It's Not the Red Wine

I went horseback riding today for the first time since my fall and had a wonderful time. The morning was fresh from a storm that crossed over us last night. I went by myself on Tasha, the horse I usually take. I had to get off him at one point during the ride because he had managed to get both of his plastic bit guards into his mouth, so I had to extract them. I was a bit uncertain if I could remount. My right side still hurts a bit, and when I got on him initially I needed to mount him at the stable by standing on a little hill beside him while he stood in the driveway. However, I was very proud of myself as I slowly pulled myself up and over his back. Tip: Don’t put your fingers into a horse’s mouth.

I’ve been mowing non-stop for the past three days, and today I’ll weed-whack. I really, really miss Preston now. He mowed almost every day he was here leaving me free to sit around the house eating bonbons. Weed whacking is tough work. But every time I want to stop because I’m too tired, I can hear my seventy-five year old neighbor’s weed-whacker going, and so I plunge in again.

The energy and stamina of the old people here puts me, an in-shape jogger, to shame. I’ve come to the conclusion that the real French Paradox does not center on red wine. No, the French Paradox is a combination of habits: eating foods fresh from the farm that hasn’t passed through a corporate processing plant, easy access to healthcare, and physically exhausting work performed every day. Now that last point is a tough sell for most people. We wish it was the wine, not the work that held the key to a lengthened life, but I’m afraid it’s not so.

Here, in order to keep ahead of the plants, I need to work like a migrant farm worker. The work is endless. No sooner do I finish mowing the property than I have to start over. I have no idea how a farmer can possibly do all the work that’s required. All I have to do is maintain the place and take care of 150 walnut trees. It seemed like an absurdly easy job, until I tackled it.

My husband and I are always trying to think of some sort of business idea to start over here. I told him yesterday to cross anything that had to do with plants or animals off of his list. Farming is too labor intensive. Sure we’d be extremely skinny like all our other neighbors who are agriculturists, but I just don’t think I could physically stand up to the amount of labor that farming requires.

When you eat today, look closely at your food and realize that someone had to exert backbreaking, virtual slave work to get it to you so cheaply. The irony is that the people who live in the cities are getting fatter and fatter each year, while the people who make their living off the farms are skinny little folk who can barely eat enough to replace the calories they’re expending.

Driving back from my horse ride, I saw Madame Boudet bent over in her garden. It doesn’t matter what time you pass by Madame’s house, she’s always outside, bent over her garden, her vines, her fields.

Since the old owner left, I’ve been free to shape the property in my own image. I no longer hide inside the house during the afternoons, afraid of being forced to listen to him drone on at me for an hour or more. I no longer have to debate every tree I want to cut, every piece of junk I want to throw away, every little rock border I want to build, every bush I want to plant. At the moment, this “shaping” means that I am hauling old discarded junk from where it was thrown seventy-five years ago and sorting it at a staging area hidden from view. I might be finished in 2010. Every clump of weeds seems to hide a piece of junk: the chassis for a baby carriage, a cute outdoor table that would be wonderful if the rust hadn’t eaten holes in its top, tires, used oil drums, et al.

Right now, I have the front of the property looking pretty decent. But it’s embarrassing to walk behind the house or the buildings. There’s junk everywhere and unfortunately, none of it would make it on The Antiques Roadshow.

I don’t mind the physical work. I’ve lost the few pounds I put on while my girlfriend Kathy was here. We visited a lot of the local restaurants. But the endlessness of the work is what overwhelms me. I try to view it as a Zen lesson: The imperfection inherent in all attempts at perfection.

The weather forecast is for a huge thunderstorm this afternoon and evening. I hope it arrives, for it will give me a reprieve from my endless mowing and weed-whacking. But right now I must go out and finish what I can before the storm arrives.