Harvest

It is unimaginable and seems impossible. Life changes in a moment. One moment, we were sitting in our assigned chairs. That place I thought would be my home forever was suddenly empty - no chair, no home, no one there. Everything that was is no more. Saddness sets in when I struggle to recall how things used to be.

Through the eyes of youth, we can see just what we did not give in to. We were not swept away by the sweet obsession of something that truly made us feel content. Too late? I don't think so. 

Loneliness makes them do something lighthearted and funny, then you find it is not funny. He was young and running the jungles of Southeast Asia. He was strong and impossible to break. Today, it does not give him much of a grip. He is there for them, and that is what counts. I watch silently, and I know.

I have always wondered what the world would be like if there were a late harvest, because my youth was going to last forever, and there was a time when it really seemed like it was going to. There were festivals and celebrations to attend, and there was more there than there seemed to be at the time.

The late harvest actually did come. In every way, I got to see it grow. Now I stare at the fields and sometimes, in the corner of my eye, I see those like me who don't see things my way. I foolishly let them pull at my sleeves. Not a chance that I am going with them. Sometimes I perceive they see me as a fool, sometimes I think they envy me.

There are signs on the trail every day telling me that I am right. That should be enough for me, but like the sweet serenade of addiction, the pull to be sedentary is real, and gravity is heavier in these hours of the day. I have attributed rage to my survival for the last two decades, but I am beginning to realize it is not really rage, for that is a fool's solution. It is destructive, directionless, and does not build. What I have done is work wrathfully, in directions that brought light and good. I showed appreciation and commendation. Is that truly rage?

After we said all we could today, I sat on the porch, and the sun refused to show itself. Rain will come, and it needs to. The realities of the world rush in, and I contemplate air to breathe as the room fills up. I know there is a way, because there always has been.

I spread out all the clues to the puzzle on the table. Time is passing, and there needs to be an answer. I know where the journey is going. We just needed to stop so that the sound of our feet touching the ground could go silent, so we could hear what was around us. The rest is up to us. 

I sat here with one more cup of coffee, looking at the green leaves of the tree right in front of me, and that is good. It is the one behind it that concerns me; it is more yellow and orange now than it is green, and I know that is the reality. It is time to get up and make every moment count, as if it were five. 

When we gather, some of the greatest men I know are casually mentioned. They made me, and I hope to keep them by showing I remember them in conduct and honor. I hear the sound of something outside, or is it in my head? It's hard to tell the difference now, but I don't care. It will not stop me from being everything that I need to be. Somewhere in this mess, I hope to inspire my children. The whole world is asleep at the wheel, just falling into the groove that others make. I just want to walk along here in the mud. What is wrong with that?

Late Summer Nebula

 I heard it in the night. The season sings its lullaby. It has been here for its allotted time, and now, it must make its journey into the past. Every day, the hills and mountains are painted with more color, leaving me to wonder, How did things get so out of control? How did I not accomplish most of what needed to get done? 

I always thought it would get better as I got older, but instead the ride gets more wild and brakes really seem to be a thing of the past. I see my challenges and those I care about. In futility, I know that I cannot solve even a few at times. I am tied to the table as I watch everything play out.

Panic season is on the threshold, and the time has come to make everything happen that should have happened this year. But it is more than this; it is so much bigger.

I am hanging on. Spinning so fast, I don't even know how I don't fly off into space. It is a rough ride, and I'm struggling to catch my breath. Relationships so trivial, and created for entertainment, become significant tsunamis of emotion, of meaning, of storms of symbiotic importance. Tearing hard at our hearts, we realized how fast and powerful it all was. What is, secretly, a matter of heist, this minute, right here and right now.

You were here, and then you were not. I live in moments in which I can literally see the torn wallpaper and the grain in the hardwood floors. I smell the air of the industrial age and all of our naivety. I see your picture, there are so few. I feel that day too. I did not know. Someone tried to tell me, and the mere thought of it coming to light gave me chills. I knew then, and pushed it down, because I knew it was the truest of everything.

The stealer is taking every moment, every day. How much can I leave on the trail to give you something that I wish I had? Without audible words, can you hear me? One moment, I am aware, but the next, distracted. It is a taunting and a misleading. I am up and down, like a yo-yo. 

The Captain said he thought of time as a companion who journeys with us. What a joke. That is just as valid as the other one telling us he feels young. "Yeah, that's how it starts, 'ooh, ahh', then there's the running and the screaming." Next thing you know, you give anything to get it all back, to say all that you wanted to say.

In a sublime dream, I wander around looking for clues. The morning comes, and the reality of the sun filters in with more questions than answers. I am relieved by the discovery of unpleasant fiction. It dissipates in the rising sunlight.

The floor tilts, and I slide this way and that as the tide rises and falls from the news coming in. We get to choose these days. Yesterday, we just had to watch. The helicopters, the smoke, the broken-hearted. I don't even know if they still live.

There was a blowtorch in the western nighttime sky that I could "see" across over 400 miles. It taught me about many things. A strong and powerful voice that began in 1926 was still formidable in 76 and yet swept away by 88. How long will we remember until it is just no longer important?

How long before I forget? How long before you also forget? In all of these seasonal, personally assigned anxieties, how many of them really matter? How do we know the difference?

H2O

 The captors set out on their mission, and I was so small. They hunted, I hid, and I ran. Through the years with great agility, I shook them off my trail, but they would soon return, because they always knew where I would turn up. They had the advantage of remembering the attack that I would never recall, but only feel.

Photo by Shawn Augustine on Unsplash

Summer days, the water glistening like diamonds in my eyes, the laughter and sounds of a world not at war. Nothing mattered when you came down the old hill, the maple trees and the Wildcat keeping watch as we approached. She sat there since arriving in 1927, her watch faithful and true. We stode past her watchful eye on the way to the beach.

If someone could hear my thoughts, they would know how hard I tried. It was 1973, and transistor radios sat on the beach as Jim sang about the rise and fall of Leroy Brown, and Wings marked a change with Live and Let Die. I could hear the carousel music as I sat in the sand, and I could see and feel its movements even though I was not looking. I stood in the water, and it pulled on me, wanting to do terrible things. I tried to relate and understand, but the predator would not relent.

There were many personal days in which I got up early and embarked on missions that I believed there was no coming back from. But I was determined, the beast would be hunted and taken down, and it would be slung over my shoulder by day's end as I walked back into the village at dusk.

In my controlled simulations, I could never find the upper hand. I knew that I could only prove myself in the rage of battle. As sure as the immovable things are in all the earth, this was something that I could not move. It was the one thing that could truly set me free and also be my end.

The antagonist found me again yesterday. It was like saying the words "old friend" as we each had rifles aimed at each other. Still strong and formidable, I yielded because I had not seen such intensity in so many years. But I could not let it rest. That is not who I am. My scars run deep, and I have fought so hard for so long. I defiantly came back to the table, squared off with the dealer of this reign of terror, and told him, I am not done yet.

Young or old, I have this belief that this could be the key to untying so many knots. Perhaps I am as much of a menace to the hunter. I fear I will never know. Because our encounters are so spread out over the years, all progress disappears into the fading of time, and I am that kid on the shore of Compounce again, trying to beat something that I don't understand. 

It's Where You Shine

 A little bit of salt takes something unseen and makes it an experience. The complexities of contemporary cooking lie in the mentality of recipes, the absence of recipes, cookware, kitchen appliances, tools, and attitude. It is a little about any of the above and more about the need. 

Need has brought the spice to life in the last thousand years. Once those crusaders of the sea and land got a taste of these things, they risked everything to taste once again. But even more so, the real creativity came from people having very few ingredients. Short growing seasons, famine, wars, and scarcity of ingredients forced people to make what was known as poor people's food. From these, culinarily significant dishes were born. Nothing has taken food to a higher level than the so-called "lower decks."

Wouldn't it be fun to take a journey, trying and making these foods that have shaped the culinary world? Braising of tough meats, brining of poultry that would otherwise present dry, fermentation that harnesses nature and gives birth to health, flavor, and preservation. All of these seem like magic that flips the compass in the opposite direction that it was pointing. Knowing how these can be used will never leave you hungry and, even better, richly satisfy the palate.

Last night I set out to make Joshua Weissman's fish tacos from "An Unapologetic Cookbook". I am currently not home, so my Asian kitchen staples are not with me. That alone gave me an idea that I have tried many times and was not all that successful, and now I have figured out how to have those in my cooking toolbox. Literally, a toolbox.

I did shop for this recipe, but being at a camp, I was not going to re-buy every staple I have at home just to hit the mark. So with lots of improvising, I would ask myself at each juncture when faced with some ingredient deficit, "What am I trying to achieve here for flavor?" Sorting through the camp supplies, I solved each problem, and in the end, I did indeed have fried fish tacos, with cabbage, carrot, and onion slaw, a spicy crema, and pickled jalapenos.

The point to this is, I have heard people say, and I have told myself, I cannot make this because I don't have everything the recipe requires." That is simply not true. Something can happen; sometimes it is good, and sometimes it's not. Last night my crema was over salted (you have to be so careful when not working with your specific salt and the form it comes in.) But the food was great!  Need makes it happen. 

I got two things from this fish taco dinner. First, it was a great dinner. Second, I've come up with a simple way to carry my staples on a tiny scale, requiring no effort and creating no waste.

The next time you think there isn't enough to make something happen, don't let that stop you. I don't care if the meal comes out nothing like the one that you had in mind to begin with. Remember that having a need is not where you fail, but it's where you shine.

The Bravery in out of Range Part Three: Advanced Party

 We boarded the 5 Ton cargo truck and headed for the Port of Dharan, just as we had when we had to pull overnight guard duty on the demolished trucks. This time, we had all of our personal gear. Things were changing, and just like it had been since last November (and that could really be extended all the way back to September), uncertainty reigned. Where would we sleep tonight? Where would we be in a month? How long would this war last? Of course, the ultimate question is, would we all eventually get to go home?

Much of our company's equipment had still not been seen since we dropped it off at the Port of Bayonne, New Jersey, back in December. Our tents to live in, heaters, kitchen, and all the equipment that kept us alive were nowhere to be found. Trucks and trailers were showing up in small numbers. We were loaned a GP medium tent with no liner, a couple of home-style kerosene heaters to set up our company area. We were headed for a tactical site named Henry.

I was paired with John, a senior member of the unit who had approximately 18 years of experience at this point. He was a big, burly New Hampshire boy from the north. He laughed often and loudly. He was easy to get to know. He was pointing out everything that we did not see in the United States. 

The highway, at first, seemed just like any inner city interstate highway system for the most part. Trucks and cars were different, of course. The culture certainly bled through in visual ways. It was tainted by the military multinational coalition occupation, which was there to kick Saddam Hussein out of Kuwait.

As we drove north, the highway soon shrank down to a simple two-way strip of asphalt cutting through the desert. Under normal circumstances, it would have been sufficient, but during the largest military buildup since World War II, it was ridiculous. The military designates military supply routes with names; this one, the major route of transport from the Southeastern Saudi Arabian cities to the staging areas just south of Kuwait, was called MSR (military supply route) Dodge. 

We were warned about MSR Dodge before embarking on this move up into the desert. Because Dodge was a minimal 2-lane, two-way road with no shoulder whatsoever, military equipment often did not fit well. If we thought we could ride a little off the pavement on the sand, we would be mistaken. Dropping the right front tire off the asphalt would result in that tire sinking into the sand, sucking the truck into the sand, and ultimately rolling it over. We had to keep it on the black top; life depended on it. That was not so easy. 

The HETs owned this road. Heavy Equipment Transports were massive trucks that made our M915A1 22-wheel tractor-trailers look like toys. Upon those HETs always sat a whole M1 Abrams tank. These took more than their share of the road. Jim, who was in the country before us, advised us in the safety briefing that the driver's mirror could not be left out because the HETs often had camouflage netting covering the tank, which was blowing in the wind. The nets frequently would catch your driver's side mirror as they passed, and you could end up with a face full of mirror glass in the combined 110-mile-per-hour tug of war between the two trucks traveling at 55 miles per hour in opposite directions. The mirror frame, which usually stuck way out, had to be pulled in, and the tall mirror pivoted out so you could see down the side of your truck.

It was going to be a long ride out to Tactical Site Henry. John drove first. Once out of the city, and, well, even inside the cities, seeing lots of camels and sheep was a very regular thing. I really thought I would die before making camp because for some reason, everytime John saw a camel or sheep, he would call it out, and not keeping his eyes on the road, would allow that right front tire to drop off the asphault causing the truck to get squirrely and start violently wagging left and right as he fought the very large steering wheel to right the truck without crossing over into the on coming lane's domain. It happened over and over again. I would have thought that after a few sightings of sheep and camels, we would be good, but no!  "John!" I screamed, "Will you just let ME look at the wildlife and you keep the truck on the road?" We survived until the halfway mark, and at that time, I got to drive, thank goodness.

The US military implemented this by establishing fuel stops at which drivers were not allowed to pass. Everyone stopped at an oasis of 10,000-gallon tanker trucks parked together, and fuel was pumped into our tanks to keep us going. There was candy, MREs, Coffee, and water at these. This was the first place I saw beefaroni and soups in rip-top little bowls, floating in hot water for grab-and-go hot food.

After not seeing civilization for some time, we came into the town of Hafar al-Batin. There, we left MSR Dodge and headed west on MSR Sullivan. This road would lead to both KKMC (King Kalid Military City) and the city of Riyadh. The ride out Sullivan was not as long as the one on MSR Dodge had been. We turned off onto the Green Barrel Road. Because military posts were established all over the barren desert, far from established roads, the military designated roads by marking them with steel 55-gallon barrels painted a specific color to identify each particular route. We were on Green Barrel Road, which was a green barrel placed approximately every 10th of a mile through the desert.

It was a very long and rough ride out there. Sandstorms were normal out there, and when they happened, you just stopped. Navigation was not possible at those times. The sand in Saudi Arabia was so fine that it felt like baby powder in some places. During a storm, you could literally sit there and watch a sand pyramid build on the dashboard inside the truck, from veins of air coming through the window and door gaskets, transporting grains of sand too small to see with the naked eye.

It was late in the afternoon when we arrived at TAA Henry; it was nothing more than a giant circle in the sand on the seemingly surface of the planet of Mars. Front-end loaders had scooped up a berm 5 feet high of sand all the way around in a giant circle, which was the perimeter of our company area. That berm, we would all become intimate with soon enough.

We set up the tents, latrines, and hygiene stations before dark. We ate T-rats, which are shelf-stable entrees in trays that opened with an old-fashioned, Spam-can-like key. It was a change of pace from the parking garage and MRE food we had been eating. 

The sun fell, and we were tired. We were expected to pull guard duty at the berm. How special. That was only the beginning. The first maintenance battalion, which had claimed ownership of our company, decided that in the morning, before sunrise, EVERYONE in the whole company had to get up and lie on the berm looking out over the desert. This is an old military tradition known as BRAIN DAMAGE....Well, that is wrong (although it does describe it well). It is an old military tradition called, Stand To. Traditionally, armies invade at dawn, so Stand To puts the whole company in a defensive posture, watching the front, waiting for the opposing forces to invade. I thought about this, why not mix it up, and invade at lunchtime?  Catch them off guard.

Anyway, Stand To did not get received very well. I had many colorful synonyms for it, and I complained intensely like Hawkeye on MASH would over any ultimate military stupidity. This was the 1st Maintenance Battalion's idea, and they were not winning any popularity contests with us. I actually wondered if they were engaging in Stand To, or if they were just making us do it and laughing about it. I met very few from the Battalion, but I painted a pretty harsh picture of people who gave us orders and became the proverbial "THEM" to us in the 744th.

The kerosene heaters they provided barely worked, and we spent the night choking on diesel fumes. We were also freezing on the berm under a giant, cold sky. I could not tell what was going to happen next. We just went with the flow, complaining every single minute, but somehow, that constant complaining gave me the strength to move forward.

In the days that followed, we procured more tents and set them up for the rest of the company, who were coming any day. The whole unit was going to live with us at TAA Henry. The latrines were small, box-like sheds with benches inside. There were 3 toilet seat holes cut into the bench, with toilet seats attached. Under the bench was a 1/3 tall bottom of a steel 55-gallon drum for the waste. Every day, the drums were pulled out and away from the latrine, filled with diesel fuel, and set on fire; they burned until everything was gone. They were left to cool and then placed back under the benches in the latrines. You never had to be lonely, as you could have two people sitting right next to you, also taking care of business, and the top of the latrines from waist high up were just a mesh screen, so you could greet and have conversations with people walking by. How convenient.

I will never forget the rest of the company arriving at TAA Henry when they moved up from Khobar. Bob, the assistant platoon sergeant, told them that Stand To happened in the morning. Old man Jack (who I am now MUCH older than now...<Sigh>) said, "What! Stand To???? Tomorrow morning, I say we open fire on the 1st Maintenance Battalion and give those ##%^%^&!s something to Stand To about!!! I loved Jack. He would show me things in the weeks ahead I could never have imagined.

Childhood Summer Perspective

 It is an unexpected joy, and an unforeseen traveller, almost unrecognized until she crossed my path. The air was sweet and full of pressureless anticipation. The oyster of a world lies a few steps from slumber. Children were playing, people were singing, and the sun shone brighter than it does today.

I took my first steps onto the porch overlooking the lake. The smell of wood, leaves, and grass lifted me off my feet, transporting me fifty years back. It was just another summer day when my father came to me. He and a friend were setting up some new land in western Vermont. They were in a '65 Comet pulling an old late '50s travel trailer. 

We drove up to the rolling western farmlands of Vermont, the green so intense. Farm silos every mile because in those days, agriculture ruled. There was slate all over along the side of the road because this area was so abundant with it.

Forty-nine years ago, we lived on Main St in Torrington. Once that summer vacation happened, it was terrific. The path to the Housatonic River was peppered with crabapple trees and berry bushes. So much to do and take in. If I could give my children the best day ever, it would be to gift them a summer day in my 1970s childhood. To let them have the freedom to not worry about the heaviness of the rotting present times. 

I know that I cannot do that; we can only feel this in memory, and perhaps the finest writers in the world who lived it can bring the reader along. This would be like passing a house through the eye of a needle. I know that some can do it; isn't that right, Mr Steinbeck, as you sit on your porch in the eternal library?

Just for a little while, the air that existed in my childhood summers came to visit me. It was sweet and it was sad at the same time. As I stood there in awe, I heard Neil Young gently singing After the Gold Rush. It was a moment in time that I could never make happen, no matter how I tried. I pause and remember, this is why I live here. I have what I always wanted, and days like this could never happen if I lived where I came from.

It is a cruel joke that life in this system makes you forget about these things. The air numbs us and clouds our vision, preventing us from seeing the beauty around us and the wonderful people we have to their fullest. I don't want to go out in the rain...I don't want to go out in the rain...I don't want to go out in the rain.

Never Surrender

 Okay! How much more can we heap onto the pile? 2025 has proven to be a year of multiple tasks like I have never seen before. I am not speaking recreationally either.

Granted, I saw myself taking on the necessary home and car maintenance projects that had been building up for years. What I did not see coming was that some of my solutions to address those issues created even more work, making it so that I was not gaining at all.

This shifting of a laundry list of tasks from one object to another has created a spectacular gridlock. I was born in the 1960s, but all of this was enough to snap anyone into an ADHD seizure-like state of being, so paralyzed you don’t know where to start.

This is robbery, of course, because on the lighter side, I wanted to get some of those things done so I could do, what I really love. Every time I go out to eat, I find things to appreciate, and I also discover areas where I can contribute to the culinary world. I wanted to be a voice in that forest. Still, it turns out I am buried under the rubble of backfired projects, fatigue, and unforeseen events so incredible that I could not have possibly imagined them. 

Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate everything I have in my life. And I would not ever trade it. I think I really have something to offer in so many places, and yet, there is a backlash of trying to get ahead of me over and over again. I am not looking for pity, because I am not alone. In this world, everyone has something. 

I recently learned that I can sell food at a New Hampshire farmers' market without a food license, as long as I do not exceed 4 days within a 30-day period. Let me tell you, I am all over this! In Vermont, I would need a Temporary Food Stand License at least. Of course, I would need to apply for the New Hampshire meals and rooms tax ID, as they expect their monthly cut.

How can I fit that in when everything wants a piece of me? I believe the answer lies in the past. I remember being any age, be it 28, 32, 35, or 45. The days of youth were so taken for granted. Worrying about broken cars, maintenance on the house, or the demands of work. You get the idea, just like the income-to-debt ratio in the world, it is a loop of causality, self-inflicted, ruthless, and suffocating. The answer is, do it now. I have to. Waiting for there to be a segment of this winding road to pass the vehicle in front of me is not coming. Do it now, because I would rather live knowing I tried than playing it safe. Sometimes, safe is death. It depends on what it is.

There is this thought experiment presented by Elle Cordova on Instagram. She asks if you are sitting there, rotting inside your house, just lying in your bed, or sitting on your couch. Scrolling, doing nothing, feeling nothing. Imagine time speeding up, the days speeding by, the sun coming up and going down, faster and faster. The Earth is flying around the sun with you on it. Major life events are happening, births, deaths, the seasons are going so fast it just looks like the earth is respirating with them, and then, BAM! You arrive at your destination, the last day of your life. You have lived a long life, and here you are. It is the future, and technology exists to hook your consciousness into a simulation in which you can be placed in any random day in the past. The simulation puts you into this day, this random, rotting day that you are having, in which you are doing nothing.

Here you are again, everything is exactly the same as it was. What do you do? Go outside and feel the sun on your newly young-again skin? Do you call some people who are now miraculously alive again? Do you taste your favorite foods? What does today mean to you now? The crazy thing about this thought experiment is that from everything we know about how we perceive the passage of time as we age, it ends up feeling a lot like this. The older we get, the more time seems to speed up as we age. And if you do have the privilege of getting that old, it will feel like it happened in the blink of an eye. Knowing how desperately short human life is and how incomprehensibly fast you will be flung into that final moment, what a gift it is to be able to luxuriate in today.

That says it all, doesn't it? So, why not demand more from today? Why not insist that I show up? That evening, surrendering to the recliner in front of the television looks so different now. Like the great prophet Don Henley said, "I will not lie down....I will not go quietly." I also glean this from my boys. I have watched them over the last few years pull incredible determination and tenacity from within and push forward completely on their own to achieve the things they wish to accomplish. They have staked claims in ways I would not have thought of, and their individuality is so fantastic to watch.

So why not trade it in? The worthless for the worthwhile? That chance to fight for it and make things happen. I dare say that even in the days beyond me, it will produce beautiful fruit. For today, if I continue doing the things I have been doing, I will get the results I have been getting. That is stagnation too, isn't it?

Of all the craziness of my unplanned life. All of the jumping in the dark without ever knowing there was a place to land, how can I just surrender to comfort and safety? It is wrong. It is nothing. 

As I sit here on the porch of camp at Shadow Lake on the first of September, Tom Petty croons that he is all mixed up in 1987. The quietness is broken by the sound of a screaming boat. Boats are holes in the water that you throw money into, but so. They disrupted their lives to feel this way. Yeah, it means work, but who cares? Texture, heat, cold, so many sensations, all the things that can't be captured on a screen, can happen, but only if we push. We have to fight and then persist. We have to be angry when it is kept from us, loving when it needs nurturing, and patient. 

All I can say, is when it comes to being subdued, let me up, I've had enough.