Contrary to popular opinion, this blog is still active. It might be on life support, with one foot in the grave, but active nonetheless.
Anyways, I keep it around because I need to put the thoughts in my head somewhere. At least until they all go into my book and I can retire to my tropical island living off the proceeds as a billionaire playboy philanthropist. OK, fine. Old man philanthropist.
Currently, I have a lot of shit broken down. It does not matter when you read this, that statement will still apply.
Seems inspiration strikes me when I'm armpit deep in something. Be it a cow or a combine.
This was from the latter. If you need me, I'll be over here fixing something.
The Conundrum
I wonder if a welder might,
when he lifts his stinger from the arc,
find he's overrun by cattle
and a dog that likes to bark?
Or how often does a mechanic
when he turns to grab a wrench,
find himself entangled
in a half a mile of fence?
Or maybe there's a plumber,
while he's snaking out a drain,
might suddenly be in the way
of a combine load of grain.
It must happen all the time,
these things that cause alarm?
Because I always find, I'm in the shop,
when I'm trying to fucking farm!
...........my bloggy skills are really rusty. I'm pretty pleased with myself that I put the poem title in bold print right now.
Yesterday we finished getting our cows onto pasture. It's about a week earlier than they usually go out for us but our feed supply was dwindling and the grass was coming in nicely so it made sense. There's still a few cows left to calf but I can count those on two hands so our time spent in the barn is winding down for another season.
In my lifetime on this farm, which is the entirety of my life, there have been three different barns. The first was an old log barn with a hayloft that was probably way more decrepit than my childhood memories allow me to recall. It was knocked down to make way for yard expansion. The second was an awesome barn but it unfortunately burned to the ground. And now this third barn is somewhat less than what the second one was but something considerably more than what the first was.
Inspiration seems to be slightly out of my grasp these days. I think it's stress thing. It's been a trying last few years. But I didn't really write this to tell you that.
I do not know why, but more often than not, poetic verses seem to blunder into my brain when I'm right in the middle of barn chores. They're just there all of the sudden, like a cow smacking you across the face with a shitty tail. Which I am often surprised and grateful for, but can also be somewhat inconvenient when I drop what I'm doing and run to the giant whiteboard in the warm room to jot these thoughts down before they wisp away, back into the nothingness they came from.
Also, there's nothing about being smacked in the face with a shitty tail that I'm grateful for.
I'm also fortunate that my wife does not mind those same barn chores taking extra time on inspiration days because I'm not hauling my end of the load. And it kinda feels good when I drag her in asking, "here, can you read this?" just to see if what I wrote makes sense to someone other than me and I can tell she's smiling while I'm watching the back of her head.
So, here's an effort. It is what it is......
Backwards Calf
I pulled a calf, was backwards,
standing in the womb.
I didn't have a lot of confidence,
mostly doom and gloom.
There were no toes that I could see,
and I began to wonder.
But I saw the cow's tail swish, and a smaller one,
Honestly, there's nothing spectacular about the towel.
I mean, we have better towels, ones you might put out when you know that you're having company over. When you could do that sort of thing. But this is not those towels. This towel is pink. Or, more accurately, pinkish. And really, the only redeeming quality it has is it's size. Which is a good quality considering the only reason we use this towel is when we use our hot tub which is, for some unknown reason, extremely rare.
I don't know why we don't use it more? Our hot tub is just a little 2 person one and it's kinda perfect for my wife and I. I somewhat regularly maintain it, and have replaced parts on it when needed. The only conceivable reason I can think of why we're not using it on a regular basis is that we are so far behind on PVR'd episodes of shows that we're only mildly interested in that there's just no damn time for spontaneous tranquil interludes. Well, that and when it's bitterly cold outside, our sensitive, mostly naked, pale Canadian bodies cannot endure the two and a half steps between the door and the balmy water. But, in these times, when you can't travel or can only wave longingly at your neighbours, from a safe distance, the distraction of magical bubbling waters just might be a welcome relief, so I've been making a concerted effort to try and make the time to take an evening dip.
We have done it once this winter.
There was a time when we used it often. We had hot tub robes, hot tub slippers, and more importantly for this story, large luxurious hot tub towels. I do not however, believe we still own those robes, or slippers, and I could only find one of those towels. The large pinkish towel I began this story with. But we were determined to relax even if it killed us, so we forged on. Also, my wife was unaware that I'd prepared with only just the one towel until it was time to get out and was not entirely happy about it, but until that moment, it was pretty nice.
Anyways.
After drying off, I made mention that the towel, in all it's faded pinkness was a little musty smelling. That we should think about getting ourselves some fresh new hot tub towels, cause why on earth would you want to ruin the pleasant relaxing afterglow of luxuriously hot tubbing by drying yourself with some musty smelling, pinkish old towel?
But.
Later that night while I was laying in bed, I had a thought. What if that towel started it's life as just a normal clean white towel? What if there was something like being in a hot tub that loosened up all of my, "old man-ness"? What if, all of that musty pale pinkness was just sorta sluffing off of me onto the towel and it was me ruining the towel instead of the other way around? That IS kinda the way towels are supposed to work, isn't it?
I think, purely in the name of science, I'm gonna dig out my flip flops, and start hot tubbing with a mojito and a cigar to see if I start putting off some new beachy vibe. Maybe I can have my wife buy a new brightly coloured beach towel. Just to see which one of us is rubbing off on the other.
Wouldn't it be nice, say in a year or two, I could start a post, Honestly. this is a spectacular towel!
And know full well,
.........it was me that rubbed off on the towel instead of the other way around?
Remember in movies, in the climactic moment of suspense when the hero has to save the world from imminent destruction? The bomb timer counts down, then with no time left, the wire is cut and the camera pans to the timer and we see we were one second from the end of the world.
One second!
One whole second. I scoff at your second.
I live in a world between seconds.
Similar to a sniper. With focus so intense that the world disappears till there's only the bullet and the target. Between heartbeats, and the stoppage of time after the trigger is pulled and everything ceases to exist until the target is reached.
That's where I make my home.
Alongside the formula one drivers. With blinding speed and the life or death decisions made between the ticks of the second hand as he plots his course, reacts, moves 1500 pounds of car inches from his rival, between the flaps of a hummingbirds wings, around his opponent and on to victory.
Yes. I am comfortable there. With the snipers, the formula one drivers, and apparently Dominic Toretto. I know this place all too well. Because I thaw frozen cattle watering bowls when it's minus forty fricken degrees.
Let me explain.
On occasion, the place I live gets cold. The Polar Vortex they call it. Not to be confused with Polar Express which is a much happier thing, but I digress. Anyway, continued temperatures at minus 40 degrees. Which is a convenient but accurate temperature for this story because no Celsius/Fahrenheit conversion is required. Generally though, we are mostly prepared for this to happen. Specifically, in regards to cattle watering bowls, which are heated with an element like an oven and a heat tape running down the pipe that supplies the water underground from the well. Sometimes, that underground pipe will freeze requiring me to remove the valve and fittings from the top of the pipe where it connects to the watering bowl parts. Then, I pump water down the frozen pipe with a smaller pipe and a repurposed yard sprayer at the point where the ice begins, and until I am through the ice. Still with me? Cause the tricky part is next. Once you get through the ice, the water starts to come. And quickly! Before the water gets to the top of the pipe, I need to strip the smaller heating hose out of the now thawed and flowing under pressure waterline, grab the fitting and put it exactly into the waterline. It's a tight fit, so grabbing each part and forcing and twisting will be required, then put the hose clamp back on because sometimes the water will push the fittings back apart. All before the inevitable geyser like eruption. Of cold water. At minus 40 degrees. All while kneeling on ice and halfway upside down in a box half the size of a smartcar trunk.
Sometimes I make it. When I don't, it's usually because my fingers have stopped working and I've been distracted by thoughts of white sandy beaches and flip flops.
Ice is a funny thing. It's good for skating on. The combination of its pebbled surface and a forty pound granite rock combine in poetry like fashion. It holds my truck up so I can drive to a fishing spot, drill a hole through it and spend an afternoon wetting a line. More importantly, it's one of the staple ingredients when I make mojitos. It is less desirable when it has frozen my layered outerwear into a statue of a tired farmer that wishes he lived in a climate that didn't require one whole dresser drawer be dedicated to long johns.
On the plus side, I'm getting pretty good at shimmying out of my frozen winter gear like a boa constrictor shedding it's skin. Particularly, when time is of the essence. Like when I'm doing the pee dance,
........and the time between the ticks of the second hand seem like an eternity.
Yes, I am still here. More or less these days. I wish I was taken with the urge to write more but any ideas that I do have, more often than not, get pushed out of my brain by concerns of life instead of being jotted down in my little black book of fabulous ideas.
Little black book of fabulous ideas. That's somewhat grandiose. Leaflet might be more apt.
Anyways, encouragement comes in strange ways and recently, more than once I've been asked, what happened? So, dusty corners of my creativity get a little light shone on them, long quiet gears start to rotate and BAM! My brain spews forth a poem.
While I'm chopping wood, no less.
Attempting to chop wood. Ya. that's better.
Behold! It is what it is.
The Axeman
The wood chops better, when it's Thirty-Five below.
It creaks and cracks then splits in two,
like I had my strength of old.
I swing my axe with mighty blows
like I still was Twenty-Five.
But they fizzle out with diminished force
cause I'm nearer to dead than to alive.
And I'll pay for this, in days to come,
with my shoulder, knees and back.
If I don't die first, putting on my socks,
from an untimely heart attack.
Perhaps I'm crazy, still splitting wood,
in fact it really might be dumb.
But it's something I can contemplate
in front of the fire, sipping rum.
Inspiration is a funny thing. Maybe it's always there but you just need a friend or two to remind you?
Also, I pay someone somewhere once a year to keep the name Ken-inatractor so I feel obliged to at least put something here occasionally so it doesn't get stolen and used to sell inferior knockoff aftermarket tractor parts out of a child labour warehouse in a communist Asian country.
Actually, now that I think about it, saving the children is somewhat superhero-y?
..........in a cerebral kinda way. I'm way too tired and sore for any of that leaping tall buildings shit.
Like one time I used the metal clip-it-to-your-shirt-pocket part of a pen to make a tool to remove the metal sticky-out part of a set of headphones that someone had broken off inside the sticky-in part on the armrest of a jet airplane so I could listen to the movie.
I had to be resourceful because they wouldn't let me take my Swiss Army Knife on the plane. I'm also certain, had I pointed out what I'd accomplished to a flight attendant, I'd have immediately been escorted to the cockpit to ride as technical support should anything untoward happen to the aircraft, mid flight. But I didn't point it out because I don't like drawing attention to myself. Plus, it was a good movie.
I'm not telling you this because I think that I have a talent that's something better than everyone else has. In fact, as I meet new people in my life, I'm going to assume that any one of you would do exactly the same thing should you be thrown into a similar situation.
I leave it up to you to prove me wrong.
Anyway, I strongly believe this same innate resourcefulness would come into play should a global pandemic create such a mass hysteria that people ran out and bought up all the worlds supply of toilet paper, causing a shortage and the possibility that I wouldn't have the luxurious softness, yet double-layered durability of a roll of Costco Kirkland brand toilet paper to softly caress my backside post dump.
I'd make due.
Like using a handful of grass or leaves if you happened to get stricken in a tractor, mid day, too far from home and without supplies. You figure it out. Out of necessity.
Out of necessity.
That's important. Because, should an event one day require us to all remain at our homes, my first thought would be to provide the necessities of life. To stay alive. To ride this thing out and come out the other side all the better for it. Using toilet paper to wipe my ass is pretty low on the list of things I need to do to remain alive. Food and water, I'm good. Not because I'm a prepper or anything, but I have a freezer full of beef, there's potatoes in the basement, water in the well, and if the shit really hits the fan, I know how to ferment rhubarb into wine. Things I'd need, and a little more.
So, from time to time, when society is tested in one way or another, it's interesting to try to take a step back and watch. To see how we, as a society, uses our resourcefulness to overcome the trying situation presented to us. Unfortunately, it's looking like more people will be weeded out by some great toilet paper stampede than a random worldwide virus that happens to pop up.
While that happens, I'll throw a steak and a potato on the BBQ, pour a glass of rhubarb wine and realize that I may have finally found a use for 20 years of single socks from the dryer I have stashed in the basement in garbage bags that I wouldn't let my wife throw out because someday they might come in handy.
See, resourceful. And probably luxuriously soft and durable.
Either way, it's just toilet paper. It's not like it's something that's environmental or grows on trees or anything,
What's that? You did't even know I was gone? That was my fault. I'm sorta trying to be on the down-low, social media wise these days. And, while I did take a lot of photos, they're still all on my phone instead of on Facebook and Instagram. Because truthfully, I didn't want to miss my holiday as I was scrolling. Also, I was kinda hoping to be home before anyone really noticed I was gone.
Which I believe is totally doable cause I don't cast a very broad shadow. Except the middle of me. There's way more shadow there than I'm happy with.
But. That's a different story and not pertinent to this tale.
Anyways. I'm back and because I'm always trying to better myself, and am currently endeavoring to master lame poetry, here is one about my vacation.
Take it as you will:
I needed a vacation, someplace warm and tropical.
With oceans and beaches and landscapes botanical.
Visit Hawaii, I'd often been told.
The perfect escape from the Canadian cold.
So I ditched my wool socks, my boots and my parka.
Embraced the land of pineapple, hang loose and the shaka.
I packed my suitcase and some lotion to tan,
off to flex my pale toes in the warm island sand.
I saw beaches and volcanoes, spent a week on a ship.
Saw four different islands on this epic trip.
Waterfalls and whales, there was so much to see,
but in the rough water, my stomach betrayed me.
Still, a perfect vacation in almost every way.
Aside from the fact that I just couldn't stay.
But there was one issue and it drove me insane.
It's that the American money all looked the same.
PS. I believe I may have corrected the issue that I had with not being able to comment or reply on my own blog. So if you leave a comment, there's a good chance I'll talk back to you.
So,
occasionally, and unfortunately the place that I call home also happens to be the coldest place in the world. The whole damn world! When that happens, even though I'd rather not go outdoors, those are often the days I have to be outside most of all.
In an effort to delay that happening for as long as possible, sometimes I'll pour an extra cup of coffee and do something to avoid the inevitable.
Something like writing a poem.
About going outside.
This is one of those efforts:
My toes are cold, my fingers numb, my nose is red and rosy.
The temperature is in a plunge and it's less than minus Forty.
It's a lovely day to stay inside, but with that being said,
there's cows out there, and they're cold too, and waiting to be fed.
So outside we go, to feed those cows, to deliver bales round.
I can see my breath, I'm layered up, on my face there is a frown.
My tractor's stiff, my seat is cold, my loader won't do the up and down.
I'm certain if I stop too long, I'd be frozen to the ground.
But I can't say much, I can't complain, I really shouldn't whine.
Cause my wife's with me, and she's outside,
We're having ground beans coffee cause it's the weekend and all, and of course I'm having Baileys in it, and I don't need to explain this to you, because, well...Baileys.
It goes without saying, we have the giant liter and 3/4's bottle cause why would you even waste your time with anything smaller?
But.
The disconcerting thing about all of this is that the giant liter and 3/4's bottle has a larger neck that, because of it's massive size and ability to deliver copious amounts of it's creamy alcoholydelightfulness to my freshly ground beans coffee in an expedient manner, has a cap that requires an extra half a turn to put on and remove.
It's the wrong amount of twists. It's the amount of twists reserved for something mundane. Like a jar of pickles, craft buttons, or Chubby Checker. Sorry, Chubby Checker certainly is not mundane. I got carried away.
Definitely a half a twist too many for my breakfast alcohol.
Anyways, I just needed to tell someone. Get it off my chest, as it were. There should be better way to deal with excessive twists. Until I figure it out,
..........I'll just have to put a cork in it. Sorry about the odd formatting, I haven't done this in a while.
Hey there, thanks for swinging by, sit down, get comfy. Maybe loosen your pants a bit, grab a coffee. I'm going to try to tell you a story. Most likely I'm just going to leave you confused and wondering what the hell was that? But I'm going to do my best. My ability to spin a yarn is a little rusty.
Ok, I need to explain something here. Like, at least a month back, my wife decided it might a nice thing to broaden our alcoholic endeavours. No wait, that's not right. Expand our knowledge on the subtle nuances of different variates of distilled liquor. Ya, I like that better. Anyway, scotch in particular. Now, I have a suspicion this particular choice may have been due to my wife's new fondness for all things Scottish in nature, fueled by her passion for Outlander, which we sorta binge watched together. Or, she could have been trying to prove to me that wonderful things can, in fact come from peat, other than wild buckwheat and sub par barley.
I've always been a fan of scotch, so I was all in, and we sampled some varieties. Learned that it's best undiluted with mixes, but if you must, cutting it with a splash of water can reduce the harshness without sullying the complex undertones. Also, we learned that scotch is freaking expensive and that we can't afford that habit. One of those expensive varieties is Chivas Regal. That distillery is owned by the Duke of Argyll. He lives in the top floor of his castle and you can tour the lower floors if you were to ever visit Scotland.
That last bit is important.
Fast forward to this past weekend. We were in the city, doing some Christmas shopping, looking at lights, saw a movie, stopped at a restaurant for supper. We were in that in-between time. You know, after you've ordered your meal but before you get it. The time where the phones come out and you check to see what you might have missed while you did real life things. It was then, as the food arrived at our table, my wife turned her phone to me and showed me a photo of a castle. She said, "It's in Scotland. You can visit it, you remember? The Duke of Argyll?"
Ok. Now I have to explain something. Ten years ago or so, I damaged my hearing doing dumb shit. Which now that I think about it, was also alcohol related and that's kinda ironic, but unimportant. My hearing somewhat recovered but left me with a thing where if I'm in a crowded noisy place, sometimes I'll hear something, but it will be all tangled up with other sounds and I have to let that confusion of noise wrap itself around my eardrums and trust my brain to sort it all out. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.
She said, "It's in Scotland. You can visit it, you remember? The Duke of Argyll?"
I didn't catch, Duke of Argyll. The only reference I had was a photo of a castle and I didn't want to be accused of having a conversation while not paying attention, which I have been guilty of and try not to do anymore. So it was up to my brain to step up and save the day. My mildly ADD brain. Somewhere in my cerebral cortex, synapses and neurons began to fire. The wheel of the giant Rolodex of retained knowledge I posses slowly began to turn, and from between the card that says Wilma Flintstone's maiden name is Slaghoople, and the one that says you can treat foot fungus with a mixture of formaldehyde and water, my brain plucked a card and went with it.
She said, "It's in Scotland. You can visit it, you remember? The Duke of Argyll?"
My brain grabbed onto the only rememberance remotely similiar to what she had said and belched out, Doukhobor Val? Cleverly, I raised the inflection at the end to indicate either interest OR a question.
Ok. Now I have to explain something. Fifteen or so years ago, our family toured a Doukhobor settlement in the interior of British Columbia. They're kind of like Mennonites or Amish. They reject personal materialism. I don't know? It's in my brain. Like I said, sometimes my brain doesn't do a good job of sorting things out.
She said, "It's in Scotland. You can visit it, you remember? The Duke of Argyll?"
Doukhobor Val?
And then my wife nearly spit out her fish and chips.
Part of my brain. The smart part. The part that makes sure I don't do dumb things like accidentally drink anti-freeze, knew that was not the proper response. That part of my brain was also now aware that my wife had started to snicker, which in turn drew the attention of The Boy, who actually hadn't been paying attention. The smart part of my brain carefully took stock of the situation as my wife's snickering escalated into a state of not being able to breathe as she tried to stifle full on laughter in the middle of the Saturday night restaurant crowd. And, while the dumb part of my brain was trying to reconcile why a Doukhobor person named Val, who had renounced material possessions would own a castle and sell tours on the side, the smart part of my brain scanned the restaurant for a portable defibrillator just in case my dear wife went into a state of hysterical cardiac arrest.
I didn't get to use the defibrillator. Even though I'd really like the chance to.
So now, even though the space is rather limited, my grey matter Rolodex has a card in it and the only thing on it is, Doukhobor Val. Because there is no such person, that I'm aware.
The dumb part of my brain is also wondering if the Duke of Agryll could also be the Master of Fancy Socks?
..........I think I better add that to his Rolodex card.
I have, for the most part, a pretty stressful life.
Almost every facet of what I do is influenced by factors outside of my control. Add to that, the fact that I live at my job, makes it difficult to turn it off and step away for a bit.
OK, lets be realistic here, it's not the fate of the world lies in the balance sorta decisions I'm making. But, I've had enough missteps in the last few years that I've become more of a stumble along guy than a, make confident decision, see it through, toss back shaken not stirred martini, leave wife exhausted and thoroughly satisfied amid crumpled bedsheets while I adjust my tie and carry on to the next bold decision sorta fella.
Yesterday, after chores, I had a dentist appointment.
Nothing intense. Just a filling. Because good dental health begins with a proper daily regiment of brushing and flossing. ( That last sentence was for the benefit of my children. It really has nothing to do with the story.)
Anyways, over the past little while, I've been attempting to take a bit of time, when I can, to enjoy the moment. Find a center of peace in the eye of the hurricane sorta thing. So, while at the dentist, in between needle in the gum and lets get down to business with miniature industrial tools, when I was offered the luxury of watching a little television, it occurred to me this might be one of those zen opportunities.
It was not.
The only man in the room with a secondary education diploma said I had about five minutes, handed me the remote control, and left. I thought to myself, let the zen begin and hit the power
button.
Evidently, despite my families substantial monetary contributions, dentistry does not bring home the bacon quite as much as I thought, as the package of channels offered was far less than what I get at home. So, while I could see some things I might like to watch on the guide, they were unavailable to me. Then it occurred to me, I can't watch anything funny just in case I start laughing mid delicate drilling procedure. Star Trek was on, but what if Mr. Dentist was a Star Wars guy? He might subconsciously not give his best effort, cause those Star Wars people can be just a wee bit fanatical. News might put me on edge and less relaxed. Sports might get me too excited. I was running out of time, had nothing to watch and was nowhere as relaxed as I'd intended to be.
In the end, as the dentist was walking back into the room, I accidental stumbled across the movie Australia. There's a part in there where the cute little aboriginal boy refers to the cattle as "Dem cheeky bools." I always smile at that part.
Then he started grinding away on my tooth and I couldn't hear a damned thing anyway.
.............I'm not sure what he's doing with all my money, but I did spend the remainder of the day happy that I have a bigger package than my dentist.
For Christmas, not this one that just passed, but the previous one, I received what may be the greatest gift any male child of the 70's could ever receive. A boxed set of the entire run, plus all the additional movies, of The Six Million Dollar Man. I started working my way through them last winter, took a break over the summer, and now that winter has properly set in again, I've resumed my viewing pleasure.
And OH, what a pleasure it is!
I can almost smell a hint of Hi Karate cologne on the air as former astronaut, turned cyborg, government operative Steve Austin struts about in his bell-bottomed, polyester leisure suit, with his shirt unbuttoned halfway and his ample chest hair waving luxuriously in the breeze. Dude had it goin' on.
I tried to get The Boy to sit and enjoy all the manly awesomeness of the greatest show from my childhood, but he just doesn't appreciate quality television.
"Hey Son, wanna watch the greatest TV show ever made?"
"Do I have to?"
"Yes."
"Damn, alright. What's it about?"
"OK! There's this cool guy, Steve Austin..."
"The wrestler?"
"No no no, Way before the wrestler, and even more way way cooler! He's a test pilot and astronaut! He's been to the moon! Here, watch this iconic 70's television intro. It pretty much explains everything."
"So, he's part machine, and he's got like superpowers, sorta. And he can run really fast? Why is he moving so slow?"
"What?"
"Why is he in slow motion? He is, like literally, the slowest guy in the show."
"OH. No no no, That's special effects! He's running really fast!"
"So, when he runs in slow motion, he's actually running faster than everybody, even though it's slower than everyone else." "Why don't they just show him running really fast?"
"Because that would be ridiculous."
"Ugh, I can't do this, I'm going downstairs."
So, The boy won't watch it with me, and if I make him, he's just an even grumpier teen and all unappreciative about it. My wife will watch with me, but I can tell she's far less enthralled with it than I am. Lately, I've taken to having my morning coffee in my mancave/office, tossing in a DVD and topping up my nostalgia quota, just Steve and I.
Some of the things I've noticed from revisiting the series are.
1: Everyone is blissfully oblivious. Not only is Steve Austin dashingly handsome, he walked on the freaking moon. You would have thought he would have attained some sort of national notoriety. In fact, he is often recognized as The-Steve-Austin-Who-Walked-On-The-Moon, but only by the good and law abiding citizens. Yet, nefarious criminal masterminds are easily duped by a false moustache and changing his name to something like Steve Ferguson.
2: Crop tops and short shorts never go out of style. They were just as prevalent back then as they are now. Except in the 70's, it was men's fashion.
3: You would not believe the amount of classified government intelligence that was discussed over payphones.
4: My City Cousin showed wisdom well beyond his preteen years when he wanted to be Steve's boss Oscar Goldman, instead of the bionic man. Oscar Goldman DID have a phone in his car. Appropriated the funds to build not less than 3 bionic people, plus a dog. Pretty much took control of the Navy in one episode, and NASA in another. Plus, he had a goddamn bar in his office!
5: Steve Austin was a horn dog. It's not a stretch to imagine, if at least half the episodes ran 10 minutes longer, the bionic man having excessively hairy 1970's sex with the leading female interests in each of those episodes.
6: By the fifth and final season, half of the United States, and a handful of female Soviet Government operatives were well aware of Steve Austins bionic abilities, which was supposed to require a level 6 endorsement to be privy to. Again, except evil doers, of course.
Aside from the nostalgia, I've noticed they get a lot of their news out of the paper, and spend a significant amount of time trying to get ahold of each other. It's kind of a weird thing to think about, considering it was a tech driven show.
It was a simpler time. Maybe that's why I enjoy it so much. I've got multiple social media accounts and it seems, the more I go on them, the more angry people I have in my feeds. Which in turn, negatively affects my well being. I just want to be happy for a bit, and my coffee with Steve in the morning has been facilitating that to some extent.
I'm gonna be sort of sad when I get to the end of this box set.
...............however, I received a new box set this Christmas, and when Steve can't stop for coffee anymore, I think my old friend James T Kirk is gonna hang out for a bit.
Sure, I know what needs to be done, and I'm reasonably good at coordinating those "things that need to be done," with general times of the year. But there are times when I feel woefully inadequate in my ability to steer this ship.
Now is one of those times.
I'm just going to put myself out on a limb here and say it, Mother Nature is a bit of a bitch. Particularly this fall, no scratch that, this whole past spring, summer, and fall. From making decisions on planting crops in what was looking to be the driest year ever, to trying to make hay and harvest in what has become a fall so wet that even the old boys having morning coffee at the CO-OP don't have relatable tales of days gone by.
I am pretty sure, that I hold the dubious distinction of being the only farmer in the whole damned Province that hasn't harvested a single bushel of crop.
Nothing
Zero
Nadda
Zilch!
To put that into perspective, lets just say that you have a 9 to 5 sorta job. Bills to pay, standard of living to maintain, insurances, life sorta stuff. But you get paid seasonally, so you work all year to fulfill those obligations, and it turns out, you don't get paid. Yet, all those things that cost money remain. If that doesn't twist your guts and make your morning bowel movements unpleasant, you're even more laid back than I am.
Honestly, I don't know if my decisions were bad. I did get all my hay up, so that's a positive. But I don't know if pursuing that instead of harvesting dry grain for 3 or 4 days in the end of September was the right decision or not. I don't know if choosing not to attempt to tow my combine through the mud to take off grain that's 6 points above dry and probably won't keep until I can market, or get it dried, is the right choice either.
I just want it all to be done, but I haven't even begun.
I'm not the driven person my father was. I try to be patient and wait things out, and as a rule, that's generally served me well. I don't have the ulcers or take the daily heart or blood pressure medication that he took. But right now, I think I'd trade some of that to have something in the bin.
This post was supposed to start gloomy and I was going to try to take it into a more positive place. But, here I am nearing the end of it, and it all went pretty much in one direction.
Perhaps, I'll have to write a follow up post where I try to find some positives. Which isn't a bad thing on multiple levels. And maybe, given enough time, I'll actually get to start my harvest.
Or, maybe not.
................I think I'll just combine twice next year.
So, you know that story about the guy who buys a long forgotten mint Corvette, covered with a tarp, tucked away in the corner of an old barn, for really cheap because the lady selling it doesn't really know what she actually has?
Well I did that.
Sorta.
Except it was a combine. Driven haphazardly into the corner of a shed and instead of being covered with a tarp, imagine an inch of pigeon shit. And rather than being mint, imagine it being used for the last nine years without having any kind of regular maintenance or servicing.
And it was yellow.
Under all the pigeon shit, I mean.
And it sticks out like a sore thumb in a yard that is primarily green as far as equipment goes.
So, not so much a long forgotten mint Corvette, covered with a tarp, tucked away in the corner of an old barn, being sold by an old lady who didn't really know what she had. But more, a Dodge Caravan, with enough electrical wiring, and moving parts to rival the International Space Station, sold not by a sweet little old lady, but a combine salesman who knew exactly what he was selling.
Still, the hours were low, and it had potential. Even if it was yellow.
Honestly, the actual guts of the thing aren't terrible. Other than a few items regular maintenance on a near twenty year old combine should have nipped in the bud about eight years or so ago. I'm quite certain, if it could, with every pump of grease into a fitting, that yellow combine would make the same sound I make when I settle into my hot tub after twelve hours twisted to the right, cutting feed with my pull-type silage chopper.
The biggest issue has been trying to evict the families of mice that have made the cab home since I don't even know how long. Add to that, their overpowering smell that threatened to blow me backward off the catwalk every time I opened the door.
When you pull the headliner down to remove it, and a family of hairless pink mouse babies roll out onto you, you know you've got a bit of an problem. One that has involved completely removing the top to the cab to clean out old nests, repair vent ducting, and disinfect EVERYTHING possible. Then spray-foaming every cab post, and wire or cable access to the cab I could find, because apparently, twenty years ago, mouse proofing the cab of a combine wasn't high priority if you were a yellow combine engineer.
So now, even though I'm not quite finished, instead of overpowering mouse odor when I open the door, I get a combination of silicone sealant, Lysol, and fiberglass resin, which I'm finding is unsettlingly pleasant.
I really doubt that I've found all the mouse holes and plugged them off, or that the mice will give up and move on to someone else's yellow combine all that easily. So, I think my next option is to get a combine cab snake to slither around through all the venting and eat all the mice that I haven't been able to capture.
.............of course, there's no way I'm getting into the cab of a combine if there's a snake in there, which means I'm going to need a mongoose to kill the snake. I wonder if you can train a mongoose?
As it was explained to me, the whole idea made me, for lack of a better word, giddy.
Since The Boy is the only son that remains in our house, we have a spare bedroom in the basement, and one on the main level. We could renovate that main level bedroom. Rip out the 30 year old carpet and put down laminate. Paint the walls a manly hue. I could put up all my little treasures that remind me of days long since forgotten. Create a space where I could immerse myself in all of my mind calming, inspiring junk and perhaps, sit at my computer and churn out blog post masterpieces, the likes of which the world has never seen.
The more I thought about it, the grander this room became.
I could add a bathroom vent fan which would give me the opportunity to smoke the occasional cigar in the winter, while sitting in a leather bound chair, sipping the finest of Scotches in my red velvet smoking jacket and feel the pages of actual books on my fingers as I read from all the great masters.
This was going to be freaking awesome! The best man-cave, EVER!
So we got right to work on it.
Two years ago.
Don't get me wrong here. An undertaking of this magnitude requires careful planning. It takes time to accumulate just the right furnishings to put together a room that says a brilliant mind exercises its synapses in here, but also I'm more than happy to play LEGO Star Wars video games all night. It's a fine line to walk, and I wanted to feng shui the shit out of it.
I acquired a leather recliner. Not a new one, but one that came with its own history. Leather, softened by countless butts so I wouldn't have to be distracted by that new recliner smell, or with the inconvenience of needing to create that, this-is-a-chair-for-thinking, time worn look myself. Also it was free, so that played a big part in the decision making.
We found a small desk to write at, which became a much larger desk with the addition of a pine table that had been hiding in our basement for about ten years. In turn, my desktop computer was added to type my posts into. Then I added a second screen so I could monitor all of social media while I typed out those posts. Plus a desk chair that looks remarkably like an antique tractor seat, because it was uniquely fitting to the persona I've created for myself. And it turns out, it's about as comfortable as you'd expect an antique tractor seat to be, too.
I used to do my work in my lovely wife's office, and as I moved my things from her office, where I practiced the clutter and stacks of paper method of keeping track of things, she busied herself cleaning and reorganizing her stuff.
It was about that time when I began to notice that my man-cave was starting to look less man-cavey and more man-officey. Probably due to the, clutter and stacks of paper, method of organizing things I had mentioned earlier.
I'm beginning to think this whole man-cave idea that my wife came up with was a cleverly concocted plan to get me and my junk out of her office. The other day, I may have walked in on her hugging her newly cleaned desk and giggling to herself, but I can't be sure.
If that's the case, it only took her two years to play this whole idea out, and I'm not about to cross a woman with that kind of patience and commitment to a plan.
Sometimes, it's nice to take a couple of day just to get away.
You know, take a little time for your own sanity and leave behind all the things that cause the stress in your life.
In my case, things like trying to keep up with new equipment, attempting to learn even more technology that's apparently making my life easier, figure out better ways to market my grain, and making decisions about seed purchases that will put into play all of next year.
So, a week or so back, my lovely wife and I packed a bag, fueled up my truck, and headed 3 hours south for a little get-away.
To the farm show.
To look at new equipment, learn about the latest technology that's going to make my life easier, figure out better ways to market my grain, and make decisions about seed purchases that will put into play all of next year.
Farmers love farm shows just as much as they love pick-up trucks. I know this, because even before we got into the pavilions, we had to do that thing where you circle around the parking lot looking for a spot like it was Costco on the last Saturday before Christmas.
You know who else loves farm shows? The hutterites do. Technically farmers too, but they were out en mass, both days we attended, and despite living within about a half hours drive of not less than three different Hutterite colonies, I have to admit to not knowing a terrible amount about them. Aside from the rumors I've heard about some wickedly potent potato alcohol they brew, and also from the Corb Lund song, that apparently if you and all of your buddies get your trucks stuck, when the Hutterites come by in their big ol' Hutterite four-by-truck, they won't come anywhere near you.
Hutterites have a very distinct way of dressing. Not that there's anything wrong with that. In fact, I believe that knowing your first decision of the day, every day, is going to be; I guess I'll wear the black pants, plaid shirt, and black jacket over top, probably frees up a lot of space in your brain for other more pressing issues. If I wasn't burdened with the weight of trying to select and match attire, all groggy brained, first thing in the morning, I would probably make a far more responsible decisions. Like how much Baileys I'm going to add to that first cup of coffee.
From what I could tell, about the only way that the Hutterites are able to express their individuality, is through their choice of cap.
I can appreciate that.
This year, upon the urging of my wife, I only brought one cap to the farm show. Which is not a decision to be taken lightly. I mean, I intended to visit a multitude of different seed companies and tractor dealers. Choosing a hat that you can comfortably wear to any booth and not tip your hand toward any brand loyalty is quite daunting. It's a decision that weighed heavily on me for at least a week before we actually left, and included pie charts, an excel spreadsheet, and a scale model of the entire pavilion grounds made of popsicle sticks on the floor of the spare bedroom.
Finally, and again with the urging of my wife, my choice was made easier by taking all of the hats I keep in the closet and getting rid of everything I haven't worn in the past year. So that only left around 20 or so, and from there, I narrowed it down to one of my John Deere caps. Because lets face it, even if I do visit the red tractor booth, I'm not going to buy one.
Having crossed that hurdle, relatively painlessly, my wife is now urging me to bring only one cap with us on tropical winter vacation in the new year. That's one cap for an entire week! This may require some therapy on my part.
Funny thing I'm noticing, with less hats to choose from, the less time I spend trying to decide what hat I'm going to wear each morning, which is leaving me with enough time for an extra cup of coffee and Baileys.
............ and it seems that makes the decision far less stressful as well.
I've been around for long enough to know, that in fashion, trends will come, and trends will go. And more likely than anything, we'll probably look back on some of them in ten or so years and wonder, what the hell was I thinking?!
I'm looking at you, skinny jeans.
Don't even to try to conjure up that image. There was never anything skinny enough about me to even entertain the thought of shoe-horning my man bits into the pants of a prepubescent boy.
There are however, certain trends that have come to help define, and even add to the mythos of particular cultures. Say, for instance, cowboys and Wrangler jeans. I'd wager that if someone asked you to imagine up a cowboy and describe that image to you, your cowboy would be wearing boots, a hat and Wrangler jeans. Those jeans have come to define that ideal even more than cows. And cows are part of the damned name and job description.
Recently, while in Costco, I discovered a technological advancement in fashion, the scale of which the world has very likely not seen before, or might not ever see again. Stretchy denim jeans! Honestly, I don't even know if they're actual denim or not, I don't really care, because those freaking things are stretchy!
Did I mention that those freaking things are stretchy?
They're my new favorite goin-to-town jeans. I even own two pair now, just in case I need to go to town while the other pair is in the wash. If both pair are in the wash, I send someone else to town for parts.
When I was younger. Probably last year. (that was a joke) There was nothing like slipping into a crisp pair of freshly washed jeans to make me feel emboldened, and teeming with sexual confidence. But, slipping into a pair of stretchy denim jeans is completely different. They're not empowering, as much as they are comfortable. It's almost like you're wearing pajamas, without the judging looks you get from actually wearing pajamas at one o'clock in the afternoon, or the chance of finding yourself on a People of Walmart internet page. They're a metaphor for the place I am in life right now. Feeling pretty good in jeans, but not so much caring whether or not all my manly accents are on display. Not so much to be desired as a sex object, but just happy things still work well enough to have sex.
The thing is, and I don't want you to think here that I spend a great deal of time looking at other mens asses, but lately I've been spending a good deal of time looking at other mens asses.
For research purposes.
You'd be surprised at the number of times I've been in a group of guys, where I've noticed more than one of us wearing those Costco stretchy jeans with the familiar stitching on the pocket. Granted, the demographic that I'm usually hanging with is middle-aged-farmer-guy, but it would seem, that the stretchy denim gang is on the rise.
The thing that worries me though, is this.
I'm not certain if any of my brothers, in the throes of stretchy denim bliss have noticed or not, but over the course of a day out and about, stretchy denim gets relaxed. I mean, really relaxed. To the point where I find myself continually hiking up my pants. I worry that this whole stretchy denim phenomenon might have all of us old guys, wandering around with our pants drooping down our backsides like a bunch of teenagers. Then how are we all going to sit at the CO-OP, drinking coffee, and yell at the kids to pull their pants up and get a job, while maintaining any sort of credibility?
Of course, this could all be avoided with the use of a belt, but how comfortable are they? Besides, belts seem more like a fashion accessory when your waistline exceeds the girth of your hips. And who wants to complicate things with fashion accessories, when you want to feel like you're wearing old grey sweatpants and dressing for success at the same time?
.........although, I might see a business opportunity in starting a line of casual pants/pajama belts. Anyone interested in funding me?
Now, I know what you're thinking. Ken. That's just not possible, you must be wrong?
Maybe it would be better if I started at the beginning.
At some point over the last year, when I wasn't really paying attention, it became necessary whenever I tried to read anything, to hold that script at arms length. And in turn, when it became obvious that I was born with arms that were nowhere near long enough to continue reading anymore, my wife suggested that I may require glasses to read with.
An appointment was made and in anticipation of probably having to wear glasses, I may have spent more time than I should have in front of the mirror with my sunglasses practicing dramatically taking them off by one arm, and waving them with authority to make a point. I also got quite good at removing the sunglasses, chewing the thingy that goes over my ear, and furrowing my brow while slightly nodding to portray intense concentration and super-human attentiveness.
My wife said I was an idiot, because I have the attention span of a dog in a ball factory run by a workforce of squirrels.
What does she know?
Wait, where was I?
The appointment! Right!
So, it was determined that even though I can look across a 40 acre pasture and tell if a calf from a cow giving birth has both feet properly aligned during the process of calving, I am unable to actually read any book sized print without propping that book up and stepping back two paces. Reading glasses were most likely my best option, and my wife pointed out, it might not be a bad idea to get full time glasses with the reading portion incorporated into them so I always had them with me.
I thought, Naw! I can still read a little bit, I'll be fine with the glasses just for reading.
What I didn't count on though, was as soon as my eyes realized that reading glasses made all the difference in the world, they now pretty much say, "screw you!" anytime I try to read without them. Things I could at least get by with reading before, are now all just a blur without the glasses. And because I have glasses that are only good for reading, whenever I'm not trying to remember where I left them, they sit out at the end of my nose so I can look over the top of them to see anything distant but still look down through them to read.
Which does nothing to perpetuate the illusion of youth and vitality that I've been trying to get away with since I turned 40.
You'd think by now I'd know to listen to my wife in the first place. I'm starting to suspect that the things she suggests to make me look better than I am, might in fact be part of her own illusion to convince people that when we're out together, I really am allowed to be out in public.
But the reading glasses do help a lot, and to be honest, when I have them on, anything within arms length is now bold and impressive. I've also noticed a newfound air of confidence about me ever since I've started wearing them when I go to take a leak. My wife says it's nice that I have such a good imagination.
..............at least I'll know I've got the dosage right when she says it's time for that Viagra prescription.
When I was a kid, I remember my grandmother giving me this passport sized folder, booklet thing with a squirrel on it, that you were supposed to put your dimes into. It had little pockets for individual dimes, and the point of it was that if you were diligent to save enough dimes to fill all of the pockets, you'd have a couple bucks or something.
The thing is, I don't ever remember getting enough dimes to fill it. I didn't have an allowance. In fact, the one time I did casually broach that subject, it was greeted with such a frosty reception, I knew never to go back there. I was poor, not stupid.
Back then, dimes were big money. Anything silver was big money. And paper, whoa Nelly! I'm certain that I was driving a tractor before I was allowed to touch paper money. No, my currency back in those days was the penny, which they don't even make anymore because it costs more to produce than it's worth in actual value. But, unlike my children, if I happen to come across one on the street, I'll still stop to put it in my pocket.
I pick up any money I find on the ground. It makes me feel lucky. I mean, why wouldn't it? In an instant, fate has bestowed upon you, funds which have required no effort to earn. Other, of course, than the bending down part, which unfortunately requires more effort these days than I like to admit. But, that's getting off track here.
It's my belief that I have a knack for finding money. Now, I'm not talking about a bag of non-sequential 50's or anything. I'm still a small change guy. Self trained in the art, through years of high school spent looking at the ground to avoid any chance of accidentally making eye contact with someone. A thing I try not to do anymore, but still retain the subconscious reflex to spot a quarter in a snowdrift like a Jackfish drawn to a Len Thompson red and white.
What can I say, we don't get to choose the things we excel at.
Anyways, a couple weeks ago I was looking for my backpack. I use it as a carry-on when we go on vacations, but I wanted to put my shoes in it to go to the track to try to do something about that bendy at the waist issue I mentioned earlier. Stuffed down in the bottom of one of the pockets, I found a 10 dollar Cuban convertible peso bill. I immediately remembered putting it there a year ago as part of some money we had left, in case we wanted to pick up a snack or something at the airport when we left Cuba. Then, just this morning when I was waking up The Boy to come out and help with the chores, because he had a day off school, my eye caught the corner of a 5 dollar Cuban convertible peso bill stuffed under something on the shelf in his room.
Now, none of this money has any value here and can't even be exchanged for Canadian funds. And even if I could, those 15 bucks in Cuban convertible pesos are actually only worth about 12 bucks or so in Canadian dollars. But just because those found Cuban pesos have no monetary worth here, it doesn't mean that I can't find any value in them.
As the majority of my friends have already been, or are returning from their winter vacations to various tropical paradises, I've been stuck here in my wintery nation, longing to be sipping rum & Coke someplace warm, while I watch bobsled on the TV. Actually, I've got the rum either way, but those 2 bills helped me to remember all of the great times we had on our vacation, and it was only a year ago.
That being said, it is illegal to remove any Cuban currency from the country. So if any Cuban authorities are reading this right now, I'm ready to surrender myself to them and work it off by mixing drinks on a resort, or raking weeds on a beach. I know their wages are really low, but I'm willing to remain there as long as it takes to make this right.
..........after all, I'm pretty used to working for nothing.
