grinding my mental gears
Yesterday after I posted about the car in the yard, I took a quick
break and started on what I planned to offer today. It was, stated
charitably, a piece of incoherent crap. Concepts refused to make
the short jaunt from my brain to my fingertips, phrases declined
to align themselves properly, and words stood aloof of each other.
Even my spelling betrayed me, looking like something on a Tea
Party protest sign.
Apparently I was trying to make some point about how quiet it
was on the farm at the time. It actually wasn’t. The main creek
was roaring from recent rains. Roameo was snoozing at my feet,
farting occasionally and rousing up to seek who dealt it. I had
one snippet in it I liked — the primordial gospel of frogsong –
but the rest of it was grunt. I saved the draft and checked my
e-mail. Maybe I could resuscitate it later.
What, I wondered as I deleted chances to enhance my manliness,
is making this labour of love so labourious? I ruled out the obvious,
Super Bowl letdown, straightaway. The Packers, led by Bay Area
phenom Aaron Rodgers, had won it, after all. March Madness is
fast approaching and KU, barring a collapse, will garner a top seed.
Pitchers and catchers for my beloved San Francisco Giants report
to spring training in a week. And I have all that joy yet from their
world championship to tide me over.
I was still sorting through possible explanations when our friend
Lee came rumbling down the driveway. His truck, already missing
a door, is now missing some vital part of the front suspension. It
looked like several sumo wrestlers had sparred on the hood.
Lee owes us money. He offered to cut some firewood if he could
borrow our truck. This was a definite uptick in my day. Just before
Jude had left for work, she mentioned how I could get some exercise
by restocking the wood sheds.
So off Lee went and back to the computer I came. This to me is multi-
tasking. I busied myself with some blog housekeeping and research.
When Lee returned with a huge load of wood, he had another friend
with him. We unloaded the truck and they went back for another
load. I was still trying to clear my mushy head when they got back.
This is the fruit of their efforts, easily six weeks of burning:
This, of course, called for a beer. As we stood around the truck and
talked about manly things (without enhancement), the conversation
naturally turned to vehicles. Jude and I much prefer manual trans-
missions to automatics. They’re more fuel efficient and responsive
to the driver, even if we do grind a gear every now and again.
Then it sank in. All I’m doing is shifting gears. We’ve got the bulk of
winter behind us, spring is within sight. We can stop thinking so much
about snow tires and start planning gardens and chicken coops. By the
time Jude got home, my mind was right. In fact, when she asked me if
I noticed anything different about her, I got it on the third try.
And to make the day even better, she had brought home a pizza for
supper. As it baked, I asked her to read the draft of the incoherent crap.
I couldn’t find it. I had accidentally or “accidentally” deleted it.
It’s all good.