Spotlight by Default

HappyDay Farms will be at Area 101, eight miles north of Laytonville on The 101, all day this coming Saturday, celebrating Summer Market Day. We will be bringing an assortment of farm products, from freshly cut flowers, to preserves and fresh produce. We will also be featuring several strains of our medicinal cannabis.

Though I abhor the spotlight in every way, this setting can’t help but deflect a little of the glare from the bright lights in my direction. I am, after all, one reason why HeadSodBuster and BossLady are the proprietors of a burgeoning organic farm.

It’s one thing to have a dream to accomplish great endeavors; it’s another matter to have the land available to set the process in motion. Let’s just say that wanting to farm and not having any land, is like that Beatles song in which, “I’ve got no car and it’s breaking my heart, but I’ve got a driver and that’s a start…”

I share a small portion of that spotlight by default, simply because it was not an effort to “return to the land,” that brought Gluten-Free Mama and me up here in the first place, so much as an effort to “get out of Dodge.” We did not want to raise kids on the streets of San Jose, preferring the rolling hills of Mendo.

The original, sans windows...

Nestled in those hills was a 16-by-20-foot cabin, built by me and my brothers the previous summer, with no windows, no running water, no stove, no power, no shelves and no furniture. Into this tiny, dark box GF Mama and I moved, in May of 1982, with HeadSodBuster scheduled to make his debut in September. *

It took almost five months, sometime in October, before I got a hot water heater and a bathtub installed, and we could actually call ourselves civilized. For almost the first month of his life, HeadSodBuster was given baths with water heated up on the top of a stove.

Ah, pioneering! You have to love it.

So now, in a venue such as Area 101, I will sit behind the scenes in the back of our booth, helping out as needed, and bask in the shadow of what HeadSodBuster, BossLady and SmallBoy are accomplishing. 

Should the topic of “back to the land” arise, and it inevitably does, I will smile and accept the respect being directed at me, while knowing inside that it was more like the “Great Escape,” than “How the West Was Won.”

* It’s long and detailed: everything you wanted to know about pioneering… http://markyswrite.blogspot.com/2011/07/blue-rock-ridge.html

Who? Me?

Bell Springs Morning

My closet is lined with a wide array of hats, from which I choose a couple each morning, to direct my actions for the time being. Though I can only wear one at a time, I may have to grab several to get me through the day.

I grabbed the wrong hat on the way out the door.

Thursday morning I lassoed my construction hat on my way out the door, and headed over to the Pepper Pot, where I have been working with my nephew Jason to build a generator power shed. The work has gone smoothly, with the two of us having four mornings invested in the project thus far, not counting the slab.

All that is left to do is to finish insulating and plywooding [Editor’s note: Since when is plywooding a verb?] the interior, shingling the roof, inserting a partition wall and Hardy-Boarding [Editor’s note: Sigh…] the exterior. Finally, we will paint it to match the cabin and check it off the list.

What I had wanted to accomplish on Thursday morning, was some prep work that was better suited to one guy. Jason was employed elsewhere on-farm, so it seemed an opportunistic moment to get a little ahead. In order of preference, I wanted to prep the Hardy Board first, because this was the biggest job still yet to go, and if I could get us to the point where both of us could attack it, the job would go much more efficiently.

Alas, I could not find the electric scissors used to cut the wood-infused-with-cement Hardy Board, despite ransacking tool sheds all over the hill. No problemo, right? Plenty of other tasks. I passed on the roofing, because that is going to be a learning experience for Jason, and I want him to do it.

Besides, neither my surgically repaired left knee, nor my back, will allow me to tack shingles into place any longer. It’s all I can do to apply fertilizer or harvest cherry tomatoes, while dealing with discomfort, let alone using a lethal weapon so close to my exposed thumb. 

It has been three decades-at least-since I served myself a dish of hamburger finger, having learned slower than most how to employ a hammer without harming myself. I would like it to remain thusly.

I could not install the partition wall until the interior plywood was in place, so that became my choice of tasks for the morning. Easy peasy, light and breezy, was my predominant thought, an error in judgment on my part, if ever there were one.

Jason on the roof; project after 3 mornings.

Expectations can be a powerful motivator, but they can also lampoon a project and send it crashing to the ground in flames. Such was the case Thursday morning because I underestimated how hard the job would be. It started off well enough because I did manage to locate the R-13, 16-inch-on-center insulation, which comes precut to 92-and-a-quarter inches for easy installation. 

I installed it, and moved on to cutting a full sheet of half-inch plywood, for installation in the center of the south wall. It required an angled cut because the shed roof dips from eight feet tall on the east wall, to six-and-a-half feet on the west wall.

My cut required that I measure from the bottom of the plywood up to 95 inches on the left side, and from the bottom up to 87 inches on the right side, a routine endeavor. Yes, the measuring and cutting were perfunctory, but the installation was not. The shed is six feet by eight feet, but only eight feet tall at the east side. 

Maneuvering this sheet of half-inch plywood, a simple enough task in open quarters, became problematic in this small space. Nonetheless, with some colorful invective, including repetitive use of the word which starts with “f,” ends in “uck,” and is not firetruck, I sweet-talked it into place.

Now, I turned my attention to the right side, the mirror image of that which I had just completed. My vocabulary now being warmed up, I was ready for action-ready for danger. What I was not prepared for was any hint of adversity.

For whatever reason, and cannabis need not be given exclusive rights here, when I went to measure and cut the complementary piece of plywood to the one already installed, I made the cut from 87 inches on the left side, but forgot that one inch on the right side. I therefore cut the sheet of plywood from 96 inches down to 87 inches, and tried to install it.

When it refused to cooperate, I was dumbfounded. How was this possible? I knew the dimensions of the two walls had to match, or I would never have been able to install rafters correctly. Still, I could not “talk” that plywood into place, even with the threat of the ten pound sledge hammer.

Fortunately, I did not try that approach, only threatened it, presenting an entertaining image for you to savor.

By the time I finally discovered my error in measurement, my strained vocal cords were almost gone. I made the cut without measuring, and when I was done, I heaved that Skil-Saw thirty feet away before the blade had even stopped spinning. It is, after all, lighter than most because it is made from titanium aluminum.

I remove all interior branches
and leaves for good ventilation.

It was at that moment when I realized I was wearing the wrong hat.

I needed to get my cannabis hat out, and go home and sweep. That way the worst I could do was stab myself with a scissors.

Back in the day, we had a name for a morning when nothing went right: We called them Bell Springs Days. It’s been while since I experienced one, but at least I know what to do about it-change the venue.

That’s something I can do on a farm, as easily as changing my hat, which is why I usually grab more than one only way out the door.

Wrong, Wrong, Wrong

I will keep this painfully short, simply because I am well aware that the targeted audience will not be reading it. If you still support Number 45 as President of this country, then you are a racist. There can be no back-pedaling, no disclaimer, no feigned shock at the notion and no denial.

Smirk away, Cheeto.
I present to you-this-as
an example of white
supremacy. 'Nuff said.

Possibly the one good thing that has emerged from the debacle at Charlottesville, is that 45 has clarified any doubt as to where he stands on human equality. Of course, his previous comments about the Constitution being outdated, because not all people are created equally, might have been a clue.

The President’s assertion that there are “good people on both sides,” is equivalent to saying that being a Nazi sympathizer, is an acceptable position to hold. 45 has already set the Constitution aside with his ban on Muslims; all he has done now, is take it down, down, down to the next level.

Not only are Muslims undesirable, they are inferior to the white “race.”

It’s no secret that I have found 45 to be the most contemptuous and despicable individual alive, based on his greed, avarice and misogynistic frame of consciousness. Now, however, he has forged a level even deeper into the quagmire of my disgust, with his stance on human equality.

Coming from a swollen, fetid, odious worm of a man, the words ring out hysterically wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

45 supporters can no longer say, “Well, I don’t like him but he’s our President and we’re stuck with him,” because we’re not “stuck with him.” 

Impeach the son of a bitch, already, please, and remove this blight from our sight.

The Rookie

Farming can be the most satisfying profession on earth; it can also be the most frustrating. Take my orchard, for instance, where we are growing fruit trees and tomatoes. After all, tomatoes are a fruit and fruit grows on trees, so it seems appropriate to lump the two together. 

In the orchard we have an ideal south-facing slope, an abundance of direct sunshine, and vast quantities of enthusiasm all going for us; we also have water issues, gophers and inexperience working against us. If I were to evaluate the process of growing tomatoes in the orchard up until two weeks ago, I would have quoted the venerable Herb Caen, “Fergeddit!” 

Now I am feeling much more optimistic.

For ten thousand years, give or take, farmers have had water issues. When they arise we do our best to solve them. Then they arise again. Ditto with gophers. And the only cure known for inexperience, is time in the trenches, both metaphorically and literally.

From the beginning my tomatoes in the orchard have not kept up with fellow cousins, no matter where they might call home. The sixty Ace tomatoes and the dozen Evitas that are behind my house are infinitely better, and the ones up at HeadSodBuster’s spot are like the ones I imagined I would have.

I have known from the outset that there was not enough water being delivered, but except for acknowledging the bad news, I was powerless to do anything about it. The farm infrastructure is complex, sophisticated and way beyond my ken.

As I approach my 65th birthday, my desire to possess this knowledge has receded faster than the average hairline, because if I had this knowledge, I would then have to act on it. For pushing thirty years, I was the go-to guy when the water stopped running. I went-to a lot. 

Pin-pointing the issue and solving it are two entirely different matters, The usual methodology includes two steps forward, three steps backwards, then repeat ad infinitum. The intricacies of trying to distribute water to such a vast number of destinations defies comprehension. Pressure, temperature, foreign objects in the line, elevation, gravity, dirty filters, and Buster Posey’s batting average, all factor into whether or not I get adequate water to the orchard.

Fine, I was lying: Buster’s team-leading average (.321/.410/.488/.887) cannot have an impact on my tomatoes.

That being said, HeadSodBuster has already outlined a plan for next year that centers on the acquisition of a second three-thousand-gallon water tank, to match the existing one. The second tank will feed my spot exclusively, which means that many of the problems outlined above, will be either eliminated or helped considerably.

Two weeks ago HeadSodBuster descended upon the orchard like a man on a mission. The first thing he did was change the timers from going off once a day for 30 minutes, to going off twice a day, for 25 minutes, each time. Zounds! From 30 to 50 minutes per day, and delivered twice? 

Be still my throbbing heart!

The second thing he suggested was to hit them up with some fertilizer, little pellets that I was to distribute beneath each emitter, allowing them to dissipate into the soil and feed the plants. The emitters occur on six-inch intervals, which means over a fifty-foot row, a hundred emitters. Say there are three water lines in a row.

I was’t the math teacher at the middle school, but I can still tell you that that adds up to 300 little stations, beneath which I was to place between three-eighths and a quarter cup of the little pellets. As enthusiastic as I was to try and right the sinking ship, the thought of having to deliver the goods to so many deserving stations, was mind-numbing.

There are eight rows in the orchard; 8 times 3 is 24. That’s two thousand, four hundred little pit-stops I would have to make, in order to deliver the most effective remedy possible, to getting my tomato plants up to at least par.

The alternative was to apply liquid kelp to them, in five-gallon allotments. Naturally, the old no-pain/no-gain principle applied: The harder the task, the more effective the results. My thought was that if I were going to try and salvage the summer’s work, I should not pick this time to shirk.

Still, 2,400 emitters? 

I decided a trial run was in order. In addition to distributing the pellets, I was also going to make a concerted effort to make sure the emitters were as close to the tomato plants as possible, something I  had not realized was critical. I had thought that if the emitters were anywhere in the vicinity, that the roots would reach out to them.

Inexperience.

I chose the one row that had the most issues with water line placement, and decided that even if I only did this one row, I would be ahead of the game. Not being able to kneel, due to that reconstructed left knee, I had to let my back endure the brunt of the work.

Thus the job ranks among the hardest of the summer. Nonetheless, the process was simple enough and before I knew it, I had completed the first row. Nothing begets a great success, like a little one. One row down and seven to go. 

In the end I only distributed fertilizer to six rows, because the other two had cherry tomatoes, and those kids were off and running so fast, I would never be able to catch up with them anyway. I just sliced off 600 pitstops on my way to success.

The work’s done now and the immediate results are beyond what I had hoped for. There're still ten days of August, all of September and all of October to harvest tomatoes. 

Who knows? Maybe three steps forward, and only two backwards?

"Chicken in the Car-The Car, She Go"

Of all my hobbies writing provides the biggest kick. I love photography, I am passionate about gardening and I follow the Giants, even when they have MLB’s worst win/loss record, but it is still the act of writing that rocks my world the most.

Most of the pieces that I have posted on my blog, were prewritten in my head before I ever sat down at Suzy Puente, to formalize the process. Exceptions to the rule are the 100 or so pieces of short fiction, posted during the winter/spring of 2012, which were written extemporaneously. 

I would pick a subject, invent characters, and then proceed to write off-the-cuff short stories, that literally unfolded as I typed, surprising me more than anyone. The process was one that overtook me that year; I posted 66 pieces of writing in March alone, followed up with another 45 in April. 

Gotta love that mania.

Laugh the f#%k out loud...

What I almost forgot about, because it was such an isolated piece of writing, and predated my blog by five years, was a novel-length piece of fiction called Chicago, or Chicken in the Car-The Car She Go. The book featured me and HeadSodBuster making a cross-country road trip to Chicago, in the dead of winter, to deliver serious weight to a prospective buyer.

While writing, I got out the old-fashioned road atlas, and traced our route across the top of the country, selecting random cities along the way to spend each night. I invented scenarios that fit into our cover story of a dad escorting his son off to college, and even had a whopper which explained his starting college in January, and not September. 

The book is set amidst the flurry of excitement in Chicago, because of the NFL’s Bears opposing New Orleans’ Saints, a game won by the Bears, much to the delight of the locals. We were holed up in a brand-name hotel, about twenty miles to the west of Chicago, and the weather was frigid.

Tony Dungy and Lovie Smith

A subplot of the NFL playoffs that year, was the possibility of seeing the first black head coach in a super bowl. The two candidates were Lovie Smith of the Bears and Tony Dungy of the Colts. Gloriously, they squared off in Super Bowl XLI, with Dungy’s Colts defeating the Bears.

The winter of 2006-2007 was only a year or so removed from my retirement from teaching, so my book was a combination of the action of the cross-country caper, mixed with reflections on my career as a middle school language arts teacher.

The juxtapositioning of my school-teaching career, with my new occupation as drug runner, was too delicious for me to pass up. That being said, as contemporary, successful ‘Merican novels go, it was a total bust: There was no sex and no violence, and so nothing to attract a modern audience.

What can I say? I’m not that exciting of a guy.

Anyway, I have gone on record-incessantly-as claiming to have written the great American novel in my head, but that I have no time to put it on paper. It is the three-generational story of my family, and our eventual migration to Mendocino County, and it is ongoing, even as we speak.

Nonetheless, sitting on my shelf in my newly reorganized “office,” is this 150-page piece of fiction, that featured me as an anxiety-ridden, meek school teacher, hauling a trunkful of cannabis to Chicago. 

Right.

Chicken in the Car-The Car She Go, but only on paper and not very fast.

The Board Stretcher

I can smell smoke this morning, a clear indication that it is likely to be August. The fire need not be anywhere in the vicinity, because it can travel down from Oregon, or up from Lake County, at the drop of one of my many hats, depending on the mood of the winds.

Tomato sauce on a cherry tablecloth? Zounds!

Ignoring the smoke, I worked from one o’clock in the morning until noon, yesterday, mute testimony that retirement is more a state of mind than a physical reality. The first four hours of my day involved washing and sterilizing jars, filling them up with thick tomato sauce, and then processing them for eventual storage in our most efficient root cellar.

I then donned my farmer hat for three hours, while I cleaned water filters, fed and watered the chickens, and made my rounds of HappyDay Farms, West Forty. I walked the terraces, making sure there were no water line issues; I hand-watered my problem children, both cannabis and tomatoes; I flipped the valves on and then off, on fourteen stations of ornamentals, giving them a few precious minutes of water each; and finally, I took a few minutes to refuel, potatoes and eggs being the general go-to these days.

On came the apron, as I spit-shined the kitchen, which I do religiously when Gluten-Free Mama is gone, she being in Ohio to attend the funeral of BossLady’s precious grandmother. I am more than just obsessive-compulsive about keeping the house clean while she is gone, having long since made the connection that it is far easier to maintain a clean abode, than it is the clean it up, once it has been destroyed.

We’re talking time here, pure and simple, because there is so much to do, and so little time in which to get it all done. That’s where the irony of retirement comes in: If I am retired, why am I working so hard? I am working hard because work is life, and we on farm are happy in our work.

Jay pounding on a different kind of drum...

At precisely 7:55 yesterday morning, I grabbed my hard-hat and headed over to SmallBoy’s spot, where Jay and I are building a generator house/tool shed. This is part of an ongoing effort to become 100% compliant with cannabis regulation. You can tell we are almost there, when the genny house hits the top of the priority list.

Jay is the son of GF Mama’s brother, Joey, and he contacted HappyDay Farms in the dead of last winter to discuss a career change in his life. He wanted to become more connected with the land and his roots. Those are my words-not his. He talked more about getting back to basics and acquiring some life skills that were simply unavailable in the public sector.

With that philosophy, building a power-shed seemed like the perfect project, and it has proved so. Whereas Jay is an apprentice with a hammer in his hand, he approaches the job with enthusiasm blended with realism. What the mind often wishes to accomplish, the arm refuses to obey.

Fir will insist on being hard to drive nails into, and the knots are always in the wrong places. Jay will battle until the law of diminishing returns rears its ugly head, and then he will ask for help. He admires the way I can manhandle a nail out of any predicament, employing my two best friends, Mr. Cat’s Paw, and Mr. Crowbar, both accomplished jail breakers, but I assure him it is only a matter of experience.

I too was once a novice, using my newly discovered Skil-Saw skills, to cut a four-by-twelve, twenty-foot-long, fir girder, to a length of 19ft, 10in. Unfortunately, that was one inch too short, and since Rex had left the board stretcher at home, I was dispatched from Brook Trails to Mendo Mill in Willits, to acquire another twenty-foot-long fir girder. 

Mind you, I was not in trouble because the length I had butchered, would still be 100% usable; I just had to be the one to go to town and get a replacement. 

What is fascinating to me in light of Jay’s apprenticeship, is that when it comes to the world of music, I am the apprentice, and Jay is the master/maestro. He has grown up enveloped in the world of music, and has done the concert circuit, performing among other genres of music, heavy metal.

You see, I just acquired a drum and except for the general concept of making a lot of noise with my hands, I am clueless. 

[Editor’s note: Well, never mind.] 

I mean, more clueless than usual. 

[Editor: That helps.]

So the other afternoon, when Jay was here having some lunch, and my drum was out on display, he asked if I minded if he indulged. Intrigued, I readily agreed, and he sat down and proceeded to give me a five-minute tutorial, that expanded my horizons as though a fresh north wind had just come up and cleared out the smoke from the neighborhood.

Again, the man is a master in the world of music. He treated the drum reverently, admiring the craftsmanship, before he ever tasted the fruit. And when he did, he made it clear that the fruit was available to all. Specifically, I watched/listened as he rhythmically created a wide range of different sounds, by moving his hands from the outer rim to the center.

I also listened/watched while he maneuvered intensity from a soft pattering to a heavy thunder, as he hit the drum softly or hard. He gave me some elementary pointers in a non-intimidating way, inviting me to explore different approaches to my drum-play.

Two different worlds, two masters and two apprentices. It is a match made in Fantasyland, a clear case of labor exchange if ever there were. As I simultaneously give Jay instruction in the art of carpentry, he is giving me instruction in the world of music. 

There can be only one question: Are the tails in line?

Should my head swell beneath my ice-filled hat, while on the construction site, it is just as likely to shrink, while trying to figure out why my hands won’t do what my brain wants them to do, when sitting in front of the drum. Kind of like that hammer in Jay’s hand.

The master shall learn and the pupil shall teach, regardless of which is which. When I get too complacent to learn anything more, put me out of my misery and scatter my ashes on the playground of the nearest kindergarten.

The Great Pretender

Suppose you could design the perfect job: one that was vital to the mission, so as to make you indispensable; one that required a fair set of skills, which you possess; and finally, one which required no actual work on your part, which could prove to be convenient.

Such turned out to be the case during ROTR, 2017, though it must also be said that in another year, in a different galaxy far away, it could have backfired, and turned into a disaster. Allow me to elaborate, if I may.

The whole caper had its origins last summer at ROTR, early on Friday morning of the four-day gig, when an emissary from the kitchen stormed into our camp, without glancing left or right.

Heading straight at me, he snapped, “I need to talk to Bull.”

“My, you are brave," I observed. "It happens to be,” I added, glancing at my phone, “5:52 in the morning.” I paused, expectantly. “You do know that Bull was up late last night?” I left the question dangling, waving carelessly at the detritus on the picnic table, multiple dead soldiers giving mute testimony to the amount of alcohol consumed. It probably need not be mentioned, that none of the dead soldiers owed his demise to me. I do not indulge.

“I know what time it is,” the dude snapped at me. “Which tent is Bull’s? I need to talk to him.” 

He had my undivided attention. “Yes, so you have indicated. And I asked, what was up. Is there a fire? Are you out of propane? Does Melody need her coffee heated up? Is it possible that I could help you so that Bull can get his beauty sleep? We, here in camp, have taken a poll, and feel Bull needs his beauty sleep. Therefore, I ask again, what the fuck is going on?”

Mel, is that you?

Somehow, I got through to him. “Well, nothing right now, but Mel is paranoid that the shit is going to hit the fan, and no one will be there to handle it. She’s wound up like a top and I need to make sure that Bull is around, but I guess I don’t actually have to talk to him…not if you can give him a message,” he finished lamely.

“Gosh, I don’t know. That’s a pretty tough assignment,” I said, giving him my best Eddie Haskell impression.

He looked properly admonished and backed the truck up. “OK, look, I’m sorry I burst in here, but she's on my case, and I just wanted to make sure…” His voice trailed off.

“Yes, that someone is here to hold Melody’s hand, should it need holding. I think I have grasped the essentials, thank you so much for your time and attention. Not only that, but I think I am up for the job, no pun intended, should the need arise. And if I can’t handle it, I will find someone who can,” and with that, was born my scheme to be indispensable.

Mollified, the dude not only went back to the kitchen happy, he sent over a box of sandwiches, for anyone to partake of, as a peace token. “I don’t know, Bull,” I said later as we sampled some Sour Strawberry, just to get the cobwebs reestablished in our heads. 

“It’s as if the kitchen has anxiety issues,” I continued, “and all we have to do is have a warm body available, to pacify Mel. Should a problem arise, said dead body can either fix the problem, or at least find Lennon or A.J. All we have to do is find some poor schmuck who is willing to drag his ass out of bed at 5:30, so he can be at the kitchen by six, and maybe again at eight,” I finished, looking down at my sandals.

Bull and Nan-Cy

Bull was smiling broadly. It may have been early but the Sour Strawberry was working just fine. Having detailed my unorthodox sleep-cycle in earlier posts, multiple times, the reader might already have gleaned that I was that vital cog in the machine, to which I had been alluding.

A cog so vital that every morning of ROTR, 2017, I presented myself to the person in charge of the kitchen. It was Kerry on Friday morning, Galen, on Saturday morning and a woman named Sariah, on Sunday morning. Ironically, each of the mornings I had to introduce myself, and explain my mission.

Nowhere was Mel to be seen. Later, I found out that she didn’t even get up until eight this year. Meanwhile, each morning I was [secretly] thrilled to hear that there were no issues. 

Mission accomplished! I had based my credentials on this component that everyone agreed was necessary; I had carried out my responsibilities to perfection, not only presenting myself at the kitchen at six, but at eight as well; and finally, I had kept Mel happy. A sleeping Mel is a happy Mel.

Of course, the caper could have backfired, had the kitchen actually encountered serious technical difficulties, but that was what distinguished this gig from the beginning. It was a risk, freely taken, that cost nothing but paid off like a slot machine. 

After all, it was simply about communication and I had provided the vehicle. Everyone was stoked because communication was continuous throughout the festival, between kitchen and site crew, now that the morning gap had been plugged. 

Plugged by The Great Pretender.