Sharritt Christmas Letter

Merry Christmas 2011 Friends:

It is the Sharritt's hope that the love of the Son of God has found you rummaging around for it in your life. We are well. It is Christmas Eve. A puzzle is on the card table with four heads bowed, hands reaching for the box top, sorting edge pieces, and seeking; silently hoping that all 1000 pieces are present and accounted for.

We are fine, even spectacular. In our second year of empty nesting, we have found that our kids are becoming more and more interesting each year. This is a soothing balm for those years of Grace not doing differential calculus at dinner parties as a toddler, or Ben's stubborn refusal to work on the development of teletransportation during the field's and his own infancy. They could have grown up together, and Roger could have ruled the world with such a device.

Grace is home for three weeks from a year of study abroad in Ghana. Which means, this will be the best festivus ever. After five months, homesickness, falling prey to an umbruni trap, the pieces have come together and while a welcome relief for three weeks, she is looking forward to the return trip for spring semester and the challenges that will provide. More on her travels in her paragraph later.

Ben is doing well. He has found his calling in teaching the youth of America. Who would have thought he would be able have conversations with his mother using words like pedagogy, inductive learning, experiential, and paycheck? It is a joy to see that pieces that were ill fitting four years ago can be rearranged so that the picture comes into focus.  It is even more of a joy to come into contact with his friends who always say "farmer Ben is the best friend in the world. " More in his paragraph later.

Bev is in debt to Grace's Ball State friends and their parents who allowed her to become Auntie Bev and host them on visits to the farm, and be recipients of lunch or apple pie now and again as she passed near Muncie. Both Ben and Grace's friends seem to becoming more interesting at the same rate as Ben and Grace.  Family vacation was spent in New Haven Michigan, complete with beach, interesting kids, interesting kids' college friends, and a unique rental house. The house, called the Mod Haus in the rental listing, had three porches, which turned out to be the perfect number for adults who wanted to read and rest, while peacefully coexisting with the youngins who at any moment might want to have a dance party or practice martial arts on their boyfriend. We enjoyed the collection of L.P. records the owner keeps there, playing the soundtrack of West Side Story while playing our favorite card games, and daily visits to Sherman's Ice Cream Stand. Just down the block on our Mayberryesque street was a park with a diamond, perfect for kickball. It's a long way to go, bringing three extra people on your vacation in order to have a good kickball game, but worth the  bringing an extra watermelon or two.

Roger found a new pastime and honed a second. He has taken up bike riding with a passion and finding enough good ideas along the way to write a blog a week for the year. While riding, he found one particularly pleasant childhood memory and quite by accident lost the equivalent of large toddler in weight. It was not all sunshine and roses though. Early in the summer he noticed that assassin deer, harboring nefarious intent, were stalking him. The situation has been documented on several occasions in his blog and has escalated steadily through the fall and now winter. He hopes that they will be deterred by the personal cruise missile that he hopes Santa will bring. Barring that, he feels that talking big reduces the angst of a daughter halfway around the world.

Grace: this past year has been full of the greatest adventures of my life. I had an excellent and busy second semester at Ball State, going out with a bang with sixteen days in Rome and London where I got to meet my anti-trafficking hero, Sister Eugenia Bonetti. This fall, I crossed the Atlantic once more to study abroad in Ghana. The past four months have been the most challenging of my life, but also the most rewarding. I have learned a ton, from how to eat fufu correctly, to taking the tro tro, to how to work with trafficking victims through my internship. That being said, I'm only halfway through my journey abroad and I have a lot left to learn. I head back to Ghana on January tenth and I appreciate your prayers and support. Check out my blog if you’re interested in learning more about my life in Ghana. Www.findingmyneighbors.blogspot.com

Ok, so you know how in my last paragraph I was talking about adventures? Well, two hours ago I learned about an all new one that is coming up in my life. My boyfriend, Chris Kozak, asked me to marry him today and I said yes. As you can see, this is all very new and there is no date set, so keep your ears out for news. Here’s a little bit about him:

Chris:  During the last year, I have been spending my sophomore year at Ball State working towards a Legal Studies degree as I prepare for law school, where I will be training to use my skills as a lawyer to advocate for human trafficking survivors.  Around a year ago, I was introduced to the Sharritt family by Grace through parmesan potatoes, climbing on to the barn roof, and fake band photos on the farm.  Since then, I have experienced many new and exciting adventures as I have gone to Rome and London with Grace, to Michigan with the whole family and then some, and as I have spent time at the farm while Grace has lived in Ghana.   Grace has received numerous marriage proposals from Ghanaian men during the semester. One of the first things she said upon her return was, “I’m so relieved that no one is going to hit on me or ask me to marry them!” Now that she’s back, I threw in one more marriage proposal for good measure, hoping all the Ghanaian men hadn’t worn her out by now.  But instead of the “no way” bazooka with which she had been obliterating the Ghanaians, she said yes.  I am excited to start off on this new adventure, and you can keep in touch with her for new developments in this department.  I have heard so much about so many of you, and I can’t wait to meet you when I get the chance. 

Ben: This marks my fourth year in Bloomington, where I am slowly but surely plugging away at a degree in special education and elementary education. I was lucky enough to get some quality classroom time by substitute teaching three days a week last semester. While wondering the halls of an elementary school where I was subbing, I overheard a student/teacher conversation and decided to listen in to see if I could gather some valuable teaching insight from a seasoned vet. The teacher asked, “So Kevin is coming home with you tonight on the bus, huh? Are you guys going to have a party?’’ The student said, “Yeah, We party til we die!” Instead of gaining teaching wisdom, I gained a whole new philosophy on life. With the words of the wise third grader in mind, I proceeded to take the party to the east coast for a two-week skateboarding trip. New York City, Newark, and Philadelphia all provided an excellent party, where I got to visit old friends and make some new ones. However the East Coast did not satisfy my insatiable party appetite, so a trip to the south was in order. We packed up two vans with 15 party people and headed to Nashville Tennessee where we skateboarded and camped out at our wonderful friends Farm. Man, Clay and Eilleen sure know how to party. I look forward to where ever the party takes me in 2012. I hope you all do the same.

Like working a puzzle, our lives seem to work from the edges inward. Even inside the borders, we hunt for edges; where the sky meets the horizon, the tree in front of a barn or a house, the clothes-line in the backyard. We seek those places where the contrasts make our lives interesting. Adventures to other continents, finding a hearts desire in the classroom and on a skateboard with friends, finding the refrigerator after spending a night in your car in your future wife’s driveway, finding surrogate nieces and nephews to lessen the yearning for a far way daughter, or plotting the demise of nemesis assassin deer; the Sharritt's were drawn to the edges this year and blessed that none of the pieces were missing.

We love you! the Sharritts

White Light?

Dear Bloggity:

I hope this finds you doing well. It leaves me on the eve of Grace's return from Ghana for Christmas break. Three plus weeks of warm showers, clean feet, and a working transportation grid. We are waiting with baited breath as she passes through four airports in 24 hours. I am afraid that the Amazing Race will not be filming and editing for the desired outcome of any of the pitstops that may occur.

I am obliged to report that controversy has entered the Sharritt household. No its not the usual Christmas controversies; nativities on the courthouse square, happy holidays not merry Christmas, pulling a can of Mace on your fellow X-box shoppers. It isn't any of these at the Sharritt household. We are mired in a controversy about outdoor Christmas lights.

I love outdoor Christmas lights. I believe that outdoor light displays are the second highest calling for mankind. The first being flash mobs. The idea of a group of people coming together with different assignments so that the outcome is fun, fresh, and festive enthralls me. The flash part is the most important segment of the phenomenon. Get much beyond flash and you get all kinds of mischief. You could say that "Occupy" is a flash mob that overstayed its welcome.

While I love Christmas light displays, I do not personally do anything to help light up the night. When it comes to Christmas lights, I admit that I am a user. I do not pay it forward. I am appreciative. I love to look but not provide.

It isn't for lack of inspiration. I once had visions of grandeur. My luminescent hero was a farmer up in Brookston, IN. He created a display that could be seen from space. Its brilliance accentuated by the darkness of the NW Indiana prairie. Twenty years ago when I first witnessed his handy work, lights were everywhere. Mrs. Claus was even there with a tray of candy canes for the kids as you left their horse-shoe shaped drive. Where was Santa? He was out tending the 4 gas powered generators it took to keep all of those lights working. In the days before LED's that many tiny incandescent lights forced him off of the grid because if he had plugged in, the lights would have gone out from Lafayette to Gary.

My inspiration flagged greatly after plunking down $40 for a 4 ft heralding angel. $40!? How much did farmer Santa pay for his display? $5,000? $10,000? Inspiration flew out the window. Adding a few pieces a year, seemed out of the question. It would take 40 years to recreate what farmer Santa had done. No thank you.

So outdoor lighting at the Sharritt house falls to the lovely Miss Beverly. Her tastes run to the subdued and elegant; a line of white icicle lights outlining the front porch. Put the lights on a timer from 5 til mid-night and the Sharritts are doing their part to help illuminate the dark from Thanksgiving to the New Year; pushing back the evil deer assassins. (See last week's blog.)

After last year, the lights were the worse for wear. We made a note to purchase new ones before this year; a note that was disregarded and forgotten. Bev remembered when she got the lights out Thanksgiving weekend and after being unable to get them to work, she made plans to go out and get new. I held out the "green" carrot for her. Why not get the led lights? I asked. They are better for the environment. I had her at hello. The hunting and gathering was successful.

A quick trip home, a half an hour on the 3 step ladder and viola, the Christmas spirit was installed and that is when the controversy started. You see the package said white lights. Plugged in they became cold white lights. Bev hated it. "It looks so cold." I'm like, "Exactly, its December. Your lights should look cold during December." 

"No," she said, "you need a warmer white for Christmas."

Warmer white? It appears that warmer white means a yellowish tinge. How did we get to the point where words have lost their meaning. The "cold" white was white. It allowed bikers to pass by our house in safety. It was glaring. It was bright. It was harsh. It made our house look like a "strip joint."  Exactly, nothing says Merry Christmas like a stripper grinding on a candy cane.

This is where the controversy really began. Bev being a rational person called Target and asked if she could bring back the white lights and exchange them for the "warmer white lights." Target said yes!

What? How? Why? Are they nuts?

This is what I heard Bev ask. "Hello, I was in your store under no coercion or distress and I bought what I thought were white lights. I got them home and put them on my porch and flicked the switch and behold they were white, but it was bad. After leaving them on for two days, I have decided that they just won't do. I would like to bring them back and exchange them for "warm white lights." By "warm white", I mean that I would like those lights with a yellowish tinge. I can? Great. Thanks."

Not only did I not hear the same thing that Bev said. I heard the following from various ancestral Sharritts; it's not Target's fault that the "wrong" white lights were purchased. They were taken out of the packing. They can't resell those now. They have been up there for two days. I believe that ownership hasn’t transferred by now.

Isn't that really the problem with most Christmas controversies? A third party sticks their nose into a situation between two consenting parties and hears what they want to hear. Then to make matters worse, we listen to the voices in our head. Voices planted and cultivated by well meaning ancestors; who quite candidly were just winging it.

Instead of illuminating the season with the warm glow of understanding, it seems that I am insistent on shining the bright light of judgement.

Take care,

Roger

milestones?

Dear Bloggity;

I hope these thoughts find you doing well. We spent the day today finishing the wood cutting for deep winter. While I didn't get done, it is close and there will be a day or two in mid-February early March that will provide the opportunity to get out and put the finishing touches on the wood pile. That little bit that will be provision for the late season ice-storm that will visit our humble abodes in mid-March. That prediction from your friendly neighborhood wooly worm. This is all just a long way to say it is time for a long winter's nap, and I am fine.

Last week, I mentioned that I had passed a milestone by doing an entire bike ride in tempratures that were below freezing. I was heading in one direction with the blog and suddenly a word or two popped into the flow and I went in another direction ending up with Wonder Bread sacks on my feet. Blogs are like that some of the time. But I had started talking about the milestone of riding in the cold weather.

Cold weather riding is officially here.  I had hoped that the assassin deer would be too involved with keeping their butts safe during hunting season to pay any attention to me. Yes, I had hoped that the hunter would become the hunted. Alas, I was too hopeful.

Actually, what seems to be happening is that every time I reach a milestone the assassin deer step up their attempts. Its like a cold war arms race. Summer rides; they try to run out in front of me. Fall rides; they try to drop walnuts on my head. Walnuts are gone? They try hedge apples. The first night ride, the assassins use decoys along the side of the road to move me to the center of the road where they stand in the shadows with their pointy antlers ready to skewer me like the Staypuff Marshmallow Man.

Now Jack Frost is nipping at my toes (or is that nose) and these deer assassins have stepped up their attacks. I am locked in a cold war with four legged, cloven footed

lyme diseased devils. Now they are using the sneakiest attacks yet. I was riding along and passing a well decorated house that is all ready for the reason for the season, I caught a reflection of the lights off of the pavement. I stopped to investigate and was shaken to the core by what I found.

The lights were reflecting off of black ice. Not just any black ice either, this appears to be buck black ice. That's right. As the temps continue to fall the assassin deer are peeing in the roadways. It sits there and then freezes in such a way that it is undetectable by passing bicyclists. Lying in wait for me to pass by slip and go down so that, the assassins can jump out of the weeds and trample me with their tiny cloven hooves. Oh the humanity.

So I want to thank all of you Christmas decorators out there. You make my rides so much more enjoyable. The red, green and white lights help me pass the miles with a smile on my face. The Harley riding reindeer inspires me to go even faster. (It scares me.) It is your dedication to your art that inspires me most. The other night while on my ride at 9:00 p.m., I saw one of my heros standing on a ladder hanging lights in the cold and the dark on a tall shrub in the front yard. That kind of dedication shows a commitment to pushing back the cold dark nights when the sun has turned its back against us.

Pushing back the dark and illuminating the sneaky traps of my arch nemesis, that's the Christmas Spirit.

Take care.

Roger

ps; speaking of milestones. Someone reading this blog will be my 5000th reader. Thanks for you support and reading.

Wonder . . . . Bread?

Dear Blog Reader:

I hope this finds you doing well. I am fine. Sitting here during the evening in a weekly ritual that I have grown to love and look forward to. We are on the cusp of the best blogging time of the year. I have been cutting wood on the weekends since Labor Day weekend. Now 10 weeks later, I am one weekend away from putting this puppy to bed for the long winter's nap. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. The 6 to 7 hours devoted to cutting wood a weekend has made getting the blog done in a timely fashion a bit difficult from time to time. But starting the weekend of December 17, I will be sitting in pajamas looking out the window writing you.

A bicycling milestone this week; I took my first below freezing bike ride. I managed to dress warm enough to stay pretty comfortable. My feet keep getting very cold. I have tried wool socks and multi-socks still I end up with ice cubes attached to my ankles. One of my biking magazines suggests putting bread sacks over your socks and under your shoes. I hear that bread has amazing insulative properties. However, I haven't solved the loaf of bread inside of my shoes part yet.  I know. You’re supposed to empty the bread out of the bag before you put it on your feet. Just foolin. I wasn't born yesterday.

In fact, when I heard of the bread bag solution, I was transported to the 70's when we first utilized bread bags. Growing up on a farm, we were always looking for the boot solution. The landscape was defined muddle puddles and cow poop from mid-November through mid-April. The challenge was how do you keep the feet dry and clean against the alchemy that is found in the barnyard during those cold and nasty months. I don't know what my forbearers wore on their feet through the four dreary months of late fall through winter, but thanks to injected molding technology, we were the proud beneficiaries of these hard plastic boots that unfortunately had the insulative properties of aluminum. Cold, cold, cold.

Thankfully, America's finest scientists had kids who kept whining about cold their feet, and they came out with cold boots 2.0. The solution was gluing a fake fur lining inside of the boot. Getting those boots down off of the Tractor Supply Boot Shelf, we knew that we had found the Holy Grail for our frostbitten toes. We rushed home and slid our feet into that soft, luxurious, fake, polyester, fur. Our toes were no longer solid ice. In fact, they became warm and toasty; which is how, like is so often the case, our salvation became our downfall.

Remember, one of the goals of our boots was to keep our feet dry. That meant no water in. It also meant no water out. After about an hour in the comfy confines of our fake fur lined boots, our sweaty little feet would soak through our socks and the lining of our boots allowing the cold to creep in and freeze the once warm cockles of our hearts.

 "Come on son. You need to get the calves fed."

"But dad, I can't feel my feet."

"Ah come on son. I just bought you those nice luxurious warm fake fur boots."

"Dad! I CAN'T FEEEEEEEEEL my FEEEEEEEEET."

"Son get out there and feed those calves now or I'll give you something you can feel."

I suppose President Obama is correct when he said that Americans are getting soft. You don't see many kids these days missing one or two toes after having them being frostbit while sitting in a dank and dirty boot cave while their owner hobbled around feeding the calves on a late January night. I do think that the President would have more credibility if he wouldn't have called me soft right after spending his summer vacation at Martha's Vineyard.

So enter our unlikely hero the bread sack. I suppose one of our friends had a mom or dad that had an aptitude for thermo-dynamics, or maybe we stumbled upon the solution through trial and error and spurred on by the knowledge that we only had 10 toes to give to science. The solution; an absorbent cotton sock, the bread sack, and a good wool sock stuffed into a boot that is one size larger than you usually wore. With that bit of alchemy, our problems were solved.

For a 10 year old, it truly was magic and not the laws of thermo-dynamics that saved our toes. It was the red, blue and yellow dots on those Wonderbread bags. No wonder that once the proper blend was found of cotton, plastic, and wool was found, we kept the combination together for weeks at a time. Until, after smelling a foul odor coming from the utility room, mom would contribute to the softening of America by snagging the offensive socks with tongs, dismantling our coldness force fields and forcing us to eat two loaves of bread and starting all over again.

So the road is clear to toasty toed bike riding. I just hope that Brownberry's double fiber bread sacks work as well as Wonderbread sacks.

Toasty toes and the joy that double fiber bread brings.

Take care

Roger

Nice Mullet?

Dear Bloggers and Blogettes

I hope these Thanksgiving musings find you stuffed and coming out of your tryptophan comas.  It leaves my hands doing well on the couch watching the Cowboys beat the dolphins. (no tuna was harmed in the making of this football game.)

I usually like to take holidays off from blog writing but I saw something in the news yesterday that I felt should not pass without comment. 

I found this headline. "FBI Arrest Sam Mullett, 6 Others in Amish Haircutting Hate Crime." really Mr. or Ms editor? You're handed an opportunity like that, and you decide to add clarity with the hating haircutter's first name?

"FBI Arrest Mullett, 6 Others in Amish Haircutting Hate Crime.". Who were the other six? Paul Pixie?  Charlie Crew? Wendell Wedge? Billy Bob, Bernie Beehive? Stevie Shag?

I will leave accessing the facts to you. The following is a link to one of the many web articles on the subject.

http://www.newser.com/story/133973/fbi-arrests-sam-mullet-6-others-in-amish-haircutting-hate-crimes.html  If you don't like this one, surf around there are hundreds more. Sam, as they say, is a media sensation.

I will focus on wild speculation and groundless postulation.

What would possess Mr. Mullett to sponsor these heinous hate crimes? What caused him to lead the impressionable in his midst into an Amish cult, and turn them into hate filled beard cutters? Was he always a megalomaniac, or was there a defining moment that scared him and set him on his path to evil and mayhem?

I'll bet he came back from Rumspringa in the mid-70s. He decided to come back into the fold.  His hair was growing back after a bad haircut during his months of sowing his wild oats and salacious disco dancing. He gets back to the community and goes over to visit Sara Yoder. In Sam's absence, Sara is being courted by Jeremiah Yoder (no relation). It is a tense and awkward situation.

Sara, having a repressed fondness for bad hair cuts, notices Sam's mullet and says nice mullet Sam. But Sam's jealousy gets in the way and colors his perceptions. He hears niiiiice Mullet. He misperceives scorn and derision from his beloved Sara and goes storming out of the house, nursing his wounded pride, jumping in to his buggy and heading down the road to perdition, guided by his own misunderstanding.

Or. . . . What if this is all a huge practical joke played upon the international news media?

 It has long been common knowledge that the Amish don't recognize Thanksgiving. First off, Thanksgiving came about a century after the roaring 1690s; the timeframe that the Amish cling to.  They have no context for Thanksgiving, the holiday. Plus, what do they have to be thankful for? All of their apple products come from a tree. Cider, sauce, butter, crisp, fritters are all good, but can leave a sour taste in your mouth when compared to the iPod, iPad, iPhone, Mac, iMac, . . . . The lack of electricity, phones, running water, all sorely test the thankful spirit.  Couple winter trips during the night to the outhouse with a middle aged prostrate, you can see why a group of people may not be thankful in late November, and choose not to participate in this English party.

I know what you're saying. Sure Roger, you make a compelling argument for nonparticipating, but how do you get to a huge practical joke. Stick with me, you have to work at wild speculation. It isn't always obvious. That's why they call it wild.

The Amish, while living like its 1699, have always been rascals at heart. Through the years, their patience was sorely tried by the ignorance of well meaning English media who would ask for Thanksgiving human interest interviews. They patiently explained that while they both wore hats and black clothing, the pilgrims were Puritans, and they, the Amish were not. Besides, the Amish hats aren't adorned with buckles.

Finally after years of media bias and badgering, the bishops and the elders got together and decreed that as of 1999 the Amish would celebrate "Thanksgiving". However, rather than be co-opted by the English, Amish "Thanksgiving" would be a day of practical jokes and hilarity.

Eleven years later, enter Sam Yoder (no relation) and his band of half a dozen merry men. They were sitting around at the shucking bee drinking cider that may have gone a little south in early November. As consummate multitaskers, they were using the time to brainstorm ideas for this year’s "Thanksgiving" joke.

They were spitballing unspectacular ideas left and right when Wendell Yoder (no relation) suggested that they could open up a barber shop and give out free bad haircuts to their unsuspecting more serious neighbors. The hilarious part is that no one would know the cuts were bad because no one had mirrors. Then Billy Yoder (no relation) suggested that since they were bad haircuts, Sam could change his last name to Mullet. They would be the Mullet gang, and each of the Yoders (no relation) could change their names to alliterative bad hair cut names. A few hard ciders later, the complete plan had emerged.

While the execution may have been lacking, and a few of the more prudish members may have over reacted and called the FBI, things will get sorted out. Besides, somewhat ironically, they are international media superstars. In time, people's feelings will be soothed and by next November the Mullet gang will be sharing some cider trying to capture the magic of a really great “Thanksgiving” practical joke.

Niiiiiiiice Mullet.

Take care

Roger

If you like it help spread the word by hitting the google +one icon below

do you hear what I hear?

Dear Blog Reader;

I hope this blog finds you doing well. I am fine. In fact, I am grilling a 22 lbs turkey on a big green egg for my extended family. We don't get together often but when we do, we baste our arteries in comfort food. Yum.

If you are new to the blog and would like to read one of (in my opinion) my better blogs follow this link http://yousaidwhatroger.blogspot.com/2010/11/turkey-in-straw.html  to a blog that I wrote last November about a ritual that I still miss from our days on the farm.

An update from the assassin deer that have been stalking me: it appears to me that they have called on Mother Earth and joined forces. In looking at my riding journal today, I noticed that every day that I have ridden over the past two weeks, the wind has been blowing at over 20 miles an hour, and since I have lost some weight while riding my bike, I no longer have my big belly which I used to slice through the wind. On another wind related note, make sure you tie down your inflatable Christmas yard ornaments because if your reindeer on a Harley blows over into my yard, I'm keeping it. I'm just saying finders keepers; losers weepers.

Last week, I left singing the praises of the little restaurant in Terre Haute. I wasn't done though. I just quit. I couldn't get my words around an idea that occurred while writing last week's blog.

I loved going to that restaurant and seeing the lost cause and I wanted you to love it too.

And I think that is the problem. I was talking with Grace about her Ghanaian experiences. She was relating that she is in a curious place in her life surrounded by curious people. Sure Ghana is strange; trotros, open sewers, little internet, cows in the bike lane and an infrastructure that just makes life hard, but that isn't what we were talking about. She is in a place where people on every side are trying to "save" her. Her world is filled with the churched that make American evangelicals look like Unitarians, and is living with feminists that make Gloria Steinem look like June Cleaver.  Grace says that both sides are trying to save her. In her experience, the definition of salvation is that she learns the secret handshake and becomes just like them. Anything less is anathema to either side.

It is true.  Few people are comfortable enough with their faith to stand resolutely alone in it.  In the absence of proof and things seen, we substitute the number of lemmings that can be assembled and shuffled along to our leaping point as proof for our beliefs. If not readily converted, the unenlightened are kicked to the curb and expected to keep silent so as not to offend or provide counterpoint to the comfort that sheer numbers of like minded people provide.  

Currently, the cliff that the lemmings appear to be marching towards most resolutely is the us versus the 1%. It is a great strategy. This stance allows us the convictions of 99% of our like minded friends. The 1% can only be brought low by such numbers. How much of this 99% - 1% argument is frustration feeling that the system is out to get the 99% and how much is just plain old envy of those smart enough to be rewarded by producing the things important to the 99%?

I loved growing organic produce. I was good at it. In all honesty though, society will reward the CEO of Sara Lee for producing ready made pumpkin pie and factory farm grown and processed turkeys at a very low price. As a result, Marcel Smits earned $5.9 million last year; me not as much. I love watching football. I am very good at it. In all honesty though, society will reward Peyton Manning $26.4 million for only watching football for 12 months; me not as much.

C.S. Lewis wrote of this in an essay called Screwtape Proposes a Toast. See link:  http://screwtapeblogs.wordpress.com/2009/06/30/screwtape-proposes-a-toast/  He is so much smarter and coherent than I am. In it, he argues that our faith is so dependent on being "like folks" that we tear down those who shine in a way that tyrants once did in a way to insure the supremacy of their reign.

Solutions? None really. I think that I will just sit here quietly with my questions.

Take care.

Roger

good food and lost causes?

Dear Blog Reader;

I hope this blog finds you doing well. I hope that you have found the appropriate way to eat your Halloween candy. Whether you plan to spread out the bounty of your haul and eat one piece a day for the next 3 months or if you plan to eat it in one giant orgy of exploding sugar and caffeine, I hope that you enjoyed or will enjoy it. For goodness sake, turn off the dentist warning loop dissuade you from the enjoyment that only 500 bite sized snickers bars can bring.

For those of you blogosphere denizens blessed with children, I hope that you took the opportunity to teach your children about taxes. When my kids were small, I instituted a candy tax on their Halloween haul. As a firm believer in the flat tax, I instituted a 25% levy. As the taxing authority, I was able to choose which 25% was turned over to me. No Smarties for me. I was the government. In Snickers and Reeses, we trust. What did the kids think? They hated it; exactly as it should be.

I had a unique opportunity two weeks ago. Grace has a college friend from Terre Haute. She knows of a restaurant that is staffed by the owner, head chef, and chief dish washer and they just happen to all be the same person. He has no coke or Pepsi products, no liquor license, and no credit card machine. If those aren't enough handicaps for a restaurant business model, he also has no menu, or published prices. You simple go in and let him know what you don't want and he will go back to the kitchen and make you something.

I was intrigued with the concept. It has hopeless cause written all over it. Bev and I had a day off in common a couple of weeks ago. We woke up and decided to go. I made a promise to myself that I would say yes to everything he suggested. It was wonderful. The black bean soup was the best that I have ever had. It was spicy and had a shredded beef in it. I also had this stuff that I am too much of a philistine to know its name, but it was served on a bed of spinach which was very good.

He went on to make four different entrees. They were all great. It was undoubtedly, some of the best food that I have ever had in a restaurant. I loved it all except for the sushi. Again, the inner-philistine broke out screaming cook the damned fish.

The afternoon was completed by a wonderful 45 minute conversation about kids, college, organic farming and being empty nesters with our host.

One of the really cool things is that he gave Bev a cookbook that she had looked at on his reading table. It had a recipe to make homemade Oreos. Who knew? I thought that they were made with magic. How could mere mortals make an Oreo in their humble kitchen? You can though and they are very good. Close your eyes and imagine a roll of butter (lots of it) and powdered sugar (lots more of it) waiting for you to cut it to double stuffed thickness. You can cut it and pop it into your mouth when the cook isn't looking. Oh the humanity, the goodness, the not having to mess with those dry, grainy, thin chocolate cookies.

Bev liked it. The food is good, but is unsure if it was worth the drive to Terre Haute. I on the other hand was able to enjoy good food and witness a lost cause. I loved it and couldn't wait to share it with you because I am sure that you will love it too.

Will you like it? Who knows? I just put it out there as a possibility.

http://harryandbuds.com/

Take care, and could you pass the salt? Ummmm.

Roger

I'm offended?

I hope this blog finds you doing well. I must say that I am a bit befuddled.

I was on the way to work this morning and I heard a newscast explaining how Kim Kardashian's mom, Kris Jenner, has gotten herself crossways of Native American groups because of some insensitive remarks.

It appears that Kris hopes that Kim's ex,what's his name, (why do you read a blog by someone so lame he can't come up the name of Kim Kardashian's ex) doesn't ask for  the $2,000,000 engagement ring back. She hoped that he wasn't an "Indian Giver".

Who can blame them?

They have every right to be upset. Those are offensive remarks.

But why isn't the media concerned about offending 49'er dog owners?  How will they feel when Kim is described as a gold digging bitch?

Just sayin

Take care

Roger

Impromptu Feast?

I hope this blog finds you doing well. It leaves my blue tooth keyboard and travels into my ipad doing just fine thank you very much. It has been a great weekend. I went to the Purdue game yesterday. We beat the 24th ranked Illini like the world's largest bass drum. (Take that Austin Stilger my poor deluded nephew. There is still time to change from the error of your youthful ways.) It was homecoming. There was a flyover at the beginning of the day. For a nearly duplicated replay of a Purdue game last year, read the following link. A near perfect day was repeated 372 days later.

http://yousaidwhatroger.blogspot.com/2010/10/that-was-fun.html

Speaking of  reconsidering previous errors, you may remember last week in this blog I accused the deer of joining forces in trying to assassinate bike riders (namely me) in retaliation for years of humans using our cars to thin the herd so to speak. I have reconsidered after additional research. During three night rides this past week, I saw 15 feral cats eyeballing me in the side ditch. I now think that the feral cats are the leading sociopaths of the animal world. They are orchestrating these brazen attacks on my person.

I will keep you posted. This week, I wanted to write about one of the surest signs of fall. Last Saturday, Beverly sent out a notice for an impromptu fall feast. Feast day was to be Sunday; less than 24 hours later. It started innocently enough. A couple of Grace's friends from Ball State took Bev up on an open invitation to get away from dorm food and visit the Sharritt's in spite of Grace's year of study abroad in that third world paradise; Ghana. The plan for getting away from the rigors of academia was to go out to the woods after a fine meal and get some physical exercise by helping cut some wood.

The plan changed. While I was out cutting wood on Saturday afternoon, Bev was formulating a new plan. Sure, two young people could have a relaxing afternoon, good food, and time in the great out doors, but it was chilly. The days are getting shorter. The weather service says that it is going to be a long cold winter. Those kids needed some comfort food. We could have pie (no make that 2 pies), a split pork loin stuffed with sausage, rolls, and parmesan potatoes. You know,  that is a lot of food for four people. . . That was a problem, but Bev had a solution for this vision. She simply invited more people.

Mid-way though the afternoon, Bev sent an email inviting a group of people to our house for Sunday lunch. You may have received one of these emails in the past. They go out periodically. No need to bring anything; all will be provided. Bev loves this kind of thing. While she isn't Martha Stewart, with feast plans for every day of the year, she is gracious and skilled enough at soirees that she doesn't have to wait until Thanksgiving, Christmas or Easter to get the gumption up to invite people over.

How do you get to come to an impromptu feast? There are a few criteria. First, you must be spontaneous enough to change plans and come over with less than 24 hour notice. 24 hours is generous though. I have seen impromptu cookouts  planned in less than 4 hours (no pie though and your pork is a hotdog.) Second, you have to know Bev. She is the only common denominator among invitees. Bev is warm, gracious, and has never met a stranger. If you accept an invite thinking that Bev has invited work friends over, or church friends over, or workout friends over, you need to work on your listening skills. Bev just said, "I am having some friends over for an impromptu feast." Any segregation of the friends into tribes is completely on you. Third, you must be willing to share a meal with people you don't know. That takes some practice and some getting used to, but if I can do it anybody can.

So you can imagine the young college students’ surprise when they thought that they would be the only guests. When they arrived the drive was full, and the kitchen was full. Hands were extended, and greetings were offered. And the fun began. Grace was said. The food dished out and we talked talk. In fact, I heard one of the funniest stories that I have ever heard. It involved youthful exuberance, dynamite and indiscretion. The main character had kept a secret for 40 years, and in the end, confession and redemption was granted.

I would share it here but that would imply that a blog is equivalent to a fine meal with friends, and it isn't. First off there is no vanilla ice-cream for the raspberry pie. Second, the community is cutoff and fragmented into pieces. I can share the story but I never know what you "hear" or how you respond. You can "hear" the story but I can never clarify what I "said”.

No a story that good needs to be shared over a feast. Keep an eye on your email.

Take Care

Roger

Deer Assassins?

I hope this blog finds you doing well. It leaves my brain doing well.  It is a bit windy; which is a pain in the butt while bike riding, but nothing that can't be overcome with persistence and an easier gear. I never know. Is the proper term a higher or lower gear? Feel free to let me know. I don’t want to look dumb at the national conference of geeks in biking shorts.

For those of you who have been following "You Said What? Roger" the past three weeks, this week is the payoff. The previous two weeks have been the set up for this week's blog.  Do you feel like you're in church? We have been having a three week sermon series on bike riding. I apologize to the church phobic in my audience for not explaining my nefarious plans before hand. You're here now though so you might as well go sit down in the front row.

Over the past two weeks, I have written about remembering a ride 40 years earlier and the benefits of night riding. Today I bring you the finale. We live in the country. As mentioned previously, the Sharritt farmstead is comprised of the Fall Creek valley. As such, the northern edge of our farm is a deer highway. Year around the deer are on the move. In fact the first four rows of the neighbor's corn field have been decimated by the deer as they move through. During hunting season, herds of 30 to 40 deer will dot the harvested cornfields of the Pendleton Correctional Facility to the East of our farm. They congregate there because the shooting stops as they cross the road that separates our farm from the Reformatory and enter the no hunting zone. It appears that the governor doesn't appreciate armed hunters roaming across his fields.

With this population density, I figure that is just a matter of time before I commit vehicular deer slaughter. I have been driving 33 years, and it hasn't happened yet. So rather than having one mishap in 64 years, I figure that I will have this unsightly encounter sometime during the next 31 years.

Armed with this statistical knowledge, one evening last summer as I was coming out of a wooded area on my ride a deer burst out of a bean field onto the road about 20 yards in front of me while I am coming off the steepest hill on my ride at a brisk 28 mph pace. It scampered on off across the road with no harm being done.

There you have it; a completely benign encounter with nature. Or was it? What if that deer was an advance scout for a group of assassin deer. What would happen if after years and years of being on the losing end of car deer encounters, the deer have figured out that while they may be a little bit bruised they would win a bike-antler encounter. Just to be clear, by win, I mean bike rider ends up in the hospital having antler wounds sewn shut at best and at worst the surviving family unit is responsible for maintaining a road side memorial with little white cross and a replacement stuffed Bullwinkle every six months as a grim reminder that all is not safe in the country.

Over the course of the next couple of weeks as I pondered the possibilities, I decided that this scenario was completely possible. Not the assassin deer part but the deer getting to my point in the road at my point in time that is totally possible. As a self-described control freak, totally possible passed from possible to likely, through highly likely, to just a matter of time.

Then during a ride in late August, I witnessed a nice 8 point buck stalking me from the middle of another bean field on down the road. He was giving me the stink eye as I labored North at about the halfway point of the ride. I could tell by his demeanor that things had changed. The deer had organized and targeted little ole me as one of their first victims.

I shared these concerns with all of my family. I just wanted them to know how to alert the police in case I experience an untimely demise while on a bike ride. Did I garner support from my loved ones? No; I was ridiculed by my loved ones. "There is no way that will ever happen." "Why do you go to hyperbole in every situation." "Drama; get over it. It is just a bike ride." I was ridiculed at every turn by those I trust and love and lean on for support during these trying times.

Left to my own devices, I have had to constantly change my routine. Even as I changed tactics, I could see the signs of the deer as they used new and more exotic weaponry. Dropping walnuts from trees in hopes of causing disorientation so they could attack after hitting me in the head; that diabolical plan didn't work out because I was wearing a helmet. Then they tried to debike me by dropping hedge apples on my head. Hedge apples for those of you who do combat with deer from the comfort of your 2500 lb automobiles are those green brainy things that country folk sell to city folk with outrageous claims of spider repelling properties. While formidable, I managed to stay astride in spite of several near misses.  

Now I hear rumors that they have a new plan during my night rides. According to my spies, the deer will use a decoy that will stand next to the road and feign an attack just in my peripheral vision which will cause me to jerk my handlebars to the right to gain distance between me and my attackers. As I swerve to the middle of the road, a buck will be standing there with his antlers down allowing me to do all the work as I skewer myself.

I hope that you take note because this is not hyperbole. I have evidence. This past week my sister-in-law posted the following video on my facebook page. I warn you it is not for the weak of heart.

See. I told you so. And you gun control fans say hunters have no need for assault rifles. A handlebar mounted AK-47 and we're having bambi stew tonight kids.

Take care

Especially out there in the woods.

Roger

http://www.whotv.com/news/nationworld/sns-viral-video-biker-antelope,0,815660.htmlstory

by the light of the silvery moon?

I hope this blog finds you doing well. It leaves my brain in fine shape. It has been a glorious day in the middle of a glorious October. The corn and beans continue to fall to their own version of the grim reaper. In fact the harvest has started in full force. As a public service announcement,; if you happen to be one of the jerks that is blessed enough to have all of the planets (including Uranus) in orbit around you, chill out. If your child is ten minutes late to soccer practice or you're ten minutes late to work there maybe some embarrassment but the world will not have ended.  If you keep your mouth shut and breath deeply the embarrassment will probably be less by being late than acting like the planet mentioned earlier.

Before I get started with the real content of this week's blog, I want to acknowledge the passing of Steve Jobs. The truest testament to his accomplishments came from The Onion, which is really just Mad Magazine for grown-ups. Their headline; Steve Jobs, the last man in America who knew what the F*** he was doing, has died. It is pretty much true. I once had the opportunity to go to an Apple store on a Sunday morning, and it was like church; there were greeters, there was a message, there was the teaching.  The only difference that I could see is that everyone there was enjoying church and the offering basket ended up being a lot fuller. I was joking with a co-worker. I said that it was pretty humbling. Compared with Steve Jobs, my co-worker and I had managed to design a mildly improved Indiana tax processing system.

I wrote last week about rediscovering bike riding as enjoyable exercise. I wrote that blog as an introduction piece to this blog. A week ago last Friday night, I discovered the exhilaration of riding a bike in the dark. Of course, I was well lit. I have a very cool red strobe light on the back. I have a blinking headlight. While in theory is it bright enough to light the way, it is really just bright enough to let people know that there is something to swerve around out in the road;  kind of like the red-devil eyes of a opossum. To address this deficiency, I had purchased a ray-o-vac headlamp. It is one of those geeky creations that is really just the Reese’s cup of flashlights and sweat bands. It works great. My helmet fits right over it, and it throws a nice beam about 15 ft in front of you as you are going down the road.

So a week ago, Bev went to Chicago for a wedding shower for our niece. This is the perfect storm for an empty nester. No kids and while I miss her deeply no Beverly either. These occasions have always been marked as a beer and Oreo weekends. That's right, 48 hours of drinking beer and eating Oreos, and if truth be known, doing things that are just a little bit dumb; ergo a night time bike ride. I didn't say that it wasn't well thought out. It was. It was just a little bit dumb. I had been noticing that the headlight wasn't going to be bright enough as the days started getting shorter and my bike rides would bump up against dusk. So on about June 23rd, I devised a plan and went out and bought the ray-o-vac and kept it tucked away for the perfect opportunity.

The Friday night was perfect. I was home late from work so I was cutting it close anyhow. It was cloudy so it got dark even earlier. The voice of reason in my life was no where near my ears. I had a cool ray-o-vac head lamp. If I went down and got hurt, I plenty of beer and Oreos to get me through to Monday morning. I was wearing a helmet. How bad could it be? I was golden.

I took off, there was just a little bit of sunlight fighting its way through the cloud cover. It was enough to get me to the more deserted roads. And then the darkness descended. I am a control freak that likes to see all of the possibilities in front of me and then plan for all of the possibilities. In my minds eye, I have the world's largest radar array in my head that is looking forward trying to figure out what is going to happen and then plan for all of the revealed possibilities. It doesn't matter if I won't use a hundredth of the permutations that my brain develops. The plans have to be developed and submitted to management for evaluation and approval. It makes me a pretty good project manager. Spontaneity not so great.

That is why I am surprised that I found it to be a great experience. While 15 feet seems like a good distance to illuminate, it evaporates very quickly at 16 miles per hour on the flats and even faster at 25 miles per hour on the hills. My world suddenly collapses to just that 260 inches in front of me. No worrying about that hill, what gear should I get ready to shift to, I didn't know that bridge had a reflective sign on it. It was so cool. What was a 12 and a half mile ride suddenly became about 4400 fifteen feet rides. It is so different.

While I won't become a nocturnal rider and will still do most of my rides in the light of day, I do think that it is a road that will teach me something illuminating about myself and how I look at the world.

Take care

Roger.

a 40 year bike ride?

I hope this blog finds you doing well. It leaves my fingers on a beautiful fall evening the day after the 1st frost of the fall. For you almanacers out there, it occurred on October 2 this year. This frost only occurred in the outlying areas. That means for all of the city folks, your impatienses are safe for another two weeks. For those of us who live in the upper Fall Creek Valley, we know that the possibility of frost in the “outlying areas” means to put on a jacket and go out and glean your garden because the fat lady is about to sing. So I wasn't surprised last night on my bike ride to see all of the neighbors out picking the last of the peppers, the green tomatoes, and a few peppers. Yes, in Ingalls, the garden party is over.

I have mentioned my bike rides from time to time during my blogs. Yet, I haven't used bike riding as the main theme during the past year of blog writing, even though two activities have coincided. Bike riding started a year ago last July and the first blog in this format was September 24. I haven't written about bike riding because I am always suspicious of people who extol the virtues of exercise. "I run 20 miles a day and I love it" "I have never felt better in my life." This is as they are limping out of the doctor's office after receiving a cortisone injection.

I think that most exercise is a fad; Tae Bo a fad, jazzercise a fad, shake weights a fad, weighted hula hoops a fad, (I looked this one up) the face bra sadly a fad. Link to the face bra   http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-415610/Would-wear-face-bra.html  While biking has had a really good run, any garage sale next May will have more than one Schwinn or Huffy looking for a new home. Then the next level of biking, takes the fadness to an entire new level; $1500 bikes, spandex shorts and shaving your legs. So last summer, when I decided that my theory of exercise maybe incorrect, I decided that if I rode my huffy for 800 miles, it would be safe to go out and purchase a better bike.

Oh great guru what was your previous insight on exercising? I am not very proud of it, but I had a theory that I only had so many heartbeats left. So rather than go rushing to my quota through exercise, I was prepared to go to low and slow to the end. That wasn't working great. Last July I started riding that Huffy and had literally ridden the wheels off it. Receiving a 200 mile reprieve, at 600 miles a very nice $600 bike was purchased right before Memorial Day and a thousand miles later, it has been a very good summer.

Every time I go out for a bike ride the same vision flashes through my mind. Sometime during the ride, my mind flashes to a vision of a ten year old, riding a bike around a suburban block endlessly. My mom had a nursing friend, Terri Oiler, a single mom with three kids about our age. Mom and Terri in an effort to save their kids from the farm and the burbs respectively did a kid exchange over a couple of weeks for my tenth and eleventh year. For me that meant an above ground swimming pool for six hours a day. For some reason, it wasn't safe to get in before 11:00 a.m. By 5:00 p.m. with bogus claims that my skin would stay pruney if I didn't get out now, I was forced out of water world. I went straight to a Schwinn with banana seat and sissy bar and rode until forced to come in to eat at 6:00.

"Why do you ride like that honey? Look at your face; its all red. You’re burning up."

"That's the only way I can keep cool.  The wind feels good and keeps me cool."

It happens every bike ride. No matter where my mind is at the beginning, sometime during the next 45 minutes, I'll be that 10 year old again; zooming around the four corners, seeing how far I can ride hands free, trying to pop a wheelie, the wind rushing through my hair and best of all the 6 foot skid mark on nice white concrete.

Weird huh?

But probably not as weird as the face bra.

Take care

Roger

Cornbread Sun?

I hope this blog finds you doing well. It leaves my fingers doing well. It is moving through my input device and transmitting via blue tooth into my Ipad with almost no latency. Later it will saved to my drop box account in the "cloud", which is low, cold and gray today. Then I will move it to my laptop for the final edit, and then it will be posted to the internet in my blog.  I know what you are asking. Roger how do you make something so technical, reverberate with such soul and humanity. I am indebted to Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, and those goobers who created Google for the technical side. The soulful humanity is brought to you by Alfred P. Newman, Red Skelton, and Hee Haw. (Doom, Despair, and Agony on me).

Fall didn’t think that the vernal equinox and a blog wasn't enough to celebrate its arrival last week. Fall had to go for a full court press this weekend at our place. High in the 50's and a cold rain has been on the menu for the past two days.  I have taken a proactive combative stance of two-two hour naps this weekend and plan on pulling out the ham and bean recipe for Monday. Yummy. The secret weapon will be a skillet full of cornbread. When it comes out of the oven, that golden orb will look like a sun all warm and toasty. It will embrace the golden butter and flow to the cockles of my soul and give me warm fuzzy feelings while I eat the second and third and fourth pieces. The whole time I will be hunting for that big piece of ham that fell off of the bone as those beans simmered in the crock-pot all day.

Fall is definitely the time of the year when imagery returns. Summer is too bright. It washes all brilliant imagery away in its blazing light. Oh we try; hotter than a firecracker (adequate), dryer than a desiccated cockroach in the Mohave desert. (not heard of that one? Of course you haven't. I just made it up because I needed another image to go with hotter than a fire-cracker.) We have only one lousy firecracker metaphor for summer.

Back to my point that summer is not the time of imagery. At the end of July, I was riding my bike when I came across the two boots in the picture at the bottom of this page. It was at the bottom of this long really steep hill and I was going 32 mph. Going 32 mph on a bicycle, really helps the concentration. So I quickly thought "that's cool" and let it go, continuing my search for other obstacles that might end my ride faster than a French photographer in the Tour de France. (I know another summer image reference, but admit it you have no idea what I am talking about. Only .009 % of the population does and we are all those goofy spandex, bicycle, short wearing geeks that know exactly how fast we were going down a hill when we pass a pair of children's boots laying on the side of the road.) While I didn't pay much attention to the boots, I did tuck the image away thinking it would be good to build a blog around. I am always looking for a good soulful blog topic.

I even got my daughter, Grace, to go out and take the pictures so I could hold on to the moment, and if the word count for pictures is correct I could put a caption underneath that said "Small cowboy runs out of boots on cattle drive up Southeastern Avenue saying "That thar hill is just too steep to run up in fur-lined boots when it is hotter than a fire-cracker" and viola I would have had a 1033 word blog.

One-sixth of a year has passed since then and nothing. NO INSPIRATION at all from those cute little fur lined boots. I think it is because summer burns off the imagery from our lives. The sun leaves no shadow. It is always overhead burning off all of those extraneous thoughts that live in the shadows. Boots on the road in July are just boots; probably a purchase at a garage sale that fell off the top of a car because a harried shopper didn't get all of their 25 cent treasures tucked into the back seat.

Imagine that picture taken on a bright late September day at the same time of the day. The shadow would have trailed off toward the East. The sun would be igniting the first hints of fall foliage to a deeper gold. Those would be the boots of a boy who had come to this bridge to go fishing in Fall Creek with his dad or grandpa. The grass in the sideditch would have turned lush again with the cooler temperatures and recent rains. The sun had brought some warmth and burnt off the dew and cool that the boots were brought for. So this kid convinced his dad to sit down on that rail and shuck those hot things off and run for the creek bank in his bare feet.

On Monday, it is no wonder that boy will imagine that that cornbread is a big pale fall sun and smile as it warms the cockles of his heart.

Take care

Roger



Small cowboy runs out of boots on cattle drive up Southeastern Avenue



Falling?

I hope this blog finds you doing well. It leaves my finger tips with the first inklings that the year has turned the corner. Farmers are starting to cut beans. The cloud deck is low, and last night we sat around a fire eating smores and slowly inching toward the fire seeking the comfort of the warmth on our faces and leaving the cool on our back sides. Hoping that the kids would go play hide and go seek, so that we could use their absence to shorten the arc even more and get a little closer to that heat that my being will be aching for in two months.

This turn comes every year. It is real. I know it it coming but I am always caught off guard by it. I suppose that part of the issue is tied to day length. I suddenly find myself needing more sleep. This body that could stay up way past 10 p.m. waiting for the sun to go down in July, and hop out of bed at 5:00 a.m. ready to start the day is starting to cry out for bed at 8:30 and is hitting the snooze four and five times barely 60 days later. Three weeks ago I was able to start my bike ride at 7:45 and finish up at 8:30 with enough dusk in the sky to not worry about turning on the head lamp. Now if I am not out the door at 6:45, the 7:45 light will be fading fast and full dark will be here 15 minutes later, and forget about it if there is any cloud cover.

Day length isn't the only symptom that binds me to this turning of the year. My history is all about the fall. At Sharritt Dairy Farms, fall was always about laying in the reserves to get through the winter. Sure Henny Penny planted in the spring, but it was fall when she harvested the wheat and made the bread for winter. Fall was when we harvested the 100 tons of silage to place in the silo that would feed the cows until the grass greened next May. Fall was the time when that corn silage, having had all of the oxygen packed out of it, would ferment in its juices leaving that sweet, biting smell when we started using it in mid-November, that now I only catch when I open a cider jug that has set a week too long in the fridge.

September was when we started freshening cows. Dairy cows do not react well to the heat. It makes them give less milk. Think about it. You are asking a 1500 pound cow to secrete 65 to 75 lbs of a watery substance every day. Ask her to do that and sweat like a pig you are just asking for too much. So after waiting patiently, the fun began on September 1. From September 1 through December 1, if the bull cooperated (he always seemed cooperative), 100 cows would have their calves in 90 days. And the twice daily ritual of milking would stretch from 45 minutes to 2 and a half hours.

Fall is here, summer is gone. It is a good thing I suppose. The summer that appeared to be a time of continually expanding possibilities has had its wings clipped. It is a season of such wild exuberance that I am surprised that an unimpressive season like fall can overcome it. It will though. Summer tried to run into fall. It tried to push its way through. 100 on Labor Day weekend was impressive. Sure it will rally a time or two in early October with Indian Summer. But the sun will point to its falseness; its low angle too weak to fight its way through the dust generated by a harvest in full swing. In the end, that low angled sun will have to fight through the gray days of November.

Fall is that time where we lay the ground work to get through winter. We pull out the sweaters, find the hot chocolate and chili recipes. We rediscover soup and find the register that has the warmest air from the furnace.

We spend every possible moment we can around a campfire with friends outside moving a little closer to the core wringing every moment from a glorious summer wanting just a little bit smore.

Take Care

Roger