More of the Same

 On a [rare] warm day last week J and H finished the installation of the septic line.

Even with the backhoe for the heavy digging, it was a long day with transit, shovels, lengths of pipe.

Willis, the feline overseer, was disgruntled by the rumbling presence of the backhoe, the upheavals of earth, changes in his familiar landscape, The cats who usually spend much of the day outside were intimidated and huddled in the camper.

Weather deteriorated through the week, again becoming damp and cold.

Wild daffodils ['March lilies' in local parlance] have bloomed along the roadsides and pasture slopes.

Jim slowed the car so that I could aim the camera at swaths of them nodding in the fine drizzle of rain.  So much trash litters the roadsides that it was difficult to compose a shot that didn't include sodden take-away food containers, drink cans, crumpled plastic carrier bags.

 Sunday morning the rain thickened to a sleety consistency.

Sitting at my tiny improvised desk, a flash of movement caught my eye. Gathering my camera I quietly approached the window and watched as a grey squirrel skittered about in the tangle of fallen branches, eventually uncovering a coveted acorn.

We worked at the house through the afternoon, Jim nailing wainscoat in the sun room, I applying poly to Howard's beautifully crafted bathroom shelves,

We walked back to the camper in a colorless dusk speckled by flakes of wet snow.  The wooden steps at the camper entrance were coated with a thick substance that was not quite ice.

Cloud cover broke at Monday noon, revealing vivid blue skies. 

Howard quietly continued his neat finish work--a fresh coat of white paint on window trim, nail holes filled, baseboards sealed and edged.

I polyed pantry shelving and then moved on to the sun room wainscoating. 

I was committed to using the remaining 2/3 gallon of oil-based polyurethane that Jim purchased.

I concede that it is a 'tougher' finish than the water-based, but I detest its slippery consistency and tendency to run.  Have I mentioned that the stuff has a sickening reek?

I persevered, up and down a stepladder, grateful for the sun pouring through the windows. 

Jim sorted lumber, ran down the electrician, demanding some input on why the electrical inspector has put us through endless delays for permanent electrical service.

Apparently, because he can and often does--a perhaps petty display of 'power!'

The rough-in inspection was done and passed in early December, now, belatedly, the inspector has presented a 'list' of modifications; it is generally agreed that any change orders should have been noted at the time of the original inspection, when they could have more easily been incorporated in the electrician's process. 

Obviously, we are at the mercy of the inspector's whims.

We worked last evening until the sun was sliding behind the ridge in a pool of  orange light.

I dragged off layers of paint-daubed clothing, stumbled into the shower to rinse the odor of polyurethane from skin and hair.

The night fulfilled the warnings for cold temperatures.  We woke to a glowing, frost-sparkled morning, and the unwelcome realization that the heat tape on the camper water lines had  ceased to function.  The camper furnace chugged non-stop.

Jim drove to a local hardware store for a replacement heat tape, then he and Howard crawled about adding extra insulation over the lines.

By noon the lines had thawed!

I've hung about expecting a phone call from the appliance store to confirm delivery of the kitchen appliances;  the phone call wasn't made and I rather doubt that the appliances have appeared.

I have unwisely attempted to coax the recalcitrant washing machine through yet another load of laundry; it appears that this time I may be landed with a tub of wet wash that refuses to drain and spin.

These are not life-changing dilemmas.  They are aggravations, frustrations seemingly beyond our capacity to change.

The main floor of the house is ready for occupancy--sun streaming through the [yet unwashed] windows, the wood stove pouring out a comforting heat.  The gracious spaces of bedrooms and living area await the arrangement of furniture. 

My own large washing machine and dryer could be set up in the basement laundry room.

The head-banging mood which has overtaken me today is, perhaps justified by delays and issues not of our making. My 'good sport' mode of endurance needs a boost!

That being stated, it doubtless behooves me to cease complaining and go out into the bright, cold, windy afternoon. 

The one bedraggled clump of daffodils on our property.

Willis, the intrepid, enjoys a spill of sunlight at the shed door.

Towering above the shed and marching along the ridge, red budded maples suggest that spring will arrive as it has always done.

Wuthering Wind

 Wuthering

adjective NORTHERN ENGLISH

(of weather) characterized by strong winds.

I woke suddenly in the small hours of Monday morning, wedged round with sleeping cats. I lay still in the darkness wondering groggily what seemed different.

The furnace gave a rattle and the little 'click' that announces the end of its cycle--and there was silence.

Silence, such as hadn't been in nearly 48 hours. 

Squinting across the room I made out the tiny red digits on the clock: 3:20 A.M.

I  floundered around in my nest of cats and blankets, pushed up the flimsy fabric window shade, propped myself on my elbows to gaze out at a star-sprinkled, dark velvet sky. The waning gibbous moon swung behind the arching bare branches of the trees that stand just beyond the camper trailer.

The branches were un-moving, there was no sound of wind.

The wind has been an intruding presence, dominating our days, and especially our nights.

Saturday evening a fury of wind ushered in lashings of rain, rumblings of thunder. The cats skittered about, nervous.  Bobby Mac hunkered in the cupboard under the TV shelf;  I flinched each time the trailer shuddered with the impact of a particularly violent gust of wind.

Jim tracked the storm on doplar; I pulled up photos and  accounts of local flooding, road closures, updates on the situation at nearby Wolf Creek Dam.

Jim loves the sound of rain on the roof, lulling him to peaceful slumber.

Sleep, for me, was impossible on Saturday night.

This was no gentle rain!  

Rain driven in wild downpour, pounding against the camper, while the wind howled. Twigs landed on the roof, scraping and scratching.

By Sunday morning the rain had ceased, but the sky, after a promising sunrise, cloaked itself in default grey.

The wind continued to moan, rattling sear leaves.

 I know the provenance of my dislike of a night time wind.

When my parents built their modest small house in 1949, my next younger sister and I were assigned to share the southeast bedroom. [Within a few years she moved to the southwest room at the head of the stairs.]

My narrow bed was placed with its head against the south wall, inches from a window that faced the road toward Grampa Mac's white farmhouse. 

The east wall provided a boundary for the length of the bed.

Daddy purchased our first television set in time to watch the inaugural parade that ushered in the presidency of Dwight D. Eisenhower. 

The blurry reception of the TV picture was dependent on an 'antenna,' a bristling structure of thin metal tubing with a long flat flex of cable which ran down the side of the house and through the wall to connect with the TV set which squatted in the corner of the dining room.

The TV antenna was fastened by a metal bracket to the exterior wall outside my bedroom window.

The metal contraption hummed. 

It was a low-pitched hum, a sort of monotonous thrumming .

The slightest suggestion of wind induced a full-throated whine.

On a windy night--and there were many--the whine modulated to moans, shrieks, a throbbing roar.

The loose flex slapped against the side of the house.

Switching my pillow to the other end of the bed gave no relief from the sounds that accompanied my restless nights.

I love the gentle winds that ripple a field of standing hay, the breeze that sets laundered sheets billowing on a wash line. 

I remember walking the track that traversed Grampa Mac's woodlot when a high wind sang through the tossing branches of maple and beech, wind that seemed never to touch the ground. 

Wyoming, where we lived for 12 years, is famous for its winds.

I felt assaulted by the wind there--wind that wuthered and howled around the corners of a house; wind that brought tumbleweeds [and neighbors' trash] surging across a landscape of sand and sagebrush.

It was a wind that skirled down from the mountains, sharp with the scent of snow. 

Today the sun has shone, the sky was blue, the wind at rest.

Tonight I walked outside, up the lane, in the clear windless cold, under a dark sky pricked with stars.  The waning moon had risen and rode low over the ridge.

Now at midnight, Jim is asleep; the cats are sprawled, sleeping--other than Bobby Mac who is out on the prowl.

I am about to slip into my warm nest.

I have raised the shades enough to let moonlight and starlight spill onto my pillow.

I may--or may not-- sleep well, but I can enjoy the peace of a night without wind.

The Quotidian Round

Quotidian: ordinary or everyday; mundane.

Looking down the lane toward our 'encampment.' A rare morning of sunshine.

Somewhere in the past two weeks, I think we began to lose our sense of time.

One day has followed another--most of them grey and chilly--so that we pause and ask ourselves things like: 'Did Howard bring the doors last week--or was it the week before?'  'Didn't we refill the propane tanks last Friday?'

Howard was at home in Tennessee for nearly a week, so Jim spent the time putting up window trim and the wainscoat in the living area.

I applied polyurethane to both sides of all the knotty pine doors--a most frustrating task.

I dislike poly!  I'm a careful 'painter' but this stuff drips and runs, spatters off the brush. 

Jim insisted I buy the oil-based variety, which adds the insult of a nasty odor clinging to my clothes and hair. 

I applied the first coat with the doors in place, then next day lightly sanded preparatory to the second coat. 

Once I am embarked on a project I tend to ignore the warning signs that I should stop and rest.

The payback was considerable pain in my right shoulder, a stiff neck, vertigo.

I left the door project for a bit to paint some trim laid out on trestles--this was an easier job.

I mentioned that painting a horizontal object was less painfully aggravating than climbing and stretching, which prompted Jim to take the doors off their hinges and lay them across trestles.

The downside of this was a better view of the dripped poly.

More sanding, repeated efforts to view the work from every possible angle.

The finished doors were rehung yesterday and I was fairly satisfied until the morning sunlight caught a dribble of poly that I missed. 

I'm sure I will notice it each time I walk past that bedroom door!

Lumber to be sorted.

Last Thursday Jim decided to move firewood which has been stored at the Amish farm since our move.

J. A. who is the new owner of the lower farmhouse, offered to help with the wood.  It was a daylong project--three loads of firewood and a stack of lumber.

Both men were tired the next day! 

Dixie escorting me up the lane.

Pounding rain again on Wednesday.

Jim walked down for lunch using a cardboard box as headgear.

He couldn't resist pausing at the camper window and startling the cats.

Teasel is wary--a low warning rumble as she peers out at the alien creature.

A day without sunshine, but as Jim is now prone to say, 'At least its not raining--yet!'

Jim tackled the septic line which has been cleared by the county inspector to link into the existing septic tank.

He did much of the work with the backhoe, but hand-shoveled a layer of dirt over the PVC pipe to prevent crushing it with too heavy a bucket load of coarse soil.

Doing this on the day after moving the wood supply, he wasn't surprised that he was tired!

Rain last Friday night turned to wet snow.

The morning promised sun to melt the snow into muddy puddles.

Bobby Mac [aka Robert] keeping his feet dry while he surveys his kingdom.

We deal with delays and frustrations which aren't out of the ordinary for a project of this sort.

The electrician went 'down in his back' for a week, which meant that the electrical inspector's visit was postponed.

Electrician reappeared, finished his work, inspector didn't show up yesterday as re-scheduled.  He arrived today, inspected, left a certificate permitting permanent power to be turned on [when?] but said he had a list of things he wants the electrician to modify.

Electrician assures us this is the usual--inspectors must find something to justify their existence!

I am 'over' life in the camper.  I remind myself daily that it has served us well: it is roomy as such things go, it has a small but adequate shower stall, it has a laundry area.  We have phone and internet.

Still, I am most anxious to be in a proper house! 

The washer and dryer, stacked in their tiny cubby, are elderly and the washer has fits of refusing to go into the drain and spin cycles. I resort to the classic retaliation of pounding on the lid! 

The small table in one of the 'slide-out' sections is heaped with our winter coats, down vests and gloves. I can't imagine trying to eat while sitting there--the ceiling is lowered over it--a head banger.

Jim eats at the little desk, I pick my way to one of the easy chairs, or stand with my plate at the counter in the kitchenette.

A friend offered words of understanding. 'A camper is fun for a few days; you take in what you need for food and clothing, enjoy the outing, then return home, tidy up the camper--you don't continue to live in it for months.'

We wait now for whatever the electrician must do to satisfy the inspector.  We wait for the power company to come out and pull levers, flick switches--however electrical current is made to flow into the 'box.'

We wait for a dry day or two to finish laying out the septic line.

Jim and Howard have been busy fitting shelves for pantry and closets.

[They do not solicit my suggestions!]

We think the kitchen cabinetry may be ready for delivery next week, likewise the kitchen appliances.

We will be overjoyed to move into the main floor, while work continues to finish the lower level, build a carport. 

I've been told life-long that the things we wish for are most appreciated when there has been a waiting time. 

Has the wait been long enough?

The Default Mode is Rain

The view at noon Monday, taken through a camper window.

Trees, grey and bare, grey rain, tangled fallen branches, all a study in grey.

On Saturday morning I slipped out of bed at the importunate insistence of several cats who felt the call of the outdoors.

The first pale hints of morning were evident in the eastern sky as I raised the shade on the small window near my nest of blankets and pillows. It felt too early in the day to pull on yesterday's jeans and paint-stained sweatshirt; Jim was sleeping and likely wouldn't appreciate me rattling about.

On a whim, I made myself comfortable, fleece throws snuggled around my shoulders, pillows propped to give me a good view out the window. Teasel and Chester-cat, having more sense than to follow their friends into the pre-dawn chill, resettled themselves, substantial rounds of warm fur near my feet.

The skyline above the rise of the land that comprises our eastern boundary was a study in soft hues of dove grey, pearl, smokey white.

While I watched, thin stripes of pale saffron threaded through the shifting veils of grey.

Three large birds, cranes perhaps, or Canada geese, beat their way above the field, wings moving in steady silent strength, dark silhouettes back-lit by the deepening gold of dawn.

Wriggling free of my feline foot-warmers, I pulled on a bag-lady assortment of leggings, turtleneck  and wooly socks, topped with my long down-filled robe; I poked my feet into the handiest pair of shoes and picked up my camera.

Outside the morning air struck with a cold bite. The crunch of my shoes on frost covered gravel brought Willis-the-Cat to the half open door of the shed, mouth gaping in a pink yawn, but clearly willing to undertake his usual escort duties.

Huddled in my inadequate layers of clothing, I picked my way up the lane, far enough to record the promise of a day that might bring sunshine instead of monotonous rain.

The house in progress, looming amidst piles of displaced red earth, the skeletal shapes of staging and a  ladder propped near the front porch, even the white chunks of PVC lying about like the dismembered bones of some prehistoric giant, all faded in relation to the 'new every morning' grandeur of sunrise.

Paint

Ten days of grueling, messy work, by the men, and the main floor of the house was ready for paint.

Jim announced that Howard and I should go to Lowes Home Improvement in Campbellsville and purchase 2 five gallon buckets each of primer and wall paint.

For months on each trip to Lowes I have added paint sample cards to my stash, spreading them out from time to time to compare the minute differences in shades of 'off-white.'

There are those who find 'off-white' totally boring. I prefer a neutral background--restful, non-demanding--which allows for what the decorating industry currently refers to as 'pops of color' supplied by my quilts, curtains and collectibles.

I narrowed my choices to three: 'Thistle Seed;' Quail's Egg;' 'Muslin Wrap.'  [Ever wonder who dreams up the exotic names for paint colors?]

I chose 'Muslin Wrap'--a warm cream that doesn't present as 'yellow.'

The open living area/great room will have wainscoting; the two main floor bedrooms will have chair rail with a different color paint below.

I pondered the options.  My color preferences in quilt and drapery  fabrics, as well as paint for refinished wooden pieces, have long been the 'Early American' shades of faded dark red, old gold, grey-green.  Bright 'hot' colors set my teeth on edge, pastels don't inspire.

I dithered between a warm golden yellow [Early Morning]  a color labeled 'Mystic Mocha' [used in several of the bedrooms at the farmhouse] and a sage green [Dried Sage.]

I stood in the bedrooms at different times of day, considering what the effect would be. 

Typically, the trip to buy paint was announced suddenly during breakfast on Thursday.

["If you want paint for those bedrooms, we're going to Russell Springs in half an hour!"]

I hauled my folder of paint samples from the cupboard, hastily shuffling out the favorites.

My fingers paused on a sample I have used as an 'accent wall' both at the Amish farmhouse and the Bedford stone house which we refurbished and soon sold.

'Hand-Loomed Scarlet,' a faded 'antique' red which makes a statement without screaming.

I applied the first coat to the north-west bedroom yesterday, working around the men who are now laying down floors.

If you've worked with paint, you know that reds are considered 'transparent' colors. It takes several coats applied to achieve coverage

These trim pieces were purchased already primed. 

I have applied two coats of semi-gloss 'Swiss Coffee.'

Yesterday I was directed to a work space set up in the back area of the basement, and instructed to paint a stack of narrow molding which Howard had already primed and sanded.

The boards were laid out on a trestle constructed of two folding sawhorses and 2 x 4's. I began painting but wasn't satisfied with the lighting that had been hung in the stairwell. 

[The electrical inspector is dragging his feet on the final permit needed to 'turn on' the permanent electrical service.]

I decided that working from the opposite end of the trestle would provide better light on the length of the molding strips.

I had finished about 3/4 of the work, carefully moving each painted strip to the far end of the 2x4's when the whole set up went down with a crash. The painted strips clattered to the floor in disarray; the paint cup and brush overturned splattering paint in dripping streams.

I bellowed in outrage and dismay--provoked to using a scatological term.

Jim and Howard pounded down the stairs!

Howard snatched up the overturned paint container and brush, while Jim righted the overturned sawhorses.

I was treated to exasperated queries: 'Why on earth were you working from that side?'  

'Couldn't you see that you were over-balancing the supports by loading the finished pieces on that end?'

No, I didn't see that or of course I wouldn't have done it!

I suggested that I should have been warned not to work from 'that side' of the set up.

'We didn't tell you because anyone in their right mind should have known what would happen!'

Howard, in spite of dire mutterings, was quickly brushing down the paint which had been flung on my finished work. I attempted to dip up puddles of paint which had landed on the floor, furiously lamenting the waste of paint and the spoiling of my careful work. 

Forcing a calm which I didn't feel, I took another brush and subsided, smoothing out drips, rearranging finished strips. 

With that accomplished, I excused myself from working on the remaining lengths of molding. 

I needed to settle my feathers and decided that folding clean laundry might provide a soothing interlude.

It has been suggested that I appear and continue with applying hand-loomed scarlet paint to the bedroom walls.

I shall bundle up against the windy walk up the lane, hoping for a stint of painting without drama.

The resident experts on all things construction and paint related.

Chance Encounters

     

The 'stilts' leaning near the wall have exceeded Howard's expectations in facilitating the finishing of drywall.

He discovered them on a local craigslist post and made arrangements to collect them.

The owners gave him their address in the next town which he entered into the GPS app on his phone.

I was invited to ride along, as did Jim and of course, Howard's dogs.

The precise directions delivered in the cultured tones of 'Siri' took us along familiar routes and then directed a left hand turning onto a side road. This was quickly followed by another turn onto a narrow one lane track. Although a bit unexpected, such back roads aren't uncommon here.

The track followed the bends of a steep-banked creek;  clear brown water danced and dappled in the sunlight which pierced the tangle of bare branches overhead.

The road crossed the creek bed at several points, again not uncommon in rural Kentucky.

I was ensconced in the back seat on the side where I had a good view of the creek bank.  I remarked that the route seemed an unlikely one, but the men were jovial.

"Can't back up, no place to turn around, so on we go, " replied Howard the driver.

The track ran out at last onto a more civilized road; Siri guided us across a narrow bridge and into the back yard of a simple white farmhouse.

A slender grey-bearded man was loading items into the back of a pickup; a tall woman emerged from the garage, faded tawny hair cascading below her shoulders. Around them danced a throng of barking dogs, whose tails wagged in greeting.

Katy and Dixie answered them adding to the canine cacophony. 

Jim and Howard descended from the truck, hands reaching to pat and reassure the dogs

.

Whenever I'm invited along on errands I have either a book or a pile of magazines to occupy me during what can become extended waiting.

Katy and Dixie subsided and I settled back, enjoying the antics of the resident dogs.

There were four of them; an elderly Golden Retriever, shaggy and white muzzled; a busy black lab; a comical small caramel-colored creature of indeterminate ancestry.  The 4th dog was black with white on his chest and missing one front leg. He lurched gamely about in the milling throng. Every few moments the man stopped his work to speak to the dogs, pat the nearest head.

I sat in the sun, turning the pages of a magazine, absorbed in the photos detailing the renovation of a country home.

After a time I wondered what was taking so long. Howard and the slender man were conversing, Jim and the tall woman were out of sight.  Immersed again in my magazine, I didn't notice Jim approaching the truck and was startled when he tapped on the window.

'You have to come in and see this house!'

I landed on the spongy ground beside him, automatically putting out a hand to the exuberant young dog.

'Why do I need to go in?'

'You'll see.'

The woman was waiting at the back door.  She had smoothly chiseled features, fine lines at the corners of eyes and mouth, stood tall in faded jeans and a warm quilted jacket.

A short entry hall led into the main house.

I looked about appreciatively.

Dark pine floors, walls painted the color of bleached linen.

Upholstery, cushions, accessories, all mirrored the rooms in my favorite magazines.

I admired a reproduction primitive hutch.

'My ex-husband made that, made most of the furniture.  I'm putting the house on the market, fully furnished.' A tinge of bitterness crept into the quiet New England voice. 'Twenty eight years. I'm not taking anything with me as a reminder.'

We finished the tour of the house making neutral conversation: houses, the work of building and restoration, mentioned the New England museums where our mutual love of early American houses and furniture had been nurtured.

We stood outside, the five of us, the four dogs, in the bright sun, in the rising wind.

There was in that random meeting a sense of fleeting recognition. 

I patted the dogs again, the gallant three legged chap, the little bouncing minx.

The men shook hands, I thanked the woman for showing us her house. 

The gentleman's eyes were kind beneath the blue bandana that covered his hair against the dust of his tasks. Glancing from me to the dogs, he laid his hand lightly on my shoulder as he said goodbye, acknowledging, I think, the kinship between all those who love animals and country places.

We've spoken several times, Jim and I, of that farmhouse with its gracious, somehow familiar rooms.

Had it been on the market 6 months ago would we have offered on it, or would we have seen the folly of taking on [again!] a five bedroom house, spaces so much larger than we need?

I've thought of the big kitchen, warmed by a wood-burning range. No central heat or air, so much to keep and maintain. Not far away if one drives the correct roads, but away from the neighborhood where we chose to remain and build this one last home.

I wonder who will live there--who will cherish the white farmhouse of many rooms so charmingly styled by other hands.

Mornings and Evenings

It is still dark on these winter mornings when I lever myself cautiously out of bed, wary of thumping my head on the rim of cupboards which jut over the head of the bed. I feel for my slippers in the narrow space between bed and adjoining wall, my bare foot encountering the fur of Charlie-cat who has taken to sleeping along-side the bed. 

Negotiating the step down into the tiny hallway--toilet cubicle on one side, shower on the other, I hear muffled thuds as cats decant from the foot of the bed to follow me into the kitchenette.

Closing the sliding door, I fumble for the handiest light switch, then pick my way across the camper's living space to push up the shades on the east facing window.

Jim leaves a work light on in our house-in-progress, a few hundred yards up the rise of the lane; the faint yellow glow of the lamp through early morning murk is the only break in the darkness at 7 a.m. Eastern Time. 

I open the door to let out the cats who have spent the night with us, take kibble to the two 'barn cats, Willis and Sally, who are waiting for their breakfast.

Jim emerges when the aroma of coffee perking on the gas stove becomes irresistible. 

He opens more of the folding blinds, settles at his desk which faces an east window.

If the slow dawning of the day shows the faintest blush of pink, I go out, slipper-footed, camera in hand.  In this mid-winter of grey and bleak weather any morning which hints at sunshine deserves to be recorded.

Sunday morning had promise. The damp of the lane bit through my slippers as I stood below the house watching the sky.  Heaps of displaced soil loomed around me, my zoom lens moved the hedgerow trees closer, foreshortening the field beyond the house site.

A retinue of felines trailed behind me as I turned and trudged back toward our winter encampment; the shed built by former owners, our large camper, Howard's smaller one, both sited to take advantage of the electrical and septic systems in place when we purchased the property.

By mid-morning the day had gained a warmth suggestive of springtime.

I found that once my housekeeping tasks were done I needed to be outdoors.

I marveled at the deep blue of the sky, the fleeciness of white clouds, the sharp tracery of branches. 

I aimed the camera at treetops, dizzying views.

Is it my imagination, a trick of light, or do these branches show a hopeful hint of renewed life to come?

The land drops steeply in the northwest corner. Birds busy themselves in the tangle of shrubbery and trees which straggle down the ravine.

Sundown came with a palette of apricot, amber, rose and gold, melting against darkening blue.

 

The sun slid behind the ridge in a final blaze of peach and fiery coral against a backdrop of dusky lavender and mauve. 

[My mind struggles at such moments to define the shifting panorama of color and light.]

Monday's sunrise was nothing short of awe-inspiring.

Color exploded into the eastern sky, wrapped around the entire horizon, spreading hot pink, coral, rose and lavender high above the tree tops.

The vibrant colors washed along the southern tree line, seeped into the western sky, surrounding us in vivid color before seguing into a brilliant blue which rivaled that of the preceding day.

We had errands to do and rode through the morning of climbing sun and scudding white clouds. Contrails sketched intersecting lines which disappeared in the distance. The whole landscape seemed dominated by the enormous bright sky.

I had to drive into town after lunch.  The road winds south by southwest, into the sun at that hour.  The temperature stood at 66 F. I pulled down the sun visor against the glare of brightness.

A wind had come up pushing cloud formations in crumbs and shreds, streaks and billows.

As I neared town I noticed an edge of grey bleeding upwards into the expanse of blue. Walking around the town square to the bank, the rising wind whipped my hair.

By the time I headed home the brilliance of the day had dwindled to piled masses of cloud in every shade of grey.  Fine needles of rain spotted the windshield, never enough to turn on the wipers, but enough to warn that we have enjoyed our two days of sun. Time again to be enveloped in the pale skies of winter.

 

Tonight's dusk brought no rich shades of rose or gold.

Smokey grey clouds curled along the horizon.

Evening drew in. The cats, usually reluctant to come inside, were quick to crowd through the door at Jim's heels. 

The night is quiet with only an occasional riff of wind, a light spatter of rain against the camper windows.