I am going to ease myself back into posting. I will admit that finding the time to write has become much more difficult since my wife's passing. Having all the responsibility to run a house, raise our son and keep the money coming in has been difficult.
Being able to post this now doesn't mean I have cracked the code, it just means that I am realising that giving myself a moment to follow one of my passion projects is necessary for taking care of my head and timetabling that into my hectic life is as essential as making sure my son has clothes or food to eat, which is as clumsy a segway as any to lead me into the topic of the post.
As an island nation on the shores of the European Empire, farming has always been an important part of us as a nation and us as a people. Even though we can pretend we are above all things concerning the land under our feet with our foreign direct investment-driven tax haven of an economy, we are muck savages at the end of the day. None of us are that far removed from the land which gives us our sustenance. The people who still tend the fields, which we all once did, are some of the most important people in our society but like all things, we only really appreciate them when there is some sort of problem they are facing. Too much rain, too little rain, A failed crop. a disease in the herd. If it weren't for these lads and lassies, we would all starve, and no matter how much we sold our souls to tech corporations, we would be screwed. You can't eat an Apple iPhone.
In 2018, I was asked by the Claremorris Agricultural Show to create a display before the festivities and give some workshops to the local kids as I was doing so. It sounded like a fun little project so I packed my wellies. Unfortunately, I had to miss the main show because I had another booking. Still, it was a nice opportunity to reconnect with farming culture and also see my brother's family, who live quite close.
I stayed in a small log cabin my brother had at the end of his garden. It was nice to have my own space while still being able to spend meals with him and his family and have chats long into the evening.
When I first got to the site of the sculpture, there was no one to see. I checked my watch many times as I was puntual but all I could see was tumbleweed rolling by, (Maybe they were ungroomed sheep). I sat in my car waiting for an hour or more, when finally, the man who had invited me arrived.
It had been arranged that I would start by giving the local kids a presentation on sand sculpture and then work with them to create the design. I thought it would be interesting if I sculpted a small character sculpture each day and they could work around me making elements to fill out the scene based on what they knew. I was going to divide the project into several areas, each a snapshot of different types of farmering. Pigs, cows and sheeps. I would let the locals inspire me with their knowledge and pride in their craft.
But, nobody showed up!
Word had gone out to all the locals that I would be in town giving sand sculpture workshops so, I was surprised as anyone that nobody seemed to want to meet the world-famous, (and handsome) sand castle artist.
It seems that even in the country Gen Z can't count their blessing or get themselves out of bed to do something productive. Calls were made, favours cashed in, and I'm sure threats were made. After another hour or so I had some half-asleep grungy farmer kids sitting around me, wondering what the hell they were doing there. I was getting the same feeling.
They were a tough crowd. I had to turn on the charm offensive. Remember this Meme? Yes, that's about the size of it.
My presentation went down wellish and some of them had woken up enough to fane interest. I had some paper, pencils and clay to get them working while I tried to work out a mission plan of where I would start. Finally, I told them I was going to teach them how to compact sand and used them as free slave labour to compact three piles, which were going to be the sculptures I carved. I convinced them that although this may seem like just shovelling and whacking the sand hard, it was like that scene from the Karate Kid where he is taught how to 'wax on and wax off'. They didn't understand what the hell I was talking about. I really need to modernise my cultural references.
That first day was difficult. They really weren't in the mood, but out of fear they stuck with me until their parents came to pick them up. When they heard that I was going to be doing this for a week and that I needed their help, some grudgingly agreed to come back the next day. One of their mothers talked about how it would be fun and even said that she would like to join in. This pressured a few more of the kids. So, finally, I had a few people to help me. It would have been a tough week otherwise. I asked if they could they give me the morning to work by myself and in the afternoon, if they were available, they could join and we would work to pull everything together.
Each day, I had different kids. They seemed to be enjoying themselves with their friends in the sand. I tried to be hip and cool with them, worrying I would scare them away if I pushed them too hard.
The one mother mentioned earlier got really into it, and along with the sculpting, we had a nice time chatting. I always get the feeling that once you encourage adults to play, they tap into their suppressed child and enjoy the freedom it gives. Being a farmer's wife must have its responsibilities but she seemed to be enjoying this little interlude.
I worked all day and learned from them about the jobs they had to do around the farm, and I regaled them with stories of my adventures. Most were in their teens, and what began with rocky foundations began to form into something they took some pride in.
I let them sign their names on a small logo sculpture I made, and this helped them take more ownership.
My work here was done, I said my goodbyes and headed off into the sunset like The Littlest Hobo. (Another old TV reference).
The sculptures weren't amazing, but I think we made a good experience for all. I only include a picture of the mother who helped me; I don't want to be posting other people's kids online. Believe me, though, they were there. Or, was it all in my imagination?
