Grader Ditch

Two old guys, dressed like hoboes, pulling leaf-wads and rocks, opening the channel so the water won't cross the driveway. The chamber helps. B uses a mattock, and Mad Tom uses a stout yard rake. You'll notice that they take a lot of breaks; old farm boys, they squat or lean on their implements. They're not in the best of shape, after a summer spent almost completely reading and writing, and the walk back up, after working their way down, might well set the bar for what we could call a leisurely pace. A breather at the top, and they retire to B's cabin for a hardy espresso. The conversation runs from kick-backs in the text book trade, to dear sweet Emily (B said that the book Neil had sent made him weep), to Phychon's latest. Old Tom, the younger by a couple of years, has lost his upper body strength, and when they had reached the bottom, could barely move his arms. He probably needs a nap; and, as his phone isn't working, he has little fear of interruption. Having observed this side of myself for 10 or 12 years, the slow decline; I'm not surprised, I'm amazed, actually, that I can still contribute labor to something as hard-core as clearing a grader ditch. If you have any sense at all, this is something you farm out to a high school student linebacker. I can see across the hollow. 50% of the leaves have fallen and B and I agree we'll have to do this again, rake the leaves out of the drainage, at least one more time before everything is frozen. What we hope to accomplish is just to steer the flow toward the bank. Glenn is correct that drainage is almost always the issue. I was wearing a sword-fishing hat today, with an elongated brim, to shade against the light, and I could barely control what I was seeing; blinders, you might say, blinders that controlled the flow. I'm sore and weary, exhausted, in every sense of the word. My hands are cramped, from gripping a rake, my shoulders ache, from scratching the surface, and my lower back protests against any further activity. It's a good kind of tired, where there's a tangible reward for effort, but I have to medicate against the discomfort; roll a smoke, get an early drink, listen to the crows complaining. What I once took in stride is now more difficult. Nothing is what it seems. Merely catching a catfish is fraught with meaning. I don't subscribe to the notion that meaning is implied, but I have to admit that it appears we agree certain images conger certain responses. You and your baby girl, a sunset over the bay, the spent civil servant retreating to his hut. I was already mentally exhausted, from installing three shows in a month, and now my shoulders complain that I should have hired someone younger and stronger to do what needed to be done. On the other hand, B and I tend to keep things in house, which precludes farming out chores, even if you don't feel up to the task. And there is a way, certainly, in which doing something physical, grubbing out a grader ditch or any other equivalent chore, can lead to a zen-like state of total doneness. Of course I think of Basho, looking for a ledge that would protect him from the rain. I have a day, to recover, then Tuesday, we have to set the wall of small pieces, and it'll take me Wednesday to hang it. Then there are the labels and lights. I hope it's clear to my bosses that I don't have time to scrub the toilets, and I'm tired, let me make this perfectly clear, of scrubbing toilets in the first place, since I generally just shit in the woods; the whole idea of having a designated room for defecation is alien to me. And the very idea, don't get me started, that I didn't get the porcelain sparkly enough, I mean, come on. I'm ready, at this point, to hang up my mop; I'm done with other people's spills, I'd rather just read and write. I was telling B today that I pretty much get home, turn on the computer, get a drink, roll a smoke, and start writing. Getting a complete sentence in an hour is my goal. Whether or not the porcelain is up to your standards might be another issue. Cleanliness is over-rated.