Every year I take a vacation in the Adirondack Mountains, where I stay in a century-old farmhouse by a beautiful lake. I love to canoe, hike, plunge into the cold water of the lake ... and repair the house. The owners of the house were puzzled that I spent part of my time there voluntarily repairing the roof and the foundation, as well as adding some electric circuits, improving the plumbing, and shimming some bouncy floorboards. I repair houses for a living. Why would I spend my vacation duplicating my job - and not even for pay? The construction of that old house fascinates me. From the old stone foundation to the bats-in-the-belfry design of the roof, it is like nothing I encounter in California, so poking around is both a pleasure and an education. Ken, the old handyman who has cared for -- and who is almost as old as -- the house, is a delightful source of wisdom and experience and my touchstone of local culture. Ernest Hemingway said that you don't know a country until you've tried to make a living in it. As a corollary, I would suggest that I don't know a place until I try to work on a building there. Construction is the most local of industries. You need to know what insects live there, what trees grow and what is the life cycle of the local fungus. You need to understand the weather patterns and the geological understructure and even the chemistry of the local air and soil. Talking to Ken and to other Adirondack craftsmen, figuring out what supplies are available and where to find them, adapting to local conditions and techniques all give me insight into the ecology and economy of the area, and even a view into the ideals and ethics - the very soul - of the Adirondacks. For me, in small doses, it makes a perfect vacation.
From my window I see
branches dripping
gray fog.
I face a long day
heaving heavy boards,
testing
my brittle back,
glasses wet
with sweat,
porcupine fingers
bristling splinters.
Carpenter, carpenter, what do you say?
Cut wood all day,
bring home the pay:
a pocketful of sawdust.
But I can't wait
to begin.
from Son of a Poet
© Copyright 1986 by Joe CottonwoodNext: Revenge of Oak