Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relationships. Show all posts

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Beloved Love and Snow Drift Love

We have a couple of fun new things going on at Ironwood Hollow, but no photos ready today for those posts, so they'll wait. In the meantime, if you'll indulge me, I'll just talk a little bit about a  couple of the songs that can be found at Harper Meader Bandcamp.
Life in our winter is simply amazing.


The oldest song on the CD is "Beloved Love", and it's dear to my heart. Honey and I knew that we were meant for each other. We longed to be together, and our lives were just not quite ready to allow us that gift of waking up to see the dawn together. For me, our precious moments of time together were the finest moments my heart had ever known, and I was caught in that perfect storm of being exactly where I wanted to be, needed to be, and knowing that it was fleeting. Dreading the dawn, because I would once again awake alone, and at the same time thanking whatever Gods or spirits had brought us together for showing me the answer to my heart's quest.

For the musicians, I use a four-finger picking pattern in regular tuning, sort of Gordon Lightfoot-style, and the chords are:  Dsus2, Am, B7, Em, and G.

The next oldest is "Snow Drift Love." I wrote this last summer, on a very hot day, knowing that soon we would be living together, that we would spend our winters together, awake together in the morning to see that amazing blanket of snow that sometimes stops everything here at Ironwood Hollow. My favorite word in the song is "dooryard," a quintessentially downneast term. I once met an Italian New Yorker, name of Gaitano, who had moved to Maine, and remember asking how he liked it here. He was thrilled. "Oh, the language is endlessly fascinating. Just today I learned to pronounce a new Maine word." Then he crossed his eyes, and carefully said it: doouh yaahd! Then he clapped his hands with delight, and said that he found our country ways so charming. 
...underneath is still the front yard we know...


He has gotten tired of our country ways, and gone back to the city, but Honey and I, who truly love when we can see our breath in the bedroom on a frosty morning, still love our country ways, and this song is from when I looked forward to sharing that together with her. I hope you like the song, and queue it up on a blustery February morning...Honey and I will be tucked in with our tea, living the life we dreamed of, storm-stayed together and loving it!

Oh, for the musicians, I play this one with an alternating two-finger pattern, regular tuning, and the chords are: E and Asus2 alternating for the verses, and A, E, and one B7 snuck in there, for the chorus. Very easy, and one of my favorite chord patterns.

Thursday, August 15, 2013

Long Time Coming

Check out my (at last!) recording at bandcamp.com
I guess you may have noticed, if you are a regular reader of mine, that I have been absent for way too long. Sorry about that! Here's what's going on...

A long-time friend of mine, James Lindenschmidt of Bardic Brews and Crafted Recordings, offered to help me with some recording. I have been a musician for my whole adult life, playing folk harp, fingerstyle guitar, hammered dulcimer, and an assortment of other instruments, but in the recent past my songwriting went into overdrive, fed by the life changes that came with falling deeply in love. Happily, my musicianship has kept pace with my heart and my writing aspirations, and I have a steadily-growing collection of really good songs to show for it! 

I went into overdrive, consulting with my Honey about which were the best songs to break out with, practicing like mad, making sure I had the words just the way they should be...and new songs kept intruding! But eventually, just a couple of weeks ago, Jim came to Ironwood Hollow, toting all sorts of esoteric equipment, and Honey left us to our own devices. He told me that he has always wanted to try recording in our home, with its very unique acoustics that come from the cordwood masonry, the high ceilings, and the curved walls. 

Long story as short as possible, we had about three hours of good recording time all to ourselves, and in that time we recorded six of my songs. For each of them, I played my solo arrangement and sang at the same time, then went back and recorded a harmony track and a second guitar track in some cases. The one that sticks in my mind the most is when I said, "Jim, let me just hear the tune, and I'll play through the lead guitar, and see if I remember how it goes..." When I was finished, he just said, "Oh yeah, I was recording; that's great. What's next?" 


Six songs of spiritual love recorded in a cordwood masonry meadhall!
It was that kind of session. Jim's knowledge of recording and innate calm made it a pure pleasure. Followed by many hours of his skilled time mixing and mastering, one of the finest gifts I've ever received, this session has turned into an EP of a small sampling of my recent music. (An EP is an extended play, several songs, but not long enough to be called a CD). I have been working my way through the process of making the songs available, now that Jim has declared the tracks finished. Actual CDs are in process, and I'll post details about that when it's all set up. In the meantime, harpermeader.bandcamp.com is where to go to hear them. I hope you will purchase all or some of them for download! Bandcamp offers music affordably, with the option of paying anywhere from a minimum up to what you feel the music is worth. They will appear in the other usual venues shortly (itunes, amazon, etc), as that process does its thing. 

The changes in my life and my heart that my Honey has brought to me are only hinted at in these songs, but I am so pleased to be able to share a bit of that joy with you. There will be more, since I've determined to make songwriting a major part of my future. Stay tuned. Among these songs you will find a steamy celebration of midsummer loving (Magic in the Moonlight), a rousing sailing song (Snapping Sails), the perfect tune for when you're storm-stayed with your love (Snowdrift Love), a partial-capoed pattern-picked epic-love-song for the guitarists among us, with a nod to the great love-poet, Rumi, (The Glassblower's Breath), and more.

I hope that you like my work. My hope is that this project will fund the next recording, and that my love of music, words, spirit, life, and my Honey will become something more than a hobby, that it will bring a piece of that joy that is my life into the homes of many.

Okay, a final note...anywhere else you find my songs, they're likely to cost about the same, but at bandcamp, you get the lyrics for free, and you can hear the whole song right there before you decide to part with a dollar or two. Also, just sayin'...as one of my blog-readers, you know where to find me. If you play, and want to know my chords, or get a hint about the picking patterns that I use, you know where to find me. 

Thursday, March 28, 2013

Mud Season Musings

I'm going to start with a confession. My mom, a dyed-in-the-wool Mainer, moved to Florida quite a few years ago, and stayed there for most of the year, only coming home for Christmas and a little bit of the summer. My confession is that, among all the kids and step-kids, I'm the only one who never went to visit. My sister went, and even found parts of Florida that she liked. My step-brothers and step-sisters all went, and more than once. I even sent my daughter down alone on a plane, and she had a nice time. For myself, though, I just knew I would hate Florida.

As an avid reader of mystery novels, you'd think I would love it there, the home of not only Clinton "Skink" Tyree and Marion "Doc" Ford, but also of the father of Florida Tough Guys, Travis McGee. Nope, even that's not enough. The reason that I knew I wouldn't like it is that having a frost is so crazy there that it makes national news. That, and the fact the you could throw a frisbee over its highest point from its lowest point with little effort. Sorry, but this Maine boy likes his seasons, and his hills.

Ironwood Hollow Awaits Spring
Eventually, and sadly long after Mom gave it up and moved back home, I went to Florida for a weekend, and was completely vindicated. It's terrible there, or at least it is for me. The weather was mild, in the fifties, and people kept apologizing for the cold, as though their state was in breach of contract. There are no hills, neither up nor down, and that flatness applies to the weather as well. I couldn't wait to get back home, and will never go there again. That doesn't mean, of course, that I'll stop reading Randy White and Carl Hiaasen! This morning, snuggled in bed with my Honey and watching a drizzle feed the thriving crop of mud that is taking over our dooryard, we were talking about this, and realized that we both have the same prejudice.

Here it is; real, honest-to-god seasons, so that you have to change your wardrobe, either start a fire or open a lot of windows, and adjust to new waves of wildlife that follow those seasons, build character and give a shape to our lives. Yes, of course I get tired of shoveling and snow-blowing, of getting up before dawn to go out and be turned into Frosty while wrestling the old Gravely snowblower up and down our quarter-mile driveway, only to come in and shake life into my frozen fingers in front of a smoky fire. Yes, of course I can't wait for mud season to be over, when I don't know from day to day whether I'll end up frame-deep at the crest of the driveway, needing three men and a come-along to get out. Yes, of course I am ready for fall long before the mosquitoes, blackflies, and deer-flies have gotten tired of bleeding me dry in the hot sun. Absolutely, each season has its time, sometimes more than enough of it, and I keep having to adjust as one gives way to the next.
We can't imagine life without real seasons!

The point of it all, though, is that the process of loving, hating, and adjusting to, each new season is an enormously important part of what makes life interesting. I waited all summer to be able to kick through piles of autumn leaves with my Honey during our first fall season together. Then in the fall we both dreamed of being snowed in together, of watching the trees out the window, sagging under pillows of snow while we stayed snug under covers. Now we're eagerly awaiting that first day that's warm enough to sit on the porch in the sun, maybe with sweaters on. If every week were more or less the same, it would be like living in a house with only one book to read, wouldn't it? The sameness would be stifling. Sledding the car out through the deepening mud this morning, I celebrated in my head, thanking the universe for seasons, for cycles, for the woman who watches just as keenly as I do for that first touch of gold in the willows, then in the forsythia, then for the first north-bound goose, and then...and then...

Happy Mud Season!

Friday, March 22, 2013

Writing and Reading on Paper

Yes, I have been remiss in my blogging. Sorry about that! My excuse is that I haven't had an interesting DIY or cooking project going for a little while, and have instead been busy with things like the water heater not working, the snow needing lots of snowblowing, and similar efforts. The real reason though, if I'm perfectly honest with you, is more complicated, and has to do with this medium, the internet. 

I was just reading a fellow bookseller's blog, and he very intriguingly related books to horses. I think his point was that, even though we have always loved horses and relied upon them, they have been needed far less in the mechanized era, but books have been more resilient in the digital age. That's how it struck me anyway. I enjoyed the post very much, and it got me thinking. I find that once I saw through the glittery show of how much the internet and social media can connect us, bring information to our fingertips, render encyclopedias obsolete, and so on, and realized how thin the experience of digital media is, I am more than ever in love with paper books.
Apple Valley Books in Winthrop Maine

It's not just the books, though. I am more in love with live acoustic music, song from vocal chords, friends to talk to in person, real food on a real plate, and most importantly, love with the woman who shares so many up-close breaths of real air with me. It goes on...chess with Soren at the kitchen table is vastly more rewarding than chess online with strangers. Frisbee or other real outdoor play will beat any online play you can conceive of. Pinterest may show us the most delicious pictures of bacon-wrapped goat-cheese monkey-bread with avocado glaze, or whatever, but the finest thing to cross my palate lately was cooked by my Honey in a real pot on a real stove, and was not shared or liked online. For those who want to know, it was sweet potato and brussels sprouts baked with herbs, bacon, and chevre, but it could have been ANYTHING and beaten out pinterest.

Back to the books though. What I've been doing with my time hasn't been something that shares well on a blog, at least not yet. I've been fine-tuning my song collection with the goal of recording, for one. I have about a half dozen songs that I think are as good as any of my favorite recorded songs, within my musical taste, and will find a way to get them out into the world. Also, I've been writing, a novel, on paper. It's moving along nicely, and I am happy with it. I'm writing in pen on lined notebooks, then revising it just a bit as I type it on the computer. I found my old typewriter, got a ribbon for it, and when I can type out on the porch so as not to deafen everyone in the house, I'll switch to that for my first draft. The relationship between our dreams and imagination, and the physical act of writing down words, is a magical thing that I believe will survive the digital age intact. In this age, it may well be an e-book at least as fast is it can be a paper book, but the book-lover in me hopes that paper copies will be kept and loved for years on good old-fashioned bookshelves by people who live most of their lives away from glowing computer screens.

I'll be back into the blogging, I promise. There are many projects waiting for spring, waiting for the workshop to be warm enough to do carpentry in, waiting for winter to loosen its hold on those of us who live under the snowdrifts until May up here in Maine. In the meantime, get off this computer thing, and go play, write, cook, read, be with your loved ones, eh?

Monday, November 26, 2012

Satisfied



Satisfied

Copyright Eric Robbins November 21 2012

By the sweat of my Father,                                                        C             Cmaj9   Am                       
And the tears of my mother,                                                     C             Cmaj9    Am
I got no call to be faulting the weather,                                   C             Cmaj9    Am
I’m satisfied…                                                                                G
See those leaves blowing one way,
And that crow flies another.
As long as the two of us are together,
I’m satisfied…

(Chorus) How could I ask for more than I’ve got,                 G            F             C             G           
When each day begins with you?                                              C             F             G
I got my head up in the stars,                                                    G            F             C             G
My feet in the morning dew, and I’ve got you…                    C             F             G            C

The wind blows the world ‘round,
From the treetops and the whitecaps,
But warmed by the fireplace and held in your arms
I’m satisfied…
When I know that you’re coming home,
I’m waiting by the front steps.
We hold each other safe from any harm,
I’m satisfied…

Got a roof to hold the snowfall,
Warm blankets for the frosty chill.
Together we don’t need to fear the deepest frost,
I’m satisfied…
Your heart is my compass rose,
To guide me like the stars at night,
Steering ever homeward where once I wandered lost,
I’m satisfied…

Saturday, November 24, 2012

The Season of Thankfulness

Welcome to Ironwood Hollow
We all have family stories that warm our hearts, that remind us of the very best part of our heritage. Here's one of mine. It's short, but I still can't tell it without choking up. My grandfather Arnold died suddenly of a heart attack when I was a young boy. He was a formal, intimidating man to us kids, and unfortunately we never got to know him better than that. Shortly after retiring, he and my Grammy Carrie had almost all of the family, kids, cousins, etc., to their beautiful cottage on the coast of Maine, and that's when he went. It was sudden, and the family has never gotten together again as completely as we did for his funeral that weekend. Her name was the last word he spoke.

A few years ago my mother told me that Grammy Carrie, who outlived him by many years, kept his bedroom slippers under the bed until her own passing. She never loved another. That kind of devotion makes my heart swell with hope for humankind. I just can't think of another way to say it. 

Grammie's memory lives, and not just in the Fiestaware!
One of the ways Grammie Carrie lives on in our family is in our dishware, as odd as that sounds; I remember sitting at her old kitchen table when I visited them as a boy, having breakfast cereal in an original green fiesta bowl. She loved her collection of fiestaware. To this day I can't hold a green piece of fiesta without thinking of her, and a varied assortment of fiesta is what we use for everyday dishware, as well as for special occasions. That table, where Grampy used to keep his feet under the support bar so as to catch any of us kids, or our parents when they were little, who might used it as a footrest (against the rules), was laden with a feast on fiestaware for this Thanksgiving. This year our newly grown family sat around that same table, held hands, said grace, and carried the memory of my Grampy and Grammy forward into a heartwarming, wonderful, new time of our lives.

The connection that struck me in that moment is that I finally understand the devotion that she had for him. Meeting my Honey's eyes at the far end of this table, with our newly blended family connecting us along the length of the big room,  I realized that although times change, love is powerful and enduring. May we all find that one perfect other, the one whose slippers could never be taken out from under the bed. May our children and grandchildren learn from us that such a thing is possible.




Thursday, November 8, 2012

Update from Ironwood Hollow

It has been a good week here at Ironwood Hollow. The Vanilla Tupelo Honey Mead started a week ago has been bubbling away quietly in the pantry. We've talked with a couple of mead-students who are now accomplished meaders in their own right about some batches in progress and how to handle unforeseen issues (when in doubt, wait for it to get better). We've moved some things around so as to get to the mead in the cellar a little more easily, with an eye to finding just the right bottles for what promises to be an epic Thanksgiving. 

We've had the first snow of any consequence since Honey and the kids have moved in, and we all watched a young buck browsing our blackberry bushes amidst the new white this morning before school. Everyone pitched in with the project of building a rack above our firewood in the woodshed, for all the reclaimed lumber that has been accumulating for future projects. 
The Mellow Hill Dome

The kids have taken to country life in a beautiful way, and we're just getting started. The boys have done nearly all the work of sifting gravel for the driveway repairs and a greywater drainage area for wash-water. All of them help with the firewood. This morning we watched that buck nibbling in the yard before the kids made their own tracks right across his on their way to the school-bus pickup.

We have started to arrange our thanksgiving, first one together. I realized this morning that I will just be a puddle of emotion for that entire day, as Honey's family meets mine, we fill the 'Hollow with more love and kin than ever before, and these cordwood walls (and our arms) embrace the newly grown family that we are bringing together. Tears of joy make the best seasoning, and since I know what a big old heap of sentimentality I am, I think I'll let Honey do the talking while I carve the turkeys. 

We just got our first delivery from Currier and Chives, a new local bakery CSA, and had home-made raisin bread toast for breakfast today! If there is a local farmer who sells any kind of shares in his product, that is such a great way to support the real local green economy. Ask at health-food stores and farmer's markets if there is anything like that around you; we have seafood, meat, vegetable, and bakery CSA's in our area, and support them as we can.

We're looking forward to a big building project next year, and have started pulling ideas together for that. Winter in Maine is long, and cozy evenings by the fire with graph paper and alternative building books will get us through. Watch for updates!

Filling Dad's woodshed.
About the kids and wood...my Dad, right next door in the Mellow Hill Dome, needed help this year with his firewood for the first time ever. He had it all cut ahead and seasoned in the old shed down by the barn, but needed to have three cords of wood moved up to the shed next to the house and workshop. In two easy afternoons the kids pitched in, and we scurried back and forth like an ant colony with wheelbarrows, until he had everything just the way he needs it for the winter. I was so proud of them...I haven't smiled that much through hard work in my whole life. 

So that's life at Ironwood Hollow this week. Family, wildlife, projects, hopes, dreams, blessings, trials, love, life, beauty, and yet more blessings. May your life be as full, and may you be as aware of that fullness as we are!




Friday, October 19, 2012

Living with Your Mistakes

When I started my house, I was a rank beginner in construction. Truth be told, I had never built anything more involved than bookshelves at that point in my life. I had the great gift of an acre of land to work with, and it was a hilly acre. I read as much as I could about what I was about to undertake, and then I simply dove in. One of the first things I did, after cutting trees and pulling brush away, was to lay out the foundation of the house. This was an ark-shaped perimeter, on a hillside, with irregular bedrock just a foot or two below the surface. I worked out how to use a water level, which is made from a length of garden hose, duct tape, and a couple of two-liter soda bottles with the bottoms cut off of them, filled with water. It sounds like something that should need two people to work properly, and it is, but I did what I could with it. Alone in the woods, I laid out my best approximation of a symmetrical three-cornered foundation with two curved walls and a rise of about eleven feet from end to end.

Pouring the footing...
Later, after I had done my best with the footing, with a lot of help from friends and family, then done my best with the double-width, curved, uphill, cement block foundation, I learned that my curves, as laid out, were not exactly symmetrical. Actually I had several inches of irregularity, and I told myself that if I just built the floor, then built the cordwood walls as best I could, I would figure out what to do with the roof when I got to that point. Nobody would know the difference. 

I expect that an engineer would have done a better job of cleaning up after such a start, but I'm not an engineer. Three years later, when I was closing in on roofing over the curved end of the house, I spent many an hour sitting up there on top of the cordwood, cussin' and figurin', trying my best to make the roof look good on top of the structure that I had made. Ultimately, I would have to say that it turned out okay, but not anywhere near perfect. My placement of the piers for the floor structure brought me similar difficulties. My cabinets in the bathroom and kitchen are enough off-square that I can't possibly buy off-the-rack parts, and must fabricate every last little piece to fit.

Today I find myself reviewing past mistakes, of course wishing I hadn't made them, for sure wanting to find a good outcome anyway. The echoes of those mistakes resonate through so much of what followed, and I have to find my way through my present, all the while adjusting to the course set by what I did back in the day. 

Roofing was so complicated because of mistakes in the foundation!
By now I'm sure you have realized that I'm prone to metaphor and allegory. How does all of this apply to life in general? Well, for one, I have to accept that I laid out my house, and also my life, in a way that would cause me trouble later, and I have to deal with it as best I can. For another, if I can look at that wavy roof, and realize that it works okay, that it reflects the best that I knew how to do at the time, and believe that I truly tried to make it good in spite of a bad start, I should be able to look at other aspects of my life the same way. Sure, I should have done things differently, and I would go back and change things if I could. I can't, though, and can only do better going forward, while doing my damnedest to make better anything that I messed up on my way here.

A difference between the house and the rest of my life is that I had the best intentions when I laid out my foundation. With the rest of my life, I have to admit that selfishness and lack of consideration were a big part of where I went wrong. What can I do about this? Time will tell, but the same answer is there. I can't change the past, but I can damned well avoid making the same mistakes. I can adjust my course, and simply do everything I can to make the rest of my work, of my life, much better, not just for myself, but for those I love.

One lesson I can take from the way my foundation echoes into my roof and everything else in my house is that when you can't undo things, you can at least do everything you can to make the eventual outcome better. The first step (of many) is to realize where you went wrong, and why.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

How to Clean a Chimney

This is creosote build-up (photo by Honey)
I skipped my annual chimney-cleaning last year, partly from laziness, and partly from faint rationalization. If you have some idea that it's easy, just because it's called "sweeping," think again. Some chimneys may be easier than others, but mine requires numerous repetitions of crawling into the basement, pulling really hard on a rope and breathing ash and creosote dust, then climbing out and up to the roof to pull really hard on a rope while trying not to fall off the chimney. It has become what I think of as the hardest scheduled task of the year, since putting the firewood by is spread out over so many days.

Soren reaches deep...(photo by Honey)
 The rationalization comes from my having talked myself into thinking the chimney was clean enough. It wasn't, and I began to suspect as much this past spring, when the stove started to smoke after no provocation at all. I mistakenly believed that the galvanized-steel trick (more on that below) let me off the hook for cleaning.

It would be easy to write this post as an extended metaphor (for keeping your house in order, for not letting the debris of the past clog your present endeavors, for taking on big challenges with support rather than alone, possibilities abound), but I'm going to try and simply describe the process while celebrating this first time of having two fine young men to help. This will free you to read into it whatever metaphors or lessons you like; I only know that it was a rewarding day on several levels, the clearest of which is that we can use the wood-stove again!

(photo by Honey)
First, the thing about galvanized steel. I've heard from some old-timers that if you burn scrap galvanized steel in your fire occasionally, something about the zinc coating affects the polarity of the ions or some such thing that's beyond my schooling, and what happens is that the inevitable creosote buildup flakes off and falls down to your clean-out door at the base of the chimney. I think this works in a way similar to those chimney-cleaning powder tubes that you can buy at hardware stores. Based on the amount of granular ash in my clean-out, I believe it works up to a point. Unfortunately, it didn't work well enough for me to justify skipping a year's cleaning. The whole reason for this exercise, by the way, is that when a woodstove doesn't burn completely efficiently, and none of them do, unburned gases from the smoke condense on the inside of the flue, gradually creating a flammable, sticky deposit of creosote, like heavy tar. This is the fuel for chimney fires, and should be cleaned out regularly.
Here's the process. first, find the clean-out door at the base of your chimney, and shovel out all of the ash that has fallen to the bottom over the past year. That part's pretty easy. This year I found almost ten gallons of ash, which meant that it was stacked high up into the chimney, and I had to loosen it with a long flexible stick. Next, carefully remove the stovepipe from your woodstove to your chimney, take it outside, bang the creosote out of it, and put it back in place. If you don't put it back before moving on, you'll get a houseful of ash!
An ancient skill passes to another generation

Next, assemble your tools. I use a wire chimney brush, basically a bottle-brush made of spring steel that fits my 8-by-8 inch flue, pushed down by several threaded fiberglass rods that connect in a row. They are too springy to push the brush all the way, so I have to also pull it through from below, like flossing. To do this, I tie a weight (splitting wedge) to a sturdy rope, with the other end attached to the base of the brush. Drop the weight down the flue, start the brush down after it, and then go down cellar and retrieve the weight, which allows me to pull the brush through from below.

In a normal year's cleaning, that would be enough. Pull the brush down as far as the stovepipe connection, pull it back up again, repeat several times, clean the bottom of the chimney out again, and put the tools away for another year. This year, though, having skipped a cleaning, we couldn't get the brush any lower than about five feet above the stovepipe connection before it got completely stuck in built-up creosote. After a lot of wrestling, we realized that we would have to clean that section by hand through the stovepipe thimble! After plenty of creative cursing, scraped arms, mess everywhere, and proctology jokes, we were finally able to proceed, scraping away two years' worth of creosote and making the chimney ready for another heating season.

The best thing about this year's cleaning was having the boys help me. With one relaying instructions from me by walkie-talkie, and the other up on the chimney doing most of the pulling, it went faster than usual, even with the excessive creosote, and was far more fun and less frustrating. Now, when I talk about running the stove too cool, and how it can add to our build-up in the chimney, they will have a first-hand understanding. And wherever they go in life, they'll know how to clean their own chimney!

Wednesday, September 19, 2012

On Adversity

Okay, I have been slow to write a new entry here.Things are happening at the Hollow for sure, but something about having kids in the house, bringing pathogens home from school with their homework, has slowed me down a bit...but I've decided that I can type and cough at the same time, so here we go!

Before I get to today's topic of adversity, let me throw a teaser out there. For many years I have cleaned my chimney alone,and every year it has been a "dammit" kind of venture. This year I waited deliberately until after Honey and the kids had moved in, so the boys could have a taste of country living...or so I could get some youthful vigor added to one of the toughest jobs of my year, you decide. Coming soon, I'll write about Sunday's chimney-cleaning adventure, but I want to do it justice, so I will work on that when I don't feel like a virus-ridden dishrag with a breadstick for a spine...

My Honey has been unwell a couple of times since we've joined our lives together, and I've been just thrilled to be able to help. There's a funny thing that happens when independent types try to care for each other, and we've hit all the bases. 

"Honey, I made you some valerian tea with a special tincture, and a salad with lots of bacon..." God, I love puttering in the kitchen so I can bring her some comfort.

"What? Aren't you late for work?" Oh yeah, right, forgot that.

"But I want to take care of you!" More than anything else in the world.

"I'm fine...cough, cough...you don't have to do that...is that chocolate?"
The loveliest trees here are the ones that helped each other through adversity.

And so on. It's funny and beautiful all at once; we're each used to being independent, and at the same time we crave being loved enough to be cared for. So my last words before falling asleep last night were (in between coughs and sniffles) "If I'm better in the morning I'll do some bacon and eggs for the kids." Yeah, right.

Honey's last words were, "Harper, you're sick! Stop that!" And eventually I awoke to find the most wonderful woman in the world waking me up with a tray of coffee, bacon, orange juice, pumpkin bread with chocolate chips, and some ibuprofen. All served with that smile that melts my heart.


All I could think was, "When it's my turn again, how will I top this?" I'm thinking, herbal tea, chocolates, flowers, massage, a troupe of riverdancing rednecks, whatever it takes to care for my woman the way she takes care of her man. Is there anything in life better than this? Hard times come, that's just reality. We get sick, we have career setbacks, we have issues with friends, family, or neighbors, but if we take on all of those things as a team, loving each other past the hurt that any of it brings, then we are living a simply beautiful life. We live a life to be proud of, to look forward to, to awaken to with eagerness and a strong spirit. Then, when the hard times ease up, we are still together, stronger, in love more than ever, with even more reason to live in gratitude.


Friday, September 14, 2012

Joining, Growing, Trusting

Most of my posts so far have been practical. By that I mean that they have been about fitting things together, creating something from disparate parts, paying attention to detail, and so on. This one won't be. It is about intangibles, feelings, magic, belief, and faith. While I have been focusing on the hands-on part of our life in my writing these days, making a room for the girls, cooking with style while keeping it healthy and budget-wise, teaching the boys to build things, and so on, what really drives my life now is less easily defined. 

I can't take a picture of that moment when my Honey's mothering skills wake me up once again to the finer points of parenting, even though I have been raising children for decades. I can't take a picture of the way that a moment of teamwork, her knowing what I need, me knowing that I can count on her, can do for a challenging situation. I can't take a picture of my Honey empowering me to say no to her, unlearning everything I have learned in previous relationships. There's no way to photograph the moment when she trusts me to parent (and that is one of the biggest leaps of faith out there; you know it if you have children), or when I realize that anything at all she might bring to our relationship will enrich my life, enabling me to carry things through my door that I can't even identify.

That last moment was a great example of what I'm driving at. Unloading a few last-minute things as part of our Great Household Joining, I carried a thing that looked a bit like a wrought-iron Christmas tree. Between you and me, I had no idea what it was, and the point is that I didn't care. I would have moved in a zebra-striped llama without question, that's how smitten I am, but don't tell her that, because she might like llamas. I just figured it was a whoosywingus of some kind, meant something to her, and we were going to find room for it.

Balancing that out, and in the interest of leaving enough room to move about the house, Honey is honestly wanting me to say no to some stuff. This is new to me, and I treasure it. This morning I took a deep breath and said no to yet another bookshelf. We have give-and-take going here, and consideration for each other in everything we do. I could say no to the mitten-dryer (not a Christmas tree after all, and great in a place with a wood-stove and long winters), but I won't. She knows very well that I would say yes to almost anything, but will do everything she can to not overdo it.


This is complicated, and a two-edged sword. On the one hand, I trust her to be making the very best decision, and I believe she feels the same way about me. On the other hand, I believe that if I question something she decides, we can sort that out without endangering our relationship, and I believe that she knows the same thing. Neither of us simply caves in, each of us is empowered, respected, in decisions large and small. As I write this I'm wondering if it is as big a deal to others as it is to me. There must be many couples out there who know this intuitively, but I know that it is new and wonderful to me.

Now that I think back on it, when I said that this post wouldn't be practical, I was wrong. It is about fitting things together, creating something from disparate parts, and paying attention to detail. It's the most beautiful undertaking I have ever taken on, and it's practical, essential, crucial in a very real sense. Life would not be worth living without those intangibles, feelings, magic, belief, faith, and yes, Love.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

On Being Taciturn, a Brief Post

tac·i·turn

[tas-i-turn] adjective 1. inclined to silence; reserved in speech; reluctant to join in conversation.
We Mainers have long been known for our taciturnity, our terseness, our brevity with words. Ask a Mainer, "Have you lived here all your life?" and he may well answer, "Not yet." We are proud of saying much with little, of not wearing out a listener's ear by going on and on, of  showing what we mean with actions rather than words. I have never questioned that as a value until recently. 

Lately, though, I've been re-thinking it. How are the people in my life supposed to decode my silences without more clues? I might think that I'm communicating with my smile that my breakfast was great, I love how you look today, plan on fixing a dinner but might need to pick up some potatoes, and so on, but if all you get is that little smile and silence, you could be wondering if the toast was overdone, if your hair is out of kilter, if I might be considering going bowling instead of coming home after work. How are you supposed to know?
Don't get me wrong; I do think that silence is golden...up to a point. Stream-of-thought talk is wearing on everyone who has to listen to it, and eventually people just tune it out or avoid it, myself included. But I am going to try to add details and explanations to my usually brief declarations, and even to my smiles and other expressions. I will smile, and then say why.   
Even though we can accomplish a lot through non-verbal communication, smiles, shrugs, and nods, like e-mails and poetry, leave so much for the recipients to interpret that they may well see things that weren't intended. Or, more importantly not see things that were intended.


A Signpost without the words, while striking, is cryptic...



Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Snow Drift Love

 Copyright 2012 Eric Robbins

The way the snow drifts,
On and on and on,
Made me think of
A shape for this new song.
Falling past the window,
Blanketing the yard,
Paper said it’s bound to
Come down mighty hard.

Tiny changes in the shape of all the snow,
Underneath is still the front yard we know.

And that’s the way our love grows,
Slowly building like these all night snows
Underneath it all, just like our dooryard,
Never changing since I fell so hard
For you, that’s what you do to my heart!

When we woke up,
Pulled the drapes aside,
Watched the first flakes
Building like the tide,
And we pulled up the
Covers to our chins,
Sipping tea and loving
Being all snowed in.
All the edges gradually shift
Under swirling shapes of growing drifts.

And that’s the way our love grows,
Slowly building like these all night snows
Underneath it all, just like our dooryard,
Never changing since I fell so hard
For you, that’s what you do to my heart!
Windglyphs in snow...

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Keeping It True

In cordwood masonry building, one of the challenges is keeping your wall vertical. The load-bearing potential of the structure is dependent upon the wall being aligned as truly up-and-down as possible. A bit of variation won't be a disaster, but letting your wall wander too much will make for weak support. It could eventually buckle, or crack your windows by shifting over a leaning support system.

The metaphor is important to me. If you have a solid foundation, and build carefully and consciously upon it, then the strength that foundation will be present throughout your structure, providing safety, security, and even beauty because you have respected its gift of strength. Don't assume anything, but rather check as you go along that you and your foundation are in sync, that you're working together. Don't stray from it; honor it, and you can trust it with your home, your shelter, your life.

The most important tool for keeping your walls true in cordwood masonry is a plumb-bob, a pendulum-like brass tool on a long string, used for millennia to line up vertical work over its center of gravity. Mine is somewhat crusted with mortar, and its string is faded by time and weather, but it holds a strong magic, in my mind at least. Except for the first row or three of cordwood pieces, it was used on every single log in my cordwood masonry walls. When I look up at my highest walls, over eighteen feet from the foundation, I remember using it, over and over and over again.

First you mix up some mortar, using sand, cement mix, lime, water, and wet sawdust, along with plenty of back and arm strength with a masonry hoe. Then you carry a bucket of that and some cedar pieces up your ladder, lay a double-bead of mortar with rubber-gloved hands, and squish a piece of cedar roughly into place. Below you is a chalk-line two inches out from the base of the wall. You pull your trusty plumb-bob from your nail apron, along with a two-inch nail for a spacer, and swing it down from the head of the nail. The point of the nail is held steady against the wood, and when you have tapped the wood back and forth into the right position, the point of the bob is true above the chalk-line, making the log true at the top of the wall. Ancient science, the tradition of countless generations of carpenters and masons working through your hands, the magic of a fine metaphor, if you will pay attention to it. 

What's the most important tool for keeping your life true? Opinions may vary, but I believe that tending to your primary relationships above all else is crucial. Always checking that you are treating your loved ones as they deserve, with honesty, care, and consideration, that communication is true, you will know of potential trouble in time to correct it. You will build on that respect for your foundation.

I'm going to loan my plumb-bob, for the duration of their home-building, to Ben and Kissy of Dragonfly Acres, who have already begun harvesting cedar, and milling hemlock, for their own cordwood masonry home not far from ours. The thought of having that ancient and solid tool carry such a metaphor to another home built by people who bring thoughtfulness, love, and care to their endeavors pleases me greatly.