For Whom the Whistle Blows

Will, ready for action-ready for danger, ready for Laytonville baseball!

For Whom the Whistle Blows

Annie and I are going to take in tonight’s season opener down at Harwood Park, an event we have been looking forward to with much anticipation. In the entire history of the universe, I do not believe there has ever been a more win/win proposition to hit the local township, than this adult baseball league, designed and implemented in the truest of small-town, git-er-done, mentalities.

There are eight teams this year, up from last season’s inaugural lineup of six. Geographically, they are all Laytonville-based, thereby eliminating the dreaded commute down to Fill-in-the-Blank because, of course, they are never going to come up to the ‘Ville.

Michael

What we have here is an unqualified Great Success. Not only has adult baseball established itself beyond the once-a-year Oldtimers’ game, it has taken over the collective hearts of our community. It works on so many levels, it’s ridiculous.

Begin with the fact that all elements of our unique region are represented on the field, and combine that with the knowledge that all of the teams play each other twice, and you can’t help but recognize that there will be a lot of intermingling of different social circles.

Fawn is now a Bomber.

Town people mingle with mountain folk; hippies rub elbows with rednecks. Spectators include all ages, with the kids watching the adults now, instead of the reverse. There is a celebratory feeling in the air and it’s no wonder.

This is what summer is all about and it’s what living in a small community is all about. Players on the field have been playing the game together since they were in elementary school, moving on together to little league, high school and for some, college ball.

It’s no secret that I am a fan of the game. I do not care what level of skill is involved and I do not care-substantially-who wins. I like to see diverse teams compete against equally dissimilar teams, the ages and backgrounds varying and shifting, because it levels the playing field.

Whether you own the local mercantile, or sweep the floors of said establishment, on the ballfield you are equal. Because the game is slow pitch, it does not matter whether you are six-five, or five-six. If you come to the plate with a runner on third and less than two outs, you have a good chance of putting the ball in play, and knocking in a run.

Is there any better feeling that that?

Jez

I have not been able to play ball since December 13th, 1991, the day I blew out the ACL of my left knee. I had taken my elective Spanish class out to shoot some baskets on this lucky Friday the Thirteenth, the rule being that every time you took a shot, you had to say something in Spanish. 

The next thing I knew, I was lying on the asphalt, with Miss Morrison leaning over me, while I wondered idly who the whistle had gone off for. Back in the day a whistle used to blow to summon emergency personnel, and you could hear it for quite a distance.

Wonder not, for whom the whistle blows, Mark; it blows for you.

I rode down to Willits in the back of the ambulance, fortunately the only time I have been inside one, wondering vaguely if this wasn’t a lot of hassle for a hurt knee. I remember Dr. Bowen examining me, prior to having X-rays taken, and me babbling something about hoping there was actually something wrong, so as not to have put so many people to so much trouble.

The Bombers oppose the Layton Villians @ 5:30

This inane line of reasoning stopped the good doctor right in his tracks.

“Don’t suggest that,” he said gently. “We don’t ever want to encounter ‘something wrong.’ Unfortunately, it happens.”

Conner

Eventually, he took a tendon out of my left ankle, and used it to build a new ACL, and I was good to walk again. “I can only do it once,” he told me, “so go easy. No more baseball for you.”

Thems what can, play the game. Them what can’t, sometimes write about it. We also enjoy going to the games. When the schedule was posted on face/book last week, I commented simply, “Go, Bombers!” 

Two of my favorite people commented, the first being Jezara, who wrote, “Those Bombers are lucky to have you as a fan. Jealous!” The second was Fawn, who responded, “We have the best fan there is in Mark. Sorry, Jez!”

Lito Burrito

Well, gosh did my white beard contrast with my red face! Honestly, that may be the best compliment I have ever received because I do love the game, and would love to be remembered for that love.

My response to both Jezara and Fawn was, “Baseball been veddy good to me,” a line the originated on Saturday Night Live, though I only stayed up late enough to watch it once. 

Baseball has been good to me. The pace, the personalities, the numbers, the timing, there is so much in which to revel. So I will be there this evening for at least the first game, which begins at 5:30, at Harwood Park.

I can’t play any longer but I have something else going for me: I am the “best fan” there is and that’s good enough for the girl I go with.

Action, Jackson!

Twenty Minutes of "Action"

Twenty Minutes of “Action”

“Teach your children well.” Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

The sordid story of the year has been permeating the media with its ugliness, imbuing the air with a stench that is so overwhelming, as to defy comparison. Begin with a crime of violence by an entitled young man named Brock Turner, distort that act by reclassifying it as “action,” blend in a background of entitlement and, finally, with a flourish, top it all off by finding the right judge, one Aaron Perksy.

Uncivilized behavior deserves
severe consequences.

This “judge,” with a similar background as the perpetrator, a former team sports kind of guy at the same prestigious university, handed down a six-month sentence in the county jail, instead of the possible fourteen years he could have mandated. His reason? “A prison sentence would have a severe impact on him [Brock Turner]. I think he will not be a danger to others.”

Every single element of this situation reeks. The loser who is at the center of it all, encountered an unconscious coed and violated her in the most heinous fashion imaginable. While he was engaged in this activity, two pedestrians happened along, and intervened, notifying law enforcement personnel, and retaining the attacker until help arrived.

The wheels of Justice seemed well-oiled, and the miscreant was convicted of three felonies, including penetration with a foreign object. All well and good, right? This should have been a slam-dunk; instead the judge bounced the ball off the rim, and right back into the victim’s face.

Six months? In County Jail? The same as my oldest son was sentenced to, for growing cannabis? Inevitably, Brock Turner, like my son, will probably serve only three months, at best, for good behavior. So I guess that means, that if Brock does not rape any unconscious coeds while in prison, he will get out in about 57 days.

Reprehensible.

The case went from the ridiculous to the sublime, after the verdict was handed down, when it was revealed that the father of the offender had the unmitigated gall to provide the most inane-not to mention impossibly offensive-defense, imaginable.

In a letter to the judge, the father spewed out a stream of irrelevant reasons as to why his son had already been “punished” enough for the “twenty minutes of action” that brought on this whole maelstrom of negativity.

In a nutshell, this one paragraph sums up dapper Dan’s reasoning,

…“These verdicts have broken and shattered him [Brock] and our family in so many ways. His life will never be the one that he dreamed about and worked so hard to achieve. It’s a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action out of his 20 plus years of life. The fact that he now has to register as a sexual offender for the rest of his life forever alters where he can live, visit, work, and how he will be able to interact with people and organizations.”

My response to Dan comes in the form of a few clarifying questions:

When Brock dreamed about that life he worked so hard to achieve, Dan, did he give any consideration to the fact that others might also have worked hard to achieve dreams in life? Did he think about the life he invaded and violated, and how her dreams might be impacted by a violent assault?

In using the term “action” instead of rape, Dan, I wonder if you ever bothered to teach Brock that rape is a crime of unfathomable horror? It is not about action; it is about dominance and power. Rape is about displaying the most despicable side that humans can display.

Do you realize, Dan, that women must go about their lives on a daily basis, worrying about men raping them? Unfortunately, rapists do not come with easily identifiable credentials. They are not always “sitting on a park bench/eyeing little girls with bad intent/snot dripping down his nose/Greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes…” as in Jethro Tull’s Aqualung.

No, Dan, do you realize that-as research indicates-more frequently than ever, rapists are to be found on college campuses, dressed appropriately, and ready for “action?” Some are even the captain of the swim team.

Do you see your comment, Dan, about the twenty minutes of “action,” as begging the question, “How many other unconscious coeds has Brock violated while at Stanford?” I mean,if not for the intervention of two good people, this would never have reached the light of day.

Do you know, Dan, that three hours after the “action,” when the victim finally surfaced, recovering from three times the legal limit of alcohol, she had no memory of the event? Does this mean that because she has no memory of the event, Dan, that it never really happened? Like the tree that falls in the woods?

I don’t think so, Dan. Many people do not think so, either. We think Perksy overstepped his boundaries, in granting leniency to a fellow swim team captain, and a whole lot of folks agree. Residents of Santa Clara County can sign a petition; all others, regardless of where they live, can file a letter of complaint. Here is the link for that: https://www.change.org/p/update-brock-turner-rape-judge-running-unopposed-file-a-complaint-to-have-him-removed

Why is it unreasonable, Dan, that young Brock be required to register as a sex offender? He is a sex offender. People deserve protection from him. This is the only system we have in place. Deal with it.

Additionally, Dan, we think you are living in a marshmallow world, where men go around raping women, and then not having to face consequences. That is bogus logic. It is twisted and perverted. That you would mention it aloud, at all, is testimony to your own unpardonable sense of entitlement.

You are a despicable example of a parent. Your son is the inevitable result. How dare you cry to civilized populace, that Brock’s life will never be the same.

BROCK’S LIFE SHOULD NEVER BE THE SAME BECAUSE THE VICTIM’S LIFE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME.

It’s quite simple actually, and has nothing to do with the bible. It has to do with living in a civilized world. The world in which you dwell, Dan, is not a civilized world. Therefore, Brock deserves to go away for a long time.

You deserve the same fate but will escape it. There are no laws on the books that incarcerate a parent for failing to teach them well.

If you were any more intelligent than a maggot, you would know this, but you don’t. My advice to you would be to keep your mouth shut. You know that old saying?

Better to keep your trap shut, and have people think you are a moron, than to open it and prove them correct. 

  

Ben-Jammin

Ben-Jammin

Benny made it up to the old homestead Saturday, something that does not happen very often during the school year. Ben is a full-time Health Occupations Teacher at Ukiah High School. Having labored in similar trenches myself for sixteen years back in the day, I get it. Teachers do not have time enough to cross their I’s and dot their T’s, let alone time for excursions into the country.

Ben's been Jamming.

This makes his visits even more pronounced.

I had no idea he was on the mountain, until I came in from working the West Forty, drenched in sweat from the muggy Saturday morning, and found him gazing around in wonder at the spring floral display to be found-everywhere. With thundershowers looming and the temperature not stuttering at ninety degrees, Ben-Jammin was a breath of fresh air.

I say that because he inspires me. I know what his job entails, especially when I ponder the notion that I might still have been in the classroom, were it not for standardized testing. I also know how filled his calendar is.

Meetings, public fund raisers, fund raisers which spill over into one’s personal space, prep time, supervision responsibilities, the list is endless. Teaching consumes the mind if it is being done correctly. There is no other alternative.

When I seriously contemplate a return to the classroom, especially if it were only for a single two-period reading/language arts block, I pause for a moment to linger at the intersection of Warm and Fuzzy. Then I step out into the roadway and get lambasted by a Greyhound bus.

I think about the daily commute to town, the impossibly long hours, the load of work I used to bring home, and the problems stemming from trying to stay hydrated. Next I remember the challenging personalities one encounters in the field, and finally I dwell on my current occupation of farmer.

I’m good, thanks.

All of this makes me appreciate what Ben is doing even more. I also know that he has gained recognition and appreciation beyond that of an admiring dad. I know that the state Superintendent of Schools paid a personal visit to Ukiah High School earlier this school year, to observe Ben teaching.

Hey, I was no lightweight myself, but the only head honcho to ever visit me, was employed by Laytonville Unified SD. The state Superintendent of Schools does not have time on the schedule to observe all of the Health Occupations teachers in California, so I figure he had pretty good cause.

I wonder if it was the time period that Ben devoted a week to raising students’ awareness of the dangers of smoking tobacco. He assumed the role of a person who was dying from the results of having smoked over the course of his life, including dressing the part.

As the week progressed, Ben’s physical appearance regressed. By Friday he was on a gurney in hospital garb, obviously on his last legs. As he was being trundled across campus at peak time, he clutched a ciggie, imploring all those he encountered for a light.

I am beyond impressed: I am flummoxed. I am also proud as hell.

I spend much time with Casey and Lito, here on-farm, but I think about Ben a lot. His is as hard a job as farming is, only for different reasons. I am proud that all three of Annie’s and my sons, are community contributors.

For me that’s as good as it gets.

Back Row, Aisle Seat

Back Row, Aisle Seat

I missed out on the opportunity of my lifetime yesterday, and you know what? I’m good with it. Only eighteen hours ago the impromptu plan to make the run down to Cloverdale, to see Bernie Sanders speak, surfaced here in our kitchen.

My knee-jerk reaction when asked if I was interested, was, “Hell yes!” Highly so. The Man. The Visionary. The Hope. The Dawn of a new Tomorrow.

With the new dawn, come a new hope.

Euphoria, like an overfilled birthday balloon, burst with a bang only seconds later, as I realized that what I was asking of myself, was comparable to being in the center of the crowd at Reggae on the River. I achieved phenomenal success in this endeavor last August, even though it was only ten minutes.

Still, those ten minutes exist and the accomplishment with them.

I didn’t try to stay in the center of the throng any longer than the few minutes that I did; I was just flexing my “social anxiety” muscle to prove I could do so. Though the accomplishment has buoyed my spirits and my confidence, it has not done so, enough to envision myself in the crush of humanity that inevitably envelops Bernie Sanders. 

I do not see photos of this in the media, only on face/book. No, the media refuses to give Bernie coverage, because it is bought and paid for by the same folks who make sure the American public does not see anything about those two recent oil spills.

I know. What two oil spills?

Now millions of Americans, a goodly percentage of them here in Cali, are as thrilled as I am to have Bernie Sanders, and no wonder. No politician in my lifetime has put out such a ray of hope, not since the assassination of John Kennedy, and the ascension of big money. 

If Bernie were not on the scene, the reality is that Hilary Clinton would be my candidate, even though her association with Monsanto is enough right there to cross her off my list. Sigh.

Bernie Sanders has fought the good fight since he stood side-by-side with Martin Luther King, Jr. and marched for human rights. He has never varied from this course of action. 

I like that in a candidate for President. The same cannot be said about any other candidate.

Money does not have the same hold over Bernie that it has over EVERY other candidate. He is not funding his campaign with big money from any individual or any entity. Period.

I like that in a candidate for President. The same cannot be said about any other candidate.

Bernie Sanders is a moral man; he understands the difference between right and wrong. He has consistently demonstrated this in his political career. You can look it up.

I like that in a candidate. The same cannot be said about any other candidate.

I wanted to hear Bernie speak, I wanted to see him in person and I wanted to show him that I supported him for those same reasons. I simply could not take the chance that I would end up impacting those around me, because I could not deal with the crush.

Unlike a movie theater, where I can sit in the back row, on the left side, on the aisle, there were no aisles at the Bernie rally. I could not assume that I would be allowed to hang on the fringes of the crowd, hanging back so as not to get engulfed.

There must be intense security at this type of event; I do not think it is being paranoid to assume that security personnel would be keeping a close eye on those who stood out, for whatever reason. Still, no biggie, right? Who cares if security wants to monitor me?

The bottom line is that if I had an issue of any sort, those around me would be negatively impacted, and that was unfair to them. I have made my feelings for Bernie as a candidate known, both at home and on social media, and that is what I do.

What I am learning not to do is beat myself up when I find that I still have impediments to specific situations, brought on by social anxiety.

I had already learned that fortifying myself with a barrage of substances, intended to help me deal with this anxiety, is not a good idea. I learned that on Easter Sunday, back in 2011, when I went to AT&T Park with the family to see the Atlanta Braves, and ingested a little something-something to help me make it through the day. Or two or three something-somethings.

I had tripled the usual Lorazepam dose from 2 mg to 6; I had brought a half-dozen gluten-free, cannabis cupcakes, the only food I consumed all day; I had taken a 500 mg Vicodin and I made sure to blend in three or four shots of Jameson, as we encountered various watering holes on our travels.

I fainted dead away on the ferry coming back from the game. If not for the support on both sides of me, by my two then-EMT-Cal Fire sons, I would have hit the proverbial deck.

Thud.

So, yes, I stayed here at home last night and watched the Giants beat the Cincinnati Reds, behind Johnny Cueto. Sue me. Whereas I might have felt guilty at one point in time, now I just feel hopeful. In the big picture it does not matter whether or not I was at the rally.

Like Hunter Pence, who just ripped his right hamstring muscle off of his thigh, I am on the sidelines, but not down for the count. Just as I cannot imagine Preacher Pence sitting idly by as he recuperates from his injury, I will not sit idly by either.

I may not be able to express my support at a rally, but I can express my voice by voting. Additionally, I can express my support on paper.

GO, BERNIE!

Farmer/Vegetable Conferences

Farmer/Vegetable Conferences

I’ve been a clerk in a grocery store (September, 1967/December, 1971), a clerk in a personal service company in the US Army (June, 1972/October, 1973), a clerk in an auto parts house (September, 1974/May, 1982), a carpenter (June, 1982/January, 1990), an educator (January, 1990/June, 2005) and a farmer. 

The progression of my careers has been an interesting one, because the older I get, the more zeroed in I get on what it is that rocks my work world. My definition of success dictates that the less I have to worry about a clock, the better the occupation is.

My first three careers involved clerking and went hand-in-hand with clocks, no pun intended. I watched those hands on the clock as they traveled at their respective paces, in all three of these professions. Whether discussing the second hand, which matches my manic nature, or the hour hand, which matches the drudgery of wanting to be anywhere else but where I was, the clock ruled.

I watched the clock also while working in the construction field, but had the luxury of being able to ignore it if I chose, by either not working at all, or by working torturously long hours. Additionally, immersing myself in building something was infinitely more satisfying than exchanging goods for money.

Teaching involved a clock, all right, but for the opposite reason that clerking did. I fought that clock every minute of the day for sixteen years, because there was never enough time to get caught up. Never. Inconceivable.

The all-consuming nature of education makes it impossible to ever be caught up because the plan changes daily, and all teachers can do is go at it like a major league baseball hitter, and make adjustments. Teachers never have enough time, including that which is “free.”

As professions go, teaching and farming are on a par for so many reasons, it’s ridiculous. Both require cultivation to achieve success, both require vast unlimited amounts of time, both involve contending with subjects that can be either easy or challenging and both can yield phenomenal results.

Farming should be taught in every school because,
well, eating is kind of important.

Farming does employ a clock but only for the purpose of keeping track of the watering schedule. Otherwise, the sun is the only clock that the farmer pays any attention to. That and his stomach.

The primary reason that farming wins out is because there is no 35-minute commute each way, each day. Oh yeah, and I do not have to attend staff meetings or conduct farmer/vegetable conferences twice per season, as I had to while teaching.

However, that being said, if I had it all to over again, I would combine the last two professions into one, and teach farming to kids.

It would be the greatest classroom experience imaginable, for everyone involved.

Automatic Pilot

Automatic Pilot

Cincinnati, four-year-old child, negligence, gorilla, barrier, moat, zoo officials…

Though face/book resonated with emotion, mostly indignation at the parent involved, after the recent event at the zoo in Cincinnati took place, I remained blissfully unaware. I had no reason to pay any attention because it did not relate to me.

It had nothing to do with me, that is, until the morning before last, when in a macabre series of unlikely events, I allowed my beloved pet, Dozer, to get run over by a truck and trailer. Whose fault was it? 

Dozer the dog

Like the parent of the four-year-old who managed to get into the gorilla’s enclosure, I dropped the ball, even if only for a nanosecond. All the ball has to do is hit the ground for the damage to be done. In this case it was the length of time it would have taken to shovel two more scoops of compost into the back of my truck, and problem prevented.

Back in Ohio there naturally is ample room for debate: That the child indeed was rescued should be the main story, but many want to levy criticism at the parent for not being more alert, and allowing the tyke to wander into harm’s way in the first place. Regardless of the specifics, I must protest that of all the areas of concern upon which to focus, this one has the least merit.

I do not mean to imply that parents should not watch their offspring, or that those who make it a habit of being irresponsible shouldn't  be held unaccountable, I just mean that criticizing a mom for what could have been only a moment’s lapse, is unfair.

As a parent of three sons I can only say that the job of raising a kid is impossible at best and absurd at worse. Having both Annie and me in the kitchen at the same time one fine winter’s morning back in the day, was not enough to prevent a practically newborn Lito from being pushed off the kitchen table by an older sibling. Accidentally, I am certain, or as accidentally as any nineteen-month-old does things.

Both Annie and I were within a stride of the action, and yet neither was able to prevent it from happening. Occupying the little bassinet on the table while lying on his back, the little dude fell face-first onto the floor while our hearts simply stopped.

Why the pillow was on the floor in the first place, we never figured out, but it served as a more than adequate cushion as Lito plopped directly onto it, ending up no more than scared out of his wits. Had there been no cushion, I can only imagine what the result would have been. It would have been ugly.

And I can only imagine the indignation others might have expressed at Annie’s and my “negligence.” 

“Let me get this straight,” the nice Mendocino Sheriff might have responded. “You allowed one of your children to shove the baby off the table, without doing anything to prevent it? You are reprehensible slimeballs, aren’t you?”

Uh, no. 

As for Dozer I walk him every morning of his life that weather permits. Well, weather always permits, but the Doze does not “do” rain; something about being outside and getting all wet just does not appeal to the sensible little guy.

I do not allow Dozer outside the fenced-in-complex unless he is on a leash. Though he minds me quite well, there is always the possibility that something out of the ordinary may come along, as it has in the past, to distract him.

There was the time the wild boar chased us, or the time the bobcat attacked the fawn within a couple hundred feet of us, or the time the coyotes went sailing by, with Emma and Clancy in hot pursuit. I mean, these are “normal” occurrences in the country that I may have foreseen, but did not.

I do not know the specifics of the incident in Cincinnati; I do not know what distracted the mother. Frankly, I don’t care. Life happens, moms get distracted and kids will pick that instant to find a way to get into mischief.

In my case it was six o’clock in the morning and no one was around. I was shoveling sixty scoops of compost into the back of my little pickup; the vehicle was situated between me and the road. I was on a roll, my right shoulder cooperating just enough to get the job done, even if it protested mightily the last ten or so scoops.

I was approaching the completion of the task, I had music blasting in my ears from headphones, I was aware of an approaching vehicle emitting the telltales signs of a trailer being towed, and I could hear barking. If I had been pressed at the moment, I am certain that I would have thought that the barking was coming from Emma. I did not realize that Dozer was also barking.

I had allowed him to simply wander in the early morning stillness, since the territory was familiar and there was no one around, and I had drifted into automatic-pilot mode. I didn’t focus on the sound of the approaching truck and I did not focus on the leash sitting on the passenger seat. I was consumed by numbers 59 and 60 in my pursuit of compost.

Over the din of the barking, I hollered out, “Good girl, Emma. Thank you for letting us know that company is coming through,” and having deposited that sixtieth shovelful of compost into the bed of my pickup, headed directly past my truck out to the road to see if I could calm her down.

I never thought about Dozer; for me he did not exist at that moment. I thought only of the inconvenience my neighbor may have been experiencing from having a barking dog impede his progress. 

The truck suddenly stopped and the driver got out for an unknown reason. He was conversing with the passenger and had just asked, “Did I hit him?”

It was the “him” part that alarmed me. 

“Him?” I repeated inanely. It was not computing; Emma is not a him.

“Dozer.”

“Nooooooooooo!” The intensity of my response shocked even me. Comprehension dawned and reality set in.

Dozer looked OK. He did not show any outward sign that there was a problem but something had made the driver know. When I called for the dog, he was able to walk the dozen or so steps to me, and I took that as a good sign. 

Relief flowed over me and I told the driver that I would take care of things and that he should proceed on his way. When he expressed regret at the incident, I hastened to assure him that it was my bad, that Dozer was normally on the leash and that he was just not car-savvy.

“No worries,” was what I said because it is not the responsibility of those operating a motor vehicle to dodge critters. It is up to dog owners to leash their dogs. As mortified as I was over the whole thing, levying criticism at a neighbor because of my shortcomings, was not the way to go.

I feel the same way about the mom in Cincinnati. Unless there is evidence to indicate that irresponsible behavior was involved, she can’t be held accountable for the dastardly deed of being human. 

Nor do I want to be held accountable for my unforgivable lapse of attention the other morning. I went with Annie to Willits, where that nice Dr. Jacobs did everything he could to make things right. There is road rash, ripped pads, lacerations and bruising, but there is a live dog. Sedated, no appetite, accusing stare, but alive and recovering.

“It only takes a second,” Dr. Jacobs sympathized, restraining the impulse to chastise me for being such an irresponsible owner as to allow my dog to get hit.

I don’t care who you are or what the circumstances are, stuff happens in life that is unfair and that’s the way of it. If you are lucky, as I am, you learn from your mistakes and there is no loss of life. Dozer belongs on a leash when I take him out and there is no excuse for not doing so.

Maybe that parent in Cincinnati should consider putting her kid on a leash too. 

Growing Like Gangbusters

Growing like Gangbusters

I’ve been lying here for a hour now, drifting along in a half-sleep, contemplating the universe. Having slept five hours, I am already ahead of the game by an hour, so I’m not likely to score any more sleep tonight.

Dozer can out-snore a helicopter when it comes to noise.

Soundlessly I rise, easy to accomplish with Dozer’s snoring reverberating through the entire lower part of the house. I mean the soundless part being easy, not the rising part. The clock reads 1:50 AM.

Yesterday afternoon’s foray into the orchard to prep soil for Annie’s Heinz tomatoes, has left me not only a little stiff, but also dehydrated to the point where I was unable to pound enough water last night to stave off the cramping in the muscles in my thighs.

Noooooooooo… Excruciating? Agonizing? Intolerable? Merciless? Depraved? 

I am paralyzed with an inability to go forward or to retreat: breathless, waiting, sweating, emitting a low mewing sound, inhuman in nature… This is a good morning for Annie to be upstairs in her nest, still recuperating from her recent surgical procedure.

If I just remain immobilized, the cramp will persist; I have to walk to loosen it up, as challenging as that is. More urgently, my bladder is threatening to loosen up also, giving me additional motivation to do, that which I am incapable of doing.

On the bright side, if I can overcome this, I get coffee! Two cups, anyway. Ridiculously slow in retreating, the cramp taunts me with its severity just long enough to firm up my resolve to increase my intake of water, to still more than the six-eight liters I pound every day. 

I glide into the kitchen, soundlessly. What is this on the counter? Oh, yeah, a dead chicken, as Annie’s pops used to say. Only it looks like a small turkey. Has it defrosted? Should I put it in the refrigerator?

Annie mentioned that the chicken was Casey’s and that maybe I could roast it at some point today. We have expanded our meal-making to include himself these past few weeks, gradually, with Amber being back in Ohio caring for her mama.

It’s not like Casey didn’t eat at our table for the first eighteen years of his life. Lately though he has been stretched beyond comprehension, trying to do double-duty on the farm, while resolutely carrying out his self-imposed responsibilities regarding the regulation and legitimization of medicinal cannabis. 

He has mastered the art of living off of what is available on the farm, for the most part, thriving on stir-fries, stews, and organically grown meat acquired through the local community. What’s not available is more time. Annie and I try to help out in that regard.

I contemplate the capon on the counter. With the temperature hitting the mid-eighties today, the prospect of having the oven on for three hours later on is not especially appealing. I like heat as much as the next guy, but not that much.

If I open up both the south and north bay windows, I will get a nice cross-breeze, and the house will not heat up. With any luck at all, by the time the sun rises, the oven will have been off for an hour. It will be 2:15 when I pop that bird in, and the book says that a six-pound chicken is going to take about three hours, give or take. 

I’ll melt a couple of tabs of butter, smear it all over the outside of the bird and add a cup of water to the roasting pan. I will also peel and quarter a couple of yellow onions and toss them in. We’re ready for action-ready for danger; we’re ready for the oven.

I have to stifle the impulse to take a quick stroll outside; it has to be at least seventy degrees, one of those nights when you can sit outside in a lounge chair and just watch everything grow. No rush. It will still be there when it gets light out.

My father liked to grow things, also, beginning back on Fellowship Street. At first he had a garden in the vacant lot next door, and then he transferred it right in the middle of our living complex, after a house was moved in to fill that vacantness. He used to say that when it stayed as warm as seventy degrees, the plants would grow like gangbusters. This morning the temp is 71.

After all, farming is about growing things, whether they are flowers, vegetables, herbs or love. We have a lot of love around here and I honestly can’t say if the love begets the farm or vice-versa. “Oh, love is a many-splendored thing…” I would sing over and over to the boys as kids.

On-farm even the chickens can squeeze in under this love umbrella. I have been tending the little darlings since Annie has been getting back on her feet, a true act of love if ever there were one. I have a love/hate relationship with chickens: I love to hate them. 

That being said, I am meticulous about the whole business of chickens because of how it demonstrates my love for Annie: thoroughly.

There are seventeen in all, sixteen layers and one rooster. THAT one is neurotic, noisy, skittish, but at least not aggressive…just a royal pain in the neck. But those girls will produce eggs, more than a dozen a day, making the loot we spend on the organic layer crumble well worth it. A bag lasts a couple of weeks or so and costs 36 bones at the Laytonville feed-store. 

How does the math all work out? Organic eggs cost more-or-less five dollars per dozen at Safeway. Let’s see now: 30 days x 5 dollars = $150.00; 36 dollars doubled is $72.00. We are bringing in around $150.00 per month, while spending $72.00.

I stopped in at the Laytonville feed-store one day recently, and wandered about for a minute or two as Meadow engaged in a conversation with a customer. I figured I would just mosey around and locate that layer crumble I needed myself, and lug a bag up to the counter.

Such the selection! Aisle A intersected with Aisle B, and there was an endless procession of fifty-pound bags marching on around the corner. I sidled back over in the direction of the counter, trying my hardest to feign nonchalance, while I waited for Meadow to finish up with her customer.

It didn’t take long and she was asking me if she could help me. When I explained my mission, she bustled back down those aisles I had just traversed, with me trying to keep up. Without hesitation Meadow grabbed ahold of that bag, and straightening up at the same time as she slung it over her shoulder, proceeded to lug it up front to the counter. Or so I assumed.

But no, she never stopped until she had hopped down from the store, onto the ground outside, and deposited the feed in the back of my little pickup. I had protested immediately as she hoisted the feed over her shoulder that I was perfectly capable of handling that task, but evidently, so is she. 

If I go on record as saying I was impressed, it implies that I thought a woman was incapable of such a mundane task, and I do not want to give that impression. I think I will just say that I appreciated being given excellent service by someone who then turned to me, after she had returned to her spot behind the counter, and said, “Will there be anything else, Mark?” 

Oh, Meadow knows who I am. Duh. For a minute there I forgot that I had taught Henry in eighth grade and had conferenced with Meadow more than once. Got it.

Now back on-farm, I fill both chickens’ dispensers with fresh water, replenish the crumble, jet back to those last two terraces I’m prepping and grab a bunch of that parsley for the little darlings. I head back inside to feed Dozer, Margie, Toby and Mr. Crips, take the dogs for their walk up to the top of the driveway, and take pics of the farm to post on Monday market day on the way back down.

Next I finish up that second terrace, adding vast quantities of rice hulls to the soil to offset the clay, and turning it once again to combine both the hulls and the compost into the mix. I must be able to thrust the pitchfork down until it bottoms out, and comes back up effortlessly, with no rocks or clods of anything.

If there are rocks, I toss them aside in a pile for removal later; if there are clay clods, I break them up and mix the result in with the rice hulls to prevent the clay from forming again. The mixture coursing through the tines of the fork, has to flow as effortlessly as the water does when a line bursts.

I do a quick splash-down of the three patches of marigolds just planted within the last few days, and then the first of two daily water applications (in this heat) for the greenhouse out back. I move on to Annie’s radishes, drying tomatoes and just-sown string beans. 

I finish up with the newly-planted cukes and squash, before going in to eat breakfast. Casey will be here and Annie said 8:30; I’m late because it’s a few minutes after that, but then I haven’t seen Casey either.

After breakfast Annie heads up to help out for market day as I clean up the kitchen. First I start the emitters on the deck for their five minutes of daily industry and monitor the clock as I clean, so as to make the switch from the deck emitters to those of the roses.

I have eight different little areas of ornamental flowers and herbs that I water over each two-day period. I flip each valve consecutively and the emitters do their job of distributing a minimal amount of water for maximum benefit. 

By definition, everything but newly planted seedlings, has to be on drip or emitters. There is just so much watering to be done, that to think of any other possibility, is to think about proper use of time. Time is the most precious commodity of all on-farm-except love of course.

There are no time-clocks to punch in on, when you work on a farm. That can be a blessing or a curse.  Like the field of education, a farmer is on-call 24/7. A teacher is also incessantly on-call: planning, reflecting, panicking, delighting, evaluating and then planning some more. The brain never fully disengages.

The farmer also plans, reflects, panics, delights, evaluates and then plans some more. His or her brain never disengages either, except he gets to eat what he produces, or appreciate the beauty of picked flowers, or benefit from growing of medicine.

The teacher does not see the tangible results that the farmer does, unless you want to look at test scores. Since testing was what drove me out of the field of education, you probably know that I do not care too much about test scores.

Test scores are to me, comparable to what the chickens leave behind on the ground, after they have inhabited a space for any length of time. The only difference is that what the chickens produce, at least does some good on the farm.

Test scores are nothing more than, well, er, um, chicken poop, without the benefits.