Garage Day

Buckets Drying

Buckets Drying

LAKE MACBRIDE— Proofreading the newspaper didn’t take long this morning, so after making the smoothie mentioned yesterday, I inspected the cruciferous vegetables and found very few green caterpillars. Either the sunlight chased them away, or they were gone. I picked ten cucumbers, but my focus was on cleaning the garage.

Things had gotten spread out, rendering the garage space unusable. My car has been parked outside since spring began, and nothing seemed in a place when it could be found. By the end of the afternoon, the trash cart was full, there was room for both cars inside, and serious progress was made getting rid of things.

Walnut Logs

Walnut Logs

Some sections of walnut tree trunk have been sitting on the radial arm saw for a while— a long while. Time has come to either make something from them or get rid of them. I harvested them in the 1990s in Ames after lightning struck the tree and felled it. I cut them into 16 to 28 inch pieces to haul them around in our Plymouth Horizon. We got rid of the last Horizon in 2002, so that’s an idea of how long they have been in the garage. Too long.

Buckets, Plates and Flower Pots

Buckets, Plates and Flower Pots

The buckets for gardening had gotten disreputable, so they all got washed. Same for the flower pots and vases. I re-seeded some cucumbers that didn’t germinate in the tray and watered the four trays of seedlings. They will get planted this week.

On a bulletin board near the work bench were pinned a number of magazine clippings of Adirondack chairs. The images were to be the inspiration to build a couple of our own. Like so many ideas, its diaphanous suggestion was torn asunder by a life occupied by a career. I took the clippings down and put them into the recycling container.

With a clean board, I pinned a poem by Wisława Szymborska, translated as “A Man’s Household”— a Polish poet for a descendent of Poles. A few other photos were already in the garage, a photo of our daughter at Lake Michigan, a post card of some textile workers holding a large 48-star American flag, a photo of my father when he was a toddler, a photo of my maternal grandmother and her second husband. It is the beginning of something hopeful— a place to make dreams into something tangible.

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