Dirt

"Plain as dirt," people will say contemptuously. "Dumb as dirt."

Really?

Dirt is as important as air and water; without it, we die. And not just any dirt, either: humankind depends on arable dirt, dirt in which plants grow that can in turn support animal life.

That's my dirt to the right, dirt enriched with hundreds of pounds of dried sheep poop and kept moist so that in spite of the one-week-long nighttime freezes (in the 20s) we've been having, those broad beans are doing quite well, thank you, as of this morning, as the date stamp (European style: date first, then the month) shows.

When I left the northern hemisphere behind, I'd made up my mind to sacrifice a certain degree of comfort, convenience and city/suburban style consumer variety for good dirt. Say what you will: when the chips are down, few things compare with twenty inches of good topsoil.

I found my topsoil here in Traslasierra, far from the flaccid, overfed kine that wobble down the Wal-Mart aisles snatching at gaudily packaged snacks they can stuff in their gobs while, glassy-eyed, they gape at the flickering flat-screen, oblivious to the elitists' yoke sliding down upon their thick, wattled throats. They come in all shapes and sizes, all creeds and colors, male and female, young and old, of all political persuasions, though economically, rich and poor rarely applies: these are the poor, the near-poor and the remnants of the lower middle class, the plebs, the lumpen, the Great Unwashed, unlettered and barely able to do simple math. Naturally, neither you nor I belong to this rabble; we are above all that. Those people, after all, are dumber than dirt.

They may be, but then again, so may be the Greenwich Gang, the Hamptons Hideaway crew, shallow materialists who in spite of their money piles live lives of stunning superficiality bounded by status and a narcissistic wound that not even scads of money can scab over, never mind heal. I live far from them too, far from the Social Register listees whose identity and self-worth must be reaffirmed by looking at a hardbound telephone book in black and red, folks who drop names and brands as often as bats in a cave drop guano.

Far from leftist loonies fossilized in the amber of the Sixties, spouting the same tired slogans, their eternal whine-a-thon tempting one to borrow a pair of bovver boots from the nearest skinhead for a quick game of kick-the-cranium. The intellectual elite--left, right, center--seldom takes anything more than an academic interest in dirt, though there are exceptions, among whom I like to include (hem, hem, kaff-kaff) myself, but only because I am such a smart fellow according to my credentials. Well, all right: I believe I'm bright enough to have done a lot of reading, retained a great deal of what I've learned, and managed to assemble this montage of factual info into an integrated worldview that led me to conclude that my place in the sun was not in an academic or financial ivory tower, but down here in the dirt far, far from the madding crowd.

Dirt.

This is about dirt, and how it behooves the Paradigm Changer to seek out the best dirt s/he can find. How 'bout that! Gender-neutral language! Hope everyone likes it and my effort is appreciated. Personally, gender-neutral language and much that goes with it calls to mind the substance with which I fertilize my dirt, but I digress.

Few of us these days are qualified to gauge the value of dirt with respect to raising food; for this, omnipresent government provides us with well-educated professionals. But can we count on them to fulfill their obligations to assist us? Not in my neck of the woods, as I have learned to my chagrin. As the saying goes here: "Mucho ruido, pocas nueces," which for you poor, unfortunate Anglo monoglots means, in the words of the immortal James Brown: "Talkin' loud and sayin' nothin." I certainly hope agricultural extension agents up north honor their word more than do the gravy-train riders down here. Our local glad-handers have asked me to address a community meeting of small agricultural and artisanal entrepreneurs, and the meeting is the day after tomorrow, and I've heard nothing further. Okay. And all the promises the Peronistas have made to me about help with my own efforts... nada de nada. I suggest y'all may enjoy Sunday's post, because I'm going to treat them to some self-righteous Irish rage on Saturday.

I learned about my dirt on my own, thanks. I recommend you do so too. I will say this, however: down here in Catacombs Country, we've got some dirt you'd be thrilled to have under your fingernails. 'Nuff said?

Get down 'n dirty, boys and girls, or prepare to live like serfs without your own dirt.

If not, then I recommend you read up on dirt. If you need help in finding resources, let me know.

Get some dirt, get it soon.