The Corona Diaries Vol. 94: Grist For the Blogging Mill

(Watch the prelude.)

(mid-June 2023)

My next destination was Dells Mill, just north of Augusta, a town that I think I visited once or twice in high school but I may be wrong. Truth be known, I don't have any memories of doing so but it's likely I went there for a basketball or football game.

Built in 1864 amongst the dells of Bridge Creek which was dammed to create a pond, the mill ground out flour and feed for over 100 years before it went out of operation in 1968. At least that’s what I gleaned from the historic marker.

Today, the water wheel still turns and it’s a true blast from the past. For a moment, I felt like I was in an old western movie and was expecting Clint Eastwood to ride up on his horse, hitch it to a post, and wander inside where Sondra Locke is hard at work baking biscuits with flour fresh off the millstone.

I didn’t think the wheel was actually attached to a screw or a cog or whatever it is that would transfer that motion to the grinding gizmo. Regardless, it’s hypnotic to stand atop the bridge over the creek and listen to the rush of the water as it falls over the dam and to watch the wheel spin.

Stepping inside the mill, I found a dimly lit antique shop. There were old saws, glassware, clothing, and this fine organ as well.

It looks to have the sheet music for the hit parade of 1925. Never heard of Wilmot Lemont nor Kathleen Lockhart Manning.

There is a gift store at the mill and behind the counter was an Amish girl who looked to be in her tween years. Not surprising as this is Amish country. All of the horse poop that litters the roads is a dead giveaway. While the cash register was strictly mechanical, I wondered how they got away with a smattering of electric lights. Is it OK if someone else turns them on and off?

I rethought my assumptions about the whether the mill is still milling when I saw all of the flour and homemade breads on offer. I bought a small loaf of einkorn bread, einkorn being an heirloom variety of wheat that, to the best of my knowledge, has not been tinkered with at the hands of Monsanto and so it’s more or less the same grain that my ancestors ate back in the day.

I also bought a bag of rolled rye thinking it’d be a good addition to my future loaves of bread. Only $1 a pound.

An Amish gentleman who looked to be in his mid- or late-30s - the girl's father, perhaps? - stopped in the gift shop as I was eyeing the shelves. We chatted a bit and he said that he'd heard that rain was in the forecast. Can the Amish read a newspaper and still remain doctrinally pure? Surely he didn't have the Weather Channel on in the back room. Maybe he cheated on the whole avoidance of technology thing with an old Philco tube radio. Yeah, it's electric but is pre-transistor.

During its heyday, the mill was a big draw and a community sprung up around it. There are newer homes in the area today but the old schoolhouse remains.

It seems to be used for storage these days.

I am not sure when it fell out of use as a school. It got updated with electric lights at some point. Still, heat appears to always have been provided by a wood-burning stove.

With a car full of uncommon or obscure grains, I took off for Osseo. Driving through the town of Augusta itself, I found the main drag was, as expected, very quiet. Perhaps it was the time of day but I suspect that most people do their shopping and take care of other errands in Eau Claire. I was disappointed to not find even a single ghost signs on any of the old buildings. The main street didn't look bad, just a bit lifeless. I suppose not being on the interstate means you don't get a bunch of tourists on the hunt for antiques. I did notice, however, that there is a Bush's Best baked bean factory in town.

My accommodations in Osseo were cheap but they did the job. The Osseo Inn is listed as a 1 star hotel on Google though it was probably at least one more star in quality back in the day when it opened for all of those motorists using the fancy, new interstate highway. Despite being a non-smoking establishment, the rooms still betray the bad old days when smoking was still legal in public accommodations.

Since you cannot light up inside your room, those who indulge gather outside. I've never talked to any of my fellow guests but the people I see out there with a ciggie perched between two fingers usually have a weary look on their faces. A couple of smokers appeared genuinely forlorn. I mean real "why hast thou forsaken me?" kind of looks, their ever-shortening cigarettes their only friends.

Are they traveling to the Twin Cities? Or to somewhere in Wisconsin? Perhaps some of them have just gotten out of prison or simply fallen on hard times and are looking for somewhere better. Maybe I just catch them in a pensive mood and they're really just a bunch of cheapskates like me.

A shower and a little downtime later, I met my pal Jason at the Northwoods Brewpub where we had a ball chatting away into the night. He'd brought our high school yearbooks and I was not surprised at how many people I couldn't recall. Jason went home with a few cans of Nutkrack candied pecans.

The next morning, I made a stop to get some insect repellent. While at the Augusta Wildlife Area, I got 2 ticks on my right leg within 10 minutes and I quickly came to the conclusion that the picaridin in the spray I had brought with me was just not cutting the mustard. I needed deet.

Despite tales of it being a carcinogen and only truly needed by our servicemen and women fighting in jungles far removed from the Upper Midwest, deet is, as far as I know quite safe, in addition to being the gold standard in insect repelling. Poking around the shelf at the store, I saw various cans of repellent. More picaridin. No thanks. I did find a few that were 25% or so deet. Nuh uh. Not good enough. I then spied a rather small bottle. 98.25% deet – now that was more like it! This was not an aerosol can where you just spray the stuff willy-nilly. No, it dispensed the Precious in small doses and you rubbed it on the areas needing attention. A little goes a long way.

My next destination was my favorite hiking spot, the Chippewa Moraine Recreation Area.

I believe I took the “correct” route and went down the path deosil.

The scenery was, as always, just spectacular. It wasn’t too hot out and, besides, I was walking mainly in the woods where it was shaded and cool. And my deet kept the skeeters at bay.

As I approached my favorite bridge on the longest trail:

I heard a woodpecker from across the water but couldn’t see it. Slowly I approached the bridge intending to get a wee bit closer before using my camera to search for it.

My first step lands with a gentle thud on the bridge and I see it take off just to my left where it was pecking on the dry part of a half-submerged log at the shore not 10 feet away. Oops. I guess I need to work on my hearing.

Since I love this spot so much, I sat down on the bench on the other side to take in my surroundings. Much to my surprise, a blue jay landed in the pine tree just across the path from me. I snapped photo after photo but this was the best I could manage.

This photo captured something at just the right angle because it looks like the blue jay has glowing Uncle Boonmee eyes. Lovely bird. But they’re mean SOB’s.

Further down the trail at another bridge, I spied a bird of unknown type that looked like it was in the middle of building a nest as it had a mouthful of dried grass.

As usual, there were many signs of the local beaver population.

I hope to someday witness a beaver actually fell a tree instead of just seeing the results of their nomming.

At some point I ran across this thing:

Part of me suspected there was some banal explanation behind this yellow blob such as that some kid left their Peeps candy on the log while another part of me suspected this was how Invasion of the Body Snatchers really got started.

Having finished my hike, I stopped at the interpretive center. Not only does it have a wonderful view as it’s perched atop a moraine, but there is an array of hummingbird feeders that draws a crowd which makes me insanely jealous as my feeder seems to repel them.

The hum from all of those wings flapping at 50 flaps per second or however fast they go was very loud and just slightly disconcerting. It kind of made me feel like something ominous was approaching. But hummingbirds are gorgeous and it’s fun to watch them dart around from feeder to feeder.

As usual, it was a wonderful hike. There is just something about this place that makes it seem like time stops when I'm out on the trail, makes it so easy to leave the workaday world behind and ignore the cities raging afar. No snakes seen on this walk but more birds. I briefly contemplated walking the two shorter trails instead of the longer one but opted not to. Perhaps next time. 

Now, I won’t lie and say that a 4.5 mile hike through some of the most beautiful scenery Wisconsin has to offer is work. It was a sheer joy. But it did make me thirsty.

********

Bonus photo. Here’s one from spring of Ma and Pa Wood Duck hanging out in a tree on Madison’s east side.

 

 

 (Now listen to the postlude.)

The Corona Diaries Vol. 93: Here's What You Need To Do If You Want a Cup of Hot Coffee Spilled On Your Genitals

(Check out the prelude.)

(mid-June 2023)

On a recent Saturday morning my Frau and I went down to the nationally renowned Dane County Farmers Market. If you look at the Farm Fresh Atlas of Southern Wisconsin, a handy repository of knowledge about farms, cheesemakers, and just the various people and groups that grow, make, and sell the fruit of the land in these parts, you'll see that there are 7 farmers markets in Madison with a couple of them having multiple times/locations. But it's the DCFM that rules the roost. It is the biggest and oldest, I believe. It's the one that ends up in all those space fillers that have titles like "Things To Do in Madison" and in those best-of listicles that feature our fair burg. 

For sheer middle-class spectacle, it's hard to beat. As creationists bleat on about Darwin, hordes of hybrid car owners stroll around the Square filling their cloth bags with delectables with younger folks pulling their kids along in whatever the equivalent of a Prius is when it comes to red wagons these days. Tory Miller, the James Beard Award winning chef, wanders amongst many who are no doubt his customers in search of the finest bounty of the county as a minion or two of his follow behind with their own red wagons.

It's hard not to get a Veblenian vibe here. The food at the market is more expensive yet it has plenty of takers willing to pay the price. But in 2019, over 10,000 students in Madison received free or reduced price lunches at our schools. And, from what I can tell, we're talking out of around 26,000 kids. That's a lot of struggling families for whom the prices at the DCFM are way out of reach.

I don't blame the farmers. They're locals, they're small outfits and don't have economies of scale, extensive automation, nor easily exploitable laborers. Growing fruit & vegetables, raising animals for milk or meat on a small scale, these are expensive propositions and the prices at the market reflect it.

And it's hard to fault the consumers. Well, most of them, anyway. Who doesn't like tasty food? And only the biggest libertarian capitalist asshole would be critical of a desire to support one's local farmers. But it's hard to escape a sense of conspicuous consumption going on all around me at the market. There just doesn't seem to be anything egalitarian to it. It's all rather banal, really. The sellers are making food, something everyone needs. And the buyers are just out procuring quality chow. There's no malicious intent involved.

It just throws into sharp relief - for me, anyway - the divide between the haves and have-nots here in Madison. With pandemic funding gone, more people are food insecure, a situation that only gets worse as housing costs soar here.

While I didn’t buy anything beyond a sorely needed cup of coffee, I was quite tempted as the food on display was just so inviting, in addition to being organic, pesticide-free, and whatnot. There are all these lovely colors and enticing scents and everything just looks so tasty - especially when you go on an empty stomach like I did.

Just look at these free-range shrooms!

There were also plenty of plants for sale. Here are some colorful cacti.

It is possible that even I can keep a succulent alive.

I think the Frau bought one of these bouquets.

I don’t recall what they were. Mini-pansies? That's what they look like, anyway.

A chili vendor had a helpful sign showing the levels of heat of the various peppers.

I very much enjoy the heat of a fine chili but had never heard of several of these. For instance, Chinese Lantern was new to me. Fatali? More like FATALi, I'd wager. Lemon Drop sounds interesting. I presume it has some citrus qualities, if the hop of the same name is anything to go by. One day I’ll investigate some of these exotic, new to me, chilies.

Jams!

I took this photo for a couple of reasons. First, it features carrot marmalade. The Frau hates orange marmalade. An easy way to irritate her and get a cup of hot coffee spilled onto your genitals "accidentally" is to go to breakfast and pass her one of those little single-serving marmalade containers. There have been a couple times that I didn’t think I’d leave a restaurant alive. She was, perhaps, just lethargic after having eaten.

So I thought I’d run the idea of a carrot version by her. She was having none of it but also refrained from physical violence. I guess she didn't want to hurt me in public in front of so many witnesses.

And then there’s the bumbleberry jam. I figured that it was one of those raspberry-like fruits that is rather uncommon like the thimbleberry.

I bought this jar the last time we were in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula which, I believe, is one of the few spots in the United States where it grows. I don't recall seeing thimbleberry jam anywhere else.

And so your bumbleberry jam has this aura of mystery about it.

“Look, Harold! It’s a jam made from an exotic berry!”

But, upon further review, I find that the bumbleberry is like the Loch Ness Monster, a thing of mere legend. There is no such fruit. It’s like the bigos or gumbo of the jam and jelly world. Just take whatever berries you have lying around, throw them together, and voila! - you’ve got bumbleberry. Sneaky.

********

With my Frau being plagued by a mysterious allergy-like illness, we sadly called off our late summer trip to London. And by London I really mean the United Kingdom because Manchester, Wales, and Edinburgh were all thrown in as desired destinations for our venture at some point in the planning process.

I recall that Manchester became highly desirable when she found out about Manchester Music Tours. She wants to wallow in nostalgia for her misspent teen years by treading the hallowed grounds where some of her favorite bands from the early ‘80’s such as The Smiths, Joy Division, and New Order lived, worked, and played. I assume you stand outside the apartments where the band members lived in communal bliss and check out the pubs where they played their earliest gigs.

Wales. I don’t remember what the big attraction of Wales is for her. Did she want to see Doctor Who shooting locations? It certainly looks to be an extremely pretty part of the UK. And I would have some of my friends turn green with envy if I had my photo taken in front of the Bron-Yr-Aur cottage – wherever that is in Wales – where Robert Plant and Jimmy Page of Led Zeppelin fame holed themselves up to write songs in 1970. I’d be hailed as a hero.

I also don’t recall why the Frau wants to go to Edinburgh. Maybe she wants to see where the Inspector Rebus novels are set. I’d love go to there, the seat of the Scottish Enlightenment, and walk the same streets as David Hume, get drunk in a pub and blather on about Adam Smith’s Invisible Hand, or go to a poetry reading and have someone regale me with Robert Burns’ “To a Mouse” in the original Scottish with an impenetrable brogue.

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a pannic's in thy breastie!

And there are all those places to go that are mentioned in Fish lyrics like the Heart of Midlothian and Princes Street. We could take the Lothian Road!

While I continue to hope that my Frau’s health will turn around soon, I also knew that my vacation time wasn’t going to use itself so I went on a trip up north for some fresh air, hiking, and to visit my friend Jason.

It was a cloudy day when I left Madison. After driving for a few hours, I stepped out of my car and found myself at the Augusta Wildlife Area.

Being a wildlife area, there wasn’t much for hiking trails. Instead, it is mainly for hunting and bird watching. The site has a rather large pond fed by a creek the name of which I cannot recall.

Walking out as far as I dared without either hip waders or pants, I settled into a spot near the shore and just took in the scents and the sounds and the sights. It was simply great to not be at work or driving a car and to have a peaceful, non-manmade spot to relax in.

Where there’s water, there’s red-winged black birds.

They were everywhere and their chirrups came from all sides. It was a joy to watch as they flew from branch to cattail and back. Some of them chased each other over the wetland and I wondered if one was chasing another away from his territory or if they were just having fun.

As always when I stand in such spots long enough, one of red-winged black birds would menacingly fly over my head and then return to a perch. After a breather, he’d do the same thing, often coming down just a little bit closer to my head. This would go on for a few minutes. I have come to assume this is them in big creature/potential threat observation mode.

“Just keep your distance, there, human!”

Standing in such a spot long enough that day also meant ticks. I got two of them on my right leg within 10 minutes. I'd recently heard of some syndrome from tick bites that makes you allergic to meat so I was a bit paranoid at the prospect of never judging at the Wisconsin Association of Meat Processors convention again or enjoying the simple pleasure of an Italian beef. I had sprayed insect repellent on and so I was displeased doubly so. However, it contained only picaridin. I made a mental note to get something stronger before my next walk through the woods.

While the males loudly did their thing, a female relaxed on a lily pad.

I spied sandhill cranes in the distance and took some photos of a pair taking off. Unsurprisingly, I was unable to get an in-focus picture of them as they gracefully took to the air, steadily gained altitude, and began cruising over the trees. Instead, I got a fine photo of their bird butts as they turned away from me preparing to disappear into the distance.

Oh well.

In addition to all of the birds, there were wildflowers scattered everywhere and I had no idea what kinds I was looking at. But they were sure pretty.

Soon enough, it was time to head out. I was to meet my friend Jason in nearby Osseo and wanted to investigate another site before checking into my motel and freshening up.

While driving by a farm with horses, I saw one of them suddenly plop onto its side – just like our cat Piper does. No display of agility, no finesse. Just letting go and having gravity do its thing. I chuckled aloud to myself.

********

Bonus photo. It’s Grabby again. I took this one night after I had walked into the kitchen and found her scouring the counter for any remnants of our dinner. Despite being caught in flagrante delicto, she feigned innocence.

“Who, me?”

In fact, she was probably expecting me to give her more chow since she hadn't found any stray bits on the counter.

 

 

(Now listen to the postlude.)