The Modern Amish

It’s the little things.  Never were truer words written.  But it’s also a somewhat misleading statement.  Because often times when you bore down to the root of the little things, they’re actually much bigger than they first appear.  For example…

I am in most physical aspects an average American male.  For purposes of this post, the pertinent aspect is the ability to reach all areas of my back.  I can cover a good amount of it easily, most of it by stretching for it, a very small part by really going all out, but I still can’t reach a small portion of my back no matter how hard I try.  An invariably that’s where my back starts to itch.  Now there are various methods for dealing with just such a problem.  Tried & true even.  But each one has a drawback that makes it not quite what I would like to pursue.

1. Rub your back against something.  Pluses - fairly effective & you can do it as long as you like.  Minuses - you look like a bear in the woods or a dog on the yard when you do it.
2. Use a hanger.  Pluses - hangers are fairly common so this solution is often available.  Minuses - can be awkward explaining to a coworker why a hanger is sticking up out of your shirt.
3. Have someone else scratch it.  Pluses - can be a bonding experience with a loved one, gives you a great feeling of power.  Minuses - loved one can get really ticked at your bossiness, they just never seem to hit the right spoke, and this method requires having someone else who is willing to scratch your back.
4. Ignore it.  Pluses - can be effective in working on your internal focus.  Minuses - your back still itches.

So I purchased something that I never thought I would have in my home.  A good, old-fashioned back scratcher.  You know.  Made from bamboo.  Looks like it has a little wooden hand on the end.  One of those.  Perfect!  I don’t have to rely on someone else, no one wonders what I’m doing when they see with a backscratcher down my shirt, and I don’t look goofy except for the look of joy & relief upon my face.  All the bases are covered. 

And as I stated earlier, there’s a bigger more important issue here.  It’s not just that I can now scratch that spot on my back, no.  It’s power.  What I once couldn’t do, now I can.  What I couldn’t accomplish the way I wanted, I now can.  What was once impossible is now possible.  Yea verily, I am now godlike in my ability to satisfy my back scratching needs!  I AM MAN!  SEE ME SCRATCH!

See.  The little things mean so much more really.  Life improves on a metaphorical level.  Now if I could just figure out how to keep by beard from growing.

Do you have badger problems?  Haven’t we all at one time or another?  Well today’s farming tip is just for you then.  Ezine@rticles gives us this highly effective tip on excluding badgers by electric fencing.

• There are two methods of badger exclusion and both involve fencing. Firstly is the high tensile type that is highly ornate, involves burying the wire in to prevent badgers digging under and very expensive.  The next solution is to use an appropriate electric fence to give the badgers a sharp, but non-lethal “sting” on the nose if they try to get into a protected area. This can provide value-for-money for ceremonial gardens, putting greens, bowling greens and cricket pitches; for commercial planting schemes/shared allotments; and for large gardens. Electric fencing has been shown to be over 90% effective in excluding badgers in scientifically sanctioned trials.

Now don’t any of you Minnesota residents get any big ideas.  If the US can’t come up with the money to build a fence on the border of Mexico, do you think you’ll do any better trying to get the east boundary of Minnesota electrified just to keep out Wisconsin fans?  I don’t think so.  Happy farming!

“Dad, do we have an unused plunger anywhere?”  I can honestly say that I never expected to hear those words from my 15 year old daughter.  Let alone first thing in the morning.  But since it was out there I bit.  “Why?” And the rest of the conversation made perfect sense.  My daughter plays the trumpet.  For some of you, that’s enough explanation.  For others, let me explain.  The rubber part of a simple plunger can be use when you play a trumpet like a wa wa pedal for a guitar.  Since early jazz trumpeters started the practice, it’s become a traditional part of a trumpet players equipment.

So that evening it was off to Wal-Mart to find a plunger.  We found the aisle, found the needed product, & I was immediately struck by 2 things.  1 - $2.19 for such an incredibly useful instrument is one of the great bargins in the world.  2 - the plunger & the wooden rod for it were not connected.  They’re sold as a set, but with some assembly required.

So after plunking down the change for our purchase, we both walked happily back to my truck.  Her with her newly acquired useful piece of musical history & me with a good strong stick to whack her with just for fun.  Now that’s a win/win situation.

• it wouldn’t be a big deal if he was spotted with a boot on his foot.  He’d always wear boots.
• we’d get to see Pat Patriot with one of those cool beards.  
• supermodels in bonnets & long-sleeved black dresses.
• a curious number of children born in his community would look like him.
• his chinstrap would have to be reinforced to hold in that beard.
• new innovations in camerawork due to not being able to record his image.
• he would have set the record for babes scored during Rumspringa.
• even dressed in straw hat, work shirt, black pants, suspenders, & work boots while rocking the Amish beard, he’s still look less goofy than Peyton Manning.

This blog has been neglected lately.  Most of the reasons would bore you so I won’t insult your intelligence by going into them.  But there is one that I feel the need to tackle.  The server that hosts this blog started having some performance issues a couple of weeks ago that have stopped in the last couple of days.  I was perplexed as to the reason why as my traffic is low & I don’t have any wildly resource intensive plug-ins running.  But upon examining the evidence, I can now say conclusively what the reasons for the problems & the improvement are.  Let’s look at the facts shall we.

1. The problems began within 2-3 days following my post detailing why Tom Cruise can not be the father of Suri.
2. The server began acting in an unusual and unpredictable way, then responsiveness slowed greatly, eventually resulting in some outages.
3. This week, Anonymous launched their war on the Church of Scientology & their presence on the internet.
4. Today, the server is running like a champ.

There you have it.  The answer is plain to see. 

I WAS ATTACKED BY SCIENTOLOGISTS!

Clearly the CoS didn’t like that I had exposed their leader for what he really was & launched a denial of service attack on me.  But their ability to function on the internet has been crippled by Anonymous & now I’m back in business.  And so, let me just say…  HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT TOM?  HOW ‘BOUT THEM APPLES!  WHERE’S BIG BAD XENU & YOUR THETANS NOW?  HUH?  Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Of course, just in case Scientology does survive this war.  Remember this is just comedy.  Satire even.  And you can’t sue over satire right? 

Right?

It’s Friday, that means another helpful farming tip for all you folks who have stumbled in here by accident.  Today’s helpful tip is in regards to poultry farming.  It’s courtesy of ChickenRancher.com. 

• Cleaning is probably the easiest way to avoid sick chickens. Over-cleaning is not necessary because the birds need to have access to droppings to maintain natural “gut flora”. I know it sounds awful, but it’s absolutely necessary for their health. Excessive dust in their coop can cause respiratory problems for them, so I hose the coops down entirely on a regular basis (once a month) to keep them as dust-free as possible.

To me, ‘cleaning chickens’ means getting them ready to store in the freezer or put in the frying pan.  But the mental picture of natural “gut flora” drove thoughts of fried chicken far far away.  Ugh.  So please, for the love of crispy brown skin & cream gravy, don’t forget to clean your cluckers.  Happy farming.

For all you worm farmers or potential worm farmers out there, today’s farming tip is for you.  Courtesy of Worm Farming, a helpful tip on feeding your worms.

• Not all vegetables or food scraps make good food for your worms either. Strong foods like onion, garlic, and hot peppers are not as readily welcomed. If the worms don’t want to eat them, they’ll eat everything else first. That leaves a smell to your worm bin, which can ruin your new adventure really fast! It’s not like your own mom making you eat all your vegetables when you were little. These are not children and shouldn’t be tortured to endure foods they don’t want. If you feed an animal something that isn’t good for it or that it doesn’t like the taste of, it can starve itself to death and will just end up resenting you or trying to escape to get to the better food source.

Worms are not children & shouldn’t be tortured or they might end up resenting you & trying to escape?  I wonder if they might also end up writing a tell all book blaming you for all the issues in their life & go on Oprah to air their dirty laundry before the whole world.  And I wonder if ramming a fishhook up one end of the worm & forcing it out the other is considered torture.  But I digress.  Happy farming.

So I finally got the call.  My 20 year reunion.  The flood of memories was about to begin flowing out of the long forgotten spaces of my mind.  And the voice on the phone brought back a pretty good stream of them herself.

To protect the not so innocent (you never fooled anyone) I’ll just refer to her as K.  K was a lifer at good old RHS.  12 years straight through.  And if anyone else in my class was more like me, I would be totally shocked.  We were both ‘brains’.  Both with a relaxed air about us, but totally capable of getting worked up over things we felt strongly about.  No chance that either one of us would stay around, but we appreciated where we grew up.  Both able to get along with just about anyone.  And a mildly sarcastic edge to both of us.  Because we were so much alike in thought & attitude, there was no chance of us ever being an ‘item’.  At least that was my thought.  But that also made her fun to hang around & a pretty good prom date.  I had no desire to use it as an occasion to put a notch on my bedpost.  But I knew it was going to be a fun night.  And it was.  I enjoyed who I was with, got to spend time with my friends (even the female ones), & no pressure or stress was had at all.  Not a bad way to spend a night.  And so come graduation night, we were still friends, at the 10 year reunion I was glad to see her, and now it was good to hear her voice again.

We had the typical ‘haven’t talked in years, getting caught up’ call.  K knew my wife from the summer we all spent working together at a waterpark, so she had someone else to ask about.  And she had finally married the guy she was with at the 10 year.  K’s insanity was proven when she told me she had a 2 year old.  That overflowing well of information, my proud mother, had filled her in on some stuff about me so we had more time to just shoot the breeze.  It was all good.  And then K dropped one of those tidbits that make getting caught up with an old friend so great.  ‘Did I tell you about when I had to go tell <nameless female classmate or NFC> about the last reunion?’  No indeed she had not.  Well K had to go contact NFC at work.  And NFC at the time was employed as a dancer at a strip club.  So K went there & got to catch the end of her act.  I was positively awash in punch lines.  The mind boggled.  But beign the G rated kind of guy I am, I drew back my comedy bow & let fly the least offensive arrow that came to mind.  ‘So you got to see a whole lot of her then.’ said I.  Bullseye!  Subtle yet effective.   Who knew it took so much dedication to arrange a reunion?  K deserves a commendation.

I confirmed that I would be there & we wrapped up the conversation for the night.  But not before I got my first assignment.  To contact a member of the old gang that didn’t attend the 10 year & see if I could persuade him to come this time.  And by pure coincidence, he just happened to be my best friend in high school.  That’s for next time. 

Just over 3 weeks to go now.  And I’ve got some other calls to make between now & then.  Again, I think there’s something to be found here.  Though I still don’t know for sure what it may be.  But one thing I do know, when I get there, I’ll be sure to ask K if she’s seen a lot of our classmates.

Today’s farming tip is for all you duck breeders out there.

• If possible, the drakes should be one month older than the female ducks. This is to ensure that the males are ready for mating during the breeding season.

Thanks to Pinoy-Negosyo-Techs for the tip.  Now get out there & make your ducks lucky ducks.  Happy farming.

‘Some woman called for you.’ my wife said with just a hint of annoyance in her voice.  Not the type of thing you want to hear usually.  Especially right after church when it seems like you may have to repent of something toot sweet.  Was I in trouble?  Who could this ‘woman’ be?  Will I be sleeping on the couch tonight?  The questions flew through my mind.  But as soon as I played the message, heard a voice of a friend from the past, & heard my wife’s pleased laughter I knew that I was in much bigger trouble than I had planned for.  For the voice on the message that belonged to the woman who in 7th grade endured my being depantsed in front of her (and who would later be my date to the senior prom), brought a sobering, chilling, dreaded realization.  I realized, it’s time for my 20 year high school reunion. 

20 years.  20 freaking years.  There exists a plethora of cliches about time & it’s relentless march on.  And every single one of them is true.  I am an intelligent, college-educated, successful, thoughtful person who apparently has no ability to mark the passing of time.  Even of a period so great as 20 years.  1988 still seems so recent.  Near enough to touch even, and yet there is the very real possibility that some of my former classmates are now grandparents.  5 presidential elections have been held since I walked out with my diploma & memories.  I officially must now acknowledge that I am no longer young in age. 

20 years.  I can’t even remember the type of person I was back then.  It seems like life, real life, hadn’t even started for me.  Although I recall being mature in some ways due to my dad building a real work ethic in me & things I’d went through in general, in many ways that define a person, I was just a kid.  I was still basically selfish.  I didn’t view society or the world as a whole, all I saw was my place in it.  Nothing else existed.  The future wasn’t to be worried about.  People over 30 were old.  My parents still weren’t all that smart.  Would I even recognize that guy today? 

20 years.  In 88 Reagan was alive & the president.  George Bush the elder was veep.  Wrigley Field saw it’s first night game.  Greg Oden, Carly Patterson, Brooke Hogan, Kevin Durant, Vanessa Hudgens, & Haley Joel Osment were born.   ’Pistol’ Pete Maravich, Andy Gibb, Louis L’Amour, Sammy Davis Jr., Divine, Enzo Ferrari(yes, that Ferrari), & the great Roy Orbison died.  The St. Louis football Cardinals still existed Jan 1, but they didn’t by the end of the year.  The Rams were still in L.A.  We didn’t know Mike Tyson was crazy.  Michael Jackson still looked black.  The NHL still had Wales & Campbell conferences.  George Michael, Rick Astley, & Tiffany all had hits.  And we wondered ‘Who Framed Roger Rabbit?’. 

20 years.  I had people that I was excited to see everyday that I haven’t seen in those 20 years.  Others I saw at the 10 year reunion but not since.  The best friend, the old flame, the gang, others that passed in & out for varying amounts of time & with different levels of impact.  All drifted away into the past.  Like smoke that thins until you can no longer see it, but you can still smell it in the room.  Vanished from consciousness but not memory.  Having left indelible imprints on who I was.  Who I am.  Who I will be. 

20 years.  Where has the time gone?  Where has that world gone?  Where have those people gone?  Where have I gone?

20 years…

As the old saying goes ‘Momma didn’t raise no dummy.’  I can tell when fate is tapping on my shoulder.  It’s the right time to find some answers.  To look back in order to see better what’s ahead.  No great grandiose voyage of self-discovery.  No burning issues from my past that must be resolved in order for me to become well-adjusted & content with life.  God’s taken care of my life better than even I ever dreamed.  No.  I’m good with where I am & who I am.  It’s only that I see that on the road of my travels through this world, there are some things behind me that are worth turning around to visit again.   If for no other reason than I just want to.  But I believe there’s always lessons to be learned from what life takes you through.  Nothing is by accident.  Nothing is without reason.  You just have to find what the reason is.  And sometimes the search alone is it. 

And so I’ll start searching.  Turn on the floodlights.  Release the hounds.  Call in the helicopters.  There’s something waiting to be found here.  And if there isn’t, helicopters are always cool.  But I’m reunion bound.  I’ll let you know how the trip goes & what familiar sights I see along the way.  Share whatever life changing epiphanies beset me.  Who really knows what I’ll find.  But I’m going.  The reunion is one month away.  I’ll be there.  And this time, I’m keeping my pants up.