Lionel just reconnected with an old friend from college. They all went to Carnegie-Mellen for acting and almost none are acting now, but they hold in common diverse career paths and a sense of wonderment that they’ve ended up where they did. She turned out as a psychotherapist living in the heart of teeming New York City, and Lionel was explaining his whole life in a nutshell, ending with his present iteration as a startup farmer.
“It sounds idyllic,” she said.
Wood still remains our major obstacle to progress, but we’re almost done. I took the day off on Wednesday to help finally put a lid on the firewood project so that we could finally get started on the last project–maple. The weather report had promised a 20% chance of rain. The morning, though, had turned out breezy and sunny, so we were optimistic.
The morning I spent stacking the wood already down in the basement to clear it out of the way for the next load. Lunch time came about all too quickly and I scrambled us a bunch of eggs since there was nothing else left in the house. As we were eating the wind blew in the Twenty Percent Chance of Rain and the skies opened up.
“Great…” we said, almost in unison.
We stared despondently at the rain, psyching ourselves up for a cold, wet existence and slippery, wet wood and the possibility of mud stopping the tractor from getting to its destination, and then Lionel went out into the storm to retrieve the raincoats (which were, for some reason, in the car). He then came back to inform me that we had a flat tire on the CRV.
“Idyllic,” I said, “My ass.”
We divided forces, he taking the tire, I taking the splitting, each cursing that life and reality stuff that keeps getting in the way of our paper-perfect plans for a day.
In the end, we did get a load of wood into the basement, and the tire fixed too, so that the next day Lionel went out and retrieved the arch for our new evaporator and then promptly had to unhitch the wagon with the evaporator in it so that he could drive the children in to my place of employment due to a monstrous production problem. But that’s another story.
If country living were idyllic, everyone would be living here. And then it wouldn’t be the country. It would be New York City. And someone, somewhere, would be cursing NOAA for their scant weather predicting abilities, their tractor for not going up the hill, their car for having a flat, and themselves for getting themselves into this in the first place.