My ability to remember things is, for better or worse (you should pardon the expression), photographic, audiographic and persistent. It’s contributed greatly to my professional success and to the vitality of my relationships over the years.
When I checked the date this morning, I recognized instantly that in 1982, June 5th was my wedding day.
(The first one.)
That union lasted 16 years, 4 months (in the eyes of the law, anyway). Afterward, in my early 40s at the time, I enjoyed eight years living as the man I was meant to be.
Then, a second wedding day.
Shortly before I made that lifetime commitment, life presented me with an off-ramp. I didn’t take it. I declined a chance to change course and ignored signs warning of “bridge out ahead.”
Nineteen years later, a second divorce.
I embrace my choices — I own them all. And I spend exactly zero energy thinking about how my life might’ve been different if only I’d taken that off-ramp.
No regrets.
I don’t mind remembering, though. Here in the midst of the best days of my life, the past hasn’t the power to throttle my present joy.
Whitetails have been moving toward higher ground the last couple of weeks, I’ve noticed. Maybe it’s the wet weather. Or maybe it’s the season, with very pregnant does seeking out quieter territory.
I expect we’ll be seeing fawns here soon.
Migrating upslope, of course, brings them closer to the cabin. During our business trips this week, Smudge and I have spotted two or three deer nearby every day.
I used to have trailcams in these woods, one 80 yards due east of the cabin and another a little ways south. They recorded activity almost every day — deer, fox, coyote, ‘coon, bobcat, bear and more.
Spotting critters with my own eyes takes stillness, patience and, of course, luck. A willingness to immerse myself in the wilder world is a big part of it.
That paid off this morning when, after sitting quietly at the edge of the woods, a ball of fur sprang up from the brush no more than ten yards away — a gray fox, probably the same one we heard bark several days ago. Must be a den nearby.
It’s great to be here.
The Amish, other than Old Order and the more conservative sects, are said not to practice “bundling” much anymore. It’s the courtship custom of an unmarried couple sharing a bed for the night — fully clothed and separated by a plank (“bundling board”) — so that they can bond and build their relationship without sex.
(Makes me glad I was raised Presbyterian.)
To me, especially these days, I think of “bundling” as combining chores in the most efficient way possible. Yesterday was a case-in-point and, as usual, it involved tasks on the lower level.
The two five-gallon buckets you see in the Ranger’s bed contain months of kitchen scraps, compost-to-be. Transferring that to the big tumbler is an odiferous affair on the best of days, and it was even less pleasant this time.
The bails on both buckets broke when I picked them up. The lids came off. The contents spilled out onto the ground. I cleaned up what I could and hauled them down below.
I pulled the lid off of the compost tumbler. This is what’s become almost three years of kitchen scraps:
I took a deep breath — now that smells wonderful. Into the tumbler went the latest buckets of rotting organic material…
…which stunk like hell. I quickly capped the tumbler and gave it a couple of spins.
Naturally, as long as I was knocking out chores on the lower level, I did a small burn in the barrel.
Back at the shed, I re-filled Smudge’s kibble canisters.
Damned efficient. Bundled and done.
It’s probably obvious to you how much I rely on that Polaris side-by-side to get things accomplished ’round here. It makes difficult tasks easier. It makes the impossible possible. It saves my back and sometimes my ass.
For some reason, yesterday’s round of chores reminded me about that.
Without a doubt, the Ranger is one of the most essential tools I deploy here on The Mountain.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable