Appliances and Boxes

The move is moving along. I have been leaving packed boxes and miscellanious furniture on the porch for Doug to pick up and spirit away to the new house. I am also his only helper, which makes me wonder why I didn't hire Tony, who brings three strong men with him. Yesterday Doug and I got the refrigerator, the stove, and the dishwasher into the kitchen. As we set out, I asked, "Are you sure this is a job for one man and a sixty-year-old-woman?" His only response was surprise that I was sixty. I found myself jumping on and off the trailer, lifting my end of various appliances, hoisting them over doorsills, and pushing them into their spaces in the kitchen. I also drove to Calais to buy paint for my bedroom, though I didn't get it done yesterday as I had planned. Instead I found myself rushing to load the porch up again before Doug returns this morning. Perhaps today is the day for painting. Will insists that it be done before I move in, which I admit is a good idea, but there are not enough hours in the day for me to do everything I have to do. JP has not extended my move-out date, and Doug is not available for most of next week.

There is little other news, but I can report that Ltton is getting better after his trip to the vet last Monday, responding to the medication that was prescribed. My leg is getting better, too, with the crater of the little volcano slowly becoming more like a half moon. I was given a new treatment last Tuesday by a doctor named Alf, and checked on Friday by Dr. Bunker. She offered to culture the thing and see if there was any infection left, but since she left the decision up to me, I opted out. All the medical professionals flocking around ask me if I am diabetic when they look at the wound, which is a little disturbing, but I have no time to think about it and assume there would be other symptoms (blood sugar? family history? lost digits? blindness?). Speaking of eyes, I am also having another attack of my cornea problem, worse than before. This time I have no time to sit around and whine about it, though, so keep my eye shut and a bottle of Systane in my pocket. I called my eye doctor Friday, but I got the usual, "too bad" response and went on my way. (Also begged Dr. Bunker for something for the pain, like morphine, with the same results.) I am not usually one to complain about, or even discuss, physical ailments, so I feel like a stranger to myself writing about this. This will be my last report on such things unless I come down with a fatal illness. In that case my progress toward what Mike calls "the dirt sleep" will be documented in full.

I got up at five-thirty this morning, hence my choice to take time to write here. I woke up with visions of packing boxes in my head and couldn't get back to sleep. It was raining then, and the boxes of dishes and pots and pans that I packed last night were wilting on the porch. Now the sun is coming out and it promises to be a nice day for physical labor.

Today is Carrie's birthday. My wonderful daughter.

The dogs have diahrrea because of the disruption of their routine. The chickens are happy.