Onions on a Screen

80  bar steady 29.71  2mph W dew-point 61  sunrise 5:56  sunset 8:42 Summer

Waning Crescent of the Thunder Moon

Heaved sand out of the to be fire pit.  Still a lotta roots even after the stump grinder.  Sigh.  It will get finished, and before 8/18 as a birthday present for Kate and as a Woolly place.  Gotta get up earlier to make this happen however.

Pulled onions, put down an old sliding door screen over the raised bed and put them on it to dry.  We have red and yellow, no white.  Seeing them out there, all next to each other, soaking up the rays like California girls makes an aging horticulturist proud.  All the allium crops are out of the ground now.  The garlic hangs in the utililty room in the basement and the onions will go in the garage either in burlap or slotted crates.

With tomatoes coming and the bean plants producing we are well into the first harvest cycle.  We will celebrate this on August 1st with some kind of ceremony in the garden.  We also plan to invite the neighbors on August 2nd.

Separate Maya from Reality

77  bar steady 29.73  0mph NW  dew-point 62  sunrise 5:56  sunset 8:42 Summer

Waning Crescent of the Thunder Moon

“In the beginner’s mind there are many possibilities. In the expert’s mind there are few.” – Shunryu Suzuki

Beginner’s mind.  It has such a resonance for me.  It reminds us that separating maya from reality is a learned skill, one at which we can improve and improve by a vast extent.  It also suggests that life, instead of growing more difficult as we learn, can grow simpler, more straightforward.  Once one abandons ambition, goals and accepts death life becomes less cluttered.

Chess education speaks of beginner’s mind.  The beginner has to contemplate so many moves that the mind becomes overwhelmed, unable to choose.  The expert sees the board as lines of force and connected patterns related to classic moves.  Thus, even though the expert looks at the same board as a beginner, she can look further ahead with less choice to a better move.

Learning is the same.  As I grow older and my information and knowledge base increases, I find that connections between and among ideas comes quicker, more easily.  Historical data correlates with art or architecture, political movements, literary experimentation.  Certain patterns of thought typical of the Renaissance, say, illuminate Chines thinking of the Warring States Period.  Ways of approaching matters of faith begin to interlace and inform each other rather than conflict and confuse.

Horticulture.   Over the years here in Andover the care and feeding of multiple plants in multiple beds, with varying sun has gone from difficult to manageable.  This year I have added hydroponics and vegetables (though Kate has done vegetables for years).  In the fall we will plant an orchard and add a few raised beds.  With a beginner’s mind the care of such a diverse garden would have created chaos and the plants would have suffered, now the moves are more familiar, more predictable, the choices have decreased.

On the other hand beginner’s mind can help us visit old areas with fresh eyes.  It can help us embrace each day with wonder and awe.  Beginner’s mind can keep us in the present and attentive to the now.  Beginner’s mind can help us break free of stale routines and static ideas.  Beginner’s mind can keep love fresh and learning exciting.

So we need both beginner’s mind and the expert mind.

What a Tomato!

86  bar steady  29.66  2mph SSE dew-point 56  sunrise 5:55 sunset 8:43  Summer

Waning Crescent of the Thunder Moon

“Frisbeetarinism is the belief that when you die your soul goes up on the roof and gets stuck.”  George Carlin, RIP

OMG!  Picked another Cherokee Purple tomato.  It weighs 1.5 pounds.  That’s quite a tomato.  These plants have just begun producing ripe fruit so I imagine the next month or so will see challengers.  Now I have to figure out to save the seed and grow these monsters again next year.  Each of these plants got their start in our hydroponics.  Very satisfying to go from seed to a 1.5 pound fruit.

Kate’s sewing a dress for Ruthie.  She already made two small suits for Gabe.  She gets into a trance when the sewing begins, real flow.

One Slice Covers a Salad Plate

82 bar falls 29.66 1mph E dew-point 73  sunrise 5:55 sunset 8:43 Summer

Waning Crescent of the Thunder Moon

Dead headed the lilium today, their bloom period is almost past.  Buddhists say flowers get their beauty from their transience.  Makes sense.  The flower symphony I outlined a few posts ago honors this notion, seeing the transience as  beautiful.  The hemerocallis, or day lilies have begun to come into their own, vigorous and bountiful.  Their multi-colored, short-lived flowers will grace our garden for some time.

The acorn squash plant that had designs on much of the area in its not so immediate surround had to give up some of its space today.  While cutting back the vine, I harvested squash blossoms for soup or salad.  This vine has small prickles on it, stay away signals.

Kate harvested four of the Cherokee Purple tomatoes yesterday.  They are huge.  They taste sweet, a subtle flavor with undertones.  One slice covered the bottom of the salad plate on which I put it.  The heirlooms have a different feel, a different texture on the palette.  Sort of like eating history.  I imagine pioneers or turn of the century farmers plucking these giants and serving them up just as I did, slice after slice with a little salt and pepper, no need for garnish.

The corn, some of it, has tassles.  With tassles, ears of corn are not far behind.  This is Country Gentelmen, a shoe peg white corn with irregular kernels.  The beans planted in the space between their rows flourish, too, as do the second planting of beets in the bed now vacated by the garlic.  Today, too, I plan to dig up all the onions and put them on a large screen to dry, then bag.  There are a lot of onions.

More Radical Than Thou

80  bar falls 29.66  0mph E  dew-point 76!  sunrise 5:55  sunset 8:43  Summer

Waning Crescent of the Thunder Moon

Jerry Stearns sent word that he worked with rebels in Central America and served a stint as a bodyguard for Rigoberta Minchu, the Mayan activist.  This reminded me, though I don’t think it was his intent, of the old game, More Radical Than Thou.

This was a game of gotcha and it drove the Everything Matters part of the personal is political.  If I, say, was a draft resister and an anti-war marcher, you might say that you planned to go to Canada.  If I planned to go Canada, you might say you were going underground.  If I said I was going underground, you might say, me too, but I’m going to bomb federal buildings, too.  This macho ratcheting up of the stakes in a round of how far can you travel away from middle-class morality and conventional politics lasted for a long, long time.

It was an aspect of movement politics in which I always felt one step behind, never quite outré enough.  I was back then, as now, stuck with this dipolarity, radical and conservative, both alive and well, never reconciled, perhaps irreconcilable. Come to think of it this same dipolarity might have been the tense spring that kept me going back to the bar for one more round.

Nowadays I cherish this peculiarity.  I can engage radical environmental politics, continue in my radical analysis of American society while loving the MIA and my docent role there.  I can continue opposition to conservative politics while loving the classics, poetry and faith traditions.  These two poles now serve as a creative edge for me, a sort of tectonic junction where volcanoes are born and subduction feeds the volcano.  Back then I felt the need to exist on only one end of the pole, rather than embracing the tension that came from them.

More Radical Than Thou pushed me to one end of the pole.  I ended up denying, repressing the conservative part of me that wandered art museums, read Ovid and Homer and yearned for a connection with God.  Seminary and a stint as a Presbyterian minister only reversed the pressure.  While I could affirm my love of biblical study and prayer, I felt constant pressure to be more radical, to engage in more and more radical political activity.   This change from one end of the see-saw to the other was no resolution either.

Only now, in these days when the introvert has settled into a quiet writing existence have I begun to live from both ends of the dialectic.  I can work as a docent amongst the fascinating details of art history while I the Sierra Club work blossoms.  I can write novels while I search nature and the American literary tradition for a pagan faith relevant to today.  Though the Jungian analysis moved far along this ancient trail, only unconditional love can heal these splits and I have found such love in Kate. We are soulmates.

Vanished in the Smoke

76  bar falls 29.70  0mph SSE dew-point 67  sunrise 5:55 sunset 8:44  Summer

Waning Crescent of the Thunder Moon

Echoes from the past.  Over time certain folks reconnect out of the blue.  Jerry Stearns is one.  We were part of the movement at Ball State.  Hard to believe, but we had a radical wing at this conservative midwestern teacher’s university.  We did some drugs, raised some hell.  He’s kept the faith working with Central American guerillas and medical groups like medicine sin fronteras.  He’s still at it doing hospice work now and using the money to help develop clinics with the Zapatistas and sub-commandante Marcos.  He brings word of folks I’d forgotten about long ago.

Those days.  They were so different than now.  So formative for a generation, at least a chunk of the generation.  As I’ve written elsewhere, we engaged in struggle in our own lives, with our friends and lovers, in our own communities.  The personal was political and the political personal.  It was, really, politics drugs sex and rock and roll.  We went on road trips, driving through Indiana small towns flashing the peace sign and shaking our long hair. (Yes, I realize how ridiculous this sounds now.) We smoked dope, dropped acid and listened to acid rock.  We demonstrated, wrote, loved and then disbursed.  Jerry stayed in touch with more folks as near as I can tell, but I never looked back.  After Dad and I split, I left home for Wisconsin, then Minnesota.

Intense. Those days dripped intensity.  Everything, every tiny thing mattered.  It was, for this cowboy, too much.  The more intense it got, the more I drank.  I gave up acid and marijuana early on, but I hung on to beer and whisky.  The sexual revolution kept going and going and going up until my second marriage, then it stopped until my divorce.  At which point it picked up again.  Then stopped again when I married Kate.  And happily so.

Back then I was an introvert trying to function as an extrovert.  It took a lot of chemicals and a rich dose of denial to stay at it.  When I finally woke up, I was on my second marriage, working for the Prebyterian church and wondering just what the hell I had done with my life.  Treatment brought me into contact with a new reality, my true self.  It was, though, as it often is, ten years before my maturation caught up with me after I stopped drinking.  18 off and on years of Jungian analysis.

All the drugs and sex, the politics of rage, make the true effects of those years difficult to sort out.  They were painful in so many ways, yet pain and growth are old partners.  The overall affective tone of those years has a negative valence emotionally, but a positive one in terms of commitment, struggle, victories.  So much of it vanished in smoke and the slosh of beer. I mean my memories are unreliable, in some cases extinguished, or at least very hidden.

What Does It Mean To Be An American?

85  bar falls 29.75 0mph E  dew-point 66  sunrise 5:53  sunset 8:44  Summer

Waning Crescent of the Thunder Moon

The hangover from the docent program continues.  We have to do an Africa check-out tour with two partners.  We each prepare three objects, then share the information and come ready to present any of the objects.  This is a sort of multiple choice test, I guess.  All of us have favorite areas in the museum and less liked areas.  I love the Asian collection.

The African collection does not excite me.   I’m not sure why.  Africa as a continent and African history, especially pre-colonial Africa have fascinated me since college when I took several courses related to these areas as well as African anthropology.  Contemporary African politics also hold my attention.  The art does not.  There are pieces that are, for me, exceptions.  The Ife Shrine Head.  Kente cloth.  The Magadelene Odundo reduced black ceramics.  The gold weights.  The female sculptures.  The rest does not draw me in.  This is me, I know, for many find these objects stunning, even path breaking when it comes to representation.

Still, I have to do this check-out tour and I will.

The drive in was unremarkable, though notable for its reduced heat from the Texas weekend.  On the drive back I encountered several drivers in a row who had not yet graduated from the real world driving class we all take each day.  Left me with a short fuse.  Again.  On me.

Switched for a third time the Woolly meeting idea.  First was permaculture.  Second was your media stream.  The third, and final one is this:  What does it mean to be an American?  When did  your feel your most patriotic?  Least? Who is your favorite American author?  Painter?  Poet?  Poem?  Book?  Painting?  Does America have a manifest destiny?  How do we or should we fit into the global reality?

Scene of the Crash Bar-B-Q

78  bar steady 29.79  1mph SE dew-point 65  Sunrise 5:53 Sunset 8:44pm  Summer

Waning Crescent of the Thunder Moon
This is a few of the 50+ Ellis clan who attended the 2008 reunion at rest on the back porch of the Baker’s Texas sized house and property.

ellis727500.jpg

The reunion entailed a good deal of eating and the usual amount of what have you been up to.  A few of the more memorable updates for me follow.

Jean Cate’s son Jeff and his Brazilian wife, Danielle, move to Brazil in two weeks for at least ten years.  They’ve lived in the states for some time, but after the birth of their beautiful son decided he needed immersion in Brazilian culture.  Jeff doesn’t speak Portugese, but said he’s gonna right to work on it.  The impact of the line of demarcation effects our family.

Many people had retired including Dan McGregor who, this September, will watch from the side lines as school starts without him in any of his many coaching assignments:  basketball, football, tennis, golf, and several others.  We were all a good bit grayer than the last time I attended the reunion in 2000.

Jane (Stephens) ran a family meeting in which Aunt Dorothy and her husband Harley Brown were remembered.  They both died over the year since the last reunion.  Aunt Dorothy had a phenomenal memory, all agreed, recalling family facts long after others had forgotten them.  She died at 100+ intellectually sharp up till the end.  “She proved you’re never to old to learn.  Yeah, And never to old to get married!”  She and Harley married when she was 90 or so.  Harley was a world recognized expert on riffle beetles.  Riffle beetles capture oxygen and work with it below water.  He was a fun and funny guy.

We agreed to have the meeting next year the third week in July, place undecided.

I became interested in Ellis history.  We all know a good bit about the Spitler side of the family, but not much about Elmo Ellis and his family.  Apparently Lloyd Ellis, son on Henry Ellis, Elmo’s brother, has come the last few reunions and has some considerable history.

A few stories reveal a good bit.  At one point Elmo and Jenny gathered their children on a train from somewhere in Oklahoma where Elmo had work as a farm hand.  Their destination was Mustang, Oklahoma, sort of the family seat of the Ellis and Spitler families.  In Ada, Oklahoma Grandpa Elmo got off the train and none of his children saw him again save for Uncle Charles.  He had a glass eye, losing one eye while fighting a grass fire.

Those who knew him a bit said he was charismatic, charming, but “never got down the working thing.”  He was a rich kid who ran through a sizable inheritance.  Family.

Mike Simpson, a former petroleum engineer and owner of an oil and gas services company he recently sold, gave me some tips on looking up information about our land in Pecos County.  He thought the fact the guy wanted to buy the land meant he knew something, too.  The oddity is that the best website is the Texas Rail Road Commission which handles all oil related permits for the state.  They apparently also control all matters related to trucking. Go figure.

Before I sign off today I wanted to mention a couple of other interesting sights along the way to Mineola.  There were 2 Beer Barns.  At the Beer Barn there are two truck sized drive through bays, somewhat like a coin operated car wash.  The trick here is that you can drive in, buy your beer by the case, or, as the sign said, Get Kegs To Go and they load it in your vehicle.  You don’t have to get out.

At a major intersection on Highway 80 there was a vendor wagon with a sign that read:  Scene of the Crash Bar-B-Q.

“If it’s not at Brookshires or Walmart, we can get it in Tyler.”

68  bar rises 29.75  0mpn ENE dew-point 63  Sunrise 5:53  Sunset 8:45pm  Summer

Last Quarter of the Thunder Moon

As you can tell by the lawn mower postings, I’m back from Texas.  No handy computer down there.

Confession:  We had no problems with the airline.  I loved the plane, a small Embraer with a single aisle and two rows, 2 seats to a row and plenty of legroom.  Left and landed on time.  Since we didn’t check anything, no extra fees.  Carrying no electronics and all the liquid stuff in the handy quart bag so security was as painless as possible.  The rental car was cheaper than advertised and we got a PT Cruiser which was at least an interesting compact.  This experience was enough, given my basically positive experience on the flights to Hawai’i, to make me rethink my “never fly unless absolutely necessary” pledge.

With two of us along things always go smoother because we can divide traveling chores, so that’s part of it, but, in the end, it was ok.  Not pleasant.  Barely worth the cash.  But OK.

We spent the weekend encased in East Texas heat and humidity.  97-99 during the day, cooling down to around 80 at night.  Since we were not hiking or picking peaches, it was ok, but both Kate and I find the heat enervating, unpleasant at best.  The Bakers, Carol and Charyn, have a huge home on considerable acreage outside Mineola, Texas.  A former executive for Bell Helicopter, Carol exudes a charming, Texas style hospitality.

Once, long ago, I took a train through east Texas on my way to visit Uncle Charles, Aunt Berta and their daughter, Charyn.  This was at least 50 years ago, but my memory of it is fresh because the pine trees and the hills surprised me then, just as they did this trip.  When you leave Dallas and head out toward Mineola, the road takes you through flat, reddish tan countryside.  Somewhere around Grand Saline (yes, a big salt deposit there.  I asked.  Morton has a big mine.) the flat begins to roll and the reddish tan countryside has forests of pine and oak.

The drive on Highway 80 runs through Forney, Terrell, Willis Point, Grand Saline, Elmo, Fruitvale and Mineola.  On beyond Mineola 80 hits Big Sandy.  I love the names of these towns.  There are fruit orchards along the way, peaches, apricots and others I could not identify.  Even with the salt and the fruit and truck farming, these towns all look worn and tired, as if the promise of the past had not quite come to life.

Mineola is different.   It has antique stores and quaint restaurants, Mineola Mercantile, for example, which is a restaurant and stuff store.  This is a small town like Long Lake, Stillwater, even Anoka surrounded in the countryside by large properties protected with iron gates protected by keyed locks.  Horses are everywhere which helps explain the iron gates.  This is the good life far enough from what they call the metroplex, Dallas/Ft. Worth, that the people who live here can feel rural with many of the comforts of upper class life.  This includes a Brookshire grocery which is equivalent to a Minnesota Bylery’s.

Carol and Charyn said, “Anything that’s not at Bylery’s or Walmart we can get in Tyler.”

I’ll report some more on the reunion tomorrow.

Violent and Elegant

73  bar steady 29.86  0mph NNE dew-point 68  sunrise 5:50 Sunset 8:49  Summer

Last Quarter of the Thunder Moon

Ever wonder about people who spend $2 apiece on those little bottles of Evian water?  Try spelling Evian backwards.  George Carlin, RIP.

Ancientrails will go dark for two days, Friday and Saturday, with a probable posting late Sunday.  Unless, that is, I find a spare computer in Texas and get a chance to post, but I’m not counting on it.

The reason?  No computer on this trip.  Three days away, minimal luggage with the fees for checking baggage, and the old laptop we have is too heavy.  Also, the time frame makes for a compressed week-end with family, the focus.

A Few Seconds of Panic by Stefan Fastis recounts a sportswriters time as a walk-on place kicker for the Denver Broncos.  This book at least seems to present a detailed picture of what life is like for the players.  It is a hard life, filled with psychological and mental challenges as well as physical ones.  It is also well-remunerated if you can make it into a starting role and addictive emotionally.

Football and I have a strange relationship.  On the one hand I want to understand it, understand it as the intellectual, chess-like strategy game it is for those who manage it; on the other hand, I feel weird about liking football, as if I violate the intellectual’s code of honor (necessary to staying in the secret club) by my interest. I know, this is my problem for sure.

The players also fascinate me, violent and elegant, they have an archetypal presence, athletes who risk it all each week for as long as they play. They are, too, spoiled children, at least by report, dependent on a phalanx of specialists who handle everything from dalliances to drug charges for them.  There is, also, the often hidden, but apparently real, physical downsides of life after football: early dementia, constant pain, physically abusive behavior and sometimes drug dependency.

With the trades the Vikings have made in the offseason at least 13 Sunday afternoons will have a familiar activity.  God, I’m glad we bought that big TV.

See you on the Sunday flipside.