Cork and Ferrules; or, On Having Big Ears.

Saturday, January 28, 2012 -- 7:45 a.m.

Mule deer blend easily into the ditch canvas of grass, yucca, and red-hipped briers. My eyes are caught only by the rim of white and black on their ears, attending to the distance -- optical nerve tension stretches their necks to the southwest. They keep on eating though, so it mustn't be too dangerous; yet between snoutings around in the grass, they look up in the same direction. Just to make sure. In observation, they’re different than the whitetails of my Midwest youth -- they’re the bigger boned, larger eared cousins. Methodic in action (a nice way of saying, “lacking in grace”), they seem to take their time in life, and are proven wise by doing so -- very rarely do I see one hit on the canyon highway, unlike how I remember Iowa’s roadways -- a deer a mile. But perhaps that was corn-fed overpopulation to blame. And while I’m really not sure to what exactly this should be attributed, there’s certainly behavioral differences between the two.

There is a small population of whitetails living along South Boulder Creek just out of town, on the stretch flattening out of Eldorado Springs. My canyon once homed them too, old timers say. But they left when Gross dam was being built in the 50's. The construction and its traffic took the antelope and half the black bear population with it too. And now, there’s an expansion proposed, struggling to pass through legislation. I wonder if it does get approved, what else will be taken this time around...


8:50 a.m.

A plastic bag of cork rings sits on the workbench. Frank shows me what to look for: no cracks and few holes, making sure to look on both sides. “See this one? Punky.” And it makes me think about some of the cord wood I have stacked, scavenged from my back mountain. When you’re gathering your own wood, off your own land, you can’t be choosy -- taking what you can get, and what is already dead and felled. But all wood burns. And thus all wood warms...just some not as long as others.  

“Be picky,” Frank says....“take the best.”

I try to be. Though it’s against my nature -- I’m used to taking what makes sense, not necessarily what is considered best or appeals to my sensibilities (Yes, I’m Austen's Elinor). Although in this case, they’re one and the same --> what makes sense is what’s best. And in that duality, lies peace of mind. I try to look over them all, both sides, judging them against each other -- and after changing my mind a few times, I start organizing different piles. The nos, maybes, and for sures. I think about the two mason jars on my kitchen counter at home, overflowing with wine bottle corks, and how (at particularly round ‘pops’) Jay always says, “pity that wasn’t used on a rod.”

Frank looks at my sorting and chimes, “...the champagne industry takes all the really good stuff.” Hmm. I’ve never liked champagne anyway...
 
After a bit more shuffling around of piles, whittling away and down, I’m left with twelve rings of cork. Then with a rattail file, I push through their started center, going only halfway up the file on the rings farther up the grip, and then fitting them all onto the butt section of the rod, imprinting the taper. Putting my right hand on the uneven grip feels good, and already familiar, almost -- I’ve known the cane for awhile now, but this is the first time I’ve held it like a rod. But only for a few seconds -- there is work yet to do. Taking the cork rings off the rod, I slide them onto a metal dowel to glue the rings together, layer after layer, like icing a cake -- with caramel frosting. 

 And now, we fit the ferrules. Frank puts the butt piece in the lathe, and starts it spinning.

“This is good. Do you see....how it’s spinning straight through the length?” he asks. “No wobbles....yeah, this is very good.”

I think back to how I planed slowly, incrementally working in the taper. You can plane down to final dimensions right off the bat, Frank told me, but it gives you more time and room to correct mistakes and bends in the cane if you go slowly. Measuring. And remeasuring. Taking time with each node and split -- the long way around at some points. The “scenic way” as my mother would say when she wants an excuse to drive into the country.....when she misses our farm. I do the same thing. The scenic way is where memories live, and the long way is how you see and learn things in life...and in love, too. Even, when you get lost trying to get back home. Yet in that place, in the unknown of what is bound to be a dirt road, the words of Lemony Snicket’s Violet prove true....there is always something.

Always.

And I remember yesterday, as we were marking out the final length -- measuring and remeasuring -- Frank took caliper measurements around the flats at three or four places on each piece -- the first measurement was off a slight bit. My stomach sank. “It’s okay,” Frank said as I looked over his shoulder (my dismay must have been obvious), “within a thousandth of an inch is the goal....and you’ve got that.”  Moving down the cane, he read the next measurement aloud: “0.167, 0.167, 0.167.” He looked up. “That doesn’t happen often....good work.” A few more measurements and it happened again: “0.204, 0.204, 0.204.” Frank glanced up.

I smiled.

And now, I see that the phrase I’ve been hearing him repeat to himself, and in turn which I’ve repeated to myself : “I want it to be done; no, I want it to be done right.” has paid off. I have listened, closely...with big ears like a mule. Come to think of it, that was my nickname as a kid: big ears. I could hear anything. From any distance. Big Ears -- it was a running joke. Although, I don’t remember actually trying to hear conversations...I just did. And I think that’s why I started writing -- to make sense of all the stories I heard -- to make sense of my thoughts. I can’t just tune them out, and unless I do something with them, unless I write them out, they haunt. I guess you could say that writing is an exorcism of sorts.

Back in the shop, I listen to what Frank is saying whether he is actually talking to me or not -- sort of like those things parents say, and children overhear. Sometimes this is good, but sometimes it results in awkward moments after a four-year-old cusses at grandma’s Christmas dinner table. In this instance, it was the former -- none of my pieces needed straightening before I glued on the ferrules (and I do try not to cuss in front of my grandmother).

I grew up with mules, riding and training them, and now again I'm reminded that listening and working like one is a prudent practice. And you know, maybe that Proverb about going to the ant really should be changed to going to the mule. They know how to work.  

They know how to listen.

Work on the rod goes quickly today, and on the drive back there is still light; although shadows have begun to lengthen...as have the days. And I decide to take the long way home -- just because...there’s always something.




Listen to the story: