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. 

Calm versus Calamity

Looking to my left a TV shows the evergreen dramatics of worldly happenings. Looking to my right there is a southern hemispheric palm tree trying to maintain its stature in the prevailing winds. 

Risk-averse has always been a hard term for my prefrontal cortex to grasp. The term itself means to be hesitant to take on risk. Once you reach a certain age and income level, your tolerance for risk comes down to how big of an adult you want to be. The spectrum ranges from a coffee can buried in the backyard to starting your own business to jumping out of a plane. 

Meditation is a practice that in theory helps you to slow down in the present tense despite your external surroundings. I'm not here to preach on the benefits of the meditative habit, there are plenty of sensei pumping out that content. But to break it down on a molecular level, meditation helps you mentally perform in chaos and maintain an inner calm. 

There are all kinds of settings where this personal steadiness comes in handy. A few of my favorites include airports, crowded restaurants, and Walmart. 

In addition to these situational calamities, we humans are funny critters in the sense that we subject ourselves to and fester our own self-built turmoil. Some of said turmoil can be blamed on the relationships we sign up for but a fair amount of it is simply poor habitual exposure that we allow in our lives. 

There is a saying that exists that goes "The culture of an organization is shaped by the worst behavior a leader is willing to tolerate". So through the lens of maintaining an even keel and considering yourself a leader of your own world, what is the worst tolerated behavior you allow in your life? The social media and litany of dramatics from the news are good starting points. 

If I were to round this into a well-crafted PSA, just be mindful of your tolerance and strive towards being dramatic averse on the daily. Yep.

New in my life: Airports = Athleisure. Estou apredendo. Jupiter is a gaseous planet. It was pretty bright last week. 

Keep smilin'

JM

Silent but not Quiet

When I'm building odds and ends around my house there is always a moment when I have to determine how much I care about precision and aesthetics. While I claim to be a master of getting the job done, my attention to detail can be vanilla depending on the project. My focus is mostly dialed into the structure of the object versus the minutiae of how it appears. This personal oversight is on my self-help to-do list. 

I've started collecting leftover nails and screws that I randomly find in a mason jar in my garage. I'm confident the velcro shoes and Ensure come next. Despite this new geriatric habit, I do see the value of reusing versus tossing these nomadic construction accoutrements. This must be genetic as my father perfected this art as well over the past 3 decades of mine and his life. 

And here we are now with copious amounts of various rusted securements found from old fence posts, an extra screw that came with the new sofa, and hundreds of assorted items from rounds of various renovations. 

In a self-appointed, OCD determination, I've tasked myself to organize this nest of small metal connectors. Within this generational bundle of chaos, there is a good diversity of quality, size, and types of nails and screws. Some are rusted. Some are bent.  But a majority are still useful if they have maintained their structural integrity. As much as my minimalist soul despises the practice of hoarding, I do value the feeling of building something new with old parts. 

I spend a fair amount of time thinking about what I'll do once my muscles wear down and I'm confined to a small local radius. Perhaps this writing is simply a therapeutic exercise to put my mind at ease about what and how I will fill my time when not in my prime. 

At my mid-lifeish age, most days, I fight what I call "The Grump". It's the natural tendency to be agitated about seemingly normal happenings as we age. Examples you ask? People not using blinkers, dogs that bark too much, lawn mowers that don't start promptly, customer service phone lines that don't solve the problem, the weatherman being wrong, the seemingly lost next upcoming generation who won't get off my lawn.....you get the sentiment. 

The way that I narrow down what my ideal inner old man looks like is by reflecting on the older versions of humans that I revere and then trying to replicate the qualities of said human in myself. The common denominators of these observed admirable characteristics have been: asking more questions than speaking, open-mindedness, simple human kindness and patience to name a few. 

The more of #TheGrump I let creep into my day-to-day life, the further I get from that charasmatic old guy wearing camo crocs to his local cafe. My message to the hpothetical people reading this is that the decision to be an upstanding persona isn't made once you retire. It's a habitual practice every time you wake up and interact with fellow sapiens. Structural integrity is built over a lifetime of decisions. 

Similar to the rusty nails bound for my garage mason jar, the fact that you're continually aging shouldn't be an excuse to lessen your wholesomeness. As long as there is a healthy amount of structural integrity that has been acquired over the years, there should still be intrinsic value being broadcast to the folks around you.  Yep. 

New in my life: Online forums say it's only known for hogs and hunting but I feel like there's more to it. Apple cores aren't litter. This marks 101 for the hobby writer. My enneagram made me do it. 

Keep smilin'

JM