It could have been biorhythms or something in the air

  • By Mike Dewey
  • May 22, 2011
  • 287
                        
SUMMARY: Wanting to make the most of a fine spring afternoon, Mike Dewey tackles project after project until only one remains ... and it's a challenge. It all began with the desire to fix the wind chimes. And then it got crazy. One thing led to another and, there I was, riding this weird burst of energy, unable or perhaps unwilling to abandon the momentum that provided the ultimate challenge. My focus, my entire reason for being, became all about the 33 pieces that, if assembled correctly, would allow me to present to my wife a perfect hammock. But I'm getting ahead of the wave. Time to back paddle. We've had the wind chimes a long time, maybe 20 years. We found them on our first trip to Frankenmuth, the little Michigan town famed for its gut-busting Bavarian cuisine and Bronner's, where Christmas is big business. The chimes consist of six metal tubes, about the size of flutes, and they make beautiful sounds. You might remember the scene in "Body Heat" in which William Hurt sees Kathleen Turner's collection for the first time. "You do have chimes," he says, amazed at the sight of so many of them, tinkling in the glamorous gloom, unaware that life as he knows it is about to go seriously off the rails. Anyway, our chimes have always been a source of pleasure, their tune providing the soundtrack of many days and nights spent on porches and patios as our lives have become one. But, like anything exposed to the elements, they require occasional maintenance and that's what I was doing the other afternoon. One of the tubes had fallen to the ground, owing to the fact that its nylon line had given way -- snapped -- and that required my immediate attention. I'd done the same operation many times and I knew the drill: strip down a three-foot section of bailing twine to a single strand, thread it between the holes on either side of the tube and attach it to the top, tying it off and cutting the line neatly. But just as I was getting to hang it back on the hook, two more of the tubes clanged to the pavement. Obviously, those lines had been ready to go, too. So I repaired those, as well. Once again, all six tubes were making their cheerful sounds as the breeze blew. Then it was up to the roof to tackle a chore I'd put off all spring: cleaning the gutters. I like being up there. It reminds me of being a kid, scampering all over the roof at the house I grew up in, worrying my mother to such an extent that once -- hearing my feet overhead as she prepared dinner -- she leaned out the kitchen window and yelled up, "Michael, get down this instant before you break your neck!" Moms are great, aren't they? Always warning you about breaking your neck or poking an eye out or stabbing a sibling with the scissors. "Don't worry, Mom," I'd say. "I'm fine ... and those pork chops smell great." And I'd climb down in time to join my family at the kitchen table. It's a habit I've never outgrown and now, living in a house surrounded by trees, it comes in handy when the gutters are cluttered. As I said, I'd been delaying the project for some weeks but, fueled by my success with the wind chimes, I leaned the ladder against the shed and climbed up, but not before tossing a broom and my work gloves up ahead of me. It was mostly pollen, that yellow-green stuff that's filled the air all spring, bringing in new blooms ... and allergies. Lots of sticks and pine needles, too, an assortment of old leaves and acorns, the usual. Three of the four gutters were easy -- dry stuff, easy to scoop and toss -- but the one that extends the length of the sunroom was stopped up and held three to four inches of standing water. That's where the gloves came in handy. It can be kind of nasty and you have to really dig around to free up the drainpipe, but it's one of those chores I like, the way you can see your progress as you go along. Squatting and scooping, I worked a foot at a time and soon had the water flowing and the gutter was shiny and clean once more. I swept off some loose twigs, threw off some branches and then took a little break, just enjoying being up there in the sweet sunshine. I smiled when I heard the wind chimes tinkle from below. And then I climbed down the ladder, swept off the patio and hung my drenched gloves from the laundry line in the garage. (In this development, it's against the rules to dry clothes where anyone can see them ... snooty snobs.) At that point, I turned on the crock pot containing spaghetti sauce, lots of veggies and my homemade meatballs (plus hot Italian sausage, which I didn't make) and moved on to my next task. I don't really bother separating whites from colors when I do the wash, but I do separate my clothes into two piles: one for the dryer and one for the line in the garage. I mean, I don't want my Jackson Browne T-shirt (circa 1976) to shrink after all these years. After starting the washer, I watered the indoor plants and took another break. And then, after I'd begun hanging stuff on the line in the garage, I noticed a big box that my wife had picked up in town the week before. In it, 33 pieces waited, inert. I checked the clock. Two hours before my wife would get back home. Once I started, I knew there'd be no turning back. Hammock time! NEXT WEEK: "Every Wave's Gotta Crash" ... or "Some Assembly Required, Indeed." Mike Dewey can be emailed at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC.


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