Instant Karma’s Gonna Get You

We had a rather enthusiastic thunderstorm come through last night. Plenty of noise, but we got to wondering whether there was actually going to be any rain.

While it was rumbling around, I knocked over a pile of stuff in the bedroom — various clothes and some other items that I’ve been meaning to move to the studio. I put away my clothes, stacked the kids’ in different piles for delivery, then stacked up the studio items. As I was carrying them through the living room: flashWHAMMMM!!!! and the power glitched. About three seconds later, the rain started. I figured since I was working at home today, I could take them out when I did some requested photography (battery packs, how exciting).

A few minutes later, Mrs. Fetched got a call from the renters: the power was out down there. She figured the transformer got whacked, then decided the chickens would be OK and went to bed.

This morning, her theory was confirmed. The power company called, said they were going to replace the transformer, and expect the power to go out “for about 45 minutes.” I had enough time to unplug stuff (although the laptops didn’t require a shutdown) although it seemed the power went out a little sooner than the 10 minutes they estimated. Oh well, it came back on sooner too. I just kept working, sans Internet, until it came back, then gave it a few minutes before plugging everything back in.

Was this karma?

The Return

I’m back… we arrived about 12:55 this morning, got maybe 7 hours of sleep before going wide awake.

Vacation posts are below, backdated to the appropriate day.

Feel free to use this as an open thread. Comment on your own vacation plans, my photos, stories, whatever.

Escape 2007, Episode 9: Homeward Bound

Well, it’s the end of my vacation, and I don’t wanna go.
It’s the end of my vacation, and I don’t wanna go.
Gotta get back to it,
Just wish I could say No.

So go the opening lines of the “End of Vacation Blues,” one of several half-baked song lyrics kicking around in my head.

There’s really not much to say about the ride back to FAR Manor. I put air in the tires, gas in the tank (and it had magically dropped like 35 cents in the last two days!), picked up Daughter Dearest and a 5-pound box of Michigan blueberries, pointed it south, and drove. Daughter Dearest slept, except when she was texting her boyfriend or arguing with me about a certain side trip. I let her use my phone for a while, since it has an AIM client & his phone died (forcing him to the computer). There really wasn’t a good point to have her drive, especially when we approached Chattanooga; traffic was much heavier than I would expect for late Sunday night.

People have asked me if I went to Florida instead of Michigan; they can’t believe I got as tan as I did. But I spent quite a few hours outside, and it really does get sunny in Michigan. (You should have seen me in high school toward the end of any given summer; I was pretty dark and the soles of my feet were so tough I could run barefoot over gravel.)

And thus endeth Escape 2007, at least for a month or so. Escape 2007.2 happens in September. Meanwhile, I’ll get back to chronicling life in the free-range insane asylum and posting some of the FAR Future episodes I wrote early last week.

Escape 2007, Episode 8: Kal-Haven

Things have settled down quite a bit in the last day or so, thanks to a couple of fortunate circumstances. First, OB’s father-in-law is feeling much better, and the hospital is going to send him home. This frees up my sister-in-law, in several ways, and she joined us at the lake house early yesterday. Daughter Dearest’s efforts to keep the kids entertained was not overlooked; she got her first pedicure out of the deal (she described it as "different, but nice"). So Daughter Dearest is now free to do… what?

That question was answered by the second circumstance. We had a family meal at a place in Hamilton yesterday, and a cousin (one of the about 20% of my cousins who happens to be female), a little older than Daughter Dearest, was a last-minute addition to the roster. This perked up DD considerably; they had a good time together last time we were in Michigan. Before hearing this news, she had planned to skip the meal entirely. They sat together and DD smiled more in one evening than she had most of the week.

Then, after the dinner, they came over and asked me if DD could go back with them so she could go to my uncle’s party tomorrow. I gave it all of two seconds before agreeing; she had been helpful (if not terribly happy) all week and I wanted her to have a good time too. Besides, it wasn’t exactly like she was going off with strangers. This also answered the question about what she’d be doing while my bro and I were off on our bike ride.

The Kal-Haven Trail is one of the Rails-to-Trails projects, and runs from Kalamazoo to South Haven (on Lake Michigan) — roughly 35 miles. Of the several possible starting points along the trail, we chose Bloomingdale (at the halfway point). That worked out to about 17 miles to the beach; I figured I’d ridden that far on much hillier terrain so I shouldn’t have too much trouble doing it there-and-back on a flat run. (OB is in much better shape, so it wasn’t an issue for him.) There’s only one significant climb on the trail, and it was on the part we weren’t taking.

As you know, I’m not a big fan of cellphone cameras in general, but they do OK on bright sunny days like this. Weight-wise, they come for free with the phone, and I figured it would be a good idea to carry the phone anyway. But sometimes, you just want some zoom.

In the distance, you can see OB boarding his bike. The nice pavement ran out as soon as we got past the depot/museum and into the shade. However, the dirt was hard-packed, smooth (except for the occasional gopher hole), and sprinkled with very fine gravel. My road tires never felt like they were anywhere near slipping at any time.

The trail runs parallel (and across) numerous county roads. Some of the smarter businesses near the trail crossings provide services for the cyclists (summer) or snowmobilers (winter). This particular entrepreneur offers blueberries, soft drinks, and restrooms. The trail has outhouses at various stops along the way, but sometimes you need a break, right?


Approaching South Haven, there’s a covered bridge over the Black River. I took this shot while in motion; it’s blurry, but not in the usual way. Kind of a neat effect, methinks.

We took the westward leg with only one stop to adjust items of clothing; I felt pretty good even after what Jack calls “Accidental Ingestion of Airborne Protein.” (OB managed to spit his out, mine was too far back so I just swallowed and kept riding.) The trail ends shortly after crossing the bridge. OB and I dithered about how to proceed, and figured “west” would get us to the beach. About a mile later, we found a little shop near the beach, grabbed a sandwich and Vernor’s, and crossed the street to the beach.

“Where should we sit?” OB asked.

“In the sand,” I said. “It’ll brush off.”

And so we did. I figured even if I was sore tomorrow, this was worth it. Chow on the beach with your bro, cheeky young ladies walking past, no fishkill — what more could you want in a bicycling destination?

Of course, the trip back was a little harder on the eldest (that would be me). We figured that it was aggregate downhill going west, since the lake is the low point. Seems like downhill going/uphill returning is how I end up on most rides. I had to make a few rest stops on the way back, but after a couple of minutes I was ready to continue. We got back to Bloomingdale, grabbed an ice cream to celebrate, tossed our bikes into Barge Vader, and headed on back.

Escape 2007, Episode 7: Random vacation photos

Wednesday through Friday sort of all ran together. We took turns watching the kids, fended off an obnoxious 5-year-old girl who wanted to walk into a strange man’s house unannounced, had some fun on (and in) the water.

Kayaking

OB has a pair of kayaks, and left them at the lake house when he had to go back to work for the rest of the week. This shot is from earlier in the week; I’m on the orange one. This particular kayak feels very wobbly when you’re not moving, but has the advantage of being self-buoyant and light.

Not shown is the sailboat. I got a little video of him taking an evening sail, but I have yet to upload that.

Mystery sign

Time for a fun quiz: what does this road sign mean? (I’m sure Olivia knows.) This part of Michigan has quite a few of them.

Water lilies (wide)

Daughter Dearest and I took the kayaks out one morning. She chose the wobbly one, even though I warned her it was wobbly at rest, and she managed to not capsize. Many sections of the lake have impressive stands of water lilies, but the flowers were closed up at that time of day. I stuck my camera in a plastic bag, grabbed the green (less tippy) kayak, and got a few shots later in the afternoon. Click this picture to get closer to that yellow lily near the bottom of the picture. This was as close as I could get without tangling the paddle in the lily stalks… but those inner bits look like nothing else from what I could see.


By Thursday, that “the end is coming” sign was becoming visible. We spent a couple of great evenings dining with relatives, running up Dad’s Kalamazoo Brewery (Bell’s) stock, and catching up on things. I was stunned to learn that one of my younger cousins is already a grandmother. Yeesh. It also seems that I don’t have enough cousins by birth (only 20 or so), and so my uncles adopt a new one on occasion. Daughter Dearest hooked up with one of them, but that can wait for the next episode.

Escape 2007, Episode 6: Bored Teen

Daughter Dearest is starting to get cranky. She’s been shouldering much of the burden of watching two small kids through the week; we’ve all taken our turns, but she does most of it through the day. Other Brother comes back after work and takes over for the evening, which should help… but I’m not sure. She spends a great deal of time at night locking herself in Barge Vader and talking to her boyfriend. The mood isn’t so wonderful: she refused to unlock the door for me so I could tell her something, and was not exactly pleased when I used the clicker to unlock the door. I have to wonder sometimes about this whole mood thing: you’d think talking to her boyfriend would make her happy.

She’s also been working on me to go through Bloomington on the way back. I really didn’t want to, and Mrs. Fetched doesn’t think we should (simply because we don’t get included), so it’s not happening. It’s funny though: at supper, she busted my (and Mrs. Fetched’s) chops about how “we” don’t follow through with regard to The Boy. We’re not consistent. Then she wants me to change my mind about not going through Bloomington on the way home, costing us an extra so-many hours on the road? Oops. Well, we’ll see how this goes….

Escape 2007, Episode 5: Baby-sitting

Other Brother had taken Monday and Tuesday off to spend a long weekend with us here. Unfortunately, due to his father-in-law having a health setback, his wife couldn’t come and it was him and the kids (9 and 6 years old). Given the situation at home — she’s a total basket case at the moment, understandably — he’s stuck without anyone to watch the kids and has to be back at work tomorrow. So we struck a deal: he goes home tonight alone, we keep the kids, he comes back tomorrow after work and commutes from the lake house for the rest of the week (or until she can come back).

Other than that, and a night rain that hung into the early morning, things are no different than before. A little water time, a little walking time, a run to town for groceries, and supper. I thought I was going to spend the night in the camper with the kids, but Daughter Dearest took over and is now out there with them. What a great kid. I owe her one: maybe I can not hassle her most of the rest of the week.

Sitting with Dad outside this evening, I saw a rowboat come in a few docks down. A girl, maybe 12, hopped out and ran for the house, leaving the boy (about the same age) trying to keep the boat at the dock.

Dad said, “A boy in a boat, alone on a lake… is king.”

“He probably doesn’t realize it yet.”

“Sure he does.”

Presently, the girl came running back — in a bikini. They threw a ladder in the boat; he swung it around, hit the trolling motor, and they glided away. Pre-teen romance is fun to watch…

Escape 2007, Episode 4: Lake Life

Lake view

Morning on the deck is everything it’s cracked up to be. Nature and humanity combine provide a soundtrack that’s familiar from childhood days at my grandparents’ place (different lake, same county): birds chirp, wind whispers through trees, an outboard motor pushes fishermen to a hopeful spot. The deck faces mostly south, but is cocked just a few degrees east, so the rising sun is filtered through elms and pines to the left before warming the deck.

But today is a golf day. Dad, Wicked Stepfather, Other Brother, and I haven’t played together in a long time. There’s some question about whether to play 9 or 18 holes: Dad (who pulled up some radar on the net and saw a blob of rain coming across Lake Michigan) leans toward 9, WS 18, we brothers are fine with whatever the elders decide. After playing 9, we decided to go for another 9. We ended up playing several of those holes in the rain, although it provided only a convenient excuse for the shots some of us hit. Me, I played like I hadn’t in a year — probably because I haven’t. I didn’t even bother writing in my score for the last two holes. One thing I’d like to do with FAR Manor is to put in some practice areas for golf — a pitching pit would be a great start.

We came back from golf, ready for lunch: leftovers from yesterday’s supper. No problem as far as any of us were concerned. Daughter Dearest and Mom watched OB’s kids, and then he and DD took them to get groceries. Mom and I went for a walk while they were out, then we got out a Jet-Ski that OB’s wife (!!!!) bought. Daughter Dearest actually nerved herself up to take a ride on it (the photo is on Mom’s camera, darn it), and OB and I each took turns riding behind his kids. This particular white-knuckle activity left me needing beer; I sat in a plastic chair and watched the kids play in the water until it was time for supper (frozen pizza, “compliments” of OB; it’s my turn to cook later in the week).

After supper, the kids went back out to play in the water, and Dad brought out a huge water balloon slingshot. It took the kids nearly half an hour to figure out what those big splashes were. The balloons didn’t break when they hit the water, and that was the clue they needed. It was quite entertaining, watching them see the balloons dropping out of the sky, wondering who was throwing them.

It’s so much quieter here than at at the hotel. For one thing, there’s no A/C here. It’s not really needed most of the time in Michigan, and the whole idea behind a lake house is that you’re going to spend most of the day outside anyway. I had my MacBook cranked up pretty high at the hotel — with headphones on — trying to overcome the A/C growl. Here, even the normal volume seems a little loud, even using the tiny MacBook speakers.

I’m having trouble with Blogger. I can leave comments on TFM posts, but I can’t make new posts or comment on other blogs. I can get my primary email, but not Yahoo or AIM mail. I may just give up on Internet this week and focus on what I can do. I have the next four (count ’em!) episodes of FAR Future mostly ready to post (writing in a hotel room really works!), and I can share my vacation with you when I get home, anyway. But now, it’s time for bed.

Escape 2007, Part 3: Traveling

After breakfast at Denny’s, Daughter Dearest bid her boyfriend a tearful farewell, and we hit the road. She was either talking to him or texting with him most of the way up.

Roadside humor

Highway 37 provides four lanes between Bloomington and Indianapolis. Not too many towns on that road though — its primary purpose is to carry all the sports traffic to and from Indiana U. North of Bloomington, the hills tire and all but expire. Finally, we came to I-465 and skirted Indy, going all the way to the top and picking up US31 north. Other than the carnival ride truck on fire, it was just one town to the next: Kokomo (and a zillion stop lights). Peru. Atlanta(!). Mexico. Tipton, home of what is probably the world’s most photographed sign. Logansport. Lapaz (are we back in Peru then?).

Indiana vista

The horizons open up out here on 31; when you top the small wrinkles that pass for hills in this part of Indiana, you can see two miles easily.


Eventually to South Bend, around it, and into Michigan, hooray! Onto the state highways, first M-51 than M-40: Niles. Dowagiac. Decatur. Gobles. Mid-afternoon by now, but the terrain has changed subtly, sandy hills and more trees. The horizons have returned to a human scale. The cornfields south of Decatur look dessicated; the drought has not been good to the corn crop here. Eventually, we turn onto a county road and then a dirt road, and we’re at Dad’s — almost exactly when we thought we’d get there, 4 p.m.

’Most everyone seems to be here at Dad’s: Mom and Wicked Stepfather (staying across the lake), Other Brother and his kids… but — do I hear an echo? — not his wife. I left a phone message when we got to South Bend, but nobody checked the answering machine. Such is life. Mom was happy to see the pile of basil I brought, and I was happy to see a fridge full of microbrew. I can think of only one thing waiting on me to arrive that’s better than beer, and I didn’t bring her with me. Yup, I miss Mrs. Fetched.

Other Brother has brought a large-ish pop-up camper and parked it in Dad’s driveway; it greatly increases the sleeping capacity of the lake house but forces Barge Vader into the grass alongside it. I managed to back it in without hitting either the camper or any of several trees, then back it in even farther when Mom needs to park her van in front of it. A guy I vaguely remember from high school has bought the house across from Dad’s; they’re staying there and fixing it up. Perhaps things aren’t all that different between Planet Georgia and Planet Earth after all. His girlfriend has a daughter who’s the same age as Other Brother’s daughter (6), so they like to visit with each other. I remember going on vacations when I was a kid; it was always great when there were other kids in the same age group as us.

Daughter Dearest went to bed with a bad headache fairly early in the evening, even before supper; I convinced her to try eating at least a banana or other fruit to see if it would help her. She had a hamburger in Kokomo; I had gotten into a mode where I eat a larger breakfast than usual and skip lunch these past couple of days.

Cellphone service out here is spotty at best. I wouldn't usually mind that, except that I wanted to let Mrs. Fetched know we arrived safely. I managed to get enough signal, standing in the road, to leave a message on the answering machine (twice). Daughter Dearest’s phone seems to do better than mine here, so she was able to actually talk to her later. The dialup isn’t that slow, but his Internet Explorer security add-ons seem to have left most of my destinations rather difficult to access — I can leave comments on my own blog, but not log in nor check Gmail, AIM, or Yahoo. Daughter Dearest had similar issues; she couldn’t get her email but was able to use Meebo to IM her boyfriend some more. After checking my home email, the only one I could get to, I was pretty much done for the night.

Escape 2007, Part 2: Bicycling Bloomington

Roadside creek

I never did get a connection in Bloomington. While the Motel 6’s idea of Internet access is to provide a “data port” for whatever dialup service you have (WTF?!!??), its upside is that a bicycle route runs right by it. The highway here has bike lanes on either side, but a side road straight across from the motel beckoned. It turned out to be the old highway, and was quite scenic. I rode past a little park, where a creek ran between the park and the road. Bloomington is very bike-friendly, with bike lanes along many of the main drags and people of all ages riding for exercise or transportation.

Tibetan Buddhist Monastery

As I said earlier, this part of Indiana is somewhat hilly, no killer climbs but there’s enough of an uphill to make you notice. My mountain bike has lower gearing than a typical road bike, but I don’t miss the higher gears on these hills. What goes down must go up — and vice versa, fortunately. As I reached the bottom of one hill, I saw what looked like laundry hanging out to dry but wayyyyy off the ground. I wondered whether it was a park craft project until I saw the sign: “Tibetan Buddhist Monastery.” That’s something you don’t see much of on Planet Georgia.

Our room

Eventually, I turned back and went most of the way toward the IU campus. DD’s boyfriend told me I could probably find an open hotspot on the square; if the coffee shops don’t cooperate then I can bum a connection at the library. However, I hadn’t carried the laptop with me, so there wasn’t much sense in going that far. I turned back and headed for the hotel (the door marked “206” is ours).

Later on, I rode into town (again sans laptop — I don’t have a bike lock, and didn’t feel like taking Barge Vader) and found a little ice cream stand. Just the thing for a hot day in the saddle. I also hung out at the pool for a couple of hours, then went back to the hotel room and finished off the last two beers I’d confiscated from The Boy’s friends. At no time was I invited to meet his family; Mrs. Fetched reported the same thing and was rather put out by it. I was OK either way, but would have liked to have come along just to fly the banner. (This led to some friction with DD later in the week.)

Escape 2007, Part 1: A Day of Strange Signs

What’s worse than no Internet?

Answer: having Internet with no way to access it. Or maybe having unreliable access (so close and yet…)

Thus I sit in my hotel room, in Bloomington IN, sipping a beer and pondering such deep thoughts as I write this post and struggle to get enough of a signal to get online. Daughter Dearest is out with her boyfriend — “we should be back by 10:30,” she assures me, and she has a better track record than The Boy about time. Or Mrs. Fetched, for that matter. They said they would pick me up some socks while they were out, because I forgot to pack any.

But until they get back, it’s me, a laptop with a net connection that works just enough to be frustrating, and my thoughts.

The beginning of this year’s vacation started out much like the last: much delayed by Mrs. Fetched wanting something done. This year, it was the floor molding in Daughter Dearest’s room. Now that we replaced a white carpet with slightly darker (tan) bamboo flooring, suddenly the original molding was too dark. She had said she would get it early in the week so we could get it done before it was time to leave, but somehow the molding didn’t arrive until Wednesday night — which, after Daughter Dearest stained it, would leave us just that one day to do it. Mrs. Fetched enlisted J to help out, and they got one piece down and mis-cut another before I managed to finish my work stuff and get home.

I left work as early as I could (4:30, which is nearly two hours earlier than usual these days) and came home to find… The Boy at Mrs. Fetched’s computer. With his girlfriend, of course. Neither of them seemed to be inclined to help with the floor, naturally, so it fell to J and me. We gamely attempted to do it, but we kept cutting the wrong angle or getting it too short. Such are the hazards of trying to rush the job. After we screwed up several more pieces, Mrs. Fetched said something snide like “I guess since we have all the money in the world, I’ll just hire someone to do it.” You’re welcome. Dear.

Non-tip plant holders

I suppose if I’d been in the mood for a quarrel (extremely rare), I could have pointed out that had she listened to me and not bought FAR Manor in the first place — or perhaps getting the molding earlier in the week, even — we wouldn’t be having this problem. But I had more important fish to fry: packing, for one. Mom had called and asked me to bring some basil, and I wanted to bring some bell and jalapeno peppers, so I had to do a little picking and plucking as well. I also decided to bring two basil plants, because Other Brother’s wife never got around to planting any this year and I still had three in pots. To keep them from tipping over, I appropriated Daughter Dearest’s tennies.

DVD rental kiosk

But with one thing and another, it was close to 9 p.m. before Daughter Dearest and I started Barge Vader and headed out. We drove a little ways past Nashville and spent last night in a town called White House, named appropriately after an inn that once served people traveling between Nashville and Louisville. After a late breakfast at a Waffle House across the road, we stepped out and saw what we thought was the Dumbest Idea Ever: a DVD rental kiosk outside the adjacent McDonald’s. On further consideration, it might not be such a dumb idea after all: if you can drop them off at another McDonald’s down the freeway, it would be a good way to keep the kids quiet.

After getting a couple of pictures, we headed on and were shortly in Kentucky. I marveled at some of the signs I saw along the freeway:

“USED COWS FOR SALE” — perhaps that doesn’t carry such a stigma in Kentucky? (I will apologize to the people of Kentucky when they remove Mitch McConnell from the Senate.) I wish I’d thought to have the camera out before we got to this one.

“THE MOST AWESOME FLEA MARKET IN THE WORLD” — it must be; they say so themselves. Right?

Crossing into Indiana, we picked up US150 West (and north). In between the numerous little towns, the road itself was curvy and hilly — nothing like Planet Georgia, but compared to the rest of Indiana it’s positively mountainous. It would be a nice road for motorcycling. Eventually, we cut onto Hwy. 37 and made our way to Bloomington. While on the way, Mrs. Fetched called: “I was at the Dairy Queen today, and they wanted to know if you still wanted to sell some jalapenos.”

Well, yes… but I don’t remember telling them that. A family from India runs the DQ in town; great people but I’m still trying to figure out where they heard about it — maybe they overheard me saying something last time I was in there.

“How many do they want?” I asked.

“As many as you have to sell.” Cooooooooool. “So how much do you want for them?”

“Um…” I thought a moment. “Find out what Kroger is selling them for, and charge 2/3 of that. That’s probably pretty close to wholesale.”

I probably recouped the price of the plants, anyway. There were plenty of peppers looking for a home, and plenty more are coming. She was making the delivery when we arrived at our hotel.

Ready, set…

It’s almost time to escape FAR Manor for a week+, starting tomorrow evening. Daughter Dearest and I will grab the sigh gas guzzler and head north — first to her boyfriend’s locale for a couple of days and then the ol’ family grounds in Michigan. Mrs. Fetched unfortunately won’t be coming, despite her needing to get away from here more than anyone; the chicken houses have their claws in her and she’s worried about leaving the house empty with The Boy nearby.

Dad has dialup, so I may or may not be online much beyond checking email. I’ll probably have to skip the photoblogs for the most part — I’ll miss ya, Olivia and IVG — then catch up when I get home (or to a place with broadband). If nothing else, I’ll have a pad of paper & something to write with, so I can work on the the next installment(s) of FAR Future. If I get some bandwidth, I’ll post some pictures too.

I’ve been asked to bring basil; I’ll also bring some peppers and a jar blackberry jam. I should probably bring some coffee too; I think Dad drinks decaf.

FAR Future: Episode 1

I got some positive comments about the FAR Manor: 2058 series — I thank you all. As I told Kansas this morning, my creativity has been on the ebb this week… but I woke up this morning knowing how to proceed with this particular series of stories.

Of course, FAR Manor: 2058 was a series of three different visions of what the world might be like on or near my 100^th birthday in November 2058. This new series, “FAR Future,” is actually set in a near future of growing energy shortages. Here at the beginning, five years from now, I look toward Happy Landings as an endpoint… but who knows where it will actually lead?

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Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Blackouts or Whiteins?

Those “four hours per day, max” rolling blackouts they started last month didn’t last long. Mrs. Fetched was on the phone (when it worked) to the power company when it jumped to six hours.

“Oh, just a few glitches,” they reassured her. “We’ll have it taken care of this week.” Riiiiiiiiiiiight.

The power company people should have known what was going to happen, and probably did: as soon as their juice came up in the afternoon, everyone turned on the A/C full blast, trying to cool their houses down right away. Instant overload. The power stays up just a few minutes at a time, and everyone’s mad. I’ve been hearing stories about kids throwing rocks at power trucks when they roll out to replace fried transformers, and some “gangs” have chased off the workers and siphoned their fuel (but somehow, ahem it’s not making the news). Of course, all the neighborhood kids are inside… um, reading. Yeah, that’s it. Our kids know better than to throw rocks at power trucks and steal their fuel, sure.

I put in for a telecommuting exemption, hoping to at least shift our downtime into the evening. I figured even if they cut off FAR Manor for the first and last two hours of the day, the laptop battery would last long enough for me to finish up with a little cushion. It worked for a little while — even with the power flickering all day and crashing the router (until I got a new battery for the UPS). But four hours quickly became six, six became eight, then 10, and now… well heck, you know as well as I do: you can’t count on having more than a few minutes of power at any time from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m. (and not even afterwards if a transformer blew between you & the sub-station). If it gets any worse, we’ll have to stop calling them blackouts and call the power-up times whiteins. :-P

I yanked a car battery (like we’re driving anything much anyway) and wired it up to run the router and laptop; that gives me enough juice to stay online and working through the day. That windmill I put up isn’t much good through the summer; the air gets still and so does the prop (then thunderstorms try to tear it apart). At least there’s reliable power through the night; I can charge up everything once people’s houses cool off.

The other thing that everyone knows about: tempers are rising with the heat. Like I said, utility workers aren’t the most popular folks on Planet Georgia (or anywhere else), especially since people got a look at their electric bills for last month (when we still had power most of the time). Here at FAR Manor, Mrs. Fetched and I decided it’s really not worth trying to run the A/C at all (too bad most people haven’t figured that out, we might get more reliable power through the day). I work at home three days a week now, and I’ve been spending a lot of it on the porch or in the shade outside. I use a little muffin fan (hooked to the battery) to give me a little breeze inside, and use the thunderstorms as a chance to take a break and cool off. I keep telling Mrs. Fetched that we ought to hike down to the creek after I finish working for the day, but she says it’s too far to walk (and neither one of us wants to waste gas). I’ve gone alone a couple of times, but it’s not much fun being there myself. She spends a lot of time at the chicken houses, so not having A/C isn’t hurting her. What hurts me is when I go to the office on Mondays and Fridays; they don’t run the A/C a lot, but they do enough to keep it comfortable… then I have to stay home and roast the rest of the week. But with gas running $8/gal, when you can find it…

The in-laws reverted to the old days pretty quickly; they just spend a lot of time out on the porch instead of watching TV. Of course, their chicken houses get priority electric service… and the poultry company subsidizes the diesel fuel to run that generator when the power goes out anyway. Not wonderful for me, but at least people can get their roast chicken.

Hope everyone’s coping with the blackouts at least as well. Six or eight more weeks, and we’ll start cooling off. Six or eight more, and we’ll be wishing it was hot again.

continued…

Quiet… (and what’s weird in the world)

Current music: XMusicOnline

The Boy has been gone since Monday, with maybe one phone call in between. A day or so later, he came by (driving his girlfriend’s mom’s truck) and picked up J. He showed up Wednesday, when his family came by for the 4^th, but that’s the last we’ve seen or heard from him too. So it has just been Mrs. Fetched, Daughter Dearest, and me. Mrs. Fetched has had a killer cold lately — and it’s difficult to get a nag going when it gets interrupted by a coughing fit — and Daughter Dearest is too absorbed in hanging out with her boyfriend online to be around very much. So it has been rather quiet around FAR Manor lately.

Since nothing much is going on at the manor, here’s a couple of interesting news items that caught my eye lately:

You’re a bride in India, your in-laws are making life hell for you over a dowry, how do you protest? Here’s one way to get some attention!

The European Union takes the slogan “Come Together” to new heights (or lows?).

I’d relocate to Australia for one of these jobs!

This Belgian will probably cop an insanity plea.

Paris, I got your number.

Food, food, food

We had plenty of leftovers from the 4^th — even though J’s whole family came to help us eat. So Mrs. Fetched, being a kind soul, tossed a hamburger patty plus a bunch of veggies into a microwave dish for me to take for lunch.

That only left one question: how to take it? There was no rain in the forecast, so I was definitely planning on taking the bike. I ended up grabbing the bungee cords off the mountain bike’s back rack and hooking them to convenient protrusions under the seat, leaving the dish pretty well-secured to the rear fender. I’m going to get a cargo rack for the bike first chance I get — I already have a milk crate to put on it, and any lunch items will ride quite happily in that. But until then, this seems to work pretty well.


I’ve been planning to cook some black beans for a while, and finally got around to soaking them Wednesday night. Both Mrs. Fetched and I forgot to do anything about them yesterday, so I clipped some herbs and put them on the beans, asking her to throw them in the crock pot. This she did, adding an onion. When I got home, I put on some rice and we chowed down. Mrs. Fetched said of it, “Either I’m really hungry or this is really good.” I’ll go with #2, of course! Tomorrow, I’ll cook up some more rice and make black bean soup out of what’s left. Mrs. Fetched has a really bad cold, and the cloudy rainy weather has left the girlies chilly (in July! on Planet Georgia!). I’ll mince a jalapeno into the broth; that should warm them up!

Plenty of blackberries out there on the vines, but I don’t know if I’ll get more than what I’ve picked already. I got “only” a half-gallon on Wednesday; it gets difficult to get into the middle of those big stands, even armed with clippers. I dug two deeply-embedded thorns out of my thumb & forefinger last night (it’s not just the heat you have to worry about). But a gallon & a half ought to make enough jelly to make it all worthwhile. Oh, and did I mention I found three or four more blueberry bushes out back? If we can keep the birds out of them, we should have at least a couple quarts of blueberries once we’ve picked them all. Mrs. Fetched likes to freeze them and use them for various things.

Finally… food? Now that The Boy is out of the house, I can start drinking up the beer I confiscated from him and his friends. I found two more bottles stashed in a tool cabinet, one of which was opened and (not) resealed. It might not be food, but beer is nutrition for a guy. That’s my story anyway, and I’m sticking to it.

Not food: You may not have noticed that I added Kansas’s new blog, Sweet Mystery of Life, to the blog roll. I really need to get a copy of her book sooner or later… good excuse to swing by the bookstore on the way home from work and order it.

Call the Volunteers!

Not the volunteers for the revolution, although if Congress doesn’t put a leash on Bush-league — and soon! — it might come to that. But for the mid-week Independence Day festoovities, I can show off some of the volunteer plants around FAR Manor:

Last year, this was a flower bed. Mrs. Fetched decided she wasn’t going to plant anything in here, so I put in some garlic. The drought nailed most of the garlic, although you can see a couple of shoots managed to survive. I stuck several basil plants in here as well, because I needed to put them somewhere. But the flower (that’s trying to overrun one of the garlic shoots) and the tomato (near the bottom of the frame) decided to appear on their own.

Of the flower, Mrs. Fetched said, “Yeah, I put one of those in there last year… but I thought it was an annual.” It must have self-seeded, because I tilled up that bed pretty good early in the spring.


Several varieties of blueberry are native to Planet Georgia, but I was surprised to find these on one of the more neglected parts of the manor grounds, let alone doing so well. I think the April cold snap may have done them some good. They’re small — pea size or maybe a little smaller — but quite tasty. They take the concept of “low-hanging fruit” to a new low: they’re only a couple of inches off the ground. For some reason, these low-down berries are the first ones to ripen.

The blackberries are also going great guns. I have no clue how they managed to get so big, especially with the dry weather we’ve been having. Perhaps the cold snap helped them as well.


There are three or four bushes out here too, probably of a different variety. These berries are nearly twice as large as the ground-huggers, and still working on ripening. I’ve learned that there’s such a thing as “bird scare ribbon” so I might have to get some of that soon (it will also help us remember the right bushes when we go a-pruning come winter).


I’m not sure if this is a cucumber, squash, or melon — but it came out of nowhere (actually, near the compost pile). I threw half a watermelon in the compost heap last week, but that’s nowhere near enough time for it to grow nearly three feet and start flowering.


I’m about inundated with jalapenos. I’m thinking about picking a bunch of them to take to the farmer’s market on Saturday; I might clip some herbs as well (the parsley and mint especially need a trim, and I have almost as much basil as I do jalapenos) — Mrs. Fetched says I ought to sell them; I was thinking about just trading for produce we (or my mother-in-law, the Master Gardener) don’t have growing. I’ve picked a few bell peppers, and they’re doing quite well too, but we’ll probably use them ourselves. We loves us some bell peppers at FAR Manor, and they’re just too dang expensive at the store.

Tomorrow, I’m planning to get another gallon of blackberries. That (and the gallon I’ve already grabbed) should make enough jelly to get through the winter. One of the few comforts of a cold winter morning is to spread some blackberry jelly on toast and remember just how dang hot it was when I picked those berries in July.

Storms

I wimped out on taking the motorcycle this morning, using the need to carry a laptop as an excuse — so naturally, it didn’t rain much today. It’s misting a little bit right now, but yesterday about this time we were getting some seriously heavy weather. Several storms yesterday delivered downbursts here and there, uprooting a tree onto a highway, flattening this stand of corn about a mile from FAR Manor (it's clearer when you click-to-enlarge), and possibly jackknifing a “portable parking lot” truck in town.

Several of my pepper plants were bent over, as likely from the weight of the peppers as much as the wind. I’m propping them up and relieving them of their burden as best as I can. The bell peppers look very nice — I hope they’re as tasty as they look.

More on Finding Stuff

I was close to overload this morning: between fixing breakfast, gathering up boxes for a yard sale at the in-laws’, and getting ready to button up the chicken houses for the new batch (coming tomorrow), I was amazed I kept it all straight.

One of the yard sale items was a commercial-grade VCR. Mrs. Fetched has nearly a half-dozen of them, leftovers from her analog video editing days. “See if you can find the remotes for the rest,” she said, waving the one remote she was able to locate (when your remote has a jog/shuttle wheel, you’re uptown!). Naturally, I didn’t find the remotes, but I did find: the voltmeter (in the coffee table drawer), Mrs. Fetched’s English Allen wrenches (on The Boy’s dresser), and my trouble light (buried under a bunch of stuff in a box in the garage). I vaguely remember carrying the Allen wrenches up to his room to dismantle a bed frame, but thought I’d put them back. The trouble light was about where I thought it should have been, but buried deeper than I’d expected. I have no clue why the voltmeter was in the coffee table.

After the chicken houses, I was sweaty and dirty: in other words, in perfect form to go pick blackberries. I cut the top off a milk jug I’d rinsed out for the purpose, sprayed myself down with bug bomb, and marched out to hunt and gather. There were a few nice big ones by Crissy the Shriekbox’s pen; I endured the barking and grabbed those, then hiked through the woods behind the manor to the pasture. There are a couple of really good stands of blackberries around some brush piles, and they did not disappoint. I also found where the Japanese Beetles have been hanging out; shaking the vines elicited a noise like a squadron of Zeros taking off. While they had sucked some of the berries dry, many others were intact and as big as a fingertip (all the way to the first knuckle). I don’t know how the berries managed to get so big what with the lack of rain through most of June, but I filled my jug and headed back as more rain threatened. I got three or four drops is all; most of the rain went about a half mile south. I’m looking forward to stashing some jelly for the winter.

Good (technology) news

Current music: BassJunkees

Two news stories put a smile on my face this week. Quality journalism, as always, from The Register.

California, one of the more technologically-savvy states, has demanded that voting machine manufacturers submit the source code to their machines for a top-to-bottom review. ES&S whined mightily about it, and they were three months past the due date, but they finally coughed up the goods.

I hope the Secretary of State’s office was smart enough to insist that what they furnish could be used to generate software that they can compare with what’s already on the machines. Of course, ES&S would claim something like “oh, we accidentally shipped a debug load.”

***

The RIAA, being the scum of the earth that they are, tried shaking down a 10-year-old girl in 2005 — even going so far as to try contacting her at her school by claiming to be her grandmother. Her mom had the spine and brains to countersue the SOBs, and the RIAA (like any bully when stood up to) finally backed down. But mom? She’s upping the ante.

Good for her!

You keep siccing your dog on people, and eventually you’re going to run into someone with a meaner dog. Or lawyer.

Not much happening

Current music: AfterHours.fm

Just counting down the days until The Boy is off house arrest, then gone, then vacation. I figure we’ll have to mark the blueberry bushes somehow, now that we know they exist, so we can prune them at the right time of year. I picked a handful while waiting for the coffee maker to warm up, and told Mrs. Fetched to put them in her cereal (but we had no milk, dangit). This is the time of year for blackberries, too; my first impression is that they’ll be small but sweet. Typical early-July weekend coming up: we’ll be picking berries, dodging thunderstorms, and what would life be without a chicken house to wreck those two days a week I have off? I like taking a few small jars of blackberry jelly and stashing them until winter. Then I can open one up on a cold morning, spread it on some toast, and remember how dang hot it was when we were picking them.

I have more jalapeños coming in than I’ll be able to use. I’ll have to can them, and I won’t have to plant more for a loooong time. Looks like I’ll have some bell peppers this weekend though, and the first ripe tomatoes should follow soon after. The basil growing in the bell pepper bed is doing very well… and once the tomatoes come in, I’ll probably be able to combine them into something really yummy.

The last few days have not been good for finding things. I got stuck fixing supper tonight, and had the hardest time finding the spaghetti. I couldn’t find the crescent rolls, even though they were in the crisper where Mrs. Fetched said they were (for a change) and I dug around looking for them. The bag of black beans were in the pantry today, although I looked all through there over the weekend. Mrs. Fetched said it’s never my day for finding stuff, and that’s mostly true… but the last few days have been worse than usual. Usually, if what I’m looking for looks like what I expect it to, and it’s not at some crazy angle, I can find it… but if it’s a different color or shape, I’ll often overlook it right in front of me. Small comfort, but The Boy couldn’t find the bag of lettuce in the crisper and it was right there (but I’d already started other veggies).

At least I’m working at home tomorrow, so I won’t have to look for the road.

By the Numbers

Some random numerical thoughts…

Chance of rain today (forecast): 30%
Amount of dry pavement on the way home: 20%
Number of times I patted myself on the back for remembering the rain suit: 1
Cost to fill the motorcycle gas tank: $5.50
Chance of rain tomorrow: 30%
Hours The Boy’s girlfriend has spent at FAR Manor since Friday evening: 50
Hours on the road for Mrs. Fetched and Daughter Dearest this weekend: 20
Days until The Boy gets rid of the ankle bracelet: 7
Days until The Boy gets an involuntary TB01: 8
Days it took to finish the floor: 18
Boxes of flooring left over: 2
Days before my vacation starts: 18
Days of vacation I wish I had: ∞

What’s got your number? or what numbers got you?

(Upper) Floored: The Final Frontier

After a nice afternoon at the resort, I stuck a couple of frozen pizzas in the oven and called it supper. As I didn’t have anything more pressing going on, I then decided to go ahead and finish up the floor. It took maybe an hour or so, and only hit one snag: I thought I would be able to slip the (thinned out) strips under the trim around the door, but it didn’t quite work that way. I ended up pulling the trim out at the bottom, and that gave me the necessary clearance. After feeding the last piece to the table saw, I put them back and got the camera.

Pictures? Ha. This occasion deserves a video! (10MB AVI) The bandwidth-challenged might prefer the thumbnail page instead.

I’ll leave it to the females to select (and preferably install) floor molding.

Cuddlebuddies and wild berries

Wow. The last time I mentioned Daughter Dearest’s boyfriend was nearly two months ago. What with one thing and another, he never got back down here. They’ve been staying in touch on-line and by phone, and got into some arguments anyway, and actually broke up for a couple of weeks. But with school out, she hasn’t had enough to do with her part-time job and the chicken houses, and got to missing him big-time.

It hasn’t helped that The Boy hooked up with a girl on Myspace, ostensibly the keyboardist for the band, but they got more into each other than the music. She’s 16, kind of marginal age-wise, but better than the Nightmare Scenario that played out a while back: he hooked up with a girl who said she was 18, but was (according to her parents anyway) 12. P.O.D. went to pick her up, looked at her, and asked to see her driver’s license (“it’s suspended”) before letting her hop in. The phone calls started very soon after that, with everyone freaking out and P.O.D. taking her home as fast as he could. She kept calling after that, maybe even crossing the stalking line, and ran away a couple of days later with her 10-year-old cousin, then called here. The Boy got her to tell him where she was… and we immediately relayed that to her parents. They were somewhat peeved at The Boy, and I thought he might get busted (and that would Be It For Him until October) — but when I told them to check her Myspace page and look where she said she was 18, they were a bit more understanding. The current girlfriend is more on the up-and-up — we’ve talked to her mom — and very cute. I’m not sure what she sees in the uglified mess that is The Boy these days… but then again, she is blonde.

But I digress. DD hasn’t seen her boyfriend in a couple of months, and this girl being over here all too often lately hasn’t helped. She’s been pushing to spend a long weekend in his town when we go to Michigan next month, but then decided she just couldn’t wait that long. After I told her I couldn’t get time off work because I’m trying to finish a project in time to go when originally planned (the truth), she managed to persuade Mrs. Fetched to go up with her for a long weekend. So I’m stuck here with The Boy, a bunch of his friends, and my patience has been running thin with him this last week. Pray for me.

All is not doom and gloom, however. Mrs. Fetched left some mail for me to put in the box, so I walked it down when I got home from work. As I was hiking back up the driveway, I noticed that there were some ripe blackberries in the briars alongside. I grabbed a bowl and started picking, working my way around the back of the house and then behind the detached garage. That’s where I found several blueberry bushes; and some of them were ripe too — pea-sized but tasty. There’s plenty more to get next weekend too.

Finally, I worked my way around to where the jalapeño plants are. It looks like a dog might have run across the bed and knocked over two of the plants; the smaller peppers shown came off a stalk that was broken off completely. The Boy and his friends were hanging out at the bottom of the driveway, so I finished the circle and tossed him one of the small peppers. Several of us (including me) took a bite of it — the pepper part was fairly mild but the seeds were hot. But the blackberries were sweet too; I’ve got both The Boy and his girlfriend to agree to a little picking expedition tomorrow morning. Drop off a couple of things for Mrs. Fetched after that, then it’s off to the resort (where I escaped, sort of, last year) for basic hanging out at the pool. I was hoping to fix black beans & rice for supper tomorrow, but can’t find the beans.

Anyway… if The Boy can refrain from pushing my buttons, I might be able to salvage this weekend.

FAR Manor, 2058: Augering In

Vision the Third, finally.

Intro
Vision the First
Vision the Second

This is perhaps the worst-case scenario, or maybe it’s only as bad as I want to imagine: Drastic climate change. Energy production plunges. Nuclear war in the Middle East: India vs. Pakistan; Israel vs. Iran. American citizens quietly starving in front of their TVs… at least until the power went out. Starving Americans then rioting in every city and most towns. The war of all against all was the end of the beginning.

Overseas, things were worse — especially in countries with large or dense populations. A desperate Chinese government rounded up millions of citizens, packed them into every ship they had, rigged with makeshift sails, and sent them across the ocean. Many ships were lost in storms or simply came apart under loads they were never designed to handle; those that reached the Americas were full of unarmed starvelings, too weak to fight but facing defenders little better-off. Some survived, and spread across the rapidly-depopulating countryside.

Nuclear winter blunted global warming for a few years, but by 2032 Greenland’s ice was all but gone — and much of the Antarctic ice melted away as well. Sea levels rose over 100 feet, changing everything. Planet Georgia, and much of the mid-section of America, endured near-desert conditions — until weather patterns shifted and brought rain, rain, and more rain. In 2058, FAR Manor’s climate resembled the equatorial rain forests of 2000; north of the Appalachians, however, the desert stretched to the Ohio Valley, cutting off most land travel between north and south. Hurricanes, the monster spawn of beastly-hot summers, brought rain and devastation to rain forest and desert alike.

A new civilization came together around the Great Lakes, New England, and the maritime provinces. Perhaps a few million people survived the first half of the century, but humanity is now on the rebound. A greatly enlarged Hudson’s Bay is a new frontier. A few stubborn souls clung to existence in the south, some of them old and some new…

“Revered Grandmother?” the Weaver woman spoke through the door. “It is time.”

Time to bury her husband, in other words. She wiped her eyes once more, then struggled to her feet. She knew better than to ask for help — that would fill her hut with Weavers wanting the honor of helping the Revered Grandmother. Her knees popped — the constant humidity was not kind to them — and she steadied herself with a cane.

Miracle of miracles, there was no rain today — in fact, the sky was almost clear. “An auspicious sign,” Mother Weaver said. “The heavens open to receive the honored soul of Revered Grandfather Teacher.” One of the Weavers broke into song, and the others joined in. Like the Weavers themselves, their talk was a thorough mix of English, Spanish, and Chinese — she had long considered it impenetrable, but in the last few years she had started to catch on (and was startled to find that even into her 90s, she could still learn a thing or two) — and the song was simultaneously one of lament for the loss of their Teacher and one of joy for the soul entering Heaven. The cadence was simple enough, but the tune itself seemed to shift just as she thought she’d caught on. Some things about this new way of life she would never grasp in what time God had remaining for her. One phrase, “here between fire and flood,” she recognized as their name for the place where they lived, what her husband called “Planet Georgia” to his dying day. South winds from the Gulf, miles closer than before, brought rain this far, but only a little farther, into the mountains. Not far north of here, places once called Tennessee and Kentucky were called only Desert.

As the song ended, the Weavers joined hands, including Revered Grandmother in the line. They walked a narrow path, still joined, to the clearing where her husband — their Revered Grandfather Teacher — lay in state in a great basket of woven kudzu. Mother Weaver led them around the body in a circle, where she took the hand of the last Weaver in line. They remained quiet, some looking expectantly at her until she realized that the eldest was to speak first. A whim took her, and she began to sing — solo at first, but the Weavers soon joined her. Of course they knew the song; she had taught it to them:

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see…

The grief overtook her, and the other Weavers continued the song as they could. It ended as he had, quick and ragged, and that seemed right somehow for this occasion. An unbidden smile came as she thought of how he would have rolled his eyes and reminded them that the ending was the most important part of the song. Mother Weaver then led the people in another song, whose tune was one she recognized — but the lyrics were some he had likely made up at some time. He rarely sang things like that around her… she bowed her head so the Weavers wouldn’t see her stifling a laugh. It was so like him, to take an innocent song and turn the lyrics into something bawdy. Perhaps he had achieved some sort of immortality on this side of Heaven: the Weavers would keep the part of him that he’d given…

They began another one of their own songs, one that she didn’t know, and her mind began to wander. They had managed to send their children and grandchildren to the Great Lakes, where he had family to sponsor them. Then they survived the desert time, back before the rains came back to stay, although the old house had burned to the ground in one of the constant forest fires. Soon after, the green came and with it came the Weavers. He had found one on a walk, left behind with a broken leg, fending off three wild dogs. He shot two of the dogs before the third ran for it, then set and splinted the leg and carried him (he was old, but the other was little larger than a child) to their camp of woven mud-faced huts.

Soon after that, they started finding kudzu baskets full of fruits and vegetables, and the occasional dressed game, left at their door overnight. The gifts had arrived at a providential time; one or the other of them had been too sick to both take care of and feed themselves. Eventually, they slowly learned to speak to each other, and then he began to teach them how to use the leavings of civilization to improve their lives. Kudzu had been a nuisance in their old lives; to the Weavers, it was Life itself: the roots and leaves were food, and they used the vines to make everything from baskets and mats to furniture and even shelters. When they weren’t looking for food or sleeping, they were singing and weaving baskets — thus had they started calling the hunter-gatherers “Weavers,” and they had taken the name for themselves.

Mother Weaver said something, and six men lined up on either side of the body. They gently lifted the basket, raising him over their shoulders, and carried him past the house. Near the old roadside, where a flagpole once stood flying the banner of a nation now all but forgotten, they stopped at a hole and lowered him in. Mother Weaver then touched her elbow and led her to the graveside. Again that expectant pause; she looked around and then down at the body.

“We… we come to honor the life of the man you knew as Revered Grandfather Teacher, and I knew as my husband. Today he would have been 100 years old. There were times, especially before the rain, that we never thought to live as long as we have. But God has blessed us: He sent the rain and brought us new friends. He became your Teacher: and what has he taught you?”

“He has taught us to control our numbers, that we may not strip the land of its bounty.”

“He has taught us to keep the old roads clear, that we may easily move from place to place in search of game, and to leave a message to others that this land is settled.”

“He has taught us to respect the leavings of the old civilization, and to use them properly.”

“He has taught us to read the stories and books of the old civilization.”

“He has taught us how our waste can be used to nourish the earth.”

They continued around the circle, each Weaver naming a teaching and tossing a handful of dirt onto the basket. After the last Weaver honored the Teacher thus, two of the men took up shovels, old spades undoubtedly salvaged from a long-abandoned garage, and filled the grave. They finished by pushing a great kudzu root into the mound and watering it. Again, she had to stifle a laugh: planting kudzu on someone’s grave would have been a great insult in the old days. Now, it was simply a matter of repaying the debt: kudzu nourished the Weavers in life; the Weavers (and their Teacher) would nourish the kudzu in death.

Mother Weaver and a few of the elders led her back to her house. “It is not right,” Mother Weaver said, “for Revered Grandmother to be left alone. We shall choose a young woman to stay with you, so that you are cared for and lack for nothing. It does not repay our debt to your husband, but we do this gladly to honor his memory.”

“Will any of your women be content to stay in one place like this?”

“Any of us will be honored to share your life, Revered Grandmother,” another woman said. “Revered Grandfather Teacher tells us that in due time, the land between fire and flood will cool and become as it was in your youth. Perhaps by living with you, our people can learn to live in houses so that we will know how when the time comes.”

She was startled: even now, when the End seemed to have come, she could still find reasons to live — and serve. “I will teach you what I can,” she said.

In the “I didn’t really need to know that” department…

The Boy, yesterday, told me: “By the way, your Civic can do 140. That’s what it topped out at.”

He may have only been trying to harass me — but whether or not that was downhill with a tailwind, I really didn’t want to know. It would explain why letting him drive it affected the mileage like pouring a gallon of gas on the ground, though.

TB05, TB09, and Banned Practice

The Boy, once again, has screwed himself over by not thinking ahead nor taking us seriously. After I bitched about his “band practice” leaving beer cans strewn all over the garage a few weeks back, I told them not to bring more beer to the manor. The Boy, of course, claims to have not gotten the memo (TB05)… but then why would empties be turning up in the trash can instead of the garage floor?

So this brings us to Sunday afternoon. Mrs. Fetched wanted the cooler to carry ice down to her mom’s. I found it in the detached garage… with a bunch of empty beer cans, and an empty (but still smelly) bottle of Jagermeister.

“That’s it,” said Mrs. Fetched when she got a look (and whiff). “No more band practice.” As happens all too often, it was left to me to execute the decision, since she had to spend the evening and all night at the chicken houses (it was the night to catch them). I usually hate doing this, because she has changed her tune and left me looking stupid too often, but she wouldn’t be there to rescind the decision (and she’s gotten better about that lately anyway). Besides, I was the one complaining about the drinking… probably because they were hiding it from Mrs. Fetched a bit more.

So when I picked up The Boy from his counseling session (which isn’t doing him much good as far as I can tell), he said something about band practice and I said it was cancelled.

“Why?” he demanded. “I’m having band practice.”

“Too late,” I said. “I already called P.O.D. and told him it wasn’t happening.”

“You can’t do that! I want to know why!”

“Because I said no drinking during band practice, and you guys bring it anyway. We found the beer cans and Jagermeister in the cooler. Don’t you remember why you have that ankle bracelet?” (Probation violation via underage drinking, for those of you just now tuning in.)

“I only have one or two.” (He’s told Mrs. Fetched that he hasn’t been drinking at all.)

I just laughed. “You’re always talking about Jagermeister, and presto! Here’s an empty bottle.”

Pause for two seconds. “That doesn’t mean there was anything in it. What if I just had it to draw a copy of the logo?”

Again, I laughed. “You expect me to believe that?!”

“Well, we’re having band practice today. You can’t tell me I can’t.”

“Our house, our rules.”

“It’s my house too!”

“You don’t pay for it, you don’t clean up anything…”

“I don’t mess anything up!”

“Except for the beer cans you and your friends leave all over the place.” (Cigarette butts too, although they started throwing them in a can since we threatened to cut off band practice earlier. He’s already as much as confirmed that he’s going right back to the pot as soon as his probation is over — when he asked why I thought that, he was grinning; I mentioned that all his new t-shirts, his lyrics, his drawings, all of it is drug-related. He started trotting out the justifications, naturally. TB09, it shouldn’t be illegal anyway.)

So this dragged on into the evening, with me alternately trying to introduce him to the Real World and just not saying anything (usually when he was demanding or cursing). I was waiting for a TB04, but fortunately that never happened. At one point, he accused us of not doing anything for him; I replied, “We moved heaven and earth to keep you out of jail the second time. Well, your mom did; I was ready to just let you sit there.” He had very little to say after that — he’s always been under the impression that Mrs. Fetched was the hardcase here.

Around 9 p.m., he finally gave up, after slamming only one door. After he settled down, I let him use the computer since I was getting tired anyway. I’m sure he said bad things about us all over Myspace… but I really don’t care what he thinks. A TB01 is coming, the day after the ankle bracelet comes off, whether he wants to leave or not. Mrs. Fetched told him so.

Who Ya Gonna Call?

The Boy and J had a brilliant plan this morning: stall going to the chicken houses by playing Need for Speed: Underground. So J was fiddling with the remote, trying to get the Game Cube up on the TV and only getting the broadcast channels or the DVD player. The Boy said “press the third button down,” but that didn’t work either.

Then Daughter Dearest picked up the remote. The Boy was going, “It’s not working,” but she had the Game Cube up in a matter of seconds.

Do you want to talk to the man in charge, or the woman who knows what’s going on?

(Upper) Floored: Approaching the Finish Line

As it turns out, Nothing Happened yesterday. We ended up watching a couple of movies (Flushed Away and Syriana) and that was pretty much it. The glue supply was getting low; we called Big V since she was at Home Depot, but she was at a different store than the one we usually go to and they didn’t have it in stock. Oh well.

Daughter Dearest and I went up this afternoon and used up the rest of the glue, putting down one entire row and two pieces of another before the glue ran out completely. Looks like we’ll get some glue tonight (and Mrs. Fetched will look at floor molding while we’re there) and finish up tomorrow.

If you look at the picture (as usual, click to enlarge), you might notice that the strip on the left is shrinking a little more than perspective would account for. Due to the non-squareness of the room, we hit the gable a little crooked (it’s tapered too) and had to finagle the sides. That's what table saws are for.

(Upper) Floored: Laying it Down

Last time we went upstairs, the floor was ready for us to commence. And last night, Mrs. Fetched and I did just that, laying down two boxes worth.

Amazingly enough, Daughter Dearest didn’t see fit to come up and help us out in any possible way… I just can’t imagine her not wanting to make sure it got finished as quickly as possible.

Naturally, we have a few angles and corners, and that’s where the circular saw comes in. We had to slice about half an inch off the side of the board in that protruding corner in front of the closet door. I’m not really looking forward to the gable part; with our luck, we’ll have to slice off both sides. But if we can average two boxes a night, we should have it done in about a week.

UPDATE: I came home last night to find that Mrs. Fetched and Daughter Dearest had been busy through the day. It’s almost halfway done now!

FAR Manor, 2058: Crash & Burn

Intro
Vision the First

Vision the Second.

We are heading into pessimistic territory here, but by no means the worst case: Wars abroad and chaos at home tore apart what little of America was left after GW Bush was through with it. Suburbia emptied out, then was repopulated by urban refugees once food supply lines collapsed for good. Climate change hit hard west of the Mississippi; the plains again became a Dust Bowl while sea levels rose roughly 20 feet (and counting), swamping most of the world’s great cities and inundating several small nations. Refugees from the former bread-basket collided with those fleeing the coasts, and the ensuing free-for-all was the final nail in the coffin of the US. The most optimistic estimates put the population of the former nation at just over 40 million; this remnant is scattered along most of the new coastal areas and around the Great Lakes. Planet Georgia’s inhabitants live mostly along the coast and the old pre-Fall city of Agusta (Augusta). Lately, both the weather patterns and civilization have begun to settle into new configurations…

Old Guy sat impassively in the wagon, cradling the ancient carbine, watching over the troop. Four of the younger folk sat or stood around the wagon, keeping watch although the whole month had gone by without seeing any hostiles. This far north, the wildlife had mostly forgotten about humans and made for easy pickings — this much seemed like the only luck on an unlucky trek. Old Guy had directed them north and west from Agusta, backtracking only once to put a wide margin between themselves and the ghosts that surely ruled Ol’ Lanna.

The old roads were more overgrown the farther they went; since skirting Ol’ Lanna, they had to cut their way through much of it. Fallen trees often blocked the way now, and they settled on having one horse pull the wagon and the second ready to pull trees out of the way. Kudzu covered the road; after rolling into a ditch once, Frenk and Tanni walked ahead and poked the ground to make sure the pavement was where they thought. It was slow going, unlucky, and the youths had begun to grumble when they were sure Old Guy wouldn’t hear.

Two nights ago, they had slept uneasily in a crumbling building at the center of a long-abandoned town; Old Guy called it “the old courthouse.” It was a government building, he reassured them, so they would offend no ghosts. But Tanni thought perhaps he had been lucky that the dream he’d dreamed in that place was just out of reach… to grasp it would have perhaps been grasping madness. Ghosts went where they would, Frenk’s da had once said, and those men who were more at home on the job might well haunt the offices and work stations that defined them in life. Since that night, they had managed all of eight or nine miles, going into a place where even the signs of long-abandoned dwellings were thinning out. It was an empty place, one that the kudzu and pines would try to fill in vain.

Around mid-afternoon, they reached a crumbling culvert. Old Guy leaned forward to look at the sides, and grunted in satisfaction. A creek ran under the old road here, quick and clear. “We’ll stop on the other side,” he said. “You can take the horses down for water, and take a break. It’s maybe a mile from here, up that hill and straight on.”

Take a break, the old pre-Fall phrase for a short siesta. Old Guy’s old way of speaking was one thing; the way he spoke person to person, low and almost slurring the words, made him nearly impossible to understand. But when he stood before the people with a song or story, it rang out loud and clear. He wasn’t just the eldest of the people, he was their bard (a word even older than the pre-Fall world, but it had come back in this time). That the people could afford such a luxury was a matter of honor and prestige — and a matter of life and death to Old Guy, whose other skills were suited mostly to a pre-Fall world of elektrissy and cahs. But anyone who had lived his entire adult life surviving the Fall and its aftermath commanded a modicum of respect and obedience; when he had asked the warlord for five young men and a wagon for a winter expedition, all was given without question.

Everyone worked their way to the creek, hacking a path through the ubiquitous plant life, leaving Old Guy to stand — or sit — watch. None of them felt guilty about this; he was often arrogant as a warlord, rude as a drunken teenager, and someone had to keep watch. Besides, they would have had to carry him: both feet and part of one leg were gone, long-ago victims to a pre-Fall disease they called die-beaters (Frenk often wondered at that name; a sickness that ate you piece by piece didn’t seem to have anything to do with living forever). But most of all, he had the carbine: a pre-Fall weapon, even older than Old Guy himself, and as old as he was he could shoot it better than any of the people.

So Old Guy sat in the wagon, under his hat, while the others filled flasks and watered the horses. Clouds were coming and going today; it was warm in the shade and nearly hot in the sun. The heat never seemed to bother him, but he would spend those few cold nights near the end of Janiary huddled close to a fire. After a quiet time, Frenk brought a flask of water to the wagon and offered it to Old Guy. He drank half of it at a gulp, nodded to Frenk, drained it then handed it back. Frenk turned back toward the creek, then stopped and turned back, putting a hand on the wagon and looking up at Old Guy. The old man looked back down and waited.

“You said we are nearly there,” Frenk said. “You know where we’re going then,” he said, looking expectantly at Old Guy. He merely nodded and looked back at Frenk.

Frenk looked back toward the creek, and leaned into the wagon. “Where?” he almost whispered. Asking a direct question, especially of an elder, was a grievous breach of protocol — unless one were inquiring about that person’s health or comfort.

But Old Guy was Old Guy, and only chuckled. “I wondered when you’d finally get around to it,” he said. “I knew those louts wouldn’t have the nerve or the wish to know.

“We’re going to my old home, Frenk, where I lived before the Fall. I’m going to make my peace with my family, since I’ll likely be joinin’ them before long.”

Frenk’s eyes grew to wheel size. “Their ghosts will be waiting.”

Old Guy laughed and shook his head. “Na. They won’t bother anyone but me, if they bother anyone. Tanni might have one of his dreams, though.

“Okay, go tell the others to come back up. We should get there before it gets dark.”

It took nearly an hour of cutting and pulling to make that last mile. Tanni spied the cemetery on a hill to the right, but nobody worried about the spirits of those who had a proper pre-Fall burial. Shortly past the cemetery, and on the left, stood an overgrown post with a sagging cross-piece pointing toward the edge of the road.

“This is it,” Old Guy said. “My old home.”

Frenk wandered over to the post, while the other youths chattered and worked at clearing what Old Guy said was the driveway, and stepped on something smooth and firm. He brushed away the leaves, and lifted a rusting metal sign; the remnants of a pair of chains showed how it had hung on the post. There was writing, which only Old Guy and Frenk knew how to read; it said simply: FAR Manor. He brought the sign to Old Guy.

“My dad called it that,” Old Guy grunted. “He had stupid names like that for everything.”

Finally, the driveway was clear enough to bring the wagon off the road. Old Guy strapped a pod to the bottom of his longer leg, picked up his crutches from the wagon floor, and slithered down to the ground. He paused only to make sure the carbine was secure, then led the hushed group to a large house, bigger than a warlord’s. Time and the Fall had not been kind to it; most of the windows were broken, and a large tree had at one time crushed through the roof of one wing (“my parents’ room,” Old Guy explained). The front door stood open; Tanni (the lightest) went in while the others went to work salvaging the good glass, wrapping the panes in old blankets and storing them in the wagon. Pre-Fall glass was hard to come by, and much better than modern glass. Enough glass might make this expedition worthwhile.

Tanni said the floor was weak but held him. “Go on,” Old Guy said. “Even if you fall through, you won’t go more than a couple of feet. The deepest part is under the bedroom, and I’ll go in there.” He didn’t feel it necessary to mention that the remains of his parents were in that room.

They filed into the house, scaring up birds and other wildlife. The few pieces of furniture were decrepit, moldering things barely suitable for the nests they supported. The walls had been ripped apart at some time, and the wiring was gone: Old Guy was not the first person to visit FAR Manor since the Fall, it seemed. But the looters were only after wire; the bathroom mirror and a glass door going to a porch were intact. The toilets were also whole, but nobody used those anymore.

Tanni went up the groaning stairs to check the upper rooms while the other youths carried their finds out to the wagon. Old Guy made his way down the hall, clearing the occasional spider web, until he came to a closed door at the end. The door resisted and protested his opening it, but Old Guy managed to push it open far enough to slip through. The crushed bodies under the tree had gone to bones, but otherwise the room was as he’d left it. He pushed the door closed and leaned against it.

Old Guy had lied to Frenk, but lying was his stock in trade and one believed Old Guy only at one‘s peril. There were ghosts here, all right. But Old Guy had been truthful about one thing: they weren’t interested in the others.

I told you to take care of yourself, didn’t I? his dad whispered. You’re lucky you still got all your fingers.

Why did you bother coming back? his mom asked. They obviously hadn’t gotten the word about new cultural mores, Old Guy thought.

“I came to wish Dad a happy birthday… today, if I got the calendar right. Your hundredth. And I came to say I’m sorry for all the stuff I put you guys through.”

Dad’s ghost made a sniff sound. You remembered. Good job. So what are you doing with yourself?

“I’m the bard in Agusta. I didn’t go on the world tour, but everyone still turns out to hear me sing and tell stories.”

That’s good, I guess, Mom’s ghost replied. At least you did something with that talent, instead of wasting it on that screaming crap.

“Huh. We all scream on new moon nights now. It’s how we chase away the other ghosts.”

Figures, Dad said. Is there anything left out there?

“Not much. A few cities. They say Chicago has electricity; one of the old nuke plants is still running. Could be a bunch of bullshit, though.”

Probably. I suppose my diary got rotted in the shelf over there, or started a fire.

“Nope. It’s in the library in Agusta. A couple of people, the ones who know how to read anyway, look at it from time to time. They say it gives them strange dreams, though.”

Dreams fade, Dad said. So do ghosts, Mom chimed in. We’ve been waiting for you. We’ll probably move on, now that you came. From the looks of it, you’ll join us before much longer.

“Yeah. They call me Old Guy now. The oldest man in Agusta, if you can believe it.”

A thumping noise came from under the floor, breaking the spell. Once again, Old Guy was alone in the room. The only thing in here worth salvaging was already in his memory, and he muscled the door open and stumped through, yanking it shut behind him. He made his way outside, and followed the sound of voices around the side of the house. Four of them stood there on the concrete between two garages, amazingly clear.

“Tanni said there was a back door down there,” Frenk said. “He’s checking it out. There’s a big old desk in that little brown shed over there — it’s too big to get out, but it was put in some way.”

“Sure. It comes apart. Lift the top off, and there’s screws underneath, I think. You can take it apart and carry out the pieces.”

Three of them went back to take the desk apart, and Frenk poked his head into the detached garage. “Pretty much empty in here.”

“If the roof looks good, we’ll sleep in there tonight, then. Have you looked in this garage yet?”

Frenk stuck his head through the door, ignoring the question; they were used to Old Guy’s ill-mannered ways by now. “Two old-time vehicles. We should get the sheet metal and glass from these, too.”

The others presently came by, carrying the dismantled desk, and then joined Frenk in cutting up the two vehicles. The larger of the two had a single word, Explorer, in chrome on the back. More blankets for the glass; the wagon would be fairly crowded on the way home. At least the way back was already cut. One of them snapped the Explorer off the sheet metal and tacked it to the back of the wagon, watching Old Guy for his reaction. Old Guy simply nodded; he’d lived here in the years before the Fall, and part-way into it, but it was new territory and they truly were explorers.

A sudden shout left Old Guy scrambling to unlimber the carbine, nearly falling off his crutches before the others caught and steadied him. If it hadn’t been for that, he might have shot Tanni when he burst around the side of the house, waving what looked like a red stick.

“Copper pipe!” he shouted. “A whole pile of it, stacked underneath the house!”

The others forgot everything: the hardships of the trip, the bad dreams, the bad luck, their resentment of Old Guy. An ancient wooden desk was a good find, sheet metal and glass were always useful, but copper pipe was treasure. They rushed to the back door, leaving Old Guy shaking his head and getting a better grip on the carbine.

“Damn,” he said to nobody. “I still don’t remember that being down there.” The warlord would take a share, to be sure, but the six of them were now rich. For the youngsters, it meant prestige, wives, all the good things. Old Guy had all the prestige he wanted and the attention of women when it suited him, but it was still good. Perhaps he would have his share made into bracers or jewelry; he could work it into a story. He would go the way of all folk, sooner or later, but someone else could become the bard. Meanwhile, all of them would have a story to tell.

Vision the Third

It’s Friday

And this is my state of mind at the moment.