We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
My grandfather had purchased after WW1 some land and a manor in Hungary. He had a doctorate in economics and expert knowledge of agriculture. In a country dominated by large, badly managed latifundia, from his small base he created the income of the landed rich. That he achieved by producing for the market – not by ignoring it as did the absentee owners of the neighboring estates. Irritatingly for these, he even paid his workers above the going rate. Furthermore, he was, as an old worker put it decades later, “his best hired hand”. The locals could not understand grandfather’s agribusiness and the natural origins of his success. In a typical reaction, the native found a logical, explanation. It was that there is a gold mine under the “Black Castle”.
In a dream I returned to the river of bees Five orange trees by the bridge and Beside two mills my house Into whose courtyard a blindman followed The goats and stood singing Of what was older
Soon it will be fifteen years
He was old he will have fallen into his eyes
I took my eyes A long way to the calendars Room after room asking how shall I live
One of the ends is made of streets One man processions carry through it Empty bottles their Image of hope It was offered to me by name
Once once and once In the same city I was born Asking what shall I say
He will have fallen into his mouth Men think they are better than grass
I return to his voice rising like a forkful of hay
He was old he is not real nothing is real Nor the noise of death drawing water
We are the echo of the future
On the door it says what to do to survive But we were not born to survive Only to live
The family of a former Webster Thomas hockey player has sued the school
district and hockey coach for keeping him at the junior varsity level
for four years "in spite of his advanced skills."
England
is the only country in the developed world where the generation
approaching retirement is more literate and numerate than the youngest
adults - See more at:
http://marginalrevolution.com/marginalrevolution/2013/10/the-culture-that-is-england.html#sthash.9Vjx7b7u.dpuf
England
is the only country in the developed world where the generation
approaching retirement is more literate and numerate than the youngest
adults - See more at:
http://marginalrevolution.com/marginalrevolution/2013/10/the-culture-that-is-england.html#sthash.9Vjx7b7u.dpuf
ZERO
AMERICANS Sign Up for O-Care in Hawaii, Tennessee – Only 5 Sign Up in
Iowa - See more at:
http://www.thegatewaypundit.com/2013/10/zero-americans-sign-up-for-o-care-in-hawaii-tennessee-only-5-sign-up-in-iowa/#sthash.bPU1QEt2.dpuf
Seckel Pears, aka Sugar Pears, or Dessert Pears. One of my Dad's Seckel trees had a great crop this fall but it was a bit far north for them to ripen by September. More likely ripe on the tree by mid-late October.
Seckels are about 1/3 the size of regular Bartlett or Bosc Pears, and far sweeter. Like most pears, you need a couple of different pear varieties near by to ensure fertilization.
It's tree-planting season now here, late Oct and early November, for every sort of tree and shrub. It's the right time for transplanting things too.
Miller Nurseries has Seckels, also Stark Bros. I recommend the dwarf trees which grow up to about 10'. I only will plant standard trees for the birds and animals out on the edges. Cherry, apple, etc. Let them grow and ignore them.
The notion of fully open borders scares people, it should scare people,
and it rubs against their risk-averse tendencies the wrong way - See
more at:
http://marginalrevolution.com/marginalrevolution/2013/10/the-labor-market-effects-of-immigration-and-emigration-from-oecd-countries.html#sthash.chdEoPTy.dpuf
The
labor market effects of immigration and emigration from OECD countries -
See more at:
http://marginalrevolution.com/marginalrevolution/2013/10/the-labor-market-effects-of-immigration-and-emigration-from-oecd-countries.html#sthash.chdEoPTy.dpuf
The
labor market effects of immigration and emigration from OECD countries -
See more at:
http://marginalrevolution.com/marginalrevolution/2013/10/the-labor-market-effects-of-immigration-and-emigration-from-oecd-countries.html#sthash.chdEoPTy.dpuf
After we said some words over the grave, and after some shed some tears, we put Dad's ashes (surprisingly-heavy box of ashes) in a shallow hole next to Moms' and we all went to pick some apples and pears from Dad's trees at the farm last Sunday.
It was just wonderful that is the best year for apples, ever. My pic is just a small sample. The mini pears are as sweet as sugar and his apple varieties are spicey. Stood on chairs and used a butterfly net to harvest the high ones.
I claimed that our Dunkin Donuts coffees and the fruit were our family's Communion after the burial. We did not dare running it through a church. Everybody picked and ate some apples.
Thus did we sneak some Jesus into my cranky Yankee atheist, Bible-loving, distinguished Yale prof Dad's burial. I think it would have been marginally ok with him but he still would have been embarrassed by the attention and sentiment.
And likely, would have had some clever caustic quip about it all. Anyway, excellent apples. Everybody grabbed a box or bag and took a bunch home with them.
He always said that we could toss his cadaver in the river when he died. Well, the box of ashes is darn close to the trout stream.
...no one can be born a Christian in evangelical belief: everyone must come to Jesus individually of his own volition, making a profession of faith based on a genuine conviction of the truth of Jesus’ messiahship. This also explains why, more so than the members of almost any other branch of Christianity, evangelicals share a profound attachment to the textual world of the Bible. For the evangelical, the Bible is more than just a “good book”; it is the literal and inspired word of God, written by prophets who were moved by the holy spirit and preserved through the ages by the hand of divine providence. To evangelicals, the Bible is the blueprint of the cosmos, the framework of history, and the answer to all of life’s mysteries. Only the Bible—not a priesthood or a church hierarchy—can assert authority over the Christian.
Some might term me an Evangelical and some might not. Either way, I learned some things from the essay.
There is little that people eat that isn't raised on some sort of farm. As humans over-fish the seas, some fish that were once trash fish are now on restaurant menus. Often, new and more appealing names are used.
I had a perfectly-grilled filet of Branzino last weekend in NYC, on a bed of lobster mashed taters. Even the crispy Branzino skin was delicious. I had never had Branzino before. It's European Sea Bass. It tastes like a small Striped Bass, which means very good and a little sweet. Then I saw this: Why does every restaurant in the USA have Branzino in the menu?
It didn't take long to learn that Local Ocean is farming Branzino in the Northeast US. People are farming Striped Bass too. Count me as in favor of this trend.
We'll put his in the same hole as Mom's, not far from the church and the trout stream.
Ashes to ashes.
Dad forbade any ceremoniousness or anything religious and forbade any memorial events, so we kids will just dig a hole and have our own thoughts. Then we'll pick some of his apples and pears, and eat them as if a sort of family communion.
She studies love and desire but sometimes wanders off-topic. Some of what she says is obvious (most people like cheap thrills) but some of it is interesting.
Basically, it cannot be done. You'll starve to death.
Somewhat related to that post is a film recommendation from my sis: Happy People. She wondered why they don't just go on the dole and drink like the Eskimos do.
Today's artwork is via our friend 
In a dream I returned to the river of bees 
Soldier's Angels
Seckel Pears, aka Sugar Pears, or Dessert Pears. One of my Dad's Seckel trees had a great crop this fall but it was a bit far north for them to ripen by September. More likely ripe on the tree by mid-late October.
After we said some words over the grave, and after some shed some tears, we put Dad's ashes (surprisingly-heavy box of ashes) in a shallow hole next to Moms' and we all went to pick some apples and pears from Dad's trees at the farm last Sunday.
I don't mind being called a Redskin. It's a matter of family pride to have a little savage redskin blood. 
We'll put his in the same hole as Mom's, not far from the church and the trout stream.
Image via