Warp - Installment #1

“Blast!” Luella sang out from the bedroom closet, loudly enough for Edgar to hear.

Edgar tipped the newspaper down, turned his head on the bed pillow and looked over his glasses at his wife. In the gloom of the unlit closet, she was a vague and harmless shadow. “What is it, dear? And why don’t you turn the light on?”

She stood still, hands on her hips, staring at the closet floor. “I’ve ruined my gardening shoes. They’re completely mildewed. I’m surprised we didn’t smell them before this. I don’t need the light, thanks.” She sighed. “I suppose I’ll garden in my bare feet from now on. Hmmm . . . sounds like a book title, doesn’t it? Barefoot Gardening for Fun and Profit.”

With a monumental effort, Edgar Rawlins managed not to scream at the top of his lungs. “I suppose so,” he breathed, and pretended to return to his reading. He knew Luella’s need to pounce on ambivalent replies.

The hunter sprang. Luella stepped out of the closet and to the foot of the bed in a trice. In a composed voice that didn’t fool Edgar, she asked, “You suppose I’ll garden in my bare feet, or you suppose it sounds like a book title?”

Edgar-the-prey folded, laying his paper on the threadbare flowered comforter. “The latter, of course. I don’t expect you to garden in your bare feet unless that tickles your fancy, Lu.” He didn’t add that he remembered—with a pleasurable stir of warmth in his belly—when it had tickled her fancy (and his) to garden in her bra and cut-offs, racing for her shirt slung over a rose bush when unexpected company drove up.

There was no point in bringing it up, he thought. Nowadays Luella wouldn’t risk being caught in any stage of undress—not because her figure wasn’t still lovely (it was) and not because she was of above-average modesty (she wasn’t). Luella wouldn’t risk being caught in her ten-year-old Maidenform bra, graying and held together by two safety pins.

His wife smiled in embarrassment. “Ed, I know you’d buy me new shoes in a minute if I asked, but I’d hate to. I’d hate to be such a spendthrift. These were perfectly good until I ruined them . . . .”

Earth stewardship: the right thing to do

Today my youngest and I were chatting in the car about how easily people could save natural resources by making a few small, painless changes and maybe some bigger, sacrificial ones. The topic came up because I was drafting behind a semi for about 10 seconds before saying, "OK, we need to move now because this isn't a safe distance." That led to a brief discussion of wouldn't-it-be-nice-if-someone-invented-a-safe-way-to-draft-behind-trucks, which led to a likewise-brief discourse on how easily we can DO THINGS BETTER. Like . . . forgoing the repeat step in the shampooing process . . . sharing your magazine subscriptions among a group of friends instead of tossing each issue after you've read it . . . buying bamboo cutlery to carry around instead of accepting a handful of plastic cutlery at the drive-through . . . insisting politely to the store clerk that you don't need the soap bagged separately before being put in a larger grocery bag because (a) the soap is already wrapped in at least 2 layers and (b) you brought your own shopping bag . . . telling the server nicely that it's not necessary to refill your water glass each time you take a sip . . . using your worn washcloths and towels for rags instead of throwing them away and buying more paper towels . . . turning off the water while you brush or shave . . .

The Aerobic Mouse

There's a new dance sensation at my house. It's called "The Aerobic Mouse." Here's how it goes:

First, you stand at the kitchen sink stemming apples to put through the juicer. You hear a noise coming from under the fridge, which at first sounds as though it's a vibration caused by the loud garbage truck outside that's throwing trash carts up in the air. Then, you realize that the noise is more of a chewing/gnawing/ nibbling noise. Yeah, definitely not just a vibration.

Next, you dislodge the folded grocery bags that are stuffed between the fridge and the counter, watching for a small scurrying creature to come running out. When that doesn't happen and the noises (which are definitely chewing noises, you now realize) resume, you kick the front of the drip pan under the fridge. The gnawing stops.

Got all the steps so far? Go ahead and review them if you need.

Now, return to your position at the sink. Continue stemming apples and feeding them into the Jack LaLanne juicer on the counter.

Here's the bit of tricky choreography: Spot a furry flash moving from the direction of the fridge to the bottom of the cupboard next to you, then streaking back to the fridge. In broad daylight. Jump, scream and run into the living room holding a dripping apple.

Good so far?

Hours later--after your significant other has cleared away detritus from around the fridge and set traps--resume your apple juicing activities in the kitchen. It's dark now. Again, stand at the sink and place the apples in the juicer on the counter between the sink and fridge. Glance out of the corner of your eye in time to see the rodent run out on the same path, wave, wink at you about the traps, and run back to the nether recesses under the fridge.

The next day, add a new step: Move the juicer to a new counter so your back is to the fridge and you cannot see the mouse/rat/capybara without turning around. As you feed apples into the juicer, perform a brisk aerobic hop to discourage rodent incursions around your feet. Remind the creature loudly that this is, again, BROAD DAYLIGHT.

Variation: Add loud music to avoid hearing a trap spring.

Life on the Farm

A few years ago we traded in the city life for rural living. Unlike Lisa on “Green Acres,” I don’t adore a penthouse view (I've only ever enjoyed one, on a week's stay in smoggy Shanghai, China), but I do know I was ready to leave the nightly police helicopter tours over our block, the drug-dealers’ conventions at the local convenience store and the no-name, no-talk attitude of some of our city neighbors.

We looked at several areas before we chose a rural location that shall remain nameless but lies between Oregon and Mexico. With starry-eyed optimism, we bought a "fixer-upper" (translation: some of the outlets weren’t wired to ANYTHING but air) farmhouse with a couple of acres. The outgoing owners even left us several chickens and geese, one duck and a herd of 20 or so cats. They also left a stunning crop of summer squash, each the size of a didgeridoo.

To celebrate the move, we threw a big “Down on the Farm” party. Bales of hay served as seating; we gathered cornstalks into shocks; and I piled the squash into decorative cords on the front porch. We bobbed for apples and ran feedsack races. Overalls and straw hats were optional. When they heard our renovation plans, friends told us we certainly had a lot of vision to buy a (ahem) fixer-upper. As guests departed, we tried to give each one a cat and a squash as door prizes. No takers.

One of our first moves as farmette-owners was to get a big German Shepherd puppy. I drove to the owners’ house with a cardboard box in the backseat to use as a carrying cage; when I saw that the dog was big enough (at seven months) to eat the box, I stuck it in the trunk and let the dog have the backseat. After spending her first day under the porch, she proved herself to be a champion watch dog. She also taught us to never assume that all dogs can run free with the livestock, like that nice dog on "Babe." In other words, she developed a nasty habit of eating very fresh chickens. After we had to dispatch a couple of unfortunate ones, we clipped the others’ wings and kept them in the fenced barnyard.

The next animal acquisition was a pygmy goat. After she and my husband played an ongoing game of, “You add another strand of barbed wire to the fence, and I’ll show you how I can clear it,” we decided a leash was in order for a few days. Following her initial reticence, she quickly became a friendly pet.

Next, of course, was a pygmy billy goat (aka a buck). While the one we bought was about half the size of our nanny, he didn’t lack for libido. A few months later, they presented us with twins . . . twin whats, we wondered? Boys or girls? Our more experienced neighbor set us straight on that score and offered to castrate the little fellows for us.

I will only say that rubber bands took on a whole different light for me thereafter.

Later, when we sold one of the kids to the same neighbor, the nanny grabbed a $20 bill out of his hand and gobbled it down while my husband chased her around the pen. This was an expensive animal! The chickens, on the other hand, seemed a better investment. In return for scratch and water, they gave us fresh eggs. So economical. After doing the math on the feed and water bills, we learned we were paying about $14 per dozen eggs. But they were fresh!

Some of our farmette disappeared before our very eyes that first winter. Several fruit trees perished; apparently they’d been planted too deep and had drowned. My husband planted willow saplings by the goose pond, thinking with satisfaction of how the geese would enjoy their shade come summer. They enjoyed them all right . . . mostly the next day, when they ate every leaf and tender twig. Sadly, the trees didn’t survive. Not so sadly, most of the geese migrated south to our next-door neighbor’s horse pasture, where one mama goose trooped her brood through the mud on daily excursions.

We did manage to help hatch one gosling; having set eyes on me first after exiting the shell, he imprinted on me and became a friend closer than a brother. His nickname was the “Garden Goose,” for he followed me around the garden, helpfully eating broccoli seedlings, peas and most of my flower buds.

After a year of painting, repairing, updating, planting and spending, spending, spending, we felt gratified at what the hard work had yielded. We were also a bit wiser in the ways of the farm. Helpful neighbors were handy with useful advice and extra produce; my parents’ old pick-up truck proved invaluable (you do NOT want to take a smelly billy goat to the animal swap in your car); and we were adept at catching chickens for wing-clipping. I’m sure we provided some good laughs for our country neighbors, too.

We’re thinking of raising exotic animals next . . . say, rhinos.

Once upon a time, there was a Sioux boy named Yakari . . .

. . . and Yakari rode a horse called Little Thunder. And, they talked to each other.

I translated this book. You can buy it!

Where can you buy it, for instance?
Here.

OK, I like this book a lot.

I've been buttonholing people about The Small-Mart Revolution for a few weeks. For the most part, they're not running and hiding when they see me, or at least no more than usual.

Enough chit-chat about it. And now: The book review . . .

If you do read this book, tell me what you think.