When we meet someone farm-related, Larry seems to be most comfortable asserting that he’s a “city boy,” which is somewhat different from a “city slicker,” though that may be what the new acquaintance hears. Not me. I’m always looking for a way to slip in my rural bona fides. “Grew up in the country,” I’ll say. “Chickens, milk cow . . .” Let them imagine the rest. “Odd,” I can hear them thinking. “Them boots of hers don’t look like they been any closer to a barn than the nearest Ralph Loren outlet.”

But it’s true. Although I didn’t exactly live on a farmed farm, if that makes sense. In any case, it’s strange that Larry knew what a turnbuckle is and I did not. A turnbuckle is, for any of you other urban folks, a lovely device used to tighten fence out on the range. In our case, to repair the sagging gate across the driveway. Larry proceeded to invent and execute the solution with some cable, a couple of clamps, and the turnbuckle.

I like the word. It would make a good nom de plume, should I ever want one. Jane Turnbuckle. Of Turnbuckle Farms. I believe I’ll make some blueberry turnbuckle for dessert. Okay, I’ll stop.

We had another mission on Saturday, when we were last at our un-farmed farm, which was to approach the neighbor to the south with the hope of securing her permission to extend the power easement from the corner of her property onto ours. This would save us who knows how many thousands (I exaggerate, of course) of dollars of trenching and laying cable from Llewellyn. We found this to be a difficult task, for some reason. So we put it off. Had our sandwiches up at the top, watched a bald eagle fly directly overhead, then mustered our courage and drove to her home on Nicole Road. Don’t have her phone number, which must be a cell as there’s none listed in any directory.

But no one answered the door. Both vehicles in the driveway, garage open. But? I’d brought a little jar of blackberry jelly from this summer’s crop as a neighborly greeting, which, in her absence, I propped against the garage door with a note asking her to phone us. So far, nothing. Frustration!

We wanted to check on the creek, so drove back onto the lower property, put our boots back on and set out across the boggy field. Just looked up “bogs.” Nope. There are four types of wetlands, Google tells me, and apparently, we are marshy, not boggy. Bogs accumulate peat or other plant material, and that’s not us. But when we neared the creek, one could believe we might see alligators and some sort of unpleasant large snake swimming by. Trees with their feet under water, looked like a swamp for sure! We were very impressed, and if we could have crossed the busy channel with it’s mini waterfall, we would have hiked the length of the creek’s bank.

Back at the car, a truck pulled to a stop out on Llewellyn and a man came over to introduce himself. He’s Josh Nelson, lives in that blue house five up from the corner on Bell Fountain. He’s youngish, raising a couple of kids, super nice. We are to stop by any time we need anything or just to say hey. He had some good ‘hood gossip, so we talked for half an hour or so. One nice bit — seems the property across the road has been purchased by someone who wants to graze sheep there. Perfect! And also that the cows usually don’t come onto the hill properties like ours until they’ve grazed the newly planted seed grasses on the flats, and although why anything newly planted wants grazing I don’t know, it does suggest that our cows may be back sometime after all.

On Sunday, Larry went out to see a pick-up he’d identified on Craig’s list. I think this will not be the way for us to shop. A pick-up, yes, but. With Louisiana license plates. Cracked windshield. Parked among 6 other somewhat derelict vehicles. Dirty inside and out. Now this last detail means nothing, but the owner was missing several teeth and rocked a full-on Honey Boo Boo-family beard. Well, it did mean something, and Larry effected a strategic retreat. He’d call and let the man know if he was still interested. Probably not!

It’s raining, a hard rain turning the freeway into a tunnel of tire spray, windshield wipers laboring to keep up, and we are heading for the farm. The first time in several weeks after our Thanksgiving trip to Pasadena, and I am wondering if I will still be enchanted.

Now, at my desk, I look up the source of that word, “enchanted.” Comes from French and Latin, from the word “cantare” or to sing. This enchantment business appears often enough in fairy tales, usually featuring an ugly frog and a princess. It’s generally the frog who is enchanted, but in my own little tale, I am, of course the princess, so the thing is backwards. Will my lovely Hundred Acre Wood turn out to be a muddy toad, or will I?

You can see that I have lots of time on the road to Corvallis, in the rain, to worry. We were hurrying to the first of three appointments that morning, but the weather had slowed traffic and therefore, Larry was worrying, too.

The first was to meet with Tyrone Simmons, a builder, with the purpose of deciding if we would like to work with him, and he with us. He had come recommended through an association of Rod’s, and Larry had interviewed his references, so we were pretty sure that we’d like him. But did he, based in Salem, want to build in Corvallis? The meeting seems to have been successful, and he’ll be drawing up a bid for the project. He has a quality of stillness, and experience, and in addition, a wry sense of humor that promises to make our collaboration fun as well as rewarding. So far, so good.

Next was Tony, the Fence Guy. We want, at the moment, to build a connecting piece between Llewellyn and the gate, to prevent recreational activities further up the property, but eventually to fence the entire length of the driveway. Or “lane,” as friend Vik would have it. I like to watch the process as one of our “guys” learns what we think we want, then tries to show us how the world really works. If we want the fence to be far enough from the driveway, excuse me, lane, so that it doesn’t have to swerve around the fire-marshall mandated turnouts, do we realize that we’d have long swaths that would have to be mowed between fence and lane? Um, no. Hadn’t thought about that.

Tony is seriously cute. I know, that’s a ridiculous word, and it’s not that he’s handsome, though he is. He’s wiry and Italian-looking all right, but his eyes are always laughing, as if the world and these sweet old folks in it are a source of absolute joy. Well, we always like to provide amusement where we can. He’ll send us photos of the types of fence that would work, and a sense of the cost. Which Larry would be the first to tell you, he will find too much.

I want to take a minute here, before I get to the bad news, to tell you something. A bit ago I reconnected with a friend from the old days. It’s been interesting to watch how our lives play out, but a comment of his in response to my princess-on-the-farm adventure caused me to consider how this narrative must feel to anyone who has been a real farmer on a subsistence farm. Where the work to provide for the family can be hard and mean and dirty. Not a fairy tale at all. So, I get that. I promise I know the difference, and I have huge respect for the real work of raising food.

Now, back to my story. We though that the arborist, James Robles, would come, have a look at our amazing trees and suggest a bit of pruning, perhaps. We have, after all, planned to nestle our house in the shelter of one of the grandest oaks on the whole property. That is not what happened.

James arrived with Henry and Thomas in tow. These two are the real tree guys, as you can tell by the fisherman-type yellow slicker overalls, the knit skullcaps and generous beards. James is the one who studied trees in college, they are the ones with the hard eyes and the saws. They have a look around. The news is indeed bad. The stately old tree, the cornerstone of our site plan, is doomed. It has a enormous hole in the trunk some six feet off the ground into which years of rain have poured. The whole tree will split apart on some date in the future, near future, and crash down on whatever shelters beneath.

Well, damn. So what? Move the proposed site? But the road –lane–already leads to the present site. Not an option. There is no option but to take it down.

We are quiet on the way home. This time, we’re not fighting, just being sad. When this happens, Larry goes inside somewhere, but I will become chirpy. “It’s not so bad,” I will say, or “aren’t we lucky to learn this now.” Really irritating, I know.

It’s not raining any more. I am still enchanted, and love the property even more with the knowledge that this beautiful tree will wound the land when it comes down. Either by the wind, the weight of snow, or Henry and Thomas’s saws.

Hooray! Sixty gallons a minute! That’s huge! We don’t even need 60 gallons a minute, so will install a 20-gallon pump, enough to water the apple trees, take a shower and simultaneously run the washing machine. We don’t yet know the quality of all this water, so will have to run a so-called 4-hour flow test, as mandated by County, and test the water for purity. Four hours of water flowing at 60 per is one heck of a lot of water to waste, so we hope they don’t quite mean what they say.

In the meantime we have to question if we even own this property. Thought we did, until Brett (new well guy) phoned County to be sure his drilling was approved for this site, and was told that they’d never heard of this Larry Viehl person. Nope, the land under consideration belongs instead to the people who have just bought the twenty acres across Llewellyn.

But, but . . . we have a Warranty Deed to the land we bought! What the heck? How can this be? The sale has been duly recorded, etc. So Larry called the title company with this little situation. And by the way, taxes are due, where’s the bill for the taxes? Title Company calls County. No one will admit to the error, and now the attorney for Across Llewellyn is involved. We aren’t really worried, it’s just a nuisance, but another reminder to mind County very very carefully in our dealings.

With the well dug and the road built, we move on to consideration of the house plans. Met with Rod and got some new sketches, some improvements. Not that it’s all that easy to meet with Rod. He works in a office adjacent to his home clinging to the side of a hill over the Willamette. First you have to find his driveway, and then negotiate the thing. You hope that your car doesn’t miss the hairpin turn off the top and plunge, catapulting end over end to Macadam Avenue below.

It’s fascinating to watch him manipulate his computer program and show us the living room end with windows or French doors. With or without “eyebrow.” I asked if I could post his sketch on my blog and he agreed, with the caveat that I should add the following: “If your last name is Viehl or Ederer, you are free to comment. Everyone else, keep your own council, and above all, please do not email Rod with suggestions for changes or additions.” Says the voice of experience.

The only way I could manage to show you this computerized sketch was to take a photo of my computer screen and move it over. Hence the bits of computer in the image. Now you just have to imagine the apple tree.

“Okay, Ma,” says Pa. “Guess that’s it for the winter. Just tuck ourselves in and wait for spring.”

Not quite! Next up, fences. And cows. The cows are coming back. The old house has to come down. What about that pick-up? Right. But here we are in Sacramento on the way to Pasadena for some celebration. I’ll leave you for now with a photo of the site where the little house is to be built.

To the farm on Friday last to meet with Jones Drilling, out of Lebanon. (But only after one of our Larry-and-Jane comedy routines involving a pedicure, a trip to Home Depot, and a couple of clueless “estheticians.”) Seems that Joe, former well guy, has abandoned us. “Can’t do it,” he’ll say. “Too muddy. Bye.”

Fine. Ken, road guy, recommended Jones Drilling, and as they were on the first list acquired from the realtor at the sale, Larry called, and Jones himself would meet us on the property to have a look. Brett, actually. Nice guy, but they’re all nice guys until proven otherwise. As some of them certainly are. Proven otherwise.

Now. There’s a perfectly adequate rest stop a dozen miles or so past Salem, and it has been a good idea to make a precautionary stop most days. Still, it’s cold in there, often crowded. You know, our fellow Americans at their best. And so we have created a rest stop of our own in the barn/shed by the expedient of placing a roll of toilet paper in a plastic bag behind a protective half wall. Straw on the floor. Private.

And the driveway looks amazing! As if it’s been paved, but it’s just rolled. Smooth and sleek, I don’t even want to walk on it with my muddy boots. And all around for some yards, the earth has been dozed, so there’s plenty of mud!

“What’s that smell?” Larry asks. He’s afraid it’s some lingering effect of the disturbed former drain field.

Ken looks with disbelief. “Cow poop,” he says. Who doesn’t recognize that smell? If further proof was needed of our deprived, urban background. “Don’t worry, a few days of weather and the smell will be gone.” It’s just cow poop, for crying out loud.

But he brings to our attention exactly how attractive this shiny new road will appear to passers-by. Perfect place to have that party! Bust out the six-packs. Out of sight, we could even dig some cookies? Better than driving on the beach! Smoke a little dope? Shoot up? Awesome, dude.

So ends the idyll. We’re in the real world. What to do?

We have to have a gate. I want to locate it at the edge of the ravine so than no one can just drive around the fenceless gate, hop back onto the road and cross the gully. Which certainly can’t otherwise be driven across, or even really hiked across. But Ken vetoes that idea. The gate needs to be at the top of the rise where anyone on Llewellyn can see if some miscreant tries to use a bolt cutter. Anyone trying to drive around will simply sink into the mud. His view prevails, and he will put up the gate with a couple of those farm gates lying about the property. We simply need to find a hardware store to pick up some heavy-duty chain and padlock.

But first, Brett has arrived. He appears very competent, business-like. He’ll drive us up to the drill site in his rig, across the older path we’ve used all summer. If he can. He drives very carefully, head out the window, and we manage. He spreads out the charts prepared by the sounder, Tim, (remember him) on the hood of his truck. Says he’s worked behind Tim before, but the system isn’t fool-proof. Still, someone needs to pick a spot for the second attempt, and he’s happy to go with Tim’s pick. The question will be whether he can get the drill rig up to the site.

He decides he will try on the following Monday, as the weather report looks slightly promising at that point. If he can’t get the rig out, though, would Ken’s crew leave a dozer behind to pull him out if necessary. So we ask for a bid, exchange bona fides, and he leaves. Drill site below:

Larry and I find the farm store, get the chain and padlock, return it to Ken and leave for home.

The next days are busy with Portland stuff, and we can’t get back down to have a look at the gate. Which is not really a sufficient reason to go, anyway, so we attend to business here. You know, the Dreamer Gala/Auction, the French friends dinner, the gig. On the way to the gig, Larry told me that it was premature, no guarantee, but he’d gotten a phone call from Brett. Looks like 20 gallons from the new well! But it was dark, and Brett couldn’t tell for sure until the next morning. Which is now. The wind is howling, cold, we’re expecting an ice storm this evening, but Brett hopes he can get the rig out safely this afternoon, and will call us with the actual numbers. Fingers crossed!

The Comfort Inn is fine, really. Yes, the carpets are pretty tired and the elevator groans, and the view from the window is the Chinese restaurant across the lot. But the people are nice, and the breakfasts are really good, and they had Larry’s clothes safely installed in the room. He’d left a few things in the closet after our last overnight in Corvallis, so we had to stay there again Monday night. It could happen to anyone.

But getting lost in the motel’s corridors? “I’ll meet you in the parking lot,” Larry said, “if you’ll run back and leave some money for the cleaning ladies.” We both should have known better. I have a recurring nightmare in which I can’t find my car in a parking lot. Last night’s dream featured a lost book, which I realized was probably in my lost car. So it shouldn’t be too surprising when I can’t find my way out of a motel.

But early on Tuesday morning, here’s what we found: (Be sure to click on the photos)

The “driveway” will take us past the old house, which of course, will no longer be there after this winter, if all goes according to plan. It’s shocking to see what has to be described as the assault on the land. Those huge machines! Today including the shovel, two bulldozers, a roller and about 50 rock trucks. Maybe not 50. Let’s say a lot of trucks.

There is a serious cleft in the land which has to be culverted in order to access the upper acres. Even the cows have to go around. But the path of the driveway is ordained by the floodplain to the east, so great pipes will channel the water under the road bed, or so we hope.

The land isn’t all beautiful oak trees and grassy fields. There’s a dump of old farm junk in the ravine behind the old house, weeds, trash, and about this we can only imagine how it will look, later. Everywhere are these old gates, which we hope to put to good use at some point.

The day proceeded, and we waited to hear from Ray Hubbell, the fire marshall, as he holds our future in his fist. He wanted to come out and “make suggestions” so that we may bring our project into compliance. It’s not just about the 16 feet width. Nope. There have to be these “turnouts” for the fire trucks, and a new twist: the grade cannot exceed 15% on any slope. And, he tells us, “this” one looks like 20% anyway.

He marches along with his roller device, measuring the number of feet between the mandated turnouts. And we’re lucky! We need only three! In addition, of course, to the turnaround at the top and the entry from Llewellyn. Which is not wide enough, he says. “We’re not through yet,” Larry tells him, through gritted teeth.

Now he says he’d like to evaluate the old house as a candidate for a “burn to learn” project for the fire district. We’d like to accommodate, of course, but as he narrated the scenario, it became clear that the district could burn the house only if Larry’s dead body were already stretched out across the rat-chewed, moldy sofa when they did so.

The rains threatened, and it became clear that the road building would have to be put on hold until perhaps next Wednesday. They’d gotten so far as the second culvert installation. Fire Marshall Hubbell handed us a scratched note, provisionally approving the route of our little autobahn, and we all said goodbye. Here’s where we are as of right now.

:

And to end on a brighter note, here is the view from the new perspective: I tell myself that the land will heal!

“What cha doing?” I ask Larry. I’ve wandered into his office looking for a postage stamp. He sits at his computer with a yellow legal pad on the side.
“Mmm.” He takes a moment to finish making a note. “Trying to find prices for a pick-up truck.”

And there we have it. This is what happens when you buy an apple tree. Two apple trees, because, you know, they don’t just pollinate themselves. Or so I thought. Actually, some apple trees are self-pollinators, but as it happens, Pristine and Liberty are not.

I’ve spent some time at my own computer, researching our new acquisitions. Pristine and Liberty are both “disease-resistant,” which seems a little vague at the moment. Whom or what should we be watching for. Moths? Scab? We don’t want to use spray, but perhaps that is an example of naive rookie wishful thinking. But okay, so far so good.

Next, will these two pollinate each other? Um, no, say my on-line sources. Okay, then, which tree do we need to add to our collection? Good news: Pixie Crunch will pollinate both. This seems to be a nice little apple, good for lunch boxes. Hope our garden store carries, or can get this fellow.

But let’s take a minute here to turn back to the web and see exactly how this pollination will occur. With bees, right? Yes. Or wasps or flies. The wind? Hmm, unclear. But the trees must be planted within 100 feet of one another. Check.

Now, what about the deer and elk who roam our property? Don’t think any fruit trees are ruminant-resistant. The trees will have to be protected by fencing of some sort. Ah. But we have to get the trees into the ground long before there will be any fencing other than the electric wire which contains the cows. I don’t suppose we can surround the trees with little electric girdles out there on the lonely savannah. On Tuesday, at the farm, we’d taken time to visit Island Fencing. We need to consider what sort of fencing we need alongside the driveway anyway, and had been told to ask for Steve at I.F.

Steve may be as good as Ken, the power-shovel guy claims, but we haven’t yet impressed him with any reason to demonstrate his skills to us.

“What about this fencing?” Larry asks, pointing to a photo on display.
“Don’t recommend it,” says Steve.
Then why is it on display . . . oh, never mind.
“Can you help with deer fencing?” I ask.
He seems startled to notice that I’m able to talk. A woman, and all.
“Maybe,” he says, and turns back to Larry.

We gave up, took a card and left. Went to have lunch.

Back in Portland, at my computer, I move on to the subject of pruning. Lots of good info on many sites. We’re not ready to acquire the recommended tools yet because, first things first, it’s about that pick-up truck. (I did learn about an intriguing product named Sucker Stopper — a succinct, if not poetic name.) Need to get the trees from the garden center to our property, and that’s just the beginning. If we buy a truck, where will we keep it? No room here at the Crane Building. Yes, we could have the center deliver the trees, if the road gets finished before the rains close us out. And so on. Well, I love it!

More tomorrow, in which we build our own private Autobahn. Photos included!

How could we have known, back then, that we would fall in love like this? France with friends? Of course! Meet the Schefflers in Quebec on the way home? Great idea. And then we bought the Hundred Acre Wood, and everything changed. We came home to gray skies, green fields, and let’s face it, this is Oregon, to rain. Here’s the view of fields along Llewellyn Road.

We meant to build a driveway to the house site. Tried to get it done before the fall rains, but there we were in France during October’s best weeks of Indian summer. Contract signed, road guys Ken, Justin, and Spenser ready to go. We raced home from Toronto the day of the 21st. “Raced” not quite the right word, as United Airlines had other ideas about lofting us across the continent. Ugh. Airplanes! We got home at 6:30, dumped our baggage at 720 14th and drove to Corvallis in order to meet the road-builders on our property at 7:30 the next morning.

“Holy Moly!” Larry exclaimed. (A Minnesota expletive, or maybe North Dakotan? Not sure) as we pulled into the old house lane and saw this:

“We could land an airplane on that sucker. We’re building a driveway, not a freeway.” Turns out, the “driveway” has to be 16 feet wide. Seriously? A freeway lane is 9 feet, so . . .?

I’d thought the driveway would be a little two-track affair, with maybe bluebells blooming in the median. Cows grazing alongside.

“It’s crazy,” Ken, who drove the Komatso pictured here, said. “Who told you it has to be 16 feet wide?”

With the rain pounding down, work would be suspended as soon as the rock arrived. And here it was. I love this. Click on the photo to see why.

So who told us we need 16 feet? Not the county, we discovered. They only care about the first 18 feet off Llewellen, and the rest is up to the fire district. Chief Ray Hubbell sat us down, and with the patience of a 2nd grade teacher began to explain. I didn’t take his photo, but he was kind and patient, talking to the old folks here. Honest! We both wore muddy boots, sodden jeans and dripping rain jackets. Thought we looked like locals, but he knew better.

Anyway, 16 feet to allow the fire trucks to reach the home. Nope, not legally required, but try to get insurance if you don’t comply. Sure, make any proposal you want, but if we don’t approve it, we don’t have to answer the alarm. Unless someone is trapped inside, we let it burn. Who’s your insurance handler?

Well, we already had agreed to the contract at 16 feet, so if it looks ridiculous, if it looks as if the terminal will be Donald Trump’s country home, that’s what it will be. But as no further work will be forthcoming until next Monday, if the storm blows over by then, Larry and I headed back to Portland.

But on the way, we stopped at the garden store, just to ask about fruit trees. And here’s the good part of this report: they had a few trees left out back, already potted, 30% off to make room for the new shipment coming in November. We should get two which are compatible pollinators, and disease resistant. No, no Honey Crisps, or Macintoshes, unless you want to spend the winter spraying. Instead, we bought one Pristine, one Liberty, at $31.92 apiece. They will stay at the store until we can pick them up.

Pick them up? But how? Next blog: The complexity of simple.

But what, you ask, or who, is a “Sounder?”

A Sounder might be considered a “witch” with a graduate degree in Very Low Frequency radio waves, who hopes to locate a source of water for the anxious farmer/home owner/orchardist who needs an operating well. Not, for example, a well that delivers 2 1/2 gal.per minute of blue-clay water. And he doesn’t use a forked willow switch, although I don’t judge witches who do.

So, Tim met us this morning to see if he could locate of supply of underground water which we might tap. Picture a summertime Santa: bald head, big white beard, jolly disposition who drove up in this:

Larry fell in love, immediate and deep. It’s a Yamaha “Rhino,” and this baby cuts across our lumpish landscape, across ditches, up hills, at 40 miles an hour, Tim says. Smooth! And look at that bed on the back for hauling blackberry canes, downed oak branches, water, thistle spray. Oh, man. We would have to park it up the hill somewhere, out of sight, until we build a garage. Cover it with a tarp? Excellent. This is one sweet tool toy that puts our weed whacker, I mean brush cutter, in deep shadow. Just wait until we get home from France!

But, what about the water? In fact, Tim says he has located several sources, and has marked them with fiberglass stakes, festooned with gaudy blue and pink ribbon. The sites are just down the hill from the future house, wouldn’t require felling any oak to tunnel up to our faucets, and, he claims, should offer in the neighborhood of 20 gallons per minute. Can’t tell about the quality of water, but as the well would be deeper than the two existing wells, it should be fine.

All the way home, we are optimistic, happy. The property was beautiful in the cool of early fall, the trees a tapestry of color as they turn according to their own inner timing. The grass by the creek is greening, the birds gone mad with the harvest of acorns and spent berries.
“Maybe we could find a used Rhino!” says Larry.
“But how many apple trees do you think we should consider?” I answer. Lost in our own dreams.

Of course, we have to call Joe, he has to drill the well, the water actually has to be there. And first, we leave for France tomorrow. And the rain?

“See those tracks?” Chad said. Chad being one of the “guys” (her words) Shirley had called on for help this morning when the probe she was using to test our well failed. “Bull elk.”

“How do you know it was a bull?” Larry asked.

“Size,” Chad answered, with a laugh. Still not sure if these city people even know what an elk may be, other than something they might have seen on some NPR wildlife special.

Yes, that Shirley. We got the call this morning, and though we hadn’t planned on a trip south, when we heard that she would be testing the “new” well, we packed a lunch. Luckily, nothing going Mondays, so we were free to go. The news from the old well, as per the nitrates, had been bad. Like, five thousand dollars bad, if we still want to use that source for our water.

Let’s back up. On Sunday, we’d gone to an event, invited by Randy Gragg, a Portland architect/editor/conservationist to whom we’d been introduced by a friend who knew of our interest in the above. The Washington side of the Columbia River Gorge, seventy-five acres directly across from Multnomah Falls, which could hardly be more iconic, splendid in the late afternoon sunlight (okay, a little too hot, but we won’t quibble). We’d gone in the hope of picking any of the assembled conservationist brains on the subject of, for example, Astoria bent grass — invasive — and any other challenges we face down near Corvallis.

Struck gold. Seriously. Not about the bent grass, but we did meet Norm and Neil. I’m sorry that I can’t tell you much about them, just two very nice men, who took great interest in the oak wood that we have in crazy abundance all over our property. I don’t know too much about them, because we didn’t give them much of a chance. “Oh, you’re architects? How nice. Now, let’s talk about us.”

So we did. We should consider getting a portable plane saw, turn that oak wood into lumber, use it to build our house. Us? Oh, you mean hiring someone to bring a plane saw onto the land and mill the wood. Norm was so enthusiastic that he walked back to the parking space with us, as we left, to show us a piece of cherry wood that they had milled, just the day before. OMG. He told us he was going to change our lives, and I’ll be damned. I think he did. (Thank you, Norm!)

So, on the property this morning, we looked around with different eyes. Sure, much of the wood on the ground would only be good for the fireplace, who knows how long it’s been lying there, but look at this:

Yeah, the color is weird, and you can’t really get the scale. Larry’s phone, and I don’t really know how to manage it. But you do see one straight shot of newly downed oak — got to be some house beams in there somewhere?

Alas, the news from the new well is bad, too. Crap number of gallons per minute of water that looks like it came straight out of muddy creek. Now what? Shirley’s husband, Larry, says that there’s plenty of water available. The well across the road pumping 200 gallons a minute. What? So, a new another well attempt for us? Of course, my Larry is depressed. You can’t just go digging wells here and there about the property in the hope of striking, well, water.

There is a guy, called a “sounder,” who uses sonar to detect underground water. Got home, called him. And so it goes.

Tomorrow, we return, to meet with our architect to stake out the home site. To see if Shirley and Larry have any more suggestions for us.

This should be our last trip before we leave for France. I’m cultivating a better attitude about the plane trip, because it’s Paris. The Dordogne. Good friends. Going to be fun! Either the rains will come or they won’t and whatever. The Hundred Acre Wood won’t go away.

Last post, you’ll remember, I was fretting about pumpkins. I took this photo Thursday, on the way to friend Molly’s Sauvie Island pasture. (Be sure to click on the photo to get a real sense of the place.) “I think it’s not so bad,” Molly said, commenting on my post. “I think the left-over lantern type pumpkins are sold for animal food. Cat food, I’m pretty sure. Or fed to the grower’s own animals. Or plowed under.”

(One thing I like about writing this: I worry about something, or complain, and one of you writes to answer questions, clarify, reassure. Perfect! Thank you!)

Anyway, I’m still concerned about the unsold pumpkins at the grocery stores. They don’t really taste good, so it’s into the dumpster for them, I’m afraid. If you have to carve a pumpkin, maybe get one of the smaller, sweet, edible variety? They’re very healthy, and oh, stop yawning. I saw you.

Saving the world, one pumpkin patch at a time. But you want to know about Molly’s Great Adventure. Like mine, her inner farmer woke up one day last year, and she went out and bought a horse. (Her next novel will be available on October 28 in bookstores, on line, and on Audible. Called “Falling From Horses.” Go to her website to learn more because she’s a great writer: Mollygloss.com)

Her horse, KoKo is an Islandic and about as cute as horses come. Molly pastures her on a small holding on the island along with another horse and miniature mule named Russell. It’s a lot of work, and I tagged along as she hefted flakes of hay, shoveled manure, rearranged hoses and sprinkler heads, which chores have be done once a day. She and another woman share responsibilities, and the pay-off is getting to ride out on the open fields and pastures of the very beautiful, rural island along the Columbia River. To smell the hay in the shed. To watch autumn come to the land.

She’s crazy in love with her new life, and said that much of it is the sense of mastery she has come to feel. Just a hard-ass woman who can shovel shit with the best of them.

So me and my skirt? Molly’s way ahead of me, but she shows me where I’m going. The mastery I want isn’t so much physical, it’s about knowledge. I’m frustrated at the moment by the inertia forced on us by the slowness of road-building bids. When we started, I thought that time wouldn’t matter — we’d do what we could do in the time we have and enjoy the process. Now I think it does matter. We wanted to get the road built before the rains come, and can’t do much else until we do.

Well, I could research apple trees. A very good idea, and if you’ll excuse me, that’s exactly what I’m going to do now. I think they will need to be ordered soon, and planted in the spring.

Oh wait. That means we’d have to have the deer fence up, and . . . we can’t build the fence until the house is built, and . . . we can’t build the house until we have the road.

See what I mean?