November 28, 2005. It was a windy, muddy walk down to the stands for the first day of Pennsylvania’s whitetail deer rifle season. The temperature rose overnight, and the random patches of snow on the field edges had shrunk by half. In the woods, the more-or-less solid snow cover of last evening, which promised outstanding visibility, had become patchy at best.
The stand felt solid under my feet after yesterday’s repairs. Yes, I guess we’re no better than those last-minute hunters who wait until the day before the season to fire their rifles to check the sighting, alerting every deer for miles around that it’s time to go stealthy. In our case, it was trying to fix the effects of a year’s worth of wind and rain and sun and cows on our two favorite home-built stands. Dom, though, is a wizard at impromptu fixes, and with the come-along, some chain, a couple hands-full of nails and some random pieces of weathered 2x4’s, the two stands were more-or-less vertical, solid, and safe to hunt for at least the next two weeks.
The stand I hunt is the hottest corner on the farm proper — where deer funnel up from the bottom, and down and up from the mountain in the evening, and around which they trickle back up to the mountain and down to the swamp at daybreak. It was always Dom’s son’s stand, but when he is not here — all of bow season, and lately rifle season, too — yours truly, Dom’s enthusiastic protégé, is given the privilege of waiting there for the deer to appear. I took my first deer ever with a bow from that stand, and a nice buck with a bow, and various does with rifle and bow.
It was still full dark when I settled in at 6:10, 50 minutes from dawn, and the air was damp and thick. There would be no sunrise this morning. After the darkness lightened a bit, I snapped the clip of four .270 Winchester shells into my rifle, and waited. With a little more light, I chambered a round, clicked the safety on, and waited. A little more light, and I flipped the covers up off of the scope, turned the dial from the 3x setting I used for the close-in brush hunting at Sweet Surrender, to 9x for maximum magnification across the open field. I waited some more.
By now it was light enough to see as far as I was going to see this morning, which was not far at all. There was a persistent wind off the mountain, from the East, and as it blew the fog across the fields it looked like blowing snow. I would have preferred blowing snow to this muddy dampness with droplets splatting off the trees. The thick atmosphere made it as quiet as I think it’s ever been for me for hunting. No motor sounds, no human sounds at all, just the plop of water droplets and the wind hissing in the trees. It could have been an ancient hunt on a primordial hilltop, the timeless pursuit of food and clothing and survival, matching wits with wary prey at the upper end of the food chain, but for beautifully engineered Swiss masterpiece of cold steel and polished wood resting on my lap.
The scraping and chirping of a flock of turkeys echoed through the fog. Eventually, a lone hen took to low flight and landed halfway between me and the patch of woods that separated Dom’s treestand from mine. She seemed to be involuntarily separated from her flock, and spent much time calling. She worked her way down to and around the pond and eventually disappeared, evidently rejoining the flock and moving off into the silent woods.
The temperature warmed, but the fog never lifted. It was a morning of few rifle shots. Over the course of two and a half hours, I counted just ten, including those from an obvious distance. How many would ring out on a “normal” opening day? 30? 40?
After a while, Dom left his stand, crossed the field, and went into the woods, up the rise to where we leaned a ladder stand last year. He was caught by surprise by a lone buck, and couldn’t get a shot off. I didn’t see one deer.
Clearly, the deer held the day this morning. All the better for this evening, if this fog lifts and the rain holds off. That was the first morning of the first day of rifle season in the Laurel Highlands of southwestern Pennsylvania.
*******
Later… The fog lay thicker and thicker all day long, and didn’t budge by afternoon hunting time. Visibility was 50 yards at best. Dom decided to hunt nearby, straight behind the house at the edge of the woods that lead up to the mountain. I opted for the ladder stand where he saw the buck this morning, since 50 yards is as far as you could see in there even without any fog. It is at a spot where I used to climb to hunt with the bow, 50 yards in from the field, at the crest of a hillock where several game trails cross. Back when deer were plentiful, that patch just before the field used to be a staging area, where a number of deer would pause and browse and make sure there was no danger before they entered the open. Now, with deer more scarce than ever here, not much staging gets done. There was, however, an active trail directly in front of the stand, which was very evident last night when there was snow on the ground.
It is a magical perch. High in the trees, looking down an open glade to the right, and into thicker stands ahead and to the left, the air was thick and damp. Though the wind was gustier than earlier, and the droplets fell incessantly from the branches onto the sodden leaves below, there was an almost sacred silence and stillness — an open air cathedral and I was the lone worshiper.
It was no wonder, though, that nothing came. If I were a prey species, I would think more than twice about going out on a night like this. 100% humidity and swirling, erratic winds made scenting predators impossible; the constant splattering of drops on the forest floor and wind in the treetops masked all other sounds; and the fog rendered the range of vision dangerously short. Yes, I imagine a dense thicket felt pretty good to a deer tonight. But hopefully, the rumblings of their stomachs will make them move tomorrow.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Season Opener: Maryland
November 26, 2005. Dawn broke cool and clear on the first morning of the Maryland whitetail deer season. It was chilly but not frigid and the sky turned beautifully purple as the sun broke the horizon. Dom and Steve were in their usual stand in the narrow treeline that marked the northern edge of the property. Little Dom was in the Eagle’s Nest, perched high where two treelines intersected at the center of the farm. I was in the bow stand I built two seasons ago, on the southern perimeter, on a corner between two fields; my shots would be either be just into the edge of the eastern field, or in the trees.
This was my first hunt of the year. I missed the entire early bow season, mostly because of moving plus work and other life-evolving experiences. I hadn’t yet become at ease in the trees and field again, had not become attuned to the breathing of the woods, had not memorized the various weeds and shrubs that formed dark deer-like shapes in the distance. The clattering of water over rocks and the erratic scamper of squirrels on the dry leaves still were mistaken for footsteps. Nonetheless, I settled into my perch high above the forest floor, and felt at home.
This was the third year of our tenuous new tradition — tenuous because of the uncertain access to hunting ground here in Maryland. This year, though I gave up the house at Sweet Surrender, Scott still leased the hunting rights to me. Hopefully, there will be more years. But today, rather than simply walking out the back door, we had to make the 15-minute drive from Uniontown and don our gear from the trucks. Small price to pay for exclusive access to 120 not-bad hunting acres. (Exclusive, that is, except for the trespassers; as one of the three bears noted, someone’s been hunting in my treestand, and was rude enough to steal my bow hooks.)
The first deer I saw were three small ones crossing in the greenway mid-way into the field. They were relaxed and looked like they might work their way toward me, until a shot rang in the not-too-far distance. They disappeared into the treeline, and soon I saw them b-lining across the neighbor’s back field.
Shortly after, I heard footsteps close, and a lone deer was working its way by me through the trees. It was small but not too small, and close. It would have been a not-bad bow shot. I turned and put the crosshairs behind its shoulder, waited for the pause, and then dropped her (actually, him as it turned out, a button buck). A clean, instant kill. A blessing.
There were a few shots here and there in all directions. Before long, movement caught my eye in the corner of the treeline. It looked like the first three had circled around and come back the other way. I turned around to face them. It was thicker where they were; I waited for one to clear the brush and tree trunks, and shot. Some took off to the left, and the one I shot jumped and went off to the right. I saw three run back through the neighbor’s field again; either the original three had picked up a fourth, or it was a new group of four, or I had missed completely.
I waited for another half-hour or so, and then climbed down. I went to the tree I marked when I shot and circled around a couple times. It didn’t look good; not a drop of blood. I circled a little further; still no blood. So I started walking in the direction I thought she went, and within a few yards spotted bright red blood. The trail was solid and short. I could see the deer twenty yards away. Another button buck. The freezer would have some good meat in it now.
As I was walking up the field, Steve called to say Dom had gotten a 6-point. I retrieved the lawn tractor and cart, which I hadn’t moved yet (obviously) and made the rounds to pick up the deer. Not a bad morning’s hunt.
Steve left before the afternoon hunt. The two Dom’s hunted the north-edge treestand, and I went back to my bowstand. After a while I heard a shot, and shortly after, Dom called and said there were two more, did I want another one? I decided not. Little Dom had shot a little doe. I saw nothing that evening but a beautiful crimson sunset. It was a good day’s hunt.
This was my first hunt of the year. I missed the entire early bow season, mostly because of moving plus work and other life-evolving experiences. I hadn’t yet become at ease in the trees and field again, had not become attuned to the breathing of the woods, had not memorized the various weeds and shrubs that formed dark deer-like shapes in the distance. The clattering of water over rocks and the erratic scamper of squirrels on the dry leaves still were mistaken for footsteps. Nonetheless, I settled into my perch high above the forest floor, and felt at home.
This was the third year of our tenuous new tradition — tenuous because of the uncertain access to hunting ground here in Maryland. This year, though I gave up the house at Sweet Surrender, Scott still leased the hunting rights to me. Hopefully, there will be more years. But today, rather than simply walking out the back door, we had to make the 15-minute drive from Uniontown and don our gear from the trucks. Small price to pay for exclusive access to 120 not-bad hunting acres. (Exclusive, that is, except for the trespassers; as one of the three bears noted, someone’s been hunting in my treestand, and was rude enough to steal my bow hooks.)
The first deer I saw were three small ones crossing in the greenway mid-way into the field. They were relaxed and looked like they might work their way toward me, until a shot rang in the not-too-far distance. They disappeared into the treeline, and soon I saw them b-lining across the neighbor’s back field.
Shortly after, I heard footsteps close, and a lone deer was working its way by me through the trees. It was small but not too small, and close. It would have been a not-bad bow shot. I turned and put the crosshairs behind its shoulder, waited for the pause, and then dropped her (actually, him as it turned out, a button buck). A clean, instant kill. A blessing.
There were a few shots here and there in all directions. Before long, movement caught my eye in the corner of the treeline. It looked like the first three had circled around and come back the other way. I turned around to face them. It was thicker where they were; I waited for one to clear the brush and tree trunks, and shot. Some took off to the left, and the one I shot jumped and went off to the right. I saw three run back through the neighbor’s field again; either the original three had picked up a fourth, or it was a new group of four, or I had missed completely.
I waited for another half-hour or so, and then climbed down. I went to the tree I marked when I shot and circled around a couple times. It didn’t look good; not a drop of blood. I circled a little further; still no blood. So I started walking in the direction I thought she went, and within a few yards spotted bright red blood. The trail was solid and short. I could see the deer twenty yards away. Another button buck. The freezer would have some good meat in it now.
As I was walking up the field, Steve called to say Dom had gotten a 6-point. I retrieved the lawn tractor and cart, which I hadn’t moved yet (obviously) and made the rounds to pick up the deer. Not a bad morning’s hunt.
Steve left before the afternoon hunt. The two Dom’s hunted the north-edge treestand, and I went back to my bowstand. After a while I heard a shot, and shortly after, Dom called and said there were two more, did I want another one? I decided not. Little Dom had shot a little doe. I saw nothing that evening but a beautiful crimson sunset. It was a good day’s hunt.
Saturday, October 29, 2005
First Post From Uniontown
Your patience, gentle reader, in this transition to my next phase is greatly appreciated. A week ago Tuesday, I moved my residence to Uniontown, Maryland, proudly listed on the National Register of Historic Places. My new home is the Susan Brown house, circa 1861 — just (or already) two years old when General Winfield Hancock bivouacked his troops here en route to the battle of Gettysburg.
Historic, indeed. I am fast becoming the poster boy for This Old House. Before moving, it was a new septic system. Then, I made a significant contribution to my friendly painter's fall business to get the upstairs shutters, window frames, trim, and roof painted. Then the plumber. Then the carpenter to replace several rotted German lap siding boards on the new section in the back (where the former Summer kitchen was incorporated into the main house as kitchen, family room and laundry). Then the plumber to get the downstairs heat back. Now the carpenter again to replace some of the rotted elbows in the downspouts. Etc., etc.
You who have followed these sporatic posts can guess how bittersweet the move is from Sweet Surrender in Taneytown. From unusually low ceilings to generously high. From vinyl siding and sheet rock to double-thick brick and horsehair plaster. From unlimited vistas, ample gardens, and walk-0ut-your-backdoor hunting to...well, 1/3 acre. (Sigh.) Yet, I can do as much garden here as there (especially now, with tabula rasa from back door all 75 yards to the back property line, thanks to the septic contractor). You get a pretty good view of the stars here, and there's certainly plenty of green. The town itself, a hamlet really, is just one house-lined street of perhaps 40 houses, with farms on all sides. A short walk up the street to the hilltop cemetery promises exquisite views of the sunset over the Catoctin Mountains — better even than Taneytown. And this season at least, I can still hunt Sweet Surrender, if I ever get any time.
Now, if only I can get out from under this sea of boxes! It is an exercise in surrender. I want it done now. But I'm still doing the final clean-up in T-town, and paying the price in work for taking a week off to move. All in time, I suppose, all in time. More regular posts will be coming again, I promise.
Historic, indeed. I am fast becoming the poster boy for This Old House. Before moving, it was a new septic system. Then, I made a significant contribution to my friendly painter's fall business to get the upstairs shutters, window frames, trim, and roof painted. Then the plumber. Then the carpenter to replace several rotted German lap siding boards on the new section in the back (where the former Summer kitchen was incorporated into the main house as kitchen, family room and laundry). Then the plumber to get the downstairs heat back. Now the carpenter again to replace some of the rotted elbows in the downspouts. Etc., etc.
You who have followed these sporatic posts can guess how bittersweet the move is from Sweet Surrender in Taneytown. From unusually low ceilings to generously high. From vinyl siding and sheet rock to double-thick brick and horsehair plaster. From unlimited vistas, ample gardens, and walk-0ut-your-backdoor hunting to...well, 1/3 acre. (Sigh.) Yet, I can do as much garden here as there (especially now, with tabula rasa from back door all 75 yards to the back property line, thanks to the septic contractor). You get a pretty good view of the stars here, and there's certainly plenty of green. The town itself, a hamlet really, is just one house-lined street of perhaps 40 houses, with farms on all sides. A short walk up the street to the hilltop cemetery promises exquisite views of the sunset over the Catoctin Mountains — better even than Taneytown. And this season at least, I can still hunt Sweet Surrender, if I ever get any time.
Now, if only I can get out from under this sea of boxes! It is an exercise in surrender. I want it done now. But I'm still doing the final clean-up in T-town, and paying the price in work for taking a week off to move. All in time, I suppose, all in time. More regular posts will be coming again, I promise.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Sedum Spectacular
One of the few things that thrived in this drought; propogated by Mom from a cutting. She has more started, so I guess I'll leave this one in Taneytown and bring a new one to Uniontown.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Friday, September 16, 2005
Yes.
"The greatest gift my friendship can give to you is the gift of your Belovedness. I can give that gift only insofar as I have claimed it for myself. Isn't that what friendship is all about: giving to each other the gift of our Belovedness?"
--Henri J.M. Nouwen, Life of the Beloved
Heaven?
"It is significant that in most ancient civilizations and religions, the life hereafter and the place of eternal happiness are depicted as gardens. In the ancient cultures, the basic ingredients of the earthly paradise are the same: plants that flower and fruit, shade that protects, and water that cools and irrigates."
Garden Design
Douglas et al
Douglas et al
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Spoken Words
"I like not only to be loved, but also to be told that I am loved . . . the realm of silence is large enough beyond the grave."
— George Eliot
Thursday, September 01, 2005
Why I Wear My Watch "Upside Down"
This, from drweil.com:
"Feel like your memory is getting worse with every passing birthday? It happens to all of us as we age, but a growing body of medical evidence suggests that lifelong stimulation is the key to building brain cells, staving off memory loss and maybe even preventing Alzheimer's disease. Research has found that doing interesting work (paid or volunteer), pursuing hobbies and engaging in an active social life can help. Try challenging yourself with music, language lessons, or a new computer program; plan a trip with friends; or just hunker down with a good crossword puzzle this weekend - anything that makes you think in different ways is challenging for the brain - and beneficial to your memory. And while you're at it, do it all with a smile. Studies show that a positive emotional state is also good for your brain."
"Feel like your memory is getting worse with every passing birthday? It happens to all of us as we age, but a growing body of medical evidence suggests that lifelong stimulation is the key to building brain cells, staving off memory loss and maybe even preventing Alzheimer's disease. Research has found that doing interesting work (paid or volunteer), pursuing hobbies and engaging in an active social life can help. Try challenging yourself with music, language lessons, or a new computer program; plan a trip with friends; or just hunker down with a good crossword puzzle this weekend - anything that makes you think in different ways is challenging for the brain - and beneficial to your memory. And while you're at it, do it all with a smile. Studies show that a positive emotional state is also good for your brain."
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Nothing ventured...
Our doubts are traitors,
And make us lose the good we oft might win
By fearing to attempt.
And make us lose the good we oft might win
By fearing to attempt.
—William Shakespeare
Thursday, August 25, 2005
He's baaaaack!
Not me, but someone much more important. I had occasion to roust extra early this morning, before the sun, and when I went outside, there he was: Orion rising majestically in the pink-and-azure eastern sky, shoulders straight and strong, bow at the ready. How quickly this summer is passing! The kids are on their way back from Bermuda and California, and will start school next Wednesday. Next Wednesday, I'll have the keys to my new-old house, and a whole new chapter will begin.
The tomatoes are still coming in. I was pleased to have the green zebras again, to add zing to the summer salads. My new favorite now, though, is the pineapple: yellow streaked with red, and oh so mild and sweet!
This night-time chill and Orion remind me to savor the peach pies I've been making by the pair every weekend, before they soon turn to apple. I have my PA hunting license, and the doe tag should be here any day. Two weeks left still to pick up my MD license. I think it's time to start some daily shooting!
The tomatoes are still coming in. I was pleased to have the green zebras again, to add zing to the summer salads. My new favorite now, though, is the pineapple: yellow streaked with red, and oh so mild and sweet!
This night-time chill and Orion remind me to savor the peach pies I've been making by the pair every weekend, before they soon turn to apple. I have my PA hunting license, and the doe tag should be here any day. Two weeks left still to pick up my MD license. I think it's time to start some daily shooting!
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Who has time to blog?
Lately, I like to sit on the porch swing (which daughter just stained/sealed to earn spending money for her various vacations; what a lovely rich dark color now) and watch the pears hang on the pear tree. They are lovely shaped and green, framed by their elongated leaves. I hope to harvest some before they over-ripen and fall and attract hordes of bees. It seems to be a good year for pears.
Last evening, spent a small fortune outfitting son for his 12-day Outward Bound trek in the high Sierras. Not much time for him to break in those hiking boots, but so it goes.
It's that mid-season, I'm-so-behind time in the garden. The tomato harvest is a dam waiting to burst. The weeds have gotten the upper hand. Much of the vegetable garden needs to be pulled, cleaned, and turned. And I can hardly keep up cutting the zinnias, dahlias, glads, sunflowers, and miscellaneous other beauties. The bounty of summer!
So who has time to blog, when there's pears to watch hang? I gotta mow...
Last evening, spent a small fortune outfitting son for his 12-day Outward Bound trek in the high Sierras. Not much time for him to break in those hiking boots, but so it goes.
It's that mid-season, I'm-so-behind time in the garden. The tomato harvest is a dam waiting to burst. The weeds have gotten the upper hand. Much of the vegetable garden needs to be pulled, cleaned, and turned. And I can hardly keep up cutting the zinnias, dahlias, glads, sunflowers, and miscellaneous other beauties. The bounty of summer!
So who has time to blog, when there's pears to watch hang? I gotta mow...
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Monday, July 25, 2005
True Happiness
True happiness, we are told, consists in getting out of one's self, but the point is not only to get out you must stay out; and to stay out you must have some absorbing errand.
– Henry James
Friday, July 15, 2005
Hosta to the rescue
Every garden has a problem area it seems, and mine is the spot closest to the house. The hollyhock experiment worked well — beautiful flowers, although the leaves were decimated by insects. And the columbine under the pin oak is thriving, too. But after pulling the third flush of nettles that threatened to drown the rest of the area, I figured it was time to do something about it.
I declared a three-foot Weed-Free Zone (WFZ) along the length of the narrow walk (with the help of landscape cloth). Then I planted nine hostas (three varieties), on sale from Dana’s, my new favorite nursery in Littlestown, all in a neat, measured row. Finished with a heavy layer of mulch, and an impromptu bamboo border fence. Bamboo is a theme in this year’s garden, one that I like a lot.
So one-third at least of that problem is solved. I’m glad I bit the bullet and went for the hostas; I am a borderline garden snob sometimes, and hosta is one of those plants that many consider pedestrian. But I’ve had them before, and they can be quite striking in bloom, and certainly pull their weight in civilized greenery as a low border plant. In this kind of service, I think of them as a sort of working man’s boxwood.
Now I will have to relocate some of the herbs again; the spot is just too damp for the lavender, and my prized santolina is simply misplaced. Stay tuned…
Coming soon: Photos of some exciting new blooms, including my favorite new discovery, peacock orchid (speaking of peacocks, had four of the real thing strutting through the yard this morning).
I declared a three-foot Weed-Free Zone (WFZ) along the length of the narrow walk (with the help of landscape cloth). Then I planted nine hostas (three varieties), on sale from Dana’s, my new favorite nursery in Littlestown, all in a neat, measured row. Finished with a heavy layer of mulch, and an impromptu bamboo border fence. Bamboo is a theme in this year’s garden, one that I like a lot.
So one-third at least of that problem is solved. I’m glad I bit the bullet and went for the hostas; I am a borderline garden snob sometimes, and hosta is one of those plants that many consider pedestrian. But I’ve had them before, and they can be quite striking in bloom, and certainly pull their weight in civilized greenery as a low border plant. In this kind of service, I think of them as a sort of working man’s boxwood.
Now I will have to relocate some of the herbs again; the spot is just too damp for the lavender, and my prized santolina is simply misplaced. Stay tuned…
Coming soon: Photos of some exciting new blooms, including my favorite new discovery, peacock orchid (speaking of peacocks, had four of the real thing strutting through the yard this morning).
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Believe it...or not. How much per gallon?
This seems a bit extreme, but who knows? Thanksgiving? His point about negligence is hard to dispute. From today's New York Times:
"Oil supplies will diminish, that's geology," said Kenneth S. Deffeyes, a professor emeritus of geology at Princeton University and the author of "Beyond Oil: The View From Hubbert's Peak" (Hill & Wang, 2005). Professor Deffeyes predicts that global oil production will reach its peak around Thanksgiving Day and decline after that. "The negligence comes from doing nothing about alternative fuels or conservation measures over the past 20 years. Now it is too late. The oil is gone."
"Oil supplies will diminish, that's geology," said Kenneth S. Deffeyes, a professor emeritus of geology at Princeton University and the author of "Beyond Oil: The View From Hubbert's Peak" (Hill & Wang, 2005). Professor Deffeyes predicts that global oil production will reach its peak around Thanksgiving Day and decline after that. "The negligence comes from doing nothing about alternative fuels or conservation measures over the past 20 years. Now it is too late. The oil is gone."
Sunday, July 03, 2005
The Gettysburg Address
On this day in 1863, the battle of Gettysburg came to its bloody conclusion with Pickett's ill-fated charge, following orders from General Robert E. Lee. In November of that year, Abraham Lincoln delivered what I would argue is the most powerful oratory of any American president and indeed, among the greatest in all of human history. Here are the words he scribbled, partly on "Executive Mansion" stationery, and partly on plain lined paper, that shall live on as long as our nation endures.
Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate — we can not consecrate — we can not hallow — this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate — we can not consecrate — we can not hallow — this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
The T-Town Tomato Towers
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Hands-free gardening
I've adopted a new habit: Walking the garden with my hands clasped behind my back. It tames that ceaseless compulsion to pull "just a couple" weeds in passing, and lets me focus on how pretty everything (other than the weeds) is.
Only a gardener would care...
It was a good weekend in the garden, despite the heat. It’s been a while since I’ve had an uncommitted weekend to tend to it (although I’m not complaining), and what a difference it made. I cleaned up “the edges” in the cottage garden, around the gate, the main sidewalk, the back door; pulled everything around the dahlias in preparation for their show of white; somewhat ruthlessly pulled much bergamot, which was taking over every empty space; continued the never-ending trimming of the buddleia; discovered (hopefully) the shoot of the calla lily (white, too) that I thought was a dud; and freshened up the mulch all along the way. About a 1000% difference in the look and feel.
I’m ever impressed with the geometry of garden spaces; the plans I was recently working on, with compass and ruler, were just a tapestry of tangents and intersections, circles and squares…just like life, I suppose. Here on Saturday, I added a small, narrow, linear bed along the side of the chicken yard that marks the passage from cottage garden/dining space to the production garden/fire space, and planted it with foxglove (for next year’s bloom). What an amazing effect that little bed has. It pulls you right into the production garden, and straight to the central angel.
In that garden, the tomatoes, peppers, and beans are taking off. Started picking peas, beets, and turnips. Most of the lettuce, except for the red heads, is bolting. Cauliflower and broccoli are all done. Already(?) scanning the catalogs for fall planting.
Daughter helped me to put cages around the last eight tomato plants tonight (more on the first eight tomorrow). It was way too late, they were way too big, but we got them on.
By this time it was dusk. I lit the torches and lumieres, and we reveled in a veritable ocean of fireflies in the surrounding fields. We dined al fresco on grilled pork chops (Scott’s) and broccoli steamed minutes after it was picked. I suggested that, for something different, we not put our napkins in our laps, but daughter rejected the idea.
All in all, it was just a magical evening. Summertime, and the living is fabulous!
P.S. BTW, three kittens have shown up here (or more likely, were born here). I started feeding them Saturday. Cute white-and-black ones. Need some homes.
P.P.S. The hazard of gardening here in this part of the world, where poison ivy is the next largest crop after soy beans and corn — I have patches of it virtually from head to toe.
I’m ever impressed with the geometry of garden spaces; the plans I was recently working on, with compass and ruler, were just a tapestry of tangents and intersections, circles and squares…just like life, I suppose. Here on Saturday, I added a small, narrow, linear bed along the side of the chicken yard that marks the passage from cottage garden/dining space to the production garden/fire space, and planted it with foxglove (for next year’s bloom). What an amazing effect that little bed has. It pulls you right into the production garden, and straight to the central angel.
In that garden, the tomatoes, peppers, and beans are taking off. Started picking peas, beets, and turnips. Most of the lettuce, except for the red heads, is bolting. Cauliflower and broccoli are all done. Already(?) scanning the catalogs for fall planting.
Daughter helped me to put cages around the last eight tomato plants tonight (more on the first eight tomorrow). It was way too late, they were way too big, but we got them on.
By this time it was dusk. I lit the torches and lumieres, and we reveled in a veritable ocean of fireflies in the surrounding fields. We dined al fresco on grilled pork chops (Scott’s) and broccoli steamed minutes after it was picked. I suggested that, for something different, we not put our napkins in our laps, but daughter rejected the idea.
All in all, it was just a magical evening. Summertime, and the living is fabulous!
P.S. BTW, three kittens have shown up here (or more likely, were born here). I started feeding them Saturday. Cute white-and-black ones. Need some homes.
P.P.S. The hazard of gardening here in this part of the world, where poison ivy is the next largest crop after soy beans and corn — I have patches of it virtually from head to toe.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Unrelated thoughts
Something I overheard recently:
"Take the leap, and grow your wings on the way down."
Something that occured to me recently:
There's a big difference between really caring about someone and just caring about how someone makes you feel.
"Take the leap, and grow your wings on the way down."
Something that occured to me recently:
There's a big difference between really caring about someone and just caring about how someone makes you feel.
Saturday, June 25, 2005
Today...
"The dance of a Summer day calls my steps; may I respond to the rhythm and melody of its music."
– Caitlin Matthews
Friday, June 24, 2005
Worth
"It is a piece of great good luck to deal with someone who values you at your true worth."
– Baltasar GracianAnother Season's Change
The garden has kicked into official summer gear. Harvested lots of lettuce, strawberries (though I ate few myself, and the June-bearers seem to have choked out the ever-bearers), broccoli, cauliflower. Everything is taking off. Soon, the house will be lush with fresh bouquets.
Meantime, I’ve gathered up and shelved all the poetry books from my bedside and reading chair. It’s time to stop reading verse and start writing some. It is sure to be bittersweet, perhaps sad, at first, but still optimistic, if only between the lines. There is a core of joy, a (perhaps naïve) belief in surrender to love, and a peace bestowed by values that are well-founded, deeply rooted, and true, that cannot be denied.
Meantime, I’ve gathered up and shelved all the poetry books from my bedside and reading chair. It’s time to stop reading verse and start writing some. It is sure to be bittersweet, perhaps sad, at first, but still optimistic, if only between the lines. There is a core of joy, a (perhaps naïve) belief in surrender to love, and a peace bestowed by values that are well-founded, deeply rooted, and true, that cannot be denied.
Neighbors
I wonder what the neighbors think
of my wandering
shirttail hanging out from my coat
like some robed Persian
zig-zagging through garden and fields
talking
to no one
saying your name
head bent up
toward the stars
I must not seem right
that man who lives alone
they say
with his chickens and dogs
he is some kind
of gardener
you can see his flowers
and tomatoes
all the way from the road
(and you can see cars
parked there too
sometimes at night
and in the early mornings)
he talks to the chickens
and the dogs
and to no one in
particular
if you had to guess
you’d say he seemed
happy
or maybe just a little
cocked
or maybe just
too much
alone
they debate
whether he’s harmless
or dangerous
where he comes from
what he does
in that house
all alone
or maybe they pay him
no mind at all
don’t even notice
his perambulations
or his
bergamot
the Russian sage
that he inherited
or the English cultivar
he planted
maybe they don’t notice
the angels that hover there
or the way the light
of the stars
shines there
or how when he calls
to heaven
heaven answers
and accepts his
sweet surrender
to things that grow
to things that breathe
to things that give
light and lightness
to any willing heart.
of my wandering
shirttail hanging out from my coat
like some robed Persian
zig-zagging through garden and fields
talking
to no one
saying your name
head bent up
toward the stars
I must not seem right
that man who lives alone
they say
with his chickens and dogs
he is some kind
of gardener
you can see his flowers
and tomatoes
all the way from the road
(and you can see cars
parked there too
sometimes at night
and in the early mornings)
he talks to the chickens
and the dogs
and to no one in
particular
if you had to guess
you’d say he seemed
happy
or maybe just a little
cocked
or maybe just
too much
alone
they debate
whether he’s harmless
or dangerous
where he comes from
what he does
in that house
all alone
or maybe they pay him
no mind at all
don’t even notice
his perambulations
or his
bergamot
the Russian sage
that he inherited
or the English cultivar
he planted
maybe they don’t notice
the angels that hover there
or the way the light
of the stars
shines there
or how when he calls
to heaven
heaven answers
and accepts his
sweet surrender
to things that grow
to things that breathe
to things that give
light and lightness
to any willing heart.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Breath Taking
You come and you go
Like the whim of the wind
That reminds me to breathe
Or to resist and
Seek shelter.
Or a gentle breeze
Carrying night perfumes
The sweet scent of nicotiana
And the palpable dampness
of midnight.
And then you disappear
Leaving in your wake
A rustling of leaves
And yearning, only
Yearning.
Like the whim of the wind
That reminds me to breathe
Or to resist and
Seek shelter.
Or a gentle breeze
Carrying night perfumes
The sweet scent of nicotiana
And the palpable dampness
of midnight.
And then you disappear
Leaving in your wake
A rustling of leaves
And yearning, only
Yearning.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Prayer on the Solstice
A new season begins today, Lord...
Bless our garden with blossoms and fruit
Let the butterflies come and
drink their nectar
Let the bees spread the pollen
Bless the soil with sunshine and rain
and warm nights
and not more weeds than we can pull.
Let us harvest with joy and thanksgiving
Your generous bounty.
Help us, Lord, to tend our lives
as a garden —
with gentleness, patience, hard work,
loving care, respect, humility,
and acceptance.
Let us grow to bear the
full fruit of Your Love everyday,
To feed each other
and all of Your creation.
Happy Summer!
Bless our garden with blossoms and fruit
Let the butterflies come and
drink their nectar
Let the bees spread the pollen
Bless the soil with sunshine and rain
and warm nights
and not more weeds than we can pull.
Let us harvest with joy and thanksgiving
Your generous bounty.
Help us, Lord, to tend our lives
as a garden —
with gentleness, patience, hard work,
loving care, respect, humility,
and acceptance.
Let us grow to bear the
full fruit of Your Love everyday,
To feed each other
and all of Your creation.
Happy Summer!
Monday, June 13, 2005
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Garden Rapport
A week of temperatures in the nineties and adequate moisture, and the garden has transformed. Last week, I was selectively thinning lettuce to get enough for a salad; this week, I can’t pick it fast enough. Last week, I was pulling every other beet to use the greens; this week, they are already too big.
The tomato plants have doubled in size and are blossoming. The potatoes are blossoming. The squash seem to grow inches every day. Probably five quarts or more of strawberries so far. And soon, I will pick the first zinnia.
The weeds of course, are having their day as well. I pulled five wheel-barrow loads from the cottage garden alone. So it grows.
The tomato plants have doubled in size and are blossoming. The potatoes are blossoming. The squash seem to grow inches every day. Probably five quarts or more of strawberries so far. And soon, I will pick the first zinnia.
The weeds of course, are having their day as well. I pulled five wheel-barrow loads from the cottage garden alone. So it grows.
Friday, June 10, 2005
Finally, something from Bill...
"There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so."
– William Shakespeare
– William Shakespeare
Thursday, June 09, 2005
When I awake...
When I awake in the morning,
It is either the very next day
after many, many days
Or it is the very first day.
Today, it is the very first day
Of what exists now.
–Twainhart Hill
It is either the very next day
after many, many days
Or it is the very first day.
Today, it is the very first day
Of what exists now.
–Twainhart Hill
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Monday, June 06, 2005
The Last Hafiz...For Now.
AND LOVE SAYS
And love
Says,
"I will, I will take care of you,"
To everything that is
Near.
–Hafiz
Friday, June 03, 2005
Just a few more, Hafiz...
THERE
There
I bow my head—
At the feet of every creature.
This constant submission and homage,
Of kissing God
All over,
Someday,
Every lover will
Do.
Only
There I prostrate myself—
Against the beauty of each form—
For when I bring
My heart close to any object
I always hear the Friend
Say,
"Hafiz, I am
Here."
–Hafiz
There
I bow my head—
At the feet of every creature.
This constant submission and homage,
Of kissing God
All over,
Someday,
Every lover will
Do.
Only
There I prostrate myself—
Against the beauty of each form—
For when I bring
My heart close to any object
I always hear the Friend
Say,
"Hafiz, I am
Here."
–Hafiz
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Kind of Blue
I guess it's by accident, but the first wave of blooms in the garden is dominated by blues and purples. The striking blue Indigo, right on schedule for Memorial Day, salvia, sage, and masses of purple-blue bergamot. For balance, there is a splash of pink and white Columbine (and a blue one), the pink multiflora rose, and white spirea.
Speaking of blue, I have long held that the Miles Davis album, Kind of Blue, is perhaps the greatest single recording in the entire jazz repertoire. Evidently, I'm not far off. I recently heard that the disc, recorded in 1959, still sells some 5,000 copies a week. That's over a quarter-million copies a year, 45 years later. The all-star band features Miles on trumpet, Cannonball Adderly on alto, John Coltrane on tenor, Bill Evans on piano (except for Wynton Kelly on one track), Paul Chamers on bass, and Jimmy Cobb on drums. If you don't own it, you should.
Speaking of blue, I have long held that the Miles Davis album, Kind of Blue, is perhaps the greatest single recording in the entire jazz repertoire. Evidently, I'm not far off. I recently heard that the disc, recorded in 1959, still sells some 5,000 copies a week. That's over a quarter-million copies a year, 45 years later. The all-star band features Miles on trumpet, Cannonball Adderly on alto, John Coltrane on tenor, Bill Evans on piano (except for Wynton Kelly on one track), Paul Chamers on bass, and Jimmy Cobb on drums. If you don't own it, you should.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Epidermis
Skin on skin,
I want to read you.
Skin
hiding wounds,
and storms of tears
becomes a blanket
in the sun.
Your skin
will shout for me.
Blind
in the dark,
you will peruse my body,
your silent fingers
dancing on my flesh.
Sentence
by sentence
you will write and trace
an ancient hieroglyph
of passion.
My skin
will shout for you.
– Hope Maxwell-Snyder
I want to read you.
Skin
hiding wounds,
and storms of tears
becomes a blanket
in the sun.
Your skin
will shout for me.
Blind
in the dark,
you will peruse my body,
your silent fingers
dancing on my flesh.
Sentence
by sentence
you will write and trace
an ancient hieroglyph
of passion.
My skin
will shout for you.
– Hope Maxwell-Snyder
Friday, May 27, 2005
Without Brushing My Hair
The
Closer
I get to you, Beloved
The more I can see
It is just You and I all alone
In this
World.
I hear
A knock at my door,
Who else could it be,
So I rush without brushing
My hair.
For too
Many nights
I have begged for Your
Return
And what
Is the use of vanity
At this late hour, at this divine season,
That has now come to my folded
Knees?
If your love letters are true dear God
I will surrender myself to
Who You keep saying
I
Am.
– Hafiz
Closer
I get to you, Beloved
The more I can see
It is just You and I all alone
In this
World.
I hear
A knock at my door,
Who else could it be,
So I rush without brushing
My hair.
For too
Many nights
I have begged for Your
Return
And what
Is the use of vanity
At this late hour, at this divine season,
That has now come to my folded
Knees?
If your love letters are true dear God
I will surrender myself to
Who You keep saying
I
Am.
– Hafiz
How possibly?
Lord, when I think
How could You possibly bless me more?
You amaze me yet again
And I am left speechless.
I beg Your forgiveness
For ever letting one minute pass
Without proclaiming infinite
Gratitude to You.
How could You possibly bless me more?
You amaze me yet again
And I am left speechless.
I beg Your forgiveness
For ever letting one minute pass
Without proclaiming infinite
Gratitude to You.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Psalm
May all things move and be moved in me
and know and be known in me
May all creation
dance for joy within me!
– Chinook Psalter
and know and be known in me
May all creation
dance for joy within me!
– Chinook Psalter
Monday, May 23, 2005
Seeds Grow Down
Seeds don’t grow the way you expect —
The green sprout breaks through and grows
first down,
not up.
Only after setting that anchor
does it push its husk hat up and
spread those first two leaves
like wings
to shed the hard shell.
As with all things solid
the roots go down first
and only then
can the reaching begin.
The green sprout breaks through and grows
first down,
not up.
Only after setting that anchor
does it push its husk hat up and
spread those first two leaves
like wings
to shed the hard shell.
As with all things solid
the roots go down first
and only then
can the reaching begin.
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Long Ago And Far Away
Long ago and far away
I walked the forest wide and deep
And when I reached the highest mountain
And when I swam the seven seas
And everywhere I turned
There was...
There was
– from Vareki
Cirque du Soleil
I walked the forest wide and deep
And when I reached the highest mountain
And when I swam the seven seas
And everywhere I turned
And everywhere I turned
There was...
yearning
There was
only...
yearning.
– from Vareki
Cirque du Soleil
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Some Nights...
Some nights, stay up till dawn
as the moon sometimes does for the sun.
Be a full bucket pulled up the dark way
of a well, then lifted out into light.
Something opens our wings. Something
makes boredom and hurt disappear.
Someone fills the cup in front of us.
We taste only sacredness.
— Rumi
as the moon sometimes does for the sun.
Be a full bucket pulled up the dark way
of a well, then lifted out into light.
Something opens our wings. Something
makes boredom and hurt disappear.
Someone fills the cup in front of us.
We taste only sacredness.
— Rumi
Friday, May 20, 2005
There Is No Pain
There is no pain
That was not measured
Before coming to you,
Selected like a gift
For your birthday.
How ill-mannered to
Attempt to refuse it.
Send a thank you note instead
Attach it to a leaf
Or the first star your eye lands on
Or give it to me
And I will deliver it personally
To the beloved Sender
And tell that Friend
What a perfect fit it is
How happy you are to receive it
And how you will cherish it always.
That was not measured
Before coming to you,
Selected like a gift
For your birthday.
How ill-mannered to
Attempt to refuse it.
Send a thank you note instead
Attach it to a leaf
Or the first star your eye lands on
Or give it to me
And I will deliver it personally
To the beloved Sender
And tell that Friend
What a perfect fit it is
How happy you are to receive it
And how you will cherish it always.
No Punctuation
I’m not on board
With this “optional” comma
before the “and.”
Let the list be separated:
Yesterday, today, and tomorrow,
Where, when, and how,
This, that, and the other thing,
But not a comma between
me and you
nor anything
period semicolon or dash
With this “optional” comma
before the “and.”
Let the list be separated:
Yesterday, today, and tomorrow,
Where, when, and how,
This, that, and the other thing,
But not a comma between
me and you
nor anything
period semicolon or dash
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Living With Wisdom
For God loves nothing
so much as the person
who lives with wisdom.
She is more beautiful
than the sun, and excels
every constellation
of the stars.
– Solomon 7:28-29
so much as the person
who lives with wisdom.
She is more beautiful
than the sun, and excels
every constellation
of the stars.
– Solomon 7:28-29
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
There Is A Pond
What would I tell you,
dear friend,
to have you know me?
There is a pond
there in the back
across the field
behind the trees
No one knows it’s there
but me, and a few others
who have walked this land
and studied its treasures
If you come in the Spring
though, you will have
some inkling that there
is water behind those trees
You will not see it
you will not smell it
but will hear it in the
voices of tree frogs
calling out to you
luring you with their
sweet spell, sweet voices
calling, asking
“Who are you?”
“Where are you?”
Sirens of the Spring
night and you
cannot resist
No you cannot
resist
the call of
love
the call of
redemption
the call to
leave everything
behind
but your soul
which you carry
with you
always
and
surrender
always
to the sound of
sweet voices
in the night.
dear friend,
to have you know me?
There is a pond
there in the back
across the field
behind the trees
No one knows it’s there
but me, and a few others
who have walked this land
and studied its treasures
If you come in the Spring
though, you will have
some inkling that there
is water behind those trees
You will not see it
you will not smell it
but will hear it in the
voices of tree frogs
calling out to you
luring you with their
sweet spell, sweet voices
calling, asking
“Who are you?”
“Where are you?”
Sirens of the Spring
night and you
cannot resist
No you cannot
resist
the call of
love
the call of
redemption
the call to
leave everything
behind
but your soul
which you carry
with you
always
and
surrender
always
to the sound of
sweet voices
in the night.
Saturday, May 14, 2005
Nothing Theoretical
There is no love apart from the deeds of love; no potentiality of love but that which is manifested in loving.
—Jean-Paul Sartre
—Jean-Paul Sartre
Friday, May 13, 2005
Listen!
Logon to:
www.radioparadise.com
or find it under the "eclectic" tab on iTunes radio. It's one of the best-programmed stations ever. (And I hope that's not just my age talking.)
www.radioparadise.com
or find it under the "eclectic" tab on iTunes radio. It's one of the best-programmed stations ever. (And I hope that's not just my age talking.)
Thursday, May 12, 2005
For Sale, Not By Owner
Well, my book is in fact, available for purchase. Logon here:
http://www.betweenthecovers.com/display.php?id=45565
Pricey, but worth it!
http://www.betweenthecovers.com/display.php?id=45565
Pricey, but worth it!
I'm back!
Your patience, gentle reader, is appreciated! It’s been more busy than usual. Two Saturdays ago was the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, which was a once-in-a-lifetime event, despite the presence of our president. At least Laura did most of the talking. Celebrities that I spotted included Mary Tyler Moore, Goldie Hawn, Richard Shiff, the Williams sisters (Serena and ?), politicos Condaleza Rice and Martin O’Malley, and various news people. Got to shake Jim Lehrer’s hand, and sought out Maureen Dowd to tell her how much I like her New York Times column. Other attendees included Jane Fonda and Richard Gere, but I didn't see them. Oh, and how could I forget? Constantine from American Idol. I did see him, although I would never have known who he was, but he created quite the stir. I'd say he was almost the main event.
Out in the garden, it’s a mixed bag. Planted the third quarter last weekend. Now, in old-fashioned farm terms, a “quarter section” would be 160 acres — the size parcel my sister and her husband started with in the mountains of western Pennsylvania. In Sweet Surrender terms, a quarter section is closer to 160 square feet. The first quarter that I planted, back in early April, is a bust. Other than a few brave lettuce plants, almost none of the seed germinated; too cold and wet. This last section I planted, though, is coming up nicely, so far. We need rain now; I’ve been watering.
Looks like my first-ever strawberry crop will be good, plenty for personal consumption. Next year should be abundant.
The tomatoes are ready to go in, this weekend. I ended up buying some plants, since my starts looked so lame. Went to a nursery I heard about in Littlestown, PA, Dana’s, which was great. A nice little local nursery. They had Green Zebra tomatoes, which are one of my favorites and very difficult to find.
More catching up later…
Out in the garden, it’s a mixed bag. Planted the third quarter last weekend. Now, in old-fashioned farm terms, a “quarter section” would be 160 acres — the size parcel my sister and her husband started with in the mountains of western Pennsylvania. In Sweet Surrender terms, a quarter section is closer to 160 square feet. The first quarter that I planted, back in early April, is a bust. Other than a few brave lettuce plants, almost none of the seed germinated; too cold and wet. This last section I planted, though, is coming up nicely, so far. We need rain now; I’ve been watering.
Looks like my first-ever strawberry crop will be good, plenty for personal consumption. Next year should be abundant.
The tomatoes are ready to go in, this weekend. I ended up buying some plants, since my starts looked so lame. Went to a nursery I heard about in Littlestown, PA, Dana’s, which was great. A nice little local nursery. They had Green Zebra tomatoes, which are one of my favorites and very difficult to find.
More catching up later…
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Friday, April 29, 2005
If it works in Texas...
...why not the rest of the U.S.? This from today's news:
"This week yet another report emphasized just how bad a job the American system does at providing basic health care. A study by the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation estimates that 20 million working Americans are uninsured; in Texas, which has the worst record, more than 30 percent of the adults under 65 have no insurance."
Thirty percent of working-age adults without health coverage. Doesn't seem like a problem there to me. Who was that guy that was governor of Texas? What was his name? Maybe he should get a promotion.
"This week yet another report emphasized just how bad a job the American system does at providing basic health care. A study by the Robert Wood Johnson Foundation estimates that 20 million working Americans are uninsured; in Texas, which has the worst record, more than 30 percent of the adults under 65 have no insurance."
Thirty percent of working-age adults without health coverage. Doesn't seem like a problem there to me. Who was that guy that was governor of Texas? What was his name? Maybe he should get a promotion.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Monday, April 25, 2005
Makin' Bacon
Well, they're here. Duane brought in two little porkers. His daughter will show the better of the two. She named them Mr. and Mrs. Piggly-Wiggly. They're a little shy right now, but if they're anything like the last batch from summer before last, they'll like me coming in to scratch their snouts.
Guess there won't be any shortage of flies this summer.
Guess there won't be any shortage of flies this summer.
Tea Time
Another first-time garden experiment: Brewing compost tea. I need something to feed the seedlings. I have some certified organic fish emulsion, but I'm reluctant to put it on the edibles, what with all the heavy metals and PCB's they're finding in the fish we eat; I can only imagine what's in the waste fish they use for fertilizer. So I'm bubbling a bucket of tea; we'll see how it works.
So this is spring? In the fifties today, and yes, I had a few snow pellets fall on me while I was outside. I planted the huge Astilbe, the medium hydrangea, and the achillea (yarrow) and liatris that my good gardening friend Donna was culling out.
The adage goes, "better to plant a $1 plant in a $10 hole, than a $10 plant in a $1 hole." The hydrangea definitely got a $10 hole. The astilbe, maybe $5.50-$6.00; it was tough digging where I put it.
The achillea and liatris found nice homes in the cottage garden. I'm a little concerned at the number of grubs I'm finding when I dig in there; they've been my nemisis in the past. I plucked them out and tossed them on the sidewalk as I found them. It was rather satisfying to squash them, especially since they give a nice little "pop." Kind of like popping bubble wrap with your foot.
It seems I'm more open to rearranging the plants and shrubs than the furniture in my house. If the bleeding heart survives transplanting, it will be a miracle...but then again, isn't that always the case?
So this is spring? In the fifties today, and yes, I had a few snow pellets fall on me while I was outside. I planted the huge Astilbe, the medium hydrangea, and the achillea (yarrow) and liatris that my good gardening friend Donna was culling out.
The adage goes, "better to plant a $1 plant in a $10 hole, than a $10 plant in a $1 hole." The hydrangea definitely got a $10 hole. The astilbe, maybe $5.50-$6.00; it was tough digging where I put it.
The achillea and liatris found nice homes in the cottage garden. I'm a little concerned at the number of grubs I'm finding when I dig in there; they've been my nemisis in the past. I plucked them out and tossed them on the sidewalk as I found them. It was rather satisfying to squash them, especially since they give a nice little "pop." Kind of like popping bubble wrap with your foot.
It seems I'm more open to rearranging the plants and shrubs than the furniture in my house. If the bleeding heart survives transplanting, it will be a miracle...but then again, isn't that always the case?
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Monday, April 18, 2005
All In A Day's Work
I hear you, Ruby, "Number one...!"
- Clear and till the space for the new herb garden.
- Transplant the old herbs to the new herb garden and plant some new ones.
- Set a new gate post.
- Plumb the other gate and fix the latch (what a joy to have gates that work!).
- Plant the dahlia bulbs (all three of them).
- Re-layer the compost piles (with some help from the chickens).
- Take apart last year's trellis.
- Clean up the trash down by the road (one Budweiser quart bottle, Keystone light can, Miller, one Sheetz Big Gulp, 3 Aquafina — glad to see people are drinking more water).
- Mow the dog yard, the garden yard, the barn yard, the front yard, the back yard, the back-back yard, the driveway, the road.
- Water all the transplants and the fig twig.
- Too dark to do the cold-season planting (now two weeks late); do that Sunday.
- Check the newspaper for a condo in the city.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Good fences make good gardens
Well, it's ready to grow now. The fence went up around the "greater" garden today, encompassing the vegetable garden and strawberry patch. Unlike most normal people who simply fence their chickens in, I go to a lot of trouble to fence them out, so they can have free range and tempt the foxes and other predators.
I emptied one of the compost bins and worked it into the cold season bed with the Honda cultivator (two pulls to start after a winter of unwinterized inactivity). Tomorrow or Monday, the seeds can go in — lettuce, beets, turnips, spinach, radishes, broccoli, and whatever else I find in the seed box. Oh, and those darned bulbs.
Tonight, a few weeks late, the ceremonial spring fire (should have been on the equinox), burning up most of the limbs that came down over the winter, and the prunings from the big pear tree out front, which I trimmed more aggressively than usual. The Christmas tree conflagration was incredible, lighting up the whole garden area as if with floodlights, with a waning crescent of moon setting and a sky full of stars for a backdrop. Orion is holding out for dear life, still visible just after dusk, but soon he'll be gone until autumn.
What glorious weather!
I emptied one of the compost bins and worked it into the cold season bed with the Honda cultivator (two pulls to start after a winter of unwinterized inactivity). Tomorrow or Monday, the seeds can go in — lettuce, beets, turnips, spinach, radishes, broccoli, and whatever else I find in the seed box. Oh, and those darned bulbs.
Tonight, a few weeks late, the ceremonial spring fire (should have been on the equinox), burning up most of the limbs that came down over the winter, and the prunings from the big pear tree out front, which I trimmed more aggressively than usual. The Christmas tree conflagration was incredible, lighting up the whole garden area as if with floodlights, with a waning crescent of moon setting and a sky full of stars for a backdrop. Orion is holding out for dear life, still visible just after dusk, but soon he'll be gone until autumn.
What glorious weather!
Friday, April 08, 2005
Gentlemen, start your engines...
Forget that the Vernal Equinox was weeks ago, and that the tree frogs have been peeping nonstop almost as long. The surest sign of spring has been evident this week on my fitness rides. There they were: the Cub Cadets, Craftsmen, Simplicitys, and for the overachievers, John Deeres, idling in driveways and open garages, ready to assault the increasingly lush, chemically jump-started lawns.
Taking their cue, and with an eye to the latest flood warning in the forecast, I pulled out the tiller with the intention to do just the early-season quarter of the vegetable garden. After squirting off the dust and straw, the Honda engine fired up relatively easily, considering no winterization, and we were off to the races. Reverse gear didn't seem to be working, so I fiddled with the cable adjustment, and was able to get a bit of reverse when I needed it.
As I was going, I started to smell something burning, which I at first ascribed to the omnipresent chicken shit and straw that seems to get everywhere. But it started to seem more and more like burning rubber...like a belt, to be precise.
And I noticed when I paused that the tiller seemed to want to go backwards when it was supposed to be idling. I remembered with alarm the stern warnings in the owner's manual not to engage reverse until forward motion had fully stopped. Apparently, I had a bad counter-rotation situation on my hands, with a tiller that is not supposed to counter-rotate.
I entertained for a minute the idea of just tilling the rest backwards. There was quite a bit left to do, though, and it would be slow going, and who knew what neighbors might be watching?
I'm a piss-poor mechanic, but I got the tools out anyway. It clearly wasn't the cable. So I took the cowling off, and lubricated the stuck pivot point, and the rest of the pulleys, etc., while I was in there. Gave everything a nice petro-shower. How annoying that it would need oiling after just two seasons of heavy use.
It did the trick, and I ended up tilling all four quarters...and got some mowing in (though it didn't really need it) before the rains. It sure was satisfying to see that nice fresh earth before the weeds take over. I scattered some scratch grain all over so the the chickens would get in there and do their job: Scratch, peck, and poop. I'll keep them employed at it through the weekend.
Then it's planting time!
Taking their cue, and with an eye to the latest flood warning in the forecast, I pulled out the tiller with the intention to do just the early-season quarter of the vegetable garden. After squirting off the dust and straw, the Honda engine fired up relatively easily, considering no winterization, and we were off to the races. Reverse gear didn't seem to be working, so I fiddled with the cable adjustment, and was able to get a bit of reverse when I needed it.
As I was going, I started to smell something burning, which I at first ascribed to the omnipresent chicken shit and straw that seems to get everywhere. But it started to seem more and more like burning rubber...like a belt, to be precise.
And I noticed when I paused that the tiller seemed to want to go backwards when it was supposed to be idling. I remembered with alarm the stern warnings in the owner's manual not to engage reverse until forward motion had fully stopped. Apparently, I had a bad counter-rotation situation on my hands, with a tiller that is not supposed to counter-rotate.
I entertained for a minute the idea of just tilling the rest backwards. There was quite a bit left to do, though, and it would be slow going, and who knew what neighbors might be watching?
I'm a piss-poor mechanic, but I got the tools out anyway. It clearly wasn't the cable. So I took the cowling off, and lubricated the stuck pivot point, and the rest of the pulleys, etc., while I was in there. Gave everything a nice petro-shower. How annoying that it would need oiling after just two seasons of heavy use.
It did the trick, and I ended up tilling all four quarters...and got some mowing in (though it didn't really need it) before the rains. It sure was satisfying to see that nice fresh earth before the weeds take over. I scattered some scratch grain all over so the the chickens would get in there and do their job: Scratch, peck, and poop. I'll keep them employed at it through the weekend.
Then it's planting time!
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Damn Thirsty
First
The fish needs to say,
"Something ain't right about this
Camel ride —
And I'm
Feeling so damn
Thirsty."
–Hafiz
The fish needs to say,
"Something ain't right about this
Camel ride —
And I'm
Feeling so damn
Thirsty."
–Hafiz
Monday, April 04, 2005
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Sunday, March 27, 2005
The Great Religions
The
Great religions are the
Ships,
Poets the life
Boats.
Every sane person I know has jumped
Overboard.
That is good for business
Isn't it
Hafiz?
– Hafiz
Great religions are the
Ships,
Poets the life
Boats.
Every sane person I know has jumped
Overboard.
That is good for business
Isn't it
Hafiz?
– Hafiz
The record falls...and an Easter question
It didn't stand long. 21 eggs for Holy Saturday. They must be religious birds, working overtime for Easter.
Even as I finished yesterday's post, the bulbs arrived from Holland chanting "plant me!". They will have to wait, though, as it's a little too wet and I'm a little too busy. Today, the fig tree arrived and would not take no for an answer. It's planted and hopefully happy.
Meantime, since all of the entree is taken care of, I'm working on a pair of fruit tarts for the Easter feast.
So, does anyone know definitively when Lent officially ends? Daughter is scolding me for telling her she shouldn't break her Lenten soda fast until Easter Sunday, or at least sundown on Holy Saturday. I'm finding different opionions on the timing. I think I'm sticking to sundown Saturday.
(AC, an exception to the "rule".!?,. Oh no!)
Even as I finished yesterday's post, the bulbs arrived from Holland chanting "plant me!". They will have to wait, though, as it's a little too wet and I'm a little too busy. Today, the fig tree arrived and would not take no for an answer. It's planted and hopefully happy.
Meantime, since all of the entree is taken care of, I'm working on a pair of fruit tarts for the Easter feast.
So, does anyone know definitively when Lent officially ends? Daughter is scolding me for telling her she shouldn't break her Lenten soda fast until Easter Sunday, or at least sundown on Holy Saturday. I'm finding different opionions on the timing. I think I'm sticking to sundown Saturday.
(AC, an exception to the "rule".!?,. Oh no!)
Friday, March 25, 2005
Just in time planting
Well, I just made it. With eight hours to spare, I got the bulk of my seeds started while the moon is still waxing; it will be full in the eight o'clock hour this evening. Country lore says to plant "with" the moon. I don't mind a dash of superstition to season what little science I know of this gardening, along with a measure of ritual and tradition. I've got eight flats of starts under the lights in the mud/sunroom (what's with all these eights?); in excess of 150 seedlings if they all germinate. Six or eight (!) varieties of tomatoes; red, orange, and chocolate sweet peppers; cucumbers; four kinds of zinnias; asters (never done these before); dill, fennel, basil, parsley. If all goes well, they'll all end up in three or four different gardens by June. I have room for two more flats, which I'll use to test-germinate seed gathered from last year's garden — zinnias, marigolds, and echinacea. I'll start a few watermelons in mid-April. Never had much luck with vining fruit, except for the pumpkins that volunteered in the compost pile last year. Think I'll just plant the watermelons in the manure pile and see what happens.
Last autumn was so busy, I didn't get around to manuring and tilling the early-season bed. I think I'll be alright on fertility, but getting it turned over will be problematic in this wet season. We'll see how it is in another week, when the first of the cool-season seeds should go in the ground. Meantime, bulbs are on their way from Holland, and a fig tree from South Carolina. Oh, how will I fill my idle hours?
Last autumn was so busy, I didn't get around to manuring and tilling the early-season bed. I think I'll be alright on fertility, but getting it turned over will be problematic in this wet season. We'll see how it is in another week, when the first of the cool-season seeds should go in the ground. Meantime, bulbs are on their way from Holland, and a fig tree from South Carolina. Oh, how will I fill my idle hours?
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Clarification
My dear Hafiz,
I fear my message is being confused.
When you write about her stepping out of the bath
Everyone knows what you describe is sacred.
When I write about it,
Everyone just thinks I'm lewd.
I suppose everyone is right.
I fear my message is being confused.
When you write about her stepping out of the bath
Everyone knows what you describe is sacred.
When I write about it,
Everyone just thinks I'm lewd.
I suppose everyone is right.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Printemps!
Spring Again
What is real and true
is right here in front of me:
Trees straight and reaching
Brown fields receding and reaching
Sprouted seeds, tubers and acorns
reaching
reaching
Me here reaching
for the promised Spring
Warm sun
Cool rains
Earth waking to the touch
of sun and rain
Faith enduring
The cycle rounding again
The moon of deer dropping horns
The moon of tender grass
The moons passing
one
after another
after another
Indifferent
to being noted
by me or
some (any) other
perishable being,
whether sitting
resolute
counting moons
or broken-hearted
wishing to dissolve
quarter by
quarter by
quarter
into the clear dark blue sky
with stars unidentified now
(Orion disappeared beyond the
sacred Western horizon
’til the next hunting moon)
disappeared
to where all is true and real
to where broken hearts
are just another
nebula
exploding
flashing
disappearing from the night
behind the trees
standing tall
branches outstretched
eager to embrace
the night
the constellations
(unnamable)
the moon in its every mood
quarter
half
quarter
gone
and tree frogs singing
(joyously)
(triumphantly)
“Who are you?”
“Where are you??”
2 April 2001
What is real and true
is right here in front of me:
Trees straight and reaching
Brown fields receding and reaching
Sprouted seeds, tubers and acorns
reaching
reaching
Me here reaching
for the promised Spring
Warm sun
Cool rains
Earth waking to the touch
of sun and rain
Faith enduring
The cycle rounding again
The moon of deer dropping horns
The moon of tender grass
The moons passing
one
after another
after another
Indifferent
to being noted
by me or
some (any) other
perishable being,
whether sitting
resolute
counting moons
or broken-hearted
wishing to dissolve
quarter by
quarter by
quarter
into the clear dark blue sky
with stars unidentified now
(Orion disappeared beyond the
sacred Western horizon
’til the next hunting moon)
disappeared
to where all is true and real
to where broken hearts
are just another
nebula
exploding
flashing
disappearing from the night
behind the trees
standing tall
branches outstretched
eager to embrace
the night
the constellations
(unnamable)
the moon in its every mood
quarter
half
quarter
gone
and tree frogs singing
(joyously)
(triumphantly)
“Who are you?”
“Where are you??”
2 April 2001
Saturday, March 19, 2005
Final countdown...
Less than a day until it's officially spring! According to the U.S. Naval Observatory, the 2005 vernal equinox will occur Sunday morning, 3/20/05, at 12:33 UT, or 7:33 a.m. Eastern time. This past week, the length of day officially passed the length of night.
Eggstra! Eggstra!
The girls set a record yesterday: 20 eggs...out of 25 hens. Something tells me it won't stand for long...
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
I've come unSprung
Well shoot, I've had it wrong all this time. It's spring, not Spring, summer, not Summer, etc. Sure seems like something as important as a season should be capitalized. Oh, well. As always, I defer to the Chicago Manual of Style.
One thing I am sure of: You can't go wrong if you always put the comma and the period inside the quotation mark.
One thing I am sure of: You can't go wrong if you always put the comma and the period inside the quotation mark.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Another Hafiz
BURGLARS HEAR WATCHDOGS
If one
Is afraid of losing anything
They have not looked into the Friend's eyes;
They have forgotten God's
Promise.
The jewels you get when you meet the Beloved
Go on multiplying themselves;
They take root
Everywhere.
They keep mating all the time
Like spring-warmed
Creatures.
Burglars
Hear watchdogs inside of His
Gifts
And run.
–Hafiz
If one
Is afraid of losing anything
They have not looked into the Friend's eyes;
They have forgotten God's
Promise.
The jewels you get when you meet the Beloved
Go on multiplying themselves;
They take root
Everywhere.
They keep mating all the time
Like spring-warmed
Creatures.
Burglars
Hear watchdogs inside of His
Gifts
And run.
–Hafiz
Monday, March 14, 2005
It's in the air...
Yesterday morning: Hundreds and hundreds of Canada geese, echelon after echelon of loosely formed V's, headed due north. And in the garden, sedum and achillea poking through last Autumn's debris. Early buds on the shrubs and trees. Just a few days more, and it will be official...
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Two thumbs up
Saw Les Choristes (The Choir) last night. A must-see! A beautiful, simple, touching story of a French reform school for boys. No special effects...just special. Go see it, or watch for the DVD.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Catching Up
It was inevitable that "daily" would prove too ambitious. It would be easy to post a new quote every day, but I fear that would quickly get old for you, dear reader. Unfortunately, the news from T-town is none too exciting, either. Daughter and I went boarding and skiing, respectively, on Monday. What a glorious day! Sweater weather. Then, the next, blizzard-like conditions. Ah, the joys of March! Spring is inevitable, though, and the peppers will be planted this weekend. And I have high hopes of getting the bike road-ready, too, to address my (almost daily) resolve to be able to pair the words "regular" and "exercise"...along with my (almost daily) resolve to enjamb "healthy" and "diet." Never ceasing to strive.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Saturday, March 05, 2005
The Same Stars
These are the same stars
I would see anywhere else —
That night in the New Mexico
desert, stopped nowhere
no lights
(with someone who was not you)
the sky (exploded)
a frozen fireworks display.
And so it is here, too,
or anywhere
(with anyone who is not you)
searching out the patterns
connecting the dots
there a bear
there a man with a belt
there a bow drawn
aiming further still
into the never-endingness
beyond the stars to where
no answers lie
nor questions
nor wonders ceasing
nor anything (that is not
you, or me)
the point of no return —
perhaps the same place
that hearts must travel
to find their home.
2 February 2003
I would see anywhere else —
That night in the New Mexico
desert, stopped nowhere
no lights
(with someone who was not you)
the sky (exploded)
a frozen fireworks display.
And so it is here, too,
or anywhere
(with anyone who is not you)
searching out the patterns
connecting the dots
there a bear
there a man with a belt
there a bow drawn
aiming further still
into the never-endingness
beyond the stars to where
no answers lie
nor questions
nor wonders ceasing
nor anything (that is not
you, or me)
the point of no return —
perhaps the same place
that hearts must travel
to find their home.
2 February 2003
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Comments welcome!
Just changed the blogmeister setting so that anyone can comment without that pesky registration process. So respond away!
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
In the meantime...
No, I'm not up at 4 a.m. posting to the blog. The time stamp is in GMT, as described below, from www.greenwichmeantime.com. GMT is five hours ahead of us here on the East Coast. So the time you see on this post, three-forty-something GMT, is actual ten-forty-something here.
"Greenwich, England has been the home of Greenwich Mean Time (GMT) since 1884. GMT is sometimes called Greenwich Meridian Time because it is measured from the Greenwich Meridian Line at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich.
"The Greenwich Meridian (Prime Meridian or Longitude Zero degrees) marks the starting point of every time zone in the World. GMT is Greenwich Mean (or Meridian) Time is the mean (average) time that the earth takes to rotate from noon-to-noon.
"GMT is World Time and the basis of every world time zone which sets the time of day and is at the centre of the time zone map. GMT sets current time or official time around the globe. Most time changes are measured by GMT. Although GMT has been replaced by atomic time (UTC) it is still widely regarded as the correct time for every international time zone."
"Greenwich, England has been the home of Greenwich Mean Time (GMT) since 1884. GMT is sometimes called Greenwich Meridian Time because it is measured from the Greenwich Meridian Line at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich.
"The Greenwich Meridian (Prime Meridian or Longitude Zero degrees) marks the starting point of every time zone in the World. GMT is Greenwich Mean (or Meridian) Time is the mean (average) time that the earth takes to rotate from noon-to-noon.
"GMT is World Time and the basis of every world time zone which sets the time of day and is at the centre of the time zone map. GMT sets current time or official time around the globe. Most time changes are measured by GMT. Although GMT has been replaced by atomic time (UTC) it is still widely regarded as the correct time for every international time zone."
Gardens of the mind
"Writing and gardening, these two ways of rendering the world in rows, have a great deal in common."
– Michael Pollan
Second Nature, A Gardener's Education
– Michael Pollan
Second Nature, A Gardener's Education
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
What's for dinner?
This compliments of the Environmental Working Group.
Consistently most contaminated with pesticides; buy these organic: Apples, bell peppers, celery, cherries, imported grapes, nectarines, peaches, pears, potatoes, red raspberries, spinach, strawberries.
Consistently lowest in pesticides; enjoy in abundance: Asparagus, avocados, bananas, broccoli, cauliflower, sweet corn, kiwi, mangos, onions, papaya, pineapples, sweet peas.
All fresh produce should be washed with soapy water; use a drop or two of dish detergent, or my preference, a dilute solution of Dr. Bronner's castille soap (milder and rinses easier).
Of course, the best strategy is to grow your own...or be nice to me at harvest time!
For more details and a handy pocket guide with the above information, visit http://www.foodnews.org/walletguide.php.
Consistently most contaminated with pesticides; buy these organic: Apples, bell peppers, celery, cherries, imported grapes, nectarines, peaches, pears, potatoes, red raspberries, spinach, strawberries.
Consistently lowest in pesticides; enjoy in abundance: Asparagus, avocados, bananas, broccoli, cauliflower, sweet corn, kiwi, mangos, onions, papaya, pineapples, sweet peas.
All fresh produce should be washed with soapy water; use a drop or two of dish detergent, or my preference, a dilute solution of Dr. Bronner's castille soap (milder and rinses easier).
Of course, the best strategy is to grow your own...or be nice to me at harvest time!
For more details and a handy pocket guide with the above information, visit http://www.foodnews.org/walletguide.php.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Social Insecurity
Once again, Mr. Bush is successfully creating fear in the American public by creating imaginary cause and effect links. Just as his administration achieved its warmongering goals by consistently referring to "Saddam Hussein" and "al Qaida" in the same sentence, so they now are parroting "Social Security crisis" and "private accounts" in the same breath. And even when the questionably esteemed Alan Greenspan, in the same paragraph, observes that there is no immanent Social Security crisis, and that if there were, private accounts would only make it worse, but philosophically, the idea of private accounts is a good one, all the "liberal" media hears is "good idea."
No credentialed actuary, within or without the Social Security Administration, will make a case for a looming crisis. And yet that is the linchpin in Bush's case for private accounts. If he is successful, well then, yes, I suppose we will have a Social Security crisis. And the bankers on Wall Street will certainly be fatter and happier. But what happens to our senior citizens? And to us Baby Boomers?
The same goes for tort reform. The doctors and hospitals will certainly be happy that patients' legal recourse for malpractice will be eviscerated. But what of the patients whose lives are ruined by bad medical judgment and practice? I can't help but constantly remember that 50% of all doctors finish in the bottom half of their class. They are human beings, just like you and me, and they screw up, just like you and me, and, like you and me, they should be held responsible. Don't even get me started about the pharmaceutical industry...
We don't have a Social Security crisis. We do have an energy crisis, and what is the Bush administration doing about that? Nothing. We don't have a tort crisis, we have a healthcare crisis, and what is the Bush administration doing about that? About health insurance costs? About hospitalization costs? About drug costs? Nothing. Tort reform doesn't even qualify as a bandaid.
For what it's worth, I'm writing my senators and representatives in Congress. Professionals say that real, old-fashioned paper letters are taken more seriously than email. Maybe I'll do both. If you want names and addresses, email me and I'll send them to you.
– Roger Rebetsky of Taneytown
No credentialed actuary, within or without the Social Security Administration, will make a case for a looming crisis. And yet that is the linchpin in Bush's case for private accounts. If he is successful, well then, yes, I suppose we will have a Social Security crisis. And the bankers on Wall Street will certainly be fatter and happier. But what happens to our senior citizens? And to us Baby Boomers?
The same goes for tort reform. The doctors and hospitals will certainly be happy that patients' legal recourse for malpractice will be eviscerated. But what of the patients whose lives are ruined by bad medical judgment and practice? I can't help but constantly remember that 50% of all doctors finish in the bottom half of their class. They are human beings, just like you and me, and they screw up, just like you and me, and, like you and me, they should be held responsible. Don't even get me started about the pharmaceutical industry...
We don't have a Social Security crisis. We do have an energy crisis, and what is the Bush administration doing about that? Nothing. We don't have a tort crisis, we have a healthcare crisis, and what is the Bush administration doing about that? About health insurance costs? About hospitalization costs? About drug costs? Nothing. Tort reform doesn't even qualify as a bandaid.
For what it's worth, I'm writing my senators and representatives in Congress. Professionals say that real, old-fashioned paper letters are taken more seriously than email. Maybe I'll do both. If you want names and addresses, email me and I'll send them to you.
– Roger Rebetsky of Taneytown
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Living off the land
Scott butchered a hog on Friday, and I bought about 50-60 pounds off of him — including a huge fresh ham for Easter dinner. The freezer can't hold any more: a couple deer, a bunch of broilers I raised in the Fall, topped off with the pork. Still eating off the land in February, with salad greens growing in the sunroom and still plenty of the garden produce canned and frozen. Will start the first seeds for this year's garden in two weeks. Bon appetit!
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Friday, February 25, 2005
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Top 3 Kitchen Hygiene Tips
- Microwave sponges for two minutes to kill germs and bacteria.
- Rather counterintuitively, wooden cutting boards are less likely to harbor harmful organisms than synthetic ones. In either case, clean with a bleach solution once a month or so. The new "squirtable" bleach is great.
- Several sources indicate it is not advisable to use any type of "antibacterial" soaps. Without exposure, your body can't build up resistance, and so you could be more likely to get infected.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
A poem by Hafiz
JUST LOOKING FOR TROUBLE
I once had a student
Who would sit alone in his house at night
Shivering with worries
And fears,
And, come morning,
He would often look as though
He had been raped
By a ghost.
Then one day my pity
Crafted for him a knife
From my own divine sword.
Since then,
I have become very proud
Of this student.
For now, come night,
Not only has he lost all his fear,
Now he goes out
Just looking for
Trouble.
-Hafiz, c. 1320-1389
I once had a student
Who would sit alone in his house at night
Shivering with worries
And fears,
And, come morning,
He would often look as though
He had been raped
By a ghost.
Then one day my pity
Crafted for him a knife
From my own divine sword.
Since then,
I have become very proud
Of this student.
For now, come night,
Not only has he lost all his fear,
Now he goes out
Just looking for
Trouble.
-Hafiz, c. 1320-1389
Saturday, February 19, 2005
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