Grandfather Dream

Joel mentioned a piece I'd written 15 years ago. I remember, quite vividly, writing it, late one night. I was doing some work on Thomas Jefferson's father's house (Peter), and living there, in the house in which Thomas was conceived. It was a cold snowy winter, much like this one, and I couldn't keep the house warm. In spite of, or because of, the great duress, I wrote well and dutifully that entire winter, produced a book that was, in many ways, better than anything I'd ever written. Predicated on a simple and direct language. And the little piece Joel had mentioned, it's only two pages, was at the heart of a sea-change in my writing. After the conversation, I found the piece (number 22 in Notes From The Cistern) and reread it. I think I'll read it at Chautauqua. It's rather elegant, in a minimal way. All of which parlayed into a dream about Old Tom. I worshipped him. His practical knowledge was boundless and he had great compassion for the suffering of others. In the dream he was slopping the hogs and talking to himself, I could almost touch him. Grandma, who was a harridan, and a Holy Roller to boot, loomed in the background. Then we were sitting out in the backyard, chickens everywhere, having a root-beer float. Barking dogs wake me. Such an abrupt transition. It takes me a minute to realize where I am. Fucking dogs, man, and I don't want any part of their digging through the compost heap, so I go outside with the wrist-rocket slingshot and sting one on the ass with a cat's-eye marble. Scream at them, like a monster from hell, then go back inside and make a cup of tea.The problem with incidents in the night, is they wake you completely, I'd rather just go back to sleep, but can't. A wee dram, roll a smoke, and write for a couple of hours, then, finally, another nap. When I wake up again, the sun is in my face, I make a large coffee, drink a protein shake, start a fire and go out to the woodshed. Saw up a some very dry oak branches with the bow-saw, then split kindling, then make about ten trips to the house, filling all the allotted spaces. Enough for the work week. 23 degrees today, zero tonight. Tough hike out in the morning, but I've got a big show to hang. Trashed the house, as you might expect, all those trips out and in, a cursory sweep is all I give it, because I had to stop and get out of my boots, my toes were frozen. Strip off the outer layer, add a pair of socks and my bathrobe, and hang it up for the day. Stoke up the fire with a few knots to get the stove very hot when the temperatures drop after dark. The kitchen sink is about six feet from the stove and I get it warm enough, finally, to shave. Made a pouch of Ore-Ida Baby Red mashed potatoes for lunch ($1), it's supposed to be four servings, but I usually eat it in two; I had the second half with minced onions and cheese, run under the toaster oven. Would have been even better with some bacon bits, but alas. I was on my knees (with a foam pad) splitting an oak table top I'd pulled from a dumpster into kindling, and I was thinking about Wittgenstein. About a particular quote, which is the usual way he occurs to me, out of the blue: "It is not something behind the proof, but the proof itself that proves." Think about that for several hours. I made a corn pone from dried eggs, powdered milk, and rain water, it's pretty good; actually very good, slathered with butter; and I feel good too, working outside, using my upper body. I'll have to be careful, walking out tomorrow, to not get giddy. If I fall off the edge of the driveway, I am well and truly history. I shan't, though, because I'm as sure footed as a mountain goat.