I Make Lists

I have been making lists for weeks. At the farm I jotted down things which needed to be  in the earlier loads of household goods hauled to the 'other house.'

Now the farmhouse has become the 'other place'--and I make lists of cupboards there to be emptied, items to be searched out and put in the van. 

Mostly I make 'to do' lists of things to be accomplished here in the faint hope of creating order.

Today's list went something like this:

Paint front door

Seal the small walnut shelf that I sanded more than a month ago

Finish emptying the boxes ranged along the dining area wall

Re-pot the rosemarys which are suddenly looking poorly

The day wound down without any of the tasks accomplished.

Jim put up the house numbers that we bought on Friday.

Yesterday he spray-painted the mailbox--a task I planned to do.

Sometimes I feel mildly chastised when he does a job which I've decided to tackle.

Admittedly he is probably better with spray paint than I am.

We inherited a mailbox in a crumbling stonework 'tower'--doubtless quite upscale when the house was built in 1969.

The mortar has come out of the base in spots leaving blocks of stone dislodged.

Weeds grow in the planters flanking the 'tower'--sad and unkempt.

I have felt unreasonably annoyed that the name of the original owner of the property was still visible beneath a faded and scabby scrim of paint.

[We have found that the people from whom we bought the house were apparently not blessed with maintenance skills!]

Jim's paint [Massey Ferguson grey] covered the scrawling letters, and he resettled the little flag in its slot and gave it a shot of red paint.

It was left for me merely to apply the stick-on numbers this morning, tuck a birthday card and the utility payments into the box and raise the flag.

I went online to order new address labels; when I attempted to open my email to check had the order been confirmed, I found that access even to web mail was blocked.

A tangle of goldenrod near the east boundary of our acre.

The email glitch has been annoying me for some time.

I tackled the issue with grim determination, following various suggested 'fixes' without success.

After about 3 hours of fussing I was able to access a security code by opening an alternate email on my laptop.

I changed the password, entered it on the sign-in form and almost literally held my breath while the great wizard of cyberspace mulled over my credentials, then suddenly mail was loading--86 messages which had accumulated over the past week.

I scarcely dare state that the problem is 'cured' for fear of jinxing the whole show.

Jim has been burning out two huge locust stumps in the back yard.

He jabs at them, gathers brush and paper debris around the base of each and  sets them 

alight each day.

While monitoring his smudge he decided to harvest carrots, sort apples, and set up the juicer which we haven't used in months.

He demanded various containers to hold juice--a request which had me opening cupboards, poking into cartons, feeling the dismay of misplaced items which has haunted recent days.         

Coneflower staging a late bud.

With the email seemingly sorted I decided it might be wise to balance the checking account --after a fashion. Nellie, bored with his indoor existence, hopped onto the table, prodded helpfully at the keys of the calculator, batted petals from the roses in the vase beside me.

Hawkeye Belle transplanted from an offshoot in May.

Teasel and Mima, spending the warm afternoon in bed.

Somehow the day had dwindled away in small frustrations, several tasks started and almost immediately abandoned for something else.

I prepared a chicken for roasting, decided that the cover to the roasting pan had not made it here.

I pawed through cartons for jars of herbs and spices, seasoned the chicken, tucked some of our garden carrots alongside, made a cover of aluminum foil.

I carried in cartons of books, bins of fabric, oddments, that I had sorted yesterday at the farm and 

loaded into the van.

This is one view of my 'study'--disheartening--overwhelming.

 I announced that I was headed to town to purchase a bag of potting soil--still hoping to resuscitate the small rosemary plants.

Jim suggested that I try the farm supply store a few miles away--not a place we have often shopped.

[I drove there--my first outing as driver since the cataract removal last Wednesday.]

I bought a sack of soil mix, but realized there was no time to start the potting project before supper.

I washed dishes, put away food, took out scraps to tip at the edge of the soybean field for the feral cats. The soybean field adjoins our acre to the east.

We are in near drought conditions again, the grass of the back yard crisp underfoot.

Jim set up his sprinklers again today to water what we have of a fall garden.

A sickle moon hung in the sky.

To the west, toward the neighboring dairy farm, the sky was pink-streaked.

A day ended with none of the tasks ticked off my list.

I long for a bit of settled space!

'Tomorrow--and tomorrow--and tomorrow ?'