okieinexile
Well-Known Member
The Order of the Carpenter
By Bobby Neal Winters
When I was growing up, grandpas wore overalls, and that was the way it was. The ones Grampa Sam wore were blue, just like blue jeans, and he wore them everywhere but church, and sometimes, when he had a new pair, he even wore them there. On the other hand, Grandpa Byrd, my mother's father, didn't wear his all the time. He was a dapper old man who usually wore a fedora, khaki pants, and a nice shirt, but when he did wear overalls, they were different. They were blue with white stripes.
My brother, who being two-and-a-half years older than me knew everything, informed me the difference was because Grampa Sam had worked in the oilfield, but Grandpa Byrd had worked as a carpenter, which required than he wear fancier overalls. Seeing a carpenter had special vestments like a priest or minister contributed to my exalted view of them.
Lumberyards, always a treat to visit as a kid, became sacred to me, like places of worship. They were temples to timber, shrines to sheetrock, grottos for grout. Who knows what might have happened if my Grandpa Byrd hadn't passed away when I was ten, but he did die, and so I was left untutored for 30 years.
Then one day in the spring, I decided to start my project to put vinyl siding up on the house. To refer to this as carpentry would make Grandpa Byrd, who built entire houses, roll over in his grave, but it was a close as I figured I was likely to get.
My wife, the librarian, begins projects by checking out books and reading up on methods first. In religious parlance, this would make her something of a fundamentalist, as she tries to go by the book.
I, on the other had, have been something of an existentialist when is comes to such things. If I understand my philosopher friends, and there is every chance that I don't, this means that I have to wake up every morning and figure out things for myself. Some mornings that begins with having to figure out that the thing making my feet hurt is called the floor and that the coffee pot is really my friend and not an evil alien robot.
I began the project with just the goal in mind, but none of the ways to get to the goal figured out. My philosophy is that details will take care of themselves, and they do. The trouble is that details can be spiteful when left to their own devices.
Wishing to minimize any damage that might be done to our house, my wife brought home a stack of books from the library, and said, "Take and read." So I took and looked at the pictures, which is as much as my temperament would allow me to do.
Having decided by looking at the pictures and receiving encouragement from a friend at Opolis who said, "You can do it, Bob, it's easy," I entered into one of the sacred temples in town.
I talked to a young priest there named Clayton and told him what my project was. With that first step, I began my training as an Oblate to the Order of the Carpenter. I felt like Caine when he entered the temple in the old Kung Fu series.
After filling my order for siding supplies, with a twinkle in his eye, my mentor faced me straight on and asked, "Do you have a tool belt?"
I said, "No," and he informed me they were on sale. This tool belt has been to me like Samuel's mantle or Gandalf's staff. Without it, I wouldn't be incomplete.
Then I began my two-week project. That was five weeks ago. Man has his time, but God has his.
Every discipline has its key bits of wisdom. In siding, one of these is keeping everything level. I learned that the hard way, and I don't want to talk about how, but suffice it to say my experience has caused me to compose a Prayer for Plumbness. I cannot reproduce the words here, because it contains certain magic words that we of the Order are forbidden to share and would make the gentle reader blush, but the thrust of the prayer is that a bubble move either left or right as desired. It works surprisingly well.
While I cannot fully within this space recount all of the other wisdom I've absorbed in my oblate training, suffice it to say I have moved a bit closer to fundamentalism. There were times I have discovered I just wanted the book with the answers opened in front of me, figuring it out for myself be hanged.
My project is uncompleted and won't be until the end of next summer, but that's ok as I am far from complete myself. In the meantime, I'll be working at it, a little here, a little there, overalls, tools belts, and all.
(Bobby's book, Grandma Dipped Snuff, is available from links to his website www.okieinexile.com, from Hastings, or from him.)
By Bobby Neal Winters
When I was growing up, grandpas wore overalls, and that was the way it was. The ones Grampa Sam wore were blue, just like blue jeans, and he wore them everywhere but church, and sometimes, when he had a new pair, he even wore them there. On the other hand, Grandpa Byrd, my mother's father, didn't wear his all the time. He was a dapper old man who usually wore a fedora, khaki pants, and a nice shirt, but when he did wear overalls, they were different. They were blue with white stripes.
My brother, who being two-and-a-half years older than me knew everything, informed me the difference was because Grampa Sam had worked in the oilfield, but Grandpa Byrd had worked as a carpenter, which required than he wear fancier overalls. Seeing a carpenter had special vestments like a priest or minister contributed to my exalted view of them.
Lumberyards, always a treat to visit as a kid, became sacred to me, like places of worship. They were temples to timber, shrines to sheetrock, grottos for grout. Who knows what might have happened if my Grandpa Byrd hadn't passed away when I was ten, but he did die, and so I was left untutored for 30 years.
Then one day in the spring, I decided to start my project to put vinyl siding up on the house. To refer to this as carpentry would make Grandpa Byrd, who built entire houses, roll over in his grave, but it was a close as I figured I was likely to get.
My wife, the librarian, begins projects by checking out books and reading up on methods first. In religious parlance, this would make her something of a fundamentalist, as she tries to go by the book.
I, on the other had, have been something of an existentialist when is comes to such things. If I understand my philosopher friends, and there is every chance that I don't, this means that I have to wake up every morning and figure out things for myself. Some mornings that begins with having to figure out that the thing making my feet hurt is called the floor and that the coffee pot is really my friend and not an evil alien robot.
I began the project with just the goal in mind, but none of the ways to get to the goal figured out. My philosophy is that details will take care of themselves, and they do. The trouble is that details can be spiteful when left to their own devices.
Wishing to minimize any damage that might be done to our house, my wife brought home a stack of books from the library, and said, "Take and read." So I took and looked at the pictures, which is as much as my temperament would allow me to do.
Having decided by looking at the pictures and receiving encouragement from a friend at Opolis who said, "You can do it, Bob, it's easy," I entered into one of the sacred temples in town.
I talked to a young priest there named Clayton and told him what my project was. With that first step, I began my training as an Oblate to the Order of the Carpenter. I felt like Caine when he entered the temple in the old Kung Fu series.
After filling my order for siding supplies, with a twinkle in his eye, my mentor faced me straight on and asked, "Do you have a tool belt?"
I said, "No," and he informed me they were on sale. This tool belt has been to me like Samuel's mantle or Gandalf's staff. Without it, I wouldn't be incomplete.
Then I began my two-week project. That was five weeks ago. Man has his time, but God has his.
Every discipline has its key bits of wisdom. In siding, one of these is keeping everything level. I learned that the hard way, and I don't want to talk about how, but suffice it to say my experience has caused me to compose a Prayer for Plumbness. I cannot reproduce the words here, because it contains certain magic words that we of the Order are forbidden to share and would make the gentle reader blush, but the thrust of the prayer is that a bubble move either left or right as desired. It works surprisingly well.
While I cannot fully within this space recount all of the other wisdom I've absorbed in my oblate training, suffice it to say I have moved a bit closer to fundamentalism. There were times I have discovered I just wanted the book with the answers opened in front of me, figuring it out for myself be hanged.
My project is uncompleted and won't be until the end of next summer, but that's ok as I am far from complete myself. In the meantime, I'll be working at it, a little here, a little there, overalls, tools belts, and all.
(Bobby's book, Grandma Dipped Snuff, is available from links to his website www.okieinexile.com, from Hastings, or from him.)
