You either get it or you don't.

Chickenfight Girl's son just graduated college. He cleaned out his apartment in Auburn and dumped all his stuff at his parents' place. She gave me a couple lamps. She pulled a small coffee grinder out of a box. "What's this?"

Me: A coffee grinder. For grinding whole coffee beans.

Chickenfight Girl: Huh. I've never seen one. I never buy whole coffee beans.

Me: I don't much either anymore. But I prefer whole coffee beans. Just can't always afford it.

Chickenfight Girl: Why is the stuff in here green? That's not coffee.

Me: Let me look at that. (removes lid, scrapes a fingernail across the green powder and takes a whiff) Nope, that's definitely not coffee.

Chickenfight Girl: What is it? It's not coffee.

Me: Uh...well...You can use it to grind other stuff too. I've used mine to grind corn for tortillas. You could technically grind up a lot of different stuff in there. Wheat, rice, beans...

Chickenfight Girl: So it could be, like, wheat germ or something?

Me: Yeah, wheat germ. Or something.

Chickenfight Girl: Do you want it?

Me: Yes. Thank you.



For those of you who didn't really get the above exchange, please enjoy this picture of Lemuel hula-hooping around the bonfire one recent summer evening:




There's something awesome about watching an almost-7-foot farmer bust a move with a hula hoop. Lemuel is really quite good with a hoop. Lemuel and Shadrack actually make and sell hoops. If you're at a farmer's market in East Alabama/West Georgia and you see two dudes spinning hoops and selling okra at the same time, tell 'em Jackie from Spenardo del Sur sent you. You won't get a discount or anything - it would just be a cool thing to do.

Shadrack, Lemuel and Lazarus

These are my friends Shadrack and Lemuel.


Of course, those are not their real names. I let them pick their own names for the blog and they got all biblical on me. That's Shadrack on the left and Lemuel on the right. That's Shadrack's house behind them. Story has it that the oldest part of the house dates back to the 1850s (an addition was made in the 20th century).

Shadrack hates having his picture taken so this will probably be the only photo I post of him. Lemuel's okay with photos so you'll probably see more of him. I sometimes work for Lemuel on his farm. He lives in a very tiny home that is only slightly bigger than Shadrack's front porch. Seriously. It's small. And Lemuel is a big guy. You can't tell in the picture because he's slouching but Lemuel is 6 foot 10.


Back to Shadrack's house: Look at the walkway leading up to the front door. It's all made out of big random stones. Looks like it's been there forever. (As always, you can click the pictures to embiggen.)



Look closer though. Notice the really big stone at the bottom of the photo? It doesn't quite look the same as the others.



Hmmm....there appears to be some writing on it. Let's take an even closer look.



Yep. It is the 127-year-old gravestone of Lazarus B. Ware. How it wound up in Shadrack's walkway is a mystery. So apparently is the resting place of old Lazarus' bones. Lucky for me, I like to solve mysteries.

I was able to turn up a little info on Lazarus. He was a white farmer who lived in the same West Georgia town Shadrack lives in. He had a mess of children and still has living descendants in the South. Much to Lemuel's disappointment, Lazarus B. Ware did not have a sister named Betta.

Year-end round up

Been lots going on and nothing going on.

Since my last post I've been working a lot around the old homestead. I also helped Chickenfight Girl butcher a hog - turning it into 172 pounds of delicious sausage. After months of putting it off, I finally killed my rooster, Philosophy, and served him up with pasta to an Alaskan friend, Hal Gage, who came to visit.

On an cold and icy day, a woman slid off the road and crashed her car into a stand of trees in front of Frankencoop. I just happened to be on my way to check the mail when it happened so I got to be first responder. She ended up in the hospital for two days and the car was totaled.

A photo I submitted to Skulladay.com last year was among those chosen to be in their upcoming book. Another photo I posted to the blog a couple years ago is going to be used in an episode of A&E's new forensic reality show, Bloodwork. Sadly, there's no money in either of these transactions. Just the glory that comes with a credit.

I missed the lunar eclipse but got to have some cool close encounters with hawks and armadillos. The parents came for a short visit. One of the cats died. One of the goats delivered two babies a month early - one was stillborn and the second lived for ten minutes.


Grandma Guthrie passed away yesterday. She was 89 years old. Her funeral is tomorrow, New Year's Eve.

I've never really posted a photo of Grandma Guthrie - at least not one where you could see her face. But today I will. It was taken this past summer while we were sitting out on her carport.

She was wearing a skateboarding t-shirt that her grandson gave her. I cracked up the first time I saw her wear it and asked "Can I take a picture of you in your boarding shirt?"

She got all huffy and blurted out "No!" Then she muttered "Besides, I don't even own a bathing suit!"

Once she understood what I meant, she consented to the photo.

Grandma Guthrie 1921-2010

I'm not real big on New Year's resolutions but I resolve to post more in 2011.

The story thus far...

Okay, so Grandma Guthrie went into a nursing home. She's very unhappy about it and I can't say I blame her but neither of us got a vote in the matter.

I was a bit apprehensive about losing such a big percentage of my meager income heading into what's going to be a very lean winter. The garden sucked ass this year, thanks to 4 months of almost no rain. The big freezer is only half full. At least I put in a bunch of extra hours during the two weeks preceding Grandma Guthrie's incarceration so I was able to have all my utility bills paid up before going into a budgetary lockdown.

Fortunately, I snagged another job immediately afterward - picking vegetables at a small organic farm. Unfortunately, I am currently only being paid in food. If I can hang in there for a while, there is some paying work down the road.

I was introduced the the organic farmer at a local Slow Food gathering where I finally met the secret underground group of cool people who live in Randolph County. It took almost four years to find the cool cabal here but I finally did it. I was beginning to think they didn't exist. You'll surely be reading more about them here in the future.

My other assorted odd jobs earn me enough every month to scrape by for about three weeks. Property taxes are due soon. So is the property insurance but that bill will just have to go in the shredder because there is no room for it in the budget. Not to mention (but I will anyway) that my car has been out of commission for what seems like forever.

In a couple of weeks I'll be helping Chickenfight Girl and her husband butcher a couple hogs and will get paid in large quantities of meat. At least I will not starve this winter.

So far, the worst part has been being out of coffee for the last two weeks.

The decline of Grandma Guthrie

As I predicted, Grandma Guthrie has gone downhill since the death of her husband almost two months ago. It hasn't helped that she's had quite a few falls in that time. Each fall made her that much weaker and that much more likely to fall again the next time she tried to stand up by herself.

She needs someone to keep an eye on her pretty much 24/7. She won't sit still. Turn your back on her for 5 minutes and she tries to stand up and walk to another room.

I'm proud to say, she's only fallen once on my watch - and that was over a year ago. She wanted to go outside, walk around the yard and look at the summer flowers. Back then, she got around pretty well (if pretty slow) with her walker and I didn't need to shadow her as closely as I do these days. She stumbled over some uneven ground and fell to the ground. She begged me not to tell her children about it for fear they wouldn't allow her to go outside anymore. Since I never did tell them, they actually think my record is spotless.

These days, she falls a lot. Like I said, turn your back on her for 5 minutes and there's a good chance you'll be picking her up off the floor. She needs help getting dressed. She needs help going to the bathroom. She is afraid and so desperately wants you to just sit with her because she doesn't want to be alone.

I talked to my mom in Michigan today and her stories about watching her toddler grandson (my nephew) sounded eerily like my stories of watching 89-year-old Grandma Guthrie - right down to our matching tales about letting them wash dishes because it made them feel useful but re-washing the dishes when they weren't looking so their feelings wouldn't be hurt.

Grandma Guthrie's children are divided on whether or not she should go to a nursing home. Grandma Guthrie has made her feelings very clear on this matter: She does not want to go to a nursing home. I'm with her on that. It'll kill her sooner and create a hell of a lot of paperwork. Also, I'd be out of a job.

I'm putting in a lot of extra hours right now. I used to stay with her about 14 hours a week. This week I'll clock in around 30 hours. Her son and I took her to a doctor's appointment today for the shoulder she injured in a recent fall and she ended up being admitted to the hospital. This was not unexpected. Tomorrow I will spend the day sitting by her hospital bedside. Somebody has to be close by to make sure she doesn't try to get out of bed by herself and to help her go to the bathroom. The hospital staff doesn't do that stuff. That's up to the family.

I don't mean to knock the local hospital. I'm sure they do the best with what they got. But it is a sad, dingy place. My judgment probably has a lot to with the fact that the majority of my hospital experience comes from thirty years of watching General Hospital, so take my opinion with a grain of salt (and a shot of tequila). I'm just saying that stains on the walls, dustbunnies under the hospital bed and a fly in the room made me wonder just exactly where and when I was. Sadly, those are the two things Grandma Guthrie wonders about too. At least we both still know who we are.

Have you missed me?

Just haven't found the motivation to post anything for a while but I'll be damned if I let an entire month pass without a single post to show for it.

Grandma Guthrie has been extra depressed since her husband died. Her memory is also slipping further away and she knows it which makes her even more depressed. It's getting more and more like babysitting a toddler - except the toddler talks about death a lot.

By all accounts, she was the hardest-workingest woman that ever was. Even at 89, she can't sit still for very long. She's up and down all day, shuffling from room to room. She's not allowed to cook anymore except for the microwave. She's too likely to start frying something and then shuffle off to another room, completely forgetting anything is on the stove.

She tries to do the dishes but does such an awful job, mainly due to her poor eyesight, that I rewash them when she's not looking. If she catches me rewashing dishes, she either gets mad ("I already washed those! They don't need to be washed twice!") or she gets sad ("I just can't do anything anymore.").

About the only thing she can do without risking bodily harm is laundry. And she does a metric fuckton of laundry. It makes her feel useful and I don't have to pay the electric bill so who am I to stop her? Aside from the one day she put too much soap in the washer and produced an almost sitcom level of soap bubbles, it's a harmless pursuit.

She washes dirty clothes, clean clothes and even unworn clothes with the tags still on them. She washes them, dries them, folds them and puts them in piles in her bedroom or crams them in the overstuffed closet. Sometimes she has me iron clothes - which I hate to do. I am from the school of unwrinkling clothes by tossing them in the dryer for a few minutes.

I usually do a half-assed job of ironing for her. She'll never know anyway. The freshly pressed clothes will just get crammed in the closet and washed a week later anyway regardless of whether they're dirty or not.


Anyhoos...If I'm going to get this post in before midnight CST, I'd better wrap this up. Here's a photo I took of a praying mantis eating a big moth on my livingroom window.

Praying mantis + dirty window + flash = MANTIS IN SPAAAAAAACE!

So long, Grandpa Guthrie

Grampa Guthrie died a couple days ago. He's the husband of Grandma Guthrie, the little old lady I help take care of.

For a little over a year, Grampa Guthrie has slowly withered away in a nursing home 30 miles from here. He went from being a big, strapping galoot to a frail, bed-ridden shell of a man. I often took Grandma Guthrie to visit him at the nursing home. Sometimes they were sweet and tender. Sometimes they fought. Often during the same visit.

Today is the funeral. I'm trying to whip myself into presentable shape. Scrape the chicken shit off, comb the twigs and leaves from my hair, paint my nails to hide the always-present dirt beneath. The hardest part is deciding what to wear.

Most of my wardrobe came from Alaska with me. The only new clothes I've acquired since arriving in Alabama are shorts, t-shirts, overalls, work boots and flip-flops. There is very little in the closet appropriate for a church funeral on a very hot & humid afternoon. All I know for sure is there's no way in hell I'm wearing pantyhose.

And I can't just duck in and out. I'm sorta "on call" during the funeral. Grandma Guthrie probably won't have the stamina to stay for the complete church and graveside services. When she is ready to go, I'm to swoop in and carry her home where we'll wait together for the others.

This is going to be a trying day. There had better be food.


But rather than leave this post on a downer note, I'll show you these pictures of three baby birds that recently hatched in the old electric meter box on the back of Frankencoop.


I think they're nuthatches. At least that's what the internet told me when I first tried to identify the tiny eggs.



I hope they don't fall out of the nest. The chickens below would probably gobble them up.

Accordion concert

Spent most of the day with Grandma Guthrie. Recently, there have been visits from physical therapists and nurses who lead her through simple exercises and check her blood pressure.

This afternoon, I was present for the physical therapist's visit. He asked her a few general health questions and then had her do some exercises that are probably designed to increase mobility - or at least prevent atrophy. (I don't think they realize just how mobile this little old lady is. She has no off switch.)

The best part though was that he pulled out a gleaming accordion and provided music for her workout. He played Rocky Top, The Tennessee Waltz, Golden Rings, Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain and - for Grandma Guthrie's rest period - Amazing Grace. Sadly, he knew neither Freebird nor Lady of Spain.

A free accordion concert in the middle of the day is a pretty sweet treat - like finding money in an old coat pocket.

Auction Extravaganza!

Today, Tom and I went a mile or so down the road to watch the giant McMansion get auctioned off to the highest bidder. There are many places that this 13,000 sq. ft. house would fit right in. My neck of the backwoods is not one of them.

I'm not going to use this blog to spread small-town gossip about why this mansion was built in the first place or why it's being sold only a few years later. Gossip like that is better spread in-person over a cup of coffee or a couple beers.

Not many people came out for the auction - maybe 75 at best (and that's including kids in tow). I bet more than half were looky-loos like myself and most of the rest were thinking about bidding on some of the contents. If you were looking to buy, bargains were to be had.

The only item I would've really liked to have was this little mostly-finished cabin. I could've turned it into the most awesome chicken coop ever. Already on skids and ready to move - a mere mile from my property - it went for $600.



The McMansion itself sold for a little more than a third of the original asking price. Along with 13 acres of land, it went for $450,000.

My entire crappy mobile home might fit on that second floor balcony, but I still have the better view.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

A couple nights ago, clear skies allowed the Talladega Mountains to cast their shadows across the sky at sunset. According to Wikipedia, it's the very tail end of the Blue Ridge Mountains - located about 40 miles to the west. On a clear day, you can see Mt. Cheaha from my place - the highest point in Alabama. (At 2413 feet, the Alaskan in me has trouble calling it a mountain. If trees can grow on top of it, it is not a mountain.)

If you click on the picture for the bigger version, you can see Venus just above and to the right of the new moon in the upper left corner. I took this picture from inside my livingroom. You won't see anything like this from the big McMansion (which is located in the darkness a little above and to the left of the dot of light in the bottom right corner).


After the McMansion had a new owner, we went to my neighbor's place to pick their excess blueberries. We filled a two-gallon bucket before a sudden downpour drove us back to my house.

But the rain stopped as suddenly as it started and we took off back down the hill to the East Alabama Goat and Poultry Auction. Again, neither of us were looking to buy anything but I always enjoy checking out all the different kinds of chickens (and occasional guineas, turkeys, quail, pheasants and even pigs and bunnies).

Here's a little taste of good old-fashioned auctioneering for ya:

A post about something other than chickens

During my time here in Alabama, I have been on the lookout to accumulate authentic rural southern experiences (ARSE). I have butchered hogs, sorted eggs in a factory farm, played dominoes with old men in a shack in the woods, attended cockfights, spent a night in the pokey, traipsed through the woods with my faithful yeller hound dog, eaten boiled okra (the nastiest thing I've ever eaten - far more disgusting than pig lungs or intestines) and, of course, drank my fair share of moonshine.

Well, add a new one to the list because I finally actually got to witness the production of moonshine. Yep, one of the locals trusted me enough to show me his still. Even let me take a picture of it. He went so far as to offer to let me take a picture of him standing next to it but I declined. See, his trust was not misplaced.


In case you don't know how this works, let me give you the basics. The modified beer keg on the right is holding homemade apple wine made last fall. It's heated by propane (the keg is out of frame but you can see the tube leading away from the keg). The alcohol in the wine is the first thing to evaporate and it rises up the copper tubing on top of the keg that leads to the blue barrel full of water. The water cools the alcohol which then condenses back to liquid form, finally dripping out the pipe into the jar on the left.




Notice how the moonshine is blue? At first I thought it was just reflecting the color of the barrel but it was explained to me that the color is actually caused by the corrosive alcohol dissolving the copper, giving the first jar of moonshine a blue tint. The color fades as more alcohol passes through the tubing.

The first jar is also very potent. The alcohol in the jar pictured above is probably around 130 proof. Subsequent jars have lower proofs. When all the jars are mixed together, the final product will hover somewhere around 90 proof. I was told the leftover apple wine still has an alcohol content roughly equal to beer but I didn't think to ask if they drink it or dump it.

I even got to take home a souvenir Mason jar full of moonshine - for display purposes only, of course.

Cue the tiny violins

A whole month without a post. Frankly, I just haven't felt like writing - or doing much of anything beyond life's necessities. Been in a deep funk. No one specific reason. Guess it's just a whole lotta shit that's built up. It seems as though it's all I can do just to keep my head above water these days and I have trouble convincing myself that writing about it is going to make me feel any better. And when I'm not writing - whether it's blog entries or anything else - that's just one more thing to feel bad about.

Broken tools and equipment. Manage to fix something and something else breaks. And the shit that does work is inadequate for the task. Car hasn't run in months and there's no money to fix it. Without a car, I have to turn down work that could help pay for the repair. It's probably something so damned minor but I know as much about fixing cars as I know about fixing space shuttles. For every step forward, I get pushed back two.

Some nagging health issues that I'd love to get taken care of but there's no money to fix me either. The closest thing I have to health care is the care package my friend Colleen sent that included a big bottle of OTC pain killers and antibiotic ointment (along with many tasty treats - like a whole quart of capers! - so life ain't all bad. Now if I could get my hands on some gin...).

The job I spend the most time at - taking care of Grandma Guthrie - is so incredibly depressing. Over the last couple weeks I've had to take her to visit her husband in the hospital, visit her dying brother in his final hours and spend a day with her in the emergency room when she was experiencing chest pains. The other day she wanted to go to the cemetery where much of her family is buried - where she too will be buried. There is little comic relief in this job.




Okay, enough pissing and moaning. One of these days I'll do a more in-depth rant about what a day with Grandma Guthrie is like. But for now, let's meet the new chickens:


This is Bart. Check out those fancy feathered feet! Me and a neighbor did a little trading - they got my little rooster, Sophistry, and I got this big black cock. While roosters are still the last thing I need, I just couldn't turn down this stylish dude.

Pasha, the rooster that lives under my front porch, is pissed as hell that I brought Bart up to the house. All he wants to do is kick Bart's ass. Bart is a lover, not a fighter.

Living arrangements for the house chickens are in flux. Currently, Bart is now living under the front porch with six hens and has free range of the yard. Pasha has been confined to a roomy new pen behind the house that he shares with seven new factory farm refugees. Just got them yesterday from a nearby concentration coop. Here are three of them:


I plan to move the new chickens down to Frankencoop in a few weeks. I think it'll be easier on them if they have a bit of an adjustment period before I throw them in the mix. Besides, I'd like the new baby chicks to get a little bigger before I make their environment even more chaotic than it already is.




They're two weeks old now. Mama Graybie took them for their first trip outside today. The next couple weeks will be a dangerous time for the little ones as they explore the grounds. So many things that want to make a snack out of them.



And now for something completely different:

It is spring and love is in the air. Recently caught these two jumping spiders getting it on in the kitchen. Behold! The mating dance of the jumping spiders:

Recently took inventory of my remaining winter food supply

It's a damned good thing that I like venison and squash because it looks like that's going to make up most of my diet for the next two months. Only a couple days into February and I've already been able to transfer everything from the big freezer into the one in the refrigerator.

There's still a bit of pork left - including five pounds of liver as well as the heart and lung I'm saving for that Filipino dish (as soon as I can afford tomatoes, onions and rice). A couple gallons of ham stock. Some oatmeal.

Lots of condiments. A few assorted items that don't really do me much good until I get other things to go with them. A bucket of lard. A few pounds of flour and sugar. No yeast though so the only breadstuffs I'll be making are tortillas and frybread.

If the chickens are laying eggs, they're either hiding them or eating them before I find them. There are way too many roosters though so there are definitely some chicken dinners in my future. Out of 23 chickens, 7 of them are roosters. I'm breaking up at least one cockfight a day, sometimes three or four.

I'm taking care of Gramma Guthrie two days a week and part of the deal is I get to help myself to her food so that offers a little variety. That's good since I get paid about the same as a preteen babysitter for taking care of a depressed 88-year-old woman with a slipping mind who asks me questions like "Do you think you go to Hell if you kill yourself?"

Here's hoping this year's gardening goes better than last year. Between the droughts, deluges, late frost, broken equipment and chickens raiding what was left, it's a wonder I was able to save anything at all for winter.

Don't fret, dear readers. I did eat well up through January. A little too well really. I've got a bit of extra insulation to work off, which I've been trying to do now that the weather has warmed up and the days are getting longer. I'm real close to finally removing what remains of the old barn and transforming the site into a large garden spot.

Enough pissing and moaning. Here's something to be happy about: a brand new baby goat!

A visit from Drunky McDrunkerson

Looking at the local police blotter today, I saw that Drunky McDrunkerson was recently arrested on some sort of domestic assault/harrassment charge. You may remember that Drunky was the guy I suspected of running over one my hens in the driveway and taking a shit in my yard when I wasn't home.

I hadn't seen Drunky in a month or so. Figured he was due for a visit. Sure enough, he came knocking at my door this evening.

He was surprisingly sober. Usually Drunky has only two speeds - drunk and fucking blotto. I let him in and he told me his tale of woe. Between the thick southern accent and my not really giving a damn, I don't even remember enough about it to tell you what happened. Him and his old lady got in a fight. Not a physical fight, just a yelling match apparently. She called the cops and they took him to the Graybar Hotel where he ended up spending two weeks.

He was released today and discovered that his old lady got a restraining order. So he can't go home. He wanted to know if I knew someplace he could sleep tonight.

No way was I gonna let Drunky stay here. I just don't need the drama. Sadly, it's a testament to how few friends Drunky must have if he came to me for help. I don't care that it's gonna get down to 24 degrees tonight and he'll end up having to sleep in his car. I once slept in my car in the Canadian Rockies when it was 10 degrees below zero. Drunky will be fine.

Lie Bot, what is the saddest thing?

Today, Gramma Guthrie decided she wanted to visit her husband in the old folks home. I first found out about it when I heard her tell her daughter on the phone "Jackie said she'd take me to visit Grampa Guthrie." Her daughter didn't seem to protest so I figured Well, I guess that means we're going to town.

It's been really hard on her, living apart from her husband of almost 60 years. He can't be cared for at home and the family can't afford to put them both together in the old folks home. Since she can't drive herself anymore, she's dependent on family members to take her when it fits their schedule.

So I put Gramma Guthrie's walker in the back seat of her oldladymobile and we drove forty minutes to the assisted living center where her husband has been living for about six months.

I hadn't seen Grampa Guthrie for almost a year and hardly recognized him when we walked into his room. This once large and imposing man seemed so weak and frail.

Gramma Guthrie sat by his side and they held hands. They touched their foreheads together and both started crying. "I told you I'd be back," she told him. "Even if I had to crawl here."

He thanked me for bringing her. I said "You heard her. She would've crawled here if I didn't bring her. I don't need to tell you how stubborn she is."

He told her that she probably wouldn't have to come too many more times because he wasn't likely to last much longer. She assured him she wouldn't be around much longer either. Could it get any sadder?

I gave them a little alone time and wandered the halls, talking to a few of the inmates - just soaking up the Cuckoo's Nest vibe. I got high-fived by a drooling tard sitting in a rocking chair in the middle of a busy hallway, talked to a man in a hospital bed who (I think) wanted me to look at his foot (if that's not what he wanted, I feel really dumb), ran into a nurse I'd worked with in community service (she was in for bounced checks - think about that next time your bank slaps you with a $20 NSF fee), sat in on a brief gossip session and contemplated the posted schedule of events that included lots of Bible study and Christian music. A number of residents could be seen through the open doors of their rooms, laying silently in their beds and staring at the ceiling.

I half expected to see a big, mute Indian propping up one of the walls. I wanted to pull a McMurphy and take 'em all on a wild and crazy field trip.

I'm inclined to believe Gramma Guthrie when she tells me that I shouldn't get old. It looks like it sucks ass.

What in the FUCK?!

This afternoon I was writing a blog post in my head. It was going to be about the 88-year-old lady I've been spending a couple days a week with. For the sake of story-telling, I'll call her Gramma Guthrie.

Gramma Guthrie's brother-in-law unexpectedly died this morning so I spent the day helping her contact relatives and then drove her to her sister's house where mourning family had gathered around the new widow.

The house was full people I'd never met before, except for the widow whom I'd met only briefly last week when she and another sister dropped by Gramma Guthrie's house. I suspect the visit was in part to check out the woman who'd been hired to take care of their older sister.

Being such a small town, I also know one of Gramma Guthrie's brothers - though I didn't see him this afternoon. He was the local farmer that, in 2006, lent me his incubator and gave me a bucket of eggs with which to start my very own flock of chickens. Four of those original chickens (Betty, Biddie, Buddy and Cheepacabra) as well as two generations of descendants are still here.

(In another funny small town twist: It was another sister that called 911 when I wrecked my truck in front of her house last December.)


I was going to write a post about how I tried my best to blend in with the couch while the dead man's children and grandchildren grieved around me. The great-grandchildren, oblivious to the circumstances, ran freely through the house creating happy distractions for those who weren't expecting to face mortality head-on today. I'm not really a "kid person" but I really do think children are necessary at times like this.

I averted my gaze from crying women and men discussing financial matters. I listened intently as the widow recounted the evening before when she and her husband each ate an apple in the very room we were sitting in and she fell asleep in her chair and he covered her with a blanket and when she woke up she saw him in his chair and knew something was terribly wrong because his dentures had fallen out.

I was also going to write about how it turned out that the hospital nurse that was there all night and was so kind to the family turned out to be the very same woman who's marrying Gramma Guthrie's grandson this month.

I was going to write about this and a whole lot more but that all changed when I got home a couple minutes after 4pm. The first thing I noticed as I pulled into the driveway was that a couple of the resident crows were hanging out in the driveway with some of the cats. Cats and crows do not generally hang out together.

I then noticed the non-moving white lump about the size of a chicken. Fuck.

Nothing ruins my day like an unexpectedly dead chicken. At least it was white. That meant it was a factory farm refugee. There's about half a dozen factory farm hens that I can't tell apart from each other. Maybe it was one of them.

No. This one has spurs on her legs like a rooster. Shit. That means it's Diamanda - the squawkiest of all the chickens. I liked her. She'd been here for over a year and a half.

She hadn't been dead long. She was still warm. Ants had only begun to congregate around her lower intestine that was splayed across the driveway. Her head was covered in blood but I couldn't see any other injuries. Twenty other chickens milled around Frankencoop 100 feet away. What the fuck happened?

Her neck was broken. One eye had popped out of it's socket, thankfully still hidden behind its bulging lid. Earlier this year, one of my cats got run over by a car and his eye also popped out - though it did not stay behind the lid. You don't really forget a sight like that. It slowly dawned on me that someone had run over Diamanda in my own driveway.

But who? I hadn't been expecting anyone. There's maybe two dozen people who might drop by unannounced.

Unlike cats or dogs, chickens don't have the sense to get out of the way of a moving vehicle. They like to hunker down in the shade under a parked vehicle but won't get up when you start it up. This is how my very first factory farm refugee, Lemon, died - and she was the smartest damn chicken I ever met.

So, giving my fellow man the benefit of the doubt, I can see how Diamanda might just not have gotten out of the way of an approaching vehicle and the driver might not have even seen her. Often a dozen chickens will block the long driveway up the hill to my house, refusing to move out of the way. (A bit of food thrown from the car window will send the birds running out of the way so I always try to keep a little something handy to "pay the toll.")

Accidents happen, I tell myself.


As I approach the house, I see another clump of white in the grass. I quickly realize it's only some paper and so I ignore it while I carry Diamanda's carcass into the house past the horde of yowling cats. I liked her but I'm still gonna eat her. If it makes you feel any better, I probably won't enjoy it very much. I'd much rather have the company of what was a very lively hen and the couple hundred eggs she would've given me.

After some kitchen prep, I went outside to get a headcount of the birds (all present and accounted for) and locked up the remaining 20 Frankencoop chickens. Back at the house, I threw a little feed to the five chickens that sleep under my porch. There's three long-term resident hens: Murray, Miss Lillian and Annie. The newfound hen, Serendipity, lives there now but doesn't seem too happy so I may move her to Frankencoop. My young rooster, Pasha, recently moved in when he discovered a bunch of unserviced hens were living there.

After ascertaining that all the other birds were okay, I went to pick up the paper that had apparently blown into where the long driveway dead-ends into the yard. That's when I had my truly WHAT THE FUCK moment.

It wasn't just any kind of paper. It was toilet paper. And it wasn't just any kind of toilet paper. It was USED toilet paper. USED TOILET PAPER SMEARED WITH GODDAMNED DIARRHEA! I know it was goddamned diarrhea because the toilet paper was laying on the ground next to a pile of the shit (pun definitely intended).

I'm still willing to give my fellow man the benefit of the doubt and I understand that sometimes you gotta go when ya gotta go. I can totally sympathize with the realization that you are about to shit your pants and looking around and seeing you're completely out of sight from God and everybody and just dropping your drawers and letting loose with the Hershey squirts.

I can even identify with the relief of finding toilet paper in your car with which to wipe your sorry, splattered ass after such a horrifying experience.

BUT WHO THE FUCKS JUST THROWS THE TOILET PAPER IN THE DRIVEWAY?!?!?!

Please tell me what kind of inbred motherfucker just tosses shit-soaked toilet paper in someone's driveway? Trust me, if it was my ass and your driveway, I would've wadded that toilet paper up and stuffed it in my pocket before just dropping it in your yard. Seriously, dude.

If not for the toilet paper, I would've probably never even noticed the shit. Even if I did, I would've just blamed it on the chickens or cats. But not when there's a pile of fucking toilet paper next to it!

I have seen a lot of fucked up shit in my time and can be forgiving of a tremendous amount of trespasses, but this crosses the line. Grind your cigarette butt out in my garden? I'll pick it up when your back is turned and silently curse your name but this is the kind of thing that gets you blacklisted from my life.

So I steamed over this while butchering poor Diamanda. The more I thought about it, the madder I got. I thought about the finite number of people who could've possibly done this. This certainly wasn't the work of a Boomhauer Brother. Contrary to what I may have written about them, they are much classier than this. It certainly wasn't any of my neighbor-cousins. The mail lady would never do anything like that. No way was it the nice Jamacian Jehovah Witness lady that's stops by once a month to drop off the newest copy of The Watchtower.

As I crossed off all the potential visitors in my mind, there was only one I couldn't completely exonerate: An obnoxious drunken hillbilly that I've never written about simply because he's never done anything of note except be drunk every single time I've seen him - whether it's 10am or 10pm. I guess I'll just call him Drunky McDrunkerson.

I hate to accuse Drunky McDrunkerson of shitting in my driveway because that's a pretty heinous thing to accuse somebody of. But fuck if I can think of anyone else that would be capable of doing such a thing. I can totally see him, drunk as fuck, driving up my driveway to talk about hiring me for some job that will never actually materialize, realizing he's about to shit his pants, dropping trou in my driveway, wiping his ass with toilet paper fortuitously found rolling around on the truck floor and absent-mindedly tossing it my yard. I can see him driving off and running over Diamanda without even realizing it. I can see him not remembering any of this tomorrow.

Jesus. Why do I even know people like this?

Oh yeah, that's right. I live in rural Alabama.

Good work if you can get it

Picked up a little work recently helping to take care of an elderly neighbor. For a frail old lady of 88 years and 75 pounds, she's a feisty one.

If I turn my back on her for a couple minutes, she'll be out the door to weed the flowerbed or in the kitchen pulling heavy cast iron pans out of the cabinets to cook lunch. I'll ask her if I can do it for her but she'll always reply "No. But you can help if you want."

I used to be able to keep track of her by the sound of her walker scraping across the floor. Now she's got those tennis ball things on the ends of it and it's much quieter so I have to get visual confirmation of her whereabouts more frequently. I keep telling her I'm gonna put a bell around her neck.

I'm basically there to make sure she doesn't fall or hurt herself. It also gives her family members a break from having to watch her all the time. And I work a helluva lot cheaper than a real in-home care provider. I'm being partially paid in literal chickenfeed - I get to keep the old food I clean out of the refrigerator and cabinets. For the record, chickens don't really care for Froot Loops.

I do some light cleaning and take care of the ironing (she does the laundry herself). I let her do pretty much whatever she wants (as if I could stop her) and just drop whatever I'm doing when she decides she wants to weed the flowerbed/get something from the storage building/deep fry some okra.

One time she decided she wanted to sweep the carport. I followed her out, explaining that I'd be happy to sweep it. "No. I need the exercise. But you can come keep me company."

So while this tiny old woman held onto her walker with one hand and a broom with the other, I was smoking a cigarette and driving the motorized scooter around in circles, thinking This can't look good.

Sometimes we sit and talk. She tells me stories of what life here was like here when she was a little girl in a flour sack dress. She tells me how horrible it is to grow old and become a burden to your children. I remind her of all the dirty butts and runny noses she's wiped as well as the three days of labor she endured during the birth of her daughter and tell her They owe you. This makes her smile. "They owe me."

We take our blood pressure together and then compare results. Her last reading was 208 over 90 and yet she gave me shit for my 127 over 84. But I don't mind because this is the closest thing I have to health care.

Post #24 - You're in the country now, boy

If my current houseguest, Tom, had any doubts that he was deep in the country, they vanished when my neighbors dropped by in a horse-drawn covered wagon to drop off a whole barbecued deer shoulder.

Post #5 - Tractor-schmactor

While most farmers around here have big tractors and other heavy equipment, a couple people I know are still farmin' it old school. Here's a picture of one of the locals on his way to spray his field with pesticide.

Given a choice between a tractor and these horses, I think I'd go with the horses.

Happy New Year!

First off, I'd like to send a congratulatory shout-out to my longtime friend, CC, back in Anchorage. The Nation recently named her one of the Most Valuable Progressives of 2008. More specifically, the magazine named her the Most Valuable Local Media Personality and had this to say:

When Sarah Palin stumbled onto the national stage, after
her selection as John McCain's running-mate, everyone
scrambled to figure out what was up with Alaska's governor.
A lot of the lower-48 blogosphere (and the major media that
followed its lead) obsessed about Palin's family life. But
Anchorage radio host Camille Conte, who is universally known
in Alaska as "CC," steered the discussion toward Troopergate--
the scandal that proved Palin was not the reformer her
supporters claimed but a Cheney-esque abuser of power. CC's
daily "Cutting Edge" show on Anchorage's Air America affiliate,
News-Talk 1080/KUDO: Alaska's Progressive Voice became
required fare for journalists visiting the state--she had better
access than anyone else to the key players, who trusted the
veteran local host--and CC turned up on radio stations across
the U.S. No one else contributed as much to 2008's Palintological
studies.

I had to brag about her to somebody and since nobody around here even knows what The Nation is, much less reads it, I'm bragging about her here on the blog. Yay, CC! Next time you see her, give her a hug and buy her a drink.



Said goodbye to the old year by doing something new: My very first barndance. Yes, an honest to god barndance. In a big red barn and everything.

Went with B.J. Boomhauer and Mrs. Boomhauer and a big jug of B.J.'s homemade blueberry wine. Inside the barn was lots of food and a band that played covers of Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard and Lynrd Skynrd songs. (Huh. I'm surprised that the spellcheck recognizes Lynrd Skynrd.) Outside, behind the barn, was a roaring bonfire that was most welcome as the temps dipped down below freezing.


The party went on until 2am but we left a little after 10pm because Mrs. Boomhauer had to work early in the morning and she was our designated driver.

At home, I stayed up for a couple more hours, stepping out on the back steps at midnight to watch the fireworks. Not any sort of officially sanctioned fireworks show - just people setting them off in their yards. Since I'm up on this hill with such a huge view, I can see fireworks being lit off all across the valley.



The first day of the new year has been much like any other day. Except that my dog, Della, brought me a half-dead possum. I think it was already dying when she found it. Della is a pretty peaceful dog, though I'm told she used to catch rabbits in her younger days.

Just a few day ago, Caleb the rooster got a cut on his comb (the big red thing on top of his head) and was bleeding pretty bad. Nothing life-threatening, but the back of his white head was covered with blood. Della actually cleaned him up, licking all the fresh blood off his head. I can't believe the rooster sat still for that! She's amazingly good with the chickens. Sure, she chases them sometimes but she just likes to fuck with them. Does the same thing to the cats.

The only time she ever gets remotely rough with the birds (or cats) is when they try to steal her food. She will not abide a chicken sticking its beak in her way while she's trying to eat. She snaps at the birds but never hurts them. I've seen her close her mouth over a chicken's entire head without leaving a scratch - she just completely slimes them with dog spit.

Anyway, so I don't think she hurt the possum at all. She just found it in the woods and must've thought "I'll show this to Jackie." And that's how I wound up with a mostly dead possum at my feet.

Before heading back to the house to get the rifle, I covered the possum with a nearby empty wheelbarrow. The cats had begun to gather and I didn't want any of them messing with it. I don't know if the possum had been injured or if it was ill. When I got Della this summer, she came with all her current shots but the cats haven't had any. The last thing Spenardo del Sur needs is a case of rabies. It's bad enough that half the cats recently came down with conjuntivitis (though it has fortunately just about cleared up).

The possum is still out there under the wheelbarrow. I'll deal with the carcass tomorrow. Hopefully, the wheelbarrow will be enough to keep any wild animals away from it tonight. I know there's been a bobcat skulking around at night recently. I've seen its tracks in the driveway and just yesterday found another crushed beer can with teeth marks in it. I've found about half a dozen such mutilated cans over the year - including the one I'd set next to my front door and found the following morning under the porch, pocked with teeth marks and sitting next to fresh feline tracks much larger than anything my cats could've made. If I ever try to catch it, I will bait the trap with beer cans.


Had a nice visit from old Alaskan friends, David & Priscilla, on Christmas Day. Actually, they're Alabamians now - living in Montgomery for the last few years. They drove up for the afternoon, bearing a basket full of goodies for me. Not only did they bring fine European chocolate and a package of curry paste ("In case something happens to one of the chickens"), they also brought a lovely selection of alcohol: a bottle of tequila, a bottle of cabernet sauvignion and six different real beers. Not cheap crappy canned beer like I usually get around here but six delicious real beers.

It's been many months since I've tasted real beer. Everytime I opened one of them, I would spend a minute or two just smelling it. These were beers to be savored, not chugged. And, oh, how I miss good wine! Around here, wines don't come in flavors like reisling, merlot or malbec. They come in flavors like apple, blueberry and pear.

People here don't know what they're missing - nor do they care. They cannot fathom paying eight dollars for a six-pack when you can get a twelve pack of Natty Ice for the same price. It's a crying shame.

Mice, coyotes and rednecks

I've been doing my best to keep the mice in the house under control. For a while there, they'd gotten mighty bold and were driving me crazy. They'd managed to get into kitchen cabinets that used to be off-limits, tearing into previously safe foodstuffs and leaving a mess that then attracted ants. I plugged up the new mouse holes but they just gnawed more of them.

I emptied all the cupboards and gave everything a good cleaning. All vulnerable foodstuffs either went into the freezer, fridge or plastic containers. For the first day or two, the mice merely gnawed on the plastic containers, leaving tiny blue plastic shavings which at least didn't attract ants.

Eventually, their numbers dwindled. I would go days at a time without a sign of a mouse in the house. Oh, I knew they were still there - but at least there were fewer of them. I can deal with a small population.

But the few that stayed behind are crafty, stubborn little fuckers - an emerging strain of supermice. Since regular food is now out of reach, they have gone to great lengths to find other things to eat.

About a two weeks ago, one managed to reach one of the higher bookshelves. It climbed a stack of books and stole all the corn kernel teeth from my Hunter S. Thompson Day of the Dead skull. It's nothing I can't fix but it still pissed me off.




A few days passed and then I discovered a mouse had climbed on top of a dresser and devoured the corner of one of my sugar skulls. This was damage I could not fix but it didn't really ruin the piece. In fact, I kinda liked how it looked with half of the lower jaw missing.

I can't help but wonder: Why am I compelled to make skully art out of food products?

I moved the sugar skulls to the fireplace mantle for safekeeping. Well, that didn't work. Some sly mouse figured out how to get up there. This time, it knocked the damaged skull right onto the floor where it shattered into more than a dozen pieces.


At first I thought simple gravity might be responsible. Perhaps it just tipped over due to the missing corner. But closer inspection revealed fresh teeth marks on the back of a second sugar skull and tiny turds near the base.



But I have a much larger wildlife worry now. Two days ago I saw a coyote in my yard. I was inside around 6pm when Della started barking. She rarely ever barks during the day. I poked my head out the backdoor and saw a large animal about 80 feet from the house. At first I thought it was a small deer but, when it turned to run, I saw a long tail.

"A fox," I thought. "A really big fox that wants to eat the chickens in my front yard." I grabbed my rifle and headed for the front porch (which should now be called the poop deck since the chickens figured out how to get up there). The animal was standing in the tall grass (I really need to mow more often), just looking at me. I took a shot and missed. It ran across the back field. I managed to squeeze off two more bad shots before it disappeared in the brush.

Later that night, I was looking up a little information on foxes and came to the realization that what I'd seen was actually a coyote. I knew coyotes were in the region, I've often heard them at night but this is the first time I've ever seen one. And while I always enjoy spotting new wildlife, I'm quite unhappy about seeing a big, hungry coyote so damned close to my house (and chickens).



I'm still flippin' out about this Sarah Palin thing. She's all over my TV, radio and computer. She's gonna be on Face The Nation this weekend. Tom Brokaw's talking about her. My beloved McLaughlin Group won't shut up about her. Michael Carey and Eric Croft are being interviewed on NPR and CNN is talking about Hollis French and Wev Shea. As an Alaskan-in-exile, this is some seriously weird shit.

It really makes me miss working at the recording studio in Anchorage. Election season was always my favorite time of year because my office was a nonstop parade of politicos recording TV and radio ads - from lowly school board candidates to that indicted troll, Senator Ted Stevens.

Hell, it really makes me miss Hunter S. Thompson. I would give my left tit to hear his take on this circus sideshow.


Politics is one of the most interesting things in the world to me but I have no one here in the boonies to talk to about it. I'm scared to talk politics with these people. The subject does come up from time to time but I'm never the one to bring it up.

I was happy when B.J. Boomhauer volunteered the info that he's voting for Obama. That was a surprise, considering he's such a redneck good ol' boy. He told me that the Republicans had fucked shit up so bad that there's no way he'd vote for one this year.

But before I had a chance to feel all warm and fuzzy about a Boomhauer Brother voting for a black man, I met a straight-out-of-Deliverance motherfucker that made B.J. Boomhauer look like Bobby Seale.

I'd only met this guy once - over a year ago. He recently stopped by to say hi when he saw me working outside. I don't even know how the presidential election came up in the conversation. Lord knows I wasn't the one to bring it up. But, seemingly out of nowhere, he said "If Obama gets in the White House, he's gonna tear up the rose garden and put in a watermelon patch."

Ummm...yeah... It's 2008 and this asshole's making watermelon jokes. I wanted to tell him the joke would be funnier if he said "arugula patch" but figured that he wouldn't get it. Instead, I lamely offered "He certainly can't be any worse than what we've had for the last eight years."

"Bullshit!" Mr. Redneck exclaimed. "Someone's gonna shoot that nigger." The conversation went downhill from there.

Mr. Redneck went on to explain to me how, in the wake of Obama's assassination, the country would descend into anarchy and chaos. All hell would break loose and it would only be a matter of days before people in the nearby cities of Birmingham, Montgomery and Atlanta ran out of food and supplies. Hungry, desperate people would descend on rural areas - like the one we live in - and good, God-fearing folk like ourselves would have to defend our property with our God-given guns.

He also said something about how black people should be grateful that we brought them over as slaves from the barbaric hellhole that is Africa and civilized them, giving them a chance for a better life. I couldn't even respond to this because I had trouble hearing him over the voice in my head, screaming "DID HE REALLY JUST SAY THAT? THERE'S NO FUCKING WAY HE JUST SAID THAT! NO WAY IS ANY OF THIS REAL!"

Ummm...yeah...It's 2008 and this asshole gets to vote.

I really wanted to ask him if he was going to vote for McCain and how he felt about voting for a ticket with a vagina on it. Instead, I quickly changed the subject. What the hell do you say to someone like that anyway?

Well, I guess I could've started with "Get the hell off my property." I apologize for being a gutless wuss.