Comfort Thoughts

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The last several days have been physically unpleasant so I was almost glad to see that nearly everyone had wandered away from the blog to do Memorial Day Weekend things. But I am equally glad to see you wandering back now, it lifts my sodden spirit and body considerably. I finally had enough last night of languishing atop bedding which I had drenched repeatedly since last week . I got up, lit the kerosene lamp and sat quietly in front of the Rat's large living room windows, letting the breeze wick away some excessive fever heat. My lymph nodes (or were they nymph lodes? I was too drained to figure which) were aching away painfully. According to the pain mimicking broken ribs when I cough (which thankfully isn't often), I suspect I might have a touch of pneumonia settling in. I was going to do up an herbal chicken soup but I knew that the eye-watering aroma of heavy amounts of garlic would have Mark gagging, screeching like a girly and heading for the door so maybe later today! The soup really does work well though; garlic, onion, turmeric and whatever else jumps to the fore medicinally as I scrounge through the cupboard.

And when I feel this down, comfort thoughts are as important to me as comfort foods. Comfort thoughts have helped sustain me through many bleak times at the Rat so far. I was reminded of this today when a friend wrote about the joy of creating with his hands. I needed that reminder. Creating with my hands was one of the activities by which I defined myself and my greatest joys. Restoration more so; reviving things which have been unappreciated, neglected, tossed aside and left to rot away, little bits of history possibly insignificant but a loss nonetheless if they disappear forever.

So, in my aching misery, I thought back to consider an odd cart which is now underneath the 45' moving trailer, just barely out of any driving rains but still subject to the direct ravages of the sun and dusty winds. Like my dear friend, the Katlady, I have a great appreciation for things built to last; like things made out of oak and cast iron, not molded plastic destined to clog landfills in two short years after the sun destroys them. I am sure this common passion forged our friendship even deeper beyond our mutual love of motorcycles. And she taught me the fine art of abandoning all dignity in high heels to salvage a roadside or dumpster piece with, you know ... potential!

Mark is generally a placid, logical and analytical creature. These are excellent traits in a partner for a scavenger who can actually follow through with a renaissance. But it took a while for those traits to develop a calm faith in what the junk cat had just dragged home; quite a while actually.
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.Case in point is the cart shown above. I got those junk hound goose-bumps when I found it. Cast iron and vestiges of solid oak ... chills down the spine. Although I had help in loading it into my truck, I was able to unload it (ain't gravity a wonderful thing?) just minutes before Mark was due home. I garaged the truck quickly and posed nonchalantly upon my new treasure and waited for seemingly ever until I could hear his footsteps coming up the long drive. And then steeled myself.

My salutation and broad grin drew his attention to my new and vulgar settee. Before he could compose himself, he flashed the old 'look'. But this time he imagined that it was truly justified as he surveyed my proud pile of rust, red paint and rotted wood. "Sigh ... mind telling me what you brought this home for?" "Absolutely! I've ALWAYS wanted one of these!" "I see ... but ... why?" "Well, because I've always loved Victorian railroad era stuff and this just ... " "But it's totally shot, Lin, a pile of junk that someone was thrilled that you dragged away. And that they made a few bucks in the process." "Sigh ... oh, you of little faith as usual. Here, grab one end and lift - it cost me less pound to pound than bags of ready-mix cement!" His turned, sighed again and then shrugged in martyr-like fashion and walked towards the house.
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Okay, fine then; you can see from the detail above that maybe it wouldn't have stunning curb appeal to most. If it had, I wouldn't have been able to afford it either. So much oak had rotted away around the carriage bolts over the front casters, one push handle was completely missing, the other hopelessly bunged up, the cast iron wheels were so badly rusted and seized and, in some places, looked as though they had been run through cement and left to dry that way. Are you starting to get the idea? This was a magnificent challenge of the first order, especially now that Mark had cast down that biting gauntlet of doubt.

I made a pilgrimage up to my wood man and he was able to supply me with straight grain white oak planed down to precise widths, enough to make two new push handles and replace two sides of the cart. Not cheap mind you since we're not talking big box store crappy pine or even their pricey red oak here. It was a healthy three digits before I got out of there with the oak and a short mahogany plank for a spinet desk restoration. This is why I was so protective of my restorations supplies. I remember one occasion where I heard the shattering of my salvaged antique glass in MY shop and went to investigate. Mark and a visitor emerged pleased and proudly holding a two foot long piece of my custom cut and planed 2" straight-grained white oak. "Took a while to find but this piece will be perfect to drive the RV up onto to level it out!" They beamed, at least until they saw my ashen reaction. "Uhm, that is a $60 chunk of wood you're holding there so I would prefer it if you could find something else, okay?"

Now the sanctuary of even that dark, damp shop is gone. The long-collected supplies had to be jettisoned at the last moment thanks to the sloth of professional movers in packing our semi-trailer and that deepest joy of my creative life vanished with it.

So here is my hard-earned advice to you if you plan on relocating to the boonies: know the passions which are dearest to you, make sure that they make the move and are accessible in relatively short order. If the vent of that passion is denied you, you may wither much sooner on the vine when other challenges come to the forefront. Such passions might be books and reading, knitting, fly-tying, your attempt at the world's largest ball of tin foil - it doesn't matter, don't let it slip away when you are about to tackle a radical change of lifestyle. Comfort thoughts are very helpful but can only last so long.
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Here was the finished product. Cutting mortise joints into that long side plank of 2" oak to fit tested my absolute strength with each pass. With no sandblasting available, I had to chip, chisel and file the corrosion off each cast iron wheel. The front casters were horribly worn and resting at lax angles but I was able to find the perfect piece of metal tubing to act as a new, snug bushing after being packed with grease. While fussing over the cast wheels, I came across a foundry name and did some research on it. It was active during the Civil War and survived almost into the new century. At that point, I stood back and became very pleased with my bit of preservation. Don't ever think that you can't save a small piece of history here and there. I've see so many wonderful things accomplished by first-timers simply willing to try.
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