Candiland

Sting operation

T’was a glorious morning in Candiland.  I gazed out the window at the verdant fields, lush green trees, and family of bunnies nibbling on pompoms of clover, grateful for the low humidity and cheeky sun.  I sighed a “life doesn’t get much better than this” sigh, and stepped out onto the second-story sleeping porch to inhale an unrestricted breath of healthy country air.

Big smile on my face, I turned to come back in and noticed that either a swami had left behind his gray turban in the corner of the porch roof, or I had wasps.  Insectile projectiles launched from the puffy mass, so I quickly deduced I wasn’t dealing with forgetful Hindi mystic.

Screaming, door-slamming, and expletive-shouting ensued.

I could feel kamikaze wasps thudding against the door…waspy teeth chewing through the ancient wood…camofluaged sniper wasps belly-crawling under the door frame.  You have no idea.

As I’ve mentioned, I’m an aging peacenik hippie, but I did not hesitate before driving directly to the hardware store for napalm.  Seems that’s a special order item so I ended up with a torpedo-sized can of Raid that bragged about the 22-foot jet stream of toxic and noxious chemicals guaranteed to kill immediately and without remorse.  “Do you have and extra-strength version?” I asked store clerk.  

Helpful hardware man, indeed.

Food Fright

One of the perks of working for the American Conservation Film Festival is that I get to see a lot of films that will almost never make it to your neighborhood multiplex.  Some may see limited release, may even make it into the art house circuit, but mostly, these are films made because a filmmaker is passionate about telling a story they feel must be told.  The films may suffer from poor production value, may be waaaaay too long, or worse, boring, but I watch them anyway.  I’m slogging through finishing a documentary I shot, produced, and am editing, so I have at least an informed inkling of what it takes to get from concept to product.  I’m on the team; I’m of the tribe—I’ll watch your excruitiatingly tedious film with love in my heart.

 So.

 There’s a bumper crop of food-related/sustainable agriculture/locavore/know-who-produces-your-food films this year, and they’ve scared the bejeebees out of me.  It’s not just the disturbing images of commercial feed lots, or the moonsuits chicken farmers wear while spreading toxic-to-humans, proprietary-formulated litter and chemicals on future McNuggets, or the ammonia-basted filler destined for 95 percent of fast food burgers in the US, it’s also the alarming and insidious use of products and substances engineered from stockpiles of corn and soy, both heavily subsidized by the US government.   Don’t even get me started on the large corporation that rhymes with Consanto (rwC), and their squad of spies who blacklist farmers propagating non-rwC strains of soy.

 Full disclosure--I am a bit of a goonie-googoo, dirt-worshiping, crunchy granola hippie…and I am somewhat of a conspiracy theorist.  BUT, humor me; see “Food, Inc.” or “Fresh” if you get a chance (we’re screening both at the film festival in Shepherdstown, WV, in early November). Read “Fast Food Nation”, “Animal, Vegetable, or Miracle”, or anything by Michael Pollan. 

You are what you eat?  Scary thought.

Kitty Litter

I awoke this morning to the sounds of the undead clawing their way out of the confines of earth.  I stumbled to the kitchen ready to do battle with any poltergeist unfortunate enough to float between me and Mr. Coffee's elixir. 

No ghosts made themselves readily apparent, but the sounds were increasing in volume and frequency.  Mocha java in hand, I stepped outside and peered around the corner of the house, certain I'd find coffin splinters and bony footprints in the ravaged dirt.

Nope. Kittens.  Two cute kitties yowling and spitting and growling.  Great.  Some jack@ss must have tossed them out of his speeding redneckmobile.  "I took'em to a right nice farm, kids."  Jerk.

I had no choice but to bundle them up and take them to the humane society, which is what Mr. Has No Qualms About Dropping His Responsibilities Into Someone Else's Lap should have done instead of pitching them on the side of the road amidst the drift of McDonald's debris, beer bottles, and deer carcasses.  That last is not from deer being hit by cars by the way, rather, hunters don't want to pay the dump fee, so they stuff Bambi into an off-brand lawn and leaf bag and heave the slaughtered remains over the side of their ginormous truck bed at 50 miles an hour.  The cheap bags split on contact, spewing grisly parts into view.

Sorry--hope you're not snacking on venison jerky right now.

Anyhoo, I tote in the kitties to the humane society, and two hefty teenage girls in scrubs start interrogating me about the circumstances under which these "strays" "happened" to just "show up" at my house.  

"Look, can you take them or not?"

"We request a donation."

"Well I'm giving you two kittens."

Not a hint of a sense of humor.

"How about $20?" I offered.

They looked at each other for a moment, then finally nodded.

After all that, I think I'd have preferred the zombies.

Dog. House.

I've always wanted to be an Oscar Meyer Wienermobile driver, tooling around the country in an iconic and enormous replica of a tube of processed smoked animal parts.  It's a hugely competitive position, with a rigorous series of essay-writing and auditions and feats of strength--sort of a cross between SEAL training and American Idol.  I didn't want to go through all that, I just wanted to take the damn dog for a joy ride, preferably ending up in a demolition derby; I'd spray paint "Mad Dog" and "Frank Enstein"and "Wild Wiener" on the sleek, swooped back end, wire up an air horn to the Wiener Whistle, and go bun to bumper.

Turns out I'm not the only one who relishes the idea.  A 22-year-old "hotdogger" as the meat-motorhome pilots are called, "mistook" the brake pedal for the gas pedal and rammed that wienie home.  You go girl!    

Bill collector

"'Bank of America" is false advertising--it should be "Bank of America Except for West Virginia".  I hope they use some of their TARP money to build a branch that I don't have to cross state lines to patronize, because I get held up every time I use a "foreign" ATM.  Naked Bob, my lawn guy, only takes cash, so I was forced to pay $3 for the privilege of accessing my own money at a non-BoAEfWV, dispensed as a stack of Jacksons.  Since it costs me three Jacksons and a Lincoln to get my acreage mowed and whacked, I circled around and popped a $20 bill into the drive-through tube thing and asked for four five-dollar bills.

"Do you have an account with us?" the tube wrangler inquired.

"Nope."

"Sorry, we can't make change if you're not an account-holder."

WTF?!

"I'm an AMERICAN, and that is LEGAL TENDER; I'm simply asking you to exchange one denomination for another."

Silence.

"I just paid you $3 to get that $20, doesn't that make me an honorary account-holder?"

Silence.  Then "well, I'll do it for you *this* time, ma'am."

The thing is, a picture of my quaint spring house is the April offering on their bank calendar.  Am I an account-holder?  HAH--I'm a celebrity, baby!

Front and center

I hope you are never in a situation to see either one of my children at work; my son is a DC fire department rescue squad guy, and my daughter a patient care technician at a Johns Hopkins hospital. They are at their best when other people are at their worst.

My boy left his wife and daughter behind yesterday afternoon on his day off to spend the night combing through the wreckage of a subway crash.  "Grisly" he said.  He personally wrapped five victims in sheets and placed them in body bags.  I hope the families can take some comfort that a compassionate person made sure their loved ones were handled with dignity and respect.  

My girl is the nurse who answers the call bell right away, the one who disposes of effluvia, the one who performed multiple renditions of "I'm a Little Teapot" for a 90-something woman suffering a broken mind and body. The one that families can take comfort that a compassionate person made sure their loved ones were handled with dignity and respect.  

I hope you are never in a situation to see either one of them at work, but if you are, take comfort that they will be the first face you see.

Cluck U

I am going whole hog with this farm thing; I'm fixin' to get me some chickens.  Not just your average KFC- bound birds, but funky chickens like the Silver Polish which had to be the inspiration for some of Dr. Suess's characters, or Black Cochins which sport feathery wide-legged gangstah wear, or the bouffanted  Sultans.  And how could I not order a Silver Gray Dorking.  

Trouble is, I don't know a thing about chickenry.  Being ignorant has not stopped me from engaging in other bird-brained ideas, mind you, but since I don't want to turn my livestock into deadstock, I've got a couple of books on order to help me bone up.  Oh, and I'm studying that I Love Lucy chick-wrangling episode.  One wacky redhead helping another...

Garden of weedin'

As I was tending my garden of indigenous plants--a particularly virulent form of Virginia Creeper...more like Virginia Sprinter, and a bumper crop of weedus giantus--I bent down to pick up a piece of mottled plastic wrapper that I just knew one of the lazy farmhands had carelessly discarded...only to discover it was SNAKE SKIN. Yes, an actual SNAKE had gone all Incredible Hulk and flexed muscular snakey biceps with enough force to split its own personal skin, and worse, become a permanently larger Herpatological Hulk. 

I was pondering the possibility of selling the skin to Tony Lama--the thing was big enough to make boots for a NBA forward--when I heard hissing coming towards me at an alarming rate of speed.  I jumped high enough to pat Michael Jordan on the head, then screamed and whirled around to find Ralph coming up the hill for some corn; Muscovy ducks don't quack, they huff and hiss when excited or angry.  He spread his wings, gave me a Rodney Dangerfield look of hurt incredulity--"What? I get no respect", and wheeled around and beat scaly feet.

I'm headed to the Tractor Supply Store pronto to buy snake traps and snake repellent--organic, of course.

Turducken

"What is that?!"

That's usually the first thing visitors to the farm say when coming face-to-ugly face with Ralph.  I thought he was an escapee from the Jurassic Park set, with his pterodactyl-like wing span and reptilian feet.  You see Ralph coming up the hill from the pond, and you can't help but think a T. Rex is close behind.

My neighbors believe he's a cross-bred turkey...and given the strained-between-the-sheets rap West Virginians have, it's no wonder.

My daughter calls him a turducken.  Again with the cross-breeding.

Turns out he's a muscovy duck, the "best all-around practical duck" according to these folks; who can argue?

Ralph

Name brand

Silly former city slicker that I am, I thought that the Tractor Supply Store sold, um, supplies for tractors.  The non-ambiguous name along with a parking lot full of John Deere gear helped fool me.  Turns out they're hiding all kinds of fun stuff inside including live bunnies, designer farm gloves, and, I am not making this up, "Free Range Chicken Poop Lip Junk".  The packaging cites "Grandpa's" wisdom:

If ya got dry lips
put chicken poop on 'em
so you won't lick 'em

They claim no actual chicken poop was harmed in the making of this folksy chapstick. I guess it's possible; it's just a name, after all.