Hermits?

 

               In the New York Times today, I saw an article “Hermits Support the Newly Isolated” which described the life of two self-described hermits and their outreach to others during the pandemic. They write books, run a web-site and now produce YouTube videos—I know, not very hermit-like, in my mind. I was most interested in the definitions of hermits and, in the end, thought, are we hermits?

1.       “Hermits can live anywhere, but tend to reside in modest dwellings.” Check—we have a modest dwelling. Comfortable, but not large or fancy.  

2.       Hermits do “not exit society because of misanthropy… but chooses solitude for spiritual reasons.” Check—we both like humanity, but need long periods of quiet in order to function.

3.   

    Hermits are “rooted in place.” They are “anchorites.” Check—getting Mark to leave home is a constant battle, made worse by the pandemic. We have not left Corvallis since September.  Once on the road, we are both great, but, even during normal times, the amount of effort needed to chivy us out of the house and backyard is considerable.

4.       Hermits “practice austerity.” Check—the heat is set at 64 degrees. My pants are ten years old. The van-- 1984.We mend, and repair, and reuse as a spiritual practice.

5.       Hermits show “awe in the face of the natural world.” Check—We take long walks, watch the seasons change, consider the sublimity of the natural world.

6.       Hermits like rituals. Check.  We are creatures of habit and ritual, from the tea we drink before bed to our observations and celebrations of the cycle of the year. Wheels within wheels, rituals within rituals. 

Six for six, on a chilly November morning. The Catholic Church is ringing their bells for second service. Outside, juncos dig in the left over leaves; the Halloween pumpkins slowly compost into the garden beds; garlic begins to poke up in the small bed under the kitchen window. Inside, the newspaper is scattered on the couch; laundry hangs to dry in the dining room; fresh greens and four small advent candles settle into the mantle.  

Thanks

 

Portland, Oregon. Late January. I was broke—being a cook, even in a foodie city, is hard in the middle of the winter. I was walking home from Fred Meyers on Hawthorne when a street person asked me for change.  He was clearly sleeping outside, colder than I was, without the knowledge that a paycheck was coming in three days. I pulled out my change purse and dumped it into his hand.

                “That’s all I’ve got,” I said. It wasn’t much.

                He nodded. “Are you ok?” he asked.

                “Yeah, I’ll get paid soon,” I told him.

                He dug through the pile and handed me a penny. “Always keep a penny,” he said, “for seed money.” We smiled, I thanked him, and we went on our separate ways.

 

                I’ve been thinking about this encounter—and the many others I’ve had on the streets a lot lately. We’re coming up to Thanksgiving in a very rough year, but it rougher for some than others. We are thankful for a home, after the ashes of others fell in our yard. We are thankful that our friends and family are still safe and well, when so many others are not. We are thankful that we have food in the larder, grown by people we know, in soil we all love. We have enough.

 

                If you find yourselves in the same position, there are many organizations looking for help.

Pancake Grills

 

        

        Years ago, when I still lived in Portsmouth, I bought an avocado colored waffle and pancake grill from the Immaculate Conception thrift shop. I was tired of trying to flip pancakes in my cast iron frying pan. I wanted a little wrist room! It was about five dollars, and it lasted another fifteen years before it finally died.  I really liked the design—it was multi-purpose and reasonably flat, so that it stored well—so I hunted through thrift stores, searching for another. None. I tried local stores for a new one. None. Finally, I ordered another on line, because Mark really likes oatmeal waffles for breakfast. The new grill lasted about six years and died. Once again, I hunted around and gave into the online order. Five years, alter, it died.

                By now, Mark had decided that he likes electrical repairs and projects, so he dismantled the grill, looking for the problem. It was a short in the thermostat; we could see the crack.  He looked for the replacement part, but it does not exist. Black and Decker makes the exact same grill with the exact same thermostat, but you cannot purchase it separately.  This is the epitome of the throw away society we are living in. First, the product is made to give out in about five years, rather than twenty five years, like my old one. Then, it cannot be repaired when it dies, so we have to purchase a new grill, if we want waffles again.

                Rather than buy a new Black and Decker grill, we bought a stove top cast iron grill which allows me to make pancakes and flip them. It is also nice for breakfast potatoes and eggs, as well as veggies and grilled cheese sandwiches, so I am happy. Even better, it has no moving parts to break and can be used inside, on my stove, or outside, over a camp fire.  We are, however, still waffle-less, so I am hunting, once again, for a vintage waffle iron, one that is built to last and to be repaired, like our stove.

Wood Piles

  

               Mark and I brought in a load of wood this morning. He has a work friend who took down a couple of dead trees, had the wood split, and sells it for a donation to the food bank.  Everyone wins. This morning, we drove over, loaded up  the Ark with nice dry wood—some of it a funky shape—and came home to move it into the basement.

                Moving wood is one of the projects we do well together. We are not like his parents, who are perfectly in tune after fifty years of house projects. Mark wants more snacks, requires more specialized equipment, and needs to think the entire effort through before he begins. I tend to plunge in, forget the gloves, and get splinters.  Sometimes, one of us will be the official Lead on the Project (yes, he is such a software engineer) but usually we work alone, calling for help occasionally. Wood does not work that way, if you want it out of the car or driveway so that the space can be usable again.

                Mark works the lower station; I take the surface. Before we begin, I consider the existing piles and the order I am always striving for, firewood split from stove wood split from kindling wood. I move things around, including a storm window or two.  He finds our gloves, fills a water bottle, and considers the space I have cleared. We discuss the stacking plan. Then it begins. I gather a pile of wood, walk over to the basement window, and call “Ready?” down. “Yes,” he calls back, and I drop the wood, piece by piece, into the window well. Occasionally, one bounces into the cellar—Mark stands back. He did mutter about needing his bike helmet, but it never got that bad. Sometimes he yells “NO!” because his hand is in the window well. I wait above. When I am done dropping wood, I call “done” and held back for the next load.  He stacks the pieces while I gather the next load. Back and forth, back and forth we move, working our way down the pile. There is a rhythm and a peace to the project, which is always done faster than I think it will be.

                There is a comfort to this late fall work, bringing in what we need for the winter. We have gathered the potatoes and onions, squash and dried fruit. We have canned tomatoes and jam. We have ordered dried beans, flour, what, and oatmeal. The wood for winter fires is in. The benches, table, and chairs from outside are in. The storm windows are up; the chicken coop is resting on an empty garden bed. Most of the compost work is done.  In the next few days, as the leaves fall and are swept into the street, we will pile them onto the cleaned out gardens. And then we will read, and rest, and take long walks in the damp winter world, waiting for the season to begin again with seed catalogs.