Little Bucket of Mud

It is a little bucket of mud, straw from the fields, sand and clay from the earth.

Its a small sample of today's work. Adobe-equal parts sand, clay, and straw.

Sweat trickles down my spine and collects at the base of my Nine West Jeans. The shovel hits the hard earth barely making a dent in this high desert.

I kick hard with the heel of my Ariats, forcing the shovel past the hard surface, using my arms to push the handle down and the earth up.

My thoughts scatter as the blood rushes away from my head to my arms as I lift the shovel of dirt and dump it into the bucket.

The pattern repeats. Shovel in, shovel up, dirt in the bucket.

My arms burn as I take the full bucket to the tarp waiting with cut straw taken from various places on the 80 acre ranch and a mound of earth.

I dump water in the center of the mound watching the water form a volcano and spill over the sides as lava would do.

I pull off my work gloves and gingerly bend my knees to the floor. I push away the pain screaming in my knees and start mixing the Adobe. I knead it like dough and I am a human Kitchen Aid. Push. Pull. Push. Pull.

Sweat trickles down my face, dripping into my eyes as I furiously blink the blurry vision away. Push. Pull. Push. Pull.

The mud begins to thicken into a play dough consistency.

I lift an armful into a bucket. Then one more; "I hope this is enough to fix the patch need inside the back door" I think to myself, hesitating for a moment, before deciding to drag another armload over and into the bucket. "That should be enough, and if not, it is mud, I'll just put it back." The thought of how easy it is, makes me chuckle to myself.

The sun is rising higher by the second and the heat with it, evaporating what little water I have to spare. Push. Pull. Push. Pull. Can't let it dry out too quickly, so I have to work faster.

Making a make shift brick, I walk over to where I'm building my oven. Today the glass bottles need to be covered, so tomorrow I can build on the dried earth placed today.

The sound of mud hitting wall is slapping, it echoes in my head. I drift, back and forth in my mind, registering everything and nothing.

Push. Pull. Slap. The sound of the tea kettle pulls me back into the hot sun and my now, sweat drenched clothes.

I live in the Earthship with its bare Adobe walls filled with tires and aluminum cans filled with concrete.

A little two burner camping stove in the tiny kitchen whistles that the water is done boiling.

I pull off my working gloves and head into the kitchen to fill my French Press for some much needed coffee.

The Adobe walls make an archway just below the ceiling, making a neat little cubby in an open living space. Shelves line the inside right above the camper size sink. The ends sink into the walls of earth that hold them in place. The paint is fading on the old plank boards that were carefully placed by the builder, Jo Sage.

Thoughts race through my head again. I have a laundry list of things I must get done today.

Take the Laundry to the Laundromat, make sure I have everything ready for the 45 minute drive to the nearest laundromat. Must get just enough food for the week. That's all that will fit in my 1990's make shift camper freezer.

"Where is my carefully planned grocery list?" I ask my self as I pour my steeped Cafe Bustello into a misshapen mug that was left here by Jo.

I add two packets of Sweet'n'Low, I pilfered from the only gas station in town, Nancy's B-Street Grocery is new and doesn't carry the "pink poison."

I dump in a healthy amount of powdered creamer and stare out the wall of floor to ceiling windows. It's so quiet, I can hear the humming birds come to the feeder hanging from a Russian Almond tree just outside. It sounds like a very large bug, if a bug were a beast with wings.

The window sill is covered with dust and spider webs along its length. It doesn't bother me, the spiders catch the flies that seem to coalesce by the windows, hoping to escape to the wild from where they came.

The sun is climbing higher on the horizon and I want to taste the sweet flavor of my menthol American spirit mixed with the deep richness of Coffee. I don't smoke indoors, but no one is around to judge me for miles and "this is my one indulgence" or so I tell myself.

I walk outside tugging on my drenched jeans; they hang loose these days, "maybe I'll have enough time to find a belt." The thought briefly crosses my mind as I push the rickety screen door open. Strong old thing, barely hanging on, but proud of the Lapiz Blue paint chips it carries on its bending wooden frame.

There's an old bench in the distance; it's the perfect view of the distant Caprock in it's hues of Hunter Green, Red Cliffs, and the train that winds its way through the low hills covered in Juniper.

I make my way carefully, walking through cactus, shrubs, and the sunflowers I planted in early spring. My legs are sore, but I push the thought away. "Out of sight, out of mind" I say to myself, the Adobe wall crumbing around the back door won't fix itself, but I have time.

The boards of the old bench creak under my weight as if waking up to their purpose after a long sleep.

The sound of the Bic lighter echoes, but I all I hear is the sizzle of heat lighting the end of my cigarette.

I exhale deeply and take a swig of my "still-too-hot coffee" and enjoy the burn in the back of my throat.

I think about everything that has to get done...eventually, but I have time.