Browsing Through Time

Leila Lu Sorensen Miller

Oh, little darling of mine
I can't for the life of me
Remember a sadder day

I know they say let it be
But it just don't work out that way

And the course of a lifetime runs
Over and over again

No, I would not give you false hope
On this strange and mournful day

But the mother and child reunion
Is only a motion away

—Paul Simon
***

I was born in the 1960s, so my memories of that time are haphazard.

But if I close my eyes and let my mind drift...sometimes I still catch flashes of events from that era.

Like the day the a TV peacock unfolded its wings with a promise of "living color on NBC" (even though it was still black and white on our TV).

Or when a neighbor across the street warned us that something called the Beatles were "a threat to our way of life."

Or night after night of Chet Huntley and David Brinkley solemnly reading the toll of Americans killed and wounded in Viet Nam.

Or an AM radio voice announcing that Bobby Kennedy had been assassinated.

***

The girl up above, though? She was old enough to remember all of it.

***

She grew up on a farm in the middle of Nebraska, at a time when small family farms could still eke out a living. I remember visiting that farm, where her mom and brother lived with a little dog named Ralph.

I remember sitting high on her horse, Trixie, on a sunny day.

I remember sitting on her lap in a root cellar one night as a tornado roared past.

The thing that scared me the most, though, was the sound of a raccoon skittering across the roof of the old house...mostly because I didn't know what a raccoon was at the time.

Mom left the farm when she was 20, I think, and moved to Denver. She was 21 when she met my dad, 22 when they got married, and 23 when she had me. 

Along the way she worked a glamorous job with United Airlines, and left me with neighbors during the day. I didn't think anything of it, of course, because the neighbors' kids were great to play with, there was lots of Kraft macaroni and cheese, and mom was always there to pick me up in the afternoon.

***

Mom eventually left her job at United to stay home with me and my brother, who came along in 1968. A couple years later Dad got a job in Minneapolis, so off we went to a suburb called Apple Valley.

For some reason, Mom hated it. Even though she had friends there, women who took her on adventures she likely would never have gotten into on her own. 

Like the time they picketed the local grocery store for an entire week to protest high meat prices. Did it make a difference? That I don't remember. But one day the protest was over, and I don't recall hearing about it again.

Or the day we went to a Minnesota Vikings football game, then waited afterward by the players entrance to meet future hall of famer Mick Tinglehoff. Who, it turns out, went to the same little high school my Mom did.

Or the times she helped us dig tunnels and caves in the snow drifts that piled as high as the garage several times each winter.

Come to think of it, "Minnesota winters" may have been the reason Mom didn't care for the land of 10,000 lakes.

***

Browsing through photos of that era is a rabbit hole without end—and each one is its own little exercise in archeology. "Where was that taken? Who is that? Look how young they were..."

And there are *so many* of them. Giving each the attention they deserve could become somebody's life's work.

[sighs wistfully]

Mom peacefully passed away in her sleep sometime Christmas night. 

And while dementia had stolen many of her memories, just a few days ago she could still happily recount her childhood on the Nebraska farm where she grew up.

She loved to repeat the tales of her pet lambs and piglets—and she'd still get mad recalling the hens that would peck her and the roosters that would chase her around the barnyard.

Every time we talked she would ask about our current adventures in farming—and tried her best to convince us we should add pigs to our growing menagerie.

Her: "Piglets make wonderful pets!"

Me: "Yes, but they don't *stay* piglets, Mom."

And she would laugh.

***

I haven't thought about most of these things in a long time. It was a pleasant surprise to find them laying around my brain, waiting to be dusted off and held up to the light.

It occurs to me that memories are like the oldest Christmas ornaments in the box—precious and beautiful, but also frighteningly fragile. We can never be sure when—or if—we'll ever stumble across them again.

Or if we'll recognize them when we do.

***

I can't see the future but I know it's coming fast
It's not that hard to wind up knee deep in the past

It's come a lot of Mondays
Since the phone booth that first night

Through years and miles and tears and smiles
I want to get it right

—Jimmy Buffett, Coast of Carolina

The Opposite Of "Cowboy Up"

I have been felled by cowboy apparel.

This after 11 months of training, 28.5 miles of a trail race, and two weeks of post-race recovery—all without pain, let alone injury.

"Cowboy down"

Four weeks of occasionally wearing cowboy boots, though, and suddenly I have a knee injury? I mean, come on. How does that work?

I have a theory.

In running shoes (almost all I ever wear), I am a mid-to-forefoot striker (and have been for years).

In cowboy boots (which I rarely wear), I'm a chunky-1.5-inch-heel striker. The biomechanics (and stability) are hilariously (ominously?) different. 

So why am I even a little surprised?

Perhaps because I'm 14 years removed from my last knee injury—a torn ACL that required surgery and a year of rehab—so I *may* have assumed I was now immune to such things.

Anyhoo, that's my guess as to the cause-of-injury, symptoms of which include "Hey, that fcking hurts" whenever I use my left leg for something other than visual symmetry.

Quintas, in the wild

The diagnosis? I have an orthopod appointment in a couple weeks to determine that. With luck, it'll be something silly, like the phase of the moon combined with tropical variability in barometric pressure—all of which we'll laugh about later.

In the meantime, though, I'll be over here not-running, losing all my fitness, and occasionally wearing cowboy boots—because horses.

For the record, yes, he's worth it.

They all are.

Always Worth It

Bubbles up

Never more grateful for
the existence of trekking poles
nor happier to be welcomed back home.

They will point us toward home
No matter how deep or how far we roam

They will show you the surface
The plot and the purpose

So when the journey gets long

Just know that you are loved
There is light up above
And the joy is always enough

Bubbles up
Bubbles up

—Jimmy Buffett
***
I had almost forgotten how many ways a long race can go wrong...and right.

This sunrise, which actually got
better the more we climbed.

Like, how I can sign up for a 55-mile event, finish just half of it...and still feel like it was an amazingly great day.

The H.U.R.T. Peacock Challenge 55 started in the dark, immediately climbing a couple thousand feet to look out over a gorgeous Hawaiian sunrise. 

That view alone made the hours that followed worthwhile—a mindset I rediscovered despite not running an ultra for more than four years.

***

Our farm sits on the lower NE side of Mauna Kea. The country roads on these slopes are almost entirely up or down—not a lot of flat to be found anywhere. 

Which makes it an excellent place to train for climbing.

This is fortunate since one loop of the PC course includes more than 6,200 feet of elevation. 

What our hills didn't prepare me for was 90-degree temperatures on "the Long Road"—an exposed, seven-mile out-and-back on baking asphalt. We get some warm, tropical conditions over here on our side of the Big Island, but nothing like that.

Woof, it was rough, and it left me wrung out and hung out to dry.

Miles 23 to 28.5 were an exercise in patience, as I was moving slowly through some acute physical lows. In years gone by I would have been deep into a pity party that invariably would go something like...

"What's wrong with you? You should be running this."

"I don't know what's wrong with me, but I know I don't want to be out here any more."

"Well, that's stupid, there's only a few miles left."

"You're stupid."

"No, you are."

...and so on.

None of that negativity happened on this day, because I knew what was wrong with me (electrolyte imbalance and dehydration), and I knew I was going to have to just settle in and hike the rest of the way.

And I was okay with that. Because it was something I knew I could do, even if it took a good long while, no matter how lousy I was feeling.

Also, recognizing I wasn't going to make the first loop cutoff (7.5 hours), it felt like there was still some honor to be had in getting back to the starting line under my own power.

So, that's what I did.

***

In these few days post-Peacock, I've felt a lot better than I was expecting to. My legs feel sound, with no pain at all. Which tells me the many months of hill training were on point.

As with a couple of previous DNFs of 50 miles or longer, I'm left to wonder what I could have done differently about my hydrating and electrolytes. The challenge is that none of my experiences at those distances have been similar, and no regimen has worked the same way twice.

Just when I think I have something figured out that I think I can count on, the ground-rules shift beneath me.

As it goes in an ultra, so it is in life.

Point me toward home, somebody.

Bubbles up. 

***
Toe the line.
Take the chance.
Blow up.
Struggle.
Fall apart.
Try again.
Worth it.

Always worth it.

—Sally McRae

***

Peacock Challenge 55

DNF

Shoes:

Topo Mountain Racer 2

Song stuck in my head for way too many miles:

"Surfing In A Hurricane" —Jimmy Buffett

Comparative Adventuring

"Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing."

—Helen Keller
***
"forgot coffee at home. acquired some of the swill we serve here. set it on my desk, knocked it off with my elbow. all over floor and clothes. swore. opened cabinet to grab paper towels, cabinet door came off the hinge. hunkered over to sop up coffee, came up and hit my head on underside of desk."

—Me, on a work day, October 2011

***

It's become obvious that we have a problem with one of our neighbors.

In the past few weeks he's broken through one of our perimeter gates multiple times, and subsequently broken into our chicken yard an equal number of times.

At first we asked him, in a neighborly way, not to do these things, by quietly reinforcing the gate. In response, the breaking and entering escalated to a daily occurrence—at which time we decided to stop putting up with his bullshit, and called his owner.

Yeah, the bad neighbor is a bull—his name is Bambi, and he's a big jerk. He repeatedly put our chickens in danger of being crushed, and us in danger of being disfigured herding him out of the chicken yard and through the irrelevant outer gate.

In addition, we figure he owes us a new 6-foot gate and a new 30-foot section of chicken-yard fencing.

Fortunately his owner is *not* a jerk—he's been apologetic about Bambi's anti-social antics, and has offered to pay for repairs.

***

In this very same timeframe it became obvious that we had a parallel problem with a different neighbor.

This one decided it would be great fun to harass our sheep.

It started with frantic yelling at them, then quickly escalated to crawling under our fence and chasing them from one end of their paddock to the other.

Tired of our sheep being terrorized and traumatized, we once again took matters into our own hands. The neighbor in question is now tied to a post on our front deck.

Yeah, he's a Border Collie named Patchi, staying with us while his owner is on a photo assignment in Tahiti.

We *hate* restraining Patchi like this, but his herding instinct overwhelms his good manners. He literally can't be trusted off the leash for ten seconds. 

So, he'll be herding chew toys on the deck for another 48 hours.

***

Our work days have changed significantly since that October day in 2011. Our office is now a small farm, and the coffee is always good.

Sure, sometimes the work environment is physically hostile—but now we can actually take immediate and definitive steps to remedy the problem. It's quite liberating.

I'll take that seven days a week, 10/10, no notes.

Precious Days

It's time for a change
I'm tired of that same old same
The same old words, the same old lines
The same old tricks and the same old rhymes

Days precious days
Roll in and out like waves
I got boards to bend, I got planks to nail
I got charts to make, I got seas to sail

I'm gonna build me a boat with these two hands
She'll be a fair curve from a noble plan
Let the chips fall where they will
'Cause I got boats to build

—Guy Clark and Verlon Thompson, "Boats To Build"

***

I guess I just thought Jimmy Buffet would go on forever.

That no matter how many years had gone by since that 1980 Red Rocks concert, there'd always be another chance to catch him and the Coral Reefer Band somewhere, some day.

Waking up to the news that "some day" is now "never again" is hitting unexpectedly hard.

Sitting here this morning, it's funny to me that one of "his" songs that stuck with me through the years is one Buffett didn't even write. On its surface, "Boats to Build" isn't a departure from his vast catalogue of music. 

But the more I listened to it over time, the more I appreciated it as an allegory for "this one wild and precious life" we've been given.

Sails are just like wings
The wind can make 'em sing
Songs of life, songs of hope
Songs to keep your dreams afloat

Shores distant shores
There's where I'm headed for
I got the stars to guide my way
Sail into the light of day

***

Time to go build a thing today...

Emergency Unpreparedness

On May 4, 2023, a wildfire ignited near our farm.

Despite the fact that our community was directly in the path of wind-driven flames, the local Hawai'i County emergency management sirens never sounded.

***

I wrote about it here...

 

It was one-thirty p.m. or so that we first smelled the smoke. It took all of thirty seconds to identify the source—a widening plume downslope from our farm, carried directly toward us by the trade winds.

It was, what, maybe half an hour later that the power went down.

By three p.m. the smoke plume had grown by orders of magnitude, and ash was falling like black snow. One of our neighbors, a retired firefighter, hosed down the long, dry grass on the north side of his house, obviously worried about embers floating in on the trades.

Meanwhile, we went through our afternoon routine, making sure chickens, geese, and sheep had extra food and water. Later we noticed our clothes smelled like smoke, which was less surprising than it was jarring.

Dusk came early as smoke swept over and around us. We brought out an array of battery powered lights and joked about turning on the ceiling fans hanging inert above our heads...

***

At the July meeting of our community association, we were informed by our County Council representative that the reason local sirens weren't used was that "...in the view of emergency management, there wasn't sufficient cause to alert the public."

Here's the thing, though—many people who live in this area could see smoke and ash and approaching flames. And since the power was down, people who were homebound for medical reasons were at risk. 

Despite that, someone at Hawai'i County emergency management decided no communication was necessary—not even a quick cell phone alert to let people know what was going on.

***

Between August 8 and August 9, 2023, a wildfire on Maui raced through historic Lahaina town.

The local emergency management sirens never sounded.

According to the head of the Maui County Emergency Management Agency, "...the sirens are used primarily for tsunamis, and that's the reason why almost all of them are found on the coastline. The public is trained to seek higher ground in the event that the sirens sounded. If that was the case, then they would've gone into the fire."

I suppose there's no way to know if people hearing an emergency siren would blindly rush out the door and toward an oncoming firestorm. Or if they'd figure out, somehow, that the alert was actually about the fire that was closing in on them at a reported mile per minute.

It's possible, one supposes, that rather than jump into their cars and try to escape on impassable roads, more people might have jumped into the water as the flames consumed the town. Humans are adaptable that way, sometimes.

But there were no sirens—because somebody in charge of local emergency management decided "the largest single integrated public safety outdoor siren warning system in the world" would do more harm than good.

***

Post Script

According to the "Siren quick facts" at the County of Maui web site:

• The all-hazard siren system can be used for a variety of both natural and human-caused events; including tsunamis, hurricanes, dam breaches, flooding, wildfires, volcanic eruptions, terrorist threats, hazardous material incidents, and more.

A week and a half ago, more than 13,000 people called Lahaina home. Countless more worked and played there, against a backdrop of timeless tropical beauty. 

Today, more than 110 people are confirmed dead and a thousand are still unaccounted for.

***

Update:

"Maui Emergency Management Agency Administrator Herman Andaya has resigned effective immediately, Mayor Richard Bissen’s office announced.

"Andaya cited health reasons, the announcement said."

It Never Gets Easier

"Pickles died," my wife said, as she rushed through the front door.

In her arms was Peabody, our enormous Emden goose, who was suffering from whatever ailment had just taken Pickles from us.

As she drew a warm epsom salt bath for him, I went out to tend to Peabody's lifelong partner. She was still, with her beak down in the shavings we had put under and around them. 

There was nothing to be done but to drape a towel over her.

***

Both geese had been declining for the past three days, and we had no idea why. My wife scoured the internet for potential causes, most of which suggested they ingested something toxic. With no evidence of anything specific, she then went out and bought every at-home remedy prescribed for such things, hoping one of them would work.

Epsom salts, apple cider vinegar, activated charcoal, molasses—none of them made a noticeable difference. But we were encouraged by the fact that each morning they were still with us. We figured the further we could get them from the onset of symptoms, the better their chances would be.

***

I went back into the house where Peabody was passively sitting in the bathtub. My wife and I took turns holding his head out of the water, as he no longer had the strength to do it himself.

"I just don't know what else to do for him," she whispered.

"I think this may be all there is, right here," I said.

After 20 minutes, maybe longer, she took Peabody out of the bath and put him in a box of shavings by her desk, where we could continue to keep an eye on him. We talked to him and again took turns holding his head up. There was no indication that it made a difference, but we wanted him to know we were there and we cared about him.

At some point my wife half-heartedly said something about humanely putting him down. "We don't want him to suffer..." she trailed off. I just shook my head a little. Neither one of us wanted to do that, nor were we prepared to actually follow through with it.

She got up and walked away for a bit—I sat and held Peabody's head, watched him breathe, noticed his pupils slowly dilating. And dreaded what was coming.

My wife returned with a syringe, saying something about NSAIDs.

"He's gone," I said, barely audible.

***

Later, as evening turned to twilight, I dug a hole on the edge of the property, between a small palm tree and a rainbow eucalyptus. We wrapped Pickles and Peabody in burlap and carried them out between us. My wife picked some blossoms from the nearby plants and placed them on top of the burlap. 

Eventually, the work was done, and the day ended as every day here does—with all our creatures taken care of.

The Things We Don't See Coming

You're scheming on a thing that's a mirage
I'm trying to tell you now, it's sabotage
Why our backs are now against the wall?
Listen all y'all, it's a sabotage
Listen all y'all, it's a sabotage

—Beastie Boys

***

The day was going so well.

The road to Hilo was spectacular, with the Pacific Ocean stretching to blue infinity on the left, and a variegated blanket of jungle, ravines, and waterfalls on the right.

Like most of our Hilo trips, this one called for stops at an array of retailers, all of whom were eager to help us fill our truck with provisions—darn nice of them since we were going to buy enough stuff to last from two weeks to two months.

"Swimming pools, movie stars..."

Supplies for two geese, three cats, four dogs, four sheep, 40 chickens, and several of the neighbor's cows? Check.

Materials for multiple infrastructure projects around the farm, including native plants, trees, lumber, tile, metal roofing, and more (always more)? Multiple checks.

Food and libations for two persistently hungry-thirsty farmhands? Check and check again.

To ensure everything on our list actually fit in the truck, careful arranging and rearranging was required at every stop—until by the end we resembled the Clampetts heading to Beverly Hills.

This cross-beam right here

Arriving home from this excursion—with the truck full of items that don't mix well with water—it was raining. Which meant we were low-key frantic to get everything inside or under cover. 

Throwing a pallet under the house, we began stacking feed and shavings and sundry other items. Until the second trip under, that is, when I hit my head on the cross-beam holding up the deck. 

Even wearing a hat, I got a bump and a nice little laceration—which I only realized later when the hot water from the shower hit my scalp.

Prior to that galvanizing moment, though, there were chicken chores to do. 

Coming down from the coop on our rain-slick ramp is always a dicey proposition. This time—a basket of just-collected eggs in hand—both feet slid out from under me. I don't recall which body part impacted the ramp first or hardest. Tailbone? Back? The back of my head? All were involved in close succession.

And yet, the eggs survived. Not one cracked, broke, or even left the basket. I have no idea how, nor do I take credit for the outcome. In fact, I would've preferred that they went flying and I somehow remained upright.

Gravity has a sick sense of humor sometimes.

I stayed down for several moments, trying to discern if I was hurt or just wet, muddy, and jarred AF. Eventually I decided it was the latter, and that the sheep weren't going to tend to themselves—so I picked myself up myself and shambled off to the Sheep Shack.

We try to keep things interesting for the customers of our 24-hour salad bar. To that end, alfalfa cubes are an excellent source of protein, vitamins, and minerals.

Until they're reduced to sheep-sized chunks, though, the cubes are a choking hazard. Breaking them down takes 15 or 20 minutes each evening, but I don't mind the work. Turns out it's one of those repetitive tasks that's also a peaceful, zen-inducing experience. 

The sheep wait close by while I work—maybe because they like baa-d jokes—or maybe because I occasionally hand-feed them during the process. Who can say.

This day's zen-fest lasted until the moment I leaned over with a handful of alfalfa shards for Frederica Mercury. That insignificant gesture caused some greedy jostling from the other sheep, which startled Freddie—who then head-butted me square in the face.

Freddie > me

Human skulls are not optimally designed for collisions. Sheep, on the other hand, are highly adapted for head-to-head contact. So, while I doubt Freddie even noticed the impact—I sure as flock did.

And so a day that began with a pleasant Sunday drive and a highly successful shopping excursion ended with me getting pummeled in the course of routine farm chores.

***

Last night the much-anticipated Tropical Storm Calvin arrived in Hawai'i, bringing much-needed rain to the Hāmākua Coast, but sparing us the predicted damaging winds.

I'm not sure where the confluence lies between these unrelated events. Maybe it's just that even the innocuous and routine can take a sudden turn for the dramatic— and sometimes drama takes a turn to the south and quickly dissipates over cooler water.

Either way, the surfing should be pretty good.

***

A sea monster night full of nothing but fright and fear
St. Christopher might not get our asses outta here
Flooded roads and trailer parks
And maybe a tornado lurking out in the dark
A perfect glide to ride into eternity

I feel like goin’ surfing in a hurricane

I feel like making love in the pouring rain
I ain’t afraid of dying
I don’t need to explain
I feel like goin’ surfing in a hurricane

—Jimmy Buffet, Surfing In A Hurricane

No, Not That Farmer

In 1978, at a Future Farmers of America convention in Kansas City, MO, the late radio broadcaster Paul Harvey delivered the speech of his life.

In it, he summoned and summed up all that he and many other Americans found admirable about the archetypal American farmer.

If you haven't heard or read it, here's an excerpt from that speech:

And on the 8th day, God looked down on his planned paradise and said, “I need a caretaker.”

So God made a farmer.

God said, “I need somebody willing to sit up all night with a newborn colt. And watch it die. Then dry his eyes and say, ‘Maybe next year.’ Somebody strong enough to clear trees and heave bails, yet gentle enough to tame lambs and wean pigs and tend the pink-combed pullets.

Somebody who will stop his mower for an hour to splint the broken leg of a meadow lark. It had to be somebody who’d plow deep and straight and not cut corners. Somebody to seed, weed, feed, breed and rake and disc and plow and plant and tie the fleece and strain the milk and replenish the self-feeder and finish a hard week’s work with a five-mile drive to church.”

So God made a farmer.
***
It's easy to embrace Harvey's romantic ideal of an American icon—a commoner blessed with superhuman strength, endless patience, buckets of empathy, and an unlimited supply of 72-hour days. 

Lacking an actual workforce with those characteristics, US farms would fail in droves!—which, as it turns out, is exactly what's been happening for longer than most of us have been alive. 

With that as a backdrop, imagine an organization like the Shasta County, CA, 4-H—which literally exists to encourage young people to participate in and perpetuate local agriculture—going to some wild-eyed lengths to undermine its own mission:

Last year, the 9-year-old daughter of Jessica Long, a resident of Shasta County in northern California, acquired a baby goat for a 4-H “livestock project.” The idea was that she would raise the goat until he was ready to be auctioned for slaughter at the local county fair, a common activity for 4-H members.

But raising Cedar led Long’s daughter to care deeply for him and, on the eve of the auction last June, she pleaded for the goat to be spared. The fair organizers refused. Then, Republican state Sen. Brian Dahle, a farmer and unsuccessful 2022 California gubernatorial candidate, submitted a winning bid of $902 for Cedar’s meat, of which $63.14 was to go to the fair. Later that night, in a last-ditch effort to save Cedar the goat from slaughter, Long and her daughter took him from the fair.

But that’s when the plot took a dark turn no Hollywood studio would greenlight. The Shasta District Fair claimed Long had stolen Cedar, demanded she surrender the goat for butchering, and threatened to involve the police if she did not. Long refused. That’s when the Shasta County Sheriff’s Office got involved. Armed with a search warrant, officers drove more than 500 miles across northern California, seized Cedar from the Sonoma County property where he had been taken, and returned him to Shasta County, where he was slaughtered.
***

To be fair, the national 4-H Council could not appear more different from its Shasta County chapter. It doesn't deserve to share in the PR disaster Shasta County officials created.

In fact, the national 4-H explicitly supports “…the practice of positive youth development by creating positive learning experiences; caring and trusted adult mentors who cultivate positive relationships with youth; creating safe, diverse and inclusive environments; and meeting young people wherever they are.”

In the miraculously short span of a few days, Shasta County 4-H officials failed to uphold {checks list} all of those ideals, traumatized a young girl and her family, and betrayed the ethos of Paul Harvey's god-designed caretaker. 

Which is one hell of an accomplishment, not to mention an interesting approach for people tasked with motivating young, aspiring agrarians.

***

In the spirit of full disclosure, some might find it relevant that all my grandparents were farmers.

And that both my parents (and their many siblings) were raised on farms. Come to think of it, my mother-in-law also was raised on a farm.

The point of this little roll-call is that when it came time for them to stay or go, not one of those kids chose to stay and continue the family business. Make of that what you will.

The thing is, though...to this day my mom (now 85), still speaks sadly about giving up for slaughter the piglets and lambs she raised all those years ago. 

She doesn't remember much about current events—but she can talk at length about how she felt watching her much-loved friends herded into a trailer and driven away.

I can't say for sure what lesson she learned from those losses. But for those who celebrate such things (including many of the commenters in a Modern Farmer article linked here), congratulations.

The legacy continues.

Uncontrolled Variables

The illusion of control gets us through most days.

We humans believe that if we manage certain variables in our lives, good things will follow—or, at least, bad things will be contained.

Quite often we're right! Which is both comforting and convenient.

Sometimes we're wrong, tho, and that's when things get interesting. Yesterday was one of those days.

Morning went predictably. The alarm went off at five a.m., as it usually does. The dogs went out to romp for a while, as they predictably do. Coffee was made, chores began, conference calls ensued. 

Breakfast was served to all the creatures who wanted it, administrative boxes were checked, and a long-ish run was run and done.

All these things occurred under the kind of blue skies that have been making Hawai'i famous since antiquity. Sure, the trade winds picked up after lunchtime, as they will do, but, as usual, we managed that by closing windward doors and opening doors on the lee side.

It was one-thirty p.m. or so that we first smelled the smoke. It took all of thirty seconds to identify the source—a widening plume downslope from our farm, carried directly toward us by the trade winds.

It was, what, maybe half an hour later that the power went down.

Point of order: we have a near-new solar power system, along with backup supplied by the Hawai'i County power grid. So under nearly every foreseeable circumstance, our house should never lack electricity.

Go figure.

By three p.m. the smoke plume had grown by orders of magnitude, and ash was falling like black snow. One of our neighbors, a retired firefighter, hosed down the long, dry grass on the north side of his house, obviously worried about embers floating in on the trades.

Meanwhile, we went through our afternoon routine, making sure chickens, geese, and sheep had extra food and water. Later we noticed our clothes smelled like smoke, which was less surprising than it was jarring.

Dusk came early as smoke swept over and around us. We brought out an array of battery powered lights and joked about turning on the ceiling fans hanging inert above our heads.

We gave up the notion that power would magically come back on so we could make dinner (or even risk opening the fridge). Instead we drove into town, where everything was completely normal. Lights were on in the neighborhood pub, people sang and played ukulele at open-mike night, and a beer tasted even better than usual.

Returning home, the neighborhood was still completely dark. A generator hummed somewhere not far away, but if it was powering lights we couldn't see them.

We read for a while by the low light of an electric lantern, then gave up and called it a night.

According to Melissa, the power came back on at three-thirty a.m. 

I slept right through it.

This morning went (mostly) predictably. The alarm went off at five a.m., as it usually does, and the ceiling fan spun quietly above us. The only other sound was that of a steady rain falling on our metal roof.

So far, the breeze blowing up from the water hasn't brought any smoke with it.

It's always too early to declare a return to normal—but near as we can tell, the fire is out.

Multi-Case Scenarios

Asteroid not to scale*
(*maybe)

We have all the time in the world
Time enough for life
To unfold all the precious things
Love has in store

We have all the love in the world
If that's all we have
You will find
We need nothing more

—Louis Armstrong

***

THERE IS A THEORY...that literally everything in the universe happens simultaneously.

That the past, present, and future are a unified event, happening *now* at the theater in your head.

The experiences that you thought you shared with others? They didn't happen. Or, more precisely, they didn't happen for others in the same way or even at the same time as they happened for you.

Don't take my word for it: ask a mathematical physicist at Cal Tech!

"...you have a very basic concept in quantum physics known as quantum superposition. Quantum superposition basically says that what we think of as a single universe, the quantum superposition, is the interference of an infinite number of universes. Each one of them has different things that are happening at some microscopic level. When you zoom out from our microscopic human perspective, we get to see certain patterns like space and time and matter emerge, and particles that have some more definite positions, in both space and time."

Do I understand how that actually works? Nope! But I love nerding out on it just the same.

At the microscopic level it means, I imagine, that I'm simultaneously writing AND never learned to write AND am writing in multiple languages I don't speak or read or write. 

Are all these possibilities useful at all? They are! Because each of them opens a door that I hadn't considered before, any of which might send me down infinite paths toward fame and fortune! Or, just as plausibly, a life of obscurity on a remote island!

Who can say? Not moi!

As the Wicked Witch of the West observed as she melted away: "What a world, what a world (what a countless number of worlds in which I finally get that wretched girl, and her little dog, too!").

***

Contemplation of concurrent selves contemplating quantum chaos... 

...inevitably overwhelms my little brain—which craves the relative order and calm of things closer to home. That's where, to quote writer Nelson Henderson, "The true meaning of life is to plant trees, under whose shade you do not expect to sit."

Life may be slightly more complex than that—but as a matter of cosmic importance I have no quarrel with the sentiment.

***

“How we spend our days is how we spend our lives."

—Annie Dillard

Finding Why

And it goes on and on

Watching the river run
Further and further

From things that we've done

Leaving them one by one
And we have just begun

Watching the river run
Listening and learning and yearning

To run river run

—J. Messina/K. Loggins

***

I'm running again.

For the past, what, 12 weeks now? Long enough for me to believe this fickle switch might stay flipped for a while.

My expanding loops around our rural neighborhood have been a revelation. There are people here—not just shaka-waving forms inside of vehicles.

There are animals—with fascinating behaviors and sounds and personalities.

There are hills. OMG, the hills. So much up and down, so little flat. So very much like life.

{shakes head, eyes wide—so this is what living here is like? i've been missing out on...everything.}

***

Ancient wisdom, silently passed down through our collective DNA: 

"To succeed in a difficult journey, you must first understand why you embark."

Semi-related illustration: "Ultra running will test your mental and physical strength. Training, planning, and eating right will all help contribute to your success. But finding the reason behind why you want to run is crucial to it."

Well, shoot—that's discouraging. Because as long as I've been engaging in this weird hobby, I've never had a "why."

In fact, I've kinda been jealous of people who do.

Statistically, though, it seems impossible I'm the only one lacking this "crucial" element. Shirley there are at least a couple more humans who wander around life's trails not understanding what drives them into the literal and metaphorical wilderness.  

If asked, I wonder what they would say (besides "Fuck if I know").

I'm not sure if theologian Paul Tillich ever ran further than 26.2, but regardless, I think he may have been on to something here:

“If you have trouble with the word “god,” take whatever is central and most meaningful to your life and call that god.”

See, that's something I can understand. During my running hiatus it became painfully clear how central and meaningful it is to my life. Not-running was akin to wandering through the desert, which the literature (and common sense) tells us is not the best place to wander for months at a time.

There is a kind of grace in this epiphany, and in the coming back to it. It's not hyperbole to say that many of the best things in my life are directly related to this activity and its rituals. There's no sacrilege in knowing my mind is at its best, my soul most at peace, when I'm out on a trail winding through the trees.

***

Denouement: I'm thinking about pinning on a bib again—for the first time since January 2020.

{shakes head, eyes wide—three years ago. i've been missing out on...everything.}

I think I've found my why.

***

The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time
Any fool can do it, there ain't nothing to it
Nobody knows how we got to the top of the hill
But since we're on our way down

We might as well enjoy the ride

The secret of love is in opening up your heart
It's okay to feel afraid, but don't let that stand in your way
Cause everyone knows that love is the only road
And since we're only here for a while

Might as well show some style

Give us a smile

Isn't it a lovely ride?

—J. Taylor