Oh wow,

I went to the post office the other day and there was this letter in my box with no return address and my name and p.o. box "written" with letters and numbers cut out of various magazine articles and pasted to the envelope. Kind of like the letter one might get from a kidnapper or cereal killer (cap't crunch, is that you?). I opened it up carefully and held my breath so as not to roil up any anthrax powder. Found three dollar bills inside with exaggerated smiley faces doodled on Georges puss. Someone actually sent me money for a couple of laughs but was too embarrassed to identify him or herself. There was the slightest floral scent on the envelope, so i'm thinking either female friend or Grimes has finally come out of the closet. Have you ever watched him walk?

What with the holiday season officially upon us and Thanksgiving rounding the corner into the home stretch, I've been feeling my way through farm life with a bit more deliberation. While its true that taking life at an increasingly leisurely pace comes naturally with age, this is more of a shift in perception that seeks a closer look and ever more integrated objectivity. Even in the expanse of five acres and miles of trails, daily routine is inevitable. Patterns of behaviour, however satisfying leave me seeking that which remains hidden, sequestered in the folds of a new leaf flush, roaming around just beneath the surface of the soil, clinging to the roots of a water lettuce plant or just hidden in plain sight.

Its that old quantum field thingy. You know, the Heisenberg theory that shows the thing perceived to be altered by that perception and thereby inextricably linked in consciousness to that perception. Run that one out a few more yards and the notion that we are directly connected to the "creation" of everything we see, feel, think and aspire to know and achieve, gains some gravitas. And if we are really just creating it as we go along then should we not tread lightly with eyes wide open and ears pinned to the wind?

So a guiding principle emerges as I swim through this soupy amalgam of consciousness. Hush up, listen up, tune up and stop putting up with that which attempts to demonize, confuse or otherwise interrupt lifes luminous flow. Thats right, no more mr. nice goy. Time to take names and kick toosh. Time to take out the gahbidge. Time to let em' have it, baddabing baddaboom, right in the kishkis. No more fuck around.

Speaking of which, its looking like Barry O. is digging his heels in a bit. Being boldly assertive in a commander in chief sort of way. One can only hope that he has been laying back, spocking the scene, calculating the odds with the intent of lapping the field with ground breaking direction.

Kind of reminds me of the time I was at Proctor Academy for young horned toads and it was Thanksgiving break. There were three buses that would come pick us up and run us down to Boston airport to catch a shuttle to New York or wherever. There was always a betting pool as to which driver would get us there first and the perennial favorite was big Lonny.

Lonny was the jovial type incarnate. Fit in the drivers seat like a pile of hot buttered flapjacks on a plate just a little too small. Had the stump of a stogy plugged into the right corner of his mouth. No-one remembered seeing him without it. Talked out the left side. His eyes were Santa wise and his crooked smile and bulbous nose  conveyed a fun loving kindness.  When you drew his bus you knew you'd catch the earlier flight.

Now it was my first experience with Lonny so I didn't know what to expect. I mean how creative can one get with a Greyhound? So we're on the back roads down from Andover to Concord where we pick up the interstate and Lonny is at the back of the pack on a one lane road, so I'm figuring we're screwed because we'll get on the highway in that order and once on it, its anybodies race to take.

The sign for the interstate appears and reads, "Concord exit, one mile". That's when Lonny starts grinnin' big. The other buses commence to picking up speed while Lonny appears to be laying back, nay even slowing down. What the fuck? As the exit approaches Lonny is geared all the way down as the other buses veer gently to the right to pick up the on ramp. The guys on our bus begin to chant Lonn-ee, Lonn-ee, Lonn-ee, very softly at first. At just the right moment, Lonny smooths it into second and punches the grey whale toward the on ramp.

That's when I began to understand. The on ramp was fairly steeply uphill and as the other buses were gearing down to take the hill, Lonny was building momentum in the flat. He was chewing on the stump of that stogy and as the guys chanted louder, he let out this squeaky little laugh. Totally unexpected. Lonn-ee, Lonn-ee, Lonn-ee. He smoothed out another shift and mounted the hill like a jackrabbit in heat, and just as the other buses had wheezed their way onto the interstate, clinging to the right lane, Lonny burst forth from the ramp directly to the passing lane and left the others in the wake of his hysterical little high pitched giggle. The chant was now through the roof. He pumped it to Boston in time for us to down a coffee and a Camel before the flight where we savored a steady stream of  coffee and Camels.

A flawless strategy,  rendered like a Renoir. Nothing less would have worked then and nothing less will work now. Best of luck to Barry and the very cool Woman by his side.

Today, we bid a fond fare thee well to nurse Kaylee and the  Mighty Jeremiah, a.k.a. Bubba Mahalo's & Mongo Hana hou. While it has not been a rarity to host bright young men and women from the world round, it is not often that one spends a half year making himself nearly indispensable. It bears mentioning that in that entire time I saw not one look of consternation over anything.  Always at the ready and affable; helpful to a fault and content in his own skin (of which he shed fifteen pounds).  For awhile there I thought, "too good to be true; he's gonna lose it for sure. One of these days he'll crack and like some circus geek, bite the head off  of a chicken, shed his clothes and go running around the property with blood dripping from the corners of his mouth chanting,  I'm Jeremiah Steven and my mommy loves me."  But nooooooo, he's the real deal.  Thanks man.

We're takin' down four to five dozen eggs a day now and the girls are looking hap,hap, happy. Even this one tiny leghorn that we culled out of the group and put with the other "permanent" free rangers. We call her Runterella and scrawny barely describes it. And yet, in a few days time she is already looking less freaked out.  She's joined by Mohawk and Emmy, a beautiful Muscovy couple that has figured out how to escape duck world quickly and without notice, a Lakenvelder name of Lahkee that refuses to be confined, and of course the ever endearing  Smartypantz who thinks she owns the joint.  The Ameraucana's that we got in July should be kicking in around February/March with the blue/green offerings at which point phase one of the great poultry puzzle will be in place. With successful scalable models come sustainably productive systems.

Happy Thanksgiving all.

The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp