The Greenneck

As the Greenneck emerges from a long, dark cocoon of work, he feels compelled to reflect on a summer that seems to have slipped through his fingers. To be sure, there were accomplishments beyond the mere exchange of words for money: He ran fence, with the intent of containing his cows so that he might not spend any more of his evenings chasing them through the forest. He shoveled innumerable spadefuls of composted cow shit onto the gardens. He walked into the woods with a can of gas and a chainsaw, and walked out with an armload of cedar posts. He nailed rough-cut spruce boards to the side of his barn.

And now, looking through his office window over the lay of his little farm, the Greenneck sees a certain comfort: The meat birds and a steer, fattening nicely on pasture. A winter's worth of hay in the barn. A woodshed so full, the floor sags. It's a cozy list, a reminder that no matter what else happens this winter, none will go without.

But there were little of the activities that once defined the man. The longest bicycle ride of the summer, to date: 2.5-hours. The number of mountain climbed: 0. Times gone swimming: 2.

To be sure, there will be more warm days to come. But already, a chill is in the evening air. Already, the Greenneck has turned his attention fully to the seasons to come. When one chooses to live on and with the land in a climate of changeable seasons, one is always looking forward, preparing for what is to come. In August, that means firewood (should it have been done in May or June? You're damn right it should've. But it didn't). The old saying about firewood, that it warms you three times – once when you cut it, twice when you stack it, and thrice when you burn it – can seem quite understated when you're cutting and stacking on an 80-degree August afternoon.

Not that he's complaining. At some point along the way, cutting firewood became so compelling to the Greenneck that he chose to forgo a bike ride just to put up another half-cord. At some point along the way, he decided he'd rather spend a Saturday working on a barn, than climbing a mountain.

There are times he regrets these choices; times he yearns for that feeling that only comes of riding hundreds of miles each week, when pedaling a bicycle feels more natural than walking. Such a mark of devotion. But then, so is stacking firewood in August.

The Greenneck did one other thing this summer: He attended a memorial service for a neighbor who died rather unexpectedly at the age of 52.
Do these things connect? They do. Because you cannot attend a funeral without considering, at least for a moment, what you want your mark to be on your little corner of the world. At least, the Greenneck cannot.
And this is what he thinks: We are no longer a nation of producers. By and large, most of us earn our living on the whims and wants of others. Very, very few of us make anything that is an absolute necessity. Most of the time, the Greenneck is no different; his words might occasionally entertain and inform, but they fill no one's stomach. Riding his
bicycle might bring a smile, or a certain self-indulgent satisfaction, but none beyond the Greenneck will benefit.

But over the past few weeks – and indeed, in the weeks to come- he actually made something. He may not have made it well, but even that truth doesn't diminish the pleasure of it. Nor does it the diminish the knowledge that when his time comes, should it be tomorrow, or 50 years from tomorrow, he will have left behind something tangible, something that endures beyond the limits of his too-humble body.

For more Greenneck musings, visit www.wickedoutdoorsy.com.