Cane Grindin'

“Our human capital stock is ready to get back to work.”

Kevin Hassett, economist, Senior Advisor to the Trump administration

Wow. That's cold.

Puts me in mind of a cane-grindin'. For those who don't know, this is how juice was extracted from sugar cane: Freshly cut and stripped stalks of cane were crushed in a roller mill, and the mill was powered by a mule tethered to a pole, as you see in the picture. The mule would walk in a circle, round and round.

Sometimes they'd tie a stick to the mule's bridle; the stick would have a carrot dangling from it, just out of the mule's reach. The theory was that the mule would keep chasin' that carrot and keep walkin' in that circle, round and round.

The mule would walk in that circle, round and round, until the farmer stopped him. Or until he just dropped dead.

(Cane juice is extracted differently these days. The process is automated, and even those who like doing it the "old-fashioned" way use a tractor or similar vehicle. Nowadays, if you attend an old-timey event and see an actual mule powering the mill, the demonstration is brief -- for what I hope are obvious reasons.)

Kevin Hassett, and plenty of others of his ilk, see the working person like that old farmer saw his mule: as stock. You, like that old mule, are supposed to chase that carrot -- your “carrot” is a vacation, or an end of year bonus, or retirement ... but Kevin Hassett is not going to care much if you just drop dead chasing that “carrot.”

I’d like to think we’re better than that. I was raised to believe that we were worth more than that.

Round and Round.

Dog on Fire (Apologies to Alicia Keys)

It's still cool enough for a nice fire.

Although ... we had a bit of excitement a while ago! An ember jumped out and landed on Henry's coat. He didn't see/feel it, but Sally did. She started yelling. Then she jumped up to brush the ember from his coat. By now you could smell the hair burning, but Henry wasn't feeling it. Sally was yelling and waving her hand and scaring him, so he kinda snapped at her and I called him and he came over to me at which time the ember fell off his coat and onto the hearth rug. Lots of commotion!

I started rubbing his coat where the ember had been and it sure was stinking badly of burnt hair. But otherwise he seemed physically OK ... just a bit confused about why Sally had come after him, yellin' and wavin' her hands.

I cleaned him up a little bit. You can kinda see where the hair got burned away but otherwise he's OK.

End of story: When it was all over Henry picked up Squeaky Chicken and took him to Sally, to tell her that he was sorry for snapping at her.

Room is still a little stinky, but otherwise all is normal.

One For Mimi

My grandmother, Marie Bloise Cowan, on her wedding day in 1917. Twelve years and four children later, she and my grandfather, Jack Funderburk, would be plunged along with the rest of the world into the Great Depression.

I'm thinking about her in particular today, as I hear people voice concerns over COVID-19. By the time the Depression came around, "Mimi" had already been witness to widespread and deadly outbreaks of influenza, scarlet fever, tuberculosis and yellow fever, and a War to End All Wars. I find myself imagining how she would approach today's situation, and find inspiration in her.

Particularly inspiring to me is that, during the Depression, she and my grandfather were approached by a man who just could not afford to keep his young son. The man knew his boy was bright, and needed an education, but he simply could not justify a household member who couldn't work to help provide for the household. Would they be able to take the boy in?

I wonder if they readily said yes ... or did they fret over the decision, saying, we already have four children and this man's asking us to take on a fifth?

My grandparents were generous people of deep faith, so I'm reasonably certain they unhesitatingly said Yes. Yes to the boy who brought his sole possession, a guitar, with him. I mention the guitar because among a lifetime of achievements, that boy was one of the founders of the Florida Folk Festival -- which is our nation's oldest state-run folk festival, 68 years strong. The boy -- the man -- remained devoted to my grandparents all their lives.

Our current crisis has not yet reached those epic proportions, and perhaps it never will. (Let us hope!) But in the meantime, there are a lot of scared people out there who may need help. I'm looking to Mimi's example. I may not have much, and helping may require sacrifice on my part ... but ... this one's for Mimi.

Teach Your Children Well

"In the end we will conserve only what we love; we will love only what we understand; and we will understand only what we are taught."

Baba Dioum, 1968

Pitt and Sylvan Springs

I love the backroads! If you’ve got a specific destination and a time-sensitive arrival is necessary, the Interstates are great for getting you there fast (until they’re not, but that’s another story for another time). But if I’ve got time to spare, I’m willing to let the road take me. Often there are great discoveries awaiting.

And that’s just how it was on my trip home after the last of my band’s Christmas With The Celts shows in the Florida Panhandle. Rather than heading north to catch boring I-10 for the trip east, and eventually south, I chose to head east on FL-20, a mostly two-lane highway that passes through places you’ve probably never heard of like Bruce, Ebro, and Blountstown.

About 20 miles east of Ebro, I stopped at a place I’d never heard of until quite recently: Pitt and Sylvan Springs. (Our band’s right-hand man Rob had briefly visited this place on his way out to the concerts, and the pictures he took were so beautiful I had to see it for myself.) It’s a small park managed by the Northwest Florida Water Management District; peaceful and mostly very quiet except for the sound of the occasional car speeding along Hwy 20.

My first short walk took me to Sylvan Spring.

Next I walked toward the confluence of Sylvan Spring Run and Ecofina Creek.

The spring run appears a little clearer and a little more blue than the actual creek. I paused here for quite a while, just enjoying the wild Florida beauty and the solitude.

There’s archaeological evidence that people have lived in this area since the Paleoindian Era (about 12,000 – 8000 B.C.). Ecofina Creek, however, got its name more recently. Muskogee people moving into Florida in the late 1700s used this region to cross the creek and thus called it “Ecofina,” which is their word for “natural bridge.”

Someone who’s far more educated as to ecosystems than I can you exactly what sort of ecosystem this is. To me, it just looks like “Florida.”

And this part of Florida got hit pretty hard by Hurricane Michael. Looks to me like Michael barreled right over Pitt and Sylvan Springs, because evidence of destruction is still everywhere … and the recreation area was actually closed for a while, for cleanup and to make the facilities safe for use again.

Still, nature goes on, as evidenced by this very young Sourwood tree.

Making my way back, I crossed the common area of parking lot and picnic shelters to take a look at the swimming hole created by Pitt Spring. I bet on a hot day this is a wonderful place to cool off! – even on this fairly chilly day it looked so inviting!

Again I took a long pause to stare into the mesmerizingly blue-green depths of the pool and to watch the little fish dart to and fro.

Turning toward the canoe dock, I came upon this little bog

before coming back to Ecofina Creek. I’m not a paddler, but a day on these waters sounds pretty appealing!

“Wistful” and “reluctant” are two adjectives that come to mind for describing how I felt as I turned back toward the car to resume the trip home. This was such a worthwhile detour!

Here's to the backroads!

The "War on Christmas"

Well, here we go. It's not even Hallowe'en yet, but we're skipping right over that one, and Thanksgiving, and Hanukkah, to jump ahead to the season of ... Whining about the "War on Christmas."

Lissen here, friends, if you personally have decided to be one of those "people [who] don't talk about ['that beautiful Christmas season'] any more" that is fine by me. I won't be among you, but I won't judge you.

BUT ... If you have stopped "[using] the word 'Christmas' because it's not politically correct," and for no other reason, then you give me a call. We need to have a talk about how you can stand up for yourself without walking on someone else. It IS possible to celebrate Christmas in all its magic and wonder and beauty, and to celebrate the true meaning of Christmas, without apology ... and without trampling all over the rights of another person who wants to celebrate Christmas in their own way, or not at all, or in addition to another holiday.

Let me help you figure out how it's done. I know it's possible, because I do it. There is no War on Christmas! Don't let ANYONE tell you otherwise.

Misty Memories of the Moon (and Beyond)

Earlier today I saw an NBC segment done by Tom Brokaw on the historic moon landing of Apollo 11. I cried all the way through it.

(You can view it here: https://www.msn.com/en-us/video/be-prepared/as-apollo-11-landing-turns-50-a-look-back/vp-AAEzJOM )

I don’t remember the start of NASA’s Project Mercury but do remember the seven astronauts becoming some of my earliest heroes outside of my own family. Scott Carpenter, Gordon Cooper, John Glenn, Gus Grissom, Wally Schirra, Alan Shepard, and Deke Slayton were an important part of this little girl’s life and imagination.

“As the crow flies” we lived a little over a hundred miles away from Cape Canaveral, the location of the space center. Situated as our house was on “Coon Prairie,” east of Arcadia, Florida, our family was actually able to witness the launches and we thrilled to see Alan Shepard become the first American in space and John Glenn become the first American to orbit the Earth.

I cried when my hero, Gus Grissom, was killed in a pre-launch test of Apollo 1. But by the time the Apollo project was launched, my early heroes had been sort of pushed aside by The Monkees and The Beatles. I had continued to follow the space program, just … not as enthusiastically.

Still, along with millions of other Americans, I kept one eye on the race to the moon. Seems silly now but I remember being quite fearful when Apollo 8, with Frank Borman, James Lovell and William Anders, first orbited the moon – the moon, you’ll recall, shows us only one face and we’d never seen its “dark side.” “What if … ???” my young mind worried.

In July of 1969, I was eagerly preparing for a trip abroad, to spend a period of time studying at London’s Royal Academy of Music, to be followed by excursions across Germany and into Austria and France. All excitement for my own trip was set aside on July 20, though, as my family and I crowded around our black-and-white TV to witness men, who’d flown farther and higher than I ever expected to, set foot on the moon. "That's one small step for a man. One giant leap for mankind." Neil Armstrong’s words stirred tears of pride and still thrill me to this day.

His courage, and the raw courage of all who’ve participated in the space program as astronauts, was and remains inspirational.

Because of my life-long residence in Florida, I feel very connected to the space program. I’ve been an eyewitness to some of its biggest – and its most tragic – moments. At Punta Gorda’s Charlotte High School, I learned of the explosion of space shuttle Challenger and went outside to see the weird vapor trail it had left. Class activities were suspended for the rest of the day as students and teachers grieved its loss.

Two and a half years later it was my good fortune to be visiting the Space Coast’s Palm Bay High School as Discovery launched its “Return to Flight” mission. Palm Bay High is located only 20 miles or so away from the space center’s launch pad and its teachers and students had been traumatized by witnessing Challenger’s explosion at such close range. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath as we convened on the roof to watch Discovery’s launch. Cheers erupted as it safely exited the atmosphere … followed by many tears shed, a mixture of relief for the current mission and grief for the failed one.   

I stayed after the closing bell at Lehigh Senior High School (Lehigh Acres) to watch alone as Discovery took my old hero John Glenn on a journey to become the oldest American in space. And I may have cried.

I may cry again tomorrow, as we celebrate the 50^th anniversary of Armstrong’s “one small step.”  

Thanks for the memories.