Daffodils and Actions-vs.-Words

I planted the first plants into the satellite or "Dacha" orchards. They weren't fruit trees. They weren't even food-producing plants. They were daffodils to serve as early pollen sources and as row markers. It was a battle driving the shovel through the roots of the goldenrod, grasses and vines.

Other perennials that I have penciled in for the ground-cover in the rows beneath the trees include horseradish, lovage, asparagus and rhubarb (and possibly Jerusalem Artichoke). None of them will be tall enough to compete with the trees and they compliment the trees from an ecological and production standpoint. An important consideration is that they are not attractive to deer in terms of browsing.

Fruiting bushes that I am considering include primocane fruiting raspberries/blackberries, gooseberries or currants.

Back when it was common practice to plant orchards on 30'-by-30' or 40'-by-40' grids, it was very common to plant strawberries or grain between the trees so the land was productive while the trees formed their canopies and before they reached peak-production.

A comparison between the economics of commercial orchards and homestead orchards

Commercial orchards hire their labor. They come in. They pick-pick-pick. Then they leave. 

A homestead orchard might have children who will happily go out and pick fruit any week of the summer or fall...because they are hungry. Not all of the fruit will fall into the basket but that is a feature, not a fault. So while a commercial orchard must be optimized for labor and markets, a home orchard is likely to be optimized for having some type of fruit ripening from mid-June until November (strawberries-to-persimmons) and even beyond in the root-cellar. And if you consider rhubarb a fruit, it could even be from early-May until November (rhubarb-to-persimmons).

Source

The challenge of most summer tree fruits is that they come-and-go in a heated rush. A tree full of Yellow Transparent, for instance, is a daunting amount of fruit to deal with due to its very short shelf-life. The fruits of late autumn, by comparison, are a "slow hand". A few bushes of raspberries, on the other hand, don't ripen their fruit all at once.

Winter pears and late apples are very forgiving in terms of harvest timing.

One of the shortest parables in the Bible

A father asked his first son to work in the vineyard. The son said "No." but changed his mind and went to work in the vineyard. The father asked his second son and he said "Yes!" but never went to work. Which son did the will of his father?

This is actually a parable-of-hope for those of us who have children who fell away from the faith. Secular culture will seem to pry many of them off of the rock-that-is-faith. In time, some of those children will see the promises of secular culture as hollow and will return.

We will not be judged by where we start. We will not be judged by where we are at this heart-beat. We will be judged by where we are when our life's breath leaves our body. 

This particular parable is a very nice "closer" for the parable of the Sower where some seed fell on the path, some among the rocks. Others fell in the thorns while some fell in fertile soil. That parable paints a bleak picture for those who are tantalized by the glamor of modern life with all of its glitter, lies and distractions. The parable of the two sons softens that picture.

Running notes

My discipline lapsed.

I dipped a toe back into running Sunday morning.

I ran a half-mile out and a half-mile back.

As I started chugging up the last grade on the way out, it occurred to me that my dismal times were largely due to my choosing comfort while running up hills. I was slowing WAY down.

I leaned into my discomfort. I changed my gait by taking shorter steps and increasing my step-rate. My half-mile time was a blistering 5:41 vs the typical 6:30.

I grabbed a minute of re-oxygenating before starting back. I consciously "worked" while running uphill. My half-mile time on the way back was 5:06.

Between that, planting, harvesting, unilateral farmer's-carries on Friday and Saturday...I was pretty much wiped out on Sunday. 

Since I will not be running a sanctioned 5k race in early-October, I will mimic the experience by running 5k on a suitably flat section of local, gravel road. What that means is finding about a 1/2 mile of flat road and running 3 out-and-backs.

Stay tuned for more adventures. 

Famine, Head-lice, Canning Jars and pictures

Dan commented on an earlier post about dire consequences if/when a technology failure triggered failed crops in the US.

The question that popped into my head involved HOW MUCH of a failure could we manage our way around and when must people start dying in the streets because there simply, mathematically, is not enough calories, fat and protein?

The short answer is that 50% of our current wheat harvest would have to fail .AND. 70% of our current soybean .AND. 90% of our corn harvest. A major caveat is that the transportation/distribution system would have to be able to efficiently allocate the much smaller amounts of food.

The first order analysis, aka back-of-envelop calculations) figured 2500 Calories per day per person, 33% from fat and 70 grams of protein per person per day. One egg per person and pregnant women and pre-teens getting 1/2 liter of milk a day.

The total ration would be famine bread that was 38% wheat flour and 38% corn flour with the remainder being de-fatted soy flour to bump the protein up to 19% (to meet the 70 grams/day target).

Meat, booze, imported fruits and vegetable consumption would be driven to almost zero under this draconian scenario although grass-fed beef and lamb would be available in small amounts and so would small game like rabbit.

Countries that depend on our food exports would be in a world of hurt.

My 40,000 fly-over conclusion is that famine in the United States is far more likely to be created by failures in the logistics-and-allocation sectors than failures in the production sectors. 

Highway pickup

I participated in a "Highway Pickup" event yesterday.

I was chatting with an older gentleman while we waited for the rest of the crew to show up. He told me about inheriting canning jars from his parents and from his wife's parents. He told me had quite a collection of them before that happened.

Recently, they gave 500 of the jars to some neighbors, an older, Amish couple.

The couple, in turn, washed every jar until is sparkled and gave them, boxes and boxes full of them, to a newly married Amish couple as a wedding gift. The bride was thrilled to the point of (happy) tears to receive the gift.

Same man, another story

Shortly before he mustered out of the Army, he worked in recruiting. He had been detailed to pick up a group of new recruits and transport them to the base for in-processing prior to boot-camp.

He was issued a Ford Econvan and departed at -3-o-dark-thirty for a city of approximately one million people.

Upon arriving at the pick-up point, he saw 14 men milling around. His fan held 8. With the motivational method he had learned in the military he was able to pack 12 of them into the van.

Driving was difficult with his elbows wedged in against his side, but orders were orders.

He had been driving for half an hour when the recruit leaning against him asked about the beds they would be sleeping on.

"You will get whatever Uncle Sam issues you" the driver replied.

"Geeze, it can't be worse than what we bunked in last night" the guy behind him said. "My gawd...I never seen so many bed-bug bites and I swear I got head-lice there..."

The driver hit the brakes and swerved to the side of the highway. "OUT!! OUT! OUT!!!!" he screamed at them.

After a multitude of WTFs, he finally got them all out of the van.

He assured them that there was a bus coming in ten minutes to pick them up (a bald-faced lie) and slammed the doors shut, leaving them standing beside the highway with their bags in the dark.

His Commanding Officer asked him "Where are the recruits? Didn't you pick them up?"

The driver said "They told me that they had head-lice. I dropped them off beside Mullet Highway near Snook Avenue." 

The CO cursed a blue streak and started making phone calls. The last time they had imported lice it had taken weeks to get rid of them and it reflected poorly on the CO's record.

Then the CO ordered the driver to get a haircut, pick up Rid shampoo at the Px and a clean uniform from the quartermaster and to get sanitized via the shower-room.

He said that he was scratching for a week after that, thinking about how close he had been to 12 men with head-lice and bed-bugs. 

Bonus pictures

See the squirrel?

Can you see him now?

Rose-hips. During WWII, boys in Britain were sent out to collect them to supply Vitamin C. That is because citrus imports had been driven to zero by the U-Boats sinking transport ships.

Pictures in lieu of actual content

 

This is the frame I fabricated from 2-by-4s and wood pillaged from an old pallet. The footprint matches that of the truck cap that will go on top of it, 5' wide by 7' long. It is 15" tall.

As yet, the openings for the door are closed except for the one that aligns to where the ducks are currently laying their eggs.

 

Amaranth (weeds)

Ralphie didn't get lucky the night before I mowed the lawn but he did get lucky when I saw him and stopped the mower.

We had a house-guest the other day and he removed the batteries from the window alarm. Fortunately, he also left the cover off so I could see that. Very weird and a little bit worrisome.

Fake News Friday: Mr Miyagi was almost cast as a character in The Sopranos

It is a true fake-fact that Pat Morita, the actor who was Mr Miyagi in the Karate Kid franchise was almost cast as a character in the TV show The Sopranos.

Other cast members objected to the choice saying that it was too confusing to have him in the cast.

"Whacks on"

"Whacks off"

"Whacks on"

"Whacks off"

"Can't he make up his mind. I dunno who to shoot. He drives me crazy." 

Back in the day...

Back in the early days of the Industrial Revolution and up into the 1950s, many manufacturing plants were a dreadful hodgepodge of equipment clumped in a semi-random way. As business grew, additional capacity would be added, often in a lean-to attached to the main facility. Sometimes shoehorned into space that had been used for something else.

Some captains of industry grouped equipment by type. All of the milling machines in one corner of a building. All of the lathes in another corner. Heat-treating in a different building. And so on and so forth.

There was rarely any over-arching plan about how things would be manufactured. Parts more-or-less percolated through the system as capacity opened up for the next operation. Because of the chaos and random routing, assembly lines were not feasible (and had not become mainstream until the 19-teens anyway).

The parts that were "in process" were moved from the pile of "finished goods" at one operation to the next process by employees classified as "shunters". They typically loaded parts on steel-wheeled carts and wheeled them to their next operation. Sometimes that that involved pushing the cart up a ramp to higher floors. Sometimes it involved pushing the cart along cratered pathways to different buildings.

They did that all day long. They were the human equivalent of a fork-truck: Lifting, moving, lowering.

If you look through an Industrial Engineering book written in the 1930s, you will notice that one of their primary metrics were the Calories consumed by workers in each classification. Shunters were among the very highest at 4500 to 5000 Calories per shift. 

Shunters are the Industrial Revolution's counterpart to the men pulling ships up the Volga river and pockets of them existed into the 1950s even in "civilized" countries like the US, England and Germany.

Back-in-the-day

Every farm boy who kept his ears open knew that if you were going to the newfangled "confinement" method of rearing livestock, you needed to ventilate the space to ensure a minimum of one complete air change-over every 15 minutes.

Chemical pneumonia from ammonia gas and stagnant air would kill far more adult animals than cold ever would.

I am keeping that rule-of-thumb in mind as I upgrade the duck-jail.

My primary motivation is to make it easier to collect the eggs. But as long as I am putting some effort into construction, I might as well be as smart as possible.

The current method of collecting eggs involves two chunks of firewood. One of them is put beneath the pick-ax so I can lift the side of the truck-cap high enough to wedge the second piece of firewood beneath it. Then I reach WAY IN to the space and feel around for new eggs. Sometimes I steal Quicksilver's toy rake to pull them to within my reach.

After collecting all that I can find, I double-check by looking from the back end of the truck cap to ensure I got them all. Then I lift up the edge, pull out the second chunk of firewood, lower the edge and then put all of the tools away.

The new method will be to have the cap sitting on 15" tall stud-frame walls with doors in the four corners. My fantasy is to look into the space from the back end and identify which corner the ducks decided to lay their eggs. Open the corresponding door. Remove eggs. Close door.

This part of the post fits with the first part because a lot of us newbie small-holders start with a hodgepodge of facilities and stop improving them as soon as they work almost-good-enough. 

Jonesing for some cattle

I am seriously wanting a couple of calves. I have about four acres of grass going to waste. Actually, worse than going to waste. It is festering with mice, ticks and other undesirables.

I could mow it, but that takes money out of my pocket and is hard on the local reptiles.

I found a neighbor with a livestock trailer. He will let me use it if I replace the rotted-out floorboards. Looks like a win-win to me.

The next task is to figure out what is wrong with the wiring harness on the truck and to fix it.

Their asking price is a little bit optimistic.

Then, I have to find a couple-three 400-to-600 pound calves that are less than $2k each. They are out there but I might have to drive 300 miles to get them and they might be beef-dairy breed crosses.

Subsistence peoples videos

Some folks like to jabber about "systemic racism" that is so pervasive that "we cannot see it".

I have my own thoughts on that, but the premise that our perspectives are flattened when our optics are within the same plane as what we are observing is a valid point.

I enjoy watching videos of "subsistence" cultures: People surviving on dacha in Ukraine, remote ethnic groups surviving in the Siberian wilderness, people in Alaska. However, I have to keep reminding myself that many of the things they do have "net-return-on-energy-invested".

Remember Oncle Horst who traded his water-soup for sawdust-bread to survive? That was a net-positive-net-return-on-energy-invested". The hot water had almost no energy (Calories) while the bread, crappy as it was, had significant energy.

Even though the videos are entertaining, riding two, 100 hp snow machines for hundreds of mile to bag a couple of caribou or to go ice-fishing or to collect a couple of pine marten for their fur is a black-hole for net-energy.

One prepper fantasy is that they will eat game to survive.

Suppose you live in a township like Eaton Rapids Township with 100 people per square mile. Suppose that we have a population density of 40 whitetail deer per mile. Furthermore, suppose that when brought-to-bag, each deer yields 30 pounds of lean meat at 500 Calories per pound. At an energy budget of 2500 Calories per person per day, how long could the population of Eaton Rapids Township live solely on the energy stored in the deer herd?

That is 600,000 Calories per square-mile on-the-hoof divided by a daily human Calorie burn-rate of 250,000 Calories per square-mile. The answer is: Less than three days.

A single milk cow in the summer can produce more than 6 gallons of milk a day. Between the fat (7,000 Calories), carbs and protein (another 7k Calories) a well-fed, lactating cow is producing almost as much food-energy as  dead deer EVERY DAY.

In seven weeks, one milk cow (which can be grazed on one acre of pretty-good, mid-western pasture) can produce more food energy than the meat from all of the deer on a square-mile (640 acres) of good deer range.

Fat is always a limiting factor in survival situations. If the milk is the only source of fat, then the milk provides enough fat to supply eight-and-a-half people with enough fat to supply 1/3 of their daily calorie needs.

I know one family that shares a cow with three other families. They have assigned days to milk the cow. If they cannot make-the-date, the family assigned the day has to make arrangments to get the cow milked. There are a lot of ways to skin that cat. 

Skid-steer Mike: Parley

I walked up to the oldest man, the one with the command voice and said “I am Mike Tardive. How can I help you?”

My announcement barely registered with the rabble.

The man I was addressing finally processed what I said, looked at me and said “Please repeat that”. 

I complied. “My name is Mike Tardive. How can I help you?” 

That caught everybody’s attention and they started babbling.

The leader made a motion with his hand to quiet the small crowd’s rising volume.

“We want to have words with you outside” the man said.

“I can agree to that as long it is ONE person representing you...and the rest of you stay in the building” I parried.

By God’s Grace, last Sunday’s readings at Mass had been about resolving conflicts with your brothers. Jesus told his disciples to directly confront one-on-one without a peanut gallery to amplify feelings ahead of facts.

The rabble disintegrated in to screeching. It was all about who was going to get a piece of me first and what they were going to do to me. Every person wanted to be the first one to take a whack at the piñata.

I kept my face as neutral as I could. The choice of their champion was not mine to make. Nothing was, literally, the only thing I could do to potentially defuse the situation.

Finally, the leader got impatient and told them to shut-up. “I will represent us” he said, with authority.

I stuck out my hand. “I already told you my name. What's yours?”

“Ricky. Ricky Adams” the man said.

He was probably 35. Clear manner of speaking. Great posture.  Understood how to work chain-of-command.  An inch shorter than 6', probably 185 pounds. His forearms had visible muscle-tone. He had almost certainly had been in the military.

“Let’s go” I suggested and started walking down the aisle toward the airlock that led to a feeder aisle that led to the waiting room and main doors. 

I purposely walked slowly. After a few steps, Ricky followed, and then caught up and walked beside me. The rest of the rabble fell in behind us, muttering dark threats.

When we reached the main lobby, Ricky turned to his little-ducklings and told them. “Sit here until I come back”.

We stepped into the sun of the early afternoon. Looking to the side, I saw the scruffy trees on the south side of the complex. I gave a half-nod with my head. “It will be more comfortable to talk in the shade”. Strategically, it was also out-of-sight of of the waiting room windows and closer to my truck.

Walking toward the Scots Pines and newly planted Red Maples, I scanned the perimeter. On the far side of the access drive that went around the facility, on the edge of the strip-mall’s parking lot, were two people recording us walking with their phones. If there had been any doubt in my mind about this being a spontaneous event, it was now gone. It was a set-up.

Once we were in the shade, I turned so my back was toward the building and I was facing outward. Interestingly, Ricky did the same. We were not directly facing each other. 

“What is your beef?” I asked, getting right down to business.

“You wrote that black people shouldn't get reparations because we are stupid” Ricky said. “You said that we would just waste the money”. 

That was not what I expected. I had expected him to say he was a Muslim and that my most recent post had offended him. My mind was churning furiously. I had never written anything like that.

“Did you read that on my blog or did somebody tell you that?” I asked. 

Ricky gave a little shrug and looked away.

I was holding my phone in my hand. “Let me show you what I wrote”.

The only thing I could remember that even came close to the ‘reparations’ for black people was a piece I had written on Universal Basic Income about six months ago. I pulled up that blog essay. It was about 400 words long and referenced how the Indian Tribes that distributed casino income to its members had markedly worse mental health markers than the same Tribes that did not have casinos.

Ricky scanned the essay. He was a relatively fast reader.

“This doesn’t say anything about Blacks or reparations” he commented when he was half-way through.

Then, right at the end, there was a paragraph generalizing the idea to include welfare and ‘reparations’.

He seemed to be processing what I had written and attempting to reconcile it with what he had been told I had said.

I interrupted his thoughts. “We have company” I said and I nodded toward the people recording with their phones.

“I think we were both set-up” I said. “I was set-up to get a beating and you were set-up to take the rap”.  

Ricky glanced over at the spectators recording us and a frown darkened his face.

That is when the cop cars started screaming down the road leading to the facility and turning into the access drive. 

“You and me, we were just standing here and shooting the shit, right?” I suggested to Ricky.

“Absolutely. Just two guys stepping outside for a smoke.” he said. He pulled out a white-and-green pack of cigarettes and shook one out. Then he lit it. He inhaled a deep pull of smoke and his face looked deep in thought.

“I don’t smoke...but it might be a good day to start.” I quipped. I looked down and saw some cigarette butts on the ground. We were not the first people to take a break in the shade of the trees.

I reached down and picked up a stubbed-out butt from the ground. I pinched it between my left thumb and index finger with the filter end out and the unlit end cupped by my other three fingers like I had seen a hundred other guys who didn't want the boss to see them smoking.

Something must have happened in the facility because the cops unassed in a hurry and most of them were hustling toward the main doors. A couple of them started our way. 

Then I commented "I am guessing that the crew you came with aren't your people, that somebody gave them to you".

Ricky didn't say anything. 

As two of the cops approached us, I raised the butt to my face and pretended to take one last draw and then flicked the unlit butt at one of the Red Maples that was off to the side. Then I said "Hello Officer. What brings you out this fine afternoon?" 

A pleasant surprise

There I was in the dentist's chair, getting my teeth cleaned.

I had been scheduled for Monday but events conspired against me and I had to cancel that appointment. Fortunately for me, they had a cancellation on Wednesday and I was able to make it. Unfortunately, it was not with my regular hygenists. Fortunately, they both have the same first name.

Small world

While sitting in the chair I learned that she was going to a Pawpaw festival in Illinois this coming weekend. I asked a few questions and learned that she and her husband have a small orchard on the south side of their property. When I asked where they live, she mentioned a town near the Upper and Hill Orchard site.

A few more questions pinned it down to being within four miles of the orchards!

One of her best buddies from high school lived (and still lives) just down the road from the orchards and she knows the area like the back-of-her-hand.

The trip to the dentist morphed from being a necessary time-sink to learning about a like-minded, "country neighbor" who I didn't know I had.

Shorter days

I seem to be getting less done around the place as the number of daylight hours shrink. I need to do triage. Some things don't have to get done before snow flies. Some should be done after the weather cools and slows down the ticks. Some is going to be much easier in the warm weather than when it is colder.

Bonus video

Education in rural, Latin America

Included in this post because watching first-grade kids' zest for life is refreshing. 

I bet they are not spending $17,000 a year to education that kid.

At one point in the video you might notice that the desks were rearranged during one of the lessons. All of the girls were looking at a dry-erase board at one end of the room and the boys were being taught lessons from a board on the other end of the room. There was no-mans-land between the two groups of desks.

I suppose that is one almost-free way to reduce distractions.

Or maybe it is two different grades in the same room. 

It is worth commenting that the diets of rural people around the world have been enshittified by highly processed, prepackaged foods. I suspect the boy's papa is working in the US and sending money home.

A kid running across old sheet-metal while barefoot. Ouch!

What a person displays on their walls tells you much about their priorities. Most of the items on that wall look like diplomas.

First-world, Gen-Z problems

The perils of putting your phone into speaker mode

A new word

A new word was added to my lexicon yesterday.

I am a "natty'.

No, Mack, it doesn't mean that I am 8% alcohol by volume.

Not "natty", the bulging blood vessels are the major tell

It means that I don't take steroids and my musculature, such as it is, is natural.

Natty. (Not me, by the way)

Thank-you for your attention in this matter.