Ditch Work

As arranged, B came over and got me for ditch work. Had to change into ditch clothes, so I just met him down at the upper catchment. We devise a plan. Chat and work as well together as ever, which is very good indeed. The goal is to convince the water to go where we want it to. Boys and a ditch. We've both done this most of our lives. The problem is fines. Particles precipitate from moving water by size. Angle determines velocity. I'm on rake, B is on shovel. There's a fair amount of chamber in the entire driveway, now, but there's a lot of loose material on the inward wall, which will clog the catchment for the upper culvert. I remove maybe a hundred bushels of leaves (which will also clog the catchment) then go behind B, who is digging out cubic yards of loose fill, and rake out the smaller fines. Unless there's a major natural event: deluge, hurricane, Canada Clipper meets Nor-easter. We should be fine for the winter. Hedging my bets, the ridge is so beautiful right now. After working things out to satisfaction, we walked over to B's place and had a taste of the newly decanted hard cider. Talked books for half-an-hour. The walk back to my place took an hour, thinking about things, walking through a golden tunnel of sassafras. The wind picks up and the leaves are falling at a furious rate. Ditch clothes are mere tatters, because this is there last use. They become impregnated with either clay dust or mud and must be thrown away. When something is in my ditch work clothes pile (should both of those be hyphenated?), it is beyond any redemption. I have to heat up water and take a sponge bath. I'm dirty. The afternoon light is spectacular, the red maples have a flush of pink on top of yellow leaves. This time of year, I always remember Mercurochrome. We used it a lot, when I was kid, everyone's wounds painted orange. Fall, as far as I'm concerned, is a matter of color. You might play the second cello suite. I supply meaning where there is none, because I'm human. We supply meaning. If you go with my firm, you'll never need to think about that again. I have a select group of janitors that I might be able to put you in touch with. They're really independent people, and I can't speak for them, but they mostly do what they say they'll do.

Tom

After the fall comes winter. When the shit hits the fan. New snow, as far as you can see; all the young trees bent with ice, and everything is either black or white. I've run out of paper. I need some help here.