False Spring

More fun with contractors. What's the problem? Somebody once said that if we didn't have time, everything would happen at once. I doubt it was Stephen Hawking, and if it was, he's never built a big building. In a nutshell (nut the operative word) there is no flooring, all of the furniture has been delivered. Without the flooring, the plumbing can't be installed, the kitchen isn't finished. It's there, though - - the entire kitchen, miles of stainless steel cabinetry sitting in the middle of the floor. The floor that must be covered. Ah, construction. The concrete is buckling, the walkway out back is steep enough for a wheelchair to get up enough speed to do some real damage. They'll never make the corner. I suggested a brick border to derail would-be speedsters. This is great experience if me and my beloved ever build a house.

It was a beautiful day in Talent today. Clear blue skies, an unconvincing wind. We have a false spring most every year. This might be it. Usually it's warmer than this, so I'm not sure this is the real thing, or rather, the false thing. As I consider the reality of life up north, I know sunny days will be even more precious. Its okay. I'm an Oregonian by birth. Water rolls off my back. My hair looks like shit, but oh, well.

Things I need to do: leave behind the miles of paper I will never need: copies of bills, tax booklets from my first job. I've lived here forever. I'm not certain, but I think there are times in life when taking stock, losing dead weight, are called for. I call them "dentist's office times." That may not make sense to anyone else, but if you could see my home, my little palace of garage sale treasures, carefully selected from lesser shit, you'd begin to understand. There are times when I want to get rid of everything and make my house look like a dentist's office: monochromatic, one or two carefully matched prints. A plant. I never really make it, but I do manage to clear it out from time to time. And it's time, folks. I think poverty drives accumulation. Either the memory of it or the fear of it, if there is a difference. I was good at being poor. I have this red chair. The red wine chair. To say it is time worn is the height of understatement. My friend Cooky and I stole it from a GoodWill box back in the eighties (I'm claiming Statute of Limitations). I saw it first, or was faster. I'll never tell. Anyway, there we were, in our nurse's aide uniforms, stealing that chair and a wheelchair -- our initial target. We worked at a nursing home and somebody needed a chair. Our mission was somewhat altruistic initially (although I don't believe in altruism, it is easier to use the word than explain my convoluted belief) but our motives were exposed as selfish and sinister almost immediately. "Dibs!!" I shouted. I wonder if "dibs" means anything outside my immediate family? Its how my brothers always got over on me. They'd yell "dibs" and grab the best seat, the last cookie, you get the picture. Anyway, Cooky bought it, and I got the chair. Point is, that was better than 20 years ago, and I still have it. My beloved asked me, in passing, ever so carefully, if I was going to give it back to Cooky. Never.