From The Top of Willamette Mountain

When I Die Make a Memory Out Of Me / Perros Made of Vegetable Matter.

Everything isn’t dark all of the time. There are great breaks of light that scream through the epidermal layer of thickness that we carry around. I shouldn’t dwell on the darkness, but as with most “TRAGIC” occurrences they tend to take the brilliance of the light and drag it through an assortment of everything gray. I am NOT talking about that.

NOT this time.

Oh no!           

For there is much light and beauty to be overwhelmed with to dwell on such matters (today). My excitement for the COLOR of today is overflowing, sort of.

I have been breathing/moving/living for many, many years and every year that passes there is the day of MEMORY. Memorial Day has never been one that I have given two thoughts about (in the past), but this year it felt different. There have been deaths, (there is always death) but there have been LIVES. And it is the LIVING that I felt most akin to this last Memorial Day. It’s a “MEMORY” that I want to create. This is not to say that we don’t honor the dead. OH NO! ON THE CONTRARY! We celebrate their LIVING, their LIVES, their JOYS, and their MEMORIES! And by creating more (memories) we give those beams of light a brighter day. The dead may lay, but we, my friends, WE ARE ALIVE. And the Memorial DAY we had was one for those that may think of us when we die.

It was a beautiful morning, brisker than I think any one of us three thought it might be. We fed the goats, the chickens, the dogs, the cats and had blueberry pancakes for breakfast (the ladies favorite). Ollie seemed excited about his first race, it isn’t every day that you are able to feel the wind on your face for 10 whole kilometers. The race was to begin at 8am. We arrived at 7:58. Emma had made it official; she signed us up for the 10k (for Ollie and I) and the 5k (for her). American Fork city seems to do the race every Memorial Day and we were not about to miss it this year. The gun went off and Ollie and I started in. I had never ran a race with a small human in a rolling cart before and had all the confidence that we would be able to make it, for I am not RUNNER. During the race Ollie would look back through the transparent window that came equipped on his “Schwinn Turismo Signature Running Stroller”, as if to give me a nod of approval.

“Good job, Pops…” I would imagine him saying.

I felt the connection between us as we ran along the streets of American Fork city; we finished the race at a little under 48 minutes. Sure, it’s nothing to write the mayor about but Ollie seemed to really enjoy himself. 

Before the Race was RUN.

Ollie n Pops.

After getting back from the race we spent most of the day in the yard, fixing fences and weeding the garden with the little man watching over our sun burnt shoulders. The yard is a never-ending process of moving/shifting/picking/painting/pulling/placing/paving/and saving. As we fixed the front gate the notion of a pathway from the sidewalk to our front gate enticed me to the point of finding 4 MASSIVE tons of flagstone to really “drive the point home”.

I immediately regretted this.

Since the “inspiration” of paving a path to my gate came to me with brutal force I have found myself waking up every morning with a pain in my back that doesn’t let up with anything less than a VERY heavy sedative (this is not REAL).  But, every day I find myself digging and scooping/barreling and burrowing, shovel after shovel. But alas, it is the lot I have chosen and I cannot relent until every stone has been laid.

Pathway to Heaven/Hell/Willamette MTN.

“Chickens DEMAND their flagstone”

And so after our long day of running/stone buying/weeding/gardening/fixing/cursing we found ourselves in the latter hours of the quickly fading day of memory, AND as the American tradition seems to go we ended the celebratory occasion with a GRILLING fiesta. I wanted to try something a bit different this time for the “grill” and decided that HOT DOGS might just have to be the difference that I was hoping for. I have had many a year of no flesh passing through my intestinal tract and I had no plans of returning to the land of eating other critters and so…like any plant based human might do I tried to find an alternative to the over processed and highly questionable creation of “ THE HOT DOG”. And what I stumbled upon is something that MUST be a part of every grilling occasion from here on out.

BEHOLD, the carrot dog.

I did a bit of research online about it and found this recipe to be absolutely stunning. DO IT! LIVE AND LET LIVE!

GRIZZLIN’

GRIZZLIN 2. Carrot Dogs.

All Natural Carrot Dogs

soy-free gluten-free
serves 4 but can be easily doubled

 

• 4 carrots (cut into bun lengths)
• 1/4 cup seasoned rice vinegar (or apple cider vinegar and a dash of salt)
• 1/4 cup water
• 1 tablespoon sesame oil (Optional – I used bean liquid)
• 2 tablespoons coconut aminos (can sub soy sauce but use unseasoned vinegar)
• 1/4 teaspoon garlic powder (or 1/2 clove garlic minced)
• a dash or two liquid smoke
• pepper to taste
• Ezekiel sprouted hot dog buns (this is a MUST!)

 

 

Fill a pot about half-way full of water, heat it on high until it boils. Turn down to medium heat and add the carrots. Cook until you can just pierce it through with a fork. You want it to still have a snap when you eat it. Run cold water over them to stop them from cooking more.

 

Combine the other ingredients to make the marinade. Use a container that has a tight lid so you can easily shake it without spraying it all over your kitchen. Marinate at least 3 to 4 hours, though they are fine for almost 2 days.

 

Put the carrots in the container and marinade for a few hours to up to a few days. If you marinate them longer they take on more of the vinegar flavor. If the carrots are very skinny I would not marinade them for more than 1 1/2 days so they don’t taste too sour.

To serve heat the carrots in a 350 degree oven or on in a grill pan on a hot grill until heated through. It should take about 10 to 15 minutes.

Serve in a toasted hot dog bun with your favorite toppings.

 

NOW, as everyone knows, there is no proper grilling without a proper cookie (or so the old riddle goes) and my lady made the most delightful peanut butter cookies I have had the pleasure of tasting. Try these out and have a ball. (two recipes might be over kill but ALAS)

MEGA HEALTHY PEANUT BUTTER COOKIES

Prep time: 5 mins

Cook time: 10 mins

 

Ingredients

• ½ cup solidified coconut oil
• ⅓ cup honey (you can add a little more if you prefer them sweeter)
• ½ cup natural, unsweetened peanut butter
• 1 egg
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• 1 cup whole wheat flour
• ¼ teaspoon salt
• ½ teaspoon baking soda
• ½ teaspoon baking powder
• 2 tablespoons wheat germ
• 2 tablespoons oat bran
• 1 tablespoon ground flax seeds
• ½ cup peanut butter or chocolate chips (optional)

Instructions

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
2. In a medium mixing bowl, cream the solidified coconut oil, honey and peanut butter together until smooth and creamy. Add the egg and vanilla and beat for another minute.
3. In another bowl, combine the flour, salt, baking soda, and baking powder. Stir in the wheat germ, oat bran, and flax seeds.
4. Gently stir the flour mixture into the peanut butter mixture, stirring just until combined. If using, stir in the peanut butter or chocolate chips.
5. Form the dough into 1-inch balls and place them on a cookie sheet about 2 inches apart. Press down on each ball with a fork to create a criss-cross pattern.
6. Bake for 8-10 minutes. Remove from the oven and allow to cool for 5 minutes before transferring the cookies to a wire rack to cool completely.

LOVE Cookies! (emma says)

 

There is much to see/think/feel/do.

And so we go!

Joshua Fred.

Three Tragedies. Toil of The Brain/Toil of The Hands.

Weeks are passing like minutes since my return home to Willamette MTN. I can’t seem to get a grip on the ever changing scenery that surrounds me. The days are getting longer and hotter/faster and slimmer and i find myself reaching for a slower/milder time, when things didn’t matter so much.
Did i do it to myself?
Have i saturated my brain with “too many” responsibilities?
I don’t believe so. I don’t think so. I hope not.
Every day seems to fill itself up with more chores/hobbies/responsibilities, but i would have it NO OTHER WAY.
If i was an idle man, a boy with little to do. I would dig myself into a cave and die.
So to avoid such a fate i immerse myself into a world of goats and gambles, eggs and eating, music and mayhem. I would rather have my life pass as a blink of the eye than to sit on my hands, waiting for the sun to burn me.

“Toil is man’s allotment; toil of brain, or toil of hands, or a grief that’s more than either, the grief and sin of idleness”.      -Herman Melville

I am happy (for now).
But happiness (i must declare) is not a state in which “ALL IS WELL”.
There have been a few mighty horrific and morbid tragedies that have arrived at our doorstep here on the MTN over the last week that i must document, for my own sake (if NOTHING else). It has been said that terror strikes thrice, or at least something along those lines. And in our case, we find the prior to ring soundly.
And so i begin.

TRAGEDY NUMBER ONE

“Turken, My Lady.”

    A couple of weeks ago we had a night-time visitor that took it upon himself to rid us of one of our favorite chicken gal’s. She was a “turken” of the finest kind.
One morning after waking to feed the ladies i noticed that there were chicken feathers scattered all around and behind the ladies coop, they were strewn even onto the other side of the chickens fencing. I also noticed there were two mighty sized holes dug underneath the perimeter of the ladies dwelling.
Something had gotten in that night, and had stolen and quite likely, eaten our little lady.
Precautions had to be made.
Over the last 7-8 months we had grown lazy about shutting the chicken coop door at night. Due to the fact that we hadn’t had a run in with predators for quite some time. But, our careless manner in which we would lay to rest without securing our ladies sleep space had caused a death in the family. And so, after the disappearance of the Turken, Em and I, night after night, as the sun would fall behind the mountains, would head to the coop to make sure that all the ladies (minus the Turken, bless her lost little soul) were accounted for, and would shut the coop door.
A week ago we forgot.
It was around 11pm that i started to hear loud squawking coming from the coop. I knew exactly what it was. The predator had returned to lay his/her dirty hands on one of the lades as a midnight repast. I jumped out of bed and in my underwear ran through the back door toward the coop, screaming at the top of my lungs to scare off the dirty rascal. There was very little light to see what it was, but underneath the madness of the moons guidance i could see a dark figure climbing back down the other side of the fence and scamper into the obscurity of my neighbors alfalfa field.
The next morning i pulled out three traps that i had used last year to trap the skunk that had been stealing our chickens eggs. I set the traps with marshmallows and fresh corn in hopes that we would catch our bandit that night. As i laid in bed that evening i dreamt that i had named myself “Protector of the Chickens” and had grown paws for hands. During my REM cycle i would strut back n forth inside of the coop, making sure that all was well with the world of the ladies. It seems that Morpheus had known all along what i might find when i awoke, for when i went to feed the ladies early that next morning i found two things inside of the traps. One was our cat, Oatey. He had found the marshmallow delight to be too enticing to avoid the large metal cage in which we would eventually spend the evening. Inside of the other trap i found the largest raccoon that i had ever seen. I could barely lift the bugger.  I rejoiced in the hope that he was the fella that had killed our Turken and was putting the other ladies in danger and that we had CAUGHT him.
I put the trap and the coon in the back of my truck and headed up the canyon. Near Timpanogos cave i released him, away from our ladies, the MTN, and me.
Good Riddance, Child.

TRAGEDY NUMBER TWO:

“Like a Thief In The Night, I Won’t Ride.”

    Three years ago my brother in law and i were talking around the dinner table. We were probably eating something completely delicious and abhorrently poisonous to our intestinal tract. Nevertheless we sat, indulged, and spoke about one of the bike races that he had just finished. It was something, that to me, sounded positively INSANE. To bike around Utah lake with the circumference reaching over 100 miles in one sitting lead me to believe that my brother was surely suffering from some unknown mental illness. As he spoke about the experience i found myself becoming entranced in the idea of accomplishing such a feat. That next week i got myself the best road bike that i could afford. It was a TREK something something. But it cost me more than i ha and I immediately began biking and found that it was something i really enjoyed. The next year i was determined to do the same race that he had. I rode two to three times a week in training for “THE ULCER” bike ride around utah lake. The day of the race arrived and i did it. I made it through. The following year i did the same thing. This year i decided to sign up for the race again, and last week i got my bike down from the garage’s hanging hooks to prep it for the rides that were to come before the race.
Now, this morning i had written on my list of things to do:
“Sweep the garage”
And so, i went to the garage today to sweep out all of the dust bunnies that had accumulated over the last couple of weeks. As i swept the garage, listening to Reba Mcentire’s “Greatest Hits” cassette tape i looked around to notice that i didn’t see my bike. Hmm…this seems odd. I looked a bit harder only to realize that  my bike was missing. I then noticed that the side door of our garage was open. I had been robbed. Someone stole my bike. I know that maybe this sounds like a trivial tragedy. But, you must realize I now am a cowboy with no horse, a singer with no voice, a showgirl with no choice. My bike has been stolen. I just hope that whatever sonuvabitch took it, needed it….BADLY.

TRAGEDY NUMBER THREE:

“It Can Strike Like Lighting, Oh, Death!”

    This morning as i was at the kitchen table, drinking my coffee, Emma came running in with a terrified look on her face. “My Dad has been in a car accident”. I knew it had to be serious by the tone of her voice. She proceeded to explain that on his way to Ophir Canyon with my niece, to ride horses, he had been hit, head on, by another car.  My father in law and my niece were both taken to the local hospital to have a medical examiner look at them, but the man driving the other car was killed. His car had slid underneath my Father in law’s truck and killed him instantly. WIth the weight of the heavy duty truck and horse trailer behind him it would be next to a miracle to survive such a collision. The other casualty of the collision was my father in law’s horse, Star.  The physical, mental and emotional trauma that they have gone through today may they find some rest.  And to the family of the man who was killed in the passenger car may they be comforted by those that surround them. Their family, neighbors and loved ones.

As with all three of these tragedies, they come without warning. No precursor, no sight or sound waving the flag of destruction. LIfe is a blink. Hold on to the lover you’ve got.  The quickness of the passing. The sharp pain of loss is in the other room. No knocking. No doorbell. A dark shadow that lies in wait for our final moment. And all of this is not to paralyze us with despair.  On the contrary, it is to quicken our step, to tighten our tongue and make sure that we know. TO LOVE. TO LOVE. TO LOVE is the ONE WAY to live.

GET BORN.
DREAM.
LIVE/LOVE
and DIE.

We are all “in it” together, amigos.
LOVE SPEED.

joshua fred.

HOLD ON TO THE LOVER YA GOT.

Drip Irrigation Gets My Engine Reved / Dottie, The Goat Gal.

Oliver Fred. Some Kids Get ALL The GOOD Genes.

One month passed by like a summer breeze. I have only the typical “business” of life to blame for it. Waves of progression/digression come and go like the days of the week. Inundated with eggplants and irrigation ditches I have found a sense of peace in the garden this year. Every morning I find myself with hands in the dirt, pawing my fingertips into the organisms of those to come and those that rest.  It has been a bit harder to make sure all “DUCKS” are in their proper rows this year in regards to the garden. There have been many things that require attention apart from growing food. One of which lies soundly next to me as I type this phrase.  It seems as if every day passes quicker than the next. By the time the feedings and the groomings, the cleaning and the scrubbing, the singing/typing/this(ing) and that(ing) is all over the moon has already begun to shown her face and its time for bed. But the morning DOES come and it DOES lift my spirit once again. I have decided, for the first time since we began gardening, to give a proper irrigation system a fair chance. I researched until exhaustion the proper way to irrigate our little farm without spending too much money and using too many resources. I decided on a “drip tape” irrigation system. It was somewhat easy to assemble and utilize. It only really requires drip tape, their proper adaptors to connect to poly tubing and a long piece of 1/2” poly tubing. I ran the poly tubing down the long way of our garden and stretched drip tape down each row of crop. It has only been two days but I am ecstatic about how it is working. I suppose time will be the judge if it was worth the amount of energy and money to set up such a system. SUERTE!

Garlic Geeks

Seed Settin’. Hands o’ Danger.

DRIP Irrigation. Part One.

DRIP Irrigation. Part Two.

The garden has caused us to be very BUSY, BUT……I like being busy. I can’t stand idleness and nothing to do, and so it’s perfect soil for thriving and getting on with the next. Through the business of living and the preoccupation of “ALL” of the things that I “HAVE” to get done I have found some time to get away from the MTN and indulge in other activities that don’t have to do with milking/gardening or tending to things that require me to exist.

A couple weeks back I found myself driving up American Fork Canyon in a recent vehicle that my lady and I made. It’s a 1989 Ford F-150. It was time to get to the hills, away from the city. I had lured Dottie (our Nubian Goat) into the back of the pickup, grabbed by bag of rope, harnesses, shoes and carrots and headed in. I hadn’t been climbing outdoors all year and it was NECESSARY that removed myself from the busyness of mundane. I sang to a George Jones tape all the way up to a place called Beer Can Alley, it’s a newer (Though not ALL that new) area to climb in and was JUST what I needed. I met a buddy of mine up there and it was a full morning of “BELLIES FULL’o FEAR” as I like to put it. As we descended back down the canyon I was happy to know that such a place existed, and that existed in my proverbial backyard. It is GOOD to feel alive. To be alive/breathe.

Ford F-150. Goat In The Back. George Jones on the RADIO. American Fork Canyon. PERFECT.

Dottie.

American Fork ROCK Climbing.

Buckley and I. Canyon Cookin.

The day following the ascent up the mountain of American Fork I ventured into the land of the dead. Things that once were alive, but no longer did. THE KITCHEN. There was a celebration at a familiar place and cookies were in order. I was determined to find the best Oatmeal Raisin Cookie recipe that I could find. And though they were wonderfully EPIC, they might NOT be the greatest of the greats. BUT, give em a whirl. SHA LA LA.

XOOKIES

 VEGAN Oatmeal Raisin Cookies

Prep Time: 10 minutes

Total Time: 10 minutes

 

Ingredients:

• 3/4 cup margarine (make sure it’s vegan margarine!)
• 1/2 cup sugar
• 1 cup packed brown sugar
• 1 tsp vanilla
• 1/2 cup soy milk
• 1 cup flour
• 1/2 tsp baking soda
• 1/2 tsp salt
• 1 tsp cinnamon
• 1/2 tsp cloves
• 1/2 tsp nutmeg
• 1 cup chopped walnuts (optional)
• 1 cup raisins
• 3 cups rolled or quick cooking oatmeal
•  

Preparation:

Preheat oven to 350°F.

Beat together the sugar, brown sugar, vegan margarine and vanilla until smooth and fluffy. Add the soy milk and mix until combined.

Add the flour, baking soda, salt and spices, and stir until well mixed. Add the remaining ingredients. Batter will be very thick.

Drop by 3 inch balls onto cookie sheet and flatten slightly. Bake 12-15 minutes, or until done. Cookies will still be slightly soft and chewy. Yum! Enjoy your vegan oatmeal raisin cookies!

 

The wildness of life never ceases to amaze me. It shouldn’t. It couldn’t. Be alive or DIE!

Joshua Fred (Shaky Hands Inc.)

A Dream Of Heaven. Oh, That I were a Queen. DEAR DEATH!

It’s been over two weeks since I arrived back into the great valley of Utah. There was much to do upon getting here. The milking of the goats, changing beddings of the chicks, tilling the garden, starting seedlings, etc, etc, et cetera. As with all of our homesteading there have been many trials and errors. This past year we had a mighty one, one for the bookie. It was our second season with our honeybees, they had been doing so well the first season and the second season was proving to be the same. WE had been keeping them at the end of the garden lane, which sits, directly behind our neighbor’s high vinyl fence. It was probably July and we received a frantic message on facebook from our neighbor. There was no phone call, no knock on the door, just a message. The online correspondence seemed intense and urgent; they wanted the bees removed from behind their fence. I called after reading the message and asked if I could stop by to explain the docility of honeybees and their INSANELY important roll in our existence.  It wasn’t until the following day that I stopped by. It was a quick conversation that ended with my neighbor asking us to move the hives in a very timely fashion. I tried explaining that bees are very subject to getting lost and or swarming if the hives are moved more than 3 feet every 2 days. This didn’t seem to concern her, and so we, per request of neighbors, moved the hives a good 30 feet away across the fence line into the back field of a different surrounding neighbor.

(as a side note, our neighbors are wonderful, kind and very respectful people. I believe it probably had to have been a startling fact, to stumble upon two hives of honeybees behind their fence. And so, as a disclaimer, it SHALL BE KNOWN).

Well…it all went quickly down from there. The bees, for some reason, began getting very aggressive, there seemed to be chaos/confusion/destruction and I had not been tending to them as frequently as I should’ve been. Weeks came and went. It was in August that the blackness of our beloved beehives began. I opened up one hive only to see that there were NO BEES inside. Every last one of the living bees had left the hive. There were half constructed honeycomb and dead bee bodies on the base floor, but nothing moving. I was crushed. I knew that I had to open up the other hive but was nervous to. What might’ve happened? Why did they leave? Was it the moving of the hives? Had there been pesticide sprayed nearby? I slowly opened up the second hive. DEATH. DEATH. DEATH. All over. Bees half hidden inside honeycomb, DEAD. Bees all over the baseboard and inside the hive, DEAD. Just like the previous hive, there was nothing living inside. I couldn’t believe this was happening. What had I done wrong? Where were the happy buzzing bees that I remember from the previous visits? They were nowhere to be seen. It was a hard season here on the MTN for beekeeping. Too much death. Sadness and Despair. I was determined that the following year I would set the hives up in the safest of locations, away from unwanting neighbors and possible pesticide sprayings.

So, when I returned home from this last tour I had already ordered two boxes of honeybees (Italians) while out on the road. Three days after Ollie arrived we were contacted by the Intermountain Farmers Association, which is where we purchased our bees. They were here. The two boxes of beautiful buzzing bees had arrived at the store and we were scheduled to pick them up Saturday morning. And so the following day we headed in and grabbed the two boxes of bees. I had, the previous afternoon, prepared their future homes just behind our chicken coop where they would be properly cared for and looked after. When we got back to the MTN with the two boxes I was excited and nervous to put them in the hives. The first (and only) time that I had ever installed bees into a hive I was wearing full bee protection, but in the book that I had been reading since my arrival home (The Beekeepers Handbook) said that when you receive your bees they are in their most docile state due to the fact that they have no hive or home to defend. No honey reserves to hold onto. And so for this go around I had decided to do it sans bee suit. My lady thought I was crazy but said that she would document it with our iflip and snap some FOTOS during the installation (For posterities sake).

A Beekeepers Dream of Heaven

The installation was quick and required very little skill. I sprayed the boxes down with sugar water to keep the bees happy and fat on sugar.  I then opened the boxes and removed the queen.

Boxes

The Queen of the Night

Then I poured the bees right over the hive and capped the queen box with a sugar cube, which allows the honeybees to eat away the sugar to release their beloved queen. The whole process was beautiful and really got me excited to spend more time with those lovely ladies this year and the years to follow.

Now, I suppose I should say SOMETHING about this extended play (EP) disc that we have coming out May 7^th. I AM excited about it (maybe not as excited about is as I am about these RADICAL bees) and am proud of the songs that swift, Evan and I recorded during the “From The Top Of Willamette Mountain” sessions. The four songs found on the newest BEWARE! EP is four songs that we decided to leave off the full length to release all on their own. And ON THEIR OWN they are being released. It is available through all the regular online retailers (Amazon, itunes, etc) but is also available in physical form through my website www.joshuajames.tv and there is a BEWARE! T-shirt that I designed modeled after a construction paper collage I made for the MTN, if you like T-shirt sorta things.

BEWARE!

And so there it goes.

The bees and the BEWARE! The sun and the son.

Here is to the changing weather. Here is to our dying bodies.

Here is to the bees and the babies.

AHOY, AMIGOS.

AHOY.

 

Joshua-Fred.

May the KING never Die! The end of Days. The beginning of light.

In The Hills of Connecticut.

…Ring, Ring…Ring…

Emma’s name popped up on the screen of my phone, her photo flashed at me, asking me to answer. I hit the silence button and finished dinner with my parents and the rest of the boys in Lincoln, Nebraska. The tour was almost over, we had three days off in Lincoln before our final show in Denver, Colorado before the trek back home. We had been gone for 7 weeks but it felt like 2, and I had anticipated the short break with my parents before heading west to meet back with my lady and unborn child.

…Ring, Ring…Ring…

Emma’s photo, again, flashin on the screen. It was an older photo of her and one of our favorite animals, Jasper, I smiled as I hit the answer button.

“Hello..?”

“ (sniffles)…Hello? Joshua? I am in pain…”

“Are you alright!?” I responded.

“Yes…I just…I need you here. I don’t know when Oliver is going to come, and I need you here to help me. I want you to come home…”

As I mentioned we only had one more show before heading back but it wasn’t for three days. The sound of my lover’s voice was causing a wretched twist on my heart muscle. I asked if she was sure if she wanted me home. After talking for a bit we agreed to speak in the morning if she was still feeling the pain and that I would head home if so.

I returned back to eat and told the table of Emma’s discomfort and concern. After discussing with the rest of the boys we made it official. We were heading home. Denver would have to wait and our lovers would be happy to see us four days early. After dinner we headed downstairs and watched “What About Bob?” I couldn’t focus on Bill Murray’s performance amidst the range of emotions that were taking control of my entirety. My lover would be happy.

The morning arrived and we loaded the van. I kissed my Mother goodbye and we started the trek back to the mountains of Utah. When we hit Wyoming the roads began to get snowy, the snow turned to ice and the speed on the freeway became lethargic. The drive was already a 13-hour drive and nobody wanted to add more time to the trip. After Cheyenne the roads got a bit better. We pulled into the valley around 9pm and all went to their respective homes and ladies. I saw my lover waiting in the garage and the peak of the two-month trek was reached. My tear ducts lost their cool and we wept together, heart to heart, cheek-to-cheek. I had missed her, and her me. The next morning caught my body off guard. I woke up early; naturally, completely unaware of where I had slept the night before. It took my mind a second to figure out that I was in my bed, at home. Every night for the previous 50 nights I had woken up on the floor of a stranger or in the bed of an acquaintance from the road. After I had woken up I took pride in the feeding of the chickens, in the petting of the pups, the whaling of the goats in the morning before their food arrive. I missed the sight of the mountains and the dryness of the air. I was home.

That night my lover and I decided to head to Salt Lake City to see our friends band, Desert Noises. It had only been a day back from the constant singing and music and it was driving me out of my mind. I was still in “tour mode” and needed to fill my soul with Rock n Roll. Emma couldn’t seem to settle into her seat like she wanted to. Oliver had pushed the boundaries of her epidermis and the discomfort was next to impossible to endure. After Desert Noises played we headed back to the MTN. Right when we got back my lover headed to bed. She was exhausted and uncomfortable. I stayed up with Isaac and Timmy, talking about all the wild things we had experienced during our visits along the whimsical/wild world of tour. At 11:22pm I got a call. It was Emma.

“Hello..? Lover, you alright..?”

“Can you come in here, I am in extreme pain.”

I told the boys that the night had come to an end and that my lady needed me. I bid the boys adieu and headed to my bedroom. Emma was having heavy contractions and writhed in pain as I tried my best to help her through them. At 1am the amniotic fluid that had kept our unborn babe safe in the belly of my gal made its way to the bathroom floor. It had begun. My whole life up until this has come to me in photos, flashing in front of my eyes, a storybook, a song. But, when process of my child being brought into the world in which I am a part of, the view changed. I felt as a dog might in flight for the first time. My actions and reactions were colored differently. The surreality of it all kept body functions in sync with what was needed from me. Animalistic and Pure, i felt it all. From 1am to 3pm, the following day, my lover twisted and turned in pains that would eventually lead to the safe arrival of the newest of lives here on the MTN. Nothing obscured her drive and vision for how she wanted the birthing to be. It was the most beautiful thing my eyes have seen. In the MTN, on the day of our scheduled Denver show, he was born, no needles, no doctors, no medicines. With the support of two wonderful midwives and my lovers family, the most BADASS woman I have ever known gave birth to our beautiful baby boy. The king of the MTN. Sir Oliver Fred. There truly is a mystic in the mountains, high above. BE it life, or BE it death. We are amongst TRUE LOVE, my friends. I would be damned if I wasn’t to say that LOVE is ALL we NEED. Thank you all for those that have supported me through the wild adventure of BEING ALIVE. I would not/could not do what it is I love (TO SING) if it were not for your support. Indebted I am to you all. FORGET NOT!

Yours into the grave,

Joshua Fred.

For My Lover

The Great Hippo. The Great Wind. Toyota Vs. Honda. Windshield Factor.

Happy Easter. Trumpet Calls. Jesus Chimes.

It’s a long drive from Vienna Virginia to our Easter habitation of Natick, Massachusetts. It had been a favorite show of mine the night before in Vienna. The crowd seemed to rise and fall with the same amount of energy that the boys and I were feeling from ontop the risers. From a soft whisper to a growling howl we carried our songs on our chests and sang through the night until the final song came and it was over. The time read 1:27 AM when we finally were leaving the club. I could feel myself slowly drifting into my bodies “off” position as we drove toward the house that we were to sleep at that night.

“Long drive tomorrow..” I sputtered to the others.

“Aye…” they responded with a tone that spoke volumes of their condition (exhausted).

In the morning it was a quick rise and out the door by 10am. The plan was to make it to the greater Boston area by 5pm, as we made it onto our first freeway the traffic was at a stand still. I was afraid that this could cause us to miss our 5pm mark and settled even further into the captain’s seat behind the driving, bearded, Timmy.

Sitting on the freeway opened up “the road” to a little bit of a different view to those we were sharing the experience with. I looked around and noticed the hundreds of different people in their respective cars/trucks/motorcycles, all racing to their locations, all in what they might or might not deem to be the “perfect vehicle.” The man driving next to us in the Volvo station wagon was dressed to the brim. 3 piece suit, a briefcase a top the passenger side leather seat, a neat, trimmed head of hair and a blue tooth that he seemed to be whispering into as we slowly eeked our way down the freeway. I sat there, looking at the man, wondering….

“Why a Volvo? Why a station wagon? Why the color black?”

Maybe he got a good deal on the car, or maybe it was a status thing. Maybe his parents were convinced that Volvo was the only “REAL” option when choosing a car. I had always been brought up under the “Toyota, Honda” umbrella of car thought. They were the best (in my opinion). But to be totally honest, I knew next to nothing about the cars or their parts, engines, functionality. But for some reason I knew that Toyota and Honda were the cars for me. They were cheap, well made, and lasted forever.  My father was always a Toyota man. And for that reason I am sure that the notion of Toyotas superiority was a family heirloom that I was to carry down, whether consciously or non. The same thought and quick judgment of choice came to me as we passed many other vehicles.

2004 Ford Thunderbird.

1999 Dodge Grand Caravan.

2008 BMW 535.

All cars that I deemed to be “the wrong choice”. I couldn’t see myself ever buying or driving a Volkswagen ANYTHING, but I knew plenty of people that “LOVED THEM”.  I then saw, on the right side of the road, a newer Toyota Camry with the hood popped and two men staring into its insides. As we passed them I told myself that it had to be user error, because Toyotas were “The Best” they didn’t just break down like that. And I think that’s what started to disturb me. Though I knew less than nothing about transmissions, timing belts, spark plugs or ANYTHING (for that matter) on cars and their insides I was a Toyota and Honda man, through and through.  I find that my opinions on hundreds of things fall into this same semi-disgusting category.  My thoughts, opinions and even facts (according to me at least) mostly fell under this umbrella of “wisdom”.

As I grew up my mind was a wandering sponge, picking up the “this’s and that’s” of my surrounding. My best friends dad when I was 11 loved the Raiders and so, in my mind, the Raiders were the best football team to have ever played the game. My sister listened to Bob Marley, and so, I, in turn listened to Bob Marley, thinking that it was one of the greatest compact discs to exist at the time (which in retrospect, it probably was).  The winters in Nebraska were horrifically cold and the weatherman would always tell us of the “windshield factor”. He would announce over the boob tube:

“The high today is 17 degrees, the low is 2 degrees and the WIND SHIELD FACTOR is negative 12 degrees.” At least that is how I heard it.

Now, in my mind this made COMPLETE sense, seeing as how the wind would hit the windshield I had determined, in my mind, that this was the way in which they would determine the wind attributing to the winters air. Now, it wasn’t until I was 26 years old (this is no joke) that I read on a TV, while they were announcing the weather for the day, that the “WIND CHILL” factor was 7 degrees for the day. I sat there, flabbergasted, in awe of the many years of self-beguiling. Could it be? All those years? Windshield factor? HUH? I couldn’t help but sit there and laugh to myself. My Windshield factor was never anything at all but a misunderstanding, a miscommunication from one human to another.

I have recently learned of a man that throughout his (short) life had been told that there is great hippo in the sky who saw everything he did. This great hippo would dictate all the good that would happen in this man’s life and in the life of all that he knows and doesn’t know. The great hippo dances around in the sky and makes sure that things are running according to his mandates down below, where this man lives (planet Bearth). Now, this hippo is very particular on his choice of clothing and of the clothing of those that he watched over (the residents of Bearth) He would only wear yellow shirts and blue pants and would require the same of his residents below. This is something that this man is sure of.  The hippo also only permits the residents of Bearth to go swimming in the great lake (Lake Ghumbo) on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and if you went swimming on any other day you would surely suffer and die.

This man was raised with the greatest of parents who taught him all about the great Hippo and his yellow shirts, blue pants and regulations on swimming in Lake Ghumbo. His whole family including his brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles all were great believers in the Mighty Hippo and would sing his praises when all were joined together for certain special occasions, all equipped with yellow shirts and blue pants. All were happy and all was well with the world of Bearth. One day the man was walking through a forest near the house he was raised in and found a small book that told of a “Great Wind”, this Great Wind was the bearer of all of the trees, mountains, rocks, lakes, animals and people on planet Bearth. The book taught that this Great Wind was a respecter of all and none. It taught that Love was the key to the happiness of the people of Bearth and that without that Love that they would all surely die. The man read on to learn that a dress code of yellow shirts and blue pants was not really necessary at all and that swimming in the great lake of Ghumbo was fine on ANY DAY.

“What NEWS!” the man thought to himself.

The day was Wednesday and he decided to go swimming in the Great Lake Ghumbo. As he dove off of the dock the water ran past his body. He came up for air and to his surprise, he did NOT die. He felt alive and happy. He felt full of love. He then painted his yellow shirt red and sewed bright green and pink patches all over his blue pants, and again, he did not die.

“HOORAY!!!” the man screamed, running toward his home to tell all that were there of this great news. As the man told his sisters, brothers, parents, aunts and uncles of his recent discovery he was scolded and reminded that anything that was taught in contrary to the Great Hippo’s teachings was destructive and deadly.

“NO, NO!” the man replied.

“Surely something that makes me feel this way, this alive, this IN LOVE must be of good merit!”

The family again reminded him that he had lost “HIS WAY” and that there was only one way to make the Great Hippo happy and that was by wearing yellow shirts and blue pants AND by only swimming in the Great Lake Ghumbo on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The man again tried to help them all understand that he had learned of a slightly different way to be happy and that he felt compelled to follow in this path.  Weeks passed on and the mans family slowly stopped confiding in him, and talking to him. He was a follower of the Great Wind and not the Great Hippo. The man was saddened by the distance that these two slightly different ways of life had brought between him and his family. He promised himself that no matter what his children and friends and family believed whether the Great Hippo or the Great Wind or the Great Nothing that he would LOVE them, that he would only let that great feeling of acceptance and understanding fill his soul.

I unfortunately have seen the case of Hippo vs. Wind many times in lives of those around me. Whether it’s Ford vs. Chevy. Toyota vs. Hyundai. Hippo vs. Wind. It’s all the same, my friends. It’s acceptance of different opinion. The cycle of hate/malice/darkness has to stop. The world is cold enough without the “Windshield” factor.  As “hippie” as it might sound LOVE is what is truth. Acceptance of difference is OK. To think differently is OK. Find your “Great Wind”. Know that you are the ONLY one to be able to cause the happiness that will surround you.

“Adversity is the first path to truth” – Lord Byron

Truly we are all in this together.

-Joshua Fred James

 

WHISTLE & WHIP. WILD & FREE.

Coffee Feet (Jackson, Mississippi)

After the Birmingham show we had high hopes of finding a place with a kind individual at the show. But, to no avail. Maybe we weren’t bold enough, maybe it was the dissheveled appearance of the boys and I. Maybe it was none of the above. Either way, there was no floor to sleep on, no couch to surf, no air mattress to support our tired frames. The weather in Birmingham was brisk at best and the weather seemed that it could turn at any point and give us a downfall of rain. We decided that we would head toward Atlanta and see how far we could make it. The time upon departure was 12:37pm. I was taking the wheel and dosed myself with a 20 oz. highly caffeinated coffee. I had driven a little over an hour when i could feel the covers of my eyes asking for a relief. I mentioned to the boys that we should look for a place to sleep before my body shut itself down and steered our ship into the revene. Evan searched for some parks off of the freeway but nothing had a covering under which we could take shelter. After driving around this very small town in between Bham and ATL we found a small daycare that had an awning that appeared to be sound and safe. It was off one of the main streets but there was a brick wall that might shield us from any onlookers that might pass us by during our visit to the God of Sleep. As we parked the van behind the daycare Tim expressed some concern of sleeping outside. The weather was windy and it seemed that a storm was on the brink of breaking. There was only enough room in the van for one to sleep and so it was given to Timmy. Ike, Evan and I grabbed our sleeping bags and pillows and set up our sleeping stations underneath the awning at the daycare. No more than 12 minutes after our setting up the winds started to howl a bit heavier and the thunder in the distance seemed to be approaching like a slightly disabled coyote in the desert hunting her last meal of the season. 30 minutes into our arrival and the storm fell upon us. The hounds of HELL had found there entertainment tonight and we were on the plate. The rain came. The wind. The screaming thunder, the constant lightning. And under the awning we stayed. We held fast to our small shelter and weathered the storm. The lighting, the rain, the thunder didn’t let up for hours. It was one of the most wicked storms I had ever encountered. And that night, underneath that awning with my best friends i smiled. I felt alive, free and happy. This was it. I was here, breathing, taking in the wonderful experience as the mortal creature that i am. How incredible it is to be alive and to be free.
The next morning we packed ourselves up and went to the van. Timmy looked up from his sleeping spot in the van to ask..
“Are you guys ok.?”
“I can’t believe that you guys slept in that storm!”
IT was a wicked night. A wild night. And we had weathered it. We took it on. The darkness of the night was a light in our SOULS.  It was incredible.

Cheaha Forest, Alabama. Timmy & Evan.

 We started toward Atlanta early that morning. I was behind the wheel. There were signs about 30 minutes into the drive for the Talladega Forest. Exit 199 said “Cheaha Forest”.
I yanked the wheel to the right and decided that today we would live in the forest, even if only for a spell. It was 12 miles in before we found the trail head. As we pulled into the parking lot i knew that THIS was what we would need to refill our need for the GREAT OUTDOORS. We started on the trail and it was magnificent. As the boys were walking behind i would jog ahead to be by myself. I didn’t want to hear anything. No music. No talking. No people. Nothing. It was the greatest of escapes. There i was, in the Cheaha Forest, walking amongst the mighty trees and shrubs of the earth. I felt alive. More so than i had in weeks. I howled into the woods. I communed with the mystic of the world. I laughed to myself in the nothingness and everythingness of my small and massive existence.

HERE I AM !!!
HERE I AM !!!
HERE I WILL BE.

Forever.
Until Death.

Joshua-Fred.

The Port Hole Leads to the Universe.

From inside a moving box of four boys, traveling ferociously across a continent littered with shopping malls and Jesus Saves billboards i am writing this to you/me. The coast on my right with her majestic blue and overwhelming “vastness” causes me to stop writing/thinking everytime i glance over. The hardest of times are the best of times. These are the best of times. Our two week mark will be this Tuesday and we have dipped our feet in the river of the VAGABONDS, whilst gripping tightly to the side of a quickly degrading canoe. The big gray box that rolls us from one city to the next is showing her quickly fading colors as the tour unravels. A little less than a week ago the dearest of boys, Evan, ran from inside a Sinclair gas station to stop the hose of gasoline that was feeding our ever-carniverous/cancerous van. The gas tank was leaking. 
Well…
We took it into a repair shop and they said that the only thing they could think of was that there were some rusted spots in the gas tank and that we would probably be ok to venture on. Now…this was almost a week ago. And it seems that the only time it leaks is when we are filling the tank. It doesn’t leak when driving/idling/sleeping/stopping/fighting/singing and so we are currently in a strange situation with the mistress of our future. 
I am not one to be in the eye of immenent danger and lie in the middle of it. But the van is one of the many expenses of an extensive tour such as this and it is causing my heart to shrink from the anxiety it is giving me. I am about to lose my strength with her. But muster courage I MUST!
May the mighty mystical creature who watches over the road and its many travelers keep us tightly in her bosom.

The travels have been incredible thus far and we have met so many incredible people thus far. There have been too many stories to talk of them all. BUT…in Ventura, California we were asked by a very very kind woman with a colorful hat if we needed a place to sleep for the evening. And it just so happened that indeed, we did. We headed to Lucy’s house around midnight and upon arriving we apologized for our late arrival. She told us not to worry, for she was a “moon child” and the nighttime was her TIME. And so she led us back through an alley that led to her front door. We entered into a different dimension upon setting foot inside. The walls, the floor, the decorations were screaming of the intensity of life. Animal portraits, bright colors, strobe lights and in the middle of the living room, on the ceiling was a massive circle that appeared to have been painted on with sparkle paint. All the boys had taken notice of the circle and Lucy quickly mentioned that it was a Port Hole. I am not sure if that was a Portal or a “Port Hole”. She said it was a way to travel to the greatest of places in life, and that, to me, made sense. We quickly retired our tired bodies and were off in the morning. 
Every morning, every evening lends itself to a unique position. I have troubles “letting go” and taking the moment as it arrives at my feet sometimes. But this tour/this time i will. I have no other options.
San Diego sunshine in my face and I am a happy critter.
Nothing left to say.
Whole Heartedly indebted in the existence of “it all”.
the critter of asphalt
joshua fred.

Dia Uno. In No Direction to the American Fork.

Road travel comes at a certain price.
There really is no comparison to the dichotomy of emotion that accompanies her spiney terrain. Most of the boys and I have grown accustom to the roller coaster of ups and downs. Now, with that being said. I must admit that it this go about feels as if the cycle has shifted and not toward the side of the road that reads “EASY”.  Yesterday was departure day. Day one. Day one of 50. The morning came quicker than i had hoped. I had spent the night before with my lover at our favorite thai restaurant. We invited Timmy and his lovely lady to join. We discussed the “this’s” and the “those’s” of many topics. The past lives, past beliefs, past lovers and adventures. It was a wonderful evening. Upon returning home i was faced with an overwhelmingly long list of things to do before embarking on another adventure the following morning. I started in. Before i could look at the clock twice the blinking lights read 1:17 am. We were meeting at 8am to load the van for a 9am departure. 

I went to bed.
The morning came and I rolled out of bed with my mind in a million places. 
Emma was off for work.
Few tears were shed and the inevitable “BYE” was spoken.
A kiss before I go?
Tim showed up and we started loading the van. 
Isaac showed up and we got settled into the only tour vehicle i have ever known which now has pushed past the 200,000 mile mark.
We headed to SLC to pick up Evan. 
Upon arriving in realized i had left my amp back in American Fork. This was a terrible realization and we had to venture back in the same direction from which we came to gather the singing electrical box. 
OK!
We’re off. It was toward Seattle that we were heading. 
We were only 3 hours in when we made the decision to stop in Boise for the night, seeing as how we didn’t really  need to be in Seattle until the following night. Tim knew of an old acquaintance that he had made when he was on tour the previous year. He called him [Nate] up and without any type of reservation he invited us to his home. We stopped at the grocer to pick up supplies for black bean and tomato burritos, so to not take more than we were giving. 
We arrived at Nate and Danny’s home at 7pm. We introduced ourselves and then it was to the cooking of the meal. 
The conversation came easy. The words flowed out from all mouths in regards to the hardships of life, tour, love, god, death and the great wonder which is the life that we all have breathing in and out of our lungs.
OH LORD, the wonder of the world. The FEAR of the death that awaits us. The sinister of night. ALL embracing us. ALL surrounding us. HOW beautiful. HOW wicked. HOW absurd.
We are off to Seattle today. 
Find Us.

Coyote Howlin. Snow Shoe Sunday School.

THE MOBGODSQUAD SUNDAY SCHOOL.

A bold and blurry weekend of sound and light screaming from the upstairs practice room. “More Bass!!!” screams Isaac as Timmy pounds away on the drum set. The songs all melted together. Queen of the City became Feel The Same in a slow electric guitar bend changing from one key to another. The train (Evan) ‘s magical mood setting sounds put the whole gang into a frenzy. Tour is on the horizon and the Coyote Howlers (as Timmy has now declared us to be) have been in a speedy race to get to the place where it doesn’t feel necessary to “TRY” and make things come naturally, and by golly, I think we are almost to that place. Occasionally there is the OFFBEAT, or there might be a STRANGENOTE. But I think we are in it. We are almost there.

Apart from the sounds of live music being made in the attic of the MTN there were many other activities that were celebrated in. The weekend (Thursday) began with a stroll through the canyon of American Fork. Mutant feet (snowshoes) were applied to the boots of both my brother and I. We drug tuck along to join us on our adventure. Two miles into the mountains and tuck was having a pretty hard time keeping up. I picked him to notice that all of his long hair had accumulated some not so welcome passengers. There were hundreds of small snowballs that had formed on his hair. The time had arrived to head back. The scenery was incredible. The atmosphere, unmatchable. With blood by my side, and my pup holding up the rear of the train, it was going to be a hard feeling to match.

Tuck Boy. Dog Snowshoer

The weekend continued. The painting of Willamette MTN that I mentioned in the past “POST” is now mounted firmly on the North Wall of the living room. I have plans of framing the painting with a 2” by 8” piece of lumber, with a dark stain to give more eyes to the onlooker. I am thrilled about how the painting turned out. Brian Koch is an amazing talent. His thoughts and take on Willamette MTN is an inspiration to me indeed. Vision upon vision. The sights!

“Willamette MTN” by Brian Koch

Pups in REAL time.

Apart from the hanging, and the singing and the hiking there hasn’t been too much that has taken me away from the warm interior of the MTN. I am excited and terribly nervous about leaving again. The tour will stretch our hearts, minds, patience and I am in high hopes that it will give us a better VISION of the life we lead.

My Baby Girl. My Baby Boy. “Belly Dancers”

Monday night my lover and I decided to try a new recipe that we found in “Vegan Planet”. The recipe appeared to be simple. Some sweet potatoes, black beans, corn and you throw it all together to make what they deem to be a “vegan shepherds pie”. I had my doubts. I can’t tell you why, but when a recipe isn’t complex in both preparation and spice selection I tend to hold reservations on its potential “GOODNESS”. I must admit though, in this case I was screaming into WRONG-LAND. It was an UH-Mazing recipe and terribly easy to prepare. And so behold one of my favorite, new Sweet Potato recipes:

BAD FOTOS might help.

Southwest Sweet Potato Shepherd’s Pie

• 3 sweet potatoes, peeled and cut into cubes
• 4-5 chipotle chiles in adobo
• 3 tbsp water
• 2 tbsp vegan butter
• Salt and black pepper
• 1 tbsp olive oil
• 1 medium white or yellow onion, finely chopped
• 2 medium carrots, chopped
• 3 cups of cooked or 2 (15.5 ounce can) black beans or 1 (15.5 ounce can) refried black beans
• 1 1/2 cups thawed frozen corn kernels
• 1 1/2 cups of tomato salsa – I used medium
• 1 tsp ground cumin or to taste

Directions:

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Lightly oil a 9 x 13 inch baking pan and set aside.
3. Steam the potatoes until just tender, about 12 minutes.
4. While potatoes are steaming, in a blender or food processor, pure the chiles with the water and set aside.
5. Mash the steamed potatoes with half the chipotle purée, butter, salt and pepper to taste. Set aside.
6. In a large skillet, heat the oil over medium heat. Add the onion and carrots and cook until soft, about 10 minutes.
7. Turn off heat and add beans, corn, salsa, cumin and the remaining chipotle purée.
8. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Stir to combine.
9. Add to bottom of prepared pan and spread the mashed potatoes evenly over the top of the bean mixture.
10. Bake until the filling is hot, about 40 minutes. If you want a little crisp to the top of the potatoes, turn on broil for about 4-5 minutes.

farewell, till soon.

joshua fred.