I hope that’s what it is !

Or am I just a sheep being lead to slaughter ? (Sorry about the grizzly metaphor.)

Yes, it’s a bit chili today, but not so much so that I can’t bask in the sunny sunshine here on the Writer’s Perch. As I write, it is February 22.

It is easy to remember past years, on or near this date, when such outside languish would be unthinkable. You’d of frozen to death!

It’s not as though some 50 years ago that there weren’t any days that were unseasonably mild . Sure there were, but I can’t remember the whole month of February when the temperature has been this moderate. I wonder. Need I raise the specter that no one likes to talk about… global warming ?

I’ll confess to being quite deficient in my knowledge of the question. I am reminded of an Emily Dickinson line : How huge. How hopeless to conceive.

Is mankind getting a little full of himself, thinking that his actions can and are altering the climate ? The notion is just a little macro, don’t you think? But I defer to the scientists of the world and have contemplated their theories, which, incidentally, are quite disparate.

As for me… how huge, how hopeless to conceive.

One further question, your Honor : Will mankind ever make a climate change reversal without the cooperation of China? Of India? Of a dozen other industrialized countries ?

In the meantime everyone, don’t worry. I’m watching my carbon footprint.

I was still a “babe in the woods.”

Well, not quite. Maybe a sophomore in high school, but when I think about it now, yeah, I was a babe in the woods.

Dad’s most recent far-flung, money making idea was to buy and sell Tennessee Walking Horses. I’ve written about this before, but it’s been a while. Indulge me, if you would.

There we were, at an auction in Lewisburg, TN. “We” ? Dad, me and sister Sue. Did any of us know what we were doing ? Hell no! We were fish outta water. Newly transformed dairy farmers, having barely kicked the cow shit off our shoes. But, there we were… the next venture. We had sold the cattle herd.

I sure as hell knew how to ride, though. Years of dairying hadn’t precluded a lot of time in the saddle. Not to mention, it was much easier to get excited over horses than Holsteins.

The next day, another auction, this one in much vaunted Franklin, TN. The auctioneers were getting to know Dad. Each time the gavel hammered the block in his favor, the auctioneer would devolve from his rhythmic rattle saying, ” SOLD ! New Jersey bound”.

This was fun, especially when the owners would let me take their steeds for a spin just prior to entry into the sale ring. It was a good test of a horse’s temperament, what with the fray outside the sales tent. If a horse was behaving there, it always would.

I’ll never forget that trip and others like it in our early horse days. Middle Tennessee was intriguing. In much later days, Judy and I would explore down there. We’d drive from town to distant town, quite taken with the vastness of it all. Some were towns that time seemed to have forgotten.

Wartrace was one of them. Of course, the train whistled through Wartrace, a sort of signature quality of many little settlements betwixt the hills. If there was ever a reason for the train to stop here, it was no longer obvious. All that can be said now is that a train screams through Wartrace a few times a day.

A handsome old hotel building needs work, but tries to whisper about a time when Wartrace bustled.

The unknowing visitor wouldn’t suspect that here is the home of the world famous Gallagher guitar, hand made in an inconspicuous location in town.

A noted bluegrass performer, Doc Watson, sings the praises of the Gallagher guitar. It “rings like a bell”, he would say.

Armed with a road atlas, Judy and I venture further into the middle of middle Tennessee. The names of these tiny whistles tops pique the curiosity. Where the Hell is Flat Creek ? Deason ? Bell Buckle ?

In some cases, even when we’ve followed the map, there is little indication that our destination is before us. We were supposed to be in Bugscuffle ! Yes, two roads crossed. Beyond that, the green grasses undulated in the breeze. There was no sign of civilization. Anywhere! At least there was a stop sign.

How could Bugscuffle be on the map with no further indication that it even exists ? We had to get to the bottom of this. Maybe somebody back in Wartrace would know. We turned around.

An old duffer sat on a bench back in Wartrace. He was whittling, a common, peaceful pastime in these parts. He was the picture of deferential Southern courtesy. The surrounding Cedar shavings indicated that he’d been whittling for a while.

He momentarily discontinued the stroke of his little pen knife upon our question. He rested his whittling hand on his lap and looked at us curiously.

“Bugscuffle”, he replied in questioning tone. “What in the world would ya wanna go to Bugscuffle fer ?”

I was beginning to recognize the logic that underpinned his question!

“Well, because it’s there”, I said.

My answer must have seemed smartalecy, but he nudged his hand toward a southwesterly road.

“Down there” was about all we got from him.

“Thank you kindly “, we obliged.

We retraced the road that delivered us. The crossroads we’re still there, the orchard grass still waving in the wind. I had to imagine that the traces of Bugscuffle were as elusive as they’d ever been.

What ever happened here ? A whimsical name for sure. Or, was there a skirmish here ? One of those fleeting engagements that barely traces its origin to our time of “civil” upheaval?

It did happen here, you know. Or, maybe it was just a couple of pesky locusts who fought to their bitter end . Let’s hope it was the later.

Bugscuffle, we came to see you because you were there. We were glad of it !

It’s always fun to chat with someone about their experience as a child. The topic is fascinating to me. No two upbringings, it seems, are completely similar.

That stands to reason. Parenting styles are dissimilar. One has to assume that that’s a good thing. Otherwise wouldn’t we all be the same ? Perish forbid !

A good buddy was recently telling me of his childhood that was strikingly different from mine. His reminded me of those horses that roam wild down there in the Outer Banks off the coast of North Carolina. He, like them, just ran with the wind the summer long.

His Mom essentially had one daily parameter: just be home at dinner time. Go where you want to go, within the constraints predicated by a bicycle, but be home by dinner hour.

How would that benchmark have affected my childhood ? It wouldn’t have. No need for such a rule . I was home anyway. We were farming.

That “rule” couldn’t really be described as such. It was better described as a way of life. It was an assumption. It was what you did every day . Farming necessitated that the whole family be home, every day. 365 days a year.

Of course, I was home at dinner time. That came right after milking. Every day.

You might ask about vacations. We had one once, for five days. A neighbor dairyman did the milking for us.

As you might imagine, he didn’t have anything else to do !! ( joke) It was strictly a matter of neighbors helping neighbors. That was a rule, too.

With electronic equipment on the fritz here in the house, we’ve been sans internet for the last few days. A technician is expected this morning, thank goodness.

In the meantime, it strikes me just how vulnerable we are. Without that electronic monster we call the internet, well… we’re sorta sitting ducks. Things that we assume will function, simply don’t. There is a built in susceptibility.

We’ve backed ourselves into an unwanted corner.

Then a little wisp of perspective hits me. Vulnerable to what ? Our little devices that we sit and poke over morning coffee ? Gadgets that make tasks easier or life more entertaining ?

Vulnerable ? It’s a relative term. My earlier days were spent working with equipment that found me vulnerable.

A number of my acquaintances, too. Guys with unspeakable scars, missing fingers or an eye that no longer provides vision. These are guys who were vulnerable. These are guys that, in a fleeting instant of misjudgment, maimed themselves irreparably .

They may have been unclogging a baler, feeding a silage blower or forcing the remainder of that beef rib through the bandsaw. There’s one of a thousand ways to be seriously injured.

By the Grace of God I’ve managed to avoid such mishap. A warning, however: If you are occupied with dangerous work, then treat it as such. It is all to easy not to.

“Dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before ”

And surely Mr. Poe must have had some outlandish dreams ! How else could he have written some of those stories ? Not to mention poems.

What’s with my dreams ? Your dreams ? Everyone’s dreams ! The phantasms of the human mind never cease to amaze ! Sure, we all have imaginations, but dreams seem to happen when our ordinary imaginings are co-mingled with our brains when just trying to get a little rest.

Is there any rest for a wearied , quixotic mind ? Apparently not ! Our brains don’t seem to think so.

We no sooner get to sleep and our brains decide to kick it into high gear !

Our brains say “hell, you can’t sleep now , there’s dreaming to do. I mean good old-fashioned, full bore, non-sensical dreaming.”

I was proceeding through my usual early morning routine this A.M. Having made coffee, was giving Jude her traditional foot rub. Upon awakening, she proclaimed that she had been amidst the best dream of her life !

Well, I was almost afraid to ask what that might have been !

Soon sipping coffee, she began to explain. Without revealing detail, I failed to see how that could possibly could have even made the top ten.

But that is the nature of dreams, isn’t it ?

When you have them all figured out, dear reader, let me know !

Stepping into a hornets’ nest is not new to me. To use a hopelessly worn expression, Been there, Done that.

Yesterday it was a nest of a different color.

Many posts ago, I discussed the discovery of a Roman shipwreck. Yes, I was thwarted in getting any further details, but in that pursuit I kicked up the hornets nest.

Harkening back to some lost point at Alexandria Twp. School, I know that I studied the method of identifying periods in time. It was so easy, a cave man could do it. BC was before the birth of Christ.

AD, anno domini, Latin for In the Year of our Lord, was/is time since Christ’s life. If I don’t have that right, please forgive me Lord. I think I was baling hay that day.

In attempting to learn more about Roman shipping, I come to find out that that method has since been messed with, no fault of the Romans.

Now there is BC, AD, CE and BCE . To further add to the confusion there is also WTF.

CE, Common Era, is apparently used by non- Christians. BCE, of course, Before Common Era is used by non- Christians in their assumptions regarding traceable time.

Do ya see what I mean? Why did they have to futz with this? I know. Some hapless souls of wayward erudition saw fit to mess with us all! Now, those of us not quite in the know have to scratch our heads over some new acronyms.

Will mankind ultimately figure this out? And what the Hell is the Common Era, anyway ? All of this just confuses the masses who have other things to worry about.

I offer this simple observation from Henry David Thoreau :

“Our lives are frittered away by detail. Simplify. Simplify .

Do you think Thoreau was worried about what time it was, or, for that matter, the Era ?

I posit that he was much the better off.

Occasionally I am engaged in conversation with a friend about childhood experiences. The topic is fascinating to me. No two upbringings, it seems, are completely similar.

That stands to reason. Parenting styles are dissimilar. Also, no two neighborhoods are identical. One has to assume that that’s a good thing. Otherwise, wouldn’t we all have come out of the oven the same ? Perish forbid !

A good buddy was recently telling me of his childhood that was strikingly different from mine. His reminded me of those wild horses that roam the day long and run with the wind.

His Mom essentially had one daily parameter: just be home at dinner time. Go where you want to go, within the constraints predicated by a bicycle. Just be home by dinner hour.

How would that benchmark have affected my childhood ? That’s not worth pondering. It wouldn’t have. There was no need for such a rule . I was home. Period.l

We were farming. We weren’t going anywhere.

Our “rule” couldn’t really be described as such. It was better described as a way of life. It was an assumption. It was what you did every day . Farming necessitated that the whole family be home, every day. 365 days a year.

Of course, I was home at dinner time. That came right after milking. Every day.

You might ask about vacations. We had one once in my childhood, for five days. A neighbor dairyman did the milking for us.

This was in the day when neighbors helped neighbors. They had to.

It is a half mile walk to my mailbox here in beautiful Pittstown, N.J.

E-mail is especially appreciated here. Here are some tidbits that awaited this morning:

Re : SURVEY NATION

Vanessa Haerle, Sutton, Massachusetts writes :

I hate surveys too. Every time I go into Target to get toothpaste and doggie treats there is a survey waiting in my email wanting to know how I felt about my shopping experience.

It makes me think twice about handing over my email address to them or any other retailer.

Re: SURVEY NATION

Sue Ferguson, Crossville, Tennessee writes :

Any time I use a service, visit a doctor, dentist, hair salon, I no sooner get home and up pops a satisfaction survey…

I’m tired of getting these things and none of them have a f–k off button to choose…

If I am sitting, staring at a wall, I am still too busy to fill these things out…

If you don’t get these things, consider yourself fortunate.

Now and again circumstance arises as a result of being an author , quizzical stuff, it is.

You may recall a description in my MEMOIRS book of seventh grade dances at Alexandria Township School. Our teacher, Mrs. Berger, (we furtively called her Pocohantas ) was, shall we say, the Commandant of Propriety.

She would patrol the dance floor, ruler in hand, assuring that all slow-dancing bodies maintained a six inch berth between them.

No passion would be fomented on her watch !

Fast forward to recent days. I was contacted by a fellow, a nuclear physicist in fact , from his home in Livermore, California. He enthused copiously over MEMOIRS of a JERSEY FARM BOY.

His name ? Bob Berger … Mrs. Berger’s son.

~~~~~~~~~

I was on a visit yesterday to a doctor’s office in Flemington. A dermatologist, we had never met before. He had a fine manner about him ; an easy-going conversationalist.

Unexpectedly, he said to me, “Didn’t you write something about growing up on a farm?”

“Whoa”, I said. “How did you know that?”

“Well, your book is right out there in the waiting room”, the Doc replied.

He went on to explain that earlier today he had been studying the day’s patient list, came across my name and wondered why his secretary had indicated me as a new patient. He knew he’d heard my name before.

He sure had. He was halfway through my book!

Indeed, I was a new patient.

His confusion was a simple context thing .

After a while it becomes nauseating.

Joe and Josephine Consumer purchase a product or, perhaps a service. A day or so passes and then, Voila, in the mail or email is the proverbial survey wanting to know every last detail of your impression of whatever it was that you purchased.

I know. I know. I get it. Companies are doing their due diligence. How does their performance measure up ? How else would they know if they didn’t ask ?

Sooner or later, another question arises. Are Joe and Josephine suffering from Survey Mania ? Have they acquiesced to completing one too many of these exercises ?

Clinicians use the term Survey Delirium to describe symptoms attributable to consistent bombardment with surveys. They portend another layer of the condition already deserving of its own acronym SRSS : Surveys re: Surveys Syndrome.

This is a state of final exasperation brought on by a consumer’s receipt of a survey regarding a recently mailed survey.

This blog seeks no culpability for such reactions . It will never send you a survey provided that you answer one simple question: Have you filled out that survey today ? If not, why not ? Was it something the survey asked ? Please be specific.