Doofus

Yesterday, a friend who works at a greenhouse donated 93 broccoli and cauliflower plants to Elk Cliff Farm. This sent me out to dig the rest of my potatoes (3 overflowing 5-gallon buckets) and pull their neighboring weeds (2 giant wheelbarrows-ful). About time. The garden beds have gone to pot (not really, but they do look bad). Folly-fancies have been diverting my gardening skills.

I added some very dry and dusty donkey manure and hurriedly welcomed the brassicas to their new home.

"Hey, he didn't put up a fence," said a resident rabbit. "We're gonna party tonight!"

Yes, Karen and I had suspicions about the party plans. We even talked about them before turning off the bedroom lights. And I dreamed about 93 leaf-less stems.

Fortunately for me, the nocturnals decided to leave about 55 plants for their planned re-hash tonight of last night's bash.

First thing this morning, after bruising myself with a few well-aimed kicks, I installed a fence.

"Think it'll work, smarty-pants?" says Virginia.

It has in the past, not that I remembered that yesterday. Doofus.

Garden Spots

Bzzz.

"Scrambled?" Virginia laughs.

Sweet.

Spud Time

Four months ago today Aren, Ack, Ulie and Ours Truly planted potatoes.

In honor of the youngest of our group (the Lego genius), we made a video. It's supposed to begin, "Hey -ack, put those Legos away" but due to a technical malfunction it begins "Ack, put those Legos away."

"What's this 'Ack' business?" says Virginia.

Oh, just in case the No Such Agency (NSA) is watching.

What are Friends For?

This morning a nephew (in-law) and I set off at 7 to run a 20-mile route. My belt held two water bottles, a cellphone, and some home-made trail mix. Weather prognosticators had predicted 90 degrees so I wondered if two bottles were enough and began trying to imagine where we might refill.

As usual, my twenty-years-younger partner set off at a good clip. He figured--even said--we should be back by ten, right? I laughed.

"Who was smarter," asks Virginia, "the Arizona transplant who has learned to survive without water, or the elder ninncompoop who should have followed his oft-repeated advice, 'don't start out too fast?'"

About mile eight, guess who said, "My legs are feeling pretty heavy right now." The other, appearing concerned, said, "Are you okay?" The first one answered, "I'll probably be fine once I work through this."

It didn't happen. Soon after the turn-around (on the out-and-back course), the one with the habit of running along ahead to make sure everything's safe for the other took off at a good clip. His one water bottle wasn't empty.

The other had only a drop and a good excuse to take a break. A CSX employee stood near the Alpine Farm wayside.

"Hi there. May I ask you something? I heard about someone who set a metal canoe down across the tracks. According to the story, it shut down East Coast traffic. Is that true?"

"Yes, maybe not the whole East Coast, but put anything across the track and it'll trigger a signal indicating the track's blocked. Ever since 9-11, Homeland Security's been investing a lot of money in railroad safety. Now the trains could run without engineers, although it makes sense to continue providing a job for someone to keep an eye out for things computers don't notice."

The ensuing conversation covered good effects of job layoffs. A newspaper editor took a hard labor job on the railroad. "I figured he'd fail, coming as he did from a sun-less inside job pushing pencils, but he's a good man, after a while he landed a job editing the union newspaper and writing for the railroad." We hit on raising pigs, making sausage (he leaves out the sage and other spices so the cook can spice it the way he wants), animals breaking through fences, ages (60 and 61), customizing tee shirts, and more.

The runner out front came back, having started to worry about the slowpoke. "OK, I'll get going."

Three or four miles later, I texted a friend, "RU home? I'm running in Alpine and almost out." I barely had the presence of mind to add another text, "of water."

Talk about slow. After an eternity, I pulled up to my friend's shop. He pointed, "Water? There. Take all you want."

As it turned out, his wife was leaving shortly for our place. My plans to walk the rest of the way evaporated, as had I (almost).

Eight hours later, as we finished dinner, a Prius pulled into our driveway. "I think it's David coming to check on you," Karen said.

Right, as usual.

Tell me, how many of your friends would drive 4 miles one-way because they can't reach you by phone and are worried you're not okay?

Joke Signs

"I see that no stopping sign was just a joke," says Virginia.

Yes, apparently. A couple of Currituck County's finest lined up to chat for a while this morning, then a pickup stopped by to join in, all perhaps for no reason at all.

Signs

During my morning run, I stopped for no reason, which I think was permissible.

A couple days ago, we went inside this gate to pet the horse, since the sign didn't say we couldn't: "Warning/Venomous snake area/ Enter at your own risk."

"You're crazy," says Virginia.

No, I just like to follow the rules.

Pea Meditation

Peas, pease as one of our archaic acquaintances would spell them, are in.

For the last week, I've been meditating on peas. For example, I picked for more than 3 hours this morning and Karen and I shelled for 3 hours this evening.

Don't laugh. One can get a lot of work done, stories and poems written, problems solved while meditating on peas. You could sing "On the Street Where You Live" a thousand times, or allow it to wiggle as a brainworm, endlessly.

"You might invite a friend over to help," says Virginia.

Right. See what happens?

He's mesmerized and can't see you. In this case, he also thinks you can't see him because of the hat. So what kind of world has he entered?

Founding Father

Karen's grandfather, 100 years old today, is the oldest surviving founder of this fire department.

A Very Nice Place to Be

"'K' for Karen?" asks Virginia.

A very nice place to be.

Papa, Don't Preach!

A few days ago a gentleman commented, "So you use wood chips on your garden?"

Yes, I believe, in mulch and aged manure. I've found that investing considerable effort in the fall, without tilling, when the year's gardening season is "over," reaps huge dividends in the spring, when the gardening itch reignites.

After all that work, now's the time to gloat, when many folks are grousing, "It's been too wet, can't get a tiller in the ground."

Some experts say a tiller destroys soil structure and brings unwanted weed seeds to the surface. They even suggest that abandoning the fall garden until spring is like leaving a naked baby in the back seat on a frigid day with the windows open.

"You've crossed the line," says Virginia. "Papa, don't preach. I've seen you out there, raking mulch to one side and the other, pulling your hoe through the soil, planting a spring garden, since early March."

Here are peas, carrots, lettuce, beets and kale planted March 10.

With the help of Jack, Julie and Karen, we sunk Kennebec and Pontiac potatoes on March 16. You'll see winter wheat planted last fall at the rear end of the foreground garden bed, perennial horseradish back on the left, and flowering chives, another perennial.

Look closely to see Glass Gem corn sprouts. You may want to click to enlarge the photo. Two-inch Silver Queens thrive in our pig-aerated garden in the field, but I was too lazy to run over to take pictures.

A week ago I thought our 1-degree winter had killed my pomegranate grove. Now I'm smiling.

Thank You for the Suggestions

"It's about time to paint that roof."

"Have you thought about bottom-watering your seedlings?"

"Have you ever planted black kale?"

"You really ought to trellis those peas."

"You might want to give some thought to a tractor."

"At least, get yourself a roto-tiller."

"Did you plant all those peas by hand? You should try an automatic planter."

"We've got a seed-spreader you could use to plant grass."

"Everything looks good, except for that." He points at the fire-proof carpet underneath our wood stove.

"Have you considered buying grain in bulk for your livestock?"

"Of course, you're going to finish 'em on grain, not pasture."

"Green beans'll produce more if you plant them 8 inches apart."

"Man, those strawberries are packed. You didn't get many this year, did you?"

"You know, it's better to split that wood while it's green."

"Roundup's a lifesaver. You should use it."

"A little Sevin would take care of those Colorado potato beetles."

"When are you going to paint that barn?"

"You need a Gator or ATV."

"Leonard must be turning over in his grave."

"You ought to hire a tax-preparer."

"That geothermal heat pump'll never pay for itself."

"Does stuff really grow in all that mulch?"

"Your driveway looks like a used-car lot."

"The suggestions keep on coming, don't they?" says Virginia.

Yep, just a few samples. Gotta love 'em.

Hey, Jack!

On March 16, the day before a few inches of snow fell on Elk Cliff Farm, Jack, Julie, Karen and I planted potatoes. 

Check this out, Jack -- the bigger green thing on the right, not the little lamb's quarter on the left. It popped up yesterday.

How many days did it take that piece of potato we stuck in the bottom of a vee-ditch to see sunlight?

"I understand something else on Elk Cliff Farm saw daylight for the first time today," says Virginia.

Mishmash

Virginia is starving for attention, so she was pleased when don Juan said he would not talk to me until I identified the "mushroom." She knows how much I like to hear from don Juan, who contacts me about as often as God. Just in case, I must leave the channel open. Thus, my dear don Juan, the answer: the "mushroom" is a long view shot of a donkey's rear. I'd say it another way, but as I've already mentioned, I like to keep my lines of communications clear.

Spring has finally arrived at Elk Cliff Farm, not to say we won't get snow on my birthday. The first clue was a more-than-doubling of our goat population. For those of you who haven't seen a kidding (other than on April 1), check out this picture of a kid still in a sac. Imagine the fun of watching that little creature break the membrane. We take a year to walk. They're wobbling around in a few minutes.

Some other indicators appeared at Arrowhead Lodge.

Virginia says, "We'll send a check to the first person who identifies them both."

Mushrooms Grow Fast

When I looked out our window this morning I saw this.

Do you see to the right of the little red run-in shed, a little right of the middle of the picture? Here's a closer view.

"It looks like a mushroom," says Virginia. "Could it be?"

Well, here's another. You might want to double-click on the picture to make it bigger.

Could it be? Wow! If it is, it's a big 'un.

False Confessions

You've been arrested for a crime you did not commit. After a few hours in a small room with an overbearing detective, might you confess? Eight hours? Twelve hours? Fifteen hours? He or she insists you're the perp.

"I don't think so," says Virginia. "I'd say right off the bat that I want my lawyer present."

Good move.

But many people, too many, eventually give in, for many reasons. Maybe they've been raised to respect authority. Maybe they're young or not too smart or anxious to please. Maybe they get tired. Maybe they've done something else and feel guilty. Maybe all they want is to get out of the tiny room with someone talking too close, too loud.

They know too many details about the crime. They must have been there. Maybe, or maybe the cop told them those details and they got the message.

I remember JFK's assassination. I know a 10-year-old who wondered if he might be arrested, even though he was in Ohio at the time. Could he have been there, done that, maybe in his sleep? Some 20-year-olds act like 10 year olds.

If you'd like to learn more about this fascinating topic, check out http://law.wlu.edu/lawcenter/page.asp?pageid=1688, the materials from a symposium held Friday, January 31.

You'll be able to watch the sessions soon at http://new.livestream.com/wlu/false-confessions-symposium. One of the most interesting segments is the talk on the Reid interrogation technique by Mr. Trainum, a retired D.C. Metropolitan Police Department detective.

Don't tell them I sent you!

Olden Ways

Today, as Karen and I crossed the road that divides our farm into two sections, a fellow in a van rolled down his window, unsmiling. I was afraid he was going to complain about our chickens wandering in the road, so awkwardness hid behind my smile. When he said, "I'd like to talk to you about your goats and chickens," I thought "Uh-oh" until a memory nudged me.

"Do you mean you're thinking about getting chickens?"

He nodded. "I just came from time in the woods. I built myself a little shelter from the rain, gathered some wood, chiseled it down to dry kindling, and used a bow-starter to smoke up a fire."

"Good for you," I said. "I've thought of doing that, but never have."

"About 25 times," he said. "Each time I've felt as though I've done something very special, proud of myself."

"Understood," I said. "Reminds me of what we try to do here." I pointed around the farm. "Like make ice cream with our own milk and cream. Each time is special."

We spoke a while longer, then he began to drive away as Karen and I resumed our walk around the field. "He wants you," Karen said, pointing.

I headed back to the gate. He handed me a DVD, "The Last One." "You might like this," he said. "About Popcorn Sutton. I thought it was pretty funny."

"Thanks," I said. "I'll return it sometime when I run by your house."

Virginia says, "What on earth is 'The Last One?'"

Popcorn Sutton caps off a lifetime in the moonshine trade with a final trip into the wilds of Southern Appalachia to make one last batch of illegal liquor. As he shows how it's done, he reminisces about moonshine glory days.

So I've been thinking. Maybe it'd be fun to gather a bunch of these folks we've met who are trying to resurrect some of the "olden ways" -- folks we don't know well, whose everyday paths don't cross often, but may have some common objectives and some stories to share.

Insecurities

What acquaintances say sometimes astonishes me. Friends are different. Relationships with friends have gone beyond first impressions. I expect friends to say things without thinking them through. I suppose I shouldn't expect acquaintances to be any different, but I do. I like to think that with acquaintances, I consciously choose whether to blurt out a true feeling or bite my tongue, and that they do, too.

Two contexts come to mind: (1) our choice to live in Arnold's Valley; and (2) our decision to gradually turn "Elk Cliff Farm" back into a farm.

Very soon after we moved here, a physician we met at a dinner party turned up her nose when we answered the question, "Where do you live?" She said, "Ambulances don't go there." She was so certain about this that I had to laugh, "Really? What are those sirens I frequently hear, and those trucks with red flashing lights?"

A retired policeman at another gathering shook his head, "Whoa! The police are always making calls to that area." Funny thing, just before this year's 'monster concert' holiday singalong, a fellow in the fourth row asked me, "Where is it you live again?" After I answered, he repeated the words of the retired policeman. Now, what was that about?

I tend to answer defensively. "Oh, we pay them to say that; we like to keep the place for ourselves," "Things have changed in 20 years" or "Don't you think we have too many policemen, and have you noticed how many of them are related to each other?"

Even more recently, someone reported that he ran into a neighbor who said, "[The previous owner of Elk Cliff Farm] must be turning over in his grave. He was so meticulous about that place. Now animals are everywhere."

Several other people have made that "turning over in his grave" comment. I realize it's just an expression, but my defensive response might be, "Really? That must be a noisy graveyard," or "Well, you should have seen the house he lived in."

"Have you noticed that you don't think any more than they think, before saying something?" says Virginia.

She's absolutely right, and I always -- I mean always -- go home wishing I hadn't sounded so defensive.  Why can't I just laugh it off?

I'll tell you why. Because like most people, I react like a child under stress, and deep down I'm as insecure and jealous as the next person.

No matter where you live, you're bound to have a picture in your mind of a place you wouldn't want to be. That's how we build ourselves up.

No matter what you've chosen for your life, you're bound to be glad, at least in your own head, that you didn't choose what someone else chose. That's how we build ourselves up.

Hey, it's a new year. Be it resolved, I will try to bite my tongue even when I'm taken by surprise, and I will try not to demean other people's choices.

Same Day Delivery

I'm optimistic about the new year. That's me, almost always smiling.

But....I guess I've been so buried in regulatory analysis the past week that I missed Mr. Bezos' announcement of a grand scheme for Amazon -- same-day drone delivery. Buy AMZN. Perhaps. I now know that I missed the boat in the late 1990s when a student in one of my investment classes presented a sales pitch for the company.

I did not miss the November notice that Amazon and the United States Postal Service had contracted to provide Sunday deliveries in several markets.

I groaned then and I'm groaning now. When will this need for speed bubble burst? In a way, I'm already offended when merchants assume I must have my order delivered in 2 days, much less offer to ship it overnight for a premium price.

I remember my parents saving for months before replacing a clothes washer. Do you think they would have insisted on 2-day delivery?

Does Amazon expect your latest book order to land on the top of your reading stack, or the pile on your donee's desk? Does it even suspect that you or s/he might already be reading one and have at least another volume or two next in cue?

"I think you may be losing it," says Virginia. "Many, if not most, people don't read books any more."

Okay, I got off track. Have we lost all patience? Are we unable to plan ahead?

I'm sorry, I'm still being a drama king. Neither of those is my real point.

What if every person in the world, or even one-tenth of them, signed on to this same day delivery scheme? Would we have traffic jams of big brown trucks, and drones crashing into front yards?

Energy implications? I'm too myopic to make a reasonable prediction. But oil prices will rise; they'll have to as the supply dwindles -- unless, maybe, it prompts research into alternative sources. Solar-powered drones?

Pray not, irrational exuberance squared? Might 2014 be the new 2008, as the rest of the world joins this rush to ultimately unquenchable self-indulgence?

2013 Christmas Monster Concert

More than 110 partygoers joined four pianos and four pianists for this year's holiday "monster concert." We gathered in the expansive music room of a home on top of Elliott's Hill.

In this after-dark picture, note the large windows. When the sun is shining, they offer 360-degree views of the surrounding Blue Ridge and Allegheny Mountains.

Here's a brief excerpt of "Winter Scene" from the Nutcracker Ballet, arranged by Margo Richter for 4 pianos, 8 hands.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=yITl2A7MPuc&feature=youtu.be

The pounding of four pianos tends to bring out the voice in everyone.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cj_Isxst0Vo

We tried to settle things down a bit by adding a short piece with our favorite violinist.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=jLMe1wkTPpA&feature=youtu.be

"No dancing?" says Virginia.

Thanks for asking. "The Christmas Waltz" set the stage for our host and hostess to lean into "The Merry Christmas Polka."

Maybe next year you'll join us for the 5th Annual Christmas Monster Concert.

Arrowhead Lodge: 2013 Running Review

Opossum Run races past Arrowhead Lodge, joins Elk Creek, and rushes by Elk Cliff Farm and into the James River. My favorite view of the cabin looks up Opossum Run from the neighboring cottage.

The lodge has been drawing me lately, as a base for running, practicing piano, and writing.

"So what happened to your plan of a year ago?" asks Virginia. "The idea of cutting back on weekly mileage?"

See http://whoisvirginia.blogspot.com/2012/12/on-resolutions-and-bucket-lists.html.

The plan has been executed. As of yesterday, my feet have carried me about 1330 miles, or 26 miles per week. Some of those are walked miles, so I'm right on track. As for the 7:30 per mile maximum speed, I can assure you that I only violated that "rule" a few times, such as when the mugger tried to run me down in Bear Hollow. Or was it a bear? Adam gave us a GoPro for Christmas, so next time maybe we'll know for sure.

Look in A Mirror

Each month I attend a manly meeting. One member presents a "paper," the others listen and ask questions, then we visit around a table of refreshments. We leave the meeting knowing a little more than before.

At first I feel awkward, out of place (except for being male), almost hypocritical, anti-intellectual. Then I relax and see myself speaking, focused on a narrow line of inquiry, normally of little interest to anyone else. Gotta smile, so self-possessed, somewhat peculiarly dressed, sounding passionate about something arcane, listening like a ghost from a ceiling corner.

A long time ago a mentor suggested that if I don't like someone when I first meet him or her, I should try to identify what it is that bothers me. I might discover in that thing, that feature, something I don't appreciate about myself. This insight has served me well, and bad first impressions sometimes have developed into valuable relationships.

"Ah," says Virginia. "In a way, this turns on its head the accepted importance of first impressions."

I recall a conversation I watched 15 to 20 years ago. Someone began, "So you're a runner?" I nodded. Another person said, "Have you ever noticed runners are never smiling?" I said, "Well, if you ever see me running, maybe you'll notice something else."

So, this person is driving his car and sees a runner, for three seconds. The runner isn't smiling. He thinks, runners aren't happy people.

Okay, so Tom the window-peeper sees this fellow hunched over his stamp collection, not smiling. He thinks, stamp collectors aren't happy people.

"I drove past the ninth hole yesterday," says Virginia. "And the four-some was laughing. Maybe I should take up golf."

Let me just say, think about it...and a mirror might come in handy.

"Shall"

Are you becoming more open, more accepting of different views? Many years ago, I thought people saw the world pretty much the same as I did. Then I heard the term "world view" and learned about personality types and it dawned on me that eccentricity appeals to me nearly as much as wisdom.

For years, I've enjoyed reading opinions written by Richard Posner of the U.S. Court of Appeals for the 7th Circuit. I often don't agree with his conclusion, but I like getting there. 

And then, several months ago, when I mentioned him, a friend pretty much said he's out there. In fact, she said, critically and not with admiration, that he's the most reversed federal appeals court judge. I don't know if that's true, but ever since, I consider his opinions with closer skepticism. I wonder if my friend has any idea how influential she is.

Today I read one of his recent decisions. He considered the meaning of this phrase in an Illinois statute: "[D]eeds, mortgages, powers of attorney, and other instruments relating to or affecting the title to real estate in this state, shall be recorded in the county in which such real estate is situated." 

What do you think it means -- that if someone gives you an Illinois mortgage, you must record it, or if you want to record it and obtain the protections of the statute, you may do so? I asked my most influential friend, Karen, and she said you may. As it turns out, she and Judge Posner agree. 

Here's what he said: “[S]uppose a department store posts the following notice: ’All defective products must be returned to the fifth floor counter for refund.’ Obviously this is not a command that defective products be returned; the purchaser is free to keep a defective product, throw it out, or give it as a present to his worst friend. There’s an implicit ‘if’ in the command: If you want to return a product and get a refund, here’s where you have to return it.”  The statute similarly may mean that if you want to record your property interest you must do so in the county in which the property is located. In the context, that is the better meaning.

I had to Google "shall." One of the first hits was a law professor's blog, where he said "shall" is the most misused word in legal terminology. 

As I considered this, I thought of one of my pet peeves. I hate it when someone says, "We can't do that," as in "Would you take $50 instead of your stated $55 price?" and they answer, "Oh, no, we can't do that." Or, "How about if I send you an email authorizing that?" and they answer, "Oh no, we can't accept an email; we need a fax or a letter." I want to say, "Yes you can; you just don't want to or you aren't willing to." 

Virginia says, "We lie, we're used to lying, that's what people do."

I'd like to disagree. They're not lying when they say "can't." They're just using a different definition from my definition of the word "can't."

Although my friend has prompted me to be more critical of Posner opinions, she may have helped me like them even more. I think Oscar Wilde is credited for saying, "Whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong." If Judge Posner is, in fact, the most reversed appellate court judge, then that may be all the more reason to revere him.

Out of the Mainstream

When I worked at a traditional job, with a typical 8-6 workday, I had no idea what subcultures thrived in nearby neighborhoods. I guess I didn't have time, or find time, to discover what other people do.

The story changed when we moved here. I still don't use enough of my time to socialize with folks who have slipped through the cracks of conventional work-a-day living, but I've spied some of them. Out here in the rural mountains of Southwest Virginia we've run into a woman who schedules the payloads of huge ocean freighters, someone who counsels and trains truck drivers with tarnished driving records,  a registered lobbyist and fundraiser for a large university in another state, a water treatment plant consultant, an extremely fine furniture artist, a biosecurity expert, and many others, including the "usual" types of folks you find working from home such as web designers, IT experts, composers, authors and concert musicians.

"Don't forget some of the characters down the road," says Virginia.

Okay. I saw a strange bird on my run this morning. I guess it was a bird.

And a big bug crawling up a nearby tree.

"Hassle-Free" Gardening

A number of writers describe "hassle-free" gardening or "how to garden without work." I appreciate the thought, but question the premise, which brings two things to mind: (1) TANSTAAFL? "There ain't no such thing as a free lunch." (2) President Clinton's statement, "It depends on how you define alone."

After watching a movie last night (Unfinished Sky), I struggled to my feet. Leaning over to fill the wood stove tempted me to call Karen for help. It's probably not a good idea to spend nearly two hours in one position after running a marathon or putting gardens to bed for the winter. Anticipating two fine days for writing inside a warm house had motivated me to pull up the garden covers.

Yesterday began humbly. Donkeys, unlike many farm animals, seem to care about their masters' convenience. As I transferred donkey piles onto my pickup, I thought it might be a useful exercise for pampered law students. Forced average grades of 3.5 may mislead them into thinking they're exceptional. "Nonsense," a professor told me, "It's just re-scaling; now a 3.0 is a 'D.'" "Phooey," said Virginia. "Grade inflation is like economic inflation. You'll have a hard time convincing today's retiree that a 0.5 percent return on her hard-earned portfolio is a 'B' in light of today's slowly-rising Consumer Price Index. It'll stay a 'D' or 'F' in her book based on her past experience."

I pulled weeds for an hour or so before investing the rest of the day in manure, wheat seeds (I know it's probably too late but they're infested and won't last much longer anyway), and mulch. The day warmed more than expected, ideal for this kind of work. Up, down, up, down for eight hours.

My general plan is to work outside on gorgeous days, inside when the weather is frightful, and both in and out at other times. This way, "work" becomes a relative term; it can become "play." This is one of my biggest bonuses for leaving the corporate rat race.

I must admit, though, that yesterday I got carried away. Hence, the sore muscles after watching Unfinished Sky. But today I can admire the result.

I also can look forward to spring, when planting my garden will be almost hassle-free. I'll simply push aside the mulch, pull a hoe through the soft warm soil, sow my seeds, and wait for them to sprout. I won't need to pull weeds, till, or wait for a long-enough dry spell to allow me to prepare the land for planting. Well, maybe a few weeds will tease me, but a few is "fun," not "work."

Bottom Feeders

Tragedy Strikes Arnolds Valley

A story twisted like a frozen pretzel had local law enforcement officials scrambling. A couple once rumored to be among the poorest residents of this rural community -- they didn't even have a working furnace in their 150-year old home -- died while entertaining their neighbors. 

In a setting eerily similar to death by lemonade, everyone at the feast succumbed to severe gastric upset or worse. Officials are now testing the leftovers.

Rumors blame the fiasco on the couple's pigs, Roxie, Mickey and Wendell, famous garbage disposals for the entire region, which may have some truth, according to Deputy Sheriff Earle Austine. Reporters spotted him leaving the scene of the massacre and followed him to a large farm on Forge Road, where he collected ice cubes for analysis.

Ice cubes? Not quite. Ice chunks would be more accurate, as in a malfunctioning freezer.

A Forge Road neighbor, a famous author of juvenile horse fiction who asked for anonymity, overheard Sheriff Austine speaking with the National Security Administration. The NSA apparently had recorded a call made from the Forge Road farm several hours earlier. "We cleaned out our freezer yesterday. Would you like the old food for your pigs?"

Within minutes of the call, signs appeared in the couple's pasture, "EARLY THANKSGIVING MEAL -- JOIN US TONIGHT!"

The Forge Road farmer later confirmed that, yes, the Thanksgiving menu bore remarkable similarity to the contents of his freezer: mini-quiches, peanuts in the shell, mahi-mahi, turkey, ham, Chinese chicken strips, conch, hot dogs, broccoli, cauliflower, greens, celery, casava, sherbet bonbons, cherries, and apple and peach pies.

"They were meant for the pigs!" he insisted, as Sheriff Austine handcuffed him and pushed his head  down into the backseat. "In fact, as our friends were leaving, he said, 'if we die, you'll know why' and I laughed in response, 'Yeah, I'd feel bad for two days.'"

"Friends! Two days!" the sheriff was heard muttering. "Fifty years at least!"

"What on earth is this all about?" says Virginia.

Let's just say Roxie, Mickey and Wendell had an excellent dinner tonight, thanks to our Forge Road friends.

The Importance of Contrasts

Do you start the day with a smile? Or a frown? Or something in between? Many argue that attitude affects life. Some go so far as to say that life, itself, is a creation of our minds which, if true, would stress even more the significance of a positive or negative perspective.

The adage, "Variety is the spice of life," comes to mind. Someone who has never loved a person, an animal, an occupation, or a pastime probably cannot know the depths of despair into which a rejected lover can descend or understand the high the lover experiences when a new love blooms. Someone who thinks his or her life is a continuous stream of happiness cannot truly know the joy of a good day that follows a bad.

Have you noticed the rash of gratitude lists that appear in the month of November, often under the guise of "mindfulness?"

Virginia says, "I'm grateful for my partner, my pet, my children, my thoughtful neighbors, the rising and falling sun, the multitude of stars in the heavens, my heart, my lungs, my smooth skin, my rich lips, my low cholesterol reading, my indoor water faucets, my clean underwear, and my ability to gather, cut and split firewood. Or maybe, I'm grateful for my productive laying chickens; our recent warm spring, summer and fall; my kind, thoughtful friends; our home-grown meals; our healthy livestock; our gentle animals; our bountiful pasture; our large stack of split firewood; and our elderly, ever-loving dog."

Yes, it is good to be mindful of those things. To be truly mindful, it's also good to remember the things that did not make these lists.

Virginia says, "I think I know what you're up to. You have a feeling many readers have not recognized the subtle intellectualism of your most significant other."

Perhaps. I'm not grateful having to leave my cozy couch to trek a hundred yards through a brisk wind to close up the chickens for the night; meddlesome folks offering uninvited advice; hypocritical eaters who only buy feedlot meats and coconut milk that have traveled thousands of miles to the dinner table, killing countless living creatures along the way; sick goats and donkeys that make me feel guilty for not calling a vet; a milking machine that stutters in frosty weather; hunting for hay in late winter; the filth firewood drops on its way to the wood stove or the obstinacy of a cold hearth; and a whiney pet that follows me everywhere; or the fact that her blog is more interesting and much more popular than mine: http://holesinmyjeans-kpannabecker.blogspot.com/2013/11/what-i-dont-like-this-may-not-be-pretty.html. [Actually, I do like that.]

"Ouch," says Virginia.

Fiddling on the Roof

My new shop is nearly finished. All I need to do is install a floor, add a couple walls with insulation, find a good wood stove, and arrange for Fred to put in some receptacles.

Here's the carpenter finishing the metal roof.

"Is that Karen?" says Virginia.

Yes, well, uh, she's up there thinking about how we're going to train the GOS pigs to weed my garden beds. If they can find truffles, certainly they can learn which plants to dig and which to leave.

Meanwhile, I took a 10-mile run around the neighborhood. Our local billionaire moved an old church from Canada to his backyard. Someone said it serves as his wife's studio for the few days per year she finds herself in our county. If you click on this picture you might see its steeple behind the house.

The fellow spent a few dollars on a long black fence. Do you think I should tell him what's wrong with this picture?

Winter Gardening

Many gardeners have called it quits until spring. That's okay. Some golfers have, too, and swimmers, but not squirrels. They're busy collecting nuts.

This nutty squirrel finally planted lettuces, spinach, and kale in the greenhouse today. First, I had to clean away the dead tomato plants that made the place look like a dismal, but dry, swamp. Then, I sprinkled rabbit gold here and there. Now, having placed seeds in little rows, I must remember to keep them watered. It's important to keep lettuce seeds moist until they sprout. Forgetting to water them daily leads to the failure of many lettuce plantings, and it's even more important in a greenhouse where it doesn't rain.

I'd taken advantage of a seed saver's fall sale, so now I'm looking forward to pretty lettuces, like Yugoslavian Red Butterhead, Mascara, Red Leprechaun, and Rossimo, to brighten up old green favorites such as buttercrunch, buttercos, and romaines. I'm anxious to taste Crisp Mint, which is supposed to have leaves like mint. Will it be minty in flavor as well?

Meanwhile, three (of ten) of my garden beds have pretty well settled in for winter. One of them contains ancient barley and wheat sprouts from seeds provided by the Kusa Society. Think waving fronds of grain as the Lion King roars from a cliff.

Kusa Society millet sits in buckets in our bedroom, the result of 50 seeds of each of several varieties planted in the spring. What will we do with millet? I recently tossed some into a bread recipe, for extra crunch.

Garlic sprouts rim another bed filled with organic hard red winter wheat, something that's not easy to find around here. I surfed the Internet and paid nearly as much for shipping as for the bushel of seeds. Did you know a bushel of wheat plants about 2 1/2 acres? Like free mulch from Boxerwood Gardens, that bushel has found its way into several other gardens.

"And like the sweet potato slips you bought last spring?" says Virginia.

Let me mention my 2013 sweet potato story. In 2012, I planted about 50 slips. This year, I decided to order 100. Just as my finger aimed at the final click, I noticed that for only $8 more I could get 200 slips. Certainly, $8 would make the giving away of 100 slips worthwhile. I changed my order to 200.

The instructions called for 8 bunches of 25 slips each, 4 different varieties. When they arrived, I discovered that each bunch had about 37 slips. Whoa! After planting 125, I still had more than 125 to give away. Our next door neighbor, for one, seemed pretty happy about that.

Skeletons

Almost every closet contains skeletons, which is one reason many good people aren't politicians. Why open the can of worms and embarrass yourself and your family?

Instead of running for Congress, some people do other things.

A little art, perhaps:

"What is that?" asks Virginia.

Our latest skeleton.

The Equalizer

Our son attended one of the first public middle schools that required uniforms. Two basic lines of thought emerged. One, that forcing children into the same clothes was undemocratic, regimental, and not conducive to creativity. Two, that identical outfits would breed school solidarity, alleviate some of the common conflicts such as obvious class differences, and focus attention on more important matters than dress.

For us parents, the uniforms proved convenient. No arguments about what to wear.

Like those middle-schoolers, every few months I pull this uniform from  my closet and just get dressed and go.

I could be off to my job waiting tables, a gig on stage, an opera, or a White House ball. Whatever the function, the choices are easy, underneath, unseen.

"Yeah, right," says Virginia. "You don't think people in the know notice whether your suit is off-the-rack or tailored, the plainness of your shirt or its ruffles, or the quality of the bow tie and shoes?"

This country boy has never heard 'em squawk, probably never will.

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.