July 28, 2023

I bought this pencil at the Penland School of Crafts for a hundred bucks. It’s made of steel–pure art. You can’t write with it.

It is quite an extravagance for me to buy a piece of art, but beyond its gorgeousness it has a purpose that I dreamed up while gazing at it in the school gallery. I have a desk in my bedroom where I never work. It is used as a place to stack things and for my cat’s water and food dish. Buying the pencil gave me resolve to repurpose my desk as…a desk. 

I’ll still read the NYTimes and do Wordle in bed, but I want to have a place that I can at least play like I’m focused on writing and editing.

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I was at Penland to deliver my friend Alice who was taking a jewelry making class. She flew into Knoxville to visit a few days before and we spent some time working on the land. Our first day there was auspicious. 

We had just loaded up the cart with tools for trail blazing and were about a hundred and fifty feet from the shed when we heard the whoosh of leafy saplings, brush and sticks breaking like the clackety clack of a speeding train. We turned toward the sound just as a young bear shot into the saddle at the base of the knoll, its downhill momentum making her appear slightly out of control. She braked to a stop twenty five yards from us. 

I was of the opinion that she had been chased. Alice thought she was exhilarated from her downhill run. Whatever the case, the adolescent bear seemed slightly dazed. She had run toward noise, not away from it. 

Poor Valley Road runs parallel to the trail here and is close enough to see through the woods. The neighbor’s black lab was on the blacktop oating at Alice and I. The couple’s twelve-year-old was buzzing the road and fields on a dirt bike. I lifted my hands and yelled at the bear not wanting her to come at us in the confusion. (Bears are known to have poor eyesight.) She turned and ran toward the shed disappearing in the dense brush. 

I can’t say whether this was the same bear that I had in pictures from a previous post. Her coat looked less mangy and more fluffy and full, but otherwise she was about the same size. 

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It’s always nice to have other opinions when working on a project. Alice and I used some logs to line the trail toward the memorial site and then Alice had the notion that instead of trying to build steps up the knoll to the top, it would be easier to make a trail that followed a gradual curve along the less steep side. 

My chainsaw, newly out of the shop, was exhibiting the same problem of being impossible to start so we didn’t do clearing then but more reconnaissance. 

Top of the Knoll

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I didn’t appear anywhere in work boots and a yellow dress as I suggested I might to protest Tennessee’s anti-drag law. However, I did wear my rainbow t-shirt on numerous occasions which is about as much courage as I could muster to be an ally to LGBTQIA2S+. A rainbow shirt that wasn’t advertising for the clothing maker would be cooler but I bought it on impulse after listening to a speaker at a teacher conference in Long Beach. He talked about how we need to be active allies to communities under attack. (When I was in Raleigh I noted signs that said “Black Lives STILL Matter.”) 

A t-shirt or sign may seem insignificant but can make people who are targeted feel safer.

The idea that people in drag are sexual predators grooming the young is as absurd as the Boy Scouts of America saying that there is no place for gay men to be scout leaders or that queer folks should not teach in public schools. There is no correlation between sexuality and predation. The majority of child sexual predators are heterosexual as is the general population.

First off I should clarify that drag is performative whereas transgenderism is about identity. Drag performers are often not transgender. Dressing in drag does not denote any specific sexual identity. And neither drag or transgenderism denotes preference in sexual partners.  Anti-drag laws are as silly as telling people they can’t celebrate halloween or put a cheese wedge on their head at a football game.

While I’m appalled by Tennessee’s “Adult Entertainment Act” and see it as an attack on self-expression. I’m not sure all anti-trans laws are actually anti-trans. The issues are more complicated and plenty of people are jumping on board to create a polarizing atmosphere. Controversy and sensationalism sell. They are a cheap way to get a platform. A thumbs down is as good as a thumbs up when it comes to sponsorship and advertising. If anyone proved that the last U.S. president did.

One of the more controversial issues in transgender rights is transgenders in sports. But I bet if you asked if transgenders should be allowed to participate in sports, most people would say yes. The question is how can this be done in a way that honors their accomplishments and feels fair to everyone? 

Strict regulations guide the thickness of foam that can be used in the running shoes of marathon racers. Why do people expect there to be easy answers to how transgender people participate in sports? 

Some state laws allow female athletes to participate on male football and baseball teams. I think the idea is if no program exists then the unrepresented sex may join the gendered team.  I assume this would allow males to join female teams if there was not a male gendered team.

Male transitioned females wanting to join cis female teams or compete as individuals is new territory. While many transgender advocates would like for society to believe we all are who we say we are and who we change ourselves into with hormone replacement and surgery, much of the public is not in agreement, especially when it comes to bringing home trophies and medals. 

It’s one thing to identify at work, on the dance floor, or in the bedroom, but it’s another thing to say, “I am what I am” on the competitive sports field. 

There are compelling arguments on whether transgendered females have an advantage or not. On one side, some say the hormone replacement mutes any advantage male-born people might have in lung and heart capacity and size. But how do you measure this?

Stories about transgender males competing don’t make the headlines as much because they aren’t usually viewed as having an unfair advantage. It is commonly thought that males are superior in almost every sport due to speed and strength, but we haven’t had a level playing field to accurately make that assessment. I don’t think we can downplay our history which until recently did not include programs for instructing females in sports. When those programs became available, they were usually second string and underfunded. 

A girl that could throw a ball was a rarity when I was a boy…as rare as a girl that wanted to throw a ball…as rare as opportunities and encouragement to throw a ball.

As a side note, the tallest and fastest person in my fifth grade class, indeed in the whole elementary school, was a bucktoothed, gangly girl named Patty. I viewed her with equal parts admiration and freak-a-cation. 

Short, but not yet far outside the bell curve, I would go on to become the shortest boy in school until an amazing growth spurt hit during the summer between 10th and 11th grade. As a self-defense mechanism I got very good at picking out the slightest imperfections in my classmates. 

Why am I saying this? Because I believe that our societal obsession with difference is stopping us from making good choices. I don’t agree that the transgender female, Lia Thomas, should have been awarded the women’s championship in the NCAA Division 1, 500 meter free style. However, I do think she should be allowed to participate in competitive swimming. 

New rules push the controversy into an even more heated area. The international Swimming Federation (FINA) effectively wipes their hands by barring all transgender athletes from competing in professional women’s swimming, with the exception of athletes who “can establish to FINA’s comfortable satisfaction that they have not experienced any part of male puberty beyond Tanner Stage 2 (of puberty) or before age 12, whichever is later”. (Wikipedia) This does seem to allow the possibility for trans women to compete with men but it also encourages twelve year olds to manipulate their bodies before they mature.

In the future perhaps more sports teams will be divided by weight class or height like wrestling and boxing and not by sex. How much does football—as it is now—serve a high school boy who is short and under 120 lbs or the vault in a gymnastics competition for a six foot tall girl? 

My guess, is that when all is said and done there will need to be rules for each particular sport at each level of athleticism from intramural to professional, peewee to senior league. There will also be new sports developed. We’ve already seen an expansion of sports in the Olympics. Is it mere coincidence that pickle ball has become the most popular sport in the United States. What’s next? 

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I celebrated my 58th birthday with family who took me to El Toril Mexican Restaurant in Kimball, TN for fine dining and Karaoke. This might have been a safe place to try dressing in drag or maybe a more urban area, like nearby Chattanooga. Of course, protest isn’t about being safe. 

Restaurant employees stuck the sombrero on my head and then smashed a piece of whip cream- topped cinnamon bread in my face. It took me 20 minutes to get it out of my beard and off my glasses just in time for my turn to sing Closer to Fine by the Indigo Girls. I didn’t know this would be in the new Barbie movie. I was blissfully ignorant of how bad I was until I listened to a recording.

Direct action protest where people are confronted with their prejudice and fears takes incredible courage. I think the early 1960s Freedom Riders and Lunch Counter Sit-ins that protested racial segregation are great examples.

The San Francisco Castro District is widely considered the mecca of gay culture and activism. I was just in the branch library and there was a display of drag history. 

Asheville, NC seems to be similarly loud and proud. On my recent drive back from Penland I went through the town. In that brief visit, I encountered a half dozen or more transgender people. 

I will leave it to the beefy, well-groomed bearded man wearing a halter top, sandals and a flowing ankle-length skirt to say whether he was dressed in drag or transgender. Maybe gender fluid is a safer description for everyone I saw: a lanky red-haired teenager with a light kilt and bordello/pirate-style puffy sleeves; a pretty Whole Foods worker with long, dark hair and a short, plaited maroon skirt, black leggings and undershirt topped with a white crochet cover-up; a group of four youth evenly matched of each sex, bending genders toward the other. 

Minority and non-conforming groups need allies everywhere, not just in the south. On a recent community bike ride that featured a lot of low-rider and chopped out bicycles I hung toward the back of the group at the start of the event going from Pleasant Hill BART to Todos Santos Plaza in downtown Concord. Some young homies at the back were playing sexually explicit rap music and drinking 40-ouncers as they rode. A man driving in a Miata waited for us all to roll through an intersection and one of the young men looked back at everyone riding behind and smiled saying, “You know they say gays drive Miatas.” 

I wasn’t sure if this was meant to denigrate gays or Miatas or both but it didn’t sound like it was just a statement of fact — as in Gays love their Miatas. Not that that would be much better. Generalizations are offensive but people do them — especially members of the group being generalized. Paul Lynde could get away with saying that better than Johnny Carson — if either were still alive. 

Anyway, I’ll wear my rainbow shirt on my next ride and pull up next to the homies. 

Here are pictures of what I’ve been doing on the land: 

I took out a section of about 12 floor boards from the Sheridan cabin to get enough wood for my foot bridge.
I was able to fit the boards in the trunk of my aunt’s car for the quarter mile drive to the footbridge site.
I picked this 55 foot, 10 inch oak for the structural beams of the bridge. It was straight and just a few feet from the bridge spot. Oak weathers well and will last longer than the more plentiful poplar trees.
Numerous instructional videos later, I was able to land the tree in the exact place I planned without getting it hung up. I cleared several small trees in its falling path and put guiding marks on the tree with the chainsaw before making the front wedge and final cut.
I wasn’t able to get a good look at the leaves until it was on the ground.
The all-important hinge directs the tree to fall safely. It guides the tree in the intended direction and doesn’t completely release until the tree is near or hits the ground.
The tree I picked had been a double at some point in it’s life. I cut the tree high to save the hollow log for possible use as a vice in case I have logs I want to split with the chainsaw.
I cut two 17 foot logs to span the gulley. Short logs aided me in placing the longer logs. The heavier of the two was probably about 225 pounds.
I added to my small collection of battery operated tools with this 6.5 inch radial saw.
I could get three planks from each floor board.
My other completed bridge was the one cut from the fallen pine near my shed.

I used logs to line some of the trails.

I started clearing new trails. The first set is going east near the shed. The ones after that are for the proposed trail that winds around to the top of the knob.

Before
After
Before
After
Before
After
This is me playing “angry hillbilly” about a friend calling the Knoxville 1982 World’s Fair site a ghost town.
The fair is where I heard Walter Cronkite before I saw him. “And how’s the baby?” he said in his deep, resonate voice. I can’t tell you how many times my dad shushed me over him.
Views from the sphere.
I did my first “controlled” burn on the land at the proposed cabin site.
This picture toward the end of the burn shows the five gallons of water I placed around–just in case.

A little ELO…just because.

July 17, 2023

I got into some serious shit on my land. By shit, I mean poison ivy. I’m posting a picture of my left flank which suffers the largest lesion. The picture is at the bottom of this post so you can easily avoid it if medical photography is not your thing.

The cause — sheer stupidity. I’d guesstimate that about fifty percent of the ground cover on this land is poison ivy. I tend to remove it from trails when it gets above boot level. Then I use leather gloves to pull it up or a pick ax to chop it out by the root. 

I’m so habituated to seeing it everywhere on the ground that I had a large brain fart about how the word ivy—right there in its nameimplies something that climbs. I just wasn’t thinking about it when I became interested in all the small and large vines barber-polling up many of the trees. I wondered if they were hurting them.

I picked some of the leaves from the most predominant vine and held them up in my bare hand to take a picture for google photos to ID later at home. When the words poison ivy came up I said to myself, “These google photos are misidentifying plants. I know poison ivy. It’s all over the ground. I’m looking for a vine that climbs! Geesh Google, how stupid can you be?”

Two nice photos of me fondling poison ivy bare handed.

Also, my brain-data-base did not make important correlations with popular animated and action-based media that often portray poison ivy climbing up columns at break neck speed or in more hyperbolic depictions as bulging, zombie veins growing like earthquake fissures under a person’s skin.

A wikipedia search of climbing vines stated that they do not, as commonly thought, choke the life out of trees. Nevertheless they get into the canopy and compete for light and can eventually kill a tree that way. 

Virginia Creeper is also fairly common on this land and like poison ivy it is a climber. Here are the two together. “Leaves of three, leave it be. Leaves of five, let it thrive.” Virginia Creeper is not poisonous. As for the poison ivy, I would rather not leave it be. I’d prefer to get rid of it–at least on walking trails. However, there are good things to be said for it–it’s a native plant that fights soil erosion with its extensive underground root network.

The next day, after poo-pooing Google’s plant identification, I spent close to an hour pulling down dozens of vines that were engulfing a large oak next to the road. The tree is one of the largest on the property and sits next to the neighbor’s mailbox. Its predominance make it the perfect place to start a vine removal campaign. I’ve still not determined if this is an important program to undertake in forestry health, but for this single tree it seemed like a good thing. 

By itself the tree has a lovely canopy and while I like the look of bare vines as they spiral up a trunk, these were leafing out at different levels giving the tree an ugly bibbed and girdled look. 

Feeling properly motivated for this bit of beautification I ignored further ponderings about what its vine might actually be. Instead I focused on how it would look when I was done. With machete and, again, bare hands I set about the task. Ninety percent of the vines were poison ivy.

Going at it I reflected on my experience watching Tarzan and other movie characters that swing on vines.  I appreciated the realism when I remembered a character who tugged on a vine first to see if it would hold before trusting their weight to it. 

After cutting a vine from the base of the tree, I experienced a satisfying popping sound as I peeled it off the trunk, separating hundreds of short, horizontal tendrils that clung to the tree off each side of the vertical creeper. When the pulling reached the first fork of the trunk the vine would hang free. At this point, about half of the vines could then be pulled down like a rope dropped from a great height (attendant with a shower of duff). Some vines, however, had continued on a more circuitous route, criss-crossing large branches in ways that tied them securely to the tree. The thicker of these could support my weight and, being a fool, I swung around the base of the big oak and even tested a foot-on-trunk assent.

Pulling vines from the bark did not appear to injure the tree (only me). These marks are likely due to water collected around and under the vine during a recent rainstorm.
My hand is on a poison ivy vine. Common ivy is growing next to it on smaller vines. I found poison ivy vines three or four inches thick on my land. They are woody inside like a tree. Another good rhyme to remember–“Hairy vine, no friend of mine!” Good job Eric! You are wearing a glove!
The vine hangs next to the host tree after I cut it. Family memorial stones are in the background.

The next day I had a small red bump in a few places and noted a sort of heated tingling in different areas. I thought this was a sign that I had gotten into a small bit of poison ivy somewhere, NOT that my body was preparing for a full on war with armies of haptens, cytokines and chemokines amassing lines of warriors across battlefields of my flesh, on side flanks and inner thighs. Nor was I aware that scouting parties had ventured out along all my appendages and would soon begin engaging in guerrilla warfare on spotted islands surrounding my belly. 

Four or five days in, the dermal carnage seemed to reach its goriest with the largest wound weeping yellow tears that dried to my shirt with crystals. During the second week my skin smoothed out and became less grotesque, but its itchiness reached its zenith.

I resorted to fighting fire with fire. Two a.m. hot showers that  threaten to give me first degree burns can best be described as euphoric. Shower wand in hand, temperature set to scorch, I bring in the heat with a flagellating rhythm to douse the main battlefields then back burn and lay waste to any skin that would otherwise be taken by the urushiol-invoked monsters of war. 

Body steaming like a scorched earth, I turn the shower dial down to the coldest setting and bring on the cooling rain. 

Water off, I step from the shower, pat dry then walk about naked. Only when I’m completely air dried do I meticulously cover every patch, spot, dot and line of red with Calamine Lotion. 

I’ve experimented with most remedies — Cortisone 10, Diphenhydramine Hydrochloride, Green Goo, Aloe Vera, Aveeno Lotion. They all can help—especially in the day time when I’m active and my focus is somewhere else. But at night, when I’ve got nothing but my thoughts, Calamine seems to be the thing—with ice packs and the blessed air conditioner turned low. 

I got a prescription for Prednisone last Wednesday, but if it’s helping I haven’t noticed. The itching seemed to get worse when I started taking it, but I’m afraid to stop because what if it is helping? 

I’ve been back from Tennessee almost a week now. The physical challenges due to my hip problem and the poison ivy kept me from completing as much on the land as I otherwise might have but I do have progress to share. Another post will soon follow. 

I’m so happy to be reunited with Sasha. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced such a pure, uncomplicated, longing for another living being. 

Left Flank Rash Progression

Day 2, Post Exposure
Day 3
Day 4