 |
| Little Lady |
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| The big brother |
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| The middle child |
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| So relaxed |
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| First evening outing to "Music on the Lawn" in Blowing Rock |
Monday, September 19, 2011
Return from Hiatus: "The Family"
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Highland Games & Pool Dogs
baby mama
check out the dude eating haggis behind the caber carrier
heave-ho
so close...yet so far
aqua aerobics for seniors
the love boat
chopping okra from the garden
homegrown fried green tomatoes & fried okra
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Overheard at the Diner (Fourth of July Weekend)
How Southern pronunciation defeats naming your Mexican child "Angel"
Waitress at the breakfast joint:
Have ya'll decided what you're gonna name your baby yet?
April:
Nope, we're still thinking on it. We've got a few ideas, but we want to see what she looks like first.
Waitress:
I work at the school during the week and we have this little Mexican boy named "Aw-Hell"
Aint't that the strangest thing to call someone? All the kids just keep saying his name over and over, "AW-HELL, AW-HELL"...till we have to tell em to stop. Some of the teachers do too...
Clearly a woman with a discerning palate
Lady in the booth across from us:
I likes me some fried squirrel real good, but I can't stand the taste of no squirrel gravy...
One of the few things I'm not too interested in a discount on...
New Billboard on 321N just past Kirby Mountain Rd:
DISCOUNT ZIP LINE!
On the most important meal of the day:
Disgruntled Dad gets up and goes to pay bill...
Mommy:
Daddy's mad cause you ordered a big breakfast and didn't eat a single bite. He's going to get you a box so you can eat it later.
Three year old boy:
I'm not going to be hungry today
Mommy:
Oh, I think you will be hungry... and if you don't eat it today we'll give it to you for breakfast tomorrow.
Three year old boy:
It's not going to be any good tomorrow
Mommy:
{Facepalm}
Waitress at the breakfast joint:
Have ya'll decided what you're gonna name your baby yet?
April:
Nope, we're still thinking on it. We've got a few ideas, but we want to see what she looks like first.
Waitress:
I work at the school during the week and we have this little Mexican boy named "Aw-Hell"
Aint't that the strangest thing to call someone? All the kids just keep saying his name over and over, "AW-HELL, AW-HELL"...till we have to tell em to stop. Some of the teachers do too...
Clearly a woman with a discerning palate
Lady in the booth across from us:
I likes me some fried squirrel real good, but I can't stand the taste of no squirrel gravy...
One of the few things I'm not too interested in a discount on...
New Billboard on 321N just past Kirby Mountain Rd:
DISCOUNT ZIP LINE!
On the most important meal of the day:
Disgruntled Dad gets up and goes to pay bill...
Mommy:
Daddy's mad cause you ordered a big breakfast and didn't eat a single bite. He's going to get you a box so you can eat it later.
Three year old boy:
I'm not going to be hungry today
Mommy:
Oh, I think you will be hungry... and if you don't eat it today we'll give it to you for breakfast tomorrow.
Three year old boy:
It's not going to be any good tomorrow
Mommy:
{Facepalm}
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Monday, July 4, 2011
Roadkill & the Artistry of Stewardship
Some things from our time in San Francisco already seem like they happened long ago in a galaxy far away. 3 memories from Haight Ashbury have been replaying through my mind recently on the the drive to work. One Saturday morning I woke up early and walked down to Haight Street, got in a long line of hipsters and Asian sneaker nerds to score a pair of black Nike Air Max 360s with multi-colored polka dots. I thought they were pretty rad back then, now they just remind me of what a ponce I was whenever I catch a glimpse of them on the shelf. The Tuesday night I put on some skin tight red courderoy pants and a black trenchcoat, went to open mike night at Milk, got up on stage and dropped off-beat science fiction rhymes about pharaohs & unicorns. I was deep into my 3rd verse before a lanky black dude reached for the microphone, I thought he was about to snatch it away; but instead he tilted it up showing me how to hold it so everyone could hear what I was going on about. A Monday night when I strapped on my rollerblades and skated over to watch a Seahawks-49ers game & eat pizza & talk story with my Gramps. I may have had a Maximus' from Lagunitas Brewing Co. (or two)before I decided to bomb down Ashbury hill on my way home, sailing through 3 red lights before the grade flattened out around just before the panhandle. The Seahawks won the game but I was the real winner for not getting crushed by a Muni bus. I had been run over by a speeding cop car with siren blaring earlier that year in Union Square but still hadn't learned my lesson. Thinking these thoughts as I drive up the mountain to work or ride around on the mower makes me wonder about the idiot I used to be... and long for the free time to be him once again.
Along the way to work I have been noticing a lot of road kill recently and it really eats at me. Squirrels, possums, raccoons, skunks, groundhogs and the occasional out of season deer some moron has killed and left by the side of the road for someone else to clean up. I can't properly describe the feeling inside me when I pass the carcass of some unfortunate creature that has been struck down and repeatedly flattened by passing traffic. I was talking with a woman at work about totem animals and she brought in a book to show me. As I was flipping towards the section on ravens, I saw a blurb about what it means if you have been driving past lots of dead animals lately. According to an old hippie legend, when one notices lots of roadkill it means the animal spirits are unable to rest and move on due to nature of their deaths. There was no purpose to their deaths, it was not to feed another nor due to old age or disease. They were simply crossing the road and crushed by a passing vehicle which did not see them. To put their souls at rest, to allow them to move on; the book says all that is required is that you acknowledge seeing them and say a prayer for them. I have followed that bit of hippie wisdom but I can't say it has made me feel much better. Other than arming small mammals with heat seeking missiles to even up the odds a little bit, the only thing I have been able to come up with is to drive a little slower and pay more attention. I should be clear that it's not death that bothers me anymore. Not after a year and a half of seeing chickens killed by foxes, hawks, broken legs and my own axe. Death is sometimes natural, merciful and necessary. It is the senseless violence and suffering that I am still coming to terms with.
Farming's greatest gift has been preparing me for fatherhood. In learning to care for animals, plants and the land itself; I have had to learn to put the needs of others before myself. I never came close to understanding how necessary that was in San Francisco. There were always distractions. More fancy restaurants than I could ever eat at, limited edition sneakers to wait in line for, open mike nights to drop rhymes at, soccer to play in the park, another tattoo to get, the Friday night roller blade around the city with roller brigade, a concert, festival or perhaps a foreign movie? It was all great, I loved it and I miss it. But it was all about me...April and I actually. We were living it up and enjoying every second. There were no chickens to feed and water, no trees to prune, no grass to mow and no home repairs to make. When the weekend arrived the work was over and the fun began. Now it's different and I have plenty of time to think about how while I shovel mulch, cut down trees and pick fruit. While I try to coax the stupid chicken who always gets underneath the coop back inside at night. While I raise the axe to kill the suffering chicken who broke its leg. And especially while I'm driving. The places I've been, the things I did, the person I was all seem distant yet within my grasp. Like the details of a pleasant dream you just woke from. But while responsibility has won out over recreation on the farm, I feel like I am better for it. The father my daughter will be raised by will show her that caring for others, be they animal, human or plant is an art. That we can express ourselves and create lasting beauty with sweat and a shovel just as with a brush or camera. That bringing out compost scraps for the chickens, pitting cherries & feeding sourdough sponge can all be poetry. I will show her that there is artistry in stewardship and learn from her all the joys only a little girl can teach.
the last polish golden crested and an italian ancona pullet posing for the camera
the wolf spider living in our chicken coop
Along the way to work I have been noticing a lot of road kill recently and it really eats at me. Squirrels, possums, raccoons, skunks, groundhogs and the occasional out of season deer some moron has killed and left by the side of the road for someone else to clean up. I can't properly describe the feeling inside me when I pass the carcass of some unfortunate creature that has been struck down and repeatedly flattened by passing traffic. I was talking with a woman at work about totem animals and she brought in a book to show me. As I was flipping towards the section on ravens, I saw a blurb about what it means if you have been driving past lots of dead animals lately. According to an old hippie legend, when one notices lots of roadkill it means the animal spirits are unable to rest and move on due to nature of their deaths. There was no purpose to their deaths, it was not to feed another nor due to old age or disease. They were simply crossing the road and crushed by a passing vehicle which did not see them. To put their souls at rest, to allow them to move on; the book says all that is required is that you acknowledge seeing them and say a prayer for them. I have followed that bit of hippie wisdom but I can't say it has made me feel much better. Other than arming small mammals with heat seeking missiles to even up the odds a little bit, the only thing I have been able to come up with is to drive a little slower and pay more attention. I should be clear that it's not death that bothers me anymore. Not after a year and a half of seeing chickens killed by foxes, hawks, broken legs and my own axe. Death is sometimes natural, merciful and necessary. It is the senseless violence and suffering that I am still coming to terms with.
Farming's greatest gift has been preparing me for fatherhood. In learning to care for animals, plants and the land itself; I have had to learn to put the needs of others before myself. I never came close to understanding how necessary that was in San Francisco. There were always distractions. More fancy restaurants than I could ever eat at, limited edition sneakers to wait in line for, open mike nights to drop rhymes at, soccer to play in the park, another tattoo to get, the Friday night roller blade around the city with roller brigade, a concert, festival or perhaps a foreign movie? It was all great, I loved it and I miss it. But it was all about me...April and I actually. We were living it up and enjoying every second. There were no chickens to feed and water, no trees to prune, no grass to mow and no home repairs to make. When the weekend arrived the work was over and the fun began. Now it's different and I have plenty of time to think about how while I shovel mulch, cut down trees and pick fruit. While I try to coax the stupid chicken who always gets underneath the coop back inside at night. While I raise the axe to kill the suffering chicken who broke its leg. And especially while I'm driving. The places I've been, the things I did, the person I was all seem distant yet within my grasp. Like the details of a pleasant dream you just woke from. But while responsibility has won out over recreation on the farm, I feel like I am better for it. The father my daughter will be raised by will show her that caring for others, be they animal, human or plant is an art. That we can express ourselves and create lasting beauty with sweat and a shovel just as with a brush or camera. That bringing out compost scraps for the chickens, pitting cherries & feeding sourdough sponge can all be poetry. I will show her that there is artistry in stewardship and learn from her all the joys only a little girl can teach.
the last polish golden crested and an italian ancona pullet posing for the camera
the wolf spider living in our chicken coop
Monday, June 20, 2011
Our Nursery
wood panelling, old ceiling tiles, dark brown outlets and a lot of work to be done
after sanding the walls down, cleaning up the dust and 3 coats of kilz
putting up birch tree vinyl decals from etsy.com
we took a sample of "eternity" light grey paint from benjamin moore and got it color matched at lowe's for less than half price
white baseboards, crown molding & cove molding from chris building supply & salvage
put up a new tile ceiling
white electrical outlets
april's ma and dad bought our daughter's first crib, her dad put it together but we had to take it apart to get it into her room
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
In Bloom
brand new rose
huevo grande
two year old himrod grapevines
navajo blackberries
new addition to the coop
april squeezes the peaches
fresh radishes
late may twilight
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Bent Blades
I got home from work Friday afternoon, changed clothes and got on my riding mower. It was one of those perfect evenings in between spring and summer, the fading sunlight highlights the dust hanging in the air like a golden mist. The beer in my cup holder is shaken into a fine froth from the vibrations of the spinning blades and bumpy terrain. A steady roar is muted through the ear goggles I wear and work week tension melts away with every lap around the orchard. WACHUNK! Engine dead, complete silence. Oh crap. Parking brake, kneeling, peering under the mower. I see a segment of a branch I had cut off an apple tree, about as thick as my wrist. The blade is bent all to hell. Defeated, deflated. I motor back into the garage and lift the mower up onto risers to check out the damage. The other blade is fine, motor still runs smooth. I reckon it was time for a new set of blades anyway.
The next day is Lamaze class at the Hickory Mall. I am the first dude who volunteers to wear the empathy belly, a thirty pound rubber and lead contraption designed to show men what it feels like to be pregnant. I am comfortable with the new girth. I would be a good fat man. When breaktime rolls around the instructor asks if I want to take it off, I say I'm fine and decide to walk through the mall with it on to get a cup of coffee with April. I had hoped for some awkward stares at my male pregnantness but I am dissappointed that a Zumba dance demonstration has captured everyone's attention. They make me take it off after break. At lunch, we have pretzel wrapped hot dogs that are supposed to be covered in fresh jalapenos like the sign in front of the booth. They do not look like the picture and taste like salt and old pickles. We go to the Sears to get two new blades, an air filter and a new oil filter for the mower. I opt for the high dollar deluxe blades that are supposedly 16% thicker. We'll see what the stumps and branches think about these when we get home. After lunch I feel like I am back in a boring high school class that will never end. At each break another couple dissappears from the class but April will not leave early despite my whining that this is ruining the entire weekend. Freedom, finally. It is almost six o'clock. We stop at Lowe's to get the last Moroccan light fixture in the tri-county area and some carnivorous plants that I hope will solve the fly problem in our house. When we get home I am pumped, ready to fix some mower and show April how virile and mechanical I am. I am unable to remove the bolt holding the bent blade on. My pumpedness and virility are in a nosedive. April brings me a beer and suggests I try to turn the bolt the other way. Victory is mine. I get both blades off and the two new blades fitted on and tightened up. April asks me if the blades are on tight. I assure her they are as tight as they're gonna get. I fire up the mower and feel a deep primal stirring in my loins as I roar out of the garage to show the grass what's up. The front lawn looks like an emerald carpet beneath my burgeoning apple and cherry trees. I am the orchard master and retire to the couch to check on my fantasy baseball teams and drink more beer. I notice a venus fly trap has partaken of the housefly population. Despite Lamaze class, it has been a most triumphant day.
Sunday. I awake eager to finish mowing around the chicken coop and the peach orchard on our back forty. We have granola and yogurt and grapefruit juice and I step outside. It is sweltering. I feel like I am wearing a spacesuit in a sauna but have on just shorts and a t-shirt. I am mowing around the chicken coop and the barn. There are thick gnarled oak tree roots rising 6 inches and higher out of the ground and I mow around them in a chaotic, swerving pattern. I listen to Bunny Wailer and Eek-a-Mouse and Sublime on my ipod. Some of the weeds that were knee high refuse to submit to the new blades and stay erect even after I mow them down from multiple directions. The mower blows grass clippings through the fence into the chicken enclosure and the older hens crowd out the younger chicks to greedily gobble them up. Underneath a cherry tree, in sweet cool shade. WACHUNK! Silence. Kneeling on the ground, looking underneath the mower. One blade has fallen off and wedged itself into the path of the other blade. It is bent all to hell. I can not find the bolt that held the blade on. I am sweating like a hog and feeling some strange combination of anger, depression and disgust. I pull back into the garage and lift the mower back onto the risers. I promise myself I will find the bolt after I take a break. I never do.
Sears Parts Direct wants twice the cost of the bolt for shipping. I waver back and forth before I finally pull the trigger and order two bolts. Just in case. That evening I walk out underneath the cherry tree. A thunderstorm and torrential downpour has soaked the ground and the grass is looking taller. The bolt is sitting there on top of a patch of red clay dirt. Mocking me.
April's dad comes over on Friday evening to help fix the mower. I suspect his true mission is to prevent his mechanically inclined son in law from maiming his daughter & granddaughter with a flying mower blade. I have two new blades, two new bolts & a new breaker bar from Sears to put some torque on those bad boys. In 5 minutes we are done and I am mowing test patterns around the grapes and rose bushes. I don't know what lesson I am supposed to have learned. All I know is that I still love mowing the damn grass into an emerald carpet.
The next day is Lamaze class at the Hickory Mall. I am the first dude who volunteers to wear the empathy belly, a thirty pound rubber and lead contraption designed to show men what it feels like to be pregnant. I am comfortable with the new girth. I would be a good fat man. When breaktime rolls around the instructor asks if I want to take it off, I say I'm fine and decide to walk through the mall with it on to get a cup of coffee with April. I had hoped for some awkward stares at my male pregnantness but I am dissappointed that a Zumba dance demonstration has captured everyone's attention. They make me take it off after break. At lunch, we have pretzel wrapped hot dogs that are supposed to be covered in fresh jalapenos like the sign in front of the booth. They do not look like the picture and taste like salt and old pickles. We go to the Sears to get two new blades, an air filter and a new oil filter for the mower. I opt for the high dollar deluxe blades that are supposedly 16% thicker. We'll see what the stumps and branches think about these when we get home. After lunch I feel like I am back in a boring high school class that will never end. At each break another couple dissappears from the class but April will not leave early despite my whining that this is ruining the entire weekend. Freedom, finally. It is almost six o'clock. We stop at Lowe's to get the last Moroccan light fixture in the tri-county area and some carnivorous plants that I hope will solve the fly problem in our house. When we get home I am pumped, ready to fix some mower and show April how virile and mechanical I am. I am unable to remove the bolt holding the bent blade on. My pumpedness and virility are in a nosedive. April brings me a beer and suggests I try to turn the bolt the other way. Victory is mine. I get both blades off and the two new blades fitted on and tightened up. April asks me if the blades are on tight. I assure her they are as tight as they're gonna get. I fire up the mower and feel a deep primal stirring in my loins as I roar out of the garage to show the grass what's up. The front lawn looks like an emerald carpet beneath my burgeoning apple and cherry trees. I am the orchard master and retire to the couch to check on my fantasy baseball teams and drink more beer. I notice a venus fly trap has partaken of the housefly population. Despite Lamaze class, it has been a most triumphant day.
Sunday. I awake eager to finish mowing around the chicken coop and the peach orchard on our back forty. We have granola and yogurt and grapefruit juice and I step outside. It is sweltering. I feel like I am wearing a spacesuit in a sauna but have on just shorts and a t-shirt. I am mowing around the chicken coop and the barn. There are thick gnarled oak tree roots rising 6 inches and higher out of the ground and I mow around them in a chaotic, swerving pattern. I listen to Bunny Wailer and Eek-a-Mouse and Sublime on my ipod. Some of the weeds that were knee high refuse to submit to the new blades and stay erect even after I mow them down from multiple directions. The mower blows grass clippings through the fence into the chicken enclosure and the older hens crowd out the younger chicks to greedily gobble them up. Underneath a cherry tree, in sweet cool shade. WACHUNK! Silence. Kneeling on the ground, looking underneath the mower. One blade has fallen off and wedged itself into the path of the other blade. It is bent all to hell. I can not find the bolt that held the blade on. I am sweating like a hog and feeling some strange combination of anger, depression and disgust. I pull back into the garage and lift the mower back onto the risers. I promise myself I will find the bolt after I take a break. I never do.
Sears Parts Direct wants twice the cost of the bolt for shipping. I waver back and forth before I finally pull the trigger and order two bolts. Just in case. That evening I walk out underneath the cherry tree. A thunderstorm and torrential downpour has soaked the ground and the grass is looking taller. The bolt is sitting there on top of a patch of red clay dirt. Mocking me.
April's dad comes over on Friday evening to help fix the mower. I suspect his true mission is to prevent his mechanically inclined son in law from maiming his daughter & granddaughter with a flying mower blade. I have two new blades, two new bolts & a new breaker bar from Sears to put some torque on those bad boys. In 5 minutes we are done and I am mowing test patterns around the grapes and rose bushes. I don't know what lesson I am supposed to have learned. All I know is that I still love mowing the damn grass into an emerald carpet.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Beach Week
just chillin'
handsome n' soggy
strawberry & shrimp ceviche
beach clyde!
catch me big dog
sun kissed
...and we came home this guy had eaten 13 chicks who had managed to squeeze through the links in the fence.
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