A friend forwarded this video of the poet Kevin Young reading four selections. Last Saturday we had a whole crew of kin over to the place for a meal that included a big ol’ tank of pork in various forms, and Mr. Young is right on the money regarding the joys of that meat (“Ode to Pork”, commencing at roughly 4:35 in the video, but I’d watch the whole thing, this is good stuff) (and catch that “B/babe” joke in there). Kevin Young will be appearing here, by the way. Based on our schedules, we’ll likely cross each other in the airport. The “Ode to Boudin” is a gorgeous thing, a poem for his departed father, the universal intersection of grief and food and joy and memory: …his sisters/my aunts dancing/in the yard to a car radio...
Home of Michael Perry – Author, Humorist, Singer/Songwriter, Amateur Pig Farmer
Archive for April, 2010
National Library Week – Clinton, IA
Attack From the Black
Remember a little while back I said I got to fight a wildfire with my old NAAFD crew (and the DNR rangers, and the Weyerhaeuser crew) when I was up north? Just got some aerial photos of the fire, taken after we had the upper hand. I was working up around the outer edge of the smaller lobe. Foam, mostly, but also spent some time lugging a backcan (backbag, actually).
University of Dubuque Arts Celebration
Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cheeseheads
It seems three lifetimes ago and in many ways it was, but once upon a time George House and I recorded some novelty songs in his basement. I supplied the lyrics and ?lead? vocals, George supplied the band, backing vocals, and all sound effects. Gotta say, this had all been long gone from my memory when I showed up to spend an hour live on air with George a month or so ago. When he played some of those old tunes, I was flabbergasted. He put them on a CD for me, so I figure over the next while I’ll leak a few out there.
Today I’m on the road, away from my home state, so I thought this would be a good place to start:
“Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cheeseheads”
Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cheeseheads
Thanks, George!
Reading for Runners
Rodale Press has just published Going Long: Legends, Oddballs, Comebacks & Adventures, a collection of stories from Runner’s World magazine. The anthology includes a profile I wrote of Olympic marathoner Ryan Hall. I recall so clearly the smell of hot pine needles on the still day when I visited his family and met his wonderful grandmother.
Louder Long Bed
When Chris Ramey isn’t putting the twang in the Long Beds, he’s turning it up to 11 with the Jaggernauts. Fun photos here (Chris is in red shirt) and how about Noel on that bass:
Chickens (and…?) on the Radio
When producer Todd Witter came up and spent a morning with me and our chickens, I had no idea what he’d do with the sound…he didn’t really interview me so much as let me ramble. When the following piece aired on Morning Edition as a “Wisconsin Life” essay, it was fun to re-imagine the morning (it was muddy and soggy as I recall). But my favorite part of the audio requires a closer listen, and is never explained: All this talk of chickens, and yet…you can hear interlopers…
Hawking Chickens
I had tilled the oats patch. The chickens quite naturally fanned out across it, scratching and pecking like feathered steam shovels. How am I gonna get them back in the pen so I can sow the oats? I wondered. Right on cue, a very large hawk rose from the horizon oaks and commenced to gyre just off the brow of the hill, at which point the chickens sprinted off the field and straight to the coop.
So what we have learned here is that there is the distinct possibility that if a person had the time and opportunity, it is theoretically feasible that just as cow dogs herd cattle and sheep dogs herd sheep, perhaps a guy could train a hawk to herd (flock?) his chickens.
Naturally I’d have to get myself a gauntlet.
Rain?
Got a bunch of oats and rye planted yesterday. Understand, when I say a “bunch” we’re talking micro-scale here. After all, this is my “planter”:
It was widely reported that rain was coming. So I rushed around with the rear-mount tiller and the seeder and the old bed-spring (drag it behind the four-wheeler so as to flip a little dirt over the seeds so we don’t have so much bird loss) (chickens stay in the pen during all this) and felt quite self-congratulatory as I stowed all the equipment just as the first raindrops were hitting spatter-pat on the steel cone roof of the old corn crib.
Then I wake up this morning: Apparently the rain quit at spatter. Dusty dry this morning.
So now I’m back at the desk, playing this over and over just in case.
The Clodhopper Monologues
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Not so long ago, author, humorist and amateur pig farmer Michael Perry fed the chickens, changed his boots, kissed his wife and daughters, and drove…
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We can’t all be DeadHeads. Special thanks to our firefighter friend Barry – he’s the first person we heard use this phrase. T-shirt features Mike’s…
Long Beds “Gordon” T-shirt
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After we played a benefit show in Mike’s hometown of New Auburn, a sweet lady told us we sounded, “Just like Gordon Lightfoot…only zippier!” We figured that was about perfect.