Building Seven

Building seven cities on an ancient fertile plain
Busy hands and hammers When erected painted white
Building seven churches on the land where walked the Lord
The dust from His sandals turned to mortar holding tight
Building seven armies with a cross upon the shields
The armor of the heavens adding metal to the might
Building seven bridges for the future and the past
To expedite the marches on the journey to the fight
Building seven stations on the road to Babylon
Fresh water and horses and a bivouac for the night
Building seven engines for the never ending siege
Adding to the terror built within the city’s sight
Building seven cemeteries Burying the lost
No stones mark the passage of a people not contrite


The Gales Of Novembre’

The gales of November came early. And the corn blew down. What wasn’t already blown down. Back when I was a kid there were many years the corn stood out there all winter damn near and never blew over. The tops would be blown off after the corn bore had hollowed out the upper stalk. But the bottom stem up to the ear would stand fast. Now they have genetically manipulated the seed to produce a toxic fungus that kills the pests. So the whole plant stays intact. So the wind has a lever. So the corn levers over. Progress, they say.

The gales of November had a tornado embedded. The whole pleasure train came complete with a snowstorm caboose. Nice little way to top off a disaster. Burn you with a tornado then freeze you out with a blizzard. At the height of the blowing snow I got a call from the stay at gone mom to come get her. She was done cutting hair and ready to be picked up. I had her van because my pickup was up on a jack while the tire was replaced. With none left in stock they had to order one. Nothing like driving in a snowstorm to make you a stay at home person.

That was all forty acres or so ago. Today we had a half inch rain overnight and breezy mists all day. Not very conducive to picking downed corn. But I dumped the six wagons I stayed up till 10:30 last night picking. It takes longer in downed corn. But it’s a chance to sell some dirt. At corn prices. Rooting around in the downed corn with the corn snoots on the corn head causes some of the tangled tops (still attached thanks to genetic engineering) to go in upside down one row over and it yanks the whole plant out roots and all. Some of the dirt from the root balls gets knocked off into the corn. Progress(ively worse)!

So the landlord gets to keep some of my corn. I get to sell some of his land. Not by the acre, not by the square foot, by the bushel. Fair trade. FM? In this case the foreign material is free mud. Complete with fertilizer and good humus. I try to take good care of my soils. Trust me, it’s worth more than the $3.40 per bushel the corn is bringing. But then so is the corn. I have over $4.00 wrapped up in it as I speak. Plus interest.


My harvest song for the rest of the run.

Where the downed corn grows …….


A Rose By Any Name

Back in the wood. In the hood. Back on the home road. Everything except my baby, the 856. I farmed a whole year to buy her. I farmed another to rebuild her. That was a rebuild or so ago. It’s due again. At least for injectors and an injector pump. She’s parked up on the farm north of town. Tucked away between the bin and the road fence. Or what’s left of the road fence.

The harvest run is done up in the great white north. It wasn’t that great showing up last year after the snow to pick the mountains there. I swear every farm has slopes as steep as any mountain side I’ve driven by. Not many but they’re there. They need to be respected because your life literally depends on it. This is still the most dangerous profession out there.

Good to be cutting corn on the south side again. Just in time. My cheap auction get me by until the real pickup gets fixed pickup needs to be on the home stretch. I can feel the rotors being ruined every time I apply the brakes. Limping in on a wing and a prayer. Again.

God I love it.