The Afternoon Morning Report

May 15,2005

I got waylaid.

For those snarky snipes out there it doesn't mean getting laid along the way. I wish. 

I started some soup.  Because I added barley, it will take a bit to simmer.  "Gollee ( Jim Naybors style) look at the time," I'm thinking.  It's almost two pm.  I glance at the dog.  She looks as if she's moping.  A quick check of the spelling of moping takes me to the definition of moot ( of little substance) and away from the way I thought I'd spell moping, with 2 P's.  That's something I need to do ( get Mandy outisde) before the day ends a little before 5 pm. along with adding firewood to the woodpile behind the garage.  After the first snowstorm, my Husquvarna will have trouble getting from the woodshed to the backyard. Besides, the dog likes to carry sticks of firewood in her mouth.  She likes to carry her weight.

I want to describe the morning in succinct ( brief) terms. Earlier in the day, I wander around the yard, noting little details and checking the condition of the few remaining garden vegetables.  I moved the oregano cold frame to the sand pit where the onion drying tent stands most of the summer.  My experiment to to keep an herb alive through the coldest part of the fall/winter has become an obsession.  In the shed where I keep lawn tools, I stored overhead garage door panels which we replaced previously.  The garage door had 1/2 inch Styrofoam insulation that will fit over the glass of the oregano cold frame. To get the insulation out I have to destroy the door.  I need a hammer and a wunderbar.  This occupies most of Wednesday afternoon.

The panels nicely cover the oregano cold frame glass and are held in place by two, 100 year old glass church windows which will eventually part of the new green house.As Mandy races cars along the berm by the barb wire fence, I remove one side of the panels.  The oregano looks well.  Everything else is lying flat, forlorn and frozen after a 19 degree morning.  The kale-drooping.  Chard-sad.  Even the deeply mulched sage which I hope to over-winter is sagging badly. The corn plot which I slow tilled yesterday to bury cornstalks and vegetative debris is frozen solid.  The Pooch has to hunt for a soft spot to poop.  Celery in it's own glass enclosed box looks like a weeping willow.  I hope it will stand tall when the sun warms the frosty panels of glass.

In my wandering and musing I notice grapevine wreaths hanging in the pole shed.  It's almost Thanksgiving. I need to check out the lights on the wreath.  I toss the grapevine wreaths on a piece of plywood used as a table in the garage.  Extension cords hang at the four corners.  I plug in both wreaths. Nothing.  I decide to write a piece about the need to learn to speak mandarin after the Chinese elect one of their own as President after they buy the Constitution, Wisconsin Governor Scott Walker, The White House and most of the United States that isn't already Chinese, shipping it all across the ocean to erect a Plasticville version of America from my Lionel Train set.

Scratch that.  I'll do a bah-humbug piece.  Scratch that, people don't want their holiday ruined just because yours was terminally weird.  I'll search for my copy of the Albatross Man At Christmas and do an annual recitation of a classic I wrote while still a peddler in downtown Milarky.  Nah, scratch that. Why ruin it  for kids still into It's a Wonderful Life, Miracle on Thirty-Fourth Street, Charlie Brown, The Christmas Carol and Frosty The Snow Man.  Besides I kinda like the version with the original Scrooge instead of Jim Bacchus doing Mr. Magoo.

Hey, my soup's ready.