Hooray! (uh, wait a minute…)

Technically, I’m still on vacation, although we had to check out yesterday morning. With the girlies off to the beauty shop to prep themselves for a wedding (and DD for a hotsy-totsy birthday party tonight), I was basically left to my own devices and decided this would be a good time to look at the weed-eater. It hasn’t been running for a while, and you can see why.

A quick motorcycle trip into town and back, plus $1.07 for the fuel line, plus a few minutes to put it all together (it took maybe as much time as the ride in and back), and the weed-eater is working again. Now I don’t have to listen to Mrs. Fetched making noises about buying a new one… although it does mean I have to find another excuse for not doing the weed-eating. On the other hand, I’ve been wanting to clear the path to the compost heap myself. Plus, I took a very windy back road home, and the bike was thrilled to whip through the curves.

I might tackle the trim next weekend, especially if the weather is as pleasant as it has been today. Mrs. Fetched suggested I borrow her mom’s pressure washer to knock the peeling paint off; if it won’t force water under the shingles or something similarly ugly, that would beat scraping it off by hand.

Helen and Back

I usually enjoy being away from FAR Manor with Mrs. Fetched, but the exception is wandering around in a tourist trap. I despise kitsch, but the Mrs. is one of those women who gotta have it. I’ve always associated stuff like ceramic/sandstone angels and mantle clocks with old ladies, and I’m not ready for her to be an old lady yet. But she was into this stuff back when I could say “this is old lady stuff” without any false implications; besides, you play the hand you’re dealt.

The upside is that when you have most of a week to hang out, you can spend some time scouting the stores for stuff you want and then swoop in and grab everything you want in a single sweep. We had done our scouting trip Sunday afternoon (and believe you me, hanging out with three women — Mrs. Fetched, Big V, and Daughter Dearest — in a tourist trap is far worse than hanging out with just one). I’d also planned to have a nice dinner with Mrs. at one of the restaurants in town, and worry primarily about the food being good and price a distant second. I’d planned on supper, but we decided on lunch instead, and went to a place called the Old Bavarian Inn. Not cheap by any stretch, but it was the best Reuben sandwich I’ve ever had.

I saw this T-shirt and decided it pretty much summed up the whole point of vacations. I was going to turn my head, but Mrs. Fetched said it wrinkled the fabric (sorry KB).

The rain held off until this evening; it’s raining now, so we pre-packed some of our stuff so we can check out a little more quickly tomorrow morning. I was thinking about a dual-sport ride this weekend, but I may have to take a pass due to mud and street tires not playing well together.

We Now Return You to Escape 2007.1

The period of vacatious interruptus has passed, leaving us back at the retreat. The Boy got up without any help from us and got off to work, so there wasn’t any issue from that end. We had one more good thing come our way during the interlude, although it has already caused a rift in the FAR Future universe: a new coffee shop has opened downtown (so much for the library having a clear field, although a lot can happen in five years). Mrs. Fetched and I agreed that we’d eat lunch there today after we finished with the chickens (after bringing them in, you need to walk through to get the DOA count). It was quite nice; the previous business in that building (originally the post office) was a recording studio — he simply furnished the sound booths and makes them available for people who have to have meetings or homework klatches. Of course, there’s a common area with a couple of tables and couches, but half of the public space is dedicated to a music venue. He has a lineup of different bands performing through the fall, and open mike nights otherwise. If The Boy can come up with a set of clean stuff, he’d be all set.

So after a middle-school football game (our guys lost, 20-12), we ran away. We had eaten lunch a little late, so we figured we could find somewhere to eat in Cleveland (GA). However, nothing there appealed to Mrs. Fetched, so we just went on back and ate some more of the leftover grilled chicken.

And here we are. :-) Mrs. Fetched is reading on the couch, and I’m enjoying Groove Salad and catching up on email and blogs.

UPDATE: we returned to an empty parking lot in front of our unit. Some morons in a BMW were insisting on parking in our spot, but they (and everyone else) seem to have cleared out now that the weekend’s over. It’s now more like what I remember last year… quiet. Ahhhhh.

TB02, On Vacation (of course)

I have to contrive to get us farther away from FAR Manor for vacations. As I wrote last year, the evil of the chicken houses has a gravitational field that extends as far as the timeshare. Her reassurances last year about the chicken houses not getting in the way this year, as expected, didn’t pan out.

To put it briefly, we’re back at FAR Manor until tomorrow evening. Well, we had to come home last night anyway, so Daughter Dearest could get to school today (and to deposit Big V at her place). They brought in a fresh batch of chickens (to only one house today, instead of two) and we had to distribute them. This only takes a half hour or so, plus the hour of preparation, but the preparations are done so all we have to do tomorrow is dump the birds, get a shower, and run awaayyyyyyy.

Our first stop was at Big V’s… but guess who was walking along the road that way too? The Boy showed up down at Big V’s about the time we were ready to leave. He was making the right noises, as usual — but the tone also seemed to be a little more on-key this time. Is he starting to grow up at last? His job is winding down (and his boss getting arrested didn’t help), but now he’s hooked up with Big V’s hubby and his lawn care — I guess they needed someone more than they needed to not give him one more chance, I suppose. But he’s nearly done with the financial end of his probation (he’s completed all the other requirements), and he has actually hooked up with some people who are renting a house. He primarily wants to get his act together (he says), and get to where he can chip in on the rent. He says he wants to quit drinking, and claims to have poured out what little liquor we had in the house (probably down his gullet) to avoid temptation. He seems to be willing to do things our way, even if he’s not terribly happy about them, at least so far. Give it a week.

So now we have a TB02 to deal with. I invited him to come back to the retreat when we go (thinking it might be easier to keep an eye on him). He declined, mainly because he’ll be working in the morning. Daughter Dearest will let us know if things are not going as agreed, and we can get back quickly (although we won’t be happy).

But this trip home isn’t all bad. I got my beer bottled up, and I was able to use my shaver and find my sandals, both of which I left here. I suppose I’ll get to appreciate the peace and quiet when I finally get some, starting tomorrow night.

BREAKING: Daughter Dearest on the radio

I just found out about it, and it's in the next 20 minutes!

UPDATE 8:51 p.m.: happening now!

Escape 2007.1, Day 1&2: Ch-ch-ch-changes

I guess Mrs. Fetched hasn’t quite figured out that part of the appeal of a vacation is to get away from her family. But when Big V begged her to join us for the weekend, of course she agreed. Big V did sweeten the deal by bringing a bunch of groceries, though.

That, and the mere presence of Daughter Dearest (also just for the weekend, back to school with herself on Monday) and Mrs. Fetched, is the first major difference between this year and last. The pre-escape frenzy, though, was quite familiar if somewhat amplified. I left work early, but about an hour later than I really wanted to. After packing, loading up Barge Vader (including airing up the left rear tire, which is leaky), and stopping for gas and beer (and a can of stop-leak for the tire), we rolled into the retreat just before 9, packed the fridge and cupboards, and…

The second difference, a quite pleasant one, cropped up. Daughter Dearest asked me why “Netgear” gave her an error when she tried to join the network. “Huh?” I said, and grabbed my MacBook. Ironically, by virtue of its lower-end plastic case, the “consumer” Apple laptops tend to have a better wifi range than the “pro” models. I also found “Netgear” and got no joy from it, but I also found “CHCA1” — the office network — and was able to join! DD was never able to see it on her computer, so I let her borrow mine and started reading her Lord of the Flies book.

A couple more changes were apparent during my morning coffee on the deck. First, the resort in general and our section in particular is a lot busier this year. I had the whole building to myself last year; at least three — maybe all four — of the units in the building are occupied today. A youth group appears to have come in for the weekend (or maybe the entire week). Second, last year’s spiders have given way to bagworms. The nature soundtrack of the morning is masked by conversations nearby and the sounds of construction across the lake. A couple of teenagers sit on benches or retaining walls, reading or poking at some electronic device.

Big V comes out, wearing a sports bra over her nightgown. “Looks good, don’t it?” she grins, turning all the way around.

Might as well go with the silly flow: “Yeah, but there’s no way to unhook it.”

“That’s not a problem — you just pull it up!” and she matches the action to the words. Luckily, it’s over the nightgown. I suppose she was continuing the “TMI” moment from last night, when she informed us she’d only brought one pair of underwear, but that was OK because she wasn’t wearing it. I have plenty of free entertainment through tomorrow night, whether I want it or not. I guess I’ll make the best of it.

And of course, The Boy has inherited his mom’s sense of timing: he called last night (after we got settled in) and asked if he could come home. Sure, without the girlfriend though. He’s staying with Splat this weekend; I’m not sure what’s going to happen come Sunday night when we come home for various reasons (including the subpoena thing, and they have The Boy slated to testify as well). I just hope he doesn’t do what he did last year and get Mrs. Fetched out of here too soon.

Having been raised on a farm, both Mrs. Fetched and Big V are quite familiar with horses. They were all over the guided horseback ride thing this morning; we signed up for the 11a.m. slot and had it all to ourselves (fore to back: Daughter Dearest, Big V, Mrs. Fetched). My horse, like many I’ve ridden on these tours, was interested in seeing what he could get away with — he seemed to know just how close he could get to trees without snagging the rider’s leg. They blew some pretty impressive horse farts too; I was lucky to be second in line (just behind the guide).

The girlies are planning to play bingo tonight at the clubhouse. I haven’t decided whether I want to do that or not. I might just chill here, maybe do a little more writing.

iPhone-mania; or What I Really Want

Vacation starts tomorrow. I’m momentarily resurfacing to cover the technology story of the week. I had a productive writing night last night, here’s hoping for more…

Like many long-time Apple users, I was keenly interested in the iPhone and how it would turn out — but (again) like many, had no plans to buy one any time soon. I got a Samsung Sync at the beginning of the year; it’s no iPhone but does a fair job getting online and can even play music and (some) video. Still, I’m glad that the iPhone has done so well so far — by the time I’m ready to replace the Sync, the iPhone should be a good bit more affordable (even after the reduction Steve announced this week) with the more serious complaints (no 3G, for one) ironed out.

A couple of musings about what I’d like the Sync (or the iPhone, for that matter) to do, began to crystallize when I read a MacObserver forum discussion about what a sub-notebook should look like. But it took the introduction of the iPod touch to put the last piece together.

What I really want is something CS (my college roomie) and I brainstormed about way back in 1980 or so: a good pocket computer. The 2007 version is basically an iPod touch with TextEdit, an email client, and the ability to pair with a fold-up Bluetooth (or USB) keyboard. This would be something I could stuff in a jacket pocket or fanny pack, or under a car seat, then pull out wherever I happen to be and do some writing — with background music, if desired! — if the mood strikes me. I could email files home right away (given wifi availability) or transfer it when I get back to FAR Manor.

I'll have to see if “they” manage to get Linux working on the iPod touch like they have the “classic” iPod. If they do, I just might have my pocket computer at last.

Going Dark (temporarily)

Between vacation preparation and the desire (more like a need) to do some writing — including some FAR Future episodes — posts will be pretty scarce this week. Look for a vacation post some time next week, and I hope to get lots of writing done this week and next.

Feel free to keep me caught up on your doings here — if not, I have most of my blog-buddies in my RSS reader so I’ll be able to catch up with you when I come back.

Cookout Preparations

Tomorrow is Labor Day, and (at least in the US) that means the traditional “good-bye summer’ cookout. Amazingly, we ended up not doing any chicken house work today — and there was much rejoicing, although that does mean we’ll be pounding at it tomorrow.

We spent the afternoon shopping for everything from jeans to plumbing supplies to groceries. We picked up salmon to grill tomorrow, and I’ve already got a side dish going — I took some of the dehydrated tomatoes, reconstituted them, and tossed them into a marinade with red bell peppers (from the back yard), mushrooms, and some fresh herbs. That should make a good side dish for the salmon!

What kind of cookout plans do you have for tomorrow?

Let the Countdown Begin!

I hopped on the scales this morning, expecting to see the usual 202 maybe even 204 — it’s been a stressful week & I’ve done a little snacking on the side.

Nope. 197. The first digit IS A ONE!

Knowing that our scales can give a different reading on a different part of the floor, I moved them and tried again. 195.

The countdown has officially begun. If I stay below 200 for an entire week, I conduct my “special celebration.” I think a week from Monday will be the right time; Mrs. Fetched will be testifying and Daughter Dearest will be at school. It also happens to the be the first Monday of our vacation.

FAR Future: Episode 8

I’ve gone out on a limb this time, in several ways. I also see where I’ll have to fill in some backstory sooner or later — but if I waited for it all to happen, it would be 2012 when I got around to posting. :-P

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Thursday, August 30, 2012
Crossin’ the Line

Well, I’ve been saying it for a couple of years now, but the FCC finally agreed.

As expected, my Monday “off” was given to the chicken house. They took the last batch out at the beginning of July, and gave us the month off. Some places had 50% (or worse) die-offs when power started getting really flaky, so they figured it was probably best to just sit out July and bring a new batch in a few weeks ago. August is a good time to start a bunch, because they need that heat the first few weeks. By the time they start really producing their own heat, it will have cooled off enough that we won’t need to run fans constantly. The company wants to run a “split” house, where they close off half the house and stagger the flocks — they blow the hot air out of the side with older flock into the side with the younger flock. That knocks off like half the gas needed to keep the young side warm. But Mrs. Fetched has already told them we’re on our last year. Come May, we’re done (and there was MUCH rejoicing).

But I digress. We spent the morning dealing with the chickens, then did some gardening work, then I talked Mrs. Fetched into spending a couple hours at the creek. Just for grins, I grabbed the wind-up radio and took it with us — Shotgun Sam comes on at 3 and it’s been kind of fun to listen in lately. Not because he has anything intelligent to say (quite the contrary), but lately he’s starting to lose touch with his listeners and he gets frustrated pretty quick.

Sam must have figured gas rationing was going to be The Thing to keep the listeners stirred up, angry, and ready to do what his handlers want them to… and it just hasn’t worked that way, at least on Planet Georgia. People talk about their three-day weekends, using Sam’s show to hook up with a carpool, and mostly they couldn’t care less about rationing. I’ve been pleasantly surprised, I’ll have to admit. So this afternoon, Sam was delivering the usual talking points — rationing Bad, free market Good — and took a caller.

“Hey Sam,” the guy said. “I’m an electrician outta Gainesville —”

“Yeah, I can imagine how rationing has killed your business.”

“Actually, it’s helped,” he said. Mrs. Fetched was only half-listening, but she caught that. Neither one of us were expecting to hear that on Shotgun Sam.

Neither was Sam: “Whaaat?” was all he managed to get out.

“Yeah. I know it’s gotta be hurting somewhere, but I’m better off with it now. Before, I couldn’t count on getting enough gas to get through the week — I had to turn down work because I didn’t know if I could get there — but I know I’ll get 20 gallons a week now ’cuz I’m in construction…”

Mrs. Fetched and I gave each other the goggle-eye. “You’re in the wrong line of work,” she said. Sam was trying to take over, but all he could get out was an occasional “Yeah, but—” or “You gotta—” while the guy kept on:

“…on the exchange. And contractors in Athens and Cleveland are staying closer to home, too. I swapped jobs with a guy in Clarkesville, and it’s workin’ out for me. If I got a bigger job, I toss the dirt bike in the truck and ride that home for the nights. Sure, I’d like to have a full tank all the time, and I never thought I’d say it, but this rationing is actually workin’ out for me.” (Yes, I’m paraphrasing. I wasn’t recording the show, but I think I remember what he said pretty well.)

Sam finally got his jaw off the desk, cut the guy off, and started ranting. It was mostly incoherent, or maybe I was laughing so hard I was trying to keep from going under (I like laying in the creek on these 90+ days) and couldn’t concentrate. I caught the gist of it, I think: the shortages are artificial, it’s because we didn’t drill ANWR, it’s because we got out of Iraq (funny how that works, they’re actually getting their production act back together), it’s because we didn’t invade Iran when we had the chance, it’s because goplets are getting cheated in each election (yeah right), it’s the unions’ fault, it’s the immigrants’ fault…. At this point, he got to stammering. It was totally hilarious, right up until he forgot to use code language, and came out and said it: “I guess there’s only one thing left. We need to start takin’ Congress out, one at a time.” He might have managed to pass it off as meaning electorally, except that he added his trademark shotgun-racking sound effect. I think the producers panicked at this point, about a minute too late. He started in again, they faded him out and went to commercials, then some news & sports reporting came on.

Mrs. Fetched cocked her head at me. “Did he say what I just think he said?”

“Yup. He’s in some major hot water.”

I’ve been waiting to hear how things went down before posting, not like I’ve had a lot of time this week for anything else. Anyway, the FCC is fining him $200,000 and giving a wrist-slap fine to all the stations who carried the show. I suppose a couple of sponsors will drop the show (until the publicity dies down, anyway), Sam issued a non-apology yesterday, and the rest of the professional mouths that seem to own the media will moan about how “unfair” it is and urge their listeners to help out “poor Sam” (like he needs it — Scaife, or whoever’s hand is up Sam’s… back… probably calls it a cost of doing business and will pay it out of petty cash).

It’s like I said before, the wingies will try taking by force what they can’t get at the polls. The Dems got a filibuster-proof majority in the Senate in 2008 (and Lordy was it fun to watch Lieberman whine when he got stripped of his appointments), along with the Presidency — then (as if it was needed) a veto-proof majority in both houses in 2010. The goplets are putting up one of the most unelectable candidates ever for President this year, so it doesn’t look like they’ll get any traction with the White House, and their prospects in Congress don’t look much better. Only seven states, Planet Georgia unfortunately being one, still sends a majority of goplets to Washington. People aren’t happy with the energy problems, but they seem to understand the (current) government isn’t to blame for the situation. The Right is starting to lose its grip, on a lot of people and (so it seems) mentally. If they ever had the latter…

Oh well, on to more pleasant thoughts. With the four-day work week underway, I’ll be telecommuting three days out of four — so that’s a little less gas I’ll need to burn each week. I get to spend Mondays in the chicken houses, but only for the mornings, and only for a few more months. I guess I’ll spend afternoons down at the creek, especially if Mrs. Fetched joins me. Nothing like skinny-dipping with your SO to take your mind off politics…

continued…

Potpourri Monday

It’s Monday. Work is being crazier than usual (or perhaps it’s the new normal… shudder), with two major projects coming due before I escape FAR Manor in two weeks. You know things are getting squirrely at work when I entertain thoughts of quitting, ditching FAR Manor one way or the other, moving back into the old place, and taking up the chicken-ranching business. So if I’m getting that loopy, veggie-pr0n is the least of my worries.

My beer is fermenting along nicely; the yeast is eating sugar and malt, producing alcohol and farting CO₂ out the airlock. The A/C in my car may not have died after all; it didn’t do well sitting in stop&go traffic in 100-degree weather but seems to cope with better traffic and slightly cooler weather. If it holds out three more weeks, I probably won’t miss it after that.

I managed to get a walk in this evening after supper. Since Mrs. Fetched demurred on accompanying me, I set a fairly aggressive pace. That doesn’t mean I didn’t take time to stop and sniff the flowers, and pick this kudzu stalk (no, it’s not growing through the blinds, although it would probably root if I spit at it once or twice). It was kind of tough to break off the stalk… and no, I’m not concerned about running afoul of wildflower laws. Kudzu is an aggressively invasive exotic on Planet Georgia, and has been known to grow across lightly-travelled roads (I’ve seen it happen).

The Boy called to let us know he has a construction job. I hope he’s telling the truth; having a job he likes might give him the desire for a little structure (and he likes construction work). He was talking about getting a Golf GTI for like $500… at that price, I figure it has a horrible gouge through the VIN plate though.

Better Days

This was one of the better days around FAR Manor. We got up around 8 and ate breakfast at iHOP, for starters. (The “Just for Me” section of the menu has selections for people who want to eat at iHOP and still give a rip about their weight. I like the Garden Scramble.) We — that is, Mrs. Fetched, Daughter Dearest, and I — talked through the situation and cleared the air quite a bit, which is a major relief.

After breakfast, we went to church. Since the girlies haven’t been for quite a while, everyone was happy to see them. There was a “last Sunday” lunch downstairs, but we were all still full from iHOP and skipped. After an afternoon nap (glorious!), I put the leftover tomatoes on the dehydrator (these were the ones that needed some extra ripening time), and I figured out a quicker way to blanch them. After supper, I finally got the beer started. It will be like October before I open the first one, but that’s about the time I’ll be tackling some outdoor projects & it will be nice to wrap up with a homebrew.

I washed up two sinks full of dishes, and am wrapping up my day on-line. More weekends should be like this.

Weekend Cinema

Thanks go out to Daughter Dearest for this find.

Check out this amazing French Horn solo…

Stuck at the Office

About 45 minutes ago, the weather was downright hostile… let alone to a motorcyclist. I figure the wind was gusting past 40mph; the rain was nearly horizontal and a pine tree went down out back of the office. Since the office has a largish set of eaves out back, I stepped out and got a little video of the rain gushing out of the downspouts — quite impressive, I’ll put it on archive.org later.

The rain has let up quite a bit as I type, but hasn’t stopped completely. I’m also hearing thunder, and it’s not the Harley variety. Mrs. Fetched said stay put as long as necessary, and eat on the way home if needed (and I probably will at this point). At least I brought the rain suit.

Well, I guess I’ll work a little more.

UPDATE: I was putting on my rain suit when a co-worker came by, said he goes my way, and offered me a ride if Mrs. Fetched could pick me up at the half-way point. She was amenable, so we did. We went by and picked up the bike and the work computer (in case I want to try to catch up/get ahead this weekend).

FAR Future: Episode 7

Hooray, we got some rain today! First in nearly a month. I hope it’s not this dry five years from now…

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Thursday, August 23, 2012
Headin’ Out

I’ve noticed that the power seems to be getting a little more reliable… that is, it’s more likely to be up when it’s scheduled to be up. Maybe people have finally gotten smart and turned off their air conditioners. Most of us, those without serious health problems anyway, are getting used to the heat. I thought it would hit Mrs. Fetched harder than it has — but then again, she was born here and they didn’t have luxuries like air conditioning when she was younger. Au contraire, if anything it’s done her some good. She spends a lot of time outside anyway; if she’s not dealing with the chickens she’s working on our garden through the day. She’s sweated off a lot of weight and seems to have more energy. The weight loss is really helping her knee, and she’s actually doing a little bicycling. Yup, you can change your ways in your 50s…

Or the reason that power is getting more reliable could be that the big desert cities are emptying out — Phoenix, Tucson, Vegas, Reno, etc. Not to mention most of Florida. I can’t imagine what it would be like trying to live in those places without air conditioning during the summer. I saw an article last month where a lot of people in Flagstaff were facing foreclosure, then all the Scottsdale people came up and started buying up property at a premium price. Suddenly, those fortunate souls had their mortgages (and the rest of their bills) paid off, with enough left over to start over elsewhere. That last part was kind of important, because they had to go find somewhere else to live… preferably where they could find work. So there’s been a lot of migration lately.

Naturally, most of the migration this summer has been north. The Great Lakes region has lots of water, while so many places out west are drying up, so things have really been booming up that way. My dad gets calls from real estate agents at least two or three times a week, wanting to know if he wants to sell his lake house. He responses have gotten… shall we say, somewhat sharper as time goes on. There used to be a hydro plant on the river where I grew up; I think they’re talking about re-commissioning it to feed the new businesses coming in. Talk about a godsend… with the auto industry all but dead (idiots couldn’t let go of their freeking high-margin SUVs), new business are coming in, and old businesses are staying plenty busy. The unemployment rate isn’t great, but (for a change) no worse than the national average.

The resorts up north are really cleaning up. One of the Atlanta companies rented a dozen cabins in northern Wisconsin for the entire summer, and moved their executive team en masse to cooler climes. Of course, the employees doing the real work are sweltering in near-sweatshop conditions while the bosses drink beer around a campfire and do what they call “strategic planning.” Translated into English, that probably means “figuring out how to skim a few million more off the top and make the grunts pay for it.” Of course, the only reason we heard about it at all was because some employees were being investigated for swiping not-so-surplus equipment; when the reporters started snooping around, they got an earful. Heck, I don’t blame the employees in that case.

The question came up at the last town hall meeting at work, about rumors that the company was going to move into facilities north of Boston that we used to use, and never were able to get rid of. The answer sounded pretty reasonable: the power situation there wasn’t any better than it was here, but expenses there were higher, so it wouldn’t do any good to move. Another question got a double-take: “Given the fuel situation, do you see any problem getting shipments out of our factory in China? And is the factory having power problems?” I’ve never seen the execs go into a huddle like that in a town hall — ever. They finally admitted that both were likely, but they couldn’t talk further about it (which probably means they haven’t given it much thought). Our sales are good… with so many people telecommuting these days, they almost have to be. But if we can’t get the gadgets built — or shipped to where they need to go — we’re going to have A Problem.

But I digress. Down south, tourism is not doing nearly as well. The Gulf Coast usually gets plenty of traffic, but nobody wants to make reservations now that we’re getting into the ugly half of hurricane season. People are waiting until the last minute, then calling around to find a vacancy for the next week. They usually don’t have too much trouble, and can usually get “special rates” anyway. If you’re employed (so you have money for a vacation), and aren’t tied to a specific place, you can get a lot of vacation for your money along the Gulf this year. The running joke is that it costs more to drive to the Redneck Riviera than it does to stay there for a week. Mom says if I can get down to Florida this winter, we could probably stay in one of the condos for the cost of the utilities. If they don’t get clobbered by a hurricane first. I’m thinking we might have to pass, depending on fuel availability. If I could get 20 gallons all at once, I could put two 5-gallon cans in the trunk and get there without having to worry about a fuel stop — if the fumes didn’t get to us. And we didn’t get waylaid. I’ve heard that Amtrak is planning an Atlanta-Gainesville (FL) schedule, with legs from there to Tampa-Fort Myers and Orlando-Miami. That would probably be the way to go, if they actually do it.

The first of the permanent three-day weekends starts tomorrow. Remember to stay in bed Monday morning — no sense in wasting gas!

continued…

Under the…

We were laying in bed this morning, knowing it was past time to get moving but neither one of us really wanted to be first, when came the sound of gravel crunching in the driveway. “Bye, Daughter Dearest,” I said.

“She left a long time ago,” Mrs. Fetched said. That got us both moving. It was 8 a.m., so there was a certain “WTF is going on now?” in the air. She threw a dress on over herself, while I hunted for a pair of shorts. Finally, with the shorts taken care of, I looked out the window.

A cop car.

Thinking, “WTF has The Boy done NOW!?” I grabbed yesterday’s shirt off the floor and put it on as I headed to the front door. I arrived just as the cop finished handing Mrs. Fetched a subpoena.

We scanned the names, and didn’t recognize a single one. Nothing to do with The Boy, at least directly. Nothing to do with anything, as far as we could tell. There was a number on the sheet, which I’m sure Mrs. Fetched has called by now to see what she has to do with this matter. But at least it wasn’t The Boy in jail, or worse.

[Subpoena: from the Latin, sub poena, literally “under the penis,” or “by the balls.”]

UPDATE from the comments: It turns out that the case has to do with some of The Boy's old acquaintances, a couple and a kid who were working together in thievery. They may have been the ones who (officially) stole the generator from the party house after The Boy took it over there… but I suspect the whole group was in on it and used the proceeds to buy drugs and/or booze. I don’t expect we’ll get the generator back, but stranger things have happened.

Home is Where the Hurt Is

I have returned, after just over 500 miles on a variety of roads. This is the longest motorcycle trip I’ve ever taken.

Friday morning had me waking up earlier than I expected, amazingly not with a chicken house call. I confiscated a small backpack The Boy had once used for a bookbag — Daughter Dearest offered me hers, but it had a blown-out zipper — and stuffed it with a weekend’s worth of clothes, important stuff from the bathroom (toothbrush, meds, shaver, deodorant), pen & paper, and the iPod. After a little breakfast, I suited up, loaded the backpack on my shoulders, and buzzed away.

Since the summer place is about 4 hours away, and I had all day to get there, I decided to do things a little differently: take my time, stop when and where I felt like it, and (especially since I was on a motorcycle) avoid freeways as much as possible. So at mile 63-ish, I stopped at Tallulah Gorge and got this picture. 20 miles later, I (for the first time) crossed a state line on a motorcycle and rolled on into North Carolina. By this time, the backpack was starting to weigh on my shoulders, and the hard seat was wearing on my butt… but there wasn’t much I could do about it.

I had to stop in Sylva for lunch and gas, but with WCU opening up and the fall quarter starting Monday, things were a little crowded. I planned to eat in a local restaurant in town, but the person in front of me pulled into the last parking spot on the street. Rats! I continued on through the thick traffic, finding a Burger King that had a veggie burger waiting for me. The guy behind me in line (and it was fairly long) had rode in on a scooter, so we got to talking and eventually sat together. He was local, and maybe a little “tetched” as they used to say, but we had a good time — I took my time to give my butt and shoulders a break — and then I moved on. (It was in Sylva that I also learned that in stop&go traffic, the DRZ gives no warning at all when it’s time to go on reserve.)

I made my first traveling misstep (there’s a name for a bluegrass band… the Traveling Missteps) by going to US74 instead of staying on US23. This cost me an extra 10 miles or so of I-40… but with the speed limit posted at 60, it wasn’t nearly as scary as I expected (I didn’t have to go more than 75, and the bike seemed quite happy to wail along at 3/4 of its maximum RPM). I jumped off at the first exit that gave me a "to US70" sign. US70 east of Asheville is 5 lanes (4 + left turn lane) and the interstate parallels it for a good long while. I made my second misstep looking for Old US70, which Google Maps shows as winding over Black Mountain. After a couple of attempts, I gave up and got back on I-40. Fortunately, it was only a few miles to the Old Fort exit, and I said good-bye to I-40 for good. US70 west to US221 north, and one more gas stop 9 miles from my destination, and I was there just after 4pm.

The weekend was mostly relaxing — even the parts helping Wicked Stepfather with new cabinets for the basement (some assembly required). We went to a local store/BBQ joint for lunch, and wound up with the table right next to the bluegrass band when they got going. I enjoy most live music — even The Boy’s stuff — if there’s no lyrics. These guys had a stack of CDs for sale, but I’ve forgotten their name.


For the trip home, I decided to give the Blue Ridge Parkway a try. It crosses US221 a few miles south of the summer place; I figured if there were too many slowpokes on the way, I could jump off at US70 and go back the way I came. However, the first half hour or so I was the only southbound traffic I ever saw. The posted speed limit is 45, and the road is curvy enough to enforce it without a lot of help from the parkway police, so I settled into a rhythm (and tried to ignore the backpack and seat). Although the scenic route, plus going past the exit I should have taken, cost me a fair amount of extra time, the ride was well worth it. If you have a motorcycle, you really should ride the parkway, no matter where you’re from. It’s just freeking beautiful. The highest elevations are south of Asheville, and climbs to 6000 feet. Once you get above 5000 feet, the wind gets chilly — even in the middle of August. I appreciated it even more once I got down to US441 and returned to the land of mid-90° weather. The foliage was subtly different in the higher elevations, probably more alpine.

Hot weather, hurting shoulders, hurting butt, all encouraged me to ride at speeds similar to those on I-40. I got home (empty house), called Mom, put on shorts, and took an Advil. Just think, I get to jump on the bike tomorrow morning to ride to work. Fortunately, sans backpack.

FAR Future: Episode 6

Believe it or not, I wrote this before Hurricane Dean was a tropical depression!

This will probably be my last post for the week. I’m leaving for NC in the morning, my laptop is staying here, and Mom might have dialup but I probably won’t get on unless she’s watching some TV show I’m not interested in. See you Sunday, God willing.

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Thursday, August 16, 2012
Down on the Farm

This is the time of year that gardens are in full swing, and it’s no exception on Planet Georgia. The rain has been mostly good, at least up to now, and Hurricane DeeDee will probably bring us a few inches on Monday. But that means we need to be grabbing anything ripe while the grabbing’s good, and canning what isn’t getting eaten or sold. My mother-in-law is the gardening wizard around here, although her idea of a “small garden” is 2 acres. Sheesh. But we brought in a bunch of corn, several varieties of beans, tomatoes, squash, cucumbers, and zucchini yesterday evening (we wait until dusk to pick because it’s too hot during the day, and those wind-up flashlights give us a little more time to pick).

I hear she had a good day at the farmer’s market; I guess a lot of people were getting what fresh stuff they could with DeeDee on the way. The power situation’s bad enough; I can’t imagine that 4 inches of rain and stiff winds are going to improve matters any. But there’s still a lot to put up, and the county cannery is staying open late through the week (and will be open this weekend) because they expect to be closed Monday and Tuesday. When we start getting Mondays off in a couple of weeks, I’ll be there more often, but this evening was a rarity — the cannery was open and I finished my work stuff early, so I went to help.

Sometimes, my mother-in-law would have the place mostly to herself… not anymore. She had been there all morning, so I jumped on the motorbike — I brought a little cooler with some water and snacks in it for us, so we won’t have to go into town. The place was crowded when I got there, but it doesn’t take much room to park a motorbike and I found a shady spot under the eaves of a shed across the parking lot.

I was there a couple of hours, but never quite figured out the system. It seems easy enough — a long row of tables and steamers down the center, vats and several big boilers along the far wall — but either I still had my head in the battery backup stuff I was writing today, or what I was doing (mostly steppin’ and fetchin’) didn’t let me follow the plot. The wimmin outnumbered us guys by 5 to 1 easily — there were four guys there, and two of them “run” the cannery. The other guy was also steppin’ and fetchin’ (although we took a quick commiseration break once or twice); the women were helping each other with just about every phase of their canning. I think the system runs like this: veggies that need to be peeled go in the steamer; it helps loosen the peels. Then anyone who’s not doing something else helps pull off the peels. If the peeled food is being canned by itself, they dump it into jars (with a teaspoon of salt) and move on… otherwise, it goes to the cooking vats.

The vats are basically big cookpots — and when I say big, I mean like 20 gallons. Someone like Mrs. Fetched’s mom really uses them — that comes to 80 quarts, and that’s a fraction of what she does when she gets going (one year, she brought home 120 boxes, and each box has 12 quart jars in it). So you make your beef stew, or chili, or whatever, in the vats, ladle it into jars, and wheel the jars over to the boilers. The guys running the cannery pretty much run the boilers; I think there’s some liability issues going on there… although Mrs. Fetched’s mom has run the place a couple of times when they couldn’t keep up. If you get this far in the morning, you can take your jars home in the evening — otherwise, you come back for them the next day.

They use an incredible amount of water: rinsing, steaming, cooking, boiling the jars — and the floor has a drainage slot that runs the length of the cannery. They also use a fair amount of gas for heating the water… so naturally, the cost to use the cannery has gone up quite a bit. It’s still cheaper (and better) than the supermarket. I’ve been looking for indications of whether we’ll get winter produce from South America this year, and haven’t found anything. I’m going to assume that no news is bad news.

So I just got home. After spending 4–5 hours in the cannery, the ride home seemed almost cold. I guess I’ll take a French bath, get a drink of something, and go to bed.

continued…

The Solo, 3-Day, No Guilt Weekend

Over the years since moving to the free-range insane asylum, I have come to dread August. The heat is bad enough on its own, but it stresses the chicken houses because everything has to be running — fans and foggers — just to keep the birds alive. Large electrical devices running in the same area as a high-pressure water spray actually works (it has to), but an undetected crack in a PVC pipe or wiring insulation is going to soon be detected under those conditions. And given the situation, repairs can’t wait for a convenient time… it has to be dealt with now. Even when everything is working properly, Mrs. Fetched is constantly over there to raise or lower curtains and open/close doors (ventilation vs. insolation), start or stop the fogger lines… always something.

Add in the usual things that go wrong (and Murphy is the god of chicken houses), and August adds up to one miserable month. I can count on arriving home to find there’s some problem that must be addressed, almost before I can get my helmet and jacket off. For example, this week the downpipe fell off a feed hopper and dumped four tons of feed that had to be scooped or shoveled up.

So it’s not surprising that the best part of August is the one weekend that we escape the manor. Mom has a summer cottage in the North Carolina mountains; they spend the entire month there and we generally come up for a weekend to visit. It’s a much-appreciated break, especially since it’s often 15 degrees cooler there than here. But when Mrs. Fetched’s mom hosed her knee last week, Mrs. Fetched lost her substitute chicken rancher. She bailed out, then Daughter Dearest bailed out (“I need to stay and help Mom”). I’d already taken Friday off as a floating holiday, and I don’t get to see my relatives very often.

As if I needed any further excuse, the phone rang at about 6 a.m. this morning. When the phone rings at FAR Manor before 8, I immediately know: 1) It’s one of Mrs. Fetched’s relatives; 2) It’s not good news; 3) I’m going to be involved somehow. This morning, it was Big V on the line. P.O.D., her son and Splat’s older brother, got busted for 90 in a 50 zone while passing a car with great enthusiasm on his new GSX-R 600. As I’m the only other person in the family with a motorcycle endorsement, I get to bring the bike home while Big V is getting him out of the clink.

The bike was already on the tow truck when we got there, but when Big V gave a name and address, they knew we were the right people and rolled it back off (but she still got to pay the $100 tow bill). So on the 30 miles or so home, I learned why people ride those bikes so fast: your hips and back start hurting, and you have to ride fast just to where you’re going and get OFF the damn thing.

So I’m definitely looking forward to getting out of here for a few days. But now that I’m going by myself, I can ride my own motorcycle. It’s not nearly as uncomfortable as a crotch rocket.