Well, he hasn't gone yet.
His dilemma has been whether to work when it feels okay, and then stop at some point after it starts to throb. But, really, that's not exactly "rest," even though anything less than full tilt seems like restless rest.
If a typical joint recovery takes two to six weeks, and he's not yet actually begun to rest, we might be here a while.
I try not to be frustrated. He tries not to be frustrated. Sometimes we succeed. Sometimes we don't.
On Friday, he took the older two boys out to make a wooden window frame. In retrospect, it would have been better to have it finished before building up the window: the edge ended up needing some slight shaving. Then, when he went to hoist it into place, it somehow overshot. Thankfully, it didn't fall to the ground outside the structure, but I had to stand under the heavy thing and hold it upright, an uncomfortable position even when not supporting a hundred-pound window frame.
Thankfully Isaiah was there and raised the tractor bucket so Phil could stand in it and raise him to the proper level.
And then it was in place, and we were done for the day.
On Saturday, Phil commissioned the boys to help him clean up the driveway. Only a few wooden posts, and all the driveway will be ready for mowing. I am excited to see how it will look without a row of construction and farm debris and homeless leftovers.
This season offers little visual delight. Red-brown soil, beige grass, gray skies, leafless tree trunks with a few ugly pines: there is little cheery color. Even my comfrey is wilted and done for the season.
I admire my stalwart stinging nettle, though, when I go out to dump compost. Still fresh and green, like a bit of spring tucked away.
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