Monday, Monday

A better way to start the week…

I’ve always liked that song by the Mama’s and Papa’s. And then there’s Stormy Monday, written and recorded in 1947 by TBone Walker. I like the Allmann Brothers version, as well as BB King’s. There’s a thread of truth in those lyrics. For many in the world, Monday (not Sunday) marks the beginning of the week, the beginning of one’s toil to put food on the table. I’ll admit to feeling the Monday morning blues on occasion. Most Monday’s, I skipped to work, knowing I’d be doing something I loved, working with people whom I admired, meeting many more in elevators, stairwells and hallways who shared the same daytime environment, filled their unique roles and kept the institution at the top of it’s game. Then came a time when it all slowly soured, impacted and assaulted by forces from outside, by persons rarely or never seen, disguised by words like “consultant”, “quality”, “efficiency”, “best practice”. The front-line workers generally knew how to navigate the policy and regulatory environment and still get the work done as efficiently as could reasonably be accomplished while preserving a semblance of compassion, humanism, humor. I found that middle management was a revolving door, where each successive occupant of the role came with the mandate to “change things for the better” and report up the chain of administrative command and then be rotated out mere months later, having stirred the pot with well meaning but ill-informed ideas about how things could be more efficient.

I came to dread Mondays. I never knew which Monday would bring another policy change from on high, whose net effect was to do more with less, while poisoning the esprit-de-corps that our highly functioning team had enjoyed for many years, before the ascendant C-class turned it’s cannons on us.

Then, one day, it all stopped. Everything. I left that place. As years have passed, the acute disaffections have faded, the pleasant memories of earlier times have continued and I now look back on that era with pleasure.

I had to re-learn how to “be” once I stepped off the hamster wheel. It took some time. I sought and found help. Now I’m in a better place, and I look forward to Mondays again. In fact, I look forward to essentially every day! Mondays in particular, the latest iteration of my routine is to arise early and hoof it down to my favorite coffee bar (dogs encouraged!) for a latte or cappuccino shortly after opening. I have some quiet time, armed with a little pile of treats for the canines and then about 0800 or so, my friend Stuart arrives. We enjoy a leisurely chat before heading on down to the Habitat for Humanity ReStore, where we volunteer together. Monday is metal recycling day. It’s also a form of dumpster diving, where items sent to scrap are examined, sometimes tested and set aside for rehab, repair, second-chance retail or adoption. We both have a soft spot for vintage hand tools.

Stuart is a remarkable individual. He’s gentle and quiet, but has exquisite skills in woodworking, furniture building to be exact. He has a well appointed shop in his garage. He shared his magic formula for de-rusting of old tools with me. It’s GREAT! toss in a rusty old tool and the next day, it rinses clean and polishes right up with a quick turn on the wire polishing wheel. Most of the tools I salvage go back to be sold. They invariably are much better appreciated after polishing and treating wood handles with Tung oil. I might spend 5 minutes on a tool. I learn a lot from Stuart. it’s such a pleasure to have earned his friendship!

I’m very sentimental about old tools. I define old as “pre-plastic”, with a few exceptions. This all hails back to kindergarten. That year, we lived with my paternal grandparents in their old victorian style home in Alameda, CA. In the “front basement”, the one with a cement floor and walls, was my grandpa’s shop. He tuned and repaired pianos for a living. He also built furniture. All of his workbenches were self made, massive and full of soul. In the drawers were vintage woodworking tools. On the shelves were every manner of potion for preserving, painting, repairing and reconditioning hardwoods. It was a magical place. I’m sure I trailed after him many days after kindergarten, asking endless questions. Once, he took me with him to tune a piano, on an AIRCRAFT CARRIER at the naval base!

51 years later, guess where all that precious equipment and shop furniture lives? In my basement shop. I love spending time there! I have added things; I call it curating my tool collection. I struggle to keep things tidy, as there are always several projects in evolution at the same time. Currently a long handled chain-saw pruner is disassembled on the main bench, awaiting a part from far away, while two or three other small projects sit in and amongst the workspace.

What makes this all particularly special is that I feel Grandpa’s presence in that space where his workbenches and tools reside. Likewise, I imagine that each of the vintage tools that I bring in, soak and polish and return to circulation has a story and someone’s grandpa attached to them. Yes, it’s fanciful and sentimental, but it makes me smile whenever I add my little part to their history and divert them from the recycler.

So, Mondays are a day for fellowship, discovery and doing a bit of God’s work supporting homebuilding for folks who could otherwise not afford to buy a home.

I am now going so far as to go to bed earlier, so I can get up earlier to start the day on Monday. Does that represent a transformation or what?!

Right now in the world, terrible things are happening. Missiles are flying, bombs are falling, people are dying for no good reason at all. America is under assault from the inside. The political season is in full swing and my email inbox and text message inbox are littered with solicitations for money on an ever more urgent basis. My “swipe left” motion is honed to a razor sharp edge. In the interest of my mental health, I have turned substantially away from media sources of current events. While the outrage takes various different forms, the underlying theme is generally the same, and I just don’t need to wallow in that swamp.

We’re five weeks into a glorious spring time. Plants just keep blooming and blooming and blooming. The last of my 5 bare-root fruit trees has finally begun to leaf out. The blueberries are blooming. The raspberry vine has begun its reach for the trellis wire. My little fig in the massive terra cotta pot is leafing out and my two tender little cornelian cherry trees promise to double in size this year. Finally, the three stands of timber bamboo I planted 4 years ago are now pushing their culms skyward. I’ll never stop being amazed at how fast they grow; 11 months of root network development to support 30 days of almost visible daily growth ( more than 12 inches/day!) Each year the culms get bigger and bigger, taller and taller. One day there will be enough to harvest and begin to make garden structures.

So, where did those song lyrics come from? Getting older has its challenges, but I think I can safely say that they were singing about a former me, not the current version.

So, here’s wishing you a wonderful, glorious spring Monday.