Whoops, after I finished the story I inserted a new episode right here towards the end. I suppose blog fiction is never done.
I’m going to start a new story shortly after the last FAR Future episode goes up. More horror than peak-oil, but that’s what my Muse got me working on. Those episodes will also go up on Monday mornings, so don’t get out of the habit!
Saturday, July 15, 2045
Summertime Blues
Hi, it’s Bobby. I was doing some research online for summer study, clicked this link by accident, and it was still logged in. I don’t think Granddad will mind if I catch up, he hasn’t been writing much in it lately. He’s been having some weird dreams from the looks of it, though. I had to look up “The Prophet,” and it’s interesting that Granddad actually met him twice when the guy was alive. I wonder if Pat told his friend about Granddad knowing The Prophet, but I guess Darrell would have been back down here if he had.
I finished up my first year of college. It was weird being away from the house for that long, but then again it’s only an hour by bicycle to get here. If there was an emergency, I could have borrowed someone’s scooter, I guess. Martina went there too, which was good. I’m taking metallurgy and she’s on a general track until she figures out what she wants to do. We kind of become an “item,” as Granddad says, during the fall quarter. It was kind of an accident, really: this other freshman was shading her panels and she asked me to pretend we were dating to get him to back off. That meant we had to go out, and so we were seeing a lot more of each other than we planned. Neither one of us are sure when it changed over to being real. I told Dad about it, and he said something like “At least you didn’t wait as long as we did,” like he and Mom saw it even when we didn’t. Is that possible?
So we’re all together for the summer again, but it’s a little strange without Granpapa Mo and Granmama Maria. They died in May, and I took a couple days off school for the funeral. Martina too, because they told us “extended family” means something a little different than it used to. I guess that’s really true — I never thought much about all the people who live together at FAR Manor like we do, but maybe half the students at the college lived in a house with just their parents and sibs, and Dad says that’s how just about everyone used to live. I guess they live in cities or old subdivisions, where if they have problems there are other people right there to help out. There’s lots of us to help with the gardens, gather firewood, and all the other stuff that needs to be done.
Oh, I’m really glad Aunt Christina got here when she did. The methane digester clogged up and she told us what we had to do to fix it. Gas, talk about stinky! She turned it into a mini-lecture. I guess I never thought about it, but this is the kind of thing she works with all the time so maybe the smell doesn’t bother her anymore. This mat of stuff the digester can’t break down builds up on top of the poo and it blocks the methane from going out the valve on top if it gets thick enough, and you have to open up the digester and rake it off. Pat couldn’t handle it, but Martina and Ray did OK. The dogs started barking and Ray started laughing at them, but Martina, Aunt Christina, and I got the mat raked out and buried in the compost without getting much of it on ourselves. Ray said the dogs were jealous because something stank more than they do. I figured they’d want to go roll in it, but they only bother the compost when there’s a rat or something in there. But we couldn’t use the gas for a couple of days, Aunt Christina said we had to vent off some of it to get the oxygen out, otherwise it might blow up on us. So afterwards, we got out of our clothes and went inside to get clean ones. Martina’s mom yelled at her about being naked in front of her boyfriend — I guess she’d rather Martina wore those stinky clothes into their place? I’ve heard about stuff like that in the old days, but nobody else under age 50 or so thinks much of it now. I mean, I like looking at Martina when she’s naked, but I like looking at her just as much with clothes on — and it’s not like you have to be naked to screw. My roommate told me there’s a porn site that’s all pictures of people screwing with most of their clothes on. Aunt Christina shucked her clothes too, but she didn’t come back outside for a while. Martina said she was probably upstairs with Uncle Kim, and she might be right. Those two — I guess you would have to know them.
Well, that’s about it. I hope Martina’s mom gets calmed down soon, or it’s going to be a long summer.
continued…
Monday, August 17, 2009 4 comments
Sunday, August 16, 2009 2 comments
Puppies, age 6 weeks
Happy, hungry, and (mostly) looking for new digs:
The following are temporary names, I just tag 'em with something until we come up with something better.
Target (top left)
Walkabout (top right) — so named because she was trying to get out of the pen & explore even before she got her eyes open. This is the one I had to unsnag from the fencing a couple of times before Mrs. Fetched put a strip of hardware cloth around the bottom of the pen (that’s what she has her front paws up on — she’ll be hopping right over it before long). The guy who helps Mrs. Fetched with the farm stuff is getting her, and calling her Sassy.
Snoozer (bottom left) — obviously. He sleeps for himself and Walkabout.
Batty (bottom right) — so called because she’s blind. Mrs. Fetched & Daughter Dearest are having none of that name, but they haven’t come up with anything better. She’s the biggest one of the litter & this shot catches her disposition pretty well. We'll probably end up keeping her & training her as best as we can unless someone just has to have a “special needs” dog.
The following are temporary names, I just tag 'em with something until we come up with something better.
Target (top left)
Walkabout (top right) — so named because she was trying to get out of the pen & explore even before she got her eyes open. This is the one I had to unsnag from the fencing a couple of times before Mrs. Fetched put a strip of hardware cloth around the bottom of the pen (that’s what she has her front paws up on — she’ll be hopping right over it before long). The guy who helps Mrs. Fetched with the farm stuff is getting her, and calling her Sassy.
Snoozer (bottom left) — obviously. He sleeps for himself and Walkabout.
Batty (bottom right) — so called because she’s blind. Mrs. Fetched & Daughter Dearest are having none of that name, but they haven’t come up with anything better. She’s the biggest one of the litter & this shot catches her disposition pretty well. We'll probably end up keeping her & training her as best as we can unless someone just has to have a “special needs” dog.
Saturday, August 15, 2009 4 comments
Vacation Photos: Slipping into Fall?
What goes up, must come down.
Canon EOS 40D, 28-135mm IS/USM zoom lens
135mm f5.6 1/1600
Straightened and cropped
Canon EOS 40D, 28-135mm IS/USM zoom lens
135mm f5.6 1/1600
Straightened and cropped
Tuesday, August 11, 2009 4 comments
Kneecapped Again, The Final Chapter
The Great Unwrapping was yesterday. The doc was pleased with his handiwork, and told me I could pretty much do whatever I wanted as long as I could stand the pain. He suggested some lifts and bends, and ice when needed, but other than that he seemed to be “just do it” and it would be 100% in the next two or three weeks. (You can still see the nurse’s initials on my kneecap, that’s how they made sure they poked the right one.)He did say I might have some chronic pain with it, which could be taken care of with a “partial knee replacement” (very partial, as it would once again be an outpatient thing) — but he said they also wear out over 15–20 years, so if I can wait until I’m 75 it will probably outlast me. ;-) But with the two bone chips removed, and it behaving most of the time even before, I hope it will just go on as normal. The chips came off the left side of the right knee; the doc showed me pix of what was going on in there… I forgot to ask for copies, but I really couldn’t make heads or tails of it anyway. It’s just meat. MY meat, but what else can I say?
Well… if it hurts, I now have some pain-killer:
While we were on vacation, someone came by and dropped off what appears to be 18 cases of Planet Georgia’s Finest — there’s 12 quart jars in each case, so that adds up to Lush Paradise. Mrs. Fetched was obviously in on it, as she told me about it and that it’s like 15 years old… and wonders if it’s any good to drink. Her idea, not a bad one entirely for the whiskey, was to treat it as ethanol and mix it with gasoline as an extender of sorts. But at least some of that is apple brandy, which would clog up fuel filters. I opened one of the brandy jars this evening; it smells pretty good and a sip confirmed it. She’s all “I don’t know how you’ll feel in an hour,” and I would like to know how it was made (if there was a radiator in the still, forget it) before enjoying it too much.
Guess I just need to heal up.
Monday, August 10, 2009 7 comments
FAR Future, Episode 100: The Final Vision
One. Hundred. Kind of amazing, isn’t it? And we’re not (quite) finished…
Friday, June 23, 2045
The Final Vision
That much closer, I guess. I’m glad this is the last one; they kept getting worse.
In my dream, I stood in a long-abandoned city. The sky was this burnt brown color, and the sun barely made its way through. Nevertheless, it was hot. I was surrounded by mounds of what looked like lumpy dirt at first; when I looked closer I saw that it was the trash of ages, slowly returning to the earth from whence it came. The quiet nearly hurt my ears… no wind whispered, no bugs buzzed around. I didn’t even see a roach.
I started walking. I quickly realized that I wasn’t going to be able to walk around the trash heaps, so I tried walking over them. They were soft, and I sank sometimes halfway to my knees, but I somehow made progress. Each step stirred up the trash, releasing odors of decay, but somehow old and weak. Down the street, between the crumbling skyscrapers, the sea turned city blocks into an archipelago of square islands. The water called to me, as always, so I waded through the garbage toward the filthy new shoreline.
The Prophet was waiting for me near the water, perched on the remnants of a crumbling pedestal. Things bobbed in the murky water, things I didn’t want to look at too closely. An oily film covered the water, and it was on everything that the water had touched. “Here we are, at the end of all things,” he said.
“This was the worse fate you warned me about,” I said, pretty sure I was right. “So we nuked each other over the oil? Or some other resource?”
He shook his head. “No. A nuclear war would have been a lesser harm to the earth. After the first few bombs, the command and network structures would have failed and they could not have launched more. The world would have cooled, then healed.”
“So what happened?”
“This is the endpoint of humanity’s deepest wish: that the party would never end. This is what would have happened had we been given unlimited energy resources: we would have choked and drowned in our own waste. And we would have destroyed nearly everything else.”
“But maybe some of the people got into space?”
He nodded. “Of course. With boundless energy, launching a space colony would have been a small matter. The difficult part, at which they failed, was to make it self-sustaining. Each year, their population grows a little smaller. Each year, the dwindling food supply is barely enough to feed even the lessened numbers. Each year, more of their machinery stops. The spares are gone, and none of them know how to craft replacements. In a few years, the colony will fail and the last human will go to her final reward.”
I wiped a tear away. “But we were saved from this fate — by the very limits we strained against?”
“Truly. In a body, an unlimited growth is called a cancer. Even cancer is not unlimited though: when the host dies, the cancer dies as well.”
“So why do you show me this vision? If we could not come this far, what’s the point?”
He stepped down, dipped a clear glass into the gunk, and handed it to me. “The Living Water.”
“You’re kidding,” I said. “Drink this?”
He gave me the “get with it” look. “What was Peter told in his vision?”
I laughed. “What God has called clean, you shall not call unclean.” And as I spoke, the murk sank to the bottom of the glass and disappeared, leaving the water looking and smelling (and tasting) pure and sweet.
The Prophet smiled. “But you asked about the point of this: even now, there are those who believe we can return to what they might call the ‘glory days,’ without the understanding of what they wish for. Tell them of this vision, that they might put aside their folly and work within the world that The Lord has given them.
“But come, I show you a mystery.” He held out his hand. I took it, and we were… elsewhere. A mountaintop, where the brown sky was closer and darker. There was no trash here, only rocks streaked with soot and whatever else the rain carried out of the sky. A few gnarled trees dotted the summit. “What do you see?”
“Rocks. Stunted trees.”
He crouched next to one of the rocks. “Look closer.”
I did, and saw it: a tiny patch of green, with a few bright yellow specks, sheltered under the rock. The rock itself was split above the plant, and I saw that much of the rain that fell on that side of the rock would be carried down that split to the plants. A tiny insect, maybe a gnat, lit on one yellow spot or another, making the thin stalks nod and bob.
“And there.” He pointed toward another rock, where a small thin creature, maybe a mouse or vole, nibbled at something.
“So there’s still life.”
“Yes. The Lord does not throw away His creation lightly. There are other islands of life, in other parts of the wide world. In time, as the earth heals, they will expand and evolution will bring forth diversity and perhaps intelligence.”
“But… this world is imaginary, I thought?”
Again, the Prophet gave me the “get with it” look. “What The Lord has imagined is no less real than the world in which you live. But you will understand this, and will know the answers to all things, soon enough. Go now. Go in peace and in joy. I will greet you when you find your way to Heaven.”
Again the jumble, but I think I finally understood what it was. I had been right: it was both chaos, and beyond my comprehension. What I saw was a parade of possible worlds, too quick to catch and hold any single one — and about as useful as ignoring the beach to study a single grain of sand.
When I awoke this time, I was again hot and thirsty. But perhaps I understand better: my spirit, which is the actual me for which my old body is only a container, had actually gone to that other place — that impossible world of unlimited energy and unlimited destruction. Even in my youth, my physical body may not have been able to withstand the toxic soup our desires would have made of the air in that world, but the spirit is less concerned with physical matters. Now I was simply warmer than usual on the sleeping porch.
So that’s that. I don’t expect to keel over today or this week, but I hoofed it over to the center and sent my vitals in. They told me I’m doing fine for being 86… I’ll bet they say that to all the geezers, though. I suppose the only thing to do, and I’m sure The Prophet would agree, is to enjoy whatever time I’ve got left.
continued…
Friday, June 23, 2045
The Final Vision
That much closer, I guess. I’m glad this is the last one; they kept getting worse.
In my dream, I stood in a long-abandoned city. The sky was this burnt brown color, and the sun barely made its way through. Nevertheless, it was hot. I was surrounded by mounds of what looked like lumpy dirt at first; when I looked closer I saw that it was the trash of ages, slowly returning to the earth from whence it came. The quiet nearly hurt my ears… no wind whispered, no bugs buzzed around. I didn’t even see a roach.
I started walking. I quickly realized that I wasn’t going to be able to walk around the trash heaps, so I tried walking over them. They were soft, and I sank sometimes halfway to my knees, but I somehow made progress. Each step stirred up the trash, releasing odors of decay, but somehow old and weak. Down the street, between the crumbling skyscrapers, the sea turned city blocks into an archipelago of square islands. The water called to me, as always, so I waded through the garbage toward the filthy new shoreline.
The Prophet was waiting for me near the water, perched on the remnants of a crumbling pedestal. Things bobbed in the murky water, things I didn’t want to look at too closely. An oily film covered the water, and it was on everything that the water had touched. “Here we are, at the end of all things,” he said.
“This was the worse fate you warned me about,” I said, pretty sure I was right. “So we nuked each other over the oil? Or some other resource?”
He shook his head. “No. A nuclear war would have been a lesser harm to the earth. After the first few bombs, the command and network structures would have failed and they could not have launched more. The world would have cooled, then healed.”
“So what happened?”
“This is the endpoint of humanity’s deepest wish: that the party would never end. This is what would have happened had we been given unlimited energy resources: we would have choked and drowned in our own waste. And we would have destroyed nearly everything else.”
“But maybe some of the people got into space?”
He nodded. “Of course. With boundless energy, launching a space colony would have been a small matter. The difficult part, at which they failed, was to make it self-sustaining. Each year, their population grows a little smaller. Each year, the dwindling food supply is barely enough to feed even the lessened numbers. Each year, more of their machinery stops. The spares are gone, and none of them know how to craft replacements. In a few years, the colony will fail and the last human will go to her final reward.”
I wiped a tear away. “But we were saved from this fate — by the very limits we strained against?”
“Truly. In a body, an unlimited growth is called a cancer. Even cancer is not unlimited though: when the host dies, the cancer dies as well.”
“So why do you show me this vision? If we could not come this far, what’s the point?”
He stepped down, dipped a clear glass into the gunk, and handed it to me. “The Living Water.”
“You’re kidding,” I said. “Drink this?”
He gave me the “get with it” look. “What was Peter told in his vision?”
I laughed. “What God has called clean, you shall not call unclean.” And as I spoke, the murk sank to the bottom of the glass and disappeared, leaving the water looking and smelling (and tasting) pure and sweet.
The Prophet smiled. “But you asked about the point of this: even now, there are those who believe we can return to what they might call the ‘glory days,’ without the understanding of what they wish for. Tell them of this vision, that they might put aside their folly and work within the world that The Lord has given them.
“But come, I show you a mystery.” He held out his hand. I took it, and we were… elsewhere. A mountaintop, where the brown sky was closer and darker. There was no trash here, only rocks streaked with soot and whatever else the rain carried out of the sky. A few gnarled trees dotted the summit. “What do you see?”
“Rocks. Stunted trees.”
He crouched next to one of the rocks. “Look closer.”
I did, and saw it: a tiny patch of green, with a few bright yellow specks, sheltered under the rock. The rock itself was split above the plant, and I saw that much of the rain that fell on that side of the rock would be carried down that split to the plants. A tiny insect, maybe a gnat, lit on one yellow spot or another, making the thin stalks nod and bob.
“And there.” He pointed toward another rock, where a small thin creature, maybe a mouse or vole, nibbled at something.
“So there’s still life.”
“Yes. The Lord does not throw away His creation lightly. There are other islands of life, in other parts of the wide world. In time, as the earth heals, they will expand and evolution will bring forth diversity and perhaps intelligence.”
“But… this world is imaginary, I thought?”
Again, the Prophet gave me the “get with it” look. “What The Lord has imagined is no less real than the world in which you live. But you will understand this, and will know the answers to all things, soon enough. Go now. Go in peace and in joy. I will greet you when you find your way to Heaven.”
Again the jumble, but I think I finally understood what it was. I had been right: it was both chaos, and beyond my comprehension. What I saw was a parade of possible worlds, too quick to catch and hold any single one — and about as useful as ignoring the beach to study a single grain of sand.
When I awoke this time, I was again hot and thirsty. But perhaps I understand better: my spirit, which is the actual me for which my old body is only a container, had actually gone to that other place — that impossible world of unlimited energy and unlimited destruction. Even in my youth, my physical body may not have been able to withstand the toxic soup our desires would have made of the air in that world, but the spirit is less concerned with physical matters. Now I was simply warmer than usual on the sleeping porch.
So that’s that. I don’t expect to keel over today or this week, but I hoofed it over to the center and sent my vitals in. They told me I’m doing fine for being 86… I’ll bet they say that to all the geezers, though. I suppose the only thing to do, and I’m sure The Prophet would agree, is to enjoy whatever time I’ve got left.
continued…
Friday, August 07, 2009 3 comments
Flowery (and Grassy) Friday (Vacation Edition)
Andi’s grass pic this morning reminded me I wanted to post this…
The flowers were growing in clumps in various places, mostly in neglected yards or garden plots. Seems to be a really good year for them.
Top: Lake Michigan (Hoffmaster State Park) [38mm, f13, 1/400s]
Bottom: from Dad’s deck, Duck Lake [135mm, f5.6, 1/160s]
Canon EOS 40D, 28-135mm zoom lens
The flowers were growing in clumps in various places, mostly in neglected yards or garden plots. Seems to be a really good year for them.
Top: Lake Michigan (Hoffmaster State Park) [38mm, f13, 1/400s]
Bottom: from Dad’s deck, Duck Lake [135mm, f5.6, 1/160s]
Canon EOS 40D, 28-135mm zoom lens
Thursday, August 06, 2009 7 comments
Vacation pix: Waterfowl
Actually, Dad thinks the geese are rather foul, because that’s what they’ll do to the grass if he doesn’t chase them off. ;-)
Seagulls: Lake Michigan (Hoffmaster State Park)
Geese & Swans: Duck Lake
Canon EOS 40D, 28-135mm zoom lens, various exposures
Seagulls: Lake Michigan (Hoffmaster State Park)
Geese & Swans: Duck Lake
Canon EOS 40D, 28-135mm zoom lens, various exposures
Tuesday, August 04, 2009 2 comments
And Then There Were Four
The Cosmic Rule of Everything Governing Vacations Away From FAR Manor is: there’s going to be a crisis. Mrs. Fetched’s mom was kind enough to not let us know about it until we were on the way home.
When the World’s Most Obnoxious Dog reproduced, it was a deliberate plot by Mrs. Fetched… don’t ask me why, I’m sure she has her reasons. But she picked out one of her mom’s dogs to do the honors. In spite of what I said in that particular post, he must have just preferred to do the deed in private. Then he popped the latch and ran home. Mrs. Fetched was pretty sure that he was a couple notches removed from Crissy on the family tree, but Daughter Dearest said later that they both have the same mom. Hey, it’s Planet Georgia, a little inbreeding is to be expected, right?
Maybe we should have done it in Tennessee or Alabama, where they’re experts on that sort of thing. Four of the pups — including a female I named Walkabout because she was exploring and trying to escape the pen (I had to unsnag her from the chainlink more than once) before she had her eyes open — rapidly outgrew the other three. This wasn’t a big problem at first, but as they developed to where they could start eating food, the smaller three started having problems. By the time we were on our way home, Mrs. Fetched’s mom had taken two of them to the vet, who recommended they be put down because they were in a lot of pain. The third started having serious trouble Sunday afternoon. After Daughter Dearest said he had a seizure, Mrs. Fetched asked me to look up anything I could find online — one thing I found was that some puppies could be hypersensitive to flea powders and the like; Crissy had a flea collar and we’d been doing that stuff that comes out of the little squeeze tube, so Mrs. Fetched removed the collar and brought all the puppies in for a bath (with Crissy bringing up the rear). They did the little guy first, and had me hold him and keep an eye on him while they did the others. He had a seizure while I was holding him… we got through it, and then I noticed that his belly was hard. I started stroking it, which he protested, but he blew a little dog fart and it softened up quite a bit, which led me to wonder whether he was just having a gas attack. In a fit of optimism, I dubbed him Augustus Seizure (because it was August; I later learned that Julius actually did have epilepsy) and tried to make him as comfortable as possible.
Mrs. Fetched stayed up with him all Sunday night, and they both had a rough night. I was little better off, getting woke up by the yelping several times. She took him to the vet Monday morning, he guessed his intestines had a birth defect that would maybe let him live a few more days, and Mrs. Fetched decided to have him put down too.
The other four, fortunately, seem to be healthy and robust. The guy who’s been helping Mrs. Fetched with the chickens and other farm stuff is getting Walkabout (who is often up & moving when the other three are dozing, always looking for attention) when she’s old enough, but the other three are available. I kind of hope we’ll keep one and get rid of Crissy… they simply can’t be more obnoxious than their mom.
When the World’s Most Obnoxious Dog reproduced, it was a deliberate plot by Mrs. Fetched… don’t ask me why, I’m sure she has her reasons. But she picked out one of her mom’s dogs to do the honors. In spite of what I said in that particular post, he must have just preferred to do the deed in private. Then he popped the latch and ran home. Mrs. Fetched was pretty sure that he was a couple notches removed from Crissy on the family tree, but Daughter Dearest said later that they both have the same mom. Hey, it’s Planet Georgia, a little inbreeding is to be expected, right?
Maybe we should have done it in Tennessee or Alabama, where they’re experts on that sort of thing. Four of the pups — including a female I named Walkabout because she was exploring and trying to escape the pen (I had to unsnag her from the chainlink more than once) before she had her eyes open — rapidly outgrew the other three. This wasn’t a big problem at first, but as they developed to where they could start eating food, the smaller three started having problems. By the time we were on our way home, Mrs. Fetched’s mom had taken two of them to the vet, who recommended they be put down because they were in a lot of pain. The third started having serious trouble Sunday afternoon. After Daughter Dearest said he had a seizure, Mrs. Fetched asked me to look up anything I could find online — one thing I found was that some puppies could be hypersensitive to flea powders and the like; Crissy had a flea collar and we’d been doing that stuff that comes out of the little squeeze tube, so Mrs. Fetched removed the collar and brought all the puppies in for a bath (with Crissy bringing up the rear). They did the little guy first, and had me hold him and keep an eye on him while they did the others. He had a seizure while I was holding him… we got through it, and then I noticed that his belly was hard. I started stroking it, which he protested, but he blew a little dog fart and it softened up quite a bit, which led me to wonder whether he was just having a gas attack. In a fit of optimism, I dubbed him Augustus Seizure (because it was August; I later learned that Julius actually did have epilepsy) and tried to make him as comfortable as possible.
Mrs. Fetched stayed up with him all Sunday night, and they both had a rough night. I was little better off, getting woke up by the yelping several times. She took him to the vet Monday morning, he guessed his intestines had a birth defect that would maybe let him live a few more days, and Mrs. Fetched decided to have him put down too.
The other four, fortunately, seem to be healthy and robust. The guy who’s been helping Mrs. Fetched with the chickens and other farm stuff is getting Walkabout (who is often up & moving when the other three are dozing, always looking for attention) when she’s old enough, but the other three are available. I kind of hope we’ll keep one and get rid of Crissy… they simply can’t be more obnoxious than their mom.
Monday, August 03, 2009 No comments
FAR Future, Episode 99
Friday, May 19, 2045
Funeral for Our Friends
Rene woke me up yesterday morning shouting “¡Mama! Papa!” and something in Spanish I didn’t catch. By the time I threw on a robe and came down the hall, he was on the phone. He was obviously stressed, switching back and forth between English and Spanish, and I caught a word of the latter: muerté — that explained why. Guillermo and Maria had “checked out” overnight.
“The ambulance will be here in half an hour,” he told me. “I have to call Christina.” Serena joined us, then went to get Daughter Dearest after embracing Rene as he made the call. He went back upstairs as they came back in.
“I let Dean know,” Daughter Dearest said. “The Smiths and Joneses, too.”
“I’ll call the priest,” I told them. “They would want last rites.” Serena nodded, and I told my gadget to find and call the local Catholic mission. Guillermo and Maria had never wavered from their old faith, even attending Mass online most Sundays and holding confessions over the phone. Father Alvarado, their confessor and pastor, agreed to come immediately and arrived on a Commuter Scooter shortly behind the ambulance. In the meantime, Rene had come back downstairs and told us Christina (and the rest of their family) would be here early tomorrow.
The doctor stepped out and nodded to us. “Natural causes,” he said, “and within an hour of each other. I’ve heard of things like that, but never saw it for myself. You’ll want a couple of minutes with the deceased, I assume?”
We nodded, Rene went in, then stopped; I had just enough time to duck around him, then saw and stopped too. Father Alvarado bumped into us from behind, and Serena ran into him. “What is it?” she asked.
We stepped aside to let them see. The doctor had pulled the covers back, and Guillermo and Maria had died holding hands. Maria had the quiet smile she often had when the day had gone well. Guillermo’s free hand rested on his stilled corazón; he, too, looked quite content.
Father Alvarado nodded, lifted his crucifix, and performed the last rites. “They were good people, faithful,” he said afterward. “They deserved to be taken to Heaven together like this. I appreciate you calling me.” He opened a box he’d kept in an inner pocket; it contained wafers, a small bottle of wine, and another of holy water. “Now, if you are willing, kneel and receive the Body of Christ.”
“Um, Father,” I said as Rene knelt and crossed himself, “I’m not Catholic.”
“Have you received Christ and His baptism?” I nodded, as did Serena and Daughter Dearest. “Then you are invited to His table.”
I knelt with the girlies and smiled. “That’s different.”
“This century has brought many changes — and not even the Church is immune to change,” he chuckled as he prepared the Host. “These matters are now left to the conscience of His servants. There are many places now where there would be no congregations if we insisted on some of the old certainties — and we would be poor servants indeed if we shut the door of grace to all.” He served Rene first, so the rest of us could take our cue from him. Dean slipped in as he served us, and he joined us in the ritual.
Finally, we filed out of the bedroom and let the doctor and EMT carry our friends out to the ambulance (a Heehaw with what looked like a fat aero-cap). I know they still have a few diesel ones around; they probably use those when it’s not too late. They drove away, and left us with a huge void.
The funeral was this afternoon at the mission, with all of us in attendance. I found an old photo I’d taken of Guillermo and Maria — with their kids — shortly after they came to FAR Manor to live with us, found a frame, and sat it on an easel they had for the purpose. When the priest asked if anyone had anything to say, Rene and Christina nudged me forward. I gave them the they were your parents look, with a smile, and stepped forward trying to collect my thoughts.
“Guillermo and Maria came to us so many years ago,” I began, “I can’t think of how long. Sometimes, it seems like they — and their children, now my children-in-law — were always a part of our lives. They never asked for much, not even taking a few days off when I offered them. Some people considered them our servants, or even slaves, but to me they were equals, a brother- and sister-in-law. They sat at our dinner table and helped to run the farm. They always gave their all to any task. And I fear that I’ll be serving them in Heaven.” That got a chuckle or two, as I had hoped.
Last night, I imagined them in their own resting place: a Mexico that never was, where campesinos sing as they bring in the harvest and join the eternal fiesta. Or perhaps it’s a Dia de Los Muertes that never ends?
continued…
Funeral for Our Friends
Rene woke me up yesterday morning shouting “¡Mama! Papa!” and something in Spanish I didn’t catch. By the time I threw on a robe and came down the hall, he was on the phone. He was obviously stressed, switching back and forth between English and Spanish, and I caught a word of the latter: muerté — that explained why. Guillermo and Maria had “checked out” overnight.
“The ambulance will be here in half an hour,” he told me. “I have to call Christina.” Serena joined us, then went to get Daughter Dearest after embracing Rene as he made the call. He went back upstairs as they came back in.
“I let Dean know,” Daughter Dearest said. “The Smiths and Joneses, too.”
“I’ll call the priest,” I told them. “They would want last rites.” Serena nodded, and I told my gadget to find and call the local Catholic mission. Guillermo and Maria had never wavered from their old faith, even attending Mass online most Sundays and holding confessions over the phone. Father Alvarado, their confessor and pastor, agreed to come immediately and arrived on a Commuter Scooter shortly behind the ambulance. In the meantime, Rene had come back downstairs and told us Christina (and the rest of their family) would be here early tomorrow.
The doctor stepped out and nodded to us. “Natural causes,” he said, “and within an hour of each other. I’ve heard of things like that, but never saw it for myself. You’ll want a couple of minutes with the deceased, I assume?”
We nodded, Rene went in, then stopped; I had just enough time to duck around him, then saw and stopped too. Father Alvarado bumped into us from behind, and Serena ran into him. “What is it?” she asked.
We stepped aside to let them see. The doctor had pulled the covers back, and Guillermo and Maria had died holding hands. Maria had the quiet smile she often had when the day had gone well. Guillermo’s free hand rested on his stilled corazón; he, too, looked quite content.
Father Alvarado nodded, lifted his crucifix, and performed the last rites. “They were good people, faithful,” he said afterward. “They deserved to be taken to Heaven together like this. I appreciate you calling me.” He opened a box he’d kept in an inner pocket; it contained wafers, a small bottle of wine, and another of holy water. “Now, if you are willing, kneel and receive the Body of Christ.”
“Um, Father,” I said as Rene knelt and crossed himself, “I’m not Catholic.”
“Have you received Christ and His baptism?” I nodded, as did Serena and Daughter Dearest. “Then you are invited to His table.”
I knelt with the girlies and smiled. “That’s different.”
“This century has brought many changes — and not even the Church is immune to change,” he chuckled as he prepared the Host. “These matters are now left to the conscience of His servants. There are many places now where there would be no congregations if we insisted on some of the old certainties — and we would be poor servants indeed if we shut the door of grace to all.” He served Rene first, so the rest of us could take our cue from him. Dean slipped in as he served us, and he joined us in the ritual.
Finally, we filed out of the bedroom and let the doctor and EMT carry our friends out to the ambulance (a Heehaw with what looked like a fat aero-cap). I know they still have a few diesel ones around; they probably use those when it’s not too late. They drove away, and left us with a huge void.
The funeral was this afternoon at the mission, with all of us in attendance. I found an old photo I’d taken of Guillermo and Maria — with their kids — shortly after they came to FAR Manor to live with us, found a frame, and sat it on an easel they had for the purpose. When the priest asked if anyone had anything to say, Rene and Christina nudged me forward. I gave them the they were your parents look, with a smile, and stepped forward trying to collect my thoughts.
“Guillermo and Maria came to us so many years ago,” I began, “I can’t think of how long. Sometimes, it seems like they — and their children, now my children-in-law — were always a part of our lives. They never asked for much, not even taking a few days off when I offered them. Some people considered them our servants, or even slaves, but to me they were equals, a brother- and sister-in-law. They sat at our dinner table and helped to run the farm. They always gave their all to any task. And I fear that I’ll be serving them in Heaven.” That got a chuckle or two, as I had hoped.
Last night, I imagined them in their own resting place: a Mexico that never was, where campesinos sing as they bring in the harvest and join the eternal fiesta. Or perhaps it’s a Dia de Los Muertes that never ends?
continued…
Sunday, August 02, 2009 2 comments
Home Sweet Money Pit
Back from a lovely week in Michigan, visiting relatives and not thinking much about the chicken houses. I’ll have some posts up later, today if opportunity permits.
Monday, July 27, 2009 3 comments
FAR Future, Episode 98: The Rat Race, continued
Some things never change… and some, they change and pretend not to.
Sunday, April 23, 2045
The Rat Race, Continued
Coffee’s a luxury item these days — kind of like beef — and not always easy to get. But we got some yesterday, and I decided to make a half-pot rather than to lay in bed a little longer.
As I stumped through the living room, Rene was looking through the nightly media download. “I made some already,” he said. “Grab a cup and come sit. You might enjoy this.”
I poured my cup, added a dab of cream, and sat in the other chair. The screen showed what looked like a collection of electric cars, lined up in something like a starting grid for a race. “What’cha got here, Rene?”
“NASCAR, 2045-style,” he grinned.
“What? I thought those guys were long gone!”
“I guess they changed with the times. There’s an overview of the rules…” He poked at the remote and a text overlay came up:
“Interesting,” I said. “I’m guessing the fuel cells are standard sizes… which means, they have more efficient motors or have to limit their speed to make 300 kilometers?”
“Yeah. They still get points for laps led, more in the early running, so there’s an incentive to not sandbag. There’s a lot of strategy involved: do you try to lap the field then throttle back and coast across the finish line? Do you maintain a steady pace that will get you the distance and hope the guys running faster drop out? Or just go for the lead lap points and drop out early?”
“I guess it’s better than a matter of raw power. But I’m surprised they still run races these days.”
“Why not? It’s a test bed for new motors, fuel cells, and instrumentation. The best stuff eventually works its way into production vehicles.” Good point… we had the Heehaw rebuilt a couple years ago, and it now has a better range and cargo capacity than it did when new. They must have upgraded a lot of components in the last 10–15 years.
The race itself was interesting in that there were three drivers who wanted to go for the lead lap points. One dropped back immediately, probably executing Plan B, while the other two battled it out for a few laps, weaving through the slower traffic like Planet Georgia commuters in the 1980s. Eventually, the second driver fell back and left the last guy to rack up the lead lap points.
“Seems like a waste for Odum,” I said. “He burned a lot of juice.”
“Yeah, but he made Ramirez burn even more juice. Meanwhile, he can fall back and pace the field, a lap ahead of them. If he can finish the race — and I doubt Ramirez is even gonna try — he’ll be the guy to beat.”
Things settled into a routine, and Rene fast-forwarded until we saw a wreck on lap 34. At the relatively low speeds they were running, compared to the days of yore, this wasn’t anything like spectacular. But there was a fair amount of smoke and mixing of paint before most of the pack got straightened out and either kept rolling or headed for the pits for patch-ups.
Toward the end, the stats showed how the average lap speeds creeped up: about 100 kph in the first third of the race, working up toward 120 kph with 20 laps to go. (Ramirez dropped out about 2/3 of the way through, after pushing about 150 kph in the early going.) Odum had eased off his earlier pace after a close call in that lap 34 wreck; he was no longer the sole occupant of the lead lap, but continued to rack up points. “The question is,” the announcer informed us, “whether he can turn it up if he needs to. Teammate Brian Smith was knocked out in that wreck on lap 34, so he doesn’t have anyone he can easily hook up with for a draft. Meanwhile, Shadduck and Lopez continue to gain ground quick enough to make this a three-way race by the end — or a two-way race if Odum doesn’t kick it up a notch.”
As it turned out, Odum had to pit on lap 95 with a flat tire — the announcers speculated that he’d picked up a piece of debris from the wreck and got a slow leak from it. As luck would have it, Shadduck and Lopez wrecked each other on lap 97; they replayed the wreck and concluded it was inattention on the part of one or both drivers — an amateur move equal to an All-Star shortstop letting a grounder go through his legs. With three laps to go, the remaining eight drivers (out of a starting field of 30) let it all hang out and treated the crowd (and those of us who saw it a day later) to a barnburner. Some guy named Pachulo took the checkered, by maybe half a car-length; Odum finished sixth. The seventh and eighth place finishers literally coasted across, fuel cells completely depleted.
I think I like this version of racing better than the old. Like with most everything else in life, brute force is no longer the answer.
continued…
Sunday, April 23, 2045
The Rat Race, Continued
Coffee’s a luxury item these days — kind of like beef — and not always easy to get. But we got some yesterday, and I decided to make a half-pot rather than to lay in bed a little longer.
As I stumped through the living room, Rene was looking through the nightly media download. “I made some already,” he said. “Grab a cup and come sit. You might enjoy this.”
I poured my cup, added a dab of cream, and sat in the other chair. The screen showed what looked like a collection of electric cars, lined up in something like a starting grid for a race. “What’cha got here, Rene?”
“NASCAR, 2045-style,” he grinned.
“What? I thought those guys were long gone!”
“I guess they changed with the times. There’s an overview of the rules…” He poked at the remote and a text overlay came up:
NASCAR Full-Electric Division
Troy Fuel Cell 300 - Charlotte, NC
April 22, 2045
Standing start race
Fuel cells are sealed
DNFs: laps completed
count toward standings
“Interesting,” I said. “I’m guessing the fuel cells are standard sizes… which means, they have more efficient motors or have to limit their speed to make 300 kilometers?”
“Yeah. They still get points for laps led, more in the early running, so there’s an incentive to not sandbag. There’s a lot of strategy involved: do you try to lap the field then throttle back and coast across the finish line? Do you maintain a steady pace that will get you the distance and hope the guys running faster drop out? Or just go for the lead lap points and drop out early?”
“I guess it’s better than a matter of raw power. But I’m surprised they still run races these days.”
“Why not? It’s a test bed for new motors, fuel cells, and instrumentation. The best stuff eventually works its way into production vehicles.” Good point… we had the Heehaw rebuilt a couple years ago, and it now has a better range and cargo capacity than it did when new. They must have upgraded a lot of components in the last 10–15 years.
The race itself was interesting in that there were three drivers who wanted to go for the lead lap points. One dropped back immediately, probably executing Plan B, while the other two battled it out for a few laps, weaving through the slower traffic like Planet Georgia commuters in the 1980s. Eventually, the second driver fell back and left the last guy to rack up the lead lap points.
“Seems like a waste for Odum,” I said. “He burned a lot of juice.”
“Yeah, but he made Ramirez burn even more juice. Meanwhile, he can fall back and pace the field, a lap ahead of them. If he can finish the race — and I doubt Ramirez is even gonna try — he’ll be the guy to beat.”
Things settled into a routine, and Rene fast-forwarded until we saw a wreck on lap 34. At the relatively low speeds they were running, compared to the days of yore, this wasn’t anything like spectacular. But there was a fair amount of smoke and mixing of paint before most of the pack got straightened out and either kept rolling or headed for the pits for patch-ups.
Toward the end, the stats showed how the average lap speeds creeped up: about 100 kph in the first third of the race, working up toward 120 kph with 20 laps to go. (Ramirez dropped out about 2/3 of the way through, after pushing about 150 kph in the early going.) Odum had eased off his earlier pace after a close call in that lap 34 wreck; he was no longer the sole occupant of the lead lap, but continued to rack up points. “The question is,” the announcer informed us, “whether he can turn it up if he needs to. Teammate Brian Smith was knocked out in that wreck on lap 34, so he doesn’t have anyone he can easily hook up with for a draft. Meanwhile, Shadduck and Lopez continue to gain ground quick enough to make this a three-way race by the end — or a two-way race if Odum doesn’t kick it up a notch.”
As it turned out, Odum had to pit on lap 95 with a flat tire — the announcers speculated that he’d picked up a piece of debris from the wreck and got a slow leak from it. As luck would have it, Shadduck and Lopez wrecked each other on lap 97; they replayed the wreck and concluded it was inattention on the part of one or both drivers — an amateur move equal to an All-Star shortstop letting a grounder go through his legs. With three laps to go, the remaining eight drivers (out of a starting field of 30) let it all hang out and treated the crowd (and those of us who saw it a day later) to a barnburner. Some guy named Pachulo took the checkered, by maybe half a car-length; Odum finished sixth. The seventh and eighth place finishers literally coasted across, fuel cells completely depleted.
I think I like this version of racing better than the old. Like with most everything else in life, brute force is no longer the answer.
continued…
Tuesday, July 21, 2009 8 comments
Kneecapped Again, Update
OK, so… yesterday, the bum knee started to get a little better, but I went to the doc’s to have it checked out anyway. She sent me to X-ray, where the shots turned out a bit dark because I couldn’t get the leg straightened all the way out, and found what looked like a bone chip. “I don’t think it’s in where it’s causing any trouble,” she said, but referred me to the orthopedist who fixed Mrs. Fetched’s knee (after a chicken house incident) and DD’s ankle (after a dodgeball incident) just to see what they thought and how best to deal with it. She also told me to start putting some weight on it to keep it from getting too stiff. Hooray… now Reality is one crutch instead of two! I mostly carry the crutch and use it when the knee starts to gripe a bit.I slept fairly well last night, and woke up able to completely straighten my right leg, so it’s definitely getting better — the swelling going down agrees. It will bend through about half its normal range now. I tried driving down to the in-laws’ for lunch, and that wasn’t so wonderful (especially when I had to use the brakes). Maybe by tomorrow…
With lunch out of the way, Mrs. Fetched drove me up to the orthopedist’s. There was some confusion where we were supposed to take the X-rays with us; fortunately, the doctor’s office is a minute away and Mrs. Fetched had them long before I got called in. I was set up to see the P.A. first, perhaps so a “just keep on keepin’ on” case could be taken care of without involving an expensive specialist… fine with me. He took one look at the X-rays and said, “Whoop, looks like a bone chip in there.” I told him what my doc said, and he replied, “I might have to disagree. Let me get [the orthopedist]. So in he came, and said, "Yup, you’ve got an extra part rattling around in there. That needs to come out.” To hear him describe it, the arthroscopic surgery is going to be about as routine as a brake job; I’ll be in & (walking) out of the office in a day, the day being August 5. I’d love to get photos, but I get a bit squeamish at seeing myself get poked even if I’m numbed up first. Maybe I can persuade Mrs. Fetched to take pix or get video.
Monday, July 20, 2009 5 comments
FAR Future, Episode 97: Traffic Jam
Note: any resemblance to The Last Drop is purely intentional. (Thanks to Andi, Lisa, and Beth for helping me beat on an extended version for hoped-for publication.)
Friday February 10, 2045
Traffic Jam
I enjoy a good warm living room this time of year, even if Februarys now are a lot milder than they used to be. I can look out the window and see the kids playing their bean-bag game… I can’t ever remember what they call it, but it’s a lot like hacky-sack from when I was in college. When I call it hacky-sack, though, they look at me like I’m senile. Whatever they call it, at least I don’t have to worry about a ball coming through the window.
But I’m stalling. I had another one of those dreams last night. You know what I mean by one of those dreams: the kind that tell me what I really didn’t want to know.
In the dream, I was alone on a one-way city street that was packed with empty cars. And when I say “packed,” I mean there was barely enough room to put a stick in between them, let alone walk between them. The buildings seemed to be watching me, weighing me and finding me lacking. The sky was overcast, the clouds roiled but never rained, and it was still and hot. I had to jump from car to car to get anywhere, and I remember how they were caked with dust with a few streaks like maybe there had been a little rain at one time. This must be a dream, I thought — then, but would I see this much detail in a dream?
Time compressed itself, as it does in those kinds of dreams, and I found myself approaching a gas station. But the cars were packed in it and all around it, and I thought it would have been futile… anyone managing to get gas would never get back out.
“Mortal!” someone shouted. “Could this ever be put right?”
I looked around for the voice, thinking, sure, if you started moving cars from the back of the pack… but I realized that wasn’t the answer. There wasn’t enough gasoline left in the world, let alone this one station, to back them all out. I hadn’t found my questioner yet, but called back, “I don’t know. But only God Himself could fix this.”
He stepped out from behind a fallen overhang. “But if this is humanity’s folly,” he said, “can humanity’s wisdom not solve it?”
“If humanity was that wise, this wouldn’t have happened in the first place. What the hell is it, anyway?”
“Your question contains its answer,” he said. “This is the Hell that humanity would have created for itself, had it not chosen a different path. This is the last gas station, where the last gasoline would have been sold. Had all insisted on the easy path, instead of changing their ways, this would very likely have been the fate of mankind.”
“So people would have just abandoned their cars and gone home?”
“Some would have. Others… look around you.”
I looked again, and now I saw the signs of a struggle: broken windows, the little doors over gas caps torn away, the gas caps themselves strewn about… and bullet holes. “They killed each other? For gasoline? We barely think about the stuff these days.”
“In your prime, men fought at the pumps when the lines were long. They killed each other to claim the oil beneath a barren desert. So why would they not kill for some of the last gasoline?”
For a moment, I could see it: drivers desperately trying to leave; those behind them pressing forward… and then people swarming over the cars with fuel cans in hand. When the pumps ran dry, they turned on those who had been first in line. As they tried to leave the way they came, they were set on by those coming behind them. And those were set on by people coming behind them. Gas cans were punctured by gunfire, dropped and spilled, or deliberately poured out or set afire by those who would not give up their prizes. Not a drop was carried away safely.
I shook my head. “Why am I being shown this?”
“Humanity is foolish, but there is yet a little wisdom,” he said. “Write down this vision, mortal, and let it be known that all mortals live in one of the better possible worlds that they could have made for themselves. For there is a possibility even worse than this.”
He opened a cooler that I’d not noticed before, one of those pull-along coolers with wheels. He brought out a bottle of water and gave it to me. “The Living Water,” he said, as I opened and drank.
I almost choked. “You’re The Prophet!” I said.
“Go, mortal,” The Prophet said (for now I saw it really was him again) and smiled. “You will see me once more before you are mortal no longer.” Then he was gone, and the dream again dissolved into either chaos or something beyond my comprehension.
When I wake up, I usually have to pee first thing. Not this morning… I woke up with my heart pounding and feeling like I’d spent an entire summer in one of the dehydrator racks. I slugged down a liter of water and almost hurt my throat drinking so fast. It was like I’d been at that gas station all night, sweating in the heat. But the sheets on my bed weren’t wet.
I’ve spent all morning and half the afternoon trying to figure out whether I’d really been there or was just dreaming the whole thing. I don’t suppose it matters in the end. I do know that Daughter Dearest and Martina noticed something was amiss, and asked me about it. I told them half the truth, that I’d had a dream… forgetting that DD knows about the first one I had. She waited for Martina to go outside, then demanded the details. I told her the whole thing, especially the part about having one more vision. She has to know I’m not going to live forever, but she’s pretty much running FAR Manor these days and doesn’t need to worry about me right now.
I’m looking forward to getting out and helping with the spring planting. The veggies are all sprouting in their starter pots, and it looks like I’ll get at least one more shot at starting the garden, anyway.
continued…
Friday February 10, 2045
Traffic Jam
I enjoy a good warm living room this time of year, even if Februarys now are a lot milder than they used to be. I can look out the window and see the kids playing their bean-bag game… I can’t ever remember what they call it, but it’s a lot like hacky-sack from when I was in college. When I call it hacky-sack, though, they look at me like I’m senile. Whatever they call it, at least I don’t have to worry about a ball coming through the window.
But I’m stalling. I had another one of those dreams last night. You know what I mean by one of those dreams: the kind that tell me what I really didn’t want to know.
In the dream, I was alone on a one-way city street that was packed with empty cars. And when I say “packed,” I mean there was barely enough room to put a stick in between them, let alone walk between them. The buildings seemed to be watching me, weighing me and finding me lacking. The sky was overcast, the clouds roiled but never rained, and it was still and hot. I had to jump from car to car to get anywhere, and I remember how they were caked with dust with a few streaks like maybe there had been a little rain at one time. This must be a dream, I thought — then, but would I see this much detail in a dream?
Time compressed itself, as it does in those kinds of dreams, and I found myself approaching a gas station. But the cars were packed in it and all around it, and I thought it would have been futile… anyone managing to get gas would never get back out.
“Mortal!” someone shouted. “Could this ever be put right?”
I looked around for the voice, thinking, sure, if you started moving cars from the back of the pack… but I realized that wasn’t the answer. There wasn’t enough gasoline left in the world, let alone this one station, to back them all out. I hadn’t found my questioner yet, but called back, “I don’t know. But only God Himself could fix this.”
He stepped out from behind a fallen overhang. “But if this is humanity’s folly,” he said, “can humanity’s wisdom not solve it?”
“If humanity was that wise, this wouldn’t have happened in the first place. What the hell is it, anyway?”
“Your question contains its answer,” he said. “This is the Hell that humanity would have created for itself, had it not chosen a different path. This is the last gas station, where the last gasoline would have been sold. Had all insisted on the easy path, instead of changing their ways, this would very likely have been the fate of mankind.”
“So people would have just abandoned their cars and gone home?”
“Some would have. Others… look around you.”
I looked again, and now I saw the signs of a struggle: broken windows, the little doors over gas caps torn away, the gas caps themselves strewn about… and bullet holes. “They killed each other? For gasoline? We barely think about the stuff these days.”
“In your prime, men fought at the pumps when the lines were long. They killed each other to claim the oil beneath a barren desert. So why would they not kill for some of the last gasoline?”
For a moment, I could see it: drivers desperately trying to leave; those behind them pressing forward… and then people swarming over the cars with fuel cans in hand. When the pumps ran dry, they turned on those who had been first in line. As they tried to leave the way they came, they were set on by those coming behind them. And those were set on by people coming behind them. Gas cans were punctured by gunfire, dropped and spilled, or deliberately poured out or set afire by those who would not give up their prizes. Not a drop was carried away safely.
I shook my head. “Why am I being shown this?”
“Humanity is foolish, but there is yet a little wisdom,” he said. “Write down this vision, mortal, and let it be known that all mortals live in one of the better possible worlds that they could have made for themselves. For there is a possibility even worse than this.”
He opened a cooler that I’d not noticed before, one of those pull-along coolers with wheels. He brought out a bottle of water and gave it to me. “The Living Water,” he said, as I opened and drank.
I almost choked. “You’re The Prophet!” I said.
“Go, mortal,” The Prophet said (for now I saw it really was him again) and smiled. “You will see me once more before you are mortal no longer.” Then he was gone, and the dream again dissolved into either chaos or something beyond my comprehension.
When I wake up, I usually have to pee first thing. Not this morning… I woke up with my heart pounding and feeling like I’d spent an entire summer in one of the dehydrator racks. I slugged down a liter of water and almost hurt my throat drinking so fast. It was like I’d been at that gas station all night, sweating in the heat. But the sheets on my bed weren’t wet.
I’ve spent all morning and half the afternoon trying to figure out whether I’d really been there or was just dreaming the whole thing. I don’t suppose it matters in the end. I do know that Daughter Dearest and Martina noticed something was amiss, and asked me about it. I told them half the truth, that I’d had a dream… forgetting that DD knows about the first one I had. She waited for Martina to go outside, then demanded the details. I told her the whole thing, especially the part about having one more vision. She has to know I’m not going to live forever, but she’s pretty much running FAR Manor these days and doesn’t need to worry about me right now.
I’m looking forward to getting out and helping with the spring planting. The veggies are all sprouting in their starter pots, and it looks like I’ll get at least one more shot at starting the garden, anyway.
continued…
Saturday, July 18, 2009 4 comments
Kneecapped Again
It has been a while since the last one of these… in fact, I had to go look it up.
Seeing as I’m off work for the next two weeks (hooray!) but we won’t be leaving for Michigan until later in the week (boo!), I figured it would be a good time to look into some of the maintenance issues at the rental place. We’ve known about the rain gutters for a good long while, but there was also a recent problem with the A/C unit kicking the 50-amp breaker (very bad). I threw some tools into the crate on the back of the bike and putted down there.
Big G (not Big V, we both have issues with her) was there, which helped a little. After making sure the breaker was off, I inspected the wiring and found a small kink where some wire was showing through the insulation; the wires were exposed to the elements but the rest of the insulation looked OK. I wrapped that up with some electrical tape and sealed up the wire nuts, just to be sure. Then we cleaned some crud out from around and inside the coils and hosed them out as best as we could. It kicked on later and seemed to be working fine.
With the small job out of the way, I started on the gutters. When The Boy (at age 10-ish) and I put up the gutters, I also bought and installed screens to keep debris out. They mostly worked, but some have rotted over the years and others broke off… and plenty of crud had collected in there. The roof isn’t very steep, but Big G “doesn’t do good on roofs” and I’m quite comfortable up there anyway… so he handed me a blower and I got a bunch of debris off there (and out of the ridge cap). My knee started giving me a little pain, but it does from time to time and usually goes away. It has been like that since my early teens — a disinterested doctor dismissed it at the time as “growing pains” — so I can still pretend I’m 30 even if the knee is acting up.
With the roof dealt with, I turned to the gutters themselves. I knew there was a wasp nest on one side, but got caught up in what I was doing and got too close. One of the SOBs got me on the left wrist, which hurt for a minute then stopped. And my knee stopped hurting, too. Acupuncture? Or maybe just my brain dampening the pain receptors? Whatever. I took care of the gutter on the other side, blowing all the crap out and nailing up a place where it had come loose. The gutters on the other side need more than that… the fascia board was cracked where the nails had gone in all the way down one 8-foot length, and the one on the end looks rotten. I’ll have to get new boards (and screens), paint the boards, then pull down the gutter to replace those boards before nailing it back up again.
After I’d finished on the roof, and we were looking at what limbs need to be cut off an oak tree, my knee buckled. Very painfully. I hadn’t had one of those in a long time. After getting home, I should have stayed home instead of going to the retail district to get lunch and repair parts, but live and learn I guess. I’ve got the ice cuff on it now; I expect it to be better before we make the long drive north.
How did it happen? I blame the chicken houses: I was helping to run feed last weekend, which entails a lot of bending and stooping to shake the pans and flats. My legs were quite sore the next day; my left leg cramped up pretty good around the back of my thigh, and was like that until this morning. I’ve been putting more weight on the right leg all week, and I guess the knee decided it needed its own vacation. All in all, an inauspicious start. But I’m hoping that’s the worst of it, and things will get better from there. At least I’m out of the honey-do loop for a day or so.
Seeing as I’m off work for the next two weeks (hooray!) but we won’t be leaving for Michigan until later in the week (boo!), I figured it would be a good time to look into some of the maintenance issues at the rental place. We’ve known about the rain gutters for a good long while, but there was also a recent problem with the A/C unit kicking the 50-amp breaker (very bad). I threw some tools into the crate on the back of the bike and putted down there.
Big G (not Big V, we both have issues with her) was there, which helped a little. After making sure the breaker was off, I inspected the wiring and found a small kink where some wire was showing through the insulation; the wires were exposed to the elements but the rest of the insulation looked OK. I wrapped that up with some electrical tape and sealed up the wire nuts, just to be sure. Then we cleaned some crud out from around and inside the coils and hosed them out as best as we could. It kicked on later and seemed to be working fine.
With the small job out of the way, I started on the gutters. When The Boy (at age 10-ish) and I put up the gutters, I also bought and installed screens to keep debris out. They mostly worked, but some have rotted over the years and others broke off… and plenty of crud had collected in there. The roof isn’t very steep, but Big G “doesn’t do good on roofs” and I’m quite comfortable up there anyway… so he handed me a blower and I got a bunch of debris off there (and out of the ridge cap). My knee started giving me a little pain, but it does from time to time and usually goes away. It has been like that since my early teens — a disinterested doctor dismissed it at the time as “growing pains” — so I can still pretend I’m 30 even if the knee is acting up.
With the roof dealt with, I turned to the gutters themselves. I knew there was a wasp nest on one side, but got caught up in what I was doing and got too close. One of the SOBs got me on the left wrist, which hurt for a minute then stopped. And my knee stopped hurting, too. Acupuncture? Or maybe just my brain dampening the pain receptors? Whatever. I took care of the gutter on the other side, blowing all the crap out and nailing up a place where it had come loose. The gutters on the other side need more than that… the fascia board was cracked where the nails had gone in all the way down one 8-foot length, and the one on the end looks rotten. I’ll have to get new boards (and screens), paint the boards, then pull down the gutter to replace those boards before nailing it back up again.
After I’d finished on the roof, and we were looking at what limbs need to be cut off an oak tree, my knee buckled. Very painfully. I hadn’t had one of those in a long time. After getting home, I should have stayed home instead of going to the retail district to get lunch and repair parts, but live and learn I guess. I’ve got the ice cuff on it now; I expect it to be better before we make the long drive north.
How did it happen? I blame the chicken houses: I was helping to run feed last weekend, which entails a lot of bending and stooping to shake the pans and flats. My legs were quite sore the next day; my left leg cramped up pretty good around the back of my thigh, and was like that until this morning. I’ve been putting more weight on the right leg all week, and I guess the knee decided it needed its own vacation. All in all, an inauspicious start. But I’m hoping that’s the worst of it, and things will get better from there. At least I’m out of the honey-do loop for a day or so.
Friday, July 17, 2009 4 comments
Flowery Friday (Roadside Edition)
The road out front of the manor is lined with all sorts of stuff this time of year. Some of it blooms, some doesn’t, and the economy sucks enough to keep the county from mowing everything down…
Queen Anne ’s Lace:
They caught my eye because they look like giant snowflakes. Seeing as it ’s mid-July on Planet Georgia, I found the notion highly entertaining. I described them to my dad over the phone, and he nailed the ID for me (thanks Dad!). It’s actually a wild carrot, a European invasive, and the ancestor of our domestic carrots. According to Gardening When It Counts, we’ve only been breeding carrots for a few centuries so they’ll readily cross-pollinate with their wild ancestors. I’ll dig up a couple tomorrow for pictorial purposes.
Clover:
The clover is actually a couple weeks past its prime, like the blackberries. But there are still the occasional displays to add color to the roadside.
Most of the rest of these are just flower-weeds to me… if anyone wants to ID them, feel free!
This sort of resembles a butterfly bush, but no butterfly bush stays below 2 feet high and is flame red like this:
I’ve never seen this before; I figure the drought is keeping the grass low enough to let it show off.
I happened to catch a glimpse of this WTFlower, tucked behind a bush, about four feet off the ground and about three inches across. I had my iPhone with me at the time; by the time I got back with the Big Gun (aka Canon), it had closed up:
It’s funky enough that I wouldn’t mind having a few around the manor.
We actually got a little rain today, so I didn’t have to worry about watering anything. The kudzu was already washed and waxed:
Another invasive that thinks Planet Georgia is just, um, peachy.
Shortly afterwards, I started getting rained on myself, so I tucked the Big Gun in my shirt and stepped it up back toward the manor. Am I complaining about getting wet? No way! (Well, I would have been happier without having to worry about the camera, but whatever.) An interesting way to start a two-week vacation…
Queen Anne ’s Lace:
They caught my eye because they look like giant snowflakes. Seeing as it ’s mid-July on Planet Georgia, I found the notion highly entertaining. I described them to my dad over the phone, and he nailed the ID for me (thanks Dad!). It’s actually a wild carrot, a European invasive, and the ancestor of our domestic carrots. According to Gardening When It Counts, we’ve only been breeding carrots for a few centuries so they’ll readily cross-pollinate with their wild ancestors. I’ll dig up a couple tomorrow for pictorial purposes.
Clover:
The clover is actually a couple weeks past its prime, like the blackberries. But there are still the occasional displays to add color to the roadside.
Most of the rest of these are just flower-weeds to me… if anyone wants to ID them, feel free!
This sort of resembles a butterfly bush, but no butterfly bush stays below 2 feet high and is flame red like this:
I’ve never seen this before; I figure the drought is keeping the grass low enough to let it show off.
I happened to catch a glimpse of this WTFlower, tucked behind a bush, about four feet off the ground and about three inches across. I had my iPhone with me at the time; by the time I got back with the Big Gun (aka Canon), it had closed up:
It’s funky enough that I wouldn’t mind having a few around the manor.
We actually got a little rain today, so I didn’t have to worry about watering anything. The kudzu was already washed and waxed:
Another invasive that thinks Planet Georgia is just, um, peachy.
Shortly afterwards, I started getting rained on myself, so I tucked the Big Gun in my shirt and stepped it up back toward the manor. Am I complaining about getting wet? No way! (Well, I would have been happier without having to worry about the camera, but whatever.) An interesting way to start a two-week vacation…
Monday, July 13, 2009 4 comments
FAR Future, Episode 96: I’m History
Tuesday, November 22, 2044
I’m History
A history student followed Pat down from the college to interview me for a paper he’s writing. I was kind of flattered, and told him he was welcome to stay at FAR Manor with us as long as he needed — there’s always plenty of food — and even for my 86th birthday if he was inclined.
“Sure,” he said, “We’re on break until Monday. And I’m really not looking forward to riding back to campus alone.”
“Hey, it’s only 25 kims,” I said. “I biked twice that when I was twice your age.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, but did you have a pack of clothes, books, and a recorder with you?”
“You got me there. But we didn’t have aerogel fairings or those hub motors for the hills, either.”
“You win some, you lose some, right?”
“Right. Do you mind sharing a room with some kids?”
“I guess not.” The kids in question were already checking out the visitor, whispering among themselves — probably about who would have to give up his bed — then Bobby walked up. “You can have my bed,” he said. “I’ll take care of the fire tonight.”
“Isn’t it your night anyway?” I asked.
Bobby blushed, and the visitor laughed. “Busted!” he said, and Bobby shrugged and walked away. It’s easy enough to embarrass a teenager, but flustering one is another thing.
“Well, c’mon in,” I said. “We can sit on the porch and talk. It’s still warm enough, and it’ll be quiet.”
Daughter Dearest, whom the kids call “Mama” these days, brought drinks and something to snack on. We sat and watched the kids through the screen, goofing around outside on one of those warm days of late fall, a jar of Luke’s hooch and a couple of glasses on the table.
“Good kids,” I said. “Kids are always happy to help out if they know they’re contributing… and that it’s appreciated.”
“It’s like that at my place, too,” the student — Darrell is his name, I think — told me. “At least you have a lot of room to move around, in these old houses. Didn’t you just have your own family in here, back when?”
“Occasionally,” I said. “We had other kids staying with us a lot of the time, and after the Powerout started we ended up with two foster kids and a Hispanic family. That was one way we knew things were changing a lot. But I think we were kind of unusual in that regard… most people wouldn’t have anyone but a relative living with them, back before.”
“Well, it’s the ‘back before’ stuff I came to talk about, before the Powerout got started — I guess you figured that out. I found a copy of that footage you took at Nickajack, back when things were just getting started, in our archives. But you aren’t listed as a militia or junta member. I got kind of excited when I found out you lived so nearby, and are still around to talk about it.”
“I had a strange, and rather uncomfortable, relationship with the junta,” I said, knocking back a gulp of hooch then replenishing my cup. “Even if I didn’t agree with their aims, I felt like what they were doing at Nickajack needed to be recorded. None of what we used to call the mainstream media wanted to associate with them, so I volunteered. I nearly got killed… by my wife when I got home!”
“Yeah. We have copies of old blogs in the archives, yours and lots of others, and they’re a big help for seeing what things were really like for everyday people. But it’s always good to get a first-hand report. Not all reports were created equal, you know.”
I laughed. “Not all lives are created equal. May you live in interesting times is truly a curse, but it makes for interesting reading.”
“So what do you remember about the junta people?”
“In a word: misled. I ran into one of the Nickajack folks shortly after the Flood, and he told me about the Restoration from his side of things. He spent some time in a prison camp, and learned that the televangelists he thought were running the show were being run by the ultra-wealthy—”
“Televangelists?”
“Yeah. Preachers with TV shows.”
He chewed on that for a moment. “Some stuff you can read about, but you just can’t internalize. They had their own TV shows?”
“Yeah. Some owned entire channels. Mostly on satellite and cable.”
He shook his head, as if it were too much to comprehend. “Were you a believer, back then?”
“Still am. Penitent, though. I never had much respect for those guys in expensive suits, always begging for more money. It’s important to remember, the junta rank-and-file thought they were obeying the will of God. Some of them killed themselves rather than admit they’d been duped so completely. Some just opted-out… which can be a slower form of suicide. Col. Mustard made it, and found something useful to do with himself afterwards. He’s still alive, down in John’s Creek — if you want an account of the junta from someone who was inside it, I could ask him if he’d be willing to tell you about it.”
“Yeah, maybe. But it was something else I was wondering about. I keep hearing stories of how things were like 40 years ago — burning up oil like it would never run out, cities bright as day by night, using delivery trucks for family vehicles — it sounds incredible. This must be a letdown.”
“Not at all,” I said. He gave me a curious look. “We used to call it the Rat Race. We were so consumed by it that very few ever stopped to see what it did to us or the world around us. We had so much energy and material wealth, it stunted our imagination. We knew there had to be a better way to live than burning up all the oil and ignoring the warning signs, but we just couldn’t — as a people — think of one.”
Darrell looked lost in thought for a few minutes. “I never heard anyone put it like that,” he said. “You really think people are better off now, even after all the disasters we’ve seen this century?”
“Well, now that things look like they’re finally starting to settle down… yes, I think so. I always hated that ‘it builds character’ crap; it was always someone not suffering who said it. But the struggles we’ve been through? They’ve given us a purpose. They showed us that we could be more than what we had let ourselves become. I saw plenty of suffering, and helped out where I could. I saw petty evil, and fought it. I suppose you could say the survivors are better off, but you — and those kids out there — are better off, too.”
“You wouldn’t go back, then?”
“Not if you gave me a tanker full of gasoline. We were tested in the fire, and barely passed through it. But we made it, and ended up a wiser people. We learned some hard lessons, and the biggest one might be this: unlimited energy doesn’t mean unlimited happiness — maybe it’s the opposite.”
“It's like the old joke about being rich: it has its own problems, but I ’d be willing to try.”
We laughed and chatted until suppertime.
continued…
I’m History
A history student followed Pat down from the college to interview me for a paper he’s writing. I was kind of flattered, and told him he was welcome to stay at FAR Manor with us as long as he needed — there’s always plenty of food — and even for my 86th birthday if he was inclined.
“Sure,” he said, “We’re on break until Monday. And I’m really not looking forward to riding back to campus alone.”
“Hey, it’s only 25 kims,” I said. “I biked twice that when I was twice your age.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, but did you have a pack of clothes, books, and a recorder with you?”
“You got me there. But we didn’t have aerogel fairings or those hub motors for the hills, either.”
“You win some, you lose some, right?”
“Right. Do you mind sharing a room with some kids?”
“I guess not.” The kids in question were already checking out the visitor, whispering among themselves — probably about who would have to give up his bed — then Bobby walked up. “You can have my bed,” he said. “I’ll take care of the fire tonight.”
“Isn’t it your night anyway?” I asked.
Bobby blushed, and the visitor laughed. “Busted!” he said, and Bobby shrugged and walked away. It’s easy enough to embarrass a teenager, but flustering one is another thing.
“Well, c’mon in,” I said. “We can sit on the porch and talk. It’s still warm enough, and it’ll be quiet.”
Daughter Dearest, whom the kids call “Mama” these days, brought drinks and something to snack on. We sat and watched the kids through the screen, goofing around outside on one of those warm days of late fall, a jar of Luke’s hooch and a couple of glasses on the table.
“Good kids,” I said. “Kids are always happy to help out if they know they’re contributing… and that it’s appreciated.”
“It’s like that at my place, too,” the student — Darrell is his name, I think — told me. “At least you have a lot of room to move around, in these old houses. Didn’t you just have your own family in here, back when?”
“Occasionally,” I said. “We had other kids staying with us a lot of the time, and after the Powerout started we ended up with two foster kids and a Hispanic family. That was one way we knew things were changing a lot. But I think we were kind of unusual in that regard… most people wouldn’t have anyone but a relative living with them, back before.”
“Well, it’s the ‘back before’ stuff I came to talk about, before the Powerout got started — I guess you figured that out. I found a copy of that footage you took at Nickajack, back when things were just getting started, in our archives. But you aren’t listed as a militia or junta member. I got kind of excited when I found out you lived so nearby, and are still around to talk about it.”
“I had a strange, and rather uncomfortable, relationship with the junta,” I said, knocking back a gulp of hooch then replenishing my cup. “Even if I didn’t agree with their aims, I felt like what they were doing at Nickajack needed to be recorded. None of what we used to call the mainstream media wanted to associate with them, so I volunteered. I nearly got killed… by my wife when I got home!”
“Yeah. We have copies of old blogs in the archives, yours and lots of others, and they’re a big help for seeing what things were really like for everyday people. But it’s always good to get a first-hand report. Not all reports were created equal, you know.”
I laughed. “Not all lives are created equal. May you live in interesting times is truly a curse, but it makes for interesting reading.”
“So what do you remember about the junta people?”
“In a word: misled. I ran into one of the Nickajack folks shortly after the Flood, and he told me about the Restoration from his side of things. He spent some time in a prison camp, and learned that the televangelists he thought were running the show were being run by the ultra-wealthy—”
“Televangelists?”
“Yeah. Preachers with TV shows.”
He chewed on that for a moment. “Some stuff you can read about, but you just can’t internalize. They had their own TV shows?”
“Yeah. Some owned entire channels. Mostly on satellite and cable.”
He shook his head, as if it were too much to comprehend. “Were you a believer, back then?”
“Still am. Penitent, though. I never had much respect for those guys in expensive suits, always begging for more money. It’s important to remember, the junta rank-and-file thought they were obeying the will of God. Some of them killed themselves rather than admit they’d been duped so completely. Some just opted-out… which can be a slower form of suicide. Col. Mustard made it, and found something useful to do with himself afterwards. He’s still alive, down in John’s Creek — if you want an account of the junta from someone who was inside it, I could ask him if he’d be willing to tell you about it.”
“Yeah, maybe. But it was something else I was wondering about. I keep hearing stories of how things were like 40 years ago — burning up oil like it would never run out, cities bright as day by night, using delivery trucks for family vehicles — it sounds incredible. This must be a letdown.”
“Not at all,” I said. He gave me a curious look. “We used to call it the Rat Race. We were so consumed by it that very few ever stopped to see what it did to us or the world around us. We had so much energy and material wealth, it stunted our imagination. We knew there had to be a better way to live than burning up all the oil and ignoring the warning signs, but we just couldn’t — as a people — think of one.”
Darrell looked lost in thought for a few minutes. “I never heard anyone put it like that,” he said. “You really think people are better off now, even after all the disasters we’ve seen this century?”
“Well, now that things look like they’re finally starting to settle down… yes, I think so. I always hated that ‘it builds character’ crap; it was always someone not suffering who said it. But the struggles we’ve been through? They’ve given us a purpose. They showed us that we could be more than what we had let ourselves become. I saw plenty of suffering, and helped out where I could. I saw petty evil, and fought it. I suppose you could say the survivors are better off, but you — and those kids out there — are better off, too.”
“You wouldn’t go back, then?”
“Not if you gave me a tanker full of gasoline. We were tested in the fire, and barely passed through it. But we made it, and ended up a wiser people. We learned some hard lessons, and the biggest one might be this: unlimited energy doesn’t mean unlimited happiness — maybe it’s the opposite.”
“It's like the old joke about being rich: it has its own problems, but I ’d be willing to try.”
We laughed and chatted until suppertime.
continued…
Wednesday, July 08, 2009 4 comments
Mission Impractical
Sunday afternoon, we were eating lunch before going to the cinema… and Daughter Dearest’s phone rang. Her (now ex-)boyfriend Sasquatch has another friend (call him Ananias, he’s not a liar but you’ll understand shortly) whose dad is a USDA Prime Asshole™. For reasons unnecessary to detail here, he decided to eject both Ananias and his wife (i.e. Ananias’s mom) from the premises. He was working Sunday, and told them to be out before he returned home. As I understand it, this is not the first such eviction notice; she would basically beg him into changing his mind. But Ananias had as much as he could take a while ago, and this particular weekend his mom felt the same way. She grabbed her essentials and bailed to a hotel, leaving Ananias to pack up his stuff. He called Sasquatch, who called Daughter Dearest, who asked me if I would also help. Having heard about this guy before, I figured it was more important than sitting on my butt in a theater… but DD and I both told him that we’d help him move out, but not move back.
So we went home, grabbed a pickup, and Daughter Dearest navigated while I drove. We arrived in good order, seeing Sasquatch and a very young-looking female whom I didn’t recognize (and feared that it was one of Sasquatch’s not so wonderful female acquaintances)… she turned out to be a neighbor and the same age as DD, Sasquatch, and Ananias. His girlfriend Saphira was also there — she’s black, another thing that Ananias’s dad doesn’t like (welcome to Planet Georgia, where it’s still 1957 in what passes for the minds of the pod people), and six months pregnant. However, she barely has a belly bump, where Snippet looks like she swallowed a basketball… but I digress. Ananias’s room was just off the garage, and we went in and found that he’d barely started — and they were all mostly standing around. DD and I grumbled, got everyone grabbing clothes on hangers, and stashing them behind the seats in the truck. I sent Ananias upstairs for garbage bags, and stuffed all his loose clothes in them. I had to break up a smoochie session that looked like it was going to turn into something a bit more than smoochie: “You get started,” I said, brandishing my smellphone, “and I’ll get pictures.”
“For blackmail?” Sephira grinned.
“Nope, I’ll just put ’em online.” There were no more smoochie sessions after that.
Less than half an hour later, we’d filled the truck with boxes and bags and had lots more to go — including a dog pen and two large dogs. We sent DD and Sasquatch to his place to unload stuff in their shed, and began loading boxes in the two available cars (one for Ananias, one for Saphira). I did my best to keep things moving; Ananias expected his dad home at 7 but I figured it being a holiday weekend, he could leave early and have little traffic, and I wanted us to be loaded and gone by 6. At one point, Sephira picked up a box that was much too heavy for her, and nearly hurt herself — I fussed at her about that, and I’d been reminding all the kids to lift with their legs anyway, then told her to stick to smaller boxes. Well before the truck returned, we had everything but the dogs and their pen in the cars. The neighbor girl (who had also been helping with lighter boxes) was in a chatty mood, so I talked with her for a while. I had thought she was maybe 13 or 14, complete with acne and a rather flat chest, but she said she had been in school with Ananias and was now at Piedmont (Daughter Dearest considered going there before settling on Reinhardt)… so she was also 19 or 20. I wondered if we should bring her with us, but her dad was home so I figured she’d be safe enough from any Wrath of Asshole.
We started breaking down the dog pen shortly before DD returned with the truck. As we were loading the panels into the back, someone asked, “how are we going to move the dogs?”
“One dog in each car,” DD suggested. I thought that was a great idea, especially since it was now past 5 and I was getting really antsy about the time. With the panels loaded and bungee’d as best as we could manage, DD and I got rolling and told the rest of them to do the same. As we were rolling, DD called to see how the rest of them were progressing, then hung up in disgust. “Sasquatch’s mom is coming with her Explorer to get the dogs,” she said. “There wasn’t enough room for them and Sasquatch in the cars.” Oh, great. The truck notwithstanding, if DD and I hadn’t been there to get them moving, they would probably have all been there at 7. Now they have to start throwing wrenches. What. Ever. We got to Sasquatch’s place without incident — I stopped in town to check the bungees, and even the rotten one was holding up fine — then we put the pen together (finger-tightening the brackets) while waiting for the rest of them to arrive. And arrive they did… not as soon as I’d have liked, but soon enough.
I would like to have been a fly on the wall, though, when Ananias’s dad got back to find his family cleared out as requested. Who is he going to push around now?
So we went home, grabbed a pickup, and Daughter Dearest navigated while I drove. We arrived in good order, seeing Sasquatch and a very young-looking female whom I didn’t recognize (and feared that it was one of Sasquatch’s not so wonderful female acquaintances)… she turned out to be a neighbor and the same age as DD, Sasquatch, and Ananias. His girlfriend Saphira was also there — she’s black, another thing that Ananias’s dad doesn’t like (welcome to Planet Georgia, where it’s still 1957 in what passes for the minds of the pod people), and six months pregnant. However, she barely has a belly bump, where Snippet looks like she swallowed a basketball… but I digress. Ananias’s room was just off the garage, and we went in and found that he’d barely started — and they were all mostly standing around. DD and I grumbled, got everyone grabbing clothes on hangers, and stashing them behind the seats in the truck. I sent Ananias upstairs for garbage bags, and stuffed all his loose clothes in them. I had to break up a smoochie session that looked like it was going to turn into something a bit more than smoochie: “You get started,” I said, brandishing my smellphone, “and I’ll get pictures.”
“For blackmail?” Sephira grinned.
“Nope, I’ll just put ’em online.” There were no more smoochie sessions after that.
Less than half an hour later, we’d filled the truck with boxes and bags and had lots more to go — including a dog pen and two large dogs. We sent DD and Sasquatch to his place to unload stuff in their shed, and began loading boxes in the two available cars (one for Ananias, one for Saphira). I did my best to keep things moving; Ananias expected his dad home at 7 but I figured it being a holiday weekend, he could leave early and have little traffic, and I wanted us to be loaded and gone by 6. At one point, Sephira picked up a box that was much too heavy for her, and nearly hurt herself — I fussed at her about that, and I’d been reminding all the kids to lift with their legs anyway, then told her to stick to smaller boxes. Well before the truck returned, we had everything but the dogs and their pen in the cars. The neighbor girl (who had also been helping with lighter boxes) was in a chatty mood, so I talked with her for a while. I had thought she was maybe 13 or 14, complete with acne and a rather flat chest, but she said she had been in school with Ananias and was now at Piedmont (Daughter Dearest considered going there before settling on Reinhardt)… so she was also 19 or 20. I wondered if we should bring her with us, but her dad was home so I figured she’d be safe enough from any Wrath of Asshole.
We started breaking down the dog pen shortly before DD returned with the truck. As we were loading the panels into the back, someone asked, “how are we going to move the dogs?”
“One dog in each car,” DD suggested. I thought that was a great idea, especially since it was now past 5 and I was getting really antsy about the time. With the panels loaded and bungee’d as best as we could manage, DD and I got rolling and told the rest of them to do the same. As we were rolling, DD called to see how the rest of them were progressing, then hung up in disgust. “Sasquatch’s mom is coming with her Explorer to get the dogs,” she said. “There wasn’t enough room for them and Sasquatch in the cars.” Oh, great. The truck notwithstanding, if DD and I hadn’t been there to get them moving, they would probably have all been there at 7. Now they have to start throwing wrenches. What. Ever. We got to Sasquatch’s place without incident — I stopped in town to check the bungees, and even the rotten one was holding up fine — then we put the pen together (finger-tightening the brackets) while waiting for the rest of them to arrive. And arrive they did… not as soon as I’d have liked, but soon enough.
I would like to have been a fly on the wall, though, when Ananias’s dad got back to find his family cleared out as requested. Who is he going to push around now?
Tuesday, July 07, 2009 2 comments
Fine Free Fruits at FAR Manor
The blueberries peaked and dried up the week I was suffering from cramps in my back muscles, so I didn’t get too many. Even more unfortunate, the blackberry harvest has been a little disappointing this year. I found a stand near the manor that looked good, but the month of drought has really taken its toll this year — most of the berries are small and were a bit dry-looking. But we had a little rain Sunday night though (hallelujah!!!), and they reconstituted on the vine.
I’ve picked a little over a gallon so far, a good ways behind my “3 gallons in one afternoon” pace from last year. I’d like to get another gallon, which should make about 8 pints of jelly. There are couple of spots where the berries are big like they were last year, so I’ll focus on those first.
Meanwhile… a trio of Smooth Sumac trees came up in front of the manor this year. I originally mis-identified these as Staghorn Sumac, but those have hairy branches and these are… well, smooth. The third pic features a somewhat concerned bugly (click on any of the pix for a closeup, of course). The berries smell abso-freeking-lutely heavenly.
I (not knowing what they were) have pulled up many of them in previous years, but these three looked good where they were so we left them to see what they turned into. Now they’re fruiting, three big bunches on each tree. Dang, I got lucky. I'll keep pulling 'em up, but more carefully now as to give them some room. The fruit is good for jelly and a drink often called “Indian lemonade” as the natives introduced it to the white folks. There’s a pretty good stand near the office, on the little street that goes behind the fast-food joints, so I’ll grab them when the time comes too.
Anyone interested in foraging for wild food should keep up with Wide-Eyed Lib’s diaries on DailyKos. He runs a pretty good series of foraging diaries. I still think a field guide is an essential; I got one at the local indie bookstore last night. I’m no stranger to foraging; we used to hunt for morels in Michigan in springtime (my dad still does it) & I know where the good stands of blackberries are around the manor, even if the berries were a bit small this year.
That’s a start to my forest garden, anyway… wild fruit & planted herbs scattered around the manor. I might scatter some of those sumac berries around the edge of the “garden spot” behind the manor, which I won’t ever tend as a regular garden unless I lose my job. Maybe some will come up & I’ll have a crop. (Their roots are shallow so I can always pull them up if I change my mind later.)
Tomorrow, I will relate the tale of an urgent move.
I’ve picked a little over a gallon so far, a good ways behind my “3 gallons in one afternoon” pace from last year. I’d like to get another gallon, which should make about 8 pints of jelly. There are couple of spots where the berries are big like they were last year, so I’ll focus on those first.
Meanwhile… a trio of Smooth Sumac trees came up in front of the manor this year. I originally mis-identified these as Staghorn Sumac, but those have hairy branches and these are… well, smooth. The third pic features a somewhat concerned bugly (click on any of the pix for a closeup, of course). The berries smell abso-freeking-lutely heavenly.
I (not knowing what they were) have pulled up many of them in previous years, but these three looked good where they were so we left them to see what they turned into. Now they’re fruiting, three big bunches on each tree. Dang, I got lucky. I'll keep pulling 'em up, but more carefully now as to give them some room. The fruit is good for jelly and a drink often called “Indian lemonade” as the natives introduced it to the white folks. There’s a pretty good stand near the office, on the little street that goes behind the fast-food joints, so I’ll grab them when the time comes too.
Anyone interested in foraging for wild food should keep up with Wide-Eyed Lib’s diaries on DailyKos. He runs a pretty good series of foraging diaries. I still think a field guide is an essential; I got one at the local indie bookstore last night. I’m no stranger to foraging; we used to hunt for morels in Michigan in springtime (my dad still does it) & I know where the good stands of blackberries are around the manor, even if the berries were a bit small this year.
That’s a start to my forest garden, anyway… wild fruit & planted herbs scattered around the manor. I might scatter some of those sumac berries around the edge of the “garden spot” behind the manor, which I won’t ever tend as a regular garden unless I lose my job. Maybe some will come up & I’ll have a crop. (Their roots are shallow so I can always pull them up if I change my mind later.)
Tomorrow, I will relate the tale of an urgent move.
Monday, July 06, 2009 4 comments
FAR Future, Episode 95: Dreams
Tuesday, October 25, 2044
Dreams
I’ve been having odd dreams lately. In one, The Boy was an old man with no feet, riding in a cart while younger men clear a tangle of brush off the road ahead. In another, Mrs. Fetched attended my funeral, accompanied by a band of odd-looking hunter-gatherers. I guess it’s true:
Your old men will dream dreams.
It’s been a long time since I’d even thought of the Prophet of Atlanta. But perhaps he’d thought of me in his mansion up above. This is last night’s dream, as best as I can remember:
We were walking along a beach, young and healthy as two men could be. I never saw The Prophet as a young man, but I knew him as well as I knew this dream-body that never was. There were other people scattered here and there along this endless beach, some lying in the sun, others chatting, a few sailing away from shore. Patches of dune grass sprouted here and there, away from the surf, and thatched shelters dotted the beach… not that they were needed; the sun was warm and a breeze made it perfect. The sand reminded me of Lake Michigan’s, blonde with little specks of black. Steel drum music played from… somewhere. It was everywhere, but only noticed when you listened for it.
“This is heaven. I could stay here forever,” I said.
The old black man, now a young black man, shook his head and smiled. “No. You’ll come alright, but you’ll only stay a little while. Then you’ll move on to Heaven.”
“Then what is this?”
“One of the resting places. Those who have labored on Earth, those who were heavy-laden, are given rest before entering Heaven. It is also a place where they remember what they have not forgiven, that they may forgive, that they in turn may be forgiven. And thus it is Purgatory as well.”
“So how long am I staying?”
“Only a few minutes, this night. You will awaken in the morning and live on yet a little longer. The Lord has sent me to you, to prepare you for your final journey.”
We walked on while I digested this bit of news. Finally I asked, “So everyone gets some time at the beach?”
The Prophet shook his head. “Only those who see Heaven in the beach. Others see Heaven in other places. Your wife wandered far through the mountains where she saw Heaven, until she was ready to turn aside from the reflection and see the true vision.”
“So… when I get here, how do I know when it’s time to move on?”
The Prophet turned into a shelter we were about to pass, and I followed. The back was cool and dark; several kegs with taps stood in a row behind a bar. He ducked behind the bar and poured me a beer, the best I ever tasted. “The Living Water,” he said, reminding me of something I saw once, and poured himself a cup as well. We emerged into the sunlight, not needing to squint, and continued our walk.
“You will hear the call when it’s time,” he said, and nodded toward the shoreline. There, a young woman pushed a small sailboat into the water, laughing. She jumped in, hoisted the sail, and it carried her out to sea. We stopped and watched for a while as she receded. It seemed that as she approached the horizon, her boat lifted instead of dropping below the horizon, rising out of the water and into the sky. She had to be miles away by now, but we could see her clearly for a long time until she… simply vanished. “When you hear the call, do not tarry. Some go by water, others walk over the dunes, some simply continue down the shore. All paths from here lead to Heaven.”
I finished my cup, and we walked along. Somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t holding the cup anymore. I spun around, looking back the way we came — littering on this of all beaches would certainly be blasphemy — and started a step before The Prophet stopped me with a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“The cup had served its purpose, so it was taken,” he said. “As I was. As you will be.”
“That reminds me of something I wondered about for a long time: it seemed like after the Restoration, you just disappeared,” I said. “Whatever happened to you?”
“Does it matter? The servants of God rarely retire. Some are martyred, others simply die. A very few are taken to Heaven — no, I was no Elijah, even if that was my middle name.” He grinned. “After Jerusalem was freed, I laid my burden down and went to my resting place, and then to Heaven itself.”
I wanted to ask him what his resting place was, but he stopped me. “It’s time for you to go back. You yet have a little work to do. Nothing very difficult, but the time for knowing all answers is not yet come. Go in peace. God willing, I will speak to you again.” And the beach dissolved into chaos, or perhaps something I’m not equipped to comprehend right now, then I woke up with the old familiar aches and throbs.
I think I would have rather it had been a surprise, but I suppose you don’t get to make those kind of choices at my age.
continued…
Dreams
I’ve been having odd dreams lately. In one, The Boy was an old man with no feet, riding in a cart while younger men clear a tangle of brush off the road ahead. In another, Mrs. Fetched attended my funeral, accompanied by a band of odd-looking hunter-gatherers. I guess it’s true:
Your old men will dream dreams.
It’s been a long time since I’d even thought of the Prophet of Atlanta. But perhaps he’d thought of me in his mansion up above. This is last night’s dream, as best as I can remember:
We were walking along a beach, young and healthy as two men could be. I never saw The Prophet as a young man, but I knew him as well as I knew this dream-body that never was. There were other people scattered here and there along this endless beach, some lying in the sun, others chatting, a few sailing away from shore. Patches of dune grass sprouted here and there, away from the surf, and thatched shelters dotted the beach… not that they were needed; the sun was warm and a breeze made it perfect. The sand reminded me of Lake Michigan’s, blonde with little specks of black. Steel drum music played from… somewhere. It was everywhere, but only noticed when you listened for it.
“This is heaven. I could stay here forever,” I said.
The old black man, now a young black man, shook his head and smiled. “No. You’ll come alright, but you’ll only stay a little while. Then you’ll move on to Heaven.”
“Then what is this?”
“One of the resting places. Those who have labored on Earth, those who were heavy-laden, are given rest before entering Heaven. It is also a place where they remember what they have not forgiven, that they may forgive, that they in turn may be forgiven. And thus it is Purgatory as well.”
“So how long am I staying?”
“Only a few minutes, this night. You will awaken in the morning and live on yet a little longer. The Lord has sent me to you, to prepare you for your final journey.”
We walked on while I digested this bit of news. Finally I asked, “So everyone gets some time at the beach?”
The Prophet shook his head. “Only those who see Heaven in the beach. Others see Heaven in other places. Your wife wandered far through the mountains where she saw Heaven, until she was ready to turn aside from the reflection and see the true vision.”
“So… when I get here, how do I know when it’s time to move on?”
The Prophet turned into a shelter we were about to pass, and I followed. The back was cool and dark; several kegs with taps stood in a row behind a bar. He ducked behind the bar and poured me a beer, the best I ever tasted. “The Living Water,” he said, reminding me of something I saw once, and poured himself a cup as well. We emerged into the sunlight, not needing to squint, and continued our walk.
“You will hear the call when it’s time,” he said, and nodded toward the shoreline. There, a young woman pushed a small sailboat into the water, laughing. She jumped in, hoisted the sail, and it carried her out to sea. We stopped and watched for a while as she receded. It seemed that as she approached the horizon, her boat lifted instead of dropping below the horizon, rising out of the water and into the sky. She had to be miles away by now, but we could see her clearly for a long time until she… simply vanished. “When you hear the call, do not tarry. Some go by water, others walk over the dunes, some simply continue down the shore. All paths from here lead to Heaven.”
I finished my cup, and we walked along. Somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t holding the cup anymore. I spun around, looking back the way we came — littering on this of all beaches would certainly be blasphemy — and started a step before The Prophet stopped me with a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“The cup had served its purpose, so it was taken,” he said. “As I was. As you will be.”
“That reminds me of something I wondered about for a long time: it seemed like after the Restoration, you just disappeared,” I said. “Whatever happened to you?”
“Does it matter? The servants of God rarely retire. Some are martyred, others simply die. A very few are taken to Heaven — no, I was no Elijah, even if that was my middle name.” He grinned. “After Jerusalem was freed, I laid my burden down and went to my resting place, and then to Heaven itself.”
I wanted to ask him what his resting place was, but he stopped me. “It’s time for you to go back. You yet have a little work to do. Nothing very difficult, but the time for knowing all answers is not yet come. Go in peace. God willing, I will speak to you again.” And the beach dissolved into chaos, or perhaps something I’m not equipped to comprehend right now, then I woke up with the old familiar aches and throbs.
I think I would have rather it had been a surprise, but I suppose you don’t get to make those kind of choices at my age.
continued…
Saturday, July 04, 2009 2 comments
Born on the Fourth of July
After repairing the shelf in Daughter Dearest’s closet, I got started on supper. I had put myself on the hook to make rolls and pasta salad, and the schedule was pretty tight to get the rolls done. Somewhere in there, I had to also grill chicken and salmon. Somehow, I managed:
Meanwhile, Mrs. Fetched was frying up squash & onions, one of the few things I like really well-done. Daughter Dearest went out to feed the dogs… then came running back. “Crissy had her puppies!”
Yup, the World’s Most Obnoxious Dog reproduced. I had a look, guesstimated about eight of the little boogers, and went back to the grill (the salmon wasn’t going to wait). Mrs. Fetched came out, “Did you see them?”
“Yup,” I said. “All eight.”
“Eight? You mean four, right?”
“No, I mean eight. There’s a bunch of ’em there.”
With that bit of news, Mrs. Fetched went to count them and was relieved to find “only” seven. I just hope they’re not obnoxious shriekboxes like their mom.
“I hope they’re all boys,” Mrs. Fetched said. “I need to give them away.”
“Or you could keep one and give Crissy away,” I suggested helpfully. She ignored me.
So we’re up to 11 dogs. For now, at least.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Fetched was frying up squash & onions, one of the few things I like really well-done. Daughter Dearest went out to feed the dogs… then came running back. “Crissy had her puppies!”
Yup, the World’s Most Obnoxious Dog reproduced. I had a look, guesstimated about eight of the little boogers, and went back to the grill (the salmon wasn’t going to wait). Mrs. Fetched came out, “Did you see them?”
“Yup,” I said. “All eight.”
“Eight? You mean four, right?”
“No, I mean eight. There’s a bunch of ’em there.”
With that bit of news, Mrs. Fetched went to count them and was relieved to find “only” seven. I just hope they’re not obnoxious shriekboxes like their mom.
“I hope they’re all boys,” Mrs. Fetched said. “I need to give them away.”
“Or you could keep one and give Crissy away,” I suggested helpfully. She ignored me.
So we’re up to 11 dogs. For now, at least.
Friday, July 03, 2009 No comments
As the Sun Slowly Sets in the South…
…west? This is Planet Georgia. The sun sets wherever the pod people say it sets. Just ask them!
The three-day weekend is about 1/3 over. Some rain is in the forecast for tomorrow night through Monday… maybe we’ll get some. God knows we need it. I’m not sure what possessed Mrs. Fetched to get more flowers, but we planted them this evening. With any luck, the forecast will hold up and we’ll get more than a spit.
Earlier this week, I found the (unfortunately inedible) SOBs that ate my jalapeño plants: tomato hornworms, which were starting on the tomato plants themselves. I found four of them, pulled them off with pliers, and stomped them flat. So much for the stewpot. I got some Bt (an organic pesticide) today and sprayed the plants that have been attacked so far. For whatever reason, they didn’t bother the yellow pear tomato plants, perhaps because their leaves are too small. The yellow pear vines are already producing; we’ve made a couple of pasta salads & I’ve got enough for another one. The instructions say you can spray right up to the day of harvest, so I probably could have sprayed them too. If I see them taking any damage, I’ll pick ripe ones then spray. The denuded jalapeño stalks are starting to shoot new leaves, so I sprayed them as well. Maybe they’ll come back & I’ll get some late-season peppers.
This is also blackberry harvest weekend on Planet Georgia, but the berries are a bit small this year. I’ve gotten just over a gallon so far; maybe I’ll get some more tomorrow. We can make some jelly/jam with Splenda™ and share with The Boy.
I’m planning a vacation up north. Since I somehow ended up with SIX weeks of vacation this year, I might do two weeks; Mrs. Fetched is already making noises about not going and that would let me stay longer. With any luck, I’ll be able to spend a little time with some of my blog-family — in particular, AndiF, Stormy, and Yooper — as well as my bio-family. That would leave me a minimum of two more weeks of vacation to burn; I can grab a week at the hideout then another week (maybe two) at Christmas.
Hoping for a long and enjoyable weekend for all readers, both commenters & lurkers… with fireworks of whatever kind you enjoy most!
The three-day weekend is about 1/3 over. Some rain is in the forecast for tomorrow night through Monday… maybe we’ll get some. God knows we need it. I’m not sure what possessed Mrs. Fetched to get more flowers, but we planted them this evening. With any luck, the forecast will hold up and we’ll get more than a spit.
Earlier this week, I found the (unfortunately inedible) SOBs that ate my jalapeño plants: tomato hornworms, which were starting on the tomato plants themselves. I found four of them, pulled them off with pliers, and stomped them flat. So much for the stewpot. I got some Bt (an organic pesticide) today and sprayed the plants that have been attacked so far. For whatever reason, they didn’t bother the yellow pear tomato plants, perhaps because their leaves are too small. The yellow pear vines are already producing; we’ve made a couple of pasta salads & I’ve got enough for another one. The instructions say you can spray right up to the day of harvest, so I probably could have sprayed them too. If I see them taking any damage, I’ll pick ripe ones then spray. The denuded jalapeño stalks are starting to shoot new leaves, so I sprayed them as well. Maybe they’ll come back & I’ll get some late-season peppers.
This is also blackberry harvest weekend on Planet Georgia, but the berries are a bit small this year. I’ve gotten just over a gallon so far; maybe I’ll get some more tomorrow. We can make some jelly/jam with Splenda™ and share with The Boy.
I’m planning a vacation up north. Since I somehow ended up with SIX weeks of vacation this year, I might do two weeks; Mrs. Fetched is already making noises about not going and that would let me stay longer. With any luck, I’ll be able to spend a little time with some of my blog-family — in particular, AndiF, Stormy, and Yooper — as well as my bio-family. That would leave me a minimum of two more weeks of vacation to burn; I can grab a week at the hideout then another week (maybe two) at Christmas.
Hoping for a long and enjoyable weekend for all readers, both commenters & lurkers… with fireworks of whatever kind you enjoy most!
Tuesday, June 30, 2009 9 comments
Happy Horse…
Since I was working at home today, Mrs. Fetched’s mom invited me down to help scarf some leftovers for lunch. DoubleRed was invited too, but decided she wasn’t hungry and stayed at the manor. While I was eating, DoubleRed called my phone and I got dead air when I answered.
“The cell phones don’t work in the house,” Mrs. Fetched said. “Call her on the house phone.”
I had one bar, which on my iPhone is always enough to hold up the call, but the signal fluctuates (as I’ve learned) and could drop out at any given moment. I shrugged and called.
“There’s horses in the yard, eating the flowers,” DoubleRed said.
This has been happening fairly often lately. Big V tries to take care of her horses, but she bit off way more than she could ever hope to chew trying to start a business with it… then her hosing her foot back in January didn’t help matters any. Her other habits, like just dropping her horses in our pasture without asking (indeed, after being told not to do it), don’t help either. But eventually, the horses get hungry and start taking matters into their own hooves… and go off looking for chow on their own.
Of course, Cosmic Law #1 of the free-range insane asylum is: when in doubt, call on FAR Manor. So when I got home from lunch, I was greeted with:
After pushing one horse (its head, actually) out of a flower bed, it contentedly munched on weeds. With things more or less under control, I called Big V to let her know she would need halters or something. (The darker of the two horses above came to visit on Saturday as well, but was wearing a halter so I simply led it to the path home and it took the hint… no halters on either one this time.) She said she’d stop and grab a couple of leads. Meanwhile, the horses continued to wander around the front yard, munching at random and (mostly) staying clear of the flower beds. DoubleRed came out to watch as well, and did stop an attempted flower bed incursion.
Then one of them left us some right-wing talking points.
That didn’t bother me much… for one, I was expecting it. Two, as I live deep in crazy-arse right-wing territory, I’m mostly surrounded by that anyway.
Finally, Big V came up the driveway. She kept the leads behind her back, but the horses were wise to her and started backing up. She gimped forward, in her funky boot, and they continued to shy away. Finally, they went “OK, OK, we got the message,” and took the back way down to Big V’s, with herself in slow pursuit. I did managed to suggest that she stake them in her front yard from time to time, it would cut down on the mowing.
The Hoofdinis were gone, but I’m sure they’ll be back. I’m pretty sure they come up to eat our grass through the night, given all the noise the stupidogs make.
“The cell phones don’t work in the house,” Mrs. Fetched said. “Call her on the house phone.”
I had one bar, which on my iPhone is always enough to hold up the call, but the signal fluctuates (as I’ve learned) and could drop out at any given moment. I shrugged and called.
“There’s horses in the yard, eating the flowers,” DoubleRed said.
This has been happening fairly often lately. Big V tries to take care of her horses, but she bit off way more than she could ever hope to chew trying to start a business with it… then her hosing her foot back in January didn’t help matters any. Her other habits, like just dropping her horses in our pasture without asking (indeed, after being told not to do it), don’t help either. But eventually, the horses get hungry and start taking matters into their own hooves… and go off looking for chow on their own.
Of course, Cosmic Law #1 of the free-range insane asylum is: when in doubt, call on FAR Manor. So when I got home from lunch, I was greeted with:
After pushing one horse (its head, actually) out of a flower bed, it contentedly munched on weeds. With things more or less under control, I called Big V to let her know she would need halters or something. (The darker of the two horses above came to visit on Saturday as well, but was wearing a halter so I simply led it to the path home and it took the hint… no halters on either one this time.) She said she’d stop and grab a couple of leads. Meanwhile, the horses continued to wander around the front yard, munching at random and (mostly) staying clear of the flower beds. DoubleRed came out to watch as well, and did stop an attempted flower bed incursion.
Then one of them left us some right-wing talking points.That didn’t bother me much… for one, I was expecting it. Two, as I live deep in crazy-arse right-wing territory, I’m mostly surrounded by that anyway.
Finally, Big V came up the driveway. She kept the leads behind her back, but the horses were wise to her and started backing up. She gimped forward, in her funky boot, and they continued to shy away. Finally, they went “OK, OK, we got the message,” and took the back way down to Big V’s, with herself in slow pursuit. I did managed to suggest that she stake them in her front yard from time to time, it would cut down on the mowing.
The Hoofdinis were gone, but I’m sure they’ll be back. I’m pretty sure they come up to eat our grass through the night, given all the noise the stupidogs make.
Monday, June 29, 2009 2 comments
FAR Future, Episode 94: Interlude
So begins the final sub-series.
2037–2044
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
After disruption, a new equilibrium.
The new sea level worked its way around the edges of continents, swamping low-lying islands and erasing entire nations, in less than two years. The changes it wrought on humanity were no less profound than the changes to the coastlines and the weather — there were attempts to count the dead and displaced, but even the best estimates are only estimates. Very few casualties were the direct result of the incoming tide, of course — but the wars, riots, and accidents it triggered are another story.
Few countries, even landlocked countries, escape the effects of the “Little Great Flood,” but some nations are better able to react than others. The Netherlands simply raise their dikes. Cuba and Japan use their time wisely, conducting orderly evacuations and salvaging what they can from their coasts. Bangladesh and Somalia collapse under the weight of their own refugees and the ensuing civil wars. The Maldives and Vanuatu are inundated completely, becoming the first nations in exile. Wars, ethnic cleansing, famine, and starvation rock the globe, overwhelming even the augmented charities and NGOs that step in to alleviate the suffering. But every nation has stories to tell: tragic and heroic; venal and honorable; avaricious and selfless.
Rumors spread about the Greenland ice slide, that it was no act of nature. Depending on who’s telling the story, the culprits include terrorist bands of every religion and ideology, the Great Zionist Conspiracy, the Bilderbergers (or other vehicles of the wealthiest of the wealthy), communists, fascists, China, Japan, Russia, the USA, and even Greenlanders (often described as an attempt to clear some land for farming that went horribly wrong). Some of the stories contradict themselves — for example, one eco-terrorist story claims that the culprits were trying to both kill all humans and save the biosphere — and few are even plausible. But all are investigated, and come to nothing.
Weather patterns continue to change around the world. In some places, deserts bloom; in others, wetlands dry up. Most places change little. But with more water evaporating from an enlarged ocean, more rain falls overall. Temperatures drop, recover, level off, begin to creep up again. The moving averages show a small blip down, then perhaps the beginning of a plateau.
As human populations continue to decline in most places, and those left pour less pollutants into the atmosphere, some say the earth is enjoying a healing rest. To sleep, perchance to dream… what dreams may come?
continued…
2037–2044
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
After disruption, a new equilibrium.
The new sea level worked its way around the edges of continents, swamping low-lying islands and erasing entire nations, in less than two years. The changes it wrought on humanity were no less profound than the changes to the coastlines and the weather — there were attempts to count the dead and displaced, but even the best estimates are only estimates. Very few casualties were the direct result of the incoming tide, of course — but the wars, riots, and accidents it triggered are another story.
Few countries, even landlocked countries, escape the effects of the “Little Great Flood,” but some nations are better able to react than others. The Netherlands simply raise their dikes. Cuba and Japan use their time wisely, conducting orderly evacuations and salvaging what they can from their coasts. Bangladesh and Somalia collapse under the weight of their own refugees and the ensuing civil wars. The Maldives and Vanuatu are inundated completely, becoming the first nations in exile. Wars, ethnic cleansing, famine, and starvation rock the globe, overwhelming even the augmented charities and NGOs that step in to alleviate the suffering. But every nation has stories to tell: tragic and heroic; venal and honorable; avaricious and selfless.
Rumors spread about the Greenland ice slide, that it was no act of nature. Depending on who’s telling the story, the culprits include terrorist bands of every religion and ideology, the Great Zionist Conspiracy, the Bilderbergers (or other vehicles of the wealthiest of the wealthy), communists, fascists, China, Japan, Russia, the USA, and even Greenlanders (often described as an attempt to clear some land for farming that went horribly wrong). Some of the stories contradict themselves — for example, one eco-terrorist story claims that the culprits were trying to both kill all humans and save the biosphere — and few are even plausible. But all are investigated, and come to nothing.
Weather patterns continue to change around the world. In some places, deserts bloom; in others, wetlands dry up. Most places change little. But with more water evaporating from an enlarged ocean, more rain falls overall. Temperatures drop, recover, level off, begin to creep up again. The moving averages show a small blip down, then perhaps the beginning of a plateau.
As human populations continue to decline in most places, and those left pour less pollutants into the atmosphere, some say the earth is enjoying a healing rest. To sleep, perchance to dream… what dreams may come?
continued…
Friday, June 26, 2009 2 comments
Flowery Friday
Summer is hitting Planet Georgia with both barrels… as I’ve said before, the weather here has attitude. But it’s not stopping the flowers…
A tall pink rose in front of the manor, across the driveway.
A little ways behind it, among the trees, a hydrangea alerts us to its presence with a big bright splash of blue.
I presume both of these plants have deep roots; we’ve had no more than a couple spits of rain in the last couple of weeks, despite 40%–60% chances of rain on several occasions. Smaller trees are starting to show signs of stress, but these flowers (and my tomato plants) are doing well.
A tall pink rose in front of the manor, across the driveway.
A little ways behind it, among the trees, a hydrangea alerts us to its presence with a big bright splash of blue.
I presume both of these plants have deep roots; we’ve had no more than a couple spits of rain in the last couple of weeks, despite 40%–60% chances of rain on several occasions. Smaller trees are starting to show signs of stress, but these flowers (and my tomato plants) are doing well.
Monday, June 22, 2009 2 comments
FAR Future, Episode 93: Homecoming
The last first episode of summer… we’re about to start the home stretch.
Thursday, November 20, 2036
Homecoming
And almost exactly a year after he left, The Boy has returned. He says, this time, to stay (although “stay” might mean in town or in Atlanta, rather than at the manor). He’s said that so many times in the past that I gave up trying to keep count a long time ago, but there’s a new look in his eyes. His side trip to the shale pits might have done him some good… given him some closure, exorcised his demons, put his ghosts to rest, however you like to say it. Just being out on the road, playing his music to crowds, did the rest… even if most of the venues were makeshift or pressed into service on the spur of the moment.
He took more time than strictly needed to get from Washington to LA and then back here, of course… he put on a couple of concerts in each major city, and spent a few more days in a couple of places. He admitted to being tempted by the offer to join the Chicago Corporation, but decided in the end that they probably wouldn’t have been interested in him if not for his celebrity status. He did spend a week in Chicago though, playing various venues and seeing what there was to see before moving on.
A month in California is still quite an experience, according to The Boy, even if the beaches are getting eaten away by the permanently risen tide. During the junta years, when the west coast was first known as Pacifica and then became part of the Rebel Alliance, there was a lot of development aimed at coping without oil. Drive motors, batteries, and aerogel were all improved; then a company called LSO (Los Santos Occidental, but some people say it really means Life Sans Oil) put them all together on a bicycle. The sucker’s not cheap, but it does make life easier for people who need to get around. He brought one home with him; Rene tried it out and said it was an easy half-hour ride to town. Good thing we have the Heehaw, because I expect The Boy will be using the LSO himself to get around before long.
I asked him when he realized he’d put the past behind him finally. “I guess it was an evening in Santa Monica,” he said. “I was sitting there, watching the sun set, picking out a tune, and it was like… like everything just drained out of me. I’m glad I was alone, because I started crying. Everything I’d hoped for when I was younger — going on tour, people lining up to hear my music — it finally happened, after I’d given up hope on even having a normal life.” He paused for a long moment. “And going back to the shale pits. When I was there before, I dreamed about getting even with the assholes who put me there. When I got there, I didn’t know what I was going to do. They make you go with a guard, and they tell you the guard is there to keep you from going after them, just as much as them going after you. But you can go in there and tell them whatever you have to say.”
“So what happened? You never told us.”
He chugged down what was left of his homebrew. “Damn. You gotta go to a bar to get cold beer now, and sometimes that’s a crap shoot. ’Least this is good warm.
“Anyway. I was in Denver, and I was going back and forth about it: gonna go, not gonna go, that kind of crap. I already had the ticket though, so I figured I might as well go. I figured I didn’t have to say anything, I could just have a look and get back on the train. But I checked out of the hotel, so I had to carry all my gear. They said that wasn’t a problem, so I went ahead. I had to take it all with me off the train, because I’d have to take a different train back to Denver and Cal was doing his own sightseeing tour. No big deal, I had a bag of clothes, my guitar, and amp is all, and I carried that around pretty well before.
“So I got there and looked. All it was, was a bunch of old crooks shuffling around the work site. A couple other people came, and yelled a few things at them. Me, I just stood there a long time, just watching. Some of them looked at me and then turned around.” He grinned. “So I plugged in the guitar, turned on the amp, and played them some songs. I Opted Out Today, and that one from the 60s that Bob Dylan did…”
“How Does It Feel?”
“Yeah, that one. Then I made up one on the spot, just for them. I called it What You Deserve, and it was about all the shit they deserved to get, a lot worse than pretending to mine shale. They didn’t like it too much, a couple of them started throwing rocks and pieces of shale at me. I was too far away, but it got the guards down there by the time I finished. Then my guard said no more, it’s time to go, so I turned off the amp and left. I guess he liked it though, because he carried the amp back; I had to carry everything there myself. He told me ‘Good one’ when we got back to the station.”
“Heh. You remember the words?”
He did, and said to post them here:
He cut his album in California, at one of the old studios out there, and put that song on there too. It’s been a roaring success, as such things are measured nowadays — a good 10,000 downloads (and that’s just the paid version), topping the Retro Rage charts. Enough for him to live comfortably on for a good while, even if he’s paying rent. He’s not sure what he’ll do, but I suspect that he’ll try to find a place in Atlanta. I’ve already asked Kim to keep an eye out for something halfway decent.
The important thing is, he’s healed.
continued…
Thursday, November 20, 2036
Homecoming
And almost exactly a year after he left, The Boy has returned. He says, this time, to stay (although “stay” might mean in town or in Atlanta, rather than at the manor). He’s said that so many times in the past that I gave up trying to keep count a long time ago, but there’s a new look in his eyes. His side trip to the shale pits might have done him some good… given him some closure, exorcised his demons, put his ghosts to rest, however you like to say it. Just being out on the road, playing his music to crowds, did the rest… even if most of the venues were makeshift or pressed into service on the spur of the moment.
He took more time than strictly needed to get from Washington to LA and then back here, of course… he put on a couple of concerts in each major city, and spent a few more days in a couple of places. He admitted to being tempted by the offer to join the Chicago Corporation, but decided in the end that they probably wouldn’t have been interested in him if not for his celebrity status. He did spend a week in Chicago though, playing various venues and seeing what there was to see before moving on.
A month in California is still quite an experience, according to The Boy, even if the beaches are getting eaten away by the permanently risen tide. During the junta years, when the west coast was first known as Pacifica and then became part of the Rebel Alliance, there was a lot of development aimed at coping without oil. Drive motors, batteries, and aerogel were all improved; then a company called LSO (Los Santos Occidental, but some people say it really means Life Sans Oil) put them all together on a bicycle. The sucker’s not cheap, but it does make life easier for people who need to get around. He brought one home with him; Rene tried it out and said it was an easy half-hour ride to town. Good thing we have the Heehaw, because I expect The Boy will be using the LSO himself to get around before long.
I asked him when he realized he’d put the past behind him finally. “I guess it was an evening in Santa Monica,” he said. “I was sitting there, watching the sun set, picking out a tune, and it was like… like everything just drained out of me. I’m glad I was alone, because I started crying. Everything I’d hoped for when I was younger — going on tour, people lining up to hear my music — it finally happened, after I’d given up hope on even having a normal life.” He paused for a long moment. “And going back to the shale pits. When I was there before, I dreamed about getting even with the assholes who put me there. When I got there, I didn’t know what I was going to do. They make you go with a guard, and they tell you the guard is there to keep you from going after them, just as much as them going after you. But you can go in there and tell them whatever you have to say.”
“So what happened? You never told us.”
He chugged down what was left of his homebrew. “Damn. You gotta go to a bar to get cold beer now, and sometimes that’s a crap shoot. ’Least this is good warm.
“Anyway. I was in Denver, and I was going back and forth about it: gonna go, not gonna go, that kind of crap. I already had the ticket though, so I figured I might as well go. I figured I didn’t have to say anything, I could just have a look and get back on the train. But I checked out of the hotel, so I had to carry all my gear. They said that wasn’t a problem, so I went ahead. I had to take it all with me off the train, because I’d have to take a different train back to Denver and Cal was doing his own sightseeing tour. No big deal, I had a bag of clothes, my guitar, and amp is all, and I carried that around pretty well before.
“So I got there and looked. All it was, was a bunch of old crooks shuffling around the work site. A couple other people came, and yelled a few things at them. Me, I just stood there a long time, just watching. Some of them looked at me and then turned around.” He grinned. “So I plugged in the guitar, turned on the amp, and played them some songs. I Opted Out Today, and that one from the 60s that Bob Dylan did…”
“How Does It Feel?”
“Yeah, that one. Then I made up one on the spot, just for them. I called it What You Deserve, and it was about all the shit they deserved to get, a lot worse than pretending to mine shale. They didn’t like it too much, a couple of them started throwing rocks and pieces of shale at me. I was too far away, but it got the guards down there by the time I finished. Then my guard said no more, it’s time to go, so I turned off the amp and left. I guess he liked it though, because he carried the amp back; I had to carry everything there myself. He told me ‘Good one’ when we got back to the station.”
“Heh. You remember the words?”
He did, and said to post them here:
You treated me and America like shit,
And now you’re here, stuck in your own pit.
Life has thrown us all a curve,
But you didn't get what you deserve.
You look down on me as I look down at you,
I was always something to scrape off your shoe.
You wanted to rule, and us to serve,
So you haven’t got what you deserve.
You should be a display at the county fair,
For us to laugh at, and spit in your hair!
Slapped and punched when we get the nerve —
That’s only the start of what you deserve!
You thought General K was so very brave.
But he’s long gone, and I pissed on his grave.
Throw you in a hole, deep down in the turf,
Buried alive — it’s what you deserve.
Buried alive — it’s what you deserve!
He cut his album in California, at one of the old studios out there, and put that song on there too. It’s been a roaring success, as such things are measured nowadays — a good 10,000 downloads (and that’s just the paid version), topping the Retro Rage charts. Enough for him to live comfortably on for a good while, even if he’s paying rent. He’s not sure what he’ll do, but I suspect that he’ll try to find a place in Atlanta. I’ve already asked Kim to keep an eye out for something halfway decent.
The important thing is, he’s healed.
continued…
Friday, June 19, 2009 3 comments
Flowery Friday
The daylilies are gone, but the tiger lilies are out now:
A couple of them near this pair may have cross-pollinated with the daylilies; they’re yellow and slightly larger than the others, but still the same shape as the tiger lilies and maybe just slightly over half the size of the daylilies.
Oh, and the allium is a little bigger now, and looks like it might open up soon. There were bees on it when I didn’t have a camera handy (grumble)… onion-flavored honey, anyone?
A couple of them near this pair may have cross-pollinated with the daylilies; they’re yellow and slightly larger than the others, but still the same shape as the tiger lilies and maybe just slightly over half the size of the daylilies.
Oh, and the allium is a little bigger now, and looks like it might open up soon. There were bees on it when I didn’t have a camera handy (grumble)… onion-flavored honey, anyone?
Wednesday, June 17, 2009 2 comments
You think FAR Future is taking a long time?
Opium Magazine has printed a story on the cover that takes 1000 years to read. (Yes, I had to leave a comment plugging a certain novel that could be read in 1/500 of that.)
Two things leap to mind here:
No, I won’t be blogging a nine-word story over nine episodes any time soon. I’ve almost decided to do a novella (20-30 ep’s) next.
Two things leap to mind here:
- I’ve heard of a story “making the cover,” but this puts a whole new spin on it. Leave the magazine in sunlight for 1000 years, and the masking deteriorates long enough to read it (all nine words).
- If you thought FAR Future was taking a long time… this kind of puts it in perspective.
No, I won’t be blogging a nine-word story over nine episodes any time soon. I’ve almost decided to do a novella (20-30 ep’s) next.
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