Happy New Year

This post will be a hodge-podge. The two boys and my mother have been here through the holidays, and that means it has been a busy holiday season.

Jake, in particular, has so many projects going in the workshop that it’s hard to keep up with him. Just for the hell of it, the first thing he did when he got here was make an air cannon out of an old LP tank. It has a four foot barrel and will shoot golf balls several hundred yards. He and Mike swivel mounted it on a stump beside the house. It looks like a 30 mm anti-aircraft gun. The UPS delivery people probably think we’re a bunch of right wing extremists or an offshoot of the Branch Davidians.

Having the air cannon/anti-aircraft gun mounted beside the house makes me feel like I’m going to Outpost Delta Zulu on the DMZ in Korea when I walk to the workshop on a frosty morning. I must look the part. I’m usually wearing a Russian fur hat with ear flaps and an old and tattered Army fatigue coat. I look like I’ve just survived the Battle of Stalingrad.

Obviously, there is no good reason to have that thing besides the house. But know this: If the lousy Chicoms try to attack across my fence line, they will be met with a withering fire of old golf balls.

We had a special guest share Christmas with us. Mike invited a high school friend by the name of Nick to spend Christmas. Nick just completed Marine Corps boot camp at Camp LeJeune, S.C. Meredith and I were happy to have him. I have never seen one human being eat so much in a few days. Apparently all he’s had to eat in the last few months are MREs (military acronym for Meals, Ready to Eat). Between him and our two boys, there were no left-overs while he was here. I’d go to the refrigerator at night to grab a snack, and looked like a North Korean pantry—empty. Nick went into the service a boy and came out a lean, mean, food-destroying machine.

Our Christmas traditions are a bit different. For Christmas dinner we have handmade ravioli and braciola. It takes two days to make, and everyone gets involved in the process. The guys’ main assistance is to roll the ravioli dough using a hand cranked pasta machine. That usually happens around noon on Christmas day, by which time everyone has had a few rum-laced eggnogs. The usual formula is a mug full of rum, a dash of eggnog, and a sprinkling of nutmeg, shaken, not stirred.

Our pasta machine can make a 4-inch wide noodle. It takes multiple passes through the machine to get the dough thin enough for the ravioli. Depending on how big a dough ball you start with, the ribbon of dough can get seven or eight feet long. At times it can be like wrestling an anaconda. Imagine four tipsy men unskilled in the culinary arts cranking out the ravioli dough with Meredith and my mother in the background constantly telling us to quit fooling around, and you’ll get the picture. I felt like I was in a scene out of The Godfather. I’m pretty sure Nick has never experienced anything like it.

All the work is worth it. The ravioli and braciola are like nothing you have ever tasted. My mother’s tomato sauce, which has simmered for two days, is the stuff of legend. The men stuff themselves, washing the food down with glasses of strong red wine.

A rich meal like that tends to produce a little heartburn. Actually, I’m minimizing the degree of heartburn. After a meal like that your pyloric valve gives up and takes the rest of the day off. People are scrambling through the medicine cabinet frantically looking for the Alka-Seltzer and Pepto-Bismol. The bathroom looks like the entrance to a Wal-Mart when the doors open on Black Friday. It is not considered a successful Christmas dinner unless there are one or two people laying on the floor being triaged for digestive injuries.

Most of the major gifts exchanged this year were practical and related to life in the country. Among other things, I received a nice froe (used for splitting wood—look it up) and a 42-inch crosscut saw. When you walk around with that crosscut saw over your shoulder (which I do a lot for no reason other than I like the look) you are the very definition of a manly man. I look like I should be on the cover of a can of hearty soup. Show me a woman who doesn’t get turned on by a man with a 42-inch crosscut saw, and the odds are that she only dates metrosexuals. In the interest of fair disclosure, I need to admit that I have no frigging clue what a metrosexual is, and I’m almost afraid to ask. All I know is that I’m not a metrosexual. I’m a countrysexual.

As much as I love Christmas, I hate wrapping presents. To say that I’m no good at it is an understatement. When I finish wrapping a Christmas gift, it always seems like I’ve used more scotch tape than wrapping paper. And I’m talking about wrapping square stuff, like boxes. I wrapped a gift card the size of a credit card, and by the time I was done I had gone through two square yards of wrapping paper and most of a dispenser of scotch tape. After working her way through multiple layers of paper and tape, Meredith was disappointed to find that that the package only contained a gift card. She thought it held an attaché case.

It’s worse when I have to wrap an odd shaped gift like a colander or a ladle. The end product can best be described as an abomination. Gifts I wrap always get placed out of sight in back of the Christmas tree.

I suspect that most real men—men who chew tobacco, have heavy beards, and shit with the bear in the woods—share my clumsiness at wrapping gifts. Show me a man who can neatly wrap a Christmas gift complete with a bow, and I’ll show you a man who knows all the words to “Macho Man” by the Village People, owns Celine Dion’s greatest hits, and makes quiche for breakfast.

This Christmas season will go down in the annals of the Yacavone family. We had squirrel stew. The day after Christmas the kids went prowling in the woods with their shotguns and returned with four fat squirrels. My mother, who grew up in the country during the depression, volunteered to make squirrel stew. The kids and I were all over that. Meredith, the trooper, gamely went along, though with a little less enthusiasm. The stew was actually quite good. The squirrel meat was not gamey. Everyone went back for seconds. Our young Marine friend scarfed it down with no problem.

It has been cold here. I’ve started wearing long underwear under my bib overalls. In a prior post I commented on how difficult it is to pee when you’re wearing overalls. It’s almost impossible when you’re wearing long underwear under your overalls. It’s like that part of my anatomy has gone into the witness protection program.

It goes without saying that 2013 has been an eventful year for me. I have a new life in a new place with new challenges. The bottom line is that I feel like I jumped in whole hog with no safety net and have landed on my feet so far. Any time you can say that about the past year, you’re doing well. I’m looking forward to what 2014 will bring. On that note, I wish you a sincere happy new year. Thanks for following my trials and tribulations on this blog, and thanks for your support and good wishes.

Christmas in Dixie

 

“Christmas in Dixie” by Alabama

 By now in New York City, there's snow on the ground
And out in California, the sunshine's falling down.
And, maybe down in Memphis, Graceland's all in lights
And in Atlanta, Georgia, there's peace on earth tonight.

Christmas in Dixie, it's snowin' in the pines.
Merry Christmas from Dixie, to everyone tonight.

It's windy in Chicago, the kids are out of school.
There's magic in Motown, the city's on the move.
In Jackson, Mississippi, to Charlotte, Caroline
And all across the nation, it's the peaceful Christmas time.

Christmas in Dixie, it's snowin' in the pines
Merry Christmas from Dixie, to everyone tonight

And from Fort Payne, Alabama
God bless y'all, we love ya.
Happy New Year, good night,
Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas tonight

To which I would add:
And from Mineral Bluff, Georgia
God bless y'all, we love ya.
Happy New Year, good night,
Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas tonight.

I Get the Holiday Spirit

Things are going well in the United States of Yacavone. The holidays are here, and I’m beginning to adjust to the cold weather.

There is an austere beauty to winter in north Georgia. Shorn of their leaves, the hardwood trees stand like silent sentinels on the hillsides and in the hollows. Their packed ranks are interrupted only by the pine trees. An undulating carpet of fallen leaves covers the forest floor. Here and there among the trees you see the low shapes of the hollies with their prickly green leaves and bright red berries. Round clumps of dark green mistletoe cling to the top branches of oak trees; they are silhouetted against the wintery skyline. The naked trunks of the trees allow you to see the crumpled and twisted terrain of the ancient southern Appalachians.

On a cold morning there is a thin sheen of glistening ice on puddles of standing water in the fields. A white dust of frost and rime coats the shorn hay pastures and stubbly corn fields. It melts as the sun rises and touches it, but patches remain in the shadowed places. The air is cold and clean, and every now and then you catch a whiff of wood smoke from someone’s chimney. The cloudless sky is a brilliant blue after a front passes through.

The cold weather is great for sleeping. Tucked under several heavy blankets on a cold night, I sleep deeply and heavily. It’s as if my body wants to hibernate. Maybe that’s attributable to my Danish ancestry. I’d like to think there is a lot of Viking in me. That means that summer is the time to rape, pillage, burn, and steal. Winter is the time lay around a roaring fire in a great hall in a drunken sleep after drinking flagons of mead, eating slabs of roast meat, and fornicating with scantily clad, buxom, blonde Valkyries wearing large brass breast plates. Okay, you caught me in one of my wild fantasies. I’m really not like that. It’s the secret life of Walter Degenerate.

Getting into a cold bed is an ordeal. The first contact between your warm skin and the cold sheets has a high shrivel factor. It’s like going swimming in a chilly swimming pool−you’ve got to take the plunge before you can have some fun.

Cold mornings pose a dilemma when you have to pee. There is a dynamic tension between your desire not to leave the toasty comfort of your bed and the insistent demands of your bladder. If you made a graph with “Need to Pee” on the X axis and “Desire to Stay Warm” on the Y axis, the need to pee eventually becomes greater than the desire to stay warm. In other words, the bladder always wins in the end. I suppose there is a great moral lesson there, but I can’t figure out what it is. Maybe the lesson is that no good pee comes to those who sleep. I think Ben Franklin may have written that in Poor Richard’s Almanac.

Showering in the cold weather can be an experience. Fortunately we had the foresight to have hot air heaters installed in our bathrooms. There is no way I’m stepping out of a hot shower into 60 degree air. Unfortunately we did not have the foresight to install heated toilet seats in the bathrooms. There are two things that are not supposed to touch my butt: other men and cold toilet seats.

Driving anywhere on a cold morning is a minor hassle because you have to get the ice off your windshield. You can scrape it off your windshield or do what I do: start the car and turn on the defroster until the ice melts. Using the defroster means you have to sit in the car until the heater develops enough heat to melt the ice on the windshield. The process is painfully slow, especially when the temperature inside your car is the same as a meat locker. I race the engine to speed things up. I’m sure that one of these days Meredith will find me slumped over the steering wheel unconscious from carbon monoxide.

Waiting for the ice to melt is about as exciting as watching a wooly caterpillar race. There’s nothing to look at because your windows are iced up, so you just sit there shivering and staring at the ice on the windshield. The other day I believe I slipped into a full blown meditative trance watching the slowly rising line of melting ice. I would have achieved enlightenment if it weren’t for the fact that my ear lobes were so stinking cold.

I’m not complaining though. The cold weather has put me in a festive mood. It was tough to get into the spirit of Christmas in Florida. It’s just not right to be wearing shorts and flip flops as you’re decorating the Christmas tree.

Meredith is feeling the holiday spirit too. She has festooned the outside of the cabin with lights. The first time I drove down the gravel road to the cabin at night and saw the bright, blinking lights through the trees, I thought I was going to have a close encounter of the third kind. It looked like the mother ship had landed.

It’s strange how cold weather, snow, holly, and mistletoe and songs about sleigh bells and a winter wonderland put you in the Christmas spirit when the original point of the holiday is to celebrate the birth of a child born in a dry and rocky place.

The local country music station has been playing a lot of Christmas songs. Many of them are religious carols. Radio ads for local businesses talk about celebrating the birth of Christ and the true meaning of Christmas. It struck me as odd at first to hear so many religious carols and ads on a radio station that plays popular music. Then I realized I have grown accustomed to a more secularized version of Christmas in Florida. It’s different here. This is the Bible Belt, and people around here take their religion seriously.

I am aware that Christmas is not a religious holiday for everyone. Undoubtedly there are Atheists, Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, Buddhists, Humanists, Druids, Pagans and members of other faiths and sects who do not celebrate Christmas and find it offensive to be bombarded with religious Christmas songs and messages on the radio. Under the prevailing doctrine of political correctness, these people can argue that because they find the songs and ads offensive, they have the right to demand that radio stations not play them. Well, I think it works both ways. Because I’m offended by the fact you want to infringe on my enjoyment of the holidays, I have the right to tell you to take your overly sensitive, namby-pamby, heathen ass somewhere else. How’s that for a display of the true spirit of Christmas?

This political correctness crap is too complicated for me so I’m going to keep on doing what I always do which is to keep on doing what I always do. If you don’t like it, that’s too bad. I suggest that people who are offended by Christmas songs and ads on the radio do what I do when I hear Al Sharpton or Debbie Wasserman Schultz on the TV: change the channel. I’m pretty sure that if you switch to NPR you can make it through the holidays without ever hearing the words Christ, Jesus, or Nativity.

Anyway, I’m not too worried about people being offended by religious carols and ads here in Fannin County. It’s a safe bet that there are not a lot of Atheists, Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, Buddhists, Humanists, Druids, or Pagans in Fannin County to be offended. If there are, they won’t admit it. According to the census, over 80 percent of the residents in the county are Southern Baptists and most of the rest belong to other Christian denominations. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure there aren’t a few Druids in these parts. I think some of the ladies who are Georgia Master Gardeners may secretly worship trees and plants.

As for me, I like hearing the religious Christmas songs and radio ads. They make me feel like I’m experiencing an old fashioned, small town Christmas. “Hark, The Herald Angels Sing” and “We Three Kings” put me in the Christmas mood better than “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” I don’t mind hearing about the birth of the little baby Jesus at the same time as you’re trying to sell me three snow tires and get one free. As John Mellencamp once sang, “Ain’t that America?”

Post Script. I’ve written before about the well endowed Postmistress at the small Mineral Bluff Post Office who favors wearing tight blue jeans and low cut sweaters. Evidently she is also feeling the holiday spirit. I had to pick up a package at the Post Office yesterday, and she was wearing a bright red sweater that said “Merry and Bright” in large letters on the front. I would have added “and large too.” I wanted to ask her which one was Merry and which one was Bright. I had to bite my tongue to refrain from saying anything.

If It's Not Winter

If it's not winter here in Georgia, then it's something close, and it sure has me fooled. I’m in the workshop watching the sun come up. The grass in the upper pasture is white with frost. Even the tips of the branches of the white pines along the fence line are coated with frost. It looks cold outside. It is cold outside. I feel like I’m in a store window Christmas display. I’m playing the role of an icicle right now. If it warms up I get to play a puddle.

I’ve got a little heater pumping out hot air at my feet. It’s supposed to heat a space of 150 square feet, but in the large workshop it’s about as effective as pissing in the ocean. I’m warm from the knees down, but the rest of me is nippy.

I’ve always wondered about word “nippy”. Why do we describe a cold day as nippy? I could be wrong, but it may have something to do with the effect that cold has on nipples. Back in the good old days of the women’s liberation movement when women were burning their bras, I used to hang out in the frozen food section of the supermarket leering at braless women shoppers because it was nippy in that part of the store. God, I loved the late 60’s. Make love, not war. Yeah, Baby.

I’m wearing gloves to keep my hands warm. They are the type of gloves that that expose the ends of my fingers so I can type. I look like Bob Crachet slaving over Scrooge’s ledger. Please Mr. Scrooge, can I put an extra lump of coal in the fire? Because I’m a two finger typist, I’m looking for gloves that only expose my index fingers. I bet a proctologist in Alaska could tell me where to find them.

I pay a lot more attention to the weather now. The only time I ever paid any attention to the weather in Florida was when a hurricane was days away or I wanted to go fishing. But it’s different now. I check the forecasts daily because the weather here is more variable than in Florida, and it has a greater impact on my daily activities. Thus, I derive the following essential truth about living the country: you are forced into a closer relationship with the elements.

It was a dark and stormy night a couple of nights ago. That may be a literary cliché, but it is not a trivial one when you live in the country. The wind howled through the trees and shrieked around the corners of the cabin. The sound rose and fell; sometimes it was a faint whisper and sometimes a full throated roar. Sporadic gusts caused the rain to rattle sharply against the windows. There was an occasional odd thump outside in the darkness. The weather interrupted my reading; I could not ignore it. I found myself looking up and listening when a particularly intense gust came through.

The darkness outside was total and complete. There was no moon, no street lights, no comforting glow from a neighboring house to take the edge off the darkness and reassure me that I was not alone. All I could see looking out a window was my own reflection staring back at me. Beyond the window pane was utter blackness like the cold dead eyes of a snake. I am not given to irrational fears, but I could not help but feel a faint uneasiness over what could be lurking in the night. I believe it is a primal fear shared by all humankind; a racial memory from our earliest days huddled around a fire on the African veldt.

So I did what any sane, rational person would do. I went to bed and pulled the covers over my head. I plan to pick up silver bullets, garlands of garlic, and holy water when I get a chance.

High Hope Plantation. Fannin County continues to surprise me. Meredith and I have started going to St. Luke’s Episcopal Church in Blue Ridge. The church held its annual crafts bazaar a couple of Saturdays ago at High Hope Plantation just outside of Blue Ridge, and Meredith and I went to check it out.

High Hope Plantation is incredibly cool. You will not find it listed in any tourist brochure. It is a reproduction of Colonial Williamsburg, though on a smaller scale. The 44 acres of grounds feature a large house, a tavern, stables, a post office, a church, and various out buildings all modeled after colonial buildings. Click on this link to see photos of High Hope Plantation.

The story behind it is interesting. It was built by a man who inherited a small fortune. He admired Colonial Williamsburg, so he built High Hope Plantation using designs he copied from Williamsburg.  He lived there in his make believe colonial world until he spent his fortune and went into bankruptcy. I’ve heard about people pissing away their money, but this is probably the neatest way I’ve ever heard it done.

The second owner of the property operated it as an attraction for a few years, and then he sold it to the present owner. The present owner and his wife are members of St. Luke’s. They live in Atlanta, but spend many weekends in Blue Ridge. Obviously, they’re not living off social security. When they are not in Blue Ridge, the property is cared for by resident caretakers.

The property is not open to the public, but the owner lets St. Luke’s use it for the crafts bazaar. The crafts are made by members of the congregation who, I might add, are very talented and creative. Now that I’m a member of the church, I suppose I will be expected to contribute to the crafts that are for sale. This poses a quandary for me since I’m not particularly talented or creative when it comes to crafts. When I went to high school you had to take shop class. No matter what I tried make, it always ended up as an ash tray. Even my project in electrical shop ended up as an ashtray.

I’ve been a lawyer all my adult life. I have no practical skills. I don’t think a jar of opening statements and closing arguments will fetch much. Maybe I can make walking sticks. How tough can that be? You find a stick and cut it.

If push comes to shove, I may buy some jelly, put it in mason jars, and slap a handwritten label on it. This leads to a moral and legal question: Is the Deceptive and Unfair Trade Practices Act implicit in the Ten Commandments?

While at the bazaar I met members of the Revolutionary Patriot Guard who put on a demonstration for the crowd. No, they are not former supporters of Mao Tse Tung, expatriate Iraqi soldiers, or members of the local Tea Party. They are like Civil War reenactors, only they reenact the American Revolution. They dress in authentic Continental Army costumes.

I’ve toyed with the idea of becoming a Civil War reenactor for a long time, but this may be better. I wouldn’t have to choose sides like I would as a Civil War reenactor. I also think I would cut a dashing figure in knee breeches, a powdered wig, and a three cornered hat. If it didn’t work out, I would still have a hell of a Halloween costume. I could be anyone from George Washington to the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Still, I hesitate to join. I am genuinely concerned that being associated with an organization that has the words “revolutionary”, “patriot”, and “guard” in its name will cause my emails to be flagged by the NSA or me to be scrutinized by the IRS. It’s a sad commentary that such a thought would even occur to an American citizen. I have to wonder whether we as a nation have forgotten the principles for which the Founding Fathers pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor.

Cheese Class

I attended my first cheese-making course. The instructor was a large, earthy, disorganized woman who resembled Golda Mier in stature and appearance. If she had been a couple of feet taller, I’d have guessed she was related to Andre the Giant.

She was born and raised in north Georgia, and I believe she is fully capable of wrestling a cow or delivering a foal. It’s no surprise that she lives on a farm and raises goats and chickens. I can easily picture her as a pioneer woman leading an ox cart across the Cumberland Gap to settle Kentucky and wrest the wilderness from the Indians. In fact, I can see her pulling an ox cart across the Cumberland Gap without the aid of an ox. If I were crossing the continent in a Conestoga wagon in the 1840’s, I would want a woman like that standing behind me. For one thing, if she stood in front of me she would block my view.

There were five of us in the class. All of us were on the retired side of life so it wasn’t exactly a young crowd. In my opinion, I was the only normal person in the class. That probably tells you a lot.

There was a pleasant, well dressed and well spoken woman who struck me as ditzy. I don’t think she was raised in the country. I bet the closest she had ever been to a farm was the Pepperidge Farm section of the supermarket. She reminded me of an earnest Mrs. Thurston Howell on Gilligan’s Island. She was nice but mostly clueless.

There was a man who retired from IBM. He was into healthy foods. He was okay. He even laughed at some of my cynical comments and obscure references. I’m not sure whether it was genuine or he was trying to humor me. I think the ten gallon cowboy hat I was wearing may have made him a little leery of me. Evidently he was concerned over my nutritional well-being because he gave me a handwritten list of books and websites at the end of the class so I could educate myself on how to eat right. Damn, I seem to have lost it when I stopped for a Slim Jim and a high sugar content soda on the way home.

There was a thin woman who was very nice. I think she lives in a trailer; I never did get her story. Her husband delivered her and picked her up in a Prius. I didn’t see whether it had an Obama sticker or a Save the Whales decal on it. If she had told me that she was a retired librarian, had attended Woodstock and lived in a commune in the 60’s, I’d have bought the story no questions asked.

The last woman was the kicker. I bet her car has a sticker that says “I’m a Wingnut.” She went on and on about her holistic lifestyle and the dangers of processed food and GMOs. The first time she used the term GMO I thought she was referring to a Chevy muscle car that I never heard of. I finally had to ask her what the hell GMO meant. She said it stood for genetically modified food. Wouldn’t that be GMF?

According to her, processed foods and GMOs are going to cause the downfall of western civilization. I tried to think of all the places in the world where people do not eat processed or genetically modified food, and all I could think of were places where there is rampant disease, malnutrition, and starvation−you know, the type of places where if you give a dollar a day, you can feed three families for a week (probably with processed or genetically modified food). I bet people in those areas would kill for Cheez Whiz and Ritz Crackers. Try telling them that a genetically modified chicken is no good to eat.

Frankly, she irritated the shit out of me. I know that my reaction to her is a character flaw on my part, but I’m comfortable with the fact that if I didn’t have character flaws, I’d have no character at all.

I don’t know whether there is any truth to what she was saying about the dangers of processed food and GMOs, and to be honest, I don’t care all that much. I’m not giving up pizza, beer, Velveeta, or french fries for a tasty plate of macrobiotic pabulum and bean curd. If that means that I won’t live to 110 and get a chance to drool all over myself and wear adult diapers, that’s fine with me.

It doesn’t bother me that she believes in that stuff. What irritates me is that she wore her holistic lifestyle like a badge. Like many people who think they have discovered the true way, she wanted to proselytize her life style. She was so proud of herself for eating free range chicken eggs, avoiding processed food, and, for all I know, foraging for food on the forest floor. Who cares, lady? If it floats your boat, fine. I just don’t want to hear about it.

Back to the class: We learned to make yogurt, cream cheese, feta cheese, and kefir. It was only recently that I had even heard of kefir. According to Wikipedia, kefir originated in the north Caucasus Mountains around 3,000 B.C. I have no idea me how they figured that out. Maybe it’s based on the fact that Kefir tastes like it’s 3,000 years old.

I don’t know much about that area of the world. After doing some research, I know why. The northern Caucasus region is where countries like Chechnya and Dagestan are located. Until now I didn’t know there was a place called Dagestan. If you had asked me, I’d have guessed that Dagestan was a type of polish sausage or an alien planet on a Star Trek episode.

Chechnya and Dagestan are not places noted for their cuisine or hospitality. You don’t see many travel brochures advertising a pleasant vacation at the Stone Hut Hilton in Dagestan. I bet a book of popular recipes from Chechnya is about as long as a book about Italian war heroes. I think Chechnya’s biggest export product is Islamic terrorists.

Kefir is a fermented milk drink made from kefir grains. Wikipedia described it as a sour, carbonated, slightly alcoholic beverage, with a consistency and taste similar to thin yogurt. I bet that makes your taste buds sit up and palpitate. My ears perked up when I heard that it was slightly alcoholic, but then I found out you have to drink about eight gallons of the stuff to equal a six pack.

Sandor Katz, in his book “The Art of Fermentation”, says that “Kefir is notable among milk cultures in that rather than using a bit of fermented milk to start the next batch, it relies upon a SCOBY, a rubbery mass of bacterial and fungal cells that has evolved into an elaborate symbiotic arrangement, sharing nutrients, coordinating reproduction, and co-creating a shared form…” SCOBY is an acronym for Symbiotic Coordination Of Bactria and Yeast. Hmm, yummy!

The instructor had a kefir SCOBY in a plastic container, and she showed it to us. Looking at it, all I could think of was Dr. Frankenstein shouting, “It’s alive. It’s alive.” I’ve seen more appetizing stuff growing on the bottom of a petri dish in a laboratory. I’ll put it this way: If I saw kefir grains on the floor of my shower, my first thought would be to put on a HAZMAT suit and bomb them with Lysol, Round Up, and penicillin.

Kefir is supposed to be really good for you. Ms. GMO claimed that ten years of drinking three glasses of kefir a day cured her long time digestive ailment. I asked her what exactly her digestive ailment was, and her response was that the doctors never came up with a diagnosis. I could see that coming. Well, I know what the diagnosis is: she’s a fucking hypochondriac. She’s so somatically focused that she’s not happy unless there’s something wrong with her. Every little tweak, gurgle and pain becomes a threat to the lengthy existence she’s trying to achieve. She doesn’t need kefir; she needs Dr. Phil.

So there you have it. I can now make yogurt, cream cheese, feta cheese, and kefir. I don’t think I’ll be making a lot of kefir. I heard it gives you the farts.

I’ve signed up for the intermediate cheese-making course. I can’t wait to see what type of people will attend that class. With my luck, there will be a Dagastani who is into tofu, faith healing, and high colonics. I can’t wait.

Where's The Sun?

I haven’t seen the sun in four days. If I were a weatherman, I’d describe the weather lately as shitty with a thirty percent chance of rain. It has been chilly, wet, and overcast for days. That’s great for salamanders, mushrooms, and residents of the Aleutian Islands, but a little hard to take for a long time Floridian. I feel like I’m in an old black and white movie playing the role of a repressed peasant in some place like Moldavia. I’ve never been to Moldavia, but it sounds like one of those places where the sun seldom shines, people live in hovels and eat turnips, and wolves howl at night.

When I’ve been here in the past in winter, the weather fronts have moved through quickly like they do in Florida. The bad weather has lasted only a day or two and then the sun has come out. I hope that’s the typical weather pattern and that what we’re experiencing now is usual.

I can deal with the cold. It’s the absence of the sun that gets to you when you’ve lived in Florida for 40 years. Say what you will about Florida, it’s sunny most of the time. A day without at least some sunshine is unusual. Two consecutive days without the sun causes people to get grumpy. Three days without the sun and people become psychotic.

I’ve lived up north and in the Ohio River valley. In winter the clouds roll in, and the sun is seldom seen until spring. I imagine winter weather in the Midwest is much the same. I know that people can live and work under such conditions, but it’s not fun unless you’re a fungus. I think that’s a fair conclusion based on the number of people who move to the sunny states the minute they retire.

I can’t imagine what it’s like to live in Barrow, Alaska, where the sun stays below the horizon for 65 days in the winter. It must not be that great since Barrow’s population declined from 4,683 to 4,212 between 2000 and 2010. I think I’d rather live in Moldavia.

At any rate, I hope the sun come out soon. Until it does, I’m going to sulk in my gloomy bedroom.

I also hope that things dry out around here. I spend most of my days working outside. There’s not much you can do outside when it’s wet. The Georgia clay sticks to your boots worse than dog poop, and pretty soon you’re moving around with an extra pound or two on each foot. On the plus side, I’m developing some shapely calves. On the negative side, I haven’t seen my calves since October.

Smart phones are great things when you live in a warm place or spend most of your time indoors. Smart phones are not that convenient when you’re outdoors and it’s cold. Touch screens work by sensing the heat from your fingers. If your fingers are cold, you can poke that son of a bitch all you want, and it isn’t going to respond. If you are wearing gloves, you have to take your gloves off before using the phone or else the touch screen will not respond. If you take off your gloves, your fingers get cold after a few minutes and, you guessed it, your touch screen won’t respond. I may have to give up texting until spring or find a cell phone that has levers and pushbuttons.

The other thing about a cell phone is that there is no good place to put it when you’re working outside doing manly things in cold weather. I’m doing things like planting trees, painting a pole shed, chopping wood, and driving a tractor. (I feel like I should break into the chorus of Ol’ Man River at this point: “Tote dat barge. Lif dat bale.”)

The point is that I need to put my phone in a protected place on my body to avoid accidentally damaging it when I’m working outside. I usually put it under my coat in an inside pocket. It’s a pain in the ass to get a phone call. When the damn thing rings, I have to go through a multi-step process to answer it. I have to stop what I’m doing, take off my gloves, unbutton my coat, reach into my coat, find the cell phone, pull it out, and poke at it hoping it will detect the slightest bit of body heat in my cold index finger. Half the time, the caller has hung up before I can answer the call. When I get a phone call I look like a man who’s discovered a wasp crawling under his shirt as I frantically claw at my clothing in an attempt to answer the phone. People think I'm having a conniption fit.

Switching gears, we planted some apple trees near the fence line between our property and the neighbor’s. I was tending to the trees a couple of days ago when I had this odd feeling that I was being watched. I looked around and discovered that the neighbor’s six cows had wandered over to the fence and were standing there, motionless, staring at me intently. They were twenty feet away. Now I like to think that I’m a riveting and fascinating person and the natural center of attention in any situation, but those cows began to freak me out.

I understand that the entertainment options for a cow in a pasture are limited, but there was something creepy about the way those six cows were fixated on me. It was almost as if they wanted something. I kept waiting for them to hold up a sign to eat more chicken. The horrible thought occurred to me that maybe I represented something edible to them. What a scary vision: man-eating cows. Then I remembered that I dated a few during my college days.

As I drove the tractor back to the cabin, I looked back, and they were still there watching me. I don’t know if cows have facial expressions, but these cows appeared to be either sad and wistful or hungry and disappointed. Either way, I’m not getting near them from now on.

Thanksgiving. I had a lot to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. My family is healthy. I’m healthy, though a bit creaky at times. The move to north Georgia has been completed successfully, and retired life has been great so far. For the first time in a long time I do not wake up angry, tense, and dreading the day ahead. I’m having a ball.

We’ve made considerable progress on the homestead. Meredith has gotten the house organized, and I’ve brought order to the workshop. I’ve had a large pole shed built. I purchased a subsoiler and a cultivator for the tractor and a heavy duty rototiller and have used them successfully to help prepare a large garden plot. In the process I have learned the intricacies of a three point tractor hitch. We have planted apple trees and blueberry bushes. Raspberries, blackberries, and nut trees are soon to follow.

I’ve learned how to sharpen handsaws, chisels, and hand plane blades, and I’ve reconditioned a number of old saws and hand planes. I’ve signed up for cheese-making classes, and pretty soon I will be making my own cheese. Meredith is learning how to make wine thanks to the urging and example of two close friends. She is tracking down sources for pork so we can start experimenting with making our own bacon, smoked hams, and sausage. I have enrolled in the Georgia Master Gardner course.

I do not believe in fate. I believe that shit happens. Sometimes it’s good shit, and sometimes it’s bad shit. I believe that a person can influence whether he or she experiences more good shit than bad shit, but ultimately what happens to you in life is largely random. Bad shit happens to good people, and good shit happens to bad people. All things being equal, I suspect that in most cases a person’s good shit and bad shit even out over a lifetime, but I am aware that every time a coin is flipped, the odds are 50-50 that it will come up tails, even if it has come up heads the prior 100 times. There’s no guarantee that a string of bad luck will be followed by a string of good luck. Thus, I am truly grateful for being on the receiving end of so much good shit this year. And that, my friends, is Yacavone’s Good Shit/Bad Shit Theory of Life.

Cold Weather

According to the almanac, the official start of winter is on the solstice which happens on December 21 at 12:11 p.m. this year. If that’s true, then winter has been practicing for opening day here in Fannin County.

It was below freezing and windy the day I started writing this post. The wind chill factor was 17 degrees. It did not get into the 40’s all day. The next day the morning temperature was 23 degrees. There were snow flurries and sleet on the day before Thanksgiving. As far as I’m concerned, that’s winter.

Winter weather means two things to me: cold and snow. I know that north Georgia experiences real winter weather. The average temperature in Fannin County in December and February is just above 30 degrees. The locals tell me that there have been winters when the temperature has dipped below zero for several days and there has been more than two feet of snow on the ground. By my definition, that’s real winter.

I lived up north until I was 22, so I know about snow, blizzards, cold, and ice. I went to college in Pennsylvania, and I remember weeks of frigid cold and lingering snow. I recall one bitterly cold day in January when a large group of us left the fraternity for early morning classes. Two or three fell on the ice on the porch and walkway and turned back before we got to the sidewalk. We lost another two or three climbing over the mounded snow left by the snowplows on our side of the street. A couple more abandoned the quest after falling on their asses crossing the icy street. Climbing over the mounded snow on the other side of the street took a similar toll. By the time we reached campus, a distance of a hundred feet or so, half the group had returned to the warmth of the frat house. It was like storming Omaha Beach. Casualties were high.

To people who live in the Northeast, the Midwest, or the Rockies, winter in the southern Appalachians must sound like a piece of cake, and I must sound like a big weenie for even talking about it.

But it’s what you are used to that matters. I lived in Florida for the last 40 years, and I’m not used to living and working in the cold. I’m used to balmy weather and wearing shorts and flip-flops in the winter. My body is good at sweating, not shivering. I’m also not as young, hardy, and bullet proof as I was in my college days. I’m sure I will adjust to cold weather, but it will take time.

The transition will be tougher for Meredith. She has lived in Florida all her life and has never been through a real winter. In her lifetime it has snowed a handful of times in Pinellas County, and what snow there was melted in minutes or hours.

Until I do adjust to the cold in these parts, I’ve got to be honest−it sucks.

My oldest son, Jake, drove up from FSU this weekend. On Sunday morning, the thermometer read 27 degrees, and the wind was blowing. Jake and I are early risers, and he headed out to the workshop before the sun rose to work on our dune buggy. I had no legitimate reason to be in the workshop that early, but I went with him. I think it was herd instinct on my part. I went because he went.

The workshop is not heated, and after five minutes my hands were so cold they were like clubs. The last thing I wanted to do was take my hands out of my pockets and touch a cold metal tool. My fingers were frozen claws. I don’t think I could have wrapped them around a tool even if I had wanted to. I bet that if I had picked my nose, my index finger would have frozen there. Try explaining that to the emergency room physician.

You know how when you are really cold you scrunch your neck down and try to cover your ears with your shoulders? That’s what I looked like. I could have booked myself in the freak tent on the county fair circuit as Jimmy, The Neckless Wonder.

At some point I couldn’t feel my toes, and I wondered whether there had ever been a reported case of frostbite in Georgia.

After a few more minutes I abandoned the idea of doing any work in the shop and started a roaring fire in the burn barrel next to the shop. I spent the next hour huddled next to it sucking down hot coffee like it was free beer at a frat party.

I tried to justify my discomfort as a bonding experience with Jake. Here we were, father and son, huddled around a fire on a frigid morning. It was so primal. I bet Neanderthal dads shared moments like this with their sons during that last great ice age. Then I recalled that the Neanderthals succumbed to the Cro-Magnons. It probably was because the Cro-Magnons were smart enough to stay in their warm shelters when it got cold.

Fortunately, it warmed up enough to be tolerable after the sun rose.

The whole experience has caused me to reexamine what my parental bonding obligations are. I’ve concluded that my obligation to bond with my sons diminishes in direct proportion to how cold it is.

The worst thing about the cold is peeing outdoors, at least for men. It’s like that classic thought experiment in physics where you contemplate an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. Peeing outdoors requires you to contemplate ice cold fingers touching warm object. That is if you can find it under multiple layers of clothing.

My hope is that I will adjust to the cold quickly. I will need to if I get chickens, rabbits, or other critters that have to be fed and watered daily.

Learning to deal with cold weather is just another part of the experience of Yacavone in Georgia.

An Assessment of Retirement

I have been retired and living in north Georgia for two and a half months. When I left Pinellas County it was 90 degrees and 90 percent humidity. As I write this in the pre-dawn hours, it is 28 degrees and 35 percent humidity. We’ve already had one morning when it was 15 degrees. Certain parts of my anatomy are debating whether to go south for the winter or just grit it out here.

Fall is over. The oaks continue to cling to some of their leaves, but it’s a losing battle. The bare, angular branches of the trees against the sky make the woods look skeletal. There is a sense of impending winter in the air. It is a good time to assess what I’ve learned so far about retirement, country life, and rural Georgia.

I’ve learned that Chapstick is my friend. The low humidity, wind, and cold have turned my lips into beef jerky. I’m told I will adjust to the lower humidity. I hope so. I feel like I’m walking around with big, pouty, shiny lips after I smear on the Chapstick. That’s a great look if you’re Mick Jagger, a kissing gourami, or a chimpanzee, but not so great when you’re standing in the tool department of Ace Hardware, and the local boys are wondering whether you’re wearing lip gloss. Can you say, “Squeal like a pig?”

I’ve learned to tell the temperature without a thermometer. If it’s 40 degrees or colder, my nose starts to run. I wear work gloves much of the time when I am outdoors, and I swipe constantly at my dripping nose with my gloved hands. My nose is now red and chapped. I look like a rummy. I imagine W.C. Fields’ nose looked like mine. With my red nose and big pouty lips, maybe I should get big flapping clown shoes and complete the picture.

We have been using our wood stove to heat the cabin. I’ve learned that if I want to wake up to a warm cabin in the morning, I’m the one who has to get out of bed in the middle of the night to add wood to the stove. Meredith isn’t going to budge from her toasty bed.

I am becoming a maestro of the wood stove. I can nurse a load of wood into eight hours of steady heat. Now if I can only remember that the handle to the stove gets hot enough to brand cattle. I try to be quiet when I stoke the stove in the wee hours of the morning but I frequently forget that the handle is hot and burn my fingers. I bellowed so loud the other night that the neighbor’s dogs started barking, and they’re over a quarter of a mile away. It certainly startled our cat; we had to pry her off the ceiling.

I’ve learned that overalls are functional garments, and I wear mine all the time. They have plenty of pockets, keep the dirt out, and are warm. A lot of men here wear them, especially the old timers, so you don’t feel like a rube.

I do have a suggestion to improve them. They have a button fly. When you really have to pee and your hands are cold, it’s a bitch to unbutton the buttons. If you’ve ever worn a snowsuit you’ll know what I mean. I’d replace the buttons with a giant zipper and attach a strong rip cord to the zipper pull. I’d put a patch next to the fly that said, “Pull only in an emergency.” I know it would look odd having a giant string hanging down over your crotch, but it would be practical and prevent accidents. It may even become a fashion statement. Imagine brightly colored tassels fluttering around down there. I’d call it the ripper zipper look.

There is a drawback to overalls. They trap gas. Wearing them can be dangerous after an evening of Mexican food and a few beers. I was wearing overalls the other day with the legs tucked into my boot tops, and I let one rip. I thought my boots were going to fly off. I think overalls should have emergency blow out vents in the back.

I’ve learned that making cheese is not as easy it looks. Mozzarella is one of the easiest cheeses to make. I’ve tried to make it twice and failed both times. It is humbling to realize that a Sicilian goat herder with a third grade education living in a stone hut can make cheese, and I can’t. It’s the same feeling you get when your kid can turn on the disc player and you can’t. I need to locate someone around here who knows what they are doing cheese-wise and get some hints.

I’ve learned that there is a big difference between the little backyard garden I had in Florida and the big, serious garden I’m planning to have here. The time and effort I’m spending just to get rid of the rocks is way more than I anticipated. The local gardeners tell me that I will never get all the rocks out of this soil. They say that every year more rocks will come to the surface. In a way, that relieved me. I was beginning to believe that the number of rocks in my garden was divine punishment for my sins. I haven’t kept count of my sins over the years, but I did not think there were that many. Maybe working 37 years as a lawyer added to the count. It’s been a long time since I read the Inferno, but I would not be surprised if Dante placed lawyers somewhere in the lowest levels of hell just above politicians, parking meter readers, and daytime television programmers.

I’ve learned that you are more aware of earth’s other creatures when you live in a rural area: hawks and crows, hummingbirds and woodpeckers, deer and raccoons. In my case the list includes infestations of limping daddy long legs, weather predicting wooly caterpillars, zombie squirrels, and swarming ladybugs. I can’t wait to see what’s next−singing dung beetles, belching toads, kamikaze cicadas, farting stink bugs?

More than anything, I’ve learned that retirement is great. I do not miss work one bit. When I said I was retiring, some folks told me that I would miss work and go crazy with nothing to do. Let me get this right. I’m going to miss dealing with cantankerous judges, opposing attorneys who are jerks, Tampa Bay traffic, deadlines, working on weekends, stress, and pressure. Are you nuts?

I know that some people take so much enjoyment in their work that they cannot conceive of doing something else. There are probably long time trial attorneys who still find the practice of law enjoyable. Hell, there are people in India who take great pleasure in driving nails through their nipples and hanging heavy weights from their scrotums. But I suspect that for most of us the profession that we’ve chosen eventually grows wearisome. The exception may be operating a strip club, but I digress.

I don’t think not having anything to do will be a problem. I start every day with a list of things to accomplish, and by the time evening rolls around, I find that I have not made it through the list. Part of the reason for that is because I keep getting sidetracked on spur of the moment whims like making a walking stick or seeing if I can convert an old piece of metal into a Viking axe or learning to sharpen a saw that I will probably never use.

These side ventures are not significant accomplishments or even useful on the grand scale of things. Some would say they are a childish waste of time. But that’s the secret and the joy of retirement: I have the time to indulge childish urges. When people say to me that I will go crazy for things to do in retirement that tells me they have lost the playfulness and imagination they had as a child and forgotten the childish pleasure of doing something just for the hell of it. This may be selfish, but I view retirement as my time of life, a time to indulge childish pleasures, do foolish things, and smell the roses.

Lost and Confused

I thought I had a good sense of direction, but driving around here in Fannin County is convincing me otherwise. In Florida I always had a sense of where I was in relation to the Gulf of Mexico. It’s easy to orient yourself when you have a huge body of water to the west. It also helps that most roads in Florida run north and south or east and west.

My sense of direction seems to have deserted me here in Fannin County. There is no large body of water to provide orientation. The most significant geographic features are mountains, and there are a lot of those in all directions.

The cabin faces some large mountains. When we first started coming up here I thought the cabin faced north because I assumed that any mountains had to be in the direction of North Carolina and Tennessee. It took me seven years to realize that there were mountains between here and Atlanta and that the cabin faced south. You would think that at some point I would have realized where east and west were based on where the sun rose and set. Sometimes I can be such a Danny Dumbass. Obviously, I'm no Daniel Boone.

Of course it doesn’t help your sense of direction when the roads twist and turn in all directions. Even if you are oriented when you start, after a few turns you’re lucky if you can point to your ass.

Even when I know where a particular route starts and ends from studying a map, I’m often amazed at the result. Maybe there is an unusual space/time warp around here that does strange things to the geography.

Sometimes I get confused even after studying a map. There are a lot of roads that have an “old” version of the road. For instance, there is Dial Road and Old Dial Road, Cashes Valley Road and Old Cashes Valley Road, and Field Road and Old Field Road. Sometimes the “old” road is not located in the same part of the county as the “new” road at which point it’s a mystery to me why they named the new road after the old road. Maybe the roads are not named after each other but rather after people. Maybe there was a Mr. Dial and an older fellow by the name of Dial; hence, Dial Road and Old Dial Road. Whatever the reason, it’s confusing as hell.

Adding to the confusion are the areas of the county that are not even marked on a map but are well known to locals, like Epworth and Hemptown. One old fellow told me he lived in Hemptown. I could not find Hemptown on a map of the county. I finally figured out where it was when I got lost (imagine that) one day.

There are three areas in the county known as Booger Hollow, Hells Hollow, and Snake Nation. As you have probably deduced, you will not find them identified on a map. According to one source, Hells Hollow got its name when a family saw a man stagger out of a hollow. When they asked him where he had been, he replied, “Hell.” Snake Nation allegedly got its name from a Cherokee clan that lived there. I have no idea how Booger Hollow got its name, and I am almost afraid to ask. I was told that there was an area known as Mule Shit Hollow, but the name was changed for obvious reasons. I’d have given anything to have Mule Shit Hollow as an address.

I have always had a fascination with place names. When I travel I like to peruse a map for unusual or descriptive names for cities and towns, roads and streets, and geographical features. Fannin County has its share of interesting place names.

There are a lot of hollows and hollers. There’s Channing Hollow Road, Gork Holler Road, Happy Hollow Road, Hidden Hollow Drive, Hillbilly Hollow Road, Misty Hollow Road, and Old Hollow Road. I suppose Possum Hollow Road was inevitable, but I am surprised there is no Sleepy Hollow.

Roads with the name “bear” in them are popular. There’s Bear Claw Road, Bear Cub Trail, Bear Den Road, Bear Track Trail, and Bear Walk Road, to name some of them. I assume someone was trying to be clever or was a lousy speller when he or she named Bear Foot Drive. My favorite is Bear Walks Medicine Path.

If you’re into cheap wine and lousy hangovers, there’s Boons Farm Road. Keeping with the theme, Fannin County has Boot Legger Road, Bourbon Street, Moonshine Mountain Road, and Moonshine Ridge Road. There is also Wild Turkey Lane, but this could have been named for the bird rather than the bourbon.

I’d like to know the story behind Bushy Head Gilmer Road. Was it named after a man with a full head of hair? There’s also a Bushy Head Lane, Bushy Head Road, and Bushy Head Fannin Road.

I’m not sure I want to visit Chigger Ridge Road, Critter Road, or Blue Tick Road, and it’s probably better to stay away from Shotgun Alley and Cops Road.

Roads with names that appear to be from the old days are Coon Gap Road, Cut Cane Road, and Hardscrabble Road. I particularly like Lickskillet Road.

I pass Trotsalot Road when I drive into Blue Ridge. I speculate that the person who named it rode horses a lot or had a recurring stomach ailment.

You can stroll down Memory Lane and visit Dew Drop Lane, but I recommend you avoid The Forest Has Eyes Road.

I don’t know what to think of Elvis Presley Boulevard. From what I’ve seen, there is not a road in the county that deserves to be called a boulevard.

I intend to find out how Black Ankle Creek, Hot House Creek, Fightingtown Creek, and Crusher Creek got their names.

The bottom line is that if you come to Fannin County be prepared to be lost and confused. Bring a GPS device, a map, and a compass. An emergency radio and signaling flares may be in order too. Otherwise, you may get lost on the back roads and never return.

Driving The Back Roads

The back roads here are really something. They are not flat and straight like the roads in Florida; rather, they go up and down and turn left and right, often all at the same time. This is not the place for you if you get car sick or have trouble with roller coasters or state fair rides. They don’t need to warn you about the dangers of texting while driving in this county. It would be suicidal to try it on the back roads. Besides, it’s impossible to text and drive with both hands gripping the steering wheel in terror.

Around here, when they put up a sign that says “Dangerous Curve”, they really mean it. I went around one curve the other day and almost ran into myself. I don’t know who decides whether a curve merits a “Dangerous Curve” sign and I don’t know what the criteria are, but the standard must be high. I think the county road department has to be convinced that death is almost certain if a driver doesn’t slow down before it will put up a warning sign. That means that curves that will only cripple and maim you are routine and unmarked. Comforting thought.

Not only are the back roads meandering, but most of them are so narrow that two cars can barely pass. Some are even narrower than that; they are basically paved wagon paths. Most of the back roads do not have a line down the center to distinguish your lane from the oncoming lane. I think that’s because there is no distinction. It’s first-come, first-serve around here. They say that possession is nine-tenths of the law; the same is true of the country roads in this area.

Most of the back roads have ditches and steep drop-offs on both sides. People up here favor large pickup trucks, often with dual rear wheels. It’s a butt-puckering experience when you encounter one of those road hogs coming the other way on a narrow country lane. I had to use a crowbar to pry my ass cheeks apart after one recent drive. I’m thinking of adding a change of underwear to my vehicle emergency kit.

Even when the lanes are marked, people here have a disconcerting habit of cutting the corners. You haven’t lived until you’ve almost died when a utility truck comes around a corner on your side of the road. My theory is that the number of close near death experiences on the back roads accounts for the number of churches in this area. There is a small Baptist church every mile or so around here. I bet every one of them has a person on his knees thanking the Lord for allowing him to survive a trip to get a loaf of bread. A good name for a local Catholic church would be Our Lady of the Close Call. They say there are no atheists in foxholes; I suspect there are few atheists on Fannin County back roads.

Because the back roads are the only way to get to most properties it is not uncommon to see large service and delivery trucks and even larger tractor-trailers hauling logs on them. One of them could snuff out my little truck in a heartbeat. If that should ever happen, my hope is that I’m taken out by a truck hauling Moon Pies or RC Cola. I’d hate to have my obituary read that I was crushed by a septic tank pumper (“You Dump, We Pump”). My friends, who lack any degree of sensitivity, would have a field day with the jokes.

The scenery is a distraction. Most everywhere you look around here is a scene that could go on a post card or a cheesy calendar. The problem is that you don’t dare to take your eyes off the road to take in the view. They should add a feature to car GPS systems that describes what you would see if you are courageous enough to look. It would say something like, “Off to the right, if you are foolish enough to look and do not mind ending up in a ditch, is a quaint babbling brook.” Better yet, it could say, “You are passing a classic Appalachian barn on your left. Based on your speed, I estimate that you have a forty percent chance of surviving if you want to take a peek.”

Another complication is the wildlife. You never know when you’re going to encounter an animal on a back road. If you follow this blog, you know about the squirrels. There are other critters as well, including deer, possum, raccoons, dogs, and cats. The squirrels are the most prevalent and the worst. They are either fearless, stupid or possessed. I saw one leisurely crossing a busy four lane divided highway the other day. Several people have told us that when you come up on a squirrel in the road you can speed up or slow down, but you should never swerve. I can’t figure out whether this advice is to prevent you from going into a ditch or to keep the squirrel from getting confused.

Driving around here at night can creep you out. There is nothing lonelier than a back country road at night. It brings out your primal fears of the night time. There are no street lights, and there is little traffic. Your headlights eerily illuminate the trees and bushes on the side of the road as the road twists and turns. You start to wonder what lurks at the edge of the light. Every urban myth comes to mind, especially the one about the high school couple necking in a car on a rural road who encountered an escaped madman with a hook on one arm. I’ve made it a rule never to stop on a back road and make out with a high school girl.

I’m always on the lookout for a pair of eyes staring back at me from the edge of the road or a deer jumping in front of me when I drive at night. And in the back of my mind there is the “I know it doesn’t exist, but please don’t scare the shit out of me” chance of encountering the large, hairy shape of a Bigfoot crossing the road. I’m not even going to talk about the possibility of being abducted by a UFO and being probed by aliens. That stuff never happens in the city. It’s always in a rural area on a back road. It takes some cojones to drive at night on the back roads around here.

I drove on country roads in Pennsylvania and Kentucky as a young man so I’m used to them. Meredith has lived all her life in Florida and is only familiar with flat and straight roads. She’s not exactly an adventurous driver under the best of circumstances, but get her on a back road, and she turns into Ma Kettle. I never noticed how cautiously she drove in Florida because it is impossible to go anywhere fast in Pinellas County.

To be honest, it drives me nuts to drive with her on a country road. A couple of weeks ago she drove as we explored some of the back roads. At first I thought she was joking with me. Then I thought she was trying to piss me off on purpose. We were being passed by wooly caterpillars and crippled squirrels. The fall foliage changed in the course of that drive. I’m fairly certain that wagon trains and cattle drives moved at a faster pace. I kept my mouth shut which shows that I learned something in my thirty plus years of marriage. Now I bring something to read whenever she drives the back roads. I read three chapters of Moby Dick between here and Blue Ridge the other day. I dread driving with her when the roads to get icy in a winter storm. I’m going to bring a change of clothes and a book of crossword puzzles. I may be able to learn another language before we arrive at our destination.

I shouldn’t complain. Instead of boring drives to the store, I get heart-pounding road adventures every time I go somewhere. It adds a little zest to your life. Driving the back roads is one more thing that makes living here a different experience.

Summer Is Over

Meredith and I are finally getting settled in, and we’re starting to develop routines. My routine is to head out to the workshop, a.k.a., the Man Cave, early in the morning and stay out there most of the day. That way I don’t get in Meredith’s hair and vice versa.

This part of this post is being written early in the morning in the workshop at a little writing spot I’ve set up. The sun is just starting to come up, and it’s a damp, foggy fall morning. The temperature is 50 degrees, and I’ve got my little electric heater going. It’s quite comfortable.

Meredith just texted me from the cabin that a group of young deer was working its way toward the workshop. Sure enough, I can see six deer out the window I’m facing. They are browsing in the upper pasture about 100 feet away. Every moment or so one of them looks up in my direction, stares for a few seconds, twitches its tail, and goes back to grazing. It’s probably trying to figure out the strange light shining from the workshop windows. 

I acknowledge Meredith’s text, and she texts back that their parents have probably been killed by hunters. I think watching Bambi as a child had a profound effect on her. I was more a Davy Crockett type of guy. I doubt the deer’s parents have been killed by hunters. I think it is more likely that this is the time of year when young deer are kicked out of the family. It’s like me sending my kids off to college. The good news is that under Affordable Care Act, the young deer can stay on their parents’ insurance.

It’s safe to say that it is no longer summer here in the north Georgia mountains. The temperature was 24 degrees in the garden at 5:30 in the morning the other day. I know this because the remote sensor I installed near the garden broadcast the temperature to a monitor in the kitchen. I don’t want to give you get the false impression that I dragged my ass out there to get the reading. Hell no. I was in the kitchen watching the morning news on television broadcast via Direct TV while wearing my flannel snuggies and sipping a hot cup of coffee that our automatic coffee maker brewed to be ready the second I rolled out of bed.

I know that I said that one of my objectives in moving here was to learn the old way of living and doing things. I also know that automatic temperature sensors and coffee makers and satellite television is not the way our forefathers lived. In my defense, I never said I wanted to live like the colonial Americans did. I’m curious, not nuts.

I know that it’s no longer summer here, but I don’t know whether to say that it’s fall or autumn. I have come to appreciate that there is a difference between the two. On an autumn day the air is cool and the sky is clear. The leaves on the trees display brilliant autumn colors of red, yellow, and orange. Dried cornstalks stand tall in the fields. High overhead you can hear the shrill scree, scree call of a red tailed hawk as it circles looking for a meal. Fallen leaves dance and tumble merrily in your wake when you drive down a country road. You want to be outdoors. An autumn day marks the end of summer; it is a time of harvest and thanksgiving, and the mood is joyful.

A couple of days ago we had what I consider our first fall day. Low gray clouds heavy with moisture scudded across the sky. The air was chilly and damp. Rain drizzled intermittently, and a gusting breeze blew dead brown leaves out of the trees and along the ground. The harsh caws of crows could be heard among the trees in the lower pasture. It was a harbinger of coming winter, and the mood was foreboding and ominous. It was a day for staying indoors, reading a book, and hot soup.

It is not an original observation that Floridians and city dwellers do not experience the weather and changing seasons as intimately as country folk. In the short time I have been living here I find that I am more attuned to the weather and the seasons. There are good reasons for this. I live in a place where there are distinct seasons. I am retired and have the leisure to stop and appreciate the weather; I am not rushing to the office or to court with a mind full of things I need to do. I am outdoors most of the day rather than cooped up in a temperature controlled environment. Many of my activities, such as gardening, brush clearing, wood chopping, and the like, are affected by the weather.

Perhaps this is why I now appreciate that there is a difference between an autumn day and a fall day. I have to believe that primitive man and the early settlers to this country were similarly affected and impacted by the weather and the seasons. In this sense, my experiment is starting to bear fruit, and I am beginning to learn the old ways of living and doing things.

An infestation. As if the squirrels, spiders, and wooly caterpillars weren’t enough, we are now experiencing an invasion of ladybugs. No exaggeration, there are thousands of ladybugs crawling on the outside walls of our cabin and thousands more swarming in the air around the cabin. Meredith tried to blow them off the cabin with a leaf blower, but they just came back.

All this occurred in one day. They started arriving mid morning. By mid afternoon the ladybug convention was in full swing. I’m a little vague on the Bible, but wasn’t a swarm of ladybugs one of the plagues that God visited on Egypt? Maybe that was locusts. At any rate, I now have an idea of what that was like.

According to the guy who hooked up our emergency generator, this happens every fall. They never said anything about that in the brochures. The ladybugs, sensing that winter is approaching, look for a warm protected spot to spend the winter. Not all houses and areas are affected. Apparently the ladybugs have decided to spend the winter at our house this year. I’m honored, but no thanks.

All I know about ladybugs is that they are cute and loveable, they don’t bite, and they eat aphids. Given the number of ladybugs that are currently roosting on the walls of my cabin I doubt there is an aphid in Fannin County.

One or two ladybugs is okay. Thousand of ladybugs is an infestation. They land on your glasses, crawl into your clothes, and fly into your ears. They enter the house when you open a door. They are driving the dog nuts. They are driving me nuts.

We are researching to see if there is anything that can be done. So far we have not found a solution. The electrician mentioned that there may be a pheromone you can buy that sexually attracts the ladybugs. The idea would be to place this pheromone someplace away from the house to lure the ladybugs away.

I don’t know if that’s a good idea. If our information is correct, they are attracted to our cabin because it is a warm place to spend the winter. So now we are going to put out something that will attract them sexually. Won’t that just attract more ladybugs (and horny ones at that) and add to our problem? What happens when they are all sexed out? I think they are going to want to roll over and go to sleep in a warm place which means our cabin is back on their radar.

I can’t wait to see what else nature is going to throw at us. Do they have lemmings in north Georgia?

I Start Working On My Garden

Now that I’ve figured out where I want to put my garden, I need to prepare the soil. I understand in theory what needs to be done, but I don’t quite know how to do it in practice. So I went to tractor dealership where I bought my tractor to nose around. I spoke with a good old boy behind the service desk, and he said that the first thing I need to do with a virgin field is use a subsoiler to break up the hard pan and uproot the rocks. So now I am the proud owner of a subsoiler attachment for my tractor.

A subsoiler is a large, sturdy crooked steel finger that is dragged behind the tractor and digs 8 to 12 inches into the ground ripping up rocks, roots, and dirt. The object of the exercise is to drag it back and forth until every inch the garden has been rooted up.

Being the over-achiever that I am, I not only go back and forth, but I go sideways and diagonally when I subsoil. I’ve done it every day for the past week. I’m not sure you’re supposed to do it that much, but since it’s the only garden attachment I have for the tractor at present, I’m going to get my money’s worth out of it. I’ve become the Rain Man of subsoiling. As you can imagine, I have subsoiled the hell out of that garden. It looks like a giant hog has rooted though it. I don’t think a cluster bomb could have torn it up more.

Using the subsoiler is not for the faint of heart. It’s okay if you just go back and forth, but when you go sideways over ground you have already torn up it becomes an adventure. Imagine bouncing down the stairs on your ass while simultaneously being shaken violently by a giant. That’s about what it feels to drive a tractor over ground that has been ripped up by a subsoiler. I bounce up and down, jerk back and forth, and get whipsawed in all directions as the tractor lurches over the uneven ground. I look like I’m riding a Brahma bull. I can barely hang on to the wheel and stay in the seat. Now I know why tractors have seatbelts. I feel like a subsoiler should come with a safety helmet, Kevlar body armor, and motion sickness pills.

Thank God I don’t have hemorrhoids, though I may have lost a few fillings and ruptured my spleen. I have to stop every 20 minutes to give my kidneys a rest. When I had back surgery my orthopedic surgeon gave me a list of things I should not do. I’m pretty sure that operating a tractor with a subsoiler was at the top of the list. I think it came right before having a high speed head-on collision and jumping out of a plane without a parachute. I’m telling you, using a subsoiler is brutal.

Walking across ground that has been ripped up by the subsoiler is no fun. The soil is so uneven and torn up that you stumble and stagger across the ridges, furrows, holes, and rocks like a drunken sailor. I must look like the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz as I cross the garden. I haven’t had this much trouble walking since my bachelor party. My neighbors across the valley must think I have a drinking problem. Who knew that gardening was so rigorous?

The soil here is rocky, and I have to get the rocks out of the garden to be able to use a rototiller. The subsoiler has turned up so many rocks that I’m worried I’ll end up with a big hole once I get them all removed. I think the rocks may be holding up the soil. The frustrating thing is that after I pick up all the rocks I can find, another pass with the subsoiler turns up just as many. I’ve checked to make sure the rocks I’ve removed aren’t migrating back to the garden. Maybe Meredith is sneaking out at night and throwing them back just to get me out of the house.

Picking up rocks is not good for my back. After an hour or so of rock collecting, it stiffens up, and I hobble around like the plaintiff in a personal injury case. I’d make a good extra on the Walking Dead. Thank goodness for motrin and alcohol.

I started out gathering rocks that were the size of an egg or larger. After several days of collecting rocks, my concern for the rototiller has diminished and my concern over the health of my lower back has increased. Now I only remove a rock if it is big enough to carve Mt. Rushmore on.

Whoever said there is nothing wrong with good hard work probably never did hard work. If it’s so great, how come you never see an ad in the classifieds that says: “Looking for good hard work. Will do it for free.”? The person who said that hard work is good for you needs to pay me a visit so I can set his ass straight. The person who said that working in a garden is relaxing and restful got it half right. What's relaxing and restful is the four motrin and half a bottle of bourbon you have to consume to make the back pain go away.

I’ve developed a lot of respect for the pioneers who first settled this area. Not only did they have to deal with rocky soil to grow their crops, but they had to cut down the trees and pull out the stumps. I read somewhere that early Americans consumed a phenomenal amount of alcohol per person. I think I know why−no motrin.

Now that I’ve subsoiled and assured myself of developing degenerative arthritis, I will move to the next step. I just wish I knew what it is. I think I’m supposed to disc and harrow the field, or maybe it’s plow, harrow and disc, or maybe it’s disc, plow, harrow, and do the hokey pokey. It would help if I knew what the hell those terms meant and in what order they go. I need to talk to that old boy at the dealership again. I’m sure there is something else he would like to sell me that will be good for the garden and bad for my health. I just want to get in one good crop before I’m in a wheelchair.

I Go For A Nature Walk

Meredith and I signed up for a two hour nature walk to look at wildflowers and native plants. The walk was put on by the Fannin County Master Gardner program. I know that a wildflower nature walk sounds like a lame thing to do. It certainly is out of character for me. I’m more of a gun show, tractor pull, demolition derby type of guy. To tell the truth, after I signed up I felt like I should run out and buy a t-shirt that said “I’m a big wussy.” I need to get over feeling like that and let my sensitive side shine through. Unfortunately, I’m afraid that I may need to drop my drawers to find it.

The announcement warned that we should wear appropriate clothing and shoes and bring a hat, water, and insect repellant. That seemed a little much to me. It’s only a two hour nature walk, not a six day, long range patrol behind enemy lines in Cambodia.

I debated what to wear. My first thought was to go full military: Camo BDU’s, combat boots, boony hat, night vision goggles, ghillie suit, two canteens, and an AR-15. I thought about wearing camouflage paint on my face to look like Arnold Schwarzenegger in the movie “Predator.” I wanted to be prepared in case the group ran into an angry Bigfoot or a crazed zombie squirrel. I’ve heard that some of the native plants can be dangerous.

It occurred to me that looking like I was a member of Seal Team Six might be a little over the top for a party of wild flower enthusiasts. I needed to tone it down. So I thought about going with a classic English adventurer look: Knee socks, khaki shorts and shirt, and a white pith helmet. But I realized I’d look like a Bahamian policeman directing traffic, so I tossed that idea out.

I lived in Germany for several years. Maybe lederhosen, mountain boots, and a tyrolean hat would be appropriate. I could bring some Swiss chocolate and entertain the group with a few glockenspiel tunes. Unfortunately I cannot yodel worth a damn. On reflection, the Bavarian burgomeister idea just didn’t seem right.

In the end I opted for hiking boots, shorts and a denim shirt. I brought my walking stick and leather backpack. I looked like a large, middle-aged hobbit I think.

Meredith and I showed up at the appointed time and place. The group was mostly retirees. There were only two other men besides me which is further support for the big wussy idea. I’m pretty sure one guy was dragged there by his wife. He kept wandering off by himself. I figured he had a bladder problem or simply wanted to catch some internet porn on his i-phone while his wife was focused on wildflowers. The other guy was old and needed a cane to walk. He was also deaf which seemed to me to defeat the purpose of the walk.

Two older ladies sporting master gardener badges were in charge. There was another knowledgeable woman who I think was also a master gardener. To break the ice I commented that I had signed up for the master gardener course and noticed that their badges referenced the University of Georgia. Since I am a Florida Gator fan, I was wondering whether I could get a badge that didn’t say anything about the University of Georgia if I passed the course. They reacted like I had crapped on their peonies. Evidently having a sense of humor is not a prerequisite to be a master gardener. I faded to the back and tried to hide behind my walking stick.

We started out by walking a short way up hill only to find that the power company had clear cut a 30 yard wide section of woods. It looked like Iwo Jima after the battle. There was moaning and wailing from the master gardeners about the callous destruction of nature. I bet the guy who built the retirement home up the hill didn’t think that way. Apparently the devastated section was where some of the plants that they wanted to show us were located. That discombobulated them for a while, but they recovered quickly.

They pointed out a small nondescript plant nestled in with other small nondescript plants. I think they may have been called it a Newton’s Dingleberry or a Pink-spotted E Pluribus Unum. The instructor said that it had flowers that bloom in the spring that are so small that you have to get on your hands and knees to see them. Fat chance. The only way that I’m going to be crawling around on my hands and knees in unfamiliar vegetation is if I have too much to drink.

The instructors were a little disorganized. They handed out a list of plants with their common and scientific names. The list was not in alphabetical order so when they identified a plant everyone would stop and scan through the list to find what the instructor was talking about. Then they started identifying plants that were not on the list. This really screwed people up. I gave up on that exercise real quick.

They were big on using the scientific names for the plants. Instead of saying that something was a Rosey Pig’s Ass, they would say something like, “This is a Porkus Buttocki Rosatta.” Then they started to correct each other, “No, I think that’s a Pudenda Cacciatori.” It was like horticultural trivial pursuit. I thought it was A Lotta Bullshitta.

Half the time you couldn’t hear what they said. “Did she say Aesculus Parvifloria?” “No, I think she said Aesculus Pavia.” I started making up names to help the people in the back of the group. I’m pretty sure that some of them think they can now identify a Medulla Oblongata, a Testicalus Giagantium, and a Homo Erectus.

I’m sorry to say that I didn’t get too much out of the walk. I now can tell the difference between an American Beech and a River Birch, but that’s about it. (I was going to go for an alliterative gag here about the bitch, the beech, and the birch, but it was too much of a stretch). The fact of the matter is that I only have four questions when it comes to wild plants: Will it give me a rash, is it edible, can I make a poison arrow out of it, and does it produce a useful wood?

Even though I learned nothing that interested me, I’ll sign up for the next wildflower walk in the spring. First, I think you are required to do stuff like that when you are retired. If only I could find a shuffleboard court. Second, there is entertainment value in almost anything that human beings do.

More Squirrels and a Homecoming

In past posts I have discussed my theory that the squirrels in north Georgia are either stoned or, more likely, zombies. Those are the only two explanations I can come up with to explain their lethargic response to approaching cars and their strange behavior like trying to bury their nuts in an overhead power line. Two recent letters to the editor in the local paper support my suspicions that the squirrels here are not normal.

Randy Hanzlick of Blue Ridge wrote that he and his wife boat regularly on Lake Blue Ridge, and “in the last two weeks we have seen something we haven’t seen before … squirrels swimming in the middle of the lake nowhere near the shore.” He commented that it “seems odd we have not seen this in the past and now it’s like an epidemic.”

I’ve heard that all mammals swim, even elephants and cats, but squirrels swimming in the middle of a lake is something else. We’re not talking about a back yard kiddy pool. Lake Blue Ridge is a big lake. My son and I have gotten lost on it. While I’m sure that squirrels occasionally fall into the water, I would think that a squirrel’s first instinct would be to head for the nearest shoreline, rather than strike out for a distant shore like some rodent Diana Nyad.

Significantly, Mr. Hanzlick has never seen squirrels swimming in the middle of the lake before, and now they are an “epidemic.” I’m surprised the major news networks have not descended on Lake Blue Ridge in droves to cover this odd phenomenon since they seem to prefer fluff news to real news. I guess their reporters don’t read the News Observer regularly.

In the same issue of the paper, under the heading, “Road count of dead squirrels yields hundreds”, Nick Kimberly of McCaysville commented on the number of dead squirrels he has seen on Fannin County roads. He wrote that “the number of squirrels who never made it to the other side” has “skyrocketed,” and that “we seem to have a suicidal squirrel situation in our area.” He also observed that while the number of dead squirrels on the road has “rapidly increased,” the number of dead possums has declined dramatically.

Now you may poke fun at Mr. Kimberly and think that he has too much free time on his hands if he is taking a census of dead squirrels and possums. You may also conclude that that he needs to get a life, but I believe his observations provide further evidence that there is something unusual about the local squirrel population.

The absence of possum carcasses on the roads is easily explained. Like the wooly caterpillars, they are leaving town because of the influx of bizarre squirrels.

I cannot confirm the methodology Mr. Kimberly used in making his count. I suspect that in some cases it may be difficult to tell whether you’re looking at a squashed squirrel or a squashed possum. For accuracy’s sakes I hope he divided his road kill finds into at least three categories: squirrel, possum, and mush. Regardless, the numbers are striking and lend credence to my theory. I plan to stay on top of this story.

Homecoming. Meredith and I went to our niece’s high school homecoming football game recently. She is a senior at Towns County High School and was on the homecoming court. Towns County is two counties east of here. All school kids in the county, from grades 1 to 12, go to the same school campus. The biggest city in Towns County is Hiawassee, with a population of 880 according to the 2010 census. The town is nestled in the mountains and borders on picturesque Lake Chatuge. Hiawassee’s main claim to fame is that wealthy people have built large, expensive, and spectacular lake front vacation homes there. They call them cabins. Cabins my ass! Some of them are larger than presidential palaces in third world countries.

The homecoming game and pageantry was quintessential small town America. It was almost enough to give you tooth decay.

The homecoming pageantry occurred at half time when the homecoming court was introduced. The homecoming queen was crowned by last year’s homecoming queen. I thought it was above and beyond the call of duty for last year’s queen to return to Towns County to crown her successor; then it occurred to me that she may have never left.

I have been to more than my share of high school homecomings. My sons played in the band in high school so I not only got to see my sons’ high school homecoming every year, but also the homecomings of other high schools when the band played at away games. I’m pretty sure that one of the levels of hell requires you to watch endless homecoming ceremonies.

The most interesting part of every homecoming is when the announcer introduces the members of the homecoming court and tells you about their accomplishments and aspirations. It’s always something like so and so plans to attend such and such college and be an astrophysicist or enter the field of primary education or dance with the Joffre Ballet. You never hear that Anna Marie aspires to be a pole dancer in an Atlanta strip joint, that Kimberly would like to undergo substance abuse counseling before she turns 20, or that Christina plans on being a mule for a major Mexican drug cartel. Because north Georgia is part of Appalachia, I was hoping for some local flavor like Betty Jane plans on marrying a taxidermist, having eight kids, and living in a double-wide, but no luck. My impression is that all the girls aspired to get the hell out of rural Georgia as quickly as possible.

Still, there is something about their young optimism and naiveté that is pure and refreshing and untouched by cynicism. I, unfortunately, am not untouched by cynicism. I am not a “glass half full” person. I’m not even a “glass half empty” person. I’m a “just wait, some asshole is going to break the glass” person. So when I go to a high school homecoming and hear their bright youthful desires for the future, I can’t help but think, “Boy, are you in for major disappointment.”

Perhaps it’s that cynicism that causes me to construe remarks and statement in ways that they are not intended. For instance, the announcer’s brief bio of each of the girls on the homecoming court included their favorite memories of high school. The favorite memory of one girl who was on the cheerleading squad was spending Friday nights with the football team. You can imagine the thought that immediately popped into my mind. I’m thinking that it’s no wonder she got so many votes.

I looked around to see if anyone else in the crowd had the same thought. Apparently not. I’m going to attribute the lack of reaction to the innocence of simple rural life, but the real explanation is probably that I’m a depraved and twisted person. I wonder how long it will be before I’m tarred and feathered and ridden out of town on a rail?

I Get My Soil Tested

In preparation for the big garden I intend to have, I had my soil tested by the University of Georgia Cooperative Extension Service. It’s hard for me to admit that I had anything to do with the University of Georgia since I am a long time Florida Gator fan, but that’s one of the sacrifices I have to make if I want to live in rural Georgia.

I obtained a small soil test bag from the local agricultural extension service agent. The bag came with detailed instructions on how deep to dig for the sample and how much soil to put in the bag.

I wish they gave equally detailed instructions when you give a urine sample. I know how deep to dig for the sample, but I’m never certain on how full I should fill the vial. I feel like it’s a competition, so I go right to the brim. I don’t want to be out-peed by anyone, especially those sickly characters in the waiting room.

I also wish the urine sample vial was as large as a soil sample bag. I can’t speak for every man, but the opening of a urine sample bottle is a mighty small target for a very inaccurate weapon. You would think that the medical establishment would know by now that men have accuracy issues and help us out. We’re not exactly wielding a laser guided smart bomb. Our technique is best described as spray and pray. We hit our target about as often a Wiley Coyote. If we can’t hit an open toilet, how the hell are we supposed to pee into a small bottle? I suggest a sample bottle with a larger opening−one the size of Rhode Island should be about right.

While I’m on the subject, do you think they could give you a bigger container just in case you really have to go? Like most every other thing in my life that part of my anatomy has two speeds: stop and go. When I say I have to go with the flow, I mean it. I think they should give you a container the size of a milk jug just in case.

Anyway, once you have gotten your soil sample, you drop it off at the extension agent’s office, and a few days later, you get emailed the test results.

I suspect my test results are fairly standard for the soils in this area. The pH is 5.1, meaning the soil is acidic. The recommended pH is 6.0 to 6.5. I did not expect the report to read like the label of a One-A-Day multi-vitamin. It said I need to add phosphorous, potassium, calcium, magnesium, and zinc to the soil. I was waiting for page two to tell me the soil needed vitamin A, vitamin C, glucosamine, castor oil, and a high colonic enema.

Fortunately, the soil test report told me what I need to do to correct these soil deficiencies. It recommends that I use 95 pounds of dolomitic limestone per 1,000 square feet of garden. I have no idea where one gets dolomitic limestone, but I assume it’s available locally. I’d really be screwed if I needed something that is only available in sub-Saharan Africa or North Korea. I just hope the limestone doesn’t come as one large lump of rock.

I’m also supposed to apply a half pound of sulpher or two pounds of gypsum per 1000 square feet of garden. This could be a long shot, but I bet I can get the sulpher or gypsum at the same place I get the limestone. It’s probably on aisle 9 between cold remedies and foot care.

All this seems manageable if you’re planning on having a 1,000 square foot garden, but here’s the problem. I also have four or five acres of field. People around here say that they lime their fields to improve the quality of the grass, and I’d like to do the same. An acre is 43,560 square feet. At 95 pounds per 1,000 square feet, that comes out to over 4,000 pounds of dolomitic limestone per acre. Multiply that by four or five acres, and you’re talking 16,000 to 20,000 pounds of limestone. Holy cow! I’m not trying to build the Lincoln Memorial; I’m just trying to grow a few tomatoes. Does the stuff come in dump trucks? How does one put ten tons of limestone on a field?

Obviously, I have a lot to learn about this whole subject. I’m heading for the library and the extension agent’s office tomorrow. I’ve got a long list of questions that need to be answered.

Yogurt. As I said in my first post on this blog, one of the reasons I moved to a rural area was to learn to do stuff the old fashioned way. I took a baby step in that direction a couple of days ago when I made yogurt. I realize that you don’t have to live in the country to make yogurt. I also realize that making yogurt is about as complicated as sharpening a pencil. But it’s a start.

The yogurt turned out to be quite good. It occurred to me, however, that making yogurt probably doesn’t qualify as doing things the old fashioned way. I don’t remember reading anything about colonial Americans making yogurt. I can’t picture Washington at Valley Forge wolfing down a cup of yogurt for breakfast or Daniel Boone starting the day with Yoplait.

I imagine that a pioneer breakfast was more like a large haunch of deer and four pounds of hominy. You can get away with a breakfast like that when your day consisted of chopping down a forest or discovering Kentucky. My day consists of wandering back and forth between the cabin and the workshop and taking long naps, so the yogurt is probably a good idea for me. I want to stay nimble just in case there is an aggressive Bigfoot in these parts.

Now that I think about it, yogurt was probably invented in a yurt in Mongolia. I doubt many Mongolians were early settlers in the New World. As I say, the yogurt is a start. Making cheese is next on my list. We’ll see how that turns out.