Ruminations

I should make it plain upfront that I don't actually chew a cud, like cows and even deer do. However, my repetitive tasks often become contemplative tasks, and eventually thoughts, um, surface to be chewed upon. Metaphorically.

Here's one: Take BEFORE Pictures, Dummy. Working on our property is an extension of the work my family did in Stillwater after my father died--remember the Crapture? This is the outdoor version of that. Another indoor setting will come all too soon--I suspect some stuff has been in the attics here since the bigger house was finished in about 1950.

What I've been doing is the equivalent of 30 years of yardwork. It's not even gardening, at least not yet--it requires fewer fine motor skills and far less mental energy. It's bigger stuff. I'm removing trees (OK, I just help), picking up brush, and raking leaves.

Yes, I'm raking leaves in the woods. Sometimes I feel like Sisyphus and sometimes I feel just plain garden-variety nuts. So far, I have successfully drawn imaginary lines beyond which I will not rake leaves. As I have said before, "indoors" and "outdoors" are mental constructs here, and that extends to cultivated outdoor space and non-cultivated outdoor space.

Anyway, none of this actually shows because I keep forgetting to take BEFORE pictures. As we learned while clearing out the family home in Oklahoma, I must focus on what I've done instead of looking for evidence that I've made a difference. Because I'm raking a forest. Nuts. And since I don't have BEFORE pictures, why take AFTER pictures, when the response can only be "After what?"

Here's my second thought: taking care of places like this involves a whole lot of repetitive, contemplative tasks. No wonder lots of teenagers dream of leaving the farm--there's a crapload of work involved in living the country, or even vacationing in the country, as my parents did. We don't even have animals that need to eat regularly, except ourselves.

And no wonder taking care of the places quickly became too much for my folks. First, they retired late--when they were coming up for full summers in the late 1980s, they were already 70+ and not used to physical labor. Add in the fact that they didn't really know how to care for the places and weren't particularly interested in it, and suddenly I can stop asking "how on earth did things get this run down?"

Fortunately, I am finally coming to understand that I live here. Like, all the time. Forever. (Yeah, I know; that's been the plan for nearly four years now. I'm slow.) I have time and health and energy to undo the years of neglect and perhaps even improve the condition of our properties. Unlike my parents, I don't have to cram in physical labor during a few weeks or months of what is supposed to be vacation. And unlike my parents, I like doing this stuff.

Lucky me. Living here, forever. Imagine that.