Line 'O the day - October 21, 2008

Every subsequent moment of my existence is both figuratively and literally unprecedented.

Line 'O the day - October 14, 2008

The notion of doing good in the world is ever present, yet conflict arises. My mind desires to have effect on a macro level; my hands take pride in the micro work.

Line 'O the day - October 12, 2008

I did stuff today that I’m relatively pleased with. Sadly, little value will be taken from those endeavors tomorrow.

Line 'O the day - September 25, 2008

(Internal dialog)
Me: Nothing prophetic today?
Me in response: Plenty, but nothing worth a dime to anyone else.

Line 'O the day - September 16, 2008

Faith is a cop-out. If the only way you can accept an assertion is by faith, then you are conceding that it can’t be taken on its own merits. --- Dan Barker

Line 'O the day - September 13, 2008

The failed dreams of others weigh on my mind from time to time. And hope for my own dreams is my only shield against their crushing weight.


Present day note:
I meet bitter and broken people all the time. I kinda fucking hate 'em. I'm lazy, but some cats just allow themselves to be defeated. It's sad, and I don't want no part of those folks.

Line 'O the day - September 11, 2008

On occasion I feel as if I’m toiling like some serf outside Moscow circa 1768. Then I wonder if I’m just being morose or longing for the good old days.

Line 'O the day - August 28, 2008

The present is what matters. An hour from now ain’t happened yet, and three minutes ago is just information.


Present day note:
Living in the moment has, on occasion, bit me in the ass. The future is out there I know, but I hate setting traps for it.

Line 'O the day - August 22, 2008

When deprived of sleep I can skew in two polar directions, Genius or Zombie. The results of either orientation rarely amount to much.

Line 'O the day - August 9, 2008

The world is gonna end someday. But that don’t mean shit to me right now. (Rather unoriginal)

I'm a hollow motherfucker.

It sounds bad, but it ain't. Like a hollow tree is probably a dead tree, which isn't good for this analogy. A trumpet is hollow too though. And when the world spits and blubbers in one end ideally I can take that shit and make it sound like music when it comes out the other.

Line 'O the day - August 2, 2008

I understand the allure, but I just don’t see the pay off.

Being a historian

I'm filling up a notebook with shit I want to imagine I need, but probably don't. The quick run down is that I have an idea for a fantasy comedy series. Think Lord of the Rings, but shenanigans, dick jokes and fowl language take precedent over whatever the hell Joseph Campbell was always yammering about. The great monomyth is my backdrop, it is my bar in Boston, my community college study group, my deluxe apartment in the sky. And with the idea I have I think I can mine some decent comedy out of the situations.

Now I'm doing two things at the same time with this idea before I actually sit down to write my first episode. First and more importantly I'm figuring out who my characters are. There are five main characters and a few pop ins. Now I do this with all my characters, create their back story and play with how those experiences have shaped them as individuals leading up to whatever fucking events are about to transpire in their lives, which is what I actually want to write about. This ain't a novel or a feature script and the serialized nature of the thing in my head means I perhaps might leave a little more malleability to the characters than I normally do, so they have room to wiggle if I want to do something with them later that might not fit in with a rigid character outline. Still though it's a lot of shit to build up that I really want to rush through so I can sit down and actually write their misadventure. You can't rush through it though cause in practice what I write suffers if I don't lay the ground work. This is filling up a fair bit of a notebook, but that part isn't my problem.

The second thing I'm doing at the same time is where I might have gone of the rails, but I'm reluctant to pull the brake because it might end up somewhere worthwhile. See all of those fantasy worlds have a rich and expansive history. So while I'm building my characters I'm also chronicling the tales of the 'realm'. I've come to find out that this history is fucking elaborate. There's a page in my notebook with the heading 'mini time line' which has seven, like one sentence, points under it. It's a quick outline of the Ages of the world. Just for reference sake, from the beginning of history in this fantasy world to the present day that my characters inhabit is roughly about 14,000 years. I thought well I'll start from the beginning... Fuck me.

I needed gods and their mythology. One of them is not a nice god so the others get pissy at him. The gods leave the world to its inhabitants and the real sort of history begins. I spent a mere three pages on the gods, which is perhaps too long. Once real events start happening to real people though I decided to just make it like a cliff notes version of history. Which still means I'm making up FOURTEEN THOUSAND YEARS of stuff, all of which is important to the world, but perhaps not so much to my hero and his sidekick's mundane (though ideally funny) conversation about how elves are kinda assholes. I'm through about 5,000 years, but I made some big fucking leaps, like a thousand years here and there. Which is easy cause the elves ran the show for quite a while and they're basically immortal, yes obviously the elves are immortal you can't question that, so there were big chunks of time where peace enveloped the land. Once I get into the human histories I'm seriously going to have to narrow down what is and is not important.

The point being I'm aiming for a no winking vibe, like the world around my story is just as real and filled with conflict and weight as Tolkien's compendium, and my silly characters live there, but the shit they do is funny and odd, but no one really recognizes it as such. Conversely these weird bastards are also very important to the world as their my Frodo or Rand al'Thor (No I haven't read The Wheel of Time, I just do my research). Do I need to know the histories of elves, men and dwarves (of course there are dwarves I've already got elves) to have the aforementioned mundane conversation? Part of me says no, and another says yes. And in my writing I've learned that when in doubt take the long road. No matter how much you may dislike the scenery it will deliver you to your destination in far better shape than if you take the quick and easy route.

So basically I'll just continue to scrawl out tales of this other world because... what else am I gonna do. Essentially I just wanted to vent a tad bit and hadn't posted a blog in a couple weeks.

Line 'O the day - July 23, 2008

If ‘home is where the heart is’ it’s amazing how long I can live without my heart.


Present day note:
That's a couple weeks before my birthday. Little bit of longing going on for the old homestead.

Line 'O the day - July 20, 2008

Well I don’t want to oversell it, I was slightly frustrated.

The nastiest smell I've ever encountered

On the farm there is a never ending array of foul scents that can and will assault your nose. A cow lot kinda smells, a hog lot is worse. Noxious weeds find their way into hay and can catch you by surprise with their odor. The same goes with snakes and other small animals, who weren't quick enough to get out of the way of the hay baler. When you come by a few hours later or the next day and pick up the bale it smells like dead. That's a common phrase where I come from, 'smells like dead'. No further description needed, it never really matters what's kicked it, it all smells the same. The smell of death plays a factor in this story, but scale and time augmented the odor me and my brother came across. First...

Molasses is used as a supplement for cattle and you can present it and a host of other minerals and supplements to the animals in a variety of ways. Hard little blocks they lick, lapping up small amounts of the stuff with each pass. A slightly less dry version of the little blocks which comes in what amounts to like a ten or twenty gallon little tub. Or you can opt for a liquid form that comes in a big plastic tank. The liquid tanks are pretty inventive, as they have a lick wheel. The cow licks the wheel, it turns and the sticky molasses clings to the wheel and the wheel remains covered in the stuff. That is until the tank runs empty and you have to refill it. The idea of refilling the tank is where my older brother and I come in here.

An old busted lick tank.  You can't verify this, but it's sitting in about the same spot where this little story takes place.

A guy in a truck comes by and just fills it up, but our tank had sat empty for a long time and filled up with twenty or thirty gallons of rain over a period of... I don't know how long. Well our old man tasked Jake and I with dumping the water so he could get it refilled. From a technical standpoint this is a simple task, and we set about it without knowing what we were in for. We got over to the barn lot the tank was in and popped off the top. It's like a big lid. Immediately we were staggered by the smell. There had been a little bit of the molasses mixture still in the tank when it began to fill with rain. This sweet easy to get at source of sustenance was a fly magnet. Alas flies are stupid and while they found their way into the tank easy enough a great host failed to exit. It's hard to say, but I honestly think it might have been into the tens of thousands range on how many flies made up that foul soup that rippled in the bottom of the tank.

We stepped back to compose ourselves. Jake's plan, which was a good one, was simple enough, get under one side and dump it over away from us. Side by side we grabbed the lip of the tank and hefted it up off the ground, the brown rather thick liquid pooling at the far end. It was heavier than we thought and our leverage on the tank wasn't as good as it could have been. We dropped our edge and in a rush the water rolled back to our side of the tank splashing up into our faces. I gagged, turned made it a few steps and let loose whatever was in my stomach. I was a bit preoccupied, but I think Jake managed not to throw up. The smell was... well it's hard to describe; stagnate water, pounds of dead flies, mixed with what was left of the sweet smelling molasses, all fermented nicely in the tank for weeks if not months.

It was heavier than we initially thought, but we could dump it over, we knew that much. Jake got a little angry at me cause it took me a few minutes to settle myself enough to walk up to the tank alongside him. We had stirred it all up and now the smell was constantly emanating from the mess inside. I gave up about halfway through our second attempt, which really pissed Jake off. After another few minutes of pacing around I finally walked up to the tank and we upturned the damn thing. I can still see that shit spilling out onto the ground, uhhgg.

Promptly we got back over to the house and I jumped in the shower. It's been probably damn near twenty years and there has yet to be anything I've encountered that rivals that unholy stench.

Line 'O the day - July 9, 2008

The balance between being accommodating and being assertive is nearly impossible to maintain.
Or
Nice guys finish last because it’s a sacrifice they’re willing to make for the sake of others.


Present day note:
My best friend half hates me because of this aspect of my personality.

Line 'O the day - July 4, 2008

I don’t believe in God, because I don’t give a shit if anyone believes in me. And if, as they say, I am made in God’s likeness then my thoughts are akin to his, and he probably don’t give a rat’s ass if I believe in him or not.


Present day note:
Contradictions and half truths abound in this Line. At first I say I don't believe in God, but then sorta allow God the ability to not give a shit. Also I say I don't give a shit if others believe in me. That's kind of true. I'd prefer people like me, and wouldn't mind if a few folk on this Earth cared about me, but if they'd rather not buy stock in Zeb that's not a big issue.

Line 'O the day - June 21, 2008

I regret an ungodly number of instances and aspects of my existence, but when I look at the whole I don’t think I could feel better about it.


Present day note:
Hindsight may be 20/20, but it is also informative as a motherfucker. If you really take the time to learn from the past.

The high cost of child labor

I've already talked about being designed to work on the farm. A farmer has kids and while they get to be kids often enough they put them to work. And as one of those kids you're willing to drive a tractor, stack hay or feed the cattle whenever you have to. You might bitch about it sometimes, but adults gripe about working just as much if not more. The inherent problem of being the farmer and putting your young'n to work is that they aren't exactly what you'd call a skilled laborer yet.

Me and my brothers cost the farming operation thousands of dollars over the years. At fifteen or a little older your ability to really think ahead and see potential problems (or just your surroundings) isn't fully developed. My brothers might claim they didn't rack up that big of a damage bill, but they're liars if they do. I myself can remember a number of instances where I tore the shit out of equipment, or didn't pay attention to what I was doing and wasted a days work doing something that would mean I'd have to redo it all the next day, or worse the old man would have to fix what I screwed up.

A small example, I was going to clean out the radiator on the tractor. This is a simple task, you just take a little air jet valve on the end of a compressed air hose and blow the dust and debris out of the radiator. The pump for the air tank was in this little shed and so I pulled up to the shed and was going to stick the front of the tractor just inside the door. I pulled a little too far in and the tractor's exhaust pipe caught the top of the door and broke right off. It's a simple mistake that a normal person would make, but a teenager is a bit more prone to such accidents. And it cost dad a couple hours trying to weld the exhaust back on.

A more costly example which I think cost nearly a couple thousand dollars to fix involved me, a hay mower, and a manhole cover. I was mowing hay in a small field that was sort of in town. So there was a sewer line that ran under the property. Now I knew the manhole cover was there, I was shown where it was. I just misjudged how far away it was from me and the tractor. I figured I'd hit it on the next round, but I caught the end of the mower on the heavy metal disk and it wasn't pretty. This is a sophisticated piece of machinery that costs tens of thousands of dollars and I quite nearly broke it in half.

In both of these and every other instance where I cost time and money, dad never got mad. I mean I was always aware of his dissatisfaction with having to deal with whatever the hell I broke, but besides a heavy sigh and an undirected 'what the hell, boy' he never gave me too hard a time about these things when they happened (after the fact he'd talk a lot of shit though). And while mom and dad's bottom line was aided by having three able bodied sons to put to work, their profit margin was constantly being undercut by our youthful inadequacies. And I suppose if those unexpected costs of child labor were too much they'd have gone about their business another way.

Line 'O the day - June 19, 2008

I like it, but it wouldn’t nearly be my favorite; it’s in the court, but it sure as fuck ain’t the king.

Hound Dogs: A photo essay

This is my second photo essay (I'm not certain how many of these I'll do, but my family has plenty pictures of the hounds) and dogs comprise a number of my childhood memories so here we go.

WARNING: Some of these photos have raccoon hides prominently displayed. These dogs are made for hunting what do you expect. Plus children with guns, we learned responsibility early on in our life.

This is me and my first dog Curly Tail. She isn't a coon hound, but I'll get into that at a later date.

Seems like most folk have read or heard of Where the Red Fern Grows. In a way my brothers and I grew up in that world, Jake and Abe gravitated to hunting a bit more than myself, I'm just not as outdoorsy as them I guess. We grew up with puppies and dogs and learned how to train them and work them and take care of them. Puppies and dogs are fun for little kids, but we learned quickly that the dogs we kept were there for a reason.

Here is a generic hound dog as it would appear outside my Grandparents house. There were usually at least four or five at any one time. Dad never really had coon hounds, we always had a lot of dogs at our place, but like Curly Tail those dogs will wait for another photo essay.

.

This is me and Freckles, who looks like a Plot hound pup, sitting on grandma and grandpa's back porch.

There are a lot of different types of coonhounds we had over the years, Plots were probably the breed we had the least amount of. Mainly it was blueticks or black and tans (which were really leopard curs, but that's hard to explain, and irrelevant). And the only real hunting the dogs were used for was coon hunting.

Abe and a batch of pups, though I'm not certain which litter this is. They are of the line of Bob though.

Bob was one of our grandpa's best dogs and grandpa bred him a couple times. Bob was called Bob because he had a naturally nub tail. And I think my older brother has had pups that are three generations beyond him and the bob tail still shows up in a couple pups. And they're still really good dogs.

Here's another litter of pups with my brothers. Note the little guy in the foreground with the short tail, These are Bob's grand-kids.

I'll be generous and say Jake is fourteen (he looks younger) with the .22 here. And that looks like a possum the hound is sniffing at. Possums are vile little creatures, we did the forest a favor removing it from the ecosystem.

We hunted and killed things, that how it works, and if you don't like it tough. Granted the possum above didn't serve as anything other than target practice, which could have been accomplished in other ways. Did I mention possums are nasty little bags of mean though.

These walls are after two separate hunting seasons. Abe in front of the one and Jake and Dewey in front of the other. Dewey was our grandpa's close friend and hunting partner. Those are some blueticks they've got there.

The hides on the wall aren't trophies, they're money. Coon season takes place in the winter, after the momma coons have cut loose their young ones. They typically move at night so you hunt at night, it ain't an easy time trudging around the woods following your dogs on cold winter nights. It's done for a reason. Grandpa was a farmer. Not a lot of money comes in on a farm in late winter and so you find other ways to earn some cash. A typical coon season they'd wind up with a hundred hides or a few more. And when you'd sell them they'd average twelve bucks or so. That's over a thousand dollars that Grandpa and his pal Dewey relied on year after year.

Here is Jake and a few of his dogs taken over a decade after the previous picture. That black one on the right is Ace, he's got a long tail, but he's still got a lot of Bob in him.

My older brother still hunts and works his hounds. He hunts year round, but only shoots the coons out during the season. He enjoys training the dogs and seeing a hound progress. The money from the pelts is nice as well. I could claim it's a heritage thing and that he's keeping this old way of life going in these modern times and all that bullshit, but it's better to just say the truth. Hearing a dog you've trained catch coon's scent and bellow as he tracks it through the timber is rewarding and walking up on it as it barks up a tree is one of the purest forms of teamwork between you and the dog.

For me personally it's cold in the Missouri woods in January, which is why I never cared for it all that much.  But I'll defend the reasoning.  If you've never hunted you probably just don't get it, but trust me it's rewarding.

Line 'O the day - June 15, 2008

I’m reminded of something I myself said an age ago. But what is important now, what I said or the memory of it?

Abe can't let go. One of the funniest things ever.

For most folk this would be a horrific story about the time their little brother damn near broke his back. That is not how it played out in front of my twelve year old eyes. Every escalation that occurs in this story only made it funnier to me. For the briefest moment I was kinda scared for Abe's life, but only briefly. First a picture, taken a few minutes after the story. I show it first so that you can get a feel for the players involved, save Grandma, who took the photograph.

So we're all pulling stoic faces here like we're in a god damned tintype. The big fella in the cowboy hat is Dennis, my old man's friend. Then his son David, who is not dressed for hauling hay. Then Jake, me and Abe in descending order. And the old man, note his and Abe's faces.  Abe is frazzled, and I get a hint of relief in Dad's expression.

Look at the photo again, see the hay wagon and the layers of bales that rise out of frame. The top of that stack is where our story starts.

So we loaded the wagon, this was later in the afternoon and I think it was the last load of the day. Now to get to where we unloaded the hay we had to drive between these two sheds which had a low hanging electric cable strung between them. We had taken the tractor and wagon through here a number of times and it required someone on the stack to lift the power line up and over and guide it back until the wagon was passed (it didn't have juice running through it or the rubber on the tires kept us from grounding, I don't know). I had previously done this without fail, and on this last time also handled the task. This time though Abe had ridden in from the field with me on top of the stack. And as we approached the wire everything seemed fine.

The tractor was inching along as the wire reached the stack and I reach down and pulled it up above the first row. Now then the tricky part here (I say this for Abe's sake) is to step over the wire as it skids along the top row of bales. I do this easily, as I've already done it before, Abe on the other hand latches onto the thick cable. Again the tractor is moving very slowly so he's got time, with about ten or twelve feet to go before he gets swept off the back of the stack, but he won't let go of the wire. I'm yelling at him, from the ground Dad is yelling at him to just let go, but he couldn't. He did attempt to step over once or twice, but the movement of the wagon and the wire and everything must have been too much for Abe. Look at the picture again, look how old he was; he's a little kid and for whatever reason he got scared in that moment. I can't fault him for freezing up and just hanging on.

But hanging on meant he was about to get yanked off the back of that wagon. Perhaps I froze too, as I didn't reach him before we completely passed under the wire and he slid off. What happened in the next thirty seconds comprise one of the most vivid memories in my little pea brain. He slid off, but he didn't come free of the wire instantly, he bobbed twice. He was about right in the middle of the span and it had some spring to it. He sank then sprang up and sank again. When the cable tried to pull him up a third time he lost his grip and fell. We'll say it was ten, at best twelve feet to the ground, but again he is tiny. That's a helluva fall for a seven year old.

We're in an old barn lot and the ground is pretty much just dirt, there are rocks here and there, but luckily where he lands is just solid earth. Abe fell for what seemed like minutes to me as I watched from the hay stack. And he landed flat on his back, sorta spread eagle in the dirt. This is bad, right? It was all kinda funny to me up until he hit the dirt. It was odd that he wouldn't let go of the wire, he looked funny getting drug along the top of the stack, and then it was funnier watching him flail as he bobbed up and down in the air. When he hit the ground though it was hard, and it looked bad, and for an instant I was scared shitless he was really hurt. Then he moved.

He raised his head, which is one of the funniest things I've ever seen. He's flat out spread eagle and completely motionless and then his head tilted up, just his neck his shoulders still firmly on the ground, and seemingly expels every ounce of air in his little lungs in one long exhalation. In that moment he was a Loony Tunes character, he was the coyote falling off the cliff. Just the look on his face and that forced exaggerated breath puts a smile on my face every time I think of it (I'm a dick of a brother I know this). All he needed to complete the scene would have been for his feeble little hand to raise one of those wooden signs with OUCH! painted on it.

But he didn't raise a sign, he just lay there in the dirt, motionless. Dad stood him up, which Abe managed rather well, and proceeded to check him over. Abe could stand, he was fully aware of everything, and besides his eyes being the size of saucers seemed to be in working order. Something wasn't right though as a long moment stretched with the old man kneeling in front of his littlest. Abe seemed incapable of drawing a breath. His little feet began to shuffle in place as he tried to gasp for air, but his lungs wouldn't work. Simply put he couldn't breathe. As a parent in this situation you want your kid to start breathing again, so Dad shook him a little and gives him a couple good swats to the back. Sorta knock the wind back into him.

Now this is where Grandma comes into it. I'll be honest I was climbing down off the hay stack when she reached the situation, but as I came around the side of the wagon she had slid in front of Abe and was coaxing him to restart his lungs by grabbing him by the shoulders and yelling 'BREATHE' into his face.  It's her youngest grandchild she was rather concerned, but it was funny to see.

Finally he sucked in a huge gulp of air and began to breathe regularly after a second. The fact that he couldn't breathe does seem alarming in hindsight, but the scene was funny. The adults yelling at him, his failed attempts to do something so basic, and the whole while he looked in perfect working order. I was twelve, he didn't look in pain so I figured he was fine, obviously there are innumerable things that could have been wrong, but I didn't know those things at the time. In the end he was fine, and as soon as we got home we relayed the story to Mom, my version considerably lighter than Abe's and Dad's.

Line 'O the day - June 4, 2008 #2

Can’t decide if my thoughts on Regina Spektor are day dreams or pipe dreams; what’s it matter either way.

Line 'O the day - June 4, 2008 #1

I’m a little sad, but it’s a welcome feeling. It’d be hard for you to understand.

Line 'O the day - May 30, 2008

It all might be false hope and pipe dreams, but ain’t nothing else going so what the hell.

Line 'O the day - May 28, 2008

The sun may shine and the stars may twinkle, but you’ll never notice unless you keep your head up.

Line 'O the day - May 15, 2008

I’m not a fan of the current trend, and here’s why. By the time it’s current it’s far too old to be interesting.


Present day note:
I am most definitely not some cutting edge hipster. I sorta like to cherry pick what I like from the past. That includes my vocabulary, since most people think I talk line I'm from the fifties.

Line 'O the day - May 8, 2008

When lighting a fire under your own ass, be mindful of the frog.

Present day note:
I dig this one, but even I'm not sure if I'm being pessimistic in it. I'm not gonna explain it, that takes the fun out of it, but in my head it is equally motivational and downcast.

Guest Post: A hired hand's musings

As I mentioned before I was designed to be a hired hand, but my parents were inclined to sometimes hire additional help beyond me and my brothers.  And in keeping with the summer hay work run I've had on the last couple farm stories I've got a guest post from an old high school buddy of mine who was recruited one summer to work with me out in the fields.  Nathan gives you a damn good overall sense of how our little lifestyle plays out.

It’s been fourteen years since the summer I worked with Zeb putting up hay. Hands down it was the greatest summer of my teenage years. Filled with the freedom of driving, beer, and puppy love. Although the things that stick out most are ones that happened while working with Zeb. When I look back at it I remember almost dying on a tractor, jumping off a cliff that seemed to be fifty ft. high but was probably closer to thirty, a juggling hobo, the sale barn, and hay, lots of hay.

My day started at 10 a.m. getting to the house to find Zeb fresh in from mowing. We would rake and bale in the mornings go in for some grub and Kool-Aid. Then the real work started. One of us would drive the tractor while the other stacked, we would switch from load to load. While one of us was driving, the other one would stand in the trailer while a big green machine would pick the bale off the ground and put it at about eye level on the trailer (hard to explain what the pop-up loader is with out seeing it, might do a post on hay equipment at some point). This was nice on the upper tiers but when it’s over 100 degrees out and the loose hay sticks to you like glue, pulling them down was a chore. Zeb has told you about the beloved lofts so I’ll spare you with those horror stories. One day while heading back to the barn with a full load on I noticed a train coming so I hit the brakes and nothing happened. While holding back the urge to shit myself I went through the crossing, the train missing the back of the trailer by a few seconds. I’d like to tell you something like I never felt so alive, but the truth is I was just happy as hell I wasn’t dead.

While we worked our asses off most the time, on occasion we would go to the quarry to cool off. This place is like something you might see on a post card…beautiful. Sheer cliffs on one side and crazy scenery on the other. Once we hit the water Zeb started telling us stories of his brother’s friends jumping off the cliffs. Being that I’m scared to death of heights I nodded and smiled hoping it wouldn’t come up that we should do it ourselves. Didn’t work. Zeb was the first to go, went like it was nothing so of course I had to go. That first time it took what seemed like hours to work up the courage to jump. Once I did though it was on! There’s nothing like the rush of falling, smashing into the water and swimming up and up and bursting out of the water gasping for air. This was something that we did a few more times that summer, bringing in some other friends to make the jump.

I’m not sure if he’ll remember this, or remember telling me I was full of shit, but it’s true. One morning while driving to work I crossed a bridge and happened to look over and by the water there was a man juggling. He was sitting on the bank of the creek in a heavy purple coat juggling. This was only about a mile from Zeb’s house so I ran in to tell him. He informed me that I was crazy! We got on the tractors and headed out, passing the bridge where I had seen the guy juggling. In the 10 min that passed he had packed up and left. I assure you there were no early morning drugs involved, the guy was there! (I don't remember this, though there very well could have been a transient moving through the countryside.)

Although my main job was putting up hay, on some Monday’s we would work at the sale barn. For me this involved standing by a gate and giving Zeb hand signs for numbers, so he could put the livestock in the appropriate place. For anyone who has been on a farm you know the smell can be fairly rank. In a sale barn multiply that by 100! Minus the smell this was a pretty cake job. I only seen one guy get trampled by a cow, an hour later he was back at work.

Before this summer I had hauled hay only a few times usually as the driver. This was the first time, and the last that I would call putting up hay a job. Looking back I don’t recall the work being horrible. It was dirty and hot, but enjoyable. I could be off on my calculations and if so please correct this. but that summer we put up around 20,000 bales of hay. 300 a day for three months. How can putting up that much hay be enjoyable? It’s all in who you work with.

His calculations are about right, a 300 a day average is close.  Some days it might rain or we just might not put up any, others we could haul in nearly a thousand from the field.

I don't have much else to add to his recollections. I do want to say thank you to Nathan Lea for taking the time to comb through his memory and write it all down.  I will agree that working in the hay is dirty and hot, but more often than not fun and enjoyable.

Seeking Patronage

I need a good old fashion patron.  Some aristocratic fellow, or madame don't matter to me, to set me up so I can just write for a couple years.  This grind of day job, eat dinner and hit the library for a few hours of writing a night takes it's toll after a couple years.  Now I was pretty lax in my dedication to my craft for those first few years, but I'm committed now and in it for the long haul.
Now some of you might say they have grants for that, and you'd be right. My issue there is that it takes all the fun out of the arrangement.  It'd feel like I'm writing for the state; politics don't give a shit for my prose.  Where's the aristocracy, my filthy and filthy rich old spinster, or elusive convict; I don't have a preference. The state blindly gives out grants, but who's there to appreciate it after I scribbled something hackish out.  No see, it just ain't the same.
I'll write make no mistake about that. Can't guarantee the form; novel, screenplay, pulpy Lothario tale, though most likely either of the first two.  And it'll be cheap. I can get by on say twenty five grand a year, maybe a little less. And I'll figure it out so it comes up as a charitable donation, win win.  And for that money you don't just get the feeling of assisting a creative mind, no I'd be at your service.  To an extent.  Got a dinner party I'll work the crowd, talk your ass up.  Someone might ask 'And how do you know the host?', 'Oh, she's my benefactor.' That line alone puts you into a whole new category of awe inspiring sophistication.
My skills are yours as well.  A close friend just passed and you're up for the eulogy, we'll sit down and create a loving, poignant and layered send off for the dearly departed.  Big board meeting, together we'll captivate and control all who sit around that big mahogany table.  Don't try to bring me in on a midnight round of sexting with your mistress, that's below both of us.  Feel free to tell me about it afterward though, I might could use it, and you will find yourself immortalized on the page.  This is not just your name on a plaque at the gallery this is a relationship. Me and you, you and me creating not just art, but life (did I just go too far there? No, I don't think so).
I will continue on, and this offer will not be the only thing I type out today.  Because with or without a patron I will write, that's what I do.

Line 'O the day - April 26, 2008

All I’m in the mood for right now is a little nonsense, but reality just won’t leave me be.

Anyone can stack hay. Not as good as me though.

So I've slipped on the farm stories here, but I've got one today and then a guest post next weekend.

Candid shot of me around 17 or 18, with a freshly stacked truck.

Me and that old white Ford moved a lot of bales together.

My last post was in regard to hay and since we're in the middle of summer, barring any rain, every day is a day for hay right now for my old man back on the farm. And the title of this post might be clouded by years of not actually stacking hay, but in my prime, as it were, I fully would have stood by that statement. At twelve and thirteen I was the little guy on the crew, so I couldn't toss the bales up onto the wagon or truck all day. With that physical deficiency I was stuck on the wagon stacking what was tossed up to me. Now whatever I stacked had to travel, sometimes only a few hundred yards others it would have to go miles. It had to withstand rough ass ground out in a field or coming up a steep slope from a bottom pasture. The stack also had to withstand speed out on the road.

Different techniques could be employed to strengthen the stack. Simple things like crisscrossing the layers or stair stepping the tiers as you go up, and then obviously tying down the stack. It all sounds simple, and well it is, still though the ability to stack hay while balancing on top of a moving wagon while it bucks and shimmies across the less than even ground of a hay field is no easy feat. And simply put I was damn good at it. I lost a stack here and there, but when your bale count gets up into six figures you're bound to have a few problems. Plus I can still blame some of that on poor driving and not my stacks.

As I grew I had to step off the wagon and actually throw bales, but I also continued to stack quite a bit. But when you start on the job training at thirteen by the time you're twenty you're an old pro. And all I'm saying is that for a few years back in the day I'd a been starting stacker on a hay hauling all star team, if there was such a thing.

Line 'O the day - April 21, 2008

There’s a lingering feeling I’m on the verge of something great; anxiety abounds though, as it might just be spectacular failure.


Present day note:
I have no clue what this is in regard to.

Line 'O the day - April 13, 2008

Events beyond my control have somehow transpired to place the reins in my hands. I’m just worried destiny doesn’t like the bit.


Side note; Happy birthday little brother.

Line 'O the day - April 2, 2008

Hopefully on some far off date someone will ask, “And what is it you do Mr. Eckles?”
And my reply is, “Me, I’m a good friend.”

Line 'O the day - March 31, 2008

If it’s crazy, it’s crazy, I don’t know. I do know it ain’t worth feigning sanity and passing this up.

Line 'O the day - March 26, 2008

Hope is on the horizon. I haven’t felt it yet, but I’m sure it’s up ahead.

A hayloft is hot

Hay was a big part of my life when I was growing up, as I've mentioned before. And for anyone that may not fully understand the reason for hay it is very simple. Grass doesn't grow very well in the winter, but cows still need to eat, and that's where hay comes in. It's stored grass, and there are different ways to store it. Massive rows of big round bales, which I've touched on before; suppose silage would be another way, but I'm not getting into explaining silage right now; then you have hay barns. These could be large open air pole barns, long machine shed looking buildings, and then of course your old classic looking barn with a hayloft.

A hayloft is a great use of space and convenience, for feeding out the hay. Not so much when it comes to putting the hay in during the summer. You need specialized equipment, not counting the baler, tractors and wagons to get the goods from the field to the barn. Specifically an elevator to get everything from ground level up into the loft. You need at least two people, one putting on the hay at the bottom of the elevator, and one stacking it in the loft, usually you'll have at least two ol'boys in the barn.

Now then all of that is preamble to a specific story. The first time I damn near had a heat stroke. I was twelve, maybe thirteen and we had a full out crew working. My older brother was out on the ground throwing bales on the elevator, and then dad, my uncle Glen (this is I think his first mention, he gets his own whole post in the coming weeks) and myself up in the loft. We had been at it all afternoon and had been packing this particular barn for a few days. It was just about full and we were stuffing every last corner we could right up to the rafters. With me being small, light and all I was perched way up in the loft with dad and Glen tossing bales up from the elevator to me to stack.

This is in the middle of summer and it is hot, we'll say like 90 or 95 degrees outside. Out in the field, or just anywhere outside working in that heat is easy, but being in the loft changes things. First and foremost I'm way up next to the roof, a metal conduit for heat to just build up. It's a damn oven, doubly so because I'm surrounded by hay bales, acting like an insulation trapping in every bit of heat it can. Add to all that the dust and confinement, and oh yea the fact that I'm thirteen and working my ass off trying to keep up with these two grown men.

So I start to feel a little peaked as we're working and I sorta gave up and sat down. And I remember my uncle's face when he looked up at me a few rows above his head. He grabbed my legs and pulled me down off the stack and just said 'let's get you outside'. Apparently I had the complexion of a ghost. I shut the whole job site down as dad and Glen got me down to the ground and shoved the water jug in my hands. About a minute after I was on the ground I started puking, odd that is what folks do when you get overheated. Fairly quickly after that my day was called and I was taken back to the house.

We had just gotten central air conditioning and it felt pretty good when I got in the house, but quickly that change manifested in another bout of vomiting. So I just went back out on the front porch to cool down. I remember there was a discussion about giving me one of the old man's beers, as it supposedly would help in some way. After a while I started feeling better and the episode passed.

Simply put a hayloft is hot as hell.

Line 'O the day - March 16, 2008

Often times my mind works in ways I’d rather it didn’t. These occasions offer me a chance to challenge myself.

Line 'O the day - February 27, 2008

The rules of life change far too often, and with such swiftness that it is nigh impossible to abide by them. So, from here on out playing by the rules is only a distant memory.


Present day note:
There are no rules, at least none that matter. Morality, virtue, love... there are no rules to these endeavors. And if you think there are, you're a fool. I have my fixed star and you have yours, and we navigate by them as best we can.

Redneck boys photo essay 1: Courtesy of Grandma

I requested a picture of me or my brothers on a tractor for the bit a few weeks ago. I get a stack of photos in the mail well after that posted, but I'm one to use the tools in front of me and so the idea for a short photo essay comes to me as I perused the snapshots of my younger days.

This is obviously all three of us with two important things for a country boy to have. A Grandpa and a horse, said grandpa keeps just for you. A note about this moment is that one-year-old Abe does not seem too pleased about being in the saddle with me.

To keep this short I'm going to narrow the focus of the selection to photos relevant to posts I've already put up. Two categories with a picture a piece for the three of us.

I've mentioned they start us learning to work on the farm early. Here is Jake at about two, getting the feel for the old Ford.

Here's me, sporting both the bib-overalls and boots. The levers and heavy machinery there are for a drill, when I was learning how to drill a water well. About four-years-old here.

Another bit of machinery that you ought to know how to run is a planter. Here is Grandpa getting Abe ready to go plant some corn.

We do work a great deal, and begin learning at a young age on how to be of use around the farm, but there is also plenty of leisure activities for young ones on the farm.

We fished quite a bit when we were little. It was one of Gramp's past times for us. This is Jake with what I assume is his first fish.

When you're a boy on the farm and not fishing you might take a goat out for a stroll around the yard. You want to know the most country thing in this pic? It's not the rural setting, the horse in the background, nor the goat on a damn leash. It's the Funk's Seed big G hat on my head, trust me.

And even when you have time off as a redneck boy, the adults tend to keep working. And like Abe here, all you can do is hang-out and watch from afar.

But above all the one thing a country boy needs, as anyone who read Where the Red Fern Grows knows is a hound dog pup.

Grandma sometimes, has issue framing her shots just right. And as a man with a degree in film making it's hard to use such a shot.  But us with our hound pups is about spot on for our childhood, plus Abe's rocking the bibs.

If you notice in the shot with Jake and the fish above, there are dogs in the background. I think my next photo essay will be the unveiling of a whole new level of country, and the role dogs played in my hillbilly upbringing.

Line 'O the day - February 23, 2008

I’m not a wealthy man and I’m no genius, so if I stop trying to hold onto the moral high ground I’m just another dick like everyone else.

Line 'O the day - February 19, 2008

That proposal seems to involve tater tots. So count me out on that shit, before we get too far along to turn back. (Utter.  Fucking.  Nonsense.)


Present day note:
It is nonsense, and I love it. I also actually like tater tots, so I don't know why I'd be against them in whatever fictional scenario was running through my head.

Not some high and mighty garden maze

Everyone, I think, has seen big round hay bales. They tend to range in size from abut five feet to six feet around. Most folk see them along the road as they drive through the countryside. They're an easy way to feed a bunch of cattle for a stretch of time, provided you have a tractor with a hay spike to move them. That's an obvious thing, hay to feed cattle, but to a bunch of redneck kids around the world big round bales are so much more.

One round bale out in the middle of a field ain't much good to a child, but a row of them is a country wonderland. In most cases you line them up in rows in the corner of a pasture or lot. More bales equals more fun. The most obvious thing to do is simply to climb up onto them, not an easy task sometimes for a four or five year old. And then once you've achieved the summit the new challenge is to maneuverer this treacherous landscape. Bales stacked end to end are easy enough to run across, but there are the occasional gaps which have to be vaulted over. The stack is never uniform which means there are always fissures scattered here and there. A mean trick is to assist your younger and much smaller brother up onto the stack and them drop him into one of these five feet deep holes. But you must be careful because all these bales are round and can allow for small crawl spaces along the ground that might lead them to freedom.

This brings up a bit of group fun. When you have these bales in large numbers, dozens and dozens of them all stacked together they create a hell of a hide and seek arena. Nooks and crannies abound. Or a rousing game of tag could be played out on top of the bales; they provide a well defined field of play, and the gaps allow for a cat and mouse aspect that you don't get on say a gym floor. A bonus here is that short of falling completely to the ground below you're not likely to get hurt. The bales are like big round soft pads.

Every summer these hillbilly play lands are built for us country rug-rats and then slowly whittled away as the hay gets fed throughout the winter. But while they last they are a simple pleasure all little ones should get to experience.

Line 'O the day - February 10, 2008

I’m at the end of my rope. And it sort of feels good to know that all that’s left to do is let go and see if I land on my feet. (Surely I’m not original with that one.)

My own private laugh

This is sort of an addendum to the post a few weeks ago regarding my affinity for cussing and using distinctive voice when I write.

See I, like I assume most folks do, have a few different laughs. Like a big boisterous laugh, a sort of giggle, and others. I also have a personal laugh, literally a subdued little laugh I do when I think something and that thought is funny enough to physically laugh. And I'm pretty sure I've never done the laugh in front of other folks.

So what does this have to do with voice? It's situational, the laugh only comes out when I'm alone (or at least out of earshot). Now, in my personal speech I pretty much have one way of talking. For instance, I let loose with the profanity in front of my Grandma the same as I will with friends. But I know the average person has situational awareness in their manner of speaking. And applying that to writing may not show through so much to the audience, but can assist in the writing process a great deal.

Every character should have their own distinctive voice, and assuming I've managed that task in a script or book I start to think about the situational awareness of the characters. This usually comes in when I'm into a 3^rd or later draft, fine tuning as it were. My lead doesn't use the same manner of speaking or set of words when he is talking to the love interest as he does when he's trying to defend himself against his oppressive boss. And understanding that difference changes the dynamic of the characters, both amongst themselves and to the audience.

Like I said I almost never change up the way I speak regardless of the situation. But I was thinking about my coveted personal laugh a couple days ago, and then it's correlation to trying to build in those little touches to give a bit of dialogue something special. And those slight changes in voice for a character may go unnoticed, but can give them and the whole script life.

Line 'O the day - January 19, 2008

It’s a good thing I don’t care. If I did I might be worried.

Line 'O the day - January 15, 2008

‘If I had the option’ isn’t one of my choices, is it?

Line 'O the day - January 6, 2008

Either I’ve forgotten where I’ve been or just plain didn’t pay attention along the way. Regardless I don’t have any bearings for the way forward.

Riding the Fender; safety is relative

Most tractors have one seat, which you might think would impede two, three or four people from riding on one at the same time. It doesn't. Safety on a farm, in most regards, is a relative term. Is riding the fender of a tractor safe? Most folk would say no, most definitely not, in fact it is rather dangerous. In my experience riding the hub is not particularly dangerous. I'm not saying it's as safe as being strapped into the back of a Motor Trend top safety pick sedan, but I never got ran over by a tractor, nor did my brothers, or anyone else I know. Well I did actually know of a couple old boys who got ran over by a tractor, but the circumstances were different from what I'm talking about here.

So when you're a little one on the farm and the old man is headed out to grind feed or put a bale of hay out for the cows or do something else that you can tag along for you ride on the tractor with him. My dad had this old IH Farmall tractor for the bulk of my youth...

As you can see it's got nice big flat topped fenders. Ideally designed for someone to sit comfortably, though a tad precariously. This is another one of those instances that everyone has, in which you do something and never realize what someone outside your community might find odd or dangerous or whatnot. You always realize there is a bit of danger to it, even as a little kid. Mom and Grandma, or whatever motherly entity might be around at the time, tells you to hang on tight before you even leave the house to chase after Dad. Once you're situated up on the tractor the old man reminds you to hold on. And you do, until you get the hang of it of course.

Very quickly you find you're able to balance pretty well as you're cruising down the road. Then you start exploring your bounds, well at least as much as you can perched atop an eighteen inch wide piece of sheet metal. You don't hang on at all, you're reckless and you ain't gonna fall. Below you there's this massive tire speeding around and around, it's thick tread a blur, and you hang your foot out in front of it. Tentatively you ease your foot toward it and as it makes contact your foot is sent jittering away from the tire. For an eight year old that's fairly exhilarating. Then you reach out with your hand; that hurts, not bad, but it isn't pleasant.

The other main tractor around the farm was grandpa's old Ford.

Accommodating passengers wasn't quite as easy with old blue. Basically you just stood right next to whoever was driving and tried not to accidentally bump into one of the many levers. Unlike the IH, Ford seemed to design their tractor to discourage passengers. Which forces you to consider another option.

On the Ford and also with the International, once there were 3 potential passengers, me and my brothers, you could catch a ride by standing on the drawbar (the little metal tongue on the back that you attach stuff to the tractor by, for those who might not be automatically familiar with the term 'drawbar'). This position was rather dangerous no matter how you saw it. You're standing on a four or five inch wide piece of slick metal, while clinging to any handhold you can manage. Granted you're behind the tractor so if you fall off you won't get run over, unless of course you're pulling a wagon or some other sort of heavy equipment. Odds are you are pulling something, sorta what the damn tractor is for. Even here though you temp fate. You'll lean down and drag one foot along the ground with the tractor going at top speed.

A sort of point I'm wanting to make here is that there are few occupations that might thrust your child into a somewhat dangerous situation, simply because that's the way it is. Riding around on the tractor was a fun thing for me to do as a kid, it'd be a fun thing for any kid. And that opportunity for me to tempt fate by dragging my foot across a tractor tire going 20 mph, wouldn't exist if the old man was a bank manager. Now I suppose there could be fun things for an 8 year old to do if they tagged along with their bank manager parent to work, I don't know what those things are though. My dad's office was a barn yard, to put it in the simplest terms, and a barn yard is a fun and somewhat dangerous place for a child. I reckon mom and dad could have denied me and my brothers the fun of riding around on the tractor, but going back to an idea I hit on in an earlier one of these stories you learn on the fly. You watch dad drive the tractor for a few years, perched on the fender, then one day he wants you to get behind the wheel. And guess what you're a natural at it.

Line 'O the day - October 29, 2007

My hands make me feel like less of a man.


Present day note:
Without saying much about it, this line is probably one of the most personal and emotionally challenging ones in the whole fucking endeavor.

Doubt

Doubt makes life worth living. Plain and simple, doubt entices us out of bed every morning and tucks us in every night.

I write. I count myself a writer and I try to peck at the keys at some point during every day. Am I any good? Without doubt I might rest on my laurels, of which there are none. I doubt myself and my ability every fucking day. Sometimes I doubt a sentence as soon as I tack on a period or exclamation mark. This isn't negative thinking, but more a drive to be better. I'm hesitant to believe that what I thrust onto the page is any good, and that doubt pushes me to try and make it better.

Faith without doubt is a sad endeavor. Such absolution leaves no mystery in life, no true longing for that in which you've placed your faith. Doubt in my lover's devotion does not frighten me, it makes me strive harder to earn and enjoy her caress.

I was once taught to doubt that the sun will rise in the morning. Life is infinitely better with that as my thought as I drift off to sleep. For when the morning comes and the sun greets me as I wake, doubt is defeated by the gift of a new day.  But then, will it be a good day?

And the fear and doubt of a white page only succumbs after it has been filled with a string of black little letters; coherent or otherwise.

Cake and ice cream

Cake and Ice cream is a normal thing I believe. Friends or family get together to celebrate something and you have cake and ice cream, and you call that gathering 'cake and ice cream'. If no one has heard of this please feel free to tell me I'm delusional. I already no I am, but not in this category. Anyway, I mentioned previously my country family gets together perhaps a little more often than other families I've encountered, and 'cake and ice cream' is what we call these little parties.

First let me lay out quickly the scope of the family I'm talking about. Ernie and Mildred (they even have old timey sounding names, right?) are my grandparents, and they had two children; my dad and his sister. Now they both got married and dad had three sons and his sister had three daughters. Just there you'd have twelve in on the festivities. But my cousins (my Aunt's three daughters, if you're a little slow) were all older than me and my brothers and had husbands, boyfriends and some children when I was still a kid myself. So I'd say from about the time I could really remember there were at least two cousin-in-laws (is that what you call them?) and a couple of what I call my little cousins, which are technically second cousins, but hell they're pretty much sisters, so none of these labels really matter. But the number was always higher than that base figure of twelve. Family friends might show up, Grandma's brother, and all sort of other folk. I'd say the normal cake and ice cream would have sixteen to twenty people in attendance.

These weren't just random gatherings, oh no, we were getting together to celebrate special events. And with upwards of twenty people there were plenty of milestones to draw from. Cake and ice cream is a monthly thing, there's at least a couple birthdays or anniversaries in every month and those need to be marked. It rotated from one house to another, Grandma and Grandpa's, our house, my aunt and uncle's, even my cousins' on occasion. There was usually some gift exchange, but that was a far less important factor to the party. It was just getting together, eating and bullshitting with each other.

Calling it 'cake and ice cream' perhaps I should make a note of those two things. So between Grandma, Mom and my Aunt we had three stellar purveyors of sweets. Being honest, none of them were ever too concerned about the look of their confections, but made damn sure they tasted good. My grandma's chocolate sheet cake is one of my favorite things in the world, it ain't fancy, but you can't beat it, you just can't. Occasionally there'd be homemade ice cream, most often my Aunt's creations. Have you had honest to god homemade ice cream? Don't reckon I have to say much more than that.

I've explained this to people before, what cake and ice cream is, and they can't seem to wrap their heads around the concept. Sure get together from time to time, but once a month no way. Then the task is trying to explain that there are much larger events. We have a big Christmas gathering, the same as most folk. That's the big winter celebration. Then in the spring there is the larger Eckles family reunion. It's a week long endeavor, every year (It might be worthy of its own post at some point in the future). There's usually a wedding to bring everyone together in the summer. And then something, like making molasses, in the fall. Yeah, my uncle makes molasses. From raw cane. And we turn it into a party. But these bigger events pull in a bigger crowd, which is awesome, but changes the dynamic.

Basically a way to see 'cake and ice cream' is to imagine it like a regular family eating around the dinning room table one night a week (that's a normal thing, right?). I always felt really close to my cousins growing up and then after I left the country life, as it were, I would meet people and their relationship with their siblings was akin to my relationship to my cousins. And that is what those comforting little get togethers provide, that intimate family connection that gets lost in the regular world. Which has slipped away from me in my wandering days away from our little country homes, in that tiny little corner of the world I come from.

Line 'O the day - September 26, 2007

As a man without a soul, I can still appreciate Buddy Guy.

We can be articulate and say F¿#K at the same time

Or at least I can.

The concept of storytelling for me, and I think a lot of people, is housed inside two elements. First the content, what the story is and how that story unfolds. The second, and equally important factor is the way in which the story is told. Whether you're an author, film director, or stand up comic you tell your stories in a distinctive voice (if you don't use a specific voice your work will suffer for it). Now then, in my not so celebrated career as a storyteller I've written in various styles and attempted to use the correct voice for whatever I was writing.

When writing a screenplay, novel or even a short story a writer is not just tasked with that one voice of the overall story, but the individual characters' voices as well. Your villain should not sound like your hero; the romantic lead's style of speaking should not mimic that of the girl he's pursuing nor his best friend who's in the script to garner a few laughs. This is difficult, and I have failed in adequately giving my characters distinctive voices on a number of occasions. With failure, and helpful readers pointing out your lack of this skill, you learn, and begin to take the idea of voice very seriously. Which leads to my initial point, I use 'foul' language with great frequency in my daily life. Therefore if I'm telling a story from my point of view I'm going to use a great deal of off color language.

I have written entire screenplays with nary a single curse word. I have written articles on this blog, here or here, in which the subject and style I was aiming for didn't call for me to use words like shit or fuck. But in other instances I am very purposefully using such words to project a distinctive voice or illicit a specific response. The Miss Piggy Line 'O the Day (I mention it again cause it's one of my favorites) uses 'fucking' to implant a more visceral idea into the readers mind than just saying 'having sex' would have drawn out. There it's a juxtaposition, the harsh use of 'fucking' laid next to a puppet who's main audience is children. I'm not just writing stuff down (OK sometimes I am), I think about it on that level, of what words I need to use to get the response I desire. Ideally I know my story inside and out as I'm writing it, and I know my characters well enough that it isn't a chore when I'm typing. The process of converting a character's motivations, back story and my own sensibilities should be smooth as I write out a line of dialog. Not effortless, but hopefully fast and skillful.

For something like my farm stories the desire is to give the words on the screen as close a connection to my own spoken voice as I can. The difficulty is that I have the time to think about it, write it out and edit after the fact. We do this to an extant in conversation, but in writing you're inclined to clean it up a little too much. If I'm writing out a story and feel like referring to someone in the tale as a cocksucker, I've diligently weighed the value of using that word. Reckon I could call them a fellatio enthusiast, but then that would alter the way the reader envisions the person or the situation. Right there is another example, using 'reckon' the way I did in the last sentence. Using 'reckon' as the first word in the sentence forces a dialect and a cultural background into the readers mind.

Personally I have never subscribed the old notion that a man who curses has a poor vocabulary. I am very conscious of the words I use and the response they illicit from others. I'm also aware of the societal parameters of language. Again, I can play inside a sandbox and use the tools that are available inside (say, all words save Carlin's list).  But for me, and therefore my personal farm stories having those other words at my disposal makes life and writing more fun. And that's all I'm here for is to have some fun at my keyboard.

Amy takes me for a ride

Amy and Jamie were two mules.

Here are the girls, in team mode.  Amy's on my left there and Jamie's on my right.  I'm about eleven, and my brother is guiding the team from the wagon.  The girls were fairly obnoxious when working together as well.  There are about a dozen things in this photo that proves my upbringing was a little different than the average child in late 20th century America.

Don't remember exactly when we acquired them, but for a couple years I rode Jamie and my older brother rode Amy.  Amy was a tad bit bigger than Jamie, but beyond that she was a fair sight less obedient.  And so being older and more capable of handling her obnoxious tendencies my brother rode her until the fun of riding wore out on him, about the time he was 15 or so.  At this point I had grown up a little and my younger brother was up for riding.  He took Jamie, since at the time he was 7 or 8 and she was far more docile (and quite frankly a lot less fun to ride).  And I moved up to the challenge of Amy.

Reckon I was 11, maybe 12 when this transition took place.  I was ready for Amy, and she was ready for me.  The incident, that is a favorite story in our family, took place the second time I rode her; or tried to.  The mules were kept at Grandma and Grandpa's house, which is right next door (at some point I'm gonna do a post on where my country family lives, we're all neighbors).  The first time I rode her I saddled her up with just Grandpa, and then I led her across the road to this pasture where I liked to ride.  That first time it was just a short little trip and then back across the road.  Amy performed very well that first time, and her and I got along great for years after, but the second time was a harrowing experience.

That second time my old man was over at the grandparents and think Jake (older brother) was as well.  And we got her saddled up and everything was fine.  Now to be honest I've always been a tad hazy on how it started out.  I think I led her across the road as I had done before and mounted the saddle.  But head strong as she was Amy wasn't inclined to take me out into the bottom pasture that day.  Instead she wanted to head back across the road to the shed where I'd pull her saddle off.  Well halfway across the road I was tugging on the reins trying to get her to turn around, and then she just snapped.  From here on I remember it vividly.

My grandparents' house is at the top of a steep hill, and Amy took out at a sprint down that hill.  The transition from stubborn mule to wild animal happened in a flash and I had no time to react.  I heard my dad yell at me to jump off as we were about halfway down the hill, but she was moving at speed and I was startled and half still wrestling with the reins.  Abandoning ship at that early stage wasn't an option.  At the bottom of the hill real fear set in.  There was a creek and a narrow bridge at the bottom of the hill and trusting Amy to smoothly cross said bridge was a dicey proposition.  It's about this time I released the reins, grabbed the saddle horn and held on for my life.  She blew over the bridge and kept on running.

From here it's a straight shot across a wide bottom, not quite a quarter mile across.  I was alternating screaming at Amy to stop and just screaming from the fear and adrenaline.  But she just kept running.  Unbeknownst to me Dad, Gramps and my brother had piled into a truck and were headed down the hill in pursuit.

A thing to note here is that a mule running is not the most graceful thing.  They don't move like a horse.  It's a choppy gate, and can provide a somewhat rough ride.  And that little journey Amy was carrying me on was about the roughest few minutes I've had.  Finally after we had been running across the flat for a stretch I gained some of my senses back and snatched up the reins.  On the other side of the bottom was another hill and I figured for sure I could get her stopped as we went up it, since she had to be about worn out by then.  But a secondary complication had arisen that caused concern.  The cinch on the saddle was coming loose, and the damn thing started to slip sideways off her.

Now I was wrestling to keep the saddle upright and holler'n at her to stop.  And if she wasn't tired yet I was about spent as we reached the hill and she determinedly trotted up the slope.  She did slow a bit as the incline increased, and veered toward the shoulder.  With the saddle slipping and a somewhat less dangerous speed I finally decided to bail.  There was a pretty deep ditch on the side of the road, but at that point jumping became my only thought.  My dismount was in no way, shape or form coordinated.  I just sort of slid off the side and flopped into the ditch, winding up in a heap.  Dad reached me about the time I was crawling out of the ditch.

And for that briefest of moments, before I was deemed no worse for wear, my dad and grandpa were utterly concerned with my intact health.  Once that moment past, and I was left with only a couple scratches and frayed nerves, the minor fiasco was a massive source of comedy.  And I'm the first to admit it is funny as hell; in that embarrassing, sort of frightful, yet ultimately harmless way.  Like I said earlier, it is a story that comes up often at family events.  There's always someone new to absorb our little family's country fried history, and we've all become decent story tellers.  That isn't exclusive to my family out in the sticks, it's a universal thing I reckon.  Every family has stories, and they share their tales amongst themselves the same as we do.

We might have a tendency to get together a little more than the average extended family.  Which I think will be my next redneck post.