Around Here

The record-breaking Florida cold snap, two-weeks long and just now starting to dissolve, has kept me if not housebound, close to it. I ventured out yesterday for a brisk walk to the post office, bundled in a down jacket. Citrus trees all over the state have suffered heavy damage, and many crops have been completely lost in the freeze. There has been a massive die-off of snook. They go into shock when the water dips below 60; it's been 50. They're washing up on shore all along the gulf coast. Heartbreaking. Their excellence, for both the food and the fight, is such that selling or trading them in Florida is illegal. Their fishing season is short, and catch-size restrictions are strict. Recovery may take years. For those interested in Jeauxology, I came across this postcard in my recent dig. It was damaged, along with several old letters, in a Staten Island apartment flood. This requires some background. You’ll notice it’s addressed to Joseph. Even though Walter’s partner’s name ...

Cold and rainy and raw. I’m holed up and snuggled in, stocked up on tea, strawberries, and a roast. It was 28 in Orlando last night. The local news notes that alcohol sales are up. I was moved to dig out an old photo album last night, and found in it a few shots of Walter and friends, circa mid-70s. I was in my twenties and in NY by then, but would sometimes summer back in Michigan. We shot mostly slidefilm in those days, so prints are few and far between... I touch up Walter's faded cormorants Walter approves    Joseph offers an observation My Cezanne hat View to the east House, back door Sam Beautiful doomed Bo, gathering eggs at our Easter egg hunt one snowy April.   Speaking of April, in the excavation I unearthed this birthday mailgram sent to me at the farm from Hetta (Mrs. William)  Empson. William and Walter were friends during Walter's years abroad, and the Empsons visited the farm on occasion.  Hetta and I hit it off. Her fabulousness w...

A guest on an NPR program that I was listening to on my car radio a couple of days ago was talking about a movement in Sarasota to pressure the city into allowing people with the right kind of property to keep a few chickens. Specifically hens (they’re less noisy than cocks). The hens lay an egg a day, the good kind. They scratch around and eat beetles. Their droppings fertilize your tomatoes. The conversation glanced off into the cycles of the seasons, the utopia we once knew, the possibilities in getting off-grid. It sounded deeply appealing. It occurred to me that if I had to strip my diet down to a few essentials, I could get along with meat and fruit. Maybe I’d thrive in the jungle. I’d want a caffeinated beverage, though, or maybe nicotine, so I’d need a patch of Camellia sinensis, at least. Maybe my Jane, or Jason, could gather wild coffee beans and peaches while I hunt pheasants in the forest. Did you know that chickens are pheasants? Gallus gallus. Or fish snook from my kayak ...