Archives for category: Politics

We’ve been practicing social isolation, but that is a lot like our rural lives in any event. As we watch from the sidelines, it is increasingly frustrating to observe behaviors that endanger us all. And I’m not talking about the idiots who insist that it’s all a hoax and refuse to adjust to new conditions. After all, those idiots got their information from other idiots–idiots in power.

Yes, it’s the idiots in power that have me frustrated. Folks who were told this would be bad–and instead of preparing, instead of educating the populace, they denied it all, and called it a hoax, blamed others and, in some particularly despicable cases, kept it all hush while they dumped their stocks on the market. Yes, while they should have been making preparations, some were making profits. (Worse yet, some actually invested in sectors that would be benefit from the tragedy.)

This virus is the gift of globalism. Brought to us in America by wealthy tourists and business travelers. In a more perfect world, we’d have been diligent. We’d have been ready to treat the afflicted before this got into the general population. Part of the surprise is in who gets it. Most epidemics are bottom up. They fester in the undernourished, the poor and those forced into crowded conditions. But corona virus is well-named–the crown. It came to us on the heels of international travel, not exactly the bailiwick of the unwashed masses. And those who’ll suffer the most are older people, with a particular emphasis on men. Go figure. You’d think that, with odds like those, the folks in power would sit up and take notice. In this country, this viral infection is the ultimate (and perhaps the only) ‘trickle down.’ Over time, we’ll all be exposed. But wealth may well determine who gets the testing, the ICU beds, and the ventilators.

Don’t get me wrong. In the end, we’ll all pay for it, in suffering and deaths and taxes. Even as we should be focusing on solutions, our government is proposing bail-outs to big business. Not that we don’t need to cushion the blows to the economy, we do. But once again, it’s about who gets it. Who reaps the rewards of the pandemic. While the true victims pay with their lives, the folks in power are parceling out the benefits to their friends and patrons. Believe me, I get it.

IMG_2609

I woke up early, just in time to hear the start of the gunfire. While that sounds alarming, it’s not that unusual–we live about a half mile from a local gun range. What is disconcerting, but oddly normal, is how every adverse news event these days triggers a serious uptick in the use at the gun range.

A stock market drop can do it. Any one of our flavor-of-the-week mass shootings will do it. Political instability can do it. So you just know that the threat of corona virus has them all out blasting away at the range. After all, they may need that firepower if they run low on toilet paper.

I went grocery shopping two days ago. This was not some desperate, Mad Max, dash for supplies; it was my regular grocery day. I’d heard the toilet paper stories–with some mirth. But things were not so light-hearted at Costco. They had employees guarding the bathroom tissue, to ensure that the one-to-a-customer rule was enforced. Sheesh!

But what was of real concern was that it is clear that people are hoarding food. There were no bananas, no organic lettuce, no ground beef (regular or organic), no organic chicken and only a smattering of regular chicken. I actually found a package of organic chicken drumsticks, mixed in a section of chicken wings. I was holding it, looking for more, when a woman next to me tersely demanded to know where I’d found it. She looked tense, and her eyes were locked on my find.

I did find one package of “utility chicken”–cheap cuts that we buy to supplement the kittens’ food. I added that to my cart. In the canned goods department, people were filling their carts. It’s all a little disconcerting. When I got home, the utility chicken was not in with my groceries, nor on my receipt. Apparently somebody lifted it from my cart as I shopped. Sheesh. I spent far less than intended–but it’s a false savings, as it will require a second trip.

Yesterday they closed the schools and public facilities. We’ve had to cancel, or maybe postpone, our Beginning Beekeeping Class. I’m sad about that, but believe that caution is the best plan in these things. If most of us stay home for a bit, hopefully we can knock down this viral head of steam enough to preserve medical resources for those who’ll need them. It’s called flattening the curve. It’s not alarming, it’s just good sense.

But in the meantime, I wish those fools would lay off on the target practice. In the context of the rest of this, it is a bit unnerving.

IMG_2606

This is my bare minimum. You have to do at least this, to qualify to bitch, complain, rant, spew, pontificate or carry on in whatever form you prefer about the state of the union. Of course, you can roll up your sleeves and do more. Please do. But I don’t want to hear a peep out of anyone, if that individual failed to vote.

Voting. Way more effective than whining (especially on the internet.)

IMG_2562

Sorry for the poor photo–they didn’t like the big door open in the cold, and were not cooperative about posing.

At first blush, you might think it smacks of racism. But that’s ridiculous; they are, after all, chickens. But looking for the deeper meaning, there could be something equally sinister in play.

We keep chickens for the eggs. They are not pets. (Admittedly, though, we do get fond of them and their antics.) Originally, we had four chickens. You may recall that our neighbor’s dog ate one, leaving three. You’d think three would be enough.

Not all chickens lay an egg, every day. And, it turns out, in the absence of a rooster, some hens will ‘self-designate’ as the leader, and, with this elevated status, will not lay. We have such a self-important hen. (Though we try not to name our chickens, we call this one, Alpha.) One would think the solution would be to dispense with the narcissist chicken; but we’ve learned that another chicken is likely to just take her place. Better the devil you know….

So, this summer we obtained three more chickens. We have chicken selection parameters, they must be winter-hardy, dual use, and generally healthy. Our existing chickens are Chanteclers, a French-Canadian variety known for success in cold climates. Ours are Buff colored–easy to locate in the landscape–winter or summer. At the time we decided to expand our flock, I couldn’t find any Chanteclers, so we settled on Barnevelders, another heritage variety. The Barnevelders are beautiful, black and cinnamon colored, with a hint of iridescent green on their necks and heads. (I’m normally not impressed with ‘good-looking,’ but I have to admit, they’ve grown on me.)

You cannot introduce chickens easily. They have established pecking orders, and will fight with new chickens, and kill chicks. There’s a whole process to the merging of unfamiliar chickens. These Barnevelders were babies, so we set them up in their own coop, in an adjacent, fenced chicken pen.

Disaster struck. Some chicken ailment hit the babes. One day, one looked wobbly, then the next, two, dying within a day, leaving only one lonely chick! Chickens cannot thrive as solitary creatures. We were left with a dilemma–what to do with a very lonely solo chick, who had to be in quarantine for a week? She survived, and I drove back to my chicken-lady mentor/breeder, to fetch a replacement buddy. It all worked. The new chicken was a tad older and bigger, just what the lonely solo needed. They bonded immediately. And so we continued–hoping that we could combine the two flocks before the weather got really cold. (More chickens equals more body heat.)

We did all the right things. We started treating them, generously along the fence. Then, when they were accustomed to that, we opened the gate between the coops, for supervised visitation. They seemed to get along–without too much squabbling. When a particularly cold night was predicted, we waited for later in the day, and locked the Chanteclers out of their coop. To our relief, when evening fell, all the chickens retired for the night into the into the remaining, larger of the two coops. It seemed to go well. Or so we thought.

Then next morning we checked. The littlest chicken (the original survivor of the scourge)  was dead! Drowned in the water dish! Bastards! We felt terrible. Of course there’s the possibility that, drowsy, she fell in and drowned during the night. (Yeah, right.) Her buddy Barnevelder was nudging her–to get her back up. It broke our hearts.

What a conundrum! Obviously, the surviving Barnevelder was not safe with the other three. Neither would she be able to survive cold winter nights on her own. We needed to find the right chicken combination. It took a couple of tries, when finally we put Einstein (the Chantecler runt) together into the same coop as Big (the surviving Barnevelder). It’s a working match, black and buff.

It’s not about color. It’s about pecking order, and social standing within the flock. We are up against deeply ingrained genetic rules of socializing and tribalism. When it works, you’re looking at combinations that shelter and nurture each other. When it doesn’t, it’s ugly, fowl play and even murder.

We won’t try to mix the two groups until spring. Perhaps, with the added freedom of free-ranging, they’ll make it work. In a larger context, I read the news, shake my head, and wonder if we can.

 

IMG_2539

It’s not like we weren’t expecting it. We have, after all, been smug about it, boasting, “This  year we’re ready.” The bees are winterized, the chicken coops prepped, the wood, chopped, split and stacked. We even cleared the composter and spread the completed compost onto the harvested garden beds. But we still had things to do. Relying on previous years, I thought I still had time to put in new garden beds–and plant bulbs for spring. Rick has just a little bit of wiring left in the barn.

And we’re not surprised to have some snow at the close of October. It’s almost a tradition. The joke is that folks in Michigan get their Hallowe’en costumes three sizes large–so they’ll fit over their winter coats. What we didn’t expect was that it’d stay this cold, this long.

Last year I was transplanting, dormant, into December. This year, I’d have to search in the snow to find the garden beds. It often snows in autumn–and then it melts. This year, it didn’t just snow. It pelted! It stripped the colored leaves from the trees, nearly overnight. That snow? We thought, just like Bolsonaro*, that it would never stick. We were wrong.

Memorial Day–the Killing Fields

Memorial Day is a solemn event. It is our moment to reflect on the price of freedom. The highest cost of that price is paid individually, by those who perish at war, and their families, who bear the loss. It should not be taken lightly. In reflecting on the cost, we, as a nation, need to gird ourselves against those in office who would put our service members in harm’s way, without serious reason to do so.

That is why this Administration’s ironic and calculated use of the holiday to sidestep Congress’s efforts to minimize the risk of war is so alarming. Congress has seen fit to restrict the White House’s ability to participate in Saudi Arabia’s relentless attacks on Yemen. It is, after all, solely Congress’ right and responsibility to declare War. This afternoon, after most members of Congress had left DC, for the Memorial Day Break, the Administration announced that it would use its emergency powers to sidestep the clear will of Congress, and resume military support of the Saudis in their brutal attacks on Yemen.

Trump and the Missus took the opportunity observe Memorial Day with a visit to the Arlington Cemetery.

Where is the emergency? American interests are not at stake. The Saudis’ war on Yemen has been horrifying–and indiscriminately visited upon civilians. Their siege mentality has starved hundreds of thousands of children. The Yemenis never did anything to the United States–why would we want to jump on that bandwagon?

Nothing is so alarming and dispiriting as the disingenuous expression of patriotism on Memorial Day, while, at the same time, doing one’s absolute best to ensure yet another brutal and unfounded war.

Signs of the Times

A.V. Walters

It’s almost over, thank god. I can hardly wait for the end of this election season. My inbox is overflowing with solicitations for money, for support, or just for the opportunity to wallow in righteous indignation.

I admit it, I’m a wonk. I research the various races and candidates on the ballot. I spend the time on the internet checking the records and policies of all the candidates. It isn’t a straight party ticket for me; I don’t vote tribal. My choices will be on principle and on the issues. I don’t reward bad behavior.

Though it’s no substitute for research, I confess I enjoy the rough and tumble world of yard-signs. We’re relatively new to the community and nothing is as revealing as what folks post on their front lawns. I chuckle when the lawn signs advocate for inconsistent candidates—is it marital schism, ignorance or some more primal form of loyalty dictating those screaming confessionals?

For the first time in my life I have posted a yard sign. It’s for a minor local position. I like this woman, I like her policies and she’s the wife of the family that owns the local hardware. I get a lot of my local information from the characters who hang out at the hardware. Like many candidates in the area, she boasts roots in the area that go back generations. I see that as a warning to uppity folks, like me, who’d consider a run for office on principle. Around here, who “your people are” matters a lot more than your positions. Local is tribe, too. As a newbie, if I ran for office, I wouldn’t stand a chance.

This has been a particularly hard fought election year. The local paper reports that there’s been a serious spate of yard-sign shenanigans. People are stealing yard-signs. People are posting yard signs in yards, other than their own. I’m not sure which is more offensive, silencing free speech or trying to pawn off support where there is none. I see it all as a form of dastardly contagion, direct from the top down. It’s been an ugly contest season, in which the two-party system has failed us. The major candidates at the top of the ticket have failed to behave, failed to follow the conventional rules of decorum.

Call me old fashioned, but I like civil discourse, honesty and issues-based debate. It goes to my deep belief in deliberation through the marketplace of ideas. It ought not be about personalities, but about weighing the value of the candidates’ ideas and records. Indeed, it’s clear that both of the Presidential contenders have done their utmost to conceal just who they are from the voters. This is not a good way to start a relationship.

This kerfuffle of a contest has brought out the brute in everyone. Further down the food chain, that same childish ugliness plays out, stealing signs and undermining democracy. What’s missing in all this is that on the morning of November 9th, we’re going to have to get up, get back to business, and figure out a way to move forward in the world—or are we doomed to this new fashion of obstruction for its own sake?