Fred's Place

This found at Fred Farabee's abandoned homestead -- photo of a Lockheed P-38 Lightning used mainly in the South Pacific and Africa during the "good" war--yeah, sure-- (seems that they were not used much in Europe because the pilot could not warm himself with the engine heat as he could with other designs where the engine was directly in front of him to provide a heat source. In the tropics it was so hot in the cockpit,and there was no way to open a window lest airflow be disturbed, that the pilots sometimes wore only shorts, parachutes, and sneakers to fly the missions). Lindberg flew one in the South Pacific as an operational test pilot.
more here

The magazines seemed to go from about early 40's to mid 50's in dates, and then would have numbered over 600 in an old shed and barn.
This time of year is best for perusing abandoned places to avoid the snakes and bugs of summer. It is also easier to spot those well or biffy holes in the ground, always somewhere.




A bean sheller that Fred built and is still operational as near as I could tell, just crank the handle throw in the dried bean pods and it would deliver the beans to a bin below with the shells gone.
This was a poor farm and is still called such by the neighbors who now own it. Freds dad cut railroad ties from white oak trees (Robert ==1865 to 1950) at the turn of the century and Fred would take them 15 miles to Portland, a town on the Missouri river, in horses and wagon, for sale to the railroad. (When I asked neighbors how come Robert was buried some 3 miles away in an unmarked grave I was told "they didn't get along very well"!)


This be the house where Fred and his folks lived their lives. The added-on part is the kitchen ,usually well separated by a wall for cooking in the summer with the hot wood stove. It has a good roof and should last well beyond the 30+ years that it has been alone.
I hope to go back when flowers appear to see what they planted. Usually iris, crocus, and raspberry still come up around the old yards.










There seems to be always something that tells of the spirit and feelings of those gone from these old places. Whether it be an old piano found abandoned or a home-made gravestone for his mother; fabricated by hand, as here. I am told that Fred made a drill bit out of a round file and rigged it to an old tractor-gearing box-- added a handle to raise and lower it and was able to drill holes in this Missouri limestone rock to mark his mother's grave. There was no electric here until my neighbor George Garrett hooked Fred's place up to REA (Rural Electric) in the late 60's so this would have been a hand-operated rig to drill these holes. Fred died in 1977 and was of my grandmother's generation.
I wish I had known him.

Too Much By a Half

Okay, some serious cute is required to drive the dreary dismals from this day!

Perhaps a story to trim:

"I always thought you were a cat, said our cat, but I wasn't sure.
In heaven all things are revealed, said God. This is the form in which I choose to appear to you.
I'm glad you aren't a dog, said our cat. Do you think I could have my testicles back?
Of course, said God. They're over behind that bush.
Our cat had always known his testicles must be somewhere. One day he'd woken up from a fairly bad dream and found them gone. He'd looked everywhere for them -- under sofas, under beds, inside closets -- and all the time they were here, in heaven! He went over to the bush, and, sure enough, there they were. They reattached themselves immediately.
Our cat was very pleased. Thank you , he said to God.
God was washing its elegant long whiskers. De rien, said God."

This is from a story by Margaret Atwood about her cat being raptured up into heaven (Our Cat Enters Heaven, from "The Tent")

If that is not enough:


















Didn't know ducks had tippie toes did you?

Couldn't find a cute duck story . . . I finally have a duck story, but it is pretty literal:
These two ducks walk into a bar, which is odd because you would have thought that the second one would have seen it coming!

Tracks and Flakes

Tryin to make out
from the inside out
Fractal dendritic noise
patterned here

a rime in time
as I peer near

My First Car

No, this is not my first car . . . it's not a car and it's not even mine; but rather belongs to our neighbor and is patiently awaiting my attention to get it running in order to pursue its mission of delivering round-haybales on the wagon behind to his hungry cattle. In an effort to get it running again after a rude stoppage, my neighbor installed new parts including the distributor cap which allocates spark to the necessary spark plug at the necessary time to keep the engine running. Of course he, as most of us would, ripped out all eight wires from the old cap and then tried but failed to re-assemble those 8 wires into the new cap in the proper order; a fools journey! Anyone who knows numbers will tell you, as I will, that there are over 40,000 ways to arrange 8 things ordered in a series of 8.

This does bring me to my first car: a Faded-blue 1956 Ford Fairlaine Coupe V8 (a coupe is defined by the fact that there was no post between the front and rear windows allowing for much airflow in the summer with all windows down, handy with no A/C) which I got for $100. Course, first thing I did was rip out all the wiring, including the 8 plug wires, to allow a thorough cleaning of the engine area. Which became sparkly clean and spiffy. But where do those plug wires go?? I was lax in my planning and haphazard in my approach; unfortunately this is still a basic flaw of mine -- among other things I always underestimate mileage to somewhere and fail to correct for it. I don't recall how my brothers and I did it --I must have had some clues because I doubt we ran through the 40,000 possibilities-- but since the battery was dead we had to push it around the block several times changing the plug wires every 50 feet or so after popping the clutch , in second, key on, see if it would start. The feeling I had when it finally roared into life is comparable only to catching your first fish or getting that first kiss. Off we went zooming about with no insurance which meant not taking the car out of the neighborhood. I never did drive it much after that. But I remember how to do plug wires as my neighbor can attest (I let him bring his truck to roaring life just to watch the smile.)
Car probably still resides at the bottom of a limestone bluff on the Missouri river north of St. Louis where my brother disposed of it after I left home. Since then I have owned 11 cars or trucks and 1 cycle and never regretted getting rid of any of them!