Looks quite likely that we won't get to eat One white sapote this season. Not one. By this time of year we are usually filling up five gallon buckets for market, cleaning and freezing bunches for white sapote/coconut wafers, and hand picking the most golden, ready to fall off in your hand, just soft enough to eat gush of the sweet life. So very rich, so very creamy and so very delish. Ah, those were the days. This is now two out of the past three years that multi-species hordes of nocturnal fruit piercing moths have targeted the rancho. They are working on the loquats, jaboticaba, surinam cherry, figs and YES, the mangoes. I know this has been a topic of blogville for awhile now and that's because there are so many layers of data available on a number of micro and macro levels that have you running mental marathons to wrap your arms around it. Bottom line, them or us. So what works. Lets say one left a few sapote trees for "bait" and moved more expansively into those crops that seem immune to the critter like, avo's, mac nuts and more avo's and mac nuts 'cause as far as I can tell, those are the only two things that have thus for resisted these red eyed spawn of some entomological hell world. Oh yeah, chayote also seems immune to the vampire like allure. Its quite likely that one could live off chayote, goats milk and nutella. So what's a good little permaculturist to do? a. retire and get a life.                                                                                                                                                                            b. spend savings on a candy apple red metalflake Maserati. c. parade around the world with a svelt blonde glued to side. d. grow fish. Huh? come again. Grow Fish. So we've embarked on the completion of the "lower" pond which will hold our stock of Tilopia. Ah, Tilopia, that wonderful bulletproof fish that thrives and happily produces pound after pound of flaky, tender white flesh while providing hours of leisure fun for kids of all ages. We've thrown in a bunch of Koi as well in the hopes they will start breeding and providing us with some sellable stock and hours and hours of enjoyment watching them glide care free beneath. I remember well hanging out by the pond with Tyler when he was a stripling. We'd bait the hooks with fish food pellets, set the weight and bobber and let er' rip. Sometimes we'd go out in the inflatable and just float around with lines dangling, caring less. Nice to have those lazy summer daze to look forward to. There's already talk of rope swings and such. Venison barbecue anyone? While the loss of a season of fruits is never a pleasant affair, turns out that in the big pic these events just point to more diversity. So I'm thinking we just cut all the trees and put up cell phone towers. Those suckers lease for the big jing and i've already ordered lead lined clothing. Along with the fish, eggs and a few avo's and mac nuts we should do just fine. Had some major fun doing a bit of music with the wonderful fellas of the Brown Chicken Brown Cow string band. I've watched these young players for years. They've been coming to Maui for some time now and each and every time they come back they shine from the polish they've put on their playing. They've been joined by the harmonica wonder, Kat who, unfortunately left for the mainland before being able to put a track down. Might be able to patch one in when she returns. So I was at Charlie's watching their show a couple of months back and flashed that this is the perfect back up band to use when re-recording The Ballad of the Bust. Checked in with them recently and the idea sounded good, so we rolled from there. Simple tune, so one rehearsal had us prepped for a live recording session which happened at my house in a very relaxed atmosphere. Joined by a great young video guy name of Parker we proceeded to goof off for a few hours and make some memories. I will say here and now that Zander, Orion, Justin and Matt were perfect for the job and provided the  energy necessary for smooth running. Having written the song about forty years ago there was a certain closing of a loop that felt superb. Part of the inspiration to re make the tune was that a friend of mine had told me that Solomon Lee (subject of song) was retired and working at the Pukalani golf course. "Getoutahea", I coughed. Found out he was on a couple of days a week as the cart guy. So I went down one day and walked up to him and said, "are you the famous Solomon Lee?" To which he guffawed, "well, I don't know if I'm famous". To which I replied, "yes you are, I made you famous". To which he blurted, "Pollock?!!" Went on to one of the most pleasant conversations I've ever had with a known nemesis. Here's the funny part. When I came back in after looping the course, he comes over to me and asks, "do you remember the last time we saw each other?" "Yes I do", I replied. So dig this, here's a guy I haven't seen in nearly forty years and we both have the memory of that moment emblazoned in our brains, enough so that he thinks to ask me about it. The scene was this. I was cruising over to a friends house to return some schwagg they had given me to try to sell. It was crap. Had to go back. So I pull up in my vw bus, grab a garbage bag with five or six pound of herb and, santa like start up the path to the house when out the front door comes my friend who raises her hands and says, "not now, not now, go away". Those words yield an automatic response, and it is not, "what do you mean, I have your pot right here." Nor is it, "o.k. I'll just leave it on the sidewalk." The appropriate response is to turn around and walk casually but rapidly back to vw bus and tool on out of there. So this is what I am proceeding to do when I hear the voice, freezing me in my tracks. "Hey........... Pollock". I turn my head slowly and see Solomon standing on the porch. We have a "moment" after which he raises his right hand, smiles and waves at me. l waved back, boarded my bus and cruised on down the road. Only goes to show that music can melt away all differences creating harmonies, invisible and inaudible that cannot be  denied. So get your kid into an instrument. You never know, he or she might turn out to be a criminal. The more you show, the more we'll grow. peace, Jp

O.k., show of hands. How many of you have had the gosh darned honor of being interrupted during your early morning, calm, quiet, peaceful yoga session, where the dawn is breathed in and human life is honored with each exhale,  by the gosh darndest noise comin' from a small machine designed to buff the cement on oprahs road. Really??  Only me............. I was easing myself into paschimottanasana, breathing my way into a more relaxed and stretched forward bend, sensing my oxinium hips being more fully embraced by the surrounding muscle, when the sound erupted. Inhale, hmmmmmm. The front door was open to the morning chill so I just had to kind of roll to my left to see out across the deck to the road. The tops of the west maui mountains were glowing pink as the dawn crept over a cloudless crater and shattered the last remains of early morning muted tones. The chickens were including the intrusion in their wake up cluckings by looking over toward the noise and then at each other for a little chat n' scatch. When I figured out what was going on, I thought that her nibs must be onboard and so will have nothing to do with dirt or cowpoop stains on her road. Seriously. I then rolled back, breathed, stretched, rolled to my right and checked under my meditation pillow for a set of car keys. Heard it took seven thousand gallons of simple green. I was browsing a wonderful book by the remarkable Vonnegut, his last in fact. "A Man Without a Country". Don't usually share the stage here at blog central what with the massive case of swelldheaditis, however I would like to share the following: " Do you know what a humanist is? My parents and grandparents were humanists, what used to be called Free Thinkers. So as a humanist I am honoring my ancestors, which the Bible says is a good thing to do. We humanists try to behave as decently, as fairly, and as honorably as we can without any expectation of rewards or punishments in an afterlife. My brother and sister didn't think there was one, my grandparents didn't think there was one. It was enough they were alive. We humanists serve as best we can the only abstraction with which we have any real familiarity, which is our community. I am, incidentally, Honorary President of the American Humanist Association, having succeeded the late, great science fiction writer Isaac Asimov in that totally functionless capacity. We had a memorial service for Isaac a few years back, and I spoke and said at one point, "Isaac is up in heaven now." It was the funniest thing I could have said to an audience of humanists. I rolled them in the aisles. It was several minutes before order could be restored. And if I should ever die, God forbid, i hope you will say, "Kurt is up in heaven now." That's my favorite joke. How do humanists feel about Jesus? I say of Jesus, as all humanists do, "If what he said is good, and so much of is absolutely beautiful, what does it matter if he was God or not?" But if Christ hadn't delivered the Sermon on the Mount, with its message of mercy and pity, I wouldn't want to be a human being. I'd just as soon be a rattlesnake." I'd probably choose aardvark at Tin Cup's driving range. Not feared, but armored. For those of you familiar with the goings on here at the Rancho, you know that we bring meat birds in about three times a year. Give you two guesses.... The little pufflings are growing in leaps into adolescent eating machines. Running around like a Stuff Smith solo. They seem to show a fondness for slightly shredded blue tarp. I think it gets them loaded because they just stand there pecking at it and staring like they just walked into Winterland. Approaching two weeks now and about the same amount of time in the shed before allowing them into the massive forest of looming banana trees and the shade of the Inga and the tasty leaves and stems of the honohono grass. Did I mention a world of bugs? Think for a moment, if you will as to what it must be like to be a plump little broiler let loose in field of greens to find a papaya on the ground that it can't see over. Maybe a bit rotten on one side, kinda soft. Beak gets buried, covered in orange. Bird senses the frenzied rush of sweet fruit. Natures smacrack. No longer settling for bagged starter and straw floor the stomping minions wade through the tall grass to find tasty hono morsels and bugs running for their lives. Talk about a rave. We look forward to attempting to reduce the measure of food to bring them up to proper plump by keeping the grow out area succulent. The week in brief: road wash out after monumental, cesium soaked rain, missed Grimes party. DAMN YOU GRIMES. Don't remember the rest of the week. Looks like we got some stuff done though. About to order liner for the "lower" pond which is being prepped as we sleep. I put seventy two air breathing grass carp in the bottom to see if they would work their way up and out, get to weighing about eighty pounds each and feed us for about two and a half years if we dry it and salt it. Anyone want in? O.K., G'night. And good night to you Mr. Vonnegut. The more you show, the more we'll hide. with love  

I was out back in the orchard awhile ago. The sun was about thirty degrees from setting and the afternoon glow was in full bloom. So were the flowers on the Kahaluu avocado. It's in that stage where half the blooms have opened and the rest will come open within a week. Its a frenzied pollination party. Flowering panicles (much branched inflorescence) exuding scents that remind the common house fly (musca domestica)  of some kind of died and gone to heaven jihad. Counted twenty three flies on one panicle. They get right on top of the delicate little florette and stick their suck tube (technical jargon) into the tiny little nectar puddle hidden just beyond the anthers (balls). Stimulating the balls thusly causes the release of pollen which in turn finds its way to the stigma (a hairy tube connected to the ovule) and delivers its half of the key to the life of an avocado keiki. I have to say that this particular avo has been an enigma to me. It has held a bumper crop only once in the thirty odd years since planting. Other years, bupkiss. I mean maybe a dozen or two. The mystery is that it always sets thousands of small fruit, which is a complete gas to see, but then as the days go by, one by one they fall to their premature demise before even a dream of being smeared on toast with a fried egg and touch of mai ploy (maybe some grated Havarti). Sad really. So I just stood there, head tilted upward, gazing lovingly at this natural wonder. Ballet like, breeze swaying the branch, flies hopping from bloom to bloom, shiny new leaves fluttering, sunlight making it all vivid. The choreography, flawless. There was a nice exchange going on, with the tree seeming to sense that I was trying to find the right "words" of encouragement. Anything to get it to just hold on. To let those tiny avo embryo's develop into buttery red stemmed beauties ready to fill a couple of five gallon buckets a week for weeks on end with plenty left over for above mentioned open faced sandwich. I felt like a proud papa with his ear to the tummy of mummy feeling the life force expressing itself in no less significant a way than if it were my own offspring because, and lets face it, its the same messy little miracle going on ad infinitum. Super sized or small we are in the thrall of life expressing itself with a relentless and delicate fury. And no dish fee. Nurse Hillary of Tribe Van Hof departed the rancho to the chagrin of all present. Disgruntled over her former wwoof digs, she arranged to take refuge at the rancho for the remainder of her stay, and so she did. A farm girl head to foot she added a natural grace to the hard work she's born to do. She arrived with a full head of dreads framing her dutch features, which she decided to remove while here. These Wwoof's, you just never know what they're gonna do next. So the other day she comes out to where i'm working (?), tenderly cradling her dreads in her arms as though approaching an alter to offer a sacrifice. She felt that it would be appropriate to put this very expression of her individuality in the compost where it could merge with natures web and go on to feed a banana clump that would incorporate on a molecular level all that is Hillary in its luscious fruits. So we did. There it sits, layered into the slow cook compost where, by the time she returns next summer will have fed that banana (a double stalk Mahoy keiki I just got) and perhaps be eating fruit charged with essence of Van Hof. Thanks Hillary, your wonderful laugh resounds in the ripples in the pond. Been doing a bit of re-visioning at the rancho. Really just an evolution in a way. Frrinstance, used to be we had two separate enclosures for one group of leghorns and we'd shift them back and forth according to season and forage etc..Now we've done a couple of things. We've taken down the lower area, opening up lots of space and put the girls in their permanent digs up above where they are less bothersome in terms of morning noise and simply occupying space that had past its use as bird habitat. The other thing is that we opened up an old garden space used for easily stung crops. This space also had been chicken world, so well endowed. Used to be connected to a fence going to a gate, both of which have been eighty sixed, leaving a nice open space walking up and down the path between houses. No more bottlenecks. Just like that, a whole new feel and lots of potential where there really wasn't much happening. Here's one way that i'm an idiot. I never really document any of this stuff. I mean we did get some shots of the pond installation, but this would have been a dramatic before and after effect. Here's what it feels like. Before: walk into fenced in, low slung deer netting roof, crab spider webs fucking everywhere, ducking down in an alley way separating an atemoya tree and a mango tree, avoiding roosts to get up into a bigger area with more fucking webs where bending down to get around was imperative. Big fun. After: Stroll between the above mentioned trees with head held high, not a web in sight. Walk with an ease unknown for years around an area ripe for designing. Breathe deep the potential. Good call. Now the fun begins because we have a sizeable area in which to grow more food. An area that has been years in the fertilizing, and although rocky (what else is new) richly endowed with cultured poopage. We can only do our best to move forward while embracing what has past. In so doing the farm takes on a more dynamic vision which continues to grow and refine itself. Open spaces, happy faces. The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp p.s. first party of the season set for the 13th of April. The theme: disparage the tax man. Come dressed as an accountant. fiveish, pot luck.

Lucifer lay dreaming. Dreaming of popping the eyeballs of hedge fund managers out of their sockets to be used as garnish in her favorite cinnamon martini which she would sip ever so slowly while chuckling softly as these titans of wall street walked into walls made of stinging nettle, fell off cliffs into shark infested waters and became impaled on brimstone over and over again. It was a happy dream. A dream from which she was loathe to waken. A dream filled with cackle and hawking up hatred. The catatonic eyeballs floated in a viscous miasma of juniper and spice, turning slowly, looking out, then down then right at her. "Hi there eyeball of former scumbag doomed to wander the seven realms of hell (or was that nine, I forget), running into things and falling on sharp objects." At which point she would delicately place the sphere on her pustulating tongue, roll it around a bit and swallow it whole so that it could watch itself being eaten away by tummy juice. This all ended ever so abruptly when her retard half brother, Looey started kicking her in the head, you know, just to see. She arose in a rage measuring seven point two on the beeotch vector. No laughing matter. She put her thumb in her mouth, blew real hard and pushed her stoved in nose back out to normal ugly. Looking down at Looey with his goofy drooling face, she had a moment of compassion and a slight empathetic smile before kicking his toosh into the nearest lake of fire, you know, just to see. Now Looey was a vegetarian, so he floated on the fire with nary a singe. As he approached the shore he gestured his grief in having offended his big sister by pulling a knife out of his trousers and pointing to his penis. The hangdog expression on his face was priceless. Lucifer couldn't help herself, she laughed so hard that Jimmy Hoffa came flyin' out of her Kootchie. "C'mere ya big lug, she oozed." She gave her little brother a big bear hug as Jimmy crawled back up to continue his game of cribbage with hitler and freud. "Why I haven't had a laugh like that since I sent those dragons to toast the Sumerians (total smartasses). Is there anything your little heart desires, my sweet Looey? Just say the word and its yours." Looey looked puzzled. That's how he looked while thinking. Like he was watching a dog perform an appendectomy. This continued until flies started buzzing around his head. Finally, he fell asleep, but not before a single word passed over his puffy lips: "Cabbage." When he awoke, there, arrayed before him, was the most fabulous display of every variety of cabbage in the known universe. Round ones, flat ones, leafy ones, hairy ones, ones with six colors, ones that tasted like salted watermelon. He could barely contain his joy. Tears welling up. Hand trembling as it reached out for the first of the feast. Prior to this moment, cabbage was hard to come by in Hell. The climate does not favor such a crop unless it's the famous speckled maroon Venusian cube cabbage which grows in conditions very similar to Hell. Otherwise, shit outaluck. Lucifer had called in a few favors, and created a cool space around the tables so that Looey could eat to his hearts content without a leaf wilting. He commenced. Within minutes his fat little fingers were moving from table to mouth with blinding speed. Bits of leaf crammed into his pie hole like he was loading a juicer. Jaws grinding like a cuisinart. Masticated cabbage winding its way down the gullet on its way to a gassy breakdown. Lucifer looked on with curious amusement as Looey's stomach began to swell and the first of the gaseous effluvium made its escape accompanied by high pitched squeaking sounds akin to rusty old springs in a car seat on a bumpy road. It simply hadn't occurred to either Lucifer or Looey that the gassy wake left by scarfing up so much cabbage might pose a threat to Looey's health. After all, cabbage is rare in Hell. Then, the tipping point. Looey's girth had nearly doubled and his breathing was labored. He tried walking around to help move things along which only produced slightly more squeaky discharges. He felt dizzy. His knees were buckling. Then a searing pain as a bubble of flesh, like a hernia appeared below his belly button, then another a couple of inches away and another popping up his hip. Lucifer looked alarmed and started backing away slowly. Good thing too, 'cause when he exploded it was one glorious mess. Talk about coleslaw. Sheeesh. Lucifer was slack jawed. Nonplussed. Flabber gas ted. She didn't know what to do. Her beloved foil Looey was a shredded pile of gooo. She started pacing. Small flames started shooting out her ears and nostrils. Her complexion reddened even more. She raised her fists to the firmament and roared, "damn you cabbage, damn you to Hell." She dreamed a dream of wiping out all cabbage, everywhere. It made her smile. When she awoke she saw that she had drawn a picture of a delicate little moth in the sand with her claw. As she looked at it, it came to life, turned white with delicate markings, fluttered to her ear and said, I'll wipe out that fuckin' cabbage for ya'. And thus the cabbage moth was born. True story. So the next time you see the frenzied spring crop of this demon spawn fluttering about, think of Looey and have a side of slaw. That's right, SHE. I got an advance copy of Dan Browns new book entitled "Mona Lisa Smile". Just what IS she smiling about? You'll find out, soon enough. The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp  

Anyone else out there having moments that can be described as confrontational yet totally surrendered? As though some super sensitive gene has awakened and signals an awareness of how completely twisted human life has become, how easily that could be remedied and how baffling that a tipping point has become more a metaphor for a possibility gone begging. The "totally surrendered" part of this nebulous feeling is not entirely clear to me as yet. And why would it be? Should we not be howling our discontent? Should we not be hurling foul smelling things? Should we not stop eating sugary snacks? Maybe not. Here's something the orchard taught me just recently. Farms been getting pummeled with winter rains. The kind that haven't been seen around these parts since the eighties. Frreal. So me, in my little human flesh suit and knotted up sensibilities conditioned by decades of WRONG! is being kept up at night by the sound of natures blessing to the earth, thinking oh fuck, the mango's and avo's and jabo's and lychee are all flowering and, and what if this fucking rain is ruining my crop, goddddammit. So the rain's rainin' and the wind is whipping up through the night and I can't wait for daylight to go out and get ready to manifest the biggest boohooohoooo I can muster, think about packing it in and start googling land in eastern europe. Something about the morning sun. Think about it. Wherever you are. How the first rays peeking over the rim bring the colors way up and gift you with the promise of renewal. Nice to be able to count on that. Even in a storm, you know its happening right on the other side of the grey. Simple as breathing. So I'm walking down the driveway, feeling the pessimist creeping around in the shadows and beginning to notice that although there appear to be plenty of unopened flowers littering the ground, the trees still have somewhere in the vicinity of a crap load of potential fruit everywhere. And as I approach the pond area to feed the chooks and make sure none of them have drowned in the deluge, I walk by a pope mango, already laden with early fruits and flowering like tomorrow may never come. Flowers, I might add with nary a trace of powdery mildew. I stop by the tree. Smile real big. Stoke its aura and complement it for its immense good sense in manifesting something so totally amazing, year after year after year. For having the stability that comes with longevity. For hanging these edible ornaments for the world to delight in. The colors. The flavors. Year after year. All I have to do is make nice. And I'm thinking, there's nineteen varieties of these on the land and to imagine that some wind and rain is going to do anything but make this seasons growth spectacular and next years fruit set a wonder to behold is to forget that I don't have the slightest bit of control over any of this and that if I just surrender to the wisdom inherent in each moment of sincere observation of Natures complex simplicity, I may just die a happy camper. Thanks orchard. I love examining the flower panicles  for new fruit set. There are hundreds of pretty little perfect flowers per spray. Light golden color and ready to make magic. The housefly is the main pollinator and dances about sucking up nectar and shuffling pollen to pistil and making mango's. Thanks man. I've taken to putting a chicken carcass or deer parts, when available under the trees that prefer the fly as pollinator. A slick little permaculture trick brought to you by the minds at "all you hafta do is plant stuff and pick stuff and make nice"; a limited liability corporation headquartered in the Bahamas. There's always something stranger than you've ever seen before. The past couple of weeks it's been the discovery of two barred rocks, in separate areas, found dead. The strange part is that one was decapitated (sort of surgically)and the other was totally eviscerated but had its head in tact, innards picked clean. Strange indeed. In all my days of tending the flock, I have never witnessed such wanton brutality. Troubled I am, young skywalker. Now, even though nurse Amanda and hubby Jason seem nice enough, one can't help but wonder given that the horrific slayings began with their arrival, whether they have some macabre need for chicken blood and entrails, and if so, what kind of Heironymus Bosch  ending this episode may come to. A calmer look at things might suggest a particularly aggressive and Large mongoose, or a nasty, mangy, treated poorly as a kitty feral peckerwood with acquired feline sociopathy, a condition normally seen in urban and overcrowded areas but on rare occasions seen in the boonies. We're thinking night vision youtube video that will freak cat lovers out the world over. Live streaming bard rock snuff film. How's your cuddly little pal look to you now? There but for fortune...... So the mysteries mount up and there's not enough time in the day or people on hand to monitor the goings on of some psycho cat who's decided to make itself at home and whittle its way through your flock of faithful feathered freakshows. Fact is, the one that was eviscerated probably died of natural causes and was eaten, in tribute by her sisters. I'm pretty sure the one that was decapitated was me when I was sleep walking the other night. I woke up in an inia tree with some feathers sticking out of my mustache and a piece of beak lodged between my teeth. Didn't think much of it at the time. I'm gonna just leave it at that, and the next time it happens I'll blame Tyler. I have a new stage name. It's "side dish". Miss Meaghan Owens, who will be playing along side me at the Hana Hou cafe this very saturday evening between six and nine pm, has agreed that "side dish" suits me and fits perfectly with the creative interplay generated by her loveliness and nutrient dense musical offerings and my mashed potato like consistency and buttery oozings. So the entire time I've been writing this, the bufo's have been churning out a constant tapping sound characteristic of some Facebook chatter gone viral. Used to be that the sound of just one of the gnarly little amphibs would get the heart rate jacked up a bit and after awhile have me taping a flashlight on to the barrel of my .22 while doing my best Elmer Fudd impression and, on tippy toe, hunting the noise maker down. Splaaattt. Phew..... back into the house for some rest and within ten minutes another one would start sounding off. I'm not sure when I noticed that at a certain point they go to sleep, but whenever it was, I realized that I could let my zest for splattering them on the rocks slip away. I could accept them as background noise and let them continue to act like horny frat boys responding to the scent of a woman, and accept that around tenish the tapping will give way to a silence more profound for the tapping it replaced. Its all slipping away. One can be grateful for the stillness born of surrender and the calm born of short odds. The more you show, the more we'll grow. with aloha, Jp  

Since the farmers market in Makawao town moved up to the Pookela church about a year ago, there has been a slow but steady evolution of people and vendors. At first it seemed kinda like the shift would be smooth running. The first couple of weeks showed little sign of slowdown and the location, with the exception of the north side weather proved to be ideal. After all, there we were on the serene grounds of a beautiful old church, treading on grassy earth and looking up the mountain at yet another splendid maui vista. But for some reason, and these things are always hard to figure, the traffic dropped off, sales fell by maybe twenty percent and everybody was holding their breath to see what may come next. Over the past half year and particularly in the last couple of months things have stabilized to the point of having a steady flow of folks wandering through and has become the only market with "farmer on sight" requirements. Nice to know that one is buying direct from the grower. It is a form of social networking that produces increasingly positive results and connects us to the most basic elements of caring for each other. I got food, gimme money. Last week some nicely polished folks from America were strolling around and browsing the goods. The woman, decked out in casual finery picked up some bananas for me to weight out. I did so, pronounced the price and handled her the golden hand. As she took them and was about to put them in her bag, she went a tiny bit wide eyed and said, " oh, there's bugs" (commonly known as ants). Without a moments hesitation I said, "yes, we have a farm and there's bugs. On occasion  we take them out for some fresh air and of course, honor the wishes of those wanting to attend church regularly". For the briefest moment she was slightly baffled but then decided that I was just making an attempt at humor and had a chuckle. For me it was a reminder. A reminder of the degree to which people of a certain ilk will always find fault instead of favor. Will take the time to sip the whine instead of praise the grape. Its a bit like the produce wholesalers who, if you bring them banana's with any sort of blemish, look at you as though you should be shipped out to the leper colony on Molokai for rehab because, BLEMISHES. Now, I have no problem with the notion of people wanting the very best stuff they can get. After all, they're spending "good money" on that shit, but the idea that ants and blemishes make a banana useless is a bit like saying "don't forget to throw grandpa out with the trash, honey. He's reached a tipping point on those liver spots." You know who I love? I love the people who see a tangor with mottled skin and mite damage, give it a tender little squeeze, maybe a bit of a sniff, look up, smile and say "I'll take em' all". The kind of people who know that the food that comes to market may not be stacked neatly or pimple free, but that it has been lovingly tended to and presented with confidence in the fact that as farmers, we do our very best and then let you decide. We are not heavily invested in madison avenue marketing techniques. We are not particularly enamored of ourselves as being cool people. We have no particular interest in pulling the wool over the eyes of the unsuspecting. More often than not we are self effacing, sarcastic of necessity and in love with what we do. Cynicism rarely enters in, but I do love sarcasm. BUGS, on a farm? Lordy, what next........ More bugs. We are experiencing something of a repeat performance featuring the innocuous looking lace bug and the high flying fruit sucking moth. They last performed for us a couple of years back when the white sapote trees got weakened by the lace bug and succumbed to the ravages of the F.S.M. (lost 90%). These critters don't actually know each other, but they combine their energies to bring about the onset of "mad farmers disease", the symptoms of which include cotton mouth, spiking blood pressure, club foot, wringing of hands, gnashing, screaming at cars that go by and regretting not taking that job as a lifeguard at a carwash. This past season our Bosworth lychee busted out with more flowers and fruit than ever before. The luscious little nubules plumping up in the summer sun. I saw marathon eating sessions in my future, and a bit of profit to boot. Guess what? Upon harvesting the first of the seasons bounty, I noticed that many of the fruits had small brown spots. Kinda softer and gooey underneath too. Hoo boy. So I'm thinking that the moth has struck. Now I'm standing there trying to avoid a "mad farmer" attack, which I do by bending down, squeezing a bud of the cheese and taking big yogi breath, and as i release the scented terpenes through my nostrils, I see a common wasp land delicately and precisely on the shoulder of a perfectly ripe lychee. In amazement I watch as this little pisher buries its face into the pinkish red skin, deposits its eggy ooze, takes a taste and moves on to the next one. Cotton mouth with a side order of twitchy leg (new symptom). Mesmerized, I stood by as some eighty percent of the fruit got bit and could only be fed to the chickens and wwoofers. Then there's the annona borer (use your imagination), jak fruit fungus, papaya scourge, powdery mildew, slugs, snails, puppy dog tails and the occasional duck or chook who just Must have some greens (preferably the newly planted kind). This is not woe is me, just the way it is. "Mad farmer disease" is no laughing matter folks. It effects upwards of sixty two percent of small farmers and is by far the leading cause of flatulence among vegetable farmers. If you farm trees, pond dwelling creatures and feathered goats like I do you may be among the thirty eight percent who only suffer insomnia, cash pooria, and projectile diarrhea. Consider yourself lucky. So the next time somebody says to you, "how about the price of food these days, those farmers have it easy collecting their subsidies for not growing and then jacking up the price by controlling the supply. I bet those fuckers all drive ethanol mercedes with solid gold fuel injectors", you raise up your hand with index finger pointed skyward, wag it back and forth, furrow your brow and say " oh no you di-ent. You di-ent just say that. Say no to the people who need to get a clue. Say no, you must understand the essential importance of this work. Say no because you can't eat money. We need to No when it comes to busting the illusions that mire us in misunderstanding and dispassion falsely assigned. Part of me wishes it were easier. The rest of me knows it just gets tougher and that the only choice is to gut it out. So here's to guts, without which life would be freakin' SCARY. The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp          

Four years. Four years and then some. Four years since miss Natalie Forster set foot on the silly soil of Rancho Relaxzo. And with all of my desire and all of my heart, I tried to win her over and make a start with someone so lovely, so childlike and so very beautiful. Her adventure on maui began in Lahaina. Joining her best friend and ex-patriot Minnesotan in town, she spent the first month on Maui moving between party nights and hung over beach time. She arrived at the Rancho in the afternoon. Came in the back room door. I was in the living room, watching the tube. I turned to my left to set eyes on the diminutive and elfin form of the Natty. She was hefting a pack about two thirds her size which seemed to have no impact on her perky fortitude. For those of you who have yet to gaze into the smiling face of ms. forster, let me tell you that it is an experience which solicits a universal response. Wow, too cute. Picture in the dictionary next to the word kind of cute. Feline features framed by a mob of dread locks raining down on a form of beautiful proportion (a babe for sure). But really, cute is just the cream on top of the beauty bottle, because beautiful is hard to approach, but cute is " what can I do for ya m'aam?" There is no such thing as true love. Only love of truth. Love emerges from truth and the truth of it is, we found it. The mingling of pheromones, the pulse pounding energy, the bottomless desire. The missed signals, the lost moments, the first fight. All the good stuff. The beginning of the endless work. The managing of sensibilities. The transmuting of energy. The avoidance of disaster. The growing bond. All the good stuff. Some people might actually look askance at a couple separated by thirty nine years (really tempted to just round that off to forty for the shock value). Pish, toosh, I say. Time, the great illusion is only there to tell us that it does not exist. Meanwhile, I am utterly amazed that this remarkable young being  will have anything to do with this shar pei  looking relic. It takes years, doesn't it? Even if you start off great guns. Laying it all out. Putting it all on the table. Agreeing to disagree and so on. Then it happens. The STICKING point. The point at which all the little things that in and of themselves don't really seem to mean shit, but combined look like a large pile of cat poop in the middle of your silver grey alpaca rug that you know will never come clean and will never smell right. But you keep trying because, the love. The love is compelling in its need to be fulfilled. And in that need an ending begins. Its hard to just Be. In love. The years roll by. Many pebbles on the pond. Moments of clarity followed by a rippling surface with fish that look all squiggly. The explosive joy of new beginnings seque's  into the sobering thought of graceful exits. Just like life. I don't wanna die, mommy. Tell the boogie man to go away. She got settled in her room, came out to the living room with a box of "stuff", and started doing some crafting. We sat and talked. Music played. She danced in her favorite long flowing dress, moving in a way so natural and joyous that my whole being got a boner. I have oft repeated that had I known there were so many young, enthusiastic, charming women among the ranks of wwoofdom, I'd have signed up as a host before so much as a twig had been planted. Mind you, this is not to say that the young men folk haven't been equally ribald, enchanting and helpful, but they all have peckers and are therefore only of limited use to me. I have been blessed to be in the presence of such wonderful young folk (mostly). My mom, who ran the concert office at Princeton University for nigh on a quarter century is still in touch with many of the students and faculty who passed through her life and were touched by it. Moms pretty cool. And that's a wonderful legacy to have. Natalie was the one in the many. We forged the unlikeliest of bonds. Me, part pain and surging to maintain. She, part dream come true, part taming of the shrew. Hard to know how to live with a person who is in pain all the time. Hard to describe to a person who knows no such pain how to know so much pain. She did a remarkable job of trying. When I found out that I needed a hip replaced I thought, Hhmmmmmm. I'm eating my own cartilage. Not good. I was disappointed on many levels. There's the "woe is me" level. There's the " I'm a freakin' yogi guy" level. There's the "blame it on the 36 trip down the kaupo gap" level. And finally there's the " I don't want to die" level. My sixty fifth birthday was more anticipated than any single digit pool party with all your friends and all the cake you can eat, stay up as late as you want kinda deal. Cause now, I could fly like an eagle to any doctor my wittle heart desired and whip out my shiny new laminated medicare card and with a smug look say, here ya go sucka, check me out. Both hips ended up costing seventy eight dollars. New life. Nurse Natalie had been the leader in our pack of wwoofs, and being tenured in her stay by tethering herself to this rickity old stick, she quickly developed a familiarity with the place that gave me the kind of comfort that comes of knowing that someone is really tuned in, and cares. Five months of travel , on her own through asia brought her back to the rancho a new woman and no longer a wwoof. She'd been working the general store in Makawao before she left and when she returned I suggested that she dig into the garden and see if she could make a go of selling greens at market. She has since become an asset to whatever farm or garden she comes in contact with and has become identified with the splendid edible bouquet's that she sells at market, along with abundant smiles and loads of snide remarks passing through her head. Natalie moved from the rancho the other day. We always knew that the nasty bugger "time" would likely get in the way and that it would be best to be prepared to part company. Hard to do, and in some ways made a gnarly bit of a mess of it. But all in all, I think as the dust settles there will be a growing appreciation of the spirit of the time we spent in auto cuddle. An appreciation born of the knowledge that love is hard work and that the work we have done is part of us. A point of reference forever. Tell you what, I'm not going to go all mushy here. Fact is, she got a place an eighth of a mile away. I can practically piss in her yard from my deck. Love you Natty. The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace, Jp

I read the Lob-sang oolong leaves as they settled to the bottom of the porcelain cup. They spelled out Uruguay. Uruguay, the country poised on the brink of becoming the first on the planet to legalize pot. Compaleeetly legal. The country's profile fits the bill too. Population, eighty eight percent European, marginalizing the remaining native population to more and more remote realms of poverty and despair. Lots and lots of gmo soy to assure the protection of the environment and the health of those who drink soy latte's. A progressive government willing to nationalize natural resources, giving just enough to the dwindling underclass to make them complacent. Protected, for the time being from the death plume of Fukushima AND high speed internet. Could there be a better place for an ex patriot Permaculturist to start fresh? I think not. My first move would be to enlist the support of president Pepe Mujica, who cruises around in a vw bus and spends much of his time on the farm. I'd hit him with the ol' one two. Permaculture golf courses for the rich, sustainable forest gardens and pot cultivation for the rest. In one generation, everybody's happy. Almost makes me wanna burst into song. " Aahhhhhhh sweet mystery of life, at last ive found thee, aahhhhhhhh, I know at last the secret of it all........." Why we'd have them gmo fellas on the run. Soy fields turning to fruit trees and hardwood canopies. Medicine vines climbing for the sun. Critters coming to cultivate. Humans finding their place. Life taking over. Why its a no brainer. And the good lord knows my brain went into retirement awhile back so I'd be perfect for the job. So whadayah think? Should I go? Should I divest myself of the oligaplutocrappy and the burgeoning rat race to become a distinguished retiree in the seaside town of Piriapolis? Stay tuned............. Lately i've noticed a peculiar phenomenon which in some ways defies the laws of physics. It seems that over the years the economic concept known as trickle down, has mysteriously done a complete one eighty and, without anyone really noticing has become trickle up economics. The system that was supposed to see a golden shower of prosperity raining down on those in need and balancing out the inequities posed by self interest and greed has somehow managed to reverse the flow of wealth from the bottom to the top. Pretty slick. Trickle down is still proclaimed the best method of allowing the market to work its magic. Allowing the gifted to rule with the kind of detached aplomb associated with a high priest pulling the still beating heart of an innocent out of his chest. Wage earners of every ilk have been plagued by fees, interest, surcharges, taxes, price gouging and whatever other terms that may be used by the masters of the universe to indicate that you must pay to play, while all of this accumulates in hidden bank accounts and false fronts for ever more nefarious ventures. Pretty slick. I mean really, who among us wouldn't jump at the opportunity to ride roughshod over the less evolved, the disadvantaged, the disenfranchised. Fuckers have it coming. After all they're just out there busting hump for an always inadequate paycheck; foolishly preoccupied with making ends meet and things like feeding and educating kids that are really only good for filling the needs of the service sector once they are indoctrinated into the ways of the slave class. I mean really, get over that sense of altruism and humanist proclivities and admit to the deep seated need to dominate, which is the primary characteristic of reptile brained human endeavor. My slither is longer than yours. Check Ayn Rands profile. Looks like an iguana. The masters of the universe just get to kick back while spinning their market algorithms, creating wealth without producing anything and watching their offshore accounts swell like the tooshy of a baboon in heat as the vast majority of the populace get to watch their hard earned cashish defy gravity and trickle up. Very slick Don't you crave a Maserati? Be honest. Don't you? If so, start a practice account online and hone your skills so that you too can have money for nuthin' and your chicks for free. Speaking of chicks, we're now at the point where I must make the hard choice of thinning out the layers who have become less than optimally productive. Turns out that a couple of years is about all one can expect for full productivity when it comes to egg output. After that things start to taper. Our oldest are well beyond that and while the tough choices are always hard to make, it comes down to taking the older mixed breeds (meat and eggs) and cleaning them up for food (soup mostly), culling out the skinny layers and layering them into our compost piles, or offering our chook exchange program which farms out the elders to those who would like a few birds around to weed and poop and eat bugs with the occasional egg thrown in. The terms of that particular program are: you come catchum' and you can havum". Heck of a deal. It's been awhile, but we got the pond relined and filled up around september. Had an old friend come by and bring me some Israeli tilopia. The ones that wear yarmulkas and  come circumcised. She said they grow to two feet but only if kosher fed. At the moment they are about ten inches and reaching breeding age. When I was back east visiting the mother ship we had a tilopia dinner and I was astonished to see that it sold for $9.99 a pound. Ermaghard. Yet another income stream. This is a good one because one can sling fish at the local farmers market without the heavy hand of the health department being able to say boo. Why, you might ask, is that the case. Its because cold blood runs in those veins and nasty critters like salmonella and e. coli don't visit the cold blooded. Also got a dealers permit for koi so as to be able to get the wholesale prices on the little beauties. Started with about fifty to get a feel for how they will do in the pond. So far only one floater. Shouldn't be long before we can pick some out for breeding and start raising our own. In the meantime, they are a joy to watch. I sit mesmerized by the sound of the water falls and the sight of the fish gliding by. Before long, I'm hearing soothing voices. Not spiritual shit or anything like that. More like who might win the n.f.c. playoffs, or what jennifer lawrence might wear at the oscars. I'm thinkin' of placing a few bets. Things are good at the Rancho. Nurse Jessica is a one woman farmin' machine and we've had a slew of flashwwoofs coming through. Should stabilize a bit this winter and spring with some longer term interns seeking shelter from the storm. So onward into the new year with one thought in mind. Fuck it, lets have some fun. The more you show, the more we'll grow. Aloha, Jp        

I'm pretty sure that with the near simultaneous discoveries of the Higgs Boson "God" particle and the precipitous descent into ever more dramatic criminality and psychopathic behavior represented by the LIBOR scandal that we as a race of beings have reached the ipsissimus of polarized consciousness. Can these two realities co-exist without suggesting the unthinkable, like that all these weensy little bosons are running around bringing form to energy without giving a rats ass about the consequences, like an army of mental cases packin' boners for anything that moves and spreading their tainted seed far and wee. If these random intersects, gaseous outpourings and occasional "meaningful" manifestations are the best that Mr. Higgs' boson has to offer, then perhaps the financial scam-masters of the world really ARE, as Lloyd Blankfein suggests, doing Gods work. Oh my.......... On the other hand it probably was a bit presumptuous of the physics community to expect a boson to live up to a nickname like "the God particle". A little like calling your kid Leonardo von Einstein (your last name here). So now that it's been found, what? Whats all the hubbub? Turns out nobodies real sure on that. Physicists that I've seen interviewed glaze over a bit at the question and then respond with  some form of "we'll have to see what the practical applications are as the data gets a thorough going over." Maybe we can make water boil faster by adding a nano cup of bosons. If you ask me, their makin' it up as they go along. High Priests (esses) of hyperbole with their arcane language and uber nerdy ways. They drink deeply the spice and worm their way through time into the infinitude of invisible colliding particles. This serene and timeless space where the photons and quarks and yes, now the Higgs' are endlessly at play. Modern day mystics, bringing forth their imaginings, finding them, naming them, making them pets. Was the particle discovered, or did they invent it? Are we at the helm or just navigating through chaos attempting to puzzle things out? We've had our share of photon showers of late. It's been a squinty summer with occasional relaxed iris'. It's a weather pattern that I like because hot and dry suits my withering constitution and given enough water, the farm thrives on the suns radiance. The strong winds I could do without but no matter how often I raise my arms and scream toward the heavens, the gusty response comes back sounding like a huge crowd of people laughing their asses off. I named my new puppy Dementia, so I wouldn't forget. She's already caught two deer, a pig and a small child from up on Easy street. She's part pit bull, part jaguar, part boa constrictor and part corn starch . I was approached at the farmers market not long ago, by an odd sort of fellow wearing an eye patch and a sullen look. He had a razor thin scar running from the corner of his right eye to the corner of his nostril. His pallor was sickly and his scent stale. He introduced himself as Otto Schtuprmensch and said he was an assistant v.p. at Monsanto's most secretive genetics research facility located a mile down in the heart of Mauna Kea. He said they were toying with various combinations of inter species modifications ("mods", he called them). He said that they were working with the DLNR to create a super predator to eradicate the deer. "How did you come to find me", I asked. "I vus chust henging out at ze schtoppvatch ze uzzer night, unt zom vun told me zet I should call you because you heff prrroblems wiss ze deer", he said. "Yes, yes I do", I replied. "Vood you like to try vun of our latest four mod creajons," he asked. "Well I'm not sure", I replied. "Vuts not to be shoor', he belched. "Well, its the whole trans genetic thing and the messing with nature deal", I said. "Vhat, you neffer ate a corndog", he oozed. He then proceeded to pull the cutest little creature you've ever seen out of his overcoat pocket. Looked just like a pit bull puppy but with the sleekness and spots of a Jaguar and a tail with eyes and a mouth at the end. He put her down on the floor and she stood there trembly still, scanning the room. Then she leapt toward the kitchen, opened a cupboard door and snagged three cockroaches quick as a wink. Two with the mouth, one with the tail. She popped the tail roach into her proper mouth as she ambled back over to us and chewed with a certain visible delight on her face. Smiley like. He said she would get to about 70 pounds and that the tail would grow up to 15 feet, have the strength of a constrictor and the capacity to consume a small deer. Apparently mouth and tail share the same digestive mechanism which has been modified to render small piles of thoroughly composted poo out a belly portal. I said, "why the corn starch?" " To make zem biodegrrrradable", he replied. " I'll take her". Never thought I'd have another dog like creature. Now if I can just figure out what to name her. We're at the end of the first half of the mango season at the Rancho. Been a heck of a year for fruitset. All the old timers are goin' on about it. Had our first Hadens coming in July. Still some hanging. Those were followed up by the r2e2's or Golden Globes which are about half harvested. The Rapozas (Ooooooooommmyum) are a third done with the biggest and most mind numbingly tasty globules still plumping up. Of the four qualities upon which mango's are assessed i.e., fiber less, juicy, sweet and melting, the Rapoza rules. We've had a smattering of Glenns and Popes and I just noticed a half dozen White Piries out on the tree by the Leghorn paddock. Had my first Golden Glow the other day. It was off a small healthy specimen out in the youngest orchard. It was the only fruit on the tree and had reached the point where the merest touch dropped it into my hand. Perfect. We're lookin' at gobs of Keitt's starting in a couple of weeks and going for weeks. Same with the Zillate's and the Brooks. I'm looking forward to the first ever fruit off a small Florigon tree planted just last year. The mango will hang for six months or more before tree ripening. It is a compelling sight, a wonder to watch from flower to food and a heckuva way to mark time. It's a quarter till ripe and about half past harvested. Keeping time is the obsession that enslaves. Marking time reveals natures resilience and abundance. Not much has changed at the Rancho since my last post. After twenty five years there's something of a settled feel to the older orchards and the only thing that really changes is the density. The way the trees gradually fill in the space between and have the potential to give ten or fifteen percent more fruit each year, which means increasing abundance for many years to come. We'd like to get to the point where we can create a fall/winter mango market bubble and hold the public hostage. We figure prices would top off around the holidays and peak at about 43 bucks a pound by Chanukah. Along with our plan to farm organically grown Ahi in our newly renovated salt water pond and sell when it tops out during the holidays at about 60 bucks a pound, our work year should last about two and a half months, pay the years expenses, top off our I.R.A's and put that new Maserati suv in the garage. I have seen the promised land, and it is my backyard. Permallulia. The more you show, the more we'll grow. Peace            

Star date, one year prior to the end of the world as we know it. Blogging in at oh eight hundred hours. It has been many moons since finger tips nuanced keyboard. Not an entirely intentional happenstance. In the process of mining information while attempting to "keep up" with whats going on worldwide, my mind merely slips into a time worp of interconnected levels of dysfunctional behavior leading to inappropriate actions and the apprehension of the rapidly approaching cliffs edge over which we, as a nasty little species are about to plummet. Now that's a vintage whine. Always call on the" wrapped up in the problems of the world rap" to deflect the fact that our little morbid fascination is the common denominator, the place where we meet to watch the process bleed out its ugly little spawn and foment a virtual revolution. It is for the good of mankind that I browse the web in search of doom. Popped the cork on another vintage whine while venturing through the cool, dank, and musky corners of the cellar late one night last week. I often venture there in the wee hours to pour over the oh so many reasons to support the notion that there is no gravity, that life simply sucks. Here's the one I sipped on till dawns light drove me to slumber. "The steady erosion of our human rights has led us into a sense of helpless longing. Longing for change, longing for equality and a fair share of the pie. It has driven us apart, erected boundaries and instilled fears that guide us into the grinding maw of corporate servitude." Longing and fear get a lot of play when you're just hanging out sipping on some whine. The chicks definitely dig it. Of course the one I hear more and more, which becomes mantra like in its all encompassing capacity to invade any conversation, is how bad it sucks to grow into old people. Kvetching increases by orders of magnitude. The aching joints and chronic pains mixed with a looming sense of despair makes for a scintillating whine, bound to lift the spirits. Speaking of which, say what you will about blended scotch, Chivas Regal rocks. Had one as a pau hana after the gig last week and it turned the road to rubbah. Much like the wino jamming two fingers down his throat after a Thunderbird bender we have the need to spew. It is the rubbing together of the raw and the resplendent, of empathy and rage. It is the newborn meme carved of discontent and depicting life as a cascade of tears, waiting for nothing to overcome everything. Somewhere between "fuck this" and "its all good" we find a life. So by all means, rejoice in your finest whine. Make it manifest so that it can drift off into the aethers, mingling with eternity and return cloaked in stardust like a disturbing thought turned revelation. You do what you can, right? You even try to do the best you can, eh? What does it get you? A big fat zero. Nada, bupkiss, shhkeevautz. Even the slightest expectation of some karmic credit sends the whole mess ass over teakettle into the fiery pits of Mordor. See, I just made some whine, on the spot. So easy. Now, I'm a true believer in civil disobedience, even disobedience of the uncivil kind, when called for. This is why I felt that I took it very well. You see, when I went down to feed the chickens a few days back, they had convened a delegation of each of the six groups of laying hens represented  on the farm. Delegates from the Leghorn clan, the Rhode Island/New Hampshire group, the Barred Rock inmates, the Ameraucana posse and the crazy Cukoo Maran gang had gathered in a circle around the garbage cans containing their food. They had gathered there to express, in no uncertain terms their strident objections to the way in which their lives were being manipulated and the indignity of servitude that had robbed them of all of what remained of their waning self respect. You've never seen so much fidgeting and clawing at the ground. The air was filled with the bukk bukk begok and pe-kawking sounds of hens on the edge of laying an egg, but desperately trying not to. I resolved to hear them out. They had flow charts fer' chrissake. Ones that showed the ratio's between bare minimum rations to overall morale and willingness to lay. Others that depicted different brands of feed and how small farmers everywhere and in the great majority left food out all day to free choice. They showed how, in spite of the glorious weather, spacious enclosures, garden scraps, banana peals, chicktendo consoles and a world of bugs to dig up, they went into a near faint every day, seeing their eggs carted away to a fate that would make Benedict Arnold renounce his association with this most essential of foodstuffs. A bit melodramatic, thinks I. But wait, it gets better. Let me interject here that were it not for a decades long search for the linguistic connections between human speech and fowl language, I would not be able to accurately render the conversation preceding the negotiated settlement. The elder in the Leghorn delegation approached me, turned around and took a crap on my shoe. This by way of traditional greeting. I reciprocated by kicking her tooshy across the yard. Proper protocols having been established, we got to the meat on this bone of contention. She started by telling me that were I not so ugly, the scent of rotting flesh oozing from my pores would actually be an asset. I told her that more wheat middlins' were not negotiable. She scratched up some dirt and ruffled those feathers on the back of her neck, huddled up for a couple of minutes with her fellow delegates and came back to tell me that after careful consideration the group had decided that I was unworthy. That my position as caregiver was a lark. That I only thought about the bottom line, that I was inattentive, and uncaring with regard to every aspect of their chicken-ness except the daily egg count. I returned fire by reminding them that they're a flock of spoiled, pampered and snooty yente's  whose only purpose in life is to be precursor to an omelet and that if they didn't snap out of it  I'd fire up the whizbang plucker and just let it run for awhile to remind them who's in charge. After a good bit of bashing it about, it came down to this. Cleaner water, one half ounce more food per occupant per day, seven days sick leave, two weeks paid vacation and cleaned and washed eggshells returned for worship and dessert. Only fair, especially cause they don't have a clue as to what a vacation really is, or what it means to be sick. Pretty slick negotiating skills, and in the end, terms we could all live with. So, as I sit watching the sun go down, lighting the sky with thrills and chills, I listen for the tweensy-est sound of discontent being mumbled in the roosts, but the bedtime banter is lighthearted and frilled with anticipation of the extra half ounce of feed due them by the dawns early light. Sleep well, my lovelies and snap out of this molt thing before I sell you for puppy chow. As this dark time dominates and the years end brings the promise of renewed light we stand in gratitude under Nature's guiding hand and give up the fear, and give up the longing and give up the illusions. We offer them up in sacrifice to what we know we can be, what we know is. Thanks to all of you who are kin to the Rancho. It puts the worth in worthwhile. The more you show, the more we'll grow. Mele Kalikimaka and a Maka Hiki Hou, Jp