4/30/98.. Seasonal manure.

April in Maine is the time for ritual exercises. Putting out the lawn ornaments. Breaking up the garden. Poking at the boat. What with one thing and another we've been behind schedule this year, and the social pressure to get at it is pretty intense.

Last week I got a call from a Portland reporter, wondering what new ornaments I was putting out, and I had to confess that I was just rearranging our tableaux this Spring. He was looking for philosophical insight, of course, as journalists do when they turn to ritual ornamentation, and I had to explain the subtleties of the artform to him. When he said he was sending a photographer out, I hustled up and planted our panoply. Robins and wolves on the front slope, frog pitcher on the mailbox, Christina crawling for a Bud, shags on the shop roof, and the rest of the tribe dancing in the ritual circle out back. Naturally the lensman got distracted by all the excitement out there and took shots of Chico's ornaments instead. Then the editors systematically misspelled everything Lloyd wrote, and took out the metaphysical profundities (that IS how it's done, isn't it). You can read the piece at [http://newslibrary.krmediastream.com/cgi-bin/document/me_free?DBLIST=me98&DOCNUM=9116].

Now I'm thinking about what image of Bagel I want to add to the collection. We're considering planting a dogwood tree over his ashes, as trees were of special interest to him, but some memorial ornament seems apt, as he gave the same kind of attention to lawn deco. This is the sort of important envisioning that Spring engenders.

Gary Card dumped 12 yards of sand and manure onto our garden patch, and I'm turning it in for daily exercise. When we moved in here we had great schemes for self-sufficient vegetarianism. We'd lived out of our half acre in Jonesport, after all, turning most of it into garden turf, and that was in the fog belt. Up here in the highland sunshine we figured to be in Veggy City. The first year we hired a local tractor to bust up the back 0.25, and planted with a vengeance. Well.. it was a dry Spring. When it finally rained we discovered that the water table out back is just below surface, and all that could survive would be cress. We hadn't planted cress.

So we've been making ground. Our spot in Jonesport had been deep loam on gravel. Perfect garden ground. Bowdoinham is all glacial outwash clay. Heavy clay. We've been adding organics to the fill over the septic, and hacking away at the heavy clay. Enlarging the plots each year. We now have between 600 and 700 square feet of tillage, not counting Peggy's flower beds. Every year we feed the ground with manure, compost, and mulch hay, to make it lighter and richer. But the last few seasons, without a truck, I haven't seized all the bullshit opportunities I might have, and it was time for a heavy dose. When Gary delivered the gravel for Seven Eagles, I asked about sand and manure, and he said to call when I was ready for them.

Young Christopher was digging worms for fish bait over by the compost pile when Gary made his last delivery. We were standing by the tailgate trading lies when Chris ran up excited, with a fistful of fat nightcrawlers. I've been trying to gross out Chris all winter, without much success. He's not about to be taken in by my guff. So, when I said, "MMM. Don't they look good," and popped one of the worms in my mouth, chewed on it, and swallowed it down, Chris didn't bat an eye. But when I looked at Gary, his jaw was hanging. Thus are local reputations made.

I've been digging a trench, filling it with this fairly ripe manure, covering it with lovely fine white sand, then churning the next trenchful onto it. Working steady, it takes about 4 hours to do a 10X8 plot, and I've got 4 more plots to do. The consensus is that I'm nuts to turn the garden by hand. A couple hours with a rototiller would be all it takes. But I've always preferred the long way. On a number of counts. I don't have to own, or borrow, a tiller, or frig with the machinery. Burn more gas. I don't like the way machinery compacts the subsoil as it churns the top, although that's a quibble on this solid ooze. Mostly I like the ritual. It forces me to sweat a little, and get the air, and I find my thoughts turning to all the generations before me who grubbed in the ground. Digging the garden gives me a sense of connectedness. And a sore back. Spinach and lettuces are sprouting, and the pea poles are up.

Monday I uncovered Sharpie, and took a good look. What a sad tale. I built her the year Bagel was a pup, and the past few seasons I've just slapped paint on it, and called it good. But last Summer she leaked more than I'd wanted to admit, and I'd promised her a thorough exam come Spring. When I started jabbing a knife in it there was rot, rot, and more rot. Centerboard trunk logs, gunwales, ribs, even a section of chine log aft, completely disintegrated. Definitely a season of transitions.

So what's the prog? A complete rebuild doesn't make sense. Better to build the next boat. But I've shot my wad, and spent my time already this year, on the Eagles. Four or five days of cosmetic surgery would probably bring Sharpie back where we could play in the bay for another Summer, cautiously. So I've started chopping rot.

Why bother? Why have a boat? And why not a fiberglass one? It's another ritual thing. When I was doing tideswork it made economic sense, of course. Get or build a cheap wood boat, maintain it, and work it to death. But even then glass was a better bargain. No, there's no more logic in keeping a wood boat than there is in growing your own vegetables. It just makes for a better life.

And a sense of continuity. The smell of bottom paint opens a door to another time, for me. Bending on a new gunwale reminds me of Louis MacPhail, and gives me a tangible feeling of connection with all the generation of boatbuilders, back to the Vikings, if not beyond. Sparks my imagination while it bloodies my knuckles. Boatwork has a satisfying completeness, too. The task is clearly defined, and then you bet your life on it.

But it hurts to disassemble a vessel with hammer and chisel and sawsall. The lessons are valuable, though. Not one piece of cedar has rotted, but the red oak has gone to hell. Traditionally you build cedar on white oak, but I got sold on red down to Morse's Mill, where they should know better. Saw me coming, I guess. Then there are the design mistakes. Hoping to create emergency flotation in case of an upset, I made the forward compartment watertight, or at least unventilated. The enclosed humidity has wrecked havoc, even after I cut holes through the bulkhead. In fact almost all the rot has been in places where air can't circulate, or moisture has been trapped under layers of paint. Up under the washboards and the after deck. I'll never paint the floors of a boat again, or any place inaccessible, or stop one from breathing. And I certainly won't waste the money on high tech materials, when the traditional ones have lasted better. I'll also be sure she's bone dry before I tuck her in for the winter, try and be more attentive each Spring.

It's what you do. Put out neighborly signs. Break ground. Cut out rot. Slap paint on it. Make hopeful gestures. It's Spring.