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.