Blood Will Tell

The Crankies' Girl Cousins came to visit this weekend, leaving Meta Cranky slack-jawed at the  brains, talent, and chutzpah packed into her maternal line's DNA. Griot-quality historical memories. Swear vocabularies eloquent enough to make the Big Lebowski weep. Plus, they speak math, giving rise to conversations rarely heard in Chez Cranky: "I told her, it's the Pythagorean theorem, for god's sake. You just plug in the numbers!" 


In their wee days, Girl Cousins spent untold hours at the farm of maternal grandmother, whom we'll call Molly Bloom. In barns with sheer drops of 20 feet from hay mow to floor. In pickup trucks with minimal safety features, driven by 12-year-olds. In watering tanks surrounded by cow plop and covered in mossy ooze. Girl Cousins brought along archival pictures, including one of small children entertaining themselves in dirt road in front of the grandmother's home. Those children might have been sitting there for five hours, since Molly Bloom's house was not about childhood enrichment; small children were not provided with craft activities to help them with summer reading lists or foreign language acquisition. Instead, they were locked outside until mealtime. The hours that yawned between lunch and dinner provided Girl Cousins life lessons in patience and tenacity: Smart girls can go to school and buy their own houses, and they go in any time they want.

Girl Cousins all bear a family resemblance to Meta Cranky's mother, sharing either Cranky Sergeant's  features, height-challenged stature, or no-nonsense attitude. Watching in appreciation, MC thinks she identified the Crankies' Maternal Line Organizing Principle (MLOP), and it has something to do with resiliency. All the Girl Cousins have coped with a grief or disappointment not with navel-gazing, but with a particularly vigorous grace and lack of self-pity. As Cranky #2 learned, their focus on action and results creates a No Whining Zone in which even the youngest are expected to plumb their depths and to figure out what they're made of. And guess what? Pouring your own milk can be a thrill. What the MLOP seems to favor is patience to teach those who can learn, gratitude for those who have taught them, and an utter ferocity with assholes.

Molly Bloom, for all her failings, may be the fountainhead of the MLOP. In her heyday, she was enormous, domineering, and profane, and yet the neighborhood beat a path to her door because she was so much fun. She was all about yes I said yes I will Yes and not so much about maternal support or unmitigated love. Girl Cousins have taken her best, improving ribaldry with kindness, and made it even better.
--MC
*MC thinks the photo credits go to Girl Engineer Cousin and Cranky Cousin.

Normalcy

The inevitable round of summer farmhouse fix-its has begun, and it's not pretty. A trip through the basement revealed that the submersible pump could no longer be coaxed into removing air conditioner condensation from the property. Take a look: clearly, this sump pump has lost its will to live. Our new best friend, Service Call Ed, did some forensics on this former pump to determine the cause of death. "These look like mineral deposits. Do you drain the hot water heater into this pump?" he asked skeptically. Um. Well. Meta Cranky shuffled her feet. "How often do you do this?" Really, Ed. Isn't that a little personal? "About three times a year," Meta Cranky admitted, unable to make eye contact. Ed certified that the Crankies' hot water heater had killed their sump pump, and he swathed the new pump in protective mesh to prevent further carnage.

In light of this basement drama, MC reflected that residents of most households don't drain their hot water heater more often than they change the oil in their car or have their teeth cleaned. Yet the yuck-factor of the Crankies' water well means that it's completely normal to drain the heater, repeatedly; otherwise, the water smells disgusting. What passes for Normal Maintenance at Cranky Girls Farm would be Inexplicably Revolting for the people of the metroplex.

Want more examples? Cranky #2 points out a hole in the circa-1924 concrete watering tank. It's been drained to reveal the source of its leaks, and Second Brother mucked out most of the whiffy, primordial goo on its bottom.  Two fiberglass patches later, and we're good to go. Wading up to your knees in La Brea tar pit-quality goo? Again, completely normal. Just hope you don't slip and fall in the ick. That's a gross-out even for the locals.

Some fix-it projects are heroic and deeply satisfying. A paint job, for example, is eye candy. Maybe some new landscaping? Cute! Love what you've done with those bedding plants! Sump pumps and patched tanks, however, are nearly so not sexy. MC will not be inviting friends over for high balls and a tour of CGF's new fiberglass installations. Sadly, this is the manner of most of the CG farm fix-its.

When the Almost 100-Year-Old Homes Tour swings by and asks what the Crankies have done to maintain their historic home, they can report improvements such as:
1)Notice how the house hasn't burned down from an electrical fire? When one too many white-faced electricians asked, "Lady, do you know you've got knob and tube wiring in your attic?" the Crankies came across with an upgrade.
2)Notice how the air conditioning works, even when it's really hot? Not so long ago, the AC tripped itself off when cooling the house was just too much trouble. Commonly, on a 100-degree-plus day, Meta Cranky would notice that, as the afternoon stretched out, she'd become even more irritable than usual. Then it would dawn on her that it's freaking hot in here.  At this point, she'd walk out into the blazing heat to flip her breaker. An observant maintenance person asked, "Lady, do you know your air conditioner is 40 years old?" Really? You mean they aren't collectible, like a '67 Belvedere? Again, the Crankies dipped into their Deferred Maintenance account.

An old house sincerely wants to fall down. Making it stand upright, with working plumbing, sewerage, and electricity is the unnatural act. The long-ago person who poured our ancient concrete tank took the time to scratch the date into the top. Fiberglass is a tricky medium, and the Crankies can't make an addendum to note our own fix-it. They'll just observe: Repaired 2010.
--MC

Glee

Fox's Glee has shown audiences how to find self-expression through old Journey and Madonna standards. Those passionate, emotional choir students do a fab job with  top-of-the-lung Queen covers. But imagine them in your kitchen, belting out "Don't Stop Believin'," before you've had your first cup of coffee. Still charmed?

In the Cranky household, there's no mute button for the household soundtrack.  Cranky #2 has a song in her heart, and she almost never keeps it to herself. She's got songs that tell you how to spell "and," "me," and "is." Songs that tell you the days of the week and months of the year. Most of Dolly Parton's greatest hits. Partisan songs that are inappropriate in particular venues: for example, "The Eyes of Texas" in the Oklahoma City Stockyards. Now-sophisticated Cranky #1 at times weeps in frustration at the background music in Chez Cranky; however, MC remembers C1 vocalizing the theme from Oklahoma, amplified by the excellent restroom acoustics in the Bob Bullock Museum in the capital of Texas.

Cranky Methodist Church only encourages this tunefest. MC thought that that only a few people could hear C1 singing along with the choir's anthem on Sunday. She thought wrong since, even without a microphone, C1 has excellent diaphragm support and projects for the farthest balcony. Truth be told, there's historical precedent for inappropriate Cranky family singing at Cranky Methodist. A twisted nursery worker named Pam taught wee Meta Cranky all the verses to a schoolyard ditty called "Gang Bang Lulu," which MC lustily repeated to all within earshot. Hey, life is a cabaret, old chum.

The Music Man's Harold Hill says that "singing is sustained talking." Sustained talking is one thing: C2 appears to be channeling Ethel Merman. 

The butcher, the baker, the grocer, the clerk

Are secretly unhappy men because

The butcher, the baker, the grocer, the clerk

Get paid for what they do but no applause.

They'd gladly bid their dreary jobs goodbye for anything theatrical and why?

There's no people like show people, they smile when they are low

Angels come from everywhere with lots of jack, and when you lose it, there's no attack

Where could you get money that you don't give back? Let's go on with the show!

--MC

The Crankies' Red State Tour

The Crankies have been treated to some impressive sights while in the country. A hip-high stand of Tripsacum dactyloides (eastern gamma grass) with those dramatic red tassels. Ruminants love the delectable Tripsacum dactyloides; the Crankies respect the venerable genealogy of this early ancestor of corn. 


The gamma grass was in the same pasture as Mrs. W.'s rose installation. Is it too much, really? The Crankies might fill out one of those "how are we doing" cards to let the management know that all these roses are really over the top. Kind of like '80s big hair and shoulder pads. And what variety of cattle would you stock in this pasture to avoid clashing with that shade of pink? Luckily, Angus goes with everything. 


Finally, a whimsical neighbor is doing his own interpretation of Cadillac Ranch; he has buried three fire engines in his field, leaving the front ends to point merrily to the sky. Second Brother has pointed out that the fire engines were working when they were planted in the dirt and sacrificed for art. Pictures are forthcoming. 

Living and working amidst all this rural charm gives Meta Cranky some insight into Tea Party politics. Her understanding is that Tea Partiers (Tea Baggers? Tea Steepers? Lapsang Souchangers?) is that they want smaller government, and they are very irritated about government interference in their daily lives. MC thinks that she is ready to pull down some major political consultant money, because she has identified the source of this irritation: Tea Partiers are crabby as hell because their Internet service sucks. 

Connect these dots, if you will: Tea Partiers live in Red States. Red States are predominantly rural. Rural states have sucky Internet. Think about it. Tea Partiers listen to Rush Limbaugh because he's on the freaking radio. Every Dodge pickup in every Red State driveway can access a radio station that carries Rush Limbaugh! If Tea Parties wanted to read The Huffington Post, they would have to drive 30 miles to use the Internet service at Starbucks! MC can hardly believe that she is the first to identify this phenomenon.  

In her time at Cranky Girls' Farm, MC has acquired an intimate knowledge of the DSL help line of her local telephone/Internet co-op. All the DSL troubleshooters are drop-dead adorable, but MC suspects that they are working with some limited resources.  MC is casting a rather jaded eye on those people who complain that Time Warner is rather too casual about their Road Runner cable. Casual, to MC, is 22 instances (by actual count at the telephone co-op) of dropped service in one day. MC lights the lucky candle and hopes that a new modem does the trick; otherwise, she'll be even more in evidence at Cranky Hometown library. Their air conditioning and WiFi are an unbeatable combination.


MC hasn't yet devised her new political consulting career, but she would advise candidates to exploit these two facts: 1) Red Staters would consider voting for the dead corpse of Ted Kennedy if he replaced their dial-up service with DSL and 2) Red Staters are soothed and sustained by the satisfaction they get from mowing their lawns. The immediate gratification of seeing a lawn mowed provides some chemical rush that must be comparable to methamphetamines, which also are tres popular in rural environments. Construct a campaign that combines Internet service with a 60-inch, 25 hp zero-turn lawnmower, and you could get some attention. We're just saying.
--MC

Accentuate the Positive

The Crankies know that you can seriously mess up your karma by gloating about a successful (or not awful) farming endeavor. Casually mention at the coffee shop that you sold your wheat at $5, and you've won the instant loathing of the folks at the other table who sold at $2.45 and paid major storage fees. Acknowledging the need for tact and delicacy, Meta Cranky will casually mention, then, that the wheat harvest at Cranky Girls' Farm was completed yesterday. That small miracle was followed by another: the hay baler fairy worked all night to turn rows of swathed hay into tidy bales of alfalfa. Wait for it: and then it rained this morning.


There's plenty more grain to cut at Uncle Sid's and Uncle Michael's. But still, it's satisfying to have one item marked off the list without an asterisk that means a field of grain has been  *flooded, *set on fire by welding torch, *damaged by late frost so the yield is cut in half, or *pounded into the ground by hail. Think these are hypothetical examples? Think again. 


So, before the inevitable screwup happens, MC chooses to accentuate the positive. Let's talk about roses, shall we? These roses came from Mrs. Wymore's house, which is in the general neighborhood of Hazel's place. MC never saw Mrs. Wymore's house when it wasn't a ruin, but it was a destination in the mid-1930s. Hot, hot. People went there to dance and to buy drink-ables that were friendly and not especially legal. Mrs. W. seems to have been a very busy woman. Friend Marvin,  Major Cranky's friend, recalls having Mrs. W. flag him down as he walked home from school to call out, "Tell your mother I weaned Baby W. today!" Mrs. W. was not slowed down by lactation.

But the roses. One spring about a dozen years ago, MC and Uncle M came upon the remains of Mrs. W's house and found it surrounded by rose bush. This was not just exuberant growth. We're talking an acre or two of prickly pink shrubbery. It doesn't get more heritage rose than Mrs. W.'s forgotten roses, which had been making a living all by themselves for 60 years or so. MC dug up a sample, took it home, and planted it in the wrong spot. Mrs. W.'s roses had put up with drought, flood, grasshoppers, and straying cattle, but they had no experience with shade. Year after year, they languished by the fence under an oak tree, until Uncle Sid decided to replace the corral. MC had to move the rose bush, and about damn time. That's all they were waiting for. 


 William Wordsworth came upon a field of daffodils and described them as such: "Ten thousand saw I at a glance / Tossing their heads in sprightly dance." The sandhills are much less forgiving than the Lake Country; if that Romantic poet had wandered upon Mrs. W.'s rosebush, he would have had to pick stickers out of his shoelaces. Still, the Romantics understood prickly charm, and the Poet Laureate certainly would have appreciated Mrs. W's illegal intoxicants. MC's heart with pleasure fills.
--MC

Re-entry @ Cranky Girls' Farm

Meta Cranky and C2 have landed. MC got the distinct impression that fingers were drumming impatiently as the Crankies drove up the driveway: Combine and two grain trucks parked in the driveway. Field of dead-ripe wheat on the left side of the road. Rows of swathed alfalfa, ready to bale, on the right. A turkey added to the sense of frantic activity, flapping and squawking over the car and into the walnut tree. There was a general impression of where have you been already? In the time it took C2 to get on her hat and sunscreen, Uncles Sid and Michael cut a wheat sample and took it to the elevator (57 pounds/bushel; that's grade 2; not bad). The Crankies were good to go.

It was a perfect day to cut wheat: a steadily blowing wind and a temp of 102. Miserable for anything except drying grain and getting it into a bin. C2 rode on the combine until its bin filled for the first time and it stopped to empty into a truck. Then she took a Fancy Nancy approach to wheat harvest, setting herself a schedule of bath, nap, and tea party for the rest of the afternoon. C2 figured the combine would still be going when the sun went down, and she was right. She got a second trip around the field in the cool of the evening, wearing a tea party dress never before seen in an Allis Chambers Gleaner. Tres fancy!

Uncles Sidney and Michael were decidedly less fancy, since they had to crawl under combines when wheat straw got stuck,  and shlep the wheat to the elevator in the large, reliable, but not-air conditioned truck. At the end of the day, though, their Significant Others had a lovely dinner waiting for them; we think the combination of successfully cut wheat, air conditioning, and grilled meat products  was a satisfying one.

MC's Ancient O'Hern great-grandfather famously went berserk at harvest time; apparently the variables of machinery, weather, and human error were too much for him to synthesize as he watched his grain (read: money) being gathered into piles. One of his 10 sons apparently threatened to hit him with a shovel during a grain harvest if he didn't back off. MC is a little fuzzy on this story. She's not sure 1)which of the 10 sons made this threat or 2)If the shovel actually connected with the Ancient O'Hern. Contrast this with the Crankies' harvest experience, where Gardening Friend makes margaritas in fancy glasses, which Significant Others sip as they watch a combine move in smooth circles around a field. MC is thinking that estrogen improves the wheat harvest experience. Not that she can set the header on a combine, operate the dumping mechanism on a truck, or perform any useful labor. But as C2 slathered the assembled females with her Mary Kay perfume samples,  MC couldn't help but observe that a Fancy Nancy wheat harvest has a certain je ne sais quoi.
--MC