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.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
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.
Monday, August 10, 2015
Authenticity and chance
What's not to like about a classical music riot? Such disturbances have a long and rich history--warring claques in the world of opera, the legendary reception of Stravinsky's Sacre du Printemps, audience members begging the performers for mercy at a performance of Reich's Four Organs, and more. The classical music riot is an appealing conceit, the topsy turned turvy, the highbrow descending to fisticuffs, the longhair resorting to hair-pulling. And, I had the pleasure of attending one last week as a spectator.
It wasn't a big riot, for it wasn't a big concert. Such fame as it receives will come only through this blog, and perhaps the pages of the Miskatonic University Herald. I had been invited to that august institution by my friend, D. Avril Poisson, who has graced this blog before both in her capacity as microbiologist and as a musician. I had recently discussed with her how, as an amateur, chance affects even my most intentional music-making, and not in a good way: I simply don't have the control over my digits that a professional does. I expressed my displeasure with this, but she suggested that I take a broader view, and reminded me of the stimulation that chance provides the prepared ear--and invited the Real Doctor and myself to a concert by the Miskatonic Pro Musica Nova, contrasting the hyper-defined pianola music of Conlon Nancarrow and chance-driven aleatory music of John Cage.
Nobody riots for something they don't care about, so it's not that surprising that there have been so many classical music riots. Classical music, serious music, whatever you may call it, is deeply cared about. The music is the fruit of much effort and intention, and is meant to be treated as such. Audiences know this, and don't want to be insulted by shoddiness. On the other hand, when you are dealing with aleatory music of John Cage, it is hard to define what exactly is shoddiness and what is chance. Cage wrote music guided by the chance and the i ching, and at the same time regarded these works as completely determinate.
At any rate, the concert opened with a set of pieces by Conlon Nancarrow. The stage was empty of performers, save for a music student who started and stopped a player piano. Hard to get less chancy than that.
Fittingly, the second half of the concert started with the famous 4' 33" by John Cage, allowing us a space to open our ears. Next on the program was Cage's Imaginary Landscape No. 4 from 1951*. The piano for 4' 33" was rolled off the stage, and a long table, 24 chairs, and extension cords were positioned at center stage. Having surrendered to chance for the proceeding piece, I was preparing to enjoy what the universe served up next, as, per Cage's instructions, the student performers would adjust the volume and tuning knobs of radios according to the dictates of the conductor, the score and the i ching.
The student members of the Miskatonic Pro Musica Nova marched on stage in pairs, holding their radios. They were initially greeted with polite applause (and over-enthusiastic applause from one helicopter parent, embarrassing a blushing and cringing daughter), but there was also some murmuring and grumbling from one corner of the recital hall. This built into hissing, and when the conductor strode onstage, he was greeted by a snake-pit of hissing and loud catcalls.
Someone once commented that the disputes in academe are so bitter because the stakes are so small. So it may have been here--the Miskatonic music department is not large, and half of the music majors were on stage, nervously plugging in their radios as the front rows of the audience seethed with rage. A group of the younger professors were yelling abuse at the conductor, accusing him of trampling over the intentions of Cage and dishonoring his spirit. Clapping loudly and whistling and pounding on the stage, making as much noise as they could, they and their graduate students--who comprised the core of the Miskatonic Pro Musica Antiqua--were doing their best to stop the concert from going forward. The rest of the faculty present (several of whom had heard John Cage and his students performing) were yelling at the others to sit down and shut up.
I couldn't really understand what the ruckus was about. The words that boiled to the surface of the shouting were a jumble: vacuum tubes, WFAN, transistors, living score, authenticity, Philco, kilohertz, Rush Limbaugh, and so on. The Musica Antiqua crowd, led by a young visiting professor from Holland, seemed agitated by the very radios that were being used, while the Musica Nova crowd waved their scores with Cage's instructions at them. Dr. Poisson, having had her share of brushes with the original-instruments crowd, watched the proceedings with a wry smile; the Real Doctor, who had visibly suffered during the Nancarrow and who does not care for Cage, seemed pleased that the concert had ground to a halt. The students of the Miskatonic Pro Musica Nova squirmed uncomfortably in the chairs, radios at the ready. The parents who had come to see their children perform screamed at all of the rioters to let things go on. An elderly professor of viola whacked a theorbo specialist with a bundle of i ching sticks. A young harpsichordist yelled loudly that the sound of John Cage must be protected at all costs, leapt onstage from the audience, ran into the wings and unplugged the radios. Moments later, all the lights in the hall went out, and more screaming ensued.
The riot, such as it was, lasted five or ten minutes, and the lights were back on in short order. The rioters agreed to let the concert continue, provided that they were permitted to read a statement from the stage. Hastily written by agitated musicologists, committed to the ideals of musical authenticity, the statement insisted that the following piece was not by John Cage, but only derived from his ideas; that to hear the music of John Cage properly, radios using vacuum tubes playing 1950's pop music would need to be employed, and that nothing less would do. Having finished reading this statement, the theorboist left the stage, exchanging the hairiest eyeball I've ever seen with the conductor, who gave as good as he got. It was a satisfying riot, and also, a satisfying performance. Was it music by John Cage? I'll defer to Dr. Poisson, who opined, "whatever."
So I passed some time today by playing some of the most inauthentic music possible: an organ chorale prelude by Bach, transcribed for piano by Walter Rummel. I wasn't even playing it on Rummel's preferred Hamburg Steinway, but instead on an even more inauthentic Japanese Kawai spinet. So much for authenticity; what of chance? As I noted to Dr. Poisson, I am an amateur, and don't have the control of my hands that I'd like. The i ching is unnecessary to introduce random inputs from the universe into my playing; instead, a slight hesitation before the final phrase of the chorale was caused by a slight memory lapse. The effect was esthetically pleasing, leading to a nice sense of conclusion.
*From the John Cage Website: For this work, 2 performers are stationed at each radio, one dialing the radio-stations, the other controlling amplitude and timbre. Durations are written in conventional notation, relating to notes placed on a 5-line staff. The rhythmic structure of the work is 2-1-3, and is expressed in changing tempi. Cage uses proportional notation where 1/2” equals a quarter note. However, the notation is not entirely proportional, since accelerandos and ritardandos are still present in the score. The score provides indications for tuning (controlled by player 1), as well as for volume and tone color (controlled by the player 2). When listening to this work, one can’t predict what will be heard, which is exactly what Cage had in mind. In addition, the composition also functioned as a kind of exercise in abandoning preferences (Cage wasn't very fond of radios). As he put it in For the Birds: "I had a goal, that of erasing all will and the very idea of success." His method of composing here is basically the same as used in Music of Changes. Cage employed the I Ching to create charts, which were used to refer to superimpositions, tempi, durations, sounds, and dynamics. In these sound charts, 32 out of 64 fields are silences. In the charts for dynamics, only 16 produce changes, while the others maintain the previous situation. Similar charts were produced and employed for the other parameters. Cage gives an extensive description of his composing means for this work in his “To Describe the Process of Composition Used in Music of Changes and Imaginary Landscape No. 4” (Silence, pp. 57-60).
It wasn't a big riot, for it wasn't a big concert. Such fame as it receives will come only through this blog, and perhaps the pages of the Miskatonic University Herald. I had been invited to that august institution by my friend, D. Avril Poisson, who has graced this blog before both in her capacity as microbiologist and as a musician. I had recently discussed with her how, as an amateur, chance affects even my most intentional music-making, and not in a good way: I simply don't have the control over my digits that a professional does. I expressed my displeasure with this, but she suggested that I take a broader view, and reminded me of the stimulation that chance provides the prepared ear--and invited the Real Doctor and myself to a concert by the Miskatonic Pro Musica Nova, contrasting the hyper-defined pianola music of Conlon Nancarrow and chance-driven aleatory music of John Cage.
Nobody riots for something they don't care about, so it's not that surprising that there have been so many classical music riots. Classical music, serious music, whatever you may call it, is deeply cared about. The music is the fruit of much effort and intention, and is meant to be treated as such. Audiences know this, and don't want to be insulted by shoddiness. On the other hand, when you are dealing with aleatory music of John Cage, it is hard to define what exactly is shoddiness and what is chance. Cage wrote music guided by the chance and the i ching, and at the same time regarded these works as completely determinate.
At any rate, the concert opened with a set of pieces by Conlon Nancarrow. The stage was empty of performers, save for a music student who started and stopped a player piano. Hard to get less chancy than that.
Fittingly, the second half of the concert started with the famous 4' 33" by John Cage, allowing us a space to open our ears. Next on the program was Cage's Imaginary Landscape No. 4 from 1951*. The piano for 4' 33" was rolled off the stage, and a long table, 24 chairs, and extension cords were positioned at center stage. Having surrendered to chance for the proceeding piece, I was preparing to enjoy what the universe served up next, as, per Cage's instructions, the student performers would adjust the volume and tuning knobs of radios according to the dictates of the conductor, the score and the i ching.
The student members of the Miskatonic Pro Musica Nova marched on stage in pairs, holding their radios. They were initially greeted with polite applause (and over-enthusiastic applause from one helicopter parent, embarrassing a blushing and cringing daughter), but there was also some murmuring and grumbling from one corner of the recital hall. This built into hissing, and when the conductor strode onstage, he was greeted by a snake-pit of hissing and loud catcalls.
Someone once commented that the disputes in academe are so bitter because the stakes are so small. So it may have been here--the Miskatonic music department is not large, and half of the music majors were on stage, nervously plugging in their radios as the front rows of the audience seethed with rage. A group of the younger professors were yelling abuse at the conductor, accusing him of trampling over the intentions of Cage and dishonoring his spirit. Clapping loudly and whistling and pounding on the stage, making as much noise as they could, they and their graduate students--who comprised the core of the Miskatonic Pro Musica Antiqua--were doing their best to stop the concert from going forward. The rest of the faculty present (several of whom had heard John Cage and his students performing) were yelling at the others to sit down and shut up.
I couldn't really understand what the ruckus was about. The words that boiled to the surface of the shouting were a jumble: vacuum tubes, WFAN, transistors, living score, authenticity, Philco, kilohertz, Rush Limbaugh, and so on. The Musica Antiqua crowd, led by a young visiting professor from Holland, seemed agitated by the very radios that were being used, while the Musica Nova crowd waved their scores with Cage's instructions at them. Dr. Poisson, having had her share of brushes with the original-instruments crowd, watched the proceedings with a wry smile; the Real Doctor, who had visibly suffered during the Nancarrow and who does not care for Cage, seemed pleased that the concert had ground to a halt. The students of the Miskatonic Pro Musica Nova squirmed uncomfortably in the chairs, radios at the ready. The parents who had come to see their children perform screamed at all of the rioters to let things go on. An elderly professor of viola whacked a theorbo specialist with a bundle of i ching sticks. A young harpsichordist yelled loudly that the sound of John Cage must be protected at all costs, leapt onstage from the audience, ran into the wings and unplugged the radios. Moments later, all the lights in the hall went out, and more screaming ensued.
The riot, such as it was, lasted five or ten minutes, and the lights were back on in short order. The rioters agreed to let the concert continue, provided that they were permitted to read a statement from the stage. Hastily written by agitated musicologists, committed to the ideals of musical authenticity, the statement insisted that the following piece was not by John Cage, but only derived from his ideas; that to hear the music of John Cage properly, radios using vacuum tubes playing 1950's pop music would need to be employed, and that nothing less would do. Having finished reading this statement, the theorboist left the stage, exchanging the hairiest eyeball I've ever seen with the conductor, who gave as good as he got. It was a satisfying riot, and also, a satisfying performance. Was it music by John Cage? I'll defer to Dr. Poisson, who opined, "whatever."
So I passed some time today by playing some of the most inauthentic music possible: an organ chorale prelude by Bach, transcribed for piano by Walter Rummel. I wasn't even playing it on Rummel's preferred Hamburg Steinway, but instead on an even more inauthentic Japanese Kawai spinet. So much for authenticity; what of chance? As I noted to Dr. Poisson, I am an amateur, and don't have the control of my hands that I'd like. The i ching is unnecessary to introduce random inputs from the universe into my playing; instead, a slight hesitation before the final phrase of the chorale was caused by a slight memory lapse. The effect was esthetically pleasing, leading to a nice sense of conclusion.
*From the John Cage Website: For this work, 2 performers are stationed at each radio, one dialing the radio-stations, the other controlling amplitude and timbre. Durations are written in conventional notation, relating to notes placed on a 5-line staff. The rhythmic structure of the work is 2-1-3, and is expressed in changing tempi. Cage uses proportional notation where 1/2” equals a quarter note. However, the notation is not entirely proportional, since accelerandos and ritardandos are still present in the score. The score provides indications for tuning (controlled by player 1), as well as for volume and tone color (controlled by the player 2). When listening to this work, one can’t predict what will be heard, which is exactly what Cage had in mind. In addition, the composition also functioned as a kind of exercise in abandoning preferences (Cage wasn't very fond of radios). As he put it in For the Birds: "I had a goal, that of erasing all will and the very idea of success." His method of composing here is basically the same as used in Music of Changes. Cage employed the I Ching to create charts, which were used to refer to superimpositions, tempi, durations, sounds, and dynamics. In these sound charts, 32 out of 64 fields are silences. In the charts for dynamics, only 16 produce changes, while the others maintain the previous situation. Similar charts were produced and employed for the other parameters. Cage gives an extensive description of his composing means for this work in his “To Describe the Process of Composition Used in Music of Changes and Imaginary Landscape No. 4” (Silence, pp. 57-60).
Friday, July 31, 2015
Use and misuse
National conventions are terrific ways to spread diseases. People jetting in from all over, immune systems weakened by the stress of travel, confined in small rooms, mixing and mingling in shared facilities, then jetting back to wherever. It would be hard to design a better system to distribute pathogens.
Goats have their own conventions, and the same rules obtain. Mostly, goat shows are small affairs, a couple of hundred goats from a dozen counties, and the risks are slight. However, the Real Doctor recently took five of our animals to the national show of the American Dairy Goat Association. The goats spent four hours in a truck, then five days in six-by-four pens in a barn with hundreds of other goats, then another four hours to get back home. While at the show, they were in the competition, which meant walking around in an arena used by zillions of other goats from all over the U.S.A.
Our beasties did better than we had expected--nobody won their classes, but they all made the first cut and finished between 15th and 10th in their classes, and got some nice notices. So nobody got ribbons, but they did (despite a lot of effort and sanitizing) get some ickies.
By the last day, Opera had developed a fever and was looking pretty listless. Some banamine (works in goats like acetomeniphen in us) perked her up, and a course of ceftiofur (a cephalosporin antibiotic) has left her right as rain. Helen had a slightly elevated temperature too, which was also treated. But, in the two weeks since the show, a cough has spread through our kids, one at a time, and it may be correlated with a couple of the young kids getting the poops. Right now, Helen is back on ceftiofur after developing another fever, and Cavatina is finally coming off of a fever that spiked at 107.4 and has had her miserable for four days. So, hurrah! for ceftiofur and banamine and their judicious use.
So far, ceftiofur works. It works against Gram-positives and -negatives, and penecillin-resistant bugs. But for how much longer? Every dose of antibiotic, especially if I am not careful with it, is an additional bit of selection pressure that will favor the spread of antibiotic resistance genes in the environment. (Genes, not bacteria. First, genes are much easier to detect, since they don't need to be cultured. Second, the bacterial predisposition to promiscuous lateral gene transfer means that once a gene is out there, it will get around.)
So I read in Science a charming article about the hog farming and spread of antibiotic resistance genes in waterways in China. Antibiotics are a wonderful tool for rescuing sick animals, but it wasn't long after they were introduced that somebody noticed that you can just give your young animals lots of antibiotics all the time and they will grow faster. Never mind that they will excrete most of the antibiotic in their urine, and it will go out into the environment and give that selective nudge to the genes that will make antibiotics useless, profit is to be had!
Needless to say, hog farming in China is epic in its scale. So is the abuse of antibiotics. About half of the antibiotics produced in China are used to fatten up the little piggies. How much is that? About 100,000 tons.
Since I am human, I have a hard time visualizing numbers over 100 or 1000. So, a ton of water is a cubic meter. We'll assume that the density of dry antibiotic is the same as water, which is true to an order of magnitude. So, I am picturing a mound of antibiotic, as long and as wide as a football field, and as tall as the tips of the field goal posts. Or maybe a cube, half a football field on each side. Now that is some selection pressure.
(Question for those interested--how big a mound of antibiotics is used in American meat production? Answer here, if you highlight it: Ten thousand tons. Picture a cube about twenty meters on a side. Still some selection pressure.)
Sometimes, I feel like scientists giving humanity antibiotics was like giving a hormone-raddled teenager the keys to a Ferrari. Are we really mature enough to not wreck ourselves?
Goats have their own conventions, and the same rules obtain. Mostly, goat shows are small affairs, a couple of hundred goats from a dozen counties, and the risks are slight. However, the Real Doctor recently took five of our animals to the national show of the American Dairy Goat Association. The goats spent four hours in a truck, then five days in six-by-four pens in a barn with hundreds of other goats, then another four hours to get back home. While at the show, they were in the competition, which meant walking around in an arena used by zillions of other goats from all over the U.S.A.
Our beasties did better than we had expected--nobody won their classes, but they all made the first cut and finished between 15th and 10th in their classes, and got some nice notices. So nobody got ribbons, but they did (despite a lot of effort and sanitizing) get some ickies.
By the last day, Opera had developed a fever and was looking pretty listless. Some banamine (works in goats like acetomeniphen in us) perked her up, and a course of ceftiofur (a cephalosporin antibiotic) has left her right as rain. Helen had a slightly elevated temperature too, which was also treated. But, in the two weeks since the show, a cough has spread through our kids, one at a time, and it may be correlated with a couple of the young kids getting the poops. Right now, Helen is back on ceftiofur after developing another fever, and Cavatina is finally coming off of a fever that spiked at 107.4 and has had her miserable for four days. So, hurrah! for ceftiofur and banamine and their judicious use.
So far, ceftiofur works. It works against Gram-positives and -negatives, and penecillin-resistant bugs. But for how much longer? Every dose of antibiotic, especially if I am not careful with it, is an additional bit of selection pressure that will favor the spread of antibiotic resistance genes in the environment. (Genes, not bacteria. First, genes are much easier to detect, since they don't need to be cultured. Second, the bacterial predisposition to promiscuous lateral gene transfer means that once a gene is out there, it will get around.)
So I read in Science a charming article about the hog farming and spread of antibiotic resistance genes in waterways in China. Antibiotics are a wonderful tool for rescuing sick animals, but it wasn't long after they were introduced that somebody noticed that you can just give your young animals lots of antibiotics all the time and they will grow faster. Never mind that they will excrete most of the antibiotic in their urine, and it will go out into the environment and give that selective nudge to the genes that will make antibiotics useless, profit is to be had!
Needless to say, hog farming in China is epic in its scale. So is the abuse of antibiotics. About half of the antibiotics produced in China are used to fatten up the little piggies. How much is that? About 100,000 tons.
Since I am human, I have a hard time visualizing numbers over 100 or 1000. So, a ton of water is a cubic meter. We'll assume that the density of dry antibiotic is the same as water, which is true to an order of magnitude. So, I am picturing a mound of antibiotic, as long and as wide as a football field, and as tall as the tips of the field goal posts. Or maybe a cube, half a football field on each side. Now that is some selection pressure.
(Question for those interested--how big a mound of antibiotics is used in American meat production? Answer here, if you highlight it: Ten thousand tons. Picture a cube about twenty meters on a side. Still some selection pressure.)
Sometimes, I feel like scientists giving humanity antibiotics was like giving a hormone-raddled teenager the keys to a Ferrari. Are we really mature enough to not wreck ourselves?
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, July 15, 2015
Wednesday Wordage, a pleasing acronym
I am WEIRD, I found out in an article about gut microbiota. You who are reading this are also, most likely, WEIRD.
WEIRD, of course, stands for Western, Educated, Industrialized, Rich, and Democratic, and describes the culture in which most all of us here are immersed. And appropriately, for discussions of anything having to do with human society or ecology, WEIRD people are weird, compared with the totality of humans in the world and in history. So, a good acronym: catchy and meaningful.
WEIRD, of course, stands for Western, Educated, Industrialized, Rich, and Democratic, and describes the culture in which most all of us here are immersed. And appropriately, for discussions of anything having to do with human society or ecology, WEIRD people are weird, compared with the totality of humans in the world and in history. So, a good acronym: catchy and meaningful.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)