Three Day Feast

Three times a year, Jehovah's Witnesses enjoy what we call "Conventions" or "Assemblies".  We have a Special Assembly Day, a two day Circuit Assembly, and finally a three day District Convention.  From about 10 AM to about 5 PM (with a nice break for lunch) we listen to Bible talks, experiences which highlight a particular theme, encouragement, and even some costume dramas.  Like any mulit-day feast, it can be difficult to be attentive to everything, especially after lunch when the urge to nap runs through the audience with varying results.  But it serves a vital purpose.  It helps us to re-focus, to re-group and to analyze ourselves in the light of Scripture.  It reminds us of the nature of the times we live in and encourages us to maintain our Christian Armor. 

This summer, throughout the globe, Jehovah's Witnesses will be gathering for the "Let God's Kingdom Come!" District Conventions.  The invitation is rather striking, and I like to think that if  I were receiving it from the other side of the door that it would pique my interest. 

I most especially love the illustration of the statue from Daniel chapter 2, with the question mark at the feet.  So, if I don't blog for a few days, it's okay.  I'm not depressed or injured.  I'm partaking at the table of Jehovah.  It may take me a while to digest it all, and like a ruminant, I may have to have a few goes at it, but in the end, I'll be a fat little sheep, I hope.  As much as I love goats, I just want to have them.  I don't want to be one.

I know It's Wrong, But I Can't Stop Myself

I caught one of the new baby bunnies and took it in the house.  I let Craig hold it for a few minutes.

I tried to get some good shots so you could see how adorable this little bugger is.

Rabbit ears are evocative, to me, of Japanese art. 

Look at that little nose. 

I would name it, but I'd never be able to tell it from the others.

I don't know why I do these things.  I just have to. 

Is There Such A Thing As An Educated Rant?

In an article about America's debt and the denial that seems to exist by some about it,  a BBC journalist makes an observation about Americans that he feels explains this situation:  "But America, as well as being a place of hard work and ingenuity, is also no stranger to eating competitions in which gluttony is celebrated, and willful ignorance, for instance regarding (as many Americans do) evolution as controversial."  In other words, Disbelief in Evolution, nay, just questioning Evolution is an instance of Willful Ignorance. 

I know I am only a lowly housewife.  I didn't finish college.  I've worked most of my life in the home, although I have had outside jobs of varying description.  But I do read.  A lot.  And I ask questions about what I read because I'm the daughter of an editor and that's how I was raised.  You never accept at face value:  you always ask the essential questions; You must answer for me Who, What, Where, When, Why, and How or In What Manner? 

In the story of Evolution, we can ask those questions as well.  Let us see how it goes. 

• Who?  In the theory of Evolution there is no Who, silly.  Next question.
• What?  Beneficial Mutations and Natural Selection.  That is, over time there occurred mutations that proved to be beneficial, and those mutations that were less beneficial were not be able to survive.  There have been research programs launched to study mutation in an effort to 'speed up' evolution.  The result of 40 years of such research showed that the 'attempt to cultivate increasingly productive varieties...proved to be a failure.'  A scientist named Wolf-Ekkehard Lonnig, from a plant research institute, states that 'almost all the mutants...died or were weaker..."  The conclusion of the matter was that "mutations cannot transform an original species into an entirely new one."  Even an evolutionary theorist, Jeffrey Schwartz, felt that natural selection may be only helping species adapt to change, but it is not creating anything new.  
• Where?  Where do we start looking for evidence of evolution?  Scientists have looked for evidence of missing links and found none.  Instead, the fossil record shows that major groups of animals appear suddenly and remain without significant change.
• When?  Perhaps we need to go further back than the fossil record.  Perhaps if we go back to the infamous 'primordial soup'?  I remember sitting on the floor in the library at Towson State University and reading about Professor Millers experiments to simulate an environment which could have produced the building blocks of life.  The electricity he subjected the 'witches brew' to, and subsequent formation of amino acids found in living things.  It was a thrilling thing to read!  How obvious it was that this was how it occurred!  What the book neglected to tell its readers, however, was that Miller was forced to use a 'trapping mechanism' to isolate these newly formed amino acids.  The very environment in which they were formed was one which would have immediately destroyed them otherwise!  He needed to intervene, to guide, the processes taking place to have them result in the outcome he desired to see.  Hardly the model of Scientific Theory.   
• (Building on this idea, let us do some construction.  Miller formed some amino acids.  Amino acids would go on to form protein molecules.  Oops, we forgot something.  RNA is required to make proteins.  But proteins are required in the production of RNA.  Hmmm.  Which came first?  Neither.  They would have had to be formed simultaneously and miraculously combined in the exactly correct sequences.)
• Why?  Well, 'cuz.  It was just random chance.  It's just the way it was.  Gosh, where do you come up with these questions.  Why?  You must be willfully ignorant.    
• How?  I do think I've covered this in the points above.  If there were doubts about evolutionary theory before, Molecular Biology has shown the impossibility of such a thing.  Some evolutionists, when faced with this realization, have gone so far as to suggest that the major components of the first cells arrived on earth from outer space.  Ah, the convenient, It Happened Somewhere Else So We Don't Have To Explain Why It Doesn't Work.  Yes.  Quite.  

So, going back to our Beeb journalist, I do agree that someone here is willfully ignorant.  But I don't think it's me.  

Little Veggies

Okay.  I'm having an issue with my underground veggies.  The carrots and the beets are due to be harvested, according to my handy dandy chart, but when I do a test 'pull', they are itty-bitty.  Like baby carrots and baby beets.  So, those of you with more experience, should I harvest anyway, or let them stay underground longer?  Will they get bigger?  Did I plant them too close together and stunt their growth?  Do they have an inferiority complex and need psychological counseling? 

On a related garden failure, I pulled all my pea plants and fed them to the rabbits and chickens.  They were yellowing and dying without every producing a single pea pod.  I believe it was whiteflys.  So I have to come up with a solution to this problem before it affects anything else in the garden.  Everything else looks excellent so far.  The corn has established ears, the tomatoes are popping out, the pumpkin has good blossoms, the lettuce is doing well.  Even the lavender is growing, albeit slowly. 

So, it's a mixed bag so far.  I do think that if I want to have enough stuff to do canning and live off the garden overwinter I will have to triple my raised bed space.  I don't mind doing it, I just wish I had known it before I started.  I had such plans for this year! 

I suppose I shouldn't complain when I compare this year to last year, garden wise.  I'm ungrateful.  I just wanted more.  I'm garden greedy. 

Summer

With Summer officially upon us, I thought it time to remove the quilts from Good Enough Farm, and pack them away until cooler weather visits us again. 

Having accomplished this in a literal sense, I thought I would extend it to the virtual farm as well.  I took the quilt down and saw what was behind it.  Ronny will want to paint it, but I like it the way it is.  Just to make sure, I'm hiding the virtual paint and brushes. 

Complaints

I've received complaints about the sheer volume of my blogging.  Apparently, some nameless souls out there are unable to keep up with my brilliance.  I forgive you.  But, in deference to your difficulties, today I shall be brief. 

I shall not complain about my lack of femininity.  I shall not bemoan that the little things I do to enhance my grace and delicate beauty (*snort*) often are not able to offset the deficits I am burdened with.  I shall let the picture say the thousand words it is oft reputed to do. 

Okay, I break my silence!  Huge lump on left ankle still.  Battle scars from Weed Eater.  Bruises up and down my legs and on my ankles.  I try to balance these out with nail polish and an ankle bracelet, but I don't think it's working. 

Rabbit Relocation Program

I put an ad for the 3 month old rabbits in craigslist and got a few nibbles.  Since people were wanting to come see them, I had to round them up.  This was not too bad this morning as they were all in the hutch looking for food and I just shut the door to keep them inside.  One intrepid bunny escaped, but the remaining five were taken into the house.  I washed their paws and sexed them and then spent some quality time with them wrapped up like little babies in a towel.  That really soothes them. 

All five of the girls spent the afternoon in a bin in the kitchen waiting for looky-loos.  No one came by.  So, rather than release them back into the burrow side or, god forbid, onto the side with the rapacious Mr. Bunny, I have installed them into the empty side of the chicken house.  They seem content enough to be there a few days. 

Mrs. Bunny is now on her side with one lone little boy bunny.  He's very quick, and a thumper, which I have only seen the boys do.  It's comical to see him try to divert my attention from 'his' female by zigzag zipping all over the place, thumping to alert any and all adjacent bunnies of impending doom.  He's not near breeding age yet, so I have a while to either sell him or ....

I put Mr.  Bunny in the paper as well, since I think Ronny would like to just have the rabbits for pets.  He's pretty much expressed that in the last week.  So, there's really no point in having a breeding pair.  Mrs. is way more sociable than Mr., and I could hold onto the boy and breed him to her if need be.  Or, I could sell him and keep one female for company for Mrs. and be done with the whole thing.  It's very hard to decide.  I was really hoping to get into ground rabbit meat and rabbit sausage, thinking that in a less 'rabbit-like' form it would be a less objectionable meat.  I could still do this, of course, on the sly.  It's tempting.  I do have one rabbit in the freezer I could do a test run on just to see how it works.  I'll sleep on it for a few days and decide just how devious it would really be. 

Drunken Sailor On Shore Leave

The Apostle Paul said, "... for I have learned, in whatever circumstances I am, to be self-sufficient. I know indeed how to be low [on provisions], I know indeed how to have an abundance. In everything and in all circumstances I have learned the secret of both how to be full and how to hunger, both how to have an abundance and how to suffer want."

I have always said I know best how to suffer want.  I have had more practice in it and am the better for it.  Thus, when circumstances funnel an abundance into my lap, I find myself somewhat at a loss.  What to do with it all?  Well, the truck needs two new tires to pass inspection.  Cha-ching!

We've desperately wanted high-speed internet and have been unable to get it due to our being so far from the road.  But we can now afford to install satellite internet!  Cha-chang! 

  
Eye doctor visit and new glasses for Craig and Ronny.   Cha-chong! 

Oops, need rabbit feed and to order some new chickens.  Sorry, you've spent too much money now and you have to wait til Friday. 

See, I just don't know how to have an abundance.  But I do know how to spend it. 

Murder Most Fowl

It was an evening like any other evening.  The rabbits were laying about in their pen.  The chickens were contentedly scratching and making soothing chicken sounds to each other.  We were at our meeting, secure in knowing our hens were fenced in and would, of their own accord, roost when the sun had set and wait for us to come and shut the door to the hen house.  When we came out of the Hall, lightening shone across the sky.  Rain began to beat upon the vehicle.  I put on my hazard lights and slowed to 25 miles per hour.  When we arrived at the house, we sat in the car waiting for any sign of letup.  None came.  We ran to the house, soaked to the skin.  Within 20 minutes the rain had stopped and I went out to shut up the chickens.  The house was dark and the chickens muttered at me.  I said good night and shut the door.  I noticed one of the brooder lights laying in the yard and thought that was strange.  I had put it in storage on the other half of the chicken house just the other day.  What was it doing out?  I put it away and went inside. 

Morning always begins with letting the chickens out.  I went out in jelly clogs and my nightgown.  "Good morning, girls!"  They were out of the house like popcorn out of a pan, fussing and upset with me.  Squeaky made her 'worried' sound and followed me to the rabbits pen.  She worried at me and then ran back to the unused half of the hen house.  She attacked the brooder lights and there were the sounds of battle.  I thought she had gone insane.  I looked in there.  Nothing.  She went into her nest and started to lay an egg.  Suddenly, I thought, 'where's Cagney?'  I called her.  She didn't come.  I looked under the house.  I looked all around.  No sign of feathers.  No signs of a struggle, but they would have been washed away in the waters that flooded the yard last night.  No Cagney.  Just Squeaky's acting out as if there were an enemy in the coop.  She told me as clearly as if she could have spoken that something had hidden there last night and taken Cagney and she was gone.  Squeaky had done her best to protect her friend.  Even this morning she had made sure to clear out that side of the house before laying an egg. 

There's a murderer out there somewhere.  He's picking his teeth with the quill end of Cagney's feathers and plotting his return.  I am plotting your return as well, my friend.  I will be ready.  I will be waiting. 

Science and Faith

The fern-like, delicate greenery of carrots

Peas, twirling tiny tendrils around every imagined support

Pumpkin curlicues, pale and tight

Tomato blossoms

A clutch of tomatoes

Pumpkin blossoms nestled among  elephantine leaves

In this last week, I paused in my television surfing as I heard a scientist admit to an interviewer that he did not believe in God.  To quote:  "No," Venter replied. "I believe the universe is far more wonderful than just assuming it was made by some higher power."  This statement is beyond hubris.  It betrays a colossal ignorance.  When speaking of The Creator of All Things, in Speaking of The Sovereign of the Universe, we refer not to 'some higher power' but the Highest Power.  And we do not 'assume' that the things seen and unseen were made by this God, but we are at a loss to see any other explanation.  For the man who observes nature with honesty and without bias can come to no other conclusion than this:  In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. 

This Post Is Steamy!

I have been really blessed with the garden this year.  We've been eating lettuce out of it for weeks, and just this week we added beans to the menu.  It's been years since we've had the luxury of homegrown beans.  I wanted them to be treated with the kitchen utensils they deserved, so I ordered a pot and a vegetable steamer earlier this week. I got the pot.  But the steamer, alas, proved to be out of stock.  This called for innovative measures:  A stock pot, a metal colander, wax paper taped over the top row of holes and a lid were substituted for a proper steamer. 

I love enamelware.  I'm all Lodge Skillets and Granite Ware pots and pans, except for the one little Teflon Pan I use when my hands are a little weak.

Peeking at my beans in the steam!

Bright green beans and melting butter.  Mmmmm...

Hopefully, by the end of the week, the big green tomatoes in my garden will turn red and will join the salad greens on the table.  My only fear is we will eat the garden all this summer and have nothing left to preserve.  And after having had real food for several months, how will we ever go back to grocery store fare?  I'll have to buy from a farm stand and preserve that, I suppose.  I think I need to double the size of the garden for next year.  It's never too early to plan, is it?

Corn Storm

About a month ago, when the corn was not too high, a wind blew through the garden, twirled the stalks around and flattened them.  Not to be intimidated by any mere wind, I went out and instinctively used the following move, which was later described to me by a Veteran Country Boy:  'You right it and you press your foot against the root real good and see if'n it don't stay up then.'  The corn stayed up and life was good.


Yesterday afternoon, a series of storms went through again.  This time, with malice aforethought, my corn was assaulted, stomped upon, maltreated and left for dead.  Sad, sad corn.    

Not two days ago, I had just been talking to some Dyed In The Wool Country Folk about such a situation, and their recommendation had been to 'let it right itself'.  I waited overnight.  I waited until 4 PM of the next day.  There was no righting.  It was only wronging.  I got the idea to use some garden stakes and tie the stalks to the stakes.  

Standing in the center of the Concord Universe, I surveyed the bundles of stakes, counting quickly on my fingers.  Even at 39 cents per stake, with 64 stalks of corn that would add up to a hefty chunk of change.  The approach of the aforementioned Veteran Country Boy was accompanied by the advice to retry the patented "Corn Righting Ritual."  Rather skeptical about the chances of success, I headed to the door.  In the lovely sort of delayed reaction common among Southerns, he asked about the soil I had it planted in.  'Was it loose soil, or some of this good clay we have around here?'  I waxed rhapsodic about the merits of my soil:  1/2 topsoil, 1/2 mushroom compost and loose as a goose.  I was shocked to learn that this was good for growing everything but corn, because corn needs a compact base.  Well, butter my biscuits and call me a cab!  We convened a meeting of The Corn Savers of Concord right there in the aisles of (cue the angelic singing) Carson's.  After the presentation of all the facts and the consideration of many alternatives, it was suggested that if I had any more soil to use it.  Right the corn, add the soil, tamp it down real good.  I left with nothing in my hand but hope in my heart.  Sixteen buckets of mushroom compost, a half gallon of sweat and a bazillion mosquito bites later, the situation is improved.  

I am sure that there are affordable measures that I can take to assure that this does not happen again.  There are the all-purpose tomato cages.  There are complex scenario involving strings and weights and Rube Goldberg machines.  I've even considered pressing a traveling band of Corn Soldiers into service, each precious stalk assigned its own personal Guardsman of the Maize.  I could get a restraining order against The Wind, restricting him to a distance of 100 feet.  It may take me a few days, but I'll come up with something. 

Get Outta Here, Ya Egg-Suckin' Varmint!

Tra la la la la la.  That was me, watering the garden mid afternoon.  Traipsing about in my jelly clogs without a care in the world.  Until...Lo, what doth mine eye behold in yon hen house?  It looketh not unlike a tire iron, long and black.  Hmmm, I must investigate anon. 

Tossing blonde curly wig and lace cap aside, I spy an egg sucking snake in egg-sucking-delecto!  Never one to squeam when I should, I grab a nearby hoe and try in vain to sever said snake head from said snake body.  The nice bed of shavings that the hens love proved a hindrance to murder most foul, so I 'encouraged' the snake to take his leave.  Most treacherously, I grabbed his tail as he twined under the coop.  He slipped through my fingers.  "Not leaving you under there, you rat!" I exclaimed, in clear defiance of the fact that this was a snake. 

I persuaded him to leave the chicken's cellar with the long handle of the hoe, then followed him and disassociated him from himself.  This is much easier done in movies, or I have a very dull hoe.  I made impressive dents upon his carcass, but required the use of the axe to sever all ties with him.  It is quite fascinating to feel the undulations of the body for nearly 15 minutes post beheading, and to behold the feeble attempts of a severed head to take vengeance.  Craig was not satisfied with my diagnosis of death, and enforced his own opinion upon the poor dead snake an additional five or six times.  At this point the snake resembled those wooden snakes from my childhood, small section after small section fitted to each other with metal hooks.  Black tootsie rolls of snake lay in the hen yard, daring the braver ones to come near.  They declined. 

Hmm.  I need something to compare the length to.  Wait, I'll use my foot.

That's better.  Not a shabby snake, I think.  

What can I say?  I had three brothers, and I enjoy a good snake head photo. 

White underbelly.  But you could see that, of course.  Sorry.

Following my post-killing jubilation, concern set in, which was allayed by an Internet search.  In spite of having the famous white mouth of the Cottonmouth, this snake was a common Black Rat Snake.  The black body which led me to think it a Black Snake, was accompanied by a white mouth, chin and underbelly, matching perfectly that of the Black Rat Snake.  You would think this would all give me pause, but no.  The next time I see a snake sucking my hens eggs, I assure you, I kill first, axe questions later.  (he he)

Directions to the Vet

I attempted to do some minor surgery on Kitty the other day.  While he was initially appreciative, he soon changed his mind and suggested that I take him to a vet.  And just in case I didn't know where one was located, he drew me a map. 

"Okay, don't take that first road on the left, it's a dead end.  Go down Plum Branch to Village Highway.  Take a right.  If you reach the intersection at Village Highway and Spring Mill you've gone to far." 

Kitty is so helpful. 

Dining Room Rearrangement, Step Two

Spray Paint.  Check.
Four Table Legs.  Check.
Drying inside in a Low Humidity environment.  Check. 

Once it's dry, the Computer Tower and the PSC will live on top of it, next to my desk.  Massive amounts of scanning will then take place, that I may get rid of my paper copies of things and go completely paper free.  That will neaten up the Computer Wall in the Dining Room and then the house will be in order again.  Until my next chicks come to live in the house, but that's for another day. 

On What Happens to an Office When Your Husband Drives a Truck

Memory may call to mind a rant post I made about creating an office for myself.  Just as I was putting the finishing touches on said room, Ronny came home from a road trip with Thoughts. 

Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!

'Craig,' he said, 'had too much stuff in his bedroom.'  I could agree with this.  Yes, this was true. 

'He needs,' continued The Great Thinker of Thoughts Designed to Disrupt my Existence, 'more room.'

Words were uttered which involved the breaking down of walls and 2x4's and sawdust and Chaos. A tiny voice, desperate to avoid all such matters, said "I'll give up my office.  He can have that for his bedroom and the other room will be his Playroom."* 

A rapid rearrangement of rooms resulted in two very neat and tidy spaces for Craig, and Everything Else stuffed into the Living/Dining Room for me to deal with.  I went from a livable space to a crushed and strangled space.  Ronny pronounced his satisfaction with the result and left again.  It's not fair, you know.

After a week of living in Clutter, I posed a question to him while he was home for an hour.  "Can I get rid of our old couches?"  Man Question arriving in 3, 2, 1:  "What do you want to replace them with?  Have you been sofa shopping?"  I astonished all womankind by responding "I don't want anything else.  I just want to get rid of them."    Crickets chirped for a few seconds and then we bargained over whether I would be allowed to get rid of them by myself or would have to wait for him to help me.  I won.

Women desperate to get rid of furniture take advantage of Advanced Technology.

"How are you going to fit both couches into the truck all by yourself?"  This way.

The next morning saw me traveling to the dump with two large pieces of furniture hanging out the back of the truck. I love throwing stuff away! 

Now, my new living room may seem a little spare to some.  But I spent my teenage years with a closet for a bedroom.  So, for me, it's about minimalization. 

I have finally made practical use of The Decorative Wood Stove.  It is the perfect height for a side table. 

Now, I just have to get the Dining Room squared away.  That requires some spray paint, four table legs and lots of scanning.  I better get going on it while Ronny is on the road.


*Playroom is an all-encompassing term, covering a room which contains Guitars (x3), Amps (x2),  a Keyboard, a Gaming System, a Computer, A Television, A Game Chair, A "Watch Me While I Do This" Chair for parents, a side table and an ottoman.  (Empire sold separately.) 

Too Hot To Blog

It's so hot that nothing is going on.  The rabbits are lying in the coolness of the dirt, their back legs splayed out behind them like the white train of a June bride.  The chickens have taken refuge under the hen house, making peace with Cagney in the little bowls of loose dirt carved out in that dark place.  The garden is hot and green, needing watering twice a day, which we do with speed before running back into the haven of air conditioning. 

I was reminded today,  in the blessedness that is the Appomattox Walmart, that I may feel like nobody wants to hear about my Days of Whine and Water Hoses but some of you out there actually do.  So, I'll try. 

My 1989 Dodge Ram Pickup is a thing of beauty.  It needs a paint job, it needs an antenna for the radio, and Air Conditioning might be nice.  But we love it anyway.  So, while all you deprived people are listening to music in their cars that emanates from a CD Player, Fancy Stereo, I-Pad or whatever new-fangled device you may have, I listen to music the way God intended: 

 

You don't know what you're missing.