One hundred hours of labor can change you. I found the one hundred hours of work rewarding. I made some mistakes, gouged some of the edwood with the orbital sander, and was unable to repair some of the damaged wood prior to staining. But, we have to ask questions when doing this kind of thing. First, does it make sense? Why even do it? Since I already know how to do this work perhaps I should train a young apprentice so that I can avoid some of this drudgery while giving the world one more skilled craftsman a job and experience they can use to go forth and make wonderful all these many other redwood homes in need of this kind of refurbishment. I strutted around the house late yesterday afternoon smitten with my handy work. I have had this project in my imagination for almost two years now and the final result exceeded my fantasy. I love wood. I love to work with wood. Sanding wood, varnishing wood, repairing joints, using epoxy, utilizing penetrating epoxy to halt wood rot, ppreciating the grain, the direction of the grain, the hardness of the wood, or its ability to resist rotting… The surrounding oak trees I think understand my love for what they are made of. An oak is fascinating living thing. It grows slowly. Most of the oaks surrounding our property are less than one hundred years old. A few ancients are here too. I am germinating some of the seeds and will plant more trees down the hillside in the backyard along the fence. Beyond the fence is open space. Steep rugged hillside where buckeye, madrone, bay, and two species of oak cover the land. They live there. They were born there. Everything they need is there. I go down there and walk among them. I talk to the trees. Not
too loud. I tell them how much I appreciate there being here. The hills and trees here are part of my first memories. They are part of my home ground, part of me. They are rooted into my soul. One hundred hours wasn’t just work, it was ceremony, sacrifice, a way of paying my respect to the trees who gave their wood so that I might take shelter and comfort. They are alive, and the older I grow, the more the slow growing oaks change the way I see their meaning.
Bankrupt Heart The Novel
She reads Ryan’s face, and she feels the
weight on him. “You look like you’ve seen your life flash right in front of
pops out a sharp “hah… She’s good Finn. This one could be the one for you.”
“I’m not the one for anyone. A good love
life is a temporary, fleeting thing.”
“A heart of oak what are the odds?” Ry said.