Didja miss me? There have been moments in the Rancho's history when the passing on of wwoofs has left a sadly dispersed proximity, but the sense that the very fabric of the place has been changed for the better. This has never been more true than in the recent passing of Team McGuire whose pattern in the tapestry that is the story of Rancho Relaxzo stands out for its unassuming  brilliance. They have gone on to the mystical Land of Main, where they will experience any number of  realms available to those who brave the journey. Joshua will be reunited with his four legged woofer and Lyndsey may cross the border and become a cat servant after having experienced the wonders of the Rancho's purring bed warmers. They will work in a community and bring their considerable skill and energy to do I'm not exactly sure what yet, but I'll keep you posted on that. It's in Lyndsey's nature to stir up the fire. To send tiny embers afloat in the clear night sky, twisting and dancing their way to soft gray ash, then off to stir a fire somewhere else. It's in Joshua's nature to be rock solid in his support and persevering in his need to know and act from the heart.  He confirms my theory that any Scorpio born with fewer than four planets in Libra should be discarded at birth. He's got five. Of course, while this is no real dying off and the connection established grows in the invisible realm held together by heart-string and bone, they will be missed in a" honey can I make you some french toast" sort of way. Lindsey had, in her zeal to spread light made up some music discs entitled "rockin' at the rancho". First tune, disc one is a hoedown with the first two lines of the chorus being "yer gonna die someday, yer' gonna fade away", which she featured as being so catchy and plainly true that it was about the only greeting issuing forth from her cheerleader lips for the next several weeks. It will, no doubt be the anthem that connects us for years to come. I'm considering having it carved into a slab of nice wood, varnishing it and hanging it on the entry gate to the property right under the "welcome to rancho relaxzo" part. Just a friendly reminder. In the relatively short period since the last post, the surrounding hills, parched to dust for months have soaked in the recent rains like a starving Sponge Bob in a vat of clam chowder. Now, resplendent in tall green clumps of Buffel grass,  the rolling terrain seems to be laughing its way down to Kihei.  The cattle actually get up on their hind legs, jump up and click their heels together every now and then. Everywhere they look, a feast. This is where we turn a corner described by the difference between keeping things mulched and watered and keeping the marauding hordes of desert flora from overtaking the joint.  It's the time of year when we pray to the gods of wwooof for a weed whacker jockey with triple crown credentials. The kind of person that sees him/herself as living the Agroid's ultimate first person shooter fantasy. Armed with serrated cutting tool, pruning knives, pole saw, weed whacker and chain saw, there is no foe gnarly enough to overcome the pure joy taken in shredding to teeny bits the grasses, vines and shrubs overtaking pathways and fruit trees alike. Pathways which, in the mind of Commander Whacker represent the way to ultimate freedom.  The vanquishing of evil. The release of goodness as personified by the perfectly tree ripened mango, which at days end will be his and his alone to devour having slain the invasive hordes and left their twitching, leafless bodies to be picked through by a small pack of feathered raptors, otherwise known as chickens. He/she will end the day covered in the lifeless remains of the once vital enemy, knowing that even now, as the adrenalin subsides and the taste of mango brings rapture to every bud, the enemy grows. Plots its revenge. Plans its assault. And as long as the rains persist, the armies of evil will march. So, as the Commander beds down for the night one thought lingers. The only good weed is a dead weed, or at least sufficiently cut back enough so that the boss will bring home some pastries from La Provence restaurant. It is a time of wonder here at the Rancho as both my mamoosh and my hanai son are in residence. Its a rare blending of energies not unlike the cocktail one might make from the remains of all the drinks at the Kopfelmans table in the wake of their sons Bar Mitzvah. Family, scary good. Moms here for a few weeks and Tyler for two. Both were in need of a sustained break. Mom, of course just finished her annual mud wrestling tour through the deep south where they insist upon using lard instead of mud. Makes the clean up a bear. Her skin looks better already. Ty just got elected to the House of Representatives from the sixteenth district in Alabama, where he ran on the motto "shoot first and don't ask".  He came home to run his agenda by me and see if it could use any tweaks. Basically, he figures to scare the turds out of the populace with thruthy hyperbole while offering enhanced home security systems through a company operating under the auspices of a shell corporation headquartered in Vanuatu.  Told him the only thing I might add would be a free wwll bayonet with each system purchased. Army surplus, there when you need it. It is deeply satisfying to see the generations merge with a certain ease and lack of constraint. The Rancho helps, but mostly its their mutual love of wrestling. I love it when they hit the deck and go at it. Moms eighty eight, but if she gets you in a headlock, its lights out. There is something of a changing of the guard in the wwoof population these days what with the McGuires gone and our wonderful "flashwwoof" (stay of one month or less) Justin returned to the ivory tower to digest his permaculture primer.  We have representatives from France, Chicago and Washington state on deck and due in for short to medium stays after which I must do what is not possible to do, find a replacement for dearest Natalie who even now plots her escape to exotic lands eastward. Places with funny names and short, mocha colored people talking fast and smiling far too much. Places too hot to even really imagine for a Minnesotan, but beyond resistance for this diminutive adventuress. She has slowly and steadily left her mark on every inch of this land. She has become that one pure gold thread that runs through an ornate tapestry and gives it the beauty that goes beyond mere value. She has become the best of friends and an enduring accomplice. I feel certain that any journey she takes will find those whose path she crosses enhanced by the experience. So here's my theory du jour. We have reached a tipping point. A tipping point triggered by the consumption of large sea creatures awash with mercury and other heavy metals which have diligently worked their way up the food chain to settle in the fleshy tissue of that tuna you just had for lunch. Now it doesn't happen overnight, but over ten years or so, neural networks start to break down and the world becomes more and more cartoon like. More and more susceptible to the whimsy of decaying gray matter. More and more capable of making fact arise from fiction, and fiction pose for fact. Being the kind of guy who feels everything happens as it should, I will concede that this free for all of ideas and opinions may be riddled with inconsistency, but that without this polarization we never get to whats next. So whats next? I know, but I'm not tellin'. Work has begun on what a paniolo pal of mine said was going to be a very ornate and elaborate entry way to the Winfrey interstate which begins at the bottom of Kealakapu road and follows its nose down to Kihei. From what I heard it then merges with a hidden tunnel which splits off in five directions and uses a supersonic railway system to allow access to any island within six minutes. There goes the neighborhood. The more you show, the more we'll grow. Happy holidays, Jp