Sorry for the absolute briefness of my last couple transmissions.

When I come up for air I only have time to inhale. I have been busy swimming through a sea of corn. Five hundred acres to be exact. Well four hundred seventy so far to be even more precise. I still have thirty more acres to go but the rain has shut me out of the field this morning. It gave a gallant try starting before daybreak but the mid morning’s break in the showers afforded me the opportunity to sneak out and bring the last two semi loads from across the creek to the curb for easy removal.

Now, Last Field! I have already done half of it. Back in September when I began this adventure we like to call harvest. Hardest is more like it. Harvest is the hardest part of farming. Maybe not the most critical as for timing but it can be. On a good year with a large yield we have lots more work to do for no more (and sometimes less) money. Hardest but the most gratifying. Hauling in so much per acre. “Call the truck I’m already full!” the advertisement for Pioneer Hybrids used to say. Indeed. In deed.

Afloat. I’m swimming in a sea of debt but my sea of corn may be ransom enough. Ransom to free my name. That funny thing they want all the time to give you things they have that they want to loan to you. Whenever I borrow equipment from a neighbor I always seem to end up breaking it and buying two of whatever the borrowed item is before I own one. I buy one to give back to the gent that I borrowed it from and one to finish the job I’d borrowed it for. I think a mortgage works the same way.

All backstroking to the same tune. In this parade of parodies.





What is it all for

What do we have in store

A question often asked

An answer never tasked

The reason we are here

Is now becoming clear

It’s all happened before

Though on another shore

A people whom once free

Slowly start to not see

The danger coming on

To each and every pawn

It’s ninety nine to one

Holding a machine gun

It’s either be a slave

Attend Mass in a grave

Or disappear from site

Throughout this new long night

But what of little ones

Of daughters and of sons

The children’s chances fall

Like dice against the wall

They tumble on the walk

Talking heads only talk

Presenting nicey nice

Offering sacrifice

Praying to the gods

Trying to beat the odds

To show for all the ruckus

It’s nada Nothing Bupkis

It isn’t up to chance

But time and circumstance

It isn’t wrong for fearing

You’ll grind up in the gearing

A stern word to the wise

Keep opening your eyes

Or else you may not see

You’re keeping company

With those who’d do you harm

Never ever disarm

Keep your eye on the game

Hold fast a steady aim

The long shot at the start

The piercing of the heart

A thought A word A deed

A rutting romp to breed

Crawling out of the creft

The last real letter left