My combination chicken habitat and rabbitry is having a few problems lately. Obviously, there were things that I didn't think of. For one, I didn't realize that the walls for the building were without a foundation, which leads ground water to seep in during particularly wet times. It wasn't something I had really noticed before, considering that the summer was almost rain-free. Maybe I should sell the chickens and buy some ducks. The floor isn't standing in water, but the shavings I put down are all damp, which means the chickens are fairly unhappy. I guess there are worse things to be than an unhappy chicken, I just don't know what that would be. Maybe an unlucky duck.

Anyhow, as an added problem with the new setup, the dampness in the air and on the floor is keeping the animal waste moist, and everyone knows what that means without a real long and drawn out explanation. Let me just say that it's a fine place to visit, but no one stays long.

I can't seem to get time to fix it, though. I have been too busy moving all my tons of salvage materials from my uncle's land near the river. I must have everything out by this coming weekend or I will lose whatever remains. Move it or lose it is a term I understand and try to comply with when I can. The thought of giving up something that I might need later almost kills me.

I moved quite a bit working up to the present, but terrible weather and other priorities have really put a damper on any kind of valuable progress that I might have made. Not only that, but I always have liked to put things off to the last minute. I suppose it is some sort of a character flaw. It seems like when I have time, the weather is bad. When I am at the newspaper, the weather is perfect.

There doesn't seem to be any sense in moving lumber in a cold rain, but when faced with losing several hundred dollars worth, it happened.

So off I went in the school bus, which is now a lumber truck in its latest reincarnation. I still haven't decided what I am going to do with it in the long run, but right now I am pretty happy to be able to use it.

Otherwise, I would have a pretty hard time hauling 14-foot-long lumber on the back of my beat-up short-bed Ford. With the bus, I can slide it all the way to the front and still get the back door closed. Even after I got the lumber out, I still had a whole lot of stuff waiting on me to pick it all up. Once I get a load on, I have been taking it to my land in Virginia, which by now looks like the side yard at Sanford and Son. However, in this junk business, there is no Fred, only Lamont.

I have heard some people complain about having neighbors like me. Luckily, my neighbors seem to like me pretty well. They do unto me as I do unto them — they leave me alone. At any rate, everyone will be pleased to know my property has a thick screen of laurels and forest. It serves a dual purpose — they can't see me and I don't have to look at them, either. We're all the better for it, I say.

Any ways, I have been trying to get the most valuable stuff first, but when it comes to my junk, it is all valuable. You might not find value in old Chevrolet engines and chassis parts, railroad ties, homemade engine stands, assorted pieces of glass and an old iron bathtub. Utilizing junk to make an acceptable alternative to purchasing something at retail prices can make the difference in doing a project or not affording it for a man of my meager means. For instance, the truck parts could become a perfectly passable vehicle with a little work, the bathtub will make a good spring catch basin and the railroad ties will be good for anvils or building supports. Everything has a use, it is just a matter of applying your mind to the task of finding the right parts and putting them in the right place. Anyone can go to the builder's supply and buy pre-cut and made parts for something, but not anyone can get a passable result from improbable materials. As you can tell, I see salvage as the most practical form of art.

As for the large amount of work in front of me, I think back to a similar occasion I faced as a youth. I was still little more than a boy when a fellow had paid me $10 to shovel and spread a couple ton of gravel. He must have peered out a window and saw me sitting on the rock pile, dirty, sweaty and discouraged in the July heat. He handed me a glass of water and some sage wisdom. "Start with one shovel full at a time and stop worrying at the whole pile," he said. "That's the only way to get anything done." That may be the best advice I ever heard.

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