Small Victories

I spent several hours squirrel-proofing the house, ladder work mostly, which I hate, now, this late-onset fear of heights. It's funny, the reversal, I had always been the go-to guy for high work. Sunday alone on the ridge. A hot but beautiful day, mostly clear with scudding clouds. Haul in the sheep-watering trough for my weekly bath. Heat water and mix it with the room temperature pickle water I'd brought from town. That slight sheen of vinegar actually keeps the ticks at bay. Picture me. Naked as a jay-bird in my galvanized tank. I have a solar shower bag hanging in the sun, on the deck, because I know I'll need a rinse after scrubbing off all the dead cells. Not exactly a ritual, but a habit. I read poetry this morning until noon. Emily, of course, I'm trying to get into her head, then Skip and Steven. Language. A wonderful brunch of vine-ripened tomatoes, with eggs and toast and potatoes and bacon; at one point I was holding up a piece of bacon, like a pointer, indicating some philosophical problem. I don't remember what it was. The bath itself was a luxury. Having brunch on a curly maple plank bridged across a sheep-watering trough while gesturing with a strip of bacon. Nothing if not kosher. Made a crock-pot of stone-ground grits which becomes polenta and several other things over the course of two days. Cheese grits, of course, first, with an over-easy egg on top; and for dinner some refried rounds (add a little mashed potato as binder) with a caramelized mix of fresh tomatoes, red peppers, and onion. I want to fry some balls of corn-meal mush, with some acorn meal mixed in. Appalachian Falafel. B came over with a couple of new poems, we talked about getting together for a Friday beer, he and Ronnie are playing at the pub next Thursday, I think I can listen to their first set and still get home before dark. The elevator guys start tomorrow, I'm not sure of their schedule, but it involves a crane, and trashing the back hallway and stairs. These guys all wear work-boots and there's sure to be lithium grease on everything. This is going to be a monumental pain in the ass. I can find a carpet scrap to use as a runner between the top of the back stairs and the doorway to the third floor, but the back stairs are toast. Working guys, with heavy things being lifted by cranes, don't pay a lot of attention to the shit on their shoes. Progress is a series of messes.