The Ultimate Answer to Kings

This afternoon I went with D&L on the long, unpleasant…

…trip to the amazingly well-located county landfill.

Seriously, never has such a godforsaken chunk of wasteland been put to a more fitting purpose.

I usually tag along to give them a hand with the heavy stuff. This time I had an ulterior motive. The guy who runs the scales and takes the money has a side hustle…

I don’t know where he gets them, but over the past few years he has become an amazingly reliable source for burn barrels. I needed to replace the one at Ian’s place, which finally fell completely apart. The trick, I have found, is to get one with a lid and obsessively put the lid on between uses. If the ashes don’t get wet, the barrel is a lot slower about rotting away on the bottom.

I wasn’t surprised that there were barrels to be had, but I still expected to go away empty handed because the price would surely have skyrocketed out of reach like everything else. Instead, it went down! And not just a little. That one right there cost me $25, ten bucks less than the one I got for the Lair two years ago.

Well, it’s hooked up. Everything works.

And I was just about to push it into the utility closet – which it will fill – when the voice of reason turned up and said…

“How are you planning to turn out the light, Joel? Since you put the switch all the way in the far corner, which you will no longer be able to reach? Moron.”

So before I can actually push the washer into position, I have to reposition that switch. Which won’t take a long time or any effort at all, but for crying out loud…

“Play with me, Uncle Joel!”

I’m trying to cook breakfast, and going back and forth getting stuff ready for the water run, making my bed, forgetting my glasses,…

…and poor Tobie just wants a game of “Kick the Kong.”

And he’s prepared to use guilt and pouting as weapons in his quest to get Uncle Joel to slow down and smell the dog spit.

Have you ever wept over half a loaf of moldy bread?

That and similar experiences, many years ago now, triggered a strong impulse toward hoarding. No, not stacks of rotting newspaper leaning against the walls, I’m not that crazy. I mean a preference for very strong supplies of the things that have proven useful. Food. Water. Warm winter clothes. 550 cord. I want to know it’s there, and by ‘know it’s there’ I mean stack it high and not use up any of it at all. That’s the part that sometimes starts to feel a little like mental illness.

Over three years ago Generous Reader MM sent me an absurdly bounteous gift: a 400 yard spool of new 550 cord, almost certainly a lifetime supply no matter how profligately I squander it. And because I love the sight of that big full spool in my storage shed, that’s exactly where it has stayed. Oh, I’ve used a little here and there: I have 10 feet of it daisychained in my pocket right this second. But large amounts have not been expended. At all. Nope. Uh uh.

Yesterday, having made and mounted crosstrees for my new clothesline poles, I found myself in need of 80 feet of clothesline. And I thought about that spool in the shed, and immediately dismissed the thought. No, I decided, I’ll see what they’ve got at the hardware store on Monday.

Woke at five this morning and my first conscious thought was, “You know what makes really good clothesline, Joel? I mean, like the best you’ve ever seen?”

And I was all, “Yes. I know. Shut up.” Because it’s not like this is the first time in 16 years I’ve strung a clothesline. And I’ve never used anything but 550 cord, because it’s nearly perfect. Strong. Impervious to UV. Infinitely reusable. If new cord didn’t stretch so much at first, it would be completely perfect.

This is how Shylock felt. “My daughter! My ducats!”

Sigh.

It didn’t even visually affect how much is on the spool. Because that’s less than 27 yards used, and I have 400. Yeah, unless I take up making my own parachutes I’ll never run out of 550 cord again. Can’t believe I really spent days agonizing over that.

And now that project is finished, except for a little tidying up and cutting some prop poles.

Now I just need a washing machine.

And while I was there, I took care of what should have been done two days ago…

…fill, inspect and wipe down Ian’s batteries.

…and predict that the Dark Brandon look isn’t going to be a keeper. For the first time in my entire life I’m suddenly interested in what a single photo op does to a politician’s poll numbers.

Whose idea was this?

I was supposed to tag along on a trip to the big town about 50 miles away this morning, something I was especially loathe to do since it involves the DMV. But that trip got cancelled early this morning, happily for my bowels and also for a chore I had really wanted to get cracking on this morning…

…planting some clothesline poles at Ian’s place.

It went more smoothly than I had any reason to expect: Dig a hole around here and there’s no telling what inconvenient rocks you’ll find. But this time it was pretty much dirt all the way down. I’ll give the cement a couple of days to firm up good and then make some crosstrees.

And Tobie…

…is proving to be one of those dogs who’s quite content to sit out of the way and watch other people work. He likes to come with but doesn’t insist that you pay him any attention. The more obnoxious phases of his puppyhood being behind us, I really think he’s going to mature into a good one.

I rode the ebike to town this morning, for the first time since getting it back together from the last time I tried to ride the ebike to town…

Among other things I went into the dollar store. Grabbed a hand basket, ran around picking up a few sundries. Immediately after I got to the checkout line a cop got in line behind me. And it was roughly at that moment that I realized…

…I hadn’t checked my gun burka before entering the building. And yeah, the revolver was hanging out for all the world to see.

There’s no law against open carry here, never has been, and the sight of a handgun is really not rare in the crappy little desert town nearest where I live. But it’s not the norm, either: Ironically the moment the law stopped requiring a license for concealed carry, I started covering my gun in town because it does occasionally draw unwelcome attention.

And in truth: I illegally carried handguns for so long before moving here more than 15 years ago that I’m still uncomfortable in close proximity to cops even when everything I’m doing or even thinking is legal as breathing. Even when I was Mr. Suburban Man my instincts were always those of a mildly shady person. Harmless, but never exactly fanatical about abiding by every niggling little law. Consequently I have never assumed that Mr. Policeman wants to be my friend.

In this case there was no incident and I expected none: Like I said, it isn’t and never has been illegal. But there was a time when such an encounter would have spiked my blood pressure. Now I just inwardly reflected that I really like living here. “Mildly shady” is common enough that I pretty much fit in.

I suppose the “he’s getting ready to leave” moment is significant in the life of any house dog. But Tobie knows the difference between “He’s leaving and I’m not” and “He’s leaving and I might go too.”

Monday mornings I take empty water bottles to the Jeep and put quarters in my pocket. Tobie never comes on water runs, knows it, and doesn’t make a fuss. He just stays in his bed and says “see you when you get back.*”

But when it’s time to take my laundry to S&L’s, he knows that a) he usually gets a Jeep ride out of the deal, and b) the Nice Lady stocks the most amazing treats. Tobie likes laundry day, and is very anxious not to miss out on it. So…

…from the time I sort my laundry and take the hamper to the Jeep until I head for the door he doesn’t let me out of his sight, and…

…when I’m clearly headed for the door, he plants himself between it and me, eyes wide, tail wagging madly, like what kind of monster wouldn’t let him come with?

Unfortunately (for Tobie) Neighbor L is about to cease washing my clothes for me every week. I doubt she’ll object to that – but we may need to find another excuse for Tobie to visit her.

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*He also used to tear the place apart in my absence, which meant my preparations had to be quite a lot more elaborate than I preferred. But he’s been over that for months.

Sometimes I think my motto, if I started having a motto, ought to be “People throw away the damndest things.”

In our latest exciting adventure in profiting from other people’s stuff, somebody is replacing their washer and dryer. And looking for a place for the old set other than the landfill.

Just so happens I know a likely place…

And so this morning I made the plumbing in Ian’s utility closet even more convoluted than it already was.

By wild coincidence it appears I’m going to get a trip the big town about 50 miles away, where there’s a Lowe’s, in the next couple of days. While there I hope to score what I need to tee off the propane plumbing. But in the meantime I already have everything I need to put up a new clothesline.

“We’re going to the feed store for horse pellets.”

Which means…

…a sweaty ton of pellets for the boys, and…

…some firewood for me. Getting ready for winter, one pallet at a time.

It hasn’t been an especially wet Monsoon but it hasn’t been dry, either. And I think guess on top of how green things got this time last year, the plants are just primed for a good growing season.

Anyway…

The trimmer, loppers and I had a morning appointment at Ian’s place, trying to keep it from looking like nobody lives there … even though nobody lives there.

On that note, one thing that makes me kind of sad…

The once much-trodden path between Ian’s and Landlady’s places is closing up. Since she no longer owns her place – and so I no longer do maintenance there or store stuff in her barn – I only occasionally walk there, always for chicken chores. Mostly my walkies take me in other directions and I ride or drive to the chickens. The sight of that disused path, which is kind of an important part of my history here, made me sad. So…

…I opened it up again, all the way to the wash. Doesn’t really change anything. I just felt like it.

I was afraid of this. Coming home from Tobie’s morning walkie…

… I looked out over the Lair and saw cattle coming up the driveway from the wash. They have a demonstrated ability to mow right through my big wavy autumn flowers like industrial machines, and they’re not welcome. So I rushed us down the hill, tied Tobie off to a porch column and waded into the cattle like a corgi on a mission.

Since I can’t nip ankles, I rely on noise.

And in so doing, I expended my last two hoarded rounds of commercial ammo. It’s reloads all the way down from now on.

I also was reminded of one big reason why the Taurus is not my favorite handgun, though I have to admit that in this application it’s kind of a blessing. It’s just that my eardrums don’t agree. Guess I could have paused to put my earplugs in. If you ever get a handgun with a muzzle brake, be aware that you’re in for a very loud time. I don’t really recommend them for situations that aren’t likely to involve earpro.

So last month I caught some unexpectedly deep mud, wrecked the ebike, covered it and myself with mud, got a long walk out of the deal, and spent the next few weeks getting the bike fully functional again. I’ve been very leery of wash crossings since then…

Sometimes I get down on myself for excess caution: I’m supposed to be this heedless manly mountain man, living on the edge, eating mountain lions for lunch, all that shit. Actually I’m a gimp pushing seventy and healing doesn’t come as easy as it used to. Hell, I never have fully gotten over that minor fall I took in 2016: My shoulder still isn’t the same. So I charged down the grade off the ridge with no particular qualms but when I saw what looked like it might be awfully soft, churned-up sand, I decided to dismount and walk the bike across. Turned out it would have been fine but what the hell: Nobody was looking.

The four-oclocks and the blackeyed susans are in their glory…

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I was indulging in a bit of schadenfreude this morning while reading a column about a primary battle between Carolyn Maloney and Jerry Nadler, two ancient evil politicians one of whom is about to lose their phony-baloney job due to redistricting, in one of those situations where the only real downside is that both of them can’t lose.

Anyway, I don’t pay that much attention to politicians so I fell victim to a case of mistaken identity. I thought Carolyn Maloney was the idiot who gifted us with one of our alltime favorite gungrabber memes…

…but that turned out to be some other idiot named Carolyn McCarthy. It’s always good to check before you start delightedly typing.

Been meaning to do this for some time. Rats burrowed under the front wall of the chicken house, which not coincidentally is where the chicken feeder is…

I tried piling rocks and concrete blocks to no avail. Finally yesterday I was able to score a sack of concrete during the Monday water run, so…

Tobie and I got it done this morning before working by that south-facing wall got too hot, and that should be the end of that series of free meals.

Junior didn’t care enough about the yellow thing to interrupt his meal, and Mom was apparently familiar enough with motor vehicles not to see the Jeep as a threat. So yeah, she stood right there blocking the road as I slowly went around her.

That was Tobie’s closest look at one, and he’d have liked it if I stopped right next to her for a few minutes. He finds the cattle very interesting but not particularly exciting. They apparently don’t fall into his Things That Must Be Chased class, which (provisionally) is good news.

The clouds started breaking up yesterday afternoon after more than two solid days of heavy overcast and more or less constant rain. Seldom hard rain, we only picked up two measured inches in the whole period here at the Lair, but still. The normal pattern is clear morning and stormy afternoon.

And according to the forecast, that’s what we’re back to.

As much as I hate cattle in general, at least the cows and calves are nothing to be afraid of. Meeting a bull while on foot can be positively dangerous, they’re rarely all that impressed by noisy gunfire, and if I’m ever forced to shoot one there’ll be hell to pay. So this is the part of “the cattle are out” that I really dislike.