Still no pin
Outside my kitchen window, within a stone’s throw, there is a pin. Not something insignificant; this is one of those pins that surveyors like to leave behind. In fact, according to some legal papers, I own four of them. Corner pins, on my trapezoid. And invisible, for what they’re worth.
I know where to look, but this afternoon I relied on gentle breezes and sunshine as an excuse to get down and crawl about. Under that one tree/bush. And I found nothing, other than some twigs buried in the taller grass. Without a metal detector, the pins are just imaginary.
I’m not planning to sell, so all the realtors can return to their dens. I just want to know. Assuage my curiosity. I keep hoping someone with “inside knowledge” will wander by and offer to show me the goods. I refuse to dig, at this point, and simply dragging a long tape measure behind me will accomplish nothing. There has to be an easier way.
I’m here, on my own, this afternoon. The dog is out on the front lawn, keeping guard around the seed dispensers. Or maybe he’s napping. No difference. Yes, squirrels and chipmunks, we run an open buffet. You can carry on carrying MY seeds to YOUR stockpiles. After all, winter is coming. Don’t want to foster a famine.
The election counts continue. That green-to-liberal floor crosser in NB has confirmed a chair in the next assembly of great minds. One step closer to a gold-plate pension. How many more before we close the books on “#elec44” as they refer to it on Twitter?
