(Biscuit the Wonder Spaniel expresses her thoughts about a sunny Culpeper day. Photo Socotra.)

I have not listened to anyone speaking on the radio since Friday. It has been tunes, tunes, and more tunes: lyrical ones, cynical ones, wistful ones.

It is always a welcome change to pass outside the concrete barrier of the Beltway and point the nose of the Panzer West and then South. The aura of doom lessens dramatically, and with the music swelling, I find my spirits lifting.

I was so buoyant that a note I got on the IPad didn’t quite kill the buzz. An old pal wrote to remind me that estate taxes are often collected at the state level, and that my confidence was shaken that the long journey might still have an expensive surprise awaiting me.

That almost caused me to unpack the computer and get set up for an afternoon of searching for answers on the ether. I tried one Google on he iPad and it assuaged my fears: there are only a handful of states that continue to collect inheritance and estate taxes in parallel with the Feds, and I was greatly relieved to discover that I live in none of them.

I went out on the deck and clanged the ship’s bell twice to announce my arrival and set about unloading the crap from the Panzer. I had almost accomplished the task when the Russians arrived with a trailer hooked up to the SUV and a gas-powered roto-tiller sitting atop it.

Mattski freed Biscuit the Wonder Spaniel, who did Cocker turns around the front yard wearing a hug doggy grin. Then he set about wheeling the ominous contraption into the front yard to attack the little garden plot. I marveled at the fact that I now seem to be living at a collective farm.

Natasha and I discussed whether it was appropriate to open a bottle of wine while Mattski was laboring. In the end, she convinced me that such a demonstration of sloth would only befit a true 1%-er, and I sighed and got out the brush hook to clear the sides of the raised garden bed.

The little garden patch rests in sunlight almost all day in the front yard, so I optimistic that something will grow there, given a chance, and I can worry about the deer as we get to it.

The overgrowth of the last four seasons threatened to shadow the rich dark soil some previous owner had dumped into the raised bed of the garden.

“Your dirt looks good,” pronounced Mattski, wiping some honest sweat from his brow. “Somebody must have dumped a bunch of potting soil and stuff in here. I don’t hit the red clay of Virginia until I get about six inches deep.” He fiddled with the gas feed before restarting the machine. “It’s a good thing- the red dirt is not as rich for grown tomatoes, cabbage, potatoes and herbs.”

“I am a lucky man to have good dirt and good neighbors,” I said. “Now, the question is what to try to grow.”

Natasha is big on herbs, and that sounds good, along with tomatoes and some peppers. Maybe zucchini for some of those savory casseroles dripping with melted cheese when the winds turn chilly in the fall. “Don’t worry about the things you can get at the store,” she said firmly. “Onions and such you can buy by the bag. There is nothing like a heritage tomato, though, and they grow like weeds.”

“I am fairly confident I can grow weeds,” I said, and then asked about the bees.

“We have certificates now,” said Natasha. “We are certified apiaries. You should think about that. Are you afraid of bees?”

“Not to my knowledge,” I said. “So long as they are not the killer ones from Mexico. I have not worried about that for a while.”

“If things work out, perhaps we will set up a hive here. It will help your garden and maybe yield some local honey.”

Mattski finished his plowing and we went inside to check on the basketball games. “I understand this game,” said Natasha. “Not like your crazy baseball.”

“Hey, it is as easy to understand as cricket,” I said.

“I have to finish putting in the posts for the fence around our expanded truck patch,” said Mattski. I want to finish qwik-creteing the post-holes this afternoon. Looks like you can expand your garden pretty easily. All you need is some more railroad ties.”

“And more dirt,” I said, thinking about how many runs to the Lowes this is gong to take. “But first things first.”

“Right on,” he responded. “A journey of a thousand miles…”

“Begins with a search for the keys to the truck,” I finished for him.

“We will be back later with chicken dumplings,” said Natasha.

After they departed. It was warm enough in the Virginia sun to take off my sweater and work in a t-shirt, a first for the season. I made periodic trips back inside to watch my Wolverines demolish Virginia Commonwealth University and advance to the Sweet Sixteen of the NCAA men’s round-ball tourney.

Immediately following that triumph, LTJG Socotra’s Spartans of MSU gave the same treatment to Memphis State. I have to say that March Madness has my full attention for the first time in years. I alternated school flags on the Dwarf out on the front porch.

There was another game after that- I forget who it was since we were gobbling chicken and dumplings from the Russian mobile kitchen.

All in all, a splendid day. I was just reading up on tomatoes. This is far more complex than I thought. Maybe peppers, too? It is really good not to think about Washington for a change.

(The Good Earth. Apologies to Pearl Buck. Photo Socotra).

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.comRenee Lasche