The Electric Yard Tractor

The Yard Tractor

            For someone who depends on solar power to provide electricity, the last couple of months have been real losers (excluding the last week or so). It has to be admitted none of this poor performance is my doing so the “loser” term cannot be dumped on me for this one. First off, somebody made the earth tilt so the angle of the sun, when the sun does come out, is notably on a lower pitch; as a result, little sun power makes its way through the thicker, extended atmosphere. That is the “angle of the dangle”, axiom which says the more molecules the rays hit the fewer get to me and my panels.

              

Also, I am being picked on because my trees and Merlyn’s have been growing and adding increased shade over my array of PV cells. I know Bob wants to cut my big maple down to keep the roots out of my sewer pipes, but a trimming is all he will get due to my love of Maples. Still, the trees continue to grow much like my midsection. The beautiful tree is going to stay until some revolution or revelation.

            To top that off, in the last 2 months, word has it, the sun only showed her face for a total of 30 hours. While I have complained endlessly, almost going into deep meaningful prayer, but knowing the same Almighty I was talking to was responsible for the problem, I figured anything short of a small lawsuit was futile.  I do not recall the good Reverend Funk in Montello’s Methodist Church telling me threats and celestial intimidation would pay off, so here I sat disgruntled. It was simply cloudy and no quarter was given to my plight.

            During this solar malaise, my brother Jeff announced that he had a solar powered yard tractor and it was the alternative answer to all of his environmental concerns. It seems he purchased a 1971 Elec-Trak, GE yard tractor powered by six, twelve-volt batteries. Full of himself like a free ranging Holstein Bull, he said, “Can you imagine this thing was made 45 years ago and never really took off. It is the answer. I now have that answer.”  Being the motorhead he is, within minutes of his purchase it was apart and being restored, even though his entire life was filled with internal combustion engines, and by his own admission, the electrical contraption left him a touch speechless.

I got his call, “Wait until you see this baby. It’s fixed, charged and running. All I do is plug it into the wall, wait a few hours, then is off to the races.  Your gonna cry your heart out watching this.” He said almost patting himself on the back until his miserable arm broke.

            Not one to display jealousy, particularly over the phone, I was a touch green with envy so I was forced to do some analytical analysis, like strategizing bigly.

           So, drawing from years of pontificating, ruminating and pilfering, it dawned on me that it took a certain amount of energy, say five barrels of oil to produce his garden tractor and that includes the lead acid batteries. Once it was in the field, it had to extract power from the electric grid, which was all produced from coal, natural gas and uranium. In my conniving mind, while he thought it was “green”, it was subject to some suspicion. On me saying, “I think you, my friend, are doing some serious green-washing because the tractor I was eyeing-up, the gas puppy at the local hardware store, takes the same amount to produce and burns real clean gasoline and not dirty coal and natural gas.”

It was then he reminded me that his tractor was, in fact, simpler (Like me he said), easier to repair due to fewer parts, and the real kicker was, he was going to get a couple of now-inexpensive solar panels to charge it. “The total energy cost of my panels and tractor is less than the one you want”. Then in a superior voice, I heard, “What do you think of that, apocalyptic boy”?

              “Free energy from the sun and I can, plow snow, dig the garden, haul wood and just run around real stupid----all for no cost and no pollution. While your choking on fumes, I will be using the batteries to power portable tools like my electric chain saw, drill holes, and play my Blue Tooth till the sun don’t shine. ” He had the audacity to remind me it would only take the lousy 30 hours of sun to power that forty-five year-old tractor for all his needs. He had to rub it in.

                I did remind him I had a solar powered lawn mower but, it looks like for the time being he might have the high card. They do have electric golf carts and even electric cars, now if I could only come up with a nice trust fund---maybe some crowd funding to pay for them.  

The Loss of a Fishing Buddy

  

I recently received a brief note from a distant relative in northern Louisiana noting that my third cousin Elmer Ray Boljack had passed away while fishing. I was informed because as Aunt Emma said, “We was two jackasses both too stupid to come out of the rain.” He was the only relative I had in the south whose company I enjoyed, and while he had certain cracker tendencies, a bit foreign to my sensitivities, we both had a fond appreciation of fishing, hunting, and tossing down a couple of cold ones---and telling enhanced stories commonly referred to as BS.

While he was no spring chickadee, being taken out at fifty-four was way too early. The loss was taking everyone down there with alarm and disbelief. It didn’t help that it happened while he was noodling for catfish. It wasn’t like he fell out of the boat, shot himself while practicing his quick draw or had his ticker just quit. He actually died violently while in the water noodling.

For those who don’t know, noodling is a form of recreational fishing practiced by a handful of hardy individuals who have the audacity, and nerve not found in the average person. The fisherman uses his fingers as bait for the rather ferocious, and in some cases, giant catfish. One’s hand is inserted into the den of a hiding, and usually resting flathead. The fish, either out of hunger, or anger, latches on to the hand and won’t let go. The noodler, with the help of sidekicks, then pulls the fish out of hiding and flops it in the boat.

Elmer and I have caught a few but no big ones, nothing over 36 pounds. Admittedly, I didn’t much appreciate getting all scratched up and particularly didn’t take to getting fin spiked that one time. We’d sit around, suck a few beers, argue over global warming and farm fertilizer ending up in the water, which he thought was real good because it just made the fish get bigger. Hard to argue the point as it seemed to be true as hell, besides he said all my scientific training was fuzzy. Everybody was getting bigger cats, and more of them.

We’d eat some of them but to me it was like eating turnips. They were OK if you didn’t have anything else, and by making them blackened and sprinkled with PBR, they were fine.

After a phone call, I found the story worked out about like this. It was a normal day, sticky hot, and the noodlers were looking for a little water time. They chose to work an area where a number of larger cats were found to hang out in the logs and brush along the water’s edge. I have been in the same area and I remember being told, the big Flathead and maybe Blue cats, and we are talking up to one hundred pounds, were probably waiting for something to fall in the water, even though they generally feed on the garbage of the river, dead things.

Most of the serious hunters knew that a fish over 75lbs would take pretty good-sized animals swimming in the river---small dogs, cats, foxes, beavers, muskrats, anything that falls in dead or alive.

Elmer once said, “These here fish been getting’ bigger in the last twenty years ‘cause of fertilizer in the river and raising temperatures. Just more food. Noodlers love it. I ain’t never gonna bitch about it gettin’ warmer cause it makes ‘em  more ferocious and fat as a Missouri hog and that is the way we like ’em.” Interestingly, I now catch catfish on the Wisconsin River fly-fishing with a wooly bugger. They have become attack machines.

I asked at one time, maybe trying to see if there was a bad side to all this warming, which he generally waved off, “Elmer you suppose other things are moving in here, like maybe snakes”?

“Well, I ain’t seen none, but that sidewise-of-a-poacher up the river said he saw a Moccasin but we ain’t taken no stock of that. It’s still too cold and he’s dumber than a bucket of bolts”.

The way it’s told, Elmer Ray had found a hole along the bank that he could tell was extending back into the cut making a perfect place to hold a big cat. Like usual, he got in the eighteen inches of water, belly-first, and started feelin’, which is what you do.

“It is all about touch,” he would say. “gotta be slow and gentle at first. Eventually, you find the head and put your hand in front of the fish and it will latch on and won’t let go no matter what. Then your buddies, and I know they don’t look like much, will pull your ass outa there with the fish hanging on to your arm.”

On Tuesday, and it was a Tuesday, they were at this great spot with Elmer Ray, belly to the water and doing his reaching thing. This went on for a bit and it was clear Elmer Ray had made contact as he was twitching pretty good.

One of his buddies apparently said, “It was looking like he had a real serious piece of fish ‘cause of all the thrashing.” The two guys each grabbed a leg and began to pull, but damn, they couldn’t break him loose. They said they pulled so hard that one of them slipped off with a shoe and by the time he got back up amid all the mud and sticks, the other guy had let go from being over-powered. Try as hard as they could, and they were not softy city wimps, Elmer Ray just disappeared. There may have been a couple little ripples but they didn’t like what was going on.  

Totally beaten and terrified, they headed back for help. When they returned with eight guys, there was nothing to be found in the hole except some torn clothing. Elmer Ray’s favorite Toby Keith tee shirt, all shredded, showed up floating just outside the fallen logs. The spot was completely empty of anything.

By the time the sheriff’s people arrived, they were all speechless. Once back in town the deputy was heard to say, “I don’t know what them boys got into but it ain’t lookin’ real good. Something bad must be going down. ”

Somebody said a few days later, the paper out of Baton Rouge had a headline. University Graduate Students determine Caimans are Moving North due to Global Climate Change.

I wondered if they knew what caimans were?

.

The Wright Christmas/ Winter Letter of a Few Years

This posting is a bit odd in that it is a series of photos. One has to hit the top page and t will come up in larger form and then can be scrolled down to see the next page. It is the best I could do at the moment. Still, it might be fun and a learning experience. Good luck and have a nice holiday. DW

Harley----The Dog

Harley is a dog and not a motorcycle. In truth, that takes a little explaining because Harley the dog has a number of attributes similar to the cycle. He accelerates with his front end lifted, runs like the frantic lightening, while zipping back and forth in the field of play.

The dog, a Pudelpointer, admittedly does not have the wonderful sound of the twin V motor but rather he runs silent like a submarine going full tilt on batteries. Yes, both Harleys can be comfortably warm, but the dog is less metallic, softer and loves to recline on a sofa----I will note my brother parked his vintage BMW in his living room but not on the sofa------I don’t think.

Harley lives to hunt, and I suspect even dreams of it while in recline, and once turned loose in a field of wild grasses and tall rushes, takes off like the other Harley on full throttle. It is his nature to hold his head high like a snooty Englishman and not pushed to the ground for he is a detector of game birds. Once his powerful nose snares even a few molecules of pheasant, he locks in a ridged, elegant stature. I visualize the hunters earnestly sauntering up, then signaling him to make the flush.

It is a marvelous sight as he ranges out fifty yards in all directions almost oblivious to us, but, in reality, clearly has an inner sense of our place. His tail whips in joy. There is a canine anticipation as he nears his quary, a suddenness of movement, a jerky intentness. He jumps from side to side, testing the air. Then in an instant he locks, the tail is straight out, his nose glaringly forward. The dog is in his field of dreams.  

In the vision, Ken and I, the attending hunters, move in, all full of prowess intending to reward the dog with a retrieve and ensuing praise. It is all a game and really a beautiful one. The wind pushes the fall grasses and here and there a faint hint of horse mint, and fading sunflowers. This is a fall ritual going back to my Neanderthal background. We are providing.

On a recent globally-warmed day, Ken and I set out with Harley to exercise our Paleolithic desires and bring back a fat pheasant while reveling in the glories of the White River Marsh. Harley was equally in love for here was his dream, the world of his upbringing.

Early on Harley found himself flustered, possibly because, we, the aging hunters, were not keeping up but simply waiting for him to bring the birds to us. As a result, when he located a rapidly moving bird, he inadvertently bumped it up. We shot wildly as the vibrant pheasant glared at us in terror. If I am not mistaken, Harley lifted his paw making an L sign over his forehead.

We moved on into the area we felt the fleeing bird had gone, thinking we might have a second go of it. The terrain became more brutal but Ken in his young spirit disappeared into the alder thicket like a bull moose, maybe like an older bull moose but still-----. The dog with the spirit of an all-terrain vehicle followed, probably wanting to make sure Ken didn’t get lost or bogged down. In the distance tangle I could hear Ken talking to the dog with a small blast of a whistle. They were communicating and I was confident the two of them would find the bird and maybe Ken would miss again making room for me in my more comfortable position to save the day.

Then out of nowhere, the dog appeared in front of me, rather taking stock. Ken beeped a few times off in the bog, even calling his name. Harley looked up the hill to my right and saw a figure, obviously thinking it to be Ken and took off in that direction as any well-behaved dog would do. I was a little surprised because normally the dog would know where we were by our distinct odor and the guy up the hill did not smell like us.

Harley lit out fully wanting to make Ken pleased with his always-obedient behavior. Up on the hill, and very much next to the other guy, Harley instantly proceeded to locked up in a Point. Unfortunately, we were back in the scrub picking sticks out of our noses. Directly across from the pointing Harley was a very attractive English Setter also on point. The uphill hunter, appropriately dressed and fitted with a fine over-and-under shotgun stepped forward and called for the flush. The bird rose in classic cackling form, where upon the well-served hunter missed two shots. The bird flew off to Russia and we got little more than a fleeting glance.

Harley was thrilled but I suspect he didn’t realize he had just pointed for the wrong guys. We chatted up the embarrassed hunter as he noted how he and his dog had been chasing that one bird all across the fields and not until Harley arrived and put on a pincer move would it flush. How could we fault the dog and when I saw the beauty of the English setter, a female, it seemed possible maybe Harley ventured up the hill to make an impression on something more than us.

Moments later he was off roaring about like the Harley machine we all know. What a great ride. 

An odd partnership---I think.

I am not one to ordinarily pick on any specific bird species. Generally, I like them all for any number of reasons, including how some taste on my plate. While some folks complain of the noble Canada Goose, and even refer to them as Sky Carp, they are magnificent in grace and beauty---even if they do tend to leave small traces of their beings on shorelines and lawns.

Juncos are a bird of winter, it seems, and swarm feeders and the ground under them, busily foraging for seeds. They might be seen as flying mice, but with a cleaner demeanor. The Oregon Junco has a snappy coat, a dark covering of tiny feathers all rather formal if not regal. They are almost impossible to not like.

About the time Juncos arrive, or at least arrive in winter numbers, it is also time to look after winter tasks like making sure all the windows are tightened up, the bulbs are dug, the potatoes comfortable in the basement and the heating systems are up and running. Most of the tasks are referred to as winterization and that does include making sure the bird feeders are ready for the flights of arriving birds like the Juncos.

In the process of performing these efforts it was found by my renters that their furnace was not working, simply would not come on. Not wanting them to freeze off in the coming season, and wanting to avoid a small lawsuit, I did the usual examination thinking it was a loose wire or a simple abnormality, but no. In frustration, I called Mike and started making the usual inquiry, asking him why am I such a loser (that is what the little light on the furnace said) and he tried to lead me through a process of simple deduction to find the problem as opposed to just running over here and charging me a cool $100 . I listened and then realized it is hard for me to even kneel down, so I gave up and invited him over for what I know will be some nonsensically simple repair.

I'm sure that on the other end of the phone he was grinning and shaking his head saying, “These Wright brothers are basket cases, cleaver maybe, but slow.”

He showed up in short order, still rather amused, probably knowing he had told me how to fix it but due to situations out of his control, me, he would need to save the day. Down in the basement he went through the usual rapid, very linear process with his various electrical testers and deduced the pressure detector on the exhaust fan was not tripping, meaning the exhaust pipe was compromised----pretty much what he told me from the comfort of his office.

He then removed the exhaust pipe from the furnace and looked inside. With a sly grin, he looked over at me and gave a subtle, but meaningful, gesture for me to take a look. There at the entrance of the pipe were the remains of a small gray bird, a bird that was well dried, very dead as in deceased, and obviously blocking the vent.

Mike makes a remark about the value of Ornithology and the unfortunate habits of some birds all the while cleaning out the vent and reassembling the furnace. He is amused by it all and makes note of other similar experiences he has had including finding a massive paper wasp's nest in a vent.

Me, I was having other thoughts including thinking he has an arrangement with birds and wasps to work for him on the side to generate work and thus stimulate the economy even if it costs them their lives.

I also saw dollar bills flying out the window, or was it out the vents.

I asked, “What the hell is this Junco doing in this vent?” Mike, in his deep radio voice, and under a small concealed smile said , “Damned if know, obstructions just happen.” He surely would not admit that he has either trained them or paid them in seeds to obstruct the vents of reasonable humans, ( heating vents).

My mind was reeling with questions for which Mike offered no solutions, but he was clearly entertained by the unfolded events. I then saw it as a Darwinian mistake because the bird in it's wisdom probably wanted to make a statement about my polluting the atmosphere with CO2 and thus plugged the vent. However, in the small bird's act of defiance, he lost his life (I assumed it was a he) and thus would not be able to breed and make more defiant Juncos, who in turn may have had a profound affect on bad human behavior.

Briefly, I was concerned because if other animals got the drift of this act they might take it to another level, like having chipmunks crawl up my exhaust pipe of our VW. Worse yet, Pelicans might drop down stacks on power plants and or even in a fit of desperation, shove a nasty raccoon up the discharge pipe of the sewer plant. Well, maybe I am over reacting, or racked with guilt when in fact, Mike really was in league with the juncos.

Mike treated me well and I forgave the Juncos. I will continue to feed birds---- but will maintain a watchful, but thankful eye on both.

Getting bridle for “Racing Chickens” leads to saving Cow Pony.

Getting bridle for “Racing Chickens” leads to saving Cow Pony.

I once had another life in another place. What I mean is we lived in a different place, spending some 23 years  in a one-horse town, raising a family and running a couple of businesses.

Almost 50 years ago, it was a different time when there was in this small town, old folks who had arrived many years prior by covered wagon.  Many also had worked on ranches primarily using horses. I might add, it was still not totally uncommon to go into a bar in Kiowa, Colorado seeing some patrons wearing spurs--it wasn’t a specialty bar in no stinking city.

It was a different time but some things were the same, I suspect. One was that I also wrote a column for the local newspaper taking on some of the same old issues, well, not issues, but daily activities. The column was called The Backyard Journal, and like here, it featured those everyday events that had a touch of education, charm, and local color.

In a recent nostalgic turn, I was going through some of the now-ancient pieces, so it seems fitting to bring out one of ditties of that time.

 Elizabeth, Colorado was a relic of the past, dirt streets 120 feet wide, constructed to allow large herds of cattle to be driven down them, say from 1880-1932. It was a cow town that had been sitting idle for forty years. In 1970 and later, new-comers arrived including a colorful assortment of hippies and Denver commuters. It was all cool, a touch on the rustic side, but a comfortable mix with a strong flavor of the old west.

My piece in the Elbert County news was titled Getting bridle for “Racing Chickens” leads to saving Cow Pony.

I think I went down to the tack shop to get a bridle for one of my racing chickens. I’m not sure being how its been a few days. Got a good memory and all, its just a bit short.

 A person doesn’t really need a good reason to go down there, just going there is reason enough.  Its probably the best place in town to solve problems and exchange the daily goings-on----not to mention the fact that it’s just easy down there, easy to sit around and stare at the walls or to get in on a few stories.

 Last week it was Ed.  He showed up and we talked about Ronnie Evans chasing his buffalos up in the sand hills by Valentine.  Seems he found one of them in Kansas. We took a few shots at politicians and went over how Tom’s buckskin was almost identical to the one in “Dances with Wolves.”

 Week  before though, we hardly got going before Dorothy came running in, all in a dither about how one of her ponies had managed to get itself upside down in the water tank.  She needed help, now!  Well, Tom, he’d seen a horse or two having been a wrangler in these parts.  Me, the racing chickens were as far as my experience went.  Oh, I’ve had a few nasty roosters and was sorta in on raising two tasty, but obscenely overweight hogs…but an inverted horse in a water tank?

Dorothy told me, in buffalo hunter language,  to get my behind over there and help before old Jeremiah hurt himself trying to give the horse mouth-to-mouth.  I didn’t argue. Dorothy knows horses like Bo knows football because she and the Cliff had been running a string of misfit ponies for years.  Even though she was diminutive in stature and rough around the edges, if she said I was needed…I was needed.

I could already see that Tom was thinking.  He got serious and said something to the effect that if a horse gets upside down, it only has a certain amount of time left.

We headed across the street, watching for Dorothy’s attack geese and who knows what else in her ramshackle holdings by the river.

 There were a few, now liberated colts running around in the yard, taking the opportunity to get into the fresh hay that was normally out of reach.  They were clearly indifferent to the plight of their fallen comrade.

 And, fallen he was - on his back in this metal tank, feet in the air and neck wrenched around. Not a pretty sight. No water in the tank, thank God, but there was 1,200 pounds of horse flesh flailing there trying to “swim“.

Jeremiah was running hither and yon.

Tom looked it over and started making a decision.

 I just saw those hooves a punching in the air and realized that they could hit worse than Ali.

Tom managed to get a rope around the four feet-- I think there were four-- and pushed and pulled the legs down to the side so that they were not sticking up in the air like four Scud missiles.  Jeremiah kept its neck forward.

What we had was a giant sardine packed in a round tin waiting to be shipped.  Dorothy tossed out encouragement in every form imaginable, and some not mentionable.  No question how much she cared for her horses.

We had our sardine, but couldn’t get it to stand as it was too packed in to move.

I think it was Dorothy who suggested we just dump him out of the tank.  1,200 pounds?…not to mention that a fence blocked the tank.  The fence came down in a flourish of hammers.

The three of us (I was finally doing something) tried to get under the tank and lift.  We pushed and grunted, and I complained about my back.

 I don’t know if Dorothy kicked us or what, but somehow the entire contraption lifted and the tank kind of fell apart on the bottom end.  It all went up and the horse went out in a cloud of Dorothy’s dust and profanity.

That was one happy cowpony…but do you think that for one moment it hung around to give us a kiss, like Champion or Trigger would have done.

I mumbled something about Dorothy needing to train her herd in a little courtesy.

We headed back to the tack shop, which of course had been left wide open, where Tom could put another mark on his tally string.

And, I was just looking for a little loose talk and a chicken bridle!

Blackberries---In League with the Devil

Blackberries---In League with the devil


Every year there is great anticipation of the blackberry harvest, a harvest that is always, for one reason or another, rather up for grabs. It seems that seldom is there really a good year where we can walk along a well-traveled trail and fill our containers with ease.

This year the rains came in a comfortable interval, the blossoms were abundant and the canes strong, if not imposing. It looked good as we set aside and cleaned ample jars while dreaming of cold winters where Blackberry jams were laid across great bowls of ice cream. The excitement was everywhere---but like each year here in Wisconsin, there was apprehension as things can go wrong.

So on the advice of Tom, I set forth to secure a winter’s store. “The best ones are up higher and in the sun”, he suggested as he left town. Optimistically, I climbed the trail heading west while noticing some immature berries hidden in the brambles. Not far up, I reached for the first-sighted ripe berries only to find my shirt sleeve, and a portion of my flesh, had been impaled on a first-year cane the size of  tropical bamboo and armed with blood thirsty spines. I must have thought it was a small tree when reaching into the thicket and not an armored guard cane. As I slowly withdrew with a couple of meager berries, another guard cane grabbed my hat flipping it to the ground. The slight vibration of the bramble, or was it the profanity, wakened the mosquitoes who realized a target had arrived. They joined the Deer Flies who were doing the usual kamikaze stunts.

I thought of the can of DEET I left in the car but in a flash realized I had been told not to get it on my hands as contaminated berries would certainly cause some heinous disease. I tightened my collar, checked the buttons on my sleeves and proceeded up the hill to the good spots.

Higher up the berries were more abundant but generally low down under the bramble, meaning they were well guarded by those nasty canes, the ones that have been put there, not to produce fruit, but simply to hurt people.

As I worked my way thorough the better areas, it appeared many of the ripe berries were rotting on the vine. They were so far gone as they were touched, they spilled their juice all over my now sore hands. At least half the fruit was not salvageable. It seems a small fly had the pleasure of plopping an egg on many of the berries and within one day the little buggers had violated the new fruit and introduced bacteria. Now the berries were fermenting and the smell of Blackberry wine was everywhere, but I was after fat ripe berries, not some stinking bacteria-ridden grub’s idea of cheap wine.

As a result of the rotting, grubbed-up berries, my hands were now a permanent deep red color, or so it seemed. On close examination it was also obvious some of the red was actually blood from the wounds inflicted by the guard canes. This was not going well.

After some forty minutes of effort, I looked into the pail to just take stock of my take, which at this point was little more than a cup. There sitting on top of the collection were two unhappy stink bugs, which very much like to emit a putrid smell when disturbed. They, like me, were frustrated, pacing and partially covered in the cheap wine. Possibly they were finding the experience pleasurable and were ripped to the nines on this Mad Dog brew, making them unlikely to anoint the berries----but maybe not.

By now the late morning heat was growing, the wine was brewing and my constitution was failing, along with my commitment and dreams of winter sweet delights. It was then it occurred to me I could be blindly picking along, then looking up through this thick tangle only to see berry-covered, and possibly unhappy bear feasting in the now ripening patch. This was an easy visualization because of the short field of vision caused by the thickness of the vegetation. Maybe I would just see this juice-stained, puzzled, tongue-lapping face staring at me as if I was an stumbling intruder. This would be a call for a resource war worse than those in the middle East. I didn’t even have a knife nor a suicide explosive vest. What was mostly berry color on me could easily be changed to mostly blood.

This hallucination was the final straw---probably caused by the fumes coming off the fermentation---alcohol being volatile and all. I thought “Would the bear only be eating the fermented berries, getting lousy drunk and then be bar-fight belligerent?” Would he slap me around, take my berries, take my ball hat and head off to catch a nap at Tom’s only to be later found smiling, but hung over with my ball cap on backwards. I’d be found some time later unconscious, if not expired, creating a headline for the Spirit  newspaper, “Older Man found in berry patch, scratched, berryless, and with his favorite Brewers ball cap missing.” Things once more were turning uncomfortably wrong. It was then it occurred to me, Blackberries are in league with the devil, nice to desire but all to often forbidden.