Guest Post by Hardscrabble Farmer
For the past couple of weeks I have been working on a box. The boards were harvested a couple of years ago, rock maple, white pine and red oak. I cut them to length, planed them, joined them, glued and pinned them in the shop whenever I had a few minutes to myself. The box itself isn’t big, a little over a foot deep and wide, just under two feet long. each board was chosen for the grain — the maple filled with swirling checks from having stood at the top of a hill and being bent for over a century by winds coming across the top of the mountain, the pine stained from beetles, the oak tight grained and checkered with spalting.
The hinges were salvaged from the fire that took our barn a couple years ago, peened flat on the anvil and sanded out to reveal the heat stressed iron beneath, blue and black where the barrel and pin come together. Then handles on either end are leather and fastened through the end boards with brass fittings. Last night while my wife and I celebrated a small victory in our life — paying the property taxes for another six months on the farm — I applied a clear stain to the box, wiping it in with an old dish towel making sure that every grain was imbued with the liquid, pass after pass, while we talked.
My wife is worried about our son, about what he will do with his life, the choices he will make, where he will go after he is through with us, this phase of his life lived under our roof. He has no plans for college which relieves me and pains her to no end. Clearly he is an exceptionally intelligent young man, his writing more inventive and powerful than anything I’ve managed to turn out in the past forty years, his sense of humore sharp. He relates well to others in virtually any social environment and he is well liked and respected by young and old alike. The word affable is used frequently when people describe my son to me so I have no worries on that front.
He has been a great help around the farm, has always managed to earn his own money when he feels the need, has never given us a moment’s trouble in all his years and at times of tragedy — the fire comes to mind — he has risen to the challenge and faced things with calm and maturity far beyond his years. These things reassure me that we have done all that we could to raise him well, to provide him with the kind of skills and attitudes that will ensure his success in life whatever direction he chooses to go. Of course to my wife he will always be her little boy, always in need of her protection, vulnerable in a way I never saw him. And so she worries.
When I graduated high school my father gave me a copy of the poem “If” by Rudyard Kipling. I remember it because my father wasn’t the gift giving kind of guy and when he did bestow some special token to me over the years it was always deeply personal, always significant. My mother bought me toys and clothes and the thousands of assorted and long forgotten things that parents routinely gift to their children through the years, but my father chose things that lasted. I still have that copy and I will be placing it in the box that I am building for my son for his birthday. The box itself was originally meant to store his prized vinyl collection — lp’s by the Beetles, Pink Floyd, Mozart and Chet Baker that he has been collecting since he discovered music several years back. His tastes are ecclectic; Johnny Cash and Cake, Culture Club and the Orwells.
Some nights as I lay in our bed I can hear the soft sounds of Vivaldi drifting down the hall from his room, followed by Led Zeppelin’s Babe I’m Gonna Leave You. I wanted him to have a way to transport those cherished albums from whatever place he winds up living in at whatever stage of his life he finds himself. I wanted the box to be strong enough to be left in storage for years while he hikes his way around the world, or to serve as a coffee table in his first apartment, to be able to withstand the repeated banging and dropping that accompanies the next 25 or 30 years of being dragged around from place to place, or to simply look good if it never leaves this property and winds up instead in his own home that he will build with his own hands on any of the acreage he might decide to select should he choose to stay here near us. I chose the kinds of wood I did so that people over the years will remark on it, the colors, the grain, the shape and the solid simplicity of it’s construction, but more importantly and less obviousloy so that it will remind him of where he came from and how he too was crafted over time into something both beautiful and functional and worthy.
There have been times lately when my son has come into my room and randomly given me a hug. We are close family, but something in our past, our DNA perhaps, has kept us from being overly affectionate. We embrace each other over important moments but keep a respectful distance at all other times. It was like that with my parents and in turn with their own and I suspect it will be that way when our children have children. That he is looking for an embrace from me at this time in his life is telling and I know where his mind is even if he does not. He will be leaving us and not long from now, I can tell. Part of him loves this place and everything it represents in a way I could not appreciate because he has grown up here, but like most young men he knows that there is so much more out there that he hasn’t seen for himself and soon that pull will become irresistable and he will follow it.
Everyone is alseep right now, but me and the dogs. I like this time, when despite the human silence there is still a fullness in the house, a sense of everyone being where they ought to be. I have a few things to do this morning before the snow comes in and then I will head back out to the workshop and put the last pieces of hardware on the box. I’ll probably put a couple of old albums in it that he might like, along with the copy of “If” and a snapshot of my son and I walking towards the entrance to an old fashioned amusement park called Story Book Land when he was four years old and my hair wasn’t gray. We are engaged in a conversation, our heads tilted towards each other and our shadows stretching out before us across the blacktop like the future. I hope he likes the box and what it represents. I hope he finds adulthood all he hopes it will be and that he follows his path with the same kind of assurance he has in that photograph.
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build’em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
Hand made items are fast becoming a lost art. That’s why I always go for a hand job whenever it is available.
I love your son’s taste in music — from Led Zep to Vivaldi (I think I’ve listened to Four Seasons two million times). Very cool. A kid like that … I KNOW he will appreciate The Box.
That’s a well known poem by Kipling. And an enjoyable read no matter how many times one has read it before. That’s why that man is so great.
Peace.
Stuck – who you trying to kid? You will go for a hand job, a blow job, a toe job, or a warm pumpkin pie if there is nothing else on offer.
Stuck and Llpoh, you just hijacked a great post and this is only 3 days into 2015, what other resolutions have you guys made to out bb bb?
Very nice HSF and a outstanding poem. I wish I was talented with handcrafting wood.
Bea, never leave yourself open for attack, these guys may be drunk.
Hmmmm. How old is your son, Hardscrabble? I have two, both in their 40s.
I sense you would welcome some comments about sons, who can be quite difficult and unruly critters. About which, I have some experience.
EC
OMG, I just reread my post and you’re right. Wide open like a Ho’s legs on Saturday night.
HSF
Should the world by chance carry on for a few more generations, your Box will be a treasured heirloom passed to sons and grandsons with the story of how it was made to help send a boy out into the world. What a rich and loving gift.
@EC: Don’t take them, this or anything else too seriously. HSF is a fantastic writer, and his stories always have a touch of the sacred in them. Stucky’s irreverence doesn’t take anything away from that.
I always look forward to HSF’s posts, and share them often. His writing resonates with me in a way that is not easily explained. I have no love for farming, and that life doesn’t sing to me at all. My dad burned away any chance of that at an early age with fondness for child labor intended to replace his own. What catches my spirit is the notion of a life lived with intent and excellence, but more than that it is a life that is lived surrounded by love. Love of family, place and purpose. A no holds barred and unapologetic joy in each new day. This (to my mind anyway) is not in spite of the challenges or because of them; it is a joy in the fabric of life and the contrast of all its textures rough and smooth (and slimy too if I had to guess).
This is my favorite blog hands down. I read this when I can’t make time to read anything else. Even though I think the overt racism is stupid. Even though I think the crudities are often absurd. Even though I think bb is a jackass trying to compensate for a 22 caliber cock. I also think there is an incredible amount of good information, wisdom, and the ability to look past the narrative that is handed to us every day and at least attempt to see the world for what it is even though that might suck more than a bit right now.
I am very glad that I stumbled on this early in Jim’s creation. I miss the old fuckers who died off along the way (ass hats every one too), but grateful that others have stepped up to contribute. Jim, Muck, Stuck, HSF pop first into my mind, but many others have widened my horizons along the way. For what it is worth, thank you. I sincerely appreciate your time and effort, and I hope you keep it going in what I expect could be a bastard of a year.
Cordially,
Sonic
Good story hardscrabble.
So, what’d you use for the joinery? Fingerjoints? Dovetails? When you were designing the box, did you use the Golden Ratio?
Last thing I built for my wife was a blanket chest out of 5-A cherry. Laid the chest out using the Golden Ratio, hand cut every dovetail (trust me, I got the scars to prove it). Used bronze hinges and lined the bottom of the box with aromatic cedar.
The finish, I took a bit of artistic license.
Alkanet root is one of those almost forgotten things that past masters were familiar with, but has almost fallen out of living memory. The only reason I know about it is because I’m a gun nerd and a traditionalist.
If you take a decent amount of Alkanet root, say a good handful, and pour it into a jar of boiled linseed oil, the oil will take on the red color of the root over time. The longer the root steeps in the oil, the darker red the oil becomes. When the oil reaches the color you wish, you filter the alkanet root out of the oil with a coffee filter, then pour the oil into a clean bottle. You can get any shade of red you wish – from a very pale rose to blood red to something so dark, it’s almost opaque.
It’s what English gunmakers used to use back in The Before Time, before quality went to hell and nobody gave a damn anymore, to get that beautiful plum color on their finest shotgun and rifle stocks.
Thing is, the same stuff can be adapted to woodworking in general. In the case of the cherrywood blanket chest I built, I used medium-red-colored linseed oil mixed with Jap dryer and Tung oil. The dyed linseed oil to make the cherrywood just pop, Jap dryer as a drying agent and Tung oil for hardness and durability.
For a finish, if you want something really special, take rottenstone – pumice ground to flour consistency – and, using mineral oil as a lubricant, buff the previous coat you applied after it has dried and cured. Wipe off every trace of the mineral oil and rottenstone with a clean cloth diaper, then apply another coat of finish. Wait till it has dried and cured (I usually wait about 3 or 4 days), then buff it out with the oil/rottenstone again… I took some foam rubber (1/4″) and glued it to a block of soft pine, then glued a layer of soft wool fabric to the foam. Makes a nice buffing block.
Don’t go too heavy on the finish coats. Many thin coats, dried and cured and suitably buffed, are superior to one or two thick coats. Just for comparison, a really good rifle stock finish takes about a month to apply. One coat, 3 days to dry and cure and then buff, then application of another coat. 10 thin coats total = about 1 month.
Crap… that last Anon was me…
My bad.
“Even though I think bb is a jackass trying to compensate for a 22 caliber cock.” — Sonic
Does everyone have it out for bb? He resolved to be nicer in 2015.
Billy, someone said a .22 can do more internal damage than a .38, for example.
Sonic, thank you for the heads up. El Coyote left me a checklist with the names of the ‘asshats’ as you call them, on this site.
HSF, I’d include a copy of what you wrote here. Your words will appreciate in value over time to become worth more than the box it was gifted in. I doubt he’d part with either.
HSF, it just occurred to me that you should include your other recent writings that include thoughts of your son. The post you made about his trip to Europe come to mind. They will become priceless to him.
I made a couple of boxes when I was a kid. Hand-made magic trick boxes (false bottoms, etc.). By any reasonable standard they were ugly pieces of crap – 1/2 ” plywood, butt-end. Even so, I was proud of them, like I was proud of the stove I made for our treehouse. So I can understand, I guess. The only wood I’ve handled since then has been my own.
While living in the UK my wife and I collected a house full of antiques. One of the items we bought was an old oak cutlery canteen that once contained a big silver service. The silver was long gone and the interior was trashed and broken but it had a nice coin silver escutcheon on top that had never been engraved and skeleton key lock.
Similar to this but with a fancier, more elegant shape:
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We brought it back to the States where it sat under a bed for years. I came across it one day and took it to my friends shop where I stripped the interior. I had decided to turn it into a Jewelry box and designed two new trays, a hidden compartment and a specialized lid compartment that holds necklaces and chains in a neat and untangled way.
While I was stripping the interior I came across what I believe to be the date the box was made, inscribed in the center of the interior lid in pencil. It sort of blew my mind because I was re-purposing the box to be a birthday gift for my wife’s 40th birthday and the date I found in the lid was the month and day she was born but the year was 1891. I thought it was a cool enough coincidence to build a tiny little picture frame around it for fun. I shined it up a bit and gave it to her 111 years after it was first built. I’m no master woodworker but it turned out quite nice.
T4C, Thanks for posting that first table picture above! I am definitely building that for my wife. I think I already have the wood for it.
“Stuck and Llpoh, you just hijacked a great post ….” ———– EC
Why do YOU have such a dirty mind? Why do YOU assume the worst? Even Bea Lever can’t write — ” I wish I was talented with handcrafting wood.” — without YOU twisting it into some kind of sexual meaning.
Not every item in the world is a penis. Krist, Sigmund Freud was talking about YOU!
In preliminary closing, and henceforth forevermore, when I talk about a “hand job”, I am referring to things made by hand. Kapish?
In final closing, blow me.
” I already have the wood for it.” —- IndenturedServant
I’m sure you do.
Having recently lost my dad, I have some comments on this as it hits close to home.
“rock maple, white pine and red oak” and “to be able to withstand the repeated banging and dropping that accompanies the next 25 or 30 years of being dragged around from place to place”
My god man, why the pine? My dad had a cabinet shop in the basement, and I spent many many hours assisting him with that craft. Enough to know that if I could get my hands on the proper tools, I could do it myself, given the motivation.
“but more importantly and less obviousloy so that it will remind him of where he came from and how he too was crafted over time into something both beautiful and functional and worthy”
Yes, this I can definitely understand. There was a corner cabinet/entertainment stand that dad had built out of a N. Wisc cherry tree. At the time he took the tree, he even had a sawmill, so he literally did everything, end to end. Cherry trees from up here are rare, and the wood they produce does not look like what grows in other parts of the country/world (I’ve seen other examples). The wood was so beautiful that yeah, it did not need stain. Varnish only was applied. The cabinet itself was never quite finished. There were upper doors that called for some lead joined stained glass windows, which never got done. As a kid, I broke one of them just out of spite, knowing how much dad loved that piece of art.
Dad made many many cabinets. None of the ones I can recall did he put the effort that he put into that one. The “crown” of the cabinet, many of which dad would simply do with a router, on this one he flared it 45 deg. To do some of the shaping, he passed the crown pieces over the tablesaw to put a nice large groove in it. Plus, I remember him telling me about how hard it was to do that compound cut where these flared 45 deg pieces would come together at a 45deg since the cabinet has a diamond (or superman symbol) shape.
This cabinet is so special to the family, that when I asked my older brother if there was anything of dads that he wanted, this is it. When I bring 10% or so of dad’s ashes to Canada so that bro can have a ceremony, that cabinet will be coming with.
“Part of him loves this place and everything it represents in a way I could not appreciate because he has grown up here, but like most young men he knows that there is so much more out there that he hasn’t seen for himself and soon that pull will become irresistable and he will follow it.”
Sadly, at least in my case… Yes, I went thru much the same. And venturing out in the world, I discovered that there is no place like home. Then again, my parents bought the house I grew up in only a few months before I was born. And dad was there up until he lost it in foreclosure in ’07.
“I like this time, when despite the human silence there is still a fullness in the house, a sense of everyone being where they ought to be.”
When dad was here, well even still now, there are no closed doors in this apartment. Even when he was sleeping, I could hear him from across the apartment. Now that he is gone, dealing with the silence is quite hard. Wish I could get a pet, but they are not allowed in the building. Don’t know that I would go with a dog tho, I was the one growing up that had to take care of the family dog, and hated it. We had a cat that loved to sleep between my legs…. Only found out years later that my grandfather killed it while I was on vacation (He loved birds–thus hated cats). Oh, I’ve blathered on too much. Better leave it at that.
Oh, was something I forgot to mention, WHY THE PINE?!?! Dad swore he would never work with the shit since there was no way to do what was required to build a cabinet without banging it up and leaving marks all over. It was just too soft, and he would never touch soft woods.
Granted, both he, and I, were/are perfectionists.
That is a beautiful table T4C, and definately some good looking wood. Sort of reminds me of dad’s “pussywood” that we always intended on sending to Larry Flint (of Hustler Fame). Only reason we hung back, was that we wanted to make it into a lamp beforehand. It really does look like a pussy, and is here somewhere, I’ll find it as I deal with dad’s crap.
Nah, knowing woodworking, that one is BS.
Something that I just realized that I remembered, HSF needs to know…. Just the other day I was out clearance shopping, and ended up in line behind someone from Irvine, CA. Considering they were in Duluth, MN…. They were surprised that the cashier who was waiting on us, had also spent time out there. They were apparently from around here, and why they were going back, I don’t know. They were apparently surprised that some consumer behind them was also used to the area…..
When I was away from “home,” what I missed was Lake Superior. The vikings where right to call it an inland sea. Living even 75mi from the pacific ocean was not the same. I came home after the economy cashed in ’08. Somehow living near that body of water puts me at ease.
Thanks T4C. I found his site last night. I love the simplicity of those River tables and desks. I’ve actually built a few furniture items featuring live edges and joinery that does not rely on fastners and I have a wood stockpile I’ve collected based on shape, grain, texture and size. I’ve got a big blue spruce log that is all gnarled up that would be perfect for a project like that. I’ve also got six thick slabs of elm that have the most amazing grain patterns but no live edges. I’m gonna have to dig through the pile and think about it for awhile. Finding a balance of grain and interesting live edges will be the important part.
Varnelius wrote “Why the white pine?”
https://extension.unh.edu/resources/files/Resource001640_Rep2488.pdf
I built the body out of pine, lid from rock maple, kickers and corners out of red oak. The pine around here is some of the oldest white pine in North America (see the pdf above, we live about a mile from the site mentioned) and as such it’s interior core is harder than most immature hardwood you’d find at a lumber yard. It is also beetle killed which stains the grain a unique blue color with pin points of black scattered throughout. I thought the idea that something that is imperfect is also beautiful in its own right might eventually become clear to him, although my wife when she first saw the boards commented “you’re going to paint that, right?” so maybe I’m the only one who’ll see that in the pine.
Here’s a good pic of what it looks like-
And those glass and wood tables are gorgeous, beautiful craftsmanship.
To everyone, thanks for all the kind words.
Working with softwoods is no problem. You can get clear hardeners that will help. The forests of the PNW are full of bark beetle killed pine. I’ve seen entire mountains full of beetle killed trees.
HSF, Sonic is right… there is a touch of divine inspiration (sacred) in your writing. I also look forward to your posts, knowing that you will be offering something that is both familiar and yet surprises me.
About, um, building materials and such. We chose oak logs for our home because we did our research and came to believe that the density of the oak would serve us well both in insulating quality and in limiting bug damage after it has been sealed and completes the settling process. We also liked Red Cedar for the same reasons, but the aroma of cedar can be overpowering at times. We have cedar ceilings, which blend nicely with the oak. The first floor ceiling is knotty pine, which is also the floor on the balcony and second floor. We go back and forth about adding another floor there. I kind of like the contrast with the walls and ceiling, which meets the floor in the master bedroom at the dormers.
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I was present for every stage of the building. Omer Yoder and his 5 (of 7) sons build this place log by log with me checking in daily and cooking up a hot meal for them every few days to give Omer a break and his sons a “real” meal (as his second oldest son, Jonathan would joke when he saw me coming with a crock pot.) The bond between those boys and their father was strong, forged in decades of Amish and Mennonite tradition of respect and in many years of working side by side in the log home building industry. When one or another was in a precarious position that depended upon a son or brother to ensure safety, there was never hesitation. They KNEW the other was doing what was needed to both get the job done well and to keep them all safe.
At one point, the delivery from the company was short a critical beam that was 9 in by 11 in by 36 feet long. Solid oak, it is the beam that holds the second floor bedroom and balcony in place, it was absolutely necessary that it be in place before building could proceed. On a Wednesday, Omer sadly told me that if the company could not get it here in the next week he would have to start a new job and come back to ours. I watched them drive away the next day knowing that it was pretty much up to me.
I did my part. I called the owner and screeched loudly enough to get the beam here the next Tuesday. I also used a few not so idle threats about lawsuits to twist the arms of the salesman when he suggested that we could “make” a beam by bonding several 9 x 2 rafters together… I produced the blueprints, which called for a solid oak beam. I don’t know who he thought he was kidding, but he didn’t try that again.
Anyway, Omer and his boys were there for the delivery that next Tuesday. They measured it carefully and moved it into place on the subfloor. I was watching them from a distance… though the “boys” had gotten used to the woman in pants being around the work site, they still tended to get redcheeked whenever I was nearby and they came face to face with me. Omer came over and asked me if I minded if he and the boys tried to place that beam without renting the lift again. He said it would save him $800 and the two hours it would require to go pick up the lift and then take it back.
I knew how strong they were. I had seen even his youngest, at 15, pick up a 12 foot oak log that I couldn’t even drag more than a few inches and hoist it onto his shoulder to bring to position. But the beam they were talking about might have weighed a ton or more. I look up at it right now, counting the eleven pairs of crossbeams and posts necessary to hold its weight and think about Omer and his boys lined up along that beam at equidistant point, with Omer midway calling out to his sons, “Eh, Marlin… on three hoist to your thigh. Jonathan, lift to the calf and Omer Lynn, see if you can get it off the ground.” “Okay, now Matthew, when Marlin goes to his waist, lift your end and after Caleb gets his off the ground, let’s start easing it up to our shoulders one by one.”
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Talk about poetry in motion! I stood speechless and, I’m sure, wide-eyed as they managed to lift that beam onto their shoulders and then, with Marlin taking the lead up the stepladder to place his load onto the platform built only to hold the beam in place until the beams and brackets to secure it could be installed. When his load was down, Marlin immediately, without direction, moved the stepladder to his brother behind him and moved to his father to help him stabilize the midsection. It must have taken over an hour for them to get that beam up there. It was in March and I was chilled by the time they finished, but having turned on my way to my car to see how they planned to place that beam manually I was mesmerized and thrilled to see what determination could achieve. When Caleb’s load was taken from him by two of his older brothers, he ran to the truck to get water and Gatorade for them all. When they all sat down to take a well deserved break, peeling off jackets and wiping the sweat pouring from their faces, Omer spied me and gave me a thumbs up.
I mimed applause and walked to my car, where my camera sat on the passenger seat. I must have taken 100 photos of the Yoder clan building my log home, but for some reason it never even occurred to me to get the camera and film that amazing feat. I can only hope I gave them enough credit in words to express how very touched I was by that astounding example of teamwork and intense concentration needed to complete the task without harm to any member of the team.
Well, when I started this, I only meant to complement HSF for a wonderful story about hard work and conveying the love of quality, um, building materials to his son. Now, once again, I’ve written an epic saga.
So sorry… however, I did upload a few pictures of the beam and the home I now sit in so you can see exactly why I hold my builders in such high esteem.
And, speaking of high esteem. My Aunt Martha (not Maggie, as I have adopted, but Martha to the first power, making me Martha squared) is an “artist.” I own a few of her paintings and have some of her unique scuptures, but have always treasured her oil toned calligraphy. When my son graduated high school, I asked her for one of her “poems” she’d oil toned to use for his senior photo. She honored my request by actually handwriting and painting one for me to use for his image. In spite of the arthritis cripping her hands, she got out her pens and her oils and did this for me. She is in a nursing home in Arizona and I haven’t seen her in several years, but at 90 years old, I was just as thrilled to receive this very special piece of calligraphy from her as I was to see Omer place that beam that day. It was a painstaking piece of effort. Well done.
The poem? It may be hers or it may be famous. She liked to put “Author Unknown” on all the poems, even those she wrote. So, if you know the poet? Please tell me. Otherwise? Is Aunt Martha’s. OR everyone’s.
I used a photo taken of my son at 17 and our new Pyrenese pup, Jake, contrasted with my son’s senior photo with the 9 month old Pyr. Is a treasure, eh?
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Please feel free to do the same with the poem, if you are photoshop inclined. A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
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And HSF? I believe you son will treasure what you have taught him forever.
Hopefully, the pictures are formatted correctly and in the right places.
Sorry if I stepped on your penis, Stucky.
Maggie, I don’t why this thought popped into my head last night but around my neck of the woods, property taxes are due and payable once a certificate of occupancy is issued. For builders who drag out construction too long, building permits expire and must be renewed (for a fee of course) periodically. I would assume that similar rules apply in your area. You must have a real asswipe for a tax assessor. Once a COO is issued the assessor should know within days.
IS… I don’t know that a COO is required. Especially since there is no building code here. The only “inspection” required was a site survey for the water well. I assume that is so that it can be claimed as property of the federal government in an emergency.
“I thought the idea that something that is imperfect is also beautiful in its own right might eventually become clear to him”
HSF, I now see why you did what you did. Kudos to you, if your kid doesn’t get your effort….. Well, he will someday mabey.
Hardscrabble your words touch my heart too, and make me ache with longing for such a family life. From your various tales of said son, it would utterly amaze me if he didn’t “get it” and cherish your gift, your upbringing, your wisdom.
The tears are blurring my vision, I am simply in awe.
Happy New Year and thank you for this.
I believe that the poem, “Clay,” was penned by my mother, Garnet Rhodes, sometime in the 1930’s. I chanced upon it the other day while rummaging thru some old papers.
I believe that the poem was first published in the El Paso Times or Herald Post, but I am not sure. I decided to include “Clay” on my website, http://www.westboundstage.com/poems.html, along with her picture, although she was only about ten years old when the photograph was taken.
Thank you for displaying the poem, which has influenced me in many ways.
Sincerely,
James Bartz
I was mistaken about my mother being the author of the poem about Clay. After further research,
I have found the poem published in books before she was born.
The typesetter correctly gave her credit for the newspaper article, but incorrectly gave her credit
for the poem. I have made the necessary changes to my website,
http://www.westboundstage.com/poemsGarnetRhodes.html.
I apologize for my error.
Sincerely,
James Bartz