The Dark Ages

It is Fall here in God’s Country, roughly defined as that area bounded by Michigan, Ohio, Kentucky, and Illinois, but excluding a few independent-minded counties in the southwest of the state. Yes, it's Autumn, or as we prefer to call it, The Dark Ages.

At issue is who we want to be. Growing up in the Midwest we were seldom on the cutting edge of anything. We got our fashion and our culture second-hand. When the cool kids on either coast were done with them, we were next. If we were one up on anybody, it might have been the kids living in the Great Plains, but we’ll never know since we didn’t get out much.

Despite the privileges of being raised in tightly knit communities and having the advantage of good, healthy living, we wanted more. And that more was at either extreme of the country. California was a bit too extreme, but we could do New York. That was the ticket. When the New York Stock Exchange opened, we wanted to be waiting at the door. When the ball dropped in Times Square at the first second of the New Year, we just knew it was meant for us, too. The only way to make that happen was to share something we all had. Time.

So today when it is 5 a.m. in Washington (the one on the Potomac) you can just bet it is 5 a.m. in Lafayette (the one here, for Pete’s sake), because Washington and Lafayette were tightly bonded when this country was in labor. When it is noon in An-napolis, it is noon in India-napolis, because the ‘napolises notoriously stick together. And when it is 9 p.m. in Princeton, New Jersey, well it is only 8 p.m. in Princeton, Indiana because they’re part of the independent bunch that thinks Chicago does a better job of telling time.

You know, those feisty people in the lower left-hand corner of the state may have it right. As in correct. I rose early this morning and decided to make the most of the extra time. I gathered my photography gear and headed to a local park to capture the sunrise. Here is what I got.

It should have been there, or at least close. Just look at the time!

Aren’t such things on a schedule? In Spring of this year, it all worked as it should. I was living between Baltimore, Maryland and Washington, DC at the time. When the Standard Time, as defined by The People of the East (with whom I identified), called for a sunrise then it was so. When we were done with that day and the local almanac said “so long, Sunshine,” that was so as well. Meanwhile, in the Midwest, I expect we had buyer’s remorse because neither event was true. We couldn’t raise the sun on time in the morning and putting it to bed was just as difficult.

Look here. Would you want to sell mukluks in Miami, Florida? Probably not. It might be the right product, but the wrong place. I contend that we are in the right place, but the wrong time.

Hmm. Right Place, Wrong Time.
(Perhaps not precisely the same message, but it grooves, doesn’t it?)

We’re asking quite a bit of the burning orb, aren’t we? “Emerge over the horizon and illuminate everything from Maine to Key West and all the way to the Illinois line. But don’t shine over there. Got it? Okay, go!” That even felt silly to type. I can only imagine what it felt like to write it into a resolution.

Now we ask the majority of the state’s citizens to change their processes and lifestyles to accommodate a decision rather than changing the decision to accommodate Nature—which shows little inclination to change on our behalf. I’m not saying it’s right and I’m not saying it’s wrong, but I am saying it’s silly and fairly easily remedied, should we decide to. Meanwhile, would you turn on that light, please?

Sturdy Stock

When you do what you do, it's just doing what you do. Some people humbly accept things about themselves that are extraordinary to many of us. For instance, I heard this story from Teeby, one of two brothers.

Teeby finally got to go away on vacation. If you don't farm, that may not seem like a big deal. It can be. It was for Teeby and, as a consequence, it was for Emby, Teeby's brother.

While Teeby was digging his toes into the snow-white sands on the beach of Florida's panhandle, Emby was minding the farm.  This meant feeding the cattle and waiting for one of the cows to calve. Emby did all his chores, then went to take care of Teeby's. And there it was. The cow had calved. Emby went into the stall to feed the cow and to check on the calf.

Before I continue, you should know that cattle are a lot like people you may have encountered. Some are unattractive and some are quite comely. Some are well-dispositioned and some are, well, squirrelly is a term I've heard used. And sometimes the blessings from the Almighty are not visited twice upon the same individual. For instance, you may find that the plain-looking are the beneficiaries of great wisdom or common sense, while the stunningly attractive are bereft of both. Such is the case with cattle.

One cow's abnormally passionate nurturing instinct was nearly Emby's undoing when he stepped between the calf and the mother. She went nuts. The rest of it was kind of a blur to Emby, and thus to Teeby, so you can imagine how much detail I can offer. Suffice it to say that the result was a panting, emotionally overwrought cow, a bruised, aching Emby with a torqued back and at least one broken rib, and sadly a trampled, lifeless calf.

Teeby returned home to a large hole in the ground covered by freshly turned earth and a brother none too pleased with him or his cow.

"Well, that's a shame," you might say. "But what does it have to do with sturdy stock?"

I met Teeby and Emby a week later to celebrate adding 250 bales of hay to the collection already in the hayloft. The snag was that we couldn't celebrate until we put them there.

Emby stayed below for round one. One-by-one he threw the contents of one wagonload of hay onto the spikes of the elevator and the long chain pulled the gears until the bales slid into the hayloft. Teeby and I stacked. So far so good. Two guys who exited high school before Jimmy Carter left office stacked bales while Teeby's older brother stayed below and unloaded a wagonload of hay by himself.

For round two we switched. Teeby took over unloading duties. Emby and I were in the hayloft receiving while Teeby tossed 60-lb bales through the tiny window like it was nothing. In fact, Emby and I had a hard time keeping up. We told Teeby we were pacing ourselves so he would get rest breaks. We lied.

Finally, we got the second wagon unloaded and convened at the well. Emby and Teeby have a well outside the barn with some of the coolest, finest spring water to be had. It tastes good before the work begins, but it is a splendid libation and a bracing sponge bath when the work is complete. After drinking, dousing, and de-dusting ourselves, we called it a day. That meant that, for me, it was a day. For them, it was one more chore marked off the list, with quite a few to follow.

Three men. Two wagons. One broken rib and a sore back. Sturdy stock, I tell you. These farmers are made of sturdy stock.