Ok, so maybe I'm a slow learner...

When I got engaged to Spice, I announced that to a friend here, and he (married with children) shot back with the speed of a spinal reflex "Slow learner, huh?"

Spice was not there at the time, but has heard the story repeated on occasion.  I think she's forgiven him.

I've taken on another dog that amounts to something of a genetic crapshoot.  Maybe; I hope; less of one than Bruce was.  (I really recommend people read the story of Wully I linked to before- it doesn't turn out the way you expect.)

The new puppy is 10 weeks old; female instead of male; and a cross between a Catahoula Leopard Dog female and a Boxer male.

I'd never heard of a Catahoula Leopard before- but it's a herding dog, bred first for performance and temperament, not color or form- and probably the deciding factor in my jumbled calculations, bred for working hogs.  And cattle.  We almost acquired some hogs this fall- with the specific intention of pasturing them under some of our tree crops.  Controlling them is going to be work, and the lack of a fully trained dog was part of the reason we didn't.

So, this is Delilah; and Smidgen, of course.  As far as I can tell, other crosses of Boxers with longer muzzled breeds wind up with a normal long muzzle, not the short bulldog face Boxers have.

Reports on the web about Boxer crosses, and Catahoula crosses, tend to be good; there's actually a small industry for "Boxadors" and "Bullboxers".  Both breed are "wonderful with children" - and protective.  And there are several stories about people who actually own both Catahoulas AND chickens.  yay.

The fact is, of course, even with purebreds, each dog is a genetic lotto ticket.  I confess to having a soft spot (in my head) for hybrids.  You can lose the bet, either way.  If this one doesn't work out, we may well try some of the purebreds that are used commercially for chickens.  Yeah, they exist!  So far as I can tell, the top choices are Maremmas, or Anatolian Shepherds.   Both really really pricey, and at least as much of a handful to train and keep, so far as I can tell.

Delilah so far looks very promising -(at 24 hours...).  She loves being with us, she sticks close when we're outside; she behaves well on a leash.  

2 problems.  She howls if you leave her alone.  Which I'm expecting her to get over in a day or so, once she learns she's really home, and safe, and not about to have her life turned inside out again.

And- she climbs.  No, really- Catahoulas climb trees- straight up, like 15 feet; using their sharp claws.  Didn't know that one before we found her climbing up into places no dog has ever gone in the house before.  Fun.  Just means dog-proofing places that weren't before- and as soon as possible, she's supposed to be a 95% outside dog, anyway.

Many thanks folks for all the good wishes - and good advice.  In fact, we'll be taking some of it; we're going to try using the muzzle process.  Getting an older dog, already trained, wasn't really an option- it would take too long for us to find an appropriate one where we are; we did look into it.

And we'll be doing one other thing differently; in another month, we will be looking to add a second puppy.  Once Delilah is really bonded to us humans; adding a canine playmate might well help burn off excess energy, looking for trouble.

That's the idea, anyway.  The lady at the shelter agrees.  We'll see.

Micro disasters

Somebody seems to have decided to run the world like a very fast paced bad TV advertisement.  

My attention keeps getting jerked from one desperately important perspective to another.

Iceland is bankrupt.  Pakistan may be next- with very unpleasant consequences.  Executives, and lawmakers, in the USA demonstrate conclusively that they are incapable of learning.  25% of all the mammals on earth are now considered to be at risk of- extinction.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...  (For you youngsters, that's supposed to be a humorous cliché segue phrase.)

We've had our own serious and distracting disasters this past week.  Tiny, in the grand scheme of things; not going to make headlines in the New York Times; but - disasters.

Maybe it was just one disaster.  But it has two parts.  And in the light of the world handbasket epidemics, all the more disastrous for us personally- we lost a lot of resources, and replacing them is not easy, nor guaranteed.

As readers here know, we've been working on establishing a flock of guinea fowl- for multiple reasons, none of them trivial.  And; since at this latitude the general consensus is guineas are not reliable parents, we added 30 chickens to the mix- chosen from breeds known to be good "setters"- to help us increase our flock next year.  And, we'd been working on training our new farm dog/watch dog, since March.

Here's Bruce, behaving himself beautifully.  I introduced him to the birds very carefully, very intentionally, and with plenty of guidance as to the expected behavior.  No chasing, no harassing allowed.  At the time the chickens were added to the outdoor pen, the guineas were being trained that this was home, and to come back for the night time.  This was done by turning an increasing proportion of the guineas outside to range free, but keeping a few in the pen all day.  All the chicks were kept in at this point- they were just awfully small to be on their own.

In early September, everything was going perfectly, and we started just opening the door to the pen in the morning.  All the birds, guineas and chickens, would explode out; clearly enjoying the freedom to fly up into the trees (guineas only) and eat all the grass and bugs they could get (more grass than I expected).  But- we only gave them new "feed" at sundown- and they would cheerfully be back, and waiting for it.  At first we had to herd them into the pen; they couldn't figure out where the door was, and would just endlessly try to walk through whatever side they were on.  But in a week or two, they learned to know where the door was; now they all pile in entirely by themselves (except for one or two persistent dolts).  

Bruce was performing his chores beautifully; on watch outside all night, and happy to do it.  The occasional bouts of barking at 3 AM got to be a comforting sound, not disturbing- he was busy keeping the raccoons out of the supplies of feed and groceries.  And away from the poultry pen.  When I went to feed the birds at sundown, he was always along, and would without prompting lie down at some distance from the guinea racket and chicken hustle, and just casually watch it all.

However.  One day as Spice and Smidgen were walking back from work in the greenhouse, with Bruce along- the guineas appeared on the path- and apparently in a spirit of play, Bruce charged- grabbed one- and shook it.  Dead.

This is how farm kids learn about life and death- it's right there, in front of you.  By this time Smidgen had already seen a few guinea keets and chicks die; so it certainly wasn't any kind of trauma for her; more excitement.  Sad- but mostly she was angry at Bruce.  "Damn dog!"  Yep, kids repeat everything.

So; onto the chain, for Bruce.  We tried a trick recommended to us by a professional dog obedience trainer- we tied the dead guinea around his neck, where he couldn't reach it.  Sometimes, he said, that will teach them to leave the poultry alone.  And I spent more time, working with him and the birds.  

He went back to being perfectly well behaved around them.  Perfectly.

The chicks were all out and free-range now, and thriving.  They're so different from the guineas in their behavior, it's a huge amount of fun watching them, and watching the two species interact.   The guineas started out being afraid of the tiny chicks; but have changed now to bullying them over food and space.  The chickens, however, are going to eventually be much bigger than the guineas- so it'll be interesting to see where it all ends up.  They actually share space and food with little real fuss; once the guineas are full, they don't bother the chickens at the feeder.

Little by little, guineas and chickens were ranging farther and farther from home base- foraging over quite a few acres, and still faithfully coming home to roost at night.  The first time I went out at midday and couldn't find a guinea, or a chick, anywhere, it was kinda scary.  But there they all were come evening; 9 white guineas, 17 dark; 11 Buff Orpingtons; 12 Dominiques, and 9 bantam Brahmans.   Day after day.

Then- we started to lose one now and then.  One guinea- all we found was a pile of widely scattered feathers, 1/4 mile from the pen.  Beelar and Spice thought it looked like an eagle strike.  Then a Dominique didn't show up one night.  Then a week later, an Orp failed to show.  Then two days later, another Orp was missing.  I was afraid.  I looked at Bruce, and asked- "Bruce- do you know anything about the missing chickens?" - and he looked quite sneaky, in reply- would not meet my eyes.  That's something I'd noticed in plenty of other situations; he normally had no trouble looking me right in the eyes, for quite a long time.  No threat in it, on either side; just both of us looking at the other; connecting.  He was fine with it.  But not this time.

No proof anywhere; and of course I know the legend of Gelert.  You really don't want to assume anything.  

Last Sunday was Spice's and my 6th anniversary.  So we combined a little shopping in the big city with a treat at our favorite Chinese buffet for lunch; intending to be back on the farm in time to put the birds to bed- at sunset.  They really seem hardwired about sunset- if you get there 15 minutes late, the guineas will be up in a tree; and not coming down tonight, not even for food.  The chickens will be inside their shelter- and not coming out for food, either.

We got back in time, to be met by a cheerful- obsequious even- Bruce- and - no chickens, anywhere.  Guineas up in a tree, which is common enough.  Then Spice started to find them-  dead chickens; scattered all over.

I started picking them up.  We found 15 corpses- scattered over 2 acres.  Some of them very cold and stiff; some still warm.

There was no question who was to blame.  Bitten and ripped at the neck.  A few partially eaten- over the whole day.  It could only be Bruce- he wouldn't have allowed any other predator to be there.  Indeed, all I had to do was hold up a dead chicken, and look at him- and he slunk off into the thick firs.  Betrayal.

At first it looked like 100% of the chickens were gone.  Then I found one banty hen, hiding in the pen house.  Then one Orp came carefully, slowly, out of the woods.  15 minutes later, a Dominick.  Over the next two days, we had 7 left; but two more died later.   2 Orpington cockerels, 1 Orp hen; 1 Dominick and one banty hen.  I think; the Dominick sometimes acts a bit roosterish.  Not a lot of mothering capability there.  The chicks had been totally terrorized; they refused to come out of the pen for 2 days.

As much as I enjoy working with, and watching, these animals, none of them are pets, or a hobby.  They are part of our plans for future enterprises- doing critical pest control for us in our crops, and perhaps providing eggs and some meat.  And they're not free- birds, and dogs, cost real dollars and real hours; both irreplaceable.

All the dog people I talked to agreed.  This is not fixable; not trainable.  Bruce was killing for fun, and kept at it, for hours.

A sad and miserable experience, all the way around.  We'd started naming the chickens- there was one Spice called "Houdini" - because he would always sneak out of the pen, at any opportunity.  He's gone, though we didn't find him.

There was one guinea missing, too.  But only one.  Looks like the idea I had that the guineas are fairly well able to take care of themselves is working out, anyway.  The chickens could all fly- I'd seen them all do it; but they never spent time in the trees the way the guineas do.

So, Bruce is gone.  No real options there; this is a farm.  Recriminations galore, of course.  Did I fail to train him properly?  I'll always wonder, of course.  The other dog people I talk to say no, I did it right.  It's just sometimes- the dog can't be trained.

I'm partly thinking of E.T. Seton's "Wully, the Story of a Yaller Dog".  A true story.  And there are some significant parallels- Bruce was a mix of 4 breeds; not exactly a pure mongrel, but he certainly had the extraordinary "common sense" Seton attributes to them.  And there were signs of some other "wild" traits.  (note: in Seton's day, it was generally agreed that the jackal had provided the starting material for domestic dogs; now we know it was the wolf.)

It's all probably easiest on Smidgen.  She sees the dead birds- which she has helped raised, helped feed, and understands; no, Bruce cannot come back.

Tomorrow, I'm picking up another puppy.  We need a dog- farm dog/watch dog.  Right now.  That temporary poultry pen is toast, if some night soon a big coon, or a couple coyotes decide to tear into it.  Smidgen is looking forward to it.  The adults are thinking of weeks of poopy papers, and chewed electric cords.  Bruce was introduced to the birds when he was big, and they were small; this puppy will be introduced when it is small, and the birds adult sized, and feisty.  Maybe that'll help.

Total cost, so far- about $1,000 cash in purchases,  vet fees, feed- not including the hours.

And a lot of heartache.  I loved that damned dog.  And trusted him.

A small dance

This morning brought a surprise; a version of the Last Dance I have not seen before.

This has been an odd year, weather-wise; extremely wet in the spring, then extremely dry in late summer and early fall; and cool, throughout.  The corn and beans are late and locally stunted by the summer drought; at least one neighbor had corn on shallow soil dry out and die with half-formed ears.

All the trees are showing responses to the year, too; mostly they are running late.  The crops we're harvesting are 2 weeks later than average, and still driving our days.  The forecasts yesterday were for real frost overnight; we've had a couple "radiation" frosts already, where the air temperature doesn't even hit freezing, but frost forms on grass under open sky anyway; with no real freezes.  So I was on alert this morning; up before the sun, not certain what to expect.

Coffee in hand- made on the woodstove this year, since we ran out of propane a month ago and it's been cool enough for the fire to be a comfort since early September, I watched the sun touch the treetops.  The walnut to the south of the Little House still has its leaves, and since the thermometer was showing an air temperature of 27°F, a good solid freeze, it really seemed likely they would begin sailing soon.

Nothing.  One hackberry leaf.

Eventually, I gave up and turned away from the walnut, wondering how all the various factors had combined this year to leave the leaves still attached- and found that in the little ravine north of the house- the sugar maples were providing a steady rain of bright yellow leaves.

Just the maples on the north slope, very specifically.  The sugar maples don't usually participate in the Dances I've watched, and the shower of leaves they were making now was not of the same intensity as a "true" Dance; still, it was noticeable, real, and charming.

Smidgen was up in time to see the last of it, from inside- she was a bit too slow in getting clothes on (she'd still prefer to be a nudist) to get outside while the little rain was going on, but she saw.  

Later today, we'll go down the hill, under those maples, and scuff the leaves.  She discovered the joys there all by herself, no instruction needed, and kicks the fallen leaves all up and down the paths now, generating lots of noise and mini-whirlwinds of leaves as she goes.

Not the full experience- but plenty, today.

Mesmerized-

If you're like me, you're doing a good imitation of Bambi in the headlights- watching the train wreck in progress that is our world "financial system".  And wondering where it's all going to wind up.

There's no shortage of pundits, most of them now proclaiming doom, since the bailout was rejected.  No shortage of finger pointing.

yuck.

I could just really use a hug, right about now.

I bet you could too.

Hugs, guys.

Hang in there.

The Last Dance

We've moved on in our harvest work to the next crops- which does not mean we're any less busy, alas.  Busy is an understatement.

Amid all the noise in the news, I thought you might like a little respite.  Here is a re-cycled post from last September, which folks liked.  It's in time, I think, for folks to put to good use, and maybe be on the lookout for this event in your own neighborhood.

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The turn of the year

There's a special autumn event I look for every year. It doesn't have a name.

Actually, I've never met anyone else who has seen it, or heard of it. A fact that makes me think, and wonder if that should worry me. Us.

It's quite a spectacular thing, when it happens. Spectacular as it is, though, it goes unnoticed; partly because at the best, it can only last for a half an hour. No more. And it doesn't happen every year, either.

It used to happen most years, at least in part. Now it happens less. That worries me, too.

In a good year- meaning one with good rainfalls, good growing weather- we go into autumn with the trees having their year's work fully completed. The leaves are drying, getting ready to drop; all the nutrients that can be recovered already pulled back into the tree for storage. That's what the fall colors are about, of course, the leaf machinery has been shut down; the nutrients sent back for recycling.

Several species of trees, particularly those with "compound" leaves; walnuts, hickories, ashes- often reach a state where few leaves have fallen yet, color is rather minimal, yet the leaves are finished, and the "abscission layer", the exact area where the leaf is attached to the tree, is fully mature; the leaf is separated, but still, just, hanging on because of a little residual "glue". A compound leaf, you understand, is one that has a central rib with maybe 5 to 9, or more, leaflets on it. It's really one leaf, cut up by nature; and the whole thing is shed when it's time.

Then comes the first frost.

Here, that almost always means a day when a fierce blustery cold front has been moving in, rattling branches, leaves, and teeth, all day. Like magic - year after year- the wind dies to dead calm exactly as the sun goes down; leaving the crystal blue autumn sky fading through all possible blues to black. The stars appear, almost unblinking in the winter-like clarity; the wind stays still; and we know, going to bed, that there will be frost tonight. We usually don't light the woodstove, but just put on sweaters and extra blankets; we know the heat of "Indian summer" will certainly follow this day or two of winter previews.

I make it a point to be up before dawn on these days, because of what happens when the rising sun just touches the treetops, instantly melting the frost that's grown slowly all night long. The frost in the abscission layer; in-between the leaves and the branches. Millions of leaves are now attached to their parents not by glue, or tissue; but only by a tiny thin layer of lacy ice...

You have to be IN the woods to see this. And you have to be up before the sun. And you have to watch every year; because sometimes- it doesn't happen at all.

The air, typically, is still dead calm. The stars are starting to fade as the sun, still below the horizon, brightens the eastern sky. No red in the sky- no clouds to make it. The coffee in my hand is hot; and welcome because it's cold, since I've stubbornly refused to light the fire. The sky gets steadily brighter.

Then- the sun touches the highest leaves.

Nothing happens. Well, the ice has to melt, you know; it doesn't happen instantly. How cold is it? 33°? Should melt fast. The leaves get colder than the air, as they radiate their heat to the black cold of space. This is true- the air temperature can be 35°, even; and if the air is still and the sky clear- it will frost. Or is it colder? 26°? It will take longer to melt if it's cold.

Will it happen? Or is this not the right year?

Then- in the right year- from the very top of the tallest ash tree- an entire compound leaf detaches; in the totally still air- and drops. Sails, is more like it. They can float down like kites with broken strings, shifting, drifting, changing directions- and bumping other leaves. Then another. And another.

The sun only moves up; the warmth only increases, the ice melts faster, the leaves let loose in great shoals, schools, flocks.

Sifting down through the branches; knocking some non-participant maple and elm leaves off, too.

All in total silence; no wind, no sound. Except the sighs of the descending leaves. In my memory, even the birds are silenced by this astonishing forest-wide event. Everything stops to watch. And the whole woods whispers.

For perhaps a half an hour, the sky rains leaves. Quietly, with only the occasional drip of melted frost to accompany the swish of the sailing leaves. What happens when some compound leaf loses a leaflet or two on one side? Unbalanced, they twirl, and swirl, and... well, dance is the only word. Each an individual; a sky full of brilliant, flashing, variations.

Walking in it is transfiguring. Walking through it with a loved one- moreso. Walking through it with a small child- neither you, nor they, will ever forget.

It's a throat-hurtingly beautiful thing; a rite of change I've shared with my loved ones whenever I could. This is IT; the exact instant of change, from summer to fall- the world has turned, successfully, once more. That "successfully" bit is not a given, you know.

I hope you can see it; a little, here. And I really hope you have the chance to see the .. hm. The Last Dance? in real life, someday. It's not easy to do; you can't sell tickets to the leaf peepers, the actual event is far too unpredictable. If you don't actively seek it out, you'll never see it. I'm sure ash trees in cities do drop their leaves this way sometimes- but it's not the same as walking through a forest, where it's all happening at once.

It didn't happen, this year. We got the frost; and the clear clear night; but the trees were oddly on both sides of the equation; the walnuts had all dropped their leaves weeks ago, when drought turned to flood. And the ashes. But hickories, strangely, are still brightly green. Even if the hickories decide to drop at a later frost, the "whole forest" thing can't happen. Of course, I'd been looking forward to showing the Smidgen. Watching her watch with her wide, wide "2 anna HALF" year eyes. Chasing leaves. Seeing the world turn.

Not this year. I'm not greatly disappointed- I'm pretty sure there will be other times. But I do wonder, and worry. When I first lived here, this was something that happened pretty reliably, 2 years out of 3. But in the last 10 years- it's only happened twice, I think. Too many climate signals drifting away from their original settings? It's not just me, the real old-timers here notice the changes, too.

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One of the points this leaves me pondering is- how much of our world do we miss- or misunderstand- because critical pieces of it simply go unseen?

Any student of human behavior will tell you that humans mostly see what we expect to see; what we're taught to see.

I don't know anyone else who's ever seen, or noticed, this Last Dance; spectacular as it is. I HAVE had a couple visitors who were here during one- and still didn't SEE it, until I pointed it out.

I doubt the Last Dance has any particular environmental significance, on its own; but-

What else, on this earth, have we just never seen? Never noticed? We humans are so short lived, really- and so self occupied. And still we assume, even the most careful of us, that we have a reasonably good idea how "things" work here.

I have my doubts. And some evidence. And how do we learn; and how do we teach- how to open our eyes?

It's important.

Hey, ho, nobody home.

Meat nor drink nor money have I none.

Still will I be very merry merry-

An old round, lots of fun to sing with 3 or 4 parts, and with a German version too; Hey-o spann den Wagen an.

A couple days go Daharja commented on my "Emergency Room Shock" post that the big financial crisis stuff was really mostly an American problem- not the rest of the world yet.

But it is.  If you want more heartbreak, read this BBC article about the situation in Haiti.  Or this one, on East Africa.

Haiti has been a humanitarian catastrophe for decades at least- hundreds of years, really.  But this is different.  From being "on the edge" - they are over it.

A million homeless?  A city- entirely flattened? 17 million starving in Africa?

One ship from the USA- could make a huge difference in the suffering.  But- we're just too busy to notice, and too frightened for our own futures to care.

We'll be seeing a lot more of that- but it's already here.  Darfur- in our own backyard, right now.

The Parable Of The Grateful Serf

In Merrye Olde Englande many people lived as serfs, in the Middle Ages.  A serf is property, usually bound to a particular piece of land; essentially a slave.  Not- quite; if you want to quibble.  Serfs weren't chained, though they often wore an iron collar; and they had some rights.  They just weren't allowed to travel, say, more than a mile from their farm.  Free-range slavery, then.

Geoff, our serf, was born in the wattle and daub farm cottage, and when his father died in harness Geoff became the one chiefly responsible for operating their farm.  He took a mate, and they had children, to make sure the farm would continue to bear produce for the Lord.

As a reward for the family's labor, and incidentally to provide them with enough food to survive, Geoff and his family were entitled to keep 1/10th of all they raised.  No, not including the pigs, don't be stupid; those belonged entirely to the Lord.  But they got to keep 1/10th of the turnips; 1/10th of the barley, 1/10th of the wheat.  No potatoes; this is before Columbus infected America.

The Lord's Reeve (I think that's the right name) would come around in the Spring and tell Geoff what to plant- and how much- and when.  When a child became old enough for labor- the fields to be managed would be enlarged- more must be produced.  Only fair.  The child eats, the child must produce.

Work starts before dawn and runs to after dark.  Essentially every day of the year.  When not working in the crops, there are the pigs and geese to tend, and protect from wolves, foxes, and outlaws; brushwood to gather to feed the fires in the Lord's kitchens; etc.  Land to plow; by hand; fences and hedges to repair; roads to build...

The system works beautifully.  Geoff has just enough food to keep his family alive.  If they all work hard.  And a roof.  Any effort to leave the land would almost certainly result in death- or if they did manage to escape- starvation.  They would have no land, no turnips, no law.  Staying put is by far the best option for Geoff, and his 8 children.

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The years pass.  The children grow, those that survive.  More are born.  There are moments when it's not utterly unbearable.

One Spring...

The Reeve arrives on his annual visit; riding his horse, and accompanied as usual by 5 men-at-arms, on foot.  He is wearing a sad face.

Geoff and his mate and family greet him; of course they are expecting the visit, and are waiting to hear what their tasks will be in the coming year.

The Reeve begins; "Great news, Geoff.  Our Lord is going to war!  You know that the lord to the south has been raiding our people for years- the time has come to end it!"

Geoff is mildly interested; he's heard of the raids, though they are far away, almost 5 miles.  Perhaps the pigs he tends will be safer.

The Reeve continues.  "Of course- war is costly.  Our Lord must have more men; and they must be armed.  I know we can count on your best efforts this year."

Geoff is now terrified.  Will they take his sons?

"Everyone in the Lord's keeping must contribute.  Geoff- this year, you must deliver the Lord's portion - and half your own, as well.  This is the law."

Geoff and his mate are stunned.  The children stand by, uncomprehending- and are interested to see the tears begin to run down their mother's face.  Geoff and mate know- this is a death sentence, for someone.  The 1/10th they keep is barely enough to keep body and soul together as it is.  Cut in half- they cannot live.  Perhaps some of the children can be sold into full slavery, and saved that way.  Perhaps.  But they can't afford to lose the strong children, and the market for puny young ones is very poor.  They don't really own their children either- the Lord does...

Like a pole-axed ox, Geoff sinks to his knees- it's not premeditated, not an act- he's facing utter catastrophe.  "Please... Sir... you know us, we work hard.  Every year, we've been fair to the Lord; we always deliver his share; we don't cheat and hide some, as you know others do.

"Please.  We will lose our children- or we must all starve together.  Please, Sir Reeve...  we beg.  Is there no other way; is there nothing we can do to escape starvation?"

The Reeve appears moved.  "Geoff - it's true; you and your family are productive; I know you work as hard as you can; better than most.  I've always considered you a good serf; I have always been as a friend to you.  But what am I to do?  The decree is clear.  All must contribute more for the safety of the fief.  I am powerless."

Geoff and mate are prostrate on the ground.  "Please.  Please.  Must we starve?  Please, Sir Reeve- Please..."

The Reeve appears uncomfortable up on his horse, and unhappy.  He sends the men-at-arms away, out of earshot.  "Geoff" he half whispers... "I cannot see you starve- I will turn a blind eye, as much as I can- I will do all I can, because I am your friend - I will allow you to keep 1/4th of the lord's extra portion.. if I tried to let you keep more, I would be found out, and we both would be put to death..."

Geoff and his mate are wild with joy.  Instead of losing half their family's annual food supply- they will only lose 3/8ths.  It's wonderful!  They have escaped an incredible danger!!

"Oh!! Thank you!  Thank you, Sir Reeve!!  We will never forget your kindness!!"  and Geoff and mate gather their family into their arms as tears, now of joy, run down their faces.

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The Reeve, most likely, had firm instructions from the Lord to gather 1/4 of the Serfs' shares, not 1/2- he wouldn't want his serfs to become too weak to work.

Have you noticed how absolutely delighted you are to pay $3.50 for a gallon of gas?  It's wonderful to have it so cheap, isn't it?

I didn't make up this Parable of the Grateful Serf - I heard it somewhere, long ago.  It's an ancient- truly ancient- and well known, well studied, method of "management".

We're being "managed" folks.  Or manipulated, if you wish.  Good old management techniques like this is how Exxon et. al. have had staggeringly huge record-breaking profits for what, 2 years in a row, now?

It works on us all- it works on me- I'm SO grateful gas is only $3.50 - and I KNOW it's a trick.   And  the folks on Wall Street- are ecstatic that the Dow closed at 11,020 today.   When a couple days ago, it was at 11,700.

Even the mainstream commentators are catching on- speaking up.  Steven Pearlstein at the Washington Post has had several very tough things to say over the last months; in his column today, he lays it out: 

"What we are witnessing may be the greatest destruction of financial wealth that the world has ever seen -- paper losses measured in the trillions of dollars."

Those are very heavy words indeed- for a business columnist at the Washington Post.

And keep in mind- not everyone is getting skinned.  Some folks are getting rich- every time a dying bank is "rescued".   The managers have stripped your pennies, and mine- now they are turning on each other.

It's all being managed.  And the managers have known how to do it, for hundreds of years.

And like Geoff- there's really nothing you and I can do about it.  The alternatives are worse.  But just maybe, it could be useful to keep your eyes and mind open- and try to see what's really going on.