0016

Digging a large garden by hand (or by foot) is monotonous work. Once you've defined the work to be done and set about doing it, there isn't much else; just do the work. Drive the spade. Lift the clod, turn it over, dig it down. Over and over, for hours. This does not require my brain's input, so my thoughts wander.

In this respect, repetitive manual labor can curiously become quite liberating. When I was employed as a software engineer, I was being paid to think; thinking was my livelihood; I was in effect leasing my brain to another. Now my thoughts are free; they are my own, and I can direct them as I wish.

So I think as I dig. Mostly I'm thinking about my idealogical goals, and about what concrete ways I should employ to pursue them. Grow my own food, of course. How about growing my own seeds as well? I've already saved some bean and pea seeds from my city garden. I even took a few potato berries last summer and got the seeds from them. I'll have to try planting them, and see how that works. Look for ways to cut down or eliminate all industrial and consumerist dependencies. I wonder if I could install a wind generator and get off the grid? Or could I learn to just live without electricity? That would mean cooking with wood, and dehydrating or canning food rather than freezing and refrigeration. Hmmm. And definitely look for ways to use less petroleum; that seems like a higher priority. Maybe I could get a horse, or a mule, to get around. I'll have to look at those old horse-drawn implements over in the meadow - figure out what they do, and whether they could be refurbished. I haven't seen a cart or wagon, though - I would need a horse-drawn cart. Maybe a plow, too, and relieve myself of this work, and enable me to work more land. Hmmmmmm.......

My thoughts are interrupted occasionally by hunger or thirst, or the need to stretch. Or by the sights and sounds of nature that are sometimes still a novelty to me. I think I hear something crashing through the woods, but when I look up, I see nothing. Was it a bear? A phoebe sings its little song, and I whistle back in reply. I hear a snorting, and I look up in time to see a buck staring at me, about 75 feet away, on the edge of the treeline. "What? You don't like the way I smell?" He turns and walks away.

Meanwhile, the garden is taking shape. I even start planting a few things. I've planted some lettuce, and a few radishes and peas in both the main garden and the front patch, to see which location might be better. And once or twice a day I take time to pump, pump, pump the well. Still getting sand. But it is good water; I'm drinking it now, after letting the sand settle out.

0015

I've been taking Willie's advice, and two or three times per day pumping a bunch of water, pumping a hundred or two hundred strokes until I can't pump any more, to see if I can pump the sand out, and/or pump the well dry. So far, I haven't managed to do either. I think it's a sign of a good well that I can't pump it dry.

Digging more garden, too (with the slow but trusty garden spade). In fact, I've been a digging animal since last week, making six more square plots in the main garden area, and today starting on the grassy slope north of the house, between the house and road. Justin and Erin see me as they get off the schoolbus, and run up to see what I"m doing.

Justin is excitedly telling me about making the longest running broad jump in his whole gym class. At this point, I have a long, rectangular area dug up, about ten feet wide. So I challenge Justin to show me.

"OK, Justin, let's see you jump clear over the fresh dirt."

Justin's eyes widen, but he's game. He paces back a few steps, and turns to face his challenge. He runs, launches himself up and over, landing on the other side, clear from grass to grass, with almost a foot to spare. Erin cheers. Justin is grinning, and so am I.

"Good job!"

Now it's my turn to show off. I do a head stand, right there on the grass. Erin cheers again, and Justin whistles.

0014

I pull the rototiller out to the yard. I'd like to have a small plot here, too, right in the mowed area, over near the chicken coop. Might as well see how this thing works.

Hard to start. Doesn't want to fire, and the recoil isn't working smoothly. Fiddle around, adjust the throttle; I'm working up a sweat just pulling the cord so much. Finally it fires and takes off running. Engage the clutch, ease her down to start tilling - whoa! it's pulling me forward and just jumping over the ground, barely scratching the surface. Try again. Hold her back, make her dig into the sod... dang! I just can't hold back hard enough, and when I do manage to force the tines into the sod, the engine dies again.

After several attempts, I give up. I think this thing would till soil OK, but I won't be able to use it to break sod. Put it back into the shed, and get the spade. I have to laugh at myself bitterly - now at least I know where to draw this particular line.

---

This afternoon, Willie comes out to look at my well. I tell him as much as I know - that the well was unused for some time, if that means anything. I pump a bucketful for him, and show him the sand. He ponders for a moment.

"Hard to say. Could be a crack or hole in the casing. Or some sand has filtered through. You might try just pumping and pumping, and see if you can pump all the sand out. If it doesn't clear up, give me another call, and we'll try something else."

"How much pumping do you think it will take?"

"Pump it a lot, every day for a couple weeks. Pump fast; see if you can pump the well dry."

"OK. Sounds like a plan."

I thank Willie, especially since this advice was gratis; no charge for the trip. He drives away, and I pump several buckets right away. Can't pump it dry. But changing buckets takes time, so I rig up some scrap sheet metal into a makeshift trough, propped up to carry water from the spigot to spill onto the ground outside the pump house. Now I don't have to empty buckets. I pump and pump and pump and still can't pump the well dry. And there's still sand coming out. I'm pooped; call it a day.

0013

The Amish genius lies in drawing a line. Contrary to the popular stereotype, they are not anti-technology, but carefully choose what gadgets they will allow to become part of their lives. So much and no further.

Well, I'm not Amish, and I don't have a council of elders to draw the line for me, so I'll have to draw one myself. I'm just not sure yet where to draw it.

This is the conversation I have with myself as I drive back to my new home, since I have just spent $50 getting an old rototiller fixed up. It's in the back end of my little Tercel along with some more tools, planks, etc. (maybe a light pickup would be better in the long run?) I also have three buckets full of strawberry plants, thinnings from our old city garden. I've spent the morning doing that, with the permission of the new owners.

Willie, the local well expert, will drop by sometime this week to look at my well, and advise me. I managed to get hold of him over the weekend (maybe I should get my own phone service, too.)

After unloading, I spend the afternoon and into the evening digging ten circles, about 6 feet in diameter, in a new location, close to the east woods, behind the house. Into each circle I transplant 10 or 12 strawberry plants, and give them each a douse of water. Sometime later, before they start to run, I will dig between the circles. It's good to have some land. This strawberry patch alone will be twice the size of the entire city garden.

0012

How do you eat an elephant? Maybe it's another riddle.

I came out again on Thursday, and have spent the past three days in the third garden area, south of the house. I rise when the sun wakes me, fry up some eggs and potatoes for breakfast, then go out with my spade and a gallon milk jug full of water. I put a tall stake in the ground nearby to hold my jacket and cap as the day warms up.

I start by defining a nice straight line with my spade, then digging along this line. Drive the spade with my left foot, then again to complete a square cut. Turn the 9-inch-square plug over, sod down, dirt side up. Next spot, same thing. Spadeful after spadeful.

Then another line, at a right angle to the first. Then another and another, so that I have an area defined, about 13 or 14 feet square. Then another course of 9-inch square plugs as a slightly smaller pass just inside the first. Then another smaller course and another and another, until I have the entire area dug and turned over. This takes about 4 hours, with an occasional pull on the jug of water, and a leaning on the spade handle, listening to the Phoebe birds, sometimes answering with my own Phoebe-mocking whistle. Then I take a lunch break, and come back out and dig another plot, leaving a little grass between plots that will serve as a path.

I have set myself the goal of digging 3500 square feet of ground for my first year's garden. And my self-imposed method is to do it with as little mechanization as possible. This is a non-consumerist man-and-earth project, not an industrial one. 3500 square feet is, of course, overwhelming, more than I can do. But I can dig a 13- or 14-foot square plot. After a break, I can dig another. After a good night's rest, I can dig another.

Now it's Saturday evening, and I'm about to drive back to town for a Sunday of rest at Lenore's place. The sun is getting low, and I'm looking at seven square plots of freshly dug Earth. About 1300 or 1400 square feet so far, I reckon. This particular area will be my main garden, I've decided, consisting of 16 square plots in a 4 x 4 grid pattern. 7 down, 9 to go. I'm bone weary, but it is good. I can do this.

The answer to the riddle, of course, is: one bite at a time.

0011

I have no clock or radio to tell me what time it is. The sun shining through the dirty east window wakes me, and my stomach tells me when it is time to eat.

The need to know my land in a quantifiable manner grabs my focus this morning. I can usually do a pretty accurate job of marking a 3-foot pace. Starting from the road junction, 1/4 mile to my property line is 1320 feet, or 440 paces. Pacing this off, and rechecking to make sure, I am pleasantly surprised to discover that I apparently own a pretty good chunk of the woods east of the house; more trees than I had counted on. Using the compass, I pace back into the south woods, too, just to get an idea of how far back my land extends. I find another small pond back there, and a hill of maples that must only be partially mine. It's a good thing I have this compass; 20 acres doesn't sound like much, but these young trees grow thickly, and I could easily become disoriented. I'll need to become more familiar with my woods.

Back in the yard, I poke around in the garage, and make some interesting discoveries: a couple of slightly damaged antique dressers, and an old Philco electric range. I don't suppose the stove works, but the dressers appear to be serviceable. Wait a minute - didn't I see a 220-volt outlet in the kitchen? Checking it out, it seems to match. Couldn't hurt to try. I drag the old Philco to the house, plug it in, and start turning knobs. To my surprise, the oven and two of the top burners seem to work! How about that? To be sure, I will still want to eventually find a wood-fired cookstove, but in the meantime it sure would be nice to be able to cook a meal, instead of living on coldcut sandwiches. More efficient and economical in the long run, too.

I take time to pump water repeatedly, bucket after bucket, just to flow the water and clean it up. Bucket after bucket after bucket, and I can't pump the well dry. Good. Finally, I dip a cup into the bucket, and take a sip. Tastes good. Cold, clear. Take a deeper drink. That's good water. Drain the cup. Who needs water tests? If I don't get a bellyache or die, that will be the proof. The only thing is, there's a little sand in the bottom of the bucket; I wonder if anything can be done about that.

The day wanes, and so does my supply of food. I must needs return to town, and without having made much progress on digging the garden (sigh).

0010

I packed clothes, drinking water, and food this morning, so I can stay out here for a couple days. Now as I pull into the driveway, I will say that I'm coming home.

After unloading, I dig another square piece of ground, about 13' x 13'. That takes me half a day, digging by hand. I wander back into the south woods, soaking in the sights and sounds. There are peepers singing in the swamp. I approach stealthily, but not quietly enough. Before I can spy a single one, they all fall silent.

Some areas are thick with tiny maple or fir seedlings. I retrieve a couple buckets from the shed, then come back and dig several of these seedlings, and transplant them into the open slope between the house and road. He who plants a tree proclaims hope for the future. It's beginning to sink in. This is my land. I desire to know it, to learn from it, to shape it and to be shaped by it.

As the evening approaches, it grows chilly. I gather some dry sticks from the woods near the house, and go inside, to start my first fire in the wood stove.

Let's see now - a little paper first, then twigs, then larger sticks, like so. Put a match to it. There - it's burning, but... kinda slow and smoky. Maybe if I open the ash pit door a little... there, that helps. Now it's going good, this will take the chill out of the house in short order. Pile a few more sticks in there. Maybe some of this corrugated; that ought to burn well. Whoa! That's a bit too hot - I don't think it's good when the smoke pipe starts to glow red! Close the ash pit door, and - what's this other gizmo? Let's see - if I turn this handle like so, that baffle thingy closes off the air supply, and the fire dies down some. OK. I can learn to do this, too. Not as easy as adjusting a thermostat, but quite learnable.

I set the cot up close to the stove, and lay myself down for the night; the quiet country noises are my lullaby.

0009

It's been chilly and rainy all week, so I've been in town mostly. I did succeed in procuring a used kitchen table and 4 chairs for $35, and a used cot for $10, which I loaded into my little Tercel and brought out during the week. The rain has helped to melt the remaining snow, and the last couple days have been warmer. Today it's dry as well, so I have come out with some boxes of basic supplies, and tools, to start a little work.

After arriving and unloading, I walk down my 300 foot driveway to the road to scope things out, then across the road to meet my new neighbors. They're out on the deck as I approach and introduce myself. Three of their grandchildren are there. One of them, a cute blonde (maybe 8 years old? 10?), offers me some candy. Sweet. We chat for awhile, and I tell them a little of my hopes and plans. I take my leave, and tell them I'll be working down by the road here, putting in a mailbox.

I have just started pulling material together when the cute blonde, Erin, and her brother Justin come up to help. And they do help, measuring, holding one end of the piece that I'm cutting, etc. I remember helping my Dad in this same way when I was a boy. Good memories; maybe this is a good memory in the making. Wayne (Grandpa) helps, too, lending a saw for a finish cut. Soon the mailbox is in place; a good neighbor experience.

Saying thanks, I walk back up the hill to the house. Inside the pump house, I hang a five gallon bucket on the pump spigot and work the handle. I get water, but it's a dull green color. Gross, but not surprising. I suppose it's been years since this well has been used, so the water inside the casing is stagnant. Dump the bucket, fill it again. By the third bucketful, it's starting to clear up, but I think I'll bring drinking water out with me next week, just to be safe.

I spend a couple hours digging test holes here and there, and decide to start garden plots in three locations: on the north slope of yard between the house and road, near the house in the yard, and farther back, where the ground has a slight southward slope. I spade up a 10' x 10' plot in this location, then head back to town.

0008

I'm in the hardware store picking up a few odds and ends. Cathy, the store manager, is working the cash register. Must be a slow day; I seem to be the only customer at present. So, as I bring my purchases to the register, I offer a little diversion.

"Hey Cathy, I've got a riddle for you."

"Ummm, OK."

"A customer in a hardware stote has this conversation with the sales clerk:"

Customer: How much does this item cost?

Sales clerk: That item costs 25 cents for one, or 50 cents for twelve. Or you could get 144 for 75 cents.

Customer: How much would 5492 cost?

Clerk: That would be one dollar even. (Plus tax, of course.)

Cathy furrows her brow in puzzlement over such a bizarre price scheme. As she rings up my purchases, bags them, takes my money, and gives me change, the wheels are turning. Screws? No. Nails? Pipe fittings?

Handing me the bag and receipt, Cathy shakes her head. "I give up," she says, "I can't think of anything that could be priced like that."

I re-open the bag, and lay out on the counter, facing Cathy, some of the items I have just purchased: four self-adhesive address numbers which I will put on my mailbox to identify it with my house number, 5492 Wilkinson Road.

I like riddles. Among all the innocent delights of life, riddles and logic puzzles are near the top of my list. I also like individuals who, like Cathy, are gracious enough to laugh at themselves.