Beltane Solstice Moon
While watching a NOVA program on dogs, a reference was made to archaeology. I studied archaeology and the broader discipline of anthropology seriously in college. Seriously enough that I applied for doctoral work in theoretical anthropology. Why I didn’t follow that up is a story for another time, but archaeology resonates for me and the mention of it in this context triggered a memory only recently interpreted.
Over the course of my life when confronted with the odd plumbing job or carpentry task, you know, the men things, I would fob them off with the stock phrase, “Oh, I learned everything my Dad knew about these things. Nothing.” And, as far I know, that’s a true statement in both instances. I’m still not able in those areas though I admit I’ve never tried too hard to learn.
Kate and I work outside together a lot, though she works in one area and I work in another. I found myself having a rising sense of impatience, irritation about her work. Those who know me well would recognize this mood in me. I’m not proud of it, but it does surface from time to time. This time I knew my mood simply had no basis in reality.
Kate works hard. She works well. And she was doing both of those, as I know she always does, so this mood was about me, not her. Suddenly buckets of water sloshing in the wee hours of the morning came to mind. Uh, oh. When we moved to our home at 419 N. Canal, it was the first, and last, home my father and mother owned. We moved there in 1959 and my dad had his stroke there in the 1990’s and died after having moved to a nursing home from there.
In my years there, from 1959 to 1965, I don’t recall a service person ever coming to our house to repair anything. Likewise, I don’t recall anything ever getting repaired. Must of have happened, but I don’t recall it. The only such incident I do recall was a recurring one in which our basement, which housed our furnace and little else, would flood. When that happened, Dad would get me up and together we would bail out the basement, one bucket at a time.
Roused from sleep, cold and wet, these were not my favorite memories. I do remember that as we worked, Dad would become silent, sullen. In fact, I remember him being irritated and impatient with my willingness to do this chore. Aha. My memory of teamwork seems to be tied to those nights and I seem to have selected my father’s attitudes to carry on, carrying his water into my own life. As sons often do.
Rethinking this time also made me realize a second thing. Why didn’t Dad try to solve the problem rather than resort to such a makeshift solution every time? I don’t know the answer. It might have been money. It might have been pride. It might have been that these matters simply didn’t show up as problems to solve, but rather came up as problems to ameliorate. Whatever the reason, I learned to be incurious about solving problems around the house. Doesn’t matter. Maybe it’ll go away or fix itself.
Now, I have owned homes since 1969, 7 altogether, one in Appleton, Wisconsin, one in Minneapolis, one outside Nevis, Minnesota, 3 in St. Paul and 1 here in Andover. Over that time I’ve learned some very minor skills in home repair and one big one. The big one? Hire somebody. Works most of the time. As far as I can tell, solving day to day problems in the house is one of the few things I’m incurious about. Fortunately Kate is better than I am and together we can call anybody.
The archaeology of our own thoughts and feelings is the most rudimentary and personal dig we will ever engage. And that, I’m plenty curious about.