To Each

If you're worth your salt, you're good at something. No more hunger, no more pain. 100 percent chance of snow Friday. February, after all. But tomorrow, early, I should be able to bring in another load of Mackletree white oak, when the driveway should be frozen and snow-free. Night and day. In the moonlight, in the mid-night. I'm hardly the man I used to be. Lightening bolts scare me and I'm afraid of heights. Imminent storm. Ice, at first, so I could lose power and/or phone. Did make it in with the white oak, then off to the museum, cleaned the theater, the stage, and the classroom because of some event which will, in all likelihood, be canceled. Needed doing anyway. Then met with the construction company and the president of the board about the repairs. Looked alright while the paint was wet, but the staining bled through, and when the paint was dry it started flaking again. I wanted to give everyone a stupid slap, as clearly there is moisture trapped deep in the wall (they're 18 inches thick) so the outside work and waterproofing needed to happen first. I had argued strongly for this, but was overruled by the professionals. My winter finger-tip cracks are back, and painful. Hard for them to heal, the life I lead. I'll end up using the special ointment (Udder Balm) and going to bed with vinyl gloves on. I always have surgery dreams when I do that, where the surgeon takes out the wrong thing and I can't wake up to tell him. Forecast is calling for rain, then sleet, turning to snow early tomorrow and snowing for 14 hours. I'm always colder than town, eight hundred feet higher, so it might be mostly snow here, if so, it could be a bunch. The upside is that I'm well supplied, brought in back-up booze, extra cigaret papers, and the makings for an extreme chili. Lamb shanks were remaindered, very cheap, and I bought eight, I'll cook them for hours on the cookstove, then for hours more with the reconstituted chilies that a friend sent from New Mexico; beans, minced onion, and cheese on the side. I think I can make tortillas using the cornmeal from Georgia and the book binding press, between sheets of waxed paper. If I get snow-bound it would pass some interesting time. And I've got a great pile of things to read. I'll make another batch of grits, for sure, and eat breakfast many times. Potatoes, and grits, and bacon, and eggs, with toast, is a very substantial meal. You could build a wall with these, I think, against the infidels. The fox was in the compost heap, her dainty tracks are everywhere; there's a slight depression, where she went down on her belly to tease a marrow bone. A current passion is cooking 'dog bones', sealed with foil, with a spoonful of pesto in each, on end, in a shallow pan with chicken broth; I drink the broth afterwards. I eat the marrow with a fork that must have been designed to get small condiments out of a jar, I don't remember where I got it. Eating marrow is so fucking primal, I can't even read, just stare into the middle distance and grunt, spear slices of pickled hot peppers and sour pickles, buttered saltines are good with this. I have a passion for black olives, I eat with my fingers whenever possible. I haven't finished a thing I started. Not a great track record.