FAR Future, Episode 34: Is This Thing On?

This scheduled-post thing is working pretty well, at least so far. I think it’s pure coincidence that I start talking about family while my family is around for Daughter Dearest’s (in real life) HS graduation this weekend. I wrote a lot of this before knowing when it would be posted, after all. :-)

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Monday, February 24, 2014
Is This Thing On?

Looks like the Net is back up, finally. We managed to survive the week, although I was starting to get a little loopy with Net-withdrawal this weekend. Mrs. Fetched managed her TV-withdrawal somewhat better. Working was difficult; I had to go in twice instead of once last week. I think we came pretty close to just shutting down work for the week, with the power going up & down all day. At least there was enough uptime to keep the laptop batteries charged. I’m not sure if the execs are keeping up with what’s going on down in the cube-farm or the shop floor, but if they are they’ll probably shut the place down if it happens again. The kids helped a lot — they’re into everything when they’re not at school, poking around and marveling at how nice it is to not have to wear their jackets in the house (including bed) — so I spent a lot of time introducing the new inmates to the free-range insane asylum. They’ve each had their first motorcycle ride, in 20-degree weather, and both were grinning around chattering teeth afterwards. Their favorite place in the house is the living room, even when the TV’s off, because it’s always warm in there. They’ll read, doodle, or write (Serena wants to write plays like Shakespeare, of all things) when the power’s off. They’re really good about getting firewood, too.

Over the weekend, I got the phone call I’d been expecting: they found the parents. The surprise (to me) was, one of them was still alive at the time. Someone caught them trying to steal gas in Atlanta, guns were drawn… then fired. The women stayed down, but it didn’t do them much good in the end.

The police interviewed the survivor (Kim’s mother, judging from the last name) at the hospital — she was able to tell her story before she lost consciousness for the last time:

We were sharing a house up north — [Serena’s family] moved in with us when their house caught fire. We ran out of firewood a few days ago, just at the wrong time… it was either leave or freeze to death. We’d been saving up gas in case it came to that, and we’d pooled about 30 gallons. We had 20 in the trunk, anyway, and we were hoping to make it to Sarasota. We knew we wouldn’t make it on what we had, but we had some ration coupons and we were counting on buying some along the way. That didn’t pan out too good.

We got to Georgia, and there was a blockage of some sort on I-75 around Dalton [turned out to have been a tanker hijacking gone wrong —Farf] so we headed east on 52, hoping to find a way south. We still couldn’t find anyone who would sell us some gas, and we decided we’d have to steal some. We dropped off the kids at some farm, in case there was trouble — I guess that turned out to be for the best — and found a highway going to Atlanta. You know the rest.

I asked the cop if there was going to be a funeral, and she said “We just cremate them. No marker. They’re at the morgue through Monday.” Something told me I should do something — after all, they’d left me their most valuable possessions — so I hopped the commute bus to the MARTA station and took the train downtown. I found the morgue, told them who I was and who I was there to see (off), and they led me to the right place. Much to my surprise, someone was already there — a black man, praying. He looked familiar, then I realized…

When he finished his prayer and looked up, I asked him, “Aren’t you The Prophet?”

He smiled. “Some call me that.”

“So why are you here?”

“The Lord has called me to minister to those forgotten of man, for He has not forgotten them. Did you know these unfortunates?”

“No. They dropped their kids off at my place, before… this.”

“Then the Lord has placed a great responsibility on your shoulders. But He does not give us a task without giving us the tools to accomplish it.”

I nodded. “The kids have actually been a big help this week. I just need to know if I should tell them about…” I gestured to the body bags.

“They must know the truth,” he said, “but not right away. If they ask, do not lie, though — the Lord abhors lying lips.”

“Right.” I pulled the pictures I’d taken of the kids out of my shirt pocket. “Here’s their pictures. I thought… I don’t know, I thought maybe I could tuck each one in their mom’s bag, but I don’t know which ones are which.”

The Prophet smiled and took the pictures. “Turn around. If asked, you can honestly say you saw nothing.” I did what he told me, and I heard quick zipping noises, the rustle of paper, and two more zips. “Done. Now join me here, and we will provide a poor service for these forgotten ones.” He went through a funeral sermon, I said a few words about the kids, and that was it.

“They came to a bad end,” I said, as we stepped into the warmer hallway.

“Truly. But we honor their lives the best we can. That is the highest calling of anyone.”

“At least their kids will be all right. As long as we are.”

“And that is the highest honor you can give their parents,” The Prophet said. He stopped me and put a hand on my shoulder. “May God bless you and keep you. We both have long roads ahead of us, and none of us are righteous, ‘no not one,’ but we can rely on our faith — and Whom we have put our faith in.

“Our nation will be broken like a potter breaks a faulty pot, and many will not live to see it restored. There will be war, and rumors of war, and neighbor will be pitted against neighbor. And there will be those who see that their neighbors want not, and there will be peace. But He will watch over you, as long as you remain under His loving gaze. Go forth, and show God to those who need Him most.” He turned away, leaving me gaping like a fish. I think I got it all down, what he said… I hope I did, anyway.

Then again, John remembered a whole book and wrote down his Revelation. If he could do that, surely I can remember a few paragraphs.

continued…

Daughter Dearest Graduates [UPDATED, new text & photo]

It’s been a long day (long week is more like it). Graduating class sizes are rapidly overrunning the facilities they have to put on graduation, so they’re trying different things. Some of them work less well than others.

For example, they had the ceremony outdoors. It’s still a little cool for late May, but “a little cool for late May” on Planet Georgia means 80 degrees and lots of sunlight (I took my little niece on her first motorcycle ride, and it was warm enough to ride without needing a jacket). Many of the grads were suffering from sunburn acquired earlier in the week during rehearsal. The sun was over the kids, so those of us in the stands got the brunt of it. Dad & I wore hats and thus did pretty well, but a lot of people were leaving as soon as their kids got their diploma… and some of them didn’t last that long. Mrs. Fetched and I were doing video from the stands, avoiding lens flare and dealing with a supercilious pair of geezers who are misrepresenting themselves as being “hired by the school” to do video. We’re getting everyone who usually wants video from us and then some, though.

The funny part was at the beginning, where the principal asked the audience to refrain from making excessive noises when their grad’s name was called. “This is a solemn occasion that deserves dignity.” Riiiiiiiiight. This is Planet Georgia: people are going to cheer for their kids because they know a lot of people (perhaps themselves) who didn’t get this far. A couple of the kids let their joy show through, in a couple mild displays of exuberance… only natural and none of them over the top.

The fun began after we got home — I fired up the grill and started in on the burgers & brats, the ladies had the side dishes prepared, and everyone went NOM NOM NOM. Other Brother brought some real beer (Hoegaarten), which tasted much better than the Bud Light I swiped from The Boy (who shouldn’t be buying beer anyway). DD’s friend Sasquatch also graduated and he (and his family) came to celebrate with us. Another graduate is a friend of The Boy’s, who also happens to be like a third cousin on his mom’s side; he came by but had left his cap & gown at home so I didn’t get a chance to get a pic of him.

All my family is heading home early tomorrow afternoon, and I get Monday to recover (maybe).

FAR Future, Episode 33: Starting Over. Sort Of.

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Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Starting Over. Sort Of.

I want to scream with rage. I want to weep a flood. But I don’t want to wake them up.

Jesus. Only You are going to be able to help me get through this.

I suppose I’d better explain. I’d been plotzing away at my job all day, out on the back porch to catch the breeze (unseasonably warm for this time of year, and after all the cold blasts we’ve had) and give the cats some company. I had a lot to do, and I was feeling really productive, so I hadn’t gotten up much except to grab water or the occasional bathroom break. But my 4pm walk time rolled around, and I got up to get my daily dash of exercise.

And found… two kids sitting under the mailbox. A boy and a girl, both maybe 7 or 8. Buster T. Butthead, who’s getting old but still loves kids and adults and everyone in between, was sitting between them and getting loved on. He gave me a big doggie grin. The kids just looked at me.

“Hey kids. What’s up?” I said after getting over my surprise and looking around for parents, whom I assumed would be nearby.

“Waiting on our parents,” the girl said. The boy just stared and nodded.

“Oh. How long have you been here?”

“Since this morning.”

Now I was really floored. “That long? Why here?”

“They said wait here, they’d go get some food and come back for us,” she explained. “But they didn’t come back. And we’re hungry.”

I sighed. “Give me two minutes.” I ran back to the house, grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, and wrote: Your kids are inside, I fed them. What the HELL were you thinking, you assholes? Then I ran back and caught a corner of the note in the mailbox so they could see it, told the kids it was a note for their parents telling them they were in the house, and led them up to the manor. I hadn’t realized they were each sitting on a bag, and in my confusion it didn’t register.

I had no reason to doubt the kids were lying, and the way they wolfed the sandwiches I made for them only confirmed it. Mrs. Fetched came up from the garden area out back, getting some turnip greens, and I had to explain the situation all over again (leaving out the exact wording of the note to not disturb her or the kids). She agreed to keep an eye on them, while I took the phone outside and called the sheriff’s office.

“You’re not the first,” the dispatcher told me. “If we find their parents at all, they’ll probably be dead. They’re coming from up north, dropping off their kids at farms, and moving on to die.”

“What? But what do I do with them? I don’t have custody or anything—”

“I’ll put you through to DFACS. They’re keeping this quiet, but if you don’t object they’ll assign you as a permanent guardian.”

Sure enough, DFACS took names and original addresses — I went back inside, to find Mrs. Fetched had already taken care of that oversight — then registered them as wards under our custody. We’re supposed to get paperwork to sign, probably on Friday. They’ll have the kids’ SSNs, copies of birth certificates, and anything else that might be useful later on.

Mrs. Fetched thinks I’m being callous about the kids. I’m not. I’m 55, and hadn’t planned on raising kids again, but lots of people older than me have had to raise their grandchildren. I’m just worked up at the thought of people dropping off their kids in front of a complete stranger’s house, like a litter of puppies — even if they’re doing what’s best for them. I don’t want them to let their kids die off too but good God! What’s this country coming to?

The kids aren’t brother & sister, but they were neighbors and the two families knew each other. I called the cop-shop again, giving them the parents’ names and addresses (they came from near Racine, Wisconsin, almost directly across Lake Michigan from where I grew up), and they said they’d keep the info in case they needed it. I suspect a hunter will find the abandoned car soon, and maybe the bodies later on. Nobody’s off searching for them. Kim is the boy, and Serena is the girl. Daughter Dearest is going to pull a few strings to get them transferred to the school in town (they’ll start next week). Mrs. Fetched told them a comfortable load of bull — she said their parents had called and asked if we could keep them for a “little while” — then put them to work in the garden. They seem happy to help, although I think they know what’s really going on and don’t want to admit it.

I went and got my note off the mailbox, and tried to get back to work. Needless to say, this put a big ol’ hole right through the middle of my productivity. At least I was mostly done for the day.

Look on the bright side, Farf: they won’t be teenagers for five or six years.

continued…

Weekend Cinema: We Carry On

I been at this blog for 3 years now. Our Weekend Cinema selection is dedicated to FAR Manor itself:



So far away we wait for the day
For the light source so wasted and gone
We feel the pain of a lifetime lost in a thousand days
Through the fire and the flames we carry on

Daughter Dearest, LOLhooman

She’s such a good sport, letting me post this:



If you're reading this, she has finished her last day of school! Graduation is next weekend.

Three. Two. One…

Stand by for Snippet launch!

The Boy didn’t believe we’d follow through. He, Snippet, and even her mom have been trying various tactics, but it looks like she’ll be gone tomorrow. She’s already been bumped from the guest bed: M.A.E.’s aunt has come up to see the new baby, and she’s staying with us. Snippet’s staying on the couch tonight. I don’t know where she’ll be tomorrow night, but it won’t be FAR Manor.

I’ve gotten sort of busy in meatspace, trying to get the manor ready for all the family coming to Daughter Dearest’s graduation — so of course I’ve suddenly become unblocked on FAR Future. What little free time I’ve had, I’ve been writing. The next two episodes are already up in scheduled posts for the next two Mondays, and I think I’m pretty clear on the next three episodes after those. I’m gonna write while Olga’s crackin’ the whip, so if I’m not around much you’ll know why.

FAR Future, Episode 32: Thanksgiving in the Midst of Disaster

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Friday, November 29, 2013
Thanksgiving in the Midst of Disaster

I really liked what the prez had to say about Thanksgiving this year: “Make sure your neighbor has something to be thankful for.” Even Shotgun Sam, who tries to parse anything from that direction and turn it into a negative, said he had to agree with that one. Not that his listeners can count on having enough electricity to tune in anyway. In fact, he said something to the effect that more people are now listening to the download version (he doesn’t like the word “podcast” for some reason) than on the air. Of course, the “download version” has all the commercials intact, although it’s not difficult to fast-forward through most of them.

People want to know why we’re back to the rolling blackouts, after a couple months of constant power. Like anyone else, we have grid electricity mostly at night now. After a nice warm October, those early Arctic blasts have already taken their toll — you can’t run a furnace without electricity, and natgas production is going the way of oil, so gas-fired power plants are only running at night trying to conserve natgas for heating. People are trying to keep warm through the day any way they can… unfortunately, some of those ways don’t always leave survivors. The conspiracy sites are printing “leaked reports” that the government is expecting the death toll to be in the thousands — maybe hundreds of thousands — and are suppressing the studies “to avoid panic.” Hell, not even the talking yaps are picking this one up, and they’re the first to “expose secret reports” that leak out, so they might be in on the cover-up too. (Or perhaps I need to steer clear of the conspiracy media for a while.) From what I’ve seen around the blogosphere and heard from the news, people are coping the best they can. On Planet Georgia, with a somewhat milder climate, I have to admit we’re doing more like OK than most… we have plenty of wood, we closed off the upstairs so we don’t have to heat that, and the windmill gives enough juice during the day for essentials like lights, refrigerator, and a computer or two. While the Atlanta TV stations are mostly running a 10am to 2am schedule now, Mrs. Fetched still has her TV when the wind’s blowing (which is most of the time during the winter).

Daughter Dearest is spending the week with us, and I got a “Double Nickel” birthday cake along with Thanksgiving dinner. Keeping the presidential appeal in mind, we went around to the neighbors and suggested a community Thanksgiving dinner at FAR Manor — bring it if you got it, and don’t worry about it if you don’t. I think everyone came, or at least sent a representative along with a dish. There was, as is usual with these potlucks, more than enough to go around — I think everyone took home enough leftovers for a couple of square meals. I made rolls, and they disappeared really quick. We barely had to run the wood stove, with all the people in the house. The neighbors who have been trading us goat milk for other stuff are trying to make cheese, and they brought some to the dinner. It’s… unique. Pretty good on a salad, though. We’re going to try mooshing some garlic and herbs into it to see how it works as a cracker spread.

The motorcycle shop asked me to give another talk about winter riding tomorrow, like I did last year. They want to sell more gear, sure, but if you have to get out you might as well save gas, right? It’s stuff everyone should already know about: if it’s 40F out, and you’re going 55mph, it feels like 25F. I show people a wind-chill chart, talk about the importance of knowing how much cold you can tolerate, how to block wind at highway speed, and what kind of accessories can help in below-freezing weather (which we’ve already had way too many mornings of this month). I got a $50 gift certificate for my spiel last year, so it’s not like I’m doing it for free.

Speaking of motorcycles, the Big Four are supposed to be introducing some new scooters designed with commuting in mind come spring: beefed-up electrical systems for heated clothing, detachable fairing components for different times of year, more cargo space, great gas mileage (the “city” models are all-electric), less maintenance… sounds heavenly. If the job holds up, and I’m starting to wonder if it will, I’ll seriously give one of those some thought.

Winter started early… all I can hope for is that it ends early.

continued…

One (or two) for the Road

A couple of cellphone shots to wrap up the week…

Besides the huckleberries, we have some higher blueberry bushes growing wild on the place. They run a couple weeks behind the huckleberries, for whatever reason. Last year, I was waiting for them to get ripe and then they… disappeared. I guess the birds were waiting too, and they got there first. I was bummed out, but hopeful that we’ll get some of them this year. Maybe I’ll get some cheese cloth or hang some tinfoil around the area to keep them out.

On the way home from work, I took a ride out a back road that I knew dead-ended at a river. I just wondered how far it went and what was out there. Looks like it might have been a bridge at one time.

Well, that’s the end of the road for the flower pix, at least for now. FAR Future episodes will be posted at least on the next two Mondays, and I should be able to make it three. I hope things will continue to work out that way.

The Fruited… whatever.

I started cleaning up around the front and side of the manor over the weekend, and re-discovered the huckleberry (blueberry) clump. The plants themselves are about twice the size they were last year, and promise to give much more than the handful of small (but quite sweet) fruit this time around. All I have to do is keep the birds away (fat chance).

Mrs. Fetched is pretty sure that we’re seeing them now because we had some timber people remove many/most of the pines around the manor grounds two summers ago (they were getting pine beetles & they paid us to take care of the problem). It makes sense.

I’m thinking that once they finish doing their thing this year, I'll dig up and transplant some of these to give them all some more room to grow. But prolific producers like this guy? I’ll leave completely undisturbed, to make sure they have the room they need. I don’t think I’ll worry about having nice regimented rows like many blueberry farms have; I’ll just give them all some space.

That was the side. Around front, across from the driveway, there’s a pretty good stand of blackberries. I debated about mowing them down, then thought better of it — I won’t have to walk very far to pick them. This stand should be good for half a gallon of berries.

I like to get at least two gallons of blackberries every year. Mrs. Fetched’s mom helps to make jelly & jam, and I got like 14 pints last year. When January comes around, I open a jar and spread some on toast… and remember just how dang hot it was on July 4 weekend when I was picking them. :-P

Sage

The sage is absolutely covered with these purple blooms now. Up close, they look like tiny iris flowers, don’t they? As long as it’s blooming like this, I really can’t cut it back. Clever little beastie.

I like the lighting in this second shot. The detail, not so much.

Rhododendron InSAnItY!

I needed an excuse to try out Blogger’s new “scheduled post” feature, so I went out and took pix of some of the stuff sproinging up around the manor. We’ll see how it works over the next few days.

The rhododendron out front of the garage is, to say the least, happy. Then again, it doesn’t care what time of year it is — it’s either blooming or about to. It runs down the long side of the garage and is clearly visible from the kitchen window (about 20 feet long). But this spring, it’s even crazier than usual. This particular cluster is about the size of a child’s head.

Click for larger versions, of course. I’m pretty happy with this shot; the IBs are pretty clear (although the rhodo is a bit of an exhibitionist in that regard).

I couldn’t decide which shot to post… so I posted both!

An M.A.E. (Re-)Production, and Other Stuff

Well, as I Twitter'ed the other night, M.A.E. (as they say on El Reg) dropped a sprog yesterday morning. An M.A.E.-let named Emma Renee, to be precise. The new mom & new baby are both doing fine; Mrs. Fetched and some others went to go visit them at the hospital. If Mrs. Fetched gets a picture, I’ll post it here later. M.A.E. told me “I’m glad it’s over with,” and “I can’t wait to get out of here and get home.” Her & the dad are supposed to be getting married soon… I just wonder why they didn’t get married first and then plan the kid. Ah well. Planet Georgia and logic have not often been closely associated.

According to Mrs. Fetched, Snippet’s mom is going to whisk her away on the 15^th now. I’m not exactly holding my breath, given what happened to the last “gone in two weeks” promise. The Boy, meanwhile, seems hell-bent on violating any requirement we give him as a condition of his continuing to live at FAR Manor. First thing he did was take off with Snippet (and a car) Wednesday night and not return until very late. Due to many glitches in the Matrix — the DSL has been down since Tuesday night, there was a funeral Thursday afternoon that the choir was asked to sing at, I got new tires on my car and a new battery (replaced under warranty, thanks Moto 400) — I ended up calling out of work because I just wasn’t going to get anything done anyway. We got back from the funeral, The Boy was outside, and Mrs. Fetched said something about getting to the chicken houses.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “It’s done.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I did the chicken houses already. Checked the medicators and all that.”

After that, tossing him would have seemed ungrateful to both myself and Mrs. Fetched. OTOH, we have another chance — he left Thursday night and didn’t come back until really late agaiin, and he & Snippet were sleeping on the couch in the detached garage this morning. I’m all for getting him out now, although if Snippet actually goes he’s likely to leave as well.

So he alternates between being helpful and being a PITA… which, I suppose, is an improvement over just being a PITA.

FAR Future, Episode 31: Quiet

First off, apologies for the long delay. My DSL crapped out Tuesday evening, and it was just fixed today.

Just for grins, this is what I had to contend with getting gas on the way home. BJs (a competitor to Sams) was selling gas for $3.49 to members today, and it’s anywhere from $3.55 to $3.79 at other stations nearby. (Who ever thought people would line up for $3.50 gas???)

Just to make life even more interesting, the pumps were running veerrrrrrrrryyyyy slloooooowwwwwwwllllyyyy. I didn’t have to stand around by myself, though; people want to talk to the guy with that strange-looking motorcycle.

Of course, half the vehicles at the pumps were trucks or SUVs, none of the cars were the size of my Civic, and I was the only one on a motorcycle… and on a beautiful day, no less. I suppose gas will have to go even higher to get people to really change their ways… although the guy in the Mustang GT in front of me was talking about getting his Shadow out of mothballs. He ought to — my DRZ gets over twice the gas mileage of his car.

Back to the story… FINALLY.

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Saturday, October 19, 2013
Quiet

Whew. The phone calls and emails are finally tapering off. My 15 minutes of fame are running out, and not a moment too soon. While the job offers from various news services have been more interesting, none are offering what I’m making on my day job. But I could have all the extra income I want as a stringer.

What’s not so fun is how everyone is using my work for ends that have little to do with water conflicts. A-list bloggers say “we” (as if I’m an A-lister… who’s this “we”?) have “schooled the tradmed” once again. The tradmed, perhaps as a little payback, has developed a narrative that identifies me as a “press secretary for the GCM.” Ick! And of course the fringers are spinning the whole thing as the True Militia defeating the National Guard (implication: “false militia”) in armed combat.

I don’t want to go on too long about this, but I have to admit that my opinion of the GCM as a bunch of armed yahoos was a bit off. Yeah, there are plenty of those folks — but there’s a core group, officers and foot soldiers, and they’re sharp. Plenty of military experience, and a few active reservists. It calls to mind the business owners in the Smokies and other rural places, who carefully cultivate an “ignert” front… all the better to fleece the “sophisticated” tourists. One of the officers is a state reprehensible representative, and I get the impression that many of the other leaders are politically connected as well. To describe the GCM as a covert branch of the state government might be paranoid, but it might also be true. Now if the “real” media would start ferreting out those connections and figure out just what’s going on…

Anyway, all that is finally slipping into my past. While the phone calls and such are cooling off, it has been plenty warm at FAR Manor for an October, with no cool-down in sight. A Bermuda high has stalled out and is pushing warm air up this way. The garden has been happy, especially since there’s been plenty of moisture coming up with the warm air. I’m thinking we might have moved our bed off the porch a little too soon. But we celebrated Daughter Dearest’s birthday earlier this week; The Boy came to stay the weekend too. First time in a number of years that we’ve all been together at the manor, and it was kind of nice. Well… no “kind of” about it. The Boy helped me finish up the firewood; we should have enough to get through the winter once it gets started. It helped that we had a few days of dry weather this week.

The warm weather has everyone hoping for a really short and/or mild winter. Natural gas utilities have admitted they aren’t sure they have enough stocks to get through a severe winter… in other words, they could run out if things get really cold. A lot of people are planning to heat with wood, not all of it scrap lumber, and that’s putting a lot of pressure on forest managers to keep poachers from cleaning them out — the smart ones aren’t waiting for things to get cold. Most places allow taking out deadfall, but with fuel rationing there’s only so far into the woods you can go to find it before it isn’t worth the effort (although it probably won’t be long before people start using a horse & wagon again). Some people are likely to burn pine, because they have plenty of that and not so much hardwood, so fire departments are gearing up for dealing with an expected huge increase in chimney fires this winter. Most communities are encouraging people to double up families for the winter (like many did last year); it’s a lot easier to heat one house than two and some cities are offering free assistance for emptying water pipes and generally buttoning up a house for several months. A lot of people are balking, what with looters stripping abandoned houses last year and eventually tearing them down for firewood, although it’s likely that a lot of the people worried now were part of the problem back then, grabbing free firewood where they could. The survival instinct is a funny thing like that.

As always, there are people out to make an honest living by the opportunities found in any crisis: chimney sweeps (“only we can prevent chimney fires” is one of the slogans), plumbers (guaranteeing unbroken pipes come spring), and security. Others are looking at less-honest ways to turn a buck: professional arsonists, burglars, looters (taking pieces of the house rather than the contents), and fuel fraudsters who guarantee natural gas or fuel oil all winter for an up-front fee then disappear after collecting the money. We’ve already had a couple of the latter types leave lengthy ads on our answering machine (a violation in itself), and I’m getting peeved enough to set up a sting operation. Mrs. Fetched is against it, as she is with any idea I come up with at first, but she’ll probably come around when she thinks about the consequences — to me, that’s nothing short of indirect murder. I gave the contact information to the local cops anyway; they said they would check it out so maybe I won’t have to do much about it.

On the other hand, investigative journalism is probably a lot less hazardous than the embedded variety!

continued…

Glitches, continued [UPDATED]

Um. Well, now Snippet is not at FAR Manor, at least tonight. A kidney ailment turned out to be a urinary tract infection (I thought only guys got those?). They also checked her for appendicitis (doesn’t appear to be an issue) and pregnancy (no and cue “Hallelujah Chorus” there). She was spiking into high-fever territory, so they wanted to keep her there for the night — fine with me! Her mom managed to show up and stay with her the night… one can only hope that she suddenly decides she can’t be without her baby and takes her with when they check out.

UPDATE: Snippet may have a kidney stone, which will necessitate further work. Probably later, though. Mrs. Fetched called the hospital before I left for work this morning to see what was going on; Snippet will be returning to FAR Manor some time today.

Glitches in the Matrix

Mrs. Fetched is reading in bed, and I can’t sleep with the light on.

Snippet is supposed to leave tomorrow. It looks like it won’t happen, at least right away. I expected The Boy to try throw wrenches, I definitely expected Snippet to do it… but for whatever reason, I didn’t expect her mom to throw wrenches. She’s coming tomorrow alright, but with a load of excuses and some “rent” money. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t want to have Snippet with her… not the kind of thing I expect from a mom. No, I’m not anywhere near happy about it — but at the end of the day, I don’t want to be responsible for what happens to a teenage female on the street. So we had a powwow of sorts this evening, The Boy and Snippet agreed to a laundry list of requirements, and two hours later The Boy is already pushing at them. To be honest, except for one problem I walked into, Snippet mostly doesn’t give too much trouble. I think maybe we should keep Snippet and toss The Boy. Maybe he should go live with Snippet’s mom.

Mrs. Fetched had to take Daughter Dearest to the doctor again today; DD has had strep for a while and she relapsed after starting to respond to the antibiotics. The docs took a blood test and warned that she might have mono — which DD swears is not going to cancel her prom appearance. (EJ is “escorting” her for the evening.) But in the doctor’s office, Mrs. Fetched said she heard three people say they were going to quit their jobs in the next few weeks because they can’t afford to drive to them anymore. Bus service isn’t exactly useful in rural areas, unfortunately. But with the prices of luxuries like food going through the roof, you have to wonder what’s next. Mrs. Fetched’s mom is working with a milk cow, getting her used to people grabbing and pulling on the ol’ udders, and that might be how we get milk very shortly. [Note: this is not FAR Future. Do not adjust your browser.] I was joking with DD that she might have to start milking a cow recently.

“Hey. You could do it,” she suggested.

“Yeah… but I might enjoy it,” I grinned. She rolled her eyes and walked away.

Snippet and EJ could well become apprentice gardeners for Mrs. Fetched’s mom, who considers a “small garden” to be roughly five acres. Tomorrow night is supposed to bottom out in the upper 30s and after that, it warms up pretty quick. I was noticing that some blackberry vines were already starting to bloom, so we might get a mild blackberry winter this time.

And of course, the battery on my new motorcycle is already wearing out after nine months — it can take a charge, but not keep it. If it’s not one thing around here, it’s another. Maybe I can get a new battery Thursday.

Weekend Cinema

If you're broke and got too much to do… I can relate. That’s why Weekend Cinema brings you short free videos!

Today’s selection is quite funny, well-done, and… oh, shut up Farf and open the curtain! OK, OK: presenting Young Frankensteve!

(And if you’re left scratching your head, perhaps this video will provide a little context.)

(hat tip: Jim Barrow, from Techcomm)

Go Yard

I was going to post this last night, but got tied up on a proposal for work. Weekend Cinema will come tomorrow. I hope to have a new FAR Future episode ready next week.

As I mentioned in the previous post, we did a lot of shopping last weekend to burn up the last of the tax refund. Our major purchase was a Cub Cadet lawn mower. Mrs. Fetched wanted self-propelled and a bagger. I wanted a Honda engine and a decent (i.e. not Wal-Mart) build quality. This fit the bill, and was pretty much in line with what we were seeing for similar mowers.

One of the nicer features is that you can control the drive speed by squeezing a lever, so we can easily vary the speed to match the part of the lawn we’re working on. Straight ahead? Let 'er rip! Stumps or landscaping? Ease it back. The swivel wheels up front allow tighter turns as well, and can be locked (although in our yard, turns are plenty so they’ll likely remain swinging).

Of course, with a bag that fills up two or three times, you need a place to empty it. I’ve been wanting to get a composting bin for a while, but I never saw any places that carried them locally and I balked at the $120 prices online. I’d contemplated just buying a big garbage can and cutting some holes in it, but Mrs. Fetched wanted to go to WalMart… and guess who is the only place in the free-range insane asylum that has composters? I sighed and coughed up $44 for the coffers in Bentonville.

I put it together that evening and plunked it down on top of the compost heap I’d had going for a while now. The next day, I pretty much filled it up with grass clippings. Two days later, it was only half full. It’s magic! I told The Boy that if he has any worms left over from fishing, to throw them in — they’ll help digest the fodder and make more worms. It’s just the right height to comfortably pee into (given the situation with the septic tank, the fewer flushes the better, and the composter can always use a little extra nitrogen).

Of course, the motto “if it’s WalMart, it must be junk” applies here too. This seam first popped loose when I was working the
composter into place. It popped open again on its own later. I’ve given up wasting my time trying to put it together for now; eventually, I’ll grab some flashing and a pop riveter and go for a more permanent fix.

I think I’ll try building another composter out of a big garbage can and see if I can get Mrs. Fetched’s mom to warm up to the idea. She loves her gardening, and free soil enrichments would make her happy.

Flowers in her hair, flowers everywhere

There are some compensations to living at FAR Manor. One is the explosion of color we get, usually around April Fool’s Day. This year, with winter hanging on just as long as it could, things were a little slow to get moving… waiting, of course, until we were on vacation. On the other hand, this is what we came home to: everything is in bloom.





Boran2 asked me to post a photo of this episode of “When Sage Goes Wild.” It’s sprawling about 6 feet across at the moment. Iowa Victory Gardener suggests I prune it back, and that’s probably a good idea.

The rosemary (over to the left) needs a little fertilizer and trimming back, but it too is blooming at the moment. I’ll wait for it to go back to just being green (instead of green and purple) before doing much more than getting a little cutting for the homebrew (which I have yet to start, dangit!).



I’d mentioned that the oregano I planted last fall was hugging the ground and slowly creeping around, under the weeds and under the frost radar. Now that things are warming up, it has made its presence known. This thing is nearly 2-½ feet across, enough to flavor a few dozen pizzas with enough left over for salads.

Meanwhile, the mint held its own through the winter and is now feeling ready to do its thing. I have a feeling these two will put on an Herbal Death Match this year.



The flowering cherry tree sits right outside the bedroom window, and stands higher than the house itself. It makes for a nice view this time of year when I’m working at home and sitting at the window.

The picture doesn’t really do justice to the tree, unless you click on it to get the full-size view.





Just in case you want an even closer view…

So anyway, this was a weekend of much going on (the good parts of FAR Manor tend to be rather brief that way :-P). At least I didn’t have to deal with the chicken houses… but yesterday morning I cleaned out the fireplace insert and saved out a small bucket of charcoal, maybe enough to grill out once. The Boy has been helping to start building up the fuel supply for next winter, and he’s about ¼ of the way there.

After lunch, we started shopping. The lawn mower had Epic Fail last fall, so we started looking for a new one. I decided I’d rather spend a couple hundred bucks and get something that won’t give us a bunch of grief, and ended up with a Cub Cadet. Mrs. Fetched went berserk in the garden section at Home Despot, and I picked up a couple of annual herbs — purple basil? Must try! Finally, I learned (much to my dismay) that the only place that sells composting bins around here is Wally World.

So we got home, and I put the lawn mower together (mainly the handle) — then realized we had no gas. Daughter Dearest had been pinging us occasionally through the day about getting cat litter while we were out, but Mrs. Fetched’s dad was with us and he was getting tired before we managed to get to the grocery store. So once more into a vehicle, and off to the grocery store. We got cat litter, and much more (of course), then stopped to fill a couple of gas cans on the way back. Naturally, it was dark before we returned home, so the lawn had to wait.

And wait some more. Mrs. Fetched was hot to get those flowers planted. She knew I wanted to deal with the lawn, so she simply had me drag out the Mantis and dig up the beds. I got most of the weeds out from around the oregano as well. But when I was done with the lawn, I was dragooned into digging holes for the larger stuff. Again, it was getting dark before we finished… so I guess Mrs. Fetched can try getting The Boy to do some weed-eating this week.

I’m ready for bed. Back to the office, where I can maybe relax a little.

A few more vacation photos

A couple more pix I had kicking around on my cellphone.

The Boy and I got tagged to help carry a 16' extension ladder up to the roof of Mom’s 8-story condo, where the ladder would be permanently stored in the elevator engine room… allowing them to inspect the roof of the building on the roof (confused yet?).

We ended up having to take the ladder apart and carry the two pieces individually up the stairwell to get it where it needed to go. Each piece barely fit up the stairwell, but we managed (with Wicked Stepfather reminding us to “try not to scrape the paint!”). But eventually, we got the pieces topside, put them together, stood the (extended) ladder up against the elevator room and called it Good Enough.

“I want one more walk on the beach before we leave,” I said on Saturday afternoon. I’d only gotten down there twice. Mom decided to join me, and we went about a mile up and back.

Some kids had been out building sandcastles. I liked the other better, but this was the picture that turned out. That’s smellphones for you, right?

There were also people surf fishing; I saw one bucket with a tail sticking out, so someone had gotten lucky that afternoon.

Unfortunately, vacation was winding down with the day. We crammed five people into a four-door Civic for the 9.5-hour drive home, and got to it (I don’t think Mrs. Fetched quite thought through the implications of having me bring The Boy and Snippet down).

I was expecting Mrs. Fetched to suggest we stop somewhere for the night, which I wasn’t completely against, but she wanted to get home. She drove about a third of the way home, from somewhere south of Macon to the topside of Atlanta, which gave me enough of a nap (with my knees crammed against the glove box) to finish up the drive home.

Next time, I’m taking the motorcycle.

Weekend Cinema

You are just NOT going to believe this one!!!

(h/t Steve McHenry, on Techcomm)

Soon to be “Snipped.” I hope.

After the little episode on vacation, in which Snippet back-talked to Mrs. Fetched, she (with my full support) decided that Snippet was to be ejected once we got home. She told Snippet to call her (Snippet’s) mom and let her know she was going to have to return — and why. Mrs. Fetched is really bad about making such pronouncements and then going back on them, which has given The Boy reason to believe he can pretty much do anything he wants without repercussions (once the storm blows over), so I wasn’t sure if that was going to be the case (again) this time.

I came home from work Monday to find no movement… turned out Mrs. Fetched misplaced Snippet’s mom’s phone number, and Snippet wasn’t exactly quick to set up the process of her own ejection (understandable, even if wrong). Yesterday, still no movement.

“So is Snippet gone yet?”

“Two weeks,” Mrs. Fetched said. She hasn’t offered any explanation since then, and I’m not sure what the delay is about. In Snippet’s shoes, I wouldn’t exactly be quick to toe the line anymore. After all, what good would it do? The decision has been made and doing what she should have been doing (and as importantly, avoiding what she shouldn’t have been doing) isn’t going to change that. I just hope this isn’t a stall tactic, in hopes that I’ll forget that she should be leaving. I forget stuff all the time, but I won’t forget this.

Random Vacation Photos & Notes

This runs pretty long, but there’s not a good breaking point.

The back porch area of the condo we stayed at, accessible only through the guest bedroom (where Snippet was sleeping). The flowers were very fragrant, and it smelled pretty good out there… despite The Boy’s and Snippet’s best efforts to stink it up with their cancer sticks. The beach party was about two blocks south of the condo.

The condo itself was across Gulf Blvd. from the beach — that saved us a ton of money, and all the kids are (nominally) old enough to cross the street without anyone helping them.


I saw this sign Sunday morning, along one edge of the parking lot at Joker Marchant Stadium, where we had the autocross. This is enough of a problem that they have to put up a sign?



Monday, I got the phone call to come get the girlies. Mrs. Fetched said she was getting tickets for everyone so we could spend the day at Dizzy. Of course, The Boy and Snippet were being very slow to get moving, which (imagine that) peeved Mrs. Fetched to no end: Keeping Her Waiting is one of the seven deadly sins, you know. She started snarling at me (at the phone in the rest area), so I gave it right back to her.

So, Daughter Dearest was at Disney World! Well, actually she’d been here since early Friday — long enough to scope out all the roller coasters she wanted me to ride with her. I’m not keen on the ones that go upside-down and all that foofaraw, but the displays they have set up waiting in line for the “Rockin’ Roller Coaster” were worth it. I was also partial to the Tower of Terror, as I’ve always been a Twilight Zone fan.

Other than that, what can you say about Dizzy World? You pay a $#¡+load of money to get in, you wait in line for an hour to ride a 5-minute ride, lather rinse repeat, pay exorbitant prices for fast food, until you run out of steam and leave.

Speaking of Tower of Terror, The Boy and Snippet rode with us. This was one of the better moments of the trip with regards to them. Later in the week… well, Mrs. Fetched doesn’t appreciate me “telling everybody about it.” Suffice it to say it’s not the first time. Snippet is getting ejected, but we’re having some issues contacting her mom (like finding the number). She should be gone in a day or so, and the guest room will again be open for visiting relatives and blog-buddies.

I spent Thursday at Solar’s. He had me over for beer, pizza, and more beer. His girlfriend was there for a while, but went out with her sister. She’s pretty cool — doesn’t like TV, has blind spots in her sense of humor… wait a minute, that’s me & I’m not that cool. :-P He sent me home with many gifts: some small (but nice) speakers that will go into Studio FARf, a sub-woofer (ditto), and a 17" LCD monitor. He said he wasn’t sure it worked, but when they replaced it the new one didn’t work either; the video card was out. But I’m using it now. It has a very PC-like gamma, much darker than the Macbook monitor, but more real estate on the desk is always welcome.

Unfortunately, the speakers ended up stashed at Mom’s until she comes up for DD’s graduation next month. Three people drove down in a Civic, but five rode back (the ladies took a tour bus to Orlando a day before I left). The trunk was crammed with luggage, and some of it spilled into the passenger compartment. Fortunately, an LCD screen takes very little room and we could bring that. I was surprised that Mrs. Fetched didn’t suggest (i.e. demand) we stop at a hotel somewhere along the way; I guess she didn’t want to un-cram and re-cram stuff (and people) — we ended up maintaining cordial relations cooped up in a little car for 10 hours. Must be some kind of record.

I leave you with a shot of one of the more intriguing supermarket displays I’ve ever seen. This was at the Indian Rocks Publix, and is a very detailed sand sculpture. They had a “please do not touch” sign up next to it, and I don’t blame them. I wonder if it’s still intact.

And now I’m back at FAR Manor. We had a “wintry mix” (aka slush storm) today. I want to be back on the beach.

FAR Future, Episode 30: War is Hell

Keychain drives are a god-send, aren’t they?

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Monday, September 2, 2013 (11:52 p.m.)
War is Hell

To describe Mrs. Fetched as “peeved” would be like describing water as “damp.” Livid might be a little closer. A little.

OK, obviously I’m still alive to tell you about what happened. I’m even not wounded or anything. I wasn’t sure how long I’d stay that way once I got back to FAR Manor, but she said very little. A hug, “I’m glad you’re safe,” and straight to bed. She wasn’t exactly in the mood to talk though, which is letting me get the aftermath put together. Anyway, here’s what happened.

The shooting started, I posted and closed the laptop. My cellphone was ringing before I even had a change to finish stuffing the computer in my pack.

“The news says there’s shooting!” Mrs. Fetched yelled. “Where are you?”

“I hear it too, but I’m at the rear. I’m fine. I obviously can’t say everything else is fine, but I’m out of harm’s way.”

“Can you get out of there?”

“Not right away. But we’re OK back here.”

One of the couriers — a skinny guy on a college cross-country team — came pelting back. “We need the medics up front, now!” he gasped, then grabbed a water bottle and downed it.

“Roll out!” Sgt. Pepper yelled. “You too,” he pointed at me. Oh crap.

“We’re moving out,” I said, trying to keep it vague. “Pray for these people, OK? I’ll call you as soon as I can get a moment.” I hung up and switched to camera, and narrated as we double-timed it to the front lines. I still don’t remember the gunfire stopping, but I must have at the time: when I reviewed the video I said something hopeful as we reached the lines.

Chaos, as expected. People on both sides of the road were milling around, it looked like several dozen wounded on either side, sergeants on both sides still screaming at the troops to cease fire you assholes, stand the fuck DOWN even though nobody was even pointing a weapon anymore. I slapped the phone shut and turned to one of the medics. “You need a stretcher bearer or anything?”

“Yeah,” he said. He tagged a courier, standing and gawking at the scene. “You too. We’ve got a tent a few hundred yards back; I’ll lead y’all there the first time. We’ll load the casualties on the stretchers, you just have to carry ’em. Move quick but be careful, you don’t want to drop ’em. Got it?”

We nodded and immediately got to work. People made way for us; the courier (whose wind is better than mine) took the front and called “wounded coming through, make way!” and that seemed to help a lot.

On the second trip, the guy on the stretcher was facing me. “You’re the reporter, ain’tcha?” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Word’s got around. You ain’t one of us, but you’re bein’ fair about your coverage.”

“I’m trying, anyway. You sure you should be talking?”

“It’s my shoulder, they didn’t pop a lung. Just don’t jostle me.” The medics had wrapped the shoulder, but it was bloody. He laughed. “Lots of guys out here figured you’d clear the hill with one jump as soon as the shooting started.”

“Yeah… and I’m gonna catch hell from my wife for not doing just that! She was on the horn right away.”

He laughed harder, then winced. “Ah shit. It hurts to laugh that hard. Don’t make me laugh.”

“OK, sorry. What happened down there?”

“They started it. Accidentally, anyway. General Mayhem got on a bullhorn and told the Tennessee boys to disperse in ten minutes or be arrested for unlawful incursion, or something like that. The officers on their side told ’em to stand firm, and things got pretty tense. After the ten minutes were up, we were ordered to disarm the Tennessee boys and take ’em into custody. They gave us zip ties to tie their wrists with.” He reached under himself with his good hand, wincing a little, and brought out a handful of long plastic zip ties. “So we started across the road, everyone started yellin’. Some of the Tennessee boys stood their ground and wrestled with us, some of ’em backed up and pointed their guns. One of ’em was pointin’ his rifle at me, stumbled on something, and his gun went off — so I guess that makes me the first casualty of the war, huh? Well, all hell broke loose and you know the rest.”

We got to the tent, and the medics took charge. “Can I get you to repeat that on camera a little later? I’m a little busy right now.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Like I said, you’re OK. I’ll wait here for ya.”

I only had to make three or four trips — the medics drafted some privates to carry as well, and we got all the wounded off the line pretty quickly. Some of them had Guard uniforms; I heard neither side’s medics were being choosy about whom they picked up, and that was fine with me. Unfortunately, several people on both sides were dead… which is to be expected when you’re exchanging gunfire with people 20 feet away.

The courier who’d called in the medics found me. “Colonel Mustard wants you up front,” he said. “He and the Tennessee commander are negotiating a cease-fire, and they both want a recording.” He held back a bit so I could keep up, and led me back to where I’d interviewed the Tennessee commander just an hour or so earlier. It seemed like it had been a day or two already. The Tennessee guard was already leaving, marching up the road and ignoring the occasional jeer (quickly hushed) from the militia, but spared me a glare or two. The news helicopters were circling like noisy buzzards, a lot lower than earlier, and it was a wonder a couple of them didn’t collide as thick as they were.

I spared thirty seconds to call Mrs. Fetched and explain the situation (and emphasize that I was safe), then waded in, turned off the phone, turned on the camera, and kept my mouth shut. The “negotiations,” such as they were, were pretty small potatoes compared to what was (and still is) going on in Atlanta, Nashville, and Washington. I’m guessing, at this point, that Planet Georgia will give up their border claims in exchange for water rights… which is all they really wanted in the first place. A more unfortunate aspect of this skirmish is that people in the northern Plains are starting to talk about doing the same thing over the Ogallala Aquifer. Like I said, the water wars are going on tour.

It took a few hours for the ambulances to carry off the wounded. The hike back up the canyon was exhausting, which made the ride back home pretty quiet. My second cellphone battery was getting low, but I figured it would be good for a few minutes (especially if I turned off the phone part), so I went for one last interview. “Did you guys think it would end up the way it did?”

Derisive snorts and a “hell no” or two. But the guy in the back seat with me said, “Y’know, we knew it could end up like it did. Or worse. At least I knew. I just figured it wouldn’t.”

“What would you have done different if you’d known there would be some real shooting?”

“Oh, we’d’a still come,” he said, and the others nodded. “But… I guess I’d’a mugged a cop for his body armor first!” The battery wheezed out to all of us sharing a laugh.

And now, I need to edit down all my stuff, which could take half the night. Then start answering some of the 100+ emails from media people. I guess Colonel Mustard gave them my address… they want raw footage, cooked footage, pictures, interviews with me(!), the kitchen sink, etc. Getting shot might have been more merciful.

continued…

Autocross

Solar was kind enough to invite me to his autocross club meet today. We mostly arranged things the week before, then firmed up the details yesterday. Of course, this involved getting up at 5 a.m. to get to Lakeland and set up everything — and he was working registration for the day, so we had to be among the first arrivals. Well, it seems like weekends are mostly when I’m ever required to be up that early. I was pretty well low on sleep anyway, so I went to bed at 9 and woke up at 4:40 without the aid of the cellphone alarm (set to 5). This gave me time to make some coffee before heading over to Solar’s.

Something was wonky with the cell service — both of us tried calling each other but couldn’t get through. He was relieved to see me arrive, and we got on the road (stopping once for more caffiene).

Our destination was Marchant Stadium, a place I’ve always wanted to visit during spring training and catch a Tigers game. But instead of watching people throw baseballs, we were there to throw cars around a parking lot. The first order of business, of course, was to set up the registration desk. People queued up right away, and Solar got to work.

Next up was to lay out the course. This involves strategic placement of traffic cones — lots of them, I figured helping out beat being bored, and got to it. I also spent a lot of time scratching my head and “WTF?”ing at the cones — it took a lot of staring at the map, and several walks around the course, to figure it out. Then I joked about it being almost as curvy as some Planet Georgia roads.

Meanwhile, Solar had arranged my driving situation: I’d be driving his car, a rare German-built Civic Si, and switching numbers for each run. He has #30, so slapping a 6 on the end made me #306. I took that as good luck, because 306 is a highway not too far from FAR Manor. Turned out we’d been assigned to Run A and Work B, which meant we would not have to stick around for the last group. This was good; we’d arrived early so we could leave early.

At last, it was time to do it. Solar and I were the first and second drivers on the course, respectively — he grumbled a little about that, since that meqant we’d contend with all the grit on the track. Both of us missed a turn (“off course”) on our first run, which earned us each a DNF. They added a seriously wicked zig-zag right at the end, to slow everyone down before they hit the exit chute, and that’s what caught me. But only once. AFter getting a little more familiar with the course, and a couple of pointers from Solar, I turned in respectable high-40 second times for my last two runs. As expected for one more experienced, Solar beat my best time by a good 3 seconds and change, and opined that he might have been able to shave another second off if he’d had one more run. Here’s my times, which earned me a respectible 22nd of 29 in our class, and mid-pack overall:



I have to say, it was a blast throwing someone else’s car through tight maneuvers, skidding on the edge on control around a bunch of cones and managing to not hit any. But the fun continued after I was done driving.

Around the course are a number of stations. People at the stations are out there to reset knocked-over cones and call in drivers going off-course, — or, in an emergency, flag down cars or hit 'em with a fire extinguisher. The latter two are rare occurrences, and neither happened this day, but they have been needed in the past. All we had to contend with was a couple of cones, a handful of “Station 5, Car 51, off course” calls… and a downpour. It was warm, so I didn’t care about the wet too much. The cars continued to run in the rain, with a little more drama — a couple of smaller rear-drive cars spun out at the same spot and had to turn around to continue. (They run essentially one at a time, they weren’t out there at the same moment.) The rain probably improved my standing a little, but Solar pointed out that most of our class (G) ran before the rain got started.

At last, it was time to leave. The rain continued, dampening the St. Pete Grand Prix as well. Fortunately, Solar has a large carport/overhang on the front of his house, so the planned grilling of cheeseburgers went on uninterrupted.

The Boy and Snippet locked themselves out of the condo (again), so I finally made my manners and rover back through the rain. With much less drama than in Lakeland.

“Beauty and the Beach”

As I often do on vacation, I will type up posts as they happen then post them when I can, back-dating them to the proper day. If you come to look at vacation posts, this is the first.

I can’t take the credit (or blame) for that title: it’s what Indian Rocks Beach is calling their mini-festival today.

The drive down was anything but beautiful, though. I was hoping The Boy would show up at the office around 5:30, which would have gotten us here around 2 a.m. Being his mother’s child, he never shows up on time for anything, and always has “a good reason” (thunderstorms and a brain-fart that sent him back home) so it was closer to 7:30 by the time he arrived. It was some of the worst driving weather in recent memory — I was hoping we would get past the rain by the time we got to Macon, but it sprinkled on & off pretty much all the way down. So between one thing and another, we got here around 4:30 a.m. We hit a truck stop somewhere south of Macon because the kids were whining about needing a bathroom (read: cigarette) break and snacks. I am stunned by the generosity of the truck stop owners: dump $600 on gas (diesel is $4/gal), and get a “free” meal! I was going to have The Boy drive one leg of the trip so I could get a brief rest before bringing us through Tampa and over to the beach, but he was sound asleep at that point so I just kept on. I was pretty well wasted by the time we got here.

Of course, The Boy had to start being a butthead almost immediately, playing the TV, flipping switches, and generally making noise. I shushed him several times before finally falling asleep and passing beyond all knowledge of further stupidity. Of course, I can't sleep past 9:30 anymore for just about any reason, so I’m running on short sleep rations today. A brief afternoon nap helped, and I made a list of things I forgot to bring and may not need anyway: bicycle, folding chairs, cooler, etc. Mom or Solar probably can help with that. The Boy suggested I buy “us” a six-pack, but I told him we’re a long way from the chicken houses so I don’t need to drink.

But there are compensations. I'm on the beach. A veritable buffet of bikinis offer an endless feast for the eyes. A live band provides the soundtrack. There is beer. Even at $3 a pop, I'm coming out ahead because I'd pay more than that for a six-pack & The Boy would drink it before I got one or two. Our tax refunds came in, so I can afford $3 beer. The Boy & Snippet are currently off checking out the beach or something and leaving me alone. Life, for now, is good. Even on short sleep. The one flaw preventing the scene from being perfect is Internet access. There are plenty of wi-fi nodes in the area, but all of them are passworded (good for them!).

Jason Young provided the music. I couldn't get the video to “process”, so I’ll try posting it later in a miscellaneous photo post.

FAR Future, Episode 29: Battle Lines

I hope I can find a chance to post next week. Hold on to your water bottles…

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Monday, September 2, 2013 (1:40 p.m.)
Battle Lines

The hike down-canyon made for dramatic footage. Somebody started singing “Onward Christian Soldiers,” and pretty much the entire militia took it up. I also got a good segment of a couple medics tending to a guy with a sprained ankle. It was a difficult hike, and a lot of people had top-heavy packs that didn’t help matters. I got a good clip of a guy going down and sliding about 10 feet. He wasn’t hurt, fortunately… but it took him a minute to get turned around and back on his feet. Then he almost fell again. I skidded a little once, but managed to keep my feet. I don’t know if I could have stayed upright if I’d been as weighed down as some of them.

All of us who made it down in one piece finally made it down, though, and Sgt. Pepper gave me leave to go up to the front and get some more footage. Most of the sergeants were explaining the rules of engagement to their platoons — “Under no circumstances will the Citizens’ Militia fire the first shot in this war! Is that clear?” “YES SIR!” — or marching their troops up the road at the bottom of the canyon. The road ends at an east-west road that marks the old border, and the Tennessee National Guard was deployed on the north side of the center line, shoulder to shoulder, standing at ease and right shoulder arms. Many were engaged in a stare-down with the militia; there were a few taunts from our side of the line but they were quickly shushed by the sergeants.

On a whim, I crossed the road (hands in the air) and approached one of their sergeants. “Who’s your commanding officer?” I asked him, identifying myself. “I’d like to interview him, if he’s willing.”

The guy looked uneasy. “Down the road,” he gestured east. “Dunno if he’ll talk to you or just shoot you.”

“Like he’s chicken$#¡+ enough to shoot a non-combatant,” I said, and hiked it. That was one of the most nerve-wracking walks I’d ever taken: right up the middle of a military stand-off, and it felt very much like running a gauntlet. A couple of militia people stopped me to ask what I was doing, but let me go when I explained (and winked, as if I was going to get any intelligence even if the guy was willing to talk).

“Amateurs, all around,” the Tennessee CO said when I explained my status. “Why not? You know you’re like as not to end up in a firefight here, right?”

“There’s always a chance of that,” I said. “I could get killed in traffic going to work, too. I almost have a couple of times. But I heard some sergeants telling their men that the militia will not fire the first shot… so does that mean you intend to start the shooting?”

He laughed grimly. “Touché. No, we’re operating under strict rules of engagement, too — no shooting except in self-defense.”

I conducted a brief interview, just running through a basket of questions that came to mind as I was walking the gauntlet, then closed it up. “One last thing,” the CO said. “Anyone who crosses the centerline without leave will be arrested for criminal trespass. You might want to pass the word on to your folks over there.” Then two guards frog-marched me back to the road and shoved me roughly across the centerline — perhaps for my own good, since I got some sympathy from the militia for that. I spat at the retreating guardsmen, for show, and that didn’t hurt either.

Colonel Mustard was waiting for me when I got back to my platoon near the rear. “That was a dam’fool stunt you pulled there, but let’s see the video. There might be something we can use.” I shrugged and pulled up the video for them. I doubted there was anything useful for them, but the colonel wasn’t so sure — he flipped out his cellphone and walked away, talking to General Mayhem in low tones. He stepped back long enough to give my phone back, then dismissed me. It was time for lunch, maybe a little past time, so I found a shady spot to eat and write up this part.

I’ve uploaded all my video so far to a couple of email accounts; I should be able to grab it & edit it down tonight. I was going to do that right here and post it to a wire service, but the battery on my laptop is getting low. I’m just going to post

I hear shooting.

continued…

All Week Long…

…this has been Daughter Dearest:



She and Mrs. Fetched leave tonight for a long weekend at the aforementioned tourist trap/wallet cleaner. Tomorrow after work, I head to the coast to check into the place we’re staying and visit with the family. Solar is taking me to his autocross meet Sunday, so I’ll have Saturday to recover from the drive.

And I’ll post the second episode of FAR Future tonight. I don’t know if I’ll get the next one out before I get home or not, though.

FAR Future, Episode 28: On the March

When I finished this episode, it ran nearly 1800 words. That’s a short story, but a heck of a long blog post! So I split it in two, and I’ll post the second one tomorrow to deliver the promised two-fer this week.

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Monday, September 2, 2013 (10:47 a.m.)
On the March

Mrs. Fetched thinks I’m nuts. I think she might be right. But she’s the one who was born on Planet Georgia, is 100% loyal to her state, and thinks this “militia” march is right & proper — so I’m not sure why she would object to me joining in.

Anyway, I actually emailed the guy who sent the spam and told them I was a non-combatant but would be willing to act as an embedded journalist for the march if none of the mainstream media was interested. I got a terse response: “call me,” a phone number, and a first name. When I called, he didn’t act surprised that I was a blogger, nor was he put off at my not being sure they were right (and thinking they might be a little crazy). “I get people tellin’ me they got Silver Stars in Iraq and all that $#¡+ — and that stuff’s easy to check out,” he said. “I’d sooner have an honest enemy with us than a gung-ho liar, ’least you know what to expect. Gimme your address and I’ll send you your credentials and some local people you can hook up with.”

Sure enough, in a couple days I got a large envelope with a letter, saying I was duly appointed as an embedded journalist with the Georgia Citizens’ Militia, some contact numbers, a white armband, and a list of things to bring. Guns, ammo, first aid kits, water, and food top the list. The white armband marks me as a non-combatant; there’s a list of armband colors and what they mean… these guys are more organized than I’d expected.

I arranged a ride with my local contacts, one that I know well enough to talk to. He was surprised, and a little suspicious, that I was going to be joining them — he knows my general political bent. When I told him I was the embedded journalist, he nodded and relaxed… that was more in keeping with what he expected. We agreed to split gas money and ration tickets, and they came by FAR Manor to pick me up before dawn. I ran a warm-up interview with the other riders along the way; we had a couple of hours to kill and I figured it would be a good start — their armbands marked them as grunts, so it was good to get an idea of what motivated them. The answers were both banal and surprising: it was an excuse to get away from the homestead, they believed in what they were doing, that kind of thing. Of course, they wanted to turn it around and ask me why I was going, especially since I wasn’t a gung-ho supporter — fair enough. I told them I was personally curious about them and their mission, and thought it was worth sharing with the world — and, like them, needed an excuse to get away for a day. They all laughed, and there was a certain tension in the car that I hadn’t noticed until it evaporated.

About the time the sun came up behind us, the talking-head radio told us that the Tennessee Highway Patrol was running roadblocks at the old border and searching for, and confiscating, weapons. It wasn’t affecting the militia, because most of us were coming up 136 to I-59, then north to Cole City. That the Tennessee Guard was at the “wrong” border was taken as a direct provocation by the others in the car — “once we set ’em straight today, I guess we gotta work our way right across the top of the state and fix the line, county by county,” one of them said.

“You think it’ll come to that?” I asked, back in journalist mode.

“Looks like it,” he said. “You heard their governor — he as much as said it was gonna be war. He wants a war, there’s people who’ll be glad to give it to him.” The others nodded.

At last, we reached the exit… cars were parked everywhere. I figure the smarter ones arrived last night and slept in their cars or camped out. A guy at the top of the exit was directing people to parking places, and pointed at the check-in/inspection/mustering station in an old gas station. There were some busses parked there — mostly from points south like Valdosta and Albany — and even an old Hummer, decked out in camo and chrome. It’s a really pretty day, bright sun, a little cool, just a few clouds… a great day for barbeque. (I just hope we’re not going to be the ones on the spit.) Our driver dropped us off and went to park, about a mile down the road, and we got in line to check in.

I presented my credentials, and the guy at the table nodded. “You’re with my platoon,” he said. “You’ll want to interview some of the officers too, I suppose?”

“Sure, if they’re willing. You too.”

“I can give you a few minutes once we’re done here. They’re expecting you now, though. Go to that tent —” he pointed to a big open tent, just visible behind a bus — “and show them your papers.”

“Here’s the journo,” one of them said as a guard confronted me at the tent and made a big show of studying my papers. “Send him along, Private.” The guard stepped back, saluted (a journalist?) and I took a chair across a pair of card tables.

“First off: no names, no faces,” the head honcho told me.

“I kind of expected that,” I said, pulling out my cellphone. “Let’s try this: pull your hats down so I can’t see your eyes. I’ll take a little footage, let you look at it, and delete it if it’s too revealing. Then you know I can’t ‘forget’ to pixelate your faces and give you away. As for names… how about this? You’re General Mayhem, your second there is Colonel Mustard, and my platoon leader is Sgt. Pepper?”

I wasn’t sure how they would take that, but they thought it was funny. “Good enough.” They pulled their hats down, I took some footage, and they were OK with the results. I did the interview and emailed the video home, so that’s safe anyway… and I’m writing about doing the story here, not the story itself. ;-)

I spent the next hour or so walking around and taking video, interviewed a few random souls (interchangeable pretty much), and gawked at the spectacle. I saw a few other white armbands; mostly younger guys. I caught one and interviewed him — it turned out they were couriers, carrying dispatches up and down the road. Some of the platoons had already moved out; as Sgt. Pepper was running check-in, we were bringing up the rear. I shouldn’t have been surprised that “my” platoon was mostly non-combatants — couriers, medics (yes they had some EMTs!) and the journalist (me). I had one of the couriers take me up to where they were marching so I could get some footage. There was a nice breeze coming in, and people’s mood suited the weather. I got a lot of guys waving, a few “Hi Mom!” gags, and just about all of them were smiling.

Helicopters were already making passes. Several people had packed binoculars, and identified most of them for me as I took video. “That one’s State Patrol.” “That’s Fox5.” “That’s Channel 46.”

I called Mrs. Fetched when the “move out” call came, and told her we were moving. “BE CAREFUL!” she yelled, and hung up. Stressed much?

continued…