Lilac Rain
Ely said, "It's that moment when all the things you planned to
do come down to those you can do. When Spring turns to Summer."
The vernal inspiration has us all puffed up, now we have to navigate
this balloon.
Powerline Bloom
Bee in the Seal
We got the last of the garden planted under a waxing moon. Corn,
spuds and tomatoes. And what used to be summer flowers are already
arriving. Irises and lupines everywhere. Big bumblers are buzzing
in the Solomon Seals, and the first ruby-throated humming bird
zipped in to join them for a sip. I mowed three times this week,
and the grasses just keep laughing it up. We had two more days
of soaking rain, and the lilacs exploded. Their heavy scent permeates
the yard. Our drive is littered with winged maple seeds. The air
is full of poplar cotton, riding the wind. Maine in her glory,
just before the hordes descend to trample our vintage.
The collegiates are showing up, and you realize how middle-aged
these small towns look most of the year. School kids have come
out from their phosphorescent caves, too, to gambol about in real
time. Christopher got his dirt bike, and has been roaring round
and round out back, learning how to pop wheelies. So much for
my 10-year-old summer helper. And neighborhood quietude. His grin
is so infectious I feel my frown twitching. And I'm betting he'll
need gas money before long.
Hopper Goes
They finally hauled away the last of the old mill, and I managed
to catch a shot of the big hopper rolling uphill behind Doug's
truck. Only two months late, which is where most of us are at.
All the contractors are run off their feet, and you want to hope
you don't have a plumbing emergency until September. The subs
have been treating us well, though. Bob the drywall man skim-coated
and sanded his way out of here Friday while Ellis replumbed the
basement. They both reported that their phones ring all night
with work they can't handle. No wonder the summerpeople think
Maine tradesmen are stubbornly independent.
When we had that shakeout back in the 80s, a lot of contractors
went South, into chapter eleven or otherwise, and the survivors
have had steady work since. Now a new glut of capital is surging
up from the urbs, chasing too few hands. Brent took a job estimate
to the yard to be computed and was told there are 40 estimates
ahead of his. A ten day wait. On top of which there's a severe
labor shortage in the grunt department. Try and find a twenty-something
who wants to lug shingles, or knife joint compound. Who wants
to sweat when there's telemarketing at a premium per? Or hustling
name brands in Freeport? The good old days when these little burgs
were full of counter culturalists wielding hammers are gone. Those
guys are now managing their investments, and calling round for
a contractor.
Slumped Shack
Meanwhile we have this soaring new space in our architecture.
Dr. Bob points out that recomposing the inside of an old house
creates dimensions you can't find anywhere else, and our hall
gallery proves the point. You wouldn't design a head banger at
the foot of the stairs, or put those deep sags in the floorlines,
but you wouldn't get this serendipitous light chamber full of
unlikely angles, either. Once again Peggy saw the volumes and
envisioned a happy enclosure. Ottavio will be hanging doors tomorrow.
Still working solo.
I had Coyote on my crew this week, and could have done without
the help. Wednesday was a rain day, and I had a list of promises
as long as a fish story, which I'd saved for such a one. Including
the reconditioning of a loaner plane. A few weeks back, when I'd
been up to Bruce's in quest of boat advice, he offered me the
use of a long jointing plane, to fair up planks and such. It was
covered in rust and dull as a spoon, but I figured reconditioning
it was a fair trade. The first time I picked it up the handle
broke in half, which is when I should have suspected there was
a mongrel in the manger. But I doused it with penetrating oil
and set it aside for a spare moment.
Iris Cat
Wednesday morning was as spare as it's gotten, too misty and showery
to build boat, so I applied some torque, and disassembled the
beast. Chucked a wire brush into a spare drill, clamped it to
a bracket, and scoured the rusty pieces. Epoxyed the handle. Shined
and sharpened the blade. I'd been proceeding systematically until
a cloudburst made me drop everything and go cover an outside job.
When I came back into the Eagles I saw that my wet boots would
make a mess of the sawdust covering the floor, so I did a complete
housecleaning, tossing wood ends onto the burn piles, vacuuming
the corners and benches. The works.
Feeling righteous, I went to recomposing the plane. And discovered
a piece was missing. After an hour and a half of searching I knew
Coyote was on the set, and tried to sweet-talk the cur. Nothing
would appease him except my complete abasement. I retraced every
step of the morning. Handled every object in the shop, shed, and
house. I had a clear vision of the wedge-shaped piece, could feel
its weight in my hand. But it was gone.
Iris
Lilac Spring
There was no way I was going to accomplish anything else until
I found that damned piece, so I went down to the restaurant, to
lay my case before the tribunal. The boys had a good grin, and
Dr. Bob offered to make a house call. "Sometimes a new set of
eyes ..." he suggested. But he didn't walk into the shop and lay
hands on the mystery. The force was not with us. He did ask me
how the plane went together and I made a distracted gesture.
"Are you sure it's not all there?" he asked.
"No, no. This piece goes right here I pointed." What a stupid
question, I thought.
So we applied psychology. I was reminded of the blind grandmother
in 100 Years of Solitude who could always find what was missing
because people lost things when they deviated from their ordinary
paths, and she always noticed if they did. I tried to remember
every misstep of the day, while the doctor reasoned that it was
probably where I wasn't looking, because I was trapped in a loop
of relooking in the same places. We just couldn't find the other
place.
Lilacs
In despair I dug out the three-foot monkey wrench I use for Luddite
gesturing, had Bob stand back, and heaved it into the shop. It
gouged a nasty hole in the floor. "There," I said. "That should
fix it."
It wasn't a minute later that I started tinkering with the bits
of plane on the bench in futile despondence. That's when I turned
over one of the parts, and saw it was the missing piece.
