3:42 pm

The Welsh weather we're enjoying is certainly conducive to sleep. We both rested very well and arose this morning with clear eyes. The sun was burning an orange stripe into the eastern sky, partially concealed by the clouds.

The line "All the clouds that lowered o'er us" just came to mind. This is from Shakespeare's dark historical play, Richard III. The lines are with me because I recently watched a documentary on Al Pacino as he filmed scattershot scenes from this play. It's called Looking For Richard. From what I could tell, these selected scenes were revolting, and for many reasons. The most striking reason was Pacino himself. I know the postmodern mind thinks of this fellow as a "great actor," but I am in disagreement. His early roles (Serpico, Dog Day Afternoon, Godfather I and II) showed him to be a typical Method mumbler, with fixed zombie stare and perpetually whiny delivery. His later years have seen him morph into a shouter - he now shouts most of his dialogue in a phlegmy, rattling bellow. The way he delivered the Bard's beautiful, sinister lines was tragic...and I don't mean that in a complimentary, theatrical sense. He butchered the beauty of the poetry, and made it very "urban." In other words, he defaced it. It's intentionally ugly. Verbal grafitti. And the fact that vapid fishwraps like Rolling Stone gave it glowing reviews is enough to confirm my evaluation.

Even more notable was the footage showing Pacino in meetings, discussions, and rehearsals as the movie was made. My favorite part was watching Pacino walk through the streets of New York City wearing a black trench coat, three days worth of beard, and...a backwards baseball cap. He looked precisely like a homeless hustler.

Now if the sunrise can get me on a rant like that, imagine what sunset might do.

Speaking of which...last night's was eerie and lovely. The incendiary power waning as it slipped below the outline of gravestones up on the western hill...

MeeMaw has been baking some of the best bread I've ever eaten. We have a half of her most recent loaf left, and will enjoy it along with a bowl of homemade stew (which is bubbling on the stove at this moment).

Before she went in to work yesterday, MeeMaw took Miss Connie to lunch at Shoney's, and they had a very nice, very deep talk. I think those two ladies prize each other as much as any two friends could. And when MeeMaw arrived home last night, she had a gift for me, a gift from Miss Connie. It was a very old book on beekeeping. When she was here at Possum Cough for supper recently, Miss Connie and I talked about my plans to start a beehive in the spring. She remembered the conversation and decided to make a gift of one of Papa Gene's books on beekeeping. She also gave me a USDA book on ths same topic. These are precious to me.

And speaking of bees, there has been a solitary honeybee (a drone) on our French doors for the last 24 hours. He's likely sick or elderly, because he moves very little. He must be starving, since he's been there nonstop for a day now.

If I approach him, he moves his antennae a bit, and moves his body a little, but he seems to be drawing near his own particular apian end. I hate to see him go, mainly because I fret that he may be infected with the dread colony collapse disorder. But I am trying to be optimistic and choose instead to believe that he is elderly and is dying of natural causes. An elderly bee would be one that is about two weeks old, I believe. Their life span is incredibly short, as they burn themselves out with ceaseless activity. They cannot be accused of busywork, however. Nor can they be said to do their work for acclamation or fame or the tissue-paper opinions of man. They do what they do because they are commissioned to do so.

I'm waiting for MeeMaw to name the bee. Along with the two stray potential barn cats we've been feeding on the back deck every evening.

I've been painting all day, and am now taking a small break. The soft pink shade that MeeMaw selected for the family room and one half of the foyer is going to look very good. It's subtle and soft. The word that we keep using is "pleasant." That's what it is. Pleasant.

MeeMaw thinks I should get Purps (my old pickup truck) painted someday, for fear that it may begin to rust. I may do that...but I rather like her decrepit paint job. She looks like a veteran of many miles, which she is. Besides, I've invested a lot of work in her. Just yesterday, I put a new, high-tech lock on the driver's side door.

If I ever do get her repainted, I may go whole-hog and invest in refurbishing the interior. I have always wanted a cupholder in there, since I keep water with me all the time. But the only ones I have found in the Tri-Cities area are not for sale.

Speaking of the Tri-Cities, MeeMaw has found some nifty little antique geegaws in her travels. I'll get her to post some photos of them on here. In the meantime, here's one of the antiques I wanted her to buy, but she flatly refused. I believe my bride is predjudiced against candelabra. Perhaps she feels that to have a candelabra would be putting on airs of affluence that are pretentious and misleading. All I can say is that a classic accessory can find its place in any home.

10:14 pm

I made quite a spectacle of myself yesterday morning. MeeMaw was following me to the door as I prepared to leave for work. I opened the front door, stepped outside, and found myself looking at a family reunion of every deer in Scott County.

Did I freeze and enjoy the beautiful tableau? Did I silently beckon my bride to come and partake of the magical moment? Did I motion for MeeMaw to hand me the camera?

No, no, and no.

I did what any urbane sophisticate would do. I pointed at the herd and began bellowing,

"Dee-yur! Dee-yur!"

This of course made me quite the Big Man in MeeMaw's eyes:

And last night, I had a recurring dream about Purrl trying to rescue me from the Wrath of the Venison:

We have little doubt that in the next few days or weeks, MeeMaw will hear me screeching and come outside to witness this:

On a more serious (and grateful) note...I think y'all all know that MeeMaw has been procrastinating on obtaining her Virginia drivers license. This delay has been mostly the result of the repugnant experience we had at the Tennessee DMV, including a callous employee's embarrassing MeeMaw when MeeMaw couldn't read all of the letters on the eye exam.

So, MeeMaw has been avoiding the DMV here in Virginia, even though its presence has haunted her every time she drives by the place (which is at least twice a day, since it's right there on the way to work).

Today, on my way home, I passed the DMV and remembered that MeeMaw still has her Tennessee license. I began praying, "Lord, when she does take that test, please look on her with favor, and grant her good vision, at least for the duration of the test. Be merciful to her, and help her..."

When I got home, MeeMaw kissed me and then told me she had a surprise for me. I expected her to bring a deer out of the living room, but I was wrong. She told me to turn around, and then after a moment's delay, she presented - Tah-DAH! - her brand new Virginia Drivers License!

Seems that while running her errands today (on her day off), MeeMaw felt a curious inclination to take her birth certificate and other personal papers with her. And when she drove past the DMV, cautiously thinking of trying the eye exam, there was one car in the parking lot. One car too many, she thought. I don't want to be embarrassed in front of a bunch of strangers again. And so she continued on with her errands. But when she came back by the DMV a while later, the one car was just then leaving the parking lot. And some unexplainable force caused MeeMaw to aim her car into the DMV parking lot.

She went inside and was very forthcoming with the lady behind the counter. I'll allow MeeMaw to tell y'all about the exchange in detail, in her own words, but suffice it to say that the lady at this DMV was kind, sympathetic... and a former Texas resident. MeeMaw passed the test and skipped out the door with her license. God is good. When we said grace over tonight's supper, we asked God to bless the staff at the DMV in Gate City. We're confident that He will.

And did I mention that deer season opens in two weeks...?

7:06 pm

We're back from our day of errands, pleasantly tired and a little poorer. We took the Bristol Highway through Hiltons, past the Carter Fold, past many acres of beautiful, wild farmland, and finally into the noise and asphalt shock of Bristol. Why Bristol? Four words: Five percent sales tax.

We went to Lowe's first to pick up the paint MeeMaw selected for the family room and front hallway. We also picked up a bow saw (I'm going to start thinning some of the saplings and cutting up some of the felled wood in the woodlot) and a couple of odds and ends, then headed to Bed, Bath, & Beyond. There we bought a bed wedge for MeeMaw, which is precisely what it sounds like: a wedge that you sleep on. It gently elevates your head and shoulders as you lie on it. MeeMaw has difficulty resting sometimes due to (we think) a pinched nerve; her arms go numb, and it wakes her up and interferes with her ability to fully rest and recuperate. We're hoping that the wedge will help. And if it doesn't, it'll be fun to throw the thing at the cats when they get too complacent.

By the time we were done at BB&B, we were a bit hungry, so we decided to treat ourselves to a late dinner/early supper. We briefly debated going to this Japanese steakhouse that we saw on the main drag, but MeeMaw reminded me that "they throw food and stuff at you in those places, and you have to sit at a table with a bunch of strangers" so we nixed that idea and settled on Logan's Roadhouse.

Once we were settled in and our toxically chirpy waitress took our order, we took in the surroundings. More and more, we're struck with how frenetic and garish and gawdy public places are now. Loud, abrasive, jarring. A friend of mine made a similar comment about stores and shopping centers. He said that it depresses him to see how people are treated like mindless cattle in such places. The stores are designed intentionally to get you to covet and to obey: "Buy! You need this! You'll be an idiot if you're not following the latest trend or style! Buy! BUY!"

So while we watched the carnival around us, the waitress brought us a basket of fresh bread. I was reminded that this Logan's Roadhouse bread is the favorite food in the entire world for a young man I know. This particular young man made a pilgrimage to visit me two years ago when we were living in Kingsport. He had read some things I'd written and admired my ideology, and he and his mother came to see us. He was very nice, and intelligent beyond his years (in an academic sense), but was shockingly pale and unhealthy looking, with massive dark smudges under his eyes. In the fullness of time, we came to discover that not only is Logan's Roadhouse bread his favorite food in the world, but he eats literally nothing except that bread, white rice (with nothing on it), pinwheel pasta (with nothing on it), and Krispy Kreme donuts. I'm not exaggerating. This is all he eats. Someday, the insulin companies are going to feather their nests quite nicely from this young man.

And this puffy, insubstantial bread doesn't even approach the homemade bread MeeMaw served this morning. Did I mention we had toad-in-the-hole and sweet turkey sausage?

Near the end of our meal, we noticed something else of interest. There was a table of about eight eldelry people sitting across from us, all very nice and obviously having a fine time. Seated at the table next to them was a couple in their early twenties, very glum and flat in affect. Just off to the side, near the kitchen door area, someone dropped something heavy and breakable (a bowl, a platter, a big glass, something) and it shattered. Every single person at the elderly table jumped, as did MeeMaw (her back was to the place from where the noise came). But the two young folks never flinched, never looked, never reacted - even though they were closer to the site of the noise than the elderly diners were. Very odd. It's as though they are immune to anything that would affect a normal person.

One last thing about Logan's Roadhouse...as we were exiting the restaurant, we passed the benches where people sit and wait to be called for their table. Perched on one of the benches was a young woman. And the young woman was flossing her teeth.

Oh yes. That's what she was doing.

We made one last stop, at a health food store. I wanted to pick up some natural toothpaste, something without fluoride in it. I've been brushing my teeth with a homemade paste of baking soda, a little hydrogen peroxide, and water. It works very well and cleans my teeth like a sandblaster. But the excessively salty taste is revolting. I'm going to make my own as soon as I can find some spearmint essential oil and some glycerin. Anyway...I found some toothpaste that was acceptable, and MeeMaw picked up a couple of odds and ends. And when we checked out, the clerk struck us both as very typical of people we've seen working in such places. He was as pasty as a sheet of typing paper, with the Logan's Roadhouse bread eye smudges, and had a shaky voice and oily skin and a generally reptilian demeanor. He reminded me of a women I saw at Mac's Medicine Mart in Kingsport some time ago. She was so unhealthy and unclean-looking that she frightened me. Her hair looked like a macrame plant hanger. Her nails were yellow and dirty. And her breath smelled like a Pakistani foot. I believe she needs to brush with something heavily fluoridated. And she also needs to toss back a couple of Krispy Kremes while she's at it.

On the way home, we had to stop for gas, so we pulled in at a station near the Carter Fold. As we were gassing up, we noticed a little shed in the parking lot advertising local honey. When we finished fueling, we walked over and, sure enough, it was home-harvested honey from right there in Hiltons. And cheap! A generous jar was only five bucks, compared to the nine dollars and up most of the other places charge, and they're not even as close by as Hiltons. So we took the jar into the gas station to pay for it. The kind clerk informed us that we could leave our money in the box in the shed. So we went back, and sure enough, there it was: a tin box nailed to the wall, bearing the legend, "Honor system. Put money here. Thank you."

We liked that.

When we got back to Possum Cough, Mr. Davidson arrived at his usual time and began watering and tending to his cows. And it reminded me that I neglected to mention a couple of things in this morning's entry.

Mr. Davidson's deep voice has a richness, a timbre that I've only heard in a couple of men's voices. And the man of whom it reminded me most strongly is the veteran country singer Don Williams. If you're not familar with his work, here are three of my favorite songs by the low-voiced Tulsan:

One.

Two.

Three.

The other thing I neglected to mention was Mr. D's pickup truck. While we talked yesterday, we leaned against his truck. My eyes were drawn again and again to the contents of the truck bed. In it were a well-used pickaxe, a sledge hammer, a spool of baling wire, some fencing wire, a fence post pounder, a post-hole digger, an ancient chainsaw (with a new chain on it), several gas and oil cans, and every sort of wrench, screwdriver, hammer, and pliers you could imagine. I kept thinking, This is a working truck. And I kept thinking of the spotless, gleaming pickup trucks I see in parking lots every day, trucks with immaculate beds, trucks whose owners would likely urinate on themselves if someone threw a bag of feed or a mud-crusted shovel into its bed.
We need more Mr. Davidsons in this world. But we're losing the ones we have. Old-timers like Mr. D have already forgotten more than men like me will ever learn in a lifetime. And younger men know more about the Starbucks menu than they do about setting a fence-post. It's a stomp-down shame.

I'll close with a link to something special I want all of y'all to read, as lovely and elegaic an essay as I've read in a long, long time, written by a master, Gene Logsdon. So here it is. Rest well, loved ones.

10:42 am

I surprised myself by sleeping late this morning. I awoke at 0430, clear-eyed and ready for the day. But I lay there a little while, listening to MeeMaw's steady breathing and the wind in the top of the pine tree outside the window. It was chilly - about 52 degrees - and still full dark. I prayed just a bit, and did some mental planning for the day, and the next thing I knew, it was 0700 and light was sifting through the windows.

I got up and fed the cats and made a cup of coffee. A cup of coffee is significant; I'm weaning myself from the stuff, and have tapered down to one full cup per day. Going cold turkey on caffeine is not a wise thing to attempt; the headaches can be murderous, and I speak from experience. The cats are not concerned with caffeine. They focus their energies on ensuring that catnip stays legal. And they have a poweful lobby in Washington.

MeeMaw arose not long after I did, and we dressed and took a stroll down the road, almost to the turnoff. MeeMaw picked a curious pink wildflower that looks like some sort of miniature orchid on a woody vine. When we came back to Possum Cough, we went up to the south pasture and picked a few ripe apples. They're starting to drop from the trees like little baseballs in an outfield.

Yesterday when I arrived home from work, I heard our neighbor, Mr. Davidson, calling his cows to come get a drink. We exchanged waves, and since a conversation was overdue, I walked through the front pasture and down the curving gravel to where he sat in the cab of his truck, smoking a cigarette and watching me with gimlet eyes.

Shaking hands with Mr. Davidson is very difficult to describe without using a train of worn cliches. But I can attest from personal experience that it feels precisely like being latched onto by a hydraulic vice wearing a catcher's mitt. I am perversely proud of the relatively straight face I managed to maintain while screeching with pain inside.

He's leathery, hard, no-nonsense. Sort of what I imagine Bill Craig would be like if Bill actually had to do years of demanding physical labor. But unlike that particular Lufkin Presbyterian, Mr. Davidson has no desire to share his knowledge of anything to anyone. His sentences are short, abrupt bayonets. And his voice...oh, what a voice. So deep it makes your jeans ripple. One of those old Don Williams cigarette voices. And Mr. D likes his cigarettes. He smoked three in the fifteen minutes we chatted. He wears feed-store giveaway baseball caps, snap-button short-sleeved shirts with faux nacre buttons, blue Dickies work pants, and heavy work boots. I imagine that if one mentioned "hair gel" to him, he would think one was referring to a hide treatment for his livestock.

We bantered back and forth in the way I remember older men talked when I was a boy. He told me a bit about his daily work, I told him a bit about mine. He complained of his torn rotator cuff, I allowed as to how my knees were kicking a bit. When I asked him how many head of cattle he owns, he took a final drag off his current Camel, flicked it across the pasture, blew out a blue cloud, and squinted into the sun. "One hunnert," he rumbled. "Used to run a hunnert fifty, but I cain't keep up with 'em as good no more. Cain't git no one steady to help me. Ever'one wants too much money, or they won't stay with the job. So I do it myself. Keeps me runnin'."

I told Mr. Davidson that if he ever needed any help with anything, to come and call on me, and I'd be happy to pitch in. I told him that I don't know the first thing about cows, but that I learn quickly, and that if he'd show me what he needs done, I'd do it.

His face creased in the closest approximation of a smile I would see in the entire conversation, and he spat into the weeds. "'Preeshate it."

There is no poetry in Mr. D. He doesn't look at his cattle and see the hand of the Creator. He doesn't see a calf being born and stop in wonder at the miracle of life. He doesn't pause to memorize how the dew looks on the morning glories climbing up the side of his hay barn. He doesn't smile at grasshoppers who land on his legs as he strides through the johnson grass. These things are annoyances, things to be batted aside on his way to the next task. In this lack of poetry, he is joined to the Bill Craigs of the world, but this is one of the few kinships Mr. Davidson has with postmodern males. And I'm not picking on ol' Bill; he just happens to represent an archetype I see all around me.

We talked of drought and bulldozers and grandchildren and presidential elections. Mr. Davidson had very colorful opinions on all things we discussed, and he proved to be one of the more profane men I've met in a while. He never blasphemed and he never used the most popular Anglo-Saxon word in the English tongue, but he managed to damn, hell, and sumbitch his way through the underbrush of our shared likes and dislikes. There are too few men like Mr. Davidson left in this land, and too many prissy, preening dillatantes.

Mr. D. also let slip that he owns a funeral home down in Weber City. "I cain't run it, legal like. I mean, I know all about embalmin' and all that, but I ain't certified. And I ain't about to go to school for two years to git certified. So I hired me a fella runs it for me. Few others to work under him. It's done right smart of a business the last year or two."

("Right smart" is one of my favorite local expressions. When our neighbor Gabriel was about to mow the hay in our south pasture, he said, "I'll mow down to here at the ridge, but I'll stop there. If I remember, there's right smart of trash and logs on that ridge." And one of the girls at work bragged about making "right smart of canned tomatoes."

Last night after MeeMaw got home, we crept up into the woodlot, hoping to see deer. And we did. I was in front, making a path through the high brush, when I noticed a blurry sillouette about thirty yards in front of us. The shape had ears. My vision is so poor without glasses at distances, I couldn't squint hard enough to really tell. I whispered to MeeMaw, "That looks like a deer." She whispered back, "It is a deer." And about that time, the shape, a finely formed yearling, snorted and fled. Lovely thing in flight, a deer.

I've been reading several things, among them A World To Build: Britain 1945-51 by David Kynaston. It is a well-acclaimed social history, and has some fine writing and original observations. I was particularly struck by some almost poetic passages listing the many things that have utterly changed in that country:

Britain in 1945. No supermarkets, no motorways, no teabags, no sliced
bread, no frozen food, no flavoured crisps, no lager, no microwaves, no
dishwashers, no Formica, no vinyl, no CDs, no computers, no mobiles, no duvets,
no Pill, no trainers, no hoodies, no Starbucks. Four Indian restaurants. Shops
on every corner, pubs on every corner, cinemas in every high street, red
telephone boxes…. No launderettes, no automatic washing machines, wash every day Monday, clothes boiled in a tub, scrubbed on the draining board, rinsed in the
sink, put through a mangle, hung out to dry….Abortion illegal, homosexual
relationships illegal, suicide illegal, capital punishment legal. White faces
everywhere….Heavy coins, heavy shoes, heavy suitcases, heavy tweed coats, heavy leather footballs, no unbearable lightness of being. Meat rationed, butter
rationed, lard rationed, margarine rationed…. Make do and mend. (p.
18)

Britain in 1945. A land of orderly queues, hat-doffing men walking on
the outside, seats given up to the elderly, no swearing in front of women and
children, censored books, censored films, censored plays, infinite repression of
desires. Divorce for most an unthinkable social disgrace, marriage too often a
lifetime sentence…. Children in the street ticked off by strangers, children at
home rarely consulted, children stopping being children when they left school at
14 and got a job…. A land of hierarchical social assumptions, of accent and
dress as giveaways to class, of Irish jokes and casually derogatory references
to Jews and niggers…. A pride in Britain, which had stood alone, a pride even in
‘Made in Britain’. A deep satisfaction with our own idiosyncratic, non-metric
units of distance, weight, temperature, money…. A sense of history, however
nugatory the knowledge of that history. A land in which authority was respected?
Or rather, accepted? Yes, perhaps the latter, co-existing with the necessary
safety valve of copious everyday grumbling. A land of domestic hobbies and
domestic pets…. A deeply conservative land. (pp. 58-59)

Someday, perhaps, someone will write a similar social history of America, this tortured place that once was a nation.

MeeMaw is finished preparing late breakfast/early dinner, so I'll go. After we eat, we have right smart of errands to run and chores to do.

11:06 pm

A most disturbing fact of postmodern life... go right now to your medicine cabinet and take out your tube of toothpaste. Turn it around and read the label on the back. You'll note that it has a message along this line: "If you accidentally swallow more than used for brushing, seek professional help or contact a Poison Control Center immediately."

Think about it. This is the stuff you put in your mouth at least twice a day. And it's got a poison control warning on it. The federal government began requiring fluoride in drinking water many years ago, and the people who protested against this were dismissed as loonies and fringe elements. The older I get, the more I want to know about what the so-called loonies (and especially the "conspiracy theory nuts") have to say. Here it is, in plain English, on your toothpaste tube. There's poison in it. But it's good for you, so don't complain. Obey. Submit. Turn the other molar.

We're beginning our search for a good, fluoride-free toothpaste.

Went up in the south pasture just before sunset, while MeeMaw was preparing an all-vegetable supper (we spent quite a bit of time this afternoon reading and discussing a scholarly but very readable article on the health hazards of eating pork, so we were ready for some "pulse"). Mr. D is growing feed corn in the huge field to the south of our pasture. It looks ready to harvest, all tasselled up and ripe. A coon's paradise.

There's lots of thistle in our pasture, too. The butterflies love it, and the bees do, too. I recall telling Jason the story of how thistle came to be Scotland's national flower. I've heard two versions of the story - one with Roman soldiers and one with Viking raiders. At any rate, the tale essentially goes like this: centuries ago, a group of either Romans or Vikings were planning to ambush and kill an encampment of the ever-intractable Scots. They attempted to sneak up on the camp in their bare feet. One of the advance guard stepped on a thistle plant (makes me wince just thinking about it), let out a bellow of pain, and inadvertently alerted the sleeping Scots. The Scots arose and slaughtered the would-be ambushers. They were so grateful for the thistles around them in the field, they adopted the prickly weed as their national flower. If you're interested, here's the tune. And the lyrics are:

O flower of Scotland
When will we see
Your like again
That fought and died for
Your wee bit hill and glen
And stood against him
Proud Edward's army
And sent him homeward
Tae think again.

The hills are bare now
And autumn leaves lie
Thick and still
O'er land that is lost now
Which those so dearly held
And stood against him
Proud Edward's army
And sent him homeward
Tae think again.

Those days are passed now
And in the past
They must remain
But we can still rise now
And be the nation again
That stood against him
Proud Edward's army
And sent him homeward
Tae think again.

After leaving the pasture, I eased on into the woodlot and made my way through the dense ground cover, just ambling along, looking for something to photograph. As I started the descent toward the house, the growth was about waist-high, so I was probing carefully with my staff in order to warn any lurking serpents of my approach and to give them time to skeedaddle.
I was looking off to one side when my foot bumped something. The "something" jumped up and scared the living snot out of me. It was a fawn, about the size of a medium dog, and when it jumped up, two BIG does lifted their heads with snorts. About six feet from me. And then they ran. Right AT me. I had a momentary flash of certainty that MeeMaw would find me trampled to death after I failed to show up for supper. I sort of twisted sideways, threw my staff up in front of me, and exclaimed something like "Meshizzletwaforkldeewhing!" The fawn had melted into the air, and one of the does ran to the fenceline and bounded over it. When the one who was "guarding" me saw that the other two were safe, she wheeled and followed suit. I took off running to the fence to try and get a photo, turning the camera on as I ran. I just managed to get off one good shot as the last doe was about to flee into the corn. If you look closely, you can see her in profile. She's just left of center, just below the corn perimeter.

Tomorrow, I begin teaching an overview of the four gospels. And MeeMaw is heading to bed right now, so PeePaw will, too. Sleep well, loved ones.

7:14 am

We had Miss Connie out the other night for supper (shrimp gumbo, homemade bread, cucumber & tomato salad, homemade lemon pie) and enjoyed ourselves. We told Miss Connie about all the things going on with Mother, and the news made her somber and grave. We hope her next visit will be a little cheerier. And we pray that we will get some good news about Mother, etc. very soon. Such news would serve to make us cheerier, for sure and for certain.



My friend Harry sent me this hard-to-stop-watching-for-all-the-wrong-reasons video clip. What did I ever do to Harry to make him treat me this way?

8:09 am

Another fitful night of sleep (MeeMaw slept better, though, thanks be to God), and I'm awake now with a viciously sore throat, congested head, and chills. I'm sitting here wrapped in a flannel robe with thick socks on my feet, snorfeling like an alligator with mucosal nostrils.

I stepped outside this morning into a heavy fog. So heavy, in fact, that the droplets were condensing on the camera as I tried to aim it. The dead evergreen we call The Bird Sanctuary looked eerie and splendid in the gray light, but this photo doesn't do it justice.

Nor could I get a good shot of the cattle who were bawling for each other in the dense mist. The vapor in the air blocked my attempts at a clear photograph. Still, there's a certain wispy beauty to the attempt.

The grass is lovely in the sifted light - probably because it's growing. And why wouldn't it, after being lovingly cut yesterday, and then watered, and then sunned, and now misted by the fog? In three days' time, it will look as if I never pulled a starter cord all summer.

Do y'all know the origin of the "lawn?" It was an English concept (as any dour Scot could tell you), one of the first widespread examples of conspicuous consumption. Well-to-do homeowners realized that if they devoted large tracts of their home's acreage to the cultivation of nothing but groomed grass, it sent a certain signal to the watching world. And the signal was "See how wealthy I am? I don't have to devote my land to the growing of crops. We're not a hand-to-mouth family, oh, no. We can take good, arable land, and devote it to nothing but grass!" And the mindset took hold, and the next thing the world knew, entrepreneurs were specializing in "how to keep your lawn weed-free." Empires (like that of the malevolent Monsanto Corporation, may their tribe wither within a generation) sprang up around such a mindset. And now, today, even well-meaning but media-suckled adults who ought to know better expend untold dollars and man-hours in weeding, seeding, fertilizing, landscaping, mulching (I detest pine-bark mulch to almost the same degree that I detest Hollywood celebrities), shaping, trimming, and aerating. And for what? An essentially worthless and useless thing: so-called "perfect" grass. Why not use the space to grow vegetables (or at least flowers, which, while not practical, are at least capable of great beauty and use as gifts, crafts, etc.)? How is it that parents will recruit their own children to spend weekends performing the above-mentioned worthless tasks, but will not teach those same children how to cultivate heirloom seeds, or tasty tomatoes, or magnificent potatoes (on which a person may live without any other food, if need be)?

And I say all this as a man who spent two hours yesterday cutting our grass (sans pastures and woodlot) with a push-mower. Am I a hypocrite? I don't think so. Am I weak-willed? Probably. I don't want the area around the house to look like something that would house loincloth-clad savages. But if God allows us, we will have goats and/or sheep in the future who will diminish (and, I hope, completely eliminate) the infernal combustion engine from my Saturdays.

But enough about grass. Let's talk sore throats and chills. I have both. Look upon me and coo in pity. I go to the couch now.

3:33 pm

Just to round out the day...

Here are the apples I picked, being held by the woman I love, the woman whom I hope I can convince to fry up said apples in approximately 16 hours.




And here's the somewhat waterlogged fern I dug out of the woodlot for MeeMaw. The rain deluged it, and I need to poke some holes in the bottom of the pot to provide drainage.




The infamous mammalian mandible, all that's left of a small creature who met his end at Possum Cough. And ain't the thistles in the background right purty?



Everything is very green and Welsh outside after the shower. The cattle on the far side of the holler are enjoying their freshly-washed salad.



The north fenceline looks bare without the cows who are usually congregated under the pine tree at this time of day. Perhaps their habits change as fall approaches.



Speaking of fall, it's time for PeePaw to clean out the bluebird house. The former tenants didn't leave fleas, but they definitely left lots of extry furniture.



Much love to Joshy-O, Moo-Moo, J-Dawg, Mamma K, Woofie, and Ri-Ri.

(Sounds distressingly like a convocation from Def Jam Records, doesn't it?)

3:03 pm

It's raining right now, and we're grateful.

After a pretty fitful night's sleep (for MeeMaw, too), I arose a little after six and went outside to check the deer situation (none today). Having gathered wood and kindling yesterday, I built a fire in the pit and had it going pretty well when MeeMaw came out to join me. We ate a very nice breakfast and then it was time to do what I've been procrastinating on doing for a while: cut the grass. Or as Yankees say, mow the lawn. Only we don't have a lawn. Here at Possum Cough we have grass, pastures, weeds, woods, fencelines, rocks, yardbarns, rock walls, cow patties, driveways, and the odd rogue pumpkin plant. But no lawns.

So, two hours of push and grunt and wheeze, and it was all done. I pulled weeds and neatened up a few things, and then came inside to wash the grass and grime from my person. A sandwich and a glass of sweet tea later, I walked up to the south pasture to look at the darkening sky. Here's how the holler looked just before the rain came.



And then when I looked across to the mountains, here's what it looked like.




Incidentally, Ernie told me the other evening that the mountain range that includes the Clinch to our south runs all the way to Knoxville.

The apple trees are still very pendulous with fruit, and I picked four ripe ones in hopes of convincing MeeMaw to fry them for tomorrow's breakfast.




While up in the pasture, I noticed some red berries on a small tree at the fenceline. I've seen this tree many times, but today's the first time I saw the fruit on it. Note to self: check tree book for identity. If not in tree book, pester Ernie.



Also in the pasture were several clumps of these weird tomatillo-looking things. The first time I saw them, I reached down to pick one. Notable mistake. They have tiny, ferocious thorns on the vines, and they make a potential picker smart ("smart" being a verb here, not an adjective). Another thing to ask Ernie.



Here's how the driveway looked as I was admiring it. Just before the rain came and started the growing process all over again, which makes me think I should have just waited another week to mow, except that I would not have been able to do it without Ernie's riding mower, or perhaps Gabriel's tractor, or maybe if I just wait long enough it'll dry out and I can set a match to it and have a good ol' fashioned brush fire and won't our neighbors like me then?



Last night, MeeMaw and Purrl did a little bonding.




It was a sweet time for them, since Purrl hasn't been in the mood to do much of anything at all. She has burned herself out in her attempts to stay current on the Republican Convention.




I went into the woodlot right after I cut the grass and dug up a fern for MeeMaw. I potted it as best I could. And while pulling weeds next to the deck, I found the mandible from a small varmit, most likely a fox or a skunk (do skunks have lower fangs?). It's too large to be a cat, so it's a mystery. Whatever the case, something had a nice, carnivorous meal right under our deck. Latticework is looking better all the time.

If I can later, I will take photos of the fern and the mandible. Because y'all really want to see them.

7:09 am

Friday...sublime.

MeeMaw doesn't have to work tomorrow, so that makes it even better. Since the grass-cutting is long overdue, that task will take up a large slice of tomorrow, along with other odd jobs around the house. The main thing is that we won't be at work (translation: we will be at Possum Cough, together).

Last night, the Irwins (our pastor and his family) visited for supper. Little Xander is a month old now, and traveling pretty well. The kids were enthusiastic about seeing us; when they piled out of the van, both Micah and Elena came barrelling over to us, chattering about several things, none of which I could really make out.

MeeMaw prepared a feast: chicken spaghetti, yeast rolls, garden salad, and strawberry cake for dessert. Little Elena has the reputation of being a very sparse eater, yet she cleaned her plate. And Micah, who apparently eats less than the average butterfly, snarshed his cake down as if Congress were getting ready to tax it.




After we ate, MeeMaw and Jennifer visited and tended to Xander, while the rest of us walked up to the south pasture and let the kids pick apples. I asked, "Do y'all want to see the mountain?" They responded, "YES!" So I told them to come on up to the fenceline and look. When Micah saw the Clinch Mountains in the distance, he pointed, widened his eyes, looked at me, and said, "I found it! I found the mountain!" Yes, you did, lad.

Ernie came over and I introduced him to the Irwins, and we chatted about deer for a few minutes, and then darkness dropped down on us all of a sudden. It was 8:30, a half-hour past the kids' bedtime, and John mentioned that they needed to be going. So we headed back to the house, said our goodbyes all around, and then MeeMaw and I waved the family down the driveway.

As they were leaving, MeeMaw said, "Did you notice how green those apples were? The ones the kids were eating? They're going to get stomach aches."

"They sure are, Meemaw," I said. "They sure are."

10:06 pm

We enjoy Herrick Kimball's blog, The Deliberate Agrarian, very much. I was reading his latest post (about his trip to his local county fair) when I saw this observation:

Aside from the many farm animals and a variety of non-farm exhibits,
therewas a full-spectrum variety of people to see and observe at the Fair. I
wasstruck by the prevalence of tattoos. It used to be that carnival workers
anddirty bikers and ex cons and pirates sported tattoos. Now, it seems,
almosteveryone has a tattoo. Frankly, I find them shocking and offensive.

I couldn't agree more. People now seem to be hell-bent on being completely immune to being ashamed of anything. The more debased and degraded, the better. And if you make an observation like the one Herrick made (or like the one I'm making now), you'll see plenty of eye-rolling and hear plenty of talk about how judgmental you are. But the fact is that your average 16 year-old girl now looks very much like the guy who used to dismantle the Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair when I was a lad.

Speaking of debased and degraded...I took MeeMaw out to eat this past Saturday. We decided to go to a Chinese restaurant down on the far end of Stone Drive. It's called China Star.

When we pulled into the parking lot and got out of the car, I glanced over at the car next to us. In the back seat was a dirty-looking fat fellow, holding a piece of stiff cardboard on which was a small pile of white powder. He was chopping the powder with a credit card. When he saw me approach his side of the car (I was opening the door for MeeMaw), he made the scantiest attempt to hide what he was doing (this consisted of his leaning forward just a bit), and then proceeded to produce a straw, insert it into his nostril, and snort up most of the powder. We went into the restaurant. After we were seated, guess who sauntered through the door, tank top a flappin', baggy shorts a-baggin', eyes glittering and nose all snorking like he had a sinus infection? He sat at a table near us, with a morbidly obese woman, another young man, and an infant. I kept wondering if the women knew this shaven-headed tub of guts sitting next to her child had just been outside snorting drugs.

By the time the evening was over, I felt like snorting drugs. There must have been so much MSG in that food, it wouldn't spoil if left overnight in the Gobi desert. By 9 pm, my head felt like it was in a vice, and I really didn't recover until about 24 hours later. Come to think of it, the place didn't look very clean, and the food was tasteless and carelessly prepared. This is the third incident with me getting a nasty headache after eating Oriental food. The first was about a year ago, the last time we ate at Tommy Thai's. Then back around Christmastime, we ate at Ming Garden, over near the new Food City. And now the swanky China Star. I think MSG is some really, really bad stuff (I've done a little research on it, and it's interesting to what lengths food processors will hide its presence in their products). And I plan to stay away from it. No more Chinese restaurants for me.

Oh, and by the way...MeeMaw and I were the only two people in the restaurant who didn't have a tattoo. We were also two of the very few who seemed to have bathed that week.

I love postmodern America.

10:24 pm

When I arose this morning, I could tell it was going to be a humid day. A haze hung in the air, and when I stepped outside to check for deer, nothing moved. There were no deer, and the birds were very quiet.

We decided to drive north and visit the Natural Tunnel State Park this morning. Our pastor, John, had recommended it (as had several other folks), and so we stopped at Pal's on our way out of town and got biscuits and gravy (MeeMaw) and a country ham biscuit (PeePaw) and two sweet teas.

We got there pretty quickly; there was no traffic, probably due to the holiday. We stopped at the picnic area and ate our breakfast while fighting off clouds of aggressive gnats. Then we drove around the park for a bit. There is a pretty fair-sized campground there, and we cruised through it. Wall-to-wall campers and RVs with sullen-faced children sitting outside playing hand-held video games. The kids who were actually moving around were doing so in a desultory fashion on bicycles. Adults in various stages of rumpled readiness sat around with cell phones, monitoring their childrens' activities. I remarked to MeeMaw that I couldn't for the life of me understand why someone would choose to spend his vacation in such a way. It would make just as much sense to say, "Hey, family. For vacation this year, we're renting an apartment. That's right, a cramped apartment in a complex where we'll be shimmed right up next to a bunch of other folks, and we'll get to listen to all their family drama during our waking hours, and we'll get to smell garbage and auto exhaust as we try to sleep at night. Let's get packed!"




Once we left the campground, we went to the chair-lift place, right beside the visitor's center. We strolled over to see how much it would cost, remembering that it costs twenty stinkin' bucks for the two of us to ride the one at Gatlinburg. Today was a good day to be at Natural Tunnel State Park. It was customer appreciation day, and everything was free. So...we saved the normal chair-lift fair of three bucks per person (in addition to the parking fee, which I forgot to mention).


We climbed on the lift and rode it down a very steep hill to the tunnel itself. While exploring down there, we heard a train whistle and a rumble. MeeMaw's wish came true; she had wanted to see a train go through the tunnel, and here came one.


We walked across a footbridge after the train passed, and we looked at an original log cabin constructed by the Carter family (yes, that Carter family) in the 1700's. Then we climbed back on the chair-lift and returned to the parking lot and headed back.



I took, of all things, a two hour nap after we got home. It just seemed to be the thing to do. I'll probably regret it tonight and be awake at the wrong time. But it was luxurious at the time. Then we had grilled steaks, mashed potatoes, and asparagus spears for supper. After we ate, I called Mother and talked to her. She was in pretty good spirits, largely due to her having thrown a bedpan at a recalcitrant nurse. These are the reasons I have never thought I was anyone's son other than Mother's. We handle delicate problems in the same delicate way.

It's still humid outside, and this day has passed forever into history.