Segregation

Barnhart called and seems to have corrected my latest computer problem remotely. I still have my winter laundry sitting by the back door, waiting, but it's been raining forever, and my runs to town, limited as they are, haven't included time for the hour necessary, nor the trip to Big Lots which is right up the street from the laundromat. Shopping at Big Lots is always an adventure. You can rarely find exactly what you want, but you can find something that'll do, and the food area is always filled with odd items, discounted, discontinued, and almost out of date. I can pick up an odd-ball grazing meal, which might stretch for a couple of days, for just a couple of dollars: potted meat, cheese spread, olives, pickles, and stale British crackers. What could be better than that? A can of cold beans, or that great sandwich, I forgot to mention, left-over fried potatoes with mayo. We generally stopped a day's fishing when we ran out of food, then went home for supper. Often other people at dinner, because everyone loved Mom's home cooking; other navy people, neighbors, my sister's friends. I'd retreat to my room and read. I still retreat to my room and read. It's difficult for me to imagine what else you'd do with your time. Still, I was sidetracked today building a snare for mice. In hindsight, I can see how the whole thing happened, but I never could have predicted it. Months ago I'd found a silver necklace chain in the parking lot at Kroger and I thought about making a mouse snare. Five days into a seven day novena, searching for the dominant chord, I ended up with this extremely complicated mouse trap that would only work if the mouse was left-handed. I do catch a mouse, suspended on a silver chain, above a tripod of popsickle sticks I've glued together. Started raining again after mid-night, hard enough to wake me, and I read a book about tides. At some point I made a toasted cheese sandwich, with an English double-cheddar, and heated a can of tomato soup. Shut down the computer a couple of times, when the rain got intense, but never did lose power. The drips taper off into another steely dawn. Flood alerts on the radio. The news is all horrid, so I listen to Beethoven, the last string quartets, and write for a while. Winter dawns are so quiet, just the creaking of the woodstove and a slight susurration in the trees. I can barely hear the first train over in Kentucky, miles away and across the river, hauling coal to the power plants. It's like a Country Western song now, an MTV video in which almost nothing happens, just some stick trees in the mist. Basho:

winter seclusion:
again I'll lean back against
my old post

I had forgotten that bow season extends until February and a bow-hunter shows up, mid morning. I made him a cup of coffee. He'd heard I was eccentric. I told him it was fine for him to hunt over at the graveyard, as long as he came in from the other direction (the west) and didn't shoot me. Light rain, partial clearing, then another round of dark clouds. I reread the first Jack Reacher novel, which was a total diversion. Went outside for some fresh air, settled back inside, reading about the history of bread. A lot of bird and animal activity, during a long lull in the afternoon I watched six young squirrels and was amused at their play, later the red-headed woodpeckers were back. Lovely birds. Late dusk there's single high-powered rifle shot from a mile or more up the road. A poacher. I pretend my phone is broken, and don't call the constabulary, nothing to be gained.