If you look in the distance, you can see that there's an old Ford tractor beginning to sprout from underneath the snow. It's been completely covered for the past six weeks to two months. |
40 degrees/light rain/calm winds
Pentoga Road
It's arrived, dreaded, but welcomed.
We call it mud season.
Weight limits are being slapped on the rural roads as the frost bullies its way to the surface. Dirt and rocks are pushed out of it's way and pavement is heaved back and forth, up and down, like a drunken accordion following a Saturday night out on the town.
Everyone, including business professionals, who are usually impeccably dressed, tolerate wet shoes, socks, and even pant cuffs, throughout the day after stepping in muck and puddles on the way from their cars to the office.
If it's not bad enough to suffer through the spring mud season, early summer brings little relief. The frost will have pushed long buried rocks to the surface. Usually half hidden, the lawnmower blades will strike each with the first cutting of the season. I'll hop off the tractor, marking each, so I can return later with shovel in hand (or with the backhoe) and help it finish its journey to the surface, there to be moved to the rock pile.
Ah, spring. Ain't it beautiful?
I was most happy Wednesday morning when the phone rang informing me school had been cancelled. With all the rain and melting, the back roads were deemed too dangerous. I'm not sure there were any schools in the UP holding classes.
What to do. What to do.
I rode just a mile down the road with Sargie on her way to work and walked back in a skating fashion. All that glare ice I've been talking about from this winter's rainstorm was bare and covered with water. Walking in a normal fashion was impossible. I carefully shuffled along, careful not to fall onto my backside and finally made it home, taking longer than when my usual three to five miles are walked.
It was off to the shop and a morning of frustration.
Honestly, if the lake wouldn't have been frozen over, I'd have probably pitched the lathe into the drink.
It wasn't the lathe's fault, it was mine. I wanted to turn a larger bowl, much too big for the mini lathe. In the past, I've used some rather inventive means by which to mount and work on a big piece of wood. None of those worked yesterday.
The birch made the lathe completely top heavy and jump all over the place. The tool rest refused to be tightened and after an hour of of trying to make it work, I gave up. This piece will have to wait until I get a larger machine.
I grabbed a much smaller piece of maple and to make myself feel better, turned a simple bowl.
I didn't really care about the inside as it would be filled with homemade flowers and used as an Easter gift. In the end, the bowl came off the lathe okay. My self esteem had been restored.
A few flowers were made, painted, and glued, and by afternoon's end, the first Easter gift had been completed.
Another hour was spent fashioning a carved name, also intended as an Easter gift. That should be finished over the next few days.
Sargie didn't arrive home until late last night. Poor girl, closed the Vision Center, then had to drive in heavy fog the entire way. Though we stayed up later than usual, it was a short night for my girl.
I'm not sure what today has in store. The fog has lifted, but it's pouring rain, rain that is to turn to snow this evening. We have to go to town for some errands, but anything beyond that, I'll leave for Sargie to decide.
Meanwhile, I'm going to turn the heat on in the shop and go make some sawdust.
After all, a man's work is never done.
So are the tales from Pentoga Road...
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