Too long. Good thing we turn the clocks back tonight; I needed even more than the 25 hours we get today.
After Mrs. Fetched’s helper ended up “forgetting” about a minor detail like keeping up with his probation, he got carted off to jail. Smooth move, Ex-Lax… you got a wife with a baby on the way and you pull that kind of stunt? Forget about The Boy helping; on Saturdays even the crack of noon is a little too early for him. So… “all we have to do” (a phrase I absolutely dread hearing from her) “is open up the half-houses.” This took us well past noon, then her dad decided he needed to do some miscellaneous stuff — which for him means a stream-of-consciousness waste of several more hours. By 4 p.m., I suggested lunch would be a good idea and he agreed.
Meanwhile, there was a bunch of wood cut up in the pasture, waiting for “someone” to gather it up. Mrs. Fetched needed to do something else in the chicken house, so she suggested I start loading up the wood and she would join me when she got finished. So… about an hour later, DoubleRed came down the chicken house road in her little Rio. She asked me if I needed help; I said, “sure, park your car across from the gate and come on over.” We didn’t get all the wood, but we’d got as much as we could deal with at the time, so we ran up to the house and unloaded it. One piece was a little large, and I got the splitter. DoubleRed was telling me a story of how her mom tried to get her to split some firewood once, and rescinded the idea after she nearly chopped herself and her brother. I drew a bead on the log, took one whack, and it came apart.
“Show-off,” she said.
“I got a lucky shot that time,” I reassured her.
This picture isn’t all of what we got — we put some in the garage to save a little time for the night-time armloads — but some of the stack was already there. (The top of the stack comes about to my chin, for perspective.) This should last us at least a week, maybe two, and there’s plenty more where that came from. Our burn rate averages about a stick an hour.
As we were on our way back to get DoubleRed’s car, we saw it coming up the road the other way. Mrs. Fetched had finally remembered that we had to shoot a community chorale — singing an English version of Brahms’s A German Requiem — and we had about two hours before it started. We got showers, fresh clothes, the cameras, and away we went. We managed to get through it without changing tapes… but we were down to the last one or two minutes. Whew! Supper, groceries, putting Crissy the Complete PITA Dog back in her pen (and blocking her wormhole she’d dug to get out)… and here I am.
Maybe if she doesn’t have another chicken house freakout tomorrow, I’ll be able to bring more wood home (and split the larger pieces).
Can we set the clocks back… oh, 24 hours? I want a real Saturday, the kind that doesn’t involve chicken houses.