Atomic Insignificance

The moments that humble you to remember that you're a mere blip in time and space. Sitting next to a giant ocean, watching it's ceaseless energy. Roaming in the mountains, letting their scale remind you of their earthly tenure. Walking at the base of a pyramid on the edge of the desert that was built 4500 (or older) years ago. Leaned up against a 200 year old oak soaking up it's quiet wisdom in the traquility of the woods. These instances could be perceived as depressing, but rather they should be used as motivation from the universe to make the most of your finiteness.

I ventured North into Canada with a group of friends earlier thise year with the primary focus of fishing. In preparation we acquired ample supplies of tackle. There's excitement that comes with the anticipation of enjoyment. When the tackle is purchased, similar to all things new, there are no scuffs or blemishes on the manufactured functional art of a lure. After a week on the water and hundreds of casts (and hopefully fish), the beauty and shine have been festooned with battle scars. In my attempt to unpack feelings, there is something satisfying about that beat-up bait. If the lure could speak, it would diagnose it as trauma bond but on the human side, pride is the closest emotion I have to describe it. It's the pride of accomplishment.

Similar to cut marks on an old cutting board, it's wear and tear-proof  that you did something. There are a lot of other material objects you can lump in here: a tee shirt or set of sheets after decades of use, an old pocketknife or pair of pliers passed down through generations but still in great shape. I've inherited a good amount of these relics from my dad and grandfather. They're my favorite pieces of property but not because of their monetary value but because of the lessons and memories they carry.  I'm not sure there is a lesson or call to action here, aside from the observation that a majority of these well-worn objects correlate with hobbies and activities sans technology. Whatever it is for you, take care of and create more possessions that will hold that priceless generational nostalgia.

New in my life: Hank & Roy brought me Rosie and I'm good with that. Freezer is full and thy cupth is fullith. Loofas grow from the ground, who knew?

Horse-high, Bull-strong, and Pig-tight

I've been deconstructing old fences off the farm lately, and there is a part of me that feels like I'm smearing the paint of a Picasso work. The men before me spent their caloric energy crafting these barriers to keep their protein in. I'd imagine I'm overstating the task and that to them, putting up a fence in the July heat was anything but nostalgic and only a necessary part of livestocking. But hey, that's creative writing, right? Overstating the simplicities of life.

As I'm removing these sometimes archaic fences, I'll admire the style and strategy of the cattlemen. The way they configured the wire, the type of wood they chose for their posts, and how they strung it all together was dealer's choice to the man holding the fencing tool.

Fun aside, below is my favorite utensil I've found going through my dad's old fencing tool bucket. Give me this and a roll of duct tape, and I'll build you a boat and run the electrical to your house in an hour.

With institutional country knowledge comes knowing which types of wood are good for specific purposes. Pine burns great, has a lot of flame, but goes quicker than other tree fuel. The interior of a Cedar will be there in 100 years. They use Ash trees to make baseball bats. White oak is the primary wood for whiskey barrels. The list goes on.

Before the advent of steel posts, this arbor intel was important when selecting fence posts. To avoid frequently digging a new hole and replacing posts, choosing the right wood post saved a farmer future energy. To that point, in the Midwest, a common tree used for fence posts is and was Osage Orange.

This tree tends to grow quickly, somewhat horizontally, and features thorny branches, so before barbed wire became a thing, they used these trees as a natural barrier for hedgerows. For this reason, you'll hear people call their large, round, green fruit Hedge Apples.

In the 17th century, those crazy Frenchmen called the tree 'Bois d'Arc,' meaning 'Wood of the Bow,' referencing the fact that the Osage Indians liked the trees for building their bows. In a nutshell, we landbreakers have found the Osage Orange to be a hardy and useful tree.

As I perform my hobby-farmer duties around the farm, I like to identify trees, especially when I have to cut one down. To me, timber management should be done thoughtfully and as a sign of respect; at least know who you're dealing with when running a chainsaw.

The other day I came across a small patch of Osage Orange trees, and knowing what I do about them, I prefer to let them stand as they provide more generational utility than most other trees (and humans). The finding that stirred the genesis of this group of words was a cut mark from a former denizen of the area.

In reality, the person who cut it was probably the same inhabitant who I'm still picking up 1990s-style beer cans off the land. But maybe not. Given the wood's rot-resistance, it could have been the same person who crafted the stone tools I pick up every year when they disc the field for crops.

We'll never know, and that's the fun part. Having a cup of coffee, staring out the window, and simply wondering. Stay creative, stay curious, my friends.

New in my life: Slowing Down to the Speed of Joy. Close calls train puppies. Sunspots and sunshirts are a new-age pirate's way of life. 

Keep smilin'

Joe

Chewing the Cud Once More

There's a 100-year old barn on our family farm. I don't know when exactly or who built it but it's structurally sound aside from a janky roof. Adjacent to said barn, there is a small lot that has always been deemed "The Pony Lot". 

As kids, my dad bought each of us kids a baby calf.  We bottle-fed in that old barn and used the field for grazing to raise our little cows.  We had horses that called that pasture home over the years and for a decade or so, we had 3 miniature ponies that lived there too. The little ones didn't contribute much but then again, that's not a requirement of our freeloading pets. 

A few years ago, with our cattle and farm pet days behind us, we burned and converted that pony lot from fescue grass into a wildflower field. When you burn off a field, a neat thing happens. There are a litany of native seeds in the soil just patiently waiting until it's their time to shine. It's called a seed bank and it can give you a cornucopia of forbs that have been hibernating for years or even decades in the dirt.

Another part of the process of converting a field into wildflowers, in the first year, the plants focus a majority of their energy on their roots. In the vein of longevity, they don't bloom much that initial year. Focus on what keeps you grounded before exerting yourself. Seems wise. 

When we think of wildflowers, we envision a picturesque, vibrant field festooned with colors. And that does eventually happen, but for the cold months, those plants are dry, dead and crispy. In other words, they're kind of ugly. But in that dryness, the dead plants hold the seeds for the coming spring season. So even in their less aesthetic phase, they're gearing up for their next chapter of growth. 

In progression of development following the burn and growing of wildflowers, we started housing a handful of bee hives along the edge of this same old pasture. Shameless plug, message me if you want to buy some unfiltered, delicious, homegrown, great-on-bread and in tea, honey. (Too salesy?) Ponies + wildflowers + bees = honey. It's a classic American agricultural equation. 

Fast forward to when I bought my house in the city. I did the green thumb routine of building a raised bed garden to properly christen the new home. Given the decades of equine fertilizer, I naturally scooped soil from the pony lot to incubate my future urban-grown veggies. Fun aside, when unloading the nutrient-laden soil, I found an arrowhead, which was a good reminder of those who lived off that land before us. They used rock, I use metal. Who knows what material the future AI robot gardeners will use?

I've had a garden for a few years now, and the drug that keeps me coming back, is growing the whole damn thing from seeds starting in my garage in the doldrums of February. Eating a summer time meal that you started from seed hits differently. Back when people named their kids Augustus and Eunice, saving seeds was a necessity. Now we hobby-farmers do it for sport. 

Within the pastime of saving seeds, I've started selective harvesting and keeping seeds from the biggest and brightest of produce. In theory, just like two pro athletes combining their competitive advantages into a progeny, I should get bigger and better squash and tomatoes year over year. 

As we enter the season that forces a lot of us to slow down for a breath, it's a good reminder to reflect back on the year. Even if 2025 has been a tough one, just like the unsightly season of wildflowers, winter can hold a lot of hope for the chapter to come. Plus, with selective harvest and getting back to your core strengths (roots), next year could be your bumper crop. 

New in my life: My grocery has a good selection of non-alcoholic beers. Creativity requires diligence. The Big Piney River starts in Cabool, MO. 

Keep smilin,

Joe

Making your Mark

Ornithologists suggest cleaning out birdhouses in the fall or winter for next year's spring arrivals. Spring cleaning, if you will, for those of us without opposable thumbs. This practice also allows a glimpse into the familial life of birds. Garden nerd pro tip: old bird nests make great compost. Fledgling crib turned butternut squash. 

My house was in the direct path of a tornado in 2019 which may be the very reason that I ended up buying it in 2021. Like a large majority of buyers, I do not know the previous owners but as you settle into a new abode, you start to subtly find hints of personality from the prior tenants. Custom garage cabinetry and intentional nails in specific locations start to paint a vague persona of the inhabitants before me.

I thoroughly enjoy picking up litter, and in the Bush Honey Suckle-laden woods behind my residence, there were pieces of roofing from said cyclone. As I removed the man-made clutter, I came across a few partially deconstructed, custom-built birdhouses. Being a chronic piddler, I happily took on the refurbishment projects. "This Old Birdhouse" would make a great and unpopular television series. 

I recovered and rebuilt a few of these avian masterpieces but the most lavish inherited birdhouse remained affixed to the fence. As I started deconstructing the bird bungalow enough to clean out the nest, I came to appreciate the attention to detail and ingenuity of the builder. It's as if he or she had predicted my curiosity would lead me to this point. This internal nod of approval to antiquated craftsmanship is also why I enjoy finding arrowheads. It's a moment of creative connection to a fellow Sapien from a former time. 

As I removed the lid of the house, I was pleased to find the architect's initials and year carved underneath. This personal tattooing isn't a new trend. We've been naming pyramids and businesses in hopes of legacy for millennia. 

I still don't know who owned my little urban ranch home before me but I have a slightly better picture into the small details of life that were important to them and that makes me happy. I just lucked out that they enjoyed similar pastimes. 

The lesson here is that you don't need a pyramid or start a successful business to leave your mark. Make time for the things you love and let the universe do the rest. 

New in my life: "Man's Best Friend" originated from Warrensburg, MO. Beavers winter in communal dens. Vegetais dormem no solo. 

Keep smilin'

JM

Keep Homeschool Weird

Driving down county road 436, listening to solid country gold on a Saturday night, Donnie slams the remainder of his Banquet Beer and aims the golden nugget at an upcoming road sign. Per the norm, he misses high sending the can sailing into the overgrown ditch. Annual heavy rains and the occasional playful coyote move the aluminum vessel further down the sediment-carrying system that nature has designed. 

We lace our livelihood and subtle identities with consumerism. Admittedly, it has an attractive appeal.  Progress and productivity throughout the week drive consumption. Or perhaps we're driven and productive in order to consume. You could make an argument that our version of Sapien is wired this way and those characteristics have gotten us to this evolutionary successful point.

In my personal brand of outdoor pursuits, there is often a goal, endpoint or mission to accomplish. Hiking just to hike is still a hard pill to swallow. Fishing has the desire of fish, hunting holds the hopes of a full freezer and even physical labor on the farm comes with the finality and satisfaction of looking at your pile of productivity afterwards. This designed reward system is so innate, that it feels natural. If I do this activity, typically I will end up with this result. Makes sense.

As I stroll through a sullen grey winterized patch of woods made up of Oaks and Eastern Red Cedars, I question the pace which I'm walking. I certainly don't have an agenda for the day or time constraint, but my pre-programmed self, desires to find my piece of productivity. A shed antler from a deer, a morel mushroom or an arrowhead from an earlier denizen. 

In reality, I don't need that reward fix. The stillness and sounds of the dormant canopy, the ever-present rain of vitamin D and the endorphins from a strenuous hike should be enough to feed the soul for this outing. I settle on the fact there will be no physical trophy today to rest my laurels on. 

As I cross a creek on the walk back, still enabling my inner Indian Jones, I do come across a remnant from decades prior. The words are faded but I can still make out "Coors" on the shiny golden aluminum now beaten up from tributary travel. I pick it up, smile, and consider this generational housekeeping my productive keepsake of the day. Yep. 

Keep smilin'

JM

New in my life: Contemplating a new haircut. I've caught a trout where the Missouri River begins, plus I got hooked on rodeos back in the day and they’re hard to shake. Teddy Roosevelt had a house on Long Island.