Hand tools vs power tools

Garden tools

I spent some time this week clearing and weeding the rose beds in the gardens of the nursing home with a couple of elderly residents.  Both were ‘men of the land’ and had spent their lives with their hands in the earth.  I was really only there to encourage them to take a break every now and again.  In reality I was not needed at all, they were in their element and knew exactly what they were doing.  At one point Monsieur P straightened up and commented that I should get a couple of strapping young lads to do the job as it would be finished faster then with a couple of old men with dodgy hips.

“Ah, mais vous avez les savoir-faire” (translation – you have the know how) I reasoned.

“Oui” he shot back as quick as a cricket “si beaucoup de savoir-faire, ons sait plus quoi faire” translation – so much know-how, we don’t know what to do anymore.”  Except working with wood and gardening.

Then Monsieur D joined in,

“But look at the tools you give us to work with, these are rubbish, see this blade here should be sharp, and the handle is too heavy for this job.  My tools, they are adapted, I have everything I need chez moi.”

“Well then, I will ask the Patron (boss) if I can take you home and you can collect your own tools.”  Off I went and did just that.

“And what did he say?”

“Oui! when would you like to go?”

‘Tonight for example” hope and excitement were brimming in his eyes.

“I think it will have to wait for monday.”

That little conversation got me thinking about the relationship that people have with their tools.  So often, we meet people around here, usually older ones who love to show us the well they have dug, the wooden summer-house they have built,  the pump they have fashioned, the ‘chemin’ they have laid, the vast and enviable vegetable garden or orchard all of which they have planted with their own hands and simple tools.  I would love to learn to be self-sufficient like that, to be so in tune with nature and basic well-loved tools in my hands that I could fashion anything I needed.   I think I am think I am turning into a bit of a Luddite although I’m not sure I would survive without some electrically powered assistance – the washing machine for instance or this computer…

Below are extracts from a thought-provoking and poetic essay entitled ‘Hand tool reflections’ by Jan Sturman.  It is found in the classic book called ‘The hand sculpted house’ by Ianto Evans, Michail G.Smith and Linda Smiley.

‘I get a sense of profound satisfaction from hand tools that I never find with power tools.  Entering the tool shed, my hands automatically reach for my favorite chisel, the ax, the hatchet.  A need just to touch, caress.  I heft the three-inch-wide slick found rusting in an old barn, the blade chipped, the handle socket all mushroomed where some idiot whacked it with a hammer.  I carried it home like a sick animal, ground the burrs, buffed off the rust, carved a handle from a piece of maple, and sharpened the edge.  The slick came alive for me, sings in my hands, shaving off thick wood curls.  I love to look at it, hold it.  I never feel that with a power tool.  My hand never reaches out just to touch those dead weights of plastic and metal on the shelf. (…)

Carpenters were once craftsmen who knew how to make, adapt and tune their tools to reflect their individual needs and quirks.  Carpenters are now machine operations, factory workers without the factory, assembling modular units.  The pride in craft is lost.  No longer do we use tools of individual character, but mass-produced tools designed and marketed to the lowest common denominator.  Tools that are unadaptable and too complex to repair oneself.  The life cycle of a power tool is but a few years with  the years diminishing due to built-in obsolescence. (…)

No doubt about it, power tools make some work easier.  Ripping a half-inch off a 4×4 with a table saw takes a lot less time than doing it by hand.  But I noticed a strange difference in my body on days where I predominantly used hand tools compared with days spent directing power tools.  I can work far longer with focus, joy, and grace using hand tools: at the end of a nine- or ten-hour day I may be tired but never drained, while after five or six hours in front of a machine I am exhausted; although I spent fewer of my own calories, the juice of vitality has been sucked from me.

Why?  The power these tools have to do me harm depletes me.  My body – afraid, tense – on full alert turns subtle flexibility into rigid, tense muscles.  Reflexes slow, the mind falters, mistakes happen, blood flows.  With tense bodies, the chances of strains and wrenched backs are far greater than with a body that all day is being given a gentle aerobic  and stretching workout by using hand tools.  Maybe that’s where the extra vitality comes from.  When my cells are regularly flooded with fresh blood-carrying oxygen and nutrients, my body responds with more life to give.

Then there is the decibel fatigue from the loud screeching noise that permeates every building site.  More and more, this is the predominant reason why I choose hand tools over machines.  Our ears, attuned to a lover’s sighs, falling rain, friend’s laughter, wind whispers, are not adapted to cope with loud frequent noises.  We want to withdraw into a shell of numbness, deaf to the world.  I want to work in an environment where my timid senses emerge in the silence to partake of creation, where the flow of conversation or thought remains free to meander, explore, and fall again to silence, not censored, interrupted, broken by machines (…)

I am no purist, my power tools, well used, cared for, will continue to be used, although with less frequency as I discover again the joy of using just my body to propel tools to do their magic. (…)

I lift a plane, sharpened and tuned, and lay it to the wood.  Then somewhere in the infinite realm between my hand and the tool, alchemy happens.  Flesh, steel, wood combine in motion, and I am graced with translucent ribbons of shavings curling through my fingers, setting free the scent, revealing beauty.  A gift.’

Soap Nuts part 2

Just an update on the soap nut post.

Growing soapnuts

For everything that you need to know about soap nuts and how to grow them check out:-

www.sapindusmukorossi.com

The site  tells you(in 12 languages!) how best to achieve germination, the best soil, how to use them for laundry, make ‘soap nut juice’, store them etc.

I have now tried them, on a whites wash – and everything came out clean.  So, so far I am satisfied…

Now all I need is an 8-year-old sapindus mukorossi tree sapling…

Soap Nuts!

Today I discovered a whole new concept for washing clothes, hands and hair -  and got very excited.  When I got home from work my husband presented me with a small paper bag full of shiny toffee brown husks.

Soap Nuts

He had chatted to a neighbour who lives very simply and ecologically.  This elderly man grows his own fruit and vegetables, keeps chickens, has a toilet seche (composing toilet) and grows and uses whenever possible, natural remedies and products.  In his garden he has cultivated a plant called Sapindus Mukorossi, a native of the Himalayas.  Infact, this plant grows in many temperate to tropical regions throughout the world and has been used for washing for thousands of years as it contains natural surfactants as well as gentle insecticide and bacterial properties.  It is apparently effective for treating head lice and dandruff and the nuts or rather berries, may be placed directly into the washing machine (in a knotted stocking) or boiled for 20 mins to extract the ‘soap’ for hand washing or shampoo.  The berries can be reused 3 or 4 times and are completely free from synthetic chemicals and perfumes.  To add a scent, I was advised to simply add a few drops of essential oils such as lavender.  I am told that they are inexpensive, great for sensitive skin (and asthma and  eczema sufferers) and leave everything soft, so no need for conditioners.  What is more they allow me to support third world economies and avoid giving my money to the multi million pound/euro/dollar detergent businesses that churn out untold amounts of pollution and con me into buying harmful nasty chemicals such as sodium lauryl sulphate.

I just can’t believe I haven’t heard of them before!  If they work I will plant the seeds myself, but I will be waiting a long time as the plants take 8 years to grow berries.  In the mean time I will have to find a relible, ethical, inexpensive source of these pearls of natures bounty.

Has anyone else had any experience of soap nuts?  I haven’t tried them yet, but when I do I will post the results on this blog…so watch this space…

Why I write. Part II

Yesterday I was admiring a picture painted by a resident at work.  Teasingly I suggested that she enter it in the international watercolour exhibition held in our town every summer.

“Ouf” she said “I’m no artist.”  But I disagree.  In her own way she is an artist.  She will never make money from her pictures and few will ever see her work but as she  sits in her corner drawing, she is clearly lost in her own world of creativity.  So, what is an artist?

An Artist at work

In my humble opinion, anyone who sees the sense in the aesthetic is an artist.  Those who can see the value in non utilitarian objects or activity has an artistic nature.  People who love to weave stories and invent things do so because of their creative drive.  Like my old lady, they may not make a living from their work but they allow that impulse that comes from deep down to bubble up in bursts of creativity.  To feel your heartbeat quicken in creating something new, that no one else has ever done, for me, is one of those rare pleasures in life that comes free.

But am I really an artist? Or am I really a writer?  I think the problem is that the words ‘artist’ and ‘writer’ are weighted down by all these heavy connotations and associations.  If I tell someone for the first time that I am writing a novel, I see their eyebrows go up and straight away I am hit with the old struggle between embarrassment, denial and pride.  All I am trying to do is put together a story in my own way.  My children build adventure playgrounds for insects from sticks and leaves and create colourful pictures with their marbles.  What I do is not that much different, it is just allowing myself to create.   There is the unquestionable fact that there are those who are blessed with and use their huge innate talent and of those people I stand in awe.  But it is also probably true that most people have caverns of untapped creativity lurking somewhere.

At the end of the a day, I am only a writer when I write.  For me writing things down or letting someone take the first peek at  an unfinished picture is an act of courage.  It is scary because it may expose my vulnerability.  I suppose I write because I am fascinated by what comes out when I dig deep and let ideas and words flow.  Sometimes standing back I like the result, sometimes I don’t.  But if writing is something that I want to do then I accept that – and edit.  So it is a process, a slowly developing art.  One day I may be able to look back and see how far I have come.

“ Everyone has talent.  What is rare is the courage to follow that talent to the dark places where it leads.”  Erica Jong

Singing for the Bishop

I did something today that I have never done before.  I attended a Catholic Mass.  I was at work so I had the added benefit of being paid to be there.  The nursing home was honoured with a visit from the Bishop (or l’Eveque) who celebrated the ‘messe’ and shared communion with all the residents and staff who wished to participate.  There was great anticipation among the faithful, with invitations going out to all the relatives who may want to come.  Yesterday I spent with the residents, picking spring flowers from the gardens and arranging them in vases and practising with them the song that they would ‘perform’ during the service.  (Trouver dans ma vie ta presence)  My little Choeur (choir) sang beautifully and did me proud but you wouldn’t believe the feat of organisation required just for an hours service.  Arranging the hall so that each resident’s individual needs could be catered for.  Mme X who wanted to be close to the toilet ‘en cas ou’  Mr Y whose wheelchair was too long for the space provided, Mme Z who was prone to wandering and needed careful positioning so as not to disrupt the proceedings…

But when all was said and done, it turned out to be a joyful and unspoilt event with the sunshine flooding through the windows and no sudden ‘emergencies’.  As this was uncharted territory I was a little out of my depths during service but I was able to join in with the Lord’s prayer and the Amens, so I didn’t feel like too much of a heathen.  But the loveliest thing of all was seeing my residents, some of whom can barely string a coherent sentence together normally, joining in, faultlessly repeating their liturgy. But not only that, looking at ease and at peace.

As I reflected afterwards I realised that as with music or scents of childhood, the communal response to the sacred seems to have a place beyond the conscious and cognitive parts of our being.  Long lost memories are triggered and for a brief moment in time, people with even the most profound disabilities are communicating, coherently and in union.  Maybe not directly to each other but to God.  Perhaps simply that sense of ‘togetherness’ with a common aim of  worship is enough though.    These old residents are of the generation where faith was revered or at least observed.

I wonder what my generation will do communally when we get to that stage?

Food wonderful food!

During the week we went to ‘tasting’ event in the ‘village hall’ in a village in Bourgogne.  There was everything that you could imagine. I tasted rasberry flavoured vinegar and truffle infused sea salts.  A dozen different cheeses and sausages and olives. Angelica and crystilised violets.  I listened and sipped appreciatively whilst the Champagne men tried to persude us as to why the sparkling white from their region was better than a good white Bourgogne cremant.  All in all, it was a throughly pleasant way to spend an afternoon.

Chardonnay and the Maconnais terrace

This week as it is the Easter holidays, we took a trip eastwards to the Mâcon region of Bourgogne to visit my cousin.  After lots of wonderful food; tartiflette, cheeses and even a chocolate fondu, we all felt the need to get out with the dogs and discover the surrounding countryside.  Out on the hills the vines stood bare in perfect parallel contours.  The carefully arched new shoots were showing their first buds, promising more to come. Funny, but standing among the vines you can almost feel the ancient viticulture history here.  I read that by the 12th century much of Burgundy was covered in vines.  These same vineyards that we walked through, produced wines for Kings and the rich and powerful Dukes of Burgundy.  Even Louis XIV, best known for his grand palace at Versailles may have drunk the wines from these very vineyards.

Mâcon is a small wealthy town tucked at the foot of these hills in the south of the Burgundy wine region of France.  The area around is the Mâconnais district.  Almost all the wine made in the Mâconnais is white and Chardonnay is the main grape  variety grown.  As we drove through the area we passed through a village called, guess what?  Chardonnay.  Apparently it is true, that little village and the Mâconnais region is the ‘cradle’ of the Chardonnay grape and according to Wikipedia certainly the ‘semantic origin of the grape.

As we wandered down from the hills and into a village, I was struck by the style of the traditional cottages.  They almost all had steps leading up to the front door, set back in a sort of terrace.

like this...

I asked my cousin about this and the answer was obvious.  The land around there is rocky limestone – good for  vines but the builders were unable to dig down far enough to create cellars, so instead they were built above ground.  These above-ground cellars (or ‘caves’) were then used to store all those bottles of wine.  And I imagine, the terraces were (and still are )ideal for the ‘degustation’ of the sparkling cremants on endless summer evenings…  Hummm, in my dream house, I think I could find a place for a Mâconnais terrace…