An Idle Day

Since I started binge watching Call the Midwife my days are filled with the East End of 1960s London and the birthing of babies.  I'm hooked.  I make myself wait until afternoon before I turn it on so I'm not spending ALL day with the TV blaring at me but still...

I find my knitting lying in my lap, my hands tangled with yarn and needles, but my attention on the drama unfolding on the television.  I managed to knit almost enough rounds of the hat body before my hands got sore and I quit knitting for the day.

 

This chipmunk spent some time glaring at me through the patio door and then went about its business of finding seeds in the grass.

All of the ground-feeding birds rely on the Sparrows that come to the feeder and let seed and corn drop to the ground as it pecks in there to find what it wants.  The Juncos and chipmunks and Mourning Doves reap the benefits of the Sparrows' pickiness.

 

And this squirrel discovered the suet pellet feeder and made itself at home.  I can't see how it can get anything out of the small openings but it must get enough to keep it hanging on.

 

 

24 October--Barbara Malcolm, The Seaview.  

By the end of the day I had filled two cans of reclaimed nails and had a respectable pile of rough boards that Silas and his friends could use when possible.  Many of the boards had years and years of layers of paint on them in all colors of the rainbow.  There had to be something that we could do with them to preserve that bit of Seaview history.  I would have to sleep on it a bit.  Different parts of me were sore than from the day before when I stood up from my low stool.  I stretched and listened to my joints pop and creak, glad that no one was around to hear.

I walked the few yards to Sydans, changed out of my filthy clothes into a swimsuit and went right back out to cross the road and swim in the bay.  This was why I lived here.  This was why I spent my beloved’s life insurance money on a run-down four room hotel on a tiny little island in the Caribbean, because I could walk across the street and be some place that most people would sell their mothers to be.

The water felt almost as warm as a bath when I waded in next to the pier.  The sweat and aches of the day faded away as I stroked out into deeper water.  I jackknifed down to the bottom and opened my eyes to see the blur of patchy coral, sea grass, and a few small silver fish dart away.  The sounds of the ocean filled my ears and soothed away the hard work of the day.

After swimming up the shore as far as Tamarind Watersports dive shop and back to the pier, I waded out, sluicing the water out of my hair with both hands.  I dried off my face and arms, and then strolled down the beach toward the Seaview with my towel across my shoulders.  Coming at it from the sea side, the Seaview didn’t look any better than the back did.  I could see the places where the last coat of white paint had peeled away in the salt air and storm winds.  Like the boards I had been reclaiming all day, layers of colors hid under the top coating of white.

I was eager for my container to arrive because it had twenty five-gallon pails of the toughest white paint I could find to repaint the outside of the building and anything else that held still long enough to feel the lick of a paintbrush.  I needed to talk to Silas or Anne to find some kids to put to work scraping all the loose paint so that when the cargo ship arrived we would be ready to paint.

I was feeling pretty smug about planning to have the whole low season to do the renovations so that I would be ready to welcome my first guests November fifteenth when the high season kicked off.  As I stood there imagining how it would look with a fresh coat of paint, repairs made on the porch and gallery above, and colorful shutters hung a voice behind me said,

“It was just bought by a foolish American woman with more money than sense.”

Today's toss was a box of old Jello molds and other things that I used to make soap years and years and years ago.  This box was a real toss right into the trash.

I'm sitting here listening to something gnawing in the attic.  It's freaking me out.  Guess I'll be calling Terminix or Orkin on Monday.  I don't want critters in any part of my house.  Damn Durwood for leaving me alone to deal with this kind of stuff by myself.  Not that he did on purpose but I have to blame someone, don't I?   I don't want to be brave and intrepid and resourceful.  I want to be a wimp but somebody has to be the grownup around here.  That'll be me, I guess.

--Barbara