Digging

We are out in the 90 degree October morning digging trenches for a new irrigation system. Warren, our dear neighbor and the farm manager, appeared with many yards of pvc pipe and pipe dope, cutters, elbow joints, spiggots. He had called earlier to tell us that he couldn't make it today for this project because he had to fix his mama's screen porch, so we were enjoying reading the papers on our porch.

The trailer rattles up with all the supplies and Warren announces that he couldn't deal with Mama and her boyfriend (he's eighty- three) and the boyfriend's daughter. As always, I am mesmerized by Warren's monologue, his salty complaints about his family, what he said, what she said, everything told with a twinkle in those amazing blue eyes. I think Warren could do these monologues as a stand-up comic. I tell him so. He knows that we appreciate him. I refer to Warren as the hydrologist and there is lots of fun banter. But we get to work with spades.

We have been on this property for more than fifteen years, built several buildings, and put in a lot of pvc pipe and electrical conduits. No one ever made a map of exactly what pipes were where under there so we need to dig this thing by hand so we don't split any crucial lines. We locate where the water line should come from the pump. As we begin to dig, we find not only huge roots, but mysterious pipes and conduits. We find old snuff bottles, trash, even a few rocks and an intact flower pot. Warren, as the chief hydrologist, knows exactly where the lines need to be cut and spiggots installed. Andy and I keep on digging. My eyes are on the prize of having a truly convenient watering system for the vegetable garden and the flower beds.

The sandy soil is very dry, not hard for spades to cut through. But it's hot and hard work. There is so much of it! I think of the kids in that wonderful novel, "Holes". As it gets hotter and harder and buggier, think of those prisoners who dig for miles with teaspoons to get out of jail. We are slapping the mosquitoes, mopping our faces, and fending off the lovebugs.

We drink lots of water and I ask Warren how he got to be so competent.

I think you learn a lot about a person working side-by-side on a project. He told me how he worked with his dad, and then how he coached his son, telling us insightful funny anecdotes. Now his son is an incredibly 'can do' person. Our children are also very competent; our sons can not only do their day jobs, they can also build, plumb, do electrical stuff, fix cars, cook. No task fazes our daughter, from starting a business to installing a bathroom to being a wonderful hands-on mom.

Finally, after five hours or so of really hard work, the project is done! We turn on the water, all the spiggots have great pressure, I am incredibly grateful to these two men who love me and know how much I have wanted this. I hug Warren hard.

Tonight we are tired dogs, ready to flop down and pant with that delicious physically spent feeling of having put in a heavy day of creative work.

Most of our friends and family do not 'get it' that we who have one foot in the urban worlds of St. Pete, New York, Washington, Paris, Rome, also need to be viscerally connected to the rural life of central Florida. To be here we need to mow the fields, grow vegetables, take care of the cows, and enjoy the life cycles of the hummingbirds and the spiders. We need to watch the sand hill cranes dance, and mark the changes of seasons listening to the whiporwills or noticing when the chimney swifts come and go. We need to have the time to introduce our youngest grandchild to fish and lizards and ant lions. We need to have our older grandsons get familiar with the rural life. All this takes time. There is never enough of it.

The moon is full, and though I am so tired after a day of digging trenches, I will walk out, amazed at the long moon shadows on the pastures, and I will rejoice in my good fortune.