“Still, while the Old Testament God of Genesis might well have used the sixth day of the week to create all the creatures that lived on dry land, in the contemporary epoch Fridays, surely, are more readily associated with winding down than embarking on bold new exercises in urban development.”
― Travis Elborough
Foggy and 49 out there. A perfect autumnal equinox day.
This was supposed to have been a thinking and writing day, a time to catch up, but my paralegal has scheduled SIX phone calls, with the first in a little over an hour and the last starting at 5:30 when I'd hoped to be standing in a tee box somewhere. This is why I drink.
I stood my trousers in the corner next to the hamper after wearing them every day since the workweek began. One of the perils of being alone all day is that there's no one to question the source of the aroma wafting all about you. The weekend will include laundry.
It'll also include raking acorns out of the grass. Did you notice that mess in the street? Our trees have begun to cover the grass and pummel our cars with massive green acorns. They are the bane of our late September here.
Yesterday began with me as I am now, sitting in front of my computer talking to myself in print while wearing the same Charleston School of Law sweatshirt and pajama bottoms I've donned nearly every day I've been in Corning for the last three years, when I had an unexpected knock on the front door. Upon opening the door, I was greeted by the HVAC guy, arrived three hours early after his morning cleared. I tried to explain why I wasn't dressed, sheepish in my own house.
This is our annual ritual, nearly down to the day: the first cool evenings arrive, and P and I figure out we don't know how to start the gas furnace in the basement. I fiddle with it, paw through the kitchen drawers looking for instructions on how to start the pilot light, then call Bill's Heating to come bail us out.
So yesterday the friendly technician and I made our way into the basement as he commented on how much he liked Tara, and how we'd really fixed the place up since he was here last year. Once in front of the Rube Goldberg contraption of our furnace, an old cast iron coal burner converted to natural gas, he traced the wires and clamps with his fingers, checked that the gas line was open, and then opened a hidden door to reveal that the pilot light was, in fact, burning just fine.
"So why is the thermostat blank? Why aren't we getting any heat?" These seemed like legitimate questions to me.
Our field trip continued to the dining room and the thermostat, which he immediately observed had a flashing "replace batteries" message.
"Our thermostat uses batteries?"
So, for $140.40, I learned that thermostats now run on batteries, and our heat was restored. Nine years of college. I felt like an idiot.
From there I spent several hours getting ready for an all-day deposition that had been shoehorned into the 2-5 p.m. slot, taking a break for a half-hour to go over a construction contract a subcontractor on a major development intended to terminate. When the deposition finally commenced, things slowed down as it became apparent that the witness had done basically nothing to prepare. We limped well past six before I was finished, my stomach reminding me emphatically that I'd forgotten to eat lunch as I immersed myself into the file this guy hadn't bothered to read.
Predictably, this led to a cocktail or three, with Spotify's "The Piano Bar" station serenading us in the living room while Chris the painter came in as darkness fell to tell stories for a while before going home. I forgot to comment on that photo at the beginning of this blog. Did you notice the lovely new paint on that column? Chris has been at it since early July, sanding and filling and painting those old columns, restoring them to their former glory. And taking care of the cats when we wander off somewhere, and bringing in the mail and flushing our toilets periodically because Peg's father taught her you should do that for some reason if a house is vacant.
Speaking of Dean and Slane, the two amigos will join me for my migration south first thing Monday morning, as I make my way back to Florida to get ready for a trial the following week. Five days without Peg. It may be good for the bottom line in our household, with nothing to do down there but work into the night, but I hate the separation all the same. She'll fly down after work on Friday, and spend most of October with me hanging out at the condo and continuing the endless task of fixing up Wyldswood.
The thought of us back in the oversized kiddy pool enjoying a perfect Wyldswood fall day, spanish moss stirring in the breeze and Gus and Other Gus plotting to bite our ankles when we emerge from the water, puts a smile back on my face.
Time to get ready for that first call.
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