When I first moved to Oregon, I lived on a rural property full of delicious space but coated with trackable mud. In an effort to bar its travels from the garage into the house, I press ganged a pile of old cedar fence slats out in the greenhouse into the job of a boardwalk. I built it in sections that could be dragged apart should a tractor or other large vehicle need to be driven up to the house. They were my first Pacific Northwestern callouses, pushing down on that cordless drill for three hundred pilot holes and three hundred deck screws. I loved every minute of it.
Boy, do I miss that monster garage. (sniff!) First time ever the Silverado fit entirely into a bay. Yes, that’s the famous greenhouse. The gas pump next to it is old. How old? Well, it’s a hand crank machine and the price of gas behind the display reads 34 cents. The wasps that lived inside didn’t seem to care.
February 27, 2006