That Magical Time of Year

I'm sitting outside the greenhouse in the morning, waiting for Alan to get the tractor so we can plant corn on the upper field. It's one of those early April spring days that makes bloggers wax poetic. The birds flitting through the air, the fruit trees all a-blossom, bumble bees bumbling on their way. The pitter patter of little feet coming my way...

"Shit! Sodding shit fucking useless bloody shit!"
"Why hello, Alan," I say. "I thought I heard you coming."

Alan is an Englishman by birth but bless his heart, he curses like a Hungarian; colorful, anatomically impossible, and he uses the Lord's name (and more) in ways that would make even an atheist blush. So I can be excused for thinking that tractor spewing petrol out the tailpipe might be a euphamism for some unspeakable act committed by an unspeakable diety. By the time I realize that it is the literal tractor that has so unfortunately malfunctioned, Alan has extended his considerable creativity to said tractor, the tractor repair man, the store where the tractor was bought, the entire country of Hungary, and even poor Gus, who is cowering at his feet.

I wait with my customary composure, grace, and calm for a break in the storm. When Alan stops to take a breath, I make one of the stupidest suggestions in the history of all of time.

"We can do it by hand," I say, meaning turn over the soil in the corn field by hand. Meaning dig up the whole stupid field with a shovel.

At the time, I thought Alan looked at me with gratitude, but in retrospect it may have been malice and vengeance. So we head merrily up to the corn field, hoes and shovels and pitchforks in hand. We work side by side for thirty seconds or so, but the communal spirit is broken when one of us takes to cursing and heaving hoes across the field in a fit of fury. We call parliment to session, and decide that the best course of action is for me to stay and shovel the field while Alan goes to try and fix the tractor. Again.

"Three hours," I predict optimistically. "No problem."

Ah spring. The back pain, the interminable sun. The wasps circling like buzzards, the stinging nettles tangling your ankles. The corn field growing inexplicably larger and larger, so the more I dig the more I have left to dig. I put Modest Mouse on my ipod. On repeat. Gus looks at me with eyes that ask when I'll quit this tomfoolery and do something sensible, like throw him a stick.

Thirty hours later...
Six espressos later, half a kilo of bread later, five miserable hours of sleep later, a minor hernia, sunburned neck and sudden rainstorm and 114 Modest Mouse songs later...
I stand, beaming with pride on the most beautiful field of dirt clods you have ever seen. I am alone in my victory. Last I heard, Alan has taken to bed with the covers pulled over his head, muttering feverishly about sealant and gaskets. The goats have retired to more weather-proof habitation, and even Gus seems to be asleep, though I can tell by his watchful countenance that were a nasty stick to attack, he would know exactly what to do.

The corn field is beautiful. It is the Sistene Chapel to my Michelangelo. It is the lightbulb to my Edison. It is the new world, and I am Christopher Columbus, minus the looting and enslaving of indigenous populations.

"Gus," I say, exhausted, haggard, and triumphant. "Look at this."
"Stick?" says Gus, that philistine.

But never mind, true proletariat diggers don't need recognition or glory. I know the power of my accomplishment, and will carry it proudly and silently. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I hear a celebratory espresso calling, and maybe I'll even make one for Alan.

A Hungarian Surf Rock Band

One of the benefits of staying with a family while traveling is getting to participate in authentic local traditions. I eat traditional Hungarian food (ie pork), I take part in village customs (ie drinking Palinca, which we in the States call turpentine), and I go to traditional Hungarian surf rock concerts.

I go to the show with Hungarian rock drummer Dodi of Fishing on Orfu fame. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jJj16gL-Xbs) It may or may not be legal to drive with passengers kicking around in back like a couple of sacks of potatos; I have yet to learn the Hungarian word for "illegal" or "big expensive ticket."

We get there early for the set up, and to my delight the bassist speaks english like a pro.
"You like surf music?" he asks.
"Absolutely," I say. "Surf rock. I love it. It's the best ever."
He's thrilled by my enthusiasm. "What's your favorite band?" he asks.
I panic slightly, not being able to even actually recall what surf rock is, let alone any bands.
"Oh you know," I say in a vague American sort of way. "There's so many."
The bassist entirely concurs with my analysis, and proceeds to list every surf rock band in the history of time.

I ask if it will bother them if I take photos during the show, and they say not at all, in fact would I mind being the band's video producer? A video recorder appears and Dodi illustrates how I should shoot this performance. Evidently recording a concert involves quite a bit of leaping from side to side, standing on chairs, and crawling on one's belly.

I dutifully carry out my video recording job for the first song, maybe even two, before it occurs to me that a video shot from the perspective of resting on a table top would be quite avante-garde, and if a ashtray or table cloth is in the frame for 1 hour and 4 minutes, well, it's all part of the artistic experience. Having satisfied my artistic undertaking for the evening, I indulge in my Hungarian vice of second-hand smoking and enjoy the rest of the show.

Surf rock continues to evade description, but if you're really curious search for Man or Astroman. It sounds the same in Hungarian.

After the show, it becomes immediately obvious that I am the only one who is capable of driving home (thank goodness for the American Teetotaler, they all think) so I am promoted from sack of potatos to chauffer. I am impressed by Dodi's grasp of "left" and "right" and he is equally awed by my driving skills.
"Fourth gear," I announce when I shift.
"Super!" says Dodi.
"Left," says Dodi. "Right."
"Super!" I say.
"Super!" says Dodi.
"Santa's chauffer!" says Dodi.
"Um...Nem irtem," I say, which means I don't understand and is an incredibly useful phrase.
"Saint Nichol," explains a sack of potatos from the back. "His driver." To be helpful, Dodi puts his hands on his head and wiggles his fingers in the air.
"Reindeer!" I say.
"Super!" he says.

And indeed, the Hungarian night roads are crawling with headlight-loving animals. Hares the size of large dogs and reindeer that are not much bigger. But they are no match for the eagle eyes of me and my Hungarian surf rock friends, and we land safely back at the farm where I sleep soundly, in an authentic, traditional sort of way.

My Truce with the Geese, Those Miserable Rotten Bastards

My first interaction with the geese goes something like this:

I say, "Why, hello, Mr. handsome goose. I'm ever so pleased to make your acquaintance."
And he says, "You loathsome worm, I will tear the flesh from your bones with my razor-sharp beak and leave your entrails for the dogs and buzzards."
"Oh dear," I say, backing slowly towards the gate.
"That's right," he says, craning his neck with a menacing hiss. "You'd better leave these parts before old whitie back there gets angry. He will pluck your eyeballs from their sockets and savor them with your fresh blood."
"Right," I say. I flounder with the gate, frantic. "Well then, see you later on."
"You pig-smelling wench! May your offspring be trampled alive by wild boars!" the geese call after me.

Alan tells me not to worry, that I just need to pretend I'm not afraid and they'll leave me alone, that all geese are like this. I have confidence in his knowledge of animal husbandry, but am less certain of his experience with the mafia. So I finalize my last will and testament, take a sturdy broom, and return to the goose pen.

"Filthy goat-lover!" the geese scream, "come to get your throat slit, have you?"
"I'm not scared of you," I announce, and just to prove it I whack the brown one with the broom. "Take that, you miserable pile of pillow-feathers."

From that time, the geese and I have lived in a mutually agreed upon state of mortal hatred, moderated by the sturdy broom. Until last Tuesday.

We were planting fruit trees, which deserves a paragraph of its own:
Instructions For Fruit Trees
1. Wait until your neighbor is out of town.
2. Turn off the electric fence. Climb into said neighbor's yard with your spade and pitchfork.
3. Identify suitably-sized young trees. Dig them up, carry them back to your yard, plant and water copiously.

It's the watering copiously part that took me back to the East side, which is goose territory and also the home of the water faucet.
The geese come at me with their typical fury.
"Back off, you miserable bastards," I say from behind my sturdy broom. "I'm going to kill you and spread you on toast."
I turn on the hose. Suddenly, the geese are silent.
"I say," says the boss goose. "What's that?"
"I'm watering," I tell him. "Now F off or you'll get a beakful of hose water."
"Oh, please," he says. "Pretty please. Could I?"

"You like water?" I ask.
"Yes please, just spray me again."
"What are you doing?" I say. "Get away from my feet."
"Just a little love nibble," says the goose, "See, feel my feathers, aren't they soft? You can pet me now, I am just a gentle peaceful little bird. More water, please."

Thus I reach a tentative agreement with the geese: If I come without a hose, they hiss and bite me. If I turn on the water, they bow and nuzzle my feet. It's what farm life is all about: compromise, and a bit of insanity.