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The Diaries

Two years, 2 months and 9 days out – this day wasn’t made in heaven. This is heaven.

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There have been many times in the past few months that I have longed for the cool crispness of the high mountains of northern New Mexico. To be with friends, to soak in the 100+ mile vistas, to smell the sage and the cedar, to taste ... it all. But the times they are tough and travel for pleasure (even for soul-strengthening pleasure) is out of the question. Last week, in order to deal with a 10 cent overdraft in my checking account (that had resulted in $58 in bank penalty fees), I had to drive to my bank with my jar of loose coins so I could buy the gas to get back home. So, yes, traveling for pleasure is not in the cards right now.

But with the kind and caring Goddess that I have, She has gifted all of us here in middle Tennessee with days that mirror the finest that Penasco, Rodarte, Vadito, Llano and Placita, New Mexico has to offer. Cool, crisp, breezy, bright-blue -- my breath visible on the deck for the past two mornings. 54 degrees yesterday, 51 this morning -- so cool that I had to get up at 2:00 am to put another quilt on the bed (Miz Kelly's "Dresden plate" quilt was not enough) and I had to put on a long-sleeved shirt while I sat on the porch with my quart of coffee and my blueberry-tinged hot oatmeal. To be too cool outdoors in late July in my deep hollow -- just how cool is that! We are blessed.

We are also blessed by the bounty of a benevolent Mother Earth, giving back more than She has ever given me before. I have spent much time up on the ridge over the past two years, rescuing the one+ acre planting of blueberries, hauling compost from the home Garden and hay mulch from my fallow fields, weeding around the plants that survived my 18 months in the halfway house and replanting seedlings given to me by the Farm commune blueberry tenders south of me back in the winter. As a result of all that (and a very moist May), my blueberry plants are groaning with goodness right now. Most mornings, I go up and pick two gallons from just a few plants and return in the late afternoon to do the same. I am joined on many days by friends like you, some who have picked before and others (like my old college classmate, Marshall Chapman) coming out for the first time and then anxious to return again soon, for more berries, more peace and quiet, more soaks in the spring-hole below the house.

At this moment, the Garden is also bursting with flavor and nourishment; buffering any financial insecurities with a colorful and nutritious assortment of fresh food. The green beans and cucumbers have climbed the overhead trellises so that I can pick them for dinner without having to bend over. The tomatoes (all eight varieties of them) are producing, allowing me to highlight the deck railing with tomatoes of many sizes, shapes and colors. The new potatoes (red and white) make a delicious pan-fry with onions (red, white and yellow); and salads are an easy after-thought with some of the above, as well as tender yellow squash, basil leaves and some of the six varieties of peppers that are also producing. To top it all off, the first okra and the first Silver Queen corn are now ripe, so this Southern boy will be in fried-okra heaven for the next few weeks, sweetened by corn-on-the-cob that is shucked between the Garden and the pot of boiling water awaiting the three ears that help constitute a dinner grown in heaven. One plate for sliced tomatoes, another plate for the boiled corn and steamed green beans, with a little bowl of blueberries to top it all off. For someone who is poor as a church mouse, I am eating like a healthy, well-fed bishop.

And I am being bemused by the pre-dawn antics of a previously unseen world. All of us graced to live in the Southern countryside are entertained at dusk most evenings by the sights of little bats, darting and wheeling around the darkening sky as they eat their weight in bugs. It is hard to count how many there are because they fly so fast, in and out of the dark shadows made by the woodlands that wrap my homestead in their green embrace. I think I have four little bats that come to my clearing every evening, but again, it is hard to tell. I just know that they beat anything on television, if I could still watch television. (My decision not to purchase a digital converter box to allow me to keep picking up the Nashville stations was a smart choice.)

Because of no television, I find that I am getting to bed even earlier than before, these days laying down just as the last light leaves the sky. What that means for me is that my eyes pop open early -- generally between 3:30-4:20 am. This new early routine rouses my dogs from their porch slumber when I take my piping hot quart of coffee out to the porch swing to sit there with them in the cool darkness. And it is only by doing so, by sharing this quiet new moment with the dogs in the dark, that the bats have shown me their other side, their playful side. See, in the evenings, they are all about eating. In the very early mornings, before any first light, they are all about playing (likely as a prelude to mating.) Whereas at dusk, the bats are solitary creatures, silent and lonely hunters chasing unlucky insects; in the pre-dawn hours, they chase each other and do so right on top of me.

My front-porch becomes a runway for them, and even though I can only catch a glimpse of leathery wing or soft-brown furry breast, I can feel the breeze stirred by their wings as they fly by my perch on the porch-swing, inches from my face. Perhaps it is the coolness of the recent mornings, but their motion is non-stop until there is light enough to see them. And then they are gone. All but one, who took a brief break this morning from her flight to hang upside-down from the moody siding at the end of my porch, looking me over for a long minute, catching her breath and then letting go and flying off into the coolness of a cave, nearby but unknown to me. It has all been so unexpected and so fulfilling, to be reminded of the beauty-in-motion that goes on all around us, ready to be seen and felt and appreciated when we slow down (or change our routines) enough to be here now.

Well, that is enough from me on this Goddess-given morning. It is almost mid-morning and still cool enough to climb the ridge for more berries, dry enough to follow that with hauling another pick-up of horse manure and bedding for my Garden, bountiful enough to have a wide choice for what will constitute my mid-day meal. I could catch all y'all up on ballots and bloggers and abuse of power, but somehow that can wait until I see you at the picnic pool-party for paper ballots next Saturday. Unless, that is, some big news breaks this week (as I expect it will.)

Last Tuesday, I read on-line excerpts from our Governor's weekly press conference. Here is a question (related to yours truly and my recent visit by our state's police) and the Governor's response.

Q: How do you feel about Hargett sending TBI agents out to the farm of a political opponent on this (voting) issue?

Bredesen: I didn't know about that. I mean, look, obviously if someone is misusing any organization of state government. And I don't know whether that falls in that category or not. I don't know the details of what you just described. That is inappropriate whether it's done by Democrats or Republicans or anyone else. But again, I do not know the details. (emphasis mine)

After I read that statement by our Governor, I picked up the phone and called the Nashville District Attorney's office. In short order, I met with a young policewoman who took my criminal complaint against our Secretary of State for the commission of three felonies: abuse of power, filing a false police report and official oppression. On Friday, I spoke with two prominent Nashville attorneys (one a former, highly-respected US Attorney for the Middle District of Tennessee under President Carter) about accompanying me tomorrow or Tuesday when I appear for the "intake warrant screening" hearing.

This ball is rolling finally to put an end to the reckless, arrogant, election fraud-enabling antics of Secretary of State Tre Hargett. And I hope I'm just the man to get 'er done. Hide and watch. Or better yet, come pick blueberries or come to the pool party next Saturday and we can discuss this. As soon as my attorney says it's time, we will definitely talk openly to the press about this. Boy howdy, will we ever.

So until next time, this is your favorite felon (or favorite suspected terrorist, or favorite aging hippie) signing off.

Be happy. Someone has to, so it might as well be us. Bernie

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