more... (or TWSP, part 3)

Who knew that construction people had an exclusive language that no mortal outside their clique could understand?

I had spent quite a bit of time transcribing an idea (of what a Writer's Shed should look like) onto paper.





It did not gain me an entry card into the builders' club. This evening I listened to a back and forth between Ed and Dave (former attorney-turned-Mennonite-and-thus-someone-who-is-no-longer-willing-to-engage-in-legal-dscourse-but-happy-to-dispense-construction-advice-to-the average-shed-builder) that left me thinking that I am perhaps the most incompetent individual south of Verona.

Both Ed and Dave glanced at my sketches. Ed commented: "no one writes 6.5 when they mean 6ft. 6in." And Dave asked: "what's that?" pointing to a rectangular shape at the edge of one of the sketches. To this, Ed answered with amusement: "Ignore it; that's her bed."




Yes, I know that construction people would find it to be a silly inclusion on a sketch of what's to go where, but how am I to give guidance about the placement of windows if I leave off such essentials as to where I should doze off when the writing's not going so well?

Anyway, the drive to the countryside (where Dave, the potential co-builder resides) was nice.





Sort of. If you can forgive the rain and the misty coldness and my hunger for sensible conversations about the key elements of building a Writer's Shed. Like where to place a bed, or even a large hook to hang a coat on at the end of a long and weary day.

The Writer’s Shed Project, part 2

I have never built a house from scratch, nor had anyone do it for me or with me. Except my grandfather, but I was a baby then and it was Poland and we didn’t have Menards. So I am a novice at building a Writer’s Shed.

Ed, the originator of the idea and my future part-time landlord (in addition to being an occasional traveling companion) is an experienced shed builder and so I believed I would need give little more than occasional decorator’s advice in this undertaking. And since this is a Shed, after all, the decorating is pretty basic.

Today, we began the task of finding suitable materials. In other words, we spent many hours at Menards.

I’m not stupid. I know how to keep sane in building projects. You put yourself in the mind of your co-shopper and think like he does. For example, when looking at one hundred different windows with Ed, you say “interesting. Yes, I see that. Double hung. Good screen fit. Ah. Let’s go with the cheapest model” and move on. With the floor? “Bamboo? So nice. Interesting. Yes, I see that. Let’s go with something cheaper.”

At the end, we were both exhausted with being so agreeable. Ed dropped me and my bike right off the Beltline and I pedaled home. He returned to his own shed for an evening of male bonding with his two cats.

So, the process of building has begun. Has exuberance set in? Building requires patience, not exuberance. Exuberance is something I see outside my office window. It belongs to the young and lofty types who think they can fly just because spring has set in.

a day so full…

The Writer's Shed Project, part 1

Ed has decided (and I have agreed) that I should learn how to build a shed. It’s not hard, really. And if you are successful, you can have yourself a hut to do all sorts of things in – for example, to hibernate and make progress on your Big Book Project.

I am in favor of gaining such skills. For instance, I am learning how to heat a shed creatively, given that it will sit in frigid Wisconsin, in an exposed position and will be used as shelter by a person who hates having to wear multiple sweaters, year round, indoors.

But I am getting ahead of myself. The first stage is to knock down the shed that is cluttering the space for, let’s call it the Writer’s Shed (to distinguish it from the Sheep Shed on same property, providing shelter not for sheep but for Ed).

Early this morning, we removed clutter from the Dilapidated Shed (different from either the Sheep Shed or the Writer’s Shed) – metal scraps, turned in at the recycling center.

And, here’s the first lesson I offer you in shed building:

Lesson 1: if you’re clearing space for a new shed, try to recycle the clutter. Ed’s metal clutter netted him $212. Sure, Ed probably had more scrap metal than you or I, but still…

Okay, so watch for further updates. And consider this the first photo of the Shed that is NOT the Writer’s Shed, but the one that is to be knocked down to make room for a Writer’s Shed. (BTW, anyone need fine, weathered, antique-looking lumber? Yours, for pennies!)





Farming, part 2

The farmers were plowing, hoeing and staking today. I envied them. I was off to the Law School, they were off to the fields. I would very much enjoy being a fair weather (hobby, so that my income doesn’t have to depend on it) farmer. When I am not traveling, writing, etc etc.






The “I’d rather be fishing” people

There were a number who would say this today. Indeed, there were a bunch who were fishing. On my way to work, following the now much more climatically hospitable bike path along the lake, I encountered these:














And just outside my office, there were those who fished for the pleasure of simply being outside. I leave you with their playfulness. Ah…. spring. I love you so.

farming, part 1

So finally, it is time to clear the brush, till the soil and sow the seed. Is there anything more fundamental in life? …than the simple act of tugging at a rake? standing behind a tiller? Throwing out your hand with seed?

I came back from D.C. early yesterday, absolutely depleted. That’s (for me) not a very good blogging situation and I momentarily considered giving Ocean a few days’ rest.

Instead, I gave Ocean and a significant number of other things, only one night’s rest.

How can it be -- such a quick recovery? For me, it's a question of scaling back to the basics. Today, the farmers were out, raking, tilling, sowing, in the most straightforward ways and I could think of little else. They rent land next to Ed’s farmette and the day isn’t long enough to absorb it all. My photos tell only part of the story, but they are better than no story at all. So, here you go. Even more than the farmers markets that are about to explode this week-end in Madison, these people truly herald the beginning of the good seasons.

from Shenandoah, Virginia: almost heaven

One minute, you’re watching a line snake its way toward the entrance to the White House and an hour later, you’re in the deep Virginia countryside…





… where us all are wished a good day at a roadside store selling freshly made doughnuts (recipe from 1963!) and BBQ pork, “from our own pork!” (In the alternative, you can get two eggs, two pancakes, homefries, two donuts, toast, ham, bacon or sausage for $6.99).





It’s cooler today and the skies are a canvas of cloudcover. Shades of gray and white and navy. Or, is it that the mountains project their own tone of blue toward the heavens above?

Spring in Shenandoah. How would you want to experience it? From the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains?

We enter the Shenandoah National Park from the north, picking up the beloved Skyline Drive which slowly moves you along this most beautiful mountain ridge. Even in the first miles, the views take your breath away.





And really, it only gets better.











A young man is studying maps in an effort to identify the mountain peaks. I can’t be bothered. I’m too engrossed in the entirety. And the range of spring colors, extending into tones that have nothing to do with lemon or green.





But it does help to do some research in advance. Hiking trails cross these mountains in various configurations and levels of challenge and we want it all, in a nutshell: something challenging, with views, not too lengthy, but with an impact. The kind that’ll make you say: hey, I hiked that.

We locate the backcountry Meadow Spring trail – a total misnomer as it is a hike straight up the mountain, with no meadow or spring along the way. I pick it because it offers views.

It is quiet here, in the forest. If the Skyline was low on visitors, the trails, even on this Sunday, are pretty much empty. As we pick up the great Appalachian Trail at the ridge, we meet no one. Birds. Just the noise of birds, scratching the wet soil.










At the summit, we are mesmerized by the ribbons of sky and mountain.





The clouds discharge a few drops of water and even a dusting of ice pellets. It’s significantly cooler here than back in D.C. But who could mind? Spring in the mountains is a moody time of year, teetering between exuberance and a chilly bite. We see them both in the space of one afternoon.

Driving back to the city along the winding, hilly roads of Virginia, I am shocked how different this state looks from anything in the Midwest. Cows graze, but they are black cows and they are scattered over meadows of spring grasses. There aren’t mega crop farms here, but there are horses and we see them, galloping behind wood fences. Signs point to vineyards. Forests are completely... well, not Wisconsin-like. The forsythia is bushier, the dogwood is everpresent, daffodils spring in patches along the road. And those yellow flowers, growing in the wild or sometimes cultivated – what are they?





It’s all so beautiful. We are in a rush though. We’re both hungry and I have heard enthusiastic statements about the fried chicken and puffed, savory pastries at the Central in D.C. A good ending to a southern kind of day.



When I was in college back in New York, I knew a young man who would often be seen in his t-shirt, announcing that Virginia is for lovers. I never much liked it because there was a woman with whom he had traveled to Virginia and with whom he would like to forever return to Virginia and that woman was not me. But I'll reconsider it now, maybe giving the slogan a Kermit the Frog extension – “for lovers, for dreamers, and me…” April and Virginia are just such a great pair!

from D.C.: reflections

Putting up an evening post may be tough tonight. We're heading out. The idea is to hike. Where? How? Come back tomorrow for a report.

In the meantime, enjoy your Sunday. Like this pair, floating between blooms, paddling slowly or not at all, one looking out at me, the other -- with head buried in her own self. She seems content. No stress there. I try to imitate her, but I can't. People haven't the ability to let go so effortlessly, to sink into their own peaceful spaces. Anyway, I'll leave this photo for you to enjoy. Leisurely, rolling with the ripples, among pink petals and freshly green leaves.




a pair of ducks, flowers, reflections

from D.C.: life’s flowers

Such a corny subject line, no? But I’ve been thinking about that tons – where and when the flowers of one’s life show up most pronouncedly.

Here's a sure one. Dependable, predictable, rock solid: Daughters. When I visit daughters. The season is of no importance. The days are colorfilled, radiant, full of smiles. The most abundant flower-scapes. It’s always like that. And it’s as if the other one is there as well (and often time she is, on cellphone) and we’re walking together through some place so gorgeous…

I know, corny. But so true.

Of course, one cannot help but note that this time there really are flowers. Everywhere. I’m toward the end of the cherry blossom time and stepping out of the airport, after a stormy morning and a very stormy flight, I was assailed with this:





Good-bye morning snowshowers. Hello fuzzy clouds and sunshine. And a temp close to 80. And blossoms. You’re going to get the blossoms. Lots, here, on Ocean. Please, just go along with it – I am so deprived!



colors from another continent




peeking through





the sweep of flowering trees





pinky





playful love





playful love, reversed





beauty

stormy day

At night, there was lightening. Heavy fog at dawn. And then, it simply rained.

Storms either clear the air, or they leave you frazzled and distressed.

So what was today like? Recovery? Cleared air? What?

In the early evening, I took a wet walk through the Arboretum.































Afterwards? I cooked and contemplated storms.

comments on comments

Here’s the thing: I rarely respond to comments. It’s a sense of my own smallness that leads me to stay quiet. Why would anyone click on the comments twice (on the chance that there may be a response)? I know very important to me people who never click on comments, on Ocean or elsewhere. Twice would be over the top.

Still, it feels rude. And inaccurate. In my head, I always have a response.

Then along comes a low news day, where the only events had to do with work and where the weather outside continues to be absolutely despicable: something to endure, without pause or feeling.





…and I’m thinking: let’s turn to the comments and forget about any other reference to April 10th.

So, pulling out these from the last few days, here are a few thoughts:

Lili wrote:
My mother once said 'I love the ocean! It's always going somewhere....'

If my house had been by the sea, I may have never sold it. I write this having never lived by the sea. But looking out at it makes the mess in my head seem tiny. In a good way. (By comparison, looking out at the cosmos makes me feel too tiny.)


Lee I. wrote:
I'll be on Air France in May and again in June/July. Hmmmm. Wonder if we'll cross paths.

There is much dispute as to how far and how frequently I’ll be crossing the ocean this spring. One thing is certain – if you’re on the Chicago – Paris flight on May 15th, do wave: I'll be sitting next to the guy with the feet that stick out into the aisle.


Superdad asks:
Am I a terrible person if I never turn off my Blackberry simply because I know that nothing bad is going to happen [in flight]?

No you are not. But I have to say that I am greatly influenced by an NPR story of some years back where a reporter investigated the possible hazards of using cellular technology in the air and found none. Of course, that was then and perhaps things have changed. Still, I would bet that of the, say, 300 passengers crammed into 280 seats, barely half turn off all their technologies. And yet, judging from the news, if we’re going to crash, it’ll be because the airlines (and not the passengers) are not attending to their wiring.


NonVoxPop writes:
Isn't it awesome how they do that decorative stuff with the foam? This one [referencing the coffee mug below] looks like a dancer or dervish.

You too? I always look at patterns and give them human form. I have some scary stuff on my shower wall. Hollow eyes of very tormented persons. (I blame it on the long winter.)


Dande writes [also about the photo of the coffee mug]:
It is as stylish as a 1930s era poster by the brilliant designer A. M. Cassandre

That’s supremely nice. And it conjures up my own associations with Cassandre: a triplet of posters in the Paris Metro many decades ago, advertising that lovely, slightly bitter aperitif: Du… (clatter clatter, next poster:) Dubon… (clatter clatter and finally:) Dubonnet. Oh, could I go for a Dubonnet at the end of this cold, miserably cold and wet day! (With a twist, on ice.)

distracted

Why are you taking a photo of my coffee?
Is it your coffee?
Yes…
So sorry. My mind was elsewhere. Thought it was mine…

rain

Outside my home – rain. You’re thinking – big deal. April showers. Be happy it’s not snow.

I’ll listen and then respond: not showers. Heavy, steady, unforgiving rain.

flying home

The news programs are full of stories about horrendous airline performance in the year 2007.

I could add to those stories, including one based on yesterday’s flights. But I can’t say that I really blame the airlines. It’s how it all works, isn’t it? Airlines try to make a buck (or stay afloat) and passengers have no loyalty – they reach for the cheapest, as they must, because it’s just so damn expensive.

People like me (who fly constantly) know how to hedge their bets and even so, we get days (like yesterday) that make us wonder why we even try.

And still, I just can’t see why I should choose to be surprised. It’s how I approach everything. Perhaps my Polish (under communism) suspicious-toward-market-forces nature clicks in: they’re out to get me and I must defend myself and if I’m really smart, I’ll occasionally score my own small successes.

So, in spite of the difficulties experienced yesterday in my travels home from Boston to Madison, I’d say it was a good day. I got home, didn’t I?

And the flight attendant who told me I should put away my camera because it was an electronic device (forbidden under 10,000 miles)? The other attendant was so incensed on my behalf that she asked the captain for clarification.

For future reference: you can take pictures. Anytime.




P.S. I’m really loyal to my airlines. I have not flown anything that’s not Air France, Northwest, KLM or Delta (all one happy family) for years. Indeed, if ever anyone invites me to New Zealand, I’ll panic. None of those fly there.

from Cape Cod: leaving

I have an afternoon flight home.

Cape Cod… It was just a taste, really. Oh, but what a taste! You can do an intense amount of sampling in a short spell.

Barnstable oysters, Chatham scallops…









Salt on your face.

Chocolate in your room, a cookie with nanna’s home made raspberry jam. (Our Brewster Inn by the Sea hosts worry about this amount of detail. It feels heavenly to be attended to so well… Because really, in the course of the everyday, you can only slug through the hours and hope that you’ll have the time to do a load of laundry.)

A morning of drizzle and cool mists. It was supposed to be the reverse – a bleak Saturday and a better Sunday. We won in the switch.

A quick run over to the marshes. Wet shoes now and hair that’s starting to clamp down. Misty, salty dampness. Just one more look at the sea, there, beyond the still bare brambles.





At the Inn though, I see that the forsythia is popping shoots of yellow. And the double daffodils are full of lemon yellow ruffles.









We sit down to breakfast. Fruits, juices, scones, a frittata and for me – scrambled eggs with fresh herbs – dill, parsley, chives, along with granola.





I’m restless. I pick up a paper, a book, I put them both down. My tolerant breakfast buddy watches me with amusement.

It’s the departure that weighs on me. I’ll never get used to this part of being a far-away parent.

We talk about our forthcoming vacations, our week ahead. In the car, we play music that was so often my Sunday morning routine, even as the daughters were very young. Nessun dorma, nessun dorma…






In Cambridge, she turns toward her home and I catch the T to the airport.