Before I woke up this morning, Phil and Butch were already at work on the purlins. After a few hours, Butch headed home, and Phil spent most of the rest of the day outside. Twelve hours or more, putting together the building. The boys enjoyed sitting on the lift with him. He would rig up a towel, so they would sit in the shade, suspended in the air, admiring their Dad's muscles and efforts.
The heat index was 106. A few times he came down to the house to rest: his left hand would seize up. Based on a bit of internet research, I think that was mostly dehydration, probably compounded by a need for more calcium, magnesium, potassium, sodium—basically, he needed some good chicken stock, rich in all those minerals. And lots and lots of fluids.
I asked him at one point why he was continuing, despite hand cramps and fatigue. "Because I'm making such good progress! It's coming together."
I can understand that pleasure.
I spent about three hours this evening (once the heat index dropped to 99). I did the five wheelbarrow loads of compost that I've set as my daily goal, carting them from the pile uphill a short ways to the greenhouse. Then I did some weeding. When there's a significant visual change, weeding is quite fulfilling, really. And to move the weed seed laden plants before the seeds drop: that's fabulous.
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