Whither the Warriors?

Those who know me -- you know who you are -- know that, buried down beneath all the built-up cynicism, the feigning self-deprecation, and the creeping contrarianism, lies a hopeless romantic.  This makes me unsuitable for many things, and suitable for few, but no matter.  Somehow we romantics manage to make our way in the wide world, despite the machinations of smaller men and women, who do not understand us, and as a result, both marvel at and fear us. 

Yet as we live in a world of small men and women, the romantic must needs find a way eke out a living, and maybe even to become comfortable (a dangerous thing for the romantic).  As I enter my third month of unemployment (in the conventional sense), I find that comfort eludes me, the physical needs of life outweighing everything else.  In order to live in this society -- which I mostly dislike -- I must, again, allow myself to become subservient to it.  And so, with the aim of making myself more "presentable" -- that is, only an individual up to a certain point -- I shaved my beard today.

What does this mean?  For many, or most, I suspect, shaving a beard elicits little if any real thought about meanings.  I can grow a full beard in about two weeks.  But cutting off this symbol of masculinity, this symbol of wildness, this symbol of defiance -- a fawning Celt conforming to his Roman conquerors -- I feel should only be done if the man feels the need to express himself thusly.  The cutting of the beard due to societal pressures and mores, well... that not only speaks volumes about that particular society, but about the ability and willingness of the man to stand up to it, to defy it.

I caved.  I cut the beard.  No doubt this will garner much approval from the brainwashed, eager as most of them are to see others conquered like themselves -- misery loves company.  This is not to say that all who shave are craven; many men choose the clean-shaven look because they like it that way, not because of any societal pressures.  I salute them. 

So today my inner barbarian rails, but knows there are other ways to sing the song of defiance, to walk the warrior's path in this wretched, wicked country.

     Nay, look down on the road
     From the ancient abode!
     Betwixt acre and field
     Shineth helm, shineth shield.

     And high over the heath
     Fares the bane in his sheath;
     For the wise men and bold
     Go their ways o'er the wold.

Now the Warrior hath given them heart and fair day,
Unbidden, undriven, they fare to the fray.
By the rock and the river the banners they bear,
And their battle-staves quiver 'neath halbert and spear;
On the hill's brow they gather, and hang o'er the Dale
As the clouds of the Father hang, laden wtih bale.

     Down shineth the sun
     On the war-deed half done;
     All the fore-doomed to die,
     In the pale dust they lie.
     There they leapt, there they fell,
     And their tale shall we tell;
     But we, e'en in the gate
     Of the war-garth we wait,

Till the drift of war-weather shall whistle us on,
And we tread all together the way to be won,
To the dear land, the dwelling for whose sake we came
To do deeds for the telling of song-becrowned fame.
Settle helm on the head then!  Heave sword for the Dale!
Nor be mocked of the dead men for deedless and pale.

                                       William Morris, The Roots of the Mountains

Wassail, friends.

Sights of September

I always welcome September.  It is the last month of summer.  Shadows lengthen as the Sun's course shifts.  The first leafy casualties drift earthward.  Cardinal flowers bloom in weedy bogs.  Cattle egrets can be seen winging their way in small groups southward.  Garden annuals -- those that survived the searing August -- settle in for their last months before frost.

It's a month for me to reflect on the year that was, a year usually spent trying to bring to fruition plans made the previous year.  I almost never compete my projects, but this year I have come very close, and may yet wrap things up as I had forseen.

I grew this young brown turkey fig from cuttings made back in April or May.  I'd never tried propagation of figs from cuttings -- my only experience with that method had been with hydrangeas -- but it worked well.  I made four cuttings:  two from woody stems, and two from green stems.  The woody stems took, while the other two died.  I watered it nearly every day, keeping it by the back door so that I could both get to it easily and be reminded of it every time I went outside that way.  It's done well in the mixture of mulch and topsoil I fashioned for it; I added a sprinkling of chicken manure for good measure.  The surviving cuttings have doubled in size since they rooted.  I will not set the plant out until late October or early November, when the last of the hot, dry weather is past. 

The parent fig in the foreground, now going on four years old.  I got it in a two-gallon pot, along with its mate behind it and to the right.  The one behind it made a very small crop this year; the bigger one, none at all.  I suspect it was due to the drought we suffered through in May-July.  The few figs we had took a long time to ripen.  Turkey figs can have both spring and autumn crops; looks like we will not be having an autumn crop this year.  A third, much smaller turkey fig is hidden about 15 feet behind the large one, at the bend in the L-shaped bed. 

Our tomatoes did... poorly this year, with the exception of a lone cherry tomato plant that sprung up all by itself back in March, and has produced several pounds of sweet, flavorful little tomatoes all summer.  The others, which my daughter and I propagated from seed, struggled to survive through this wretched June, and though they have a good, vibrant growth now, there are only about a dozen fruit on them, which will hopefully give us some nice flavorful late-summer tomato sandwiches.  I may skip the seed propagation next year, and just go with a flat bought from Wal-Mart or Lowe's.

Having a strawberry bed has been a goal of mine for many, many years.  There was one at one of the houses we lived in when I was growing up, and while it was a really pitiful, puny affair, the idea of having fresh strawberries growing in my own yard stuck with me.  This is a raised bed, attached to the main garden bed (it had been our vegetable garden area the year before), with a mixed medium of pine straw mulch, topsoil, cow manure, and chicken manure.  The 9 plants did well, producing some sweet fruit, and to my great satisfaction have spread over their square and established other strawberry plants.  Since this was their first year, I expect that much of their energy went into getting established; I hope that next year, if the weather cooperates, we'll see a nice harvest.

What a damned mess.  Two types of pumpkin -- white Luna, and orange Jack-O'Lantern -- yielded three embarrassingly small pumpkins and a host of vines that threatened to overwhelm any living thing within 20' of the garden.  They nearly crushed the cucumber plants to death, grabbed hold of the bell peppers and invaded the tomatoes.  I will never plant pumpkin so close -- no, make that "anywhere near" -- to the vegetable garden again.

After over two years of adjustments, fiddling, and general incompetence, the Citadel is complete. 

The Rammas Echor completely encircles the Pelennor and the Citadel.  Height varies from 5' to 5 1/2' due to the uneven terrain; this has so far prevented any flights out of the enclosure, which had become an issue before it was completed.  As far as I know, no hawks or owls have attempted a landing within, though I expect this to happen at some point, as the Polish are small enough for them to be carried off by a GHO or female RT.  About 85-90% of the wire fence is partially buried at the base, and secured with bricks that are themselves staked into the ground.  This assures that it is nearly predator-proof; our foxes do not seem inclined to even try to dig under it, or to attempt other types of seige warfare.  Perhaps they will resort to flinging chicken heads over the fence, in hopes of drawing out the defenders.

 
The Gate is a seemingly ramshackle affair, but upon closer inspection it reveals its sturdiness.  An old indoor pet-gate serves as the lower 2/3, which (due to its construction) can easily withstand the paws and claws of any carnivore less than a Gray Wolf, Warg, or Black Bear.  The top 1/3 is simply an extension of the fence, which is secured at its end on a hook from the T-post; I only have to simply draw the wire back when I want to open the Gate.  The top 1/3, when latched, also serves to keep the lower 2/3 in securely in place; a brick at the bottom gives added peace of mind.

I purchased the boards and have extra wire for a "proper" Gate, but until this one proves unserviceable I'm going to hold off.

Most of the T-posts are reinforced with a bamboo stake, which increases the stability of the Rammas, and also helps take out some of the slack of the top half of the fence.  I do not like a saggy fence.

One of our "girls," probably Thelma Lou.  We can tell who is who among our Dominicker hens by the shape of their combs and wattle size.  Helen has the longest comb, while Aunt Bea has the biggest wattles.  Bea is not very sociable, but Helen and Thelma Lou are very sweet birds, and will sit on your knee or shoulder if you get down to their level.  Hand-raising will do that. 

I have two feeding trays set up for their mash.  I had only one until recently, but the bickering and fighting in the mornings (when I feed them) was too much, causing all 18 birds too much stresss.  So I added another tray.  Plus, I think they enjoy getting in it and scratching around, which they could not do with a more conventional feeder.  I got these long plastic trays from my father-in-law; I don't know where he'd gotten them.  I use only Purina Layerna; the other brand offered at the feed store, while cheaper and produced in Mississippi, has too much chaff and dust, and the birds didn't take to it too well.

Until the Fraggles (the Polish Cresteds) were nearly grown, I relied on 1, 3-gallon waterer, plus two small "chick" waterers.  It soon became apparent, especially when it began to get really hot in early June, that more was needed, so I got another 3-gallon waterer.  These are not cheap, by my miserly standards -- they run around $25 at the farm & garden -- but they are easy to clean.  And cleaning they must have, at least once every two days.  They still have to be filled at least once every 2 to 2 1/2 days in the summertime, but that will decrease during the winter months.

We average 1 egg per laying hen per day.  Some days are better than others.  We always thank them when we collect the eggs.  May sound odd; but then, we are an odd folk.  I wouldn't have it any other way.  I've had enough normal to bore me till our Sun goes supernova.

Two 5-gallon buckets hold about 47-48 pounds of feed.  I keep the buckets suspended by bungee cords from the rafters, both to discourage pests and to give the birds a little more room to move around at night.  Roosting space is at a premium.

During the heat of the day, when temperatures in and around the coop flirt with 100 degrees, most of the flock moves to the Catacombs beneath the coop, where it is much, much cooler. 

I had initially blocked off the Catacombs with chicken wire, fearing eggs would be laid there in the darkness, and I would not find them or be able to get to them, and sanitation issues (always a concern with poultry) would result.  But the Doms literally beat down the wire to get to the coolness, and there have so far been no problems, so I've decided to allow them this small concession.

Our rooster, Lionel, named after Lionel Luthor, Lex's father on the awesome TV series Smallville.  Lionel is a Barred Rock, and was the "free rare breed and exotic" mystery chick included with the Polish back in April.  Lionel is easily twice as big as the Polish, and stands taller than Juan, our Dominicker rooster, whom I recently murdered.  Unlike Juan, who was a dirty bastard of the worst sort, Lionel is so far shy and retiring and (most importantly) non-confrontational; this is probably due to the fact that, unlike Juan -- who was hand-reared, like our Dom hens (his sisters) -- Lionel has not been held or hand-fed since he was a chick and old enough to get away from me; thus, I suspect, he never lost his instinctive fear of humans.  He is, I must say, an impressive bird, and much better-looking than Juan, who had a crooked tail.  (Note the regular comb on Lionel.  Doms have a "rose" comb.  That, plus the more defined "bars" of his plumage, marks him as a Barred Rock, and not a Dominicker.  They are very similar otherwise.)

Still wondering about the choice of "Lionel" for the rooster's name?

Compost pile, begun in May.  Wish I had started it years ago.  The posts are for wire that will keep stuff from spilling out -- wire that will probably not get installed until stuff actually starts spilling out.

Ouachita thornless blackberry.  We have 5-6 of these.  They are vigorous vines and produce big berries, but the berries are not as prolific or flavorful as wild ones.

Tifblue variety of blueberry.  Of the four types we have here -- the others being rabbiteye, premier, and homebell -- tifblue probably has done the best, with homebell being the worst.  All seem to take a year to get established, putting out most of their growth in the second year.  Our blueberry crops have been tiny, so far.  I hope our eight bushes will be producing lots of berries in 4-5 years.

One of two "muscadine grape" vines I bought last winter from Lowe's.  I think it's more of a grape than what we traditionally call a "muscadine" here in Mississippi.

"True" native muscadine, the biggest one on our property.  This one has taken over a mountain laurel bush, but has not killed it.  The mountain laurel blooms in early spring, before the muscadine leafs out in April.  The vine has not yielded any muscadines yet; I hope next year it will.  I love muscadines.

Jackson pecan, about 4-5 years old.  It only puts on around 3" of new growth per year.  The only mature pecan on our property -- it was really still just an adolescent, honestly -- was smashed by a water oak uprooted during Hurricane Katrina.  This pecan draws some of its nutrients from the decaying root system of a 60-year old hickory that I watched fall down during Katrina.

One of the best investments we made in recent memory:  our Fiskars Momentum Reel Mower.  Back in April, when I realized that I faced another season of misery and expense at the hands of our aged Snapper riding mower, I followed the example of my good friend and co-contrarian, Jeremy Williams, and purchased myself one of these mowers off Amazon.com.  It is similar to the old conventional reel mowers, which are making a comeback, thanks to higher gas prices and growing environmental awareness; but the big differences are the crossbar beneath the reel, which works with the rotating blades to "snip" grass blades instead of gnawing them off, and its four-wheel system, which allows for greater maneuverability and general ease of handling.

Of course, I've gotten a bit of wonder from friends and family members regarding my mower.  After all, around half of our 1.33 acres is grass, so it's a lot to cut by hand.  All I can say is, it ain't for sissies!  But I enjoy no engine noise or fumes, no gas and maintenance costs, and an incredibly intense workout of my arms, shoulders, and legs on a regular basis.  It stores easily, within the confines of our sunroom.  I will never, ever go back to a gas powered mower!  I still use our small electric push mower for the dogs' yard, which is usually chock-full of dog shit that I don't want on my reel mower.  But, other than that:

I cut the front yard about once every 1 1/2 weeks with it.  The far corners of the back yard only get trimmed once a month or so. 

This weekend, we are expecting much rainfall from Tropical Storm General Lee, which will be welcome.

Three weeks to go until Autumn.  I'm looking forward to the cooler months, fall colors, the return of winter birds, and hunting the wild DeSoto with my brother.

Wassail, friends.

The New (Old) Reserve Currency

After dipping to around $38 following last week's magnificent market meltdown (MMM), Silver has again topped $42.  Good girl!  Meanwhile, big sister Gold is reaching for $1900/oz. as of this morning.  Will she make it before September?  Will she make $2000 by autumn?  Hardly matters to me, since I can't afford the yellow metal, but it sure is fun to watch.

Fucking Chinese...

There's supposedly a Chinese curse that goes, "May you live in interesting times."

Am I cursed, then?  'Cause times are interesting, all right.  I don't recall ever offending anyone of Asian descent, although admittedly I haven't known many in my life.  There was a guy who used to come in the store where I worked -- before it closed -- who was obviously Asian, but whose name was Andrew.  He wasn't even supposed to rent on the account he always used, since his name wasn't on it as an authorized user.  But the account holder's name was Phung, Diep Phung, so I figured it was probably okay.  I wasn't going to get into what surely would've been a bottomless can of worms to try and sort that one out, at any rate.

Yeah.  Diep Phung.  Awesome, awesome name. 

So.  "Interesting times."  That's me on the charger there, by the way.  Going along my merry, chivalrous, naive way, doing what I am supposed to be doing, and about to be waylaid by three voluptuous, naked witches, who are in point of fact also cannibals.  My plate armor will make excellent serving trays for serving my roasted carcass, no doubt.

The above image, conversely, represents what I am most assuredly not:  in control of things.  Here you have a guy who is Master of His Domain (and not in the Seinfeld sense, mind you).  I suppose there are some out there who are like this guy, but I don't know any of them.  Or, I like to think I don't.  Most of us are as blindsided by all that's going on as I am, or worse.  At least, I can say I've been thinking ahead to this exasperatingly slow collapse of our civilization.  Hasn't made me that much more prepared, I must say.  If I had to rely on my preparations to feed myself and my family, we would starve within a month, two at most.

I won't bore you, kind visitor to The Gable Grey, with the details of my daily, unemployed life.  The days go by too quickly.  They really do.  I'm up at 5, Monday through Friday, helping the wife and kid get out the door so they can start their day.  That gives me an enormous amount of time, a wonderful leg up on the day ahead. 

I've cut what can only be described as a massive amount of grass.  I've gotten a painting project done that I've been putting off since last year.  I've nearly completed a new chapter of The Woodreeve's Tale (for those familiar with the work, I can tell you that one of the thanes doesn't make it), and am maddeningly close to finishing Where the Whang-Doodle Mourneth for Its First-born, a short story I've been trying to finish for the better part of a decade.  (I'm not exaggerating.)

Lots of job applications, resumes, behavior assessments.  I can almost recite my resume verbatim.  No call-backs yet, but it will happen, right?  Right???

I am not really optimistic.  I know it's un-American and all that to be that way, and I don't let my contrarianism bleed over into my applications -- at least, I hope I don't, not at detectable levels.  But realistically, I am not likely to find a job making what I made managing a video store.  It's that bad out there, friends, at least for those with my qualifications.  I understand this.  Not many others do, annoyingly.  Not many understand that this is not the job market of the 1990's, or even of the 2000's, or even of 2010.  I'm not even sure you can call it a job market.  It's more a kind of carnival, or circus; or maybe even a gladiatorial arena.  You fight, and fight, and fight, and are encouraged to fight more with the promise of eventual freedom; but the Emperor does not actually plan on letting you go.  You are too valuable as a slave, to be allowed to be let go and be free.  So you sally forth into the ring every day, and face off against African lions and rabid dogs and Nubians and vicious Goths and the occasional moray eels that the Emperor has brought in for those extra-special exhibitions when he has the Colosseum filled with water from the Tiber, and you give the crowd an inspiring show.

Meanwhile, dark forces are moving, forces largely beyond my comprehension, forces which seem terribly distant and yet threaten at any moment to sweep me and mine out into the Deep Primordial.  Markets go up, and my lot stays the same.  Markets go down, and my lot gets a little worse.  Western industrial civilization is a raging dragon whose fires have withered and nearly gone out, and is levelling mountains and little villages of Men in its death-throes.  Forests go up like tinder, lakes and rivers and whole seas turn to steam as the Worm writhes.  And all I can do is try to stay out of its way, because I do not have a sword of Dragon-slaying, and the Dwarves who knew how to make them are scattered, and there are no longer any real warriors left who know how to wield such blades, anyway; they were not wanted.

Some days are better than others.  Some days are almost impossibly quiet, and I find myself stopping and listening at odd moments; for what, I do not know.  Someone else in the house, maybe?  Was that wind in the trees?  What are the cats looking at?

Things are getting dicey out there again, and it's only mid-August.  Usually, summers are uneventful in the affairs of Men, or so I hear.  It has been anything but uneventful, though, and September is still a couple of weeks away. 

Hold on tight.  It could be a wild ride.  Hell, what am I saying?  It already is.

Wassail, friends.

So Much for Our Credit Score...

Seems to me, yesterday's downgrading of US debt from "AAA" to "AA+" by the Standard & Poor rating agency is a bit akin to my own credit rating being downgraded by Transunion, or Experian.  At any rate, it's gonna make it a bit tougher for the US to borrow now, maybe; and funds mandating "AAA" status only will have to be moved into something less... junky, perhaps.  I don't know.  The whole thing eludes true understanding on my part. 

Next week should be interesting, to say the least.  Either The Powers That Be (TPTB) have already orchestrated a pleasant regimen of market smoke-and-mirrors, or it will be a complete clusterfuck; or, maybe somewhere Inbetween.  I suspect the latter.  We'll see.  I'll be watching Asian markets when they open tomorrow evening... as will much of the rest of our tottering civilization.

Welcome to the future, boys.  Wassail.

Hi-Yo Silver! Away!!!

While the unraveling of the central planners' Ponzi scheme intensifies,* and gold hits new highs every day, silver has today gone past $42.  Target:  $50, and new all-time records beyond.  To those of you who, like myself, bought in at the $15-$20-$25 marks, congratulations!  Your wealth is keeping its value, as the purchasing power of the fiat FRN's correspondingly declines. 

Does this mean that silver is becoming more and more valuable, as greater numbers of individuals see through the global fiat house of cards, and position themselves accordingly?  Maybe.  I'm not sure.  All I know is, I'm priced out, but happily so!  It's been one of the few good decisions I've made lately.

I suspect there will be interruptions in the rise, as there have been; for example, margins can get hiked at any time, as they were yesterday.  However, interestingly, yesterday's margin increase did not seem to have a noticeable effect on the price of silver.  This is important, as such activity by the banksters and their government puppets usually put a damper on silver's rise, at least temporarily.  These temporary declines have been important points at which to buy physical silver.  Such pauses in silver's rise may become increasingly rare over time; as yesterday's attempt to cool silver off show, they may disappear altogether, at least until a full-on collapse of paper currencies and a return to traditional (read:  real) money.  Of course, dips in silver's price can also be caused by investor profit-taking.

For myself, I am not in this game for profits.  I am in it for wealth preservation.  In other words, I am "long Silver."  I advise you to do the same, if you can.  Then again, for most of those I know, it may already be too late for that.  If the latter is true, there is an alternative.  Simply go to JWR's website SurvivalBlog, at the link provided in the right-hand column, and look up "nickels."  You might be surprised how easy it can be to preserve your purchasing power with the "lowly" Nickel.  Time may be running out on that option too, though, as the costs to make a nickel far exceed its face value, forcing the government to consider cheaper alternatives.  But all that info. can be found at the site.

The markets have been declining for the better part of two weeks now.  There are many parallels to 2008.  Ruppert may have been right after all.  Keep your eyes and ears open.  Change is happening hard and fast these days; but it need not be unlooked-for.

Wassail, friends.

*I borrowed that line from a writer at the ZeroHedge site.  My new favorite site; very little BS.

Guns of August

Those who know me even a little bit know that summer is probably my least favorite time of year.  Or summertime in Mississippi, to be precise.  Typically it's blistering hot and oppressively humid:  basically, weather such as one might experience in, oh, the Republic of the Congo (formerly Zaire), or maybe the Deccan plateau.  And it has indeed been typical.

Now I have my first month among the Unemployed behind me.  It has not been an unproductive month.  Finally, after several rather bleak writing seasons, I have been able to crack my writer's block, and am well into the next chapter of The Woodreeve's Tale, "The Battle of Brimness Ford," which, as it indicates, is all about a battle.  No, really:  from beginning-to-end fighting.  I've never done that before, not even in my only finished novel, which had action enough, but little of that kind.  It is not too hard.  It helps to have appropriate music at hand to listen to.  Rather odd, I must admit, writing medieval-style (or, more appropriately, Dark Ages-style) combat involving monsters, to music by Moby and the Crystal Method.  Works for me, though.

That's really what everything boils down to for me nowadays:  Whatever Works.  The Woody Allen film of the same name sucked majorly, but the message was wonderfully precise and succinct -- more than I can say for much of my writing.  Without a full-time job, I am (as I predicted in an earlier post) looking to cobble together an income from disparate sources.  This is not too hard, in the literal sense.  What is difficult is telling people -- mainly family, and the occasional friend (usually of the second degree or lower) -- what I'm doing to make a living.  I really am not making a living right now; it's all the wife's income, with only my little unemployment check every week.  But I'm getting there.

Towards that end -- "getting there" -- I am going to be self-publishing some of my work through Amazon soon, hopefully this month.  First will be a short collection of short fiction, which I hope to make available through either Kindle or Amazon's print-on-demand service.  I am not sure how it will all go down, but I hope to get my name out there, anyway.  Following that will be my finished novel, the chapters  and images of which must all be put together into one document -- no easy task.  Well, easy, maybe, but very time-consuming.  I hope to have it ready sometime in September.

All this is with the hope that I can turn my new-found time at home into the career I've always wanted:  published author.  I don't believe I will make the "big time," as my Uncle Mike says, but I hope to have my work put out there.  The fact that someone, somewhere could read my words, will be incredibly satisfying in and of itself.  Whatever money may come in will be a welcome aside.  I am under no illusions about the latter; most novelists I know of cannot make a living at their trade.  And yet... and yet... they go on doing it, anyway.  You are who you are, whether or not you get paid well for being so.

Of course, the world may end before I can get my work into print.  "What the hell," though, you know?  I never was one to sit around and wait for something good (or bad) to happen.  Try and fail?  Sure, all the time.  I've failed so many times, and at so many things, it'd be funny, if it... well, wasn't.  But I keep at it, anyway, just shy of the point of what could be called the definition of "madness."

August promises to be its usual wretched self.  But September, and autumn, is closer with each passing day.  Who knows what tidings the North Wind will bring then?

I hope it proves a welcome guest.  Wassail, friends.