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.
First off, I want to thank everyone who has donated to the cause. All I want for Christmas is to stay out of the pokey in the new year and, thanks to good people like you, it looks like I may get my wish.
My court date isn't for a couple more weeks yet so there's still time to donate if you haven't already. Even five or ten dollars helps. Think of it as the beer or two you would buy me if we ran into eachother. Been borrowing a neighbor-cousin's truck to get to a few cleaning jobs but otherwise I've been sticking around the homestead. That job at the nearby poultry farm never really panned out. A few days here and there but not nearly as much work as I'd hoped for.
Been cleaning stuff out of the old Mitsubishi I drove from Alaska. It's just been sitting in the driveway, serving as a storage unit for over a year. In the summer, I used the heat trapped inside to sun-dry tomatoes, apples and hot peppers. After I get it emptied, I'll give it a jumpstart and see how she runs.
The only reason I wasn't driving it was because I had the truck. No sense paying insurance on two cars. I was going to switch back to the car this spring when the tags expired on the truck because the car gets better mileage. Ah well...I guess it'll happen a little sooner than I planned.
No matter how far out in the boonies you live, you cannot escape advertising. It will find you!
Recently had a blimp fly directly over the house. As I've mentioned before, the airspace above Spenardo del Sur sees many types of flying contraptions. Most noticeable are the navy jets which frequently pass overhead at sometimes alarmingly low altitudes. Helicopters are common too - whether solo or in military groups of eight. Commercial jets fly way up high and almost out of sight but, when the weather is just right, they leave the sky criss-crossed with contrails. But blimps are rare. This was only the second blimp I've seen since moving here - and the first one probably didn't get within 3 miles of my place.
But this one was coming straight for us. Della switched into guard dog mode and ran to the edge of the hill to confront the intruder.
I couldn't help but laugh as she wildly barked at the approaching blimp. But, in the end, the blimp did leave so I guess Della had the last laugh. I gave her a treat and a little extra lovin' for being such a fierce guard dog.
Glad to see solstice pass. While winters aren't nearly as dark (or cold) in Alabama as they are in Alaska, I'm still glad to herald the return of the sun. Thirteen years in Alaska makes you realize that winter solstice is the really big kahuna of the holiday season. Yay, sun! Go, sun!
Well, it's Christmas Eve. I didn't put up any decorations this year. Last year I hung some lights & decorations on Donner the Dead's antlers. But I sold Donner to B.J. Boomhauer a couple months ago. He'd been begging me to sell him that caribou head since the day he laid eyes on it. A few months ago I needed some cash and I finally gave in.
It was two years ago over the holidays that Donner & I drove out across the frozen wilderness, crossing from Alaska to the Yukon to British Columbia and south back into the states. We had some good times.
Donner chillin' in the Hollywood Hills.
Donner will get a spot of honor in the cabin B.J. built this year by the creek on his farm. He loves that raggedy old caribou head. On the first few days of deer season, he drove around with Donner's antlers in the back of his pickup just to fuck with the locals.
This year, the only sign of Christmas in the house is the holiday cards on the mantle. And I'm cool with that. I spent a decade working jobs that abnormally extended the holiday season to anywhere from 3 to 10 months of the year. It's nice to take Christmas off.
I didn't even build a fire tonight. Hell, it's 60 degrees out. Screw ambience - I'd rather save the wood for a cold night. I'm drinking some of B.J. Boomhauer's homemade blueberry wine and munching on toasted pecans.
Playing old records on the record player I bartered for last summer. No Christmas music though. Currently playing old Beatles LPs (though "Hey Jude" does kinda sound like a Christmas song - at least it does when you're drinking blueberry wine). When I was in junior high, I got a few friends to raid their parents' record collections and bought many old 50s & 60s LPs for a fraction of their worth.
I'm actually listening to these records now to ascertain their condition. The time has come to sell them. I need the money more than I need the vinyl.
Thinkin' about making a pot of rice. Need to clean up the house a little. I'm expecting guests tomorrow - a couple old Alaskan friends who currently live only a couple hours away.
The mice have not stopped stirring. The world has not stopped spinning. It is just another night.
Last but not least: Angela has finally jumped on the blog train. Check out her daily drawings at Life In Spenard.
Was hired to do some cleaning for a guy that I’m pretty sure will be the next Boomhauer Brother. We’ll call him Ray. He lives not far from B.J Boomhauer’s farm. I hadn’t expected to work anywhere except home on Monday but Ray stopped by that morning and asked if I’d be available for a couple hours work. Hell, yeah! I’m poor. I need the dough. I tell him I’ll be by in an hour and a half. I haven’t eaten yet and need a little something in my belly otherwise I’ll be absolutely starving in four hours. I stuff a little of the previous night’s pasta in my maw, just enough to keep me going until I’d get back home around 3pm - almost 2 hours before sundown. That’s the time the chickens need to be locked up inside Frankencoop so as to be safe from nocturnal predators. (After the dog attack from the last post, I kept them locked up for about a week but then started letting them out again. I hate keeping them locked up all day and, besides, it's much cheaper when they can forage for their own food.) After a while of working at Ray’s place, he offered me a whiskey and coke. Alcohol - especially hard liquor - is a rare luxury for me these days so I gladly accept. We take a smoke break and shoot the shit for a while. As I get back to work, he refills my glass before putting it away. The next break saw my glass refilled a couple more times.
I used to be able to hold my liquor but now out of practice. Plus, I don't always remember that there’s 65 pounds less of me to hold that alcohol with. By the time three o'clock rolled around, I had no business being behind the wheel. I told myself that it was only about three miles and it was all back roads.
It was broad daylight on a clear afternoon. I was driving down the road - a bumpy red dirt road winding through the backwoods. I’ve been down this very road a couple hundred times and I never go over 25 miles an hour. I always have so much crap in the back of the truck: stuff pulled from the old barn that needs to come into the house, stuff from the house that needs to go in the storage shed, stuff in the storage shed that needs to go to Frankencoop. You get the idea.
When going down bumpy dirt roads, I worry about the tailgate dropping down while I’m driving. It only happens about once every four or five months - but that’s enough to be extra cautious when I have dozens of glass canning jars in the back of the truck. These jars - dating mostly from the ’40s and ’50s - had been washed and loosely boxed for transport to the storage shed. I probably would’ve done this Monday had Ray not dropped by.
I have no recollection of the accident. All I know is, about a mile down the road , the car veered out of control. I went back to look at the tire tracks the next day. There’s not much traffic back there and the tracks were still easily visible. I could see where I just started swerving. And the gouge in the middle of the road where my wheel came off. Not just the tire but the whole damned wheel. Busted the rear axle too. And the scars on the embankment where my truck came to rest after one complete rollover (in which it also ended up facing in the other direction).
Good thing I always wear my seatbelt. It's one of the few good habits I have.
All those glass canning jars in the back went flying. Fortunately, I have a topper on the truck. Or I should say “had.” It ended up tearing loose in the rollover but did managed to confine most of the broken glass to the pickup bed.
I don’t know how fast I was going Monday afternoon but, like I said, I never drive over 25 mph on that road. I don’t know why I pulled the wheel so hard to the left. Nor do I remember the driver’s side window facing the dirt or the buckling of the windshield. The most exciting thing to happen to me during my almost two years here and I miss it.
I do remember the old lady asking if I was alright. I remember picking glass up out of the road and tossing it the back of the now-open truck bed. And I remember B.J. Boomhauer coming to the rescue. He’d heard about the accident on his police scanner. Since he was already so close by, he went to take a look.
He stayed with me and my mangled truck until the cops arrived. He left to take a bucketful of feed to my chickens and locked up them in the coop for me. When he came back, he was able to talk the tow truck driver into dropping the truck off at my house down the road as opposed to taking it all the way to town 30 miles away. The driver agreed to it only after insisting on payment up front. God bless B.J., he paid it.
For a while, it was looking as though I might be able to just walk away from the mess - only be stuck paying B.J. back for the tow bill. But then the news came over the radio: a state trooper had somehow been called and was on the way. Fuck. Any hopes of making this quietly go away vanished.
It was almost an hour wait for him to show up. Then I was whisked away to the county jail about 15 miles away. Fingerprinted, photographed and suited up in orange. After being issued my mat, sheet, blanket, toilet paper, comb, towel and toothpaste, I was dumped in a concrete block room with a dozen other women. Most of them were sitting on the floor in front of a small television that sat atop an upside down garbage can. It was tuned into an episode of “Samantha Who.” Someone said it was the only channel that was coming in worth a shit.
Most of these women were not here on an overnight visit like me. They were serving out sentences of anywhere from a few days to a couple months. It gets really boring in the Randolph County Jail. I was something new and therefore interesting. After about 90 minutes of being the center of attention, I just wanted to lay down and not think about it all for a little bit.
I know some of you, at some point in your life, have seen the inside of county jail. I don’t need to tell you that you don’t sleep well in jail. But, for those of you who haven’t had the experience, it’s a very noisy place. Lots of people in jail are loud people. They don’t care if you’re trying to sleep. Sounds echo in those concrete walls. Everything is amplified. You hear people through the walls. You can’t always tell what they’re saying but you can hear them. A cellmate demonstrated that, if you yelled directly into the vent next to my bunk, you can carry on a conversation with someone in the juvi section. Of course, she did this while I was trying to sleep.
Being the new fish, I got the least desirable bunk. It was a top bunk in a room that slept four. The other top bunk had two metal steps bolted to the wall to help getting up there. My bunk was missing that amenity. You had to step on the lower bunk while pulling yourself up on the frame of neighboring bunk bed. You threw your leg over the metal edge of the bunk that dug into your skin - even through the orange jumpsuit - and use your upper body strength to hoist yourself into bed.
And if you had to pee in the middle of the night, you ran the risk of stepping on your lower bunkmate during the dismount. And the toilet in our cell was the loudest toilet I’ve ever heard in my life! The toilets in the other two cells were probably just as loud but were muffled to my ears by the concrete walls. But the cold bare steel bowl in our cubical sounded like a jet engine.
At 4:30 am, breakfast was served. A Styrofoam plate with a small serving of plain scrambled eggs - no discernable salt or pepper, thin oatmeal with only the slightest hint of sugar and one slice of unadorned slice of stale white bread. I hadn’t eaten anything in about 17 hours so I greedily accepted the grub. I watched other inmates do a little trading. “If you’re not gonna eat your eggs, I’ll give you my bread for ‘em.” I just ate my food in silence, leaning against the wall, dumping the empty tray in trash before clambering back into my top bunk. Most everybody went back to sleep within half an hour of eating.
I grabbed a few more hours of shitty sleep until finally climbing out of bed a little before 8am. I’d been told I’d go before I judge around eight. I wanted to be sure my hair was combed and my face was washed. During booking, I’d gotten a look at myself in the mirror. Big mark on my forehead. Bigger than a scratch but smaller than a gash. I could feel a couple knots along my hairline. I didn’t know it yet but I had developed a big purple shiner. No mirrors in the jail cells. Turned my socks inside out. They were dirty and spotted with blood. That doesn’t look good. I don’t know why I wasn’t given back my shoes. Everybody else had their shoes, Mine were with all my other clothes in a paper sack elsewhere in the building.
I sat in the common area between the cells, where the TV/garbage can set up was. I sat there for at least an hour and a half, waiting to see the judge. Everyone else was still asleep. I watched some fuzzy CNN for a while but then the reception on all channels cut out unexpectedly, leaving me alone with no books, no newspaper, no nothing. Not even cigarettes. That’s fucking cruel. My fellow inmates said the men get to smoke. I made some tiny paper airplanes out of a scrap of paper found on the table.
Finally, a female officer called my name and I was told to gather all the stuff I’d been issued and follow her. I was getting out. No appearance before the judge. My half-asleep bunkmate muttered “Congrats” as I pulled my mat off the top level. I gave her my roll of toilet paper.
I was led back to the room where I’d been booked and handed the sack holding my clothes. I changed out of my orange jumpsuit with “RANDOLPH CO JAIL” in black block letters running down the leg and into the grubby work clothes I’d worn the day before - now splattered with blood.
Then I was led into a room where B.J. Boomhauer’s smiling face waited to greet me! He'd come in to fill out all the necessary paperwork and take me home. We still had to go across the parking lot to the courthouse and go see a man about a court date, but then I was going home.
I face the judge early next month. Regardless of the outcome, I will be stuck with some hefty fines. Fines I cannot really afford considering I live on only about $300 a month. So I’m in a money gathering frenzy right now because I don't want to go back to the pokey. I’ve already sold the truck for parts-n-scrap, though I still have to finish cleaning all my broken crap out of it first. Also scrounging around for more stuff to sell on eBay. I’ve still got a number of housecleaning gigs set up for the month but now have to borrow someone else's car to get to them.
I still have the Mitsubishi I drove from Alaska - all it needs is a jumpstart and a tire inflated. But before it’s street legal, I have to get new plates, tags and registration. And that costs more money that I don’t have. Not to mention my insurance rates will go up now. And property taxes are due at the end of the month. And all my regular bills.
So, if anybody out there wants to make a donation, I ain't too proud to beg.
Bocephus Boomhauer stopped by in his truck last week. Two of his dogs followed him up the long drive leading to my house. The dogs have followed him up here before and I always keep one eye on them because they always seem to keep one eye on the freely wandering chickens. Up until now, the dogs had never bothered the birds and would semi-obey Bocephus when he called them.
But Wednesday, as Bo and I were talking in the front yard, one of the dogs started chasing a hen. The second dog joined in the chase. The hen became increasingly frantic which only excited the dogs more. No amount of Bo's yelling was going to stop the dogs.
I took off running after them. As I passed through the remains of the tomato patch, I snatched a 3-foot wooden stake out of the ground. The dogs chased the poor bird about 50 yards before finally pinning her, leaving a trail of white feathers in their wake. I charged like a sword-wielding warrior.
The dogs ran off and I gingerly picked the hen up out of the grass. She was still alive. She had some bad puncture wounds on her back but, before I could check for other injuries, I saw the dogs running towards Frankencoop where 17 other chickens were congregated. So, with the injured hen tucked under my left arm and a tomato stake in my right hand, I charged down the hill.
The dogs ran into the flock, snapping and barking. The chickens scattered like a billiard break. Chaos ensued. I put the injured hen down on the ground near the coop. She was heavy - about eight pounds. Felt even heavier after two consecutive 50-yard dashes. For the next few minutes I sprinted to and fro, swinging my tomato stake, trying to keep the dogs away from the birds.
Sometime while this was going on, Bo drove his truck from the house down to Frankencoop. He yelled at the dogs but they paid him no mind. He asked if I had a gun but I told him it was up at the house.
The dogs chased another hen towards the road. I rushed after them but, before I could reach them, they pinned her to the ground and started to bite her. Once again, the dogs ran off when I got close. This time they ran to the road and headed up the hill to Bo's house. Bo said he was going to go home and make sure the dogs stayed away from my place.
I turned back to face the coop and there wasn't a chicken in sight. Not even the hen that had just been attacked or the injured hen I put on the ground. I walked inside the coop and found Corny the rooster hiding out in the back room. I was exhausted. My legs were rubber, I could barely stand. My tomato stake sword was now a cane. But there were still 17 hens to account for.
I returned to the house and checked on the three remaining chickens that were still in the front yard where this whole fracas began. I threw the rifle in the truck and drove back to the coop. With a bucket of feed in my hand, I set out to find my birds.
Most of them had taken cover in the thick brush between the coop and the woods. I trekked through the kudzu and briars, trying to coax them out with the feed. A few slowly followed me but most weren't ready to come back into the open. A few had hidden in the brush between the coop and goat pasture, including the one the dogs had attacked near the road. She was dead when I found her. Her belly had been ripped open and her intestines shredded. I'm surprised she was able to manage the 30-foot distance between the attack and where I found her. I put her in the back of the pickup.
More of the birds were making their way back to the coop. After about an hour, I had rounded them all up except for the first hen that had been attacked - the one I'd set on the ground. It took about another 20 minutes to find her cowering in the kudzu. She was still alive. I took her up to the front yard and started fixing up a cage in the house. I still didn't know the extent of her injuries but it was obvious she couldn't sleep under my porch like she usually does - especially since it was supposed to be below freezing that night.
I set her up in a large cage with food and water. Her appetite seemed good and she was able to walk, albiet with a limp. There didn't seem to be any internal injures. As long as her wounds didn't get infected, maybe she'd be able to pull through.
She didn't. She died after a little more than 24 hours.
They were both big white factory farm refugees. Chicken house chickens just can't fly like my other birds. Makes them an easier mark for predators. Neither of these two birds had names. I can't even tell most of the white hens apart from eachother.
I guess that's what made it easier to salvage the meat from these two hens. There are some of the chickens that I could never bear to eat. But neither of these two hens had been standouts - just good, solid egg layers that looked damned cute running around the yard. And I'm too poor right now to even think about not eating them.
Bo came back later and apologized. Gave me a couple bucks for the dead birds. Said he'd shoot the dogs himself if they ever killed another chicken.
Since the attack, the Frankencoop chickens have been locked up most of the time. Once a day, I let them out for a couple hours while I work nearby where I can watch over them. Of course, the gun is never far from my side during these supervised visits. The three remaining chickens sleeping under my front porch still get all-day access to the outdoors.
Eventually, all the chickens will have their outdoor privileges reinstated. But, for now, I am being an overprotective mother hen.
Ah...what can I say about this new morning in America that hasn't been said already? It's been a long eight years and I'm glad to see this chapter finally come to a close.
I'm not holding my breath that President Obama (God, I do love how that sounds!) will fix everything. Honestly, was I the only one just a little creeped out by the crowd in Grant Park droning "Yes we can" in that monotonous tone? Reminded me of Catholic mass - or perhaps I'm thinking of a scene from Beneath the Planet of the Apes.
But here in rural Alabama, I am a lone liberal sheep surrounded by wolves. The vote pretty much followed racial lines here in my county - 70% McCain, 30% Obama (with a few scattered votes for third parties). After comparing the election returns to the county demographics, I've come to the conclusion that all the white people in the county who voted for Obama would probably fit in my house.
And the white people who voted for McCain are scared. There are seriously people here who think that the America they love is about to disintegrate into socialist dust. Obama will take their money and give it to liberal, godless, abortion-having, revolutionary, evolutionary terrorist homosexuals and they won't be able to stop him because he's going to take away their guns too.
They're scared because they think Obama is a Muslim. They're scared because they think Obama's former pastor is unAmerican. I'm scared because they can't see the contradiction here.
But what they are really afraid of is a black man wielding power over them.
They don't even use his name. The polite ones call him "the black guy." Of the (admittedly few) locals I've talked politics with, my neighbor the former Klansman is about the only one who hasn't said anything rude about Obama. In fact, he didn't even grimace when I told him who I was going to vote for.
When I first moved here almost two years ago, I was shocked by the old-school racism that was so prevelant in these parts. Not to say racism doesn't exist in other states where I've lived (Michigan, California, Alaska), but Yankees at least have the shame to pretend they're not racist. The overt nature of southern racism is unsettling to my liberal soul. And I have a feeling I ain't seen nothin' yet.
The other important issue here in my little corner of Dixie was whether or not to allow legal alcohol sales in the county. Of course, this referendum failed but at least the vote was fairly down the middle with legal alcohol sales losing by only a few hundred votes. The gap narrows a little more each time it shows up on the ballot.
What kind of backward backwoods Baptist nightmare have I found myself in?
But life goes on at Spenardo del Sur. The animals don't care who's president or how far away the nearest beer is. So let's just skip ahead to picture time.
A yet-to-be-named kitty munches on a trout head.
John Gatto and Bandit tussle over a trout carcass.
Even the chickens like trout.
Yet-to-be-named kitty caught a rabbit.
Murray the chicken hangs out on the poop deck while Bandit naps.
I named her Murray because her crooked clipped beak gives her mug a look that reminds me of a young Caddyshack-era Bill Murray. (And besides, whoever heard of a hen named Bill?)
