Who loves a garden Finds within his soul Life's whole; He hears the anthem of the soil While ingrates toil; And sees beyond his little sphere The waving fronds of heaven, clear. -- Louise Seymour Jones
from The Best Loved Poems of the American People. Hazel Felleman, ed. Garden City Books, Garden City, New York. 1936.
I understand that most of y’all don’t live in The South, and may not fully appreciate why– when the lights go out on a perfectly clear day such as this– I speculate that Bubba musta run up a pole.
Amanda reports that both drivers involved are okay (Bubba got cut off by another guy), and that there is “no threat to power at this moment” (8:57am). This time, maybe. But you just wait, Bubba’ll do it again, I promise.
Wonder how the driver got out and shut the door? I’ll puzzle over this all day.
SueK sends along a link to several videos of Sheep Dog Trials.
Sheep dog trials are contests between man/dog teams required to move a small group of sheep (usually 5 I think) around and through a specified course. The course usually consists of gates and barriers, and are set so that they aren’t straight, but the sheep have to be moved around them as well as through them. The handler directs the dog through whistle signals, and the dog moves the sheep around the course and back into the pen they start from. And they’re timed. They win by having the best time with no dings for mistakes.
Quite something. Many of the dogs’ behaviors remind me of our old pal, Bebe!
I don’t think it’s going to rain here. The pressure is 1012hPa and rising. (48 hour low (1009) was yesterday at about 6pm.) We got 0.17″ rain over night. The wind speeds now are averaging 7mph with gusts up to 14. I’m not seeing how it gets here.
I can promise you that if we were going to have 1.22″ of rain dropped on us in an hour or so (NAM model), things would look a lot different than they do out there right now.
Note that the three other models are predicting about 1/4″ but different start times.
KNQA in Memphis is in ‘clear air mode’ so that’s gotta mean something, right?
Stick around. We’ll see what happens.
Wouldn’t mind 1/4″ of rain!
Forecasts @ Windy.com. Check it out over on the side bar. It’s interactive!
There’s a 12 volume collection of books for children with My Book House as part of the title:
They are beautiful books.
Images from Archive.org where you can borrow the books for 14 days.
This is interesting– and disconcerting. Usually books of this age are fully searchable and one can click through every page. (Screen shots are how I get a lot of the images I post when I talk about a crappy old book.) But all of My Book House volumes have “Limited Book Preview.” One cannot get beyond the table on contents in any of them. I have no idea why.
“Different times,” said Mr. Big Food when I read that to him.
Preserving Western Culture– all of it— one crappy old book at a time.
I’m pleased to report that arrived back at Farther Along Farm without incident. Not that there weren’t plenty of incidents, but none kept us from arriving home safely.
We left in good time. Saw the big digger at the edge of the cotton field as soon as we turned onto the road. As we approached, we could see that we were not going to proceed forward. The big digger was digging a big hole right in the middle of the road on top of a culvert. Someone motioned us ahead, and we rolled down our windows. It was our County Supervisor and friend, Pat. He could have it passable in 10 minutes. No no. We’ll go the back way. And then of course the obligatory chat about the burn piles, the fixing of our road, the fact that AT&T’s phone cable was not buried deep enough and had been ripped out. (Upside: no robo calls!)
We backed up about 1/4 mile (good practice), turned around and had a discussion about which alternative route to take. I suggested the known route that would take five minutes longer than going the regular way. Mr. Big Food suggested something different that he thought would take us quite a bit further down the line. So we did it his way.
Just about the time we transitioned from pavement to gravel, he lost service. So– and on account of the fact that we had stupidly not put the topo map back in the truck– we were flying on memories of gravel roads where there is not a powerline in sight. At some point, we agreed that perhaps the known route would have been a better choice, but such is life.
Thirty-five (35) minutes, and several miles of scenic rural Mississippi gravel roads later, we wound up at a location about 10 minutes from the Farm.
We will not dwell on this.
The leg from that location to The Burbs was relatively uneventful other than to note the amazing amount of water around Coldwater, MS.
And then. The Burbs. We’re talking about Goodman Rd. in Southaven, Mississippi. Good Lord! How do you people live like this? Can this even be called “living?”
Settled on Waffle House for lunch. (That did not go well but it’s not a story I’m inclined to tell.) Then a quick maneuver across five lanes of traffic to get to the K-roger. Hum. The Kroger has no Gulf lump crab meat.
Tomorrow is the Preakness. Mr. Big Food looks forward every year to having classic Kentucky food on Derby Day, Maryland food on Preakness Day, and I don’t know what (Elmont, NY??) on Belmont Day. Come hell or high water he is making crab cakes today!
Just enough time to do one of the errands before the appointment. The nearest branch of our bank was conveniently only about one mile away, and on route to the appointment. Print my name on the check? How is it this Southaven branch has different rules than the Starkville branch? Whatev. Stupid.
Work our way up Goodman Road– at lunch hour! Strip mall. Strip mall. Stop & Rob. Strip mall. Liquor store. Mattress store. Stop & Rob… . How do you people live like this?
Arrive at destination. “Hum. Pretty empty. Maybe we’ll just sail on through and be outta here,” Mr. Big Food says. Walk up to door. See sign. “We’ve moved!” Look up location on phone. [INSERT MULTIPLE EXPLETIVES] I kid you not, next to the [EXPLETIVE] bank. So back down Goodman Rd. we go.
Drop Mr. Big Food off. Sit in parking lot searching for Gulf lump crab meat. Best I could come up with without going into actual [EXPLETIVE] Memphis– because if you think Southaven stinks, you should go to Memphis proper– was a meat market in Oxford that would special order it and it would be in Thursday. Thanks. So went to gas station to fill up then back to the office building that’s next to the bank.
That wasn’t too awfully bad. We’ve known this guy for a long time so we chatted about Romania and Northwestern University. Stopped at a different K-roger on the way out to buy not Gulf lump meat crab. Then the back way home– past the beer, bait & ammo joint that’s still there after all these years! Right over the county line it is!
Stopped at the Mom & Pop garden shop on Hwy. 8 to pick up a few more tomatoes and peppers. So all’s well that ends well!
But I ask again, how do you people live like this?
“WHAT?!?” Missy jumped up and ran to Marica’s side. “Oh, Marica! He mustn’t!! You must stop him!! Oh my, oh dear! His beautiful beautiful work laying in a pile of shards. Oh. I cannot bear it. Oh please do something.” Missy moaned.
“R.U.F.F.,” Rocky said. He may not be as appreciative of the finer things in life as his Dear Friend was, and Lord only knows he had not undertaken a careful study of The Arts as she, but even he knows what it means to throw a vase. “Ruff,” he grumbled as he made his way to his box with Baffling Detective Stories by Masters of Mystery.
“Oh, Missy,” Marica said gently. “I’m afraid you’re confused. Our friend, The Alchemist, is not going to throw an actua– well, he is, but not in the way you think.”
“What in heavens name do you mean, Marica? I certainly am quite familiar with the definition of the transitive verb, ‘to throw‘.”
“Missy, it’s potter’s jargon. “‘To throw’ for a potter means, I think, to shape something on a potter’s wheel– to make something beautiful from a lump of clay,” Marica explained.
“Oh, yes, of course, silly me,” Missy sat down and waved her paw quickly through the air several times, thus waving away her embarrassment.
“Ruff,” was all Rocky said before he returned to Baffling Detective Stories (which, if you asked him, weren’t all that baffling).
“I’m sorry, Missy. Maybe I shouldn’t have thrown the news at you like that!”
From somewhere deep inside a box they heard a low, “ruffruffruff.”
“Indeed. But wait! Wait just a minute!!” The implications of The Alchemist throwing a vase for us were beginning to dawn on Missy. “Do you mean to say that our friend, The Alchemist, is creating a work of art for us?!?”
“I do indeed!”
“Well! I am… I am just… . I’m speechless!” Missy exclaimed.
“Ruff?!?” from inside the box
“Boy, for a conversation in which you’ve expressed no interest, you sure do have a lot to say,” Marica teased Rocky.
“Good one, Marica!” Missy slapped her paw on Marica’s lap. “Surely, and knowing you, there’s a story behind the news that we– we Country Mice in rural Mississippi, as you like to say– are going to be the recipients of a vase by The Alchemist!”
“There is, Missy,” Marica said as she began to tell the story of the sale at The Alchemist’s Studio, of having chosen– after some thought– a particular piece, of inquiring about its cost and size, of sending The Alchemist a picture of where its home might be, of The Alchemist’s truthful consul that he did not think the piece was large enough, and of his offer to throw two larger pieces– between which she could choose– in the white cracked finish that she liked.
“Well, that’s an amazing story!” Missy said as she ran over to her desk and pulled out a fresh pad of paper.
“What are you doing, Missy?”
“Marica! There are plans to plan and lists of lists to make!”
“Why, for the party, Marica!”
“The one we shall throw celebrating the arrival of our friend, The Alchemist’s vase here on The Farm!”
The growth or movement of a fixed organism toward or away from light. In plants, phototropism is a response to blue wavelengths of light and is caused by a redistribution of auxin from the illuminated side to the darker side of the shoot, resulting in quicker growth on the darker side and bending of the shoot toward the source of light.
Author’s Introduction: Imagine if Homer, Virgil, Dante, Chaucer, and the other great poets of ancient Greece, Rome, and the Middle Ages had been given the gift, not only to peer into the twenty-first century, but to correspond with we who live in that most confusing and rudderless of centuries. Had it been in their power to do both of those things, what might they say to us? How would they advise us to live our lives? What wisdom from their experience and from their timeless poems might they choose to pass down to us?
Let the fragrant summer breeze, And the leaves of locust trees, And the apple-buds and -blossoms, and the wings of honey bees, All palpitate with glee, Till the happy harmony Brings back each childish joy to you and me
from “A Song of Long Ago,” in Riley Farm-Rhymes with Country Pictures by James Whitcomb Riley (1883)