A Taste of Things to Come

No words. What do you say to this?

Tell you what. SAY nothing. DO SOMETHING.

JOIN an organization whose mission is to keep farming REAL.

BUY 5 pounds worth of UnCheese

SPREAD THE WORD. GO.

SUPPORT Real Agriculture. It's only your health at stake.

moonset over the pee dee

We woke this morning in the dark, gathering our things and venturing out into the world to find that frost limned the windows with silver lace. I spent a cozy night in a grain silo converted into a dollhouse, or rather a hunting lodge; four floors of airy living that the longer I stayed the harder I knew it would be to leave.

But I was only a momentary visitor to the Great Pee Dee Heritage Preserve, a once-a-year enticement that gives me fodder for ruminations and prose for long months afterwards. Like any foray into the wild, either modern or anachronistic, here is where I re-learn that my connection to the land is temporal and severe.

Image courtesy Johannes Kolb Archaeological Site Public Outreach

Last evening I drove up from Stateburg, entering the Darlington Historic District just as the sun dropped below the horizon, so that the last few miles of the trip were cloaked in gilded splendor, tracing the tender branches of the newly-budding willows that lined the corridor of the river, silhouetting the great Black Angus cattle as they lumbered toward dinner, the glow of new green grass behind them shouting the advent of spring as much as the fecund scent of orchard blossoms.

The Silo

Husband, the archaeologist, has a valid excuse to stay the entire ten days that the annual event is open: he's working. From all over the southeast dozens of volunteers, students, and faculty descend on the property once inhabited by one Johannes Kolb, a farmer of some success in this community that still derives the bulk of its income from agriculture. The site has been studied for over ten years, and has yielded a wealth of information about its former occupants.


But I do not come to study in any official capacity, I come to absorb and wallow in the good company and newly unearthed information. Archaeologists live simply, but believe in epicurean comforts. And there is always music. They incorporate what they have learned into their evening relaxations, as they turn a warm fire into the means by which reproduction earthen pots are kilned, as close as possible to that used by the makers of the shards dug up during the week. The bits are studied as to form, structure, and composition, and copies are attempted.

Some of them are marvelously useful. Others for some reason or other do not make it through the firing, coming from the ashes with deep cracks or scars, but these are still considered useful for what they yield about the process.


So we sat in the dark after dinner, imbibing our choice of refreshment, and laughed and talked and sang to the two guitars that appeared to accompany the evening's quiet melodies from the tree frogs and waterfowl. As I said, they live simple but rich, and anyone who wanted to suggested a song and whomever knew the words would sing. The musicians created fantastical accompaniment, and the frogs provided rhythmic backnotes.


There is a lesson here: everything we have is all we need. They discussed the pits they'd dug, and assessed their uses as aboriginal refrigerators. They showed me how the pots were formed for differing purposes - some for boiling, some for storage, some for carrying. Some of them know how to make cordage from fibers found in the eastern woodlands, they know what mushrooms to eat and what leaves will treat wounds.

One of them can make fire in his hands. I didn't say with his hands, I said in his hands. That deserves its own post, for now I will leave that to your imagination, so you may feel the wonder of the phenomenon in the same mystery as the children for whom it was created millenia ago, and you may think about from whence come magical legends of such things. They weren't as magical, or as mythical, as you may believe. But I'll give you a hint: the aboriginal was a chemist.

The promethean in me laughs up her sleeve at that.

This is how I know humanity will be fine, no matter what. This is how I can bury my nose in my books, tend to my children, live my life, with only half an ear to the wind, listening to the wails that beset much of the world obsessed with oil and finance and danger. You tend to that if it pleases you. I'll be as far away from that as I can possibly be, heart dancing in accompaniment to the wind that breathes through my soul.

How can you live like that? I ask you.


Today is Good Friday. Let me tell you why it is ALL good: because everything we have is all we need. And there is only so much we can accomplish if we are listening to angry voices, trying to make up for sadness in which we had no hand, and for which the only answer is to pick up and walk away. And be the beacon. It only took me about 3/4 of my life so far to figure that out - Good God, do you think I want to dwell on how much time I wasted? Wouldn't you rather concentrate on what you've learned and may put to good use, enriching your everyday life and that of those you love?

I believe you would. And so would I.


The definition of wealth contines to evolve, and I am today as wealthy as I've ever been, even though dollar-wise I bring in less than 1/4 of what I did five years ago. I measure my wealth in smiles, and laughter, in peaceful moments around a campfire, in viewing miles of lovely arching trees, old oaks, willows, and pine; in quilted pastures through which creeks tumble in tranquil paths, neat farmhouses set back from the road, brick stores, lumber roads, and a deepest-blue veiled purple morn. And I measure it in better health, and seeing less stress in the eyes of my children. My world is a succinct registry of all that matters.


This morning I had a perfect sky of cerulean blue edged in a silken swath of apricot. Last night I took part in community harmony of the happiest sort, and watched artists at work making useful, beautiful things out of river mud. I was warmed by a red-hot purple-gold fire of wood gathered not fifty feet from where it was built, that served a dual purpose both in beauty and utility. I slept in a building that gives new meaning to the words "adaptive reuse."

PeeDee River at flood stage

It cost me exactly $14.43 in gas money. Everything else was free.

If that isn't your definition of a bargain, I'd really like to know it.

But there is more. Tomorrow I'll tell you all about it. But first, go out and greet the sunrise, say good-night to the moon. That is where it begins.

Note: You can read more about the Johannes Kolb site in this article originally published in South Carolina Wildlife Magazine, Life on a Sandy Knoll, by Christopher Judge.

Archaeologists Chris Judge and Jason Smith

transitional dynamics

feeling the worth this morning of reporting on things that get into the meat of necessary change. so often what is out there is so much fluff, which is why we luddites and deep thinkers must just pass over it or puke. but some people are apparently getting it, even though the vast majority are still either caught up in the sparkly bits, or hiding their collective Gucci-clad heads in the sand.

it will affect us all some day. it affects us now, you know. why do you think we rush so hard to get to the computer & log on to check everything in the morning? is it because we half-way believe it might not be there, maybe sooner than later?

i am not here to convince anyone to do anything other than think. and to do that, you'll have to --ahem --educate yourself. not going to recommend any books, papers, or websites. you have access to blackle and you are a smart person.

zut, alors.... have to slap a certain website on the wrist this morning, howsomever. since when is it more "green" to buy French than Carolina or Virginia wines if you live east of the Mississippi? i ask you. the subject didn't even come up.... the choice as far as they are concerned is, napa or europe. and lo, papa, stop whirling in your proverbial urn. you know it's positively true that if you were alive today you'd be sipping virginia merlot dripped from right up the road at chateau marmoset morissette. or jefferson's meritage, say 2001. that is some yummy stuff. goes with the venison hubby bow-shot last weekend quite well.

meant to include linda's recipe for carolina venison chili and my apple tart recipe this morning. that will have to wait, out of time.

rest easy, papa. and you greenies? wake up and smell the local vintage, for chrissakes.

joy in the morning

i'm really visual lately, so i'm just going to share a few images of what we did sunday morning.... (click on images for larger version if you want).

This is my friend...


Scuppernongs



Thompsons



they'll go to make the best grape jam in the universe. come & share some with us!

spiritual recourse

Lots of interesting items in the inbox from the past few days. i could wax poetic on more than a few, but for lack of time to pontificate i'll just drop these here and expound upon them later:


Distributism - ran across this in a list of replies to an article on the Myth of Organic Farming, in Business Week. The poster said, "Look it up." I did. Wow. So this philosophy I've been developing all by me lonesome for the past 15 years has a name, I'm not the first one to think of it, and I'm not crazy? OK, maybe I am, but so are some other people. Take a look. I'll write (alot) more on all the thoughts this intelligence provokes soon.

Keep the Chickens Out of Cages- this is totally a no-brainer for anyone who raises chickens. I mean for those of us who actually RAISE chickens, not build a big metal building just over the hill and cram 118,000 birds inside it. As Page Smith explains in the marvelous work, The Chicken Book, the history and the ultimate fate of the human race is inextricably tied to that of Gallus domesticus. We are what we eat, fellas.


Don't fence us in!

Which leads me to...

New Study Details Devastating Effects of Eminent Domain Abuse on African Americans
“Eminent domain has become what the founding fathers sought to prevent: a tool that takes from the poor and the politically weak to give to the rich and politically powerful,” concludes Dr. Mindy Fullilove in her new report released today titled, “Eminent Domain & African Americans: What is the Price of the Commons?”

'Nuf said. But don't say I didn't tell you so.

Rethinking Suburbia - Neighborhoods that once held the suburban dreams of many have become havens for crime and the all-too-familiar problems of the inner city...

um.... duh.

this is why whenever i see a 800 to 900K, 7,000 sf home in the 'burbs being built by mexicans i think to myself, "nice apartment building."

what goes around just keeps spinning 'round.


School of Rocky
You know, the most interesting part of this whole story is, the guy seems to be doing an Al Gore (as in, no thanks, i'm not running, i've got more important things to do. things that will actually make a difference one day). That's 'cause when you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas, and you can take only so many fleas.


Sustainable Cities
ahem... if that isn't an oxymoron.
the only thing keeping me from writing more on this obvious silliness is the worry that in their haste to be chic and politically correct, that Cities will do to 'sustainable' what WalMart and Dean Foods did to 'organic' and Public did to 'education'.
you can't make black into white by painting over it --you'll only get grey. you have to remove the black and start over.

on a lighter (and perhaps saner) note:
I missed the weekend Field Day at Georgia Ladies Aside, but I hear it was a "really, fun, windy, time!" Aside, IMHO, is the only way to ride, if you are of the gentler persuasion, and a student of history as well. "life's too short not to ride aside."

And finally...

BBC Three's new show: Kill It, Cook It, Eat It This is so awesome. I don't know where to start. Why don't we have shows like this over here on the stupid side of the Atlantic? My dh is all over this --elbowing the vegans out of the way, he'd bark, "Thanks, I'll have your share!" This from a guy who names all the cows we pass on the highway: "Lunch, Filet, Au Jus..." and whose favorite Christmas gift one year was a genuine old-fashioned southern country ham. I thought he was going to take it to bed with us. Needless to say, he's a master with the chicken knife. I just get to pluck.

elloree

this weekend i was honored to be asked to help out at the annual archaeology society of south carolina field day, held at santee state park, near the I-95 exit. this is an assemblage of archaeologists (duh), scientists, researchers, and modern-day practioners who demonstrate the very lifeskills the scientists write about, the researchers explore, and evidence of which the archaeologists dig up & catalogue. it is a unique event where children & their parents & other visitors can literally help to dig up, screen and examine point flakes and bits of pottery on one side of the park, and a short distance away, actually view and take part in the making of such objects along with a skilled demonstrator. there were also stations with crayons & coloring books, a video tent (showing excavations around the state & interviews with those involved), as well as opportunities to buy books, tee shirts, mugs, research papers, and also to sign up to attend one of the excellent university programs, volunteer opportunities, and other events this state has to offer in the field of self-examination of our own origins. the organization is duly supported and populated by its share of wealthy patrons predominantly residing on the coast, whose agenda of course includes environmental activism and historic preservation, worthy causes all. fascinating, especially when you consider the outsider's view of our measly existence, as evidenced by stereotypical presentations of the southern lifestyle on television and in the news media. i'll refrain from posting links to such uneducated, ethnocentric idiocy (i'm sure you can find plenty yourself, should you really need to), but i am actually a bit grateful for a recent slap in the face from someone i'd otherwise considered pretty knowledgeable on the subject of the downsliding of development trends into the murky waters of greed, deceit and overall tackiness.

sometimes we all need a wake-up call.

last year i felt inclined to start this blog, but without a clear focus as to what i would write about. up to now a bit of earth has had the expressed desire to talk about land use, but no clear purpose or direction as to how to talk about it. howsomever, after the aforementioned slap, and the run of yesterday’s experiences, i think i’ve figured it out.

as a planner, it has been my habit for the past 15 years at least to mentally analyze every settlement, small town, or rural habitat i’ve come across. as i approach such an area, i look for evidence of the inhabitants in such visible cues as signage, pedestrian paths, and architecture. sometimes i can see obvious caretaking such as fresh paint, colorfully vegetated vistas, and numerous happy, or at least contentedly pre-occupied, people. sometimes the evidence is not so obvious.

on the way home last evening my husband, the archaeologist, took me thru a by-way he said he’d long wanted to show me. it was the tiny town of elloree, “where agriculture is alive and well in south carolina, thank you.” according to him the downtown used to be a desolate, angry place with only one claim to fame: duke’s barbecue. he was devastated to discover that duke’s has been replaced by a chinese take-out place. i was delighted to discover that the visual evidence supports the conclusion that it is recently a recipient of main street funding. a planted median divides main street, and sidewalks and seating follow either side. there were plenty of people out, all walking about with apparent errands on their minds. from the visual evidence, the predominant income level seemed to be less than 20K per year, and probably averaged about half of that. also, i saw few white faces. several folks hung about the doorways of this or that eatery or bar, talking together or not, but none of the angry desolation he’d described from driving thru in former years was at all visible. we drove up and down the main quarter, and then retraced our steps back to the intersection with our homeward road. my husband seemed to be holding some happy bit of news to himself –and then he pointed out his secret: there, around the corner about a block off of main street, was a small converted wooden livery stable, the words, “elloree farm museum” painted neatly beside the door in big red letters. hah –so the people were smart, too, and proud of who and what they are. how very cool.

we drove north the short distance out of town, the landscaped yards bordering graceful, slightly shabby early 19th century edifices of the old money-wealth now occupied by silent, single daughters or perhaps a similarly small remnant of the family. none seemed empty yet. here and there were a very few new brick homes in the populist architecture that claims its roots in sprawlivisions. at least here they didn’t seem quite so ugly, but maybe that was the fault of the waning light. as i looked ahead and beyond the yards, there seemed to be a ghostly glow surrounding this north end of town. hubby started pointing, “look, look…” and lo and behold, i then beheld the source of this town’s continued existence: fields of cotton. the scent of defoliant teased our nostrils and we slowed to watch the harvester crawling among the plants, to count the truckloads of what had already been baled, to smile at the workers waving and directing each other there under the rising moon.

a field of mature cotton in moonlight is an awesome thing; its beauty literally takes your breath away. it looks like a coverlet of snowy ermine interspersed with intricate blackwork and bordered and interlaced with the tracery of thick rows of dark trees. the plants follow the curvature of the earth, and are rimmed and intersected by undisturbed areas which follow the local hydrography. while the rows can stretch for what seems like miles, they are carefully planted only in the adaptable soils, common sense prevailing and avoiding the myriad streams and wetlands that embroider and criss-cross like unto a quilt. while we can regret the fact that the fields are not planted (yet) organically, the fact is that it is still quite labour-intensive, although not nearly so much as even twenty years ago. many south Carolinians –black and white –even my age (mid-forties) have told me that they remember earning money in their teenage years picking cotton. we are grateful for the fact that crop rotation and no-till methods prevail, and we know that after the harvest, the dross will be sown in peanuts or soybeans, followed by corn or perhaps rye or winter wheat, and the cycle will continue at least into the foreseeable future, as long as people wear clothes, use hospitals, and write on paper.

so. what will we do when the oil runs out? we will adapt, and move on. as humans, that is what we do –best, i might add. here in the hinterlands, far from the rot and waste of the urban landscape, little will change. it is what is, and will be. as i said, not too long ago harvesting & planting was done by hand. it is still in recent memory.

work, in the end, is a prayer, or so says baha’u’llah. i think this is an apt observation. prayer goes a long way in negating the need for therapy. work negates the need for expensive exercise programs. books, conversation, handwork, and games all negate the need for television and other forms of electronic stimulation. the occupations of our minds and hands from previous days indicate that we already know this. we look forward to celebrating the fruits of honest labors: the candles that our friends made of deer tallow and beeswax light our path, we keep clean with the soap that we barter for sewing with other friends & neighbors, woolen garments ranging from the decades-old lovelies Jason brought back from ireland to the scarves, shawls & caps amazingly crafted by Rachael from her own drop-spindle & knitting needles. too, the doe in the freezer will be (among other things) Christmas dinner, through the winter we will dine on the turkeys from our woods and the chickens from the lower pasture, the pecans from the grove, jam from the grapes from the arbor, fat carolina road-stand peaches canned along with sweet memories from warmer days, sauce from the tomatoes that still abound in the greenhouse. rosemary, oregano, mint, and thyme hang drying in the herbary. from our field-roving hens we still collect at least a few eggs every other day, even as the days grow shorter and darker. winter sets in, and our activities lessen. it is time for rest, relaxation, contemplation, the enjoyment of the fruits of warm weather labors, and we will reflect and write about whatever comes to mind, as we await the turning of the seasons and the arrival of spring, when the cycle begins all over again.

so i think henceforth, this blog will catalog evidence of the fact that we are already ready for the future. in fact, we welcome it. we are thankful for what federal and private funds enable small localities to spruce up their appearance, but by and large, i see no evidence that any of these places are dependent upon the hand-outs, or upon the oil economy. they have a vitality complete unto themselves. many are too poor to have partaken of the glut of wealth from the past two decades. and still they flourish, in the simple, honest, and steadfast ways evidenced by time to be most enduring. fruit of the earth and the work of human hands. i see it much too often, and so instead of bemoaning the twilight of a bloated existence, i am singing and dancing. i am praising it to the skies, and my children and friends with me. amen.

even so come, lord jesus.

duality

i've been recently taking the time to review this blog and have realized that --aside from fixing the broken image links (now having been done!) there may be a bit of clarification in order.

i live in two houses, actually, and have for over 2 years now. this is necessitated by the rather complicated custody situation with my three youngest angels and the fact that my heart --and my husband --remain employed elsewhere. the two houses are located about 1 1/2 hours apart. neither, sad to say, is my full-time residence. this situation, a ridiculous one, really, isn't likely to change anytime soon. my children's school is in one state, my husband's work in another. so we have our "cottage" (also known as 'the hidden house,') and the caretaker's house on the "estate" --and i commute about 2-3 times a week between the two. on days i don't have my children, i am of course in south carolina. on days i do, i am in north carolina. i have a place to do my work at each, and in the words of one of my friends, i certainly am "quite adaptable." it helps that i have always considered home a place of the heart, and not really tied to any physical location.

i also refer from time to time to my small hometown in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, and also to a favorite past abode, located in Summerfield, NC, where I still maintain friendly ties.

also, traveling back and forth between our two houses has given me an opportunity to observe firsthand the revitalization --some might even call it rebirth --of commerce on at least two very small carolina backroads towns. i'll try to write about those in the context of southern development as a whole very soon. they do demonstrate some surprises, certainly... and perhaps are more indicative of the rebirth of southern culture as a whole, in spite of what some wise-assed yankees may think. there are dualities to be discussed in the realm of "the real south," and "the south that is visible from the casual vehicular vantage point." but as far as that goes, if what you see from the interstate keeps you assholes up nawth, so much the better.

but as to my home duality: i hope this helps to explain a bit about the actual situation of "home" as written about in "lawn no more," "backyard view," and "travelling mercies," vs. the location of the power outage i was writing about in "recommended reading." i realize i haven't actually written about the estate as "home," and yet, most of the writing in this blog has actually taken place there, and all of the pictures of scenery, trees, and landscape have come from there. the two are very different homes. both are rural, one much more so. and yet, the fact of this duality is not a bad place to call home --in itself it defines home as restful refuge, and not place. but to be more clear in the future i'll try to put a reference either to "the estate" or "the cottage," somewhere in the text.

more --and hopefully clearer --ruminations soon.

a lesson

If H5N1 really is the herald of doom for our late great planet, all I ask is that I remember to still live each day as my last, to honestly do the best I can, to enjoy the little things (good books, my children's smiles, sun and wind and rain), and to ensure the existence of my protoplasm was for good upon the earth. Good does not equal worry, or mourning the loss of utopia, or angry diatribes, no matter how well-meant. Good means loving my enemy, forgiving the clueless, being honest with myself, and sharing what I know.

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friend mackenzie's daughter apphia hugging her favorite dorking hen, isadora, while their majorca roo stands guard behind them. we raised these from chicks & helped them to start their little flock of backyard birds.



here are a few pix of our own backyard birds. click on the thumbnails for full-size views.










their favorite place was the cedar tree in the summerfield backyard!
would that everyone could enjoy such simple pleasures as these...

the open road

on the way to badger's house...
my husband tells me that there are no badgers east of the mississippi, and they are mean & nasty creatures to boot. so i feel the need to clarify: moley & ratty are just ahead and if we scurry, we can catch up to them and have a lovely tromp thru the wild wood...