Notes From Irene

Irene, as you may recall, is the librarian at the little County library in town. Irene is also the one who publishes this blog. I have no computer. I hand write my story and hand it off to the mail carrier Bette. Bette takes it to Irene who types it up and publishes it (I have seen my blog on a computer screen only twice). Irene then lets me know if anyone has posted a comment so I can respond. She also prints out a little graph that shows how many people actually view the blog. With Bette as the dispatch carrier, the system we use is not remarkably different from the one Gen. Lee used one hundred and forty eight years ago at Gettysburg. Occasionally Irene will offer her own comments and suggestions. Some are motherly, like; “You really need to stop smoking those damn Swisher Sweet Double Barrel Rum Outlaw Cigars”…others are more informational like; “Ramon’s wife really didn’t find the blackberry wine recipe funny”. I appreciate all of Irene’s comments. I particularly enjoyed one she wrote relating my story about Paul the goat to Leviticus 16 in the bible. In the biblical ceremony of Yom Kippur one goat is sacrificed and one goat is allowed to escape into the wilderness carrying the sins of the people with it. The word ‘scapegoat’ is derived from that escaping goat. I wrote back to Irene and told her that may explain why I had been feeling so much better about myself lately. (By the way, there have been reports of a goat matching Paul’s description loitering outside a truck stop in Tazwell Virginia just off of Route 19. If you happen to see Paul, tell him it’s OK (and safe) to come home. We miss him.) There are other notes from Irene that, although I appreciate them, I don’t really understand her motivation. For example, why did she send me a detailed note on the etymology of the word ‘squirrel’? It got me to thinking, however, that readers might enjoy

Irene’s comments so I have invited her to add her comments and notes to my blog anytime she felt the urge to do so. The only stipulation is that she clearly label her contributions as “Irene’s Comment. Thank you Irene and thank you Bette, I couldn’t do this without you.


*Irene’s Comment”: No comment.

Recipes

Randy’s Roasted White Oak Acorn Snacks

1. Find White Oak tree in woods.

2. Spread tarp on ground.

3. Fire shotgun into upper branches of tree until sufficient acorns have been collected.

4. Put acorns in cloth bag and hang in toilet tank for 1 week in three person household, or until water changes from brown to clear again. The cycle of soaking and flushing will remove bitter tannins from acorns.

5. Split shells horizontally with a whack from your favorite skinning knife or machete. Randy suggests you resist the temptation to have you wife or children steady the acorns as you whack.

6. Soak overnight in 3 gallons of lightly salted water. For best flavor use ‘Fleur de Sel’ (Flower of salt)

7. Strain out any oak weevil larvae that may have floated to the surface overnight and drain.

8. Open a can of rendered lard (fatback or better) and use a three fingered scoop to slather on acorns. Make sure the lard fills the slits you previously cut into the shells. Randy note: “Dogs love to lick the lard off your fingers after this step.”

9. Roast at temperature/ time appropriate to heating method.
Oven 450 degrees: 18 minutes
Iron Skillet, medium gas fire: 15 minutes
Campfire embers (enclose acorns in foil ball): About as long as it takes to smoke a Swisher Sweet Double Barrel Rum Outlaw Cigar.
Acetylene torch: 25-35 seconds. Randy Tip: Keep the torch moving.

10. Place finished acorns in serving dish appropriate for the occasion, sprinkle with powdered sugar and serve.

Legal disclaimer: Neither the FDA nor Martha Stewart have approved this recipe for human consumption. Paula Deen had no comment except to say, “Lard…mmmm,yummy!


Ramon’s Wife’s Blackberry Wine Recipe
1. Mix blackberry juice, water, sugar, ethanol and a touch of cinnamon in an old wine bottle.

2. Cork bottle.

3. Shake by hand or place bottle on washing machine during spin cycle.

4. Let stand till the cork blows out.

5. Chill and serve.
Ramon suggestion: Don’t use bottle with screw on top.

Enjoy.

A Terrible Parable

Home poker games are considered unlawful gambling in West Virginia. The law states that any person, at any place, public or private, is guilty of a misdemeanor for betting or waging anything of value on any game that involves chance. The penalty is a fine between $5 and $300, with a possibility of up to 1 year probation. That being said, I want to make it clear that, although I do occasionally engage in card games that involve chance, the exchange of money during those games is purely a co-incidental and often spontaneous result of numismatic trading between friends with interests in coin collecting. We play a hand, we exchange some coins, sip some sweetened and gently aged blackberry juice, discuss local socio-political issues, munch a few roasted white oak acorns and play another hand. Innocence abounds.
It was during one of these light hearted social gatherings that Ramon informed me of some troubling news circulating the community about my recent wave of blog entries.
“I had to tell my wife I was going over to Edgar’s tonight to change the bearings in his hog oiler because she thinks you have become a threat to our community. She made it very clear I should dissolve any associations I might have with you.”
(Note: Due to the often colorful and sometimes misconstrued colloquialisms used in casual conversations among the men of rural Appalachian heritage, I have, for the most part, paraphrased the actual words used in the discussion. I have also chosen to change the names of the participants with the exception of Edgar, who was, coincidentally, having problems with the bearings in his hog oiler and was not present.)
“A threat?” I asked.
“Yep. She said the tone of your new blogs has changed from the earlier ones and you may be showing signs of mental imbalance.”
Hector added bluntly,” The word is you think your dog can talk; and what’s more you’ve been taking his advice. My sister and her friends believe that it won’t be long before you turn into a regular Son of Sam and start killing folk.”
At first I thought this was what they call in the country ‘funnin’, so I played along. “Gentlemen, what’s wrong with taking the advice of a friend? In Dooley’s defense, aside from that one incident with the meat cleaver and bunny last Easter, Dooley has never displayed or advocated violence of any kind…..” A prolonged silence at the table suggested this was not ‘funnin’. So I followed with the ever popular, “But seriously,….” and went on to explain that perhaps the women did not understand the nuances of a form of writing called the fable where animals often are used, in prose or verse, to illustrate one or more instructive principles, or life lessons. I continued to explain that when I write that I spoke to a goat or a dog it is just a device to externalize my thoughts and is not to be taken literally as actually talking to goats or dogs.
“Are you saying our women are ‘illiteral’ Florida boy?” That came from Randy who had been quiet up to this point. The blackberry juice in my system was encouraging me to laugh out loud at the question, but my natural cowardice and his intimidating tone easily suppressed the urge. “Of course not Randy, I just think maybe they should stick to reading some of the other well-known blogs about simple living that include recipes, sheep shearing and candle making.”
The evening ended, sadly, without pleasantries. If I were to describe the final minutes in fable form I might say the wolf, the lion and the bear descended on the lamb and devoured him.
The evening left me with several regrets. 1 At the time when the poisoned discussion began, I was holding three tens and a pair deuces and the hand was never finished. 2. Randy’s use of the phrase ‘Florida boy” confirmed that no matter how long I live in my secret cabin in the woods of West Virginia I will always be labeled by my past. 3. That I have no doubt lost several of the half dozen people who actually read my blog.
On the upside: 1. Dooley was not around to see this. 2. In exchange for leaving with the same face I had come in with and an invitation to next month's game I agreed to include, in the spirit of compromise, two recipes in my next blog; Ramon’s wife’s recipe for blackberry wine and Randy’s superb roasted white oak acorn snacks. Don’t miss it.

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!