Fragments From Floyd

While I have a brief break at work–I will tell both of my regular weekend visitors that the site will likely be a bit whacko for a couple of days and possibly comments will not be enabled while there are server changes that include an upgrade to the lastest version of Word Press.

We will resume our usual blather on the other side of this non-emergency transition as we move into our spacious, modern, high-tech revolving glass-enclosed blogging complex overlooking Goose Creek and the Fortress Garden.

I don’t seem to have the energy to blog the town and country yet, following in the wake of our whirlwind romp with the g-daughters–but Colleen did, and you can read her description and excerpts from Friday night’s Floyd Readers event.

Image: Jim Webb, Master of Ceremonies for the SAWC Dilbert Awards. Don’t ask. You really have to be there.

Whoever called this spring-flowering tree redbud wasn’t even close, though not all are as pale pink as these growing along George’s Run yesterday. The lighting wasn’t ideal but I’ve meant to stop here in years past while the hillside was awash in this lovely “red” of spring. By the next time I pass that way, the buds will be gone and the heart-shaped leaves will have replaced them.

Redbud is a legume, a member of the bean family, and its roots I believe harbor rhizobia, the bacterial nodules that help put useable nitrogen in the soil. Redbud seems to strongly favor alkaline soils–such as that produced by the limestone bedrock that runs through Georges Run but ends not far north when you cross the Montgomery County line into Floyd.

We don’t have a single redbud on our property or the road in, for that matter. There are a couple more shots of this patch uploaded to the Flickr gallery.

Yes, I know one usually speaks of the season’s garden going IN. As you can see here, this one heads in the vertical direction so that later, the horizontal efforts will not become wildlife forage.

We’ve thought of some things we can do eventually so that the “stockade” doesn’t look so formidable–train flowering vines on the wire (preferably something distasteful to cloven-hooved creatures) and more practically, put one of those owl decoys on top of one of the posts to deter the crows.

A 10 foot deep shed will go up at the far end of the garden for tiller, mowers, and tools–and maybe a month’s worth of dry firewood.

The former garden was farther from the house (behind me as I took this picture yesterday) off near the pines, more in the shade and over the septic field.

Since nothing around here is level, we’ll have to put in railroad ties outside the garden on the road side to build it up. A little gradient is okay, but too much and we’ll have our topsoil end up in Goose Creek.

I’d love to get a dump truck load of composted manure into the soil but that’s not going to happen this year. We’ll do what we can with top-dressing of 5-10-10 and get the soil tested early next year to see what it really needs.

I figure, if we live to be, oh something like 286, our “free” vegetables will pay for putting up this barrier–without which otherwise we’re at the mercy of someone else’s labors for green beans, corn and tomatoes.

I’ll post more pictures soon, and along during the growing year (he said with mock confidence.)

She handed me the container, a macho moment for certain, great time to be a guy.

“Get the top off for me” she pleaded. “My hands just can’t do it.”

As ergonomics go, the container’s top was out-sized for the average grip, four inches across–a bulk quantity of one of our regular daily doses. She intended to redistribute the hundreds of pills into smaller, more cabinet-sized containers.

No problem. Thumb joint arthropathy notwithstanding, I’d crank that sucker open and back to her before she had time to get back to the kitchen.

Wrong. The widest possible grip forced the thumb and index finger into a “C” around the top in a wide open arc–the wider the grip beyond tool-handle circumference, the less the grip force. The slick bottom part of the container rotated along with the top as I turned counterclockwise. Fine.

I put on the dishwashing gloves for traction. No dice.

I found a strap wrench in the closet under the stairs, its non-slip rubber grip and mechanical leverage exactly what it would take to get the job done. Didn’t. My hands were killing me by now.

I banged the top with the butt end of a heavy knife to break the seal and tried again. Thing didn’t budge.

I cussed and sputtered and did what such threatened loss of manly self-esteem required. I grabbed a serrated steak knife outta the sink and cut the flippin’ bottom out of the container. I left it there on the countertop for all the other unopened pill bottles to see.

And the ultimate irony: the medication– Glucosamine. For arthritis.

It’s true that misery loves company, but I never had an idea I would become one of the lost–the MacAddicted zombies searching for more of the juice that Macs give us. We need it, must have it, cannot go on without it.

We need help.

Some people claim to be addicted to their Apple products. Turns out it might be true. Everyone always assumed that Apple gear (iPods, Macs, iPhones, etc) have sold well because they are well built and user friendly, but a recent police investigation has determined that they are actually infused with small amounts of LSD, that the user absorbs slowly through their skin, creating a sense of wonder and euphoria.

I love April.

Ladybug metaphors–buzzing chitinous aggravations in the morning, first thing when the desk lamp suddenly becomes their sun.

I’ve put  a coffee cup with an inch of water and a few drops of detergent by my keyboard–more specifically near the lamp that draws the clumsy flying orange freckles that become black holes against my monitor, land in my hair, crash into the crevases of the numeric keypad.

There’s some satisfaction in wetting a finger (different one each time because these creatures leave a smell and taste when disturbed) lifting then dropping them one by one to do the backstroke in the Yellow Mug of Doom.

Hounds. Somewhere in the dark pasture. I’ll walk the dog on the leash later and hope these disembodied Baskervillians stay far off, no dog to dog beyond shared scent sprinklings at the same important clump of pasture grass. Tsuga will bristle with razorback fur.

Full moon flashes cryptic, code against barn roof. Tattered clouds scurry past pulled apart, strobe-lightning too brief to walk by, dark-blind. Wind on the ridge blows no good, the world on edge, I go into the cold to know, the message masked in dark light dark and the moan of blown branches.

So I’d best check my to-do list to prepare for domicile-sharing again after five days home alone (sorry, Tsuga, you’re somebody too.) She just called from Springfield and flights to Atlanta are still on schedule. Amazing.

I must say I’ve gotten along famously with me–not a single whine or blame cast; no grousing or guilt grenades. Even when I transgress–putting a spoon down on the actual countertop–I’ve been quite gracious and forgiving. No grudges, slights or reproaches. I’m really getting along with me very well and wonder how it could be otherwise.

Meanwhile, I need to check my list:

• Put all the dirty dishes out in the yard for a tongue-lashing.
• Vacuum, dust, mop and power-wash (and maybe disinfect) the front room.
• Wash the cat and rehydrate the goldfish.
• Hide all empty beverage containers and replenish supply on way to airport.
• See if the house can be brought back into homeothermic range, which will mean burning precious firewood. What choice do I have?
• Tidy up around the woodpile to show off my manly work of splitting and stacking next year’s stash to best affect.
• Stop by ___ and pick up her ___ for her birthday before she gets back in town.
• Practice: Yes, dear. Coming, dear. No, I’m not an idiot, I just have other things on my mind right now.

And the two shall be made one. ONE. It’s not the loneliest number you could ever do. Sometimes, it’s not so bad, really. And then…

It’s great to get away. At least it’s great to think about it. But when it comes down to the grungy details of packing and unpacking, remembering and forgetting, waiting, worrying, sitting too long, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles in traffic usually somewhat in excess of downtown Floyd’s–well, I’d just as soon stay home.

Problem is, that isn’t always so easy either when wife or kids are on the road and their line of travel and/or airport is under a tornado and flood watch. Such is the case this morning as I watch the storm track across southern Missouri, Ann and her older sister this moment (I think) setting out in the dark rainy fog for Springfield. Sometimes I think less information is preferable.

I know they haven’t been listening to NOAA radio and following the severe storm tracking that is carrying possible tornados directly into their path. Should I call them and tell them not to go? They think they’ll get Ann to the airport for an 11:00 flight way early but give her sister a chance to get back home (two hours one way) before it gets bad. I’m not so sure. Oy.

Or maybe I should call and be unconvincingly reassuring, tell her something nice to think about. I would tell her that the crocuses she planted along the walkway are in bloom–but then, they are so short-lived that by the time she gets here–ostensibly this evening before dark (though I have my doubts) –they would have bloomed and gone.

So I’ll be staying near the phone; I’ll be watching arrival and departure schedules as they morph over the day; and I’ll be surprised if she sleeps in her own bed tonight. She’ll be panicked about missing work tomorrow more than anything else. Working life will go on without her. And Tsuga and I will eat chili. Again.

According to “What White People Like” my wife and I, as representative older White Persons, should while at home and casual be wearing “performance” Patagonia or North Face–a sign that 1) we are NOT at work and 2) that we are prepared to rush off with friends on short notice to kayak downriver to a stream-side health spa and 3) that we’re willing to pay lots more for pretty ordinary clothes with the “right” label.

Well I’m sorry to disappoint, and this is a warning should you drive down our road (a vanishingly unlikely occurrence unless you are very very lost) and see one of us in our native habitat and garb.

For my part, the attire du jour: a pair of chainsaw-oil-soaked (yes there’s a story there) once rust colored Carhartt work pants, a ten year old sweatshirt (wait: 12 yrs old–has 1996 Olympics logo now that I look) whose arms have tattered to mid-forearm; a Stihl camo cap; a black nylon Thinsulate vest; and my pond-green Muck Boots with the chainsaw-nearmiss scars I never told Ann about.

So there, White Brethren and Sistren. What do YOU wear when nobody’s gonna tell?