Have Scissors: Won’t Travel
I did eight loads of laundry yesterday, without washing an article of personal laundry for either Gluten-Free Mama or me, having accomplished that task the day before with six loads to start off the parade. I ain’t bragging but I ain’t skeered, neither.
Doing laundry this winter has been a challenge, with the temperature never being quite warm enough outside to completely dry clothes, even when it is sunny. We have three clothes racks indoors, in addition to the clotheslines outside, to hang stuff that GF Mama does not want hung in the direct sun.
I have no such compunctions; I hang my stuff over the railing on the deck, if that is all there is.
It had been a minute or two since I had hauled the little generator over to the side of the house, hooked up drain, water and power, and done some clothes-washing. Rain and snow tend to discourage doing laundry, because of that running generator, normally housed in a location too far away to be able to stretch a cord.
I have made good use of my time in the inclement weather, however, manicuring flowers that have been carefully stored so that they retain their freshness and bouquet. Trimming is the single most challenging job I have ever done. So much so, that I could never consider doing it anywhere but my own home.
|My ball and chain|
Physically, working the scissors is not as rigorous as, say, working the soil with a pitchfork, but it still requires far more effort. I can turn soil over for four-six hours at a time, without pausing any longer than to hit both the bong and the water thermos, and do it effortlessly.
When it comes to trimming, however, I expend more effort in fifteen minutes, than I do in an entire outing with the fork. Hey, manhandling soil that has not been disturbed for a year, allows me to channel my manic energy into a worthwhile task, with the mutually beneficial results being tilled soil and a calm Markie.
Trimming is hard because I am channeling that same manic energy into what? This tiny instrument that requires that I meticulously clip countless minute fragments of leaf or stem matter, while climbing the walls without a ladder.
Hold on! There are dirty dishes? I LOVE doing dirty dishes. Stoves need firewood? Wood-ring needs wood? Floors need sweeping? Dozer needs a walk? Toby just barfed? Bathroom needs sprucing up, including scrubbing the toilet? And don’t even get me started on Kodak moments, photo-ops that clamor for my undivided attention.
Fortunately, I am good at it; unfortunately, I am slower than a slug in a barrel of molasses. Last year at this time, when my blog was off consorting with aliens and I was rudderless for six months, I trimmed from around one each morning, until seven in the morning, so that there was nothing to distract me. This way, once I hung up my scissors and cleaned my work station, I was a free man the rest of the day.
Free to do what, is unclear, since I have no memory of those six months of living in the dark without my blog. It is a similar sensation to losing those five years between the time I retired, and the time we got internet service up here on the mountain.
Talk about back from the shadows.
There are advantages to working the scissors, though, because quality-control is such a vital component to successfully manicuring the flowers. We can’t have medicine being produced that does not measure up to the high standards that we have established.
So I must continuously sample that which I am manicuring to ensure success in this area. It’s a brutal job but someone’s gotta do it.
I ain’t bragging, but I ain’t skeered, neither.