Grandpa’s Bus, Part 4
From The Banks Of The Little Dry Fork
Editor’s note: Enough of the introduction. Is there a story here? If so, get on with it.
My sullen response: Okay, okay!
June 6:
For those just joining us, I recently reached a breaking point in my life comparable to the unnamed character – I call him Joe – whom Mac introduces in When The White-Throats Sing. “Joe” spent an entire summer living alone in a small trailer on the banks of the Brule River. He had a nervous breakdown when he arrived in the springtime and “the color and zest of a wild Indian” when he left in September. “Ol’ Doc Brule cured him”, Mac reported. Joe’s problems began when he was “beset with business cares”. My breaking point was a jinxed computer.
Hope you don’t mind, Incorrigibles, my meandering drivel in these reports. But, perhaps some of you are also nearing your own breaking point for various reasons. Modern life is, after all, more complicated and hectic. Our possessions come to possess us and our conveniences, cumulatively, become inconvenient.
(I am still waiting to get my main computer back. To date, three different IT guys have torn it down, cleaned it, tested all the functions and apps... and still cannot identify why it is shutting down periodically, with no pattern and no discernible trigger. Kinda like fish biting or not biting for no reason. I am writing this report on my backup computer... without an internet connection. I will send this after I get online again.)
Incorrigibles, I desperately needed a retreat from the pace of my modern digital life. The erratic, jinxed computer was merely the final straw. However, just as I cannot simply walk away from parenting duty of an eleven-year-old son, I am also not free to simply disconnect from all my digital devices. Too many commitments - and, honestly, too many comforts and conveniences.
But, as much as my unbreakable promises permit, I am taking a summer retreat to a very special place. In my imagination, I will be staying a few weeks at my family’s ancestral camping spot on the banks of the Little Dry Fork Creek. (I repeat in my imagination, to clarify that I have not left my home on the 18th Floor Homestead in the big city. I am not denying reality; I just don’t like the reality I have gradually slipped into.) Thus, I am allowing myself the delicious luxury of pretending to be back in the place so central to many of my youthful experiences. And, while I am pretending, I am also pretending to be much younger and healthier and carefree. Why not? This is all imaginary anyway. Welcome to come along with me to a quieter, simpler place and time.
You see, my grandfather towed an old bus down to the LDF in the early 1970s. (My uncle corrected me; he said Grandpa took the bus down there in 1967 or ‘68. So many years ago that the exact details don’t matter.) Grandpa set that retired city bus up on blocks and converted it to his permanent fishing cabin, complete with gas stove, gas refrigerator, and gas lanterns. Bathroom facilities consisted of a long-handled shovel with a roll of toilet tissue slid down the handle. Water for drinking and cooking were brought in each trip in gallon milk jugs. Not exactly luxury but all that we needed. Still my idea of paradise if I cannot live on Gilligan’s Island, which is still my idea of a tropical paradise.
We were there for the fishing, the isolation, and, on occasion, target shooting with .22 rifles. Targets for the .22s were beer cans which were emptied for that purpose before the ice in the ice chest melted.
First conclusion: Always in the past and, in recent years, in my imagination, the visits to Grandpa’s bus were for a long weekend. Always, the stay would be about as long as ice in the Coleman coolers stayed ice. We brought water and food (and beer) sufficient only for each trip.
I recall one weekend when Grandpa and I and Cousin Danny went down to the creek for a three-day fishing trip. In the middle of the afternoon the second day, Grandpa’s buddy, Ed “Poppy” King came flying down the hill in his ’49 flatbed Chevy pickup, through the field, yelling out his window, “I heard that you planned to stay for three days but only brought one case of beer. So I brought you a couple more!” Then he and Grandpa proceeded to sit in those comfortable green metal lawn chairs under the elm tree shading the bus and drink most of them while Danny and I went fishing.
In those days, a man was known and admired for his capacity to hold his liquor. Grandpa used to brag, “I don’t drink whiskey anymore but there’s not enough beer in the world to get me drunk.” So, when Danny and I returned a couple of hours later, there was a pile of empty beer cans between the two chairs and those two old geezers were still talking about the good old days on the creek when it was known as Catfish Lake. Couldn’t tell they had been drinking at all. I didn’t have that capacity then and I certainly don’t these days. But... a good memory since we all survived unharmed and unarrested.
Back to my current solo retreat - I repeat, in my imagination - this has a very different feel to it. For one thing, I am much more moderate in my drinking these days. Not trying to impress anyone and don’t want to live with the consequences of over-indulging. I still ask myself if I enjoy my Jack Daniel’s because of: 1) Good memories and associations; 2) To escape from the quiet joys of parenting a pre-teenager and occasional spousal disruptions of the domestic tranquility at the 18th Floor Homestead; or 3) I genuinely enjoy the sensation of the relaxing and pain-killing qualities of good whiskey. Down at the creek, I think it is all three. (Regarding Reason 2, the Chinese call it “painful happiness”; the Chinese have it right.)
But the main thing that is different is knowing that this is not a three-day weekend trip. I am planning to stay for the summer, a matter of weeks, not a couple of days. (Since this is an imaginary trip, I will not concern myself with logistics such as resupply and maintenance.) But knowing that I am there for the duration is a distinctly different feeling from knowing that I am there only for a couple of days as I always did in the past.
John Steinbeck, in Travels with Charley, noted that there is a point in every journey when the perspective changes from enjoying the trip experience to simply anticipating arriving at the destination. That rule applies for both a three-day weekend or a three-month holiday. But, for this long summer retreat, the first few days are not marred with concerns about preparing to return or matters to be dealt with after I get back to my old life. Just a completely different sensation. The same with Joe, I presume, after a couple of weeks in his trailer at the end of that little road along the Brule. It will be a long time before I start thinking of breaking camp and leaving Grandpa’s bus this trip. Nice. Just knowing that I am here semi-permanently is calming. No rush, nothing to start planning or preparing. It’s way too early for a drink; I save that modest pleasure for bedtime. But maybe another cup of coffee...
In the past, on disturbed mornings when I was feeling overwhelmed by life and my “promises to keep before I sleep”, I would often talk with Al as I was making my first cup of coffee. [I realized much later than I was channeling Robert Frost’s, “But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.”] Especially when I used those old green-handled spoons from twenty years ago, I would think of how Al also preferred the old things. Or maybe I would talk with Grandpa, telling him about my life today – mostly good things, but perhaps too complicated and rushed. Or, on occasion, I would even speak with Steinbeck who said my coffee was nothing like how he learned to make it from one of the giants of the Old South. Steinbeck and I would be having this conversation while in his pickup camper, Rocinante, in the dawn of a crisp October morning somewhere on the plains of North Dakota... just passing through.
But, this time, this trip, I am staying alone down at the creek. “Alone but not lonely,” Mac wrote. That’s me. Peaceful. And, on recent mornings, I find that I am quite content to be alone and talk only to myself as I fix the coffee. I like being alone... for now, anyway.
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(Sitrep from the banks of the Little Dry Fork. A few days after settling in. Sorry if parts of this report refer to matters that only I understand. But, after all, this is my journal.)
I wonder if Joe woke up some morning after a day of enlightenment with the desire for a simple day with minimal thinking, revelations, and decision-making. A morning to just take things one step at a time. Like, “I’m going fishing this morning.” Nothing more complex than that.
That seems to be my quandary. In my real life in the 18th Floor Homestead, when I am focused on efficiency and concentrating upon my immediate goal, the intensity is too draining. That is when I idealize the slower, simpler, less-digitized life of my youth. Some authorities have said that the computerized worker is three times as productive as his pre-computer era contemporaries. Probably true. But probably three times as much stress, too. This contrast is comparable to how Harold Blaisdell drew the contrast between simple Tom Sawyer cane pole fishing and highly refined, latest technology, finest tackle dry fly trout fishing. Blaisdell’s conclusion: Both are satisfying. We need both.
I also need both the old and the new. I must have the productivity of a focused effort to do my work well but it should be countered with the diversity and the fulfilling quality of life resulting from what Mac described in Three Weeks… of a man alone, spending most of his time taking care of the routine matters and minor details of daily life. I want the comforts, conveniences, and time-saving devices of modern life – including the computer and smartphone – but I also want to enjoy the benefits of a slower pace and less intense life where I can spend more of my time with mundane matters and working with my hands.
I see now that I have been spending far too much time in recent months on the intense end of the spectrum. I wonder if Joe had a similar revelation after a few days on the Brule. From today, I will start my practice of living – as much as possible – free of the intensity and stimulation of the computer during this summer retreat to the LDF. One activity at a time; I will keep things simple.
Reading Kai’s book – I decided that I can only be a proofreader and Hemingway consultant, not a copy editor – will be a pleasant change of pace from the intensity of preparing my own books for the future series. Then, when I resume working on the series, on Book 6, I will limit myself to two or three hours a day on it and to two or three more hours a day doing anything else requiring the computer. This amount of computer time seems to be the irreducible minimum in my real life; I accept that. I don’t want to give up the convenience and productivity of the computer and the internet. But I also want to enjoy more diversity and a healthier lifestyle which can only be found if I walk away from the computer more hours each day.
I keep thinking of Papa Hemingway dividing his days into early-morning-until-noon for writing, then social time and relaxation for the rest of the day. Maybe head down to the Pilar for an afternoon of blue water fishing. A good balance for him. Sustainable, apparently, for many years. However, I do not have the energy or mental energy to keep going so many hours with the focus solely on my current writing project. Maybe it is age; maybe it is a different temperament. I will find my own balance for the day.
I know that I love to get up early – long before wife and son are awake to distract me – and do my writing. As Papa said, it is the most fulfilling thing I have ever discovered. But not for the whole morning. Two or three hours for writing – after the current break of a few days for critiquing Kai’s book – then another two or three hours later in the morning or early afternoon for other computer-based activities will be interspersed with Mac’s chores “that please the hands and rest the brain”.
This realization – Did Joe reach the same conclusion? – seems to be the next refinement in my quest for the best sustainable lifestyle for me. Mac wrote that Joe went fishing every day – “caught and ate more trout than mortal man is entitled to these days” – but he also read a lot of books. And, in addition to that dichotomy, several hours of Joe’s day would have been spent on the simple, hand-pleasing tasks of daily maintenance in his less convenience-filled trailer.
Surely, with all the options open to me, I can fashion a balanced, sustainable lifestyle that allows me to be both a productive writer and a comfortable, supportive husband and father. And, of course, any balance I reach will not be a permanent commitment, i.e., this change will not be the last change. I know that I have been extremely happy with myself the past few months, working with Torgeir to complete KT2, then beginning work to prepare the TEC series. But I can see now that the pace was not sustainable.
I need a period – summer on the LDF – of rest and recovery. But even this summer pattern will not be a permanent change. Joe did, after all, return to his old life in the city at the end of his summer on the Brule. Just like all seasonal changes, patterns of work and recreation and the balance between them should change also. I will enjoy my summer on the LDF but not expect it to be prolonged indefinitely. Life is good but it is always changing. That concept of unchangeability is a myth promoted by incurable romantics, the same people who say that Prince and Princess Charming rode off into the sunset and lived happily ever after. That will last until one of the horses throws a shoe… or saddle sores develop which prevent happy riding.
Incorrigibles, after a few days of living in Grandpa’s bus (for me) and several weeks of living in his trailer (for Joe), I recorded these thoughts in my morning journal. Rather obvious, sophomoric even, but what I am thinking of today before I send this report.
I got my wonky computer back yesterday. The fourth attempt by an IT professional to identify and cure the problem. After three days in his lab, he returned it with an apology. Wouldn’t accept any payment because he wasn’t able to clearly identify the problem. A professional; I will remember him for next time. His only possible explanation after all the testing was a bad power cord, from the wall outlet to the back of the computer. A new cord and I will test the computer for a few days. As in love relationships and fishing holes and trusting new friends, it’s like Hemingway said: The only way to truly know if you can trust them is to trust them and see what happens.
(0630) Instead of Coffee #2, I went back to sleep. Almost an hour. Much clearer thinking now. Then I got up to make coffee, wake SF and (first time) CS. Back to work now with the realization that I feel bad this morning because of allergy problems. Maybe CS will also. Those are minor obstacles. All the computer problems of the past weeks have been minor obstacles. The important thing is to just keep moving, working on the things that are most valuable and possible at that particular time, under the prevailing conditions. Mac: Use each day for what it is best suited. One step at a time, in the right direction, always with the overall goal of a sustainable, fulfilling, balanced life (including relationships, health, and long-term goals).
Joe is going fishing. I will proofread a pre-release book for a friend. Not my genre but a promise is a promise. Then, in about an hour, I will get CS up and the day will descend into the usual Saturday mild-to-acute chaos. Fun but mostly accompanying him to his weekend activities and putting out little fires. I will take Kai’s book with me in case I get any free moments. Rather be fishing but the closest I will get – maybe – is going to the new fishing equipment store we saw last week to check it out. They may also be able to direct me to some fishing spots near our home so a fishing trip doesn’t mean a half-day time block. There are times – lots of them recently – when I just want to wet a line for an hour or two. Nothing more complicated than watching a bobber and turning off the phone.
If any part of my lament/soul-searching journal has resonated with you and your present situation, please let me know. Comments left online are shared with the world. Or… I invite you to stop by the 18th Floor Homestead to have a cup of coffee and trade experiences. You can pay for the coffee at: