Turning into spring outside. Lots to be done in the garden and all of it sucks up time. For the last few days I've been coming up empty as to writing material. Had you read the last few entries in my fishing blog you'd no doubt agree.
Truth is, story lines are always passing through my head but I don't take the time to make a note. Yeah, I'm a confident sucker who believes those thoughts won't fail me. They'll be there whenever I sit down to enter a few sentences. Ever heard a keyboard laugh?
We had some friends over the other night. Old friends in both senses. They bring stuff out in me. Random, odd, sometimes weird thoughts rise to the surface like the shrimp we were boiling when they're ready to eat. Strangely enough one of the ideas from Friday night stuck. Out on my bike ride this morning I chipped a few of the rough corners away to make it more palatable. I liked the concept exactly as it arose but one of my best friends found it darn close to offensive. A little thought this morning also told me the concept wasn't remotely believable as it stood. That's when the chipping began. Beyond Emil, the local priest, Father Francis Dominic, their relationship, and where their tale might head, there's not, as yet, much meat on the bone.
Seeing as how it's been a while since me and my Uncle sat down together in his fifteen foot Lund so he could spin me one of his tales, we decided it might be worthwhile to head out on Big Birch Lake in search of some early season crappies. Of course he brought along a pack of Luckies and topped off his Zippo. Sometimes it was necessary that Emil fire up, take a few drags and figure out where his ramble was heading before he painted himself into a corner.
I was born a Lutheran, raised a Lutheran, went to church most every Sunday while Lena was alive. Knew all the hymns but sang 'em only loud enough to know I was near the tune but not so loud as to throw the others off when I hit a clinker. Also seemed like all the hymns were written in a key that never worked for me. Always too high or too low. Me and the hymns weren't the only things that didn't mesh in the house of God but Lena liked attending services so we dressed up and went. Not sure why we dressed up 'cause God knew what we looked like naked and no amount of primping was going to change his view of us. 'Spose we dolled up for each other.
Could be not fitting in was one of the reasons me and Father Dominic became friends. Not what you'd call bosom buddies but more than just saying hi when he was out pruning his roses. I kind of figured he was a lot like me in that he also seemed a little out of place. Like he'd misheard his calling or felt black to be more fitting than pastels. Whatever it was, one Sunday evening in the summer, our occasional hello and short conversation about the weather turned into an invitation inside the rectory for a short snort of brandy. That's the kind of thing a priest has to do the asking about seeing as how he's a man of God and has appearances to keep. Now, I'm not much of a fan of hard liquor but how many chances would I get to down a shot with a priest? Mom and Dad would have thought I was going to hell for sure and that was one more reason to say yes.
Seemed Father Dominic wasn't much of a drinker either but Sunday evening was his moment of celebration for having made it through the weekend. Two low masses, a high mass, bumbling altar boys, a wedding, a funeral and worst of all, Saturday confession when he spent three hours trapped in a box listening to the woes of people incapable of doing anything worth confessing. Nothing juicy at all. Oh, he knew there were sinners out there. Pretty big sinners at that. But it's the real sins that are never confessed and after being of the cloth for better than thirty years, Father Dominic wasn't so sure he wanted to deal with such in the first place. But I figured it might be nice as a change of pace. Maybe challenge his ability to hand out penance. Ten Hail Mary's, five Our fathers and ten minutes of quiet reflection just doesn't cut it for high crimes and misdemeanors.
During that first Sunday evening we discussed the war for a minute. Frank, seeing as how I wasn't a parishioner and didn't look like I had loose lips, he said I should call him Frank, had been a chaplain in Europe. Even got wounded in the Battle of the Bulge. Me, I'd been a medic in the Pacific. We'd both been there at the death of many men. I tried to keep them on the light side of the door, Frank helped them along once they'd passed through. In that sense we were a lot alike. Both of us hoped the hell those men were leaving was the last they'd ever see.
Got so my Sunday strolls preferred the the evening hours and my feet started wearing a groove in the sidewalk outside the rectory. Should Father Dominick be in the yard he'd always invite me in. After a while he grew to shadow my hours. By the third visit I offered to front him a bottle but was turned down. Frank said it was the Christian thing to do that he provide the Christian Brothers.
The months passed. We grew to know each other well. Kind of became each other's confessor so to speak. A few times our single snifter grew to two. At first I thought it was the funerals that got him down. I was wrong. Not one to complain, Frank never let on what the cause was. Being concerned, I began to pay attention to the happenings at St. Wilhelm's. Took a few months but eventually I saw the pattern. You see, the Ladies Guild met every other Saturday morning to get away from their hubbies for a few hours. Meetings were in the church basement. Late morning coffee usually turned into a pot luck lunch, confession in the afternoon and a second snifter for Father Dominic come Sunday evening.
Like I said, if anything, I was a Lutheran. Never been to Confession. Didn't think I ever would. And if I did go, there wasn't much point as my life was pretty humdrum. Didn't do much of anything that required absolution. Shot a squirrel out of season 'cause it'd made a home in our attic. Doubt the Lord was concerned enough with pest control, what with having a universe to run and all, to care about one piddling rodent. Me and Lena had our spats and I was more concerned about her forgiveness than God's.
Over the weeks the thought arose that it might not be a bad idea to pay Father Dominic a Saturday visit, perhaps a couple. Just maybe the same Saturday as the Guild ladies. 'Course I didn't want to be a nuisance and take up the ladies' valuable 'fessing time, so I figured to sneak in near the end of the afternoon, wait till the coast was clear, well after the last lady had exited the box.
This was a delicate situation and I had to watch my step. Razor's edge kind of thing. Frank took his sacraments seriously even if the one I intended to trespass on usually involved matters that weren't all that serious. Figured I'd give it a try one time to see how matters floated. Might perk up his day. Might end a friendship. Yeah, even though I went with the questionable best of intentions, I was sweatin' bullets.
First off, I had to have me a sin to confess. Maybe more than one. Second, it had to be serious and at the same time obviously pure fiction. Third, it had to be entertaining. And last, it shouldn't be my ticket to Hades should it turn out the Catholics were the one, true religion liked they claimed. So, on the last Saturday in September, through ankle deep scarlet beneath the red maples outside the door, I entered the deafening quiet and decades old reek of frankincense that was St. Wilhelm's.
Wasn't walking through those doors empty minded. No siree, I'd been working up a sin of significance. Multiple sins even. Entertaining, juicy, just what Frank needed. Maybe even put a smile on his face that depravity still walked the face of this earth and made life a misery for humanity. Hardly worth being a man of God if there's no one to save. And it was up to me to give the man meaning. Put some starch in his collar. Drew a few stares from the couple of bitties still in line as I searched out a quiet corner to reflect and hone my sins.
Didn't turn out like I thought it would. Not that that's unusual. The unexpected's to be expected. Adds spice to the pie. And sometimes throws the monkey wrench. Didn't stop me from becoming the sole soul in line when the last of the Guild ladies had passed through the curtain.
Hadn't expected my reaction to the moment. Thought I'd be a little on edge, fearing I'd blow my lines, but I'd done hair brained things in the past and they'd worked out just fine. Catch people off guard and they don't notice the bumps in the road, just smooth 'em out on their own as the two of you ride along.
Verna gave me quite a look when she came out. Not sure if she was shocked, mad, or was just overcome by having the weight of her sins lifted by Father Dominic. Mostly the look said the phone lines in Parkers Prairie were gonna get one serious workout over the next few hours. Maybe even give the ladies something to confess next month.
Never been in a confessional before. Felt like a cross between a Peter Lorre movie and the fog I passed through when I was shot in the Philippines. Can't say I recommend it. But I was there and had something to get off my chest. Went something like this:
Afternoon Frank.
That you Emil?
Yah. It's me.
Would have expected Judas looking for change for a shekel before you. So what brings you here on this fine afternoon?
Well, when I walked through the front door of St. Willie's a half hour ago, it was with the intention that I save your soul from the misery you were going through today. Seems to me you do more penance than you dispense.
Let's just say I see but don't see. Be careful where you go with this. You're treading on holy ground that's now and then hard to tell from quicksand.
Yah, I kinda figured that. You see, I had this little voice in the back of my head tellin' me I might be goin' too far.
So what exactly was this you've come here to confess?
In twenty five words or less it woulda been me who started the Chicago fire. Maybe having an affair with both Mrs. O'Leary and her cow (stifled laughter on the other side of the screen). Spent more than a few minutes on it. Yah, she was a real humdinger but that all went out the stained glass window, the one with St. Wilhelm wagging his finger at some guy with a crown, when I sat down in one of the pews.
Go on.
Well, while sitting there running through my lines, I got the feeling someone was peeking over my shoulder. Wasn't sure who it was at first. Couldn't really see him but at the same time could out of the middle eye in the back of my head. Dream-like you know. Whoever he was, he was gettin' on in years, thin gray hair, a little rounding to his shoulders, glasses, wrinkled like a prune. Anyhow, after a few seconds, I came to feel he was Archie, my sister Mary's boy. Odd, 'cause he's only eleven. He was trying to tell me something but it wasn't him who was really behind the prodding.
There, behind Archie, whispering in his ear, was me, only I was really old. Like one of those guys with the unpronounceable names from the Old Testament. And both of them whispering, one to the other, I should curb my thoughts. Play it straight with you. So that's what I'm doing. Be honest with you, it's not much fun. So, what I 'spose I'm here to say is that I probably shouldn't be here.
I appreciate that Emil. And would like to hear the story you made up but there's a price, call it a penance. Come Sunday evening, if you just happen to be strolling by the rectory, I wouldn't complain if you'd discretely smuggle in a bottle of cognac. Haven't had any since my days in the war. While we sip, you can tell me about your indiscretions in Chicago. Or elsewhere for that matter.
So that's it Archie. Kind of a non-story if you ask me. Kind of like St. Wilhelm who didn't do much more than say no to a king. Must have had an in with the Pope. But that's way the world goes round. Earth shaking happens once in a blue moon, if then. Take it from me, that's a good thing.
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Emil's Epilogue II
Didn't see Archie a lot over the next three years. He finally got his driver's license and drove up a couple of times to do some fishing but it wasn't the same. 'Spose it was part of him growing up. Learning to be a man. If it was, he was sure taking his time. Maybe that's the way it is these days. Time was you learned to be a man a lot earlier in life. Worked the farm with your old man. Maybe even brought in money to pay the bills. Did some of the things an adult had to do to survive. As a result, a kid opened up quicker to what it was like to make his way in the world. Maybe even understood his parents a little better. Of course me and Lena never had any kids of our own so maybe I'm not one to talk.
The way I saw it, Archie was floundering but not letting on. Said it didn't bother him that his friends were off to one branch of the military or another. But that's the way it was. Every man-jack of them, one at a time. There was a war going on and a draft. Sooner or later you had to make up your mind as to what to do.
Had to bother Archie not being registered for the draft. Knew him well enough to know he couldn't take a stand on the war one way or the other 'til he 'fessed up. And as he saw it, there was no compelling reason for him to do so. Total idiot. Passing through years of misery 'cause he didn't take ten minutes to sign up. Maybe part of the problem, a small part, was he didn't have anyone there to kick him in the ass when he needed it. Oh well, when push comes to shove, it'll be time for him to grow up, suck it up and go see the boys at the Draft Board. Then it won't mater much how he feels about the war.
The way I saw it, Archie was floundering but not letting on. Said it didn't bother him that his friends were off to one branch of the military or another. But that's the way it was. Every man-jack of them, one at a time. There was a war going on and a draft. Sooner or later you had to make up your mind as to what to do.
Had to bother Archie not being registered for the draft. Knew him well enough to know he couldn't take a stand on the war one way or the other 'til he 'fessed up. And as he saw it, there was no compelling reason for him to do so. Total idiot. Passing through years of misery 'cause he didn't take ten minutes to sign up. Maybe part of the problem, a small part, was he didn't have anyone there to kick him in the ass when he needed it. Oh well, when push comes to shove, it'll be time for him to grow up, suck it up and go see the boys at the Draft Board. Then it won't mater much how he feels about the war.
Monday, April 6, 2015
Emil's Cabin XXXVI - Emil's Epilogue
Yeah, I didn't get around to laying the floor 'til spring. Too much else to do and I was bone tired. Finished the walls and did the moldings with pine poles I'd cut and peeled. Threw 'em in the pickup and had Roy quarter and dry them down at the mill. Said he'd never seen the likes of using skinny logs as moldings but said they'd work just fine. I figured since there was already a tree standing in the middle of the cabin, why not make a forest? They weren't perfect as far as moldings go but the way they looked more than made up for a little gap here and there.
Ted and I did get in a canoe trip. Sure wasn't what I'd expected but I did get a couple of bags of wild rice out of the deal. Seems the ricing was late last fall and Ted was able to catch the tail end if it. Helped that he was Ojibwe. Had relatives over in Bena on the Leech Lake Reservation who knew where we could still find some to harvest. Most years Ted helps with ricing but things had been hectic up at the mill. Left him standing in the rear of a canoe with a long pole in his hand and the short end of the stick as to the rice. Up ahead he had a rookie kneeling in the middle of the canoe batting rice off the golden stalks. Ted said on a good day we could've had three, maybe four hundred pounds of the stuff by day's end. This year our day and a half yielded less than half that. But it was enough. Parched and winnowed, Ted got plenty to last him and his family the winter. Now all I had to do was figure out how to cook it. A moment's thought told me my old buddy butter might come in handy. Butter's good.
Our fishing trip wasn't long as far as miles go. The hard part came on the first day. Crossing big Lake Saganaga at the end of the Gunflint Trail was a bear. The wind was near roaring. Spent most of the first day sitting on our backsides waiting for a let-up. Mid-afternoon we got our break but lacked enough daylight to complete the crossing. Didn't even set up the tent that night. Ted said I was a candy-ass for blowing up my air mattress but it sure beat sleeping on rocks. Slept under the stars in our bags with a tarp thrown over to keep the dew off. For the rest of the trip we used the tarp as a lean-to in place of a tent. Chilly at night but chilly kept the bugs away. I figured they'd flown south to Okeechobee in Florida to await my arrival.
The portage from Cache Bay on Saganaga's Canadian shore took us around Silver Falls. Wasn't a long carry but made up for it with a treacherous, rock strewn path. Falls was beautiful as was the walleye fishing below. Saganagons is also a big lake. Not huge like its sister to the south, but big enough to have big fish. Ted and I boated our share and then some.
Was nice to sit in the bow seat for a change. Got to see fresh water first and caught so many walleyes over five pounds my arms got tired. Ted, being a man with an eye to the future, never let us keep more than we could eat. Fine with me. Most we ate were landed from our campsite. We'd catch 'em, Ted'd filet 'em and I'd fry 'em up. Good food and lots of it. All fresh except for my bannock. Ted said he'd had better, or at least figured he had as he couldn't remember when that was. Maybe when he was a kid and it was his grandma's. Took that as a compliment. As I did his moaning when he set to a buttered slab.
We spent a week on the lake. Ted said he wouldn't leave 'til we spent at least half a day trolling for lake trout along a reef he knew of. Took it slow and long-lined big red and white spoons. Would have used silver but didn't have any. As it was we did fine. Tired of being out fished on walleyes, Ted hooked up with a laker close to forty inches. Thought it'd pull the canoe under should his drag stick. Ten minutes of bent rod cranking would get 'er to the surface. Then she'd turn tail and dive straight down. Did that five or six times like a twenty-five pound yoyo before it was fagged out enough to paddle measure it.
Early in October the boys from the mill paid me a visit to see how the cabin was coming. They brought along a couple of sacks of donuts, I fired up some fresh coffee and we sat on the floor. Outside of two camp chairs, planks and saw horses, I was without furniture. Guess I needed to go shopping. And I eventually did. Bought a couple of modern style, Swedish armchairs, four table chairs to go with the table I built and, dear Lord, a real mattress. Made a bed frame out of lumber scraps. Ain't pretty but'll do 'til I make something nice.
Continued to cook on the Coleman, read by kerosene lamps and eventually learned to bake with the Franklin stove. When cold weather moved in, water became a problem. Figuring the pump would eventually freeze up I kept five milk cans filled. When the real cold set in I made runs to town to fill them. Life in the northland.
Come spring I need to build a shed, maybe a carport for the truck. Inside there's shelves to build, a few kitchen cabinets and some kind of closet. Maybe a bumpout for a bathroom and kitchen sink when the electric comes in. Also considering building a window seat I can use as a bed up in the Lookout. Though I like the whole building, life's best up above. Even saw a moose the other day. You'd think up here off any kind of civilized road to speak of there'd be animals everywhere. And there are. Just that it's rare to see them. I've found tracks and scat, all over. Coons, fox, porcupines, bear, bobcat, deer, possibly a wolf. But see any? Maybe they're invisible? Maybe I'm not paying attention or am too easily seen myself. That's what the Lookout's for. Up there in the cat bird seat I can see without being seen.
When I started, the idea was to get everything perfect. Square, plumb, level and every joint tight. Came close on all counts though none was dead on. But she doesn't ship a drop, all the doors and windows work and a marble laid on the floor will stay put. What more could I want? Oh yeah, the stove keeps the place toasty cold on evenings so long as I keep it stoked up.
As you can see there's lots to do. By next fall I should have most of it tied up. Or I won't. Should I have electricity next year, I'll try wintering over. Or go to Hawaii and learn to eat poi. Can't be any worse than ludefisk.
Ted and I did get in a canoe trip. Sure wasn't what I'd expected but I did get a couple of bags of wild rice out of the deal. Seems the ricing was late last fall and Ted was able to catch the tail end if it. Helped that he was Ojibwe. Had relatives over in Bena on the Leech Lake Reservation who knew where we could still find some to harvest. Most years Ted helps with ricing but things had been hectic up at the mill. Left him standing in the rear of a canoe with a long pole in his hand and the short end of the stick as to the rice. Up ahead he had a rookie kneeling in the middle of the canoe batting rice off the golden stalks. Ted said on a good day we could've had three, maybe four hundred pounds of the stuff by day's end. This year our day and a half yielded less than half that. But it was enough. Parched and winnowed, Ted got plenty to last him and his family the winter. Now all I had to do was figure out how to cook it. A moment's thought told me my old buddy butter might come in handy. Butter's good.
Our fishing trip wasn't long as far as miles go. The hard part came on the first day. Crossing big Lake Saganaga at the end of the Gunflint Trail was a bear. The wind was near roaring. Spent most of the first day sitting on our backsides waiting for a let-up. Mid-afternoon we got our break but lacked enough daylight to complete the crossing. Didn't even set up the tent that night. Ted said I was a candy-ass for blowing up my air mattress but it sure beat sleeping on rocks. Slept under the stars in our bags with a tarp thrown over to keep the dew off. For the rest of the trip we used the tarp as a lean-to in place of a tent. Chilly at night but chilly kept the bugs away. I figured they'd flown south to Okeechobee in Florida to await my arrival.
The portage from Cache Bay on Saganaga's Canadian shore took us around Silver Falls. Wasn't a long carry but made up for it with a treacherous, rock strewn path. Falls was beautiful as was the walleye fishing below. Saganagons is also a big lake. Not huge like its sister to the south, but big enough to have big fish. Ted and I boated our share and then some.
Was nice to sit in the bow seat for a change. Got to see fresh water first and caught so many walleyes over five pounds my arms got tired. Ted, being a man with an eye to the future, never let us keep more than we could eat. Fine with me. Most we ate were landed from our campsite. We'd catch 'em, Ted'd filet 'em and I'd fry 'em up. Good food and lots of it. All fresh except for my bannock. Ted said he'd had better, or at least figured he had as he couldn't remember when that was. Maybe when he was a kid and it was his grandma's. Took that as a compliment. As I did his moaning when he set to a buttered slab.
We spent a week on the lake. Ted said he wouldn't leave 'til we spent at least half a day trolling for lake trout along a reef he knew of. Took it slow and long-lined big red and white spoons. Would have used silver but didn't have any. As it was we did fine. Tired of being out fished on walleyes, Ted hooked up with a laker close to forty inches. Thought it'd pull the canoe under should his drag stick. Ten minutes of bent rod cranking would get 'er to the surface. Then she'd turn tail and dive straight down. Did that five or six times like a twenty-five pound yoyo before it was fagged out enough to paddle measure it.
Early in October the boys from the mill paid me a visit to see how the cabin was coming. They brought along a couple of sacks of donuts, I fired up some fresh coffee and we sat on the floor. Outside of two camp chairs, planks and saw horses, I was without furniture. Guess I needed to go shopping. And I eventually did. Bought a couple of modern style, Swedish armchairs, four table chairs to go with the table I built and, dear Lord, a real mattress. Made a bed frame out of lumber scraps. Ain't pretty but'll do 'til I make something nice.
Continued to cook on the Coleman, read by kerosene lamps and eventually learned to bake with the Franklin stove. When cold weather moved in, water became a problem. Figuring the pump would eventually freeze up I kept five milk cans filled. When the real cold set in I made runs to town to fill them. Life in the northland.
Come spring I need to build a shed, maybe a carport for the truck. Inside there's shelves to build, a few kitchen cabinets and some kind of closet. Maybe a bumpout for a bathroom and kitchen sink when the electric comes in. Also considering building a window seat I can use as a bed up in the Lookout. Though I like the whole building, life's best up above. Even saw a moose the other day. You'd think up here off any kind of civilized road to speak of there'd be animals everywhere. And there are. Just that it's rare to see them. I've found tracks and scat, all over. Coons, fox, porcupines, bear, bobcat, deer, possibly a wolf. But see any? Maybe they're invisible? Maybe I'm not paying attention or am too easily seen myself. That's what the Lookout's for. Up there in the cat bird seat I can see without being seen.
When I started, the idea was to get everything perfect. Square, plumb, level and every joint tight. Came close on all counts though none was dead on. But she doesn't ship a drop, all the doors and windows work and a marble laid on the floor will stay put. What more could I want? Oh yeah, the stove keeps the place toasty cold on evenings so long as I keep it stoked up.
As you can see there's lots to do. By next fall I should have most of it tied up. Or I won't. Should I have electricity next year, I'll try wintering over. Or go to Hawaii and learn to eat poi. Can't be any worse than ludefisk.
Friday, March 27, 2015
Emil's Cabin XXXV - Rounding Out the Summer
Felt like summer was winding down even though school was better than a month away. Plenty left to do on the cabin. Emil said we were about half done. Less than that had we running water and needed to deal with plumbing. While I was at school Emil'd had gone shopping at Sears. When we loaded he already had a few boxes in the back. I figured he knew what they were for and I'd eventually find out.
Wednesday morning, our first back, while Emil laid a second coat of varnish on the outhouse floor, I began drilling good sized holes in the wall studs, one per stud, about a foot and a half above the floor. The drill he gave me was called a sill borer designed to do exactly what I was doing.
"Nothing fancy but it's a solid Craftsman and'll do the job just fine. Cost a pretty penny and I'll probably never use it again. Life in the big woods."
When I asked him why we were knocking holes in perfectly good two by fours he said, "Electricity. Didn't think there was any up here 'til I realized all those poles along the McFarland Road must be there for something. Talked with the power company and they said they'll probably run me a line next spring. Should the cabin have been closer to the road they could have done it this year. We're doing the wiring now 'cause it's easier with the walls open. And seein' as how I've got you to do the hard part, I figured I be a fool not to."
The first couple of holes were difficult. Took all I had to angle the drill and auger once it bit into the stud. Gave it a moment's thought and grabbed a length of stud from the scrap pile to use as a brace against the wall. It both set my gap and gave me something to lean the borer against. Then eased the auger in, shaving off a little at a time. Slower turned out to be faster. Seemed like I'd heard that somewhere before.
By the time Emil had his varnish brush clean I had a dozen of the more than a hundred holes done. He spelled me for a couple of holes then was off hanging what he called a hundred amp breaker box,
"State of the art. Doesn't use fuses and will give me the finest electrical system without a source of electricity in the entire free world. The epitome of useless. Wait'll you see the outlet and switch covers I ordered. Oak with walnut inlay, done in Cubist style and signed by Pablo Picasso. Just beautiful. I'd have preferred Van Gogh but he's dead and that makes 'em pricy as all get-out. Had I any sense I'd rig up one of the boxes Rube Goldberg style so it'd fire up a candle when I threw the switch."
By mid-afternoon we were hammering in outlet and switch boxes and stringing the electric lines. We ran eight circuits. Four along the base of the walls, one for the kitchen area, one for the Lookout and two that could be used outside for lights and tools. Ran the lines into the boxes with plenty of cable to spare, folded them neatly then closed the boxes. Finished by three on Thursday and started tacking up the wall insulation. Won't bore you with the details as there's not a lot of glory in wall insulation. On the other hand, ceiling insulation is indeed an art form so long as your idea of art is along the lines of Andy Warhol's industrial art. 'Bout the only difference is real fiberglass'll help keep you warm in the winter months and a Warhol'd only make think of warmth. Or maybe soup. Or, if you're like me, leave you cold. Not good when it's minus forty.
To insulate the ceiling we jury-rigged a scaffolding using the big beam, planks, studs and scrap plywood. Wasn't much to look at but was solid. Sunday afternoon we were done.
"Archie me lad, I figure we'll knock off around Labor Day. Maybe take a week and do something else. For the moment I'm at a loss as to what that might be. Should you come up with any ideas let me know. I'm game for most anything."
Truth was the idea of putting in another week of work seemed fine with me. Going up north and camping out still held its appeal but we already were up north, were surrounded by good fishing and should we want to camp out we could always set up the tent. I liked being where we were. No place I'd rather be and wanted to stretch out and savor what time I had left. Work appealed. Maybe a different kind? We worked on in silence for a few minutes,
"How about firewood? You've got some but probably need a whole lot more. I've seen a bunch deadfall around here, no reason why some of it wouldn't be good to burn. If we put in a solid week of gathering and splitting, you'd have enough to last for whatever part of the winter you'd spend up here."
So that became the plan. I still wanted a week at home before starting school in five weeks. What we'd been doing had been the summer of my life but a week at home with nothing to do besides the mundane chores of yard and house work seemed a pleasure. Time to adjust and accept what was coming.
Our remaining time was spent with wood. Nailing it up in the cabin or breaking it apart outside. Started by putting up a set of stairs to the lookout. Nothing fancy. She was a little on the steep side and had a make-shift railing. All the interior paneling was tongue and grooved cedar. Mid-September found the ceiling and most of the Lookout sheathed and oiled. Didn't feel good about not being there for the finish.
"I wouldn't worry about that Archie. Back in June I was hoping to have the cabin buttoned up when you left for school and all that's left is the walls and floor. 'Til I get used to being alone again it'll be good to have something to do. Don't even know if I'll get around to the floor 'til next year when I can move outside while I'm varnishing. Don't know about you but this's been the first good summer I've had since Lena passed."
'Bout the only thing that needs being said about the cedar paneling is Emil installed it sideways. Usually the boards are nailed on vertically but he liked the feeling horizontal gave him. "Brings the ceiling down, cozy like," he said. Also allowed him to skip the bottom board on the Lookout's walls, "Airflow. Rising heat'll keep the upstairs warm when it's cold and'll pull the heat up and out the windows when it's warm. At least that's the idea."
Turned out the only deadfall of use was about a cord of maple. Instead, we walked the land looking at the tree tops. While we looked, Emil explained,
"A tree can only grow as high as it can shoot food and water. Mostly I'm looking at the birches. Not the best firewood in the world but the best in these woods. Under normal circumstances they won't make a century. Most die a lot sooner than that. Finicky buggers, don't like too much heat, cold, water or drought. Thing is, with a birch what you see above ground is more like a mushroom than say, an oak. You can fell a birch but the roots keep on living and'll send up new shoots. That's why you see all these nice clusters around here. What was one is now three or four. But what we're looking for is different."
"When a birch peaks, the upper branches start to shed leaves. Doesn't always mean a lot, just that they're as tall as they can be. However, when the shedding starts to move down, the end is near. Couple, three years at the most. Those are the ones I'm looking for. Already have one jack pine, don't need another. Pine creosotes up the flue something terrible but it sure smells good when you walk outside on a cold winter's night."
Emil marked the trees he intended to fell by shaving a little bark off the trunk. "Six or eight for now. Should give us three or so cords to go with the two I've in the shed and the dry maple we salvaged. Nowhere near enough for a winter but seein' as how I'm not wintering over this year, it'll do."
Lacking another means, we grunted the wood out of the forest in four and a half foot lengths and stacked them by the shed. Any branch thinner than two inches was piled where it fell, sliced with the saw and stomped as flat as possible by your's truly.
"Over time the pile'll turn to soil. 'Til then it'll make a home for mice, rabbits and the occasional wombat."
We did better than a tree a day. Emil did the felling with the yellow McCulloch and shortened the four footers to eighteen inches at the shed. There we took turns with the maul. A foot thick chunk would be split six ways, "Won't be ready to burn this fall but should be okay in the spring when I return."
I learned to love splitting wood. Before we started I had this movie image of needing a splitting block and an axe. Emil saw no need, just stood an eighteen inch length on the ground and went at it with a six pound maul. 'Spose he might have felt differently had we a slab big enough to serve as a block. His rule of thumb was spread your legs and keep your eye on exactly where you want the maul to strike. Should the wood have a crack across its face, help it along. By week's end we'd felled, sawed, hauled, sawed again, split, moved and stacked better than four full cords. Whoever said 'he who heats with wood is twice warmed' never actually gathered their own fuel.
"Seems versifiers are appreciated more for their poetic feet than cubic feet. The difference between art and craft ain't in the beauty. A person can use and admire the beauty of craft. A four by four by eight stack of hardwood, hand made ash paddle or the cabin we're alongside hold more meaning and beauty for me than any of the Dutch Masters. Archie, we're not craftsmen but there's truth with a capital T in what we've done. Could be the hours, sweat and blisters that went into the making. Also the laughter and the screw-ups."
Wednesday morning, our first back, while Emil laid a second coat of varnish on the outhouse floor, I began drilling good sized holes in the wall studs, one per stud, about a foot and a half above the floor. The drill he gave me was called a sill borer designed to do exactly what I was doing.
"Nothing fancy but it's a solid Craftsman and'll do the job just fine. Cost a pretty penny and I'll probably never use it again. Life in the big woods."
When I asked him why we were knocking holes in perfectly good two by fours he said, "Electricity. Didn't think there was any up here 'til I realized all those poles along the McFarland Road must be there for something. Talked with the power company and they said they'll probably run me a line next spring. Should the cabin have been closer to the road they could have done it this year. We're doing the wiring now 'cause it's easier with the walls open. And seein' as how I've got you to do the hard part, I figured I be a fool not to."
The first couple of holes were difficult. Took all I had to angle the drill and auger once it bit into the stud. Gave it a moment's thought and grabbed a length of stud from the scrap pile to use as a brace against the wall. It both set my gap and gave me something to lean the borer against. Then eased the auger in, shaving off a little at a time. Slower turned out to be faster. Seemed like I'd heard that somewhere before.
By the time Emil had his varnish brush clean I had a dozen of the more than a hundred holes done. He spelled me for a couple of holes then was off hanging what he called a hundred amp breaker box,
"State of the art. Doesn't use fuses and will give me the finest electrical system without a source of electricity in the entire free world. The epitome of useless. Wait'll you see the outlet and switch covers I ordered. Oak with walnut inlay, done in Cubist style and signed by Pablo Picasso. Just beautiful. I'd have preferred Van Gogh but he's dead and that makes 'em pricy as all get-out. Had I any sense I'd rig up one of the boxes Rube Goldberg style so it'd fire up a candle when I threw the switch."
By mid-afternoon we were hammering in outlet and switch boxes and stringing the electric lines. We ran eight circuits. Four along the base of the walls, one for the kitchen area, one for the Lookout and two that could be used outside for lights and tools. Ran the lines into the boxes with plenty of cable to spare, folded them neatly then closed the boxes. Finished by three on Thursday and started tacking up the wall insulation. Won't bore you with the details as there's not a lot of glory in wall insulation. On the other hand, ceiling insulation is indeed an art form so long as your idea of art is along the lines of Andy Warhol's industrial art. 'Bout the only difference is real fiberglass'll help keep you warm in the winter months and a Warhol'd only make think of warmth. Or maybe soup. Or, if you're like me, leave you cold. Not good when it's minus forty.
To insulate the ceiling we jury-rigged a scaffolding using the big beam, planks, studs and scrap plywood. Wasn't much to look at but was solid. Sunday afternoon we were done.
"Archie me lad, I figure we'll knock off around Labor Day. Maybe take a week and do something else. For the moment I'm at a loss as to what that might be. Should you come up with any ideas let me know. I'm game for most anything."
Truth was the idea of putting in another week of work seemed fine with me. Going up north and camping out still held its appeal but we already were up north, were surrounded by good fishing and should we want to camp out we could always set up the tent. I liked being where we were. No place I'd rather be and wanted to stretch out and savor what time I had left. Work appealed. Maybe a different kind? We worked on in silence for a few minutes,
"How about firewood? You've got some but probably need a whole lot more. I've seen a bunch deadfall around here, no reason why some of it wouldn't be good to burn. If we put in a solid week of gathering and splitting, you'd have enough to last for whatever part of the winter you'd spend up here."
So that became the plan. I still wanted a week at home before starting school in five weeks. What we'd been doing had been the summer of my life but a week at home with nothing to do besides the mundane chores of yard and house work seemed a pleasure. Time to adjust and accept what was coming.
Our remaining time was spent with wood. Nailing it up in the cabin or breaking it apart outside. Started by putting up a set of stairs to the lookout. Nothing fancy. She was a little on the steep side and had a make-shift railing. All the interior paneling was tongue and grooved cedar. Mid-September found the ceiling and most of the Lookout sheathed and oiled. Didn't feel good about not being there for the finish.
"I wouldn't worry about that Archie. Back in June I was hoping to have the cabin buttoned up when you left for school and all that's left is the walls and floor. 'Til I get used to being alone again it'll be good to have something to do. Don't even know if I'll get around to the floor 'til next year when I can move outside while I'm varnishing. Don't know about you but this's been the first good summer I've had since Lena passed."
'Bout the only thing that needs being said about the cedar paneling is Emil installed it sideways. Usually the boards are nailed on vertically but he liked the feeling horizontal gave him. "Brings the ceiling down, cozy like," he said. Also allowed him to skip the bottom board on the Lookout's walls, "Airflow. Rising heat'll keep the upstairs warm when it's cold and'll pull the heat up and out the windows when it's warm. At least that's the idea."
Turned out the only deadfall of use was about a cord of maple. Instead, we walked the land looking at the tree tops. While we looked, Emil explained,
"A tree can only grow as high as it can shoot food and water. Mostly I'm looking at the birches. Not the best firewood in the world but the best in these woods. Under normal circumstances they won't make a century. Most die a lot sooner than that. Finicky buggers, don't like too much heat, cold, water or drought. Thing is, with a birch what you see above ground is more like a mushroom than say, an oak. You can fell a birch but the roots keep on living and'll send up new shoots. That's why you see all these nice clusters around here. What was one is now three or four. But what we're looking for is different."
"When a birch peaks, the upper branches start to shed leaves. Doesn't always mean a lot, just that they're as tall as they can be. However, when the shedding starts to move down, the end is near. Couple, three years at the most. Those are the ones I'm looking for. Already have one jack pine, don't need another. Pine creosotes up the flue something terrible but it sure smells good when you walk outside on a cold winter's night."
Emil marked the trees he intended to fell by shaving a little bark off the trunk. "Six or eight for now. Should give us three or so cords to go with the two I've in the shed and the dry maple we salvaged. Nowhere near enough for a winter but seein' as how I'm not wintering over this year, it'll do."
Lacking another means, we grunted the wood out of the forest in four and a half foot lengths and stacked them by the shed. Any branch thinner than two inches was piled where it fell, sliced with the saw and stomped as flat as possible by your's truly.
"Over time the pile'll turn to soil. 'Til then it'll make a home for mice, rabbits and the occasional wombat."
We did better than a tree a day. Emil did the felling with the yellow McCulloch and shortened the four footers to eighteen inches at the shed. There we took turns with the maul. A foot thick chunk would be split six ways, "Won't be ready to burn this fall but should be okay in the spring when I return."
I learned to love splitting wood. Before we started I had this movie image of needing a splitting block and an axe. Emil saw no need, just stood an eighteen inch length on the ground and went at it with a six pound maul. 'Spose he might have felt differently had we a slab big enough to serve as a block. His rule of thumb was spread your legs and keep your eye on exactly where you want the maul to strike. Should the wood have a crack across its face, help it along. By week's end we'd felled, sawed, hauled, sawed again, split, moved and stacked better than four full cords. Whoever said 'he who heats with wood is twice warmed' never actually gathered their own fuel.
"Seems versifiers are appreciated more for their poetic feet than cubic feet. The difference between art and craft ain't in the beauty. A person can use and admire the beauty of craft. A four by four by eight stack of hardwood, hand made ash paddle or the cabin we're alongside hold more meaning and beauty for me than any of the Dutch Masters. Archie, we're not craftsmen but there's truth with a capital T in what we've done. Could be the hours, sweat and blisters that went into the making. Also the laughter and the screw-ups."
Emil's Cabin XXXIV - Home
Early Saturday morning we ate, tidied camp and stored everything to await our return. Two months had passed, a month's worth of work remained for me but orientation called. I was also looking forward to a bath and the smell of the house I'd grown up in. Yeah, even though I was eighteen I had to admit I missed seeing my mom. Fifty-three years have passed since that day and I still miss seeing her.
For a change we ate breakfast in town on Emil's dime. Seeing as he had all the dimes I was fine with that.
"Uncle Emil, I was thinking that we might find a barber before we head down. Maybe get some of my hair removed. Maybe all of it. It's gotten long enough to be a nuisance and it'd be a lot easier keeping my head clean when we come back up."
"Okay with me Archie. Mine's gotten to the point where I can comb it and that's not a good sign."
Finished eating and five minutes later we joined the line at Ray's to get our ears lowered. A half hour wait led to two minutes in the chair. Just like the path to the outhouse I had it all taken down to the nubs.
Keep in mind when this was and that I was still a teenager. The Beatles had invaded a little over a year earlier and brought their haircuts with them. By the summer of '65 hair over the ears and collar was considered fashionable and showed no signs of slowing down. Problem was, I never felt myself to be all that fashionable. And after a couple of months in a tent, building a cabin from the ground up without a radio, television or a newspaper, I wouldn't have known fashion if it'd bit me in the ass. And didn't care. Also felt I'd grown up a bit. Not that I was comfortable about any decisions I was making, including the haircut. No, I knew I'd stand out like a sore thumb among the students at the U and would feel a little self conscious, almost embarrassed. But so be it. Besides, it felt good rubbing my head as we walked to the mud splattered truck. Very good.
We were set up in groups of about twenty. Started by introducing ourselves and what we wanted to accomplish in school. Though I had no idea what direction I was heading I spouted some hogwash about wanting to get a degree in political science - not sure what science has to do with politics - go on to law school, become a politician, get exposed for something or other, take to the bottle and end my life in disgrace as a well paid lobbyist. May not have actually said that but the intent was there. We spent the rest of the morning wandering from building to building, ate lunch, got our pictures taken for an ID and registered for classes. Had I known what I was doing, at least one of the classes I chose would have been an interesting one. But over the years I learned there weren't many of them and they always filled on the first day of registration.
More than anything I felt like a doofus walking around campus with a group of people who probably also felt the same. Didn't know at the time the world was filled with self-conscious doofusses (doofii?) just like me. Guess there was a lot I didn't know. What I did know was the smell of sun on pines, how to dig a hole in the woods and how to drift a tiny jig and scrap of pork rind to entice a brook trout strike. Checked the course directory from top to bottom and didn't find anything like that.
Truth was I don't think I was ready for a university education. Hah. Don't know if I'm ready yet. Go back to what I'd said earlier, I was told by those who should know that I was college material. Been hearing stuff like that all the time I was growing up. Maybe if I'd known exactly what college material was, I could have decided on my own if I fit the mold. But I didn't. And didn't have an alternative. So there I was, short hair in a long hair world.
Tuesday morning me and Emil climbed back into his freshly washed Ford and fled to the sanctity of the Arrowhead. I'd enjoyed my time at home but was starting to wonder exactly where home was. Once out of the cities Emil turned the wheel over to me. "Keep 'er between the lines Archie and near the speed limit. Not often I get to watch the world pass by. By the by, just between you and me and the wall, how'd it go over at the U?"
"It went Uncle Emil, it went. Something about the whole university scene just doesn't feel right to me. Don't know exactly what. But it sure didn't feel like a happy place to me. Oh well, maybe it'll turn out for the best."
For a change we ate breakfast in town on Emil's dime. Seeing as he had all the dimes I was fine with that.
"Uncle Emil, I was thinking that we might find a barber before we head down. Maybe get some of my hair removed. Maybe all of it. It's gotten long enough to be a nuisance and it'd be a lot easier keeping my head clean when we come back up."
"Okay with me Archie. Mine's gotten to the point where I can comb it and that's not a good sign."
Finished eating and five minutes later we joined the line at Ray's to get our ears lowered. A half hour wait led to two minutes in the chair. Just like the path to the outhouse I had it all taken down to the nubs.
Keep in mind when this was and that I was still a teenager. The Beatles had invaded a little over a year earlier and brought their haircuts with them. By the summer of '65 hair over the ears and collar was considered fashionable and showed no signs of slowing down. Problem was, I never felt myself to be all that fashionable. And after a couple of months in a tent, building a cabin from the ground up without a radio, television or a newspaper, I wouldn't have known fashion if it'd bit me in the ass. And didn't care. Also felt I'd grown up a bit. Not that I was comfortable about any decisions I was making, including the haircut. No, I knew I'd stand out like a sore thumb among the students at the U and would feel a little self conscious, almost embarrassed. But so be it. Besides, it felt good rubbing my head as we walked to the mud splattered truck. Very good.
We were set up in groups of about twenty. Started by introducing ourselves and what we wanted to accomplish in school. Though I had no idea what direction I was heading I spouted some hogwash about wanting to get a degree in political science - not sure what science has to do with politics - go on to law school, become a politician, get exposed for something or other, take to the bottle and end my life in disgrace as a well paid lobbyist. May not have actually said that but the intent was there. We spent the rest of the morning wandering from building to building, ate lunch, got our pictures taken for an ID and registered for classes. Had I known what I was doing, at least one of the classes I chose would have been an interesting one. But over the years I learned there weren't many of them and they always filled on the first day of registration.
More than anything I felt like a doofus walking around campus with a group of people who probably also felt the same. Didn't know at the time the world was filled with self-conscious doofusses (doofii?) just like me. Guess there was a lot I didn't know. What I did know was the smell of sun on pines, how to dig a hole in the woods and how to drift a tiny jig and scrap of pork rind to entice a brook trout strike. Checked the course directory from top to bottom and didn't find anything like that.
Truth was I don't think I was ready for a university education. Hah. Don't know if I'm ready yet. Go back to what I'd said earlier, I was told by those who should know that I was college material. Been hearing stuff like that all the time I was growing up. Maybe if I'd known exactly what college material was, I could have decided on my own if I fit the mold. But I didn't. And didn't have an alternative. So there I was, short hair in a long hair world.
Tuesday morning me and Emil climbed back into his freshly washed Ford and fled to the sanctity of the Arrowhead. I'd enjoyed my time at home but was starting to wonder exactly where home was. Once out of the cities Emil turned the wheel over to me. "Keep 'er between the lines Archie and near the speed limit. Not often I get to watch the world pass by. By the by, just between you and me and the wall, how'd it go over at the U?"
"It went Uncle Emil, it went. Something about the whole university scene just doesn't feel right to me. Don't know exactly what. But it sure didn't feel like a happy place to me. Oh well, maybe it'll turn out for the best."
Monday, March 23, 2015
Emil's Cabin XXXIII - Outhouse
Another Saturday rose in the southeast. Again it brought a trip to town. Phone call, a raid on the library, laundry, food and lunch. You know the drill. Emil figured we were looking at two half days of work 'til the cabin was buttoned up so we were in no hurry. Couldn't get it done today but tomorrow for sure. For a little added fun we stopped at the hardware and picked up a case of caulking and a couple of guns to apply it.
"Plugging the holes. If we don't, every mouse, bat and bug in Cook County will move in. It's not fun, just necessary. We have to seal every window and door edge, and all the eave joints. Maybe four, five hundred feet of caulk. Like everything we've done it's a skill we'll be really good at about the time we're done. Each day we'll do it for an hour or two 'til it's either done or we're out of caulk."
For a change we picnicked, legs dangling over the side, on the concrete wall guarding the harbor. Had to be careful choosing a seat as the herring gulls had white-washed a fair amount of the wall. Below us in the clear green, rock strewn lake, nothing moved except the water. There's supposed to be fish in Superior. Lots of them. From what I'd seen from our perch and while agate hunting, they must be cannibals. Haven't seen a weed, a bug, plankton or a minnow.
Our lunch was nothing special. Burgers, fries and root beer from the drive-in and a bag of donuts from the bakery. "Bumming it," Emil said. Still, it ate good and our behinds were nicely toasted on the sun-warmed concrete.
This was our last week of work before heading down to the cities for my orientation and registration at the U of M. The U's a big place. Around fifty thousand students with some of the introductory courses numbering over a thousand. It was a conveyor belt to an impersonal meat grinder that'd spit graduates out after chewing them up without even noticing they'd been there. But being a land-grant institution it was inexpensive. As it turned out what Emil was paying me for the summer would cover my books and tuition for all four years. And the U had a reputation as a good school. Just how good was up to you. Nothing personal about it.
Finished the windows on Saturday and started in on the pre-hung doors. Pricy oak doors half-paned with glass and a hint of prairie style. "Didn't really need anything so elaborate but seein' as how I'd pass through them a dozen times a day I figured they should please my eye. There's also a pair of heavy duty combination, screen doors to go with them. Come Monday I'll hang them while you're digging the outhouse hole."
Sunday afternoon, eight weeks less one day from when Emil paced up from Aspen Brook and drove the first stake, we moved our cots, sleeping bags and gear inside. Two men and sixty hours a week may not be able to move mountains but it seems they can button up a cabin. Helped a lot that the weather had been kind.
Emil chose a spot for the outhouse two hundred feet back from the brook and near as far from the well. We began by brushing a six foot wide path. Took everything down to the nubs and raked it clean. Didn't want any eye gougers or booby traps to interrupt an emergency trot. Once the spot was chosen, with an eye to view of course, we cleared a construction site. That's the deal about working in the woods, can't start 'til you've got a work area. It was pushing lunch time before my hole-to-be was staked out.
"The building'll be a six by six, two-holer with a side entrance. That way we can put in a window with a view out without allowing a view in. Not that that matters much. But seeing as how I'm still such a fine specimen of manhood, the ladies will no doubt be drawn up here like hummingbirds to honeysuckle. Should the spirit come upon them, a discreetly placed window will screen their urging. Your job is to dig a two foot by four foot hole as deep as you can. Should you reach a layer of molten rock, stop. It's a little too late in life for me to have to deal with a volcano. Doubt there'll ever be a need to use the seats in tandem but having a second will spread the fill. One hole's all I ever want to dig. Done right it'll last me a lifetime."
After how well the cabin holes had gone I figured this to be a piece of cake. Should be done in an hour or two. Wasn't. But I sure built a fine pile of rock. Started with a shovel but quickly turned to the digging rod and pickaxe. Next, my shirt came off. Chain gang time except there was no one with a rifle and mirrored sunglasses standing watch over me. Couple of years later I took a course in geology and didn't need to be told what glacial till looked, felt and smelled like. What they left out was the sweat and blisters. Thankfully, none of the rocks I dug out was larger than a jagged basketball.
Emil payed a visit to let me know lunch was ready, "Looks like you've been rootin' for truffles Archie. You might want to wash up before soiling my table linen. Good thing I chose this spot, those big rocks'll make fine cornerstones. The way it looks to me, you're removing the rocks at about the same rate the glaciers laid them down. Let's go eat."
Emil and I played a labor duet during the early afternoon hours. Mine, the bass of grunting, pickaxe and shovel. His, a tenor of hammer tap and saw bite. As my hole grew deeper, his platform to cover it expanded. By three I was bottomed out close to armpit deep. Not quite deep enough for a grave though a lot of formerly living things would eventually turn to soil in the cold at my feet. My sunlit head was sweating and my feet were freezing. In the distance Emil was whistling "Sentimental Journey," and drawing closer.
"Let me give you a hand out of there. Damnation, any deeper and we'd be hit from below by bricks falling up from the streets of Shanghai. That should do 'er. Time for you to stop playing in your hole and lend me a hand with my creation."
Seems he'd built a deck that had a slot at one end about the same size as my hole. Talk about lucky. Spent a moment admiring his work then hit the scrap pile for two loads of plywood and two by fours. The rest of our afternoon was spent lining the hole walls.
"The way I see it nature doesn't like holes and bumps. She likes everything smooth and flat. This hole you dug no doubt riles her up enough to want to fill it as fast as possible. By lining the hole, double layer of plywood, we'll slow the crumbling of the walls. Hopefully, your hole will last 'til there's one dug for me. We'll start by measuring and building with this scrap. Be easier to use fresh plywood but since we have the scrap, well, there's no sense throwing good money after bad or some such nonsense."
Spent the next two hours in and out of the hole, fitting, sliding, scraping and securing the liner. Finished by laying down eight corner and side stones, lining up the deck hole with the ground hole and leveled the floor on the stones. Done, Emil trotted off and returned with two chilled Lowenbraus. Cracked the caps, stood back, admired our work and drained the brews. Back at camp Emil asked me if I thought German beer tasted better than American,
"Don't know. I never stopped to taste the first one. Maybe we should try a second so I can find out."
The answer was; different, maybe better but still tasted like beer. We stumbled our way through dinner. Though we had the cabin to cook in, our kitchen remained outdoors. Felt too confining surrounded by wall and ceiling.
We'd set up our cots in a corner surrounded by opened windows. At night the silence of the cabin was stifling. We needed the sounds of night and movement of air to sleep properly. The night drifting though the windows arrived chilled. And that was good. A cold nose made me appreciate warm feet. Also kept my sinuses open and I slept well. The rush of the brook, owls hunting in the dark, a scurry of mice on the roof, now and then the chattering whistle of a loon passing by on its way to any of a dozen small lakes in the area, all were soothing. I'd awake in the dark and listen for maybe a minute, reassured by those sounds that all was right with the world. Then drift away toward the morning.
The six foot long walls of the outhouse went a lot quicker than thirty-two footers. By Tuesday's end they were up and we'd moved into the cabin to assemble the four roof trusses. Having a level surface again proved a joy. Level is good. Made the first truss from two by sixes and used it as a pattern for the remaining four. Wednesday found the rafters up, decking on and shingles laid. Thursday, screened the triangular side eaves for ventilation, installed the three awning windows, hung a homemade door with crescent moon and began nailing up cedar siding and boxing the eaves to match the cabin. Friday finished the siding, built the bench, keyhole sawed two holes, installed toilet seats over them and laid the birch flooring. The flooring, like that which would eventually go in the cabin, came from birch trees grown on Emil's acreage. Emil finished the day by varnishing his way out the door. Inauguration would have to wait.
"Plugging the holes. If we don't, every mouse, bat and bug in Cook County will move in. It's not fun, just necessary. We have to seal every window and door edge, and all the eave joints. Maybe four, five hundred feet of caulk. Like everything we've done it's a skill we'll be really good at about the time we're done. Each day we'll do it for an hour or two 'til it's either done or we're out of caulk."
For a change we picnicked, legs dangling over the side, on the concrete wall guarding the harbor. Had to be careful choosing a seat as the herring gulls had white-washed a fair amount of the wall. Below us in the clear green, rock strewn lake, nothing moved except the water. There's supposed to be fish in Superior. Lots of them. From what I'd seen from our perch and while agate hunting, they must be cannibals. Haven't seen a weed, a bug, plankton or a minnow.
Our lunch was nothing special. Burgers, fries and root beer from the drive-in and a bag of donuts from the bakery. "Bumming it," Emil said. Still, it ate good and our behinds were nicely toasted on the sun-warmed concrete.
This was our last week of work before heading down to the cities for my orientation and registration at the U of M. The U's a big place. Around fifty thousand students with some of the introductory courses numbering over a thousand. It was a conveyor belt to an impersonal meat grinder that'd spit graduates out after chewing them up without even noticing they'd been there. But being a land-grant institution it was inexpensive. As it turned out what Emil was paying me for the summer would cover my books and tuition for all four years. And the U had a reputation as a good school. Just how good was up to you. Nothing personal about it.
Finished the windows on Saturday and started in on the pre-hung doors. Pricy oak doors half-paned with glass and a hint of prairie style. "Didn't really need anything so elaborate but seein' as how I'd pass through them a dozen times a day I figured they should please my eye. There's also a pair of heavy duty combination, screen doors to go with them. Come Monday I'll hang them while you're digging the outhouse hole."
Sunday afternoon, eight weeks less one day from when Emil paced up from Aspen Brook and drove the first stake, we moved our cots, sleeping bags and gear inside. Two men and sixty hours a week may not be able to move mountains but it seems they can button up a cabin. Helped a lot that the weather had been kind.
Emil chose a spot for the outhouse two hundred feet back from the brook and near as far from the well. We began by brushing a six foot wide path. Took everything down to the nubs and raked it clean. Didn't want any eye gougers or booby traps to interrupt an emergency trot. Once the spot was chosen, with an eye to view of course, we cleared a construction site. That's the deal about working in the woods, can't start 'til you've got a work area. It was pushing lunch time before my hole-to-be was staked out.
"The building'll be a six by six, two-holer with a side entrance. That way we can put in a window with a view out without allowing a view in. Not that that matters much. But seeing as how I'm still such a fine specimen of manhood, the ladies will no doubt be drawn up here like hummingbirds to honeysuckle. Should the spirit come upon them, a discreetly placed window will screen their urging. Your job is to dig a two foot by four foot hole as deep as you can. Should you reach a layer of molten rock, stop. It's a little too late in life for me to have to deal with a volcano. Doubt there'll ever be a need to use the seats in tandem but having a second will spread the fill. One hole's all I ever want to dig. Done right it'll last me a lifetime."
After how well the cabin holes had gone I figured this to be a piece of cake. Should be done in an hour or two. Wasn't. But I sure built a fine pile of rock. Started with a shovel but quickly turned to the digging rod and pickaxe. Next, my shirt came off. Chain gang time except there was no one with a rifle and mirrored sunglasses standing watch over me. Couple of years later I took a course in geology and didn't need to be told what glacial till looked, felt and smelled like. What they left out was the sweat and blisters. Thankfully, none of the rocks I dug out was larger than a jagged basketball.
Emil payed a visit to let me know lunch was ready, "Looks like you've been rootin' for truffles Archie. You might want to wash up before soiling my table linen. Good thing I chose this spot, those big rocks'll make fine cornerstones. The way it looks to me, you're removing the rocks at about the same rate the glaciers laid them down. Let's go eat."
Emil and I played a labor duet during the early afternoon hours. Mine, the bass of grunting, pickaxe and shovel. His, a tenor of hammer tap and saw bite. As my hole grew deeper, his platform to cover it expanded. By three I was bottomed out close to armpit deep. Not quite deep enough for a grave though a lot of formerly living things would eventually turn to soil in the cold at my feet. My sunlit head was sweating and my feet were freezing. In the distance Emil was whistling "Sentimental Journey," and drawing closer.
"Let me give you a hand out of there. Damnation, any deeper and we'd be hit from below by bricks falling up from the streets of Shanghai. That should do 'er. Time for you to stop playing in your hole and lend me a hand with my creation."
Seems he'd built a deck that had a slot at one end about the same size as my hole. Talk about lucky. Spent a moment admiring his work then hit the scrap pile for two loads of plywood and two by fours. The rest of our afternoon was spent lining the hole walls.
"The way I see it nature doesn't like holes and bumps. She likes everything smooth and flat. This hole you dug no doubt riles her up enough to want to fill it as fast as possible. By lining the hole, double layer of plywood, we'll slow the crumbling of the walls. Hopefully, your hole will last 'til there's one dug for me. We'll start by measuring and building with this scrap. Be easier to use fresh plywood but since we have the scrap, well, there's no sense throwing good money after bad or some such nonsense."
Spent the next two hours in and out of the hole, fitting, sliding, scraping and securing the liner. Finished by laying down eight corner and side stones, lining up the deck hole with the ground hole and leveled the floor on the stones. Done, Emil trotted off and returned with two chilled Lowenbraus. Cracked the caps, stood back, admired our work and drained the brews. Back at camp Emil asked me if I thought German beer tasted better than American,
"Don't know. I never stopped to taste the first one. Maybe we should try a second so I can find out."
The answer was; different, maybe better but still tasted like beer. We stumbled our way through dinner. Though we had the cabin to cook in, our kitchen remained outdoors. Felt too confining surrounded by wall and ceiling.
We'd set up our cots in a corner surrounded by opened windows. At night the silence of the cabin was stifling. We needed the sounds of night and movement of air to sleep properly. The night drifting though the windows arrived chilled. And that was good. A cold nose made me appreciate warm feet. Also kept my sinuses open and I slept well. The rush of the brook, owls hunting in the dark, a scurry of mice on the roof, now and then the chattering whistle of a loon passing by on its way to any of a dozen small lakes in the area, all were soothing. I'd awake in the dark and listen for maybe a minute, reassured by those sounds that all was right with the world. Then drift away toward the morning.
The six foot long walls of the outhouse went a lot quicker than thirty-two footers. By Tuesday's end they were up and we'd moved into the cabin to assemble the four roof trusses. Having a level surface again proved a joy. Level is good. Made the first truss from two by sixes and used it as a pattern for the remaining four. Wednesday found the rafters up, decking on and shingles laid. Thursday, screened the triangular side eaves for ventilation, installed the three awning windows, hung a homemade door with crescent moon and began nailing up cedar siding and boxing the eaves to match the cabin. Friday finished the siding, built the bench, keyhole sawed two holes, installed toilet seats over them and laid the birch flooring. The flooring, like that which would eventually go in the cabin, came from birch trees grown on Emil's acreage. Emil finished the day by varnishing his way out the door. Inauguration would have to wait.
Emil's Cabin XXXII - Interlude
Emil:
Each night I sleep like the dead. Tired to the bone. Years earlier I never figured to be working this hard at age fifty-nine. Also never figured to be building a cabin with an eighteen year old nephew as a helper. Truth is it's Archie who keeps me going. Even though he think's I'm doing the leading it's more he's doing doing the pushing. The wonders and energy of youth.
Not long and we can slack the pace. Sleep in a little later, take a longer lunch break. Once the outhouse is done it's clear sailing. Pop on the window screens and do all the work inside. Hard to believe I'll miss the smell of the tent and keeping an eye on the sky while we work but I will. Another door closed. Supposed to be another one opening up ahead somewhere. Hope it's a good one.
I've got Archie for another month. Yeah, I've said I like the quiet but with him gone it may be more quiet than I've bargained for. Oh well, don't have to think about that now. For the moment I'll just enjoy what I've got so long as these ten and eleven hour days don't kill me.
Some nights I'm too tired to sleep. Learned over the years to not get worked up over it. There's always something to think about. The past, future, those last two windows to install tomorrow. Ladies, of course. Also the world at large. A war starting up. Civil rights and all that unrest. How do I fit in? Feel I should do more or at least care more but don't want to and wouldn't know what to do if I did. Sometimes I worry about how it'll go once I'm alone. Where'll my life lead me? And there's always God. Still trying to figure that out even though I know I can't. Infinite's infinite and I'm not. Kind of a dilemma.
Then I remember to calm down. Just breathe. I have any real questions that need answering, something'll tell me. Usually my dreams. But they can be pretty cryptic and require some thought. Sometimes the answer just comes. When Archie sees me staring off into the trees or down to the ground, I'm looking for answers. They're out there floating around on the edge between thought and the treetops. The answers are always there if you know where to look and how to grab on. Kinda
of like dreaming or fishing. The fish are always there, even the ones in my dreams, just have to keep my line in the water.
Hang on a second. I've got an incoming. Nooo, this isn't Leon in Cincinnati. Sorry, it was just another one of the lesser gods. I get those wrong numbers all the time. Don't know what their problem is. You'd think even a lower peg god'd be able to whisper in the ear of the right dreamer. Problem is that kind of crap's going on all the time. Some bozo in Wisconsin gets to thinking he's the best thing since white bread and ends up in the Senate trying to uproot Communists who aren't there.
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