A happy farmer makes for a happy garden.

See farmer Jerry being happy.

Jerry H - iPhone

I follow this guy on Twitter. He is always saying something about this unbelievable bar or restaurant or some other "peak" experience he is having as a start-up entrepreneur, innovator and computer programer. He is feeling his obvious success and expressing his joy and enthusiasm in sophomoric simplicity and transparency. I rather enjoy his reports.

Now and then he shares some tidbit that is actual information in which I am interested and for that reason I don't "un-follow" him. But here is the thing: He is always touting some top of the line venue or city as though he were stringing for the New Yorker of some other life style periodical.

He says things like, it's a perfect day in this drop dead bar on the North Beach in San Francisco. Like it breaks my heart that I can't be there with him. Know what I mean? Then, he says, it's a perfect day in New York! My oh my God. This guy can be on one coast and then the other and I am stuck in the Maine countryside. By the way, it was a perfect day here too.

You never see where some person of interest is thrilled and excited to be in Windham, Maine. Or perhaps enjoying a thrill a minute weekend at this swanky bar in Edgecomb, Maine. Or Poteet, Texas for that matter. Yes there's a Poteet, but I am not that certain, now that I think of it, about a swanky bar in Edgecomb.

There are some glamorous spots around the country and to be there and perhaps to be seen there can be considered the pinnacle of social achievement. But who cares? Open your laptop or break out your iPhone and go online with the event so that all those poor souls who are stuck in Caratunk, Maine or Silsbee, Texas or Saugus, MA can have a chance to feel sorry for themselves since they are not sitting on the dock of the bay with a martini in hand while the sun sets in the Pacific.

Now here's the point: ( I knew you were wondering about the point ) there are some places, NYC being the most celebrated one, that have absolutely too much power to mold one's appreciation of life. Who gives a Flying Wallenda that you are in NYC or San Francisco sitting on the dock of the bay? OK, I know the answer. Millions are interested. It's just that I am not. I've dined at the Stock Yards in Ft. Worth, Arnaud's in New Orleans and Cook's Lobster House on Bailey Island Maine. I'll take Cook's any day. Sour grapes? Probably. I'm just not a big city kind of guy. Did I actually say, "Stock Yards?"

I know I am in a tiny minority here, but it's my tiny minority, and I like it. So I have probably revealed more than I intended but there it is. I am not impressed with glamor, glitz and the goddamned noise that seems to go along with it. Then it came to me. it's the age thing. I have finally ( not too enamored with that word ) reached the old curmudgeon phase of life. Sorry, but I like it.

We were going to look for plants. It's that time of year. If one drives west of here one is doomed (smiling) to driving on very secondary roads. In Maine we're talking 99% of our roads. If we are going to Auburn, Minot, Mechanic Falls you have some of the loveliest of the secondary roadways anywhere. Twisty turny, up and down.

At this particular time of year when the multi hued greens are coming on, it is a special joy. The road doesn't seem like the familiar road I know. It looks like a different road altogether, I said. Do I turn here or is our turn further on? This is the conversation in the car as we are coming home from a wonderful greenhouse tucked away down a lane and up a hill about half a mile off a Number 1, first class secondary road.

One of my sons was visiting a few years back and we were driving down this very same road and after a long period of silence, he asked, "Dad - are there any straight and level roads in Maine?" Poor boy was born in Texas and has never found the escape hatch. I tried to show the way, but to no avail.

There is a side benefit to driving in the country at this season: Roadside stands are breaking out all over. Don't drive by too quick. Stop and browse. Take a few things home. But most importantly, look at - take in this lovely and ephemeral season while you can. It's show is more subtile than the fall demonstration, but none the less beautiful. Oh, and do stay on your side of the road.

• It was a stupid thing to do: staying awake reading this really good spy thing by Daniel Silva.  When I saw it was 2 AM, I knew I had crossed over the line and would pay for it the next day.  That would be today.  So far so good on 5 hours of sound sleep.  I will be visiting the coffee bar regularly.  Sunshine would be good for a change.
• If it is still too wet to plow (plant) I understand that there is a golf tournament on this afternoon.  You have to wonder about that whole thing.  A few dozen guys chasing a million dollars.  I used to play once or twice a week back in the '60's.  Never was any good.  Spent more time in the "other" fairway than in my own.  But now and then I'd do it right and hit it straight and long.  I think about trying to swing a club again, but with my shoulders and back, it probably would be a 911 situation.
• I look forward to this moment every day, that early time alone with a cup of darkroast and my laptop.  I scribble about on my blog, write a few emails and the occasional snail mail to the one or two Neanderthals on my list.  My brother, for instance, can't see using a computer at all.  I tell him how much fun it would be to stay in touch and even look at each other and talk at the same time.  He wonders why we would want to do that.  Come to think of it, so do I.
• I think it's called selective observation - but I think it's getting darker.
• I might have to dream up some reason to get out and run an errand today.  I do need some printer paper and those small #10 staples I like to use.  Certainly seems logical that I go out for those essential items today.
• As I think about it, it seems that I am avoiding the hard stuff like really deep cleaning my kitchen or hauling a load of useless garbage to the dump or even stacking wood.  I just hate it when I start thinking reasonably.
• My ears play tricks on me all the time, but if I didn't know better, I'd say I just heard thunder.  I think I need more coffee.

Please change the address you use to get to this blog from

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TO

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Thanks for keeping up.  I do appreciate it.

Jerry Henderson

LANGUAGE IS SUCH A TEASER. What one person says and another hears can be so different as to constitute an actual language barrier.

We often use words that are clearly articulated but conjure up various meanings among our listeners. I'm thinking of he word, virgin. CA and I had a wonderful dinner at an Italian place down in Portland, recently, where they bring out a loaf of warm bread, a saucer drizzled with olive oil with a grinding of black pepper in it for dipping. I could get lost in praise for the meal and the service but what grabbed my attention for some reason was the label on this excellent bottle of olive oil: Extra Virgin! Of course, I had seen the word on olive oil bottles for ever, but for some reason it got stuck in my machinery that night.

I got virgin. No problem there. I actually knew one once. But "EXTRA"? I mean, what exactly is extra virgin? Would it be like, really, really virgin?

I confess that every time I hear the word I do think of sexual virginity. You know, what can I say? It's the burden of our culture and language that gives this to us. We have virgin forests, virgin territory, the Virgin Mary, Virgin Airlines and even virgin naugahyde. It has become a key marketing word to impress upon us, the buying public, the pure, never touched and pristine qualities of whatever we are talking about. I got that part.

The part I don't get is the EXTRA virgin. I mean, you have virgin or not virgin. Right? Can you have extra non-virgin? Well, lets not go too far down that path. It looks dark and murky down there. I mean I have seen wood lots that have been cut over every 20 to 30 years since anyone can remember. I guess that would be extra non-virgin forests. Non-virgin over and over again. See what I mean? We better move on.

But extra virgin? It must have something to do with being the first pressing of the olives. Nobody really believes there is some little Italian over in Tuscany with a hand press filling millions of bottles with Extra Virgin Olive Oil. But that first pressing, in whatever apparatus, is the cleanest - I am told - after which the purity of the "squeeze" can not be vouched for - they say. Still, what do you call the second run? Almost virgin? Near missed virgin. Like, "I couldda been a contender", kind of virgin?

I remember a guy who worked in a packing plant telling me once that if people ever saw how their hamburger was made they would all become vegetarians. I suppose if we watched the path of an olive from tree to that little saucer on our table that night, the words "EXTRA virgin" would have no more meaning than "Quality is # 1", or "Eco Friendly", or "Operators are standing by".

In the summer of 1997 I came down to Freeport to see if I could find work and relocate from central Maine - a venue that just was not working for me. Interestingly, I had not considered LL Bean, but as I drove past the employment office on Desert Road, I made a U-turn and went in to fill out an application. They hired me that day.

Soon I was sitting in a training meeting at which a woman was making a presentation in a soft "woman's" voice and I soon realized that I had a problem. I didn't understand half of what she said. At about the same time I was asked to house sit for a friend and look after an old curmudgeon of a cat, whose name was Frank. On the last night of this assignment, I laid in bed and watched TV. I'll never forget the movie: a mythological piece depicting the first Marine victory after Pearl Harbor. It was appropriately entitled, Gung Ho! When my friends returned and laid in that same bed and turned on the TV, they said the volume blew out the windows.

The evidence was in: I was seriously deaf. I didn't hear it coming.

Fifteen years later and three sets of hearing aids into what has turned into a profound disability - if you count not being able to hear thunder a disability - I am now trying out my fourth set of whiz bang, cutting edge, state of the art instruments that, I am told, can think for themselves. Did I tell you before? I love technology. I just can't afford it.

Most insurances won't touch hearing aids. They'll replace your heart for about $700,000 to $800,000, but at best will only tip you for the cost of hearing aids - if they help at all. This new set cost the price of a good used pickup truck. It would be nice to have a good pickup. But I'd rather hear you say my name.

Yes - it could be worse, and I am truly grateful that is isn't.

I'll never forget the first time I wore hearing aids. I was amazed at how noisy my old truck was. I walked around Bradbury Mountain listening to the wind in the trees. My eyes filled with tears as I began to hear what everyone else took for granted.

Protect your ears.

When I remember you, Julia, how you left us, it will always be with that startled look much like that proverbial "deer caught in the headlights". In the days to come we will say all kinds of things trying to deal with our own mortality in the best way we can. The uncomfortable truth you just gave us is that age does not have a damned thing to do with it. To be stopped at mid point ( as we think of it ) seems so unfair. But then, death never claimed to be fair.

In our culture, we are not instructed about death. I remember when my fraternal grandfather died, I was just a child. My mother refused to let me attend the funeral and interment. I was too young to face death. I didn't like the old guy and would loved to have seen him all laid out. That was a missed lesson. There were many make-up lessons to come. The last one was yesterday when someone told me you had died.

We will miss your cheer, and your ability to "get it" in all the supportive by-play that fellow workers engage in to make a stressful situation work. If you come back, as some say you will, give us some kind of high five. I'm not sure how that would work, but I bet you can figure it out. Those of us remaining still have "that way" to go. We all hope it is a long way off, but then, you never know. We still need all the encouragement we can get. Life is truly, one precious day at a time. Thank you, Julia, for you. We will miss you.

We were in Casemento's out on Magazine Street on a warm spring evening.  It was a week night and there was that feeling that it was time for some oysters on the shell.  We found a side table on the wall in front where we could see this guy who looked just like Judd Hirsch behind the counter shucking out dozens of Gulf oysters by the sack.

In business since 1919 in uptown New Orleans, Casamento's has been an enduring favorite of people who know that real New Orleans dining is out in the neighborhoods.  You won't break the bank there and these days you will bookmark the address on your GPS.  But that's just for show.  You won't forget how to get there.

Just after we got settled at our table, our waiter came over and asked us if we wanted something to drink. I looked up then realized that wouldn't be necessary.  I leveled my gaze into dark eyes deeply set in a wrinkled round face the color of polished mahogany with a cap of close cropped silver hair.  She was a fireplug of a woman who couldn't have been much more than four and a half feet and had a voice like the sound of a klaxon.

We ordered our Dixies and when she brought them over, she asked us, in that unmistakable drawl that is hard to misplace, y'all want some gumbo befo yo oysters are ready?  I said, how did you know we wanted oysters?  She said, y'all look like oyster people.  I laughed so hard that every eye in the room turned toward us.  I said, well you are right - a half dozen for my partner here and a dozen for me.  She said, I knew you wanted a dozen, you.  Judd, behind the counter had already started shucking.

The room was long and narrow and completely covered - top, sides and bottom with gleaming white, easy to clean, tile with an occasional green accent.  There were no frills, but the room itself was a jewell.  It's the kind of place that gives definition to the word - unique.

If you ever get to New Orleans, you need to do the regular stuff down in the Quarter.  The French Market. The Cafe´ du Monde for cafe au lait and a plate of beignets.  A Muffeletta at The Central Grocery on Decatur.  Your favorite poison at the Napoleon House Bar on Chartres, and if you're really well fixed, do the Commander's Palace, in the Garden District, for a Sunday brunch sitting.  You might live long enough to forget your name but you won't forget Commander's.  You do all that and then, one evening, tell a cab driver to take you to Cassemento's on Magazine.    

You need to get to Cassemento's so you can say you have actually eaten in New Orleans.

We had been out to Portland Head Light and were just down the road at the corner Short Stop to get some gas before it jumped another two bits.  When we pulled in to the pump island there were four big motorcycles all hovered around one pump topping off their tanks.