Visitors

Rodney stopped by, after a day of working down at B's place, shoring up a loft and then moving piles of lumber. B had told him that I had some work for him, and he's going to dig out the lower ditch and catchment. He thinks he can do the floor insulation work in a couple of days. This is a great boon to me, and critical to my plan for the future. Take the load off a bit. First time, though, that I've paid someone to do something for me that I was capable of doing myself. TR ordered the modem and it should be here Tuesday or Wednesday. B came over with the young couple who might move into his cabin. Earlier, Rodney had been in the house. They were all impressed with the beam-work and the staircase, more than impressed, they were incredulous. I pointed out mistakes and apologized for the mess. All of the clothes I wear in the winter are piled on chairs and the end of the sofa, there's oak bark everywhere around the stove, the cobwebs, thickened with fly-ash, control the corners of the ceiling, and I'm quite disheveled, personally, as I was up most of the night, finishing a Sandford novel and writing for a few hours. I finally took a nap just at sunrise, but there had been so much stimulation that I didn't sleep well, and then the sun was in my eyes. A monster breakfast, then another cup of coffee, reflections on social integration, a short walk to check for early morels, then I turned on the seat heater and drove across Rodney's repair of the driveway several times, to pack it down. I almost drove into town, for a footer and onion rings, but I went back home, ate olives, cheese and crackers, a tin of sardines. I felt like I had talked to enough people. I didn't have anything to say, and I was tired of listening. It takes several hours for the ridge to settle back to its steady state, sound and activity set up a vibration, and it takes a while before the birds resume mindless chatter and the squirrels start chasing each other again. Saw an odd bird today, that I couldn't identify, yellow and orange with a black band. I was going out to the compost heap, I had ashes to dump, and table scraps, and the fox was watching me from the edge of the woods. The bird swooped in and both the fox and I snapped our heads up at full attention. I think it was an Oriole. The fox was spooked, ran off into the under-story, then stopped, gave me that regal profile for just a second, and disappeared. Excellent idea for a very short film. Or maybe a part of something, a sequence of very short parsings. Tom O' Bedlam, Emily's dash, Pound and his endless striving. I'm content with a wee dram, and later, the halo of a moon, hung above the clouds.