Labor Day Weekend. Already.
The steps to our hillside garden are not repaired. The felled wood is not all cut up and stacked. The dock is still waiting to be treated with teak oil.
Labor Day Weekend. How did that happen? The steps to our hillside garden are not repaired. The felled wood is not all cut up and stacked. The dock is still waiting to be treated with teak oil. The side of the house has not been stained, as it was supposed to be by this time last year after construction on our new porch was complete. The Sunfish has not moved from its winter position on shore; its sails are rolled up and stowed in the rafters of the garage. I have not paddled on the large lake nearby with the canoe; we made only one of the Thursday Farmer’s Markets on the town green; there are only a few weeks left in the fishing season, which may not give me enough time to dig out my equipment, buried someplace in the basement.
Labor Day Weekend, already. How did that happen?
I did turn sixty-seven this summer, which is at least something. I am now the age my father was when my parents moved to this part of New Hampshire. His age at the time stands out for me because the move here was the last stop on a journey that started in New York City, went to Connecticut, rattled around western New York, and came back to New England, the final port of call.
Back then, he probably felt as well as I am fortunate to feel these days. In typical fashion, my parents had bought a farmhouse needing a lot of work. Dad slept on his Marine Corp cot before Mother arrived with the furniture, keeping the builders busy filling dumpsters and revitalizing the property. He loved setting up camp, even at sixty-seven, which seemed much older to me than it does now, as we learn.
Most days, I do not feel or seem much older, standing, brushing my hair in front of the mirror. Side by side with old pictures tells a different story. The real shocker is Facetime, video calling, which is almost exclusively with the children and grandchildren. I guess it is the striking contrast between my image and theirs. How must they see me? As I saw my grandparents, I suppose—warm, interesting, slower-moving people with pills by the bedside. Grandchildren cannot see the fun we had doing the same things they do, or how we are filled with anticipation for what we hope they get to do. Maybe when they are sixty-seven, God willing, they will look back and see us differently, as people who had adventures, successes and failures, good friends and parties, told jokes, who set up plenty of camps along the way.
So, I turned sixty-seven but fell short on other summer accomplishments. Am I taking more naps? Definitely. That might have something to do with it. A better excuse is that my wife was working full-time until earlier this summer, which left me as primary caregiver for Huckleberry, our seventeen-month-old labrador retriever mix of dog and espresso. All spring and early summer, we were training Huckles to a GPS fence, meaning a collar that communicates with eight satellites to track his position relative to an invisible boundary around the property. Approach the boundary, the collar starts to beep and whistle. Cross the boundary, the collar uses static to send a message that chasing the fat squirrel will not be worth it, nor visiting the neighbors. It works well, despite the forest cover, but it took time to tune instrument and animal to each other. I could not turn my back while it was going on. Outside projects meant keeping him inside or tethered to a line. But it got done. Huck can now trot out the door and as long as there are no porcupines inside the GPS boundary, we are pretty much good to go.
You may be thinking that time remains to cross a few more things off the list. Yes. Thank you. The priority is firewood. A local landscaper has been telling me that we have a lot of standing, dead wood that we can burn immediately. I am heads down gathering that, which is nearing a full cord. Using my handy wood moisture meter, I can report the wood is very dry, as predicted, below ten percent, which experts say is almost too dry, subject to burning too fast. Fine. Last year’s wood was too wet. Too much smoldering went on, which we will hear about when the chimney sweeps arrive for their annual visit in another month.
We have to accept that the Sunfish is not going to get out on the pond this year. The water is getting cold, anyway. There is discussion about oiling the dock when it comes out, but that might not be until mid-October. Staining the side of the house has to be next, after firewood. September should be fine for that, as well as canoeing on the lake, and fishing if I can get organized.
A woman was fishing in front of the house a few days ago with this marvelous rig, part kyack, part float boat, with foot pedals for propulsion. I ran down to the shore to get a closer look and make inquiries.
Reception to my new boat idea was cool when I got back to the house.
“Do you know where your fishing stuff is?’
“Downstairs.”
“Where would we store the boat?”
“How about, next to the Sunfish?”
Grandchildren take notice. At sixty-seven, we can still be children.