All things always change

Gogo-an has been a going concern for three years and may be for another three to five. In five years, if I'm around, I'll be seventy-five and not very able to keep up a rural mini-farm. Work has continued at Daughter's urban house to provide for food production and a measure of "self-sufficiency" so that, should those of the family long in the tooth need to sell out and occupy a refuge in town, said refuge will have been adapted to meet some of their needs as well as those of any others involved.

Gogo-an in its current form

 I've enjoyed part-time hermit work and would like to continue doing it awhile longer. Watching the sun stream in through the eastern window, throwing the shadows of trees on the walls, has been a large part of this work.

At La Finca, the contemplated location-to-be, diverse aims must be accommodated. Renters occupy a studio (projected to later become Son's abode). The covered area out back was spacious but exposed to winter winds, and could provide, with some modification, a room for storage for the renter (projected to later contain the composting potty), for example. We have tried, with each new idea, to meet multiple needs.

The collapsing little tool shed at the end of the former collapsing carport has, for the last three years, also met renters' needs, but I saw in it a potential replacement for Gogo-an. Bit by bit, often working around piles of other people's belongings, I roofed it, let in a little more light, and used its abandoned furnishings as shop tables for the various projects. Fruit trees, meanwhile, have been strategically placed to eventually filter the sunlight at the eastern window that has been so crucial to my inner learning curve.

Exterior work has been easier to access, so I have been updating the building to match the house.

Progress has been made. The shop, consisting of three of the junked bits of furniture, has been at least temporarily relocated into the now half-enclosed patio.

I have moved in a table for a desk/kitchen counter. It was my grandmother's, and family members used to tell me that I collided with it while tearing around her house on a scooter in 1950 and pitched quite a fit about the pain. Welcome to the world, little one.

Morning light, streaming in through the eastern window, already looks pretty good to me.  For the time being, though, if I want dappled shade, I must take up my sticks and go for a walk round the heavily treed neighborhood and nearby parks.

That's okay; I can wait! The Japanese name of the hut means, loosely, "sufficient." It does not necessarily mean "expectations will be met." Something lovely may come of this adventure, or it may not. All things always change.


Beauty is the convenient and traditional name of something which art and nature share, and which gives a fairly clear sense to the idea of quality of experience and change of consciousness. I am looking out of my window in an anxious and resentful state of mind, oblivious of my surroundings, brooding perhaps on some damage done to my prestige. Then suddenly I observe a hovering kestrel. In a moment everything is altered. The brooding self with its hurt vanity has disappeared. There is nothing now but kestrel. -- Iris Murdoch

...recognize the functional value of  structures as tools and vehicles, but... also recognize their temporary nature and refrain from attachment to them even while using them. -- Thomas Cleary, Introduction, The Book of Serenity

October cidering

It was a beautiful bright autumn day, with air like cider and a sky so blue you could drown in it. -- Diana Gabaldon

  So, the Young Man (actually, he's now in his late thirties; time has flown) has become interested in brewing and started out with mead, using local wildflower honey and blackberries that were picked on the premises. It sat in a small carboy, thumping away in the airlock, for a few weeks, and then was transferred to an oak cask that he got over the Internet, for mellowing. It turned out really well, and his friends are praising his work.

I could see he was ready for more, so I mentioned the trees are still groaning with apples for cider. "You pick and process, and I'll kibitz. There are thousands of apples still out there, of five varieties -- they're hanging on late and looking good. Also quince," I added, "which might brighten the flavor a bit, seeing as we don't have crabapples."

This proposal met with his enthusiastic approbation, so a day was set aside for the adventure. First, he gathered a basket from each of five apples (Honeycrisp, Cortland, Gala, Granny Smith and DunnoButPrettyGood) and one Pineapple Quince.

These we shredded into pomace into a tub.

From six full baskets we felt we would get sufficient juice to make three gallons. Well, really seven baskets -- we hit the IDunno tree twice, as its rather small apples promised flavor returns.

We hoisted the pomace and let gravity do its thing. This makes about half the juice you would get from an expensive press, but the chickens get the rich juice and make it into other useful stuff, some of which is eggs.

Never lift more than your old bedsheet will carry.

Note the conspicuous lack of yellowjackets for a change, which usually cover everything in sight on cider day. A low of 25F will do that. I have been known to cider in the garage, to get away from a mixture of wildfire smoke and yellowjackets. It turns out, if they are not protecting the nest, they are pretty mellow and I actually kind of missed them.

Beloved helped the Young Man pump the cider into his carboy.

It made the three gallons and then some. He added slices of Honeycrisp to add some excitement for the natural yeasts that live on the peelings.

There was enough left over for a quick bit of canning, which is how I roll.

The Young Man  then made an offering of the pomace to one of the medlar trees.

No, this isn't too close to the trunk. The hens will do the spreading.

Three days later I called him up. "Your carboy is thumping."

"No, really?? I thought it would take three weeks with the natural yeast."

"Maybe natural likes you? So, come over next week, we can watch bubbles."


A generous and trustworthy mind is like a spring breeze that warms and enlivens. The ten thousand beings encountering it thrive. -- Hong Zicheng