| Dear Readers:
Christmas is coming, the hog is
getting fat, and I’m usually stuck for Christmas gift ideas. Here’s
a great one if you want to give someone a taste of the South:
Smith’s Farms in Cullman (actually Holly Pond), Alabama. Years ago
my parents discovered Smith’s Farms and we’ve been enjoying it ever
since. Their ham equals any country ham I have ever eaten, but their
bacon is the best I’ve ever tasted (be sure to order it with the
rind on). Smith’s Farms’ sausage ranks as their most
unusual product. First, it contains a lot of lean, then some
magic takes place in processing that gives it the most faintly
acidulous finish that wipes your palate plumb clean. (An
Illinois friend of mine hovers dangerously near addiction to
that sausage.) Smith’s Farms also packs up gift boxes with grits and
honey and other great stuff Yankees don’t normally get to eat. Try
Smith’s Farms, 4785 US Highway 278, Cullman, Alabama 35055. To
order, call (888) 300-7987; (256) 737-0505; fax (256) 734-1327.
You can also order through their website, http://208.55.3.192/cgi-local/shoptmc.pl/SID=022422/page=http://www.countrymeats.com/.
THE MONEYCHANER LOGO
Where does the Moneychanger
logo originate? Flemish painter Hans Memling painted the portrait,
called "Man with a Medal," about 1475. I use it because it depicts
an Italian banker (the merchant bankers of that age) and because he
is a dead ringer for my friend and attorney, Larry Becraft!
ELECTRONIC MONEYCHANGER
Yes, you can receive your
Moneychanger electronically every month. Just go to our
website, http://208.55.3.192/cgi-local/shoptmc.pl/SID=022422/page=http://www.the-moneychanger.com/,
and sign up. There’s no extra charge, and you still get the hard
copy version.
PRINCESS
I hate the sudden shift from Daylight
Savings Time. One day you’re feeding your pigs at sunset, next day
midnight.
A few nights ago I got my comeuppance
for my anti-pig remarks last month. Have mercy, it’s hard to
love pigs.
Princess, our sow, is curiously
coloured. She is mostly white like a Yorkshire, but just on her eyes
she has black spots – just the size of her eyes. So help me, it
looks like she’s wearing too much badly-applied mascara and false
eyelashes.
It was hard dark, except for the light
from our streetlight. A pig is an appetite with four cloven hooves.
Pigs are a pain to feed because they won’t step back from the trough
long enough for you to pour it full. That engenders all sorts of
dodging back and forth to fool them. As time passes and the pig snot
accumulates on your jeans, it also engenders a certain irritability
on the part of the feeder toward the feedees. Said irritability has
been known, in certain irascible individuals, to seize the lower leg
and foot with a vigorous kicking motion. Patience dies.
So fumbling around in the dark I am
dodging pigs and trying to fool them. I pour a little fermented rice
juice in one trough to pull them off, then race over to another to
fill it before they follow. As I am leaning across the electric
fence, Princess hustles over to the trough. Although it’s dark, I
can see her white form. I halt as I am about to pour.
Her whole face is turned up, those
ridiculous mascaraed eyes staring at me through the false eyelashes.
Her aspect is so hopeful, so pathetic that it fills me with
compassion. Yes, for a pig. I’m almost sure I heard her say,
""I’m doing what I’m supposed to do. Why aren’t you?"
If you still think this is a story
about a pig, read it again.
CLEO HAS PUPS
As I write the soft, regular snores of
Cleo, our Great Pyrenees, are thrumming in the background. Why, you
ask, should she take up residence in my office?
Simple. On the night of November
6th, during a cold rainstorm and outside the warm
doghouse Ellen had built for her, Cleo gave birth to six pups. One
was born dead; one died the next day. The mewling of another led
Zachariah to him in the dark, wet pasture, so him they have named
"Lucky."
The next day Ellen, Justin’s wife and
Chief Canine Midwife, decided Cleo looked "depressed" (?!?). She
bundled up Cleo and the remaining four pups and took them to the
vet. He diagnosed a slight infection (not mastitis), and recommended
we feed the pups every two hours (for two days) on a special
formula.
Never underestimate the sympathy of
women for their kind – I mean, one female for another. If
they are mothers and offspring are involved, the reaction pulls them
in like a junk yard magnet. That’s probably why Ellen, Susan, and
Liberty all ganged up to feed the pups, leaving Cleo free to snore
her way through the day. Actually, Cleo is a fine mother, nursing
the pups and doing all the other things that mothers do for pups. To
tell the truth, I just love the wet dog smell that Cleo
brings back from her frequent trips outside, the smell that has
taken over my workspace. Only Susan gags.
TENNESSEE HOMECOMING
We all (Susan and I, seven children,
three spouses, and three grandchildren) drove up past Knoxville to
the Museum of Appalachia for Tennessee Homecoming the weekend of
October 12 & 13. The picture shows me with grandson Tucker on my
shoulders, Justin with son Elijah, and Liberty with Bedford (looking
the wrong way) on her back. Not only did we get to see all sorts of
mountain crafts, there was more old-time and bluegrass music than
anybody could possibly take in.
Oddly enough, this fall the trees have
had glorious colours. As dry as it has been, I expected all
the leaves to just turn brown and rattle to the ground. Not
so! Everywhere we drove there was a riot of
colour.
FINALLY – RAIN!
We had one little sprinkle in
September. Other than that we had been dry back into July. Last
weekend we had a bonfire and camp-out in our sunset pasture. Being
the old guy, I now camp only on a Sealy Postur-pedic, so Susan and I
adjourned about 10:00. That night I woke up thinking, "That sounds
just like rain on the roof." Sure enough, it rained slow,
steady, and soaking all night long.
And all the next day. And the next,
for about a week. First it wouldn’t rain at all, then it won’t
stop.
I’m not complaining. I’m grateful for
the rain. Anything is better than eating that dust.
Enjoy the fall!
Franklin
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