Early March

As if my garden mania were not enough to keep me distracted from writing, I am having to deal with an on-going saga of home projects. First, the reality hit when we got a $350 electric bill for December that something had to be done about insulation here. True, there were some below freezing nights that month, but for such a small home the amount seemed too high.

My first contact with the electric company was when a kind gentleman who came out to do an energy audit. He discovered that one of the air/heating ducts was not in place—the one over my bedroom. That explained why I could not sleep there on cold nights. The truth is I had checked the ducts, but the only one I could not see because of the compressor was the one over my room. He also noted that the right-of-way needed to be recut and a new pole put up. Another benefit is that he took the old meter to check and put in a new one that can be read at the office. This means I won’t have a stranger driving onto the property at odd hours when I may be sunbathing—or streaking in the meadow. I did get caught once by a man who had come to cut some hay for Gary. That’s a short story. I just streaked for cover.

It’s not a small task to find a reliable air conditioning person in this area, but I finally located one in Navasota, some thirty miles from here. He was a person who took pride in his work. It's wonderful to see a dedicated person doing a task well. His young son came along with him to help him out. I told the son that I hoped he would grow up to be a good electrician like his father. We need good electricians. Anyway it's not so much what you do in the world, it's how you do it. I certainly enjoy the use of electricity; I am not one to give up the services of modern society. I don't disdain those who keep it going, I honor them. I am grateful for all those who support the wonderful life I live daily.

After getting the central air/heat system up to par, I have to waste a day dealing with a plumber because the washing machine overflows, also the smelly well water has to be dealt with. I have canvassed all of my neighbors for solutions. Even Roger, the postman, gave me his input on what to do about the sulfuric gas. Fortunately, I finally found a plumber who would come out here, and who was very knowledgeable about the water problem. He installed a filter and taught me how to clean the hot water heater.

Next, I have to waste a day dealing with the tree cutters from the electric company. Since all the commotion and phone calls have left me uninspired, one morning I start re-reading Walden—it’s been years since I read it. Thoreau was truly an independent man, a rare person, although his type can still be found sprinkled around New England. Just as I had entered into his world, the phone rings. The dispatcher from the local electric company is calling to advise me that lineman are approaching the property. They will be here any minute to cut back the right-of-way for the electrical wires. Immediately, I am catapulted into the material world. I hardly have time to throw on some clothes as the truck rolls down the drive.

I show them where the main problem is, as pointed out to me by the electrical inspector. Walking down the line of high wires, they spot several others, for a dead pine tree that could fall on the line. I have to move the horses to the pond pasture, so they won’t get spooked, not an easy task for someone afraid of horses. Then the big bay gets loose. After that roundup, I spot Gary’s cows in that pasture, so I have to corral them. I have already found out they do not pay the slightest attention to my commands. Chasing cows with my Honda is a sight to behold, I assure you. Surely, Thoreau would have never done such a thing. Honking and maneuvering, I manage to herd them down to the old barn, then over to the hole in the fence where they had come in.

With the buzzing of chain saws resounding around the house, there’s no chance of doing any writing. I wander down to the pond to put out more corn for the deer and dog food for the coyote. Not ready to give up on early morels yet, I head for Caney Creek. Taking off my shoes, I start wading through the cool clear water. Usually, the depth is hardly halfway up my calves, but there are a few holes so deep that I have to climb out on the bank and go around them. I come upon several ducks and I startle a great blue heron, or rather we startle each other. Then I score. I find some chanterelles all along the banks of one wash into the creek. I take only enough for dinner, but I mentally note the spot to come back for more later.

When I return to the house, I see that the linemen have just lobbed off the end of branches of the pine tree that gives me shade in the afternoon. I insist that the branches should be cut back to another branch, which they can sprout from, or be cut off flush with the trunk, instead of leaving a stub to die. To me, this is Step One of basic tree pruning. The linemen are very cooperative and go back to cut it as I instructed them.

Fortunately, they stayed over to have their lunch hour here under the shady trees because suddenly something tells me that I better go over to check the other trees that they have trimmed. Sure enough, just big bare branches lobbed off that will turn into dead stubs. When I complain to the foreman, he tells me that I am mistaken, for any tree they cut always grows more than others do.

Undaunted, I point out several trees. “Sir, just kindly check out that line of dead branches on the right-of-way side of the trees. You can tell they were lopped off just anywhere. I bet you that is a result of the last time the electric company cut through here.”

“We’ll cut the trees any way you want them, ma’am,” he replies.

“But that’s not the point. You are out cutting trees all the time. You should cut them to the best advantage of the tree.”

“But people complain that we cut too much.”

“And they don’t complain about dead stubs? Here you’ll just have to cut back to another branch. I know I’m from another planet, but it seems so simple to me that they have to be cut for the trees’ benefit.”

“Yes, ma’am. I understand what you are saying. We will cut your trees the way you want them cut. Come back in thirty minutes to check to see if they are okay.”

I can’t explain exactly why, but as I walk back to the house, tears well up in my eyes. I am in no mood to return to reading Walden, so I head for the garden to work off my restlessness.

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