“Contemplating sticks is something I do, although I admit much of what they say to me goes into my unconscious rather than telling me directly. This is the human conundrum: that perhaps more than half of what we learn and what we know is folded into a deeper layer, safely hidden, for future use. It’s why it’s such a relief, to have simple conversations, that glide atop the incredible mystery, of who we really are. As a landscaper by day, for at least part of the year, I often spend rainy days, at the hardware store, or the lumberyard. Collecting tangible pieces of material, with which to build, in our outer world, and see immediate results. Today, I drove a slower albeit more direct route, to pick up plywood, hinges, pine boards, and screws. If I have time, I will always choose the back roads, to get to anywhere, as if I might miss something, moving faster, on the highway. I remember so much more of my trip, when it is beset with potholes, and remnants of the harshest weather conditions, or forced to sit tight behind the town grader, who leaves no room, to pass, for miles at a go. Passing homesteads of old friends, long gone, moved to Thailand, or dead, it’s a soothing ritual. The summer goats, who destroyed my carpenters gardens; the timber framer’s shop, which spawned experts sent to Paris to repair the Notre Dame. There are new gates, and new ditches, mixed with glimpses & traces of ancient byways, now gone defunct. I find the contrasts, staggering. Yet taken in at such a pace, no one could but marvel at the exigencies of change. I’m now slowed, even further, by some out-of-state truck, lolling or gawking, or just enjoying conversation. I can deal with it, as long as I get to the store by 5 pm. The metal fences blocking forest roads are more acutely felt this way, as I feel the management chops of bureaucrats sing into my bones. I will get there, anyway. The modern world can only aggravate, but never outwit. What they don’t want us to recall, what they hope we will give to them, will never be theirs. By the time I reach the counter, at the family-owned yard, there are two at the counter. One seems eager to be of service, something I’ve grown to not expect or be disappointed by, when no one really cares. He leads me down to isle, to discuss hinges. I am so grateful. My job is small, my ambitions oblique, but he is willing to go the extra mile, it seems. As we dive into a thorough analysis of the physical properties of doors, he suddenly comments on my shoes. Doc Martens, scavenged from my daughters rejects. But he is respectful of the brand, as he relates a colorful story of a fellow orchardist who worked his pair, and hard, then had them replaced, at no cost, due to a lifetime, corporate promise to uphold the integrity of their leather-made goods. Way more information, than I was expecting, which is never a bad thing. In fact, it nearly rivals the man who recognized me at the counter, as the “bear rescuer”. I am humbled to be seen this way. It was just a routine visit, that I thought would be dull. But people are hardly dull, these days. The colors of everyone shine, and who we all want to be is what is most achingly obvious to me. There’s no fakery, no posturing. Or if there is, the energy repels, and is quickly lost into the slip stream. I love the other, the surprise, of being ambushed, by a person’s innocent, non-conniving, good will. This should be the norm. Heading home, I felt mildly chastened. As the twisted dirt road pulled north, I was glad to have only this errand. One that I could savor, for its singular, aromatic note.”
