Try to remember . . .

I had intended to link to this when I read it on Monday, but forgot in the press of business, until my assistant printed out the New York Times review of the same show for me today.  Why should I care what Terry Teachout or the Times think of a revival of The Fantasticks?  Teachout's lovely and wistful account of his connection with the play and the changes it made in his life brought to mind the very great changes it made in my own life. 

It was my first, and probably last, appearance on stage as an adult.  I have no ambitions to hit the boards again, but on some mornings, if you put your ear to the door and listen closely over the sound of the shower, you may still hear a somewhat worse for the wear baritone telling you about September, grass, grain and the innocence of youth.

The view from home; morning sun and a little mist. 

A Clean, Well-Lighted Place

If you have any literary pretensions at all, somewhere in the back of your mind is that vision of the perfect little coffee-house; a place to come in from the cold and find books, good company and a cup of something to take the chill away.  It appears that someone in Colorado Springs has been rummaging around in the back of my mind and brought a piece of that vision to life.  Anyone interested in setting up a Shenandoah Valley franchise?

Dormition of the Virgin Mary Greek Orthodox Church held it's Annual Greek Festival this past weekend. Family obligations kept me from helping the way I would have liked, but I did stop by for some pastries, some pictures and a little roast lamb. To read a little about the hard work that goes on behind the scenes in the kitchen, go here. (Registration may be required)

Small Pleasures

This past weekend I made a stop by Central Coffee Roasters after picking up some tools and placing an order for sheep mineral supplement at the nearby Co-op store.  While I realize that no sane person needs Certified Shade Grown Panama Finca Hartman or Yeman Mocca Matari or Sumatra Swiss Water Decaf dripping through the filter paper in the morning, there is just something about the smell of a fresh ground, properly roasted coffee ending it's journey from some exotic location at my breakfast table that drives me to fork over outlandish amounts of cash at least a few times a year for the experience. 

I am not sure whether this amounts to a guilty pleasure or not.  It perhaps goes into the same category as the Avengers Emma Peel mega-set DVD collection; not necessary, but probably not dangerous to your salvation in the long run.  In any event, I will continue to enjoy the scent from the grinder and coffee-maker in the morning and accept it as a kind of earthy incense blessing the beginning of the day.

Only in America . . .

New Software and Some Audio links

I have been trying out the Beta of Windows Live Writer, a free Microsoft produced blogging tool. So far I am quite pleased with it. The only oddity I have noticed is that, in the course of downloading your blog settings, it creates a temporary blog post. It is erased from the main blog page on completion of the download, but not before it propagates via RSS and ends up preserved in the archives. If any of you out there are trying to figure out why I have blogged a "Temporary Post Used For Style Detection," blame the Beta.

Every year St. Vladimir's Seminary holds a Summer Institute dedicated to an in depth examination of one particular topic in theology, liturgy or Church life. This year the topic was death. The Seminary has made available audio files in mp3 format of ten lectures through the Seminary Press website. Downloading via their system is, shall we say, a non-intuitive process. Go to this page and click "Buy Now" for the lectures you want and then proceed through the normal checkout process. Since the price is $0.00, you will not be charged, but at the end of the procedure will be given a download link for the selected files. I was lured to the site to listen to my favorite contemporary Orthodox theologian, David Bentley Hart, but have been impressed with all of the speakers I have listened to thus far.

Signs of the times

We are still in August, but the first signs of the changing season are here. This afternoon at lunch, the sycamore by the barn was filled with birds, calling and rattling wings, preparing to move south in a swirling black cloud. I have had to brake for a wider variety of creatures on our two lane road lately. This past week it has been raccoons. A few weeks ago it was box turtles. I do not know what inspires the great box turtle migration, but they are especially challenged by asphalt and passing cars. Retreating into one's shell just shy of the double yellow line is not the best way to insure survival of the species. Box turtles are singularly inoffensive and quite attractive in a modest way. I worry about them in a way that would never occur to me to worry about some of their larger cousins. Perhaps I identify with them as they plod along in a world grown too large and confusing, pulling one's head in from time to time when it all become a little too much to bear.

One of my favorite poets, Scott Cairns, has a new collection due out shortly, with excerpts now available on the Paraclete Press website. This one concerns our slow shelled friends, some of whom may actually walk on two legs, or in my own case, wait for me each morning in the shaving mirror.

On Slow Learning

If you have ever owned
a tortoise, you already know
how terribly difficult
paper training can be
for some pets.

Even if you get so far
as to instill in your tortoise
the value of achieving the paper,
there remains one obstacle—
your tortoise’s intrinsic sloth.

Even a well-intentioned tortoise
may find himself, in his journeys,
to be painfully far from the mark.

Failing, your tortoise may shy away
for weeks within his shell, utterly
ashamed, or looking up with tiny,
wet eyes might offer an honest shrug.
Forgive him.

Scott Cairns, from Compass of Affection - New and Selected Poems

It was hot today. The National Weather Service reports that the heat index, that measure of discomfort which stirs together heat and humidity to explain why sweat is rolling off your brow from a stroll across the parking lot, got up to 109 degrees. After work I walked down to the little run that cuts across the pasture with camera in hand, to find it reduced to a trickle. Still, sitting there by water under the shade of trees made the day's end a little more bearable. Here is a poem from Wendell Berry's volume, A Timbered Choir: The Sabbath Poems 1979-1997 that finds hints of redemption in "the water flowing under the shadow of the trees":

After the slavery of the body, dumbfoundment
of the living flesh in the order of spending
and wasting, then comes the enslavement
of consciousness, the incarnation of mind
in machines. Once the mind is reduced
to the brain, then it falls within the grasp
of the machine. It is the mind incarnate
in the body, in community, and in the earth
that they cannot confine. The difference
is in love; the difference is in grief and joy.
Remember the body's pleasure and its sorrow.
Remember its grief at the loss of all it knew.
Remember its redemption in suffering
and in love. Remember its resurrection
on the last day, when all made things
that have not refused this passage
will return, clarified, each fully being
in the being of all. Remember the small
secret creases of the earth - the grassy,
the wooded, and the rocky - that the water
has made, finding its way. Remember
the voices of the water flowing. Remember
the water flowing under the shadows
of the trees, of the tall grasses, of the stones.
Remember the water striders walking over
the surface of the water as it flowed.
Remember the great sphere of the small
wren's song, through which the water flowed.
and the light fell. Remember, and come to rest
in light's ordinary miracle.

"Sabbath's - 1990"

Yes, it has been a long time since anything new was posted here. Between work, farm, and Susan's recovery from her four surgeries (six if you count the biopsy and installation of the iv line) blogging has not seemed a high priority. I usually blog at the end of the day or first thing in the morning, either relaxing before sleep or easing myself into the day. For a long time this summer sleep came too late and morning came too early. Much has happened, most of it not of interest to anyone except a few family and friends. By and large we have kept close to home, except for a quick trip to St. Augustine Florida last weekend where I took the picture above at the chapel of the St. Photius Shrine, a little oasis in the old section of town, just steps away from throngs of shoppers and tourists. The trip itself might be the subject of another post on another day. Let us just say that my experience with United Express was very, very unlike my experience with the peace and tranquility of the Shrine.

In the meantime, those of you interested in the realities of the practice of law in these United States at the beginning of the 21st Century should go to Ancient Church, the weblog of a fellow attorney and Orthodox Christian and read his stories of text messages, saran wrap, machetes and advice for the lovelorn, courtesy of a series of domestic relations court cases. 

It was a busy weekend and a hectic week on the way. In the meantime, here is a link to a story in our local paper about a visit to the plane pictured in the previous post; "Airport's 'Howdy' gets a special visitor." The restoration of the plane is only partial. You can look straight through from tail to nose past the missing engine and see the surrounding mountains. A family of sparrows has sheltered in the fuselage. Listen closely and you hear chirping through the gun ports.

On Memorial Day I had picked up younger son from visiting with a friend. The route home took us past our small local airport so I pulled over to look at the vintage 1950's Sabre Jet on display out front. I had read about it in the local paper, seen it as I drove by, but had never stopped for a closer look:

Sunday afternoon I stopped by the flea market:







The market here is one of the larger in the area, with sellers who make a living at it, as well as folks simply flogging their junk on tarps in hopes of earning a few dollars. Walking the rows at a flea market is like beachcombing the ocean of our consumer culture. Here a pile of tools, there a box of eight-track tapes. Old vinyl lp's next to new Chinese plastic novelties. The odd rabbit or chicken. Fishing tackle, commemorative plates, a hand-cranked Victorola, t-shirts, a mobile tattoo parlour. If you want it, and have cash, it's here. I came to browse, not buy, but could not resist three cd's by jazz singer Karrin Allyson for fifty cents a piece. I don't know how they ended up next to the lots of used clothing and cheap sneakers from Singapore, but one man's trash, as they say, becomes another's treasure.

Morning sky, a chance of thunderstorms today.

WARNING: The rare Orthodox Agrarian virus seems to be spreading. James at Paradosis has caught the bug. Fortunately it is in the early stages and may still be curable. Scroll down through the comments for this gem from Paige:

As a side note, I vividly remember being eight, watching a special on the news about a program to bring inner-city kids (I guess from Louisville) to my area to see cows and mountains and stuff. I kept thinking that was great, and wondering when the busses were going to come and take me and my friends to Louisville to see a real live mall, or a movie theater. Didn't happen.

This past Saturday older and younger son and I, with the aid of a family friend, caught up on a number of farm chores that had been accumulating over the past few weeks. The rounding up of the flock went well with a single exception. When I got back from a quick run into town for supplies, friend and sons informed me that one particularly energetic lamb had split from the flock, jumped the cattleguard and headed down Browntown Road. The question put to me was whether we should chase the prodigal or just wait for his return while we worked with the rest of the flock. With visions of squealing brakes and crunching bumpers in my head, I led the crew out to search. We found the escapee about a quarter mile away, standing behind an old church which is now "The Freedom Club," an AA meeting house. The lamb had apparently taken the name to heart, because as soon as he saw us, he dashed into the woods behind the building, down a stream embankment and waded across Gooney Creek. We followed, splashing and sliding over slick stones. Two of us went left, two right and tried to surround him. The lamb, faced with imminent capture, surprised us all by bolting straight up the side of Buck Mountain and disappearing into the heavy underbrush.

At that point, tired, wet and with the day slipping away we returned to the rest of the flock. The next day, after hearing a report that the fugitive was back down by the creek, we headed out again. After the previous day's adventure I was ready to leave him be and let him grow into a local legend, "The Wild Sheep of Buck Mountain," but it was Sunday and the words of Matthew 18:12 were murmuring in the back of my mind: "What do you think? If a man has a hundred sheep, and one of them has gone astray, does he not leave the ninety-nine on the mountains and go in search of the one that went astray?" We set out , trying to track him by hoof prints and deposits thoughtfully left on the lawn of the vacation lodge on the other side of the creek. Again to no avail. We trudged back in defeat, ready to plan the next campaign when my mother-in-law came up and told us that, while we were trudging around, the lamb had come back across the creek and a neighbor had chased it back into our pasture. I decided then that I was not a Good Shepherd by any biblical standard, because at that moment I truly, truly could not "rejoice over it more than over the ninety-nine that never went astray."

The view from home this morning.

Over at Moonmeadow Farm they are digging garden beds and working with temporary fencing. We have used temporary electric fences with various degrees of success. Some sheep respond well, others never get it. We had one lamb who was the sort that give sheep their reputation for minimal gray matter. She never did comprehend that sticking her head through the plastic mesh would (a)get her head stuck and (b)shock her repeatedly until we could shut off the charger and get her out. Morning by morning we would step outside and hear "baah . . . baah . . . baah . . ." and know that Sue was at it again.

I occasionally read Washington Post columnist Jeanne Marie Laskas, another urban to rural transplant. She recounted her odyssey in her book Fifty Acres and a Poodle: A Story of Love, Livestock, and Finding Myself on a Farm . I had missed her piece in last Sunday's post until a friend printed it out and passed it on. Since our last few lambs are making their appearance, I thought I would link to it: Sweet Pea Had a Little Lamb.

Mother and twins