Last of February, 2014, white boards
scratched with notes: gantry cuts; dozer site prep; verify
underground PVC locations; remove upper fencing; Bob → boards,
forklift; Matt transfer funds; trucking company follow up; forward
bill of lading to port; receive container 14 March; call Joe;
pinflags; shop vac; breaker box; diesel; file cabinet; dressers; 12V
outlet; bailing wire; Rich- 22 March; escrow/closing. -----You
should have seen the list this morning.
Closing date: 7 March.
A tangle of orange and yellow wires
stream in all directions from the vent on a small access door on the
back of our gutted fifth wheel. AC sorta, DC enough. Alex and I are calling it our job trailer to save face and stay businesslike, but we're not too
earnest for daily salutations to the propane refrigerator, “oh
please do stay cold just today, even colder than this rainy night
time.” The telephone-pole barn roof above the trailer's seems to
prevent any leaks of consequence, and the outdoor kitchen is arranged
in slightly scattered anticipation of our long seasonal dry spell.
Right after we dug it out, the outhouse flooded; we've since bermed
and trenched it. This has been the most rain of any storm here this
season and everyone around seems fidgety with hope, reminding me that
this is an agricultural state too, no matter how lost its practices
or its cities may be. I wonder, too, about the real effects of San
Francisco and Los Angeles' water policies on this incredible country.
How would it look without all these restrictions? Less drained but much more developed? As I look out past
the neighbors, I think, “could be worse.”
Frankly, few farmers have less riding
on this season's actual rainfall than we do. For us, we're learning
this place anew and hoping we're seeing it at a far extreme of its
climatic curve, planning accordingly. Some relationships can't be
rushed, and one
with a place takes time. Our whole garden and animal show will be
provisional, and the orchards are still blinks of an eye. Meanwhile,
amid a tiny-flower-speckled tender green carpet, the barn stands
resolute, yet with its sturdy seeming bin of ropes and straps
compromised. May the elegance of that barn outlive many more plastic
bins, yet just now I remembered a poem by Mizuta Masahide from a card once sent by a loved one:
Barn's burned down –
now
I can see the moon
I get up and write CATS on tomorrow's
list. Is this lush mat really the exact same place where
Tribulus
terrestris
(puncturevine, goathead, caltrop, devil's thorn) just six months ago
popped every wheelbarrow and dolly and generator tire it thought
about? What? I was momentarily lost in wishing I was a ruminant.
Down
below, the old pond is showing us some of his many faces too, but up
here in the job trailer, me and Alex feel civilized, with our
keyboards, light bulbs and padded benches.
Preparing meals in an unheated shelter at a makeshift kitchen feels like old times and we chat about the finer
points of 20 and 30 something adventures. It sets in slow, two
months will mark ten years since we first founded our friendship as
bright faced volunteer wilderness rangers. Tuolumne Meadows is due
East fifty air miles. It seems neither of us have shifted very far
after all. I'm glad to be back.
Two years ago, a dear sweet friend gave
me the gumption to build this idea for real. For the next year and a
half, we settled on place and idea, developed concepts and shaped the
model that now, finally, will have its day in the sun. I've returned
to this land dozens of times since the first, almost two years back, and each time has meant
something new. Chrissy has left to pursue other goals, Alex has come in with skills and exuberance and fresh motivation, and I couldn't feel better about a thing. This time returning to the farm, these ideas are no longer
abstractions. Now they have hands.
Things are moving along right on
schedule. Just a week from today, Alex and I will own every right
the state feels like granting us to these 37.83 acres, most notably beyond the lease we currently hold, the right for us and no one else to transfer those rights. To think
of it this way feels weirdly monotheistic, but these days I've no
time to dwell on this sentiment. Chock it up for later: this engine's
switching tracks. The week after that, we'll receive eleven tons of batteries (stay tuned for that story), and shortly thereafter, things really get shaking. Between Alex and I, the old cliche seems fitting: we know just enough about all
this stuff to hurt ourselves. My concern, however, is that if we wait much
longer, the machinery might stick a little at just the wrong moment. Farm building is
young person work (and I suspect I missed that early breeding strong boys window). Besides, risking everything is work best done without any dependents. This week, I will
accomplish very much. The same goes for the week after that.
Reflection is a cherished luxury I'm currently reserving for quiet rainy nights.
Before I know it, our friends will be
buzzing around, sprinkling each of their little flavors around this
place, every one helping to grow the meaning and beauty that will
shape its very soul. In the upcoming weeks, that buzz will
sound like bulldozers and impact drills, ewes and does, giggles and
sizzles, pigs and gobbles. I hope all the local turkeys don't mind newcomers and that the tree frogs and screech owl won't lose their songs, and
especially that the big cats keep their distance. I hope that
everyone takes their time and gets here safe. I hope for every moment
to feel alive like this one.
