The count of filled and catalogued boxes continues to rise. My local friends and family are scavenging empties for me, and I’ve raided the supply room twice this week. Plus, I’m bringing home newspapers from the break room after work each day, for packing the fragile stuff. Of which there is way too much!
I think I’ve mentioned that one of my attorneys and his wife give me their magazines after they’ve read them. And I generally pass them on to Secondborn for her enjoyment, and she recycles them, because *she* lives in an enlightened community which provides containers for weekly curbside recycling, while I do not. I’ve been a little distracted by knitting in recent weeks, and the magazines have [ahem] piled up.
So yesterday I filled an entire lidded box with magazines sorted by type. And this morning I hauled a smaller box containing the ones that Secondborn wants, and the big box with the others, out to the car. I didn’t exactly hurt my back; I just made it feel very tired and whiny. The little box will go to FW sometime this weekend, as I haven’t seen the Bitties or their parents since last Friday. I tumped [v., Texan, transitive: “tipped over” or “dumped”] the contents of the big box into a recycling dumpster at one of the school district's administrative buildings on the way home from work tonight.
And as I was buckling up for the drive into work, I casually mentioned in my prayers [I do rolling prayers, because getting down on my knees is not easy, and getting up is more like Streisand on skates in “Funny Girl”: a real production number, and very loud, but maybe not quite so musical] that I hoped my back would be all calmed down by the time I got to work. And Somebody was obviously listening, and in a mischievous and indirectly generous mood. Because the drive that takes 25 minutes if it’s a Federal holiday, and 45 minutes on an average day, and an hour and a half on a really bad day, took me –
Everybody sitting down?
– two and a half hours, most of it spent along a two-mile stretch waiting for a wreck to clear. A wreck that locked up all four eastbound lanes. I got one purl-back row done on MS3. I didn’t figure I’d have enough time in one spot to keep track of the patterned rows, so I dug a little farther into my bag and dredged up the Sabbath Sock.
Neatly pulling it off the needle.
But I had plenty of just-sitting-there time to thread it back on, and to add another half inch, and to measure it. So when I got to the office half an hour before I’d normally take my break, I was way calmer than everybody else on the road, I’d already gotten in more knitting time than usual, and my back was *very* relaxed.
Even if my hips and knees and ankles and toes were complaining lustily. [Not to mention the parts that Mr. Lasix regulates. Oye!]
So, it's been a weird day, but a rather good one all things told. And I am now going to nuke a big bowl of leftover chicken soup and fire up my knitting needles. A friend is bringing me an electric footbath tonight, to rev up the healing. Toes are looking pretty good and feeling pretty comfortable; I skipped the major bandaging and just went with bandaids and real shoes today.
Knitting pictures, maybe, tomorrow. Or possibly the day after that.
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!