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| A brand new sacuanjoche, the national flower of Nicaragua! |
Saturday, August 19, 2017
Sacuanjoche Update
My query regarding the mysterious appendages my little sacuanjoche treeling was sporting last month has been satisfied at last. No, the twigs were not evidence of a branching out of the original single stem, although that, in fact, has happened, as several new junctures have occurred just below the twigs in question. The pictorial below attests:
Friday, August 18, 2017
More Bits and Bobs
A Case of The Blahs
Soon, classes at Keiser University Latin American Campus will resume, and my twice-weekly tutoring schedule with them. The past two months since my vacation have seemed hermitic (Is there such a word? Hermitically sealed?). I have spent most of my time alone, in the company of my little Greek chorus, the three doggies who follow me inside and out, constantly craving attention and treats. Of course, Maria José and her brother Roger have come to do their work in the house and garden, and I make my usual rounds to pay bills and buy groceries, but I have felt zero inclination to see anyone or do anything in particular. Likewise, my energy level has been quite low. On humid mornings, I feel incapable of walking even a quarter-mile. Napping is my favorite activity, and I wonder if I shall ever feel like doing anything ever again.
I'm chalking it up to rainy season malaise. When the humidity drops, I'll perk up.
Walking in Nicaragua
When I was a little girl, my eyes were not straight. I have always used only one eye, as the other sees a different angle, and using both would result in a double image. Surgeries and eye patches helped straighten out my appearance to some degree, but because my classmates at Our Mother of Sorrows school in Johnstown were so cruel (especially the son of my eye doctor!), I always walked home looking down at my feet, so as not to invite comment.
I got over it; further surgery in adulthood helped. Lately, though, I have reverted to that earlier form. Here in Nicaragua, I dare not step unmindfully, or I risk ending up prone and bruised. Most sidewalks, when there are sidewalks, are narrower than we have in the States, and have lozenge-shaped access holes for water pipes below. Some of the holes still have cement lids, but many do not, and some have crumbled to twice their original size. It's a perilous path indeed.
Not only that, but everywhere, there are lingering stubs of metal sign posts that have been mostly removed, save for two or three inches of steel sticking up in the middle of the road or sidewalk. Twice, after descending from a bus in Jinotepe, I tripped and tore open my knee in the exact same place because of a metal obstacle embedded in the concrete. When I finally saw what had tripped me up, I simply could not believe it had been left in place. But I have since seen many such examples.
Owners of stores and houses often pave the sidewalk in front of their buildings with distinctive tiles and mosaics, some very slippery when wet. Woe to anyone who goes striding down the walkway unaware that the hausfrau has just emptied a bucket onto her front stoop!
The colors and flowers and displays of fruits and vegetables do tempt the eye, but far better to stop and look around, and then continue on, eyes downward.
Salvation in Reading
Anent my above observation that I have become a hermit, I must add that the two to four books I read every two weeks afford me a rich and varied life of the mind. For the past year, I have been working my way through the English and American Literature shelves of Keiser University's library. My tastes run to 18th and 19th-c. English lit, but I also enjoy Homer, Dante, Euripedes, and Virgil. Also more contemporary efforts, from Elena Ferrante to Abraham Verghese (just finished "Cutting for Stone" - wonderful!).
When my mother was in her last years, I discovered the novels of Anthony Trollope, who chronicled Victorian England in his many tales of middle-class and better-off people of trades, professions and the aristocracy. His comic yarns of pompous clerics and scalawag barristers, and romances with long-suffering devoted daughters and feckless lotharios are charming, absorbing, amusing, and often heartbreaking. My mother relished Trollope's novels, devouring them as fast as I could order them. She was in the grip of dementia, with impaired short-term memory, but as long as she was reading, she was free of the limits of age and ill health. She may not have recalled the characters and plots for long, but while she was in the moment, reading and enjoying Trollope's lively tales, she was 100% herself, wholly engaged.
Soon, classes at Keiser University Latin American Campus will resume, and my twice-weekly tutoring schedule with them. The past two months since my vacation have seemed hermitic (Is there such a word? Hermitically sealed?). I have spent most of my time alone, in the company of my little Greek chorus, the three doggies who follow me inside and out, constantly craving attention and treats. Of course, Maria José and her brother Roger have come to do their work in the house and garden, and I make my usual rounds to pay bills and buy groceries, but I have felt zero inclination to see anyone or do anything in particular. Likewise, my energy level has been quite low. On humid mornings, I feel incapable of walking even a quarter-mile. Napping is my favorite activity, and I wonder if I shall ever feel like doing anything ever again.
I'm chalking it up to rainy season malaise. When the humidity drops, I'll perk up.
Walking in Nicaragua
When I was a little girl, my eyes were not straight. I have always used only one eye, as the other sees a different angle, and using both would result in a double image. Surgeries and eye patches helped straighten out my appearance to some degree, but because my classmates at Our Mother of Sorrows school in Johnstown were so cruel (especially the son of my eye doctor!), I always walked home looking down at my feet, so as not to invite comment.
I got over it; further surgery in adulthood helped. Lately, though, I have reverted to that earlier form. Here in Nicaragua, I dare not step unmindfully, or I risk ending up prone and bruised. Most sidewalks, when there are sidewalks, are narrower than we have in the States, and have lozenge-shaped access holes for water pipes below. Some of the holes still have cement lids, but many do not, and some have crumbled to twice their original size. It's a perilous path indeed.
Not only that, but everywhere, there are lingering stubs of metal sign posts that have been mostly removed, save for two or three inches of steel sticking up in the middle of the road or sidewalk. Twice, after descending from a bus in Jinotepe, I tripped and tore open my knee in the exact same place because of a metal obstacle embedded in the concrete. When I finally saw what had tripped me up, I simply could not believe it had been left in place. But I have since seen many such examples.
Owners of stores and houses often pave the sidewalk in front of their buildings with distinctive tiles and mosaics, some very slippery when wet. Woe to anyone who goes striding down the walkway unaware that the hausfrau has just emptied a bucket onto her front stoop!
The colors and flowers and displays of fruits and vegetables do tempt the eye, but far better to stop and look around, and then continue on, eyes downward.
Salvation in Reading
Anent my above observation that I have become a hermit, I must add that the two to four books I read every two weeks afford me a rich and varied life of the mind. For the past year, I have been working my way through the English and American Literature shelves of Keiser University's library. My tastes run to 18th and 19th-c. English lit, but I also enjoy Homer, Dante, Euripedes, and Virgil. Also more contemporary efforts, from Elena Ferrante to Abraham Verghese (just finished "Cutting for Stone" - wonderful!).
When my mother was in her last years, I discovered the novels of Anthony Trollope, who chronicled Victorian England in his many tales of middle-class and better-off people of trades, professions and the aristocracy. His comic yarns of pompous clerics and scalawag barristers, and romances with long-suffering devoted daughters and feckless lotharios are charming, absorbing, amusing, and often heartbreaking. My mother relished Trollope's novels, devouring them as fast as I could order them. She was in the grip of dementia, with impaired short-term memory, but as long as she was reading, she was free of the limits of age and ill health. She may not have recalled the characters and plots for long, but while she was in the moment, reading and enjoying Trollope's lively tales, she was 100% herself, wholly engaged.
Saturday, July 29, 2017
Growth Factors
The explosion of life that accompanies the rainy season continues to astonish my temperate-zone psyche. True, my so-called veggie garden is now a mass of weeds and vines, and Roger has had to cut back the "lawn" to a virtual sea of mud (which is rebounding rapidly), but also notable are a couple of species that were added to my landscape about eight months ago. These both involved planting a fresh cutting -- no roots-- into a hole in the ground, and nurturing with near daily watering throughout the dry months. The sacuanjoche, or plumeria tree, which is the national flower of Nicaragua, was a foot-long stem with five leaves, all of which fell off and were replaced by five more. Here's what it looks like now having added about five inches of additional height, and many more leaves in the past two months:
And in its center, several new spikes, which may be flower buds or growth twigs for adding new branches to the original stem. Will update as needed down the road.
The other planting involved several cuttings of a variety of bird of paradise flower, which, again, we just stuck into the ground and watered frequently. The cuttings barely survived the dry season, but as soon as the rains saturated the earth, they began to flourish, growing large, glossy leaves, and then producing these:
Just after I returned from the States a month ago, I acquired a pure German shepherd puppy named Mitzi. She's an East German variety of shepherd that has darker fur, including a nice black stripe down her back, and a black face, with black markings on her feet and tail. She is growing at a good clip, too, and is fitting in well with Brynn and Susie. Here she is just after arriving, and then earlier today:
Mitzi looks forlorn, but she is actually very lively and sweet. She is bold and assertive, as hoped for, and will doubtless prove an effective deterrent to intruders.
And in its center, several new spikes, which may be flower buds or growth twigs for adding new branches to the original stem. Will update as needed down the road.
The other planting involved several cuttings of a variety of bird of paradise flower, which, again, we just stuck into the ground and watered frequently. The cuttings barely survived the dry season, but as soon as the rains saturated the earth, they began to flourish, growing large, glossy leaves, and then producing these:
Just after I returned from the States a month ago, I acquired a pure German shepherd puppy named Mitzi. She's an East German variety of shepherd that has darker fur, including a nice black stripe down her back, and a black face, with black markings on her feet and tail. She is growing at a good clip, too, and is fitting in well with Brynn and Susie. Here she is just after arriving, and then earlier today:
Mitzi looks forlorn, but she is actually very lively and sweet. She is bold and assertive, as hoped for, and will doubtless prove an effective deterrent to intruders.
Friday, July 14, 2017
A Visitation
My six brown hens are champion egg producers. Daily, four to six eggs appear in the common nest, far too many for me alone, so Maria José takes a dozen or so each week for her family. A few months ago, her husband Jonathan presented me with a black pullet I may have mentioned a few posts ago. When I put her into the coop, the other birds immediately signaled their displeasure by pecking her mercilessly. I quickly removed the newbie, dubbed Juana, to a separate part of the coop where she has grown into a very nice black hen, with gold feathers beneath the black which, despite her big feet, lend her a touch of glamour.
Lately, I have worried that her solitude and limited quarters have offered her little beyond shelter and food. Not much of a life, really. But I'm afraid she'll not survive long if she joins the beldams on the other side of the cyclone fence.
Two days ago, I noticed a visitor sitting atop the chicken coop. A white dove—Una Paloma Blanca!— had joined the ranks of the various grackles and sparrows who daily raid the coop chicken feed. Doves normally return to their home turf, so I was surprised to find the bird the next morning, inside Juana's quarters! He (I have decided the dove is a "he") did not freak out when I put in new feed and water for Juana, and he tucked in for a good meal shortly thereafter.
I have named the dove "Casper," (the friendly Holy Ghost) and he is still with us, blithely perched in the coop, seeming not to mind the dogs or me. I wonder if Juana likes having a live-in suitor.
Two days ago, I noticed a visitor sitting atop the chicken coop. A white dove—Una Paloma Blanca!— had joined the ranks of the various grackles and sparrows who daily raid the coop chicken feed. Doves normally return to their home turf, so I was surprised to find the bird the next morning, inside Juana's quarters! He (I have decided the dove is a "he") did not freak out when I put in new feed and water for Juana, and he tucked in for a good meal shortly thereafter.
I have named the dove "Casper," (the friendly Holy Ghost) and he is still with us, blithely perched in the coop, seeming not to mind the dogs or me. I wonder if Juana likes having a live-in suitor.
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| The gang's all here! |
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| Might be love... |
Post Scriptum - 2 September 2017
Casper stayed with us nearly six weeks, until a pair of grackles harried him into fleeing for the trees. He lingered for another two days last week, and eventually was seen no more. Perhaps he'll visit again when he has a yen for chicken feed.
Sunday, July 9, 2017
La Gringa Loca
Having reached an age when I no longer care very much what people think of me in a positive or negative way, I do sometimes wonder how I am regarded by my Nicaraguan neighbors. I am the only Norteamericana around, to my knowledge. Certainly I am the only gringa on the bus most times. But this morning, something happened that may have cemented my reputation forever.
I rose early. determined to put in a brisk walk before the day's heat set in. Brynn is my regular walking companion, and we started out in fine fettle, greeting folks at the nearby bus stop, when suddenly the leash came undone and Brynn took off on the highway. Well, I just snapped. Visions of her being run down have always plagued me, living here on the famed PanAmerican Highway as we do. And now, I ran, yelling her name and trying to slow traffic, gesticulating wildly. She gaily zipped along, me running behind, gasping for air, calling her name, and, I admit, sobbing in terror of her imminent death.
A family of four ran up from the bus stop, and the one young man took off after Brynn into a bean field. She ran faster, into a woods beyond. A car stopped, and the driver, another young guy, got out and joined the chase. Then, a motorcyclist stopped and after a minute, crossed the bean field, too, and disappeared into the woods. The rest of the family marched through the field, save for a daughter, Carla, who waited with me. Eventually, I heard faraway yelps of fear and panic from Brynn, plainly unhappy to be caught, and in a few minutes, the whole group emerged from the trees and crossed back over the bean field.
I was pathetically glad to have my dog back, safe and sound. I begged the man who carried her—and suffered a small bite on his arm for his trouble—to let me give him something for his efforts, but he wasn't having it. All these people who had joined the fray to save my dog, who is ridiculously important to me, simply smiled and left at the happy conclusion of this sudden drama.
Am I now the gringa loca, who is crazy about her dog? Who bursts into tears when her dog runs away? People hereabouts love their pets, but cannot lavish treats and care on them, as I and other Norteamericanos do. I wonder if the exigencies of poverty render devotion to a pet, such as I have for Brynn, absurd, or at least unseemly. Today, in any case, I saw much evidence of basic and immediate empathy for a fellow human, and her runaway pet. And I am most humbly grateful,
I rose early. determined to put in a brisk walk before the day's heat set in. Brynn is my regular walking companion, and we started out in fine fettle, greeting folks at the nearby bus stop, when suddenly the leash came undone and Brynn took off on the highway. Well, I just snapped. Visions of her being run down have always plagued me, living here on the famed PanAmerican Highway as we do. And now, I ran, yelling her name and trying to slow traffic, gesticulating wildly. She gaily zipped along, me running behind, gasping for air, calling her name, and, I admit, sobbing in terror of her imminent death.
A family of four ran up from the bus stop, and the one young man took off after Brynn into a bean field. She ran faster, into a woods beyond. A car stopped, and the driver, another young guy, got out and joined the chase. Then, a motorcyclist stopped and after a minute, crossed the bean field, too, and disappeared into the woods. The rest of the family marched through the field, save for a daughter, Carla, who waited with me. Eventually, I heard faraway yelps of fear and panic from Brynn, plainly unhappy to be caught, and in a few minutes, the whole group emerged from the trees and crossed back over the bean field.
I was pathetically glad to have my dog back, safe and sound. I begged the man who carried her—and suffered a small bite on his arm for his trouble—to let me give him something for his efforts, but he wasn't having it. All these people who had joined the fray to save my dog, who is ridiculously important to me, simply smiled and left at the happy conclusion of this sudden drama.
Am I now the gringa loca, who is crazy about her dog? Who bursts into tears when her dog runs away? People hereabouts love their pets, but cannot lavish treats and care on them, as I and other Norteamericanos do. I wonder if the exigencies of poverty render devotion to a pet, such as I have for Brynn, absurd, or at least unseemly. Today, in any case, I saw much evidence of basic and immediate empathy for a fellow human, and her runaway pet. And I am most humbly grateful,
Wednesday, June 28, 2017
A Peripatetic Pastiche
A few months ago, my siblings and I planned a several days' stay on Lake Ontario at brother Bob's home there, for fishing on his boat, eating, drinking and having fun being together. I locked in air travel to be in the States and Canada for ten days total, hoping to fit in a quick visit with my son and a few days at the family farm in Pennsylvania. Those best-laid plans were flooded out as Lake Ontario rose rather devastatingly, so my trip took a different route.
My sister Mary Mary met me in Philadelphia, and the next day, we set out for Boston for a two-night stay. Gabriel was finishing out his final weeks at two elementary schools in the Lynn School District, teaching music and putting school concerts together for the end of term. We lunched at famed Durgin Park, where my mother loved to go when she taught music in Boston after college. The "Tall Ships" were visiting Boston Harbor that weekend, but the security check lines were so long that we settled for a glimpse of the riggings and masts from Quincy Market. We opted instead for a stroll down to a green space where a public art installation featured two wooden buildings half submerged in the earth. "Meeting House" modeled an historic Quaker building (I think it was Quaker) and a smaller one symbolized the decay of something or another. A number of fashion models and camera-people were draping themselves over the houses, despite signs requesting they should not.
By some Facebook miracle, I had a two-minute reunion with dear old friend Bruce Genero, from college theatre days. He is still handsome and charming, and publishing his first novel! So sweet a moment, but too brief...
Gabriel treated us to Chinese that evening, and next morning (Sunday), we set out early for New York City, where we met brother Bob at a new hotel just at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge with a great view of lower Manhattan. The 1 Hotel is all iron and wood -- industrial chic -- and incredibly stylish. We enjoyed rooftop drinks later that evening with our niece Maggie Rose, who lives just across the river in Jersey. What a view!
We spent the afternoon in the F.L. Wright-designed Guggenheim Museum, admiring Kandinskys, Magrittes, Mondrians, and Calders. A great venue for people-watching, too!
The next day, we lunched nearby with a much-loved old pal of mine I had not seen since at least 1980. Jodie Lynne McClintock was a gifted aspiring actress I was lucky enough to work with in the late-1970s in Pittsburgh's lively experimental theater scene. She sought her fortune in NYC where she made it to Broadway (O'Neill's Long Day's Journey... with Jack Lemmon!) as well as many other Off-Broadway and other theaters, TV shows (Law & Order, Louie, 30 Rock) and film, notably United 93. How the years just melted away as we recalled a period when we were roommates, plays we'd done. Jodie is as lovely as ever, and now enjoys an additional fine reputation as an acting coach. A beautiful friend!
It was terrific to see Bobby, who travels the country for GM Financial, and managed to squeeze us into his busy schedule!
Our trip concluded with a couple of days at the Beatty farm near Johnstown, PA with Jack and Dick, with a side trip to our sister Anne's new home in Greensburg, where her husband Rudy cooked a good lunch. I have no pictures of the beautiful farm or Anne's cool pool. Here's farmer Jack, outstanding in his field:
My sister Mary Mary met me in Philadelphia, and the next day, we set out for Boston for a two-night stay. Gabriel was finishing out his final weeks at two elementary schools in the Lynn School District, teaching music and putting school concerts together for the end of term. We lunched at famed Durgin Park, where my mother loved to go when she taught music in Boston after college. The "Tall Ships" were visiting Boston Harbor that weekend, but the security check lines were so long that we settled for a glimpse of the riggings and masts from Quincy Market. We opted instead for a stroll down to a green space where a public art installation featured two wooden buildings half submerged in the earth. "Meeting House" modeled an historic Quaker building (I think it was Quaker) and a smaller one symbolized the decay of something or another. A number of fashion models and camera-people were draping themselves over the houses, despite signs requesting they should not.
By some Facebook miracle, I had a two-minute reunion with dear old friend Bruce Genero, from college theatre days. He is still handsome and charming, and publishing his first novel! So sweet a moment, but too brief...
Gabriel treated us to Chinese that evening, and next morning (Sunday), we set out early for New York City, where we met brother Bob at a new hotel just at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge with a great view of lower Manhattan. The 1 Hotel is all iron and wood -- industrial chic -- and incredibly stylish. We enjoyed rooftop drinks later that evening with our niece Maggie Rose, who lives just across the river in Jersey. What a view!
We spent the afternoon in the F.L. Wright-designed Guggenheim Museum, admiring Kandinskys, Magrittes, Mondrians, and Calders. A great venue for people-watching, too!
The next day, we lunched nearby with a much-loved old pal of mine I had not seen since at least 1980. Jodie Lynne McClintock was a gifted aspiring actress I was lucky enough to work with in the late-1970s in Pittsburgh's lively experimental theater scene. She sought her fortune in NYC where she made it to Broadway (O'Neill's Long Day's Journey... with Jack Lemmon!) as well as many other Off-Broadway and other theaters, TV shows (Law & Order, Louie, 30 Rock) and film, notably United 93. How the years just melted away as we recalled a period when we were roommates, plays we'd done. Jodie is as lovely as ever, and now enjoys an additional fine reputation as an acting coach. A beautiful friend!
It was terrific to see Bobby, who travels the country for GM Financial, and managed to squeeze us into his busy schedule!
Our trip concluded with a couple of days at the Beatty farm near Johnstown, PA with Jack and Dick, with a side trip to our sister Anne's new home in Greensburg, where her husband Rudy cooked a good lunch. I have no pictures of the beautiful farm or Anne's cool pool. Here's farmer Jack, outstanding in his field:
My sister Mary Mary is the dearest person I know, and put 2200 miles on her SUV ferrying us around several states. She and her Great Dane Sophie made me very welcome, bought luscious sushi, salmon, and goodies I cannot enjoy in Nicaragua, and I am so grateful for her love and care. How lucky am I to have such a warm and wonderful family?
Sunday, June 4, 2017
Sometimes, Bureaucracy IS Chicken Feed
Although it has been tempting to tackle the subject of Nicaraguan bureaucracy, I have thus far limited my comments to the paper chase that is the residency process. It often seemed as if each step in that convoluted path generated double or more additional requirements, each with its accompanying paper to be signed, notarized, or apostille'd, in triplicate. I exaggerate but slightly.
The fascination for documentation extends to hardware and chicken feed, among various commodities. Actually, it is appropriate to create a good paper trail for building materials that must correspond with exact measurements or dimensions. Chicken feed, not so much.
Happily, my property lies side by side with the farm of Mr. Vonn. You may recall that I bought hay and a slaughtered lamb from Mr. Vonn's place last fall. (It is unclear if there is an actual Mr. Vonn.) The farm entry road is surmounted by a large "V" mounted on a cross bar, and opposite is a small community called "Mr. Vonn," where I visited a small health clinic last year. And about 200 yards down the highway is San Francisco Industries, another company operated by Mr. Vonn, which manufactures and sells dog, chicken, and other agricultural feeds.
When I need to buy a 100-pound sack of chicken meal, I hire a bicicleta—a human-powered conveyance—to take me to Mr. Vonn's farm office where I visit a spartan office with two windows. At the left, I order my chicken feed and receive a purchase order which I then present at the right window—the caja—for payment. (Caja means "box" in Spanish, but it also can mean "pay station." Banks, hospitals, restaurants, and stores have cajas where you pay your bills.) I am given a receipt to add to my purchase order, and I then travel via my bicicleta down the highway to San Francisco Industries. I show my P.O. and receipt to pass through security, and head up to the large warehouse, where I again present my documents. The gentleman at this caja asks my name, and then asks me to sign another form documenting my purchase. He saves a copy for himself, and gives me its mate, and another guy loads the sack of feed onto the bicicleta. As we pedal back toward the entrance, the security guard takes the latter form, and copies its information onto his clipboard. Then, he asks me to sign his paper, staples all my paperwork together, and gives it back to me.
In hindsight, it makes sense for purchases of large quantities of feed to be well-documented, to avoid having a dozen or so sacks "fall off the truck," as it were, and have thorough accountability for deliveries and drivers. I am very small potatoes in this scenario, but my single sack has just as much paperwork as the big guys.
The fascination for documentation extends to hardware and chicken feed, among various commodities. Actually, it is appropriate to create a good paper trail for building materials that must correspond with exact measurements or dimensions. Chicken feed, not so much.
Happily, my property lies side by side with the farm of Mr. Vonn. You may recall that I bought hay and a slaughtered lamb from Mr. Vonn's place last fall. (It is unclear if there is an actual Mr. Vonn.) The farm entry road is surmounted by a large "V" mounted on a cross bar, and opposite is a small community called "Mr. Vonn," where I visited a small health clinic last year. And about 200 yards down the highway is San Francisco Industries, another company operated by Mr. Vonn, which manufactures and sells dog, chicken, and other agricultural feeds.
When I need to buy a 100-pound sack of chicken meal, I hire a bicicleta—a human-powered conveyance—to take me to Mr. Vonn's farm office where I visit a spartan office with two windows. At the left, I order my chicken feed and receive a purchase order which I then present at the right window—the caja—for payment. (Caja means "box" in Spanish, but it also can mean "pay station." Banks, hospitals, restaurants, and stores have cajas where you pay your bills.) I am given a receipt to add to my purchase order, and I then travel via my bicicleta down the highway to San Francisco Industries. I show my P.O. and receipt to pass through security, and head up to the large warehouse, where I again present my documents. The gentleman at this caja asks my name, and then asks me to sign another form documenting my purchase. He saves a copy for himself, and gives me its mate, and another guy loads the sack of feed onto the bicicleta. As we pedal back toward the entrance, the security guard takes the latter form, and copies its information onto his clipboard. Then, he asks me to sign his paper, staples all my paperwork together, and gives it back to me.
In hindsight, it makes sense for purchases of large quantities of feed to be well-documented, to avoid having a dozen or so sacks "fall off the truck," as it were, and have thorough accountability for deliveries and drivers. I am very small potatoes in this scenario, but my single sack has just as much paperwork as the big guys.
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