A bit of work, now some waiting.

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The sun is out, the curtains all about are opened, and the mountains are a wondrous sight.  There is just enough snow on the drive from yesterday to be irritating to my notions but not enough to do anything about.  While it means no sweeping, it does induce some moaning and groaning.  I thought about what task to do first, and decided that a bowl of chili would top the list!  That is simply good chili.  I love the taste of beans and meat, and the heat is perfect in accentuating the brew.  I worried that the chili would slow me down, or even stop work.  No such luck.

I decided that sanding the ceiling would be the next most logical step.  Some of what I had already painted would have to be sanded.  And an area I had just patched could use it as well.  I started with 60 grit.  That took the vast majority of excess and mud-ugly off without a hitch.  I then stopped at 60 grit.  Good enough, and it is.  I suppose I could hove tried to make the ceiling perfectly flat, but I worried about other problems from trying, so I left it at "really good".  I then painted.  The paint match, by the way, at least for that area, is spot-on.  It looks to have been painted with either a roller by a perfectionist or by a condensed air sprayer.  I have been using a simple 3" brush, but taking my time, cross sectioning it, feathering, and such, so that when it dries the brush strokes, to my eyes, are almost invisible.  After the first coat there, I decided to mud the patch by the front door.  I am simply waiting, now, for that and the paint to dry.  If my last painting session is any good as an example, I probably won't need a second coat.

I also looked over my back door.  I have having problems, it seems, with that door hitting the wall as well.  The spring-rod door catcher at the bottom of the wall has failed, having lost the rubber stopper.  I have a couple of door catchers remaining.  I will, eventually, see to that as well.  It looks like the paint in the back hallway is the same paint used on the back ceiling in the washroom, so I should be good that way.  Oh, and I did put a load of dishes to soak, if I haven't quite gotten to the wash yet.  Still, I am pleased with the progress so far.

Back to the dream...

The Rooster of the Heights, continued...

Finishing my meal, leaving a tip of some note if to an odd reception, I left the diner.  Getting into my rig, I considered what to do next.  I wouldn't need anything, food or otherwise, from the general store, having packed for seclusion and to save pennies, and my tank was still three quarters full, while the sun was beginning to head to it's rest, I decided to just head to the cabin, unpack, and settle in... with a few shots of whiskey.  What a drive!

The cabin belonged to my first editor in chief from the last place I wrote.  The paper had been bought out and then the works had been transferred, to some odd place.  We had all been bought out, if on a nickle.  Philip was ready for retirement, so it was no skin off his nose.  I found a job rather quickly, though, with his help.  Having worked there from right out of college, for a bit more than a decade, as the star reporter in the end, I had come to know him well.  When he knew I was pretty beat, and knew what my budget could afford as to a vacation, he opened his cabin to me.  Keys are under the mat, is what he would say when it was time for me to take off.  The third year, returning looking a bit too plump for his eyes, he said nothing.  The disapproving look on his face, though, was sure.  The following summer, when I got to the cabin, I found a couple of fly-fishing rods, a fly fishing video, and a gift-certificate, hand written, for the local store.  A note suggested that I speak with Glen, the owner of the store, about which flies to purchase, as he fished himself and would know what is working, it said.  The advice that I not sit out my week was clear.  I hadn't talked to Phil in... three years?  I honestly wasn't sure if the old codger was still alive.  A quick call and the familiar... "The key is under the mat".  No need to tell me twice.  He was a man of fewer words than were necessary, usually, so it was never an issue with him.

The cabin, itself, was a  few and a half miles further into the valley, then up the side of a mountain.The drive was easy, unless the valley had changed as much as the drive in?  Fear crept in, and I found myself in a mild sweat at the notion.  I was still disoriented from the road.  I couldn't believe a road could even be made at such steep inclines.  What had they used to pave, an airplane?  I drove out of town, past the garage.  About a mile outside of town the road returned to the road I remembered, a graveled dirt almost two lane road, heading on back into the valley.  Well before the sun went down I found myself up the north slope, off in it's own section of land surrounded by some sort of government owned land, at the familiar cabin.  A miner's claim, kept by a family member, sold multiple times, having the taxes kept current, made the plot available to Philip when he had been my age... when being a reporter paid a bit better or when land was cheaper.

I prepped my gear and food for a fast pull and unload, not wanting to mess with the cold of the night or the dark.  Grabbing the first of what I suspected would be three loads not including water, I headed toward the cabin.  The key, as always, was under the... you guessed it.  I entered, took my gear to the smaller of the two main-floor rooms, I noticed something on the table.  Setting my gear in it's place in the room, I hurried to the table.  Something long and thin, wrapped and with a bow, plus a card.  My first thought was that Philip had a friend in the area who had left something for him, I was about to head out for the rest of my gear when I decided to look at the card.  It was addressed to me.  I decided to get the rest of my gear in first, again with trying to beat the night, but I burned with curiosity.  Upon getting the last of my gear, and one of the five gallon jugs of water in, I went straight to the table again.  "I doubted you remembered.  Philip" was all the card said, plus another hand written gift certificate for the local store.  A fly fishing rod, and a very good quality one was in the package.  I had to grin, then I wondered if Glen was still around.  He certainly did know what was catching fish.

...more later...  It's actually fun to write out the memory of the dream.  This isn't even close to the meat, but I'm getting there.  No, I'm not ad-libbing a bit.  My dreams are rather... detailed.  Later.