Labor Pains

No, I'm not about to make a comparison between the suffering of the worker and the suffering of the mother.

I really enjoy reading, and re-reading Matthew Crawford's Shopclass as Soulcraft. However, like most writing regaling the virtues of the common worker, or the romance of the farmer working the land. It is written by as man who is primarily a Philosophy Fellow at a Universty, or a writer with a home farm etc. The points they make are valid, provocative, and interesting. However there are a couple of key things missing.

First, the gentleman farmer, cabinet maker, or motorcycle, or auto repair shop owner is not only a tradesman, but a businessman. Someone with sensibilities that far surpass the turning of soil or wrenches. Someone, who could probably, from that position explain a thing or two not only to a shop class, but a business, accounting, economics, or psychology class for that matter.

Second, as the gentleman--whatever etc etc, there is a certain implication of another form of income. This seems to insulate them from the pains of the laborer. Or at least they don't comment on it. This is the omision that interests me. I am by no means a carpenter. I work in construction, but I'm as likely to have a drafting pencil, or a telephone in my hand than a hammer. Still the economic environment, and my willingness have conspired to put me in a position of the sledge hammerer, or the concrete sawyer as often as not. And I'm building my own home on nights and weekends.

The observation that I want to add, besides good work being a framework for a good life is that hard work hurts. From the incidental abrasion, to the run-in with the router, to the nagging tennis elbow. Work hurts. I'm 31, my kid brother is 24 and we share the sensation of numb forearms and fingers in our sleep.

The work is satisfying. It's rewarding. Building homes, or boats in my brother's case, is fascinating at times, and at least not borring at others. It fascilitates critical thought, and independence. It also destroys the human body. I love to write, play the guitar, and ride my motorcycle. For each of these I need strong, feeling hands. I have to build houses to pay the bills. I hope one of the hobbies starts to pay off soon.

Since I'm fortunate enough to split my time at work between management, and labor, I can probably make the good times last. But I, like those in more labor intensive careers will have to recon with reality one day. Bodies are like the things we build and service. They wear out. Maintenance,and caution are important, but on a long enough timeline all machines fail. That could not be clearer than to one who builds or repairs things.

The tingling, the numbness, the pain--they become familiar, like close associates, in some way. But deep down we all know, one day it will just hurt too much to continue. That is a sobering thought.

Waiting hobbies

I was drinking one of my father-in-law's home brews the other night and I got to thinking about the waiters among us. My father-in-law is not the only home brewer I know. One of my closest friends keeps me in soda kegs of beer almost all year.

I'm not a brewer, but I am a gardener, and as such I feel that I've joined the fraternity of waiters, or those who enjoy waiting hobbies. Maybe we are drawn to these activities because they are dissimilar to our modern lives. By definition, the work most of us do (for money) is best done as quickly, expediently, and with as little left to chance as possible. So in our spare time, we are inclined to participate in activities that demand patience, deliberation, and some luck.

I vaguely understand brewing, but I get gardening so I'll hang my examination on the procedures therein.

Preparation of the bed or growing medium is critical, labor intensive, and so far removed from the reward, many faint at heart falter here. It's also a bit of a purification process. Even when executed in the February chill, if you are doing it right, you will sweat out some of the beer you drank contemplating becoming a gardener. Soil amendments, particularly for the organic grower, are often stinky, inconvenient, and expensive, or otherwise hard to come by. This is truly an opportunity to invest a great deal of energy and emotional capital for the privilege of possibly reaping no harvest. This is the first step in mitigating risk that is completely out of your control.

Planting; the Zen moment. Some find it tedious, and it is, but it can be done without sweating. Planting also affords one the opportunity to admire one's prior efforts ( a critically important part of waiting hobbies). Planting is also a small opportunity for personal input. There are guidelines for planting patterns, spacing, and technique, but you can ignore or alter them at your peril. And hell, this isn't the first opportunity for things to go wrong, so failure could not possibly be traced back to your impulse to spell your dog's name with your turnip seeds. I mean do you want to be able to read it before or after thinning? Will you thin? Is thinning for losers that don't love their seeds enough? I love planting because, even if my preparation has me destined to fail, I still have no idea that this is the case. Some call the season spring, I call it hope!

Waiting; oh the waiting. It's not that there's nothing to do. You can water, but not too much. Go ahead fertilize, but not too much. This is the season of correction. If it looks like you're blowing it, you can add fertilizer, or water, or do less . . . no do more . . . no do less . . . .

Weeding; should not be its own stage. To garden is to weed, eternally to weed. However, weeding is really a way to assuage the agony of waiting. Weeds and vegetables can flourish together, to a point. I know that my obsession with weeding is based entirely on one thing: VANITY!! In my experience vanity is a key component of waiting hobbies. Waiters love to show off their efforts suspended in time. Jar after of jar of fermenting liquid, bed after bed of ordered seedlings; a picture of potential. My manicured beds are a testament to my potential. Or they are a distraction for the incesent worry that some ailment will befell my plants, and I will be seen for what I really am: average.

Conquest; nature has yielded her bounty to your will. Harvest is bitter sweet. The waiting is over. The quest has come to a close. The flower has been picked. Like that young lady that was way out of your league in college, you've discovered bountiful looks aren't everything. The melons are there, but how many melons does anyone need. In truth though harvest is another season of gloating. When you deliver the surplus to your friends and neighbors, you can smile as smugly as a benevolent fraternity president, or something.

In truth harvest time is just like pouring the first draught from a fresh batch of home brew . . . What can I do better next time? And so it goes.