Water, Water Everywhere, but Less and Less of It

The snow is melting. It's running in slushy streams down the roads. Small creeks are coming off roofs and wearing away the porches on old houses. If I was a poet I'd write a poem in honor of the water cycle. To me there's nothing that sounds as alive as the slow drip and then roar of the first melt of winter in February, nothing that feels as good as that hint of spring on a sunny day after weeks of snow and arctic vortexes with the radiant heat rising off the bottom of a south facing hill and the icy road that has suddenly and magically turned into a soft silty confection and for the first time you can step along without gritting your teeth and thanking God for your coat wrapped tight. We live here in a moist region despite being on the wrong side of the continent, thanks to the Gulf Stream and the jet stream, the two conveyor belts driven by solar energy and convection that cook the weather for us and give us in an average year about 44 inches of precipitation. In the last two decades, we've been above average for fourteen of the years, which fits the computer models for our climate in a warming planet scenario. Much of the world is not so lucky. The West Coast is facing an unprecedented drought, as is the Southwest and much of the agricultural middle of our continent. I am grateful every year when I have to get down to the compost pile after a snowstorm and wade through the drifts up to my crotch. The deep snow means a wet spring, and the rivers will flow full and the fly fishermen and the kayakers will be happy. But so will our gardena as a good soil under mulch can hold the deep spring melt with an occasional April, May and June shower even through the long dry weeks of August without irrigation. It's one of the things we take for granted, but in the future many will have to cope with growing scarcity as mountain snow packs that provide drinking water and agricultural water around the world continue to thin and recede.

Let Someone Bury Tamerlan Tsarnaev So We Can Move On Already

I find it utterly depressing, reading about Tamerlan Tsarnaev and how his body is sitting in the morgue and no cemetery will accept him for burial. I don't know why, but I feel emotionally assaulted by this fact. Get him in the ground and let's move on. We're bigger than the terrorists. We're alive and it's the time of year that makes being alive the best thing that could ever happen to you.
I saw the swallows this afternoon as I was going across the field with a wheelbarrow load of manure. The telltale zig and zag and the forked wings of the two criss-crossing above me, dipping down to greet me, was one of those rare thrills that give meaning to the quote, was it Mark Twain who said, "the best things in life are not things." Okay, thank you Google. It was Art Buchwald. Still, the sights of spring, God bless them: the nourishing sunlight filling the whole line of vision in blue and green and gold, blossoms bursting on the plum, cherry, peach and apple trees, the lambs racing in a madcap pack and the horses bucking and shaking their manes in sheer joy. This is when you wouldn't want to be anywhere else. I don't post my photographs because this is a particular and special joy for me, and I'm sure others have the same feelings of specialness about their home places at this time of year. No matter where you are, the energy of the seasons is what keeps us surging, optimistic that our efforts are building to something meaningful and rewarding; the journey across the calendar year is not for nothing. The swallows are back, and I was there to see them when they got here. It doesn't get any better. Someone should have told that to the Tsarnaev boys.

The New Cultural Paradigm in Publishing

The last vestiges of ice are making a final stand around the back steps. I love it when it gets to this. I was taking up the sheep fence yesterday to move them onto new pastures in time for the lambs. The ground was soft and mushy and down by the woods there was still some banked snow and when the wind picked up it felt like March again, but it was the old, cold weather's final farewell. Now, of course, there is a rush of work for the next few months in the garden, and on top of that, planning the release of a new book. I decided to skip the writer's conference today because I'd rather be outside working on cleaning out the barn. But then I got roped into driving to a lacrosse practice, so there goes most of the morning. Just barely time to squeeze in a few sentences on the blog before I run. When do we get a time to just reflect? Hardly ever. Still, I love my weekends.
I met a writer the other day. He'd had a big success in the seventies with an experimental, literary kind of work, and then his second book was turned down by all the major publishers and he went into making educational video scripts, and it seems his more ambitious work took a back seat. And maybe we're the poorer for it. Here's an argument in favor of the cultural importance of the new publishing paradigm. People like to complain about the deluge of crappy books hitting the market, and of course many of the novels being written and self-published are the reflex scribbling of barely literate people or the fandom exercises of sheep-like followers of literary fashion. But how is that so different from the piles of slush being published by the big six, oh sorry, now big five, mainstream presses over the last thirty years, most of my adult, reading lifetime? Not much, in my humble opinion. I say: let the self-determined presses roll and let the writers' work find its level. This is my libertarian ethic for a new American literature. Get out of the way, all of you so-called judges and aesthetes. The people will educate themselves, and when they are sick of the vampire love stories and the button-pushing elegies to the known, they will turn to the work of the risk-takers, the writers who today are ignored because they work with character and voice and themes that are implicit instead of calling out to the mass delusions of the day.

Going Over the Banks in the Warm Days of Youth

"It's such a beautiful day Mr. XXXX. Can we skip one day and go outside to play frisbee?"
"Mumble, mumble, mumble, mumble."
"Oh, come on, Mr. XXXX. It's so nice out. Please.  Please."
"Mumble, mumble, mumble, mumble."
The young man's voice firm and sure of himself. The old teacher's voice low, hard to make out. This was the exchange I heard today at my desk on my planning period. I thought: "His voice is loud and sure because he knows he is in the right." And yet, I winked to myself, the teacher's reaction at the old foolishness that will surely never get its way. The young man, on the side of life, vitality, truth as it always will be, uncontainable and pure. The old teacher, on the side of the culture, postponed gratification, compromise and death. This is the dialectic that we face every day in the trenches in school, holding the line, especially in the warm days, against the knowledge that what we do is an artifice, an essay on the living in the world that men and women do. Young people, especially the ones about to break free, know what they know, that they are part of the great stream of life going over the banks into the greater world never to return again to the sheltered, stagnant pool of childhood.
And yet, I thought it wasn't so long ago that I swore eternal allegiance to the former view and war on the latter. Here is a quote from Birdman, my first novel. I only quote my own work because it is a shock to me and shows the divide that is a working hazard of the subterfuge that I call the writer's life:

"Kagan looked to the birds, perchers, songsters, blown by the wind and content to sit in the early and late days of the lingering sun, faith in perpetual sustenance, sharp-eyed observers of the moribund and settled; the snares and architecture of man-built cities only served their free purposes."

I like to think that there is a way to live in both worlds, functionally adult and responsible in my role as teacher, father, husband, and yet holding onto the knowledge and the certainty of youth that the sabbath is  for man and not the other way around.

A Muddy Slog to Easy Street

Things are going well, thanks for asking. The snow we got last week works out perfectly, keeping the ground cold enough despite the mild winter that the apple trees won't start budding too early. The sun gaining intensity every day and that melting runoff everywhere, from the roof, in the road, makes it feel like the whole world has turned the corner at last. Good times are just ahead.

The economic data shows the winds of the recession abating as well, although here in my town, home sales are still at a crawl, and many are predicting a rough town meeting season coming up this month as many are still having a hard time meeting mortgage payments. It's a muddy slog getting to easy street.

But the mood of the country is upbeat, just look at Obama hitting on all cylinders, whether it be domestic politics or the international arena. Used to be, the wise rule of the leader, they said, was reflected in the bounty of the berry harvest and the lushness of the nut crop in the trees. Now we look at the stock market flirting with new highs to measure our well-being.

And let's give Obama his due, the economic policies of the stimulus were responsible for putting a brake on what could have been a major global bank run, and we're starting to see that turnaround today. The Republicans are not going to be able to run on doom and gloom this fall, which means that they will have little middle ground to coalesce around as soon as their primary campaign is done. Many, including myself, have suggested that Obama and his policy advisers have had a hand in dragging the Republican primary season on beyond its shelf life by throwing red meat to the social conservatives in the way of the "access to contraception in Obamacare" issue when they announced the new policy directives last month.

And it has borne spectacular fruit in the final death throes of the Rush Limbaugh phenomenon, as this veteran master of hate-filled vitriol, and the unacknowledged leader of the Republican right wing, seems finally to have hoisted himself by his own petard. Barack, in effect, set the play in motion, baiting the dragon, then rushed to the damsel's side to rescue her last week, calling Sarah Fluke on the phone to comfort her after her bruising by innuendo. This has to be one of the most masterful moments in recent Presidential history. Kudos to Ms. Fluke for not accepting the Rushster's apology.

Obama is demonstrating a rare political maturity as well internationally, and the whole world may have us to thank for electing him. You're welcome, Benjamin Netanyahu. The North Koreans have announced they are throwing in the towel peacefully, chalk one up to the rule of law. And thanks to Barack, we may have also held off the dogs of war in the Middle East for the next few months anyway and therefore prevented a nuclear showdown which might have thrown the entire planet into tilt. This latest diplomatic coup has been done masterfully, under our noses, without major Camp David meetings or attention-getting policy speeches, which has allowed the parties involved to save face.

Between Hillary Clinton and himself, the Obamaites are right now running the table. Wake up America, we are in the midst of an historical moment. One that bodes well for our children.

It's Here At Last

The spring finally seems to have gotten the best of the snow. It's all melting just in time as we are down to the last of the wood. The first crocuses are coming up, and the first lambs are being born. But not all is well, the lambs are weak, and the first two, to Snow White's daughter, died. Our dominant ewe, Bully, seems to be preventing the others from getting enough grain. The animal kingdom's cruelty is made worse by the stupidity of its subjects. Kind of like the Republicans. The prefrontal cortex is not their strong suit, consequently they don't see complexity and sometimes they make bad mistakes. For instance, when I lock Bully in the barn to let the others feed, they wander over to see what's wrong with their fearless leader instead of eating what's in the grain bins. Easily manipulated by the elites. Oh, well. We may have to balance things out by culling the older ewes including Bully. But not for now; we'll let November be the cruelest month, at least on the farm. Don't get me started on events at the state capital. The cull there will come in 2012, hopefully.

Today I finished manuring the blueberries and apple trees with chicken poop. And I made up a mix of bone meal and wood ash as a soil amendment for the apple trees. I planted out a few trees from the nursery to fill in some gaps, leaving last year's grafts for another year in the bed. I took out some rotten planks from the picnic table to be replaced soon, and oh, yeah, and I put up another trampoline we bought at Dicks for $170.  We are set for warmer weather. And my old muscles are sore. But so much happier. Never mind the bad news for now. Spring is here and the sap is running.
PNYZTYTHFY2Z


(Photo by Michael Caplan)

This is the Day as the Grass has Made

We're into the deeper green of a well-watered spring now. The grass is growing inches a day and the sheep are down in the lower field. They can hardly keep up with the rotation. It's taken me a good amount of time to get the mower going. I use it around the house and the blueberries. It's a real work horse, but the ethanol in gasoline gunks it up, and it takes awhile to get the kinks out in the spring. I still need to look at the manual and see what needs to be tightened to improve the traction of the wheels. The engine is working fine now, but there is a belt loose running to the wheels. On the apple front, have finally figured out this year the little pest that wreaks havoc right at petal fall, the tarnished plant bug it's called, and I finally identified the tell-tale browning at the midrib of the leaves and frizzling of the flower buds. One spray of pyrethrum and it looks like it's taken care of. I can take a look at my first Northern Spy. If if it gives off a healthy vibration from the back door I know things are good. Today I gave the trees with substantial blossoms a spray of Surround, which is a fine clay that coats the fruit buds to protect against plum curculio. The curculio lays eggs in the small fruitlets and it has been a problem these last few years. The Surround spray is the only organic option, and it has been only partially effective, due I think to the small numbers of fruit bearing trees we have so far. This year we have double the number, which should reduce the pest pressure. Also I am leaving a trap tree unsprayed to see if that works.

There is no question that apples are a labor intensive crop in this part of the world. In the old days, they used to handle curculio, all hands on deck, going out at dawn and placing a sheet around a tree, then thumping it with a club hammer. The vibrations would send the bug to ground, where they could be rolled up and dispensed with before moving on to the next tree in the row. That might be us if the Surround doesn't fly and I can convince the kids that bushels of apples are worth getting up early for.

But forget the musings on future harvests. The fresh faced trees and the bright sun and cool days, the promise of renewal and future bliss, this is the best of New England -- aside from the bounty of falling leaves in the fall.

The Tragic Nature of Spring

It's spring and there's lots to do fixing up the place. We had nine lambs, three died. You don't associate spring with tragedy in the popular imagination, but it's there just like the daffodils along the road. Two were born so weak to Bully's daughter, she tends to shy away from the feeding troughs with the grain. This year she had twins for the first time. But they couldn't stand despite her best coaxing. They walked around on their forelegs bleating for a day or two and finally succumbed. In the past we've bottle fed and run around in emergency mode. But this year, for some reason fatalism took over. This year death won an easy battle in the spring, a gimme in essence, but we have nine beautiful lambs and they frisk and play, they really do, skipping and jumping with the seasonal exuberance, the joy of being alive that puts us older ones to looking on with envy and thinking we could keep up, if only.

Went down to Boston for my nephew Nic's graduation party. He had the college kids over to his mother and stepfather's apartment in Cambridge, a beautiful place, but that's the subject of some other post. It was nice and intergenerational. Argued with my sis over whether the French were right to ban burkas on Muslim women in public places. That's the kind of family gatherings we have, a combination of high minded civic concern and ornery, alcohol infused in your face argumentation. The college kids were looking on and laughing, so in a sense we had the seasonal advantage on that night. Nothing like a little wine and the verbosity loosens up like a New England river in flood stage. Nic, the graduate, is taking a bicycle trip down the West coast, from Vancouver to San Diego. I advised him to keep going, spend some time in Baja, some unstructured end of the road time. He's figuring out where to go, what to do. It's a crucial, under-estimated time of life, post college, no fixed plans, no fixed abode. His girlfriend wants to get married. She's great, we all love her. She made a raspberry trifle for Thanksgiving a couple of years ago that stole the show. But is he ready for married? Is the timing right, and has he spent enough time at the feeding trough of his youth, because if he hasn't, then he could be spending the rest of his days on his knees, not quite getting to the udder. That would be a tragedy of a false spring.

March Madness

Home sick from work with the flu; with four feet of snow outside by the woodshed, it hardly feels like spring is anywhere near. Not much writing lately either, which always maks me feel down. Just read Timothy Egan's opinion piece in the NYT with St. Patrick's day around the corner, typically maudlin view of what constitutes identity. The soul of suffering is universal and not endemic to any race or people. But it is what makes us tick, therefore I welcome my sickness and yesterday felt almost alive walking up hill against the wind, feeling the shivers down my back. I couldn't get warm. Then my son Michael came running up the hill after me and when i turned and saw him coming, I realized my self-pitying was selfish and I needed to reach out and I did as he ran by.

Glad to see French Pond Road available on the Kindle at Amazon. The wave of the future is here my friends. Ernest Hebert, venerable dean of New Hampshire writers, has one. See The Valley News, Wednesday march 12 edition.

Without risk there is no faith -- S. Kierkegaard