Lunch with Carl Jung
If I don't get stuck in the creek, I should be okay. That's the only part I worry about right now, though God knows a more intelligent man would worry about more. We're building a greenhouse across the creek on S**'s property - across from his house, near his old cattle barn. The whole thing is D*'s idea - dream, S** says derisively - and we're mostly just doing what D* says. I don't know how I got involved - D* somewhere or another got the idea that I know something about greenhouses. Or maybe he didn't. But somewhere along the way he got the idea that I know about something. And I got hired. Sometimes I think S* had something to do with it. D* needs a little bush-hogging and grading done and I think S** volunteered me. Next thing you know I'm a consultant. Running things.
There's not much to run yet - just D*'s dream.
Maybe I should back up just a little bit. D* has lived on S**'s place a few years now. In an Airstream back up by the pond. He goes into Asheville to work. I haven't seen much of him since he moved him, know him mostly from what S** says, which isn't kind. Someone offered to sell D* a greenhouse - a big one. A nursery down in Junaluska that's not in business anymore. So D* buys. He's got a plan to retire from whatever he does in a year or two and become what he calls a "hobby farmer." He wants a cow and some chickens and wants to sit on his front porch with a wheat stem stuck in his mouth and watch the corn glisten in their straight little rows in the warm evening sun. Or something.
The greenhouse is all part of this, as near as I can tell. It's something he wants to build for S** and K**, it's something he wants to piddle in himself, it's something he wants to make a fortune off of. He comes from a different angle everytime I talk to him. The only conclusion I've been able to draw so far is that he doesn't know what he's doing. That's alright. A lot of people don't know what they're doing. Some are less skilled at hiding it than others.
I'm going over to S**'s first thing tomorrow to bush-hog and then grade. We need to neaten the area a bit. Make a staging area, of sorts. Then the greenhouse gets torn down and hauled up here. And hauled across the creek. And placed in our now neat staging area and then erected. After which time D* will have his greenhouse.
I drove back from Texas a few days before New Year, not really knowing what I would do the rest of the winter but knowing I didn't have enough in my pocket to start up the farm for next year. Yeah, that was me out there on I-59 in Alabama - no money and no plan, just some twisted faith in Jesus, which was my own personal left-overs from Christmas. I get back and learn about D*'s greenhouse deal. No, Jesus is probably not responsible, but as soon as I fire up the tractor tomorrow morning I'm on somebody's payroll, and that leaves me feeling just a llittle bit beatific.
I'll ford the creek down near S** & K**'s house, down past the little bamboo grove. I don't think I'll get stuck there. We've been over plenty of times in S**'s tractor without a mishap. We got stuck down from S**'s house once - S** and B* both on the tractor in the middle of the creek and no way to get off. They both sat out there while I walked up to the barn and got the other tractor and went back to drag them out. S** thanked me. Damn, S**, I said, I wouldn't have just left you there.
I've been stuck down near S**'s old cabin, near where his goose used to live. It's muddy there, real muddy. Not a good place to cross a creek on a tractor. Then there's the spot further upstream, near H*'s field. I'm not sure why I'm reluctant to cross there. I think S** and I almost rolled his bulldozer there a few years ago, but the memory is sort of blocked out. Anyway, I'm shying away from it.
We've been across the creek a thousand times. I don't know why I'm concerned about it.
At "dinner" today, K** said, "Frank, what do you eat when you cain't sleep?"
"Wha?" I said.
"I ain't slept hardly a wink in two nights, Son. I dream somethin' awful."
I got some more corn bread. And soup.
"I dream about muddy water, Son. Swirlin' muddy water. They say that ain't good."
There's not much to run yet - just D*'s dream.
Maybe I should back up just a little bit. D* has lived on S**'s place a few years now. In an Airstream back up by the pond. He goes into Asheville to work. I haven't seen much of him since he moved him, know him mostly from what S** says, which isn't kind. Someone offered to sell D* a greenhouse - a big one. A nursery down in Junaluska that's not in business anymore. So D* buys. He's got a plan to retire from whatever he does in a year or two and become what he calls a "hobby farmer." He wants a cow and some chickens and wants to sit on his front porch with a wheat stem stuck in his mouth and watch the corn glisten in their straight little rows in the warm evening sun. Or something.
The greenhouse is all part of this, as near as I can tell. It's something he wants to build for S** and K**, it's something he wants to piddle in himself, it's something he wants to make a fortune off of. He comes from a different angle everytime I talk to him. The only conclusion I've been able to draw so far is that he doesn't know what he's doing. That's alright. A lot of people don't know what they're doing. Some are less skilled at hiding it than others.
I'm going over to S**'s first thing tomorrow to bush-hog and then grade. We need to neaten the area a bit. Make a staging area, of sorts. Then the greenhouse gets torn down and hauled up here. And hauled across the creek. And placed in our now neat staging area and then erected. After which time D* will have his greenhouse.
I drove back from Texas a few days before New Year, not really knowing what I would do the rest of the winter but knowing I didn't have enough in my pocket to start up the farm for next year. Yeah, that was me out there on I-59 in Alabama - no money and no plan, just some twisted faith in Jesus, which was my own personal left-overs from Christmas. I get back and learn about D*'s greenhouse deal. No, Jesus is probably not responsible, but as soon as I fire up the tractor tomorrow morning I'm on somebody's payroll, and that leaves me feeling just a llittle bit beatific.
I'll ford the creek down near S** & K**'s house, down past the little bamboo grove. I don't think I'll get stuck there. We've been over plenty of times in S**'s tractor without a mishap. We got stuck down from S**'s house once - S** and B* both on the tractor in the middle of the creek and no way to get off. They both sat out there while I walked up to the barn and got the other tractor and went back to drag them out. S** thanked me. Damn, S**, I said, I wouldn't have just left you there.
I've been stuck down near S**'s old cabin, near where his goose used to live. It's muddy there, real muddy. Not a good place to cross a creek on a tractor. Then there's the spot further upstream, near H*'s field. I'm not sure why I'm reluctant to cross there. I think S** and I almost rolled his bulldozer there a few years ago, but the memory is sort of blocked out. Anyway, I'm shying away from it.
We've been across the creek a thousand times. I don't know why I'm concerned about it.
At "dinner" today, K** said, "Frank, what do you eat when you cain't sleep?"
"Wha?" I said.
"I ain't slept hardly a wink in two nights, Son. I dream somethin' awful."
I got some more corn bread. And soup.
"I dream about muddy water, Son. Swirlin' muddy water. They say that ain't good."
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