I’ve had three days, and I think that’s long enough to get over myself (and whatever it is that’s been bothering me and whose details I shall not divulge).
I am a free man!
Hot danish and Pete’s coffee — “Major Dickason’s Blend: Rich, Complex, Full Bodied: Deep Roast” — help with the old “Ya hah!”
And the old “Oh no!”
It seems “Major” Elbert Dickason set out out with $10,000 and a partnership to build and till a patch of Wisconsin land. After clearing and building and working furiously to make a buck, he found himself forced to sell his share to the partner for $200, and he left town penniless.
I know how to do that!
Seriously, I’m cringing at the thought of shelling out another $80 for ink cartridges so “Big Bertha” (HP B9180) can continue checking out her nozzles while I decide — or settle into — what I’m going to be when I grow up now that I kind of have.
At that most tender age of 57 — complete with a lazy cancer, mallet finger, nose hairs, receded hair line: all that comes with standing out in the wind and growing older (better: okay: “older better”) alone — I’m feeling more settled in than settled down.
But back to many moons ago: Dickason with his $10,000 cum $200 grub stake repaired to new available Wisconsin land going for $1.25 per acre, laid out a community, built a cabin that became a hotel, and founded and named a town that became a county seat: “Wyocena”.
Hmm. A man might learn a few things by merely having chosen the right bean bag.
The splint comes off about the middle of the month, and then I should be able to hold my cameras without giving my patrons (or passersby) The Finger; also play my guitar (without looking heroic — “wow, man, did you see what he did to his hand?”); also hold a pen (even if I don’t return to journaling in cursive).
As regards pioneering (cyberspace) here by an as yet undeveloped woodlot and exurban apartment | squire’s margin on the eastern edge of western Maryland, I had last night for company, from the sound of it, a squirrel and mice, keeping toasty behind the drywall. Such scratching and peeping make not for a good night’s sleep, but for being awakened by a small animal or two in the middle of the night: Walt Mitty here might call it practice.
It’s not too late.