The Story House, Chapter 4 - The Labor of Love

This thicket is to the right of where I cut. Really doesn't show the
awful amount of deadfall. Can you believe there are oak trees
in there?

The window over the sink in my garden shed overlooks a sinewy path leading to a little meadow, but you can’t see the meadow for the cedar that chokes the view. I’ve watched the foxes and the cottontails come tiptoeing through it, and I’ve seen the chaparral rushing headlong under the lowest branches in that hilarious way they have. No question the cedar is a great cover for wildlife. But as a thicket, it was so untidy, a stickery gray deadfall below giving way to needled feathery tufts of blue green above. And there was so much of it that none of the individual trees had much of a chance to thrive. Every day when I looked out on that thicket, it called out to be thinned.

Me and Mr. Poulan. I learned the hard way it's best to gear up
in jeans, long sleeved shirt and boots

First I tried with a Sawzall, but all it did was chew the cedar bark and vibrate in my hand until my teeth, even my bones, rattled. So I went to the box store and bought a small, Poulan electric chain saw. No one was very happy when I showed it off. Even I had some doubts about using it. About that time there was a story about a guy who somehow got a chainsaw stuck in his neck, I think. He lived, miraculously. Still, it gave me pause. But I read the manual for my Poulan. David added oil and made sure the chain was tight. He said what he always does, that he couldn’t do anything with me when I got one of my ideas. I tried a few test cuts on some branches. I was eager to start the clearing on my home site, which is opposite the messy meadow. I’m not going to lie, chainsaws make me nervous, but this one was light in my hands, and it handled well. Still, I didn't persist. Instead I stored it and waited for a day when David could do the cutting, and I could help by dragging off the limbs and smaller trees to the burn pile. A few weeks later, Chris cleared the rest of the home site and opened it up to the spectacular view. But every day, I was confronted with that cedar snarl on the other side of my property, outside my window. It weighed on me. There were oaks in there, a vine of some sort, who knew what all treasures could be uncovered? But it was no one’s priority other than mine. So a few days ago, I got out the chainsaw and went to work. I’d bought a cart, too, after researching what was the better means of conveyance for the jobs I have around here, not only hauling felled limbs and trees to the burn pile, but also transferring the rocks that were thrown up by the construction on the garden shed. Turns out that for me, a garden cart, the Gorilla cart to be exact, was a better option than a wheelbarrow.

At first, sawing down the trees was daunting, even maddening. I didn’t think I could do it. It wasn’t until I went out the second time, when I got the hang of it, that I stopped at one point and thought how much—not fun—I wasn’t having fun, exactly. In 90 º heat, the work was and is horrible, hot, filthy, sweaty, backbreaking and bloody. But it was so satisfying, as the trees were limbed or felled, to see the sun dapple the ground, to think how the ones left standing would have more water, more nutrients. To see the clumps of wildflowers and that pretty, big-leafed vine revealed, not to mention the oaks. Thirteen of them will be unearthed by my effort when I'm finished with this particular scruffy patch! I have a lot of wildflower seed saved up, poppies my sister gave me, milkweed for the Monarchs, delphinium, and bluebonnets, of course. Now that everything is breathing better, I’m going to sprinkle the seed along the path that uncurls through the little woods.

The Gorilla cart. Don't know how many trips we made up and
down the hill to the burn pile. It's a great workout!

It may be woo-woo, but I’ve always thought as a gardener that working the land is the way you get to know it. It always involves a lot of muscle, but if a year ago anyone had said I’d be felling trees nearly as thick as I am I’d have laughed. I’d have thought it was man’s work. But here’s something else about this experience that just feeds my joy: the way it spurs me to try, to go beyond what I consider my limitations, mental, emotional and physical. It’s like raising my children. They challenged me; they led me beyond places where I thought I could go. I learned as much if not more from them than they learned from me. This land is like that; it’s teaching me, nurturing me, toughening me even as I work to restore its native life and beauty. The work is basic, simple and gratifying in a way that gives at least as much energy as it takes. That must be what is meant by the phrase, a labor of love, which would seem to apply to both children and gardens.

A memoir I read recently, THE DIRTY LIFE by Kristin Kimball, really resonated. In it she talks of her own transformation, how the land and farming involved her heart and soul.  

As for my chainsaw, I love that tool, and the cart, for all they ways they help me get the work done. I am getting teased around here, though. Chris and David call me Babe the Blue Ox. That is when they aren’t calling me Big Mama or Warden.

There’s a guy around here, a local fella, who when asked will tell you he’s just an ol' cedar chopper from Smithwick. Yep, I’d say that about sums it up....      

The Story House, Chapter 3 - Found Treasure

The view opens from the moment you pull into the drive and is
now visible from almost every vantage point of future homesite
and garden shed

On some days, I can’t decide if moving onto this property was the craziest, dumbest idea I ever had or the most joyous and perfect. There are moments when I’m just overwhelmed by all the challenges, along with the potential that seems to exceed the limit of imagination, and I wonder what ledge I’ve stepped off, whether there will be an end to the learning curve. But the moments of delight that are liberally sprinkled throughout the shadows of uncertainty, of pure frustration, are irresistible, and I’m pulled by them. Like finding the old barbed wire speared dead center through the cluster of live oaks that stands between my garden shed and what will be the front porch of my house. We think as long as 50 years ago, or more likely longer, someone put up a fence alongside the oaks, close enough to the trees that over time they grew around it, absorbing the wire, healing the wounds it must have caused. We unearthed a few of the cedar posts, too, and found them to be only somewhat rotted, which shows just how impervious cedar (or more accurately Ashe juniper) is to weather and time.

I knew I wanted to find a way to use the wire, to preserve it. It’s like the horseshoe I found and set on my front step, and the chair we found abandoned underneath one of the oldest oaks on the property that some hunter left behind. I pulled it up to sit beside my front porch for the time being. I’m amazed at how sturdy it still is. The things I’ve discovered here, from the clumps of pink-blooming wild flowers in full bloom for weeks now without a single ounce of my effort, to the fox burrow, to the shimmering tail feather a chaparral shed near the birdbath, is a link in the chain of this land’s history. Such finds set me to dreaming; they tell me a story. Even the gorgeous view that has widened with every cedar tree we cut down sets my mind off, wondering who might have stood here in this very spot a hundred, two hundred, a thousand years ago. Did they see what I see? Did their hearts rise? Were they overcome by a fierce wish to protect this land as I am? A few things they wouldn’t have seen a thousand years ago are the thick overgrowth of Ashe juniper and the barbed wire. Neither is native. But for better or worse, each has had their chapter in this land’s history. They’ve left a mark on its soul.

As for the use of the wire, what to do with it came to me the way a story does, in a sudden image. But instead of a character or a situation, I saw a wreath, studded with flowers. Weeks before, without knowing what I might do with them, I’d bought some vintage looking, painted metal flowers, and on the day I conceived the idea, David and Chris happened to be welding the roof structure onto the shipping containers David is remodeling into a house. So I took my length of wire down to them, and after David formed the hoops, Chris welded them in place, then I brought my found treasure home, wired on the flowers, and twined a garland made from finer wire through the hoop. The entire project took an afternoon and now on the door of my garden shed hangs a reminder of that old fence.

I look at it and wonder about the man who built it, his purpose for doing so, whether his plan came to fruition ... what happened to him and his family. Sometimes, when I sit on my porch steps, staring off into the blue distance, I can hear the voices of the ones who were here before me, whispering, telling their stories, weaving them from the lively, determined wind, and I lose myself in the sound.   

The Story House, Chapter 1

The plan!
Woefully, or serendipitously, inadequate, depending on your view!

There is a small house in place now that was only a dream even a few short months ago on land my son

David and his partner Christy own in the Texas Hill Country. It’s rather incredible when you see what the house came from, this plan that I drew, using a clunky Windows provided computer program. I’ve always wanted a garden shed. I’ve looked at thousands of pictures and envisioned a cottage look, something rustic, with a vintage door, big windows, preferably casement, furnished with antiques, a mix of elegant French country and other more primitive things, including chandeliers dripping crystals. I love the juxtaposition of disparate elements. A lot of people think I’m crazy. Sometimes I think so, too! I mean, I’m on my own and women of a certain age … well, you know. Part of me agrees there’s a time when you should maybe not be foolish, but then another part of me dares me to thumb my nose at what’s accepted, conventional wisdom, especially when it comes to getting older. It’s the part that never asks me how far I can push it or how much risk can I tolerate. Anyway, my idea was and is to live in this tiny house, what will eventually become the garden shed and the garage, until I can build an actual house. Initially, I thought I would make it the size of a standard two-car garage, but then, sitting over dinner with Mike, the framer (and a true and wonderful character all on his own), I decided to increase it to 540 square feet. At the time I was living in a 1,570 square foot condo, and when I wondered aloud to David where I would put all my stuff, he said I should get a shipping container, approximate square feet, 305, giving me a total of 845 square feet. Okaaayyy, I said.

He and Christy are living in a container. He has four, and he’s already begun reconfiguring them into a functional and beautiful living space, but that’s a whole ‘nother story. So, on his advice, I bought a one. Before it was delivered the slab for the little garden shed/garage was poured, where last summer we had staked the yellow tape. And then it sat. I needed to sell my house in order to have the cash to build the new one. Part of what I wanted to accomplish with this project was to be completely debt free. I put my condo on the market in December and closed on its sale in January. The new owner leased the place back to me for 60 days, the amount of time we guesstimated it would take to get the little house built. Hah! I can nearly hear all of you out there laughing now.

This is in January - Day 2 of construction

First the frame went up, and it was completed very quickly from Day 1 through Day 6 or so. I was encouraged, or fooled, depending on how you look at it. (My brother who has been building one thing and another his whole life said, “Congratulations, now comes the slow part.”) But I thought what could go wrong? I packed like mad and chewed my nails. Where would all this stuff, a lifetime’s accumulation, go? I had come into this condo from a 3,000 square feet house, and at that time, I had pared down as hard and far as I knew how. Still, I had a lot, antiques, many of them family heirlooms, books, and art, and it was harder to part with things this time around. Using graph paper, I measured the necessary pieces of furniture and put the pieces in place. The plan worked on the page, and I let myself be comforted. I can do this were the four words that became my mantra. I labeled boxes “Home” or “Store” according to the items inside. But I often paused, holding something, a pie plate, say. Would I have room for it? Would I be able to even bake a pie? Would I use a beautiful old Limoge bowl? A cut glass vase? Should I keep out two plates or four? And clothes … they were something else. Because, you see, my plan, such as it was, included no closets, nor does it have one cabinet. By design. My thought was to use my furniture, much of it that is beautiful and old, to hold everything, or that portion of everything I thought I couldn’t be without for however long it is until I’m in my real home. 

 First bluebonnets.
There are patches and fields of them ribboning
  the roadside all the windy way home.

But I’m learning that building a house, never mind altering your entire life, is like writing a story. It is so seldom that anything goes according to plan. Not even the feelings you imagined having are the same, and while any kind of change can be arduous and painful, for me it’s the very element of the unknown that lures me, that gives all the upheaval its beauty and joy even as it scares me.

I think of the friends I left behind and my critique partners with whom I wrote for so many years. I think of the routine I built that so suited me. I think of the convenience of having a mall (although I seldom went there), a grocery store, and the library all within a ten-minute drive, albeit one that was crammed with ever increasing traffic and constant construction.

I’m going to write about my new life experience here, on my blog, from time to time, and chronicle events here, including pictures, as they unfold, while living in what I have named the Story House. I intend the posts to be an exploration of what so many are doing nowadays, scaling back, living with less. Less space, less debt, less noise and distraction, more contemplation. And in my case, living where driving to the nearest town, some eleven miles away is like driving the winding view of a scenic postcard. and where the night sky is dark and vast and studded with the  brilliant light of countless stars I had almost forgotten.