Bill's 66th Birthday!. . . and we partied like sinners!
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Within bounds, I am able to spend much of my time as I please since I have retired. Especially, I applied that principle to my birthday this year, to which heretofore I had attached no special significance. Imagining how I would like to spend the day lengthened my task list, but in a pleasant way. On the evening before my birthday, I pondered the quintessential question, Is a garden plow man's best friend or worst enemy? From the comfort of my sofa, the answer was in the affirmative--the ultimate green tool, good for shoulder strength, and they last forever (I still have the first one I bought (right) and I still have Mama's at the farm). After a lap or so, I doubted my judgement. So, no progress on that question. After some time, Roma beans (my favorite!!!) were planted, as were crookneck squash, a couple of tomato plants and a few pepper plants. Life is good. |
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| On my birthday, I was obligated to fill my heart with joy. Thus, having raised the most beautiful young queen this spring, I decided to visit with her. To put myself in the right mood, I donned a "honey" tee that Carolyn bought from the Cracker Barrel for me, and I topped the outfit off with a cap given as a "party favor" at a pine-tree conference. On the left, I smoke my production hives; the particular one that I am careful to smoke well can have a rowdy streak, unlike the northmost hive, which is remarkably gentle, packs the nest with a good pattern of brood, starts foraging earlier . . . Of course, the latter hive was the egg source for raising the queen (which I will repeat in a few days). I am holding the frame with the queen out to Nedra the photographer. Wisely, she doesn't take the bait anymore. Way back in 1982, she came up to help me with my smoker while I was working a hive I had at the farm, and well, it turned out to be a memorable event, and not a pretty one. She got stings in her hair, under her glasses . . . and darn near broke the record for the 100-yard sprint. Sadly, she didn't see the plump golden queen. Before getting too giddy about her, I will wait and see how she performs; she'll either be with me for the year, or she'll get the hive-tool treatment. Life is harsh. | |
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The day could not have been perfect had I not had a little special loving time with Buttley (upper left). Nothwithstanding a bite from a cottonmouth (which put her pretty low) and another from a rattlesnake (which, oddly, did not affect her so much), and having exceeded the average longevity for her breed, and having a pretty rough country life full of responsibilities, she is faring well enough. Some days, she's a bit slow and doesn't supervise my exercise, but mostly she still has the interest and strength to follow me around. She has been a dynamite dog and she values beyond words my hand stroking her back. Just as Buttley and I were doing fine, Nedra's big heifer dog just had to squeeze in and push Buttley aside, her mo. Birth is not something I accomplished alone. Naturally, my thoughts turned to my mother, and each year about this time, she "sends" me bouqets of Cherokee roses (in the background), which grow on my entrance fence. |
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Mama also gave me several dogwood trees to scatter on my property (upper left); Mama bought them from the Women's Club in Nashville (GA), which handled them as a fund raiser. I stand by one, being thankful that the speculated loss of these magnificent little trees did not materialize. I was reared in a Christian tradition, and, of course, the dogwood is said to be species used for the cross. The showy bracts--they are not petals--symbolize the cross and the stained ends represent Jesus' blood where he was nailed to the cross. The flowers in the center are said to represent the crown of thorns, and the diminuitive size of the tree is to prevent its use again as a crucifix. I had not had the opportunity to celebrate the beginning of the grass-cutting season in Tallahassee (upper right), and what better time than my birthday? I use this little walk-behind to cut around the house, but finally succumbed to Nedra's pleas and my knees to buy a riding mower for other areas, like the little orchard behind me where I grow fruit for squirrels. At about this time of day, the Charlie-Brown scenario kicks in. He has faith that NEXT time, Lucy will not pull the ball at the last moment. But, she does. At night when I am developing my task list for the following day, I KNOW that I won't exhaust myself. Remember, it hasn't been that many years since I cut all the grass out here with a walk-behind brushcutter; 13 hours of manhandling (no hydraulics then for steering), plus, of course, breaks. Still and all, I could do it in a day. Fatigue, playing the role of Lucy, always presents itself, regardless of the number of G2s or cups of coffee I drink. So, after finishing the grass, I stopped, my outdoor time being over. |
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Nedra is always in my corner and she went to great lengths to insure that I felt valued on my birthday, as she does on other days. She is a master of the culinary arts and she spent weeks planning the meal. The menu (upper left) tells it all. Highlights were the use of our morat (made with our mulberries and honey) for a marinade, use of our Meyer lemons (ironically, the gourmet's choice, though it is not botanically a lemon) in a cake, which is surrounded by flowers of Dunstan grapefruit (not botanically a grapefruit, but a citrumello, and named after the linguist and amateur plant breeder, R.T. Dunstan) Of course, the wine was ours, too. We produced only 9 bottles of Blanc DuBois wine, and in some other format I will discuss the trials (attributable to bad weather following veraison) of making it. Of course, food is an experience, not solely sustenance. Thus, thoughts of Frank Meyer, the dean of USDA's agricultural explorers, danced in my mind, and I wondered about his last days and hours someplace in China. Similarly, I mused over the vineyards of Emile DuBois at Maclay Gardens and Mission Road and reflected on a tragic murder, persumably murder, at his residence. Mainly, though, my senses were overcome by the meal, and that quieted my mind. The lemon-curd cake exceeds my ability to describe it. And, though I prefer a bold red wine (think Shiraz), this vintage of Blanc DuBois might alter my drinking. Whew! What a birthday.
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Last edit 2012-03-18. Return to Documentation for this page. |
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