Sunday, July 28, 2013

The epiphanies of moving and breaking beans?


Dear Blog Reader

I hope this finds you doing well. I am fine. The summer rolls on. In fact, today, the lovely Miss Beverly celebrates the first day of the rest of her summer vacation. As a school teacher, she faces, every year, the phenomenon that we all faced as kids; summer vacation. It was always true. The passing of each glorious day took us closer to our jail cells of academe. The dread would grow. We would grasp desperately for the full measure, knowing that the glass was half, three quarters, nearly empty. The first day of that twelve weeks was always the sweetest. For Bev, it is a series of first days; each one a glorious clean slate of potential.

I rarely advertise for next weeks blog. However, this week I am. Last week, the lovely Beverly was struck with inspiration on Tuesday; a day that was formerly known as the first day of the rest of summer vacation. In using Facebook as a tool for good and not for evil, she created a limerick contest in honor of her father Doyle, who loved to create limericks. The winner will receive a pie; not any pie but a lovely Miss Beverly baked pie. In a brilliant strategic move that demonstrates the she isn't just another pretty face, Bev appointed me as the judge. I love being the judge. I am very qualified. Just last week, someone commented that I was too judgmental.  What better qualification for a judge?

Limericks have been pouring in from all over. The count stands at thirty from far and wide. It is obvious that Beverly's friends are talented and love pie. The biggest surprise so far? Our friends aren't very savvy when it come to bribery. A few have tried flattery. A couple have suggested that money could come my way should they win. One promised cheesecake. Not that I can't be bought, I can; fairly cheaply too. However, and this is very important, I recognize a pay to play system. The promise of money or gifts is nothing. Cash on the barrel head works here.

Entries and bribes are due Tuesday at midnight. I will take the week to carefully consider the merits of each and announce the winner next Saturday in the lines of this regular blog segment. Several of the stellar entries will be shared also. So tune in next week

Yesterday, a previous first day of the rest of the weekend, was a day of epiphany.
I got up early and road my bike to Muncie. It was misting and barely 60 degrees. The country roads were redolent with the smell of corn sex. Beverly and I met there to help Chris and Grace move their stuff to a new apartment. Oh the joys of young married life; moving every year trying to find the balance of affordability, square footage and distance to campus. The move went great. Many hands make work light and all. On one of the trips, the back of our Subaru was full and in order to shut the hatch both front seats were moved all of the way forward.

Bev was shoved all of the way up to the steering wheel. She was peering over the steering wheel in that hunched shoulder, hands clutched at 10 and 2 contortion. While it was the lovely Miss Beverly contorted in the tableau in service to the family, I saw my grandmother Nanny riding hard on the steering wheel of  a Pontiac Bonneville. The Pontiac Bonneville was a land yacht of a machine favored by the Sharritt clan because it had the tilt steering wheel feature. The tilt steering wheel was beloved by Pop, my grandfather and Nanny's husband. It allowed him and his large belly easy egress out of the car. My epiphany? I married up 28 years ago.

Then later yesterday we were home, sitting out on the patio breaking beans for freezing. Having enough beans to freeze is certainly the curse of an Amish child garden. In the weedy garden past, we would get a mess of beans, take about 15 minutes to break them, enjoy them for one meal, and go back to salty, soggy, green beans out of the can. Their "natural goodness" cloaked underneath a thick layer of cream of mushroom and French's fried onions.

The lovely Miss Beverly and I were working on this mountain of beans, cursing when the beans were thrown into the ends can and the ends into the bean pan. I suddenly remembered sitting on the porch swing with Nanny breaking beans, looking West as the sun had started its summer plunge over the horizon. The sun kept from our eyes by the May Pops trellised at the edge of the porch. By late July, they would be profuse with the frilly purple umbrella shaped flowers.

The May Pops were strategically placed to provide shade from the sitting sun on the porch swing but allowed a look out towards the Northwest and the clouds that might be passing by. . .

An eagle's talon. Amaryllis. One eyed pirate. A Yoda face with Jarr jar binks ears and kangaroo legs. Hippogriff. A flying duck with a cow lick. Turtle wearing a  pope's hat (mitre). The Grinch atop his sleigh. Peering over a woman's shoulder while she is reading a book. Garfield lunging for a tackle at the goal line as his head pops off. A head of broccoli or is that cauliflower? A tinny tiny bed on top of a grand mountain. A spider.

A open hand palm up with a toad getting ready to leap out. A mastodon, trunk extended. The muppet character Gonzo. A short and squat alien with his left arm extended in a friendly wave. Colts horseshoe. Two rockem sockem robots taking a load off of their feet talking to one another in the corner. A young barmaid drinking beer from the Stanley Cup Trophy. A young child laying on her back, hands clasped in prayer. A preying mantis looking over the edge of the next cloud gazing at the praying child. Gollum looking over clenched fists in a boxing stance. MarkTwain with a big wad of tobacco, watch out he is ready to spit.

The old geezer in UP.  A guy with really close set small eyes, face hidden behind a massive mustache, and a double chin hidden by a wooly thick beard. A hound dog nose to the ground, hot on the scent, running up a hill. A kid holding his breath, but he has a weird upturned nose.  A frog sitting upright on the front of a parade float giving the princess wave to the crowd.

The second epiphany? While cloud watching means more missorted bean parts, it sure is a pleasant way to pass the time.

Take care

Roger

Sunday, July 21, 2013

For Nuts and Coffee?


Dear Blog Reader

I hope that this finds you doing well. I am doing fine. Thankfully, the weather has given us some rain. We have just passed through a 10 day lapse of meaningful precipitation with a fair amount of heat. This 10 day lapse and intensified heat colored my imagination with the portent of the drought from last year more and more as the number of days rose through the ranks of single digits. The weather man of my mind has been given a reprieve and according to the forecast more reprieve is on the way.

The Amish child garden is exuberant, producing cucumbers by the boat load, gallon buckets of green beans, and next week I start to open hill after hill of new Yukon Gold potatoes.   Green beans, Yukon Golds, and bratwurst in the pressure cooker; I am in farm culinary heaven. In a week or two, we will push the epicurean delights over the top with a slice of juicy red acidic flavored tomato. Strike that; insert with a thick slice of juicy red acidic flavored tomato.

This morning finds me in Oberlin, Ohio. We are here to enjoy and celebrate Kyle's graduation. Hi, Kyle. As fate would have it, the open house is on the same weekend as the "active Socialist Workers Party Convention." We are so close to the end of the world. Should the streams of my libertarianism and their socialism cross . . ., well let's just say that Scotty would let out a stream of expletive laced explanation a mile long to Captain Kirk enumerating the laws of nature that would be violated in such a confluence.

They seem to be a fairly innocuous group. I haven't seen hide nor hair of them. Although, the lovely Miss Beverly encountered a small cluster this morning at the coffee shop; where they had beseeched the godless corporation to open an hour early for a caffeine fix, they did not pool their money, and did not all order a grande. I am thinking about mixing it up a little later by wearing my dark blue plaid shorts and light turquoise plaid button down shirt while walking downtown. I am still trying to decide about footwear. Do I confuse them by wearing Keen's or push them over the top by wearing white socks with wing tips while carrying The Wall Street Journal? However, the lovely Miss Beverly insists that the only confluence that might end the world is wearing dark blue plaid shorts with light turquoise plaid shirts.

In an effort to understand those of a different political stripe, I did read a couple of editions of "The Militant", the National Socialist Newsletter. (Dear N eighborhood S choolboy A dololecents, I was only reading to educate myself.) While reading, I was pleased to read that in May, planning had reached a fevered pitch as two staff members got together with an unwashed rank and file party member to discuss session topics over coffee at a local cafe. Then last week, they testified that session topics were coming together nicely.  Looks like the printer may have had to pull an all night print session.

Now, don't think that my imagination has only been fueled by the political intrigue unfolding 20 miles from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame on this trip to North Central Ohio. I have spent considerable time riding a beach cruiser bike. For the uninitiated, these cruising bike have wheels about the size of a tractor tire. It appears that they are wide enough to allow the rider to flee across the water without snapping the surface tension in the event of an assassin deer attack from the land side. Since assassin deer do not as yet have a navy, this appears to be an effective means of escape.

The frame on a cruising bike is heavy enough that it could support a couple of 50 caliber machine guns. These lumbering contraptions need some armament. Their slow pace make them a target for even the smallest woodland creatures. Just yesterday a chipmunk ran between the front and the back tire of the bike transporting the lovely Miss Beverly , and I had to warn off a squirrel when I saw that he was contemplating dashing across the path in front of me. I could tell by his beady little eyes and the confused look on his face that he hadn't done well in story problem class.

If a bike with wheels the size of tractor tires leaves the trailhead 5 miles away, what is the last second that I have to scurry across this three foot wide path to get to more buried acorns? Acorns, did somebody say acorns? I'd better get go . . . splat. Thankfully, I had fenders on this cruiser which would have kept me from squirrel splatter if he had made the wrong choice.

With that, I leave you, as I sit on the shore of a small lake, watching planes lift gliders into the sky toward eminent release in front of a thunderstorm way to the East, which only provides a cooling breeze and a distant rumble, and the socialists hunting coffee and the squirrels hunting nuts.

Take care

Roger






Sunday, July 14, 2013

18. How many times?


Dear blog reader

I hope this finds you doing well. I am fine sitting here under the ceiling fan on an early Sunday afternoon. I feel as if I have a new lease on life.  I feel like an 18 year old again. No, I haven't found a new vitamin. There is no herbal remedy, no "act now while supplies last," no "if you act now, we'll send you this free gift!"

This fountain of youth did come through the mail though. Yes, Gillette sent me a razor for my "18th" birthday. I received the first one about two months ago. The first one you ask? Yes the first one arrived about two months ago. Figuring that they had the wrong Sharritt, I regifted it to Ben. He needed it more than me. Obviously, his razor had broken many months earlier. His face had been taken over by a furry growth. Summer was coming. It was time to get that scraped off his face before the dog days of summer arrived and the fleas made themselves at home. Also, he is much closer to 18. So, I gave it to him without much thought.

Then last week, Mr. Gillette sent me another one for my 18th birthday. Two 18th birthdays; 51 years post uterine? This gives me great hope that the N. imble S. auvy A. dvertisers need a better computer. I may not be being tracked very effectively.  Even though I have long been a fan of Gillette's Fusion and already have one in my shaving kit, I am keeping this one. I try to refrain from using my celebrity to endorse products. In this case however, I have been a longtime and faithful user of the Fusion. This loyalty doesn't mean that I am not torn. It is five blades of precision steel, topped with a glide strip. I love the over application technology for simple tasks. Who needs a simple whisk when a 19 speed stand mixer will fluff your waffles so much better? No clumps here. However, they cost about $2 million dollars a cartridge. This is where the skinflint inside takes over. In order to bring harmony to my fragile psyche, I get the Gillette Fusion and try to use each cartridge for six months.

It appears that Procter and Gamble has taken the measure of American 18 year old men and figured out that they make their purchases through their libidos. Author's note; libido is a euphemism. The box proudly proclaims that Gillette has "stacked the odds in your favor." They promise "3 times more female suitors, 27% less need for pickup lines, and 71% more double takes." They also promise some things that I am not sure that I want. For example, "2 times more cheek stroking." No thank you very much, I will scratch my own butt. I am also sure that "44% more lipstick stains" will not go over well with the lovely Miss Beverly. If I received "110% more steamy glances" than Bev gives me now, my skin would turn all pruny.

It appeared that I was immune to Gillette's wiles. Maybe age had inoculated me. I was impervious to Madison Avenue. I do not want what you are selling. Then I looked at the bottom spine, I found that I would have "3 times less epic fails." To  hit that softball out of the park they used a small graphic of a girl (you can tell from the pony tail and lack of libido) going hehe at a boy. That one got me. I ripped open the package and ran to the bathroom and employed the 5 precision blades and glide strips to full advantage. It is funny how those old fears still speak to me.

The entire packaging reminded me of six lines of a Wendell Berry poem; "Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front."

And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you.

In spite of the warnings, in spite of wisdom gained by age, I still have a window in my head and the wizards can still look in and hit the "lack of respect prideful" key and I will jump. Here's to still sewing some curtains and hoping to not answer the call tomorrow.

Take care.

Roger

Sunday, July 7, 2013

A Shift in Tactics


Dear Blog Reader.

I hope that this finds you doing well. I . . .  Well as expected life finds me having my ups and downs. Life can't always be a bed of roses. Can it? Even when married to the lovely Miss Beverly the good can turn south and take a detour through "that smarts-ville." It has been a glorious Independence Day week; especially if you gloss over the fact that the N ational S chool A dvocates is reading this nice tome. Also, they listened in on the three telephone conversations that I had today. So the "advocates" know that we are eating watermelon when company comes over tomorrow evening and that the "cows" got "out" onto the road.

In spite of this intrusion, Independence Day was celebrated with great gusto by the denizens of Ingalls, the neighboring small town. Our patriotic fervor was tamped down last year by the drought and the precautions that the Nanny State put on us to keep us safe from ourselves. I, for one, welcomed such common sense restrictions. You see. Our farm  is the northern border to Ingalls. We are the only barrier keeping the hill-jacks that live in this tiny little burg from invading Canada and thus saving the unfortunate from doing the jobs that Canadians don't want to do.

Ingallites have looked North for eighty years and seen fortress Sharritt. Beyond those fences they have seen wide open fields perfect for aiming their bottle rockets and star burst mortars. Last year while they would have seen the afore mentioned fields, they would have actually been targeting acres and acres of tinder dry vegetation. It would have gone up with a whoosh. So I am glad to let them shoot at us this year after they forsook their immediate gratification last year in the name of safety.

This 4th of July is a watershed of sorts at the Sharritt's. In a normal year, our garden would have been lost to the weeds. I would have planted the cold weather crops; kale, peas, spinach, arugula, etc. Things would have been proceeding nicely. The really tough weeds; pigweed, jimpson weed, crab grass, Canadian thistle, would have not caused any problems. They need heat to germinate and thrive. So I would have had phenomenal success; good crops with little work. Late May would arrive; I would go to the seed store, buy my tomato plants, and bean seed. They would go into the garden and proceed to be out competed by their noxious brethren.  I would make a lame attempt from time to time.  I would wonder out with a hoe and take a whack or two at it.  I would trudge back to the house after 15 minutes or so with blistered hands and a sore back. Disgusted with self loathing, I would go back out over the 4th holiday armed with a weed eater. My plan? I would cut the weeds just at the top of the crops, hoping some light might penetrate the canopy, and I might get a couple of beans or a cucumber.

I vowed that this year would be different. I vowed that this year, I would have a Amish child garden. I witnessed the Amish child garden phenomenon five years ago. Ben went to skate boarding camp out in Pennsylvania. Ironically, we drove through a large part of Amish country on the way to skate board heaven. While driving, I noticed farm after farm with huge gardens that had no weeds at all in them. They were perfectly clean; except for the dirt. They had large healthy vegetable plants producing veggies. How did they do it? I pondered the question for mile after mile. Finally, it struck me. They did it with Amish children. Children at home with no skateboards, wii's, smart phones, would get bored. How do you cure boredom? You send them out to the garden to do jobs that Americans refuse to do.

My Amish child garden holy grail was born. It has taken me five years of dedication, failure, and rededication. This year it has paid off. I really think that is because I have gotten into good enough shape riding bike that the first 15 minutes of hoeing didn't make me feel like I was going to die. I have arrived at the 4th of July and I have an Amish child garden; lush, beautiful, beans, tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, potatoes. I have row after row of onions, historically unable to out compete the weeds because of their spindly " leaves."

That is the up; now for the down. The deer have found my garden. I sensed that it was coming. I had seen a friend's cautionary Facebook post last week that deer had eaten nearly all of their beets. For the uninitiated, beets are those vegetables that Americans refuse to eat. That is because they were forced to eat canned beets bathed in this heavy syrup by cruel, nazi, lunch, ladies in elementary school. Beets straight out of the garden, boiled, with a little salt are wonderful. To the beet beginner, they are the food that keeps on giving in the bathroom so to speak. Try it you'll see. The deer have  started eating my beets too, depriving me of the reward for my hard Amish child work.

Obviously, the assassin deer have changed tactics. Those new to "You Said What Roger?" may not understand the phrase assassin deer. They are a group of human stalking deer dedicated to killing and maiming humans in retaliation for being hunted into the brink of proliferation by hunters and ran down by cars. It is a well documented phenomena. Skeptical? Google Assassin deer roger sharritt. You'll see. They were first noticed a couple of years ago. They would stalk bicyclists; periodically throwing themselves at Gopro wearing cyclists. I have had to counter attack, with wild screaming and gesticulations with a maniacal gleam in my eye, three times as they came to the road gauging my speed and direction for a frontal assault.  For the past six months, they have been mostly thwarted and, until this change in tactics, silent.

Now, they are targeting gardeners. Hoping to starve us out, they are eating our produce. This
first attack on the beets is devastating on two fronts. It deprives us of the sugary sweetness that is the beet and demoralizes us since we do not get to enjoy the reward for all of our sweat and toil. It won't stop there. In a week or two they will attack the beans leaving nothing except the inedible ends that we would have broken off anyway. We can expect them to enlist the help of their raccoon brethren in a brazen attack on the sweet corn. Oh the humanity. Where will it end? I am guessing that it will end with the zucchini. No force of nature can overcome the zucchini.
As you can see on the captured enemy map, they have used the six month lull in hostilities to

scout our positions. We must assume that this campaign will be repeated where ever the deer and the antelope "play".
Stay calm. We will adjust. We know their plans. It is just another battle in a long war. In the mean time, can you pick me up some beets at farmer's market.

Take care

Roger