August | 2018 | Michael S. Moore

Yet again, rolling towards another week’s end, we made it into Walsenburg

where as trains and weather raged outside I spent several interior hours arranging piles

of paintings for eventual extrication and contemplated how unlikely it was that a 1963 Palo Alto oil had turned up in a brick building in Colorado fifty-five years later,

not to mention myself, and who WAS I in Palo Alto fifty-five years ago, anyway. This was followed by bourbon honey-glazed quail at La Plaza and a massive deluge

out on 69 from around mile 2 to 12, for a few minutes there the hardest rain

I’d ever seen, which dispersed

well before we made it home to the Grateful Dog, the one who still needs to be convinced other very nice dogs could be her friends, and only Friday [but seems like, unlike last week

where Sunday seemed like Saturday, Saturday]. Weakened by the premature weekend I beat myself up looking through Patsy’s book, just the thing to make a shallow lazy guy feel even

shallower and lazier and then, that not enough, delved deeply into my friend Bobby’s web presence, ostensibly looking for a story about Grumman Avengers but ended feeling even more woefully inadequated. Sunday, after the Actual Saturday’s trip to Post Office and Dump,

we went up to Bill and Muriel’s,

the crappy air [not shown] ever crappier

from what may be California’s distant unknown fires.

Back at the ranch it was time for the annual Running of the Trig, which went encouragingly well,

lifting spirits left and right, despite.

Monday we were in Pueblo for a door [ok, it’s a Ford, as if that excuses its excesses] at Lowe’s,

a tooth, a lot else and home

where awhile ago some cretin seemed to think knocking over and stomping the posts for our signage was a real cute idea. Though it probably has nothing to do with why the new UPS driver can never find our house it still seems gratuitously annoying.