Last week's news should have been all about Puerto Rico dealing with the destruction of a hurricane. Instead, too much of it was focused on the rantings of a bigot who has spent his life wiping his ass with the American flag, complaining about people who have a legitimate problem respectfully exercising their right to protest. The bigot confused respectful protest with disrespect for the flag and the soldiers who fought under it. The bigot also thought that the soldiers fought for the flag and not for the values it represents.
The bigot, and the party of whom he is the leader, are dedicated to the primacy of the second amendment to the constitution, or specifically one phrase thereof. To the bigot and his party, this one isolated phrase, stripped of its modifying companion in its sentence, is sacred.
Last night, facilitated by the bigot's party, a guy armed with military weapons (and not acting as part of a well-regulated militia) opened fire on a crowd in Las Vegas, killing (as of this time) 59 people and wounding hundreds.
As I drove through town today, the flag at the National Cemetery was at half-mast, per the bigot's orders. As I listened to the radio recounting the night's events, I had to wonder if the people now interred under those ranks and ranks of tombstones were really serving, fighting, and dying so that a guy could legally arm himself with a platoon's weapons and kill and injure so many citizens. Would any of them be moved to rise from the earth and yell like banshees at the bigot and his party? Could they shamble out of their graves and trouble the dreams of the bigot and his party? Could one of them gesture at regiments of the risen dead, and point out the bit of the constitution that mentions a well-regulated militia?
I don't think that the dead at the National Cemetery can do this, and I don't think that the dead from Las Vegas this week can teach the bigot or his party either. Nor can the dead from Roseburg, two years ago, or Sandy Hook or Columbine or Aurora. I don't think anything can teach the bigot or his party. I don't think anything can teach half of our country, either. I am not feeling optimistic tonight.
Showing posts with label atmospherics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label atmospherics. Show all posts
Monday, October 2, 2017
Wednesday, April 19, 2017
Wednesday Wordage Galloping Edition
I got a call from the Gallup Organization today, asking me some very general questions, and then inviting me to be part of a Select Group that is tracked and polled every two weeks that would provide Reliable Data for businesses and the government and big, important Decision Makers. I declined. I have grown exceedingly tired of polls, and feel that we are at a point where they are actively harming the world.
One of the questions I was asked by the pollster was my opinion of how the economy is doing--the possible answers were excellent, good, fair, poor, or bad. I asked for some clarification, and apparently I--who don't know very much, and certainly less than, say, a businessman--was being asked to evaluate the entire U.S. Economy in one word. And, worse, this was supposed to be meaningful, and even more horrible, it was supposed to influence big, important Decision Makers.
Is it possible to describe the state of the entire U.S. Economy in one word, other than "complex"?
I will plead mea culpa to being an elitist, in that I really believe that folks who have studied complex problems have more insight into their solutions than folks who don't have much book-larnin' and go by their gut. Also, probably best to refrain from describing things like the state of the world's largest economy with one word. So, I politely declined to play in that game.
'Course, they'll probably find one of my neighbors to replace me, maybe the one who writes letters to the editor of the local paper, citing Bible verses to support Donald Trump.
One of the questions I was asked by the pollster was my opinion of how the economy is doing--the possible answers were excellent, good, fair, poor, or bad. I asked for some clarification, and apparently I--who don't know very much, and certainly less than, say, a businessman--was being asked to evaluate the entire U.S. Economy in one word. And, worse, this was supposed to be meaningful, and even more horrible, it was supposed to influence big, important Decision Makers.
Is it possible to describe the state of the entire U.S. Economy in one word, other than "complex"?
I will plead mea culpa to being an elitist, in that I really believe that folks who have studied complex problems have more insight into their solutions than folks who don't have much book-larnin' and go by their gut. Also, probably best to refrain from describing things like the state of the world's largest economy with one word. So, I politely declined to play in that game.
'Course, they'll probably find one of my neighbors to replace me, maybe the one who writes letters to the editor of the local paper, citing Bible verses to support Donald Trump.
Monday, March 6, 2017
Monday Musical Offering Post-flu edition
Coming off of a bout of the 'flu. Could go with "poi a poi di nuovo vivente," which is descriptive but does not adequately convey the sentiment. Having spent almost two days pretty much abed, and another day where I was able to be up and about for a half an hour followed by an hour of recovering, I was just grateful to be able to do stuff for an entire afternoon (to say nothing of being able to eat). So, a heiliger dankgesang is appropriate.
Friday, February 24, 2017
Friday Flicks, dreamy edition
This from a hundred and ten years ago was unfortunately appropriate last night:
So, there I was living the bachelor life last night while the Real Doctor was away, and because I wanted some comfort food I made Welsh rarebit and broccoli. And, because I'm used to cooking for two, I made slightly too much. And, because it was a long day, I ate it late, and went right to bed.
Ugh. Such dreams...such awful dreams.
Ugh. Such dreams...such awful dreams.
Wednesday, February 1, 2017
Circle of life and all that
Farming throws life, all of it, all at you all at once. So you find yourself taking a phone call to set up mortuary arrangements for your mom, who is on hospice, while you are hanging on to a doe is not totally enthusiastic about the buck that you're breeding her to.
Wednesday, October 26, 2016
Wednesday Wordage Mourning Edition
Times change. Behavior that is commonplace now would have rocked the world of a century past; what was once normal, right, and proper is now fusty, antiquated, and weird.
So, a bit over a year ago, a guy with some mental issues completely legally obtained weapons designed for the sole purpose of efficiently killing lots of people, walked into a classroom at the local community college, and used those weapons for their intended purpose. I do think that a century ago, the event would have been remembered differently. After all, we still talk about Jack the Ripper, who killed maybe six people, and the Hatfields and McCoys, who were not especially efficient in their murderous ways. I thought that it was a certainty that my town would be forever branded with this mass shooting. It was the main subject in the national news for almost a week, an inescapable thing, and the word "Roseburg" was paired with the word "shooting," like it or not.
A year later, it seems that we are past it. Perhaps mass shootings are too commonplace. For a while, when I mentioned that I was from Roseburg, people from out of state would mumble some sort of recognition and note the city's loss. Now, when I talk to people from out of state, they haven't heard of Roseburg or know anything about it.
I guess it wasn't horrible enough. Newtown is horrible enough that it is still remembered, so we know that the deaths of twenty-some little kids can cause a lasting dent the nation's psyche. 10 people, mostly young adults? Not enough.
But this is supposed to be about words, and changes in usage.
There are rites of mourning. There used to be standards for these. In the Victorian era, when death was a lot more everyday, there were things that were done--the death photograph, the lock of hair, the wearing of mourning, and so on, and written rules for how long they should be done for. To modern sensibilities, these rules seem pretty bizarre--but they are helpful, in that they do provide some guidance for how to not look disrespectful. Now we are winging it, and here in Roseburg, we can use some help.
Immediately after the shooting, business marquees all started reading "ROSEBURG STRONG" or "OUR THOUGHTS ARE WITH UCC" or "PRAY FOR UCC" and so on. That is a socially acceptable form of public mourning. It actually may be obligatory rather than demanded. But in the absence of a code, it's not clear when you can take down that message and post "SUMMER FUN SUPPLIES" or "SPOOKY SAVINGS INSIDE." In an earlier time, we'd know: six months for a second degree relation, a year for a first degree relation, maintaining a black border, and so on. Now, without these codes, many of the signs are still up, and I'm sure the proprietors would take them down but for the fear of being disrespectful. Sometimes, rigid rules help.
So, a bit over a year ago, a guy with some mental issues completely legally obtained weapons designed for the sole purpose of efficiently killing lots of people, walked into a classroom at the local community college, and used those weapons for their intended purpose. I do think that a century ago, the event would have been remembered differently. After all, we still talk about Jack the Ripper, who killed maybe six people, and the Hatfields and McCoys, who were not especially efficient in their murderous ways. I thought that it was a certainty that my town would be forever branded with this mass shooting. It was the main subject in the national news for almost a week, an inescapable thing, and the word "Roseburg" was paired with the word "shooting," like it or not.
A year later, it seems that we are past it. Perhaps mass shootings are too commonplace. For a while, when I mentioned that I was from Roseburg, people from out of state would mumble some sort of recognition and note the city's loss. Now, when I talk to people from out of state, they haven't heard of Roseburg or know anything about it.
I guess it wasn't horrible enough. Newtown is horrible enough that it is still remembered, so we know that the deaths of twenty-some little kids can cause a lasting dent the nation's psyche. 10 people, mostly young adults? Not enough.
But this is supposed to be about words, and changes in usage.
There are rites of mourning. There used to be standards for these. In the Victorian era, when death was a lot more everyday, there were things that were done--the death photograph, the lock of hair, the wearing of mourning, and so on, and written rules for how long they should be done for. To modern sensibilities, these rules seem pretty bizarre--but they are helpful, in that they do provide some guidance for how to not look disrespectful. Now we are winging it, and here in Roseburg, we can use some help.
Immediately after the shooting, business marquees all started reading "ROSEBURG STRONG" or "OUR THOUGHTS ARE WITH UCC" or "PRAY FOR UCC" and so on. That is a socially acceptable form of public mourning. It actually may be obligatory rather than demanded. But in the absence of a code, it's not clear when you can take down that message and post "SUMMER FUN SUPPLIES" or "SPOOKY SAVINGS INSIDE." In an earlier time, we'd know: six months for a second degree relation, a year for a first degree relation, maintaining a black border, and so on. Now, without these codes, many of the signs are still up, and I'm sure the proprietors would take them down but for the fear of being disrespectful. Sometimes, rigid rules help.
Monday, October 5, 2015
more on the recent awfulness
A couple of well-worn but appropriate collections of words from John Donne and W. H. Auden:
About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life, and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to, and sailed calmly on.
----------------------------------------------------
So nine people from around here were murdered, and one committed suicide, just over the hill and down the river from me. This is a smallish town, and as I predicted, I'm two degrees of separation from folks who were directly involved. There are all sorts of media types around--when I went to town today for groceries, there was still a TV truck in the hospital parking lot, and in the 24 hours after the shooting, I got a half-dozen phone calls from all around the country asking for so-and-so, who apparently was close to the event and whose published phone number was actually mine.
People here are bent out of shape, and I am too, I suppose. I think most of the natives are stunned because this is a small town and such things just aren't done within the family. I guess I feel a bit of this too. I'm also a bit wigged because I've always been weirded out by this area's gun culture, and precisely thing thing I've been scared of has happened, and will likely again.
But, given that I don't directly know anybody involved, why am I more bent out of shape by this event, more than any of the other multiple-murder shootings this year, or by any other of the over 10,000 shooting murders every year?
-------------------------------------------------------
So while the awful event was going on, I was on my farm, not behind a Breughel's plough, but dragging bucks and does around for breeding. The does were all in heat that day, and they could not wait. My job, at that precise time, was to tie up a doe, then march across the field to the bucks' pasture. I had to catch the right buck, get him through the gate without letting all the other bucks out, and hang on as he charged to the doe with all his might. Then, after the goats had mated, I had to drag the buck, who would have preferred to stay with the does, all the way back to the buck pasture. Doing all this for the dozen does, and allowing time for the bucks' batteries to recharge, took me over two hours. An hour into the process, I got a text from a friend inquiring anxiously after my health. Then another, and a call, and so on. All the time, I was busy as could be playing pimp for our goats, and even though I would like to have just sat down to try to absorb things, it was not going to happen. Life on the farm ignores any drama that does not concern itself.
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.and
About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life, and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to, and sailed calmly on.
----------------------------------------------------
So nine people from around here were murdered, and one committed suicide, just over the hill and down the river from me. This is a smallish town, and as I predicted, I'm two degrees of separation from folks who were directly involved. There are all sorts of media types around--when I went to town today for groceries, there was still a TV truck in the hospital parking lot, and in the 24 hours after the shooting, I got a half-dozen phone calls from all around the country asking for so-and-so, who apparently was close to the event and whose published phone number was actually mine.
People here are bent out of shape, and I am too, I suppose. I think most of the natives are stunned because this is a small town and such things just aren't done within the family. I guess I feel a bit of this too. I'm also a bit wigged because I've always been weirded out by this area's gun culture, and precisely thing thing I've been scared of has happened, and will likely again.
But, given that I don't directly know anybody involved, why am I more bent out of shape by this event, more than any of the other multiple-murder shootings this year, or by any other of the over 10,000 shooting murders every year?
-------------------------------------------------------
So while the awful event was going on, I was on my farm, not behind a Breughel's plough, but dragging bucks and does around for breeding. The does were all in heat that day, and they could not wait. My job, at that precise time, was to tie up a doe, then march across the field to the bucks' pasture. I had to catch the right buck, get him through the gate without letting all the other bucks out, and hang on as he charged to the doe with all his might. Then, after the goats had mated, I had to drag the buck, who would have preferred to stay with the does, all the way back to the buck pasture. Doing all this for the dozen does, and allowing time for the bucks' batteries to recharge, took me over two hours. An hour into the process, I got a text from a friend inquiring anxiously after my health. Then another, and a call, and so on. All the time, I was busy as could be playing pimp for our goats, and even though I would like to have just sat down to try to absorb things, it was not going to happen. Life on the farm ignores any drama that does not concern itself.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Happy new year to Jew and Ewe and You / Wednesday word
A shanah tovah to those who reckon time thusly.
It's appropriate that Monday was the day we scheduled for CIDRing our does and ewes; in a way, it starts the year for them too. The CIDR (previously mentioned) is a hormone delivery device that will get the animals to come into heat at the time of our choosing, which will be in about 14 days (plus or minus one). Then, it's time for tupping*. Then, 145 days of gestation. Then a sleepless week of kidding and lambing. Then, for the does, 305 days of milking. So Monday started the calendar for us in more than one way.
*"tupping" has to be the Wednesday word. For someone who raises Shetlands, "tupperware" sounds an awful lot like sex toys for sheep.
It's appropriate that Monday was the day we scheduled for CIDRing our does and ewes; in a way, it starts the year for them too. The CIDR (previously mentioned) is a hormone delivery device that will get the animals to come into heat at the time of our choosing, which will be in about 14 days (plus or minus one). Then, it's time for tupping*. Then, 145 days of gestation. Then a sleepless week of kidding and lambing. Then, for the does, 305 days of milking. So Monday started the calendar for us in more than one way.
*"tupping" has to be the Wednesday word. For someone who raises Shetlands, "tupperware" sounds an awful lot like sex toys for sheep.
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Time and memory
I wrote that last post, and set it aside for a few days before I decided to publish it. I typically let what I write sit for a few days, so I can do a better job editing. At any rate, just before that post was scheduled to hit the web, the Real Doctor's sister, C., called to wish us a happy something-teenth anniversary of our wedding.
The coincident timing of a wedding anniversary and a post about time and love was a pure accident. Neither the Real Doctor nor I can remember the date of our wedding anniversary, nor have we ever. The date was set in part by the Hebrew calendar, a lunar calendar, so our anniversary changes relative to the common calendar every year. Also, by the time of our wedding, marriage was a foregone conclusion, so the date of its consecration wasn't critical. A more notable, memorable date for us is when McCoy Tyner played a gig in Madison, which was our first official date.
Besides, until recently, I haven't had to remember the date of our wedding anniversary. Every year, until two years ago, my mom would send us a nice, hand-made anniversary card; it would arrive about two days before our anniversary, and so we'd be reminded of the day with sufficient lead time to make sure that we had a decent bottle of wine or some cake on hand.
Alas, those days are in the past. My mom, who recently celebrated her 80th birthday, is fast disappearing into the fog of Alzheimer's Disease. It's a good day when she remembers which son I am (the one with the goats and sheep, up in Oregon). It's a very good day when she remembers that I'm married to the Real Doctor. Of course, the nature of things is that it will only get worse. She's still recognizably herself, but I don't know how long that will last. She is trailing my dad by about three years; however, Alzheimer's seems to progress more rapidly in women than men. So, alas, it goes.
My parents have been married for something like 55 years. My dad is beyond recognizing his wife, or anybody, or having any meaningful interaction with the world; his body persists in this world, but most of what was uniquely Michael Appleman left this world over a year ago. My mom, on the other hand, is still well aware of who my dad is--or rather, was. She knows her husband of decades past, and cannot remember that he is unable to walk, talk, recognize her, or in any way take care of himself. The fresh discovery of this, every day, is a cause of considerable sadness for her.
Which, I guess, is a reminder. While we're here, and alive, and aware--don't worry about anniversaries. Honor every day.
The coincident timing of a wedding anniversary and a post about time and love was a pure accident. Neither the Real Doctor nor I can remember the date of our wedding anniversary, nor have we ever. The date was set in part by the Hebrew calendar, a lunar calendar, so our anniversary changes relative to the common calendar every year. Also, by the time of our wedding, marriage was a foregone conclusion, so the date of its consecration wasn't critical. A more notable, memorable date for us is when McCoy Tyner played a gig in Madison, which was our first official date.
Besides, until recently, I haven't had to remember the date of our wedding anniversary. Every year, until two years ago, my mom would send us a nice, hand-made anniversary card; it would arrive about two days before our anniversary, and so we'd be reminded of the day with sufficient lead time to make sure that we had a decent bottle of wine or some cake on hand.
Alas, those days are in the past. My mom, who recently celebrated her 80th birthday, is fast disappearing into the fog of Alzheimer's Disease. It's a good day when she remembers which son I am (the one with the goats and sheep, up in Oregon). It's a very good day when she remembers that I'm married to the Real Doctor. Of course, the nature of things is that it will only get worse. She's still recognizably herself, but I don't know how long that will last. She is trailing my dad by about three years; however, Alzheimer's seems to progress more rapidly in women than men. So, alas, it goes.
My parents have been married for something like 55 years. My dad is beyond recognizing his wife, or anybody, or having any meaningful interaction with the world; his body persists in this world, but most of what was uniquely Michael Appleman left this world over a year ago. My mom, on the other hand, is still well aware of who my dad is--or rather, was. She knows her husband of decades past, and cannot remember that he is unable to walk, talk, recognize her, or in any way take care of himself. The fresh discovery of this, every day, is a cause of considerable sadness for her.
Which, I guess, is a reminder. While we're here, and alive, and aware--don't worry about anniversaries. Honor every day.
Monday, August 17, 2015
Time and meteors
If the night sky could have looked down a few days ago, it would have seen the Real Doctor and me looking back up at it. We were lying on our backs in the driveway, taking advantage of the dark skies of a moonless midnight in August, hoping to see the remains of a long-ago comet as they shot through the atmosphere above us. As had been predicted, the Perseid meteor shower was pretty good. Before my eyes had properly adjusted to the dark, a bright meteor skimmed the hills of the northern horizon; within a minute of lying down, another shot most of the way from the zenith to the western horizon, leaving a trail that quickly disappeared.
We stayed out for a few more minutes, contemplating the skies and what passed through them. There were a handful of the less impressive "there went one" sort, and a two of the "OOOH!" variety. Sure enough, their trails could all be tracked back to Perseus. After a few more minutes, we bundled ourselves back indoors and to bed--it was a weeknight, and the Real Doctor had to be on the job early the next day.
The stargazing made a nice break from the routine. Going out and looking hard at the night sky always gives me a helpful reminder of my place in the world. Watching the fixed stars as the make their way across the sky, watching the moon and planets as they wander among the fixed stars, watching interlopers such as this last winter's Comet Lovejoy as they sprint across the field--these snap my attention to the fact of my being a dot on a spinning rock orbiting a star in a galaxy. It can make me feel small, but, at the same time it makes me feel as though I am of this whole clockwork. It is oddly comforting.
I don't think there's anybody other than the Real Doctor that I'd rather be with as the Earth makes its way around its orbit, as it rolls between the sun and the constellation Perseus; to be with, lying in a driveway out in the country, as Perseus reaches the zenith; to be with, as we watch bits of comet burn up so spectacularly in the high air, while our livestock guardian dog makes confused noises at our out-of-the-ordinary behavior.
The setting encouraged reminiscence. A long time ago, I had just moved to Madison, Wisconsin, to start graduate school. I didn't know many people there--I had a few acquaintances, mostly from bicycling. However, being pretty new in town, I didn't have a whole lot of good friends. I sought to fix this situation. It's not really my wont to go to parties, or even go out to movies. Rather, going for bike rides or hikes and camping is more my style. It was August, and predictions were being made that that year's Perseid meteor shower would be a winner. So, I thought I'd invite some acquaintances, such as I'd wanted to become friends, to ride our bikes up to Devil's Lake, camp out under the dark rural skies, and watch meteors.
Well, it was a bust. Everyone I invited declined, either right away or at the last minute; my cup of tea is not everyone else's. Among those who declined was the Real Doctor. Much later, she noted that she was kind of weirded out by the invite--from this guy whom she'd basically only seen riding a bike, had only known for a very short time, and who wanted to go camping in the middle of nowhere. It didn't seem like that good of an idea. Although my intentions were completely naive, I have to say that she showed good judgement.
Of course, things worked out eventually: by April, the Real Doctor and I were an item. Earth has shown her midnight side to Perseus twenty-some times since then, blundering through the mortal remains of Comet Swift-Tuttle to dazzle us, her tenants, who lie on their backs in the driveway to watch the show. The watchers ooh and ah, and think of time and trips around the sun and anniversaries. This year's celestial show brought up another chunk of time to note: that stretch of time, between this week's meteor shower and my failed attempt at socializing--that chunk of time, for all of which the Real Doctor has been someone I wanted to know better--that portion of my life is now longer than that which preceded it. She has been on my mind, one way or another, for more than half of my life.
We stayed out for a few more minutes, contemplating the skies and what passed through them. There were a handful of the less impressive "there went one" sort, and a two of the "OOOH!" variety. Sure enough, their trails could all be tracked back to Perseus. After a few more minutes, we bundled ourselves back indoors and to bed--it was a weeknight, and the Real Doctor had to be on the job early the next day.
The stargazing made a nice break from the routine. Going out and looking hard at the night sky always gives me a helpful reminder of my place in the world. Watching the fixed stars as the make their way across the sky, watching the moon and planets as they wander among the fixed stars, watching interlopers such as this last winter's Comet Lovejoy as they sprint across the field--these snap my attention to the fact of my being a dot on a spinning rock orbiting a star in a galaxy. It can make me feel small, but, at the same time it makes me feel as though I am of this whole clockwork. It is oddly comforting.
I don't think there's anybody other than the Real Doctor that I'd rather be with as the Earth makes its way around its orbit, as it rolls between the sun and the constellation Perseus; to be with, lying in a driveway out in the country, as Perseus reaches the zenith; to be with, as we watch bits of comet burn up so spectacularly in the high air, while our livestock guardian dog makes confused noises at our out-of-the-ordinary behavior.
The setting encouraged reminiscence. A long time ago, I had just moved to Madison, Wisconsin, to start graduate school. I didn't know many people there--I had a few acquaintances, mostly from bicycling. However, being pretty new in town, I didn't have a whole lot of good friends. I sought to fix this situation. It's not really my wont to go to parties, or even go out to movies. Rather, going for bike rides or hikes and camping is more my style. It was August, and predictions were being made that that year's Perseid meteor shower would be a winner. So, I thought I'd invite some acquaintances, such as I'd wanted to become friends, to ride our bikes up to Devil's Lake, camp out under the dark rural skies, and watch meteors.
Well, it was a bust. Everyone I invited declined, either right away or at the last minute; my cup of tea is not everyone else's. Among those who declined was the Real Doctor. Much later, she noted that she was kind of weirded out by the invite--from this guy whom she'd basically only seen riding a bike, had only known for a very short time, and who wanted to go camping in the middle of nowhere. It didn't seem like that good of an idea. Although my intentions were completely naive, I have to say that she showed good judgement.
Of course, things worked out eventually: by April, the Real Doctor and I were an item. Earth has shown her midnight side to Perseus twenty-some times since then, blundering through the mortal remains of Comet Swift-Tuttle to dazzle us, her tenants, who lie on their backs in the driveway to watch the show. The watchers ooh and ah, and think of time and trips around the sun and anniversaries. This year's celestial show brought up another chunk of time to note: that stretch of time, between this week's meteor shower and my failed attempt at socializing--that chunk of time, for all of which the Real Doctor has been someone I wanted to know better--that portion of my life is now longer than that which preceded it. She has been on my mind, one way or another, for more than half of my life.
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
The Unicorn in the Garden
I woke up this morning and saw a unicorn in the garden. It's usually not a good sign if you see unicorns, and it can be indicative of a larger problem requiring a stay in the booby-hatch.
It's the end of July, and I'm spending a bunch of time this week buying, schlepping, and storing many, many tons of hay. I've been doing a better than ever job of managing pasture this year, seeding in spring, rotating my grazing, and so on. Nonetheless, from now until next year, our animals will be getting most of their calories from hay. We have more animals than ever--to be honest, we're at least 25% overcapacity on sheep--and our fields are still terribly underdeveloped, but the real culprit is weather.
Like most of the left cost, we're in a drought. We've also had many weeks of record high temperatures. So, the calendar has been bumped forward by about six weeks. Fields, normally green, were crispy yellow by June. I made blackberry jam last week, five weeks earlier than last year. Cornflower is blooming, two months early. Oak Creek is nearly dry--again, two months ahead of schedule. And, a month early, I'm buying hay, $275 a ton for some very nice second cut orchard grass. The goats may get another few weeks of pasture, as will the yearling sheep, but it's pretty much hay from here 'til February.
It takes time to rehab a farm, and our long term goals include rainwater harvesting, fertilizing, seeding, and developing fallow land (i.e., a couple acres of blackberries, teasels, and hawthorn) for hay. The goal is to make it so that our animals are supported by our patch of earth. I know that hitting this goal is going to take most of a decade, but it still causes me some angst that the sheep and goats are walking around on our property but grazing on irrigated fields twenty or a hundred miles away.
Usually, it's not until October that the local vegetation grows so sparse and lousy that the deer lose their fear and start grazing on our yard. It's the young ones who lead the way. This morning it was a yearling buck, one that had been partially dismasted in combat, so it had only a single horn, with a single point. Both Sophie and Eleanor saw the animal and barked lustily while giving chase, driving the unicorn from our garden and back into the dense thickets along the creek.
[Title reference]
It's the end of July, and I'm spending a bunch of time this week buying, schlepping, and storing many, many tons of hay. I've been doing a better than ever job of managing pasture this year, seeding in spring, rotating my grazing, and so on. Nonetheless, from now until next year, our animals will be getting most of their calories from hay. We have more animals than ever--to be honest, we're at least 25% overcapacity on sheep--and our fields are still terribly underdeveloped, but the real culprit is weather.
Like most of the left cost, we're in a drought. We've also had many weeks of record high temperatures. So, the calendar has been bumped forward by about six weeks. Fields, normally green, were crispy yellow by June. I made blackberry jam last week, five weeks earlier than last year. Cornflower is blooming, two months early. Oak Creek is nearly dry--again, two months ahead of schedule. And, a month early, I'm buying hay, $275 a ton for some very nice second cut orchard grass. The goats may get another few weeks of pasture, as will the yearling sheep, but it's pretty much hay from here 'til February.
 |
| Two tons of hay. Lifting 100-lb bales up that high is a good workout; it's good that it's two short tons, otherwise I'd have had to lift them higher. |
It takes time to rehab a farm, and our long term goals include rainwater harvesting, fertilizing, seeding, and developing fallow land (i.e., a couple acres of blackberries, teasels, and hawthorn) for hay. The goal is to make it so that our animals are supported by our patch of earth. I know that hitting this goal is going to take most of a decade, but it still causes me some angst that the sheep and goats are walking around on our property but grazing on irrigated fields twenty or a hundred miles away.
Usually, it's not until October that the local vegetation grows so sparse and lousy that the deer lose their fear and start grazing on our yard. It's the young ones who lead the way. This morning it was a yearling buck, one that had been partially dismasted in combat, so it had only a single horn, with a single point. Both Sophie and Eleanor saw the animal and barked lustily while giving chase, driving the unicorn from our garden and back into the dense thickets along the creek.
[Title reference]
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
WOOT...wait...
WOOT!!! I finished with chores and milking and got dinner made before the sun was completely down...wait...oh, it's the longest day of the year.
Such is life on the farm. And why there ain't much here at the moment.
Such is life on the farm. And why there ain't much here at the moment.
Sunday, January 4, 2015
Cold snap
We had a bit of a cold snap this last week--cold by local standards, getting into the teens at night and not getting above freezing during the day. The cold makes for some lovely sights.
One of the more charming sights is seen after a night that is humid and just below freezing--the frozen snores of sleeping voles, snug in their burrows:
The best part is being there as the sun comes up. When they melt, you can hear this barely-perceptible "zzzzzzz....zzzzzzzz"
One of the more charming sights is seen after a night that is humid and just below freezing--the frozen snores of sleeping voles, snug in their burrows:
Monday, November 24, 2014
Happiness
I forget which philosopher tells us that true happiness is found at the
concordance between what one wants to do, what one ought to
do, and what one is able to do. If that is the case--and if the intensity
of desire is a significant coefficient--then Cernunnos and Go Daddy, the bucks
who are the sires in most of this year’s breedings, are the happiest creatures
on the planet.
*****
There are a lot of incidents that launch themselves on a trajectory that can lead either to farce or to tragedy, and until they play out, there's no knowing whether to laugh or cry. One such incident happened last Friday.
We "leash breed" our goats, so we can be absolutely sure that breeding has taken place and we know exactly who is the daddy. It means leashing up a specific doe and a specific buck individually and leading each to some place where we can watch them mate. What ensues has nothing that a human would recognize as romance; the deed takes a few seconds, and then the animals get led back home. Being able to provide certainty about our pedigrees enhances the value of our stock, and is reflected in the breeding page of our farm website.
Practically, leash breeding is a bit of work. Our happy, happy bucks live at one corner of the big pasture, where they pass their days grazing, peeing on their beards, making grotesque noises, and trying to relieve their sexual tensions with each other. Our does live in a pasture on the other side of the big pasture, over a hundred yards away, and pass their time with grazing and meditating--except for when they are in heat. Then, they stand up on the junked workbench that I put in their pasture for their amusement, orient themselves towards the distant bucks, and sing a loud song of lust and desire.
Two of our does, Opera and Mizuki, were in heat last Friday. It was far from a beautiful day for romance--it was pouring, and Nigerian Dwarf goats hate rain. But, omnia vincit amor, so Opera didn't complain when I tied her up under the barn's awning. Cernunnos was not too enthusiastic about being rousted out of his dry shelter, but once he figured out what was up, he picked up his pace. The deed done, each went back through the downpour and into their shelters. Then it was Mizuki's turn; she knew what was up, and was willing to be tied up under the barn's eaves to await her mate, Go Daddy.
What happened next was all a wet, furry, stinky blur. I went to fetch Go Daddy, who had figured out what was going on, and was defying the downpour to wait at the gate of his pasture. Cernunnos had the same thought, and the other bucks--Guy, Cherubino, Mustafa, and Caliban, who are less experienced--were curious as to what was going on, so they were at the gate too. I slipped through the gate, attached the lead to Go Daddy's collar, and shooed all the other bucks away from the gate. Go Daddy, I should mention, is the strongest and most eager of our bucks, and it is a genuine struggle to hold onto him. So, perhaps it’s understandable that my attention was focused on restraining him as I fumbled in the pouring rain to close the balky latch on the gate. I failed to notice Cernunnos charging the gate. I did notice him when he barged past me and Go Daddy and was moving at an urgent, waddling trot towards the barn.
And here is where we were suspended between farce and frustration. Rain pouring down, Mizuki tied up at the barn singing of her desire, Cernunnos eagerly galloping across the field towards a doe he should definitely not mate, me getting forcibly dragged away from an open gate by Go Daddy, who is trying to beat Cernunnos, and four naive but intrigued bucks looking intently at the open gate and their buddies who seemed quite keen on...something. I didn't hesitate: the most important thing was to intercept Cernunos--if it were necessary, I could simply pick Mizuki up and throw her over the electric fence, provided I got to her before Cernunos. So, I charged across the field in the pouring rain, accompanied by the lusty Go Daddy, and trailing a train of confused bucklings who didn't know anything about what was going on but that it looked like fun.
Fortunately for the resolution of the affair, Go Daddy and I are faster than Cernunnos. Despite my attempt at sprinting, Go Daddy still towed me most of the way (from the strain he puts on his collar, I have come to the conclusion that his kink is erotic asphyxiation). We got to Mizuki, who was urging her suitors onward, just before Cernunnos. I let go of Go Daddy’s leash, figuring that he would know what to do, and grabbed a hold of Cernunnos’ collar. The other bucks were strung out in a line, halfway between their pasture and the barn, reconsidering the wisdom of going out in the heavy rain for an uncertain reward. Once he was finished, I grabbed Go Daddy's lead, and held onto it with the same hand that was restraining Cernunnos; with the other hand, I hustled Mizuki back through her gate. Temporarily sated, Go Daddy was not too difficult to lead back to his pasture, and Cernunnos also seemed to realize that his date had left him standing in the rain. We shuffled back across the field, and were joined by the other bucks, who seemed confused by the whole business, but content to fall in line and follow the big boys back into the pen. I closed the gate behind everybody, and let out a deep sigh of relief, and some laughter.
So, if you look at our farm’s web page, you will see our breeding list. I can assure you that it is accurate.
*****
There are a lot of incidents that launch themselves on a trajectory that can lead either to farce or to tragedy, and until they play out, there's no knowing whether to laugh or cry. One such incident happened last Friday.
We "leash breed" our goats, so we can be absolutely sure that breeding has taken place and we know exactly who is the daddy. It means leashing up a specific doe and a specific buck individually and leading each to some place where we can watch them mate. What ensues has nothing that a human would recognize as romance; the deed takes a few seconds, and then the animals get led back home. Being able to provide certainty about our pedigrees enhances the value of our stock, and is reflected in the breeding page of our farm website.
Practically, leash breeding is a bit of work. Our happy, happy bucks live at one corner of the big pasture, where they pass their days grazing, peeing on their beards, making grotesque noises, and trying to relieve their sexual tensions with each other. Our does live in a pasture on the other side of the big pasture, over a hundred yards away, and pass their time with grazing and meditating--except for when they are in heat. Then, they stand up on the junked workbench that I put in their pasture for their amusement, orient themselves towards the distant bucks, and sing a loud song of lust and desire.
Two of our does, Opera and Mizuki, were in heat last Friday. It was far from a beautiful day for romance--it was pouring, and Nigerian Dwarf goats hate rain. But, omnia vincit amor, so Opera didn't complain when I tied her up under the barn's awning. Cernunnos was not too enthusiastic about being rousted out of his dry shelter, but once he figured out what was up, he picked up his pace. The deed done, each went back through the downpour and into their shelters. Then it was Mizuki's turn; she knew what was up, and was willing to be tied up under the barn's eaves to await her mate, Go Daddy.
What happened next was all a wet, furry, stinky blur. I went to fetch Go Daddy, who had figured out what was going on, and was defying the downpour to wait at the gate of his pasture. Cernunnos had the same thought, and the other bucks--Guy, Cherubino, Mustafa, and Caliban, who are less experienced--were curious as to what was going on, so they were at the gate too. I slipped through the gate, attached the lead to Go Daddy's collar, and shooed all the other bucks away from the gate. Go Daddy, I should mention, is the strongest and most eager of our bucks, and it is a genuine struggle to hold onto him. So, perhaps it’s understandable that my attention was focused on restraining him as I fumbled in the pouring rain to close the balky latch on the gate. I failed to notice Cernunnos charging the gate. I did notice him when he barged past me and Go Daddy and was moving at an urgent, waddling trot towards the barn.
And here is where we were suspended between farce and frustration. Rain pouring down, Mizuki tied up at the barn singing of her desire, Cernunnos eagerly galloping across the field towards a doe he should definitely not mate, me getting forcibly dragged away from an open gate by Go Daddy, who is trying to beat Cernunnos, and four naive but intrigued bucks looking intently at the open gate and their buddies who seemed quite keen on...something. I didn't hesitate: the most important thing was to intercept Cernunos--if it were necessary, I could simply pick Mizuki up and throw her over the electric fence, provided I got to her before Cernunos. So, I charged across the field in the pouring rain, accompanied by the lusty Go Daddy, and trailing a train of confused bucklings who didn't know anything about what was going on but that it looked like fun.
Fortunately for the resolution of the affair, Go Daddy and I are faster than Cernunnos. Despite my attempt at sprinting, Go Daddy still towed me most of the way (from the strain he puts on his collar, I have come to the conclusion that his kink is erotic asphyxiation). We got to Mizuki, who was urging her suitors onward, just before Cernunnos. I let go of Go Daddy’s leash, figuring that he would know what to do, and grabbed a hold of Cernunnos’ collar. The other bucks were strung out in a line, halfway between their pasture and the barn, reconsidering the wisdom of going out in the heavy rain for an uncertain reward. Once he was finished, I grabbed Go Daddy's lead, and held onto it with the same hand that was restraining Cernunnos; with the other hand, I hustled Mizuki back through her gate. Temporarily sated, Go Daddy was not too difficult to lead back to his pasture, and Cernunnos also seemed to realize that his date had left him standing in the rain. We shuffled back across the field, and were joined by the other bucks, who seemed confused by the whole business, but content to fall in line and follow the big boys back into the pen. I closed the gate behind everybody, and let out a deep sigh of relief, and some laughter.
So, if you look at our farm’s web page, you will see our breeding list. I can assure you that it is accurate.
Monday, November 10, 2014
subliminal influences of TV programming?
We don't have a TV. Perhaps because of that, I notice them in public spaces and have a harder time ignoring them than other folks. They're over the checkout stands at a local grocery, and over some gas pumps.
Today I went to the local branch of a bank whose name rhymes with "Smells Cargo." I have to do business there every month or so. The previous time I was there, I noticed that they had installed a TV above the line of tellers, so the folks waiting in line would have something to pass the time. When a TV is set up in a public space such as a bank or airport terminal, it has to be set to something anodyne, so the set was tuned to some sort of vintage-1950's -60's TV station.
The last time I was there at the bank, there was an episode of some cowboy drama, featuring an armed bank robbery.
This time, it was an episode of the Lone Ranger, featuring an armed bank robbery.
It could be taken as evidence that violent TV programming does not have any effect on behavior, as everybody else in the considerable line was ignoring it, and I was unarmed.
Today I went to the local branch of a bank whose name rhymes with "Smells Cargo." I have to do business there every month or so. The previous time I was there, I noticed that they had installed a TV above the line of tellers, so the folks waiting in line would have something to pass the time. When a TV is set up in a public space such as a bank or airport terminal, it has to be set to something anodyne, so the set was tuned to some sort of vintage-1950's -60's TV station.
The last time I was there at the bank, there was an episode of some cowboy drama, featuring an armed bank robbery.
This time, it was an episode of the Lone Ranger, featuring an armed bank robbery.
It could be taken as evidence that violent TV programming does not have any effect on behavior, as everybody else in the considerable line was ignoring it, and I was unarmed.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Time
L'shana Tova to all those who keep time thusly; happy equinox to those who mark it. (It doesn't quite rise to the level of Wednesday Word, but I recently heard the fall equinox described as the time when the Earth is three quarters of the way around the sun.)
Either way you mark it, fall is here. It arrived with a good solid rainstorm, bringing about an inch of rain. As I made the rounds yesterday morning, I would open the gate to each herd's enclosure. A few noses would poke out, and then retreat back into the shelter. Rams, bucks, ewes, does, all spent the day under cover, dryly watching me trudge around. The fields are still brown and will be for a long time, but I could sort of hear the underlayer of moss that fills our fields sighing with relief. It's been a long, exceedingly hot summer. It's time for fall.
I mentioned earlier this week how, in the short term, time gets vague for me. I got reminded again how short term planning is futile here. I had planned, yesterday, to do a bunch of drywall work on the addition to the house. However, while I was in town, I received a call from brother H. that the roof had blown off of the rams' shelter ("It just flew off, like a kite!"). Also, I noticed that the roof on the bucks' shelter (a rather old tarp) was on the verge of failure, and that action needed to be taken. Plans? Hah.
Either way you mark it, fall is here. It arrived with a good solid rainstorm, bringing about an inch of rain. As I made the rounds yesterday morning, I would open the gate to each herd's enclosure. A few noses would poke out, and then retreat back into the shelter. Rams, bucks, ewes, does, all spent the day under cover, dryly watching me trudge around. The fields are still brown and will be for a long time, but I could sort of hear the underlayer of moss that fills our fields sighing with relief. It's been a long, exceedingly hot summer. It's time for fall.
I mentioned earlier this week how, in the short term, time gets vague for me. I got reminded again how short term planning is futile here. I had planned, yesterday, to do a bunch of drywall work on the addition to the house. However, while I was in town, I received a call from brother H. that the roof had blown off of the rams' shelter ("It just flew off, like a kite!"). Also, I noticed that the roof on the bucks' shelter (a rather old tarp) was on the verge of failure, and that action needed to be taken. Plans? Hah.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Some scattered observations from the county fair
Uniforms (1)
A sight which pretty much perfectly summed up the fair: a pair of FFA boys, in their early teens, walking away from the food court, perfectly done up in their regulation black pants, white shirt, tie, heavy blue blazer, ruddy scrubbed faces and slicked back hair. Each was working on a "scone" bigger than his head, smiling the biggest damn smiles I've seen in a long time.
Uniforms (2)
4H-ers are not required to wear a uniform. Nonetheless, every single 4H girl was wearing exactly the same thing, to the point where a code could be drawn up: "Cowboy-style boots, with patterned stitching and at least two colors of leather, must be worn at all times. Jeans shall be boot cut, tight in the rear, and moderately low cut; they shall have patterned stitching on the rear pockets, preferably with rhinestones. Leather belts with large, bling-y buckles are encouraged. Shirts shall be long-sleeve, snap-buttoned, plaid with some metallic threads woven in. Hair shall be pulled back in a pony tail." Really, just about every 4H girl had that look, and plenty of the moms too.
All hat, no cattle
Some of the girls who wore the 4H uniform were not quite as farm-y as their look suggested. A couple of them, whose animal experience I guess was limited to horses, visited the sheep and goat barn. I was walking one of my Shetland lambs around, and they were impressed by "what a cute goat" I had.
Small Town
Our truck fell ill before the fair; it had some issues with its turbocharger, so couldn't generate enough power to pull a trailer, which made life very complicated. We couldn't get it fixed until after the fair; so, a week later I found myself in the Ford dealership's "courtesy shuttle," making conversation with the driver. I asked him about the fair, if he'd gone, and what he thought. He thought it was okay, but seemed a little smaller this year. I told him about our goats, and how they did, and it turned out that his sister-in-law had the Nubians in the stall next-door to ours.
You can take the professor out of the university, but...
When I'm with my animals at the fair, I try to talk with any passerby who looks even a little interested--I act as an ambassador for the brand. One lady was interested in what the sheep ate, and how it was neat that an animal could transform hay into wool. So, we started talking about nutrition and feeding for the sheep, and that led to a discussion about what's going on in the rumen, which led to the microbes therein, which led to...and so on. She was pretty interested, and had a lot of interesting questions, which I was mostly able to answer. One question, towards the end of our discussion, was "are you a teacher or something? You sound like you teach this stuff."
Friday, August 1, 2014
Living in the country...pros and cons
Pro: While walking across the big pasture to do the evening rounds, I stopped and took this picture
Con: I soon discovered I was standing at the door of a nest of burrowing yellowjackts.
Only got one sting, and enjoyed a nice run.
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Passover greetings
Happy Pesach/blood moon, everybody. I'm still alive, just been unusually busy.
Protip:
When scanning a matzoh for your Passover greetings, do not use the document feeder.
Protip:
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Tuesday Tool Winter is Coming Edition
It's been cold here for the last week. As soon as the sun goes down, a thick fog develops and the temperature goes down to about 28 F. With the waning moon, it gets really dark and cold, the lights from our neighbors barely visible and the noise from the road deadened. Walking across the field to feed the sheep, I can slip into imagining that the world outside my headlight beam has fallen away and I've gone adrift in space. I had a hard time recognizing my own sheep last night; in the dim light of the dying LEDs, they all looked white to me. I was wondering what happened to all the black and brown ones--where's Woglinde? Yvette? Gretchen? Rita Hayworth? There's the right number of sheep here, but they're not all mine, are they? Looking closer, I realized that they really were my sheep, but their fleeces were all painted silver with frost. It wasn't yet 7:00 PM.
When the sun comes up, the sky rarely clears and we've been lucky to get out of the 40's F. The frigid mornings are not without beauty; every spiderweb spun in the length of summer, every tuft of wool left behind by a wandering sheep, is frosted and rimed. The heads of the grasses are made more beautiful by the white highlights, and even blackberry leaves become appealing when outlined in ice.
But, it is cold, and there's work to do. Hauling in yet another load of wood to feed the constantly-burning fireplace can keep me warm for a little while, making the rounds of the animals and hucking hay bales out of the truck. But that warmth dissipates before all the work is done, and it seems the chill fog can touch your skin through anything. So, the tool of the week has to be:
Carhartt Flannel-Lined Jeans.
When we moved here, we became aware of the various local tribes, how they distinguished themselves from each other and which to ally ourselves with. One such division was the Filson/Carhartt schism. Both are authentic and very much of this area. The Filsonian culture is somewhat wealthier, and biased towards timber, ranching, and fly-fishing. The Tribe Carhartt, at least locally, drives an older pick-up truck than the Filsonians, won't be seen in town during hunting season, and is more likely to have traces of its trade--caulk, manure, and such--anointing its trademark tan jacket.
I wouldn't mind clothing myself in Filson and doing as the Filsonians do; I'd probably have more time to go hiking and such. However, this morning, as most mornings, I got on my Carhartt flannel-lined jeans (with permanent stains on the knees from kneeling in pens to deal with kids and lambs), my Carhartt jacket (with paint stains, s#!t stains, tattoo ink stains, blood stains, and miscellaneous small rips), and my Carhartt watch cap (similarly stained, and which the Real Doctor concluded was my tool for cleaning the underside of the house), and marched out into the freezing fog to feed the sheep. Flannel-lined jeans make life better.
When the sun comes up, the sky rarely clears and we've been lucky to get out of the 40's F. The frigid mornings are not without beauty; every spiderweb spun in the length of summer, every tuft of wool left behind by a wandering sheep, is frosted and rimed. The heads of the grasses are made more beautiful by the white highlights, and even blackberry leaves become appealing when outlined in ice.
But, it is cold, and there's work to do. Hauling in yet another load of wood to feed the constantly-burning fireplace can keep me warm for a little while, making the rounds of the animals and hucking hay bales out of the truck. But that warmth dissipates before all the work is done, and it seems the chill fog can touch your skin through anything. So, the tool of the week has to be:
Carhartt Flannel-Lined Jeans.
When we moved here, we became aware of the various local tribes, how they distinguished themselves from each other and which to ally ourselves with. One such division was the Filson/Carhartt schism. Both are authentic and very much of this area. The Filsonian culture is somewhat wealthier, and biased towards timber, ranching, and fly-fishing. The Tribe Carhartt, at least locally, drives an older pick-up truck than the Filsonians, won't be seen in town during hunting season, and is more likely to have traces of its trade--caulk, manure, and such--anointing its trademark tan jacket.
I wouldn't mind clothing myself in Filson and doing as the Filsonians do; I'd probably have more time to go hiking and such. However, this morning, as most mornings, I got on my Carhartt flannel-lined jeans (with permanent stains on the knees from kneeling in pens to deal with kids and lambs), my Carhartt jacket (with paint stains, s#!t stains, tattoo ink stains, blood stains, and miscellaneous small rips), and my Carhartt watch cap (similarly stained, and which the Real Doctor concluded was my tool for cleaning the underside of the house), and marched out into the freezing fog to feed the sheep. Flannel-lined jeans make life better.
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