The Board Stretcher

I can smell smoke this morning, a clear indication that it is likely to be August. The fire need not be anywhere in the vicinity, because it can travel down from Oregon, or up from Lake County, at the drop of one of my many hats, depending on the mood of the winds.

Tomato sauce on a cherry tablecloth? Zounds!

Ignoring the smoke, I worked from one o’clock in the morning until noon, yesterday, mute testimony that retirement is more a state of mind than a physical reality. The first four hours of my day involved washing and sterilizing jars, filling them up with thick tomato sauce, and then processing them for eventual storage in our most efficient root cellar.

I then donned my farmer hat for three hours, while I cleaned water filters, fed and watered the chickens, and made my rounds of HappyDay Farms, West Forty. I walked the terraces, making sure there were no water line issues; I hand-watered my problem children, both cannabis and tomatoes; I flipped the valves on and then off, on fourteen stations of ornamentals, giving them a few precious minutes of water each; and finally, I took a few minutes to refuel, potatoes and eggs being the general go-to these days.

On came the apron, as I spit-shined the kitchen, which I do religiously when Gluten-Free Mama is gone, she being in Ohio to attend the funeral of BossLady’s precious grandmother. I am more than just obsessive-compulsive about keeping the house clean while she is gone, having long since made the connection that it is far easier to maintain a clean abode, than it is the clean it up, once it has been destroyed.

We’re talking time here, pure and simple, because there is so much to do, and so little time in which to get it all done. That’s where the irony of retirement comes in: If I am retired, why am I working so hard? I am working hard because work is life, and we on farm are happy in our work.

Jay pounding on a different kind of drum...

At precisely 7:55 yesterday morning, I grabbed my hard-hat and headed over to SmallBoy’s spot, where Jay and I are building a generator house/tool shed. This is part of an ongoing effort to become 100% compliant with cannabis regulation. You can tell we are almost there, when the genny house hits the top of the priority list.

Jay is the son of GF Mama’s brother, Joey, and he contacted HappyDay Farms in the dead of last winter to discuss a career change in his life. He wanted to become more connected with the land and his roots. Those are my words-not his. He talked more about getting back to basics and acquiring some life skills that were simply unavailable in the public sector.

With that philosophy, building a power-shed seemed like the perfect project, and it has proved so. Whereas Jay is an apprentice with a hammer in his hand, he approaches the job with enthusiasm blended with realism. What the mind often wishes to accomplish, the arm refuses to obey.

Fir will insist on being hard to drive nails into, and the knots are always in the wrong places. Jay will battle until the law of diminishing returns rears its ugly head, and then he will ask for help. He admires the way I can manhandle a nail out of any predicament, employing my two best friends, Mr. Cat’s Paw, and Mr. Crowbar, both accomplished jail breakers, but I assure him it is only a matter of experience.

I too was once a novice, using my newly discovered Skil-Saw skills, to cut a four-by-twelve, twenty-foot-long, fir girder, to a length of 19ft, 10in. Unfortunately, that was one inch too short, and since Rex had left the board stretcher at home, I was dispatched from Brook Trails to Mendo Mill in Willits, to acquire another twenty-foot-long fir girder. 

Mind you, I was not in trouble because the length I had butchered, would still be 100% usable; I just had to be the one to go to town and get a replacement. 

What is fascinating to me in light of Jay’s apprenticeship, is that when it comes to the world of music, I am the apprentice, and Jay is the master/maestro. He has grown up enveloped in the world of music, and has done the concert circuit, performing among other genres of music, heavy metal.

You see, I just acquired a drum and except for the general concept of making a lot of noise with my hands, I am clueless. 

[Editor’s note: Well, never mind.] 

I mean, more clueless than usual. 

[Editor: That helps.]

So the other afternoon, when Jay was here having some lunch, and my drum was out on display, he asked if I minded if he indulged. Intrigued, I readily agreed, and he sat down and proceeded to give me a five-minute tutorial, that expanded my horizons as though a fresh north wind had just come up and cleared out the smoke from the neighborhood.

Again, the man is a master in the world of music. He treated the drum reverently, admiring the craftsmanship, before he ever tasted the fruit. And when he did, he made it clear that the fruit was available to all. Specifically, I watched/listened as he rhythmically created a wide range of different sounds, by moving his hands from the outer rim to the center.

I also listened/watched while he maneuvered intensity from a soft pattering to a heavy thunder, as he hit the drum softly or hard. He gave me some elementary pointers in a non-intimidating way, inviting me to explore different approaches to my drum-play.

Two different worlds, two masters and two apprentices. It is a match made in Fantasyland, a clear case of labor exchange if ever there were. As I simultaneously give Jay instruction in the art of carpentry, he is giving me instruction in the world of music. 

There can be only one question: Are the tails in line?

Should my head swell beneath my ice-filled hat, while on the construction site, it is just as likely to shrink, while trying to figure out why my hands won’t do what my brain wants them to do, when sitting in front of the drum. Kind of like that hammer in Jay’s hand.

The master shall learn and the pupil shall teach, regardless of which is which. When I get too complacent to learn anything more, put me out of my misery and scatter my ashes on the playground of the nearest kindergarten.