deconstruction 102 (The Writer’s Shed Project, part 7)

How come the hazards of life are so often... beautiful?

It was a miserable beginning to a Saturday. Cold. Drizzly. Cold, really, barely above winter.

The farmers market? We went searching for morels (it’s the season!), found none, talked a little to the cheesemaker, admired the flats of lettuce and left.





Somewhat hurried this morning. The old shed was coming down and Ed and I wanted to be there. For the glory of it all. And the fire.

You would probably guess that Ed doesn’t like to burn dead wood. He doesn’t even like sawing it off. When I suggest we prune, he talks endlessly about the integrity of it all – dead branches, old stumps, old canes: he’ll reluctantly clip, cut and saw if I can prove (with links to websites) it’ll encourage new growth. And still, he doesn't really believe it.

Once sawed off, old branches are heaped in an infinitely large compost heap. The stack of old branches is so large that I ask Ed if it will ever turn back into soil. It’s pointless though. He’ll answer with a story about a frog he spotted there the other day. I’ll say that was accidental, but he’ll be convinced there’s a colony of frogs somewhere there and so the stack will remain untouched.

But when you move into a property with several old sheds full of old life, there’s a lot of stuff that can only be disposed of through burning. Rotten boards and doors, frames, beams – things that no one can use and cannot be composted. And so once every few years he burns the stuff.

One phone call to the fire department and we’re ready.

And it is a beautiful, awe inspiring, monstrously huge, (and therefore threatening) fire!






The old shed family -- the people who bought the wood and agreed to take the structure down -- arrives in stages. Grandpa, grandma, daughter, son in law, grandkid. And dog.

They get to it. Slowly, methodically. In the cold, damp weather.

Grandpa, a once farmer, tells us how much he loves to work with this wood.
And do what with it?
Oh, for example, make birdhouses. I sit at the lake, watch the birds... I'm a nature guy. And I'm just so happy with my projects!
We do a lot of fishing there, by the lake, his grandson tells me.

I have often thought that one of the best things you can do for your family is learn to be happy. Because they'll come to you then, they'll do projects and take down barns with you and eat lunch out of the truck. And happiness is contagious.

The grandson works the ax on an old wooden post. Good exercise – his mom smiles. The dad is up on the roof now. Be careful dad! -- the kid shouts. But within minutes he, too, is up there. Dad has tested it. They work together prying off the steel sheets.





Underneath, there’s rolled roofing. That’s unfortunate. Too many rusty nails. All the roof boards have to be burnt. The fire is stoked again.





But there are treasures as well in the old shed. For example this guy. Asleep still? Bats, like me, don’t like the cold.





By four, the deconstructing family is winding down.




They want to finish tomorrow. Of course. We're fine with that.

I comment to Ed – I can’t believe they paid you to do this.

But then, I listen to the grandfather talk about his birdhouse, the daughter telling me how beautiful the old door is with its old hinges, I watch the grandson hack away at an old rotten post...




...and it all makes sense, doesn’t it? Who isn’t happy after this day?

chainsaw 101

That tree needs to come down – I say. It has a sprawling habit and it is invasive. [And it’s very close to the future site of the Writer’s Shed.]

Can I use your chainsaw?

I have never used a chainsaw. I know that they are unsafe. But Ed has a good one, with features that surely will keep the chain from disengaging and hitting my limbs. Besides, most bad accidents (90%, according to Minnesota website) happen from branches falling. This tree, as I said, is thick, but low.

You need chaps. I don’t have chaps. [chaps are leg guards]

Okay. I understand. I’ll be super careful. Super super careful.

Wear protective eye stuff and ear guards. And know that this is a dangerous tool.

Forewarned. But not about this essential element: cutting through tree limbs is damn hard work!




I now add to my skills this: a very half-assed knowledge of and comfort level with chainsaws. (I once told someone that I am an encyclopedia of half-assed knowledge.)



Meanwhile, Cha keeps to his planting regiment in the neighboring field and the willow branches sway this way and that and really, it is a fine day.









P.S. Let me add this on the subject of chainsaws: Even though most people don’t die from chainsaw accidents, they do lose limbs and other precious commodities. Sure, people die in cars with a millionfold greater frequency. But I read about chainsaw injuries on the Net. Gruesome! So, my 101 here is important: be very very careful when you come anywhere near a chainsaw and protect yourself in all ways. With chaps, eyeguards, the whole shebang. Otherwise, it’s like this: the chain slips at a speed you can’t even imagine and hits you in one place or another and then you've got yourself a major headache.

and so

April ends with sweet confetti. The last day of the month, the last day of teaching (until July), the last day of a long period of disorganization and reorganization. A cool day, but a sunny day, a day of sailboats and paint colors.










Sweet things. First cotton candy, then ice cream at the Law School.





One more student presenting one more paper and then it’s over. For most of my students, mine was the last class they’ll ever attend in their lives. One tells me – yours was my first and yours was my last.

Sadly, I’ll likely never see him again.

I ask my class for a gift – to help me while I’m grading papers. I like music, but I don’t listen to the radio much and I don’t follow music trends. Write down a title of a song I should download and listen to. Put your name by it and I’ll associate it with you when you’re long gone into the attorney world.

I pack for home a list of songs scribbled on a yellow sheet of paper.



Evening. We’re out on the terrace – a group of my students and I, having a beer by the water, recalling the highs and lows of it all.

Remember when, in the first semester of law school you took us for a pizza and karaoke?

This graduating class began their tenure here at a time of tumoltuous changes for me. Teaching was a solid, teaching was good. I had 22 anchors in that class. Two and a half years later, I let them go. Off you run now, all of you Katherines and Kates and Aarons and Brandons and Neils, the whole lot of you – off you go.

And now we're in the last hours of the last day of April and there's nothing left but a song and a smile. And that's a good thing. I'm up for both.

a rare confluence

In the years that I have been blogging, less than a handful of days passed without a post. Wednesday turned out to be one of them. Why? The last day of teaching and then celebrating the last day of classes for the class of 2008 joined together to keep me away from my computer until... now.

I'll provide more detail later. Full days are good days and this most certainly was a full day.

vocal visitor

This is the second day in a row that she is here. Yesterday she sat out on the balcony chair and I watched her rest on her legs, folded under her light body. I hoped she wouldn’t mess up the chair. She didn’t.

Today she came back with a friend. I want to think he’s her lover, but I don’t really know. She is extremely vocal, but she's secretive, too. I can't always read her all that well.

She made her way to the corner of the balcony and peered at it for a long time. Why? I’m thinking she’s considering hanging out there a while. I want to encourage her, but I don’t want to push her to a bad decision. What do I know about finding your own corner – my own version is to put down a wooden floor and buy a comfortable couch. She seems to need neither.

I had to leave to go to class. I tiptoed out so as not to disturb her thoughts. When I came back in the late afternoon, she was gone. I’m hoping to see her again. It can’t be just a two day thing, can it?

Amos and Dave (The Writer’s Shed Project, part 6)

As we move forward with the building of the Writer’s Shed, Ed and I are still discussing who to hire for help with construction. Last week, we drove an hour south of Madison to meet with Dave, the fallen away lawyer who, with his wife and fifteen children, has embraced the simple, peaceful life of a Mennonite and taken on shed building as a livelihood.

Building sheds is something I can do with my older children – he said to us, as we presented our thoughts on the project.

This afternoon, we drive to western Wisconsin. The gentle greens of late April are lovely, even as the dark clouds of a late winter storm roll in.





And it turns cold.

We are getting almost close to the Mississippi by the time we reach the homestead of Amos and Mary. We’re here to talk to Amos – the fallen away Amish, now somewhere between the Born Again Christian and the Mennonite faith (though I read that not all in his family agree with this religious reclassification) who, along with his wife and ten children, builds barns and sheds for a living.





You may ask why I mention religion in a post about shed building. If you visited either Dave or Amos, you would understand that it is a significant part of the story.

Building barns and sheds. Raising children who then help with construction. Dressing simply. Modestly. Posting uplifting slogans on walls and down driveways. Frugal lifestyles. Quiet temperaments.

You’re selling the business? Ed noticed the real estate sign by the road.
Yes, we’re moving to Ghana. I’m curious about this and he seems willing to explain.
We’ll be running an orphanage there. We’ll be working with the adolescents. Helping them to transition to adult life.
You’ll take your whole family?
Yes, of course.

So I’m thinking we should work with Amos. It’s like handing money to support a good cause. Or maybe it should be Dave? He and his wife have adopted six kids over and beyond their biological nine. Maybe they’ll adopt more.

It really is more than just paying someone to help put up your shed.

The winter weather catches us on the drive back. Wet flakes and gray colors take away any ideas about spring. We pass one sad looking town, then another. Lifeless main streets. Thrift shops, empty storefronts.




And in spite of this, I think to myself – what a beautiful venture that was! And what gorgeous countryside, just west of Madison!

And it is. Weather and other life’s challenges notwithstanding.

raspberry canes

The Writer’s Shed is not even in the most formative stages of construction yet and still I feel the need to roll up my sleeves and do my part to improve the land where it is to be built. And so I head out to Ed’s farmette to weed, prune and chop.

Initially, I set my sights on clearing the huge raspberry patch of dead canes. There are more dead canes than live fruit bearing ones and so it seems like a worthwhile task.

It is certainly an unpleasant task. The canes scratch. Some of them crack at a snap, others are dead but stubbornly clinging to their pod. It’s all a terrific mess. But, I am to be part of this grand landscape and so I pitch in.

I watch Isis, the friendlier of the two Ed cats, move out of the canes and towards the still to be removed shed and I think – buddy, you have one easy life.




Right to the side of Ed's raspberry jungle, Cha and his wife are engaged in their own farming challenge: the planting of new raspberry canes.





Such grueling work! I want to say -- here, just harvest Ed’s berries!

But I know that this would not be helpful. Ed's berries, in their uncontrolled habitat, could not support what this family needs --a bounty. A harvest that will pay their bills.

And so we continue. I destroy dead canes, they plant new ones. We pause to exchange Sunday greetings and then resume our respective chores. Snap, pull, discard. Dig, plant, pat down.

windy

The winds blow this way and the winds blow that way. April can be a difficult month.

But you know, we need a different marker of warmth than a simple temp reading and a wind chill factor. In April, cold and windy does not feel bad. It feels like I need an extra sweatshirt. I can live with that.

At the market, the vendors may have had a different take on the weather. If you sit in the wind for six hours you feel... the wind.





Me, I took the bike out and it felt like the day could not go wrong.

Until it did.

And then it recovered.

April is tricky. Did I say that already?

storms and sinks (The Writer's Shed Project, part 5)

In the evening, the weather people are warning of storms. The severe kind that do damage.

Ed and I are back at Menards, looking at windows, light fixtures and sinks. For the Writer’s Shed.

We have already checked out the Recycle (Habitat for Humanity) store, a lighting fixture store and really every other discount entity we could think of. We are back at Menards as Ed waffles between going for the appearance (casement windows) or cost (double hung). [I know cost will prevail, but I go along with this process because I think the “what if” path is one Ed likes to travel.]

And there, in the aisle of Menards, I pop the question.

Do you think I could have a sink?
It is nearly impossible to connect the Shed to the septic system and water pipe.
I know this to be true, but when I get swept away by emotion, reason fails me.
Still, maybe we could look at sinks. Maybe there could be a place where I could drain waste.

If you think the idea of draining a sink that has no water pipe leading in is strange, you must understand that we had already studied carefully such oddities as composting toilets (the video on this system was... compelling) and had looked at many on line presentations of incinerating toilets. We rejected them all – Ed by reason of cost, me by reason of grossness.

We look at sinks. I daydream of how wonderful it would be to rinse a cup right there in the Writer’s Shed.

I could run a hose to the Shed and you could rinse anything you like..
It’s not the same, I tell him.


We make no real progress today. And yet, we inch forward. We know what the stumbling blocks are. And we know they are surmountable. In the scheme of things.

Maybe I could keep a rain barrel at the side and hope for above average rainfall.

Late in the evening, as I watch reports of damaging storms in the area where we kayaked earlier in the week, Ed looks at sinks on Craig’s list. Take a look at this: fluted green clamshell. Slightly soiled.

pass

I’m generous with passes in class. You don’t want to talk? Okay. You get a pass.

I’ll give myself the same here. It was a work day. I pass on anything more profound.

Oh, but wait. Don’t you want a photo? Yes, sure! Clumps of flowers with the light of spring (from the ride home).

life’s confusing

All day long I have been thinking that it's hard to be a goose. Unless you're this goose.





On another note, I want to ask this`-- am I in California? I mean, how lovely to have this in April?















Not California. Not even close. Wisconsin. In April. No kidding.

earthy

I go along. Earth day? Yes! On board! I think green thoughts daily now, but today I think super green thoughts.

And it’s soooooo easy! A birthday bouquet from a friend – look! Flowers from the soil. Colors for the soul.





Not enough? You are a demanding audience! I thought as much. In the evening, I take a walk. Just nearby. Nothing special. My mind is on work and other details of survival.

But it’s a beautiful evening and that’s enough. Take a breath. Smell that earth! Value it.

What? You’d like photos? Here, I send you this robin. He sings an earthy twitter.

the two fives

I have been thinking about being 55 for a while now. Of course, hitting the two fives is just as significant as hitting any number. Another day ahead! Fifty-five, fifty-four and a fraction, what’s the diff?

To me, it is a big deal. There’s the birthday part, that’s huge. And then there’s the fifty five.


I give myself this day to pause and consider where I’m at. It’s like going to court for a progress report, but you’re before a forgiving judge who pats you on the head and tells you to give yourself credit in life for merely getting by and not messing up significantly.

So that’s why I like to celebrate.

When I was a kid, my parents were not much into celebrations, but my next family sure was and we did splendid things for each other’s birthdays.

Right now, I hang out with the non-celebratory kind and so it’s a challenge to do anything beyond the ordinary. Still, it’s a beautiful sunny day and so the ordinary needn’t be so ordinary. We can slap on some sunscreen and head for the great outdoors.

But, it being a Monday, we get a late start on things. And there’s a kayak to inflate and a truck to load up and so it really isn’t until after 3 before we get to the village of Germania. Ed’s thinking we could pick up the Mecan River there and paddle down a dozen miles toward the Fox River.

We get out to leave our bikes at the take out point. Oh, but what happened here? Where’s the river? The forest looks flooded and the bridge over what must be the river almost touches the water level.






If you lean forward, you can make it under the bridge. No, not me. My adventuring quotient is low this afternoon. I want to emerge whole. Indeed, I want a good meal at the end of the day, not jello on a hospital tray.

We drive up and inspect all bridges along the stretch we are to navigate. I finally agree to put in at the Germania damn and take out some six miles downstream.

Germania. What can I say. It is the most depressing village I’ve seen in the state of Wisconsin. We are not an island of prosperity up here in the Midwest, but Germania is so down and out that it looks like everyone’s given up. Debris. Old motors. Rusty everything. Heaps of nothing. Fallen porches. This, for a grocer:





…and this for a saloon.





Hearty appetites, no?

We unload the kayaks and pick up the current.










At first, it is serene, wide, beautiful. But under the first bridge, we hit some rapids and Ed’s boat takes in water.





We continue. What can you do. It’ll be a springy but wet ride down for both of us.




Ah, but the sun – though low now, it’s still there. Sort of. Behind a cloud or two, then out again. Swallows dive and soar, two sandhill cranes hover over us with their odd folk song. Ducks take off in pairs and we watch it all – this show of water fowl, one minute with us, the next, off to people free places.










We paddle to the shore and bike back and catch the one beautiful Germania view: of the lake in the early evening light.





By seven, we’re back on the road to Madison. Past Montello, where fishermen and boys try to pick up a few striped bass.





Past herds of deer and fields of burning orange.










Home to Madison. Home of many birthdays past. Home, at fifty five.

Sunday

A day requiring great physical stamina. Doing the usual Sunday morning condo scrubbing, I wondered why, for me, Sunday has always been a day for cleaning. Should it not be a time for repose and repast? With family, friends?

The weather finally pushed me out the door and I pedaled vigorously towards Ed’s farm where we were to do some land clearing in preparation for the Writer’s Shed. [Thank-you, sixty-five, for tip on “A Pattern Language.” Ed, who is a designer by trade, had a nice hefty copy and now I am convinced that anyone involved in a building project should leaf through this immensely wonderful piece of writing.]

There was a lot to clear.










Ed took down rotting trees and I cleared growth from seasons past. There is a certain wild randomness to Ed’s property and I know that if I am to spend time there, I will need to create some sense of order, at least in the spaces proximate to the Writer's Shed. Sure, yard work takes time. But, I am my grandfather’s child and making things grow ranks up there, with cooking (that comes from my grandmother; neither of my parents were drawn to growing things or cooking). And, for me, time is no longer madness. I move at a different pace and with different imperatives than I did, say, 55 years ago.

The Writer’s Shed space abuts the land farmed by Cha and his younger brother. I watched them work the soil all day – such tough work. Last year’s crop was a disappointment for them – 2000 strawberries completely ruined by bad weather. And this year? Whose fortunes will improve? Whose strawberries will bring rewards? Whose book will get chapters added? Which trips will be scrapped? Which will become important?










I did not stop to sit until now, in the early evening. Cha’s family is finishing their work for the day. Another family is circling the dilapidated shed to see if they want to take it off Ed’s property. Two boys are climbing through the weathered boards. Their grandpa makes things from old wood. An artist. How sweet the whole scene!





Me, I’m spent. No matter. It was a rock solid day, Gorgeous on the outside and within.