Friday, May 8, 2009

Windmills And Bunkers

Okay, nobody and I mean nobody sees rain as a blessing more than I do. But, I mean, come on already. There's a severe weather alert till tomorrow, and I'm pretty sure the 6 seedlings I put in last Saturday are toast. If only I had more to plant as a backup.

Oh. Wait.

Mostly despair this week. Don't know what's brought it on. I guess the rain. This weekend is all about the tomato cage boxes. And getting more plants in the ground. Maybe. I'm a little gun shy after this week.

The weekend of my mom's funeral I was driving around Morrow County, Ohio, when I came into Fredericktown, a small burg just northwest of Mt. Vernon, and I saw a chicken cross the road, right there in town. This isn't the start of a joke. It just occurred to me at the time just how... appropriate that was.

Say. When did we stop having a couple few hens in the back yard? When exactly did that become white trash? When did farming become inferior, relegated to the few idiots who couldn't do "real" work? When and why did urban become superior to rural?

At the hospice, my brothers and I spoke at length about our current state of affairs. They're not exactly Obama fans, nor Bush/McCain fans. We are, all of us, fans of our dad, who could best be described as having been a Teddy Roosevelt fan. Fierce, rugged independence. Responsibility, accountability.

My brother Jack, the middle child, was going through some rough spots in his adolescence: drugs, alcohol, stupid friends. He was working at a filling station in town, driving the tow truck, and he caught on fire. The whole thing is hilarious today when he recalls it, but it wasn't at the time, obviously. That weekend of the immolation, my oldest brother Jesse and dad were outside raking leaves when Jesse, pondering Jack's adventure, said to dad, "Boy, Jack sure does have some bad luck." To which my dad responded, not missing a beat, "There's no such thing as bad luck; just bad judgement."

That was dad.

Anyways, Al and Jesse and I basically agreed that we need a revolution. Not one that will be televised live. One, rather, that's quiet, almost unnoticeable. And maybe even one that's in line with our current President's agenda. I'll talk about this some more later, when the cages are lit by the setting sun, finally. I'll just say that our fallback position is Jesse's back 40, where a gorgeous srping-fed stream cuts through the woods. Windmills and bunkers. And living in a corncrib powered by a car battery that's constantly recharged by egg-laying chickens somehow. Or something. Still working out the kinks.

I.e., we get the sense that folks will get so fed up that they'll quietly and gradually slip off the grid, not by any means necessary, but by the best ends justified.

Happy Mother's Day.

(To you, too, mom. I miss you so much.)


Keifus said...

Thanks man. Have you ever come across this place? I find it impressive.

Although I don't think any effort of mine could honestly count as slipping off the grid (I mean, what would I do without internet access?!), athough I find the thought is really good for the psychology. If anything, it's more like giving the grid the finger when it's not looking. I support your effort here.

My parents used to keep egg chickens. Smelly little varmints they are, and although they don't "need" a ton of space, they'll denude any small green area they're penned in.

switters said...

Exactly. The finger, indeed.

Great link.

I love your layout; but I like your plan even better.

It's supposed to be really humid tomorrow and close to 90 degrees. Great. Heat stroke. Again. I wish our springs down here were more like our falls.

Schmutzie said...

If I had 40 acres and the ability to work it, I wouldn't be here, I'd be there. Anyone who thinks that urban is superior to rural is a chooch.

Loads of free irrigation here too. Rained like crazy for the last 3 weeks. Imagine the small farmers are getting to that "Okay, that's enough rain" stage.

switters said...

It's been my experience that farmers generally complain about the weather. It's either too dry or too wet. Never perfect. I don't know if that's just Iowa farmers, Lutherans essentially given to pessimism, or if it's the nature of the enterprise.

All I know is, I'd love to see the sun this week.

Isonomist said...

You're onto something:

I figured if Nebraska could have a cow manure fire that lasted for two months, and guano can explode, then chicken manure must have more going for it than the stench.

switters said...

The Amish in my brothers' part of Ohio will set a chicken pen in their fields. They'll move it everyday the length of the pen. Then come the horse, cow and pig poop.

Needless to say, their sweet corn is epic.

LentenStuffe said...

The notion of rustics being 'rustic' is in need of a serious overhaul. It might happen when bohemians discover that rectangular beef patties don't grow on beef trees.

Lovely post. Farming is praying.

switters said...

"Farming is praying."

That's exquisite. I may have to run with that, because it couldn't be more true nor sublime.

It really is, isn't it?

It seems also maudlin by nature. Thanks.