Final Push

Hit the ground running. D had to haul some mattresses quick before it rained (it never did rain) and I hauled trash while he was gone, then, before lunch, we stained (first coat, it will take three) ten sticks of the baseboard milled to our profile. We couldn't afford the cherry, so we had it run in poplar, which stains well. After lunch we scrounged just enough baseboard to wrap the last pilaster; then another wrap of trim, I don't know the name, like a chair rail at eight feet to cover the joint of cherry plywood (the ceiling is stepped in several places but is about nine feet), then shot on the outside corners. We'd stained all of that trim too. An odd bit of trim covering where the cherry plywood met a recessed door jamb going into the theater. Required a complex miter. On this project, I was mostly D's helper. I'm a great helper because I've done it all before and I can anticipate what will be needed next, verify and note measurements, and keep the site clean enough that we can get around where we need to. Tomorrow we have to install a window air conditioner in the elevator 'penthouse', where the now digital controls require temperature stability; and make the three cushions for the new bench. D and I became upholsters when we discovered that the car seat guys wanted $140 bucks apiece, and there going to be six of them. We found we could make them ourselves for about $8 each. We had almost everything we needed. Last day working with D, tomorrow; ten years; fair to say we've both learned some things. B came over for a drink. He allowed that his conversation over here with Glenn, a few weeks ago (I lose track of time) was memorable. I was there, I remember; they both range so broadly, and they're both so goddamn quick in their thinking, that it's a treat to listen to them talk. Tree rain, as the moisture approaches 100%, condensed water drips off the upper roof. Linda, listen, I like Losing Track Of Time as a working title, because that's what happens, in the moment. This morning, for instance, I'd pulled off the road, to look at some wild Teasel plants; what happened is I was caught by a traffic light, and I remembered where the patch was, so I pulled off, to have a look. I consider it my right, to stop in the break-down lane and examine what interests me. I'm out in the middle of one of those mostly triangular pieces of waste land that intersections create (they have a name, but I forget it) when a State Patrol Officer pulls up with his flashers, and I realized I was caught. That I had to explain myself out of a situation. I didn't like the way his hand hovered above his service revolver. I'm not a threat, and I was looking at a goddamn plant for god's sake, not planting a bomb. I feel encroached upon. I don't want to have to explain to an ass-hole with a gun what the uses of a particular plant might be. Historically. Don't I have some rights? Yes, but not really. I'd merely wandered into a field and I was a suspect. We may have gone too far. When you start targeting eccentrics you've probably gone one step too far. What's the difference between a crazy guy and a poet?