Wall Repair IV

There's no tired like smug-happy-tired. It only FELT like the project that would never end. In reality, plugging away at tuck pointing the wall had the expected result - I finished my project last Tuesday evening after work.

A week ago Saturday, we had some brutally hot temps. I got up early, and was working by 6:30. (AM, that is!) Good thing, because the temps were already in the 90s when I knocked off around 10:30. Sunday it rained, putting a damper (literally) on my plans to finish up that morning, but there was a hidden blessing in the weather.

Monday and Tuesday were downright temperate, which gave me all the motivation I needed to get outside and finish up those last sections of wall in the evenings, even though I was tired after work. I was surprised to find myself a bit wistful when I got to the end. The project was hot, dusty, involved lots of hauling heavy objects around, and required me to get up early on the weekends. What's to miss?

As I was finishing up, I was pondering the nature of the things I was taught were 'women's work' vs. 'men's work'; i.e. 'The Way Things Are Supposed To Be Done'.

Outside of raising children, the women's tasks were transitory; needing to be done again and again.
Clean the house, it gets dirty, repeat.
Cook the meal, it gets eaten, repeat.
Wash, dry and fold the clothes, repeat.

The men's tasks more often involved lasting results.
Paint the house, and it was good for 5-10 years.
Repair the wall, at least 20 years, if done right.
Remodel the kitchen - that's usually good for 20-30 years.
(OK, raise the crops, feed the livestock, mow the lawn, and shovel the snow are in the 'do and repeat' category, so this isn't a perfect analogy.)

I wonder why this is.
Why do the men get assigned the tasks that they can point to years later, and say, 'I did this'?

My gut tells me the difference ties back to the children. Once I gave birth to the growing, changing miracles I call my children, my mark in the world had been set. Those precious bits of eating, sleeping, pooping life were my gift to the world. I could only hope the world would share in my wonder at the miracle of their presence.

Men don't get to have such an outlet. Their place in creating children is at the very beginning, and even though the good ones would happily share in the burden of pregnancy and childbirth, that choice is not an option for them. The kind of man I like picks up a decent share of the work as soon as the baby arrives, but it still leaves me to wonder how much of the lasting nature of men's work ties back to a basic need to leave a mark in this world; an 'I was here' sticker.

Maybe that's part of my wistfulness. My children are grown - for better or for worse, my part of those 'projects' is mostly done. My role is no longer to raise and to shape, but rather, when asked (or not...), to offer advice, and allow them to take or leave it as they see fit, without further comment on my part. (a challenging task, if I do say so myself.)

The wall was my way of saying 'I am still here!'; I can still contribute something of lasting value to the world. The work was not grand. It will be seen by few, appreciated by fewer. But my work means I will never need to worry about my fence falling into the neighbor's yard. (By the time the tuck pointing needs to be done again, it will not be mine to worry about.)

I know it's there, and I know the work is good.
I am still here.

Garden Trials

This spring, into early summer, my butterfly garden was just beautiful. It heralded an impressive array of blue and purple flowers. I enjoyed sitting outside in the morning and watching the hummingbirds, butterflies and bees enjoying their morning meal.

But spring flowers die with summer's heat, and only a few brave sunflowers popped up to take their place. (Turns out the golden finches that pass through each summer enjoy their seeds, and I was thrilled to see two pair out there last week.) But the sunflowers won't last forever, and I wanted more plants in my garden, so off to the garden store I went a couple of weeks ago. I carefully planted the beautiful flowers I found there, and have been watering them diligently.

Turns out I bought some expensive rabbit food.

They haven't killed the plants, but all of the blooms are gone, nibbled away a few at a time, each morning's sunshine bringing less color to my world.

There are a few volunteer flowers around the edges of the yard, and the rabbits don't like the marigolds, so all is not lost, but it's going to be slim pickin's for my garden's intended beneficiaries this summer. **sigh**

On the other side of the path, next to the driveway, I have an arbor, and two two-year old, disease resistant, rose bushes. Turns out disease resistant, in bushes as in people, is not the same thing as disease-free. As I was walking by a little over a week ago, I noticed the lower leaves on one of the bushes were rapidly turning yellow, covered in black spots.

Ah, yes. An internet search quickly turned up references to the dreaded and ancient, black spot fungus. Back to the garden store I went, with a sample of the afflicted leaves in hand. They gave me a container of Bayer's Advanced Rose Care (and here I've always just associated Bayer with aspirin. What do I know?), told me to water it in, and it would, hopefully, resolve the problem.

I brought the medicine home, followed the instructions, and have been carefully watching the bush ever since. (I also watered some in around the base of the other bush as a preventative.) Every day or so, I go out with my clippers and carefully clip out the diseased leaf clusters.

At first, it felt like an exercise in futility. Cane after cane dropped almost all of its leaves, the disease rapidly spreading towards the top of the plant. But then, new leaves started to fill in, and they haven't yet shown any signs of the fungus. I grow perhaps overly attached to my plants - it did my heart good to know it might just make it.

A few days ago, I saw a bud on the end of one of the partially denuded canes. The next morning, it had opened into a lovely, miniature, rose. Despite the fungus, despite the missing leaves, my bush had once again fulfilled its botanical mission and flowered.

Like people, and kittens, and the mosquitoes who swiftly dodge as I try to swat them, the rosebush wants to live. I've done what I can to help it; the rest is up to the heart of the plant.

Go, rosebush, go!!!

Wall Repair III

Much to my surprise, I was actually able to convince myself to get out of bed before six this morning - on a Saturday! I will admit to long having grown weary of my daily tussle with myself to get me out of bed. It's been better since I've been able to work from home most days a week, but I still spend more time than I care to admit arguing with myself about getting up to face the day.

This morning, with another 90+ degree day in the offing, and permission from my neighbor to start bright and early, the argument was cut short - I really did want to take advantage of what cool part of the day there would be. I managed to get outside and working on the wall by 6:30. (Turns out the work itself isn't what's been totally zapping my energy - it's working in the sun and the heat.)

I know, because instead of stopping like a sensible person when the sun started to get REALLY warm, I kept going on the wall. Just one more section, one more batch of mortar. See how well I'm progressing? I kept at it until I just wasn't able to face another batch of mortar mix. Several hours later, I'm still (predictably) over-warm and tired. Pleased with myself nonetheless. Sometimes, a few aches and pains are worth the tradeoff.

Turns out time spent patching the wall is great think time. I spent some time as I worked trying to calculate how soon I'd be done with the task; gave that up because it's too discouraging to look at all the work left to do. I spent more time thinking about what the heck I was doing out there - expanding on my thoughts from last week about wanting to do it because I'm not ready to admit I'm old.

It's true. I don't like to think that my youth is behind me. And it may not be yet, but it will be soon - however one wants to define youth.

I'm finding it hard to talk to people about it. They either dismiss me as being young yet, give me funny looks and tell me I'm doing great for my age, or just kind of indirectly change the subject. It reminds me of when I tried to talk to people about how I felt when Mom died back when I was in my teens. It seemed as if we didn't talk about it, I wasn't having trouble dealing with it.

Well, I can not talk about getting older all I want - it's happening. At the bottom of my not wanting to face it (and probably for my friends, too), is fear.

Fear of losing my ability to move, to think, to see. Fear of losing my health, for good this time. Fear of not being able to take care of myself. Fear of running out of days before I'm ready. Fear intensified by my worries for those I care for who are battling assorted ailments.

If I learned one thing from Libby when she was sick, it's that fear - not death, not illness, fear - is is the enemy of life. Fear can keep me from enjoying the days I have. I'm not going to let it; as least not this round.

Yup, all those things I fear might come to pass. It's also possible I'll get hit by the margarita truck tomorrow, and all my worrying will be for naught. Reality will probably fall somewhere in-between those two extremes. Which means I can enjoy today, the only day I have. I can revel in the tiredness of my well-used muscles, in baby steps taken, in progress made.

Fear's just going to have to try again another day.

Wall Repair II

I was a little bummed last night. When I went to bed, the forecast said it was supposed to rain on and off all day today, which meant I wouldn't be able to work on the wall today. (I hate it when I can't make progress on my projects; when the weather doesn't cooperate with the time I have free. Somewhere in the back of my head, if I don't keep chipping away a project, I'm pretty sure I'll turn into my dad, and never actually finish it. He'd get 80-90% of something done in good time, but that last 10% was touch and go as to whether it would ever get completed!)

But the weather gods decided to smile on me, and when I woke up this morning, the rain had been taken out of the forecast. So I put on my work clothes, hat, and sunscreen, gathered all my tools and went outside to see what I could get done before I hit the metaphorical wall.

Last week, when my neighbor came by to inspect my work, he asked how I was mixing up the mortar. I told him I was doing it by hand, and he strongly advised I invest in a paddle mixer. I asked Joe to look at them when he was at the store picking up more sand for me, and he not only looked, he purchased. Turns out the things cost less than fifteen dollars. Joe was also kind enough to loan me his hammer drill, to save wear and tear on my smaller household drill.

I was intrigued as I locked the paddle into the drill, plugged it in and plunged it into the mortar mix. I'd seen it done, but had never tried it myself. I'm now a believer. With the drill to do the mixing, I was able to mix and apply three times the mortar I'd been able to do last week. Hmmm... there's probably a reason power tools are so popular.  you think?

As I worked, I was asking myself why I was doing it at all. The work needs to be done, that's not the question, but why didn't I hire it done instead of trying to do it myself? I certainly didn't hesitate last week before signing the contract with the sprinkler company to repair the damage from the sewer replacement. What was different here?

I'm pretty sure it comes down to my unwillingness to act my age. I am in my late fifties; I know there are things I used to enjoy that I'll never do again. (Water skiing, running, and sleeping in a sleeping bag on the ground in a tent all come to mind in quick succession.) And, I know the time will come that I am unable to even attempt a project like this one. It'll be sooner than I think, if only because the wheel of time has been spinning at an increasing rate this past decade, and my friends who are paving the way for me through the experience of aging have assured me it keeps it up.

I'm not ready to stop learning how to do new things. I'm not ready to admit I'm too old to work outside in the summertime. I'm not ready to never again feel the well-earned muscle exhaustion that comes from pushing myself physically - I always sleep like a child when I do this. (As long as I don't overdo it. I definitely have my limits.)

It feels good to know that, one more time, I've managed to delay the inevitable.
I've remembered to live the days I have.