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.