So many photos and field notes and punch lists, marked up plans, pruned and grafted scopes of work,… This is the ephemera of construction and the detritus of rehabilitation. This midden of punch lists and diagrams and collaborative problem solving, this is the tangled and layered chorus we seek to distill and remix into an oasis. Some days the process almost approaches autopilot. Others approach a multi vehicle pileup.
Although I’m as goal oriented as the next guy, as eager to complete the project as I was the day I started, I’m inordinately fascinated with the in-between. I romance the journey. I thrill in the process. The interstices lure me as much as the origin and destination.
And so it is with this icehouse rehab. The journey. The myriad micro narratives tucked into each chapter.
Currently we’re wobbling a little as we adapt to two members of our team succumbing to COVID, as we ramp up testing and masking (and wondering if anyone else is destined to become sick.) The icehouse is such a small, enclosed work environment, so it’s easy to worry that the contagion may have embraced others still testing negative. But angst breeds angst, not relief or good fortune. So I try, we all try to focus on matters we *can* control. Tony finishes beech flooring in the loft — sanding and cleaning and sealing and repeating — investing his energy and passion in perfecting the small but sensational perch where soon I will be able to install myself at my black walnut desk to write and revise and read. Supi and Justin began trimming in the coving, working the poplar lumber that was grown, harvested, milled, seasoned, dimensioned, and finished at Rosslyn. Hyperlocal carpentry. Leaning into tangible tasks, transforming sketches, plans, field notes, and punch lists into results is an analgesic of sorts.
Tomorrow we will all test again. If fortune spares us, we will all be able to stay on task, charting a path forward, advancing through timelines and upon objectives. The wind will subside, the temperature will rise, the snow will melt, and the mud will gradually replace the ice. Perhaps the opossum will return to eat the cracked corn intended for the mallards, the daffodils will recover from the blizzard and begin to push their green fuses higher, and the high tunnel will warm to 103° again (almost tripling the temperature outside). If time permits, Susan and I may cross country ski through Rosslyn’s fields and forests after finalizing the order for new deck furniture. My brave bride might even take a polar plunge into 35° Lake Champlain. By choice. For pleasure. I will almost definitely not take a polar plunge into Lake Champlain.
Field notes will accrue, punch lists will get checked off, and another chapter will be sculpted out of bits of wood, stories, laughter, memories made, and incremental headway. I am anticipating a good day!
What do you think?