 |
| At least it's rain and not snow |
39 degrees/foggy/calm winds
Pentoga Road
I had a dream early this morning that almost turned into a nightmare.
I was standing in front of the kitchen pantry with the door wide open. Sargie was mad as wet hen, telling me that I'd better find the canned chicken breast and find it NOW.
Chicken breast? What chicken breast?
I told her that I'd not had her chicken. Looking at me in a disbelieving manner, she accused me of taking several cans out to the shop.
No amount of persuasion could convince my normally good natured Sargie that I'd not stolen her chicken. I enjoy an occasional snack in the shop, usually a hastily plucked apple or a handful of grapes, but canned chicken? Just not my thing.
Tired of her berating attitude accompanied by yelling and screaming, my delicate ego, now severely bruised, could take no more. I told my fire breathing wife that she could find her own darn canned chicken.
That's when it all hit the fan.
She walked close, got in my face, and in a hushed whisper threatened, "If you walk away from this pantry, I'll never cook for you again."
Thankfully, there is a God. I woke up, the birds were singing outside our bedroom window, and the decision to walk away from the pantry was taken out of my hands.
In an attempt to shake the cobwebs from my brain, I raised up on one elbow and looked over at my beautiful slumbering Sargie, a slight smile on her face. The girl was obviously enjoying a deep, uninterrupted, sleep.
It was a dream, only a stupid dream.
Still.
Only one question. Who took the canned chicken?
Speaking of food, with rain pounding down late Monday morning, we had a wonderful, low calorie, brunch.
The rich (in spirit) people on Pentoga Road were enjoying pancakes, eggs, bacon, blueberries, all smothered in homemade maple syrup. Beat that IHOP!
Sargie and I enjoyed a nice, albeit, rainy drive around the countryside after. Neither of us felt too energetic and were happy to be that old couple, the ones that others drive up behind and swear at because they are cruising at a hair splitting thirty mph, rubber necking, and gawking at the ice conditions on the local lakes.
I can't remember a severe wind in the recent past, but we observed several downed trees, the result of storm damage.
Back home, we threw another log on the fire and watched a couple of videos while snuggling under a blanket on the couch.
It was a stress filled afternoon. With Sargie's head lying on my shoulder and mine resting against the top of her head, our eyelids soon grew heavy.
What video? I can't seem to remember any, but I know they played.
I did make my way out to the shop later (sans canned chicken) and worked on the vase/bowl/whatever-you-call it. Playing with pigment and epoxy, I tried my hand at inlaying colored accent rings.
Using an old, discarded pine fence post from which to fashion the bowl, it wasn't really the right kind of wood for such a thing, but I learned quite a bit in my first attempt. I didn't finish it like I normally would and unhappy with a blah, pine, color, I used dark stain in an attempt to make the thing come to life. As they say on HGTV, I wanted it to "flow and pop."
I'm not certain it did either.
The day ended with my usual walk to Pentoga Village and back. Sargie and I enjoyed leftovers for supper in front of the tv.
I'm going to get this uploaded and go for a stroll. My goal today is to remake the set of grids for the south side windows in the garden house. As I told Mississippi Brother Garry, I don't know who measured for the first set, but since I was the only one with a tape measure, it must have been me.
 |
| Spring's definitely in the air. The peonies are beginning their annual upward migration. |
After all, a man's work is never done.
So are the tales from Pentoga Road...
 |
| Today's random Alaska picture: One of my Inupiaq student teachers, Florence Hadley. Florence was from the village of Buckland, Alaska, approximately seventy five very treacherous miles south of Kotzebue. |
No comments:
Post a Comment