Fickle Server

Couldn't send last night, forgot this morning, running late, so you get two tonight. Staff meeting, many events upcoming, get everybody on the same page, then Anthony over from Cincy, lunch, errands. Back-up supplies, extra whiskey, extra tobacco, extra juice, against good chance of snow this weekend. Bottom of the hill parking for the next week, looks like. Good shape on wood. Makings for squash soup, an acorn squash to stuff and bake, but I plan to eat breakfast most of the weekend; a new batch of acorn meal and I want to try a few things. A Harrison book from the library I'd missed, a collection of novellas "The Summer He Didn't Die" and I'm looking forward to that sofa time. Hand-cutting so much wood, the muscle across the back of my right shoulder is getting larger that the left one. I can't saw left-handed or I refuse to learn how. I drink left-handed, when I'm writing, because that's where there's a place to put my drink; I think I socially drink right-handed. I have to stop and visualize, nope, depends on whether or not there are snacks. I'm an ambidextrous drinker. Above freezing in town, all that asphalt in the sun, but still frozen solid once I get back to the lake. It's wanting to freeze, float ice where ever there's shade. Freeze-up is generally around xmas, maybe 60 days, the heart of winter, December and March can go either way, usually both ways and that means a lot of mud. Standing outside yesterday, having a smoke, D, James and I, we were the victims of a drive-by cursing. Some fairly young white woman, passenger in a mini-van, felt it necessary to scream out her window that we were stupid mother fuckers. Maybe it was a comment on our smoking. She had a furious expression. If it had been South Boston, we'd be dead. I can understand rage, but I don't approve. Acting out is generally dumb. Damn it, I forgot lamp oil, I hated to pay 8 bucks for a half-gallon, so I waited to check at Big Lots and then I forgot. I'm good on candles, so all is not lost, but I've been trying to stay ahead of things, and this is a lapse. Next time I drive up, I'm bringing lamp-oil. Along with the growing anxieties about heights and flying and being trapped in an elevator, I can no longer gut chickens or smell kerosene. The list of things I will no longer do grows. I'm fine with this, I need to do less. I do too many things. But I'm fine with what I do. Though I'm hard-pressed to describe exactly what it is I do, mostly I listen, and pass things along, install shows as a matter of course. I love this job, did I mention that?