BOO! (hoo)

"A thousand fearful images and dire suggestions glance along the mind when it is moody and discontented with itself. Command them to stand and show themselves, and you presently assert the power of reason over imagination."
Sir Walter Scott

Ghosts and goblins are real. While oft emerged from trauma, chemical imbalance, or other life experiences, the boogie man can and does live in the psyche of friends, neighbors, and ourselves. This affects our decisions, moods, tolerances, abilities, and, obviously, our happiness.

There are many tales of artistic legends’ ennui and discontent. In 1986, Prozac came on the market and subsequently, over 27 million Americans went on anti-depressants in the last decade – roughly 10% of the population. Adding to this, drugs helping conditions such as anxiety and other emotional/mental disorders have become commonly prescribed.

Thankfully, the stigma of depression (and other disorders) has lessened and treatment options are often openly discussed. Side effects of these drugs range widely and need close monitoring lest their ingestion create more problems than they fix. My broad (and completely unqualified) conclusion is that it is a good thing that a) we can recognize slight to extreme mental illness more openly and b) we understand the consequences of treatment far more than ever.

So, on an evening where children and adults dress as monsters, movie stars, and other mensch to play, party and parade door-to-door, what about the constancy of a mind’s haunt? Is there a trick or treat?

Or perhaps, the more elegant question is:

“To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?”
(William Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 1)

The troubled Dane’s introspection (and the other instances of clear mental travails that punctuate this theatrical masterpiece) suggests to me that mental illness has been recognized for centuries. The traditions of Halloween celebrate an unworldly haunting that very well may parallel the haunting that confronts so many on a daily basis. Let’s all reach out to welcome, comfort, and accept those who may from time-to-time stare into the precipice.

My guess is that chocolate, licorice, Prozac and Lexipro do not sufficiently dose . . . add warmth, caring, and love – stir well.

Crib Notes

In the picture above, to the left of the barns, stands a structure with a rusty conical roof. This is a corn crib that has sat idle for decades. So long idle that a tree has grown up through its middle and limbs push through the grated sides. Corn cribs are granaries in which field corn is stored and dried. The corn, still on the cob, is loaded into the crib and is typically used for animal feed. Despite its age, the one in the picture is a fairly modern crib made from sections of grating bolted together to create a cylinder and capped with a metal roof.

The crib is now gone.

A similar lift truck was used to remove the corn crib

Returning home from University of Michigan homecoming activities, I noticed a trail of tire shreds beginning about a quarter mile north of my property and continuing into my driveway. Up at the crib, there was an extended boom lift truck thrashing about on three good tires with shreds whipping off the fourth as it gouged into my lawn. Three unrecognized vehicles were parked by the barn – one of which had a large flatbed trailer attached. Three unknown men stood watching the lift truck attempt to maneuver.

Moments like this call for high drama – I sped up my driveway, jumped out of my truck and challenged the (in retrospect, much bigger and stronger individuals who probably shouldn’t have been thus challenged) men with “who are you and what are you doing on my property?”

The clearly eldest of the men – clad in a Carhardt jacket and with a grizzled beard let me bark. He then calmly motioned toward the lift truck and said, “I think you know Artie over there, don’t you?”

Art is my neighbor and an incredibly hardworking, good guy. He’s Howard’s brother – I lease cropland to Howard.

Art jumped out of the lift truck and said, “didn’t Howard tell you we were picking up the corn crib today?” No.

Introductions were made and apologies offered in all directions. The corn crib had been sold to Garret, a young fellow who is starting a farm. Brad, his father (and the one who pointed out Art), was there overseeing the disassembly of the crib for transit.

When I closed on the property (I never like saying, “bought the farm”), Howard let me know that the corn crib had been placed there by his father and belonged to him and his brother. He offered to disassemble it at that time to take to his property. I told him it wasn’t in the way and it could stay.

Over the course of the next two hours, a replacement tire was secured for the lift truck and a compact Bobcat excavator served as a “jack” to replace the tire. Meanwhile, a chainsaw made quick work of the caged tree and the blown bits of tire were all collected for disposal.  With the lift truck re-abled, it was used to hoist the top section of the crib (about an eight-foot tall grate cylinder with the attached roof providing stability for the lift) onto the flatbed trailer. The lower section obviously didn’t have a roof to stabilize it and Brad argued that it couldn’t be hoisted by the lift truck without causing damage. I’m not an engineer, but I do believe he was right – it needed to be lifted and carried by hand.

Photo by Deb Butler Warren

By this time, I was garbed in my own Carhardt and work gloves. Five of us were able to lift this twelve foot diameter metal cage onto the flatbed. Given the size of these fellows, I don’t know if my presence made much of a difference, but they thanked me as though it did.

Now, the corn crib wasn’t a particularly attractive part of the landscape, but it was a monument to a time when the farm was alive with dairy cattle and pigs. I’ll get used to its absence, but, for now, the view down the driveway is a definitely altered.

Oh, this isn’t a loss. The old crib is now part of a new farm enterprise – a rare launch in 21st Century America. Good luck Garret!


Lift truck photo from:  http://www.ec21.com/product-details/Telescopic-Boom-Forklift-Truck--3331079.html

Farmer Tom

I’ve just returned from four days in our Nation’s capital. Each time I visit, I retrace steps I took as a wide-eyed journalism intern in 1981. While much is the same, the city has grown and the metropolitan area seems oddly insulated from the current economic woes confronting most of the country – witness the ongoing construction, menu prices, hotel costs, and real estate values. There are, without question, areas within the District struggling with poverty and I witnessed a fair number of people sleeping in parks and on benches – I even drove past the current “Occupiers’” tent city.

Throughout the District, buildings with regal facades share blocks with modern office complexes and small sundries shops. Traffic remains steady and there seems to be a disproportionate number of foreign luxury cars on the street (Michiganders notice these things). Business suits pass quickly and heels clatter through lobbies.

Observing Rome, Tacitus (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tacitus) noted: “All things atrocious and shameless flock from all parts to Rome. “ I don’t assert that Washington, D.C., deserves such a scathing indictment, but I sometimes wonder what a fellow farmer, Thomas Jefferson, would think about modern America.

I’m fairly certain he’d be quite proud of many national achievements while being aghast of other developments. I’d hope he’d be embarrassed by his documented prejudices against blacks and come to share our country’s collective pride that an African American President can reside in the White House and others of color have distinguished themselves as Cabinet members, military officers, entrepreneurs, Supreme Court Justices, and in other leadership roles. I believe he would be fascinated with NASA’s achievements and smile knowingly that the Louisiana Purchase was a good investment!


I don’t think he’d be quite as pleased with the bureaucratic bloat, red tape, lobbyists, and the growing concentration of power at the national level. From his first inaugural address:

“Let us, then, with courage and confidence pursue our own Federal and Republican principles, our attachment to union and representative government. Kindly separated by nature and a wide ocean from the exterminating havoc of one quarter of the globe; too high-minded to endure the degradations of the others; possessing a chosen country, with room enough for our descendants to the thousandth and thousandth generation; entertaining a due sense of our equal right to the use of our own faculties, to the acquisitions of our own industry, to honor and confidence from our fellow-citizens, resulting not from birth, but from our actions and their sense of them; enlightened by a benign religion, professed, indeed, and practiced in various forms, yet all of them inculcating honesty, truth, temperance, gratitude, and the love of man; acknowledging and adoring an overruling Providence, which by all its dispensations proves that it delights in the happiness of man here and his greater happiness hereafter—with all these blessings, what more is necessary to make us a happy and a prosperous people? Still one thing more, fellow-citizens—a wise and frugal Government, which shall restrain men from injuring one another, shall leave them otherwise free to regulate their own pursuits of industry and improvement, and shall not take from the mouth of labor the bread it has earned. This is the sum of good government, and this is necessary to close the circle of our felicities.”

As we compare our current country with the vision of our founders, it’s good to know that even though they didn’t have everything right, they created a system whereby we can constantly improve.

Later in that same speech, Jefferson acknowledged his own potential fallibility:

“I shall often go wrong through defect of judgment. When right, I shall often be thought wrong by those whose positions will not command a view of the whole ground. I ask your indulgence for my own errors, which will never be intentional, and your support against the errors of others, who may condemn what they would not if seen in all its parts. The approbation implied by your suffrage is a great consolation to me for the past, and my future solicitude will be to retain the good opinion of those who have bestowed it in advance, to conciliate that of others by doing them all the good in my power, and to be instrumental to the happiness and freedom of all.”

As I settle down for a quiet evening back home, I think I’ll read some more speeches from our nation’s history and reflect on the balance of vision and humility that were key ingredients to bring us this far and continue to be vital as our republic approaches its 250th year.

Photos reported to be in the public domain. 

Good Country People

Flannery O’Connor (1925 – 1965) described herself (noted by Blake Bailey in a 2009 Virginia Quarterly Review article) as "pigeon-toed child with a receding chin and a you-leave-me-alone-or-I'll-bite-you complex.” She wrote novels, short stories, and essays and featured grotesque characters set in stereotypical Southern situations and that challenged readers’ sense of morality and ethics. In short, her writing is a hoot.

I chose her short story Good Country People in my attempt to demonstrate a mastery of literature as I faced oral exams necessary to graduate from Hillsdale College. Years earlier, I was unknowingly introduced to her work by seeing the movie Wise Blood on a weekend adventure in New York City as a college freshman. The movie shook me.

It was a year or two later that I discovered that it was Miss O’Conner who penned the novel on which that movie was based. It further rocked me to discover that she was gentle Southern lady who mostly lived as a recluse and who raised peacocks and other avian species. She was a devout Catholic living in the Bible Belt who never married and died at the age of 39 from complications from lupus.

The characters in Good Country People will unsettle even the most urbane reader (unless he or she has absolutely no moral compass). Without ruining the fun of this story, I’ll limit my preview: a one-legged woman changes her name from “Joy” to “Hulga” and a Bible salesman belies his trade.

Now, here’s the rub: since 1999, when I started to live on the farm, I’ve met my neighbors and have slowly developed relationships with some exceptional people. Within a mile or two of home, there are career farmers, an ophthalmologist, an attorney, an auto company executive, greenhouse operators, holders of doctorates, greens keepers, a realtor, and a plumber. All of us live in our beloved rural setting and, in a literal sense, deserve the moniker: good country people.

Within this circle, I believe all of my neighbors would extend any help as needed. Tree needs to come down, call me. Truck stuck in the mud, call me. Need to use the tractor, call me. Basement filling with water, call me. Oh, I’m certain that there are closeted skeletons, but none that rattle bones more than mine.

Tonight, “neighbor plumber” Kevin stopped by because he knew I’ve been wrestling with a drywell issue. Previously, he’s come to the rescue when weekend guests were due and there was no hot water. Subsequently, I’ve welcomed him during duck season to drop a mallard or two on the ponds. His wife cans exceptional tomato sauce and they freely share summer sweet corn. As he walked in the door, he handed me a goose breast to add to the freezer for a future meal.

We rerouted some lines and came up with a reasonable stopgap as it relates to the drywell issue. I decanted some cider for his family (from this past weekend) and packaged some freshly ground horseradish for him. We shared a beer, talked about family, hunting, work, the World Series, and neighbors we share. I'm certain that we both feel as though the other has been more generous.

When the nightly news does its best to tell us that all is lost or various groups do all they can to besmirch our Country and our way of life, I’ll continue to think about my neighbors – the good country people – who care and act in ways that make life a daily joy.



Peacock image reported to be in the public domain and can be found at:  
http://fithfath.com/images/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/peacock.jpg

Thus cometh the fall. . .

Photo by David Materne

. . . And the cider, donuts, late harvests, crisp temperatures, and sweater weather.

This past Saturday was the eighth time we’ve pressed cider on the farm. A decade ago, across-the-street neighbors were moving to Colorado and were shedding possessions they couldn’t move. By chance, I was visiting as they realized they needed to leave their old press. Its history was as a wine press, but it had more than little potential for cider. Sold.

Of course, year one, blind testosterone guided efforts to make cider (directions? We don’t need no stinkin’ directions). We filled the oak hopper with varied species of apples, carefully set the pressing blocks, attached the pressing mechanism, and plied more pressure than a submarine sustains at a mile’s depth. Trickle. More pressure! Trickle . . . and a bent leverage bar. I believe we netted about a cup and a half of cider.

Extensive research (well, about a five minute Google pursuit) revealed a number of steps necessary to successfully make cider. The annoyance of discovering that making cider wasn't an A Priori gift, was mitigated by the excitement of getting to purchase additional tools to achieve results!

To make cider in our non-commercial setting, apples are rinsed, sorted to remove the clearly infested or otherwise undesirable, and then fed through a grinder where the pulp is caught in mesh bags. These bags are loaded into the press. Pressure is applied and the pulp cedes its nectar to waiting vessels. The leeching is poured through another mesh filter into a holding bottle – and then through one more filter to portable containers. Spent pulp is dumped from the mesh bags into a hopper to be added to compost piles or shared with wildlife.

Photo by Pam Rosati Baczkowski

 

About thirty folks gathered through the day and most took a turn at the hand crank on the grinder. Just as I can imagine a century’s worth of pressings, people brought apples, dishes to share, libations, and good will. For many, it was their first time making cider and the old salts (well, those who had come at least once before!) were more than happy to share expertise. Adding to the day’s crafts, we produced apple sauce and ground horseradish harvested from my little garden.

More than once, those in attendance joked that it would be much easier to run to the store and buy a gallon of cider, a portion of applesauce, or a bottle of horseradish. Of course it would. But would anonymously produced cider taste as sweet? Commercially bottled horseradish have as fresh of a bite? Or Mott’s compete with a father and daughter’s teamwork mashing apples into apple sauce?

Photo by David Materne

There is no question that, in our country, we are blessed with the efforts of entrepreneurs who have figured out ways to bring goods to market much more easily than we can produce on our own small scale and certainly at a value that competes with or beats our own production efforts. However, when I got to see each participant’s delight in our collectively produced products, I knew that value goes beyond supermarket aisles and mail order.

I am not arguing against the progress of technology, the advance of broad-reaching manufacturing and distribution, nor the collective benefit possible from an individual's profit – I do not seek to return to the nineteenth century. I do, however, believe that the experience of cooperative achievement (yes, I know we are talking cider, not world peace) positively affects one’s world view. There is nothing wrong with seeing the source of our food and nurturing a sense of community whilst producing.

Thanks to all who could attend – we’ll do it again next year.

In a rut

Autumn’s splash is becoming evident on the farm. Scarlet, yellow, burgundy, and countless other hues speckle the trees and appear in varied intensities.  A tease before November’s bleak landscape.

Yes, love is in the air!

The annual courtship rituals of Odocoileus virginianus – commonly known as the White-Tailed Deer are beginning. Scrapes (mauled spots of ground scented with a territorial stag’s urine) and rubs (denuded tree limbs where bucks scrape the “velvet” from their antlers and leave scent trace from apocrine sweat glands found in the forehead) are increasingly evident. These scent markers issue challenges to rival males as well as act as a sort of Valentine card to potential mates. This behavior coincides with the rut – a period of happy concupiscence that also features swollen necks and spectacular antler to antler smack downs to establish dominance.

This week, I enjoyed a reunion with a couple of friends from my hometown of Monroe, Michigan. Joan was a classmate beginning in first grade; Katie, a friend since high school. We met in downtown Ann Arbor at Gratzi, a longstanding fixture on Main Street. After a couple of rounds accompanied by Pizza Margarita (reputedly named in honor of Margherita Maria Teresa Giovanna, Queen consort of the Kingdom of Italy ca. 1878-1900) we headed a half block north to The Black Pearl – a newer, trendy nightspot.

Both of these women were stunning and popular when I knew them in my salad days and both retain their beauty today. We traded updates on our lives, looked at pictures of their children and grandchildren, and shared memories of “the good old days.”

One related story remembered an early and laughable attempt on the part of about six or eight of us to play spin-the-bottle. As best as we could piece together, this likely happened during our sixth grade year. My memory of this introductory rite of passage was foggy at first, but became keener as I heard Joan’s recollection. Apparently, no one had a bottle, so we attempted to play while spinning a hair brush. I do remember that the first spin by M_____ landed on E____ who immediately refused to kiss M_____ and left. Poor M_____.

Joan then related that I had attempted to compliment her during this gathering with a less than an effective line. Apparently, I told her that her hair was really nice and shiny and that it shined like it was greasy. DOH!

After telling me how that was a devastating blow to her young esteem, Joan very generously assured that, in retrospect, she knew it was simply an awkward (though well intentioned) line from a young geeky grade school boy.

But just in case, she added, she did rewash her hair that afternoon before we met at Gratzi!

I don’t know if that was the apex of the evening’s laughter, but I do know it was great spending time with friends from that part of my life. I do think, however, I may have been better off rubbing my forehead on a tree trunk than using lines like that in sixth grade!



Deer image reported as in the public domain and can be found at:  http://www.reusableart.com/v/animals/deer/deer-image-05.jpg.html

How does your garden grow?

Today, it was time to retire the spent garden citizens in preparation of the overwinter plantings. I’ve only done garlic in the past, but some quick research has offered some additional options: certain onion varieties, asparagus (I did put about 20 crowns earlier this year and hope to be cutting spears in the spring!), a couple of types each of peas and lettuce, and spinach.

And, yes, I remember extolling the hopeful tomato buds – I think the lesson of optimism still holds despite my brutish exporting to the compost pile.

The garlic did get planted and, this weekend, the horseradish will start its condiment career (probably time to get another standing rib roast for the horseradish to mock!). I do think I will investigate some of the other options for a winter garden.

All of this done in happy solitude on a day taken as vacation because this past weekend – Hillsdale’s Homecoming – was a marathon of laughter, reunion, grilling, and an experience just short of bacchanalia (everyone can, to my knowledge, still tell their mothers all we did!).  I needed a day to stow everything from the rented RV and get within a week of having the laundry done in addition to the garden duties.

At Hillsdale, I got to visit with so many wonderful people and meet several more at the various activities around campus and while “judging” the first ever tailgate competition. I qualify the word judging as my partner in crime, Al, and I schemed this as a way to have a taste from everyone’s offerings! You’ll see in the picture, a certain uniform gave us "credibility." And, kudos to Al for his creative use of number 10 cans, duct tape, and an old colander to fashion a trophy.

The competition hadn’t been announced in advance – we actually only thought of it about 3 weeks ago.  I do, however, believe that there will be several groups bringing their A game next year. The winners were a group of alumnae from 1975 who were sorority sisters and had blown up their senior pictures and mounted them on sticks as part of their décor. And, the bacon-wrapped water chestnuts were excellent.  There truly was more than a few worth noting - perhaps several honorable mentions may be in order next year?

A band that had charted well in the late 60s and early 70s, The Grass Roots, headlined the annual tent party. Among their top 10 hits were Midnight Confessions and Let’s Live for Today. While great fun for us in the AARP group, the real energy was earlier in the tent. Various dormitories, Greek houses, and athletic teams staged a Mock Rock competition that brought down the house (well, tent).

As I listened to the students' music – without any chance of recognizing artists or song titles – I got to watch young men and women have more fun than anyone can imagine. The groups performing were more polished than I expected and the decibels of support from the crowd were remarkable. The energy both stunned and inspired.

Maybe it’s part of this experience that has me (anthropomorphism alert) sympathetic for those stalks who now live on the compost pile. And very likely why I’m intent on extending this year’s growing season. Personal vibrancy – much like a garden – requires ongoing nurture and, sometimes, trying some new plantings.

Eating alfresco

For the next three days, I’ll be eating outside. Not only because of the surprise spectacular October weather, but also because it is homecoming weekend at my Alma Mater, Hillsdale College.

Encamped near “Muddy Waters” stadium on the eastern edge of campus, I’ve lardered everything from stinky cheese to brats, olives to biscuits, chardonnay to malbec. And kudos to the good people at Cuisinart who’ve developed a perfect tabletop grill on which I’ll wake the neighborhood with the blessed aroma and sensuous sizzle of bacon.

A few weeks ago, I got to visit campus while on hand for the downtown mural dedication. The College, itself, is a neat little story. From the College’s website:(http://www.hillsdale.edu/about/default.asp)

Founded in 1844, Hillsdale College is an independent, coeducational, residential, liberal arts college with a student body of about 1,400. Its four-year curriculum leads to the bachelor of arts or bachelor of science degree, and it is accredited by the North Central Association of Colleges and Secondary Schools.

Hillsdale’s educational mission rests upon two principles: academic excellence and institutional independence. The College does not accept federal or state taxpayer subsidies for any of its operations.

Located in rural southern Michigan, the nearly 200-acre Hillsdale campus includes both modern and historic buildings . . . Adjacent to the campus is the model primary and secondary school, Hillsdale Academy, whose comprehensive Reference Guide is used in hundreds of schools throughout the country.

An ideal student-to-faculty ratio of 10-to-1, rigorous academics, intramural sports, national fraternity and sorority houses and widespread community volunteerism nurture intellectual, physical, social and personal growth . . .

I happen to serve on the College’s Alumni Board and for the last few years have chaired the Homecoming Committee. Now, let’s not give any false impressions – the very able College staff does the heavy lifting when it comes to staging the 30+ events on tap for this weekend. As an alumni committee, we consult on entertainment choices, marketing themes and methods, encourage attendance and try to attend as many events as possible. I am proud to say that we’ve increased attendance over the last four years and expect another outstanding showing this year.

Last year, we commissioned a group of students to survey alumni on their awareness of and interest in homecoming. To no great surprise, the hands down biggest reason people attend (or would attend) is to see their friends. Supporting this conclusion has been the flurry of Facebook posts about who is attending, when people are arriving and who can’t attend but wish they could.

Also on the Alumni Board are members whose graduation years span from the early 1960s through the 2000s. Board member professional fields include law, education, insurance, construction, politics, and several are entrepreneurs. We are, of course, not paid nor reimbursed for travel – typical volunteer situation. The real compensation, however, is working with this group of really quality people to assist a really quality institution.  Volunteerism has its rewards.

I’m grilling lunch while I’m writing. Already, alumni are trickling to campus and I’ve had a nice reunion with a former professor and his wife. The sun is shining, the cabernet satisfying, students, passing while hauling loaded backpacks, say “hello” and blues are on the stereo. Things could be much, much worse.

There is a welcome weirdness afoot

Yellow Tomato Flowers by Glenda Green

September oriented the farm to the coming bitters: cold rains, cutting wind, broken trees and browning crops. October, so far, belies this trend. A week of sun and temperate climes has confused some remaining tomato vines into new buds.

Logic says that these buds have no shot at fruition. It won’t be two weeks before a jealous frost cuts the hope from the vine and withers the annuals. Or so logic tells us to expect.

The Detroit Lions will do well in the pre-season then lose their first four games – history tells us so.

Boston and Atlanta will sweep into the Major League playoffs and challenge for the crown – or so the experts say.

Politicians always have an eye on the next election or the higher office – until one says “it’s not my time.”

Over the last few years, without it being apparent to me, I’ve had a bit of a reorientation. It is as though I’ve shed layers of deep-rooted cynicism like snake skin. I kept my expectations low so as to not risk frustration, hurt, and betrayal.

About a year ago, I came across this quote from C.S. Lewis:

"Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket--safe, dark, motionless, airless--it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable."

On its face, the quote makes a logical case to prevent hurt and vulnerability – and I can attest to its veracity with the hurt I felt losing the Black Dog – for whom the blog is titled.

But, ya know? There is no sense going through life, to borrow from another great English writer T.S. Eliot, “Like a patient etherized upon a table.” When you stub your toe it should hurt. When you touch a hot pot, it should burn. When you cry it should reflect your raw emotions – be they joy or agony. And when you laugh, it should enliven all who hear.

I’m a lucky guy to live in a place that keeps me honest, holds me accountable, and challenges my cynicism. So, if tomato vines dare optimism, so shall I.


Flowering tomato vine photo reported to be in the public domain and can be found at:  http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=16525&picture=yellow-tomato-flowers