The End is (Not) Near

It's the end of January, and you'd think we'd be done messing about with trees from the December storm. But we had the arborists out Friday to make four big new messes - two of them where we'd already spent hours cleaning up!


Oh, be very careful, tiny man!
That can't feel very safe
Sure it's less stately, but the house is safe

Since then we've spent three days picking up sticks and making firewood around three of the trees, and I need to take some time off before doing any more. We've got the area around the house looking tidy (after our fashion), but plenty of work lurks a little way away.

The only property damage from all this was the barn across the road, so we don't see devastation every time we look out a window or step outside any more. But it's amazing how wearying it is to have all this to deal with. I know it pales in comparison to - oh, say, Katrina, or Baghdad, or even our Columbus Day storm. Why doesn't that make me feel better than it does?

It's true that when we're out there in the sunshine, warmed up and working together in that companionable way, I feel great. It's just that when I get tired and sticky with pitch, and there's still another hour's work before it gets dark, I have trouble with my inner two-year-old. And like spoiling a bad child, we went to a movie Saturday and Sunday night! A little popcorn shut her right up, the little hoyden...

Heat Wave

We woke up early this morning because, for once, the sky didn't just go from black through infinite shades of grey, but was clear and blue with perky clouds in Martha Stewart shades that harmonized nicely. For a moment, I wanted to slip into a peignoir and fluffy mules so I could trip downstairs and whip up some beignets. Then, I snorted derisively, pulled a sweatshirt over my tshirt and found a pair of not-too-gross jeans in a heap on the floor so I could make it to newspaper box and get a bowl of cereal. (OK, I did have a huge cafe au lait after, and the milk was steamed just right.)

Because I live with a genius, we made progress on two projects at the same time today. He made racks for the pickup so we could clean out the top of the broken barn, and we dumped four loads of the straw in a row where we'll plant the grapes we started last year. If it kills some of the grass and weeds, that's great. If it just rots into the soil, that's great, too. I can just hear the worms now: "Hey, Frank! Get a crew together. There's a bunch of stuff up there we gotta get to work on!" Go, little buddies, go . . .

And it seemed really warm, too. I guess it was only 44 or so, but with a long-sleeved shirt (and a job to do) it felt lovely.

Tag, hunh?

It's been a while since I played tag, but here goes:

I was tagged by snarkapuss.
The game is to list six ways in which I'm weird and then tag six other bloggers who each are to write the six weird things about themselves and then go to six other blogs, leave a comment saying "You are tagged", and tell each to read the tagger's blog for details. It's a chain letter, see, only without the warnings of dire consequences for not passing the challenge along. That's a good thing, because I would have to pick bloggers at random, since I don't actually read six other blogs. Hey! What a good idea!

Here are the six I've tagged:
Banana Theory
Ameliorable Logorrhea
Teck on the Web
Crimes & Corruption of the New World Order News
Reset
string theory

Yes, nearly random . . . There was one, I admit, that scared me, so I just "accidentally" clicked "Next Blog" and hummed a little tune. And I stuck to blogs in English, on the off chance that any of them take up the challenge. I'd like to be able to read their responses (I think).

And how, you ask, Ms Snarkapuss, am I weird? Heck, I should let you guest this post - you could point out a few that I hadn't noticed (or had my face rubbed in) yet. Let's see:

1. When I have a conversation of more than a minute with anyone who has an accent or speech pattern much different from mine, I end up talking like them. They probably think I'm mocking, but really, I don't even notice I'm doing it. And there's a hangover. I'm still getting over spending five days with a woman from Min-a-SEW-da.

2. I count things. Lots of things. Useless things. I don't have to count; often I don't even notice I'm doing it until something interrupts me and I stop. And I almost never remember how many telephone poles there are between here and the highway or the number of steps from the front door of the State Library to the Reference Room. I just count them.

3. I can't look at birds on the ground or sitting in a tree without seeing their "arms" folded behind their backs. It was crows at first. They look like men in dark suits walking bent over, pondering deep stuff. Now all birds look like that, except most of them dress more casually. And a lot of them walk funny, too.

4. I can bend the tips of my first three fingers without bending the second joint - on both hands.

5. Although I don't even look at the price of the coffee beans and have been known to tell the shoe clerk to just bring me something comfortable, I will not pay someone to cut my hair. (I can just hear you saying, "Ohhhhhh! That explains it!") The first four items only seem weird to other people; this one seems weird even to me.

6. I keep a pretty light grip on reality. It's not that I believe in fairies or chi or God or anything; in fact, I don't really believe in much at all. It's nice just to let reality rest on the palm of my hand so it has room to flex a bit from time to time.

That was fun.

Lemonade

Our exercise program is back in gear. Bill's chain saw has a shiny new part, and we can get back to cutting oak. Well, he can cut; I can drag limbs and pile brush.

We've been trying to decide whether to make it all into firewood and sell it ourselves, or just sell the logs and let someone else do the commerce. A third option seemed appealing but had about 47 questions to research, not the least of which was cost.

Then, Monday, it all fell into place. We have a trucker, a miller and a moulder, who will take our logs and, Presto!, instead of firewood, we'll have oak flooring! How sweet is that? Instead of going up someone's stovepipe (and adding to global warming), the trees can come inside and play.

Drive, drive! Go, go!

We're in the first throes of buying a new car, and for once I'm not looking forward to the dickering part. It's a shame, because we've had such a good time playing with car salesmen over the years. Bill usually gets to play Mr. Nice Guy and I get to be the bitch (typecasting) and we've made some fine deals. But I just don't have the stomach for it this time.

The web has spoiled me rotten. I like surfing for as long as it takes to get the features and price I want and then watching the product wend its way to us. Before Christmas we were visited by UPS, DHL, FedEx, and USPS package handlers all in the same day! After service like that, going to a car dealer seems like something out of the 19th century.

I have a couple of disturbing dreams that I torment myself with from time to time. One is that I'm secretly a couple of credits short and have to go back to high school. The horror is that I've forgotten my locker combination, can't find my gym shorts, etc. The other one is that I find myself with a lit cigarette and an ashtray full of butts - proof that for twenty years I've lied about quitting. That one makes me wake up with tears in my eyes.

But worse than either of those would be to dream I'm selling cars.

Cardamom

Disclaimer: This post has nothing to do with spices; I just like the word.

I think I'm getting the hang of this retirement thing at last. I'm starting to flash back to how life was when Bill was off farming and I was around the home place or just working part-time. It's like rummaging through the closet for a more comfortable pair of shoes and coming across that pair I loved twenty years ago - still comfy and just right for today.

I am a little disappointed, though, that when I reach for a real pair of jeans my choices ares still those soft ones (with a few stains), the thick warm ones (all ragged at the cuff and a dingy grey), or the one pair I swore I'd only wear for good (definitely pale at the knees). Why do I still not have a decent pair of pants?

Oh, yeah . . . I still hate to shop. Doesn't look like that's going to change anytime soon. Sigh.