Mattock de joie

I wheeled the old Dodge pickup up the long driveway, past a field just readied for the planting season. Up near the house, another field rose up to the sky and a groundhog was munching on something he’d found there in the dirt. He was far enough off that we didn’t concern him, and he didn’t bother to look up at the visitors exiting the rusty truck. My barber, that cutter of hair, was tidying up his walk, sweeping away at some grass clippings. The garage he’d built next to the house was bigger than the house itself. At King’s urging, I’d come up to look at an old Honda motorcycle the man had sitting in his garage. I’d only been mildly interested, but now with the enthusiasm of my friend working away at me, I thought it would be fun to at least see the machine.

We uncovered the bike, shook off the dusty cloth that had cloaked it for about twenty years, discovered a machine in fairly decent condition. There was some rust on the chrome, but it looked like maybe it could be cleaned up. It also sported a clear windshield, which I thought looked ridiculous on the little 350cc motorcycle, and a backrest—or “sissy-bar”—that was popular back in the day. We discussed the bike, said all that could really be said about an old thing that had been taking up space for so many years, and I offered him two hundred dollars. I didn’t need another project, knew that it was insanity even to be entertaining the idea, but thought that it would be well-bought for that price. The barber was more inclined to accept three hundred, and I made it clear that I didn’t even find the prospect of buying it for my price that exciting; I already had an old Honda and it was in much better shape and actually ran. I told him these things, and finally he agreed to hand over the bike for $250, a price that I’d also balked at, until he and Oort exercised that subtle coercion, that two-against-one mind battle. It was a little foolish to drive up to the northern part of the next county and come away with nothing, after all. So we loaded up the bike in the special carrier back there in the truck and drove off. Back at Oort’s shop, I removed the windshield and backrest and oiled up some moving parts that were no longer moving. That was a few weeks ago and I’ve mostly forgotten about the bike—not having seen it since then.

Yesterday I went off in search of a mattock—a garden tool that digs into the ground and chops at roots and small trees that need to be cut. It was a regular outing for me, and I drove the little car over to the Do-It Center in the next town to buy one. Afterwards I’d stop at the Mexican place and have lunch to celebrate its purchase. At the store they had precisely the tool I was looking for, although they called it a “Pulaski Axe.” I looked it over, weighed the fiberglass handle in my hands, felt the lightness of the sharpened steel head, and decided that this tool was for me. “Okay, so they call it a Pulaski Axe,” I said. “It’s still the same as a mattock.” In truth, the ancient mattocks that I find at the farm sales are heavy things, easily wear out the user, but do a generally good job. They typically only cost a dollar or two, however—but need sharpening, and the handles are usually good for one or two uses before the dried and worm-eaten wood snaps in two. My new axe had a fiberglass handle, which the bugs don’t find attractive.

Back at the house I worked away most of the day digging up roots from the unruly hedge I’d chopped back with J.O. the other day. We’d done some work on the deck next door, had installed the upright posts, then had turned our attention to this green buffer along the side of the house, just adjoining the neighbor’s yard. I started the chainsaw and cut the thing down, even with the ground—or almost. I’ve planted plenty of new trees and greenery over the years, so doing away with this hedge did not make me feel too guilty. It was impractically placed down there at the bottom of a steep little hill, and made for difficult—if not impossible—access with the lawnmower to cut back the grass there on the steep terrain. And, because it was so difficult to get to, trimming the hedge became something that I rarely got around to. As a result, it often sprouted a carnival of greenery: Other trees would grow up within the hedge, and the poison ivy that is overtaking everything would also find a good home there. It had to go.

With deliberate strokes, I aimed the mattock at the ground around the stumps of the old hedge, severed the roots and pulled out the remnants that were poking up from the ground. I didn’t swing the thing any more than I had to, since I knew how tiring this activity could be. The lightness of the tool made it easy to work with, and didn’t cause too much fatigue. It really is a fine mattock. With about half of the remaining roots dug up, I started in on the abundant hedge greenery that lay all over the lawn, waiting to be discarded. The grass and clippings pickup was the next day, so I thought it would be best to start bundling this stuff up for the recycling people to cart away. They pick it up in a big truck and turn the stuff into mulch. I thought it would be better than loading it into my truck and carting it to the waste station, where it just gets thrown in with the general refuse, and does not get recycled. Plus, with gas nearing four dollars a gallon, it would be nice to keep the truck parked as much as possible.

Sunday night I drove down to the center of Baltimore to hear a local jazz trio perform. They played in a little place on the corner of a somewhat blighted crossroads, but not too far from the art college. Their pizza is reportedly excellent, and looked it—with very thin crusts topped with a variety of appetizing offerings. I was sorry I’d eaten recently at the Mexican place and was still quite full. I did order a plate of breaded onion caps, however, and ate those with two cranberry and vodkas. A cute but drunk young woman next to me invited me to try her fries with mayonnaise—an offer that was impossible to refuse, since she was practically forcing one of them on me. I did allow as it was pretty good, although I didn’t tell her I am not too fond of mayonnaise in general. Too eggy. The fries were excellent, however. She was with a young man who had to be none too pleased that she was engaging this stranger next to her, but I went along good-naturedly with her questions and general drunken exuberance. At least she didn’t want to start a fight. I hate that.

The jazz trio, which I’d seen many times before, was excellent, and the drummer spent a good deal of time talking to me, explaining some of his technique and how he practiced. I was particularly interested in some footwork between the high-hat and bass drum that seemed perfectly synchronized, couldn’t quite fathom how he’d come to get to that point. He explained that he isolated those two pieces, didn’t work on anything involving the hands, and practiced until it became second nature. Then he didn’t have to think about those things down on the floor while he was doing intricacies involving the hitting of the upper drums and cymbals.

They had a singer this time, and she was every bit as accomplished as the trio that backed her up. She did unusual songs, foreign things that she introduced with an explanation to kind of get people in the mood for what was coming. These songs were in Hebrew and Yiddish. The drunken young woman thought she was great, although she didn’t sing “My Funny Valentine,” as she’d wanted. It wasn’t a Funny Valentine kind of evening.

I finally drove my beloved Dodge pickup to a local dirt site to take the much-awaited photos for these pages. As I’ve chronicled here, the truck set me back three hundred dollars and runs fine—so far. I’ve put new brakes on the rear, but that’s about it. The other day I stowed the spare tire underneath, which required some minor repairs and the freeing of rusted nuts and bolts, but everything went back together okay and it was only a small outlay of time. One trick I’ve learned from various mechanic friends is to apply heat to a rusted fastener to get it to move. For example, if a nut is too stubborn to budge, simply heat the thing to almost glowing red with a torch and try to turn it again. It will free up, owing to the action of the heat on the metal, which expands with the application of the torch. It’s of course not perceptible to the eye, but the molecules in there get excited and start running around and it’s then that you go for it. This worked on the truck the other day, as I needed to loosen part of the spare tire holder to make the whole thing function as it should.

Of course I photographed the truck in its natural environment—a dirt site. Pictured with the old Dodge is a tractor that sells for approximately $275,000. It’s a pretty nice tractor, as it has a fully-enclosed cab, air-conditioning and heat, and possibly a stereo in there as well. The blade is also extra-wide, which adds to the cost. The yellow crawler is a little too nice for my taste, owing to the fact that it’s not old and beat-up, but I couldn’t find anything like that around here, so I settled for this one. It was close and didn’t require too much gas to get there. I tried to find someone to ask permission for a short photo-shoot, but the worksite was deserted: everyone had gone home for the day.