The men who have been making the terrible noise are still at it.

The construction on our building began in the early spring, before my husband, Peter, and I returned from Mexico. When we arrived, scaffolding had been set up all around the building and blue plastic had been taped over our windows to protect them from flying debris. Our balcony was unusable, and the driveway was blocked off, filled with piles of bricks.

And every morning at 8:00 exactly, they began to jackhammer out the bricks.

The project entailed removing rows of bricks from every side and every story of the building because water was getting in. Some sort of magic was performed beneath them (I am not an engineer, in case you were wondering) and new bricks were put in place. The loudest and longest part of this project was the removal of the bricks, but there was also grinding down of edges once the new ones were in, and some pressure washing and, throughout it all and at every stage, a tremendous amount of noise.

The building leaked. There wasn't much we could do.

I decided early on that I could not vacate to a coffee shop every time I needed to write. I don't like wearing earplugs, and I'm not sure they would have done much good. Instead, I wrote through the noise. If I had to talk to Peter, I would go to the room he was in and stand close to him, because inter-room hollering was no longer possible (which might have been one small ancillary benefit of the facade repair).

They were all guys, and they were all quite large. Hammering out bricks and replacing them with more bricks while on a narrow platform high in the air is serious work. These guys did it five days a week from 8 in the morning until 4 in the afternoon, taking only a half-hour off for lunch.

I always said "hello." They always apologized for all the noise -- as if there was anything they could do about it. Sometimes I would thank them for the wake-up call. They always laughed and thanked me for being a good sport.

"We should get them snacks to thank them for their hard work," Peter said.

Peter believes every hardworking person deserves snacks. It is one of the many things I love about him. So I went to the bakery, and I bought a bunch of bars -- brownies and lemon bars and Rice Krispies bars and pumpkin -- and Peter and I delivered them one day when they took their short lunch break.

"I want a souvenir!" I told the foreman.

"What kind of souvenir?" he asked.

"I want a brick!"

"We've got bricks everywhere!" He laughed.

"Yes, but I want a signed brick. I want your autographs."

"Why would you want that?" he asked.

"I want it to remember this summer of noise!"

They all laughed, and just when we were getting ready to return to Mexico (which we usually think of as the noisier of our two homes), Peter said, "There's something for you outside the door."

And, of course, it was my brick, with everyone's name written on it. I was so pleased.

It reminds me of those hardworking guys outside my window, hanging off the side of the building day after day. It reminds me that, whatever hard work I think I am doing, there are much harder jobs out there. Sitting at my computer, putting up with a little noise, it reminds me that I have it pretty good.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

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The corn was planted late. We knew that at the time.

Because their house is located so deep in the woods, my mother has had no luck getting vegetables to grow. When my parents heard there were garden plots available in town, they signed up for one, and have had a garden in town for several years.

The rhubarb was already up when they were told there was a garden plot next to theirs that was not being used.

"Use it!" the manager of the community garden told them. I'm not sure where the idea came from, but my dad decided to plant corn.

It was late for corn, that far north. But my dad got three different kinds of seeds, and he soaked them overnight to give them a head start, and when I was visiting last spring, we stuck them in the ground and hoped for the best.

My mom sent a photo midsummer. "The corn is up!" she wrote, with a photo of the little green stalks in three neat rows.

"How's the corn?" I'd ask when I called.

"It's coming, but we still don't have any cobs ready."

The stalks grew tall, and they tasseled out, and there were ears clinging to the stalks. A raccoon or similar invader knocked a cob off the stalk and my dad peeled it open. "Still not ready to eat," he reported.

I visited this past weekend and, late in September, the weather was still warm, although the days were shorter, that far north. I took the garden hose at the community garden and gave the corn a good watering, and I wondered if my parents would get any corn to eat.

While I had the hose out, I also watered the rhubarb. My mother told me that folks said harvesting rhubarb late in the season prevented a good crop from being produced in the spring. But I could tell my mother was skeptical. She has been growing rhubarb almost all her life and knows a thing or two about rhubarb by now. She had given the last of her rhubarb to a friend and wanted to make one last batch of sauce, so we pulled out a pile of big, healthy stems, late in September, and brought them home.

"I don't think it hurts them a bit!" my mother said.

But the corn was not yet ready.

There was still corn at the corn stand. The farmers know what they're doing, planting the corn very early and very late and keeping the sweet corn season going as long as possible. It made me hopeful that those cobs, even if they were a little small, might turn into something edible before the first frost.

On this last visit to the garden, I saw that most of the gardeners have packed up for the summer. They had pulled out the last of the beans and tomatoes and raked out their beds. They had piled cow manure on the top of their beds and taken off for Florida or Arizona. One of them was there while I was watering the corn.

"See you next year!" he told my parents.

My parents are still watering the corn. And I'm glad we planted it, no matter what happens.

Maybe nothing will come of it. Probably nothing will. But planting late corn has given us something to hope for. It's like rooting for a losing team. It's like starting a new dream late in life. I admire my parents for planting corn after the rhubarb was up and hoping for the best.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

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I'm usually pretty good about doing things I don't want to do. I've been alive long enough to know that getting started is always the hardest part. But nothing is harder for me to start than doing weights.

I say "doing" weights because I don't actually lift anything other than myself. I started out with push-ups because a friend suggested a "100-push-up challenge." I had never done any upper-body exercise of any kind. I couldn't imagine I could do 100 push-ups -- and it turns out I was right. I couldn't for almost two years.

But I did them almost every day, and I went from 30 to 50 (where I stayed for a full year) to 75, and, finally, to 100. Then I discovered I could do 110 and, by the end, I was able to do 200 push-ups at a time.

Was my form perfect? It was not. I couldn't care less. I did them fast and sloppy and got them over with. But my arms got a lot stronger, and I hoped my genetic inclination toward osteoporosis might be helped. I did them because I thought a me in the future would appreciate my efforts.

But I finally got to a point where I absolutely dreaded push-ups. I stopped doing them for days at a time. It takes a while to do 200 push-ups, and I hated every moment of it.

So, I decided to do something different. There is a small gym in the building where I live, and it has machines in it. I'd never used any of these machines. They terrified me. But my 16-year-old nephew, Beau, started lifting weights two years ago. He is very muscular now and goes to the gym several times a week. Beau came to my gym with me, and we looked at the terrifying machines.

"What do I do, Beau?"

"All you need is this machine," he said, pointing to the scariest one. He sounded sure of himself, and Beau is a fellow who does a lot of research before he comes out with pronouncements.

"Just this machine?"

"Yup. If you want to work upper body, this will do it."

Beau showed me three exercises I could do on the one machine, and I became determined to use this machine every day. And I did. For a while. Then I began to hate it almost as much as push-ups.

I had to get dressed to go to the gym (even if it was just downstairs). I had to put on my shoes (and we all know how hard that can be). Sometimes I had to do my exercises in front of other people. (They were not the least bit interested, but still.)

And I started avoiding it, just as I had the push-ups.

"Maybe I don't have to do weights at all," I told myself. "Maybe I've done enough!" But I didn't feel good. And I knew Future Me would be disappointed in Past Me.

So, I've started up again.

I'm not pretending I love doing weights, but I'm not complaining as much, either. Because even if I only do one short set, I feel better afterward. I feel stronger and more confident -- but not really because my arms are stronger. I feel stronger when I do something I truly detest, even for a short time, because I decided to do it and did it. I did something just because it was the right thing to do.

I remind myself that I'm doing a favor for Future Me. I sure hope she appreciates it.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

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