My Dearest Grandchildren,
It is Christmas once again and I wonder what you must be thinking. Three of you are certainly cognizant of the world around you and the little one will learn in due time, maybe by your example.
So, do you think that it’s all about the birth of a baby 100s of years ago? I know you have been taught about Jesus, but I am wondering if you know why His birthday is so special.
For sure a lot of people don’t seem to care much, or if they do, it is secondary, right? First, comes buying the presents. And even though it is Jesus’ birthday, the presents are not for Him. Oddly, the presents are to everyone else. That must be more than a little confusing.
OK, so if we treated it like any other birthday, what kind of presents would you bring to the party for the birthday boy? I bet each of you would have some really great ideas. He would be no different from you on your birthday, hoping to receive gifts on His list.
I can hear you now, “But, Memaw, we don’t know what He likes.”
It would be helpful, first off, to picture Him, not as a baby that never gets any older, at least not until Easter. He has thoughts and feelings, friends and family, and wishes for things just like you and even old Memaw.
He probably would like to spend time with His friends and family, have a tasty and filling meal, get some toys to play with and later some tools to help Him do His work.
I imagine He would want to be warm if it is cold and cool if it is hot, not have to sleep outside in bad weather, medicine if He were sick and the joy of living in a world where justice prevails and violence has lost its grip.
Again, I see the puzzled looks upon your faces, “How do we give Him that stuff; He isn’t really here? If I get presents, isn’t that the same?”
Not exactly, we must remember that it is still His birthday and the presents need to fulfill His wish list.
Perhaps, you are thinking that He was a carpenter, and maybe He would like a new battery-operated drill. You are on the right track, but maybe what He would like even more is for you to help your sister build that fort in the back yard or offer to lend a hand to fix your neighbor’s leaky roof.
Do not worry about the cost; you possess far more wealth than you can imagine.
So, put on your thinking caps and figure out the kinds of presents that will bring warmth, love, health, productivity, laughter and most importantly, peace.
These are the gifts He has requested and we can give them in His name to our own friends and family and maybe even a few to those we haven’t met yet.
Merry Christmas, to you all!
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Happy Thanksgiving to all!
I have come to realize that Thanksgiving is nothing more than another day, the last Thursday in November, to be exact. Through the 400 plus years of American history, the date has floated, at times never recognized and even the official Federal designation has varied.
Combine that with the inconsistent history of the origins of Thanksgiving and one is simply left with an arbitrarily selected day in the month of November. It could just as well be the third Tuesday in October or the 1st Wednesday in December. It does need, however, to be celebrated in late fall as it is accurately tied to the seasonal harvest time.
My point is this; don’t worry about the “day.” If you cannot be with family and friends on the last Thursday of the month, then pick another day. It isn’t the calendar that counts!
The holiday is all about generous hearts and grateful souls. None of us live at #1 Paradise Place at least not permanently. Along with life’s good fortunes inevitably arrive those times of struggle. It is during these times that a spirit of thanksgiving, regardless of the day, is vital to the human heart.
Tuesday, Nov. 24th, about 1pm could have easily been mistaken for Thanksgiving Day. Hundreds of pies had been baked or bought and were then being delivered to a vacant shop on Main St. for distribution later in the afternoon.
Saturday, Nov. 21, was yet another Thanksgiving Day as turkeys and side dishes were distributed from the Food Closet at a local church.
Thanksgiving is happening all around us on a variety of days and in no particular place.
From a pragmatic point of view, the purchasing effort that provided the massive quantities of food was an incredible stimulus to the local economy. But that was an unintentional bonus; more importantly, it was a resolute statement by the community that “I am my brother’s keeper.”
Hurray, for my town, for its citizens, its children, its quiet- behind- the-scenes leaders.
The efforts were not driven by commercial or governmental entities, rather by individuals, neighbors, friends and families, not seeking good PR or an ounce of recognition.
It is simply an exemplary lesson in the concept that our lives are inextricably intertwined. The idea is well illustrated in the writings of John Donne, 1572-1631.
No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each 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 manner of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.
Some years are certainly better than others, but if one is quiet and receptive, one can always find something to be thankful for.
Until next week, be very well.
I have come to realize that Thanksgiving is nothing more than another day, the last Thursday in November, to be exact. Through the 400 plus years of American history, the date has floated, at times never recognized and even the official Federal designation has varied.
Combine that with the inconsistent history of the origins of Thanksgiving and one is simply left with an arbitrarily selected day in the month of November. It could just as well be the third Tuesday in October or the 1st Wednesday in December. It does need, however, to be celebrated in late fall as it is accurately tied to the seasonal harvest time.
My point is this; don’t worry about the “day.” If you cannot be with family and friends on the last Thursday of the month, then pick another day. It isn’t the calendar that counts!
The holiday is all about generous hearts and grateful souls. None of us live at #1 Paradise Place at least not permanently. Along with life’s good fortunes inevitably arrive those times of struggle. It is during these times that a spirit of thanksgiving, regardless of the day, is vital to the human heart.
Tuesday, Nov. 24th, about 1pm could have easily been mistaken for Thanksgiving Day. Hundreds of pies had been baked or bought and were then being delivered to a vacant shop on Main St. for distribution later in the afternoon.
Saturday, Nov. 21, was yet another Thanksgiving Day as turkeys and side dishes were distributed from the Food Closet at a local church.
Thanksgiving is happening all around us on a variety of days and in no particular place.
From a pragmatic point of view, the purchasing effort that provided the massive quantities of food was an incredible stimulus to the local economy. But that was an unintentional bonus; more importantly, it was a resolute statement by the community that “I am my brother’s keeper.”
Hurray, for my town, for its citizens, its children, its quiet- behind- the-scenes leaders.
The efforts were not driven by commercial or governmental entities, rather by individuals, neighbors, friends and families, not seeking good PR or an ounce of recognition.
It is simply an exemplary lesson in the concept that our lives are inextricably intertwined. The idea is well illustrated in the writings of John Donne, 1572-1631.
No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each 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 manner of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.
Some years are certainly better than others, but if one is quiet and receptive, one can always find something to be thankful for.
Until next week, be very well.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Alice Irene
It's been a while and I apologize. I have let life get the best of me, worrying over important but not the most important things and putting off the time to be quiet and absorb. Well, enough with the philosophical and on to a request or two. READ THE COMMENTS! My dream is that this blog becomes a place to share and in so doing, acts to uplift one's spirit through humor, debate, intrigue or inspiration. 2nd request is that YOU ADD a story, experience or even a thought of your own.
I met a very special 89ish African American woman this week while searching in the hinterlands for a couple of cemeteries and homeplace. Her name is Alice Irene and is a descendent of the family in question; she lives by herself. Her nephew had taken me to see her because one cemetery was located on her farm.
While standing on her front porch, I got the distinct impression that she was highly skeptical and even disapproving of my intentions. After informing me in a rather crotchety manner that her health was not good, she asked if she could go along as we searched for the older grave yard.
She seemed to ramble a lot as she carried on a non-stop monologue from the back seat, disagreeing with the nephew's suggestion of where we needed to go. Without speaking, he and I agreed to follow her directions. She was right on the money every step of the way!
We found the cemetery -with additional guidance from a helpful neighbor- and what we believe to be the chimney from the original house. The search covered a fair amount of ground and Alice Irene chose to ignore her health issues. Despite my admonitions about the uneven terrain, brambles and downed trees, she was not to be detained or dismissed. Standing in the midst of the cemetery damaged by a large fallen tree and covered with at least 8 inches of periwinkle, I was concerned as to how to get Alice I. out of the cemetery. She informed me that "she could do anything I could do," and with that we both crawled over the tree and headed back to the car.
Before we turned for home, she guided us to the remains of a church we needed to identify, confirmed the existence of graves there and pointed out the site of the school she attended in the 1930s. We will return to those sites on another day in hopes of finding the graves and perhaps some sign of the school.
Upon arriving back at her farm, she asked me twice if there were not some other place we could go? I sadly told her, "not today." My heartstrings were stretched to the max as I walked her to the door and waited while she rummaged in her purse for her keys.
I promised to return for another adventure and after a few moments of palpable hesitancy, she put her arms around me anointing me with God's blessing. It doesn't get much better than this.
Until next time, be well.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Resilience comes in all shapes.....
It was too early to get up but I was too restless to sleep, so I lay in bed pondering the challenges in my life. They seem huge: mounting bills, rapidly depleting resources, a deep, deep desire to live in this paradise I call "the farm" until I cross over, and sadly, no solutions on the horizon.
I employ the survival skills learned at the loss of my son only this time, there isn't the gut wrenching pain that caused me to run to the mirror to see if blood had seeped through where my heart lay. Despite the effort, I struggle with the age old conundrum, do I cut my losses and move on or batten down the hatches and hold tight?
For almost 60 years this place has been my home, my rock and a source of spiritual salvation, but I am a woman of resilience and adaptability. I could live somewhere else....I think.
Last week I traveled to the Library of Virginia for a few hours of research. Deciding to seek a bit of sustenance before being locked away in a-no-eat zone, I was enjoying my anonymity when my solitude was interrupted by a very quiet voice inquiring if she could share the table as there was no where else to sit. "Of course," I stated, pulling my boundaries into a tighter circle around my personal space. Together, we ate alone and in silence.
Finally, nosiness, cloaked in a thin veil of "Southern hospitality " got the best of me, and I inquired as to what brought her to the library. "To use the Internet," she said in an accent not of the United States, "but it is not working. There is another library not too far away; I will walk there and hope it is operating."
Mirial, a teacher in NYC from Uganda, possessed two Masters degrees and was well beyond the ABD status toward a PhD when an extraordinary series of events turned her life inside out.
The PhD dissertation was lost: the professor charged with evaluating it died while in flight in international airspace creating massive international entanglement.
Her father developed pneumonia while visiting from Uganda and died. His homeland culture demanded that his body be returned to Uganda for burial at an enormous expense.
She married, moved to Northern Virginia and found government employment. Her new husband cleaned out her bank accounts and left. She was laid off at work.
She now works at a nursing home where she is provided a room shared with others. She uses the Internet at the library to submit resumes for more gainful employment. Most applications are rejected due to a new policy: "if your credit is bad we do not want you."
Now tell me, who needs a job more desperately than someone who credit is in the toilet?
BTW, the courts found in her favor regarding the rogue husband and ordered that he repay allthe money he stole. She cannot afford an attorney and has not been able to find said varmint.
The woman does more than put one foot in front of the other. I was inspired and ashamed for my own self pity. As a token of my respect and gratitude for her example of resilience, I conducted a search and found her despicable ex. I will try harder to maintain my own sense of self esteem.
Until next time, be well.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Ethics and Moral Dilemmas
This is not a story, but a fantastic opportunity. Harvard is posting its very popular course on "Justice" on the web. You can also watch on your local PBS station. Me? I am going to try to catch every episode and utilize the discussion guides. Hope some of you can take advantage!
Go to www.justiceharvard.org.
Go to www.justiceharvard.org.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Attic clutter
From time to time a person just needs to pause and assess the content and volume of accumulated stuff. The alternative- potential suffocation by massive clutter- is not pretty.
The stalls that once housed horses at the barn have become a favorite resting place for any and everybody’s stuff. Doggone it; I believed them when they declared it was only temporary.
But, I have no one to blame but myself for the condition of the nooks and crannies in my own house, especially the walk-up attic. It seems over time a lot of things have walked up but never, ever back down.
Keeping your 30- year- old child’s first outfit and your brothers’ scrapbooks, artwork and rock collection for sentimentality is somewhat understandable. Hey, you never know when they might visit and expect to find such treasures. Then, there are the hundreds of books my father collected. The most precious now line the library bookshelves and the rest are boxed and loaded with varmint deterrent.
But what about the 50 year old bank records that belonged to my grandfather? They are on the top of the list for termination, just after the dress I made in 1965. It has been a constant reminder that I should never attempt to sew anything!
Most humans have a place like this: an attic, a garage, or a spare bedroom. But an attic is the best. Unlike the garage, people don’t go to or even pass by the attic on a regular basis. Things get put in the attic and forgotten. Add to this recipe for mayhem a house that is very old, has been home to generations of the same family; the result is a combination of treasure trove and colossal mess.
Our attic isn’t finished but it does have a floor and a couple of windows that do not open. It lies under a gable roof and the sloping sides are not inviting to folks over about four and a half feet.
It boasts no heat or cooling system and in the summer it is unbearably hot and full of flies joined by a few wasps. Noises emanating from the attic during the winter months would indicate the residence of a few other creatures, be they squirrels or some less desirable inhabitant.
Lest you decide our attic has been little more than a familial effort at waste management, let me assure you the description above does not constitute the sum total of my memories.
Puppet shows, train sets, dolls, card games, chests full of dress-up clothes and a life-time supply of National Geographic magazines provided endless hours of entertainment and adventure for a family of five children.
A few times the attic even served as sleeping quarters when house overflowed with extra company. It was always the boys that got to sleep in the attic; I could never understand why they got to do all the fun stuff.
Forget play space now, there just isn’t any room. Good grief, even the broken items that could not be repaired went back to the attic!
Often I have entertained the idea that I have simply lost my mind. Why else would I keep a cheap broken telescope. I struggle with a plausible explanation. Maybe there is some kind of bizarre security in the knowledge that these disabled objects of my past still exist. It is really hard to let go and move on.
But then again, if my mother had owned that blender so neatly boxed and well beyond repair, she would have tossed it long ago and saved her pennies for a functional one.
It is monster-under-the-bed scary to rid our space of trappings that no longer function, but imagine the room soon to be available for new ideas and new stuff.
Until next time, be well.
The stalls that once housed horses at the barn have become a favorite resting place for any and everybody’s stuff. Doggone it; I believed them when they declared it was only temporary.
But, I have no one to blame but myself for the condition of the nooks and crannies in my own house, especially the walk-up attic. It seems over time a lot of things have walked up but never, ever back down.
Keeping your 30- year- old child’s first outfit and your brothers’ scrapbooks, artwork and rock collection for sentimentality is somewhat understandable. Hey, you never know when they might visit and expect to find such treasures. Then, there are the hundreds of books my father collected. The most precious now line the library bookshelves and the rest are boxed and loaded with varmint deterrent.
But what about the 50 year old bank records that belonged to my grandfather? They are on the top of the list for termination, just after the dress I made in 1965. It has been a constant reminder that I should never attempt to sew anything!
Most humans have a place like this: an attic, a garage, or a spare bedroom. But an attic is the best. Unlike the garage, people don’t go to or even pass by the attic on a regular basis. Things get put in the attic and forgotten. Add to this recipe for mayhem a house that is very old, has been home to generations of the same family; the result is a combination of treasure trove and colossal mess.
Our attic isn’t finished but it does have a floor and a couple of windows that do not open. It lies under a gable roof and the sloping sides are not inviting to folks over about four and a half feet.
It boasts no heat or cooling system and in the summer it is unbearably hot and full of flies joined by a few wasps. Noises emanating from the attic during the winter months would indicate the residence of a few other creatures, be they squirrels or some less desirable inhabitant.
Lest you decide our attic has been little more than a familial effort at waste management, let me assure you the description above does not constitute the sum total of my memories.
Puppet shows, train sets, dolls, card games, chests full of dress-up clothes and a life-time supply of National Geographic magazines provided endless hours of entertainment and adventure for a family of five children.
A few times the attic even served as sleeping quarters when house overflowed with extra company. It was always the boys that got to sleep in the attic; I could never understand why they got to do all the fun stuff.
Forget play space now, there just isn’t any room. Good grief, even the broken items that could not be repaired went back to the attic!
Often I have entertained the idea that I have simply lost my mind. Why else would I keep a cheap broken telescope. I struggle with a plausible explanation. Maybe there is some kind of bizarre security in the knowledge that these disabled objects of my past still exist. It is really hard to let go and move on.
But then again, if my mother had owned that blender so neatly boxed and well beyond repair, she would have tossed it long ago and saved her pennies for a functional one.
It is monster-under-the-bed scary to rid our space of trappings that no longer function, but imagine the room soon to be available for new ideas and new stuff.
Until next time, be well.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The Top of the Mountain
As humans, we just cannot sustain a constant Mad Hatter style dashing about and the eternal engagement in nothing less than the pithiest issues. Every now and again, a reprieve is necessary to the maintenance of at least a semblance of sanity. And so, I pause, reminisce, relive and report on those moments in my day-to-day life be they current or simply the fondest of memories.
In the childhood life of a Nelson living on the Reva farm, there was little opportunity for boredom or for that matter, trouble, at least not any serious trouble. The occasional misbehavior, resulting in no TV, no dessert or being grounded, will have to be a story for another day.
I am often drawn to thoughts of summers spent with my siblings at the farm under the rule of a father who adamantly believed in child labor. The truth is he believed that everyone should labor and children were no exception.
Knowing full well that no one else in their right mind would employ us before the age of 12 or 13, he designed a work plan that would include even the youngest at the tender age of six. There was always a job, and we were compensated financially for our endeavors.
Hard at it by 6:30am, we would work until about noon. I think he began to feel sorry for us when it got really hot and would change the schedule of activities after lunch. The mornings were spent in fruitful tasks that varied with the season. Often we walked behind a wagon clearing the fields of loose rocks or spent the hours chopping thistles and “skunk” cabbage, burning creek banks, repairing fences or worming the sheep.
During hay making season my size limited my ability to contribute; I was assigned the job of driving the tractor while the bigger children picked up the bales. No matter how hard I tried, I invariably threw someone off the wagon with my consistent clutch popping. Dad would get pretty upset, but the boys would just laugh.
Weekends brought a welcome afternoon of free time much of it being spent in the woods on the top of Bruce’s Mtn., building forts, flying off into space in the most fantastic rocket ship or saving the world from all the bad guys with our six shooters.
Today the rocket ship has disappeared, but a few newly fallen trees have become the latest fantasy. Oh, but for the presence of children with limitless imaginations.
The mountain top remains a source of simple, exciting, unsupervised and boundless fun. Stay tuned for more reports from the top of the mountain.
Until next time, be well.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Scout confronts a monster!
The weather forecast was for late night storms followed by a full day of rain and there was mowing to be done. If I waited for the rain, the pasture would require at least a couple of days to dry and the lawn would demand more time than I could afford to rake the clippings. It was a narrow window, but if I used the farm tractor for the large open areas, then hit the tight areas with the lawn mower, I could accomplish the task before nightfall. It was a good plan, and I take immense pleasure in riding the tractor at dusk.
It was about 7:15 PM: I had just left the pasture and was headed for the expanse of lawn toward the back field when Scout, the now-13- month- old Jack Russell darted by with something large in her mouth. Scout lost her brother, Doolittle, last fall to an uncontrollable desire to chase vehicles. Since then, she has relied heavily on the companionship of Buddy, the golden-haired sage of all that is grand and glorious regarding farm life.
Buddy, despite his bowed legs and a protruding lower jaw, is the quintessential hunter, but Scout, not so much. He allows her to observe, and I have witnessed her practicing with some success on butterflies, moths and lesser flying objects. It was not a total surprise to discover that the large object proudly held between her teeth was a bird, of the Woodcock variety.
Thinking first that it was originally Buddy’s catch, as he has allowed some sharing of the victims but only after they are in a thoroughly disgusting condition, but Buddy was uninterested. Buddy really isn’t agile enough to capture butterflies and birds. No, this had to be Scout’s first supreme success story.
Scout is fond of burying her treasures – little dog treats tucked into hidey holes throughout the house- the bird quickly disappeared. I bemoaned the death of the creature, but found balance in the flow of nature. It was now backed to the task at hand.
About 45 minutes later and while proceeding to make the switch to the lawn mower, my attention was diverted again by some really weird noises, sort of a mixture of growling and barking. Following the direction of the sounds, I found Buddy lying innocently under the day lilies and not the source of my concern.
Louder and more pronounced the racket emanated from a corner of the yard thickly covered with English Ivy. The tent –like VanHoutte Spirea and Forsythia bushes rising seven feet above the ground cover kept the activities hidden from view. The commotion was becoming more agitated, and I was becoming extremely nervous.
Timidly pulling back the branches of the bush, I discovered Scout in hot pursuit of some unfortunate critter. Movement in the undergrowth was clear, but the object of her attention was not visible. A multitude of undesirables could have been residing in the thick ivy; had she gotten in over head and was literally attempting to bite off more than she could chew?
My little Scout, the innocent puppy, had found a new identity: fierce, determined, brave and the ever savvy hunter. The tension was mounting and she would not be called off; it was paramount that I figure out what was being victimized before she was injured.
Final resolution:
I sequestered Scout in the house to insure the successful escape of the baby box turtle.
Until next time, be well. (see pic below)
It was about 7:15 PM: I had just left the pasture and was headed for the expanse of lawn toward the back field when Scout, the now-13- month- old Jack Russell darted by with something large in her mouth. Scout lost her brother, Doolittle, last fall to an uncontrollable desire to chase vehicles. Since then, she has relied heavily on the companionship of Buddy, the golden-haired sage of all that is grand and glorious regarding farm life.
Buddy, despite his bowed legs and a protruding lower jaw, is the quintessential hunter, but Scout, not so much. He allows her to observe, and I have witnessed her practicing with some success on butterflies, moths and lesser flying objects. It was not a total surprise to discover that the large object proudly held between her teeth was a bird, of the Woodcock variety.
Thinking first that it was originally Buddy’s catch, as he has allowed some sharing of the victims but only after they are in a thoroughly disgusting condition, but Buddy was uninterested. Buddy really isn’t agile enough to capture butterflies and birds. No, this had to be Scout’s first supreme success story.
Scout is fond of burying her treasures – little dog treats tucked into hidey holes throughout the house- the bird quickly disappeared. I bemoaned the death of the creature, but found balance in the flow of nature. It was now backed to the task at hand.
About 45 minutes later and while proceeding to make the switch to the lawn mower, my attention was diverted again by some really weird noises, sort of a mixture of growling and barking. Following the direction of the sounds, I found Buddy lying innocently under the day lilies and not the source of my concern.
Louder and more pronounced the racket emanated from a corner of the yard thickly covered with English Ivy. The tent –like VanHoutte Spirea and Forsythia bushes rising seven feet above the ground cover kept the activities hidden from view. The commotion was becoming more agitated, and I was becoming extremely nervous.
Timidly pulling back the branches of the bush, I discovered Scout in hot pursuit of some unfortunate critter. Movement in the undergrowth was clear, but the object of her attention was not visible. A multitude of undesirables could have been residing in the thick ivy; had she gotten in over head and was literally attempting to bite off more than she could chew?
My little Scout, the innocent puppy, had found a new identity: fierce, determined, brave and the ever savvy hunter. The tension was mounting and she would not be called off; it was paramount that I figure out what was being victimized before she was injured.
Final resolution:
I sequestered Scout in the house to insure the successful escape of the baby box turtle.
Until next time, be well. (see pic below)
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Some things you just cannot fight
On the farm there are just some things you cannot fight. Some might describe it as a lesson in the natural order of things, a lesson in humility, or simply a reminder that as humans we are unable to control absolutely everything. I like it; it creates a mandate for flexibility and the proverbial backup plan or plans as the plural is more often the case.
Fortunately, I headed out early this morning and was able to complete a large amount of the field-mowing tasks before the right front tire went flat, again. It is the same tire as last week and just as flat- that would be not a little, but like a pancake.
I jacked up the tractor, with the front end loader- a cool trick I learned only a couple of years ago, oh, well better late than never. Once the lugs were off and the tire a free agent with considerable effort the tire was hoisted into the back of the car and rushed to the tractor-tire-fixit-place. Sad for me, the specialist in tractor tires was away on a road call; I would have to leave the tire and move on to another project.
I ran by the hardware store to pick up some supplies needed to provide band aid surgery for the lawn mower and a repair venture on a friend’s chair. It was looking like rain and both those endeavors could be done under roof.
The lawn mower is an interesting problem involving a short pin that stabilizes the driver’s seat. The pin fell out and I wasn’t too worried. After all, it wasn’t part of the engine or the mower deck. Then it started backfiring and cutting off. At first I thought I was out of gas and then I figured it out. Now that the seat could not be stabilized, pressure could not be maintained on the gizmo that sends a signal to the engine to keep running. I have mowed the entire yard and it’s a big one, sitting in just the right position, slightly forward and definitely starboard. Yesterday was most embarrassing as there were painters here and I know they thought I was an absolute idiot for operating the mower with such a sick sounding engine.
I did seek professional help and was informed that I could not replace the pin, but would have to replace the entire seat frame instead. I did not even ask “how much;” I simply said thank you and left. The service man was a fellow after my own heart and suggested that I drill out the hole and fix it with a bolt. I have the bolt and picked up the proper drill bit. I hopefully will be back in the mowing business by evening.
Anyway, the painters were back today to power wash the roof. They are great guys, after they fixed the leak in the hose and figured out that the tip needed to run the additive through the hose was nonexistent, it began to rain. In hopes that the storm wouldn’t last too long, they sit enjoying the afternoon on the side porch.
As for me, I am onto plan G. Until next week, be well.
Fortunately, I headed out early this morning and was able to complete a large amount of the field-mowing tasks before the right front tire went flat, again. It is the same tire as last week and just as flat- that would be not a little, but like a pancake.
I jacked up the tractor, with the front end loader- a cool trick I learned only a couple of years ago, oh, well better late than never. Once the lugs were off and the tire a free agent with considerable effort the tire was hoisted into the back of the car and rushed to the tractor-tire-fixit-place. Sad for me, the specialist in tractor tires was away on a road call; I would have to leave the tire and move on to another project.
I ran by the hardware store to pick up some supplies needed to provide band aid surgery for the lawn mower and a repair venture on a friend’s chair. It was looking like rain and both those endeavors could be done under roof.
The lawn mower is an interesting problem involving a short pin that stabilizes the driver’s seat. The pin fell out and I wasn’t too worried. After all, it wasn’t part of the engine or the mower deck. Then it started backfiring and cutting off. At first I thought I was out of gas and then I figured it out. Now that the seat could not be stabilized, pressure could not be maintained on the gizmo that sends a signal to the engine to keep running. I have mowed the entire yard and it’s a big one, sitting in just the right position, slightly forward and definitely starboard. Yesterday was most embarrassing as there were painters here and I know they thought I was an absolute idiot for operating the mower with such a sick sounding engine.
I did seek professional help and was informed that I could not replace the pin, but would have to replace the entire seat frame instead. I did not even ask “how much;” I simply said thank you and left. The service man was a fellow after my own heart and suggested that I drill out the hole and fix it with a bolt. I have the bolt and picked up the proper drill bit. I hopefully will be back in the mowing business by evening.
Anyway, the painters were back today to power wash the roof. They are great guys, after they fixed the leak in the hose and figured out that the tip needed to run the additive through the hose was nonexistent, it began to rain. In hopes that the storm wouldn’t last too long, they sit enjoying the afternoon on the side porch.
As for me, I am onto plan G. Until next week, be well.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Confessions of a Tractorholic
The affair started at the tender age of six has seen no cessation. Everyone had to have a job when it came to haymaking and I was assigned to the tractor. It may seem a bit strange to those unfamiliar with the process of making hay before the invention of the bale thrower. We had two choices: we could borrow a baler, but the bales had to get from the ground to the wagon; a fact that required several sets of very strong arms. Without the baler, the hay was put up loose and no, we did not rick the hay into teepee looking stacks that would remain in the field. The loose hay would be loaded from the field to the wagon with pitchforks. Not big enough or strong enough, I was out of luck again. If it weren’t for the tractor, I would have felt entirely left out. The farm tractor has been my faithful companion ever since.
I am no expert and if the truth be known, am pretty hard on the equipment. I would be lost without good neighbors and excellent mechanics.
Getting really close to the creeks is a particularly nasty habit of mine. At least once a year, I overestimate the solid ground. I’ve learned how to get myself out of some bogs, but when she is in the creek for a good soak, I thank my lucky stars for good neighbors with bigger tractors.
I used to think of myself as a trail blazer, plowing through dense thickets and clearing undesirable vegetation. My trailblazing days ended after I punctured one of the big tires and had to buy a new one to the tune of $400.
To those of you obsessed in a similar manner, you know that a tractor is naked without accessories. I had the rotary mower, the sickle bar mower, the scraper blade and a single bottom plow, but I lusted after a front end loader. Oh, the things I could do with a bucket on the front of my tractor.
With great purpose, I set out for several hours of work with my new- seven years ago now- blue tractor complete with mower on the back and bucket up front. I push down trash trees and annihilate underbrush.
The weather canopy over my head has been caught on one too many trees to be useful, I haven’t had to replace a tire in years, Cletus, the master mechanic at the new Holland/Ford dealer keeps me operable and the farm is looking great.
There is absolutely nothing more cathartic than to ride the tractor at dusk across the rolling fields. As the pasture is freshened by the mowing of the grass, the swallows dart to and fro in the path behind me feasting on the newly exposed insects and I ponder the simplicity of life while watching the sun sink behind the magnificent Blue Ridge.
I am no expert and if the truth be known, am pretty hard on the equipment. I would be lost without good neighbors and excellent mechanics.
Getting really close to the creeks is a particularly nasty habit of mine. At least once a year, I overestimate the solid ground. I’ve learned how to get myself out of some bogs, but when she is in the creek for a good soak, I thank my lucky stars for good neighbors with bigger tractors.
I used to think of myself as a trail blazer, plowing through dense thickets and clearing undesirable vegetation. My trailblazing days ended after I punctured one of the big tires and had to buy a new one to the tune of $400.
To those of you obsessed in a similar manner, you know that a tractor is naked without accessories. I had the rotary mower, the sickle bar mower, the scraper blade and a single bottom plow, but I lusted after a front end loader. Oh, the things I could do with a bucket on the front of my tractor.
With great purpose, I set out for several hours of work with my new- seven years ago now- blue tractor complete with mower on the back and bucket up front. I push down trash trees and annihilate underbrush.
The weather canopy over my head has been caught on one too many trees to be useful, I haven’t had to replace a tire in years, Cletus, the master mechanic at the new Holland/Ford dealer keeps me operable and the farm is looking great.
There is absolutely nothing more cathartic than to ride the tractor at dusk across the rolling fields. As the pasture is freshened by the mowing of the grass, the swallows dart to and fro in the path behind me feasting on the newly exposed insects and I ponder the simplicity of life while watching the sun sink behind the magnificent Blue Ridge.
Monday, August 10, 2009
The Farm Lane
The farm lane that lies between me and the rest of the world is not all that long but chocked full of adventures, surprises, heartache and promise. It is a thread, the connector. When I am away it is my life line to sanity and security, it is my enabler, my life force.
When I am home it is the conduit to everything that the farm cannot provide and frankly that isn’t much. However, it became the channel to advanced education, supplementary employment, and social networking.
Not gated with moats and alligators, there are many who have traveled down the lane, some invited and some not. Some would leave an indelible mark, some would come and go and never be remembered, others would never leave.
The farm has always been a destination and arrival tantalizing. The simple ride down the lane from the turning off the main road to the capping of the three knolls-first you see it then you don’t, then you do again- is awesome, thrilling and spectacular. It never fails to evoke an aura of paradise, wonder, and expanse. “Oh, my where have I landed?”
I have no memory of the very first time I came down that lane, but I must have been beyond myself with excitement. In 1951, the family had purchased the farm consisting of an estimated 152 acres with an old farm house and numerous decrepit-looking barns –all of these situated almost precisely in the middle of the land.
Work kept Jack-my Dad-at our home in Florida, but my Mom, Betty, my three brothers and I joined grandmother and granddaddy for a glorious summer on the farm in 1951. I had arrived and my life had officially begun.
When I am home it is the conduit to everything that the farm cannot provide and frankly that isn’t much. However, it became the channel to advanced education, supplementary employment, and social networking.
Not gated with moats and alligators, there are many who have traveled down the lane, some invited and some not. Some would leave an indelible mark, some would come and go and never be remembered, others would never leave.
The farm has always been a destination and arrival tantalizing. The simple ride down the lane from the turning off the main road to the capping of the three knolls-first you see it then you don’t, then you do again- is awesome, thrilling and spectacular. It never fails to evoke an aura of paradise, wonder, and expanse. “Oh, my where have I landed?”
I have no memory of the very first time I came down that lane, but I must have been beyond myself with excitement. In 1951, the family had purchased the farm consisting of an estimated 152 acres with an old farm house and numerous decrepit-looking barns –all of these situated almost precisely in the middle of the land.
Work kept Jack-my Dad-at our home in Florida, but my Mom, Betty, my three brothers and I joined grandmother and granddaddy for a glorious summer on the farm in 1951. I had arrived and my life had officially begun.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Something new or nothing at all
That's my immediate opinion of the possibilities that may or may not accompany this new adventure. But then there is always the "nothing ventured nothing gained" ideology, maybe that is more fitting. Regardless of the future outcome, I am starting now and that in itself is an accomplishment.
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