Missionary's Position----Climate change and Math---A Repeat Performance

Of late there has been a great deal of chatter about Climate Change, really a lot. It doesn't take much reading to realize the problem is for real and that it is anthropogenic. Groups are forming here and there as I get at least two messages a day requesting my presence at some lecture and round table---usually only attended by the choir.

The last one I attended hit on the most simplistic of issues largely just saying we have to cut back on fossil fuel use thus cutting back on CO2 emissions. This all makes great sense. In reading a little deeper one can also find out the increased heat we have already have,  has created feedback loops such as releasing more methane from the melting tundra--even some great shots of exploding bubbles found under the ice.

http://news.yahoo.com/safe-limit-global-warming-lowered-dramatically-experts-220200893.html

Some folks are very much in a froth and working very hard to try to bring the issue to forefront (above link of the most famous James Hansen from NASA). While I sit here in front of my wood burning stove, that would be the one putting CO2 in the air (probably more than natural gas) it is hard to know where to turn because of the complexity of the issue. Ya, I can bust my ass cutting back and really, we do. 50 MPG car, only heat three rooms, eat local food and try not to travel much (But Christmas in Colorado is a must) , use solar panels (1K system), ride my bike when I don't think I will crash and pout.

At the same time I am stunned by the math for it seems that, while admittedly we have done almost nothing, there is almost no chance of making any gains. Below are a number of graphs that clearly point out everything is going in the wrong direction. Seriously, I would like to know how my actions can off set this picture?

This one is the ass kicker---and this is only China. World wide, there are 1500 coal-fired plants in the planning stages, or farther, now. China wanted to sell 20 million autos this year to last year's bicycle riders. Ya, and that is just a start.

The sad part of it is as long as folks want to improve themselves through economic growth, it would seem there is no hope. Over and over, it appears that we are not really approaching the problem, or the disease, but rather only talking about a symptom. Is it time to re-look at capitalism. Capitalism has this premise that we have to grow and grow and grow, but Jesus man, we are in a finite world. It is not mathematically possible to grow exponentially indefinitely in a finite world.

What is it that we really need to change? Profound thought, I will tell you. I am getting pissed but is there a point?

Wild Rice----Bounty from the Marshes of Wisconsin

Now mind you, I am not promoting doing this because it turns out it is not real easy. I tried once before as can be noted in a post of a couple of years ago---and it was not pretty. I mean, the setting was sublime, if not bucoholic, the wind light and my lover resplendent in her native gear,  but getting only a paultry half cup for 10,000 callories expended was not the effort of sucess. Energy invested to energy returned was not high in rating. Had we depended on that harvest, it was poor coyote bait in a week.

However, I have not lost interest because at one time this area, and even to the south was filled with Wild Rice but the activity of gluttonous man and his perchant for ripping the piss out of everything did in the marshes and most of the stuff that went with them---like ducks and birds and those pesky Native Americans. We now have weed-filled lakes and sterile canals once used for the old stern wheelers that plied the rivers.

The good news is some marshes have survived and even flourished due to being out of reach from the wrath of pastie-white honkys. The cranberry marshes and muck farms didn't get them all, so up north and half, wild marshes are still to be found and interestingly Native Americans still harvest the grain. It turns out the stuff they harvest is actually different than the grass I tried, both wild rice but the up-north one has a shorter stem and bigger grain---like duh! My bad. (Older white man found floating in rice bed. Died from exhaustion)

So even if I am a geezer, or a coot, a shrive, I can still learn. This year my brother decided he would indeed go fetch up some Wild Rice and do it the Native way---which is really the only way. Crow and Rollie hit the marshes of the Wisconsin River with a canoe (hitting is a figure of speech),  paddles, and push pole, and beating stick in hand. Actually, I guess they were hitting it. The grain is bent over into the canoe and tapped ever so perfectly with a stick. The ripened grains fall into the boat--simple as that--except it is not simple. I was reminded after I suggested that I do it, is was not easy, at least the polling part. According to Crow, it takes a he-man and he admitted playing out in half a day. He was probably low on beer.

In the end, they rounded up more than 100 Lbs of rice. I was then processed by a local and half returned to the gatherers. What caught my eye was that the grains do not look like the mass produced stuff, the black type, but rather more brown and larger. The taste is also much more agreeable. Even if I am weak, next year I believe it will be time to harvest a portion for use in my attempt to be sustainable. I wish the canoe trip from Steven Point to Rhineland was not so long. Oh, we still have fossil fuel. No problem.

Locavore---The Start of Consuming what has been Laid By

As of tonight, the fresh food from the garden has all been consumed. The last holdouts consisted of chard and Kale, both capable of sucking up some pretty serious frost. In fact, I suspect kale could actually be buried in the leaves and pried out during most of the winter. Maybe next year I'll give that the big try.

One of the great things about these late leaves is they get much sweeter after the first frost, rather like grapes. Must be there is some advantage in storing sugar, or is it just a shift in metabolism that does it without cause. Damned if I know but makes for some chin lickin' good greens. Boiled is great on those suckers but they can be, both kale and chard, pan-fried in bacon grease. Now mind you, the bacon has to be local which in reality is not real hard. Hey, it is about being a locavore. I don't need no stinking Canadian bacon, or hoity-toity French side. This is Amer-ka and I want my hog from down the road, sucker.

 So tonight we chose red potatoes from this year's garden. Now, I did notice that they are starting to sprout just a touch but most of the reds are now tucked away in our collective gullets so it will be on to the Russets. Once those puppy's are gone, it will be back to the Irish experience. Shit, I have a hundred pounds, so like dude, I am home free and will make it through one more year.

To cover the tubers, I have chosen a half pound of venison burger just created a week ago, right out of the meat from this yearling doe I obtained from tip from a friend who by chance had noticed this inanimate carcass by the road. It had been subjected to inappropriate, unexpected vehicular contact. While the hind quarter was a touch blood shot, everything else was prime, and I mean prime. Oh, I did leave the tender loin as the vehicular contact had left the innards scrambled, so I didn't really want to go in there.

The most exciting aspect of this local meal was the beer. You heard me right. The beer was made from barley secured from Merv the farmer. I had gone off beggin' for some of his harvest and there right in front of my face was a handy 200 lb bag all ready to be malted. Did it, malted a ten pound batch, dried it professional like in the oven, then in it went to the beer batch. Alcohol seems to be around 6% so with a few under the belt, the evening will be most mellow, dude. Love being a locavore. Cost of meal---virtually nothing particularly if I had cooked it over the wood burning cook stove.

This is a real Thanksgiving. Oh I had to work at getting the stuff but that was all fun and worthy, as my father-in-law used to say. I give thanks believe me. (Nice find lady!)

What is it with Fishing?

What is it with fishing?

Glen is hard core. He once told me he has a policy he uses to determine when he will fish and when he will not. This policy of his is called the 30-30 rule and while it sounds like a caliber for a rifle, it actually lays the ground work for when he will and will not go fishing. My first exposure to “The Rule” was on a trip down the North Platte in Wyoming, in a stretch called the Gray Reef. Early on this October morning, and it was not a great day in my view, in that it was 36 degrees with a 25 mile an hour wind, we set out. By Wyoming standards this was a light breeze in mild conditions, maybe not a bluebird day, but pleasant and very suitable for outdoor activity---according to Glen.

Glen, in his most comfortable tone and never-ending smile of glee, simply said, as long as the temperature was 30 degrees and the wind was less than 30 mph, fishing was on.  Admittedly, it helped that the Gray Reef was full of very large trout who loved wooly buggers, still 36 degrees and a sand-filled “breeze” of 25 almost made me soil myself. I found the question of  “why” slipping through my mind. He and Frank looked at me as if I was a panty waste, a girly man.

We went and the fish came to us in great droves, Cutthroats, Browns and Rainbows, and even when the wind wrapped the fly lines around the boat and ourselves, there was never a whimper. As the evening approached, and the sun settled into the west, the temperature dropped to a point the eyes on my fly rod were ice-filled. In the dark, a herd of Elk crashed through the water in front of us, unseen but heard. It got late and we could not find the take out, but like Captain Ahab, Glen stood aft, throwing line for that last possible fish. I did not protest for this was life at its best! What is it with fishing?

So this morning, as a result of a call last night, I decided to go fishing tomorrow, to go for Steelhead. Initially, I hesitated after having seen the forecast of 23 degrees in the morning with a ten MPH wind. The 30-30 rule was not looking good here but the forecast for 11:00 was thought to be above freezing, so never mind, it was off on a two hour drive, all geared up and full of myself because the Sheboygan River was running at 300 cubic ft/sec and the big beauties would be moving up---so we imagined.

By eleven, the day had warmed to 42 and the sun floated nicely across the southern sky. In the grass along the bank, the frost still hung to the unlit blades, slippery to aging feet and crisp to the touch. Undeterred, we shuffled our way to waters edge. Our mind’s eye, like always, was filled with anticipation almost seeing the rainbow flash of a strike and the tug of a Great Lake’s monster.

Interestingly, we were alone on our favorite stretch, not a good sign really as it would appear that others were not fishing because the apple of our eyes had not arrived from the big lake. Then, we recalled other times, like this, where we were alone and the fish were there lurking in the deep spots and flowing ripples. Nothing like anticipation. Adrenaline moved through our anxious veins, unaltered by the chill. Dennis gloatingly reminded me of the 36 incher he landed last year.

In the slow backwaters, a few old gnarly, exhausted salmon were taking their last gasps. It was the Browns and Steelhead we were after, the ones fresh from the deep water,  whose fight makes our blood flow. I flexed my flyrod, pulled out the long line, shadow cast a couple of times and landed my favorite bugger gently in the spot that only two years ago I parted company with a Steely of some 12 pounds (in my estimation) who in an act of defiance actually broke my steel hook.

As the afternoon wore on, and my disappointed flyrod worked, never once did a single fish embrace a single hair of my elegant flies. Was I a loser, a fishing ne’er-do-well, an inadequate provider? I reckon I didn’t care because the casting continued and my sometimes delusional dreaming flowed like water over my tasty lures. It is always the anticipation that will not let us leave. It is the thought that just one more cast will draw out the silvery devils in a froth of foam and turbulence.

By mid-afternoon, a touch disgruntled and a smidgen discouraged, we looked at each other and Dennis said, “God, another bust. Still, a nice day and we WERE players, not contenders, but players.”

I remarked, “We looked good, we tried. Maybe we are losers. Just what is it with this fishing?” Dennis responded, “Do you suppose we should come back tomorrow?”

Hit and Miss Engine---My Little Jumbo

I know that most folks expect to experience a high level of intellectual discourse while reading this blog, that means all 10 of you. Oh, I do have some followers in foreign lands and this one may blow by you for the level of the narrative.

What I have offered here is a Little Jumbo Engine made by Nelson Bros about 1915. While not reading Kafka, Steinbeck, Goethe, and Pushkin ( Oh I do mess with Old Engine Magazine and Fiddler), my daily activity does include splitting wood, talking senselessly to the birds, hunting for the illusive deer, staring expressionless into space and playing with engines.

This particular engine came to me by mistake in that I was at an auction and due to my general lack of awareness, thought I was bidding on another item and ended up with this pile of broken rust. I believe the one and only bid was mine at $100, a price I shouldn't mention.

However, once the rust bucket was home, it was clear it had to be made to run for that is the way of an OCD individual who does not really need to make a living nor impress any women---that just comes so easy. On close observation it was noted that many parts were soundly broken, present but broken, for no good reason. In addition, the old engine had obviously been run while many parts were very worn out. Who ever had it, simply would not give up and even though a pencil could be put in some of the out-around clearances, the brute still ran.

It would seem that at one point it probably stopped and then the guy threw rocks at it and even broke more stuff. So this is what I had. Well, hot in intellectual pursuit, we, (brother Jeff and I) started reworking parts, faking others and getting a couple of very expensive welding jobs on the cast iron. It was reassembled and a fudged ignition system was set up using a buzz coil. Low and behold the thing runs, not pretty as one can tell with all the odd hitting and puffing.

More than anything, it is a testament to the nature of these motors. They can always be fixes and by the local jackass. Unlike modern contraptions, it is made to go forever with only minor repairs---as long as one does not throw rocks at it.

Community Singing---An experience

How can I keep from singing


As a peanut butter and jelly faced kid, I was dragged off to church for various functions while my old man grinned  from behind his “I have better things to do”, attitude. It was not an easy task for my mother, but there was some success. While it may be true that initially, it was the grip on my ear that placed me in the choir were I could display my then soprano voice. In time and as my voice changed, the choir became a bit of a refuge both for me, and the Rev. Jay Funk.

The good Reverend knew with me in the choir it was now less likely the church would be destroyed by random idiotic behavior of my brothers and me------and I  actually liked to sing. I’m not sure I can identify the pleasure in it all,  maybe there were cookies, and I did get to sit up front during services rather than with my balcony bound, ill-behaved brothers and friends, nor next to my disgustingly monotoned father, who on a rare occasion, would attend. He did like to sing like Caruso but was near useless to music---and to religion.

In high school, my greatest desire was to thrash about on any field of completion I could find, the more blood and guts, the better. Classroom performance was similar but less well-behaved. However, I along with some off the other roust-abouts, would inevitably find ourselves in the school choir. There was no ear pulling by then, plenty of girls to ogle, no cookies----- maybe it was a chance to get out of something else I really didn’t want to do, like stay in homeroom where I am sure the teacher , like Rev. Jay Funk, was more than delighted to have us absent.

The homeroom teachers were tired of the marbles rolling on the floor, the birds released to fly about the room and the vulgar bodily noises created from God knows what sources. The choir was again a refuge and a source of accomplishment. There was something about singing as a group that settled us down and even the most ill-behaved would wail away even if the tunes were not one of Elvis’s favorite. If I recall many songs were of the hymnal flavor, but no college drinking songs that I later embraced with distinct vigor, while usually face into a few nice brews.

Through the years, singing Christmas carols, and on occasion, casting forth great songs of the wassail tradition was an exciting event. So recently in the throes of a community tradition, we had the wonderful experience of taking in a community sing at the South New Hope Church. Around fifty folks of all ages and variety gathered to learn a number of songs and to work out the four part harmonies.

Jim put the words in our mouths bit by bit, and the old Negro spirituals echoed through the tall, elegant old church. There was round singing, call and response, and one fine setting where, with women on one side and men on the other, we faced each other and in great Quaker tradition sang a song of praise.

This was followed by South African freedom songs, again, a call and response. The history of the apartheid jails were filtering through the music as a lone elegant soloist sang out the call.

History ran through all of  the music, as well as a common thread of time and the emotions of past experiences. The music that filled the sacred halls was uplifting and exciting. After a very quick one and half hours, it was over, but as we finished an encore, and began to walk out, another song just happened to get started. It was if the song, “How can I keep from singing” was playing itself out, for the music continued until we were out the door. There was not one incident of bad behavior from me or anyone. Music still works.

Uplifted, we along with close friends headed out for a Sunday dinner downtown Amherst. While waiting for the waitress to seat us, in the back we could hear what sounded like singing. For a moment we paused, thinking we would sit in a quiet place, away form the chatter and noise, but with little pause, we headed next to the table of barber shoppers feeling we had not had enough.

The silky sounds of tight harmonies drifted over our table and Paul asked if they might do a love song. They stood  facing our table and sang a sad song of love. We joined in and closed out the evening with a tune from the romantic 30s. Music, the singing of songs together, is in our blood I suspect, and as Mar said, “This is a day we will never forget.”

Hard Cider---Fall's Delight

I failed to mention that early in the fall I had the good fortune of pilfering some dandy apples from a friend. I am not sure he meant me to take over 100 lbs of the beauties but that sure as hell is what happened. I was not shy about it as that is not may way and I had a plan---which he did not.

Now, I have known for some time that apples where historically important not so much so they could be turned into pies and crisps, but for the juice that could be fermented. Oh ya, most folks don't really know that but Micheal Pollan laid it all on the line in his Omnivore's Dilemma. It is not that I didn't know this because people need a buzz--always have and always will.

The deal was to get an apple tree that had apples packed with sugar, the more the better because that will drive the alcohol content--more sugar more potential buzz. I suspect this was a winter thing where harvest the apples in the fall, get a good batch going and then by Christmas, while grooving on the Baby Jesus, one could get sloppy drunk and fall onto the dinner table fulfilled. At least that was part of my plan.



So I took the apples out to Byron's where a mass of apple pressers had gathered, admittedly for the purpose of fellowship and getting fresh gallon of apple juice. Not me baby. I rounded up over 5 gallons hell bent on brewing the mash up for the holiday experience. I did not detect any disdain for my intention, so I felt vindicated (sort of a pun).

I totted the jug into the kitchen drunk with excitement,  and added champagne yeast and let her rip. A few days ago I bottle what was clearly not swill. I mean, this stuff was ready to go right now and Christmas is some 6 weeks away so the Baby Jesus will have to wait. However, Thanksgiving will do. I am excited because the taste was exquisite if not profound. This is not fermented pond water but the nectar of the gods. Only problem is, I don't think it is more than, say, 7% alcohol. Still, I am full of myself on this one.

Now, it is no secret a person can set a jug of this stuff out in the winter and let it freeze. The part with the most alcohol will not freeze and can be poured off for Apple Jack---the real objective of our forefathers. Such opportunities.