Plowshares

One legend has it that Demeter was pissed the Persians had the audacity to attack on her day, September 20, sacred in Eleusis, and called up a great wind to sink their fleet at Salamis. Never cross earth mother, her weapons are vast and beyond the imagining of mere mortals. I'm researching the history of the plow. Which is like the history of history. I was reading Hesiod, no specific reason, The Works And Days holds a special place for me, the gnomic form, which led to some Anglo-Saxon translations about early farming practices. Deep plowing wasn't possible until the advent of cast-iron and then steel 'turning blades', which are beautiful things, seriously practical. The first plows were probably just roots or branches, where one leg went off at an angle. In alluvial soil, the Nile, the Tigris-Euphrates, you could bind two sticks together and plow deep enough to plant rye and wheat. To break new ground requires something stronger. Alchemy and metallurgy come into play. Tool-making. Cast iron, then steel; then aluminum and very strong plastic. I lost track of where I was, oh, right, carving a furrow. I'd better go sleep. It's starting to rain again, and the patter on the roof is almost musical. No, wait, it is musical. Late night with John Cage. Another legend. Gray dawn, lingering drizzle. Beans (soup) on toast with a fried egg on top, too much drizzle too close to freezing for decent footing, so I stay inside. Most of the day reading about the improvements in farm implements. As it turns out this is a very interesting subject. I tend to find the history of anything interesting. Supposed to see the sun tomorrow. I've waited to change out the spare tire on the Jeep until I next went to town because I don't know if I can trust the spare, so tomorrow looks like the time. I need supplies. Have to deal with the tires, whatever the logistical nightmare. In this case you go to the library first. Another little adventure. Very quiet and still this afternoon, and the birds were back out, feeding on the sumac heads. Flitting about, and I can hear them in the leaf-litter; the three crows came by for their mouse lunch. My general malaise the last few days is a reflection on my state of unpreparedness, the fact that I knew better, and that I haven't done some things I needed to do. I can turn this around if I'll just put on my overalls when I first get up, and as soon as it gets light, put on my boots. In my case this is not a metaphor. I always read at breakfast, and at all other meals, but I've let them run together. I can back off the reading, a bit; it's not like I can keep up with everything anyway. B and I were talking, we keep up with 15 or 20 writers, another two of three hundred we read scattershot, we both read a great deal of non-fiction. Reading and writing are such solitary activities, sometimes it's difficult to even think about social interaction, but I do need to get out more often. I'll work on that, but I don't like to drive at night anymore, I'd much rather sit home and read about the Jews developing the cast-iron plow early, and how it took hundreds of years, 1100 BC to 700 BC, before it was in common use. The earliest plows, today, we would call harrows, they merely scratched the earth. Then along comes John Deere and he has actually computed the best shape for the plow and a tractor to pull it. Tractors changed the entire equation. You no longer had to rely on stupid beasts. I have to think about that. Stupid is the wrong word, recalcitrant would be better. Mules require patience, but they eat grass and provide manure, so it's difficult to fault them for looking back over their shoulder thinking we're the stupid ones. From a mule's point of view.