Cast Iron

Cleaned and re-seasoned a couple of skillets; write a post-it note to myself to remember to stop at the used appliance store and get a couple of the cast iron 'eyes' from a gas range to fabricate a new grate for the cook stove. You wouldn't think the firebox would get that hot, but they deform and melt a bit. Stanley Waterford makes a replacement grate, of course, they know it's going to fail, but they're over $200 and I can fabricate one for $10. The fox came for a visit, barked her demand for an apple, and it was a lovely diversion from the history of technology. Then talked with TR about upcoming grad school, we never mentioned Poe, but we did talk about bells and change-ringing. He mentioned a Scandinavian composer (living) that works with bells. I found a beautiful arrowhead on the driveway, what I call a bird-point, a completely intact piece, which is quite surprising because it had been dug out of a creek bed, then spread on the driveway, then graded a couple times. After I soaked it in water and cleaned it with a soft toothbrush I could see where every flake had been popped loose. Masterful pieces of work. Folsom points are elegant, the absolute connection between European stone work of the time, Magdelanian, corresponds almost exactly with Folsom stone-work. I tend not to believe in coincidence, as a matter of course, but that would require an east to west expansion, following the ice-front in hide boats, the Shetland's, then Iceland, at an early time. My personal belief is that different people were here, 25,000 years ago, on both coasts; a Japanese boat blown off course, a Viking hunting seal: it's difficult to miss a continent. There was a dig, recently, on the islands off California, which gave dates 20,000 years old. There is no way that people could have gotten all the way south in 12,000 years. The Amazon is too difficult, even with that tool kit, stone axes and fire; and then establishing a culture, high in the mountains, based on freeze-dried potatoes. Those tall natives are a different race. Evidence of that whole culture, Oz, in the middle of the jungle. A nap, then back up at midnight to catch Beal Street on the radio, a wonderful shit-kicking couple from Alaska, a peddle- steel, and a mammoth Stratocaster, excellent stuff. Fully awake and stuffed full of sweet potato, a smoke on the back porch in the dark (not wanting to attract bugs) listening to night sounds. Extremely dark, a little tree-rain, and a sweet smell coming off the forest. Could be honeysuckle, but it smells a bit more jasmine-like. I have no idea what it is, but it's a lovely scent. I was down in a little State Forest plot of walnut trees, maybe five acres, planted in a grid (government work) checking out something I had read about walnut roots emitting a toxin that kept down the competition. There were no other tree saplings, none; and there was an odd smell, just a little nasty and not at all like the smell of oak trees and fern. Not strong, but a little under the tongue and distasteful. This test plot of trees is over on the river road, and while they're building the new bridge I'll be going into town or coming home that way fairly often, so I stop by, look and smell. I realized that I'd never been in a grove of native Black Walnut trees before. Individual trees, certainly, and I've harvested and used the timber, but never in a dense stand of artificial-wild trees. They need thinning. On the other hand, sometimes it's good to just watch what happens. Still, in this case, planting on a grid and all, it probably should be a managed forest, so it needs thinning. Late at night, the only light is my computer screen, so there's a bug issue. I clean the screen with Bounce sheets that I get out of the dryers at the laundromat (I hate the things, they make me break out in hives) because they work very well and the smell keeps the bugs off for a while. But since I started washing my underwear and socks in a five gallon bucket with a butter-churn dasher, I haven't been going to the laundromat as often. I can't believe I just said that. It took me about thirty minutes to figure out what I wanted to say, and then what language would allow me to say. I did buy a dasher, at the junk store, and the pub supplies me with five-gallon buckets, the pickles come in them, and it rains all the time, so there's water. The fact that Bounce sheets serve as an anti-bug agent should make them suspect. Moths don't like the smell. It was B, I'm sure, that said I could just wash my socks by hand. The next thing you know I'm down on the riverbank pounding my tee-shirts with rocks. Of curse, course, right? I can't possibly testify to what you remember. We ate some codfish cakes with aioli, we all agreed they were pretty good.