It all started with a mishap. I suppose that's how most of my stories start- as when things go along quite swimmingly, there is nothing too surprising to report. That old pipe under frozen ground, stretched between house and well, broke- burst-cracked, or in some way, shape, or form, ceased to work.
In America, we don't often have the pleasure of being so thankful for something as basic as running water. I have been given this gift many times here on the farm. And let me tell you, I am thankful, thankful, thankful for that warm (or cold) stream of water that so effortlessly pours from my faucets.
But I digress...This, ironically, was not the mishap. When the last of frost had melted away and the ground was crumbly instead of clumpy (as the farmers put it, well, I don't know if that's how farmers put it, but we'll pretend for the tale's sake), we rented a trenching machine. The behemoth came with its own trailer and should have come with it's own set of earmuffs. When properly positioned, it plowed into the rich earth; way down, 48 inches, to be exact. It clipped along at a steady pace, snaking across the yard to the well. I held my breath watching the machine chug chug chug along, knowing at any minute it could run into the old water line, the sewer main, any number of unknown buried objects (a farmstead has many stories to tell under that layer of soil).
We kept Ryan and David far from the large, loud and dangerous machine. They watched eagerly from the window, fascinated by it. When Phil came in half way through, he was weary, worn, and dirty. While he ate a sandwich, we ventured out to survey the progress. With a tape measure, we realized that while the machine's violent grabbing and throwing was creating a trench, (a feat in itself in such clay-like, heavy soil) it was also throwing a foot of earth back into the hole. That foot of soil was not to be trifled with- it would have to be removed somehow so the pipe could be pushed firmly down 4 feet below ground level. The frost-line can reach over three feet here some years, and we didn't want to chance being in this situation again.
It's funny the things that make us slow down, appreciate life a bit more. Because at this point, we didn't stop- we didn't figure out how to fix the refilling issue. H
urry hurry hurry get it done before the weekend's over, there is more trenching to do! "We'll just get that last foot out by hand or something", we reasoned with each other dismissively. (It made sense at the time)
And so was put in motion yet another opportunity to learn the meaning of focus, discipline and patience.
And then, the mishap. When the link snapped and our rented trenching machine stopped in its tracks, a rock sunk in my stomach- what would we owe? How would we finish our trench? And what about that extra foot of dirt at the bottom of the 8 inch wide hole? But at the end of a long day we were all tired, frustrated and weary, and we called it a night.
The next morning, boosted by a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls, we headed out to the back yard, and surveyed the landscape. With no other option, we borrowed some hand-tools from Neighbor Mike, and fashioned some of our own (nothing nearly as good as the old time tools hanging around in Mike's barn), and headed to work, painstakingly dipping and scooping the last foot of earth from the bottom of the hole, dreaming of water.
Sssshh, thud, ssshhh, thud. The steady rhythm of the "
crumber" dragging along the bottom of the trench and the dull sound of dirt being dumped onto the grass outside the narrow hole is punctuated only by laughter and talking. Over post-hole diggers,
crumbers, and sweat, we reconnect. Sometimes there is only silence, a faint chirping of birds, whispering trees, and
ssshh, thud,
ssshh, thud. The work is hard, our bodies ache for relief, and so we take turns- the tagged-out member sprawled on a picnic blanket with two wide-eyed boys (one of whom, by the way, was later quite useful in the "tamping down" stage of the process.)
It was so opposite, such amazing dichotomy, to sit and witness the difference between man and machine. Man tires, the machine does not. The machine can break, man only wearies for the day. Man takes longer than machine, so, so much longer. But beneath all of this, encircling the entire event, is something so much more important.
That machine, the fast, intentional, harsh, thrashing, incessant stream of activity allowed for nothing else- no small voices, no interruptions, no questions or laughter or conversation. It allowed only for the efficient plowing-through of the
unpleasantries of life. But what is life but a series of activities? Must some be deemed unworthy of time, patience, and gratitude for its gift, while others are given elitist status because of their relaxing nature? Might not all moments be worthy of enjoyment? Must we rush through the life, only waiting and longing for a ceasing of activity? Man, in all of his inefficiencies and imperfections, can allow- must allow- for life to happen through it all. Kids can run and jump over a trench being made with a shovel; shovels can be lain aside to tackle said child into peals of laughter.
It was in that moment, that moment where the sun cast its rays low, lingering on the edge of the world, one boy picking quietly at blades of grass and the other watching intently the rhythm of tools from a way of life now collecting dust on a bookshelf, I understood this rare slice of peace- a gift in itself- one that does not come from inactivity nor is it attained by escaping the trials set before us. No, it lurks in those spots least noticed, in slowing down, working through, persevering. Right where I never expected it, and just where it was meant to be.
Fists clenched and jaw set there is no debating his thoughts on these matters.
