Adaptive Curmudgeon

That was a nice surprise! Having returned from a two month hiatus I got a score* of happy comments welcoming me back to the living. I appreciate that! Also a few coffees popped up in “buy me a coffee”. Nice!

I would have done everything I’ve done regardless, but it feels less like a solo venture. The nudge of encouragement was very welcome.

(*Also, where but my own blog would I be able to use the old definition of “score”: meaning “twenty”? So long as weirdos like me have a place to be, not every bit of the world is toned down.)

How do I describe my motivation this weekend? Our modern world is awash in Newspeak. There’s currently no easy way to say “feeling down in a manner that’s entirely reasonable due to circumstances”. Depression is incorrect. You’re supposed to feel down after a death. Sad is inadequate. Regardless, one “cure” for “depression” is exercise. Another is “getting shit done”. So I did both.

My firewood pile has been neglected in my absence. It’s inadequate for the winter. If I run out (which is a certainty so far) I’ll have to heat with fuel oil. Fuel oil is expensive (oh how nice those few years of cheap oil really were!). Also the furnace heats the house but it’s never without a chill. So it would suck but I won’t die.

I much prefer wood. It heats the house better and it “feels right”. I don’t know how to say that either. It’s “right” because it makes me happy, because nobody extracted from me a fortune in taxes for a tree, because it’s local, because it’s traditional… because it works absolutely fine even though it’s age old technology. For all those reasons I guess.

So I fired up my woodsplitter and started stacking. It’s hard work. Time and stress has taken it’s toll. I’m a little more out of shape than I’d like. I’m older than I was.

But I did some stacking on a blustery Saturday afternoon. It wasn’t much but it was some. Then I rested.

On Sunday it was light drizzle, good weather to sit inside feeling sorry for myself. Instead I stacked more wood. It was a little chilly and a little rainy but as my grandma used to say “what do you care if it rains, you won’t melt”.

Every woodsplitter generates a pile of cast off bits of wood as it’s used. These are parts and hunks that are too small to stack, bigger than sawdust, and usually half rotten or otherwise useless. It includes lots of bark and a fair amount of dirt. Wood is natural in all it’s organic messiness. I raked the pile onto a shovel, pushed it away from my woodshed, and lit it. It took forever for the wet bark to catch but it eventually did. I kept splitting and stacking while the little fire smoked and sputtered.

Then the skies opened up and all hell broke loose! I wound up sitting inside my rickety woodshed. I parked a lawnchair near the open doorway (there is no door) and sat just beyond the storm. There was enough heat coming off the fire to warm me… barely.

Outside the rain was very cold… approaching sleet. It rained hard. Every now and then I’d throw another couple shovel loads of waste wood onto the fire; getting soaked in the process.

I drank a beer and watched the world wash away. Exercise is good for you. A warm fire in a rainstorm might be all you need.

I didn’t stack a full supply for the winter. I’m only human and I use a lot of wood in a winter. I’m barely halfway there.

But I’m in better shape than when I started. I mean that in every sense of the word.

I hope your weekend was as fruitful as mine.

Two months.

A person I loved has died. I stand on shaky legs; missing the “before”, uneasy in the bereft “after”.

It was both too long and too short; I suppose whatever increment elapsed was the correct increment. Death is always on schedule to God.

I’m changed. I humbly reflect that I’m not the first to suffer this way. It doesn’t do any good at all. All I really know is it hurts and there’s no going back. This summer has literally cost a life.

I’ve done my best. Support for everyone. A firm handshake, warm words, desperately mustered confidence, a weak smile, a heartfelt hug, tears, a joke… whatever is needed and whatever I could muster. I’ve received the same. I clicked back into communities I’d long ago abandoned. Old relations were renewed in the crucible of loss. People I barely know told me about when I was “about so high”; holding up their hands as if time is all about height.

It has not been easy. No man is an island but I’m closer than most. People don’t like islands. The urge to saddle up and ride away was unbelievably strong. I stayed put. People need that. This is one of the times I exist for the benefit of others.

Personally, I wanted only isolation. The sincerity of good people expressing the deepest sympathy for my experience wore me down. They wouldn’t understand and they meant well, so I just smiled and took it.

The ceremony was meant to heal and it did; at least a little. A monument was placed. Good kind words were recited. They carefully kept the sod from the hole; to be replaced in short order. It was. The sod will take root again. So will I after a walk in the forest; or perhaps a dozen walks.

It is mandatory and cruel, but also true and beautiful, that one must re-enter the world of the living. I will re-enter my world on terms I understand. I’m an ill fit for the world where they had nice sandwiches and people reciting memories of my childhood. I see now the love to be found in community. I rejected that path decades ago. A price I paid without truly knowing its value. No regrets, but sometimes you visit your hometown to remember you belong nowhere in particular.

I’m back at my homestead. I’m tired, broke, exhausted, and spent. So many adjectives. They all hint at depletion. Emotionally, financially, physically, spiritually… where there was once surplus, there is emptiness.

I’m surprised how much I suffered by forced interaction with society. It was a time of sorrow but it was only a couple months after all. How weird and apart am I really? Miles on the highway, nights in hotels, small crowds. I’m not truly a hermit. Yet this time I felt every mile separating me from my homestead like a rope tugging me back. I found it hard to think among all the noise. It’s hard to be sorrowful in our corrupt and degraded world. It’s a maelstrom for a mourner; or at least one like my loner self. I could not roam the mountains and gain strength. Paperwork and social functions and places to be and things to approve and stuff to know… it was all a blur. So noisy. So aggressive. TVs everywhere. Seething sophistication layered over reasoned simplicity. Everything not political is fiscal; nobody sits and thinks. Does anyone read a book anymore? The more I see of modernity the more I wonder how anyone thrives in it? I suppose they don’t. A lot of limping damaged souls out there.

But the crisis has passed. I will slowly rebuild the peace I’d heretofore stacked high. I had it for use in times like these and I’m glad I had it. In one memorable conversation I called it “a truckload of chill”. It served me in good stead. Depleted yet eternal, peace is always there if you seek it. I may have to consult with the trees about the details. They’re a patient sort. They’ll understand and guide me right. In due time, I will once again be in synch with nature.

Everything sucked, but I’m going to be OK.

Last night I dreamed of ice fishing. It was the first good night’s sleep I’ve had in 13 days and among the very few since all this started (I keep count). I did not dream of loss. I caught a trout.

That’s a good sign!

Yesterday I saw a malfunctioning e-sign adjacent the highway. My first thought was “what would a squirrel do with that”? Another good sign.

The worst is over. Thank you all for your patience.

A.C.

[Today’s story is long. You’ve been warned! I’m in no shape for tight editing. As Mark Twain once said: “I didn’t have time to write a short letter, so I wrote a long one instead.”]

[Also, it’s never my intention to mire people from real life in the online world. I’ve changed as many details as necessary to preserve everyone’s privacy. Everyone I met was kind and generous. Take heart! Good helpful people are out there! I was rescued when I was down. People to whom I was a perfect stranger showed nothing but goodwill! And I reciprocate.]

I was stuck in the parking lot of an auto parts store with an inert Dodge. There was hardly a customer in sight. There were a few people “hanging around”.

Mrs. Curmudgeon remained in the passenger seat and carefully ignored everything. From her point of view, trucks are guy things and she’s not a guy. My truck was my problem. She also figures I’m basically unkillable and she’s usually right. Invariably I’ll solve anything and I’ve had dead truck situations before many times. In my defense, this time I was in uniquely bad mental shape. Mrs. Curmudgeon had faith and let it ride. She started reading her kindle and would continue reading it even if lions attacked me in the parking lot. Wise woman.

Unbeknownst to me the “hanging around” folks were a tight nit group. Closer to a “clan” than acquaintances. They knew each other, had known each other forever, and had ties of friendship and family. They were absolutely great people!

Barb [not her real name] assessed that me and the Dodge were out of options (perhaps she sensed I was out of energy?). She rolled into action like a general mustering a chaotic and talkative army of forces. I think Barb decided I’m “good people”? Regardless, I was instantly accepted as an unofficial part of the “clan”… from that moment forward everyone pitched in to help.

Some random guy [I’ll call him Paul] joshed me about my Dodge. I was confused because this was not for the obvious fact that the damn thing can barely maintain basic steering geometry. Nor for the still smoking brake caliper. Instead he mocked that the Cummins engine had a turbo… which is weird because damn near every diesel in the last 25 years has a turbo. (I had a naturally aspirated 6.2 Diesel vehicle once. I loved it but driving it reminded me why turbos were invented.)

Paul decided the front tire needed to come off. I agreed because that’s the only way to fix a stuck caliper. I mentioned I had insufficient knowledge to actually swap the caliper (and all my tools were at home). Paul ignored my reasoning. He was so upbeat and motivated I just went with it.

I handed him the truck’s jack. I’ve jacked up the rear axle a million times but never the front. Paul placed the jack in what looked to me like a weird place and started cranking.  Seeing as he was helping and I was completely out of steam, I just let it go. Mrs. Curmudgeon sat in the slowly tilting truck as if denial was the best choice of her very few options. Which it probably was.

Meanwhile, Barb was calling every mechanic in the known universe. It was a Saturday afternoon and the shops were all closed. It didn’t take long before she switched from calling companies to people. She knew everyone everywhere who’d ever touched a wrench and she seemed to be calling them all.

A woman [I’ll call her Sue] showed up. She, like Barb and Paul, was part of the clan. I was unclear if she was working at the parts store or just spontaneously generated from the space time continuum. For that matter I didn’t know why Paul was hanging around.

Paul cranked on the jack until we discovered it couldn’t lift the truck high enough. Sue kept up a running commentary about how her truck was dead in a nearby Walmart parking lot. I got a little confused by what was going on. It was hot and I’m not mentally firing on all cylinders.

Barb kept making phone calls. Energizer bunny dedication from her!

Paul repositioned the jack in a different spot. It still looked sketchy to me but I was in no condition to debate. He added a small scrap of 2″x4” and cranked it up. Barb was giving periodic “phone reports”. I was fading in the heat. I made sure to buy a cold drink for Mrs. Curmudgeon, she was riding the front seat of a Dodge as it cranked up and down. She was just as sweaty as me but she wasn’t in a mood to stand in the parking lot (which was maybe a few degrees cooler).

The jack still wasn’t tall enough. We cranked it back down. I took the opportunity to loosen the lug nuts while the wheel was back on pavement. Barb had joined us again and many cigarettes were smoked. (I don’t smoke but I’m not some asshole who bitches about cigarettes either. I was more concerned about roasting in the sun than the cloud of smoke coming from Barb, Paul, and Sue.) During this time I heard everyone’s life story.

Sue mentioned her “collector’s cars” and showed me a photo of two VW Beetles that are not going anywhere without a whole lot of work. I like Beetles… I’ve always wanted a sand rail. Paul opined that his Pontiac was better than anything with a turbo and waved at a battered old Pontiac in the parking lot. Given that Sue and I both had vehicles that couldn’t move under their own power, I couldn’t disagree.

The jack was cranked back up, this time with two bits of wood… getting a little more like Jenga each time. Mrs. Curmudgeon ignored it. I heard all sorts of family details about people I’d never met.

An actual customer showed up! He had a truck that ran. I missed being like that. Turns out he was of the group too! They all chatted merrily like lifetime friends, which I’m sure they were. Paul borrowed my tire iron to go do something to the other truck. By now I was clearly not in control of anything. I could only wonder what he’d be doing with a tire iron to a truck that didn’t have a flat tire.

Somehow I ended up under the customer’s truck peering at an inverted gooseneck hitch release mechanism. I have the same thing on my truck bed but it functions differently. Since mine is different I didn’t have any helpful information about this one. At least I tried. The customer hung around chatting a while and then left.

Barb was still making calls. Paul bitched at Barb that my jack sucked. (As if it was Barb’s fault?) After a few more cigarettes and some dirty jokes, a little hydraulic floor jack was procured from Barb’s car. Barb’s car was just as battered as Paul’s car… and both were  superior to my Dodge in that they both ran.

I began to wish I’d brought a lawnchair. Mrs. Curmudgeon sat reading in an insufficiently tilted Dodge as we cranked it up and down. I was hot. A cold beer would be nice. I mentioned this and inadvertently generated a bunch of drinking stories.

I figured Bud Light is no longer the choice of this group. It took me a while to derive the alternative; Miller Highlife. We all made many jokes about “the Champaign of beers”.

I found a camping stool in my truck. I decided all hope was lost and wondered if I ought to drink a six pack in the parking lot. Maybe pass out with heat stroke? Embrace the suck as God intended? Why the hell not? Passing out in a parking lot had a certain attractiveness to it. I’ve done it before… decades ago… with other cars that had died.

Beer was a risky thought! I was so weak that if I so much as sipped anything I’d be asleep on the pavement within minutes. That would royally piss off Mrs. Curmudgeon!

Predictably the little hydraulic jack didn’t lift far enough. I released it which dropped the truck abruptly enough to cause Mrs. Curmudgeon to grunt with concern… then return instantly to her book. Paul started stacking wood blocks and I called a halt to our game. “Let’s go inside and maybe I’ll buy a new jack.” I felt like sooner or later we’d stack something too high and tear the heck out of the truck when it fell off a Jenga pile. In the auto parts shop the appropriate jack was $300! I said I had towing attached to my truck insurance and that’s cheaper than $300. Mrs. Curmudgeon started trying to figure out the “username and password” to the infernal insurance company software.

Even if a tow truck arrived I had no place to which I could have the vehicle towed. Barb arrived with news. Some guy could fix the truck the next day if I could get it to his place on a tow truck! Well done!

Barb wasn’t entirely pleased, she expected it to be fixed fast enough that I could drive home in my own vehicle. Such a thought is awesome but also something less common in modern life.

I was about to setup an insurance company based tow, entirely within software… which would surely leave us sitting for hours… when Barb came out again and held a cell phone to my ear.

It was a guy I shall refer to as “Based Boss” or BB. He had skills and tools and was willing to use them and that just plain makes him awesome. Based Boss came over the phone “What the hell did you do to Barb? She’s calling me and I’m trying to ignore her but it’s like she’s got the whole world on a mission to hassle me. Ralph is calling me about her calling me. And now Mike called too because he heard from Barb AND Ralph. Is your truck ON FIRE?”

I explained that it was merely a stuck caliper. A very easy fix. I was right at the parts store to get the materials. I had neither the tools nor the skills to do it but I was sure it was not too big of a deal. BB agreed, muttered something about working a zillion hours this week and said he’d be there eventually.

I wasn’t sure BB would show. I sat on my hunting stool and tried not to melt or fall over. Paul and Sue told stories. Barb joined us. I couldn’t help but feel welcome. I was so tired, and depressed, and dehydrated… yet I was surrounded by happy nice people. I heard many stories. Sadly, I remember almost none of them.

BB showed up! He had a truck much like mine but much harder used. Paul taunted him about the turbo (I still don’t get the anti-turbo bias). BB was a core member of my newly discovered “clan”. I’m still not sure if everyone is intermarried or went to school together or what (maybe both). They were all very close. I was ever so thankful for their kindness.

BB had a proper jack (and a truck full of tools). Soon the Dodge (and Mrs. Curmudgeon) were lifted off the pavement. Barb ushered me back into the store to pay for my long forgotten tractor battery and to procure the necessary truck parts. I got all the stuff and brought it to BB who was hammering away at bolts on the tire adapter (duallys have tire adapters on the front to handle dish shaped wheels… they’re quite the PITA). BB insisted I go back inside and put the purchase on his mechanic’s account so I could get a discount. Which Barb did and I saved a lot. I came back out and asked BB if he wanted a cold Miller. BB wanted Crown Royal. After showing up on a Saturday afternoon and saving me a couple hundred off parts I was on board with that request!

I wandered away into the hot city streets, half dazed, dehydrated, and exhausted. I was in search of liquor store within walking distance of my dead truck. Many times I have done the same thing but I was so much younger! I felt like my life had regressed 30 years. Supposedly I’m no longer a broke hopeless youth… yet there I was. When will I get my shit together enough that I no longer must do adventures like this?

By the time I got back, BB had the job half done. Wow! I handed him a bottle of Crown Royal and stashed a suitcase of Miller in Barb’s car (along with her small car jack). I wanted to crack one of the beers but feared I’d fall asleep and/or die.

BB finished the job and I pumped the brakes to bleed the line. He didn’t ask for much and I was super happy to have my truck back. I threw another 10% on the check I cut to him. I told him he’d earned the right to walk around wearing a Superman outfit. Sue started badgering BB to rescue her truck from WalMart. As a skilled man he’s in huge demand. I don’t know if he works 24/7 but I’m damn sure it’s 7!

Barb noticed the beer in her car and asked Mrs. Curmudgeon if she could give me a hug. I didn’t hear that discussion but Mrs. Curmudgeon apparently said I’m not a people person but go ahead and ask. At first I bristled… was this lunatic sexually harassing me? Or just an infernal people person? Either way, ugh…

Anyway I gave Barb a huge hug because why not? I probably needed a hug myself. I’m in mourning and had been cooked 5 hours in a parking lot… even a man who thinks of himself as a lone wolf has limits. We all needs human connection sometimes. Barb gushed that I was a nice guy. Who doesn’t like a compliment like that? Mrs. Curmudgeon explained I was “a bit squishy right now” and I’m usually as cuddly as a porcupine; which is true.

BB shared photos of various classic cars he or friends were repairing. In an absolutely bonkers moment I offered to sell him one of my “yard art” vehicles at a cost of damn near nothing. Yikes! I don’t know where that came from! I have an old truck that I’ll never get back in fighting shape but I can dream can’t I?

I guess I’d decided BB would probably resurrect it in a week and that’s a better owner than me. I’d love to see the vehicle running even if I didn’t do it myself. Mrs. Curmudgeon almost jumped for joy that I was ditching one of my several broken machines. She tried to sell him more of my precious junk. Yikes!

Soon it was closing time. BB rolled off in his functioning truck to rescue Sue’s truck from  WalMart. Paul gave Sue a ride to the same location. Barb and her beer headed home. I still don’t know who actually worked at the store (except Barb who had the uniform).

The truck made it home. I made it home. Mrs. Curmudgeon made it home.

I drank what felt like a gallon of water and collapsed for the night. I’d been in no shape for adventure but I’d had one anyway. I’m not a people person but had been in an informal tailgate party for hours. I was exhausted at the molecular level.

So that’s my day, how was yours?

[For unfortunate reasons I’ve been stumbling around like a dazed moron. This is the story of me riding the wave of unawareness.]

A few days later I decided to fix the tractor. Honestly there’s not much to do. My 1944 and 1941 antiques I could bludgeon and swear until they ran, but a modern tractor is too complex. It’s more like a helicopter than a farm implement. Given all the EPA regulations and safety panels and hydraulic lines and fuel injection gadgetry and so forth I can barely operate it, much less service the beast. It’s a miracle the thing ever runs.

I hoped it was just a bad battery. It didn’t have no juice, but it had “just enough juice to make everything act weird” and that could be a battery. I hate vehicular electronics! If the battery was good I had no other ideas. I’d have to call to have it flatbed hauled to a service guy a million miles away! If that happened I’d be lucky to get it back by snowfall!! If you’re going to tell me all about how you get your tractor serviced by Fred who lives 1 mile away and only charges $20 an hour… don’t tell me. Just enjoy your unicorn powered life. I don’t have that and never will.

I pulled the air filter to get at the battery and pulled the battery and put it in my truck. It was time to drive to “the big town” and have the battery tested. Mrs. Curmudgeon came with me, probably reasoning I needed adult supervision, which I did. It was hot and I was feeling dragged out. I was craving a Slurpee like they had when I was a kid. Do they still make those?

I announced I would go sailing the next day regardless of whether the tractor ran or not. The season is fleeting and I’ve neither camped nor sailed!

Not only is the boat ignored, I haven’t even used the truck much. Elections have consequences and tripling the price of diesel matters. On the way I thought “I’ve been neglecting this truck. It’s steering a little weird.” It’s a Dodge and always prone to another bout of “death wobble”. I decided I’d better dump some money on the infernal beast before it implodes.

Sure enough, as we arrived at town Mrs. Curmudgeon said “your truck smells hot”.

“Can’t be,” I glanced at the gauges, “it’s in fine tune… or at least good enough.”

But we’d stopped in traffic and something was not right. I shifted down to increase RPM and thus blow more air. I wondered if my transmission was getting hot. My Dodge will tow a battleship and the engine runs cool but the transmission has never done well with high ambient temps and low speed. Pull a tank out of a field? It’ll do that fine. But if I idle in a hot Walmart parking lot to soak up AC it might melt! By the time I got to the parts store there was no denying something was seriously wrong.

I parked carefully, as if I might be there a few days. I said a little prayer before I shut it down. “Please start up again sometime.”

Smoke was drifting from the hood. I popped the hood and that wasn’t the source. I traced it to the driver’s side front brake. Clearly the caliper had locked. It was hot and smoking! How long had I driven it like that? No idea! I watched it a while in case it was going to catch on fire. (That has happened to me on a different vehicle!)

Then, all out of ideas, I grabbed my tractor battery and went into the store.

To my delight, the tractor’s issue really was a bad battery! I picked a new one and started a conversation with the parts counter person. I’m not going to use her real name because I want to respect her privacy, let’s call her Barb.

I asked Barb if it would be ok if my truck was in the parking lot for a while, possibly overnight. I explained that I had a seized up caliper.

Barb surprised me by marching out the parking lot to check on the situation… personally! She looked at the truck, chatted with Mrs. Curmudgeon, pounded a cigarette, and then… there’s no other way to say it.

Barb adopted me!

She recognized a man who needed help. She decided that I was going to get it. Barb is a fuckin hero!

More to follow…

[Grief makes you dumb. I’m hopelessly distracted. I lack whatever wit I once had. Hopefully it’ll return of it’s own initiative. Presumably it’ll do so at the appropriate time. Is it not a blessing for keen awareness to vanish precisely when hard edges of life cut too deep? On a lighter note, stumbling around in a fog is a whimsical experience. Is this is what life is always like for stoners and dumbasses?]

I ended my last post with a tractor abandoned at the edge of my lawn. (Don’t think of my “lawn” as the uniform manicured cartesian plain of the suburbs. Think “clearing” or “fire break” or “a place serially managed lest it become a forest”.) My half assed attempt at mowing collapsed at a cognitive/spiritual limit. I’d wandered off looking for butterflies. (Literally!) When that failed I walked away and got my first good night’s sleep in a month. It’s funny when I say it like that, but it is what it is.

When “the thinker ain’t working” I’m a stranger to my own life. Mowing the lawn should be a zombie level occupation. But I do things in a way that assumes I’m “on the ball”. (It has to be that way. My barely-tamed lawn literally killed a “point and ride” lawn tractor.) I run a 6′ finish mower from the 3 point hitch on a 35 HP tractor. It’s not rocket science but you can do a lot of damage if you “zone out”. Beyond the obvious risk (like wrapping yourself around the PTO) there’s plenty of hazard just driving the machine. I’d already “whanged” the garage door frame with the protruding bucket loader. Whoops.

So I elected to stay away from complex machinery. I did the simplest task I could think of; I stacked firewood. It was a wise decision that brought a small measure of peace. All work, no matter how simple, has a quiet dignity; provided it’s actually necessary. Firewood is the very heart of necessary!

Stacking firewood is one thing but processing it is another. I stayed away from my chainsaw! Touch that when you’re half aware and you’ll die. The physics problem of directional control while felling a five ton tree is closer to a chess match than a matter of brawn. “AC,” I lectured myself, “the saw is out of your league for now.” I stacked pre-cut wood and then bravely expanded to splitting it too. My 27 ton hydraulic splitter will rip your arm off as easily as a saw, but it’s not fast or unpredictable. Nothing bad happened.

I ran the splitter until the the tank ran dry. I’d like to say I remembered my plans to service the splitter but that’s not true. I’d tied a bag of parts to the gas can I usually use to fill it. Did past AC know that current AC would be on autopilot? I swapped a broke fuel line valve, put in a new spark plug, changed the oil, and replaced the air filter. As far as I can tell this all happened through muscle memory. I simply don’t remember doing it.

I split and stacked some more wood. Splitting wood creates a pile of “unusable” wood scraps beneath the hydraulic ram. This builds up. You have to manage it somehow (the best way is to split firewood at the stump instead of at the woodshed but I’m not doing that this year).

I drove the tractor to the pile, raked the “split detritus” into the bucket, drove to a random area of my lawn that was actually mowed (thus not a “spreading fire” hazard), dumped the bucket, and touched it off.

I shut down the tractor right there and procured a lawn chair. I sat there watching the fire for hours. What my homestead lacks in creature comforts it makes up for in peace. It was dead quiet and stress free.

Mrs. Curmudgeon, who cares deeply for her currently depressed husband, showed up with the fixings for a kabob. Nice! I positioned a few cement blocks and tossed on a metal grate. The food was good. The company appreciated. Also our dog decided fire grilled chicken was the best thing ever. If you have a dog why would you ever watch TV?

Oddly I missed my chickens. There are no chickens (free range or otherwise) at my homestead this year. Usually I have a couple dozen hens wandering about and if they think you’ve got food they’ll swing by to investigate.

I laugh to myself that I started a little campfire. I was deliberately trying to avoid “dangerous things” yet wound up playing with hydraulic rams and fire. How goofy is that? I suspect rural lives just have more sharp edges than other venues.

As the sun set I put out the fire and packed away the lawn chairs. I went to start the tractor and it was kaput! Dammit! No idea why. Not willing to diagnose it in the dark I left it there.

I’d like to say I got another good night’s sleep but we had a plumbing event at 3:00 am. Another dammit! Have I always handled so many “unexpected events”? It seems so weird.

Luckily I’d prepared for such an event years ago. I turned off valves I’d installed for just such a purpose and without fixing a damn thing went right back to bed.

The story continues…

[The following has no particular point. Life doesn’t have to be tidy. Sometimes you don’t know where you’re headed, sometimes you’re not even steering the ship, and today’s post is barely thought out.]

Here are photos from last summer:

Illness (not mine) and grief has gotten inside my OODA loop. It does what sorrow does. I grieve, pull it together, but collapse again. The situation will continue until it doesn’t. This will pass as all things do, but right now I can do naught but ride it out.

Thankfully, I’m back at my beloved homestead. How interesting to discover the deep attachment. Once I was nomadic. Home was not a place so much as a point of view. Familiar surroundings were unnecessary. If you’re content you’ll be equally content in a desert, a suburb, or wherever. Well it was until it wasn’t. I guess it faded with time. I only noticed it in my current stress. I didn’t know my homestead was… essential… but it is. I feel like I never want to leave again.

I landed at home, tossed my shabby luggage in the corner, and started looking at all the things I haven’t done. A summer ignored, a lawn gone feral, daydreams of motorcycle trips discarded. You cannot be two places at once. When you drop everything to attend an emergency, everything will be waiting when you return.

Yet this is my homestead and my connection with the land is good for me. It’s a tool with which I seek to right a weary mind. I have equipment, time (for now), and (barely) the health to work. Honest physical labor is good for you. You gotta’ start somewhere right?

I fired up the tractor and started mowing. The tractor has been idle and my land shows it. My hunting food plots were never tilled and planted. Corn that should be maturing right now lies dormant in a sealed bag of unplanted kernels. Dead trees accumulate instead of finding their way to the wood pile. I start small. I began to mow the fuckin’ lawn!

My heart wasn’t in it. Why would it be?

I found myself glancing at the milkweed adjacent to (and intruding into) my lawn. Surely there was a monarch caterpillar in there?

Lawns are stupid.

I shut down the tractor in mid swath. I stepped away from my ragged lawn and in a few strides was in knee deep weeds. I started methodically searching milkweed. There ought to be monarch caterpillars. Maybe I’d be lucky and find a chrysalis!

[For those of you that don’t know, most (but not all) years I capture a monarch butterfly caterpillar. I keep it in a jar near my desk with all the food and space and water it needs. I watch it mature, form a chrysalis, and emerge as a butterfly. Then I turn the butterfly loose. Try it yourself. It’s not as dumb as it sounds! Nothing on a screen; not Twitter (X), F***book, or TV is as pleasant. Nothing you buy with dollars does you as much good as watching a butterfly come to life. It’s a beautiful, sweet, innocent, childish, happy, pointless, inexpensive, sublime thing. Many times I’ve held a newly emerged butterfly in my hand. Have you? Why not? We all spend too much of our lives thinking about bills, car maintenance, and taxes. It’s a reprieve to see a being come to life right before our eyes.]

I’d seized on the idea of finding a caterpillar. I was happily moving from milkweed to milkweed. I forgot everything else. I was in nature. Not everyone engages with nature as deeply as I (and that’s fine) but for me it’s a big deal.

I “was in the now”. I wasn’t thinking about future or past, only the present. It was a good moment. Animals live in the presnt. Humans are cursed to lose immediacy. Most of us burn away fretting over potential miseries of the future rather than the glory at hand. I was in the “now” and it felt good.

It didn’t last long. My timing was bad. There were no caterpillars. Monarch butterflies had arrived, laid eggs, the eggs had hatched into caterpillars, the caterpillars had grown and then morphed into chrysalis, the chrysalis had matured, and new monarchs had emerged. The monarch’s cycle was over. I’d missed it.

That was it. I was done. I sat in the weeds near a ditch and let emptiness fill me. I think I missed the Perseid meteor shower too. I wonder if the skies were clear that night?

Sitting there in the weeds like an exhausted beast, I was spent. I was no worse off than I’d been when I’d entered but I’d been denying it. Now I wasn’t.

I grabbed a tick that had found its way to my cheek. Little bastards are everywhere! The trick is to catch them before they latch on; which I usually do. I flicked him onto my tick-proof jeans and watched him scramble away. Good test of the jeans. I guess I never stop observing.

The Stoics, such as Marcus Aurelius, instruct us to “get right with nature”. It’s wise counsel. Was it helping me; a ridiculous creature sitting cross legged on the dirt, up to my neck in weeds. I wasn’t feeling it. I’d found one blood sucking parasite and surely there were others. Is it not easier to be plugged into the Matrix? Netflix and chill, shut down the mind, abandon the soul?

The universe knows what to say, you just have to listen. A butterfly came into view. It caught my attention and I stared like I’d never seen one before. It flitted right past me into a bunch of thistles. The thistles are a good 5′ tall! They’ve grown in a shooting lane I planned to clear with my brush-hog. Even when I don’t brush hog the lane I usually drag a tree or two over the area as firewood and that mashes the vegetation down considerably. It wasn’t to be this year! My reward for procrastination was a sea of bright purple flowers. The monarch went from one to the other, methodically, unhurriedly but not missing any flowers either. It was unaware of the human sitting there… nor would it have cared had it known.

I assume it was a butterfly born this very month. It looked shiny and healthy. It didn’t have the tattered look you’ll sometimes see on the earliest butterflies in spring, the look of a being that worked hard to get to a just thawed northern outpost.

“Hello there.” I spoke aloud. Why the hell not? I can talk to critters if I want.

Butterflies notice motion more than sound. It didn’t spook because I didn’t move. I watched it work. It calmed me. I began to notice all the other pollinators. They were  harvesting what to them must have seemed a miraculous bumper crop of tall thistles. Bumble-bees chugged by like aerial dump trucks. Honey bees seemed less interested in the thistle. They were going nuts on the unmowed clover in the front of my tractor. High above me a hummingbird buzzed by.

I waited. Goldfinches like thistle. Would one show up? Sure enough one did; a flashy yellow streak zipping along to an unknown destination. Nice.

Another tick crawled on my forearm. For some reason I deliberately flicked him into the distance rather than submit him o a second experiment with the tick proof pants. Sometimes you’re in the right mood to be kind to all of God’s creatures; even blood sucking bastards.

Nature really does heal but I wasn’t ready yet. “That all you got!?!” I grumbled at the world. This was stupid and definitely tempting fate. If a rattlesnake bit me in the ass at that exact moment I would have deserved it. But I wanted something more. I see monarchs and finches all the time, I needed something that felt special. Not wise to make demands of nature but I’m as flawed as any of us.

Then it happened, a bird of a sort I didn’t recognize popped into view. That doesn’t happen very often. I used to “know birds”. I’ve since forgotten a lot but I’m rarely totally surprised.

WTF was that? An indigo bunting? A mountain bluebird? It wasn’t a jay or anything I’m used to. I could google habitat maps and try to guess what it was but why bother? It was the simple blessing of an unusually pretty blue colored bird that I didn’t recognize. A second one joined it. Then they both fluttered off.

I suppose I’d seen what I was supposed to see. I got up, brushed another tick off my hat, and waded through the weeds back toward home. I left the tractor where it was, clearly I’m not ready for that yet. After a thorough tick check, I fell into bed and slept for many hours.

Is there a point to this story? Maybe not. It’s just what happened.

We are all mortal.

I am healthy. A loved one is not. The clock ticks loudly. I hear the universe in my ear. I see it in my heart. The power of eternity leans uncomfortably close; crowding me, letting me know what’s coming. It’s gradual but final. I’m thankful it’s not all happening at once.

It would be false to say I’ve been preoccupied and thus unable to blog. Such would imply that pounding out fifty or a hundred essays a year (and my beloved squirrel stories) is the purpose of life, which clearly it is not. I am not preoccupied. I grapple with the very meat of living.

Blogging must wait. How long? I’ve no idea. I’d like to stoically shrug things off but I am human and have human frailty. I’ll need longer. A week? A fortnight? I do not know. I don’t resent the uncertainty. The mystery of life is as beautiful as it is cruel. A new world was created the moment we drew first breath. That world lives in time borrowed but never possessed. It must be returned to the owner. Such knowledge is a heavy weight but we all carry it. I withdraw for now because I can bear no other condition. Withdrawal is no more permanent than anything else.

I have paused from time to time in the last few weeks to ponder what to say. What bit wisdom could I distill? How could I communicate what I experience? Should I broadcast lived wisdom to the aether?

It came clear as I sat by a hospital bed. I cannot share my thoughts. Or rather I will not. At least not yet. We all know the losses that lurk in our future. We all have times of sorrow. Yet, for each agonizing repetition, the process must happen internally.

Despite our current false world of TikTok drivel and navel gazing social media, I am certain I’ve made the right choice. There are times to gather in herds and times to quietly ponder. I write little and none specific. That is my choice.

I want you to know I am alive. I humbly ask for patience. Soon perhaps, though I don’t know when, I’ll write again. I’m not out of stories. In due time I’ll return to conversations with trees and conjured satirical squirrels that scamper about fictional worlds.

If you must wait, at least know it is for good reason.

If I could ask one additional thing, it is this: Step away from politics and hug those who need it. Do it now. Thank you.

Real world shit which I won’t discuss at the moment is poised to completely or intermittently preclude blogging. I may be off line several days or weeks or who knows how long. If it takes a while don’t give up on me. Thanks.

[Continued from earlier post]

I’m calling bullshit on music on motorcycles that breaks the spell woven by the motorcycle itself. I’ve put up some “sprit matching music” to go with each of my three very different motorcycles. This is my last motorcycle and the hardest to pin down.

I can only hope the Harley-geezer who forced us to endure Tiny Dancer has reformed himself and and will NEVER PLAY TINY DANCER AGAIN.

Example 3: Honda Pacific Coast 800

Description: 30 years ago Honda sought to expand the motorcycle market beyond people who enjoy engines and mechanicals. They built the perfect bike to get somewhere without drama. It turns out people love drama. They missed it when it was gone.

Honda’s utterly competent no-bullshit transport was a flop. People who can’t quite define “overhead cam” still want to see the engine anyway. Also they want to see chrome. It’s hard to can’t roll into town to the mental sound of electric guitars and screeching eagles if your bike is mechanically flawless and adequately powered without being ridiculous. The market didn’t want “adequate”, it wanted “overkill”!

Long suffering bastards, the poor Honda’s engineers did a great job of mixing form and function only to realize nobody cares. They soon turned back to the Goldwing which is scaled more like an Imperial Starcruiser than a two wheeled vehicle (and is so successful it’s practically a license to print money).

The PC800 is proof that you can build something awesome and perfect for its intended use, only to get kicked in the balls by the market. It’s the Betamax of a world that has long forgotten VHS.

On the other hand, I get to have one and it was cheap. The universe made a motorcycle just for me! How cool is that?

The Pacific-Coast is quiet, clad in plastic, and looks more modern than most bikes on the road (despite being 34 year old technology). If you know what you’re looking at, it’s slightly unnerving. It makes you question your core beliefs about machinery and the true definition of “motorcycle”. If you don’t know what you’re looking at, you assume it’s a small Goldwing and wonder why I don’t have a stuffed animal strapped to it.

Appropriate Soundtrack: If you’re going to ride a Tupperware clad antique you’ve already proven you don’t give a shit what the crowd thinks. You’re a nerd because you didn’t freak out about the missing chrome. You’re so deeply unconcerned with societal norms it’s amazing that you remembered to wear pants. Are you wearing pants? You’d better check!

The PC800 is massively uncool. Anyone weird enough to buy one probably won’t know what cool would look like even if instructed by the TV (which he doesn’t watch). The soundtrack for an oddity like this should be technological, dated, and odd.

The interesting thing about this bike is that it can pass through the uncanny valley of oddness and emerge into coolness from a different dimension of time and space; but only if you’ve got an open mind. It’s like when you listen to a bitchin guitar riff and then realize it was played by Prince. “The little purple dude played this? Huh!” The Pacific Coast was made when “Silicon Valley” was a new idea, for people who don’t want the cruiser look and have more practical uses than sportbikes. The Pacific Coast 800 won’t get you laid but you knew that the instant you looked at it.

The Pacific Coast is a motorcycle for people who read too many books. Here’s my selections for the PC800:

Whip It, Devo:

Now whip it
Into shape
Shape it up
Get straight
Go forward
Move ahead
Try to detect it
It’s not too late
To whip it
Whip it good!

She Blinded Me With Science, Thomas Dolby:

Ha! It’s poetry in motion
Now she’s making love to me
The spheres are in commotion
The elements in harmony
She blinded me with science
(She blinded me with science!)
And hit me with technology

(Good heavens, Miss Sakamoto – you’re beautiful!)

Bike, Pink Flyod:

I know a mouse, and he hasn’t got a house
I don’t know why I call him Gerald
He’s getting rather old, but he’s a good mouse

Space Oddity, David Bowie:

This is Major Tom to Ground Control
I’m stepping through the door
And I’m floating in a most peculiar way
And the stars look very different today

For here am I sitting in a tin can
Far above the world
Planet Earth is blue
And there’s nothing I can do

Bonus Classical Track, Dance of the Sugar Plum Faeries, Tchaikovsky. (Don’t worry about what to play while riding with a “club”, you’re a club of one.)

[Continued from earlier post]

I’m calling bullshit on all music on motorcycles that wrecks the whole motorcycle’s soul! Either turn off the radio or play something that matches the spirit of your ride!

Here’s my second post where I put up some “sprit matching music” to go with each of my three very different motorcycles. This post is for “cruisers” and cruisers practically come with their own soundtrack so it’s easy to see what I mean.

I can only hope the Harley-geezer who forced us to endure Tiny Dancer is crying in his sleep as his expensive motorcycle mocks him and runs off to party with the hot new sportbike downtown.

TINY DANCER IS NOT OK!

Example 2: Honda Shadow 1100 (applies to all Harley-Davidsons and most “Cruisers”).

Description: Cruisers are contractually obligated to the universe to have styling cues dating to the 1940’s. This is weird because 1940 was a long time ago. It’s not like there was some massive engineering revolution that has remained unchanged the ensuing 80 years but it is what it is.

The form factor is so strongly established that many people don’t even know there are bikes with different characteristics. I’m mystified that people continue to buy bikes modeled aesthetically after a time that passed before they were born; but I have one.

Cruisers all have a v-twin engines, gobs of chrome, and ample displacement. A few cruisers (like the very cool Honda Valkyrie and the unique BMW R 18 Classic) differ slightly from the formula but such exceptions are rare. It is a known fact of the universe that if Harley-Davidson ever makes a 4 cylinder motorcycle, Milwaukee will be burned to the ground by people who weren’t alive in 1940 but spent their Social Security checks on an Electra Glide five years ago.

For all cruisers, styling is key. Chrome is added whenever a spare dollar is detected. This doesn’t mean I hate cruisers. I have one. It’s a Honda Shadow (not the one in the photo). A Shadow has everything to look like a Harley-Davidson while being built entirely differently. Long suffering Honda engineers were beaten with sticks to accomplish this. They carefully disguised every good useful feature like liquid cooling, shaft drive, reliability, and economy.

The arrival of metric cruisers pissed the establishment off royally! Shadows (and others) were subject to the protective “chicken tax”. Shadows were subsequently made in Ohio. Shadows were sued all the way to the supreme court because they sound like a Harley. All of this did nothing to stop them because metric cruisers are built like brick shithouses. They cannot be killed.

Bikes made by Harley-Davidson were once sketchy quality but that’s years ago. Now they’re just as good as anything made by Honda or Suzuki and they cost only twice as much.

I have ridden my cruiser through most of the continental US and many conditions that were pretty extreme (such as Death Valley), but that’s not common. A cruiser’s natural habitat is a bar within five miles of the owner’s house but only on sunny summer weekends.

A photo of a generic metric cruiser is below:

Appropriate Soundtrack: If you’re gonna have a bad ass bike… be a bad ass. Every note and sound should be pure testosterone… it should be the kind of music you can play loud enough to drown out the money you spent on those Screaming Eagle pipes.

Look for electric guitars, heavy metal, any song with a powerchord, ideally all three. Music themes should involve riding, fucking, and battle. Yes, we know you’re a dentist from Des Moines but leather up and go with it! Much of the music is dated but that’s ok; the whole scene was obsolete decades ago and nobody cares. (*I don’t mind being obsolete so don’t take this personally.)

It’s important to note that TINY DANCER IS NEVER OK.

Ride With Me, Steppenwolf:

And I, I, I’m so confused
Which way, which way to choose?
Ride with me baby ’til the end of the day

Macho Man, Village People (No power chords but this is clearly a cruiser mating call):

You can tell a macho, he has a funky walk
his western shirts and leather, always look so boss
Funky with his body, he’s a king
call him Mister Ego, dig his chains
You can best believe that, he’s a macho man
likes to be the leader, he never dresses grand

Immigrant Song, Led Zepplin:

The hammer of the gods
Will drive our ships to new lands
To fight the horde, sing and cry
Valhalla, I am coming

Come Out And Play, The Offspring (For the 1%-ers)

If one guy’s colors and the others don’t mix
They’re gonna bash it up, bash it up, bash it up, bash it up
Hey, man you talkin’ back to me?
Take him out
You gotta keep ’em separated

Pretty Fly (For a White Guy), The Offspring (For the dentist who wishes he was a 1%er)

You know, it’s kinda hard just to get along today
Our subject isn’t cool, but he fakes it anyway
He may not have a clue and he may not have style
But everything he lacks, well, he makes up in denial

I’m Too Sexy, Right Said Fred (If your bike is what I call “overchromed” this song is in your head every single mile ridden).

I’m too sexy for my shirt
Too sexy for my shirt
So sexy it hurts

Bonus Classical Track, Flight of the Valkyries, Wagner. (Only to be used when you’re riding with your “club”.)

Part 3 coming up…