This morning was full of things I missed and didn’t realize how much — like the howls and yips of coyotes, drifting toward me through heavy air from the western shoulder of Hall Mountain. The chatter of small birds, drawn to our feeders again now that we’ve filled them.
Air so cool and damp that I needed more than a t-shirt. The smell of rain on parched ground.
The patter of drops on the camper’s awning.
As I sat outside under the canopy this morning, that last sound transported me back three years, to our first days in Ozarkansas. That was a rainy spring, and Deb and I spent a lot of time sitting under the awning of the motorhome, listening to the rhythmic tap-tap-tapping over our heads.
It’s a good memory.
I’ve often said that I don’t “miss” what I don’t have. But I guess maybe I do. At least I’m aware of what’s been absent when it returns (if that makes sense).
But I definitely don’t “pine” for anything.
This place has a way of making up for what isn’t anymore or isn’t yet. I suspect that most folks would look at rustic living (in general) and our American Life (in particular) in terms of what we don’t have. And it’s true that this is a humble way to go about things, especially compared to “modern life” (for lack of a better term).
But the truth is that less is more — much more. What may be missing isn’t missed.
I’d really like to explain that to you, though I’m sure I’d fail to convey what I just know. That’s because it lends itself less to description than experience.
If, however, from reading this blog you’ve made sense of it all, if you’re pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down, then that says something about you. It speaks to who you are and where you are.
You’re ready.
That’s essential.
You could, if you chose to, break with the Life you’re living. You could do this. Right now. More than that, you’d probably succeed — because you’re ready.
I know this because 20 years ago, or even ten, I wasn’t ready for this or anything like it. I am now.
It makes a difference. Think about it.
This (pictured, below) is another “found knife.” It likely belonged to one of the twenty or so contractors who worked here on The Mountain. I dug it out of the clay near the camper over a year ago and tossed it into my tool box, waiting for its owner to claim it.
So far, no one has.
It’s a Sod Buster Jr. made by W.R. Case in Bradford, Pennsylvania, “from domestic and imported materials.” Case markets Sod Busters as working men’s knives, and this one definitely had been used hard — the stainless-steel blade was gunked-up, and the edge had been rolled (though not chipped) at some point.
The pivot was just awful, gritty and (presumably) corroded, especially mid-travel where the tang cams against the backspring. But the knife still had snap. It was a survivor.
I came across the little Sod Buster today while putting away some tools I’d been using. Since I was headed inside to kick back for a little while, I decided to make my leisure productive and see what I could do with the knife.
I used rubbing alcohol, a ScotchBrite pad and paper towels to remove built-up grime. Then I flooded the pivot (and the tang-backspring surfaces) with Benchmade BlueLube, my go-to knife oil, and worked the action a few hundred times. Repeatedly I wiped away what oozed out of the joint, and I kept working it until the oil that emerged was relatively clean.
Finally, I brought back the edge from deadly dull to utility grade. That’s what a knife like this deserves.
And then I put it back in my tool box.
I may use it. I may not. See, this isn’t my Case — it belongs to someone else, and if someday they come for it, I’ll gladly return it.
Maybe it’s just me, but I kinda like the idea of handing it back better than I found it.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB