Physically Exhausted

Before dark I make twenty or thirty trips carrying billets of wood into the shed. I can smell the rain coming, feel it on my face, but I finally have to throw in the towel; ten more repetitions and I would have got it all, but I just couldn't do it. Physically whipped and exhilarated in equal measure. When it finally starts raining I put out a couple of buckets to get water for a bath. I'm filthy and smell strongly of smoke and earth and the various piles of scat I've tracked inside. It's not a bad smell, like rotten potatoes or rotten eggs, and I like it, but I have to work with other people, so I heat water and bathe in the sheep-watering trough. Not a care in the world. Fulfilled my various functions without damaging myself. When I finally come inside, I sit in a stupor for several minutes, before I can shed the insulated work-boots and the outer layer of winter clothes; then I stoke up the fire, get a drink and roll a smoke. I'm clear on a lot of issues recently, I resolve questions by carrying either an odd or even number of logs for the stove. Not a life for everyone, but it works for me. Rain on a metal roof. "Delta Blues." Consider the desert, where nothing might happen for a very long time, various beaches in southwest Africa, an island you might find yourself. Suddenly it's tomorrow. I wasn't even aware of going to sleep. Stretched out on the sofa for a brief rest, woke up at three in the morning to pee, and went right back to sleep. Up at dawn and, after coffee, started hauling wood until the rain moved in. Then moved inside and started cleaning the smoke-chase. A wood cookstove circulates hot air and flame around the entire inside of the stove. In the case of my Stanley/Waterford both the inside and outside are cast iron, a box within a box. There's an access port below the oven and a special tool for raking out the ash and you open the top and rack the sides down to the bottom, open the port and rake then into the ash bucket. It's a dirty job. When I'm doing this I also knock the stovepipe, where there's always some creosote, so that I can rake that out as well. Then I have to vacuum and clean the inevitable mess. One of those chores, though, that I always feel good about, because it insures safe operation of a critical component in my life. My cast iron skillets migrate to the stove and to the stone counter that butts up against it (for sliding hot pans off the stove) and I spend an hour cleaning and seasoning them. I clean them with salt, as an abrasive, and a piece of old tee-shirt, then season them with a little walnut oil and heat them gently. Just went and counted and there are about twenty cast iron pots and pans, and two more that are at some stage of conservation. I just finished restoring an oblong pan, with a lid that can be used as a griddle (called a Sportsman's Pan), that measures seventeen inches by nine, four inches deep. It's seems designed to cook a whole loin of something. When I was last in town I watched several episodes of "After Hours With Daniel" on one of which he cooked an entire rack of venison, for which I'll substitute a pork loin, that I want to try, and the pan is perfect, as I can both sear and bake in it. The idea is to oil the piece of meat, then roll in crushed grains (sunflower seeds, oats, wheat berries), cover the top with sage leaves, then bard with bacon, truss it up, sear it on all sides, then bake at a low heat for several hours. I might deglaze the pan, after searing, with wine, leave it in the pan, then deglaze, after baking, with a bottle of stout, add a goodly pat of butter, call it "The Sportsman's Sauce"; serve this with roasted root vegetables and a salad. The day could best be described as one of drizzle, with waves of rain. It's dark in the early afternoon. I turn to Basho, days like this, or Emily, to be well and truly in the given moment. I'm warm enough, I have rain water, food is not a problem, and at this specific moment, there are no expectations that I even exist:

like nothing
  its been compared to:
    the crescent moon

Dusk, I go out one more time, with a rain jacket, and make five more trips to the sourwood tree. Three trips, tomorrow afternoon, after I've started a fire, should see the job done. Basho blows me away.

Into my moon and flower
  folly, I'll drive a needle:
    start of deep winter

so admirable
  even on a day without snow
    straw coat and bamboo hat

Survival is too marginal to brag out loud, but I feel good about this weekend. After I clean up and wash my hair, I go out with my LED head lamp and survey the woodshed. It's a lovely thing, to see the piles of wood. My phone is out, so I can't share this with you right away. but I had a minor epiphany, standing there. Several hundred thousand units of heat, maybe a million or more, under roof (I can't help but notice I used hurricane clips on all the rafters) and several buckets of kindling. Bring it on. My sweet Irish stove is looking for a match. Chess? ping-pong? cross-word puzzles? Actually I've never ever won a single game. What you might call an inveterate loser. I think I just lose on purpose, to end the game, I hate fucking games. And losing has always seemed the better part of valor. Rain, dripping on the roof. Listen, clearly it beats a time, 2/4 or 6/8, something in the key of G, the way sounds conspire, but I would never imagine any intention, just that it does rain and there is a certain percussion. Dial tone, I'd better send.