Twilight at Montecello

by Alan Pell Crawford

I thoroughly enjoyed this book. Being retired and elderly my self I am interested to see how others reach closure on their lives.

What interested me is the consistency of Jefferson's response to the ebb and flow of his life. Denial was his main ego defense and he honed its use till there was barely a pause between the event and his response.

You realize you are dealing with a good man beset by what he wanted and his ability to deliver for himself and his family. You are saddened by the life he dealt his grandson Jefferson Randolph, then self protectively blaming Jeff for not finishing his education.

Reading about his son in law and his grand daughters husband, Charles Bankhead one wishes that AA had been created 200 years earlier. Jefferson was remarkably insightful in his realization that Alcoholism was a medical illness.

Jefferson spoke to me when he wrote,

"When you and I look back on the country over which we have passed, what a field of slaughter does it exhibit! Where are all the friends who entered it with us, under all the inspiring energies of health and hope? As if pursued by the havoc of war, they are strewed by the way, some earlier, some later, and scarce a few stragglers remain to count the numbers fallen, and to mark yet, by their own fall, the last footsteps of their party. Is it a desirable thing to bear up through the heat of action, to witness the death of all our companions, and merely be the last victim?

I recommend this thoughtful book to you.

Agriculture for Profit

By a circuitous route I arrived at Vicksburg: a People at War, 1860 to 1865, by Peter R Walker.

This little book is a very interesting read. It presents the experience of a city under siege from the view of the inhabitants. It is a romantic book and glosses over the reality of the pain and suffering with the veneer of heroics. You get the feeling and idea that this was a people of a different era, immune to the suffering depicted in the modern press and literature.

There is no discussion that would lead to a diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, though there must have been such symptoms under a different name.

The city endures daily shelling from both the river and Grant’s siege from the surrounding land. People starve and people hoard. They dig into the ground and live in caves.

What caught my attention was the account of the continued production of cotton, in the face of the extreme need for food crops. Plantations continued to plant cotton because of the high price they would get for the crop if they could successfully run the blockade.

Corn for ethanol? Poppies for Opium? This is capitalism as applied to Agriculture. Where is agriculture policy? It is the modern day equivalent to cotton on the national and international scale.

Granted, Afghanistan is a failed state in the hands of drug lords. Afghanistan is headed for a big hunger, addiction and HIV morass. It is spilling over into Iran and all along the delivery routes. Opium is more toxic than cotton.

Should I be surprised about the New York Times Home Section slobbering over Australian Outback Architecture?
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/07/03/garden/03australia.html

Some lady who “divorced well” has spared no expense to borrow features and transport them to Sonoma California.
“The interiors of the main house are a shrine to Australian art and craft.”

Now I lived in two out back houses in Alice Springs in 1959 and 1966. I found nothing redeeming about their architecture. Mostly they were tin roofed ovens surrounded by a louvered porch.

One had its septic tank outside the back door between the bathroom and the laundry house. It was covered with sheets of tin for easy access.

Our family roasted in the summer and froze in the winter. I made kangaroo skin inserts for our shoes after getting frostbite standing on the interior floors during the winter.

Our thoughts about how one might improve on “bush” housing revolved around starting a company that built bermed houses.

Ms. Dodwell’s “Art Studio and Massage Room” triggered my memories of the “meat house” at Brunette Downs Station on the Barkley Tablelands, 1960. The shadows and the slats took me back to the time we were offered fresh meat. “Go to the meat house and help your selves. We just butchered a beef.”

We stepped inside the simple structure to see a large table in the middle of the concrete floored room. The table was heaped with pieces of red meat. We took a small piece and cooked it on a shovel over a campfire that night.

What can I say? Money corrupts? Money allows one to indulge whatever crazy enthusiasms one entertains? Waste not. Want not.

Where the Oil Hits the Tank

My final oil bill for the season arrived today. I had been paying $140.00 a month for 10 months so I was surprised to see that I still owed $458.67.

The office of my Oil Company, Arlington Fuel Oil Co, Inc. is at the end of my street. I thought I would go and get their help understanding my rate of use, success at conserving, in short find out how they think I am doing.

We reviewed my house, new windows, heavy insulation in the ceiling and walls and a programmable thermostat.

After an intra-office struggle with their computers, the Campbells, Father, Mother, and Son got me a print out that showed everything in black and white.

I’ve gotten four deliveries this heating season. Starting with a full tank and ending with a full tank, I used 442 gallons this season for heat and hot water. The first delivery was $2.82 a gallon. The second was $3.45 a gallon. The third was $3.62 and the fourth was $4.69.

“You did very well.” “Most of our customers living on the ground floor of two family homes used about 900 gallons.“

Mrs. Campbell held up a three-inch stack of order slips.
“These are the people who didn’t want us to top them off at the end of the season. Some of them haven’t paid their bill.”

As I went out the door, Mr. Campbell said, “Don’t sell that house.”