It turns out I was born to do menial labor. Whether it's scooping 100 lbs. of cookie dough into balls, dicing case after case of bell peppers, shoveling four inches of dirt to level the future floor of a garage, or beating hundreds of nails into roof trusses, I derive great contentment chipping away at big, basic tasks. I can't exactly say I achieved meditative zen this week, because it's been hot and humid to the point of chafing my eyes wiping away sweat. But the Protestant-work-ethic gremlin that grumbles within me granted begrudging approval.
My brother is building a new house, and it's at a gratifyingly transformative stage. Framing and sheathing progress daily -- the bare half-skeleton of two weeks ago is shaping up and all the rooms are recognizable. A minimum of blood and a maximum of sweat keep work flowing.
Jean-François and I had a break from the heat in the UP (northern Michigan), or as I now think of it, Junior Alaska. The forests and lakes and fishermen and accents can be quite similar, and if you squint you can imagine mountains in the background. We went to the Les Cheneaux Islands, camped in a gorgeous bit of National Forest along the lakeshore, and kayaked among the myriad beguiling passages. Jean-François was in awe of the veritable sea of fresh water, extending beyond the horizon. He was charmed by spontaneous friendly conversations with strangers. And he had his first ham steak in this majestic land between the woods and the water.
