What will farms be like 50 years from now? How will the average farmer live? Will there even be farms?
Dr. James Bonner, professor of biology, California Institute of Technology answers yes to the last question.
He says people will still be eating food and plenty of it. They won't be taking their daily supply of energy directly as electrical current nor will they be satisfied with a pink pill.
But of course farming will change radically by the year 2000. The silo, farm house, and the old red barn will be replaced with sleek, modern, streamlined, air-conditioned structures filled with electronic equipment.
Growth regulators will control the rate and type of animal and vegetable produced. Chemistry will make possible producing three-pound broilers in eight weeks instead of 11 and 2,000 pounds of beef will be produced in the same length of time it now takes to make 500.
Frozen sperm irradiated in nuclear reactors will furnish mutation offsprings stronger and better for bigger market prices. Farmyard manure will still be used but will be supplemented with sewage sludge and waste products.
Weeding crops and worrying about diseases or insects will be a thing of the past, and even the weather will be controlled by satellites.
Computer and photo-electric sensing devices and programming on magnetic tapes will allow farmers to plow, sow, cultivate, and reap several fields of crops at the same time. By simply monitoring at the console of a television receiver, robots will do most of the labor.
All timber will be cut electrically to any shape desired by a form of electric charge -- thus cutting out the double processes of sawing and planing. Electricity will be furnished by collector plates that will soak up the sun's heat to provide energy for your own little electric power plant which will operate the many electrical appliances around the farm.
The farmer clothes will be very different 50 years from now. There will be no weaving or knitting. Fabrics will be poured in liquid form from giant pastry tubes or rolled into large sheets and cut in tremendous quantities. But you will be growing the very products from which these new materials are made.
From the central electronic center in your home or office, you will be able to see on your closed circuit TV all that goes on anywhere on the farm without leaving your easy chair. If you want to give orders, you will simply use your intercommunication system or your pocket telephone.
You won't be shipping your goods long distances any more. With the coming of automation there will be no need for people to congregate in big cities. Farmers will tend to "live in" rather than inhabit the countryside; farms will be near their markets in smaller cities of around 10,000 which will be self-sufficient and independent.
No longer will any farmer have to do without city luxuries. The typical farm house of the year 2000, powered from a small local atomic power plant, can have heating and cooling systems, germicidal lamps, water and sewage systems and many other things.
Charles H. Weaver, vice president in charge of atomic power activities for Westinghouse Electric Corporation, and Francis K. McCune, vice president for atomic business development of General Electric Company, both see the typical home 50 years from now with an automatic control center that will take the labor out of housework and provide a very easy and rich living for all.
With a magic wand the furniture can be dusted. Floors and furniture will be scuff-proof and indestructible. You will have wall-sized TV in color and 3-D.
Your electronic oven will prepare food in seconds. Dishes will be washed in a soapless, super-sonic wave cleaning chamber and automatically put away.
John L. Burns, president of the Radio Corporation of America, foresees the miracle home of tomorrow being run by a pushbutton household electronic center. This center will get you up with the chickens -- if you still want to -- close the windows, start the coffee going, cook the bacon and eggs, and what all else.
Frederick R. Kappel, president of American Telephone and Telegraph Company, predicts you may be able to make cheap phone calls anywhere in the world when satellites begin to take over relays.
Going to town to shop will be unnecessary. The wife will just dial a department store on her TV and a salesperson will hold up the various articles.
You can buy your farm equipment the same way too. After making your decision, just press your charge plate into a machine. An electronic eye then goes into action and the price will be telemetered to central billing at the store's main office located 100 miles away. Central billing will automatically mail you a bill at the end of the month.
Spray washing will be used to clean both people and laundry, eliminating expensive plumbing. A pint of water an hour is all that will be required for the average farm house, and this will evaporate into the air. Sewage will be disposed of chemically on the premises or turned into valuable fertilizer.
All your vehicles, including farm machinery, will be powered by atomic energy. The vehicles will require little maintenance and will need fuel only once a year -- if that often.
With almost totally automatic farms, there will be plenty of time for travel. Supersonic jets and rocket airlines will be popular and cheap to fly by this time, so you can spend the weekends in Europe.
See you down on the farm in 2000 A.D.
["Farming in the 21st Century" appeared in the August/September 1960 issue of The National Future Farmer. John L. Russell, Jr. also wrote The Shape of Things to Come, a book published by the Popular Mechanics Company in June 1960.]
When someone asks me where I live, chances are I'll say "Columbus, Ohio." That's not my postal address, of course, but it's easier for most folks to fix on their mental maps. So, in a sense, Columbus is my adopted hometown. And today, February 14th, marks the bicentennial of its founding. As a kid growing up in the northeastern part of the state, making the two-hour drive to Columbus qualified as a trip to "the big city." We'd come down for Ohio State's home football games and, several times a year, to shop at Lazarus. The city today bears only a passing resemblance, really, to the Columbus of my childhood. The changes owe to progress as well as decay, and I'm prone to getting sentimental about what's been lost to both. It's still a good place, though, the hub of a region that I call "home," and this is a birthday worth celebrating.
It's about damned time. We'll likely get little more than a dusting today, a far cry from the way last winter began here in central Ohio. Still, it'll amount to the most we've seen so far this season. Snow or no snow, though, this is a red-letter day in the KintlaLake household -- today marks one year since Scout came home with us. She is, in my opinion, the most perfect dog ever to walk this earth, a great addition to our family. This afternoon we'll take down our Christmas tree and other holiday decor, probably while keeping tabs on Ohio State and Florida in the Gator Bowl. Win or lose it'll be a bittersweet end to a tumultuous year for my Buckeyes and, thanks to NCAA sanctions, the last time we'll go bowling 'til after the 2013 season. Bring on the Urban Meyer era -- please. Tomorrow it's back to work for the missus and me. That simple assertion -- back to work -- brings me more satisfaction than I can put into words. The job continues to be rewarding, too, due in large part to my wife's commitment to making her shop the best in the biz. She's smart, confident and open to improving the way we do things. Hell, she even takes suggestions from a short-time shipper like me. The third of January also will feature something else I'm watching closely -- Iowa Republicans will meet in 1,800 precinct caucuses to register their preferences for the party's presidential nominee. I'm no fan of partisan circuses, but I don't envy anyone who must choose a favorite from this year's GOP field. Our nation desperately needs change, revolutionary change, and this is the best Republicans can offer? It's pathetic. As for what 2012 holds for KintlaLake Blog, that's not too hard to predict. Commentary on the presidential campaign? Sure. More posts about urban resources, simple tools and sharps? Naturally. In fact, my impressions of two new folding knives -- a Spyderco Para-Military2 and a Zero Tolerance 0350 -- should appear here in the coming weeks. Stay tuned, and Happy New Year!
The way I see it, American sports fans can be divided into two groups: those who think that Bob Knight is a jerk and those who hold him in high regard. Count me among the latter. Maybe I like Bob Knight for the same reason that I like Woody Hayes -- that is, I'm practiced at looking past irascible demeanor and forgiving childish outbursts. Or perhaps it's because Knight and I both were born in Massillon, albeit 17 years apart, and we grew up surrounded by the same Heartland culture. The story of his formative years is familiar to me, as mine would be to him. Less than nine miles of Ohio countryside separates the brick ranch-style house of his childhood and the brick cape where I spent my own. I know well the crackerbox high-school gym where he was a star -- years later I played there, too, once or twice each season. This morning's edition of The Columbus Dispatch features an article about the coaching icon's loyalty to his hometown of Orrville. Dispatch scribe Todd Jones writes of this rural company town as the source of Knight's unshakable pride and old-school values. It's a great piece, no doubt introducing many readers to another side of the man. Not me -- Bob Knight and I share the same Heartland roots.
Two, four, six, eight --
It's getting hard to concentrate.
September's end marks the close of the fiscal year at the shop where Mrs. KintlaLake and I work, so this weekend we're slogging through physical inventory -- 100% manual, no bar codes or high-tech help.
The annual ritual began when we arrived here yesterday morning around 7:30am for a regular workday. As soon as the clock struck 5pm we began counting -- 15,000 SKUs, give or take -- and we didn't leave until 1:15am, by which time our eyes were crossed and our brains were mush. We were back at it at 9am today, preparing to enter our data and transmit it to the corporate office, which has to wrangle nearly two dozen other branches' numbers as well.
My wife, who manages this shop, and our two co-workers have been doing data-entry now for over an hour. I've busied myself with sweeping the floors, cleaning the bathrooms, taking out the trash and tidying up my warehouse, my kingdom.
An independent auditor will pay us a call early this afternoon. A typically humorless creature will scowl at, pore over and, well, audit what we've done.
We won't get our lives back until he/she/it signs off on our counts.
The KintlaLake household has a rooting interest in both of our town's high schools -- we live in the shadow of one and our 16-year-old attends the other. They met on the football field last night, just the fourth time they'd played each other. All-day rain made for a slow track, sloppy but much better than artificial turf. The sounds of the bands, the crowd and the public-address system traveled through the heavy air to our house, as clear as if we'd been sitting in the bleachers. Our spawn's school, always the underdog, gave its cross-town rivals all they could handle (and then some) this time, falling by just three points. A touchdown in the final minute was the difference.
My new shipping-and-receiving job is going fine, thank you very much. On September 2nd I mentioned using the opportunity to justify buying a knife especially for the purpose. I ended up buying two.
The Tim Wegner-designed Blade-Tech Ratel Lite (retail $24, street $20, made in Taiwan) features a saber-ground, 1-15/16-inch leaf-shape blade of AUS 8 stainless steel. It's a lock-back, with textured scales of fiberglass-reinforced nylon and a reversible pocket clip. The second-gen Spyderco Chicago (retail $65, street $41, made in Taiwan) has G-10 scales, replacing a now-discontinued carbon-fiber version. Its flat-ground, 440C leaf-shape blade is two inches long, held open with a liner lock. The wire-style pocket clip is reversible to accommodate either left- or right-hand carry. Fit and finish are good on both knives. Perhaps the Blade-Tech is a touch stiffer, the Spyderco slightly smoother, feeding my perception that the latter is more refined (for lack of a better descriptor). After two weeks of hard use in the warehouse, both blades have held up well -- the AUS 8 and 440C are, I found, durable and easy to maintain. I should mention here that the pocket clip on my particular Ratel Lite started out extremely tight -- secure is one thing, but this was something else entirely and, from what I gather, pretty common. A short loop of paracord, threaded through the lanyard hole, was required to facilitate an easy draw from my pocket. Eventually I modified the bend of the clip by stuffing a thick stack of cardboard under it and leaving it that way overnight. That fixed the problem. Despite having been conceived as EDC or "suit" knives that sneak under annoyingly silly "two-inch-max" laws, both the Ratel Lite and the Chicago have performed admirably for me as box-cutters. I have no complaints, practically speaking, about either. That's not to say that I don't have a preference. Sure, it's possible to buy two Ratel Lites for the street price of one Chicago, which certainly makes the Blade-Tech the better value. But the Spyderco is the better knife, in my opinion, for several reasons. First, I find the liner-lock quicker and more natural to use. I also like the grip -- not just the feel of G-10 slabs, but the way that my fingers index to the handle and the choil formed when the knife is open. And finally, the flat grind and thinner blade make it a better and more versatile cutter -- 1/8 inch (Ratel Lite) versus 3/32 inch (Chicago) may seem like a nit, but the 25% difference shows up big in performance. I'll keep and will continue to use both of these knives. I lean toward the Spyderco, but your mileage (as they say) may vary.
Back to the Backwoods One steamy Saturday three years ago, my wife and I fled a raucous gameday scene for the relative calm of the Thornville Backwoods Fest.
We reprised that trip yesterday afternoon, minus the hot weather and tailgating. (This year the Buckeyes played late, away and badly, getting spanked 24-6 by Miami.)Our experience at the 2011 festival was virtually identical to what I described in 2008 -- wonderful. We returned home refreshed, toting a pound of wildflower honey from a nearby village, a quart of syrup drawn from maple trees next door to the festival grounds, and a big ol' bag of fresh cracklings (a.k.a. pork rinds) cooked in a iron kettle over an open fire. Local is best. Life is good.
While Mrs. KintlaLake was out of town on business early this week, I gathered two dozen ripe Roma tomatoes, cut them into quarter-inch slices, sprinkled them with Mrs. Dash Extra Spicy Blend and dried them in our new food dehydrator. The process, which took about 36 hours, yielded a marvelously sweet-and-savory result. For now I've stored them in a wire-bail jar. I'm sure they'll find their way into soups and pasta dishes -- if, that is, I can resist snacking on them as-is. This morning I picked a pocketful of yellow pear tomatoes, halved them and began drying them as well. I skipped the seasoning for this batch, and I'm anxious to see how they turn out. I also harvested our first five habanero peppers, along with 15 long green hot peppers. Both got my refrigerator-pickles treatment, the cold brine supplemented with peppercorns and garlic cloves. Considering the late start, damn, this has been a great season.
Our volunteer gourd vines started dying back a couple of weeks ago, and I finally got 'round to harvesting what they left behind. Thirty-two "winged" Cucurbita gourds now lay drying on a newspaper-covered table in our basement. They're of various shapes and sizes, the largest measuring over 17 inches long. Most are green, orange and gold, with a few white ones in the bunch.
Yesterday's noon kickoff had Mrs. KintlaLake and me arriving on the Ohio State campus around 9am. Once there we strolled north along Neil, crossed Lane and, in a parking lot next to a venerable OSU watering hole, resurrected one of our favorite gameday traditions. It had been three years since Danger Brothers left Lane Avenue when Hineygate, "the world's largest tailgate party," ended its 26-year run. The band played on, albeit at a tiny outdoor venue over a mile away, but pre-game hasn't been the same since. But there we were behind the Varsity Club yesterday morning, sipping ice-cold Budweiser at an hour more appropriate to cereal and milk, digging Danger Brothers' wonderfully adolescent shtick. We'd been there less than a minute, I'd guess, when another member of the Beer-for-Breakfast Club approached me, grinning. "You're here!" he shouted over the music, reaching to grab my hand. "My buds and me wondered if you'd be here -- I knew you would!" I have no idea who that guy was -- and yeah, the encounter was just a wee bit disturbing -- but the spirit of Hineygate, cultivated over a generation of football Saturdays, has returned to Lane Avenue. It was like a big ol' reunion, familiar faces in a new place. The missus and I hung around through Danger Brothers' first set so that we could extend a personal "welcome back" before heading over to The 'Shoe for another band and another reunion. The first game traditionally hosts the annual return of TBDBITL alumni. The sight and sound of nearly a thousand bandsmen -- 225 current members and more than 750 scarlet-shirted alums -- is unforgettable, stirring our souls in ways I won't even try to describe. As for the game, I'll cut to the chase: Ohio State 42, Akron 0. (Maybe there's a reason they're called "Zips.") The Bucks looked good, not great, and a win is a win. My wife and I didn't see the whole game, however. We didn't even make it through the first half. In 49 years of watching OSU play football in Ohio Stadium, I can't recall it ever being as brutally hot as it was yesterday -- upper 90s, heat index well above 110°F, stifling humidity and a smog alert. An official went down from the heat ten minutes into the game. After the first quarter, fans started bailing down the aisles like they often do when the Buckeyes are up by four touchdowns at the end of the third. We went below shortly before halftime. The concourse under the stands was jammed, the walls lined with people trying to cool off. Woozy patrons packed first-aid stations, with more standing in long lines awaiting medical help. Ambulances came and went like cabs at Grand Central -- hundreds of fans suffering from heat-related maladies, some reported to be serious, were transported to area hospitals. I'd never seen anything like it. We chugged water and cuddled cups of ice for a half-hour, but we knew that if we returned to our A-deck seats it wouldn't take long for the relative comfort to broil away. Ultimately we decided to call it a (game)day. I snapped this photo of Mrs. KintlaLake just before we walked out of the stadium. The sign means to convey that once we left, we wouldn't be permitted back in. The double entendre, certainly unintentional, suited the occasion. Overall it was a great day, despite the fact that we ended it utterly gassed. We still are, stumbling through the middle of our long weekend and trying to re-charge.
More than two dozen tomatoes, harvested from the garden yesterday morning, finish ripening on stone windowsills in our kitchen. Over in the fridge there's a tub of chunky salsa fresca, made with home-grown tomatoes and hot peppers, along with a bowl of cucumbers-and-onions salad marinating in red-wine vinegar. Out back, the garden is a rat's nest of ridiculously productive plants and unreachable (but harmless) weeds. Our cuke vines are withering at the base but still setting fruit, about half of it small and stunted. We'll have a modest crop of peas from a second planting. More long green peppers are on the way and, obviously, three tomato plants are giving us more than we can handle. As I hoped, we'll have a late-season bounty of habanero peppers. I don't recall ever being this gratified with a backyard garden. As autumn approaches and takes hold I'll clear some of the beds, prepare the soil and plant wintering crops. The cycle never ends. Recently I did a different kind of "planting" (so to speak) that'll bear fruit after the Labor Day weekend. Although I didn't mention it here, I took a temporary warehouse job a couple of weeks ago, filling in for four days at the shop my wife manages. To my surprise, I really enjoyed the work. Apparently I proved my worth to the rest of the crew, too, because the corporate office called Mrs. KintlaLake this week and offered me a full-time position. My first day is Tuesday. Such a tape-and-boxes proposition requires a proper knife, of course. I rummaged through the blades I own and didn't find what I was looking for, exactly, so (naturally) I had a good excuse to go shopping. After surfing KnifeWorks for a while, I picked up a Blade-Tech that fills the bill. The Ratel Lite is inexpensive, small, one-handed and equipped with a pocket clip -- perfect. I'll offer my impressions here once I've used it for a week or two. Between now and the moment I punch the clock on Tuesday, however, I'll reach down and pick up "the longest continuous thread in the fabric of my life" -- Ohio State football. It's been a rocky off-season, to say the least, an agonizing time for life-long fans of the Buckeyes. Just yesterday, three more players were suspended for the first game. Tomorrow, the bullshit will end and football will begin. Life in Buckeye Nation will get back to normal. Traditions cultivated over 122 years will resume. All will be well once again. Like a storm leaves the air clear and fresh, scandal may have stripped OSU football to its essence. We have a new coach, an interim coach, a young coach. Expectations for this 2011 team are modest. Critics are likely to be uncharacteristically forgiving. In other words, the pressure in Columbus is as low as it'll ever get. This is one football season that everyone should be able to enjoy. Mrs. KintlaLake and I will settle into our seats in The 'Shoe tomorrow at noon, intent on doing just that.
Okay, so you think that "Chevy Runs Deep" commercial is sappy or cliché and yeah, maybe the acting won't win any prizes. But if you can't help dismissing it, whatever the reason, you don't get it. You wouldn't give your right arm for just one more ride in your granddad's truck. You're an incurable consumer, buying shiny new stuff rather than maintaining or restoring perfectly useful old stuff. You'll probably never understand the satisfaction I get from paring an apple with my late father's pen knife, hauling brush in his old wheelbarrow or turning soil with the shovel he used in his own garden. You haven't the faintest idea what akeeperis, do you?
It's a damp, overcast morning here at KintlaLake Ranch. Seems like a good time to catalog some unexpected finds. In one of my Urban Resources posts I surveyed The Other Economy, that rich source of goods and services operating outside the conventional marketplace. My family and I have been "shopping the roadside" a lot lately, turning up bargain after useful bargain. I've regretted parting with my Black & Decker Benchtop Workmate since leaving it behind when I moved back to Ohio ten years ago. Introduced in the late 1970s, the Benchtop model eventually was discontinued, so if I wanted to replace it I'd have to explore the secondhand market. I discovered this one (above) earlier this summer at a garage sale halfway down a narrow alley in our village. Other than a few stains and a little rust, I found it in excellent condition, complete except for a pair of original-issue L-bolts that clamp it to a bench. The price: just $3.00. Two carriage bolts, two flat washers and two wingnuts, purchased at the local hardware store, put it on my workbench for a grand total of four bucks. Because a man can never have enough vises (or vices, for that matter), at another garage sale that same day I picked up this "hobby vise" (left) for two dollars. It clamps to the work-surface with a thumbscrew and will come in handy for a variety of small projects. Speaking of The Other Economy, our village held its annual flea market last weekend. It's not a big event, just a coupla dozen canopied tables piled with household castoffs. My wife and I came home with a three-foot chocolate rabbit (brown plastic, actually) that'll grace our front porch next Easter, and a 1960s-vintage glass-and-chrome teapot. Together, the two items cost us two bucks. I spent one more dollar, that on an old Boy Scout "contest medal." These awards were introduced in the late 1920s, as I understand it, but they'd been retired by the time I became a Scout myself. Wanting to get a better fix on this medal's age, yesterday I examined it with a magnifying glass. Other than the word CAMPING cast into the front, the pendant bears no markings. Stamped on the clasp at the top of the ribbon, however, is PAT. NO. 2,795,064. A bit of web-sleuthing unearthed a copy of the original patent for the clasp -- applied for in 1953, granted in 1957. So the clasp, at least, probably is as old as I am. A buck bought me a keeper and a pleasant exercise in discovery. I love beer -- and I mean good beer. Sure, I'm willing to throw back my earthly portion of mass-produced barley pop, but I prefer beer that has actual flavor. In a corner-store lager, for example, I enjoy an ice-cold Rolling Rock. If I had to choose a favorite, without a doubt it'd be Rogue BreweryDead Guy Ale. And as you might expect, I'm especially partial to small-batch local brews, like those from Columbus Brewing Company.
Recently I learned of Rockmill Brewery, located in nearby Lancaster, and its Belgian-style ales. As the story goes, Rockmill's founder discovered that the well on his family's farm produced water with the same mineral content as that found in Wallonia, Belgium, and that served as the inspiration for four unusual ales. Mrs. KintlaLake and I savored a bottle of Rockmill Dubbel over a plate of summer sausage, sharp cheese and apple slices (this isn't a beer one serves with nachos), and we came away truly amazed. It's strong (6% to 8% ABM), full-bodied and fruity, as well as pricey ($16 for a 22-ounce bottle) -- and worth every penny. Great beer, brewed barely a stone's throw from home -- that's as good as it gets. There's a bottle of high-octane Rockmill Tripel in my fridge, and I can't wait to pop the cork. Finally, of course, our vegetable garden offers up discoveries almost every day -- take this green-and-yellow beauty (below) that sprang from one of the "volunteer" vines I mentioned last week. At about 12 inches long, it's the largest gourd that's set (so far). Our unintentional crop continues to spread, so there will be more.
As every thinking person expected, our government's credit rating got dinged by Standard & Poor's. Moody's and Fitch, each of which has expressed formal pessimism about U.S. debt, now contemplate downgrades of their own. What happens next? No one knows, and anyone who claims to know is guessing. These are uncharted waters, nationally and globally. Any honest analysis admits as much. S&P, in explaining its rationale for the downgrade, judged the U.S.'s debt-to-GDP ratio to be unsustainable. It was the current political climate, however -- read, ineptitude and ideological inertia -- that caused the agency to pull the trigger. It would've been reasonable to hope (if not predict), then, that the feuding factions -- Republicans and Democrats in Congress, as well as the Obama administration -- would start acting like Americans for a change. No such luck. On the weekly talk shows yesterday, partisan finger-pointing ruled, with each side flaming the other. Republicans blamed Pres. Obama. (Natch.) Sen. John Kerry and others test-flew a new Democratic Party talking point, calling S&P's action the "Tea Party downgrade" -- which is idiotic, of course, but unfortunately it'll probably catch on.
Surrogates for the White House busied themselves pitching rocks at S&P, calling it "amateurish" (among other things). That prompted this reaction from Sen. John McCain on Meet the Press:
"On the S&P thing, don’t shoot the messenger. Is there anybody that believes that S&P is wrong in their assessment of the situation -- of the fiscal situation of this country?"
That's the truth, as succinct as it can be. And until
fits easily on a bumper sticker, it'll have to do. I spent ten years of my professional life in the corporate headquarters of two financial-services companies, the last four in the executive suite of a major player in the investment business, so I know something about the influence of agencies like S&P, Moody's, Fitch and Best. I can say that in the private sector, a downgrade (or even a negative outlook) can suck the life out of a company. I also know that corporate instability -- the comings and goings of fund managers, for example -- can tip a ratings agency toward taking action. Finally, I can't recall a downgraded company that hasn't issued a press release saying that S&P (e.g.) is full of shit, abuses kittens, etc. That's just the way it works. After all that, the same question burns: So what's going to happen after this downgrade? The answer remains: We simply don't know. Common sense and convenient parallels, however, combine to offer us a few useful clues. Interest rates are likely to rise for businesses and, consequently, for consumers. The recession is bound to deepen, and sharply. Depending on how bad things get, how long they stay that way and what cuts are announced in November, I envision civil unrest resembling what we've seen in the U.K. and Greece. On the bright side, gas prices may come down -- maybe. It's not the duty of citizens to save the nation's economy, but as much as possible, in my view, this is the time to renew our commitment to supporting domestic and local commerce. We should ignore the flailings of Wall Street and the wailings of its shills -- anyone who spews chestnuts like "historical performance" or exhorts us to "stay in the market" is a self-interested robot, not an expert and certainly not a friend. And, of course, when Election Day rolls 'round, we must send incompetent incumbents packing. Making wise choices now, deliberately, preparing for deteriorating economic and social conditions -- and I predict that they will deteriorate -- will give us the agility we'll need when the time comes to act in the interest of ourselves, our families and our communities.
Around 6pm today I emerged from the humble KintlaLake vegetable garden with our first two Roma tomatoes, six yellow pear tomatoes, more than a dozen carrots, ten long green hot peppers and another monster cucumber, this one found hiding among the carrot greens.
I've been sending a photo like that one to Mrs. KintlaLake almost every morning these days. By the time it shows up in her e-mailbox she's been at work for an hour or two, and she looks forward to my sharing what I've discovered in the garden that day.
Today's bounty: four cucumbers, bringing the harvest (so far) to nearly four dozen; and 24 carrots, some quite tiny but all sweet as sugar.
Like many of my fellow citizens, I've spent a lot of time recently tracking the progress (or lack thereof) of debt-ceiling discussions -- more about that in Part II. First, I want to hit a few other topics. Foreshadowing The U.S. has more than its share of white, Christian, right-wing nutjobs who prefer that anyone who doesn't profess the same xenophobia be exterminated. So when I heard that a likewise-addled Norwegian murdered 78 innocents on July 22, I didn't wonder if such a massacre could happen here -- I pondered how soon it will happen here.
Hot as a pumpkin patch I'm not handling the heat well this summer. The last time I felt this way was in mid-September, when a day of pickin' punkins kicked my aging, out-of-shape ass.
Truth is, I've become way too accustomed to air conditioning. And strangely enough, the fix for my heat-intolerance is to spend more time working outside. That's easier said than done, considering, but I'm working on it.
Our garden grows...and grows...and grows... The aforementioned bounty of cucumbers is taking over our small garden plot, threatening to take over my life. Now three tomato plants are trying my patience -- and I was warned.
A while back, my neighbor told me of a spring morning many years ago, when she witnessed our home's previous owner, standing on a stepladder in his garden, setting ten-foot stakes. When asked why, he replied politely that this was especially fertile soil, insisting that the absurdly tall stakes were quite necessary to support his tomatoes.
Later that summer, according to my neighbor, the optimistic old gardener was proven right.
This season's tomatoes are following the same path skyward, today nearly eight feet tall, so heavy with fruit that they're pulling their cages from the ground. I've supplemented the leaning wire enclosures with six-foot bamboo stakes and string. I'm not sure that'll be enough.
I'm also having a love-hate relationship with some "volunteer" vines -- gourds or pumpkins, I think -- which sprouted from seeds that survived composting. I've pulled hundreds of seedlings from our raised beds since May, choosing to leave a few that came up outside the fence. Now, despite my pruning, they cover a hundred square feet of lawn.
Fertile soil, indeed. We haven't used a speck of chemical herbicide, pesticide or fertilizer, by the way -- nothing but hand-weeding and home-cooked compost.
Sneak peek I'm dropping a placeholder here for the next installment of my Urban Resources series.
If there's one resource that most of us take for granted and mismanage horribly, it's water. I've become particularly aware of it this summer, partly through gardening and partly because every month I have to pay the village for what I use. I've been exploring ways to conserve, extend and even harvest water -- stay tuned.
After the circus leaves town A couple of flatbed trucks rumbled up the street late yesterday afternoon, carrying rolls of canvas and aluminum poles -- the last remnants of our village's annual festival.
For four days we'd been treated to heavy traffic on the street and sidewalk in front of our house. The sounds of live music, some great and some absolutely awful, drifted over our yard from the big concert stage. There were carnival rides and games-of-chance, fair food and a beer garden, a classic-car show and, naturally, a parade.
No fireworks this year, though. Budget cuts, don'tcha know.
We made the three-minute walk to the festival grounds on Wednesday evening, again on Saturday afternoon for a funnel-cake fix, and finally on Saturday night for the traditional closing concert -- a performance by a gray-haired pop star that festival organizers can get cheap.
It may be a weenie little festival, but this is home. We like it fine.
He says people will still be eating food and plenty of it. They won't be taking their daily supply of energy directly as electrical current nor will they be satisfied with a pink pill.
With almost totally automatic farms, there will be plenty of time for travel. Supersonic jets and rocket airlines will be popular and cheap to fly by this time, so you can spend the weekends in Europe.
