My Not-Un-Lucky Day

Tags

Humor, luck, Tree Change

Hail and well met, one and all.

I have had a somewhat interesting day. To start things off, Pigeon decided that I really needed feeding up. At least, that’s what I assume his intention was as I can’t fathom any other reason why he would leave a young rabbit’s ENTIRE digestive tract and associated organs on my pillow.

I know that its rabbity in origin as a neighbour of mine happened to visit this afternoon and took one look at them and authoritatively assured me that the various oozy blobs were from inside of a young rabbit. So. 4:00am I roll over in bed and smell… a smell. I turned on a light… oozy blobs heralding that it was time to get up.

There are many things that I would quite like to find on my pillow early one wintry morning (Okay, I admit it. Missy Higgins is high on the list. I am old and decrepit, not dead). Oozy blobs that belong in a rabbit are not on the list. So. Getting up at 4:00am with a running internal monologue that I should move laundry day forward to, well, immediately was how the day started. You’d be forgiven for thinking that the entrails boded.

Tragically, as a youth, I did not pay much attention during entrail prognostication class, otherwise I would have been aware that today was my not-un-lucky day.

You will undoubtedly have had an unlucky day or two of your own. Mine usually involve some stupidly expensive mistake, an entirely avoidable remarkably painful accident, and inevitably a unintended display of massive idiocy in front of witnesses. Unlucky days usually come in threes. Why unluck adheres to the Rule of Threes is a mystery to me, but then, I didn’t pay attention during entrail prognostication, did I?

But this was different. This was a NOT-un-lucky day. Horrible things narrowly avoided happening all over me. My first not-un-lucky event was at about 10:00am. I hopped into my truck and drove to the corner store for some diesel. I had plans to use the tractor, and it was getting a bit low. The store is 2kms away. As a kookaburra flies it would be perhaps 800 metres. It’s very close. I live in a tiny, EXTREMELY rural community. I forgot to put on my seatbelt.

What an unmarked police car was doing on my road beggars belief. I mean, really. There are maybe 8 – 12 properties on it in total… and the road is about 10km long. There are not a lot of us on that road.

The little lights went on, I pulled over. Two police officers approached. Sigh. It has been a source of some smugness for me that I have never had a ticket. Not a one. Never run a light, never done the speeding thing. Oh, sure. I may have occasionally broken a traffic regulation, but it is not something I have ever done casually. I obey the traffic rules. It makes me safer, and it allows me to be all holier than thou with my mates who are forever getting pulled over.

The police walked up. One was the fairly typical shaved head, wire rim glasses hard arse who probably secretly collects gun magazines and wishes he was in the Tasmanian equivalent of SWAT. The other officer, however, was a gorgeous red haired lass. Just as they were taking my details, one of my neighbours drove past… without his seatbelt on. He got the shaved head hard arse, I got the red headed goddess of adorableness.

She asked if I had any pending warrants or recent violations, I explained that I’d never had a ticket before. She went to their police car. When she came back, she gave me the ticket with a loss of 3 demerits off my license and a $300 fine… with big lines crossing everything out and the words “Cautioned” written over everything. She explained that she was electing to give me a caution. She explained that it COULD have been $300 etc. etc. So. I get the stunning nifty red head and the caution… my neighbour got the shaved head hard arse and a ticket.

But then the second not-un-lucky thing happened. I have a number of trees and shrubs that have grown ferally for the last decade or so. Some of these shrubs have inch long thorns. They are an unholy pest. I have been hacking them, slashing them, pulling them out by tractor, and burning them under bonfires. It has been a war. A grueling one. I have less than half a dozen left in my front yard. Today I decided that a partially dead woody thing that blocks access to my yard would have to go. I tried pulling it out with the tractor… no luck. There wasn’t enough grunt. So I decided to chainsaw it. I climbed half way up the 3 meter embankment and very carefully cut through the 50 or 60 trunks. Then, just as I was cleaning the area up, a stump that was thicker than my leg suddenly snapped. I was honestly oblivious to the fact that I was leaning against it. I was not oblivious to the fact that my chainsaw was running.

I went arse over while holding a running chainsaw. I rolled about 4 meters. I wasn’t impaled by any branches, didn’t dash my brains out on a rock, didn’t hack off a mildly important limb with the running chainsaw. Didn’t receive so much as a scratch. Very not un lucky.

As I started this post, I wondered about the third thing. What was the expensive, painful, or embarrassing thing that I had avoided? Well, a toot of a car horn and a knock at the door revealed what it was. I had asked a friend to fetch some cat food for me. Because Sophie has… lets call it an ‘issue’ with most cat foods, I have to get this absurdly expensive stuff. When I buy cat food, I have to be cashed up, because one large bag costs $50.00. Yup. Between Sophie and Pigeon, one bag lasts a month. Unfortunately, I had forgotten to grab the cat food last week when I went down to the city. So I was expecting to have a 100km round trip to spend $50.00 on what is essentially, imported kibble. Instead, my friend picked it up for me. I was elated. I grabbed my wallet and handed him the money… but then he handed me back $10.00 and said; “It was on special”.

So. If I had only paid attention in entrail prognostication, I would have known what a not-un-lucky day I was going to have. Three horrible things narrowly avoided. Would the day have been as good if i had known that it was a not-un-lucky day? I doubt it, so it’s probably for the best that I never learned to read entrails. With that in mind, It’s probably for the best that I continue not looking too terribly closely at what Pigeon brings me…

Be well,

Badger

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Sloshes rather than gloops

I have a brand spanking new thing-to-get-excited-about; its a 500 gallon plastic rainwater tank. It has a regular garden tap and a largish 1 1/2 inch agricultural tap. Unlike my other four tanks, it doesn’t leak like a colander. Unlike my other four tanks, water that goes into it isn’t instantly turned a carcinogenic reddish hue. Water from my new tank sloshes, it doesn’t gloop.

I kinda like my new tank. I am not so fond of my other tanks. I plan to take an angle grinder to them. The plan is to cut them up and use them as raised garden beds. Each bed will be about 3 feet high. This should cut down on the tedious bending and should give my back an altogether more desirable break than the one I gave it last year. I should also be able to put small ‘greenhouse’ covers over them. The plan is to have different soil types and light coverage options. That way I can grow what I want.

But the angle grinding festival of fun will be later in the year. Right now, I am just making Errol (my new tank) feel comfortable and appreciated. I have already put him to work, too, but more on that in a moment. Mustn’t get ahead of myself.

When I arranged delivery, the chap who sold me the tank was confident that they’d be able to deliver the tank up my hill and close to where it would eventually be sited. Then the rains came. I believe that I described my driveway (in a previous post) as a slippery fun slide of mud… Or something to that effect.

This, sadly, is not one of my ‘exaggerated-for-humorous-effect’ metaphors. When the driveway is properly wet, you cannot walk on it, much less drive. I have seen one of my cats slide uncontrollably down half it’s length (when he finally stopped careening wildly out of control, he acted nonchalantly as though everything had gone quite as he’d intended. Then he wandered back up the hill via the yard and back into the caravan… And onto my bed… While not entirely de-mudded).

When Errol arrived, he was deposited at the start of my access road. The access road isn’t terribly long, only 50 yards or so. Unfortunately, it is at the base of the hill. Clearly the tank delivery man was leery about trying to go up my drive. Trucks that deliver tanks in rural tasmania tend to be great big grunty things with lots of ‘go anywhere’ sensibilities. NW Tasmania is kinda hilly. The roads are usually insanely twisty and frequently just a bit of gravel and dirt. Sometimes, in NW Tassie, you only know that you’re on a road because there aren’t any trees and bushes on it and because a fully laden logging truck just nearly ran you over. Okay, that last part was one of my ‘exaggerated-for-humorous-effect’ descriptions, but only just a little bit.

So. Errol was on the access road. The driveway of death was in its full muddy treachery mood. More rain was forecast. Fortunately for me, I have the niftiest neighbour in The world. He saw Errol, decided that either I would try to move the tank up the hill with my tractor or before that, some bastard would nick it and I would be without my new tank. The short version of the story is that my neighbour used his hill basher of a tractor to move the tank for me… But… That doesn’t convey the scene. Doesn’t do it justice.

Doing that particular job safely on that hill and in those conditions was fascinating to watch. He went up the hill through a rough paddock that was overgrown with bracken and heather. The imminent rain was spitting to herald its arrival. Small corrections here and there as he crabbed the tractor up the slope… I have been using a tractor a fair bit, lately, so it was seriously cool to watch someone who is really good at it do something that was very tricky.

Anyway, in the end, Errol was in place. All I needed now was some rain and to hook up a couple zillion feet of hoses and fasteners to plumb the cottage and the caravan. On offer was the chance to be able to turn on a faucet and get clean potable water. If I didn’t get it right, I would still have to lug water everywhere. After a year of having one of my daily chores being to sort out the days water supply… Well, let’s just say that I keen to modernize.

Before I could do any plumbing, I needed to remove a water heater that came with the caravan. I don’t know where or why, but there is an electrical fault with that heater… So having it in there is pointless and inconvenient. by removing it, I could replumb the caravan for cold water only and remove the useless shower cubicle. This meant that I would get quite a lot of space freed up (which is highly desireble in a small caravan).

Ripping out the shower and the water tank was fiddly. Wires and pipes had to be isolated and removed. Seals checked, holes plugged, swear words uttered whenever I found a new way to maim myself. It was a busy day.

The next day, I was able to go and get the attachments for the hoses and pipes and finish off the heater removal. Then I and a friend hooked everything up. The big moment came. The washing machine in the house was loaded and ready to go. In the caravan, I had a sink full of dishes that needed washing. Water was needed in both places. We opened the big tap and crossed our fingers. There was a lot of sucking and whooshing and gurgling. Then crystal clear water flowed. Both to the house and the caravan. Good pressure, steady stream. Everything worked. Okay, I will admit that some of the connections might be inclined to leak. But that’s just a temporary impediment. A couple of hours with some tools and gas fitters tape will sort that out.

As I look at this, I can only imagine how dreadfully dull this must seem. So prosaic. A guy gets a tank and hooks it up to some stuff with hoses. Yawn. But… When we think of the amenities that we expect in a house, running water is a given. I haven’t had that for over a year. It’s one of those big things. Sure, the cottage needs proper plumbing and an actual toilet and a hot water heater and all that… But that will come. For now, I can go over to my sink and turn the tap and fill the kettle. For now I can wash my clothes without filling the washing machine with 9 buckets of water carried from outside and across the yard.

I may have mentioned that this treechange of mine seems to be a five steps forwards, four steps back kind of thing. Nothing is ever straightforward. There’s usually $50-$100 that needs to be spent and a fair bit of crawling around underneath or over something. Carrying heavy and cumbersome items items up and down slopes seems to feature a lot, too. When you read my posts, this is the one. This is the post that attempts to convey what the day to day experience is. Pecking away at hundreds and thousands of little jobs. Tomorrow I plan to change an oil filter and some spark plugs on my truck. I also have some hooks to hang in the kitchen. I need to take a couple of truckloads of rubbish to the tip, and I should probably rearrange the caravan to take advantage of the extra space that I have now that the shower cubicle is gone. I have also promised to make some apple turnovers for a friend. Oh… And my plumbing has some vexing leaks that need attention. Hmmm… I wonder which of those things will lead to my next adventure?

Badger

Badger Rants

Okay. It’s time for a bit of a rant. Let’s start this with an admission; I am quite an addict for the British series ‘Grand Design’. I like the way the build (or renovation) is revealed as a story. There are characters, there’s a beginning, a middle, and an end. There are usually a smattering of mini-catastrophes. There are usually compromises that must be painfully made. I dive into it and lap it up. Sometimes I am inspired, sometimes I am aghast. I am never bored.

Now… What’s this got to do with the tree change and this specific rant? Well, I just watched a 15th century barn conversion episode. I think that the resulting assemblage of buildings is… well… meh. the soul and charm of the place was excised. It sounds as though a combination of council requirements and the owner’s desire for ‘modern elegance and functionality’ were the primary culprits. Sigh.

Which brings me to why I am babbling about this topic. Several friends (some locals) have urged me to tear down my little cottage on a hill and put up something new. In rural tassie, if there is a remnant of a building intact, the council is hard pressed to deny you the right to build a new building. As a consequence, there are many, many old crumbling buildings scattered throughout these valleys and hills. It’s very picturesque.

So… With wizened heads possessed of far more sense than mine suggesting that I tear down and rebuild with new, why am I making life difficult for myself?

History.

Conservation restoration/renovation isn’t (to me) about making the structure exactly the same as it was 100 years ago. It’s not about having the bits and bobs being period authentic and all of the craftsmanship being a ‘feature’: it’s about the span of the buildings existence. It’s about strengthening and clarifying the character and spirit of the structure. And – equally important to me, It’s about the lives that played out within its walls being faintly visible – like footprints in a snow storm.

Concerning the character and spirit of the building, I want the age of building to be apparent. Mutton dressed as lamb is rarely a good look, and just as I prefer not to have garnishing trying (and failing) to conceal something (or someone’s) true age in other matters, I don’t want to see a building trying to look like something other than it is.

My cottage is a building hewn and crafted with axes and adzes. From time to time, conveniences were wedged into its identity as the technology and wherewithal permitted. It was originally built almost 120 years ago (or thereabouts). So it has been young and new. It had its period of being solid, sensible, and middle aged. Now it’s starting to be… well… Old. I want it to wear its century old, slightly wonky, worn down by lots of feet, floorboards with pride and gusto. I want the interior doors to be some planks that were nailed together god knows when. I want the simple weatherboard cladding.

But then we get to the other point… The lives that lived within it. People were born there. People had dramas, had laughs, had dreams, wondered what the bloody cats had dragged in now (though that might be more a current theme, rather than a historic one). I want to know who lived and visited the cottage on the hill. I want the footprints in the snow to still be faintly visible.

In some ways, this cottage being restored is a lot like a badger’s tree change. The character and spirit of both are being examined. The good and worthwhile points are being strengthened and clarified. Garnishing – plastic or otherwise – is being ripped out. The lives lived are being considered; remembered.

Mind you, it’s just occurred to me; my next blog is likely to be about the new water tank and the plumbing… So let’s not take this ‘cottage renovation’ and ‘badger’s tree change’ simile too much further, eh?

Rightio. I’ve had my rant. You’ve heard my ethos for the renovation. As i plod along with this, there will be dramas and laughs and dreams. Sigh… And very likely things dragged in by the cats. As it progresses, I expect that at times I will find myself inspired, at other times I will be aghast… But I doubt very much that I will ever be bored. Eventually it will be done. the final reveal will – inevitably – be that the cottage on the hill is magically made into… A cottage on the hill (mind you, one with fewer birds nests in the living room… Oh and plumbing).

Till then, the tree change continues.

Badger