing. A popular variety for home gardens and specialty growers. Vigorous, quick-growing plants."

I'm looking forward to a bountiful harvest, assuming a derrecho doesn't whisk things away tonight.  Green beans and wax beans, also found in my pig-aerated garden, are coming in, a sure sign of summer. I think Sunday may offer my first picking of wineberries for the year, two weeks later than last year.

My college roommate may be arriving this week, just in time to help harvest our winter wheat. That could keep us busy from dawn to dusk every day he's here. When i plant wheat this fall, I may have to specify in advance which will be a cover crop and which will grow to maturity. As it is, we may have wheat berries to sell.

Or maybe he'll want to work on the sailboat deck. He's a sailor after all, unsure what he thinks of a permanently beached boat. I think he felt a little better when I said someday it may float away in a flood.

"Where are the pictures?" says Virginia.

I'm not about to post pictures of my weedy gardens. Things started out well, neatly organized, well-intentioned. Then I hemmed and hawed. Meanwhile my closely planted rows grew together even more, with weeds crowding in between. 

Now I need an intern.

Busy or Not?

Several people have commented that blog posts have a direct relationship to free time available. I'd like to point out that time is not free. Time is limited and, as with almost any choice, one's use of time involves trade-offs. Nothing is free if you forego something else to choose it.

People who are not busy blog. Very busy people also blog. The only way to determine whether a blogger is "busy" or "not busy" is to examine his or her use of time. I don't believe "busyness" is something Google or the National Security Agency can determine. In fact, I don't believe I can determine whether X is or is not "busy," although I might develop an opinion based on my own prejudices and priority decisions.

Looking at today, June 12, for example, if I had to answer the question, I would say I've been "busy." I did not devote the entire day, or 8 hours of it, to the work I get paid for doing. I chose instead to run, freeze peas, weed garden beds, eat, read a little bit in "A Forager's Harvest," work on a book update for a few hours, and a few other things. Other days this year I have allocated as much as 16 hours to the work I get paid for doing, yet I would not say I was "busier" those days than I was today. Even on some of those days, I blogged.

So let me offer an alternative explanation. Blog posts depend on the time one chooses to make available for blogging. Today, after a day full of other activities, I decided to relax for a few minutes and write this blog post. On another day, I might have chosen instead to read part of a book, play piano, work on a poem or story, walk around the field, or sit on the front porch. Obviously, blogging is not something I must do.

Most days, even on days I'd call "busy" days, I choose to use at least an hour for writing, and I don't mean writing I get paid for doing. I mean worthless, self-indulgent writing. Of course, it's not really worthless or useless. I dream that some day people will pay to read it. But even if they don't, it's an essential, useful part of my life.

"What is this, an apologia for time-wasting?" says Virginia.

Of course, she's an artist who knows better.

Going Home -- Part 4

            The stale air of evening, or every time of day, begs me to open windows, which seems to be verboten. When the occupational therapist brings brownies for lunch, my mother informs me that she made them, with applesauce and pasteurized eggs. “They didn’t look right,” she says, and I have to Google what is a pasteurized egg, reportedly required in nursing homes.

            Bingo. On the sixth day this slow learner understands bland food. Litigation avoidance apparently mandates serving the least common denominator, so as not to offend the least of the fittest. The rest have fully documented their allergies. Maybe eating in the dining room would offer a smorgasboard of additives to tease taste buds. Mother, staying in her room, must ask for salt.

            Another college classmate visits today and the room is full of yesterdays. “I’m ahead of you,” the visitor says, who turned 91 in January. “I might catch up,” says the June baby. Indeed she might. The roommate told me she is 94. Today I heard her tell someone she is 97.

            Mother is ready to take a walk. Only after we head toward the door do I notice a chair obscuring the pathway. For the umpteenth time I appreciate the efficiency of aides who do this many times each day, repositioning call button cords and heating pad cables as fast as I type another word, without a misspell. I don’t even notice when shoes are missing.

            And so, the time has come to take Mother home and hand my baton to a sister-in-law.
            I have apportioned my half-gallon of raw goat's milk so carefully I have some left to drink on my way home, reminding me of home.
            "That's one generous sister-in-law," says Virginia.

            

Going Home -- Part 3

She sleeps thirteen hours straight, without interruption. I imagine this is wonderful for body restoration, yet a few hours of normal daily activities and visiting make her eyes droopy. I write an hour while she dozes, then a verbal “knock-knock” announces company. The man who bought her mother’s house has come to say hello, which reminds me of good friends we have in St. Louis, who came all the way to Virginia to celebrate my birthday earlier this year. When we moved to St. Louis, we bought their house.

            Mother remains asleep until the next pair, one of her best friends for 70 years escorted by a daughter-in-law. (My mother dated her future husband a few times.) As they visit, I remember being surprised about 50 years ago when my mom answered one of those questions parents usually refuse to consider, “Which of our friends would you choose if you had to date one of them?” And another moment…as our family drove past their house, Mother commented on the “tomcat” running through the yard. Eureka! Until that day I thought cats were female and dogs were male.

            An aide brings another barely-nibbled lunch as the neighbor whose dog’s leash prompted this hospitalization arrives for her almost daily apologia. I head for a new restaurant in town. My bosom buddies at the next table explain that the place takes a day off on Tuesdays. Last Wednesday, the sign said “Closed” when they came for lunch. They stopped the next day to check hours, and the owner explained they’d had a break-in Tuesday night. Not knowing what had been touched, they threw out all the food and hung the sign an extra day. I doubt they would have taken that precaution fifteen years ago. Now terrorists lurk behind every tree.

            I presume the restaurant locks its doors. Perhaps the experience illustrates a difference between a small town and a larger town, where burglar alarm systems are popular. On the other hand, maybe even small towns have criminals smart enough to disarm burglar alarms.

A good capitalist would cause as little collateral damage as possible, focusing on his or her profit-making objective. So says Adam Smith, which is why our air is clean, waters are pure, only minimal government is necessary, and folks in our neighborhood don't lock their doors (I realize I'm repeating myself here, perhaps due to my current environment).

            Speaking of regulation, on the way to the restaurant I make a point of passing an infamous house mentioned during dinner the evening I arrived. The town’s attorney stopped at our table to ask what we thought about publishing, before arraignment, the name of an adult suspected of breaking-and-entering. Is he a public figure, my digital newspaperman brother-in-law inquired. The conversation veered to a recent citizen-of-the-year who has since been identified as a slumlord, the owner of the only boarded-up house in town. When the city finished serving notices demanding repair or demolition, the citizen-of-the-year transferred title to his daughter. The house looks bad, maybe not that bad.

            My mother’s roommate has been complaining that her pants are too tight. An aide says she has changed four times today, that if they’re really too small, she needs to ask her family to bring a larger size. Her daughter shows up to explain, “1X, we just bought those. She tried 2X, which slid off.” The aide says she weighs the same she weighed last fall when she moved in, “Maybe her stomach hurts.”

Yesterday afternoon she asked her husband what he’s been watching on television. He talked about the Oklahoma tornadoes and the family party scheduled for later that afternoon. “Why aren’t I going?” she asked. “Because you said you didn’t want to.” “Well, I do, why aren’t I going?” “You said you didn’t want to.” “Well, I do, why can’t I go?” Back and forth, back and forth, until she kept repeating, “You are so dumb.” Later she said the party was “Wonderful, six generations, and we were the oldest.” Still later, “Help, I need help. Move my pillow up. How does this work?” Her television suddenly blasted so loud several aides came running. “Sweetie, what are you doing? It’s too loud and way too late. Time for bed."
           If Mother were counting her blessings, a need for hearing aids might be one of them. She can remove them and sleep through everything except the TV explosion.
           In my mother's apartment, a wall clock and an alarm tick-tock a musical storm. Sleeping on my left side does not help. I banish one to a closet and the other to a drawer.
           "You're putting me to sleep," says Virginia.
           Okay. Give me one more installment.