#Five Stone Records/The Orchard

[slrmagazine]

Dylan Sinclair Returns with Fresh Alt-R&B Track "LEMON TREES"

Dylan Sinclair Returns with Fresh Alt-R&B Track "LEMON TREES". #dylansinclair @dylan_sinclair

R&B singer-songwriter Dylan Sinclair is making waves again with his latest single, “LEMON TREES,” marking the Toronto native’s first release of 2024 available to stream now on all digital platforms via Five Stone Records/The Orchard – LISTEN HERE. Reminiscent of early 2000s R&B, the song is inspired by Sinclair’s past year on the road. Dylan Sinclair shares, “I spent the past year on the road…

[lazyevaluationranch]

On a post about the Blue Haired Girlfriend's quixotic citrus breeding experiments, @voidingintotheshout​ asked:

I mean, if you wanted a hearty citrus relative, why didn’t you just grow Osage Orange? They can grow as far north as Michigan which is surely further north than anyone could reasonably expect to grow a citrus tree. They’re not edible but then hearty orange isn’t either. Osage Orange are so cool and such a interesting historical plant from the Shelterbelt era of American agriculture. Apparently they do smell like citrus.

This is part three of three. Part one. Part two.

Now you've done it! It's time for A Very Brief (But Also Insufficiently Brief) History of Twentieth Century Hardy Citrus Cultivation! Growing citrus trees this far north is kind of nuts, it's true, but I promise you it is not even close to the weirdest things people have done to grow citrus in places where the citrus doesn't think it should grow.

A note: This post will written using the Swingle citrus taxonomy system, including things that are definitely wrong. The citrus taxonomic tree looks like that one box of orphaned computer cords I keep moving with me to new houses "in case I need them" except some sort of adorable five-dimensional kitten has entertained herself with them and some of the resulting knots are not technically possible in our space-time continuum. 

The powers that be gave us citrus because nothing pleases them like seeing a geneticist cry.

1. The Migrant Trees

The Soviet Union wanted lemons for tea, and they wanted to be independent enough not to have to trade with anyone else to get them, which meant they wanted to grow their own citrus. That part of the world is not a great place to grow plants that die when the temperature goes below zero, but at the foundation of the Soviet Union, there were citrus orchards in the warmest part of Georgia, along the Black Sea. Specifically, there was about, uh, one and a half square kilometers of somewhat implausible citrus orchard.

Hang on, it is about to get way less plausible.

This is the great citrus migration: any tree that did well in one spot, they'd try planting its seeds a few kilometres further north, or a few kilometres further east. Prizes were offered for breeding hardier citrus. Slowly the orchards spread, but they were extremely weird orchards.

It's usually a few degrees warmer at ground level than up in the air, and there's way less wind. So as the trees grew, they were bent over and tied along the ground. Some of them had the central trunk run in a straight line along the ground, with branches spreading out from it like the leaves of a fern, like an espaliered tree on its side. Others were starfish shaped, with the central trunk looped down until it ended up next to the base, and the branches sprawling out along the ground from the centre like starfish legs. The citrus trees were no taller than particularly vigorous strawberry plants, but they survived the winters, and you could throw a blanket over them to help them stay warm.

None of that helped if the ground froze solid, so they needed Underground Citrus. You'd dig a ditch, down below the lowest area where the ground froze, and you'd plant flat Starfish Trees or Flat Frond Trees running along the bottom of it, too deep to freeze. In winter, you'd just cover the ditch with boards any time the temperature was expected to go below freezing - citrus would tolerate the lack of light, but not the cold. Mandarins (Citrus reticulata) seemed to do best, so that’s most of what was grown.

It is a nearly unimaginable amount of work to grow citrus this way, along the bottoms of pits and trenches. We are experimentally trying to grow a Soviet-developed mandarin breed of unknown parentage, Shirokolistvennyi, but we will definitely not be putting in that level of effort.

2. The Mixed Up Trees

There are a couple species of citrus that tolerate cold well, but taste awful. A lot of effort has gone into crossbreeding them with more edible citrus. The results are ... mixed.

The Ichang Papeda (Citrus cavaleriei) generally survives temperatures down to -18 degrees C. It is stoic and calm and has mastered emptiness. Unfortunately, it has mastered emptiness too well. The fruit smells like lemons, with maybe a hint of rose, but there's nothing to eat here. It has a rind and seeds. No juice, no flesh.

(Photo by Michael Saalfield)

The Ichang Papeda is the parent or grandparent to several delicious, extremely sour Asian citrus types. Yuzu/yuja smells like grapefruit and clean wet stones from the bottom of a fast-flowing stream. Sudachi smells like grapefruit and leaves with dew on them. (I haven't met kabosu or any other papeda hybrids personally, but they are numerous.)  They're all too sour to eat plain, unless you really need to turn your face inside out for some reason, but make for excellent flavouring. 

(We have a yuzu tree and a sudachi tree and they're surviving, but no fruit yet.)

Trifoliate orange (Poncirus trifoliata) can survive temperatures down to -30 degrees C. This may be partly because, uniquely amoung citrus, they can drop leaves in autumn or winter and regrow them in spring, like a maple tree. They also produce an internal antifreeze. They are angry, twisted, thorny little plants that yell swears when you walk past them. They make a great hedge. The fruit is furry, smells like flowers and pine trees and taste like burnt, bitter plastic. It may or may not be possible to breed the horrible taste completely out of trifoliate oranges without losing cold-hardiness, if it's due to their antifreeze chemicals. Here’s Stabby:

(Photo by Rob Hille)

Even the least terrible trifoliate crossbreeds are bitter enough to qualify as “acquired tastes.” There are recipes for trifoliate marmalade: put a dozen trifoliate oranges, a kilogram of sugar, and a kilogram of pebbles in a pot, cook until it gels, then sieve out the oranges and eat the pebbles. 

We are growing a trifoliate orange / minneola orange hybrid. And, of course, someday our own trifoliate hybrids. The Blue Haired Girlfriend planted 200 trifoliate oranges a couple years ago. There are fewer now, but the survivors have lived through two winters of snow and frost, and they might have somehow gotten more stabby. We're going to breed them, to each other or to less angry fruit, try and make something new and good from them.

I've limited this post to twentieth century hardy citrus breeding, but I have to give a shoutout to somatic hybridization, a decidedly twenty first century technique, where you take a cell from each of two different plants, remove their cell walls, put them next to eachother, and shock them with electricity until they merge into a single cell whose nucleus contains all genes from both plants. Then the new plant is like, "Wow, I guess these are all my genes? It seems like a lot, haha, but it's not like somebody made me from dismembered body parts and electricity, that is not how science works. Anyway I guess it's time to do some plant stuff now."

3. The Mutant Trees

In the 1950s, people started using radiation to randomly scramble the genes of plants. You'd irradiate seeds enough to change the genes somehow, and then you'd have to plant them to see what had happened. Maybe it was people horrified by the atomic bomb desperately wanting to find some life-supporting use for atomic fission, maybe it was government-supported cold war "atom bombs are good actually, look how many we have, USSR" propaganda. Probably both. 

This time period also saw serious plans for Orion, a spaceship with a huge metal plate for a butt, intended to be propelled by exploding atomic bombs under it, which I am not actually making up.

Thousands of people in Europe and the US signed up to receive seeds with random mutations in the mail, plant them, and report back on what they heck they grew into and if it had any useful weirdness. (The gamma radiation used to mutate the seeds did not make them radioactive themselves - the seeds were completely safe.) There were also more formal and carefully controlled university research programs in China, Japan, and the US, where plants where grown in a circular research garden with a coverable radiation source at the centre, so that the farther you got from the centre, the less radiation the plants got. Radiation breeding is less popular than it used to be, but Japan still has a very productive citrus radiation breeding program.

The most popular radiation-bred citrus is the "Rio Red" grapefruit and its offspring, which has a much deeper red than non-mutant red grapefruit.

There aren't many radiation-developed citrus breeds noted for cold-hardiness - with radiation you get whatever you get  - but there are a few, and I want one just because I think they're neat, a monument to that lovely human vision that looks at terrible weapons and somehow sees glossy-leaved trees with bright fruit.

4. The Monster Trees

Citrus are usually grown via grafting. That is, you plant a seed from a fast-growing sturdy breed, you let it grow roots and all that, and then you cut the top off and replace it with a branch from a more delicious breed. The two citruses grow together, and you end up with a tree that's disease and cold resistant in the roots, below the graft, but makes tasty fruit above the graft.

Occasionally, this process goes Wrong. 

The first recorded instance is the tree called Bizarria, discovered in 1640. Someone attempted to graft a sour orange branch onto a citron. But instead of a clean line between sour orange branches and citron roots, the graft was damaged somehow, and the two different species of cells got tangled and mixed through the whole tree. It has branches that produce citron fruit. It has branches that produce sour orange fruit. And it has branches that produce, uh ... these:

(Photo by Labrina)

Most graft chimeras are made accidentally, when the graft site is damaged. Trifoliate orange is often used as rootstock, so there are many reported chimeras involving trifoliate orange and a nicer fruit. The mixed-up cells can be arranged a lot of ways, but it's possible to have the outside layer of the tree be trifoliate orange, and the core of the tree be the other citrus (periclinal chimera). This means you could theoretically get a tree with frostproof trifoliate leaves and branches, but fruit that doesn’t taste like burnt plastic rolled in quinine.

This lucky monstrosity has, in fact, reportedly happened. Twice. There is the Prague Citsuma, discovered in a greenhouse in Prague and suspected to have been created by a Soviet breeding program. And then there is the Hormish, discovered in China and thought to have been made by frostbite messing up the clean lines of the graft. The Blue Haired Girlfriend has managed to track down budwood from the Prague Citsuma - I’m so excited! - so we'll see how the fierce thorny monster tree with a heart of gold, or at least heartwood of gold, does for us.

5. Conclusion

Humans have been trying to grow citrus trees where they don't belong for nearly two thousand years, at least since the Jewish Diaspora and people trying to grow holy etrog trees - trunks gnarled as barnacle stones and the whole tree scented like the best dream you can't remember - in Europe. Maybe longer.

The Blue Haired Girlfriend's citrus-breeding schemes aren't going to singlehandedly transform Canada into a net citrus exporter. But history shows us: it might be possible to have a little gleaming sweetness from the stony ground here, with the ravens and the fir trees and the auroras. A sweetness we made ourselves, that exists nowhere else. 

Or maybe we'll just have a bunch of weird inedible fruit. I don't know, but it's worth finding out, worth weaving together leaf and thorn and stone and the light of our hands as the years unwind. Worth it to have a quixotic project we can expect to spend decades on together, hands and hearts. This is how home is made, sometimes, with a balcony full of angry thorny little trees that shout swears at passerby.

[blueiscoool]

Very Rare 2,000-year-old Lilac Amethyst Stone Discovered in Jerusalem

The small lilac stone, featuring the engraving of a bird and a branch with five fruits, had fallen into the main drainage channel of Jerusalem from the Second Temple period.

A stunning 2,000-year-old lilac amethyst stone has been discovered in Jerusalem, including the first known depiction of balsam, a plant featured in the Bible.

It would once have been worn on a ring, and includes an unusual engraving of a bird and a branch from a plant bearing five fruits, according to experts from the City of David Foundation, who found it during excavations of the Western Wall foundations.

The branch engraved on the stone was from an expensive plant used to make perfume for the temple, and is featured prominently in the Bible and other records.

The temple was destroyed around 70 CE, and experts say this ring would have been dropped by someone into the drainage channel in the decades before.

The seal of the bird and balsam is what makes it stand out, as it is 'nothing like other seals used at the time,' and 'may be the first depiction discovered in the entire world with an engraving of the famous plant,' according to archaeologists.  

The plant featured on the iridescent stone is also known as the balsam tree or 'persimmon' and has the modern scientific name 'Commiphora gileadensis'.  

'Toward the end of the Second Temple period, the use of stone stamps expanded and became more common,' said Professor Shua Amorai-Stark, an expert in engraved gems.

'But in most stamps discovered so far with plant engravings, it is common to find plants that were common in Israel at the time: vines, dates and olives.

'But on this stone seal, we immediately noticed that the fruit that appears on it is unlike any of the fruits we have encountered to date.'  

As well as producing perfumes for the Temple, the plant was used in the production of incense, medicines and ointments.

According to the historian Josephus, Mark Antony gifted valuable persimmon orchards that formerly belonged to King Herod, to his beloved, Cleopatra.

Some commentators identify the persimmon in the list of gifts given by the Queen of Sheba to King Solomon.

This surprise discovery was found at the Emek Tzurim National Park operated by the City of David, where remains are sifted by archeologists and volunteers.

Participants were sifting soil from Israel Antiquities Authority excavations conducted along the foundation stones of the Western Wall, when they saw the 2,000-year-old tiny oval stone.

The seal is made of a precious amethyst, in a range of shades of purple and lilac, with a hole where a metal wire was inserted which was used to wear the stone as a ring.

The oval stone seal is just a third of an inch long, and despite its tiny size, includes two distinct engravings.

The first engraving shows a bird, probably a dove, and next to it appears a long, round, thick branch with five fruits on it, thought to be the  persimmon perfume plant mentioned in the Bible, Talmud, and various other historical sources.

'This is important because it may be the first time a seal has been discovered in the entire world with an engraving of the precious and famous plant, which until now we could only read about in historical descriptions,' sayid archaeologist Eli Shukron.

'The balsam plant is a positive symbol because beyond the fact that it was used to produce perfumes and medicines, was attributed magical and ceremonial properties and is one of the ingredients used for making the Temple incense during the Second Temple Period – which is when this seal was made.'

According to Professor Amorai Stark the dove is also a positive motif, as it symbolizes wealth, happiness, goodness and success.'

She said that the engraving on the seal attests to the identity of the person who wore the ring, suggesting its owner was a Jew with means.

This is because the production and trade around persimmon was tightly controlled at the time by Jews living in the Dead Sea basin, where the fruit was grown.

'I guess the owner of the seal was a man who owned a persimmon orchard, and when he came to the craftsman who made the ring for him, it is possible he may have brought a branch of persimmon so that the craftsman knew what to carve on the stone,' she explained.

Shukron added: 'The research that takes place around the finds allows us to get a glimpse into the daily lives of the people who lived in the days of the Second Temple, the glory days of Jerusalem.'  

[sisterofiris]

Everyday life in the Hittite empire

Have you ever wondered what your life would have been like if you had been born in central Anatolia 3500 years ago? No? Now that I’ve brought it up, are you curious to find out?

Well you’re in luck, because that’s just what this post is about. So sit back, close your eyes, and imagine yourself in Anatolia - that is, modern Turkey. Are you ready? Can you see the mountains, the red river and the towering buildings of your capital, Ḫattuša? Can you hear the chariots driving up the road? Can you feel the electric brewing of a storm in the distance?

Then let’s go.

(With a brief disclaimer: while I study Hittitology, this is not intended as an academic-level post. It was written to give general, approachable insights into Hittite culture and can be used as writing inspiration or to titillate curious history nerds around you, but if you’re writing an academic paper on the subject, I would recommend you check out the bibliography instead.)

About you

First things first, are you older than five? If so, congratulations on being alive. Child mortality in this place and time is very high, so you’re one of the luckier ones among your siblings. You probably have at least a couple of those; you may even have as many as six or seven, especially if you come from a well-to-do family with access to good healthcare. When you were little, your parents might have told you the tale of Zalpa, in which the queen of Neša gives birth to thirty sons then thirty daughters who marry each other, but you know this only happens in the stories - not to normal people.

When you were born, your parents rejoiced regardless of your sex, as sons and daughters are equally valued in your society (albeit for different reasons). Your father took you on his knee and gave you a good Hittite name: maybe Armawiya, Ḫarapšili, Kilušḫepa or Šiwanaḫšušar for a girl, or Anuwanza, Kantuzili, Muwaziti or Tarḫuzalma for a boy. Gender-neutral names, such as Anna, Muwa and Šummiri, would also have been an option. Many people around you have Hurrian or Luwian names, even if they are not ethnically Hurrian or Luwian themselves. (This is comparable to the modern popularity of Hispanic names like Diego, or French names like Isabelle.)

It’s hard to say what you would have done during childhood. While your earliest years would have been spent playing and babbling in grammatically incorrect Hittite, by the age of six or seven you may well have already started training in the family profession. If a girl, you would have been taught to weave by your mother; if a boy, you might have helped your father out on the farm, tried your hand at making pottery, or spent long hours learning cuneiform. (There may have been careers requiring gender non-conformity, as there was in Mesopotamia, but as far as I am aware this has not been proven.) You know that even the noblest children are given responsibilities - king Ḫattušili himself was once a stable boy.

Now, as an adult, you are a working professional contributing directly to Hittite society. You look the very portrait of a Hittite: as a woman, you have long, dark hair that you probably keep veiled, and as a man, your hair is around shoulder-length and your face clean-shaven. Ethnically, though, you are likely a mixture of Hittite, Luwian, Hurrian, Hattian, and depending on when and where exactly you live, maybe Assyrian, Canaanite or even Greek. There’s a fair chance Hittite might not actually be your native language. Still, you consider yourself a Hittite, and a subject of the Hittite king.

Well, now you know who you are, let’s get along with your day!

Your home and environment

Your day begins the way most people’s days do: you wake up at home, in your bed. As an average Hittite, you probably sleep on the floor rather than on elevated furniture. Your floor is either paved or of beaten earth, and your house itself has stone foundations and mud brick walls, with a flat roof supported by timber beams. Windows are scarce and small, to keep the indoor temperature stable.

Outside, the rest of the settlement is waking up too. Statistically, you live in a village or small town, surrounded by forest and mountains. Summers here are hot and dry, and winters cold and snowy, with spring and autumn being marked by thunderstorms. Most inhabitants work as farmers, relying on the weather for their survival. Contagious illnesses are a constant threat - under king Muršili II, the land suffered a deadly plague for twenty years - as are enemy invasions. If you live within the bend of the red river, in the Hittite heartland, consider yourself lucky; if not, your settlement could well be shifting from one kingdom’s property to another and falling prey to both sides’ raids on a yearly basis.

Admitting no enemy forces are in the area today, you take your time to get up. You might tiredly stumble to the outhouse to go pee. Eventually, you’ll want to get dressed.

Clothing

As a man, your clothes comprise of a kilt or sleeved tunic, with a belt of cloth or leather. As a woman, you wear a long dress and, if you are married, a veil. All clothing is made from wool or linen, and a variety of dyes exist: red, yellow, blue, green, black and white are all colours mentioned in texts. If you are rich enough, you may be able to import purple-dyed fabric from Lazpa (Greek Lesbos) or the Levant. You will also want to flaunt your wealth with jewellery, regardless of gender.

Of course, your shoes have upturned ends in the Hittite style. Historians will tease you for this. Don’t listen to them. You look awesome.

Mealtime!

It’s now time for one of your two daily meals (the other will take place in the evening, after your work for the day is done). This will be prepared at the hearth, a vital element of every home, and which is likely connected to an oven. The staple of your diet is bread; in fact, it is so common that “bread”, in cuneiform texts, is used as a general term for food. It is usually made from wheat or barley, but can also be made from beans or lentils.

Worried you’ll get bored of it? You needn’t be: your society has enough types of bread that you could eat a different one each day for a whole season. Fig bread, sour bread, flat bread and honey bread are just some of your options, along with spear bread and moon bread... yes, in other words, baguettes and croissants. (Something tells me the Hittites and the French would have a lot to talk about.)

You also have various fruits and vegetables available: cucumber, leek, carrots, peas, chickpeas, lentils, beans, olives, figs, dates, grapes, pomegranates, onions, garlic, and more. Your diet is completed by animal products, including cheese, milk, butter, and meat, mainly from sheep and goats but also cows and wild game. Honey, too, is common.

These ingredients can be combined into all sorts of dishes. Porridge is popular, as are stews, both vegetarian and meat-based. Meat can also be broiled and quite possibly skewered onto kebabs. And of course, food would be boring without spices, so you have a variety of those to choose from too: coriander are cumin are just two of them.

As for drinks, you can have beer, wine, beer-wine (good luck figuring out what that is), milk or water. If you’re well-to-do enough, you may own a rhyton, a drinking vessel shaped like an animal such as a stag or bull. Don’t forget to libate to the Gods before drinking your share.

Daily work

The next thing on your plate, after food, is work. What you do depends on your social status and gender, and most likely, you do the same work as your parents did before you. You could be something well-known like a king, priest, scribe, merchant, farmer or slave, but don’t assume those are all the possibilities; you could also be, for example, a gardener, doctor, ritual practitioner, potter, weaver, tavern keeper, or perfume maker.

It’s impossible to go into detail on every career option you would have in Hittite society, so for the sake of brevity, let’s just discuss four - two male-dominated, and two female-specific.

Farmer

As a farmer, you are the backbone of your society. You and your peers are responsible for putting food on the plates of Hittites everywhere, thus ensuring the survival of the empire.

Like many farmers, you live on a small estate, most likely with both crops (or an orchard) and livestock to take care of. You may own cows, sheep, goats, pigs, horses, donkeys, and/or ducks. Your daily routine and tools aren’t that different from other pre-industrial cultures, though you have it a little rougher than most due to the Anatolian mountain terrain. If you have the means, you hire seasonal workers - both male and female - to help out as farmhands, and you may own a few slaves.

You get up early to milk the cows, and at the onset of summer, you or a hired herdsman may lead your livestock up to mountain pastures to graze. Depending on the season and the work that needs to be done, you may spend your day ploughing the fields, harvesting grain or fruit, tending livestock, shearing sheep, birthing a calf, repairing the barn, or various other tasks. Make sure to take proper care of everything: new animals are expensive, and losing one could get you into a precarious situation. In particular, you’ll want to keep an eye out for bears, wolves, foxes, and even lions and leopards.

Scribe

Few people are literate in Hittite society, and you are one of the lucky ones. You have been learning to read and write in three languages (Sumerian, Akkadian and Hittite) since childhood, and after long years of copying lexical lists and ancient myths, your education is now complete.

As a scribe, you are the dreaded bureaucrat. In a small town, you likely work alongside the town administrator, recording tax collections and enemy sightings as well as corresponding with other towns, and with the capital. You and your peers are the go-to people for officialising marriage agreements and divorces, drawing up work contracts, and creating sales receipts. If not in the town administration, you could also work in a temple, recording the results of oracles, cross-checking the correct procedures for a ritual, and making sure everything necessary for a festival is available. If you are particularly lucky, you may be employed by the nobility or even the palace, and be entrusted with such confidential tasks as writing the king’s annals or drafting an international treaty.

Regardless of where you are, two things are essential to your job: a stylus and a tablet. You may be a “scribe of the clay tablets”, in which case you will need to carry around a bit of clay wherever you go (and some water to moisten it). Otherwise, you are a “scribe of the wooden tablets”, in which case you use a wax tablet in a wooden frame, which requires less maintenance. It’s unclear whether these types of tablet are used for different purposes.

Fun fact: you likely have a few pen pals around the Hittite empire. After corresponding with other scribes for so long, you’ve started writing each other messages at the bottom of your tablets, asking each other how you’re doing and to say hi to each other’s families. Your employers needn’t know.

Weaver

Weaving, to a Hittite like you, is the quintessential female activity, along with textile-making in general. Like farming, this is a backbone of your society: without weaving, there would be no clothes, and without clothes, well, you can’t do much.

As a weaver, you produce textiles for your family and in many cases also for sale. You work in an atelier within your home, along with the other women of the household, keeping an eye on your smallest children as they play nearby. While your husband, brothers or sons may transport and sell your handiwork, you are the head of your own business.

You are skilled in multiple weaving techniques, and can do embroidery and sew fabric into various shapes (including sleeves - take that, Classical Greeks). You create clothing for all sorts of occasions, including rituals and festivals, outdoor work, and winter weather, and if you are lucky enough to be commissioned by the nobility, you put your best efforts into clothing that will show off their status. Don’t try to cheat anyone out of their money, though; prices are fixed by law.

Old Woman

Contrary to what you might expect, you don’t need to be old to be an Old Woman - this is a career just like any other, though it probably does require a certain amount of life experience and earned respect. As an Old Woman, you are a trained ritual practitioner and active in all sorts of cultic, divinatory and magical ceremonies.

Most commonly, you are hired for rituals protecting against or removing evil. Your services may solve domestic quarrels, cure a sick child, or shield someone from sorcery (a constant threat in your society). This is done through symbolic acts like cutting pieces of string, breaking objects, and sacrificing and burning animals, which are of course accompanied by incantations - sometimes in Hittite, sometimes in other languages, like Hurrian.

Far from a village witch, you are high-placed in Hittite society and trusted by the royal family itself. You have taken part in major rituals and festivals, including funerals, and you perform divinatory oracles too. This last responsibility gives you a large amount of influence over the king and queen; if you establish that something should be done, then it almost certainly will be. Use this power well... or not.

Your loved ones

After a long day ploughing fields, writing tablets, weaving clothes or reciting incantations, it’s finally time to reunite with your loved ones. For adults, these likely - but not necessarily! - include a spouse and children. You may just live with your nuclear family, but living with extended family is also common, and there may be as many as twenty people in your household. Siblings, aunts and uncles, parents, grandparents, children and babies all share the evening meal with you, and some nights, you might gather afterwards to sing and dance, tell stories, and play games.

You also have relationships outside of home. Friendship is valued by Hittite society, with close friends calling each other “brother” and sister”. You might meet up with them regularly at the local tavern for a beer and a bit of fun. Someone there might even catch your eye... Interestingly, there are no laws against that person being of the same gender as you. So, same or different gender, why not try your luck tonight?

Greater powers

It’s impossible to spend a day in the Hittite empire without encountering religion. The Land of a Thousand Gods is aptly named: Gods are in everything, from the sun to the mountains to the stream at the back of your house to fire to a chair. You should always be conscious of their power, and treat them with respect. Though there are few traces of it, you may have a household shrine where you make libations or offer a portion of your meal. Your Gods may be represented by anthropomorphic statues, by animals such as a bull, by symbols such as gold disks, or even by a stone. Either way, treat these objects well; the divine is literally present in them.

You should also be wary of sorcery. Never make clay figures of someone, or kill a snake while speaking someone’s name, or you will face the death penalty. Likewise, always dispose of impurities carefully, especially those left over from a purification ritual (such as mud, ashes, or body hair). Never toss them onto someone else’s property. Has misfortune suddenly struck your household? Is your family or livestock getting sick and dying? These are signs that someone has bewitched you.

Some days are more sacred than others. You participate in over a hundred festivals every year, some lasting less than a day, some lasting a month, some local, some celebrated by the entire Hittite empire. The most important of these are the crocus festival and the purulli festival in spring, the festival of haste in autumn, and the gate-house festival, possibly also in autumn. The statues of the Gods are brought out of the temples, great feasts are held, and entertainment is provided through music, dance and sports contests. Depending on how important your town is, the king, queen or a prince might even be in attendance. All this excitement is a nice break from your regular work!

Sleep and dreams

Phew, what a busy day it’s been. The sun, snared in the trees’ branches, has set on the Hittite land, and you are ready for bed. Time to wrap yourself snugly in blankets and go to sleep.

You may dream, in which case, try to remember as much as you can. Dreams can be a vehicle for omens. Maybe, if the Gods are kind, you might catch a glimpse of what the next days, months and years hold in store for you.

Good night!

Bibliography

Beckman, Gary, “Birth and Motherhood among the Hittites”, in Budin, Stephanie Lynn, Macintosh Turfa, Jean, Women in Antiquity: Real Women across the Ancient World, Abingdon 2016 (pp. 319-328).

Bryce, Trevor, Life and Society in the Hittite World, Oxford 2002.

Bryce, Trevor, “The Role and Status of Women in Hittite Society”, in Budin, Stephanie Lynn, Macintosh Turfa, Jean, Women in Antiquity: Real Women across the Ancient World, Abingdon 2016 (pp. 303-318).

Golec-Islam, Joanna, The Food of Gods and Humans in the Hittite World, BA thesis, Warszawa 2016.

Hoffner, Harry A., “Birth and name-giving in Hittite texts”, Journal of Near Eastern Studies 27/3 (1968), pp. 198-203.

Hoffner, Harry A., “Daily life among the Hittites”, in Averbeck, Richard E., Chavalas, Marc W., Weisberg, David B., Life and Culture in the Ancient Near East, Bethesda 2003 (pp. 95-118).

Marcuson, Hannah, “Word of the Old Woman”: Studies in Female Ritual Practice in Hittite Anatolia, PhD thesis, Chicago 2016.

Wilhelm, Gernot, “Demographic Data from Hittite Land Donation Tablets”, in Pecchioli Daddi, Franca, Torri, Giulia, Corti, Carlo, Central-North Anatolia in the Hittite Period: New Perspectives in Light of Recent Research, Roma 2009 (pp. 223-233).

[whetstonefires]

an exercise in worldbuilding

It is always simplest to start from a point and move outward, and so we begin in the Tower of Sight, where our twelve-year-old hero will first find himself summoned into this world.

The Tower is four hundred feet high, gently tapered, with a circumference of two hundred feet at its base, and the top three of its forty floors are filled with brass telescopes of every size, pointing in every possible direction, including several that do not exist within the normal three dimensions of space.

To the West these many spyglasses overlook a wide plain, all the way to the horizon, golden at this time of year and frequented mainly by roving herds of grazing beasts, both wild and tame. In the half-league nearest the Tower, tall grasses give way to the narrow strips of tilled fields, where the grain stands tall, almost ready for the harvest. If any harvest will come.

Near the other side of the Tower of Sight, a stone’s throw from the eastern point of the outer wall, runs a great river, green when the sun does not strike it directly, except in the spring when its tributaries flood and it turns to churned brown. There was a bridge here once, though it is long fallen but for the stubs of its pilings on each end, and nowadays all crossings are by ferry.

A small town clusters on both banks, even so. The roofs are of red tile, the stucco of the houses painted in shades of blue. It stands empty, but has not had time to fall into disrepair.

More farmland, speckled with villages in the same style of tile and paint, with wells in the center where they are not built on lesser watercourses, stretches away to the east, but if you look through one of the telescopes turned that way you will see it give way to blue mountains. (If you look through an enchanted telescope you may see trees without needles fail halfway up the nearest of the great peaks, and even these fail before the top, though there is a span of nearly barren stone past that line, before the snow begins.)

The range of mountains curves, and you can see them with the naked eye toward the south, on a fine clear day. To the North they fall away into a gentler, older range, which cannot be seen by ordinary human sight from this place, but which wrinkle the land between the plain and the sea into rolling green hills. 

The green band of the great river cuts a sharp path through these after coiling its way lazily north over the flatlands, and spreads into an abbreviated delta full of sandbars which is generally considered a nuisance to navigate, though navigated it normally very much is.

There is a city there, the nearest one to the Tower; its outer limits have spilled up onto the hills, and its tallest spires can be made out with mechanical aid, but only one telescope in the place can cut through earth and stone to make out any of the doings of the city proper, and calibrating it to focus at a particular distance and not dismiss all solid matter is a tiresome nuisance, and only rarely worth the trouble.

The very brave and sure of foot can keep their eyes on the surrounding country all the way down the Tower, until their sight is cut off a few stories above the ground by the six shining white sides of the outer walls, because the most direct (if not the quickest) route between the ground and the great sky-searching telescope on the roof is a great spiral stair wrapping around the outside.

These stairs, like the outer wall and the tower itself, seem to be of marble, although a great enchantment must have been worked when the tower was raised for this to be so, because it is far stronger than any other marble to be found anywhere, and unlike marble statues erected in city squares has never suffered wear from the weather.

The wall and stair are of pure white, like the marble quarried in the much-contested eastern foothills of the Evrin Dulle, but the Tower of Sight itself is built of blocks veined with every color, pale blues and purples, reds and greens and golden-duns all mottling toward white and grey and black, as though its builders determinedly sourced their materials from every source of marble on five continents.

It is furthermore banded in three places with rings of solid color twenty feet high—first, nearest the ground, the warm pale red found in some of the ruins on the isles of Thassalen that is quarried nowhere anymore, and which no one knows where it came from to begin with, then the delicate even green still found in small quantities in the most seaward copper mines of the Farlon Barrens, and finally, nearest the top, the prized pure black found only in the village of Xemahan, some way inland from the Trident Coast.

The Tower is a beautiful and timeless construct of art, but our hero when he sees it from a distance for the first time will find the effect of so much color, triply striped and encased within a white spiral, slightly frenzied, and make a remark no one present understands about a Doctor named Seuss. His guide, the dousing tracker Amnaphi, will assume this person to be a famous astronomer from his homeland.

Within the even hexagon of its outer wall, the Tower encloses a great parkland, enough that if it was all put under cultivation it could easily feed as many people as could live in the Tower itself. And indeed, there are records that show the Tower of Sight was once incorporated as a town in just this way, before the Ten Years’ Winter.

For seven generations now the Tower has been held by the Watchers of the Stars, an order of wizards originally from the Duthwaithe, and they have kept it more as a retreat of contemplation than a working estate. 

The only gate, in the southern wall, leads the visitor up a broad avenue paved in glittering granite, lined with stately beech trees, and just beyond these to either side an expanse of grass is rarely allowed to grow tall, as a small herd of goats is unleashed upon it once a week. At all other times, under normal circumstances, it is a pleasant lawn, where in the warm months what students have come as learners to the Tower may be found attempting to attend to their star-charts and metallurgy texts.

Thirty minutes’ easy stroll brings the visitor to a small artificial lake that lies at the foot of the Tower; it is stocked with several varieties of edible fish, which are caught by line as a recreational activity, and regularly served at supper. The wizard Chanult Foi, who was magister of the Tower for twenty years until last month, devoted a three hour block of time to ‘meditation’ every week, which took the form of fly-fishing from the nearest curve of the Tower steps.

To either side of the lake, and the Tower itself, are gardens: to the east, vegetables and herbs are grown, often with more artistry than prudence. The students generally have charge of this garden, apart from the more esoteric herbs which are tended to by a specialist, and competitions of aesthetic routinely spring up, resulting in elegant spirals of onions and gorgeously ornate trellises for the benefit of beans.

To the west grow the flowers, many of them with magical uses but some grown purely for their beauty. Kings have been known to try to sway the Watchers to their side with the gift of a particularly fine or rare live rose bush.

The northern third of the Tower’s park contains neatly regimented orchards, apples, pears, plums, and a few rows of carefully tended peaches and apricots, all clipped flat against low brick walls angled south and slightly west. 

The brick absorbs the sun all day, and radiates its warmth back; fruit grown along fruit walls ripens faster and later into the season, and the peaches and apricots have survived every ordinary winter as a result, though normally they cannot tolerate this climate.

(For many years the proposition of sheltering some or all of the fruit walls behind glass, to increase their effectiveness, has been debated at the semi-annual colloquiums of the Watchers of the Stars; thus far it has always been rejected despite being rather more wizardly than simple fruit walls, which are not uncommon at these latitudes nowadays, because the space constraints of the current arrangement mean that the proposed design would require cutting down some of the existing trees and demolishing at least a few walls, and wizards, while enthusiastic about innovation in the abstract, hate change.)

The inside of the north wall itself is covered in grape vines. They were harvested three weeks ago, and pressed, but the wine-making process was interrupted after that point and the juice has all been drunk raw. There is currently considerable debate over whether the security risk presented by having a climbable side of the inner wall is serious enough to waste the potential food value of the vines’ future fruit by cutting them down.

The Tower grounds are filled with refugees.

The first to arrive were housed inside, battered survivors of the battle that killed Chanult Foi, bearing word of disaster. There was not enough space left after that for the river-straddling town of Meryn to all relocate to the Tower, so those who did not fit indoors set up camp around the rim of the lake—half clustered near the great doors and half in the partial shade of the last pair of beeches. 

This division corresponds imperfectly to the usual split of the town by the course of the Meroda.

More have come since. From the villages nearby, and a few further away, although the further from the river they live the less willing farmers are to leave the grain standing in the fields even if the news has reached them. A wave of people fleeing ahead of the advance of the Moon People along the northern coast, joined and followed by people from the city who had the will and means to withdraw, but could not get passage on a seagoing vessel west, and so turned their hopes southward to this fortress of wizardry. 

The lawns are now too trampled by human feet to have any extra substance for the goats, and the annual flowers have been crushed and the carefully tended bushes cut back in the flower garden to make more space.

So far the vegetable garden has not been uprooted, though it has been subjected to unsanctioned raids; one student has regretted aloud valuing beauty over efficiency at planting time, in the spring, when all seemed well. Makeshift pallets line the spaces between every fruit wall—the injured are being laid out here, now that the Tower is full, to get the benefit at night of the warmth meant to mature fruit.

Even the granite avenue is inhabited, now, although a corridor has been kept open to allow for what comings and goings remain necessary in the expectation of a siege.

The fishermen of Meryn, with additional labor sourced mainly from the nearby villages but also by delta and harbor-folk who liked their chances on the river better than taking their small vessels across the wide sea, go out every day to catch and smoke fish, and there are hopes that the advance of the Moon People will hold off long enough to let the year’s grain harvest be taken in.

With luck, care, and wizardry, everyone here should be able to survive the winter, if all the grain within sight of the walls can only be reaped and threshed and stored away.

(Space will be found for any herdsmen who, seeing the enemy advance, drive their beasts in to be slaughtered for the common pot; hope is being hung on this as well, although undoubtedly most of the plainsmen will rely on their own nomadic lifestyle to keep them out of the way and outside the focus of the Moon People, and will not come near settled habitation any time soon.)

This morning, the student standing north-sentry in the Tower of Sight saw a great column of smoke go up from the city of Tolphis, at the mouth of the Meroda. Magister Heron Yl Fanult, Chanult Foi’s successor, spent an hour carefully tuning the spyglass that can look through solid matter to confirm what they all knew: the Moon People had reached Tolphis, and sacked it in a day.

Half of them are making ready to turn south along the Meroda.

Fear is metal in everybody’s mouths. The ancient walls of the Tower will hold—should hold—they have always held before—the Tower of Sight has never fallen but by treachery or deceit, the enchantments laid in the ancient days are too strong…but the Moon People are the successors of the ancient magics, and just because they could not break the walls the last time they came, according to legend, does not mean they have not worked out a method now.

Everyone who has a weapon and the knowledge of how to use it keeps it close, as a comfort. Labors over the sharpness of the edge in the evenings, sometimes, when there is nothing else to do but sleep, and sleep will not come. People who have only the weapon and not the knowledge scramble to obtain the latter, and people who have the knowledge and not the weapon scramble to barter or improvise one.

Young wizards sit in their bunks, six each to rooms that were previously individual, and hold lighting cupped dancing in their palms. Practicing.

Outside, the blue hats and scarves of the townspeople and villagers mill about the edges of the lake, like floating petals caught in a swirling eddy. The people who retreated upriver from Tolphis can be found sitting still, today, because they are weeping. 

Those who fled along the northern coast ahead of the storm are a mixed lot, more grim than panicking because they are the ones who retreated this far alive, scattered across the park in smaller groups—some with their heads decorously covered, though not always in the blues that are customary along the upper Meroda, others with naked crowns of braids, or cleanshaven in the nautical style of Hedro, where fur hats are worn for warmth rather than courtesy, and long hair is considered a risk because if it gets wet it cannot be easily removed, and this can cause a fatal chill.

The hale survivors of the First Battle of the Second Descent sit waiting in their leathers, jack-chains and helmets laughably inadequate armor against the coming danger, and yet the best hope now just as they were on Carun Tol once the wizard fell; their wounded lie still, except for a few who have been taken with fever and thrash at the foot of an apricot tree, or a pear tree growing heavy with yellow fruit.

A wizard specializing in physic, the same one who has had charge of the powerful herbs these four years, bends over a man who has been deprived of half his left leg. The golden threads in her green kirtle that mark her focus and her rank flash in the sun as it begins to sink, and sweat stands out on her brow. Threads have escaped from the braids pinned across the top of her skull: she has not had the chance to take them down for two days. 

At the very top of the Tower of Sight, Magister Yl Fanult steps away from the telescope-that-looks-through-hills with a soft sigh. He makes his way around the circumference of the tower room to set his face into the viewplate of the great lens array of the roof, trained as it long has been upon the face of the moon. No change there.

He leans forward to peer through the narrow glass that has been turned on its articulated base to face the middle of the room, and relaxes very slightly. At least there has been no catastrophic alteration there, either.

He steps over the ring of silver set into the floor of the chamber. Lowers himself to one creaking knee and blows into the upraised spout of the ring of glass tubing inside of that, then hurriedly caps it, stands with care, and steps over that as well. He snaps his fingers for a spark that falls into the deep circular groove full of distilled spirits, and steps through that as well. He is not burned.

He bends another time and pours out the small copper pail of water he fetched himself from the well in the basement of the Tower, filling the final circle.

Steps over that, and pauses just long enough to breathe in.

At his feet lie a glittering piece of gold ore, a moonstone, and a carefully sanded round of pumice. Heron Yl Fanult lets the breath out again, and stoops.

He cannot take much time. He has only until the ring of fire dies.

[fumpkins]

Riverland's backyard fruit trees could be stripped to stop the spread of fruit fly

The Riverland’s fruit fly free status could be at risk following two new outbreaks of Queensland fruit fly in the region, which has extended fruit movement restrictions across the outbreak zone until at least November this year.

Key points:

The Riverland has five fruit fly outbreak zones, after two new ones were declared yesterday

The region’s fruit fly free status still stands, but it has been suspended in the outbreak areas

Local MP Tim Whetstone said backyard fruit trees could be stripped to stop the spread of the pest

South Australia is the only mainland Australian state that is classed as fruit fly free, with the Riverland identified as having a special pest free status within that zone.

Member for Chaffey Tim Whetstone confirmed the Riverland’s fruit fly free status still stands, despite five outbreak zones in the fruit bowl region, which include the two new ones announced yesterday.

One is at Berri, where maggots were found in a resident’s home grown fruit, and one at Pike River, where flies were found in a commercial consignment which originated from the area.

Backyard fruit trees could be stripped

Mr Whetstone said he was concerned about losing the region’s status as the problem keeps getting worse, and the majority of detections were coming from people’s backyards, rather than commercial orchards.

The Riverland’s fruit fly free status could be at risk since the region recorded five Queensland fruit fly outbreaks.(

ABC Open: Sonya Gee

)

“The only way to keep our status is to be more proactive. It’s going to add extra cost, there’s no doubt about that,” he said.

“I’m meeting with the minister this morning. We are going to consider stripping people’s backyard trees for the good of the region.

“It’s a bit of short term pain, but for our commercial reputation, for the Riverland’s reputation, we are going to have to do some hard decision making.”

The local member and former citrus and winegrape grower said the strategy for dealing with the outbreak was not enough and a more mechanised and advanced system needed to be considered.

“I think we need to lead by example. My personal view is we’re using 1996 technology. There’s better ways to eradicate and address this issue,” he said.

“We need to have a mechanised system. We can’t just fiddle around the edges with organic baits, because it’s clearly not working.

“If we aren’t going to do more, Queensland fruit fly will be endemic.”

Concerns around citrus as cooler months approach

Primary Industries and Regions South Australia (PIRSA) said it was confident in its fruit fly eradication measures, which will continue to be applied in the two new outbreak zones.

“We’ve been using these for a long time and they have proved time and again to be effective in eradicating outbreaks,” Executive Director of Biosecurity Nathan Rhodes said.

Queensland fruit fly eradication measures are continuing in the Riverland after two more outbreaks have been declared.(

Flickr Creative Commons: James Niland

)

He explained PIRSA’s focus on different host fruits will change as the season changes, with citrus to become the focus as the cooler months approach.

“Obviously citrus is more of an issue than stone fruit has been in the past. So we’ll be focusing around the movement of those sorts of host produce,” he said.

“It does in the short-term [compromise our fruit fly free status] … suspending it for the affected areas.

“We work with the Commonwealth on this space and our state trading jurisdictions, to make sure we can manage the movement of fruit fly produce.”

Riverland fruit fly council committee member and stone fruit grower Jason Size said the local growers will feel the pain, particularly those in the citrus industry.

Riverland Fruit Fly Council member Jason Size says the extended outbreak zones and restrictions will hurt other industries like citrus.(

ABC Rural: Grace Whiteside

)

“We were hoping that we weren’t going to end up with the over-winter outbreak scenario that we currently have…so that puts pressure on the citrus industry and others as well. That will hurt,” he said.

“We are in a unique situation where we have a few outbreaks happening at once, so that is a concern, but I think we do have a good track record of cleaning up these outbreaks.

“It’s something we’ve got to treat a bit more seriously, lose that complacency and look at our own backyard. My biggest concern is making sure we have the resources and staff to handle this problem.”

New post published on: https://livescience.tech/2021/08/02/riverlands-backyard-fruit-trees-could-be-stripped-to-stop-the-spread-of-fruit-fly/

[that-bi-bliophile]

So my friends and I have an ongoing collection of quotes that my crazy math teacher has said. We had our last math class today so I felt it would be a good time to share this. (I added some annotations so that it makes more sense to people who weren’t there)

                                                 Quotes by Mr. G

                                             -An Ongoing Project-

“Grizzly bear will never get reindeer, correct?”

“Health is good”

“I don’t know what planet you are from”

“Hey, build pyramids!”

“And Humperdink will be sitting at his lonely table” (I looked it up and there’s a song called Lonely Table by Engelbert Humperdinck)

“Power to the power, power to the people.”

“I like that you laugh, it means you are still alive”

“Don’t laugh because people around you are shaking.”

“Someone is laughing, it is not supposed to be like that.”

“You are so engaged, that makes you 19”

“I appreciate if barricades are taken off your desk onto the floor.”

“And fish becomes shark and eats copies.”

“Also, cover your tails”

During an earthquake drill: “Take these drills seriously” -Mr. Asdfghjkl’, “Also, take seriously mathematics” -Mr. G

“I thought it is a box”

“Lice, only in your brain”

“Welcome again to the same stream, but water is different.”

“No, there is no Mr. G.”

“Yes, Mr. G is here”

“Why are you sitting?”

“I am concerned about your grade, and your knowledge. Mainly your knowledge.”

“By the way, I like tables.”

“About geometry and your life.”

“I don’t know what you are digging”

“Kids; too many”

“Look China, look China, look China”

“What information shall we withdraw from China?”

“Give me two points India!” (These last three were from a thing we did graphing country populations by the way)

“Specifically in the mountains.”

“I am driving, Maxime, do you understand?”

“He is doing minimum, it is food for thoughts.”

“He is also a jumper, will you share what you see in the other world?”

“Mr. G often goes tangentially.”

“Ellie chose and very wisely!”

“Ladies and gentlemen, our train is approaching, silence, tunnel, please, or else explosion.”

“Goat leg”

“I will now burst with my anger.”

“Mr. G is standing on his head now.”

“Homework is a bridge.”

“Anita was a fox and Basilio lost his money: golden bars.”

“I feed you, you are a shark and sharks are biting everything.”

“Thank you for stretching, maybe you have the right.”

“Your teacher is Mr. G, I know him.”

“Don’t be scared, but some of you didn’t learn and you are going to suffer.”

“You are the first representative of a younger generation.”

“I am not poisoning you.”

“I am entertaining you. It is the afternoon.”

“Look at their information, it’s terrible!”

“Where comes two? Oh! From the ceiling!”

“I made a mistake, wait, did I?”

“They forbid me to go to school, they say they will arrest me.” (During quarantine)

“Stop with attention span, whatever happened, don’t pay attention.”

“Go, go, go, go, go, go!”

“Anastasiya, did you learn your fingernails very nicely?”

“We are all working, I don’t know what republic you are.”

“No big goose.”

“Now we have geese in the water, looking something.”

“It’s not a pack of wolves, okay?”

“It’s called an undisciplined guy.”

“It came because we were catching all big fish”

“Algebra: without algebra there is nothing in life.”

“You are like fish”

“Your brain will grow like a cabbage”

“O.M.G. Our mutual goal”

“Tongue rolling attitude”

“A gebra named al”

 “Knowledge shouldn’t be soft”

“Hands up, how many hands do you have?” Max says, “10.” (We have a theory that he’s an alien, he’s also said things like “blonde eyed, blue haired”)

“Only happy people watch a clock, because they want to extend their happiness.”

“Relax, feel in my classroom, at home.”

“Someone is running water.”

“In U.S. you have freedom and liberty” (Mr. G is talking about not finding the discriminant before solving.)

“Bacon, bacon, bacon, bacon, bacon, where is my bacon.”

“Alexa, turn off, Alexa will you turn off your music?” (Caused several other people’s Alexa’s to turn on over Google Meets)

“Dying, just relax guys, I’m not dying.”

“Tilda likes her boys like she likes her numbers, positive.”

“What’s up is here.”

CMC: “A score of 14 and over should be commended.”

Mr. G: “A score of 14 and over shouldn’t be commended in this classroom.”

(He told math team he expected us to get at least 26)

“Relley, you are number 7”

“Two minutes! It is too much time!”

“Sixth graders are like rabbits. They are always twitching, and each time you turn around there are more of them.”

“Only Mr. G can put flesh and blood into these skeletons.”

“In Ukraine, they call it the big bear, but here, you call it the big diaper.” (He meant the big dipper)

“Boo, did you do your homework?!” (We have a great recording of this one. We did it for our Spooky Room™ in advisory because his granddaughter is in my advisory)

“Sing the song!” (Then he ‘sings’ the quadratic formula on like one note)

“The textbook is your bible.”

“Shake your heads!”

“‘Good Morning!’ said Bilbo, ‘What do you mean?’ he said. ‘Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good one?’”

“Alessandra, you need a life.” (This was really odd for him to say a student shouldn’t just spend all their time on mathematics, a different teacher ran out of the room to tell people @ohnoimfangirlingagain)

“Tilda, you are good, not great, but good.”

“You are the best of the best.”

“You now owe me a Ritz box.”

“Any questions” -Mr. G, “Nope” -Student, “Okay, also not good because there should be questions”-Mr. G

“Like a magic wand.”

“Is anyone falling apart, is anyone under the table?”

“I can see behind the sofa, is anyone in the orchard, picking fruit?”

“Sending them out of the boundaries of the United States, oops out of the equation.”

“You are great specialist at this one.”

“Not president of the united states, but candidate for the equation”

“You are very good citizen of BPC school.”

“Guys tell me, difficult? Difficult in training or easy in battle taking test.”

“Extraneous root is like outside fish that we throw back to the sea because it is not the fish.” (One of my favorites. I’m making it bold so that it’s more visible)

“Relax, go under sofa or whatever is best place for you.”

“ZPP, not Zina.”

“Off we start”

“Alexa, I am not asking you, switch off, Alexa, Alexa, thank you.”

“Tangent tangent tangent secant secant secant secant tangent”

“You need to respond, it is why police respond.”

“Its been one minute, I will count one minute from our time.”

“He is doing simultaneously Step 1 and Step 2! I love you!”

*leaning in and whispering into the computer, so just one student will hear* “Can you hear me? Psst can you hear me? Turn in your homework!”

“Gabby, open your face.”

“You have 9 minutes to relax.”

"Examples, they are clear? Good color?"

"Who is joining shout?"

“Everything: Mr. G is doing everything thoroughly, digging, digging, digging. Where is digging?”

“Coming to this minus, says, ‘Hello!’.”

“The secret is easy: you don't do any stupid things.”

“I will introduce the basic things, and skeleton.”

“Margaux, show me your face. I have forgot already in two months.”

“Drink coffee, oops, tea... talk to your dog... make your cat happy... keep energy up.”

"Just take in your bloodstream"

“Why are you running in orchard, picking wegetables.”

“In many countries. In Ukraine, we had Chernobyl and stay at home, in Africa, we had disease outbreak, no tvs. Now. I am good at distance learning.” (He’s from Ukraine and also taught in Africa)

“See they are asking you? Did you get four? If you didn’t get four, you have a problem?”

“I know, I know, but they are more mistakes here, they are playing tricks, they are wrong.”

“Grudge on you, very big grudge on you.”

“You see, I am covering.”

“Don’t jump to conclusion, good teams don’t jump to conclusion. Now jump to conclusion.”

Anastasiya “Play ocean sounds for one hour.” Mr. G “You have to go somewhere?”

Cole plays music, Mr. G says “Not funny.”

“Seventh grade are all five, five musketeers.”

“We are 15 already which means someone else is here”

“So far, I am boxing you.”

“Herrings are little fish that Russians love, not Ukranians.” 

“In Zambia there are potholes in the road. So I would fill them in with gravel. Now we are going to do that with your knowledge.”

“Cinderella had to get peas from sand. And she shook the blanket. Use BUCK.” (He often tells us to shake our heads)

“Please guys, open your faces.”

“You are like little red riding hood: lost.”

“To my surprise, it is time to start.”

“Now it is time to collect stones.”

“What will you do in Europe?”

“I don't like that it’s excluded, because 2 will feel excluded.”

“Infinite algebra 1”

“I am back to discuss with you our problems.”

“What is secret about? You are canceling.”

“It’s like I am merging to highway.”

“Welcome to Ukraine, my friends.”

“I have plans for you, but you will always change plans.”

“Wow, it’s attacking me from all sides! Zina in the kitchen...”

“It's like avalanche or cabbage growing, I hope paper cabbage is still growing full of your energy.”

“Be cute enough to see.”

“Give me volume! Volume, volume, volume, volume, volume!”

“I wasn’t running with you… you know, fast?”

“Three trees doesn’t make woods.” (But in Chinese two do, just saying)

“So far you are free.”

“Is there anyone falling apart, under the table, please come out. I see you.”

“What should I say now? That it is too much work, sorry.”

“The last is seesaw problem. I am joking, I don’t know if I will show you today seesaw.”

“And I will be watching you now.”

“Do you want to talk about life? We are talking about life.”

"Don't touch 7th graders, they are like a hive of bees, you never know, they will bite you."

“You are late for the date with Mr. G.”

“Someone wants to join, no.”

“Someone is just troubling us.”

“Someone is just breaking my computer.”

“There is no problem, it is my invention.” 

I will miss his class a lot.

[chcrrypcps]

(m) korean names; mix n match

90+ KOREAN SYLLABLES to mix n match together to form names!

– common hanja meanings attached !  

**not all name meanings are listed & not all names have to mean something– some people just like the sound of them!\

(female version here!)

아 (ah)

兒 son, child, oneself; final part

亞 second

我 our, us, my, we

牙 tooth, teeth; serrated

芽  bud, sprout

雅 elegant, graceful, refined

안 (ahn)

安 peaceful, tranquil, quiet

案 table, bench

眼 eye; hole

岸 bank, shore, beach coast

顔 face, facial appearance

배   (bae)

北 north, northern

配 match, pair; equal

杯 cup, glass

輩 generation, lifetime

korean for pear

백 (baek)

白 pure, white, unblemished

百 one hundred

범   (beom/bum)

犯 criminal; to commit a crime

凡 ordinary, common

비  (bi/bee)

秘 secret, mysterious

悲 sorrow, grief; sorry, sad

飛  fly, go quickly

卑  humble, low, inferior

肥 fat, plump; fertile

丕 grand, glorious, distinguished

빈  (bin)

彬 cultivated; well-bred

분 (boon/bun)

芬 perfume. fragrance. aroma

憤 resentment, hatred

보  (bo)

保 protect, defend, care for

寶 treasure, jewel, precious, rare

普 universal, widespread

補 mend, fix, repair, restore

甫 begin, man, father, great

輔 protect, assist

복 (bok)

福 happiness, good fortune, blessings

卜 fortune, prophecy

馥 fragrance, scent, aroma

변 (byun/byeon)

變 rebel; change, transform, alter

卞 excitable; impatient

차 (cha)

茶 tea

差 different, wrong

초 (cho)

草 grass straw herbs  

哨 whistle, chirp

焦 burned scorched; anxious vexes

천 (cheon/chun)

千 thousand

天 sky, heaven; celestial, god

川 stream, river

泉 spring, fountain; wealth money

淺 shallow, superficial

賤 cheap, worthless

철 (cheol/chul)

鐵 iron; strong, solid, firm

哲 wise, sagacious; wise-man, sage

대 (dae)

代 replacement

臺 tower, lookout

貸 to lend, borrow, pardon

다 (dah/da)

多 much, many

茶 tea

도 (do)

道 path, road

島 island

都 elegant refined

徒 disciple, follower

桃 peach; marriage

悼 grieve, lament, mourn

동 (dong)

棟 support beams of a house

東 east

冬 winter; 11th lunar month

洞 cave; grotto

童 virgin; child, boy

銅 brass, copper, bronze

凍 to freeze, congeal

언 (eon)

言 words, speech, speak

彦 elegant

은 (eun)

銀 silver, cash, money, wealth

恩 kindness, mercy, charity

隱 hidden, secret

殷 abundant, flourishing; many, great

誾 respectful

고 (goh/go)

古 old, classic, ancient

苦 bitter; hardship, suffering

固 strength; solid, strong

孤 orphan; solitary

故 ancient, old

枯 withered, decayed

국 (guk/gook/kuk/kook)

國 nation, country

菊 chrysanthemum

규 (gyu/kyu)

叫 cry, shout; hail, greet, call

하 (ha)

夏 summer

河 river, stream

荷 lotus, water lily

해 (hae)

海 sea, ocean

害 harm, destroy, kill

희 (hee/hui)

喜 joy, love

希 rare; hope, expectations

稀 rare, unusual

姬 beauty

熹 warm bright; glimmer

禧 happiness

화 (hwa)

火 fire flame; burn; anger, rage

花 flower, blossoms

和 harmony, peace; peaceful, calm

嬅 beautiful

禍 misfortune, calamity, disaster

혜 (hye)

慧 bright, intelligent

현 (hyun/hyeon)

賢 virtuous, worthy, good

炫 shine glitter; show off, flaunt

玄 deep, profound

호 (ho)

呼 sigh, breath, exhale

好 fine, excellent

戶 family, household

護 to protect, guard, defend, shelter

胡 reckless, foolish; wild

虎 tiger; brave, fierce

豪 brave, heroic, chivalrous

昊 sky, heaven; summertime

皓 bright, luminous; clear

祜 blessing, happiness, prosperity

환 (hwan)

煥 shining, brilliant, lustrous

患 suffer, worry

歡 joy, happiness, pleasure

換 substitute; change, exchange

幻 fantasy, illusion, mirage

일 (il/eel)

一 one; alone, singular

日 sun, day, daytime

인 (in)

麟 female chinese unicorn

人 people, mankind, man, population

仁 humane; benevolence, kindness

認 to recognize, know, understand

寅 respect, reverence

忍 endure, bear, suffer

재 (jae)

才 talent, ability

災 calamity, disaster, catastrophe

財 wealth, riches

宰 to slaughter; to rule

栽 to cultivate; to care for plants

장 (jang)

長 leader; to excel in

奬 prize, reward

腸 emotions; sausage, intestines

障 shield, barricade; separate

丈 gentleman, husband

墻 wall

樟 camphor tree

자 (jah/ja)

子 child, offspring; fruit, seed

資 property; wealth

慈 kind, charitable, benevolent

紫 purple, violet; amethyst

磁 porcelain

지 (ji/jee)

地 earth, ground, soil

紙 paper

志 determination, will

智 wisdom, knowledge, intelligence

池 pool, pond

진 (jin)

珍 precious, valuable; rare

眞 genuine, real, true

주 (ju/joo)

晝 daytime, daylight

朱 cinnabar, vermilion

酒 wine, spirits, liquor

宙 time as a concept

洲 island

珠 precious stone, gem, jewel, pearl

준 (joon)

駿 noble steed;

俊 handsome; talented, capable

遵 honor; obedience

峻 stern; high, steep, towering

濬 deep, profound

정 (jung/jeong)

正 right, proper, correct

情 emotion, feeling, sentiment

程 journey, trip

精 essence, spirit

征 invade, attack, conquer

靜 gentle, quiet, still

淨 pure, clean, unspoiled

貞 loyal; virtuous pure

晶 crystal; clear, bright, radiant

汀 beach, bank, shore

禎 good omen, lucky

종 (jong)

終 ending, finale

宗 lineage, ancestry; ancestor

鍾 glass, goblet, cup

鐘 clock; bell

縱 to indulge in

강 (kang)

疆 boundary, border, frontier

强 strong, powerful, energetic

康 peaceful, quiet; happy, healthy

剛 hard, tough, rigid, strong

鋼 steel; hard, strong, tough

姜 ginger

기 (ki/gi)

麒 legendary auspicious animal

汽 steam, vapor, gas

器 receptacle, vessel; instrument

奇 strange, unusual, uncanny

機 machine; moment, chance

起 to rise, stand up; to begin

棄 to reject, abandon, or discard

忌 jealousy, envy; fear

欺 to cheat, deceive, or double-cross

祈 to pray; entreat, beseech

飢 hunger, starvation, famine

冀 to hope for; wish

岐 majestic

璣 a pearl that's not quite perfect

琪 a type of jade

琦 gem, precious stone, jade

氣 spirit; air, steam, vapor

記to remember, record

基 strong foundation, or base

技 skill, ability, talent

경 (kyung/kyeong/gyung/gyeong)

敬 respect, honor

輕 light, gentle

警 guard, watch

鏡 mirror, glass

卿 noble

炅 brilliance

瓊 jade; rare, precious; elegant

민 (min)

閔 mourn, grieve

憫 pity, sympathy

敏 clever, smart

旻 heaven

玟 gem

문 (moon/mun)

門/ gate, entrance

文 literature, writing; culture

명 (myung/myeong)

命 life; destiny, fate, luck

明 light, bright, brilliant

冥 dark, gloomy; night

나 (nah/na)

奈 bear, endure

남 (nam)

南 south

오 (oh)

五 five

午 noon

惡 evil, wicked, bad, foul

傲 proud, haughty; overbearing

嗚 sound of crying, sobbing; sound of sadness

娛 pleasure, enjoyment, amusement

汚 filthy, dirty, impure

烏 crow, raven; black, dark

리 (ri/li/lee/ree)

李 plum

梨 pear

림 (rim)

林 forest, grove

사 (sa)

四 four

使 messenger

死 die; death; dead

士 scholar

思 think, consider, ponder

師 teacher, master

私 secret, private, personal

絲 silk, fine thread

:沙 sand, pebbles

蛇 snake

詐 trick, cheat, swindle, feign

邪 wrong, evil, vicious

唆 mischievous

상 (sang)

上 top, superior, highest

賞 reward, prize

傷 wound, injury

常 common, normal, frequent

象 ivory; elephant

喪 mourn

祥 happiness; good luck, good omen

裳 beautiful

霜 frost; crystallized

서 (seo)

西 west

庶 numerous various

徐 composed, dignified; quiet, calm

恕 forgiveness; mercy

誓 swear, pledge, promise, oath

석 (seok)

夕 evening, night, dusk

石 stone, rock, mineral

惜 pity, regret, rue

昔 ancient

奭 red; anger

碩 great, eminent; large

선 (seon/sun)

瑄 ornamental jade

仙 transcendent, immortal

善 good, virtuous, charitable, kind

鮮 fresh, new; rare

璿 fine jade

璇 star; beautiful jade

성 (seong)

晟 clear bright; splendor

城 castle; city, town

誠 sincere, honest; true, real

聲 sound, voice, music

聖 holy, sacred

盛 abundant, flourishing

星 a star, planet

승 (seung)

勝 victory

承 succeed

乘 rise, ascend

昇 peace; rise, ascent

신 (shin)

辰 early morning

信 trust, believe

新 new, fresh, modern

神 spirit; god, supernatural being

晨 early morning, daybreak

辛 bitter

시 (si/shi)

矢 vow, swear, promise

時 time season; age, period, era

施 grant, bestow, give

詩 poetry

屍 corpse

소 (so)

消 vanish, die out, melt away

笑 smile, laugh

素 white silk

昭 bright, luminous

蘇 revive, resurrect

슥 (sook/suk)

宿 constellation

淑 good, pure, virtuous, charming

수 (su/soo)

樹 plant, tree

守 defend, protect, guard

收 gather collect; harvest

秀 refined, elegant, graceful

壽 old age, long life

殊 different, special, unusual

태 (tae)

颱 typhoon

太 very, too much; big; extreme

態 manner, attitude

殆 dangerous, perilous

怠 idle, negligent

泰 great, exalted, superior

兌 cash, money; to exchange, barter

胎 fetus, embryo, unborn child

특 (teuk)

特 special, unique, distinguished

와 (wah/wa)

瓦 pottery

왕 (wang)

王 king, ruler, royalty

旺 prosperous; prosperity

위 (wee/wi)

位 throne, rank, status

偉 great, robust, extraordinary

危 dangerous

威 power; powerful; dominate

慰 calm, comfort, console

衛 guard, protect, defend

違 disobey, defy, rebel; be different than

尉 officer, military rank

원 (won)

源 spring

園 garden, park, orchard

原 beginning, source, origin

願 to wish, ambition, desire, want

怨 hatred, enemy, resentment

苑 park, garden

瑗 a ring of fine jade

媛 beauty; a beautiful woman

우 (woo/wu)

友 friend, companion

牛 cow, ox, bull

雨 rain; rainy

優 superior; excellent

宇 house, building, structure

愚 stupid, foolish

憂 sad, grievance; grief, melancholy

羽 feather, plume; wings

佑 to help, bless, protect

祐 protection; divine intervention

욱 (wook/ook)

頊 grief, anxiety

旭 brilliance, radiant

昱 dazzling, bright light, sunlight

煜 bright, shining, brilliant

郁 sweet smelling; rich in aroma

운 (woon/wun)

運 luck, fortune

雲 clouds

云 clouds

芸 art, talent ability; rue (herb)

야 (yah/ya)

夜 night, dark

野 open country, wilderness, field

惹 irritate, offend

열 (yeol/yul)

烈 fiery, violent, ardent

劣 bad, inferior

연 (yeon)

然 promise, pledge

燃 burn; ignite

緣 karma, fate

戀 love, long for, yearn for

燕 swallow (bird) ; comfort, enjoy

蓮 lotus, water lily; paradise

漣 flowing water; ripples

영 (yeong/young)

永 perpetual, eternal, forever

英 petal, flower, leaf; brave, hero; england, english

令 commandant, magistrate

領 neck, collar; leader, guide

映 to reflect light

榮 glory, honor; to flourish or prosper

寧 serenity, peace; peaceful

嶺 mountain ridge, mountain peak

影 shadow, reflection; photograph

泳 to dive, swim

詠 sing, hum, chant

零 zero; fragment, fraction, sliver

靈 spirit, soul

瑛 crystal, gem

盈 full, overflowing

이 (yi/ie)

二 two; twice

利 gains, profit

李 plum

易 change

異 different, unusual, strange

梨 pear; opera

泥 earth, mud, clay

怡 harmony, joy, pleasure; to be glad

용 (yong)

龍 dragon; symbolic of emperors

勇 brave courageous fierce

容 looks appearance; figure, form

庸 common, ordinary, mediocre

傭 servant; to hire, employ, charter

溶 overflowing with; to melt, dissolve

熔 to melt, fuse, mold

瑢 gem ornaments, usually used for belts

유 (yoo/yu)

柳 willow tree; pleasure

遊 wander, roam, travel

柔 soft, gentle

維 maintain, preserve

裕 rich, abundant, plentiful

劉 to kill, destroy

육 (yook/yuk)

六 six

율 (yool/yul)

栗 chestnuts, chestnut tree

윤 (yoon/yun)

潤 soft, moist; sleek, fresh

尹 govern, oversee, direct

胤 heir, successor

[anxiousboyo]

Chapter one: normalcy

Virgil woke up the same way he always did, with the sun. He changed into his purple tank and blue jeans with his black and purple jacket around his waist. He jumped out his window and landed on shadow, his horse. Then, riding out into the apple trees, he whooped, feeling alive.

He rode like that for a while until he started over to his friend Patton’s farm. He rode in, knowing he had an open invitation. “Hey Pat!” Patton looked over and smiled, his dirt-smudged face lighting up. “Hiya Virgil!” “Morning ride?” Patton’s smile only grew. He ran to the stables and mounted garnet, his loyal maroon-brown horse and rode up. “Definitely.”

They raced through their families’ shared orchard, smiling and whooping and loving life. Their horses, just as alive, powered through the rows and rows of trees, nickering in delight. The two boys heard a familiar neigh, and glanced behind them.

There they were. They urged their horse to catch up to the two boys. They joined them in whooping. It was Avigeal(av-idge -eel) or AV. “HEYYYYA! I RIGGED IT SO I CAN RIDE WHILE I HEAL!!” They yelled, riding their favorite horse, Null. Sure Null was thin, but dame did she have speed.

About a month or two back, the three of them had gone berry hunting in Avigeal’s orchards. They had gotten attacked by wild horses and Avigeal had tossed Virgil out of the way of Null, who was untrained at the time. They had broken a rib doing so, but said it was worth it anytime anyone asked. They had been healing and training Null since, and hadn’t been able to ride until then.

They rode for about twenty more minutes before heading back to Patton’s place. By that point, Null had started to act up, so Avigeal had gone to drop Null off at home with Patton. They came back with Pat on Sandy, a sand colored horse with an attitude, and Avigeal on Quiver, a white horse who was so shy, she couldn’t even gallop in front of horses other than Shadow and Sandy.

They arrived at Patton’s parents’ farm and Quiver bucked in fear. Avigeal, who was experienced in this, held on to the reigns tight and comforted the shy horse. “Shhhh, Quiver, it’s okay! You have me, Virgil, Patton, Sandy, and Shadow with you!”

The horse calmed and whinnied in fear. “You want me to walk you in?” The horse nodded. “Okay! We can do that!” She dismounted and led the horse in by the reigns.

“AVI! You seem well!” Patton’s brother, Deciet (Janus) yelled. Avigeal was the only one he talked clearly to. “I can ride again!” Avi yelled back. Janus’s face lit up. “No way! That’s amazing!” He mounted his noble steed, slither, a confident horse who tended to nip, and rode over. He hopped off and enveloped Avigeal in a hug, then kissed their forehead and checked their rib.

Apparently while they were healing, they had been painting more landscapes. Virgil learned this when they pulled out a sunset painting that was so realistic it could’ve been a photograph. Virgil had no idea how they did this, as the sun disappeared quickly in sunsets where they lived. They then admitted (while hanging up the painting in Janus’s room, since it was his turn to get one.(also while sitting on said snek boi’s shoulder)) that they were able to capture an image in their head, focus on it, and recreate it. Janus has smiled at this and said, “follow me.”

Around seventeen minutes later, they stopped. “If I could make a request, I’d like for you to paint something for the famILY room.” Avigeal nodded curiously. He smiled and his flicked his tongue out like a snake. “Sit there.” He pointed to a clearing in the leaves. They obliged, and he sat down in front of them. He put a small stone on their thigh and clicked his long fingernails against it. “Close your eyes. I’ll tell you when to open them.” They nervously obliged.

Moments later, a weight landed on their lap. He continued to tap the stone, but now there was a rattling noise. They stiffened. “Relax. I would never hurt you.” Avigeal loosened and whispered, “I’m trusting you. I haven’t not seen in years. You know what happened.” He sighed and kissed Avigeal’s cheek. “All too well. Now shush. I don’t want the risk of you getting bit.” They felt his forehead against theirs. He slid his fingers from their cheek to near their eyes. He gently caressed their eyelids, signaling them to open.

What they found when they did, they wanted to paint right away. Janus was playing with three or four baby snakes that he had set in their lap. The mama laid in his, and seemed to trust him. Avi’s eyes shone slightly with lavender energy, and as far as Janus knew, that meant they were taking a picture. He was dumbfounded when they looked up at him, but grinned anyway. It was small, but it was there.

“Open your hands like this,” he started, cupping his hands in demonstration. They followed, and he gently put one of the babies in their hands. They looked like they were gonna shriek. “Too fa-?””can I pet them!” He glanced at their face. Grinning from ear to ear. They thought it was SO cool that they were holding a baby snake. “Sure. Just take your finger aaanndd...” he gently grabbed their hand and stroked the baby with their pointer finger. “Ooooohhhh!” They breathe-squealed. He had no idea, but they were recording the entire thing in their mind for later, when they’d paint it. He smiled again until he felt eyes on him. He looked up from the baby, which he had been carefully putting back in their lap, seeing them smiling in a trance-like state. “Earth to Avi?” He chuckled. They shook their head and looked around, blinking. “S-Sorry! I-I...” “it’s alright, Avi. Just means you like my smile.” He was taken aback when they nodded. “It’s...picturesque.” They mumbled, looking up to a confused Janus face. They sighed and rolled their eyes. “Like a picture or a painting. It’s pretty, or unusual or inspirational or otherwise and is like a great artist painted/ took a picture of it.” Janus nodded thoughtfully. “So like you?” They made a choking noise and covered their face with both hands. “Did I do something wrong?” They parted their fingers to look at him. “I-it’s just that... in that context,... it’s used as a pickup line...” Janus looked confused at first, then covered his mouth and nose with his hand. “S-Sorry...” “Nah... ‘s fine...” Janus then stared into their eyes. “I don’t show everyone this... so far just you and a friend of mine named Remy.” They smiled. “We should be heading back.” They nodded. He gently started lifting the snek babies off their lap. After he put the mom down, he led them back out of the grotto.

He whistled for their horses, and only slither came. “Huh?” “Quiver is too shy to run in front of other horses.” They looked ashamed. “It’s cuz I trained her for private rides.” He smiled. “Better hold on then.” They smiled in return. “I love a challenge.”

They rode across the plains, just having fun. He made slither buck them off at the farm. They landed on Quiver, and came galloping over the fence. They then rode to the race track. They shouted encouraging words to Quiver and the horse sped up to at least five times as fast as she was before. Her rider shrieked with delight again, urging her on. She whinnied competitively. Slither nickered back. Their riders were saying something to each other. They ripped from the starting line with such speed it even startled their riders. She saw shadow. She couldn’t let him down. He’d supported her for years. It was her chance to prove it. She ripped into first. Her rider shrieked again. She powered forward until her rider stopped her. She slowed to a stop instead of stopping abruptly like slither. Her rider got off and fed her an apple. She heard a breathless “Good girl!” from her rider. She nuzzled them and nickered. Water. Her rider needed water. As if by magic, a water bottle appeared in the air. Her rider caught it and drank from it. Good. She trotted over to the water trough triumphantly. Slither was there, and boy, was he pissed. She bumped hips with him to get him to smile. He did. “Look.” She whinnied. Their riders were talking. “So in love.” He hissed, as he often did. “Why don’t they kiss already?” Slither nickered. Sandy sputtered, offended. “Humans don’t work that way! It takes time! It took me MONTHS to get my rider to kiss Valiant’s!” “Will you shut UP about valiant?! Day in, day out it’s valiant, valiant, valiant! Can’t you focus on ANY OTHER HORSE?!” “No! Valiant is amazing! What other horse is there to talk about?!” “Oh, I don’t know, rotten, brownie, majora, Camden... need I continue?” Sandy fell silent. “Look, sand, I’m sorry. It’s just- you know I don’t like him. Or at the very least don’t trust him. He’s so full of himself I’m scared he’s gonna break your heart.” He looked away in shame. “Slithie?” She nickered. He shamefully glanced at her. “Love you, bro bro.” “Love you too.” He whinnied.

“Wow. Didn’t know Quiver had that kind of speed. You must’ve trained her well!” “Yeah, well... it wasn’t TOO hard...” they smiled anyway. He chuckled. “Wanna get to painting?” They nodded, giggling. He led them into his room and grabbed a rather large canvas by their request. They giggled and said “I’m gonna need you to pose. Don’t worry or complain. It’s an easy one.” He quickly found that she needed him to recreate the crisscrossed position he had been in when he was playing with the snakes. He wondered why.

They started to sketch with a familiar-looking pencil. He recognized it as the pencil he had given them a few years back.

They noticed he was staring and turned the pencil so he could see ‘property of snekboi’ carved into the side. They saved it for sketching on canvases to get a basic design. He blushed (from embarrassment) when he realized the face changes were messing them up. He chuckled, the smile returning.

Ten minutes later, they told him he could drop position. He came up behind them and hugged their waist to his. “Dame, Avi! That looks amazing!” Avigeal smiled and replied with, “it’s only amazing cuz you’re amazingly patient with me. I must’ve redone the smile at least forty times.”

The painting was a masterpiece by Janus’s standards. It was of the moment he put the baby’s snek in Avigeal’s hands. From what he could tell of the sketch, they were gonna put some sort of fade on the edge of the painting leading in. Most of the pencil lines were smudged, suggesting a blurry appearance, but the ones on his face, his hair, their hands, and the snek were all fine and detailed.

“Avi, can I ask about the choice of blurring some things but not others?” Avi smiled as they mixed paint. “It’s to draw attention to the correct things. I don’t want someone to look at it and say, ‘wow! What a detailed background!’ I want them to say ‘what a sweet moment! Such an adorable snake and the detail of the smile, wow!’” Their smile faded. “I want to make something that your mom can look at and know that you won’t be alone when you get your own orchard. A moment, a memory that will make all the difference. something she can look at and smile. I want to give her a piece of your soft side, like you do.” Janus looked at Avigeal’s face. “Like I never got to.” They added. Their mom had died the previous summer and it was going to be their first year without some form of parent. He squeezed Avi’s waist. “Whenever you need a mom, a famILY, a whatever, you can come over. We’re here for you, Avi. We got your back. You’re not alone in the grief of losing Angela, but I swear, if you ever need a piece of her again, please, please, please, come over here. We’ll be your famILY.” Avi dropped their paintbrush onto the easel and turned to hug him. “There, there, Avi. I’m here. Ain’t nothing gonna happen to ya when you’re in my arms, okay?” They nodded into his neck, sobbing softly. They turned around again after a while.

They picked their paintbrush up and dipped it into the muddy green colour, dragging it loosely across the canvas. They continued like that with lime green near where they’d put streaks of sunlight, forest green for the foliage around them and so on.

When they got to the edges, however, they had mixed up a lavender-ish colour and had started to apply it, tainting the colour with green, and effectively dulling it. “Why’d you do that?” Janus asked. “It’s how I saw what happened. I was recording.” They admitted before turning to sandy yellow to start on the sunlight and scales of the snek.

A while later, and the painting was almost finished. They had opted to sitting instead of standing the entire time, and Janus had chosen to sit behind them, his arms still firmly around their waist, but not uncomfortably so. He had closed his eyes long ago, and they were glad he didn’t see them put the small white heart sun-sparkle thingies into his hair. He would’ve flipped. Patton and Virgil have checked in several times by then, and it was looking amazing. It was missing something though. They smiled and picked up the light violet paint.

Forty minutes later, they smiled at the result of their hard work. Janus had fallen asleep on their shoulder, although his grip never faltered. They had already let it dry, and gently shook Janus’s arm. “Wake up, Jay. I want you to see before I hang it up.” He opened his eyes lazily. “Hmm?” “The painting, silly! You must’ve been tuckered out, buddy, you fell asleep right on my shoulder!” Janus rubbed his eyes, letting go of Avi’s waist for the first time in and hour and forty-five minutes. He stretched and hugged Avi, being careful of their rib, and stared at the painting in awe. “Wooow...” he subconsciously breathed. Avi never failed to surprise him when it came to their paintings, but this was a whole other level. The moment was captured perfectly. His smile was slight and you could just barely see a hint of it, while the droplets of sweat on his forehead and in his hair reflected how hard he had been working. His calloused hands were perfectly represented in the painting, and he couldn’t believe the amount of detail in the flower crown he was wearing. The snek’s scales looked rounded, and everything had so much dimension it looked like a picture. Their glossy black nails, the stone on their thigh, it was all there. He smiled fondly.

“So...I’m guessing you like it?” Avi asked. He nodded breathlessly. Avi blushed. “I’m glad. I think there are a couple things I messed up on, but other than that, I agree.” With that, Avi stood up and picked the painting up, Janus following closely behind.

“Heya y’all!” Avigeal’s voice rang out along the track. The two guys rode over and dismounted. “Finished the painting! Whatcha think?” Verge’s eyes widened and his mouth gaped while Patton practically melted. Either way, they both loved it. “Speechless. Told ya, Avi!” “That you did, Jay, that you did.” They remarked.

Two reactions later, and the painting was hung up. “It’s really...wow! Thank you Avigeal!” Janus’s mother squealed. “Ain’t no big thing! Just a painting of a moment I wanted to remember.” They trailed off, listening for something. “The princes are coming!” Avigeal yelped. “Gotta go! Good seeing y’all!” “Bye Avi!” Janus yelled after them.

Chapter two: the princes’ visit.

They rode Quiver back to their farm and grabbed the basket of berries and pony they planned to show whatever prince was left, as their farm was out-of-the-way and hard to reach if not on horseback. Each of the farms would advertise what they had in stock, and try to impress a prince. Avigeal and Virgil’s farms were the only ones who didn’t sell to princes yet. Rumor had it that three princes, including prince Logan of Logos(Patton’s boyfriend), were coming to review farms and see what farms they might want to pick up or drop depending on what goods were in demand. Avi had been preparing for weeks, and Janus had helped them practice their speech. They were ready.

Around half an hour later, Avigeal spotted the princes. When they stopped, Avigeal bowed and started their marketing speech. “Hello, princesses, princes, and non-binary royalty. My name is Avigeal Ouruka and I’m a non-binary masculine berry farmer. My pronouns are they/them/he/him. I market a variety of fresh berries and offer training for these fine animals we know as horses. I also offer painting services, as I am able to capture images in my mind and recreate them.” They held up one of their sunset paintings and displayed it, showed the princes how they had trained the horse, and finally let them try some freshly picked blackberries, before starting the mandatory orchard tour with Quiver as their choice of horse. “My family’s farm has never used pesticides. We use a safe mixture of lemon juice, water, and vinegar to shoo away the bugs. We do not endorse the hunting of deer or fruit bats, and have made parts of our orchards into safe havens for these animals. I’m afraid we have a work force of one, as my mother passed away last summer. I’m lucky to have the support of nearby farmers who care and help to pick every once-in-a-while. I sense the question of how I have been without my mother, and I have been alright thanks to a friend who has kindly offered to lend me his family.” This caused a small eruption of chuckles. “There we go! Now that we got some laughs in here, let’s loosen up a little! I’ll tell ya ‘bout how lucky I am we’re even on this tour. Quiver baby! The normal route, if you will.” They asked. The horse stopped, and Avigeal dismounted. “Something wrong, sunshine?” The horse nickered and nudged their ear. “You’ll have to pardon Quiver, she’s rather shy.” Avigeal started as they mounted. “She’s a lil nervous due to the stiff behavior and mannerisms of y’all’s horses. It’s not y’all’s fault, it’s just that no horse here acts that way.” The princes nodded and smiled, gently patting their horses to tell them to relax.

“You seem to be a friendly, laid-back individual, Miss Ouruka.” “Please, call me Vee. And yeah, I’d say. I don’t like being uptight, cuz I feel the more comfortable you are in an environment, the more of you ya show, and the easier it is to make friends!

“Anywho we really are lucky we’re on this tour. Doctors had me fearin’ I’d miss it. Around two or so months ago I was out harvesting berries with my pals when out of nowhere a herd of wild horses came barreling through the orchards. One of them was about to hit Virge, who I believe you’ve already met, and I jumped in front of him. The horse hit me right in the rib, and ‘m afraid it broke.

“still trained ‘im though, and he’s a mighty fine steed. Null, his name is. I’m lucky cuz just today I was told I can ride again. Horses, that is.” The princes erupted in laughter, Logan included.

“We’re reaching the end of our tour, sad to say, but there’s one more place I believe it’s important to show you.” They took the reigns and turned down a pathway surrounded by willows. A singular cherry tree stood in the center. “I’ll have to ask you to dismount. It’s not visible from horseback.” Vee said remorsefully as they dismounted. The princes did the same. They laid out a blanket and motioned for the princes to sit next to them. Once sitting down they saw a glass coffin containing a beautiful woman which was carefully placed inside the trunk of the tree. “That’s mumma. Angela. A real saint, she was. Taught me how to love when surrounded by hate.” A deer fawn peeked out from behind the tree. “Heya, fella! Where’s your family?” The fawn slowly moved closer to Vee until its head was in Vee’s hand. They stroked the fawn’s coat. “You got a buck or doe somewhere?” They stood up and led the fawn back to the group it was in.

While Vee was gone, the princes read about Angela. “She sounds like a wonderful mother.” Prince roman of amour remarked breathlessly. “Dame straight.” Vee sighed. “She was amazing. Still! She lives on inside me and in the stories of her i tell to my friends. The same stories I’ll tell to my kids and grandkids one day. So there ain’t no reason to dwell on it. She had a bad illness. I’m glad she died from nature’s mercy shot rather than humanity’s. She died from a poisonous berry. It felt bad, giving her it, but she thanked me, so it...hurt less.” Vee kissed their fingers and pressed them to the white wooden border of the coffin. “Love ya mom.” They said. “Rest in peace, lady Angela.” Prince Kaleo of kaua announced while kneeling before the coffin and lowering his head. The two other princes honored her in their own ways, with Prince Logan lowering his head, lifting it and smiling fondly, and Prince Roman simply giving a fond farewell while touching the coffin with his fingertips. Vee seemed slightly shocked. “T-thank you.” They stuttered, bowing. “It’s only customary to honour the dead where I’m from.” Prince Kaleo shrugged. “And I’m sure she was a lovely woman and remarkable mother, if your behavior is anything to go off of.” They nodded. “We should get going-“ Vee was cut off by Prince Kaleo kissing their cheek gently. They jumped. “I should’ve warned you.” He mumbled. “My humblest apologies. I was merely cheering you up as a part of the tradition for when one loses a loved one.” He explained. “Shucks, there’s no need for that! Ya just caught me off guard! I’m fine. But seriously, let’s start heading back.” They chuckled while mounting Quiver. “Ah, yes, indeed. My father will be wondering where we are.” Prince Kaleo announced. They started heading back.

They reached the gates at the front and went back to the display they had set up. Prince Logan spoke up first. “Your painting skills would be much appreciated by the people of Logos.” “I’m open every weekday for painting requests, although four to five in the evening on Wednesdays is when I visit mom’s grave.” “Your mother died?” King Bane of kaua inquired. “‘M afraid so. Last summer, it was.” King bane dismounted and kissed their cheek as well and started to explain, however, Vee stopped him. “With all due respect, your son has already explained this to me, sir.” “Well then, let’s see what about your farm interested him.” He exclaimed, friendly as ever. “The berry services would be great for the people of Kaua. They could be eaten raw or dried.” “I work on berry picking every Tuesday and Thursday, so you’ll get deliveries every Sunday.” Vee exclaimed. “The fine aminal- animal training would also be beneficial, as the children of Kaua want to ride horses their size, but no ponies are trained.” Vee stifled a giggle. “ I’m open whenever, as we make appointments for them. No more than fifteen per week, or I’ll have three appointments in one day.” Vee smiled. “All very acceptable conditions!” King Bane exclaimed. “Finally, the people of amour would benefit from the horse training as well, as the children are wishing that it wasn’t just wooden horses they were riding, but instead real horses, and we have no trained ponies.” “You have heard the conditions for this service. I thank you kindly for your time. Enjoy the rest of y’all’s day!” Vee exclaimed happily. “Farewell, Vee.” “I bid you adieu, Vee!” And a simple wave from Prince Kaleo.

Chapter three: jealousy

When Avigeal rode back over to Patton’s farm, they could hardly contain their excitement. The second they were off Quiver they were almost knocked over by Janus tackle-hugging them. “Did you see Prince Logan!” Avi smiled. “If you mean the flushed pink of his lips or the obvious hickey on his neck then, no I didn’t.” They joked. “Aaaahhhh! We did it! Listen, I know you didn’t see it and you weren’t here, but right in front of everyone! They just...kissed!” “Speaking of just kissed, did you know that it’s customary for the people of Kaua to kiss a person’s cheek when they lose a loved one?” Janus got a look in his eye. “No...why.” “Just thought it was interesting.” They talked for a little while, walking through the orchards. Prince Roman’s name was brought up and Virgil jutted in with a quick “him? Yeah, I guess.” When they were questioning whether or not he was hot. The banter continued until...”...are you okay?” Left Avi’s lips. Janus looked strange. “Just fine...” although he didn’t seem fine. “Are you sure?” “Mmmhmm...” He then fell, completely limp, onto Avi’s chest.

Chapter four: sick

Janus was out of commission. Apparently, he had overworked himself when he built the stands for everyone in the neighborhood. Avi offered to nurse him to health at their house, as the Hart-Raven farms were already packed. The Harts reluctantly accepted, since their evidence was solid. The Harts promised to visit at 4:00 pm every day until he was better.

Nearly a month passed, and Avi had finally reversed it. They hissed as the magic shot back into them. They had forgotten to stop sharing magic with Janus when they left, so Janus had been harboring the magic of jealousy. It was a poisonous magic, and Avi knew they were the source of it. Janus’s rage has been at Prince Kaleo and at himself. Kaleo for possibly stealing Avi, and himself for doubting them.

They finished drawing the magic out of him and pulled back. A full hour. They sighed and rubbed their sore jaw. They had been drawing magic from him like a vampire draws blood... for an hour. They sighed and stood. What a month. “Dame. Couldn’t keep your hands off me, huh?” Avi whipped around. “Janus!” They shrieked. “You’re okay!” He frowned. “Of course. Also, I apologize for the way I grabbed your attention...” “I don’t even care anymore! I thought I lost you to my own magic!” They sobbed. He pulled them up and onto his lap, stroking their hair. “What? Avi, how long have I been out?” They choked out another sob at the nickname before answering with a soft whisper of “A-b-bout a m-month...”. Janus’s eyes widened. “Aviiii...” he cooed, stroking their hair as they cried into his shoulder. He kissed their temple and sighed. “It’s okay, Avi, it’s all gonna be alright now, y’hear?” They nodded slightly, drying their tears. Janus smiled softly. “Now listen here, Avi. I don’t want you falling into a bad mindset cuz somethin’ bad happened. Angela always said to focus on the good, right? Well here’s somethin’ good. I’m okay. You’re okay. Everything’s alright and you even got yourself a couple deals on your farm! Ain’t that worth smilin’ about?” He asked softly. Avi took a deep breath, letting a genuine Cheshire Cat-like smile spread across their face. “Indeedy-do, Janny!” They giggled, drying their tears.

[sonofhistory]

Could you tell a little bit about the childhoods of Ben Franklin and John Adams?

I already did Benjamin Franklin here. 

John Adams was born in Braintree, Massachusetts in the house immediately adjacent to his own future home. He was baptized in the church where his father was a deacon. Adams was rather proud of his descent of a “line of virtuous, independent New England farmers.” Braintree in his childhood was a quiet village and recalling from his childhood later in life, Adams wrote of the unparalleled bliss of roaming the open fields and woodlands of the town, of exploring the creeks, hiking the beaches, “of making and sailing boats … swimming, skating, flying kits and shooting marbles, bat and ball, football … wrestling and sometimes boxing”, shooting at crows and ducks, and “running about to quilting and frolics and dances among the boys and girls.” The first fifteen years of his life, he said, “went off like a fairytale.”

Adams was born and raised in a five room New England simple home. It was built in 1681 and had a strong built massive brick chimney. It was made oak with inner walls of brick and an exterior pine clapboard. There were three rooms and two great fireplaces at ground level, and two rooms above. A narrow stairway was against the chimney. The windows have twenty-four panes and wooden shutters. There were outbids and a good size barn to the rear, fields and an orchard. The house was “fenced” by a stone wall. From June to September, the heat upstairs bedrooms could be murderous but in the winter, even with a fire going, everyone remained in dress while any water left upstairs turned to ice. 

As one of the Adams line would write, “A hat would descend from father to son, and for fifty years makes its regular appearance at meeting.” About his mother, Adams would have little to say, beyond that he loved her deeply (it is possible she was illiterate). She was his “honored and beloved mother” and that she was a highly principles woman of strong will, strong temper and energy–all traits he shared. Of his father, however, he spoke incredibly often. He showed an immense gratitude for the kindnesses his father had shown him and admiration he felt for his father’s integrity. His father was “the honest man” Adams ever met. “In wisdom, piety, benevolent and charity proportion to his education and sphere of life, I have never known his superior,” Adams would write later. His father was his idol. It was his father’s honesty, independent spirit and love, Adams said, of which of his life long inspiration. 

Early on, his father noticed his son’s intelligence and decided he must go to Harvard–in order to study ministry. Deacon John, his father, had little education and all though he wrote in a “clear hand” had “an admiration” for those who were. Taught to read at home, Adams then attended lessons with a handful of other children in the kitchen of a neighbor. Later, he went to the tiny local schoolhouse and was subjected to a teacher who paid him no attention and he lost all interest in his studies. He cared not for books or study and saw no sense in talk of Harvard or college at all. 

He informed his father he wished to become a farmer. “That being so,” Deacon John replied, his son would come with him to the creek and help him cut thatch. According to Adams, whenever he would tell the story, father and son set off the next morning and “with great humor” his father kept him working through the day. At night at home, he said, “Well, John, are you satisfied with being a farmer?”. Though the labor had been difficult, he answered “I like it very well, Sir.” His father replied, “Aya, but I don’t like it so well: so you will go back to school today.”

After Adams confided in his father about the teacher, he was enrolled the next day in a private school down the road where he was greatly kindly by a schoolmaster named Joseph Marsh. There, he made a dramatic turn and began studying. Cicero’s Orations because one of his most prized possession. At the age of fifteen, he was pronounced “fitted for college” and Harvard was his choice. Marsh, himself a graduate, accompanied Adams to Cambridge to appear before the staff. However, on the morning, Marsh said he was ill and John went on by himself, terrified. At Harvard he was granted a partial scholarship. 

The Harvard class of 1755 was numbering twenty-seven and was under Joseph Mayhew who taught Latin. Adams worked hard and did well at Harvard while being particularly attracted to math and science, taught by his favorite professor John Winthrop. Among one of Adams cherished Harvard memories was on a crystal night he went to the rood of Old Harvard Hall and gazed through Winthrop’s telescope at the satellites of Jupiter. He enjoyed his classmates and made several close friends while there. “I read forever”, he recalled. 

He lived in the “lowermost northwest chamber” of Massachusetts Hall, sharing quarters with Thomas Sparhawk who only distinction at the college came from breaking windows, and Joseph Stockbridge who was notable with his wealth and his “refusal to eat meat.” The regimen was strict and demanding, the day starting with morning prayers at Holden Chapel at six and ending with evening prayers at five. The entire college dined at Commons, on the ground food of Old Harvard. Each student was required to bring their own knife and fork! 

When college was over, and he’d graduated Harvard, he found himself as a village schoolmaster in Worcester. Once, the records shows, Adams was fined three shillings, nine pence for absence from college longer than the time allowed for vacation or by permission. Otherwise, he had not a mark against him. He appears neither to have succumbed to gambling or “wrenching” in the taverns. Adams was fourteenth of twenty-five who received degrees, his placement due to the fact that his mother was a Boylston and his father was a deacon. Otherwise, he would have been among the last on the list. 

Childhood of John Adams from birth to age eighteen. 

[cat0620]

Knowledge about farm & garden

1. Sights of farm & garden Chteau de Grand-Arnsberg, constructed at the beginning of the 12th century to protect the imperial city of Haguenau. Chteau de Ramstein, constructed in the 13th century by the Falkenstein nobility.

the church of Saint Catherine, transformed into a Protestant church in 1571 and reconstructed in the 17th century. the marker/milestone near Schmalenthal, dated from 1605. Delimits the old borders of the county of Bitche.

The calvary (in French, a small figurine of Christ on the cross) near Frohnacker, dated from 1790. The tomb of Philippe Hirtz, an ironworker from Mouterhouse, dated from 1868. the Chapel of the Immaculate Conception, built at the end of the 19th century, which is a place of pilgrimage every May.

The bird observation post, the best place to discover the fauna of the Northern Vosges.Situated on the main road, a farm is composed of two buildings: the home, gabled on the road, dated 1770 on the door of the cellar, and the farm itself, dated 1753, developed in breadth behind the courtyard. Exceptional in the Pays de Bitche, the farm resembles the Alsatian building style.

One can see this by the separation between buildings and the farm and by the porch-roof superimposed on the main/front face of the building. The difference to the Alsatian style is that the pan-de-bois is relegated in the second part (that is, the foundations), while the house is constructed with stone and a mix of roughcast lime (pebbles were added in the mix and used to increase the surface area of the house, to increase the rate of evaporation). ------ 2.

Bashford Manor Stable of farm & garden Bashford Manor Stable was an American Thoroughbred racing and breeding operation in Louisville, Kentucky owned by George James Long. In 1874 James Bennett Wilder built a home on farm acreage he called Bashford Manor. In 1887 George Long purchased Bashford Manor and developed it into a leading Thoroughbred horse farm which bred three Kentucky Derby winners.

To stock his new breeding operation. George Long acquired horses from the Erdenheim Stud of Norman W. Kittson.

Following the May 1888 death of Norman W. Kittson, in November his estate auctioned the bloodstock and Long purchased the sire Alarm and two of his broodmare daughters, Luminous and Albia. The then nineteen-year-old Alarm had notably been the sire of Himyar and Panique.

Alarm died at Bashford Manor in 1895 and was buried in the farm's equine cemetery. The stable bred and raced Azra who won the 1892 Derby and Sir Huon who won it in 1906. Under Long's name, he raced homebred Hindus who won the 1900 Preakness Stakes.

As well, George Long bred Manuel who won the 1899 Derby for Alfred & Dave Morris. The Thoroughbred operation continued until 1922 when the bloodstock was sold. The home remained in Long's family until being sold in 1951.

The property was annexed by the City of Louisville in 1953. The barns were torn down in 1970 and the house in 1973. The Bashford Manor area of Louisville was developed into residential homes and a shopping mall.

Churchill Downs in Louisville honors the racing and breeding stable with the annual running of the Bashford Manor Stakes. ------ 3. Synopsis of farm & garden Death on a Factory Farm follows the undercover investigation of Wiles Hog Farm by the animal rights group The Humane Farming Association (HFA), and the resulting court case against it.

The organization received a tip from an employee at the farm that animals were being abused, including a claim that hogs were being hung by chains and strangled to death as a form of euthanasia. HFA then turned to an undercover investigator using the name "Pete". The investigator wore a hidden camera while he worked undercover as a farmhand at Wiles.

Over the course of six weeks, the investigator secretly filmed numerous incriminating scenes, including piglets being tossed into crates from across a room, impregnated sows held in pens impeded their ability to move, an unhealthy piglet being hit against a wall to euthanize it, and a sick sow being hung by a chain from a forklift until it choked to death. Having obtained this evidence, Pete concluded the investigation and quit the job at the farm. HFA brought Pete's footage to the Wayne County Sheriff's Department, which then raided the farm.

Prosecutors filed ten criminal charges of animal cruelty against the farm's owners, and a farm employee who participated in hanging the sow. In the subsequent trial, the prosecutors and the defense fought about the legality and morality of these practices, described by the presiding judge as "distasteful and offensive". However, the judge defended these practices as the reality of producing pork for consumption.

------ 4. Borodino, New York of farm & garden Borodino is a hamlet located at the intersection of New York State Route 41 (East Lake Road, running approximately eastwest) and New York State Route 174 (Rose Hill Road, running northsouth) in the Town of Spafford in Onondaga County, New York, near Skaneateles Lake. The hamlet proper extends five to ten properties to the east, south, west and north from the intersection, until houses and a few other buildings are replaced by farm fields.

A monument for veterans, designed by Gianfranco Fritelli, stands in a cemetery at the southeast corner of the intersection. A little-altered Federal style Methodist Church, known locally as "The Church", dating from 1830, stands close to the 174, about five properties north. The Borodino District School No.

8 (c. 185359) and Borodino Hall (1835) are listed on the National Register of Historic Places. About four properties to the south is a turnoff to a public boat landing and ramp into Skaneateles Lake; a few more properties to the south is Borodino's fire station, site of several fundraising pancake breakfasts each year which are among the biggest community events in the hamlet.

Another is the Town of Spafford's annual Fourth of July parade, running from the fire station to the cemetery at the intersection. The public boat landing and the Spafford Town Hall are often said to be in Borodino, although the boat landing is about 0.75 miles (1.

21 km) to the southwest and the town hall is 0.5 miles (0.80 km) to the north along the 174, and separated by farm fields, from the intersection.

The town hall is closer to the intersection of Rose Hill Road with Howe Road. ------ 5. Sem, Norway of farm & garden Sem is a village in Tnsberg in Vestfold county, Norway.

Sem was a former municipality in Vestfold. The parish of Sm was established as a municipality January 1, 1838 (see formannskapsdistrikt). According to the 1835 census the municipality had a population of 3,590.

On 1 January 1965 the district Stang with 126 inhabitants was incorporated into the former municipality of Borre. On 1 January 1988 the rest was incorporated into the municipality of Tnsberg. Prior to the merger Sem was about three times the size of Tnsberg, which had a population of 21,948.

The village of Sem has a population of 1,981, of which 42 people live within the border of the neighboring municipality Stokke. The village is situated five kilometers west of the city of Tnsberg. Originally the municipality and the parish were named after the historic Sem Manor (Sem hovedgrd).

During the Middle Ages, Sem Manor was a royal and feudal overlord residence at the site where Jarlsberg Manor is located today. King Harald Fairhair chose to install his son Bjorn Farmann as the master of the estate. It was here that Bjorn Farmann was killed by Eric Bloodaxe in 927.

In 1673, Peder Schumacher Griffenfeld took over the property which until then had belonged to the King of Denmark. Griffenfeldt named the farm Griffenfeldgrd, but three years later it was renamed Jarlsberg Manor (Jarlsberg Hovedgrd). In 1682 the buildings on Jarlsberg burned and new buildings of stone were built by the new owner, the Danish-Norwegian Field Marshal Wilhelm Gustav Wedel.

------ 6. Manor of farm & garden The village was first settled by the Saxons. Its toponym is derived from Old English: either Gdan dn (the hill of Goda) or Gdinga dn (Goda's people).

Before the Norman conquest of England two Saxons, Siward and Siwate, held the Manor of Godington, but the Domesday Book records that by 1086 a Norman called Richard Puingiant held it. He also held the manor of Middleton Stoney, and Godington was held as part of the latter manor for some centuries thereafter. By the middle of the 12th century the manor of Godington was held by Richard de Camville, who gave Poodle Farm in the parish to the Augustinian Missenden Abbey in Buckinghamshire.

The Abbey retained Poodle Farm until the dissolution of the monasteries in the 16th century. By 1541 William Fermor of Somerton had bought the farm. By the time of his death in 1552 Fermor also held Godington Manor, thus reuniting Poodle with the other former de Camville lands.

Godington remained with the Fermors until the last direct heir, another William Fermor, died without a direct successor in 1828. There is a rectangular mediaeval moat next to the parish church. The present Moat Farm house inside the moated area is dated 1672.

By 1535 Magdalen College, Oxford held three hay meadows in the parish. It still held them in 1817, when the duty to pay tithes was commuted. Most of the parish was farmed under the open field system until 1603, when it was enclosed by agreement between Sir Richard Fermor, the Rector and one of the local farmers.

------ 7. Charles Johnson Farm of farm & garden Charles Johnson purchased 6.78 acres (2.

74 ha) from a Charles Anderson, who was living in a log cabin on the site since about 1880. When Johnson purchased the property in 1904, that cabin was the only structure, along with an orchard to the southwest of the main house. One of the Johnsons' daughters regularly went to this farm to purchase apples.

When Mr. Anderson suggested that he give her the tree, she became adamant that her parents move it. Since that was not possible, Mr.

Johnson asked if he could purchase the property, to which Mr. Anderson replied that he would sell, if the Johnsons built him a place back in the woods to live out his life. Historic structures In 1908, the cabin enlarged into the main house seen today.

It was enclosed by clapboard siding and the inside was lath and plastered. It was enlarged with a dining room and kitchen. Because the house was expanded from and existing structure, there are no identifiable Swedish characteristics.

There are two summer kitchens to the east of the house. The smallest (8 ft  12 ft or 2.4 m  3.

7 m) was built as a temporary structure during the 1908 improvement of the main house. The other (12 ft  20 ft or 3.7 m  6.

1 m) was the house built by the Johnsons for Charles Anderson. I was moved nearer the farmstead after his death. Northeast of the main house is the two-story barn (12 ft  30 in or 3.

7 m  760 mm). The barn was built sometime before 1908. A chicken coop was added shortly after the barns construction.

the privy is still standing to the northeast of the main house about 50 feet (15 m).

[sussex-nature-lover]

Wednesday 21st October 2020

Scotney Castle Part 2 History and Architecture

Completely random fact - today has been National Apple Day. It’s a day to celebrate apples and orchards, which seeing as I live neighbouring The Garden of England with its very many orchards, is appropriate. Apple Day is always on 21st October. I Thank you.

Back to Scotney. It’s not really a castle you know.

From 2007 the house has been open to visitors. It was left to the National Trust in the 1970s sometime, but not opened to the public until after Betty Hussey died (2006) In normal times you can tour the property which is presented mostly as a 1950s time capsule and you can go inside the ruins of the ‘Old’ moated Castle. You can roam the grounds and the wider estate and enjoy the walled kitchen garden.  At the moment much of it is sleeping, you can only walk the gardens and estate, but that doesn’t stop us looking at how the castles came to be.

The first records of an Estate in this attractive part of the Weald landscape go as far back as 1137 but we’ll fast forward some 240 years to the building of a fortified manor house by Roger de Ashburnham (remember that last name for a later blog)

The Old Castle itself had various extensions and modifications, which are a story all of its own belonging to new owners of the Estate, but moving on again I bring you to the end of the Darrel family ownership where years of arguments, upsets and legal wrangles resulted in selling off various parts of the Estate to settle their accounts and the eventual disposal of the property in 1778 to one Edward Hussey, which is where the modern day history begins.

Above the entrance you see the family motto – “Vix ea nostra voco” – which is Latin for “We scarcely call these things our own”

1837 the new build began

It’s hard doing blogs about National Trust visits, I find so much to say, far too much really, but then again the story of Scotney really does reflect the motto as it’s a prime example of ‘guardians’ not ‘owners’ and every generation usually leaves its mark.

Edward Hussey, who was one of ten siblings born in nearby Burwash, must have been a wealthier man than you’d think because he firstly began reacquiring the old Estate lands over a five year period up to 1792. Trained as a barrister, my guide book says he was much more interested in cricket than he was in the law and that he frequently played for the MCC from when it was founded in 1787. I’m still digging to see where the money came from. Not much is said about him in the guide book. He married Elizabeth Sarah Bridge three years before buying Scotney and their son, Edward Hussey II was born three years after purchasing the property. All very measured. I believe they had another son and two daughters and I imagine they had a rather nice life...for a time.

Tragedy hit the family when Edward, a Magistrate, committed suicide, reportedly ‘blowing out his brains with a blunderbuss’  Fortunately the Coroner recorded a verdict of ‘melancholy’ which avoided the social disgrace and having the deceased’s estate forfeited to the Crown, but further distress and sadness hit when his heir, also Edward of course, died just a year later leaving behind his widow, Anne and their eight year old son, the third Edward plus two siblings.

I’ve spent some time falling down a rabbit hole on the internet looking into the family and of course, as these things do, it all got very complicated, but in a nutshell, there was money, occupations in the law and in royal service and interests in the arts, painting, travelling, architecture and gardens.

Anne apparently took her family and decamped to live in nearby(ish) St Leonard’s. How they got on is a mystery, but suffice to say they didn’t have to dispose of the Estate, so they must’ve been well heeled and it was this Edward (the third one: 1809-1894) who, later (much later, it was 18 years after he’d moved back to Scotney) married the Honourable Henrietta Windsor Clive, the great granddaughter of Clive of India. I love it when an interesting fact just drops in there.

Edward Hussey III continued his family tradition of expanding the Estate, paying £20,000 to purchase nearby Finchcocks - and this was in 1863! See what I mean about monied?

All the above is background to get to the nature part of the Blog, but it’s important to know background I think. We’re at the point where Edward Hussey III, at a young age was again extending the Estate and critiquing the damp and inhospitable Old Castle. He started to interview architects and after 33 meetings with a young Anthony Salvin, appointed him to design a new house on the site. Edward, as you can gather, was very involved in the process.

I’m quite astounded that they actually quarried the stone for the new house from the grounds and today that site is the Quarry Garden. like the Standen quarry garden, access is closed at the moment due to the ground conditions and falling rock. When you think about it quarrying the ground and then planting around is bound to cause its own problems, but, the Quarry site itself has a fascinating history and despite many visits I had no idea until I did my research this week...

‘Please Keep Away From The Edge’ the Quarry Garden below is currently closed 

Scotney Castle Quarry

Somewhere I read about this part of Kent being connected by sea to Belgium and that the exposed floor of the quarry is effectively the preserved ripples in the sand as the tide ebbed and flowed. How romantic a thought. Obviously that’s a throwaway phrase really which describes millions of years of activity, but you get the gist. 

For anyone who, like me, is unfamiliar with types of dinosaurs, this one’s the source of the preserved footprint

Iguanodon

It’s incredible that I started writing about the 12th century and then it quickly morphs into thinking back millions of years.  I also have to say, the stone is very attractive. A few years back the new house was scaffolded and lots of maintenance, cleaning and restoration work was taking place. It’s a Grade I listed building and in the Autumn sunshine looked absolutely glorious this week. The stone is mellow sand and golden tones and you can really see the link with the sea bed colours and ripples and the harmony with its surroundings. How incredible that is.

The ‘new’ castle, rear view and below, the vista beyond

The day out was very pleasant and it’s stood me in good stead today to go over some photos and spill out some thoughts, it’s done nothing but rain and be dark as night here and so it was a welcome relief. TBC.

♦ not checked yet for proof reading or even to see it makes sense, be prepared for edits tomorrow

♦ outside links in bold are not affililated to this blog

[easyfoodnetwork]

The Freshest Boudin Noir in Lyon

Israel Hervas Bengochea/Shutterstock

In an excerpt from his new memoir, “Dirt,” Bill Buford attends a countryside pig killing

Bill Buford’s Heat, published in 2006, chronicled the writer’s efforts to master Italian cooking, a journey that necessitated complete immersion in Italian restaurant kitchens and culinary traditions. In Dirt: Adventures in Lyon as a Chef in Training, Father, and Sleuth Looking for the Secret of French Cooking, out May 5, he sets his sights on French tradition.

It’s a quest that takes Buford and his family — his wife and twin sons — to Lyon, the impenetrable capital of French gastronomy. To learn the secrets of French cooking therein, Buford once again opts for full immersion into the various pillars of French cuisine, from tailing a boulanger, to attending French culinary school, to staging in a Michelin-starred restaurant. In this excerpt from Dirt, he attends an exclusive French culinary tradition: la tuaille — in other words, a pig killing. — Monica Burton

I got myself invited to a pig killing. Actually, I worked for it: I begged, I promised faithfulness to the cause, I declared my carnivore integrity, until, finally, I was rewarded with a nervously proffered invitation.

Boudin noir, blood in a piece of pig’s intestine, was ubiquitous in Lyon — few foods went better with a pot of Beaujolais — but it was sold already cooked, even from your local butcher: Go home, reheat, and serve. The boudin noir we planned to make after killing our pig (along with other, principally tubular porcine expressions) would be steamingly fresh. It was said to be nothing like the commercial stuff.

Buy Dirt now at Amazon or Bookshop.

I had some crude logistical curiosities, like how you got the blood out of the pig and into an intestine: which was cleaned — how exactly? Or was there a lingering stink that the Lyonnais regarded, characteristically, as a flavor enhancer? I was also attracted to the visceral reality of killing an animal (how — with our hands?) that you would then eat (the sanctity of the act). Mère Brazier used to make her own boudin noir. So, famously, did Fernand Point.

As it happened, the farm that hosted the boudin-noir making was not far from where a certain Menon had raised the orchard-fed pigs whose blood Point coveted. It was a gravelly hilltop on the other side of the Rhône River from La Pyramide, among what could well have been orchard fruit trees — hard to tell in midwinter, stark trunks, every- thing dirt brown, under a silver-white sky that was huge and very cold. As in Italy, the French slaughter and cure their pigs only in the winter. Refrigeration is a modern contrivance, and pig curing is not modern.

I was taken to the farm by Ludovic Curabet, the only member of the team prepared to share his last name.

Ludovic was in his thirties — dark hair, fit, youthful — and committed to continuing the old ways. He was, in effect, a pig intellectual. He knew how pigs were cured in Spain, the Po Valley in Italy, the Alps, and especially here, the Rhône. He was also among the few people who still practiced (and admitted that they were practicing) a local rite called la tuaille. La tuaille translates as “the killing,” but, in the Rhône and the south of France, it refers to the ritualized seasonal slaughter of a family pig, and includes some early-morning drinking, the eating of abundant freshly made boudin noir, followed by some midday drinking, some early-afternoon drinking, and then some late-afternoon drinking. Around Lyon, you see black-and-white photographs of tuailles — pictures pinned to the wall of a bouchon — featuring tired and bespattered people, often cross-eyed, but very happy.

What we were doing was legal, although there was a belief that it wouldn’t be for long. The European Union tolerates old-fashioned pig killings, provided they are for farmers’ private consumption. But such is their fear of the European Union, many farmers believe that they are the last generation. In fact, Ludovic asked if we could film the killing. He wanted to record it for his children.

The other two members of our team were both named Claude. One was the farmer. One was a butcher.

“Farmer Claude” was in his early seventies, tall, lean, slightly stooped, a long face, busily expressive white eyebrows, which, in effect, “talked” much more than he did, since he said almost nothing. He seemed bemused by our endeavor, ideologically committed to it but nervous about the possible fallout. Ludovic had persuaded him that I could be trusted.

Farmer Claude escorted me into a dirt courtyard adjoining the house, where Butcher Claude was waiting for us. He talked even less than Farmer Claude. Five words. Maybe less. He was about fifty-five, a little hefty, and in a white coat, as though he had just driven up from the shop in town. He was standing over a rectangular wooden pallet, pulling apart a bale of hay, and piling it on top. This was for a bonfire. After the animal was killed, Ludovic told me, she would be set alight to burn off the hair. (The pigs we eat are either sows or castrated males. The meat of a fully testicular male? Disgusting.) You burn off the hair to get to the skin. Pigs are the only farm animals not normally skinned, because their fat isn’t integrated into the muscle, but resides between the muscle and the skin. If you skin a pig, you risk losing the fat, and the fat underneath translates into both belly cuts and the creamy white fat that goes into sausages.

Pig fat, Ludovic said, is good.

Boudin noir has its modest literature — in the Odyssey, Homer describes a stomach filled with blood and fat being roasted over a fire, and Apicius, the first-century Roman epicurean, has a preparation enriched by eggs, pine nuts, onions, and leeks. The origins of the word itself are obscure but probably hark back to a now lost colloquial usage during the Roman settlement of Gaul. (The boud- of boudin may be derived from the Roman bod-, which is “to inflate or bulge,” just as the intestines fill up.) The preparation is among the oldest on the planet, older than the Romans or the Greeks, and probably dates to the earliest days of animal domestication (circa 10,000 B.C. if not before — i.e., circa the discovery of fire — if only because it satisfies the universal philosophical imperative understood by every premodern farmer and hunter lucky enough to have an animal to eat: Waste nothing.

Butcher Claude continued building up the bonfire. Ludovic chopped onions and cooked them in a sauté pan over a Bunsen burner while Farmer Claude assembled an antique-seeming cast-iron kettle. It was like a very large teapot that he half-filled with water and set upon a three-legged stand like a barbecue. He stacked kindling underneath and lit it. The fire crackled, a lazy morning smoke, smelling of pine. This was where the boudin, once made, would be cooked, here in the cold, open air.

In the obvious absence of small talk, I wandered around the courtyard and came upon an animal pen — a low wooden door, a window with iron bars. How curious that I hadn’t noticed it before. I stooped to peer inside. I saw our pig. The pig saw me. It was a startling moment. The animal was suddenly so there, and much larger than I expected. Two hundred kilos, about 450 pounds. It was furry, not pink, with white hair and brown spots.

The squeal said: I am in danger! It said: Run!

I dropped down to look inside again. This, I couldn’t help myself from observing, was a beautiful animal.

Pigs are the most intelligent of domesticated livestock and interpret their surroundings more efficiently than other animals. They also panic easily, and the panic often expresses itself in the taste of the meat.

In an instant, I realized why everyone had been so quiet. They were trying to be invisible.

The pig began to squeal.

Did I just do that?

The others hadn’t looked. For them, there was no pig: We’re just farmers going about our business, ho hum, a normal morning, big animal in a dinky stone pen, no big deal.

But I had looked and, like that, I had hit the squeal button.

Wow. It wasn’t a squeal. It was a wide-open, high-volume, high-pitched cry. It didn’t enter the brain; it pierced it, or at least it seemed to, my brain anyway, and with such an intensity that I wanted to do something about it. Urgently.

The squeal said: I am in danger! It said: Run!

It said: Find me, help me, save me. On and on and on.

Pigs had figured in Daniel Boulud’s childhood. They were like storybook companions, more like dogs and people than cows and sheep. (The observation is not mine, but of the animal anthropologist Juliet Clutton-Brock.) Boulud loved his pet pigs. But every year, when he was in the house eating breakfast, he’d hear the squeal. This kind of squeal. By then, as he was irrationally sprinting toward the sound without entirely understanding why (since he knew he was already too late), the pig was dead.

Was my pig so smart that she could see my thinking about her being dead? (Had I been?) Because, no question, the pig now knew she was going to die.

Fifteen minutes later, the farmer opened the pen door. The butcher put a rope around the animal’s neck and snout. The pig wouldn’t come out.

Butcher Claude and Farmer Claude pulled her from the front. Ludovic and I got in from behind, pushing her butt. She resisted with all the strength and adrenaline of her considerable 450 pounds. The ground was half frozen, and her hooves plowed shallow rows in the hard dirt. When she was next to the pallet, she was toppled over.

The back legs needed to be secured at the ankles. I was surprised by her strength, four of us on top of her, trying to get her limbs to cooperate. The squealing never stopped, until finally the ankles were secured, and I relaxed my grip, and the pig went quiet. She turned her head — she had to twist it round — and looked at me. Her gaze was intense, and it wasn’t easy to turn away from. It said: Don’t kill me.

“Get the bucket,” Ludovic told me. He pointed. It was nearby. “Now kneel, there.” Là.

I got down, just in front of the animal. She lurched and bucked, but the movements were small.

“As the bucket fills, stir,” Ludovic said. “Steady and quickly. To keep it from coagulating.”

Butcher Claude relaxed the rope. I glimpsed the knife briefly. He had kept it hidden — I hadn’t known it was there — and had come up to the throat from below, just out of the pig’s vision, and slit the artery below the Adam’s apple.

I thought: I could never do that.

There was no reaction. The pig didn’t seem to feel the slice. The deed was done.

Ludovic began working a front leg, up and down, like a pump — the pig continued to squeal but the squeal was diminishing. Blood streamed into my bucket from the gash, bright red. It steamed. I stirred. To stop the coagulation? Then I understood. Yes! To stop it! The blood was forming into strings, quickly and densely.

“Stir,” Ludovic said. “Remuez. Vite.”

I thought: I’m going to ruin it. The whole day has been structured around boudin noir, which we now won’t be able to make because I didn’t understand coagulation.

The threads were now wrapping themselves up and down my fingers. The surface of the blood looked normal, a little frothy, but underneath a plastic spiderweb was forming.

“Vite. Vite.”

The blood tasted pure. Can something taste red? This was red. It was invigorating, in every obvious sense.

Faster. Faster. Faster. And then, finally, the threads began to dissolve, and then, once they started, they finished dissolving, and in seconds — some threshold having been crossed —they were gone.

The pig sighed. It was deep, like a yawn. It was the sound of a big person about to go to sleep.

She sighed again.

I looked down. The blood came about halfway up the bucket. Shouldn’t there be more? Such a big animal. There was more than a gallon, but not much more.

She sighed again, a smaller sound.

I looked at her. Her face had gone pale. I thought: Pigs, too, lose their color. Her eyes went milky. She was dead. We were done.

Butcher Claude gave me a ladle. “Goûtez,” he said. Taste.

I was confused. He keeps a ladle in his back pocket?

Ludovic said, “Non. Il faut l’assaisonner.” It needed seasoning. He fetched salt and pepper.

“Now. Goûtez.”

I got up off my knees. The hairs on my arm were matted red. My shirt and jeans were splattered.

“Goûter?”

Really?

“Oui.”

I dipped the ladle into the bucket and tasted. It was warm. Rich. It was thick and weighty on my palate. The seasoning was almost obtrusive, but also welcome: It was intensifying.

I dipped my ladle back into the bucket. The men laughed. “More?”

I was trying to identify the taste. Frankly, I was also getting a serious buzz. Was that the blood? Or the overwhelming fact of everything, this animal, the intimacy, the killing, the coagulation, the courtyard, this morning. I dipped the ladle back into the blood. I was flying.

The men were laughing hard.

“You like?”

“I like,” I said. I liked it a lot. The blood tasted pure. Can something taste red? This was red. It was invigorating, in every obvious sense.

The bucket was put in a shady corner. The bonfire was lit. The pig burned until it was charred and black. We scrubbed the skin. The hair came off. The head was removed, the body cavity opened up, the stomach expanding as though having been buckled into too-tight pants. The entrails were removed. And then everything began to slow down, the particular business of honoring every organ and muscle and joint of a just-killed animal.

I was given the lungs.

“Blow them up,” Ludovic said.

And I did, a pair of pretty pink balloons (a remarkable hue, unused to air or light), and I tied them (like a balloon), and Ludovic nailed them to a wooden post to dry out.

We yanked out intestines, the upper ones, a long hose, fifty feet, maybe more, and squeezed out their brown contents by pulling a segment between a thumb and forefinger and moving the solids toward an opening. Ludovic had the hose. He gave me an intestine and asked me to blow into it to open — it was warm against my lips — and he rinsed it out. He then rolled it up in a ring on the ground.

(I thought: Really? Is that it?)

He removed the bladder, and squeezed out the liquid, like water in a balloon, a steamy stream.

“Here, this is for you to blow up, too.” He held it out in two hands, very reverential. “This, too, is an honor,” he said.

The others stopped and watched.

An honor, eh?

I took a deep breath. The wet mouth of the entry (salty), my wet lips.

I blew hard. Nothing.

The men laughed.

I took a deeper breath. I blew harder.

Nothing. More laughter.

I took a really deep breath, my face changing color — probably to something between red-pink and purple — and the bladder yielded.

I closed the passage with my thumb and forefinger, Ludovic looped it into a knot, and nailed it, too, to the post to dry out.

“For the poulet en vessie,” he said.

Ludovic mixed his sautéed aromatics into the blood, tasted, added salt and pepper, tasted again (like a chef finishing his sauce), added more pep- per. I inserted a funnel into the mouth of an intestine, and Ludovic poured. We twisted the intestine sausage-style at six-inch intervals, tied it closed, and looped the rope into a straw basket. When the basket was full we walked it over to the kettle — a hot vapor cloud when we opened the lid, not boiling, not even simmering — and eased a length of boudin inside.

A poem about preparing boudin noir was written by Achille Ozanne, a nineteenth-century chef and poet (he wrote bouncy poems about dishes he cooked for the king of Greece), and finds a loose rhyme between “frémissante” and “vingt minutes d’attente.” Frémissante is “trembling.” It describes the water: hot but not quite boiling. Vingt minutes d’attente — twenty minutes — is the approximate time that you keep the boudin submerged. It is akin to cooking a custard. It is done once it is only just done. You boil a custard, it curdles. You boil blood, it curdles. Ludovic pricked a casing with a needle. It was dry when it came out. The blood had solidified. He removed the boudin. I cooked the next one.

We carried our basket into a kitchen, and found a dozen people already there, preparing the accompaniments: roasted apples, potatoes, salad, bread, bottles of the local Côtes du Rhône, made by someone down the road, no labels. The room was warm, the windows were fogged up, and we ate, the boudin like a rich red pudding, spoilingly fresh, complexly fragrant of our morning pig, and we drank, and afterward went back out into the courtyard, feeling stiff and sleepy, to make sausages and other preparations that needed aging.

It doesn’t take long to kill a pig. But reassembling it into edible forms would take until nightfall. We had killed a beautiful animal. The food from it would last for months.

From Dirt: Adventures in Lyon as a Chef in Training, Father, and Sleuth Looking for the Secret of French Cooking. Copyright © 2020 by Bill Buford. Used by permission of Penguin Random House.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2VMOY5b https://ift.tt/35eANcv

Israel Hervas Bengochea/Shutterstock

In an excerpt from his new memoir, “Dirt,” Bill Buford attends a countryside pig killing

Bill Buford’s Heat, published in 2006, chronicled the writer’s efforts to master Italian cooking, a journey that necessitated complete immersion in Italian restaurant kitchens and culinary traditions. In Dirt: Adventures in Lyon as a Chef in Training, Father, and Sleuth Looking for the Secret of French Cooking, out May 5, he sets his sights on French tradition.

It’s a quest that takes Buford and his family — his wife and twin sons — to Lyon, the impenetrable capital of French gastronomy. To learn the secrets of French cooking therein, Buford once again opts for full immersion into the various pillars of French cuisine, from tailing a boulanger, to attending French culinary school, to staging in a Michelin-starred restaurant. In this excerpt from Dirt, he attends an exclusive French culinary tradition: la tuaille — in other words, a pig killing. — Monica Burton

I got myself invited to a pig killing. Actually, I worked for it: I begged, I promised faithfulness to the cause, I declared my carnivore integrity, until, finally, I was rewarded with a nervously proffered invitation.

Boudin noir, blood in a piece of pig’s intestine, was ubiquitous in Lyon — few foods went better with a pot of Beaujolais — but it was sold already cooked, even from your local butcher: Go home, reheat, and serve. The boudin noir we planned to make after killing our pig (along with other, principally tubular porcine expressions) would be steamingly fresh. It was said to be nothing like the commercial stuff.

Buy Dirt now at Amazon or Bookshop.

I had some crude logistical curiosities, like how you got the blood out of the pig and into an intestine: which was cleaned — how exactly? Or was there a lingering stink that the Lyonnais regarded, characteristically, as a flavor enhancer? I was also attracted to the visceral reality of killing an animal (how — with our hands?) that you would then eat (the sanctity of the act). Mère Brazier used to make her own boudin noir. So, famously, did Fernand Point.

As it happened, the farm that hosted the boudin-noir making was not far from where a certain Menon had raised the orchard-fed pigs whose blood Point coveted. It was a gravelly hilltop on the other side of the Rhône River from La Pyramide, among what could well have been orchard fruit trees — hard to tell in midwinter, stark trunks, every- thing dirt brown, under a silver-white sky that was huge and very cold. As in Italy, the French slaughter and cure their pigs only in the winter. Refrigeration is a modern contrivance, and pig curing is not modern.

I was taken to the farm by Ludovic Curabet, the only member of the team prepared to share his last name.

Ludovic was in his thirties — dark hair, fit, youthful — and committed to continuing the old ways. He was, in effect, a pig intellectual. He knew how pigs were cured in Spain, the Po Valley in Italy, the Alps, and especially here, the Rhône. He was also among the few people who still practiced (and admitted that they were practicing) a local rite called la tuaille. La tuaille translates as “the killing,” but, in the Rhône and the south of France, it refers to the ritualized seasonal slaughter of a family pig, and includes some early-morning drinking, the eating of abundant freshly made boudin noir, followed by some midday drinking, some early-afternoon drinking, and then some late-afternoon drinking. Around Lyon, you see black-and-white photographs of tuailles — pictures pinned to the wall of a bouchon — featuring tired and bespattered people, often cross-eyed, but very happy.

What we were doing was legal, although there was a belief that it wouldn’t be for long. The European Union tolerates old-fashioned pig killings, provided they are for farmers’ private consumption. But such is their fear of the European Union, many farmers believe that they are the last generation. In fact, Ludovic asked if we could film the killing. He wanted to record it for his children.

The other two members of our team were both named Claude. One was the farmer. One was a butcher.

“Farmer Claude” was in his early seventies, tall, lean, slightly stooped, a long face, busily expressive white eyebrows, which, in effect, “talked” much more than he did, since he said almost nothing. He seemed bemused by our endeavor, ideologically committed to it but nervous about the possible fallout. Ludovic had persuaded him that I could be trusted.

Farmer Claude escorted me into a dirt courtyard adjoining the house, where Butcher Claude was waiting for us. He talked even less than Farmer Claude. Five words. Maybe less. He was about fifty-five, a little hefty, and in a white coat, as though he had just driven up from the shop in town. He was standing over a rectangular wooden pallet, pulling apart a bale of hay, and piling it on top. This was for a bonfire. After the animal was killed, Ludovic told me, she would be set alight to burn off the hair. (The pigs we eat are either sows or castrated males. The meat of a fully testicular male? Disgusting.) You burn off the hair to get to the skin. Pigs are the only farm animals not normally skinned, because their fat isn’t integrated into the muscle, but resides between the muscle and the skin. If you skin a pig, you risk losing the fat, and the fat underneath translates into both belly cuts and the creamy white fat that goes into sausages.

Pig fat, Ludovic said, is good.

Boudin noir has its modest literature — in the Odyssey, Homer describes a stomach filled with blood and fat being roasted over a fire, and Apicius, the first-century Roman epicurean, has a preparation enriched by eggs, pine nuts, onions, and leeks. The origins of the word itself are obscure but probably hark back to a now lost colloquial usage during the Roman settlement of Gaul. (The boud- of boudin may be derived from the Roman bod-, which is “to inflate or bulge,” just as the intestines fill up.) The preparation is among the oldest on the planet, older than the Romans or the Greeks, and probably dates to the earliest days of animal domestication (circa 10,000 B.C. if not before — i.e., circa the discovery of fire — if only because it satisfies the universal philosophical imperative understood by every premodern farmer and hunter lucky enough to have an animal to eat: Waste nothing.

Butcher Claude continued building up the bonfire. Ludovic chopped onions and cooked them in a sauté pan over a Bunsen burner while Farmer Claude assembled an antique-seeming cast-iron kettle. It was like a very large teapot that he half-filled with water and set upon a three-legged stand like a barbecue. He stacked kindling underneath and lit it. The fire crackled, a lazy morning smoke, smelling of pine. This was where the boudin, once made, would be cooked, here in the cold, open air.

In the obvious absence of small talk, I wandered around the courtyard and came upon an animal pen — a low wooden door, a window with iron bars. How curious that I hadn’t noticed it before. I stooped to peer inside. I saw our pig. The pig saw me. It was a startling moment. The animal was suddenly so there, and much larger than I expected. Two hundred kilos, about 450 pounds. It was furry, not pink, with white hair and brown spots.

The squeal said: I am in danger! It said: Run!

I dropped down to look inside again. This, I couldn’t help myself from observing, was a beautiful animal.

Pigs are the most intelligent of domesticated livestock and interpret their surroundings more efficiently than other animals. They also panic easily, and the panic often expresses itself in the taste of the meat.

In an instant, I realized why everyone had been so quiet. They were trying to be invisible.

The pig began to squeal.

Did I just do that?

The others hadn’t looked. For them, there was no pig: We’re just farmers going about our business, ho hum, a normal morning, big animal in a dinky stone pen, no big deal.

But I had looked and, like that, I had hit the squeal button.

Wow. It wasn’t a squeal. It was a wide-open, high-volume, high-pitched cry. It didn’t enter the brain; it pierced it, or at least it seemed to, my brain anyway, and with such an intensity that I wanted to do something about it. Urgently.

The squeal said: I am in danger! It said: Run!

It said: Find me, help me, save me. On and on and on.

Pigs had figured in Daniel Boulud’s childhood. They were like storybook companions, more like dogs and people than cows and sheep. (The observation is not mine, but of the animal anthropologist Juliet Clutton-Brock.) Boulud loved his pet pigs. But every year, when he was in the house eating breakfast, he’d hear the squeal. This kind of squeal. By then, as he was irrationally sprinting toward the sound without entirely understanding why (since he knew he was already too late), the pig was dead.

Was my pig so smart that she could see my thinking about her being dead? (Had I been?) Because, no question, the pig now knew she was going to die.

Fifteen minutes later, the farmer opened the pen door. The butcher put a rope around the animal’s neck and snout. The pig wouldn’t come out.

Butcher Claude and Farmer Claude pulled her from the front. Ludovic and I got in from behind, pushing her butt. She resisted with all the strength and adrenaline of her considerable 450 pounds. The ground was half frozen, and her hooves plowed shallow rows in the hard dirt. When she was next to the pallet, she was toppled over.

The back legs needed to be secured at the ankles. I was surprised by her strength, four of us on top of her, trying to get her limbs to cooperate. The squealing never stopped, until finally the ankles were secured, and I relaxed my grip, and the pig went quiet. She turned her head — she had to twist it round — and looked at me. Her gaze was intense, and it wasn’t easy to turn away from. It said: Don’t kill me.

“Get the bucket,” Ludovic told me. He pointed. It was nearby. “Now kneel, there.” Là.

I got down, just in front of the animal. She lurched and bucked, but the movements were small.

“As the bucket fills, stir,” Ludovic said. “Steady and quickly. To keep it from coagulating.”

Butcher Claude relaxed the rope. I glimpsed the knife briefly. He had kept it hidden — I hadn’t known it was there — and had come up to the throat from below, just out of the pig’s vision, and slit the artery below the Adam’s apple.

I thought: I could never do that.

There was no reaction. The pig didn’t seem to feel the slice. The deed was done.

Ludovic began working a front leg, up and down, like a pump — the pig continued to squeal but the squeal was diminishing. Blood streamed into my bucket from the gash, bright red. It steamed. I stirred. To stop the coagulation? Then I understood. Yes! To stop it! The blood was forming into strings, quickly and densely.

“Stir,” Ludovic said. “Remuez. Vite.”

I thought: I’m going to ruin it. The whole day has been structured around boudin noir, which we now won’t be able to make because I didn’t understand coagulation.

The threads were now wrapping themselves up and down my fingers. The surface of the blood looked normal, a little frothy, but underneath a plastic spiderweb was forming.

“Vite. Vite.”

The blood tasted pure. Can something taste red? This was red. It was invigorating, in every obvious sense.

Faster. Faster. Faster. And then, finally, the threads began to dissolve, and then, once they started, they finished dissolving, and in seconds — some threshold having been crossed —they were gone.

The pig sighed. It was deep, like a yawn. It was the sound of a big person about to go to sleep.

She sighed again.

I looked down. The blood came about halfway up the bucket. Shouldn’t there be more? Such a big animal. There was more than a gallon, but not much more.

She sighed again, a smaller sound.

I looked at her. Her face had gone pale. I thought: Pigs, too, lose their color. Her eyes went milky. She was dead. We were done.

Butcher Claude gave me a ladle. “Goûtez,” he said. Taste.

I was confused. He keeps a ladle in his back pocket?

Ludovic said, “Non. Il faut l’assaisonner.” It needed seasoning. He fetched salt and pepper.

“Now. Goûtez.”

I got up off my knees. The hairs on my arm were matted red. My shirt and jeans were splattered.

“Goûter?”

Really?

“Oui.”

I dipped the ladle into the bucket and tasted. It was warm. Rich. It was thick and weighty on my palate. The seasoning was almost obtrusive, but also welcome: It was intensifying.

I dipped my ladle back into the bucket. The men laughed. “More?”

I was trying to identify the taste. Frankly, I was also getting a serious buzz. Was that the blood? Or the overwhelming fact of everything, this animal, the intimacy, the killing, the coagulation, the courtyard, this morning. I dipped the ladle back into the blood. I was flying.

The men were laughing hard.

“You like?”

“I like,” I said. I liked it a lot. The blood tasted pure. Can something taste red? This was red. It was invigorating, in every obvious sense.

The bucket was put in a shady corner. The bonfire was lit. The pig burned until it was charred and black. We scrubbed the skin. The hair came off. The head was removed, the body cavity opened up, the stomach expanding as though having been buckled into too-tight pants. The entrails were removed. And then everything began to slow down, the particular business of honoring every organ and muscle and joint of a just-killed animal.

I was given the lungs.

“Blow them up,” Ludovic said.

And I did, a pair of pretty pink balloons (a remarkable hue, unused to air or light), and I tied them (like a balloon), and Ludovic nailed them to a wooden post to dry out.

We yanked out intestines, the upper ones, a long hose, fifty feet, maybe more, and squeezed out their brown contents by pulling a segment between a thumb and forefinger and moving the solids toward an opening. Ludovic had the hose. He gave me an intestine and asked me to blow into it to open — it was warm against my lips — and he rinsed it out. He then rolled it up in a ring on the ground.

(I thought: Really? Is that it?)

He removed the bladder, and squeezed out the liquid, like water in a balloon, a steamy stream.

“Here, this is for you to blow up, too.” He held it out in two hands, very reverential. “This, too, is an honor,” he said.

The others stopped and watched.

An honor, eh?

I took a deep breath. The wet mouth of the entry (salty), my wet lips.

I blew hard. Nothing.

The men laughed.

I took a deeper breath. I blew harder.

Nothing. More laughter.

I took a really deep breath, my face changing color — probably to something between red-pink and purple — and the bladder yielded.

I closed the passage with my thumb and forefinger, Ludovic looped it into a knot, and nailed it, too, to the post to dry out.

“For the poulet en vessie,” he said.

Ludovic mixed his sautéed aromatics into the blood, tasted, added salt and pepper, tasted again (like a chef finishing his sauce), added more pep- per. I inserted a funnel into the mouth of an intestine, and Ludovic poured. We twisted the intestine sausage-style at six-inch intervals, tied it closed, and looped the rope into a straw basket. When the basket was full we walked it over to the kettle — a hot vapor cloud when we opened the lid, not boiling, not even simmering — and eased a length of boudin inside.

A poem about preparing boudin noir was written by Achille Ozanne, a nineteenth-century chef and poet (he wrote bouncy poems about dishes he cooked for the king of Greece), and finds a loose rhyme between “frémissante” and “vingt minutes d’attente.” Frémissante is “trembling.” It describes the water: hot but not quite boiling. Vingt minutes d’attente — twenty minutes — is the approximate time that you keep the boudin submerged. It is akin to cooking a custard. It is done once it is only just done. You boil a custard, it curdles. You boil blood, it curdles. Ludovic pricked a casing with a needle. It was dry when it came out. The blood had solidified. He removed the boudin. I cooked the next one.

We carried our basket into a kitchen, and found a dozen people already there, preparing the accompaniments: roasted apples, potatoes, salad, bread, bottles of the local Côtes du Rhône, made by someone down the road, no labels. The room was warm, the windows were fogged up, and we ate, the boudin like a rich red pudding, spoilingly fresh, complexly fragrant of our morning pig, and we drank, and afterward went back out into the courtyard, feeling stiff and sleepy, to make sausages and other preparations that needed aging.

It doesn’t take long to kill a pig. But reassembling it into edible forms would take until nightfall. We had killed a beautiful animal. The food from it would last for months.

From Dirt: Adventures in Lyon as a Chef in Training, Father, and Sleuth Looking for the Secret of French Cooking. Copyright © 2020 by Bill Buford. Used by permission of Penguin Random House.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2VMOY5b via Blogger https://ift.tt/3d1foGo

[harrietspatial400]

The bees are all right, for now - but it takes a lot of work:

A mass die-off of hundreds of thousands of honey bees around Murchison, at the top of the South Island, is a reminder of the threats facing this most valuable of insects.

Veteran beekeeper Ricki Leahy said he first noticed dead bees in front of his hives in the Mangles Valley last Friday, and the bees had continued to die since then.

"We are expecting to have a complete wipeout of all our hives here," he said.

It is not known what killed the bees, although Leahy thought they might have consumed a sugar-based bait meant to kill wasps (no commercially sold wasp baits kill bees, as outlined in Stuff's wasp wipeout programme).

The Ministry for Primary Industries (MPI) is investigating the Murchison bee deaths, and said it had no reports of similar large scale deaths elsewhere in the country.

Bee samples from the two affected properties in the Murchison area would be taken to MPI's Wallaceville laboratory for testing.

"Routine tests will be carried out for all common bee pests and diseases as well as the possibility of inadvertent poisoning with agricultural pesticides," MPI said. The testing was comprehensive and expected to take about a month.

Plant & Food Research pollination scientist Dr David Pattemore said the Murchison bee deaths were tragic for the beekeeper and a huge cost for him.

"It drives home the message about the need to be aware of how our activities affect the animals around us that we rely on . . . and also the wider environmental impact," Pattemore said.

Beekeepers did have challenges dealing with health threats to the bees, poisons, pesticides and diseases, but the industry was in great health, largely fuelled by the demand for mānuka honey.

Health threats to bees were something the industry would always need to fight against. "There's always going to be a new challenge on the horizon that beekeepers need to deal with. That does incur costs," he said.

"But there is so much energy and enthusiasm in the industry, they work hard to keep the hives alive."

Globally there were concerns about pollinators, and specifically about bees, but there could be around 25,000 species of bees and many studies were talking about threats to species other than the honey bees.

"All these other species in orchards pollinating our crops, other species that could be at threat from humans." Those threats could be pesticides or the cultivation of land.

"Also bumble bees in Europe do appear to be in decline, and there are significant concerns about those in North America as well," Pattemore said.

In terms of honey bee health, some countries were doing better than others. Most countries had healthy honey bee populations but there were periods when diseases posed new threats, and there was ongoing discussion about the affect of pesticides.

"Managed honey bees have a strong group of beekeepers and people who support them, they aren't going to let the honey bee go extinct."

The issue was to understand how best to look after the honey bee population, while also protecting all the other pollinators, including other bee species, as well as flies and moths and everything else involved in pollination.

New Zealand's apiculture (beekeeping) industry is estimated to be worth $5 billion a year. In 2015-16, pure honey exports were worth $315 million, driven by a lift in prices.

According to Apiculture New Zealand, honey bees play a critical role in pollinating pastoral clover for nitrogen regeneration, specialised small seed crops, berry, stone fruit and pip fruit orchards.

Demand for pollination services was growing as the horticulture sector grew. While the industry's growth was largely because of international demand for New Zealand mānuka honey, the revenue stream from honey and bee products was increasingly diverse.

The 2015-16 honey season produced an estimated honey crop of a record 19,885 tonnes, almost double the amount 10 years earlier. The 811,357 registered hives in mid-2017 were double the number of five years earlier.

A survey in 2016 carried out by Landcare Research put the level of hive loss in New Zealand that year at 9.8 per cent. MPI described that as "low to average" when compared to international results.

In temperate climates, such as New Zealand's, some colony loss was expected each winter.

Apiculture New Zealand chief executive Karin Kos said survey results for 2017 were due out in March. She did not know what it would show but had not heard anything that would suggest bees were under increased pressure last year.

"We have a healthy bee population but we can't be complacent," Kos said.

A world without bees would undoubtedly be a sadder place but, according to a lengthy article in Time, predictions by some doomsayers that it would also be a world without us is wide of the mark.

"As valuable as honeybees are, the food system wouldn't collapse without them. The backbone of the world's diet – grains like corn, wheat and rice – is self-pollinating," Time said.

"But our dinner plates would be far less colourful, not to mention far less nutritious, without blueberries, cherries, watermelons, lettuce and the scores of other plants that would be challenging to raise commercially without honeybee pollination."

Plant & Food's Pattemore said the success of mānuka honey had led to challenges for some crop growers, because beehives for pollination might not be as available or affordable as they used to be.

That could partly be because of the stage the mānuka honey industry had reached, and within the bee industry there was more understanding that pollination was a key part of its mission, and there needed to be a balance between that and producing honey.

It was possible that for crops that flowered before mānuka, more hives could be made available for pollination.

But for crops, such as kiwifruit and avocado, that flowered from the middle of spring through to early summer, overlapping the mānuka flowering period, there were issues because at that time the vast majority of hives were chasing mānuka. There had certainly been an increase in hive prices at that time.

Some industries were able to cope with that, but for others it was much more of a stretch, Pattemore said.

While the honey bee was by far the most important crop pollinator, work was under way on developing others.

Research had been done on using bumble bees and flies as pollinators in conjunction with honey bees. "We're seeing some great success with what we've done so far."

https://www.stuff.co.nz/business/farming/100803111/the-bees-are-all-right-for-now--but-it-takes-a-lot-of-work

[caelindadewfall]

Golden Delicious Gold

There was always something so unmistakably tantalizing about gold. The way it shone in the sunlight, or gleamed as it all fell together into one dazzling pile of riches. Though, personally, Caelinda preferred silver over gold in much the same way one might prefer punching someone in the face rather than the gut; that being it was purely a choice of aesthetics. Still, in this day and age of the ever moving economic force known as the Horde, one needed to stay on top of the current trends of currency, even if the choice was clearly inferior. So, as unpleasant to look at as it was, Caelinda readily handled the stacks of gold coins laid out on the table before her. 

She had been sent a missive earlier in the day from an old contact she still maintained in the orcish stronghold, and capital of the Horde itself, Orgrimmar. Being so normally entertained by the various wheelings and dealings of the economic circuit, Caelinda had happily carried herself over towards the Drag with relatively high hopes. She had naturally lost consistent contact with many of her old mercantile associates after the invasion of Quel’thalas, and this one in particular had eluded her for some time. It wasn’t too often that she made her way out to Orgrimmar in the first place, but with the war being ever present in the background it would have surely been a near impossibility to ever make this meeting happen were it not for the convenience of the present deployment. 

The meeting went just as well as Caelinda might have expected. Her contact, a rather weaselly looking sin’dorei by the name of Kalto, had once been a rather up and coming purveyor of potions before a botched sale had him running off across the ocean to Kalimdor. Certainly, he wasn’t the most reputable fellow Caelinda knew, but seeing as how she had inherited the connection to Kalto from her father she felt it best to maintain the relationship purely out of politeness. The formalities had been pleasant enough, but when Caelinda had tried her best to get down to whatever business Kalto had asked her there for things had taken a turn for the odd. 

“The affairs of your family haven’t been settled in a long time.” He had said with a nasally tone reminiscent of a rat that had learned how to speak. “You’ve got debts all over this world, and people are starting to wonder when you’re going to pay up.”

Admittedly, that had not been where Caelinda had expected the conversation to go. She had long been aware that her family business collapsing would leave some issues behind, but the fact that someone like Kalto would call attention to it for her was simply astonishing. 

“Listen, I’m just offering you this tip because I owed your father a debt, and now it’s paid. But here’s some advice, it’s probably time for you to get your house back in order.”

Caelinda was not entirely sure what he had meant by that, but she had a few guesses up her sleeve that had panned out. Those guesses had led her back to the Wyvern’s Tail where she had pulled up to a table and removed the cork from her financial flask. Just the day before she had been enjoying a wonderful party with friends, and now here she was with her fingers crossed in hopes that her entire past wasn’t about to come crashing down on her head like a pile of roof tiles. She was glad that Thinariel wasn’t here to see her in this state; the very notion of Caelinda taking anything this seriously might have caused her head to explode.

In the last six hours, she had managed to narrow down her field of battle to three documents and six stacks of gold. The headache involved was massive, and there was no doubt in her mind that she would be drinking tonight to get rid of it. However, the clarity of her sobriety at the moment allowed her to give herself a bit of a history lesson. 

The first document was the last financial statement her father had recorded for his records. She had done her best to keep her eyes away from the portions of the page where her father had signed his name. The single page contained a plethora of names and sales information that at this point was mostly outdated. Caelinda knew for a fact that half of the names on this list were dead folk, and most of the other half were not pertinent to her small investigation. Those two names that did remain were outstanding debts just like Kalto had mentioned. In total, just those two purchases amounted to almost seven thousand gold. 

“I could buy three orchards full of apples with that kind of money.” She said.

The purchases themselves were irrelevant to her now. What her father had bought when he was alive did not matter anymore. The only thing on her mind was the seven thousand she apparently owed. 

The second document was a bank slip from Silvermoon itself. Apparently, her father had made plans to move the family business into a more stable residence just before the invasion. Despite the loss of his life, the city had still charged the rent of the locale to her father for some time, and apparently Caelinda now owed about five thousand gold to the Silvermoon Bank. 

“Light be praised that the one kind of person to keep working during tragedy are the debt collectors.”

Moving on to the last document, it happened to be the only bit of good news in the stack. It was a handwritten letter from the man who had built the old family caravan letting Caelinda know that he would not be seeking payment for the repairs he was performing save for the new additions. While the letter was a blessing, the overall financial cost of the additions still added another seven hundred gold pieces to her debt. 

In total, she owed roughly thirteen thousand gold to various parties across Azeroth. And looking upon the stacks of gold she had amassed, she would require about twelve thousand and five hundred more gold pieces before she could make such a payment. 

Resisting the urge to slam her head through the table, Caelinda took a deep breath. Thinking back to her training, she did her best to center herself again.

“Anger is the weakness of the mind. Doubt is the lie of the lesser self. Do not give in to your emotions.”

The mantra was one of the many she had memorized during her training, and, although it was typically meant for martial arts and meditation, it did tend to help out in financial crises too. 

There was no clear answer to her current predicament. She made very little money in the first place, and there was no favor large enough she could call on to just instantaneously make this problem go away. 

“Well, the obvious solution would be to fake my own death.” She said aloud. Thankfully, there weren’t many people in the inn too interested in her goings on. “But I doubt my commanding officers would take too kindly to that. Plus I just got promoted. So yeah, faking my death is out.”

With a sigh, she scooped the gold back into her bags and compiled her papers back into their respective pouch. She leaned back against the wall behind her.

“There’s no way Aestus or Thinariel could help, even if they would be willing they probably don’t have that kind of money lying around. I can’t sell my body parts, I kind of need those. I don’t have much in the way to sell otherwise either.”

Her face was a stone wall as she did her best to think of a solution. Standing up, she slowly trudged out of the inn onto the streets of Orgrimmar. The heat hit her instantly, but she paid it no mind while she walked. 

“I can’t go treasure hunting either. I’ve got commitments now. And Old God servants don’t spit out gold so I can’t punch my way through this either.”

Her head continued to ache now thanks to the added pressure of having to actually think through her problems for once. This was harder than her dinner date, and that had been near impossible. 

Yet, suddenly, as if by divine providence a light went off in her mind. 

“Well, my father got me into this, and I think there’s a way he can get me out of it.”

Turning on her heels, Caelinda raced her way through the streets headed for the Sunguard’s encampment nearby. Her mind was more focused on this one task than it had been for almost any other, and with her heart set on this goal there was only one thing she needed to do. 

She needed to write some letters.

[munciememories]

Field Walk at McCulloch Park

Introduction - Meredith

Last Wednesday, July 10th, part of the Muncie Memories team (Ellie, Katie, Kitty, and Meredith) went on a fielwalk in McCulloch Park. Starting in the south end at the playground, we worked our way up to the north end to Centennial Ave and then back south again to the statue of George Foulke McCulloch, who the park was named after. 

McCulloch, born in Lancaster, OH in 1855 moved to Muncie with his parents at the age of one and went on to found the Muncie Star, the Indianapolis Star, and the Terre Haute Star. In 1901. McCulloch moved away from Muncie and decided to donate 83 acres of his land to the city, entrusting it for the free use by its citizens.

Neighboring McCulloch Park on the east side of Doctor MLK Blvd is the Whitely Community, a historically black neighborhood, which was originally founded as its own city, Whitely Town, but William Needham Whitely from Ohio. Prior to McCulloch Park being a park, the land had been the site of the Whitely Harvesting Machine Company, but it had burned to the ground in 1894. Someone told me that part of the plant used to be where the baseball diamond now lives, but I also read that the company used to be where East Central Recycling is now. (Also significant, but adjacent to this discussion, is the controversy that surrounded the renaming of the street that is now Doctor MLK Blvd.)

During the 1920s, the park was segregated, with KKK meetings and cross burnings even taking place in the park. The south side of the park, which had, and still continues to have, the majority of the park’s amenities including the baseball diamond, bear pit, safety town, basketball court, sledding hill, playground, and more, was reserved for whites. The north side of the park was for blacks. 

But the north side provided other unexpected moments of discovery. A couple shelters for sitting and gathering. Disc golf tee offs. An almost secret path to those less observant. The fire station where Hurley Goodall got his start as a firefighter. (A more thorough post for another day!)

Nature. A growing orchard. A buckeye tree. Not just for Ohio.

It’s evident that there is still a certain kind of segregation going on amongst parks. If we put McCulloch Park in comparison to the other park / green space we’ve conducted a fieldwalk in previously -- Minnetrista -- then, well, you’re looking at two entirely disparate entities. The bank account of one cannot be judged by the other. Experiencing these parks in their nuances and layers, brings up and renders palpable the ways in which we prioritize certain things over others, or certain places over other places.

But, no matter where we find ourselves, there we are. And, here are some thoughts and experiences from Katie, Kitty, and Ellie about the time we spent in McCulloch Park.

Two Sides of the Park - Katie

McCulloch Park is located primely in the Whitely community and surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the town activity. What’s interesting about the park is that it’s divided into two parts due to a road running through the middle. When visiting the two different sides, it was like we were exploring two different parks.

We began our fieldwalk at the south section of McCulloch Park and was pleasantly surprised at what we found. You can tell that most community gatherings happened on this side of the park. There was a variety of playground equipment that any kid would have a blast climbing all over. A little further to the left past the Go-kart track, lies a couple of basketball courts where we were entertained by the spirited game that was going. The park itself was filled with pastel colors, adding to the beauty of the place. It was disappointed that their Safety Town wasn’t up and running when we were there, but it was still interesting to see the layout of the fake city.

It was a surprise when we traveled to the other side of the park at how different the atmosphere was compared to the other. There was more of a quiet and peaceful feeling to the north side of the park. Nature was more predominate and there seemed to a lack of park structures when we were strolling through. It felt like this side of the park was more geared towards wildlife instead of the community aspects of a park-like the other side. Despite the strong presence of nature, it almost felt empty with the noticeable man-made structures being a shelter and scattered Frisbee Golf baskets throughout.

Though the two sides were quite different, it was interesting seeing how each side seemed to represent one of the main aspects that make up a park, community, and nature. 

Kitty’s Playdate

I’ve run through McCulloch Park plenty of times with the Ball State Cross Country team. However, this time, since we were walking at a much more leisurely pace, I was able to take in the scenery and did not have to worry about territorial gophers. When we arrived, I noticed a small girl and her mother at the playground. The girl watched our group walk through and decided she needed help on the merry-go-round. What could have been only about five minutes of pushing her on the merry-go-round quickly turned into 20 minutes of playing on the playground. This six year only was quick to point out all of the infrastructure problems of the older playground equipment. This included rusted metal that was chained together to allow the structure to stay put. I found this interesting that someone so young had already learned what the degradation of buildings looks like on sight. However, this didn’t deter her from enjoying her environment. She said that the new equipment was more fun but she was still excited to slide down the older slides. As she played, I looked around me at the crumbling bases and buildings of the park. It made me think about how old the park actually was. Eventually the playdate ended and I moved on with the group.

Further on, I came to a shelter. A lot of it either had racist graffiti on it or seemed to be slowly falling apart. Those features told me much about some of the characters who come to the park. It brought me a little bit of sadness because it’s such a beautiful area and it’s one of Muncie’s hidden treasures. But, maybe I’m beginning to understand how this park came to be in this state.

While I only know tidbits of Muncie history, I do know that the history of McCulloch Park wasn’t and isn’t always considered the safest. I’ve asked locals why that is, only to learn of dangers, such as pedophiles, that brought the park to an uncomfortable reputation. Growing up in a small town, I understand the importance of parks and hope that BSU students and locals come together to restore McCulloch Park in the future. Thank you for the beautiful park Muncie!

The markings with stories. - Ellie

No matter where you go, there will be some markings with stories that are left behind by people.  There are so many stories that can be found through a simple walk to a park. On our fieldwalk through McCulloch Park, there were several markings with stories spotted throughout the trail. The markings were either hidden or easy to find. For example, I found a heart-shaped tag on the stone ground in a playground. I saw a half of caution tape, several broken pregnancy tests, a crumbled tie-dyed shirt, a forgotten black hoodie, weird graffiti, a crafty golden letter “A” on a green leaf, small carvings of phrases and names, a green Pringle can, and funky latex gloves.  No matter how I found or spotted these markings, there is some part of me that is curious about the backstory of how the marking was left there. 

The human mind will immediately try to make up stories or scenarios as to why these markings were left here.  For an example, my mind made up scenarios for a heart-shaped tag I found. Perhaps someone proposing to their significant other with a stuff animal, or it was attached to a stuffed bear gifted to a child. Another case where my mind made up another story was for the broken pregnancy tests. One scenario was that someone told their partner that they were pregnant, and the reaction was negative, so they threw it on the ground. Or the pregnancy tests were actually from a happy event like a baby shower. Who knows what really happened with each of these markings?! All I know is that there are some funny or serious stories carried within each marking I found and recorded throughout the walk at McCulloch Park.  

With that, I challenge Muncie Residents to go to McCulloch Park and send me pictures of what you can find at munciememories@gmail.com! Remember not to touch what you see without protective gloves.