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