Library Service

B calls and he has a book for me that I'd had him get through university channels. I told him I'd pick it up tomorrow, when I figured to be off the ridge anyway. Maybe another footer and onion rings. A little celebration. A glass of bubbly. I'll probably eat left-overs and read all night, which seems to be a pattern. It's quiet at night, especially when I kill the breaker for the fridge. Duane Allman playing lead for Boz Skaggs, Sweet Release, then Robert Johnson, Come In To My Kitchen, I look up from my reading and grin. Wormed through another winter. And it wasn't bad except for the six or eight times I thought I might die. Twice, once when B and once when Emily dropped me at the bottom of the driveway I could tell they were concerned. Old coot slogging up the hill, but I make it to the print shop, and sit in the doorway until I recover my breath. The last hundred yards is easy, after a break, and I can start a fire, heat a cup of cider. Nothing equates to pulling up a chair next to the wood stove, thawing your hands and feet, and staring into the middle distance. A wee dram for my troubles and I usually roll a smoke. All winter I sleep on the sofa, so I can feed the stove, but in the spring I move back upstairs, which entails moving all of the winter clothes. Ash and cobwebs have taken over the house, and I need to clean out the shop-vac before I tackle the corners. Cleaning the shop-vac is a truly awful chore. The foam filter and the paper filter are thick with crap and that has to be knocked out, against a tree, and the dust is horrible. Usually penitents are eliminated at this point. They either have allergies or an aversion to beating anything against a tree. I boil water and gird my loins. Spring cleaning. I had no idea I was such a slob.