Not Cheerful Weather

We had sleet today.  I don't like sleet.  At least it was warm enough (37 degrees) that it didn't turn to ice because I had to drive downtown to pick up my complimentary pumpkin pie from my Edward Jones office.  Every year they give a pie to their clients. That's just one of the things I like about them.  Once I got home the sleet turned to snow for about an hour but it didn't stick much.  I'm not ready for snow.

 

I found a recipe for zero point Cranberry Pineapple Relish so I made some today.  You use a packet of cherry or strawberry jello to sweeten it.  It's not bad.  It will make Thanksgiving a bit more Thanksgiving-y since I'm not having turkey and stuffing, as will the pie.

 

 

In the afternoon I sat down to knit and promptly fell asleep.  I wouldn't mind except I missed a half hour of the audiobook I'm listening to.  When I woke up I managed to knit a bit and stay awake.

 24 November--Barbara Malcolm, The Seaview. 

“You must wait, though, Mrs. Rose.  First the Anguilla Customs man must come and break the seal that the Miami Customs man applied.  If it is broken when he gets here we are all in big trouble, you especially.”

I frowned at the back end of the slow moving crane truck as it made its way ponderously away.  No one would be able to pass it so there was no chance that the Customs man would get there for at least an hour.  “Why would it be bad for me especially?”

Silas slipped his hand over my elbow and steered me back toward the Seaview.  “Let me get properly dressed, you bring the percolator and a mug for me, and we will discuss it.”

Just as I set off for Sydans to fetch the coffee a well-dressed man got out of a white car that had been parked in Tamarind’s lot all the time.  The man wore pressed khaki pants, a khaki shirt complete with epaulets, and he carried a clipboard.  “Mrs. Rose Lambert?” he said.

“Yes, I’m Rose Lambert.  And you are…?”

He straightened up to his full height, puffing out his chest so that the official patch on his shirt was displayed.  “I am Hernando Gomez, Customs Agent on Anguilla.  I am here to certify that what is in your container is what is listed on the bill of lading you sent and to make sure that all required duty is paid.”

He’s got the potential to be a real pain in the neck, I thought, but I kept a mild smile pasted on my lips and handed him the key to the padlock on the door of the container.

“Thank you.”  He took it from me, bowed his head a bit, and crossed the street.  He paused and closely examined the tape applied by the Miami Customs office when the cargo was loaded onto the ship, making sure that it had not been tampered with before he slotted the key in the lock and turned it.  The door latch creaked and the hinges squealed as he opened the double doors.  He stepped back when he was faced with a solid wall of cartons.  “You packed this very full.”

I nodded.  “You bet I did.  I wanted to use every square inch of this thing; it cost enough.”

Word spread fast that my container had arrived and droves of people wandered down to watch the unloading, because unload it we had to do.  Mr. Gomez insisted on checking each and every thing in there, every inch of wire, every can of paint, every sheet of plywood and drywall.  He was meticulous, and a real pain in the ass.  At first he did not want me or Silas touching things.  He was going to unpack and check it off his list all by himself.

I began to argue with him but Silas shook his head and pulled me away.  We sat on stools in the shady back garden of the Seaview and watched him work.  He would lay out a row of boxes, open each one, and check the contents against his list.  Then he would repack the box, close it and shove it aside.  After he had done that a few times and realized that he had made barely a dent in the container’s contents I saw his shoulders slump and he turned and motioned us over.  “I can see that it would take me two weeks to go through everything in here.  I think that you should give me a hand.”

Silas and I looked at each other and shrugged.  “Well,” I said, “we don’t want you to get into trouble, Mr. Gomez, but it is a big job.”  I waited but he did not speak.  “If you are certain, we will be happy to assist you.”

Silas suggested that he and Mr. Gomez pull out cartons and open them while I checked things off on the thick sheaf of pages of the bill of lading.  Mr. Gomez agreed and the pace of the work picked up considerably.

 

Today's toss was a handful of crochet books and patterns.

Writing didn't work well today.  First I forgot about it until after supper, then the daily prompt didn't resonate with me which made it hard to write anything, and finally I sat here and couldn't get into the story.  I typed a few words but didn't make the daily quota.  Maybe tomorrow.

--Barbara