All New Wholesome Tales

THE TALE OF THE WISE CRANBERRY FARMERS



Once upon a time, and no more than twice, there were two fine hobbits, a hairy Usahobbit by name Dave O'Cranberry and an Ozhobbit by name Orwell McOdo (the Nineteenth), and so fine they were they had to eat a lot so as to grow wide enough to be seen when standing sideways.

Now there came a time of the Great Climate Debate, when they (in their different Hemispheres) watched the skies daily for signs of rain, for Dave had a great crop of cranberries a'growing, and Orwell had some too, though not quite as many as Dave, truth to be told, and this is a true tale, of sorts.

"G'day Davey," Orwell wired Dave one sunny Southern Hemisphere day - though it was about midnight in Texas (or Washington State, or Nebraska). "Why ol' Dave, my hairy friend, it appears even Frodo Two, the Eruvian Pope, has warned all Forumshire to ware the warming of the lands all round - which is not to say he's sure yet the world is round."

"Yes - I saw him on palantir sharing fine speeches with our Afro-American Hobbitpresident who some as say is a Muslim and some as say he ain't. Why I do declare, it be a Holy warning it be - and a warming! - a warming to us all. You know, our Pope only believes solidly in one thing normally," Dave wired back.

"And that be?" Orwell wired.

"That be: he believes in the existence of Our Lord, Eru Illuvatar, invisible Master of Sky and Earth, the entire Forumverse it be known, maker of various Sexual Laws and the proclaimer of rules and everlasting penalties for all sorts of things that might appear to an Atheist to be rather silly things to have rules and everlasting penalties for."

"Bless Eru!"

"Indeedy I do, I do! ... Anyhoo, Pope Frodo now believes in another thing, a thing beyond doubt... "Climate Change!", that's it, indeedy!"

"So I guess the rain I'm looking for may not come except in a situation and a time wherefore it was not wont to come aforenow all the lifelong time I've been on Eru's flat earth!" Orwell pined (sounding somewhat like Dave just then, truth be known).

"That would seem mostly to be the case, I'd reckon, buckaroo."

"Well, stone the crows and boil a galah in me akubra! It seems I must go on tending to my (small) crop of tart cranberies with the old watering can."

"And me with me gigantic pivot irrigation systems," pined Dave. "Or, at least, until those damn Ranchers start putting more carbon back in the soil!"

"Damn them windswept Ranchers and their soil-carbon deluding practices!" Orwell pined back, as he reached for his trusty watering can.

"Darn tootin'", Dave pined back as he turned on the outdoor lights, left the homestead, and climbed the ladder to his eight-thousand-horse-powered mechanical eighteen-axled pivot-setter, it's huge headlights blaring across the vast verdant landscape like there were now three Forumshire Suns (three, of course, if you also include the one in the Southern Hemisphere that is).



THE END

How many cranberry vines you up to now, Odo? Two, three?

No one matches the Bugle for topical fiction in response to current forum goings-on!

The Archet Bugle wrote:Dave ... climbed the ladder to his eight-thousand-horse-powered mechanical eighteen-axled pivot-setter

I'm glad I'm not the only one who remembers those.  Really weird but also really interesting the context in which they were used.

This is great word-play!

THE TALE OF THE WISE CRANBERRY FARMERS - A SEQUEL

"Would that be that Orwell Mcodo (the Nineteenth) of whom I am a cranberry associate?" Dave O'Cranberry said on his telephone device. "It sure be sounding like your voice it be," he added in his slightly disrespectably realised American twang.

"Stone the crows and boil my grandmother, of course you know it's me, Davey - and it's a dinkum beaut evening in these Southern Climes, Davey - absoloutely beaut, what with the cocatoos making a riot in the gum tree tops and the blue wrens chirrupping or whatever in the underbrush. But sadly or not, I haven'r rung about that, I've rung to say I've changed."

"Your underpanties? You said you only changed them last Tuesday....?"

"No, my philosophy on landcare and the saving of the planet generally - and I'd take it is a kindness, friend, if you wouldn't mention certain undergarments as I fear the Religious Right is tapping my telephone (again) - Bless Eru."

"Bless Eru and all His Elves!"

"Yes, Bless them All. Anyway, I have been reading up and Forumtubing all sorts of interesting stuff about Biomimicry, Permaculture and Holistic Management, Davey, and it has changed me, changed me completley, old chum."

"Into what?" Dave asked, somewhat on his guard now. "You're not a pelican, or something else unnatural are you? Well, no more unnatural than a'fore I means."  

"Pelicans aren't unnatural."

"Every hobbit in Forumshire has a right to his opinion, friend, and you, of all hobbits, should know that. Anyhow, I thought you've been reading all that enivro-regenerative save-the-world crap for yonks."

"But it's changed me this time, I now even half believe it all."

"Oh sweet Eru!"

"Yes, I know, it does sound peculiar for an old and crusty cynic like myself."

"Fogey, you mean?"

"Same thing!" Orwell replied somewhat testily. "Well, leastways down here in the Furthest South of Ozhobbitstan. Cynic. Fogey. Same thing really - though cynic sounds hard edged and masculine somehow, while fogey seems to come armed with a rather dismissive quality."

"Not that I'd ever be dismissive of a (smallscale) cranberry grower and his wild theories," Dave said.

"No, I'd never accuse a (largescale) cranberry grower of that," Orwell rejoined (somewhat fogelly).    

"Anyhow, what's it all mean, this 'changing' that isn't actually one's undergarments - or does it include undergarents?"

"It includes all things. Did you know that there is a beetle in a desert somewhere - probably the Forumshiran Sahara or something - that condenses atmospheric moisture on it's body to supply itself water? And it's possible (apparently) to use a similar coating on the skins of buildings to collect water for cities. Fancy that!"

"With all due respect, I don't, Orwell. Imagine how smoggy and toxinated Eru's-liquid would become!"

"Is toxinated even a word?"

"It is in Forumshire (apparently). I tell ya, buckaroo - I won't be drinking no contaminated city water. I'd call it Morgoth's-spit, I would! You of all people should know I love the country air and the splendour of the verdant honey dripped sunset in the west with the promise of Eru's gentle piddling rain falling on the lands - and not the neon-lit polluted vistral falsity they call 'The Cities', and others, 'Morgoth Places', with their ever present pissclouds on the murky horizon!"

"You make perfect sense," Orwell said, somewhat sadly, as Dave's bucolic country practicality had immediately dashed yet another of his rather idealistic dreams. "Well, I best be off to catch up my watering can."

"Aye! The pivot mechanical contraption and the morning watering be a'waiting," Dave replied.

THE END

but, but...we still don't know perzactly how many cranberry vines Orwell has. I counted 3 last time.

talk about Beetle monologues

Ol' Anon thought you guys would be in bed! He didn't even get an undetected edit in! Grrrrr....

And I have TWO Cranberries. One died, sadly, and through no fault of my husbandry (I'm sure). {{{I'm about to put them in the bathtub again, but in pots this time to use wicking as the mode of watering, so I hope they'll like it, Halfy. Apparently, they take seven years to fruit but I've had to put back the scheduling on that - not because of my husbandry so far (I'm sure) but because of pure farmer's ill luck! }}}

It'll be a proud day when you finally sit down to eat your half dozen cranberries. Seven years....most marriages don't last that long. I admire your dedication to a couple transplants struggling to survive in a whole new world: no doubt you're significantly adding to the southern population of cranberries, with all the rest living a sheltered life in a herbivarium or two.

Maybe you'll get lucky and they'll come up hallucinogenic.

Its all vegetables to me

Dedication doesn't probably exactly describe my husbandry so far -- somehow your encouraging words have chastened me, Halfy, and I promise to be better. I mean, cranberries are people too. I may even stuff and mount those cranberies on my wall as trophies I shall, if their arrival ever become a reality.

Pettytyrant101 wrote:Its all vegetables to me

And I'd have you be no other way, Petty.

How come you guys are all still up? Shouldn't you be in bed?

only 7 pm here. Petty's the miscreant, but only by midnight.

I am, in truth I'm sick as a dog have been all day. Cant even seem to get properly drunk- and its not like I'm not trying here!!

I was planning on getting amazing amounts of work done today, but instead all of done is answered emails, posted a few things, and kept eagerly checking back for responses. That can take a whole damn day, if you set your procrastinators on "high".

that's all I do. procrastinate from morning to night. and then when I finally do knuckle down I seem to think 10 minutes work demands a one hour coffee break. I am procrastinating as we speak, mind you its midnight so its allowed.

Mrs Figg wrote:that's all I do. procrastinate from morning to night. and then when I finally do knuckle down I seem to think 10 minutes work demands a one hour coffee break. I am procrastinating as we speak, mind you its midnight so its allowed.

I'm not sure drinking coffee can be accurately described as procrastinating, Mrs Figg - well, at least, not in regard to drinking coffee anyhow.

And Halfy - don't want to sound critical or anything, but you make procrastination sound like hard work. Surely it is one of the better things in life???? You seem to be making it hard for yourself. I suggest you relax and not bother about them emails. (Reading betwen the lines, you don't seem to savour the whole email thing).    

And, Petty, I always find you trying, sick or not, so don't be too hard on yourself.

I just noticed this tread!

There's 6 of us harvesting now, picking and packing about an acre a day on average, we've done about 20 acres and have about 30 to go.

I've often thought about your two lonely plants Orwell, and wondered how they were doing. They should be reaching puberty by about now. Have they tried budding yet?
It can be an awkward time for them, especially without others of their kind around to serve as role models. Let me know if I can be of any help!

Maybe you have some of 'em adolescent cranberry magazines you can send over for Orwell to read to them, sort of furtive like. Give some hint as to the facts of life.

Orwell - if I didn't like reading emails I'd hardly use it as a procrastinatory tool, now would I? The great things about emails is you have to take your time refining the responses, for once you press that button you're done for. Great time waster, emails.

THE TALE OF THE WISE CRANBERRY FARMER AND THE PHYSITICIAN

"Well, I'll be Eru darned!!! Did my Grandmother go off and marry that pig and change the whole family genetics after all!"  Dave O'Cranberry expostulated as he stared in shock at his computerator thingee.

"What's this!!!"(He further expostulated).

"Well, tie my vegetables in daisy chains! If it's not an email!! It could have been a wizard's trifle! but, no, it's an email alright, and from my old Physitician friend, Halfwise son of Halfwit - and no one knowing who his mother was, and all - but I'm the last to hold that against anyone, being a man who'd prefer he hadn't had a Grandmother hisself - at least on my Daddy's side! What's this? Best read it and find out, methinks."


Hello Dave, you know this is not my preferred method of communication, but as you seem to be on the palantir or on the telephone device or on the wire whenever I try to contact you - or possibly pivotting - I thought I might try something more new fangled.  

"New fangled, orright!" Dave muttered. "And probably invented by the Russians!"

I would take it as a particular kindness if you would answer me a question as has been troubling me for sometime, and I thought, as there be many many emails on my email-platter, which I much prefers to be ignoring at the moment, I would make this communicatory effort, though not procrastinatingly.


"Only sense that," Dave muttered in grudging agreement. "Only sense!"

I thought I'd take the time to ask you - trusting it's midnight there and you'll maybe be taking your mulled cranberry powerwhacker and smoking your cherub. Anyhow: What's going on with Orwell at the mo? He's been sending me epistles by Express Eagle all week about something called 'Saving-Forumshire-from-Tyrants.' Seems to think the owners of ForumshireMultinational - by whom I assume he means Lord Eldorion and Lady Amarie - are polluting all of Forumshire with the intent of making stupendus amounts of money while simultaneously killing off every Life Form on our green planet, which seems to be something of a cross-purpose if true, and alarming too. Yours, Halfy.


Dave emitted a deep sigh. There was nothing for it but to reply.

'Dear Halfy, we have been close friends for a long time, and I think we have engendered much trust through our long and sometimes sordid relationship - through the thick and thins of our disputes about carrot colours and various climactic phenomena (a word I have no way of knowing is spelled correctly having used my last dictionary for kindling)- where was I? I suppose I might go back and rewrite this, but I think the hour is late enough as is... Halfy, you know as well as I that Orwell is a strange gangrel creature - irrespective of his view that he is a handsome manly type - and he comes up with all sorts of ridiculous ideas about important things that he knows nothing about but seems to think he knows everything about. So, to be direct and to the point, I strongly advise there is nothing for you to worry about. You see, the Lord and Lady you mention are altruistic types who only denude and destroy forests and desertify the planet in their moneymaking schemes so that the few lucky survivors of their environmental business practices might have a better quality of life. Mr Odo Banks, I am lead to believe, is their Mentor and confidant - and we know of his unimpeachable character. So, to end, ignore Orwell's blatherings. He does seem to waste a lot of valuable thing researching all sorts of esoteric subjects like Biomimicry, Permaculture and Holistic Management while tending his cranberry crop only in moderation. Perhaps he needs to spend more time researching (and caring for) his cranberries, and less time thinking up ways to make Forumshire a greener and healthier planet. Yours, Dave.  

Dave sat, somewhat uncomfortable now, in his favorite armchair with its Queen Anne legs and scratched his hairy chin thoughtfully. "Sometimes I wonder if my old friend Orwell needs to take a good hard look at himself, however painful that must be. I mean, sometimes I wonder if he knows what it truly is to be a proper cranberry farmer and a member of our fraternity." And then he sighed again and drawled fatalistically, "But nothing more of it tonight," as he reached for the tobacco jar.


THE END  

'I strongly advise there is nothing for you to worry about. You see, the Lord and Lady you mention are altruistic types who only denude and destroy forests and desertify the planet in their moneymaking schemes so that the few lucky survivors of their environmental business practices might have a better quality of life. Mr Odo Banks, I am lead to believe, is their Mentor and confidant - and we know of his unimpeachable character.'- Anon


Gold Anon, pure gold.

Yes - and they're making a lot of it at the expense of Eru's Grecian girlfriend, Gaia!

'I would take it as a particular kindness if you would answer me a question as has been troubling me for sometime, and I thought, as there be many many emails on my email-platter, which I much prefers to be ignoring at the moment, I would make this communicatory effort, though not procrastinatingly.


"Only sense that," Dave muttered in grudging agreement. "Only sense!" '

THE TALE OF THE WISE CRANBERRY FARMER, HIS TWO CRANBERRIES, AND A CHANGE OF PERSPECTIVE

"Of course," the prominent member of the International Cranberry Fraterny (ICF)(Orwell McOdo, that is) said in his wise and articulate voice with it's masculine sub-timbre, "these cranberries have not performed as a hobbit of Ozhobbitstan would usually have an expectation of. These cranberies don't seem to handle wracking heat and my special brand of Ozhobbit moderate care all too well. Being Americoshiran in source, I suppose I can't expect hardy virile fruiting plants, just these milder fruits of a more laid back temperament - say 'feminine' and one wouldn't be far wrong - or maybe even 'fruity', which kind of nature we more virile types Downunder don't go in for so much. Oh well, I'll give 'em another try by putting them in this bathtub with some of my more robust Ozhobbistani (tough minded) aquatic plants. Maybe by psychological osmosis these cranberries might become sterner fruit - or wither with embarrassment recognising their comparative unmanliness - either way, I guess this will be their last chance, save another one or two if they survive somehow again under my moderate tenderation."

Just then his pocketpalantir went off.

"Now who might that me at this early hour? I hope it's not that evil duo Lord Eldo and Lady Amarie again warning me with certain 'consequences' if I continue to rebell against their evil regime and their diabolical plans and projects, Illuvatar damn ém!"

But it wasn't that evil duo, it was the familiar drawl of his fraternal brother, Dave O'Cranberry from the U.S. of Americoshire.

"Why howdy doody, my good friend Orwell!" said he (Dave).

Orwell thought, 'Howdy doody', is it? I suspect Dave's in an ornery mood. He can be over cheerful when he's fit to blast the barnacles of my arse!

"Now I am a friend as well as your brother of the ICF," Dave proceeded, getting to the point quickly, as was his plain country way. "Now, this business of Lord-and-Lady-baiting, Orwell - it do have to stop. Those two fine gentlemen don't want to be hearing your wild theories and scuttlebut shooting out like a gattling gun all the life long days (except Sundee when you're at Church). They have enough on their plates with running our Forumshiran Planet without the added cares of you being so revolting..."

"I'd prefer to say 'rebelling', truth be known..."

"Hush, man! You're revolting. All of us knows it! Absolutely revolting! Ask anyone. And it's got to stop, my fraternal friend. It's unbecoming, Eru dammit! Do you hear! Un - bee - cum - ing! Everyone thinks so, even that fine belle Julia Figg, your erstwile lover, that's before that damn Scotshobbit stole her heart."

"What! She has a completely unconcealed contempt for that bowlegged Scotshobbit!"

"Yeah, sure, like as if their hitched and only ever have angry sex - which, of course, is the best kind as both you and me know. But don't try to avoid the thrust of my lecturin', Orwell! I don't want to threaten you, but the Grand Poobah of the ICF has been muttering lately. Yep! Muttering! Not just muttering - muttering about you and your wild allegations."

"Now listen here, friend," And Orwell was incredibly angry at Dave just then (though, not on this occasion, sexually). "What about all their degradation and destruction of the Forumshiran biosphere! , it being a well known fact! They even have it in their Press Release - you know the one. The key bit! 'Best that ten people live in paradisical splendour than four billion in moderate prosperity'. Morgoth's bells! They're pinned on every bulletin board in Forumshire! And, frankly, I think they're being a bit too bloody obvious about it for my liking!"

Dave paused and he thought quickly. He decided to change tack. In a suddenly smooth and patient tone, Dave asked: "Have you ever stopped to consider who that ten may be?"

"Huh?"

"Well, I shouldn't speak out of school, but as I hear it," Dave lied pragamatically (on behalf of the common good), "your name has come up more'n once in discussions, brother!" .

Orwell paused then, briefly speechless for once, not that anyone should get used to it; and then: "No, no, no -that couldn't be a possibility --- could it...?"

"I shouldn't like to continue talking out of school, buckaroo," Dave lied again, warming to his task, "but it's a well known fact our revered Lord and Lady hold you in the highest regard, and in spite of all your mad hatted rantings!" .  

"Oh.... I seeeee..." Orwell replied slowly and thoughtfully. "Um... Well, then.... Um err.... and what of Julia Figg..?" (Julia Figg, you see, was rarely far from his mind, whether in or out of nylons).

Dave was quick to see the workings of Orwell's febrile mind - it being Orwell after all. "Ahh! I think I see the thrust of your febrile mind, Orwell. Well, I don't suppose there would be any reason why you couldn't keep her."

"Oooh... I think I'd like that. I wonder if she'd mind at all?"

"Well, now, "Dave said cunningly. "Who wouldn't want to be the servile slave of a Member of the Eruvian Ten?"

"Is that how we'll be known?"

"Aye!"  Dave coughed.  

"And I'll get to keep Julia Figg...for me... and no one else... not even Petty...?"

"Of course - goes without saying, buckaroo - being one of the Ten and all..."

"But what about Petty? Will he be left to starve to death - or be fatally toxinated...slowly... or will I be able to kill him with my blundebuss?"

"Whatever you like," Dave grinned, for the mention of blunderbusses in any context always cheered him. "You will be one of the Ten, after all. I did say that, didn't I? And it's not like I'd try and fill your head with wild schemes we'll never allow you a hope in Mordor of carrying out."

"Who will the other nine be, I wonder?" Orwell began to speculate. "I mean, you of course, and the Lord and Lady - but who else?"

"Oh, that can be decided later," Dave answered quickly, as that was Very Secret Information indeed.  

Doubt and sudden anxiety accosted Orwell: "But what if Julia doesn't want to be my servile slave?"

"I don't think you quite understand, Orwell," Dave retortrted firmly. "She'll do exactly as she's told."

"Really?""

"Well," Dave said sombrely. "We may have to hogtie her first - or manacle her to a big brass bed - or to a banquet table - or to a post in the town square of Needlehole ----- anyhow, we'll work that out later."

"Best gag her too."

"Goes without saying, brother."

"It is nice just thinking about it," Orwell said with a seraphic smile, for lots of splendid scenarios involving Julia Figg (powerless in his power) were fluttering now like erotic butterflies through his predicatable mind.

"So, Orwell, can I take it as given that your infernal badgering of our Lord and Lady will stop immediately?"

"I guess so," Orwell said slowly, and not that reluctantly. "After all," Orwell added after a moment. "Lifelong Ideals and strong held ethics are all well and good and that, but it's not like your lifelong ideals and strong held ethics can't change ever."

"Good. Good!" Dave drawled, quite enjoying this sojourn into evil manipulation. "With that settled, I'm off to tend the cranberry harvest. Only thirty acres left - and I have to keep an eye of me workers. Caught one eating a cranberry yesterdee. Shot him of course. Goodbye for now."

"Goodbye! Goodbye!" Orwell answered enthusastically, trying to sound as friendly and obliging as he could.

And given his new hopes (however falsely constructed by Dave) who can blame him?