Trying to keep this blog from dying of inactivity after finding myself swamped in work while trying to make the transition into solo practice in about three weeks.
Thinking about the cold as I stacked Peg's antique sleds in the garage up here.
Those aren't just any sleds, mind you. The one on the far right was her late brother Larry's, with a replacement slat on one side he installed there probably over sixty years ago. The one on the far left was Peg's and her siblings'. The little one in the middle was her father's, probably ninety years old now, or older. We brought them up from Wyldswood to fix up a little and hang on the wall at the condo as decoration.
It was damned cold there in the garage, fifteen degrees now as I write this. I thought about those poor Confederate prisoners who found themselves just down the road in the Elmira prison camp, in summer combat wear when they were captured at Atlanta or Fort Fisher, then brought by train up here to share barracks as poorly insulated as our garage. Many froze to death; others died of pneumonia or some camp disease like dysentery. One shouldn't take for granted the blessing of gas heat.
Speaking of which, our old boiler in the basement is in heater hospice now, pending work on a replacement that's set to commence tomorrow. We came home from Florida on Sunday, and again from the condo yesterday, to find the place in the thirties inside and the heater's pilot light barely lit. I managed to get it going again, with a brilliant blue and orange flash. The HVAC guy suggested we should replace the 100 year old system before we blew ourselves us, and we agreed. Nearly $12k out the door by Friday. It seems that no matter how deep the gravy bowl of domestic prosperity for us, the universe always arrives with a biscuit big enough to soak it all up. Sort of like the Old Man and the Sea, me clinging to the fish head the sharks have left behind.
So goodbye old girl. I'll miss the aesthetics, if not the [mal]functionality.
Before the end of the week we're expecting the even bigger biscuit of an estimate to replace the roof at Wyldswood, compromised by three hurricanes in thirteen months.
Time to get back to work. The thing speaks for itself.
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