Fraidy Evans (F)

--Why, why did Granny Evans, why'd she name me Euphrates?

--Tell her she said, tell her it sounded mellifluous. Euphrates Evans. Mellifluous.

--Mama!

--Girl, it is mellifluous.

--How Granny Evans come to know that word. Never saw her read a word.

--Girl, shut that mouth. 

--Sister India always laughed at me. You never said--

--Girl!

--Even the family calls me Fraidy.

--Now children at the school started that. Second grade.

--Third grade. I told them Euphrates. Euphrates. Billy Horton said you a queen or something. You was Phrates last year. Phrates before that. Now you the queen? No you--now you, you Fraidy.

--Fraidy! Fraidy! Fraidy!

--Miss Warner called me Fraidy. Fraidy, clean the board. Fraidy, do problem 14. Fraidy, you can play tetherball with the boys.

--Fraidy! Fraidy! Fraidy!

--India was mean to me. Why was she so mean, Mama?

--India loved you.

--Mama!

--Hush. Put your dress on and brush your hair. And no ponytail.

--Mama!

--Today you are Euphrates Evans and you are India Evans sister and you will represent the family in all you say and do.

--I don't want to cry. 

--Cry or don't cry. But you will come home that baby girl's aunt Euphrates Evans. You will always be her Aunt Euphrates.

--She will call me Aunt Euphrates.

--Just get that dress on, Fraidy. Please. I just can't today. I just can't. Just get your dress on.

Lyman 2024 

At Rest (F)

"Sit, son, sit with me."

"As you wish, my--yes, father."

"This cool air deceives us. Summer's heat will come."

"And our crops will grow and the herds will fatten."

"True enough. So what did you do today as Prince, my son?"

"I studied at our accounts for the northern estates."

"And?"

"All seemed in order."

"Good. What did you do today as my son?"

"I am your son now. Sitting here--sitting in Mother's favorite spot. She would say to look at the highest point and bring my eyes down slowly, taking in the trees blooming, down to flowers and vines, down to the grasses, down to the smallest stones that are the path."

"Your mother was a great person."

"You miss her? Very much?"

"I miss her as my queen. I miss her as my spouse. As a man, I miss her the more so."

"You must know, Father, how Lady Bankston--"

"Stop."

"I'm sorry, Father, but--"

"No more. Tell me, what did you do as a man today?"

"As a man? Today I was Prince of the Realm. Now, with you I am a son."

"Do not neglect to think of yourself as you view yourself. Always a prince is a prince is a prince, and though I love you as my son, you are more a man than you are my son."

"Are you more a man than a king? More a man than a father?"

"A hard question. I feel less a king and more a man. I even more a father and less a king. I will be your father to the end, but to be king to the end I can not say."

"You are weary, Father?"

"Yes, the right word, weary."

"But you are a strong king, beloved--"

"Even so."

"You are in good health?"

"Yes, yes."

"Think of all you have built, you will be venerated for all time."

"Ah, perhaps in some way the stones will speak for me. My tomb, a silent reminder. But for me, dust from dust, dust to dust, the dust endures until carried away by the slightest whisper of the wind. I daresay your children's children will scamper over my tomb as if no more than a barnyard fence or a low rock wall dividing a sheep pasture from the cornfields.

"Here, look at this handful of gravel. I will be gone long before feet grind this to dust."

"Perhaps, true enough. But no poets will sing the legacy of these little stones."

"Son, no poets will sing the man. Who dines with us tonight?"

"Just Sister, you and I."

"Perhaps she will allow me a little more wine then."

"A great hope to cling to, Father."

Lyman 2024

 

Hamilton Doctor (F)

I think I may be clinically depressed.

Now that I really think of it, I am.

Now that's some cogito going on right there.

Well, pretty sure.

I've got a pretty bad case of the zeitgeist up the keister.

Not to get all verklempty about it, but the modern world sucks in such a super huge way that I can hardly stand not puking nearly every moment of the day. 

Now that's some poetry, right there. All imagey and stuff. 

Saw that a local concrete driveway winding up to a bloated manse was an award-winning concrete driveway. Hope the designer got a Golden Paver. Proud as punch to have that on the mantle, don't you know it. I know it.

The thing about my depression is I don't really want to talk about it. 

Jilly says Ham, Ham, tell me what's wrong. What's wrong, Ham? Tell me. Tell me. Please. Oh, Ham, please tell me. Don't you love me anymore. The car windows aren't working right. Ham? Tell me, Ham.

I could start there. 

Lila comes home from the U--the U. The U. The U this, the U that. She says Daddy I don't think Renaissance Art is right for me. Dance could be something I might want to consider. Daddy are you listening. Maybe I should take another year off. Daddy? Daddy? Daddy? I need a new phone. Is something wrong, Daddy?

Or start there.

Listened to a pitch today for 12-grain bread. Khorasan wheat. Must I give this my most complete and immediate attention? Must I? What. The. Hell.

Bloody hell.

My undivided attention. Do not pass Go. Do not divide my attention.

Davy wants to go to India. Some place in the mountains. Dad, he says, I am jacked about this trip. Jacked. Need new boots, hiking equipment, Dad. Dad? Dad, I'm serious. This trip will change my life. It may change all our lives. Dad? What's bothering you, Dad? Jacked, Dad. I need a new phone. I am so jacked.

Maybe I should change all our lives.

Would it kill anyone to shut the hell up. Just for a few minutes out of the day? Am I asking too much?

Jeez, I've got issues. 

Lyman 2024

Junk Drawer (7)

I see Boeing's stock price is down around 25% so far this year. Of course, their difficulties seem to routinely make the news. Tough stretch, unless you are the outgoing CEO Dave Calhoun. Calhoun may get up to $45 million in compensation as he exits the company. He replaced another CEO under heavy pressure who garnered a reported $62 million to--well, let me be blunt--get the hell out of there. See, kids, how the world works? Now that's a participation trophy.

Greenstone Resource Partners LLC ring a bell? Nope, me neither. GSC Farm LLC? Nope. Cibola, Arizona? Nope. Why on the radar now? Because GSC bought 485 acres in Cibola Valley in 2013/14. Now GRP is using water rights to sell, for a profit understandably, water to communities like Queen Creek outside of Phoenix nearly 200 miles away. So not a farming operation? Not so much. GRP has 25 subsidiaries in the water transfer business. I don't know enough about taxes and accounting to say anything snarky. But since the company won't go on record about why such an organizational approach--well, go figure.

How about Conservative Move? Based in Texas, the company is a conduit for residential moves from Blue states to Red states. In fact, South Carolina, where I am a resident, is red hot for so-inclined transplants, hotter than Florida or Texas--metaphorically. CM's website says, "When your community no longer reflects morals and values, it might be time for a move." Cagey wording that. May I suggest the word your be slipped in front of morals and in front of values. 

Okay, okay, I'll join the fray. Beyonce's "Sixteen Carriages" is Song of the Year. Genre? I'm going with Americana.

My five-year-old almond trees--yes, here in Upstate South Carolina--are heavy with green almonds this spring. Maybe this is the year I roast my own.

Fun flower facts: Most roses sold in the US come from Ecuador, and most peonies come from the Nederlands.

I see more and more ads for honey bacon...because...you can't have too much of too much of a good thing.

Going, Going, Going...

...Going, going, gone...fishing. A chance to be part of an offshore fishing tourney out of Charleston? Hell to the yes.

Two 300 hp outboards, center console, blasting outbound between the jetties before dawn...not so much. 

Why not? The tournament was an offshore event for sailboats. Yep, sailboats--masts and rigging and lines and sails and such. Putting out to sea maxed out at 6-9 mph, whether by diesel or under sail.  

Make no mistake, I'm on that boat to help with the sailing and provide extra shifts on the helm. In fact, the boat belonged to a competitor in our local racing association. But I mostly was in go-mode whenever the chance to be on a boat came around.

We left the dock around 7 Friday evening, motored out of the harbor, and turned eastward. I took the helm at 8, while the skipper and 2 of his buddies rigged the boat for fishing and arranged the rods for what we hoped would be hot action come Saturday.

The sea was uncommonly flat, the wind nil, and just before my shift ended at midnight a light shower passed over us. The air was much warmer, the smell distinctive, a bit, somehow, tropical.

Being on a sailboat when conditions are calm is a frustrating time, of course. Yet if the sails are up and the lightest stirring flutters the sails, the mood immediately brightens. Maybe a little more pressure and the boat makes way and the sails fill out and more pressure and the boat heels and the tiller stiffens and, by gawd, she is a sailboat after all.

Saturday morning the skies were cloudless and the boat rhythmically pitched in 2-3' swells. Radio chatter from the other boats in our contest and the powerboat fleet complained about the conditions. No good for fishing.

Our lines went out, 2 rods set in holders lashed to the stern pulpit, 2 rods attached to stanchions, one each on the port side and the starboard side. The mainsail was still under its cover, the jib was lightly secured on the foredeck.

Shortly after lunch--a mound of sliced ham, a slather of Duke's mayo, between slices of pumpernickel--I was back on the helm. On the port side, the first strike. One of the fishing guys grabbed it out of the holder. A heavy strike he reported. The skipper pushed the boom to the starboard side, while I slowed our forward speed. 

The fight was simple, line in, line back out, line in, line back out, line in, line in, line in, thrashing at the surface. What?!? Hell no! Barracuda.

The skipper grabbed a gaff. 

"Cut the line," I said. Another voiced the same call. "Cut that damn line!"

Now a word about the cockpit on this boat. Deep, about 5' in length, and reasonably comfortable sitting back. 

"Cut the line!"

To no avail. The skipper gaffed the fish and tugged it up and over the lifeline and dropped it head-to-stern in the cockpit. I lifted my legs over the tiller as I maintained our course. The 40" fish snapped and convulsed and writhed, and my view was straight into its open jaws, its teeth like a jagged set of long needles.

After grabbing a wooden mallet from below, the skipper--barefoot by the way--straddled the fish and with five or six heavy blows, smashed in its head. 

"We keeping it?" the rod bearer asked.

"Nope. No category for it, so no money to win." He pulled out a tape measure for an accurate accounting in the boat's log. We were 62 miles east from Ft. Sumter.

Over the side, the predator now part of the sea's buffet.

Postscript: Sunday, on the way back in, conditions unchanged except for being a little warmer, we had one more strike. Again, I was on the helm, the rod behind my right shoulder. Another crew member reached for the tiller, I grabbed the rod, and in short order without too much of a battle--disappointingly so--I had a dolphin in the cockpit. No need to gaff. Nothing to be overly excited about fish-wise. But, it would be a contest entry. 

The fish weighed 19 lbs 9 oz, and surprisingly won the tournament both in the category and as the largest fish taken in the tourney. The skipper pocketed $300, and I got the trophy for the winning dolphin. 

When I went up to accept the award, someone yelled out "How big was it?" and much knowledgeable laughter followed.

My retort, simple: Big enough.

 

An Index (22)

                             Task/Calories per hour

Knitting/70.7

Operating electric sewing machine/73.1

Working at desk while sitting/92.4

Operating foot-driven sewing machine/97.7

Typing while seated/96.9

Standing at rest/107

Standing, light work/140

Working on car assembly line/176.5

Walking on level, 3-4 km an hour/181.8

Forging metal/187.9

General household chores/196.5

General lab work/205.6

Gardening/322.7

Hoeing/347.3

Coal mining/425.3

Loading a truck/435.9

Running at endurance speeds/600-1500

W.P.T. James and E.C. Schofield (1990). Human Energy Requirements: A Manual for Planners and Nutritionists. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

A Fitting Tribute

I know the heart of the matter will evade my grasp, but the attempt has to be made.

In a message to the family, I identified Chuck (1942-2024) as a boon companion. Old-fashioned phrasing, to be sure.

He--"Doc" many of us called him--was one of my closest friends for more than a decade. A friendship that included some serious moments, but mostly a lot of foolishness. A lot of foolishness.

Dependable. Especially when I needed help.

Few people know he tumbled into the Cooper River while trying to come aboard my sailboat after releasing a bow line. "Let the boat go," I said. Nope. After being pulled from the water by marina staff, he insisted we still take the boat out. We did. Nice sail.

Doc had a way of enjoying new experiences like a kid in a candy store for the first time. Standing in the companionway during a Wednesday night race. Setting out stakes for a house my wife and I were having built. 

Working with Special Ed kids weighed on him more than he let on. The very notion that some of his students may not make it to the end of the year ate at him. Rarely did he address that reality, but it hovered nearby.

He dutifully listened to my rants. Not too many I hope, but always he listened patiently. 

He loved a social gathering, especially the ones he instigated. Food, drinks, and pool, and, man, could he stir the pot.

Hundreds of games of pool were shot upstairs in his house. Full bar. Good table. Really, hundreds of games. 

Smart. More than he sometimes let on. And more than that, clever. 

Summations such as this one seem to me less than time well spent, but somehow they seem necessary. Somehow, to get said what needs to be said--too elusive in the end.

His was--and here I borrow a phrase--a life lived. 

Rest in peace, Doc.

The Book of Cortland (F)

Was on the road out of Hickory Grove, was on the way to Smyrna.

The road was dark, the double-bottom crossed the double yellow. The slow roll surprised me. Don't remember much. Broke my hand against the driver side glass. The car just kept rolling and rolling. 

"Mr. Bass?  Mr. Bass? Do you hear me?"  Yep, heard that. Told me later I didn't open my eyes until inside the ambulance. Bright and noisy and confusing is what it was. Loud. 

Funny how quiet leaving the road. And then don't remember much.

Deputy at the hospital taking my statement. "You missed the trees." Young guy, swallowed hard. "You lucky to be talking to me."

Yep, some kind of luck.

Those headlights nearly on me. Flashing brights. Brakes screeching.

Think I said out loud "son of a bitch". Turned the wheel. And then don't remember much.

Lucky.

So lucky, hiked from Hickory Grove to Smyrna. 

Nancy cried. "Why go back to that road? Ever?" Debbie cried. "Daddy! What? Daddy, that's crazy talk!" Stuart just shook his head and walked out the back door.

Wanted to know the road under my feet. To see what I didn't see. Trees. Lots of trees. Barns. Fields for haying. Horses. Farmhouses.

"I'm not driving you down there, Cort. Never."

"I'll drive myself and make it a round trip."

"You just got cleared to go back to work."

"Don't need my hand to walk. So all good."

"Daddy, let me go with you."

"Nope."

Call it enlightenment. Book says eyes open wide. Clarity comes. 

Saw nothing, saw everything. Faint tire marks still. No sign of where my car went in. A lot of trees. Some dogwoods blooming in the woods. Cell tower about 100 yards back.

Looked hard. Didn't remember much. 

But now at least I know.

Lyman 2024

Junk Drawer (6)

File under 'Not nice to fool with Mother Nature': In a drastic attempt to protect their beachfront homes, residents in Salisbury, Massachusetts, invested $500,000 in a sand dune to defend against encroaching tides. After being completed last week, the barrier made from 14,000 tons of sand lasted just 72 hours before it was completely washed away, according to WCVB. (From The Daily Beast)

The paddywhack is a ligament that connects a cow's head to its neck. So the next time you sing that song--well, now you know.

The 2024 South Carolina Presidential primaries: Trump - 452,496 votes and Haley - 299,084, and Biden - 126,336. In 2020 over 2.4 million votes were cast in the presidential election in SC. 

The ad for a product using the phrase "LOAN CANON" is dumb. The ad for a product that turns your lungs into a "PHLEGM CANON"--boom, there's a visual that's hard to unsee. 

In 2005 South Carolina's electric co-ops' coal-fired power plants generated 79% of the co-ops' power production. In 2023, 31%.

Kellogg's CEO Gary Pilnick recently suggested "The cereal category has always been quite affordable, and it tends to be a great destination when consumers are under pressure. If you think about the cost of cereal for a family versus what they might otherwise do, that's going to be more affordable." Yep, nothing says going somewhere special like a bowl of Rice Krispies. I'm thinking-just spitballin' really--that Pilnick and family are not supping on bowls of cereal for dinner. Pilnick earned $5 million in salary and incentives last year.

Dallas Seavey has won the Iditarod sled dog race 5 times. Unfortunately this time around his dogs got into it with a moose and Seavey shot and killed the moose. Fair enough, rules-wise. But he needed to gut the moose before continuing the race. Yep, it's in the rules. Officials determined Seavey didn't get the gutting done in a proper manner, so they docked him 2 hours as a penalty. 

Mush.

News (F)

Peter Horton set the rolled maps on the floor and dropped his keys and wallet into the small basket next to the table lamp in the foyer. "Kim!" 

"Pete! Pete, you're home?" Kim came toward him with a floral throw pillow in her hand. "What--"

"Sorry, Kimmie. I should've called. There's a two-o'clock to Denver I'm trying to catch." He stooped a bit and kissed her on the cheek.

"Denver?"

"Yep, Larry called. Three of their relocation crew are in quartantine and the pack is being flown in from Vancouver within the next 24 hours or so." He opened the closet and took out his parka, and wool cap, and 2 sets of winter mittens. 

"What about your birthday?"  

"Well, I guess, when I get back."

"Your sister and your parents?"

"I'll call them." She looked at him. "I will, I will."

"How long--"

"Can't really say. Worst case two weeks. But if the weather holds and the collars work--I'm going to need both frame packs."

"I'll pack your clothes--six of everything." Kim stood on the bottom stair.

"Underwear, socks, t-shirts. Just 2 sweatshirts, two sweaters." He kissed her again. "Won't need outdoor gear. Larry says he has snowshoes. Thanks, Hon."

"Do you want me to drive you?"

"Uh, yes, I guess. Or, maybe not. I'll just leave the car in long-term."

"Toothbrush and--"

"Yes--no shaving stuff. I need to get some stuff from the garage."

"You want your sleeping bag?"

"That's in the garage, I think."

Kim shook her head and laughed.

"What? Think I can't pull this off? I'll be out the door in 20 minutes." He smiled. "Something else?"

"I'm pregnant."

Lyman 2024

Joe Lambert (F)

Joe set the box of momentoes on the floor and dropped his keys and wallet into the small basket next to the table lamp in the foyer. "Lanie, I'm home."

His wife came out of the kitchen and stepped up to him. They hugged for a bit longer than usual. "Oh, Joe, I'm so sorry. What a way for it to end." She kissed him on the cheek.

Joe shook his head. "Some luck, huh. Thirty-seven years and this is how it goes." He followed her into the kitchen.

"Want a beer or--"

"Stronger." He sat on a stool at the kitchen bar. 

"Poor Molly."

"Poor Stephanie."

"The intern, right?"

"Yep. We were all in the dining room. They were just about to cut the cake when her call came in."

"Poor girl. What is she, like 21."

"Twenty, I think. Third day at the holding paddock. Molly dragging that carcass around. Queenie and little Tosha were in there too. All the others started trumpeting and rushing around outside the paddock gates. Of course people were upset and kids were crying."

"Pretty horrible."

"First stillbirth ever in 73 years. The very first." Joe took a sip of bourbon. "Cheers."

"Oh, Joe. I'm sorry." She came around and hugged him around his shoulders. "Did they go in, did they get the baby?"

"No, Tim and I decided to let Molly grieve as long as she wants. Unless she stops eating for more than a day or two. We did get Queenie and Tosha out of there."

"Well, not your problem--oh, I shouldn't have said that."

"No, it's okay. I guess it's not. Not really. Tim will call. That poor kid. Welcome to the world of caring for animals."

"What a terrible thing. Sorry the send-off fell apart. It would have been nice to finish up with your friends."

Joe set the empty glass down. "Well, I'm going back Tuesday morning to try again. You could go with me."

"I would like that. Wonder if you'll get a fresh cake."

"Hah--yes. Not even Bob is that cheap."

Lyman 2024

Spring Thinking

This morning I had a notion to get something done. It happens, sometimes.

Most of the drawers of the cabinet closest to the back door were at that point where I had to push and pull at the contents in the hope of putting my hand on the object of my search. And as for the rhyme and reason of what went where--forget about it. 

Sure enough, the first drawer yielded several rulers--including an old-fashioned foldable 6-footer--twist ties by the dozens, two magic markers, two small flashlights, plant labels, a lens cleaning cloth, and tools. Screwdrivers, pliers, an all-purpose tool, a compass, and a small hammer.  Oh, and several short pieces of rope cut at some point for some important task. No doubt. 

More to my liking were the daffodils blooming out back. The Texas quince were flowering as well. So, that whole hope thing. Eternal or not, I could not say. But the return of flowers to the landscape means a lot to me.

I am no fan of winter. I don't want it cold. I don't want cold rain. I don't want a cold wind. Wuss or wimp, perhaps so. But I lived through eleven Minnesota winters, so I don't care what the verdict may be.

By the end of the month I will start pruning. Kneecap the knockouts. Shape up the tea olives. Take a little off the top on the nandinas. Work on crapes, the maples, the elms. The hollies, too. Maybe a week or so later, I'll take the butterfly bushes and the Roses of Sharon down hard. 

Each spring's approach I take to heart even closer Housman's insight that "fifty springs are little room". I do wonder, will I see my cherry trees bloom this season. How many more springs ahead. 

The Yoshino buds are swelling.

Just after sunset two dozen robins hopped about out back.

Another good sign, or so I think.

Junk Drawer (5)

Recently, I was asked what thoughts I might have about the conflicts in the Middle East. Kiddo, I thought, what might I say about turf wars over shifting lines in the sand reaching back millennia--I got nothing. Other than abhorring violence of any kind. Which given the scale of human violence worldwide, makes my take pretty much milquestoasty.

A recurring ad for Sunday performance joggers finally hit home with me. Duh! How about performance wear for every day of the week? Imagine what I could do--walking the dog, trodding out to fetch the mail, rolling the garbage can to the curb, pushing the mower (seasonally adjusted, of course), and whatever else my 70-year-old self might get up to these days.

Empty spaces-geographically--interest me. Like Loving County, Texas, 677 square miles, population as of 2020 a mere 64. The county seat, Mentone, counted 22 residents. First thing I thought of was schooling for local kids. The Mentone school closed when only 2 students showed up. In the 70s had to merge with the Wink schools in the neighboring county.

Meet Carl Barks (1901-2000): Barks was the cartoonist most responsible for Donald Duck and his tales. He also gave us Scrooge McDuck, and the nephews--Huey, Dewey, and Louie. A scan of Scrooge McDuck was the first image to appear on an Apple Macintosh computer. In the 50s, his 10-pagers were part of Walt Disney Comics and Tales, selling 3-million copies a month. He worked anonymously from 1934-1960 as Walt Disney wanted to maintain the myth that he was the cartoonist responsible for the company's output. In 1990, Barks was celebrated as a Disney Legend. You can learn more you know where. Oh, and YouTube.

Should you be on an NYC subway and see a candy-seller approaching, she might be 31-year-old Maria (a pseudonym) from Cotopaxi in Ecuador. Yes, she is an illegal immigrant, who with her 2-year-old strapped to her back, makes $10 to $50 per 13-hour-day. Housing, with a cousin, is a space in a living room for $800 a month. Her husband was a Covid victim, the violence in Ecuador collapsed to new depths, and months later, here she is. She is brave, obviously. She works. She cares for her child. Is she a threat to our country? I don't think so. What to do? I don't know.

What I do know is 30 years ago this month I made up my mind to travel to the Himalayas. And as sometimes happens, you tip one domino--Harrer's Seven Years in Tibet-- and then in the back pages of The Atlantic you see a small ad for a trekking outfit out of Utah that sends folks to Ladakh up in Northern India. Voila, July 4th, I'm at 11,000' in Leh, Ladakh. As for the rest of the story.... 

Oooo, That Sound!

Much of the time, I can't explain it. The human mind, the way it works I mean.

So I'm in the shower this morning and into my head pops the word loofah as in the sponge. Nope, don't own one. Nope, never have.

Something about that vowel sound rattles around, and then lugubrious becomes le mot du moment. Luuuguuubrious. And a simple joke--that is my happy face.

Shortly thereafter--not to be confused with the hereafter--salubrious comes to mind. Okay, now this word trail beckons. 

Coon Rapids, Hooterville, Tucson--sing it with me, Tucumcari, too.

Peru. But I digress.

Bucolic, cooties, Doody (Howdy), euphoria--foolishness.

Putrid. Hang on that vowel. Puuutrid. See, there's putrid, and then there's puuutrid. Dare I offer, puuu-uuu-uuu-trid.

Somewhere during the course of fixing breakfast, another tangent.

Boo, coo, goo, loo, moo, nincompoop--gotcha ya.

Rue, stew--chew on that for a second. View, woo, you, and--duh--zoo.

Hooked on euphonics, I guess.

Humorous?

Don't give a hoot?

Uffda.

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