Erywilde

In the The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Taylor Coleridge describes how, even in the midst of plenty, the mariner was dying of thirst. He laments, “Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink”.

Erywilde has lots of water – two creeks, a lake, a spring or old well up the hill AND water provided by the Arrowhead Lake Community (ALC) water supply via 1″ PVC pipe. I couldn’t drink from any of the former but definitely wanted to drink of the latter.

Amazingly, my first bill was for over 7,000 gallons in January. I  could rephrase Coleridge with “Billed for water, water everywhere while not a drop did I drink”. 7,000 gallons is a lot of water for one person who only uses an outdoor faucet to brush his teeth! Thinking it might just be a billing quirk due to the reactivation of our account, I was not too concerned but the February bill was just as high.

Why? Why? I pondered. There were puddles in some logging tire treads by the driveway and originally I thought it was another spring. Now, slowly, I came to the conclusion that it was not a spring but a ruptured water supply line and the leak was causing my high water bills.

So, I dug around the dirt for a while until I found the white PVC 1″ pipe. Great, now I can fix the leak. Except the pipe was not leaking where I found it. I dug 6″ uphill along the pipe. Still no leak. The water was leaking somewhere higher up the hill and gravity was pulling the water down the hill, following the path of the PVC pipe. Now, to find the break, I have to search up to 40′ of buried pipe. It could be  2″ or in 25′ from my first hole. I had no way of telling but I certainly did not want to just dig up the hill until I found the leak.

To minimize my efforts, I split the difference between my hole and the uphill meter at street level. I dug. Dry. Splitting the difference between my new hole and my original dig, I dug. Wet. Closing in, I dug another hole. Wet but now the distance was just a few feet between my new “wet” hole and my former “dry” hole so I just dug until I found the leak. The water was escaping from a joint in the pipe.

Knowing that I wanted to shut off the water BEFORE I repaired the pipe, I went to the meter. The meter had a large dial with a hand that measured gallons flow but also a small “spinner” that showed very low flow. It was turning, showing the leak’s “drip”.

I successfully turned the handle to the “closed” position.  Strangely, the spinner spun at exactly the same rate. I turned the valve the other way. Dial still spun. Now I am confused, not knowing which position was closed since the spinner spun the same regardless of the handle’s position.

Applying my deft computing logic, I figured that since the water was flowing with the valve in the position I found it, then turning it the other direction MUST BE (I hoped) the “closed” position. Repositioning the valve to its original position, I walked back down to my dig. I gently lifted the PVC to see if I could feel any water leaking or any other damage to the pipe or the leaking joint.

Whooosh! – the pipe practically exploded in my hand. Water? You want water? Well, from first hand experience, I can tell you that a 1″ pipe can deliver a lot of water at 80 – 90 psi. Your house probably has half the pressure and a much smaller diameter. To help visualize the scene, double the output of your garden hose, have it come out twice as hard, direct it through a broken PVC joint into your face. It was exciting.

The water knocked my glasses off, loosened a front tooth, blinded me as it sprayed at tremendous pressure uncontrollably into my face, my hands, on my clothes, into the dirt, up into the air. A small still voice was saying (1) I wish I were a fly on the wall watching this scene because it must be really funny and (2) I wish I were somewhere else.

Fortunately, I had brought a bigger 2″ pipe to slide over the source end of the 1″ pipe so I could capture and redirect any leaking water while I effected the repair. I quickly slid the larger pipe over the 1″ pipe and rerouted the water so it now rushed madly out of the end of the bigger pipe.  10′ away.

I could breathe again. Wet but breathing. Actually, soaked.

Hmm, I guess that the valve was now in the “open” position. Great. Armed with my hard won knowledge, I closed the mystery valve and made a temporary repair on the joint. I called the ALC water company and they fixed the shut off valve. Eventually, I fixed the break. At least it was fixed when I left.

Another potential source of drinking water is to dig a well. As this will cost over $5,000, I am not too excited about this option. There is a small standing pool above the cabin building site that has potential. It may be a former well or a spring. I will explore it further.

Finally, I am digging into the use of a cistern. We can capture rainwater from the metal roof (no bits of asphalt roofing to worry about), store it in a 1,000 gallon tank, filter, run it under an ultraviolet light and then drink it, wash with it, flush with it. Rainwater. How cool. And we get a lot of rainwater.

The property at the foot of the dam has a lot of standing water, aka “vernal ponds“. My son saw “billions and billions” of amphibian eggs last week and when I checked them this week, they were all gone. Hatched actually. Thousands of little tadpoles covered the bottom of the pond.  Today tadpoles, tomorrow frogs. Maybe a few salamanders. Seems if you have lots of frogs, you will have at least a few snakes.

Glad I have my really cool, tough guy, tactical (what does that really mean?) boots. They are up over my ankles so if I step on a snake my odds are better that he will strike my boot and not raise up and bite me in the upper calf. Are there cobras in Georgia?

While on the subject of snakes, a couple of guys who have been helping indicated their partiality to rattlesnake meat. “Can’t be much meat on one,” I observed but they said what little was there was good. “Tastes like chicken I bet,” I said.  Water moccasins are probably more prevalent. I promised to give them any snake bodies, (carcasses?) that I killed. I hope it is zero.

Your not looking for rattlesnacks blogger,

Frank

(with apologies to John Steinbeck’s Travelling with Charley)

As I may have mentioned, one of my goals at Erywilde is the reduction of the mammal population, things such as rats, mice, squirrels, opossums, raccoons, coyotes, etc.

As one method to accomplish this reduction, I decided to get a “good dog”. A “good dog” being one that would chase and occasionally capture any and all of the aforementioned vermin. After careful research, I decided on a Border Terrier. The border, although small, is a friendly dog – friendly with other dogs, friendly with children, friendly, sadly, with strangers. So, they sometimes go off with strangers. Also, when on the trail of their quarry, they are singularly focused, prone to darting out in front of speeding cars, and in the case of the land around Erywilde, pickup trucks.

Oh, and they don’t come when you call if they don’t want to.

All this great “doggyness” for a mere $1,500! So with a Border, you basically have $1,500 running around that doesn’t always come, doesn’t look when crossing the road, will eat itself to death, and that will gladly go off with a stranger. Hmmm.

So, instead, I “put the word on the street” (spoken by Cab Callaway in The Blues Brothers, one of my favorite movies) that I was looking for a rescue Border Terrier. As you might imagine, most people would take pretty good care of their little $1,500 bundle of financial investment and rescue Borders are, in a word, rare.

Happily, last week, I received an email from a friend in the rescue “business” that identified a “border” mix. It included lots of pictures and the old boy’s lineage definitely spoke “border terrier” along with shouting a cacophony of other dogs. He was ugly. Borders are scruffy to begin with but this guy took scruffy to a whole new level, adding a massive head that looked more at home on a Bull terrier than Border. Maybe with some boxer thrown in. He weighed in at 50+ pounds, and, according to the shelter, was soon to join the sad list of  “not rescued”.

I forwarded the email to my adult children. When my daughter saw it and reported crying about the prospect of saving the dog’s life, I definitely was moved. Moved to find out if she was crying because he was so short for this world or crying because he was so ugly.

The next morning saw me rolling up I-75 in the Irvan to “check it out”. After only a few miles, I left the protected corridor of I-75 (protected from all the inconveniences that used to accompany road trips but also from all the interesting and beautiful stories hidden just out of view of the passing car).  Northern Georgia holds the southern terminus of the Smoky Mountains so it is hilly. Old roads most frequently follow valleys as they were flat and easier to negotiate. My route, US411, followed such a valley.

The traffic was light. While working my way north in the valley, I listened, via audiobook, to John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley.

Steinbeck is trying to “rediscover” America and often bemoans the changes he sees, from a calmer, more sensible time to a modernity where he likens humans to flocks of turkeys and hills of ants. But I think “better” is in the eye of the beholder. If you are an ant, an ant hill looks pretty good.

Driving through Ranger, Georgia, a town of maybe 50 inhabitants, I wondered what these people did for a living. Ga411 was a busy road at one time, many years ago. That time and its traffic died when I-75 was completed just a few miles to the west. It is sad and depressing to me to drive through a dying town. Even sadder to drive through a dead town.

Steinbeck agrees that you “can’t go home”.  Once you leave, the townsfolk remember you as you were when you left and that memory never changes. If you reappear, you make a lie of their memories. They have to update their memories and they have become fond, oh so fond, of those memories. The intrusion of reality is an unwelcome event.

Maybe towns’ memories are frozen in time just like peoples’.

A key philosopher in the book was Charley, Steinbeck’s dog. Charley was a no nonsense, carpe diem, sort of creature. He would assiduously leave his scent in all the best places every time he had the opportunity. He only wanted to know who had preceded him and to leave a mark for those who would follow. A good, simple Weltanschauung.

I continued on through Maryville, TN, to the Blount County Animal Shelter. It was located in a poor part of town on a rather nice piece of property, maybe five acres. I had to wait for a couple of cars leaving the single track drive. As they drove past me, I wondered if they were there to drop off or pick up. I hoped to pick up.

Proceeding, I came to a nice, clean, fairly modern shelter. Although the door to “drop off” was clearly marked, I saw none that said “pick up”. Hmmm. Entering the “drop off” door, I saw a man dropping off a rather large cat in a cage. He took the cage. He did not show any emotional attachment and I wondered if he caught stray cats. Maybe there is a reward – not a bad idea.  It would help reduce the stray cat population and give a little income to people willing to capture cats.

When asked what I needed, I said that I was there to pick-up “Bama.” All the staff got very excited, telling me how great he was, how well behaved, etc. But I was prepared against the anticipated sales talk with a list of questions my wife had prepared – How old is he? Why is he still here? Does he bite? Is his name really “Bama?”  Does he have all his shots?

I carefully wove the questions into my conversations with the staff. One staff member, “J”, was a 13 year old with a real passion for animals. He wants to attend Cornell Veterinary School and if I ever have a beloved animal that needs medical care, I will seek out J.

He loved Bama and believing that his opinion was the most honest (although there was no reason to suspect the other’s motivations) I gave it the most weight.

Bama was coming home.

Returning by a different route, we made a number of stops to allow Bama a chance to stretch his legs and to get to know me a little better. He was very calm and willing to explore with me. This route went right through the mountains. It was beautiful but winding and mountainous. We stopped by one very old abandoned log/timber cabin with a lot of interesting siding. (I am always on the lookout for “distressed” wood for the cabin.)

We stopped at a hiking trail crossing and got out to explore. It was a John Muir trail. One side went up the mountain, the other, to a mountain creek. Lovely.

Such a long day and still so far to go. Ducktown was the next “major” town. Actually it was the megalopolis of Copper Hill and Ducktown. Couldn’t really tell where one began and the other ended. I remember Copper Hill from my High School geography class as an example of the damage done by strip mining.  Also, in this area, the 1996 Olympics held the venue for the kayaking competition. Beautiful country and not too commercialized. Next on the trip is McCaysville. It sits on the Oconee river on the Georgia side.

Now in Georgia, I picked up Hwy 5/515 which wends its way out of the mountains and merges into Interstate 575. Zooming along at 70 mph, I was deaf to the stories calling out as we were passing through, but as a horse returning to its own barn, I was hearing more clearly the call of my own home and I was soon home again.

Here are some pictures of the newest dog in the Erywilde pack.

Frank

ps – we’ve renamed him Traveller (two l’s) after the famous horse of General Robert E. Lee, and based on his early and soon to be many, travels.

Hi. Hope you learned a lot from Scout. She really is a nice assistant but sometimes is a little full of herself.

All those Latin terms, sheesh!

Today we are going embark on a “poo” journey (not Pooh, although he does live in the woods too). There is a well known book called Everybody Poops by Taro Gomi. If you are going to live “off the grid” without any outside assistance, one of the big items that needs to be addressed is “poop”.

The topics of septic tank and associated drain field have been another pretty interesting intellectual journey. Somewhat unpleasant, true, but interesting nonetheless. The simplist sequence of events is water->toilet -> septic tank -> drain field -> air and ground.

First, water. One of the great wastes of our modern society is to flush the toilet with “potable” (water you can safely drink) water. This requires treatment and special handling of water that is going to be used in the toilet. Doesn’t make a lot of sense environmentally. In our cabin, we are going to use “gray” (or is it “grey”?) water for toilets and washing machines. Probably will use potable water in the faucets just in case someone is brushing their teeth.

Gray water is water that is not, strictly speaking, potable. Untreated rainwater, for example. Water out of the bathroom faucet. Laundry water. Per the building code in the county where the cabin is located, if you have any running water at all, you must have a septic system.

Black water is water that is from the toilet or kitchen sink (because of all the potential fat). Black water is unsanitary and goes right to the septic system. Swhoosh.

Next toilet. A modern convenience. Water saving toilets can use 1.6 gallons or even 1 gallon per flush. The technology is really pretty advanced.  Here is a diagram of the modern toilet. Search the web for “low flow toilet” for more info.

On to septic tank. Okay, now we have mixed the “solids” with our water and it has to flow downhill to the septic tank. There is a maximum slope the drain can have or the water outraces its contents. Not desireable. The effluent reaches the septic tank where it greets 1,000 gallons of its mates. The displaced water (about a gallon) overflows the tank and escapes into the drain field.

The septic tank is pretty big and made from concrete. It is waterproof. It is about 4.5 feet wide x 8.0 feet long x 6 feet tall. Our tank is buried 4 inches to 12 inches deep (it lies level with a sloping hill above it).

Remember, normally all water goes into the septic tank including gray water.  It is estimated that individuals use between 50 and 100 gallons a day. My question, “what happens if it takes 6 weeks to use 1,000 gallons?” Maybe I should just run rainwater into it until it fills? Your thoughts please.

Finally, air? and ground. In my ignorance, I thought that a good drain field substrate would be sand. You know, the water would just go right into the ground and then be filtered by the sand. Wrong. Actually, the clay in the soil benefits the drain field as it holds onto the water where the sun can evaporate it. Makes sense. Less likely for the bacteria to wash into the groundwater.

Tree roots like drain fields and they will penetrate the pipes and cause a lot of problems. Also, their shade (see above) hurts the efficiency of the drain field. I hear grass grows really well over the drain field. Erma Bombeck wrote a clever book about it – The Grass Is Always Greener Over The Septic Tank.

Now you know that the title should have been The Grass Is Always Greener Over the Drain Field but I guess her editor felt it didn’t have the same smell of success.

Now, the next time you use the “loo” you will have a greater appreciation of how much science really goes into that simple flushing sound.

Time for dinner…

Frank

Hello, I am Frank’s assistant, Scout. (Think that Scout is a strange name? So did the little girl in To Kill A Mockingbird but somehow it worked out pretty well for her.)

As Frank’s assistant, I help around the office in Marietta, keeping track of all the paperwork associated with building a domicile, especially a log cabin. He has asked me to give you a behind the scenes look at some details involved in the Erywilde project.

I will enumerate the items as they are easier to reference (even though my college English professor hated the process of adding clarity to my writing. Go figure. I guess that’s why he was still a professor.)

1. “Yellow Pine”. This label generally refers to the subgenus Pinus, subsection Australes Loudon. (I never took cat naps during my taxonomy class!)

In the South, there are lots of pine trees. Lots and lots of them. I would climb them but they are extremely tall with a long way between the ground and the first branch. Although difficult to climb, these characteristics make them great for logs for the cabin. Long, straight, with few branches on the lower trunk.

There are four common species of pine grouped into the Yellow Pine category
a. Short leaf
b. Loblolly
c. Slash and
d. Long leaf.

Most common in the part of the state where the property is located is Loblolly. They have moderately long needles and their pine cones “bite you” (they have sharp little hooks on them).

The long leaf is a very neat pine. Highly resistant to fire, forests of it were developed by the Southern property owners years ago. They would burn the underbrush, leaving the pines unaffected. This burned environment, as it renewed itself, was a great place for quail which they then hunted.

It actually has a “grass stage”, the first four or five years of its life. In this stage, still resistant to fire, it looks like a clump of grass. Later a shoot emerges and develops into the adult long leaf. These trees grow much further south in Georgia.

The slash and short needle pine are less common in the cabin’s area but generally are fast growing and the larger ones are used for dimensioned (cut into dimensions like 2″x4″s) lumber.

If old enough, they all grow big enough for a 40′ x 40′ cabin, the size Frank is now discussing. The key phrase, is “if old enough”. Most of them aren’t old.

2. Fauna
Obviously, as you may have read in the earlier blog “Ever shot an armadillo?” there are armadillos on the property. They dig. A lot. There are small dig marks all over the field. Frank says they are digging for grubs which is alright with him. He plans on using bacillus thuringiensis or BT to organically control the grubs. (For more info, visit http://www.planetnatural.com/site/xdpy/kb/natural-pest-control-bt.html ).

Next, there are white tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus). I hear that there are deer hunters everywhere so I guess there must be deer everywhere too.

Coyotes (canis latrans). Packs of coyotes. I guess they hunt the deer, attack sheep, cattle, raccoons, possums, dogs and cats. Coyotes are why Frank has not taken me to the farm yet. I suppose that coyotes and man are currently the two predators of deer (replacing the wolf I think.) Farmers put mules (they aren’t afraid of the coyotes and can kick the tar out of them) and llamas (I guess they spit on the coyotes) in the fields with their cattle and sheep to be sort of body guards. Coyotes do not eat armadillos.

Snakes, turtles, newts, frogs, etc. surely exist but I have not seen any specimens back here at the office so I can’t address them further.

Frank reports seeing a Green Heron, coot, vultures, hawks, mockingbirds, sparrows, etc. and has heard, but not seen, woodpeckers and owls.

Fish – only reports of catfish. No one has fished the pond yet so we will report later on additional finds.

3. Dirt
Most people would think “Georgia” and immediately, “red clay”. I spoke with a very knowledgeable man at a local lumber company and he showed me how to use the computer to use all sorts of powerful,  interactive web based tools. One site I visited produced a customized, 18 page report about the soil of Erywilde.

It is Davidson loam. To quote the article regarding vegetation, “Cleared areas are used for small grain, corn, cotton, soybeans, grain sorghum, hay, and pasture. The original forest consisted of white oak, red oak, post oak, hickory, yellow-poplar, and cedar; reforested areas are in shortleaf and loblolly pine. ” That pretty well describes Erywilde.

4. The name Erywilde
Personally, I think it is made up (but don’t tell anyone).

5. Blueprints
Although I guess they could be blue, I haven’t seen any blue ones. The ones I study are white paper with black ink. My sets have five different blueprints for the same structure as follows:

a. Elevation
b. Electrical Plan
c. Floor Plan
d. Foundation and Framing Plan
e. General Notes and Design Criteria

Lots of building code issues.  Maybe I’ll address them later but I am getting tired now (and bored) so …

The END.

Scout leaves the house

Scout

ps – I’ve included some pictures.

Model of Cabin I built showing end detail and back door

This shows the detail of how to build a strong corner out of 2″x4″ with space on which to nail the sheetrock.

This shows the hallway and “wet wall”. The wet wall is the wall where the plumbing is located. It normally has back to back bathrooms, kitchen, etc. located on either side of the wall.

Here is an important detail. The three vertical logs are called Ridge Pole Support Logs and they hold up the, you  guessed it, Ridge Pole. Adds an interesting vertical component to the logs, don’t you think?

Checking model against the blue prints.

I love my work. Very intellectual.

I stand by (on?) my work.

So. Here we are in the South, generally a mild climate where spending the night in an unheated bunkhouse (it’s new name as it is more accurate than “pole barn”) is not a big deal. Except when it gets cold, cold like in the twenties.

You know it is cold when you wake up every five minutes, search the sky for signs of daybreak, grope for your watch, hoping the hands of time have accelerated their creep across the clock face (not easy with a digital watch).

I had a bunk bed surrounded by R19 insulation. I had a sleeping bag that was rated to about 10 degrees. I had a blanket (albeit thin). I had a second blanket (thinner). I had a second sleeping bag. I had pocket warmers tucked into my down booties to keep my toes warm.

I had cold.

Although there was ice on the outdoor sink there was none on the lake. I guess I should not complain. No snow. No driveway to shovel. So why am I whining? Lived in the South too long I guess. Just a Southern wimp. Also, am somewhat fond of my current fingers, toes, and nose and prefer to hang on to them just as they are.

But I digress…

Determined to help secure the bunkhouse from uninvited vermin and other winter guests, I work on boarding up and filling, with expanding foam, all the nooks, crannies, gaps, slits, holes, crevices, and seams, that I can. Oh, and the ceiling too.

You may ask, “What do you have to do about the ceiling?” – a valid question. A word of explanation is in order. The prior ceiling was thick plastic stapled directly to the roof trusses. Because of the aforementioned nooks, crannies, gaps, slits, holes, crevices, and seams, there have been many former inhabitants of the bunkhouse. Sort of a sanctuary for birds, mice, rats, wasps, etc. Maybe an occasional snake or crocodile. Fairly sure no sharks.

Remember the line from Toy Story, “There’s a snake in my boot!” that Woody uttered when you pulled his string? I don’t want to utter the expression “There’s a snake in my sleeping bag” or “There’s a rat in my sleeping bag” or even “There’s a mouse in my house.”

In the past, all of the above guests had built their nests inside the bunkhouse, up in the rafters and maintained their own collection of forest memorabilia. Much of this had pooled in the center of the plastic ceiling and as it weighed down the plastic, the plastic pulled loose from the staples. Basically a big plastic bag full of not particularly nice stuff hanging down into the room. So I methodically slit the bag, emptied the contents bit by bit, stick by stick, dropping by disgusting dropping until one day, Voila! no more plastic bag (and sadly, ceiling).

Now I must put a new plastic sheet to cut down on the intermittent breezes and to form a “vapor barrier” for my eventual installation of sheet rock. “Sheet rock” – that’s a bit of a misnomer. Mostly 4′ x 8′, they are a plasterboard of gypsum between paper. Ever hang a picture with a nail in the wall (and have the nail promptly fall out?) – that is sheet rock.

Armed with a 20′ x 30′ piece of plastic purchased at my favorite bbs (Big Box Store) I set to work. Since my bunkhouse is 15′ x 20′, all I have to do is cut off 15′ of the one side which will give me a 20′ x (now) 15′. Beautiful. Ah, the value of planning and that high school geometry class!

Now, how does one person staple a large 15′ x 20′ piece of plastic to a ceiling 9 + feet off the floor.? This question is too easy – one doesn’t. A wise person waits. A wise person calls a friend. A wise person might even cut it into smaller strips and staple them separately.

I am not a wise person.

Armed with my trusty “third arm helper”  type device, I tackle the folded plastic lying in a heap on the floor. Unbeknown to me, humiliated by its reduction in size administered by my handy utility knife,  it was planning its revenge.

Sensing the passive resistant type of hostility the plastic was emitting, I knew I needed another tool. I built a “boom” comprised of two pieces of 1″ x 2″ x 8′ furring strips nailed together so that it had a wingspan of just under 15 feet. The plan was to get under the plastic with the boom, lift it up, lock it into place against the ceiling, and climb the ladder, staple it, move it and repeat.

Easy.

Wait, did I say easy? It doesn’t even sound easy when I describe the process. This might be a challenge and may take longer than the hour I allocated for the struggle.

Hitching up my sagging pants (forgot the darn belt today), I gathered my strength, warmed my hands and began.

I spread the plastic out width-wise, started to unfold it, and then wrestled a section up and over my boom. Propping my “third hand” under the boom, I proceeded to raise the contraption to the ceiling.

There are plans on paper and then there are plans put through the crucible of reality. Sadly, I ran immediately into a small glitch. As I raised the boom, I noticed that the plastic was hanging unevenly, one end having much less plastic than the other. As I gently pulled the plastic on the short end, I quickly learned a number of things: (1) the “third hand” had a “foot” and a platform on a swivel. Although handy for adjusting to odd angles, not a stable arrangement; (2) a two inch wide piece boom fifteen feet long holding about 10 pounds of draped plastic is also not a stable arrangement; (3) the pain caused by  a piece of 1″ x 2″ x 15 piece of wood hitting you in the head is, on the scale of 1 to 10, only about a 3.

Rearranging the plastic, now draped over me (is that plastic chuckling?), I hoist the arrangement again, more slowly this time. Slowly. Slowly.

Not slowly enough. Again it comes crashing down. Working alone, covered in plastic, I start to remember the warnings on dry cleaning bags – “Suffocation Danger. Keep away from small children, animals, and candidates for the Darwin Award”.

Freeing myself from the draped plastic and believing that the third time is a charm, I once again arrange the plastic, hoist the beam and get it all the way to the ceiling! Pinning it firmly to the joists, I check to see that it is properly aligned (it is!) and start stapling.

I love cool tools. I bought this really neat stapler that worked like a hammer. You just “wham” whatever you want to staple and its momentum drives the staple into whatever you just whammed. Fast. Wham! Wham! Staples flying though the thin resistance of the defeated plastic, firmly attaching it to my ceiling. Making it do what I wanted. Wham! Wham! Wham!

WHAM! – right into my finger! Man that hurt.  Maybe that wasn’t such a cool tool after all. 😦

Reverting back to the older stapler that you squeeeeeze and then it “pops” a staple out, I return to work. I glance at the clock. 8:00! What! Oh no. It is already an hour longer than I thought the whole project would take and I just got started.

Slowly, ever so slowly, staple, staple, lift, staple, staple, lift – I work my way across the ceiling. 9:00. I continue. Finally, almost done. Now for the last little bit of plastic. Up to this point, the plastic was nice and square to the wall and ceiling, nice and smooth across the ceiling, a little extra on each side for stapling – a fine job with just a little more to do.

At this point, at the very end of the job, the plastic makes its move. The sheet is somehow too narrow on the very last few inches. I can’t pull it, I can’t adjust it, I can’t do anything except staple up the remaining plastic and leave about a 4″ hole in the corner of the ceiling for any of the local critters to re-enter the bunkhouse. Right above my bunk bed. The plastic was a better planner than I.

10:00. Remembering “there’s a snake in my boot”, I leave simultaneously victorious and defeated.

Your exhausted, cold, lumpy headed author,

Frank

There is a small town mindset. It is hard to say how far from, where, and exactly when it begins, but in my new little town, they have it.

The big box store (there is only one of the two competing big box stores here) is totally different from the same company’s store in Atlanta. I often go to the small town big box store after dinner, about 8:00 pm (they close at 9:00). When I drive up, there may be one or two customer vehicles (typically pick-up trucks) in the entire parking lot.

The other night as I entered the store, immediately to my left, all the managers and associates were gathered in a big circle. They were laughing, singing a pep song, etc. — a real rah rah sales meeting. It was odd. They stopped, looked at me (a customer! yeah!) and asked if they could help me. I had about 5 different items I needed from about 4 different departments so I eagerly admitted that I needed help. Two of them escorted me around the store and helped me pick out the items.

The checkout register is #1, just past the two holiday decorated ATVs and right next to the  mounted deer head. (No kidding!). I am getting to know many of the associates. The same female has been the cashier at #1 multiple times and I think she finds me interesting, somewhat to be pitied as I recount my story of unheated accommodations (especially when it gets to 25 degrees).

One day as I parked, I saw the sign. It said, “No Dumping: Violators May Be Prosecuted”. Pretty interesting. First, what in the world would people dump in the middle of a parking lot? Kids? Dogs? Wives (no wonder it said No Dumping). Secondly, how polite do you want a warning sign? May Be Prosecuted, not Will Be Prosecuted. Like I said, a small town mentality.

I like it.

For Thanksgiving, 2010, my partner and owner (I should say, “boss, owner, and I am just a very minority shareholder partner), invited all the family down for a big gathering at Erywilde. Everyone, including my 92 year old father, my mother, sister, brother-in-law, Aunts, Uncle, dogs (Ellie, Atlas, Bruno and Charlie) for a rollicking good time. The weather was wonderful and a grand time was had by all.

I had spent a fair amount of time with my laser leveling tool preparing the building site. The level is very advanced. You set it up on a tripod and then it will shoot out a laser beam on a lens that swivels 360 degrees. I would mark a tree with the laser, tie a bright red string around the tree at that spot and then proceeded to mark all trees of key positioning (septic tank, corner, where the patio will be, etc). I did not realize it but the property is quite a bit higher than the lake and if we build a 40 foot cabin, the hill slopes 10 feet before the porch even starts. What a spectacular view it will afford.

So, I mapped out the foundation and the plumb lines for the visitors to see and gain an appreciation of the site. Marvelous.

Looks like the septic tank system will be on the South side of the house, with the approach and front door on the North so that works out well. Additionally, since we will have to clear a lot of pines (thankfully no hardwoods) on the South side, perhaps I will be able to mount the solar panels on the south facing side of the roof.

One of the issues that we have been discussing is the actual size of the house. First, 30 x 30 with a loft, 40 x 40, 30 x 30 with a basement, etc. A lot of it depended on the logs on the property, logs we could buy, topography, etc. Currently the choice is 40′ x 40′, single floor, crawl space, perhaps root cellar or garage on the downhill side.

To build a 40′ x 40′ we need to buy logs, 45′ long (there is a 10% allocation for the “over dongle”; see footnote 1). I spoke to a very knowledgeable man in the Timber Institute who would “grade” the log on site for my building code classification. He had just been to a site in Cashiers, NC to evaluate the logs in a house using exactly the same approach as I. He suggested that we buy some logs from a company who makes telephone poles. He said 45′ logs are common and do not incur any extra handling fees. They use a standard developed by ANSI. They will be debarked and treated. Boy, that would save a lot of work. I need to talk with the telephone pole company soon and get some more details.

Remember the driveway permit that I need? Upon that quest, I drove out a major state highway looking for the County Public Works office. I found it easily as this building is quite interesting. I reminds me of the movie Cars. Remember Doc, the 1951 Hudson Hornet? This building must have been built about the same time. It is turquoise cinder block with a gravel parking lot. In the back is a large maintenance building (sheet metal, not so interesting).

I walk in. A smallish building, offices sort of willy-nilly, dark brown tile and a “trusty” (see footnote 2) mopping the floor. No one else around. He stops mopping and looks at me. I tell him that I have come to get a driveway permit and ask if this is the right place. He says, “I think he’s around back”.

I walk outside and “around back”. I approach the maintenance building and a man exits the building and walks towards me. I introduce myself and he is, in fact, the man I need to see, Mr. J. We return to his newly mopped office and discuss the property. He knows exactly where it is. “Wasn’t there a mobile home on that property?” he asks.

Amazing. The county isn’t so small that he should know about a mobile home from years ago. He said that there was a driveway on the property, down closer to the creek than the current driveway and that he would swing by and take a look at it to see if it was okay. I explained about the 20′ x 50′ pad that the State’s building department’s brochure said I needed. He said that was a State requirement.

I’m finding that this is sort of code talk for “someone else from far away says to do this and we don’t necessarily cotton to their way of thinking and after all, Georgia is a big state, and we are a small town so we just kind of do what we want, if it makes sense to us.” But, I need to put some gravel down there anyway so if it has to be 20 x 50′ so be it.

Your promising not to dump anything in the parking lot author,

Frank

Footnotes:
I really would rather use superscripts but I don’t know how to enter them with this word processor, hence, footnotes. Anyway, as a word of explanation:

1. Over-dongle. In the “butt and pass” method, logs are not “notched” and joined with both ends sticking out the same amount (think Lincoln logs). In the butt and pass, one log butts up against another log at a 90 degree angle. That log continues past the intersection for 3 or 4 feet. This continuation past the “butt” of the other log is the “pass”. This “pass” section of the log is called the “over dongle”. I guess it could be called the “over pass” but that might confuse some people in the highway department.

2. “Trusty”. A convict who can be “trusted” outside of the jail or other place of involuntary confinement. Usually someone convicted of a minor crime, like dumping his wife, stealing a golf tee from the game at Cracker Barrel, not cheering for the Bulldawgs, etc.

Hey all you fans out there (I think there are at least three). If you just can’t wait to see the most current installment right off the press, you can have the “cloud” rain on your email with an appropriate notice.

To do so, go to the end of any blog and below the comments box (I think you may have to post a comment, be kind) there are two additional check mark boxes as follows:

         Notify me of follow-up comments via email.
         Notify me of new posts via email.

Just check the action you want. I am told you have have Google watch it for you automatically but I don’t know that technolgy. If anyone could post additional ways to track the blog, I would greatly appreciate it and pay you (with my eternal gratitude).

Thanks for reading and keep up the comments. You are all a tremendous help.

Frank

ps – I will be going to the farm this week for a family outing – may be some good stories waiting to be discovered then.

pps – Today, I had my teeth cleaned and although I would like to write about it, my hygenist has the blog address and she WILL be seeing me in just six short months. I want to stay on her good side as she typically puts very sharp instruments into my head.

🙂

Tuesday night and the biggest off-year election of my life and I was in small town USA. Radio reception sporadic. Went to the local bar and they did have two cable channels active – Dancing with the Stars and Wrestling. Oh, and cigarette smoke. Lots of smoke. I figured “this ain’t New York” or any other enlightened bastion where the nanny state tells you how to live. However, smoking really IS bad for you … So I left coughing only slightly.

Got into the car and headed north, back towards civilization, searching for a radio signal. Finally got within range. Now I had to decide where to stop to listen as I did not want to burn up a lot of gas learning of the results. 

“Hey Frank, did you listen to the election results?”
“Yeah, I started to and about 9:30, ran out of gas.”
“???”

I was looking for a gas station thinking that I could listen there in their lot. Found one. Got gas. Used restroom (an important consideration when you are living without electricity or toilets). Asked if I could sit in his parking lot to listen to the radio. He said “how long?”

I thought that was an odd question but I answered truthfully, “About one-half hour”. He said “No.”

?!?!?

(When I related the story to my wife, she said that I didn’t know how many times he had been robbed and that he might think that I was staking the place out. Which raised the rather obvious question in my very logical mind, “if I were staking someone out would I ask their permission?” Anyway…)

I continued towards the radio beacon and drove past a very large public park/ball field. I entered and drove until I was able to park (hide?) behind a tree, more or less invisible from the major road. I listened to the returns, occasionally glancing in the rear view mirror (one can do that easily when one is stationary) for a police car.

“Can I see your driver’s license?”
“Yes sir. What is the problem?”
“I’ve been watching you and you are just sitting here. What are you doing?”
“Listening to the radio.”
“Sure pal. Here, blow into this.”

Once I determined that the “conservative ascendency” had in fact ascended, I drove back to the farm.

Big day tomorrow – taking inventory of the larger pines on the property to determine if there are enough to build the cabin of our dreams or just a plain ol’ regular cabin.  At least it will be an improvement over the pole barn and its metal roof.

So, what exactly is a tree inventory? Well, we need trees at least 12″ in diameter. Remembering that diameter times pi equals the circumference, I measured trees that were at least 36″ in circumference. True, that would give a bit too small a tree, especially when you have to take off the bark before you can use the tree, but it was a starting point.

After looking at a few hundred trees and measuring many of them, one gets a pretty good idea of a 36″ circumference tree. Some of the trees were much bigger and I had to s t r e t c h to get my arms around them to pass the measuring tape from one hand to another.  So I was literally hugging some really large trees. I doubt that activity actually gave rise to the expression, “tree hugger” but one never knows.

I also discovered another “driveway” into the property that has much less of a slope. This may be useful for the big construction equipment that has to come into clear the building site, bring in the septic tank (1,000 gallons), concrete blocks, etc.

So, all in all, a pretty good couple of days. May not have enough trees to build a cabin much bigger than 30′ by 30′.  Lots and lots of smaller pine trees but few large ones. It might be cheaper to buy them cut by a logging company and delivered. Talk about taking “coals to Newcastle”. (If you don’t understand the reference, look up the town/area. It is in England.)

Conservatives winning big and I am hugging trees. What is the world coming to???

Your tree hugging writer,

Frank

There is a saying that truth is stranger that fiction. So true. I can’t make this stuff up.

Two big appointments were set up this week – one for the septic tank man, one for a contractor to build the foundation. (Some of the log home builders say the foundation is “the second easiest thing to build”. First, that makes me wonder what is the easiest and second, I wonder if they are kidding. It looks really hard to me and if it is not just right, the whole cabin will be askew. It is going to be crooked enough with the logs, don’t need the floor adding to the chaos.)

So, the first man comes (in his pickup) with his son. Nice guys. We look at the site, he walks around and eyes some good locations for the septic tank and drain fields. Seems like we can install it without too much digging and hopefully, we will not hit any boulders. Lots of rocks on the site but they are small. Just hope they don’t have any hidden big brothers or sisters lurking below.

After they gave me a quote, we started talking a bit about this and that. Coyotes getting to be a problem. Killing the deer fawns, cattle, dogs, cats, possums, raccoons but NOT armadillos. (What is an armadillo? It is a prehistoric looking animal with a flexible series of armor plates horizontally down its back. Sort of like a turtle with a soft shell. Really ugly. Go here for more infor.)

Armadillos used to live only in the deep South and were not usually seen in the more northern parts of Georgia but I guess that has changed. So, as we talked, “P” asked “Have you ever shot an armadillo?”

I confessed that I had not but it sounded like the entre to a good story so I asked “what happens?” wondering what kind of explanation lay behind the question.

“Well, when you shoot them, they jump straight up in the air,” holding his hand about 30″ off the ground. “They can really jump. They can run too. Faster than you can run. I chase them in my golf cart and shoot them with my .22.”

Pictures of a cowboy riding his trusty pony, shooting buffaloes comes to mind. I am tempted to ask if he says “Yee haw” as he guns down the armadillo but I don’t want to distract him or have him think that he is painting a somewhat bizzare picture in my mind. So I nod encouragement. His son is listening with somewhat eager enjoyment. I guess the art of story telling is not lost around these parts.

He continutes. “I shot one once and blood just gushed out of him” gesturing with a horizontal sweep of his hand of about two feet”. I wondered what else other than blood might squirt out. I guess it depends upon where you hit it.

Encouraged by my city boy amazement, he then says “when they die, they roll over on their back and their legs just stick straight up.” “P” holds his hands straight up in the air to illustrate the armadillos death position.

Now, don’t get confused. These are armadillos, not possums. I don’t think they play dead like possums when frightened. I read they actually throw dirt on you. Sometimes drivers hit and kill armadillos. Crunch. The term is “road kill” and although it is rumored that some country people pick up road kill for later consumption, I HAVE NEVER SEEN THIS HAPPEN!

“Mighty fine stew ya’ made Mary. What’s the meat in it?”
“Why thank ye Bill. It was some fresh possum. Killed it last night with my Prius. It never heard me coming!”
“Mary, I knew that electric car would prove handy someday.”

But I digress. “P” continues his story. “They really smell when they rot. You have to bury them. Far away. I just tie a line to their tails and tow them along behind my golf cart. They slide along real well on their backs.”

Such imagery!  There are lots of holes dug in my fields and I suspect they are dug by the armadillo but I have not seen any yet. I’ll bring my .22 down and see if I might have the same experience as “P”. Of course, I would have to hit it and, as my aim is none too good, I might end up with dirt thrown in my face instead.

Next, my foundation guy arrives. He is driving a “dually”. Very cool, for a country fellow. Has his name “XXX Builder” in a magnetic sign on his door. As he drives up, I take off my tool belt to go out to greet him.

“I knew it was the right place with I saw you take off your nail belt,” said “M” as he got out of his truck smiling. A rather odd greeting, but learning not to think too much about anything around here, I smiled and held out my hand in introduction.

Turns out that “M” is a builder. I commiserated with him and ascertained that he did not have much work these days. The recession has hit this part of the state hard and builders everywhere are suffering. “M” looked at the building site and then at the blueprints. We discussed the specific requirements of the log cabin design, including the three large poles that run vertically in the cabin, one that is right in the middle. These are called “Ridge Pole Support Logs” (RPSL for those of us in the know) and of course, he had never seen those before. He agreed that the cinder blocks would be holding a lot of weight and suggested that we use 12″ blocks.

He took the floor plans for the foundation (a set of floor plans include lots of different drawings – one for electric, one for foundation, one for framing, etc) and said he had to get the cost of the 12″ blocks and prepare a quote. “What’s your budget?” he asked.

This is sort of like asking your negotiating opponent to make the first offer. I would like to say that I was clever and gave him a witty answer but I really had no idea of a budget. I was hoping that my look of stupidity was interpreted by “M” as the poker face of a keen bargainer.

I said, “I know that you have to make a profit but I want a fair bid. I will be getting additional bids so give me your best price.” He left. We’ll see what happens.

Drove up the hill and into town to the city hall. Talked to the building inspector, showed him the blueprints. He said “You can’t use your own logs to build this cabin.” Hmm. Doesn’t sound too promising. Rather uncategorical too. “They have to be graded, #2. Call so and so lumber, they might be able to help.”

Wondering if his brother was president of said company, or maybe his wife (?). I agreed to follow up on that. I also need a driveway permit (this is an interesting requirement.) And a drill permit. And a septic tank permit. And a building permit. $ $$ $$$ $$$$. I think it is just a scheme to extract money. I figure with all the money that we will be pouring (relatively speaking) into the local economy, they should be PAYING US! And welcoming us.

“Sure, you can use your own logs. Just make sure they are wood. Don’t hurt yourself. Here’s your permit, no charge, and a coupon for a complimentary dinner on us. Thanks for choosing our county. Have a nice day and Have fun!”

Back to the driveway permit. This permit requires that a “pad” of gravel, with a special fabric underneath to be constructed for the egress from the property. It is designed to clean off the tires from the construction trucks and equipment. Basically so you don’t track dirt on the carpet. Makes sense for a big site but for a lousy log cabin where I will have a total of (1) a truck for a septic tank, (2) a back hoe, and (3) a cinder block delivery truck. Three vehicles. Do you think I can promise to sweep the road instead? A case where one size does not fit all. I am going to appeal this one.

So, my next assignment, what is a #2 log anyway?

Your ever learning correspondent,

Frank

How did you enjoy Ellie’s blog?

She had so much fun. Sometimes she is a little hard to understand so I had to have her repeat what she said. It was especially bad when she was talking about the deer carcass. She was drooling a bit.

Ellie’s owner and my boss came with a couple of friends to spend the weekend. Shot guns. Burned sofas. Drank Beer. Swam in lake. But they really did not make much of a mess and it was good that they burned the sofas (3 of them) as I couldn’t fit them into the truck without removing its bed “cap” so their pyrotechnics solved that problem.

Found lots of staples in the ashes – I am learning so much about so many different things. How septic tanks work, how toilets are installed, how windows are glazed, how fast tractors can go, how many staples are in a couch. This stuff could be really useful someday. Maybe?

I went to the second major pawn shop in town. Did I mention them before? You know, the one that is closed on Wednesday? Well, it was Monday and they were open. I went in. Three fellows were talking at the counter and didn’t pay me “no nevermind” so I poked around a bit. Lots and lots and LOTS of guns. I asked one of the young men if they had any Winchester 300s and he said they had “a lot” of them. See, I said they had lots.

He said he had a number of different manufacturers of the 300 but I said I was only interested in the Winchester. I don’t know guns. I just read that this was a good deer rifle. Maybe I can shoot a deer for Ellie someday as she seems quite keen towards them. It is a bolt action, single cartridge rifle. I slid the bolt. I peered through the scope. I felt like a real idiot but at least I did point the gun at the floor instead of the clerk. Figured that (1) he might be a wee bit uncomfortable with a gun pointing at his heart, and (2) he would know the same thing that I knew – I know nothing about guns. But I smiled and said something inane like “nice piece” and gave it back to him. Need to return with a friend who knows guns. Low priority.

What I am really looking for is holes. I figure that the log cabin is going to have about 900 holes drilled into all the logs. The way you build the cabin is to stack one log on top of another, drill through the top log every 18″ and then drive a “stake” through the top log (easy because of the hole) and into the heart of the log below. Right to the middle of the log. That holds the logs together and when they shrink (they always shrink) the log sort of floats where it is instead of settling. Other methods can lead to shrinking of the height of the cabin by 2-3 inches.

Possible conversation with Abe Lincoln and his wife Mary Todd:

“Welcome home sweetheart. How was your day? You know, you look taller today, more manly. Do you think that all this great country living and farming is increasing your stature?”

“Nope. Cabin is shrinking, makes me look taller.”

So, 900 holes with 900 pieces of rebar (1/2″ steel rod – you might have seen them in concrete) should hold this cabin together. To drill 900 holes takes a “Tim ‘The Toolman’ Taylor” type drill. Argh, Argh! One such drill is called the “Hole Hawg”. I almost want to buy it just for the name. $125. That works out to about $.13 per hole.

Do you think I should pay the $125 or bargain? I can do that: “Nice looking Hole Hawg you got. Times are slow. Construction industry in the toilet. I’ll give you $50. Cash.”

Went to the bank to get debit card. Had to wait. And wait. One bank agent was working with a lady, the other agent was finishing with a separate client. She then went to help the first agent. The customer left and got her mother out of the car. They returned and continued the discussion. Four people. I was sitting in one of their stuffed chairs with my big black boots, camo pants and my now becoming favorite shirt that says “Take a Hike”. Oh yeah.

I practice my passive face. I see that a lot around here. Sort of like yoga, just relax, relax, relax and look numb. Seems to work for some. Let your mind drift. Your eyes unfocus. Umm, Umm. Seem to be getting the hang of it. Certainly nothing else to do, just sit and wait.

10 minutes later, my relaxation session is completed and a banker calls to me. I am next. (I wondered if they would charge me for a yoga consultation.) Got the card. Now off to my #1 store, Home Depot followed by a bracing trip to Walmart.

I really need to focus. Maybe the blank stares I see is intense concentration, not relaxation. (Make a note to work on intense concentration next time in bank.) I needed a drain and some piping for a makeshift sink that is rapidly becoming a feature of my existence at the pole barn. Someday I’ll write about the sink – it has its own story.

Not wanting the water in the sink to run right onto my feet, I planned to get some pipes to run it into the creek. Of course, if any “greenies” are reading, I am only using biodegradable soap that doubles as food in emergencies. No problem. Chill. It’s not like I am URINATING into the creek.

Went down to the tractor (remember, YANMAR) dealer to say “hi” and they were closed. ??? Randomness seems to rule many business hours around here. “Out To Lunch. Will Be Back When I Return”

Well, the Home Depot aide was very friendly. He pointed out that I could save money buying straight pipe and gluing it together instead of buying pre-assembled and fitted pieces. Good point. Good customer service. I was wondering what his boss would save about the guy costing the store about $15 in sales.

He was so anxious to help that he pulled all the pieces out – 45 degree angles x 2, 10 foot piece of 2″ pipe, and glue. I selected a fancy plastic pipe cutter. He suggested that most home owners bought the cheaper model. I had to insist on the better one. I am, after all, a home BUILDER not just a garden variety home owner. Pleeze!

Got back to the bungalow (the new name for the inaptly named pole barn) and the sink. Pulled out my glue, my pipes, the drain. Situation – 1 1/2″ pipe from the drain, 2″ everthing else! So, now I have to return the 2″ pipe and get 1 1/2″ replacements; hence my need for focus.

In the meantime, the sink continues to dribble onto my boot.

On Tuesday, I gathered all the trash up on the property and had stuffed it into the back of the pickup. Needed to find the county dump and one of the bankers told me it was about 2 miles south of town on Hwy 19 but she didn’t know for sure because she was from Zebulon (a vast 9 miles distant).

So I drove down what I thought to be Hwy 19. And drove. Lot farther than 2 miles but I figured that she might not be good with distances or math. I looked for highway signs saying 19. Nothing. Drove some more. Still nothing. Turned around after about 15 minutes, drove back towards town. I saw a promising landfill sign, did another u-turn and drove up a smaller road. Looking good as it was a rather nasty, industrial area. All of a sudden a sign loomed “NO PRIVATE VEHICLES PAST THIS POINT”. In smaller type below, “Violators Will Be Shot With a Winchester”.

Pleasant.

Had to turn the truck around. Again. That baby is really loooong too. I see three guys talking in the parking lot of a building to the side of the road. I pull in. I ask “where is the dump?” and he says “what kind of trash do you have?” Wow, I thought, they differentiate their trash here. What are my choices? Kitchen trash, yard refuse, designer trash? I say just things like barbed wire, trash cans, sofa skeletons, etc.

He looked at me warily. Maybe he just heard “skeletons”. “Out Waymanville Road,” he directs.

“Waymanville?” I was excited. Waymanville runs behind my property. Way behind, but behnd nonetheless. My driving was almost over. “I can find that” I assured him and backed up and turned around again and left.

Hungry, I decided to go to the local ice cream and burger shop. The building had caught my attention because it was newly remodeled (I wonder what was there before). Anything new in this town is a curiosity, so off I go.

They had a speaker box and drive up service. I stopped at the box. Chili dog – $2.11. Chili Dog Combo – $5.41.

I asked, “what is in the combo?” Voice said “What?”

I asked, “what’s in the combo?” “What?”

I asked, “Why is the combo $3.30 more than just the plain chili dog?” Voice said “What? Could you drive to the window please.”

So I drove to the window. I looked at the turn around the building that I was going to have to navigate. I said, “My truck can’t make that turn, I’ll have to park and come in.”

She said “What?”

I smiled and backed the truck up. I didn’t want to say anything to force her to delve more deeply into her apparently limited vocabulary. I parked. I entered.

I love entrepreneurs. The owner/manager was standing behind the counter with three people. I asked him what was in the combo.  “Soft drink and fries, ” he said.

I asked why it was $3.30 more. The answer, “because it includes a soft drink and fries.”

Reaching back into my recent training in calmness in the bank, I politely asked “how much is a coke?” $1.79 was the reply. “How much are the fries?” $1.59. So I save $.08 with the combo! Wow. Thinking that they were asking way too much money, I kept my order to one chili dog and a small Coke. Saved $1.59!

Dog was not good – gooie, microwaved bun. I sadly believe that one of the few new things in town will soon be a new dead thing. Watch this space for future developments.

Out to the dump. Amazing approach. I have gone to golf courses and paid big money for views less beautiful. A dump! Drove up the hill, saw the set up. It was actually a “processing center” where they crunched trash into semi-tractor trailor to take to somewhere. Probably Alabama. (Sorry you folks from ‘Bama.) Drove onto scale (no signs, it just seemed the thing to do); went to office and got further directions. Drove to smelly area, pulled out trash, barbed wire, skeletons, etc. Turned around again. Drove back to scale to weigh empty. Paid – $17. Got directions home. 45 minutes to find, only about 7 minutes back. Next time will be a breeze.

Returned home, day is ending soon just like this blog. Planted some Carolina Cyprus as wind break and privacy screen. Washed up. Sink piddled on my boot. Got in truck to drive back to my next commitment.

Web design.

Your newbie farm hand,

Frank