Well, I've gone and gotten a year older. Again. This past Sunday marked my 26th year upon the earth. 26 isn't a particularly meaningful number to me, other than the fact that it doesn't divide nicely into 5s. I liked that part of 25. I'm riding the downward slope to 30, but I don't put much stock in that. It's not like I woke up on Sunday and felt any differently. Well, if I did--it was just because of the gratuitously large piece of chocolate cake I ate Saturday night.
I've had a few changes in my life over the last year. I've moved twice--and hopefully won't need to again any time soon. I've changed positions at work, for the better. I've become the only member of my immediate family in the state. I've finally realized that I really should be wearing my glasses. I've decided that I want a dog.
And I've noticed that my body is a lot less forgiving than it was back when I was in college. I do anything remotely interesting, and I'm bound to be sore the next day. Perhaps my body has always done that, and I just failed to notice? It's possible, but not likely. I think I've just finally lost the last of the childhood rubber--and realized it.
I'm going to miss it--hey, I already miss it. I did a little work last night on my winter woodpile, and I certainly don't think it was enough to feel it so emphatically this morning! Shoot, from the way my shoulders feel, I should have two or three cord stacked about now.
This isn't complaining. It's just stark disbelief.
I'll have to start stretching and things--the sort of things that I nag my parents to do. And I'll have to get to the eye doctor soon. Perhaps I'll just get my eyes lasered. Perhaps not. I'd rather spend my money on a woodcutting crew.
Well, actually, I'd rather not spend my money at all. Gotta save it for when my knees go.
So, now that my age is divisible by 13, are there any major changes looming on the horizon? Not that I know of. I guess only time will tell. Perhaps, in a year from now, I'll look back and think "Man, 26 was the year that my blog got really boring."
I hope not.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Friday, September 14, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
first fire
Well, okay...I know I tend to go on and on about the beauty of fall and the great outdoors, and I have an equally vocal affection for sharp tools and whatnot, and I'm sure you're ready for something new, but I just have to share last night's major event: the first indoor fire of the season. Isn't this a lovely fireplace? I'm enamored. Last night it was actually chilly enough for me to shut the windows, and about 8:00 I built a nice crispy fire and sat by it for the rest of the evening. Well, I didn't just sit. I brushed the cat and finished a sewing project and did some work-related reading--but it sure was nice and relaxing to have the sounds of fire as an accompaniment. At first, I felt the desire to turn on a radio or pop in a movie or something, but I was determined not to be so blastedly multi-media. And after about ten or fifteen minutes, I welcomed the quiet. Not to mention the warm glow of reflected heat. Ah, fire!
Monday, September 10, 2007
the great bedsheet mystery
Sunday was another gorgeous September day--sunny blue skies with a few of those puffy white clouds, a light breeze, and a temperature of about 76 degrees. Perfect.
I decided to make good use of the weather and hang some laundry out on the clothesline for the afternoon. Well, first I hung the clothesline, stringing the fresh white rope between two obliging trees in the backyard near the house, and then I loaded them down with just-washed sheets. There's nothing quite like sleeping between sun-dried sheets; they smell so fresh and clean.
While they flapped in the breeze, I puttered around the house for awhile, then took off on a brief pilgrimage to the grocery store. When I returned, it was early evening, and time to bring in my laundry and make my bed. Mmm. I was already relishing the prospect of sleep.
As I began to remove my dry laundry, I noticed something peculiar. The white mattress pad, which had been clean-looking to begin with, now bore an odd array of dirty light brown patches, scattered over several square feet of cloth. How on earth?...
I have no near neighbors, no road capable of flinging dust onto my sheets from a passing vehicle, no large, dirty dog running around the yard, no one trying to mow the lawn and riding through on the tractor, no small children ramming around. Had the mattress pad somehow gotten dirty on its journey from washer to line, and I just hadn't noticed? I wasn't sure how that would be possible.
As I (with a grumble or two) returned the mattress pad to the washing machine for another go-round, a possible cause struck me. Will I ever know for sure? Probably not, but it's my best theory to date.
I think it was a deer.
As I've noted, they've been particularly bold lately, feeding on my lawn at all hours of the day--even in the bright afternoon sun. They get quite close to the house, and the clothesline wasn't there before. Perhaps a perky faun had a surprise run-in with my laundry. Hmm. If so, it's too embarrassed to tell me.
I decided to make good use of the weather and hang some laundry out on the clothesline for the afternoon. Well, first I hung the clothesline, stringing the fresh white rope between two obliging trees in the backyard near the house, and then I loaded them down with just-washed sheets. There's nothing quite like sleeping between sun-dried sheets; they smell so fresh and clean.
While they flapped in the breeze, I puttered around the house for awhile, then took off on a brief pilgrimage to the grocery store. When I returned, it was early evening, and time to bring in my laundry and make my bed. Mmm. I was already relishing the prospect of sleep.
As I began to remove my dry laundry, I noticed something peculiar. The white mattress pad, which had been clean-looking to begin with, now bore an odd array of dirty light brown patches, scattered over several square feet of cloth. How on earth?...
I have no near neighbors, no road capable of flinging dust onto my sheets from a passing vehicle, no large, dirty dog running around the yard, no one trying to mow the lawn and riding through on the tractor, no small children ramming around. Had the mattress pad somehow gotten dirty on its journey from washer to line, and I just hadn't noticed? I wasn't sure how that would be possible.
As I (with a grumble or two) returned the mattress pad to the washing machine for another go-round, a possible cause struck me. Will I ever know for sure? Probably not, but it's my best theory to date.
I think it was a deer.
As I've noted, they've been particularly bold lately, feeding on my lawn at all hours of the day--even in the bright afternoon sun. They get quite close to the house, and the clothesline wasn't there before. Perhaps a perky faun had a surprise run-in with my laundry. Hmm. If so, it's too embarrassed to tell me.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Barometer
Autumn comes
the upturned bowl of brassy sky
lifts, releases
the hot, sticky air; cool winds scour the earth
clean, wipe away damp blotches of humidity.
The neighborhoods grow quiet;
daytime echoes of children
replaced with an increased rustle of leaves--
trees changing costume
the pliant susurration of green
replaced with crackling golden brown orange
bonfire red.
September deer, grown fat and sassy,
boldly stare me down from ten paces off
before leisurely fleeing the open yard,
not even bothering with silence.
Soon enough this will change;
despite the ever-crackling leaves
they will bound and leap like ghosts,
wary and nervous,
as the rustling of painted forest
becomes punctuated with rifle report;
the smell of woodsmoke
wafts though the cooling evening air
and the sky is
blue blue blue blue
the upturned bowl of brassy sky
lifts, releases
the hot, sticky air; cool winds scour the earth
clean, wipe away damp blotches of humidity.
The neighborhoods grow quiet;
daytime echoes of children
replaced with an increased rustle of leaves--
trees changing costume
the pliant susurration of green
replaced with crackling golden brown orange
bonfire red.
September deer, grown fat and sassy,
boldly stare me down from ten paces off
before leisurely fleeing the open yard,
not even bothering with silence.
Soon enough this will change;
despite the ever-crackling leaves
they will bound and leap like ghosts,
wary and nervous,
as the rustling of painted forest
becomes punctuated with rifle report;
the smell of woodsmoke
wafts though the cooling evening air
and the sky is
blue blue blue blue
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Power tools
You would think, with the nice, long holiday weekend, I would have made time to post once or twice. But no, sir. It was Labor Day, and I was laboring! Outside! We’ve had fabulous weather here on the western edge of the big mitten, and I’ve been taking advantage of it as much as possible. I wanted to catch up on some yard work, and get going on cutting wood for the fireplace.
Which brings me to the absolute highlight of the holiday: on Monday, I graduated from my friend John’s chainsaw "school" and was granted a long-time loan of a fabulous Stihl 020T arborist’s chainsaw. And chaps. Safety orange Kevlar chaps.
Even new shoes can hardly compare to the joys of chainsaw independence. No longer do I have to call in a favor and/or wait until a manly friend can drop by and cut up some of the dead timber I’ve dragged from the woods. Nope. I can do it myself. And, I may add, with great attention to safety and proper chainsaw etiquette. Chainsaws are dangerous tools. I know, I know. Geez! I’m a girl, after all. I’m not about to ram around holding the running saw over my head while talking on my Nextel and trying to muscle through a giant branch in a thunderstorm. Alone. While eating a tuna sandwich. And wearing no shirt or shoes.
I leave that sort of irresponsible power tool behavior to the guys. (Note: I do differentiate between "guys" and "men." Posting on this topic will follow.) It is my belief that, contrary to popular opinion, women in general are actually better power tool operators than guys. There are exceptions, of course, but I’m talking in generalities here, so don’t get your knickers in a twist. Let me expound.
Let’s start with defining what makes a "good" power tool operator: 1) safe operating, 2) safe operating, and 3) safe operating. A good operator will always stay within the tool’s intended limits, for safety reasons and because it just makes sense. You don’t cut dovetails with a table saw. You shouldn’t reach up one-handed with a chainsaw and try to cut branches with the tip of the bar. I think guys expect the tool to work for them in the manner they desire. It’s the "get a bigger hammer" mentality. If they just stretch a little further and push the envelope just enough…they will either cut more wood than their older brother did, or they’ll swing the blade around and bury it in their leg.
Women, on the other hand, understand the value of finesse, and are more apt to retain a healthy fear of the tool and work with the tool according to the tool’s rules. Women will use guards and follow safety precautions, perhaps in part because they are less inclined to solely depend upon their own physical strength. Also, I think that women tend to underestimate their own strength, while men will overestimate. Women are less likely to try to chainsaw once they reach physical fatigue—which is when most chainsaw accidents occur. Guys just don’t seem to know when to quit. True, by pushing themselves they often accomplish more, but is it really worth the risk?
Perhaps guys just don’t know they’ve reached an unsafe physical state. It’s been my experience that women are more in tune with their bodies. We know when we’re dehydrated—so we put the saw down and get some water. Right away. When we’re in the woods, we don’t try for "just one more" when it’s really too dark to see. When my wrist starts to shake, I know it’s time to put the saw down.
Women may also be a little less "mechanically inclined," which makes us think through tool use with less haste and more caution. I don’t count on my instincts when operating machinery. Before I put the tractor in gear, I want to know what every lever and button and pedal does. I want to get used to driving the mower in "turtle" speed before I push the speed to "rabbit."
Perhaps that makes me a bit of a pansy. Overcautious. Scaredy-cat. Take your pick.
Threatening my manhood, however, won’t get me to try to take my twelve-inch-bar chainsaw through a thirty-inch oak tree trunk half-buried in muck. Sorry.
Which brings me to the absolute highlight of the holiday: on Monday, I graduated from my friend John’s chainsaw "school" and was granted a long-time loan of a fabulous Stihl 020T arborist’s chainsaw. And chaps. Safety orange Kevlar chaps.
Even new shoes can hardly compare to the joys of chainsaw independence. No longer do I have to call in a favor and/or wait until a manly friend can drop by and cut up some of the dead timber I’ve dragged from the woods. Nope. I can do it myself. And, I may add, with great attention to safety and proper chainsaw etiquette. Chainsaws are dangerous tools. I know, I know. Geez! I’m a girl, after all. I’m not about to ram around holding the running saw over my head while talking on my Nextel and trying to muscle through a giant branch in a thunderstorm. Alone. While eating a tuna sandwich. And wearing no shirt or shoes.
I leave that sort of irresponsible power tool behavior to the guys. (Note: I do differentiate between "guys" and "men." Posting on this topic will follow.) It is my belief that, contrary to popular opinion, women in general are actually better power tool operators than guys. There are exceptions, of course, but I’m talking in generalities here, so don’t get your knickers in a twist. Let me expound.
Let’s start with defining what makes a "good" power tool operator: 1) safe operating, 2) safe operating, and 3) safe operating. A good operator will always stay within the tool’s intended limits, for safety reasons and because it just makes sense. You don’t cut dovetails with a table saw. You shouldn’t reach up one-handed with a chainsaw and try to cut branches with the tip of the bar. I think guys expect the tool to work for them in the manner they desire. It’s the "get a bigger hammer" mentality. If they just stretch a little further and push the envelope just enough…they will either cut more wood than their older brother did, or they’ll swing the blade around and bury it in their leg.
Women, on the other hand, understand the value of finesse, and are more apt to retain a healthy fear of the tool and work with the tool according to the tool’s rules. Women will use guards and follow safety precautions, perhaps in part because they are less inclined to solely depend upon their own physical strength. Also, I think that women tend to underestimate their own strength, while men will overestimate. Women are less likely to try to chainsaw once they reach physical fatigue—which is when most chainsaw accidents occur. Guys just don’t seem to know when to quit. True, by pushing themselves they often accomplish more, but is it really worth the risk?
Perhaps guys just don’t know they’ve reached an unsafe physical state. It’s been my experience that women are more in tune with their bodies. We know when we’re dehydrated—so we put the saw down and get some water. Right away. When we’re in the woods, we don’t try for "just one more" when it’s really too dark to see. When my wrist starts to shake, I know it’s time to put the saw down.
Women may also be a little less "mechanically inclined," which makes us think through tool use with less haste and more caution. I don’t count on my instincts when operating machinery. Before I put the tractor in gear, I want to know what every lever and button and pedal does. I want to get used to driving the mower in "turtle" speed before I push the speed to "rabbit."
Perhaps that makes me a bit of a pansy. Overcautious. Scaredy-cat. Take your pick.
Threatening my manhood, however, won’t get me to try to take my twelve-inch-bar chainsaw through a thirty-inch oak tree trunk half-buried in muck. Sorry.
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