The Final Touches

Sunday was a day of rest. I felt lethargic most of the day. Toward evening I garnered enough energy to take a walk. It was hot, humid and somewhat breezy. The bugs kept to themselves to make the walk enjoyable. I came home and showered, plopped onto the couch and fired up an episode of Heartland. Thankfully, the big TV responded and it only took about two minutes for the episode to stream. I am losing faith in streaming from Amazon Prime. Often it takes me twenty to thirty minutes to make it work. The last time I had problems, I fired up my laptop and got the picture immediately. Last night I added Prime Video to my phone and it too fired up immediately. Is there a message here?

On Monday it was time to box the garage sale left overs for a drive to the thrift store. It took about an hour to pack seven boxes with miscellaneous glassware and knick knacks. It filled my trunk and the back seat. I arrived at the charity door at 2:45 pm. and rang the bell for service. The man who opened the door told me I was lucky because they were closing at 3:00. “The website said you were open until six.”

“The store is open until six, we stop taking donations at three.” It took the two of us five minutes to unload and I was on my way.

I looked forward to meeting with my masked friends at the Lions Club meeting that evening. In the afternoon about four o’clock, a huge storm came through and I watched the wind whip my flag pole about twenty degrees from side to side and in a rotation too. Rain fell at an almost horizontal attitude. At 4:30 I shaved and came out to find a message that the Lions meeting was cancelled. The storm passed through Frankfort felling some big trees across power lines. rendering Frankfort powerless and also somewhat treeless. My yard was littered with small branches from the poplar trees behind me. They took the full brunt of the wind while only shedding some leaves and small branches. Later I learned that the entire neighborhood was littered with the detritus of the storm.

Today, Tuesday, I did the same with the remaining pieces left unsold. My eyes teared as I carried the boxes to the trunk of the Death-Star. The relationship between me and my stuff has been long and faithful, but the time has arrived when we must separate and move on. This time I will follow a different rule; there will be no more new stuff, unless it is something I can digest, or it is a fantastic piece of art that I can’t live without.

I have at least one more purge to undertake, i.e. the cleaning and moving of my woodshop. The tears will be alligator sized for that job. Men like physical hobbies and wood working is certainly a hands on activity. Since I have developed an art form that utilizes wood and wood working I really don’t want to part ways just yet. I think perhaps I will down-size the shop to the barest minimum as the next step. What happens will depend on how quickly my number comes up at the place I want to move into. I’ve been on the waiting list for five years now, and have been called twice. Each time I was not ready to move because I was still actively caring for Peggy and there was no possibility of my leaving her. Now that she is gone, I will accept the next offer when it arrives.

In the meantime, I will chase loose women, dodge COVID-19, and drink lots of virus killing alcoholic beverages to stay virus free.

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