An air of anticipation
I knew we would get a break in the weather. It was too early to be snowed in. With that pile of recyclable cardboard weighing on my conscience, I spent time last evening, breaking things down and piling, even though the big blue truck wouldn’t be by for another three weeks. And this afternoon, the snow went away. Not all of it; there were traces in the hedgerow, but the path was clear. I put the pilot of the big green machine on alert.
The motor started, hesitantly; not all cylinders firing immediately. But, within minutes, the beast rolled out of its summer hangar, navigated the trail up to the driveway and drove through the open doorway. Parked, for the winter. Let the storming begin, because the biggest job is done.
Sure, I still have some deck furniture to move downhill, but that part is easy. The BBQ will come inside, as before, and I’ve already found the shovel. From now until April, we’re good to go. Or stay.
The rumour that a plumber could stop by this afternoon was an exaggeration. Around here, folks don’t do work (even under the table) on the Lord’s Day. Almost as if there was an unwritten law.
I’ve been asked to study those photos that show personal studios with a rack of keyboards, carefully. With anticipation. It’s almost as if someone wants me to enter a productive phase. There was an undertone of ageism; don’t wait until you are dead, etc. I won’t. But when the noise starts (as it will, given that new music is often rough around the sonic edges) there should be no reason for comment or complaint.
