New Navy

I was on the old ships of the new navy. The two I got to see at their last deployments both had a hulk number sixteen. The sweet sixteens. In old age. Training up the new navy. On one. Refitting the other new navy on the other. On the training carrier we also broke in the third new navy as a first. Lady to lady as it were.

On the Lady Lex the new navy we trained up was top gun. Not to be confused with gun decks which have many meanings in the old navy. The new navy got their wings from the Lex. The old guys in the new navy kept their wings on the Lex. Mostly from The Body Of Christ but not all. Some old guys kept em from home port.

The third new navy landed on the Lex about thirty days before I did. Those mostly young gals loved to hear stories of blue ocean sailing and overseas ports of call. They were not too fond, nor anyone else but I, of forty foot waves around hurricanes. I had the pleasure of riding those big girls on each ship. 40 foot waves that is.

The first punishment uncle sam’s navy come up with for getting booted out of et school was a rust bucket that hadn’t seen stateside for seven years. Happy Gilmore. Neither had the hand me down fowl weather jacket the petty third gave me when I arrived that December strait out of fire school and scared of any puff of smoke.

We refitted the nuke attack subs there. And killed an honorable gentleman when a mooring line broke. All for Liberty. He looked at me last. I hated that. The oldest of the new navies was the silent service. Bubbleicious duty I guess. That’s where I was told by an old salt two things you never do. Jump out of a perfectly good airplane and go on a cruise to sink the ship on purpose.

I watched someone die doing one and another die helping do the other.

At least the girls lived. A few broken bones at most. (Different line second ship never broke it only slipped).

That’s your new navies. Now this space thing …….

Then, there.




We would be driving by a farmstead that was unusually close to the road or unusually large and Dad would say, “I smell money!” He meant meat not the byproduct. In this case the byproduct was the tell. The pungent odor of the “business end of a horse” another Dadism, was unusually strong and even a bit sickening to a more shall we say urbane palate the closer you got to the “factory”. Dad’s factory workers, us kids were usually thinking,”I smell work.”

Dad was a yeoman. He knew. Scientific principals applied to agricultural practices had born out that properly applied animal excretions could over time build up the soil. And as every empire throughout the sands of time both knows and defends, fertile land is wealth and wealth makes money.

You know, Gold?

Fast forward to the present. Human excretions are animal excretions. Properly applied human life can improve the world we live in. That means the answer to populations isn’t reductions in populations it’s organization of populations. Who’s poop is it isn’t as important as who is using this poop and to what ends.

Let’s take the completely irrationally run cities in a lot of the world today. People are getting rich on the refuse of the herd but not by utilizing that refuse. Refusing to acknowledge the free market that is the natural flow of goods and services by forcing everyone to pay to bury and waste what is really not refuse to another man is not sustainable. What we are talking about is not waste management but resource management. Trash is treasure later along the continuum.

A tree when it’s not a tree anymore the thinking goes is next a peat bog, then a coal seam, then on to oil and diamonds. Even a muddy puddle later becomes a beautiful cloud and dancing weather again.

The possibilities explode.

Then there is implosion. The pull. The cable tow of torque. Amplified. The supply chain pulls through demand. Demand is what people can afford not what people want. Nor what people think you should have. Like the opposite of forced insurance. Demanding you buy is not the demand pull I’m talking about. That’s a demand push. Pushing on a chain or a cable tow doesn’t work. It’s like driving a screw with a hammer. Waste. In time. In material. In effort. Refusing to acknowledge the free market that is the natural flow of goods and services by forcing everyone to pay protection money is a great way to lose the crowd.

Explosion. Implosion. Both. Neither.

Then, there.





All I have to do is fall over it. Just in time for Fall’s about to end. This is a just in time world. I have enough shelled corn on wagons, six of mine and two I borrowed for the last day to get done, to fill Dad’s old wooden corn crib. I know because we filled it twice when me and younger brother started farming back in ’84-’85.

Now we only filled the sheds but I have enough sitting to fill the middle as well. It’s close to the road where we’re loading semis. If I had to I could maybe vacuum it all to the road though that shouldn’t be necessary. The weather is suppose to be nice enough to maneuver them up to the auger hanging over the ditch to the road.

Over all not a bad year. The extra from down south will maybe cover the shortfall up north where we got no rain in July. They can tout their high price hybrids all they want. The rain is what makes the difference in yield. And they’re not putting rain in that seed bag.

Then, there.



Devil’s Detail

God doesn’t want this crop. But the devil does.

We have the wettest spring on record. Since I’ve been farming the last thirty five years. I’m pretty sure that’s official. Around here it’s being compared to the only spring I was over in the Med, 1980. Chipping paint and swinging booms. And not paying attention to the weather past how to dress that day.

I was able to slip another 100 acres of seed beans into the ground on Sunday. The second Sunday in a row I’ve had to do that. I remember back when the Priest had to give the congregation permission to work on Sundays. Back in the ’60s I remember an older brother talking about that being why we had to do more than just chores on a particular Sunday. Out back fixing fence.

That’s why I say the devil must want this crop. Here in God’s country we’re putting in full days on the Lord’s Day. But think about it, they all belong to Him. If we count the raining days as days off we got the one in seven thing covered. Personally I’m counting the doctor ordered healing days as my sabbatical.

So I can grow the devil his crop.

Then, there