Fighting entropy with trellises

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Fighting entropy with trellises

August 15, 2011 by maclscott

Fortunately, I am no stranger to power tools. After designing and building most of my first house, an off-grid strawbale, I have been pretty comfortable with all but finish carpentry. But there are 2 obstacles that stand in the way of my construction prowess these days: 1) Our pathetic lack of tool organization which has been cause to invent many a new 4-letter word, and 2)…. oh…. what was the other thing? Oh right! My TWO YEAR OLD. Sigh.

Our day began fairly normal – cooked farm breakfast of turkey sausage, yellow zucchini and baby turnips sauteed in local raw butter, all thrown over fresh salad greens with the required side of sauerkraut. As usual, Isla resisted my attempts to dress her and brush her teeth, which resulted in me making good my threat of going outside without her. I could hear her crying through the bathroom window as I measured the length and width of the tomato bed, carefully avoiding the groping, fruit-covered branches that stretched into the pathway threatening to trip me. Our tomato plants have become frightening – a surprising occurrence in the high desert of New Mexico. And our pole beans have wound dense, twisting ropes with their searching vines. It’s time to get serious.

After settling the little one and wiping her tears we loaded into the 4-Runner bound for the hardware store. Isla navigated the tight aisles with expert ease, maneuvering her little cart around the corners and displays. “Here’s the Neem oil Honey.” “Neem oil.” she repeated as she settled her cargo with a look of great responsibility. “Hide-a-key…. so we won’t lock ourselves out of the car anymore, huh?” I smiled sideways. “Mama got in trouble when we went to the river and Uncle Tim had to go and meet Papa to get the other key and….” “Yes dear, come along.” “Mineral oil.” I passed her the bottle. “For mama’s orange hair?” asked Isla, referring to my recent henna disaster. “Mmmm.” “Come. Help me count out these rafter ties. We need 9.” Etc. We strapped the 2x4x8s and bamboo poles onto our cargo cage and drove slowly home. Now it was 10:45.

Snack time. Toasted homemade bread and cold plums sounds like a quick affair, but… It was 11:15 before we gained the back porch. Finding tools around here is a graying experience. Of my hair that is… explaining the henna disaster… and… never mind. I scratched my (orange) head trying to remember the last place I saw the things I would need, while Molly, our Pyrenees, plastered me against the wall with her love and bulk. I had so nicely filed the paint can for the bee boxes, and hammer, etc. on our livingroom rug – perfectly organized. But then Isla’s teacher came for a home visit and we… cleaned up. I tried the tool shed first seeing as the name fit the item. Ducking under the hornets’ 3rd successful attempt at homemaking, I began the treasure hunt. But I won’t bore you with the details. By 12 noon I had invented 3 new curse words and left Randy (my husband) 2 phone messages. But I also had 2 saw horses situated beside the garden fence laden with 16 2x4x8s and a dishwashing tub teetering to the brim with lagscrews, 8 penny nails, hammer, Dewalt cordless screw gun and circular saw, rafter ties, speed square, sharpened pencil…

“Mama. I need to go pee pee.” Breathe. I slowly put down the speed square and pencil, whipped down Isla’s pants and undies, lifted her with her back against my thighs and my hands under her knees, and waited for her to water a dessicated tumbleweed. “Not here, THERE!” “Here?” “No, THERE!” After countless minute adjustments of position, she finally relieved her bladder. I began marking cut lines to bevel the top edges of the upright supports for the tomato trellis. Six uprights were marked and I had my finger on the safety button of the saw…

“Mama. I need to poop.” “You DID poo or you need to poop?” Once inside I discovered it was a bit of a combination. We cleaned up the butt, changed the undies, emptied and cleaned the little potty, washed hands, re attached the sun bonnets, and I recommenced with sawing corners. But it was 12:30 and time for lunch or nap, whichever came first. Isla swore she was tired so we brushed off our work clothes, lay down to read Pipi Longstocking, and I tried to convince my stubborn, yawning Taurus to sleep.

2 hours later, at about 3:00, we awoke groggy and hungry and set about making lunch. I checked a few emails, and now Isla is in the bath. Papa will be home soon from work, and the day is almost done. I made a total of 12 corner cuts on 6 boards. At this rate I should certainly get the trellis finished by January.

This constant struggle of trying to “get something done” is a hair-pulling but important reminder to me. It’s not about what gets done (I remind myself), it’s about HOW it gets done – or not. It’s about giving Isla the license and my confidence to scrape her way around the hardware store feeling helpful and independent. It’s about taking time to let her count slowly to 9 as she places each individual rafter tie carefully in her cart. It’s about showing her the marks on the board and how a speed square works. Or letting her pick ripe strawberries on one side of the fence while I cut wood on the other. And demonstrating by example that building projects are not gender specific.

I strive constantly to live a simple, grounded life and teach my child the same values. We have no TV and Isla does not watch videos. Her “video game” is sitting quietly on the back porch watching our resident rufous dive bomb a gentle black chin, or walking our dog in the early morning. She revels in feeding our pond fish, and eating her way down our long row of sweet peas. Her toys are mostly made from natural materials and they number few. Her play room is simple. She spends long periods “cooking” elaborate dishes for me in her little wooden kitchen with her pots, pans, and wooden fruit and veggies. I’m not saying I don’t battle with extreme frustration at times, for I most certainly do. When I feel a need to accomplish a project, I am overcome with a sort of fervor which transmogrifies into anger when I must contend with obstacles in my path… 2 yr old obstacles. The world we live in is hardly supportive. Parents chauffeur their kids from activity to activity at a frenzied rate, picking up greasy fast food along the way. The media leaves us wallowing in keep-up-with-the-Jones’ anxiety attacks. Raising a child in a quiet, simple way is like waging a full scaled war.

Recently I’ve been making an effort to express my anger in a more productive, appropriate way. I am a passionate, fiery Scot-Irish woman and am disposed to “Mommy rage”. The worst part is Isla has been parroting my own displays of anger – a shameful mirror shoved in my face. So we talked, and discussed (she is quite good at discussing things at her young age), and agreed to do the following: Stomp each foot hard on the floor with legs about shoulder width and take a deep breath. Then imagine pushing roots out of the bottoms of our feet, deep down into the soil, past the worms and the rocks, embraced by Mother Earth’s body. Then we ask Mother Earth to take our anger and frustration and slurp it out through our roots, and push in peace and joy in it’s place. I was proud I remembered to try it today at the umpteenth interruption, and by god, it worked! Mother Earth granted me my request.

So today I am grateful for my daily obstacle course on my path of accomplishing. I am grateful for my 2 year old mirror into the dark crevices of my soul. I am grateful for a garden that needs a trellis. I am grateful I know how to build. I am grateful for the many reminders of what is TRULY important. Today….. I choose to be grateful for my REAL life.