An annual tradition now for my blog is to make a post for the online course I am teaching at ASU, so here it is. This year's post will be short and sweet since life is so busy at the moment! Welcome CS 1410 students. I expect you to enjoy this class and learn some cool stuff along the way without you really knowing how much you are learning :)
Life with computing continues to develop at an ever quickening pace. For most of you, life has always had the internet, and you are used to doing multiple things at once often with the aid of some sort of computing device. The goal of this course is to give you a glimpse into several different facets of computing and provide you the opportunity to experiment with new technologies or look at old technologies in new ways. So, let's get started and here is a fun video from my farm's youtube channel:
Monday, May 21, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
A Hen's Day by Margaret Wilkes
It was such an ordinary day. Doris the hen awoke bright and early to the sound of one of the rooster’s loud calls ringing through the dusty, semi-dark air of the hen house. She looked up to see which rooster was on wake-up duty today. Sitting on the section of perch appointed to the holder of that coveted position sat Weird Al, his signature swing comb hanging off to one side ever so slightly. Next to him sat his girl, the Barred Rock named Maxine, whose face bore a haughty look usually only sported by certain dignitaries.
Doris thought of the week before with much amusement as she
remembered when the juvenile rooster Bob was placed on wake-up duty. The son of
a legendary and well-respected rooster named Ulysses, much was expected of
Bob. He had woken up far too early, due
no doubt to the excitement of being on wake-up duty for the first time. He had
let out a full volley of adolescent crows, much to the chagrin of his enemies
and the horror of his allies. Everyone awoke, and a great tumult ensued,
leading to his removal from the position. This was a grave mistake, because
anytime the rooster on duty crows at the wrong time, a state of emergency has
to be declared for at least 3 days. This is because the colony of humans, who
they were so unfortunate enough to live near, may become angry, and the
roosters’ very lives may be in danger. The bullying had got rather bad for poor
Bob, it was true, and the talk about the nest-boxes was that he had even
considered going into exile at the Retirement Pen for Chickens nearby after his
untimely disgrace.
Perhaps that was why Weird Al looked particularly smug as he
proudly carried out his duties without flaw that morning. All of the chickens awoke, and with a shake
of their feathers, they each began to make their way towards the exit of the
henhouse and began to get out one by one-first Weird Al and his lady Maxine,
then a white rooster named Catullus, next an older hen named Phoebe, and on and
on until at last they were all pecking merrily on the damp, springy grass. When
Doris got out , she began her normal morning routine of preening and shaking
out her feathers and then pecking and
scrounging for her breakfast. She tried not to make eye contact or get in the
way of Maxine as she strutted about nearby, displaying her fine, fluffy black
and white plumage.
As Doris extracted yet another worm from its slimy tunnel, a
rooster standing nearby caught her eye. Feeling her gaze, the rooster
instinctively began to strut a bit more proudly and to groom and fluff his
already perfectly coiffed white tail feathers. Doris turned demurely and began
once again to search for grubs and worms along the green damp grass. Looking up
a few moments later, with a grub hanging most unflatteringly from her yellow
beak, she was surprised to see that the rooster had moved a few steps closer.
Clyde (for that was the rooster’s name) stepped a bit closer and winked. Then,
with great deftness, he handily picked out a worm-big, pink, and juicy, from
the ground. Then with a quick glance to make sure she was watching, he
proceeded to slurp the worm down in an instant, with the entire left side of
his beak closed off.
This, as you must have deduced, is the farmyard equivalent
of that show-off elementary trick in which you drink a whole glass of milk,
teeth firmly sealed, through a straw placed in a gap where a tooth used to be.
Doris, perplexed by the rooster’s advances and embarrassed at the remembrance
of how dumb she must have looked a few minutes earlier with the grub protruding
from her mouth, began a retreat ever so slightly, going slow, picking an
imaginary grub here and there, so that Clyde might not notice. Unfortunately,
he did, and reciprocated by moving closer to her, hoping to intimidate her. But
she would not be intimidated. Finally, his pride unable to bear this blatant
rejection and apparent lack of appreciation for his supposed skills, he
strutted forward, frustrated. Doris sensed this and looked up, and for a moment
their yellow eyes met. With a terrified squawk, the hen turned and ran fast as
she could away from him. Clyde, rolling his eyes, knows he can easily outrun
the hen, but he starts out slow to make the display more exciting for the
onlookers, of which there were plenty. Hens, pecking contentedly nearby, look
up from their activity to watch the chase, heads cocked to one side. Other
roosters watch the scene and cluck approvingly, and Bob, the juvenile rooster,
lets out his signature (now infamous) adolescent crow to show his approval. Not
to be outdone, Weird Al lets out a loud, strong crow. Next, One Eye Jack gives
his contribution. Then, without a word, the game is on. The roosters all
eagerly compete for the glory of Best Crow in Show. And who was the judge? Maxine,
of course.
Doris runs, rushing past that flock of hens and blowing past
the cacophony of crowing roosters. Clyde follows, getting closer by the
second. Another group of hens, a
sympathetic group of Gold Stars with a professional background in Psychology
and Poultry Relations, stand chatting by the flowerbed as the pair flies past.
“Ah, poor Doris! Clyde’s just downright obsessed with her today!” They shake
their wattles sympathetically and go back to socializing, this time turning to
the topic of the effects of excess buckwheat consumption on a rooster’s
behavior. Studies they had read showed
that it can exacerbate a rooster’s obsessive nature. Aha! Perhaps that was the reason for Clyde’s
recent obsessive compulsive behavior s they had observed.
Doris is frantic, and running out of steam. She decides to
use the one trick that had consistently worked well in the past- the Rooster
Ditch. She strategically ran through a part of the barn she knew the roosters
were generally not familiar with. The dim, early morning light would also aid
her escape. Next she extended her lead as much as she could, and then, with a
frantic dive, flew into a small corner room that was unoccupied, save for a few
pieces of plywood and old tobacco stick, which she hid behind as soon as she
landed. Pulse racing, she heard Clyde run barreling past, and on through the
barn. She had done it! She waited until her breathing had become normal, and
then she ventured back out. She felt sure Clyde would have gotten laughed at
when he emerged from the barn alone and still running furiously after nothing,
she had seen it happen many times. Happy in her success, she strutted out the
back of the barn into the growing morning light and went back to her breakfast.
It was a normal day, indeed.Saturday, January 21, 2012
Profile of Dr. James Wilkes by Corey Miller
“I don’t know how
you manage, James,” a customer at the Watauga County Farmer’s Market laughingly
observes. “A farm, bees, a
professorship…and kids? I’d be in an insane asylum!” The man is a stranger to me but is apparently
well known to my companion, to whom this quip has been addressed. James Wilkes responds with an equally
warmhearted retort and proceeds to converse jubilantly with his customer. I look on silently as James interacts with
this man who appears to be an old friend, his hand movements complementing
every syllable—sometimes dominating his speech in an effort to more fully convey
that of which his words are evidently incapable. His hands slice and point commandingly through
the air with a persistence that rivals his comrade’s own amplified, sporadic gestures.
The backdrop for
this friendly scene (which is a typical interaction at the all-accommodating
Farmer’s Market) is one of a comparably affable atmosphere: A newly risen sun shines through the trees to
the east of us, providing a brightness befitting the collective attitude of the
mass of people. Though the wind is as
unpredictable as the October morning itself, with the temperature being that of
a typical Boone day (incessantly fluctuating), there is one constant at the
Market: the presence and abundance of
life. One might easily mistake the heat of
the sun for the warmth of the beaming, welcoming faces scattered about. The morning light only accentuates the sharp,
investigative eyes of the children weaving in and out of the silhouettes of
their parents, who are preoccupied with their own inspections of the products
before them: Bald Guy Brew’s coffee aroma
leads searching noses through the crescent-shaped arrangement of stalls, each
containing its own assortment of items—crops, pumpkins, art, ciders, baked
goods, and knitted and sewed goods.
A few of James’s seven
children welcome customers to the Faith Mountain Farm stall, smiling and
laughing amongst themselves while never relinquishing that fundamentally necessary
attitude of professionalism. They serve their
customers, faces they may have seen every Autumn Saturday or never before
encountered, with an energy that usurps their own father’s charming
eagerness: I observe Galen’s 16-year-old
face frown from the genuine regret he feels in informing his latest customer,
“We have just run out of blueberry muffins.”
In such an environment, James, like his children, remains constantly
concerned with his business and its success, but never ceases to treat members
of the community—including his customers, colleagues, and even his competitors—with
the utmost consideration. He must
appreciate these people he knows so well for they, like him, are vital parts of
the community in which he lives…and thrives.
* * *
As the light of
the last day of September wanes and the evening sun hides behind the Appalachian
mountains, I sit on a wooden porch swing and prepare to investigate the life of
a man who is currently a stranger to me in all but name and profession. He is decidedly less bearded and aged than I
expected a beekeeping, computer science professor to be. While I sit with my new acquaintance and
prepare to record our interview, I reflect that this is only an interview: Genuine
conversation must not yet be possible because we scarcely know one
another.
We begin. He answers my first question simply enough: “My name’s James Wilkes.”
“Isn’t that Doctor James Wilkes?” I ask, convinced that I already know the
answer.
“It is…if you want
to call me a ‘doctor,’” he laughingly replies.
“Depends on who’s asking.” I
soon discover that the remainder of his responses is all just as energetically
lighthearted and unabashedly interested.
As our conversation continues, I realize that it has become exactly that—a
conversation! Within minutes, James has
turned the timid interview into an involving discussion of his life and, in
doing so, uprooted all of my premature expectations. Soon, James Wilkes’s place of birth is
surprisingly revealed to be my own: He was
born and raised in Eden, North Carolina.
When I inform him that I was born in Eden and raised in Reidsville, a
neighboring city, his face contorts into a narrow smile as he laughs heartily
aloud.
“Reidsville? Really?” He jokes.
“Ah, my big high school rival!” Until
he graduated from Morehead High School, James lived in Eden, where his father
taught math (James’s original career choice), kept several bee colonies, and
maintained a small garden. In this
garden, Mr. Wilkes grew various crops and encouraged his son to be considerably
involved with this hobby. James clearly
has no qualms in admitting that his family-centric approach to farming has been
heavily influenced (and inspired) by his father’s similar efforts. When I ask James whether his father was as influential
in all areas of his life, he stares at me incredulously for a moment, as if
expecting the announcement that I am joking.
After all, how could I ask a question with such an obvious answer? Realizing that the question is sincere, he
grins. “Yes, definitely!”
Over a week after
our first meeting, I conduct our second interview, and I am considerably surer of
my investigative abilities, as well as of James’s cooperation. He continues to discuss his history—how he
came to live in Creston, North Carolina with a wife (who also attended Morehead
High School) and seven children—and begins to elaborate on his current
profession. James studied math and
science at Appalachian State University with the intention of, like his father,
becoming a math teacher. After deciding,
“like so many others” who fall in love with the high country, that he wanted to
raise a family in the mountains and teach at Appalachian, he attended Duke
University as a graduate student until he acquired his master’s degree in
1989. Three years later, at which point
he was already married to Shannon Blackwell and had had his first child,
Margaret, he began work at Appalachian State University.
James is
concluding his explanation of the progression of his professional life: “I have been here ever since as an assisting
associate and now as a full professor.
Also during this time, I was the graduate program director; now I’m
Chair. I’ve been Chair for five years
now and overall I’ve had a good career.
I’m kind of mid-career, I guess you’d say.” James whistles as he reflects that he has
been employed with the university for nearly 20 years. He seems happy with (and considerably proud
of) his current occupational status.
James Wilkes is currently the Chairperson of Computer Science at Appalachian
State University, but as the conversation turns to his farm, his bees, and his
family, he seems almost disinterested in this prestigious position. For James, home truly is where his heart
resides.
A month later, the
sun’s blinding rays are regrettably absent as I follow James and two of his
sons out of the humble Wilkes family farmhouse and onto a winding “country
porch,” patrolled by the less-than-intimidating Lucy, a friendly Corgy-Feist
mix. We continue out onto the visible
portion of James’s property, which is currently besieged on all sides by a
smoke-induced fog. Strewn about the
house are items that obviously belong to the children—an assortment of toys,
plastic vehicles, various balls, a small slide, and a fallen basketball
goal. Chickens prevail over much of the
yard; they roost in the trees, estrange themselves in areas of the barn, and
sleep in the henhouses—until they are awoken by James’s son Sullivan,
anyway. 13-year-old Sully explains that
the chickens scattered about live outside of their boundaries, while the ones
within the pen seem to relish in their confinement. We steadily near the center of the yard, at
which point the rogues scatter, allowing us to approach our first destination:
the dead crops.
As I inspect the
frost-injured corn stalks and the disheveled sunflower stems, I feel an
overwhelming sense of regret that I have not been to see the farm earlier in
the year. I imagine the life and
activity I might be observing had I met James months ago. The idyllic farm scenery I had previously
visualized has been absent from this place for months now. Yet, I still fantasize: Tall, green cornstalks erect themselves along
the freshly tilled rows, the nearby sunflowers towering just as high. Where the ground is not tilled, healthy summer
grass abounds. A myriad of every other mountain
crop imaginable lines the remaining rows of the farmed area. The Wilkes family bustles about, tending to
every section of the farm, and the bees…the bees thrive. They swarm all about
the farm, incessantly leaving and returning to their hives, concerned primarily
with the pollination of plants and proliferation of their colonies…
Probably guessing
the dejected direction of my thoughts, James leads me to the pigs’ pen in a
mildly successful effort to display life on his farm. The new piglets warily gather at the fence as
a 450 pound hog lumbers along behind them.
As James pats his largest hog, he nonchalantly explains that she would
already be “in the freezer,” were she not so lazy: She simply refuses to “get on the
truck.” I look to Sullivan, who is
filling the pigs’ water trough, and little 3-year-old Oliver atop his father’s
shoulders, expecting to see some expressions of shock equal to the one I’m trying
to hide. The children do not seem troubled
in the least by the deaths of hogs, though.
This dismissive statement concerning the life of this creature startles me;
while exploring the accommodating environment that is James’s farm, I had
almost forgotten what farmers do. The
reality of the farmer’s lifestyle hits me:
James keeps these animals because they are a source of revenue.
Still
contemplating the idea of raising an animal with such limited attachment, I
follow the father and sons trio to the lone survivor of the merciless frost—a
line of chard. James picks and offers
each of us a piece. The steady crunch of
teeth on leafy greens creates a pleasant dissonance with our footsteps as we walk
on.
Finally, we
approach my most heavily anticipated destination of our tour: the beehives.
James explains that the honey-making season is over: There are no longer any plants to
pollinate. Now begins the bees’ most
endangered period of the year—the cold months, during which a beekeeper must
remain especially attentive to his colonies in order to “keep as many as he can
alive.”
I gaze at the still
colonies, hoping to see some sign of the life I know exists inside. The bees are no longer active, and I begin to
fear that I wont get to see them. As my
attention is withheld once again by wishful thinking, James and Sully continue
walking directly past the hives and call me over to an arrangement of gallon buckets. Sully grins as I provide a questioning look;
my cluelessness must be quite amusing.
From my position, these appear to be buckets full of what appears to be water
and straw. James simply gestures, “Look
inside.” I draw closer to the buckets,
and look inside, only to discover that I am surrounded by a swarm of
honeybees. They buzz out of the buckets,
circle the air above, and return to land on the straw inside. My initial surprise at being surrounded by
bees is quickly replaced…by my fear
of being surrounded by bees. James
laughs I take a hasty step backward.
“That’s what we call
‘sweet water,’” the beekeeper explains.
Still
concentrating intently on the swarm, I ask, admittedly puzzled, “What are they
doing?”
James’ lips slowly
draw apart into that now familiar narrow smile.
“They’re eating.”
Minutes
later, we are inside the basement of the farmhouse, and Oliver is doing
everything in his power to divert his father from demonstrating the key parts
of the honey-making process. As the
sandy-haired child toys with every contraption in the room, I cannot stop
myself from laughing aloud at his antics as James attempts to restrain
him.
My short, first
visit to the farm draws to a close with the closing of the day. James and I discuss our next meeting as he
escorts me out of the house. I leave
Faith Mountain Farm with a bag of freshly made granola and eight new names to
remember.
On the 18th
of November, I happily return to the home of the Wilkeses to join the entire
family for a long-awaited dinner. Within
an hour in the Wilkes household, I realize that the brief encounters with
James’s family on my first visit did little to prepare me for this experience: James and his family could not display a more
attractive lifestyle than they do in the five hours I spend with them.
When I arrive and
enter the living room, James’s wife Shannon lights the wood stove that warms
the house. I sit and make conversation
with James and Sully, who seems ridiculously intent on becoming my friend. Through it all, I cannot stop myself from
smiling.
While 20-year-old
Margaret prepares dinner, Shannon reads a children’s Story Bible version of the
Book of Exodus to the four youngest children.
James has informed me before tonight that he, along with the rest of his
family, is quite spiritual. He is a
Christian, a “believer,” as he calls himself, and the influence of spiritual
values on his disposition is acutely evident:
His lifestyle, and therefore the lifestyle of his family, is
considerably based upon the tenants of Christianity. While he and his family are more humble and
accommodating than any hosts I could have hoped for, he seems justifiably proud
of the lengths he has taken to improve his community: He views his farming business as “providing
good food” with which he and his family may “bless people.” The Wilkes family household only seems more
inviting as I listen to the children responding to the Biblical story, answering
their mother’s every question with warranted enthusiasm.
Shortly after the
Bible lesson has ended, Oliver is galloping around the house in his birthday present
(a knight costume that Sully has helped him put on), seeking “the dragon”
(Galen) who must be slain. 10-year-old
Israel, 6-year-old Lillian, and 5-year-old Zion have assumed the personas of
Chicken, Pig, and Lamb, and are performing a puppet show just before we are
called to eat. After the food has been
blessed, I delve into a meal of indescribable taste, which ends with what James
calls “real” milk and freshly baked oatmeal-chocolate chip cookies. Like Margaret, the other two older kids have
responsibilities as well: Sully performs
his chore by delivering dishes from the table to Galen, who washes them. Back in the family room, I am introduced to a
board game called “The Settlers of Catan” by Galen, Sully, and Israel. James and Shannon look on as Lillian, Zion,
and Oliver sketch pictures that are subsequently given to me as gifts.
Throughout my
incredible experience with this family, I steadily realize that I am beginning
to envy this lifestyle, as anyone who truly witnesses James’s family and farm
life might. James and his wife Shannon
have created a nearly perfect environment in which they may raise their family,
and they do so in what James believes is “the best way possible.”
* * *
One would most
likely never expected the descriptors “professor,” “ organic farmer,” and
“beekeeper” to occur in the same sentence cognitively, and therefore certainly
would not expect all of these adjectives to be applicable in the description of
a single person. James Wilkes is all of
these, however, and he miraculously manages to occupy each role
successfully. These roles are, of
course, his professions, and do not include his family-oriented roles of
husband and father, which are more important to him than “any farm, bees, or
professorship could ever be.”
Girl's Work
Post authored by Margaret Wilkes, 20 year old daughter of James and Shannon Wilkes and Chief Food Officer, among other duties, at Faith Mountain Farm
 |
Most females are not
interested in taking part in “Men’s work,” things such as mowing the lawn,
building things, operating power equipment, shooting guns, splitting wood,
etc. However, I happen to believe that
it is not only beneficial for ladies to learn skills that are normally
performed by men, it is very enjoyable. For one thing, I found it makes you
appreciate and empathize with the work your brother or father or husband toils
through each week. Another, it is a
wonderful change of pace from our usual sphere of work.
This past week I made good on a promise to do a bit of wood
splitting with my brother. Remembering how much I enjoyed splitting wood as a
child was one of the motivations for this promise. It proved just as enjoyable
as it had been when I was young. We split the logs until our splitter ran out
of fuel, then he informed me that now I could pick up what logs I could and
place them near the splitter for the next workday. He then left to do some
other thing, and I began scouring for logs I could move. I came upon four
gigantic ones, each weighing at least 85 pounds apiece. Thinking I couldn’t
possibly move those, I walked on until I spotted the sledgehammer and wedge
sitting a few yards away. Immediately I was intrigued. Mimicking what I had
seen my brothers do, I placed the wedge in a groove in the wood and started by
hammering it gently with the sledgehammer to keep it from falling over when I
started hammering in earnest. After
several hits from the sledgehammer, the wedge really began sinking into the
wood. Soon, across the stillness of the field, I heard a crackling sound that
was soft at first, but grew into a loud symphony of crackling. Seeing the end
was near and breathless with delight at my success, I kept hammering furiously.
Then, with a loud THWACK the log split in half and splattered in the mud
nearby. I was hooked. I did the same to
the 3 other logs, the last one taking the longest to split since it was a
hardwood log. At one point I was so engrossed in my project I hardly even
noticed several cars with drivers ogling me as they rode by. What I sight I
must have been! Muddy all over, red faced, wild hair, and wielding a
sledgehammer with the determinedness of a madwoman. I did not care in the
least, for I was having too much fun! After the logs were all split into a size
I could carry, I took them to the splitter one by one. It started to rain as I
was carrying the last log, and thus ended my day on the job.
It goes both ways. Put
a man on laundry duty for a day and expect them to stand in awe for the next
week of every shirt that miraculously appears, perfectly folded and pressed, in
their drawer. Put a girl on wood splitting duty for the day and she will
appreciate each piece of wood put into the fire for warmth. Not only that, but you
may have to fight for the possession of that wedge and sledgehammer.
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