0031

For just the second time since coming out here, I put together a small plastic bag of odds and ends that cannot be burned or composted (plastic, broken glass). I saw the Waste Management truck go by earlier. But now, walking down to get my mail, I see the garbage still sitting where I left it. This is a puzzle. They took my neighbors' stuff; why not mine? So, I pick it up and carry it back to the yard until next Monday. Maybe they just didn't notice my bag because it is so small in relation to most. Or maybe the fact that I don't put a bag out every week, so they don't look for it.

I have to be careful not to make too much of a possibly isolated incident, but this does fit a larger pattern that I have begun to notice. Namely, that there may be social and cultural consequences to this desire to live the plain life. The cultural assumption is to produce a certain minimum bulk of garbage every week. The failure to do so puts one outside the norm, and so outside of normal expectations. Another unstated expectation, governing most social activity, is that of easy transportation. Make a conscious decision to avoid reliance upon the automobile, and social connections become difficult and strained. The concrete steps in moving away from consumerism may turn out to be relatively easy. The tough part may be the tension of being divorced from the expectations of one's own culture and society.

0030

Last night's bath water and this morning's drinking water are from the newly functioning well. This is a big deal - free at last from dependence upon city water, and from trips to town to procure it. With a light heart, I ride my bicycle to morning Mass, a pleasant ride on this beautiful May morning, only my second weekend spent entirely at the new homestead.

After Mass, I call Lenore from the phone in the church hall, just to chat and to share the well news. On the return trip, riding up the hill past the state park, I hear the voices of families camping in the park, a pleasantly homey sound. There's a service road at this end of the park... I wonder if I could cut through the park on my way to and from church? Have to check that out next week.

0029

Picked up the repaired cylinder from Arnold yesterday. Rod connection repaired, and the leathers replaced, everything like new.

"I can't tell you how much you've saved me Arnold. How much do I owe you?"

"Eight dollars for the new leathers, and my time."

"You gotta be kidding."

"Eight dollars."

"One more question?"

"Go ahead."

"This whole thing started because I was getting sand in my water. Anything I can do about that?"

He smiles, his eyes crinkling. "Throw a couple quarts of clean pea gravel down the well before you put the pipe back down. That should filter out the sand."

"Pea gravel? That's all?"

"Pea gravel."

---

That was yesterday. Now I've thrown some pea gravel down the well, and Justin is up again to help me lower the pipe. He mans the pipe vice as I lower the pipe, same as before, only it's much easier work lowering. Plus, we're doing it one section at a time, the way you're supposed to!!

With the top section of pipe and rod sticking up a few feet, I lift the housing up and over, and thread it down onto the pipe. As I lift, Justin removes the vice altogether, and I lower the pump into place, and reconnect the handle.

OK, here's the test. Get a clean bucket, and hang it on the spigot. Start pumping. Within a few strokes, there's water. Empty the first bucket - the water is picking up a little film of oil from all the handling of the pipes. Justin takes his turn pumping; we're both enjoying this immensely. After a few buckets, the water is running clear and cool. And NO sand!

Smiles, pats on the back, and a victory celebration. Almost feel like doing an end-zone dance. More than anything, a grateful prayer of blessing upon Arnold. Eight dollars. Amazing. Pea gravel. God bless that man.

0028

The bandaged hand has been a handicap for several days as I've gone about planting potatoes, weeding, and doing other chores. Now it has healed enough for me to work a pipe wrench, and i manage to get the twisted well pipes dismantled. During this process, I learn that the rod through the center is also coupled section by section, and I could have been dismantling the whole thing one section at a time, as Justin and I raised it. What a dope! Well, I was ignorant of how wells are constructed; now I know a little better.

I can hammer the bent rods and get them reasonably straight again. I load the three bent sections of pipe along with the cylinder, and make a trip to town. I drop the cylinder off at Arnold's, who will correct the broken rod connection, then take the pipes to be cut and rethreaded at Hardware Hank. Have to buy a new length of pipe, too, cut and threaded to make up for the amount of bent pipe that is cut off. This whole process has been rather painful, but my confidence is growing that I will get my well back, finally.

0027

Going outside first thing, the tall pipe still startles me a little. Looks like a huge needle sticking up through my pump house roof. Mid-morning, Derek, Justin and Erin come trooping up my driveway, their necks are also craned, eyes fixed on the top of Jerry's pipe, over 50 feet up. Derek clears his throat. "Justin says you need my help with something?"

"Did you eat your Wheaties this morning, Derek?" He grins a little sheepishly.

Justin and Erin are the bystanders, the cheering section, as I open wide the pump house door, and explain my plan to Derek.

"We'll pick the bottom end up, one of us on either side, and walk out into the side yard with it. There's a lot of weight there, and that weight will be pulling up at first, so we'll have to keep a tight grip, OK?"

Derek nods. We stand opposite each other, bend and grab, and, at my signal, we lift.

"OK. Now, slowly, let's move toward the door."

We've moved less than a foot from vertical when it starts to veer off to Derek's left, my right. With all our strength, we resist, but we overcompensate. Now it's swinging the other way.

"No good!," I yell, "Let's put it back down!"

Derek's eyes are getting wide. I'm amazed at how much force is at work. The momentum of the long pipe is beyond our strength, a huge upside-down pendulum whipping itself first in one direction, then another, each time a bit more violently. The third or fourth swing is away from me and towards Derek's right, dashing itself against the window jamb with my left hand between. There's a noise of breaking glass, a dull thud, and the pipe is at rest.

I run outside. This is bad. Erin is crying, wailing aloud.

"Are you hurt, Erin?" She shakes her head. She doesn't appear to have been hit by anything.

"Are you OK, Justin?" "Are you OK, Derek?" They both nod solemnly.

The pipe is a wreckage of bent pieces lying to the west of the pump house. Apparently, the momentum and tremendous force kinked the pipe just above the roof, with the top sections smashing into the ground. My hand is bleeding. I tear my tee shirt off and wrap it around my hand.

"You sure you're OK, Erin?" She nods, still sobbing uncontrollably.

I ask Justin, "Why is Erin crying?"

"She's crying because you're hurt!"

"Oh."

My shirt is already saturated with blood. I take a look. It's pretty deep.

I walk down to their house for some first aid, then manage to fish a few bills out of my wallet for Justin and Derek's efforts. Back at my house, there's nothing to be done. I lie down with my hand raised.

---

Tonight in bed, it's hard to sleep. I still have to keep my hand above my heart, which makes for little sleeping comfort. I have plenty of time to review my folly, to berate myself, quite deservedly.

"You are such an imbecile, Jerry! It's incredible how stupid you are! That pipe was, what? 150 pounds? Maybe more? Not counting the weight of the water still inside it. And it was how far up in the air? 50 feet? Maybe higher? Supported laterally at the roof opening. Which means the fulcrum of this 50-foot lever was where? 7 feet up, maybe 8? And which end of this lopsided lever were you trying to control? Even without a calculator, you should have seen that the force would be somewhere in the thousands of pounds. Not a difficult puzzle, but you never took time to think it through. Which qualifies you as an utter fool!"

I can't beat myself up all night. I need to learn a lesson here - I need to think things through better. There is also much to be grateful for. It is bad, but it could have been much, much worse. What a tremendous relief that no one was hurt except the moron who deserved it, and that injury isn't serious.

And that's another thing. Erin, crying because I was hurt. What a little sweetheart. I kinda guessed that about her nature when I first met her. How does she do that - spontaneously feel someone else's pain? A humbling lesson for my spirit as well. Am I capable of learning these lessons?

I toss around a bit more, trying to find a comfortable position. It's gonna be a long night.

0026

It's a fine morning, the birds cheerily calling to me as I go out to meet the day, and the task at hand.

I assemble the reducers and the 20 feet of half-inch pipe, and lower this into the open casing until it rests on the top of the dropped pipe below. I turn the whole thing clockwise, jiggle it a little, turn it again, and now I feel some resistance. I turn it further, and the resistance increases. I try to pull up, but cannot lift the pipe. Could it be this easy? I turn it some more, this time with a pipe wrench, and, grasping with both hands, lift with my legs. I can lift it, and I know by the weight that I'm lifting the dropped pipe. I'll be darned! Arnold sure knows what he's talking about - I can get my well back!

Trouble is, there's too much weight for me to do anything more than lift with my legs. This is a two man job. Or, perhaps, a man and a boy. I work in the garden until I see the school bus drop Justin and Erin off, then walk down to see if Justin wants to earn a few bucks. (Of course he does.)

Justin works the pipe vise, repositioning it as I lift, then tightening it so I can get a new grip. Lift, reposition, tighten, new grip. Lift, reposition, tighten, new grip. About a foot at a time, the pipe rises up through the opening in the roof directly above. Within a few lifts, the inch-and-a-quarter well pipe appears, and Justin struggles to quickly adjust the vise to accommodate the larger pipe, while I struggle to hold the pipe that long. Now I can remove the 20-foot 'handle', and we keep going, up, up, up.

Now we're at the first threaded joint in the well pipe. I loosen the joint, but there's that rod running through the pipe. The top is about six feet above the roof. I'd have to stand on something higher than the roof and lift the ten-foot section of pipe straight up over the rod to get it clear. Doubting that I can do that, I just reassemble the joint, and we keep lifting.

By suppertime, we've lifted about 50 feet of pipe, and have reached the cylinder at the bottom, and the short length of pipe below that. With one final heave, the whole assembly is out and resting on the dirt floor next to the casing.

Justin and I go out to survey our accomplishment. The effect is rather startling - the pipe standing vertically up through the pump house roof, the top more than 50 feet overhead, as tall as the trees. We'll have to walk the bottom out through the door, out into the yard toward the east. Lifting straight up is one thing, but handling that much weight laterally may be too much for a man and a boy.

Justin reads my thoughts. "We could get Derek to help," he suggests, "he's as big and strong as a man!" Justin is right; at 14 or 15, Derek is quite muscular.

"OK. Give him a call, and see if he'll come over tomorrow. This is enough for one day."

0025

I've had to spend a couple days in the garden to get caught up on planting, and on hoeing the very hardy weeds. Then, Tuesday was rainy off and on all day, so I started making plans for introducing some indoor plumbing into the house.

The small room upstairs along the middle of the south wall is the most likely candidate for conversion into a bathroom. I have obtained some information on composting toilet systems. I'm thinking of the Sun-Mar Centrex style, with the composter located in the basement, and a one pint flush toilet upstairs. This will require a two pipe drain system, with the grey water from the sink and tub separate. So I spent most of my time just noodling, scratching my head, measuring, and making tentative plans for what I'll need to buy on my next trip to town.

Finally, this afternoon, I turn back to the broken pump. I'll need to lower (and, hopefully, later, raise?) things pretty much straight up and down. So, I get up on the pump house roof and remove one roof panel, and cut a hole in the roof board directly above the well.

The confidence and hope I felt after talking with Arnold are now waning. It feels kinda weird, and a bit disconcerting, to be working toward a goal with only the vaguest notion of what I ought to be doing to get there. But, I remind myself that, without a good well, all my other plans - for indoor plumbing, a wind generator, a sustainable garden - are pretty futile. And so... Lord willing, weather permitting, tomorrow I work on the well again.

0024

I like Arnold almost as soon as he opens his door and bids me enter. He listens as I introduce myself and tell my story about trying to pump the sand out of my well, and breaking it somehow, and finally dropping the whole works irretrievably down. Before I've finished, he has beckoned me to the kitchen table, placed a beer in front of me, and has sat down opposite with his own beer.

Arnold is a well-seasoned man, in his 80's. He tells me of his wife of many years, who passed away suddenly while sitting at the kitchen table, "right where you're sitting now." He speaks of the many wells he drove or helped drive for folks around here. He speaks of long years working at the taconite works; inhaling asbestos-laden mine dust has given him emphysema and a weak heart. His breathing is indeed labored, but he tells all his stories with a smile and a twinkle in his eyes, and with obvious relish.

We've finished our beers. Arnold pauses, and, with the same smile and twinkle, says, "So, you've got a dropped pipe!"

"I'm afraid so. My neighbor tells me that you might have some kind of gadget that could retrieve it?"

"What size is the pipe?"

"I think it's inch-and-a-half."

"It's inch-and-a-quarter," he corrects me, "and what size is the casing?"

"3 inches, inside diameter."

"How far down?"

"The top of the dropped pipe measures about 18 feet down."

He rises. "Well, let's go out to the shop and see what we can find."

Out in his shop, Arnold reaches a length of small diameter pipe down to me, then another. He eyes my little Tercel in the driveway. "I suppose you could tie these onto the roof?"

"Sure. Or just leave the hatch open, and let them hang out a little in the back." He nods his OK.

But I'm puzzled, and the puzzlement obviously shows, for he explains, "These two ten-foot lengths, coupled together, will reach down 18 feet, plus a little bit."

"Uhhh, OK.... But where's the gizmo that I use to grab the dropped pipe?"

"You're going to drive into town and buy two reducers to get you from half-inch female to inch-and-a-quarter female. Thread that onto one end of these half-inch pipes, and you've got yourself a twenty foot long 'gizmo'. Understand?"

"I'm afraid not. How do I get the reducer to thread onto my dropped pipe when it's so far down?"

"You said you've got a 3-inch casing, right?"

"Right."

"Then that pipe doesn't really have much wobble room, does it? Nowhere much to go when you drop that reducer, except to thread onto the reducer when you turn it. Do like I say, and you'll grab that pipe, no problem."

The wonderful simplicity of it finally dawns on me. Seeing that, Arnold's smile widens into a grin.

He goes into his shop, and comes out with a pipe vice.

"Use this to keep the pipe from slipping back down. No more U-bolts." I grin sheepishly, and thank him.

"You're a life-saver, Arnold. What do I owe you?"

Ignoring that question, "You might need somebody to help you pull the pipe up. I'm too old and weak to be of much help. Then, when you get down to the cylinder, bring it and the last section of rod back to me. All you've got is a broken rod, and it always breaks down by the cylinder. I'll rethread or weld the rod, and pack your cylinder with new leathers as well, and you'll be all set." With that, he waves me off, and goes back into the house.

0023

OK, here's that fresh new day; time to operate on the pump cylinder. Of course, I don't really know what I'm doing here. Maybe that galvanized thing I see in the 8-inch gap below the housing base is the cylinder, or maybe the cylinder is up inside the housing, and the galvanized thing is just a pipe. Anyway, it's time for me to do something.

I wedge a 2x4 between the spigot and pump house wall, get a good purchase on the cylinder/pipe with my 24-inch pipe wrench, and crank with all my strength. No movement; need more leverage. I find a 48-inch length of 2-inch pipe, slip it over the pipe wrench handle, and try again, easing my whole weight into it. There - the joint breaks free. Good. Take the extension off, now I can loosen more with just the pipe wrench. Excellent.

Now, of course, I don't want to drop the cylinder into the well, so I stop loosening. I find a U-bolt slightly larger than the cylinder, 1¾", I guess. I tighten that onto the cylinder, and, with 2x4 sleepers under the U-bolt, I jack the whole thing up and remove the blocks under the housing base. Now everything is resting on the U-bolt connection, which also provides resistance to prevent the cylinder from turning, as I simply rotate the pump housing until I can feel that it is completely loose. Standing up on blocks, I carefully lift the cast iron housing up and over the loose connection, and carry it off out of the way. As I do so, I'm thinking it's heavy, but not as heavy as I had anticipated. So, there's some serious weight in the cylinder/pipe portion, too. I look inside the housing as I put it down - nothing like a cylinder inside.

I turn back to the cylinder/pipe. Now that I can see it clearly, it doesn't look like anything special. It looks just like a galvanized pipe sticking up out of the well, with a threaded rod running down inside it. How far down does this pipe extend, and where is the cylinder that Willie was talking about? I don't really know how this well works.

As I stand there scratching my head, the U-bolt slips without warning, and the whole pipe vanishes down inside the casing with a sickeningly distant ploosh!

Other than a quick gasp, I am paralyzed, too numb to even curse. I stand there looking dumbly down at what used to be my well, and slowly realize that I feel very weary. I absentmindedly place a bucket upside-down over the open end of the casing (maybe I should write "R.I.P." on the bucket, and bid good-bye to my well), and go inside to lie down. Not to think, not to pray, just lie down, in the middle of the morning.

Eventually, I rouse myself enough to go back and assess the ruin. I look down into the casing. Total blackness. I run my 25-foot tape measure down. At 18 feet, it hits something solid - the top of the dropped pipe, I suppose. I jiggle it past and extend it further. At 20 feet, I hear it hit water. So the pipe is 18 feet from my reach, inside a 3-inch casing. It is irretrievable. And so, my well is no more. Maybe my short-lived adventure is no more, too. I certainly can't afford to have a new well drilled. And without my own water, how would I continue?

I listlessly putter in the garden for awhile. Mid-afternoon I walk down to the mailbox. Wayne is doing something out by his garage. I walk over.

"Hi, Wayne, how's everything?"

"Oh, hi, Jerry. Can't complain. How about you?"

"Oh, I could complain, if I thought it would do any good." I tell him about dropping my well pipe without hope of retrieval.

"You should talk to old Arnold S____. I hear he's pulled dropped pipes out of deeper wells than yours."

"Really? I don't see how that's possible."

Wayne shrugs. "All I'm saying is, that's what I've heard. Old Arnold has been around a lot longer than Willie, and he knows lots of tricks. I guess he's got some kind of gizmo that can grab that pipe and get it back up. Anyway, it's worth a shot, I'd say."

"Boy, that would be a life saver."

Wayne gives me directions to Arnold's place. It's right on the way to town. I thank Wayne, get my mail, and walk back, wondering if such a miracle might really be possible.

0022

I linger in bed, listening to the morning chirrup! of a nearby robin. I face two tasks today, neither of which is attractive, because in both cases I possess great ignorance of what I need to do.

The bees win. After breakfast, I drive the short distance to see Tom, the local bee expert. He tells me it's kinda late in the season to be starting, but not too late. He sells me a frame with a nuke of well established bees, and, back home, I set the colony up south of the garage, in an untilled area of the garden. Manage to do it with only one sting, and that was at Tom's place. They are soon busily at work, cleaning and fixing up their new home, and making pollen and nectar runs off into the woods. They are oblivious to my presence as I stand there watching, fascinated by their industry and organization.

I see now that my ignorance is not the barrier that I had imagined. These little creatures just know what to do, whether I do or not. I learned from Tom that the queen doesn't rule or control the other bees. A honey bee colony has no leader. Rather, the worker bees take collective responsibility over the running of the hive, with the queen being merely an egg producer. I think of Star Trek, and the Borg.

After lunch, I face the second chore. I stand for awhile staring at my broken pump, not in fascination, but consternation. How will I jack this thing up to get at the cylinder that Willie spoke of? And what will I do then?

I unbolt the pump from the flange at its base. Bending at the knees and hooking my arm under the spigot, I give a mighty heave. Did it move? Hard to say. Perhaps a fraction of an inch, for a fraction of a second. Clearly, there's some serious weight here, and I'll need leverage.

With my small flat bar I can get separation between the base and flange. Then a larger bar makes the gap wide enough to slip a bar in sideways, and I can jack against the bar with a bottle jack. Then get a 2 x 4 in there to jack against, blocking on one side and jacking on the other, until, after about 3 hours, the pump is blocked up about 8 inches above the flange. I suppose that round galvanized thing is the cylinder, extending up into the housing and down into the casing. How far down it goes, I cannot see.

I guess that the next step is to see if I can loosen the cylinder, and try to get the cast iron housing off. That's got to be most of the weight, I suppose. My instincts tell me that is a task to be begun at the start of a fresh day. I pack wads of plastic between the cylinder and casing to prevent bugs and debris from falling down the well.

Before going inside for supper, I'm drawn back to the bee colony. The hum of productive activity, the incessant departures and arrivals on the landing area, the remarkable division of labor, are balm to my human spirit. Keep doing what you're doing, little bees; it's what you were designed to do. I wish that I were as well equipped and capable.

0021

Lenore welcomes me affectionately, as always, when I drive up behind her house. I use her phone to call Willie, and get his answering machine. I hang up. While filling up several milk jugs with tap water, I relate yesterday's developments, and Lenore sympathizes.

"When can I come out and see your new place?," she asks.

"Not much to see, I'm afraid."

Does my reluctance to drive Lenore back and forth reflect an earnest reluctance to expend gasoline, or is it mere selfishness? I do still need to get those bee boxes out there and set up some time soon.

"How about today?"

"Oh, that would be nice. Right after lunch, OK?"

I call Willie again, this time leaving a message with Lenore's number as the callback. Then I load as many bee boxes as I can fit into the Tercel. Really could use a truck at times.

---

I was right; there really isn't much to see yet. The house is pretty much a wreck, and nothing much to look at yet in the garden, but Lenore acts duly impressed. Show her the strawberry patch; they seem to need watering. Wish I'd noticed that yesterday, when I had a well. We take buckets down to the creek, and carry creek water back for the thirsty strawberry plants.

---

Back at Lenore's place. Willie has left a message. He says I'll need to jack the pump housing up and disconnect the cylinder. Then he can come out and look at it, and advise me further. I don't really know what that means, but he's the doctor.

0020

Coming back from my morning garden rounds, I notice blossoms on the old apple tree east of the house. He who plants a tree proclaims hope for the future. I realize, with a note of humility, that I am someone else's future, the beneficiary of their foresight in planting this tree.

Good working weather today, a light breeze, blue sky with scattered fleecy clouds, and my energy level is high. I take advantage, planting a few more items - carrots, beets, and keeping ahead of the weeds, more or less. Mid-afternoon, I remember the well, and how it still produces sand. Perhaps it's time to call Willie, and ask what the next step is. Or maybe I should really give it all I've got a few more times.

So, I attach the gutter and start pumping. It soon becomes a workout, a test of my endurance. 50 strokes, starting to break a good sweat. Who needs a weight bench when you've got a well? Why pump iron when you can pump water? 100 strokes. This is where I usually stop for a breather. Pick it up a notch instead. 150 strokes, getting a second wind. Pump harder. I still see sand coming out. I try to envision the bottom of the well. Try to pump hard enough, fast enough, to suck all that sand out. 200 strokes. My heart is racing, my arms aching. Then it happens.

The handle suddenly goes slack, and my downstroke almost makes me fall down. I keep pumping a few more times, but there's no resistance. And there's no water coming out, either. Oh, wonderful. I've broken my pump.

I stand and look helplessly at my non-functioning well. Numbly, dumbly, I walk through the garden and down to the creek. Water. Pretty basic stuff. I vaguely wonder whether a well is all that necessary. The deer and rabbits and birds get by with the water in creeks and ditches and swamps. But - - no, I am a man, not an animal. A product of modern human society. I wouldn't trust my fragile system to swamp water. Even the Amish have wells.

Back in the house, I note with chagrin that, for all the water I've just pumped, I have only about 3 gallons at the ready. And no way to pump more. I'll have to drive to town tomorrow, get jugs of tap water again, and call Willie.

0019

I eventually recovered from my funk. Yesterday was dry and breezy, as I fired up the wringer washer and did some much-needed laundry. My hastily erected clothesline will have to be reinforced at the end post, but it held up OK in the breeze, and the clothes dried quickly. I even got a bunch of planting and weeding done, and carried the rest of the canning jars downstairs without further breakage. Found many of them full of green beans, applesauce, beets, etc. Some spoiled, but most appear to be well sealed and still good to eat! Slept well last night between clean sheets. It is good to be civilized.

Awoke this morning at first light, as usual. I know there's a Catholic church over on the other side of the state park. Don't have a phone to call about Mass times, and still don't have a timepiece, either. But I'm confident there must be a Sunday Mass, and that it wouldn't be at 6:00 am. So, I dig some semi-dress clothes out of the box, get on my bicycle, and hit the road. A brisk chill in the air - I could've worn a heavier jacket, and gloves. I kick it up a notch, pedal harder, generate some heat.

Same pattern as in the garden - I'm soon on automatic pilot, and am passing the 7 or 8 miles lost in my thoughts. This bike ride will settle something for me, too. Much less need for weekend commutes to town if I can bicycle to Sunday Mass.

It's a small church, of contemporary architecture. There are a few cars in the parking lot, and the doors are unlocked. I hear some distant voices as I enter, but see no one in the sanctuary. I settle into a pew halfway toward the back, and relax in the Lord's presence. Presently, three ladies come in, and rehearse some songs. I take this as a sign that, yes, there will be a Mass. At a break in their session, I approach the guitarist to ask.

"Oh, you've got almost an hour," she replies, "Mass is at 8:30."

I thank her, and am about to return to my pew when she adds "You might want to join the men in the kitchen. They're putting on a pancake breakfast after Mass, and they would probably appreciate another hand."

Sure enough, I am soon in an apron, wiping tables, and setting out plates and silverware and exchanging names and small talk and good-humored banter. I have to admit, this is an excellent way to break the ice with new acquaintances. And I get a free breakfast to boot!

0018

I suppose it was inevitable that fatigue would hit me sooner or later. We've had a couple of chilly, drizzly days with just enough periodic showers to be a nuisance. Besides that, the bugs are finding me - the little black flies that zoom into my ears and nose and, like miniature kamikaze planes, right into my smarting eyes. And wood ticks, whose bite leaves a lasting itch. I tried to spend some indoor time cleaning and organizing a bit, but with so much that needs fixing, I don't know where to start. I have taken to covering my cot (still close to the stove downstairs) with a small tarp during the day, so I can raise some dust without getting my bed too filthy.

Anyway, today is better weather, so I take to the garden again. I'm close to having my target area dug up, and I've got much of the early planting done. Just a morning walk through to see if anything is coming up, and to think about what to do today. And I do see plants coming up - a few little carrots and lettuce and radishes. But mostly, I see the grass coming back up from the overturned sod. All those grass roots are still alive, and will not be quelled by a simple spading. (Duh!!)

So, I drop to all fours, and begin hand weeding between carrot plants. What remains to be dug, I will double-dig, to bury the grass roots deeper. Meanwhile, where I now have garden plants emerging, I can't uproot the grass without completely redigging, so I guess I'll just be fighting grass all summer. (Sigh!)

Soon, it begins to grow hot and buggy. I'm weary, so I walk back to the house for a drink of water and a little break. Derek is buzzing around on the knoll with his 3-wheeler. I find the noise and the waste quite disgusting. I stop and look at the wet and disintegrating pile of junk still sitting where John's crew left it. This is disgusting, too. I suppose I could at least get some of those boxes of canning jars into the basement. I pick up a box of jars, careful to hold it from the bottom. At the top of the steps, I try to support one end with my upraised knee while struggling with the decrepit door. The wet cardboard fails, and the jars fall through, half of them breaking on the concrete steps. I curse my stupidity, and go get a broom to sweep up the mess. By the time I've swept up the broken glass and am carrying the unbroken jars to the basement, my weariness has grown much deeper. I hear Derek come into the yard and walk through the door, which I may have left ajar. He calls out my name. Climbing slowly back upstairs, I chew Derek out for coming into my house uninvited.

"Sorry!", he says, and shuffles back to his 3-wheeler.

"So am I," I say to myself, as I plop down on my tarp-covered cot.

0017

Necessity is the mother of invention. As I continue to dig and plant and think, I begin to realize that this is how I will have to proceed. I will have to draw a line like the Amish. Thus far, and no farther. This will become my self-imposed necessity, impelling me to invent things and discover techniques and figure out the concrete specific ways to live the non-consumerist life as best I can.

As a high priority, because of the fossil fuel involved, I have to stop commuting back and forth so much; this has to be my permanent base. Consequently, getting the well fixed is high on my to-do list. Being able to prepare good meals for myself is another. (A guy can go only so long on baloney sandwiches and fried eggs and potatoes.)

So, I've decided to compromise, at least for now, on a lesser point, and get set up with a freezer and refrigerator. The decision was made easier when I saw both of these items, plus a real bathtub all offered as give-aways in the local shopper. So, I called a local hauler and paid $50 to have this stuff, and my wringer washer, brought out here today. I also picked up some real groceries while in town, and some odds and ends dishes at a rummage sale.