It has been my experience that nothing is truly perfect, and that perfection is, at best, an ephemeral illusion. And even if something seems perfect, it never stays that way.

For example, a person might procure an ice cream sundae from his or her neighborhood ice cream dealer. The flawlessness of the sundae takes your breath away. It has a mathematically precise proportion of toppings to ice cream, and just the right amount of whipped cream. It’s perfect!

But it won’t stay that way; you know that the sundae will soon begin to deteriorate. You have no choice but to eat it while shedding a tear in memory of its fleeting perfection. At least that’s what you tell yourself because consuming that sundae means blowing a huge hole in your diet.

I recently got our farm shop fixed up exactly as I wanted. Well, pretty much. A guy can always use another power tool or doodad, but you have to draw the line somewhere or else your workshop will become so crowded that there won’t be enough room to do any work.

I decided to tackle a small woodworking project even though the last time I tried anything along that line was in my high school Industrial Arts class. Never one to let a lack of experience stand in my way, I plowed ahead.

The first item on my woodworking project’s agenda was obtaining some wood. I may not know much about a lot of things, but I know enough to consult people who know more than me.

So, I went to see our neighbor Larry. Larry is so serious about woodworking that he owns an actual sawmill. His acreage has stacks of logs that are in various stages of drying and are waiting for their turn in the sawmill.

Larry has been a woodworker for a long time and possesses a mad level of skills. He’s not a clueless dabbler like me.

I told Larry what I had in mind regarding my little woodworking project. “Let’s get you set up with some cedar,” he said. “Cedar is easy to work with and is beautiful wood.”

I went home with an armload of fragrant boards. It was deeply satisfying to know that this wood began its life as a local tree. Maybe I had even known the tree, but my memory isn’t what it used to be, especially when it comes to aromatic evergreens.

I put the boards on the workbench and began the process of turning random chunks of wood into something that I hope will be useful. My woodworking skills are rudimentary at best, but I have watched a lot of extremely talented woodworkers demonstrating their craft on TV. Surely that will count for something.

It was merely a matter of minutes before my highly organized shop descended into chaos. “I should do this thing first,” I thought and started on the task. “Oops, that was wrong. I ought to do that other thing first. Now, where did I leave the thingamajig that I need?”

The workshop is now a mess. But it’s a good mess, one that happens to have a very pleasant aroma.

Besides, what’s the point of having a perfect workshop if you never use it? That would be similar to buying a shiny new sports car and never driving it. You should at least sit behind the wheel and make motor noises with your mouth.

My original goal was to complete this project using only hand tools. But like Adam and Eve in the Garden, I found the lure of the forbidden too tempting to resist. I’ve adjusted my goal to “using some hand tools.”

I also need to learn patience. There’s no deadline for this project but like most Midwestern farm kids I’m driven by the ingrained instinct to get things done as quickly and efficiently as possible. If speed and efficiency were my only criteria, I would simply buy the item that I’m attempting to build.

The story goes that a certain pig farmer earned a reputation for producing pork that was especially flavorsome. A reporter stopped by the farm and asked the swineherd if he would share his secret.

“There’s really nothing to it,” the farmer replied. “We just grab the pigs and hold them up so they can eat the acorns off our oak trees.”

“But isn’t that awfully time-consuming?” asked the reporter.

The farmer looked at the reporter in puzzlement. “Of course it is!” said the farmer, “But what’s time to a hog?”

That should be my mantra as I plug away amidst the mess in my formerly perfect shop: what’s time to a hog? .

— Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.