0045

Another full night's rest. Good investment, that mosquito net.

I spend most of the morning on the electrical service. Derek and Justin come over after lunch for some more ball. Later they watch from a safe distance as I open the bee hive and add the queen excluder and a honey super. Touring the garden, I see that the deer have eaten some of the tomato blossoms, so I stake the plants and attach some plastic flags to perhaps spook the deer.

The closeness to nature that I'm experiencing isn't exactly what I had anticipated. The deer and mosquitoes and raccoons and thistles and nettles and ticks and quack grass all want theirs, and are eager to take it from my garden and my person. It is a closeness of competitive rivals, of a dog fight for survival. Each player has his strong suit, whether strength or speed or sheer prolificness, which he must try to finesse to his best advantage. I must employ my strength - my brain - to establish and maintain my place in the struggle.

0044

I sleep. I finally sleep.

I open my eyes at dawn to see, just a few inches above me, two mosquitoes whining and trying valiantly but in vain to get at me through the new netting. I smile at them benevolently and amusedly. With the threat of sting gone, their siren song isn't unnerving at all; it's almost comforting.

A cool, rainy morning, so I work inside, preparing for the bathroom drain placement, and, in the basement, preparing for breaker box installation.

The sun is out this afternoon, so I tour the wet, fresh garden. First tomato blossoms! Pea pods are swelling nicely, just a couple days from harvest. Derek and Justin come over to play some ball - a home run derby in my driveway. Life is good again.

0043

Good idea, poor execution. Last night's mosquitoes had no problem finding the gaps in the lace curtain, and entering my shoddy sanctuary, and I was awake again most of the night. This is starting to seriously erode my sanity.

No mood for Mass this morning - I drive to church, even though it's beautiful weather for a bike ride. Then drive to town, to the sporting goods store to buy real mosquito netting.

0042

A lone mosquito again singing her high-pitched siren just as sleep approaches. I want to cry. There's got to be something I can do about this. Then a novel idea: there is a door at the bottom of the stairway; what if I use the mosquito's own instincts against her?

I get up out of bed, stand at the bottom of the stairs, and wait. It takes awhile for the concentrations of H₂O and CO₂ in the air to change, and longer yet for her to track these concentrations to my vicinity. But, sure enough, the whining eventually wends nearer to me. When she approaches, I go up several steps. When she slowly follows, I go up higher. Finally, I'm standing in the upstairs hall, and she has ascended as well, meandering here and there, attracted to my warm blood. Then I make my move. I hurry down the stairs, close the door behind me, and get back into bed. I listen for several minutes, and hear nothing. I think I did it! What a genius!! Then I look at the clock - it reads 2:46 am.

That's how sleep deprivation works, isn't it? I must be teetering on the very brink. Should I cry now, or should I laugh hysterically?

---

I can't sleep with the sun shining in my face, so I'm up and in the garden, getting caught up with the weeding. I also transplant some tiny potato plants started from seed.

Back in the house, I'm looking at the old lace curtains on the front window, casting about desperately for a solution. I take the curtains down, put a few hooks in the ceiling above my cot, and drape the curtains over it as a makeshift mosquito net.

0041

It isn't that the house is overrun with hundreds of mosquitoes; there are usually just two or three that manage to find entrance at night. But it becomes unnerving; after swatting and slapping all day, I just want to take my evening bath, wash the itchiness away, and find some relief in sleep. That's what's unnerving: the sudden nocturnal bites at any hour wear me down and begin to affect my mental peace.

Tonight is no different. I lie in bed, letting the day's weariness carry me into drowsiness and beyond. My eyelids grow deliciously heavy as I approach the peace of slumber...

mmmrrrwwwrmmrrrwrrwrwrrwrrwrrwrrwwwrmmrrrwrrwwmrrrmmwrrwwmnrrwrwmmrrrw...

She's off in the next room, probably 20 feet from my bed. But I know how she navigates. Attracted by warmth, H₂O, and CO₂, she flies an erratic pattern, slowly closing in on the source, namely, me. I'm as helpless as a baby. The arched opening between rooms has no door. It's only a matter of time. I cannot sleep and I cannot ignore; I can only wait for the inevitable. The minutes crawl by, the high-pitched whining continues, waxing and ebbing, drawing ever nearer, until

rrrmwmrwrrwrwrrwrrwrwrrwwRRWRwrmrrwwwrrmwrrwwrrwrrrw...

she flies right past my left ear. Without rising, I reach for the bedside lamp. Adjusting to the light, my eyes finally pick her up. More time ticks by. Finally, she finds an exposed area on my left arm and lands. I wait a couple seconds for her to settle in, then, just as she prepares to stab me, slap! goes my right hand. Got her!

I'm exultant, triumphant, and relieved. How much time has passed? I glance at the clock. About an hour and a quarter. Well, that's OK, at least now maybe I can sleep. I turn the light off, roll over, find a comfortable position. It takes awhile for me to fully relax again, but eventually, my eyelids begin to grow heavy...

wrrrwmrrwrwwmrrwwrrwrrwrrwmrrrwrmwwmrrrmmrrwrmwrrwmwmmrrrwrr...

(Sigh) It's going to be another long night.

---

Manage to sleep a couple hours before the bright morning sun cruelly forces me to rise and greet the new day.

I try to catch up on some weeding, soon drenched with sweat. O, didn't I promise to cut Lenore's grass today? Have to run a few errands, too, so I drive into town early afternoon. When I get to her house, Lenore is already getting a meal ready. I ask if she's still using those bulk potatoes I got in March?

"No, dear; I bought these at Super One."

Lenore has to know by now how much I loathe any waste or lack of economy. I don't hide my irritation.

"Why didn't you tell me you wanted potatoes?!? I've got potatoes up the wazoo, ready to dig any time now!"

She ignores my grouchiness. "Well, these were on sale," she offers, "...and, anyway, I don't think you're growing this kind. They're Yukon Golds."

"Yukon Golds? Really?"

Much to her amusement, I start fishing in her compost for the peels, and find a handful that have healthy looking eyes. I bum a container to put them in.

---

Back home after mowing, lunch, and errands. I know just the spot, where peas failed to come up, just enough space for 6 or 8 Yukon Gold plants. If they sprout, it'll be a minor miracle, but you never know...

0040

The rainy weather continued, which meant more work indoors - upstairs bathroom walls, prep work, etc. - for the past few days.

Mercifully, today is sunny, warm, low humidity, and breezy. The rain barrel (50 gallon Rubbermaid trash can under the eave) is full. So I strain some rain water, fire up the wringer washer, and wash two months' worth of work clothes, etc. It's good to feel civilized again. I spend the afternoon and evening in the garden, addressing the flourishing weeds.

0039

Another rainy day (lots of those lately), so I'm working on things in the house. Mosquitoes love this climate, and have been getting into the house, so I'm trying to tighten up some of the decrepit and loose-fitting windows and doors. Many will have to be replaced; I'll start looking for second-hand windows for sale.

Planning the plumbing, too. I should be able to afford a composting toilet system, using a one-pint toilet upstairs, emptying into a Sun-Mar Centrex 2000 composter in the basement. Just have to figure out how to run my lines.

0038

The garden is looking more and more like a garden: long rows and beds of carrots, beets, onions, beans, peas, forming a quiltwork of rectangles in various shades of green, a very attractive geometry. The potatoes are making blossoms, indicating they are also starting to form little potatoes underground.

I will have to make some adjustments from my tiny garden in the city. For one thing, this soil is not nearly as rich. To compensate, I will not garden as intensively, but will have to learn more efficient techniques for husbanding a larger plot, and trying to build up the soil. Another difference is the climate; twenty miles from Lake Superior makes a big difference. Colder nights, warmer days, probably a shorter season from the last spring frost until the first autumn frost. But I can learn; I can observe and think and experiment and ask the advice of veterans. It's earth, and it gives life, and it is good.

0037

Received the price list that I recently asked for from the local wind generator company. I would dearly love to get off the grid, but - sheeesh! these prices are phenomenal. I manage to dig up my hand-written note from a few months ago, listing a few of the prices, and they've gone up about 30% in just that short period. The target clientele for this technology must consist of 1) those who have no choice, who have no access to the grid, and 2) rich folks.

As I recall from grade school history, the automobile was originally just the toy of the rich man. Henry Ford saw an opportunity and made a car which six-pack Joe could afford. The result was a technological and social revolution, a revolution we might have been better off without. So how about a wind generator revolution? Where's the Henry Ford of the wind generator industry?

0036

More thoughts on the Waste Management mentality, and its ideological opposite: In principle, it comes down to a difference between thinking in terms of a linear process ( the industrialized, 'Waste Management' mentality), and thinking in terms of natural, circular processes. Simply put, lines vs. circles. Here's the Waste Management schematic:

raw material -> process -> process -> consume -> waste

We stupidly measure our standard of living by how much we are consuming, and by how many jobs are being created by all the processes involved. But we cannot ignore the hard fact that there are problems with both ends of this linear method. We consume stuff that is often scarce and is not replenished, and we generate waste that must be forever banished from our world because it is often toxic and we can't or won't neutralize it.

The 'ism' part of consumerism is when this becomes our belief system, when we even more stupidly assume that this is the only way we can live, that human life must by definition be toxic and wasteful. And if we think this way, even subconsciously, we will begin to loathe our very lives, and we will begin to assume a collective death wish.

Herein lies the connection to the Culture of Death. We secretly cringe at the news of another baby (another hungry consumer), and we secretly rejoice at decisions to abort or to engage in sterile sex. Contraception, abortion, sterilization and population control measures are accepted because, deep down, we believe human life is the problem.

Here, by contrast is the natural, circular schematic:

material -> process -> use -> changed material -> process -> another use -> etc.

This ideological concept has practical, concrete ramifications for me, and provides a very real motivation. I must, as part of my focus, look for ways to live in a non-consumerist way, and so test for myself whether the principle underlying the Culture of Death can be dismissed. For example, rather than relegating the art of recycling to a special every-other-week extraordinary effort, the challenge is to incorporate the circular mentality into my everyday life, a complete lifestyle thing. That is what I must be attempting.

0035

A rainy day today, so I'm working indoors, tearing into areas where I intend to install some plumbing. I try to carefully remove and save for reuse as much of the old sheetrock as I can, but some is so decrepit already that it is beyond salvaging. It's messy and tedious work, but I try to look beyond the present mess, and envision the way it will be when it's all fixed up (still years off, I fear). I distract myself by singing Johnny Denver songs, hymns, or 'American Pie' (which is good for killing 10 or 15 minutes in one song). Talk to myself, sing to myself, full voice, who's going to mind? That's one of the perks of living back in the woods.

I take piles of the broken pieces and pitch them out the back door. Waste. Which gets me to thinking again about the Waste Management foolishness.

Now wait a minute. Think about what you're doing, Jerry. What is this stuff you're pitching? Old sheetrock. And what, exactly, is sheetrock? Gypsum sandwiched between two layers of heavy paper. And isn't gypsum used to sweeten sandy, acid soils like mine? Bingo.

So, between showers, I use the wheelbarrow to haul the pieces out to the grassy knoll west of the house, where I scatter them about, and smash the bigger chunks by dropping the sledge hammer here and there. This is more like it. In fact, this is exactly what I had in mind.

Again, I need to look beyond the present messiness, and see the future goodness: This gypsum given over to the elements of Nature, and Nature knowing what to do with it. Time will see the chunks crumble, soften, and return to the earth, enriching the cycle of Life. Yes, the broken, irregular pieces lying on the ground are pretty icky looking at the present, definitely not in the Waste Management style. But it's OK, and better than OK. It's as right as the rain that is beginning again to gently fall.

0034

Today is recycling day, so I put the same garbage out, but put those broken canning jars into the recycle container where they really belong.

I didn't actually see the Waste Management truck go by today, but I'm down by the road now to get the mail, and see that they picked up my neighbor's garbage, but have ignored mine again, and have also left the broken jars. Pat is out to get her mail, too, so I ask what's the deal here? She shrugs, "I don't think they like broken glass in the recycling."

So... Waste Management will manage only certain kinds of waste. First off, you have to be a true consumer, producing enough waste at a regular clip, so that they will remember to stop. And the waste must meet certain standards, too. Nothing icky allowed. Hmmm...

The real question may be, why am I buying into this? As a culture, we have so sterilized our lives that we think we must have all our refuse wrapped in individual plastic bags, hauled off to a landfill where it will be wrapped in more plastic, then shrouded within a layer of impervious clay so that all of our icky leftovers will be completely banished from our universe for ever and ever, amen. A select percentage of this refuse, meeting certain strict standards, will be recycled with much fanfare and self-congratulatory pride, as if recycling were not the ancient rule of nature, but something we moderns have ingeniously invented. I will henceforth refer to this whole silly attitude as the Waste Management mentality.

0033

Remembering the discovery made on last Sunday's bike ride to and from 8:00 Mass, this morning's ride took an alternate route: off onto the service road, around the service gate, and through the park campground area. This is a much better route, providing a more pleasant biking environment, and eliminating almost a mile of biking up and down a long hill, for my aging legs.

I check at the ranger station to make sure this is OK with them, and am told quite warmly that bicyclists are always welcome to use the park grounds, free of charge. Ah, that's more like it - a balm to my social humanity, and antidote to the sense of alienation.

On the return trip after Mass, I take more time to ride slowly here and there on the park trails, enjoying the rather spectacular vistas provide by Nature, and made more accessible to this poor man by the commonwealth of society. A man has need of beauty.

0032

Discouragement can take many forms. The vague feeling of estrangement from society, a sense of loneliness or isolation. Today it took the form of bugs. Ticks becoming more numerous as the weather turns warmer, the little gnats that fly into my eyes and ears, the ravenous mosquitoes. I remind myself how much I really want to do this; will myself to tough it out. "I'll get these tomatoes in the ground, or my name ain't Elmer Fudd!"

Then the reminder I need finds me, as if seeking me out. I come across the first corn emerging, the miracle of new life. Takes me back to my childhood, living on the family farm near Amiret, MN. I would get a tin can, fill it with dirt, and plant a kernel or two of corn from the corn crib. A little water, then set it on a window sill, and check it every day. For several days nothing seemed to be happening, but this farmer's son knew the seed was waking and growing. Then my faith would be vindicated. Seeing that seedling emerge always gave me a little rush, almost a sense of the divine. Still has that effect.