Eastward Ho

This is the week (beginning on Thursday) where we will travel back to South Dakota, to attend the wedding of Robin’s niece. We will be driving, both because of Covid and because that is our preferred manner of travel. Flying is much quicker, for certain, but there is that sense of dissociation when you climb into a tube in one world and step out of that same tube into another. When we drive, we touch all of the places between origin and destination.

For instance. If it were not for driving I would know almost nothing about the entire state of Nebraska. And that would have been a shame, because I like Nebraska. At least I like it when you can get off of Interstate 80 and away from its bumper-to-bumper semi traffic. I especially enjoy traveling in the Sandhills region in the northwestern part of the state. And the butte country west of Chadron contains so much interesting history, including a plaque at the spot in Fort Robinson State Park where the Native American leader, Crazy Horse, was betrayed and killed.

It was in this part of the world that novelist Mari Sandoz grew up, and it is the place that served as the backdrop for her most famous book, Old Jules. If you ever thought your own father was a difficult person to live with when you were a child, you haven’t met Old Jules. To say he was a hard man is to seriously understate the case.

The wedding will be held outside of Yankton SD, which is of some concern, because South Dakota is one of those states with a mentally deficient governor who does not believe in anything she can’t see with her unaided eye. These pesky viruses are nothing but Democratic lies and fake germs to Governor Noem. Science – just more liberal booshwa! As a result, the state is one of the less safe places to be in America. But the wedding is scheduled outdoors, where we should be able to put some distance between us and the other attendees. At least that is the plan.

Ordinarily we would take some time to renew old and treasured friendships, but I would personally rather come back when the clouds have lifted and I can actually shake the hands of those friends, sit in their comfortable chairs, and lean back to safely inhale my share of that sweet prairie air.

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There are quite a few older citizens living in our small development here in Paradise, some even older than myself, if you can believe that. Across the street from us is a gentleman named Bruff, who moved here from North Carolina a few years ago and who lives alone. Bruff has diabetes and some neuropathic complications of that disease, so when no one had seen him for several days, and there was no response to serial knocks at his door, it prompted obvious concern. Add to this that the week before this one an ambulance had stopped at his house, for what reason no one knew.

So Robin and I appointed ourselves the investigators-in-chief, to find out if he was still among the living, and where he might be. Our local newspaper prints out very brief summaries of every police department call, and this is where we started our search. We found that on the 8th of the month the PD had indeed made a call to Bruff’s residence. There was just the notation of “Citizen assist,” whatever that might represent. So on Sunday we drove to the police department, and were fortunate enough to find a patrolman outside of the building, which was locked up.

He was very helpful, and although there were limits to what he could share with us, he did find out that the ambulance call was to pick up some things that Bruff needed, and that he was had been a patient at St. Mary’s Hospital in Grand Junction at that time. Of course, when a stranger calls a hospital they are not fountains of information in modern times, what with HIPAA regulations and all. Not like the “old days” when they would tell a stranger on the telephone everything they ever wanted to know about a patient.

But hospital personnel did admit that Bruff was there, and transferred me to the nursing station in the Critical Care Unit. A very pleasant woman said that she would be happy to connect me with the older gentleman by phone, but I should know that he was a “little bit delirious” and she wasn’t sure how well he’d do in holding up his side of the conversation.

Before I could process what “a little bit delirious” meant, and could tell the lady let’s not bother him, I was talking with Bruff on the phone. We spoke briefly, and I passed along our concerns and those of other neighbors here in the cul-de-sac. I wasn’t sure how much he would remember, but at least we know something of where, if not why. It’s enough for now.

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There’s a remarkable op/ed article in the Times of New York dealing with the coronavirus. The text is clear, the extensive graphics and animations are highly instructional, and it puts into perspective what is happening in the U.S. and the rest of the world with regard to viral spread .

The thrust of the article is that setting up a wall is an essential part of controlling the virus. It also states clearly that what Robin and I are about to do, travel to a high-risk state and return home, could put us in the position of being being unwitting vectors for the virus. Unless we put up our own wall, that is. Which means self-quarantine for two weeks. I hadn’t given that part of our plans as much thought as I might, but by doing so we can significantly reduce the chance that we will bring back more than our memories to share with friends here.

So why go at all? Because Robin has only the one niece, and that young woman has only recently finished a course of chemotherapy for breast cancer. All this makes it a rather special set of circumstances, we think, even if it means we must run in place for a while when we return home.

Good article, though.

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We’ve given away tomatoes to anyone whose lapel was near enough to grab, and there were still a bunch that needed to be dealt with before we left on our trip to SD. So yesterday was cut ’em up and boil ’em up and make enough red Italian-seasoned sauce to last the winter. This year there are NO home canning supplies available in our area. No jars, no lids, no rings … so we saw cooking the fruit and freezing the result as our only choice. Tomorrow I’ll probably do another batch and then that’s it for 2020. End of gardening for the year.

The tomato plants look tired. It’s been a tough summer for them. Lots and lots of stress, even though we kept them well-fed and well-watered. About 1/3 of the tomatoes developed something called “sun scald,” which is an injury produced by … well, you know … too much sun.

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Membership

Yesterday I was a couple of hours late in watering my tomato plants. And they had already begun to crumple. Looks like once a day isn’t quite enough, and the new twice daily schedule starts today. Nature apparently has an unending supply of 90+ degree days in its storeroom, and has not been shy about trotting them out this summer. Today it will be 93 degrees, with 0% chance of rain.

Ho hum, SSDD.

Our tomatoes are coming in faster than we can eat them, and we’re going to start the process of preserving them without actually getting involved in canning. We plan to convert them into sauces of one kind or another.

We did this last year, and with our present abundance we expect it to work well this year as well.

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P.Cluck has done so poorly in his last two recorded interviews that I’m beginning to be suspicious of his performances. In both of them he has come across as a complete dunderhead, and that may be all there is to it. Or could he be playing stupid, trying to lure a complacent Biden (and us) into a trap of some sort?

We’ll have to see … but after seeing his performance in the Axios interview, I think that Cluck might need help with basic living skills, like buttoning his clothes and flossing.

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This is a photo of the tomatoes I harvested just today. We have already eaten many, and there are so many more to come. And all of this from three plants.

I was so elated after picking this huge bowlful that I ran indoors to look up who the god of gardeners might be, so that I could pay my respects. Imagine my surprise when I found this:

PRIAPOS (Priapus) was the god of vegetable gardens. He was also a protector of beehives, flocks and vineyards. Priapos was depicted as a dwarfish man with a huge member, symbolising garden fertility. He wore a peaked Phrygian cap, indicating his origin as a Mysian god, and carried a basket weighed down with fruit.
His cult was introduced to Greece from Lampsakos (Lampsacus) in Asia Minor and his mythology subsequently reinterpreted. Primitive statues of the god were set-up in vegetable gardens to promote fertility. These also doubled as scarecrows, keeping the birds away.

https://www.theoi.com/Georgikos/Priapos.html

I had thought of placing a small statue of the god as a sort of cosmic thank you, but I’m afraid that I would have to make a request of our HOA before installing anything resembling a dwarf with a huge member.

There would definitely be talk.

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This is the summer that I discovered the music of Ali Farka Touré, and I love it. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the gentleman died in 2006, so I’m a little late to the party.

Touré was born just five days after I was, on October 31, 1939. He went on to become one of the world’s great guitarists, and I didn’t. He was tall, dark, and handsome, while I was not. Otherwise, we could have been twins.

Here he is in the last year of his life, showing us that it’s not the sheer number of notes that you play, but where and how you put them. Beautiful restraint.

Who Was That Masked Man?

Governmentally-mandated masking is our reality now here in Colorado, as of a couple of days ago. Depending on the kindness of strangers sounded good, but there were still too many softbrains out there who thought wearing a mask was a Democratic plot to make their faces itch and in so doing drive them mad to the point that they drive their vehicles into the sides of mountains.

So now the proprietor of each business is a sort of hall monitor. If someone refuses to mask up, they are to deny them entry into their place of business. If the miscreant is already in the door and refuses to leave, trespass laws can be invoked and the gendarmerie can be summoned.

Clumsy? Clunky? Absolutely, but then what part of this whole pandemic thing is not?

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Do you know what these few cherry tomatoes that I picked Saturday represent?

VICTORY!

(Cue the music, Maestro – let’s have Happy Days Are Here Again, if you please!)

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As you know, I do not pad this blog with recipes very often, knowing full well that any of you who are doing the cooking already have a recipe library of your very own, and don’t require help from me, thank you very much!

But once in a great while I can’t help myself. The other evening I decided to try making mashed cauliflower instead of mashed potatoes. So I checked out a new recipe and dang it if they weren’t delicious. You can get the recipe here by searching through the excess verbiage that’s so much a part of recipe websites these days but it’s worth it, especially if you are thinking about low carb or paleo/keto eating.

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From The New Yorker

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We’re heading for Denver on Sunday morning, to practice a little social distancing with Justin and Jenny. Lots of outdoor stuff, staying in motels instead of their home, driving in separate cars, that sort of thing. I was thinking about the odds of survival for older senior citizens should they contract the virus. They are very similar to those encountered when playing Russian roulette. Which is another game, along with golf, that I long ago decided never to play.

There’s no real reason to panic, it would seem. Wash your hands, wear a mask, avoid crowds (especially indoors, where a crowd for me these days is a good deal less than ten), keep your distance, enjoy outdoor activities, etc. Since persons of Norwegian ancestry do not have much of a reputation as huggers, the social distancing thing has come fairly easily.

It’s all a great pain in the butt, and I will be the first in line for a vaccination when one finally arrives. And after I’ve had my shot, I will go right back to doing what I’m doing now until I see how things shake out. In general, rushing vaccine development has in the past not been considered the best way to carry out an immunization program. But these are not ordinary days, are they?

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No Title

Well, whaddya know? Less than 7000 of America’s finest showed up for the Cluckaganza in Oklahoma. The organizers were expecting … six times that number.

Turns out it was all the fault of outside protestors who were nasty radicals armed with unfriendly placards. And then there was the problem of the media that had told people to turn their cars around and stay home, and by golly, tens of thousands of them must have done just that.

All in all it sounds like a disappointing party. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.

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Robin said: Whatever you want to do, we will do. So on Sunday off we went to explore new terrain. First you drive to Norwood, which is 66 miles south of Montrose. Then you turn left and go south-southwest for about 15 miles until you get to a reservoir named Miramonte.

It’s set in the beautiful broad valley that you see in the photo below. We had a picnic, explored the area, people-watched for an hour or two, and then returned home.

For most of this trip we were out of phone contact, which is par for the course in this part of the world. Since the entire drive there and back was through beautiful country, and the destination itself also very cool (in its own spartan way), we counted the day as a complete success.

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Good news and bad news from the garden. Out tomatoes are doing wonderfully, with fruit-laden plants approaching the size of the carnivorous one in Little Shop of Horrors. I never get to close to them for this reason, and water from a respectful social distance. I have also warned the cats repeatedly not to get near the tomato cages.

Which is where the bad news comes in. Tomatoes are awfully thirsty plants to grow. Ours are set in containers, which only increases their demands for water. They require around two inches every few days, and more when the weather is hot. Since we have been blessed with little more than a soupçon of rainfall this summer, nearly all of that moisture must come from the tap.

But those of you who have been forced to read my past rants on the subject of commercially grown tomatoes (which I will mercifully not repeat today) know that my duty is clear. Pay the water bill gratefully and enjoy the fruit when it appears … and don’t go picking them without another person nearby holding a rope that is securely tied around your waist, to pull you out of danger should those plants get frisky.

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Bob Dylan has a new album out, of all original songs. The first such album in ten years. For a change, I’m not going to tell you what to think about them. It’s Dylan, and listening to his music usually asks something of us that is very personal.

I will mention something about the title I Contain Multitudes. The phrase seemed familiar but I couldn’t place it. I had to look it up, and found that it’s from Walt Whitman.

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself;
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

Walt Whitman: Song of Myself

Here are the first three bands on the album. They are: I Contain Multitudes, False Prophet, and My Own Version of You. I’ll dribble the rest along later on.

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There are times when I am in danger of being swamped by the examples of the horrors committed by members of our species, as in the litany of murders of black people that we’ve heard read off repeatedly during the past weeks. At such times, I need to step back, take a deep breath, and remind myself that brutality is not the all that’s out there.

There is also beauty. Much of it created by other members of our same rough species. Beauty enough to wring the poison out of one’s heart and leave it open again to love and understanding.

For me it is poetry, music, and the natural world that I often turn to at those toxic moments. Or to the memories of everyday acts of heroism that I have personally witnessed. Or when I look deeply at those dearest to me and am warmed and humbled by the love and goodness that I find there.

It serves little purpose for me to turn away from the daily uglinesses – how can I begin to help in the repairs if I don’t see clearly what is broken? But I can’t look at them without using these resources to keep me from drifting into despair and cynicism.

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Of Earth

Our weather this Spring has been marked by sunshine and a dry wind that comes up mid-morning. It’s been a striking change for us, after six years here in Paradise where we largely were able to forget about those breezy prairie days back in South Dakota. It’s been this way for at least a month.

The wind blows hard enough that we’ve shifted some of our outdoor exercising from midday to earlier in the morning to avoid it. We love bicycling, but both of us find a 20+ mph headwind distracting. Plus, in this arid country any stiff breeze always carries a bit of the topography with it, and rubbing bits of Colorado out of one’s eyes quickly becomes tiresome.

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Out tiny garden is doing well so far. Blossoms on tomatoes and all that. Of course, if we didn’t follow the admonition “Just add water” nothing would survive at all. What the heavens don’t provide, we do.

Here are the plantings we’ve done this year, and I know these tender seedlings would appreciate your thoughts and prayers. When they see me come to tend them they must shudder inside, knowing the risks they are being exposed to.

  • leaf lettuce
  • tomatoes
  • spinach
  • basil (already died off of a chill)
  • kale

As you can see, we’ve focused heavily on plants containing lots of anti-oxidants. I think Robin and I need all of those we can get, since there are days when I think I am oxidizing way too rapidly for my own good.

It’s all for fun, since we basically eat the output as fast as it comes to maturity. Gardening the way we do it is much like fishing is for me. You don’t want to calculate the price of those fish per pound or you’d never get in the boat.

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The best gardener that I’ve personally known was Ida Jacobson, my maternal grandmother. Her husband Nels took care of the rest of the farm, but the garden was Ida’s baby. And it was not a hobby, not for Grandma J.

She used the garden to feed her family, and her small home on their farm had a “root cellar” below it for storage. (Like the one in Wizard of Oz where the family took shelter from the tornado.)

Rough board shelves lined the smallish space, and they were filled with cans and bottles containing pickles of various sorts, corn, squashes, peas, string beans, etc. Since there were several apple trees on the farmstead, many many jars of the most excellent applesauce were up there as well.

The floor of the cellar was earthen, as were the walls. When you went down into the dim cellar you shared the room with the creepy crawly things that called it home, and selected the jar or can you wanted paying close attention that you didn’t grab something that grabbed you back.

Grandma Jacobson’s gardens did not fail. They weren’t allowed to. They were luxuriant examples of how it could be, for me to remember and in my small way try to emulate today. Of course, she had access to all of the premier fertilizer one could ever want, gathered from barns and chicken coops, and she put those homely substances to doing serious work for those she loved and cared for.

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I spoke of fishing a few moments ago. Although I’ve purchased a 2020 Colorado license, the winds have kept me from doing much in this regard. I’m still a newbie to fly fishing, but have already learned that you catch no fish unless the fly hits the water, and when the air goes by at turnpike speeds that doesn’t happen.

Also, the fly will only go in the direction of the breeze, and that may not even be where the water is located. So until wind velocities come down a bit, I will not bother cluttering up the car with rods and reels. Patience is one hallmark of the true angler and I am well supplied with that. (Of course, skill is another hallmark, but you can’t have everything, can you?)

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This was Wednesday’s Google doodle. Lovely bit. From all accounts, a lovely man.

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Our governor said in his radio message Wednesday that he believes 50% of Coloradans are walking around carrying the novel coronavirus. Most of them (us?) are not ill.

He’s not a man given to rash statements, so his health advisers must have data that suggest this number is close to a true one. Let’s say that he is correct. Now the question is – how long does it persist on that healthy human being to the point that he or she could infect another person? How long before it fades away?

It’s like living in one of those old movie serials I attended as a kid, where the hero falls off a cliff in Episode 2 (he’s dead for sure now!), and then at the beginning of Episode 3 is shown clinging to a shrub until rescuers arrive (it’s a miracle!). It’s best that we don’t get too elated or depressed by news reports as each day passes. It will be some time before we know the whole story.

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Olio

One of the outstanding features of living in Yankton SD was this time of the year, when the Missouri River town came alive in blossoming trees. More than anywhere I’d lived before. Questioning the old-timers as to how this might have happened frequently elicited “Gurney’s” as the reason.

The once-famous Gurney’s Seed & Nursery was located in Yankton, and was the source of one of the better gardening catalogs I would go through each year looking for plants that could survive the tactical nuclear blasts I was destined to send their way. Such were the criteria that one uses when one gardens with the polar opposite of a green thumb, the dreadful Thumb O’Death.

Shopping at Gurney’s was a fine experience. It was a big dusty barn-like store that smelled like earth, and featured ancient creaking wooden floors throughout. Wandering through the rooms you would find all of those plants, seeds, and devices that seemed almost magical when you read about them in the catalog.

Items like the 3-tined cultivator which was described as something that would make plowing up the garden be so much fun and go so quickly that you’d better have someone making your iced tea for your work-break before you even started out.

Of course, when you actually put it to use you found that it was a ***** to push and exhausting to walk behind.

But setbacks like this never put anybody off entirely, and each Spring I would return to the store and to the catalog, looking for the thing that would change my gardening life.

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America’s Four-year-olds Warn Against Following Trump’s Medical Advice by Andy Borowitz

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On yesterday’s river-walk we ended up at Riverbottom Park, where we bumped into two couples we knew who were already talking together. For the next half hour we joined them. What an odd thing it was – six people talking to one another each at least six feet from everybody else.

What transpired was that there were three conversations being conducted at any given time, with shifting personnel. To try to bring all six of us together would have been awkward. We would have had to create a large circle with a half-dozen people shouting from the circumference.

Of course at least half of what was being said dealt with the present emergency. How can you not, even though we are all becoming repetitious? When reasonably intelligent adults find themselves discussing when will the cutters of hair will be able to open their doors once again? And how well-supplied the paper products aisle at City Market was this week? Lord help us all.

I look at the pictures in the news of crowds flooding the beaches in Florida and California and think: Is our species worth saving? I force myself to remember that the people in the photos are a minority, even though they are capable of such dangerously moronic behavior and pose a risk to the rest of us.

Perhaps we should let those schnooks have one giant picnic in the middle of the country (we could let them have Kansas) where they could pass around the pulled pork sandwiches, beer, beans, and coronavirus and be done with it.

It goes without saying that we would put a fence around them for two weeks while this drama played out, so those of us who wisely didn’t attend the party could stay safe.

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Our governor has been giving regular radio messages to the citizens of Colorado since the beginning of the present emergency. They are marked by civility, common sense, attention to what the scientific community has to say, and by respect for his audience.

Each talk is about us, the problems we are facing, and the uncertain path to resolution. They are never about him. I wish the rest of the USA were as fortunate in their governance as we are.

His name is Jared Polis. If, God forbid, he ever leaves Colorado and moves to your state, I strongly advise that you vote for him. Even if he isn’t running for office.

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