Yesterday I was so low and gloomy on hearing that my builder did not intend to return to finish the house until August that I knew it wasn’t healthy to sit stewing in those thoughts. Instead I turned them off and went outside in the drizzle. Action is often my best defense against depression.
After filling their bellies with hay, I got the cattle out on grass on the knoll field. The grass in this field is scant and thus is a safe introduction to the juicy delights of a salad bar after a winter of shredded wheat. I smiled to see them all bucking and kicking with joy.
I moved the white hen and her chicks from the brooder box in the lambing stall to the chicken house for more room.
I mucked the barn. The rain stopped.
I hitched the small dump cart to the I-Haul and spent an hour shoveling and carting crushed gravel in an effort to fill the worst craters in the driveway. DH’s school vehicle is very low to the ground and he almost can’t in and out over the potholes. He creeps at five miles per hour and still scrapes bottom.
Last August I had accepted a bid from Ben, a local contractor, to fix the driveway (after he finished the grading around the house). He didn’t return to do it. After six weeks of waiting and calling to no response, I emailed his wife. She told me that he had landed a big job but would “fit me in.” I never heard from either of them again. Such is the joy of contractors in the north country!
Now I am making plans with my friend Damon to do the work later this month. In the meantime, though, I had a tiny amount of gravel and wanted to fill the worst holes. My tenant had told me one of his guests described the driveway as “North Korea.” I teach the Korean War and wasn’t sure of the exact reference but could infer it wasn’t good.
Next I drove into town for groceries and gas. I thawed a chuck roast for dinner and put it in the crockpot with chopped carrots and potatoes. I paid bills. I talked to an advisor about the house situation. I moved the sheep and refilled their water trough.
And then I fired up my weedwhacker. If you’re ever feeling powerless, frustrated, angry, and blue, pull on the harness of a bladed weedwhacker and wade into a five-foot tall thicket of raspberries, blackberries, and black cherry saplings. I’m about to turn 59 years old, my right elbow and left knee ache constantly, but for that hour I was Rambo slashing victoriously through the jungle.
Under my ear protectors I was listening to the soundtrack of Hamilton. I hadn’t listened to it all winter. I sang along with “Helpless” but as I swung the weedwhacker against the thorny stems and watched them fall, for once I didn’t feel that way.