Bursting with Enthusiasm

We enjoyed dinner last night with two other couples. Each pair contributed to the feast, which included pulled pork, slaw, beans, and macaroni & cheese, followed by dessert. The weather forecast—which mentioned the possibility of fierce storms—and strong winds that seemed to support the forecast sent us home relatively early. Once we got home, the NOAA weather radio screeched several times, warning of dangerous weather and advising precautions against it. We heard the rain pound against the window. Lightning strikes and the resulting cracks of thunder shook the house, but the power did not fail, so we were able to continue watching the Icelandic crime drama,  Entrapped,  We are now on season 3 of the series, the first two seasons of which were entitled Trapped. Same location, same characters, same riveting storylines and, in my view, excellent acting. Once I get involved in Scandinavian mystery thrillers, I can watch them for hours and hours, nonstop. According to a website devoted to television and film (The Cinemaholic), the series was “filmed entirely in Iceland, specifically in Siglufjörður, Hafnarfjörður, Seyðisfjörður, Egilsstaðir, and Reykjavík.” Oh, how I wish I were fluent in multiple languages. Including Icelandic. Just so I could pronounce the names of those cities, towns, and villages. And the names of the characters. Like Andri’s daughter, Þorhildur.

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Finally, now that daytime temperatures have climbed back into the seventies, our gas-log fireplace insert is scheduled for installation on Monday. The inner workings of the logs in the fireplace when we bought the house were broken and unrepairable, so we bought a replacement set. We continue pouring money into the place and, I suppose, will continue to do so for quite some time to come. I continue working on my attitude about that reality, telling myself every investment or expense is improving the place; making home a little better and more comfortable day by day. And that’s true. We’ve decided to spend a rather considerable amount of money to create an oasis under the trees next to the house; grading the area to be a bit more level, adding huge flagstones to the area, and various other improvements. If the weather cooperates, the work will commence just before Christmas, assuming the planned schedule stays on track. In the meantime, I keep wrestling with the idea of buying a gas-powered leaf blower so I can keep up with the massive leaf-fall that already has begun. It’s either that or pay someone unrealistically high rates to do the work. In my opinion, the yard-maintenance guys seem to value their “skills” and time on par with cardiovascular surgeons, aeronautical engineers, and royalty. Such is life. The work continues. Every improvement, every item from the “to-do” list that’s completed, every cosmetic upgrade…they’re all making life more gratifying.

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I have developed an inexplicable interest in Michigan. I want to taste the cheeses made in Pinconning. I want to sit at a bar in an old tavern in a small town on the shores of Lake Huron and chew on blind robins. I want to listen to small-town conversations between life-long residents, as the participants eat smoked whitefish sausage. I want to watch the loading and unloading of ships in the ports of Cheboygan and Ludington and Calcite. So many other places…to watch and experience and about which to ruminate and wonder. My interest in Traverse City and Marquette grows with every passing day. My curiosity might be fully satisfied with just one trip to Michigan. Or it might require dozens of visits and hundreds of days and nights before I reach saturation. I think it’s too late in the year to consider making a long, meandering trip through Michigan; that sort of exploration should be undertaken in the spring or summer or very early fall. Not just days or weeks before frigid conditions might happen overnight, thereby upsetting the enjoyment of a road trip. Perhaps I should plan a meandering trip around the periphery of Arkansas, instead. And, of course, we must go north to Ohio within the next several months; I’ve been promising my nephew and his wife (and, now, my brother) I will visit. And I will. But not quite yet. Yet the road calls to me year-round. It beckons me. Lures me with the promise of excitement and exhilaration.

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If I were a woman, I believe I would take a firm stand against brassières. I would refuse to wear a garment that, based on complaints I have heard my entire life, is so damn confining and uncomfortable. Especially a garment that apparently was designed to disguise and/or hide a uniquely feminine attribute. I understand the concept of a woman wishing to stabilize her breasts when her body is in motion (like when she is jogging), but I do not understand the concept of other people expecting the woman to cage or otherwise constrain them. This is not my battle to wage, of course, but I am opinionated and, so, I speak my mind even when the matter at hand is none of my business. And there you are.

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I am ready to burst into the day, taking full advantage of the fact that I am alive. And I shall.