Santiago

Santiago ( The Apostle St.James the Greater , patron saint of horsemen) <©> Seven Roads Gallery 2011

Let's put things into context.

Today is All Saints Day.  In some cultures, I'd be sitting in a graveyard with picnic fare.  There is a graveyard for the poor Barre family who lived in dipstick's house(the fence guy) in the cornfield behind us.  I am not planning on a picnic today. I started a fire in the wood furnace to be able to hang clothes in the basement.  We reached a new low in darkness when I complained to Dawn that at 7:19 this morning, it was still dark.  It might rain.

I dusted off St.James this morning, admiring the santero's work.  The horse "in pose",  the metal miniature stirrups, braided reins and attention to detail are the mark of a fine craftsman.

 I'll be remembering a few personal saints on All Saints Day. They include my mother, Violet, my stepfather Joseph and Gertie Sennett.

Post Script:
OK, so I'm a day early and a dollar short.  Blame it on not having to punch a time clock and Jorge's reports from the cities.  Friends were calling to asking him to a movie, brunch , whatever, so they wouldn't have to answer the door on Sunday-Trick or Treat day.  To me that sounds like Scrooge, but, we don't have trick or treaters out here.  When I lived on the cusp of the inner city, kids were imported in bus loads to our neighborhood.  The reason, better treats and a safer Halloween for the kids.

When Jorge pointed out my mistake, I remembered my early morning stop in bloggerland. Next time, more coffee..

All Hallowed's Eve

Seven Roads Gallery  2011

Sex Behind The Henhouse

Patience.Some sage called it a virtue.

I'm under a major allergy attack.

After a pre-breakfast of an oatmeal cookie and coffee, I preheat the oven to 450.  I 'm itching for punkin pie, despite a recipe which calls for three eggs, a cup of sugar and a cup of evaporated milk.  I understand  why the label on the pre-made pie crusts called them "traditional" because I get two punkin pies from a recipe for one deep-dish pie.

Yes, I got lazy and asked Dawn to pick up pie crusts on her way home.   We don't have regular milk in the frig because I have switched to soymilk. I'm on a semi-vegetarian diet thanks to Jorge's influence.  I watch and wait for him to screw up. The net results are that I have refined my bad habits and cut my meat intake.
I'm concentrating on eating more vegetables and as always doing things organically. 

For example, Jorge gives me a pint container of white miso he purchased weeks ago.  He tells me he likes miso soup, especially the way I prepare it with bits of tofu, scallions and fresh parsley.  His diet is so routine, it would make me scream  loudly for a Big Boy Hamburger.   He's a lazy cook.Meals are repetitive. Boring.  He'd never think to add saffron to rice. He does like garlic. However,subtle is not in his vocabulary.  A few days ago he chopped an entire bulb of garlic and added that to his lunch-time fare.  I asked if it caused any gastric distress.  "Not a bit," is his reply.  I think about an aphorism of his-You Don't Have To Think To Lie.  A few days later, he admits to an afternoon of flatulence.   

The allergic reaction? To get me out of bed, Salvatore Pucci  crawls next to my face purring loudly.  He licks my fingers . To show how much he cares and a subtle hint that he's hungry, he gnaws my knuckle. Cat spit. It makes my eyes itch. It makes me wheeze.

This is not me.  It is Paul The Ball.  It could be me. I'm itching to get out of Dodge.  Ladies and gentlemen, let me explain.

I'm kinda in between things at the moment.  I'm no longer a teacher, or a peddler.  The Indian Trader/drum maker retired to the country. The traveler got tired of the hassles at the airport. Ask Dawn about a pair of shoes she wore in Sky Harbor Airport which had a metal rod in the soles.    I don't need no more stuff. I got a barn full of stuff.  Enough stuff to open up another trading post, except I don't wanna live in or near a major urban area. I've always been a farmer, so that doesn't count.  My past shows that I've moved every seven years, give or take for divorce, kids and restlessness. What to do. What to do.

Not A Monk

 I'd try being a monk, because I like to make wine, garden, chant loudly in a big open church, have meals at a twenty seven foot long plank table. I got a couple of nice plank tables in the barn if y'all need one.  Forget the vow of silence. I'm a double Gemini .  But sex with a buncha guys?  A scene from Jorge's past, explains my attitude.

He's still a cop.  He has a downtown beat.  He pops into the Rialto Theater to take a leak.  The Rialto showed X-rated stuff.  A guy walks in and goes to the urinal adjacent to this cop.  Kinda ballsy if you asks me.  Jorge looks at him.  The guy is peeking over into his stall.  "Can I have a look?" he asks.  Jorge replies, " No,You got one of your own." 

I love women. Women of all shapes, sizes and colors. It's the way I feel.  I'd describe my attitude toward life as similar to that of Fritz Perls.  I am me and you are you.  If we agree, it's wonderful.  If not, it can't be helped. 

Our Lady of Indiscretion-Seven Roads Gallery 2011

Again, I have strayed. It takes awhile to get back on track after summer of pawing in the dirt.

Dawn called the care facility for her father. She spoke with the director, identifying herself and giving her credentials. The ugly sister lied about a number of things.  The director of the facility told Dawn that visiting hours are 9-6. He said there is no need for registering as a family member to be able to visit.  Dad is faring well..  Their definition of "comfort care" is different. In our neck of the woods, it means care for a terminal  resident. To them it just means making the resident feel comfortable.  So he's not dying.  Sister has large control issues as well as a fondness for paranoid hysteria.


 

 

Tough Crow

Folk Art Crow-Seven Roads Gallery, 2011

So many piles of dog poop, so little room in the scooper.

My neighbor in AZ used a plastic bag from his Wall St. Journal to pick up Who-Do Wunderdawg's dookie. Yow. The thought of grabbing a warm pile of poop with my hand bothers me.  Mandy has acres and acres of room to crap. The cat regularly uses the sand pile in the old house foundation. I don't have to watch where I step because he goes... and it disappears. The cat is good at covering his mess.  The next door neighbors to Harvey Bartlett, the AZ prankster, had two little yippers. They had no yard, except a walled in patio.  You could smell bleach fumes over our cul-de-sac when it was patio cleaning day. I'm glad I don't have a Great Dane, Malamute or St.Bernard.

I have cleverly introduced the topic.  Yesterday was one crappy day.

I don't prepare this stuff in another program and import it to blogger. I proofread, edit and re-edit on the spot.  I should learn to be brief.   It causes  technical problems for which I do not have the patience.  I use my own images. Yesterday importing images from a free site caused me time and a loss of what little patience I possess.  Then I got the bright idea to begin a post as a draft, spending more time as the ideas unfolded.  In the end, the post got stuck. I saw a red blurb on the bottom of the screen that said something like "error in saving"  If I left the program, I'd lose any unsaved changes.  I tried that and , aha, I lost half of what I'd written.Crap.

 Even images I'd imported from my pictures file disappeared. Like this one of Scratchy. The stray I found and gave away to a migrant family who lived behind us across the river.

Scratchy

This is their house.  It wasn't habitable when they lived there. It's worse now.

For Sale.40 acres and a mule

This is the flag I've been restoring. While I have been paid handsomely in haircuts and offers of sexual favors for my work as a art restoration specialist, I do not take on new work. Don't ask. It, too, was a PIA, dripping glue when I turned the piece over to install a hanger.

Antique Flag-Seven Roads Gallery,2011

At the end of the afternoon, I possessed a real sense of accomplishment after downloading multiple images, such as this one of my tiny cold frame of fresh oregano here at the cusp of the arctic circle.

When Dawn returned home from her job at the old folks home, she told me her sister had left a voice mail message in response to multiple calls to check on Dad who lives with the sister.  Against the advice of a certified health care professional with over ten years of experience (Dawn), her sister decides to care for their elderly father at home after Mom died.

As dementia approached on its silent paws, Dad became more dependent upon specialized care.  When the sister had a personal emergency, she asked Dawn, with little advance notice, to drop everything and drive the 4 hours to the Southeast part of the state to care for Dad. Dawn refused, without doing an "I told you so,"  retort.  Sisty Ugler had to hire a caregiver to come in  for Dad. It was expensive. Sister was pissed. 

In the voice mail message, Sisty tells Dawn that Dad was moved to a care facility over a month ago. He's in the last stages of Alzheimer's and doesn't have much time left. In a phone conversation with her brother, Dawn relates the details.  Brother dryly says, "It was nice of her to let us know." It'd be easy to import an image of the sister since we're so close to Halloween.

I wake up in the middle of the night with the Anxiteers pounding at the bedroom door. They're ecstatic.

You have no friends. You are wasting you time on building a greenhouse. It's going to snow and won't stop until March. You find a hit man for Sisty Ugler and are sentenced to life in prison.  The library will run out of new books and the new director will concentrate on Amish romance books and detective novels.  People only love you for your potatoes.  Your cat allergy is terminal.  You will become a house husband reserving Mondays for laundry, Wednesday for scrubbing floors and Thursday for washing walls like your stepmother.  In a recall election Wisconsin Governor Skippy Walker reports a landslide victory after the State Supreme court clears him for election fraud.  Prohibition becomes the rule of law, again.  The local Republican boss wants you to give him protection money.  The gravel haulers clog the highway spewing diesel fumes.  Mandy runs away.

Sigh.

Dribbling Over the Edge

When the price of my favorite type of french roast coffee dropped to $6 a can, I purchased three cans.  I mentioned to Dawn that we should stock up. She bought four cans.  We stored the hoard(hey, that rhymes) on a high shelf in the summer kitchen next to Dawn's ceremonial deer antlers.  The antlers are seldom used because Dawn hasn't done a deer dance in years.  The coffee is gone.

Dawn's driver's license needs to be renewed.  Since they closed the DMV station in Viroqua, we need to go to Richland Center.  Road trip.  Dawn leaves work early because the DMV closes at 5 pm.  I agonized about inviting Jorge along because of the back seat driving.  If we make him sit in the back seat with Mandy, there are snarky comments.Much of it from Mandy having to sit next to Jorge.

Jorge looking for change in his recliner.

The trip to RC is fraught with peril.  Just before the left turn past KFC, a trailer loaded with snowmobiles side swipes a passenger van.  The van is stuck in the center turn lane missing a bumper.  I barely had time to swerve out of the left turn lane.  I didn't see the putz driving on my bumper and sent him careening.

The DMV is cleverly disguised as a strip mall.  Driving past a long row of white vinyl, single story  buildings with no designation other then Executive Drive Suites, we spot a sign with a long black arrow pointing to a glass door. Of course there's the DUH moment when we cry out in unison , "That must be it."   "Driver Licensing" it says.  Dawn gets out of the car.  I decide to let Mandy out for a walk.  Jorge gets out of the car.  I 'd pulled up to the edge of the parking lot next to other cars.  As I walk around the front of the car , I glance at the hill below toward a pastoral setting of open fields, dairy cows and hardwood trees still clinging with autumn leaves.  Yipes.  The hill is a sheer drop of a hundred ( hunnert if you're from Wisconsin) feet.  "Mandy. Get away from the edge ," I shout at her.  She walks over to a plastic corrugated culvert set in the asphalt as a deep drain  to the field below.  Oh no, I can see the fire trucks pulling up now to extricate my dog from the culvert.

Mandy canters past office workers waving at her in boredom.  Behind the DMV is the DNR.  Plain white pick-up trucks with red license plates indicate this is the forestry division similar to the one behind the Great Wall in Viroqua. Hey, it's funny they put the forest service behind a Chinese buffet.  Wow,  these guys have two gas grills, a covered picnic area and a water hydrant.  Mandy heads for the farm off in the distance, but the leash is only twenty feet and cuts her off before she gets to the cattle wallow.

Jorge wanders the parking area.  I worry that the police will show up ( Jorge was the police)  wanting to know why a black man is stalking the parking lot.  A couple of years back Jorge accompanies me on a trip to Lacrosse.  It's hot and he's tired.  He lies down on a bench in the entrance to Woodman's grocery store.  A clerk comes out. She asks politely, "Are you all right sir?"  Jorge tells me later that all the while she was sniffing the air for whiskey fumes 'cuz there's black man passed out on a bench in front of the store.  Jorge doesn't drink, by the way.

Dawn comes out ecstatic that it didn't take two hours to her the license renewed.  No one threatened anyone.  No guns were drawn and other than her face has a red tinge to it, the photo didn't look like a mug shot.  She did add that the "nice" man at the counter had to retake the photo when her glasses slipped down her nose at the last moment. "Broke the camera," Jorge quips.

Next stop Wal-Mart.  The RC Wal-Mart craft's area is, according to Dawn, well stocked with a variety of items she needs for her senior activities like making turkeys with a hand trace and pine cone door knob hangers.Of course there's the required bashing of Wal Mart and the Republican dominated state legislature when Dawn mentions a recent bill to deny state workers a salary increase or merit pay.

I wander down the men's aisle looking for the clearance rack when I see children's clothes marked down to $1.  Unbelievable. Maybe I'll get lucky. Jorge follows like a puppy, complaining that I'm wandering on purpose.  "You need the exercise," I tell him.  I grab an unused cart because the grocery division has chicken leg quarters ( dog food) on sale. When I get to the the meat section, Jorge says, " Did you see all those peg hooks in the cart?"   "NO," I reply.  We laugh at the misfortune of some worker who will probably get fired for losing his/her peg hooks. Yes, we're callous.  Target recently fired a worker for helping customers during a break. When I worked for Wal-Mart, I was amazed at the sheer paranoia on a fellow worker's face when I asked him a question as he was walking out the door for home.  Wal-Mart has strict rules about working off the clock.

Looking for peanut butter ( The Week magazine says peanut butter prices will increase because of a poor harvest) I notice coffee is selling for $8 and $ 9 a can.  Even my local Dent and Bent can't keep coffee in stock.I call Dawn on my cell telling her Jorge and I are checking out.  It'll be a few hours before she's done shopping.  Jorge and I will sit in the car oogling midwest gals.  "Piglets in a gunny sack" is one of Jorge's favorite descriptions of farm girl derrieres.

I began this epistle thinking of writing about feral cats and Mountain Man Johann.  Look where I went.  I'm happy I didn't get to the feral cats, because that would elicit lots of controversial remarks like gun control and hunting.  You don't want to know about Mountain Man's latest exploits. I'll get to that later.  

Pooch and Mandy Live and in Color

Nobody warned me.

On the TV show The Big Bang Theory, the one created by Chuck Lorre without Charlie Sheen, when geeky Sheldon gets really upset-can't sleep, he asks Penny across the hall to sing a lullaby.  I guffaw every time she croons , "Soft kitty..." to  Sheldon.

I don't know what time it is.  It's dark.  I've flopped around in my sleep several times postponing getting up to pee.  The Pooch jumps on the bed without sharpening his claws on the fabric of the bed platform.  He doesn't walk over me three times looking for a warm, soft place to curl up.  Grateful that he's just there to sleep, I pet him.  "Soft kitty...sleepy kitty.  Wait. What the hay?

There's a lump in the spot between his shoulders where I apply Frontline.  For a week I avoid petting him on that area because I sometimes chew my fingernails without thinking where and what my paws have been dipped in  My doctor told me to get a tetanus shot (it's been over 10 years since the last) because I handle horse manure. I didn't tell her about nail biting.  She's pretty sharp about getting people like me to get a tetanus shot. Lockjaw from handling horse hockey is more of an impetus than stepping on a rusty nail.

Back to the lump.  There's only one thing to do.  In the early morning dark, the overhead light is the closest thing to a laser in the house.  Dawn runs screaming from the room, "I'm blind, I'm blind." I dig into El Gatto's shoulder. Yes, it's a tick.  So much for the $37 tick and flea prevention.  Luckily, it's one of those gray, flat ticks that looks like a sunflower kernel.  Or is it?

The full tick treatment involves running downstairs naked, getting the special tweezers, finding a stick match, some rubbing alcohol(we're out of peroxide since I quit gargling with it) and a cotton swab.  Dr. G here gives the cat a .22 caliber long rifle cartridge to bite down on and a swig of catnip tea.I yank.  The thing comes out intact including the jaws which bore into the skin.  The Pooch is hardly disturbed, stretched out in a sphinx like posture. Whatta guy.

If I hadn't consigned Mandy to the breezeway overnight, we'd have the whole episode of the Pooch and Mandy show.

Every night it's the same routine.  Mandy sleeps on her chair until the movie is over.  Bruce Willis is the mobster boss, Bigg, complaining that reading the paper over a bowl of cereal and checking out the box scores calms him.  It's a small pleasure in a day filled with violence. "Mandy, time to go out."  I grab a flashlight, a hooded sweatshirt and the dog scoots out the back door.  We walk up the road and down.  She checks out a few smells, scans the perimeters and when she's sure there is nothing lurking in the shadows does her business.  But tonight there's no business.  "I am not getting up at 12:30 when you do your monkey grunt, Unh, Unh."  It's not like I didn't feed her right on schedule.  After throwing up her special diet  " Taste of the Wild" -no grain-  dog food five times in a row, I've switched her to brown rice, chicken and vegetables.  She gets measured amounts of bulk.

The routine after a successful tour of the outside lavatory is that Mandy grabs here fleece blankie and goes upstairs to "her" bedroom to pretend suckle the mother substitute. Not tonight.

The woeful look she gives me when it appears that she'll be sleeping on a faux-fleece, wool blanket covered specially made dog bed from log cabin siding leftovers would melt the heart of a death row inmate.  I get her blankie and my old sheepskin fur coat, spreading the coat flat over the wool blanket and faux sheep fleece, turn off the light and lock the door to the breezeway.  The back door of the enclosure has no lock. I prop it open with a door-stop so Mandy can use the backyard pen at 12:38 am without waking me. Then I go to sleep, toss and turn, worried that the overnight temps will dip precipitously.

In the morning I unlock the breezeway door and both animals streak out into the wet dawn.  Mandy races back in the house while the Pooch checks the over-night activity.  He'll be standing on the patio outside the kitchen window in 10 minutes, giving me a longing look while I fix breakfast.  Mandy curls up on her chair next to the TV.  When I glance over at her, she's shivering.  Oh gee. Now I did it.  Poor thing spent a cold night, all alone, friendless wondering what she did wrong.  I sit down next to her and wrap an arm around her.  I'd like to think that she enjoys the comfort, but I know this hound is really just smelling my breath.  "Is that bean sprouts on your breath? For breakfast? Eeyew.  I smell hash browns, jalapenos, tofu and cubed left over roast pork.  I want some."

Nobody warned me.       

Short Snorts

I skipped breakfast this morning.  Instead I poured the dregs of the Shurfine honey bottle into 3/4ths cup of coffee and cut off a hunk of zucchini bread.  I wanted to catch up on a few blog friends. Nice dog Jimm.

Last night's rain turned into this morning's fog. The sidewalk around the north end of the house is dry at the edges. I had Dawn check out the NWS site for the low temps forecast overnight.  The weather guys said it'd get down to 39 Sunday night and 40 on Monday.  I didn't cover the kale because the semi-permeable row cover will stunt the growth of the stuff,  if kept covered for long periods.  Besides, a rain will do it good. It's been so dry of late that the farmers harvesting soybeans churn up billowing clouds of dust.  Great for us asthma sufferers.

Scattered showers for our area Sunday afternoon give us a break from chores.  "Wanna go for a ride?" causes Mandy to race to the property line in excitement.  She hears cars coming down the highway and races them along a weed covered fence line at the highway edge. Not to worry, since she's never gone into the weeds. When she was little she had an encounter with a hot wire on the neighbor's property and has a healthy respect for all wire.  You never heard such caterwauling.

Dawn needs new shoes.  To entice me, she promises lunch at Fiesta Mexicana in south Lacrosse. She'll also pay for the gas.  It's a sorry situation when we have to travel 130 round trip miles to buy shoes.  The local store has two locations-one 20 minutes south and one, the same distance north.  On a trip to the Chinese take-out restaurant in Richland Center, Dawn wants to check their prices on shoes.  While she stalks the shoe aisle, I walk over to work boots.

I can't find a pair of Red Wings similar to the ones I got a year ago May.  A staffer asks my name. They see a potential sale coming. She enters it into the sales computer and tells me I have Red Wing boots-model #656. On the shelf there's a boot with a higher back.  Another staffer saunters over.  I ask, "Are you the owner?"   He says, " No , but I oughta be.  I been here 37 years."  Then he tells me ,"They no longer make your shoe."  I look at the price tag on the new model.  It's ( the price tag) orange with a yellow inside.  The price written with a pen (mistake no.1) is crossed off twice. The latest price is $113.He says that it's not unusual for the prices to increase twice in the course of a year.

Yow!  I'm pretty sure my boots cost $89.  Then again, I don't remember what I had for breakfast.  My boots are in terrific shape, but the heels are getting worn.  I ask the salesman if there is a shoe repair person locally.  He answers in the affirmative and tells me that the store is a drop off place for repairs to Ernie's Shoes and Booze.

A trip to Lacrosse is at least a half day journey. Highway 27 from Westby and  20 minutes later ,a short jaunt down I-94 gets you to Onalaska-the north side of Lacrosse.  Forty years ago when I lived in Trempeleau County, Onalaska was a little burg on the north side of the city.  Now, it's a maze of strip malls and a North Country Buffet.

If you take highway 14 from Viroqua, 35 minutes of annoying travel behind someone from Ioway driving below the speed limit gawking at the scenery, gets you to the south side of Lacrosse.  From the south side all the way to Onalska there's bumper to bumper traffic 25 minutes through Lacrosse proper, anytime except early Sunday morning.  Fiesta Mexicana is at the furthest point south right before Mt.Lacrosse, this city's version of Vail, CO.

I am forever indebted to the Mexican bistro when  Dawn and I dropped off a truck rental across the street late one Sunday night.  We'd just moved onto the farm. I was close to near starvation.  All the waitstaff was having a family meal in the bar area.  As I usually do in a Mexican joint, I order Chile Rellenos ( spell check suggests "repellants"). If the restaurant is worth its salt, the rellenos will be a proper poblano ( really good restaurants will serve it whole stuffed with Mexican cheese).  Oh, how I wish I could eat at Casa Cardena outside of Prescott, AZ again.

The poblano is lightly fried in a an egg batter. Although they cut it flat so that it can be pre-made and quickly cooked, it is tasty enough for me to order it again.  The nachos are homemade and the salsa is spicy hot.  The waitperson recognizes us with a "long time no see" comment.  I don't launch into a diatribe about the north side route around Lacrosse, eating at North Country Buffet, smelly, fat old gummers and Jorge's vegan diet. 

Dawn is ecstatic. She finds a pair of gray running shoes. I rummage through discount pants.  For $19.95 I can buy a pair of jeans that look purposely worn, worse than the paint smeared pair I'm wearing at the moment.  I try on a pair of uniform type gray cargo pants. So what if I look like the Sears repairman.  They'll only get covered in manure.