Hawking Lugers

It's perfect. Deciding where you might spit. Nothing prepares you for the real world. Where you wake you coughing and gasping for breath. About which more anon. An interesting day. We had an old heater removed from the back hallway which had been in place before the museum was tiled, we have some of the tile, so we can fix that; I spent the morning with a hammer and cold chisel knocking out the cut tiles and mortar. D remembers at the last minute that one of the board members, Julia, had asked us to meet her at a relative's house at noon. The relative had died and Julia was in charge of the estate. Would we come out and look at the art work. Of course we would, thinking we might be looking at a few pieces. More than a hundred as it turned out, the house was crammed with stuff, some of it kitschy, but some it quite nice. We spent over two hours, separating things into various stacks. Many pieces are coming to the museum, for the next auction, some of the folk art (we know the artist) can be sold to a specialty gallery in Columbus, some things we have to find out about. There was some very valuable Theodore Roosevelt stuff, signed letters ($20,000, maybe), some rare posters, on and on. Very interesting. The woman had died at home, suddenly, and she had nine cats, the place smelled, and there was cat hair everywhere, D and I both suffering by the time we left. I know that when I wake up tomorrow there will be much hacking followed by the removal of much debris from my orifices. Late lunch, then repaired the wall behind where the heater had been, and the day was done. Flew by. Fortunately I needed gas this morning and stopped at the old Bodie's (turn left at the house that used to be painted white) and the breakfast sandwiches smelled so that I got one, sausage, egg, cheese. And a pint of chocolate milk, which I enjoy a couple of times a week, so I was well fortified for the day. Beef stew and a lot of crackers at the pub for lunch, and I wanted a beer very badly, to clean the roof of my mouth, but I drank copious quantities of water instead. I'll be coughing up a hair-ball tomorrow. Great line for a blues song. Writing that got me making up blues' lines (is that correct Mac?) which were awful, so pried myself from my chair and went out looking for morels. I found six or eight, just to the south of the grave-yard, then another couple out behind the shed, enough for a meal. I substitute baby roasted potatoes, most of the time, for my side, at the pub. Little container of sour cream. They accrue. So I nuke a handful of those, with the sour cream, saute a piece of shallot and then the morels in butter with black pepper, smash up the potatoes in a bowl, and cover it with the contents of the pan. I should have put a fried egg on top, I will, next time. I took a couple of books from the estate, Julia told me to, a history of carousels, for the library circus collection, and, for myself, a paperback copy of an Anthony Burgess novel I'd never heard of ,"M/F" (the slash, again), and I love Burgess, his writing is beautiful. I don't really care that he was otherwise a prick. At least what I heard, the writing is so considered. I think no one, modern, has added so many words to the OED. He picks at language like a rock-hound.