The Hope that Springs Eternal

The Hope that Springs Eternal

Hope that Springs Eternal

I was reminded of a particular afternoon some years ago at the horse races as I viewed the outcome of Sunday’s Belmont Stakes. Some friends and I traveled to Laurel Park outside of Washington, D.C. to watch my horse, Morning Thrill compete. I have since learned never to take any casual friends to a race in which one of my horses is running, for the disappointment that usually follows dampens the entire adventure. Only those friends that I know can handle my sour mood after a horse that I’ve raised has failed to live up to expectations are allowed to accompany me on such occasions.

But on this particular afternoon, I hadn’t learned that lesson yet. My horse raced in the fifth or sixth race and finished unspectacularly. The friends that had tagged along had never been to the races before and while they were having a more enjoyable time than I, they hadn’t cashed a betting ticket all day. Before the tenth and final race of the afternoon they said, “We are determined to bet on a horse that will win.” So they bet on every horse in the race.

A long shot won, and they were ecstatic. The winning payout more than cover the cost of purchasing a win ticket on all twelve horses and it made me think of a possible way of beating the betting odds – bet against the favorite.

If a bettor were to place win tickets on all the horses, only when a horse with an outside chance or longer would make the payout worth the wager, but by picking those races that there was a false favorite, then a bet on ever other horse might make sense. You wouldn’t care who won the race, so long as it wasn’t the betting choice of the masses. For this year’s Kentucky Derby you would have banked $100. It would have cost you $38 to cover ever horse but the ‘chalk’ as the favorite is referred to. You would have lost in the Preakness as Rachel was favored, but you would have come out ahead in the Belmont stakes.

I haven’t actually ever tried to put this theory in practice, as it would take a fair bankroll to start and a couple of races in a row with the favored horse winning would be rather expensive, but if someone would lend me a thousand dollars to try my scheme, I’d be glad to report back if it’s successful.

But mean time, I’ve attached a picture of this year’s hope. Her name is Lola – daughter of Morning Thrill, granddaughter of Thrilling Date, great-granddaughter of Silver Thrill. Her racing name will be Thrilling Alora, named for a grandniece. She looks good, but how can you tell at this stage? As of six weeks of age, she has both the conformation and the constitution to be a racer, but she’ll have to outrun her pedigree to be truly successful. I suspect that she’ll go off not as the bettor’s favorite her first race so bet $2 on all the horses excluding the favorite. That way, if she wins we’re all delighted. If she fails to win, and some other long shot does, you take home some money.

Painted Trees

Whitewash

Nancy and I recently returned for a visit to Romania. The purpose of the trip was to check-in with friends from our Peace Corps days and to check up on the Walnut Tree project.

Everyone we touched base with all seemed to be in good health and high spirits. There were new babies to admire and more on the way. While the economy in Romania is shaky, so far our friends have survived and at least are holding their own, if not prospering.

The Walnut project does seem to be prospering. This is a program that I came up with while volunteering with the Organic Farmer’s Association of Romania and it involves connecting investors to land owners and farmers of Transylvania to plant, tend and harvest ‘English’ walnuts. Walnut trees are native to the region and the temperate climate favors their growth. At one time Romania was 2nd in the world in walnut production but it’s been over 50 years since there have been active nut tree orchards.

Last year the investors purchased trees and the landowners signed contracts for 25 hectares (approx. 52 acres). The grafted plants were set last spring and survival rate appears to be over 95%. This year an additional 25 hectares was added to the contracts. There are now 7 separate landowners farming sites ranging from 21.3 hectares for the largest to a single hectare for the smallest. All of the plantings are close to small villages in four separate counties. It was exciting to see the progress of the trees and feel the excitement of the new landowners in the program.

It will be another 4 years at the earliest that we’ll have a worthwhile harvest but one of the farmers proudly announced that he had a handful of walnuts last fall from his very young trees.

The largest of the holdings belong to the Utilitarian Church of the village of Magyarsoros (Romanian name of the town is Delenii). As we began our tour of the site, I was told by the church council president that not all of the trees had been whitewashed yet. Surprised, I laughed and said, “You don’t need to whitewash them.”

In Romania and in other former communist countries trees are painted white from the ground to about a meter and a half. I have been told three different reasons for this. Reason one is that the whitewash keeps the bugs out – as if there were bugs that only climbed or flew a meter and a half from the ground. And I inquire to this reason, “Why do you whitewash the telephone stanchions? They are cement.”

Reason two says that the paint is for decorative purposes. It does make the trees stand out and are less likely to be damaged in the hay making. That also explains about the telephone stanchions. However applying whitewash to over 2,200 trees for decorative purposes seems like a lot of work.

A third reason I’ve been told is that “Not sure why we do it, but we’ve always done it.” I hold with the inertia of tradition. But when asked my opinion I point to the trees in the forests and say, “No body whitewashes those trees and they seem to be growing pretty well.”

Nancy has a fourth hypothesis of the whitewash tradition. She says that the Communists countries needed to put people to work, so some official made up this theory of whitewash to employ the proletariat. It was a make work project. In any case, I’ll attach a picture of a whitewashed grafted walnut tree. Note that not only was the tree whitewashed but the support post as well.

Spring Crocus, no grass (yet)

The Endless Struggle

The Endless Struggle

The crocus has started to bloom. I love crocus. Especially I enjoy the species crocus that are the first bloomers. These are the small flowered varieties but they naturalize in the garden and form tight patches of color on the otherwise still bare ground and garden. Their colors can be quiet soft and fine. The blues have patches of pale yellow. The whites are strikingly white but most favored are the cream colored ones because it is a shade otherwise rare in my garden.

There is, however, a problem with these early crocus. It is that they remind me of the war that I lost last year. And I lost the year before that. And that I loose every year. The war with the wire grass.

Wire grass has invaded most of my patches of cultivated space. No amount of mulch, weeding or Roundup can control it for long. Every spring at crocus time, this year included, I get down on my knees and try and yank up the grass. Some years I attack it with fortitude and conviction, determined to be rid of the pest. Some years, as this year, my efforts are only half-hearted, for I know that the blasted stuff with overcome what ever I do to arrest it.

I spent a little over an hour this afternoon and succeeded in pulling up most of the visible grass in only a square meter of ground, but even I know that what I left behind, the root system and the nodes that clung tenaciously to the soil, will spring back to life overnight.

I’m not sure the crocus actually mind the grass too much, for they flower and feed their corms before the stuff has fully choked out all competition. It seems such a waste, though, and a failure as a gardener to be defeated by the grass.

My assistant gardener suggests that I spray the entire area with chemical herbicide, but that would kill the crocus, too. There is in the square meter that I worked on today a treasured butterfly weed that battles every year for space and sustenance with the grass. It is a bright orange summer flower that descends in direct linage from a plant dug up on the side of the road over 40 years ago. I’m sure that the herbicide would kill the butterfly weed permanently but only hinder the grass temporarily.

Sparky and the Cowboy


and other stories
by Tim Hulings

It's Here!

It’s Here!

I’ve been working on pounding 13 fictional stories into shape for the past eight months - editing, re-reading, cross checking and proofing. Between my work and the waiting, it seems to have taken a long time. Now the book is ready and available.

These 13 stories weren’t written within the last eight months; that was simply the work to get them ready for publication. It took ten years to write them. Alecia Ball, a friend from my Peace Corps days in Romania helped immensely with her editing. I referred to her in an earlier blog post as a blacksmith, taking my words and hammering them into something useable.

Two of the stories, the Cowboy stories, are connected and together they could have been considered a short novel, but they were written years apart and I purposely separated them in the book by inserting several unconnected narratives.

I realize that novels are considered more saleable and that short stories are an antique form of expression, but I’m most comfortable when I write and think in the short form. My plots are not strong enough for a novel and I get tired of my characters before a novel is complete (I have tried) - not that those two deficiencies seem to inhibit many novelists. My tales were not written for publication, but for my own pleasure in their creation. Only because of the encouragement from a few select readers have I embarked on the publication of my first book.

Like Slim, the pitiful character in the last of the stories, I like to keep track of things. I have set a goal for the number of books to be printed. My hope is to get Slim’s and Cowboy’s and Red’s and Nana’s story into 5,000 pair of hands. If you would like a signed, first edition copy ({gratis with strings attached} while supplies last) please contact me via email at snowridge2000@yahoo.com The books are also available from the publisher at www.iuniverse.com , at Amazon, Barnes and Noble and, I believe at Books-A-Million web sites in either paperback, hardback or e-editions. Search the sites by my author name, Tim Hulings.

I hadn't posted a blog in awhile then this past Sunday I published a segment about Hope springing eternal. It does. But sometimes it takes a round about way of springing. If you are looking for the hopeful, skip this and move on to the Jan. 4th posting.

Early, early on Tuesday morning a jogger was fatally struck by a vehicle. It took me a day to be able to write the following:

Wednesday January 7th, 2009

Sherry and I were co-workers.

Depending upon the definition of friendship, I’m not sure we were friends. Everyone liked Sherry, for sure, including me, but I’m not sure we were friends. We did not share our dreams, our disappointments or our aspirations. We revealed little personal information to each other. We didn’t share lunch or dinner. I don’t think that I ever touched her. I don’t recall shaking her hand or exchanging a hug. I don’t remember placing a hand upon her shoulder or arm and I don’t think that she ever did that to me either. We did not touch physically.

Our relationship was not based on anything physical. It was based on trust, respect and communication. Perhaps half a dozen times in one’s life you find someone that you mesh with, that’s on the same wavelength. Some ways, Sherry and I were not friends, other ways we were better than friends. I would ask to her amend her work plans and she would always agree, but I would ask, never tell, and she knew that she could always refuse. And she would, on occasion ask me to procure her something or do some small favor and she knew that I would try my best to achieve it, but she would ask, never demand. We understood each other and while we never touched physically, we certainly did on a higher level.

I had the duty to close the store on Monday night. She had been working diligently and alone for the evening and she was the last to finish her task. All the other employees had escaped home. Sherry headed back to the offices to leave her supervisor a note, saying what she had completed and where she had left off. I was in the cash room finishing up my chores but with the door open so that I could stop her before she left the building.

“Sherry, stop. I have something for you,” I said as she walked past the open door.
I got up and showed her a packet of reward certificates that had her name on them. I handed them to her.
“What are these for?” she asked.
“Because you’re special,” I said.
“No, these are because I was on Brenda’s team and we won the contest.”
We exchanged looks, and her eyes had that unusual twinkle in the corners that she got when she chuckled. I am sure that she understood that what I had said partly in jest, I also truly meant.
“Goodnight, Sherry,” I said.
“Goodnight Mr. Tim.”

Often times when a relationship ends suddenly in anger or accident or Act of God we look back on our last words, our parting words and we think how foolish, or vain, or inappropriate were those words. It is some consolation to me personally, and I think to all of us at Belk, Harrisonburg, to know, that with Sherry, the last words, spoken without forethought, were the perfect words – “Because you’re special.”

Sherry was special. She is special. And, so long as we hold her in our memory, she will be special.

Tim