You could get smug with the happy pleasure that fills you watching the hummingbirds dart around in their spangled Lucha Libre helmets—the idea is, that of course, the Hummingbird is the god of war revered by the Aztecs. The unconquerable, everywhere-at-once Huitzilopachtli.
And the happy pleasure that the fly catcher has built her nest (again…third year in a row) on top of the porch light and has laid three eggs.
The cactus blossoms are blooming for the third year in a row in pink starlight bursts of floral fireworks. Such happy pleasure.
Not only that, but the Kiwi vine we planted 3 years ago is blossoming for the first time. I wonder if this rule of three kind of happiness was born, like everything human, on the savannas of Africa.
And then there it is again, Robin and Eli’s trifecta of boys we call The Wolf Pack.
And then Noah and Kris’ life of three with Clementine, Aloysius and (who’s a good girl?!!) Ellie, the wonder dog.
This morning in our usual Saturday morning long-form phone chat, child #3, Amelia reported that she’d seen the documentary of Mr. Rogers and had to go to work the next day all puffy eyed because she blubbered her way through the film (along with everyone else in the theatre). This clip has all you need: in the first 30 seconds Fred parsing information and wonder.
It all gets fairly sappy when you start in on the magical thinking of threes, as if the world was made for your very own precious self-centered imagination—but, after all, we’re talking about the mind taking a relaxing a snooze in a deck chair on this cruise-boat of a day, like today, say, a few days before summer.
That in turn, reminds me of a joke, told using the standard tripodal structure of threes the punch line of which is: “Then he took out his lunch and I took out mine.” You haven’t heard it? Just ask…
When Bonnie Bee and her husband Gary arrived, after the greetings and introductions, Judith started in with the old adage, “you don’t need a boat (swimming pool, bee hives) you need a good friend with a boat…(swimming pool, bee hives)”
With beekeeper neighbors like Taylor and Daniel we have good friends with bees. Their bees fuel up at our humming bird feeders in return they give us jars of honey.
We had called Bonnie Bee Company because we had been visited by a swarm that we feared was settling in to the wall in our house. For several days we had seen bees going in and out but by the time Bonnie and Gary arrived the bees had moved on.
Bonnie and Gary have made bees their life work. They offer classes and consultingand are enthusiastic educators about the value of bees. They dazzle with amazing facts about bees: Although around here we know the honey and the bumble—there are 20,000 known species on the planet and some 1600 native to California.
Since we are abundant in Borage and California Poppies our garden is abuzz with activity. Bonnie explains that they may be Taylor and Daniel’s bees but they may have come from more than two miles way. We have so much bee business going on in our garden, it might be possible to establish a hive. Bonnie and Gary set upbait hive box. We are hoping some bees move in.
Hey, wait a minute. What was that about having a friend with bee hives???
Look what we now have in our yard!!!
The Keeping of Bees is like the Directing of Sunshine
In 1988beekeeper/artist Mark Thompson with dancer Joanna Haigood, performed a ritual dance with bees at the Headlands Center for the Arts.
Richard offered these poems by Antonio Machado and Mary Oliver:
Instead of Earth Day, today we are celebrating dirt day. We will be digging deep into our compost singing the praises of our worms — dancing a jig and shouting “we are rich, we are rich” as we turn over our shovel, revealing the ground teaming with life. Into that humus-rich soil we are planting tomatoes, bell peppers, squash and corn. Plus, a first for us, soybeans for Edamame.
Neighbors Taylor and Daniel gave us a cob of bright red New Mexico grain corn for making polenta and tortillas. They recommend before planting to put the corn kernels in our mouths – the saliva enhances the germination. Granddaughter Clementine phoned with an insistent message about corn growing better with rock and roll music— she warned that corn does not care for classical. We will be revving up our boom box. Roll Over Beethoven:
This afternoon in Sebastopol we will be celebrating Suzanne Maxson’s 70th birthday. She requested that there be “no presents” but we were asked to bring instead a reading for the open mic. The Poetry Jukebox will rev up: probably with selections from Shakespeare, Tony Hoagland, and of course, Merwin.
We have been enjoying the PBS program To Plant A Tree about W.S. Merwin and his extraordinary accomplishments as a writer and a conservationist. He and his wife have nurtured a tract of land on Maui where they have created a kind of Noah’s Ark for palm trees and established a conservancy for its preservation.
Judith selected this poem to read from his latest Garden Time:
As they were leaving the garden
one of the angels bent down to them and whispered
I am to give you this
as you are leaving the garden
I do not know what it is
or what it is for
what you will do with it
you will not be able to keep it
but you will not be able
to keep anything
yet they both reached at once
for the present
and when their hands met
We do not know if Merwin meant The Present as “gift” or as the eternal “now.” Either way it is perfect for a “no presents” party. And a great reminder to crack open Lewis Hyde’s marvel The Gift This is a re-issue with the sub-title Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World~~we like the original 1982 subtitle: The Imagination and the Erotic Life of Property.
And speaking of the “Garden” we are reading Steven Greenblatt’s new The Rise and Fall of Adam and Eve.So comforting to be in the warm arms of Greenblatt’s thinking. He did however, leave out what we think of as the real and actual Original Sin: Ownership. As in, that tree is mine, that goat is mine. Which in turn brings to mind Lizzie Maggie and the Georgists:
Georgism, also called geoism and single tax, is an economic philosophy holding that, while people should own the value they produce themselves, economic value derived from land (including natural resources and natural opportunities) should belong equally to all members of society.
In case you’ve forgotten, Lizzie Maggie was the inventor of the game: Monopoly in 1902. the case for ownership of the patent was not settled against Parker Bros. until 1972. And the most important message on this Earth Day—We do not own the Earth, the Earth owns us.
We pride ourselves on our experimental farming and take chances, daring the rain, daring the frost to extend our growing season. We knew if might be fool-hardy (it’s from the old French folhardi—the strong heeded foolish action preceding disaster) hoist up our potato bins in late fall- a deep frost could snap the early growth. But what the hectic – why not give it a try and if we win some it will mean early, early potatoes.
In a combination of art and applied biology we created the layered towers—start with a foot of Oak leaves (acidic—taters like acid, as in the peaty soil of Ireland) next a foot of rotted manure, next a foot of garden compost—put the seed potatoes on top and cover with straw. The tower done this way is very satisfying thing to LOOK at. Wait for rain…which it did. Then just as the green was lifting to the sun
hard hard frost—we mulched with straw which did a little good but then it looked like our towers were withered up and barren. Ole Uncle Wallace Stevens has a line about that from Planet on the Table:
Other makings of the sun Were waste and welter And the ripe shrub writhed.
Days are now warming and we have spring rain on the way, and on the way again. The abundance of late rain is a luxury so we are feeling fine about this years planting and the water supply in the MMWD reservoir.
Time to tumble over the ruined bins and move them out to prep the beds for tomatoes. We were delighted to uncover a grand bushel of potatoes. They made it!! – on the smallish side (we call ’em pea potatoes) but enough for several meals.
And talk about winsome here is Richard’s text and pic to the Selby-Lang gang: “Professor Selbini winsome lass and lecturer at the London School of Economics presents her paper on winter potatoes.”
And then a thread of texts ensued:
>>Noah: Looking good, JSL! I’m thinking fries! 🍟
>>Richard: You know it!but…cooked til almost done then slightly smashed and pan fried with garlic and oodles of vitamin B(utter garlic chives sprinkles)
>>Noah: My thing is leave them whole w skins on. Steam them until super done. Put them on a baking sheet. Smash each one with a small plate, broil super quick with a nickel-size kin pat of butter for about 5-7 mins (or longer if needed—you want them a little bien cui —and then salt them right before they hit the table. Use a spatula to remove and Bob’s your uncle.
>>Judith: The saying goes “the apple does not fall ….” but in this case… here is my Montana grandpa with his spuds.
>>Amelia: (chiming in from NYC) P.S. It’s Mueller time.
>>Janis: I remember digging potatoes with grandpa! So much fun and so delicious!!
>>Judith: Especially delicious the new potatoes boiled up then slathered in butter.
The Plating with lamb shanks, turnips and carrots…nice end of the day…
“Midwinter spring is its own season Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown, Suspended in time, between pole and tropic. When the short day is brightest, with frost and fire….” TS Eliot
Good ol’ Eliot…Always trying his very best to situate the universe between this ‘n that…
And for us, now, right here at home, we are “Where wildlife adventure begins.” As the tag-line from Marlin Perkins’ Wild Kingdom told us every Sunday Evening, brought to you by Mutual of Omaha®…”Just as the Giant Anteater protects her kits, so Mutual of Omaha provides your family’s safe harbor…etc.”
Who needs to go to the ends of the earth?? Marlin Perkins eat your heart out…
But we did!!! In 2009 we did go to Africa where we snapped this pic of a giraffe party at Lake Manyara National Park in Tanzania.
Ends of the earth? No, this is probably more like the beginning of the earth…
Through the unknown, unremembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea. Quick now, here, now, always– A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flames are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.
And even though the scant rains are worrisome this year, we will bask in the sights and smells of this “false spring” being grateful for every speck of it.
This scythe, a gift from artist William T. Wiley hung in his studio for years as a friendly reminder about the harvest dance of death. When it arrived, grandson Aloysius (@4 years old) said, “You know, that thing belongs to God.” Along with a lesson about the passage of time, it serves as a helpful tool to reap our grain — that we commit to planting more of in 2018.
We intend to take the “blah-blah-blah” we have been doing about “living off the land” subsistence farming and try our hand at the growing and baking of the basics for matzos and bread. So far, our rye has been fermented into whiskey. We have served up refreshing beverages with our straw straws. Our ground corn as polenta has become a staple.
This wreath, a gift from artist Judy North, symbolizes the unending circle of life — what goes round comes round. In a gesture of solidarity and continuity, Richard’s grandpa, the one who escaped the mayhem of The Russian Pograms, greeted his grandchildren with interlocked pinkie fingers whispering “endless chain.”
Wiley and Judy, as neighbors and friends, have long been in our circle of love and attached to the endless chain of Homo Sapiens making art.
The combine of the scythe and the wreath came in a flash in what we might describe as a “divine inspiration.” We were decorating for the holidays. The placement of the wreath on the glass door of the studio seemed right, but a move two feet over, hanging it on the porch light made for a profound visual ideogram, an aesthetic rupture for our thoughts about the season, the solstice and the return of the light.
This time of year more than any other we think about time and its passage, so quotes about time abound—”Time present and time past are both perhaps present in time future…”, (say future the way TS Eliot says it…fyuchahh, listen here), but our all-time fav is Wallace Stevens’ This Solitude of Cataracts.
We’ve selected a few lines from it:
So let’s get on with it. Time is ticking. Or, as Cormac McCarthy remarked, “The one thing good about old age—it don’t last long.”
We are ready for another lesson, another go-round. These days when we are troubled by the onslaught of “alternative truth.” We are keen to bring back Diogenes and his search for truth.
We begin our eclipse report with a little prose poem by Richard called Amon Ra. It includes a couple of musical interlude links, it was operatic after all.
99 and a half just won’t do. Got to… got to… be a hundet as The Wicked (Wilson) Picket sang in 1966. (written with Steve Cropper and Eddie Floyd)
100% totality is the only way to experience an eclipse. Besides all of the life changing (I want to be a better person—I really really do) moments on our trip to northeastern Oregon to see the totality, the one moment that truly shocked the body, mind, and spirit was the moment when the heartbeat blinked, and the sun first emerged from the shadow of the moon. Even if you don’t believe a lot of the mumbo-jumbo that masks itself as wisdom barfed out by self-anointed Shamans, and on the other end, platitudes and the easy, jaded irony we all live with in this age of the simulacrum—this standing for this—the whole of human experience living inside of snarky quotes—then, I guarantee when the sun first emerges from the eclipse you will feel the Eye of Horus looking right at
AND the whole of creation. That first emergent beam puts the whole shootin’ match in the spotlight of “unsubdued elation”. Makes you want to shout! C’mon y’all, makes you want to shout! Just sitting here putting words down—maybe, actually, shout, and maybe, unable to utter a sound with the closed throat of overwhelming verklempt-ness.
We were lost in hypnotic torpor with our little group of 25 standing on a hilltop with a 360° view, standing in a holy hush. Enchanted, having just seen the ghosty, invisible corona—glasses off! become a heavenly halo spilling out into space, mesmerizing, emanating from the black hole in the sky, time rubberized to timeless forever— and then, WHAM! the very the first speck WAKE UP!! Eye of Horus pours down a thralling waterfall of light.
“Have you ever felt for anything such wild love” (thanks Mary Oliver). A thousand horn sections from a thousand Stax/Volt reviews, circa 1967. That first speck of light is a burst dam spilling, flooding creation.
Sing it Otis—I been loving you too long to stop now…
Sorry to make you work at it….but it’s worth it. Cue horn section. Big ups to the Disneyland All College Band. Start this one at the 2:50 mark.
It’s been on our bucket list forever—to see an eclipse—a total eclipse. We’ve seen a few partials and one annular but the 100% occlusion is the goal. Got to have a “hundet” as Wilson Picket wrote in 1966 99 and a Half Just Won’t Do. Being one a day’s (+) drive from home was undeniable. Turns out every campground, motel had been sold out month’s ago so we thought we’d rent a station wagon to sleep in. When we got to the agency everyone else had that idea too. They’d rented our vehicle and they had a substitute for us— not an Explorer or an Excursion or even an Expedition but a Ford Extinction! (good one Judith). They generously threw in a gas voucher. So we packed up this beast and headed out for the band of 100% totality. We chose northeastern Oregon in the start of the Palouse country for the greatest chance of clear skies. Our behemoth of a vehicle provided a smooth and commanding ride; we could get used to this.
First stop Petaluma, where the Art Center was featuring three of our works in an exhibit about the ocean—Tidal Response. We were blown away by the response—so many showed up and we stayed into the evening so we only got as far as the Nevada state line.
Morning found us in Reno at one of the gambling joint “all you can eat” buffets, loading up our cooler with butter rolls, BBQ brisket and chicken fried steak. Not exactly the Bay Area “good for the planet” comestibles, but hey we’re riding in the Extinction.
As we headed east then north we skirted the edge of the Black Rock Desert. The open expanse of the road that went on forever was an art lesson example of single point perspective.
When the radio reception faded away, Judith reading aloud was our “book-on-tape”—Kirk Varnedoe’s A Fine Disregard…“…in a fine disregard for the rules…”The book begins with this quote from a plaque at the Rugby School in Merry Ole’ commemorating the invention of the Rugby game. When Wm. Webb Ellis picked up the soccer ball and ran with it, soccer was transformed into rugby and eventually American football. Do we love trying to parse out this thing called modern art? Oh, yes we do. And this fine disregard became the leitmotif of our trip…do what you feel and don’t make too many plans… let’s see what serendipity brings…Serendipity comes from the tale of the 3 princes of Serendip (modern day Sri Lanka) who were tasked with finding the magical one-eyed camel. They set out never finding the camel but they did find the world.
As we traveled further and further, towards the Palouse country —dry, vast, fenceless —we traveled beyond space and time, into the most remote stretch of Highway 395, miles from nowhere. Far from the familiar, we finally felt we had arrived on vacation. When we stopped to take in the wide-angled view at a large shoulder pull-out, a truck with a travel trailer pulled up behind us. A man, in a panic, shouts out, do you have any gas? His rig was running on empty and would never make it up the long incline and to the next gas 30 miles away. In this emptiness there was no cellular, no Internet and no other cars. Good Samaritan Richard offered to take him, his wife and his son to the next gas station then bring them back again.
Helping strangers along the way. Why not? It’d be a 90 mile trip to there and back and back again.The only thing on our agenda for the next few days was Monday starting at 9:30 AM. Until then we were ready for anything and anyone who might come our way, carrying a fine disregard for the mania we seem to share for the time and destination of Late Capitalism. Along the 30 miles to the gas station our strangers quickly became friends. Carlos and fam suggested that we join them to park and camp at their sister-in-law’s hill-top ranch in Mt. Vernon — right in the center of the totality. “Maybe see you tonight?” Feeling shy of invading a family event we ate dinner at the local diner in Mt. Vernon pitying the overwhelmed besieged ladies who ran the joint, “We don’t get but this many folks in a month…I got my third round of pies in the oven, hope you can be patient for that baked potato.”
As we walked out into the gloaming we had second thoughts about making a roadside camp on a dusty BLM road. It felt lonesome and pretty crummy, “Let’s go see what’s up with Carlos” in a fine disregard for our own reticence. In the twilight we drove further and further the miles up and up the mountain thinking maybe this was a wild goose chase until we hove around a corner in our Extinction arriving at a closed gate but not locked—opened her up and were greeted by blues man Harry Harpoon who helped us park our rig (seems like any vehicle east of the Cascades is a “rig”). “Slide your rig right up close to that horse trailer.”
The kitchen door swung open and as we stepped in—an apparition—a man towered above us — tall (6’4″) a shock of white hair and a flowing white beard said “WELCOME” as he handed us a tall glass of huckleberry wine (did we say delicious? did we say http://davidhamiltonwinery.com/ artisinal? and sneakily alcoholic—well crafted sweetness.) Carlos had phoned ahead singing our Samaritan praises, so we basked in the easy glory of having done a mitzvah. Mitzva? One in-law asked, “Is Richard a Hebrew?” A Hebrew? A rarity in these parts. They’d made a family trip to Israel to check out the wineries and were impressed at the water management for agriculture. Yes! Hebrew!
We had stepped into a family reunion of sorts hosted by the very gracious Crish and biblically bearded David. The assortment of folks had come from Texas, from Yakima and from parts unknown : a corporate trainer and life coach, a Greek statue of a guy who had been on the Cowboys training squad, a yoga teacher, a horse wrangler for the national traveling rodeo, a mechanic for the Navy, two elementary school teachers and a passel of kids and cousins. An amazing collection of folks who had all lived life with a fine disregard.
In the living room Harry Harpoon set up his instruments and spelt the blues with his slide guitar. It got late and we were worn out so we stumbled onto the foam mattress in the back of our rig to dream the dream of stars and await the sun’s shenanigans. Should we say the moon? Clouds tumbled in but we were assured they’d be gone by morning. Were we worried having come all this way for clear skies? What we really came for was to “live in a fine disregard.”
Dawn breaking as I woke,
With the white sweat of dew
On the green, new grass.
I walked in the cold, quiet as
If it were the world beginning;
Peeling and eating a chilled tangerine.
I may have many sorrows,
Dawn is not one of them…
Alba by Derek Wolcott
With a knock on the windshield in the morning, along with a glorious sunrise, we were greeted with steaming mugs of hot coffee and croissants. We could not believe our good luck to be in the warm embrace of this free-ranging family. By all counts by now there were 25 of us. After much scurrying about, lawn chairs, stumps and recliners were set up—viewing glasses handed out.
safety glasses on
in the path of totality
a pack of happy sisters and brothers
We were ready-set for the show. Let the countdown anticipation begin. Along with watching the clock, Judith was the thermometer keeper. She called out the temperature as moon cast its shadow across the earth — as the mercury fell some 20 degrees nothing prepared us for the reality. We know many many things like: the moon will begin to occlude the sun at exactly 10:06 AM, we understand much much less like: The longest duration on record of totality is just over 7 minutes (our duration was 2 minutes and 15 seconds) and because of the focus of the sun by the moon, shadows look a lot sharper. But, we realize much less than we understand, feeling realization happens only by being present. We realize love and imagination are the most powerful forces in the universe. An eclipse has been described a million times before—about the awe inspiring flaming corona, stars appearing in the day. But there is no way to really describe the celestial wonder you feel right in your human heart. To be bonded in wonder with a group of strangers, makes you want to shout!! Then grab everyone you know by the lapels and say: “You must be in the presence of this wonder.”
Summer is the time to see large and small critters on the move at dawn or dusk and they can mean trouble for our garden. When we think about the 10 Plagues of Egypt: frogs, locusts, hail fire, our problems seem minor. Although we are on the look out for those who would do harm, ravaging our garden, we are fond of the individuals we have come to recognize and even name.
“Notchie” we have known now for 5 years.Every year she births her two in our driveway and then teaches her fawn crew to hang out under the apple tree and wait for the ripe apples to fall.
With another pair of fawns there was a mishap at birth so we have “Cassidy” who “hops-along” on three legs accompanied by her sibling “Satin” who is just fine. When their mother died, from some mysterious trauma, (not a mark on her) we buried her next to the massive pine stump. We’ll dig up the skull come winter. Those two were adopted by another doe. We worry about little Cassidy when we hear the coyote chorus at 4 AM but we are amazed at how she seems to have adapted to this infirmity, heartbreaking as it is to watch her. A neighbor called wildlife protection services but they told her, just as we thought: Darwin did have a point after all.
A “party” of Blue Jays is hard at work harvesting the heads of our towering sunflowers. These bandits don’t leave much for us but they are probably the culprits who have stashed the seed that will become the next years volunteers.
At dusk we spotted a skunk passing by. The neighbor said she saw 7 kits, count ’em 7- that’s definitely a Surfeit. In the morning there were divots in the strawberry patch, evidence that they had been rooting out worms and grubs.
We have a thoroughfare of trouble with gopher tunnels that are undercutting root systems and cause the water to drain away from the garden. To prevent total destruction everything is planted in hardware cloth wire baskets.
We are making a list of bugs: cutworms that severed the stem of our soybeans, aphids that have infected our Brussels Sprouts and flies that burrow into the olives making them unfit for pressing. But we are on the case with a dusting of diatomaceous earth, stinky fly-catching devices and a sudsy spritz, a concoction of dishwashing soap to defeat the aphids.
Most marvelous and most mysterious is the clever creature who every night has been arranging and rearranging the tub of plastic rebar caps in our garden shed. We wonder who this might be??? It might be the rats (rats are never singular, not for long anyway, quickly becoming a “mischief” as a bunch of rats is called). We’ve resorted to the rat snappers since our cat Kibibi seems to have hung up her cleats, as it were. She was the bane of our rodent friends, but K’bib, in her retirement no longer presents us with a gnawed-on mouse or rat or gopher. These days, most often, we see her up on the porch gazing into some feline reverie of her glory days. Thankfully, she was never much of a birder.
As well as the spotted, great horned, Saw-whet. Good ole’ Cornell Lab of Ornithology where you can browse many bird sounds. We often hear the acorn woodpeckers tapping in vain on the stucco. Neighbors with wood siding regularly have to empty out bushels of acorns stashed behind the clapboards. Every once in a while we get a glimpse of the giant Pileated Wood Pecker doing his best to ravage our phone pole. You can see him working away, great chips flying. In a spectacular swooping stoop last week we saw our resident Red Shouldered Hawk grab up a snake twinned into its talons looking like the heraldry on the Mexican flag. You can see that story here Tenochtitlan.
Here’re pics of the rebar caps on three successive mornings. Rat trap unsprung. Rule #3 of Rancho D’s list of rules: Do something every day. Even if it is only one.
We could not have done it without it — the barn that is.
Built in 1919, our barn is one of the first structures raised in the San Geronimo Valley. It’s storied history includes a stint as an auto repair garage and through the years it has been corral and stall to many fine steeds. During prohibition it was even home to a bootleg “liturgical wine” operation.
When, during a vicious wind storm, the metal sheeting of the roof peeled off like a tuna fish can lid, we realized it was time to give it a new do. And when the entire structure was heading south, sinking on the street side, we realized it was time to shore it up to save it from complete collapse. To cap it off, this week, the vintage knob and tube system was replaced with an up-to-date electrical system: wires, stitches, plugs and eco-LED lights.
We have taken it from a disreputable mess, transforming it into a showplace of historical import of which we are darn proud.
It’s not just having the building of the barn, but having a home for horses who produce much precious manure that has made our garden possible. And as warehouse and workshop, the barn serves as the repository for our beach plastic collection where we sort and stack the plastic according to color and kind.
When the new lights went on at dusk, Judith was especially proud having served as the sous chef assistant to our electrician Mike Killeen.
Cooper, the white horse, was so excited to see the light. He could not believe his eyes that the electrical is completed. But, he knows what that really means, it’s time to move into the stall then, it’s time to get to work.
“Defensible Space” is on our minds these days. The deadline for clearing the brush and whacking the weeds was July 1 or the Marin County Fire Department will do it and attach an invoice to your property tax bill.
Richard’s son Eli who used to help with the whacking says, “Why don’t you just call Task Rabbit?”
FYI – Task Rabbit is an online service designed for millennial’s who have more money than time to take care of household fix-its and like to have helpers on-demand. And who doesn’t dream of having a personal assistant? We did have someone to help, but when he fell out we considered the TR, even looked at their website, but decided, hey, we can do this ourselves!!!
The thing is, we really like the feeling of doing a physical task. This was one of defining tenets of the do-it-yourself part of the 60’s. Seeing the start-to-finish of projects. When doing anything repetitively, especially things that get you out of breath, there is an existential thereness. Is there “thereness” sitting motionless looking into the garden. C’mon. And that’s the very thing about gardening, “yard work.” It’s a place and a state of mind where you can truly “BE THERE” right in your own back yard as it were. It’s enlightening, I tell ya. Working up a sweat or basking in the visual fruit of your labors…
Trying to get a handle on the 60’s beyond the Cliché—beyond the flash and dazzle of drug-fueled music and sex as a social commodity, you fall into the do-it-yourself movement. DIY was the 60’s. Authenticity was the litmus paper testing any assumption, as all assumptions were tested in the 60’s. Along came Marxist Herbert Marcuse’s One Dimensional Man (1964), on every college course syllabus from psychology to sociology to history, setting the philosophical ground-rulessuggesting that a totalitarian state may be achieved without violence through the commodification of everything, especially experience itself. The news these days is not current events it’s infotainment and sold by advertising mostly for pharmaceuticals to treat societal imbalances—anxiety, depression and irritable bowel syndrome. Consumerism swaggered in so fully it has now become the very air we breathe, the water we swim in.
So in the spirit of DIY we have been on the case every morning doing our diligence. Not only have we found that the physical activity makes us tired, real tired, it is a great cure for the societal ails of anxiety and depression. Plus we have the real ails of sore muscles, bug bites and blisters.
Although it is a grueling task, it has given us the opportunity to become familiar with the acre and a half of our septic leach field. From a distance it appears to be just the golden brown of California summer but upon closer inspection we have discovered 15 varieties of grasses.
Artist Paul Klee was an avid observer of plants. He pressed plants and preserved specimens in his herbarium books and drew upon the natural world to explore ideas of growth and fluctuation, often comparing the growth of plants and natural phenomena with the genesis of an artwork.
In 1923 Klee published his formative article Wege des Naturstudiums or Paths to Studying Nature, where he said “For the artist, dialogue with nature remains a conditio sine qua non. The artist is a man, himself nature and a part of nature in natural space.”
Fire is our primary concern but there are so many other ways we are defending our space — from the mighty buck who sashayed through and our latest resident Task Rabbit, the jack-rabbit. And did we say GOPHERS. From above and below our garden is always under siege.
We appreciate the stalwart folks who volunteer for the fire department and give a big round of applause when their vintage fire truck rolls at the 4th of July parade in Woodacre. And we are grateful for the free yard waste disposal day sponsored by the Marin County Fire Department and West Marin Compost. We always take full advantage.
Go Little Red!!!!
ADDENDUM July 25, 2017
We did it!!! Success!!!
Instead of a tag with a bill from the Marin County Fire Department we were thrilled when we found this notice on our front door.