Perpetual Petty Irritations

Phil has had quite the irritating week. He had a tire blow on the garden cart while he was bringing chickens down for processing a couple days ago. Yesterday he spent a frustrating day trying to track down payment information for various random, irritating bills we have due, as well as taking a needed trip to Charlottesville to drop off a paper at the county building. (Had we remembered to mail it ten days ago, we could have saved ourselves the gas money and Phil's time.)

Today topped all, though. He moved the sheep from the stone fruit orchard back to the pomes, and found that, in their final day yesterday, they had torn loose several wires in the electric line and done something with the grounding rod. So he fixed that. Then he and Jadon caught the lamb that got loose.

After breakfast, he went down to do some maintenance on the chipper. After a year of sitting, the motor didn't turn over at all. Bummer.

Next, he went out to change the oil in the tractor. It is good to maintain equipment. He had finished spraying out the tank of the damaged sprayer, so the oil was nice and hot as he went to change it. And the special oil catchment container wouldn't hold the oil. He had forgotten to take the plug out.

So he reached his hand into the extremely hot liquid and loosened the plug. Fine.

He wanted the oil to drip dry for a time, so he cleaned some filters or something, then poured the eight new quarts of oil in.

Only to find that, by allowing the oil to drip dry, he had broken his train of concentration and had not replaced the stopper for the new oil. Six of the eight quarts or so were now soaking into the earth, and he had to make a trip to Scottsville for new.

I can reasonably well handle breakage. It seems to me like we have more than normal, but I figure that that's part of life. But waste: that is sickening to me, horrifying. Like finding dried tomatoes yellow with mold, or lacto-fermented tomatillos gone alcoholic. Or like six quarts of new oil, now soaking the earth. I hate that.

After his trip to town, Phil did get the tractor back in working order. He headed down slope and milled some more lumber.

After dinner, he came in and said, "I'm done for the day."

"What broke now?"

"The chainsaw. I was cutting down a tree, and one of the bolts must have flung off, because the chain suddenly came loose. It didn't get me, so that's good, but the chainsaw is done until I get another bolt."

So I'm glad that we are all safe. I'm very thankful the chainsaw isn't entirely broken forever.

But I have glimpses sometimes of deep bitterness coming out of me. Walking to the motor home, wondering why nothing we have tried works. Wishing at times for a little free time for myself, more than the two hours I sometimes have on Sunday night, just to read books for me. Thinking of the ways I am not pouring into my children as much as I wish I could.

And yet, the boys are out dancing around a pallet bonfire with their father. That's not a bad Friday night entertainment. The older two boys sat and talked to me all through dinner making yesterday, about drones and queens and the butterfly effect. That's not a bad education.

I spend a bit of time writing, in hopes that some day I can look back and see progress, and laugh and cry about how hard it used to be, because we'll be over the hard part.

May it be so.