LINKS MAY BE INACTIVE

I have not seen the piece (which involves chicken footage and focuses on my incompetence as a handyman), but it will air on Wisconsin Public Television stations 7 p.m. CST, and will encore (I've said it before, I'll say it again...in Public Television there are no re-runs, only encores) at 10:30 a.m. on Sunday.  The entire show is usually available online shortly after the Friday night airing.  To watch online, go here and click on "Here and Now" transcripts -- the link won't be available right away, and I'll try to get a direct link up when it is available.

My daughter and I also made the drive up to Nobbern a couple of days ago and enjoyed another uplifting performance by the New Auburn Area Community choir.  Beautiful music, with my mom, dad, brother and sister-in-law all up there on the risers.

Thing is, in this the age of the Latest Digital Doo-Dad, how neat it was to enjoy these performances in real time and real space.  Thanks, neighbors.

On Moose Radio right now, one of the great twangy intros..."Heaven's Just a Sin Away" by the Kendalls.  Beautiful song, never mind that it's a father/daughter duet.

OK, and now Tammy Wynette singing "'Til I Can Make it On My Own."  Feed me prunes and call me an old guy, but Lordy, they don't sing'em that way anymore.

The chickens are not impressed.  Their first snowstorm, and a doozy.  I finally put them back in the coop one by one, as they were disappearing into the snow and I wasn't sure they'd have the sense to fight the wind and get back to roost come evening.  They were fluffed up like dust mops.

Last night we went into town to see a play put on by the citizens of Fall Creek.  It was based on the history of the local Pronto Pup drive-in.  In true dinner-theatre style, we were served hot beefs, french fries, cole slaw and beans before the play.  We also got freshly deep-fried Pronto Pups and keg root beer - all served by carhops.  Between acts II and III, we were allowed to order sundaes and root beer floats.

The cast spanned young and old and the script was compiled from oral histories.  Ticket sale proceeds are going to buy flagpoles for the VFW.  As we sat there watching the play unfold in the warmth of a local church, I was taken by the idea of all these folks learning their lines, working on the set, making the food - just so that we could gather for two hours and be entertained with relevant history.  I'm not articulating this very well (I'm on deadline with a magazine article and should be working on it, but I wanted to remark this play), but I think the point was, we were experiencing a civilized evening in a world torn stem to stern with tragedy and plastic, and I want to thank Karen Hurd and everyone else for what they shared.  Neighbors putting on a play for neighbors.  It was just plain nice.

We recently got a barred rock rooster from my friend Billy.  Or at least I thought it was a barred rock, because it looked just like our barred rock hen.  But then the day I wrote this post I got to Googling (the song "Black Rose" is on the album in question) and found out that Dominique roosters look like barred rock chickens except they have a roseate comb - that is, rather than standing tall, the comb looks like a wad of bubble gum.  Dear reader, I jumped up from my desk and ran down to the yard and chased that rooster out from under the spirea bush where he cruises hens, and Glory Be, his comb is just a rumpled wad.

I got me a Dominique/iker/eker!

Cock-a-Doodle Doo. 

Last week I was driving my daughter and a young friend of hers to a weekly get-together of home-schooled kids and they were back there in their booster seats playing air guitar and air drum to "Hottest Thing in Town," the thumping first track off Unshaven: Live at Smiths Olde Bar by Billy Joe Shaver and his late son.  Twenty minutes later we were studying Punch and Judy.  As do all parents, my wife and I often question whether we are doing the right thing by our child, but I figure the music of one old outlaw plus an examination of 16th-century commedia dell'arte within the space of an hour must count toward a liberal arts credit somewhere.

I also mention Kevin Welch, a favorite songwriter of mine.  He's here.

Nine miles to the next exit.  I accelerate gently and try to remember if my mileage is better at 55 mph or if that's just a Jimmy Carter-era old wive's tale so I settle for 60-ish and two miles later the needle is literally resting on the peg, and I'm leaning more and more forward, kind of lifting myself on the steering wheel like that's going to somehow make me lighter, and even when I realize how ridiculous this is and relax, I find myself right back in that same position two tenths of a mile later and I've even shut off the radio so I can focus and now I see the lights of the next exit and I think at least I can walk it now and I'm fairly chinning myself on the steering wheel and trying to levitate and the bottom line is I coast up the exit ramp, roll the stoplight a tad, and ease up to the pump just as the engine hiccups.  Told myself out loud I was an idiot and filled the tank.

If you've been paying attention to world events, my experience last night may be parallel to the pending national experience, without the happy fillup.

But I was able to be here this morning to hear my daughter say, "It's snowing!  And I think it's going to acumulate!"  And then I got to stand in the yard and hold the baby while she stared up at the first falling flakes she's ever seen.

Thanks to everyone who listened to the radio and came to the readings and set things up so nicely out there on the road.  I'm grateful.

Why curl up with a book when you can curl up under a book?

Now and then readers are kind enough to point out typographical and factual errors in my writing (thankfully they refrain from addressing my hair-care and fashion errors).  This morning I received an email from a reader and volunteer firefighter who was concerned about my use of the term "oxygen" in Population 485 when referring to the SCBA tank firefighters wear.  She points out that it is an "air" tank, and that there is a difference.

For the family of Second Lt. Tracy Alger.

Head feels a little funny.  I think maybe I caught the sniffles from my 6-month old.  Either that, or I'm teething.

I always swore if I had to spoon-feed a baby I wouldn't move my lips.  Apparently this is not possible.

We are having our family Halloween party Saturday.  The seven-year-old has been reading Peter Pan, so she has chosen to go as Captain Hook.  She asked mommy to be Peter Pan.  And she asked me to be Tinker Bell.  This is why you don't let seven-year-olds call the shots.  That said, my logger brother went as a belly dancer last year, so there is precedent.  (He was frankly quite lovely except when his veil slipped and his beard poked out.)

But then today the seven-year-old helped stack firewood, gather eggs, and at one point did Isadora Duncan dances all across the yard while wearing her pink barn boots, and the baby made us all laugh when she paused in her attempts to crawl and performed a very credible downward-facing dog, and that's when you forget about the 3 a.m. stuff.

Have now burned fifteen minutes reading the Wikipedia entry.

Don't tell Morrissey I went partridge hunting last night.  Do tell him I didn't get anything.

I am told Wisconsin Public Television will be airing "Pigs Part II" tomorrow night.  Shortly after it airs, it will be available streaming online.

Been awhile since I'd auctioned, and I had to hone my bid nod.  Buddy of mine says you're shootin' for about a 12 degree tilt.  There are other issues: At one point I was about to outbid the feller across the wagon when I snuck a peek and realized it was my Dad.  Y'gotta pay attention.

Best story of the day since it didn't happen to me: My brother accidentally bought a tractor.  Yes.  Accidentally.  Bought a tractor.  He was standin' there kinda kickin' the dirt and someone said how you gonna explain that to your wife?  And he said, "I don't know, I've never had to do that before!"

It's the morning after.  I just called him.  Let's just say he's got a strong and patient wife.  His shop floor is heated, but he didn't have to sleep on it.

Yesterday in Madison I had one reminder after another that I have much for which I am grateful.  Wherever we meet, thank you to everyone who takes a moment to share a kind word, an interesting story, and above all, your time.  I know I miss many people with my thanks, and although I read every single email I receive and try to answer each individual, I'm also aware that I get way behind and some go astray.

So thank you.

And I got some real neat IH treats last night.  Thanks, you folks.  Irma now within view of my writing desk.

Oh, and I believe Wisconsin Public Television will be airing an interview and some pig footage tonight.

New news at the Long Beds site, too.

Of course, being largely Scandinavian and post-lapsarianist-Calvinist (I think?), my gratitude is balance by the usual sense of impending doom.  That is to say, I am a dithering knothead.  I am also operating after a luxurious 4 hours of sleep courtesy of a teething tot.

"a young horse is fast...
an old horse knows what's goin' on."

It's nice to have lived long enough that a lyric like that makes you smile right out loud.

Dark earlier now.  I just put the chickens away.  And in the stack of mail that came when I was gone was a CD from my buddy Mills.  A bunch of pictures taken when we were building the chicken coop.

I had some trouble measuring and making the door.

We had a wall collapse.

And Mills pulled a little hari-kari job with the nail gun.  Umm, this shot is what they call graphic.

I once bought a bike at this Chippewa Falls store and then drove it at high speed straight into this Chippewa Falls bridge.  My shoulder gave, the bridge did not.

Tonight I'm reading and playing with my band in Chippewa Falls.

La-di-da. 

Thanks again.  That was really something.

Also, Voyageur Press has just released an anthology called "Seasons on the Farm".  Gosh, that's a pretty Farmall on the cover.  Writers included are Roger Welsch, Jerry Apps, Ben Logan, and Lee Klancher.  Also included is an essay I wrote about delivering lambs.

We planted the coop beside a chokecherry tree, giving the chickens shade and a place to hide from the hawks.  Buffalo, I sure appreciated your help.  Which reminds me: Were it not for the time, tools, talent and lumber provided by my carp-shootin' pal (and camo-pants doula) (Mills is on page 273 of Truck: A Love Story and page 203 of Population 485) this coop would be nothing but three sheets of plywood tacked together with six drywall screws.  Thank you Mills.

Someone asked for before and after pictures of Irma the truck.  That "after" picture was taken on a film set.  Irma the star.

A new Wisconsin Public Television "Clodhopper Report" is posted on YouTube.  In this one, I pick up litter in the rain.  And talk to a cow.  And find a clutch of beer turkey eggs.  Never heard of the beer turkey?  Watch and learn.

I have gone off on a tangent.  It looks like the weather for tonight's show will be perfect, but if that changes, these folks will let you know right up to the minute.  Show starts at 6:30 p.m.  More info here.

You can preview some of the songs we'll sing tonight.

Sometimes I will see a young man swaggering, or overhear some satyric wonder-lover going on about his way with the ladies, and I wish upon a star that he may one day have to tell it to a woman the likes of Koko Taylor.  Or Marianne Faithfull.  Or, for that matter, Tawny Kitaen.  Somewhere within or without, all men fancy themselves the last of the red hot lovers, but eventually the discerning male comes to understand there are specific instances when the only honorable response has to be, “There is nothing I can do here.”  Forever and ever we men bite off more than we can chew.  Recently a local man became unexpectedly and seriously ill and the next morning down at the café, the wags were taking odds on who it was that poisoned him – his wife or his girlfriend.

Thank you to my Long Beds fellers.  Sheboygan was fun.  See you Thursday at the Phark

We had 12 chickens.  Now we have six.  Here are the hardy survivors.

P.S. To the lady in the library...I hope you write again if I didn't say what you needed to hear.  I probably didn't.  I hope you're not fighting the grief alone.

I was trolling internet auction sites in search of an original 1951 International L-Line truck owner’s manual when I found Freezer Fancies.  I was intrigued by their contemporaneous nature.  Both the L-Line and Irma were created in 1948  and introduced to the public in 1949.  I added Irma to my search parameters and found two more cookbooks – International Harvester Refrigerator Recipes and How To Freeze Foods.  I also turned up three full-color International Harvester refrigerator ads touting the 1951 models.  They’re femineered!  And years ahead!  Scores of chore-saving women-approved features: Spacious shelves of stainless steel! Pantry-Dor, Butter Keeper, magnetic Bottle Opener! Full-width Freezers, Coldstream Crispers, countless more!  Let’s hear it for hyphenated neologisms!  In addition to the Pantry-Dor, available International chilling technology included the Zero-Larm, the Frost-Lok, the Vac-U-Seal, the Tight-Wad, the Diffuse-O-Lite, and the Egg-O-Mat, all of which purportedly functioned with Quiet-As-A-Snowflake operation.

            All three ads contain prominent references to femineering.  No definition is supplied, but you get the idea when you notice that despite superficial lip service paid to features like the Egg-O-Mat and the Zero-Larm – items that involve actual engineering – the majority of text and bright graphics are given over to promoting little squares of plastic that can be used to change the color of the refrigerator handle.  In one ad, a beaming redhead fans out ten of the colored plastic inserts like a deck of cards.  In another, the redhead kneels on the floor, her light blue dress parachuted in a perfect circle with ten multi-colored refrigerator handles arrayed around the hem.  Extending her arm like a dancer, she describes an arc mirroring the semicircle of handles, trailing one painted fingernail across the plastic as if she were drawing it across Tab Hunter’s pectoral.  The ad copy is breathless: Exclusive with International Harvester!  Gorgeous color comes to refrigerators…Rainbow Hues to Accent Refrigerator Door Handles…Color-Keyed to your kitchen!  Most exciting Idea in Refrigerators Since the Ice Cube!  Ten brilliant colors to choose from – in cleverly designed, changeable door handle plaques to fit any color scheme.  Easy to switch colors any time you redecorate!

            The woman in the third ad is a brunette.  The door to her refrigerator is open.  We cannot see which color handle she has chosen.  She is grinning and giving us a peek in the Handy Butter Keeper.  Her Egg-O-Mat is full and her Diffuse-O-Lite is lit.  She is holding a large knife.  She is wearing four-inch heels.  She is a big-boned girl who looks as if she could handle a riveter.

I am told that the rock picking story (YouTube link below) will air in full widescreen glory on Wisconsin Public Television's Here and Now Friday at 7 p.m., with a rebroadcast at 10:30 a.m. Sunday.

Anyway.  It was good to work with my brother, grin like we were young knuckleheads.  Once today we were reefing on a hog panel, trying to lever it free with a pipe, when the whole deal gave way and pinched, smashing my little finger and raising a big knot on my forearm.  "That hurt?" he said, with a delighted grin.  "Pretty much," I said, grinning back.  We grew up with old farmers.  Once you've ascertained that everyone is still breathing, nothing's funnier than a little pain.

Here's a photo of me from the shoot (click to enlarge):

This came on the heels of news that Truck: A Love Story was given the Wisconsin Library Association's Banta Award.  That's neat, because librarians (particularly the ones in Chetek and in my school at New Auburn) got me started.

So MBA and WLA, a heartfelt thank you.

I am grateful, but have just enough grim Scandinavian pessimism in me that I shall not get boasty.  We who thrive on ill portent figure all good news exists simply to provide contrast for the bad news sure to come.  Having said that, I will dispense with all humility to announce that it has recently come to my attention that somewhere in the Midwest a reader has named a guinea pig after me.  This is an honor absolutely equivalent to my stature and I accept it with all due puffery.

*that's not true because Irma can haul anything.

The reviewer mentions the essay I wrote about riding with Dave Sweetman.  I saw a big chunk of America in his truck.  It's a beauty.

Photo credit: Richard Coash from http://www.hankstruckpictures.com/

Thing that made me grin just now: A Greg Brown lyric from Slant Six Mind: "Like a guy in a bra, it's the idea that counts..."

Thing that made me grin yesterday: Some wise guy from Hudson left a pretty funny comment about my first appearance on YouTube.  That whole wry Midwestern one-upmanship thing.

Thing that made me grumpy, then made me grin: Dang pigs tore down their shelter yesterday.  Vandalous creatures.  I heard this rending sound, and when I got down there they had knocked it half over.  Which is fine.  They're pigs.  They root and push and scratch their butt on stuff.  It's my fault for underbuilding the thing.  My fault for making the roof out of an old tarp.  But what made me grumpy then eventually made me grin was that they took such joy in ripping the thing up.  They kept rooting at it and sticking their noses through the tarp and getting in my way as I tried to toss the remnants from the pen.  Once the biggest pig stuck his head through a hole in the tarp, looked around for a while, then dove right through, ripping the hole even bigger.  They frolicked as they did this.  No remorse.  So now I gotta build a new pig house.  Here's what's left of the old one:

A larger version and more pig pictures here.  See what they had for brunch.

Miscellaneous Also: He who cuts down a bunch of nettles and gets overzealous about tossing them all in a big pile but cannot be bothered to run up to the house for gloves will still be smarting, even now as he updates his website.  Knothead.

This is a "P.S." edition paperback -- in addition to the original text it includes an "About the Book" section with a new nine-page essay bringing readers up to speed on events that have transpired since the hardcover came out.  Among other things I talk about why my hand went numb.  There are also two photographs of Irma the truck.  Ordering information here.  (The hardcover edition is also still available.)

Also today, Harper Perennial is releasing a new paperback edition of Population 485: Meeting Your Neighbors One Siren at a Time.  It looks like this (to differentiate it from the standard paperback version, look for the little "P.S." circle on the lower right corner of the cover):

Because this is a P.S. edition, it contains some extras, including several black-and-white photographs (yes, there is one of the Beagle's tattoo), and an essay titled "Population 562" which brings you up to date on some of the characters in the original book including The One-Eyed Beagle, his second ex-wife, and my brother Jed.  Ordering information here.

If you're new here, you can click here to catch up some.

And yes, the Beagle did dance.

Last week I got this email from a reader:

I lived in Japan for two years and owned a "mid-size four door" called a Toyota Carina while there. The steering wheel's on the opposite side as in the States, but otherwise, it's 100 percent legitimate. Also, the "i" is pronounced "ee," unlike the bronchial branch. Just thought you should know.

Thanks, Ben.  Made me grin.

Seattle Post-Intelligencer story about the climb.

Profile of Captain Smiley.

Profile of First Lieutenant Salau.

Captain Smiley and First Lieutenant Salau were climbing on behalf of the Wounded Warrior Project and Camp Patriot.

We owe so much.

Here on our little patch, the chickens have landed.  Spent a big chunk of yesterday with my carp-shooting pal Mills tacking together a chicken tractor.  Then I swung by the house of my friends Billy and Margie to pick up a dozen chicks.  I'm not sure if they're still technically chicks, as they're about a month old, but they're just now transitioning from down to feathers.  This morning I turned the chickens out for the first time.  In Truck: A Love Story I said chickens were better than TV.  Lately I have said pigs are equally entertaining.  But it's gonna be close.  My wife and I stood there amused and transfixed watching the multi-colored birds scratching and pecking like they'd been doing it all their lives, even though this is the first time their feet have touched anything other than a cardboard box or wood shavings.  I tossed in a couple of angleworms and the carnage was immediate.

Thank you to Billy and Margie...they rigged up a brooder using a multicolored plastic wading pool to raise these chicks, and have just moved their dozen to a simple coop (well, it started simple...but that was before sixteen trips, a maxed-out corporate charge account at the local home improvement store, tin snip blisters, three coats of chicken-soothing seafoam green interior paint, chicken art hung above the nesting boxes (feng shui pour la fowl), full-blown electrification, sweat, more sweat, discreet (or not) cussing, blown weekends, blown karma, predator-fuddling fencing, and general overdoing it).  I just talked to Billy and caught him right in the midst of the Official Christening, featuring friends, lawn chairs and beer, all assembled to witness the Ceremonial First Raising of the Coop Door.  Well-earned, my friend.

Here are the chickens.  Here's the chicken tractor.  Also here.

The only thing those pigs like better than grape leaves is pigweed (we used to call it lamb's quarters).  They go crazy for the stuff.  We feed the pigs a lot of greens and turn'em loose to root and graze.  We've even planted sweet corn for them.  When the time comes and we've fed them the ears (and after canning some for us humans), we'll cut the stalks and feed them, then finally turn the pigs into the corn to dig it up for our garden next year.  Piggy rototillers, that's the plan.

We got the idea to graze our pigs from reading All Flesh is Grass, a book by Gene Logsdon.  I have only met Logsdon once, over dinner at book event.  He wrote about that meeting in his new book, The Mother of All Arts: Agrarianism and the Creative Impulse.  My thoughts about the book wound up on the jacket:

"In both the creation and deconstruction of art, a pitchfork is sometimes required. Farmer Gene Logsdon is well acquainted with the tool and can ply it--literally and metaphorically--with the best of them, but above all he is a gruff, good-humored philosopher well versed in the relationship between things earth and things ineffable. Reading him is like visiting over the fence."

Logsdon counts Wendell Berry and Willie Nelson among his friends - I'm just happy to have met him once and exchanged a few letters with him.  If you'd like a taste of his gruff good humor (he is not one to pull punches), he blogs here.

I also just obtained a copy of Gene's new novel The Lords of Folly, which was inspired by Logsdon's ten years as a seminarian.  It's beside my green chair atop the read pile.

I do not know if he endorses the whole grape leaves thing.

You can read the lyrics and listen to the song here.

Thanks to the good graces of several folks, we were able to stay at this beautiful spot...Lake Superior Michigan [there goes my geography grade, thank you Ann] out the front window, sandhill cranes in the lawn, and goslings at the dock.  Thank you Bob and Marianne.

But I save the biggest thank you of all for the unnamed captain of the Eyrarbakki.  By a fluke of timing, we were the only vehicle aboard.  The day was bright and calm, so the captain had time to visit, and now my seven-year-old daughter knows what it is to stand at the big wooden ship's wheel and traverse the strait they call Death's Door.  Oh, the look on her face.  Thanks, captain.  She's still grinning.

Before I left she and I weeded some of the sweet corn.  Half of it got flattened in a storm, we'll have to see if it straightens up.  Then we cut some fresh nettles and pulled a bunch of dandelions for the pigs.  Gave'em some old hot dog buns, too.  They like the dandelions best.  We also gave them a good scratch with the grass whip.  Wilbur liked his scratch so much his hind legs gave right out.

Finally, any time I get a review written by the Director of Planning and Engineering Services, I hafta link.  Just don't tell anyone I'm 42 now.

For the record, although you see a lot of mud and dirt, we're actually pasturing them and they have room to root and roam.  Oh, and we just bought half a van load of expired bakery goods, so they get fresh goodies every day.  I admit I ate the past-due doughnuts.

Thank you to everyone who wrote and is writing.  I get way behind on emails, but I read every single one I receive, and today's theme is Urology.

Oh, and if you think the kidney stone story was too personal, check this out.

Larger version here.

I am told that this Saturday, June 16, Michael Feldman's Whad'Ya Know? will be a re-broadcast of the show in which I discussed my kidney stone problems.  It got quite intimate.  For a minute there I thought Michael was going to unplug my microphone.  Locate a station here.

Then, on Sunday, June 17, three songs from "Headwinded" will be featured on KMSU's "Listen to Your Folks". Show airs at 9 a.m. CST. You can catch the live stream here (you'll want to click on "Listen Live").  You can sample "Headwinded" here.

It wasn't that high to begin with, as I began the day at 4:15 a.m. by changing a diaper, darling daughter waiting until the wet one was removed to pee one more time, all over me and the changing table.  I have been advised this is my bad, it's a timing thing.  She grinned with delight, and of course so did I.  They don't play fair, these little ones.

Out the window, sunshine on the velvet peonies.

I'd post some pictures of the pigs, but I don't want you to get attached.  It'll be hard enough for me as it is.  As my seven-year-old says, "They're names are Wilbur and Cockleburr, but one day they will be Ham and Bacon."

That's the reality of pork chops.  But for now they get new wallow mud every day (they roll and then go scratch against the feeder), all the slop they can eat, plenty of pig mix, room to excavate (they're plowing next year's garden plot), fresh nettles (we cut them with a scythe then toss them in the pen and they strip and munch the leaves with delight ... I don't know why they don't feel the sting), and -- whenever we pass by -- a good solid scratch with the pitchfork or a branch.  They love it.  Sometimes if you hit just the right spot they'll tip right over.

A photo from the story.  That white dot just off my nose is the barrel for the pig waterer.  Photo credit: Mitch Traphagen.

This is the back of the t-shirt:

Makes y'chuckle, but oh, so true...

But first I gotta go around in the dark locking up and hiding keys.  Because this guy is wandering not so far from here.  I have also double-checked the jackpine security system.  It is in fine working order.  I have no desire to use it.  Until all other avenues are exhausted, I am a chicken.

So that's a cheery little paragraph.

Oh.  Best tips I know for avoiding a collision with Odocoileus virginianus:

1. Aim for the butt.  In other words, steer toward the space the deer is vacating.  Did this just the other night and we missed by a whisker.  Or a bucktail.

2. Don't worry about the one in front of you, look for the one following.  That's the one yer gonna smack.

3. Don't swerve wildly.  Better to take your chances with grilled venison than to miss Bambi and wind up on your roof in the ditch -- or worse.

There y'go.  Morbidity and public service, all in one post.

Wow.  We got hammered with wind and rain last night, and more rain now.  It's good, the earth was dry.  I went out this morning and the soybeans had sprung up overnight.  We broadcast the soybeans in a patch beside the pig pen.  Plan is to turn the pigs in there later in the year.  We planted some sweet corn for the same purpose.  Rather than just graining them.  Might be naive.  We'll see.

We've had the pigs for a week or so now.  So far so good.  I really want chickens, in part because I have always maintained chickens are more entertaining than TV, but those pigs should get their own special.  One must constantly remind oneself that the pigs are playing a terminal role in our attempt to be a tad more self-reliant... 

But man, is it ever fun to take every single table scrap and leftover and rind and trimming and old potato out there and watch it converted to compost in under 24 hours.

A snippet of the song we were playing ("Could Be You") can be heard at CDBaby or iTunes.

This Saturday night the Long Beds and I will be playing here as part of this.  This is our first outside engagement for a while, hope I can remember all the words.  Maybe I should get a music stand, like Michael Stipe.  I once saw Joan Baez live and she forgot the lyrics to "Blowin' in the Wind."  It can happen.

I don't remember ever being in Philadelphia before.  Last night I walked two hours just so I could see this and this (sadly I wasn't able to get there early enough for a tour...but being within forty yards was powerful anyway).

You can read more here, where Ben Baalrud has the quote of the week: "We had a major problem with our plunger."

*Spare us the Trojan jokes, we had basically heard them all by the time we were in third grade - they probably oughta just print them up and hand them out at kindergarten roundup.

Then I'll be speaking to a bunch of librarians.  Or a horde of librarians.  A shelving of librarians?

Then it's back to diapers.  Changing them, that is, not wearing them.

Also, this Saturday: The New Auburn Area Fire Department Cabin Fever chicken BBQ.  Details here. [UPDATE: Some sort of weird linky-link thing happening, people are telling me this hyperlink goes to the wrong picture. I can't figure it out, because when I click it on my computer, in my house, it goes to the correct picture.  And that is where my expertise ends.  So: The chicken BBQ is Saturday, April 28, serving from 3-7 p.m. down to the fire hall.  1/4 chicken $5, 1/2 chicken $7, children eat for $3.  Slaw and beans and etc., also.  Punch and coffee.  Bars.  Last time I brought bars they were mistaken for roofing material.]

Maybe this link works?  Did you try clearing your cache?  Refreshing?  Turning the computer off and humming for a while?  I do that a lot.

            I first met Tim in the village of Great Wyrley , England , on a summer evening in 1984.  He didn’t say much, as his front teeth had been knocked out in a pub fight the previous evening.  We wound up hanging out for hours a day not saying a word, and have been fast friends since, visiting each other seven or eight times over twenty years.  The first time he came to America , I was in one of those stages where I had nothing to drive but the International.  We hammered all over the place.  My brother John took him out shining deer, and I taught him to shoot a rifle.  My grandpa took him fishing.  I have a snapshot from that visit, he and I leaned against the truck bed, me with a holstered pistol, him with a rifle across his chest.  He is wearing a hat John fashioned from a skunk pelt.  When we weren’t running, we hung out at my apartment, often going for hours without talking.  It is an easy friendship.

            Five years have passed since we saw each other last, but I spot him at baggage claim immediately.  Back in 1984, I was transitioning from feathered look to spritzed mullet, and Tim was stacking his hair high in a modified Thompson Twins mop.  Now his hair is going gray and mine is just going.  We are both showing some wear.  Lines in the face, fewer sharp edges.  But our common history keeps us young.  He grabs his bag and picks his way through the crowd and says, “O’rright, mate?”, as if we were meeting at the pub the same as every Thursday twenty years ago.  All this way just to see me married, and in the car I am overfull with gratitude, so full I try to express it.  He grimaces and looks out the passenger window, and mumbles, “No worries, mate, no worries.”  A two-hour drive home and we don’t say much more.

            Back in New Auburn, he grins to see the International refurbished.  We load it with food, thermoses and bedrolls and drive out into the country, deep into a heavily-wooded forty well off the road.  Parking at the end of the two-track, we hike deeper in, to this little shack I have.  Out here you rarely hear so much as a distant engine.  This is my stag party: Two old friends, talking some, catching up, but mostly just sitting quiet beneath stars that wrap all the way around the world.

Rest, Swiftie.

More in time.

Also listening to Clarence "Gatemouth" Brown.  A treasure.  Gone now, his house blown away by Katrina, he died a short while later.

Also in the shuffle: Innocence Mission, Dwight Yoakam, Shawn Colvin, Greg Brown, Kevin Bowe and the Okemah Prophets (featuring my amazing lap-steel-spanking friend Andy Dee) and, for dynamic purposes, Cinderella.

The biologist also said the bird may have had his tail frozen to the ground during a cold snap and may have had to shed the feathers to break free.  That's gotta burn.  Kinda reminds me of a story my mom used to tell me.

After we finished stacking wood and picking up the usual bits of yard garbage revealed when the snow retreats, we set up a small cold frame made from an ancient storm window and some castoff lumber and planted lettuce, radishes, and carrots.  Oh, and parsley.  We'll see how that goes.  Some of our garlic is already four inches tall.  The ground was heavily threaded with earthworms.

Then Fritz the dog (we are pet-sitting) found a dead rabbit and Amy spent fifteen minutes watching closely as the dog gnawed the rabbit apart and power-swallowed the whole works.  We are asked sometimes how we get along without TV.

The concert was a pure powerful pleasure.  When you come to someone's music after careful, repeated listenings to the album format, you wonder how the live experience will compare, and this show was all we hoped.  I keep trying to write it up here and I keep deleting what I've written because it's all so inadequate.  Maybe this will do: Certain artists create work for which your reaction extends beyond appreciation into the realm of gratitude.  Last night I was grateful for Patty Griffin and her work.

Now it's morning.  Sun up over the land, mud a lot of places, a cock pheasant calling in the yard.  He has been showing up a lot lately, and is plainly addled by love.  Good for him.

So.  I have written about the fact that the Beagle is pretty severely cross-eyed.  Sometimes people wonder if I'm being insensitive.  First of all, in the circles in which the Beagle and I travel, being insensitive is not a capital crime, and second chances are provided.  Goodness knows we need'em.  But if you really want to know how the Beagle feels about his eyeballs, have a look at this picture of his arm.

Griffin has a new album, and right now I am listening to "Up To the Mountains (MLK Song)".  Out my window the snow-thickened hills are brilliant with sun, the trees all bare and still.  "I could see all around me...," she is singing, and the piano is working stately chords over some good grounding bass clef and cello, and Griffin has this thing where she sings out strong then pulls back, and it isn't on the recording but beneath it all I can hear Dr. King preaching the night before he dies, see him with that weariness on his face and that sanctification in his voice, and Griffin is singing, "sometimes I lay down/no more can I do" and now I'm seeing Dr. King looking to that mountain, and beyond that mountain, and now Griffin is singing, "sooner or later, it's there I will go," and honestly, it's my kind of church.

I am able to share a couple of photos from my recent swing through southern Wisconsin.  First of all, as a kid who grew up lugging milk cans around the farm, I got a real charge out of this piece of firefighting equipment. 

I've also added new images to the Event Photos section of the photo gallery.  I have been asked to sign a lot of unusual things over the years, but this is a first. 

"If you knew anything about flying he would talk your ear off.  He used to bum flights from local pilots.  He never got a license himself, but somewhere along the line he bought an airplane that had been in a crash. The wings were damaged, and it wouldn’t fly, but the engine ran, and the prop was intact.  Herbie used to fire it up and taxi around his hayfield, happy as a clam.  If you wanted, he’d give you a ride.  In the winter he outfitted it with skis.  He went to visit the neighbors once, and the ski tips got caught under the snow crust.  Herbie climbed out of the cockpit and was kicking the skis free when he leaned forward and the prop snicked that earflapper cap right off his head.  He loved to tell that one."

Herbie's gone now, but when I drag that sled full of split oak destined to warm my little family for a day, I send him a quiet thank you.

Over there in Northfield, Minnesota, where Jesse James bit off more then he and his boys could chew, Jerry Bilek of the Monkey See, Monkey Read book store has posted links to three "live" excerpts of me reading from Truck: A Love Story.  This week Jim Fleming of Wisconsin Public Radio has been reading Truck: A Love Story on Chapter a Day.  If you missed an installment, you can listen here (I believe the archive goes back five days).

There goes the big orange snowplow truck.

We're on this farm now and with all the snow coming maybe I'll catch a chapter while plowing the driveway.  Listen to Truck in a truck, as it were.  Sadly, Irma has neither a plow nor AM nor FM reception.  Although sometimes she does rattle my fillings in such a way that I can hear old country music in my teeth.

Also, a couple folks emailed and said I shouldn't pay attention to folks who nitpick.  I appreciate your kind words.  However, as a guy who used to proofread for a living, I'm more fascinated than griped when folks point these things out.  So it's OK (as long as they don't do a snarky little sack-dance!).

- Truck: A Love Story p. 138 - First paragraph, last line, next to last word, there should be an "of" after that "either."

- Truck: A Love Story p. 157 - Last paragraph, fourth line from bottom, after the third word, there should an "a" after "once."

- Truck: A Love Story p. 206 - Second paragraph, fourth line, first word: "come" should be "came."  (Although colloquially we do tend to say, "He come to the door in his undies," it was not my intent in this instance).

- Truck: A Love Story p. 209 - Someone suggested I change "itch" to "scratch" in the second paragraph, and while they are absolutely correct, on occasion I reserve the right to talk like I was raised.

- Truck: A Love Story p. 226 - Third paragraph, fifth line.  The underlined "the" should be deleted from the sentence that currently reads "bagged is the not the term..." (begins with "remain") , next to last word, there should be an "of" after that "either."

- Truck: A Love Story p. 226 - Last paragraph, first line, insert "on" between "not" and "some".

A friend and I were talking about the work of splitting and stacking recently and he said his dad used to say homemade firewood "warms you twice."  My daughter is seven -- I predict by the time she is nine, "warms you twice" will make her Top Five Phrases Most Likely to Make Me Roll My Eyes at the Old Guy.

We love the subzero, though.  Gives us credibility and talking points.  Talking about the cold is a martyr's art. The key is to make sure the other guy goes first.  In other words, don't make the mistake of entering the cafe and announcing that your thermometer said eighteen below.  Guaranteed the guy at the other end of the counter will look up from his hash browns and say, "Well out at our place, it was twenty below!"  Y'gotta get the other guy to go first, then trump him by two degrees.

The DVD version of Into the Fire is also now available for sale.  A portion of proceeds go to support individual fire departments and the National Fallen Firefighters Foundation.  There's a neat feature on the order form that allows you to direct the proceeds to the fire department of your choice.

Anway.  Jay let me write a few, and I said he could use them on the air as long as I could still sneak them into my next book.  My people talked to his people, everything was cleared with the Queen Bee and the Bloomer mafia, and if you tune in now you might hear one of the following liners:

"If your first date involved a two-for-one coupon...yer one of us." 

"If your idea of day spa involves a beer hat and an inflatable wading pool...yer one of us." 

"If you gotta start a grass fire to locate your lawnmower...yer one of us." 

"If you've ever lost your wedding ring in a parts washer...yer one of us." 

"If you've ever lost your eyebrows while trying to smoke corn silk...yer one of us."  

"If you've ever gone ice-fishin' after a funeral...yer one of us."  

"If you've ever gone to a funeral just to check out the buffet...yer one of us."  

"If you ever got caught taste-testin' a salt block...yer one of us."

 "If you've ever used a piece of firewood as an emergency brake...yer one of us."  

"If you've ever cuddled on the porch in June, and kissed by the light of the....bug zapper, yer one of us."

Yep, yer one of us.

- Truck: A Love Story p. 22 - Third line from the bottom, fourth word from the right - "is."  That "is" oughta be deleted.

 - Truck: A Love Story p. 111 - Eighth line from the top, after the fourth word "trying" there should be a "to" inserted.

 - Truck: A Love Story p. 120 - Second paragraph, next to last line, the first word "therapists" shouldn't have that "s" at the end.

Really, this woman is amazing.  She found eight typos in all.  I'll list the rest later.  Gotta go help with supper.

This being my favorite gardening month of the year, thought you'd like to see what my garden looks like right now.

Yep.  A clinic.

- Truck: A Love Story p. 194 - opthalmoscope should be spelled ophthalmoscope.  I checked my original manuscript and I had it wrong in there, too.  This despite the squiggly little red line telling me it was mispelled.  I mean misspelled.

-  Truck: A Love Story p. 27 - sherbet is spelled sherbert.  In my defense, sherbert is deemed acceptable by the American Heritage Dictionary.  However, in the cookbook I cited, the spelling is sherbet.

(Those first two were shared with me by a nice lady I met at a reading in Wauwautosa, Wisconsin...I assume she'll notify me if I bungled Wauwautosa.)

One more for now:

-  Truck: A Love Story p. 215 - I refer to the "ten-day" Wisconsin deer hunting season.  A reader emails to remind me the season is only nine days long.  Wow.  That's close readin'.  A technicality to be sure, but a fair one.  Especially when you been skippin' out for deer hunting since third grade.  I excuse the New York City copyeditor for missing that one and shoulder all the dang blame.

OK, one more, because it's fun:

-  Truck: A Love Story p. 192 - I write of the legendary literary escort "Bill" and describe how he negotiated a rather tricky parking maneuver by slipping the bellman a "fin."  I ran into Bill out on book tour recently, and he politely but firmly pointed out that he had slipped the guy a sawbuck.  That's five dollars classier.

"Latest News" 2006 archived here.

"Latest News" 2005 archived here.

"Latest News" 8/14/1999 thru 12/09/2004 archived here.