There used to be a tiny restaurant just down the street from Second Chance Ranch, our former home in central Ohio. I’d characterize its cuisine as “artisan” — the chef-owner was a mad scientist with ingredients, masterfully weaving flavors and textures into truly memorable dishes. The place wasn’t open very long, but Deb and I always enjoyed the fare.
Being kind of a neighborhood joint, we’d cross paths with friends there. One couple in particular — he a police chief, she an active member of the community — often would invite us to sit with them, resulting in long, like-minded conversations.
The topic one winter’s evening was personal defense — specifically, how to respond to an active threat when without a firearm. We talked about recognizing cover (as opposed to concealment), using improvised weapons, and so forth.
I remember the chief saying that confronting an armed threat with a table leg or a pair of scissors (for example) is decidedly personal. It means getting close. He emphasized that before making a move, it’s crucial to acknowledge what’s about to happen.
“This is gonna hurt.”
It’s human nature to avoid pain. When we could react but fear impending pain, we tend to hesitate or freeze altogether. Our aversion to pain immobilizes us, and it costs us.
The chief wasn’t advocating masochism. He was pointing out that in order to neutralize an active threat, especially when it involves asymmetry of arms, one must come to terms with the inevitable pain.
That’s good advice, of course.
The pitfalls of constantly trying to sidestep pain — or, in the language of today’s soft society, “discomfort” — extend to everyday life as well.
Blowing off ordinary exercise. Treating a boo-boo like an injury. Staying indoors on a cold (or hot) day. Looking for a closer parking spot. Using fatigue as a reason not to (whatever). Hiring a lawn service.
This is “the disease of comfort.” It hides behind myriad rationales and countless excuses, but what it comes down to is that we don’t want to hurt. We don’t want to sweat and we don’t want to shiver. We don’t want to be exhausted. We don’t want to work.
What we could do, we don’t do. We rely on “labor-saving devices” and other people (folks who aren’t afraid to hurt).
“But lo! Men have become the tools of their tools.”
Henry David Thoreau
I’ve made a personal pact with pain. Not only do I accept it, I consider pain indispensable. Every time I see something that needs doing, something I can do, something that requires energy and effort, I acknowledge the inevitable.
“This is gonna hurt.”
I harbor no fear. I make no excuses. I’m not saving myself for anything — this is it.
And let’s face it, in this rustic Life on The Mountain, if I were afraid of pain, nothing would get done. Let’s get on with it.
I came to the conclusion this morning that I’d postponed a trip to the county transfer station as long as I could. I don’t remember when I was there last, but we’d accumulated two bags of trash and a full-to-bursting bag of recyclables.
It was time.
A puzzling sight greeted me when I arrived — one of the compactors and the usual array of dumpsters were in a gravel parking lot just inside the entrance. It took me a minute to figure out what I was looking at — a temporary setup to make way for construction of a new canopy over the regular site up-top.
On my way Home, I stopped at the feed mill to pick up bales of straw and two grain scoops for dog food.
I deployed the bales to improve the windbreak on the west side of the camper, and I stowed the scoops in the shed. Then I secured a couple of chain saws in the bed of the truck and headed back down The Mountain.
Today, I decided, I’d finish limbing the downed oak that’s been waiting for me by the road since May.
Maintaining decent footing on the slope where the tree had fallen was challenging, but the work itself wasn’t difficult. I pushed our 20V DeWalt saw harder than I ever had before, and it performed well. About the time that it polished-off a second 4Ah battery, I was getting into material too big for its 12-inch bar anyway.
I finished up with the Stihl MS 180 and its 16-inch bar. Love that saw.
One of the best things about processing this tree today was that I could buck everything (the limbs and about eight feet of the trunk) right where it was. Anything suspended off the ground got lopped into 12- to 18-inch lengths, ready for stacking or splitting.
What I cut this afternoon — and there was quite a bit — was left where it dropped. I’ll come back tomorrow, load it all into the truck and haul it back to our wood yard. Dealing with the trunk, which Deb’s cousin has offered to help me with, will happen next.
It felt good to make a dent in processing the firewood we’ll need to heat the cabin next winter. There’s a lot still to do, but this was a satisfying start.
The view from my woodcutting office today. Not bad.
You may have noticed that recent Ubi Libertas Blog posts lack my typical formatting — drop caps, wrapped text and such. That’s ’cause I’ve been composing on and publishing from my phone. I expect to get back to using my computer eventually, but for now this has been easier. It gives me the freedom to get more shit done ’round here.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB
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