Yesterday's weather surprised me. When I stepped outside I'd expected temps well over ninety degrees but instead found light eighties with a stiff breeze off the river (west) and within seconds realized my breath consisted of water vapor instead of air. Instant sweat.
In spite of it there was music; cicadas; always in late summer the little and very old bugs provide a background beat. A squirrel chattered above me. The little sucker was busy with his meal of pinecones which they cut this time of year to then drop on my lawn. Several redwinged black birds, deep in a cove off the river, sang their beautiful unique song and it brought forth intense memories of my youth. Summer....isn't for wussies, and I dislike it very much, but it has its moments.
My yard work took several hours, a gallon of water, two or three sessions of milk crate rest stops, and a couple of breaks just to dink around in my garage. On one of those water breaks I noticed a wood box I'd liberated from my elderly father's old gunshop.
Ten minutes into the yard work my shirt was soaking wet. So, I stopped, again, and changed shirts and the bandana I'd tied around my head and took another break. My butt took on the pattern of the milk crate. Boredom took hold so I stood and stepped over to my cluttered reloading bench and fondled another piece of history I'd rescued last Sunday.
Finished the mower work and took the gas trimmer to the edges of the lawn. Found a fireant bed and played with them for a few minutes until I realized the trimmer string had slung the little demons all over my pant legs....I'm sure the Good Lord had a plan for the pint sized evil sonsabitches but I'll be damned if I can figure their purpose.
Took yet another break. Fixed the broken garage ceiling fan, moved a few items around and remembered another one of my 'finds.'
While in the gunshop last Sunday I found another Lyman single stage press. It was firmly bolted to a long bench and I've plans to return and rescue it too.
I did find three sets of dies, didn't need 'em, took them anyway as I wanted to clean and keep them as backups.
Most of the old gunshop has been cleared out, moved to his new homestead, but so much remains. The interior of the shop was heavy with heat which made it very difficult to work inside. Still, I packed out quite a bit of stuff.
I've a headache and need another cup of coffee...back in a second.
(Two hours and two customers later, I'm back.)
This blog sure eats my time....anyway, when I work I tend to daydream, write short stories, think about problems. My body switches to autopilot. I also, often, remember the past, my youth. Perhaps you too do the same.
When I dream or write or remember I most often wish I could stop and pull a notebook from my pocket and take pen to paper; capture those flitting sparkles of my mind...but alas it never proves out.
So many great diamonds lost to the weakness of my memory. I too often write when I take to my bed for a nights rest. There too I write short stories or the first few words of that great novel I'm sure will make the New York Times best seller list. Never happens. Daydreams usually cost me sleep, and travels in the universe of my dreams are instead wasted under cotton sheets.
Afterwards, when the mower had been cleaned, the yard and drives and walkways blown clear of debris, I sat in the garage soaked to the skin in sweat and had sucked down most of a gallon of cold water - too darn tired to rise and walk inside to a cool shower.
She arrived home to find me in my sad state. She parked the car, said, "Are you okay?"
I smiled. "Yes, just lost in thought."
"I see the ceiling fan works."
"Nice of you to notice."
She walked over and placed her hand on my forehead, "You shouldn't work on ladders when you're alone, you might fall."
"No big deal. I always have my dreams to keep me company."