Out the Other Side

Alone on the ridge. Sunday, I think. At that point in the season where the days become meaningless, bleeding together like a watercolor in the rain. I’m more concerned with how much light there is. A reset on solitude today, which has always worked for me. I’ve been alone but seldom lonely. Was that Bukowski? It’s not important. Today is the first day of serious driveway repair. The head of the driveway has eroded and became problematic. The car bottoms out making the steep right turn. The work happens when the weather allows and next week looks perfect. No rain, sun, and temperatures in the 70’s.

It’s a puzzle of sorts. I view it from different angles to find a solution. A harsh transition from the climb to the top of the ridge. I’ll have to level the top, borrowing material from a twelve foot radius or so to correct it. Direct exposure and it gets hot quickly. Mattock. Shovel. Rake. A sweeping of the foot, because for whatever reason this just works. Dig out the drainage ditch, remembering the times I’ve landed different cars into it. Not a matter or if but when, if enough chances are taken descending during the winter. The real anomaly was last summer. On a perfectly sunny and dry morning, I lost focus and somehow ended up bouncing into the ditch on my way up. The only damage done was to my pride, which isn’t of much use anyway. Some 2x8 cutoffs and a hell of a lot of courage managed to free the car. I say courage because it becomes necessary to turn the wheel toward the steep drop off and hammer the gas to get out of the ditch. The driveway, and I use that term loosely, is barely wide enough for one car. If the reaction time was delayed, I’d send myself over the edge and that’s where it’d end.

After five hours of mattock swinging and head scratching I’ve managed to correct close to sixty feet. The driveway is roughly a half mile, with the steepest (most likely to damage) section being a quarter mile. It might not sound like a successful work day, but we’ll be able drive up without damaging the car. No water in the house, so I crack an Athletic (non-alcoholic IPA) and pour it into a mason jar. Teetering into dehydration, I walk back to the head of the driveway. Stand still in the warm wind observing the work completed. A convergence of past and future. Let it roll away and attempt to be present. Tamp the loose dirt with my shoes.  

A few mornings later, I’m outside in the lingering night, taking in the last of the cool air. A seek sings in an arch from north to west. I was following the night jar’s song without realizing it. The way what’s familiar circles back around, having lost nothing. Whip-poor-will. Whip-poor-will. Whip-poor-will. A sure sign that winter is over. That we’ve made it out the other side. Elated, I almost do a dance of sorts, but stand peering through the blackness instead. Somewhere out there a tiny bit of light emits and joy spirals into bloom like a fiddlehead.