The Invisible Hand

For my academic work, I currently spend a lot of time at my computer. The school I attend puts almost every lecture given on the web to ensure that students have easy access to the material. I appreciate the ease of access and information at my fingertips. However, therein lies the problem: my fingers. I do not have a problem with keeping myself on task with an independent schedule. I have no issue studying for extended periods of time, or watching a lecture on a video screen, or feeling isolated from my classmates, or any of the myriad of other potential problems.

Instead, I will be intently listening to a lecture on internuclear opthalmoplegia and my fingers start to wander. My mind is still focused, but the next thing I know, I am no longer staring at a fuzzy video rendition of a powerpoint slide, but at my open inbox with 25 new e-mails. I look down, and find my fingers typing away a reply to a message I haven't even consciously read. I hate facebook, but about twenty minutes in to every lecture, I find my fingers reading the wall posts of kids I went to fifth grade camp with. How did I get here? I always wonder.

The computer streaming is not the problem, but it clearly amplifies the problem. In a lecture hall with notes, I can only play with my pencil, draw random shapes, and count the number of bricks on the wall for so long. Each of those tasks is only a slight improvement from listening to a lecturer drone on. However, writing, checking, replying, wall-posting, poking, fantasy baseball managing, newspaper reading, and financial institution check-ups are all quite more engaging than a lecture, and like a reflex, when my mind tires of engaging information, my fingers wander.

A new phenomena has also manifested itself in my graduate studies, which is not coincidental to my wandering hands. After studying for so many hours, my mind actually feels sore. As ridiculous as it sounds, after a day of studying, a stack of notes look like two sixty-five pound barbells at the end of my bicep workout. I can feel my mind cringe. When this pain starts to creep in to my lecture watching is when my fingers start to wander. Although, I suppose it is better than the alternative, because, as they say, "idle hands are the devil's workshop."

A Moot Article

Don't tell me that the title above isn't awkward. I'm not sure if it even makes sense, but I know because the word point isn't in the above following "moot" my visual ear grates when reading that title. However, I think the word moot is too good a word to be used in just one way. Even the phrase, "moot point" is being slowly degraded. For example, I have a friend who says that things are "mute points." I am always tempted to look around for the mime making an argument, or a very silent sharp edge. However, albeit not how he intended it, the phrase "mute point" does reflect the truth of the idiom that silence speaks louder than words. Rick Springfield tried an interesting variation in Jessie's Girl saying "The point is probably moot." Still, although the reversal is syntax, moot isn't used to modify anything but a point.

However, "moot" isn't alone in idiomatic isonation. "Fell," for example, only functions as an adjective in the phrase "one fell swoop." I have literally no idea what it means, I'm just glad I found out it was supposed to be "fell" instead of "foul" which I used to say. I still think that "foul swoop" makes more sense because I like to imagine a very efficient bird making just one pass at something. Saying "I fell down" is common enough, but I have never heard of anyone used the variant "felled" to describe knocking down anything but trees (as in "I felled five trees last night). I suppose, I have heard it used in boxing, as in "he felled him with one punch," but the word still sounds like an vestige of another era.

The problem with isolating these words to stock phrases, is that they become instantly cliched. Is there any other way of saying that a comment or argument someone makes doesn't matter other than saying it is a "moot point?" After finishing dinner and being stuffed, I'd like to respond that the desert menu is moot, but alas, I cannot. Unless of course, someone somehow tries to transform the desert menu into some sort of point. Likewise, I can't even comprehend how to use "fell" in the same way as one "fell" swoop because I have no idea what it means outside of that phrase. I guess that is the beauty of the cliche, though. The hearer doesn't even have to imagine what is meant by the language because the phrase implies one singular meaning. Unless of course, the point is mute.

Captain Planet and the Moral Decline of Cartoon Nation

I'm not sure that a more cliched childhood television show exists than Captain Planet. It seems to be oft-cited as the predictor of our green conscious generation and television show with sound, albeit cheesy, moral standards. However, I disagree donkey kong was a very good video . . .err, Captain Planet was a horrible television show. Heart, Wind, Earth, and whatever horrifying attempt at unifiable super-powers were not good television. The first time I saw the show, I think I thought it was an infomercial for something. Now, I wonder if I wasn't right. I am all for environmentally conscious television, but not at the expense of quality. The storylines didn't hold a candle to Thundercats, Police Academy, Woody the Woodpecker, or most importantly, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Captain Planet was a receptacle for poor ideas with good intentions.

I recognize that I haven't seen Captain Planet in at least a decade. However, my animosity toward the show is fueled less by its poor quality and my childhood disinterest, than the frequency its mentioned and/or displayed on t-shirts of my generation. Captain Planet was bad tv when good tv existed. I nearly broke into fist-fights with people over whether or not Michaelangelo was better than Donatello. I can sing Bobby's World's anthems with disturbing accuracy to this day (i.e. Animals don't wear underpants, which is not only a fact, but uses the term underpants which is a huge bonus). Darkwing Duck's theme song still gives me shivers. However, when Tiny Toons gave way to the Animaniacs, and Power Rangers stepped into the televisions world, broadcast children's programs began its swift decline.

I know it may seem that the great fall of children's programming took place at a time eerily coincidental with my growth into a burgeoning teenager, but I assure you it is coincidental. I don't mean to be a fundamentalist spouting on about the decline of society, but can someone please explain to me what has happened in any storyline of Spongebob Square Pants? I even am partial to Spongebob based simply on aesthetics, but its plots are worse than those of the Planeteers. And do teletubbies even talk? I turned on tv the other day and I am pretty sure I saw a sloth as a lead character? What happened to the classic turtle? Or Arthur the . . .what was he? Ardvark. Anteater? The point is, I am not sure what is going on in the television world these days. I hate to hear the old-timers talk about the good old days, but what happened to the good old days?

And its not only true of cartoons. I want to turn on my television and see Belki, Urkel, the young goddess Tapenga (she got smoking in the later years), Tim Allen in some obscure Michigan college sweat shirt, or either of the Olson twins no strung out. I want opening credits featuring Suzanne Somers getting smoked by a Ceader Pointe-esque water-ride, San Fransisco streets and lyrics about newspaper boys, Eddie working on a car, and/or Mr. Feeney in any capacity. What happened? Now I turn on the television and their are B-list celebrities getting reamed out by Donald Trump, B-list celebrities dancing with nobodies, or my favorite, C-list reality superstars returning triumphantly to the show that made them famous (see any obscure American Idol fifth place finisher, Survivor faves versus fans, or anything on that cultural anthropological fungus they call Road Rules v. Real World).

Okay, my rant is done. I realize that I may be viewing the past through Rose color glasses, but at least I can admit that Captain Planet always sucked.

AFV

I was once taking on online quiz about Starbucks* and received a personality profile based on my standard small black coffee that read something to the effect of: you are the type of person who watches America's Funniest Home Videos (or AFV as I like to call it, with or without acknowledging that there should be an H there) and thinks it is a great show. Initially, I resented the classification, not because it tried to imply that my simple coffee taste meant I was simply simple. I simply resented the classification because it attempted to use AFV as an insult. You can insult my coffee taste, but don't insult one of the hallmarks of American culture (unless you are referring to the years when Daisy Fuentes was a co-host).

I may have written something similar to this column (I like to avoid the word blog for posterity's sake) (and no I have no idea what the last parenthetical means), so for those of you who have been reading the daily doyle for some time, I apologize (to both of you). However, I recently rediscovered the show and witnessed the host claim that many American's still refer to AFV as a guilty pleasure. I found that to be a woeful, if accurate, description of American culture. Desperate Housewife's and Grey's Anatomy are guilty pleasures, AFV is the pinnacle of American art.

If you beg to differ, consider the following indisputable syllogism (or linear logical argument:
-People actually do (most) everything you see on the show
-People actually have a video recorder present at the time of the action
-The people that have a video recorder present, are present in mind just enough to capture it on video
-The people who complete the act, have a video recorder present, and capture the act, somehow are capable of finding the address to AFV which means: When someone somewhere utters "I'm going to send that into America's Funniest Home Videos," they actually follow through with it
-People actually fly to San Fransisco (or whever the show is, I assume SF, only because Bob Saget definitely still lives somewhere on the set, even if he is the dirtiest American alive), to sit on what appear to be disproportionate building blocks in hopes that they can identify themselves as the moron on the video
-And finally, people getting hit in the nuts, is and forever will be, extremely funny, with the obvious caveat that it is not you receiving the death blow to your battlestar gallactica**

To quote smiling Jack Ross, these are the facts of the case and they are undisputed. If you are not impressed by this feat, you are the same kind of person who likes to state that an infinite number of monkeys typing on an infinite number of typewritters could compose Shakespeare. To you, I pose one final convincing question, "could monkeys and/or Shakespeare use a camcorder?"


*I tried to think of a way of starting this column without acknowledging I took on online quiz about my Starbuck's preference. Alas, there was none and I am duly embarrased

**The irony here is that attributing the name battlestar gallactica is the type of quality humor that AFV fans rightly appreciate

Latest and Greatest

Question: Does anyone know what the metal rack about mid-level in my microwave is supposed to do?

Answer: Keep my popcorn bag from spinning.

But seriously (or rather, maybe just slightly seriously), When did it occur to the good people at GE, Kenmore, and LG that I needed a metal rack in the middle of my microwave oven. I can only assume there is some unforseen purpose I just don't understand. I mean, I wish my dryer came with a rack so I could place tennis shoes upon it so they didn't tumble. My oven and grill come with a rack so the food doesn't just lay on the heat source. Maybe they were just trying to get the microwaves to fit in with the other appliances. Really all it does is require me to remove it every time I put something in the microwave taller than a shot glass (no, I haven't recently been doing many warm lemon drops or anything).

I think somewhere, someone wanted to dehydrate meat in the microwave and thought, wouldn't it be great if I could just set it on a metal rack that came with every microwave ever made. Unfortunately for you and me, this person was an engineering mastermind and slipped it into every microwave made in the last 5 years.

This is the same guy, who owns a laptop that takes three hours to load because of widget that gives him the daily headlines, weather, stock quotes, recipes, trendy cocktail, obscure holidays, translations, latest Chinese tattoos, celebrity blunders, stopwatch, post-it notes, calculator, dancing hula girl, credit score, savings account balance, and a smattering of other features which no one in their right mind would ever use. Trouble is, whoever puts the metal rack in my microwave is not in their right mind. They also put all the random advertisements in my credit card bills. You know how when you open up the paper bill about fifteen slips of magazine like paper advertising reclining massaging chairs and customizable transformer's checks (I like the truck guy personally).

However, for them to spend the money for that shiny paper some sucker must be sitting out there buying up Dilbert checks and stamps with their name and address like hot cakes. On a side note, when did you ever feel a compelling urge to purchase copious amounts of round, hot, delicious, griddled breakfast morsels from heaven. Other than right now, that is. If you'll excuse me I'm going to find me some bisquick like its going out of style. Further tangentially, when did anyone buy anything because it was going out of style. Like in 1995 were people racing to the stores to by MC Hammer pants?

Yet, I digress entirely and comprehensively. Point is (I think) is that there comes a time when less, is more (hence the conclusion of this meandering column). That is, I have removed the rack from my oven until I find the need to microwave my socks. Although, toasty feet do sound pretty compelling right now . . .

Published

A few months back on a whim, I sent what started as a blog post to a gardening magazine looking for stories. To my surprise, I heard back within a month or two and received a contract and a check for the story. Today I found out it is in the Spring 2008 edition of GreenPrints magazine. The table of contents is here: http://www.greenprints.com/Contents73.html
My article is titled "Nursery Tales" from my time working for a nursery and there is a sweet photo, which I think is supposed to be me (check the name tag) trying to sell flowers to an old lady. Needless to say, I am excited that I have something published (even if it is in a niche magazine with a devoted following).

The visceral "Into the Wild" reaction

Fried from months of pouring over pages of xeroxed printed powerpoint slides earlier this year, I suddenly had a strange, but compelling desire to learn about the Appalachian trail. I spent a couple hours on google, amazon, and half.com and before too long had purchased over ten books on national parks, backroad driving, and other travel narratives. I recently developed a fierce desire to drive solely on backroads through less populated areas. My former roommate spends the late part of every night buying baseball tickets and books and planning brief three-day trips with a core group of friends to baseball games. When talking to a friend earlier this year, out of the blue, he mentioned to me that he wanted to hike the Appalachian trail this summer. The common tennant of all of these experiences, I believe is a visceral reaction to studying and a stressful life of monotony, high expectations, and little edifying activity.
My former roommate is studying in a masters program, and my other friend is a fellow medical student. We all generally are excited about our future careers, but the dreary path leading to the doorstep can sometimes be overwhelming. Our escape then seems to be to planning what we will be doing when we are not studying. Of course, our plans extend far beyond any realistic possibility, but a small percentage of those plans come to fruition. My current roommate and I are going backpacking in the smokies next week. The following week my former roommate, some others, and I are making a bonzai trip to Florida to catch several Spring Training games. Those few actualities keep the hope alive.
In between lectures, I let myself read a chapter or two (or eight, depending on my current state) of Jon Krakauer's Into the Wild. The story chronicles the life of an affluent college graduate who traveled the country, eventually landing in the Alaskan wilderness where he died of starvation. The story is compelling and resonates with so many because it lives out the deep seeded desires within me to just take off and see what happens. I can more-or-less tell you what I will be doing on any given day for the next several months and only slightly more generally the next three plus years. The idea that I may have some unexpected adventures makes the monotony a little more tolerable.
While not everyone may share the desire to return to the wilderness, or take part in the Americana spectacle that is Major League Baseball, I think everyone has some sort of outlet or hope that keeps them pressing forward. I had a discussion with friends about how vacations, which seemed meaningless even a couple years ago, now achieved the sort of status in our minds as they did in the older generations' in our younger years. This is not to say that I do not enjoy my current state as a medical student. In fact, I generally find what I am learning fascinating, but the balance I crave cannot be satisfied by book study.
However, I do recognize the role book study has and will continue to have in my life. Yet the temptation, like the Wordsworth poem below is to flee and learn from the other experiences of life. Still, a parable Luther supposedly used comes to mind in considering the situation: We must be careful, that like a drunk man riding a horse, when trying to recover from leaning too far one way, we do not fall off the opposite side. Still, I include Wordsworth below for my current mood; a little straightening up in the saddle couldn't hurt anyone, right?

The Tables Turned
William Wordsworth

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless--
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:--
We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

5 Lessons Learned in Canada (and some about coffee)

I learned the following things while on a ski trip to Canada this weekend.

#1 - My gas tank can hold 53 Liters, or, as I like to think of it, 26.5 bottles of Sierra Mist.

#2 - When a hamburger comes with "bacon" on it, be prepared for a horrible patty with a slice of ham on it

#3 - My life goal is to find the gene that makes people want to snowboard and eradicate it through eugenics. Or, I will invent the half-pipe of death that way I can also eliminate skiers who want to be snowboarders as well. Beautiful.

#4 - Canada is just like America but with more of the following: snow, "eh's," open spaces, and red maple leafs ubiquitously placed on everything.

#5 - Wearing a maple leaf on clothing is way cooler than wearing an American flag. I am still not sure why.

Things I learned this morning:
Before purchasing a new coffee maker, press the reset button on the plug to make sure it is in fact the coffee maker that is broken.

Paradox of this morning:
I make coffee in order to wake up, yet, I must be awake to make coffee.

Ramifications of above paradox:
Today I woke up without coffee because the coffee maker was "broken."
Last week, I cleaned up coffee from every crevice in the immediate area because the carafe did not "fit" in its rightful spot.
The coffee maker switch must be placed into the "on" position in order for maximum efficiency.
The coffee maker must have coffee placed in the filter in order for maximum efficiency.
The coffee maker must have water poured from the carafe into it for maximum efficiency.
I now believe that people with alarms on coffee makers are not lazy, but infinitely wise.

The Beginning of Americana

I’d like to think our trip started at 4 am on Thursday March, First, 2007 when we loaded the last of our gear into the trunk of my beige well worn 1998 Buick Century, but it began far before that. Without dredging into the faintly recollected first baseball game (one of my earlier one was in second grade opening day), the event that germinated this entire trip took place on Saturday, October Seventh. While working at the game room of my undergraduate institution, me and two friends watched the upstart Detroit Tigers upset the New York Yankees three games to one.

The next ten minutes included raucous celebration with a bottle carbonated beverage (that is, due to being on an alcohol free campus, and being on the clock, sparkling grape juice). However, very soon, we realized that our celebration wasn’t stopping. The Tigers were set to meet the Oakland Athletics in the American League Championship (ALCS). Immediately, we started searching for tickets online. Game 5 of the ALCS series seemed to suit us best, and a Sunday afternoon enjoying baseball sounded fantastic. Like traders on the floor of the New York Stock exchange, my friends Eric and Kevin, and I compiled a list of all the yeses and began searching for tickets. Grouped three and five, four and four, six and two, we searched for eight tickets on the ticketmaster website. Finally, when the dust settled we had eight tickets together to take in the Tigers versus the Athletics in what we imagined to be the clinching game of the ALCS.

As history would of course confirm, there was no game five to the 2006 ALCS. When this became apparent to Eric and I, we immediately knew we needed to be a part of the history. When the Tigers took a 3-0 lead in the bottom of the fifth of game three, we saw the Tigers sweep inevitably coming. The excitement level was high, but tempered by the fact that we no longer had tickets to the show. Immediately, Eric, or Bus as we call him, pulled out his laptop and started furiously searching for tickets to game four. I called around to my co-workers to see if I could get anyone to cover my shift in the game room the next day. Within twenty minutes, we had purchased the cheapest two tickets we could find, I had recruited a gracious friend (who had a ticket to game five) to work for me, and we set up plans to make the hike from central Indiana to Detroit the next morning.

The next morning we awoke at eight am to make a four hour journey to Detroit. Although the ETA was still four hours before the game, we were in a hurry. Since these were some of the “dark ages” of our collegiate life, we had no access to the Internet (or much of anything else) from our dirt cheap, cramped and drafty flat/attic. The tickets we purchased were E-tickets which were supposed to be e-mailed to us. We went to Bus’s school government office to check our e-mail in hopes we could access and print the tickets. No dice. We left in hopes that we would still receive them via e-mail and from his high stakes college job (let’s just say he wasn’t supervising freshman playing pool, like me) he had a blackberry with which we could check his e-mail.

A brief pit-stop at Arby’s filled Eric with a breakfast sandwich, and my four breakfast entrees filled him with a sense of awe at my appetite. Periodically, Eric checked his e-mail and as we approached the Michigan border, we began to worry about the tickets. We called the 1-800 helpline from the website and informed them of the problem. Within the hour, we had the tickets in Eric’s e-mail inbox. However, we had no way of transferring the tickets from his phone to paper. I knew a couple with Tigers season tickets who would be attending the game, and on a hunch, I called them and asked them to print the tickets off and meet us at the game. We arrived in downtown Detroit just after noon, with the tickets in the hands of a trusted friend coming a few hours later.

We were early enough to park on the street adjacent to lots charging gobs of money for a slot on the gravel. Since we didn’t have a vested interest in tailgating (the preparations for such an endeavor would have required more time), we parked on the curb and headed to the ball-park. After the requisite photographs taken around the giant statue tiger in front of the park, we headed to the iconic Hockeytown café for the pre-game tailgate. With hundreds of others, we partook in grilled hamburgers, chips, and the classic American beverage. From the patio, we viewed the Detroit skyline and soaked in the atmosphere. The buzz was electric, but the temperature was frigid. We stood outside and weathered the cold for the site of thousands of fans pouring into the usually deserted Detroit seats with expectations which hadn’t been seen since the mid-eighties.

My friends finally arrived with the tickets and we joined them in Detroit’s Greektown enclave for some Greek appetizers and a Canadian beverage imported from the country lying due South of Detroit (look for Windsor, Ontario on a map). Greektown, lying adjacent to the professional football and baseball stadiums of Detroit, carries a huge portion of the pre-game festivities in the city. We sat in the back of a tiny but packed authentic-ish restaurant and watched the fans flow by. Soon however, the pitcher was drained and our appetizers were gone.

We received the golden tickets printed on inkjet paper and hoped that by some cruel twist of fate the barcode wasn’t already used up by another in an online scam. We didn’t breath easy until we stepped inside the dark green gates of Comerica Park and were apart of the action. In our haste and economy to purchase tickets, we hadn’t really considered where they would be located. We found our section easily, as we knew it was likely an outfield corner and climbed to our row. In retrospect, when a row is designated by two sets of letters late in the alphabet, the seats probably are not prime real estate. However, we were simply grateful to be in the park and going to the very top row almost made the experience more idyllic. We sat perched above the field, with nothing between us and the outside street below but a plastic coated green chain-link fence. The wind had not trouble piercing through the fence and whatever Tigers gear we had remembered to put on that morning. The family of six next to us looked like they may have confused Tiger Stadium with a ski slope as they were all dressed in full-out bib snow-pants, zippered jackets, hats, and mittens. It may be my memory deceiving me, but I could have sworn the father was wearing a pair of Scott ski-goggles around his neck.

A father and daughter combo sat to our left and the young lady caused me to turn my head with the knowledge she demonstrated through conversing with her father (though not Eric’s because he was already spoken for by his fiancé). In front of us sat an elderly gentleman who seemed to be in awe of the entire experience. I would have paid a heft price for a pair of bib-overalls at that point as the fierce wind pierced the October air. One or two rows down was infinitely warmer than the top of the stands because of the respite from the wind, but even this upper-deck was too packed to try and squeeze down.

The air was briefly deflated from our wings as the A’s compiled to quick runs in the first. However, Bonderman was known for getting shelled early, only to come back with great stuff later in the game. However, by the fourth, Jay Payton’s homerun and the lack of Tigers offense had things looking grim. The wind was picking up so much so that the cold made the top row unbearable. Rather than give up our seats in order to watch the game standing from a common balcony or beer garden, I applied for a visa card in exchange for a fleece blanket. That blanket provided enough warmth for Bus and I to remain entrenched in the stands.

In the next few innings the Tigers tied the score at three setting up the greatest sports finish I have ever witnessed live (not counting my performance in high school football). After homering in the sixth inning, Magglio Ordonez stepped up in the bottom of the ninth with two outs already on the board. Two tigers had managed to get on base and fans were hoping that a single would send one home and avoid extra innings. However, on the second pitch of the at bat Ordonez belted the ball to left field, setting off a series of mayhem that I cannot entirely recall.

I jumped ecstatically in my top row seat and hugged my friend. I exchanged high-fives with the dorky ski family and the father and daughter next to me. The old man in front of me grabbed my hands and another excited fan pulled me down into the row in front of me. A similar raucous occurred elsewhere. The older gentleman in front of Bus had streams of tears coming down his icy cheeks and was filled with palpable joy. The players on the field mirrored the fans excitement and the entire experience was etched into the minds of all that were present. The Tigers, who lost 119 games only three seasons prior had defeated the mighty Yankees, swept the infamous “moneyball” Athletics and seemed to have a title for the taking when the St. Louis Cardinals came to down days later.

Ned E.

Summer sausage, sandwiched between thick cut scraps of sharp cheddar cheese sat naked on the rusting hood of a powder blue dodge pick-up. The cheese gripped tightly to the ridged hood and kept the sausage, still complete in its faux skin, from sliding down and onto the gravel driveway beneath. The air was thin and crisp, even for a cold April morning and the hood was steely cool. The round edges of the sausage protruded on either side from the yellow-orange cheese and its fatty white flecks were exposed to the cool air. The congealed flesh and gristle, processed, but not devoid of its animal taughtness, glistened in the cool sun. The maroon wrapper, slightly peeled on one side flapped as the wind whipped past it, gave the meat a tough exterior, but the center of the sausage, with its gel-like softness and yet underlying density gave the animal protein and lard a cold, harsh aura.

Ned’s dark, rough hands could not feel the powdery grip of the cheese, but the size of the morsel felt natural as he brought the beef and cheese to his lips. A few swift bites, the substance nearly sectioned itself, and Ned sent the beef to the fierce, fiery furnace below. His stomach was the only entity within himself which could cause him pain. His throat and chest burned ceaselessly with the gastric juices from within. A strange sense of satisfaction ran through Ned when he appeased his stomach momentarily with the processed but seemingly raw animal products. He stoked the internal flames, knowing well, that his steady diet of Banquet ® Chicken Pot Pies, summer sausage, sharp cheddar, and bacon was the cause of his internal broiler.

He leaned against the grill of the car and closed his eyes. Consistent weariness lent Ned to fits of closed-eye thought sessions. Halfway through his work day didn’t seem close enough to being able to retire to the Pink Flamingo trailer park. Slowly, the strange sandwiches disappeared from the hood, and were replaced by a little Debbie and can of coke. Slow sips from the Coca-cola classic reinvigorated his dormant heartburn, and he tried to quell it with bites from a zebra cake. When the cake was gone, he took one last swig from the aluminum can and tossed it into his fire red lunch cooler. The zebra cake wrapper blew away with a gust of wind and Ned’s crunching footsteps followed after it and stomped on it to hold it to the ground. He gingerly bent over at the waist grabbed the wrapper, and joined it with the Coca-cola in his cooler.

Back to work, he picked up his hoe and returned to the freshly exposed soil. The soil was rich and full, the way freshly roasted coffee beans smell. On either side of the patch of naked ground, were large trees, looming as if from another era, fully matted below with grass, still brown from the winter’s bite. Ned traded his hoe for a spade and shored up the kidney-shaped outline which he was cutting from the grass. More fresh soil lay below, seemingly nourished by the healthy grass above it. This too, Ned stroked with the hoe, recreating an untainted earth, preserved from weeds by years of pesticides aimed at keeping the blanket of Kentucky blue grass above in top shape. When the bed was adequately prepped, Ned returned to his truck, pulled a shovel and nursery grown azalea from the bed. In the chilled shade of the mammoth oaks, he planted the azalea, just on the cusp of the bed, in his mind, perfectly contrasting what would be the rest of the bed.

The thin, scrawny, crab apple tree was always hard to remove from the truck. He rolled it down gently from the mulch pile, his hands scrapping on the knotty trunk. He slid two 2x4 pieces of lumber from the truck and placed them in position so he could roll the root ball downwards. The burlap sac surrounding the mass of dirt and tangled roots felt soft and gentle in Ned’s hands and he relished the experience. The small tree, constrained from below by the twine and burlap confines would soon be liberated to the deep coffee-rich soil below. Like a freed bird its roots would extend, farther and farther from home, perching amongst the roots of other plants, flowers, and trees.

After an hour of softly scooping out the cold, hard earth beneath the top soil, Ned laid the crab apple tree on its side and reached into his back packet. Warmed on one side from his back and cool on the other from the air, Ned extended the blade from its steel case and began working through the burlap. Once sliced, the burlap easily rips, frayed edges splitting unevenly to each side, like a curtain being torn from top to bottom exposing the beauty of the roots below. Clumpy dirt surrounds puny scraps of root, with nothing about it to which one would be attracted.

Arranged adequately in the hole Ned began scooping dirt around the edges of the root. His booted foot, pressed down on the deep soil to harden the dirt around the tender root. More dirt, more feet, more shovel, less air. Deeper and deeper he imagined the roots growing, spreading throughout this man-made garden. Retreating to the nearby house, he extended the coils of a dormant hose to the source. Stretching the cobwebs along with the house, he traversed the thick bluegrass towards his crab apple tree. Softly, gently, he slid the mouth of the house in to the densely packed earth.

As he walked back to the house, he checked his watch. Three hours since lunch, not quite time yet. When working on a job alone, he could put in longer hours, not distracted by the nuisances of conversations. He turned on the water, and watched it surge along the hose. Back at the tree, he heard it filling up the earthen jar he had carved below. The ground around the tree slowly pulsed, occasionally a bubbling up would occur. Ned watched momentarily before returning to the truck. He pulled a wheel barrow from the back and began to fill it with mulch from the bed. When he pulled the top off the fresh mulch, steam from the organic decomposition warmed the local air. He blanketed the area around the tree with the shredded remnants of its brothers. The warm, moist nuggets leave a dark brown goodness on his hands. With his hands he crafts a moat of sorts around the crab apple tree, enshrining royalty and supplying the web of spreading roots with a wash of fresh, cold water.

Quickly, smoothly, handily with the ungraceful precision that only years of muscle memory provide, Ned scooped out dirt around the fringes of the bed, providing small holes only as big as his foot. Twelve of them buffered the edges of the kidney shaped cut-out. Over his shoulder he carried a large bag of peat moss, wrapped tightly in thin white and green plastic. He set it down with a thud between to holes and wisps of dusty peat smoked through the air. With his shovel, he split the bag, from top to bottom, exposing the light brown powder to the crisp air. He placed half a scoop in each hole, carefully mixing it by hand with the soil below. Twelve leafy green hostas he molded to the earth, firm as stones in their foundation.

With a quick yank, he pulled the water from the crab tree moat, and let it splash on the now dried open ground. As a healer prays over the crippled, he raised his arm over each hosta, sprinkled a splash of water on the leaves before bathing the soil around the plants with the water. With weary arms, he finished the job by pitchforking the rest of the mulch into wheelbarrows and gently spreading it, sometimes with hands, sometimes with hoe, across the garden before him. Finally, it was his time, he loaded tools in the wheelbarrow, then the truck, and placed the 2x4 lumber in last, crossing them underneath the tools so he could close the back gate in a nice neat, tidy, portable sacred canon.