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one out of seven
Tuesday, March 12 2019
Last night I slept without any sort of medication and I had one of those recurring dreams where I've done a serious criminal act and the authorities are investigating, but I haven't yet been caught. Imagine Chris Watts on the morning of August 13th, 2018, just hours after Watts killed his whole family but before he's in custody. That fuckup had only hours before he became the only suspect, though in my dreams the crimes were committed days, weeks, or perhaps even years before, and, if it was a murder, the victim wasn't someone I knew. In the case of the dream last night, the crime involved a stolen dump truck that had been parked in "the goat pasture" at my childhood home. I'd put some sort of device in it to broadcast a pirate radio station. Authorities were closing in on the missing dump truck, but I was still free. But then I woke up.
I was driving through the countryside southeast of the village of Red Hook at about 8:30am this morning when I got stuck behind a bus. It wasn't the usual bus I get stuck behind (that one is later and only shares part of the route of this bus), so I thought I'd keep a tally of all the kids who were waiting by themselves for this bus versus all the kids who required parental supervision while they waited (because you can never be too sure about leaving your kids unsupervised in their own front yard). This bus made four stops and picked up something like seven kids. At only one of these stops (for a little girl who looked to be no older than eight) was the child unsupervised. There was a parent waiting at all the other stops, some of which appeared to be for children who looked to be in their early teens. The stop where four or five kids boarded the bus was at a house no more than 20 feet from the street, and some of those kids were old enough to be baby sitters. But still adult supervision was somehow required. No wonder the Russians ended up winning the Cold War!
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This evening after work I put on my sweat pants, ratty black long-johns shirt and rubber boots, grabbed my chainsaw and backpack and headed south down the Stick Trail. I encountered Crazy Dave a couple hundred feet south of the Chamomile. He was walking his three Australian shepherds homeward (in my direction). Those dogs are panic-prone, and they lost their minds when they saw me. But when Crazy Dave got near me and seemed to demonstrate that I was okay, I was actually able to pet a couple of them on their noses. Dave said something polite and not-too-crazy and continued on his way, and I continued on mine.
I found smallish dry wood to cut on either side of (and rather close to) the Stick Trail about a quarter of a mile from home, and quickly assembled a load that seemed so light that I felt like I could've walked a mile with it. Back at the house, though, it weighed a respectable 87.9 pounds.
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