Taxes on the Farmer Feed us All

This is one of those long forgotten songs that seems relevant in these times. If you can find a Ry Cooder version, listen to it. Below is an instrumental version. Ry Cooder singing and slidin' was one of my early influences when learning to play the guitar.

Taxes on the Farmer Feed us All

http://www.mp3lyrics.org/Hg9B (Traditional, adapted by Ry Cooder) (D) - (A) - (E) (A) We worked through Spring and Winter, through (D) Summer and through (A) Fall But the mortgage worked the hardest and the (E) steadiest of us all It (A) worked on nights and Sundays, it (D) worked each holiday (E) Settled down among us and it never went (A) away The farmer comes to town with his wagon broken down The farmer is the man who feeds us all If you only look and see I know you will agree That the farmer is the man who feeds us all (A) The farmer is the man, the farmer is the man He buys on his credit until (E) Fall Then they (A) take him by the hand And they (D) lead him from his land And the (E) merchant is the man who gets it (A) all The farmer is the man, the farmer is the man He lives on his credit until Fall With the interest rates so high It's a wonder he don't die But the taxes on the farmer feeds us all Well, the banker says he's broke and the merchant stops and smoke But they forget that it's the farmer that feeds them all It would put them to the test if the farmer took a rest And they'd know that it's the farmer that feeds them all The farmer is the man, the farmer is the man Lives on his credit until Fall Well, his pants are wearing thin His condition, it's a sin 'Cause the taxes on the farmer feeds us all

Lettuce Think About This a Bit

Am I the only one that thinks that the current US financial conditions should be hung around the heads of current Republican and Democrat politicians, as well as the greedy financial leaders of this country like an albatross? Their nights should be filled with the sounds of a talking raven clamoring in their walls.

As for me and mine, we are tearing out the grass in the front yard and planting lettuce along with other vegetables.

Switch from the Switch

FYI--This is the third base dugout of Pete Beiden Field on the Fresno State campus. I heard somewhere that this is the first Fresno State, or maybe CSU, building or facility that was named for a living person at the time of the naming. Amazing man, Pete was. I was a second string first baseman/first base coach on a team he assisted. The last time I saw him was 20 years later in the midst of Alzheimer's at a Bulldog game. He remembered my brother and I. Escaped from Russia during the Revolution. He was but a lad, as he would say. His brother coached my father in football at Visalia High School. Amazing.


The people in the stands represent how many people would like to purchase a Mr. Coffee Switch coffee maker after having used one. We received one from Freecycle and I have been trying to use it for a month or so. I think the product is so named because the switch is the problem. Think The Ghost and Mr. Chicken meets Herbie the Love Bug.

Push the switch, the light goes on, but not the brewing. Toggle the switch back and forth to "activate" the switch, usually it doesn't work. Unplug and redo, same result, though sometimes the light doesn't light. Pour the water out, heat water in a teapot, pour into the cup o' grounds and after 4-6 cups of coffee brewed "old school," it starts up brewing. The coffeemaker seems to get mad when you outsmart it.

I went online to search for a new switch to put into the Switch, no luck. But did find a consumer affairs website. 225 negative comments about Mr. Coffee coffee makers. That didn't sound like many, but the comments were interesting. The most common complaint? The switch of the Switch. It didn't work, then it did, then it didn't. Sounds like our coffeemaker is normal for the model. Number 2, the pot leaking or exploding. One gentleman started a pot at work and came back to the room on fire from the coffeemaker. I think it is time to switch from the Switch.

I wonder if Joe D is turning in his grave.

Politics and Life Today

I have not much to say at this time. Some to come soon. Until, try this new definition of Pro-Life.

Hope all is well.



Post Script: After five plus years, a blessed wedding, near death, many struggles, and a child; Adam Pettyjohn is playing major league baseball, again. In the scheme of things, maybe a bit childish to try and make too much of it. Isn't this Pro-Life? And this? Isn't this God in our lives?

Oh, What a Tangled Vine We Grow

FYI, this is half of a grape vine in front of the Fresno State Viticulture and Enology department buildings. One vine is split, going right and left, seventy two feet long. This is taking the Long-Vine Theory seriously. The cab in our back yard is a measly twenty five feet long.

A combination of Brad moving out to college, the post about our trip to Napa, and almost finishing the studio has been swirling around in my brain lately. Maureen and I first stopped at a winery to taste on our way home from Eureka in 1984. We were meandering through Mendocino County and stopped at the Husch winery. That was the beginning.

In 1986 we had a week off between school and summer school, and a water polo tournament at Stanford at the end of the week. Maureen was just pregnant with Brad. We did our usual for the time camp one night, motel the next night vacation to Sonoma county. We camped at Sugarloaf State Park near Kenwood two nights with a night in a bed and breakfast on the square in downtown Healdsburg. We tasted in and around Healdsburg, Kenwood, Sonoma County. We were on the eve of our first child and it was a great time. After the week we ended up at Stanford for the tournament and Maureen put up with twelve boys, the team and me. We all packed into a quad dorm on the campus. Little did I know that we were taking 9 to 14 year old boys to stay in a dorm on graduation weekend.

In 1988 came the month in Graton. I was at Sonoma State during the day for four weeks at the California Literature Project. Maureen was in the converted garage we rented with Brad and 4 months pregnant with Sam. Our converted garage project is much better than the one we rented. It did have a clawfoot tub in back that Brad loved to soak in with mom or dad. I would ride the bus to school and Maureen and Brad would pick me up and we would taste at a couple of wineries. Not every day, but enough to cover much of Sonoma County in that month. We discovered Pat Paulsen's winery and the Russian River. Westside Road and Lower Dry Creek Valley. The wineries on Highway 128 outside of Headsburg. Too many to remember, but many good memories. Someday I'd like to go back and explore again. We bought plenty of wine to bring home with us, cheap and not so cheap. Belvedere had a $3 red that was a huge bargain and tasted great. They also were so very nice and enjoyed having little Brad in the tasting room with us. Many places didn't, and I understand given the legality of the issue.

We made a few trips into Napa Valley. Sattui was into marketing big time and one of the first with picnic tables and cheese and goodies to buy. They were making wine tasting a family affair. Trefethen was visited and we enjoyed. Over all, we were a young couple on a tight teacher's salary and Napa's stuffiness was starting to show. Highway 29 was already busier than it was two years before. The relaxed attitude of Sonoma County fit us better at the time.

That was the summer of no television and ice cream pie. The garage we rented had no tv and a piano instead. Berry vines grew along the roads and Maureen would take Brad for walks and they would pick berries. Soften the vanilla ice cream, blend in cool whip and fresh berries, pour into a graham cracker crust pie-shell and freeze. We watched the All-Star game that July in a mall in Santa Rosa. I was fat, dumb and happy.

As I look back on that month, I see many seeds that were planted and have grown in our lives. The wine we have come to enjoy, the food Maureen creates, the children (now four) being at the center of our world. I also think of Maureen. What would possess me to drag my wife, pregnant and caring for an 18 month old, 200 miles away from home and family, to plop her in a converted garage in the country. I then leave each day to go talk with adults about great literature. Instead of complaining, she makes pies with found berries.

I really was dumb. But I was happy. And today I am still happy, and also extremely thankful for Maureen.