Alexander Hamilton’s Chuckle

January 20, morning

Every once in a while on my drive from Houston to the property near Buffalo, I stop in at Woody’s Smokehouse in Centerville. I never stop at Buc-ee’s, part of the travel spot emporium chain, in Madisonville. Woody’s has been around since 1975 and became the iconic and popular pit stop for folks driving between Houston and Dallas. In 2009, Buc-ees barged in and now attracts a lot more customers than Woody’s. I met Dudley Wood on one visit. He is a very nice fellow with a lot of tributes to the American soldier in the store. I would like to talk to him sometime about how it felt to relinquish the number one travel stop to the upstart Beaver. I always order a bacon and egg biscuit – they make the best biscuits I’ve ever eaten.

January 20, evening

I arrived to find Angel the tile guy in need of some special mortar and a couple additional tiles before he could finish his work. I put together an order with Jessica at Floor and Decor. TKO, my builder, was on his way to Madisonville and added a stop in Woodlands to pick up the material. I find it amazing how quickly I can get tile supplies. But it takes six weeks to get a tub!

The other Angel, the painter, is out with a bad back and that is not helping the building schedule. The issue is related to some generous and compassionate efforts he made around Christmas time; he overextended himself and ended up injuring his back. He did all the exterior painting and is great to work with. I really don’t want to break in a new painter, so hopefully he will recover soon.

Dealing with change is part of any project. It is part of that grand project called life, and all the myriad sub-projects which combine unpredictably to form the mosaic of our existence. I referenced the Iliad in an early post because I prepared myself for battle when I decided to build a house. I thought the house would be my Trojan War, after which, victorious, I could continue my life’s journey. A journey perhaps not as great as the true hero’s journey: not Odysseus’ return to Ithaca or Jason’s quest for the Golden Fleece; not Frodo’s journey to the fires of Orodruin or Saint Francis de Assisi’s pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. Yet, a meaningful and challenging adventure beckoned.

I overlooked that the construction of the wranch was itself a journey. The decision to purchase the wild and undeveloped land was a call to adventure. When Paula told me she wouldn’t live in a trailer in the woods, which I actually found quite exciting and satisfactory, I committed to designing and building a house in the country. Who knew what ordeals and surprises awaited? When the project is complete, I shall return with my bride and carry her across the threshold of our new home. Like Odysseus celebrating with Penelope on his olive tree furniture.

And then start planning my next adventure!

I wanted to mention an event that took place when I lived in Wyoming when I was not yet ten years old. My father took our family to some sort of picnic where there were a lot of people and a lot of activities, including a greased pig scramble and a greased pole climb. Atop the pole was a ten dollar bill and a lot of people were trying to shinny up and grab the sawbuck. I tried several times, even filling my pockets with dirt and gravel to use to improve my grip. After many failed attempts, my dad came up with an idea: He and two other men would form a ring around the pole clasping each others arms, two other men would climb up and stand on their shoulders, then a single third level, and finally I would climb up and claim the prize. The human pyramid was constructed and the tenner would soon be mine. I scrambled up the backs of the men, grabbing a few handfuls of dirt on the way up, much to the consternation of the men who got the grit in their face and hair and eyes. I was soon climbing the back of the topmost fellow and steadied myself upon his shoulder. The tenner was within my grasp. I reached up, keeping my balance with one hand on the pole and reached up with the other. My fingers were around the bill and I was about to snatch it when a slight breeze caused it to flutter and I grabbed air. I was so intent on grabbing it and disappointed to lose it that I lost my grip and tumbled backwards, rolling down the human scaffolding and landing in my father’s arms. He must have sensed what had happened at the top of the pole and was ready for me as I bumped my way down. The other men had come unclasped and soon there was a dog heap on the ground. We all looked up, and there it was: the ten spot, untouched, waving in the air.

I forgot about that incident for many years, and suddenly remembered it when I was in my twenties or so. What did it represent, I wondered? What metaphor of life did that unsuccessful venture mean? Did that ten dollar bill represent power or fame or beauty? Was my life to consist of fruitless attempts to succeed? I decided to view it as a courageous and gritty ordeal which proved my mettle. If I missed the goal this time, I was sure to get it next time, and after that something even better!

After starting the year with some pleasant weather, we have been getting some nights down in the twenties and thirties. Last hitch out here, I ran out of propane gas. This little ol’ uninsulated trailer gets cold!