Thank You for Reading the Wayfaring Traveler Books
Polar Vortex, Gardening & St. Valentine
12 February 2021
Standing at the organic seed packet display in the hardware store, I peered around the racks. Another gardener, aha, reading variety specs, both of us wearing Aran cardigans. A gardener often means simpatico and helpful conversation, so I gave it a go, articulating carefully through my mask; a silver-thread bandana:
Can't imagine a better way to prepare for days of snow, than buying garden seed!
She laughed, and we got to talking. She also lives at elevation, and told me about planting in horse troughs to thwart the vigorous mole population (drilling drainage holes, then a layer of hardware cloth) before adding spoiled hay, local manure, and compost.)
And trellised pumpkins?!! This piqued my interest, practically and aesthetically. She built bamboo teepee trellises, wrapped with string support, and grew BIG winter squash and pumpkins, swathed in frost barrier cloth. We chatted about a return to our Grandparents' experience, and the good sense of "Victory Gardens."
There's chatter about seed shortages this year, which set me on a mission, sleuthing local organic seed availability for our small neighborhood of can-do folks. Any other issue re locally grown food?---Yes, a potential for stupefying edicts---At the start of the wuflu, in some states, access to garden seeds was blocked.
It's snowing now with clouds low on the mountains.Nice wintry fragrance of piñon wood stove fires. Geraniums and paper white narcissus are in bloom indoors. Am looking out at bare rose bushes.
Happy St. Valentine's Day to us all. A Christian physician in pagan Rome, Valentinus gathered herbs and flowers to treat whomever came for help. In 270 AD, Rome ended his herb-gathering. He allegedly cured the blind daughter of his jailer, before being put to death.
Gather ye rose buds while ye may... and maybe give thought to Victory Gardens.
Organic Raw Milk Adventures
23 January 2021
A fundamentally healthy and, in the view of bureaucrats, an illicit food. See Dr. Weston Price, etc.
The small dairy which supplies this Rocky Mt. area is even more remote than I. Deliveries are made, in 1/2 gal Mason jars, to a nexus point and established as a co-op. We sign disclaimers to protect the farm. The Jersey milk is rich, with golden cream, and bears no taste relationship to bought, esp the ultra-pasteurized. The latter now a norm of degraded, less digestible, milk protein, but longer shelf life. A corporate boardroom decision.
When I had a Blue Ridge Mt. organic farm, my neighbors had been small dairy farmers, but the corporate dairies lubed state govt for legislation requiring big stainless steel cooling tanks. (And eventually outlawing raw milk.)
Big cooling tanks meant for starters the need for electricity to the barns, many lit at 4AM with lanterns. Almost none of the small family farms could afford the tanks, as was known. An old, redundant greedster tale.
All the farms had very cold mountain springs and built channels of deep, frigid spring water, in which the milk cans rested till picked up by the small dairy cooperative twice each day.
Big money destroyed those small farm livelihoods. My nearest neighbor had hand-milked Scottish Shorthorns, which also were suitable as beef breed. He did better than farmers with bonier milk producers (Jersey/Guernsey/Brown Swiss/Holstein.)
He immediately made the shift to cattle farm, no longer having to get up at o-dark-thirty in appalling weather to milk cows. Other farmers were wiped out, their children quitting subsistence farming for jobs in the cities. I've lived long enough to see young folks leaving cubicle/freeway reality to return to the land...
If their families still owned the farms. If not, apprenticing with organic farmers, renting to buy, forming cooperatives. They are a promising future as monstrosanto poisoned hugeness is not.
As a raw milk aside, after my Texas grandmother died, Daisy May, the Jersey cow was sold. Milk was delivered into town in an old Model T truck by a farmer I was fortunate to know. His milking barn was spotless; his raw milk tested lower than pasteurized. The State of Texas tried for years to put him out of business, and finally gave him a lifetime certificate of fitness to sell raw milk. Which he framed and hung on the barn's whitewashed wall.
Sleigh Bells Ring
22 January 2021
There's usually preparation involved, when you're eying incoming winter weather, in the back of the beyond. But first a neighbor wanted to launch a project where I could help. It ended up as local finance, the magic of Barter, aka good neighbors who reciprocate:
1) A green thumb couple down the valley wanted to start making Kombucha. I provided the weird thingie, a SCOBY, which does the fermentation, and a liter of finished kombucha as primer.
2) Expecting four days of snow beginning tomorrow, I trotted on home to schlepp more firewood into the sunroom. My neighbor joined me! He finally marched back and forth, dumping armloads by me while I did solid stacking.
3) An impressive woodpile is amazingly like tangible wealth.
4) Good neighbors? Incalculable.
Do You Know the Mockingbird?
9 January 2021
Not Atticus Finch, teaching his children, "It is a sin to kill a mockingbird."
No, this Mockingbird is one mostly hidden from us, yet as intimate as our laptops and smartphones.
Sixty years or so ago, a 'rogue' alphabet agency (oxymoron?) set in motion a long-term plan called Operation Mockingbird: If info could be controlled, the medium would actually channel and become the message. It began with newspapers and magazines, textbooks, radio and television, climaxing in our time with Social Media Giants crushing outside (their) box dissent.
In addition to turning entertainment and reportage into cattle chutes of manipulation, they secured mind control patents for TV, movie and electronic screens...
Did I forget Big Bucks? That, too, in the form of foundation and govt grants. Listen to NPR to the end, to the generous grants of their foundation sponsors.
Mockingbird continues, and is not First Amendment-friendly, which brings us to present time. The wild-assed connectivity of the Internet threw a monkey wrench into draconian plans for one party, one world, one dictatorship.
And anyway, Americans have spent centuries fleeing Monarchies and Socialist Five Year Plans, their gulags for the unruly, with millions dead of hardship and starvation.
Socialism as a failed system, would be a hard sell in America, unless you get them young.
A couple generations now have imbibed the socialist elixir of Saul Alinsky. We've watched the product burning down US cities in the last year, arson and citizen shake-downs being noble and necessary. A world with no consequences and everything free.
What of the harsh Realpolitik of Tolkien? Has Lord of the Rings been added to the banned books, monuments, pronouns, etc. of our present convulsions?
"...One ring to find them,
One ring to rule them all,
And in the darkness bind them."
With Tolkien's map, would Election Fraud matter?
Or maybe not, if fraud got us to a desired end.
Many haven't heard about irregularities in our B-Movie Election of 2020.
About local felonies and foreign satellites changing algorithms of US computers, designed in Venezuela!
Billions, in Dragon-bribes to both parties, have enabled blackmail entrapment, treason & tyranny.
If events go un-reported, however, by the Mockingbird press, did anything happen?
Whoops, Power Outage
30 Dec 2020
I'd been watching full moon light sparkling on the snow, and thought to reply to emails, which turned out to be my yuk-yuk of the morning... Man proposes and God disposes, in these particularly interesting times.
Indoor lights went out, and the fridge compressor. The freezer would have to fend for itself. What to do otherwise? How about heat? I fed a couple logs into the woodstove, where I could also fix breakfast if need be. A woodstove is not a casual investment, nor the whole business of stacking wood and tending round the clock fires.
Why even bother? Today being a case in point, coming out of a single digit night. Radiant heat, oh my, when there is no other, as in KISS. (Keep it Simple, Silly.) A friend without room for a woodstove adapted to freezing temp by wrapping herself with space blankets and bubble wrap! Her heater had not come on. Creative, to be sure, but am not sanguine that we "get" it, how very cozy most of us have been, in a potentially fragile reality Think ice storm or God help us, Grid Down.
For those blest with fireplaces, a fireplace insert dramatically increases BTU's. There are even woodstoves built to code for trailers!
In 2008, I wrote my first article on line, called "7 Fat & 7 Lean Years." It referred of course to Pharaoh's Dream, which Joseph interpreted as the imperative to prepare for scarcity in the midst of prosperity. We may have dawdled along those lines. I still hope for local food self-sufficiency, and it IS happening, here and there.
Wishing us all good neighbors and good heart in a wild New Year. Ready or not.
22 December 2020
He was sitting on his boot heels in snow on the corner. We interact now and then; he leaped up when he saw me.
"Do you eat fish?" I asked... "Yes!"
I handed across a tin.
"Oooh, pink salmon?!!"
"You betcha; Merry Christmas."
"Tomorrow is my last day," he said. "If you come back, I'll have something for you"... all but impersonating Santa's lap.... Likely something he's made--interesting hands, long but well-muscled fingers, spathulate nails.
But dear God, he's homeless. Once I got my voice to steady, I explained that I wouldn't be coming into town:
"December 23rd in this bizarro year looks to offer pretty harsh energies and maybe volatile: Mars, planet of war, is square Pluto, whose other name was Hades."
"Is it better to stay home?"
"It may be; I plan to."
He studied his feet for a minute, and where they ought to be!
"I'm a Pisces, the Ides of March. Do you have any advice for me?"
"Well, synchronicity happens; I'm a Moon in Pisces, so I might!"
We beamed at one another, Christmas elves in passing.
"Near as I can make out, a lot of us are frightened, getting angry, and could be on the brink of losing our center, and our good manners. Sidestepping into quiet, out of range, is not stupid. We're in the country; it'll be scarier in the cities."..
"That's the deal, you know?" he said. "It's out of fear that we lose it, and lash out in anger."
I touched my heart; he touched his. Alone at Christmas, but not really.
Not so very long ago, I lived by the sea, and had friends who lived grandly, but celebrated nothing. One spouse was lapsed Catholic, the other non-observant Jew. No candles, no carols. It fretted me some, so I proposed an adventure.
We strapped cleat thingies on our felt-lined boots, bundled up like Admiral Byrd, and headed out to cut a balsam fir. It smelled rapturously good as I worked down near the base with my pruning saw. The tree had been pruned to a fine rotundity. We strapped it to the roof of the old Volvo.
Next step was mine sola, and I was a little crimped for mad money, but their having never done the fa la la's of Christmas, meant they had no ornaments. I went into action, and came back from the thrift shop with tiny lights, red balls and putti, the chubby baby angels which I spray painted gold on the local mackerel-wrapper, by the big lilac.
We set the tree, magnificent with nothing on it, in the corner of big windows overlooking Frenchman Bay, with eider ducks just out from the shore ice and the North Atlantic crashing. With dusk coming on, we decorated the tree, and sat for a long while with that the only light, that and starlight.
Merry Christmas to us all, wherever we find ourselves.
30 November 2020
I aired the house this morning at 10 degrees outside temp, due to chimney fire and a repeatedly shrieking smoke detector. When the woodstove techies were here regarding a jammed damper, I asked them to go on the roof to check the chimney cap, lift it off, and peer down. "Not too bad," they assured the little woman.
Moi, I pondered the soot in the fire box, and was less sanguine. So, sho-nuff, an interesting morning, beginning with harsh metal stink of double-walled chimney and smoke alarm decibels. I stood outside on the remaining snow and watched interior gunk pour out, like small torn sheets of black paper.
Not a novice experience, having enjoyed years of wood heat. My first metal chimney into the central field stone massif at the Blue Ridge farm... I got to watch turn cherry red, for a thrilling interlude. In that case, I backed down air into the firebox and whacked the chimney with a piece of firewood, which loosened chunks of creosote, and cooled the horror down. Thus, learning my lesson by fire, that an annual chimney sweep appointment was not optional. Ditto, double-walled metal chimney emerging from woodstove.
Remaining calm, and now settling back into equanimity, am grateful for the BTU's and radiant heat. Wood stoves need attention, maintenance and stacking of wood before cold weather, but as regards self-sufficiency and comfort, lot to be said for it. And yes, chimney sweep detail did happen back in the spring, but an Intervening malfunction, under warranty, had occurred.
Country living, and how lovely, may involve more infrastructure maintenance than in a city apartment, say, of complaining to the Manager. Examples: Baiting a hav-a-hart trap to dissuade the otherwise handsome spotted ground squirrel, trying to burrow under the flagstones. Stuffing the burrow openings with rock hadn't worked.
Snow, when sleigh bells ring, means shoveling. In October an exciting 2 ft. fell in the midst of a particularly golden Indian Summer! An anomaly, we hope. With Grand Solar Minimum, we don't know. But finally, we bloom, all of us, where planted, in this winter's wild adventures. Wishing us all snug, and mercy to those sleeping rough.
A Tyranny Remembered
28 November 2020
I haven't the expertise to speculate about SCOTUS in our current Constitutional Republic concerns, though I grew up with legal-eagle anecdotes from one side of the family, and a Dad who sent me Supreme Court rulings.---The Dad who took me to the E.German border.
I was perplexed at his suggesting an outing, when he arrived at the foot of the stairs in full dress uniform! He said for me to dress warmly. What?!. We did adventures, he and I. We climbed mountains together. An outing? Yeehah. But it's as if he instead took me to wasteland. The setting reminded me of sepia archival photos from the Nazi era.
Commando-trained, he maintained eye contact with the soldier aiming the machine gun at us, from the watch tower just beyond the coiled barbed wire, plowed dirt. E. Germans were being gunned down then, who tried to flee the Stasi.
Meanwhile, my father taught me about the sacrifices America's Founding Fathers had made to secure freedom from tyranny. He described their awareness of facing British retaliation, of being hung by the neck till dead. He spoke of their sense of "Sacred Honor" as a veritable verb-of-action, still alive in our Founding Documents...
"Never forget what you witness here," he said, turning to me, all but glued to his right side. "Never."
He's dead now, but I can see him standing at readiness, in USN dress blues, gold draped from his shoulder, ribbon medals, standing in the snow.
Solar Oven Thanksgiving!
26 November 2020
My nearest neighbor and I share river bottom gardening land. I do most of the seed starting and labor, labor much reduced by straw mulch. She and a helpful, techy green-thumb neighbor deal with drip irrigation. We share harvest. In my book, a stellar deal. Our own compost, etc./free local manure.
Have used 4 solar ovens over many years, including a parabolic one, which a friend and I built.
THE best, worth considering in following link, with notable engineering features:
I tend to make plenty, a legacy of my Southern mother, and groaning board meals at my late-lamented organic farm.
For today's Rocky Mt bright-light, organic example, in the two stack-able pots:
Farmers Market turkey sausage with a surround of spuds, herbs, carrots, turnips.
2nd pot: Winter squash halves with nutmeg, spice, butter, coconut sugar.
From our gardens: spuds, orange-fleshed squash & herbs.
Wishing us all bountiful lives and hearts.
Somebody Said NO to Me
24 November 2020
It's sleeting in the Rockies. Am mercifully warm and dry, but not smug about it, not a bit. Tent living en route to new locale, had made me ever aware of change of fortune, and of those not under roof now, as winter sets in.
Are we prepared? Do we activate the American gene pool of can-do? I wonder.
I had a notable relative among generally eccentric folks. She married a Marine, but had his number along with most everyone else's. A funny lady, but no fool.
Her brother was of the parenting school which imagined that always saying yes, would protect the kids from psychological harm. Bro produced the sort of kid who pitched fits in store aisles, till the parent caved and gave him whatever he screamed for, to shut him up.
The kid met his aunt for the first time on their porch swing. She sat down by him, without his permission. He was about 2.5 feet tall.
"You git offa my swing." His aunt gave him the "hairy eyeball" and refused. He tried to shove her.
She warned him: "You watch it, buster."
At which point his mouth went into an outraged square, and he ran into the house bellowing:
"Somebody said NO to me."
As an adult aside, I had periods of thinking my dad croo-ell for looking over his newspaper and saying, "Absolutely not."
I received less weekly allowance than my playmates, for example, who also had pink ruffled canopy four posters, as I did not.. I presented my insufficient allowance to Pater, as unfair..."Oh? You could supplement it, by finding a job."
I was eight at the time. This so ticked me off that I started baby-sitting; I'd show him... But looking back, he showed me, about ingenuity and finding a way.
Easy Flu Season Tea
8 October 2020
I was ruminating power outage, keep-it-simple, when I wondered how to simmer woody/barky teas for as long as needed. Once you have ingredients on hand and are good to go, you'll waken to a hot fragrant brew, a caffeine-free immune tonic Here's the can-do:
Stanley has a top of the line thermos, 1.4 Qt, which keeps the contents hot for 40 hours! Voilà: Tea simmering, without supervision from the cook.
Preheat thermos, as you would a teapot, with hot water..
Set 1.5 Qt of water to boil
In a small measuring cup or cream pitcher, have the following organic ingredients together:
1-2 Tbs. Chaga, tea grind
1 Tbs. dried Ginger Root chunks
1+ Tbs. dried Elderberry
1 stick Cinnamon, broken
1 tsp. whole Cloves
2-3 Black Peppercorns
Optional: 2 slices Reishi, broken
You may notice ingredients in common with Thieves Vinegar, which are anti-microbial as well as a help to steadier immune function. Set the brew going at bedtime and enjoy especially on nippy autumn and winter mornings. Pour the brew through a tea strainer. It's possible to do a second weaker brew, but I generally add the goodies to the compost or garden beds.
It may be a snowy winter. My idea of "hunkering down" in the dark months would be snuggled up to the old dictum: Food as Medicine.
Rather than the Here we come a-harming... of the likes of fauxchi and billygoatsgates.
P.S. As an experiment, I've poured the morning tea over a cup with organic Golden Milk powder (turmeric, chai spices, coconut milk, etc.). It's quite good.
To source organic ingredients:
Little Boy Refused to be a Girl
5 October 2020
Parents may plan on a particular gender for their in-utero mystery. Ooops, surprise! What then? Some step over the edge into bizarro-land..
Couple generations ago, my grandmother was growing up in a little Texas town. Small towns tend to tolerate eccentrics, and the town had a few!... A prissy spinster lady astonished all and sundry by consenting to marry, an astonishing loss of control on her part. Even more stunning, she entered into the messy business of conception and birthed a late life baby boy.
Among her many absolute dislikes, she loathed the inelegance of nicknames. Her boy grew up rough and tumble, partly vectored into robust maleness by his Christening. This was still the era of Little Boy Blue velvet outfits with lace collars. She, honest to God, named that child, "Mine Heart's Delight." Certain that she had fended off any name-crudity.
Did his peers snicker? You bet, till he bloodied noses and wrestled his tormentors into the dust. He wore bib overalls with dirty knees and tore his clothes climbing oaks and hackberry trees, and thrashing through thickets with his buddies.His all but inevitble nickname? That would be, "Gizzard."
His mother was limited to an attempt at girlifying a little boy with ruffles and expectations. In today's iteration, parents can launch hormone therapy and sex-reassignment surgery. I know one such instance, a much-loved girl, very gifted, who got squirrely after her dad walked out on the family.
She careened around a bit; had a life-threatening surgery, and emerged in her late teens deciding she'd be happier as a boy. She moved away; had her breasts removed, and testosterone began producing a beard. I have no idea the details of the lower genitalia reconstruction.
And yes, I love her/him still. Each to his own bad taste. But it gets creepier as time goes on. Study in Sweden, where transgenderism is welcomed, suggests a 20-fold increase in suicide for long-term irreversible sex-change. As an aside, infertility is a probable collateral damage. Not an issue among pop-reduction quarters.
I guess we'll sort it out, though the kids may not.
23 September 2020
When we lived in Panama, and my submariner dad was away at sea, Mama got up one night to check on things. Hot and humid, the norm, with the heavy scent of night-blooming jasmine.
Our neighbor came running in his skivvy shorts, with a meat cleaver in one hand, and a golf club in the other--Midnight, and Mama had screamed bloody murder--A snake was coiled around the arm of a chair. He killed it, Mama still near hysterics imagining it slithering down the hall and up into my crib.Turned out, he'd butchered a Bushmaster, a snake quickly lethal.
Next morning the young officer neighbor had workmen nailing boards over the gap on the lower front doors... And what brought that on, with aspens turning gold in the far away Rockies?! Thanks to the wonder of this age, a friend in Costa Rica emailed me that he had stepped on a Bushmaster this morning, and leaped quickly aside. I started to hyperventilate on Mama's behalf!
And to set the wildlife stage, a neighbor here in this fertile valley warned me about gathering apples from the wild trees down by the river. She was reaching for one on the Equinox, when she heard a grunt and huffing snorts. She froze, and saw the baby bear in the next tree. Mama Bear was warning.
Hummers are still here, but fewer, beginning to head south. We eye one another when they want fresh nectar. They never do get tangled in my hair but they supervise the feeder going back into place, zipping and diving.
We may be under Lockdown, seemingly forevermore, but I'm nowhere near ennui and boredom, as we enter a luminous Fall.
Harvest before Snow
7 September 2020
I planted Kennebec potatoes at the Blue Ridge farm, a start from my mentor neighbor at the old country store. Later round yellow-fleshed spuds also were planted and over-wintered in the root cellars. Luggage contraband they were, when I returned from a German friend's wedding at a castle on the Mosel River. The Grandmother Countess had dug them for me from her garden, a treasure!
Now in my grand finale life in the Rocky Mountains, we're expecting early killing frost and snow. Back in the spring, with Lockdown boot prints spreading across the continent, and grocery shelves shockingly bare, I was not the only person to think: GARDEN.
Organic seed potatoes were not to be had--they're raised especially to not carry diseases across to the next year's planting. After stomping around a bit in frustration, Eureka! Gardeners, as a demographic, tend to be inventive.
I did have sound-looking mountain-grown organic potatoes from Colorado, intended as a cooking item. Instead, I spent a morning cutting big chunks with several eyes, and soaking batches in a Grapefruit Seed Extract solution. (Nutribiotic GSE.) It's antimicrobial, and seemed worth a try.
Then dried the chunks for a couple days under newspaper. Next up, grunt work. I trenched a row and did a double staggered planting of potato chunks, eyes up. Hilled them with, thank you God, rich bottom soil. Mulched heavily with straw for near zero weeding and moisture-retention in drought. This morning, waning Moon in Taurus, have dug beautiful Yukon Golds and Russets, worthy of Idaho.
The quantity will not last the winter, my having passed from acreage to a garden plot, and no root cellar. But you know what? I have friends into cryptos and the hope of acing Wall St. in the stock market.
...'The time has come,' the Walrus said,
To talk of many things:
Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —
Of cabbages — and kings —
And why the sea is boiling hot —
And whether pigs have wings...'
Cryptos and tech stocks may in fact deliver. Am not that clever, but I do recognize wealth when it rolls at my feet. I will bake Russets on the wood stove this winter, watching snow settle on the high country evergreens.
Being a Dad, on a Shoe-String
29 August 2020
Stopped to chat with the fellow standing at the exit to the health food store. Seemed to be a a story there, and jeezlouise, there was. His mountain bike and a big trekker's backpack were leaning against the trunk of the cottonwood. "Anything Will Help" his cardboard sign read.
I carry non-perishable food in the car, and handed the guy tinned organic beans and a packet of cashews. He nodded thanks. I looked down at my feet and didn't leave, waiting in case he wanted to talk.
Tucking the food into a side pocket of the rucksack, he offered,
"I'm bicycling from Taos to Denver."
"God love you," I managed, trying not to sputter.
"It's for my daughter's birthday party on the first of September. You see, I promised her I wouldn't miss it, back before things got so tight."
I passed him as I was driving out of town. He'd settled into a steady-as-she-goes bike peddling, and a quiet. He was keeping his word, in the midst of hard times.
Godspeed, deep sleep under the mountain stars, and the sun shine warm upon your face...
Dark of the Moon Potatoes
20 August 2020
I trotted along beside Granddaddy, alert to gardener lore. Food from his big composted garden was the best I'd ever put in my mouth. I followed along like a puppy underfoot, and he seemed to hear my chirping excitement, even when just humming and skipping....Teach me; I'm willing!... He planted by the moon, and was casual chatting about healthy plants and sparkly energy.
Before first light he and I would tiptoe through the pantry of home-canned goods. Standing on the back stoop, we breathed in the dewy morning, the scent of honeysuckle and ripening peaches. We ambled en route to the wonderfully ridiculous chickens, and Daisy May, source of sweet milk and golden Jersey butter.
I was still a child when he passed, but I kept on listening. Every now and then, I catch just a hint; he seems close. Maybe more so now that the veil between long life and life to come gets shimmery. This last weekend, I was up before the sun shone over the mountain to dig Yukon Golds, on a dry-moon-sign, at the dark of the moon. Sitting in the rich bottomland soil, I chuckled at such bounty and burrowed for treasure.
Waning moon for root crops, and a dry-moon-sign so they'll keep better. In this case, Leo. I have harvested on water sign days, and sho nuff, the produce tends to rot in the root cellar.
A friend told me her old-timey Latino daddy did everything by the moon. He built their family adobe from foundation to roof. It was a family adventure when they set off for the mountain, on a dry-moon-day to cut tree trunks for roof beams, to hold up the massive weight of the adobe. She said his beams never oozed conifer resin, and they never failed.
Roaring Twenties & 2020
19 July 2020
I so vividly remember my paternal grandmother's tea party, the pigeon-breasted ladies with lace at bodice and cuffs, reminiscing about the Crash which followed the Roaring Twenties.
I went goggle-eyed listening to old panic, to events they had known--wealth vaporized, NY brownstones and running-board automobiles confiscated, Long Island estates gone poof, family farmland auctioned, and suicidal leaps, splat onto Wall St.
At which point a lady who was like my auntie turned to me and admonished, "NEVER buy on margin." (In those days margin meant a pittance, 10% down, whoopee, for certain fortune.The fine print? All you owned had been put up as collateral.)
My feet didn't reach the floor from my chair, and I hadn't a clue what she meant, but I got it, the visceral horror of the repercussions, if ignored.
"Oh no, ma'am, I promise; I won't."
And what does that have to do with anything, now?! Well, lockdowns have caused belt-tightening across the country, but we may not get it yet, that Wall St. is vicious by design and can snatch away imagined lucre in a heartbeat, as in the 1929 Crash and the Great Depression. Banks grew fat calling in loans, acquiring farms and businesses for a sad old song.
PT Barnum, carnival-barker and impresario of three ring circus fame, nailed it: "There's one (a fool) born every minute."
I just heard about an adorable cat going for $5,000! We are emerging from a feeding-frenzy of Black Fridays, gambling, house flipping, Lotto winnings. and market manipulation beyond Twentieth Century dreams of avarice.
We may not realize that we are all of us embarked on a journey, from phony to real, to food, water, shelter, good neighbors, and hopefully, though not certainly, removed from crazed inner city mobs, empowered by emptiness and rage, many with no dad at home.
I found ration cards from the 1930's after my paternal grandparents died. The grandparents were city folk, food obtained via ration cards and the black market. My mother's family, by contrast, were small town rural. Nearly everyone had a garden, and many had backyard chickens and a milk cow.
It was also a different ethos. Out of work men, looking to help their families by finding work somehow in another town or state, knocked on my grandmother's back door. Did she have any chores that needed doing? The understanding being, a meal in exchange. Hardly anyone had cash to spare. Mama said many a plate of cornbread, sorghum, beans and greens was handed to a man sitting on the back stoop, thin and ill clad, but his dignity intact.
Gimme-looting was not the modus operandi.
A friend reminds me that violence cycles in, at the changing of a bloated and sclerotic era. Visigoths sack corrupt Rome.The guillotine scythes through aristocratic France. Bolsheviks execute the Czar & family to make clear there's no going back.
And now? Some questions in the midst of delusional proclamations, such as "mostly peaceful protests" with conflagrations as backdrop: Who are these people, xyz matters, terrorizing the cities they leave in ruin? What's the origin of those trained to intimidate with violence? They're funded by US corporations and globalist mischief makers, with weaponry sneaking past Customs, sent from China.
Are elected officials mandating stand-down to ghosts, to Mao's Red Guards of the Cultural Revolution? The young barbarians, mind you, who tortured and murdered professionals, and methodically destroyed Tibet.
Looking dreadful, and that's the truth, but it may not be the end of America's story. Lockdown has given us time to parse the emissions of pathological liars. And maybe teach the Bill of Rights to those suddenly home-schooled kids! Not just rioters are ready for change. Good hearts are quieter at the moment, but not idle.
A Herd of Hummingbirds
& Independence Day
5 July, 2020
As a friend puts it, I've downsized from cattle, milk cow, goats, lambs and chickens... to raising hummingbirds, one of the greater shows on earth!
They're not shy, once they get used to the tall person among the flowers, planted for hummers and butterflies: Tubular ones for nectar, and daisy family for pollen.... wild bees, bumblers, and honeybees also flit here and there.
Since hummingbirds are currently my only livestock, I do my usual m. o. of good soil and good feed. In addition to the floral bounty, they congregate like whirligigs at the nectar feeders. So, a no-brainer, I make nectar from organic, unbleached cane sugar. No poisons, plus a wee ration of minerals and B-vitamins.
Is there a downside? Yes, it spoils more quickly, shifting into ferment mode. Not a problem; I just put out smaller quantities, and replenish often.
As the huge butterfly bush finished its annual opulence, I hung a feeder and found myself in a cloud of palm-sized yellow swallowtails, who inserted their amazing sippers into the nectar ports. I went still, if not quite invisible, decorated with beauty beyond any ball gown I ever wore.
When the feeders get low on nectar, reminders appear at my windows. Hummer fuss-budgets whir like mad, nearly against the glass. Up and at em, lady, do your job!
Happy Fourth of July weekend. I've worked on independence from clutter.
Maybe we'll work our way to independence from entitlement and rage. Could happen. I read an interesting Dinesh D'Souza take on the Founding Fathers, that they tried to create a govt limited by checks and balances. A government which made possible achievements unattainable in more rigid societies, as in the Old World of monarchs and the fixed class into which you were born.
It was a big deal that George Washington refused to become the new king.
The Founders devised the patent system, so entrepreneur inventions were the sole property of the inventor for a time, a great prosperity tool, individually and for America. They hoped for a political climate which would foster the development of "self-made men."
If the government were to become the dispenser of largess, a dependent population of never-enough might be the result.
Birch Tree Medicine
21 May 2020
Chaga is a medicinal derived from the great northern arc of birch forests, with centuries of use, allegedly anti-degenerative-disease and bing bing, anti-viral. We're unlikely to hear a word about it in the televised scuffles about which drug, cheap with decades of data, or new ones, profiteer-priced.
When the dragon disease reports reached relatives in the PNW, they sent Chaga across, before everything was shut down--roads barricaded, apartment doors welded shut, no flights from there to anywhere within the dragon. It being Lunar New Year, and traditionally the major travel time, big go-ahead was given to international destinations.
A doctor of dragon medicine in the quarantined industrial city, prescribed Chaga. His patients did not get sick, did not die, according to anecdotal report. You may note that words no longer permitted by techie arbiters of Free Speech are missing, in order to sidestep slap-down. Good thing I have sufficient vocabulary to draw on.
Chaga coffee is yummy, easy to brew and not a bad idea.
Chaga tea also makes for fine sipping..
Two reputable Chaga sources follow, which harvest as though woodlands matter:
Big & Small
13 May 2020
The era we're now living in, ready or not, had been imagined as luminous transformation, the Aquarian Age of Ascended Masters, including Christ at last, in clouds of glory. For those who read through to John on the Isle of Patmos, Horsemen of the Apocalypse and the Mark of the Beast also figure.
We may be navigating the latter, as elected public servants and unelected bureaucrats exert themselves in the guise of absolute dictators. Solitary confinement is imposed and the shuttering of small businesses, but not the huge ones. And speaking of reading, there seems to be a deficit on comprehending Founding Documents, though many Sheriffs do.
I recently read the Declaration of Independence aloud to myself while babysitting a pressure cooker, remembering that most of those who signed the document would suffer horrid retaliation for committing treason against the occupying superpower, the British Crown. These were classically educated, multi-lingual men, many trained in British Jurisprudence. They knew.
"...Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince, whose Character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the Ruler of a free People... And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the Protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor."
Will citizens now meekly obey unlawful edicts? Here in the Rockies, hummers, tiny and fierce, are dukeing it out, dive-bombing the nectar feeder and crimson petunias. Once in northern California by a fragrant cascade of pink jasmine on the garden fence, I watched a hummingbird battle, for tubular flower dominance.
One struck the other down. A friend stood there with me, watching, and wanted to rush to a veterinarian, but I cupped the green body, its iridescence and ruby throat in my hands, its wildly beating heart. The wee breast bone had been crushed. The wings would never whir again. Limp on my palm and fading, I found a little jewel box and did small burial under the jasmine in the garden.
Old & Alone
22 April 2020
When still young and callow, I once asked an old lady near a hundred years of age, a grand dame, what she found most difficult about getting old. (Gad, it embarrasses me, to have been that blithely insensitive.) She gave me a long look, then looked out at the light on the cove.
"No one alive remembers me as a child, or even my youth as a ballerina at the Met. I saw Pavlova perform and heard the great Enrico Caruso. I hear sea gulls now, and my life's ebbing."
Long years later, I am old, and my neighbors are careful to give me wide berth, not wanting to expose me to the pandemic. As the neighborhood cats join me on walks. I realize with a start that Lockdown leaves us to the kindness of animals and strangers and the elusive glimmers of nature spirits among the trees and flowers. We may somehow grow closer in this strange quietude. Losses form a griefy transition for all of us, with much unknown.
It is the evening of Mother Earth Day. I checked on seed coming up, chopped weeds, and sang.
Oh Mothers, let's go down, come on down,
Down to the river to pray...
Elderberry & Chaga Recipe
13 April 2020
We can make this organic-ingredient Elixir at home, to take as a Grandmother-Remedy, and we can make enough to share.
12 cups good water (3 Quarts.)
2+ cups Dried Elderberries
1 cup Chaga Chunks (Medicinal birch tree fungus; source: fiddleheadheaven.com)
1/4 ounce Usnea (Tree lichen)
3 Cinnamon Sticks
1+ teaspoon Whole Cloves
1 hand of Ginger Root (Wash, thinly slice length-wise, unpeeled
1 teaspoon Black Peppercorns (Contains Bioperine-synergist)
2 cups Local Raw Honey (Not suitable for infants, please note. China-sourced honey not suitable for anyone.)
Simmer 2 hours in a non-aluminum pot, with the lid ajar. I used a heavy Le Creuset pot; the fluid level dropped 1". Pour through a stainless mesh strainer. Those who don't mind the additional mess of using a jelly bag, for maximum-extraction, may gain an additional 1/-2-1 cup.
Which may seem ridiculous, until you try to find elderberry-anything online or in the few stores still open.. When the local herb shop did have dried elderberry in stock, fyi, it went for $46/lb.
Let the rich-purple liquid cool to room temperature. Stir in the honey to dissolve. Use a funnel to fill amber glass bottles. For example, I used 1 Quart. kombucha bottles. Save smaller amber glass bottles to fill and share. Store in the fridge, and use within 2 months.
Yield: 2+ Quarts, my home to yours.
Thank you for reading & reviewing the Wayfaring Traveler books.
27 March 2020
Perfect for transplanting, that is. With a Taurus Moon, that fertile sign, grand for hardy seed sowing as well.
Gardeners clicking their heels around Spring Equinox may not look entirely sane, but---YES, Lord God Almighty---out of the winter, cabin fever, the sloth, the fire-stoking. A cartwheel's in order.
While also a perfect day for sitting by the fire with a good book, seeds live by seasons. Spinach, sugar snap peas, arugula, lettuces, carrots,Tuscan baby kale and chicory all but whisper, NOW... Calendula? Oh you bet. Tucked in a few of their crescent moon seeds for splashes of color and making calendula oil, come hot summer time. An old cottage flower, and Grandmother remedy.
Friends had come out, in the "fab" transplanting weather, to share in garden bounty. They went home with starts of Elderberry (psst, the Anti-Viral) and bush cherry. I'd already potted up the Elderberry starts for them and for an ever-helpful neighbor, but we went exploring and found the bush cherry babies.
I stepped back and let hubby manpower sever the offshoots from the Mama plants and ease them out of the rich bottom land. He's a big, brawny guy. I nearly cried in front of God and everybody, watching his gentleness and care, patting soil around the roots, as he might pat a grand-baby. They live down the river from me, and learned healing plants and fruits from their grandparents' lineage.
While puttering in the gardens, I leaned on my spading fork. Thought about the era, which we are in the midst of leaving, ready or not. The me-me, greed-is-good time. What is it that drives greed, clawing up out of wasteland, elbowing and trampling? A diamond desert, with Black Fridays thrown in.
Grabbiness may start to look less glam, in a pandemic.Will we turn feral, or will we turn wise, looking at death more clearly? Neighbors, and being one, may begin to thrum the heart-strings.
19 March 2020
Epidemics, Last 100 Years
Yes, I have an EMF fixation--I was struck by lightning and dragged back by a stranger trained in CPR. Funny thing happened, death-dazzle and back again. Being around power lines or electronics had immediately become wildly disorienting, with headache and body malaise thrown in to be sure I'd notice.
Does that have any general applicability, or am I just whining? It may actually be pertinent to all of us having a Body-Electric.
Epidemics since the 1918 Spanish Flu may be correlated with a sudden ratcheting up of EMF-radiation on earth. Examples: In 1917-18, the planet was flooded for the first time with radio waves. Deadly flu virus pandemic followed, or might it have been radiation sickness? Millions died.
What was the first city to be fully irradiated with 5G in 2019? That would be, Wuhan, China.
Idea's not unique with my ruminations. Check out Thomas Cowan, MD and his Coronavirus Hypothesis.
16 March 2020
Walrus (Walter) and I were standing by the windbreak trees I'd planted along the northside of the 3-story oak and chestnut farmhouse. (The future new owners would cut them down, big gorgeous balsam firs and Colorado blue spruce. Blow to the heart at the time, but no longer my home, and you can't fix stoopid. They bought in the summer months, and hadn't a clue.)
Pater, Mr. Buy & Hold, began talking to me about the wisdom of Blue Chip stocks. I stood there listening in my bib overalls with tools in the pockets and dirt on my knees. Having a woozy sense of cognitive dissonance, I blurted out:
"The stock and bond markets will fail."
"You're out of your mind."
"No. I'm not..."
Pater: "Then life won't be worth living."
Moi: "Dunno about that, Popilein. It will be different, maybe smaller, maybe even finer?"
In those days, I had imagined the organic farm as becoming ever more bountiful, an anchor to windward in crazy times. In fact, I ended up poisoned by Power Co. spraying and had to leave the farm. But the bountiful meme, if you will, lives on.
16 February 2020
An Honest Mechanic
My car had begun making moaning sounds and strange stuttering ones when turning the wheel. Oh, help!
So I went north toward the Colorado border to my mechanic,.who does his own diagnostics, cheats no one, & doesn't miss much. Snow peaks were gorgeous.
They live off grid, heat with wood, raise chickens and Jersey cows. When I got there, Mr. Mechanic was at the kitchen sink, smoothing the feathers of a hen who was sitting in a pot of warm water! I ambled on over.
He had found her frozen in the mud with just her head poking out, looking hypothermic and pretty much day-ud. He had set her in the warm water anyhow, got her free of mud, worked her feet and massaged her body and wings. He's a big, gentle man.
She started perking up and getting feisty, a good sign. He scooped her up as I held a towel. We swaddled her with just her beady eyes showing. The missus rocked her bundled cluck-cluck and stroked her head, as we talked. The young layer finished drying out in the greenhouse, scratching and muttering..
Hubby took the car out for a spin; said the Power Steering fluid was low; apparently a tiny leak. He'll look again when I'm due for the next service. And his work area is not so snowy/icy! Anyhoo, he topped it up, and then didn't want to charge me for a task he considered marginal and non-heroic.
Handing him a 20, I harrumphed, and said--Now and forever, a workman is worthy of his hire. If he wanted to quibble, consider it a deposit on future whatevers. He helped me through the ice and mud; patted the car, and waved me past the big bales of alfalfa.
I am so grateful to be living out in the boonies.
23 January 2020
Virus among Us
As most realize now, antibiotics do not stop a virus infection. But an old folk remedy may be useful--Check out Elderberry, now medically studied as indeed a potent anti-viral.. Israel did preliminary medical research, and came up with "Sambucol." Gaia Herbs offers an organic syrup with Acerola, made in Italy.
As I write this, the Wuhan Coronavirus is spreading globally. SARS redux, or a potential pandamic? There is some concern that its ground zero in Wuhan is situated two miles distant from a bioweaponslab..
Whatever the case, millions in China woke to lock-down quarantine (after the horse has left the barn.) Chinese New Year travel and celebrations have been cancelled. Grocery shelves immediately emptied; people are fighting over food and robbing those who have any.
Chinese hospitals have no more room and are turning away the desperately ill. Does that matter in the West? Are we prepared, in any way really? Elderberry in-house might be worth considering.
2 January 2020
Snow Country Rescue
Am just back from getting a little girl's birthday package to the PO, for the golden girl my cousins first fostered, then adopted, Thought I couldn't make it with this morning's snow, but the snow let up; sander came through; I lit out...
Forgetting, however, that the temperature was still below freezing, snow clouds low on the mountains. Started up the long steep, fear-of-God hill with no guard rail, and saw a full hay truck and a 4X blocking most of the road. I slowed down. Knew the guy with the hay. As I waved and edged around, I saw what had happened.
A woman in a compact car had skidded over the side, with a couple hundred feet between her and the valley floor, held there by a piñon and the grace of God. Looked like she'd had a blowout. One of the guys was on his knees in the snow wrestling off the tire. May those good men dwell in paradise. I nearly burst into tears at the willing help of country folk.
Happy New Year to us all, in this world still blest with good hearts. The nightly news can go pound sand.
5 Dec 2019
Fire Trucks & Angel Trees
In little towns, where Public Service is still expected and a reality, Volunteer Fire Departments are part of community Christmas tree lighting. Santa arrives on a fire truck with lights flashing, and little kids jump up and down, all aglow themselves, gaga at the magic of toys and treats, the magic of giving....That's a fond memory from my life on a nor'easter island in Maine.
We're living a strange time, trying to sustain equi-poise in what often seems like locked-ward! So what to do?
'Tis the season to get real--what works, what serves, what lasts. What would celebrate our lives together?
Here in the Rockies, I selected an Angel Tree card for a little boy in foster care. It has turned out to be such a grand adventure! I had no idea how anonymous giving would excite friends and strangers.
First I pulled out a big picture book from my children's book stash: The Little Engine That Could. Three unexpected participations followed:
1) A friend in another state sent a chunk of change, which expanded options. Speaking of magic!
2) I asked the owner of the shop of fair trade goodies, a friend, for help with items listed on the boy's wants and needs.
a) We selected a wooden (easy) owl puzzle which opens to a hidden interior for a couple marbles or whatever. I was charmed.
b) Then she showed me a thing which lasts for years and the hands of little children love--a graphite form to write with, which fits well into small paws. I chose the arrowhead which she said excites little boys.
c) Strolling, I looked down at a blue, machine-washable alpaca throw and came to a halt, musing, "If I were a little guy in foster care, I might like a soft blankie..." She looked at the price, gulp, and said, "I'd like to contribute," charging me half. She included abundant wrapping paper. She also told me about a local dept store having a sale, where she finds things for her grand-boys.
3) I know nothing about shopping for a 7 yr old boy. So I wandered around trying not to do delirium, when I saw a gorgeous Latino young man, and asked for help, explaining my situation. He stopped pricing piles, and we went exploring--I decided on a red/white stripe polo sweater with matching plaid long sleeve shirt; black Levi's, and a cute puzzle. The young man said, "I want to contribute," accompanying me to check out, and giving me his store discount, and his manager, a beady eye. For a little boy who likely has only "distressed clothing" that stranger shifted the purchase to half price.
We laughed and beamed at each other. I delivered the Angel Tree card and pooled magic to the agency which, we hope, watches over foster kids. Merry all of it, the Feasts of Light in the dark of the year.
To quote Tiny Tim, "A Merry Christmas to us all; God bless us every one."
27 September 2019
Mama told me a story from her childhood about her daddy, back when he was a Texas County Attorney--It's called Depression Era salary, in that time of desperate barter--Here's your gunny sack of pecans, your nice mess of collards...
A friend of Granddaddy's came and slumped down at the kitchen table, where family and friends all came to talk. Said he couldn't take it anymore. Had decided that the only thing left for him to do, was to off himself. (Mama was listening from around the dining room door, afraid to make a sound, now that she knew she shouldn't be there.)
Granddaddy didn't miss a beat: "That a fact?... Oh I can help you with that."
He then itemized methods of killing yourself, describing the process of each, in considerable and gruesome detail. The friend looked at him aghast. Granddaddy, who had raptor eyes at need, asked further if the friend really wanted to leave that kind of gawd-awful mess for his family? Along with whatever else had been grinding him down?
The friend shook his head, "You know I don't." Shoved back his chair and headed toward the front door making choking sounds. Mama scooted out of sight.
I never knew if Granddaddy set about helping the friend with legal assistance for whatever crushing problems he faced. But I do know that listening and talking, had stopped a suicide.
18 September 2019
Ursa major comes down to earth to prowl in the cool of the morning. From high lonesome far away among the stars, he takes form... A form to snuffle for woodland strawberries, a furry back to rub against an old growth tree, clawed paws finding their way in a rolling gait down to a stream.
While trying to flip a trout out of the shallows, he pauses, sniffs a new scent--Whatever is that?--He's not alone.
"Hullo? I'm weaving a wreath, flowers and berries. Would you like one? You've such a broad, inviting back."
Bear looks up befuddled. What manner of creature is this?
"Oh? I'm a boy, walking on two legs, while you go about on four."
The boy hums.
"I could play you a tune; I've a fiddle. Would you like that?"
Bear splashes up out of the cascading stream.
"Umm? Tra la, ta diddle," hums the boy.
Settling on his haunches in the leaf mould, Bear waits and wonders.
Giving him a pat on the shoulder; Boy laughs and drapes a wreath around the massive neck. Ursa, the startled Bear, shakes himself. Leaves and twigs spin out into the mist. He clears his throat--ahem--a basso, a deep rumbling.
"Uh, Boy?"--more snorting and garbling--"You could ride, you know. What if you play your fiddle, a dance perhaps, or a song of the sea?"
Boy holds onto the russet fur with one hand, holding his fiddle in the other--oomph--and clambers up onto Bear's back. Settling on the dense pelt, tuning his fiddle, the boy's high soprano leaps among tree light and shadow.
"Would you show me the forest paths, Boy, the wild mushrooms, eagles, the crags and apple valleys? And, Boy of the deep forest, would you be my friend?"
Boy leans down with his cheek between the furry ears, "Yes, friends for life," and sings:
"...I long to hear you.
Roll away, you roving river..."
Scarlet & Crimson
30 August 2019
Rose hips, heirloom tomatoes and the cheeks of peaches! Brilliant colors as the days shorten and seem to fade toward winter. The nights of the waning moon have been worth an outdoor peek at the stunner Milky Way, vast and haunting, as never seen in cities.
Also a time of the night critters--bears gorping windfall apricots, and already snuffling in the elderberries. At first light this week, I saw beady eyes glaring at me below the sun room window, with a hint of the territorial. Oh?
I assure you, bristly skunk, that the yard is yours! Still eying me, it snatched up an apricot, bigger than its pointy nose, and galumphed around the corner of the adobe.
Hummingbirds are manic at the feeders, preparing for their long journey south. I found a snugly-soft afghan at a consignment shop in town, and am beginning the process of preparing for Rocky Mountain winter.
A Real Food Recipe
8 August 2019
When I do my--anthropologist from another galaxy routine--walking down the miles of inedibles in the supermarket aisles, one could lose heart! But actually finding good food, is a worthwhile journey.
I have no affiliation or financial interest in the following food source, but Rebirth Rice, Thai black rice, is deliciously astounding--in our era of tasteless "food", heavily in need of salt to taste like anything.
Southwest Black Rice:
I use the Kamado-San clay rice cooker; a heavy pot will do.
1 c Rebirth Rice soaked in 1 c filtered water, overnight or AM to suppertime.
Dump in soaked rice and its mineral/vitamin-rich water. Add:
1 c additional filtered water
8-10 chopped fresh Shiitake mushrooms
Splash of toasted sesame oil
2 roasted green chili peppers, minus skin & seeds, chopped
Real Salt or Himalayan salt to taste.
Cook ~25-30 min; let sit for 20. Serve to flabbergasted appreciation!
Age of Epstein et al
Their Name is Legion
10 July 2019
It took me some growing up before I unstuck myself from New Agey flypaper. ...Transformation, tra la, will come on gossamer wings...
Expecting a Tinkerbell guide!--when the tools at hand may be shovel, pick-ax and manure fork.
As a people, we have not wanted to see chemtrails, phonies or perverts, but we may have reached an adult fork in the road.
Years Ago in No. Kali
30 May 2019
I attended the 4th of July parade, Marin Co, that lovely epicenter of narcissism. A HS marching band was just passing by.
Hand on heart, I joined in singing... For beautiful, for spacious skies... A trained voice, I quickly realized I was doing a solo in the midst of animosity. In one of the most privileged spots in the country. I finished the day quietly at Muir Beach!
In my first Wayfaring Traveler book, Whale Rider of the Tide, I spoke of a far from home anecdote in the Youth Hostel, Zermatt, Switzerland.
Fourth of July, slightly repellent American girls at dusk, as the stars came out around the Matterhorn, asked me to sing that hymn to America-we-wish... I did; the young women wept into their pillows.
Not all as seems.
Down to the River
Good Friday 2019
Do you remember the old-timey hymn in Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?
I used to love doing it with the Hospice singers, deep, sweet toning at deathbed with gentle friends in Maine. On this cerulean afternoon, I spent the High Holy Day down by the river in this valley. Rocking in the sky chair on the river bank, I listened to noise leaving my noggin, and in silence, heard the music of water cascading and bees humming in the apricot blossoms.
Bit of a grim reaper Holy Week, the Cathedral of Notre Dame torched, its cruciform roof erupting in simultaneous flame. It took Medieval Master Masons, Carvers and Glaziers nearly 200 years to build; but a 21st century evening to destroy.
Devotion in the Age of Faith created Notre Dame, and filled it with rose window light, Gregorian chant and centuries of prayer. The Cathedral and its entrance fee income are now owned by the state, which plans to rebuild it in five years.
22 April Earth Day, finds Notre Dame in the urban-aesthetic cross-hairs. Engineers and architects in yellow hard hats reportedly envision a steel and glass renovation, with spire morphing perhaps to minaret.
As an aside, the French church in which Charles Martel was buried has also been vandalized. That would be the fellow who in 732 beat back the Ottoman Empire's attempted conquest of Europe. We don't study history, but the EU soros-funded conquest by debit cards twangs a bit.
to Rammed-Earth Homes
6 April 2019
I met a clear-sighted man today, who walked deserts of Afghanistan and now walks his talk. A US Army Vet, he's watched the stats, the daily suicides, the homeless, and the Veteran's Administration writing prescriptions for anti-depressants & anti-psychotics.
Ryan Timmermanns has taken action, buying 50 acres of hillside land in the far boonies of No. New Mexico. With a nod to the Habitat for Humanity model, US Veterans will build earth-sheltered homes, called Earthships, grow food and community.
There's pragmatic smarts at work here and hope of re-establishing sense of purpose and camaraderie.among those who swore an oath to be of service, and had their lives blown to bits.
NZ Friends Ask about Midwest Farmers
31 March 2019
Organic farmer friends with whom I did WWOOF-ing in New Zealand have been checking in about the Midwest floods, re utter farm destruction, and general lack of citizen awareness and preparedness.. Reply:
The floods are expected to spread and continue for two months, with snow-melt dead ahead. Many farmers are uninsured for harvested grain losses; most have federal insurance for loss of growing crops. Planting will not occur. Winter wheat crop lost. The huge farm equipment required in the monsanto paradigm, untold millions of investment, is under water.
Anguish for the farmers, and for those who refuse to understand what this will mean. That said, it may mean that status quo of monster monoculture, Glyphosate-saturated acreage cannot continue.
If so, I will not live to witness the restoration of some of the richest lands on the planet, but young folks will roll up their sleeves, and we may see sanity again of diverse and sustainable family farms.
Disaster may be a gift to future generations, God willing, of finally undoing the death grip of the chemical and biotech industries.
The lands flooded are declared disasters, meaning federal govt assistance, but how much and how effective? And the damage is still impossible to fully quantify; it is ongoing.
Nonetheless, farmers are among the most adult of any population, and their agony may help draw adolescent embarrassments in the US back to honest work. I don't know, but am somewhat hopeful.
WWOOF = What?
Willing (or Worldwide) Workers on Organic Farms.
Generally means farm room and (groaning) board in exchange for labor. Often a boon for small farmers during their busiest seasons. Also a way to travel the world on small budget.
Bright-Eyed & Bushy-Tailed
28 January 2019
Home-Schoolers still learn Civics & US History.
The years I read aloud each week to kids at the local library consisted primarily of home-schoolers in the nor'easter winter months. In summer, munchkins from all over joined in.
The kids were flat out amazing. They wanted to know WHY. If not liking the why, they went into solution mode. They also apprenticed as part of their schooling.
When I sink into some minor key fugue-state about sociopathic government, I remember those kids.
Blood Moon Stars
22 January 2019
First the hush, the waiting for huge full moon to peep over the mountains, rising, rising higher. Going outside, though freezing, held special magic in store. At full eclipse--a dazzling surge of starlight--the Milky Way revealed and brilliant at occluded full moon.
I jumped up and down to get warm and did a joy-spin. Began singing the old Black spiritual,
My Lord, what a morning...
When the stars begin to fall...
No more grief and pain for me,
I heard from Heaven today.
God's gonna set His people free.
I heard from Heaven today...
My Lord what a morning,
When the stars begin to fall...
Thought then about MLK's birthday next morning, and the great swath of planet folks all watching together in the quiet of the night--Millions gazing into the sky, craning our necks as the eclipse was high, and probably many more in big city light-pollution or darkness, watching on screens. The full blood moon lasted and lasted. An omen? A frenzy-pause? A reset of some kind?
Even stuffed into down layers, standing in snow drove me toward hearth and home. I left before the rose-umber shadow withdrew, to stoke the fire in the woodstove room and watch the piñon flames dance.
"I'm Just T.A.F."
17 January 2019
The excitement-acronym, TAF is courtesy of a life-long friend of the family. My dad had known her since childhood. Her father was a pooh-bah and she married one, but hadn't a pretentious bone in her chunky body.
The pooh-bah mother, besotted with Shirley Temple, had tormented her daughter's childhood with tap dance lessons, and attempted to turn the kid's straight brunette hair into adorable curls.
I called our friend, "The Good Ship" with great affection. She was funny as heck, and if I laughed and coaxed, she would launch into a song and dance routine of The Good Ship Lollipop!
So, when wildly excited about something, she'd say: I'm just TAF!
Which translates as: "Tits A-Flutter." She was outrageous.
Not All As Seems
16 January 2019
To quote the Korean Sensei in "The Karate Kid."
A stranger has taught me to not be too quick in making assumptions.
Like many folks, I'd been snowed in for several days, snow on snow, all but hearing the strains of balalaika in Dr. Zhivago.
Once the snow stopped and I mustered more zeal to shovel out, the Post Office was one of the gazillion errands. My fave person there warned me about a tub, a trolley.... Just a mo.
Uh, how was I to even get out the door? While trying to do that, a baritone voice behind me asked if I needed help.. Here let me help. I stepped aside and held the doors. The guy was huge, shaved head, a walking tattoo parlor. Everyone's bundled up, but I could see amazing Maori-dense work on head, neck, arms, hands.
And God forgive me, what leaped to mind? MS-13, till I met his eyes which had known long journey, and were kind.
When he loaded all the heavy mail into the car, he gave me a shy smile and nodded. I told him he was my hee-ro. He laughed then and said, Have a blest day. I held his hand, thanking him, and noted the skeletal bones tattooed on the back.
YOU have a blest day, you lovely man.
Avalanche Crashes into
11 January 2019
Severe snow storms are raging across the European Alps. An avalanche has burst though the windows of the Hotel Säntis Dining Room. Shocking photo, and interesting re Grand Solar Minimum, but so what?
Am having a reprise experience. I nearly lost my life on the Säntis--a school outing with an idiot leading, who told the kids as young as 8 that tennies would be enough. I was 16 and the only one with the sense to have worn climbing boots. Didn't stop severe frostbite, but I didn't die just then, and neither did anyone else.
A freak blizzard and gale force winds slammed us against the mountain. The leader did deer caught in the headlights, but managed to tell the kids to huddle. He eyed my boots, knew I was one of the few who spoke the lingo, and shouted for me to go for help. There was a restaurant on top of the mountain, otherwise reached by a gondola.
Longest climb of my life with tears freezing on my lashes and cheeks. I staggered into the restaurant. The Schnitzel-eaters seemed to think I was part of the entertainment, but a Swiss Mt. Guide grabbed me, asked rapid-fire questions and thrust my hands into cold water, poured brandy down my gullet. He was enraged when I begged him to save the children in the storm. He grabbed ropes, organized the competent and brought them all to safety, some kids on the backs of the men.
It was a near thing, as I look out on snow falling quietly in the Rockies.
2 January 2019
I grew up in an American nautical family, on the coasts of many seas, and to the sound of my grandfather's ship's bell clock chiming the 4 hour shifts, or watches, through each 24 hour cycle.
While still an attentive munchkin, I learned that one particular excuse was utterly beneath contempt:
"It didn't happen on my watch."
Nor would "the dog ate my homework" have legs!
On board ship, given mandatory drills and safety checks, and round the clock watches, if something went wrong, someone(s) had been present. Whatever happened anywhere, anytime, it all landed at the Skipper's door. It may have been 2AM, but everything "happened on his watch"---Potential outcome: Court Martial.
I've wondered if that focusing of the mind would be useful in the nation's capitol, among the slithery.
Have been reminded of watches in the night by an account of a state of the art fishing vessel in the South Pacific. The seaman on watch in the engine room fell asleep, waking to fire and smoke, a conflagration. He ran, rousing the crew from their bunks. The fire had spread to the ship's deck, with no time to launch anything. They jumped overboard without life vests, one crewman cutting a line with big corks spaced, to which they clung for days without food or water. (Thanks to Headlines w/ a Voice for reporting.)
In all the Murphy's Law of that night, the sinking vessel did auto-beam the equivalent of MAY DAY to a satellite.. A 747 at 30,000 ft. locked in on the GPS coordinates and transmitted them to Samoa. The Coast Guard alerted all vessels in the area. The closest would take a couple days to reach the floating crew. Sharks swim in those waters.
A Coast Guard plane took off, as the situation grew desperate, and located the survivors. After several passes, the pilot pinpoint-dropped an inflatable raft. The crew were near their last efforts and could not even raise their arms to wave at the low-flying plane. (One crew member summoned his whatevers and swam the 100 yards to the raft, inflated it and paddled back to his shipmates. They rolled into the raft one by one.)
When the closest fishing vessel reached them, SIXTY HOURS after the sinking, the cook was among those who helped the sunburned, starving and dehydrated seamen aboard. He said, "I'll never forget their eyes." While clinging to the abrasive corks, they had lost all reasonable hope of rescue, in a rendezvous with death on the high seas.
One man fell asleep on his watch...A ship was lost and nearly all hands.
In this New Year, let us hope for good men and women, awake in the night.
Candlelight Christmas Eve
25 Dec. 2018
I joined the somewhat dour Presbyterians last night for Lessons & Carols, in their soaring adobe church with high clerestory windows and wreaths in between. Christmas Eve among transplanted Scots, lovely tartans and Harris tweeds, and ethereal bell-ringing from the choir loft. The rendition of "We Three Kings" swept me away, to harness bells and soft foot falls of Magi camels under long ago desert nights: Star of wonder.......
Perhaps their Highland Bagpiper will be back for Epiphany when, we hope, the wise men come.
Hoot of a female Pastor--Sitting on the altar steps with the kiddos--lovely mélange of Hispanic, blond and Indio--she held a brown paper grocery sack full of the nativity scene characters--ken and barbie dolls for which the kids had fashioned wee costumes. As a child named one of the dramatis personae, Pastor pulled out the doll for the child to set up in the Parish Hall Nativity Scene.
Then a munchkin said, Animals!... Pastor: We don't have sheep, but we have--(she rummaged in the sack and drew out a very green)--dinosaur, and a zebra.....
I'm the only one who laughed out loud. And am still chuckling, as it reminds me of the Crèche of dear friends whose menagerie includes jungle creatures and surprise visitors.
Bonfires & Luminarias!
9 Dec. 2018
Last evening the Old Town, adobe and pedestrian-welcoming, literally sparkled. Fragrant piñon fires glowed in copper tripod basins. Rooftops and sidewalks, are lined with small, sand-filled paper sacks, set with tea lights. Scrumptious free food galore.
I met a friend and grinned, Merry Christmas!"... "To a good Jewish boy?!"... I laughed: "Yes, all High Holy Days, and how can we forget that Jeshua ben Yusuf, was a Jewish Rabbi?"
A friend in Eastern mountains has lost power to the messy-mix winter storm; his propane generator kicked in. A good idea, if one's situation permits... As I hand out tins of beans at stop lights. The hand-lettered cardboard signs may just read: HUNGRY, or DISABLED VET.
While sugar plums dance in our heads, some are sleeping rough. And our social safety net may not be adequate to the task. A retired medical pro friend is doing weekly kindness/dharma. He goes to a couple groceries and collects a truckful of otherwise thrown-away food, also "free box" clothes and toys, which he washes--for families of illegals who have no transportation to get to the town food pantries.
He says we could learn so much from displaced people who have lived closer to the land. They do not shun rutabagas; they are marvelously creative in fixing meals; they share.
The open borders issue remains a mess: Dems want cheap votes; Rethugs want cheap labor; anarchists want societal violence.
In Advent, at the dark of the year.
A Real World Anecdote
21 November 2018
A Romaine Lettuce, E. coli Alert, right before the US holiday, started this rumination. That aside, wishing all a convivial and Happy Thanksgiving!
Free-access borders to Cent.Americans, and Islamic-world migrants to the EU..bring in Third World intestinal parasites. Plus un-treatable TB, scabies, typhus, cholera, rodent-host diseases, etc..
Indios had no immunity to measles, smallpox... Anglos blessed with better Public Health (Talking indoor plumbing, sewage treatment, soap...) don't do well with Third World endemic diseases.
When I was tenting fwiw, a nice family of illegals joined the BLM campground, splatting apparent amoebic dysentery all over the public latrine, floors, walls, defecation-hole.
The campground host had daily misery to clean up and try to disinfect. Bottom line, everyone camping there went down disgusting-sick. The well failed--no water for clean up at all. Everyone fled.
I went north and stayed at a friend's organic ranch, and fasted on herb tea and goats' milk for 10 days. Emerged many pounds lighter and less sanguine about come-one-come-all immigration.
We once had medical screening at Ellis Island. We have none now.
3 November 2018
Lovers of color will soon resonate with subtleties of winter--beige, dun, conifer piney-green to blue-green, under lowering skies. Also beautiful, but Indian Summer did a show-stopper this week. After raining hard on the sun porch tin roof through the night, I woke to all day snow. Tawny gold and orange cottonwood leaves glowed through the falling powder, then drifting flakes. Clouds settled low on the valley rims I lit a fire and curled up with a good book, pausing often to watch the turning of the year.
As autumn was ending.I remembered a Gray Ghost, the tabby cat, story of summertime. My neighbor's much-loved geriatric dog really, finally, had to be put down. Turned out to be a neighborhood event. One neighbor dug the grave, and had ordered a paw print chunk of rosy sandstone with the dog's name. We brought late summer flowers and pot luck.
It being a small town, the vet came into the country to do the deed. We all sat around the critter as she administered first sleepy-time, and then the coup de grace shot. As she administered the final shot, the tabby cat lay along the dog's back and slid his fore paw across the dog's neck, looking at me with opaline eyes. Gray Ghost lay there till the dog's spirit had floated free of the body.
22 Sept. 2018
Lapis skies today. Gray-Ghost (neighborhood tabby cat) and I walked down to the river. Beautiful golden crepuscular light. Two hammocks by the water, and a hammock chair. Friends have edged pools with big rock. The river is low but wonderfully melodious. Watched three bay horses which live across the water, and a mule deer doing its hooves on springs leaping through the autumn wild flowers.
Munched an apple from the wild tree, mindful of more bear scat than I've seen in ages (last of the chokecherries, apple, and someone's winter squash or pumpkin.) We ran the acequia on Thursday and filled the huge blue bucket with rope handles that I use to dip the small copper watering can.. Friday morning at first light, the bucket level had been halved, having served as an apparent ursine water bowl!
Baked tart apples in the solar oven... served with Jersey cream as Equinox celebration, and reminder that life lived simply is also sane.
1929 Crash Remembered
20 Sept 2018
But who here can remember 1929?
Not I, but I was a little kid who paid attention.
Wandering into a tea at my grandmother's, one of the silver-haired ladies ordained that I come sit by her, and listen.
Old money was sipping Earl Grey and remembering not just 1929 but also 1933 and the govt-violation of safety deposit boxes to confiscate citizen gold, and even jewelry.
They described suicides leaping out of windows and going splat, fortunes lost overnight, factories, farms, homes called in as bank collateral.
I sat there in my Mary Jane's, puffed sleeves and ruffled petticoat, attentive. Much of this went over my head, but I could read their anguish just fine, and have always had excellent verbal memory, hence my storyteller skills.
The grande dame who had called me over, turned her full attention my way, and said:
"NEVER, never buy on margin."
"Oh no, ma'am. I never will."
Some years passed before I studied the history which she had lived, and understood her urgency, and my childhood promise. I have never, by the by, bought on margin.
Grape Jelly Making
16 Sept. 2018
Am about to pull on blue work shirt & bib-overalls to process grapes. Messy business straight ahead! I resist buying fruit given the bounty of this river valley, but excellent grapes are grown by an organic farmer friend at a more favorable, lower elevation.
Am trying a variation on the grape jelly theme. I have Mama's 1953 Joy of Cooking (with copyright from 1931 on.) She was a fab cook all my growing up, and it tugs at my heart knowing I'm reading her culinary map. This older Joy (than my more Calif. Cuisine edition) still has farming, canning and grandmother info. For example my current project, calling for 15# of concord grapes!
9 September 2018
We're serving up weedkiller in Cheerios, sandwiches, corn chips and everything soy. We were sold a bill of goods. Not to worry; totally harmless. First successful lawsuit has challenged Monsanto's in-house research assurances. A few million in litigation pain, and a jolly good start.
My cousin lost her life, leaving two little kids, via a Glyphosate-infiltrated well--Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma thirty years ago, age 27. Many neighbors had the same issue and were ailing. I attended her funeral; she was the first to die.
They lived in rural, flat Virginia--hot, humid. They were not farmers but plenty Roundup-based farming in her area. Sprays tended to settle and not disperse.
Have often thought with pity of the American Midwest, former breadbasket of the world--now laid waste by GMO corn and soy mega-plantings, mega-sprayed. (Also those who spend big bucks to live alongside heavily-sprayed--at night--golf courses)
My commodities broker lived in the Midwest, an old farm boy into the GMO-corn-ethanol canard, but cognizant of herbicides approaching eco-saturation, land, air and water. He worried about having children, and longed for a family.
When I organic-farmed in dairy country in the Blue Ridge Mts. of Virginia, the dairy farms had stopped crop-rotation, and gone to no-till corn (spray the living daylights out of the land instead--dead roots help prevent erosion.) Farmers who sprayed looked like death warmed over, liver-poison-sallow. The deep valleys and wind didn't stop wind drift of their Ag-sprays, but dispersed much of it.
When I finally went down for the count from Power Co. right-of-way !surprise! use of 2,4-D, I couldn't tolerate spray drift anymore, Had to sell the farm and get a year's worth of holistic medical intervention. Had dropped to less than 4% female body fat while ill.
The MD said, no more acute or chronic exposures; eat only organically grown food...
Decided then, that if I lived, doubtful at the time, I would find somewhere with contiguous ranches and family farms deciding for sustainable agriculture.
Did so and consider myself blessed, though with an attitude-problem toward regulatory agencies and the revolving doors with bayer/monsatan and their ilk.
East Coast Hurricanes
May Roar Inland
9 September 2018
Am watching potential Florence, etc. trajectories, and the NC/SC declared states of emergency.
fwiw a hurricane slammed my Blue Ridge farm my first year. I had business down below the mountain, but family friends from the Piedmont stayed while I was away, to help oversee renovations.
A worker, in haste to get gone as the winds picked up, replaced clapboards by nailing them so the overlap faced upward... Bridges over-topped, washed away, and the farm kitchen and wall flooded with incoming torrents.
The visiting hubby was a retired Marine Colonel, Mr. Can-Do, who tried to secure a tarp over the clapboard idiocy, but the winds were too violent. They mopped up flood for hours, filling and emptying buckets.
Trees and branches came down; roads washed away; power went out. I had left candles and oil lamps. Pump from the spring stopped working, but they were able to dip sweet water out of the spring box. The stove was propane. I'd left wood in the house; they were able to build woodstove fires.
It was a working farm with already a pretty good pantry. They were snug, and the epitome of good neighbors.
Food for thought.
22 August 2018
A hardy native tree across the US, the blossoms are rarely frosted. Old timers in the mountains consider the juice/jelly/syrup a medicine. I stood in a chokecherry thicket by the cascading river and picked 15 kilos, barely moving location. I did wait till the sun was up--nocturnal bears leave scat full of chokecherry seed! Tree identification in its seasons: https://gardenerdy.com/how-to-identify-chokecherry-tree-easily
The fruit is tart and local jellies are made with cloying amounts of sugar. Here's a recipe using Pomona's Pectin: https://www.theprairiehomestead.com/2012/08/how-to-make-chokecherry-jelly-low-sugar-and-honey-variations.html
9 August 2018
This morning I picked peaches on the north side of the tree--the south ripening first--a fragrant and overflowing lady-basket. The bird-pecked peaches, quite a few, I bit free the good part and tossed the pits over my shoulder, some juice running down my chin. The young cats chased windfalls in the tall grass and wildflowers.
Am just in from checking on things and how vivid the flower colors in this haunting light. Heirloom tomatoes are coming in--Brandywine--the old Amish luscious one, reminding us that tomato is a fruit.
Time Measured by Garden Bounty
6 August 2018
Peach jam! Am soaking goji berries and grating ginger root to add, for winter time pizazz. Plums ripen next, then a neighborhood apple cider pressing. Followed by firewood stacking; the nights grow cooler in the high country.
The neighborhood kitties have been leaping in the air and catching grasshoppers to a very satisfying attrition. Thanks to the wee tigers, looks as though there will be enough basil to dry. Have planted it by/around the tomatoes. Picked first ones yesterday--Black Kirim and Striped German so far.
Am wanting to try the solar oven way of doing sweet corn, when corn reaches the farmers market.
You peel back leaves; rub off silks with circular motion; re-cover kernels; set ears in water to soak a bit. Shake off excess water. Then into the black pots, un-shucked and covered, for an hour or so. The vid I watched of the process evoked speechless bliss, corn buttered and hot.
A Land Still Wild
21 July 2018
As I headed out of the boonies, very much in ranch country, two horses, spectacular ones with bloodline, came speeding across the road right in front of me. I, who tap brakes, slammed them. A near miss of the second horse's hind quarters. I saw the flying hooves just clear.
Happened quickly but looked like a chestnut stallion and palomino mare. Most of the horses around here are more on the order of Indian ponies, small from drought and poverty owners who couldn't feed out enough hay. These beauties leapt out of another lineage altogether.
A fellow in an ATV maybe 300 yards ahead was watching. Looked Apache/Hispano, grounded, silent. I drove level with him, and asked if he knew who they belonged to?... No, he said, but I'm about to find out. He was waiting to go straight, but put on his turn signal and headed off into the hinterland.
It moves me that suburbia has not inflicted itself on this wild country. Even off the main roads in town, you'll find small farm holdings--chickens, a few black or red Angus, Navajo sheep, horses. Horse trailers are a common conveyance here. Cowboys on horseback still ride the range in the high desert and mountains of the American West.
Where most everyone is praying for rain, and a solar oven is cooking my supper. Too hot to roast anything, including me, indoors. It's over 100 degrees under the blazing white sun, but mercifully 74 in the thick-walled adobe.
A Firefighter's Report
14 July 2018
I encountered a friend today who was all but emitting sparks herself. Her rancher husband served as a So. Colorado Volunteer Firefighter for 25 years. He's retired now but mobilized when the arsonists got to work. He had also taught his four sons the firefighting skills of First Responders.
My friend's hubby had smelled smoke in severe drought conditions, and 35 miles away saw a wall of flame headed toward their ranch. He estimated the height of the fire-tsunami at 400 ft. He shouted for his sons who saddled up and galloped into the high country and began doing controlled burns of bone-dry sage brush and chamisa. They worked day and night for four days and saved two of the ranch buildings... but lost their home-place.
The hubby roared to the thick of the blaze to help his colleagues. Some of the volunteer fire-folks got trapped and frantically tried to do a controlled burn and dove into their protective tents still in their gear. The hubby went in after the fire passed; friends' feet and faces were scorched, their hair burned off.
Firefighters, all but dead on their feet with exhaustion, joined Forest Rangers, the Smokey the Bear folks. They went into the destroyed lands, over 100,000 acres, and did their duty by the surviving critters. They went in with rifles and handguns.
Wife said you would not believe the hordes of half-burnt animals they had to mercy-kill...elk, deer, bear, raccoon, porcupine, and ranchers' cattle.
The guy who started it is is jail, but has not been charged with arson, and that's why my friend was spitting mad--"He should be charged like any citizen!"--the guy's an illegal who came in across the southern US border.
Locals who love the mountains like their mother have known for months that it wasn't safe to have an open fire, or risk using a chainsaw.
The illegal had fixed himself a campfire meal, got soused, fell asleep, and a fire from hell was off to the races... Over 200 ancestral homes were destroyed, gone forever.
By then I was hyperventilating... "And the protected illegal?"... She squinted her eyes, and said, "He's in a jail without individual cells..."
Drought & Heirloom Corn
25 June 2018
In the Southern Rockies, the adobe Pueblos are gradually returning to native foods, as healthier, and more adapted, to challenging ecosystems. than coddled hybrids or GMO's.
That includes the "Three Sisters" of maize, beans, squash. Some of the Pueblos are making a success of sustainable Ag, but with little to no rain, all bets are off.
Locally, the river for Pueblo irrigation has gone dry. Large plantings of heirloom maize are being lost--ancestral seed stock of Hopi blue corn and ceremonial white.
I had to explain to the friend with whom I do small veggie effort that we would be letting the heirloom sugar snap peas set seed only, much reduced by drought.
She could see a few pods forming.
"We won't eat any?" she asked, a bit p.o.'d.
"No, we'll save any seed for next year and hope for winter snow pack and rain."
Before countries began relying on availability of annual purchase of hybrid seed (which cannot be saved; it does not bear true, reverting to either parent) families, gardeners and farmers saved the best seed for next year.
In Europe, corn (Korn) refers to grains in general, pre-dating the introduction of New World maize. So in desperate times, "eating the seed corn" meant loss of hope; it meant there would be no seed to plant next year. Unless stolen from others in war.
Farmers are seldom stoopid, though Monsanto certainly pulled a toxic number on the "Bread Basket of the World." Farmers know to save back seed to allow for crop failures.
Farmers in India had saved locally-adapted seed for countless generations. Those beguiled into planting non-save-able Monsanto seed went into debt to do so. The seeds have turned out to be poorly adapted/poor-yielding. Farmers went ever deeper into unpayable debt. Tens of thousands of Indian farmers have committed suicide by drinking Monsanto poisons.
Black Bear Adventures
20 June 2018
A friend in the Smoky Mts where it's rained all but incessantly reports a 12 hr. power outage from a tree down, but with no wind. There have, however, been bear sightings in the area. Might that be pertinent?
Oh? said I...
Bears have two pertinent behaviors which might affect tree roots in soggy ground:
1) They stand with back to trunk and rub up and down to scratch where it itches, with enough vigah to take down evergreen branches.
2) They leave formidable scratch marks down tree trunks with hundreds of pounds leaning into same.
An elder friend of mine was camping some years back, a city-girl newbie to the SW. She's generally feisty.
Also unaware, she had food INSIDE her tent. She woke up to a large clawed paw coming through the tent fly. The bear started leaning on the tent. She:
1) Screamed bloody murder
2) Pushed back on the ursine body mass
She was in a campground fortunately, and male persons began roaring out of their tents, bellowing. The bear settled back on all fours and decided to skedaddle.
Rain, Blessed Rain
4 June, 2018
Rain and some small but not damaging hail yesterday. I sat on the sun porch where there's a tin roof and listened to rain music. Light shining through rain droplets on apricot leaf tips, particularly beautiful.
Aesthetics aside, the economy out West just had a reprieve, ditto fire fighters.
Red and Black Angus will have pasture; alfalfa and hay fields will re-surge. Orchard fruit will swell. Cider pressings this fall, we hope. River running businesses have adventures to offer.
A good refresher on the tenuousness of economy. minus.. xyz. Kunstler would re-iterate our dependence on cheap oil; he lives back East where cheap oil fueled manufacturing, now left derelict.
El aqua es la vida.
3 June 2018
In the Southern Rockies wildfires are roaring in the dry tinder and resinous forests. Sagebrush flats offer more flammable resin, as though smudging the land.
Wind is picking up, a whooshing prelude to thunderstorms, and hopefully not including, the predicted large hail.
A neighbor's well has gone dry; rivers and acequias are low. I learned about no water when the Appalachian spring (the water kind) went dry on my organic farm (Earth-Whisperers.)
We haven't much awareness of water as precious resource, till we're hauling it in jugs, or in a tank on a truck.
Memorial Day 2018
The American Civil War
Nastiness, and also gallantry. Gen. Robert E. Lee comes to mind as a last of the gentlemen soldiers.
In my family, indeed kin were arrayed on opposite sides in the long brutality. A several greats Missouri Grandmother was widowed, a Confederate officer. She had freed their few slaves before the Emancipation Proclamation. Nothing left for her, she decided to head to Texas where she had kin.
It meant passing though the fighting. Her former slaves had elected to stay with her. She drove the buggy; they drove mule and oxen, a cow hitched to the back of one of the wagons.
At a river crossing, she was threatened with thievery and worse by Union soldiers. A Union officer roared up--her deceased husband's best friend. He gave her safe passage and an escort out of the war zone.
She had no skills other than embroidery and sewing a fine seam. running a household. Her black companions, employees settled with her in Texas and taught her to spin, weave, plant, harvest, hunt, butcher.
My grandfather knew her when he was a boy, still a gentlewoman, but one who could bring down a deer to feed her family.
After Europe's Great War, WW1, there were many maimed, and many dead husbands and fiance's, and a generation of spinsters.
Ditto after the US Civil War--maiden lady aunts who moved in with some family member. They became school teachers as a demographic.
And the "Blue Coat" soldiers? They were sent West to help fulfill Manifest Destiny by destroying the Plains Indians.
Aye, we'll rally 'round the flag, boys,
Rally once again,
Shouting the battle cry of freedom...
Country Wild Life
24 May 2018
A mule deer has dined on rose, delphinium, lily and columbine buds in the upper flower garden, despite abundant wild forage. Harrumph. Was late planting out nasturtiums, which repel deer and wabbits, and it's been so dry, the self-sown ones from last year hadn't sprouted.
Three kitties have adopted me, mischief makers and entertaining. My neighbors, to whom they ostensibly belong, don't feed them, so I put out some crunchettes with nutritional yeast and garlic powder in the early AM on an improv apricot tree platform--as an appetizer to moles and mice. They walk along the top of the garden fence and prefer lapping water from the top of the watering can. Underfoot whenever I appear, ankle-twiners with major purr melodics.
Brilliant orioles are nesting. They like hummingbird nectar and the color, orange. Sunflower seed and suet feeders came down this week at the first bear sighting at dawn. The feeder pole will forever list to starboard from last year's first ursine leaning on it. I learned my lesson!
5 April 2018
The music of the bees alerted me to an early apricot tree suddenly burst into bloom!
Overhead, red tail hawk was swooping on updraft. Song sparrow sings in the wild plum thicket, and nesting business has begun.
I'd started to feel punch-drunk and less jolly, too much life force gone splat, following world news.
Good to settle one's tusch on the earth and remember we're still part of it.
Mountain Snow, Magical Light
28 March 2018
Three inches of fluffy snow here, and more tonight after a concerningly dry winter. Ominous (I would say, promising) clouds massing N/NW. Very little glimpse of the mountains, hidden away in snow fog.
Am just back from a walk through the woods along the river, with plenty of snow dumped on the walker! Bit of misty sun shone on the cascading water and the veils of fine snow drifting down.
Knowing I'd return to a warm fire and hot spicy chocolate, I could enthuse about sparkling fairy dust. Were I sleeping rough, like more folks than we imagine, beauty of the moment might have been a stretch.
Friends in the South inform me of blooming camellias, forsythia, red bud, dogwood and daffydowndillies. I do remember, but will wait out the high country seasons, grateful for cooler summer.
Much that we've known is giving way, dying to new beginnings. As winter dies in its season and spring returns, tree sap and life rising from the dead.
The New Recovery Program!
3 March 2018
The Wayfaring Traveler books are all about storytelling, ancestral, historical, the riveting present moment, and the prescient.
Online articles, wellness info from long experience, and expose's, I wrote at feastandfamine.blogspot
With so much tumultuous change and yes, malfeasance, I'd felt an urgency. But the Cassandra phase--heart-felt warning or just noise from the battlements--may be concluding. Train's left the station; boat's left the shore.
It's getting real, down & dirty... Jackboots trampling the Bill of Rights. And lots of fact-free shouting, once known as reportage.
Who are we? Do we seek out waymarkers of integrity, or grab the remote, with its mind control patents and obfuscation? Am hoping we land on our feet.
I write this to cyber-friends on a day of high elevation, lapis skies and cold. Single digit nights ahead. It's too soon for pruning (botanically speaking) but am already thinking roses, fruit trees, and please, may the frosts be kind.
Communication in the
20 Feb. 2018
I wanted to let readers know that Gurgle finally succeeded in blocking this writer from the two "free" blogspot sites. This, after years of interference patterns--messing with stats, temporarily impeding author-access...
Now it's permanent, and I cannot even let readers there know what caused the sudden cessation of stories and articles.
Though being blocked did activate my "flea spleech" attitude problem, I've made peace with it. A large body of work is still available to readers in the Cyber-Commons at:
If you also read books, thank you. If you delve the Wayfaring Traveler books, would you kindly leave an Amazon review?
Meanwhile, reporting from the Rocky Mts and the global asylum, I remain optimistic. It's snowy in the high country. I haul in armloads of piñon, grateful for the woodstove BTU's.
A friend helped me resolve a wrenching uncertainty about giving money to those standing on windy street corners with cardboard signs. Some of the dollar bills go straight into booze or drugs.
The friend saves leftovers to share. Give food, she said! I invested in a case of organic pinto beans and hand a tin to those who are clearly sleeping rough under bitter conditions.
Indoors, flowers bloom: a geranium, paperwhite narcissus, a Meyer lemon. The trellis'd evergreen star jasmine is budding. Days grow longer, though it's still pitch dark when this ex-farmer greets the new day.
In a wider vista, the sun is strange; weather is weird; harvests are not certain. Locally the Food Banks serve the community.
I hope community gardens become more common. Within living memory, this area was food self-sufficient. The schools are teaching heritage skills and the astonishment of seed planted, sprout tended... leading to the miracle of fresh corn, tomatoes and greens for the family.
Diurnal Black Bear
A young black bear apparently didn't get the word about nocturnal feeding.
Sitting at my desk, I look out agog at 12:15 PM: Three meters away outside the patio doors, the bear starts bending the bird feeder pole to get at sunny seeds.
I pound on the window as the feeder pole lists 20 degrees to starboard.
Ursa glances my way and tilts the hummingbird feeder so syrup pours onto its paw. Licks it up.
I open the other window and begin bellowing. It ambles through the garden and climbs the north fence onto the road.
This is not your usual gardening season with late snow and frosts, then seven weeks of drought. The last two mornings I've poked my nose out at first light to 35 degrees F.
Late planted tomatoes are bent heavy with green fruit. Which may soon decorate windowsills, to ripen over the following weeks.
With a few dishes of fried green tomatoes and cream gravy to fortify guests as the nights grow longer and colder.
Music of Bees
Wild and honeybees filled a bright snowy morning with their buzzy song. Wet snow had somehow spared the fruit tree blossoms, though not some branches of a huge apricot fruiting for generations.
Birds are doing feeding frenzies over sunflower and thistle seed and suet. I bring the feeders in at night, so as to preserve them from black bears down from their caves and burrows in the higher mountains. Last year a grumpy bear surprised me early, squashed a woven wire fence, tromped a raised bed and bent the wrought iron bird feeder pole at right angle!
Duly noted. Years ago a woman here named the bears and would shoo them from the garden with a broom. Hm. Apparently not annoying a mama bear with cubs nearby, a potentially lethal encounter.
Am maybe not too late shmart; I ponder that proximity to ursine wildness from respectful distance.
More snow is expected, but flower treats are peeking up through the mulch: a Madonna lily, delphiniums, herbs. Am keen to plant pansies.
It may finally be Spring!
Friends who quietly attend to the introspection time of winter's long nights are reporting pain-release, familial pain. Convoluted enough and where is the Ariadne thread?
But on a societal level, am wondering about the rage and hysteria being encouraged toward a president-elect who vows to bring down the mafia-like takeover of government.
We're a few generations into broken families, Daddy's gone missing in the welfare state, and in both parents, often divorced, frenetically holding down high-stress jobs.
Curious fury against an alpha male president-elect. The nation seems to be acting out an almost Borderline sense of abandonment and lash-out.
Snowflakes raised by daycare, by indulgent guilty absent parents and government schools, come to pieces if not rewarded. It's a striking failure of reality check on the spectre of growing up.
This winter an extraordinary Pueblo man died quietly after celebrating his 100th birthday. He was the last local survivor of the Bataan Death March,
He recovered and became a mentor to tribal younglings and the larger community. He had lost everything but his heart.
Winter Snows Falling
Am dreaming of this weekend's "Scottish Christmas" with a piper in full Highland regalia. Amazing Grace, and carols all but shivering one's bone marrow!
Following the arc of seasons to ancient bonfires which welcomed the return of sunlight at Winter Solstice, am startled to realize the gift of Keltic music.
I hear surf crashing, the wild cry of seagulls, the howl of wolves, bells, harp and dancing! Torchlight is long ago, and we forget it, flicking the light switch, that night time light eluded our ancestors through long cold months. I hope to hear an Irish band on the Solstice, assuming the snowy roads are navigable. And bell-ringers at Christmas as "angels wing their flight o'er all the earth."
On 19 Dec. Mercury begins its three week danse macabre through cyberspace. Am already having techno-difficulties. Attempt at paragraphs trigger sudden repetitions of text. So will leave with warm wishes to readers all over the world.