Lawn care?

My family has said that I should post the video that last week's blog was based on. So I will put it at the bottom of this week's installment. Then if you didn't read last week's you can watch the video and flow right into the rest of the conversation that you hear in the video. While the point of the blog is to enjoy life without watching in on youtube or tv or whatever. The context does add a little flavor.

Finally, enough heat to cut the grass. I like cutting grass the first time each year. Actually, I like the second time each year. The first time is really just a game of connect the dots using dog poop piles instead of numbered inky spots. It is like a 16 year old shaving for the first time. You know on one level it needs to happen, but it is hard to see where you have gone. I have thought about transfering my dad's advice the first time I shaved ("Just smear some milk on it and get the cat.") to the yard but I don't think I can get the cat to lick milk covered dog poo. They are just so independent.

Sharritts have never been big lawn care providers. We transferred our lessons about fertilization from the dog poo tufts. The rest of the yard is 2 inches tall interupted by 8 inch jungle grass islands. You hit one of those with a mower and you are going to do some damage. So no fertilizer for us. Keep as much of the yard growing slow until the drought of July and you may only have to cut the grass three times a year.

No weed suppressant for the Sharritts either. We like the yellow danelions each spring. It gives you another dot to drive to while waiting for the nutrient starved areas to start growing in late May. Plus I have always enjoyed the smug sense of superiority I have felt telling the following story. When we farmed, we hosted preschools for tours to help out the early spring income. One April at the end of a tour during the question and answer session, one young humanoid asked what are those yellow flowers all over your yard. "Well honey those are danelions." "What are dandelions farmer Sharritt?" "They are the pretty flowers you get when you don't use chemicals on your lawn." "They are pretty. I wish that we had some. Mom can we get dandelions." I must admit that I felt a twinge of pity for the little girl knowing she wound never play "Momma had a baby and its head popped off", or that she had never blown a puff ball launching the little missles of chaos into the neighbor's yard.

Nope, no insect suppression either. We try to grow grubs the size of horseflies. We know that the moles prefer that size. It is also a goal at the Sharritts to have lots of robust moles. Because you go out to cut the grass on an acre of farm yard and you need something to distract you. Hitting a 4 inch tall pile of mole excavations, sending a cloud of dirt into the air will break up the monotony in a hurry. You do it into the wind and you quickly become an expert at planning ahead to avoid trouble. Anyway the grubs ate the grass, the moles ate the grubs, the dogs dug for the moles and randomly caught and killed them, and the dogs brought the moles to the house as a gift for the family, and I would skin the moles and using their pelts to protect the corns on my feet. Circle of life. Everybody is happy.

Then last year the whole circle broke down. It got dry. It got hot. The grubs weakened the root systems of the grass. Crab grass sprung up in copious amounts in the areas vacated by the Kentucky blue. The grubs were small because they don't like crab grass. This made the moles small, sluggish, easily caught and killed by the dogs. A process that happened so rapidly that the dogs had 4 months of nothing to do. They could see me hobbling out to the car every morning on my unprotected corns. Being very empathetic dogs and having ran out of American moles, they started searching for Chinese moles. Not much success yet, but if we have a WWI re-enactment, we will have authentic military grade trenches already provided.

As the spring wore on, I sensed that there was a deeper message in my mess of a yard. I must admit that I contemplated reseeding, getting the Scotts turf builder, putting down some milky spore, and bringing in back-fill to make my ride smooth as silk, but I couldn't figure out what it was. I knew that Nature was trying to tell me some deep mystery. That all of these forces had come together for some higher purpose. My frustration grew and grew. Then at the end of my rope, I decided to go to the place I go to seek out all of the life's deeper meanings. Yep, I went to Google Earth to look at our yard from space and this is what I found.

Happy Earth Day.

Take Care

Don't forget the tornado video.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UgwJfoZ-12c



Roger

Just blowing leaves around?

Last week I wrote that spring has sprung. Well it has snapped back shut again and smacked our fingers hard. Cold wet rainy weather has the farmers and gardeners jonesing for warm weather. Tornado alley turned into Tornado Freeway, and has left those of us unaffected watching Youtube videos shot by those less fortunate who were born with out the good sense God gave a goose as Nanny used to say.

My favorite video was in North Carolina. He is filming and talking on the phone to a loved one. It is a one sided conversation but based on the subject matter at hand you get a pretty good feeling for what the other side of the conversation is. But because of modern technology, we here at You Said What Roger? Were able to reconstruct the other side of the conversation.  It follows in red.

“You what? Looking at a tornado?

“Yep right now. I can take pictures of it too. I happen to be recording it. That’s even better.”

“Video will be perfect. I am so glad that I spent the extra money and got you that I-phone. You can video your little tornado and talk to me in this super calm voice that has always irritated me.” “Now this video quality goes down at long distance. How close is it?”

“Ohhhhh, a half a mile.”

“Half a mile? That’s kind of close hon. But you’ll get good pictures if it isn’t going away from you.”

“I’d say its coming straight towards me.”

“Straight towards you?! Isn’t that dangerous? Half a mile? These storms are traveling 40 miles an hour. Jr. Get in here and bring your math book. Turn to the story problems. An idiot is filming a tornado that is a half a mile away that is traveling at 40 miles an hour how long does he have to live.” No I don’t have a calculator.”

“Hon, does the tornado look very bad?’

“Yeah but. . . But its not one of those I would say devastation four terrible. I mean it’s picking up leaves.”

“Oh a leaf blower tornado. You should be fine. Jr. go out to the garage and see how fast the leave blower blows. Don’t sass me you ain’t going to get that story problem done before your dad gets his come to Jesus moment.”

Is it only kicking of leaves?

“I see stuff in it. It is just twisting.  Oh there goes a flash. It’s blowing up some power lines now.”

“A flash? Blown up power lines? Oh my. That’s not safe”

“Speaking of safe. Darling you’re not driving and on the cell at the same time are you?” “You know there are laws against that.”

“No I’m stopped. I’m in a parking lot now. Do you hear the rain now?”

“Hon that sounds like hail. It sounds pretty close.”

“It’s going to pass right over me.”

“Oh thank God.”

Raining and hailing so hard that it is hard to hear what he says next.

“Hon?  Hon?  Oh my God Jr. Dad just got flattened by a tree in a tornado. It’s terrible. All I can hear is this death and destruction. Oh Jr. what will we do?”

“The nearest tree to me is probably down the road from your house to the corner.”

“Down the road from your house to the corner? What are you talking about?”

“Yep there goes a roof off of a house.”

“Oh no!”

“Yep. Yep. Hang on I love you.”

“You love me? You stopped and took pictures of a tornado that was bearing down upon you and God is about to drop a roof on your head and all you have to say is I Love you?
How about I am a silly damned fool who doesn’t have the sense God gave a goose? How about this was really stupid dear? I will never stop and take pictures of a tornado again.  I Love you! You had better be okay Hon! Or I’m going to kill you.”

“I’m okay right now. My truck isn’t but I’m okay.”

“Yep. I’m okay. I’m still good. It’s just I have a problem with what I’m driving. It’s damaged. No ummm. Looks like roofing blew off a building and got me. I mean I’m okay.”

“I’m okay. Don’t worry for me.”

“Well get your sorry excuse for a behind home now. And don’t forget the milk.”

You know this person was a goof ball that had no business being where he was doing what he was doing. It is interesting how society desires to show the tragedies, moments, scenery to our cameras and video recorders. Wendell Berry has a poem that describes a family on vacation going down the Kentucky River voraciously feeding a camera all of the river scenes as if there was no beauty there if the one eyed contraption did not capture what was three dimensional in its two dimensional format. The loss of that dimension often takes away the power, the grandeur, the immensity, of what is bearing down upon us.

There have been thousands of people affected by these storms this past weekend. Our prayers and thoughts go out to those who have lost belongings and more tragically loved ones. Being a generous country, I am sure that we will answer the call that will be coming for physical assistance in the days to come. May those who suffered terribly find comfort and protection. May those of us who were left unscathed understand their plight without pictures.

Take Care.

Roger

Boring?

Spring has sprung in central Indiana. Today's weather made me painfully aware of that fact. After church, I went to Meijer and saw a large number of pale white folks. That is a large number of white folks who were pale, not a number of large pale folks from Indiana. Given some media bias, I can understand certain jumps to conclusions. Folks who for economic, health, or social justice reasons had shunned tanning beds. Folks stuck in Indiana for spring break while the uppity neighbors had traveled to Florida for sun and warmer tempratures. Folks that were seizing an opportunity to show those neighbors that you don't need to travel 14 hours to get plenty of sun. They could do in in one glorious April day with a high in the low 80's.

I bet that Melville was in Meijer on a bright April morning. "Well call me Ishmehel, Did you see that?"

Saturday was much more conducive to the rest and relaxation that I love so much. In fact, it was a great day to give blood. Cloudy, overcast, rainy and giving blood that will get you some recovery time on the couch every time. My internal guilt meter was turned off. It was nasty outside and I was going to do a good work.

As I was filling out the questionnaire that you have to fill out to give blood, it struck me that I am a very boring person. There are a list of behaviors that you have to answer correctly in order to be eligible to donate. The first few are easy. Do you feel well today? Y. Are you currently taking antibiotic? N. Then the fun begins. Do you have any tatoos? Thank goodness I sobered up that weekend in Panama City. N. Do I have any ear or body peircings? My belly button is precious. Plus that would hurt. N. Been in jail for more than 72 hours? What happens in hour 73? Note to self; don't get busted on the Friday afternoon before Memorial day. N.

Then there is this whole list of questions about who you have sex with. It is a long list and makes one blush when mulling over the permutations upon permutations of the same thing. It appears that you are suspect in certain areas of the country if you have had sex with any thing but a goat. Don't worry, you Idaho boys can still be donors. Unless you had sex with a goat in exchange for drugs or money; then you are out of luck. Beware of gansta goats, spudweisers. Makes me wonder how Bill Clinton answered. "Depends on what is is." wasn't one of the choices. Not that it is any of your business, but I passed because, while very satisfying, my sex life is also lacks partnerial variety.

Then there are all of the places that you can't travel to. You are suspect if you travel outside of the United States or Canada. If you answer yes, they pull out a book and look at what zip code you traveled to in Mexico. If the area you visited is pink, you are good to go. It appears that they will check me for the next two years because the family went to Tijuana last year. So much for living on the wild side. In fact the list of suspect countries is so long that the blood industry could be accused of xenophobia. Xenaphobia for those who don't know that means your blood ain't good enough for us.

In the end, I was able to copy off of this nice nun and get a high enough score to pass. Which is no easy task. They wear those big habits which block most lines of sight. Also it wasn't easy for her to qualify either. It appears that only 37% of Americans are boring enough to give blood and less than 10% do. I am including a link of 56 blood donation facts. If you read it, you have taken a monumental step towards eligibility.

http://www.americasblood.org/go.cfm?do=page.view&pid=12

So think about it. Give blood. It will give you another reason to haul your pale behind around Meijer wearing way few cloths. You wild thing you.

Take Care

Roger

Beware?

Bev and I are in the middle of a notification battle these days. The battle lines are sharply drawn. It is us against the machine.  What was once trusty and reliable, has turned its back on us.  It appears that one of our eight smoke detectors has started to cry wolf at random times during the night. I suppose days in addition to the nights but don't know for sure. We are only home at night and so can only verify the nightly two second wake up calls. Very effective!  Sound asleep at 2:49, then sitting upright with a gallon of adrenaline coursing through my veins, using my super Bassett hound senses, sniffing, comparing all molecules. No smells that could be classified as smoke. Back to sleep with the fervent prayer there will be no more detection until after 5:00 a.m.

As this has gone on, we have been paying less and less attention. Sure the shrieking alarm still cuts through you, but there are no 2:00 a.m. walks through the house sniffing and trying not to stub the toes on some foreign object which would produce more sleep killing adrenaline. I might be awake for days with two gallons of adrenaline. We struggle back to sleep hoping that when there is a fire the rest of the alarms will over ride the attention starved alarm and notify us of the danger in plenty of time. This had gone on for a week and Saturday, I took matters into my own hands and got out the vacuum cleaner and tried to suck the offending particles out of all of the smoke detectors, which made it worse. Rather than once every 8 hours, the whiner was going off once every hour. Often enough that it was horribly annoying but not often enough or long enough to isolate the offending alarm. So at 11:30 last night after two jarring wake up calls, I went through the house and unhooked every smoke detector. The plan now is to hook one up each evening until the offender is caught and then replaced.

Hopefully, we will be fire free for the next few nights until we get back online. That is the conundrum; staying vigilant for a disaster against an erratic backdrop of warnings with little or no real danger befalling you. Smoke? Fire. Smoking? Cancer. Seatbelt less? Injury, Sugar? Diabetes. Snow storm? Cannibalism. Talk show? Oprah. We get the initial warning and are scared of the consequence for a while. But it doesn’t stick. Nothing happens. We drive without a seat belt and arrive safely. We light up and enjoy the kick from the nicotine. It snows and we eat French toast with the milk, eggs and bread that we bought the night before. We watch Jerry Springer and then Opr . . . Okay bad example.

But you get my point. The random blasts, from the council to prevent all bad things, wear you down. They are all the same. No matter the real risk, the claxon is sounded with equal ferocity; ratcheting up the ferocity when your attention wanes. Finally when the scared no longer cower at the distant consequence, the council sponsors legislation that will bring the consequence into immediate and sharp focus. So now we have; Smoking? Three dollar a pack tax. Seatbelt less? $25 fine. Cholesterol? Trans-fat free cities.

Why do we go along? Why don’t we say “No, this is broken. I choose not to be frightened by you.”?

Maybe we need to be scared. Maybe life is too tame so we assign the council to prevent all bad things the task.

Take care,

Roger

Self Defense?

My lovely wife was Skyping with my daughter today. The latter, of the “I think that I will jump out of this perfectly good airplane last September (which was described in the “Girls Gone Wild” blog of the same month)”, has been named a finalist for a scholarship that will allow her to go abroad for school for a year. This is all a good thing. It will put her into contact with people who are on the front lines of fighting human trafficking. It will broaden her horizons in many good and beneficial ways.

It also means that it puts her outside of mom and dad’s ability to do much in the way of protection. Not that that ability is available today but it is easier to lie to ourselves when she is in the same state that we are in. And let’s be honest, while the government is currently stable where she is going, some of its neighbors are experiencing violent upheaval and turmoil. (No she is not going to Illinois or Minnesota.)

Preparations are going on even as we speak. She is learning the language slowly but surely. I have encouraged her to learn the following phrase in all of the local dialects: “My father will hunt you down like a dog.” I have a map of all of the strategic targets in country and have been shopping at “Cruise Missiles R Us” in hopes of picking up some scratch and dent from the whole Libyan thing. I know that these jokes are just an attempt to soften the knowledge that I can’t control these events, but I do what I can do.

It is hard not to give “helpful” advice. I do gain comfort knowing that Grace’s friends, good friends, and significant other feel the same way. During spring break, Grace was taken to a self-defense class. While passing through greater Ingalls on the way back to school, these new founds skills were being demonstrated for Bev and I in our living room. Things were going well. She was smacking down her “attacker” with great ease, and seemed to be gaining confidence with each take down. When suddenly for some inexplicable reason, I started channeling my inner Cato (think Inspector Clouseau in the Pink Panther) and took off running as hard as I could at Grace across the room, flailing my arms, yelling like a mad man and threw her to the ground. No fancy judo moves to pull out on dad (maybe because she was laughing so hard). There was still work to be done.

If you are having trouble imagining it, watch the following Pink Panther clip. It is a pretty accurate re-enactment.

All of that chaos, all of that struggle, it can’t be escaped. It is going to happen. Clouseau ordered his life to have it happen. “Cato, when I lay down for bed attack me so that I may prepare for any danger that comes my way.” I find that I order my life the same way. As ridiculous as it looks and is, I will do the same thing this fall. I will tell my inner Cato to help me prepare for all of the danger that may come Grace’s way. I will lose much sleep as the rooms of my mind are turned over and over; grappling with every eventuality.

I do all of this when what I say that I want peace of mind. I say that I want my daughter’s independence. I say that I want her to pursue her call. That is the only way she will be who she can be. I say. I say. I say.

Cato, take the night off.  It’s all in self defense.

Take care

Roger

Do dogs go to heaven?

Do dogs go to heaven?
 
That's what you get you get when you ask the high school Sunday school class what topics they want to cover.  The times we had asked them that question the previous two weeks, they all looked at the floor and had that deadened silence that the wary emit in times of stress. So as a teacher of extraordinary skills, I used the forced post-it note on the wall approach. Then, we found that they wanted to talk about college, high school, and friends. Remembering that it was Sunday school, prayer and forgiveness got a couple of votes.  Someone in a clever test to see if the Sunday school teacher was sincere about wanting to let the kids pick the topic posted "do dogs go to heaven?".
 
Snickers and chuckles went around the room. As a teacher of this great group, I was sincere about letting them choose the topics. So "do dogs go to heaven" made the cut for the voting. It made the voting round. In fact it got more votes than "who is Jesus".  The masses had spoken and I have committed to lead a class on it. Teasers have been dropped over the past four weeks. "Don't miss class in a few weeks because we are going to discuss heaven bound dogs."
 
In two weeks the topic the high school Sunday school class at Bridgeway will ponder this question. This blog is the first shot at it.
 
In an effort to learn about this issue, I went to the place I go for all of my theological knowledge. Google returned 1.5 million hits for “do dogs go to heaven.”  For perspective, “Japan nuclear crisis” generated 15 million hits. But really 1.5 million hits point to a real concern over the issue.
 
As you can imagine, as with any good religious argument, the positions are all over the place. Of course dogs (and cats for the felinists) go to heaven because only dogs love us unconditionally. No, they don’t go to heaven because they don’t have souls. The middle ground is that dogs go to dog heaven but don’t get to hang out with us. Poor Shaggy and Scooby, if two beings deserved to spend eternity together it is those two. The coolest entry I found was about Christians who were sure that their dogs were soulless and not going to heaven and in response were making plans to have their dogs taken care of after the rapture. What a good use for all of the atheists? After they get all of the driverless cars and pilotless planes pulled over and landed safely they can feed the dogs. I’ll leave a key under the “welcome” mat. There’s some beer in the fridge. Help yourself.
 
I really don’t know where I come down on this issue. I have owned my fair share of dogs. I have cried over their loss. Dead dog movies and books make me cry like a baby; Old Yeller, and Where the Red Fern Grows are my two favorites. In the end, I think that I have never loved a dog enough to be concerned about that question. I know that makes me a bad person in some people’s eyes. I would agree with you. So while that is my position, I can see why, if you love your dog more than I just confessed to, you want dogs to be heaven bound.
 
Rather than “do dogs go to heaven?” the question that I hear is “who is God?” Looking through the glass dimly, people have long used who gets into heaven as a descriptor of God. Only the good get into heaven – God is a God of justice. Only those who declare Christ as savior – God is fair; he plays by his rules. Everybody gets in – God is a God of mercy. My dog gets in – God really loves me and wants me to be happy. My neighbor’s dog who barked incessantly gets in – there really was a purgatory.
 
I think in the end I leave it to Paul in 1 Corinthians 15: 32 – 55. Where after several verses, he calls it all a mystery, and I usually say “huh?”
 
Wouldn’t it be funny if the answer had been in the bible all along? We just didn’t know that Jesus was dyslexic. “My God who are in heaven. Holy be your name.
 
Who would name their dog Holy?
 
Take care.
 
Roger
 
 

Socks by any other name would smell as sweet?

Socks by any other name would smell as sweet.

Wednesday morning was a sobering one for me. I was hurrying around getting ready for work, and was paying the price for procrastinating putting my cloths away from last weekend’s laundry. It usually works fine; which is why I wait. Actually it only works fine until Hugo and Henry our two Jack Russell Terriers break into the utility room and try to mark all of the clean cloths.  But just like they refuse to learn house breaking, I refuse to learn that procrastination has a down side.

No, I didn’t put on a “marked” shirt and wear it all day. No, my supply of matching socks had ran out in the closet, so off I go to the laundry room. I find a good pair that match and won’t embarrass me when I sit down. That is when everything went to heck in a laundry basket. I went ahead getting ready for work. I put two pieces of bread in the toaster and headed off to the bedroom in my bare to put on my socks and shoes. This would never have happened if winter had not broken. No deep winter floors would have forced me to sit down right there in the laundry room and put my socks on. But the floor wasn’t too cold so I figured that sitting down once would shave precious seconds off of prep time and allow me a more leisurely drive into the office.

I go into the bedroom pick up my shoes sit down on the edge of the bed and I can’t find my socks any place. I stand up look where I was sitting. I walk back toward the kitchen; no socks. I walk into laundry room; no socks. I walk back toward the bedroom; look on the chest of drawers; no socks. By this time, frustration is starting to mount. This is not a new phenomenon. I have suffered these bouts of short attention span for many years.

I have learned many coping mechanisms. The problem is two fold. First, and most maddening of Bev is that I like to create piles. Paper in my hand? Put it in a pile. Change in my pocket? Put it another pile. Bring the mail in? Put it in another pile. Piles all over the house like cow plop bingo at the county fair. It is a horrible habit that has driven Bev to madness many times throughout our marriage. Since it is a habit, I often place things in these piles without thinking or remembering their placement. This was the second problem.

I use the past tense because I have found a surefire method allowing me to remember on which pile I set stuff. I have found three places to make piles. They are out of the way and the number is limited enough so as not to cause too much distress for Bev. These three pile zones allows me the freedom to sit whatever is in my hand down and when I need it again and can’t find it handy, I only have three places to look and viola; problem solved; item found. I am back on my way. I have been doing this so long that my default setting is: if I can’t find something I go look on the corner of the role top desk, the kitchen island, or the entry way table. Even if I don’t remember walking by any of those places the past three days, I go to those three places.

So even though I know I did not pass any of the piles going from the laundry room, to the bedroom, I look on the corner of the desk, no socks. I look on the kitchen island, no socks, I look on the entry way table no socks. Now, I am starting to become anxious. I have long ago used up the precious “saved” seconds. My toast popped minutes ago and will now be so cold that the butter won’t melt on it, and I still haven’t found my socks that I had firmly in my grasp 5 minutes earlier. Five minutes lost puts me on the verge of having to commit one or two moving violations; passing on a double yellow line on blind man’s curve, going through intersections on the pink, going 35 in the 30 mph zone of McCordsville. However, the children of Mt. Comfort Elementary will be safe as I go 25 mph through their zone.

But where the heck are those socks? Finally, I decide to just forget it and get another pair of socks. Into the closet I go and pull out this pair from the very bottom of the drawer that I hate. They are so inflexible that it feels like I am putting on the tubes from a role of paper towels. I hate these socks. But I try not to bemoan my misfortune. After all, it is my own procrastination that started this cascade of events.

Socks and shoes on; I stomp off towards the kitchen, grab the toast cubes and try to put some butter on them. I grab my lunch bucket and looking at the clock, I begin to wish that this was happening 5 days later. Then I could blame it of daylight savings time. I grab my coat and throw it on. Something is not right.  Something feels funny. Thinking what else could go wrong; a mouse on the shoulder, a sudden shoulder tumor; I don’t know. I’m late. So, I whip the coat off. As I do, the socks fall from my shoulder onto the floor.

Don’t worry. The embarrassment of that moment will subside and I will be able soon be able to embrace the short term storage of socks on the shoulder. One must be adaptable in these trying times.

Take care,

Roger.