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

Thoughtless and Without A Prayer

"The definition of evil is the absence of empathy."

—Leon Golsensohn, defendants' psychiatrist at the Nuremberg trials

***

Nearly a hundred and sixty years ago, on the eastern plains of Colorado, a settlement of peaceful people from the Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes were attacked at dawn by a contingent of 700 US Army soldiers.

A member of that force, Captain Silas Soule, refused to engage in the slaughter that followed, instead choosing to stand down and record what he saw.

In letters to his family, Soule said,

"I was present at a Massacre of three hundred Indians, mostly women and children. It was a horrable scene and I would not let my Company fire. They were friendly and some of our soldiers were in their Camp at the time trading. It looked too hard for me to see little Children on their knees begging for their lives, have their brains beat out like dogs. It was a Regament of 100 days men who accomplished the noble deed. Some of the Indians fought when they saw no chance of escape and killed twelve and wounded forty of our men." — Dec. 18, 1864

"I spent New Year’s day on the battle ground counting dead Indians. There were not as many killed as was reported. There was not more than one hundred and thirty killed, but most of them were women and children and all of them scalped. I hope the authorities at Washington will investigate the killing of those Indians. I think they will be apt to hoist some of our high officials. I would not fire on the Indians with my Co. and the Col. said he would have me cashiered, but he is out of the service before me and I think I stand better than he does in regard to his great Indian fight." — Jan. 8, 1865

Over time, the historical record of the dead in what came to be known as the Sand Creek Massacre was revised upward to 230.

History also shows that the massacre ignited warfare between the US government and native tribes resisting the seizure of their lands. The genocide that ensued, often on the premise that Native Americans were not civilized or even fully human, lasted 25 years, ending with another slaughter by the US Army at Wounded Knee, South Dakota.

***

In the months leading up to the 2022 midterm elections, seeking to generate support from a passionately regressive base of voters, Republican politicians and their promoters in the media demonized the LGBTQIA2S+ community. 

If you wonder in good faith about that acronym, it stands for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender / gender expansive, queer and/or questioning, intersex, asexual, and two-spirit.

If you wonder in good faith what *that* means, good for you. You may be on your way toward understanding—they're just people who are different than you. People who want to be accepted for who they are, or in lieu of that, not be killed for simply existing.

Unfortunately, that ask is too much for many on the right, who see "different" as an opportunity—to fabricate a threat that can be attacked via legislation, discrimination, and violence.

From the Washington Post:

"Right-wing politicians and preachers have openly called for killing LGBTQ people. On a conservative talk show, Mark Burns, a Donald Trump-allied congressional candidate from South Carolina, called 'LGBT, transgender grooming' a national security threat and proposed using treason laws as the basis for 'executing' parents and teachers who advocate for LGBTQ rights. In Texas, a pastor railed against Pride month and said LGBTQ people 'should be lined up against the wall and shot in the back of the head.'”

"Extremism researchers have long warned of an escalating risk as hard-right Republicans and militant groups portray LGBTQ people as “groomers” targeting children, along with other baseless smears. Now, provocateurs are acting on those messages with rising hate and violence targeting LGBTQ communities."

***

Last weekend, another young, white male with an AR-15 walked into Club Q, a Colorado Springs bar whose patrons are predominantly LGBTQ. When the shooting stopped, 5 people were dead and 25 were wounded—many still in critical condition.

***

The link between massacres in America crosses generations. It began long before Sand Creek and continued implacably up to this very moment. And while the targets of that violence have varied by race, religion, gender, economic status, et al—what doesn't change is how often the crimes are committed by, or on behalf of white, male, self-proclaimed Christians.

Less than 48 hours after the Club Q shooting, in the last 2022 race for the US Senate, the Republican candidate from Georgia was still inciting hatred against the LGBTQ community. Herschel Walker:

• Suggested trans kids wouldn't go to heaven because "Jesus wouldn't recognize them"
• Stood with a GOP legislator who called gay people "filth" and later said straight people were superior to gay people
• Appeared in an ad with a former collegiate swimmer who falsely complained she had to compete against a "biological male"

Even after being embarrassed in the recent elections, the GOP continues to double down on this brand of malice, which time and again has been shown to incite violence in our gun-drunk society. 

"Thoughts and prayers" they type after every killing, unaware or uncaring that those words are now a punchline that reminds us who they are—the party of guns and providing fresh targets to fire them at.

In their America no sanctuary is holy, no shelter is safe, and no atrocity is too inhumane. There is no common ground, nor compromise, with that.

Run Talk

Wake me up inside

Wake me up inside
Call my name and save me from the dark
Bid my blood to run
Before I come undone
Save me 

Save me from the nothing I've become

Bring me to life

—Amy Lee, Ben Moody, David Hodges

***

I was a runner, not that long ago.

For several years, in fact, I ran quite often, and occasionally quite a ways.

Now, I occasionally talk about running...but the actual running itself? The part where I put on the shorts and shoes and one foot in front of the other? Not so much.

There's not a thing wrong with me physically—if my daily FarmFit™ routine is any indication.

Between-the-ears, though, the gears are making an unwelcome noise.

Where once I was anxious to get out and run, now the idea of running makes me anxious.

Where running once was my therapy, now it seems it'll take therapy to get me running again.
***
What I think about when I think about running: {feeling of dread}

What I think about when I think about not running: {dreadful fomo}
***

Backstory:

In 2019 I ran two ultramarathons. In between those, I was also regularly getting to the gym—because yay, cross-training!

Then 2020 happened and, of course, the world went upside down. Gyms closed, races were cancelled, and, oh yeah, people died. Lots and lots of people died.

 

For a while, when little was known about the etiology of COVID-19, group photos of smiling runners were replaced with photos of empty trails. Meet-ups to run with anyone other than the family dog were rare, involving separate cars, masking, and keeping a cautious distance.

It didn't take long, though, for many people to get bored with doing the right thing. 

At a time when modes of covid transmission were still being studied and vaccines were months away and more than a thousand Americans were dying of covid every day—countless people just decided it was time to "return to normal".

To my comical surprise, many in the trail running/racing community were among them. 

***
Up to that moment, my experience in the community had convinced me trail runners were different from most people (aside from how we liked to run a long time in often adverse conditions). I thought our little subculture was an equable bastion of empathy and shared responsibility and mutual support.

Sitting here now, I’m embarrassed by how naive I was. I mean, I’m OLD—I’ve lived a while and seen some things and REALLY SHOULD'VE KNOWN BETTER.

In my defense, I wanted to believe such a community existed, and that I could be a part of it. So, I believed, eagerly and joyfully.

I was wrong, of course. 

Example: Some race directors (bless them) at that time pivoted to safe alternatives to large gatherings of runners, sponsoring virtual races and events.

Other RDs (and their customers) decided their events were necessary—more necessary, even, than the health of participants, communities, and front line healthcare workers already overrun with patients. So, the moment it was allowed, their covid-safe* events were back on. 

The difference between those responses became a thing on trail running social media. The hostility was prolific and loud and months-long. People showed who they were in ways that might've made one wonder how there was ever a community in the first place.

Narrator: "There wasn't. There was only a small group of people who enjoyed the same hobby, co-existing until they were pressure-tested by extraordinary circumstances."

***

I'm no longer angry at people who basically declared that [their activity here] was more important than other people's wellbeing/health/life. Even though covid is still with us, fueled by mutations of the coronavirus that might not have evolved if some of our fellow humans had worn a mask and gotten vaccinated and not contracted covid at superspreader events and forwarded it on to innocent people whose riskiest behavior at the time was going to the grocery store.

Nope. Not angry at all.

I am cranky, though, about how I reacted to those people—letting them get into my head, undermine my trust that people will do the right thing, and (waaaay downstream) negatively impact my desire and ability to run. 

That part is very disappointing.

***

It's been a year since I logged any meaningful miles.

And by meaningful I mean, "a cheerful embrace of an eccentric activity that once gave me peace of mind."

I continue to accessorize for the long run (or any run), on the theory that the next purchase will be the one that puts the wind back in my sails. It hasn't worked so far, but as noted above, I want to believe.

And so, a fancy GPS watch counts the steps I take carrying buckets of water around the farm.

A new hydration pack sits in its shipping envelope on the dresser.

Near-new trail shoes languish in the closet, along with two pairs of road shoes, still in the box. New running shorts wait in a dresser drawer, and a barely used waterproof running jacket hangs in the utility room.

When the time comes, I will be very geared up.

With each passing day, though, I wonder if that time has passed me by.

***

Accomplished runner-friend:

“I should probably just retire from ultra running. I’ve had my moment.”

[later] “Oh, hey,

@ultrasignup

.”

Supportive friend: "As an ultra running retiree, let me tell you this: we're all addicts—and that urge will be with you for the rest of your life."

***

*Narrator: "The events were not covid-safe."

Win Some Lewes Some

"This painting doesn't belong here!"

Mama pajama rolled out of bed
And she ran to the police station
When the papa found out he began to shout
And he started the investigation

It's against the law
It was against the law
What the mama saw
It was against the law

—Paul Simon
***
"The above-pictured individual was involved in the theft of artwork from the art exhibit at the Lewes Library on 08/15/2022 between the hours of 11 a.m. and 12 p.m.

"LPD is requesting the public’s assistance in identifying this person.

"If you recognize the individual or have any information on the incident, please contact the Lewes Police Department at (302) 645-6264."
***
I have so many questions.

First, didn’t Wilford Brimley ascend to the great spaceship in the sky, never to be seen again? Or am I mis-remembering the {spoiler alert} ending of Cocoon?

 

Second, note that the allegedly stolen painting is affixed with a white ribbon. According to the Danish System of Recognition (in use at state fair competitions across the US), a white ribbon signifies “…entries that do not meet average standard. The level of accomplishment is less than expected. Extremely poor workmanship or little thought is given to the exhibit.” 

Why would any competent thief steal an "extremely poor" painting…UNLESS it wasn’t really poor at all—and in fact concealed an original and heretofore unknown work of Van Gogh??

 

It's possible.

 

It’s also possible that the thief is ackshually the artist, incensed by what he considered to be thick-witted cloddishness on the part of the judges.

 

It’s ALSO possible the thief is Van Gogh himself, reclaiming that which was stolen from him lo these many moons ago. Likely? No! But possible!

 

Third: The town of Lewes (lewes.com) prides itself on being “…a walking town. Within a half-square mile you will find the Historic district, museums, many Inns, Bed & Breakfasts, fine restaurants, and a variety of ...”

 

That’s it…that’s all we learn from the lewes.com preview because its web site “took too long to load” and currently “cannot be reached”. Coincidence?

 

Is the thief simply a good samaritan, taking unappreciated artwork out for a breath of fresh air in the self-proclaimed “walking town”?

 

Is the artwork now part of an exhibit in one of the nearby musea? WE DON'T KNOW!

 

Maybe there's a clue back at lewes.com, where one *will* find “…the Historic district, museums, many Inns, Bed & Breakfasts, fine restaurants, and a variety of ...” A variety of what? Who can say?? But let's agree that any of those venues could benefit from surreptitiously acquiring an unknown Van Gogh!

 

Another look at the Lewes PD wanted poster reminds us that the painting was taken from the Lewes Library. In the security camera image, the thief appears to be of an era when art knew its place: paintings in musea, by god, and books in libraries—and never the twain shall meet. This remained true until Twain thought it would be great fun to sit for a very young Salvador Dalí, and chaos was unleashed on the world.

 

The point being, perhaps the image merely captured the “thief” in the process of moving the painting to a museum, thereby righting what he deemed a great wrong. In which case he’s not a criminal, but rather, a god damn hero.

"Dudes! If you see a stolen painting, like, 
let me know! Righteous!"

The Lewes PD may have thoughts on that—perhaps one of these people are investigating as we speak:

"Currently, our department is staffed with 13 State Certified sworn police officers, 1 civilian Administrative Assistant, 6 Parking Enforcement Officers and 10 Lifeguards."

 

Not Our Cows, Still Our Rodeo

"I haven't had my coffee yet!!"

The good news: I got my exercise today

The other news: Not the way I planned

***

Back in May we experienced a cattle incursion that had me running around like a demented dude rancher. 

This morning, that story continued.

The short version: we’re having hog fencing installed around our seven acres. One stretch of the old fence—between our property and that of Neighbor 1—was taken down yesterday. And for the lack of one 12' gate, cows belonging to Neighbor 2 found their way over to Neighbor 1’s property.

This was un-neighborly for a few reasons, not the least of which is that cows like to munch on and otherwise demolish small trees like the ones Neighbor 1 has been working for months to grow.

Looking up from my coffee to see half a dozen cattle in a place they didn't belong (and immediately seeing why) was a bigger jolt than any caffeine hit.

I ran out the door and set about herding the cows off Neighbor 1's land. Neighbor 1, meanwhile, called Neighbor 2, who sent his grandson out on an ATV.

Pertinent detail: one of the cows (whom we call Poppy) is blind. Left to her own pace and direction, she's independent and sweet as can be. Herding her (and her calf) is another matter entirely. We did *not* want Poppy to panic and, say, go tumbling into a nearby gully.

Actor portrayal.
Not an actual cow.

Even with Neighbor Grandson 1 on the ATV and me on foot, it took an hour—running up and down hills, backtracking, cajoling, and corralling—to get everyone back where they belonged.

Did I sweat buckets in that time? Yes, yes I did.

***

Denouement: Poppy did *not* take a tumble into the gully (nor did anyone else).

We rigged up a temporary gate, confirming the general security of Neighbor 1's trees—which should be cow-safe until Monday at least, at which time the new stretch of fence will be complete.

Farm-Fit Note: Herding cows on foot is an excellent workout. I recommend you incorporate it into your regular fitness routine at your earliest convenience.

Something's Stinky

I wear spyware

The internet knows what deodorant I'm wearing.

And I'd like to know how.

Backstory:

We're having some work done at our house, and the master bath is temporarily offline.

So today, of necessity, I showered in the guest bathroom.

After my shower I discovered there was no deodorant in my shaving kit, so I looked in the medicine cabinet to see if there was any there.

Voila! Our daughter, bless her, had stashed an assortment of products in the cabinet for when she comes to visit—including some deodorant.

THE DEODORANT FEATURED IN THIS AD, which showed up atop my FB feed 15 minutes later.

To be crystal clear, until 30 minutes ago I was unaware of this product's existence. There was no reason for the Native deodorant people to target me out of the blue with an ad for their product, just as they had no way of knowing that I JUST USED THEIR PRODUCT.

And yet, here we are.

My loving wife insists that this digital/real world interaction was a coincidence, but I think when it comes to data and ginormous social media platforms, there are no coincidences.

Additional data:

My iPhone 11 was on the counter in the bathroom

I neither picked up nor used my phone while in the bathroom

I don't believe the nice people at Native Co. put nanobots in their products, so...

WHY IS THIS AD SUDDENLY IN MY FB FEED??

Fortunately there are lots of articles (online, of course) about "coincidences" like the one I'm describing. Social media marketing algorithms compile and analyze massive amounts of our online data every second of every day. These companies then use that data to serve up ads on our devices that make it seem like they're actively watching our every move.

The fact that most of us aren't interesting enough to surveil is irrelevant—we're using technology, we've agreed to byzantine terms of service, and therefore detailed information about all of us is endlessly pouring into the world to be scooped up and dissected.

Full disclosure:

I was already aware of how corporations use our personal data to achieve their nefarious sales goals. Even so, the degree of specificity required to amble up and say, "HI HOPE YOU'RE ENJOYING OUR PRODUCT WHICH YOU JUST USED BUY MORE NOW!!!" is unnerving.

I don't like it one bit.

But you know, I do like this Native 100% plastic-free deodorant! It smells nice, it's aluminum-free, and its packaging is recyclable!

Also, if you read this far, thank you and enjoy seeing ads from some random product which I may have recently researched and you may have tried for the first time.

Just remember...

IT'S NOT A COINCIDENCE AND YOU'RE NOT CRAZY*

———

*Well, you may be crazy, but not about this