“Passing by a bucolic summer institute on my way to work, I feel a pang at the casual attitude of all the expensive cars, littered in groups, on neatly trimmed acres of well cared for lawn. A world I could have been a part of, if I’d been convinced by school learning, followed its path to more learning, and not been so severely disillusioned by fancy talkers, at a young age. I admit I feel loss, though, still, at the sight of interlocking circle insignias that remind me of my father’s good cars. A self made man of pomposity, he’d gone high in that world, then fallen, for an obtuse political reason, which is what universities tend to do, at the top. Now all the car companies blur in my mind, and my aging truck with the funky tailgate is truly annoying me today. Is there no peace for the weary, no rest for the wicked? Beyond the strange haze, not altogether weather, I’m caught in a struggle of location, location, location. For the wood delivery in my driveway has to be moved again, a sizable portion of it via pickup, to an even more remote spot. And the unmoving, frozen tailgate is not playing along with what I’ve planned to do, with my weekend, with my life. Truth be told, sometimes I like a challenge. Yesterday, I packed a sandwich, in haste, excited for a day’s work involving complexities: a hack saw, a heavy block for bending metal, a root knife, for digging out & cutting old landscape fabric buried deep in the soil. A last minute cancellation by a co-worker, totally understandable, only wet my appetite for doing something hard, alone. Today, however, I’m miffed at locks, and keys & mechanic failures. I’m a little daunted by how heavy green wood actually is, though cheaper by the cord. Somehow, being a backwoods body builder using ordinary objects seems so pointless, so cruel. The constant pings & buzzes that alert me to my incoming mail, and questions from people arriving soon to relax in the environment I’ve created, make me irritable, eroding my normally welcoming demeanor. But they do come, and I do realize, that everything here, is what it is, and because I wanted it, at least on some level. I’ve chosen to be the fairy creator of illusion and rural grandeur, to hustle, and push, and primp and snip, just so that others may see further into what nature is saying, in its understated ways. Every puff of breeze, the building of barometric pressure, the edges of wilderness that are framed by my constant interaction with plant & soil, this is all a Shakespearean drama being played out for my amusement, and fun seeking, & dire need to interact with humans on a chess board I understand. I’ve gotten the damn cord somehow out the woods road, and backed in as close as I could bring a truck, then thrown it again, and then hauled it into a nice, new shed, to me, a gothic cathedral of utility and purpose. Warmth next winter is something this activity brings me closer to. I sweep the bark scraps off the deck, take anything useful inside the dwelling, roll up window screens, brush dripping creosote off chimney pipes, fold blankets, wipe down cooking areas, shake out mats, stow kindling below the platform. In the end, before I leave, I clip what I couldn’t mow, to neaten and make hospitable, the areas my guests will likely be walking. One tiny handwritten note I’ve pinned to the newly stacked wood: “This is next winter’s firewood. It’s not yet dry. Please use other wood” I scribe. Not a novel, not even a clever essay, but I’m out of juice. I check the farm pump, and the water gushes out with the force of rugged hill country. I take a deep draft in my hands, splashing my pants, my clogs, then clean out the pig trough below it. I reposition the push broom more elegantly to the left of the shed. Poke at the lawn chair, moving it a few inches, to find its best aspect for viewing the peaks. Maybe I stop and look, and dream a bit. See myself, reflected in the milky visage of faraway expeditionary terrain. Someday, I will go where I want, when I want, and then farther, and disappear into a portal on the other side of my most epic arrival, where everyone is waiting for me, and everyone, nostalgically, humorously, knows my true name.”
