Pfledderer Unplugged

"... we live in an age when there is almost nothing personal left. We are ciphers and statistic, and computers figure for us. The basic human need to be an individual is forgotten."

~Gladys Taber, 1971

I feel as though I'm under a digital assault. Images and text flash in front of my eyes, videos echo from rooms all over my house, news anchors shout at me, calendars ping me, phones buzz me. I've been emailed and eBlasted into e-xhaustion.  I can't think for it. I can feel the digital ions radiating into my brain. Into my brain!

Yes, Craig looks at me like that too. But I am committed (not to an asylum, yet) to reducing the amount of time I am tuned into something digitally. Is it possible to enjoy the benefits of modern life without letting it take over all that is good in the natural world?

Can I go back to this for entertainment?

Or this?

Is it still possible to work in a quiet garden without something plugged into my ears? Can we have the option of plugging in without getting itchy for entertainment anytime the world goes quiet? Have we lost the ability to engage ourselves with our own thoughts?

Last week, I had a full day of work demands and my lunch consisted of some old nuts and a headache. I tried to stop by the grocery store on my dark drive to Bedford, but after an emotional meltdown over a lost shopping list, I turned toward home, where my real tale begins.

Upon opening my front door, the talking heads on the wall began shouting at me. I don't know if Craig is really that hard of hearing or if he just likes his news delivered with exclamation points. Regardless, the racket and one comment from him was all of the encouragement I needed to delve into a headache-be-damned, election night political debate. Craig and I disagree on politics, because what would be the fun in agreeing? We often vote only to cancel out the other one's vote. On this particular election night, Craig expressed a negative comment toward a certain female candidate. I decided to pick up the offense for everywoman.

"Oh really, Craig? Why? Just because she's a woman?" He's already grinning. He likes to push this button. <soapbox> "And what about those women?" I ask, finger pointing at the TV. "That damn news channel with it's enhanced, bleach-blonds who sell out themselves and every other woman when they plasticize themselves into the rich man's ideal of a well-earned Barbie doll! It is not the role of rich men to set the value on women." (Pointed finger shaking now.) "Women have earned the right to be valued for more than their sexual desirability to men!" </soapbox> His eyes are round as he watches this tirade. "They also have brunettes," he says. -_-

Later that night (in a dream) I see my husband gently stroking the hair of a certain platinum blond woman that we know, with a dumb look of admiration on his face. I was livid and told him if he wanted her, he could have her. Then, I promptly left him and moved in with my brother, Ben Affleck.

In the morning, with ire still lingering on my tongue, I recounted the dream to Craig. He laughed so hard, he choked on his coffee.

I have discovered my own thoughts again. That is what you find returns after you turn off the constant stream of stimulation. There's an awkward silence at first, as if you and your inner self are standing there, staring at your feet, waiting for the other one to make a move. Then someone speaks...

I had an interesting conversation on my walk the other day. Get up inner self, let's go for a walk this morning. "Bring your phone, I want to know what Lestat does next in that book," she responds. "No, it's just us," I tell her. "What?" she asks, stunned. "Just us. We're going to talk." She is skeptical. "I hope you aren't expecting much," she says. Frankly, I'm not.

Dawn is breaking but it's barely noticeable after a night of heavy rain. The mist lingers and the air is cool with the scent of damp leaves. All is quiet except for the pat of my shoes on wet concrete and the steady chirrup of my rain slicker. I'm looking down, which is wise because the sidewalk is littered with swollen earthworms. I find it difficult to get into a rhythm for all of the side-stepping and soon build a resentment toward the unfortunate.

"What is it with these worms?" I ask myself. "Of all of the worms under the ground, why are these the worms washed up on the sidewalk to die?" My inner self answers. "Maybe they're the stupid worms," she says. "Stupid worms?" "Yes," she says. "The ones too dumb to come in out of the rain." Oh ha-ha. "Do you think there are worm mothers under the ground telling cautionary tales of how Uncle So-and-So went too close to the surface only to be washed into a dirtless wasteland and crisp in the sun until he might as well be a human's salad topping?"

I smile. "Maybe," I offer, "there are warning labels on water drops that say, Caution: Overindulgence may lead to swelling and even death." She sighs. "You're no Anne Rice," she says. "But you'll do." That's enough for me. 

"I'm a witch like Grammy."

My concern goes beyond myself to the impact on the ingenuity and creativity of our society, and indeed our species. Television, videos, internet... they are passive pursuits. They do not require the active engagement of our minds to enjoy them. Children are so exposed to passive pursuits that even the most creative among us, are truly unimaginative. I see it at the Library and it concerns me. I am protective of our Jude. "Let him be bored," I beg. "He will be better for having the fallow time."

I'm often asked if I think the book is dead. This gets me where I live but I have admitted for years that books are not what they were. Books written before the advent of television are much richer, the characters are more complex, the understanding and presentation of human emotion is more detailed and thoughtful. Writing today is too cliche. What is hailed as new, is a regeneration of the everyday. Our imaginations are not allowed to wander outside of the modern TV show. 

It's not the reduced attention span or the speed of today's society that will kill the book. It's the absence of varied experience and the luxury of a wandering thought. Weren't we all more interesting before we began quoting the same catch phrases? Don't get me onto catch phrases. I could go on and on about the superficiality of the characters of modern literature and the detriment to the human mind of engaging too much in passive pursuits, but when I do, I find that my writer's voice takes on a decidedly British accent, with an air of pomp and condescension.  I don't like my inner writer to get too full of herself, she becomes an insufferable bore. 

"Bore, you say? Stuff and nonsense. These Yanks would be better off..." There she goes, I better sign off with a 

Talley Ho!

A Walk on the Dark Side

Come to the Dark Side

There's chocolate...

I signed up for a chocolate making class to break up the monotony of my life, which consists of sleep, work, and working out. This is Craig's joke. "What are you doing today?" he asks. "Oh yeah, sleep, work, work out." Sigh... Today it will be sleep, work, eat chocolate. Oh yeah, I do that every day too.

But I don't usually make it myself and I discovered a local chocolate shop that focuses on all natural, organic ingredients and teaches classes to wanna be chocolatiers. I explained to Craig that one day when we have honey coming from our ears from his bee farming, I'll be able to make and sell fancy organic chocolate and we'll be thousandaires. 

Wanna learn too? Of course you do. I'll show you one quick tip to making your own holiday chocolate treats - easy peasy.  First you have to purchase your dark chocolate callets. Apparently that's a fancy word for high-end chocolate chips. That link will take you to an option. We did learn a bit about chocolate and how it's made. 

Chocolate makers start with the cocoa pod and the seeds of the pods are our cocoa beans. They are roasted, fermented on banana leaves, dried and shelled. The resulting product is called cocoa nibs.

The nibs are ground into a cocoa liquor (no alcohol involved) and separated into the cocoa mass (solids) and cocoa butter. Dark chocolate consists of the cocoa mass, the cocoa butter and sugar. If something is 60% cocao, it is 40% sugar. The percentage represents how much is from the cocoa bean and how much is sugar. Milk chocolate is cocoa mass, cocoa butter, sugar and milk. White chocolate is cocoa butter, milk, and sugar.

To make a chocolate bark, say for nuts or peppermint or candied pumpkin and ginger, follow these instructions. Measure out 2 cups of callets and put into a microwavable bowl. Heat on high for 30 seconds, then take out and stir with a spatula. Repeat 30 second intervals of heating/stirring for a total of 3 minutes. Your callets should be melted and smooth. Stir and add 1/2 cup more of cold callets to the melted chocolate. Stir until melted. Using a candy thermometer, stir the chocolate until the temperature of the chocolate is 88-90 degrees F. This may take several minutes of stirring. 

Once the chocolate has reached the correct temperature, stir in your desired flavors. Nuts, dried fruits, peppermint candies, cinnamon candies, granola, ginger and pumpkin, or, my favorite - crushed coffee beans. I had to make do with what was available in the class. Pour it onto a sheet of parchment paper and allow to set up. In this photo, my chocolate was still too thick, I should have made it much thinner by banging the pan on the counter. I sprinkled on top but in the future I would prefer to stir it in. When it is set up, just break into pieces and serve. Good for 6 months, do not refrigerate.

After all of that cooking and eating, we better take a walk through the neighborhood. I want to see the Halloween decorations anyway. Aren't these Casper's pesky uncles? They look up to no good.

Here's the jungle house. I don't know if they are highly introverted and hiding from the world or avoiding yard work but they have a forest in the front yard.

Danger lies in the darkness and watches me, waiting to pounce. The evil these creatures harbor exudes from their beady eyes. 

This harbinger of death writhes on the ground, consumed by some inner spirit as it attempts to lure me in with a warm, fuzzy belly. Touch it, I dare you.

I ran screaming from it, as it attempted to trap me by entangling itself around my legs. Finally, I found myself back under the safety of my own front window, which bears the new wreath, artfully hung right behind the porch light so no one can see it. I am not complaining.

The next day brings light and a trip to the farm. There is not much to do as we wait for it to be chipped and plowed. But Fred called to ask us out for a drink. So we went to say hello. "Hello, Fred. It's good to see there's still some life left in you." He hugged me as if he hadn't seen a human in a week. He hadn't.

That's no speck, that's my husband. Craig climbed the hill to gather mulch for our boys in the pond. They and we are patiently (or not) waiting for things to start happening on this land. It's so quiet, I could just lie down and take a nap.  This photo reminds me of Little House on the Prairie when the girls come running down the hill. Run, Craig, run. 

He didn't stumble on the way down, even if it would have made my day and completed my LHoP reference. Next he waded into the little bit of water in the pond to give the boys a drink. They've been tied up because every time we get a storm they think they have to hunker down in the pond. All that brown, barren land...

I don't know about you but I'm ready for it to look like this. Fred needs friends. Apple trees, pecan trees, pumpkin vines, corn mazes and a crazy old lady covered in chocolate.

Until next time...

A Halloween Scare

It's October and Jude's coming over, let's go to the Halloween store and have a little scare. 

"Hey Jude, do you want to go to the Halloween store?" 

"Yeaaaahhh," he responds with a big smile. "It's going to be so spooky." 

"It is going to be so spooky," I agree. "Let's go."

A giant, orange windsock man dances outside of the store. "Grammy," asks Jude with wide eyes. "What's that?" He points. "That's the Halloween man," I explain. This in itself is enough fun for Jude but I coax him toward the door. I open it and he sees a large, jumping spider. He freezes as he considers it. "Can I pet it?" he asks. "Sure," I say, as I hear other customers remark on how some kids are so brave and others just cry and scream as soon as they come through the door. I'm proud of him.

The Halloween store is extreme for a 3 year old. It's a bit much for a Grammy too. I did consider the witch here, whose lamp was lit with the souls of little children, but we decided she was too scary for Grandpa.

"Hey, Jude. Stand by that werewolf and I'll take your picture." He is cautious but willing. He scrunches up his shoulders and starts easing himself in backwards toward the wolf. Notice in the photo the box that says Jumping Cat?  Notice on the floor the mat that says, Step Here? Yeah, Grammy didn't notice that and Jude eased right onto that square and the cat sprang out and screeched at him. I can still hear Jude's bloodcurdling scream, which makes me a little ashamed to be laughing, still, when I think of it. 

The cat put him off his game and he was unnerved for the rest of the visit. "Hold me, Grammy?" Oh my gosh, of course I will, honey.  I was happy to see that once he felt safe again, he was looking for the next scare. There seemed to be a chamber of ghastly beings, so we found the kids area.  "It's not scary in here," I assured him.

He's a boy. He found the weapons. "Can I have swords, Grammy?" Grammy grimaces. "No, I don't think Mommy wants you to have swords." Mommy wouldn't mind the swords, but we're still on foam swords, not hard plastic swords. 

Thrills are cheap in the kids area, we did find a hairy rat. He picked a Thomas the Tank Engine Halloween bucket. But there's shrieking just around the corner and that's pretty darn interesting.

Off we go, in search of the next scare. "What's in there?" has asks. "Scary things, Jude. Scary things."

"It's going to be so scary," he says with a grin.  A spider jumps out of a box. He moves closer to me. "I think this store is too scary. This stuff will frighten Grandpa, so we better go to the other Halloween store."  We pay for Thomas, have a tantrum to pet the jumping spider on the way out of the door and make our way to Party City.

A little more our speed. "Look at this spider, Grammy. AAAAAAUGH!" He chases me. "Oh no, a big hairy spider, it's so spooky." He chased other children with it and I was pleased to watch 8 and 10 year old kids play along with him and act scared. He loved it. 

Look at that! Sweet boys get a free balloon at this Halloween store. Unfortunately, naughty boys who have a tantrum when they want to buy a second, larger spider let go of their balloon and lose it. Oh well, that's what happens to naughty boys.

We bought a ghost for Grammy's tree. He's not too scary, that's how we Halloween, mildly frightening for a 3 year old.

Or, maybe not very frightening for a 3 year old.

Ok, not at all frightening for a 3 year old. Or a Grandpa.

"So Jude," I asked. "Would you like to go to the Halloween store again?"

"Yes," he said.

"Even though it was scary?"

"Yeah, the cat was scary. And it heart attacked me."

"It heart attacked you?"

"Yeah, it heart attacked you too, Grammy."

"It did, Jude. It did."

Happy Halloween!

My Pet Chicken

Things are Changing

"My book came in," Craig announced as I came through the front door, still wearing the weariness of my work day. What nonsense is this? My husband does not read books, he reads the Internet and quotes Bill O'Reilly.  I gave him a cautious eye. Earlier in the week, I had walked into the bedroom to find him sprawled across the bed with one of the bee books I purchased for his birthday wide open. "What's going on in here?" I ask, startled. "I'm reading my book," he says. "Really? Why?" I ask. "I've already read the other one." I am certain this is one of the signs of the Apocalypse but a quick review of Revelations and I found it didn't fall in the top seven.

He holds the new book up to show me. "My Pet Chicken," he reads. "My Pet Chicken? I think I have that in the picture book collection at the Library."  "Nooo," he argues. "It's one of the best guides on raising chickens." "Chickens?" I ask. I have a history with chickens. There's the rooster incident, of course. I think any kid who grew up in the country has or knows of a rooster incident. But there's also the hen house from my youth, second only to the cellar for creeping me out.

(Insert harp flashback music.) 

"Cindy," Mom calls. "Go up to the hen house and see if we have any eggs."  My eyes widen. "It's Marge's turn," I attempt. "No it's not," my sister argues. "Go get the eggs," Mom says. I get up slowly, walk to the front door, slowly, go around the house and climb the hill toward the hen house of death, ever more slowly. There's a fence around the hen house and chickens scratching the black dirt, still damp with morning dew. Dad has clipped the chickens' wings so they don't fly away. This has given them an "I don't give a damn, I'll scratch your eyes out for looking at me, kid" attitude. The few meandering around barely give me notice until I move the gate. They start to come closer but I stamp and scream at them until they think better of it. This part isn't so bad, it's the inside of the hen house that is dangerous. If one rogue chicken decides this is the day she's taking down the humans, I'm trapped in there.  

I peek inside the door of the hen house. One brown bird sits on a nest and dares me with her beady, little, peck you until you're bloody eyes, to even think about taking her eggs. I size her up and she sizes me up. She smells the stink of fear oozing from my pores. She smirks, let's out a cackle of a laugh. She knows she's won. I back away, slip out of the fence and run down the hill at full speed.

Back inside, "No eggs today, Mom." My mother releases an exhaust of disgust. "Marge Ann, go up and get the eggs," she says. My sister growls. She stomps past me, "You're so stupid," she says, passing me on her way out of the door.  

She shows up again in what passed as seconds bearing a handful of eggs, which she displays with raised eyebrows as if they only served to prove that I was indeed, stupid.  Today, my sister is a strong, successful, and responsible woman and I like to take the credit for making her pick up my slack for 16+ years.

Back on the farm, tree removal day approaches. This old fence line is coming down so we can see the view and replant desirable trees on the new boundaries.

It's still dark when Craig awakens me to say he's heading out to the farm. "It's cold out there and windy on that hill. Bundle up. I've got a stocking cap for you." I'm still in bed. "A stocking cap?" I ask. "Are we knocking over a liquor store on the way?" I'm pondering if the the term stocking cap went out of use in the late 1800's.  Sometime's Craig is just one pair of black socks away from being from another era.

When I arrive, the contractor is already at work, employing heavy equipment to remove trees and reshape the pond. Because I'm a girl who cares nothing for machinery, I refer to these things as the scooper and the scraper. (Insert collective groan from men and women who are equipment savvy.)

Enjoy this video of the scooper at work. Excuse the poor quality of video and my use of the term scooper.

It was indeed nippy, and our contractor was channeling his inner Cousin Eddie with a fur-lined, ear-flap hat. Craig was avenged somewhat when I slipped on my stocking cap. (Sigh.)  It was brisk and the air smelled of fresh cut wood and chainsaw oil. It reminded me of cutting firewood with Dad in the Fall on the mountain above our house in West Virginia. It seems I can't make it through an Autumn without at least once falling back on a remembrance of that time.

We're saving the larger pieces for firewood and the root bundles for a large bonfire this October. I help Craig unload the wood. "If we're going to have a pet chicken, I will have to name her Minerva Louise and give her a mitten to wear on her head as a hat," I tell Craig.  He looks at me, silently. "It's a book from the Library," I explain. "You and that chicken are crazy," he says.

"If I'm going to have a chicken, she might as well be a literary chicken," I say. "Chickens," Craig corrects. "Chickens? I'm going to need more names." He continues piling wood. "There's Rosie from Rosie's Walk." I'm silently considering whether I need to read more chicken books. "How about Pox?" I ask.  He stops and looks at me. "We could say, Come see our chicken, Pox," I encourage. He smiles. "It would have to be a slow one, so children could catch it," I explain. Now he's laughing. 

Our goal for the weekend was to get the trees lined up and ready for the chipper shredder. Quickly Craig decided that trying to line up 1,000 feet of downed trees with one small distracted wife, was going to be a slow business. We arrived the next day with Jr., Jr's truck, and a few chains to speed up the process. 

See these pretty little purple pineapple-shaped flowers. Thistles. Aren't they lovely? They are the devil. They slip right over the top of your boot, melt through your jeans and sting your legs. I did discover if something stings you enough times, eventually you don't feel it anymore. Isn't that a nice lesson?

Now the chipper shredder has arrived and it's all hands on deck for making mulch. Booboo spent the night and so I was awake from 3:30 AM before heading to the farm. Look at those feet propped on my chest in the middle of the night. So worth it.

Before I show the next photo, I thought I'd show this one to demonstrate how far I've come in the farmer girl business. This is me checking out the land before we  bought it, never even got out of the truck - too many grasshoppers.

But now, I'm out there, fighting thistles, brushing away grasshoppers, stomping cactus and shredding trees. I have never worked so hard in my life. Shredding these trees took 14 hours over 2 days with three people. And it wasn't cool. It was hot - mid-90's hot. Haul trees, shred trees, unload mulch, try not to die.

Day 1 of shredding went pretty well, it was windy and somewhat cooler on the hill. We were energetic, excited and sure we'd finish in one day. What fools we were. We only finished the easy part on Saturday. The dense tangled mess still lay in wait. The wind stirred up the sawdust such that we each coughed out a 2x4 when we got home.(I appear to be doing some kind of dance in this photo, not sure what is happening with my hands.)

We were also scratched to ribbons in any place we'd been crazy enough to leave bare flesh. Not exactly the professional look so...

I opted for the "fresh from the psyche-ward" look for the next day.  It helped heal the scratches, protected my arms from more damage and left people asking questions at the Home Depot.

This is called pick-up sticks, farm style. It's one thing to pick up trees and feed them through a shredder. It's another thing to try and untangle hundreds of trees and branches from one another, then pick them up and feed them to the shredder.

Then there's the unloading of the mulch, which we all agree was the worst part of it. After about 5 hours of this, we started getting a little short with one another. Craig and Sawyer bicker over how best to feed things through the machine. I silently resent them (and their mothers for having them) as I drag trees to the shredder as they argue, certain that I've carried more than they have. After 7 hours, we're exhausted but still optimistic that we can knock it out by noon the next day. After 10 hours, the chipper breaks down and what little hope I had threatens to die.

Once we unclog the machine and it's running again, the heat of the day really beats down. Still exhausted from the day before, we're now too tired to argue with one another. We stop occasionally and sit in the AC because the hawk circling overhead is certain we're going to die and leave a fresh meal. We think he's right. After about 11 hours, the mind starts to go. I pick up a tree and my muscles burn. I look down and see a grasshopper perched with his head high looking around as if he's on a theme-park ride. "Hey, lard a$$," I tell him in my mind because my throat no longer works. His head turns slightly. "Yeah, I know you can hear me. No freeloaders. Start pulling or get off my tree." He doesn't move. With great effort, I slap him upside his grasshopper head and send him sailing. He was warned.

After 13.5 hours, I give up. The last little bit is a tangled up nightmare and I'm on the verge of tears. "Burn it," I tell Craig. "What? You really want to leave it when we're this close?" I throw up my hands. "I can't do anymore, I'm telling you. I don't know whether to cry or vomit but I'm done. I don't care what happens to it." He can see I'm really done. "Go sit in the truck and get some AC for a while." He follows me in a minute, covered in a thick layer of sawdust. Sawyer is already there. Three of us sit in the truck and try not to pass out. "Sawyer?" Craig asks. "Do you have anything left?" "Sure," Sawyer responds, surprisingly cheerfully. They get out and finish the trees.  This is the last of it. I found enough energy to snap the photo.

The land is cleared now and we have a blank canvas on which to paint our own vision. We have been dreaming  of our new home; sharing images of house designs, researching trees, naming chickens (Fricassee), and checking out honey competitors. Craig visited with a local honey producer. "We're going to be your competition in a few years," he tells the man.  "I've got a hundred hives," the man responds. "We're not going to be much competition," Craig adds.

And we have a nice view of the little valley below. Our new house will sit right here and I'm already on the patio in my mind, looking down on Whoville and talking about all those Whos.

Our babies have arrived. Aren't they cute? I think they're funny. They're all standing so tall, looking at their new digs with great anticipation. That one on the right is so happy, he's dancing. Who knew Live Oaks were so lively?  Next week, we give them their new spots.  I'm going to dance with that little guy. I will name him Fred, as in Astaire. "Go, Fred! It's you're party."

Craig's been a busy bee this weekend. He is working on a rock berm for the pond to protect it from all the rain we never get. Rain is like Christmas in Texas. We all sit and wait for it and clap our hands with excitement over any sprinkle. Sawyer and I begged off because later we're going to buy him a new outfit for a college interview. Fancy. 

Craig incorporated the heart of Texas into the berm. I may have to rescue it for my garden. I'll walk Rosie the chicken out there and tell her all about how we found it. We'll have to stop and wait for Pox anyway, because he's slow.

Look at that. We must be scenic because Craig snapped the hot air balloon over Justin this morning. You ain't seen nothing yet - come back in 5 years.

Adios Amigos!