Framed
The green riot of tenderness has embraced us. Instantly the woods
are full and lush and shadow dappled. Those frail first leaves
are now spread wide and shaking in the wind. A shimmer of pale
tints paints the scene. Even the cautious ashes have burst their
buds, and the maple's in fruit.
It's rhubarb time, with a zing of lemon sorrel and mint. Peas
are throwing their tendrils at the sky, and asparagus is muy macho.
Bees are busy, and the butterflies are fluttering about. Apples
in blossom. Treelines daubed with flowering dogwood. We've had
some grand days sunning into the 70s, and the urge to fling yourself
all over is irresistible.
Last weekend was our annual Dirt Therapy Festival, otherwise known
as the library plant sale. Our ladies of the trowel once again
filled the Town Hall with seedlings, and we all trooped in to
get sets of perennial inspiration. Mike the Piper wailed for us,
as we carried out promises by the armload. Went home to rummage
in the ground.
Piper
First Lettuce
It's all too much. Sunshine on your head. The grass kneedeep.
Broken soil just aching for seeds. A thousand intentions calling.
The great dawdle is over, and the race to Summer is in full gallop.
David launched the big Sharpie on Saturday and stopped in the
dooryard to ask if I'd sail it around to the Abby with him. I
jumped at the chance to be on the water, and to examine some of
her construction details, now that I'm puzzling planking. It was
a sparkling midday, a sailor's breeze curried the Bay. David didn't
actually have sails aboard, or a bailer or bilge pump, but we
cut engine and drifted into the Abby mouth as the waters rustled.
Barely got our feet wet.
Big Sharpie
Sharpie on Abby Shore
Michael Porter built David's Sharpie twenty-some years ago, and
she's held up well. Her pine planking is as sound as the day she
was launched, and I was startled to learn that she doesn't have
a thread of caulking in her. Just flush butted planks, swelled
tight, and oiled inside. David said that when he and his boys
built Ruby Tuesday, the party scow of local repute, they had heard
that you should leave a saw kerf between pine planks, and that's
what they did. She tightened up just fine, too. I think I'll put
in some caulking, just the same.
In fact, the more advice I get, the more I realize there are as
many ways to build a boat as there are builders. So far I'm doing
everything wrong, and there are at least a dozen right methods
I'm ignoring. I'm reminded of working in the trap shop in Jonesport,
where every lobsterman insisted his heads be hung just so, each
one different, and all the only right way. Guess I'll just have
to make up my own mind how to be wrong. Again.
Bow Knee
Framed
I've been screwing the oak to it all week. Scarfing and splicing
and butt-blocking the long timbers. Making a mess with epoxy.
Had a moment of doubt and pain about screw length, and finally
got up in the middle of the night to make a test fastening, which
promptly failed. Next morning I went into Portland and bought
bigger fastenings, then went round replacing the inch and a quarters
with inch and a halfs and inch and three quarters. I've got so
many silicon bronze screws in this thing now it's probably worth
more as junk than anything else. But I feel secure. Nice to have
work which does that for you. And gets you out in the vernal.
As soon as yards start greening, folks want pictures of the home
turf, and I've had a flurry of house-scape commissions. Between
topical views for the Maine Times, barter images, and Spring orders,
I've been on the hop. My daily ritual now consists of painting
in the early AM, while the dew dries, boatbuilding while Sol is
high, then tweaking images in digitopolis by owl light.
Spring Passage
Fish Wrapping
In their first issue under new management the Maine Times ran
a black-and-white version of one of my colored drawings, and it
was fascinating to see how it came out on newsprint. Yet another
variation on a theme, all about shadings.
Another of this week's shady deals was with Art Boulay, the small
engine mechanic out the Millay Road. He's up to his neck in failed
outboards and lawn mowers this time of year, as you might suspect,
but Art always has time to flatten your ear about the fine details
of internal combustion. I took our dead mower to him, and learned
more about modern engine design and maintenance, fuels and lubricants,
and the economics of household machinery than I could have dug
out of a library in a year. Just jawing with Art taught me half
a dozen tricks I should have known from a child. Like how to reprime
your fuel system after you've run it dry. How many times have
I pulled and pulled on a mower I've just refilled, when all it
needed was a quick tip forward. An afternoon with Art should be
required of all yardists.
Art's Woody
Art also cranked up the 1930 Ford Woody Wagon he's restored to
pristine condition, and drove it out into the sunlight for me
to conjure with. What a beauty. Makes you wonder how many Detroit
treasures are tucked away in garages all over town. How many collectors
of industrial artforms are disguised as unassuming townsfolk.
I was glad I'd arrived in Ebba, not to appear too shabby. He thought
my painting of Woody was OK, too. "Good eye," he said.
Then there was Josh, a 10-year-old boy up the River Road, who
wanted a painting of the family home to give his mother for her
birthday. He'd been asking after me at the restaurant, and the
ladies were tickled that he wanted original art for mom. Of course
he had no idea how much I charge for a commission, and I wasn't
about to discourage his intentions. So I did the painting and
sold it for the price of a print, which is what he'd seen work
at Jeanine's going for. When I drove up to deliver it, he was
playing with his buds in the back yard. They were obviously impressed
that we were doing business.
