Southern Hospitality

Ok, so maybe we don't have polar bears or electric eels to contend with in Texas. But we got some scary bugs. And weeds. (Can I get a witness?) And Bermuda grass, which I think I'm gonna start calling Bermuda Weed. Yep, that sounds more like it. Anyway, we have to look for our adventures around here in more modest ways than in bear conflicts. That is why we go Dale Gribble on the local fire ant colonies, trying to get inside their heads in the expensive and unwinnable war we have going with them. But this is the New American Way.

"I think they're gonna move toward the Bradford Pear and set up a strategic base camp there. They know that it'll be a weak point for us. I've just got this feeling."

I've poured boiling water on hills, knowing that it would not win the war, but wanting to make them re-think their proximity to my sidewalk. It's tough making the decision to move ahead with it, despite the certainty of casualties in my day lily bed. This is war. Sacrifices are made.

David grew up in Idaho and represents it as the land flowing with milk and honey. He paints a picture of an idyllic childhood, roaming the neighborhoods, hillsides, and forests with his little brother and sister, Mike and Debbie. There were numerous camping trips with his family, all without a single fire-ant encounter.

I even remember a time before fire ants, believe it or not. I grew up in Southern Oklahoma before they had migrated that far North. I remember plenty of other bugs to avoid while growing up, and many varieties of ants. But these usually minded their own business instead of having a preemptive foreign policy of attacking anything that moved. An enjoyable childhood activity of mine was to disturb part of an ant hill so I could see how they repaired it. Fascinating stuff. I enjoyed their unswerving devotion to perfection in making their beautiful hill just as beautiful as before.

But if you do that to fire ants, they just want vengeance, and they'll worry about rebuilding after they have demolished anything living within chomping distance. Less fascinating than exceedingly creepy is the way they boil out of their dens. Yeesh. Idaho is sounding more and more inviting all the time.

Texas is always using size as a marker for the reasons for its greatness. If we're talking beef ribs, belt buckles, or even hair, that's one thing. But insects that are large enough to be chipping in on property taxes? Or large enough to be wearing a seatbelt (nod to Larry)? Alleged friend and Boise resident Pam Blue even goes so far as to so sweetly remind me that they don't even have cockroaches up there. Probably no termites, either. Those Idaho license plates which currently say "Famous For Potatoes" should be boasting "Very Few Bugs." But I bet their beef ribs are really small. And probably tough, too.

Freeverse No. 1

Anymore, I don't write much poetry, or whatever label you'd like to attach to such a liberal use of the word. But I think it's good for people to get out those things which seem too abstract for simple prose; the things which we are still working out in the dim recesses. It also provides a memory bank for those moments which are perhaps not important of themselves, but are a marker for a time and a place that we may forget after a time. It's good to remember.

3/16/01

A life just passed before my eyes,
And another, then another, and
An unlimited number of them;
All driving to some point, all
Having a fibrous network of other lives
Intertwined with theirs,
All believing that indeed,
The world does surround--
No, that the world does spin
In a neat circle around them.

I sit here, inconspicuous
On a balcony overseeing them all,
Knowing that the world does
Not revolve around me, nor
The man cleaning the grime
From the parking garage floor,
Nor the woman cleaning
Invisible dust from the windows
Of the office building across the street.

She is in her world, in a still
And silent boardroom, surrounded
By her thoughts, busy in her work.
There is no thread between us,
Only panes of glass now, and
The static of a city beyond them.
Back indoors, the static seeps in,
But perhaps she cannot hear
Over the static of her own thoughts
The hum of living; silent and deafening.

Roadies

Hi. My name is J'Non, and I'm a roadie:



It's official, since we just purchased a couple of road bikes last Sunday from a local bike shop to replace the mountain bikes which have been taking us sweating and wheezing over hill and dale for the last year. We are retiring my old bike to Northern pastures, and I'm using David's Trek to run errands here in town, since it's still in good shape and is more comfortable for short jaunts.

The newies (nod to Aaron Blue for the neologism) are Specialized brand, Allez models, which is pronounced like "Allay". Mine is an Allez Double, which is so much of an upgrade from the bike I was riding that I cannot truly express my joy at the changes. It rides "like buttah." Oh, yeah.

Since they were out of his size in the Double, David got a discount for an upgrade, the Elite, which has a bit more carbon fiber for a softer ride and slightly better hardware all around.



I'm gonna be honest, I had my heart set on the bike designed for girly sensibilities--the Dolce, which was yellow and white with flowers on the frame and seat. Sigh. It was very pretty. But, unlike most women, I do not have a compact torso. I'm of above-average height, at 5'9" and my proportions are much better suited to men's frames. No flowers for me. But I've decided that I will probably live over this injustice, and I do love my bike.

We rode about 17 miles for our first trip and felt the vast differences in the aerodynamics, the energy economy of using these gears and skinny road tires. The seats take a little getting used to--they are...ahh...firm. I'll have to check the specs again to make sure, but I think they are made out of granite. This is why you buy those bike shorts with the padding in the rear. We don't yet have these, so we have some very bruised rear-ends instead. But hey, the air conditioning is great when you're in a tuck, snacking on your handlebars down a steep hill between 30 and 40mph. A little bruising on the old caboose is totally worth it.

We definitely shaved about 25% off of our previous time, and weren't even totally exhausted when we got home. We'll be trying to increase our stamina and speed so that we can ride with a local group on Sunday mornings. They leave at 6:30 am and go about 34 miles, averaging about 15 mph with no rest stops. These group rides are organized by the shop where we purchased the bikes--Rockwall Cycling. It's a fun place--the people working there are really knowledgeable and passionate about bikes and cycling. You get a sense that they are genuinely excited for you that you are getting this awesome opportunity to ride decent bikes. Welcome to the biking club--it's gonna be a good run.

I love the camaraderie of people who bike. And the calf muscles. You take a few steps into the biking world and you'll start to pick up on the humor, the culture, and the love. And the opportunity for developing amazing calf muscles. You'll see a twinkle in the eyes of those who say with obvious joy, "I'm a roadie," like Kamps, the stocky, athletically-built manager of Rockwall Cycling. He's a Rockwall local who, as of July 2007, does not even own a car. He cycles wherever he needs to go, and probably has a more pleasant daily commute than most people I know. I commented to him that it must be liberating to not have a car payment, and his eyes lit up as he said "And no insurance!" I'm right there with ya, Kamps. Say on, brother.

Tall, cyclist-thin, and twenty-something, Tyler is the sales guy who sold us the bikes, fitted us for them, and answered the million questions we had along the way. He usually commutes about 20 miles to work in Rockwall from Plano on a big bike with fat tires. He says it takes him about an hour each way, which is pretty amazing, considering it takes me about 40 minutes to get to Plano by car. I stole the "snacking on your handlebars" phrase from him without remorse.

I'm thinking that the shop must have a shower facility in the back, because for all this physical commuting, these guys look awfully fresh and squeaky clean. I know what I look like after cycling for 17 miles, and it's not anything that should ever face the public. I'm usually red-faced from exertion for an hour or so afterward, and the sheer volume of sweat is pretty spectacular compared to any other form of exercise I've ever tried. This is not for people who need to look like they have it together. The pictures I included earlier in the post are taken only about 1/4 of the way into our ride. For honesty's sake, I should probably include one of the end of the trip if my vanity will allow it. We'll see.

Farewell, Trans Am

We sold the Batmobile last week, courtesy of a Craigslist posting, and I feel that a farewell is now in order.


Though we will miss the sounds of your snarly exhaust, the adventure of your racing suspension, and the wind and gnats in our hair from the open T-tops, we know that you will have many years of adventures ahead of you in Finland. Perhaps even now you are on a huge boat, sailing across the seas to your new home--a place where your beauty and American muscle will be appreciated even more for its rarity.

Do not cry, dear. You will need your wiper fluid for removing the remains of the numerous Finnish insects that you will exterminate with blunt force trauma by your gleaming brow. Even now, these insects are gamboling about the Finnish countryside and mocking with abandon the teeny cars which swish quietly along the highways. Cheer up, Love--how many of your friends can say that they've flattened Finnish bugs? Hmm? This is the adventure of a lifetime! Bon Voyage!

Support Local Agriculture!

Since reading The Omnivore's Dilemma, a fascinating book by Michael Pollan, I've become more aware of the underlying costs when I buy "cheap" food that has come an incredible distance. While perhaps more convenient to me personally to buy something that was produced in Chile, shipped here on a refrigerated semi-truck, and placed in a tidy stack at Kroger, it's probably costing me more in a larger sense.

I am competing with my own long-haul produce for fuel, after all, not only in the transportation costs to store it and then bring it to me, but in the natural gas required for making synthetic fertilizer and the petrochemicals used for producing pesticides. I'm also competing with that juicy steak, too, since the corn that either fattens him up or ends up in my car as ethanol is heavily subsidized by the taxes we all pay.


Ok, ok. But what can we DO about it? Well, ok, I'm still shopping at my local Kroger, and the incredibly cheap organic bananas I buy are not grown in the U.S., but I feel increasingly compelled to support local farmers when I can by purchasing directly from them throughout the growing season. I hope that they are able to actually make a decent living without sacrificing responsible methods of farming or becoming dependant on subsidies which we support through taxes.

There are some very helpful websites out there designed to help you find out where the farmers are in your area. Two that I have used recently are www.pickyourown.org and www.localharvest.org.

This past week I had an opportunity to go on a circuit to 3 different farms which are relatively near my home. The first stop was Akin Farm in Terrell to get beautiful red potatoes, yellow onions, garlic, and pick-my-own Roma green beans. Proprietor Wendy Akin threw in some fresh bay as a gift. She and her husband are retired, and they've been farming those several acres organically for twenty-two years. The prices were very reasonable, and it felt good to know that the exchange of their good produce for our money was helping both of us and hurting neither.

From there I went north to Commerce to pick up some fresh organic blackberries from a small, family-run operation that the owner is developing slowly as a retirement project when he no longer drives a truck for a living. The berries were incredibly huge, flavorful, clean, and ranged from perfectly ripe and sweet to slightly tart. The price was way below what you would pay at the grocery store--even for conventionally grown berries. The seeds were large, but unless my appendix tells me otherwise, it was worth it!

And by the way, the blackberry cobbler we had for dessert that night was top notch. My mom made a traditionally southern crust, which is a butter pastry crust with a lift, courtesy of a little baking powder. She always sinks a layer of crust inside the pie, so you get this bonus layer enveloped by a thick, luxurious filling of whole berries, sugar, and flour. Mmmmm.

The rest of the berries I tossed with some sugar and put into freezer bags to wait until I decide to make preserves, desserts, or fruit salads in the coming year. Eating more locally also means eating more seasonally--buying when things are ripe and putting up surplus to enjoy later from the freezer. There's something very satisfying about seeing your freezer full of food that you put up yourself!

Also in Commerce was Windy Meadows Farm, which offers organic-pastured chicken, eggs, beef, and lamb. This is also family owned and operated, with a processing facility on site. They actually encourage people to come out and look at the facility--it's spotless. I haven't had a chance yet to cook the chicken I purchased, but will let you know how it turns out. I've a hankering for fried chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy that will not be denied! The prices are similar to what you'd pay at the grocery store for organic meats, which could be affordable if families make meals which are more often vegetarian than meat-centered.

I was pleased with my first foray into the local food scene; it's very encouraging to see people making an effort to grow food responsibly and sustainably.

A happy Jersey calf at Windy Meadows Farm
(Jerseys are used for milking, not meat, so this happiness should continue for a good long while).