Grapes, Taking the only Option

Last year the birds got the grapes. I am still not sure what that was about. Maybe like the blue berry guy, I should have taken the nuclear option. This would be to blast the birds like he does----he got a permit to take out 100 robins but in the end didn't have the heart. Me either.

This year the grapes came on well and just before leaving I snatched one variety (not a special Merlot) but a wine grape it was called, and froze them all in bags for later fermentation. I suspect many were not really totally ripe so my wine may suffer. I felt I had to grab them or the hoards of invading Mongolian (Genghis Robin) red breasts would have robbed me of my bounty.

I had to leave the Concords because they were at least a month off. They were looking good and in truth no Robins were stalking them as near as I could tell. I had threatened the few resident birds but it was a hollow threat---like the blue berry dude.

While away fishing the rivers of the west, I heard rumors that they were hanging long on the vine, robust and absorbing nutrients fit for a fine wine, maybe a mediocre wine after all they were Concords, the same type used to make Mad Dog. Still, I could put the bottle in a paper bag go down to the village bench and sit there for hours in a stupor passing the bag among the other homeless types. They had value. I love my friends.

On return, I found the majority of them to have survived the onslaught largely due to the heavy foliage and the shear numbers. Many of the visible grapes were mauled but the bulk awaited my arrival. They were clearly anticipating being turned into a nice vintage, some thing maybe snappy, maybe naughty, maybe aggressive but not pretentious. Nice leg, robust nose and possibly drinkable, and not just drinkable when everything else is gone. Let's hope for the best.

Ther Squash Dilemma

Every fall we have tons of squash. They come in many forms but through the years the favorite has been the Butternut with an Acorn close behind. The reason is that these two seem to last the longest. Here in Wisconsin, if stored upstairs and not in the damp basement, they will last until April.

In the basement they started to rot by Christmas due to the humidity. This only makes sense because the fungus only needs so much encouragement and a touch of moisture and off they go. Hell, even the concrete has mold on it. Give 'em a little damp and it is like Nascar.

While I love the two above squashes, and they make good pies, last year I brought a larger squash from our daughter's place in Colorado. It looked like a flat pumpkin but it was heavier (greater specific gravity), more dense and the meat was reddish as was the squash. Well, I don't know the name of the thing but it was really tasty, possessed lots of meat and made a great pie as well. To top it off it lasted until June---that would be June.

So I says to myself, "Man, you need to plant this thing and make a bit of a transition because this is the mother of all squash, like a mother Hubbard." Well, I put the seeds in the ground and yesterday when we got home from distant lands, there were six of these beauties scattered about the holdings and thy were all puffed up like a bunch of toads, gnarly and fat.

But here is the dilemma. One of them is sixty pounds! I had to have a kid pick the frigging thing and place it on the bench for observation. My Christ, the others are forty pounds. What does one do with a monster? I mean, the minute one butchers it, there has to be a plan. Squash soup, squash pie, mashed squash. No wonder they feed them to hogs. Maybe we can be hogs. Maybe a squash festival. It ain't easy being a farmer.

Agriculture---Missionary Position

I just learned that when travelling it is hard to post because I usually have things to say that are not just about travelling. I always want to have a hint of a comment. So for the last 5 weeks my mouth has been shut.


Today, I reflect on some of the travel. Oh, in a month we have gone from Wisconsin to, Nebraska, N. Dakota, Montana, Idaho, Washington, Oregon, California, Nevada, Colorado and a touch of Utah.

We saw a trend that always leaves me a bit cold. I will use the Palouse area of eastern Washington as an example. This region is known for its wheat production and driving through there it is impossible not to notice the millions of acres covered in golden waves of grain---mind you this is modern wheat, genetically modified, weed free from roundup, and planted with little thought of saving space for anything other than wheat.





To look at the impressive landscape, one would think the Palouse could provide grain for the world. It just goes on forever and from an artistic point of view, it is beyond comprehension with its expanse of textures and subtle colors. To travel the area, however, one can see the result of this type of farming.


Years ago, to pull off this wheat production there had to be a strong community every so many miles simply to provide manpower and all of their support systems--schools, stores, churches, blah, blah, blah. But as the farms were consolidated and mechanized the need for manpower diminished as have the once vital communities. The towns are now in shambles with tipped over, partially salvaged cars in the backyards and the populations diminished. Rather sad to me.


The large corporate farms are planted and harvested by giant machines ( above $350K variable leveling harvester) that run 24/7 during cultivating, chemical applying and harvesting. The jobs appear to be sporadic during off times---but production is beyond comprehension. The odd part is the profits, and they are huge with $15 wheat, all go to big corporations and in more and more cases foreign countries that are now buying up our crop land. I even found myself wondering where the wheat goes if it is owned by China.



Some transitions I just don't like.

Leaving The Garden

Once a garden is started, it is hard to just hard to leave it alone. It calls out to be fondled---if that is the right word. That which is doing well needs encouragement. That which is unwelcome because it is not there for purpose, weeds to be exact, require liquidation, roots and all--- gone, caput, nada por nada, outa here, dirt nap time, gone.

It is all about love, I suppose, maybe a need for food but mostly about doing something that makes sense. It, I believe is a worthy cause that can lead to good health, spiritual rewards and maybe some down-right good eating.

Each day there is a garden growing, I step outside and always look in that direction even when my wife is running around naked. Well, there are some exceptions, but generally the garden is the first draw in the morning. If the tomatoes are 6 feet tall, which they are, and the fruit is fat and sassy, life is good and they should be fondled and encouraged to proceed.

If the beets greens are starting to rot from excessive rain, they need to be encouraged by the elimination of those things that are confining them so they might dry out. If the broccoli has been massacred it is time to bring out the bow and arrow to harvest a rabbit that has found pleasure in the early harvest. Last year the count was 4 for four. This year 0 for 5 and as a result the broccoli has disappeared like Palinís & Bachmannís brains. Oh, the later never had them.

I like that analogy, broccoli and brains, both gone while the rabbit lives on as do the combo of Palin and Bachmann. Sad state. Iíll take the rabbit.

But maybe a sadder state is that we have to leave the garden unattended for all of September because of the call to travel the wild west in the pursuit of leisure and large fish. On return, we shall see just what is the affect of no garden fondling. Will it be unhappy or will it hold out from so much attention earlier?

The Custer Site---A Touch Chilling

The west is full of stories and to some degree that is what has always attracted us to it. One of the more interesting is the Custer debachle or Massacre, or blunder, or Indian whooping. But because it does represent the end of the Native American way of life and a good deal of death it is a emotional place to visit.

We have passed by it many times and always wondered what it would be like to actually walk the grounds and linger at the very spot were individuals went down. Each one is marked by a white stone placed there shortly after the battle. Each simply says US soldier died here. They are scattered over the half mile of the battle site in small groups where the men had run in desperation.

Being hugely out-numbered, the 7^th Cavalry was overrun and wiped out to the man. Many in the Benteen’s group to the south were also killed.

Only a few years ago the prairie on the sight burned and in the process exposed the shell casings and other remains that confirmed the locations of the smaller skirmishes. The museum displays many of the finds from this excavation. The study confirms many of the details that allows the casual visitor to relive the horrible events of 1876.

In addition to the white stones marking the fallen Americans (Over half were foreign born--close to 200 Irish) are a few scattered granite markers indicating where Native Americans (no Irish) fell. It turned out that some natives back in ‘76 made small piles of stones were they fell and recently markers have been placed on those sites.

While the paths to all the markers of the fallen were well-worn from the visitors wanting a taste of that venture, by the Native stones we could not help but notice the small tufts of burnt sweet grass laying among the short grass prairie vegetation. Their reaction appeared more immediate. More personal. No doubt every Cheyenne, Sioux and Crow living on the local reservation lost someone there.

The small Indian town to the immediate south is named Garryowen. The official song of the 7^th Cavalry. The town is a mess.