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

Muslim Killer and Muslim Innocents

Many soldiers killed by an insane psychologist. Insane? He would have to be to do something like that. Oh, and he was a Muslim too. So now crazies all over the country are threatening mosques and individuals. Question: if he had been a Baptist would the crazies bomb churches? Of course not. We would never consider blaming innocent members of a group like that because of one sick stupid act by a Christian. So why blame every Muslim in the world for this sick stupid act? People seem to be hard-wired to hate anyone different from us. Different race, different religion, different language, different sexuality and even different sex. How the hell we ever got this far is beyond me. Probably extinction will be the ultimate answer for the “human” problem.

Photo: http://media.www.trumanindex.com/media/storage/paper607/news/2005/01/27/Indepth/Muslims.Jews.Hindus.Find.Ways.To.Pray.In.Kirksville-842625.shtml

Being Black is Dangerous

This is a comment on the death penalty. I started out years ago supporting it believing in the safety of the criminal justice system. Over the years I have seen over and over innocent men, almost all black, being incarcerated and then years later exonerated. We don't know how many innocent people have been executed or how many remain behind bars. We do know that hundreds have been railroaded and victimized because they were black and therefore easier to convict. What a travesty.

Imagine being innocent of a murder and being convicted and incarcerated. I have to call that torture. In America. Torture. Legal.

Would it be better to be innocent and executed? Ahh. That I don't know. In this country executions often take 15, 2o or more years to be carried out. That surely is torture as well.

America has the highest rate of incarceration (1) in the world and the US is currently fifth in the world for executions (2). What the hell is going on here? Blacks are far more likely to get the death penalty than whites. Why? I think I know the answer to that but my opinion is informed by emotion and many but diffuse sources.

What to do? Get rid of the death penalty. Period. It costs more to execute people than incarcerate them. And a fringe benefit would be the survival of innocents and hopefully the ultimate exoneration of them. Better yet why not a system that doesn't allow the conviction of innocents. Currently prosecutors cannot be themselves prosecuted for wrongful prosecution. Now don't go off half-cocked here. If honest mistakes are made in the prosecution of an innocent there should be no penalty for the prosecutor. That tastes bad but I can understand it. Today a case was discussed on NPR that outlined the purposeful framing of, you got it, black men. Police and prosecutors were in on the frame, got convictions and moved on with their lives. Two men spent 25 years in prison before being exonerated by the "discovery"of evidence hidden by the police and prosecutor that absolutely showed that they were framed. The supreme court is now going to decide if the prosecutors and police can be sued for this. Sued? Charge the bastards and jail them. Immunity for framing? Crap.

1 http://www.csmonitor.com/2003/0818/p02s01-usju.html
2 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Capital_punishment
3 http://www.deathpenaltyinfo.org/race-death-row-inmates-executed-1976
4 http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=120069519
Photo: www.deadanarchists.org/Pentecost/murder.html

Iroquois Brothers?

Probably. They claimed Iroquois ancestry and have features that are consistent with this claim. Their eyes are typical of some groups of Native Americans and they along with their sisters have the "look" of native Americans. There are some stories told by these brothers that ring true. They told that the family had a deep association with the Owl, and that Owl was their spirit guide. In fact when the older brother was dying in a rural hospital a great horned owl sat for 2 days in a tree outside his window, and the morning after he died an owl visited his brother's house and his sisters house, both many blocks from the hospital. Owl sat outside the houses for a time, and then left. This had never happened before, and never happened again.
The younger brother told the tale of Bird. Bird favors those that honor him by leaving a feather directly in their path. To honor Bird one must pick up the feather and wear it somewhere prominent so it can be seen and admired by any who looks at it. This in turn pleases Bird and brings his good luck to the wearer.
Their father was a healer with special skills using certain plants. He could cure some conditions easily, but died without passing on any of his knowledge, gained he said, from his father.
The brothers had three sisters, two with distinctive Native American traits and one without them. The middle sister claimed that she could hear "the high winds" and very accurately predict the weather by hearing how fast they blew and by what directions they moved. Now we know that the high winds she heard are the upper atmosphere steering currents that move much of the weather around the globe. She heard them as a child and throughout her life. Experts will tell you that humans cannot hear the jet stream, but she could. Another clue to her aboriginal roots. She is on the right in the photo below the brothers picture.
These siblings are my ancestors. The oldest, the man with the cowboy hat was my father and the rest my aunts and uncle. Their names in order of age from oldest to youngest are Hal, Ray, Greta, YuYu and Effie. They are all dead now, hopefully joined in some place peaceful and quiet. But if not, they at least lead good lives and kept true to their roots.