{"id":23137,"date":"2015-10-20T10:00:45","date_gmt":"2015-10-20T17:00:45","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.backwoodshome.com\/blogs\/ClaireWolfe\/?p=23137"},"modified":"2015-10-20T10:00:45","modified_gmt":"2015-10-20T17:00:45","slug":"there-is-a-god-after-all-plus-random-thoughts","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.clairewolfe.com\/blog\/2015\/10\/20\/there-is-a-god-after-all-plus-random-thoughts\/","title":{"rendered":"There is a god after all (plus random thoughts)"},"content":{"rendered":"

Sorry to disappoint my Christian friends who might hope I’ve had a conversion, but by that I mean only that God-the-Plumber<\/a> has arrived. On the appointed day. At the appointed hour.<\/p>\n

He is now (terrifyingly) drilling holes in my brand-new bathroom floor.<\/p>\n

Since Handyman Mike wrapped up his part of the work on Friday, I’ve been hustling like crazy: drywalling, mudding, painting, moving shelving, the vanity, and plumbing parts into the room. No way am I finished, but by working late every evening, I got everything plumber-ready. Last night after finishing my to-do list I spent an extra two hours inspecting and asking myself, “What have I forgotten? What do I still need to discuss with the plumber and the electricians? What else is likely to go wrong?” I scribbled notes on the walls for the electricians (due tomorrow). I got up early today to fix a couple of things.<\/p>\n

Now I can sit on my arse for a whole day. Well, other than helping to move the tub into place and starting to clean the living room, which is full of ladders, drywall squares, utility knives, levels, measuring tapes, and suchlike.<\/p>\n

But now … to catch up with some overdue emails, blogging, TZP polls and whatever else I can think of.<\/p>\n

One thing about drywalling and painting: they’re mindless enough to allow random thoughts. Here are a couple of those.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Protein Pucks or RXBARS as emergency food?<\/strong><\/p>\n

Yesterday before work I treated myself to a salted-caramel latte and something called a Protein Puck. This is a newish west-coast thing, so maybe you easties don’t have them yet. But here’s the nutrition info<\/a> and here (just because I’m so helpful) is the Amazon link<\/a>.<\/p>\n

A Protein Puck is about the size of a — guess what? — hockey puck or a thickish cookie. They’re gluten-free, vegan, and one variety is also paleo. Basically a mish-mash of nut butters, nuts, fruit bits, and seeds. Mine had oats, too. One little puck is considered two servings. I was dubious about that until I was about halfway through and starting to feel it. One puck of the variety I ate contains 14 grams of protein, six grams of fiber, and 460 calories. <\/p>\n

As I trowled mud on a wall, I got to wondering whether these had potential as bug-out-bag foods. <\/p>\n

There’s another thing called an RXBAR<\/a> that’s similar in purpose (though formulated very differently). I haven’t tried RXBARs, but I wonder about the same potential. Love their ingredient lists<\/a>.<\/p>\n

Both are marketed to athletes, trekkers, and such. But vaccuum pack them, maybe swap out the supply every six months, and I wonder … <\/p>\n

That Protein Puck definitely beat Datrex food bars<\/a> for good eating. Of course, Datrex bars are made for emergency use and no doubt have a much longer no-worry shelf life. Datrex bars taste okay but they have the texture of compressed sawdust. The puck was pleasant to eat. And much healthier.<\/p>\n

Its only drawback: No sodium. In an emergency where you might be exerting yourself in who-knows-what weather, sodium would be a good thing. I’d pack pucks and salted nuts.<\/p>\n

I’ve never been able to read obituaries the same way since<\/strong><\/p>\n

Hoisting slabs of drywall reminded me of a guy I’ll call Fergus. Fergus was part of the crew that built the shell of my old Cabin Sweet Cabin, back in Ought One. He was thirtysomething, handsome, intelligent, highly skilled at construction work — and one of life’s absolute, utterly doomed losers. “Fey” is the old-fashioned word for what he was. A Peter Pan. A child in an adult’s body.<\/p>\n

He was the stepson of the shell-building contractor, and as different from him as he could be. The contractor (call him Bob) was a tough, sober, little banty-rooster of a guy who cheerfully cussed his way though the whole project. Bob showed up on time, managed his crews efficiently, presented his bills every Friday, figured every detail accurately, and was great to work with as long as you didn’t mess with him.<\/p>\n

Shortly after the shell was built and while I still had lots of my own work to do, Bob took a job as the county building inspector and handed the company over to Fergus. I think Bob’s wife, Fergus’ doting mother, arm-twisted him into it. I think it was also done as a “here’s your last chance to do something right” gesture.<\/p>\n

Fergus came out twice to work with me (once on ceiling drywall, which is what got me thinking about him). He couldn’t show up on time. But in trying to prove (on Bob’s orders) that he could be conscientious, he might call five times in two hours to say he was running late. His bills, when they arrived at all, were just plain screwy. If he worked three hours on Monday and four on Tuesday, he’d add 3+4=7=14. When he was supposed to give me a $50 credit for an item we returned, he instead gave me a $250 credit for a similar item we’d kept and used. He would casually say the most insulting things — and say the same things repeatedly over the course of the day — with seemingly no clue that he was being either repetitive or hurtful. I suspected drugs. No, I didn’t just suspect<\/i> them.<\/p>\n

He was petrified of my dogs. Not for anything they did, but on general principles. Or it might be more accurate to say he acted as though they were icky, as if they’d transfer cooties to him merely by being nearby. He physically recoiled from them when they were doing nothing but sitting near where he walked.<\/p>\n

A few months after he took over the business, I spotted him one workday afternoon, sitting in the company truck on a logging road. Just sitting there, staring. The expression on his face was as black and empty as I’ve ever seen. It haunted me.<\/p>\n

Shortly thereafter the company, which had been solid for years, went out of business. Bob told me Fergus had run up thousands of dollars in bills that Bob got stuck paying. Bob told me his wife (an otherwise lovely lady) had never insisted Fergus grow up. Had always protected, sheltered, and covered for him, no matter what.<\/p>\n

Not long after that. Fergus’ mother suddenly dropped dead. Six months later, on a clear, sunny day, Fergus was riding his motorcycle on a straight, familiar road — when he slammed into a concrete abutment at high speed.<\/p>\n

His obituary spoke effusively of what a happy, outgoing, well-liked person he had been. What a pillar of virtue he was, devoted to his faith and his church. How outstanding he’d been at his work. It made special mention of his passionate love and care for all animals of all kinds.<\/p>\n

I’ve never been able to read an obituary since without wondering what’s the real story?<\/i><\/p>\n

—–<\/p>\n

Okay, ’nuff of that. Now off to design this week’s poll for TZP.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Sorry to disappoint my Christian friends who might hope I’ve had a conversion, but by that I mean only that God-the-Plumber has arrived. On the appointed day. At the appointed hour. He is now (terrifyingly) drilling holes in my brand-new bathroom floor. Since Handyman Mike wrapped up his part of the work on Friday, I’ve been hustling like crazy: drywalling, mudding, painting, moving shelving, the vanity, and plumbing parts into the room. No way am I finished, but by working late every evening, I got everything plumber-ready. Last night after finishing my to-do list I spent an extra two hours<\/p>\n

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