Tuesday, April 21, 2015
Got about another week to go on the west fence. Tired. Glad it's getting done. You can see the field yellowing behind me as I head in. Not like it used to be, me neither. There used to be implements parked in this field --hay mowers, skiploaders, drags, scrapers, John Deere child-impalers-- but no more. Up to us old guys and our Husqvarnas now.
We see each other, across maybe a quarter mile of combustible grass, manage a wave --but we're tired and trying to maintain the rhythm of the thing. Forty years ago, the rhythm rang in machines that baled the growth of these fields. And the town itself was small enough to be baled by any single renegade implement. Never happened, or I don't recall, thing is: what allowed us to work so hard those 40 years was the promise we would someday forget how hard it was --otherwise I doubt we could have done it. And yet...
And yet, even if I'm alone and all the other boys get called into supper, that old echo clarifies itself. I appreciate all great music. On this blog, I've posted opera, orchestra, folk, country & western and musical theater but when I'm laboring amid the labor of others --even when they've gone in and I've got a little pep left, the rhythm, the tune that runs through my mind is this:
It was recorded when I was in my mid-twenties --barely beginning the journey-- a youth. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote, "Youth is wholly experimental." I'd like to also believe youth is primarily a social experience in pursuit of something positive that remains when youth is gone. So I work on my own to this rhythm --on many levels too tired to think about. I am indebted to Doobie Brothers.