Mardi's Link

November on The Big Valley

 

I love the fall - pumpkins, apple cider, harvest. But those things happen in October. By the time November arrives in northern Michigan, the pumpkins are carved, seeds toasted, and the harvest is over. November means endings - cutting back the perennials, catching a last glimpse of the frogs in the pond, and keeping a watchful eye out for a cold creepy crawly.

Repurposing is My Weakness

Perhaps I have pilgrim DNA. Or, maybe it's The Great Depression memories my mother has frequently shared with me. (Lard on toast anyone?) Whatever, I abhor waste.

And when you have a dominant character trait like this, it spills over into everything. I abhor waste in my menu planning, waste in my writing, and waste in my powerbrokers.

Because of this, I have been known to repurpose. Some may even call it recycling. (Though I am not anywhere near the level of this guy.)

Still, that leftover rice? Cabbage rolls. That three thousand word stream-of-consciousness on violent and sudden loss? Chapter Two in my memoir. Political hornswogglers (see above) dominating the headlines? Crow repellant for my vulnerable and just-planted sweet corn.

There is something deeply rewarding about finding a purpose for what otherwise might seem useless. Just be careful not to do this or this.

Springtime: The Season I Most Want to be Wendell Berry

Where's my wife? Where in blazes has that little lady gotten herself to now?

There are tomato seedlings to plant, an acre-plus of lawn to mow, downed trees from spring storms to cut up into firewood, garden paths to mulch with sawdust, grubs to contemplate the demise of, asparagus to pick, and a manuscript to proofread.

It is this last task that makes me long for a wife and makes me long to be Mr. Berry. If only for a season.

To whit, a quote from his 1987 essay, Why I'm NOT Going to Buy a Computer:

"My wife types my work on a Royal standard typewriter bought new in 1956 and as good now as it was then. As she types, she sees things that are wrong and marks them with small checks in the margins. She is my best critic because she is the one most familiar with my habitual errors and weaknesses. She also understands, sometimes better than I do, what ought to be said. We have, I think, a literary cottage industry that works well and pleasantly. I do not see anything wrong with it."

I aspire to live an approximation of Mr. Berry's seasonal life. Gardening in the spring and summer, writing in the fall and winter.

Obviously, I have no wife; my handsome husband, for all his many charms, is a poor typist. Mine is a literary cottage industry of one. One plus a damn fine iMac. It works well and pleasantly. I do not see anything wrong with it.