July 4, 2011

“What a robust people, what a nation of thinkers we might be, if we would only lay ourselves on the shelf occasionally and renew our edges.”  Mark Twain

I attempt to assuage a guilty conscience by enjoying the simple pleasures of being here. I crack the trailer window next to me as I sit peering out, letting in the surf sound, that continuous white noise murmur that lulled me to sleep last night and welcomed me back to conscious thought at dawn, and also admitting the pure cool air. Yesterday was uncharacteristically sunny and warm for the north coast in July, but today the sea is donating to the land a thin fog that blurs the trees in the distance and scurries in wisps through the campground. The wind is a presence, always felt, and if I were perched on the picnic table outside, as I once willingly endured in my youth simply so I could be here, I’d need a coat for comfort. Here in the trailer, the coffee warmed me so well that I lost the long sleeved shirt in favor of a sacred (Holy, holey, why isn’t that old thing in the rag bin?)  t-shirt.

It was nearly eleven on Thursday night when I finally got here. No moon. No intruding street lights. The stars filled the sky, with the clutter of the Milky Way running from south to north, not that anyone way up there would notice. Expedience dictated my choice of campsite, as this one is relatively easy to back the trailer in to when ya cannot see what you are doing in the dark. Walk it first with the flashlight looking for surprises. Then set the light on the ground where you can see it in the truck mirror, and aim for that. Turn off the radio and open the windows and listen for crunching noises. Go slowly. Settle for an acceptable result and leave perfection for another task and time. Set the brake and shut down the diesel, and let the quiet and the surf sound seep in. Work on losing the buzz in your brain.

Through my window this morning I watch the grasses tufted with seed clusters waving in the breeze. Tall grass this year, coming to mid thigh on a guy my size, thriving from all that rain. The fence is right outside my window, grey weathered wood thrown rather haphazardly together a few years ago to keep the people from ruining the nature on the other side, a flimsy fence that would not deter a cow, and rarely turns the idiots. The fence diagonals away in a straight line some two hundred yards or so before it goes out of sight, running the same direction as the Milky Way. It angles just to the left of the old cypress windbreak out there by the pasture, and it adds immeasurably to the picture. A flycatcher perches on a post, and then darts out after what, a fly? In this wind, catching a fly with such a tiny beak is remarkable. Should have brought a net.

Looking across the sea of waving grass on the other side of the fence, I see a periscope emerge above the surface. A doe’s head, ears up and out, eyes locked upon something, she stands transfixed.  I cannot see what she sees, but it likely is one of the trespassers, the two-legged locusts that descend upon this place every weekend, and overwhelm it on the holidays. I understand her outrage, for I would rather have this place all to myself as well. I watch her through the spotting scope.

A smaller head pops up just behind her, a fawn, and then a second, barely clearing the grass. Twin fawns. Small wonder she is on guard. Babies must be protected. Mom moves off to her left, crossing right past my window. The fawns hop high to keep up, boing, boing. They still have their spots. Thanks for the show, and sorry for the intrusion.

I look through the trailer and out the window on the other side, and frolicking through the tall grass is a young boy, maybe six years old, barely taller than the grass, and just behind, eyes locked on the little tyke, Mom follows. Good for moms. All kinds.

Saturday morning, and I probably should be working, but I don’t want to be working right now. I’m feeling just a bit guilty about that, but I’ll get over it. Mark Twain talked of a straight razor that was used and sharpened and used and sharpened until the barber noted it would not hold an edge anymore, and the simple expedient of parking the razor on the shelf for a bit and resting the blade somehow changed things. And when stropped later, the edge came back keen as ever. I don’t know much about straight razors, but I trust the mind of Twain to deliver the truth, regardless if it hurts. As for me, I find that if put on the shelf for a bit, I come back with a sharper edge.  Don’t have to prove it; just know it. And this is a fine place to lay myself on a shelf.