"I'm Outta Here!"

"I'm OUTTA here!"

"I'm Outta Here!"

Though HappyDay Farms is spread out over two parcels, and has significant gardens in five different locations, we all manage to converge for the midday meal, served at the original farm house, the one in which the boys were raised.

What we really need is one of those steel triangles, like the one used in the western film “Lonesome Dove,” to summon all ranch/farm hands to the feed trough, in our case, the dining room table. It would be heard everywhere; of that there can be no doubt.

As it is, circumstances dictate the time of the meal, based on market days and however many warm bodies will be at the table, and Annie goes with the flow. A meal such as yesterday’s, a Mexican-styled barbecued chicken salad, with its aesthetically appealing appearance battling with our taste buds for attention, is a classic example of Annie’s vast experience in these matters.

Looking at this pic, one would NEVER suspect.

Too busy to be able to simply prepare the meal on a more conventional schedule, she started the barbecue about 7:30 yesterday morning, in order to prepare the boneless, skinless chicken breast meat for the salad. I was out back, dead-leafing, when I smelled the smoke.

Upon investigation, I found the barbie already fired up. While the coals were burning down, she was able to chop and dice the rest of the ingredients for the meal, and whip up the dressing. This is where the Mexican part of the salad comes in, because the dressing is a cilantro-based recipe, a white blanket of goodness that simultaneously cools matters down, while igniting an explosion of flavors in one’s mouth.

Having fresh salad greens heightens the culinary adventure, one already so infused with deliciousness, that fresh tomatoes are deemed unnecessary except as a side dish. The room-temperature pitcher of fresh spring water, is filled and ready to be poured into the green pint Mason jars, which are replaced in their rack on the dining room table, after they have been washed.

The farm-hands mosey in from various directions, scrub down, and then swarm. I stay out of the way, preferring at all times to take a back seat. I eat, if and when I determine that all working Janes and Joes will get fed first. I can always scrounge-I am a master at it, especially since it always begins with a quick blitz through the garden for tomatoes, apples, a lingering lemon cucumber, and whatever else strikes my fancy.

Conversation is inevitably lively and yesterday was no exception. After bashing The Donald mercilessly for his vulgar words and intentions, we moved on to an infinitely more palatable discussion, though one which also touched on unruly behavior.

This headstrong performance was brought to us by none other than Small Boy, a moniker attached to Nathaniel, aka Lito, since he was a young boy who was anything but small. Maybe that is why it seemed natural that we would make the decision to go ahead and start him in kindergarten only ten days after his fifth birthday.

I mean, the little guy was as sharp as marbles and we figured, why not give him the boot out of the house, so as to free up Annie for volunteer work in the different classrooms? We had been talking up this scenario to Lito all summer long, and he was all gung-ho to give it a go.

[Editor's note: "Give him the boot?" Could we try, "Why not provide for the little tyke, the educational opportunity of a young lifetime?" Just saying.]

That is, until he found out that Mama was not a part of the package. I mean, he had been told all of this, but there was a disconnect somewhere, one which played out in the elementary/middle school staff room one September morning, way back in school year 1990. Coincidentally, this was also my first year as a full-time teacher in the middle school.

Official "mug" shot

Annie might have been in Susan Bradley’s class with Ben, or she may have been in Jane Puritan's class with Casey, but wherever she was, she got a phone call from Principal Matlock, he of the descriptive eyebrows and ever-present smile. 

Mr. Matlock would exude hospitality and benevolence while conducting your own execution.

Whatever was said to Annie on the phone, she flew in the side door of the staff room, to find Lito doing his best imitation of Hurricane Matthew, 26 years before the fact. Specifically, he was scrambling around the cramped room, knocking chairs over and pulling mail out of the district employees’ cubbies. 

He had already cleared the expansive staff room table of everything that had been deposited there, binders and books strewn around on the tiled floor, as if finally free on a long-awaited field trip.

Assessing the situation at a glance, and regretting that she had not been able to foresee this tantrum, all she could do was make a beeline for Small Boy, who put up a gallant fight. This included a last-ditch dive under the table to the other side, where the same debris that he had scattered, finally trapped him long enough for Annie to grab an ankle.

Triumphantly she glanced up at Mr. M, who paused no longer than an eyebrow flutter or two, before drawling laconically, “Well, I donnnnnnnn’t think he’s ready for kindergarten, yet.”

Hey, Lito could have put one of those chairs through the sliding glass door, so consider yourselves lucky, was all I could think when Annie gave me the sordid details. When asked what the issue was, Lito provided the obvious answer, or rather, question, “Where was Mom?”

Got it.

The story is that much funnier because the dude is not an excitable fellow, unless Conor Gillespie has just hit a three-run home run to knock the New York Mets out of the Wild-Card game. 

Then you might just see him revert back to kindergarten age.

Who'd a thunk?

My Fractured Country, Thee

Sung to the tune of "My Country, Tis of Thee," or "America."

My Fractured Country, Thee

My country, ’tis of thee,

Cold land of poverty, your pain I see.

Land where my fathers died,

Land of foul genocide,

From every ghetto street,

Freedom retreats.

My fractured country, thee,

Land of the wealthy, thy name I flee.

I loved thy rocks and hills,

Until the industry filled,

My heart and my soul, with revulsion.

Let music fade away,

And drag from all the trees, the last wood deck.

Let billionaires rule all,

Let Donald Trump take all,

Let rocks their silence break, And down we fall.

Our fathers now are gone,

Authors of liberty-

I’m glad they’re gone.

Imagine how horrified they’d be

Should they awake and see

Fifty million in poverty

Someone save their souls…

A Crock of Liars and Thieves

Veterans deserve to be supported.

A Crock of Liars and Thieves

The ultimate champion of the downtrodden, Charles Dickens, described Ebenezer Scrooge in “A Christmas Carol,” as a “tight-fisted hand at the grindstone…a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner…”

Scrooge, aka The US Government

So might I describe the Republican Party of today, with one additional note that not only is it all of the adjectives Dickens uses, but underhanded and immoral as well. I say this because to promote war and weapons as a means to make money, without providing support for the “tools” of the trade, as military personnel might be referred to, is an abomination.

There is no other way to describe it. Rich lawmakers, intent only on their own self-serving agenda, savagely go about the business of producing weapons of mass destruction, in order to continue waging a global assault on what remains of earth’s natural resources.

They have one purpose in mind-to enrich themselves. These purveyors of death and destruction use the poor and the uneducated to acquire wealth, and then have the gall to deny the returning war force, the most basic of amenities.

Here is a list of bills that have been “shot down” by Republican lawmakers, the party which calls itself The Patriot Party:

The Clay-Hunt Suicide Prevention Act

Health Benefits & Retirement Pay Restoration

Wounded Veterans Job Security Act

Veterans Retraining Act

Homeless Veteran Reintegration

Disabled Veterans Home Accessibility Grant

Job Corps Act

Torture Veterans & Victims Relief

Veterans Business Center Act

Examine the list, if you will, please:

Greed, a game only the rich can play...

Suicide prevention? Why bother? Let the weak die and “diminish the surplus population,” was the way Dickens phrased it.

Health benefits? Act tung, Chucko! Costs money! Scratch that…

Wounded vets? Tough! Should have dodged that bullet…

Retraining? For what? We’re done with you. Get lost…

Homeless? Get a job!

Disabled? See above…

Job Corps? Hit Micky D’s up-they always need “chefs…”

Torture? You’re killing us!

Veterans: No begging on this corner...

Veterans Business Center? Why bother? 

There is so much wrong with this picture, it sickens me. I am not the veteran who needs help. I live on a farm on a ridgetop-I have everything I need, including good physical health, so I speak for my fellow vets-and against the filth and corruption of an uncaring government.

We can disagree on politics, we can disagree on cannabis and we can disagree on religion, but we cannot disagree on the concept of responsibility.

The government of this country owes the veterans who served it, a modicum of human respect and dignity, and it’s not providing it. Talk about standing for the flag all you want, and paying respect to a great nation.

Well, I got news for you folks, a nation that doesn’t take care of its “human tools of the trade,” is nothing but a despot, like Moammar Khadafy or Saddam Hussein. 

The creeps who run the government of our country are just a crock of thieves and liars.

https://www.facebook.com/Teanderthal/photos/a.241007069270330.50975.240984512605919/1151665911537770/?type=3&theater

Uncle Sam

Small Minds-Small Pleasures (Part Two)

My shrine to the Giants

Small Minds-Small Pleasures (Part Two)

“I don’t know what to do!…I am as light as a feather. I am as happy as an angel. I am as merry as a schoolboy. I am as giddy as a drunken man…” Charles Dickens, “A Christmas Carol”

Madison Bumgarner

As you have undoubtedly heard by now, whether you wanted to or not, the San Francisco Giants won a ball game Wednesday night, and all is right with the world. All is right for least for 48 hours, anyway, when the Giants travel to Chicago, to oppose a team that has been anointed since day one of this season as this year’s most likely world series winner.

The Giants sent the New York Mets home Wednesday night, with one swing of the bat, and still one more dominant performance by a guy now recognized as the greatest major league postseason pitcher who ever played the Game.

Conor Gillaspie  hammered a ball over the right-center field wall with two on in the top of the ninth, and Madison Bumgarner came back out to the mound in the bottom of the ninth, to nail down his second complete-game shutout in as many Wild Card appearances.

There is no precedent for this kind of dominance in a major league baseball uniform. We saw Travis Ishikawa send the Giants to the World Series in 2014, with his three-run blast against the St. Louis Cardinals, and now we have seen Conor Gillaspie send the lads on to the National League Division Championship Series, against the Chicago Cubs.

But it was the same dude, Bumgarner, who was hurling the shutout in both of those Wild Card games, having now extended his scoreless streak in must-win postseason games, to twenty-three consecutive innings. The number is staggering by any and all standards, which is why that term “best in MLB postseason history,” has been bandied about so much.

If you got it, flaunt it.

The reality is Madison Bumgarner does not flaunt it-he just gets it done. He is quick to deflect attention away from himself, and reacted in a painfully embarrassed

way when asked by Buster Olney, after the game, what he would like his legacy to be.

Embarrassed because the question asked him to focus on himself, instead of on the team, he shrugged and said, “I don’t know; to be known as a winner?” he suggested, as though anyone would ever question that.

Madison Bumgarner, no “d” to be found in his surname, has been a central cog of the Giants’ three recent World Series Championships, along with his battery-mate, Buster Posey, so his name is already synonymous with “winner.”

And I am as giddy as a drunken man as a result.

Job Security

Job Security

“Monday means market day here at HappyDay Farms, and Annie and I will be in the ‘Ville this afternoon, with kale, collards, salad greens, tomatoes, peppers and Arkansas black apples.”

This is the start of Monday’s post, as I did what I have tried to do on Mondays for the past three years or so, posting photos and sharing what is happening on-farm. The big difference this week, is that I was going to be in town as Annie’s faithful sidekick, something that I have only accomplished once this season, way back in May.

My reason for going was primarily to support Annie, who was determined to carry out market down in Laytonville, even though the decision has been made by both Casey and Amber to take some time off. Both had announced earlier, that come October, they were stepping back out of the arena, both in need of a break from the frenzy of CSA and market life.

The reason Annie wants continue is that we still have hot-weather crops producing at a high volume, despite the rain that has blessed us with its presence the past two days. We took vast quantities of Ace tomatoes, habanero and sweet peppers, eggplant, two varieties of string beans, sweet onions, kale, salad greens, beets, and Arkansas black apples to market yesterday.

I also took produce to Courtney at Mendo Sun and to Will at Sho ‘Nuff Dem Biscuits, a task that I enjoy immensely because of the warm reception I get. It never ceases to amaze me how happy our produce makes people.

It is the ultimate guarantee that you must be doing something right. Casey has written for some time now about how rewarding it is to provide vibrantly healthy food for his community, and he could not be more accurate.

In our culture, we are fighting an uphill battle as consumers are bombarded with advertising that emphasizes unhealthy-but highly appealing-food choices. Additionally, the cost of a cheeseburger is frequently half that of an organic green salad, lending weight (pun intended) to the argument that fast food is simply a better choice.

The meme on social media warns that you can either pay the price for healthy food now, or pay the doctor down the line. There is much evidence that diet has everything to do with avoiding the ravages of cancer.

Diet and proper exercise are the only credible ways to maintain one’s weight, and organic veggies have to be a part of any healthy regimen. The fact that they are fresh, appealing and tasty is just a bonus, and folks are not shy about sharing their appreciation with us.

It is a mutually beneficial arrangement, especially since about the only thing we brought home with us were tomatoes. And just in case you think that is a bummer, allow me to assure you, it is the ultimate twofer, because I am about to start processing those we brought back. Together with the four boxes of tomatoes I didn’t even take down to town, I will have job security.

Yesterday’s excursion into town was flawless and quite enjoyable. I got the chance to catch up with some friends I had not seen in a long time, and I felt our contribution to our community was a valuable one, as Casey has so noted in the past.

As long as October continues to do what it has always done in the past, Annie and I will be down at market on Mondays, with whatever produce the farm is producing. 

You’ll recognize me; I will be the one polishing the Arkansas blacks.

Connecting the Dots

Arkansas apples at market today!

Connecting the Dots

“I’m good, thanks,” is not the same as, “I am well, thanks.”

The latter is a physical thing; the former is more a state of mind. Most of us are adept at being able to assess our physical beings, but not all are capable of doing the same for our mental states of mind. 

Hey, my knee either aches or it doesn’t; that back spasmy thing keeps surfacing, scaring the bejabbers out of me, or it has subsided, one or the other. Or, I haven’t had a headache in a month of Sundays! This stuff is all pretty perfunctory. You just check in with your body for the most current information available.

What gets challenging for a lot of people, is figuring out where they are, mentally and/or emotionally. When you are besieged by an overabundance of life’s curve balls, and you are afraid of getting smacked square in the teeth, the head can be a whirling dervish.

The ability to take that morass of upcoming challenges, like a head full of matted hair, and straighten it out into a manageable form, as you would that hair with a brush and a comb, is crucial for internal calm. Through perseverance and Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, I have acquired that ability.

Having a mood spectrum disorder, what old-schoolers would call bipolarism, required that I either take Big Pharma’s answer to my mental issues, or figure out how to get a handle on them. Having a mood spectrum disorder, is God’s way of taking normal personality traits, and blowing them up using plastic explosives. 

We still have lots of Ace tomatoes.

CBT is a fancy term for simply being able to take inventory of what is going on inside one’s head, and being able to take the results of said inventory, and apply them to what is happening any given day. How does this work?

It has to do with being able to quantify, or put a number alongside a trait or characteristic, a number that I place on a scale of one to ten. Take anxiety, for instance. How much of what is going on around me, is creating anxiety? Is my impending trip to town today, to do the farmers’ market, creating any undue stress?

Or how about my level of irritation? Does the slightest provocation make me see red? And how DO I measure these levels, as, indeed, they vary from day to day? And how does my habitual scarcity of sleep fit into all of this?

When I first went to Dr. Jill, in July of 2010, she told me she could cure my panic attack syndrome, if I were willing to do the work. The work to which she referred, dealt with being able to monitor and assess a bevy of personality characteristics one possesses, on a daily basis.

So let’s go back to irritability. At first the task was hopeless because I had no frame of reference. Yes, technology is hammering away at my peace of mind this morning, but how do I place a number on a scale, measuring it? Or better still, how do I record “off the chart” levels?

The answer is by having the continuity of assessing one’s level every day, in order to be able to make reasonable comparisons. On the first day the assigned number is arbitrary; that’s the hardest part because you are still unclear on how the whole system functions.

Once I have assigned a number, the next morning’s level has a frame of reference, because I can make a comparison between the two. Also, in the beginning, it’s hard because one has never tried to be so specific. What I found is that by examining each characteristic so particularly, every morning, that there was a difference.

Some mornings internet reception might be sketchy and I might freak out. Other mornings the same scenario presents itself and I yawn. If I am not looking for a specific discrepancy, it never occurs to me to note that it exists.

Once I started to connect the dots, it became much easier, because of that continuity. After a while, the chart itself becomes moot because the system is so ingrained. I can assess the areas of concern in a reasonably efficient-and more importantly-accurate manner, and then apply that information to my plans for the day.

I struggle any time I am in public; it’s the nature of the beast. That being said, much has to do with my reason for venturing out, as in do I have a choice, or am I on someone else’s agenda? My motivation for going to market today is diabolically simple: Annie would be going by herself if I did not accompany her.

Casey and Amber made it clear a month ago, that HappyDay Farms was shutting down the market in Laytonville, after September ended. Annie wants to keep going because we have so many tomatoes and peppers. I want to keep going because the black Arkansas apples are finally in. Most of all, I want to support Annie.

My motivation is certainly not based on something I have to do; it’s something I want to do, and therefore, my feelings are easy to analyze. So if you see me today and ask me how I’m am, I may respond, “I’m well!” Or maybe I’ll say, “I’m good.”

Or maybe I’ll just say, “It’s all well and good.”

Tomato sauce

The Cloak of Invincibility

The Cloak of Invincibility

It’s funny. I feel as though I wear a cloak of invincibility whenever I conduct business with any individual who once had the misfortune of being imprisoned in one of my classrooms. Why should this be, I often wonder?

What is it about this student/teacher relationship, that makes me feel as though I will always be in good hands, when I encounter former students? Is it just me? Am I imagining that I will always be treated right? Am I simply delusional? One (or more) too many bong rips?

I have conducted commerce with former students, I have been treated by them in the medical field, sought legal advice from them, have employed them, been waited on by them and been universally respected by them. I may not have seen any given individual for twenty years, but once the connection is reestablished, the framework falls into place.

That cloak of invincibility.

[Editor’s aside: If I encountered this word, invincibility, at any point when I was teaching, my knee-jerk reaction would have been to halt the presses. Stop everything! How often do you find a word in the English language with five vowels (six if you include “y”, which is frequently interchanged with “i”) all of them the same? Can you find another one? For 100 spots? On your own time? Ok, I’m done.]

Questions that might arise with unknown personalities, do not exist when I am interacting with former students. Uncertainty is vastly reduced because I always expect that my best interest, as it were, will be looked after.

I don’t expect preferential treatment because I never extended it to any individual. I have simply come to expect that any transaction that I conduct with former hostages of my classroom, will result in my complete satisfaction.

If I had taught in a major metropolitan area, in the same age bracket, the odds of my encountering former students would be infinitely reduced. Instead, as I meander through Laytonville or Ukiah, or conduct business locally, I can’t help but run into those who once had to wait for my signal, before they could bust loose out of their fifty-minute prison sentence, and out to freedom.

Make    Wise   Choices

Or what about that individual who made a poor choice somewhere along the line, as rarely as that occurs at the eighth grade level, and earned a referral? Wouldn’t there be resentment and/or bitterness when we met again? Maybe there was a suspension involved?

You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Kind of like your worst nightmare? My language arts teacher? As in, “fml?”

Instead, I have that cloak of invincibility.

Mine was the impersonal business of ensuring that the learning environment remain intact. I chose to emphasize personal choice as being the determining factor for the issuing of a referral, thereby helping to direct any sense of regret on the part of the student, back on him or herself.

Not on me. I was merely the messenger.

Baseball been veddy good to me.

I was-and remain-a behind-the-scenes kind of guy. Social settings are challenging for me; rarely do I attend non-baseball related events. Even then, I use my camera as a security blanket to limit the time I will have to actually function as an adult. 

I use social media’s inner wall to conduct much business, because it provides for me, that same sense of personal contact that I once had. As in, I have your undivided attention, even if I have to wait 24 hours after I posted a question or a request, to get it. Time is not a factor.

This bond supersedes politics, age, religion, and socio-economic differences. It is unspoken, unbreakable and quite precious to me. Who would have thought that what is often perceived as a thankless profession, should garner such rewards?

In past discussions, I have always maintained that it was as simple as two things: I like people and I unconditionally extend basic respect to anyone I encounter, until such time as that person demonstrates he or she is not deserving of my respect.

Rare is the pupil who does not respond to respect from an adult, with a greater portion in return. Weird how that works, but I attribute that principle to the confidence I inevitably feel, whenever I have cause to conduct business with former students. The same bond of trust that existed back in the day, has carried over.

It’s like being paid interest on a bank account that I didn’t know I had. I keep reaping the benefits from a job I held many years ago and I like the way it makes me feel, that warm and fuzzy feeling.

At my age it’s nice to know that warm and fuzzy can still apply to something other than my brain.

My best pic of the season...
Lito shows how to get it done.