Silk Purses & Sow's Ears: 2020, Farewell

To write this post I decided to look back at my first post for this blog, where I decided that I'd not get political or snarky. I think I've avoided politics, anyhow. In that first post I also said that the tone would be positive here.

Thus this farewell to 2020, a bad year by most accounts, but I'd claim that 1862 or 1942 were far worse, existentially. What can be said good about a difficult year?

First, if you are reading this, consider the alternative: you might not be around to read it, right? Second, think of stuff we get to leave behind. COVID is still with us, along with economic malaise, racial tensions, and the urgent problem of climate change. But one thing is leaving us. Yes, I'm thinking of one particularly hateful person, a walking toxic cloud of entitlement and narcissism. May his remaining days on this planet be miserable. Nuff said. Begone.

Third, think back to the good things you managed to accomplish. I focus a great deal of the DIY infrastructure of rural life here, so I'll share one odd project that changed me in 2020.

We've been gifted (cursed, I'd have said in 2013, when Tractorpunk began) with three 40' shipping containers. One has a broken back, and the rain comes right in. I tried for years to be rid of this thing, and I hated even looking at it. We could not give it away, as we'd done with a few other white elephants on the property. Here's an old truck body, once a den for foxes and discarded cabinets now hanging on the walls of our utility room (the cabinets, not the foxes).

 

For the 40' container, no roll-back truck was going to stop by to get it. I'd contemplated bringing the shop class down from the community college nearby to cut it up, so they'd get practice with their torches.

Then it hit me: that container would work as well as the other two (spanned by a roof to make a run in) if I could stop the rain water from getting in. I kept looking down at it from the barn roof we were coating with a sealant. I don't know how many times I said "you know, we might be able to do something with that stupid thing..."

So first, I cut a hole in the side that I optimistically called a "door" and walked around; this made life easier, as the container's doors are so heavy that the Incredible Hulk would grunt, opening them. A puddle of frozen water had collected, but the wooden floor was solid and I figured we might as well improve it for dry storage.  

To make a long story short, look at the photo that leads off the post.  With my farmhand Quentin, we stretched a line to find level, then built our own rafters and put them atop sill boards; we used old lumber and scrap for 90% of the build. We got everything straight to within 1/16" of that line, and mason lines do not lie when they are taut.

Once we had a metal roof connected to posts set in cement, I had an equipment shelter for plows, disc harrows, and other implements that had been slowly rusting in the rain. Now they are on dry gravel where I can wire-brush, prime, and spray the lot with a coat of new paint. I'll be able to back the tractors up easily to each and attach them for field work.  Others gave sage advice: Jeff, thanks for the reminder that a a fascia board in front will prevent sag between the posts. I found some old boards today in the lumber room that will finish the job.

This transformation of a hated item took a long time. For six years I'd glowered at the damned container, until one day it hit me: make it useful. Why did that take so long?

If you know me, you know I relate to places and objects better than I do to people. Working on stuff brings me joy, as does travel or the allure of timeless landmarks from my childhood. Conversely, too many people are energy-vampires. I just told a friend from my teens who wanted to reconnect "no thanks." I'm not that person any longer and I don't need a "friend" who is only going to draw upon shared memories of our 20s. I was glad to be shut of him, back then. Again, begone. The years are shorter now.

Yet I can be wrong here: even people can change, like that container. Everyone is wearing masks, now. That heartens me.

I'm not sure which J-Bolts, bags of cement, and treated boards would do the trick on a nasty or willfully ignorant human, but those of you with better people skills, don't give up trying to help them, to stop the leaks and frozen spots.

I say that as a guy who turned 60 and now has a couple of long-term health issues. But maybe the next 25 years (if I'm lucky) I have left won't be so miserable as 2020?  The Science-Fiction-sounding year 2021 dawns with a bit of hope, with longer periods of daylight, and a vaccine.

Let's get busy building something worth keeping.

COVID-19 And Six Acres of Solitude

I want to begin by making one thing clear: I want this terrible pandemic over. I feel sorry for those whose lives and livelihoods have been hurting.  No snark forthcoming. It will be a blessing to us all to have a vaccine widely available.

This post will discuss, briefly, my enjoyment in solitary pursuits, and give some tips about field management from a decidedly novice point of view.

In the relative silence of these months, I realized that I do not miss the pre-pandemic world; even my desire to eat an artisanal meal at a locally owned restaurant has been blunted. Part of my feelings are old habits of solitude, as compared to the more social people I know. As I get older, other people seem to wear me out with their constant neediness and lack of resilience in the face of adversity.

My wife and I have been inordinately blessed to have farm work, and lots of it, to keep us occupied and outdoors during the pandemic. We built two structures, improved our raised beds in the garden, expanded the dog run and chicken run, laid in a winter's worth of firewood, and more. Next up, replacing an elderly tractor's wiring harness and working a young livestock dog into our pack of pups, to watch the perimeter.

One huge project, that I've only noted in passing because other projects leave me little time to post more here, involves cultivating six acres of ten across the road from us that belong to my wife's brother. It's a former farm field where dad, aka Big Ed, used to grow tobacco, then soybeans. It went to weeds and saplings years ago, getting only an occasional bush hogging. Over time any ground-nesting birds vanished because fescue (shame on you, Blogger, for not recognizing that word) crept in and it mats too thickly to permit nesting.

My wife's family wanted to hear whippoorwills again and attract coveys of quail. To that end, I've spend about 80 hours in the past two years running heavy machinery and smoking cigars from the tractor seat (okay, about 4 hours of smoking, I'd estimate). The rhythm of the work is really satisfying in a Marie-Kondo sort of way. 

Last year, a landscape biologist from our Extension Agency walked the property and gave us lots of advice, mostly good. I say "mostly" because even the "organic" method of controlling fescue would still involve several thousand dollars for spraying Roundup or similar around the perimeter. That is a DIY cost, mind you, which meant buying a tank and sprayer, too, in order to block fescue creeping in and to leave an ATV/tractor road at the edge. 

The non-organic method involves spraying the entire field. This would kill all the pollinators, including our honeybees.

"No. Hell no," was my response. "I want that crap banned." That's usually my reply to folks who advocate spraying. Granted, the little bottle of Roundup concentrate I apply with a paint brush to Tree of Paradise is still dangerous, but it's hardly the hundred gallons or so we would need to spray a perimeter.

If we want our ecosystem to endure, we need to get beyond our species' suicidal habit of automatically reaching for dangerous chemicals. Period. So our management plan involved mowing the perimeter very short, then plowing, discing, and sowing the ground with plants that suppress weeds and build up the soil.

During the course of the hours on and off the tractors, I learned about managing for wildlife. The first principle involves contacting your extension agent and getting advice. We got a full management plan, free of charge. 

Even if I don't agree with 10% of it, the other 90% is worth its weight in...wild birds. I also highly recommend, for those in my region at least, a PDF guide, Managing Land in the Piedmont of Virginia, authored by the American Bird Conservancy, Piedmont Environmental Council, and the Virginia Department of Game & Inland Fisheries. Check with your state agency to see what they may offer for your bioregion.

Beyond that:

• Think long-term: What are the goals for the property in 5, 10, 20 years? 100? I wished we thought more like that about all our land. But it's good to make a plan that can adapt to a drought, flood, or in these parts an actually cold winter. And farmers should make provisions for keeping the land in family hands and in production. That's another issue for another post.
  
• Know when and if to mow: We had to mow the fescue before tilling it under, to suppress what we did not want. Weeds were up to my shoulders and that meant mowing. Sadly, I had to do so at a time when fauns might be in the grass. I didn't see any, but I began from midfield and mowed outward, rather than starting from an edge; this let wildlife escape.
  
• Not everyone can burn a field: Controlled burns sound great! They mimic what happens in meadow ecosystems, naturally. But good luck finding a crew that wants to take on smaller fields. We were told that below 40 acres, you won't get many offers. So we chose the mow, till, plant method. And for the love of God, don't try a controlled burn if you've never done it. It's a job for pros.
  
• Don't make things worse by cultivating: Soil too wet? You will make a mud field and likely get the tractor stuck. I did that once in a low spot. Too dry? It's Grapes of Wrath time, with a mini Dustbowl of your own making on a windy day. I found that following my two-share plow with a disc harrow as soon as possible, then discing across the furrows really worked well. The second time I put down seed right after, and we had rain. The cover crop / green manure sprouted within a week.
  
• Plant right to improve the soil while attracting game: Ask the extension agent about a soil test if you are unsure. With our heavy clay soil, we opted for adding nitrogen and breaking up the clay. We planted about 700 pounds of seed in 2 plantings: buckwheat, Peredovik sunflower, and iron-clay peas (excellent in clay, as the name suggests) to suppress weeds, followed by a winter crop of rye.  This all gets disced in the next year as a green manure, before replanting. The next spring, I had a tough time finding the peas so I went with buckwheat and the sunflowers. For this winter, I just cut the field but let the weeds and seeds persist, as I see very little fescue. Next year, I'll disc and sow selectively (1 strip disced 6' wide, skip 12', disc again) to begin attracting birds that require some bare spots of soil to build nests. With foxes vanishing around here as coyotes arrive, we may get lucky soon.
  
• Be humble about it all: a neighbor looked out one day and saw a tractor mired, hub-deep, in a furrow. That's because I'd tried to hurry, discing when the ground was too wet. He's an experienced farmer and said nothing, though had the tractor stayed there long enough, I'm sure he'd have offered to pull it out. I should have done it right after plowing...or waited, but no. I learned something about weather and patience. Nature does not work on our schedule. Now I watch the weather, the frost forecast, and the advice of those who know more than I ever will.

By bringing tidiness to the field, what remains sparks joy, as Marie Kondo would say. It also, as practiced, builds habitat for the sorts of animals getting ever scarcer as old fields grow back to forest and active ones are managed with a relentless application of metal blades and poisons. There's personal as well as environmental mindfulness at play. You get you know your inner self when you spend that much time alone without a screen.

You don't need six acres, or 6000, to practice some of these ideas. Spend some time alone on your property without distractions. Then ask:

What would my yard/field/farm/woodland look like if I planted and managed it with the next 100 years in mind? Sounds subversive, doesn't it?

Good.

 

Fermenting Fool

 

Look out, Sandor Katz. I read your book.

Actually, I use his work as reference, as well as many good (and a few dubiously gushing) Web sites to guide me as I learn the arts of lacto-fermentation. What, pray, is that?

You've eaten fermented foods your whole life, if you enjoy kimchi you've had it. Likewise sauerkraut, if it came from someone's kitchen and not a factory jar.

Wikipedia's definition, however, seems to come straight from a high-school chem lab, so I'll try some of the fermentation-fanatic sites for a warmer vibe. Here's a nice definition by Danielle at Fermented Food Lab:

 Lacto-fermentation is the oldest form of food preservation in the world. It involves only salt, water and vegetables. The salt water brine creates an anaerobic environment (free of oxygen) where only lactobacillus bacteria can survive. The lactobacillus bacteria act as a preservative, keeping harmful bacteria from living in the ferment. 

Yes, I too was dubious about this entire business, imagining a lingering death. I've drunk kombucha, mostly out of courtesy to those insisting it is the drink of immortality. Save for one or two times,  I found it dreadful.

My purpose in fermenting things has been to make great ice-box pickles, kraut I can, and the holy grail: golden pepperoncini, my food of the gods. This season I fermented other peppers, notably jalapeño slices and Thai Dragons (whole). For really hot peppers of that sort, fermenting takes the edge off the heat.

I don't offer recipes here. To get started, however, you can consult my gold standard: The National Center for Home Food Preservation. No New-Age mysticism or miracle cures there, just trustworthy advice that will not make you sick. Start there for pickles and kraut and basic how-tos. After that, venture into the briny wilds of the Interwebs. Experiment, carefully.

 Suffice to say I've learned a few things:

• Adding a grape leaf to the fermenting crock helps keep veggies crisp.
• Fermented foods store in the fridge a long time. I do add a bit of vinegar to the top of the jar, heresy to some who ferment but one of my favorite ingredients. My kitchen, my rules.
• Hot, humid weather really shortens the time needed. My ferments in Fall take take several more days. Keep the crocks away from sunny windows, in any case.
  
• Brine matters. I found an excellent online calculator you might wish to try, to get the right percentage of brine for your crock.
• Cheap Morton Kosher or Pickling salts are excellent. Perhaps pricey sea-salt would change things, but my uncultured palate barely can sense a difference. Just do not use iodized salt. 

If you find a good recipe for crisp, flavorful okra, let me know. That was my only fermenting failure this year. And how I love okra.

A Recipe for Middle Eastern Tomato Sauce

 

You have a garden or farmer's market. Use them, and learn to put up food. It's a great benefit of the extra time we have now during this pandemic.

 I was asked for this, and every year I have enough tomatoes to put up about 8 pints, if not more. This will make four quart jars for canning...maybe.

• Gallon pot of tomatoes, any kind, cut up (Romas and similar will make a thicker sauce). You can peel them if you wish. I don't
  
• One onion, chopped
• Six cloves garlic, or more, minced
• Green pepper chopped small
  
• Tablespoon of dry oregano (use less if chopped, fresh)
  
• Other dry herbs such a basil (tablespoon, crushed) or thyme (up to a tablespoon, crushed). Use less if chopped, fresh
• Teaspoon cinnamon
• Teaspoon allspice
• 1/2 teaspoon black pepper or more to taste
• Teaspoon salt or more to taste
• (Optional) 1/2 teaspoon hot pepper flakes.
  

 

That's really it. I often cook the tomatoes down a bit first, bringing them to a boil in a heavy dutch oven, then pressing them down with a potato masher to release the juice. The trick is very slow cooking, and I let the sauce simmer on a simmer-setting burner, with the top tight or just loose enough for steam to escape.
 

Watch the pot and stir occasionally to avoid thing burning. Cook until thick, at least 8 hours!

This makes a great base for lots of Lebanese dishes and it can also become chili con carne, pasta sauces, and more. 

I brown ground lamb and add it, then serve it over basmati rice. Or chop and fry up some okra and add it. You can't go wrong.

It cans well, with the water-bath method.  One thing: be SURE to follow recipes well, including adding citric acid or lemon juice in particular! Granny had more acidic tomatoes than we do today.

Update 2022: I now use a pressure cooker method recommended by The National Center for Home Food Preservation. Their spaghetti sauce recipe is closet to this one in terms of processing safety to avoid botulism.

That Hurricane Thing, Again

Every year what I call the Atlantic Shooting Gallery lines up with tropical disturbances bound for the Caribbean and US East Coast. Though we live far enough inland to avoid the worst effects, my experience in 2003 during Hurricane Isabel and Tropical Storm Gaston taught me to prepare. My nephew Chris, with Homeland Security, has tried for years to get the family to do the same.

If Chris is reading this, I'll add that it's like shouting into a hurricane. It seems that only the bad experience of living through one does the trick. So what DO you need, beyond the expected candles, first-aid kit, oil lamp, flash light, battery powered radio?

A water filter: I was recently asked about backpacking filters, and I'm fond of the household and personal ones from Sawyer. But MSR and other firms make fine ones. Be sure you get more than a filter; get a purifier.  We used one of Sawyer's household units for over a month until we got a UV filter put into our well. It was clunky but we had lots of drinking water.

A full tank of gas: When the power goes out, so do the gas pumps. It's so easy to forget this one. I topped off our daily driver today, just before tucking it into the garage.

A fistful of dollars: I love cash. I don't like the government or big corporations knowing my spending habits. Yes, I'm Libertarian that way. Cash may wane in decades to come, especially after the pandemic ends (Amazon has been a good friend this year) but when the lights go out, cash is still King.

A chainsaw: Don't wait until the next storm hit to teach yourself. Also, don't get me wrong; if you don't know how to use one, don't get one unless you are willing to put in the time learning proper use and care. They are as finicky as they are dangerous. An electric won't do you much good after a storm, but it might be your gateway to a gas-powered one. I cannot comment on cheap brands, but I will say "buy a Husqvarna or Stihl." I own both, but currently I'm leaning "Husky" because it's lighter, starts easily, and I actually enjoy using it. The Stihls seem to have a life of a decade, and they are heavy as logs.

I am so enamored of sawing wood that I bought my own chain sharpener, an electric bench-mounted device. You might opt for a spare chain, and get the shop to sharpen yours as needed (it's not an expensive service). My one tip for new saw owners is "do not store E-10 gasoline in the saw. Ever." I have a source of ethanol-free 93 octane, and I mix a gallon at a time. I burn about 3 a year. If you don't have a source for such gas, either buy Stihl's expensive Moto-mix fuel if you don't use a lot, or buy high-test and never mix more than a gallon. Empty the saw after you run it.

A camp stove: We used our Coleman for the 12 days in 2003 when we were without power, since we had an electric range in the kitchen. It was simply nicer to cook outdoors, anyhow.

Block Ice: You may lose your power and food in the freezer, but even with a generator, you can only keep so much fuel (in our case, Propane) handy. I like to make block ice to extend a dead freezer's useful life. It can go in coolers, too, or be put in pet water when the AC is out.

A big tarp: Let's say the worst happens: a tree or part of it punches through your roof. If you have a tarp and some nails, you can make a temporary repair so you don't have flooding, too. If your roof is too steep to reach, don't even think of trying this. I did, however, once put down a tarp over a roof that a roofer had left partly uncovered, when a terrible rain storm arrived. So now I keep a few handy, and they have lots of other uses. If not exposed to UV light, they can last many years.

Now what did I not think of? Booze. But the sorts of folks I like all enjoy drinking. They have that one covered. And if you get through this storm unscathed, remember: this is early in the season. Get ready.

Summer Tractorpunk Reading: Alas, Babylon

June managed to slip by in a flurry of Fall-semester planning and summer-garden planting, so not a post from me. But now that some of the frenzy is behind, and the tomatoes beginning to ripen, I've had time to read a few books. My summer custom is a nautical book (Williwaw,  by Gore Vidal) and a travel one (Mani, by Patrick Leigh Fermor). I even read Rowling's second Harry Potter novel; I'm not a fan but it's a fun diversion from racial-tensions, atop American incompetence and selfishness in the face of a pandemic. Then I tackled a book for the very times we are in, one I'd tried to read 40 years or more ago.

When I was a teen, I began Pat Frank's then famous 1959 novel Alas, Babylon. Back then, the world seemed dangerously close to a nuclear exchange with the Soviets, and to an OCD kid who loved dark science fiction, I wanted to see the glowing mutants stumbling through the radioactive dust of scorched cites. It was a sort of whistling in the dark. I never finished the book, because the cover was the scariest part. The image above is the edition I owned, but the back had no bar-code. Those didn't exist on books in the 70s.

Inside the book, to dorky me, the human drama of survival was boring.  I wanted big explosions and flesh-eating monsters under a Strontium sky.

Now I prefer well developed characters. It seems that only character will get us out of the perils of 2020, when everything seems a powderkeg of a different sort than the global one in 1959. One detail that did stay with me from my teen-aged abortive reading was the blurb on the paperback's back cover, something about the "thin veneer" of civilization vanishing. Well, I learned a new word at least. And that's a good take on Frank's novel, one that compares favorably to more recent work such as Jim Kunstler's World Made by Hand novels or the older Earth Abides by George Stewart. That final one might have been best for this summer, as it concerns a pandemic. Or Octavia Butler's The Parable of the Sower, with its depiction of a racist American dystopia in the midst of environmental crises.

As for nuclear-war fiction? My gold standard has come to be Miller's A Canticle for Leibowitz, but that too is another story.

Yet Frank's novel kept calling me. And this time, the human drama kept me reading it. I finished in a couple of sessions, so it's most definitely a page turner.  The book might be called one of the gentlest treatments of nuclear war imaginable; Brian Aldiss called such fictions "cozy catastrophes." Frank lets the horrors happen offstage, making the book readable for those who are ordinarily terrified by such fiction. The little town of Fort Repose, Florida, gets lucky, when an east wind and perhaps a Russian dud aimed at Cape Canaveral save them from the fallout. Yet necessities soon become scarce, the lights go out, and the town's one doctor must cope as best he can.

He'd make a fine protagonist, but Frank chooses Randy Bragg, who begins the novel as a somewhat dissolute Korean-War veteran whose family fortune is quickly vanishing. He's not a static character, as one recent reviewer claims, nor a shallow one. The same review critiques, rather unfairly, a perceived masculist tone of the book, largely based on one moment of internal dialog in Bragg's head.  If anything, Bragg exemplifies the sort of Southern small-town Progressive whose was very rare then and, too often, now: he helps and befriends his African-American neighbors The Henrys, and he demonstrates sympathy for the women in his life. Minor characters, while not as richly drawn as some of Kunstler's, offer a glimpse into the world of ours, circa 1959, on the brink of ending. I particularly enjoyed the Western Union operator, whose contacts with the outside world on The Day show that before the Internet, there was still a global network. The arrogant town banker remains sadder; soon his bank is worthless, because it has only paper money no good for trade.

That points to what remains my biggest problem with World Made By Hand; I wanted Kunstler's story to begin in our own period of technological plenty. In Frank's book, we get that for a good part of the novel. It's nostalgic, too. I well recall pre-Interstate Florida before over-development began the ruination that a rising sea will finish in a century or two.

Yet Alas, Babylon is far from perfect. Dialogue can get wooden between the sexes, in particular. Randy is a bit of a stretch. He has three (at least) old or potential flames and this takes the book into the male-fantasy camp. Yet despite that misstep, the novel really looked ahead in terms of racial politics and a sense of social justice, even if that includes rough justice for highwaymen. Their menace is well portrayed, as they begin to prey upon all races in Fort Repose when the pickings grow slim elsewhere in Florida's "Contaminated Zone."

Why read the book now? And what is it doing in a blog about rural life? I would claim it's a study in building a self-reliant community. I don't believe in the American myth of self-sufficiency, as I've noted before. But self-reliance as a key to resilience? That I celebrate, and Bragg's story takes off when he decides that he and his family need to join others in town to keep that veneer of civilization from vanishing, altogether. They share resources to get well water, post notices about dangers, keep a short-wave radio working, organize a constabulary, make their own alcohol, maintain the town library, fish in the uncontaminated waters around Fort Repose. 

In that regard and others, Alas, Babylon proves a hopeful book for this pandemic. Theirs is a world where folks do what is best for each other, even if they choose a wrong path initially. I compare that to our failure to stay out of restaurants and off beaches. Those show our lack of self-reliance, our inability to sacrifice. Yet there's hope. In the store yesterday, I saw only one white, angry-looking guy without a mask. A few weeks ago, most of the customers went about unmasked.

It's good to see some progress. That's one reason to dig out this old book and see how a classic story of disaster handles the human capacity for cooperation. May we do half so well this year and beyond. Seeing that angry man in the grocery store actually encouraged me. He and his selfish notion of "freedom" looked puny, and I think at some level, he knew it. 

We'll outlast such attitudes.

A Good Set of Snips

Life is too short, and work too frustrating, using cheaply made tools. So today I have two recommendations for an everyday item for anybody with a garden.

One of my favorite local merchants is called Down the Garden Path, and they pop up at local garden shows. They carry lots of decor, but I go to them for hand tools, especially ones from Japan or with specialized, high-quality materials.

With an in-person purchase out of the question for Spring, I contacted them about ordering a larger set of Barebones snips that I'd gotten a few years back. I find them indispensable for harvesting greens, peas, and other produce. They snip twine I use for trellising peas and other spindly things.

I was greatly disappointed that Barebones is out of stock on that tool, but I got a different set and I'll compare how they work.

Barebones Small Shears

My small Barebones shears embody the company ethos: campers, DIYers, foragers, contrarians about consumer culture. People with tattoos who actually work in flannel shirts, not simply wear them at the brewpub or gallery opening.

These are my People: they'd rather split wood than push a button to have heat from a furnace. They'd tell stories instead of watching television. They'd drive a 1970...

Okay, I need to control myself. Maybe they do like TV, but they make some stunning axes, as well as gear for dining outdoors. We'd already gotten their hori-hori, based upon its heft and obvious quality.

I didn't know who they were when I bought the snips, but something about the design appealed to me. The metal looks sturdy, the wood grips on the handles remind me of quality grips on a old-time single-action cowboy revolver (another fetish of mine). The ergonomics are right; the big finger holes mean that you can get more than a single finger in when cutting, and that reduces strain on the hand when you are, say, going down 100 feet of row. There is no rattling about the pivot for the blades nor screw to work loose. The blades have a positive stop when fully open, so you don't overdo things.

Actually, scissors-geeks call that a pivot ride or balance face. Well, Barebones gots 'em!

It was only after using the tool that I found their site and realized I was in the company of other tractorpunks.

I shop my values, and I wanted snips that would outlive me. Barbones supplied them. We liked them so much we bought a second pair. At under $30, that's a good investment. They have never seen the sharpening stone.

Joshua Roth GardenCut #130

Back to my dread of trying another set of snips, after finding perfection, when the folks at Down the Garden Path suggested that I do so. They sent me these when the large Barebones were out of stock and they were gracious, as the Joshua Roths run 5-10 bucks more than the other shears. Again, that's yet another reason to buy locally. Amazon won't curate a purchase for you like that.

Happily, these "pruning shears," made in Taiwan, worked really well. They have the same dedication to quality I find in the Barebones tools. And unlike tools from the Mainland, ones from Taiwan have always impressed me, so I gave them a go.

Big plus that they are favored for Bonsai, a fiddly hobby I admire from a distance, having enough fiddling to do. Yet that speaks volumes about their sharpness and accuracy.

The reader will see that the blades are actually shorter than the Barebones, but the extra length of the handles and big finger holes mean they can do bigger jobs.

They also open WIDE, so I can snip something the size of a broccoli stalk. I've been using Felcos to cut rose canes, but I think these shears will soon perform that duty.  They do not have quite the tractorpunk gravitas of the Barebones, and, gasp, the finger holes are encased in plastic, I mean "polyflex soft vinyl," not Colt .45 walnut, partner. Despite that caveat, the vinyl has a pleasant give and I challenge you to get a blister using them. The metal is cutlery grade steel, so it should last a long time if treated well.

I'm happy to store both in the kitchen tool drawer. I cannot bring myself to toss them into the garden bucket, and in the kitchen I find many culinary uses for them.  Yes, I'll get more, starting with the larger Barebones. It's a sickness.

Now then, back to gardening!