Meat Goats - Green Acres Today

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Wednesday

Jul142010

Take a Skunk to Work Day

Wednesday, July 14, 2010 at 11:49AM

My wife is always looking for new ways to bond with nature. Like on Tuesday, when she founded the Take a Skunk to Work Day.

It's not unlike my wife to drag a critter into the car. My youngest son recalls the time she rescued a six-foot blacksnake from the boots of some local Bubbas, climbed in the car and drove to a safe release area, all while talking on her cell phone.

She once tried to hold a baby goat in her lap for a 60-mile drive, but I put the kibosh on her caprine carry. Not in the cab of my truck.

But Tuesday's wild ride was inadvertent. She left home for work around 0515, and soon was assaulted by the smell of skunk. Not the fleeting just-passed-a-dead-skunk-type of smell, but a full-potency, burlap-bag-full-of-skunks-in-the-backseat kind of smell. She said she thought she was going to pass out.

I asked her if she could have run over a big skunk. She replied that she knows she didn't because they make a distinctive "bump-bump" when you run over them. In a moment of insanity, I commented that if there was anyone who could accurately describe the sensation of running over an animal, it was her. I have a black-and-blue mark to remind me to keep my mouth shut.

Several times during her 50-mile commute the smell returned, leading her to conclude that the skunk was somewhere under the hood. When she got out of the car at Duke, she could still smell the skunk. She worried that she had absorbed the stench. Skunk is not how nurses like to smell.

This morning, I walked past her car and it still smelled skunky. I looked under the hood and noticed a cozy space between the grille and radiator where a skunk would love to hide. It smelled pretty pungent, but there were no signs of a critter.

We have no way to prove Leslie gave a skunk a ride to work, but the evidence supports the theory. And I get somewhat perverse pleasure knowing that one of our pesky residents found himself in downtown Durham.

Checking under your hood for critters is definitely a sign of countrification, but we officially became 100-percent, certified country folk for another reason: we now have a permanently disabled car sitting on our property. Yeeeee ha! Skin that 'possum, fetch my corn cob pipe and pass the jug.

My oldest son kills cars like there's a bounty on them, so I took a car-dolly to Norfolk to retrieve his latest carcass. Aside from the dehydrated engine, there are a lot of good parts on the Toyota, so I want to sell them or use them for Jordan's Toyota.

Nothing irks my wife more than a junk car sitting off the driveway, but she relented because there are hundreds and hundreds of dollars worth of good parts on the car. If only one of them could replace my brain. This morning I went up to Leslie, gave her a big kiss, reminded her of the junker and congratulated her for finally crossing the threshold into pure country living. Now I have TWO black-and-blue marks. Owwww!

For those of you wondering what happened to the bees, well, they left. Our bee man, Ned Strange, said they probably had their new digs picked out before they left their last hive. Still, it's a shame. There's a huge demand for wild bees because man-managed bee colonies all over the country are dying.

These bees stayed in our tree for about two days, ate all the honey in the empty hive and then departed without so much as a thank you. I have relatives like that.

The good news is that our stingophobic oldest son will now visit. The bad news is that I can't raise my arms to give him a hug.

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A. Keck |

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Sunday

Jul042010

Farming is Common Scents

Sunday, July 4, 2010 at 09:12AM

I love the smell of skunk in the morning.

I'm not some olfactory oddball. To be sure, odeur de Pepe Le Pew is not the odiferous equivalent of fresh baked bread or cookies fresh from the oven. But it's a scent that doesn't offend me, and it reminds me that I'm someplace where wildlife is always right outside the door. Especially during mating season.

In the spring and early summer, Virginia skunks give opossums a run for the title of Worst Road Crossers. Unlike opossums, flattened skunks release a WMD-dose of concentrated scent that bathes passing cars like a hot piece of toxic Saran Wrap. Closing your vents won't help. Essence of skunk will penetrate Porsches and Pintos with equal potency.

Experience has taught me to roll down the windows, man-up and ride it out. So vicious is the nasal assault I envision the skunk quoting Captain Ahab as it's crushed by a passing car: " ... from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my least breath at thee."

Still, I don't mind. Les and I reared two long-time soccer players, and we know nothing stinks worse than a pair of shin guards or keeper gloves after a long day of tournament soccer. After countless matches, we've tolerated adolescent burps, flatulence and never-been-washed lucky keeper jerseys in the car on the way home. But the shin guards and keeper gloves come off before the ride and go in the trunk. It's a stink that could peal the green off a John Deere at 50 paces.

So for us, most farm scents have become backdoor reminders (pun intended) of rural freedom and Earthy living.

So has blood. In fact, my motto is: If you ain't bleedin', you ain't farmin'. I'm probably the only farmer out here who says that, but it's appropriate. Put up enough fence, hammer enough nails and wrestle with enough goats and you're gonna bleed. But for me, bleeding is an every-day byproduct of farming.

I wear shorts about 90 percent of the time I'm working outside, and that includes all but the coldest days of the winter. I also bleed easily. Even a horsefly bite will cause a rivulet of blood to trickle down my leg and create a crimson delta in my white sock.

And since our farm is chock-a-block with trailing blackberry vines - insidious, thorny monsters that rise from the Earth to claim passers by like the botanical undead - my legs look like scratching posts at a cheetah farm.

But I've learned to accept the blood and scars as just another byproduct of farming. Like getting zapped by the electric fence.

We have a lot of electric fence, and depending on several factors, it could be carrying between 6,000 and 10,000 volts. Yeah baby, I'm talking Back to the Future kind of voltage. What's scary is that I don't really mind getting zapped. Now, lest you think I've already lost too many brain cells, I'm not saying I like getting zapped; I just don't mind it. That's good, since it happens several times a week.

Worrying about the electric fence is like worrying about the black widow spiders, ticks and poison ivy. If I worried about it, I wouldn't get anything done. So, when I work around the fences I try to avoid contact, but if it happens - Yeeeeee Ha! - I revel in the adrenalin surge and the taste of ozone in my mouth. It's like getting slapped by a beautiful woman. It stings like hell for a second, but it wakes you up, you forget your knees are killing you and you can't help but think it was worth it.

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A. Keck |

Saturday

Jun192010

Don't Worry, Bee Happy

Saturday, June 19, 2010 at 06:05PM

The trouble with having a nice piece of property is that freeloaders want to stay at your place.

I’m not talking about relatives. I’m talking animals. For instance, twice in three years a mother mockingbird has set up a nest directly under the seat of my tractor. Instinctively, she seems to know that my ample “seat” will keep her babies warm. Birds are smart. Annoying, but smart.

Mockingbird nest under tractor seat

I know mockingbirds from the city where they mercilessly dive-bomb cats which get too close to their nests. I also know that nests close to the ground are prime targets for snakes. Normally, I fear neither birds nor snakes, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to worry about my eyes getting pecked out or a snake crawling over my hip every time I get on the tractor.

And what happens if I drive off for several hours with squawking babies under my butt? Am I supposed to stop at McWormies drive-thru for a quadruple McChirpy meal?

Knowing the mockingbirds, they’d put out an Amber Alert and when I got back to my “parking spot” the scene would resemble a Hitchcock movie.

No, I had to draw the line. They can crap all over my tractor; they just can’t use it as a nursery. I built a covered, snake-proof nest holder only feet from my tractor and put the nest in it. I don’t think the mockingbird ever found it. I am sure she has me marked for extermination. I wear safety glasses whenever I leave the house now.

Today we were visited by several thousand nesters. Yes, I said several THOUSAND. Bees. Lots and lots of honey bees.

While watching the World Cup, I noticed a cloud moving toward the house, and in seconds the sound of South African vuvuzelas was drowned out by thousands of bees swarming just outside our back door. I was dumbstruck, a condition my wife often elicits when she smacks me for saying something dumb. Bees. Women. They both sting, yet I still call my bride “Honey.”

Anyway, my wife, son and I watched from screened safety as the swarm, moving like a small tornado, moved from near our back door toward a tree only 50 yards from our deck. I went out and followed them to within 15 yards of the tree. The sound and sight was mesmerizing, and as I stood watching, hundreds of bees passed all around me on their way to join the group.

Bees swarm in our backyard

In minutes the swarm settled on a branch about 20 feet off the ground and the buzz died.

Our backyard honey bee swarm

“Ned!” I yelled into the cell phone. “I’m staring at a swarm of bees.”

Ned Strange is the guy you call for anything and everything. He’s our meat goat mentor, egg supplier, revered friend and part-time beekeeper. If I needed brain surgery, a new pickup or a recipe for rabbit barbecue, I’d call Ned.

He’s been looking for a wild herd of bees to lasso and take back to his farm, so he threw an empty hive into his truck and came over. Normally, he’d spritz the mass of bees with some sugar water and shake them into a bucket, but they were too high in the tree. So, we put the empty hive under the tree and spiked it with honey. While we stood there, several bees found the honey hive and hopefully took the info back to the swarm. The goal is to get the swarm to move into the prefabricated digs and ultimately end up at Strange Farms.

I don’t know what will become of the bees, but I may never see my oldest son again. Upon discovering the bees had nestled in our tree, my youngest son, Jordan, called Brandon with the “good” news.

“Screw that,” Brandon replied. “I DON’T want to be there.”

Brandon is 21, six-foot-three and a decorated life guard. Yet he squeals like a girl and runs if anything with a stinger comes within a mile of his citified self. Country, he ain’t.

Bees are good for flowers and good to have around. Younger brothers, not so much.

Alan

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A. Keck |

2 Comments |

Thursday

Jun032010

Spring Critters - 2010 Edition

Thursday, June 3, 2010 at 11:51AM

My wife stood in the front yard and took aim as the killdeer flew over.

"Pow! Pow! Pow!" and a look of satisfaction washed over her face. Of course, she was only pointing her index fingers at the incessantly squeaking bird - she'd sooner surrender me to Somali pirates than harm the beautiful animal - but her sentiment was genuine. The damn birds keep us up at night.

The killdeer babies, which are almost full grown and should have summer jobs, seem to love the security of our high-voltage pastures and the bugs that inhabit them. We love fresh air and keep our bedroom window open most of the year. Killdeer and open windows are an oil-and-water combination that robs us of sleep and fosters fantasies of avicide (who knew there really is a word that means "killing of birds" - must have been coined by someone with killdeer in their front yard).

We didn't think it could get worse, until ... the frogs came. Spring showers turned the thin strip of trees along the road into an endless cacophony of amphibian virility. Picture the Mormon Tabernacle Choir in your front yard, two-thirds of whom gently blow police whistles of varying pitch to some obscure and unpredictable rhythm. The other third of the choir is gargling with Listerine.

And just when you've managed to doze off, they stop all at once, and you're suddenly awake thanks to the startling and deafening silence. Your mind races and you imagine some massive predator cruising your front yard. Your heart pounds until the frogs eventually resume their chorus, slowly building to a crescendo that has you slamming the window down on a beautiful, star-lit night.

There's nothing quiet about the country.

Last year I bragged about going on a seven-tick hike. What hubris. Coming in with seven ticks is nothing. This year, I spent several hours relocating the goat fence and came in with 52 ticks on my body and clothing. That's right, 52. Even the locals I've told say it's a record.

The little hitchhikers are looking for a blood meal someplace dark, moist and warm. In the words of a good friend, they are "ball bag bound." If the image of 52 ticks affixed to you-know-where doesn't motivate you to strip and pluck with the utmost expediency, nothing will.

Leslie helped of course, which turned a potentially Machiavellian incident into a bit of (mostly imagined) adult entertainment. Hey, when you're covered with parasites, you get your jollies any way you can.

We had a headless rooster fall from the sky the other day. I'm guessing most people live their entire lives without saying that. Behind our house and shielded from the road by several pastures of high voltage fencing, we found a fresh, headless, one-winged rooster. The closest poultry are a mile down the road and no predator would drag a rooster through half a mile of forest to drop it in the open next to our fence.

Locals have seen hawks carry away roosters and chickens, so we're guessing some butter-taloned bird of prey chewed off a rooster's head and wing, then flew over our property on his way to put the rest of the carcass in the freezer. Oops!

Leslie will tell you that I momentarily mistook the headless carcass for small turkey. Balderdash. Don't believe it. Yes, I was looking at the enormous spurs on the rooster's feet and may have "accidentally" referred to them as turkey spurs, but anyone can tell a headless, one-winged rooster from a baby turkey. Geez.

Impressive Rooster SpursImpressed with the lethality of these two-inch spurs, I cut off both legs and put them in a bag in our freezer. And Leslie didn't object. After all, we have a goat fetus in a glass jar in the mud room, which was enough to make a visiting extension agent look at me with a combination of pity and fear.

Anyway, after chopping off the feet, I tossed the turkey, er, I mean rooster carcass in the back yard. It was gone the next morning, no doubt carried off by the fox I've been shooting at the last few months. I can only imagine the fox's thoughts as he carried off the rooster, "First, he shoots at me, now he's feeding me. This guy's nuts!"

Early this spring, our neighbor across the road came over to tell Leslie he saw a young black bear in his front yard. A few weeks ago, another neighbor saw a black bear crossing the road only a half mile away. Great.

My wife isn't afraid of spiders or lizards, and she'll grab a snake faster than a Black Friday bargain, but she has this unrelenting fear of bears. So, for the last three years, I wake every workday at 0430 to watch my wife climb into her car and go to work. I told her I probably couldn't get to her in time to fight off an attacking bear, and she surely can't outrun one, but she just smiles and says all she has to do is outrun me. Ain't love grand?

So, I'm destined to forever be my soul mate's bear bait. It would be worth it, if only the bears ate killdeer and frogs.

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A. Keck |

2 Comments |

Tuesday

May112010

Cursing Killdeer

Tuesday, May 11, 2010 at 12:31PM

Now I know how killdeer got their name.

Contrary to what's reported in zoology texts, their call sounds nothing like the words "kill deer." Whoever came up with that most likely attended the Helen Keller School of Bird Watching. Killdeer sound more like rusted, squeaking Walmart shopping carts being pushed around your house, 24/7.

For a month, the killdeer eggs sat in our pasture. We marked the area with stones so as not to step on them. We kept the horses in a different pasture. We looked at the eggs daily to ensure they were OK, and eventually the mother displayed only token displeasure when we were near. We also learned to interpret her different calls, including the one that signaled panic.

Twice at night, the mother's cries alerted us to a fox in the pasture. Armed with a spotlight and .22 rifle, I shot at the predator, despite being over 100 yards away. I had little chance of hitting the running fox, but scared it sufficiently to ensure a few hours of peace.

And then the babies were born.

Killdeer babies, just a few hours after hatching

Killdeer babies are "precocial" which means they're born with feathers and can almost immediately leave the nest to forage for insects. They can't fly, but they run like they've been shoplifting at Petsmart. The mom and dad try to keep tabs on the frantic foursome with constant squeals, fleet feet and aerial acrobatics.

The babies are cute and this all sounds endearing, until you realize your front yard is the killdeer fairgrounds and this avian rodeo is in town for weeks.

Killdeer babies - photo by Leslie Keck

Killdeer baby - photo by Leslie Keck

Picture your next-door neighbor coming home from the hospital with quadruplets. There are a few "Ooooo" and "Ahhhhh" moments, but after several hours the babies jump to their feet and head for different exits. One runs out the front door, another the back door and two find open windows.

The mother yells for the father to help and they both run outside to catch the babies. One infant is running down the street, another is being chased by your dog and two are running around the pool to see who gets dizzy and falls down first. Everyone is screaming.

Finally, the kids run out of gas and plop down in your driveway. Mom and dad are so exhausted, they let the babies rest wherever they fall until their batteries are recharged and the noisy circus begins anew ... usually just when you've fallen asleep.

That's life with a killdeer family. They're in all three pastures and just about everywhere else - all at once, it seems. Leslie has to avoid running over them when she comes home at night. They squeal at everything and anything. I'm over it.

So how did killdeer get their name? After two months of this, I turned to Leslie and said, "I have the urge to kill, dear." Mystery solved.

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A. Keck |

2 Comments |

Thursday

Apr082010

Bleatin' Kids

Thursday, April 8, 2010 at 01:02PM

We have more babies.

Last week Leslie and I witnessed the birth of our latest additions to Soleil Farm. Yes, after living out here for almost three years, we finally decided on a farm name. Soleil (pronounced so-LAY) is French for, "You're gonna get skin cancer."

Anyway, when our doe (Neo, short for Neapolitan, because her coloring resembles the ice cream by the same name) decided to lay down and finally push out the kids she'd been carrying for what seemed like a year, Leslie was right there. And I mean, RIGHT THERE.

As Neo bleated her imprecations against the father - "You did this to me! I want morphine!" - Leslie turned to me and hollered, "Go in the house and get my medical kit and some towels." She was serious. I'm surprised she didn't ask me to boil some water.

Leslie knelt next to Neo and prepared to assist, but I guess her presence was more disconcerting than the labor pains because Neo got up and walked away.

It seems that goats have been birthing kids for many years without the help of a nurse. Who knew? So we stood 20 yards away and watched.

For an ex-paramedic who has seen far too many urban babies being born, watching the goats come into the world was rather fun for me. And I stayed clean, which is always a plus.

A little buck came first and we named him Casserole. Yes, we're sick, but we're fun at parties. Come on, this is a meat goat.

The little doe is named Oprah. Now, both Leslie and I like and admire Oprah. This is in no way meant as an insult. Just look at the pictures and decide for yourself.

Oprah and Oprah. You decide.

Here are some more photos of the happy family.

Casserole exercises his vocal cords

Oprah poses. Was it Jenny Craig?

Neo feeds the hungry twins

Casserole and Oprah pose

The family poses for pasture paparazzi

We also have another expectant mother in the pasture. A female Killdeer has made her ground nest only 12 yards from the nursing enclosure. Why she chose here, I don't know. She could have been 100 yards away and much safer from wayward caprine hoofs, but I don't question a mother's instinct.

Here are some shots of the Killdeer.

Mama Killdeer sitting on her eggs

Here's the clutch Mama Killdeer is incubating

Mama Killdeer fakes a broken wing to draw predators away from the babies. Amazing!

Mama Killdeer settles down, but still has her eye on me

Casserole and Oprah take a much-deserved rest in the warm sun

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A. Keck |

1 Comment |

Tuesday

Apr062010

Bumping into Neighbors

Tuesday, April 6, 2010 at 10:55AM

Do you know this guy?

Preparing for a rural shopping trip

Leslie and I had just pulled into the Food Lion, and we were discussing what she was going to buy. Out here, you plan your trips to the market carefully. At almost 30 miles for a round trip to the closest grocery store, you don't want to forget anything.

As we sat in the truck debating dinner, one of our elderly neighbors entered the parking lot. Driving a spotless Buick LeSaber and accompanied by a yappy toy mutt, he came down the aisle in front of us, smoothly pulled into the parking space in front of us and then proceeded forward until he smacked into the front of my truck.

Momentarily dumbstruck, all I could mutter was a John Belushi line from Animal House: "That's good!"

As we watched with somewhat enhanced attention, the elderly driver put the car in park, switched his lit cigarette from his right hand to his left, and then reached for his open Busch beer, finishing off the can in one long swig while we watched in stunned silence.

He never once looked up at us or even seemed to notice that a big, blue Ford logo was just a couple of feet from his windshield. I'd like to say that he then unbuckled his seat belt, but out here that would surely be fantasy.

Leslie quickly picked up her lower jaw and quietly slipped out the door. She hates confrontation, but I don't think she was worried I'd go postal on some old guy. She simply knew that anything I said would be clearly audible in the store.

Cigarette firmly between his lips and Busch can drained, grandpa stepped out of the car just as my feet hit the asphalt.

"Hey!" I yelled, and paused while the echo died. "You might want to consider leaving the beer at home the next time you go shopping old man. You just hit my truck while parking."

Leslie will tell you that in the last few months I've made several female salespeople cry, so you won't be surprised to learn that when I feel the Shaft of Life nearing my backside, my brain surrenders command to General Testosterone. Yet, this 5-foot-6, 130-pound AARP reject didn't flinch.

Incredulous, he took a few steps toward the front of his car and looked over the hood where our vehicles met. With an almost imperceptible nod he acknowledged the veracity of my claim and quietly muttered, "Sorry," then turned and walked into the store.

What was I going to do? Chase him down? I thought about calling the police, but by the time an officer got there, the guy would be long gone. There was no damage to report anyway and the guy didn't really look drunk. Besides, out here there are several valid excuses for drinking and driving (like going fishing or running to the store for more beer during a NASCAR caution), so I didn't see any point.

I gathered my fleeting rage and climbed into the truck. My dear wife then called me on the cell phone laughing so hard I thought she'd pee.

Grandpa felt numb. Leslie and the other shoppers felt entertained. All I felt was the Shaft of Life tickling the back of my thighs.

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A. Keck |

Wednesday

Mar102010

Farm Physics

Wednesday, March 10, 2010 at 10:22AM

You gotta love the Internet. One minute I'm outside scrutinizing a pregnant doe's woo-hoo, looking for signs of eminent delivery, and the next I'm chatting via e-mail with a quantum physicist from a prestigious Australian university. I've had the pleasure of conducting a minor business transaction with Dr. Andrew White, professor of physics at the University of Queensland, in Australia.

It's obvious from Dr. White's website that he'd be comfortable talking shop with Albert Einstein, and his curriculum vitae indicates he didn't fall asleep in eighth grade Earth science class (mine was right after lunch - what was I supposed to do?).

Corresponding with Dr. White makes me feel a bit like Forrest Gump, but my resume has something Dr. White's does not: the Eastern Academy Mary Jane Science Award. By the time I graduated high school in 1976 I had managed to take, and pass, all of the small private school's science classes, so I guess the faculty felt I was worthy of the award. Standards were a bit lower in the 70s. However, the award was sponsored by Norfolk's Mary Jane Bakery, so I guess that proves that sliced bread really is one of man's greatest scientific achievements.

The Mary Jane Science Award - heavier than the Nobel

I doubt Dr. White is jealous of my award. Besides his obvious brilliance, he's warm and engaging. So, as one of the few in our county with a subscription to Discover Magazine, I thought I'd help Dr. White with his quantum research. Rural farms are natural laboratories for physics, and farmers are often defacto scientists. Perhaps we can contribute to science in ways not found in the average university lab.

For instance, physicists are always on the lookout for Dark Matter, theoretical matter than may make up the majority of mass in the universe. There are three general classifications of Dark Matter: Hot Dark Matter, Warm Dark Matter and Cold Dark Matter. Well, I've found them all. It's goat poop.

Goat poop is everywhere. Really. And through careful observation and new batteries for my HP 12c calculator, I've determined that a large herd of goats can produce enough poop to account for most of the universe's mass. It's created hot, becomes warm on the ground, and transforms into Cold Dark Matter on the bottom of your work boots overnight. You be the judge.

I'm willing to theorize that in the outer reaches of our solar system, beyond the Kuiper belt, is the Caprine Feces belt, an orbiting ring of goat poop comprising a googleplex of marble-sized caprine excrement, so massive it could engulf a million suns. So how did these countless goat balls get out there? Why, they were ejected by millions of miniature black holes, of course (come on, you had to see that one coming).

Another vexing physics problem is the search for the Theory of Everything, a universal equation that would bind Einstein's theories of General and Special Relativity with Quantum Mechanics. Newtonian physics says that an object cannot be in two places at the same time. Quantum Mechanics theorizes it is possible at the sub-atomic level.

This is heady stuff, unless you have horses. They're the bridge between the known physical and quantum worlds. Take the horse hoof - it can be directly under the horse while at the same time on your foot, even though you are several feet away. You may think this is a flawed observation, but I know that when gravity draws the mass of the horse onto my foot, my toes are changed at the quantum level. If we can understand gravity and the horse, the Theory of Everything will become apparent.

And, if you'll notice, the Theory of Everything is abbreviated TOE. Coincidence? I think not.

Farmers also have a keen understanding of the equation E=MC². Einstein got the equation right, but got the terms wrong. "E" is the number if equines, while "MC" stands for mashed cuticles. Therefore, to determine the number of horses a person owns, calculate the square root of the total of his mashed cuticles (toes and fingers), and voila, you have the number. If a farmer has only one mashed cuticle, his wife is probably tending to the horses.

I've noticed that physicists love particle accelerators. The world's most powerful is the Large Hadron Collider, operated by CERN on the boarder of France and Switzerland. That's certainly something to be proud of, but rural folks have particle accelerators too. We call them shotguns.

At LHC (cool, scientist-speak, eh?) they accelerate sub-atomic particles to nearly the speed of light (that's almost as fast as my wife drives), in opposite directions around a large loop and crash them into each other. I've seen graphics of the resulting collisions and it's impressive. But not as impressive as buckshot from a 12-gauge ripping into a warm bottle of Budweiser at 10 feet. Now THAT's a particle collision.

Quarks, muons and leptons. I always thought these were new shapes in Lucky Charms, but they're actually the names of sub-atomic particles. There are also gluons, which I thought were similar to Klingons - those tiny little slivers of rolled toilet paper that collect near Uranus (I never pass on a Uranus joke).

Anyway, country folk are quite familiar with sub-atomic particles. In fact, as we age, anything smaller than a marble is deemed sub-atomic if you're not wearing your reading glasses. And they are all named "damn things," as in, "Where'd that damn thing go?"

One of the biggest challenges for the physicists at LHC is finding the Higgs boson, a theoretical sub-atomic particle thought to be responsible for all mass. I haven't found the Higgs boson, but an eccentric farmer down the road has a bison named Higgs. He's definitely massive, and a prodigious producer of Brown Matter, Dark Matter's bovine equivalent, and an element that constitutes the majority of every politician's cerebral cortex.

Another coincidence? Noooooo.

I hope Dr. White can use some of my research. I'd be satisfied to simply get an honorable mention at his Nobel ceremony, but even if I don't, I wish him all the best.

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A. Keck |

2 Comments |