Grandpa’s Bus, Part 5
An Early-Summer Update
Grandpa’s Bus, Part 5
An Early-Summer Update
Sorry, Incorrigibles. This became a little longer than I intended. But, living alone in Grandpa’s bus on the banks of the Little Dry Fork, it can get kind of lonely. So, when I get company, I have a lot to say. C’mon in. I’ll make some coffee.
June 25:
After several weeks of living a much quieter life - Joe in his trailer on the banks of the Brule (see When the White-Throats Sing) and me living in Grandpa’s bus on the banks of the Little Dry Fork, I am reporting in with further reflections. Spoiler alert: Not much actual hunting and fishing stuff in this long and rambling drivel. Nothing that - I believe it was Dave who used the term - would be called “Me and Joe Went Fishing” stories. But please bear with me. In our hectic modern time where things seem to be running increasingly rapidly, I think that more and more people are becoming more and more unhappy. A few are crossing the line and becoming crazy. Perhaps my observations will be relevant to some of you.
Mac wrote that Joe’s crisis was precipitated by an unspecified business problem. My own crisis was precipitated by a computer jinx. Fortunately for both of us, “precipitation” now means nothing more than rain. A few weeks of clean country living brings some slowing down and some realizations.
So what have I (and Joe) finally seen that should have been obvious a long time ago? Several things, really. Maybe, as the summer wears on, other revelations will surface. These will have to do for now.
Realization 1: In my case - probably Joe’s, too - the crisis was not entirely caused by an outside force; it was largely self-inflicted. The outside force was a catalyst but we had to have put ourselves in a situation where some incident could push us over the edge. By that, I mean that all of us can get so immersed in our busyness that we lose our perspective. Maybe the following notes are influenced by Mac because I recently read (for probably the tenth time) Man, Tired. But I like to think that I could have figured out some of this stuff by myself. As I tell my son, I’m not as dumb as I look. (I don’t say that to my wife. I don’t know if I would want her to agree or disagree.)
Realization 2: I can’t speak for Joe but, in my case, a big part of my crisis was due to the fact that I was completely drained from many months of intense, highly focused effort. Not just being busy for many months, but from being busy doing something as well as I am capable.
Realization 3: While it can be tremendously fulfilling, such intense effort burns us out much more rapidly than merely occupying a chair in front of a desk, doing just enough to get by. It’s not the number of hours we spend working, it’s the number of hours we spend truly working that burns us out.
Realization 4: Such intensity must be balanced by rest and recreation, probably in equal amounts with the work, although that 50/50 balance may vary for different individuals, different conditions, and different ages of those individuals. The point is we need to renew our creative energy by regularly taking some time off to sharpen the axe. This does not mean pushing on until you fall over in your tracks. A wise man will set a pace - including breaks - that is sustainable.
Realization 5: When you get like Joe and me - running on fumes and brown water caffeine - and probably not very charming to the people around us, it is no longer an option to take some time off. It is now a matter of survival. If we don’t kill ourselves, our spouses will do it for us.
And, furthermore, I have come to…
Realization 6: When you get to the point where some outside force that ordinarily wouldn’t be a major problem now becomes a crisis, it is going to take some serious recovery time. A three-day weekend is not going to recharge the batteries. Joe spent an entire season traipsing up and down the Brule. Mac reported he was getting better every time he (Mac) saw him. Lots of trout and lots of books and living alone. Besides, as Mac said in Three Weeks…, a man alone gets along with himself because it takes most of his time just taking care of the little daily matters, things that “please the hands and rest the brain”.
And that brings me to Realization 7: So, Incorrigibles, if you are still with me after this torrent, I can report that Joe and I are making splendid progress on our road back to sanity - or, at least, a reasonable degree of same. But it is going to take some time. When you have dug yourself into a deep, deep hole, it takes time to get yourself out.
More reports and more reflections as events warrant.
Joe sends his regards.
Yes, Incorrigibles, if any of this torrent of venting helps, educates, entertains, or provokes you, you’re welcome. Stop by the 18th Floor Homestead and we will have a cup of coffee while I describe the (imaginary) view from Grandpa’s bus of the fabled Little Dry Fork Creek.
The accompanying photo may help. It is from a simpler, slower time. Grandpa, of course, is gone and the bus, after nearly sixty years of rustic splendor, is best remembered for what it was then, not as it is now. (Me too; I admit it.) My uncle reports that even the LDF has changed; this year, it is more silt-filled than ever. Now, fishing our stretch of the creek means more hiking than wading. But the deepest holes are still there with some fish in them. Undoubtedly, under cover of darkness, flathead catfish still venture out into the shallows to take pot luck for their dinner. I can remember those watery explosions in the middle of the night as we were sleeping in the bus. I recall one year when Grandpa, an ardent conservationist before it was fashionable, decided that the balance of big catfish to little fish was definitely off. That summer, he took three twenty-pounders and one ten-pounder off his branch lines. I was in the boat the morning when one of those twenty-pounders was waiting for us; you can see the branch shaking a long way off with one of the big ones. That’s something you remember. The legacy of Catfish Lake was certainly alive and well that year.
As I write these words, a gentle rain is falling. One of the most peaceful sounds I know of… provided I am indoors and listening to it. Rain falling on Grandpa’s bus is almost as soothing as rain falling on the tin roof of his old barn. Enjoying one last cup of peaceful morning coffee. Come join me.
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If any part of my journey back from the brink has resonated with you and your present situation, please let me know. Comments left online are shared with the world. (You may find, in this community, that there are other people just as weird as you. Or, if you prefer, welcome to stop by the 18th Floor Homestead to have a cup of coffee and trade experiences. You can pay for the coffee at: