Growing Tomatoes From Seed

Hallmark's A Smile As Wide As The Moon

2012-01-30T16:03:00.000-08:00

A class of special education students goes to space camp and gets a very special education of their own, as do we. I.e., Riding The Shuttle With My Sister. Everybody wins.[ahem]Though it does sound eerily reminiscent of tonight's Bachelor plot, what with all the adhd's and hdt's and dt's (yeah, lots of wine) and hdtv's and std's and svu's. Add the fact that newt says mitt's healthcare reforms will eliminate kosher meals for elderly jewish floridians and elderly florida jewidians, and i think we can all agree that community organizing is at the soul and root and cause and effect of socialism around the globe, expecially in northern europe and the u.s.s.r.also, i thought cbs owned the hallmark hall of fame franchise. doubleyou tee eff???!!!???

South Carolina: "Mitt Just Not Racist Enough"

2012-01-22T08:10:00.000-08:00

Newt responds: "Freedom of speech is destroying our freedom of speech. And sex acts protected under the 5th ammendment."

President Obama too busy being president to respond.

Meanwhile, Al Gore reinvents the internets and calculator.

And Jefferson survives.

P.S. I truly hope that Joe had at least a bit of peace at the hour of his taking away.

Mitt v. Newt

2012-01-19T16:05:00.000-08:00

Open marriages, slaves to The Book Of Mormon Satan, multiple wives and multiple wives and a possible second (okay, third) family in rural Mexico, the republican frontrunners are starting to make Ron Paul look less and less like m'boy Dennis Kucinich almost every hour it would seem. Rest assured that these walking raisin cakes will have plenty of time to figure out what went wrong with their campaigns and why they fall for women whose hair color doesn't occur in nature very often ever during President Obama's third term. As President. Of The United States. The Middle Part this time.

And they have funny sounding names! HAHAHA HA HAHAHAHA!!!

Now I think most democrats, so-called, are generally lip-quivering pussies, but boy I sure do like my current President. Plus, it would seem Gingy's the one doing all the crying.

retards everywhere: open thread

2012-01-16T18:29:00.000-08:00

(do we still do those?)

so. target. glee. madonna's comedic sensibility and the fact that she beat out chris cornell on the golden globes. and the golden globes, which i loved. the big winner of the night was, of course, as usual, the music director and his eerie and vast power over the most powerful people in the world, namely, cock suckers, e.g., advertising executives, a.k.a., mongoloidal pedophilic lying poisoners of body and mind, e.g., general motors, little better than used whore salesmen.

oops. right. the bachelor. needless to say, the only thing wrong with it is that it's only 2 hours long and on only 1 night a week. that we know of. i'll be the one pulling for the flu virus oozing throughout the house like the angel of death in the charlie heston movie where he plays god. (i.e., harvey weinstein [sic].) though puking is a great way to lose a couple pounds before the rose ceremony!

not to jinks it, but i'm doing pretty darn good. maybe even better than i deserve to. and i bought a really nice table saw that i've wanted for 10 years. and a really nice miter saw that i don't need. still, nice to see ricky lay off the midget.

BACHELOR XXIVX: ATTACK OF THE GIANT ALIEN SPACE ROBOT CUNTS

2012-01-09T18:33:00.000-08:00

(TOO MUCH?!?!)SO, YEAH, I WAS REALLY DRUNK DURING LAST YEAR'S RUN (WHAT?), WHICH TURNED OUT TO BE A GOOD THING BECAUSE THIS SHOW REALLY IS A LOT MORE TOLERABLE WASTED! ALSO, I STILL DON'T KNOW HOW TO MAKE A PARAGRAPH! OR SPELL.ANYWAYS, THIS SEASON IS REALLY TURNING OUT TO BE REALITY TV AT IT'S BEST! NAMELY, FAKE. THOUGH THE RELATIVE INSANE RETARDATION OF THOSE INVOLED MAKES IT THAT MUCH MORE REAL! THERE SEEMS TO BE A DEARTH OF THOSE INVOLVED WITH THE WHOLE DENTAL HYGENICS GAME, E.G., THERE SEEMS TO BE AT LEAST MORE THAN THREE DENTAL HYGENECISTS.(WONDERING WHAT ALL THE SHOUTING IS ABOUT? I'M TESTING BLOGGER. THEY'LL FAIL. AGAIN!)ALSO, IS A "VIP COCKTAIL WAITRESS" CODE FOR "ACTOR/SINGER/HOOKER", OR JUST "SKANK/GIZ JAR"?!?WTF??? EITHER WAY, I'M "HOOKED"!(SORRY. NO AFFILIATES CARRY ACCESS HOLLYWOOD, SO MY 4-1-1 IS MORE LIKE OPERATOR ERRRORR! ER... BUT WE'LL ALWAYS HAVE PUNCTUATION.)still, while the gal from clarksville tn is quite sweet and decent, and the blogger chick from nyc is clearly on a lithium bicarbonate cocktail, this batch of bridesmaids just don't seem to understand da roolz! i.e., leave your dignitiy, grace, self-esteem and any remnant of awareness at the door. the bedroom door, that is!!! and assume the (fetal) position!

back in piqua for solo christmas

2011-12-21T15:07:00.000-08:00

but not han.just working on the shop/house all day, cutting firewood, listening to my stories on the tv, and, of course, playing and singing all my favorite christmas songs on the guitar.e.g., "when i left my home and my family / i was no more than a boy / in the company of strangers / in the quiet of the railway station running scared."and the classic: "toss me a cigarette / i think there's one in my raincoat. / we smoked the last one an hour ago. / so i looked out at the scenery; / she read her magazine. / and the moon rose over an open field."all sober. weird. strong. tough. peaceful (other than "new girl"). 7 months this friday. i think. al misses me, i just know it. and i miss him. and casey dog, of course. or that may be that moonpie misses casey. too close to call.bob evans, christmas eve. even though my well pump exploded and i have not running water, my new stove is threatening to chase me out of the shop it's so hot.not bad for a good for nothing drunk.

the protocols of the elders of zion, the movie: part 1:

2011-12-16T04:38:00.000-08:00

the wrath of adamos ben yauchstein the youngeror something. -ish.

thanks

2011-11-24T07:10:00.001-08:00

6 months tomorrow. 6 months. i can't do this alone. i think i'm most grateful that i don't have to.by the way, i'm the weirdo-esque dude in the corner with that inexplicable danny branch facial expression that's both a confused smile and a maudlin 3.9 mile stare.(screw you, keif!)so, yeah, save me a seat.

the 1st annual dress as your favorite tom robbins character day

2011-11-22T14:47:00.000-08:00

having trouble getting any traction on this one. so i'll probably just go as that gal with the giant thumbs, seeing as how i've pummeled mine into huge bruised stumps on account of my insane desire to salvage a bunch of useless crap. again. with a pry bar.

but i've got today. and it was a really good day. rain, which gives moonpie a chance to do her white fang thing.

the 2011th* american music awards!

2011-11-20T17:29:00.000-08:00

seriously? does anyone else want lauren hill to swagger out there on the stage and oldschool all these pukes while wiping the floor with them? in their own puke? er... hmm...

anyways, can't find my beasties.

in pickaway (piqua) tonight, brought computer, big day tomorrow. all y'all are on duty! may buy yet another woodstove this week. and a harley. long story.

*this establishment reserves the right to refuse service of leftovers

the most important thing i've learned in a.a.:

2011-11-19T05:07:00.000-08:00

humility. and how to make really bad bad coffee. and you know what? it's humbling!?!?!?!?!

sorry. anyways, back to piqua this weekend at some point. mild weather till whenever. it's just that the nights make it hard to sleep when i'm very cold, and hard to make synax agree with itself.

that's deep. you guys?

piqua, yet

2011-11-14T05:35:00.000-08:00

still there. spent 3 nights and 4 days on demolition and wood salvage. cold but some sun. moonpie loved it, just the 2 of us. found out al was frantic the whole time i was there; something about it being too soon. i tried to explain to him how i feel spoiled here, with heat and plumbing, and that if i want to drink i will no matter where i am. he was not comforted.

i'm beginning to realize that i wasn't nearly as coddled as i thought everyone thought i was. piqua has so many awesome possibilities, though i know beer is out there doing pushups, waiting for me to slip up. just a bit. well, i won't. but i don't want to jinx it!

also, hey.

"... too much fucking perspective."
-david st. hubbins

as the fog clears, 2

2011-11-07T13:52:00.000-08:00

or, with a few months sobriety behind me afer 10 years as a practicing drunk (where practice makes perfect): a.) i'm not as weak or inept as i thought i was/used to be; and b.) i'm not as weak or inept as i thought my family thought/still thinks i was/am.

bright, i'm not sure i get it either; yet. and i'm being, as you know, neither ironic nor sarcastic. but i'm trying like the dickens not to be resentful. it's this brutal honesty thing that has me up at night.

as the fog clears, 1

2011-11-07T05:34:00.000-08:00

i continue to be amazed each and every day at how stupid my family (still) thinks i am.

is it intentional?

2011-11-02T07:37:00.000-07:00

news organizations (cough) as sophisticated as fox should have the decency to know when they're being made fun of as opposed to being apologized to. what's more dangerous: denial, or willful obtuseness?

but... but...

2011-10-24T07:00:00.000-07:00

now they're is them shoulder-powered hand missile firers and stuff! and our president is a non-experienced black negro man nobel-winnering killer who has so much power he's ruining our freedoms.

BUSH WAS SO MUCH MORE BETTER AND I AM MISSING HIM YET!!!

cartoons of cartoons

2011-10-20T12:12:00.000-07:00

i mean, how many bad guys does barry have to grease before he gets a little lovin' from the right? aren't they supposed to be the torturing bloodthirsty lunatics?

you, youth,

2011-10-13T06:32:00.000-07:00

with your moving picture boxes and your electric books and your cordless phones. and your rabid sense of entitlement. YOUR [sic] RUINING EVERYTHING FOR THE X GENERATION, TOOL BAGS!!!

doing well here. trying to stay ahead of winter. trying to let myself be content. riding the motorcylce a lot when it's not too foggy. and practicing the guitar. again.

are we all going through transitions now? and why does it always seem to coincide with the npr pledge drives that i like so much?!

gonna try posting/writing everyday because, frankly, i need you people. but now, it would seem, for all the right reasons, mostly. WON'T YOU JOIN ME?!?!?!

spelling don't count but grammer do.

"Gee I hope I'm not too late to cast...

2011-09-14T17:46:00.000-07:00

my vote."

so. how do you tell your brother that his son is kind of a dick? it would seem that my alleged honesty with myself on account of my "DRINKING PROBLEM!!!" has made me more sensitive to the dishonesty and emotional ugliness of others. just spitballing here, repeating myself a tad. but, damn, could this disease have made me a better person? answer: yes.

i need a drink. NOT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

keif, tis the prickly heat methinks. i.e., awful humid down there in iberia. -ish. huh?

R

2011-07-29T17:57:00.000-07:00

[7 weeks today. doing well, for the most part. stupid stupid stupid blogspot. rome, internal strife, army spread thin, religeous lunatics in charge... hmmm... watching sunrises and making tomato cages. still getting used to sobriety, but i kind of like it, most of the time. miss you guys horribly. also, spelling doesn't count, obviously. again.]

tropic thunder
armageddon
mean girls
[forrest gump?]
zoolander
the daily show: indecision 2004 special
the hangover
saturday night live weekend update

(included tds and snl on account of the geniouses seth meyers and rob corrdry, er, cordrry, cordry... or... right.)

more? i'd like quotes and the characters' names. and serenity more often than not.

previews

2011-07-12T18:48:00.000-07:00

Jerry Potter And The Deadly Jellos Part IXV: The Redemption Of Pliny The Elder Part I.IV, Love In The The Ruins Of Trinity Rising -- A Movie Review
-er, there's another one?! what, does the fonz water ski jump over a tank of sharks while setting a car on fire, exploding? seriously? WRAP IT UP!!!

28 Days Or So Later: An Essay Based On A True Story Based On Actual True Events That May Or May Not Have Actually Happened... At Some Point
"... you know, one of those hospital robe shirts that only comes to just below the navel..."

Letter To TOTGA: Has She Really GA?

Bridesmaids Revisited: Rise Of The Vomit -- A Movie Review

How Fox News Radio Is Not-So-Slowly Turning My Brain Into Gramma's Apple Sauce. Again

Essay: Why We Need More Yelling On NPR

Why My Worst Day Sober Is So Much Better Than My Best Day Drunk

The World Would Be A Gentler Place Were All The Roads Paved With Dirt Or Gravel

Blogging My Ohio Driver's License Written Testimonial
"... never under any circumstances use your turn signal; it will only confuse your fellow automotive operators as such..."

and so much more, god willing.

funny

2011-06-20T19:28:00.000-07:00

you're sitting there in your gutted farmhouse, wasted at 10:15 in the morning watching hoda and kathy lee. in fact, you've been wasted for the last 4 months. and your 2 brothers and a sister-in-law show up and ask you politely to get in the trunck. you beg your oldest brother please don't make me do this, please, i beg you, please don't make me do this. al, your other brother, says, hey, i'm missing my golf game. get in the truck. your sis-in-law says you need to do this. please, no, please. i can't. just leave me alone, i'll be fine. get in the truck. come on, let's get in the truck. you put your shoes on and get in the truck. you get to the hospital and your brothers have to prop you up because you can't walk on your own. you're admitted. they hook you up to an i.v. because you're dehydrated. you're shaking and the nurse has trouble hitting her mark, but she does, with a smile. the admitting doctor comes in and says they're going to make you better. your brothers and sis say that they're very proud of you. you're shaking, you can't breath right. they take you to your new room for the week, a nurse comes in and puts something in the i.v. it's anti-anxiety medecine. it works almost immediately. you relax. al makes jokes and you laugh as does jess and lisa. they don't leave your side for 5 hours. you get sleepy. they give you more meds and take your blood pressure and check your blood every 3 hours. all the nurses know why you're there, but there's no funny looks, no pity, no... judging; just sympathy and a sincere desire to make you better. your family finally leaves and you fall asleep only to be awakened every 3 hours for vitals. you're humiliated, ashamed, glad your mom and dad are gone so they don't have to see you like this.

then you wake up and hope you've hit bottom.

just back from rehab/detox.

2011-06-16T16:16:00.000-07:00

fun week. currently staying with al and lisa on their small cattle farm in mount gilead. moonpie is here. will be here indefinitely. i'm on anti-anxiety anti-depressants. very weak.

i have a great family but would appreciate some good vibes.

your friend.

well crud.

2011-06-09T17:36:00.000-07:00

thought i could do this on my own. don't think i can. jess and jane came by today and mowed. and mr. hill got his corn planted. hot, but a great breeze.

sarah, sarah, a storm is brewing in your eyes

2011-05-28T16:13:00.000-07:00

please run. please please please run. the debates alone would be worth their weight in salmon. also, during your "take back america bus tour" (or whatever), can't wait to see you ring the liberty bell in boston. the chinese revere retards. you would be worshipped there. also, they're more in line with your notions of civil rights. and dumbassness.

drives a man to drink.

glee season finale

2011-05-17T15:45:00.000-07:00

in new york? could be good. also, is it just me, or is newt kind of a giant douche head shit bag? just me. again. may 17 and i have a fire in the stove. seriously. oh, and well said miss palin. sure your bastard grandkid won't need therapy of any kind, and that gosh you're stupid. must be nice not to be aware of it. common speaks english. still not sure what you speak.

addiction

2011-05-05T06:50:00.000-07:00

"alcoholism is not a disease; it's a choice." that's what dad would say. i miss that man. moving forward is hard enough when demons are holding you by the... heels. may 5, 34 degrees? really?

the office

2011-04-28T17:51:00.000-07:00

i have my bad days, and worse nights. then there's a tv show. i'll take it.

the royal wedding

2011-04-26T06:52:00.000-07:00

i watched in 19... 80... 81? i'll watch this one too. alarm set. i'm a sucker for romance. and a retard.

predictions

2011-04-07T16:00:00.000-07:00

npr will lose its federal funding, and thrive. planned parenthood will invade libya, exploding. lutherans will unite with methodists (and catholics?) tearing through tea partiers like it's dawn of the dead all over again. and people will actually watch two and a half men, realizing it really sucks, and is not funny. and i'll quit the booze.

chilly tonight.

2011-03-13T18:10:00.000-07:00

burning furniture.

anyways, spring will tease you, but she does arrive. and she's the most beautiful creature on earth, whether or not she brings rain and wind and tornadoes and frost and mud and flood. but she shows up eventually. maybe not always looking her best, but she's prettiest when she just wakes up.

npr

2011-03-09T17:19:00.000-08:00

and to think that i get my news from these commie faggots. i blame the car talk retards. that's right, i said it, retards.
[crying]
(idol open thread?)

"are midwesterners inherently funny?"

2011-03-07T21:10:00.000-08:00

"yes. but only when we go elsewhere."

natalie portman versus bristol palin?

2011-03-05T16:13:00.000-08:00

natalie portman. biggest loser would then be mike huckabee(?).

protecting the right to hate

2011-03-03T08:23:00.000-08:00

"god hates obama. thank god for dead soldiers. gays are destroying america." so they go to these funerals to protest... er... something. then they go back to their homes with central air and running water having hurt the families of those that volunteered to protect their right to hate, and store the signs in the garage next to the wetvac.

man, democracy is real tricky.

let's split some wood and try to keep our eyes on the prize.

augie

2011-03-01T10:25:00.000-08:00

it's an autumn day, sunny, but crisp enough to remind lutherans not to get used to it. it's 1994, i'm my nephew's nanny because for some crazy reason my sister-in-law trusted me. we read, we play in the leaves, i change him trying not to gag too much. he wakes up from his nap, smiling up at me, pure innocence, beautiful, perfect.

then, one by one, they all come home: his mom, his grandma, his dad, my dad. mom makes porkchops and boiled potatoes, dad and i do the dishes. then we all go down to the basement to watch tv, to be together, to laugh. and cry during the hallmark commercials.

and all's well.

i'm so very proud of you, august allen marlow.

those zany oscars show!

2011-02-27T14:06:00.000-08:00

i love the movies. though i've not seen any of them, i love them. all of them. the movies! the hosts are 2 of my favorites. i've made no secret of my crush on anne, but i have made a secret of my crush on jim. smooch!

anyways, i love the movies. love them.

(pretty much pulling for firth. would love to look like him at my age.)

dear shannon hoon, please don't od.

2011-02-26T20:35:00.000-08:00

oh. well, crud.

the bachelor, wrath of balthazar: part 3

2011-02-21T18:16:00.000-08:00

in order of appearance: very sweet, overly sweet, crazy sweet, bitter sweet. 'nuff said.

al came over this afternoon. he brought me a chuck roast from a cattle farmer he knows in morrow county. yes, grass fed. goes in the crockpot first thing in the morning. we talked, made plans, played guitars, sang, split a bit of wood. made plans. he knows i'm struggling: with grief, alcohol, depression, regret, guilt. he brought me a chuck roast from a farmer he knows. he's a great brother.

i'm not lonely. but i do feel very much alone most of the time. but i didn't for an afternoon.

letter to my nephew on the day of his wedding

2011-02-18T13:38:00.000-08:00

[my sister and brothers decided that when the kids got married we'd give them a dinner table as a gift. i know it doesn't sound like a glamorous gift, but we're not glamorous.]

Well, Noah, you couldn't have been more than 10 or 11, it was around 1992. You and your brother and sisters were staying with grandma and grandpa for an extended period while your mom and dad were out of town. I don't know if it was just for a few days or a week, but it seemed more like a month by the time it was all said and done. Your uncle Al and Lisa and Augie were living there along with me. By the time we got to that last night, you can imagine our patience had been well tested and thoroughly exhausted. We weren't used to having a bunch of toe-headed butterballs staying there for any extended period of time. I'm pretty sure it was august, because there was sweet corn, burgers, and green beans, green onions and tomatoes fresh from the garden.

I think it started with Noel, who at the time was no fan of green beans. She started whining about something or other, Hope was well off in her own world chattering about horses and such, and all poor little Joy wanted was an ear of sweet corn. So while the only other sounds were the rest of us eating, the girls started this fugue of gibberish that rose to a crescendo that was a little dramatic and to this day makes me smile.

"But I don't want green beans! No!"
"Would you please pass the corn... would you please pass the corn... would you please..."
"I think I will take my horse out tonight later."

"No green beans! No!"
"Would you please pass the corn..."
"I love my horse."

"No!"
"... corn..."
"Horsey."

And on and on and on until grandpa couldn't take it anymore. None of us could.

The next evening your mom and dad came over for dinner and to take you guys home. During dinner, Al did a spot on recap of the last night's cacophony, playing all the parts simultaneously. Your mom couldn't breath because she was laughing so hard, as were grandma and granpa, and Lisa, and Levi, and me. And you, laughing only the way a 10 year boy can.

That's the table for me, Noah. Family, conversation, a lot of food, and even more laughter. A paradise. That was my church, my sacred place that I'll never ever forget. Your laughing, Al's carrying on, your grandma and grandpa. The most precious memories anyone could possibly imagine. It's a kind of spiritual currency that both breaks my heart and helps me through the more difficult moments of life, especially these short days of winter.

It's not just a table; it's a holy place that you're always welcome at and which you always seem to come back to, like a religious pilgrimage. People never really leave, as long as you never forget them. Oh sure, they've moved on from life, but they continue to live in the margins of the stories we remember and tell, as long as we keep telling the stories. Now you've got your own stories to make and tell and cherish. Just don't forget the ones you loved long gone. Keep them alive, especially at your table.

borders books

2011-02-16T15:48:00.000-08:00

oh well. i'm going to take jesse's kindle and break it over my knee. not really. crap. al has grandpa's bible, with all the dates of baptism and confirmation of kin long dead.

lady gaga

2011-02-13T16:42:00.000-08:00

ignorant, talentless, dangerous. almost as dangerous as that bieber punk. a poor man's prince. a rich man's elton, who hasn't written a decent song since '74. i'll take the real deal: janelle monae.

white fang

2011-02-03T15:25:00.000-08:00

"does the dog die?" asked noah, the oldest grandkid. couldn't have been older than 6 or 7. mom and i had already watched the movie, but dad hadn't yet seen it. so, while noah kept turning around from his seat on the bean bag to ask his grandpa, "does the dog die?", his grandpa didn't know either, and was just as nervous about white fang dying as his grandson was. finally, after hearing, "does the dog die?" for the 59th time, dad said, "just watch the movie!" in a tone noah wasn't used to, noah, and dad, got quiet.

i've told you guys about my dad. pretty stoic. except when it came to his dogs.

the next morning, noah and mom and i and dad laughed about "does the dog die?" at the dinner table. noah still laughs at that story. he'll be married in a week. he's a captain in the air force. he flies giant planes carrying giant pieces of death machines. he has mixed feelings about what he delivers. he was a good boy; he's a great young man. when his grandma died, the base he was stationed at flew a flag in her honor for a month. a month.

it's a terrible movie. and i love it.

noah, the dog doesn't die. the dog never dies. no one ever dies. as long as you don't forget.

nbc's "harry's law"

2011-01-29T18:06:00.000-08:00

now nobody i know is a bigger sucker for family schlock crap about lawyers trying to do good lawyering, and i think the verdict is unanymous (sp?) that "harry's law" is just that. but dang it, with shows like "skin" and "jersey shore", it might just be the sort of thing we need. though i've seen neither mtv efforts, i've watched all 3 episodes of "harry". pretty ideal cast: oscar winner, comic genius rob corrdry (sp?)'s younger brother, brittany snow's perfect smile, and many black people. it's ratings gold.

i grew up where watching tv was something you did as a family. you already knew that. but i find myself as i get older falling for these shows reminding me of my parents' collective horrible taste in tv, with significant though few exceptions.

i'll just chalk it up to cold saturday nights with baying coyotes taunting my dog.

(is there any chance they're foxes? they're pretty big.)

fear

2011-01-28T07:40:00.000-08:00

you guys may recall that i used to drive a shuttle bus at night in winter park colorado. our dispatcher was lori, a catholic girl who got pregnant with triplets. the father, who loved her, worked on the grounds crew grooming the slopes. they were not married when lori got pregnant. shotgun wedding. but they managed, and thrived. well, one of the triplets i just found out came home from school, set down his books, picked up a gun, and blew his head off. dead. he would have been about 17 years old as i do the math.

oh well, i'll just be glad when i can run out of things to sob about.

rest in peace, kyle.

chris medina

2011-01-27T16:22:00.000-08:00

hope it's real, hope he's real, hope steve was real. pretty moving, though.

the bachelor week 79

2011-01-24T16:45:00.000-08:00

something something something... whore.

i hope it's a good speech. he's got it in him. heck, he's already delivered it. we turned a deaf ear. i hope it's a great speech.

seating arrangements will be funny. boner and pillozi swapping pills. and can tans. er...

i hope it's a great speech. i hope this 2 term prez goes down as one of the greatest prez's of all time. because, well, he already is. he's already given that speech.

he's a good man. a good husband, father, mentor. a great prez?

i hope he gives a great speech, one that the forefathers perhaps intended to give but refrained from because james madison hadn't invented facebook yet.

he's a good man. so what if his elegant, beautiful wife is smarter than he is. we already knew that. but here's the thing: he's smart enough to know that too. he's a good man. doing his job. let him do his job.

let this speech be great. so that he can be.

my dad was a great man; almost as great a person as my mom. let barry be quietly great, like they were. seriously.

and jesus wept.

something something something... prick.

abc's what would you do

2011-01-21T18:28:00.000-08:00

i miss not getting abc.

dang it's cold. funny, i forgot, but you burn a lot of wood real quick. i think i'm good for a few days, but the pile really is getting skimpy.

that the networks have given up on friday night viewers means i no longer matter to advertisers.

thank you, christ jesus. i'll just watch waterworld. again.

idol sans simon

2011-01-19T17:28:00.000-08:00

one of the things i miss most about church are the lutheran hymns. many of them, ironically, are based on irish folk songs. few people remember that the lutheran congregation was celebrated for its ability to sing the 4 different parts. when it works, when it happens, that's church. that's redemption. i may have to find a lutheran church here in piqua, just for that sound. though it won't be the same.

i had given up on idol when simon left. but, watching the premier, i'm not so sure it's dead. on respiration, sure. but dead?

i had forgotten how smart jlo is. randy redeemed himself with his bass playing. and steve tyler knows by heart every rock song ever recorded.

fixing to be a nasty weekend here. cold, snow. 3 coyotes in the east field eyeing moonpie dog this evening. i hope she's as smart as she thinks she is. my truck is flashing 2 warning lights, but i need to get into town for supplies.

rush is kind of a butt hole. that's a compliment.

Bachelor: Week 3

2011-01-17T17:54:00.000-08:00

"I see dead people."

death, grief, isn't emotional currency. it's a savings account, a nest egg you can fall back on. it's private, not a game piece. not leverage.

now that i've tricked keifus into watching "biggest loser", i can safely retreat into the loving arms of a false bachelor's schadenfruede; he asked for it.

moonpie is currently hogging the bed. perfect fire in stove.

do we want these people to be real? no. i want them to be not real. because if people are actually like this, we're doomed.

mich-restraining order-elle. nice lilt.

"i've wanted talk to you so badly." you just did. not even counting grammnar.

in other words, let's just all get it over with, go nuts, and join a cult. we did already?

sorry. i get blue this time of year. being up north helps, but also doesn't.

and i messed up my back chopping wood.

who gave my nieces permission to grow up and get engaged?

mlkj, rest in everlasting peace. moonpie, you just rest, m'girl. big rainy day tomorrow.

ricky was good last night.

golden globes

2011-01-16T17:05:00.000-08:00

say what you will, but you just have to admire ricky's fearlessness. i know i do.

They weren't crosshairs. They were surveyors' symbols.

2011-01-11T15:06:00.000-08:00

Like on maps.

Well that certainly clears up all the confusion. It's not like they were burning crosses. Yet. Are we absolutely sure that Trig (short for Trigger?) is the only retard in that house? Don't get me wrong. I love retards. Some of my best friends are retards. The Chinese people revere retards because they always look happy. I wish I were a retard. Maybe I am. But I don't look happy much of the time. Hmm...

Anyways. Watched Bachelor last night (sorry topazz) with the sound down so I could listen to the Auburn game on the internets. Funny. For better or worse, the show doesn't need audio. I wonder what that says about me and the show.

He exstablished his toolness very early on -- what, the first 38 seconds on Regis? The ladies are exstablishing their phychotic tendencies considerably slower -- minute and a half. Now nobody hates women more than I do, which has been well exstablished and documented by people without spines; but these gals really do take the proverbial wedding cake. They all seem successful, confident, intelligent, devoid of dignity and self-respect. You know, the real keepers.

There's one that really stands out. I think her name is Michelle, a cutter of hair from Salt Lake City. Beautiful, tall, buxom, outspoken, and crazy as putting bullseyes on a map near areas of the country whose representatives are being targeted for elimination. Maybe not that crazy.

This is the cruelest, most depraved reality show out there, until Snooki wrote a novel. And I won't miss one minute, no matter how good The Event is. Is that over or is it still on?

9 years old. We should all weep for what we lost this weekend, if only we were smart enough to notice that we had it in the first place. I think we just crucified Christ all over again; it's just that this time that are no take-backs.

Blogging The Bachelor, Season 35

2011-01-03T19:09:00.000-08:00

God help me. Now for the record, I've not gotten ABC for the last 13 years, so my exposure [cough] to Der Bach has been limited at best. But a dear friend named skitch swore by "The Rose Ceremony". Well Dan Brown he ain't.

Episode 1: Cattle Call. Every rose has it's psychotic. Man, it's like Schindler's List over there by the pool. I thought I had low self-esteem. I kept waiting for Snookie to burst out of a shrub and do a half-gainer into the hot tub just to lighten the mood.

The guy's a major league skeezoid. He's been through 3 years of extensive therapy to prove that he can go on national television and fall in love with someone he's known for about 42.5 minutes who's known him for 42.4 minutes, who's insanely crazy. For heaven's sake, where have all the Mary Dashwood's gone?

"I just want to find that... that... crazy love, ya know?!" I do, and I've got some pretty good news.

To Do List: check wood fuel supply, take down tree in east pasture for 2011 winter, cook down last night's roast chicken for stock and lard, projectile vomit for 2 hours while ABC documents humanity's slow decline into a soul-less generational self-absorbed narcistic vapidity.

(still getting used to the keyboard on this piece 'o crap mini-pc with no spellcheck. oops!)

I.e., yeah, I'm hooked. Rats.

Miles To Go I Know

2011-01-02T15:59:00.001-08:00

The dog and I seem to have settled into a kind of winter routine: get up early, check wood inventory, check food supplies (beer, cigarettes), chain smoke. So the first order of the day's business is to make sure there's enough fuel for the morning, afternoon, evening and over night. (Recall there's no central heat.)

Demolition has slowed if not stopped; still picking away at the floor boards upstairs. But not really.

The-one-that-got-away left a message the other afternoon; at the risk of royally pissing off tia, I do miss her. I take comfort in the fact that she would totally (her word) hate it up here.

I had forgotten the difference between an axe and a maul. (Sp?) The hedge apple in Mr. Hill's northeast swale sent me almost immediately to Home Depot.

I'll end this not surprisingly boring post with the notion, again, that my days seem more meaningful than they have been in 20 years.

Oh, Moonpie killed something I can't identify, it's way cold here, more snow, Terry Gross is the best interviewer working today, pulling for Auburn monday night, tractor needs a new battery, missing mom and dad, will probably return t-o-t-g-a's call though I shouldn't, and watch a lot of PBS sunday.

Reading a lot, but mostly stuff I've read already.

God And Details

2010-12-30T14:22:00.000-08:00

No, not that really gay men's magazine. Come on, really.

Many years ago, Jess and I built a hearth with moss rock in the basement of Bending Tree Lane for mom and dad for a wood burning stove. Jess was the mason, I was the hodman. I think that was 1991.

While we sat by the stove one winter night, with the dogs laying close, she told how when she was little and staying with her Kading grandparents, her grandpa would come in from his winter barn chores, his favorite collie close behind, and would lay his barn jacket on the floor of the kitchen close to the stove, and the dog would curl up in it. Iowa winter winds are the stuff of legend.

This past Sunday, Jess, Al and I threw 3 chainsaws all up in an old elm that had fallen in Al's north field along his creek. We loaded up Jess's truck with almost 6 weeks of heating fuel and headed over to my place where we unloaded it neatly with much satisfaction in our work when we had finished.

We went inside where I rekindled the fire from the morning, visited for a bit, mostly about rototillers, chainsaw maintenance and snow removal. Jess took off shortly after to get back home before too dark.

It was a bitter cold, snowy, windy evening, so I got the fire roaring. Moonpie dog came in, finally, from her evening perimeter sweep. I looked at the pile of winter coats Jess and Jane had brought me from their closet the weekend before, and saw a big fake sheepskin coat that's way too big for me. I looked at Moonpie, who was looking at me, and I laid that coat on the floor close to the stove. She slowly sauntered up to it and curled right up in there and didn't move for nearly 3 hours.

It's hard for me to describe just how moved I was at that moment, a sort of perfect mix of sorrow and joy, pain and elation. Dare I say, redemption? It didn't last long, but it was unmistakable. The sun had just come out only long enough to set and cast the rose color on the snow that we used to call alpenglow in Winter Park.

We've repeated the ritual every night since. In fact, she's curled up there right now as I write this.

A very blessed New Year to you kind, decent, generous people, and I'll endeavor every day to deserve you folks.

P.S. I gave myself a wireless device for The Internets, so y'all aren't quite rid of me yet.

home

2010-12-04T11:59:00.001-08:00

celebrating pre-mas with family in frankenmuth michigan where they have no shift key. got to piqua nearly 7 weeks ago. things are good, honest, difficult, meaningful. wood stove installed wednesday. jess showed up with 4 weeks of fuel this a.m. before we headed up here. i have internet for the next 10 hours only. don't take this the wrong way but miss y'all dearly. had rough august and september, was in a place devoid of hope and no longer wanted to be alive. but now, out of the abyss, i feel mom and dad's presence every moment of every day, and all i want to do is chop wood, tear out drywall, expose rough-hewn beams and salvage 100 year old lumber. no dog has ever been as happy as moonpie dog, even though it's deer season. we're home, but, more importantly, i'm keeping a sacred promise to a dying woman. through christ jesus, all things are possible. damn it. i'll check back in soon. i promise. god bless you people.

Last Day

2010-07-30T14:00:00.000-07:00

Today's my last day at work. Turned in my notice Tuesday afternoon, with a phenomenal Letter Of Resignation. Don was visibly moved. Go figure.

My PODS shipping container arrives either tomorrow (Saturday, probably not) or Tuesday. I'll pack slow, maybe take a week. Then maybe have it shipped up to Piqua the next week. Then I'll follow it after a few days and possibly be there to make sure they don't back into the pump well house when they're dropping it off.

Then? It's me against Wicked Mother Gaia. (She'll win, but I won't go gently into that "Good night, Irene!")

Wish me luck/kind thoughts/prayers, and I'll see all y'all up there. And a six-pack to whoever can get the fridge in the house without ripping the screen door off, and a case to whoever can by ripping the screen door off. Seriously.

Peace.

P.S. Won't have internet for at least a month, now that I lost my "RollTide" server at the house.

The picture is looking east-by-northeast from the easement. It looks better the further you get away from it.

Dispatch From Piqua

2010-07-19T12:23:00.001-07:00

Arrived late Saturday night, July 3. Bad crash just north of Chattanooga had us sitting in traffic not moving on I-75 for 2 hours.

Reunion at Julie and Steve's in Athens, Ohio, July 4. All were there save for 2 nephews and a sister-in-law. Great food, great games, pretty good fellowship. And quite sad. Mom's absence, for me, was abundantly and palpably present. Or, rather, her presence was absent in the most fundamental way. Still working through that.

Lots of mowing and pruning of apple, cherry (I think) and peach trees. The tractor did everything I asked it to do. Eventually.

My 1/2-mile easement to the house is riddled with blackberry bushes with the most sweet candy-like berries.

Moon Pie dog was completely and totally in her element.

Jess came over Monday the 5th to help with the new chainsaw, a magnificent Stihl that's a treat to use. 4 killed. We ended up visiting for nearly 5 hours. A good visit. Al came over the following Wednesday. I was having a bad morning. He planned on working, but I was so tired we just talked for about an hour or so.

Thought about mom and dad nearly the whole time.

Met my neighbor who has farmed the property surrounding me on the west, north and east sides for 32 years, a Mr. Tom Hill. Seems like a good man, though far too young to have farmed for 32 years, unless, of course, he started when he was 10.

Lots of foraging for fuel for my (future) wood burning stove to survive the winter. Unprompted, Mr. Hill said he would consider it a favor to him if I were to keep his woods surrounding his tillable land free of fallen and dying trees. It's times like that, with Jess standing right there next to me, when faith in Jesus H. Christ gets in the way of my atheism. I've already apologized to him many times for calling His Father an Incompetent Asshole.

Got back down here yesterday, Sunday, around 6 in the evening. It felt, and feels, strange to me. Different. Almost... unfaithful, if you will.

All in all, the 2 weeks were filled with anxiety, excitement, fear, sadness, loss, and a moment or 2 of strict clarity. I plan on being up there permanently before Labor Day.

Making Do

2010-06-24T14:47:00.000-07:00

"After a late start, Danny and Lyda had seven children: Will, Royal, Coulter (named Coulter Branch, Danny said, for the stream that ran down off the Coulter ridges), Fount, Reuben, and then ("Finally!" Lyda said) the two girls, Rachel and Rosie. I won't need to make much mention of the children; I name them all together now to give them my blessing. If the world lasts, there are going to be Branches around here for a long time. As the boys grew older, they made do with old cars and old farm equipment as they earlier had made do with old bicycles and outboard motors. This is the way they will survive--by being marginal, using what nobody else wants, doing well the work that nobody else will do. If they aren't destroyed by some scientific solution to all our problems, they will go on though dynasties pass. By this late year of 1986 Danny and Lyda have already got a whole company of grandchildren."

-Wendell Berry, from Jayber Crow

Moon Pie Dog

2010-06-08T08:26:00.000-07:00

She came to me in late March of 2002. She was a stray. I had her fixed and got all her shots for her. She's a border collie/husky mix.

She's never been particularly happy here. She didn't much like Block Head. I have a small yard -- plenty big for a big dog, but I, like my mom and dad, hate keeping dogs within fences.

I took her up to Piqua with me for Memorial Day week. We got in late Wednesday night, having driven through the worst thunderstorm ever in my life. She slept through the whole thing in the back seat, using the armrest as a pillow. The storm cleared just soon enough to reveal a gorgeous sunset.

We woke up to the site of 3 deer in the east pasture. She didn't see them. I kept her on the leash while I worked on dismantling the split rail fence. Jess showed up about 2 in the afternoon. He asked why she was on a leash, and I said I wasn't sure what she'd do. He said he thought she'd be fine. So I let her off, and she wandered off. "Don't make a liar out of me, dog," recalling the "too windy to burn" incident.

So she wandered off. And then she wandered back. Wandered off and back again, all afternoon and evening, testing the boundaries.

Let me just say this: That was the happiest I've ever seen that dog, laying in the pasture, taking it all in. Every time I turned around I almost always saw nothing but a buried head and a wagging tail. By the mulberry tree, by the wood pile, by the hydrangea, by the falling down porch. Buried head, wagging tail. My heart nearly burst with the knowledge that she wasn't just content; she was at home, or, rather, she was home. Home, whatever that means anymore. She was happy. Truly happy.

She killed a groundhog Saturday night during A Prairie Home Companion, and paraded it around the whole pasture, staking her claim, while I burned the day's trash under Homer's "rosey-colored fingers of dusk".

Sunday, before we left, we saw 6 deer in that same east pasture; she barked and growled at them through the glass door. "Get off my lawn!", she was saying. Then we went outside to a beautiful windy sunny day. She lay near the burn pile surveying all that was newly hers, content. We're both home. I opened the back door of the car and she begrudgingly hopped up and in. I assured her we'd be back in less than a month. She seemed to know that already.

Turns out she really is a great dog, that Moon Pie.

So, I have Grandma Kading-era running water, i.e., the pump out front, electricity, 11 channels on the TV, a toilet that won't flush, and a dog who's about to realize her Aristotelian "becoming". I'll try not to be far behind. And I think I'm adjusting the permanent move date from May 2011 to October 2010, just for her. She'll love the cold, and I'll love the wood burning stove. There are worse reasons to move than for a dog. I'm even certain my mom and dad would approve. Heck, they might even be proud of me for that alone. They were that way.

Art Of The Song

2010-05-17T12:33:00.001-07:00

So.

There I was, in my backyard, minding my own business, tying up my tomato plants with twine, when I was blindsided. A Prairie Home Companion was on the radio; it was a compilation show, and one segment was someone, I forget who, singing Randy Newman's "When She Loved Me" (also often called "When Somebody Loved Me").

I sort of collapsed to my knees, and made my way over to my plastic lawn chair and listened to the rest of the song, sobbing. (Technically not a dangling participle, but yeah, I know.)

I don't know much about anything, but I know a lot about music. I'm even a self-acknowledged music snob, for better or worse. So believe me when I say that "When She Loved Me" is 3 minutes of beautifully, perfectly crafted art song genius. And I think it's high time we put Randy up there in the American art song legions of Ned Rorem, Hugo Weisgall and David Noon. (Full disclosure: I studied with all 3, and Noon is a good friend, and would easily concur.)

I'll try to steer clear of cliche-ville, but obviously as we get older we hear and see things through the prisms of our losses. When I listened and cried, little mini-movies of my mom and dad flashed passed me at an unmanageable pace, and I was overwhelmed, I guess. And it haunted me all night and through much of today. My whole body aches with it.

Sorry about the cheesy video, but the audio is better than the Toy Story 2 clip, which, by the way, I find to be 3 of the saddest minutes in movie history.

Most people live their lives unaware of the power of music to elate us with joy and paralyze us with grief. Hope may have been a dangerous thing in Shawshank (note Randy's brother, Thomas), but, right now, it's all I have. Which is to say, unless I can somehow convince myself that my best days are not behind me, and then back it up with some some actual proof and deeds, then all that's left for me is pain, sorrow and ruin. I have bad days and worse days, and when I come out of those funks, I hope I'm a little stronger and, yes, a little less hopeful-less. (Not a word.)

On Faith And Failings

2010-04-29T10:47:00.000-07:00

If I were to die today, I don't think anyone, including my family, would have anything of much substance to say about my life. I was, at one time, a semi-gifted musician. I read a lot. I had to explain words I used. To be sure, I loved my mom and my dad, but never really told them that, not even in so many words. And I often wished I hadn't waited until mom was dying to tell her how I felt, that the world was a far better place with her in it. What I didn't do was beg on my knees for her not to leave me. That would've been the "momma's boy" in me talking, not to mention unforgivably unfair to either of us.

We weren't raised to express that kind of affection and endearment openly. We were raised to be stoic and to show family affection by making fun of each other. And believe me, we show each other affection a lot, obviously.

What am I doing? What am I doing, indeed. I hardly know. Right now I'm experiencing two existences at the same time, one down here in Alabama, and one in my head up in Ohio. But I'm not participating in the living of either of those existences, at least not in any real, tenable sense.

My faith, our faith, is a decidedly Lutheran one. It's within us, but rarely shared with others. We are not a proselytizing sort of people. Our blood runs deep with the black-as-night soil of the Iowa plains. But my family has faith, mostly in each other, at least sometimes.

In all of my life I have never experienced so much regret and guilt as I have for the last 2 years. I can't remember if I've shared this with any of you, but I told Jesse that dad would be ashamed of me, of my being miserable at work and at play. Jesse informed me that he wouldn't be ashamed; he'd be frustrated with me. Little comfort, but little is better than none.

So I just went ahead and lied to mom as she lay dying, and told her that I'd be just fine. To make things worse, I think she knew I was lying. Of her five kids I was the one she and dad worried about the most on account of my proclivity to take things so viscerally, so personally. After all, dad had the decency to drop dead in an instant; we had to watch the strongest woman any of us have ever known be reduced to a bag of rotting organs and bones, vomiting every 45 minutes for 8 days.

I'm not looking for sympathy. Er, maybe I am. I don't want you to feel sorry for me; I'm doing that for myself aplenty. I guess I just want you, like for myself, to try to do a better job of... living? Not that you're not doing that already. I guess I'm mostly talking to myself but channeling my dad's voice in order to do it.

Living. What does that even mean anymore?

Okay. Here's a promise I'll make to you and to myself once I finally (hopefully within the next year) move up to Piqua: At every sunset, I'll crack open a reasonably cold beer (or wine, should the moment strike me), and I'll watch that sun set on an acreage of mean size, shape and order, but I'll let the rosy-colored fingers in the dusky west reveal that during the course of this day I worked hard to improve my lot, and my lot, that I'm now one day closer to growing the perfect tomato, that my day was productive, simple, genuine, and hard-won. In the winter I'll build a small fire by the apple tree, with snow on the ground to avoid Pasture Fire 2011!!! In the bleak midsummer that beer won't get chugged 'till close to 8pm, which will be glorious in its way.

It's a start. I owe it to them. But even more so, I owe it to myself. For, indeed, it's within me that the both of them now reside, and if the substance of my life ends up being a sincere story of the lives of my mom and my dad and my family, at long last catalogued and organized and set down with pen and ink with an affection that no instrument yet invented could measure, I would be honored for that to be, in total, my penance, my atonement, and my redemption.

Or I'll just clean toilets and the nursing home. You tell me.

No other son had such remarkable parents, and no other person is more proud, blessed, and grateful to have had the honor to be called their son.

May God bless your people.
Oh may he remember them in their time of trouble,
and at the hour of their taking away.

And God bless you incredibly decent folks. Thanks for listening.

(I.e., Piqua or die. Or both. It's a good fit.)

Good To Smoke The Green Green Grass Of Home

2010-04-22T09:19:00.000-07:00

After our mom's funeral last March, when we were sorting some things out at her West Virginia house, and it had begun to become apparent that I eventually needed to move back to the central Ohio area, Jesse and Al thought that I needed to take mom and dad's John Deere tractor, and that Al would "hold" it until I was able to take delivery.

Then I burned down the northeast pasture Easter Sunday, which Jesse was happy to share with Al.

So yesterday I sent both of them a list of things I plan on trying to get done Memorial Day weekend. This morning I got this email from Al:

The John Deere is now at the Urbana service center. I told them I'd pick it up Memorial weekend. I also told them to put fireproof belts on it, and bulk up the heat shield for re-entry.

Is it any wonder why he's my favorite brother?

2010 Memorial Day Weekend Honey-Do List

2010-04-12T18:07:00.000-07:00

Though there's technically no "honey" in this scenario. Yet!

Sorry.

Anyways, I'll drive up Thursday and spend Friday, Saturday and Sunday up north. My goals:

1. Tear up carpet and subflooring in back bedroom to reveal 90-year old pine boards.
2. Clean out trash/brush in the northeast and southeast pastures.
3. RUNNING WATER!!!!!!
4. Tear out cupboards in "kitchen".
5. Rip off porch on west-facing side of house.
6. RUNNING WATER!!!!!!!!!
7. Get mom's John Deere tractor running. (Al broke it. Again.)
8. Invent the first composting toilet.
9. Oh. Wait.
10. RUNNING WATER!
11. Write a bit about mom and dad every day. Just a bit.
12. Distinguish my west-central Ohio accent from affectatious southern dialect (newly aquired) so as not to be beaten up by the big kids at school.(I.e., Mambo.)
13. BANDWIDTH!!! WE'RE RUNNING OUT!!!!!!

I think that's a good start.

Little House On The Prairie Fire

2010-04-07T13:55:00.001-07:00

"Ya think it's too windy to burn?" I asked Jess before he fired up his professional grade Snapper "haymaker" to do the front.

"It's pretty windy. Try to keep it small."

So I sprayed one small portion of the burn pile he, Al and I had amassed the day before, which I had added significantly to this morning, a pile probably 5 feet high of combustible trash, with lighter fluid, and lit it.

It was controlled enough, and I fed it very gradually from around the sides, careful not to get too much burning at the same time. And I was having a very pleasant afternoon of it, thinking of my dad and I burning leaves in the Fall. It was a beautiful Easter Sunday in west-central Ohio.

But then when I shifted the old door that was burning well from an obtuse to an acute angle, that's when things changed fast.

The middle of the pile kind of exploded, and immediately the entire pile was roaring. And then it got bigger. Soon, the unmown and thatchy edges of the burn pile were catching. And not long after, with help from a wind out of the southwest, an army of flames were headed north-by-northeast, invading ultimately my new neighbor's harvested corn field.

I ran all around the fire; it must've been 800 degrees at least. I tried to keep it from spreading, but the more I pounded on the burning edges with my rake and my shoe, the more it seemed almost to get stronger.

Meanwhile, Jess saw what was happening, and he steered his mower around to cut the spreading fire by mowing the thatch between the burning pit and the spread. After he'd done so many times, his mower caught on fire, and he had to stop to put it out.

Oh. Did I mention that we hadn't got the well-house pump working, so we didn't have any running water?

Just to keep from having a massive panic attack, I played Bach fugues in my head.

"Just let it burn itself out," he said calmly. "The wind will change, and the fire will run out of fuel when it hits the new growth. Just keep it out of the corn field."

Which we did. And it did burn itself out.

"Man, Jess, I'm so sorry about your mower."
"It's fine. It's just a belt. It was due for service anyway. Sit down and rest, and drink your water."

I did. Then I looked down at the scorched earth, sullen, and said, "Well, this isn't exactly the beginning I had in mind. Not very auspicious, is it?"
"It's a great beginning. It's a spectacular beginning. What it shouldn't be is a terrible ending."
"You make a good point. If this is some kind of cosmic test of my resolve, I'm not giving up. Thanks."
"In a month all you'll notice is all the new growth coming up from where it burned. No big deal. I won't tell Al or Jane; they'll never know."
"You can tell 'em. I don't mind."

Then Jess, eyes squinting to look across the southeast corner of the adjoining property that holds a decent stand of trees in a wetland area with a small creek, which I'm gonna try to buy as well, and because we were both obviously thinking of him, inadvertently channeled our dad and said, "You know, come to think of it, it just might be too windy to burn after all."

We both just laughed. And he did tell Al. And Jane.

What is this? Am I home? Again? I didn't think we could go home again. Maybe we can? My stomach hurts. I think I'm gonna throw up. Again.

Road Trip

2010-03-31T17:52:00.000-07:00

20 to 459 to 59 to 75 to Piqua. I'll leave late Good Friday morning and stop in Richmond, Kentucky and watch Ghost Whisperer. Then I'll leave early Black Saturday and arrive at the old homestead later that morning. I suspect both Jess and Al will be there.

I'll be honest with all y'all: I'm scared. Bought it site unseen. If it wouldn't be too much of an inconvenience, I'd like to take you guys with me. You went to Iowa. This is a much shorter drive. (Limited bathroom breaks; I am my Father's son, after all. Who called shotgun again?!)

Pictures to follow.

You Say Crawl Space, I See Basement

2010-03-25T09:50:00.000-07:00

"Hmm... I wonder what this switch does..."

[thwozzzzz... poof]

My oldest brother, Jess. All-American decathlete, former record-holder at his alma mater in the high jump. 6 feet 10 inches, for those of you keeping score.

Husband to Jane, father of 2 beautiful girls.

The "mechanical room", just east of Piqua, Ohio, photographed by aforementioned Jane, Sunday, March 21, 2010, almost exactly 9 years to the day of our dad's death.

He's just looking out for his baby brother. As usual. See you in about a week, god willing. (Wisdom tooth flare up. Long story.)

Art Of The Trio

2010-03-18T06:58:00.000-07:00

From time to time, the world belies itself (is that the right word, "belies"?) and reveals that there is indeed just a little bit of justice in this world, at least every once in awhile, that is!

He got off the heroin in 2000 and has pretty much been on a tear ever since. (Urban legend has it that Larry Grenadier simply locked him in his apartment for a month.)

Well done, Brad m'boy. Well done, sir. Score one for the good guys.

Bonus track, yet again, for you diehards. (You know who you are.)

16 Minutes Of Musical Perfection

2010-03-05T12:57:00.000-08:00

Knoxville: Summer Of 1915

This is the very recording I listened to several times a day and night during the last half of my senior year in high school. I don't remember how I stumbled across the piece or the recording, but no one, not even Dawn Upshaw, has been able to match it in exquisite tone, depth of feeling, and grace of intent and execution. This is the soundtrack for Act III of my life, coming this summer to a bean field near you.

Note: Unless the geniuses who uploaded the song have fixed it, they completely mangled the end of Part 1's transition into the strings' descent into Part 2, where it's almost as if the fiddles are the musical embodiment of falling leaves after a late Spring thunderstorm in Eastern Tennessee. Idiots. God is in the details, folks. Even on Youtube.

I can't really put into words what this music means to me, so I'll just let you listen and read along with the text if you want. I dare you to try to be unmoved by the end. Would that life were a movie, one we could write ourselves into.

Part 1
Part 2

It has become that time of evening when people sit on their porches, rocking gently and talking gently, and watching the street and the standing up into their sphere of possession of the trees, of birds' hung havens, hangars. People go by: things go by. A horse, drawing a buggy, breaking his hollow iron music on the asphalt: a loud auto; a quiet auto; people in pairs, not in a hurry, scuffling, switching their weight of aestival body, talking casually, the taste hovering over them of vanilla, strawberry, paste-board, and starched milk, the image upon them of lovers and horsemen, squared with clowns in hueless amber.

A streetcar raising its iron moan; stopping: belling and starting, stertorous; rousing and raising again its iron increasing moan and swimming its gold windows and straw seats on past and past and past, the bleak spark crackling and cursing above it like a small malignant spirit set to dog its tracks: the iron whine rises on rising speed: still risen, faints: halts: the faint stinging bell: rises again, still fainter: fainting, lifting, lifts, faints foregone: forgotten.

Now is the night one blue dew. Now is the night one blue dew, my father has drained, he has coiled the hose. Low on the length of lawns, a frailing of fire who breathes . . . Parents on porches: rock and rock. From damp strings morning glones hang their ancient faces. The dry and exalted noise of the locusts from all the air at once enchants my eardrums.

On the rough wet grass of the backyard my father and mother have spread quilts. We all lie there, my mother, my father, my uncle, my aunt, and I too am lying there. They are not talking much, and the talk is quiet, of nothing in particular, of nothing at all in particular, of nothing at all. The stars are wide and alive, they seem each like a smile of great sweetness, and they seem very near. All my people are larger bodies than mine . . . with voices gentle and meaningless like the voices of sleeping birds. One is an artist, he is living at home. One is a musician, she is living at home. One is my mother who is good to me. One is my father who is good to me. By some chance, here they are, all on this earth, and who shall ever tell the sorrow of being on this earth, lying, on quilts, on the grass, in a summer evening. among the sounds of the night.

May God bless my people, my uncle, my aunt, my mother, my good father, oh, remember them kindly in their time of trouble, and in the hour of their taking away.

After a little I am taken in and put to bed. Sleep, soft smiling, draws me unto her: and those receive me, who quietly treat me, as one familiar and well-beloved in that home: but will not, oh, will not, not now, not ever; but will not ever tell me who I am.

-James Agee, from A Death In The Family

Corn Cutters

2010-02-25T14:33:00.001-08:00

"Boys," Mat says, "It was a hot day. There wasn't a breeze anywhere in that bottom that would have moved a cobweb. It was punishing." He is telling Elton and Andy.
It was a long time ago. Mat was only a boy yet, though he was nearly grown. His Uncle Jack hired him to help chop out a field of tall corn in a creek bottom. It was hot and still, and the heat stood close around them as they worked. They felt they needed to tiptoe to get enough air.
Mat thought he could not stand it any longer, and then he stood it a little longer, and they reached the end of the row.
"Let's go sink ourselves in the creek," Jack said.
They did. They hung their sweated clothes on the willows in the sun to dry, and sank themselves in the cool stream up to their noses. It was a good hole, deep and shady, with the sound of the riffles above and below, and a kingfisher flying in and seeing them and flying away. All the afternoon when they got too hot, they went there.
"Well sir," Mat says, "it made that hard day good. I thought of all the times I'd worked in that field, hurrying to get through, to get to a better place, and it had been there all the time. I can't say I've always lived by what I learned that day -- I wish I had -- but I've never forgot."
"What?" Andy says.
"That it was there all the time."
"What?"
"Redemption, " Mat says, and laughs. "A little flowing stream."
-Wendell Berry, from Remembering

"We didn't know any better."

2010-02-10T12:20:00.000-08:00

That's what mom would tell me every time I asked her how she and her family managed to eke out a living on the northern-ish prairie in post World War 2 Iowa.

I suppose you could interpret it to mean that these backward farmers were too stupid and unaware to realize they didn't have to raise livestock and can tomatoes in order to skimp through the winter, that they could get "real" jobs that didn't involve backbreaking labor and ridiculous hours. (What are those jobs again?) That they could go to college and lead lives of relative ease and leisure. (Some did go away to college; most came back even better well-read farmers.)

Or you could be more generous and conclude that that was simply their life, the one handed to them by their parents, and their parents before them; it's just who they were and what they did. They didn't really have a choice, as such.

Not me. The more I think about how brutal north central Iowa winters can be, and how pungent the poop of 2 dozen pigs and cows can be, and how the kitchen garden wasn't hidden behind the homestead but was planted as close to the road as possible, as large as possible, in order to show your pride and thrift in running a farmhouse to your neighbors -- the more I consider the notion, they really didn't know any better. What could be better than participating in a system of growing and sustaining things that in and of themselves begin not only to sustain themselves but also the small universe around them? Horses eat oats, horses poop, cows eat grass, cows poop, poop goes on the fields (and the garden) to grow vegetables and, well, oats, horses eat more oats and work the fields used to grow oats, corn, beans, tomatoes (obviously).

Chickens forage, lay eegs, get fat and delicious from the "wild" grasses and fruits and whatnot they come across, they brown up nicely in the oven or crisp in the shortening-laden frying pan, served with just-picked russets and asparagus (in April, of course).

You get the picture. I.e., poop really is a beautiful thing.

Hard to believe it's already been a year. Exactly a year yesterday evening at 5:50 PM. I think I miss her now more than I did a year ago.

Funny. It's all in the hands of some title company in Cincinnati, not exactly known for its, what, alacrity with regard to foreclosed properties. But I did promise her during her last breaths that I'd move up there and protect my nieces and nephews from their parents. And even in her compromised condition at the time, I'm convinced within myself that she of all people knew I was only half-joking.

Payback may be a bitch, but redemption is the bastard everybody pretends to like but forgets to talk to.

Not me. I'm all but yelling in its face. Go figure.

When The World Continues Not To Make Sense

2010-01-29T10:37:00.000-08:00

Good netizens of swittersville. Or something. A favor.

I've known Tia for almost 20 years. We met in college. She was my first love.

She and Tom were married in 2003, I think, in Maine. Beautiful ceremony and reception.

Soon thereafter they had a daughter, Sarah. They live in Montpelier, Vermont. Great town, great state. The Northeast Kingdom, they call it I believe.

Awhile ago they had another daughter, whom they named Jane. The birth had some complications, and Jane had to stay in the hospital, in and out of intensive care for the most part.

Jane fought hard, buttressed by the love of her parents and by the love for Tia and Tom.

Jane died yesterday afternoon, at the age of 6 months 6 days.

I wonder if, over the course of the next several days, you might hold Tia, Tom and Sarah close to your hearts and wish for them the ability to be strong for one another in perhaps the most fragile moment of their lives. You were there for me; by extension, could you be there for them?

There are no words. Whatever she needs.

(Hug your kids, call your mom.)

Hallelujah

2010-01-28T08:16:00.000-08:00

Hallelujah

(I've never owned a garage before. Hmmm...)

Emotional Pornography

2010-01-22T07:09:00.000-08:00

I'll be interested to see just how bad it gets tonight. Oh, sure, George is completely respectable, and smart. I think he does these sorts of things from the heart; it's not just publicity or, for that matter, politics.

Disclosure: I've been a giant fan of his since his tiny role on Rosanne. ER, etc., whatever. Ocean's 11 may have been one big inside joke; the joke just happened to be very very funny. But so was Syrianna. Funny, not so much.

You all know obviously I'll watch every minute of the telethon, being a sucker for such extravaganzas. I like the music. Still, I can't help but wonder when oceans of hungry, thirsty black people will start to look like little more than the opening of V For Vendetta, and portend as much. Just spitballing.

Obama/Clooney 2012!

P.S. Closing date extension requested Thursday p.m. by Sandra The Realty Lady so the bank/mortgage company has sufficient time to remove thumb from bottom.

Under Contract?

2010-01-06T14:40:00.001-08:00

Plan C, Part 2

2009-11-24T14:04:00.001-08:00

This one's just south of Walhonding, Ohio, about 30 minutes from Jess, about an hour from Al (I know), and, believe it or not, less than 2 hours from Julie (not that that's necessarily a plus).

I've gotten to love realtor speak, especially the allcaps gambit. "BRING YOUR TOOLS AND YOUR ANIMALS! A HANDYMAN'S DREAM!!!"

Right. My dream is to fall through the floor onto a pile of asbestos.

Just 2.2 acres, it sits pretty much out in the middle of nowhere in a very pretty part of Ohio. It's priced way too high, for some reason. Al and I agreed that it's a terrible investment property, whether you planned on fixing it up to rent or dividing the lot. The reason is because there are no jobs in the area because there's nothing in the area. It's like North Central Iowa in that way, but more scenic.

Seriously thinking about offering nearly half the asking price. Nothing to lose.

[jinx]

Plan C?

2009-11-18T07:52:00.000-08:00

At the risk of jinxing it yet again, my promise to my mom is haunting me. The promise was to move closer to my sister and brothers in order to protect my nieces and nephews from them. I'm only half-kidding.

This one's only 7 acres (maybe 4 tillable?), and sits smack dab in the middle of the meth belt capital of Ohio, in Morrow County, or, as my brother Al calls it, "The County Of ToMorrow". It also happens to be very close to Al's place (my favorite brother [don't tell Jess]), and only 30 minutes from Jesse.

It looks to be pretty much a dump of a house, but it's got a wood burning stove. All I need is electricity, basic plumbing (and I do mean basic), television reception, and a way to heat the place. Jess has a lot of timber; he'd probably let me buy "wholesale".

Keifus is controlling my life. I rewatched Fast Food Nation last night and realized I'm Ethan Hawke's character. Could be worse, I suppose.

Anyways, just not sure at all about anything. Keep those fingers crossed, or whatever. More appreciated, really, than perhaps you'll ever know. Seriously.

Stolen Seasons

2009-10-29T08:42:00.001-07:00

It would appear the property I was interested in is no longer on the market. And not because I (unfortunately?) bought it.

A strange affair. I never really heard back from anyone regarding whether or not I'd like to make a counter-offer. Very weird. I came into work Monday morning, didn't have any emails from the realtor, and the listing had been removed.

It's a devilish thing not to know who you're supposed to be nor where you should go. Demonic, even.

Field Of Day Dreams

2009-10-22T07:06:00.000-07:00

These are a few of the pictures Pat, a very friendly real estate lady, sent to me of the property in The Greater Titonka-Lakota Metropolitan Area.

I made an offer on the property Wednesday morning.

I'm nervous. I don't know if I'm more afraid they'll refuse the offer, or more anxious that they'll actually accept it. I'm trying not to jinx it. I'd appreciate the same concern from all y'all.

Add the fact that NPR for what seemed like most of the day took place in Des Moines and Davenport (urban farming, food safety, investing in small farms, fresh vegetable and fruit in schools -- it was truly eerie, in an infectiously positive way), and I'm beginning to believe that mom and dad are literally chomping at the bit.

Maybe I am, too.

When I was scheming late in 2007 to figure out a way to move closer to mom, I told her I was trying to find and interpret "the signs". When she got sick merely months later, she confessed that the cancer had cured her of searching out "signs" or divining any meaning from them.

Can't say I blame her.

Life Isn't Too Short

2009-10-20T07:18:00.000-07:00

It's too fragile.

I had a nice visit with my oldest brother, Jess, on the phone this weekend. He had the flu last week, and he still wasn't 100%. But he's always had such a positive attitude, possibly to match my negative one.

I told him that if our dad were alive today, he'd be ashamed of me. I hate my job, I don't respect the people I work for and with, and I work in an unforgivably despicable industry.

Jess said, "No, he wouldn't be ashamed of you. He'd be frustrated with you. But he wouldn't be ashamed of you. I'm sure of it."

I suppose I frustrated dad plenty while he still breathed. It's a shame I have to do it to him in death. I hope Jess is right.

I do wonder sometimes, often, actually, if folks who had terrible parents whom they didn't like are batter off in the end. I think in some respects they are.

I guess my advice to you young parents out there is this (yes, I've said this before): Make your kids hate you; they'll be more consolable in the end.

"Where are you from?"

2009-10-14T14:14:00.001-07:00

[Sorry to belabor the Iowa thing, guys, but it weighs heavy on my mind like a carpet stain. This is just my way of Scotch Guarding it out of my brain, so to speak.. I.e., I know, I know.]

My great-great grandfather, Edward, was too young to fight in the Civil War. His older brother, James, wasn't. After the war, the 2 of them set out for Iowa to homestead. (It's my understanding that James was a real Lt. John Dunbar type.)

So Edward eventually settled in North Central Iowa, in what's now called German Valley.

I was born in Mt. Clemens, Michigan. For the first 5 years of my life, we lived in Sterling Heights, a nice suburb of Detroit at the time.

Then dad was transferred to Findlay, Ohio, in the North West Central part of the state.

About 3 years later, we moved to Mahomet, Illinois. Dad worked in Champaign-Urbana.

Then he was transferred, about 3 years later, to Columbus, Ohio, and we moved to a suburban town called Pickerington. We lived there for nearly 6 years, or so.

Then mom and dad and I (everyone else was gone and married) moved to Oshkosh, Wisconsin, at the very beginning of my junior year of high school. That was rough.

About 2 years later he was transferred to Springfield, Ohio, and we moved to some acreage in New Carlisle, Ohio. That Fall, I was off to New York City.

I moved back to New Carlisle in 1990. Went to another college, graduated, and moved to Nashville, Tennessee to attend graduate school.

That lasted about 15 minutes, and it was back to New Carlisle. I worked at a nursery farm for awhile, moved over to my brother's farm for a bit. I was aimless and getting kind of long in the tooth, so I moved to Colorado. Boulder, Estes Park, and finally Winter Park. I was there for 2 and 1/2 seasons. Met the-one-that-got-away, and then, after one more visit to New Carlisle, on Memorial Day Weekend we moved to Birmingham, Alabama. That was 1997.

So when people ask me, "Where are you from?", I think I'm just going to say, "Iowa."

Yeah, I like the sound of that. I say it proudly, with a good deal of charm and wit.

Cabin Fever

2009-10-08T09:11:00.001-07:00

Bummer. Schmutzie posted a 6-part video of the mini-documentary at his blog that, for me, since he posted it, had become a daily ritual and a spectacular inspiration. It was pulled due, I can only assume, to copyright issues. Now I'll have to snoop around The Internet Web to get my fix.

So I've decided, once I get to Iowa, to build a 20' x 20' log cabin using nothing but native trees, tweezers and a nail file. It'll be my summer home.

What is it about us that moves one to, what, regress? Devolve? To let ourselves, yet again, be held hostage to domesticated fire? Several books and movies spring immediately to mind:

My Side Of The Mountain

Dances With Wolves

White Fang

Legally Blond

I have a severe and acute case of homesickness. But there's no "home" to go back to. Hasn't been since 1998. Is that what I'm doing? Trying to create a "home" on the prairie where it all began in the first place? Someday remind me to tell you about the first of my kin to be born in this country, Edward, son of Patrick.

What sort of retarded lunatic (yours truly) craves solitary confinement by virtue of context? Who among the sane longs to come down with a case of cabin fever?

Fear. Despair. Gotta work on that.

Medicinal Marijuana?

2009-10-06T08:16:00.000-07:00

I've been racking my brain trying to figure out a way to generate income on the 8 tillable acres in the next 2 to 4 years. So I bought the following books:

Cooking Meth For Dummies

Hey Let's Grow Some Pot!

History Of The Poppy

Coca Cultivation And Its Uses In Curing Impotency: Short Term Solutions

Schooling Baby Boomers With Fake Ludes: A Primer

Talk about some page-turners!

In the part of Iowa I'm seriously considering relocating to, there are 4 sorts of people:

1.) Farmers

2.) Retired farmers

3.) Folks whose jobs are related to farming (e.g., meat inspectors, seed dealers, implement salesmen, etc.)

4.) People who hate farming and Iowa but don't know they're allowed to leave

That last group is a tough crowd.

What I'll do eventually is make the 8 acres a grid, and farm only 4 acres a year, rotating the fallow acres with the growing acres as well as rotating the particular crops themselves, careful not to follow one crop with an unsymbiotic one, and vise versa. (I'll go into the details of this later, when I'm actually there.)

At this point, most if not all Iowans never see the "food" that's grown right next door to them, literally. The farms have become so big that there no longer is a small farm culture. Which means, ironically, that rural Iowa doesn't enjoy the appreciation for fresh food that urbanites with disposable income do. I'm gonna change that, and here's how.

After I get good at it (I'm already pretty good, though it's on a small scale), I'll approach the area schools and offer to grow fruits and vegetables for lunches. Oh sure, there are zillions of government regulations, and the FDA practically subsidizes growing fuel instead of food. But there have to be dozens of lunchroom ladies that would look the other way when the sight of my way-too-early-on-account-of-cold-frame carrots immediately launches them into a narcotic-like flashback to their childhoods.

Then I'll start a program where the school itself grows its own veggies. It'll be a part of the curriculum starting in 3rd grade. Its inherent appeal and success will spread like wildfire. I'll be an agricultural community organizer, reminiscent of my President whom I have an enormous amount of respect for.

Change the way things are grown, harvested, cooked. Change the way we live. Perspective. What really matters. Sharing a meal. The Last Supper.

Perhaps my mom and dad could finally feel free to be proud of me, because I can't think of anything else right now that would make me more happy beyond description. Seriously.

Oh well. I suppose daydreaming is an art more than a business. Go figure.

Agralogic

2009-10-01T13:18:00.001-07:00

Cow wants to be outside and eat grass (after it's milked) in the early morning.

Cow wants to go back inside in the early evening to be milked again.

Instead, cow stays in an enclosure standing in its own poop and is fed corn.

Corn doesn't agree with cow's stomach, and becomes gassy.

Cow gets sick; wants to go outside and eat grass and poop.

Cow, instead, is given antibiotics with its corn.

Cow gets sicker; meat is affected; still standing in own poop.

All cow wants to do is go outside and eat grass. And poop.

There was a great article in the Birmingham paper yesterday about one of our local farmers' market farmers. They raise beef, poultry and pork. The beef is grass fed. They let the chickens forage. And they let the pigs forage, for acorns. She said the acorns give the pork a wonderful flavor.

Articles like this make me feel less alone. And stories like this one make me believe I can do anything if I stick with it.

Here's the thing: Free-range livestock eats what it needs to be healthy, suffers less stress over the course of its life, and has some dignity. Because of these simple things, it tastes better, and, that's right, it's better for you.

I think I read where Michael Pollan said that a cow with a stomach infection, if left to its own devices to eat grass, will have a completely healthy stomach in less than a week.

No antibiotics needed.

I'll shut up now. (For awhile.)

Sour Grapes

2009-09-28T13:41:00.000-07:00

Well that's the last time I grow heirloom plants. What a disastrous year. Rot before they're ripe, cracked crowns, yellowing and dying leaves, flesh-eating alien zombie robots from outer space and the future. You name it.

But boy the few I had (and by few I'd say probably 10 bushels) were delicious.

But next year, if I have time, depending where I am, it's a more traditional, hardy variety. Maybe Better Boy, or Beefsteak. I'll do them from seed again, absolutely. But these finicky heirlooms are so not my bag.

Fall arrived down here yesterday. Absolutely gorgeous day. I was stuck inside all day watching football and golf. This really has to be the last weekend I blow off. I've got way too much to do, either way. Roll Tide, though. Er, Go Bucks.

If you haven't seen it, check out Bottle Shock. Bill Pullman is probably one of the worst working actors we currently have to suffer through. But it's based on a true story, and Alan Rickman is physically incapable of being bad in a movie. Plus, it's about wine, and the sublime nobility of growing food. Grapes in this case.

(But if you're in a bad mood or down for any reason, stay away from The Soloist. Very good movie, but it's pretty tough. Is it just me, or is Robert Downey Jr. in the top 5 best working actors category? Jamie Foxx was incredible.)

Blind Melon's "Change", A Perfect Song

2009-09-25T12:07:00.000-07:00

I was having a great though all-too-brief conversation with Keifus at his blog (visit often) about this song. Here's the video. (Weird, I know. Imagine that.) I wasn't sure how to format/present this post, so I think I'll do it in bullet points. I miss that bit.

-It only has 3 chords. Keifus and I got into a knock down drag out fight about the fact that technically one could assert that it actually has 5 chords, if you count the open A9 and the Asus. While Keifus is ultimately correct, if you're gonna nitpick, most guitar players would agree that A, A9 and Asus are generally considered 1 chord. The reasoning behind this, if I'm not mistaken, is that the sus and 9 version of the chord, used the way Hoon does in this song, are more melodically driven than chord driven. (Note: It wasn't much of a knock down drag out fight, as you might imagine. More like: "Oh. Good point.")

-There are 2 things instrumentally about this song that, were either omitted, would render the song imperfect.

1.) The addition of the mandolin part (which, ironically I suppose, really underscores the Asus/A9 beautifully)

2.) The bass player plays a double bass

I don't suspect it's a double bass because of the video. It has to be. Note the tone and timbre of the bass sound. Reminds me of this. (That's the end vamp from Paul Simon's "50 Ways To Leave Your Lover". Go to about 2 minutes into the video. And yes, they're playing it in 7/4 time.)

-As much as we would like it to be sometimes, life isn't a movie. But if mine were (which it is), this would be the soundtrack to this particular act of my life-movie.

-There are 2 things which every perfect song has to have in order to be perfect: melancholy and joyfulness. This song has them in spades. (And clubs.)

-The cited lyrics quote the second verse as ending this way:

"But I know we all can't stay here forever

So I want to write my words on the face of today

And then they'll paint it."

But I swear, since I first heard this song way back in '94, that he sings:

"Before they paint it."

I think I'm right. But it is odd because that particular quote is on his gravestone. So I might be wrong.

-The entry of the slide guitar and the drums after the 1st verse is highly reminiscent of The Who's "Behind Blue Eyes". Though the drummer doesn't drop from 4 stories on the kick drum the way Moon did, the effect is similar. Further, I wish the guitar solo after verse 2 had used the same slide guitar. More perfect.

-Blind Melon, I thought, was always a departure from the grunge sound, consciously. They were kind of a jam band, which, I think, accounts for the utter funkiness of the bass lines, and the drummer's freewheeling play between the snare and cymbal bell off the beat toward the end of the guitar solo. Really great stuff.

-If I live in Iowa this time next year, today I'd have driven up to grampa's secret river/pond/lake stash in Minnesota (if I could find it) and fish for bullhead.

-I'll admit that the lyrics verge on the trite side, but because they just walk to the edge and yet don't jump, and the fact that they're delivered with an honest and almost innocent earnestness, I'll let them pass. (Read somewhere that the 1st line of the song came to Shannon after he woke up on his mom's couch after a 3-day coke binge.)

The late '80s and early '90s were good years for me. Having a renaissance of truly great rock --- Alice In Chains, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, among others -- that's just ham gravy on the mashed potatoes.

A Modest Proposal

2009-09-23T13:45:00.001-07:00

I hope I'm not sounding too... self-righteous. To be sure, I know of no bigger hypocrite than yours truly. I'm just thinking out loud.

1.) You must grow your own vegetables, or know personally who grows/cans them.

2.) You must kill what you eat, or know personally who killed it.

3.) You must process your own beef/chicken/pork, or know personally who processed it.

3a.) You must milk your own cow, make your own butter, cheese, cream, or know personally who milked/made it. Newsflash! Making cheese isn't that hard.

4.) You must go fishing more a lot. (MANDATORY!!!)

5.) That whole seasonal/regional eating thing that people are so crazy about but don't do.

I love oranges, grapefruit and lemonade. It wouldn't be much of a drive for me here in Bama, but I'm not sure Keifus would be pleased with the cost of mail order citrus fruit.

Eating seasonally can be a drag, for obvious reasons. But it's critical.

Unrealistic? Sure. Draconian? Probably. Necessary?

Let's ask ourselves in 50 years, unless we've devolved into flesh-eating robot zombies from outer space.

Better yet, let's ask our grandkids.

Work Ethic? What Work Ethic?

2009-09-21T09:05:00.000-07:00

There's a great article in this month's Esquire that seems appropriate to some of the things I feel myself going through. Stephen Marche basically claims that modern American work culture has evolved such that we work more so we can... work more. That innovation leads to more free time, free time we can use to... have less free time.

Anyways, Marche says it much better than I can.

Oh, and it's been raining down here nearly non-stop since Friday night. Very dreary. It's not helping.

"Buffalo." "Titonka." "Titonka." "Buffalo."

2009-09-18T13:01:00.000-07:00

The Titonka property won't go away from my heart. And it's gotten over 25% cheaper over the last 6 weeks.

Hog holding stations. How bad can that get?

(Answer: Really bad.)

I've said it before and I'll say it again, again: My dad spent his entire youth trying to get off the farm, and I'm trying my entire middle age to get on one. What does Morpheus say? It would seem fate is not without a sense of irony?

Plan B?

2009-09-15T10:48:00.000-07:00

Jesse, Julie and Al got back late Sunday evening. Jess called me. He said everything went just great. The cemetery was rough on Julie because mom and dad lie right next to Eldin and Verna.

My cousin, Barry, told Jess I was thinking of moving up there. He said there was a house for sale next to him, in Stilson, that I could get for a song. My other cousin, Chris, said that no members of our side of the family are allowed in Stilson, Iowa. Everybody laughed hysterically.

So, living in town on very little acreage? Could still have a tomato orchard and, my newest vegetable garden invention, a "sweet corn shed".

There's a house in Burt that I could possibly get for what I might get when I sell my piano. Mom and dad are buried in the Burt cemetery. It's said that there are more people in the cemetery than live in Burt.

I could visit them everyday.

It's all so very scary and sad, but are they trying to tell me something? I ask them what I'm supposed to do every night when I'm sitting outside gazing at dying plants sipping on a Miller Highlife. And I listen. I listen intently.

Dad: What am I supposed to do?

Fried Hamburgers

2009-09-10T12:52:00.000-07:00

It was 1986. I had just graduated from high school. In late Spring/early Summer, dad and I drove to Iowa for a family reunion. Just the two of us headed to Lone Rock.

When we got there, my cousin Wes showed up. He was in the middle of a cross-country motorcycle trip from California. He was starving, so grandma, my dad's mom, fried him up some hamburgers in one of her ancient caste-iron skillet.

It may indeed be the case that nothing burps like bacon, but I think it's pretty hard to top the smell of browning ground beef. It should be characterized as an endorphin.

Grandma died Wednesday afternoon. She was 98 years old. She would tell you that she had 90 real good years, 5 pretty good years, and 2 not-so-good years.

Born Verna Bates, she was a remarkable woman. She and her husband, Eldin, never had much. They didn't even own the land they farmed because Eldin's dad, Lemuel, son of Edward, was tight. They were essentially tenant farmers. Only if they were too sick to work did they go to the doctor, and paid him what he charged in cash right there. I suppose it was a much different time. People were tougher, more resilient, thrifty, proud. Resigned, I suppose you might even say, in their stoic way.

I blame the ever-vain baby-boomers.

Dad saw to it that they both were taken care of. It was nothing short of his duty, and he did it gladly because of all they had given him growing up, not least of which was a chance at a college education.

Verna Bates. Buried a baby boy. Buried her husband. Buried her youngest. Buried a son-in-law. Buried a daughter-in-law. May she rest in everlasting peace.

Thanks for the post. Sounds like something similar to what's happening in some Minnesota communities.

(I can't go. It's not that I'm busy. It's that I'm emotionally unequipped to deal with another trip to Iowa. It took everything I had to drive up there for mom. My sister understands, but I don't think my oldest brother will. I guess he'll just have to be mad at me. Which is fine, because I've been mad at me for quite some time.)

Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota

2009-09-01T10:26:00.000-07:00

By James Wright

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,

Asleep on the black trunk,

Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.

The cowbells follow one another

Into the distances of the afternoon.

To my right,

In a field of sunlight between two pines,

The droppings of last year's horses

Blaze up into golden stones.

I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.

A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.

I have wasted my life.

Redemption

2009-08-28T13:17:00.000-07:00

I've sinned against my legacy. I need to get that back.

You people on my Internets.

You've never met me, but I think you know me as well as someone could be known in here. So I wanted to say that your kindness, compassion and support these last 6 months or so moves me to tears.

I can never pay y'all back, but I can guarantee you free copies of my (maybe) forthcoming memoir, Lost In Iowa: My Search For Redemption On The Northern Prairie. Only the paperback edition though.

Anyways, thanks for reading. I hope you can enjoy more here.

A Birthday Card

2009-07-29T07:52:00.000-07:00

I apologize if talking to you and dad is distracting, visiting with you as if you're both standing right there next to me on my back stoop, watching the rain soak the tomato plants, imagining dad complaining that I'm mowing the grass too low. But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop talking to you.

I was telling dad that he had to go before you did, because I don't think he could've abided you wasting away in that hospital. He was certainly stoic and strong, like Jesse, but, then again, you were you, and you meant the world to him. I.e., you were stronger in the end.

I apologize if pretending to watch movies with you two is annoying. We never did get to watch Pride And Prejudice together, but we both know that dad would've fallen asleep 20 minutes into it.

Did you hear me tell you that I wish Jess had been just a little less... protective of me when you got sick last year, and a little more... insistent that I move up there ASAP? I don't blame him. It's my fault. I hope you're not put out with me.

I apologize for not being able to move on yet. I suppose it'll occur to me eventually that in order to honor both of your lives, I have no choice but to move on. (Though I think I might have to convince Cameron to marry me and have a son, because Augie is the only grandson with our last name, and I suspect he might be gay!)

I apologize for imagining that you're both laughing at that.

Anyways, I hope where you guys are, they have reruns of Walker, Texas Ranger, Murder, She Wrote, and Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman. It'd be only fair.

Happy Birthday, mom. I miss you dearly.

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised Live

2009-07-17T09:22:00.000-07:00

It'll be on the internets. And it'll be quiet and gradual.

Ladies And Gentlemen: We Have Fruit

2009-07-15T07:24:00.000-07:00

Noticed the first one Friday after work. About the size of a pea on the plant I named Comeback Kid. (Only 2 others have names: Bruiser, a 3-plant cluster thick as a jungle with foliage the color of a kept promise, and stumpy, a sad case whose best days might be met on the compost heap.)

As of this writing, I've counted 9. The plants themselves are growing 3 to 5 inches a day. I guess heat and humidity ain't all bad.

Beautiful thunderstorms Sunday afternoon at about 2:20. More storms Sunday night into Monday morning. We needed the rain. The plants are at that sublime stage of being impervious to too much water. I know rain can be a pain, getting caught in it, or ruining a play date. But rainfall is a blessing.

It's a wondrous time of year for tomato growers. I should be eating tomatoes already had it not been for the early spring rains and the lateness of their installation. But I don't care. Every day at lunch I walk down their rows, examine their blooms, train their vines, admire the pungency of their toxic odor. It's Zen. For me, anyway.

I miss Block Head. She was a great helper, where helping included laying down exactly in the way.

If you can believe it, as I get older and more jaded and cynical, I'm actually getting more naive. Which is to say, I'd love to think that Mom and Dad are smiling down on me in the evenings, when I walk the rows with a Miller Beer in hand, admiring 81 plants that started as seeds measuring a single millimeter. Or that it was they who sent that needed rain, with me out in it with my twine, tying up a fragile "leaner" that'd lost its way, me there just in time to let it rise back up straight.

I would love to believe that.

Potato Salad

2009-07-10T12:58:00.000-07:00

For the last month I've been trying to make my mom's potato salad. It's a very simple recipe:

potatoes

eggs

onions (green onions are best)

mayonnaise

mustard (for color, jokes my brother Al)

salt

pepper

Amounts you do by feel/intuition, like she did.

This past weekend I came damn close. I used spicy brown mustard instead of yellow. And served it with polska kielbasa. Good dinner.

Growing up, on our birthdays, we could have for our birthday dinner whatever we wanted, including the variety of cake. i forget what my brothers' main courses were, but my sister's and my choice was always ringed baloney with fried potatoes and corn. My sister's cake was german chocolate, as was my oldest brother's. Jack, the middle kid, went back and forth from german chocolate to my brother Al's choice, chocolate cake with white fluffy frosting. That was my choice as well, most of the time. But I think for a few years I asked for angel food cake, to my family's dismay.

She sure did do a lot for us.

This weekend:

Pepper Place Farmer's Market first thing in the morning

summer twine fest 2009

mow/trim

prune the crepe myrtles shading the plants by the planter

go under the house (note to self: Take your phone! You never know!)

compost

That'll do for now. Have a great weekend, guys.

Update

2009-07-08T09:56:00.000-07:00

No fruit yet, but plenty of blooms. (Because I didn't get them in the ground till Memorial Day weekend.)

Nice rain Sunday morning during Wimbledon and then a bit more yesterday, so they're all set for water for awhile, though my makeshift cistern is very full.

Made 2 4'x4'x10" planters and 7 42"x42"x10" planters, in which I'm composting the richest stuff you've ever seen. I happen to like that smell. Some don't.

The days are long and hot, and my air conditioning duct work is messed up, so I haven't been using it. Pretty rough. I need to get under the house and see what the deal is.

Other than that, still 30 minutes at a time.

Memorial Day Weekend

2009-05-21T13:04:00.000-07:00

Four day weekend. Thank god. Rain possible here and there every day, but it's looking promising.

To do list:

Get the bigger plants in the ground

Scythe/mow around the plant cage boxes

Gather up the cut grass and start yet another compost heap in the corner of the raised planter by the shed

Loosen the soil/weeds/compost in that planter for use as compost for growing plants

Drag the really long 2x10s from the deck fire from behind the shed and put them in the middle of the yard to kill the grass for future cold frames

Chain smoke

Drink too much (but only after 5PM)

Shave my beard off (for heaven's sake)

That'll do. If I get half of that done, I think my mood will improve greatly, though that's not saying much since it has nowhere to go but up.

Life is so damnably short. I guess that's why we need pain: just to make it seem longer.

Happy Memorial Day.

"your eyes have their silence"

2009-05-12T08:37:00.000-07:00

Her eyes. That was all that was left of her at the end. Green, like the waters of the Gulf in late April. Alert. Present.

Up until the last few hours of her life, she was there. Unmistakably sharp and aware. But she was so weak it was all she could do to say even just a few words. I often found myself interpreting for her to her delight but not to her surprise. We had a sort of shorthand. You see, I'm the youngest of 5, Julie, my sister, being the oldest, and 4 boys. Al, the second youngest, is 4 and 1/2 years older than I am. So when he went off to college, I was, for all intents and purposes, an only child.

When I think about just how frustrating that must have been for her at the end, having so much to say, to ask, to want to share, and yet unable to to her own satisfaction, or to ours, I'm unmanned. When I think about the indignity, the humiliation of her circumstances that fate bestowed upon the most dignified person I've ever known, it takes every last bit of will power not to sob uncontrollably.

So I just go ahead and do anyway.

I told her it was okay to go, that everything would work out just fine, that I'd be just fine. But you know what? I'm not so sure I was being completely honest with her. All I seem to have these days is a deafening silence, and I've never felt more alone, more abandoned ever in my life.

Courtesy of a very dear Irish friend of mine named John:

In Memory Of My Mother

I do not think of you lying in the wet clay

Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see

You walking down a lane among the poplars

On your way to the station, or happily

Going to second Mass on a summer Sunday -

You meet me and you say:

'Don't forget to see about the cattle - '

Among your earthiest words the angels stray.

And I think of you walking along a headland

Of green oats in June,

So full of repose, so rich with life -

And I see us meeting at the end of a town

On a fair day by accident, after

The bargains are all made and we can walk

Together through the shops and stalls and markets

Free in the oriental streets of thought.

O you are not lying in the wet clay,

For it is a harvest evening now and we

Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight

And you smile up at us - eternally.

Patrick Kavanagh