Saturday, September 09, 2006

It's a woman's perogative to change her mind

Conversations from the Camp:

Him: You're a whiner and complainer...(it's in a tune, like a...well, I'm tone-deaf. But it's a song, consisting of that phrase.)

Me (given the fact I've been complaining for 24 hours): Then why'd ya marry me? Huh? Huh?

Him: You'll recall, my sweet, that I began singing that song to you on our honeymoon.

Me: Sucker.


Me, sitting astride a log that I'm peeling the dirty bark off so that it will not blunt K.'s chainsaw, hysterically crying: I want a home! A home! I want a shower, and a room with a door!

K.: We're building a cabin. It's for 30 days. Cityslicker.

Me: I'm not a cityslicker! I don't mind working! I'm a good worker! But I (bursting into fresh sobs) I don't like living under a tarp in the woods! That doesn't make me a cityslicker!

K., considering for a moment: That's true, isn't it.


Me: I hate living outside.

K.: I know. You'll never have to do it again.

Me, thinking to myself: Victory?

So, you've probably gathered that the euphoria has worn off. It's ok. At the end of this damn, wretched, dirt-and-bug-filled month, we'll have a cabin, and I love cabins. I love woodstoves. I love the trees. I am a little afraid to go to the outhouse by myself after dark, but who wouldn't be?

That being said, the cabin is coming along. Mostly, we've spent this week milling logs. Now, if you're like I was before this adventure, milling logs means nothing to you. Here's what those two words mean: Finding a tree. Cutting it down. Cutting all extra branches off of them and leaving them to rot in the woods, a fact that fills my psycho-neat-freakness with HORROR. Hauling said log to cabin site, where you use a peavey (amazing miraculous tool) to heave the log that you can't budge by pushing on it up onto risers. The bark is filled with mud from being dragged, so I “skin” it with a drawknife. K. then sets up a very long board on top of the log, and cuts the length of the log 3 times, a process which takes a minimum of 30 minutes, not including the inevitable chainsaw repairs.

We need over 80 of these.

But as K. says, we are not the kind of family who buys pre-cut logs, or even a darling little antique cabin that was crafted with handtools (I tried this, since we have the tools. My dear Lord, those pioneers were made of IRON).

But here we are, still married, still talking to each other. And only 10 days in :)


Written Saturday morning. And after 9 hours of work on the cabin, some visible progress, and that thorough venting of my feelings, I am once again quite chipper.

A woman's perogative.

P.S. I have tried for half-an-hour to post pictures. It cannot be done this evening. Very sorry.


Sunday morning: trying again!

1. the site before bulldozer


the site post bulldozer:


The site with sill logs:


The site with two layers of logs, joist hangers and porch joists in, and doorways blocked out:


And there we are! Not bad for ten days work.


Anonymous said...

Create an account at, then upload your photos there... then paste the code into your entry and then we'll be able to see your pics....

...please? ;)


Is the whiner and complainer song to the tune of "Miner forty-niner with the daughter clementine"? It just seems like the perfect fit.
Oh & I have great news, which I should have posted by the time you read this. :)

Anonymous said...

You are allowed to whine and complain. I bet your nails are broken off and packed with dirt, your face broken out, and you probably smell. Just a suggestion. . . you and Kagan probably don't even know how much you smell since you are use to it by now. Be aware of this if you ever go into civilization. . . .You are a bit of a nut, darlin, but I still love you. When you get to MISS I highly suggest taking at least 3 bubble baths a day. . . to get you back in touch with your feminine side. I mean, the woods are romantic and all for 3 days. A month? You'll never be so grateful for concrete, electricity, running water. . . not to mention People magazine! I know I sound like a total sorority girl here. . . but you are, too. And that's ok. I want to be the first to treat you to a manicure when you get out. Where can I send you the money? Stinks