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.
Into Walsenburg town again the very next day for insignificant maintenance at the ‘bib and a
leisurely lunch, poking another rather large hole in the
week and back, ah, to the creek,
yeah,
and the smokes.
I had originally MIS-read what you wrote as “… a 1963 Palo Alto oil had burned up in a brick building in Colorado fifty-five years later.” With all the fires and smoke around I suppose it nearly could have been what you wrote. You mood here reflects the simple fact that we are seeing something worldwide which I think we thought we would not, or at least might not, see in our lifetimes. Not a pleasant thought for an insufferably hot and humid summer day on Long Island–“10 degrees cooler at the shore” no longer.
F
Sorry about the sign, Mike, there are jerks everywhere, it seems.
We just got back to CA, it’s cool, in the mid-70s, and the air is clear. Meanwhile, inland, it seems like the whole state is burning.
Yep, jerks everywhere, and some WAY more destructive than the mere stomping of signage. Hope the fires abate out there [for my sake as well; I’m heading for western Nevada on Wednesday] and readjusting to the ways of Trumplandia does not prove too traumatic.
It is amazing how that smoke drifts and where. We had some yesterday, perhaps augmented by a closer smaller fire in the south-east of Monterey Co. Today not so bad. Felt guilty seeing that 1963 painting as my parents bought one similar (Guaymas to Nogales) which some how disappeared when in my possession……looked like a lovely blue sky with bright white sky for you.