The Omega Project

The lecture I attended on urban gardening made me wonder--should I have a garden this year?

I grew up out in the country in central Alabama.  We had a garden through most of my teen years, so I have some experience.  I remember helping (I liked to run the rototiller), but I didn't pay very much attention to the actual "care and growing of the plants" part of the operation.  Sure, I assisted with the weeding and watering, and even a little picking now and then (probably under duress), but I don't remember much else about the experience.  After all, I was a teenager, and I'm fairly certain that most of my mental energy went to girls, motorcycles, hunting, and sports.  Holding a water hose didn't require much concentration.

So the question is, after all these years:  "can I garden?"

"But forester-poet," you say (well, only one person calls me that, but I kind of like it)--"you are a forester, a 'tree man'.  You've made your living working with plants."

Yes, that's true.  But you should know that tomato plants are not pine trees.  Trees are pretty sturdy living things, and if you can get them through the first year or two, it's hard to goof things up.  In fact, I'll let you in on a little secret:  God grows the trees--foresters collect the fees.

I'm going to do it.  I've decided to call this garden "The Omega Project."

Jesus once used the metaphor "I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end."  I'm sure my garden will be the end of something--a dependence on the grocery store for fresh vegetables; an interest in gardening;  perhaps even a civil relationship with the Redhead.

Mr. Urban Gardener's plots in downtown Montgomery look like this:

My little plot started like this:

Please note all the dead grass on my lawn.

We were at a store a few weeks ago.  The Redhead said:  "We need to fertilize the lawn this year.  We'll use this" (she pointed to a bag of 'Weed and Feed').

"I don't think that's such a good idea," I said.  "That kind kills the weeds.  We just want to fertilize"

"I know," she said.  "That's what I want.  Then the good grass will fill in."

"Alrighty then," I say.  I know the lawn is mostly weeds.

Now you understand the comment about civil relationship.

Most of my Saturday produced this:

The Omega Project is all systems go.  It has herbs, peppers, tomatoes, squash, corn, sweet potatoes, and onions.

Stay tuned...

Urban Farming

I spent some time last Saturday at the Alabama Book Festival in Montgomery.

I went mainly to see Rheta Grimsley Johnson.  Rheta is a former columnist with the Atlanta Journal Constitution, a long-time syndicated columnist, and the author of several books including her latest about Hank Williams, "Hank Hung the Moon."  I like everything Rheta writes, even though we often have quite different views on politics.  She is always gracious enough to spend a few minutes talking to me whenever I've been fortunate enough to see her at an event.

Rheta knows me because of this awful photo which horrified me but tickled her.  (I sent it to her with an apology.  What was I saying?  Neither of us remember).  She signs the books I buy, "To the man who really told me off," or something similar.

Rheta doesn't get the respect she deserves as a Southern writer.  Go buy all her books.  Now.  I mean it.

After listening to Rheta's talk, I found myself with time to kill and no writer in particular that I wanted to see. My friends Neal and Jennifer were there with their kids, so I decided to hang out with them and tag along to see the writers and exhibits that they were interested in.  Neal and Jennifer are both Master Gardeners, so we strolled over to one of the venues to listen to an expert on "urban farming."

I didn't know anything about urban farming.  I figured it might be something like urban cowboying, which wasn't especially interesting, but it did have Debra Winger in it and that made it worth sitting through back in the day.  I figured I might get lucky again.

Edwin Marty is an urban farmer and the author of "Breaking Concrete," a book about converting deserted  cityscape into sustainable gardens.  Marty has traveled all over the world, teaching city-dwellers to practice small-scale sustainable agriculture in places like Mongolia, Mexico, Chile, and Australia.  He is the president of the non-profit group "Alabama Sustainable Agriculture" which operates city "farms" in downtown Birmingham and Montgomery.

Marty had 30 minutes to present a subject that could have easily taken two hours, so I had to listen fast.  But the more I listened to him, the more interested I became in his message.  I'll paraphrase some of the high points, along with my thoughts:

"Food security is a problem for most of the urban areas in the U.S."

Yep.  Especially in light of increasing transportation costs.  If transportation is ever disrupted, we're going to have a major problem on our hands.

"Most food is transported an average of 1500 miles to U.S. consumers."

I'll buy that.  It's a shame that the small family farm has all but disappeared.

"Less than one percent of the agricultural products from Alabama end up on Alabama tables."

I think that's a stretch, young fellow.  I will agree that a lot of what we produce goes elsewhere.  We grow more grain crops here than vegetables--corn, peanuts, soybeans--crops used as animal feedstock.

"The urban gardening techniques I advocate can teach ordinary people to grow their own food and become more self-sufficient."

Yes.  Now you're talking.  Preach on, teacher-man.

"The garden in Montgomery is very popular with local restaurateurs who are enthusiastic about getting fresh, locally-grown vegetables.  Our produce sells out as fast as we can pick it."

At-a-boy.  Yes.  You mean people could actually grow vegetables and make a living?  Outstanding.

"We need a law in Alabama, like the one in North Carolina, that mandates that local restaurants and schools must buy 10% of their vegetables locally."

EEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRPPPPT.

For those of you who don't recognize that, it's the sound of the needle being dragged across a vinyl record album.  If you are too young to know what that is, ask your granny.  OMG, BFF.  She'll, like, get all nostalgic and stuff.  She may even LOL.

If buyers are enthusiastic about your product and you are already selling out as fast as you produce it, why in the world would you want the government mandating that someone buy it?

Who do you think has done more to hurt small farmers than anyone else?  Our government, my young friend.  They have regulated, subsidized, pasteurized, homogenized, and otherwized the small farmer right out of business.  Regulation always eliminates small business in favor of big business.  Always.

The Alabama county I live in (Lee) had almost 70 dairies in the 1960's.  Today it has none.  Why?  Because the small dairies were regulated to the point that they could no longer compete with the big boys.  Big companies can hire folks just to keep up with rules and regulations.  Small farmers are too busy milking, feeding, and caring for the cows.  They can't compete.

All of this nonsense has been perpetrated under the guise of "consumer safety and protection."  Now I don't know about you, but I'd feel much safer buying my milk from someone I know who lives right down the road than from a large corporate farm in another state.

Politics aside (and I could rant much longer), the idea of "small intensive gardening" was inspiring, and it started me thinking.

I wonder if I could have a little garden like that?  Hmmmm...

Time to Write

"You want to be a writer?  Don't know how or when?  Find a quiet place.  Use a humble pen."  Paul Simon

Inspiration comes in many forms.  For me, a simple "When you gonna write something?" can be enough.

I took a break from writing here.  There are many reasons, some rational and some not.  One that I've struggled with is that writing on a blog is somehow illegitimate--if it's not "published" writing (as in in a newspaper column, magazine, or book) then it's not worthy and not worth the effort.

I've decided to reject that notion.  I reject it because a few of you have been kind enough to read these rambling essays, this "blog about nothing in particular."  And you've been especially kind to let me know you've liked some of it.

There are over 300,000 books published in the U.S. each year.  The odds that one will be mine are low.

But the truth about writers, at least as I see it, is that writers have to write.  It is a lonely and solitary pursuit that requires nothing more than parking your backside in a chair for a substantial amount of time, trying to say something you want to say and trying to get it right.  And believe me, the latter is more important  to me.  But you can't have one without the other, and that's where the water gets deep.

So I'll keep trying, writing short stories and themed essays and magazine articles, even an occasional poem or country music song that will never show up here.  But there are enough words left over that can show up here, and I hope you and I will enjoy the result.

If so, let me know now and then.  If not, that OK too, because a writer has to write.

 

Mockingbird

I have a large cedar tree about 40 feet from my back door.  A male mockingbird has taken up residence there this Spring.  I know this because he sings--all night long.  The singing doesn't bother me.  I'm a light sleeper anyway, and I'm not likely to hear the same song twice, which keeps it interesting.

This fellow knows more songs than Casey Kasem.

The bird books all say that he is trying to attract a mate.  That's probably a good strategy for any male of the species--do all your sweet talking upfront, mix it up, then shut up.

It's a skill I have never mastered.  The shut up part.  I call myself plain-spoken.  Others that know me have other terms to describe this "quality."

Case in point:  just this weekend, the Redhead said "the birds are making some weird noises this year.  You notice?"

"No, they're not," I said.  "There making the same noises they always do.  You are just noticing their singing more than you have in the past."

Words plainly spoken are not a quality admired by the female of the species.

Here are some other cases, fellows.  Never, under any circumstances, answer or comment to any of these utterances from the female of the species:

• Does this dress make me look fat?
• Are you getting hungry?
• Maybe I should join a gym.
• Let's go shopping.
• What a beautiful day.  Want to do some yard work?
• If I die, would you remarry?

 I hope it takes my feathered friend a while to find Miss Right.

A fellow needs some entertainment for all those long nights when he's sleeping on the couch.

A little "r" republican in the Heart of Dixie

I feel compelled to offer an explanation.

Note that I said "explanation," and not "apology."  We've got nothing to apologize for, and quite frankly, we wouldn't apologize if we did. "We" being the rural folk of the great State of Alabama.  I won't speak for Mississippi, although I suspect their reasons were about the same as ours.

The issue?  We didn't vote for "the Party man" in yesterday's Republican primary.  Mr. Romney came in third in Alabama.  The election result map is revealing:  Romney won only the metro areas surrounding Birmingham, Montgomery, and Mobile.

We country folks don't much like him.  He is a "country club Republican."  We have NEVER been country club Republicans.  In fact, we haven't been Republicans all that long, less than 20 years in most cases, and even now most of us who vote that way do so only because the Democratic Party abandoned us.

We didn't vote Romney because he doesn't have a clue about the average person in Alabama.

Romney made the mistake of calling a well-known syndicated sport's talk show just before the primary.  I guess he wanted to "connect" with the Crackers and Hillbillies he would need to win Alabama.  It was a miscalculation on his strategist's part.  Good idea--poor execution.

It became apparent, very quickly I might add, that this man knows nothing about college football, which is not going to win the hearts and minds of Alabamians.  I doubt he knows the National Championship has lived in Alabama for the last three years, or who the coaches are at our two big-time schools.

The host of the show tried to help him out of his jam by changing the subject to the NFL.  He asked Romney about the recent free-agency of Peyton Manning.

"I'm friends with several NFL team owners, but I really don't care where Manning goes as long as he doesn't play in the same division against my Patriots.  I hope he doesn't land in our neck of the woods."

My, my.  I believe we got us a rich-boy country club Republican here, mama--and a damn Yankee to boot.

Those of you outside the South who are desperate to beat the current president shouldn't worry too much.  We made our statement yesterday.  We will fall in line in November and vote for whoever y'all nominate--not because we want to, but because we'd like to get back to some of the luxuries we used to enjoy down here before Obama/Biden and their hope and change--little things like jobs, groceries, gas--stuff like that.

But we won't like it.

Fergit, hell.

.

Move!

Beginning in 2014, all new cars will be required by federal law to have a back-up camera.  This latest attempt by the United State's government to legislate care of her citizens from cradle to the grave was initiated not by the current regime, but by--wait for it--George W., back in 2007.

It seems that about three hundred kids are now squashed each year (mostly by their parents) by cars in reverse.

I am perplexed by this.  Three hundred kids--and apparently thousands more injured under similar circumstances.  What does mean in evolutionary terms?

I don't remember the need to be so protected when I was a kid.  I had no helmet when I rode my bicycle (which explains some things, I know).  I had no pads for my homemade skateboard, which was made by cutting the wheels off a roller skate and nailing them to a two by four pine board.  We had no seat belts, but we did have a big metal dashboard that worked quite well in a quick stop.

Back-up camera?  Not needed.  My daddy simply said "Move, son."  If I didn't, I quickly learned why.

I did have a dog that could have benefited from a back-up camera.  Old Snoopy was as good a dog as any kid could hope for, but he wasn't so attentive to "Move!"

My mom was backing out of the carport one day.  "Watch out for the dog," I said.  "Move!" I said.

Neither one paid me any attention.

"Stop!" I said.

And mom did.  Right on top of my dog.

"Back-up.  Go forward.  Do something,"  I said.  "You're on the dog."

My poor, panic-stricken mom pulled forward.  Old Snoopy yelped some, but he was not seriously injured.

Funny thing, though.  He never had any problem knowing what "Move" meant from that day forward.

Surely children have that potential.  Don't they?

The Grifter

Gray is the color of north Birmingham in late Winter--black and gray.

The landscape is gray: gray streets, gray trees devoid of leaves, gray buildings that once produced commerce but now sit empty and idle. A few little gray houses that once were homes for workers but are now occupied by old folks with few possessions other than memories of the good old days. It has a forlorn look of hopelessness. I imagine I can hear the clang and clatter of a product that once defined a city: iron and steel. The Pittsburgh of the South is no more. I am in the shadows of Sloss, now a rusting relic that once fueled the magic in the "Magic City."

The faces are black, except of course mine and one other traveler on this cloudy February day.

I am passing through at lunch time. I have options: fast-food fried chicken or fish. These two fine dining choices have a common parking lot. I choose the chicken because I have always had a weakness for fried bird. This bird is the famous "New Orleans style," which means it has been breaded in hot spices. Otherwise, it's nothing special. It sure ain't my grandmother's chicken, but it will suffice.

The restaurant is mostly empty. As I take my first bite I am approached by an old Black man. He is thin and angular, dressed in jeans and an old army field jacket. He is wearing a baseball cap and new tennis shoes (that's "sneakers" for those of you who don't speak Alabamian). He walks right up without hesitation and sits down at the table next to me.

"How you?"

"I'm good, sir. How 'bout yourself?"

"Well, I'd be doing pretty good if I was like you."

"Like me? How's that?"

"Eating."

"You need some money to get something to eat?"

"Yeah, I could use a little something."

I reach in my pocket and hand him a bill. He takes it and rises, heading for the door.

"You sure you going to get something to eat with that? Or are you getting up some drinking money?"

"Naw, I'm gonna eat. I can't eat this chicken. I'm gonna go over there and get me some of that fish."

I watch him slowly amble across the lot to the fish place next door. He disappears inside. I eat my #2 special--maybe I've done a fellow man a little good on this gray day.

As I leave, I see my man accosting another traveler in front of the fish place. He only scores pocket change this time. He doesn't look my way as he heads back toward the chicken joint.

It's a gray Valentines day in north Birmingham. Try to stay warm and have one on me, my friend.