The surface slush has finally frozen. It was time to get back on the ice Monday morning.

January 31, 2017 - Tuesday

11 degrees/cloudy/calm winds

Pentoga Road

I felt hot air blowing on me earlier this morning, much earlier. The furnace was running. I raised up on one elbow and observed it was only 2:30 AM. 

Evidently the wood stove needed filling. Unless Sargie awakened and volunteered, there was nothing to do but get out of bed and feed the hungry beast.

So here I sit, downstairs, in the dark, wishing the Sandman would fly overhead and anoint me with a truckload or two of his magic potion. Maybe if I write long enough, my eyes will become droopy and I'll be able to head back upstairs for another hour or two of slumber before the day officially begins.

I skipped walking Monday morning in favor of going fishing. The day was sunny and calm and after a two-week hiatus from the ice, it was time to put meat on the table.

It didn't take long to load the sled, auger, equipment, and Clam tent. I arrived at the lake a short time later.

Fishing was less than stellar. There were schools of smaller bluegills, all suspended in about ten feet of water. I really wanted to go deeper, where the big guys hang out, but getting my bait through the hoards of little fish proved challenging.

Interesting thing, the water is so clear that it's more like fishing in an aquarium than a lake.

In the end, I brought home a few small bluegills and a crappie. I'll clean them over the next few days, (they're currently buried in snow and frozen solid) after I go again and catch enough to make a fish fry.

I was home before noon and soon headed out to the shop.

The small mini maple bowl I'd been turning was buffed and about ready to separate from the stock.

Hmm, just a small imperfection, a little bitty flaw. Perhaps if I just touch it up a bit.

I touched alright, right through the wall causing the bowl to shatter and throw pieces all over the shop.

I wasn't mad, I just wanted to get even. Okay, that's a lie. I was mad as hell. Within a few minutes, another piece of wood, this time, birch, was mounted and whirling on the lathe.

I had better luck the second time around.

On the left is the finished bottom of the large mug-turned-bowl I'd attempted some time ago. On the right is yesterday's birch bowl. 

Strange how one's emotions can change on a dime over a chunk of firewood. When a piece of wood is being shaped and seems to flow, I get the same feeling as I did back when I'd play a beautiful piece on the piano or conduct a particularly meaningful work with my high school band. 

But let the turning go badly, the grain going wrong, encounter a particularly hard knot or rotten area, and I can mutter with the best of them. It's during those times that I feel as I did when one of my alto saxaphone players would be out of tune and I'd continually remind him to "bite down" or having to constantly remind the trumpet section that F# is middle valve, not first. Worse yet, teaching a novice clarinet player how to finger and play B natural, initially sounding like a goose on steroids with one broken wing. Any band director, former or present, will know exactly what I'm talking about, right Garry?

I did what I often do. I called a man who's a legend in the instrumental music field, but more importantly, my mentor and brother of over thirty, going on forty years, Mississippi Brother Garry, and asked his advice on a couple of turning techniques and procedures. As usual, he had some good answers and I felt much better when I hung up the phone.

Sargie was home last night around 7 and began closing her eyes shortly after supper. Once Antiques Road Show finished, there was really nothing on television that we wanted to watch, so it was off to bed.

Sargie closes tonight, another long long day for her. No doubt, after my morning walk, I'll spend my time in the shop and I'm willing to bet that there might be a nap in my future, a real, honest to goodness, old fashioned, grandpa nap, probably after lunch.

Speaking of nap, I think the Sandman might have flown over and worked his magic. I'm going to sneak back upstairs and crawl into bed alongside Sargie, see if I can salvage an hour or two of  sleep before it's time to get up for the day.

After all, a man's work is never done.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road...

Eileen and Uncle Bert, somewhere out west.
They traveled from Maine to meet their son, Andrew, who is down from Alaska, rafting the Colorado River.