Country of Origin Labeling

Is the subject of this week's Farm Side.

So here is an oldie for you while I work on that.

As I was dragging yet another snarl of tangled, soapy hair out of the drain in the bathroom sink I wondered. What do you suppose would happen if I went on strike and never again did any of the taken for granted nasty jobs that fall to mothers? I’d call it Momstrike, and what a fascinating notion it could be. You see I am blessed by not one, but two, long haired daughters who would never contemplate such a bizarre act as cleaning out the drain. I am also confounded by a long haired son, whose housekeeping proclivities are much overshadowed by those of his female siblings. He has a dandelion mane of yellow hair that gets pretty outrageous sometimes. He calls it his “’Fro”. (I wonder where he got the idea that pouffy blond curls could ever constitute a ‘fro.) Their combined efforts at shedding are worse than a dozen border collies. Supposing I stopped cleaning out that dratted drain whenever I noticed that it needed it. Would they clean it themselves? Or would a hairball form in the sink that would rival the sort of bezoar an African bull elephant would develop if elephants groomed like barn cats? Or would they think that it was a rampant opossum and call the dogs?

And then there’s the wastebasket under that selfsame sink. If I didn’t empty it every now and then would little cardboard tubes and puffs of bedraggled tissue mount toward the ceiling until they spilled over to form a paper mache carpet in the puddles around the tub? Or would someone else do it? How about the other appliances and furnishings in that particular room? What would happen to them if I struck?

You can see that it would be an interesting experiment to go on Momstrike. Obviously I can’t give up milking my share of the cows every twelve or so hours. Calves must eat; shovels must shove and bills must be paid in a timely fashion, but what would happen if nobody carted out the paper plates from the TV tables in the living room? Would they just pile up until they cascaded to the floor and the dogs chewed them up? Would the accompanying forks and spoons snuggle together to create a free-form metal sculpture, or would someone get stabbed in the toe and bleed all over the carpet? Would they notice that since the carpet is bright red? Would anyone but the stick-ee even care?

How about the dishes? If nobody did them for a week or so, would anyone care when they ran out of silverware? Would they spelunk that same living room carpet in order to find the missing pieces among the scattered plates and injured family members? Would they offer triage to the folks dancing around the living room with forks sticking out of their feet? Or would they merely dig around the cupboard under the cereal and find the plastic ones we use for camp?

Laundry is another ignore-it-and-maybe-it-will-go-away nuisance. Liz does hers. Everyone else doesn’t. If I just walked past the socks huddling around Alan’s chair, with my nose in the air (way, way in the air in fact) would he pick them up and wash them? Or would they coalesce into a funky sort of dog bed and offer Mike an odoriferous but comfortable lounging spot? (Then he wouldn’t have to pull the Afghan off the couch to curl up in front of the TV on it.) And all those jeans and sweatshirts draped so gracefully on the furniture and floor. Would they turn out to be a new art form that the kids could sell to the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art? Or would the Guinness Book of World Records arrive with measuring tapes and scales and offer us a mega bucks prize for the mostest messiest motleyest house?

I dunno, but I think I will try it. I will spend all my sink cleaning, laundry round-up, dish rodeo, housework, time either planting bulbs for next spring or reading a nice trashy novel. For a week. All you other hairy-sink-plagued moms out there want to join me? Do you think anyone will notice if we join forces and strike?

What a fickle fall this has been. After weeks of weather that felt like August we had that extraordinary rainy spell. Then a warm, soft period arrived. Imagine, even here along the river, not having the inaugural frost of autumn until the first week in November. Fall colors have been subdued indeed, but we have enjoyed an exceptionally long spell of their blushing beauty. Last Saturday I sat out on the swing in the side yard throwing the roof of a plastic birdhouse for Mike and Gael. (It made a perfect Frisbee and was handy.) I had a cup of warm, sweet coffee and a good book to fill in the spaces when the old dogs got too tired to tear down the driveway after their improvised toy. The temperature was nearly seventy. The sun was comforting and the air as fragrant as June. Across the river a lone maple, with leaves as red as a summer sunset, tossed its branches above a grove of dull green pines as if shouting, “Hey, look at me.” I like that little tree and look for it every day when I go outside. Most of the other maples around the area are just a drab sort of yellow.

The valley reverberated to the rumble of trains across the river and small planes crisscrossed the sky. At the water garden the frogs were out. They are half hibernating and look like they had a rough night when they claw their way through the vegetation to lie in the sun. Summery weather is not normal for November but I will take all I can get. By the weekend it is supposed to be cold and dreary again. I guess that is to be expected in the next to the last month of the year.

****I wish the old dogs still had the gumption to chase things like the roof of an old birdhouse. Mike couldn't even see it any more and Gael has just lost interest.