This evening, the cruel gauntlet of Bureaucracy smote the collective soul of Purgatory Ranch a mighty blow.
To spare the technical details, PR is not large enough in Nanny County to build two domiciles. It needs to be rezoned and replatted. This evening, in a glorious 5-0 vote, the Planning Board of Nanny County denied our rezoning request. This is a separate procedure from the replatting request which hasn't been made yet. The rezoning was denied on account of the replatting. Assuredly, if they were considering our platting, they would have denied it based on our rezoning. Confused? Yeah.
Here's what I was reminded: don't ever tell anyone with the government any more than the bare minimum to extricate from their grubby clutches what you and you loved one's need to thrive/survive.
We are back to the drawing table. All bets are off, or on as the case may be. Additional purchasing, conniving, and /or groveling may be in order.
As James remarked, following our bitter denial, evidently God wanted us to tweak our plans. After fuming on the drive home, I have accepted this as true. Fiat! I am now eagerly anticipating the dawning moment when the purpose of this obstacle shall be revealed.
Despite the technocratic rebuff, the trees and potatoes continue to grow, and someone someday shall live in Purgatory. Ranch, that is...
--D
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
This Side of the Eschaton
Yes, Eschaton is a word.
Some wonder at the name of the Land: Purgatory Ranch.
“Wonder is the feeling of a philosopher;
and philosophy begins in wonder” (Plato)
The name is a reminder that nothing, even our ranch, this side of the Eschaton is paradise. Human sin is pervasive and the world, which came to be through him, did not know him.
I believe the naming of the conversation went something like this;
Dan: *complains about some character flaw which will lead to more time in purgatory. * (For the record: it was either about cursing or laziness, which are both flaws that may be at the same time poetic and enjoyable contextually and out of mixed company)
James: *Pointing to land starting with the freshly tilled potato patch* “This is a great place to work off some of that purgatory time”
K: How about Purgatory Ranch?
Dan and James: Gasp
Dan: M, what about Purgatory Ranch?
M: * About 100 yards away with the elder girls, shows two thumbs up*
Purgatory is a Catholic belief, based on Scripture that because nothing unclean can enter Heaven those who die in union with Christ but without perfect contrition must be purged on the temporal consequences of and attachment to sin. “Time” in Purgatory can be worked off here on Earth through prayer and penance.
Ergo, Ora et Lobora!
Some wonder at the name of the Land: Purgatory Ranch.
“Wonder is the feeling of a philosopher;
and philosophy begins in wonder” (Plato)
The name is a reminder that nothing, even our ranch, this side of the Eschaton is paradise. Human sin is pervasive and the world, which came to be through him, did not know him.
I believe the naming of the conversation went something like this;
Dan: *complains about some character flaw which will lead to more time in purgatory. * (For the record: it was either about cursing or laziness, which are both flaws that may be at the same time poetic and enjoyable contextually and out of mixed company)
James: *Pointing to land starting with the freshly tilled potato patch* “This is a great place to work off some of that purgatory time”
K: How about Purgatory Ranch?
Dan and James: Gasp
Dan: M, what about Purgatory Ranch?
M: * About 100 yards away with the elder girls, shows two thumbs up*
Purgatory is a Catholic belief, based on Scripture that because nothing unclean can enter Heaven those who die in union with Christ but without perfect contrition must be purged on the temporal consequences of and attachment to sin. “Time” in Purgatory can be worked off here on Earth through prayer and penance.
Ergo, Ora et Lobora!
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Visit to the Land
Today we visited the ranch again. James pointed out what a difference a load of compost made, as the potatoes to which he had a chance to add compost were sprouting much more than those without compost. I did find a few garlic sprouts peeking through the grass, but there are plenty of weeds to pull before I reach the garlic.
A drive to Six Penny Pond was made, but James was disappointed as the skunk refused to appear.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Visit to the Land
There had been thunderstorms during the day, with hail called for. On our way out, however, we saw no signs of hail, and there was no rain to dampen our enthusiasm.
Potatoes are sprouting through the returning grass. Our next task will be to weed and hoe (our neighbor chided James for not hoeing better). The east end has more and larger sprouts, and James says that is where he has hoed previously, so it is time to get to work! Garlic sprouts were nonexistent, so either they were eaten or the cloves were bad.
There are plenty of leaves on many of our saplings. To be honest, I feared they would mostly die, so I was greatly relieved to see green shoots, even though many of the saplings are planted too deeply.
We trekked to Six Penny Pond, where James and his stepdad saw a skunk (was it the same Dan shot at?).
Friday, April 23, 2010
Six Penny Pond... or How Many Ways Your Land Could Hurt You
Hi, my name is Dan, and this is my first contribution to the Purgatory Ranch stream of consciousness. This past weekend we tried to clean up the pond. We arrived in the rain, and realized that there was a lot of junk. A LOT OF JUNK. MORE JUNK THAN ANY OF US REMEMBERED. But, at a place named Purgatory, that's what you get.
I'm merely an amateur anthropologist, but I do have some preliminary findings. The previous denizens enjoyed Canadian Mist, Fords, and lived in a trailer. Nothing more could be divined.
We set to it, endeavoring to make a dent in the pile, whilst having no way to haul more than a Toyota pickup bed's worth of the sundry. Piece by piece, metal panels, skirting, and debris was peeled out of the vegetation and muck and hauled to the pasture for removal at some later date. A snake was discovered, and dispatched with a shovel. Species was unknown, but no herpetologist being present, it was left to the laymen with predictable results. The digging renewed for about 5 minutes before the previously minute field mouse droppings gave way for a large pile of very fresh scat under the lip of an unearthed panel. My father, being a bit of a poop expert took heed, and carefully peeled the panel up to meet a new friend, a fully grown and extremely feisty skunk. Several things happened at once:
1. My father yelled "Skunk! ^$&%! Skunk! Shoot it!"
2. The young person enlisted from a sheltered urban lifestyle to help us, began to reconsider her decision to volunteer.
3. James began to move rapidly in the opposite direction, arms flailing, yelling, and I quote: "AAAAAAIIIYYEEEEEEE, SKUUUNNNNKKK, RUN!!!! AAARRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHH!"
4. Skunk hissed, exited burrow, tail pointed to the heavens, and began to amble southward through the junk pile.
5. Wasting a few moments to let it the skunk get out of stank range, .40 S&W rounds began to move downrange furiously.
6. Junk and pond was ventilated, but unknown damage to intended victim.
In the aftermath, there was some disagreement to the actual series of events. The last round MIGHT have found its mark, as the skunk was not seen or heard from again, and a repugnant aroma filled the area.
James swears he was protecting us, and could not go fisticuffs with the villainous mammal since his wife has a sensitive nose.
Shaking, and ears ringing, we went back to work, having stripped the ground down to a metal box spring bed entwined within volunteer saplings in the pond proper. A dangerous exhibition of the power of the laws of physics was about to commence.
On one side of this match of mettle and grit: Grey Dog (Old Toyota Truck) with James at the helm, armed with his "C-130" tow strap, a come-along, and the sheer power of determination. On the other, a bed, a tree, a pond, and Murphy.
ROUND ONE:
I tried to take the easy way out, seeing the dangerous game of brinksmanship now being threatened. I tried to simply come-along the bed up and over the tree. Not a chance.
ROUND TWO:
Grey Dog takes up the slack, James punches it into 4-LO and mashes the accelerator. However, the strap had been hooked to a simple Eye-hook, which immediately and spectacularly fails. We give pause for a post-mortem. Thankfully the strap and come-along are intact. So is the bed and the trees' death grip.
ROUND THREE
Now we're serious. The come-along goes away, replaced by a receiver hitch with a shackle. Once again, Grey Dog leaps forward. And the vaunted strap gives up the ghost. The spectators regroup.
ROUND FOUR
Grey Dog backs in, this time with a huge towing strap, twice as wide as the previous casualty. Attached to the frame of the bed, this will surely work! We step back, a little farther than before. A fiery gleam takes James eyes. He will not fail. He revs the engine, and throws the clutch. Grey Dog strains, the bed groans, and Murphy takes his cue. The hardware plate that had been our anchor point snaps free of the frame and comes back up the hill at Mach 3 with a vengeful shriek, cataulted by the tension of the huge strap. It puts a large dent on the bumper. A hush falls over the land. Grey Dog hisses and clutch fluid smokes.
ROUND FIVE
The strap is attached to the frame and the shackle. We have learned from all previous attempts. Grey Dog surges and the bed is freed from its watery prison. James is victorious!
Somehow in the midst of all of this mayhem, I find an old encrusted Bulova watch valise. Opening it and shaking out the hundreds of ants that have taken up residence, I find six grimy, tarnished pennies. All are from the 60's and 50's, with one wheat penny to boot. Purgatory Ranch is already repaying us for our labors. Henceforth I dub the watershed, "Six Penny Pond"and James the "Towmaster". I consider us lucky to have shared the experience. A lot of work remains, but at least we know what we're up against! I just pray the skunk does not have it's revenge...
I'm merely an amateur anthropologist, but I do have some preliminary findings. The previous denizens enjoyed Canadian Mist, Fords, and lived in a trailer. Nothing more could be divined.
We set to it, endeavoring to make a dent in the pile, whilst having no way to haul more than a Toyota pickup bed's worth of the sundry. Piece by piece, metal panels, skirting, and debris was peeled out of the vegetation and muck and hauled to the pasture for removal at some later date. A snake was discovered, and dispatched with a shovel. Species was unknown, but no herpetologist being present, it was left to the laymen with predictable results. The digging renewed for about 5 minutes before the previously minute field mouse droppings gave way for a large pile of very fresh scat under the lip of an unearthed panel. My father, being a bit of a poop expert took heed, and carefully peeled the panel up to meet a new friend, a fully grown and extremely feisty skunk. Several things happened at once:
1. My father yelled "Skunk! ^$&%! Skunk! Shoot it!"
2. The young person enlisted from a sheltered urban lifestyle to help us, began to reconsider her decision to volunteer.
3. James began to move rapidly in the opposite direction, arms flailing, yelling, and I quote: "AAAAAAIIIYYEEEEEEE, SKUUUNNNNKKK, RUN!!!! AAARRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHH!"
4. Skunk hissed, exited burrow, tail pointed to the heavens, and began to amble southward through the junk pile.
5. Wasting a few moments to let it the skunk get out of stank range, .40 S&W rounds began to move downrange furiously.
6. Junk and pond was ventilated, but unknown damage to intended victim.
In the aftermath, there was some disagreement to the actual series of events. The last round MIGHT have found its mark, as the skunk was not seen or heard from again, and a repugnant aroma filled the area.
James swears he was protecting us, and could not go fisticuffs with the villainous mammal since his wife has a sensitive nose.
Shaking, and ears ringing, we went back to work, having stripped the ground down to a metal box spring bed entwined within volunteer saplings in the pond proper. A dangerous exhibition of the power of the laws of physics was about to commence.
On one side of this match of mettle and grit: Grey Dog (Old Toyota Truck) with James at the helm, armed with his "C-130" tow strap, a come-along, and the sheer power of determination. On the other, a bed, a tree, a pond, and Murphy.
ROUND ONE:
I tried to take the easy way out, seeing the dangerous game of brinksmanship now being threatened. I tried to simply come-along the bed up and over the tree. Not a chance.
ROUND TWO:
Grey Dog takes up the slack, James punches it into 4-LO and mashes the accelerator. However, the strap had been hooked to a simple Eye-hook, which immediately and spectacularly fails. We give pause for a post-mortem. Thankfully the strap and come-along are intact. So is the bed and the trees' death grip.
ROUND THREE
Now we're serious. The come-along goes away, replaced by a receiver hitch with a shackle. Once again, Grey Dog leaps forward. And the vaunted strap gives up the ghost. The spectators regroup.
ROUND FOUR
Grey Dog backs in, this time with a huge towing strap, twice as wide as the previous casualty. Attached to the frame of the bed, this will surely work! We step back, a little farther than before. A fiery gleam takes James eyes. He will not fail. He revs the engine, and throws the clutch. Grey Dog strains, the bed groans, and Murphy takes his cue. The hardware plate that had been our anchor point snaps free of the frame and comes back up the hill at Mach 3 with a vengeful shriek, cataulted by the tension of the huge strap. It puts a large dent on the bumper. A hush falls over the land. Grey Dog hisses and clutch fluid smokes.
ROUND FIVE
The strap is attached to the frame and the shackle. We have learned from all previous attempts. Grey Dog surges and the bed is freed from its watery prison. James is victorious!
Somehow in the midst of all of this mayhem, I find an old encrusted Bulova watch valise. Opening it and shaking out the hundreds of ants that have taken up residence, I find six grimy, tarnished pennies. All are from the 60's and 50's, with one wheat penny to boot. Purgatory Ranch is already repaying us for our labors. Henceforth I dub the watershed, "Six Penny Pond"and James the "Towmaster". I consider us lucky to have shared the experience. A lot of work remains, but at least we know what we're up against! I just pray the skunk does not have it's revenge...
Monday, April 19, 2010
April 18, 2010
The men tried to clean out the pond today. I still need to get the full story, as I read there was a skunk involved, but James said nothing about that. Hmmm...
The pond has a name... Six Penny Pond.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Planting Saplings
I'll let one of the men give the details, but yesterday we spent the day planing most of our 150 saplings. Too bad the girls who helped got confused on which were oak, hackberry, plum, mulberry, etc. Oops.
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