While the gentrification of North Glenwood Road is in progress, that progress is decidedly slow. We, of course, for better or worse, are a part of that process, being the middle class haolis from the mainland that we are, transplanted to the rainforest. And there are a handful of others I've seen. These are people who actually walk their dogs on leashes like I do; people who mow their lawns and landscape; people driving SUVs. I even saw a guy jogging the other day. But it's nowhere near complete - this middle-class haolification if you will - of the neighborhood. Not by a long shot. There are still plenty of places with rusted old cars overgrown with foliage. There are sagging car ports and dilapidated catchment tanks. For every spoiled pet pooch in the neighborhood there's a farm animal or guard dog tied out in someone's yard. There are homes with rows of chicken shelters covering the front lawn and no small number of makeshift structures that have seen better days and were obviously built without permits. Still, compared to South Glenwood Road, North Glenwood is Beverly Hills.
A couple of days ago, while taking our customary morning walk, the furballs and I happened upon two pickup truckloads of young men. They had pulled over at the entry to a pasture along the road. There were 8 or 10 of them, piling out of the beds and cabs of the trucks. I said hi and asked, "What's up?"
"We're going to kill a cow," one said.
"Be gentle, be quick, then bring me a steak, ok?" I responded. They all laughed. I wondered why it would take 8-10 guys to kill a cow. Seems like one guy with a well aimed shot from a pistol could do the job. I'm guessing they were not only going to kill the critter, but dress him out on the spot. Maybe they were up for some sport and planned to wrestle the hapless bovine. I had seen that very cow (although I think he was actually a steer) grazing in that very pasture. So I was a little saddened by the prospect of his demise. I am not a vegetarian, but I prefer not to have actually gazed into the eyes of the animal I'm about to chomp into between the buns of my burger.
That takes me back to childhood. When my grandfather died, we inherited two cows. Their names were Rosie and Lady. Rosie was sweet. While she had been a milk cow and bore many young, she was also a pet. Lady was an ornery, cantakerous beast with long horns and a surly disposition. We lived in a 1600 square foot tract home on a tiny lot in the suburbs. It was a nice house, to be sure, but would not accommodate farm animals. Keeping the cows in the garage was out of the question. My dad's boss came to the rescue, by offered his pasture. He owned 27 acres just outside town. Not long after we acquired the cows, Rosie gave birth. The calf was healthy, but poor Rosie was producing too much milk for him alone. My dad had to drive out to milk her every morning before work. My mom actually made butter using our Hamilton Beach blender. We had a freezer full of the stuff, formed into balls and wrapped in waxed paper. We also had way more milk than we could possibly drink. My dad liked it. He had been raised on whole cream straight from the cow. I, on the other hand, was a 2% homogenized and pasturized girl. The drive became tedious for my dad and the milk was overwhelming our tiny family. So dad bought another calf for Rosie. She adopted him immediately and produced enough milk for both babies. I immediately named the adopted calf Ralph. He was all black - an Angus - with big, brown eyes. Feeling bad, I asked my dad about naming the original calf. "What should we call him?" I asked.
"He already has a name," said dad. "His name is Food." Dad would not allow me to accompany him to the pasture after that. I guess he knew me pretty well. It was bad enough that we ultimately ate Food. Our neighbors ate Ralph.
I felt a little twinge when Mr. Pig (that's what we called the big black porker lounging in one neighbor's yard up the road here on North Glenwood) disappeared. I knew why he was there and I knew what happened to him when he was gone. Doc looked for him for days afterward as we'd pass his pen. Mr. Pig would sometimes charge the fence, getting the dogs to lunge and bark back. I think Mr. Pig was a bit bored there, all alone, day in and day out. Passing him became one of the highlights of our walk. Now, he's bacon. Maybe instead of calling him Mr. Pig, we should have called him Kevin? (Ha ha ha ha.....)
I got the chance to talk with a rancher up the road who I see nearly every day as I walk. He lives around the bend at the top of the road. He's a retired fireman from Honolulu who said he and his son had wanted to buy the property they now own for years, but the owner wouldn't sell. He described that owner to me as "a rich haoli guy." Anyway, the rich haoli guy had a change of heart a few years ago and sold them 102 acres for a song. They now run about 70 head of cattle and have a nice horse arena, too. It's a lovely spread. The fireman built his own house on the property. He is often accompanied by his three-year-old grandson. He's a nice guy. It feels good to have a fireman in the neighborhood, even if he is now a rancher.
I saw the biggest snail today I've ever seen. It's shell was the size of a baseball and it was sitting on a cement ledge at the transfer station. That's where we go to dump our rubbish. There's no trash pick up in these parts. It's really not as bad a chore as it sounds. When the can is full, I just pull the bag out, tie it up, throw it in the truck and drop it off on my way to town. Easy. And we don't have to remember to put all the trash out at the curb on trash day. Shoots. There is no curb anyway.
Of course, until we get county water and a sewer system, I don't see this place transforming into an upscale suburb any time soon.
(The picture you see here is our catchment tank. Rain water runs off the roof of the house and is siphoned into the tank. The pieces of wood you see hanging are tied on to hold the cover down more securely. The tank holds about 10,000 gallons and is almost always full to the top, regardless of how much we use.)
That's all for today. Tomorrow I plan to travel around with the camera, rain or shine, to take some more interesting pictures. Wish I'd gotten a shot of that snail today. Aloha!
A couple of days ago, while taking our customary morning walk, the furballs and I happened upon two pickup truckloads of young men. They had pulled over at the entry to a pasture along the road. There were 8 or 10 of them, piling out of the beds and cabs of the trucks. I said hi and asked, "What's up?"
"We're going to kill a cow," one said.
"Be gentle, be quick, then bring me a steak, ok?" I responded. They all laughed. I wondered why it would take 8-10 guys to kill a cow. Seems like one guy with a well aimed shot from a pistol could do the job. I'm guessing they were not only going to kill the critter, but dress him out on the spot. Maybe they were up for some sport and planned to wrestle the hapless bovine. I had seen that very cow (although I think he was actually a steer) grazing in that very pasture. So I was a little saddened by the prospect of his demise. I am not a vegetarian, but I prefer not to have actually gazed into the eyes of the animal I'm about to chomp into between the buns of my burger.
That takes me back to childhood. When my grandfather died, we inherited two cows. Their names were Rosie and Lady. Rosie was sweet. While she had been a milk cow and bore many young, she was also a pet. Lady was an ornery, cantakerous beast with long horns and a surly disposition. We lived in a 1600 square foot tract home on a tiny lot in the suburbs. It was a nice house, to be sure, but would not accommodate farm animals. Keeping the cows in the garage was out of the question. My dad's boss came to the rescue, by offered his pasture. He owned 27 acres just outside town. Not long after we acquired the cows, Rosie gave birth. The calf was healthy, but poor Rosie was producing too much milk for him alone. My dad had to drive out to milk her every morning before work. My mom actually made butter using our Hamilton Beach blender. We had a freezer full of the stuff, formed into balls and wrapped in waxed paper. We also had way more milk than we could possibly drink. My dad liked it. He had been raised on whole cream straight from the cow. I, on the other hand, was a 2% homogenized and pasturized girl. The drive became tedious for my dad and the milk was overwhelming our tiny family. So dad bought another calf for Rosie. She adopted him immediately and produced enough milk for both babies. I immediately named the adopted calf Ralph. He was all black - an Angus - with big, brown eyes. Feeling bad, I asked my dad about naming the original calf. "What should we call him?" I asked.
"He already has a name," said dad. "His name is Food." Dad would not allow me to accompany him to the pasture after that. I guess he knew me pretty well. It was bad enough that we ultimately ate Food. Our neighbors ate Ralph.
I felt a little twinge when Mr. Pig (that's what we called the big black porker lounging in one neighbor's yard up the road here on North Glenwood) disappeared. I knew why he was there and I knew what happened to him when he was gone. Doc looked for him for days afterward as we'd pass his pen. Mr. Pig would sometimes charge the fence, getting the dogs to lunge and bark back. I think Mr. Pig was a bit bored there, all alone, day in and day out. Passing him became one of the highlights of our walk. Now, he's bacon. Maybe instead of calling him Mr. Pig, we should have called him Kevin? (Ha ha ha ha.....)
I got the chance to talk with a rancher up the road who I see nearly every day as I walk. He lives around the bend at the top of the road. He's a retired fireman from Honolulu who said he and his son had wanted to buy the property they now own for years, but the owner wouldn't sell. He described that owner to me as "a rich haoli guy." Anyway, the rich haoli guy had a change of heart a few years ago and sold them 102 acres for a song. They now run about 70 head of cattle and have a nice horse arena, too. It's a lovely spread. The fireman built his own house on the property. He is often accompanied by his three-year-old grandson. He's a nice guy. It feels good to have a fireman in the neighborhood, even if he is now a rancher.
I saw the biggest snail today I've ever seen. It's shell was the size of a baseball and it was sitting on a cement ledge at the transfer station. That's where we go to dump our rubbish. There's no trash pick up in these parts. It's really not as bad a chore as it sounds. When the can is full, I just pull the bag out, tie it up, throw it in the truck and drop it off on my way to town. Easy. And we don't have to remember to put all the trash out at the curb on trash day. Shoots. There is no curb anyway.
Of course, until we get county water and a sewer system, I don't see this place transforming into an upscale suburb any time soon.
(The picture you see here is our catchment tank. Rain water runs off the roof of the house and is siphoned into the tank. The pieces of wood you see hanging are tied on to hold the cover down more securely. The tank holds about 10,000 gallons and is almost always full to the top, regardless of how much we use.)
That's all for today. Tomorrow I plan to travel around with the camera, rain or shine, to take some more interesting pictures. Wish I'd gotten a shot of that snail today. Aloha!
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