I ‘ve had the itch lately to build a fire in one of my fire pits. Tending the woodstove has scratched that itch, sort of, and yet I wanted to do the whole firemaking thing outdoors with found materials.
Friday evening I spied a couple of sticks of cedar kindling stowed near the stove that still had the fibrous, tinder-worthy bark attached. I went full Eagle Scout, scraped off the bark with my folding knife and built a small teepee in the firebox.
I struck a match, touched it to the fibers and… pfffft. My (insufficient) tinder burned for all of five seconds and the smallish kindling didn’t catch.
Well, shit.
The objective, of course, was to start the damned fire, not to prove my worth. (I knew that because I’m not 12 years old.) I grabbed one of my cheaters — small paraffin-and-pine cups are the best pre-fab firestarters I’ve found — and got it going.
The burn lasted into the wee hours. ‘Twas a pretty good fire.
The next morning, presented with a few lingering coals amid the ashes, I got to work kick-starting the blaze. Once again, I faltered — it took a long time to coax fuel into flame.
That’s not like me. Firemaking isn’t something I struggle with.
Smudge, bless her heart, waited patiently at my side for the warmth she craved. I managed to get it done, and within an hour the cabin temp had risen from 62°F to a toasty 75°F.
The Heeler was happy. It made for pleasant showering, too.
You can always find me here
The Statler Brothers (1965)
I’m havin’ quite a time
I let the hot water run awhile to warm up the pipes and shower pan before getting in. A minute later, the water quickly went ice-cold.
Well, shit.
I stepped out and looked at the display in the kitchen — the on-demand water heater had thrown code E1, indicating low water pressure or low gas pressure. That had happened once before, solved simply by cycling both (outside at the supply).
Just as I was getting dressed to do that, though, the display returned to normal.
Optimistic, I resumed my shower. The water started to run cold again five minutes later. I immediately turned off the shower, waited maybe 30 seconds and turned it on again — hot water.
Water pressure is fine. The 30-pound LP tank feeding the water heater is a little less than half-full. It could be that gas pressure drops as the tank empties and ambient temperature falls, I guess. I’ll keep an eye on it.
Smokin’ cigarettes
The Statler Brothers (1965)
and watchin’ Captain Kangaroo
Now don’t tell me I’ve nothin’ to do
Miss Smudge and I, as we do every couple of weeks, tripped to Flippin yesterday for curbside pickup. There’s not much to tell about that. Our routine errand followed a familiar pattern.
To celebrate the “freeze watch” issued for Sunday morning — Wait, what? Who celebrates that? — the haul included fixins for a pot of my slow-cooker chili. That meant chorizo, peppers, onions and garlic, plus six different canned items (all store-brand, the cheapest I could find).
I thought about starting the chili rolling the moment I got home from Walmart but changed my mind. It’ll be a Sunday thing.
Oh, and I bought three gallons of pink RV antifreeze. One will go into the traps in the camper. The other two I’ll keep on-hand in case I need to protect the cabin’s drains.
“It is not a poem of escape or rebirth. It is a poem about the end of a man’s usefulness.”
Kurt Vonnegut Jr., from Palm Sunday (1981), commenting on “Flowers on the Wall” by The Statler Brothers
The seemingly unrelated quotes I’ve sprinkled into today’s post are hard to miss, I know. See, I happened across “Flowers on the Wall” yesterday, the classic and catchy Statler Brothers tune, and it prompted some thoughts.
It was penned by Lew DeWitt, the group’s original tenor. The lyrics are a man’s sardonic pitch (real or imagined) to his ex to assure her that he’s doin’ well on his own.
While you and your friends are worried about me, I’m havin’ lots of fun
But he’s not. He’s a mess, of course, and he knows it, thus the sarcasm.
Author Kurt Vonnegut greatly admired “Flowers on the Wall.” Maybe that shouldn’t be surprising, considering the dark character of his own work (or much of it, anyway). When he wrote about the song in his Palm Sunday collection, calling it a “great contemporary poem,” he dissected the lyrics for what they reveal about the aimless man. In short,
“The man counting flowers on the wall has no appreciable utility anymore.”
Vonnegut makes sharp observations, for sure. I don’t disagree.
I simply can’t relate.
“Flowers on the Wall” is the wailing of a man who’s decided that he’s nothing without [whatever or whomever]. A man who’s given up. A man who’s done.
You and I determine our own “usefulness,” our own “utility.” Even if another won’t have us, we have self.
Always. And that’s purpose enough.
Perhaps my pessimism about fall colors on The Mountain was a bit premature.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable