Construction Update: We’re Framed

My brother has asked for a construction update. So here are some views of recent progress.

This window:

I love this window. Partly because I think it looks great, but in good portion because I really, really like the story of how we got it. We had gone to the Rebuilders Center, looking for a good sink for the studio. The RC is a place where usable, OK, and sometimes fine things from deconstructed or remodeled houses end up. It is an enormous warehouse full of everything, including the kitchen sink, that might go into a building. You have to prowl through, because there are literally hundreds of kitchen sinks. There are doors and windows, toilets, lamps, hinges, floors, faucets, tubs, cupboards, appliances, wiring, switches, ceiling fans, filigrees, pipes and panels… if a house can need it, it is there. We had picked out our good sink and were strolling toward the door when I spotted that arched window resting against an old toilet. “How much is that?!” I swooped. I’m told I swooped. The Kitchen Sink Department man said it had to go up to Windows, because it had just come in and was in the wrong place. I not only swoop, I do not let go when I have acquired a targeted item. We carried it upstairs to Windows. It’s a heavy thing to carry because it’s double-paned and bound with bronze. The Windows man priced it at $40. We smiled, not knowing exactly where we were going to put it, but certain it would go with something.

We have a front door, too:

Notice how it’s going to be arched to match the building, and the window?

Now turn around and look out the back door:

That will be a bathroom to the left. The sliding door came from the main house, which some of you may remember is meant to fall down in Phase II of this project. You can see the proportion of the loft under the arch. For some reason, when the framer put the end wall framing in, he didn’t put the ventilation fan in the center of the arch. You can see the little box he made just to the left of center. This won’t do. Here we have this wonderful front aspect with the curved window, and he decided to just stick the fan any old place on the rear wall. He’ll be coming back to fix that.

It’s starting to look like the building we have in mind, and I think we are both growing fond of it.

The Symbolism of Body Parts

When we greet each other, engage in conversation, welcome one another, and even when we part, human beings face each other. We present our front sides, open and forward. Whether because it is the side of us we cannot see, or because we associate it with low and necessary activities, we reserve our rearward aspect for anger and insult. When we dismiss someone, we “turn our backs” on them. To be even more derisive, we might even present our buttocks. What could speak of disrespect more acutely?

The hind-end of an ass might.

Sometimes we have a bad mule on our farm. William is, for the most part, intelligent and agreeable. If he feels the need to kick, he takes it a good distance away, and then kicks like mule almighty. Sometimes he decides to stand still, and when he does you might as well try to move Highland Butte itself. But most generally, he is affectionate and conversational. He mutters a lot. He greets me by putting his brow against my chest between my (ahem) prominences. His nose is soft and his breath is grassy, and he can be vigilant and protective. But sometimes, he is bad.

The other day when I went out to feed chickens, I found the chicken feeder all overturned and empty on the ground. Well, I wondered, how did that happen? I put it back where it belongs, filled it up, and went on my way. The next morning, lo, there was the chicken feeder, overturned and empty. Hmm, I thought. Something is not right here. On the third morning (this is the way it goes in tales: understanding comes on the third morning), I noticed how the wire along the front of the enclosure was all messed up, pushed down and out of line. This is not something a chicken, even a determined one, can accomplish.

William was standing right there, just waiting for me to feed the, by now, quite hungry hens.

“William!” I said. “Do you know what happens to mules who eat chicken feed? Leave it alone. You’ll start laying eggs.” Which might, now that I think of it, be his best chance of reproduction.

He stood there, innocent, wise, lying his long face off.

I know the determination of my mule, and I know that telling him to leave something alone will not impress him. Strong words won’t. Hand-waving won’t.

But a physical barrier, if it is sufficient, will.

Explaining the situation to him, I set about arranging a shield of mesh fencing across the front of the enclosure from center post to wall. And my handsome half-ass understood what was up right away. He watched for a minute or two while I wrestled with the fencing.

And then, slowly, he turned.

With no sign he measured my existence at all, no twitch of the eyelash or turn of the ear, he stood, behind forward, and addressed me.

Now, you and I all know what this means. We reserve rude words for such expressions. But the mule has no words (though plenty of rudeness if he needs it). What amuses me in this is not that he wants to communicate his feeling, but that he chooses a gesture we humans understand implicitly. It suggests we have much more in common with the rest of the Animal Kingdom than we like to think.

Never Mind About the Wine

Remember those beautiful grapes? Those grapes waiting for a little more sun, and maybe a little frost to bring up the sugar? Remember the word wine in that conversation?

Let me show you something:

An utter misrule of robins came through two days ago. The American Robin, Robin Redbreast, that darling of tale and poem, author of those unspeakably blue eggs in those messy, cockeyed nests; the robin, running and stopping and taking worms from the lawn, caroling in the dawn, shrieking happily before rain:

“Art thou the bird whom Man loves best/The pious bird with the scarlet breast…” wrote William Wordsworth. (Okay, so he was writing of the English Robin, but what difference could a minor linguistic variation make?)

Ha.

The American one is Turdus migratorious, the sturdy traveler.

A positive horde of them came through and made a ghastly demonstration of the role of agriculture in support of nature. They were by the hundreds, and they descended in a cloud on the vines. They chattered and leaped and ripped at the grapes. They faced down arm-waving and yelling and went to their task like practiced marauders.

“Who killed Cock Robin?” “I,” said the Sparrow…”

Not in very good time, say I. Where is that bow and arrow when a person wants it?

Those robins, those American and not English Robins (we could tell by their accents, right away) took every grape from every vine, and then flew away into the afternoon. I hope they had tummy aches.

This image of the American Robin, taken by Ken Thomas, is available on the Wikimedia Commons. Notice the wicked gleam in that bird’s eye?

No wonder its genus is called Turdus. (Here is a link to a little essay about the etymology of that name:

Getting Sturdy with the American Robin . It really has nothing to do with what it sounds like.)

“All the birds of the air fell a-sighing and a-sobbing
When they heard of the death of poor Cock Robin.”

Keep migrating, Turdus. I’ve got my eye out for you.

(Here below is the darling English Robin, the one we love better just now, in another photo from the Wikimedia Commons, made by Bill Tyne and licensed under Creative Commons Attribution ShareAlike 2.0:

This robin is known as Erithacus rubecula.

Wine Before Its Time

The grapes have been teasing me for days. As I pass by the rows on my way to feed llamas in the morning, there they hang at hand height, and eye elevation, rich in hue if not yet ready in flavor. Finally it occurred to me that if I wait until they are ripe to make their portrait, they will have lost their moment of beauty. It’s a fair exchange, aspect for savor. These are pinot wine grapes, and the drop on the tongue is astonishing in its sweetness and power. Could I make a photo of the flavor, it would be… it would be a color not yet seen. Something combined of the deep purple of the berry itself, and the green of the vine, and the lashing, violent brightness of the sun. That sun on the grapes all summer, that would be the foremost color of the flavor of the juice, the sunlight dashing against the glands beneath your ears, sugar and tannin and the purple wine yet unmade. Ah.

Lacking the camera that will record that moment on the tongue, I nevertheless take the photo that will show the eyeful.

Construction Update: The End

No, not really the end. That would require exclamation points. (Or, at least, would permit their use; I once had a writing instructor who warned us to reserve exclamation points for earthquakes and Victor Borge.)

But the workshop/studio arch house has ends now.

(!)

Humble

A few days ago, the Friendly blogger QuakerDave over at The Quaker Agitator was kind enough to give me a “Thinking Blogger Award.” I was delighted! Then he said, “Okay, you’re supposed to copy that little logo and put it on your blog someplace, like a little badge or something.” Oh.

I have spent several hours trying to stick it into my sidebar, and apparently I am not savvy enough a blogger to configure it correctly. So it goes here, where you can see it if you happen to click into this entry. Upon reflection, I think it might have been a little vainglorious (Merriam Webster: vain·glo·ry Function: noun 1 : excessive or ostentatious pride especially in one’s achievements) to hang it on the door where everyone might see it when they go by.

Thank you, QuakerDave, for the award. I blush and curtsy at the recognition.

Construction Update: Hoops to Go Through

This is a Guy Post:

For those who have been waiting for the next installment of the workshop chronicle, we have an update.

Not long ago, the first arch rose:

At this stage, I thought the project looked very stylish, and it put me in mind of this arch elsewhere:

Shortly, however, we thought of a baby Sistine Chapel, begging for some artist to lie on his back painting the ceiling:

(I know: I’ve seen the Sistine Chapel, and it really isn’t arched on the outside. But we tend toward lively imagination here. And we wonder, if Michaelangelo had had the benefit of a scissors lift, would he have brought his project in on time? It would have saved a lot of climbing.)

One of our readers has asked about the bolting-together of the arches. Here’s a closer look at the last few arches before they are brought together. Each arch is assembled on the ground (bolted together) before it’s raised into place and bolted to its neighbor. Lots of bolts.

The end-wall framers should be upon us today.  Once it has ends with doors and windows, it should begin to look like its final self.