Putting Out

Serious Spring now, and the scene has gone pastel. Droops dangle and catkins puff. The tiny leaves are spreading. Dandelions dot the lawns and fern hunters are out fiddling. New buds are casting off the old beech leaves at last. It's still dry as a bone, but the trees are bursting into color anyway, because it's time. Long views are dappled with yellow greens and touches of carmine. The midday sun singes our bare arms, and lingering evening light shines through an intense green world.

May Day was everything a pagan holiday should be. Hot enough to uncoil your snake, and a breeze to keep the blackflies off. Despite the drought, the little plaguers are hatching, and the pollen begins to fly. Sniffing and swatting season. And boat launching. Saturday the landing lot was crammed with trailers by midday, mostly jet-skiers. We've become the low-rent gateway of choice for personal watercraft. So that buzzing might not be flies.

Even in my preoccupied condition, I realized it was time to put down my bevel gauge and put out the ornaments. I sawed out and gang painted new legs for the robins, mounted the frog pitcher (#47) on the mailbox, snuggled the fish-tailed Capricorn into our boat shrine with The Lady of The Lake, set Pan, Pogo, and Churchy dancing around the ritual circle, and fed Christina to the eagle gate. In honor of this year's foolishness, I upturned Seth's plywood punt, made a hay nest in it, then had the fox just jumping aboard, scattering chickens. The message: if you put your nest egg into a boat...

Nest Egg

After I planted the ornaments I had to mow around them. That Husky I bought two years ago started first crank, and ran through a tank of gas, no problem. Then it refused to run, except in fits and starts. So I clanked open the toolbox and rattled wrenches at it. To no avail. Stripped and reconstructed everything but the block. NADA. But I was content to perform the annual genuflection. Reveled in the smell of oil and gas and sizzled skin. There's something fine about repeating the frustrations of our greasy youth, knowing it doesn't really matter. There's always another used mower down the road. You just tear apart small engines to see their juices run. And smell your memories.

Passing cars beeped in salute of the front lawn all day, and a woman from Dresden pulled up the drive just at sunset to wax fruitily about our ornamentation. It's nice to get recognition from the cognoscenti. My ambition is to keep a dozen robins hopping out front, but some fans are so eager they just have to carry birds off. Right now we have 14 red-breasts in residence, but it's early days.

Robins

The way we think about space is so different in this generation. In the 1890s, when this place was built, the house was divided up into dark little spaces. No closets, in an age of wardrobes and chests, and fewer possessions. Indoor life was lived around the stoves and in the kitchen, with the emphasis on keeping enclosed, and warm. Now, with cheap fuel, central heating, and double glazing, we want to expose ourselves to the sky and the world. Maybe because we've stopped working outdoors, we want to bring it inside more often. And we want expansive rooms to rattle around in. Ottavio is turning five claustrophobias into a big sunny room and a half bath. With a view of the Town Hall steeple and a slice of river, no less.

Ellis and Rambo have galloped through, roughing in the plumbing and wiring. Ellis is very calm for a guy who sweats pipe all day, but Rambo doesn't have an off switch. It's always a treat to have him speed-rap his way through your day, stripping wire and shedding insulation like a whirlwind. As usual the contractor and the subs have better ways of doing things than you'd ever imagine, and they make impossible jobs look easy. And they do it to code. I've avoided dealing with these renovations for years because they were too daunting. Not to mention the moola. Now we're waiting on the drywall sub.

Store Ice

Between the renovators and the boat kibitzers this has been a hot site. If you want to draw a crowd, just set up molds in the dooryard. You can go to the local watering holes for converse and conviv, or start building a boat.

Every creation has the same cycle of enthusiasm and agony. Invariably there's some crucial choice which is the key to unlock the process. Often I know before I begin exactly how a piece will go together, but I still have to spend time in the moaning chair running through all the alternatives. Then pick up the wood and just do it.

Taking Shape

I did a test lamination of inch-square strips, which promptly failed. Then I tried yarning down the keelson with a block and tackle, using Ebba as prime mover. A bit too prime. When the tackle came two-blocks, molds started snapping and the strongback wrenched out of square. I beat it back true with my commander, and muttered prayers to the gods of plumb. Parked the truck out of reach.

The path of least resistance proved to be sawing out the bow pieces where chines and sheers meet, which I templated and lined out on 14 inch wide plank from Eric. Then I did the same with two center pieces which will sandwich alongside the keelson at the forward bulkhead, and be filled out with blocking. It begins to look like a bow.

Scarf Clamps

I've been agonizing about which oak to use for what long timbers, but today I simply grabbed the handiest plank and set to it. Rigged a jig on the bandsaw to rough cut the scarf joints, not the easiest thing when you're ripping a foot-long triangle out of the bitter end of a 16 foot 1X6. Trued the scarfs as best I could with the belt sander, and epoxied the keelson scarf in place on the molds. Tomorrow will tell the tale.

Feels like it's really starting to happen. The warm season, the boat, the new upstairs. Nice to escape the doldrums and doubts, and soak up some rays. Good to smell fresh oak and turned compost. The dooryard's been full of lies, and a world of technical information. There are more ways to skin a scow than you'd ever guess, and this town knows them all.

Empty Moorings

I even managed to do an al fresco painting yesterday morning. The view downriver from the bridge. Just Jimmy's float and the empty moorings. A quick take, but good to get out legging with my kitbag and the dog at heel. Trying to keep some of my irons in the fire. It burns pretty hot in May, and the juggling gets intense. The world quickens. Forgotten muscles ache. Skin gets pink. Hope you're in it, too.