Tradition

When you live alone on a quiet mountain side it doesn’t take long to begin assigning human traits and personalities to dogs, goats, chickens, squirrels, rabbits, etc. Without other humans to talk to eventually full blown conversations with the animals will ensue which are really just articulation, one sided role play and self-debate exercises about life, philosophy, science and belief. Sometimes these conversations can lead to troubling dilemmas. For example, I remember standing next to a goat I called Paul. I explained to Paul that the rainbow I saw across the valley was a completely different rainbow than the one he saw because my eyes were higher than his and rainbows have a specific angle of refraction so he was actually seeing a different set of water droplets than I was. Paul challenged me explaining that at such a great distance and such a small variance in angle of refraction between his eyes and mine the truth is the rainbows we see are mostly overlapping and we are not seeing two distinctly different rainbows. I expected his response to be more along the lines of “What rainbow?”
His grasp of geometry and physics stunned and, to be honest, embarrassed me a bit. The presumed hierarchical gap between livestock owner and livestock narrowed to such a degree in that one astute observation that I began to question my planned “harvesting” of Paul the following week.
That evening on the porch shortly after finishing my Swisher Sweet Double Barrel Rum Outlaw cigar, I mentioned my second thoughts to Dooley. He patiently explained that even though I had unexpectedly connected to Paul intellectually I had failed to grasp the more important spiritual convictions of a goat. “Having been domesticated for over 10,000 years and existing as a revered sacrificial animal in a number human religious and spiritual belief systems the goat tradition finds great honor in sacrifice. To deny Paul this honor would do nothing but diminish his perception of the value of his own life. Instead, you should share your plans with Paul and celebrate his upcoming harvest as a day of joyful fulfillment.”
Taking Dooley’s advice I announced to all the livestock the following afternoon the news of Paul’s upcoming “harvest” and suggested a feast be planned for the night before this special day. I asked the chickens, (the most literate of the group) to prepare a list of foods I should prepare and suggested everyone should try and think of activities and presentations appropriate for the day. Dooley loudly suggested party hats which immediately created debate among the different groups. “I think it only right that Paul should have final say in our plans” I said. Everyone looked at Paul. Paul cleared his throat and said with obvious emotion, “I’m a bit overwhelmed with all the attention right at this moment. It might be best if we all sleep on it and commence with the planning the tomorrow.”
I slept well that night.
When I was planning the goat shed and pen I sought the advice of other local goat owners as to specification of height, square footage and materials. All agreed 2x4 no climb woven fencing would be my best bet for containment, and for nearly a year it had proven sufficient. Yes, Paul was gone. Escaped. (Never saw him again.)
Standing with my hands on my hips in disbelief I looked over at Dooley who was sitting a safe distance away.
Without missing a beat he said, “I guess some goats are more traditional than others.”

Rabbit Ears

My nephew, Ira, came to visit his “crazy uncle who lives in the woods” last summer. He brought me, as a gift, a small digital TV with a seven inch screen and built in antenna. Ira is only 12 and I was in uncle mode so I refrained from openly cursing the little evil glow box from the “other world” he had so callously brought to my hallowed sanctuary. (Besides, I knew it was his mother (my sister) who had put him up to it. Unlike me, she willing accepts the insanity of the “other world” in exchange for little diversionary treats like TV, Wi-Fi, pocket phones, brownies and indoor plumbing.) So I said in my best uncle voice, Wow! I haven’t seen one of these in years.” We turned it on and discovered it could only pick up two over-the-air channels, an intermittent and digitally pixilated NBC station that was 25 miles away and a perfectly clear so-called family Christian station from Tazwell, Virginia, 200 miles away. Beyond divine intervention I have no explanation for why I got that station. Strangely enough, Tazwell is on the same route 19 that passes near my secret cabin in the woods. Perhaps it’s some sort of flume effect with the transmitter shooting straight up route 19. Perhaps Christian stations are not only exempt from taxes, but from FCC broadcast power limitations as well. As my Mother used to say, “Heaven only knows.” Ira seemed disappointed so I turned it off and gave him a quick tour of the grounds immediately around the cabin. He lives in Boston so I felt obligated to point out some potential hazards in this foreign environment; poison ivy, the 30 foot drop off nearby, ticks, how to check for snakes when you step over a rotting log or between rocks, how to spot a rabid raccoon and goat nibbling to name a few. I also, gave him one of my Swiss army knives to use as he saw fit. In typical uncle fashion I did not offer the classic “don’t cut yourself” warning. I had chores to do so I gave him a whistle to blow if he encountered a problem and turned him loose to explore. I hoped he would find the joys of whittlin’ a stick, making a fort or discovering crawdads in the little spring fed creek behind the cabin. In truth, I hoped he was capable of entertaining himself because I, no idea how to keep a modern twelve year old mind busy for a week. An hour later when I came back to the cabin, the whistle and the knife were on the porch rail and he was sitting in my favorite Swisher Sweet Double Barrel Rum Flavored Outlaw cigar smoking chair with a tiny laptop playing a game. Hallelujah, he came with built in entertainment! I also discovered he didn’t mind where he played the game so after dinner I showed him the makeshift bed I had prepared for him, he sat down next to it and began rapidly clicking away at the keyboard freeing up my favorite Swisher Sweet Double Barrel Rum Outlaw cigar smoking chair on the porch. For some reason (maybe some latent TV watching urge from my life in the “other world?) I thought it might be fun to take the little TV out on the porch with me to see if I could get better reception. I was sure Ira would be pleased to see any improvement in the watch-ability of his gift. Sure enough, NBC was much better in the magical night air and of course Tazwell was as strong as ever. I tried watching a show I had remembered, “Dateline”. It was a troubling true-life mystery surrounding the death of a mother and her children and the suspicion that her husband had done the deed. In the first part they had you believe he was definitely the guy. In the second part (it was a two hour show) they had you doubt his guilt. In the end a surprise witness for the prosecution came forward and swayed you and the jury back to a guilty verdict. Honestly, I felt abused watching the show. The beginning was just compelling enough to make you want to get right to the end but they made you sit through two hours of the same crime scene shots over and over. Before every commercial they would tease you with a promised twist and after every commercial they would do a lengthy recap. If you removed the unnecessary teases, repeated footage, commercials and recaps the whole show would have been about 20 minutes long. I turned over to the Christian channel and watched an episode of “Highway to Heaven” with Michael Landon. This story, fiction, was about a man who prayed that his family would re-unite after years of separation. The angels gave him a heart attack, he dies and his family re-unites at his funeral. No joke. The message I got was, be careful what you pray for. Damn glow box. The next morning I told Ira of the improved reception and he seemed pleased. He suggested that I get digital rabbit ears for even better reception. I stood up and said, “Come on Dooley, let take the shotgun and get some rabbit ears.” Ira didn’t understand the joke and Dooley was deeply disappointed when I sat back down. After breakfast we all took the truck into town drive to pick up some “city boy food” at the grocery/hardware/feed and seed store. As Ira perused the food isles, I wandered over to the hardware side just to say hi to Harry, the owner. By this time, it had become a joke that Harry would turn off the little black and white TV behind the counter when I came in. It was always good for a quick laugh. I mentioned my nephew was down for a visit and that he had brought me a TV. “Sounds like he’s trying to re-civilize you, be careful”, he warned. Another quick laugh. “I just got some new digital antennas in. Everyone around here without satellite dishes use ‘em” Harry said with a big smile on his face. As God is my witness I don’t know why the following words came out of my mouth. “You know, Harry, my nephew would sure enjoy watching the TV this week if we got a little better reception. Do they work with those little tiny TVs?” “Sure, they come with a mini adapter plug” “Cheap?” “Cheap enough” We drove back to the cabin with Dooley sleeping in the back, Ira rapidly clicking his keyboard in the passenger seat and 65.00 worth of honeybuns, Twinkies, canned coke and rabbit ears. In spite of an overwhelming guilt, as the week went on I found myself sitting on the porch in my Swisher Sweet Double Barrel Rum Outlaw cigar chair night after night lustfully searching the newly acquired 4 channels. I was possessed. I knew my skin must be turning blue from the light of that demonic machine. Still I watched. I drove Ira to the airport in Charleston on Saturday afternoon. I told Dooley to watch after things while I was gone. I am rarely away from the cabin for more than an hour and I worry a bit. For once he didn’t seen upset about staying behind. When I returned my new TV and rabbit ears were gone. Dooley was asleep in his favorite corner of the cabin. His paws and nose were covered in clay and dirt. Good dog Dooley, good dog.

Dooley for President

I told Dooley that at age five he was technically too young to run for President but he believed the so- called “dog years” adjustment qualified him for a run. He also reminded me that there is nothing specifically in the constitution prohibiting a dog from running….and, he reminded me, running is one of the things he does best. I wished him good luck but I knew he would never have the gumption to fill out the forms, organize an exploratory committee or gather the required number of names in each state to enter the primary races. Besides, how would ever raise the $600,000,000 now deemed necessary to gain a nomination in this country. A few days later we got a letter from the Federal Elections Commission, addressed to Dooley Lincoln, accepting his candidacy. Apparently, he had long been an admirer of Lincoln and a last name was required on the forms. I knew, then, this dog was serious. “What party are you affiliated with”, I asked, “The Flea party?” “ No” , he said,” I’m running as a Dependent.” “The majority of voting dogs in this country identify strongly with dependency. Our slogan is, “What’s good for your owner is good for us.” There are over 80 million dogs in American households and considering only 130 million people voted in 2008, I could easily expect 55% of the votes, allowing for the indifference of some of wealthier breeds like those damn Yorkies. So, you’re looking for a broad appeal of both owners and dogs… nice angle”, I said,” do you have a platform? What about foreign policy? Dooley jumped to my favorite footstool and looked pensive…a look I’d never seen from him before. “Our relations with foreign nations will be determined largely by how a nation treats its animal population, both domestic and wild. Happy animals are a far better indicator of a nation’s worth in this world than their political ideology. “I like that. How about education? “, I asked “My stand on education is, perhaps, my most controversial platform plank. I would eliminate formal schooling completely. This country spends almost 600 billion dollars a year to educate its young when, in fact, everything anyone needs to know is available for free from books, the internet and life experience. There would be a need for an incentive program that would include not just financial rewards for demonstrations of self- education achievement but a recognition and sharing of that achievement that would lead to better jobs and associations with others who could mentor them in their chosen field.” So, in simple terms,” I asked,” if I learn to roll over and sit up, and demonstrate that ability, I get a treat. That could work. How about taxes and the economy?” Taking a breath, he said, “Taxes are a complicated issue and related directly to the economy. This country was sparked by what was perceived as unfair taxation of tea in 1773 and over the years we have forgotten that. Taxation is now a solution for bad management and the wholesale wasting of the taxpayer’s money. It’s not that taxes are too high; it’s that we have too many taxes, too many fees. Then Dooley pulled out a crudely written list. I suspect the chickens helped him with this. On the list were over one hundred taxes, fees and examples of double taxation and indirect taxes (fines, penalty taxes} we all pay. It was and eye opener. “All the taxes on the list were not in existence 100 years ago. “ He added. “Nice statement of the problem. Sounds a little like tea party talk. What is your solution Mr. President?” I asked. “The fundamental issue for all our problems, not just taxes, misspending and greed , is true representation of the American people by our lawmakers. How many times have you heard politicians say in the first person,” My beliefs and convictions don’t allow me to vote for this bill.” Shouldn’t they be saying instead, “ My constituents believe this bill is not right for the country at this time”? Who are they representing?” he said, twisting his head a bit to the side looking for, I believe, a “good boy” reaction from me. I was silent. “So first,” he went on, “ I would seek to revote special privilege from congressional members. Pay would be equivalent to the median income of the American people. They would be required to pay for their own healthcare. They would be subject to all laws and have no special immunity. It would be illegal for them to accept any gratuity, in any form, from anyone. I would declare a moratorium on new laws. Congress would have to spend the next two years removing and simplifying laws instead of…….” “Wait a minute, Dooley,” I interrupted,” how, as President, are you going to make all this happen. Do you think any congressman would vote to make these changes?” I asked. “I would tell them to.” he snapped, jumping to his most fearsome stance. (No, it’s not too fearsome.) “It doesn’t work that way, my friend,” I said, not wanting to deflate him too much. “Then I’ll write my own laws,” he retorted. “The President can’t, that is Congress’s job.” I explained. “But I heard Mr. Romney say that Obama should quit asking Congress to make changes and write his own legislation because he was the President,” he said. “I know, I heard that too, after the State of the Union Speech. That just indicates that Mr. Romney is ignorant of the fundamentals of the office he seeks,” I said. Dooley looked puzzled. Then he said with renewed conviction, “ Then , I want to be King”

Don’t we all, Dooley, don’t we all.

A Short Essay On Bats

Nothing is too important to keep me from stopping just after sunset and scanning the western sky for the appearance of the bats. I anticipate their arrival like I used to count down the minutes to favorite TV show in the “other world”. I think it was October when I saw them last. They hibernate over the winter months. My bats are “little brown bats” very common in West Virginia. I had a chance to examine one close up last summer while walking down Rock Creek. It was spread out on a rock next to the water. It did not appear injured but I was concerned it was out during the day….not a good thing for bats. It was gone when I returned about an hour later and I like to think it flew back to its roost. I am not sure where they spend their days but I suspect it is in a craggy rock face across the river. They came back to life tonight, flying back and forth along the river. I hope they ate well. Welcome back bats!

Mother Nature Does Her Spring Cleaning

Dooly is having a night out with the boys. He sometimes hangs with the infamous McCroskey pack, eight mutts belonging to my nearest neighbors down on the main road. Before dark they run from one side of the road to the other sniffing things and working themselves into frenzy, after dark I have no idea what goes on. Perhaps they play poker. Whatever, Dooly is his own man. I got a new book from town, 1491, by Charles Mann. It’s about Indian life in the Americas before Columbus set his salty little toes on land in 1492. Anticipating a good long read I decided to take a little vacation from the cabin and campout on another part of my property. I have a Clark Jungle Hammock, which, in simple terms, is a tent that hangs like a hammock. It’s been raining for a couple of days but the sky to the west had a bright glow that usually signals the end to rain. One of my favorite places is the waterfall down near the old mill site. I figured with the rain it should be running pretty good. I set up right next to the creek and the falls in a little niche with a rock overhang where I planned to start a fire later on. I’m not sure there is anything better than laying in a warm hammock on a chilly rainy evening with a great book beside a waterfall in total solitude. Just before dark, totally engrossed in the book, two giant terradactyls (actually sand hill cranes) came flapping around the bend the creek about four feet off the ground and scared the pa-jesus out of me. These things were huge, fast and totally unexpected. An omen, perhaps? I got out of the hammock and noticed the creek was getting a little higher and running a little faster. I spotted a rock on the other side of the creek as a reference. If the water rose above the rock I would pack up and move to higher ground. Time to start the fire, calm down and get back to the book. Two more chapters in and “Crack! Crash!-KaThump!, Splash!” My first thought was a clumsy deer had fallen down the bank into the creek but there are no clumsy deer. Bigfoot? Aside from the fire glow the only light I had was a head-lite which is a small flashlight you wear around your head. Great for reading, but spotting Bigfoot on a moonless night, not so much. “Crack! Crash! Ka-thump!” This time it was up on the hill…something was falling through the trees. I was under aerial attack! Large dead limbs on trees hundreds of years old were becoming waterlogged from the steady rain and the weight was bringing them crashing to the ground. I moved to the overhang. The book didn’t seem that interesting anymore. I shined my light across the creek to check on the reference rock. It was totally underwater. In less than an hour the creek had risen over three feet. Time to move up the hill. Twenty minutes later the creek was a raging, angry thing, overflowing five-foot banks and carrying winter debris to the river downstream. It was roaring like a train through the valley. If the flood had come later that night after I had fallen asleep I would have been washed away. I found a dry spot among the rocks on the hill and crawled into my hammock, which I just laid out on the ground. I was safe from the tree bombs and the enraged creek. I don’t remember sleeping but I must have. It was dawn. The rain had stopped. I packed up and maneuvered down the hill. The creek was still high but had calmed dramatically. I crossed and headed to the cabin for dry clothes. Two days later I hiked back to the waterfall to look for my antique Zippo, which must have fallen out of my pocket during the excitement. The rock overhang where I had started my fire had collapsed into a pile of large flat rocks. During the winter month water freezes in the cracks and the expansion separates the layers of the rock. Whew! Lesson learned: When it’s time for Mother to clean, stay out of the way.

New Chick In Town

If you remember last fall, the local town folk had asked to allow my story to be publicized. They felt it would increase “tourism” in the area. Over Irene’s apple pie I had agreed. Although I claim our winter alone was some feat of self-sacrifice and endurance the fear of limelight it is probably the real reason Dooly and I hid in the woods for the last five months (of course Dooly didn’t know that). “Holy cow, I thought you had packed up and moved back to Florida”, were the first words out of Irene’s mouth when we stopped in to see her on our first visit back to town in five months. “No, just haven’t had a reason come down off the mountain”, I explained, thinking she might be impressed with our self-sufficiency. “I see. How’s old Dooly?” “Mean as ever,” I joked. “I see,” she said while glancing back at some papers on her desk. The conversation was dying at an alarming rate. She seemed to be a little perturbed that I hadn’t fulfilled my obligation of exposing my secret cabin in the woods to the public. At least that’s what I thought. I said a polite goodbye and drove over to the store to gather some supplies. It was the busiest I had ever seen the place. There were five or six people laughing and chatting with a lady who was obviously the center of attention. The only one to look my way was Harry the hardware guy. “Hey”, I said with a little wave, “I need some chicken wire and seeds.” “Go on back and pick out what you need, I’ll be with you in a minute”. When Harry finally came back I had to ask about the woman. “That’s Caroline McCoy” he explained,” she has a farm up on Rocky Branch and she’s a romance writer, a damn good one from what I understand.” “I see”, I said, trying not to appear too impressed. “She’s been the talk of the town since she got here. That’ll be $65.00, anything else?” “No, I guess not”. Driving back to the cabin I was a little sad. The town had found a fresh and far prettier newcomer to focus their attention on. My big fish days were over.

Spring

Dooly and I sat on the porch and watched spring arrive this morning. I thought about creating a dance or something to welcome her in…something that could be a personal tradition but I guess my muse had not yet come out of hibernation. We just sat and watched. It was spectacular. I would have been smoking a Swisher Sweet Outlaw Double Barrel Rum cigar to celebrate , but I ran out in mid February. Dooly and I ran out of a number of staples over the winter months. We did it though, we were totally self sufficient for almost 5 months. We were two righteous hermits of the highest order.