7:18 pm

MeeMaw rallied just a bit late in the afternoon. As my family would say, “She allowed as to how she could eat a bite.” So we got dressed and headed south to Kingsport to eat at Stir-Fry.


On the way, we had a discussion about the expression “Sound as a dollar.” This was a very common saying when we were children, as in:


“Hank, how you feelin’?”
“Oh, I’m as sound as a dollar.”


Sadly, we can’t use that expression anymore, with the dollar being anything but sound. And the folks in beautiful Iceland are learning a lesson right now that we will likely be learning ourselves before very long.


Speaking of the North Countries, I found a gem today. (Turn on your speakers before you read further.) As some of you know, I enjoy reading about the Vikings (since my bloodline runs back to them), I enjoy cats (because they are fascinating creatures) and I enjoy Led Zeppelin’s music (because it was the soundtrack to my teenage years). Did I ever expect to find these three favorite things coalescing in one medium? No! But I did…oh, I did!


Ah, art.


The restaurant wasn’t busy at all, so we got a great booth and settled in to feast. MeeMaw ordered something new: a Thai-style lettuce wrap. She also got a California roll and some won-ton soup. I had an order of tekka maki (tuna sushi) and chicken lo mein.





The lettuce wrap turned out to be something quite different from what MeeMaw expected. Instead of chicken wrapped up in lettuce, it was a bowl of chicken in a cloying, heavy peanut sauce (salmonella, anyone?) and a lettuce wedge. Apparently, one is supposed to peel leaves of lettuce and put the chicken mixture inside each leaf and eat the thing burrito-style.






What was really disappointing was the waitress’s reaction. When she came to clear the dishes, she noticed that MeeMaw’s was almost untouched. “Do you need a to-go box for that?” she asked.


“No, I actually didn’t like it. It wasn’t what I expected at all.”


The waitress, in her expressionless deadpan, replied, “Too much peanut taste?”


“Yes, that’s right,” said MeeMaw.


Now, a good, attentive waitress would have brought a dessert on the house, or something to try and incline the customer to (a) return and (b) leave a decent tip. But she was clearly of the current crop of wait staff, the ones who (a) hate their job, (b) make sure everyone knows they hate their job, and (c) believe the world owes them a living with minimal effort on their part.


I’m confident that she wasn’t expressionless when she saw the tip I left her.


Anyway, it was a disappointment, but we’ll likely return to Stir-Fry, since they have good food and (usually) good staff and superb, fresh sushi. We just won’t try any dishes that we haven’t yet sussed out.


Speaking of food, one of my frequent complaints about postmodern culture is the tendency of people who have read or heard just a little on a given subject to suddenly think of themselves as “experts.” If you doubt this, wait until the next time someone in your presence is asked to taste a particular dish of food. The taster will probably close his eyes, contort his face in faux concentration, chew the food in a ridiculously gymnastics & seizures manner, and then blurt out something dreadful like, “I can detect just a hint of the wart hog which urinated on the beets as they were being harvested. It adds a delicate arrogance to the overall putridity of the presentation.” You will almost never see someone simply taste a bite of food, smile, and say, “That’s really good.”


We are become a nation of dilettantes, masters of the second-hand affectation.


Oh, and before I forget…no one serves food anymore. They “plate it up.” A pox on all their houses.


So after we ate, on the way home we listened to an Alan Jackson CD, one of our perennial favorites. One of the best tracks is titled Home. We like it because it reminds us of the sorts of places and people we grew up around. The lyrics are:


Home

In a small town down in Georgia, over forty years ago
Her maiden name was Musick, ‘til she met that Jackson boy
They married young like folks did then, not a penny to their name
But they believe the one you vow to love
Should always stay the same

And on the land his daddy gave him, a foundation under way
For a love to last forever or until their dying day
They built a bond that’s strong enough to stand the test of time
And a place for us to turn to when our lives were in a bind

And they made their house from a toolshed
Grandaddy rolled down on two logs
And they built walls all around it
And they made that house a home
And they taught us ‘bout good living
They taught us right from wrong
Lord, there’ll never be another place
In this world that I’ll call home

My momma raised five children - four girls, then there was me
She found her strength with faith in God and love of family
She never had a social life, home was all she knew
Except the time she took a job, to pay a bill or two

My daddy skinned his knuckles on the cars that he repaired
He never earned much money but he gave us all he had
He never made the front page but he did the best he could
And folks drove their cars from miles around
To let him look underneath the hood

And they made their house from a toolshed
Grandaddy rolled down on two logs
And they built walls all around it
And they made that house a home
And they taught us ‘bout good living
They taught us right from wrong
Lord, there’ll never be another place
In this world that I’ll call home
[Copyright 1995 by Alan Jackson]


About six months ago, MeeMaw and I went to the Appalachian Music Fest in downtown Gate City. It was quite a bit of fun. At one point, we stopped and browsed through some books by a local author, who was on hand to sign them. MeeMaw looked through a couple of the novels, found them intriguing, and decided to buy them. While waiting in line, we noticed that the author had a large portrait of Alan Jackson perched on an easel by her chair. A gentleman in front of us asked her about it, and she said, “Alan Jackson’s daddy married some of my kin. So we’re related by marriage.”

If you re-read the lyrics above, you’ll note the reference to his mother’s maiden name being Musick. The author of MeeMaw’s books is Doris Musick.

Small world, n'est-ce pas ?





Also on the way home, we were looking at all the faded and unattended barns in the area, made of gorgeous gray faded wood. I wouldn’t complain at all if a local gent were to come up to me and announce, “I’ve got this old barn that I don’t want. If you’ll knock ‘er down, you can have the wood.” Oh, the projects I could use such wood for. My friend Dave Black’s son, Nathan, is a master scrounger. He is forever finding people who will give him valuable lumber, bricks, and sheet metal if he’ll haul it away for free. Some of his “finds” are 200 years old. He is refurbishing his antebellum home with such antique “gimmes,” and I’m sure his bride Jessie is pleased. He is forever showing up with trailer loads of all sorts of treasure.





As we neared home, we noticed the distinct purple tinge of the Clinch Mountains to the east of Highway 72. This photo really didn’t capture it very well; the light was fading rapidly. But there is a strong truth in the old lyric about “purple mountains’ majesty.” You’ll note both the beehives and the beeves in the foreground.

I’ll close tonight’s musings with something beautiful. My friend Doug sent this to me some time ago. MeeMaw and I were listening to it earlier, and we both had tears in our eyes. The power of good music is undeniable.

Rest well, loved ones.

1:29 pm

The cold here today holds that clear, edged quality. It is as if all of creation is being very careful in its ordinary business. The animals are restless against the chill; the birds have emptied the feeders (again), the equines are romping and eating and begging carrots (with success), the cows are prowling the valley and bellowing for silage (so far, in vain).

Today marks one year since our beloved Sophie died. I was glad that I was able to stroke her and whisper comfort to her as she slipped from this life into her rest, glad that she didn’t die alone, glad that strangers weren’t holding her. Cradling her in my arms as she died was hard for me, and I still feel the black sense of loss in witnessing the end of life for such a sweet and devoted little creature as Sophie. But my grief was and is nothing compared to my beloved wife’s pain. Sophie was born 15 years ago her MeeMaw’s laundry basket, in her bedroom. And from that day until the day she left us, Sophie was at MeeMaw’s side, loving and watchful and attentive. MeeMaw still misses her and grieves for her, and likely always will. We may soon get another puppy, if our merciful Father brings us the right one. But no matter how loyal or helpful a new dog may be, he will not be Sophie. There will never be another Sophie-hound.

MeeMaw has been sick for the past two days. She has a very deep, very persistent cough. Up until last night, she had no fever. But as we were preparing for bed, I touched her skin and detected unusual warmth. The thermometer confirmed that she was indeed feverish. Several people at her work and mine have been sick. Our pastor, John, informed me yesterday that his entire household is ill, particularly infant Xander. The lad has RSV, which can be serious at his age, given that it is highly contagious, even in airborne mode. Today, MeeMaw seems somewhat better, but we have scuttled our plans to do some exploring and sightseeing. She needs to rest. And I need to watch her rest.

Yesterday, I was thinking about my recent medical examinations, starting a few months ago with the first comprehensive physical I’ve had in over a decade.

After that initial physical and two subsequent follow-up appointments, a heart workup, a CT scan of my brain, and a colonoscopy, I now know the general situation with my own body and health.

I’m in good health.

Every major system has been examined and found reasonably fit. Yes, some things need monitoring and attention. But the deliberate laying aside of destructive habits and the determination to make my remaining years a testimony to God’s grace has done me good. The phrase my primary care doctor recently used when describing my condition was, “For a man your age, you’re remarkably strong.” I keep thinking about that. A man my age…

Since my late teens/early twenties, I have pushed my body, punished it, abused it. And not in a good way. Very strong attractions to drink, danger, and defiance have served to give me some, ah, interesting experiences in life. They have also managed to teach me some painful lessons about myself, about the nature of life in God’s world, and about the bitter irreversibility of certain significant decisions.

But as I crested the hill of my earthly years at age 40 and began the descent toward old age and death, I encountered yet more of my Father’s largesse. He gave to me a wife, a lady of whom I can say with no exaggeration that she is the finest human being I have ever encountered in my entire life. MeeMaw’s presence in my world has led me to calmer waters, fuller sails, and more magnificent sunrises. My final sunset will doubtless be deeper and more serene because my Redeemer gave her to me as wife, helper, companion, and confidant.

This life is, even at its best, full of phoniness and play-acting, full of pretense and veneer, full of mindless movement. The older I grow, the more sensitive and allergic I become to regurgitated “wisdom” and well-intentioned but completely worthless “activities.” And I now have neither time nor tolerance for such things.

This year, J&K gave me a walking stick, a lovely handmade staff, for my birthday. I used it this morning as I walked in the woodlot, among the sharp rocks and frozen lumps of manure and twisted, knotted vines. Already, the copper shoe and the flawless shaft show the wear of hard use.

I have for much of my life taken the gifts that God has bestowed on me and tucked them into safe places for display or safekeeping, rather than using them. I now understand that to decline to refuse His gifts – even out of well-intentioned though misguided motives – is not only ungrateful, but reprehensible. I am determined to use - wisely and immediately - the gifts I have been given, and time is the most important of these gifts.

My walking stick will not remain indoors, unused and pristine. It will help me over obstacles. It may help me push brambles out of the way, or even fend off some varmint I haven’t yet encountered. I will use it to lean on when I am tired, and I may whack an unruly goat with it on occasion. But it will be used, because it is useful, and because it was given to me, out of love, for my use.

My hours and talents will be, by God’s grace, the very same.

6:34 pm

A Monday update for y'all...things are peaceful and blessed here at Possum Cough. At this early point in my narrative, a Yankee would say, "The weatherman is forecasting possible ice for tomorrow morning..." But I'll say it the way my people say it: Johnny Wood [the local iconic news anchor] is givin' out ice for tomorrow. MeeMaw and I are hoping that the Lord will spare us that particular meteorological treat, at least until we get to work. We can make it through any sort of weather except ice. That's the one thing at which we won't even make a half-hearted stab.

I made it through the colonoscopy just fine. We arrived at the surgery center about a half-hour early, and the receptionist at the check-in desk turned out to be one of my patients from work. We were checked in very quickly and took our seats in the waiting room, expecting a long period of reading before being called back. But after only about 10 minutes, they called, so MeeMaw and I went on back.

The very nice nurses escorted us to my "room," instructed me to remove all clothing except my socks, and to don the very fashionable backless gown and hop into bed. They asked me questions through the curtain while I complied with these instructions. After I was in bed, the nurses came in, piled heated blankets on me (oh, the bliss of certain modcons!), and asked me a long list of other questions. While the interrogation was going on, a young nurse hooked me up to the Dynamap to take my blood pressure and pulse/ox, and she started my IV (she was a good sticker, too...only took her one attempt). We sat and waited for a while, and MeeMaw took a photo of me.

Next, Doctor Shone came in and visited with us. He explained that after the surgery, he would come and get MeeMaw and fill her in on how things went. He left, and immediately after he did, the nurses came back to take me to surgery. MeeMaw gave me a kiss and we all went a-wheelin' down the hall - me to the OR, she to the private waiting room for MeeMaws.

Once in the OR, I was greeted by yet another nurse, Melanie. Very friendly, very talkative, she explained in detail (again) what was going to happen. Then she dimmed the lights and hooked me up to a large multipanel ICU-type monitor, on which I could see my cardiac activity, respiratory activity, pulse/ox, blood pressure, etc. I was amazed at how normal my BP stayed throughout the entire thing.

Melanie put some music on - classic rock. "Do you like Steely Dan?" she asked.

"Anything but rap or hip-hop," I said.

She screwed her face up in disgust. "Oh, I hate rap and hip hop. There's no beauty in it at all."

A philosopher nurse, I thought. And a canny one, at that.

We chatted for a while as we awaited the word from the doc that he was ready to come in. As soon as we got the word, Melanie brought out two syringes and picked up the port on my IV. "I'm going to give you two drugs. One is a narcotic (she told me the name, but I can't recall it) and the other is a mild hypnotic (I can't recall it's name, either). I'll monitor you, and when you stop talking to me or answering my questions, we'll know you're relaxed enough to begin."

She lowered the head of my bed and asked me to roll over onto my left side. She got me comfortable and asked if I felt okay. I tried to answer, but I felt myself slipping into a warm silence. But as I slipped away, I could have sworn I heard banjo music. And the sound of Bill McKinney laughing...

I opened my eyes. I was in the recovery room, and MeeMaw was sitting there, watching me closely. I said, "Is it over?"

"Yes, it is," said MeeMaw.

I went back into my dream place.

This happened a couple more times, and then I finally woke up and said, "Is it over?" and MeeMaw answered again, patiently, "Yes, it is." And then I asked, "Did you talk to the doctor?"

MeeMaw said that yes, she had.

"What did he say?"

MeeMaw answered, "The doc said everything went just fine. They found one polyp in you, and they removed it. They'll biopsy it just as a matter of standard procedure, but Dr. Shone said he's not at all worried about it, based on how it looked."

I paused for a minute. Then I looked at my beloved.

"Is it over?" I asked.

"Yes, it is," said MeeMaw.

"Did you talk to the doctor?"

"Yes, I did," said MeeMaw.

"What did he say?"

MeeMaw answered, "The doc said everything went just fine. They found one polyp in you, and they removed it. They'll biopsy it just as a matter of standard procedure, but Dr. Shone said he's not at all worried about it, based on how it looked."

I rested for a few minutes, then looked over at MeeMaw.

"Is it over?" I asked.

"Yes, it is," said MeeMaw.

"Did you talk to the doctor?"

"Yes, I did," said MeeMaw.

"What did he say?"

MeeMaw suppressed a smile and answered, "The doc said everything went just fine. They found one polyp in you, and they removed it. They'll biopsy it just as a matter of standard procedure, but Dr. Shone said he's not at all worried about it, based on how it looked."

After this happened a few times, a nurse showed up and said that I could go home and sleep. A few parting instructions, and MeeMaw helped me get dressed. She left the room, and I seem to recall that I dozed off again, and when I opened my eyes, I was in a wheelchair, being eased through a doorway. There was MeeMaw, waiting in the car. The nurse helped me into the car, said good-bye, and we left.

All the way home, I dozed on and off. I woke up at various points and said, "I didn't know we were here." And then I would look over at MeeMaw as she piloted the car and I would ask, "Is it over?"

"Yes, it is," MeeMaw would say.

"Did you talk to the doctor?"

"Yes, I did," MeeMaw would say.

"What did he say?"

MeeMaw would drive and smile and giggle, but she always answered, "The doc said everything went just fine. They found one polyp in you, and they removed it. They'll biopsy it just as a matter of standard procedure, but Dr. Shone said he's not at all worried about it, based on how it looked."

About halfway home, I lifted my head from my druggie daze and announced, "I want some fried livin' chickers."

MeeMaw asked me to repeat myself.

"I said I want some fried livin' chickers."

"I see." The very picture of amused patience, driving her invalid husband back up into the mountains.

When we arrived at Possum Cough, MeeMaw fed me the most delicious piece of buttered toast I've ever eaten in my 49 years. About a half hour later, I drowsed my way through some scrambled eggs and more toast. Then I stretched out on the couch, under the loving eye of my bride, and I slept for four hours.

When I finally awoke, I was fuzzy-headed and mush-mouthed, but I was ravenous. MeeMaw served me some stew from the crockpot along with some homemade cornbread. Oh, and homemade cookies. I ate and ate, and we talked and talked. None of what I said made any sense. But we had a good time just the same.

Most of the drugs have worn off now. Now I'm mellow and warm and still hungry. I took a bath, and MeeMaw took a photo of the event.

Everything went extry-well. We're pleased and grateful, and now it's time to rejoin the land of the articulate.

God be praised for His care of such a creature as I. And God be praised for giving me the wife who demonstrates her love on such a regular, consistent basis. I am a blessed man.

Goodnight, loved ones.

5:30 pm

A good, wintry day here at Possum Cough. Though the temperatures have risen enough to melt the snow, we're still having to bundle up when we go outside. Perhaps in a few weeks, the signs of spring will begin to pulse just beneath the land's surface. But for now, there is no hint that there will be anything except cold and stillness. The quiet that winter enforces is a bane to many. It is a blessing to us. Noise and clatter are increasingly hateful to our ears.

But even though we try not to allow the vulgar world influence us, sometimes it creeps in without us detecting it. A dramatic example would be MeeMaw's flashing gang signs while walking in the pasture.

We've pretty much holed up all day, in holy solitude. MeeMaw is devouring some books from the library, and I'm trying very hard not to think of food. The family room is friendly today; the kitchen is not.

But food does have its place. Yesterday, we decided to attend the Farm Expo at the Meadowview Convention Center in Kingsport. After we arose, we went down to Gate City and treated ourselves to breakast at the Campus Drive-In.

This place has wonderful food, and the breakfast is particularly good. MeeMaw ordered scrambled eggs, biscuits and gravy, and hash browns. I had the steak and eggs (over easy) with toast. Coffee all around. Ate like royalty, we did.

The Farm Expo was a great deal of fun. My favorite part was when an exhibitor was explaining the new organic program in local restaurants, and the requirements to be certified organic in order to be able to sell to such establishments. They will be offering free seminars in Duffield in February and March. While explaining all this, the young lady said, "We're looking for farmers like you to help us in this project." Farmers like me. I relished that. And I took no action to disabuse her of the notion that I am a farmer. Soon as we get that first chicken or goat, I will be a farmer. Even now, I'm something of a farmer. We put in a good crop of tree limbs and rocks this year.

Here's MeeMaw at the chicken exhibit:

They had some very handsome ponies on display, too:

The sheep were very healthy, but somewhat combative. One of them kept butting the others.

One young fellow had some 10 month-old goats that looked very fine. He also had a sweet-natured donkey. He looked tiny to us, since we're so used to Shorty at Possum Cough.

Since I have to have this, ah, procedure tomorrow, I am not allowed anything to eat all day today except clear liquids. So last night, I made the most of it. I ate some of just about everything, right up to the cut-off point of midnight. In fact, at about 1150 pm last night, I was harshting down a fried egg sandwich. I'd better change the subject. It's almost time to take some more, um, preparatory medicine.

My good friend Doug fasts two days a week. He told me that during his recent trip to China, he learned that the locals in Beijing drink hot water on fast days, as it serves to suppress the appetite. Doug said it really works. I'll likely be trying it before too long tonight. Tomorrow after we get back from the hospital, nothing in fridge or pantry will be safe from my reach.

Late this afternoon, I went up into the woods while MeeMaw was reading. Gabriel put up a shelter for Domino and Shorty, consisting of a huge tarp, strung over a rope frame and with a straw bed. The wind had stretched and tossed the tarp pretty hard, so I spent some time retying the lines and tightening the structure. Gotta keep those boys warm and dry.

We filled the bird feeders this afternoon, and there are a gaggle of Carolina wrens out there playing around and being noisy and beautiful. They are even messing around with the cat food that belongs to Biscuit and Frito. Such loud noises from such tiny, demure birds.

I have nothing new to report except to ask that y'all pray for my friend Doug as he interviews for a very important job tomorrow afternoon in Nashville. If he gets it, he'll only be three hours from us, instead of eight. His daughter Victoria placed highly at the recent Memphis Piano Recital. It was a competition limited to the works of Scott Joplin. Victoria didn't win, but her prize was to be able to have a solo recital at the massive Orpheum Theatre in Memphis. She played it last night, and Doug said she did magnificently. The lass can play. I've heard her.

Rest well, loved ones.

9:43 pm

When I lived in Maryland years ago, I used to visit Annapolis frequently. The old town was better than any photo gallery with its looping, bricked streets, lowering oak trees, and sinister graveyards. I would sit for hours, reading on the seawall at the Naval Academy and watching the sailboats come into harbor. And the salt air worked magic on any food or drink consumed at one of Annapolis' many seaside cafes and pubs.

One of my particular pleasures was visiting a brewpub called The Ram's Head Tavern. Back then, one could hear top-notch live music almost any night of the week for the price of a beer and a burger. It's my understanding that these days, one has to buy a separate ticket (at a very high price) to hear the live music. And the food is probably not as good, but that's just my curmudgeonly opinion. This is what happens when a neighborhood pub gets its own website.

Something akin to a grouchy geezer getting his own blog.

At The Ram's Head, I saw a variety of artists, some of whom I liked, some of whom made me walk out. Among the ones I liked was a pure guitarist named Al Petteway. He and his producer, hammer dulcimer artist Maggie Sansome, used to play The Ram's Head at least once a month, since they both lived in Annapolis.

One of my disappointments in the past year was that Petteway and his wife (who is a harpist, if I recall correctly) appeared at the Kingsport Renaissance Center just about the time we were moving into Possum Cough. So we didn't get to go see them perform. I keep watching the paper to see if they'll do a return gig.

Here are three of Petteway's gorgeous compositions. As I said, "pure."

Smoky Mountain Morning

Spindrift

Westwind

2:49 pm

And so begins the week to usher in the Age of Obama.

Church was cancelled today. MeeMaw and I awoke to a world covered in a treacherous sheen of ice. When I stepped out onto the back deck to feed Biscuit and Frito (the two barn cats), I almost did a gymnastics routine. I came inside and called one of the elders to tell him that we wouldn’t be coming down from the mountains today. His wife answered the phone and said that the elders were debating whether or not to cancel church, due to the heavy ice down in Kingsport. A few minutes after I hung up, another member called to confirm that there would be no services.

The past few days have been brutally cold here. It got down to zero two nights ago, and either one or two degrees below zero the night before last. Last night was a balmy 27, but was still sufficiently frigid to freeze the rain that fell sometime before dawn. We’ve been wearing three layers of clothes (including thermal underwear) and sweaters in the house, just so we don’t have to keep the heat running constantly. I recall Carla Emery (author of the wonderful Encyclopedia of Country Living) writing that one of the keys to a happy life is “Use less heat.” I agree completely. Especially forced-air heat. It has a bad feel to it, like a necessary evil. Necessary, but evil.

Even though there were no church services today, we had our own Sabbath here at Possum Cough. And part of it included an admiring look at this very interesting fellow.

While I’m thinking about it, I wanted to say “thank you” again to J&K for the handsome walking stick they commissioned for my birthday gift. I’ll get much mileage from it, I am sure.

We also wanted to reiterate how much we enjoyed having J&K and the twins stay with us. Having the babies to ourselves for a couple of nights was a pure delight. My favorite thing, truth be told, was watching MeeMaw with the babies. She is so pure and natural in the way she cares for children. Unerring instinct and experience and maturity are formidable and artistic things to watch when they combine in a person, especially a person one loves dearly. She is anti-technique. She is poetry with an infant in each arm. She is MeeMaw.

Speaking of infants, we were very glad that the babies were able to pretty much roam and play at will without injury during their stay. It’s so easy for babies to get into the wrong sort of situation, even if one is watching them closely (I am confident that MeeMaw, Karen, and Moo-Moo can all attest to the truth of this statement). Such providential safety was not the case with a young lad who visited the local ER recently. Take a look at his nose:













And of course, the cause of his injury was quite interesting:

It occurs to me that Joshi-O and Moo-Moo may feel “out of the loop” when I write about Jason&Karen and the twins’ visit. Please don’t feel this way. There’s no way we can express how much we’re looking forward to y’all’s (eventual) visit. And since J&M missed out on the visit with J&K and the twins, here’s a strikingly accurate transcript of a recent typical evening with the six of us here at Possum Cough:



PeePaw: They say it might snow tonight.

Jason: Wow.

MeeMaw: I made a cake, if anyone wants any.

Jason: Wow.

Karen: Cake? How fun!

PeePaw (scowling): Hrrmph.

MeeMaw: Jason, how do you like the cake?

Jason: Mmm. ‘S good.

PeePaw (squinting): I think one of the babies just threw up on Butternut.

MeeMaw: Oh, no.

Jason: Wow.

Karen: Did it get on the floor?

PeePaw (scowling): No, just on the cat.

Karen: Kyooot!

Jason: Anyone want to play a game?

PeePaw: We don’t have any games.

Jason: But –

PeePaw (scowling): I said we aint’ got none. Let’s talk. Did anyone read about the government plot to take our –

MeeMaw: Let’s talk about something uplifting, okay?

Jason: Tiddly Winks? Tic-Tac-Toe? Anything?

PeePaw (scowling): Hrmph.

Karen: I got the babies cleaned up.

MeeMaw: And I got Butternut cleaned up.

Jason: Wow.

PeePaw: We could watch a movie.

Jason: Great! Do you have “The Dark Knight?”

PeePaw: Nope.

Jason: How about “Ratatouille?”

PeePaw (scowling): Nope.

Jason: How about “Wall-E?”

PeePaw (scowling and purple): Nope.

Jason: How about something with an Ewok in it?

PeePaw: How about something [mumbled, unintelligible]…

Jason: What’d you say?

PeePaw: Nothing. Not a frikkin’ thing.

Jason: Wow.

Karen: Fun!

MeeMaw: PeePaw!

PeePaw (scowling and bewildered): What?

Ruth: Uh-oh!

Karen: Kyoooot!

Rhiannon: What-ta!

Jason: Wow.

MeeMaw: I’ll go fix supper.

Butternut: Chomp!

PeePaw: Son of a – !

Karen: How fun!

Jason: Wow.

MeeMaw: PeePaw, you’re bleeding!

Karen: Kyooot! And it matches the kitchen!

PeePaw: I’ll go bandage it.

Jason: I’ll put in a movie while you’re doing that.

PeePaw (scowling) Which movie?

Jason: One I brought with us. It’s a cartoon documentary about superheroes who battle against evil robots who are trying to conquer the world with Pictionary and Cranium.

Karen: Fun!

MeeMaw: Yes. Yes, “fun” would be the word.

PeePaw (bleeding and scowling): I’d use a different word.

Ruth: Uh-oh!

MeeMaw: I’ll make nachos!

Karen: How fun! I’ll help!

Jason: Wow.

Rhiannon: Bye-bye.



One other thing about J&K’s visit…I noticed that neither of you asked about the baggie of green herbal substance that was in the cupboard by the drinking glasses. For your information – in case you’d wondered and were afraid to ask – that was catnip. For the cats. Perfectly legal, you understand.








This is, of course, in stark contrast to the green herbal substance that I occasionally kept at hand during my senior year in high school. Did I ever tell y’all about my dog, the one who accidentally found and consumed my special little herbal treat? I just happened to have my Kodak nearby.














These days, if I were still indulging in such behavior, I’d get the law called on me quicker for letting the dog get into the stash than for actually having the stash.

MeeMaw and I were talking about old gas stations one night while J&K and the twins were here. I found some fine photos of old stations out in West Texas, land of MeeMaw and other notable and noble Texans. I can recall taking great delight in jumping up and down on the air hose at such old stations when I was a boy, listening to the “ding!” and waiting for the mechanic to holler at me to quit my foolishness.

I’ll veer off here and ask for y’all to remember my Mother in your prayers. She is not doing well at all. The situation with my sister and the legalities continues to be a daunting and maddening one. Mother is slowly slipping away from us, I think. The last few times I’ve talked to her (two nights ago was the most recent conversation), she was confused and almost frantic with sadness. My heart is like cinders with preparatory grief as I am forced at this point to watch while she flickers and fades. I think of the deep joy she derived from cooking and housekeeping, and I know that she will never again prepare me a meal, never again wash dishes, never again make her own cup of coffee. Finality and loss are two foes that every one of us confronts, some sooner than others.

So please pray.

We have big (some might say too big) plans for the farm. Things for the very near future include:

Completing the compost pile (and a BIG thank-you to Jason for the load of manure he hauled for me. We’re faithfully using proper table scraps, etc, and I think it’s going to be a good one.

Digging dirt for the raised beds. I’m going to dig it myself instead of paying for expensive (and questionable) soil from somewhere else. It’ll be hard work, but I’m committed to it. By the time I finish digging, I may have a sizeable working duck pond (for possible waterfowl, but probably not this year), sans H2O. I’m building a screener with a 2X4 frame and chicken wire (or “poultry netting,” as the metrosexual nancy-boys now call it) to screen the numerous rocks from the soil as I dig it. I’ll likely have a big pile of rocks by the end of the project, too. I’m sure they’ll come in handy at some point.

Plowing part of the south pasture. This is the high field where Shorty and Domino (donkey and horse) are currently homesteading. Gabriel has offered to plow it for me. Since we’re going to have raised beds near the house (out by the yard barn), we don’t need a huge part of it plowed up. What we plan to do is put the big crops up there: potatoes, a little bit of corn, and a bunch of mangle beets.

Why mangle beets, PeePaw? We thought you hated beets.

I do. I absolutely detest beets in any form. But mangle beets are a very hardy, very LARGE variety of beet that chickens and goats both happen to love. I’ve read a lot on the topic, and homesteaders agree that one can save a considerable sum in feed costs by growing mangles and feeding them to the chickens and goats. Herrick Kimball was the first person I recall reading on the subject. And some say that the beet's greens are delicious. Since I’m a big greens fan, I’ll likely give them a try. MeeMaw will likely decline, as she always does when I cook greens.


Cleaning the goat shed. We started calling that rustic structure “the goat shed” from day one, not yet realizing that it really would one day be the home for a couple of caprine friends. We plan to get two does, then breed (or AI) at least one of ‘em so she’ll produce milk, and then we can sell any kids that are produced. We don’t want a big herd, just a couple of milkers. Probably Nubians, we’re thinking. In addition to drinking the raw milk, I'd like to give cheese-making a try, and MeeMaw plans to make goat-milk soap. Good stuff. Anyway, on the shed… I need to make a couple of runs to the dump to clear out some trash. Then, after I reorganize the yard barn, I can put most of my tools and yard implements in there, leaving the goat shed for, well, goats. I need to reroof it and repour the concrete apron and patch a few holes in the wall, but it’s basically a very sound structure. I also have to put up doors and cattle panels for window screens.


Speaking of cattle panels, here’s an amusing anecdote. At my office, we celebrate everyone’s birthday in turn. So as a staff member’s birthday nears, he (or, more routinely, she) posts a “wish list” on the ‘fridge in the kitchen. For mine, I put up “gift certificate from either Lowe’s or Tractor Supply or Scott County Farm Co-Op,” since I really need to buy several cattle panels to beef up the fencing in the area where the goats will live. Cattle panels are heavy welded wire panels, four feet tall by sixteen feet long. They’re great for fencing, and much easier to install than a stretched woven wire fence (which goats can tear up pretty quickly anyway). Our office manager Lisa overheard me saying to someone that I wanted to use my birthday gift money or certificate to buy cattle panels. She mis-heard me. The next day, she approached our receptionist and said, “Listen…why on earth would PeePaw be wanting to buy cattle panties?”

Cattle panties.

I will never, ever let Lisa live this down. And I will likely never live down the reputation as being something of a farmish weirdo. Victoria’s Secret For Caprines. There’s money to be made, boys.

Building a chicken coop. Mother Earth News sent me some great plans for free, just because I signed up for their e-newsletter. I can modify this and save some money. I’m going to use my old camper top from my truck as the “house” part. We plan to have between six and eight chickens. Perhaps someday we’ll invest in meat birds, but for now, we’re interested in the eggs. Before we go the meat route, I need to brush up on my chicken butchering skills. Y’all remind me sometime, and I’ll tell you about my grandmother’s malevolent rooster and my first experience with butchering a chicken.

Setting up a beehive. This is a deeply personal thing for me. I have an innate fondness for honeybees, always have. And I have followed closely the recent scare with colony collapse disorder (CCD). Just today, I read a report that imported Australian bees may be carrying a mite that’s at least partially responsible for the CCD. For us, I plan to order Italian bees. They are reputed to be gentle and easy to work with, as well as being fond of tulip poplar blossoms (which our driveway has in abundance). This is a learning experience that I am looking forward to with great enthusiasm.

Time for a self-centered and self-serving digression. A couple of years ago, I completed a poem in which I used honeybees and CCD to make some observations about current trends in this life. For a while, the poem was featured on a friend's website. Here's the poem:

Colony Collapse

I pick my way more gingerly these days
In the sun, watching my feet as I
Tramp among cool clover, the nodding heads
Sparser than before, and I squint
For the flighted jewels with the sweet

Saddlebags on their legs. Have you heard
That their numbers are diminishing?
Where once we found raging orchestras
Now we pull silent drawers from the
Barren boxes, tombstones staggered all

Along the hills that once were home-steady
And ours. Where have they gone, and are
They yet missed, and doesn’t blame belong
At someone’s intruding feet? I want answers,
But I will settle for poetry and the astonishment

Of the newly-awake, the freshly-aware.
Where from, then? Muscled off a Jamestown
Pilgrim-packet centuries ago, and right
Into their orchard calling, they helped every
Harvest. But such help is waning, winging

Toward a new hidden place, or
Perhaps to the humless end. Or could
It be that they waxed tired of all their gold
Taken for granted, and followed a sun-decree
To deprive the gluttonous harvesters, most of

Whose foul brood hate them for the sting
They carry – praise His gifts! – and because
More depends on them than the takers confess.
So who will miss them, besides my kind? The African
Breed will drape and kill you for the mere

Approach to their dim nests – who swats against
Their ill? I want answers, but I’ll settle
For poetry and consistent truth. And now
I walk with care, not willing that any should perish,
But that each striped buzzer would do his holy

Work, hovering above the wasted white
Flowers whose stems sink down to blasphemy’s roots.
I am watching them leave, watching for
The last unborn light in a box
Of beeswax candles, the last silky drop

Of honeyed tea, the last winged memory
Of what they brought and what they did and how
They streamed out from the hushed hives to dance
To the sun’s praise and sing a bit
And fall to passing earth like fathers’ knees.


~ copyright 2007 by S.K. Orr

And so to conclude the description of the farm plans...

Fencing off the back yard from the front yard with decorative fencing. This is not just for aesthetic appeal; we have a secondary motive. As soon as we have some “containing” fence up, we’re going to seriously look for a puppy. We need a good working dog here, a companion animal who will help alert us to the presence of intruders and varmits, especially the predatory coyotes we have in this area (to say nothing of the black bears reported to be roaming in the Clinch Mountains just south of us). We don’t want to invest time and $$ in gardens, goats, chickens, and bees, just to watch some mammalian marauder make off with our increase. We’ll also be stocking up on shotgun shells.

God’s sweetest blessings to you all, loved ones. Rest well.

ps [at 5:17 pm]...it's snowing here.