Our morning began at 3:30 am, when the bridge crew arrived down the road, along with a slew of cement trucks. The bridge is at the end of our property, 1/4 mile down the road. Close enough to awaken the Bloodhound. Who, in turn awakened me with his bay:
"Trolls! There be trolls on yonder bridge!!"
I got up after about 15 minutes of hearing Beau bay. In my stupor I thought a car was in our yard, parked with its lights on bright. Somewhere in my early morning stupor I also thought coyotes were involved. Heh. It was actually the bridge folk and their nighttime lighting. It looked like daylight down there! It was amazingly bright. The cement trucks arrived in droves, and in order to back down the road a quater of a mile to the bridge, they all had to make a T-turn in front of our house. BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP... in front of our house for the next couple of hours!
Beau continued sounding the Troll-On-Bridge Alarm for 30 minutes, until that Spouse o' Mine got up and shut him up in the barn. Beau was silent, but then, the two of us were awake. And so our morning started...
That Spouse o' Mine went to work. ("Wow," I remarked, "You'll be home by noon!") As soon as a smidgeon of sunlight peeked above the horizon, I went out on a 2.5 mile jaunt. Still dusky-dark, so pretty, and peaceful, and (the operative word) COOL. I could hear the coyotes howling their morning greetings all along the creek just to the east of me. They sounded in fine fettle. A mile into my walk/run and a raccoon ran out into the road just in front of me. Hmmm..much consternation on my part: is he rabid and will he chase me? And what is the speed of a rabid raccoon? And what is my speed in terror?
Happily, Raccoon meandered away from the road and into a neighbor's pasture.
I returned home and commenced painting the west side of our house: trim work: priming. So much to do, but I think I can see the wee distant light at the end of this summer tunnel. With a house this old, sometimes it feels like one step forward, two steps back. Now, I would never trade an old house with character for a newer home with no issues. (Never say never - I know, I know. Call me when I'm 90?) But as I primed some window trim, I saw that a few ancient panes (the ones I love) are in need of re-glazing. A call to that Spouse o' Mine, and an errand this afternoon by him, and I am in good stead for learning how to reglaze window panes. Interestingly, I have saved all my old, old Martha Stewart magazines (the GOOD ones, where we actually learned from tutorials like this) and I know there is one article somewhere about old windows in old houses. Oh - and the ancient panes I love? The oldest ones where one can see how the glass has settled. You see, glass is not a solid something. It moves with age. Wavy glass is old glass. I have wavy glass in my house.
Last night a man named Mr. Songs came over to mow our pasture of brome (hay). Tonight a man I shall call Sam is over, windrowing our hay. I shall call him Sam because that's not his real name, and last night my 22-year old son admonished me for calling him Crazy Sam. As in, "Tonight Mr. Songs came over to cut the hay and tomorrow Crazy Sam will be by to windrow." "Mom, you really shouldn't call him Crazy Sam." "But that's how he is known in these parts." "But that is no good reason why you should call him that."
Ooh. Corrected by my adult child. He is right, though. And so I stand corrected. I guess I raised my kid right. And...I am falling into an abyss of bad manners. It's the summer heat, I tell you.
This week I renewed my Rec Center membership for the university natatorium. (Read: Let's go swim!) I feel so good after a few laps in that pool. I sleep better, too. Highly recommended for anyone.
Here's the BEST recommendation I will come up with regarding swimming: