Fewer and fewer of us will remember transistor radios.

What’s that you say? Transistor?

I hardly knew what one was, but the cool kids at school had transistor radios. That was all you really needed to know.

Red Sketon, if anyone remembers him, once did a skit on his TV show. While tilling his garden, his transistor radio accidentally fell out of his pocket. He never found it until months later while he was harvesting his pumpkins. One of them, if handled in a particular manner, played rock n’roll. If turned another way, the pumpkin played Beethoven.

It occurs to me that I have lived through the age of innocence in entertainment. Funny never meant raunchy or off-color. Funny meant funny. That’s all, and a hearty laugh.

At any rate, I’d been noticing of late the laissez-faire method with which Judy carries her cell phone; half covered in her back pocket. Not that I would notice, butt it did appear a bit cavalier.

She was outside on her tractor the other day, mowing one of the paddocks when she returned to the house looking for her cell phone. She never found it.

I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help but think of Red Skelton. I looked outside into one of the paddocks where the horses were grazing. A horse wouldn’t swallow a cell phone, I wondered.

Farewell August 2023. You reminded me frequently of bygone Augusts that were markedly not like you. In 1966, the cow paths puffed a swirl of dust with each lumbering hoof as the critters ambled back up to the barn at milking time. The searing heat seemed to make the Cicadas hum louder with each degree further into the 90s. Still, it wasn’t as hot as it was dry.

This August, with curtain closing today, paints a scene of lush green, reminiscent more of April than August. I know not the rainfall stats for the month. I don’t need to. Suffice it to say that it was plentiful, certainly for August. Farmers tend to bitch and moan about the weather regardless of what it does.

I’ll defer on that today and say thanks to Him who calls the shots!

We had dinner the other evening at a nearby neighbor’s house, wonderful neighbors I must add. What a feast it was and a delightful occasion in a home, second to none.

I had worked on this house when I was a kid, yes, a long time ago. Finished in 1801, few houses have ever undergone quite the evolution as this one. During its history, it had been abandoned and remained so up to a point during my high school days. How many years had it been surrounded by a rusty barbed-wire fence and suffered the indignity of cows sheltering in its basement? I don’t even remember.

The upper levels housed chickens, so for years this grand old home was naught but a manure depository on all levels! What a mess, what a shame!

The new owners, George and Lynne Lauck had incredible vision, not to mention energy. I was among a few high schoolers to come under their employ. It was a monumental restoration project. In retrospect, did the Laucks have a thorough appreciation for all that was ahead of them? Probably not, but it was a perfect mix of adventurism and illusion that found its way to a job well done!

George, a math teacher at the high school, did know what he was doing when he hired my brother and me, and a carpenter’s kid, Martin Gransky. Bottom line? We all knew how to work.

It’s an odd thing, now. Frequently it is heard that kids don’t want to work anymore. Did I ever not want to work? Better question, did I ever have a choice?

So, where to begin the job? The answer to that question was a cinch, even to this farm boy. In fact, it was rather obvious. There was a whole lotta pitchforking needed. I hate to even guess at the number of tons of rotted bedding and cow manure that we forked out of the basement of that house. That number, as well as the stench was staggering. But, we got’r done.

The pitchforking was eventually aided when we discovered the existence of a concrete floor in the basement. At least we weren’t digging into the dirt. That did not mean, however, that the concrete was at the proper elevation. It should have been an easy foot lower, such to prevent the knocking of heads on the beams. Were people really that short? Perhaps they cared not a wit for ceiling height in the basement.

There wasn’t a surface inside of that structure that didn’t need cleaning, that is after it was completely gutted. All floors, ceilings, interior walls and windows were ripped out. Nothing was left but four stone walls and the beams at each level. That done and a new roof, it would at least start to dry it out; step one in reducing the foul smell.

Eau de chicken manure is a much greater battle than its bovine relative. Talk about a lingering smell! Sure, after the structure dried out, it reduced, but anyone in the know advised the same: Any and all residue of chicken manure in the structure must be removed if the odor is to be REMOVED.

Easier said than done ! That would come later?

Busting up the basement floor so that it could be re-poured to a civil elevation was the next step. We all taught our selves how to handle the rented jackhammer. It would either beat you or you would beat it! After lifting the thing a time or two, the advice that had been rendered made all the sense: LET THE HAMMER DO THE WORK! The operator simply touched the hammer to the spot that needed busting, steadied it vertically atop the surface and pulled the trigger. Keep the hammer just slightly leaning on your upper thighs, but essentially vertical. As such, you’re letting the hammer do the work.

The noise that the beast makes is probably the most intimidating part of it, but the operator shortly gets used to that. Could this machine hurt you? Yes, if you let it. Don’t blame the machine, though. It has a mind of its own only when you think it does.

Can you spend a whole day jackhammering? It’s not recommended if you have a date tonight.

SANDBLASTING WAS NOT A BLAST

How on Earth were we to rid the structure of old, yet ubiquitous chicken smell ? The piles of manure were gone, visible evidence of it swept away, vacuumed away, but olfaction doesn’t lie!. The ‘essence’ remained. Imagine the porous nature of old beams and stone walls. Every last little crevice and pinpoint had been manure exposed. What was the most thorough method of eliminating it? Sandblasting was the conclusion.

Welcome to something else we’d have to learn while doing. There was one little caveat. It was dangerous work. What else was new? Thus far, I’d grown up doing dangerous work. This job meant working while elevated and while balance-challenged. It meant intense concentration on the task at hand. Although hot summer weather, it meant wearing stifling headgear. That was the only way to protect eyes.

You, the operator, are holding a hose, maybe 2 inches in diameter. By compressed air, that hose is bulleting tiny flecks of sand with such force that it leaves the intended surface squeaky clean. Extreme care of the operator is crucial. If a hand, inadvertently came in contact with the business end of that hose, sand could possibly touch bone in that hand, not a pleasant scenario!

We contemplated this next phase of the game. Standing at the newly deepened basement level and looking up, it seemed a dizzying network of beams, beams and another level of beams. The sand blasting started. I may have given the impression that it was a miserable endeavor. It was, but when finished, the whole enchilada was looking like someone cared about this place.

The smell was gone. The structure was clean. It was good to go for new construction.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but my experience that summer was invaluable, a mini- education in itself. Did I ever specifically apply it later in life? Of that I am unsure, but it isn’t to be measured that way.

The summer ended. It was time to head back to school.

Our new neighbors, the Cooks, moved into the former Tucker house with a flair reminiscent of the Hunterdon County of old. They brought two head of cattle with them, beef cattle. One successfully challenged the fence. It hasn’t been seen since.

I can’t help but be reminded of long ago when a similar version of Cattle Roulette occurred. One day an Angus steer had suddenly joined our dairy herd, sort of out of nowhere. Its demeanor seemed practiced, as though it saw nothing out of the ordinary his new digs.

We, in the meantime, went to untold lengths to locate its owner. No luck. We kept trying. No luck. Weeks, then months went by. Who owned this steer??

The fact was, the family was about due for a new beef infusion in our freezer . Another fact: this steer was sufficiently fattened. One day, into the freezer it went. All was good. Very good.

One wonders if there’s something in the air around the old farm

WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH KIDS TODAY?

Wasn’t that a lyric in some catchy television jingle quite a while ago? Apparently people’s kids had come off the rails more than usual, if that’s possible. Was it ever a legitimate question in the first place? What’s the matter with kids today?

Where would we be if we didn’t have faith in the next generation? I contemplate the same in my family. Have any of our kids ever come off the rails? With just three of them it’s not hard to gauge. Gratefully, NO!

Then there’s six grandkids. How are they faring? Allow me to review with no particular order, while I endeavor to answer the question. Owen is up first, the progeny of daughter Sunshine and Dave Fiore.

Owen lives with his folks in Connecticut. He is nearing age 21. He grew like a weed and isn’t done with that yet. He’s one long drink of water, as is said. Owen graduated with honors in three years from the University of Connecticut. (Who does that?) His degree is in Data Science.

Clever, incidentally, his initial approach to college. 33 credits earned in high school transferred to U Conn. With that head start, he just kept the hammer down on undergraduate work ‘til he’d accumulated sufficient credits to graduate in three years, with high honors, no less.

Gotta love that! Aggressive? You bet!

He immediately got a job at Unilever Corp. and began using his studies at work. It is interesting how companies constantly hone data to analyze the performance of their products in the market. That’s called taking care of business.

It’s what Owen does at Unilever.

The position is really an internship. It will “fill in” until Owen commences study toward a Masters Degree. Safe to say, Owen has things under control.

Lauren, our son Jason and Becky’s daughter, will soon be 23. She graduated in three years, also… from Vanderbilt on a swimming scholarship. To have accomplished just that is quite notable. Division One swimming was no cake walk!

Lauren is now employed by Accenture as a financial consultant. She’s based in Austin, Texas.

To add a little zest to her life, Lauren just returned from a mission trip to Kenya, sponsored by a faith-based non-profit organization. Lauren is living proof that education doesn’t end when schooling ends!

Next up is Jackson, Lauren’s older brother. At 25, Jackson is our eldest grandchild. He graduated from Miami University in Oxford, Ohio.

He has recently taken on a “headhunting” position and he’s taking a liking to it.

His company fills positions in diverse industries; construction and data-driven endeavors generalize two of them.

If ever there was a job that requires “ears to the ground” attention, this is it. Who knows if Jackson will make a career at this, but the potential to learn is undoubtedly there. Have at it, Jackson.

Back to daughter Sunshine and Dave Fiore.They brought our youngest grandchild into the world. Maria is 18, a sophomore at Suffolk University in the swankiest section of Boston. Maria isn’t sure what she wants to do in life, but if her choice of college is in any way reflective of how she’ll do, then things bode well for her!

Maria, there’s no hurry. Your choice will come clear when it happens. In the interim, work hard and enjoy college! It will be over before you know it!

Just for the record, Judy or I never lean on any of the grandkids about their choice of occupation. If ever asked, we would defer. It’s not our business. If ever asked our opinion of a certain endeavor, a brief and honest answer would suffice.

Who’s next? Of course. Tucker Haerle, Vanessa and Drew’s son. Tucker’s prowess on Sutton High School’s gridiron was the stuff of local quarterback legend. But, in my view, the most mature and level-headed decision that he ever made on the football field was to end it when high school ended. Surely there was banter of future football grandeur, but Tuck figured the probability. He deferred.

Tuck earned a degree in Applied Engineering at Michigan State with concentration on supply chain.

What if Tuck had opted to pursue college football? That would have meant playing in one of the toughest college leagues in the country, the BIG 10. Whew!

Smart decision. He’s not big enough any way.

He is currently employed by Abbott Labs in Temecula, California. It’s one impressive professional development program that Abbott has. Tuck is all about it, in different company locations and different manufacturing emphasis. One of the location changes will take Tuck to Costa Rica for a year.

Are you ready for this? His girlfriend, Margaret, will join him! Talk about a benefit package! Corporate life seems to be evolving before our very eyes and there’s Tucker on the cutting edge!

Annika Haerle finalizes my glimpse at the grandkids. She brings up the rear in style. Annika is 23. She graduated from U. Conn with a degree in Actuarial Science. She is employed by Travelers Insurance Corp. in Hartford, Connecticut as an Actuary.

From the tender age of 4, Annika’s had a propensity to dance. Lessons and rehearsals were her watchwords throughout most of her childhood. The little lady loved to dance and she was good at it! To this day, do expect to behold her bounding in the corner of your eye or a pirouetting in the middle of an otherwise mundane afternoon. Annika dances through life when you are least expecting it.

With this brief insight, may I then call the question: What’s the matter with kids today? Absolutely nothing. They’re just being kids. Who could ask for more?

Yeah, it’s true. I’ve been a Mets since 1962, and yes, that’s been a while. I’m watching a previously recorded Old Timers Game at Citi Field. Amazingly, some of the guys playing were original Mets, playing at the Polo Grounds in Manhattan.

Just like me, they’re old men now. Funny how that happens ! But, 65 of them are out there having a blast. Gotta love baseball!

Slowly the evening veils the land. The tree frogs intone as only they can. In a far deeper note, a Bull frog decrees from his post at the pond’s edge. A message is imbued by this curious choir, assuring that all is well. And the curtain is drawn on another day that has given its all.

What message is parlayed by this curious choir?

That answer couldn’t be more clear. All was quite well at the pond. The message could not have been more clear. The chorus only sought to verify. The Spring breeze only sought to verify the subtle truth.

Had a good chat this morning with my long-time friend, Alex (Arlo, Sandy, Alexander) Mitchell. We first played in the sand pile at Tuckaway when we were both at the tender age of two.

A profound thought crossed my mind after our conversation ended. How many of us are fortunate enough to have just had a visit with a buddy of nearly 70 years? That’s all good!

How can this FACEBOOK monstrosity not remind us of days gone by? You know, when life was easier. Sending a message to someone was a simple matter of finding a pen that works and getting to a desk where you could write.

Your first error was only in the second line, so instead of scratching it out, you could just chuck the piece of paper and start over with a fresh one. That’s OK. Surely it’s the only mistake you’ll make in this four page letter.

It’s being sent to your friend Shadrack in California, so thank heavens the Pony Express days are long gone. Heck, this will only take four days to get to the west coast.

The letter is finished, so you need only to read it over, fold it, place it in an envelope, lick the back, lick the proper total in stamps (enough with the lickin). Then get it to the mailbox. It’s only a half mile out to the end of the lane.

Today’s contrast is remarkable. Your letter is written. Press SEND. Seconds later, Shadrack in California is reading it. How many more quantum leaps can the world take before we’re moving faster than we can keep up with it?

A momentous birthday is approaching. No, not yours. Heck, you’re a youngster!

No, it’s mine, as though I needed to remind myself. Is it a symptom of aging when a simple drive around the countryside reminds me of time marching on? You know, mortality and all that.

It’s like this. Judy is driving. ( I don’t drive.) That leaves me with abundant time to look out the window, to gaze at scenery, to space out or to say something to Jude like, “old Joe Etz used to live there.” That, of course, was when we passed old Joe Etz’s house.

It’s still there, though a bit ramshackle.

Nonetheless, Judy will reply, “Who the Hell is Joe Etz?”

I’m an odd ball in that I’ve lived at the same place my whole life. Who does that anymore? Same farm, same fields, same trees, but larger now. The streams are the same streams, but have altered their course over the years.

It has always seemed quizzical to me that our state levies huge fines upon anyone who dares to excavate near a stream, yet the stream itself moves tons of gravel and soil over time. Water goes where water wants to.

A brilliant American intellectual once wrote, “Time is but the stream I go a’fishin’ in. Its thin current slides away, but eternity remains.”

I think I get it, Mr. Thoreau. Surely yours was a stabilizing influence in your neighborhood. Lord only knows if the same could be said for me.

Surely it could for old Joe Etz.