An August Walk In The Woods

 I had not intended to take a walk - after all, I had things to do  before I returned back to the life that continued on without me this weekend, the whirling and scrambling of the modern world currently past my sight and sound.  But the morning remained too cool and beautiful to ignore its allure and the chairos - that Greek word for "moment in time" - might never come again.

And so, I walked.

The dampness of the soil belied the dry brown of the native grasses that is typical here in August, the last long pull before Autumn comes with the distant promise of the rains of Winter.  The combination of my foot sinking into the soil and the crackle of grass as I walk which should not have arrived for another three months or so strikes me for its incongruity.

The morning is clean and cool, the overcasting clouds that brought rain the day before departed.  The world has a fresh cast to it as it often does after such a rain, the sort of thing that I think should always happen after a rain but so seldom does.

I walk along the Long Road, the road that is - per the property lines - the actual deeded driveway here.  It has never been used as such as long as my family has been on this land as we have always used the shorter route across the other properties that surround this island of sanity - or at least we have been using it since the 1940's.   The right of way is now so established that if one is to electronically map this location, the name of the dirt and gravel road will be that of The Ranch.  One of the few times that tradition supersedes modernity.

It comes to mind I never told TB the Elder that.  He probably would have just listened and nodded his head, knowing that simply was the way it was always meant to be.

The detrius of Winter has been cleaned out as I walk, likely by The Cowboy and The Young Cowboy.  One can clearly now see the areas where new growth is going on, where trees have fallen and allowed the great Battle of Light of The Forest Floor that has been going on for ages to begin its eternal renewal.

Across the Lower Meadow the remaining horse looks up from his grazing at me, wondering if I am food bearer or close enough to be one.  It grazes away with the cattle now:  a pair of deaths this year left it the sole survivor of its kinds. From a distance I cannot tell if the cattle are an acceptable substitute.

I wander my way down as the canopy overtakes the road.   It muffles the noise well enough, allowing the idea that I move through a muffled green tunnel pushing out all but the sounds that belong here.

As I approach the Lower Gate, the sign of the limits of our property adjoining the others, I surprised to see a small black and white form working its way of the road:  A skunk making its way to wherever skunks go at this time of the day, oblivious to me as I was to it.  It makes its odd lope up the road - front back front back - its tail bobbing a second after its body.

I attempt to shoe it away with my voice but the skunk remains strangely unmoved by my verbal commands.  I stand my ground for a moment - then carefully work my way up on the side of the road; no sense in reckless courage.  I wait for a bit but the skunk does not come by.  I finally peer back down to find that skunk has not advanced.  It sees me and begins making its way down the trail - periodically stopping to turn its back to me and raise its tail.  Familiar enough with the old stories, I wait patiently until something on the road grabs its attention, perhaps a last minute meal.  

I will not make the Lower Gate today.

The Lower Gate.  In a way the end of the world here, just as the front gate that we pass through on our way in with its metal arch that gives the name of this place and the names of my parents is the entrance.  The Main Gate is welcoming in that sense, a celebration of always coming.  The Lower Gate is not so with its single cattle panel design:  "Beyond me lies monsters" it always seems to say to me.

I realize in a brief moment of awareness that there was time that I believe in monsters, and then a time that I did not.  Now, I realize, I believe in them again - even more.

I start making my way back up the road, always an enlightening activity as it seems seldom that I actually avail myself of the opportunity to look at the same things but from the reverse side.   In a city or urban area this is much less of a thing:  houses and landscaping and industrial parks seldom change for the better no matter how you look at them.  Here, change is common and and almost everywhere I look, presenting me with small tableaus and frozen moments completely unexposed to me as I head down.

As I pass a fat pine tree,  I realize our local variety of "Poison X"  is turning red as if if were already Autumn.  That it would be such a forerunner seems odd to me; that it is doing this is not comforting, perhaps signs of a bad Winter in-bound. My Great Aunt who owned this property, with her extended memory almost back 100 years, might have recalled.

As I make my way back down the road the House rises up above the bottom of small hill that it sits on, framed by the living green and brown of trees on a dry brown canvas of spent grasses.  The sun dapples through the trees as the cerulean blue sky sits behind it:  a testament, the physical remaining testament as it were, of the land here and my parents' love of it and their intent in some way to see it preserved.

Sighing, I begin the trudge up the hill.  The world awaits me.

Sunday Morning 0800

This past weekend I made a conscious decision not to bring my computer to The Ranch - not only because the keyboard makes me reluctant to risk more damage but given my lack of time and InterWeb access when I am present there means there is neither purpose nor need to have it.  And so my mornings were unspoiled by the outside world except for periodic openings of the garage doors to give light to clean it out.

The morning here is surprisingly cool and damp - an unanticipated August rain the day before has left all clean and unexpectedly like Autumn.  It also indirectly kept away the typical Summer tourists and their sounds on the road:  almost no civilizational noise is present.

But the world is not without noise:  small bird song penetrates the morning breeze that transverses the screen doors between the front and the back of the house which is on the linear transit between them.  Out the back door, to the southeast and past the trees - perhaps as far as the main road in - the woods fill with goblin shrieks and howls as the wild turkeys sing songs of love and combat and the gleanings on the forest floor.  

The house is silent except for the monotonous ticking of the clocks.  I had to replace the battery in one of them this trip; the fact that it had essentially slowed down its interpretation of time while time had not in the least slowed down is not lost on me.

This living room, indeed this house, sits as silently and as empty as the world outside now.  The garage behind me on the couch has been sorted and with the exception of the furniture in some rooms, all the remaining items are be sold and gone except for those items we are keeping which are now boxed up in my parents' bedroom waiting for a final location.

The silence is overwhelming.  It echoes in my ears now in a way that it never does now that I live in the land of activity and noise.  The electrons of creation create a hum of action in my ears, the sound of pen and paper as I draft this is loud to me.  I can hear it, the scratch and tap of the pen coming on and off of the paper as I break the individual fibers, my thoughts almost burning through in the black ink like charcoal of a burned stick.  

Looking from the couch, the sunlight creates odd shadows and glares in the hallway that is now cleared of the family pictures that used to hang there - the bare walls of a life ending or beginning.

How does one process this, this intersection of beginnings and endings, of the silence and simplicity of nature against the roar of civilization that awaits me with its frenetic activity and constant flow of information?

In the distance a woodpecker about its business hammers into a tree.  I, too, must eventually be about mine.

The Collapse CLIX: Hot

22 August 20XX +1

My Dear Lucilius:

It is hot.

Not just the heat of a passing day or two of Summer. No, the crushing soul-sucking heat of a world that seems to have passed too close to the Sun.

I cannot remember a run of days here since my relocation that it has been this hot – nor can Pompeia Paulina, whose memory goes back farther than mine. Nor, apparently, anyone of Young Xerxes’ acquaintance either.

It is – and this word is used advisedly – d###edly hot.

The quail have had to be relocated to a wire enclosure near the trees in the back (and watched out the window0 during the day lest they perish. The bees are clustered around the front of the hive moving air around during the heat of the day instead of foraging. The water carefully trudged up and over in the morning only seems to keep them alive until the evening when they are watered more.

My wheat is drying nicely, I suppose. And fish drying is going along swimmingly (even in the heat I still retain the remnants of my humour).

The Cabin is reasonably insulated from this – thank my overspending in remodeling back in the day – but even at that we have the shades closed and do not do much. It has actually gotten bad enough that Young Xerxes and Statiera spend the days with us as their house is simply too hot.

You might wonder how four people do in a 900 square foot house. As it turns out relatively okay – so long as the topics of discussion are free from 1) The Heat; 2) The Wheat and its potential ripening; and 3) Whether or not there is sufficient toilet paper in the outhouse that will not necessitate a second trip.

You laugh. You should not. Heat tends to fray tempers as it turns out.

What do we do? Whatever food prep that does not involve heat. Some reorganizing (as if that had not already been done at least three times). Verbal reorganizing for Young Xerxes and Statiera when this latest wave subsides. Puzzles. Reading.

Oddly enough, no discussions about the future. Which may be for the best at this point – at best we have no idea what that might look like and speculating seems to create unneeded tension.

As soon as it remotely cools down Young Xerxes and Statiera are away to their home and Pompeia Paulina and myself are hard at work watering and moving quail back and relocating fish to the shed for the night and anything else we can do – fortunately the evenings are still long and much can be done.

It does cause me to wonder though about all those who lived in places where heat such as this is a common occurrence. Are they still there? Could they “sweat it out” in places like Arizona and Texas and The Deep South? People did once upon a time of course: The Civil War was fought in Summer in wool uniforms. But that was a different era and we have become a people used to comfort – or at least we used to be.

Odd to think that comfort can now be defined as “Hot enough to get work done without expiring”. How far we have fallen.

Your Obedient Servant, Seneca

2024 Turkey: Coffee And Tea

For virtually our entire trip in Turkey we drank nothing but water, Turkish coffee, and Turkish Tea (and the occasional regional wine:  although Muslim, alcohol is pretty easy to find).

Virtually every hotel that we stayed at had an espresso machine or coffee was brought around in a carafe; the American style coffee machine to just "grab a cup" was nowhere to be seen.

But that was not real Turkish coffee.

A "traditional" Turkish coffee service involves three things:  traditionally made Turkish coffee in the equivalent of a demi-tasse, a sugar cube or other small sweet for cutting the bitterness , and a small cup of water.  As you can see from the pictures this could range from a complete matching service to two paper cups and a plate.

 

Coffee had reached the West by the 1600's in Italy; the first coffee house in Europe (in Vienna, ironically the location of the last great Ottoman invasion of the West).

This was the coffee service at a rest stop we were at.  Almost everywhere served their coffee in small ceramic cups (water, as you can see, could come in many different forms).

Below is as traditional coffee vendor's cart.

To make the coffee, the coffee maker will fill his copper container (the ibrik) with room temperature (not cold water).  If sweet coffee is desired it may be added here.  The coffee maker will then add the coffee - an almost pulverized dark roast - to the ibrik  and and then place it near the charcoal (the small log-looking items).  The coffee will be brought to a boil at least twice and then dispensed into the small cups.

Tea:  Hot tea is always served in the small glasses you see below.  There were never any handled holders that we saw; you just grasp the edge and sip it.  Sugar is not added but is available to taste.  And it is always served with a saucer.

Small coffee and tea cafes were scattered everywhere we went.  Starbuck's was present - where are they not?  - but they are still completely outnumbered by the small coffee and tea cafes and vendors.

Either are highly recommended if you are ever at a Mediterranean culture festival that offers them or at at Turkish restaurant.

k

2024 Turkey: Foods Of Istanbul

Traveling to Turkey, I did not quite know what to expect in terms of food.  I had somewhat hazy sorts of ideas based on my very rudimentary knowledge and a single Turkish restaurant in New Home:  basically rice and meat.

Boy, was I pleasantly surprised.

Not in Turkey but on the plane over.  Yay complimentary alcohol!

Turkish cuisine is a delight.  It shares a great many similarities with Greek cuisine - or as our guide noted, Mediterranean cuisine.  Below is a sampling of our foods in Istanbul.

From our first night in Turkey.  The main dish is called manti.  They are small stuffed dumplings similar to ravioli.  Traditionally they are stuffed with lamb but beef is also used.  To the right you can see dipping sauce including a yogurt based sauce.  Bread is to the left (some sort of bread was with almost every meal).  To the front is hot tea (which we will get to tomorrow).

The rings are simit, a bread roll similar to a bagel.  They are rolled in sesame seeds.  This was from a street vendor.

As part of our pre-tour time, The Ravishing Mrs. TB signed us up for a food tour.  These foods were from the area around the Spice Market:  simit, cured meat (not pork though; only made that error once in conversation), humus, cheese, and olives.  The small red lump on the right is shakshuka which primarily consists of eggs and a tomato sauce.  This is very traditional food and we saw it at virtually every hotel we were at.

One of the stops we made on the tour was at a very highly rated restaurant which had a rotating menu of regional Turkish dishes.  No recollection of what any of these were called - but the green dish up front had unripe almonds as an ingredient.

Bellow is lavas, a Turkish bread.  Quite thin and crispy, it comes to the table puffed up but deflates - especially if you tear off a hunk!

Below is perhaps one of the most unusual meals we had in Turkey:  kokoreç, which is lamb or sheep intestines rinsed (perhaps obviously), stuffed with sweetbreads, and grilled over charcoal.  Ours, as you can see, was put into grilled bread.  It did not have an overpowering taste but was a bit on the fatty side - but quite delicious none the less.  The white foamy liquid is ayran, a drink made by adding water and salt to yogurt.  It is served cold and traditionally in a traditional style cup.  Quite popular in Turkey, I did not really seek it out.

Baklava:  Not just a Greek dessert, it was available almost every night of our trip.  The ones below were from a shop that has sold only baklava since 1956.  Unusual fact:  there are many different kinds.  The only in front is called Angel's Hair; the one behind it is (I believe) has pistachio.

Gryos on the street outside the Hippodrome.  Somehow as in Greece, french fries  are a regular "thing".

The second night we were there we had dinner at a literal hole-in-wall down from our hotel.  They spoke no English and we no Turkish but we had a fine meal just the same.  Out of the goodness of their hearts they brought us a round of starters.  The balls on the left are mercimek köftesi, or lentil meatballs.  Made with red lentils, bulgur, and spices, they were an excellent vegetarian  option and commonly available at all of the places we stopped.

Fairly traditional Turkish meal:  bread, meat, rice, and a variety of vegetables.

And, of course, baklava.

A lunch:  lamb prepared in tomatoes and vegetables with a hefty side of yogurt.

Oh look -  more baklava.

Dinner starters: vegetables, humus, cheese, and mercimek köftesi.

Firenda kimali makarna:  A pasta dish with layers of pasta, seasoned meat, and vegetables covered with shredded cheese and eggs.  Essentially Turkish lasagna.

Dessert.  What a surprise   - more baklava and a honey cookie.

Turkey:  Come for the history, stay for the food.

On The Nature Of My Life And Getting Straightened Out

(I cannot specifically attest the existence of the Ascetic Gabriel but Karoulia, as it turns out, is a skete (a small collection of monks of the Orthodox tradition that live in isolation as part of a larger monastery on Mt. Athos in Greece) and really does exist.  More here.

I realized last week (on a Wednesday at around 1630 if that is relevant) that I am on a journey I did not anticipate.  I faintly saw it around 1200 that day but it did not click into place until later.  

The path picks up (I think) sometime around the time of my move when I found myself in many ways very much on my own.  Perhaps it was because of the relative silence or perhaps because of being isolated, I asked God for guidance on a great many things - not only the direction of my life but my very nature.

Important safety tip:  as with praying for patience, these turn out to be the sort of prayers God delights to answer.  But as with patience, perhaps not in the way we anticipated or wanted.  In my case, it has a been a great deal of confrontation about who I am in my core and how much I reflect Christ and His Gospel.

I have been reading a combination of short biographies of lesser known Orthodox monks and clergy, quotes from Columba of Iona, and the Stoic philosopher Epictetus.  What has come through is the following:

1)  I am not nearly as humble as I should be.

2)  I am not nearly as kind as I should be.

3)  I am not nearly as Christlike as I should be.

4)  I am not nearly working as hard on my sinful nature as I should be.

That was a lot of "shoulds" for a Wednesday evening.

The thing that was "impressed" on me (no - there was no visitation or thunder and lightening) was simply the fact that now more than ever - here in this time and this place - Christ wants His witnesses.  Not just witnesses that mention they go to church as part of their regular schedule (although that is super Scriptural and very important) but those who are actual Christlike.

What does that mean?  Two things, I think.  The first is simply that follow the commands of Christ and the apostles.  Those are pretty well laid out in the New Testament (not that we necessarily like them, but they are there).  The second is that we live specifically to the situation where we are truly Christ's representatives, perhaps His only ones.

We all live and work in different places.  We are in different social situations.  In that sense I do not wonder (and am more and more convinced) that application of Christlikeness will be different for each of us - we are tailor-made, as it were, for those situations and those others in our lives.

What is it for me?  I do not fully know but some things that have come to mind are humility, kindness, willingness to serve and be a "soldier on the line" as it were (this is far more difficult than I had anticipated with a change in position and role). 

(Also, just be a better servant as a husband in general.  But I suspect for the married this is always a thing.)

The thing that cemented all this?  The quote above.

C.S. Lewis said it more politely but not any less fervently:

"But the great thing to remember is that, though our feelings come and go, His love for us does not.  It is not wearied by our sins, or our indifference; and therefore is quite relentless in its determination that we shall be cured of those sins, at whatever cost to us, at whatever cost to Him". (Mere Christianity)

I asked the question and God gave the answer.  It is up to me to get on with the tasks at hand.  Or He will happily do it for me - more directly perhaps but also I suspect with more discomfort to myself.