The Iron River

... a stream actually

November 8, 2020 - Sunday morning

52 degrees/clear skies/calm winds

Pentoga Road

In these parts, most any trickle of water is called a river. In Maine, where I once lived, a huge lake is referred to as a pond, and in Alaska, the Iron River would be regarded as a mere stream and probably wouldn't even warrant a name.

Hey, I lost a day somewhere. That's the glory of retirement. I woke up this morning thinking today was Saturday. Dad used to say that a person knew he was really retired when he lost all track of time and more importantly, didn't care.

I'm with you, Dad.

Saturday was another Indian Summer day. Arriving home from my walk, I put a few last minute touches on the bowl and after coating it with food safe finish, called it good 'nuff.

Sargie had made mention more than once that she was ready to reclaim the kitchen table. My bride seems to think that multiple bottles of paint and other artistic paraphernalia might look better elsewhere.

Regardless, it's all a moot point now. The bowl is done and Sargie says she wants to keep it, so we'll add it to our collection of bowls.

Once again, I played with the backpacking tent, color coding two corners in an effort to reduce the set up time.

Weighing under two pounds, stakes and everything else included, when not in use, the portable shelter is stuffed into a small, compact, bag. That's well and fine, but when removed, the strong, yet lightweight, cloth resembles a piece of laundry that's been at the bottom of the hamper. Telling one part from another is difficult and takes time, something I won't have in a driving rain storm. A color coded corner tells me what I'll need to know to begin putting it up.

Sargie and I enjoyed our two mile town walk. With the temperature registering over 70 degrees, we enjoyed walking and talking, taking advantage of the beautiful day.

Once home, with Sargie's help, we continued rearranging the shop to make room for the generator. 

My bride figured as long as my sanctum sanctorum was ripped apart, it might as well be cleaned. With rag in hand, vacuum hose in the other, no tool, bench, fixture, nut or bolt, was left covered in dust.

Finally, it was time to bring in the generator. Once we tilted it to where the center of gravity was balanced, Sargie wheeled it into the shop. I was impressed!

Now you know why my behavior is exemplary. If the girl can wheel around a generator that weighs several hundred pounds, can you imagine what she could do to delicate, little ol' me?

After a bit of heaving and hauling, the generator was finally put in place with the electrical wires, those that go directly into a circuit breaker box in the house, connected. We're ready for this coming winter's first power outage.

I'm heading out the door in a few minutes for my morning stroll. On today's list is to finish putting the shop back together. The worst is done. Now it's a matter of applying the finishing touches and pretending it's always clean with nothing out of place.

After that? Well, there are two bowls to sand and several scroll saw pieces that need completing. Christmas is coming and the goose is getting fat.

It'll be time to mess it up all over again!

After all, every day's a holiday, every meal a feast.

So are the tales from Pentoga Road...