Street Fair

I'd save myself some grief if I knew what was going on around town. Second Street was blocked off, the usual row of carefully restored cars with the hoods open and people milling about. I was not going to brave that crowd in my search for a three-pound hammer head. Went to the pub and had a nice quiet beer, chatting with the staff. TR came in late, having lost track of time playing his guitar at home. Stopped by the museum, to see the set-up for the gala and to look at the items to be auctioned. Glad I don't have to be there. I poured the premium wines at such events for ten years. Stopped at Big Lots to pick up a large package of cheap paper plates. I use them on top of the cutting board when I'm chopping or slicing something, so that I don't have to waste water cleaning up, then I burn the paper plate. I don't generate much garbage. Junk mail doesn't burn well but if you have good dry kindling and a little extra time, you can start a fire with it; I also have the year's accumulation of butter wrappers (I keep them in the freezer) and the boxes they came in: when you need a quick fire, butter wrappers are great. B used to soak corncobs in kerosene, then dry them; perhaps, along with fat pine, the ultimate kindling. I could do an interesting lecture on kindling. The problem is that anyone interested would probably know more than me. The text would be Building Fires: The Turn Toward Modernity, a classic in the field. Suddenly aware that everything I say is suspect. Key lime pie for breakfast has long been a favorite for me, and since I had the stove going I baked one last night. With a store-bought graham cracker pie shell (I've never actually made a graham cracker pie shell) this takes about ten minutes to make and twenty minutes to bake. The piece last night, still warm, was very good, but the almost half I ate this morning, with vanilla ice-cream, made me want to get up and dance. Another beautiful day, translucent color, birds, young squirrels preparing for their first winter, and just enough breeze to keep the leaves falling. A splendid day. The contour of the land is revealed for the first time in months. I see it with new eyes every year. The landscape, Glenn would say, is the history of drainage, and as the famous House Speaker from Massachusetts once said: "All drainage is local." The hollows so clearly define the flow of springs. Below B's old cabin there's a drainage, a deep wet-weather spring that produces water ten months out of the year, it carves a path. I need to address where the leaves have accumulated and clogged the drain. Walking small creek beds is an instructive occupation. In my small pack, along with a water bottle and some protein bars, I always have a foam pad, so that I can sit without getting my ass wet. Anymore, I usually carry a nip of single-malt; a wee dram of creosote never hurt anyone. Second Hand Peat: The Silent Killer. The text for another course.