The Craftsman

There is a constant flow of ideas out here.

A giant bee and butterfly garden here; a bigger herb garden there; decorative fencing breaks between the drive and the back, the back and the grass, the grass and  the gardens.

The promise of the land whispers to me. How long have things lay dormant, ten years? Thirty?  Fifty years or more contributed to the ruination of the house. There was just too much to do, and the farmers considered buying both houses to tear them down because the land underneath was so rich and useful.

Then came a man in the early part of this century who was in step with the house and revived her. He worked tirelessly for many years, a craftsman himself who did much of the work. New windows, and floors, and walls, and bathrooms and a better kitchen, electrical and septic, and a media room in the attic upstairs.

And underneath it, the rich, mocha soil became a dump for the construction worksite and the farmers itched to get their hands on it, or so the story goes.  There had been 35 years of renters who grew pot in the fields, and the sheriffs deputies snuck through the corn fields to get the drop on them. Some had a menagerie of unfenced farm animals wandering into the street stopping traffic and eating in the farmer's fields.  The whole town lived here at one point, and there is still the occasional stop-on-by'er to see it and tell us about their recollections.

Putting up a garage after 110 years caused quite a stir at the Post Office, which is still open despite the Postmistress retiring a couple of years back. Someone from the community works it 9-1, distributes the mail, sells stamps and mails packages if you've got cash or check.

Our land has a little garden in the back, an herb garden on the side, a iris garden faded and needing to be cleared, and an artichoke and berry fenced area that doesn't do a very good job of keeping out the squirrels or the dogs. There's a run next to the garage and a backstop all the way in the back for target shooting. Dotted around are olives, 5 of them, two pomegranates, two mission figs, and an almond that is making a comeback. 

Most of the rest of it is flat and desolate, with ground squirrel tunnels and knocked down weeds, and low perimeter water troughs for the crops that stretch in all directions all the way to the buttes. I dream of looking around at a lush and orderly space reflecting my hands in the soil springing with life.

I impatiently wonder when the time and energy and money will come.  When I get down on myself, the craftsman comes to mind, his patience, his devotion to the house, how he must have felt as he transformed it into what he imagined it could be.  It would have taken years, more money than I can imagine, and more talent than I possess. Had he given up, who knows where the house would be, maybe in a heap of lumber somewhere having been cleared with crops standing tall.

It is the journey, after all.