Eating Road Kill

Sally and I had stopped at a local BBQ place for a late afternoon supper. A few other tables were occupied, but the place was mostly empty. While we were waiting for our meal, the cook came out with a large platter and went to the nearest table to the kitchen and presented it to the couple there. I couldn't see what was on the plate, but it was a fairly large pile of BBQ. The couple shook their heads, and the cook moved on to the next table. Same reaction. He got to us, presented the platter and asked "Did you order the Armadillo?" On the platter was a fully clothed whole Armadillo, barbecued and steaming hot. We said no, we didn't order the Armadillo. The cook asked if we would like to try some of the meat when he carved it, and we said "Sure, why not?" So a few minutes later we got a small plate of lean meat, redolent with wood smoke and mild sauce. It was tasty.

The story: On the way to work that morning, the cook hit the Armadillo with his car and killed it. He picked it up, brought it to work, cleaned it and cooked it slowly with the chickens and pork. He playfully presented it to the patrons and shared the meat. This guy was taking a big chance since I am sure that cooking road kill in a restaurant kitchen isn't legal, and he had no way of knowing who was sitting at the tables. But we all had a taste and a good laugh.

The second time we ate "road kill" was the whale. I think those are the only times for road kill. But, remember "Fried Green Tomatoes" ? Well, years ago Sally and I drove many times to Bradenton on Hwy 301. Just before the bridge over the Hillsboro river was a long low building. One end had a sign that read(I am making up the name since I don't remember the original one) "JONES FUNERAL HOME". And on the other end of the same building was a sigh that read "JONES BAR-B-QUE". Hmmmmm.

Photo:http://wonderingbrit.files.wordpress.com/2008/02/roadkill.jpg

Three Score and Twenty

It occurred to me the other day that I was nearly at my "3 score and ten". I got to figuring that with luck I'd make it to 3 score and twenty. Do the math. If 80 is the end point, then when you get to 70 you have already had seven eights of your life. Only one eighth to go. Eighty years has 4160 weeks or 29200 days. The ten years left have only 520 weeks or 3650 days. Damn, that doesn't look like much compared to the original total.

What this says to me is "GO FOR IT BABY" before all you can do is watch and wait.

Maybe I can squeeze out 3 score and 25. Now that would be a nice bonus.

Photo: (by the way, this is a 70 year old farmer.)

www.spencerart.ku.edu/.../farm/hotvedt.shtml

weird woody rides again

No kidding. Weird things happen to me at the most unlikely times. Yes, I have seen ghosts. Yes, I have had an out of body experience (not drug or alcohol induced) and Yes, I have personally communicated with spirits (call them what you will) without peyote or other assistance. I have not experienced any of these things (and others) by choice nor can I repeat them at will. They just happened. Another manifestation of the weird: shadowy forms lurking in the peripheral vision. Whoa! Eye trouble? Not according to the eye exams. And, these forms are shaped in most cases like either large birds or ghostly humans. A little research turns up some interesting spiritual possibilities. Some sources claim that the shades of past lives appear to those that are getting ready to join them. Possible I suppose but these have been around me for quite awhile. Others indicate that the shades are there for all to see, but most are not tuned in to seeing them. Yet others suggest that seeing shades is a stage of development on the road to spiritual awakening and the realization of spiritual power. Lets look more closely.

Birds are thought to be spirit guides and or totems in many cultures. Certain birds are associated with specific aspects of spirit. As I indicated in an earlier post, my family has had a very long association with Owl. I now live amongst a colony of Barred Owls. Hmmmm.

Here is a partial list of attributes of those chosen by Owl:

perceives truths that are veiled to many

A shaman with an owl spirit guide is an old soul with much wisdom thanks to this maturity

knows when to speak and when to keep its peace

the Barred Owl is spirit guide to Shamans who are gifted in speech, and cooperative with others

powers of second sight and great sensitivity

The owl puts an end to doubt and offers vision and clarity of the truth of events, people or circumstances in your life.

I don't claim to be a Shaman or anything else holy.

I was surprised to see so many aspects of how I think of myself reflected in the discussions of Owl as guide and totem. I am surprised that I even consider this to be possibly a reflection of some spiritual reality. After all, I have spent the greater part of my life and consciousness in an analytical mode, denying these aspects of the realm and considering them to be fantasy. But have always been "spiritual" in some ways. The very heart of contradiction, I know. But you know something? Sometimes you have to step back and take another long and deep look at your self and the world around you. And realize that there are many realities, not just one.

See? I told you this would be weird.

(One point of clarification: I am not talking here about religion. Someday I may write about religion, but this is not the day.)

Photo: www.flightschoolphotography.com/Workshops/FSP

Mystery Meat, or, Strange Friends

A friend of ours needed help building a long fence line and as an incentive we were invited for a bar-b-que at the end of the project. The kids were with us for the summer, so one morning we loaded into the old Pinto and headed out. The job was easy to see: about half a mile of field fencing and too many posts to count. Ron had rented a post hole auger, the kind lovingly called a "man killer" and we got down to it. Hole after hole. The heavy auger digs down then with bent back two people haul it up out of the hole and move to the next spot. We worked for several hours when Ron's wife called us in for the treat: Bar-b-qued Mystery Meat. Interesting.

So we cleaned up and got down to the beer and grill. On went the meat, lean, thick and dark. And a couple of pigs ears for good measure. Yummm. Grilled Pigs Ears. Should have left right then.

When the meat was ready we sat down to the meal. Sliced like London Broil the meat was tender and fairly tasty. We couldn't guess what it was and there was no telling: these guys had at one time cooked and eaten an aborted goat fetus. Ron finally told the story. He was on a sampling trip to the coast and ran across a dead beached pilot whale. The eyes were still clear and the carcase didn't stink, so he sliced open the back and removed a large slab of meat.

So resolved the question of what kind of meat we had just had. On reflection, the ears were probably safer, but the whale was kind of tasty.

Photo: www.diseaseproof.com/archives/2009/04/

fun n. A source of enjoyment, amusement, or pleasure. Enjoyment; amusement: have fun at the beach. Playful, often noisy, activity.

The last several trips to here and there have usually produced a billboard that touts the "fun" available: Scary rides, rushing around an amusement park standing in lines, mountain biking, skiing, snow boarding, jet skiing. You get the point. On TV (seen on hotel sets since I don't have access at home) ads for resorts include playing volleyball on the beach, hot dancing, and more of the above. Not my idea of fun. When asked "Have any fun on your trip?", or " What did you do that was fun?", my reply is usually met with "Oh". Sally and I hike into quiet places and sit. We sit around a fire and talk, or just sit. We read. We cook a nice meal and have a good wine to go with it. Oh yeah, that's fun. Why do so many people think that fun must be dangerous, scary or frenetic? Calm, relaxed and laid back stuff is fun for me. So yeah, I have loads of fun on trips. And good beer too.

Photo: i.ehow.com/.../4525856/2campfire_Full.jpg

Dooster and Gruster

We moved into Rainbow Farm and found a small flock of wild chickens living there. Not ordinary chickens gone wild, but fighting chickens gone wild. A pretty rooster and a flock of plain hens. We moved our flock of Reds a few days later and the battles began. The big Red rooster, named Dooster, was immediately challenged by the wild rooster that came to be named Gruster. They fought several battles over several weeks, always to a draw. Dooster was much bigger and heavier and Gruster was faster and bred for fighting. Both had prodigious spurs.

One cold afternoon we came home from work and noticed Gruster just sitting in the yard. Dooster was no where in sight. Odd. We walked up to Gruster and noticed a couple of things: he didn't run away; he had a pure white patch on his bald head where feathers once lived; we could see no eyes through the clotted blood that covered his head, except for the white patch; he was alive.

What a mess. We picked him up and took him inside to the sink. There, we covered his head with a warm wet washcloth to try to loosen the caked blood. That is when we realized that the white patch was his skull. Just bone, no skin, muscle or feathers. And no eyes. We figured that he was a dead rooster standing. Well what to do? Wring his neck? Throw him out into the cold? Put him in a warm box by the stove and treat him? What do you think?

Day after day he just stood or sat in the box. Didn't eat and only took some water when we put his beak into a shallow bowl full. After a few days we saw a horizontal slit begin to open on one side of his head, and a bright eye peeped out. After a few more days, the eye was open and blinking. The other side of his head had a dent where the eye used to be. He gradually healed, started to eat and finally we turned him loose. He avoided Dooster after that. But the gruesome sight of his head as found and as it healed earned him the name "Gruster".

He managed to marshall his hens for a year or so after that, and managed to "rooster" a few batches of biddies.

Life is not easy for a one-eyed rooster. One day when he was visiting the radio station that was our neighbor, he got run over very slowly by a car backing out of a parking space. He was "blind sided" in the most classical sense.

Dooster went on for awhile until he and his entire harem got killed one night by a pack of dogs. No more chickens after that.

Moo-Mac and the Bulldog

When Moo-Mac got older and occasionally got out, usually because the "Doat", a beautiful Nubian goat, led him through the fence somewhere and on to an excellent adventure, to get him home we had to get a rope around his neck and lead him back with difficulty. He was way to big and strong for the "Davis" technique.
One day I was talking to my father-in-law, a former dairy farmer in England, about Moo-Mac and he said matter of factly "Put a bulldog on his nose - always works and easy to lead them." A bulldog? On his nose? How the hell do you get a bulldog to grab a steer's nose and lead him around? John looked at me with something between pity and resignation and said " You know, the ring in their nose - called a bulldog. Just snap a rope on it and they follow you anywhere." No doubt good advice, but we froze Moo-Mac before we got to "put a bulldog on his nose". Tasty too.

Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/agnescao/452911489/

How to Steer a Calf

The calf got out ----- again. This time we got a call from the Stones Home Center at the corner: "Your calf is walking around the parking lot." So Sally and I ran down to the parking lot (half a block away) and tried to circle around and slowly "drive" baby Moo-Mac back home. He just ran around us - playing - if calves play. We were afraid he would run onto US 27 and end up roadkill so we kept trying to "contain" him. Hot and frustrated, we doggedly pursued him, but never got close. Along came old Mr. Davis, probably 80ish, and asked if we needed some help getting the calf back home (he knew where the calf lived - seemed like everyone in town knew). We were grateful for the offer but I thought "If we couldn't catch Moo-Mac how is this old boy going to do it"? Well, never underestimate a country boy, old or not! Davis told us to walk away from the calf and just call him to get his attention. He walked around behind him as if he were going to his truck and suddenly grabbed the calf's tail. Moo-Mac took off with Davis skidding behind and as he was dragged along he steered the calf down the street, up the driveway, through the gate and into the pasture. Slick as a whistle. The secret? Use the tail like a rudder: pull right - the calf goes left; pull left - the calf goes right; just hang on and he goes straight.

So, the next time your calf gets loose, use the "Davis" technique. Works like a charm.

Photo: saintlouisconservative.blogspot.com/2009/07/m...

The "Doat" and the Great Escape

We got back from a very long drive from Bradenton to Havana about midnight. The answering machine was flashing with a message: " Mr. Search? This is the Havana Police (you could hear in his voice the unspoken "again"). We found your cow and goat wandering around down town (again). They're OK. Please call us in the morning." Here's how the scene unfolded: sometime after dark someone reported a "cow and a large dog loose in town". The Police knew exactly who they were and who they belonged to. The had found out on earlier "jailbreaks" that if they just put them back in the pasture they'd be out again in no time so they took them to a neighboring farmer to hold. When the squad car pulled up to the escapees, Doat would climb into the back seat and sit down. She loved to ride in cars. Moo-Mac waited while they put a rope around his neck, tied it to the bumper, and walked them to the farm, Doat watching from the back seat like a Queen. The next morning after hearing the story we went to the neighbor to collect our jailbirds. Moo-Mac was happily munching hay in a small paddock and Doat was resting in a clean horse box trailer. Doat jumped in the back of the Pinto wagon and Moo-Mac walked regally home. We fixed the fence - again- and they were content to stay at home until the next time we went out of town. We finally solved the problem: gave the goat back to the friend that gave her to us, and ate Moo-Mac.

Photo of Holstein: http://www.flickr.com/search/?w=all&q=dimitra%27s+face&m=text

Photo of "Doat":http://www.flickr.com/photos/24777260@N02/2413440035/

I Don't Understand

I sat on the side of the road, unable to drive for the tears in my eyes. NPR was broadcasting the Ft. Hood ceremony for the murdered soldiers. The Chaplin was better than any I have heard. The generals and the President said exactly the right things and set exactly the right tone. And yet ---- and yet. I don't understand why they said these troops "gave their lives" for their country and service. They didn't give anything. Their lives were taken by a madman who murdered them. I don't understand if the metaphor for being killed at home by a madman is supposed to make me better understand their sacrifice. I don't understand if we say that they were taken before their time by a madman that murdered them that we somehow diminish their lives, or their commitment to their principles and country. It doesn't diminish my sorrow or my grief or my anger at the taker. These wonderful people didn't sign up to be murdered in their home base. They would have given their lives in service if asked, there is no doubt about that. They weren't asked.
I don't understand the final words of the Chaplin when he asked God to bless the families and the country with the strength to persevere and to understand and to not hate. I don't understand why a God would give the families the strength to do that but not step in and save the fallen, so unjustly murdered. I never will.

Photo: chile.usembassy.gov/press2009_memorial_day.html